refeverie

[refeverie]

reposting cause yeah! as someone who always tries to leave at least a little message or comment that i enjoy their work/works (or leave a like to remember to get back to it), it feels rewarding to get something back on my posts as well. it is such a warm feeling that not only you liked that idea to write it, but someone else loved it too. and i have a few regular readers whom are so dear to me bc i believe they feel this feeling even if they do not write themselves. they appreciate a piece that much to comment their emotions; to say that they were moved by me.

i am not a new writer, but i rarely post and switch platforms, so i never reach a great amount of people who like my works constantly. therefore it is mostly auto post likers. i do not get upset bc i have been so long into fandoms, i saw the change, but it might matter to others and THAT upsets me specifically. every time i see a new writer i make sure they feel appreciated, so i comment. this feeling is so damn precious to me.

ok ik this falls into the realm of like ~fanfiction discourse~ so if u don’t care for that then pls skip this LOL

i feel like as a fanfic writer nowadays, it can very much feel like you are operating as a machine almost rather than as an active member of fandom space. reblogging/other kinds of interaction as a whole have gone down SOOOO much compared to all the other years i have written fanfic and participated in the space.

and i’m not someone who will be upset about not getting engagement or whatever, i have posts with 0 notes and posts with 1k notes. it just comes w the territory.

i think part of it is it can really feel like a lot of ppl do not interact w fanfic writers’ content in a meaningful way, and then get upset when a) the author stops posting or b) the author does not post as much as they would like.

like any fanfic writer will tell you, 95% (im making this up but it feels like this) of interaction will be likes. which is essentially the equivalent of like 50 people just going 👍 at you. it isn’t really any sort of feedback besides “this was fine to me”.

but writers post because they WANT to interact with you in fandom space. like we don’t post because we want to post AT you, we want to post WITH you. so when you’re getting little to no feedback, it can really feel like you’re just interacting with a sea of xyz usernames rather than like … other people who like the thing that you like.

and again, i am very fortunate in that i get a good amount of interaction on most of my posts. that is not what i’m talking ab, this isn’t ab me specifically.

but i always think about NEW writers, ones who are freshly posting, who get little to no feedback and can often feel like they’re kind of posting into the void. that can get really lonely/isolating, and that’s not what participating in fandom should feel like.

all of this to say, if you’re someone who is a relatively “silent” reader, or you only like posts, just try commenting/rbing a few w some tags. i promise you it really gives every writer a huge boost in their confidence and inspiration. it is like crack to us.

or you can ignore me and go “omg serina it’s not that serious!” which like sure it’s not, but then don’t act surprised when writers stop writing/deactivate is all i’m saying!

[refeverie]

OH MY GOD I FEEL WEAK???? tried to read it so slowly so that i would be able to enjoy it for longer but nooo omg i was greedy. i love writers i love fandoms imagine i it never existed and i would have never read this piece of an art??? it's sooo simple and nice to read (i just got my period early early morning and this has been my first fic to read for comfort AND it became a complete cure!)

— third door on the left, marked “debate club"

two professors. one office door away from kissing or killing each other. maybe both.

feautuing . theoretical philosophy professor!anaxa x practical philosophy professor!fem!reader.

tags . university au. nodern au. suggestive. semi-public sex mentioned/referenced. (you make so many) sex jokes. fluff. ooc. soft anaxa. comedy. mild language. academic rivalry but make it professors. mentions of alcohol use. workplace romance. bickering as a love language.. flirting. so many philosophy terms (that i barely understand). wc 3.1k.

a/n . a friend dabbed me into philosophy and i folded. the handjob joke was initially hers but i couldn't help myself. im not a philosophy major so if you are please forgive me for any mistakes, my friend who actually majored in it helped me a small bit and im still confused. lmk if there are any typos. enjoy <3

"your handwriting is offensive," you mutter, turning the paper sideways, then upside down.

anaxa doesn’t look up from his tea. "you still read it, though."

"barely. is this supposed to say 'conscious' or 'conscience'?"

"both."

"no."

"well, that’s why i'm a philosopher."

"i also am one. your last footnotes gave me a headache."

he finally looks up, raising an eyebrow. "then my work here is done."

"so you’re telling me," you, crossing your arms. "that again, you rewrote the entire reading list after midterms?"

"no," he replies, not looking up from his notes. "i rewrote it because of midterms. frankly, your students deserve better than whatever you assigned them. i read the discussion boards."

"you’re on the discussion boards?"

"i moderate three of them. and i banned a user who called you hot. you’re welcome."

you pause and tilt your head. in the end, you mumble "...that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me."

"don’t get used to it," he mutters, knowing you're exaggerating. "they spelled ‘epistemological’ wrong."

your bring in tea and fruit for your students. anaxagoras brings nothing and cancels half his office hours because, quote, "philosophy isn’t learned in panic, it’s metabolized in silence" (half the admin hates him).

his and your students are in quiet (jealous) war. campus hallway signs include:

"vote: whose exam will kill us with more dignity?

team prof [name]: understanding through application

team prof anaxagoras: no multiple choice, only anguish"

you and anaxa both pretend you don’t see the posters.

you end up stealing one and taping it to the wall in your office. anaxa responds by using it as part of a pop quiz question.

the students get back by gifting both of you matching mugs that say: "#1 philosophical threat". anaxa mutters about not joking with philosophy majors anymore. (they're literally his students and he's starting to get scared)

him and you sit on opposite ends of the philosophy department’s couch like it’s some kind of contested ground.

you're reading ethics of desire upside down. he’s pretending not to notice.

"why do you hate me?" you ask, out of nowhere.

"i don’t."

"then why do you argue with me in faculty meetings like we're at the fucking olympics?"

"because you like it," he looks over, holding eye contact.

"and," he adds after a beat. "because you're brilliant. and you're wrong about kant."

"i’m never wrong about kant," you frown.

"see? fun."

the dean told you it's mandatory to be in the department-wide group chat. anaxa has notifications off, your have them on, and neither of you participate until absolutely necessary.

today, someone sends a meme about faculty budgeting. it evolves quickly into... something.

@ecologywillsurvive_vaelis: what if we held a bake sale for chalk

@anaxagorastheory: what.

@cai_NaOCl: maybe we should sell naming rights to the new ethics wing. welcome to the ‘crypto.com moral foundations lab’

@anaxagorastheory: if you sell naming rights to a lab about ethics i will personally remove my eye patch and stare into your soul.

@praxis[name]: we’ve talked about this, the patch stays on in public spaces

@praxis[name]: and cai i'm going to rename your organic chem wing to 'half baked molecule lounge' if you bring up the ethics wing again

@anaxagorastheory: i’m just saying. the thread of reason is fraying.

@praxis[name]: your self-control is fraying

@anaxagorasthery: say that in office hours.

@epiphany_uni_admin: hi everyone! just a reminder that this is a professional chat

"you're late," you say without looking up from your laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard like you've been waiting specifically to outpace him.

"i was grading," anaxa responds, setting down a stack of painfully annotated printed philosophy 201 essays with a grimace. "your TAs let them write in first person and i nearly hemorrhaged."

"they’re freshmen, let them think they matter," you reply, finally glancing up at him.

"dangerous ideology for a praxis professor."

you hum. "dangerous man to say it."

"you’re wearing my coat," anaxa notes when he opens his office door and finds you there.

you blink once. then, "i spilled tea on mine."

he steps aside to lt you in, utterly unsurprised.

"also," you add as your shrug the coat tighter. "yours smells nicer."

he doesn’t say anything for a moment.

"would it be weird if i told you i hope you spill more tea tomorrow?"

you smile, mischievous.

"depends where."

"you always write in pen," your mutter, flipping through the latest draft of his paper with red ink bleeding into printed black. "only pen."

"i trust my convictions," anaxa replies, deadpan.

"you misspelled 'epistemological' three times after getting distracted by me."

"i was testing you."

"were you?" you ask, eyes narrowing. "you wrote 'epistomagical' at one point."

he shrugs, takes a sip from his coffee. it's black and bitter and you know he hates it.

you bite back a smile. "idiot."

"your handwriting is worse," he mutters. "at least i try."

"i write in runes," you say, prim.

"those are hearts above your i's."

"...runes of war."

"do you always grade with red?" you ask, leaning over his desk, some random paper in hand that you forgot about long ago.

anaxagoras doesn't look up, "of course. red forces clarity. confrontation."

"you wrote 'source?' in all caps across a paragraph about love in greek tragedy."

"and?"

you smile, as if holding back laugter. "it was a quote. from you."

he looks up. slow. silent.

you set the paper down with calmness he swears one can only see in fiction.

"next time, check your own citations, professor."

wednesdays are mostly alright. you walk into the staff lounge and there he is: anaxagoras. at the coffee machine. holding two cups.

"brewing double today?" you raise an eyebrow.

"i had to offer the students a choice," he says, pressing the start button. "do you want to study logic, or do you want to study… your soul?"

"you’re so terrible," you say with a sigh, taking the second cup from him. "you know no one really wants to study their soul?"

"not true," he replies, smiling smugly. "they want to study it, they just don’t know it yet."

he takes a sip of his coffee, watching you. you narrow your eyes.

"and what's this 'quiz' you’ve decided to torture them with?"

"it’s not a quiz. it’s a philosophical challenge," he says, moving to the small whiteboard. "i ask them to define their own existence without using ‘i think, therefore i am'.

"you’re evil," you raise an eyebrow.

"i'm not," he argues. "they tiktokified descartes!"

"they what?"

anaxa finds a note slipped into his bag.

it’s folded on thick paper, smells like your hand cream.

in that unmistakable handwriting, hearts a constant above the i's like it's a love letter (maybe it is):

"you didn't have breakfast this morning, so i left a little something in your office

<3"

he stares at it for five minutes straight. then folds it again and tucks it into his coat pocket. the 'little something' ended up being a bento of salad and two bacon sandwiches.

he won’t ever admit it, but he carries it for the rest of the week (and he will absolutely not start mimicking your handwriting later).

it's a faculty party. you're in black silk and sipping terrible wine. anaxa's next to you, lecturing someone on metaphysical paradoxes. again.

"you could’ve worn a bow tie," you murmur when he leans in.

he looks at you like he’s already undone. "and you could’ve worn less loud heels if you didn’t want me distracted."

your fingers pause on the stem of your glass. "hm. touché."

"that’s french."

"you speak french?"

he leans closer, "i learn languages for spite."

you lick your teeth to hide a grin. "is that how you learned to say je veux te baiser in the hallway last week?"

anaxa chokes on his wine.

"you're in my office," he says, arms crossed, glasses half-lowered.

"your sign says 'office hours clpsed unless it's a crisis'. this," you say, dropping a thick bundle of papers on his desk, "is a crisis."

he glances down.

"this is… a peer review."

