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[reverphic]

𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

✶ yingxing x gn. reader — wc. 4.1k

summary. existence draws a divide between that of mortals and those blessed with eternity, yet he cannot help but be enamoured by you; consuming his thoughts, his dreams, allowing you to lead his mortal soul to ruin. as for a lifetime do you remain far from his reach, shrouded by legend — and all he can do is carve your name into memory.

notes. rewrite of an old oneshot lol shoutout to my friend nova for helping me with this ily 😘

Your name echoes throughout the Xianzhou, heard everywhere — seen everywhere Yingxing steps foot. 

For you dance across his mind in a way that’s almost taunting, your movements as elegant as the sword you brandish, yet as swift and fleeting as the cool breeze that blows through the windows of his workshop. It’s a gentle momentary caress across his face, a sense of almost grasping something so incorporeal, so impossible. 

It’s a distraction from the purpose that occupies his thoughts, the one that tears and slowly chips away at everything he is, as sweat pours from his brow and his body shakes with exertion, swinging the hammer in his hands. 

The sound of it rings against red-hot iron in a repeated motion, a crude jarring noise that sends tremors up his arm and leaves him gritting his teeth. But his eyes remain unfaltering, focused wholly on tempering the steel atop an elegant staff, wrought from the finest materials he had managed to get his hands on. 

Because there remains burning irresolutely, that innate desire of his, the one that strives to be the best, and furthermore, when it comes to the subject that is you. 

He thinks of you, each time it meets the metal. 

He thinks of you, as he carves your name along it, and each time the tool slips from his grasp and slices apart the palm of his hand, spilling crimson blood — it’s the the same colour of the ribbon in your hair blowing in the wind, as a smile graces your lips beneath skies painted with aureate clouds. 

It ripples behind you like a blazing trail of scarlet across his memories, whilst silver gleams in your hands in an almost brilliant reflection of the moon itself, crossing blades with him beneath the light of the setting sun, sweeping him up in this mesmerising dance of yours. 

You’ve left him utterly entranced by your very existence, so much that he hardly notices it when you knock him off his feet, for even that fall is graceful by your doing.

However, his defeat doesn’t surprise him. Because who was he to compare to the likes of you after all? You’re the greatest swordmaster the alliance has seen in centuries, a living legend amongst those who gaze upon your image in equal fascination. 

Against you, his existence is almost pitiful, reducible to a mere mortal with a bare scrap of talent in the art of craftsmanship. He’s forgotten easily, a human who presumes to walk amongst gods, a faint, fleeting existence amid the illustrious and divine.

Even at the end of your dance, when you’re smiling, beaming with the radiance of the sun itself — it’s never at him who lingers in your shadow. Your attention drifts elsewhere quickly, endlessly seeking records beyond the sky, enraptured by clouds and moonlight whilst he’s left to grasp at the fading trail of stardust you’ve left in your wake. 

His eyes forever remain fixated upon your back. It’s the only thing he can behold, yourself turned to greater things. For something far more brilliant catches your own eyes. 

He sees the way your eyes brighten at the sight of the Vidyadhara high elder who approaches, dark hair swaying in the breeze and piercing green irises that glisten like emeralds. You greet him like an old friend, slinging your arm around his shoulders, embracing him whilst Yingxing watches from afar. 

Deep down, he knows he cannot blame him for holding your attention. Those slender, unblemished hands fit perfectly in your own divinely wrought ones — their complexion is far from his own which remain calloused and marked with faded scars. They’re imperfect, etched from the flawed creation that is mortality. He should not behold you with them. 

It’s incomparable. 

There are no greater existences than the ones that stand before him, when both of you seem to glow with that ethereal grace, an almost timelessness to your figures, eternal and everlasting. 

And the high elder is brilliant in his own right, he’s created to be that way and nothing less, unlike the mortal craftsman who can only hold the desire to reach such heights. For in the end, as one casts their eyes to the sky, a faintly flickering star would not outshine the moon itself, no matter how brightly it burns. 

But why does he still desire to burn? 

Your bright figure drifts away before his eyes, further out of his grasp, as you have always been. It should kill the fire which flickers in his heart, swallowed by a void he cannot fill. You’re destined to lead great lives, its possibilities stretched before you — in fact, you shouldn’t need to spare a glance back at him.

But when you do, all it does is make him unable to move on, allowing himself to be caught up in the struggles that tether you to him once more. Because when words leave your mouth, even if it’s spun about your own woes, he’s entranced again. And the one you speak of, he knows in an almost bittersweet manner, similarly mirrored in the grim look the high elder casts his way. 

It echoes a hopelessness, pokes the fire that had once been left to die, reigniting the part of him that cannot stand the pridefulness of the long-lived, tearing at him to be better. 

Yingxing thinks, had he been the one blessed, he would be the one able to stand by your side, to reciprocate the feelings you hold for another. For you who is perfect in his eyes, is it not expected that you too are deserving of perfection? He would lay the world at your feet had you asked it of him. 

But alas, he’s always been doomed to walk a separate path, whilst watching the greatest ones split. 

He’s heard both confessions beneath the light of two moons, upon two tranquil nights. 

From he who parted the sea, forged the seal of the ambrosial arbour, master of the cloudhymn art, a being equally as great as you, upheld by glory and legend — he sheds this title, this facade, before his oldest friend. His emerald eyes are clouded with a pained sorrow, his wearied emotions bared before him, as he speaks the truth upon his mind. 

“I cannot love them, Yingxing. No more than any other friend.” 

The high elder is not blind to your affections. But as brilliant as you are, he does not hold the same freedom as you to love. He is still the high elder of the Vidyadhara, and to him, love is nothing more than another shackle against the one that is his duty. To share in the company of lesser beings and mortals was already loath enough, in the eyes of immutable laws the preceptors hold so dear. 

He admits wistfully, that he envies him, for being able to be so free — to roam the world, to speak his mind, to feel. 

But Yingxing envies him, for being everything he could never be, and the object of all your attention. He doesn’t know the burden that is mortal emotion, nor the stinging pain that is love. 

Because loving you hurts. 

In all your greatness, you are clueless to love. Immortal beings like you do not grasp such emotions easily, brimming on an uncertainty you look to him to right. For he’s the most human out of the three of you, and the only one who could possibly understand. But he breaks, and he burns the easiest — the downfall that comes of feeling the way he does. 

But you don’t know that. You continue to speak so highly of him, voice laced with awe, as you recount the events of your day to the craftsman. You describe the strange feeling that seems to blossom in your chest, and Yingxing wants to hate how you even do that beautifully, with sparkling eyes and a small smile gracing your lips. 

Your love is like a gentle breeze blowing amid iridescent blooms of spring, bathed with the splendour of golden sunlight. You ask him, what flowers does the high elder like, what his favourite colour is — all the questions he wants to ask you. But he’ll never truly bask in such light, to know you in such a way. 

Not when he hears you say that you think you love him. 

Your words are uttered with innocent wonder, and there should be nothing more beautiful — yet they cut him in a place you don’t see, driving beneath flesh, aimed straight for his heart. 

He clutches its bleeding, broken remains as you whisper of the joys of love, unburdened by the other side of it he himself is weighed down by — each utterance is like a knife digging deeper into those wounds. He can still hear Dan Feng’s words echoing in his mind, ringing in his ears, clinging to his figure like a vengeful ghost that threatens to tear him apart, to push its way past his lips. 

Yet he can’t bring himself to speak this truth that has cleaved his heart in two, to dim the light that is you in his eyes. He swallows the feeling, turning away, retreating into himself, throwing all thoughts of you into his craft — the only thing he knows that remains unchanging amid the turmoil that overturns and divides his heart. 

He trusts in these sheets of steel, for they do not speak of the woes that are love, able to be formed and shaped to his will, curbing his feelings. Yingxing grasps it in his hands with certainty, unlike your own faint love.

He loses himself within it, hammer ringing against metal, whittling away at the greatest pride of his fickle existence, eyes watering and blurring against the sweat that drips from his brow. He only pauses to breathe — that’s if he remembers, time trickling by him, day bleeding into night, and night fading to dawn. 

And beneath its soft rays resplendent of you, does his first project form before his eyes, an exquisite bow carved in the shape of a crescent moon, your name engraved upon its edge. He ignores the wooden splinters that dig in his hands, continuing forth, the same hands forming a silver dagger that seems to reflect the light of the moon, a crown of golden laurels, a fine necklace encrusted with jewels — day in day out. 

The sun is hanging high in the sky now, casting its brilliance upon the world, yet he continues to languish in its shadow. There’s a stinging pain that spreads across his hands, blistered in pink and red, but any pain is better than the one that sits heavy within him — the one that comes when he thinks of you, standing beneath such light. 

All he sees is the longing you hold in your gaze, looking out at the waters of the distant sea, the light dancing across its surface reflected in your own eyes. A sigh escapes your lips as you rest your head against his shoulder, poised to utter some sentiment. 

And you’re speaking of him again, of the one who doesn't love you more than a friend, whilst the one who truly does, bears witness to this. You speak of his green eyes, how you adore the colour, whilst the craftsman looks at his own cerulean irises in the water’s reflection. 

(They burn with blue fire, effervescent in its own destructive way — but alas, it is the soothing gentleness of water you crave, the one which snuffs out such fires.) 

A singular droplet falls down into it, casting a small, unnoticeable ripple. 

His vision grows blind with this green.  

He sees it everywhere, crushes it in his hands, reforming it so it will remain unforgettable by his craft, his touch — the closest he’ll ever be to you. 

For Yingxing can create perfection, but he himself cannot be, the tortured poet amid pure artistry. And he mourns this, as he wipes his brow, stepping back to take in the completion of another weapon, a jade staff tipped with glistening silver, and behind the etchings of your name, lies every fragmented emotion of his heart carved onto this. 

It's a weapon made for the only divine thing he’s ever believed in — you. 

Yet the exalted feeling is only momentary, followed by the reminder of his mortal limitations, as it all comes crashing down again. His shoulders seem to sag, a fresh wave of exhaustion washing over him, staggering backwards, slamming a hand on the crafting bench behind him to brace himself. 

