#devwritesig

[devdozes]

Love me like a sailor

im sorry it was a long time anwyyas hope u like the fic ! horror, dark romance ig?, lowkey YANDERE some spoilers on 3.2 quest, and just silliness

The scent of laurel smoke curled through the air, laced with something older, bitter—like burnt parchment and hubris. You stood beneath the Sacred Tree, where philosophers carved truth into bark and left their minds to rot with honor. They called this place holy.

You called it absurd.

“Found something funny?”

His voice was a low purr, golden in timbre, venomous in rhythm. Anaxagoras—Anaxa, as he insisted you call him when no one else could hear—emerged from the columns like a specter from forgotten scripture. His robes shimmered like oil on water, reflecting knowledge too painful to bear. Eye the color of the sweet magenta-cyan ombre.

You didn’t look away.

“Only the idea that anyone here thinks they know anything at all.”

That smile. That cursed smile. He hated it. He loved it.

“Blasphemy,” he whispered, delighted. “You’ll fit right in.”

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Nousporists had no scriptures, no prayers, only questions so sharp they left the mind bleeding. Anaxa led them like a messiah of madness, burning every ideal of truth to rebuild his own version—twisted and elegant, cruel and beautiful.

You should have left the Grove.

Instead, you debated him.

And that’s when the trouble began.

Because when you said, “You’re wrong,” with a laugh in your voice and not a shred of fear in your eyes, he felt something break. And Anaxa did not break.

So he followed you. He read your discarded notes. Memorized your arguments. Stole the scent of your skin from the folds of your coat when you left it unattended. Rewrote his entire doctrine to include you as a conceptual axis without you noticing.

He never touched you.

He never dared.

But every night, in the sanctum where thoughts became flame and philosophies were branded into flesh, he dreamed of flaying the world open and handing you its still-beating heart.

“You don’t get tired of chasing your own logic circles?” you asked once, after a particularly vicious debate.

Anaxa looked you dead in the eye slowly, as though the sight of your breath misting in the cold air was sacred.

“I only walk in circles because you are the center.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

The Nousporists were not a school. They were a fever. An idea that spread like mold under gilded thought. Founded by Anaxa, born from his desire to prove that even divinity could fracture under scrutiny. To challenge the Coreflame of Reason was to challenge god itself—and so he did.

But what the others never understood was this:

The Nousporists were built for you.

His "heresies"? All mimics of your questions.

Does truth decay the longer we observe it? Is prophecy a mirror, or a command? Can love exist without misinterpretation?

You were not a lover. Not yet.

You were a problem.

Anaxa studied you like a puzzle made of void and starlight. Every time you opened your mouth, it wasn’t words—it was scripture only he could hear.

Subject Log, Entry 12 I accused her of solipsism. She laughed. She asked if I dream in color. I lied and said yes. (Note: I need to know what she dreams. Perhaps she dreams me.)

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The deeper your research delved into the Chrysos Lineage, the less you slept. The more Anaxa watched you not as a peer, but as a phenomenon.

Your desk was a chaos of forbidden manuscripts, old glyphs glowing faintly, and diagrams of neural decay. At the center was your theory: The chrysosis was not divine punishment, but cognitive overload—a truth so absolute the brain set itself aflame to escape it.

Anaxa began sleeping in your study. He said it was to "supervise your deductions."

He never slept.

One night, while researching on Tribios as per Anaxa's request, you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to your notes. When you stirred, hours later, Anaxa was still at your side, chin resting on his folded arms beside you. His eyes were closed. Not asleep. Just...waiting.

He whispered, "I tried to dream about you. But I couldn’t replicate you. Not even in sleep."

Your breath caught. You wanted to mock him, to defuse it—but the way he looked at you made your heart crack sideways. Like you were his last theorem. Like he would kill every scholar in the Grove if it meant you’d say his name just once with awe.

And perhaps you did. Quietly.

"Anaxa." Holy fucking shit, he felt his undead heart burst up with blood

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The Chrysos Heirs—beings of legend, said to carry the golden blood of the gods—were central figures in Amphorean history. Aglaea, the Goldweaver, stood as the acting leader of the Heirs, her divine authority inherited from the Titan Mnestia. Phainon, the Nameless King was undergoing the trial of the Coreflame. Hyacine, the enigmatic priest, was whispered to possess the ability to mend the celestial realm and to bear the fate of Aquila. Mydei, the Undying, bore a curse that rendered him immortal, a testament to his harrowing past. Cipher, the Fleet-footed, was a shadow that danced on the fringes of time, her allegiance and motives obscured, She was the demi-god of Zagreus.​

Together, you and Anaxa embarked on a clandestine journey to dissect the essence of these figures. Nights were spent poring over ancient manuscripts, deciphering prophecies, and constructing theories that bordered on heresy.

The question that haunted your research was profound: What was the true nature of the Coreflames, and why were these individuals deemed worthy of their inheritance?

"The Titans,"

Anaxa mused one evening, fingers tracing the faded ink of a forbidden text, "were said to have crafted the very fabric of our existence. Their Coreflames are not mere symbols of power; they are fragments of creation itself."

You nodded, the gravity of his words sinking in. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the vessels chosen to wield these fragments. But by whom? And to what end?"

Anaxa's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and something deeper, more insidious.

"That, my dear, is the crux of our inquiry."

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your research led you to the origins of the Titans themselves—beings born from the Coreflames, each embodying fundamental aspects of existence. Kephale, the Worldbearing Titan, had sacrificed their Coreflame to ignite the Dawn Device, creating a sanctuary amidst the chaos wrought by the Black Tide. This act of selflessness set the stage for the rise of the Chrysos Heirs.

"The Black Tide," Anaxa pondered aloud, "was the catalyst that plunged the Titans into madness. But what if it was more than a mere calamity? What if it was a deliberate act to dismantle the old order?

The notion was radical, yet it aligned with the patterns you had begun to discern. "And the Chrysos Heirs are the instruments to establish a new order—a cycle perpetuated by the acquisition of Coreflames." Anaxa's expression darkened, a shadow crossing his features.

"A cycle that demands scrutiny. For if we are to break free from the chains of predestination, we must first understand the forge in which they were crafted."

"So, in simple words, The current chrysos heirs who bear the coreflame of the deceased titans, will bear the misfortune of becoming the titan in the next cycle..?" You questioned as your eyes widened to meet his magenta-cyan eyes this time driven with something which not even you knew.

"Correct." He said as his grin widened.

You glanced up to find him sitting unnervingly still, the ink quill idle in his hand. His eyes were on you—but not in the way a scholar looked at a peer.

His gaze had slipped. Dropped. Traced the curve of your jaw, the line of your lips. He wasn’t hearing your words anymore. His lips parted as if something sat behind them—some urge, some truth trying to claw its way out.

Your throat felt dry.

“...Anaxa?”

He didn’t look away. His stare stayed heavy. Dark. Hungry in a way he’d never let surface before.You shifted in your seat, your heart thudding once in your chest, louder than it should’ve.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked once. Slowly. And smiled with an unsettling softness, like he was indulging in something he wasn’t supposed to. “Forgive me. You said something… that caught my attention.”

“Something about the Heirs?”His eyes flicked back up to yours. “Something far more dangerous. Your breath hitched. The tension in the room was suffocating now—thick, aching.

You couldn’t explain why your pulse was racing, or why you suddenly felt like you were being studied not as a colleague, but as a mystery he was desperate to unravel.

You looked back down at your scroll, trying to focus.

“W-We should finish transcribing this section before—”

His voice was lower now. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You froze. Slowly looked back up.