"your peer review. you cited a wikipedia page in a footnote."

anaxa doesn’t look even remotely sorry. "it was cited ironically."

"you teach epistemology, anaxagoras."

"and irony is a form of knowledge."

you blink. “oh my god. leave."

"it's my office."

"i don't care, leave."

obvious enough, your offices share a wall (god bless the dean and the department chair). it’s the point of thus where, sometimes, you hear anaxa recite passages of obscure texts to himself aloud; sometimes in ancient languages.

today, it’s greek.

"…lógos eikós," he says. "reason is likely—"

"and so is the fact that your argument on practical virtue is still wrong," you call through the wall.

"it was metaphorical!"

"so is your whole career!"

you hear the sound of a book being thrown at the wall and smile.

"you rearranged my bookshelves," you say flatly, arms crossed, eyebrow arched.

"i reorganized them by author. the fact that your copy of moral letters to lucilius was next to the hungry caterpillar is—"

"—educational range."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not really, just sips his coffee like it's the antidote to your nonsense.

"you’re impossible."

"and yet you still broke into my office to alphabetize my praxis."

"it was unlocked."

"it was not."

(it was.)

anaxagoras gets sick and refuses to take time off. you physically remove him from the building.

"i’m fine," he rasps.

"you’re a hazard," you say, throwing his bag over your shoulder. "you coughed on three students and almost knocked over aristotle's bust in your auditorium.

he slumps into your car without protest. later, you make him him soup and read aloud from his own research while he’s half-asleep just to see if you can make him correct your pronunciation mid-fever. he does.

"you’re ridiculous," you murmur.

"you’re warm," he mumbles, drifting.

"i’m human."

"keep being that."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i’m just saying. if prof [name] leaned over my desk the way she leans over prof anaxagoras’s desk i too would forget how to spell my own name"

@epiphanyconfessions

"anybody remember that one time she called him 'anaxagoras' during a rare joint lecture and he straightened up like a victorian man seeing ankle for the first time. someone sedate them."

@epiphanyconfessions

"i heard prof anaxa say ‘consent is the highest form of logic’ and i haven’t been the same since. like sir i just wanted to pass intro metaphysics please don’t take me apart like that"

you're the one who finds the twitter account. it's an automated bot which quite literally posts all the gossip in the university. unsurprisingly now, 70% of what you've seen include you and anaxa.p

you scroll for three minutes in silence, then turns your phone around so he can see it.

"i think your students are obsessed with me."

anaxa doesn't look a single bit impressed.

"well, at least i've managed to teach them something about attention to detail."

you end up paired for the damn symposium panel because someone in admin has a cruel sense of humor.

"just be civil," the dean says, sipping bitter coffee as the two of you stand on either side of the projector.

"civil as in—" you start.

"no blood on the mic."

anaxagoras doesn't smirk, not quite, but there's a twitch of something near his mouth when he says "i'll keep my composure if she does."

"i never lose my composure," you shoot back.

his eyes go to your mouth. "you have. once."

your silence is thin and sharp and full of fuck yous that do not get spoken.

the dean groans. "if either of you fucks the other on the mic, i swear to god i'm retiring."

you're walking out of the symposium together, the cold air catching your hair just right.

"they misquoted kant four times," he mutters, voice slightly hoarse

"only four?" you tease. "you’re mellowing."

"i’m trying not to ruin our evening."

"oh?" you glance at him. "are we having an evening?"

he stops walking and you take two steps before realizing he’s still behind you.

"…yes," he says. "if you want."

your expression warms without looking at him. "i do."

he doesn’t say anything else, just walks beside you the rest of the way, hands close, not touching.

it's christmas eve and everyone’s a little tipsy in the lounge, even the department chair.

anaxa is holding a glass of deep red wine and trying not to react when you make a joke about morals and oral fixation in the same sentence.

later, outside under the garden lights, you speak.

"brynn told me your students think we're sleeping together," you say, watching the breeze catch your own hair.

"we are."

"they suspect, anaxagoras."

"then they’re late to class."

you laugh, quiet and unguarded, the kind of laugh that makes his shoulders drop. he reaches out to fix the collar of his your coat.

"you're soft when you're smug," you murmur.

"you're smug when you're soft," anaxa retaliates.

"you’re in love with me."

"that too."

youre both tired. the grading deadlines loom and the campus heating is out again.

"sit down," anaxa mutters, patting the seat next to him on the floor of his office.

"your carpet has chalk dust on it."

"so do your pants, professor."

you sigh as if you're bearing the weight of the world on your lone shoulders and sit.

there's no light in the office but the blue glow of his screen, and the soft static of the heater humming through the vents.

"i'm not rewriting the conclusion," you murmur, almost asleep on his shoulder.

"i know."

"but i miiight let you footnote me."

he hums, head tilting against yours. "if you do, i'll stop quoting you out of context."

"...maybe don't. i sound smarter when you do it."

"you are smart."

you hum, noncommittal. anaxa sighs.

anaxagoras is having a deja vu; a really strong one.

you're seated across from each other at another faculty mixer (he complained about seeing too many people outside his lectures in the past three months on the way to this one). you're wearing black, sharp eyeliner, and a gold pin in the shape of a crescent. anaxa is halfway through a whiskey and trying very hard not to look impressed.

"you know they’re calling us ‘the debate club’?" you say, lazily stirring your drink. "it’s not flattering."

"they only say that because you get louder when you’re wrong."

"you’re still upset i said plato would’ve folded if someone gave him a nice handjob."

he tried to mask laughing with accidentally choking on his whiskey.

he definitely is having a deja vu. (he loves it with you.)

you kiss once in the archives.

it’s a study break, technically.

you're sitting on the dusty desk. he’s standing between your legs. you're surrounded by books about love and logic and ancient epics, and you don’t speak about the copy of whatever book you were supposed to help him with looking for.

later, as you fix his messed up hair again for him, when he’s too flustered to do it straight, you murmur,

"you lose arguments better than anyone i've ever met."

he leans into your palm where it cups his jaw.

"i only lose to you."

"i hope so."

he sees you grading in the courtyard and sits beside you, uninvited.

"your first-years are circulating a petition."

"ah. is it about the essay extension?"

"no. they want you and i to 'just publicly kiss already and not torture us anymore'. their words."

you don't pause your hand. "did you sign it?"

"...maybe."

you're more often in his office than you're not.

"if we get caught—" he starts, breathless.

"it's your fault. stop kissing me like you’re too lazy to drive us home," you cut him off, sliding your hands into his hair.

"i’m not built for scandal," he breathes against your mouth.

"you’re wearing an eyepatch, anaxagoras."

"...it’s academic."

"so is this," you say tilting his head back, climbing into his lap as your hand loosens his tie. "let me study you."

"you’ve been reading the same sentence for five minutes," he murmurs.

you don’t look up; your head is resting against your palm, pen slack between your fingers. "because it says 'therefore, subjectivity is inherently sus'."

anaxagoras blinks. "they submitted that in ink?"

"typed," you sigh. "with a footnote that just says 'as per amongus'."

he leans over, eyes scanning the page, then: "…expel them," flatly.

"i can’t expel them."

"i can."

"you teach philosophy, not moral hygiene."

"same thing, if you ask the right philosopher."

you're sprawled on the old couch in his office, shoes off, his coat folded under your head, flipping through his notes. your eyes hurt. you flip the papers upside down.

"you really wrote a thirty-page rebuttal on the concept of divine intervention just because i said some gods might have been hot?"

"you said apollo could get it in front of our students."

"and you wrote a philosophical hitpiece," you counter.

"i cited my sources," anaxa grumbles, tired.

"you are absolutely insane."

"we're pretty much equal in terms of that, i believe."

he brings you coffee exactly how you like it before every morning seminar. you make his lecture slides look presentable. you pass post-it notes through interdepartmental mail—yours are gold-trimmed, his are so painfully neat. once, someone intercepted one. it just said:

'you were right about that footnote. bring your smugness and your mouth to my office at five. i need to be convinced again.'

you're reading in the living room. anaxa's half-asleep next to you, head on your lap, one hand absently tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"what are you annotating now?" he murmurs.

"your latest essay."

"and?"

"you cited yourself fourteen times."

"i trust my sources."

you hum. "sure you do."

"if we were set to constantly teach a class together," anaxa says quietly, "we’d probably get fired."

you yawn. "i think we’d start a cult."

"that too. if we didn't already."

a hum. “a sexy cult."

he laughs, soft and tired and you want to kiss him until your lips remember his skin for the rest of your life. "you’re the one who brings up sex every time we talk about curriculum."

"it’s integral to ethics and aesthetics."

"and not philosophy?"

"it is philosophy," you grumble. "do you talk about pleasure in your lectures?"

he pauses. "…not directly."

"coward."

he squeezes your hand. "i love you."

"i know," you say. "even if your syllabus doesn’t include eros."

he smiles into your hair. "next semester."

[refeverie]

I don’t usually like “nice” feitan because people seem to change him into a completely different character but your soft Feitan i just looove 🩷🩷🩷

saw this after a REALLY tiring day and it made me smile<3 i am glad you like how i write him!!

there is a reason why i choose the reader to be one of the spiders—feitan can and would only be softer & nicer than he seems so (is) towards them than outsiders. it is really obvious in his character and, given phantom troupe's story, it is natural.

i also tend to not write dialogues. well i hate dialogue either way (to write, i mean), but with feitan, i believe, i would mess him up. what i do want, is to keep his imperfect speech and his inability to express himself fully, so i keep writing little phrases here and there anyways. yet, if i tried to write "soft" dialogue, that would go SOOO OUT of character real quick.

overall, me, myself, don't really like feitan being written in an opposite way of "nice". because he is not that either. he is complex and understanding him is hard. that comes from his almost non-existant background and stuff. so yeah, short moments like i write feels right for me to not stray far from his actual character, but also keep my fantasies on how i imagine him.

ok yap time is over, im really tired idk why i wrote this. love you for reading and taking ur time to send a message like that as well<3

[refeverie]

masquerade of feelings.

fluff. gn!reader × feitan. wc 294

summary. last dance of the masked ball! it takes part shortly after this event of my timeline:)

as the night of shadows and mysteries drew closer to an end, you noticed a lone figure standing by the southern wall of the ballroom. you never expected to see feitan at the masked ball—was he there from the beginning whilst you were so engrossed in swaying to the music of the orchestra? his eyes meet yours. 

you feel out of breath over so many rounds of swift viennese waltz with dozens of contrasting partners, but seeing him out there just calmed your heart and steadied your blood pulse. it felt like you truly had to experience his softened gaze on your body to finish the night euphorically.  

in a minute, the lights are dimmed along with a slower tune played in the background. this is a call for dancers to take their precious time towards the huge arched doorway, to finish the last glass of bubbly champagne and youthfully giggle this magical late night away. 

despite the ball being at its closing act, it was the cue for feitan to move closer to you. he is stretching his hand, inviting you for one final dance. 

he is new to it, trying so diligently to keep up with your moves. although his face showed no reaction, you know how blissful he is—he never gave up as he danced somewhat clumsily and he held you close, sensually supporting your arms and waist. 

partakers are leaving, although, neither of you moved closer to the passage out, rather inwards to the middle under the stunning renaissance chandelier of quartz crystal. 

