No Such Thing As Too Many Keychains ... ☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

Heartslabyul chiikawa series!!! Might do other dorms too ‼‼

SOMETHING ABOUT YOU

── ♡ KAFKA OGURO

if there was anything that annoyed kafka more than you, it was nosy scandalmongers. unfortunately, he has to deal with both of you, all at once. you, on the other hand, enjoy having fun when the opportunity lands on your lap. unfortunately, you underestimate kafka's ability to worm his way into people's hearts.

The disbelief laugh that leaves you is wobbly and hoarse, and it’s only upon Kafka Oguro’s unimpressed stare that you dutifully shut your mouth.

“You can’t be serious,” You stammer, dropping your flimsy plastic fork into the box of cheesy fries (paid by Kafka, which you now realise was a means to butter you up). The sigh that escapes his lips is heavy and exhausted, and he drops his chin into the palm of his hand.

“Unfortunately not,” He slides his phone across the table, and you look over at the dimly lit screen, choking at the headlines that read.

“Ward 0 mayor rumoured to be in a relationship.”

“CEO of HAMA Tours spotted leaving with mystery lover.”

“Oguro Kafka in committed romance.”

You suck in your teeth sharply, muttering a “yikes” as he draws back his device. Despite your mild pity, your curiosity takes centre stage and you waste no time in interjecting your thoughts within the lull of awkward silence.

“That sucks but… I’m not sure why you invited me here just to tell me this?” You raised a valid question. While the local fast food joint was no fine dining, you and Kafka weren’t exactly friendly enough for him to unload his concerns onto you in a casual setting. He was your quasi-boss! You’d go as far as to believe he didn’t even like you much, considering his austere disposition whenever you entered a room. You probably would have already been packing up your office if it wasn’t for the fact that it was the Chief who had hired you.

Your suspicions about Kafka’s intent began to arise, and you realised too late what was going on when his observant eyes met yours.

“This nonsense began when the Chief and I had gone out for dinner together. Because of my lack of spatial awareness, I wasn’t aware that the lead editor of the famous gossip magazine ‘Paramour Monthly’ had been close by our table…” He fishes for something in his messenger bag, pulling out a rolled-up paper. Vibrant hues of purple and pink flood the parchment, the iconic colour scheme of the magazine, and a blurry photo of two figures is printed on the front page. However, with Momiji’s standard grey jacket and Kafka’s distinct violet hair, it was unmistakable to you that it was them sitting in a booth together.

While usually this type of idle chatter could have gone easily ignored, a magazine as famous as Paramour Monthly could cause enough stir that HAMA Tours’ operations could be disturbed as scandal-mongering fans will hunt for the mystery babe. No doubt this news would be disturbing Momiji as well…

“I don’t have any intent of making the Chief have to deal with this ridiculousness. If I could, I’d take the burden on myself entirely. However, that’s not possible,” He clears his throat, and when he looks you straight in the eye, you realise you have stuck your foot into a quagmire the minute you accepted his invitation.

“I’d like to ask if you can take on the role of being my… secret significant other.”

You drop your milkshake onto the plush vinyl of the sofa.

After having to repeatedly apologise to the flustered and tired staff of the food court, Kafka takes the awkward walk back to the office as an opportunity to elaborate on his new grand plan.

The gist is that for a long-term bonus in your salary, you will be his mystery lover until the excitement dies down, in which you both will fake an amicable separation and continue business as usual. In his own words, you were also his last option, seeing as you were the only one he knew who had no reputation at stake here. Upon the promise of the bribe, you had cheered up significantly to this ordeal. Kafka, on the other hand, was the one who looked the most reproachful.

“Should I call you something trendy like ‘babe’, or would something more traditional like ‘sweetheart’ work better?” You ask, and the look he sends you is scathing.

“None of them,” He answers curtly, and you sigh, disparaged.

“You don’t get how this whole fake dating thing works, do you?” When he meets your inquisitive gaze with a blank stare, that’s all the answer you need. You feel a tickle in your stomach as you puff out your chest exaggeratedly.

“Allow me to give you a crash course on the inner workings of this timeless troupe called—” Your lurch backwards when Kafka closes the entrance door behind him, barely missing your nose by a breath’s hair. All you see is his disappearing back as you yell behind him about how that was no way for him to treat his pseudo-significant other.

(i)

“They’re right,” Momiji says piteously, and Kafka’s shoulders droop in disappointment. “Nobody would believe it if you guys act like that in public.”

The Chief, upon being filled with both gratitude and shame, had offered to lend a helping hand to see this farce to success. Today was the day to discuss the boundaries and codes of conduct necessary to allow the public to believe you two were a professional but loving couple.

(Kafka’s stomach churns at the notion, despite it being his novelty idea.)

“We’re going to have to hold hands and be corny, so you’re going to have to get used to it, Kafka,” You state squarely, and his childhood friend nods in agreement, much to his growing displeasure.

“We’ll eventually have to use pet names.”

“Yup, that’s right!”

“And we might have to kiss and stuff.”

“Exa–Wait, isn’t that a little too far!?” Momiji gapes at you while you, shameless, sit firmly as if you are manning a fort. Kafka sighs.

“Do you see why I’m reluctant?” He points out and this time her tired gaze sweeps over to him.

“Kafka, you’re the one who asked them.”

Perhaps her growing exhaustion at dealing with the both of you got to her because Momiji made a half-hearted excuse of having to check up on EV3NS before swiftly departing the solemn conference room. This leaves you and Kafka at your lonesome, staring each other down with shared annoyance.

“I don’t get it. I’m trying to make this work,” For my salary.

“We don’t need to go overboard in selling the act. I’ll look ridiculous,” In front of Momiji.

After an intense moment of staring each other down, you’re the first to give in.

“Fine. We’ll keep it as down-low as possible, but you have to start being more of a gentleman to me,” You warn, closing the lid of your laptop and grabbing your warming carbonated drink. You are visibly disquieted, much to his confusion, even as you lift your backpack over your shoulders and make your way to the door.

“I don’t understand why you’re disappointed,” Kafka questions behind you, and you pause with your hand situated around the door handle, rooted in place. If Kafka had been any less observant, he would have missed your lips' slight tremble.

“Because you’d be my first boyfriend, even if a fake one,” You quickly shut the door before he could get a word in, the only sound in the room being the quiet whirring of the air conditioner. For the first time, you’re the one who leaves the purple-haired man flustered.

(ii)

Much to your surprise, Kafka lived up to his end of the agreement.

For the past two months, you’ve grown familiar with the feeling of Kafka’s hand around yours, and the scent of peppermint from his minty cologne. While at first, any type of touching had been reserved solely for passing publicists and fans, eventually, you barely realised that you were in the habit of grabbing onto him whenever you were excited or happy. Likewise, it skips your attention how he doesn’t shove you away, or that his eyes soften at the corners whenever you aren’t looking.