Anaxa’s smile had vanished. His fingers were curled around the edge of the table, knuckles white. His pupils dilated. The madness in his gaze shimmered like oil beneath a calm sea.

“Every night I leave this chamber and I think I’ve regained my composure. And then I see you again and I—” He stopped himself, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “...This is not what I intended. I wanted truth. I wanted the the true reason of all of us, the Titans’ legacy. But now I find myself… wanting something I was not supposed to want.”

You stared. Unable to speak.

“And it infuriates me,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. “Because it makes me weak. You make me weak.” The words hit you harder than they should’ve.

You felt hot. Flushed. You didn’t know what you were supposed to say. Was he confessing? Was he unraveling?

“Anaxa…” you started, voice shaky, unsure if it was warning or invitation. He leaned forward, slow, calculated—like a predator who didn’t want to scare its prey, but couldn’t help indulging in the thrill of it. His hand stopped just beside yours, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

But he didn’t touch you.

He wouldn’t. Not yet.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he whispered, voice dangerously soft. “But you should know this: the more we uncover, the more I realize the truth of this world is nothing compared to the truth I’ve found in you.” He said as he forcefully moves back away from you, in fear and something else

You held his gaze. Breath shallow.

The silence between you and Anaxa stretched taut—thick like honey, cloying like fate. He hadn’t moved since the moment he confessed those words.

The fire in his voice still clung to the air like smoke, and yet something in his expression had begun to flicker—falter.

His lashes lowered, eyes narrowing not with menace now, but something disturbingly fragile. Doubt. As if he expected your silence to become a knife. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered suddenly, voice cracking at the edges.

“You’ll leave. You’ll run. Like all the others who called me cursed. Mad. A blasphemer…” You stood. Slowly. He didn’t flinch, but his jaw locked tight. He expected distance. Recoil. Rejection. A scholar might call it logical consequence—he called it inevitability. But you didn’t move away.

You stepped closer. He blinked, confusion warping into something far more desperate as he rose slightly tumbling backwards. “What are you—?”

You were close enough now to see the cracks in him. Not physical—no. His composure. That perfectly constructed mask he wore around the others, around even you, was splintering right at the edges.

You could see it in the twitch of his mouth. The unsteady breath.

The trembling in his fingers as he kept them clenched at his sides, refusing to reach for you. Because he didn’t dare. Because he feared touching you would shatter the only sacred thing left in his world.

You leaned forward. Brief. Barely a heartbeat’s worth of contact. Your lips brushed his. A breath. A flicker of softness. A question without words.Then you pulled back, just as fast.

Your heart thundered, panic laced in your movements as you turned to go, your voice stumbling out—“Forget that happened, we have research to—”

But you didn’t get far.

His hand was on your waist.

Gripping.

Firm.

Not rough.

Not yet. But trembling with restraint.Then he pulled you back, and suddenly he was burying his face into the crook of your neck like a man starved.

Like something had finally broken loose in him—unleashed, unstopped, unholy. You gasped softly as you felt his breath ghost across your skin.His voice was low, unsteady, wrecked.

“Why… would you do that to me?” His other hand found your back, clutching it like he was trying to make sure you were real.

Like you’d slip through his fingers otherwise.His grip tightened. And behind his calm whispering, behind the warm pressure of his body pressed into yours, his thoughts spiraled like wildfire—

She’s mine. She’s real. She kissed me. Me. Not them. Not the sages, not the heirs. Me. She chose me. She cannot leave. She cannot see the others. She cannot be claimed by anyone else. I will burn the world if it touches her. I will gut the sky itself if it looks at her wrong.

His eyes—glowing now, iridescent with the light of something not entirely sane—flickered open against your skin. He pressed his lips to your throat. Not a kiss. A mark. A claim without blood.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, trembling. “You don’t know what you’ve done to me.”

You didn’t know. But maybe… maybe you wanted to. Because you didn’t push him away .And that was enough to damn him.

Woah sorry if it's ooc and bad, I've lost my writing skills 😞

[devdozes]

♥ I've got my eye on you.

[a/n- first x reader so give me a break] phainon being a lovesick puppy nd pathetic loser (derogatory and affectionately)

The city hummed with life as neon lights flickered against the rain-dampened pavement. Cars honked in the distance, their headlights painting streaks of gold across the wet streets. Somewhere, a street musician strummed a slow tune on his guitar, the melody drifting through the cold night air.

You adjusted your bag, stepping out of the small bookstore where you'd spent the last hour browsing. The air smelled of petrichor and fresh coffee from a shop nearby. Just as you were about to leave, a familiar voice called out.

"Leaving so soon?"

You turned to see him—Phainon. Tall, effortlessly elegant, with silver hair that caught the glow of a streetlamp above him. He stood by the café’s entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark coat. A teasing smile played on his lips, the kind that always made it difficult to tell if he was being sincere or simply enjoying the game.

"You were watching me again, weren’t you?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Phainon chuckled, stepping closer. "Not watching—observing. You have a habit of tilting your head when you're lost in thought. It's quite charming."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. "Do you just lurk around bookstores at night hoping to find me?"

"Maybe." His voice was smooth, carrying that effortless confidence that always made your heart race. "Or maybe I just happen to enjoy late-night walks. The city is... different at this hour. Quieter. More honest."

His gaze met yours then, piercing yet soft, like he could see right through you. It was unfair, really, how easily he could unsettle you without even trying.

"...And what do you plan to do with this quiet honesty of the city?" you asked, trying to match his teasing tone.

Phainon tilted his head slightly, as if considering his answer. Then, with a small smirk, he reached out and tapped your forehead lightly with his knuckles. "Spend it with you, of course."

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "Smooth talker."

"Only for you," he said, and this time, there was no teasing lilt to his voice—just quiet sincerity.

The rain had started up again, tiny droplets misting the air between you. He took a step back and extended a hand. "Come on. Let’s walk. Unless you’d rather stand here getting drenched?" "I think you would be more affected by me refusing to walk with you than me getting drenched in the rain" . . . "So is that a no? :(" Phainon says in an almost squeaky voice while looking at you with pleading eyes, his cerulean eyes looking down at you like the ocean water when the sunlight hits the water. Okay no what the fuck. You suddenly shake your head to remove the thoughts from your brain. Get your ass fucking together. Not even god knows what I'd do to this man if I allow myself to indulge in him, you internally scream as you feel your ears heat up, luckily not being visible to Mr. Samoyed here otherwise he would tease the everliving shit out of you. You exhaled, composing yourself, before finally sighing. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to deal with you sulking all night.”

Phainon grinned, victorious. “A wise choice.”

The two of you fell into step, walking side by side down the glistening streets. The rhythmic tap of raindrops against the pavement filled the silence between you, punctuated only by the occasional whoosh of a car passing by...The peaceful silence was then interrupted when the silver-haired opened his mouth and uttered a few words which left you frozen yet gasping for air internally. "Are you a thief? Because you stole my heart. Now please give it back." . . . "What the sigma" "That was a good one. And what does sigma mean?" You look at him with the corner of your eyes in a judgemental manner, leaving a literal wet puppy beside you after seeing your reaction, and then starts to pout dramatically hoping for your attention and love for him. He reminds me of the soap opera male leads, well, except he really isn't much of an asshole compared to THOSE male leads you see in soap operas-- The total red flags. Your steps faltered for a split second. As Phainon let out a low laugh, clearly reveling in your reaction. “See? Even now, you’re trying so hard not to react. But I can practically see the gears turning in your head.” You groaned, shoving his arm lightly. “I will leave you in the rain.”