“we go together. another time,” feitan whispers. he does seem nervous yet unyielding in his statement. 

“another time?” he does not answer, leaving you dancing all alone in your masquerade of feelings as he danced in his.

[refeverie]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 003. the framework.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: well well well... this took a long damn time. apologies, apologies, but the science had to be figured out. these two are absolute NERDS, i fear. oblivion is absolutely delicious on those who claim to possess and pursue the knowledge of the universe. i fear you will be suffering for a WHILE if youre not into the slow burn HAAHAHAH. also,, if you guys ever want to see the actual equations and notes i took to write some of the science for this chapter, i could post it as well,, hehe,, -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Hushed voices, the occasional shuffle of papers, the muted hum of thought is all that fills the air in the library. You sit at your usual table, papers strewn before you. The assignment has consumed your thoughts since it was given to you—an open-ended challenge demanding structure, logic, proof. Model something that physics refuses to acknowledge.

Your notes are chaotic, an evolving web of connections scrawled in the margins, crossed out and rewritten. A familiar frustration gnaws at you—the feeling of standing on the precipice of understanding, just shy of articulation. You run a hand through your hair and exhale sharply, staring at the mess of your own making. You need structure, a foundation to hold onto. If the soul exists, then it cannot be an anomaly—it must be governed by laws, patterns, something definable. If every human mind is unique, then what makes them so? The answer cannot be randomness. There must be an underlying form, a universal template from which all variation emerges.

You tap your pen against the page, mind turning. If identity is not a static entity but a recursive function, shaped by initial conditions and iterative transformations, then no self is ever fixed. The soul would not be a singular essence but a structure in motion, a process of becoming. And if this process holds, then consciousness cannot be isolated. The soul, then, is not merely a singular phenomenon—it is networked, existing not only within itself but through its connections. But what is it that determines it?

If this recursion is real, then it must not be a property of human existence but a fundamental principle of consciousness itself, a universal law.

It isn’t proof. It isn’t even a complete theory yet. But it is a start. A framework, a way forward. You stare at the words in front of you, pulse steady but intent.

Your fingers ache from gripping the pen too tightly, your vision blurring as you stare at the same lines of text, reading and rereading without truly absorbing them. The library’s stillness, once a comfort, has become suffocating—a static silence pressing in around you, the air too thick, the rows of bookshelves seemingly endless, as if space itself is closing in.

You lean back, dragging a hand down your face. A glance at the clock startles you. How long have you been here? Long enough that the lamps cast long, slanted shadows over your scattered notes. Long enough that exhaustion has settled into your limbs, dull and insistent.

You need air. Movement. A change in surroundings before your thoughts begin looping endlessly in place.

Gathering your papers into a loose stack, you shove them into your bag with little care for organization. You rise, stretching the stiffness from your spine before heading for the exit. The fluorescent lighting of the library hums overhead as you step out, the cooler evening air brushing against your skin like a quiet relief.

Minutes later, you find yourself at the café, drawn by the promise of warmth and caffeine. As the quiet hum of the city presses in, you click a few buttons on your phone and lift it to your ear.

–

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, grounding you. You wrap your hands around the ceramic cup, letting its heat seep into your skin. You sit near the window, coffee cup nestled between your hands, eyes skimming the notes spread haphazardly across the table. The light overhead buzzes softly—old wiring, probably—but the sound fades into the background as you focus.

You’re not here to have a breakthrough. You’re here to map the boundaries.

The problem with studying the soul—if you can even call it that—isn’t just defining it. It’s figuring out where to look. If it exists as more than a philosophical concept, then there have to be parameters. A framework.

You flip to a blank page in your notebook.

What is the soul?

A real question. Not in the poetic sense, not in the way people speak about it in hushed tones and late-night confessions, but as a function. A thing with properties.

You write:

— The soul is not isolated. If it were, it wouldn’t interact with the world. People change. Learn. Influence each other. Whatever the soul is, it isn’t locked away inside a single person.

— It has persistent traits, but it is not static. Memories shape behavior. Experience alters perception. The thing that makes you you isn’t a fixed point, but it also isn’t random. There’s continuity, even through change.

— It extends beyond individual experience. Connections leave an imprint. People carry each other—sometimes in ways they can’t explain. If the soul exists beyond metaphor, then its effects should be traceable.

You take a slow sip of coffee. These aren’t conclusions. They’re places to start.

At the very least, if you’re going to chase something this impossible, you have to know what it isn’t–

"Trial and error."

The voice is measured, almost idle, but it cuts through the noise of the café like a well-placed incision.

You jolt, pen slipping from your fingers. Anaxagoras is standing beside your table, hands in the pockets of his coat, gaze flicking over your notes with mild interest. His presence isn’t overwhelming, but it shifts the air in a way you feel immediately. Like a variable introduced into an equation.

"You can’t just—appear—like that," you say, exhaling sharply as you retrieve your pen.

He lifts a brow. "I used the door. Perhaps you weren’t paying attention." His gaze drops back to your notebook, reading without asking, though you suspect if you told him to stop, he actually would. "Trial and error," he repeats, as if the phrase itself is under scrutiny. "A method you seem to be employing."

You sit back slightly, fingers curling around your coffee cup. "You say that like it’s a bad thing."

"Not at all," he replies, voice as even as ever. "It’s an honest approach. Just an unpolished one."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Practicality aside, it’s the only thing I can do at this stage. I'm defining parameters, not solving anything." You tap your pen against the page. "Or would you rather I skip to the part where I give you something half-formed and empirically worthless?"

His mouth curves—just slightly. "I appreciate the restraint."

"High praise."

Anaxagoras doesn’t acknowledge that, but his gaze lingers on your notes a moment longer before he straightens. He doesn’t sit, doesn’t ask to join, but he also doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he says, "It’s getting cold."

You blink at him. "What?"

"Your coffee," he nods toward your coffee cup, still mostly full. "You’ve been holding it for minutes without drinking."

You glance down at it, then back up at him. "I didn't realize you were keeping track."

"Well, far be it from me to disrupt your... inefficiency." he remarks, stepping back.

You glance toward the door. "I'm actually waiting for someone."

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly.

"A friend," you clarify, though you're not sure why it feels necessary to do so.

He makes no move to leave, and you take another sip of coffee, not minding the silence that settles between you. It's surprisingly comfortable, even in its brevity.

Then, the door swings open.

Ilias strides in, scanning the café—then stops dead when he sees the two of you. His eyes flick between you and Anaxagoras, narrowing with immediate, delighted suspicion. And then, with exaggerated slowness, he pivots on his heel, turning straight back toward the exit.

"Oh, for—come back," you call, exasperated.

Ilias replies, raising his hands in mock surrender but grinning as he turns back around. "Please. Continue your—" he gestures vaguely, "—whatever this is."

Anaxagoras exhales, barely more than a breath, and finally steps away from your table. "I’m leaving."

Ilias watches him, expression far too entertained. He mutters just loud enough for you to hear, "I can't believe you invited me to your impromptu date."

You glare at him, but before you can retort, you catch the faintest shift in Anaxagoras' posture—nothing overt, no reaction beyond the briefest pause in his step. Then he continues toward the door, leaving without a word.

You groan, rubbing your temples.

Ilias collapses into the seat across from you like a man overcome by the sheer weight of his own amusement. "That was," he announces, "the single most deliciously awkward thing I have ever witnessed."

You mutter a quiet curse under your breath, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook.

"And yet," he sighs, folding his hands under his chin with a smirk, "here I am—like the universe itself has conspired to place me in this exact moment.”

Ilias is still grinning as he leans back in his chair, stretching lazily. “You know, if you ever need a chaperone for your secret intellectual rendezvous, I’m available.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your notes with more force than necessary. “It wasn’t an—” You stop yourself. There’s no point. Ilias seemingly lives for provocation, and you won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you shake your head and lean back in your chair, stretching your arms with a sigh.

Ilias, ever the dramatist, makes a show of settling in across from you, propping his chin in his hands. “You’re unusually quiet,” he muses. “Brooding, even.”

“No.”

“Hmm.” He taps a finger against the table. “That was an awfully long pause for a simple ‘no.’”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance out the window, watching the people moving along the street, the steady glow of passing headlights. The café hums around you—low conversations, the occasional clatter of a cup against its saucer. It’s late, but not late enough to leave just yet.

Ilias orders something sweet, drumming his fingers absently against the table while he waits. You sip the last of your now-cold coffee, your mind still lingering elsewhere. A glance at your notes does little to pull you back. The thought won’t let go.

You don’t even realize you’re frowning at your notes until Ilias nudges your cup with his own.

"Thinking about your not-a-date?" he teases, grinning.

You glare at him half-heartedly, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Thinking,” you say simply.

Eventually, Ilias finishes his pastry, brushing crumbs from his fingers before stretching with a yawn.

The two of you step outside together, the shift from the café’s warmth to the crisp night air making you shiver. The city has quieted, the usual rush of movement settling into a steadier rhythm. You walk side by side for a while, boots clicking against the pavement, the hum of distant traffic filling the spaces between conversation. 

Even as Ilias chatters on about something inconsequential, the ideas still linger at the edge of your mind, waiting to take shape. 

By the next morning, the café is a memory drowned out by the quiet rustle of students filling the lecture hall. The usual pre-class murmur settles into a steady rhythm—books thudding against desks, the sharp clicking of laptop keys, the low hum of voices exchanging half-hearted speculations on today’s topic. 

You slide into your usual seat at the front, your notes open in front of you, though your pen remains idle between your fingers. The thoughts that have followed you since the library refuse to resolve, circling just beyond reach. There’s something missing—something foundational, yet frustratingly unformed.

At the lectern, Anaxagoras sets down his drink with practiced ease, the cup making a soft, deliberate sound against the wooden surface. The hall quiets. 

He surveys the room with that same composed intensity, his gaze flickering over the assembled students before settling briefly—too briefly—on you.

“Continuity,” he begins, his voice carrying effortlessly, “is a deceptively simple concept. We assume that when two systems interact, they influence each other only at the moment of contact. That once they separate, the interaction ends.”

You straighten slightly. A slow prickle of recognition runs down your spine.

Anaxagoras picks up a piece of chalk and sketches a familiar equation on the board—one you’ve seen before, but never in this exact context. Your fingers tighten around your pen.

“But,” he continues, underlining a key term, “this assumes a linear, local model of influence. What happens, then, if we acknowledge that certain interactions leave something… persistent? That even after separation, a trace remains?”

