romanticaacore

[romanticaacore]

My sweetheart, my love, my love, my love—

19 August 1925 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

[romanticaacore]

ꢾ𓍢ִ໋

[romanticaacore]

september 21, 2022

[romanticaacore]

Will you accept his flower?

[romanticaacore]

WRITTEN IN STARDUST

pairing khaslana x gender neutral reader

everyone has a soulmate—even a god who bends galaxies to his will. when khaslana discovers his fated one was never born into any world, he does the unthinkable: he creates a planet just for them. decades later, he descends in mortal form, drawn to the holy city of okhema, where fate finally intertwines their paths. you save him from a skirmish in the marmoreal market, unaware that the moment your hands touch, the marks on both of you vanish. but while khaslana knows instantly, you remain oblivious—your mark was on your back, after all, and you never thought to check. now, the god who shaped stars for you must wait, watching, yearning, until you realize the truth written in your own skin.

the cosmos hums beneath khaslana’s fingertips, galaxies spiraling into being with nothing more than a flicker of his will—stars igniting, worlds taking shape, entire civilizations blooming and fading in the span of a breath. he is creation and destruction woven into one, a being who sculpts reality itself. yet even a god is not above fate’s oldest decree: everyone has a soulmate.

and his? nowhere to be found.

not in the molten cores of newborn planets, not in the quiet corners of dying stars. not even in the endless drift between dimensions, where time frays at the edges. the threads of destiny had no anchor for them, no cradle to hold their existence. a laughable irony—that the aeon who could conjure life from nothingness could not summon the one person meant to be his.

(he’d searched. oh, how he’d searched. across the infinite sprawl of the cosmos, scouring newborn nebulae and the quiet ruins of long-dead worlds. he’d pressed his palms to the pulse of a thousand civilizations, listened to the whispers of planets yet unnamed, hoping to catch even a flicker of you. but the universe, for all its sprawling grandeur, had no footprints for you to tread, no breath for you to steal. not yet.)

not in any realm, not in any cradle of existence. the threads of fate curled empty-handed, no loom to weave you into being. so khaslana did what he knew best—he made one. a planet, lush and laughing, spun from stardust and the ache in his chest.

rivers carved paths like veins, mountains rose like the curve of a spine, and the skies shimmered with the same quiet wonder he imagined might live in your eyes. a world built for no other reason than to hold you.

why would a god bend the cosmos to his will for something as fragile as a single soul? because he could—because when you hold infinity in your hands, what is one more world shaped from stardust and longing?

but more than that, because you were already his. not in body, not in presence, but in the quiet way the universe had whispered your name into the hollow of his ribs long before either of you existed. his soulmate. his missing half.

the echo in every empty space he’d ever carved between stars. how could he not build you a home when the rest of creation had been too small to hold you? how could he not cradle the possibility of you in his palms like something sacred, when you already held a piece of him—one he hadn’t even known was gone?

and so, khaslana spun a world into being—just for you. not some hollow paradise, but a living, breathing thing, its roots sunk deep in the kind of magic that makes flowers turn their faces toward the sun. forests grew thick and whispering, canopies stretching like arms to catch the light just so, because he imagined you might like the way it dappled the ground. oceans carved themselves wide and laughing, because he thought you’d enjoy the salt-kissed wind. civilizations rose along the curves of rivers, their laughter ringing through market squares, because what good was a world if you had no one to share it with? every sunrise, every storm, every blade of grass—all of it yours. not by chance, not by accident, but because a god looked at the emptiness between stars and thought, no, this won’t do. they deserve more.

and maybe that was the most dizzying truth of all: this planet, this miracle, existed for no reason other than that khaslana had wished it so. because somewhere in the fabric of the universe, before either of you had taken a single breath, he was already yours.

and so, khaslana waited. he watched as the planet he had spun from stardust and devotion grew into itself—seasons cycling like a slow, contented breath, cities rising like wildflowers after rain, all of it humming with the quiet anticipation of you. he would have waited forever, if that’s what it took. would have been content to simply admire you from the distant edges of the cosmos, tracing the shape of your laughter in the rustle of leaves, the cadence of your footsteps in the rhythm of tides. to love you this way—patiently, endlessly—was its own kind of worship.

but eternity, even for a god, is rarely kind.