He had even begun doing unnecessary things, like texting you ‘good morning’ and ‘goodnight’ despite his packed itinerary, and bringing you thoughtful gifts and souvenirs whenever he left the comfort of HAMA. He had even booked a lavish dinner at a famous restaurant on your birthday, paired with a large bouquet delivered to your room.

There were no cameras, no nosy editors, and no extra eyes to bear witness to his vocal affection. It came with the unsettling realisation and a pounding heart that you liked Kafka, and it brought along a wave of dread and a permanent lump stuck in your throat.

When you start pulling away, you miss the fact that you’re not the only one who has been gutted by new realisations and uncomfortable feelings.

Kafka Oguro, despite his stinging attitude, never truly disliked you. You had annoyed him, sure, and he knows you were purposeful in the way you push buttons. He’s met people like you before, who are terrified of being veracious, that they’d happily play the role of a fool if it meant people laughed with them rather than at them. Thus, he harmonised with you by being your straight man, armed with biting retorts and lacklustre reactions.

Now that he thinks about it, perhaps he’s given you enough reason to believe he held animosity against you. He regrets it enough when you confessed he’d be your first relationship, even if it were only a guise. He had tried his best to make it up to you by masquerading as the ideal boyfriend, letting you hold onto his arm whenever you walked together, and letting you call him by whatever cheesy name that crossed your mind.

Until he realised that he had long since stopped acting. Kafka can’t pinpoint the exact moment when he had begun carefully picking out gifts for you, excited for your reaction, or when his heart began skipping a few beats whenever he spies you in a crowded room. You had a personalised ringtone on his phone. Momiji started pointing out that he doesn’t sit still until you respond to his texts. He had started requesting Sakujiro to reserve the breakfast muffins you like because, by the time you usually arrive at the cafeteria, they are gone. Thoughts of you completely rule his mind, and he’s not stupid enough not to know what this means for him.

In the safety of your respective covers, you and Kafka lay in bed, equally dreading the expiry date of this relationship.

(iii)

You blink, and it is New Year’s Eve.

HAMA Tours’ office is decorated with festive lights, colourful streamers and the wafting smell of delicious food. The ward mayors and employees alike are in higher spirits, exchanging excitable conversation and rambunctious antics. For once, it is you who stands silently amongst the sea of bodies, smiling wildly whenever anyone’s eyes land on you, but there is an unmistakable tremble in your hands that nurse a cup of juice.

Of course, it’s he who notices first, and you barely realise the tug on your arm until your drink is stolen from your hands and you meet the electric stare of Kafka.

“Can I steal you for a moment?” He asks with a small smile, and you smartly nod as you let yourself be drawn along by Kafka’s hand around your wrist. You don’t realise his destination until you are standing beside him as he unlocks the door to the building’s rooftop.

The chilly breeze hits your face, but you count yourself lucky for wearing extra layers. This doesn’t stop Kafka from unwrapping the scarf around his next, gently fixing it over you despite your frequent protests.

“You’ll get sick!” You counter and he doesn’t respond, plopping himself onto a bench decorating the deserted space. He pats the empty spot next to him and you have no choice but to comply with his demands. He tilts his head back and you apprehensively copy him, eyeing the inky sky glowing with starlight. He doesn’t speak, the silence only occasionally interrupted by the muffled noises inside the building and the usual ambience of nighttime city life. When you glance at him from the corner of your eyes, you hate how you can’t decipher the look on his face, regardless of how utterly beautiful you find him under the moonlight.

“Are you going to tell me something cheesy that the moon looks beautiful tonight?” You attempt to tease but lack the usual vibrance in your voice. You know this when Kafka finally turns to look at you, and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Why are you upset?” You reel back at his question, and unconsciously your hands begin to fiddle with the loose threads of your winter coat.

“Why would you think that?” You divert, shifting to create more distance between you and him. This does little to deter him because he leans closer to you with narrowed eyes. It’s how he gets when he realises he’s caught someone hook, line and sinker.

“You’ve been distant. I know you enough to pick up on that,” He hesitates before his fingertips graze yours. It takes all the strength you can muster to ignore his hurt expression when you yank back your hand.

“How much longer are you going to drag this along? It’s been long enough that nobody cares anymore. So why do you—” You descent into stammers, your chest seizing up as you keep your eyes on anywhere but him. “Why do you keep doing romantic things for me? Buying me stuff, always trying to talk to me, always asking how I’m doing… are you really that cruel that you don’t realise what it’s doing to me?”

You drop your face into your hands, feeling tears well up at the corner of your eyes. You couldn’t bear to see the look on Kafka’s face right now. He’s likely disgusted, or angered by you ruining his carefully thought-out efforts in maintaining this guise. Is he going to walk back inside, or tell you it’s over?

You feel warm hands circle your wrist, and you weakly let him tug your hands away from your face. He looks up at you from where he sits crouched on the tiled floor, and you feel your heart lurch in your throat because has Kafka ever looked at you with so much adoration before?

“I don’t want it to end,” He confesses quietly, enough that his voice could be drowned out by the passing wind. He lifts the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a sweet kiss to your knuckles. He smiles up at you, the affection mixed with a hint of mischief when he catches sight of your bewildered visage. “If you’d want me, I’d like to be your boyfriend. Genuinely, this time.”

He’s given no time to react before you throw your arms around him, leaning into him as he falls back on his tailbone. The position is awkward and uncomfortable, but the both of you could care less as his arms envelop your waist and you litter kisses to his face. Fireworks erupt in the sky, colouring the sky with luminescence as he finally seals the deal with his lips pressed against yours.

— PUSH AND PULL : honkai star rail.

premise. as someone who's always believed in the term “try and try again,” (peak delusion, you know) rooting yourself in their heart has always been your goal, no matter the cold rejections and curt declines you receive. however, even you have your limits; perhaps this little push and pull you two have going isn't worth your time after all... but what happens then, if the chaser becomes the chased? (oh, how the turns have tabled.)

...or, when you play hard to get with them.