The rustling of papers around you barely registers. Your thoughts lurch forward, bridging gaps in ways they hadn’t before.

You shift, almost without realizing, and Anaxagoras glances in your direction—briefly, but with intent. He knows.

A student two seats over raises a hand. “Are you talking about quantum entanglement?”

Anaxagoras tilts his head slightly. “A useful analogy, but not a perfect one. Entanglement suggests an instantaneous connection regardless of distance. What I am asking is more fundamental—does influence itself persist, even outside direct interaction?”

A murmur ripples through the hall. A few students exchange looks, some hurriedly scribbling notes, others frowning as they try to grasp the implications.

Your heart beats a fraction faster as the pieces align. The answer should be simple. If two variables are no longer in contact, the influence should end. The system should reset. But—

“They don’t go back to what they were before,” you murmur, half to yourself.

Anaxagoras sets the chalk down. “Louder.”

The words form before hesitation can stop them. “Even apart, they still retain the effect of their interaction. They update each other, whether they remain in proximity or not.”

The silence that follows is the kind that shifts the atmosphere of a room. Not an absence of sound, but a space filled with quiet recognition.

Anaxagoras watches you, his expression unreadable, but you swear something flickers in his gaze.

You grip your pen tighter. “There’s a kind of imprint,” you continue, voice steadier now. “An effect that doesn’t disappear even after separation. A persistence beyond time or proximity.”

He nods once, the movement precise. “Nonlinear. Nonlocal.”

A slow breath escapes you.

The clock on the wall ticks forward. A student coughs. Someone flips a page too loudly. The world presses back in, indifferent to the shape of revelation.

Anaxagoras turns away first, back to the board, where the equation remains half-finished. He picks up the chalk again, his voice returning to its usual cadence, folding the moment neatly back into lecture. 

His gaze flickers back to you for a moment—steady, contemplative, threaded with something unreadable. Interest, perhaps. Amusement, restrained but evident in the slight tilt of his head. And then, just low enough for only you to hear:

“You were closer than you thought.”

You exhale, staring at the marginalia scrawled in the edges of your notebook—sharp, decisive, yet somehow restrained. Outside the window, the campus air carries the crisp scent of rain—not quite fallen, not quite gone. And yet, the thought lingers, refusing to leave you.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[refeverie]

CAN I REQUEST ANGST WITH WANDERER?? - reader is in love with a guy from the academy when the wanderer truly loves the reader and understands everything perfectly.. But soon it turns out that the guy the reader is in love with turns out to be.. not a good person and wanted to hurt the reader. I really ask you to make an angst with a good ending where the reader will be together with the wanderer. I will be glad if you accept my request

everything he did, he did for you.

slight hurt/comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 660

note. nothing is specified, but i should say, that if you experienced anything like in the prompt, it by itself is a trigger warning for readers / it's also not entirely written like requested since i don't really know how to write it in my style (but i wanted to do it), so i tried not to stray from myself and wanderer.

(i don't take requests anymore, only ideas—i figured i can't write under pressure)

love is such a complicated concept. to some, it is a warm home; a safe place you return to at the end of the day. to others, an intense feeling of affection for a person you trust. for someone else, it is just a complex cycle of triggered hormones. … et cetera. 

and to wanderer? it is either a nonexistent idea for most days, or a specific name at times. yours, in particular. 

he is not one to confess, not one to possess, but one to suppress. wanderer is used to subdue the swirling hot emotions way easier than he should, or he would want to. he does not enjoy having certain feelings, yet, without them, he would not feel as human as he is. 

the thing is, you do not see him like that at all. well, that is what wanderer thinks anyway when he watches you take another’s hand. he notices the enamored look you give to that special someone, and it churns in his stomach. 

if his body had natural blood circulation, he would say he feels like all of his limbs are tied up firm—cutting the flow of oxygen to his brain; going all blue from pain and shortness of breath; said limbs being severed altogether with crimson red vital fluid drizzling into a pond underneath his trembling feet. 

the boy you like is sweet-talking. he gifts you expensive accessories, treats you to dinner, gives you flowers daily, always sneaks an arm around your waist, kisses your face, and never leaves your side. it is borderline perfect. 

he suffers this thing called ‘love’ like it is an incurable sickness. it eats him whole; gnaws at his heart. however, one fact is clear to him: he cares about you to an extent, so he understands your feelings well enough as well. letting you love someone else instead of him is one thing he can do for you beyond question. because you deserve to be your own person. 

wanderer ponders if it is what you like. he is the complete opposite of that guy—intimidating and teasing; all about give-and-take; not into intimacy nor gifting, but words and time; not around you every time yet always there for you when you do need him. and whatever you prefer. 

everything he did, he did for you.

despite all that agony, wanderer still lived, or rather, existed. 

it was not that long into your relationship before his ears perked up at the sound of your hushed name being mentioned when he strolled at the library of akademiya. he recognized the man you like. he is not alone and neither did he talk nice about you. some worm in his chest bit him hard.  

the house you are in is dark and unfamiliar; uncanny. it feels unpleasant. the guy you like mentioned he would be back soon, he just had to pick up something down the street. you assume it is flowers like every day. though, it has been quite a long time.

as you hear a bell ring, you go to welcome him back. in truth, after you open the doors, you are met with someone else instead—wanderer. he is not alone, his right hand is holding your boyfriend by the scruff of his neck, and the left grips another boy you saw once or twice before at the library. you are confused, but not for long. 

shortly, you are clutching wanderer’s chest, teary-eyed, and feeling so small in this huge scary world. if not for him, what would have happened to you? he holds you close, tracing soothing circles with the palm of his hand on your back. he found himself kissing the top of your head secretly, too.

you never appreciated wanderer that much before today. he earned your trust, your gratitude, and your love. he felt like he just sacrificed a lot of his energy, but it did not matter. 

because everything he did, he did for you.

[refeverie]

mizuki talking to wanderer yep<3

[refeverie]

you complete him.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.6k

note. it is the second and final part of only with you. it can be read as a standalone if you don't mind not having context.

summary. nudity & non-sexual intimacy; mentions of hanakotoba (the japanese language of flowers).

☆ based on orange blood—orange flower (you complete me), still monster & mortal—by enhypen.

it is getting dark—you notice as the fiery orange sun is gradually being replaced by a pale waxing crescent moon in the sky. bone-chilling water lacks color now. it is challenging to grasp where the stream ends and the field of flowers begins; where your body starts to blur with his. 

you believe that being in the gloomier ambience makes wanderer appear more at ease. perhaps one can not scrutinize his body well enough, or he can let himself take his mask off untroubled, or rather it is because he is not able to lay his eyes on others, to feel the immense feeling of guilt due to his immoral acts of the past. 

wanderer used to believe, no, was coerced to believe that he is different, exceptional; that his formerly meaningless life could be of use for ruling. his body can take on more than the average human—that is, of course, if you say he is one—meaning, he could be made into a god; deity, worshiped for who he is rather than forsaken. he would be needed, called upon for guidance and remedy. he would offer his undying body to subjects of his beliefs. he wants to be loved and valued like the rest, too. 

give him time. time to comprehend that being vulnerable is a natural way of humankind. wanderer does feel vulnerable somewhat perpetually. he is as harsh on himself as much as on others, that much he can understand and admit to himself undoubtedly. it is people pointing that out to him that he does not take well. to the point that wanderer might spiral deeper into self-deprecation, ignoring signs of rage and compulsion building up to the brim of his core. either way, no matter where he goes, his sins will be unavoidable. he learned that the hard way. 

as it became even more darker, neither of you could see the art from flower tints on bare skin. you were shivering by yourself—sumeru refreshing winds did not mix well with evermoving waterfall splashes of the night. 

you ask wanderer to let you bathe him. does that mean erasing the tiny crimson-colored heart on his chest, he quivers. you know, well, you like to believe you know his thoughts as you shake your head slightly. is he relieved? 

you pour the water from the palm of yours down his neck, shoulders, and back. it runs slowly, soothing the non-physical pains of his. your hands are soft, gentle, moving in circles to rinse color remainders of you; your work. despite that, his world does not feel empty without them because you, by yourself, are the colors dyeing wanderer entirely full. you are the blooming flower of his heart, and you speak in the language of flowers as well. 

as he goes through his memory of this very evening, he understands the connotations of each meticulously chosen flower for dye markings.  

you used bright pink camellias to show your tender love and unique beauty of his. pale pearly lotus petal to reveal the purity of his heart. dainty lilac primroses for your admiration towards him. sunny yellow daffodil to show him respect and hope for his future. cherry red poppy to wish him to go on with his life with fervid passion. indigo violets to remind him that sincerity and hope will come to him shortly. cobalt blue cornflowers were to make him feel free of impurities. 

wanderer remembers that you always talk in flowers while gifting them whenever you feel like it. he reminisces about how you gave him the sole sunflower the other day. he read in the book that you mean to only look and see him. the wisterias of last month were to evoke his memory that you will not let him go soon and he appreciates that. the light pink sakura twig on his kigumi table whispers “don't forget me” every morning as he goes out. 

yes, you are truly his beautiful flower of life, to say the least. 

you are cautious of his slight movements while washing him. he is attentive to how you help him—so he can be of service to you as well. two of you trade places, you move closer to the waterfall, going under that shower of nature. wanderer’s fingers gently brush through your wet hair. you smile. 

waterfalls are said to symbolize prosperity; cleansing, letting go of negative thoughts and feelings that have become lodged in one’s mind and heart respectively. you do feel free of it, still, all you care about right now, does wanderer feel the same. 

he did learn to distrust and loathe the whole world at the very early stage of life; he did make mistakes and wickedness, built on told lies; he does feel a swarm of cynical, pessimistic, and obstructive emotions. so, does the waterfall purify his judgement of mankind? does the waterfall purge him from evil? 

you were so at peace, that you did not notice how unhurriedly and tenderly his hands were caressing upwards your body, soaking it. wanderer is careful, it does send tingly sensations all around your skin. it was just another moment of sensuality between you both. 

you look into his eyes. they sucked you in deep, like into the abyss, and yet, they looked soft and shadowless to you. he knows the truth and he is mildly confused—how can you be so kind to him; how can you look at him lovingly like that, like nothing happened because of his actions; how can you let him touch you as he did not have any blood on his hands. 

to tell the truth, you are aware of everything. you know he is open to dislike everything at first; to spit the honest words harsher than he should; he is opinionated; he lacks genuine self-worth; he holds grudges; he is naive, be that as it may. yet he is effortlessly thoughtful; ready to help if anything does go the wrong way; resilient; cooperative; accepting of his sins and trying to repay them (even if they can not be undone). 

so yes, you would say you know him well enough to be that close to him without any fear. the past does not define a person, only helps them shape who they are now—each one being a white papered-book at first and filling themselves with a vast collection of past experiences along the way. 