A part of him wonders, how much time has he spent? The clock on the wall has stopped ticking, its hands paused on its final moments. The sky outside is painted with overcast grey, with neither the sun or moon in sight. 

It’s deathly silent, the corners of his workshop a hollowed abyss he stares into, when left with nothing but his own thoughts and the heaviness that lies in his heart. 

Only momentarily, is it broken by the sound of a knock on the door. 

But even that is muffled — he hardly hears it, unmoving.

But the knocking continues, more persistent. 

He sighs. 

“Yingxing?” Your voice floats from the entrance of his workshop, as if breathing life into him, rousing him from his trance, as he finally brings himself to raise his head. 

It’s you. 

It’s you. 

You seem to haunt him at every waking hour, from your physical form, to the one that exists with the recesses of his mind. He thinks he’s imagining you, as you breeze through the doorway. You look so out of place, so bright and vibrant against the bleak backdrop that shrouds everything. 

His traitorous eyes trace your form, outlined by the shadows that nip at the ivory draped over your body. White has always looked divine on you. He feels as if he is tainting such a pure colour with his corrupted eyes, defiling the fabric with fantasies of his parched lips and blemished hands being granted the chance to touch you, to hold you, to worship you. 

His fingers twitch. How wonderful would it be to feel your skin beneath his callused digits, so unworthy to lay upon a being such as yourself? How wonderful would it be to have your eyes set on him for more than a lingering moment, allowing a starving soul like him a minute of satiation, a second of mercy to slake the desperate hunger he has just for an infinitesimal amount of you?

But you do not grant him that reprieve. You never have. Not even for the barest moment, when he’s grasped the silk that trails in your wake, graced by the smallest sliver of your presence — it slips through his fingers just as quickly as his hopes, dashed by the condemned words that spill from your lips. 

You’re going to confess, pour out your heart, devote your soul — all for folly, your brilliance soon to be consumed and faded by this failed act. 

As beneath the inscrutable gaze of the high elder, this visage of yours is fated to crack. 

And a part of him knows he is responsible for this, withholding the truth from you, desperate to preserve this image of you. 

You don’t know this. You continue to beam, asking to practise the lines you wish to say with him, reaching out your hand in divine offering, a promise of heaven that you paint before him. You’re regretfully innocent, clueless of the things that can be ripped from you, after having peered down from a pedestal all your life. 

Yingxing wonders how quickly such dreams will collapse upon itself, stricken with the truths of reality. It’s a temporary illusion he too wants to believe, to indulge in — to savour that for a moment, the eyes you cast toward him are truly meant for him, and not the ghost of another, whose words will soon haunt both of you. 

He hates himself for wanting to take your hand despite knowing this. He knows he doesn’t deserve to look into such light, to take that hand, to let you be defiled by his sin of mortal existence — even when every fibre of his being burns with such desire, tempted once more by this forbidden fruit, to indulge in something he knows he is unworthy of. 

It takes everything in him to flinch away at your touch. 

He feels it for a moment, a cold featherlight brush against his arm. But even that is enough to leave him yearning for more — more of what he cannot have. 

Your countenance shifts just as quickly, the smile fading from your face. “Yingxing…?” 

You’re frozen in place, cut off mid sentence by his sudden movement, hands still suspended in the air, your gaze slowly travelling down to his own hands where bandages peel away to reveal jagged half-healed cuts and the faded scars of old wounds — so unlike your unmarred, unblemished skin. 

He’s the furthest thing from the perfection you dream of. And to think you dare ask him what’s wrong? 

There are so many things Yingxing could say that are wrong. Loving you is wrong, he should not hold such feelings within his heart. It’s never been anything he could handle, daring to gaze upon the true forms of such celestial beings. A mortal like him should never have even formed such thoughts of you, to entertain you within such imperfection. 

He must be punished by fate, cursed to obsess over such perfection nonetheless, to strive for it until it consumes him with the same fervour that is equal to destruction, wreaking judgement upon his flawed existence, leaving him nothing more than a shell that is infinitely more broken, scattered at your feet, his own fragilities laid bare.  

How he wants to say that you’re throwing yourself down the wrong path, for the wrong person — but he stops himself. For he cannot accept you are the one flawed, to correct you, for does that not go against every construct that is the universe? He cannot defy heaven, and to defy you is to go against everything he believes, to move his very faith. 

He can only shake his head, in what he prays is gentle inclination. “Don’t do this.” 

Your eyes narrow. “What?” 

“Don’t do this to yourself.” He repeats, quieter this time. 

You don’t understand the words that are coming from his mouth. They’re contradictory, so unlike what you’ve previously heard. Uncertainty laces his voice, so unlike the self-assured image he had presented to you on countless occasions, brimming with confidence — there’s no playfulness in his tone, nor the usual wry smile across his lips. 

That image cracks before your eyes, dying before you in this moment of solidarity. His hands tremble, wrapping around your exposed forearm, and your head snaps up, forced to meet his eyes, watery and bloodshot, looking back hopelessly at you. 

It’s traitorous, everything from his outstretched hands to his words that now touch upon your figure, in defiance of everything he had once held himself to, grappling with fate. But you’re teetering on a crumbling precipice, prepared to plummet headfirst — you leave him no choice but to leap forward and catch you, to stop both your falls. He would rather you live, cursing him forever than to lose you to the same heartbreak. 

Even now he’s waiting for judgement to rain down upon him, as he watches for your reaction. Yet you still don’t understand. You don’t presume to even try.

“You must be tired. You can’t be thinking straight—”

“No.” 

His pupils seem to dilate in response. It’s a blatant lie, as your gaze flickers from the bags under his eyes, to the way his hand shakes despite the grip upon you. His chest rises and falls, as if he’s struggling for words, a single utterance having left him breathless. 

“Yingxing, listen to me.” You try to dissuade him, trying to pry your arm out from his grasp, which only seems to tighten, his nails digging into your skin as he drags you closer to him, your arm pressed against his chest, your foreheads practically touching. 

You can hear his shallow breaths, and the rapid thumping of his heart against your own. A bitter, broken laugh escapes his lips moments later. 

“Listen? What is there to listen to? You’re in love with him, I know.” 

It’s a hollow admission, one you both know with an unfortunate certainty. 

You’ve uttered such a fact in front of him multiple times, and he’s heard it the same amount of times. Despite the ache in his heart, he’s not blind. He can see the truth with piercing clarity before his eyes — there’s no denying the way you look at him is far different from another. 

Because who was he in your eyes? He could compose a thousand eulogies on your very existence, your histories long and unforgettable. But to you, to every immortal being, whose lifetimes span a hundredfold of his own, he is someone easily forgotten and felled — even now, you’re looking at him like that, as if you pity him. 

He’s incomparable to the high elder you profusely love, incomparable to you. 

“So why—”

“Why…?” He echoes vacantly. “You wish to know why?” 

Yingxing wants to laugh at the irony of it all. How many times has he asked that question to himself, wondering why he is drawn to such brilliance, and the desire to hold it in his hand? He knows he should not behold you in such a way, his fingers twisted around a strand of your hair, transfixed by the divine being that looks up at him so hopelessly. 

But he is. He’s touching you, cradling your face as he had once dreamed, the feeling of your skin the fulfilment his rough fingers crave to grasp. Even now, you invite temptation — a part of him craves more, rearing its ugly head from being denied time and time again.  

Your eyes flutter shut. 

He thinks, white truly looks divine on you. 

But as he leans closer, lips hovering dangerously close to your own, he sees the parts of you stained by his touch, grasped by his blackened fingers, painted with the colour of smoke and the dust that is his own hopes, snatched away by the breeze that had accompanied your presence before him. 

He’s stained your cheek too, a marking of black charcoal smudged across the perfectly smooth porcelain, bled from his own hands that have greedily laid themselves upon you, in the lingering moment of almost human vulnerability you had granted him. Do you know it’s inescapable, etched into the very markings of his nature, this inclination toward sin? 

He should not defile you any further — but his lips have already brushed against yours, however briefly. It’s long enough for realisation to dawn. 

He lurches back at this realisation. 

It takes both of you a second to come to your senses, he’s still leaning over your figure — eyes wide in horror, while you stare back at him equally dumbfounded. Neither of you can comprehend what it is he’s done. 

He speaks first. 

“I’m sorry.” He manages to get out, straightening himself up again, already turning away. It takes everything in him to not look back at you. He doesn’t know if he can stomach it, to see your reaction. 

“Yingxing—” This time it is you reaching for him, but he’s gone before you can stop him, his figure retreating out of the door without so much of a noise, dissipating like smoke before your outstretched hands.

“Yingxing!” You call his name out again, but you know he can’t hear you. 

You make an attempt to follow him a moment later, but your head is still spinning from the rush of the moment, there’s uncertainty in everything you do. 

You don’t even know where you’re going. You’re stumbling over your own two feet in your desperation to follow after him, any other thoughts having left your mind. 

You grasp onto a nearby table as if to steady yourself, cursing a stray object you’ve tripped yourself on, eyes swivelling around the interior of the workshop — from the door to the bench you had just been standing by. 

But your eyes suddenly catch upon the weapons and intricate creations strewn across the tabletop. They’re unlike anything you’ve ever seen before, each of them more beautiful than the next, the metal glistening brightly in the light. 

There’s no doubt of their creator.

Still, you think of the cost all this must be worth. You wonder who this is all for. 

But you get your answer just as quickly, as you turn over the jade spear you had just picked up.

They’re all inscribed with your name. 