— ft. sunday, aventurine, jing yuan.

warnings: angst n fluff, messy messy, these boys are in love but are wayyy too chicken to admit they actually adore you, genderless reader.

a/n. inspired by @/xiaowhore's playing hard to get headcanons! my holy trinity 😇 n MY FAVES RAHHH

NEXT : BACK TO MASTERLIST || ASKBOX

SUNDAY is perplexed. very much aware of his qualities which enlists him as one of the finer (finest) bachelors of Penacony (he was the Robin's one and only blood, and was also the head of one of the main guiding forces of the Family, after all), sunday isn't sure he's ever come across someone as.... tenacious as you.

foolish, to be more precise, for he cannot for the life of him comprehend exactly why you are the way you are with... him.

no matter his respectful declines of your invitations to promenade around Penacony (re: going on dates), you really didn't know how to leave him be. though he hasn't exactly said he hated it, sunday was, admittedly, rather... affronted. your gifts, in particular, were your loud declarations of your affection (that make his wings flutter more rapidly than he'd like); but sunday was rather inconvenienced at the whole thing.

nonetheless, he does still accept them. reluctantly, mind you. not because he was fond of your constant shower of affections, which seemed so permanent that he began to look forward to them got used to it. to your credit, your gifts were very much to his tastes. (Robin once gave him a rather soul-searching look when he found himself wearing the gloves you gifted, light blue and white in color. he still uses it, just not when his sister is in the vicinity.)

in fact, perhaps he may have gotten too comfortable. little by little, your constant intrusions on his time have thawed a way to his heart; making sunday look forward to your jovial greetings and grandeur elaborations on your day, and such a thing makes him feel scared sunday needed to nip this in the bud, and fast.

so he confronts you, abruptly one day as you give him his newest gift—a jewelry box for his earrings. (surely, the rapid thumping of his heart was due to his irritation at your constant persistence, right?) “i'm afraid this can no longer continue. i am flattered by your... fancy for me, but i do not wish to enter a relationship in the near future.”

the utter silence that follows is torture to him—but he endures. he tries not to look at the momentary flash of hurt on your face. you seemed to quickly recover, though. giving him a simple smile (it didn't reach your eyes. it shocks him how his chest ached at the realization) and shaking your head when he returns the gift to you.

“i understand, mr. sunday.” the formal usage of his name instead of your chipper ‘sunday!’ makes his face twitch. “but please, keep the gift. think of this as my last declaration. it... would do me a great comfort, just this last time, if you accepted it instead.”

(if he had grabbed your hand at that moment as you left for the door, would he regret it?)

when you leave, sunday thought it would put the conflicting feelings in his mind at ease—but it doesn't. a week and two days counting, true to your word, sunday receives no flagrant gifts, nor little messages on his phone that tell him to take care of himself, to eat, and to make sure to remember to check up on Robin.

instead, contrary to the feeling of ease, regret follows him instead.

it's at two weeks and five days counting when sunday could no longer stand the sight of papers that stacked atop his desk and the image of you leaving for the door replaying in his head far too many times for him to count, that he contacts Robin.

and she, once hearing about the situation, gives him a very, very enlightening talk. (of course, not without giving her brother a lecture of the lifetime. part of him felt shame to know that his sister knew of his... turbulent love life, but she was the only one who he could trust, anyway).

“absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she says. “but in your case, brother, your heart has already decided it's course, right?”

sunday eyes the smooth velvet of the jewelry box you gifted, ruminating. his earrings lie there, carefully pristine and beautiful, gold and silver intertwined. he has worn them without fail, clean and spotless. (of course it was. such a design so intricate was only chosen by you. the thought makes his ears warm).

the next days are agonizing. vigor renewed and epiphanies well-spent, sunday spends the rest of his time after finishing his duties researching and painstakingly finding the best jeweller he can find (even employing the suggestions of a certain gambler, much to his dislike), and spending a god awful amount of time revisiting and rechecking which spots you like, which places you enjoy, to the point it comes up in Penacony's headlines that sunday is interested in someone.

surely, it should've reached your ears by now, yes? sunday panics. your preferences are well-accounted for, and he's sure the Bloodhound family members that report to him have to tell you that the person he had in mind was you. even Robin, who was your closest friend, has probably told you already.

it's embarrassing to admit, but; to hell with it, the day he meets you after three weeks and sees you having a pleasant chat with aventurine, of all people, sunday thinks his heart had shattered into little pieces and stabbed themselves into his body. not so much as sparing him a glance, moreso.

so when, finally at his wits end, sunday chooses to corner you at the dewlight pavilion and spills out how he has royally screwed up in the worst way possible, no one is surprised. at this rate, you would be swept up in the charms of that wretched gambler, and what sunday lacked in, aventurine more than made up for.

“wait, don't go to that gambler just yet.” he's breathless, he's chaotic—and something in his heart squeezes when you finally look at him. “i... i wish to take up your time now, if that's possible.” (he wishes he would take up your time forever, really, but that was still too early).

you eye his getup. all of your gifts, lined on the man you spent so long chasing after—you see the gloves you gifted, the tie with not so much as a single crease, and the earrings that shine more brightly in the light of the pavilion. (it suits him. like you) it was as if sunday had completely surrendered himself to you, had all but decided to proclaim that he was yours, and this was nothing short of a plea for you to hear him.

“please.” he says. almost begs. “i can't bear not seeing you anymore. allow me to correct such a damning mistake.”

and if you were skeptical, the way sunday looks at you would dispel any doubt you could ever have. (his wings, they were fluttering.)

(months later, after a nerve-ending confession, many days of dinners, shared gifts involving matching jewelry and promenading to your wishes, it dawns on sunday he was absolutely dancing to your tune. did he regret it, though?

....no, most certainly not.)

if AVENTURINE were to be honest with himself, he saw you as a useful “friend” rather than a romantic interest. was it bad of him? of a sort. but risk cutting himself open and letting someone he might grow to care for know about all the ugliness that follows his life? no, he's fine as it is, thanks.

the first thing he notices is that you're kind—though he distrusted most of his colleagues and preferred none to get close to him, aventurine, in some morbid moment of curiosity, instead allowed himself to bask in your attention. instead of curtly disparaging you, he flirts back at your compliments (the way your face heated up in return was far too endearing that he can't help but want to kiss you he finds it amusing) and consistently texts you a “did you get home safe” or a “i bought you this because it reminded me of you”; at this point, it was like you two were dating.

was it leading you on? yes, but he supposes it was a win-win; he could send you those tiny bits of validation that was enough for you to stay respectfully at a distance while he probed at your intentions. unlike others who attempt to garner his favor, you're genuine, and you seriously take the time to know him. because you always text back with hearts, always reassure him, tell him to stay safe and wish him luck at every gamble, every high stakes bet he finds himself in. you even complimented his perfume once (and, if he had to be honest, he could not stop thinking about it all day—because that perfume he commissioned exclusively was based off of your own favorite scents and it was extremely embarrassing that he loved hugging you knowing that you loved the way he smelled and that it felt extremely domestic).

