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starcrossedxwriter · 6 months

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Princess’s Punishment (MBJ x Reader)

A/N: I didn’t have the energy to go back and find the two asks lol but this is a request from two folks for a kinky punishment story with. So enjoyyyy!

Warnings: degradation, name calling, NSFW, lots of kinks (spanking, cockwarming, etc)

***

“What do you think?” You gave her fiancee a model-like twirl so he could examine your outfit from all angles.

Michael glanced up from his phone and the email he was typing, letting out a low whistle as his eyes swept over your perfect frame.

“That dress gon’ get you into trouble, Princess.”

You threw him a coy smile before turning back to the giant mirror in the middle of the store. You were the only customer there, Michael preferring to reserve stores for an hour or two so you could have a private and serene shopping experience. It ensured everyone in the store was solely dedicated to getting you exactly what you needed and wanted. Most stores happily obliged, knowing that anytime Michael brought his princess in, the limit on his card was nonexistent. Today was no different.

“That looks great on you,” a man offered as he emerged from the back of the store. His dreads were neatly pulled back out of his face. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, the exact type of man who would have once turned your head before you met Michael, the love of your life. But no one compared to the literal sexiest man alive in your eyes and that was a fact.

You had never seen him in the store before but when the woman you typically worked with didn’t return, you realized he would be assisting you.

“Hope you don’t mind. Jenn had a family emergency. I’m Marcus,” he reached out to shake your hm which you accepted with a bright smile.

“Nice to meet you. Y/N,” you introduced yourself before turning back to the mirror, your hands running over the luxuriously soft material that hugged your curves. “Not sure this is the most flattering though.”

“I have another dress in the back, we just got it in. Similar to this one but it’s perfect for you. Will be far more flattering. A body like that… you should show it off.”

You did not pick up on the obvious flirting in his tone, particularly as that was the farthest thing from your mind. You merely nodded with a smile. “Thank you. That would be great. Can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ll bring that and a couple other pieces. We technically aren’t supposed to show them yet but for a friend,” he winked at you. “I can bend a few rules.”

“Really??” You were merely excited about getting an advanced look at your favorite store’s new pieces.

“Of course. Be right back.”

“Thank you!” You watched him for a few moments as he walked away before turning to Michael whose face was set in a scowl. “Everyone here’s so nice all the time.”

“That nigga’s nice cause he wants to fuck you,” Michael grumbled, his tone signaling that he was not as pleased with the service as you.”

Your jaw fell open before you laughed at the absurdity of the idea. Men rarely flirted with you, if ever. “Come on, baby. Don’t be silly. He wants us to spend money, likely to make his commission better so he’s just being extra complimentary.”

“Nahhh, I watched him basically undress you with his fuckin’ eyes, Princess. Besides, I’m the one payin’ and nigga didn’t say shit to me. Acted like I’m not even here. I don’t like him.”

You merely laughed, clearly not realizing that Michael was genuinely upset with the salesman. “Aww my grumpy baby. You don’t like anyone,” you teased before disappearing into your dressing room to try on more outfits.

Outfit after outfit, you pranced around for your boyfriend and gave him a fashion show. He was thoroughly unhelpful as he loved 95% of the items you tried on and refused to help you narrow down the massive stack of clothes. Anytime you went shopping, he thought you should buy everything you remotely liked, even if you had one exactly like it in the closet at home.

“What do you think? Don’t need both black dresses,” you muttered more to yourself than either man in the room.

“You look perfect in both. Just get both.”

“Not helpful, babe!”

“I think you should get the one you have on. Shows off your body better.”

“You commentin’ on her body a lil too much, my nigga,” Michael called out, clearly frustrated by Marcus’ innocent compliments toward you as you finished trying on clothes.

“Michael!” You whipped your head around in shock at his rudeness. “Sorry, he gets very grumpy when we’ve been shopping too long.”

“No apologies needed,” he raised his hands in surrender before making an excuse to go to the back of the store to get her something else.

You scoffed once he was gone, you and Michael having a silent standoff.

“That was hella rude,” you chastised him.

Michael merely shrugged “Hella rude for him to openly flirt with my girl in front of me. He bold enough for that shit, he’s bold enough to take the heat.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah and what were you doin’? Flirting back with that nigga.”

You let out a laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “Flirting back?? It’s called being nice. I only got eyes for one, very jealous man.”

And with that, you disappeared back into the changing room to put back on your real clothes. You could not understand what was up with Michael as of late. He seemed to be so much more jealous than he used to be lately, snapping or glaring at any man who got too close or talked to you for too long. He had done the same thing at a premiere just last week. You had chalked the first couple times up to him having a bad day but now you wondered if something else was wrong.

“You ok?” You asked as you both patiently waited for Marcus to package your mountain of clothes and accessories.

His eyebrow was furrowed with an angry expression on his face. Still packing most of the weight of Erik Killmonger, he looked intimidating to say the least. But you did not understand what he could be that upset about, nothing had even happened.

He did not answer you, merely handing Marcus his card to finish paying.

“Need help getting these to your car?” Marcus asked, his hands already preparing to grab the heavy garment bags and smaller shopping bags

“That would be g-” you started to say when Michael immediately cut you off.

“Nah we got it.” His short tone made you cringe slightly, Marcus’s face blanching at the rudeness of it.

He gestured for his security to pick up the bags and grabbed the rest himself before gesturing for you to exit the store. You merely offered a polite thank you before following him out of the store.

***

As soon as you walked into the house, you started up the stairs to put your new items in their proper spots when he stopped you.

“Princess!”

“What’s up, babe?”

His tone and face looked almost bored as he scrolled on his phone. “When you’re done, assume the position by the counter.”

Your eyes grew wide with surprise. Assume the position was a clear directive in the Jordan household, one that let you know the relaxing evening you had planned was not going to happen. A sign that you had upset your master, and thus, must be punished.

“What did I do??” The logical part of your brain was well aware he was not going to tell you. If your infraction was not obvious, he rarely told you what it was until the punishment had started. But as you racked your brain, you could not understand what on Earth you did to upset him. You had a really nice day together and aside from the weird interaction with the sales associate, he seemed fine. Then it clicked in your brain.

His jealous streak seemed to not have ended earlier, after all.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. 10 minutes.”

He did not spare you another glance before he disappeared toward the living room, leaving you gawking after him on the stairwell.

“Fuck my life,” you muttered as you raced up the stairs. You completely disregarded your original mission of putting your clothes away, you did not have time for that.

Instead, you stripped down to nothing and pulled your braids out of their high ponytail. You went to your drawer and pulled out the various things you knew were required: your collar and leash, nipple clamps, flogger, blindfold, and ball gag. He did not always use them all and sometimes he used none of them. But that was another thing for him to know and you to find out.

You descended down the stairs, your entire body almost floating with anticipation. You knew whatever he had planned would be the most delicious form of torture and that he would fuck you senseless once you begged for his forgiveness enough.

Michael was leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone as he waited. Ingredients for dinner laid out on the counter.

“Thinkin’ short ribs for dinner. Cool?” He asked, his voice completely calm and normal despite what you knew was about to happen. The sweet, doting finace who cared what you wanted for dinner would disappear and a new persona would take over.

“Sounds good. Thanks, babe.”

“You ready, Princess?” he asked, checking in as he always did before an intense punishment or scene, which you always appreciated. They were punishments but they were supposed to be pleasurable, in a way, for you too.

