ragnvdnir

[ragnvdnir]

i love dawnbreaker so much that i just want to pick up a pen again and write for him

[ragnvdnir]

[ragnvdnir]

— routine

in which your daily routine consists of waking up, setting up your stall to sell fruit, conversing with the locals, packing up the stall, and heading back home. oh. and entertaining that incorrigible grand master.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.6k wc, fluff, yearning, reader runs a fruit stall and tries to not let Feelings™ show (and fails horribly), varka is kinda reminiscent to a puppy, written PRE release but based off of scattered lore we have on him so let's see how off the mark this characterisation is later ;w;

A/N : AFTER 5 LONG YEARS HE IS FINALLY REAL AND OFC HE MAKES ME WRITE MY FIRST GENSHIN FIC IN YEARS WOWEE

Being the owner of a fruit stall in Mondstadt City, selling your fresh produce every day from morning to evening, isn’t as lacklustre as one might think. It's a stable business, something which stems from just how close-knit the community is (how small it is compared to other cities, rather). And you like it that way; the familiarity of it all.

You see the same shop owners who greet you with a chipper “Good morning!” and its counterpart when it's time to pack up and head home.

You see the same old regulars who greet you with familiar warmth, perusing your newly stocked goods to take back for breakfast or midday snacking.

You see the same knights who go on their usual patrols, oftentimes striking up conversation and selling your goods to satiate their hunger.

You see the same children running around with their carefree laughter and twinkling eyes, which somehow shine even brighter when they spot newly imported fruits from other regions amongst your lineup.

And, of course, you see him. The bane of your existence. The reason you wake up grimacing at the prospect of getting out of bed and starting your day. The reason you can never start nor end the day in a moment of peace.

Well, you hear him first before you see him.

“Good morning, my ever so diligent fruit seller!” His voice is something far too spirited in the quiet, early morning. You already know then and there peace is no longer an option. So you close your eyes, take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the whirlwind about to make a stop at your stall, and exhale.

A shadow hovers over you, the subtle warmth of the early sun dissipating along with it. Flitting your eyes open, you're met with eyes which encompass the blues of a clear sky and the man who is the sun incarnate.

“Good morning to you as well.”

Varka beams — in that ridiculously bright curl of his lips which has you squinting — as though you haven't responded in the same monotone manner each and every time. But he acts as happy as he did the first time you so much as acknowledged his greeting all those years ago.

(Before he was the Grand Master. Before he became something akin to a legend. Before he carried the hopes and wishes of the people into every battle, every act he took to protect his home. Back when he was a bright-eyed knight ready to take on the world while you listened to his rambles, wondering how someone could be so bright.)

A nagging feeling tells you that won't be changing any time soon, and you curse your traitorous heart yearning for it not to.

A crisp crunch! dissolves your thoughts. Blinking, you're unsurprised to see a bright red apple — one of your bright red apples, you note with narrowed eyes — in his mouth. Eyes closed, he contentedly chews the bitten off piece of fruit.

“Ooh, the apples are particularly sweet today,” Varka hums, savouring the taste lingering in his taste buds. It isn't long before his attention swivels back to you, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Not as sweet as you, of course! Haha!”

His mouth really never does stop flapping.

“Flattery won't make me forget about you paying, Grand Master,” comes your deadpan response, demeanour far too used to his sweeping presence. Unfortunately.

With a melodramatic flair only he can pull off, Varka gasps, half-eaten apple in one hand while the other lies solemn atop his heart. “Grand Master? Oh, you wound me! I thought we were at least on first name basis.”

He still hands you the 200 mora amidst his theatrics, fingers brushing gently against your open palm. They linger for a brief moment, that ever familiar warmth curling into your now clenched hand, before it slips back to his side.

You roll your eyes, huffing yet not entirely surprised. “Whatever. Anyway, don't you have duties you should be attending to? You know, as the Grand Master?”

“I'll have you know I am carrying out my duties.” A cheeky grin appears on his visage upon seeing your dubious expression, and you mentally brace yourself for whatever is bound to spill from that insufferable mouth of his. He takes another bite of the apple, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “Checking in on the beloved citizens of Mondstadt is a part of my duties, actually. So naturally I'll be checking up on you every chance I get.”

“Uh-huh. And that entails any time ranging from setting up my stall first thing in the morning, like now, to when I'm about to head home?”

“Of course!” He beams, chipper as ever. “What kind of Grand Master would I be to leave my most beloved citizen bored and lonely without my presence?”

“A better, more competent one,” you drawl, arms crossed and expression undoubtedly unimpressed. “Speaking of, I hope you aren't leaving poor Jean to pick up your slack.”

Another crunch! fills the space. He's polished off the apple, leaving nothing but the pips and the stem. Your nose scrunches; he gives another lopsided grin.

“Jean has it covered. It’s essentially a part of her job description, anyhow. Besides, I’m almost positive that little workaholic enjoys taking on my work and keeping herself busy.”

You sigh, entirely unimpressed yet not surprised in the slightest. Again. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yet you still entertain me,” he says, grin dwindling into something softer, eyes glittering a little brighter. Within a blink, his relaxed posture straightens. “Oh! Right, this is for you.”

Swept up in his presence, you didn’t realise the cecilia so obviously tucked protectively in his pocket up until now. You shouldn’t be so surprised. More often than not, he will bring you a little trinket — sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evenings. Yet seeing him carefully holding the stem, calloused fingers cautious so as to avoid crumpling the leaves or petals, has your skin warming more than the rising sun above you should.

(And so what if Flora gives you that all-knowing grin from within her own stall? So what if you're already mentally preparing for her to idle her way across to your stall during that quiet hour when the streets are less busy to tease you, again, about the Grand Master's blatant favouritism?)

“You sure seem to have a lot of spare time,” you mutter, gently taking the flower from his outstretched hand. It remains in your own for a brief moment, slowly twirling between your pinched fingers before setting it down on the wooden counter.

“Only for you,” he responds just as softly, as though speaking any louder would disrupt the peace settling over you. It’s almost embarrassing how easily the words spill from his lips, how readily he is able to drown you in this saccharine side of him none would expect from a man who birthed legends with his own name and skills.

And so you just grumble, pointedly doing your best to block out the thunderous beats of your wretched heart. “Shouldn’t you get going? Something about the thrill of adventure and action calling your name?”

“So you do remember what I say!”

“Only because you never stop talking. Even forcefully blocking you out doesn’t work.”

Still, he laughs, like you just landed the funniest joke known to man. His hulking frame of muscle and battle-worn scars shake at the boisterous action. That ever so familiar boyish sound which makes you feel both at ease but also forget just how strong he can be when necessary.

Eventually he composes himself, leaning back with his hands perched on his hips. “Save me some fruit for my return!” are his last words to you as he takes a slow step away from your stall; reluctant, almost. His waving is obnoxious, large, swooping movements which could probably render a mitachurl out of commission from the sheer velocity, his cheery grin akin to that of the shining sun.

You merely roll your eyes and give him a half-hearted wave of your own.

It's only when he disappears beyond the towering cobble walls do you allow yourself to turn away. Shining with gentle radiance in the early morning glow sits the cecilia he left for you, its pristine visage a grating contrast to the worn wood of the stall. The petals are soft to the touch, the pads of your thumb and forefinger gently running along its smooth texture.

Chatter slowly floods the city as life blooms amongst the populace, and you swiftly tuck its stem securely in your apron's breast pocket. The regulars come out for their daily peruse and purchase. The guards greet you and stop for idle chats. The children amble towards you eager to hear what new fruits you have in stock this time.

Even as the day goes on and your stock dwindles, you make sure to set aside the freshest fruit you have for when a certain man returns late into the day.

(And when he appears, roughed up from spending the day out in the wilderness yet shining as bright as ever, you act as though the ripe apple and berries were just mere leftovers — produce which never sold. If he notices the still pristine cecilia tucked into your pocket, he doesn't comment on it. He never does. Varka only beams in that manner which always gets your hands clammy, happily holding your empty crates while chattering about today's wilderness expedition, waiting as you finish packing up so he can walk you back home.)

(Like routine; like always.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[ragnvdnir]

best part

synopsis: using the key Zayne gave you, the state of his apartment gives you an idea warnings: this is just fluff, mentions of cooking and eating pairing: Zayne x fem! reader wc: 2.2k

When Zayne gave you a key to his apartment, it wasn’t a test. Or a symbol. Or anything dramatic at all, really.

It was just a key, nestled in his palm like something simple. He’d handed it to you without preamble, voice low and even as he said, “This isn’t just for emergencies. I want you to come over. Whenever. Even if I’m not here.”

And maybe that was what startled you most, how casual the words were, how easily they slid into the world like they hadn’t rearranged your entire interior. A soft intimacy, not loud or showy, but felt everywhere. Like sunlight on the back of your neck.

Of course it was just like Zayne. Of course he’d express his feelings with something so simple, so functional. The man had a whole emotional language built out of gestures like that: hand-delivered coffee, a knit brow when you yawned too early, a charger in his bag just in case.

The key clicks into the lock, and you step inside. The quiet hits you first. A different kind of quiet, one that doesn’t hum with Zayne’s presence in the next room, or the familiar weight of his footfall on tile.

You’ve been here dozens of times. But never like this.

The lights are off. The windows cast the pale sheen of a cloudy afternoon across the living room. His coat is draped across the back of a chair, a half-empty mug on the coffee table. And the rest…

The rest is chaos.

Not dirty, not really. But cluttered in a way that feels deeply un-Zayne. Books scattered across the couch like they fell mid-thought. A handful of glass cups, each with varying degrees of forgotten water. Candy wrappers twisted into quiet spirals. A stethoscope hanging off the edge of a dining chair.

You set your bag down gently, almost afraid to disturb the mess.

Zayne was organized in the way architect's dream about, meticulous, methodical, even in the way he folded his laundry. He had once explained the arrangement of his bookshelf to you with a near-religious reverence, tracing spines with his fingers while your head lay in his lap, his other hand trailing slowly through your hair.

You hadn’t been able to keep your eyes open that night, lulled to the edge of sleep by his soft cadence, but you remembered the way his voice warmed as he spoke. The way he always lit up over order.

And so the disarray here doesn’t feel careless. It feels…tired.

Like something gave way inside him and never had time to settle back into place.

You hover awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure if this counts as trespassing or love. Probably both.

But after a few moments, your hands start to itch. And besides, if Zayne were here, you’d be tidying beside him without a second thought.