(sometimes, he doesn't reply. for months on end. suddenly the golden-haired man you love goes cold and you know then that aventurine ghosts you and then returns when he's in need of a friend—never a lover. it hurts you, but at the very least, you know he cares in his own way.)

and, if aventurine had to be honest, it was killing him from the inside bit by bit. as if to drive the knife deeper, you never danced around what exactly was going on with you two. you never ask why he ghosts you, then sends you a bundle of gifts all of a sudden and then rapidly spends time with you and repeating the cycle. no, you were consistently by his side, so warm and so caring—so unlike him—that aventurine wonders if it's really all right to open his heart to you.

if, by some chance, he actually wanted to be with you, would you treat him even more sweetly than before? aventurine thinks you would—you were beautiful in your entirety, and he was practically undeserving of you. he imagines himself kissing your hand and having you in his arms—and that feels like ice cold water being dumped onto his head, because you could do so much better and yet, why him?

so when aventurine hears about how a certain doctor was visiting you for some unknown reason, his already fragile sense of security in this little will-they, won't they crumbles.

and when he finds out that you were staying over with ratio? something twisted lodges itself in the little brushes of his heart, coiling and coiling—making him feel green. aventurine is aware you and the doctor are good friends, and ratio was the one who even told you to make a move on him! how could he just—suddenly interrupt?!

(was it dramatic? extremely. but knowing his friend and the person he secretly adores might end up together? you can't really blame him.)

he supposes this can be attributed to him. it was an egregious mistake, a blunder aventurine made—he never gave you a clear sight of whether he truly loved you or not and now you're slipping away from him.

so, he does something very unexpected.

at 3:00 AM in the wee early morning hours, aventurine practically barges into one Dr. veritas ratio's home, demanding what the hell was going on between you. and as if he had expected it, his doctor friend merely gives him a shrug in return.

“perhaps they were simply getting fed up by a certain IPC member—who is clearly head over heels in love with them—giving them mixed signals.” ratio's tone is stern, and aventurine definitely knows that the look he gives him is the one he gives only to fools.

you idiot, the doctor seems to say. yeah, yeah, he is; aventurine ignores the clear pinprick at his dignity.

yes, he supposes he is the fool here. “ah.”

“yes, ‘ah,’ indeed. now, let me propose a question.” the purple-haired man says. “will you react in such a way when i tell you that in order for my friend to stop their anguish, i managed to get them to fraternize with one of my colleagues?”

“...what?”

“they will be having a meet-up seven system hours from now.” ratio shrugs. eyes aventurine, who's looking at him like a gaping, stupid fish. “i can only hope that no one would dare to disrupt.”

...it doesn't take him long to be rid of the gambler by then.

(a few hours later, you stop by the Intelligentsia Guild to see one veritas ratio with a smug smile, eyeing the fur coat draped around your shoulders, and the flushed and happy expression written on your face.

“did it work?” he asks.

you laugh, “splendidly.”

indeed, that gambler was a fool, and there's nothing more than dr. ratio loved than to educate such fools to shape.

“that will teach him.”)

as a quote unquote ‘old man’ who knows that he's well up in his years for a relationship, JING YUAN finds you to be quite amusing.

it doesn't take a detailed analysis to know that you were smitten with him, really. you're a complete open book by his standards—if your heated face and slightly airy voice whenever you were even placed in the same vicinity with the Dozing General was anything to come by. while flattering, he also shares the similar mindset of being too old for any love his way—and he could be mara-struck at any given time, and jing yuan does not wish such a life filled with anguish and pain for the one who may steal his heart. but, worry not, brave suitor of the Arbiter General! unlike the other two above, this man has the experience of millenia, and is open-minded and aware that you truly wish to be perceived as a potential lover.

in fact, jing yuan's recent favorite habit is sneaking off the Seat of Divine Foresight purely to freak you out, watching you scramble up your words, seeing the heat crawl up your nape and bloom all across your face. adorable. you certainly knew how to appeal, that's for sure.

(“heh, it seems i've found a new place to stay in so that the Diviner Fu won't grill me alive when she sees me.”

and when he's rewarded with a bashful and speechless look in return, a smile and your, “i'm glad, general.” it surprisingly lightens up his mood by more than he expected.

that, in turn, gives him a frightening 30% energy boost; fu xuan was utterly shocked to see the languid man actually working and looking like he enjoyed it, for once.

“did something good happen today, jing yuan? why so enthusiastic?”

“i just felt like working more than usual, diviner Fu. i seem to have my energy levels at a high.”)

now, jing yuan is considerate and perceptive first and foremost, so there's a high chance that out of all the men here, he is the most open to giving you the chance to pursue him. he does inform you beforehand that he has no plans of accepting your confessions in the future, and that is where the ‘hard to get’ part comes in.

it's like playing a confusing romance visual novel with a fickle love interest—you never really know what you're doing, whether it's something jing yuan would like or not, and you don't know if he even thinks your attempts are moving his heart. (tldr: he friend zones you).

he maintains the same distance no matter his banters with you, no matter how many times you tell him that you'd help yanqing out with sword lessons. it's like he was just... treating you as he would a friend, and that you were basically stuck in the friend-zone forever.

(he keeps it to himself, but something warm stirs in his chest when he sees yanqing sleeping on your shoulder after training practice, with your arm protectively around the boy's side.

your sleeping face didn't make it easy to look away either; it's one of the few moments in which jing yuan shows just the slightest bit of reciprocating your pursuits; he brushes back the stray hairs covering your face, and drapes a blanket over the two of you.

of course, perhaps to tease yanqing, he also takes the calligraphy brush and makes a work out of his face, doodling all over it.

when you wake up, there's a lingering scent of ink and yellowed paper that fills your senses. when you turn to the boy beside you, you almost giggle out loud.)

it's a little disheartening—and while jing yuan did acknowledge that you were slowly, slowly burrowing yourself in his heart, he doesn't act on it fast enough, and instead lets the realization sit in his mind for a while.

it gets to the point where it feels as though he were preparing to distance himself, and even yanqing had asked if he was well. your visits with the Arbiter General also decrease, as he suddenly buried himself in his work even more than before.

he doesn't get to see you all that much afterwards, despite the lingering feeling of missing you filling his heart.

....that's until jing yuan hears word of a recent mara-struck incident involving the Sky-faring Commission; with your name listed among those heavily injured.

when he visits Bailu's clinic after yanqing urges him, jing yuan takes in the sight of you, littered in injuries from head to toe. your life, about to snap. he never even told you that you won; you did manage to steal his heart and for the first time in a long time, jing yuan allows himself to love.

so if, after three weeks later when you're finally healed up and ready to go, jing yuan brings you into his arms and drags you to let him sleep in your lap, you can't really blame him now, can you?

a/n: i love yearner hsr men,,, might do a pt 2 though. thinking of mayb ratio, jiaoqiu and f/heng next time...... sighs dreamily

@ ICEUNHIE: do not repost translate or plagiarize my works.