“Yes, daddy,” you answered immediately, handing him all the toys you brought with you before sinking down to your knees before him. You spread your legs just enough for your flower to be on display for him, already wet and aching for his rough touch in the mere minutes he left you. The chill of the house caused the hair on your arms to stick up but you ignored it, things would heat up in a few minutes.

You wanted to smirk as you watched his eyes cloud with lust but you kept your face neutral. Michael was gone and your master stood in front of you. And his perfect, submissive fuck toy replaced you, designed and ready for whatever pain or pleasure he was generous enough to offer. And the growing ache between your thighs revealed a simple truth: you loved every single second of being his slut.

Your eyes remained trained on the wood panels of the kitchen floor as he silently studied you. The minutes stretched on and on at an agonizing pace but you did not lift your head or move an inch. However, you could not stop the little sigh of relief that passed your lips when you finally saw his feet come into your line of vision.

His hand wrapped around your throat, your mouth falling open with a small moan as he squeezed. It was not hard, just enough to let you know he was there. More, you wanted to beg. That was the problem, it did not matter what he did. You just wanted more of it and more of him. You were so addicted to the drug that was Michael, it felt like a lifetime supply would not even be enough.

His hand forced your head upward so you were looking directly into his expressive brown eyes, your favorite part of him. This position could have had you cumming right then.

All you could think about was how good it felt to have his hand squeezing your throat while you rode his dick. The mere memory made your pussy clench. But that was not in the cards for you… not yet anyway.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” He knew everything about his little fuck toy, exactly what his Princess wanted and needed. And there was not a man alive who knew it better. “Such an eager fuck toy for me. That’s why you were tryin’ on all those slutty clothes today? Think you’d get my attention and I’d come back here and fuck you like the attention-seeking whore you are?” He asked as he let go of your throat, much to your sadness, and started circling you. A predator sizing up his prey, indeed.

You were not foolish enough to answer a single question he levied, they were rhetorical.

“But I wasn’t the only man whose attention you got. Bet you loved that shit too… his hands on you fixing your outfits, complimenting you. Flirting with him, accepting his help right in front of your master. I should’ve fucked you right there in front of him to remind you that there’s only one man whose attention you should want.”

The thought of that made your head spin. Him forcing you to your knees in the dressing room, fucking you from behind, claiming you and your body loudly for every person to hear.

He gently put your collar around your neck, the fur lining made it more comfortable than it would have been otherwise. It was custom, Princess Y/N, embroidered on it.

“Too tight?” he asked as he attached the leash to it.

“No master,” you muttered.

“Good.”

He tugged on it, forcing you in step behind him. You bit back the moans this caused, him walking you around your living room and kitchen for a few minutes. He knew how much you loved to crawl behind him. It was clear he was trying to ramp you up as much as possible before the punishment truly started. And it was working perfectly.

By the time you returned to the spot you started at in the kitchen, your knees in pain from the hardwood floor, your body was screaming for his touch. Your core felt painfully empty, you were desperate to feel him on you, inside you. He slid the blindfold over your eyes.

You whimpered for a moment at the sudden loss of sight, sensory deprivation was a new game for you both and you were still getting used to it.

“Say the word and the blindfold can come off, Princess,” he whispered. At your nods, he continued. “Face down, ass up. Legs spread. Don’t move a muscle.”

You adjusted yourself to assume his favorite position. You hissed as your upper body laid against the cool kitchen floor but you made sure the arch in your back was perfect, your ass perched high in the air. Your legs were spread enough for him to see the glistening mess coating your inner thighs.

“You disgustin’ cum slut. Crawlin’ like a whore made you that wet?” He degraded you, making your entire body shudder as his hands caressed your ass.

“Yes daddy,” you breathed out, your brain already losing the ability to fully form words. The fog of pleasure was already heavy and he had not even started. “I-I’m sorry.”

You tensed up sightly, knowing that when you least expected it, his caresses would turn into sharp blows that would make you cry out. However, just as quickly as he started touching you, he stopped. You could not feel his presence around you at all. You had not been given permission to move and you could not see him. You could not even sense where he was anymore.

Had he left you there? Naked and unable to move like a statue? After a few moments, you heard soft footsteps not far away, causing you to exhale slightly. He was still hovering around.

Minutes passed by, slower than you thought time could move, as he just left you there without a single touch or word. But you followed directions, your legs would literally collapse before you moved a muscle.

Your mind raced to understand why he was not punishing you. And after about 15 minutes of utter silence except for the sounds of him cooking, you longed for it. The sting of his palm, the fire of the flogger against your ass, your thighs, your back, literally anywhere at this point. But there was nothing. This was more of a punishment than the spanking. If you had been given permission to speak, you would have begged for your own torture at this point, would have begged for as many lashings as he felt you deserved for being such a shameless whore. But you could do nothing, nothing but sit with shaking legs in your disorienting haze of pleasure until he decided that you were worth even doling out a punishment on.

It was clear to you why he chose that particular spot, a spot you knew was visible to him regardless of where he stood in the kitchen. You were on display.

At that realization, you deepened the arch in your back to something you didn't even know was possible. You had to force yourself not to wiggle your ass in his face, entice him to light it on fire with his strength.

“Couldn’t even last 15 minutes without daddy’s attention, could you?” You were not sure if you were allowed to answer. “You may speak, Princess.”

“D-daddy pl-please…” you begged.

“Didn’t seem to care about me earlier. Why should I give you attention now?”

“B-Because… I need…” your words failed you. You needed so much in that moment. You needed the pain, you needed the pleasure it brought, you needed to be reminded what you were and whose you were.

“You need what? Need me to make you cum? You’ll be grateful if I let you cum at all tonight. Need me to fuck you like the cumslut you are? Not sure you deserve my dick. Or you need me to remind you what happens to disobedient fuck toys who anger their masters? Need me to remind you who owns you?”

“Y-Yes! P-Please… I d-deserve to be punished. I n-need it.” The words barely left your lips before you felt the first blow of the flogger against your ass. “T-Thank you,” you moan, savoring the sting and ache it left behind.

However, you could not savor it long as he rained them down on every inch of your ass and thighs and a couple well-placed agonizing ones against your pussy that made you scream. You kept count, as was already required.

“Keep your legs open, slut or I’ll add five more,” he demanded as your entire body convulsed as the flogger caught part of your clit. You forced your body to maintain the position, which took all your willpower. And to think, you begged for this.

Tears were streaming down your face when he reached 29. That was the most he had ever done with the flogger as it was more painful than his hand and it was torture. However, you took it, the desire to use your safeword never coming to your mind. You would not be able to sit tomorrow but your entire body was on fire, hot, sweaty and desperate for him to fuck the shit out of you.

When you finally said 30, you were proud of yourself for taking all of it like a champ.

“That’s a good slut. You should see your ass right now,” he muttered. “So beautiful.” You could only imagine your entire body was completely red and you could feel a couple welts from where he punished you in the same spot over and over again. “You may sit up.”

You whimpered as you stretched and moved out of your position, your muscles protesting. As you sat up, his hand cupped your cheek and wiped away the few falling tears.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

“No sir. T-thank you for r-reminding me what I am,” you whisper.

He helped you to your feet, your legs shaking slightly.

“Let’s watch somethin’ on the tv. Short ribs are slow cookin’.”