“Ah, but then you’d miss out on the best part of the night,” he mused, stopping in front of a motorcycle parked just off the curb. The sleek black frame glistened under the dim glow of a streetlamp.

You blinked. “You brought your bike?”

Phainon smirked, fishing the spare helmet from the seat. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you walk home in the rain?”

You crossed your arms. “Oh, so now you’re a gentleman?”

“Only when it suits me.” He twirled the helmet once before offering it to you. “Come on. You’ll love it.”

You eyed the bike warily. “Have you ever crashed before?”

Phainon gasped in mock offense. “How dare you doubt my skills?”

You deadpanned. “That’s not a no.”

He laughed. “Alright, alright. I promise you’ll make it home in one piece.” Then, with a teasing tilt of his head, he added, “Though if you’re too scared to hold onto me, I totally understand.”

Oh, this bastard.

You snatched the helmet from his hands and put it on. “Shut up and drive, Mr. Samoyed.”

Phainon grinned, clearly enjoying himself, as he swung a leg over the bike. “Whatever you say.”

With a deep breath, you climbed on behind him, hesitating for only a second before wrapping your arms around his waist. The warmth of his body seeped through his coat, and you tried really hard not to think about how solid he felt under your grip.

Phainon hummed in approval. “See? Not so bad.”

“Just drive before I change my mind,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “Hold on tight.”

And then—the bike roared to life.

The city blurred past in streaks of neon as Phainon wove effortlessly through the streets. The wind rushed against you, cool and exhilarating, and despite yourself, you felt a thrill run through your veins.

Phainon’s voice carried through the wind. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”

You tightened your grip slightly. “…Maybe.”

He let out a victorious laugh, and in that moment, with the city lights reflecting in his silver hair and the night stretching endlessly ahead—you allowed yourself to indulge.

Just for a little while.

[devdozes]

hiiii I saw u write for alien stage!!! I was wondering if you could do a till x fem! Reader fic? Idc what it’s about, I just need my bbg till. Plz and thank you!!

You’d been walking around the sparse, metallic hallways of the arena, your footsteps echoing lightly against the walls. You weren’t sure where you were going—just somewhere away from the suffocating tension of the competition, somewhere that didn’t feel so full of eyes, expectations, and the unbearable weight of it all. You needed a break.

A familiar figure caught your eye as you turned a corner: Till, sketching in the corner of an abandoned practice room, his back to the wall and a quiet concentration on his face. He didn’t notice you at first—his tealy eyes were focused on the notebook in his hands, the delicate strokes of his pencil dancing across the page. Till’s drawing style was hypnotizing. Every line had meaning; it was soft yet aggressive in a way. Every detail was more intricate than you ever thought possible. You often found yourself watching him work when he didn’t notice.

But today, something was different. His usual, sharp concentration had softened, and his shoulders were slumped a little more than usual, his posture tired. He hadn't noticed you yet, so you moved closer, gently clearing your throat.

Till jumped slightly, his head snapping up, and for a moment, his eyes widened with that signature, fleeting panic. You could almost see him prepare to withdraw, to retreat into himself, but then, his gaze softened when he recognized you. You smiled softly, moving to sit beside him. His cheeks flushed a light pink.

"Oh," he stammered, looking away quickly, his fingers hesitating over the page. "Uh, Sorry, I didn’t hear you… I didn’t think anyone would…… want to join me."

His voice was low and unsure, and you could tell he was feeling embarrassed—his usual soft-spoken nature bubbling up. You shifted a little closer to him, gently glancing at the sketchbook. The intricate lines and soft shading were almost like a story told in pieces.

“You’re really good at this,” you commented, genuinely admiring the artwork. Till’s face immediately went redder as he shifted awkwardly, the pencil in his hand shaking slightly.

“Ah… well, I don’t know,” he murmured, lowering the book so you couldn’t see it too well. “It’s just something I do when I get... nervous. Or bored.” He fidgeted, his eyes flicking between you and the notebook, not sure how to handle the compliment. “It helps me forget... everything. The noise.”

You could see the hesitation in his eyes, that self-doubt that was always lingering there. You gently bumped your shoulder against his.

“You don’t have to hide it,” you said softly, trying to reassure him. “It’s beautiful, Till. I’ve seen a lot of art, but yours... there’s something really special about it.” You paused, looking at him with a small, warm smile. “Just like you.”

The words were simple, but they seemed to catch him off guard. His eyes flickered to yours, wide in surprise, and then back to his sketchbook. You could feel the weight of his hesitation, the way his entire body stiffened as he processed your compliment. A small, flustered laugh escaped him.

“Y-You think so?” He seemed almost unable to believe it, the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He was still shy, still unsure, but there was something in his eyes now—a softness, a gentleness that wasn’t there before. It was almost like he wanted to believe you, but the self-doubt was holding him back. “It’s... just dumb doodles, really.”

“You’re wrong,” you said firmly, leaning a little closer. “It’s not dumb. I think it’s incredible. It’s... you. And that’s enough for me.” You took a slow breath, watching as his face turned even more red under the attention. But you didn’t want to let him hide anymore. Not from you.

Till opened his mouth to say something—likely to argue, to brush off your words—but you placed a gentle hand on his wrist, stopping him. He froze, his eyes flickering down to where your fingers rested. You could feel the way his breath caught in his throat.

“Stop doubting yourself,” you said softly, giving his wrist a reassuring squeeze. “I mean it. You're amazing. And you deserve to be seen. Don’t hide away from the world. You’re worth so much more than that.”

The air between you felt heavier now—more intimate. You weren’t sure what it was, but something about the way Till was looking at you now felt different. Not scared, not guarded... just vulnerable.

He didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he let out a quiet sigh and shifted closer, as if unsure of how to respond. Then, with a tentative smile, he nudged your shoulder.

“...Thanks,” he whispered, the words so soft, so genuine, it almost made your heart ache. “I, uhm... I’m not used to that. But, uh... I think I could get used to it, if that’s okay?”

Your heart swelled as you smiled at him. “It’s more than okay,” you whispered back. “It’s more than enough.”

For the first time in a long while, Till’s shoulders relaxed, the weight he had been carrying for so long seeming to lighten just a little. And as you sat there together, the quiet hum of this stupid fucking alien stage competition far from your minds, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace. Because, for once, in that moment, it felt like you weren’t alone.

And maybe, just maybe, neither was Till

[devdozes]

♦ Oh the everlasting windblade! (Pt 2)

PART TWO GIGGLES IS HERE

Part 1 is here!!

The silence between you and Blade stretched like a drawn bowstring, the tension thick enough to cut. The wind stirred, rustling the leaves overhead as the moon peeked through the shifting canopy.

His crimson eyes never wavered from yours, their sharpness cutting through the night like the very sword he wielded. His grip on his blade was relaxed yet calculated—waiting, watching.

You, however, weren’t one to sit still. With a tilt of your head, you grinned, your fingers grazing the smooth curve of your bow.

“Since we’re both here on the eve of the Crimson Moon… how about a little warm-up?” Your voice carried a teasing lilt, but beneath it was a challenge, a spark of something genuine.

Blade’s eyes flickered—subtle amusement? Or perhaps just intrigue. Either way, he said nothing, but you caught the faintest shift in his posture, the way his stance adjusted ever so slightly. It wasn’t outright acceptance, but it wasn’t refusal either.

A smirk tugged at your lips. That was all the confirmation you needed.

Without another word, you moved. Your body twisted, your feet pushing off the earth as you sprang backward, swiftly nocking an arrow to your bow. The tension of the string thrummed against your fingertips as you took aim, the wind shifting just as you loosed your shot.

Blade was fast.