[reverphic]

RUAN MEI LAYOUTS — for anonymous !! ⋆𐙚₊˚ reblog ++ credit to use :3

[reverphic]

ok.

i am not one to start shit up, but like, if you're mutuals or friends with user @/n3r0-1417, or Ari, you can unfollow me and block me. i am not about to sit here and tolerate anyone who continues to defend and excuse their behaviour. they are a MINOR that interacts with NSFW and adult spaces, and flirts with adults knowingly, with the excuse of being "hypersexual".

adding onto that, if you are in association with @/kurolumiis, or Luma, you can also unfollow me and block me. i am sick and tired of finding out from other people about their entitled self and how they think they're entitled to gatekeep a character in a GENSHIN COMMUNITY/SERVER that they chose to join. i am also SICK from the amount of shamelessness from these two, just boldly saying they interact and write smut on the daily, and seeing my own mutuals or people i know just ignoring this problem when all these people that I KNOW literally cut off ties with user @/bfajax the second he did whatever shit he did.

hypersexuality is also known as sexual addiction. in other words, you can compare it to other bad habits and addictions, like alcohol addiction and drug addiction. it ruins your physical, mental and psychological health, and destroys your relationships with the people around you, regardless if they're family or friends. it's not an EXCUSE for a MINOR to be posting SEXUAL CONTENT on the internet. it does not make it okay for a MINOR to interact with adult spaces regardless if they really have the illness or not.

final reminder. if you are mutuals with either users and you're following / mutuals with me, i will soft block or hard block you. i don't give a fuck who you are anymore, i am not going to sit here and share spaces with the likes of them, and neither should you.

[reverphic]

I LOVE YOUR THEME 💌?!?

ivyy !! hellooo, thank u sm?!?! i am also IN LOVE with ur theme

[reverphic]

♡⠀⠀cw. fluff, not proofread, 1k words, gn reader

two months and seventeen days have passed ever since you and dan heng started dating. you still vividly remember the look of everyone's faces when you both broke the news that you two have began a new beginning with each other, their mouths ajar and eyes widening upon every single locution eliciting from your lips. things have gone liquid smooth subsequently.

dan heng is famed to poise an austere grandeur, teal irises clouding a truth untold. his intentions are unfathomable, like how he, on the spur of a moment, brings his stalwart tail for it to slither onto your body into a dense grip (which in the end, you always fail to wring yourself free) or how he abruptly clutches your wrists to trawl you closer and kiss you with every ounce of affection clogging up his throat.

you successfully ascertained his intentions upon forming a romantic relationship with the taciturn train guard. thus, it is completely obvious if dan heng is perturbed, despondent, and so forth.

you had forgotten how quiet it was in the star rail's outer reaches, far removed from the rush and bustle of the more packed passenger trains. the only sounds are the gentle humming of the machinery and some remarkably quiet ambient music coming from the speakers. you wander a good distance across the barren rooms, rarely seeing other passengers and only seeing one or two drones. and there he was, the star rail's guard, majestic in the serene observation deck. dan heng rested against a wall, arms folded, peering out at the cat's eye nebula, his spear by his side. he rose up and turned to meet you after noticing your reflection approach into the observation window's corner, a smile faded across his extravagant visage for a split second.

"why aren't you asleep by now?" he mounted the railing in just a moment and landed squarely in front of you.

"i should be the one asking you that" you chided, tightening the grip of your coat. "march is already asleep, so chances of me getting scolded are low."

dan heng titters, "you're recovering from your fever, you should get some good sleep"

"i feel completely fine..." you grumbled, resting your head on dan heng's shoulder.

"you threw up after dinner though, i think thats a justifiable reason why you should rest." dan heng asserted, soft gaze shifting

"well... about that..." you denied, averting your gaze towards the ground.

candidly, you fell ill a few days ago after a substantial trip with march 7th and dan heng; the causes are unexplained; whether it is owing to the severe events and situations dangling up your sleeve, or perhaps it is due to roadsickness. 

march, as a trustworthy best friend she is, became especially concerned about your health after that, adhering to your sleeping patterns to ensure your full recovery, which is why you claimed that you can be reprimanded by march for being up this late.

but who's far more agitated? danheng.

as the ideal boyfriend he could possibly be, he is distinctly more agitated and worried than march 7th. to your amazement, he took excellent care of you, lavishing you with his love (with the assistance of march, for dan heng can be inexperienced with certain jobs). even if you insist on walking around the astral express by yourself, the fretful dan heng will always accompany you.

"[name]"

"mhm?"

all the while dan heng was contemplating something, something that might alter your relationship for the better or for the worse. should he kiss you?

it was the perfect opportunity, the moonlight cascading both of you, the atmosphere was soft and romantic. If he didn't do it now, who knows how long it would take him to regain his courage?

he cupped your cheek with warm palms, the warmth in his touch visible even in the tentative pause that hovered in the air.

uncertainty flickered in his eyes for a brief period, a hushed pondering of unspoken wants. you, for one, were taken aback by the sudden shift in the atmosphere and his unexpected acts. the moment your curious glance met his, he knew he had to do it in that fleeting second. he whispered a hurried "fuck it," as if tossing aside the weight of doubt that tethered him, and leaned in, eyelids fluttering close as he drew in, his lips brushing against yours in an intimate kiss that snatched your breath away. the gentle touch of his lips against yours drove waves of tenderness through your body, bewitching you, and you recognized in that moment that this kiss was more than a spur-of-the-moment deed; it was a reflection of the unsaid feelings that had been implementing between them for so long. his touch was delicate but full of underlying heat; it was a kiss that triggered something, conveying all they had been too terrified to speak. you closed your eyes and let him go as your hands gripped his wrist. after a few seconds, he drew away, and your eyes locked once again in mute acknowledgement.

"i didn't you were that bold" you stifle a chuckle, placing a chaste kiss on his crimson-tinted cheek akin to a vibrant rose.

a hint of callowness strained in his voice as his head is clinging onto the contour of your neck, "i had to, and i'm never holding that feeling ever again." he professed.

"oh? taking it seriously are we?" you ragged.

"well, why not?"

he leaned in again, pressing his lips against yours and locking them into a passionate and feverish kiss. every breath you and dan heng heave between kisses, you couldn't help but wish you were pinned between him and the mattress, like a flower pressed in a book. You want to reiterate his name as if it were the only word written on the pages.

dan heng never knew, how greedy his heart was. you're his, never someone else's. your kiss, your body, everything, they're all his. when you look at him, he swore to the heavens above, he wants more. his heart is a snaking vine and god, he craves for more of you.

© reverphic . plagiarizing, reposting, stealing, or translating is not tolerated. likes n reblogs appreciated, follow for more <3

[reverphic]

Tucked away tight in the cramp space of the Court of Fontaine sits a quaint bookshop, hidden down an alleyway between much larger, bustling stores filled to the brink with odd trinkets and gadgets. As you enter, you push the door open slowly, a little hesitant at what may wait for you inside; after all, Fontaine had been nothing but a box of surprises since you'd arrived.

Yet you are greeted with the mildly sweet aroma of herbal teas and the nostalgic scent of yellowed pages belonging to books older than you could ever imagine. A small, round glass table sits in the middle of the bookshop underneath a skylight window. Sunlight reflects onto the patterned glass table in ripples, creating an effect on the marble floor that reminds you of the waves. As you ponder it, it's an oddly fitting aesthetic for the Nation of Hydro.

Two young women sit at the table, their legs crossed neatly as quietly converse amongst themselves over slices of numerous cakes and sweet treats, sat on small porcelain plates and the culprit of that alluring smell of hot tea - two light blue stained teacups of tea in their gloved hands. The small bell that hangs above the entry door finally chimes as you push the door completely open, alerting the women of the new arrival.

"Oh, you're finally here," one of them muses, lifting her teacup and saucer in her gloved hands as she moves to take a sip of the hot drink, quenching her presumed thirst, "bienvenue, we've been expecting you."

A brief moment of confusion crosses your face and it doesn't go unnoticed by the other female, whose eyes sit two different shades of blue as they look over you. They'd been expecting you? You guess word travels fast regarding your whereabouts.

"Lynette, you can't just leave them hanging like that," she chirps, her tone slightly scolding before she gives you a faint smile, unique eyelashes fluttering over those eyes of hers, "you're already well acquainted with Miss Lynette's twin, he informed us of your curiosity about our little bookshop."

Lynette makes a subtle noise, her nose scrunching up as she takes a sip of her tea once again. Furina also sips her tea, the two women sitting in an awkward silence before Furina clears her throat, demanding the room's attention be on her.

"We should... explain this place a little further - this is Écrin de Littérature. We're a safe for work network for Hoyoverse creators, focusing on writing and artistic flare," the actress seems quite pleased with herself, plump lips turned upwards into another smile, "we accept those aged thirteen or over."

"Lady Furina-" Lynette begins, her tail curling neatly over her thighs as the young girl sighs but Furina cuts her off, a nervous laugh escaping her under her breath.

"Just Furina is fine, Lynette, please..." Her voice trails off, meek and there is the undeniable hue of light pink on her pale cheeks. The air filters into silence again, much more awkward than the first time as Furina fidgets in embarrassment.

"Furina," Lynette corrects herself, "we should tell them what is in it for them..."

Furina nods in agreement, her hand raised to her chin as she ponders her next move. Lynette is indeed correct and you find your attention drawn to the empty chair seated at the table between them. A teacup sits empty in the fine china saucer adjacent to it. Suddenly, Furina snaps her fingers as if she'd cracked a detective case.

The short woman raises to her feet, heeled boots clicking on the spotted marble floor as she approaches you. You tense, it's an honour to be this close to the leading director of 'The Little Oceanid,' after all. She stops promptly in front of you, a gloved hand extending out to offer you a collection of papers, "here, a collection of our finest reviews."

You take the papers, lowering your gaze as you begin to read over each individual review with care.

10/10 — tearrific ! - joining this server was a wonderful decision. full of friendly, welcoming people, it’s a lovely environment to grow both your tumblr and as a person. - i recommend anyone to join, be it to make friends or to share your works and ideas with people in the same fandoms. — join écrin today !

we're cool AND funny !! we will spam reblog ur fics and be ur #1 supporters. no matter if ur blog is big or small u r welcome here no matter what (as long as ur a nice person). join ecrin today to become a fellow litteraturer

join us. embrace the chaos and let go of your last braincell. we have nice people here. very talented too. join our little silly network and meet our very cool networkers <3 you will not regret it!! #trust

EDL is like a place where you can interact freely (believe me i was scared to even text or react to a message), i joined during 2nd applications and honestly didn't regret it ppl here are nice and i met alot of cool mutuals n ppl who i didn't expect to actually follow me back . THATS WHY I VOTE EDL AS THE BEST HOYO NETWORK EVER AND PRESIDENT, WITH PEOPLE FROM ALL ACROSS THE WORD UR SURE TO FIND SOMEONE LIKE U. JOIN NOW

We are a little silly, in a silly goofy mood crazy? i was crazy once- 9.9/10

Anygays 10/10 cuz goofy and i love goofy and funny

ECRIN!!! i joined after seeing the blog and i am so glad i did, the people here are not only welcoming and v skilled BUT ALSO RLY SWEET AND HILARIOUS!! from chaotic moments and funny jokes to fun conversations about all sorts of things!! it can be really funny and chaotic at times but still is able to retain the vibes of a very homey cozy server!! 10/10 server would reccomend to people who want to promote their works or people who want to make new friends!!