when mydeimos came—his presence sharp with urgency, his people bleeding into the soil of their own world—khaslana hesitated. not out of indifference, but because turning away meant missing the moment your soul finally took root in the world he’d made. (would you be born under a sky streaked with dawn? would your first breath taste of citrus and sea-salt?) still, duty was duty. with a quiet ache in his chest, he let his gaze slip from your planet, just this once. just long enough to help mend what was broken.

and just like that, two decades pass. the planet thrives beneath his gaze—cities humming with life, rivers carving stories into the land, all of it pulsing with the quiet rhythm he'd imagined for you. when khaslana finally returns, when his eyes find the world again after so long... there you are.

not in flesh, not yet, but in soul—a brilliant, shimmering thing that makes the stars themselves seem dim in comparison. your soul dances through existence with effortless grace, warm like sunlight through leaves, bright like the first spark of fire. it carries the playful curiosity of a summer breeze, the steady comfort of hearthlight, and beneath it all, a strength like the deep roots of ancient trees.

to khaslana, you are every beautiful contradiction—both gentle and unyielding, both vibrant and serene. and when your soul catches the celestial light just so, it glows with the soft radiance of dawn breaking over a waiting world.

"my dawnlight," he murmurs, the word slipping past his lips like a prayer, heavy with centuries of yearning. his fingers twitch with the need to reach out, to brush against that brilliant light that was always meant to be his.

khaslana had traced the mark on his left pectoral countless times—a diagonal slash of ink, luminous against his skin, proof that somewhere in the vast tapestry of existence, you were meant for him.

it had been his quiet companion through eons, a constant whisper against his ribs: they’re coming, they’re real, just wait. he’d grown fond of it, the way it shimmered when he thought of you, the way it pulsed like a second heartbeat when he imagined the moment your paths would finally cross. it was a promise etched into his very being, a reminder that even a god wasn’t meant to be alone.

but as much as he cherished it, he longed for the day it would fade. because its disappearance would mean you were no longer a distant dream, but here—within reach, within the curve of his arms, close enough that he wouldn’t have to imagine the sound of your voice or the warmth of your touch. he wanted to trade the mark for you, to finally hold the soul he’d waited for across lifetimes.

and so, khaslana has been patient enough. there's only so much even a god can take. and so he descends, trading starlight for skin, eternity for heartbeat, the infinite expanse of his being for the simple thrill of anticipation humming through mortal veins.

he doesn't rush to find you—couldn't bear to disrupt the perfect moment fate has surely woven for you both. he's heard the stories, after all; how meeting one's soulmate makes the world snap into focus, how suddenly all the colors are brighter, the air sweeter, as if you'd been living in a world of grayscale until that very second.

no, this moment deserves to find you naturally, beautifully. and so the god wanders the earth he created just for you, content for now to walk the paths your feet will someday tread, to breathe the air that will one day fill your lungs, to wait for the universe to align just right. after all, what's a little longer when he's already waited an eternity?

not long after taking mortal form, khaslana finds his feet carrying him somewhere—no, guided somewhere, as if the universe itself were whispering this way, this way in the space between his ribs. okhema rises before him, its holy spires catching the sunlight like blades of gold, the air thick with the perfume of sandalwood incense and something sweeter, something like candied fruit left to caramelize in the afternoon heat.

the marmoreal market sprawls before him in a riot of color and noise, merchants calling out their wares with theatrical flourishes, children weaving between stalls in a game of chase, their laughter ringing bright as wind chimes.

he can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips as a small boy barrels past him, nearly tripping over his own feet in excitement. the warmth of the place settles into his borrowed bones, familiar in a way that aches—this was the kind of world he’d wanted for you. alive, unguarded, happy. at a food stall, he buys a skewer of spiced meat glazed in honey, the flavors bursting across his tongue, and he thinks, absurdly, you’d love this. you’d probably chat up the vendor, coaxing out their life story between bites, or share your skewer with some wide-eyed child who’d stared a little too long.

and then—chaos. a skirmish erupts near the market’s heart, blades flashing silver-bright, voices sharp with anger. khaslana could still it all with a thought, could unravel the violence like a knot of tangled thread. but this form, though far from fragile, demands discretion. and, well. he’s curious.

and as they say, curiosity killed the cat—though in this case, it nearly filleted a god. when khaslana edges closer to the fray, drawn by the human drama unfolding, a blade flashes toward him with deadly intent. he could sidestep it easily—was already calculating the angle, the movement, the way his mortal form could twist away without revealing his true nature.

but then—you.

you move like a summer storm given human form—all effortless grace and sudden energy, your hand closing around his wrist as you yank him out of harm's way. the world tilts, and suddenly you're both airborne, swinging across the marketplace on a length of rope with the practiced ease of someone who's done this a hundred times before.

your arm is locked securely around his waist, his own hands gripping your shoulders perhaps tighter than necessary, but can anyone blame him? below you, the blade clatters harmlessly against cobblestones, the would-be attacker left gaping at empty air.