wanderer was forgiven many times. over and over again (and he does value those lessons, he does value learning). forgiven yet not forgotten. not how he wanted to be anyways. for all that, he is somewhat of a monster. a monster everyone made of him, he made of himself. is being evil truly the opposite of being a god? he is still noticed by the public, still in need for balancing the world. the devil is on the other side of eternity. one would need no gods, no rulers if the world had no evil and no discords. 

you felt clean; cleansed with the same hands of his that he had hurt another. it was an exchange of feelings through fresh water and flowers between you during that prolonged precious moment of the night. 

later that twilight, you found yourself lying on the soft dewy grass of the very same flower field of gandharva ville. wanderer learned to imitate human breathing long ago and, although he had no natural body heat, you did feel warm when feign exhales from his lungs reached your moon-illuminated face every time. 

tonight is as pretty as the picture. the sky is not cloudy, the sea of constellations is so bright it begins to etch itself into your eyes. wanderer looks at you—how mesmerized by the stars you were, not knowing that secretly you wished to be the star yourself, the one he would want to look at, despite not believing the concept of them. 

you see the stars as something heavenly and full of tales of the teyvat, wanderer, on the other hand, is convinced that they are futile to pay attention to for their existence is not eternal. they burn down as mortals close their eyes someday, too. thus, if you were a star of this universe, you would perish nonetheless. you will still meet your end when your bloom withers. 'the only thing that is immortal is mortality.' and wanderer himself. 

once it happens, he will experience a certain deja vu, another one of his betrayals. does he even keep count of them anymore? he might start it anew. 

wanderer desired to be human so desperately that he disregarded that the beauty of living is not what he considered meaningful. it is not the name nor a heart that is the essence of his life, but something else. someone else. you. 

perhaps, he lived on that regretful and shameful path so he could find you when engulfing darkness sucked him empty; when you appear willing to tend to his scars, guide him to see himself as someone worthy of attention and care, and being alive. you are his hope for embracing self-doubt and fragility eventually. he is conflicted as he clings to you like a lifeline. 

you spent some time observing the clusters of stars while drifting to sleep. he kept looking, not at the sky, at you. he was reflecting. you look so sweet in your slumber that wanderer realizes that bitterness is not the only flavor he tasted throughout his existence. 

wanderer’s soul is tainted with curses. not solely of immortality—of sins, of finite time to wander together with you. he does worry about it yet does not at the same time. he learned to enjoy the little things silently and by himself. he decided to live on, as of now. 

through the night, wanderer stayed close, body to body while you rested. when the sunrise began to show its first bright orange rays of shine, he left you snuggled in. all alone. it is fine by you since you will reach out to him and he will find you the next day for sure. 

because you complete him.

[refeverie]

greetings from the wind.

fluff. gn!reader × venti. wc 317

summary. he gave you a small present !

it is a beautiful warm day, really. you cherish it as you walk in nature with little sparrows chirping around the trees. they seem… celebrating something—a new bright day? someone’s birthday? beginning of the march? something else? their tweets appeared to call you as well. 

and as you stroll, you hear more sounds; songs, various ones. you are fond of them. you hear the lullaby from your childhood. you hear the songs from your teenage years you loved, but barely knew the correct lyrics of them. you also hear the music you are currently obsessed with. all of this at once. surprisingly, your ears are blessed. 

as are your eyes. dozens of windwheel asters are gently spinning from the breeze while a myriad of dandelion seeds are swirling all around you and dancing to the tunes you hear.

“hehe, do you like my gift?” you catch almost like a honey-laced voice coming from the side. its echo was so saccharine, you felt the sweetness in your throat—it stifled. fortunately for him, you can not resist the charm belonging to the owner of the sound. 

as you turn your head to the left, you are met with a bright smile from a figure. you are not sure whether it is anemo archon barbatos speaking after guiding you with the winds, flowers, and songs to this meadow (you can catch a full whiff of freedom here). even so, it was undoubtedly venti welcoming you. 

his two braids—weaved with fresh cecilias of early spring days—were moving against the chilly wind; going in circles. the wooden swing he was sitting on was also scantily decorated with newly-picked mondstadt flowers of white. 

venti dematerialized his lyre on the spot, inviting you to sit on the hefty swing with him. it sways slowly and you feel happy; it soothes your heart and mind. so, you realize, this is the greetings from the wind.

[refeverie]

the fact that from this day alone my mind came up with 3 new ideas for wanderer x reader is diabolical, in addition to my like 28829 ones.

at this point i will be a wanderer blog which would not make sense for me (i like him just a bit tad more than normal amount. lied. anyways, still, never expected to write about him at all (also, keep writing too).

originally this had to be hxh and feitan specifically dedicated blog with some ideas for genshin later AND YET MY FEED STATES OVERWISE??

[refeverie]

KINICH MY BELOVED<3

freezing the moment • kinich x gn!reader

“It never snows in Natlan. Does that mean nobody will experience love here?”

It started with a silly sentence you read in a silly book. One’s first love is the person with whom one experiences the year’s first snow, it said.

It was indeed stupid. Your question, and the statement itself.

Yet, when Kinich thought about his mom and dad— he found himself thinking that it might be true after all. 

It was either right or what he longed for wasn’t love. Because the situation at home clearly was not what he desired.

Noticing how the usually quiet boy remained silent, you sighed. Was he bored? Okay, you can try to change the subject a little bit.

“I’ve never heard anyone have a Cryo vision either. Does that mean since we are in the nation of war, there is no place for love…? Ah, Snezhnaya must be a wonderful place. That's probably why it snows a lot there, right, since it's the land of love? I am so jealous.”

That finally made him speak, to your delight. If he hadn't, it might have flustered you— though since it was Kinich, you wouldn't have minded too much.

Or maybe you would have. He was so good in your eyes that you wouldn’t want to be an embarrassment next to him.

“A rumor says that someone named Granny Citlali from Night Wind’s has a Cryo vision.”

Ah, okay! A new topic, one that he chose to talk about too. You can work with that.

“Do you think she would make it snow if we asked? For fun?”

Seeing your excited eyes and hearing the curiosity in your voice, he paused just for a second before shaking his head.

“They say that she is super scary as well.”

Boo! 

“I’ll make her like me then, trust!”

His gaze lingered on you longer than it should. Though you were so busy talking about a character in your book that came off scary, just like the said elderly, but was a huge softie instead— you didn’t notice how his eyes softened.

He trusted you, without any doubts.

Because before you met him, he too had been perceived as intimidating and scary.

So yes, you could definitely make her like you.

Just like you had with him.

As you both grew older, you realized that you had been too carefree back then.

Because now that he was a saurian hunter— no, on top of that; now that he bore the name ‘Malipo’ you didn't see him around much.

Nothing changed between the two of you, of course. But the environment itself changed, unfortunately. And that made a huge difference. Because now your time with him was ten times more precious, maybe a hundred, which means that even every millisecond you spent together should be cherished.

Now, today, it was by pure luck that you guys ran into each other while doing commissions today. It was a rare sight, not that you minded, of course. You truly missed him over the past few days.

Although it was work, you were minding your business, and you knew Kinich was also doing the same. Fitting. The one who wasn’t minding their own business was Ajaw, apparently. Very fitting, indeed.

“Ugh, how long is this going to take? Might I remind you that I have places to be!”

Well, here we go again.

“Oh yeah, what places?”

Kinich's tone made you crack a smile, it was endearing seeing him like this. Since you two never bickered, their odd dynamic always was full of surprises.

While Ajaw was talking about his fans and Kinich reminding him that they are nonexistent, you simply enjoyed the moment.

And it was good while it lasted, you must say— until a hidden domain you stumbled upon ruined the moment.

The wind wasn’t like the warm breeze at the top of the mountains during the sunset; it was cold.

Natlan was never cold. Never.

As soon as Kinich noticed the change of the air, the jacket that had been loosely wrapped around his waist suddenly found its place on your shoulders. His expression was indifferent.

You, on the other hand, were caught off guard. Flinching slightly at the sudden weight, the warmth quickly crept up to your cheeks. To your displeasure, Ajaw noticed this, he mumbled a quiet ‘disgusting’ and vomited some rainbows. (Spoiler: You might want to deal with him once and for all today.)

Kinich wasn’t known for his words; his actions always spoke louder.

It was his silent way of showing he cared, you noted. He really didn’t change, after all. 

While you two walked through the domain, the chilly demeanor of the domain grew even cooler. Well, if you want to look at it from the bright side, the distance between you and the saurian hunter nearly vanished. His arm brushed against yours from time to time. Though both of you were cold, his skin felt warm— weirdly warm.

When you noticed how his nose was a little bit reddish too, you decided to joke about it a bit. He looked cute, you wouldn’t see the famous Malipo like this often. Why waste the chance to play around a little?

Well, the universe had different plans, just as you were going to comment about it; you slipped. Slipped? Yeah, dragging Kinich into the fall too. You were playing around, alright. 

His hand was at the back of your head, protecting it from the harsh impact it could have gotten. And on top of that— no, let’s rephrase this. On top of you, there was Kinich. 

Wow. Way to go.

Embarrassed, you were so ready to apologize but the sudden coldness you felt on your cheek made you stop. 

The saurian hunter’s shoulders stiffened, his hair, one that is highlighted with orange and green, was now painted white. 

It was snowing.

It was snowing, each snowflake delicate and fleeting— just like the moments you two had and still continued to have.

It felt like the time had stopped— in such a way that the snow froze it, just for the two of you. Just as if giving you the chance to treasure it.

His eyes, which looked like the sunrise in the forest, were locked on you. His breath was caught up on his throat, it seemed (since the usual puff of mist didn’t escape from him). And it did make you more nervous.

Your back was getting cold despite his jacket, and also a little bit wet too. Now you realize what you two were walking on was a frozen lake. Can’t blame you for falling, really.

The whole domain was cold as ice, the pounding on your chest made it impossible to feel it. 

It was warm. Being near Kinich was warm. The memories you two shared were warm. His gaze was warm. He was warm, and he was also making you feel warm.

The feelings you harbored for Kinich, were warm. 

It seems like it wasn’t a silly book nor a silly quote after all.

And when his eyes dropped to your lips for a millisecond(one that should be cherished), a sneeze interrupted you two from a distance.

“Achoo.”

Oh, Ajaw. 

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ notes!

☆ another work that might get rewritten </3 i swear it sounded better in my head JDHJWJEKFFLES anyway ! ( + not proofread, feel free to correct any mistakes if there is any <: )

☆ i started writing this when it started snowing in the city I live in, it's been 3 years since it last snowed here (there was an albedo event back then, too... guys albedo brainrot is so real that i might drop the draft i've been working on for the past week HDFJWHKFWL), and now the snow has melted haha. great timing to finish the work i guess (,:

☆ i also forgot citlali existed at first ): literally wrote 300 words about "the poeple of the nation of war doesn't have a place for love" theory...