Upon finishing the wide range of questionable reviews, you give the two women a determined nod. The gesture makes their stoic faces light up, twinkles in their eyes that reflect in the sun that begins to set over the Court of Fontaine in a breath taking scene of oranges, reds and pinks. Lynette takes this moment to raise a clipboard as she stands - wait, where did she get that from? These magicians... - and wanders to you, "welcome to Écrin de Littérature."

━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━

Another dawn rises for the Écrin de Littérature team and we're excited to share this upcoming adventure with you! We're here once more with welcoming open arms to see what stories unfold in our partnership together!

For more on how to join our network, please see here.

Bonus: Are you suffering with an extreme gambling or genshin or hsr addiction? Not to worry! This network helps you with that ! You can also seek comfort here as we are all gamblers, too! Take me for example, putting my hours into strongboxes and emblem but does that mean the fellow members criticize me? No! Remember, 99% of gamblers stop before they hit big and this server can help you become that 1% that doesn’t stop!! Join Ecrin today to become a better gambler and receive higher rewards!!

(The reviews channel burnt to the ground during the making of this post.)

[reverphic]

In your bedroom, only soft breaths are heard. The ceiling looks nice, too, and so does Alhaitham. Somehow, he sleeps like the dead: arms rest gently at his sides, expression frighteningly at peace—the only thing that gives a clue to him sleeping is the eyemask lifted above his eyebrows, strewn somewhere on his head.

It makes you giggle to yourself. He looks goofy, and causes fondness to pool in your stomach, twisting and turning like you did moments before.

Fondness then gives way to jealousy, something like jealousy, because you can’t sleep. Your mind races, not particularly with any urgent thoughts, but it is active and you cannot shut it off—any attempts to won’t likely work, so you’re stuck with trying something with where Alhaitham lays to bring forth sleep. And, well, it doesn’t either. Just looking at him is a recipe of disaster—because there rises the desire to touch, to discover, to feel what he feels like it’s your first time seeing him on your bed—the first time seeing someone beside you, like this, on your bed.

“You’re moving too much,” some groggy voice speaks. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

Sheets crinkle under your movement. A warm hand settles on your waist, gently, and slowly, now, you see Alhaitham who is squinting—the light on his nightstand’s been turned on, giving his side of the room a soft glow.

“No, not really,” you reply airily, “No trouble because I am trying to.”

His voice is quiet; stripped away from the layers of sarcasm and unintentional haughtiness; it is now filled with sleep, and all the things that come from being woken up. “That is having trouble with sleeping.”

You huff, inching closer to him. He is warm and, unfortunately, hogs all of the blanket, so the duvet barely covers your back. “Okay, smartass. You got me this time.”

“Did I now? I suppose that’s my first win of the day.” Alhaitham welcomes your closeness readily, the arm ‘round your waist now pulling you in—he’s never been one for excessive displays of physical touch, and the love language you choose is different from his. He is all acts of service, and you a combination of two others, but right now, when it is dark and the night has descended, his warmth melds with yours. “Changing your habits would lead to sufficient rest. I’ve told you so before.”

“Your fault for having to need to go to work early.” His breath is steadying; calming. There is a type of rhythm to it that makes you count sheep, like numbering the times he pauses for a moment, and then, you can hear him listen. “Your fault for also having a work schedule that doesn’t align with mine.”

“Dramatics,” Alhaitham points out. You don’t need to look up to him to see him roll his eyes. “You and I leave work on the same days and have similar work hours.”

“So?”

He sighs, the breath exhaled softly too much to be mistaken as irritation, “I’m quite sure you’re trying to say something. What is it?”

Your cheeks heat, and on instinct, your hands flies up to hide them. Stupid, the light on his nightstand barely reaches you—why… even…?

“Go on and tell me, joonam,” Alhaitham’s fingers pry your own from your face. Archons, it feels like it’s gonna fall off. “Don’t take too long, or else I’ll fall back asleep.”

You groan, “I miss you.”

“I’m right here.”

“Exactly!” You look up at him, frowning. Alhaitham meets your eyes, chin dipping; eyes narrowing slightly. “I still miss you.”

Alhaitham takes a moment to respond. If it were anyone less familiar with him, you’d shrink beneath his gaze—with every genius comes the thought process that they can proudly declare is their own, and Alhaitham falls quiet to process his thoughts. In moments like this, his eyes bore holes onto you, but you find it not particularly bothersome; it just causes something like embarrassment and a parched feeling surfacing when it happens.

When he decides to speak, it comes with some gentle flourish, “Our last date was a month ago, was it not?”

Oh. Well. Maybe… yes?

Alhaitham rolls his eyes, affection oozing from the gesture. “On second thought, I doubt you’d remember.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Your eyes widened and you looked like a frightened cat. Inferring from those observations and other information I’ve gathered since knowing you, it’s easy to deduce you’ve forgotten.”

Nothing rolls out of your tongue, except a half-baked protest that tumbles as it leaves you. Alhaitham fixes you with a stare, nothing too harsh, and you can’t do anything but give in.

“Later,” He starts, arm on your waist moving up to your shoulders, “Will you come home early?”

“I will be. Why?” You ask, curling into his side.

Alhaitham tells you, “Then be ready by the time I come home.”

Work, in a couple hours, will be easy—after all, if there’s an incentive to work hard, you’ll do it to your heart’s content. You tease, “You’re being nice. I wonder what’s happened.”

“It is my duty as your partner to not dismiss your feelings,” Alhaitham’s voice is quiet; the soft sounds of crickets outside even more louder. There is something serious in his tone, and silence falls onto you. “I had failed to realize you felt neglected. Us getting busy with work is not an excuse to ignore the fact you and I haven’t gotten time together. I wish to rectify that mistake.”

In your bedroom, only your soft breaths are heard. You look at him, the world having gone silent, and gaze into Alhaitham’s eyes. It’s hard to tell what rises in you, and if it’s a good feeling—though there’s some gut instinct that tells you it’s good, and you should bask in it. Is it right? Does this feel right?

Normally, you’d feel stupid pondering these things. But right now, as Alhaitham gazes back at you, expression calm as always, you don’t fail to notice what washes over you.

Relief, and the feeling of being seen. That’s what it is, and it is with Alhaitham.

“I’ll see you then,” You settle on that response, heart tightening in your chest. It’s hard to not let the fondness seep into your voice, and Celestia knows what you look like right now. “I’ll give you time to change, too. Don’t worry.”

(You look like an image he’s only seen on other couples, Alhaitham thinks. The shimmering of your eyes is something… foreign, yet familiar all the same.

This will be life with you, he decides.

And just like every choice he’s made, it is resolute.)

[reverphic]

to last for an eternity

synopsis: to sunday, getting to know you has always been as natural as breathing, dreaming or lying. his life is built on lies. despite knowing that, you decide to stay with him, and sunday can't help but wonder why.

pairing: sunday x reader | wordcount: 2.2k | content & warnings: reader has dated men before (lol??), sunday’s like kinda insecure?, established relationship, reader and sunday share a bed, fluff and angst if you squint ; oneshot

a/n: i hate su**day icl. well okay, i’m torn in-between liking and disliking him. ALSO HOW COME I WROTE SO MUCH?? i whipped this up yesterday and uh idk how to feel about this.

tags: @cherieiu this is for you... (ew), @azullumi (tell me if i should remove the tag 😭)

“how many men have you loved before me?”

his voice, despite being barely above a whisper, is audibly unsteady. the words are laced with utter care, so nimble that they'd shatter upon the quietest noise. breaking into a million transparent shards, each one, reflecting the uneasiness that lies hidden in the words that are wrapped up oh-so delicately.

the carefully chosen words are reluctant, they cut through the curtain of the deep endless night, like a knife slitting through a woman's throat, erupting into a loud scream. the action makes time stop.

ironically, the only sound that plays comes from the clock hand which is attached to the small clock that hangs on the perfectly white painted tapestry. sliding from one digit to another, ticking each time a minute passes.

to sunday it feels like an eternity until you finally respond. he's aware that you're not asleep, your breath is too uneven and from time to time your shoulders lightly tense up.

“why do you ask?” in the process of moving to turn yourself to his lying figure. you shift in the neatly arranged satin bed sheets, slightly creasing them upon moving. your eyes that were once glued to the ceiling, as they were focusing on the chandelier, were now fixated on sundays amber-like ones.

although the moon and the stars that light up the night sky are being hidden behind the curtains which shield the windows, his eyes glow like a dimly lit candle - existing as the only source of light that gleams in the dark room.

the dark orange rings that engulf his golden irises shine brighter than any heavenly body ever could. they don't even compare to his eyes - not in the slightest. they're the ones that'd guide you through any critical crisis that might occur in your life. the kind of eyes that pierce through a veil of flower tendrils , just like rose thorns. a pair of two jewel-like eyes that glitter beneath the sunlight, shimmering and shining as you hold them up against the star.

“is it deemed as morally wrong to ask your lover who else or how many people they've loved before?” he asks. amber eyes intently watching your every move. every breath that escapes your mouth, how your eyes quickly flicker from him, to the ceiling and then back to him and how your fingers fiddle with the shared duvet that is draped over your warm body.

he trusts you enough to not use his powers, but is it wrong to feel anxious? in every other case sunday wouldn't have even thought twice about the question. it's a simple question, that has a simple answer: a curt no. it's short but says enough, because what is there to be scared of? rejection, neglect or perhaps even punishment, is what the average person would answer.

but for sunday there's one thing he fears the most, the sole reason why he feels slightly anxious: the truth. the words that spill from your lips, drip like water. crystal clear without any interference from any other filthy or dirty source. they're raw and pure - unlike his words.

his whole being is built on lies. the words that fall from his lips are like raindrops. they fall easily, dripping quickly without seeming to stop - an end is nowhere near in sight. his rain drop like words build up on one another, one lie follows another. creating a puddle of lies.