Despite the pain in your body, you could not help but smile. This was what made the punishments worth it, this moment. You were happy he let you walk to the couch, giving you a chance to stretch your legs. You stood and watched, licking your lips as he stripped off his clothes before sitting down, his head dripping with pre-cum that made you want to sink to your knees and steal a taste. You licked your lips, longing clearly written on your face that made Michael want to chuckle. He knew how much his Princess loved servicing him on your knees.

“Don’t even think about it. Worthless cunts who can’t remember who they belong to don’t get a taste. Why?”

“Because servicing you is a reward and I don’t deserve a reward, daddy,” you mumbled quietly, your voice just as lost and pitiful as you felt. This was the point of punishment though because all you now wanted to do was assure him you were his perfect, obedient princess so you could be rewarded.

“Good girl. Earn my forgiveness and maybe I’ll fuck that sweet mouth before bed tonight. Now for your punishment…”

Your eyes grew wide. The last 30 minutes had not been the punishment??

Fuck my life.

“Climb up here and sit on my dick. Facing the tv.”

You practically catapulted onto his dick without hesitation. Not just because good girls did what they were told without hesitation but because this was your type of punishment. RIding his dick was your favorite pastime.

You slid down on his hard dick, moaning loudly as he filled you to the brim. It was not the orgasm your body desperately needed but it satisfied the overwhelming, blinding carnal need to be filled you felt. You immediately started rocking your hips to increase the friction and pleasure when a powerful and painful swat against your already bruised ass stopped your movements.

“I didn’t tell your dumb ass to move. Seems like you keep forgetting I own you Princess. This pussy… this body… it’s all mine. And no one else gets to touch what’s mine, no one else controls what’s mine. So you’re gonna sit there on my dick and you’re not gonna move until I tell you to. When I tell you to ride my dick, you do it. When I tell you to stop, you fuckin’ stop. Understand?”

“D-Daddy please?” you hoped your pleas for mercy and the soft puppy eyes you had on would be enough to soften his resolve. Of all the things he had forced you to do since walking in the house, this was the worst of them. To feel him inside you and be so close to bringing him the pleasure he deserved and you desperately needed but not be allowed to?

Fuck my life.

“You should be thankin’ me for even letting your worthless cunt warm my dick. Now sit there and watch the show,” he nodded toward the tv where an episode of both of your favorite anime was playing.

You moaned and turned around, trying to keep your attention focused on the show in front of you. However, it was impossible.

This was an utterly new sensation and, while it was torturous, you could not deny that it was pleasurable in its own way.

Michael’s girth and length was something to be reckoned with and he knew how to use it. His dick perfectly curved into your g-spot and could have you cumming with a few strokes. As you sat on him, his hands occasionally wandered to caress your other pleasure zones. His strong hands massaged your inner thighs causing you to moan.

You wondered if you could orgasm from just sitting there. You would not because you did not have permission but you wondered if it was possible. Because between his hands and the feel of him inside you, you could think of nothing else. You could feel every inch of him, his dick throbbing and pulsing like a heartbeat against your walls.

Your body squirmed in his touch, your moans as he played with your body were consistent, particularly when he brushed against your clit. He offered a featherlike touch, it was barely there but you were so worked up, you felt every jolt of pleasure through your body magnified.

Your pussy clenched around him as if silently begging him to move. But you knew he would not allow you to until he was ready.

He worked up a rhythm against your clit, your movements becoming more uncontrolled, your breaths heavier. You weren’t gonna last long like this.

“Whose pussy is this, Princess?”

“Yours, daddy. Only y-yours.”

“Who can bring you pleasure like your master?”

“N-No one. J-just you.”

“Never forget that shit, understand?”

You nodded fervently. Every punishment had a lesson and this one was etched into your brain matter as now was the feeling of every vein and inch of his dick.

“I w-won’t! I promise, daddy.”

He pressed a soft kiss to your bare back, increasing the speed of his fingers. “Cum on my dick, Princess.”

With permission to cum, you stopped holding back and allowed your body to feel everything. Fuck his fingers knew exactly what buttons to push as your body finally got the pleasure it needed for the last hour. The build up was so fast you barely got to enjoy it but you did not care, you needed the crash, the fall to drown in the pleasure only he could provide. And when you reached the peak, you crashed hard.

“You like that, baby? You gon’ cum for daddy?”

“Y-Yes… fuck… t-thank you!” you cried out as you threw your head back as an explosion of pleasure took over every inch of your body. You felt pleasure down to the very cells that made up every part of you.

You gasped as Michael’s hand wrapped around your long hair and gripped it, pulling you backward. He turned you so his mouth could claim yours, drowning out your moans and cries with a kiss so dominating you never wanted it to end.

“That’s my good girl,” he praised, causing your heart to soar. “You’ve earned my forgiveness. Ride.”

You did not need to hear anything else as you started to ride him with abandon, moaning every time his head rammed into your g-spot. You’d cum again before this was over but you made it your personal mission to ensure he did too. You pulled out every trick and play you had in the book until you felt his hands dig into your hips and he started ramming into you.

You let him take control as he fucked you like a rag doll, ignorning the ache of your bruised ass and thighs as he slammed into them with every thrust upward. He kept you flush to his chest with one hand wrapped tight around your neck, the gentleness of his choking earlier long gone.

“Where you want it?” he demanded as you felt the signs of him about to cum.

“Cum inside me, please!” you begged. Michael knew you had a bit of a breeding kink, loving the feeling of him filling you with his cum. That was often another punishment when he would cum on you instead of inside you. Not that him marking his territory was really a punishment.

“Want me to fill this sweet cunt, baby??”

“Yes! Please, please!” you begged as he fucked you so hard you felt as if you would be seeing stars for hours.

You could not stop your body from convulsing as you felt the warmth of his cum surge inside you, you clenched around him.

Your legs burned as you used your arms, braced on his knees to stop your upper body from toppling forward. He rubbed soothing patterns along your spine to calm you. Michael pushed you to your limit every time but he also knew how to take care of you afterward.

He lifted you off of him, a slight whimper escaping your lips at the emptiness you suddenly felt. He only sat you down long enough to stand up himself and you were quickly back in his arms, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he carried you up to your master suite.

He laid you on the bed and got some soothing lotion and started massaging it everywhere the flogger hit you. You shuddered at the cool feeling but it felt heavenly combating the stinging you still felt and soreness you knew you would still feel tomorrow.

“You did so good for me, Princess,” he offered, your sweet Michael clearly having returned to you.

That was all you needed to hear, that you had pleased him.

“Thank you.” Your gratitude was muffled against the comforter of your shared bed. After a few moments of silence, you sat up and glanced back at him. “You know you’re it for me, right? Don’t have eyes for anyone else.”

“Yea I know… sometimes I just worry…” his voice trailed off.

You ignored the ache to shift over to him and straddle his waist, his hands resting on your hips. “You’re always reassuring me, sometimes I forget you need that too. You are the greatest thing that ever happened to me. It’s you and me till the end of the line, babe.” You teasingly peppered his face with kisses until he finally smiled and started laughing.

“You and me, baby.”

“But anytime you wanna get a little jealous and possessive and it leads to that? Feel free,” you joked, the scene still dominating every space in your mind. At your words, you suddenly became hyper aware of his member pressed against your core and instinctively started grinding on top of him.

“Princess,” he growled. “This time ain’t about me,” he reminded her. Aftercare was about you and he was committed to it.

“How much time do we have till dinner?”

“Two hours.”