☆ nevermind that, hope you enjoyed it !

[refeverie]

crystalfly of his heart.

fluff. gn!reader × xiao. wc 962

summary. crystalfly sight-seeing !

you care about xiao. you care about him to a great extent. for this reason, you yearn to spend this very afternoon with him.

there is this place you found while wandering through liyue, you were sure he had to catch a glimpse of. it is slightly selfish of you to drag xiao along since he is not one to waste his time on mortal customs. 

you kindly ask him, fully prepared to plead—to come with you; to appreciate the beauty of this world he never truly cared about until you came into his life to brighten it up. to your surprise, he does agree to go quite instantly. 

xiao does not know where you lead him, does not even have a hunch. sometimes he can guess whether it is stargazing, caring for stray cats, jumping through rain puddles, or sunsettia fruit picking, though, not this time. 

when you finally reach one of the caves of qiongji estuary, xiao gets his guard up. “i sense a fair amount of living elemental energy there,” he remarks. 

by now, you are already aware, so you whisper (to not scare the previously mentioned beings inside) exactly that. he is not assured, taking the first step further and walking in front of you the entire time. you think it is silly of him, understanding that the elemental beings there possess no harm to you nor to him; he was the one in the dark thus far. 

the road in the cavern is swampy and icky to go with shoes on, so the idea of going barefoot lingers in your mind. at one point, xiao started to lay out medium-sized flat rocks he found on the sides, gesturing to step on them instead. you were grateful, more so, when he offered to hold onto his wrist if needed. 

as the cave widened, it opened to the sight of its magnificent core. there are little flowers all around the shiny fresh grass field, covered with dewdrops. those were coming from the prodigious tree, prospering with water droplets of changed leaves. it is a magical view. 

all the more when you notice a myriad of crystalflies, engulfing the branches of the tree; taking land on small blossoms on the meadow; flying towards both of you and swirling around. 

xiao lowers his jade spear before long. the creatures are harmless as of now. 

what actually surprised you, was that the crystalflies were not solely formed from geo energy. there were different ones; all of the elements. 

the anemo crystalflies, those storming around you the fastest—making you feel the most pleasant to your skin winds. it makes you more free than ever. 

geo crystalflies, the ones most familiar to you both, carry the dreams of everyone in this nation, calling out to xiao to live in prosperity; to fight alongside his people. 

migrated from inazuma, the electro crystalflies brought a variety of stolen ideals of humans, scattered around to choose what to fight for. you know your beliefs well as xiao his. you do not need to opt for new ones. just yet. 

dendro crystalflies bear so much liveliness with themselves that you want to breathe in that earthy smell of vitality—hoping for xiao to see that being alive is an invaluable trait. 

hydro crystalflies are so pure the tears prick your eyes, you feel free of flaws. you tried gently catching one, seeing how xiao felt way more at ease of his sins. it felt just right for him; was meant for him to experience it. 

pyro crystalflies are warm to touch. standing by them is like being at home as well as with the right person. the passion coursing through them, nearing you both, is almost like love and protection being expressed in silence. 

cryo crystalfies brought the cold the world needs sometimes. they are fragile and short-lived, it is sad. you think they are the prettiest in spirit—living to die yet having the most meaningful life, dancing with such vigor. it made you look back at the existence of humans. 

there are also peculiar ones, you would believe they are coral-colored. they are unlike others. those made you feel strange, mystical. you are not used to them as they are not used to you. though, you love them plenty as they convey allure not of this world. 

it makes you think that this cave is special since these pure forms of life are formed from the natural elemental energy, specific to the prevailing region. you guess, the tree is the one that contains the elements of all the teyvat for contrasting crystalflies to manifest altogether. each of them is lovely and unique. 

you turn your head to xiao, noticing that his golden eyes sparkle and reflect the beauty in front of him meticulously.

he is not a man of many words. that does make him a great listener, no matter if you like to ramble or if you are as quiet as him—any time you want to express your opinion, he will be there attentively listening. you can count on that. so you speak. 

you share how you came across this place; how various crystalflies make you feel, how you, too, expected him to feel. he paid attention to your thoughts, where you were looking, explaining each individually; he observed his own state as well. 

to him, crystalflies feel like gifts of this world; benevolent offerings, given by elemental energy to the living. they are sending a message eternally, no matter which is your favorite, it can be used as a favour for anything and anyone, and anytime. 

today he felt like you gave him all of the blessings, carried by them, at once. simultaneously, he considers you his exclusive crystalfly of his heart—the blessing of his heart.

[refeverie]

a motive to stay.

fluff. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 575

summary. rainy day of silent care !

this very day, it has been pouring rain. as a diligent student of akademiya of sumeru, you could not stay home—even if you wanted to be wrapped in snug blankets with a hot drink of your choice, watching rain droplets race on your bedroom window.  

the fear of being late to finish entrusted work of yours, caught up real quick, pressuring you to reach the library swiftly. the biggest worry was not entirely the fact of soaking your clothes or dishevelling your hairstyle, but rather the few books you had to carry without drenching them—you surely did not want to rewrite it by hand for the next few days instead of doing something else. 

for a minute, you stopped under the thriving viridescent tree to take cover, although all the leaves were so thin, the droplets were able to land on your shoulders either way. the weather pricked your cheeks and fingertips with cold. 

in a moment you feel something heavier on your head, obscuring your vision in the process. you were not used to the weight the hat gives and you were not able to balance it due to its wide edges either, leading you to stumble a bit forward. 

you did not fall, of course you did not when there was someone ready to catch you if you did—encircling your waist with his hand, wanderer gently pushed you to go the flooded road onward the akademiya. “let's go,” he simply murmurs. to tell the truth, he did want to bite some harsh remarks to you, to tease you, but he did not after seeing the form of you holding those books, he held back for once. 

despite wanderer presently being the one drenching with rain, you got all the space needed under his large hat (to be honest, you never really saw him without it, and neither he did let anyone as close as that either). right now, he is starting to look like a stray wet cat.

he insisted that the hat he gave you was for the couple of books to stay undamaged from the rainpour. yet you both secretly know it is solely done for you to keep you warm, safe, and dry since he wanted to do so. 

by the time you reach akademiya, the weather clears up. as it was on purpose. 

you stayed there until the dawn, studying. at one point, you catch wanderer watching you reading as he was imitating his. you do not question it… once, twice, thrice. 

the next hour he is bringing you a cup of hot beverage. “give me your hands.” you look at him astonished. he is expecting it like a demand and you oblige. he is holding your palms softly, wrapping them around the pretty mug he chose with effort. it is warm and you shake frantically no more. 

he persisted, he certainly did not want to bother himself carrying you home if you got sick. yet you both secretly know it is solely done for you to keep you cozy and secure since he wanted to do so. 

wanderer is not one with words of comfort, but his actions indeed scream louder than ever. your heart flutters. his care for you was as clear as the blue sky, however he was blinded by the dark grey clouds of rain he manifested your way today. 

he only just wanted a motive to stay and spend some time with you. 

[refeverie]

only with you.

angst & comfort. gn!reader × wanderer. wc 1.7k

summary. non-sexual nudity & intimacy; body painting with flowers; recollection of past events (wanderer)

sumeru is a dualistic region. where knowledge and reincarnation richly seep through every concept there is, it would still not exist without any ignorance, nor destruction. one needs another to thrive. 

wanderer himself is a dual man—a human being without an organic heart yet a puppet with feelings. somebody, who had multiple names throughout. somebody, who once had a mother; friends. somebody, who was given a midway place in this world across his journey. as a wanderer, he is said to have no name, kin, or destination.

maybe there is a definite reason for him to spend the majority of his time in sumeru after all. as he originated from inazuma, a land of isolated eternity, spent years at the claws of the notorious nation of snezhnaya and—seeking his ascension to godhood, eventual prosperity, and validation at last—was forced into flimsy redemption in sumeru.

wanderer self-destructed his ignorance to reincarnate it as full of knowledge; to shape his existence anew. all of this for him to question himself and suffer the same.

the sacred tree of the world—irminsul—answered the questions he always sought and yet, he was betrayed once again. wisdom is a heavy burden with a great cost; it could be one’s demise. ignorance to him was, indeed, a bliss. as well as oblivion, which he was stripped of in a little of a while. 

since the day he had to relive his entire lifetime in a minute and earned an anemo vision in the process, the world around him changed. in fact, he met you, who made a significant change to his demeanor. wanderer may not be the best companion there is, however, you both always seek each other in a crowd. even if there is none of it.

the sunset is pretty today, you think as you immerse yourself up to the chin into the lukewarm water underneath the waterfall of gandharva ville. wanderer remained apart from you for a while. he was hesitant. he may have a synthetic body of a puppet, but being stark naked in front of you felt way too vulnerable by his nature. it felt like cutting himself open and letting himself go free.

he was never free to begin with. freedom to each is a different concept. the day the god of eternity sealed his power and hid him like a failure of hers, followed by letting him roam free, he chained his mind to different intentions of ei’s. he felt neglected and deprived of who he was meant to be—not knowing he was a mere prototype, never designed to hold and wield the electro gnosis; whose existence was about to be terminated right before they saw him cry in his sleep—rather than free.

he had no given name nor a home to get back to at the end of the day. so, naturally, when fatui took him under their wings, he felt that being the sixth seat was his rightful place. 

there were many kind people in his early ordinary days of learning how to be human between the time he was discarded and given the title of the balladeer. your way of carrying yourself immensely reminds him of them all. sometimes it can be agonizing to wanderer, but lovely just the same. he reacts to your eyes, inviting him to join you bathing in the stream while the sun slowly sets. 

erstwhile clear water, due to the reflection of the sky, is dyeing itself in colors of yellow, orange, violet, and pink. the river takes its appearance like the flower field around you at once. 

as wanderer takes his clothes off, he is quickly submerging himself into and under the water. it is shallow, so you can swiftly reach his side. you have qualms about whether he would let you come closer, despite that, you carefully stretch your hands towards his shoulders. you sit him up. he has a lot on his mind lately, thus, he lets you take care of him without thinking much. to tell the truth, he trusts you to a great extent, knowing you would catch him if he fell—literally and figuratively. 

you pluck a lone flower from the floral field. it is greenish blue, or rather turquoise, in color. one would rarely see it blossom. the color reminds you of wanderer’s tattoos’ when they glow with power.

you slowly trace them with luminous petals, so it leaves dye markings; barely visible, but you both know it’s there nevertheless. it is a silly activity yet remarkably intimate for either. he does not feel skin contact the same as everyone else, regardless, he gets chills from your delicate brushes.

somehow you do not care about him being born unhuman at all. maybe because in your mind he is the most human one could be—cruel and all the things beautiful at the same time; imperfect. 