"careful," you chide, your voice warm honey laced with laughter, and when he looks up, you're grinning down at him—that particular grin that says you know exactly how impressive you are but are too kind to rub it in. sunlight catches in your hair, framing your face like a halo as the rope sways gently beneath you both. "wouldn't want the city's newest visitor to get skewered on his first day." there's a teasing lilt to your words, the kind that invites him to laugh along even as his heart hammers against his ribs for reasons that have nothing to do with the height or the near-miss with a blade.

the two of you land on a rooftop in a tangle of limbs and laughter, the tiles warm beneath you from the afternoon sun. khaslana finds himself staring—not at your eyes, though they're beautiful, not at your smile, though it's brighter than any star he's crafted—but at the simple miracle of your existence.

this moment, this heartbeat where your lives finally intersect after eons of waiting, feels more sacred than any celestial alignment. the centuries of longing, the planets shaped and reshaped, the quiet ache of absence—all of it crystallizes into this single, perfect instant where you're breathing the same air, your pulse thrumming against his skin where your hands still linger.

your touch burns through him like sunrise after endless night, and he doesn't even need to check, but the mark over his heart is gone—vanished the moment your fingers brushed his arm, as if the universe itself had sighed and said at last.

soulmates.

the word thrums through him with the weight of a thousand prayers answered. he wants to say it aloud, to press the syllables into your palm like an offering. but for now, he simply drinks in the sight of you—alive, real, here—and thinks that no creation of his could ever compare to this.

you don't notice, of course. you're too busy ushering him to safety, your grip firm but gentle against his arm—though there's a strange lightness in your chest, like a door you never knew was closed has suddenly swung open. your eyes shine with something new, a mix of amusement, curiosity and quiet wonder flickering across your expression as you study him, as if some deep part of you already recognizes this moment as important.

"you're not from around here, are you?" you ask, tilting your head with that effortless confidence that makes his borrowed heart stutter against his ribs. there's a quiet strength in your stance, the kind that comes from knowing your city's every hidden alley and sun-warmed rooftop.

"no," he admits, and the smile that tugs at his lips is softer than he intended, full of centuries of waiting finally coming to an end. his eyes—usually so guarded—betray him completely, shining with undisguised wonder as he drinks in every detail of your face. "i've been waiting a long time to come here."

your laugh rings out, bright and unburdened, and it's the most beautiful sound khaslana has ever heard—more melodic than celestial harmonies, more precious than the birth of stars. he wants to bottle this moment, to preserve the exact cadence of your joy forever.

"well, welcome to okhema," you say, brushing dust off your clothes with that same easy grace. "let me make it up to you—how about a drink? my treat, since you nearly lost a limb on my watch." your eyes catch on the half-eaten skewer still clutched in his hand, and your grin widens. "ah! you've got good taste—those honey-glazed ones from old man iri's stall are my favorite. though next time, try the spicy ones. they'll make your eyes water in the best way."

he nods, dazed, still caught in the honeyed trap of your voice. "spicy next time," he echoes dumbly, already imagining it—watching your nose scrunch up at the heat, the way you’d laugh when his eyes watered. the thought makes his chest ache. he’d eat a thousand scorching skewers if it meant seeing that expression again.

he follows, helpless as a comet pulled into orbit. you don’t know. you don’t feel the universe sighing in relief, the way his very atoms realign to be closer to yours. your soulmark—that elegant line that once traced your spine like a secret he was meant to discover—has vanished too. but you haven’t glanced over your shoulder to check, haven’t yet noticed the absence where fate’s fingerprint used to be.

the tour unfolds between bites of skewers sticky with glaze. "i’m phainon," he offers when you ask, the alias smooth on his tongue after centuries of use.

your eyes crinkle at the corners. "pretty name," you muse, then grin, licking honey from your thumb. "though for some reason, i thought you’d have a ‘k’ name. kai, maybe? or kassian?"

the accuracy punches the air from his lungs. you’re right, impossibly right, as if some part of you had always known him. his pulse thrums—i'm yours—but he only hums, stealing another bite to hide his smile. "maybe in another life," he lies, and the way you laugh tells him you don’t quite believe him.

as you weave through okhema’s streets, khaslana learns this: you’re beloved. shopkeepers wave you over to press gifts into your hands—a basket of sun-warmed figs, a charm woven from lucky thread. children dart between stalls to cling to your legs, babbling about the new tricks you’d taught them last week.