You find his cleaning supplies tucked away in the immaculate cabinet he keeps beneath the sink. You queue up your playlist on his speaker, start with the dishes, and let the rhythm carry you.

It’s meant to be quick. Just a sweep here, a wipe-down there. But you end up singing into the broom, dancing in socked feet over the tile. You linger over his books, reading the margins he’s scrawled in mechanical pencil, each note like a whispered thought left behind.

By the time you’ve returned them all to their places, according to Zayne’s preferred genre-then-author-then-title system, you feel like you’ve restored something sacred.

You scrub the countertops until they gleam. Stack dishes in the drying rack with care. Sweep crumbs into a neat pile and hum to yourself as you rinse out the sink.

By the time it’s all done, you’re glowing a little. Not just with exertion, but with pride. The kind that comes from loving someone in the language they understand best.

The kitchen is quiet when you check the time. It’s edging toward dinner. And Zayne’s fridge, unsurprisingly, is empty except for half a lemon, a bottle of hot sauce, and a single, forlorn cucumber.

You laugh softly and slip your shoes back on.

The grocery store down the street is still open. You shop deliberately, fresh vegetables for dinner, noodles, stock, a bulb of garlic because you remember how he always forgets to buy one. You skip the carrots that he had once told you, half-asleep, were his culinary nemesis.

You throw brownie mix into the cart without thinking too hard about it. And then you add chocolate chips. And a pack of microwave meals for the nights he’s too tired to boil water.

Back at the apartment, the grocery bags thump gently onto the counter. You start unpacking, switching the playlist to something softer.

The soup bubbles quietly. The scent of onions, miso, and ginger fills the space. You taste as you go, adjust, stir again. You let the brownies bake while you clean up the splatters and lean against the counter, eyes flicking to the door every few minutes.

He should be home soon.

But exhaustion creeps into your limbs before he gets there, and eventually you let yourself fold into the couch, the smell of chocolate clinging to your sleeves, your hair, your skin. Just a minute, you think. I’ll rest my eyes.

When Zayne reaches his front door, fatigue clings to him like a second skin, dense and inescapable. The ache behind his eyes is dull but insistent, the kind that seeps in after hours of standing still and thinking too hard. He’s just come from witnessing something remarkable, a cutting-edge transplant, the kind of surgery that makes all the sleepless nights worth it. But now, standing in the quiet hush of his hallway, he braces himself for the chaos he left behind. Dishes in the sink. Papers in soft piles on the floor. That chair with the jacket he never remembers to hang up.

Except...when the door creaks open, what greets him is not disarray, but the gentle gleam of light bouncing off clean countertops. The air is warm with the scent of something rich and homey, garlic, maybe, and fresh herbs. A slow-cooked comfort.

He stills in the doorway, blinking like he’s unsure he’s stepped into the right apartment. The transformation is startling.

And then he sees you.

Curled up on the couch in the low lamplight, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other slack on your stomach. The domesticity of it, the peace, hits him in the sternum. He lets his bag slide gently to the floor, shrugs off his coat, and crosses the room like he’s afraid to break the spell.

You stir at the weight of the couch shifting beneath him, eyes fluttering open. Your gaze softens when it finds him.

"Hi," you whisper, still drowsy, like the word costs you something.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek. It's feather-light, reverent. A silent thank you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, though there’s the faintest smile in his voice, like he’s secretly glad to see you awake.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you say, blinking up at him. “Just…resting my eyes.”

His brow furrows, the beginnings of a scold he doesn’t quite commit to. You can see the protest behind his eyes, the part of him that wants to argue you should’ve gone to bed. But instead, he squeezes your hand, his thumb stroking slow over your knuckles.

“It’s late,” he says, voice quieter now, almost shy. “You should get some sleep.”

But your nap has left you refreshed, and the anticipation of seeing him like this, worn down but glowing with presence, makes you shake your head and stand.

“I made you dinner,” you say gently, tugging his hand. “Come on.”

He follows without resistance, a step behind you as you lead him to the kitchen. His arms slip around your waist the moment you stop moving, his chin settling atop your head like it’s the most natural place in the world to rest. His fingers tangle with yours, grounding himself in the warmth of you.

You can feel the weight of his day in the way he holds you, like if he lets go, the exhaustion might win.

As you move to warm up the food, he stays close, always touching, his fingers tracing lazy shapes on your hip bone, his breath ghosting over your shoulder.

When dinner is plated, he takes the dishes from you before you can insist, setting them carefully on the table and fetching cutlery without a word. You sit across from him, watching the way the tension in his shoulders loosens as he finally allows himself to be taken care of.

“Thank you,” he says, not even looking at the food yet. His eyes are on you.

You lift an eyebrow. “It’s nothing. Just dinner.”

His smile is faint but full of feeling. “Not just for dinner. You didn’t have to clean.”

“I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard lately. I figured…I’d lighten the load.”

For a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you under this soft kitchen light, the gentle tone of your voice. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

Your foot nudges his under the table.

“Eat, Doctor,” you tease. “Shouldn’t have to remind you of the importance of proper nutrition.”

That finally pulls a laugh from him, quiet and precious. He reaches for his spoon with a fond shake of his head, and keeps smiling even as he chews.

You try to argue when he gathers your empty plates later, but he silences you with a single look, soft but firm, the way he is with stubborn patients. You follow him anyway, settling on the counter while he washes up, recounting the odd details of your day: the cat that tried to follow you home from the store, the old lady who complimented your scarf, the podcast episode that made you tear up in public.

He listens like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the world, asking quiet questions, chuckling when appropriate, nodding at the right moments.

When he finishes the last dish, you shift to hop down from the counter, but his hands find you first, gentle yet grounding, resting just above your knees as he steps between your legs.

“Hi, doctor,” you murmur, and the nickname falls from your lips like a secret. Your voice is soft, a little breathless, caught under the quiet weight of his gaze.

He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a quiet, lingering brush of lips that feels more like a promise than a greeting, tender and full of meaning.

“Thank you,” he says again, low and sincere. His voice sounds different in this hush between you. Unarmored. “For everything.”

You shake your head, a small smile blooming as your arms circle around his neck, drawing him a little closer. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to do it. Always.”

He kisses you then. Really kisses you. It’s slow and steady, a kind of coming home. His hands slide up to your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt. There’s nothing hurried about it. Just the warmth of him anchoring you, like he’s trying to speak in the language of closeness, of breath and skin and unspoken things.

When he finally pulls back, it’s with a soft sigh against your lips and a tired, crooked smile that still makes your heart stutter.

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, the fatigue threading back into his voice, pulling at the edges of his body.

You trail your hand down his arm, fingertips skimming the inside of his wrist in a soothing touch. “Alright,” you say gently. “Though…I guess the brownies will have to wait till tomorrow.”

He stills at that, blinking once. “Brownies?”

You try to bite back your smile, feigning innocence as your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt. “They should still be warm from the oven.”

He makes a low, needy sound that you feel more than hear, and the way he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek sends heat blooming in your chest. His voice is a whisper against your skin.

“You’re the best.”

“I know,” you tease, lips brushing his jaw.

And even as he lets out a quiet laugh, you feel it, the love steeped in the way he looks at you like you're the one miracle he's been waiting all day to come home to.

[ragnvdnir]

where it started:

where we're at:

[ragnvdnir]

Imagine being Caleb's streamer significant other.

Imagine it was supposed to be a normal stream.

Imagine it was just a regular night of you. Your headset and some mildly concerning energy drinks. You were three matches deep into ranked, half losing your voice, half losing your sanity and fully locked in.

"Alright, alright, we push A this time." You said, already running in site. "No thoughts. Just aim. Trust. Have fun." And then a familiar name popped up in chat.

1sht1kll: Be honest. You got a boyfriend?

Imagine the way you raised a brow. "Boyfriend?" You peeked A short, headshotted Reyna and casually leaned back. "Nah" You said smug. "Who needs a boyfriend when I've got recoil control and abandonment issues?" The chat exploded.

Ztrope: LMAO BYE

Abcdefg: Single queen alert

Ladsslave: THAT'S why your aim's so clean. No distractions.

2days3days: So you're saying I can apply??

Imagine the way you grinned as the you clutch the round. "Applications open. Must bring snacks and not ask me to log off. Ever." And then.

10,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Interesting. When did I get replaced by snacks?

Imagine the way your heart stopped. And the name. The name. You blinked at the screen like it personally betrayed you. "… Huh?"

Ztrope: WHO??

Abcdefg: 10K TO CLAIM YOU??

Ladsslave: They said no boyfriend and this guy shows up swinging.

2days3days: Bro what kind of username is ColonelApple

Imagine the way your headset nearly slipped off. "Chat. Relax. It's just- He's… a friend."

15,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: A friend who literally pays your rent?

Imagine the way you choked. "CA- Caleb-!" Chat exploded again.

Ztrope: EXCUSE ME WHAT THE ****

Ladsslave: Not her saying 'friend' while living with a sugar daddy

Abcdefg: Rent??? That's a boyfriend or a very expensive ghost

1sht1kll: Girl if he's a friend I'm a space pilot

Imagine you were already blusing so bad trying to form words when a new notification came in.

20,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Drink your water. Don't make me call a restaurant again.

Imagine the way you wheezed. "I was going to drink-"

30,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Do it now.

Imagine you eventually grabbed the water bottle with trembling fingers. Mumbling something about being cyberbullied by your own boyfriend.

Ztrope: OH SO HE IS YOUR BOYFRIEND

Abcdefg: Chat W

2days3days: I knew it. I KNEW IT.

Ladsslave: You lied to us and got caught in 4K by your rich, passive-aggressive boyfriend

Imagine you ran a hand down your face. "Okay. Look. Technically… I never said I don't have a boyfriend. I said I didn't need one."

25,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Keep talking. Let's see if you still get your GPU upgrade.

"You're bluffing." You froze.

30,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: Am I?

Imagine you screamed. "Caleb! You're being so dramatic- stop donating, you're gonna bankrupt yourself!" He didn't respond. But the chat did.

Ztrope: I want a jealous sugar daddy too 😭

Abcdefg: show his face. no more faceless rich boyfriend propaganda

1sht1kll: Guys 100 says he's mid

Ladsslave: 200 says he's hot and smug about it

Imagine the way you laugh and held up your hands. "Okay, okay. No face reveals today. He's not even home. Probably doing something military and mysterious. You know, colonel things."