“Enough time for you to teach me my lesson again and then take care of me. Don’t think it quite stuck,” you shrugged nonchalantly, taking on your bratty persona to rile him up.

You shrieked as he flipped you over onto your back and stood up. Master was back and he was ready to make the most of those two hours.

***

A/N: Thanks for reading!! My requests are open if you have more asks/requests… just know that it takes me a while lol

Drop a comment and let me know what you thought :)

#black writers #michael b jordan #michael b jordan x oc #mbjordanedit #michael b jordan x reader #black panther #michael b jordan fanfic #creed 3 #adonis creed #creed iii

452 notes · View notes

verniferae · 11 months

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⸻ slow, drowsy mornings. [ 𝐈 ] ✦ hsr.

In both your and his lines of work, mornings where you can take your time getting out of bed and prepare for the day ahead at your own leisure are few and far between. So, when presented with the rare opportunity of a respite, a momentous lull gracing your frenetic everyday comings and goings, how do you start your well-deserved time off?

includes: gepard landau, jing yuan. wordcount: 3806 ( gepard ); 3758 ( jing yuan ). notes: writing practice, character study, lore study & spoilers ( mostly in jing yuan’s part ). etc.: trying to shake off the rust after a three year break from writing... and to ease back into my usual writing style, lol. also it took me more than a month to finish writing these. snail-paced writing should be a talent.

✧ 𝐆𝐄𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐔.

Gepard is a creature of habit.

That, in itself, is a matter of habit, a testament to his upbringing – from his earliest days as a timid child hiding behind his sister as he’s chastised by their austere father, to an adolescence spent in the desolate frozen plains to uphold his Oath to Qlipoth and, thus, his duty as a Landau, unto an adulthood filled with empty accolades and ever-waning hope in a dying world. In those dismal days, it was all he could do to hold steadfast onto his beliefs—not as a child of Landau, nor as the famed Captain of the Silvermane Guards, but simply as ‘Gepard’.

Gepard, the child who had to mature a little too fast, who had to take up arms at the age most other children are still learning to read and write. Gepard, the boy who had to fill shoes far too big for one as young as himself, who had known this and still wanted to, if only to relieve some of the burden from his sister’s shoulders. Gepard, the man who had yearned, and still yearns, for normalcy, for a life where duty and obligation and tradition didn’t break his family apart, a life where he doesn’t have to fear a tomorrow that might never come.

A tomorrow that he now knows will never come, for it has been averted through the selfless sacrifice of the late Supreme Guardian.

And yet, what sterile rationality unfailingly acknowledges, the wounded mind often struggles to understand.

So it is that Gepard is a creature of habit. He has spent decades of his life following a predetermined script of his own making, modified and perfected to allow for any sudden and unpredictable variables encroaching upon it. From his mealtimes to his personal training regimen, down to his patrol routes and waking and resting hours, as well as his alternating visits to his elder sister’s workshop and to the Landau Manor on his days off, or when time permits—he has spared no effort anticipating the worst, preparing for the day of Belobog’s inevitable fall.

So much so that, with the threat of extinction now vanquished, Gepard feels—off-balanced. Like the beaten earth he’s walked for twenty-odd years had suddenly given away to brittleness, and he’s just now learning how to find his footing again in order not to be swallowed by the gaping abyss, the opaque future ahead. The life he’d yearned for, all those years ago in his youth, as a mere Silvermane private, is finally within his reach and yet further than it has ever been before. Because, for all that annihilation has been averted, what he truly sought was something beyond the confines of honour and duty, an idyllic future that will ever be beyond his means.

But that is neither here nor there.

As always, Gepard wakes with the sun, just as the day’s first threads of light gently spill into your shared room and illuminate the surroundings in a cold morning hue. You’re huddled by his side, as you always seem to do in your sleep, a sight for sore eyes—your hair in disarray, one too many crease marks on your cheek, curled under the heaviest quilt you could manage to have commissioned to combat what, in your opinion, is the coldest time of the year, despite the Eternal Freeze having long since erased any concept of seasonal cycles that might have existed in times long gone. As always, Gepard rises from bed first to prepare for the day ahead, even though it is a rest day for him as much as it is for you. And, as always, Gepard carefully disentangles himself from you, albeit begrudgingly, and tucks you back in into what you’ve once ( good-humouredly, you had hastily assured him ) called a blanket wrap of doom—because, while incredibly comfortable, it is immensely difficult to get out of without aid.

He manages a wry smile at the memory, a fond recollection from the days when you’d first moved in together and were still trying to learn how to manoeuvre around one another in a context far less chaotic than a battlefield, and far less formal than the tall and imposing staterooms of Qlipoth Fort. Now, however, it comes like second nature, as though there had never once been a time where it was anything but. A hand reaches out, delicately, his knuckles gently brushing aside tufts of unruly hair from the space above your brow; in their wake, he leaves the softest of kisses, a daily reminder of his profound affection for you. As always, you stir, but do not wake – and as always, the ghost of a smile faintly curves the corners of your lips, as though, even in deep slumber, you could recognise his touch and his devotion to you at once, even blind.

With a final, lingering, longing glance at your peaceful sleeping expression, he rises from bed at last and begins his preparations.

When he steps out of the sanctuary of your home, dressed in civilian clothes he seldom has the luxury of seeing on himself, it is to the familiar bite of morning frost upon his skin, and to the strange feeling of hoar saturating through the thick layers of clothes and settling deep within his bones. It reminds him of childhood, of a time before uniforms made of heavy cloth and bulky Geomarrow armour began substituting silk and velvet and wool—of a time before he came to find the frigid winds buffeting the Restricted Zone more comforting than the warmth of his childhood home, the silence blanketing the desolate snow plains a better companion than the lingering unease seeping through every corner of the manor in the days immediately following his sister’s estrangement.

Gepard lets out a breath, watches as it condenses white in the cold air and then dissipates under the dusty light of old street lamps. The heavy door behind him closes shut with a final creak, and Gepard ventures forth into the grey morning, feeble sunlight barely beginning to cut through the shroud of vapour with its pillars of light. With a thick stack of papers held securely in his arms, his first destination is, as usual, Qlipoth Fort. The newly appointed Supreme Guardian will surely chastise him for coming in on one of his rare days off, but that is a bridge he will cross once the time comes—for now, he is simply content to amble along the well-worn path from his home towards the city centre with different, less guarded eyes surveying his surroundings.

As the Captain, all he could focus on as he marched down the streets in his uniform, stark blue and white against the muted beiges of the buildings, was how to best preserve the safety of Belobog’s citizens and the fragile peace within. Scarcely did he ever stop to observe the world around him for anything more than a moment, mind and body alike perpetually focused on the next imminent battle and the countless losses that will inevitably follow to pay his surroundings any more heed than necessary—like a man touched by grief and death and tragedy from a much too young age to properly feel any sense of belonging within the confines of the city, an outsider amongst the very people he’d sworn to protect all those years ago.

But as Gepard – as the young child whose father forbade from ever interacting with the common people again, and as the same child who had yearned to hear stories about Belobog’s past even his tutors were ignorant of – he is not constrained by a Captain’s duties, or a Landau’s oath.