Before your arrow could reach him, he sidestepped, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. The gleam of steel caught the moonlight as he deflected your arrow midair, sending it flying off into the trees with a sharp clang.

Your heart kicked up in exhilaration.

“Oh?” You grinned, leaping onto the nearest tree branch, perching with ease. “You didn’t even try dodging? Confident, aren’t we?”

Blade still didn’t speak. But he moved.

With a single, powerful step, he vanished.

Your breath hitched as a sharp gust of wind roared past you, his presence flickering for just a second before he reappeared at the base of the tree. His blade gleamed red in the moonlight, droplets of his own blood flicking from its edge as he raised it once more.

Fast. Too fast.

You barely had time to react before he struck.

With a sharp intake of breath, you pushed off the branch just as his sword carved through where you had been a moment ago. You flipped midair, twisting as you loosed another arrow—this time, aiming straight for his feet.

Blade clicked his tongue, twisting his blade downward to deflect the shot. The arrow bounced off, but the force of your attack kicked up a burst of dirt and leaves around him, obscuring his vision for just a split second.

You landed a few paces away, steadying yourself. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you felt alive, energy thrumming through your veins.

Blade slowly emerged from the dust, his red-ribboned hair swaying behind him. His expression was unreadable, but his crimson eyes held something different now—a glint of interest.

“You fight with precision,” he finally murmured, lifting his blade to rest against his shoulder.

You twirled your bow in your hands, grinning. “You fight with blood. Not exactly fair, is it?”

His gaze flickered down to the thin cuts on his hand, where his technique had drawn just enough blood to fuel his attacks. He didn’t respond to your comment, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely.

“You’re reckless,” he said instead.

“And you’re dramatic.”

For a moment, there was nothing but the rustling leaves and your quiet, challenging smirk.

Then, Blade exhaled, his grip on his sword shifting ever so slightly.

“…Again.”

Your grin widened. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The night air crackled with energy, the quiet hum of the forest drowned out by the clash of steel and the sharp whistle of arrows cutting through the wind. Blade moved like a phantom, his sword slicing through the darkness with deadly precision. His crimson eyes followed your every movement—calculating, unwavering.

You danced between the trees, your steps light, nimble. Each arrow you loosed was aimed to force him to move, to test the limits of his infamous technique. But Blade didn’t falter. He met every attack head-on, his blade a storm of fluid, unrelenting strikes.

Wind howled with every swing, stirring the leaves into a frenzy. His blood-fueled technique was something monstrous—every cut he inflicted upon himself only made his strikes faster, sharper. And yet, despite the sheer force behind his attacks, you didn’t back down.

Your arrows kept him on his toes, forcing him to defend, to adjust, to react.

Blade hadn’t expected this.

At first, he thought you were simply another arrogant archer with decent skill. But your precision… your adaptability… the way you anticipated his movements—it was exhilarating.

No one had made him think like this in a fight for a long time.

Another arrow shot toward him, this time aimed at the delicate space between his sword swings. A well-timed distraction.

Blade grunted, deflecting it just in time, but the moment he did, you were already moving.

With a sharp pivot, you ducked low, using the terrain to your advantage. A swift roll across the dirt and you were behind him, an arrow already drawn.

Blade twisted, eyes flashing. His instincts screamed for him to strike—but something held him back.

He hesitated.

It was brief, almost imperceptible, but in that instant, you loosed your shot.

The arrow skimmed past his cheek, grazing his skin before embedding itself in the tree behind him.

Silence fell between you.

Your breaths came fast and uneven, your fingers still tight around your bow. Blade’s grip on his sword remained firm, but his heart pounded—not with exertion, but something else.

Something unsettling.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to strike down his opponent.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. A grin tugged at the corner of your lips, though your eyes gleamed with something more than just amusement.

“A tie?” you offered, voice light, teasing.

Blade exhaled slowly.

He had spent years sharpening his technique, bathing in blood, carving his name into legend as the Merciless Bloodbather. And yet here you were—laughing, grinning—as if you hadn’t just gone toe-to-toe with him in a battle most would have fled from.

He should have been annoyed.

But instead, he felt something foreign twist in his chest.

Intrigue.

And perhaps, just the faintest flicker of admiration.

“…A tie,” he murmured at last. His voice was quiet, edged with something unreadable.

You smiled, lowering your bow. “Not bad, Merciless Bloodbather.”

Blade scoffed, rolling his shoulders as he sheathed his sword. “You talk too much.”

“And you don’t talk enough.”

Silence stretched between you again. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and lingering tension.

Blade should have turned and walked away. Should have left without another word, as he always did.

But his eyes lingered on you just a moment longer.

The night of the Crimson Moon arrived, casting an eerie red glow over the Luofu. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of steel, sweat, and earth mingling as the greatest swordsmen gathered in the heart of the Jade Forest.

It was tradition. The night before had been for training, sharpening one’s edge, pushing the body and soul beyond their limits. But tonight was for battle.

Blade stood at the center of the clearing, his black hanfu shifting with the wind, his long navy hair with crimson tips flowing behind him like a storm waiting to be unleashed. His crimson eyes reflected the blood moon above, sharp and unwavering.

The first challenger lunged.

A flurry of steel—two swords meeting in a deadly dance. Blade did not falter, did not hesitate. His blade met his opponent’s with brutal efficiency, deflecting the strike before twisting his body with inhuman speed. A single step, a downward slash—his sword cut through the air with the force of the wind itself.

The challenger barely had time to react. The sheer impact sent him skidding across the dirt, his sword trembling in his hands. Blade did not spare him another glance.

Another fighter rushed in. Then another.

A coordinated attack. They thought numbers would be enough to overwhelm him.

Fools.

Blade moved like a shadow, weaving between blades as if he could read their movements before they even struck. He parried a strike to his left, pivoted, then countered with a lightning-fast upward slash that sent sparks flying into the air. The wind howled with his movements, a storm gathering around him as if the very elements bent to his will.

His blade found flesh. A deep cut along one opponent’s arm—non-lethal, but enough to incapacitate.

Another strike. A clash of swords. The sound of metal grinding against metal filled the air, but Blade did not falter. His crimson eyes locked onto his next opponent, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword.

He did not fight with hesitation. He did not waste energy on unnecessary movements.

Every step, every swing, every drop of blood spilled was calculated, precise.

A strike from behind—he twisted, raising his sword just in time to deflect a downward slash. With a sharp exhale, he kicked forward, sending the attacker stumbling back.

The wind stirred violently around him.

Another deep breath.

A single, shallow cut along his own palm.

Crimson dripped onto his blade, and the moment it did, the very air around him seemed to shift.

A terrifying aura pulsed from his body.

The onlookers felt it immediately—the shift in the battlefield, the suffocating pressure of his presence. It was as if the very forest had stilled, as if the world itself held its breath in the wake of his technique.

Then he moved.

Faster. Sharper. A whirlwind of blood and steel.

One swordsman fell. Then another. Each of them bested before they could even react, their bodies hitting the ground as Blade stood at the center, untouched, unmoving. His blade gleamed under the crimson moon, painted with the remnants of the battle.

Silence.

Then a hushed murmur among the remaining fighters. Some hesitated now, gripping their weapons with uncertainty.

They had heard the legends. They had feared the stories.

But tonight, they saw why he was called the Merciless Bloodbather.

Blade exhaled, his breath steady, controlled. His crimson eyes flickered toward the remaining warriors.

But before another fighter could step forward, a leaf, caught in the evening wind, fluttered down toward Blade. His sharp instincts nearly had him slicing through it, but something about its slow descent made him pause. It drifted toward him, swaying lightly before settling into his open palm.