Imagine right on cue your door creaked open. You froze. "... No way." Caleb stepped in like he belonged there. Which to be fair, he did. Wearing his dark jacket, underneath you could already see his sleeves rolled up, holding your favorite takeout in one hand and your cat in the other.

Imagine he looked at you. Then at the camera. And smirked. "Still single?" You died. Your chat died harder.

Ztrope: I AM ON THE FLOOR

Abcdefg: BRO??? BROOOOO???

2days3days: NOT THE BARE ARMS. HE'S HANDSOME. I'M MAD

1sht1kll: 100 down the drain. I was humbled.

Imagine Caleb walked over like a man on a mission. He set the food down, handed you the cat then leaned into the mic with all the casual confidence of someone who could win a war and still be home for dinner.

"Next time they ask if you have a boyfriend." He said, eyes on the screen. "Just tell them this guy's got his own aircraft."

50,000 DONATION: ColonelApple

Message: And they still think they have a chance?

Imagine the way you screamed again. "Caleb!" He kissed your cheek. "Hey. You told them you were single. I'm just correcting misinformation."

Ladsslave: I can't even be mad. he’s EARNED the smug

Ztrope: the aircraft reveal… the timing… the face…

Abcdefg: Yeah I'd flex him too

2days3days: we lost. good game everyone.

Imagine you sat there, still holding the cat, still blushing like a maniac, totally forgetting about your game that is now over while your chat grieved their collective delusion.

Imagine Caleb opened the takeout for you, adjusted your chair, and whispered. "You're streaming for another hour, right?" You nodded weakly still processing how everything unfolded. "... Yeah."

Imagine he pulled over another chair. "Good. I'm queueing with you." Your jaw dropped. "Wait- Caleb. You don't even play- Do you even know how to play valorant?"

Imagine he already had the second PC starting. And when the queue popped? He actually top fragged. Casually. Effortlessly. As if he wasn't a military colonel who flew fighter jets and apparently now stole hearts on stream too. And chat? Chat was never the same again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[ragnvdnir]

I am being so normal, guys.

[ragnvdnir]

zayne is jealouss !

you're at a study session with zayne and a few other classmates. you think everything is fine, but zayne is completely losing it <3

college au!

⋆˙⟡

Zayne was never one for jealousy. Never. He had nothing to be jealous of.

So for a moment, he couldn't tell what it was he felt when he watched you, giggling at something your classmate said. Couldn't name the disgusting churning in his gut, or the even worse tightening in his chest.

Just knew it wasn't... right. Unfamiliar.

Zayne swallowed hard, adjusting the collar of his shirt as if that might beat back the heat crawling up his neck and turning back to his laptop.

He should’ve stayed home. Said he was busy. Anything to get out of this. He worked better when he was alone, anyway.

Well..

He worked better alone. With you.

His eyes darted up to you. Quick. Fast. The kind of look anyone would miss if they didn't know Zayne well enough. He looked away, jaw ticking.

Get a grip.

Zayne had no right to feel this... whatever it was. You weren't his.

But you kept laughing.

Kept getting distracted from your work.

Kept distracting Zayne from his work.

He sat there, eyes skimming over the pages like he was actually reading, but he wasn't. He couldn't. Everything was just a jumble of letters and broken syllables.

Then he said something again—another joke probably. And you laughed. Again. Zayne's grip on his pen tightened, knuckles turning white.

What could possibly be so funny, anyway?

Quiet conversations buzzed around him. Classmates helping each other, talking about the latest lectures, but he was focused on you.

You with the upward curl of your lips and crinkle of your eyes.

Zayne wasn't looking at you. He couldn't.

But he could picture it. Because he knew that look. Seen it a thousand times and burned it into his mind and now some other guy was—

Zayne sighed, bringing his fingers up to his temple and rubbing small circles. He couldn't think right. And it was all because of you. Because you were sitting across from him, sounding sickeningly comfortable with someone else.

"Zaaayne."

Zayne blinked, turning to the girl beside him.

"Where did you get that answer?"

He blinked, his gaze drifting toward you. You were already looking at him, that sweet smile pulling at your lips. The devastating kind.

Zayne swallowed hard, turning back toward the girl. "Page 45."

The girl grinned. "Thank you!"

"Mm."

Zayne looked at you again. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't help himself. And there it was again, that smile that made his breath catch and his chest squeeze.

You shouldn't have such an effect on him. Because while he was losing his mind thinking about you and the little things he tried so hard to forget but just couldn't, you were completely oblivious. Unbothered.

He wanted to be unbothered too.

Zayne's throat worked around nothing as he stood up. He couldn't do this anymore.

Your eyes followed him. "Are you heading back now?"

Zayne didn't look at you. Just nodded a quiet, "Yeah," as he shoved his laptop into his bag a little too hard. He didn't mean to.

And of course, you decided to leave with him.

The walk back to your dorm was quiet. Zayne was quieter. He was still reeling, still feeling the sting of your laughter deep in his gut.

"Did I do something?"

Zayne blinked down at you, his lips parting on a silent breath. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know.." You shrugged. "You're just.. quieter than usual."

Zayne sighed, his brows pinching together slightly. "No. You didn't do anything."

"Okay, then what's wrong?"

Zayne hesitated. Because what was he supposed to say? 'I didn't like the way you laughed for another guy.' That was obsessive. Borderline toxic, if he really squinted.

"Nothing."

He could feel your stare boring into the side of his head, but he didn't look. If he did, he'd crack.

"Zayne."

His pulse jumped. His name sounded different this time. Stern. A warning disguised as softness.

Zayne let out a soft exhale. "It..." He paused, heart pounding in his chest. "It just got loud."

Your steps slowed. "Loud..?"

There was a beat of silence, the cold air nipping at his skin as he waited for something else, for you to call out his bullshit again, even if he wasn't completely lying.

"You mean.. me? Was I being too loud?"

Silence.

"Zayne."

"You just.." His sentence trailed off when he looked at you again. You looked upset—brows furrowed together, lips pursed with a frown, eyes a little softer. He bit the inside of his cheek before tearing his gaze away. "It’s not important."

He shoved his hands in his coat, letting them fist into tight balls, as if that might help keep everything down. "You did nothing."

Then silence again. But it was uncomfortable now. Heavy, like both of you were just waiting to snap.

"I'm not your boyfriend."

The world seemed to still. Because what the hell possessed him to blurt that out? To say something so brazen and so mortifyingly embarrassing?

"..What?"

That was all you could say.

Zayne's head spun. He couldn't stop now. For all the restraint he'd worked so hard for, he was still weak.

"I don't have any right to feel.. the way I feel when you.." The words died on his tongue. "I know I shouldn't.."

"Feel what, Zayne? You're not.." You paused—and then your lips curled into a slow, dawning smile. And Zayne saw it from the corner of his eye, the way you finally seemed to get it.

A blush crept up his cheeks. Red. Warm.

"Wait. Are you.. jealous?"

Zayne stared at you. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was blanking. He was blanking so hard. Before he could make himself look any dumber, he turned away. "Don't look at me like that."

You couldn't help the squeal that bubbled out of your chest. Zayne should've been annoyed, should've reminded you that you guys were on campus, but he didn't.

"You're jealous!"

"It's not a big deal," Zayne muttered, his cheeks growing hotter as he stepped into the dorm building with you.

"Not a big deal?" you scoffed. "Zayne has a little crush on me and I'm supposed to act normal?"

A subtle smile tugged at his lips. You were cute. Infuriatingly cute.

"Don't get ahead of yourself." His smile faltered when he realized you guys were at your dorm already. He inhaled, a pang of disappointment settling in his chest.

You stopped outside, smiling. Zayne was cute when he was flustered. "Zayne."

"Yes?"

"You have every right to be jealous." Zayne froze, his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn't read your tone. Couldn't tell whether you were joking or if this was a confession.

"Because I've been jealous too. For months. And I didn't know if I was allowed to be."

You were going to ruin him. Zayne knew it then when you told him that, all soft and pleading. And honestly? He knew he'd let you. Would willingly fall right into it.

And as if he wasn't already reeling, you continued, "I wanted to be."

A small silence settled over you. Zayne was still trying to process everything, and you were trying to fight back the furious blush spreading across your cheeks. Then, slowly, you leaned up, cupped his face, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Goodnight, Zayne."

Zayne blinked, lips parting. "Hm—Uh—Goodnight.."

He stood there for a second after you closed the door, blinking.

Your face flashed in his mind. The sweet little smile that curled your lips. The pretty pink tint of your lips. Then the way you squealed when he admitted he was jealous.

You liked him. You actually liked him back.

Zayne let out a huff, his chest swelling.

You liked him.

[ragnvdnir]

you smash zayne's car (on accident)

zayne x fem!reader

summary: coming home from a long day at work, you get into a minor car accident with your bf's audi

contains: fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing, zayne being the best bf, 1.6k words

It happened in the blink of an eye. You were driving along the highway one moment, exhausted after a long day at the Association. Your music was blasting, and the other cars were well-behaved. Until suddenly, the car in front of you braked. Your tired brain didn’t react fast enough, and you skidded into them. The sickening crunch made you scream, your body jolting forward and back as your vehicle came to a stop.

You mumbled to yourself repeatedly, “Oh my God,” as you put the car in reverse and backed up a few inches. Slowly, you swerved to the resting bay on the side, the other car following suit. Your heart raced, and the blood rushed in your ears over the buzzing song. After grabbing your wallet, you exited Zayne’s now battered black Audi to check the hit.

And oh fuck—

The front panel was dislocated, the bonnet scrunched, and the headlights were scratched. The other driver came up beside you, a middle-aged man a few feet taller than you with a balding patch. Your hands trembled as you exchanged licenses and took photos of your damaged vehicles. You stumbled over your words, apologising before questioning why he had stopped so suddenly. A stray cat, he said. Bullshit. On this motorway? You don’t think so.

But it didn’t matter, you’ve got dash cam footage that will show if any ‘stray cat’ darted across the road. With a forced smile, you reassured him that you’d contact your insurance company tomorrow to lodge a claim.

Crouched down beside Zayne’s car, you had beaten the popped-off panel back into place beneath the headlights before driving off with a pit in your stomach. The ride home was filled with you chattering to yourself, trying to process what just happened and how you were going to explain it to your boyfriend.

“One day!” You shouted at yourself while pulling into the apartment’s underground parking. “He let you drive his car for one fucking day and you already smashed it?! Are you kidding me?!” You slumped over the wheel after parking, groaning to yourself about how reckless you were.