"our hero," an elderly woman calls you, patting your cheek like you’re still the scrappy kid who once chased off her would-be thieves. and it’s not just here—you recount stories between stops, how you’d helped rebuild coastal towns after typhoons, mediated border disputes in the eastern deserts. the realization settles over him like sunlight: this world he crafted as a cradle for you, you’ve spent your life protecting in turn. the poetry of it makes his throat tight.

when you pause to rest in the city gardens, a chorus of chirrups erupts from the flower beds. tiny chimeras come tumbling toward you in a flurry of fur and feathers. one immediately scales your shoulder to nuzzle your jaw; another flops onto your boots, belly-up.

"they’ve liked me since i was little," you laugh, scratching between tiny horns as the creatures melt under your touch. "no idea why."

"that’s amazing," khaslana murmurs, but his mind is singing: of course they do. of course. the chimeras curl around your fingers like you’re made of sunlight, and something in his chest cracks open.

this was why he’d shaped rivers to mirror your laughter, why he’d made the dawn the color of your smile—so the world could love you as fiercely as he did, even before knowing you. watching a chimera sneeze into your palm, its wings fluttering with delight, he thinks: yes. all of this was for you.

it took me a whole week to finish this 2.9k word one-shot—longer than i expected, but every moment spent writing it felt worth it. i could have kept going, adding more little moments between khaslana and reader, but sometimes it’s nice to leave things soft and open, like a story still gently unfolding. i really hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i loved writing it. khaslana’s quiet devotion, the way the world bends just for reader—it’s the kind of love story that lingers in your chest even after the last word. as for honkai star rail, i’ve been lingering in the fairy restaurant event because, honestly? it’s been such a joy. the interactions between the characters are so funny and heartwarming, full of those small, bright moments that make you smile without realizing it. i may or may not have teared up when it ended—not out of sadness, but just because it felt so good, you know? ...and also because of sadness— and now… well, i’m a little scared to continue the main story. is that silly? maybe. but i just want phainon to be happy. isn’t that how it always goes? you get attached to these characters, and suddenly their pain feels like your own. so for now, i’ll linger here a little longer, in this space where happy endings still feel possible :'[ am i being delusional? maybe. am i coping healthily? not really sure not gonna lie.

[romanticaacore]

enchanted

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ lyney x fontaine noble!fem reader. fluff. ⭑ the great magician may perform for all the crowds of teyvat, but he only has eyes for you.

Streams of starlight spill onto the world-renowned stage of the Opera Epiclese. With a grand flourish of his hat in one hand and his twin's in the other, the duo's silhouettes dip into one final, graceful bow. Ever the crowd-pleaser, Lyney throws one last little wink at the audience, making sure that they don't leave before getting their money's worth.

As the theatre erupts in cheers, his eyes sweep across the perimeter, the sound crashing over him like a roaring wave. Every night, no matter how large the crowd, there's only one person's attention that he's truly vying for.

Every night, it was yours.

You're impossible to miss—not just from your undeniable beauty, but from the way you're clapping and bouncing about from your private balcony. The dress he picked out for you last week hugs you perfectly, catching the lights just right, and the delicate necklace around your neck bears your family crest, unmistakable to anyone familiar with Fontaine’s elite. 

With a barely concealed laugh, his gaze locks onto yours. You melt under the softness in his lavender eyes, the mischief already twinkling there as he cheekily blows you a kiss, that half-lidded gaze of his making your heart pitter-patter, daring you to resist his charms.

Your face flushes adorably, lips pressed together in a sweet pout. So he thinks he’s won, huh?

At the sight of your reaction, Lyney’s heart stutters pathetically in his chest. His breath catches, and for a moment, the applause, the lights, the crowd itself melt away. 

He almost doesn’t notice the subtle nudge of Lynette at his side, reminding him to signal for the curtains to fall, the final cue of the show.