As Gepard, there is no invisible boundary he has to take care not to cross, no etiquette he has the obligation to observe. And during the years he’s spent as your Gepard ( flawed, kind, tormented Gepard ), he’s slowly learned there is actually very little he needs to hold back from doing. Whether it be sitting on one of the many benches scattered throughout the city to watch as its inhabitants pass him by, or joining the small group of children crowding around Pela in front of the Everwinter Monument, sharing their eagerness to hear stories about their world, or even simply exchanging a few words with the people he’s always just considered mere civilians before then—little by little, the shadows of his father’s influence that always seemed to claw at his heart had begun to wane, replaced by something softer and warmer, something more understanding, perhaps even forgiving.

Still, old habits are hard to break.

Yet, for your sake, he will try.

By the time he reaches the heart of the Administrative District, the morning brume has already begun to lift, dispersed by the combined effort of sunlight and of the burning heaters coming to life at dawn. He nods in greeting at a handful of Silvermane Guards on morning patrol duty who’ve stopped to salute their captain, and lingers to exchange some pleasantries with more high-ranked ones regarding the focus of future military campaigns, now that the source of the Eternal Freeze has been eradicated. Some of those more familiar with him take the chance to poke fun at him—“Only Captain Gepard would find it in himself to wake up as early as usual on a day off, just to deliver some paperwork!” they jest, and the statement is met by said captain with a helpless smile and a fond shake of his head, which in turn rouses a short bout of hearty laughter from his soldiers. They bid their goodbyes, and Gepard marches on.

As expected, he is met with much of the same sentiment when he steps into Qlipoth Fort, within the confines of the Supreme Guardian’s office. Bronya tears her gaze away from the countless papers littering her desk only for it to fall on more of them in his arms, and when she meets his eyes it’s with a grimace so faint and so swiftly replaced by her usual controlled expression that, if he were any less familiar with her, he would have thought the work of his imagination. Gepard has weathered worse, so he doesn’t let that obvious show of disapproval deter him from approaching her and her workspace.

Bronya sighs, a hand kneading her brow as if preemptively soothing an impending headache. “Captain Gepard…” She begins, taking the stack of paperwork from his hands to quickly glance at it and confirm her suspicions—it is, indeed, the documentation she’s entrusted to you some days prior, which she had made abundantly clear was not urgent and that, at the very least, could have waited until after your day off. “Between the three of us, I have a hard time deciding who is more of a workaholic.”

“We are both merely striving to alleviate your worries, Lady Bronya,” he says, and he retreats a few steps to put some space between them—a respectable distance more fitting for their roles as ruler and subject rather than friends, though it only comes off as incredibly silly with him out of his uniform and her not as domineering and solemn as she is in public. “Some of us more so than others.”

Gepard offers her a wry smile then, recalling your figure from yesternight as you stubbornly toiled through the documents, hunched over the escritoire with only the suffused orange lamplight keeping you company, until way past any reasonable bedtime. The young Supreme Guardian heaves another sigh, but even she cannot hide the slightest upwards turn of her lips at the implications in Gepard’s words.

Bronya arranges the new additions to her workload in a neat pile far away from the chaos that has overtaken her main working space, then wordlessly dismisses Gepard with a pointed stare—one that he knows is a veiled warning not to step into Qlipoth Fort again until tomorrow. Just as wordlessly, he bows slightly and takes his leave, just as he’s done countless times before for a different Guardian, though in far less amicable circumstances, and for his austere father, when he was far younger and far less sure of himself than he is now.

When he steps outside again, it is to a much more bustling city, the streets of the Administrative District gradually growing busier as its inhabitants awaken and breathe life into their surroundings simply by existing. Gepard glances at the sky, makes a note of the sun's position in it—he should still have plenty more time before you awaken from your slumber. It’s still early enough that the bakery across the Goethe Hotel has yet to run out of your favourite pastries, so that will be his first stop on his way home. Then, he recalls you musing to yourself, some days ago, about having to replace the flowers in some of the vases at the entrance, together with some other household necessities you’d both forgotten to replace in light of recent events…

His mental checklist complete, Gepard ventures forth on another mission—only, this time, his final destination is home, back by your side.

You’ve just barely begun stirring from your languor when he shuffles back into your shared space, a steaming mug of your favourite hot beverage in one hand and a fresh change of clothes ( that you’ve forgotten in the drier the night prior, it seems ) in the other. The mattress dips as he settles at its very edge, setting the mug on the nightstand and chuckling quietly at the deep furrow of your brows as you try, in vain, to turn away from the ever-so-offending rays of sunlight shining insistently on your visage, prying you from the cradle of sleep. You groan when that proves unsuccessful, eyes still stubbornly squeezed shut.

“Not feeling like getting up yet?” Comes his question at last, voice laced with fondness and a hint of exasperated amusement. In response, you burrow deeper into the quilt, until nothing discernible is left of you other than messy strands of hair splayed across the pillow and over the comforter.

Gepard indulges you for a handful of heartbeats, but ultimately has to stand his ground. After all, there’s the rapidly cooling mug of your morning kickstarter on one side, and the promise of a rare breakfast together on the other.

“I don’t mind letting you sleep in a little more, but I don’t believe Pela will quite appreciate tardiness,” a pause, soon followed by thoughtful humming. “Besides, you don’t really have the heart to make Serval and Lynx wait out in the cold for us, do you?”

The violent speed at which you attempt to spring up into a sitting position at the mere mention of his sisters’ names would probably greatly concern the average person, but not Gepard. He’s wise enough ( accustomed enough ) to lean out of your trajectory, lest you be rudely forced awake by a headbutt first thing in the morning, and his hands reach out to halt your momentum before the impending wave of dizziness can take over. You fall into his arms, another muffled, miserable groan crawling its way out of your throat.

“Ugh… My head feels like it’s getting split open…”

Gepard’s eyes soften ever so imperceptibly, holding you closer to his chest and rearranging your position so that he can begin unravelling the so-called ‘blanket wrap of doom’ and extricate you from its evil clutches. “Then perhaps you should’ve heeded my words and gone to sleep earlier, instead of powering through the paperwork until late.”

Unfortunately freed from the protection of your beloved quilt, you first squint at the bright light assaulting your poor, defenceless eyes, then, in a fit of bad decision making, straight at the wide windows from whence said light comes, and then you linger at the ornate patterns adorning the ceiling of your bedroom—finally, after you’ve had your fill of your pretence at daydreaming, your gaze falls onto your lover, and it takes all the energy you can muster while being barely awake to keep your offended mien from crumbling away into a teasing smile.

“Excuse me?” You begin, trying to keep your voice as unwavering as you hope your expression is. Gepard simply shakes his head, used to and terribly fond of your antics in equal measure, and he simply, wordlessly hands you your mug. You take it with a thankful smile, a content sigh leaving your lips as just one sip warms you right up, but it soon falls back to the same faux frown as before. You cough in an attempt to recompose yourself, decidedly ignoring Gepard’s ill-contained snort, and intrepidly continue on your improvised spiel under the amused eyes of one Silvermane Captain.

“I don’t think Mr. Captain of the Silvermane Guards, Gepard Landau, who wakes up at dawn even on a day off simply because of habit, is qualified enough to harangue me over work ethics.”

You pin him with a pointed stare, an index finger poking his cheek, but Gepard simply answers by grasping your offending hand and bringing it to his lips for one of his usual fleeting baisemains. He leans into your touch, then, your palm gently cradling the side of his visage you were poking insistently just mere heartbeats earlier, his own hand over yours.