And now, you stand outside your shared apartment playing with your keys. They make a hell of a racket, but fiddling calms your nerves. Or at least, it attempts to.

Exhaling, you go to unlock the front door, but it swings open. In front of you stands your boyfriend, a microscopic frown on his face as he gazes down at you.

“Heyyy,” you laugh nervously. Internally, you’re groaning at yourself for already acting weird. He’s gonna know!

Zayne stares at you, analysing your dark under eyes paired with the frantic look you’re giving him. He steps aside and nods for you to come in. As you step past the threshold, you’re greeted with the wafting scent of jasmine.

He takes your handbag from you and helps you out of your coat, saying quietly, “Is everything okay?”

You nod far too enthusiastically, muttering, “Yes! Everything’s fine, really.”

He trails behind you to the bedroom as he comments, “You were standing outside for almost five minutes. I didn’t think you were going to come in.” You whip around, your shirt half-unbuttoned as you stare at him.

Oh, he definitely knows.

You watch with dread as he hangs your coat and sets your bag down almost robotically before coming back over to you.

Zayne unbuttons the rest of your shirt, not meeting your wild eyes as he reminds you, “You don’t have to tell me, but it usually helps to alleviate some of the burden by sharing it with others.” His chest ghosts yours as he pulls the sweaty blouse off your arms, leaving you in your bra. You cup his cheeks and tilt his gaze up to you. He stares at you with slightly wide eyes, caught off guard by your sudden touch.

You sigh, “Zayne… I’m sorry.” His cool hands wrap around your wrists and unleash rogue goosebumps across your skin as he waits for you to continue.

You mumble, “I accidentally rear-ended someone on the highway.” Your boyfriend blinks at you, processing your words.

You ramble, “It was an accident, I swear! He just stopped in the middle of the road! And so, yea I hit him. I’m really sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to!” He shakes his head, averting his gaze momentarily as he gets a grip on all this new information. His fingers tighten around your wrists for a moment before he tugs your arms down to your sides.

Finding your eyes once more, he asks clinically, “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, “No, I’m fine! It’s just… your car—”

“Don’t worry about the car,” he huffs. Zayne squeezes your shoulders before rubbing up and down your upper arms.

He continues, “You’re sure you’re not hurt? Did you hit your head during the moment of impact?”

“No. I was just scared, that’s all,” you admit quietly. He exhales and brings you into a tight hug, resting his chin on your forehead.

He murmurs, “I’m sure you were. I should have warned you about the short acceleration times.”

You squish your face into his warm chest, mumbling into his white long-sleeve shirt, “It’s not your fault, baby. Please don’t blame yourself.” You sigh with relief as he pats your head, fingertips pressing lightly into your scalp as he runs his fingers through your locks.

You two embrace for what feels like an eternity, but even that isn’t enough time. All you want is to be surrounded by his heat and refreshing musk after such a challenging day (not to mention you’re on your period). He pulls back, his hands on your waist as he gazes down at you with affectionate eyes.

He says tenderly, “Why don’t you go have a shower while I assess the damage?” You nod and sigh as he pecks your lips.

“Don’t be gone too long, okay?” You pout as he grabs the doorknob.

Casting you a glance, he shakes his head slightly, “I won’t.” You huff as you hear the faint click of the front door and wrap your arms around your now cold chest before trudging into the bathroom.

After a nice, hot shower, you put on your favourite pyjama set and do your skincare routine. Once you’re feeling relaxed, you stroll into the living room.

On the couch is your boyfriend, flicking through his camera roll. Two mugs of steaming tea sit on the coffee table. He locks his phone upon feeling your weight dip next to him. Placing it down and grabbing the mugs, he hands you one and doesn’t let go until it’s firmly planted between your palms.

“It’s chamomile,” he murmurs. You hum as you blow the curling tendrils of steam away. As soon as you stop, they whip back into a whirlpool of opaque white.

Clearing his throat, your boyfriend utters, “The damage is mild.”

“Mild?!” You retort. “It’s awful! Did you see the bonnet?”

He nods, “Yes, I saw.” Setting his mug down, he wraps a muscular arm around your shoulders and draws you into his side.

He mumbles into your hair, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.” You sip your tea, the bittersweet flavour warming your insides. Zayne unfolds the fluffy blanket you bought a few weeks ago and throws it across you two, helping you to get comfy.

You sigh as you lower the mug to your lap, “I just feel so bad like. You trusted me with your expensive ass car and I ruined it.” His fingertips draw swirling patterns across your clothed shoulder, up and over the ridge of your collarbone and down to the meat of your arm.

“It’s nothing we can’t fix. Leave it with me. I’ll call the insurance company tomorrow and lodge a claim,” he mutters. Softly, he continues, “You can spend tonight collecting your thoughts.” You nod while slurping your tea.

After finishing it, Zayne takes your mug from your toasty hands and puts it down on the coffee table. Instinctively, you cuddle his side and cling onto his torso like you’re a koala and he’s an eucalyptus branch. The day weighs heavily on your shoulders, and in the comfort of your lover’s arms, you let it go.

He doesn’t say anything as you begin sniffling and eventually cry into his chest. Composed as ever, he rubs your back and pulls the blanket up to your chin. He fetches you a tissue box and holds it as you blow your nose like a snotty five-year-old.

In the torrent of your emotional storm, Zayne remains steady. He anchors you back to the present with gentle reassurances and even gentler caresses. He holds your hands whenever you try to rub your eyes and instead wipes them for you. And he whisks you away to your bathroom, still wrapped in the blanket and his warmth, to brush your teeth before tucking you into bed and spooning with you.

The next morning, he informs Jenna that you’ll be having the day off; doctor’s orders. He then calls the insurance company and recites to them the story you sobbed out last night.

You wake up to breakfast in bed and a quick peck from Zayne before he heads off to the hospital. He cooked your favourite comfort meal, which makes you tear up as you blow him goodbye kisses.

And when you pick up the rental car a few days later, he insists on driving you everywhere. Because he’s a good boyfriend, not because he’s concerned about your driving skills at all. Seriously.

a/n: pls lmk if his characterisation is okay. i got into my first car accident yesterday and this how i wished it went down when i got home (i live with my parents😀).

[ragnvdnir]

andy speaks: smth about zayne being asian parents' dream ... isnt he so dreamy sighs

the first time your parents heard of zayne, you didn’t really drop his name. you just mentioned during a casual family dinner that you’ve been going out with this absurdly handsome doctor who somehow makes you forget how to form full sentences.

in usual fashion, your parents were impressed. then came the questions. what kind of doctor is he? what area does he specialize in? how old is he?

the next time they heard of zayne was during your birthday. unfortunately, he wasn’t able to attend dinner because of an emergency surgery. if it wasn’t so urgent, he definitely would’ve been there. to make up for it, he sent a bouquet of your favorite flowers—he remembered, of course—and a custom bracelet with delicate jasmine charms, your initials quietly engraved on the back.

happy birthday, my love — z.

your mom raised an eyebrow at the note. your dad just muttered something about "setting the bar too damn high.”

it was enough to make you smile. one your parents noticed and it made them more curious about your mysterious man. (another thing they didn’t know was zayne was that he did make it up to you later that night. only this time, what he gave you couldn’t be worn.)

the third time they heard of zayne was when they finally got a name and a face to the man who makes their daughter happy.

zayne got an off day. you told him it’s fine if you two just stayed home and relaxed but he insisted on meeting your family. it was no issue to your parents when arranging a dinner last minute. in fact, they were ecstatic.

when you arrived, their jaws dropped in disbelief. this is who you were dating? doctor zayne li? as in, chubby cheeks, bowl-cut little zayne from your childhood who you used to drag around the neighborhood?

that little zayne who grew up to be such a fine man.

it seems like they have nothing to worry about. turns out, the hands saving lives in the operating room are the same ones holding yours.

[ragnvdnir]

₊˚⊹♡ daddy doctor saves the day!

pairings. zayne/li shen, fem!reader

tags. 1.6k wc, dad!zayne, mom!mc, domestic fluff, slice of life, established relationship, brief mentions of pregnancy, zayne in scrubs *phew* bc need i say more. divider by anitalenia.

if zayne were ever to have kids, he’d have liked two.  

a girl and a boy. not because he believed in symmetry or balance, but because he imagined them leaning on each other the way siblings in picture books did—arms slung over shoulders, shared secrets in the dark, always knowing they weren’t alone. that’s what he’d wanted for them. companionship and safety.

and that day, in the quiet lull following a ten-hour triple bypass surgery, he was reminded of that wish.

you sat on the little couch tucked into the corner of his office, the one he’d insisted on keeping even when they offered to replace it with something more suitable for the chief cardiac surgeon. but that couch had warmth stitched into its seams, and it reminded him of home. the kids were curled up beside you, both fresh from school, still in their matching navy sweaters and slightly crooked socks. your daughter, older by two years, had her head resting in your lap, while your son perched at the edge of the cushion, his feet swinging above the floor.

“mommy,” he asked, his voice sticky with curiosity, “how does daddy fix hearts?”

you smiled, smoothing your daughter’s hair back from her forehead. “well,” you began, your tone soft and thoughtful, “he does surgery. that means he opens the chest to get to the heart.”

they both stiffened with the delighted kind of horror only young children could summon. “he cuts people open?” your daughter gasped, her eyes going round.

you solemnly nodded. “yes. he makes a careful cut. then he opens the chest so he can see the heart. it’s very delicate work.”

your son’s face crumpled in awe and fascination. “like a... like a treasure chest?”

“kind of,” you said, chuckling, “only instead of gold, there’s a heart inside.”

your daughter shuddered dramatically. “ew! that’s so creepy.”

zayne stood in the doorway then, unnoticed. still in his navy scrubs, cap tucked into his waistband, his hair a little messy from hours spent in the OR. he looked tired, shadows carved beneath his eyes, but his mouth tugged into a quiet smile. you didn’t see him yet, but he saw you—all three of you—and it filled something deep in his chest he hadn’t realized had gone hollow during the hours of cutting and stitching and praying beneath the surgical lights.

“do people die?” your son asked suddenly, looking up at you with wide, serious eyes.

“sometimes,” was your honest answer. “but daddy works really hard to make sure they don’t. he’s the best there is.”