A humble streetwear moment :3

🐟 Kiana Kaslana Tuna Doodles 🐟

OLD COWBOY’S REPRIEVE — pre-canon!boothill x gn!reader, 543

the light from your shared room casts boothill’s figure in shadows and angles as it streams through the curtains and spills across the covers — in the silence of the bed, you hear the distant bleating of sheep and mooing of cattle somewhere far in the fields. the sound reminds you of a childhood trip to the countryside that you had long forgotten, lost and muddled somewhere in the back burner of your mind, but with this moment and these sounds it comes rushing back to you.

“oh, for fuck’s sake,” beside you, your lover’s foul mouth indicates that he is less than pleased to have forgotten to draw the curtains close last night, again. boothill grunts beside you, stirring in bed and burrowing his head underneath the pillow in effort to hide from the sun.

“mhm,” your own bleary eyes blink in the light that filters in through the gaps between the curtains. deciding that yes, it is indeed much too early for it to be so bright, you turn over and away from the window, burying your face in the broad expanse of boothill’s back.

boothill grumbles tiredly, and you — sweet you, darling you, the love of his life and the fire of his loins — just hum. the tension coiled around his wide shoulders eases when he feels your lips press against an old scar on his back, your softer, uncalloused fingers curling along his pec, where the unshaven scruff of chest hair continues to grow.

“c’mere, ya,” boothill rolls over with a shift of the mattress beneath your bodies as you press against him.

your sweet affection towards him in the morning light never ceases to make him weak, and his heart aches from the tenderness of your touch as you press against him, running your hands over his chest while he grunts softly and pushes himself against your hand. he wants to shift closer, push himself against you till he can make a home in the soft warmth of your skin, and the two of you can forever be one entity so he would never have to part from you.

eh, an old cowboy can have his dreams.

you raise your head so boothill can slip his arm underneath, letting his bicep act as a pillow for your soft head. when you do not open your eyes, he nudges you lightly.

“y’ gon’ wake up, toots?” he rasps, voice still groggy from sleep.

“five more minutes,” you groan, which roughly means it’ll be an hour or two before boothill can properly get you out of bed.

boothill sighs as he lets his arms pull you to him completely, your head laying on his bicep now while you remains with your eyes closed. his own head falls back heavily against the pillows, hair cast over the simple linen in a mess of black and white.

he buries his face in the crook of your neck and inhales deeply — it is your perfume now that is an irresistible bouquet, the scent of sunshine and something sweet, and boothill relaxes into the embrace he holds you in, closing his eyes as he too lets sleep overcome him.

his chores out in the ranch can wait a lil’ longer.

hello regarding that small jing yuan ramble you wrote. um. you're literally cooking w it. the money i would pay to see you write it is insane 🫡

thank you for your contributions to the hsr community. you are a godsend girl (｡- .•) <3

SOS — jing yuan

summary. you grow sick, and lo and behold, it’s not actually from your pathetic pining over the general of the luofu, but something else.

notes. based on this. five people asked for it. i want to lick a bold stripe up this man’s chest. All Hail Jing Yuan.

warnings. 16+ as it may be mildly suggestive, heliobus possession, injuries, blood, vomiting (not a kink. you’re just sick), a literal exorcism, and you and jing yuan get it on on some random park bench.

You had been sick for a while. Maybe a week, now. First, it had started as a simple cold; blocked nose, sore throat, weak bones. 

But now, even after a trip to the doctor’s to retrieve some medicine to at least soothe the persistent ache in your throat, the cold was growing worse and worse. 

And today, you were convinced that whatever illness you had wasn’t just a simple cold. 

Your stomach is twisting into knots, and there’s an incessant panging in the back of your skull. 

At first, you tried to ignore the pain. You had a report to write up that was expected by a coworker by the end of the day, but you were only growing sicker by the minute. 

This had to be the worst day of your life.

Worked to Hell, stressed, your hair was a mess, there was a toothpaste stain on your shirt, and you were sure one of your socks was inside out. 

The Master Diviner had noticed your state first. As soon as you walked into the doors and sat down, she passed by your desk, placed a small pile of papers before uttering a quick, “are you sick?” 

She did it out of concern, but all it did was knock your confidence down into the negatives. 

And now, you had an even bigger issue hovering over your shoulder. 

“You look unwell.” 

Your head shoots up from your desk, and the holographic screen fades out of view when your hand slams over the gadget. You’re sure you just ruined half of your report; you don’t remember the last time you saved. 

When you push back your hair, two pairs of golden eyes are peering down at you. 

Uh oh. 

“Uh–” Your face was burning, half out of embarrassment, and also because he was so close to you. You could feel your face instinctively scrunching up to keep the tears at bay. “Sorry, General.” 

General Jing Yuan offers you a small but concerned knit of his brows. A hand presses to your forehead. “You’re running hot.” 

“No, no…” You were not getting sent home. God you needed the money right now. “I’m fine. Thank you.” You move away from his hand and try to turn your burning face from him. 

Your head felt wrong. You felt dizzy. 

Your mother was bombarding you with messages begging you to come help her at her restaurant, your father wouldn’t stop asking you to come home because he missed you, and you were swamped with work, and nothing was coming together, and now you’re sick– 

“Mmm. I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” General Jing Yuan presses. “You look as though you’re about to pass out.”

You shake your head slowly, cautious of the migraine pulling behind your eyes. Crying won’t help the migraine forming, idiot. “I need this pay, sir.” 

“That can be arranged.” 

Oh, good Gods. 

The playful smile he sent your way almost made you melt into a puddle onto the floor. 

You always wondered how soft his hair was. 

You want to say more. You want to tell him not to worry; you’d worked through worse. For the amount of sick sessions you’d had in these bathrooms, the last stall on the second floor bathrooms of the building practically became your second bedroom. 

You also want to lean forward and taste his lips. But, for one, that’s sort of unprofessional, and two, he doesn’t even know your name. You’re also sure you look like an absolute mess, and a complete turn off. 

You shake your head again, but when you try to stand up, you wobble. Jing Yuan rests his hands on your shoulders to keep you steady. 

You can’t tell if you’re spiralling into hysteria, or if your body’s actively trying to fight the worst flu of your life. 

“I’m sorry, I–”

Absolutely humiliated, you burst into tears. 

You try to muffle it so as to not disturb any of your coworkers. 

You’re desperately trying to find a dry spot on your sleeve to wipe your tears, but surprisingly, the General hums sympathetically and swipes his thumbs beneath your eyes. 

Then, he reaches over the desk and shuts off the gadgets, collects your bag, and hands it to you. 

“Go home.” There’s a gentle flutter of his lashes. 

Your face is still burning when you bow your head. You can’t disobey him. The Master Diviner was your boss, but he’s even above her. “Yes, sir.” 

General Jing Yuan escorts you to the door slowly, and winks at you on your departure. “Rest well.” 