“Alright, you got me,” he sighs in mock defeat, unable to hide the widening smile shattering any pretence of his poor attempt at an apology. You hide your own grin with the aid of your mug, occasionally sipping on the now lukewarm drink, and a giggle escapes you when Gepard presses his lips to your temple. A little guiltily, he doesn’t mention his little morning escapade to hand those very papers to the Supreme Guardian. A little because you’d eventually figure it out either way, and a little because, while he finds your pout unfairly endearing, he adores your smile much more – and he’d much rather deal with the consequences of his omission later in the day than now.

A comfortable silence settles between the two of you then, neither in any particular hurry in spite of what Gepard may have tried ( and failed, bless his soul ) to instil in you—after all, while true that you’ve made plans to spend time with the Landau sisters and Pela, it is not until early afternoon that you’ve arranged for everyone to meet. Even in your simultaneously sleep-addled and sleep-deprived state first thing in the morning, you are not so easily deceived, just as Gepard is not so easily swayed once his mind settles on something. Some would call him inflexible, which rings undoubtedly true at times, but you know better. Somehow, someway, you’ve always known him better than he seems to know himself.

You’ve seen him doubt himself and his purpose, seen as his inner conflict made him question all that he knew, all that he stood for. You’ve seen how hard he’s tried to reconcile his father and his older sister in the months immediately following their fallout, despite knowing it would be futile without the people themselves’ willingness to compromise and understand the other. And you’ve seen how, in the face of so much death and desolation and despair in a world besieged by eternal frost, he became, together with the Silvermane Guards he leads, a beacon of hope for the people of Belobog. An impenetrable bulwark, the aegis of salvation.

Presented with a difficult decision, Gepard will always choose to uphold his Oath over all else—to protect, to preserve, even at the cost of his own life. Such is the duty of a Landau. Of an Architect.

But you have never resented him for that, never turned your back to him, instead offering quiet comfort and understanding, a steadfast and reassuring presence on those nights he felt his most vulnerable; your warmth and embrace a most effective remedy to the doubts and thoughts that plague him, even now. And for that, for the solace and peace that you unfailingly instil in him, Gepard could not be more grateful. He never fails to prove it to you, either—throughout your many years together, both as a way to show his love and devotion and as a way to make up for the long weeks he has to spend away from you, deployed on the frontlines, he’s always made sure to repay your thoughtfulness twofold, with attentive gestures to lighten your daily worries and small gifts to lift your spirits. This morning is no different.

“I’ve made a quick trip to your favourite bakery while you were sleeping,” he says, breaking the peaceful silence, and he doesn’t bother suppressing the soft chuckle that escapes him when your eyes flicker back to him with a renewed twinkle in them. “How about we get started on breakfast?”

Your answer comes wordlessly; in a series of fluid motions, you swiftly disentangle your limbs from his and grab hold of your well-loved quilt. Gepard follows suit, familiar with your modus operandi, and steps aside to let you work your magic as you remake the bed in hardly any time at all, making it look effortless. Then, with that done, you turn to him again, offering your empty mug in exchange for the set of clothes still carefully held in his hands. Gepard shakes his head at your antics, but ultimately makes no argument against it.

The barter is done, and you waltz into the washroom to change and freshen up with a spring in your step. And as Gepard’s eyes linger a little bit longer on the spot you were just occupying even after you’ve disappeared behind the heavy mahogany door, a sudden, passing thought gains clarity at the forefront of his mind.

With the threat of the Stellaron gone, there will be many more mornings like this one. Mornings where he doesn’t have to leave you behind, nestled in the safety of the city, with no guarantee that he’ll return alive to see your smile again. Mornings where he rises at dawn not to patrol the city’s outer perimeters for dangers, nor to confirm the statuses of his troops, but to buy your favourite kind of pastries at the bakery near the Goethe Hotel before they sell out, and to replace the flowers in your home with fresh ones he’s bought from the Eversummer Florist on his way back.

Most of all, mornings where he can be there when you wake up, and where he and you can get ready for the day together.

Gepard exhales, a muted sound that seems to reverberate in the now empty bed chambers. With a final glance at his surroundings, running a mental checklist to confirm everything is in order, he begins making his way towards the kitchen at last—mug in hand, and a tender smile brightening his usually stoic façade.

Perhaps, he can finally allow himself to breathe a little easier.

✧ 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍.

Immortality breeds indolence.

Indolence breeds stagnation.

And to a long life species, stagnation is no different to oblivion, for it is then that the curse of the mara begins to grow and attach its roots to its victims—an insidious, invisible enemy that even the most technologically advanced weapon devised by the Artisanship Commission is unable to eradicate, and one that even the strongest and wisest of warriors will eventually, inevitably fall prey to.

This, Jing Yuan acknowledges solemnly, was forced to, all those centuries past, as he had to watch, powerless, as his master gradually and wretchedly lost herself to the selfsame madness that took hold of innumerable others before her, transforming them into senseless abominations beyond recognition for whom only verdict, final judgement, and ultimate mercy was ( still is ) and could only be extermination.

A disease that steadily blurs one’s recollections until nothing but anguish remains in their stead, a blood parasite that feeds onto its host’s torment at their lost ego, waning sense of self, and vanishing memories and harnesses it to its whim, until what once was human has been reshaped into a grotesque stumbling simulacrum of life and made vessel of mutiny and delirium and bloodshed. Such is the nature of the mara, and of the gift of immortality that was bestowed upon their forebears by the Plagues Author more than eight millennia past.

Only when confronted with the consequences of their greed do humans finally begin to reflect and repent for their ill-fated shortcomings. And it is only when their selfishness brings about disaster that they at last realise the utter foolishness of their pursuits, and begin to beg for forgiveness to any higher entity that might listen to their wretched pleas. Jing Yuan has lived enough centuries to know this to be true, without any shadow of uncertainty — he has seen it in the eyes of criminals, begging and imploring not out of any genuine apology, but simply regretful they got caught; he’s seen it reflected in the faces of species that have newly attained immortality, their expressions twisted by abject terror as their life is rendered naught with an effortless swing of his blade; and he’s read it, seen it in his own people, in the ancestors that led to the Xianzhou Alliance becoming an entity that exists solely to extirpate the turpitude wrought unto existence by the Abundance.

Jing Yuan is acutely aware of what he must do, of the duty he must fulfil. As a Cloud Knight, as a General, and as the holder of the seat of the Divine Foresight. His is a burden that he alone must shoulder, just as the ones before him did, and as countless others after him will.

Days, months and years blur together in the life of a long-lived species. Mortal existence is like a limpid river flowing incessantly towards its promised estuary, spurred on by the assurance of the eventual end to its long journey – it matters not what manner of debris its currents pick up over the course of its travels, for its waters will ever stay unstained, untempered by the filth of sin. The Xianzhou natives, blinded by the golden fruits of temptation, willingly precluded themselves such peaceful fate and chose, instead, to shatter the absolute laws of the Heavens in their myopic arrogance.

Their descendants are thus paying the price of their forefathers’ error. Through the Three Sufferings, across hostile stellar systems, enduring ruthless civil wars and horrific alien entities alike in an endless pilgrimage of repentance under the salvation wrought to them by the gaze of the Reignbow Arbiter, they have withstood millennia of tribulations to reach a tenuous peace at last. Peace that, in no small part, has been won through the Divine Foresight’s efforts.