“so he’s like a superhero,” your daughter concluded. “but for hearts.”

before you could respond, you heard the subtle shift of shoes on linoleum, and turned your head to see the man of the hour. leaning against the frame of the office door, arms crossed, tired but watching the three of you with a soft, fatherly smile. you just couldn’t ever get used to the way your heart raced at the sight of your husband. 

“you guys talking about me?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse from hours of breathing through a mask.

“daddy!” and of course, his kids squealed in unison, springing from the couch and bolting toward him. he caught them both easily, pulling them against his sides like puzzle pieces falling into place. his hands were still cool from scrubbing out, but they didn’t seem to notice. or maybe they didn’t care. they were too busy clambering over one another to tell him everything you’d just said.

“daddy! you cut people open!”

“you open their treasure chest!”

zayne laugh came out raspy, and you knew that meant exhaustion. but the joy in his eyes concealed the tiredness he carried. “is that what mom told you?”

“uh-huh! and then you look at their heart and fix it like legos!”

you raised your brows at him. “legos? that didn’t come from me.”

your husband shrugged, adjusting your daughter on his hip. “not technically wrong.”

“do you use glue?” your son asked seriously, squinting up at him.

“sometimes.” zayne knew it was best to play along. “we have special glue for blood vessels.”

your daughter gasped. “that’s so gross.”

“no, it’s awesome,” your son countered.

zayne set them down gently before walking toward you, his steps a little heavy from the long shift. he leaned down, kissed your cheek, and murmured, “thanks for covering the debrief.”

you smiled up at him. “they had questions.”

he sat beside you with a quiet groan, his leg pressing against yours. the kids climbed right back into the space between you, curling close like this was just another part of their daily routine. maybe it was.

“can we be heart doctors, too?” your son asked, tucking himself into zayne’s side.

“if you want to,” zayne replied, brushing a hand through his son’s hair. “but i think you’d be an amazing engineer.”

“what about me?” your daughter demanded equal attention.

he leaned in and tapped her nose. “you? i think you’d be a writer. or a lawyer. or maybe an astronaut.”

“what if i want to be a bunny farmer?”

zayne thought for a moment. “then i’ll build you a bunny hospital.”

you laughed, covering your mouth as the kids began to plan their future bunny farm, arguing over weather conditions and carrot rations. zayne didn’t say anything more. he just leaned back slightly, one hand resting on your knee, the other curled protectively behind your daughter’s back. he listened to their chatter, his eyes finding humor in their animated conversations. he was probably thinking, ‘they definitely got that from their mom’.

in retrospect, he had fixed countless hearts in his life, stitched vessels, replaced valves, saved lives. but this… this quiet, chaotic, precious moment? this was the one thing he’d gotten perfectly right.

although, you did want to admit that it was difficult to have a decent conversation with your husband while in the presence of your hyperactive kids. thankfully, it didn’t take long until you heard the soft tap of shoes on the hospital floor. the door creaked open, and in walked yvonne, the hospital’s nurse and receptionist, smiling fondly at your little family. 

“hey, kids,” yvonne said brightly, “how about you come with me? i’ve got something special for you.” she paused, then with a wink, added, “dr. greyson’s got some treats in the breakroom.”

the kids’ eyes lit up, and without another word, they scrambled off the couch, practically tripping over their own feet in their hurry to follow yvonne. they were already chattering excitedly as they followed her down the hall.

as soon as the door closed behind them, you relaxed back into the couch and exhaled deeply. zayne, still in his scrubs from his long surgery, scooted closer and pulled you by the waist. he looked tired, but there was a softness in his gaze that was just for his wife.

“well,” you said with a light chuckle, “it’s nice to finally get some privacy.”

zayne’s smile was tender. “don’t get used to it.”

you laughed. “honestly, though, i’m surprised i don’t get jealous of yvonne. she practically has the kids wrapped around her finger. and she takes good care of you here.”

only then did your husband’s smile falter for a second, a brief moment of amusement flashing across his features. “jealous?” he repeated. “you’re jealous of her?”

“i just said i’m not,” you clarified. “but… well, she’s charming. sweet. she always knows exactly what to say.”

“you,” zayne cut you off, “are everything to me. i don’t need anyone else.”

you knew you’d always been his number one, but you always felt reassured when he said the exact words you wanted to hear. it was enough. and it always worked this way through your years of marriage—a little hint of jealousy could easily be fixed by reassuring words.

whatever zayne said, you believed. there was a sense of solemnity in his words that you’d be a fool to doubt him. perhaps, it was why your kids get scared when their dad gives them a little scolding.

“speaking of work,” you said, shifting slightly, “how did the surgery go? i heard it was a long one.”

zayne sighed at the remembrance. “it went well,” he started, “the patient is stable, but her family... they couldn’t pay the full fees. they just didn’t have the money.”

you frowned, your heart aching at the thought. “but you’re not charging them?”

“i waived my professional fees. i asked the husband to reach out to the government for financial assistance. they’re eligible for some kind of medical relief.”

you blinked in surprise, touched by your husband’s gesture. “you did that?”

he shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “it’s what i would want if i were in their shoes. i was never after the money when i practiced my degree.”

“if it were me,” you thought out loud, “what would you have done? if i needed that kind of help... would you have helped me?”

zayne turned to you fully, his eyes softening with sincerity. “i’d do whatever it took,” he firmly answered. “even if you needed a transplant, i’d give you my heart without hesitation.”

it might sound like a silly thing, but his quiet declaration tugged gently at your heart. there was a kind of love in his eyes you couldn’t quite put into words. and somehow, you were the one lucky enough to receive it. 

he’d fixed countless hearts in the OR, but you knew, in this moment, that the heart he valued most was the one beating inside you.

maybe that’s why now felt like the perfect time to bring up what had been weighing on your mind all day. the very reason you’d driven straight to the hospital after work.

“well, as it turns out,” you brought up, shifting slightly, “i’m not pregnant. i got my period today.”

zayne let out a soft chuckle. “well, two kids are enough for now, don’t you think?”

you pouted, feigning disappointment. “but i want one more.”

he grinned and kissed your forehead. “you can try again next month. i’m sure we’ll make a whole team of little heart doctors.”

[ragnvdnir]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧ pretty tough, pretty dad

pairings. sylus/qin che, fem!reader tags. 700+ wc, girl dad!sylus, mom!mc, domestic fluff, sylus braiding hair, suggestive ending, loosely inspired by sylus's grassland romance banner, dividers from anitalenia.

“daddy, you’re so pretty!”

the sound of soft giggles erupted through the room as sylus sat cross-legged on the floor, his daughter perched on his lap, and her small hands holding up a brush and a few brightly colored hair clips. 

who would’ve thought that the boss of onychinus could transform into an entirely different man in these moments? sylus knew he couldn’t ever let luke and kieran see him at his current state, no. especially not when his white hair was a mess of star-shaped clips, and his face was full of tiny, sparkly stickers his little girl had ecstatically placed on him.

still, like the awesome daddy he was, he chuckled at his baby girl’s antics and carefully braided her hair, the movements precise yet gentle, despite the… well, occasional fumble. look, he wasn’t a professional by any means and the only practice he’d ever had was with you.

“pretty? i thought i’m supposed to be tough."

“nooo, daddy!” protested his four-year old. “you’re pretty and tough!”

he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before continuing to weave her hair into neat braids, like how he used to do with her mom. “well, if you say so, princess.”

and speaking of you, you were leaning against the doorframe at the time, watching the scene with an upward tug at your lips. it was moments like these that made you see another side to him—the side of sylus qin that no one else had ever seen. the man who was ruthless and intimidating to the world was, in the bright crimson eyes of his daughter, nothing but warmth and love.

“how’s it look?” sylus asked, tying off your daughter’s braid with a small ribbon.

“perfect!” the little girl exclaimed, clapping her hands before grabbing another hair clip, and this time placing it into her father’s hair. “now, you!”

“is it my turn, darling?” sylus raised an eyebrow but let her clip it in, allowing the glittery accessory to stand out comically against his pale locks. “you’re not going to make me wear these outside, are you?”

your daughter widened her grin in response, showing him exactly where she had gotten her mischief. “yes, daddy. duh!”

and so, he chuckled again, giving her a soft tickle that sent her into another fit of giggles. “all right, all right, princess. more stickers, too?”

“yes!” she grabbed the sheet of stickers, eagerly peeling them off and sticking them on his cheeks. sylus didn’t flinch, didn’t complain. he just let her do as she pleased, indulging in her every whim with a patience that surprised even you.

after a while, you came back to a room that grew quieter, and the giggles had long faded as your daughter yawned. sylus quickly shifted her in his lap, cradling her against his chest, and began to hum a lullaby

“mmmhm~ hmm~” truth be told, your husband’s singing was off-key, but you’d give him props for his sincerity and effort. and you couldn’t deny how your heart melted as you watched him sway slightly while he continued to sing even though his singing voice wasn’t the best. 

“good night, daddy…”  

“night night, princess.”

once she was fast asleep and carefully tucked in her small bed, sylus was quick to look for you in your room with a longing smile plastered on his lips. “honey?”

you met his gaze through the mirror as you dried your hair with a towel. “yeah?”

“you know,” he whispered as he walked towards you, the playful glint in his red eyes were impossible to miss, “my baby girl could use a little sibling. or two.”

“oh, does she?” you playfully rolled your eyes, feeling the heat on your cheeks as your husband snuggled his face into the crook of your neck. “and who’s going to wake up for the midnight feedings this time?”

sylus’s arms snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his toned chest. “i will,” his breath was warm when he murmured against your ear, “you gotta admit i’m pretty good at this whole dad thing.”

you returned him a smile, turning around and leaning into his embrace as you glanced at the rise and fall of his chest. to think of it, since when did his arms become… meatier? “more babies, huh?”

“mm-hmm,” he hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck, and chasing your lips the next. “imagine a house full of them—running around, giggling, driving you crazy… and me, of course.”

“we’ll see,” you whispered, unable to hide the smile that crept onto your face as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips. a gentle, innocent kiss that later became rough and wanton as his tongue explored your mouth with an eagerness that couldn’t be stopped. 

“oh, we will, honey,” he only replied as he pulled away, letting you pant in heavy breaths as he had you pinned against the wall, and about to plant the seed for the future he so clearly wanted. “and i’ll make sure you’ll see a positive test in two weeks.”