you offer him another flower of your favorite color, for him to paint on your bare body as well. he is skeptical, however, it takes only a moment to engage in the act. you shiver every time he tries touching you softly. neither of you talk. 

you warily touch his face then. the pink rose in your frail grip is kissing his cheeks, and nose, consciously avoiding his pursed lips as well as eyes, which are dyed burgundy anyways. the color was indeed deliberately chosen to imitate a blush of sorts. you thought it was cute. 

he is feeling your skin alongside, attentively selecting parts of your body you would be fine with; giving your consent to. it does vary how you react.

you reach for his chest subsequently, holding a flower of opaque red. you are faltering while drawing something. at that moment, he stops his own tracery and retracts his arm further from you; stays still. you painted a little heart on his chest. likewise, you keep looking at it in silence, smiling. 

it was a heart he was able to call his own. 

he remembers. puppet he is, abandoned by the almighty shogun for being overly human, but used as a tool by fatui ever since. in no way they saw a human—whereas he could not die and had an empty space of a heart. how can one be a human being without a heart? his existence contradicted itself in that sense.

as a harbinger, did he become more human then? when a tainted heart he got from the doctor saved him, it was offered to him in the form of the ashes to have in that empty shell of a place. at first, he did not know it was niwa's; that same withered one he discarded after condemning the entire incident as his second betrayal of cruel mankind nature. a human heart he yearns for is not worth the pain of another person’s death. 

afterward, he sought a gnosis to take that place instead. his luck was one of a kind really. the contentment he became so familiar with, was short-lived in the end. it was not a real heart anyhow. can the anemo vision he recently acquired serve as his vital core replacement?

each time he came into possession of a fill-in for a heart, someone else had to suffer. merely this time, he actually felt you blessed him with a heart he could be endowed without any anguish. he put his singular hand up to his chest and held it pressed. he was fond of his ephemeral heart. 

you slowly but surely grasp his fingers. the puppet joints over the years looked almost seamless. it evidently looked human-like. you cautiously brush your lips against his knuckles, meeting his violet-blue eyes. do they twinkle—was it mirroring the stirring water on second thought? 

promptly, the serene moment of yours is interfered. you turn your head to unfamiliar hushed tones and humming. there pop up a few heads of plant-like forest spirits. you notice wanderer is gifted to see them as well. 

aranaras are critters, only to be seen by trustworthy dreamers of pure and kind hearts. it is a mystery really—wanderer’s ability to spot them. is he, not a doll without a heart; can he be regarded as good-natured; is he to be trusted… he is not a child either (but acting like one every once in a while). 

thereafter, wanderer stretches his hand toward a bright blue-colored creature, holding a yellow poppy. flowers help aranaras remember their friends whenever they meet. besides, they gain power from memories. do the spirits of sumeru forests lay hold of dreadful recollections as well? wanderer is brimful of them. 

after a while, wanderer looks in your direction. he is deep in thought at the moment, pondering who exactly he is. he does understand the concept of being human pretty well, yet he does have uncertainties about whether he can call himself one, partially at least. he did give up trying to be human in the distant past, though, he had experienced pieces of being human underway—having emotions, enduring pain, having a heart of some form, a place to live, a region to serve, people he called family, and a name. 

truthfully, he had a myriad of names; words he was called by others. he never deemed them his names frankly. nonetheless, he loved himself as kabukimono—the dolly wandering eccentric, perceived as naive and peculiar. deep inside he knows he did not stray far from his roots, it was simply eclipsed by the wounds of his past. 

he did name himself kunikuzushi, the world-destroyer once. alongside was given titles of the balladeer and scaramouche. it should be mentioned that whilst no man on teyvat recalls it being him—he was formerly known as the everlasting lord of arcane wisdom; shouki no kami, the prodigal, too. 

attempting erasure of himself, including rectifying past events that his existence, and rage-driven deeds caused, wanderer reincarnated into someone as curious as the young kabukimono. he opted for calling himself a wanderer. was he an eccentric one this time on top of that? at the end of the day, it all comes full circle. 

at present, he does go by a freshly given name, restraining himself with a new psyche all while making an effort to atone for his sins. he accepted his birth, not to mention, the entirety of his past. 

he looks all around his own porcelain-like skin, currently dyed with multiple colors. it tugs at his heartstrings. he does glance at your body then, admiring the art, positioned in front—meaning you, not the mindless drawings of flowers’ pigments on your figure. 

hence, he finally feels like he has reached the promised divinity. only whenever he is with you.

(part two)

[refeverie]

Petty Compensation

prompt. you accidentally take the wrong drink order, and the actual owner demands a sip as compensation

characters. scaramouche / wanderer x gn!reader

tags. modern au, attempt at humor

warnings. none

You don’t notice your mistake at first.

The cafe is busy, and you're distracted. Probably by the group of students arguing over a project in the corner or the fact that you only got four hours of sleep last night. Either way, you hear your name being called, or at least, you think it was yours.

Without giving it much thought, you grab the cup from the counter, take a sip, and wince at the unexpected bitterness. Still, you don’t question it and head back to your seat like nothing’s wrong. The cafe is packed and the staff seem overwhelmed that the barista doesn’t even notice who took the drink.

It’s not until someone clears their throat in front of you that you realize something might be off.

“That’s mine.”

You glance up, only to be met with sharp indigo eyes staring you down. The guy in front of you has striking deep blue hair, sharp jawline, and an expression that somehow manages to be both bored and vaguely irritated at the same time. He gestures toward the cup in your hand. “You took my drink.”

You blink at him, then at the cup. Then at him again.

Oh.

In your defense, it looks like your order. You squint at the scribbled name on the side, and sure enough, it’s not yours.

Kunikusushi, it says.

Either his parents had a grudge against him, or the barista completely butchered the spelling.

Still, regardless of how his name is written on the cup, one thing is clear. You already drank from it, which means—

“Oops?” you offer sheepishly.

His brow twitches. “Oops?”

“order for [name]!” the barista calls out.

You glance toward the counter, where another identical cup sits unattended. Your actual order.

You stand up to take it from the counter and offer it to the stranger. His intense stare burns into you the entire time. Shifting under the weight of it, you clear your throat. “Um, sorry. You can take mine instead?”

He looks unimpressed, eyeing the cup with clear disapproval. “My drink is made exactly how I like it. And you’ve contaminated it. I’d take it back but what if you have some kind of disease?”

“I don’t,” you deadpan.

He shrugs. “Can’t be sure.”

“Are you serious?”

He exhales through his nose, gaze flicking to the cup in your hands. “Fine,” he says, holding out a hand. “Give it here.”

You blink. “Wait, what—”

“If I can’t have mine untouched, I want compensation,” he says. “You took a sip of my drink. I’m taking one of yours.”

You gape at him. “That’s literally the same thing you were just complaining about.”

“Yeah, but this time it’s my choice.” He scoffs. “Give it.”

You hesitate but ultimately sigh, handing the cup over. He takes it, and without breaking eye contact, he lifts it to his lips and takes a slow sip.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

As he swallows, immediately, his nose scrunches in utter disgust. “Ugh. How do you drink this?” He sets the cup on your free hand and glares at it like it personally offended him. “It’s sickeningly sweet.”

You raise a brow. “No one forced you to drink it, asshole.”

“Tch.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still grimacing. “Consider yourself lucky. I’m feeling merciful today.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Merciful?”

“You should be grateful I didn’t make you buy me a new one.” He smirks, sharp and infuriating.

You roll your eyes, but before you can throw a retort, he steps back, grabbing his actual drink from your hand.

“I’m taking this back. Try not to steal from me next time, thief.”

You sputter out incoherent words in disbelief. He could’ve just taken it from the start. “Petty!” You say back but he ignores you.

And just like that, he walks away, leaving you flustered, annoyed, and (frustratingly) just a little bit intrigued.

Wait. Next time?

You glance down at your drink and feel a small scrap of paper, torn from what looks like a receipt, clinging to the cup’s condensation. Scribbled across it in messy handwriting and bleeding ink is a string of numbers. His number.

Your cheeks flush and your mouth gapes.

Instinctively, your gaze flicks to the exit, searching for him. He’s already by the door, his own drink in hand, but just before stepping out, he glances over his shoulder.

The moment your eyes meet, he smirks. He knows you’ve found it. Then, without a word, he turns and disappears into the crowd outside.

You stare after him. Your heart knocking once against your ribs, skipping a beat.

Did he plan that from the start?

note. just a little something haha you can tell kuni is my favorite character to write. thank you for reading ^^ feel free to send asks! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

© lmvari do not repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works on any platform.

[refeverie]

thrice upon a time • wanderer x gn!reader

Where you met a certain indigo-haired individual for the third time, though— it seems like you don't know that.

Raiden Ei, the great Electro Archon, created Kunikuzushi for one purpose only: to serve as proof of her ability to make a puppet that could rule Inazuma on her behalf. However, Kunikuzushi was much more than just a simple proof. The tears he shed in his sleep and the glint of hope in his sparkling eyes— he was much more than that.

A puppet is meant to be stern, devoid of likes and dislikes, almost like a machine. Yet Kunikuzushi transcended that definition. He possessed emotions—pure and beautiful ones that illuminated his face.  He liked the golden feather given to him by the said Electro Archon, Ei. And he was no machine, he was almost a human.

Ei couldn’t bear to place him in the harsh role that she intended for him for an eternity as a puppet. It would be far too cruel for such an innocent soul.

Though her intention to free him was motivated by kindness and what she believed (which was she didn't have the right to decide his fate, even though she was the creator of him- he was his own person.) was best for him, the action was interpreted as a "betrayal" by our dear puppet boy.

His mother decided he was a failure from his point of view. And his mother, as divine as she is, doesn't like failures. Because eternity is perfect. And Kunikuzushi is far from perfect.

Fate was cruel, he decided.

And fate decided to prove him right.

"You look like someone who would enjoy the petals of Sacred Sakura blossoms!"

You said cheerfully, your hands covered in dirt as you planted a sapling in a pot.

At first, he didn't realize you were talking to him. Only when you tilted your head in confusion at his silence did he come to his senses.

"Sacred Sakura blossoms?"

His voice came out softer than he intended. He panicked mentally, wondering what was happening. It had barely been a week since he decided to build walls around himself and not let anyone in. Yet the bricks started crumbling the moment he saw you.

Stop that. Three betrayals are enough already.

But your smile was so pretty, and it was directed at him. He felt like he was going to faint; his neck was burning, and he didn’t understand why.

"Mhm, they'd suit you," you said.

Your sweet voice rang in his ears, and now it wasn’t just his neck—his ears, cheeks, and every inch of him felt like they were on fire.

He glanced at the various types of flowers in pots around you. Ah, you were selling them. He reached into his pockets, fully aware that he didn’t have even a single mora.