Since the day he has taken office, Jing Yuan has spent every waking moment protecting, overseeing, guiding, never resting. Toiling alone in a place unseen by most, he found quiet companionship in books and sound counsel in his starchess board and pieces, playing against fictitious and nebulous opponents far above his calibre—all in order to temper his mind, turn it into a blade with an impossibly sharp edge, just so that he might rout his real opponents long before they can have any chance to become perilous enough to threaten the Alliance. Throughout all that – or rather, despite all that – he’s somehow gained the title of the Dozing General.

Though, he supposes some of the fault does lie in himself, and in his tendency to nod off in public most infamously. As a rebellious child who defied his parents’ wishes for a life as far removed from warfare as sun and moon are, simply out of a juvenile wish to carve out his future with his own hands and through his own means, Jing Yuan has long since gotten used to subverting any and all expectations others may happen to thrust upon him. They may mock him behind closed quarters, but such matters are scarcely ever worth in-depth scrutiny: for the ones lacking are them, and the one tirelessly travailing is him.

Regardless, Jing Yuan has always been of the opinion that if one’s already been affixed with a descriptive epithet, even if not of the particularly flattering sort, then they should at the very least act the part. It only stands to reason, then, that he should live up to the high regard those snide remarks reserve for him. That, and it does him no harm—albeit this harmless mischief of his does earn him your pointed, reproachful, all-withering stare every now and then.

This morning being one such occasion. Uncommon as they are, days where there are no time constraints fettering him to his countless duties and neverending papers set the perfect stage for his silly ploys of make-believe.

Jing Yuan stirs, a soundless yawn slipping past his lips as his eyes blink open with an ease unbefitting someone who’s supposedly only just woken up. His head lolls to the side, towards the world beyond the confines of his home, and his mouth quirks up in a lazy show of self-satisfaction when he’s greeted with blinding sunlight. Outside the wide traditional-style circular window, the artificial sun employed by the Luofu has just reached its zenith, hanging high in the impossibly, and equally as artificial, blue sky. It is but a means of approximate timekeeping, but even the basest of creatures would be unable to mistake the exceedingly late hour.

Unhurried and utterly unbothered, Jing Yuan languidly rearranges his slumber-laden limbs into a more believable sleeping position in anticipation of your arrival, fighting back the amused smile threatening to betray his carefully crafted act at the mere thought of the exasperated furrow of your brows and the unsurprised, but still chagrined, grimace he will surely find on your visage as you slowly come to the realisation that he has yet to rise from bed—at midday, no less. Him, one of the Arbiter-Generals of the Xianzhou Hexafleet, current holder of the Seat of Divine Foresight, someone looked up to by all in the Alliance, sleeping in despite being aware of the hearsay being spread among the Luofu populace. The scandal of it all.

And he knows he doesn’t have to wait too long. He’s gotten quite familiar with your schedule over the decades you’ve been together, after all, and it would be a blemish on his otherwise spotless repute as the Divine Foresight should he be found remiss in his knowledge of his beloved’s day-to-day engagements. He will not allow himself to be judged lacking in anything that may have even the slightest connection to you, even should he regrettably happen to employ that selfsame knowledge for his less than noble, incredibly, facetiously whimsical ends.

Besides, he muses to himself as his face burrows deeper into the pillows, his blanket haphazardly strewn over his legs and half dangling off the bed, you don’t seem to mind it all too much – whether out of a deep-rooted familiarity with his antics or, though much less likely, a genuine enjoyment of them, you never seem to be able to hold onto your annoyance for any longer than the split second it takes for your usually serene expression to morph into one of exasperated scepticism at the sight of a lark successfully executed. Jing Yuan lets out a soft sigh, faint vestiges of your scent still lingering on the fabric of the pillows and enveloping him in your comforting, if a little faded, fragrance, and for a moment he contemplates falling asleep again, just like that; warmed by sunlight, spread out over the traditional-style bed, half of his visage sunk into an assortment of feather-soft pillows and the other obscured by an unruly mane of hair. But the muted sound of approaching footsteps sobers him of his would-have-been somnolence as swiftly as the crackling of thunder would, and he considers whether he should pull the blanket over himself again or just leave it hanging off the bed.

The wooden folding doors open with a resounding slam right there and then, and the decision, though inconsequential, is made for him. Jing Yuan has to suppress the chuckles threatening to spill from his lips at the beat of silence that follows your grand entrance back into your shared chambers; and though he cannot see, he’s sure the emotions flickering through your visage right now are as plentiful as the flowers blooming in the courtyard. Dismay, surely, closely followed by clarity and realisation, and perhaps a bit of irritation at the sight of the disarray he’s single-handedly plunged the bed into since you’ve left earlier in the morning. Then, a heavy sigh, and the padding of clothed feet on the wooden boards as you draw nearer to the bed.

“How quaint,” you say, wry and suspicious and every bit as exasperated as he’d imagined you’d be. “It seems my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

Another pause, this time mercifully filled by the chirping of birds outside the window, and by the distant sounds of starskiffs soaring through the air beyond the confines of his home — of your home. But this lull, too, is short-lived. A hand promptly furls around each of his ankles, firm enough to have a secure grasp over them but not enough to bruise, a thoughtfully casual nature to the touch, and Jing Yuan has enough self-possession to repress a noise that’s equal parts surprised and amused from escaping him as his centre of gravity slowly inches ever forward, towards the far edge of the bed and the gaping void beyond it.

If an outsider were to witness the spectacle currently unfolding in your bedroom – one of its occupants faking sleep, the other forcibly dragging said rascal off the bed – unaware of the close relationship and centuries-long history between the two of you, it might appear as though you were committing a grave slight towards the General, and neither you nor Jing Yuan would be able to hold it against them for thinking so. It is not often ( if ever at all, were it not for a select few people who hardly hesitate to make their highly critical evaluations of his character known ) that he’s treated with such insolence, albeit playful, most of his interactions with others usually punctuated by either admiration, apprehension, or by the ostentatious favour-currying of the heads of the merchant guilds and other Outworlders alike.

An Arbiter-General’s duties and responsibilities are hardly as glamorous as they may first appear to be to the untrained eye, after all. Years blur together in an endless succession of tedium and repetition and acedia; what might have seemed or felt novel at first will slowly but surely morph into normalcy, and what once might have been cause of joy and celebration becomes just another frayed thread in the amaranthine tapestry of an immortal’s life. Likewise, as the Divine Foresight, as a General, and as a soldier—there is not much Jing Yuan has not experienced in his long life. It was the thrill of disobeying his parents at first, when he was still a starry-eyed Cloud Knight-hopeful with nothing but ideals and ambitions and dreams to his name, spurning the beaten path they’d prepared for him as their own parents in turn did theirs, instead seeking honour and glory on battlefields in the most wretched and forgotten reaches of the cosmos, striving to protect the Xianzhou and, in doing so, uphold the will of the Reignbow Arbiter.

Then came the High-Cloud Quintet, and the countless accolades that inevitably follow in the wake of a group of rising heroes—accompanied by the unavoidable terror and hatred and distrust as those very heroes cruelly, eventually, perhaps even prematurely, meet the end of their time at the hands of fate, torn apart at the seams by selfishness and by selflessness, by love and by hate, by life and by death.

Jing Yuan had felt honoured, at the time. To have his strength and accomplishments recognised by the master he’d so admired and from whom he’d learned all he then knew of swordplay and warfare, and to have been granted the chance to fight alongside warriors whose names would be recorded and celebrated in the annals of history for millennia to come—for a fleeting moment in time, he had felt as though his juvenile dreams had taken life, mere fantasy superimposing itself unto reality; like a transient blossom blooming and bedazzling all who’d come near it, so that it may be remembered for its beauty and not for the desolation that followed its withering. An insect leaving its cocoon to live but a minute.