His focus is entirely on you, and for a heartbeat, he feels completely spellbound—even a magician of his skill can’t hope to counter the magic you wield, a type of enchantment far beyond any trick with cards or rabbits out of hats. It’s a power entirely your own, capable of unraveling him in a way no illusion ever could.

You excitedly mouth his name. He melts, whispering yours under his breath with the same fervor just as you choose that moment to return his kiss, teasing and fleeting, a butterfly of a promise carried on a gossamer breath. 

His own breath catches, the world tilting for a heartbeat, and he barely stops himself from stumbling offstage—an unintended last magic trick of his own.

Lynette sighs softly beside him, steadying her hopeless brother with a calm, knowing hand while waving to you with the other. Flustered, Lyney steals one more glance at you, your eyes meeting his lovestruck ones again as you hide a giggle behind your hand. 

He wonders, not for the first time, if it’s possible to be jealous of air, for he cannot wait to claim the space before your lips with his instead.

After the finale, Lyney practically flies up the grand staircase, each step precise and urgent, coat tails fluttering behind him. The crowd has mostly thinned, but his mind can’t help but race—every lingering spectator is a potential threat to your standing as an heiress among Fontaine’s noble families. Even a fleeting moment of being seen with him, a performer with a reputation of his own, could cause whispers you don’t need.

But you, as always, have other plans. Halfway down the staircase, you throw yourself into his arms, laughing as he stumbles a bit under the sudden weight and warmth of your embrace, yet still catches you with ease.

“Darling… there are people,” he murmurs, one hand firm on your waist, the other lifting slightly as if to shield you from prying eyes. His lavender gaze is stern, though you can see the struggle flicker across his features. You’re already in his arms, and anyone could tell that he would crumble in an instant if you so much as leaned a fraction closer.

“I don’t care!” you tease, pressing against him, lips brushing his cheek before planting a bold, sweet kiss.

Lyney’s breath catches. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, that playful glint back in his eyes. “Or I might be tempted to make you part of the next act… Such beauty should not go unnoticed, but we must still keep some decorum, hmm?”

You giggle, tugging him closer. “I mean, I could get used to this part of the performance…” 

He tilts his head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Now, now, no more distractions,” he whispers, rich with affection. “The show isn’t over yet, sweetheart.”

Even amid the lingering theatre lights and the slowly emptying hall, the two of you exist in a bubble of your own. Lyney leans in teasingly, and you close your eyes, anticipating a kiss. 

You wait… and wait… until impatience nudges you to peek—there he is, with that signature smirk of his, pressing the back of your hand to his lips instead, and cradling your palm against his cheek with a contented sigh.

“I missed you,” Lyney murmurs. “So, so much.”

“You saw me this morning, silly,” you reply with a small laugh.

“Still!” he protests, voice mock-tragic. “That is far too long a time to be separated from the love of my life. Oh, woe is me.”

You roll your eyes, ready to tease him further, but before you can, he draws you in for a sudden, surprise kiss. Your eyes widen, breath catching as his soft, warm lips press against yours.

"Ma belle." Pulling back just enough to grin, breathless and delighted, he says teasingly, “I’ve never heard you make that noise before… such a new, lovely sound.”

Your cheeks flush deeper, warmth pooling in your chest. You can’t help but let out a small, incredulous laugh, half exasperated, half enchanted.

“Well,” you manage to breathe out, “that was… a good kiss.”

“Only a good kiss?” Lyney whines. Then a sly smile tugs at his lips.

“I was hoping for showstopping… " He murmurs, "but perhaps I'll demonstrate again, to be absolutely certain. After all,” Lyney adds, grinning against your lips,

“I must keep perfecting my favorite magic trick.”

[romanticaacore]

𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽𝓮𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽

💫𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈: Phainon/Lord Khaslana x Female reader

💫𝒮𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You always hated being one of the wives of Lord Khaslana, living the rest of your life in the misery of a never-ending cycle. Until you were given a beautiful watch keeper, named Phainon was when your feelings about life began to change.

💫𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈: Spoiler? Age Gap between the reader and Phainon/Khaslana, Alternate Universe, wrong lore? (I just looked at wiki tbh), Angst? Lord Khaslana has two other wives (not seen as romantic by him, though), Unfinished, not sure of anything else? Not good writing. Spelling Mistakes

💫𝒩𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈: I've had this in my drafts for such a long time, after being inspired by another (CANT FIND IT ANYMORE THOUGH..) I loved it and took inspiration, even though I'm not a lore player and am just yapping. NOT FINISHED THOUGH! I just wanted to post what I had. Part 2, if anyone wants it.