“i presume not.” you murmur. “i was in a relationship with two people before you. they honestly didn't last long. i broke it off with them after a month or so?” you're actually not quite sure yourself. the memories of your previous relationships, the people you've dated before sunday, were blurry. as if they've never existed in the first place. the only thing you properly remember is getting to know them too quickly, entering a relationship too quickly and thus ending said relationship too quickly.

sunday is able to tell that you're not lying. your voice is steady, just like your breathing. he listens to your heartbeat. it's not acting up nor is it beating at a rapid speed. no, rather, it's quite slow. you're telling the truth. the one thing that inflicts more wounds to his heart than any physical injury could ever do.

honesty is a trait sunday wishes he'd possess. but perhaps, perhaps it was decided that ever since his birth he was destined to lie. to dirty his own words and his actions by adding a bit of deception. to spread falsehood, thus protecting himself from the cruel principles of the world.

he envies you for being able to tell the truth, to straight up pour out your heart without having to hide anything. he realizes that you trust him, entrusting him with a part of your life. on the other hand, he also envies you for being able to talk so calmly about your former relationships. there was a reason why you broke up with them, was there not? slight jealousy arises in him, staining his adulterated blood, with a feeling he, himself didn't know he could experience.

“and you?” your gentle voice made his ears perk up, snapping him out of his former haze. “huh?” he mutters out quietly, audible confusion in his voice. “how many women have you said i love you to before, darling?” your usage of the term of endearment makes his heart swell in pride. to know that he can consider himself as your lover is the greatest achievement in his life, as well as knowing that you too consider him as your lover.

nevertheless, the uneasiness that swims lostly in his blood, not knowing it's home, remains. he feels guilty. it's absurd to think about it, right? sunday, the man who has lied to the whole population of penacony, the planet of festivities ruled by none other than the aeon of harmony xipe, feels guilty.

“none”. his answer is frank. after all, it's the truth, there's nothing to lie about. if he had the offer to lie right now, he'd decline it right away. but sunday doesn't think he'd ever be able to lie to you, he's not in a condition nor state to do so. he could never bear to carry a lie within him, a lie that he made up just for you. he doesn't think he'd be able to carry such a burden. being chained to his own lies, like a dog to a leash.

“really?” you let out a laugh. “you're lying!” you giggle in-between your words. what's so funny about that? he's telling the truth. he's confused.

even if he tried to, tried to lie and trick you into falsehood. the truth would always reveal itself first. the lie wouldn't even have the time to exit his mouth because sunday knows that he could never lie to you. there's no purpose in doing so, because sunday knows that you'd figure him out right away. you're aware that he wouldn't and neither is able to lie to you. but why do you seem so surprised?

“i can assure you, my love. i’m not lying.” voice stern but soft.

“not even robin?” you tease.

“fine, except robin.” at that he can't help but let out a small laugh himself.

sunday is an insatiable man that is impossible to look through. his true nature, the intention behind his actions are unknown. they are yet to be discovered just like the deep sea. but even then, some of his beliefs, morals, feelings would be anchored to the wet sand that lies at the bottom of the ocean. all rustily bound to his fundamentals. a part that he will never reveal to anyone.

but to you, sunday is like an open book. the pages are filled to the brim. sometimes going over the margin, words that are full of liveliness, spilling tales that need to be told and shared. words that are sealed inside a simple book, but being hidden away in a dusty shelf, so that no one can grab it and take advantage of it.

until you came along. witnessing every part of the man's nature. his behavior, habits, thoughts. you're familiar with all of them, you know how cruel he can be. what kind of pain he inflicts on others. how awful him and his actions are, ending people's relationships, careers or even lives. you know all of that, but you decide to stay with him.

“i'm just surprised, that's all. i thought that you might have a person whom you hooked up with here and there.” without even having to look at you sunday knows that you're smiling. he studied your facial expression and your diction to associate them together. knowing how to love you, even if it meant to love you blindly. losing his ability to see but in exchange still knowing what you look like. (as beautiful as always)

“but i suppose i should've also expected the outcome that you didn't date anyone before either.” you add with a giggle. your hand inches closer to his, your touch is featherlight, and your fingertips dance across the back of his hand.

unlike you. you who knows everything about him from the early start to the very end. from a to z, from alpha to omega, from one to a number with infinity digits, that is endless and goes on forever. he on the other hand, feels like he still knows nothing about you. you remain a mystery to him.

sure, he knows your preferences. you hate overly sweet pastries but for some reason adore piquant food that tickles on the tongue after taking the first bite. he knows what your favorite season is: spring. because after the snow melts, spring arrives. your favorite book. a book that reminds you of your childhood, a tale that talks about two children lurking disorientedly in the woods, leaving a trail of pebbles to find their way back.

but is that really enough to say that you actually know someone? sunday shifts in the warm bed, god it's unbearably hot. has it always been this warm? he thinks it's because of you. he feels like he might melt under your intent watch. as he notices that he tears his gaze away from yours.

the question still haunts him. does he actually know you? perhaps it's enough to consider himself your lover but not a soulmate that knows everything about their other half. getting to know you and learning about your habits was always easy for sunday, it came just as natural as breathing or well lying. he enjoyed it. but he doesn't think that knowing these facts is enough for himself to say that he knows you.

because if he'd know you, he'd be able to figure out why you still stay with him. you're aware of his gruesome acts, how he dirties or in some cases even bloodies his hands and his words with lies. as he continues to wash them off with a charade. a theater play where he puts everyone into position and makes them play along. but despite knowing that you continue to stay with him. is it because you broke loose of the strings he's attached to your body? or is it perhaps because there were never strings attached to you in the first place.

“don't worry about my former relationships.” you hum in a low voice. “you're the one whom i love and nothing will change that.” your soft hands that were just toying with his fingers moved up to his cheek. planting them on each side and making him turn his head . “sunday, look at me.” he wants to protest and say that you leave him with no other choice but before he can do so, you butt in, speaking up first.

your dominant hand starts moving up to his forehead, moving away the bangs that were sticking onto his forehead, your other hand stays on his cheek, not moving an inch. “trust me. i don't think about my ex lovers anymore. i was surprised when you brought them up, that’s all. it was the first time i've ever thought about them again after the relationship ended.”

you gently comb through his hair, taking notice that it's unkempt, some knots have found their way into his hair. “so don't worry about it or them. i’m all yours, just like you're all mine.” you reassure him.

“they say, third time's the charm, right? so we'll make this relationship last. not only in the dreamscape but also reality, okay? i'll stay with you until till the end time, because i love you.”

once again sunday is envious of how easily the truth drips from your lips. you love him. you decide to stay with him because you love him. it's simple, but it's the truth. he wonders if loving him comes off as natural as him getting to know you. but perhaps that's a question for another time.

a question that is not-so-fitting for this starry night. but rather a question that should be asked during a new dawn. where your head pressed against his shoulder and he eulogizes you, which in response you can only laugh.

sunday isn't your first lover, no.

but he doesn't think he minds being your last lover, if it means that he'll get to have you till the end of your and his time.

sunday doesn't believe in fate, destiny or any major force. he's not even certain if the aeon of harmony, xipe, will grant him his wish. but he prays. he pleads that whoever listens to his prayers, does anything in their power, to make this relationship last. last for an eternity.

e/n: i cannot express my hatred for writing and editing on mobile. also sunday last day of the week, last lover?? does that make sense lol.

© TOORURS 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is not permitted.

[reverphic]

okay but can we talk about the way you write?? hello?? chews eats slurps

i am grateful to see u enjoy my ffs sjsjsjsj ,, thank uu sm !!

[reverphic]

𝐏𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒.

✶ kaedehara kazuha x gn. reader — wc. 3.1k

summary. seasons change, but you persist — you exist to capture his intrigue across every lifetime, leaving him grasping for footnotes in the story of your entwined lives. yet you slip between his fingers just as easily, separated by the same fate that draws you together like twin flames, to share but a fleeting moment before all is lost to time once more.

notes. reincarnation au sorta idk it’s 12am who knows what i’m writing anymore inspired by timeless - taylor swift if you squint

His first memory of you was etched on paper. 

As among those flowing words of poetry and music, did the hands of fate weave such verses, brush meeting paper to bring forth a flurry of colour and imagery, astute eyes narrowing in concentration at the text in front of them, raising their hand to add one, then two more strokes. 

A fine conclusion, they had smiled, to a story of nameless souls whose paths were fated to cross, unfolding across chapters of various lives — borne of tragedy, yet strung along with the faint glimmer of hope leading to the promise of a distant future.  

Of which two sets of paper planes would soar through the sky, fashioned from the pages of old testaments carried through the wind, amidst childish laughter that resonated from below. Discarded books littered the sidewalk beside the two, innocence sparkling between two pairs of eyes, one in bright shades of crimson, and the other glimmering like opalescent jewels. 

Papers rustled among them, flipping from page to page in meticulous folds, of which emerged a heart and star. Each stood on its own, before being carried away by the breeze away from their creators who reached up in an attempt to grab them back, yet restricted in their childish stature, reaching for the impossible. 

They returned to those books eventually, losing themselves in childish dreams and wishful imaginations, unaware of the shadows of their legacy looming inevitably over them. Yet they had noted nothing but the faint chirping of birds overhead and the rustling of leaves in the wind, followed by the turning of a page.

“What’s this?” Artful hands would slip a bookmark from the worn texts moments later, embroidered in threads of silver that hung suspended beneath the light of the afternoon sun. It would be that those threads would reweave fate once more, bringing back what one had thought they had lost once, together again, yet could be easily severed all the same. 