[ragnvdnir]

₊˚⊹♡ daddy doctor saves the day!

pairings. zayne/li shen, fem!reader

tags. 1.6k wc, dad!zayne, mom!mc, domestic fluff, slice of life, established relationship, brief mentions of pregnancy, zayne in scrubs *phew* bc need i say more. divider by anitalenia.

if zayne were ever to have kids, he’d have liked two.  

a girl and a boy. not because he believed in symmetry or balance, but because he imagined them leaning on each other the way siblings in picture books did—arms slung over shoulders, shared secrets in the dark, always knowing they weren’t alone. that’s what he’d wanted for them. companionship and safety.

and that day, in the quiet lull following a ten-hour triple bypass surgery, he was reminded of that wish.

you sat on the little couch tucked into the corner of his office, the one he’d insisted on keeping even when they offered to replace it with something more suitable for the chief cardiac surgeon. but that couch had warmth stitched into its seams, and it reminded him of home. the kids were curled up beside you, both fresh from school, still in their matching navy sweaters and slightly crooked socks. your daughter, older by two years, had her head resting in your lap, while your son perched at the edge of the cushion, his feet swinging above the floor.

“mommy,” he asked, his voice sticky with curiosity, “how does daddy fix hearts?”

you smiled, smoothing your daughter’s hair back from her forehead. “well,” you began, your tone soft and thoughtful, “he does surgery. that means he opens the chest to get to the heart.”

they both stiffened with the delighted kind of horror only young children could summon. “he cuts people open?” your daughter gasped, her eyes going round.

you solemnly nodded. “yes. he makes a careful cut. then he opens the chest so he can see the heart. it’s very delicate work.”

your son’s face crumpled in awe and fascination. “like a... like a treasure chest?”

“kind of,” you said, chuckling, “only instead of gold, there’s a heart inside.”

your daughter shuddered dramatically. “ew! that’s so creepy.”

zayne stood in the doorway then, unnoticed. still in his navy scrubs, cap tucked into his waistband, his hair a little messy from hours spent in the OR. he looked tired, shadows carved beneath his eyes, but his mouth tugged into a quiet smile. you didn’t see him yet, but he saw you—all three of you—and it filled something deep in his chest he hadn’t realized had gone hollow during the hours of cutting and stitching and praying beneath the surgical lights.

“do people die?” your son asked suddenly, looking up at you with wide, serious eyes.

“sometimes,” was your honest answer. “but daddy works really hard to make sure they don’t. he’s the best there is.”

“so he’s like a superhero,” your daughter concluded. “but for hearts.”

before you could respond, you heard the subtle shift of shoes on linoleum, and turned your head to see the man of the hour. leaning against the frame of the office door, arms crossed, tired but watching the three of you with a soft, fatherly smile. you just couldn’t ever get used to the way your heart raced at the sight of your husband. 

“you guys talking about me?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse from hours of breathing through a mask.

“daddy!” and of course, his kids squealed in unison, springing from the couch and bolting toward him. he caught them both easily, pulling them against his sides like puzzle pieces falling into place. his hands were still cool from scrubbing out, but they didn’t seem to notice. or maybe they didn’t care. they were too busy clambering over one another to tell him everything you’d just said.

“daddy! you cut people open!”

“you open their treasure chest!”

zayne laugh came out raspy, and you knew that meant exhaustion. but the joy in his eyes concealed the tiredness he carried. “is that what mom told you?”

“uh-huh! and then you look at their heart and fix it like legos!”

you raised your brows at him. “legos? that didn’t come from me.”

your husband shrugged, adjusting your daughter on his hip. “not technically wrong.”

“do you use glue?” your son asked seriously, squinting up at him.

“sometimes.” zayne knew it was best to play along. “we have special glue for blood vessels.”

your daughter gasped. “that’s so gross.”

“no, it’s awesome,” your son countered.

zayne set them down gently before walking toward you, his steps a little heavy from the long shift. he leaned down, kissed your cheek, and murmured, “thanks for covering the debrief.”

you smiled up at him. “they had questions.”

he sat beside you with a quiet groan, his leg pressing against yours. the kids climbed right back into the space between you, curling close like this was just another part of their daily routine. maybe it was.

“can we be heart doctors, too?” your son asked, tucking himself into zayne’s side.

“if you want to,” zayne replied, brushing a hand through his son’s hair. “but i think you’d be an amazing engineer.”

“what about me?” your daughter demanded equal attention.

he leaned in and tapped her nose. “you? i think you’d be a writer. or a lawyer. or maybe an astronaut.”

“what if i want to be a bunny farmer?”

zayne thought for a moment. “then i’ll build you a bunny hospital.”

you laughed, covering your mouth as the kids began to plan their future bunny farm, arguing over weather conditions and carrot rations. zayne didn’t say anything more. he just leaned back slightly, one hand resting on your knee, the other curled protectively behind your daughter’s back. he listened to their chatter, his eyes finding humor in their animated conversations. he was probably thinking, ‘they definitely got that from their mom’.

in retrospect, he had fixed countless hearts in his life, stitched vessels, replaced valves, saved lives. but this… this quiet, chaotic, precious moment? this was the one thing he’d gotten perfectly right.

although, you did want to admit that it was difficult to have a decent conversation with your husband while in the presence of your hyperactive kids. thankfully, it didn’t take long until you heard the soft tap of shoes on the hospital floor. the door creaked open, and in walked yvonne, the hospital’s nurse and receptionist, smiling fondly at your little family. 

“hey, kids,” yvonne said brightly, “how about you come with me? i’ve got something special for you.” she paused, then with a wink, added, “dr. greyson’s got some treats in the breakroom.”

the kids’ eyes lit up, and without another word, they scrambled off the couch, practically tripping over their own feet in their hurry to follow yvonne. they were already chattering excitedly as they followed her down the hall.

as soon as the door closed behind them, you relaxed back into the couch and exhaled deeply. zayne, still in his scrubs from his long surgery, scooted closer and pulled you by the waist. he looked tired, but there was a softness in his gaze that was just for his wife.

“well,” you said with a light chuckle, “it’s nice to finally get some privacy.”

zayne’s smile was tender. “don’t get used to it.”

you laughed. “honestly, though, i’m surprised i don’t get jealous of yvonne. she practically has the kids wrapped around her finger. and she takes good care of you here.”

only then did your husband’s smile falter for a second, a brief moment of amusement flashing across his features. “jealous?” he repeated. “you’re jealous of her?”

“i just said i’m not,” you clarified. “but… well, she’s charming. sweet. she always knows exactly what to say.”

“you,” zayne cut you off, “are everything to me. i don’t need anyone else.”

you knew you’d always been his number one, but you always felt reassured when he said the exact words you wanted to hear. it was enough. and it always worked this way through your years of marriage—a little hint of jealousy could easily be fixed by reassuring words.

whatever zayne said, you believed. there was a sense of solemnity in his words that you’d be a fool to doubt him. perhaps, it was why your kids get scared when their dad gives them a little scolding.

“speaking of work,” you said, shifting slightly, “how did the surgery go? i heard it was a long one.”

zayne sighed at the remembrance. “it went well,” he started, “the patient is stable, but her family... they couldn’t pay the full fees. they just didn’t have the money.”

you frowned, your heart aching at the thought. “but you’re not charging them?”

“i waived my professional fees. i asked the husband to reach out to the government for financial assistance. they’re eligible for some kind of medical relief.”

you blinked in surprise, touched by your husband’s gesture. “you did that?”

he shrugged, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “it’s what i would want if i were in their shoes. i was never after the money when i practiced my degree.”

“if it were me,” you thought out loud, “what would you have done? if i needed that kind of help... would you have helped me?”

zayne turned to you fully, his eyes softening with sincerity. “i’d do whatever it took,” he firmly answered. “even if you needed a transplant, i’d give you my heart without hesitation.”

it might sound like a silly thing, but his quiet declaration tugged gently at your heart. there was a kind of love in his eyes you couldn’t quite put into words. and somehow, you were the one lucky enough to receive it. 

he’d fixed countless hearts in the OR, but you knew, in this moment, that the heart he valued most was the one beating inside you.

maybe that’s why now felt like the perfect time to bring up what had been weighing on your mind all day. the very reason you’d driven straight to the hospital after work.

“well, as it turns out,” you brought up, shifting slightly, “i’m not pregnant. i got my period today.”

zayne let out a soft chuckle. “well, two kids are enough for now, don’t you think?”

you pouted, feigning disappointment. “but i want one more.”

he grinned and kissed your forehead. “you can try again next month. i’m sure we’ll make a whole team of little heart doctors.”

[ragnvdnir]

nanami never liked staying at work late, but lately, he liked it even less—not because of the hours, but because of her words that still echoed in his head. “come home not too late, papa…and safe. please?”

so by 6:37pm, his keys clicked in the door, his tie already half-loosened and shoulder relaxing. the house was glowing in soft golden lights, the faint scent of dinner and lavender filling the air. he could hear little giggles and your voice, soft and lilting.

“papaaaa!!” came a screech. a flash of pink brust around the corner—the smaller of the twins, your daughter, rocketed toward him like a missile of love, her curls bouncing with every step. nanami dropped to one knee just in time, catching her in strong arms.

“you're late” she accused, nose scrunching.

“only by seven minutes, princess.” 

“still late,” she buries her face in the crook of his neck, pretending to pout—arms wrapping around him in a tight clingy hug.

“then i guess i have to make it up to you.” he smooths her wild hair with one hand, the other steadying her back. “where's mum?”

“she's in our room,” she mumbled into his shirt. “getting our clothes for bath time.” 

nanami kissed the top of her head before standing up with her still clinging to him like a sleepy koala. “let's go, then.”

he peeked into the twin's room to find you kneeling by the dresser, laying out a tiny pair of pajamas with sleepy clouds printed on them. your back was turned, humming softly, and when you heard the shuffle behind you-

“you made it.”

“right on time,” he murmured a soft smile perking his lips as he let your daughter slide down to the carpet. she immediately started trying to pick out different socks than the ones you laid out. “let me help.”

soon, it became the usual dance—familiar, wordless teamwork. 

nanami filled the tub, rolling his sleeves as he tested the water. your twins were surrounded by bath toys. your daughter kept shrieking over shampoo in her eyes even when it wasn't. meanwhile, your son, sat like a tiny monk at the other end of the tub, back straight, reading the back of the conditioner bottle as if studying. his fine blonde hair was slicked to his forehead, and he blinked up seriously at his dad.

“did you know this coconut oil has vitamin E?”

nanami nodded gravely. “sounds powerful.”