He wished that some mora would magically appear in his hand so he could buy the sacred sakura blossoms you mentioned. Maybe that would make you smile again.

It came as no surprise when he found himself empty-handed.

But it was definitely a surprise when you laughed and placed the pot he had been eyeing in his hands.

"It's on the house."

Kunikuzushi learned a few things about you in the past few days.

One, you were selling flowers.

Two, you liked flowers. That was pretty much obvious, though he came to learn that it wasn't as simple as it sounded. You liked everything about them: in which conditions they grow, live, die; their meanings— everything.

And three, your hair smelled like flowers. He learned this purely by accident. One day, while he was helping you dry the pots, you were sharing details about what happens if you water the flowers too much. As you handed him the wet pots you had just washed, he took them trying slyly to make your fingers touch. (Just like every other time— and the moment they did, he became so shy that his hands trembled. It was cute, really. That was probably the reason why you weren't commenting on it.) He gently rubbed the towel around the pots while listening to you.

You were so caught up in sharing your knowledge and keeping eye contact with him while doing so that you didn’t notice the cupboard door was open, and you almost fell to the ground after tripping over it.

Almost. Thanks to his fast reflexes, Kunukuzushi caught you just in time. Your arms wrapped around his neck while his hands steadied you by holding your waist.

You were so close that the scent of your hair lingered in his mind.

Oh, and he also learned your name. Although it never rolled off his tongue, he thought it was pretty—pretty like flowers.

"So, you’re going to leave someday, too?"

Kunikuzushi's gaze was unreadable, but you understood it perfectly.

He was reflecting on the past, as the future seemed to hold the same inevitability.

"Yeah, that's what happens to mortals."

Mortals, not humans.

Kunikuzushi sometimes wonders if you choose your words carefully around him.

(And deep down, he knows you do. He is truly grateful for it—for you.)

Just then, your words shifted his perspective completely.

"I’m sure I'll find you in my next life."

Okay, that’s a new concept.

One that he definitely likes.

He wishes that in the Book of Life, your names are written side by side. So you could meet again, just like you said.

By the time he started to forget your scent, he had indeed met you again.

However, he met you without any memories of him.

You once told him that a person's past is what makes them who they are.

And now you don't know your past. You don't know him. Could you really be called the same person?

"You look like someone who would enjoy the petals of Sacred Sakura blossoms!"

Yes.

Yes, he would call you the same person.

You look different, sure, but he still feels that same emotion he buried deep in the space where his heart should have been.

You are truly the same person. His soul knows it.

The problem is, he is not the same person.

And he doesn't think he ever will be.

The Kunikuzushi you once knew is long gone, replaced by the Balladeer—whose hands are stained with blood.

He just wishes his hands were covered with dirt like they used to be when the two of you were arranging the pots together.

Fate was cruel.

Because that was what he, Kunikuzushi, wanted back then. He would meet you again—the you who had no memories of him. He envisioned a future where you would both be happy together, just as you once were.

He promised himself he wouldn't cry over your death. That was the plan. He wasn't going to mind fate's cruelty for once.

For it could have been worse; it could have meant never meeting you at all.

He intended to hold onto the memories of your time together until the day you would meet again. That was his resolve.

However, everything changed when he discovered you had been murdered.

You could have had so much more time. You two could have shared a beautiful life together—if only he had the power.

The power of eternity.

Because he wanted you eternally.

Now that he possessed the power, status, and even the mora he previously couldn’t afford to buy a pot of flowers from you, he found himself questioning whether it would be better to keep you out of his life entirely.

So, he decided that he wouldn't intertwine his fate with yours in this life.

Even though he was strong, he was now a bad guy, and the thought of you being connected to him made his stomach churn. After all, the Balladeer shouldn’t—

Ah, he realized he'd been silent the entire time.

How, you may ask?

You were tilting your head in confusion at his silence, just like you did back then.

The Balladeer decided he was weak when it came to you.

So, when he tossed a pouch of mora to you, all you could do was stare in shock.

"Give the next person you see a pot of them, then."

He turned away and started walking, not minding how you nervously told him the mora was too much.

You deserved better, after all. You deserved to find someone who could truly cherish you.

And more importantly, he heard your voice. He could also recognize your scent—were you using some body lotion now? Or was it just his senses yearning for you? Who knows.

It was more than enough.

He could live with that.

As he walked away from you, he heard you again. It seemed like you fulfilled his request because the line was similar.

"It's on the house."

Someone else was going to hold your hand in that life, someone else was going to share their bed with you.

Worst of all, you were going to love someone else.

But it's okay.

Because it was for you, your own good.

Everything was for you.

Everything.

Everything was going wrong.

He, the one who possessed the Gnosis—which granted him the divine power of his mother, a perfect being and his creator—had been defeated?

This can't be happening.

But it was. He looked at the pathetic excuse of a Dendro Archon in front of him with pleading eyes, his gaze begging her not to take it away.

The Gnosis—a part of his mother.

Fate was cruel.

No, fate is cruel.

It was, and it still is.

The Balladeer, the sixth of the Fatui Harbingers—Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom, Shouki no Kami.

No, to hell with it all.

Kunikuzushi.

Kunikuzushi had lost.

And just before everything went black, he thought about you and entertained dreams of sharing a house with you in another life. It was his way of seeking solace from the universe.

Ah, it seems he was starting to forget your scent yet again.

Il Dottore was the man behind it all.

When the truth about his past finally sank in, he felt a weight on his shoulders.

Katsuragi, the kind and loyal Yoriki, was the one who saved him. He was the one who gave Kunikuzushi a new home, a new name (Kabukimono), and even more—a new family. A family that he once believed would never abandon him.

Niwa, the boy Kunikuzushi admired dearly. His 'betrayal' could have shattered his heart like glass, if he had had one back then. But he just realizes there was no betrayal just as there was no heart to break.

The young companion he had found lying on the floor, lifeless and not breathing, added to his despair.

And then there was you, the one he loved. The one who died at the hands of a doctor.

The 500 years he's been alive, all of it was a lie.

Every moment, every person, everything. It was like a cruel joke.

All of your deaths were merely scenes in a theatre, crafted for someone else's viewing pleasure. Kunikuzushi seemed to be nothing more than the main actor in this cruel play.

All because of a cruel Doctor's thesis.

So, he decides to erase himself or any trace of his existence from Teyvat without hesitating. Because he didn't know what else to do other than that.

Could he carry the burden? Would he dare to atone for his mistakes? Could he live with it?

He wished he had never been born at all. It seemed like from the point he was born— nothing was right.

As the Wanderer tried to comprehend the flood of memories, he found solace in your presence.

Well, your former presence. Still you, though.

He met you, the one he met first, and he wouldn't ask for anything more.

Though deep down, he wishes he had now.

Because you—the one he chose not to intertwine with—seemed sad.

Lonely.

And he feels a lump in his throat when he learns you died alone in that life.

Even though the Wanderer feels guilty about this, he also harbors a tiny little bit of relief. Yet, the guilt consumes him, especially when he realizes the tears you shed while questioning why you were unable to love.

You thought about him in that life as well, but he will remain unaware of that.

What were your thoughts? Simple.

You thought he looked cute—murderous, but cute.

Oh, Archons, if only he knew. Maybe he'd talk with you in secret— No, stop it. He is glad he didn't. Because there was no way the Doctor would leave you alone if he did.

When he finally faced his past, which he once tried to erase, all that awaited him was a glowing vision and a seemingly dangerous situation(nothing too serious than a robot that was designed to be a god, for him. ironic, really. because he was a robot designed to be a god in the first place.).

At least he could still sense your scent during his visit to the past.

It was enough, really.

More than enough.

"You look like someone who would enjoy the petals of sacred sakura blossoms!"

You spoke without much thought; it was simply a guess, after all.

Yet, it caused the stranger's gaze to soften. It was strange to witness the shift from an annoyed glare to... this.

When you tilted your head in confusion, the indigo-haired stranger's eyes flickered with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"I would."

He hesitated, looking at the mora in his hand. As if debating whether he should give it or not.

You just laughed, he seemed cute. Murderous one at that but still cute.

I guess it wouldn't hurt to act like one of your pots went missing.

"It's on the house."

Fate is cruel, he doesn't mind.

In the Book of Life, your names had always been written side by side. That seemed enough.

Your scent made up for it, anyway.

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑ notes!

☆ i've read in somewhere that sacred sakura blossoms mean memories of times with renewal and optimism— fits him, no?

☆ i started writing this at 3 am so it's not proofread again lol i seriously should fix my sleep schedule

☆ the idea sounded better in my head, i feel like i could add more evangelion references but my mind is not minding anymore.

☆ maybe I will rewrite this later (saying that became a habit atp)

[refeverie]

hardest bargain.

fluff. gn!reader × kinich. wc 489

summary. flower picking !

generally speaking, kinich is not the type to do things he deems meaningless and fruitless; unconditional, non-transactional. although, it is a different story when it is you, who proposes an activity.

when the first february day in the everlasting land of palmy days broke out with the brightest sun, you did not hesitate to seek kinich out to ask him to make flower crowns with you. one for him and one for you to match.

as it was said, kinich would not consider flower picking nor weaving of value; it seems way too idle and dull for his own worth. but not when it comes to you. he grumbled a bit, nevertheless, he persisted by your side all the same.

or rather, right up there, lying on the huge white chestnut oak tree's branch—while you were by its roots—in his usual manner. sometimes he closed his eyes, even so, kinich kept on listening to your ramblings the entire time.

“hey, kin, what flowers do you like?”

“kinich, do you think this one is pretty?”

“say, kinich, what is your favorite color?”

“kinich! look at this one!”

later on, he slowly positioned himself from lying to sitting. you can not expect him to go stiff from being in one position continuously, can you? it has been minutes to hours after all. he only stayed because it was you down there, collecting flowers you thought were the most beautiful ones.

after a while, he swinged branch after branch down. in complete silence.

and then, as you turn to your right, kinich is holding a palm extended to you. you giggle, loking at a lone feeble flower he just plucked out without any stem left to it. he does not understand your reason to laugh at all. cute.

“no, silly! you have to pick the flowers like that.” you squat down again and delicately show the correct way. “we need the stems to make the flower crowns. but it is okay, we can figure out the place for your little blossom too.” you smile.

“why? it is just a random plant i picked out, yours are better.” he looks at you confused.

you do not take any time to think before answering, “this flower is special because you gave it to me.”

if you did not know any or, well, kinich, better, you would expect a blush dyeing his cheeks. instead, he puts that same puny flower in his pocket.

“then, if you say so, i will keep this one until you find me a special flower for exchange too,” he says in a soft, muted voice.

ah, even now, he finds a way to carry out a perfect deal between two people once again. still, kinich knows, the feelings he holds for you require much more of his time and effort to give for you to accept it wholly.

it is by far his hardest and most priceless bargain.