You’re more convinced your face is burning because he touched you, more than how your skin feels like it's being melted from the inside by a growing fever. You promptly ignore the strange looks you get while you sob all the way home. 

ೃ༄

Your sob session had left you feeling worse, and you’d promptly been sick in the toilet as soon as you made it to your home. 

You’d tried to swallow pills to ease the headache growing behind your eyes, but you couldn’t even stomach that. 

For a while, you had shivered in your own sweat on the bathroom floor. It was disgusting. You had planned to call a doctor, but it was way too late for any clinics to still be open at this hour. 

It was dark when you got home. 

After what seemed like an hour, you garnered enough strength to peel off your clothes and scrub the sweat and grime off of yourself. The steam of the shower was only relieving for a moment. As soon as you step out, you feel dizzy all over again. 

But, you’d made a mission to get changed, brush your teeth at the very least, and try to sleep it off. 

You manage to pull on something more comfortable. You try not to move too much. You can feel acid sloshing in your stomach with every shift of your arms, and you want to teeter over and empty your guts again. 

You hold out long enough to feel weakly for your toothbrush. Your face is somewhat clean, disregarding the tears that silently drip down your cheeks—you know that crying is doing the opposite of relieving your headache, but you can’t stop yourself. 

You rinse the taste of sick from your mouth and lean against the cool bench to soothe the heat surging through your body. 

When you look up, you blink and catch something in the mirror. 

Maybe you were just staring in the mirror for too long. 

Not only had your face warped into something hideous, but there was now something green floating behind your ear. 

It looks like a wisp, lime and yellow, like a spirit. 

You slowly turn your head in the direction of it. 

There’s nothing there. Your eyes meet the wall of the shower instead. 

You try to reach out a hand to it while staring into the mirror, but you feel nothing. 

“Sweet.”

You jump back. 

Your fingers twitch just before the reflection of the orb. It’s like a ball of green flames lingering by the side of your head. You feel no aura, no heat radiating off of it.

You scrub your wet eyes with the heels of your palms. 

Still there. 

Your eyes then narrow suspiciously. It does little to help your headache. 

If you didn’t feel two seconds from collapsing, perhaps you would’ve been more alarmed. 

You try to reach for it again. 

Your fist twitches forward and it slams into the mirror. 

Not only does white hot pain peel up your arm and split your knuckles, but the glass shatters into pieces. It falls to the floor and embeds in your skin, and you’re sure the wound will scar. 

You don’t find it in you to scream, because the pain is so far away you don’t feel like you’re inside your body anymore. 

It’s a ghost. 

Oh, Aeons, you’re being haunted by a small cloud. 

Briefly, you worry it’s one of your passed grandmothers, or her grandmothers. They'd probably reprimand you for being single and pining after a dude that was like hundreds of years old. 

The spirit’s voice is unfamiliar until you recognise it.

It’s yours, and it's coming directly out of your mouth. 

“I’ve been here a long time, y’know?” Your brain buzzes with confusion. Are you speaking? Not really. But you are speaking. That’s your voice—did you always sound so obnoxious? Ew. “You just haven’t noticed.” 

You exhale shakily. You try not to cry, but tears pool down your face anyway. The pain in your head grows worse. You’re sure your brain is splitting in two. 

Blood drips from your hand and onto the tiled floor.  

“It hurts less if you let this happen. Assimilation is usually easy, but with you, not so much. You’re very stubborn.” 

Oh, great. More insults. Just what you needed. This sucks. Your work is overdue, your pay has probably been cut accordingly, and now there’s a ghost in your body and ruining your house. 

You blindly try to touch the spirit again. 

Your hands don’t move.

“What are you?” That’s you. You know it’s you. Your voice wavers. It’s less confident than when the spirit speaks with your mouth. 

“I am your desires. A fruition of your every thought and being.” The flame continues to burn. It lets you take a little bit of control. Your fingers phase through the reflection of the spirit in the mirror. “And you are delicious.” 

The implication was there, but all the statement made you feel was disgust. Your body involuntarily shudders, and the flame hums in confusion before you stiffen once again. 

Your hand is bleeding. There’s red pooling all over the bathroom bench, but you still cannot feel the throbbing and the glass protruding from your skin. 

“You are sweeter than other humans. Like sugar.” The flame feels warm close to your skin. “I realise your kind calls it ‘attraction.’”

Oh, my God. The stupid soul knows that you lay awake at night thinking about this man that barely knows you exist. 

This is embarrassing. 

You can’t even will yourself to cry, so all you can afford is to blink stupidly. 

And why are you now thinking of how he smelled when he touched you when there’s a literal ghost with a vendetta taking over your body? 

You need to get your priorities in check. 

Your fingers twitch with disobedience. Your phone sits untouched on the counter. The screen is covered with shards of glass and smudges of water from the faucet, but you know you can reach it. If you try hard enough. 

Come on. 

Your index finger twitches again.

The ghost is going on a tangent about your boring little life and your boring little crush on the General. 

You can’t bear to listen anymore. 

Your hands spring to life and you pounce for your phone. It’s not exactly in vain, for you do manage to withstand the pull of the spirit and the pain that returns to your hand and your head as you open your messages and swipe over the first contact you see. 

It’s Madame Fu, much to her misfortune. You’re too desperate to consider yourself a burden. 

Considering the time, she’s most likely getting things sorted to close the building. The last message was an automated message of your pay being sent to your account from last week. 

“What are you doing?!” the spirit shouts. It bounces inside of your head like a bullet has fired. 

Your trembling fingers swipe over your keyboard. 

You procure a melodious string of poetry as a result. 

You: HEPLP IRMB

Your head is pounding. You’re sure you’re about to throw up. A dizzy surge spears behind your eyes. 

You: BOSS I NEEDYRLURHEL P

The phone drops from your hands as soon as your thumb cards over the send button. You notice the messages send through before your eyes wordlessly snap to the mirror and you stand ramrod still. 

Once again, you’re a passenger beneath your own skin. 

When the spirit takes over, the pain dissipates, and the fearful tears that run down your cheeks quickly dry. 

After a moment, the spirit calms itself down. 

“I’ve grown so impatient with you. You’re boring. You’re lucky your emotions are so delicious, otherwise I would’ve abandoned you a long time ago.” You don’t consider yourself lucky. If anything, the ghost should consider itself lucky it gets to rest in your warm soup for a brain. You’re sure every working brain cell has fried to a crisp at this point. “You’re so sad and miserable. How’s about I help you get your life back on track?” 

You want to ask why. You’re sure it has better things to do than play wingman. 

But, you stare at the soul fluttering beside your head with wide eyes. Your chest heaves with worry. 