“i think it is.” he replies just as gravely, tiny brows furrowing.

it took an hour to get them all clean, between plays and rubbing their bodies—watering your clothes and nanami ones. their cheeks were pink, their blonde lashes wet and clumped, and when they looked at the two of you, the way their eyes lit up—one pair looking exactly like yours, the other exactly like nanami—you swear you fall in love all over again.

you wrapped both of them in towels shaped like animals—a fox for your daughter, a bear for your son—and carried one under each arm like squishy luggage to the bedroom.

and it was friday!! one of the two nights your kids are allowed to sleep in your king-sized bed. your daughter immediately jumped face-first onto the mattress, laughing as she crawled to her usual corner. nanami followed close behind, fingers ready to tickle her sides.

“noooo someone help—!”

“i'll save you!” your son said suddenly, serious as ever. he climbed up behind nanami with quiet determination, arms circling his dad's head like a little warrior. grip firm—but far too small to make any real difference against the solid strength of his father.

still, nanami plays along, “a surprise attack!”

your daughter squealed in delight, wiggling away as nanami collapsed into the pillows, groaning in fake defeat. “too strong…i've been defeated by my own children,” he said, his voice muffled into the pillows.

“you're not allowed to hurt my sister,” your son declared calmly, sitting up proudly on nanami's back like a victorious knight. “she's a princess.” your daughter blinked up at him from her spot “…i'm not that much of a princess,” she mumbled—but the tiny dimples pulling at her cheeks gave her away.

you stood in the doorway, freshly out of the shower, hair damp and arms folded as you leaned on the frame—heart so full it ached a little.. 

“alright, heroes," you called, "time to settle.” nanami propped himself up on his elbows, glancing at you. his blonde hair was messy, cheeks faintly pink from the wrestling, and yet his eyes locked onto yours with that look—that look, he only ever gave to you. glaring, yes, but full of quiet love, admiration, and maybe just a little longing.

“ewww…papa, stop that. .” your daughter said, catching the shift in his gaze. nanami chuckled at the comment, dimples peeking on his cheeks—the exact same one of your daughter. “sorry, princess. i forgot i'm not allowed to look at my wife.”

you laughed under your breath, crossing the room and climbing into the bed, slipping under the covers beside nanami. he instinctively shifted closer, and your son already pressed against your other side.

nanami's arm rested across your waist lazily, the little twins curled up in their usual places. and for a few quiet minutes, the room was filled only with soft breathing and the rustle of pages from a bedtime book your son was reading—or pretending. he just wanted to copy his dad but will never admit it

then, with a soft sigh, nanami turned his face toward you, leaning in closer, eyes half-lidded. “mmh. just a moment,” he murmured, his voice low and sleepy, as he tried to lay his head on your chest. but before he could settle a tiny hand pushed against his forehead.

firm. determined. 

nanami froze. your son, eyes still on his book, said calmly, “no.”

“no?” 

“she's my mum,” your son added, now turning his head to look his father straight in the eye—honeyed eyes meeting honeyed eyes, right above your chest. without looking away, he placed his second hand beside the first and pushed, gently but decisively.

you couldn't help it—you burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth as nanami stared at your son like he'd just been betrayed by his own blood. nanami sighed, defeated again. he chose to rest his head on your shoulder instead, arm still wrapped around your waist—as close as your tiny bodyguard would allow.

and somewhere behind him, your daughter giggled sleepily. “poor papa.” 

the night softened into warmth—the kind of warmth that fills every corner of your body and slows time. little limbs tangled with yours, three gentle rhythms of breath all around you. your heart impossibly full.

this… this was home. for both of you. 

[ragnvdnir]

— hsr men in a royalty au

INCLUDES : blade ; dan heng ; gepard ; jing yuan ; luocha ; sampo + gn!reader

A/N : what started off as a duke!blade word vomit became a hsr royalty au brain dump. sighs. also once again pushing my knight!reader agenda bc the lack of royalty aus with knight!reader is criminal.

genshin ver.

imagine you're the personal guard for emperor!jing yuan, picked by his hand when he was still just a mere crown prince learning the ropes of what it meant to rule an empire. in truth, there's not much for you to do other than stand close behind when in public settings or indulge in his whimsical nature when in private and within the confines of the palace walls. in spite of that, you can't help but to wonder whether it's necessary to be his partner when he practises ballroom dances, despite never actually dancing in the banquets. well, who are you to question your duties, right?

there is no destination without a journey; jing yuan would know this best. having been thrust onto a pedestal from young, he's witnessed more types of people than he can count on his fingers: those who act nice in order to gain, those whose eyes cannot hide their contempt, those who are kind out of fear, those who act on behalf of others, those who hold respect without ulterior motives... he has seen them all. his view of the world grew dull, the predictability of those around him bringing only disappointment to the young heir. the days passed in a blur with nothing of note, other than a lingering emptiness which kept him awake at night and a passion which only emerges when sparring with his instructor. and so when he was told it was time to choose a personal knight after countless assassination attempts, he trudged through the halls with poise ingrained into his stride and a blank gaze reflecting his thoughts. but when he arrived at the training grounds to oversee the potential candidates his attention was immediately seized by another, his usually stagnant heart thundering. for the first time in his life, jing yuan discovered what it meant to want something as he watched you strike your training sword against your opponent, his world bursting into colours he never knew existed before then.

jing yuan sometimes finds himself envying those who can dance without care at banquets. he has an image to maintain in front of his people while you tend to be a stickler for this kind of thing, often refusing a dance in favour of maintaining your post. he supposes it's fine if you're both together, despite the numerous times he's imagined what it would be like to dance with you in front of everyone, as opposed to the privacy of the palace under the guise of “not becoming rusty”. but as he casts his gaze over to where you rest, having fallen asleep after a particularly thrilling game of starchess with your body tucked within the protective embrace of his ever-dutiful lion, he finds himself engraving moments like these into his memory and filing them away to look back on when nights to himself become a little too lonely for his liking. it's one of the many sides to you which only jing yuan has been privy to; one of which he takes immense pride in and vows to shelter from the danger which lurks around every corner.

(he will never let you know how your bright eyes is what set his once monotonous life ablaze in colour all those years ago — the aloof crown prince utterly besotted with a starry-eyed rookie knight. he will also never let slip how he still thinks back on the warmth he felt when you took his trembling, slumped form in your arms after he fought his stricken teacher all those years ago, the aftereffects of your touch still lingering on his skin even to this day.)

despite being duty-bound beside the impish emperor, there are times where you, too, are in need of some peace away from his scheming mind and watchful eyes. in these moments, you find yourself finding respite within the royal library built into the palace, a stack of books typically used as your makeshift pillow. and even if librarian!dan heng gives you a death stare from his designated place, you know he appreciates your company when he drapes a blanket over your shoulders and replaces the book pile with a cushion or two. although, you can’t shake off the feeling you’ve seen him from somewhere before…

for as long as he can remember, dan heng has always been on the run. from what? he’s not even sure anymore; it has been that long. it is but a mere shadow, a phantom which haunts him under the glowing sun and the gleaming moon. he can run — run until his body is weak and heavy with fatigue — but he can never hide, for it follows close behind and lurks around unseen corners. as unnerving as it may be, he has grown used to the chilling gaze and staying on edge. after all, no matter how far he runs, no matter how hard he tries to blend in, there is no escaping a shadow. maybe that is why he felt a churning sensation stir in his gut when he first met the emperor to discuss his newly appointed position as the librarian, whose gaze held an unfamiliar sheen of conflict veiled behind an amiable disposition upon making eye contact. amidst the eyes of the sun held a glint of familiarity, one which dan heng couldn’t put his finger on the longer he dwelled on the thought.

dan heng didn’t know what to expect when he first met you; you, the personal guard handpicked by jing yuan himself. with all the duties he’s sure keeps you busy, it wouldn’t surprise him if he never met you past the glimpses he catches here and there when in official spaces. perhaps that is why it came as such a surprise when you stumbled into the library one day, all bleary-eyed and attempting to stifle your yawns, and he could only watch in a daze as you pulled out a random set of books from the shelves, plop yourself down at the nearest table, set the books on the surface and slam your head atop the pile, your soft snores filling the once-quiet room. dan heng wasn’t sure how long he sat there staring at you for, but it was long enough to wake you up and inform you of the library’s closing hour when the day’s hues bled into the night. what he thought would be a one-time thing soon became a regular occurrence — a routine — and he has become accustomed to your unceremonious visits and wonderful laughter and draping the blanket he now keeps under his desk over your slumbering form and admiring your peaceful expression over the rim of his novel. it’s come to a point where he can no longer imagine a life without it; without you.

(sometimes he wonders whether you enjoy the time spent with him as much as he does with you, in which he cannot help but to compare himself to the emperor you have pledged your life and devoted your loyalty to. amidst those thoughts, dan heng finds himself hoping you would favour him over the shine of the empire’s revered sun.)

royal guard captain!gepard is someone you have always admired, ever since you were just a rookie knight trying to prove your worth amongst a sea of prodigal candidates like him. he is kind as he is strong, a formidable ally and a terrifying foe. however, you can't help but wonder whether you’ve done something to offend him, what with the way he sometimes avoids you if you happen to bump into each other amidst the palace grounds and speedwalks in the opposite direction with hasty apologies trailing behind him.

the landau dukedom. it is known for its military prowess and defending the borders, but infamous for the strict duke landau. as well-respected he may be by the nobles of the court, gepard only knows a strict man more like a superior than a father. it wouldn’t be a lie to say duke landau was just that; a superior — a teacher, one who viewed his children as either heir candidates or a foundation to bolster the territory’s military power. while it may be a strict method, the respect gepard holds for his father is undeniable, feuling his desire to make him proud and carry out his teaching in the name of the honourable landau duchy. he stuck to harsh training regimens, endured countless trials of tactics and wit, witnessed his elder sister begin to refute against their father’s suffocating hold upon returning from the academy, watched as she left the duchy to have control over her own life with a promise to keep in touch with him and their youngest sister. these moments were fleeting, passing in a blur until he entered the ranks of the elite, eventually promoted to captain as he remained steadfast in defending the borders.

it took gepard countless sleepless nights tossing and turning in his bed and a highly amused serval laughing at his predicament to finally understand his feelings for you. love was an unfamiliar concept to him. he knew of camaraderie between fellow knights (which was what he assumed he felt for you, but just a bit more… intense?) and familial bonds between family, so this new experience of his heart palpitating, hands clamming up, words stuck in his throat and an incessant heat clinging to his cheeks was unfamiliar, thus his avoidance. though that didn’t sit well with him, as a longing ache only seemed to replace it instead. and so, despite the apparent awkward flair his body language carried, gepard decided to follow his heart when it came to matters pertaining to you. he quickly came to discover your likes and dislikes, your miniscule habits when practising swordsmanship, the subtle cues you display when uncomfortable, the smile you showed upon seeing something you liked and the grin you displayed upon besting him in a duel. they were all segments which made up the very being you are, and the pieces which fit within his heart to establish this newfound love he holds for you.