That also had to come to an end, as most things in a long-lived species’ life often do. Such is the price of eternal life—to see with one’s own eyes as Fate spins its neverending loom, to bear witness to the ever-changing fortunes of heroes-turned-sinners, to feel and judge for oneself the evanescent nature of all things, the innate impermanence permeating human existence. And of five people, he alone has remained untouched by strife, observer of vicissitudes and outsider to the depth of the love and anguish that caused them each to turn their blades against the other.

And then, there is you——

“Love, may I suggest some more considerate ways to wake someone up?” He catches himself just mere heartbeats before the back of his head can make direct contact with the lacquered floorboards, one honey-tinted eye blinking open and affixing you with faux stupor and something akin to divertissement, a fond smile finding its way upon his lips. “Surely, even I do not deserve a concussion first thing in the morning.”

You slacken your hold over Jing Yuan’s ankles with a noncommittal shrug and promptly take a step back to allow him some space to gather his bearings, your half-hearted attempt at a rudimentary wake-up tactic foiled just as it was getting to the good part ( not that you’ve ever believed you’d be able to catch the Divine Foresight off-guard, but still – surely, there is nothing wrong with daydreaming of impossible outcomes? ). Your arms crossed over your chest and an unimpressed mien drawing your brows together and pulling your lips into a thin line, you watch as Jing Yuan pulls himself into a sitting position under your pinched gaze, steady and unwavering even as he meets your eyes, with all the casualness in the universe, from underneath silver lashes. He leans forward then, elbow propped up on a knee and cheek resting against his knuckles, his smile widening into an unabashed and adoring grin.

——You, whose mere sight sets his heart alight, even centuries after your fateful meeting.

“I am afraid any other method would have proven unsuccessful, General,” you huff out, half-impassive and not quite convincingly disdainful, with a hint of ill-concealed fondness beneath the bite of your words. “After all, had I tried gently nudging you ‘awake’, as I’ve already attempted several times in the past, you would’ve simply grabbed hold of me, caged me against the bed, and held me in your arms until you finally felt like getting up.”

Jing Yuan’s visible eye closes into a crescent, his brows raised in mock surprise and clearly amused at your impromptu tirade. “And you didn’t like it?”

“It is not a matter of like or dislike, my dear,” you retort, the endearment falling from the tip of your tongue so effortlessly making his heart soar. “It is the timing I have an issue with.”

“So, all I am hearing is that you don’t mind it. Which means I will persist in my endeavour to keep you by my side, preferably sunbathing in bed.”

You squint at him, mouth forming around words of protest before thinking better of it, sparing yourself from the onset of a much worse headache. After all, you’ve come to know quite well that, no matter the rebuttal, Jing Yuan will, without fail, find some way to twist your words into teasing remarks in his favour—and if your time together has taught you anything ( other than confirming your downright awful taste in men ), it’s that silence is the best response when faced with any of his coy utterances.

So, you don’t bother giving him an answer, instead opting to carefully manoeuvre around him and the bed to reach the antique dressing table at the far end of the room. Jing Yuan follows your movements from the corner of his eye, mirthful smile still on his lips, as you busy yourself with the dresser and its many gold-embossed drawers, no doubt looking for his hairbrush and perusing for one of the many silk ribbons you’ve begun collecting for his exclusive use since the day you’d first moved in together. Your back obscures the busy motions of your hands, and he has half the thought of rising from his seat on the floor to aid in your frantic search but, before said musing can fully register in his mind, you whirl around with an endearingly triumphant expression having overwritten your earlier frown.

Jing Yuan blinks at the unfamiliar sight of the delicate piece of fabric. “Is that a new addition?”

“Why, yes,” comes your blithe answer, your feet padding back towards the bed with the hairbrush and the chosen ribbon cradled in your hands, “Yanqing personally helped me pick it the other day as we were running errands.”

Your words are acknowledged with a pensive hum, no further objections made over the ribbon’s cutesy design of stylised, flourishing swords over a plain pastel blue background. It does indeed feel like something Yanqing would pick out over anything and all else. Jing Yuan wonders how his protegé would react if he ever saw his guardian wearing such a silly hair tie—perhaps he should alternate between it and his usual red one, just to see Yanqing’s candid reaction to it. He tucks the thought in the recesses of his mind for further deliberation, already envisioning all the possible ways the scenario could evolve into.

A contented sigh escapes him as soon as your hands find their way into his mane of unruly silver hair, smoothing out any stubborn knots ahead of time so that the brush can glide through it easier after, and tame it enough so that he may look more presentable and dignified like the Divine Foresight, Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu, should, and less like his Wave-Treading Snow Lion Mimi. Because, for as much as Mimi is cute and regal and intimidating, you’re rather sceptical its owner would be received with much of the same sentiment were he to appear in front of his retainers as dishevelled as he looks right out of bed.

Not that you can know for sure, of course – the sample of said retainers you’re drawing your conclusions from is rather limited, after all, and there is a wild variety of personalities and differing interpersonal relations to take into consideration. For all you know, they all would simply turn the other way and pretend they saw nothing.

Still, for your own peace of mind, you cannot help but fuss over him.

“You know,” you begin, voice thoughtful and playful and far away in a senseless musing all at once, your hands going through motions you’ve repeated countless times over the centuries you’ve spent in Jing Yuan’s presence, and him in yours. “Sometimes, I feel more like your caretaker than your lover.”

“Is that so?” Jing Yuan tilts his head back, allowing you an easier angle to gather his hair in his usual half-up, half-down tail, a pensive hum cascading from his lips. “But you don’t hate it, do you? After all, it’s not like I’m forcing you to take care of me.”

And when you reply by gently tugging at his hair in faux indignation, he laughs—a breathless, boyish sound betraying his age, echoing through the room and drowning out birdsong and wind alike, as though there was no one else in the universe but you and him and this quiet, tender moment frozen in time, untainted by the cruelty and sin that ever await him beyond the confines of the sanctuary of your home.

But here, and now, nothing about that matters.

Jing Yuan waits, quiet and obedient, until you’ve secured the ribbon around his hair in a knot that feels neither too tight nor too loose. He knows it’s perfect even without a mirror—he’s trusted you in more treacherous circumstances with far less margins of error to gamble that trust on, after all. And even should this blind faith of his be proven wrong over a clumsily tied tail, he certainly wouldn’t stop trusting you now just because you’ve retired from the limelight of war.

When he turns around, it is to the sight of you. You, your visage limned in golden sunlight, the warmth of your hand as your knuckles ghost over his cheek, the look of fond exasperation you reserve for him, and him only, as he leans in for a chaste kiss, smiling against his lips—you set his heart alight.

As you always have. As you always will.

And no matter how many more years, decades, centuries pass, how many more mornings will begin just like this, how many more times you’ll come to physically drag him out of bed or tie his hair up for him, grumbling about his aggravating habits all the while – simply because it is you, Jing Yuan thinks he’ll never truly get used to it, to your presence, and to your love.

He knows he never will.

#scriptorium.#hsr x reader #gepard landau x reader #jing yuan x reader #hsr imagines #hsr headcanons #gepard x reader #jingyuan x reader

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