His brows furrowed. Something was written on it.

"You look like you haven’t slept in ten years. Do you even blink?"

Blade blinked.

Silence.

Then his crimson eyes lifted from the ridiculous message, scanning the crowd with sharp precision. Someone had sent this. Someone had the audacity. His gaze swept over the spectators—calculating, searching, as if his very presence demanded the culprit to reveal themselves.

And then, he found you.

Standing there, grinning like a fox, you lifted a hand and waved at him with innocent delight. The way your eyes sparkled, filled with genuine amusement and mischief, made it clear that you were the culprit. Pretty.

Blade’s brows furrowed, his expression turning into a cold, unimpressed side-eye. He exhaled through his nose, feigning irritation, acting as though your presence was an unwanted nuisance.

But deep inside, so faint it barely existed—

He was smiling.

Why? He was simply a weapon, an emotionless Blade. So, Why?

He didn't know. And that unsettled him.

It wasn’t often that something—or someone—managed to pull his mind away from the battlefield. His thoughts were always steel-sharp, honed like his sword, focused only on his blade and the enemies that stood before him. Yet now, in the aftermath of combat, his mind wavered.

The sight of you—radiant and utterly unfazed by his reputation—lingered longer than it should have.

He could have ignored it. Should have.

But the smirk in your eyes, the way your presence felt like a breeze cutting through his storm, unsettled something in him.

And the worst part?

He didn't hate it. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The battle concluded. Warriors fell to the ground, some groaning in exhaustion, others in surrender. Blade remained standing, his blade stained yet steady, his title once again reaffirmed: the strongest swordsman in all of Luofu. The crowd murmured in awe, some stepping forward to acknowledge his victory, others too fearful to approach.

As he turned to leave the battlefield, the last thing he expected was a sudden movement behind him.

Boo!

A familiar voice, playful and teasing.

Blade didn’t even flinch.

He turned his head slightly, his crimson eyes catching the sight of you standing there, arms crossed, a smug grin on your lips. Your attempt to scare him had failed spectacularly.

"Hmph." He exhaled through his nose, unimpressed, but his sharp gaze lingered on you for a beat too long.

"Tch." He turned away, his hanfu billowing as he walked past you. "Foolish."

But if you had been standing a little closer, if you had been paying attention to the smallest details, you might have caught something else.

The slightest twitch of his lips.

The almost imperceptible softness in his gaze. “Oi, are you a living corpse?” Your voice carried easily through the crowd, light and teasing. You weaved through the remaining swordsmen, completely unfazed by their lingering awe and exhaustion, and stopped right before him. Arms crossed, a playful glint in your eyes. “You didn’t even blink while beating the contestants up, man.”

Blade exhaled through his nose, wiping the edge of his blade before sliding it back into its sheath. “Okay. Thanks.”

You snorted. “That’s it? Just ‘okay’?” You tilted your head, amused. “Not even a little celebration?”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes scanning your face as if you were something to be studied. You had that same energy as before—restless, teasing, yet grounded in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. You had seen his fights, his ruthlessness, the way he cut through opponents like slicing through air. And yet, you stood here, smiling like he hadn’t just lived up to his title as the Merciless Bloodbather.

It was irritating.

It was… intriguing.

“I don’t celebrate victories,” he finally said, turning slightly, as if dismissing you.

But you didn’t leave.

Instead, you hummed, rocking on your heels. “That’s boring.”

Blade frowned. “It is unnecessary.”

“Mm, no. It’s boring.” You grinned, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “If I were you, I’d be drinking some nice wine right now, basking in the glory of my undefeated status. Maybe even getting a free meal out of it.”

He side-eyed you. “Then it is fortunate that you are not me.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “Wow. So cruel.” Then, after a pause, your grin softened. “But really. You fought well.”

Blade stiffened at the sincerity in your voice. He was used to praise—reverence, fear, admiration coated in trembling words. But the way you said it felt different. Genuine. As if you were acknowledging more than just his skill, more than just his brutality.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

So, he did what he always did—he ignored it.

“You are distracting me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From what?”

Blade opened his mouth, then closed it, frowning slightly. What was it, exactly, that you were distracting him from? The battle was over. His duty was complete. And yet, here he stood, lingering when he should have already walked away.

Blade walked through the dimly lit paths of the Luofu, the lingering echoes of battle still fresh in his mind. The wind carried the scent of disturbed earth and lingering traces of sweat and steel, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Specifically, they were stuck on you.

You, who had barged into his life a while ago, had been approaching him every single day for the past 2 months now. You, with your teasing grins, your playful antics, your relentless curiosity. You, who had the audacity to shoot an arrow near his head just to get his attention.

And now, here you were, walking beside him, yapping away about a book that, apparently, had aggravated you so much that you needed to share your suffering with him.

“And I swear, the protagonist was making the dumbest decisions ever. Like, there’s a perfectly good escape route, right? But no, they just have to take the most dangerous, most convoluted path possible. Like—do they enjoy suffering? Do they crave pain? Because I sure felt like I was suffering just reading it.” You huffed, folding your arms across your chest as you kicked a stray pebble down the path.

Blade exhaled through his nose, barely sparing you a glance. “Then why finish it?”

You gasped, scandalized. “Because I needed to know if it got better. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. The ending made even less sense.” You groaned dramatically, throwing your head back. “The villain just—dies. Poof. Gone. Not even a proper fight, just a single stab, and they’re done. It’s like the author got tired and just wanted to wrap things up.”

Blade hummed, uninterested on the surface but secretly taking in every animated expression that crossed your face. The way your brows furrowed, the way your lips curled in irritation, the way your eyes gleamed with passion despite your complaints.

He didn’t know why he was so intrigued by you.

Maybe it was because you were unlike anyone else he had met. You weren’t afraid of him. You didn’t cower at his title, didn’t tremble in fear at the mere mention of his name. Instead, you sought him out, treated him like he was just some guy instead of the “Merciless Bloodbather.”

It was unsettling.

It was also… strangely refreshing.

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Blade finally said, watching as your mouth fell open in exaggerated offense.

“A waste of—! Listen here, Mister ‘I Stare Dramatically into the Distance like a Brooding Warrior,’ just because you don’t care about storytelling doesn’t mean I can’t rant about it.”

Blade resisted the urge to smirk. Barely. Instead, he settled for a flat, “Hn.”

You groaned. “You are impossible.”

A moment of silence settled between you two as the night air wrapped around you both. Then, without thinking, Blade found himself saying, “Tell me more about it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Wait. Really?”

He internally cursed himself but gave a short nod.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across your lips. “Wow. Could it be? The great Blade is actually interested in my nonsense?”

Blade side-eyed you, unimpressed. “I take it back.”

“No, no! You can’t! You already said it. Too late.” You grinned, stepping closer to him, walking backward so you could look him in the eye. “Looks like you’re stuck listening to me for a while longer.”

The two of you had wandered into the Jade Forest, your footsteps barely making a sound on the moss-covered ground. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, and for a while, there was nothing but the sound of rustling leaves and the distant chirping of night insects.

"You know," you mused, twirling an arrow between your fingers. "I could take you down in a fight if I wanted to." Blade side-eyed you, unimpressed.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You may have your whole 'Merciless Bloodbather' thing going on," you teased, nocking an arrow lazily onto your bowstring. "But what good is all that flashy swordsmanship if you can't even reach me?"

Blade hummed, amused but unconvinced. Without another word, he shifted into a fighting stance, sword resting easily in his hand. You grinned, drawing your bowstring back, feeling the tension build in your fingertips. The two of you had done this before—sparring was nothing new.