(as your direct superior there are many things he notices when watching from the sidelines. among many, the one which stands out are the eyes which follow you — some gaze at you with envy, others regard you with awe, but there are a few which regard you in the same adoration he does. love and jealousy were never something gepard thought he would experience; not until he met you.)

with your role as one of the empire’s royal knights and the emperor’s personal guard, it comes as no surprise to be inflicted with injuries of varying severities. as a result, you are well-acquainted with royal physician!luocha through your numerous visits. you’ve come to find his pleasant visuals and soothing voice does wonders to heal your fatigue, even if he does tend to go a little overboard in his lectures when you come to him with less-than-fine wounds.

being able to wield elements and being able to use divine powers are two different things; one is widely accepted, the other is not. at least, that’s the case in the xianzhou empire. those born with the ability to use divine powers have fled into hiding, unwilling to be outcasted — or worse, executed — for being afflicted with the cursed power of the divinity. as such, having lived the majority of his life in concealment, luocha is no stranger to hiding his abilities. curse or blessing, it’s an irrevocable part of him. still, he didn’t want to stop helping others the way the nature of his powers could. and so he resorted to learning medicine. he soon became a renowned travelling doctor sought after for his vast knowledge, all of which garnered the attention of the emperor when he stopped by in the capital and was offered the position of royal physician. with little drawbacks, handsome pay, and a grand place to stay without needing to be on the run, luocha accepted and became the sole royal physician of the empire.

there was very little luocha found himself to be afraid of. with no one but himself to rely on, he’s crossed many bridges on his own without care. there was no need for such sentiment in survival. or so he thought. in all his years, luocha doesn’t think there was anything more terrifying than the day you were rushed in by a frantic jing yuan, your complexion sickly and covered in sweat and breathing laboured. as it turned out, you were poisoned, having drank it in place of jing yuan upon sensing something suspicious. he doesn’t recall anything making his heart drop as quickly as the situation then had, his mind blank yet frantic as he forced the panic-stricken emperor out of the infirmary and laid you on one of the beds. your symptoms were dire, he noted, and there was nothing in the cabinets suited for this kind of quick-acting poison. your condition was worsening, a pained furrow of your brows and haggard appearance being clear indicators. a bright glow then illuminated the room, and luocha came to the belated realisation he had used his abilities for the first time since concealing them, for the thought of losing you was far more torturous than his will to hide his abilities.

(there was no thought to the act, just sheer desperation to not let you die. it took him a long few days to realise that, all of which were spent looking after you by your bedside. he never spoke of how he cured you when you asked, eyes bleary with confusion on how you’re still alive, instead choosing to keep it to himself as he chided you for being so reckless. you will never know of the inner turmoil he endured, even praying to a deity he never once believed in to ensure your safety. should you sustain more severe afflictions, luocha has no qualms using his abilities again — if it means you live, he will make an exception.)

thinking about duke!blade, whose… less than pleasant disposition does little to help refute the fearful rumours surrounding his name. you've met him a handful of times when he visits the palace under jing yuan's summon or catching him at the odd banquet or two, and even back when he used to train with jing yuan before his visits suddenly ceased. even so, you find yourself doubting those rumours, especially when he seems to wear an expression akin to peace more often than he does of one resembling disdain.

the cold duke remains an enigma to those around him — even those who work under him. is it due to his quiet hostility? or is it perhaps something no one knows, such as a secret known only to him, his butler, his family physician, and the emperor? a curse; one of immortality where his soul is torn to shreds only to be stitched anew before he can succumb to the paradise known as death. it's a never-ending cycle, one which causes him to no longer track the days when they all feel the same. the days out on leading monster subjugations and expeditions are just a temporary means of escape — an outlet for his pent up frustrations to let loose without worry. no one knows what truly goes on in his mind, only ever witnessing or hearing tales of his brutal yet awe-inspiring deeds on the blood-soaked battlefields, and the origin of his adopted alias: blade. his true name evades him, having been discarded the moment he lost his humanity.

he has always noticed you. it was hard not to when the favour you received was blatantly obvious, even from when you were just a fledgling knight and he the young heir of his duchy. there weren’t many opportunities for him to talk to you, what with the way jing yuan always seemed to divert his attention back to their instructor when noticing his wandering gaze to your distant figure, and even more so after the curse struck him full-force and he stopped visiting altogether outside of summons and banquets. it wasn’t until he returned from a monster subjugation as the sole survivor did he first properly meet you. with his mind torn and body regenerating itself, he failed to notice someone rush towards him, an unfamiliar warmth encompassing his bleeding torso as his conscience began to fade. an unfamiliar ceiling and an unfamiliar room was what greeted him when he awoke, but a warmth he registered as familiar gripped his calloused hand. what met his gaze then was your dozing figure, your head smushed against the duvet beside his leg with even breaths giving way to your unconscious state. his typically chaotic mind was silent as he stared at you. it was an odd feeling, one which elicited a sharp inhale when you shifted in place, your grip on his hand loosening as you sought out a more comfortable position, before exhaling in relief when you resumed your rest. it was an odd feeling, but it wasn’t unpleasant. and, for the first time in his life, blade experienced what it meant to be at peace.

(while he never spoke of that incident to you again other than a brief thanks for giving him (unnecessary) medical attention, he found himself drifting towards you more frequently — whether it be conversing with you during those bothersome banquets, stretching out the time you escort him before he enters jing yuan’s office-slash-meeting room, sharing specialties from his territory during garden strolls, or even requesting you to spar with him. the victory from either side is sweet, but the strained expression he catches from notable figures is even sweeter.)

amongst the many you’re acquainted with, merchant!sampo is the one you’re most on edge around in spite of the years you have known each other for. it’s not that he’s a bad guy, but there’s something about his easy smile and ever-searching eyes and his words that always seem to form into something people want to hear which all seem… off. well, maybe you’re reading too much into his demeanour. after all, if he truly did have sinister intentions, you’re sure he would have acted on them by now — he’s had plenty of time to.

there’s a certain level of cunning one must have in order to survive. whether that be wits, deceit, getting one’s hands dirty, it doesn’t matter. they are all just a means to an end, after all. sampo has long since tread on the path of deceit, a game of cat and mouse with unassuming clients and authorities. but business is business, and what better way to make use of that than exploitation? disguised in a bar known as “masked fools” mapped across the globe sits a wealth of knowledge, hidden behind a secret code only known by those who covet wealth or revenge. it’s a fun pastime; the information-slash-mercenary guild receives money, the client has their request done. sampo quickly discovered playing the unassuming fool in front of the target only for them to discover they were the fool all along to be exhilarating. it was a rush like no other, even more so when he mastered the art of disguise and blended in with the crowd, building connections and biding his time as the airheaded merchant.

sampo admits, he was a tad hasty in his judgement of you. just a little. well, when compared to the ever-imposing figure of the royal guard captain chasing him down when he makes his weekly medicinal run for the palace’s physician, you weren’t all that impressionable at first glance. maybe it was the way you passively regarded him before walking off which led him to that belief, or perhaps it was the unassuming expression you always carried despite being the famed personal guard of the emperor. whatever the case, he was wrong. he realised that when his balance was tilted, back flush against the grass with your body pinning him down. the tip of your sword was against his throat and your eyes burned so brightly when asking what he was doing sneaking around a forbidden area to outsiders. he doesn’t remember what he said or did in response; all he does remember is the adrenaline rushing through his veins at the stern countenance you bestowed upon him. unconventional as it may have been, sampo thought you were the most breathtaking in that moment, a wondrous sight for his heart which only knew of cunning and deceit.

(it would be no lie to say money talks. in his line of business, it does all the talking. the only exception, sampo discovered, was when an ignorant fool attempted to hire him and have you… removed, to put it lightly. sampo couldn’t help the laugh which escaped him at the expression on the man’s face after his carefree refusal, a sound which ceased as he pointed his weapon to the man’s throat and demanded he spill the identity of the one who sent him. after all, a mere small-fry like him doesn’t have the ability to even dream of hiring someone against you — mercenary or assassin.)

if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33

[ragnvdnir]

— how to woo the acting grand sage 101

wherein you pull out all the stops in an effort to persuade alhaitham on why he should date you, only… he woos you instead?!

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 7.8k wc, fluff, (attempts at) humour, angst if you squint, reader gets ill from overwork in one part, slight spoilers for 3.2 archon quest (brief mentions/recap of end events)

A/N : reader is struggling but they’re trying their best, alhaitham is a (smitten) menace and bad at feelings (kinda); the embodiment of u fall first, he falls harder (i just think we need more energetic/cute readers with haitham TヘT)

It wasn’t anything special. Really. Just you, your first day jitters, and the calm boy beside you in his Haravatat beret; the same one as yours.

Perhaps he’d noticed your flitting eyes, your shifting feet, or your wrung hands that swung gently in front of your robe-clad body because, when your eyes met (and, oh, what pretty eyes he had), he gave you a small nod. Of what? Comfort? Acknowledgement? Salutations?

You couldn’t tell, and you couldn’t ask. By the time you regained your senses he’d already walked off, the blank space beside you feeling strangely empty.

It wasn’t anything special.

But to you, that one, singular moment was all you needed; the comfort it gave was immeasurable, your first day jitters nonexistent.

Keep reading

[ragnvdnir]

"who are those for?" you ask, nodding towards the flowers cradled in nanami's arms. the bouquet is artfully wrapped, looped with ribbon to keep the stems from spilling out, each bloom nodding under its own lush weight.

he blinks, barely visible behind his glasses.

"you," he says.

you laugh.

nanami doesn't.

your laughter fades away, a star beneath the morning sun. "wait," you say, putting down your book. "really?"

he nods stiffly.

"i just didn't think you were the type," you say.

"i'm not."

"but—"

"but for you," nanami says mildly, "i can be."