How you haven’t succumbed to cardiac arrest yet is beyond you. You would’ve patted yourself on the back for remaining so strong about the situation; but you suppose you’re sort of cheating. Not being in control of your body probably means that if you were autonomous, you’d be on the floor sobbing over your injured hand, the broken mirror that would cost a few hundred credits to fix, and the fact that General Jing Yuan actually put a finger on you today. 

Oh, and also there’s a ghost haunting you. That, too.

“This is my body now.” 

Yep. You definitely needed to get your priorities in check. 

You were beginning to feel woozy. The smell of copper hit your nose, and your stomach turned over itself four times. 

“Now. Let’s fix this face up. You look dreadful.” 

Thanks. You’re not sure if you can speak to it, but your voice radiates a laugh much unlike your own. It’s more of a short sweet cackle than anything. Somehow, the ghost is able to navigate and use your phone’s camera to clean your face properly. 

It ignores the blood oozing from your knuckles, choosing instead to curiously open drawers until it stumbles upon a bag full of makeup. 

All of this expensive stuff you’d splurged on last year. You will your breath to remain somewhat of an even pace.

You’d have a breakdown over this if you manage to survive before the spirit decides to throw you off a cliff later. 

You feel like this ghost is more suited to be your therapist, ironically, with how it mumbles in your voice about how you could present yourself much better if you got out of bed earlier every morning and cared about yourself. 

“You know… that old geezer likes you, too.” 

Your heart stops. 

Then, there’s a cruel snort that leaves your lips right after. 

If you could scowl, you would have. Don’t let it get to your head. It’s lying. It’s trying to get a rise out of you. And it was working, too. 

You didn’t even realise your feet were moving towards your closet to fish out something suitable to the ghost’s tastes.

This was going to be a long day. 

ೃ༄

A long day did not entail you stumbling back to the workplace because the ghost didn’t know how to handle the pain of fancy shoes. The brickwork of the roads were uneven towards the entrance, and you almost trip onto your face. 

“Where is that man?” 

This was awful. 

You wanted to die on the spot. 

“He can’t hide from me,” the ghost informs you. At least, you think it’s speaking to you. “I can taste him.” 

You want to ask what he tastes like. 

The ghost seems to understand your silence. “Humans call it ‘cinnamon.’” 

Oh. Yum. 

You grimace. Inside your head. This was confusing. Your body feels like a suit being worn by someone else. It’s weird. It’s wrong. It’s almost violating. 

You feel as though you’re witnessing everything through a screen. You cannot feel anything; not the snug of the clothes you’re wearing, or the wind on your skin, or the pain in your feet from the shoes. Nothing. 

All you can do is watch. 

You wish you couldn’t have. 

This is so painful. 

“General!” 

Oh, God, that’s your voice. And you’re moving very briskly towards a large figure who’s stopped to acknowledge you. 

He seems barely taken aback when you stumble and fall into his arms. 

You’re way too excited pushing hair from your face that the General has to cock his head to the side for you to acknowledge him.

His eyes have widened significantly, and the grin on his lips is awkward, to say the least. “How are you feeling?” His hand presses to your forehead again and draws back quickly. “You’re still hot.” 

“Thank you, General.”

He lets out something akin to a snort. 

This sucks. You’re like a vessel, and yet you’re sure your face is still burning at the proximity.

Oh, this is so embarrassing. 

You realise you can sort of smell him. It’s so light, though. 

He really does smell like cinnamon. You had never noticed it before. It’s faint, as if he hasn’t chosen to top up his perfume from the morning, but it clings to his uniform nonetheless.

“Do you need to sit down?” he asks worriedly. 

You realise he’s the only thing holding you up. 

You try to cry for help. 

Nothing but a pleased giggle escapes your throat. You realise there’s a burning in your chest. You figured it to be your heart giving out on you—you’d take death over the embarrassment that washed through your veins. 

Your wishes did not come true. 

General Jing Yuan peers behind you for a moment, watching where you came from. 

Are you trembling? You can’t tell. 

“Are you feeling alright?” he asks again. His grip on you has tightened. 

You try to say no, but instead you blurt out, “I’m good– great, actually. Since you’re here.” 

This was horrible. You want to sink into the floor and never be seen again. There’s a cackling in your ears, and it’s your voice. 

“Shall I bring you to a medic?” 

You slowly shake your head. 

“Do you need an escort back home?” 

Oh, boy. You manage to weakly shake your head again. It’s all you can muster. Your voice isn’t working. It’s not yours. You were also afraid you’d try to drag him inside your bedroom if he did walk you home. 

He brings you over to a seat and helps you sit. Your legs are bouncing all over the place and you can’t find it in yourself to sit still. Your eyes are flitting left and right and up and down trying to locate the source of the voices you’re hearing swarming your head. 

A hand touches your cheek. You instinctively lean into his palm. 

“You’re bleeding.” And he’s touching your hand. You may as well have fainted there. 

“Flesh wound,” you say. 

Jing Yuan’s grin turns crooked. “I commend your bravery, but this may require stitches.” 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have really nice eyes?” 

Here we go. The cackling was growing worse. You feared your head would explode before your pounding heart would. It felt as though it was shattering your ribcage as it thumped. 

The General tilts his head. Loose curls of white follow. 

You’re so relieved he sat you down. Otherwise you would have fallen to the floor. 

“Really nice,” you repeat. “Like sunshine.” 

Jing Yuan looks at you strangely. “Charming, aren’t you?” You’re busy admiring the shadows that his lashes cast over his cheeks. 

Your heart melts. You are so ridiculously down bad it hurts. 

You’re sure he can see your cheeks burning. That’s involuntary, too. The spirit inside of you seems equally confused. 

Good. If it wants to embarrass you, you’re going to cook this thing from the inside out with your body heat. You hope the fever boils it alive. That would be cool. Deserved. 

And if you lived, you get to tell your future grandchildren how you bested your vengeful ancestor because you had a fever and it couldn’t withstand your body temperature. 

The spirit’s confidence in your body, however, does not waver. 

You can see a glint in General Jing Yuan’s gaze. His eyes loiter behind you again as if he’s staring at something approaching. 

The spirit doesn’t notice a thing. 

“Well.” General Jing Yuan’s thumb traces over your cheek again. “If we’re playing that game, I will admit you look lovely tonight.” 

Oh, God. 

This is the best and worst day of your life and you’re barely experiencing it. 

You manage to garner some control, and only some because the spirit is most likely cooking in your body, but all you manage is the stupidest giggle from your lips. 

You hadn’t even realised how close he was. 

You’re delicious like this. 

He can’t be telling the truth.

You can’t believe it. 

You watch him get up, and you, wherever you are inside your head, feel a pang of disappointment in your stomach. 

“You should get to a medic,” he says softly. “Come.” 