💫𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝓉𝓌𝑜

You were an unruly woman—an outrighteous saint, a title given to you.

No one in the temple dared to say it to your face—except the High Priest, with his sugar-coated words. After all, they must be thinking: how could one of the so-called wives of Lord Khaslana, the world-bearing god who carried so much for the people of Okhema—whether their physical or internal battles—be anything less than devoted? (even though the title was a backhanded compliment, but you're insane for thinking that way)

You wouldn’t think of yourself as his wife, more like a trophy that lives in his temple rent-free. The man never shows up or even tries to talk to you, yet somehow, you still have to pray to him every day.

Not that you are well acquainted with the verses that even children know. You only remember them when they are sung, unable to repeat them if asked. Sometimes, during prayer, you go off on random rants—mostly to yourself—or your thoughts wander to unrelated things that pull you off task.

It’s not like you ever really listened. There was a reason you were given the title of “outrighteous”—for having an attitude and opinions on most things in the temple. You never exactly followed the rules. Yes, you were “punished” only by the High Priest—nothing from your husband, no real reprimand to change your behaviour. But who could blame you for being lonely? You were rowdy, loud, and impulsive, and now you feel like a leashed animal trapped in a temple full of people with whom you cannot hold an interesting conversation.

Even with your personal maid.

Every day spent in your room was boring—nothing to do except needlework, read prayers, and whatever else there was. You genuinely just rot in your bed all day.

The faces in the temple begin to blur together. You start to forget who’s who.

Especially the two other wives he has—Daphne and Phoebe.

They are very beautiful, too. Everyone seems to think so. Even though the three of you live in separate wings (but still meet for meal times), you hear the maids and guards rave about the other two.

You don’t really talk to either of them—they’re devoted followers in your stead. It’s like a duo in a trio situation.

“I feel Lord Khaslana has given me a sign today. When the sun was burning bright in the sky, I prayed for something to calm this heat—and it started raining,”

the short, blonde-haired Daphne said with a bright smile, her blue eyes wide as if they might pop from their sockets.

“Congratulations!” Phoebe replied, tossing her long brunette hair behind her shoulder to avoid getting food on it—the same copy-and-paste smile fixed on her face.

To have the three of you together like this, with the High Priest at the other end of the table, was like going to a family friend’s house without knowing who they were.

You felt a heat rise in your stomach, one that made your blood boil.

Taking bites of your food while the other two laughed and smiled across from each other, you sat at the end of the table, simply hoping to finish dinner quickly and be done with it.

“What about you, (name)? How was your day?”

The two wives, Daphne and Phoebe, stopped talking and glanced awkwardly at you from the corners of their eyes.

You slowly lifted your head from your plate and looked at him with the most intense, narrowed eyes you could muster—filled with utter annoyance to the brim. Just a simple question.

“Fine. It was fine. Thank you.”

Your anger felt like it might burst at any second, like a ticking bomb ready to explode.

His smile did not falter.

The High Priest sat at the end of the long polished table, hands delicately folded over his plate, chin resting slightly forward as if genuinely interested—not poking a beast in a cage for the entertainment of favored pets.

You knew this game.

“Wonderful,” he said smoothly. “May Lord Khaslana continue to grace your days with peace and purpose.”

Your (rightful) wenchful attitude began to show more and more in the days that followed. You didn’t even bother trying to hide it anymore—especially the way you looked at people. That gaze didn’t change, not even when you were assigned a new, watchful keeper to be by your side at all times. You cursed yourself for falling into this predicament because of your venom-filled words.

Still, your gaze didn’t waver—not even when that caretaker, Phainon, a man with beautiful white hair and even finer eyes, knelt down and held your hand with such grace and softness. “I will do my best to serve you, My Lady.”

Even you had to admit—you could see why the maids gushed upon first laying eyes on him. He was utterly beautiful, like a blessing from Lord Khaslana himself. A face handcrafted by the god, dressed in white silks like a present.

You thought him just another obedient servant, another pair of watchful eyes sent to tame your unruly behavior at your ‘husband’s’ request. But the way his fingers lingered when he handed you your tea, the way his voice dipped low when he murmured, “Careful, My Lady, the High Priest is watching,”—it was all too deliberate.