Then— SHIIING!

A blade sliced through the air, so fast it was barely a blur. You and Blade instinctively jerked apart, a sharp gust of wind whipping between you as a sword buried itself deep into the earth where you'd been standing just a second ago.

Your blood ran cold. Multiple figures emerged from the shadows of the trees, dressed in dark robes, their faces obscured by masks. Assassins. There were at least six of them. Maybe more.

Blade moved first, his sword already drawn, eyes sharp and calculating. But you weren’t standing still either. In one fluid motion, you leaped back, scaling a tree with practiced ease before perching on a thick branch, bow drawn.

"Tch," Blade muttered. "Coward." "Strategist," you corrected, firing an arrow straight through the shoulder of one of the assassins who had lunged at Blade.

The attacker let out a grunt of pain, stumbling before Blade swiftly cut him down. The other assassins wasted no time, moving with lethal precision. Two rushed Blade at once, their blades flashing under the moonlight, while another leaped toward you, dagger raised.

You twisted at the last second, the blade grazing your arm as you flipped off the branch, landing smoothly on the ground. Without missing a beat, you loosed another arrow straight into his thigh, sending him crashing down with a pained shout.

Blade moved like a storm—fast, relentless, deadly. His sword carved through the air, cutting down anyone foolish enough to get too close. But you weren’t just standing by either. Each time an assassin tried to get the drop on him, your arrows found their mark, keeping the battle from becoming overwhelming.

Yet, something wasn’t right. These assassins weren’t ordinary. They were testing you. Watching. Calculating. "Blade," you called out, realizing it too late. "They're stalling us—" Before you could finish, a sharp whistle filled the air—

More were coming. And this time, they were after you.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

The fight intensified. More assassins emerged from the shadows of the trees, their movements swift, their swords glinting under the crimson moonlight. You barely had time to breathe between shots, each arrow fired with precision, each movement calculated—but they just kept coming.

Blade fought like a storm, his sword a relentless force cutting through the waves of enemies. Blood spattered across the ground, painting the moss in deep crimson. His movements were ruthless, precise, and yet—effortless. As if he was born to do nothing but this.

You, on the other hand, were fluid, weaving through the battlefield with agility only an archer could master. Every step, every jump, every twist of your body was done with practiced grace, as if dancing between death itself.

Then— A glint of steel.

You heard the shift in the wind before you saw it—a blade aimed straight for Blade’s unguarded back. Instinct screamed at you before you could think. "Move.!" You lunged, twisting your body mid-air, shoving Blade aside just as the assassin’s sword carved through flesh—

Your flesh.

A sharp, burning pain flared across your side as the blade sliced through the fabric of your robes, cutting deep. The force of the impact sent you stumbling, but you barely registered the pain. Your grip tightened on your bow, and in the next breath, you twisted, notching an arrow and driving it straight through the attacker’s chest. Blade had barely turned when he saw the blood staining your side. His eyes darkened.

For a moment, the world around him blurred. The assassins were nothing but insects—vermin who had dared to lay a hand on you. And he was about to exterminate them. With one swift motion, he surged forward, his sword slicing through the remaining assassins like paper. His strikes were no longer just precise—they were brutal.

His blade bit deeper, his movements sharper, his intent colder. But you—oblivious as ever—were still fighting. Still moving, still dodging, still shooting arrows like nothing had happened. It was infuriating.

"Are you seriously still fighting?" Blade snapped, his voice sharper than his sword as he cut down the last assassin in one ruthless swing.

You barely glanced at him, panting slightly. "What—did you expect me to do? Sit back and croak?" "You’re bleeding," he said, his crimson eyes flashing as he took a step closer. You blinked, glancing down at your side—oh. That was...a lot of blood. "Ah. Fuck," you muttered.

Blade let out a sharp breath, pressing his fingers to his temple as if you were the real headache here. "Sit. Down." "But—" "Now." The command in his tone sent an unfamiliar shiver down your spine.

For the first time since the battle started, you hesitated.

The moment the last assassin fell, Blade turned to you, his gaze immediately locking onto the wound staining your robes deep red. His grip on his sword tightened.

He had lost people before. Many. Too many. And every time, the blood had spilled like this—soaking into the earth, into his hands, leaving nothing but ghosts behind. He refused to let it happen again.

"You’re an idiot," he muttered under his breath as he strode towards you. You blinked up at him, still kneeling on the ground, one hand pressed against your bleeding side. "Excuse me?"

Blade ignored you. He crouched, setting his sword aside as he reached for you. The sight of your blood, hot against your fingers, made something ugly stir in his chest. His hands, scarred and calloused from years of battle, were surprisingly gentle as they moved yours away from the wound. You flinched slightly at the pressure, and he exhaled sharply through his nose.

"It hurts," you admitted, voice quieter than usual.

His stomach twisted. Of course it did. He didn't speak as he tore the cloth from the sleeve of his hanfu, pressing it firmly against the wound.

You hissed at the sudden pain, your body tensing. Blade’s eyes flickered to your face.

You looked...small like this. Vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to seeing. You were always so full of life, teasing, talking—moving. But now, beneath his hands, you were still. Wounded. Mortal. He hated it. He hated it so fucking much.

"Hold still," he murmured, his voice losing its usual sharpness. Your gaze flicked to him, confusion flickering in your eyes. Maybe it was because he wasn't pushing you away.

Maybe because, for the first time, he wasn’t meeting your teasing with a glare. He didn't know what expression he was making. He only knew that his hands refused to tremble.

"You’re being soft," you mumbled.

Blade huffed, tightening the cloth against your wound just enough to make you wince. "I'm making sure you don’t die. That’s different." You let out a strained chuckle. "Sure."

Silence settled between you.

The pain must have started catching up to you, because you leaned forward slightly, resting some of your weight against him. Blade froze. You were warm. Too warm. Too alive. His heart clenched.

This feeling—this awful, clawing fear—he hadn’t felt it in years. It felt like losing something before he even had the chance to hold it. Blade swallowed down the feeling, forcing his focus back on your wound. He had to stop the bleeding first. Still, his voice softened—just slightly—when he spoke again.

"Don’t do that again."

You tilted your head, peering up at him. "Do what?" "Throw yourself into a sword for me."

You blinked. Then, to his absolute irritation, you grinned.

"No promises :)"

Blade shut his eyes, exhaling sharply. You were going to drive him insane.

But at least, this time, he didn't lose. At least, this time, you were there.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

Your grin didn’t fade, even as exhaustion weighed on your features. Even as blood stained your robes and the ache in your side deepened.

Blade should’ve been irritated. Should’ve shoved your face away and told you to stop smiling like a fool when you were clearly in pain.

But instead—his hand moved on its own.

His palm, scarred and calloused from years of wielding his sword, cupped your cheek with a gentleness that felt foreign even to him.

Your breath hitched.

For the first time since meeting you, you were the one who froze.

His thumb brushed over your skin, rough against the softness of your cheek. Your warmth seeped into his palm, grounding, unbearable. Your pulse—alive, steady—beat against his touch.

Blade didn’t understand why his own heartbeat felt too loud.

Your eyes searched his, wide and unguarded. He could see the exact moment you noticed—how, despite his ever-present scowl, despite his sharp edges and brutal techniques—he was looking at you with something other than indifference.

Something he didn’t want to name.

The silence stretched between you, thick with an emotion neither of you spoke aloud. The distant wind stirred the trees, and yet, here, in this moment, everything felt still.

Then, as if the tension had never existed, you suddenly quirked a brow.

"Are you gonna kiss me or—?"