Two pairs of eyes would look upon the carved words, unable to discern such characters yet it was beautiful nonetheless. One could only wonder who had left it in there, watching as you turned it over, inspecting the other side. He only recognised one word, love. 

But such an ironic notion was only debated among those who did not know yet of the truth of this reality. 

That the tranquil atmosphere shrouding the world was but false pleasantry that could be shattered anytime, as said book would be snatched from him in an instant, meeting the eyes of disapproval that would further sink into that of indescribable anger upon noting the attention — and confused gaze of your own figure who had previously clung to his side. 

Both were too young to realise, nor remember what had sparked one’s animosity like so, inevitably dragged away amidst their protests. 

Yet in that moment, he could only look after you and your sad smile, and he had wanted to apologise. But your figure had disappeared from view, the grip upon his own wrist unrelenting, as the crowd swallowed him up once more.

The only things that remained clutched in his own hands was the silver bookmark, and that of a singular excerpt of text — soon to be lost to a thousand winds. 

---

In his childish resolution, he swore he’d find you again. 

But by then, he had lost you, his last memory ensconced in the crimson shade of your blood that stained his hands forever, at the revelation of such a truth. 

---

Papers that had once wrought words of epic poetry now lay on the ground to be crushed underfoot — fading, as its inked letters had bled into nothingness. The frail peace that had once been etched on similar material had been torn apart, left to burn in the flames of conflict, one house against another in the shadows of a prosperous city. 

The scattered leaves of a fading autumn too were forgotten in the midst of what would be painted as yet another tale of clashing blades, as one cannot stray from such histories rooted deep within them. Swords would always be drawn, as they were now, following the cutting words of those that shared looks of resentment. 

But it was not against one another, as you stood back to back, to face the very markings of your legacy. Perhaps one day they would speak of the two who had wished to challenge their history, their fates, grasping at the bare fragments of peaceful resolution in their final stand, against all deluded belief and ceaseless war that had plagued this world. 

For they had done everything to divert your paths — yet it had done nothing but ignite a spark that had glistened with hope since those bright days of childhood and bygone reminiscence, straining against your confinements to return to those moments, your last memory of freedom among elegies of long-forgotten authors. 

Had you known, he had felt the same, reaching for those wishes hanging from distant stars, with nothing but the soaring swell of tempestuous emotions held within his heart. It’s grown into the raging fire that has run unchecked beneath a placated demeanour forged with weariness over time, waiting to meet together, to consume the thing that feeds their fury. 

You burn so effervescently now — as if that brightness had never left you, reanimated in fiery light, himself but a faintly flickering flame against you. 

“So be it then. Us against the world.” You had proclaimed, eyes now blazing with such determination, as you held your sword in front of you in invitation. For is it not now that you must fight for your freedom from this vicious cycle more than ever before? 

He wonders what the world has done to you in all this time. 

There’s unspoken history behind those same eyes, weighed with a shared heaviness you both bear. Perhaps in another life, you would never have had to pick up a sword, to stray far from those distant dreamlike longings you had once held in your heart. Alas, your hands had bid action, and now you’re left to forge your own path with hardened resolution.

But he’ll follow you until the end, raising his own blade. 

Even when you’ve long fallen, the fires of your determination faded among the crimson red pooling at his feet, your sword remained clenched tightly in your hand, as if raised to make one more blow, one more victory among the mountains of warriors you’ve felled in the name of defying their beliefs. 

There’s none left to bear witness but him, amid all his calamitous love and insurmountable grief, as torrents of rain descended from the skies, as if made to wash away all memory, to drown out the final remnants of your existence that had once burned so brightly. 

---

But you’ve persisted, across every lifetime.

You exist, to turn his head even among crowds, in those brief encounters that he holds as dreams — reaching for you across time itself in his own persistence of memory. 

---

He dreams of these legendary tales of the sword, the stories of mythic heroes illustrated across the story clutched tightly within his hand, as he raises his head to look upon his surroundings. Maple leaves flutter from branch to branch in the trees above, the flamboyant colours of summer fading to that of muted browns and yellow in resplendent hues of warmth. 

There’s a silent blanket of tranquillity that hangs over this world, through the portrait of life that passes by in slow movements, as if waiting for a moment to spur it into action. Because time does not truly stop — it only flies by, easily missed, as people jostle past him, swept up in their own lives. 

And if he blinked, he would’ve missed you completely, having brushed past him without a noise, leaving nothing but the faint scent of cherry blossoms in your wake — the only indicator of your existence, as he had turned to look after your figure. 

You’re chasing something, your steps light and swift, breezing along the cobbled path like a ghostly wraith, a vision of bright purple crackling with such power at your waist. A true blessing from the gods themselves, silver gleaming in the light of such, a blade elegantly carved emerging from beneath resplendent silks, cutting through the air in a silent whisper of wind. 

It’s wielded as a bringer of justice, in honourable integrity, displayed among a blend of precision and fluidity, striking as true as your heart. Each slash is filled with purpose, a trail of sparks and determination in resonance of some greater, kindled resolve that burns behind your gaze. 

There’s something familiar amidst it all — awestruck, he wishes to see it in its entirety, pausing in witness to this dance of lone blades, your opponent falling before such an act. For they’re nothing but a lowly thief in your almost regal presence, coins clinking against the ground as you sweep them from their hands among words uttered in bare whispers. 

And then you stood, the figure of elegance unwavering, the soft glows of the sun playing upon expensive fabric, shimmering with every movement against the canvas of orange and brown that leaves him fully entranced. 

As from this exact moment among the fading lights of summer, when leaves of gold danced in the breeze — did he remember, in its delicate montage before the cold onset of winter. 

The murmurings of the crowd seemed to fade into the background the moment you had turned your head, as if your very presence were a singularity that existed outside it. It’s a moment captured in detachment to the surrounding world, as piercing eyes fixate upon his own, rendering him frozen to the same spot in equal wonder. 

You stand so close, yet so far from one another, never to stride the same path in this life, apart from this momentary collision of chance. He had imagined himself reaching out a hand, he had opened his mouth as if to say something, yet no words had come out, his voice failing him. 

Truly, what could he even say to you, beneath your inscrutable gaze? 

No matter what he is to think, in that you may be the only divine thing he’s believed in, an incarnation of the virtue and blessings of the seven, he pales in comparison nonetheless. To you, he must appear as nothing more than a faceless wanderer, a nameless soul in this crowd. 

You may see thousands of him across your long lived journey, but to him, among the sea of faces he drowns in, he only sees you, in all your brilliance. Even as the surrounding world continues its movement past you, slowly pulling you from his reach, sweeping you up among the pressing crowds — he remains stuck in the moment, watching, committing you to memory. 

As along with the bright colours of the seasons that would fade into a cold winter, as did you into the distance of his ever-reaching dream.

---

He’ll never see you again, not in this life.

But you’ll continue to live on in his memory, spilling forth onto paper, hanging onto every word — every piece of prose that paints this picture of you. 

---

For he whose dreams are wrought in similar fashion to the fantasies in the books he holds dear, in that they’re unattainable to the likes of him, yet held in an unforgettable light — they’re still left to make a mark upon the world in the eyes of the beholder. 

He watches the world go by, flakes of snow giving way to the iridescent blooms of spring and rays of sunlight, resting his head against the trunk of a newly blossoming tree, heaving a soft sigh as he stares down at the papers in his hands. 

The words swim before his vision, forming a story within his mind — one he raises his pen to continue. There’s no words to be spoken in his silent exaltation, nothing but the sound of a cold breeze blowing through the air and the occasional rustle of paper, followed by the scratching of a pen. 

Ink blooms across the canvas of white, curling into elegant letters with the flick of a quill. Each is formed with a meticulous hand, as words fill one page, then the next, and then the next, seemingly with no end, these pages of overt description and exaggerations derived from a mere passing existence, with you having become his muse. 

The pen stops occasionally, to picture your movements, hovering over the paper, a drop of ink falling, frozen in time as its holder is struck with a thought once more, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. Even now you still dance across his mind, your presence reanimated. 

You remain out of his reach, something he can only dream about in this life, and continues to do so. 

He wonders where you are now, where your journey has led you beyond that brief moment of your crossed paths. Did you leave in pursuit of greater purpose, or even set down the sword, to live a life in peaceful recluse after all these years? 

He’ll never know for sure. 

A stranger’s fate shouldn’t hold such importance to him, but you’ve left him thinking of you, wondering about what could’ve been, wrapped in an enigma that is your being — one he has spent countless years pondering. For what is it that had made you so captivating, drawing him to you as if tied by some invisible string? 

And even now there’s more to add, to every ballad, every poem written from the depths of his heart that is reticent of you and that singular moment touched upon by your presence. He could go on for eternity about the colour of your eyes, to the cadence of your voice, letting it all flow freely onto a page.

For he’ll never see the true ending, but he can dream, writing his own as if you’d find a way back to him. There’s another you — one that exists among these pages, that lives the life he had wished to live in this lifetime. And there is him, a lovesick fool, that pours his heart out among the same pages, to be heard in another life. 

He reflects upon the beautiful vestiges of innocence, two children running through the streets, chasing the paper planes they had released from their hands, soaring toward unreachable heights as peals of laughter had rung through the air in twinkling chimes, the exalted feeling of freedom swelling in their chests. Perhaps it is you by his side. 

They fly and fly, drawing too close to the sun in all their brightness, left only to crash down to earth in the flames of their own making. Because is such a story complete without tragedy? One that arises from such fires, romance torn apart by its destructive vehemence — his own woes respun. 

Still, a flicker of his hope remains, echoed in the weary character of a young samurai sitting by the lake’s edge, watching a lone maple leaf drift across the clear surface of water, the product of his persistence in search of a resolute conclusion. 

The past lingers, of all who had been left and lost, yet he remains waiting, for another to rouse him from this dream. 

---

His story had come to a close there. 

You’ll read the same words meant for you in a different lifetime, and fall in love with them as he had with the image of you, fate bringing your existences together once more. 

---

As in the quiet corners of your mind, tracing the inked words on a page, you wonder, what must it be like to grow up that beautiful? To have every part of you turned into folklore, in an unsung tale of what it would be like to love you — to have one who would brave that storm time and time again, in search of that blessed existence spun from dreams and wishful imaginations.