“You have quite the pretty face,” you said dreamily as the two of you sat in a field of flowers. It had been a long time since you’d been out like this, relaxed. You were even allowed to go without guards now, thanks to Phainon’s presence. He perked up at your words, still seamlessly cutting the apple in his hand.

“Are you perhaps married?” you asked shamelessly—he was still a man, after all—but social awareness had flown out the window a long time ago.

Phainon’s knife paused mid-slice, just briefly, the silver edge catching the sunlight. He looked a bit stunned—not offended, not flustered, just… surprised. He looked like a dog!

Then he gave the smallest smile, the corners of his mouth curling like the first bloom of spring. “No, My Lady. I’m not married.”

You perked up immediately, leaning in a little with a cheeky grin. “Not even promised?”

“Not even promised,” he chuckled.

“Ugh, you're lucky you're not stuck like me,” you sighed, feeling a little jealous of his situation. He simply put an apple slice to your lips, then motioned to your mouth, which you leaned in toward.

“You don’t like your marriage, My Lady?” he asked—such a silly question, considering everyone already knew the answer.

“Of course not,” you replied almost immediately. “Lord Khaslana has two other wives. I doubt he even thinks I’m beautiful. Or that I exist.”

You said it matter-of-factly, with the same tone you’d use to comment on the weather, like it didn’t bother you. You took another apple slice from Phainon’s hand and popped it into your mouth.

When you looked back at him, he had a sad expression on his face—like you’d just kicked him. It almost felt like you’d kicked a puppy and now it was whining at your feet…

He must have been one of those people. The kind who cared quite a lot about Lord Khaslana.

“But I’m grateful to him for taking me in,” you sighed softly.

And yet, even as the two of you walked back, that strange undertone of sadness—or was it guilt?—never quite left his expression.

Comments and Reblogging are very appreciated!!

[romanticaacore]

[romanticaacore]

[romanticaacore]

what? oh sweetheart no, you're not weirding me out at all. you're weirding me in. keep talking, freak

[romanticaacore]

if he ever kisses me, the moon might split in half from how hard i’ve wished

[romanticaacore]

scaramouche scaramouche (will you do the fandango)

partially inspired by kintsugi :)

[romanticaacore]

Cutie!💚

[romanticaacore]

18+

Bsf! Phainon just doesn’t understand. A ray of sunshine too pure for this earth would never be able to comprehend how he pushes you to the brink of madness.

Like any good friend would, you of course go to his basketball games to support him. Not for the reasons a best friend normally would. You go to see the sweat bead off his pretty pale skin, to watch his biceps flex with every precise move he makes; and especially for how his jersey lifts just enough for his lower abs and chiseled v-line to come into view when he makes a shot.

Of course he goes over to your place after for a celebratory movie night and of course you let him wash up in your bathroom. Bsf! Phainon doesn’t know the reason why you drag him back isn’t because you feel tired but because you love to see him in your apartment fresh out the shower with comfy clothes and messy hair that he always asks you to dry for him like a child. Nor does he know that when you softly comb your fingers through his snowy white locks, you imagine how it’d feel to pull and tug on them while you’re pressed under him.

Like all best friends do, he loves to snuggle up against you on the couch and once he finishes his popcorn he’ll start stealing yours. You always pick something funny that you know he’ll find hilarious so you can hear his pretty voice more and feel the rumble of his laughter in his chest while you’re still secured in his arms.

And god his arms. You love when bsf! Phainon hugs you. He’s like a polar bear. Soft and fuzzy and so big. Sometimes you feel guilty looking into his bright blue eyes full of innocence while your mind is filled with thoughts of him putting you into a chokehold.

You’ve imagined him every which way.

His long fingers curled inside you.

Him pressing you down from behind into the mattress.

The sweet sound of his voice filled with need.

When anyone asked you how you weren’t completely in love with him you’d just laugh.

Not because it was ridiculously funny but because you were.

But if anyone were to ask bsf! Phainon if he’d ever date you, he always replied with the same answer,

“She’ll always have me wrapped around her finger anyway.”

[romanticaacore]

A Princess. Dany thought. She had forgotten what that was like. Perhaps she had never really known.

[romanticaacore]

(miss him~)

[romanticaacore]

Flora as Witch of Wilderness