Blade’s eye twitched. His hand dropped from your face instantly. Without a word, he scooped you up, ignoring your yelp of protest as he easily lifted you into his arms.

"Wait—HEY, I was joking—!"

"You talk too much," he muttered, shifting you against his chest.

You grumbled, clearly displeased, but you didn’t fight it. Your body relaxed against him, your arms looping lazily around his neck.

"You know, for someone who’s supposedly heartless, you sure carry me like a lovesick fool."

Blade resisted the urge to drop you. Instead, he tightened his grip and turned toward the path leading back to your home. The night stretched before him, crimson moonlight casting its glow through the trees.

He had won the tournament. He had fought against assassins. And yet—

The only battle he felt he was truly losing… Was the one against you.

The walk back to your home was silent, save for the occasional rustling of the trees around you. Blade felt your soft breaths against his chest, each one slowly steadier than the last as you leaned into him, your weight resting against his hold. You’d been quiet ever since he’d carried you, but Blade could feel the tension crackling in the air between you, thick enough to suffocate him.

He didn’t need to look at you to know you were trying to make sense of him.

He barely understood himself anymore.

His heart didn’t calm, not even when he finally reached the safety of your door. He didn’t know what possessed him to be so gentle when he set you down on the soft cushions of the room, but the instinct was there, the need to make sure you weren’t in any more pain.

You were bleeding, wounded, and it made his mind snap.

He could still see the flash of a blade near your side, how you had moved so recklessly to protect him, to keep fighting through the pain.

His hand, as rough as it was, still lingered on your skin as he began treating your wound. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, and deep down, Blade didn’t trust anyone else to get this close to you.

His movements were meticulous, too careful for someone who had only ever known battle. The medicine was cold as it touched your wound, but Blade didn’t notice how his gaze stayed glued to you.

You flinched slightly as he applied the salve, and his fingers brushed too close to the curve of your waist. "You're so damn stubborn" he murmured, his voice low and tinged with irritation—not at you, but at himself.

"You could’ve been killed." "I’m fine," you said, your voice teasing despite the pain. "You don’t have to act like you care. You’re so good at pretending to be cold and grumpy, Blade."

His hand paused on your side. He wanted to snap at you. Tell you that he didn’t pretend. He was cold.

But then, his gaze met yours—your eyes, wide and too knowing, glimmering with an emotion he couldn't quite decipher.

For a fleeting second, he saw something in your eyes, something that made the air between you crackle with tension. It was subtle. Fleeting. But it was there.

You were looking at him differently now.

He took a breath, his fingers brushing over the bandage he had applied, his touch so careful it nearly felt like a betrayal. You swallowed. And then—

The air shifted.

You leaned in just slightly, and Blade’s hand, still hovering over your side, tightened. His gaze dropped to your lips without him meaning to. You weren’t close enough to kiss yet.

But he felt it—the heat of your breath, the weight of your stare.

Then, it happened. The world seemed to tilt, his breath catching in his throat, and for the briefest of moments, he felt like he could lean in, just a little bit further, and… But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not now Before either of you could react, there was a sharp knock at the door.

A voice called from outside, disrupting the moment entirely. "Miss? Is everything all right in there?" Blade’s heart hammered in his chest.

You pulled away from him suddenly, straightening your back, the space between you widening with a chill. You blinked rapidly, as if trying to dispel whatever was happening just a moment ago.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you called back, your voice much more casual than it had been. “Just, uh, taking care of some wounds. Go away!”

You turned back to Blade, but now the playful smirk was gone. There was still a flicker of something unreadable in your expression—something Blade could almost recognize, but not quite.

He stood abruptly, his posture stiff, his fingers now cold where they had once lingered against your skin.

"I’ll be back later."

Without another word, Blade turned sharply toward the door, hand resting on the handle, and then he froze.

For the briefest of moments, he glanced back at you. You were watching him—gazing with such intensity, your face half-lit by the glow of the lamp beside you.

His breath caught again, and something heavy settled in his chest. And then he softly closes the door, contemplating what the fuck just happened. His legs felt shaky, his heart was pounding like crazy and his chest ached.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was almost like… You were pulling him in.

And Aeons, that worked.

He wanted to be near you again. He needs to be near you again, your scent, your smile, your hair, your eyes, your lips-

Oh Aeons.

[devdozes]

Hello!! Could I please request Ricardo (from limbus) x reader fluff? I'm fine with anything you come up with I just need to see someone write for him for once ♥️♥️

The Middle’s Big Brother was many things: imposing, stylish, overwhelmingly confident, and at times, utterly ridiculous. But most of all, he was yours.

You never quite understood how it happened. One day, you were simply another face in the City—trying to get by, avoiding trouble where you could, keeping your head down. The next, Ricardo had taken an interest in you, his flashy presence looming over your life with all the subtlety of a skyscraper collapsing in slow motion.

“Ah, my luscious one,” Ricardo greeted as he entered your shared space, golden chains jingling with each dramatic step. His sunglasses remained firmly in place despite being indoors, giving him an air of mystery (or absurdity, depending on how you looked at it). He flicked his hot pink hair back with a flourish, the faint glow of his tattoos pulsing beneath his coat. “The day has been bristly, much like the unkempt and sinful locks of the unworthy. But seeing you, my precious, it becomes luscious once more.”

You sighed, though the corners of your lips twitched upward. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” Ricardo clutched his chest as if you had wounded him. “My dear, expressing one’s devotion is never dramatic—it is a sacred duty.”

“Uh-huh.” You leaned against the counter, watching as he removed his extravagant fur-lined coat, draping it over a chair like a king displaying his riches. He moved towards you with a slow, deliberate stride, exuding the effortless confidence of a man who had never once questioned his own charm.

His hands, warm and calloused, reached for your face, tilting your chin up with reverence. “You, my love, are an oasis in this bristly world. A beacon of radiance amidst the frizzled masses. When I gaze upon you, my heart swells with such divine affection that I must document it within the sacred Book of Vengeance.”

You barely managed to suppress a snort. “You’re writing down my existence in a book meant for vengeance?”

“Indeed!” He declared, pulling out the aforementioned book and flipping through its pages. “For it is a crime most grievous that any would fail to recognize your splendor.”

You rolled your eyes but felt the warmth creep up your neck. Ricardo always spoke with such over-the-top declarations of admiration, and yet, he meant every word. His affection was unwavering, his devotion absolute, and though his presence was a whirlwind of flamboyance, it was also one of security.

“Alright, Big Brother,” you murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “You win.”

Ricardo stilled for a brief moment, his grip tightening ever so slightly. When you pulled back, you caught sight of his glowing tattoos flaring brighter, his lips curling into a slow, self-satisfied grin.

“Ah,” he hummed, voice dropping to a low purr. “It appears I must document yet another sinful transgression.”

You quirked a brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

His hands slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “That you, my divine one, have stolen my heart.”

You groaned at the line, smacking his chest lightly. “That was awful.”

“And yet,” he mused, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, “it made you smile.”

You hated that he was right. But as he held you, warm and steady, his ridiculous theatrics melting into something softer, something real, you decided you could live with it.

SORRY ITS SHORT AND INNACURATE (OOC)

[devdozes]

Hiii helloooo can you do a fic with Sinclair x reader where the reader is too quiet for him to approach but when he does, they reciprocate or is overall a sweetheart?

Please and thank you!!

Sinclair had never been good at starting conversations.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you. Quite the opposite, actually—he wanted to more than anything. There was something about you, something quiet and gentle, that made him feel like the world wasn’t always so cruel. You never spoke much, never demanded attention, but he noticed the way your eyes softened when you listened to others. The way you always offered a hand when someone needed it, even if they never noticed you in return.