And the part of your mind still swept up in your reverie, too began to chase those missing pages blown astray in the wind, soaring through the air, dancing out of your grasp after having clung so tightly to such words inked onto a page.

For where do they now exist? Is this gentle lively being lost forever? It’s almost inconceivable, to imagine a form so divinely wrought and beaming with beauty, to have decayed. Has this mind so replete with ideas, both fanciful and magnificent, the one that has formed such a story — has this mind perished too?

But among skies clouded in overcast grey, you run down the cobbled streets of the present day, the wind whipping against your frame, your eyes remaining fixated upon the streak of quicksilver suspended in the air before you — continuing your pursuit for its answer.

Leaves and pebbles skitter across the pavement, picked up by the gale, and your loose papers which had flown free from their bindings, now lie scattered around, among the muted hues of brown and grey, blown along in the breeze like everything else.

Another gust, and it would disappear halfway down the street, further and further from your reach.

Yet he grows closer, crossing your view.

It sends you down another alley, around several corners, before you find yourself atop the crest of a grassy hill, breathless, as you lean against the trunk of a weathered tree for support.

Past it, the landscape is quietly serene against the rough winds you had endured in your brief traversal, watching as the singular passage you had been chasing float idly through the air, caught in the hands of a lone figure sitting by the lake's edge, his back turned to you.

You take a step closer, slowly approaching him — wincing as the crunch of leaves beneath your feet betray your presence. Somehow, he remains oblivious as you draw closer, his own mind seemingly elsewhere, eyes scrunched in focus at the page now held delicately in their hands, absorbed by such a fragment of story almost wholly.

You wonder what he sees among those words. Does he see the same worlds as you do? The art wrought within such prose?

His response is slow, almost dazed — as if you had just shaken him awake from a dream, amid your cautiously uttered greeting.

Yet when he turns his head, his hair like starlight and wintry boughs swirling together in a white-spun sun, blowing gently in the breeze, a pair of crimson eyed hues fixing upon you in equal curiosity — they’re strangely reanimated, as if by your presence alone.

You think him quite beautiful, as if he himself could’ve been written among these pages.

[reverphic]

♡⠀⠀syn. a wounded blade returns home, and of course like a kindhearted individual you are, you treated his wounds. ♡⠀⠀cw. semi fluff, not proofread, 1.3k words, fem reader ( no prns mentioned ) maybe ooc. a continuation / sequel to the archfiend

the odor of antiseptic wafts thickly through the air, bandages are securely coiled alongside blade, he winces slightly at the sting of the antibacterial ointment poured over the open gash in his arm. a fresh bruise was planted on his forearm, vivid purple swelling proudly.

“i keep telling you to stop stumbling into danger, i’ll be the one responsible afterwards”

blade doesn’t respond, only a miniscule twitch on his brow is perceived. you glanced upwards, descrying your knight’s displeased expression, a tinge of guilt qualms inside your core. 

“but those imbeciles are targeting you, how can i let that type of situation slide?” he says.

blade asserts the word imbeciles with every enmity one would have harbored for their worst enemy. you pause abruptly, emitting a sigh. blade is the embodiment of an obsessive lover, for sure, and you do not have the right to substitute that outcome. he is not your lover, naturally, but you are doubtful if blade perceives it that way too.

you knew that blade is head over heels for you, but you have no capability to reciprocate his love, saying that you are impotent in such feelings. he ceased to believe, however, and continues to believe that one day redamancy will eventually present itself.

excluding the pester, you are thankful that he came home safely, although a few scars and a severe wound are intended, at least your soldier is back.

but his abiding adoration with manslaughter — you are the one at fault. if it weren't for him enshrouding his true identity, you would've ended up in the hands of the guards authorities. you have maimed that soldier with vengeance, concocting a blight that costs his unalloyed soul. your madness birthed a demented warrior, that's what you discern at least.

“i will kindly force you once again to stay safe during unwanted combat, understand?”

ironic it was for you to say the word kindly, for it was humiliatingly apparent that you were crossed that blade was injured. it is not a form of romantic love whatsoever, merely a form of that you care regarding his physical condition.

“every combat costs at least a scar, otherwise it doesn’t have the right to be called a combat” he says, crimson eyes pierce through yours.

you declined to respond, however. blade knew you noticed his words, and you were lucid enough to empathize with his desire to convey them. to him, you are fragile, akin to a subdued rain.

he knew you were only honest when the night was hushed; there is a poem latched onto the walls of your throat, and nights like these, sincerity crawls from your flesh, like a scourge, a miasma. if blade is by your side, you never dither to let the viciousness of your words slither down your lips, because he understands you are mourning, mourning what could have been, what will not be, and what you can’t save, thus far you go on hoping.

today was unusual, your lips quiver and are ajar, yet no words seem to leave.

“i don’t want your pity, blade” you upbraided, tethering his arm with another veneer of bandage.

you never wanted to scar blade further, because you were the one who scarred him first.

blade winces, “and why do you say that?”

…how you still, sometimes crave understanding.

rage is something you've learnt to wear. however, blade's anguish folds your spine and resides behind your ribs. you are taken aback by his presence. you’re here? the question remains as a lump on your throat. and now that you think about it, you've never been kind to blade either.

how did he get so close that you have to dissect him out from under your skin?

recollection is a deathbed. remembering is a grave. the recollection of him is like a scab that you keep scratching till it sears. a burn, a keepsake, or something to grasp at that returns the favor.

you refuse to be plagued by anything less.

how have you turned brittle love into such devastation? so much greed? you insisted you didn’t love him, and you never will, yet a sun-sized ache pulsates deep within the bowels of your palpitating heart. the sight of him injured, drenched in mortal blood, in spite of your lusterless eyes deceiving you to neglect his situation, something shifts your perception to extend your arm to embrace his suffering. 

terrible, terrible person assumes that tyranny and love are interchangeable. 

your heart knew no name more ferociously than his. a passage that burns under your tongue.

you shift from the bedsheets, a packet of bandages still in hand as your heart is burdened by uncertainty. the malice in your tongue will forever be an obscenity, hence why you never spoke truthfully.

“my work is done here, do you crave anything?” you ask as you feign insouciance.

“[name]”

blade’s baritone voice reverberates across the vacant room, where he is seated on the insalubrious bed, tousled and soiled. something fervent exudes down in that icy tone he has. you shiver in fear, a grasp suddenly latches onto your wrist.

“do you need something?” a response slips past your lips.

blade slides his arm as it rings around your waist, fingers gradually lacing with yours. with hesitance and a hitched breath, you stepped forward only for your stomach to be pressed against his broad chest, earning a gasp. 

fingertips run over the temples of your forehead, moderate enough to spare you from pain. a steady tenderness soothes you, irises swelled tenfold. the burden surges. 

“you’re warm,” he says, his distinctive icy tone slowly thawing.

“why do you worry so much?” you shift back to steer clear of his proximity.

“...”

blade scowls, a crease forming on his eyebrow. your avoidance of his touch riles him, he just misses you, can he not? even if he lends a helping hand, you avoid him regardless. he avows that he has known you well for decades, but the censures hitherto left unsaid leaves him reconsidering that if he sincerely does.

so he hoists you up onto his lap, the facet of his thumb dight your cheek. reluctantly, his face inches closer to you, foreheads swept against each other.

“you have a fever, i’m telling you”

“i don’t.”

“your body temperature is rising, and you look pale”

“...i can take care of myself”

“i doubt that”

“should i repeat myself again?”

blade’s scowl deepens, an obvious expression of worry is omnipresent, which you can’t neglect so easily.

“stop looking at me like that with your pity in your eyes” you exhort with crass inflection. “just… tell me what should i do to make you… feel better, instead of you taking care of me”

amusement laces his grandeur, the shimmer in his crimson eyes vacillates; you admit that the countenance he is wearing right now is hilarious. 

“well," he begins with a hum, reaching his hand to the contours of your defined jawline. “kiss me, and i’ll be alright.”

he exchanges a reticent smile, his lips chiseled upward in a way that makes both men and women sigh dreamily.

you heaved a sigh in defeat, acceding. merely for the sake of saving yourself from the headache; otherwise, he would keep pestering you until you gave him a response. he may be pushy when he wants to.

your fingers dug in blade’s underjaw, half-lidded eyes stare into the chasmic depths of his visage, slowly slinking closer. 

…ah, this feels strange

warmth burgeoned in blade's chest, flames aflame as you drew in closer, lips brushing contact prudently for the first time. the lingering stench of your fragrance, the sweet, fragrant aroma of your hair, left him lightheaded, as butterflies waltzed in his stomach. but warmth encapsulated him as he slumped into the kiss, your lips unfathomably soft against his.

being able to breathe isn’t supposed to be that hard, especially if you are deep inside a passionate kiss. you shouldn’t comply with blade’s offer, but oh but the insurmountable worth of devotion beckoning inside a kiss that felt loveless.

© reverphic . plagiarizing, reposting, stealing, or translating is not tolerated. likes n reblogs appreciated, follow for more <3

[reverphic]

⠀⠀ 18﹒she﹒intj⠀⠀♪⠀ ִ ⠀⠀ׂ ⠀the songstress sinking in solitude⠀ ♡⠀⠀alhaitham's predilection ﹢ blade's penchant﹢aventurine's swain ꒰ ⠀⠀⠀affiliated with @ecrin-de-litterature ⠀⠀⠀݂ ⠀ദ INDEX.⠀⠀RULES.⠀⠀LAYOUT CR.⠀⠀

[reverphic]

♡⠀⠀syn. wherein a sinned soldier and a fallen sovereign undergoes an intimate connection whilst understanding one another.