And that made him notice you even more.

He often caught himself staring, watching the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, or how your fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on your sleeve when deep in thought. But he never knew how to close the gap between you two. Sinclair was awkward, anxious—he could barely get through a sentence without tripping over his words when talking to someone new. What if you thought he was strange? What if you didn’t want to talk to him at all?

It took him weeks to muster up the courage. Weeks of stolen glances, of hesitating steps forward only to retreat at the last second. But today—today, he was going to do it.

He found you sitting in the corner of the library, a book resting in your hands. Sunlight filtered through the window beside you, casting a warm glow on your face. You looked peaceful, lost in another world. Sinclair’s heart pounded against his ribs as he clenched his fists, steeling himself.

Just say something. Anything.

He cleared his throat, barely above a whisper. “Um… is that book any good?”

You blinked, glancing up at him. Sinclair felt like he’d made a mistake instantly—maybe he was interrupting you. Maybe you didn’t want to be bothered. But instead of brushing him off, you tilted your head slightly before offering a small smile.

“It’s really nice,” you murmured, voice soft. “Would you like to read with me?”

His breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that. He nodded—too quickly, too eagerly—but you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you simply shifted slightly, making space beside you. Sinclair hesitated for only a moment before sitting down, feeling the warmth of your presence so close to his.

Minutes passed in comfortable silence. The pages turned, the faint scent of old paper surrounding you both. And then, just as he was about to speak again, you leaned your head slightly against his shoulder. It was barely a touch, hesitant, as if you were testing to see if he’d pull away.

He didn’t.

Sinclair swallowed hard, his face burning, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his fingers fidgeted against his pant leg, unsure of what to do with himself. But despite his nerves, he felt something else bloom in his chest. Something warm, something light.

Maybe approaching you wasn’t so scary after all.

im sorry its short :( <3

[devdozes]

tw- suicide, depression and just shit.

im srry, the last post, it was meant to be a note, a last suicide note. I was depressed, I would write and uhm if it was note obvious, i would write as a coping mechanism for whatever going on in my head. I want to say I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry anyone, I meant to just tell everyone my last words and just everything, I woke up in the hospital yesterday and was thinking "what do I do" and I cant provide a better apology and explanation. I once want to say sorry again.

[devdozes]

There exists among us, in the margins of greater tales, a figure so astoundingly void of merit that his very presence serves as a study in futility. A man not merely unremarkable, but remarkably so—his mediocrity a feat unto itself, his insignificance somehow louder than silence.

Your existence, dear fool, is a testament to the tragedy of potential unmet. Not because you were destined for greatness, but because you parade your failures as if they were triumphs, cloaking your incompetence in arrogance, your ignorance in pretense. You wear delusion like armor, yet it shields nothing, and the rot beneath is evident to all but yourself.

You speak often, but say little. Each word you utter drips with the effort of a mind desperate to seem clever, yet eternally starved of substance. You believe yourself a storm, when in truth, you are but a weak breeze pretending it shakes the trees.

What are you, if not the punchline of your own unfinished joke? A caricature of a man, drawn with shaky hands and no imagination. Your life is a symphony played out of tune, a clock that ticks with no purpose, a shadow that never had a flame.

And oh, how you cling—to pride unearned, to worth imagined, to relationships drained by your parasitic need for validation. You leech from others what you can never generate within yourself: respect, relevance, reason. But none stay long. They drift from you like leaves from a dying branch, for even the blind feel the cold of something lifeless.

You do not inspire hatred, truly. No—you evoke pity, and that is the sharper wound. To be hated is to matter. But you? You are a footnote written in smudged ink at the corner of someone else's page.

So let this stand not merely as a condemnation, but as a eulogy for the greatness you never possessed. You are not feared. You are not envied. You are, simply and profoundly, nothing.

To that one person, you are truly pathetic. Not even the most desperate of maggots and cannibals would feed off of your rotting body for your soul had corrupted every single nerve and fibre of that fucking body of yours.

a/n- just a stupid rant

[devdozes]

Hiiii I really love ur fics and I just recently started following you! First part of "what ever happened to the hayloft" caught my interest and I couldn't help myself, I just had to read both parts in one sitting. So I'm kindly asking you, my favorite fic writer, when is the 3rd part coming out? :3 (Ily pls don't explode btw💜)

I LVOEOYUO AAAA THANKYOYU AND I WONT EXPLODE. ALSO THE THRD PART IS HALFWAY DONE !! ILL POST IN AROUND 2 HOURS :> I'm also working on a flame reaver phainon fic at the same time so it may get delayed hehe AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR UR PRAISE ILY DONT GO AT THE TOILET AT 3 AM AND GET BITTEN BY CARTOON CAT AND SLENDERMAN

[devdozes]

Mama me want more food😐 feed us with fics they're so tasty (just finished reading the one with Phainon that you posted recently... And omg you actually made me like him)

child i am COOKING (literally while responding to this) AND YES MAAM I ABSOLUTELY LOVE PHAINONNN HE LOOKS LIKE A GREEN FLAG YET RED FLAG ON THE ISNIDE (flamreaver phainonNGHGH)

[devdozes]

Chat i sweat I'm not ignoring the inbox requests and everythung. I'm working on it and I will answer all of them soon

[devdozes]

i was about to req Phainon x reader but then i saw you have CHUNG MYUNG X READER? Gold. Ily for this😭🙏 can i ask do you read other webtoon/manwhas and which fandom you are willing to write for?

HEHE I LOVE MANHWAS!! AND PLUS I DO WRITE FOR EVERY FANDOM- IM PRETTY MUCH IN EVERY FANDOM- IN EXISTENCE 😭😭 SO JUST GIVE THE NAME OF THE WEBTOON / FANDOM AND THE CHARACTER AND ILL WRITE IT HAHA. BUT MY MAIN ONES ARE

-rotbb, nge, pjsk, hsr, gi, hi3, orv, tged, ttotcf, date with death, and bsd (i have read pretty much every fuckign webtoon so just give the name and I'll write it)

[devdozes]

“The creature let out a guttural growl as something smacked it in the face. "STOP THROWING THINGS AT ME AND LET ME FUCKING DEVOUR YOU!"”

I FUCKING SNORTEDDDD OH MY GOSH THAT WAS AMAZING that was so unhinged oh my gosh I’m DYING

anyways thanks for the belly laugh and as always love your work!! hope you’re doing well🤍🤍🤍

THANKY UO FOR THE CONCERNR MAUVIKA 🗣️🫶 AND IM SO GLAD YOU LAUGHED HAHA I LVOE WIRITNG UNHIGNED FANFICS LOKWY E AND IMHAPPY U ENJOYED IT THANKYOU OS MUCHCHC

[devdozes]

god im tired. i just want someoen to pparoch and care, say "I care for u" without me soming, I want someone to notice. god why. whywhywhy why are fictional characters noticing me before my own irl friends. maybe I will never be loved

[devdozes]

IM TOO SHY TO REVEAL MYSELF DAGW💔💔💔💔 jwast call me Niko the seal anon 🦭 oh and also im gonna eat ur art

Niko the seal anon 🦭 I am ALMOST DONE WITH ANOTHER PHAINON FANRAT MUHAHEHEHHE😋😋

[devdozes]

Spiderman phainon is something i didn't know i needed in my life IT WAS SOOOOO GOOOOODDD if rq are still open may I request more Spiderman phainon? 👀

HELL YEAH OF COURSE I LVOE SPIDERMAN PHAINON

REQUESTS R ALWAYS OPEN