♡⠀⠀cw. soldier!blade x fem!princess!reader. royalty au. reader uses female terms. rushed writing so upon reading i suppose you can see the turmoil.

cruel hands birth nothing but cruel hands.

cruelty made him a monster, but all along he wished to be loved. they say that you don’t need to be covered in blood just to earn a warm bath, yet he needs to; he must. perhaps it thrived in his parching blood, how the vile lodged within him. for centuries his hands were blemished with blood belonging to thousands of benign souls embellished with his rancor. he slaughters carelessly, the thirst of human flesh and the scent of crude blood instilled in him.

had the wicked not scourge him with immortality and malice, blade would’ve sojourn a life untroubled, slumbering peacefully, or have a warm meal. yet vengeance acts as his salvation, whispering to him actions that sinned him. revenge is not a dish to be served cold; it is a knife with rusted edges maintained by someone who has blood on their hands. it is a shameful deformity kept concealed from oneself.

within the bowels of his darkened crimson orbs withholds a damsel acting as his muse; the only reason he kills. the damsel had a name so sacred, it was perfectly sewn into blade’s tongue, and regardless of how hard he endeavored, the stitches would not come undone. for her, he would skin himself alive in devotion, allowing rivulets of blood to flow down his scars for the sake of her living soul.

love was never considered delicate. it had always been miserable. love is a thousand molten fires that permeate the vessels. an aneurysm. with the risk of rupture, we repeatedly pass through the chambers of our hearts, making them a part of ourselves. a mild and soluble crevice completes us.

and oh, how he loves the fleecy touch she wields. he grows feverish upon her merciful touch bearing a myriad of affection as it sweeps around his pale cheeks covered in blood. the touch beckons words laced with heed capable of melting blade's heart.

oh [name], his sweet [name], such a heavenly lover she was. even when she weeps it seems like she weeps jewels, rivulets of tears pool her eyes as it drenches her eyelashes.

he kept thinking about whenever she praises him despite his desecrations, because danger is lurking around the corners whenever she is present, selfishly clawing her soul as if it yearns for a gentle sheen so divine. he was the knight fortifying her, never once caring about the hatred spurring all over his reputation.

“i’ll take care of you” he says upon their first encounter.

“it’s rotten labor”

the damsel worried him, afraid his actions will lead to resentment thereof, yet he persists on protecting her for eternity.

“not to me. not if it’s you”

there was a brief silence, hitching their breaths.

“i was born for you”

the damsel froze, her lips unable to utter out a precise response regarding her knight’s response. she’s a fallen soul, what made his soul noble, to the extent that he insisted on remaining by her side.

why? why are you so kind to me? she thought.

she had many hypotheses and assumptions about how he could be a serpent to the others, but she was the sole exception. is she just awful at this? lousy at accepting and reciprocating love to the point that he pities her?

you were always frightened.

what were you afraid would happen?

it has happened.

if it weren’t for blade’s rescue, you are certain that you wouldn’t be where you are now. you can remember vividly when the smell of massacres wafts through the humid atmosphere, sickening you to the core. quivering and helpless, tousled white gown, your pearl headpiece dangling for dear life, raw blood pouring down your wrist. nightmare was an understatement if you were to reiterate the situation.

as per the empress’s request, you were instructed to return to the palace, yet that damned delirious man decides to snaffle you due to his obsession, he states.

you were a beautiful child without a lap to burrow into and cry in. so you make a huge show of your scarred skin, hoping that someone would pry it apart.

but instead, people tell you,

"you should be kinder. you seem enraged."

you used to be kind. it didn't last very long, however.

so you pledge kindness and benevolence to blade, who desiderates for one. so you deprive him beneath your loving touch, a touch brimming with a wounded love. you crave intimacy, but you don’t want temporary people touching my mind, body, or soul.

must every human go through this too?

you want to dissolve in water and lose the shape of you, pick a poison that bleaches your blood clean. but this is the alchemy of your long-running history, the herculean art, a colossal task of extracting the tragedy from your blood.

your bones whimper at the prospect of what might have been. what if you hadn't been born in the filthy soils of the universe?

it is shameful that you will be seen for what you are, the princess who has sinned, who betrayed god and chose the path of the drunken gods of slaughter. 

you thought you were left neglected sinking into the sea of yore, throttling under the plague of afflictions. 

but oh, blade. your blade. how loving he was, whenever you trail your nimble fingers around his pale soft skin as blood daubs your gloved hands, he slips his hand around your waist, seeking for salvation, or perhaps he is aware of a burden seeping through your delicate features. it’s the way his gaze softens around your wake, causing a pink tinge generously tinting your cheeks. it felt warm on the chest, not a sweltering heat, yet a comforting one.

as desperation sits heavy on your tongue, he slips his lips into yours, akin to interweaving a once missing piece he waited for so long. maybe the answer to a tranquil life is caged between his arms, you thought. it was buried within his innards of his heart, a lust of a man.

© reverphic , 2024 do not plagiarize reblogs n likes r appreciated, consider supporting me by following to tune in for future updates <3

[reverphic]

♡⠀⠀syn. in which your beloved spends his time pampering you in the boutique, in hopes of spending his time only for you. ♡⠀⠀cw. fic is sfw, overall pure fluff. wc 1.1k, fem!reader (no pronouns mentioned)

fluorescent lights radiate the room in a gentle ether, lucent dresses lavished every crevice of the boutique, rivulets of jewels dribble down the fabrics of gowns dangling down the clothes rack bathed under the cordial evening.

fontaine’s weather forecast was as precarious as ever, sporadic rainstorms enveloping the region in endless meadows of saturnine. today, though, was an exceptionally beautiful day, the sun rays gliding gently from one aperture to another. as evening drifts tranquilly, the citizens of fontaine cannot help but ponder,

what has made the hydro dragon so at ease after the endless downpour?

“neuvillette! take a look at this azure-colored gown!”

a succulent voice echoes through the wide blue yonder, lambent orbs admiring a certain gown.

the iudex of fontaine takes a step further to scrutinize the dress his lover has been eyeing on. the dress consists of an ocean-colored gradient, a scrupulous mixture of pearly white and azure, resembling the impeccable sight of a frothing ocean. jewels alike to hydro visions were wreathed around the waist sections of the gown framed with golden embroidery.

“would you like to buy this one, then?” he asks with benevolence.

beside him stood you, hands clutching on the silky skirt of the gown. stupefied upon his generous offer, you tilt your head faintly.

seldom it was to have your bien-aimé by your side striding around the court of fontaine, you insisted him to pay a visit to the well-known chioriya boutique. due to the case of clandestine felonies mounting the fortress of meropide and countless trials occurring, it was impossible for neuvillette to take a day off, even if it was just to see your face.

“you insist?” you questioned back, feeling a tad bit guilty.

neuvillette courses his nimble finger across your jawline, a loving smile graces his lips. “of course, i’d purchase the most lavish jewelries, or dresses if it’s for you, mon amour”

this. this was the reason why you fell for him. while he keeps dour exterior around people, he never forgets to dote on his dearest; simply, you. even melusines find you endearing, it is obvious that neuvillette loves you very much. he’d pamper you with all his wealth possible for the sake of your profuse luxury.

you pondered as you hum, tapping your chin comically, “very well, i’ll put this dress on my list first. i’m considering in ordering a custom selection anyway”

following your blithesome steps, neuvillette’s forehead creased, “oh? you should’ve told me sooner that you wanted a custom design”

“i can do it myself, so i don’t feel like being assisted” you simpered, pacing to a certain section where toques, bonnets, and various kinds of headpieces were displayed. 

you inspected the hats before firmly grasping a cerulean berret, gently placing it on your head, “isn’t this perfect for outings? maybe lady furina will like the aegean shade pieces!”

“to be sincere, i’d rather see the berret being worn by you only. it feels imprecise to see something so apposite for you being worn by someone else” he says rather bluntly, extending his hand to primp on the lopsided berret.

“oh? well aren’t you selfish fellow” you shrugged, a flush creeping up your visage as you attempt to feign nonchalance.

dexterous with his words, neuvillette never fails to faze you with his silver tongue, spilling out words drenched with affection whilst plastering an indifferent guise. how can an individual act like that after speaking such utterance capable of thawing even the iciest depths of wintertide? nevertheless, you musn’t be swayed by those words, so you simply said,

“then i’d like to purchase this berret, monsieur neuvillette”

neuvillette’s lips twitched upwards, scoffing, “and what’s with the honorifics now?”

“and i would like two, one for me and one for lady furina” you added, raising your fingers as a gesture of the quantities you desire for the berrets.

“shouldn’t the aegean shade berret be for me instead, if you were to purchase two?” neuvillette winced.

“well i promised lady furina if i were to stop by i would buy her a hat”

“...do you not feel constrained by lady furina? you are aware that she can purchase it by herself, right?”

“good heavens neuvillette, have some empathy for once, would you?”

neuvillette suspires, ceasing his protests. to this extent he infers that you weren’t going to let up, not even once. his eyes, however, tells otherwise—twinkling with endearment. and as promised, he purchases the berrets for you, which costs around three thousand and five hundred mora each (quite pricey, but anything for you, he persists)

leaving the shop, the previously peach-colored dawn faded into a pink and purple hue, its previous orange luminescence turning more vibrant than its previous appearances during the day. with your cerulean berret placed on top of your head, and one tucked inside a shopping bag, you hummed in content; hands intertwined with neuvillette’s.

“so you are still going to give the hat to lady furina?” neuvillette exhorts, voice laced with envy.

“do i have to repeat what i said just a few seconds ago?” you muttered, shooting a glare.

“well if you insist,” neuvillette pauses, slipping his arm around your waist, a shade of crimson tinting his cheeks was omnipresent. “if i can’t have the berret, don’t i deserve a kiss instead?”

your body was jerked back within the tug of his hands towing you closer in his wake. and instead of leaning in for a kiss, you whispered to his ear, lips close to the shell of his ear, “out of all places, you ask this type of offer right here?!”

“i don’t see a hindrance to do so, or should i seduce you into doing so?”

you stammered, awning his lips with your hand, “t… that’s not what i’m referring to!”

“i see, i should do that then” he smiles coyly.

“h— hey!!!! neu. villette!!!” the second part of your reply was whispered in frenzied whispers as you struggled to extricate yourself from the iron grasp his foolish arm held. 

with that kind of grip caging your body, you are no longer safe from his temptation.

© yjisms , 2024 do not plagiarize reblogs n likes r appreciated, consider supporting me by following to tune in for future updates <3