If you were really in your body, you’re sure you would’ve swooned and quite possibly died right there on the spot.

For a moment, you’re sure that’s what the spirit inside you is trying to do. Your body teeters over and you stare at his shoes. 

Your arms jut out to either side of the bench, but you don’t stand. You witness your legs shaking and weakened ankles. 

You’re worried you’re actually going to throw up onto his shoes.

What escapes your mouth instead is a, “General…” in the most pathetic whine you’ve ever heard in your life. And it’s in your voice, to make matters worse.

You feel yourself grimacing internally. 

General Jing Yuan quickly sits back down on the bench to steady you. You can hear him speaking, and he sounds concerned, but you can’t make out his words clearly. 

“Gen–” 

You feel dizzy inside your own head.

Yep. Heart attack. Definitely. 

At least you’ll die in this man’s arms. 

But, no. You don’t die. Not there. 

General Jing Yuan’s face is a blur in your vision, and his gloved hands are resting on both cheeks, still burning hot to the touch. 

Oh, you can still smell the cinnamon from his hair. So soft and subtle like it’s been dusted onto a nice scoop of ice cream. 

If you were here, and properly here, you would have sprung from the seat and taken off running. 

But, it’s not really you, and so your lips meet his hurriedly. You can’t see much because your eyes have shut, but for whatever reason you can feel, and there’s excitement that grows in your stomach in a pool of humiliation when his lips move against yours.

Your fingers bury into his hair. Soft. So soft. You wish you could cherish the feeling normally, within your own skin and body, and truly feel his warmth as your own. 

Your lips are hot on his, and you feel his lashes flutter closed upon your cheek like a gentle kiss and swoop. His tongue tastes suspiciously of tanghulu, but that only drives you further into him. 

This is embarrassingly addicting. 

Your fingers decide to tangle themselves within his hair. Daringly, they venture further towards the silk red ribbon and dance around stray strands that had fallen free. You desperately want to pull at the silk and watch his hair fall to his shoulders, but you aren’t sure if your limbs are yours. 

His hands are so warm by your hips. And they’re so big, and you feel the bumps of the callouses along his palms and it makes your bones jitter apprehensively. 

You’re way too into this, but if you’re bound to be fired over it, you’d consider this worth it. 

The General seems to be enjoying it—and he is. He hums pleasantly against your lips, and his thighs are slipping further and further beneath yours as you pull yourself closer and closer. His grip is firm; not enough to hurt, but enough to placate you. It’s nice. He’s nice. 

It’d be even nicer if there wasn’t something screaming in the back of your head. You’re not sure if it’s you, or the spirit, or some other worldly being like your alter-ego, but whoever is in control of your body chooses to ignore it. 

Fever be damned, your arms swing around his neck. Your skin feels as though it’s melting against his, like hot wax dripping from a burning candlewick. Your chest presses flush against his, and you can feel a steadily racing heartbeat against your own. Warm and fluttering—not as quick as yours. You’re sure any quicker and it’s going to explode—but quick enough to notice, like a fast drumbeat. 

There’s a cold hand that glides along the centre of your back. 

You presume it to be his, but something kicks in your stomach when you remember one of his hand locks on your hip bone, and the other has travelled low enough to press gently against the expanse of skin just below your navel. 

You want it to travel lower. You bury the thought in the back of your head. 

The spirit breaks through, you think. You’re suddenly floating again, and maybe there’s panic there, because you can just feel, in the fleeting moments where you’re shut out again, that your body twists in his hold. 

From what you can tell, General Jing Yuan keeps you in his arms, and your lips against his. 

It’s cold. 

Whoever stands behind you must be blowing icy winds directly on your back, because you feel yourself shivering.

And then, you choke. 

Something firm pulls. Not on you, not on your hair, but something inside of you, and it almost hurts. It feels like a part of you is being torn directly from your racing heart, and surging cold fires into your veins.

It’s like ice crystallises into your blood and blocks your arteries, but the sensation is pulling and pulling and you’re growing breathless. 

That’s you in your body. You feel it. You’re kicking yourself for it, but you’re trying to fight in the General’s hold. You’re trying to turn around, to fight the shadows of four figures you can now see casted on the street. 

General Jing Yuan, still, presses firmer against you, and his hands have abandoned your hips to hold your face gently. It’s comforting, and you’re melting, but all the while, the sensation is growing worse behind you. 

You’re worried when you hear a snap, as if they’ve just reached forward and broken your spine into two.

Then, there’s one final tug, and you’re breathless. 

You drop fully into the General’s embrace. He’s less sucking your face off now, and more placing calculated soft kisses against your lips every few seconds. 

You feel boneless, like you’ve had your very own soul snatched from your body. 

But then, you blink slowly. And you realise you’re in your own body again. 

“Huzzah!” 

General Jing Yuan whispers assurances against your lips, and you only find the strength to hum in response. As he makes you even dizzier when his lips trail along the corner of your mouth, you test the strength in your hands.

You can barely make a fist, but it’s you curling your fingers into your palm. It’s surreal, but it’s you, and only you. 

There’s a girl's voice from behind you, and the iridescence of something a sickeningly familiar green and yellowish iridescence that reflects onto the concrete like water. 

“Alright! That’s another one down! Pats on the backs for everyone! Thanks for the help, General– oh.” 

Another voice chimes in. “Should we look away?” 

“This is amazing. Like watching a car crash,” a third says. 

The fourth sounds irrevocably terrified. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

There’s embarrassment there, but you only giggle against the General’s lips. You’re still exhausted, and you’re sure despite the outfit the spirit had dressed you in that you appear like a walking corpse. Especially in comparison to the General, but, if he’s into that you’ll take it. 

You later learn from the four that had practically violated you that you were possessed by something called a Heliobus. Sounded very not intimidating, especially when the smaller one with the ears had shown the spirit to you while it was trapped in a cage. 

You recognised one of them as Sushang, the busy little Cloud Knight girl. The third was a nameless Trailblazer from the Astral Express that had given you a fist bump for not passing out during the literal exorcism that they put you through.

Then, there was Guinaifen, who had accidentally live streamed the entire ordeal on her phone. 

All of it. 

You weren’t fired, no. But, The Master Diviner was furious, but more so at the General for his lack of professionalism and, well… ramming his tongue down your throat. 

General Jing Yuan, was, to say the least, very excited when you returned to work. 

You’d tried to ignore the entire thing. There were people offering you weird stares on the street, and the workplace was no different. You kept to yourself mostly, only picking up where you’d left off last week. 

And you were relieved you weren’t stumbling home and throwing up in the tub anymore. That had definitely been a week. 

You’re busy trying to finish off with editing official documents when a hand rests on your shoulder. 

You almost spring from your seat when you lock eyes with the General. Again. You almost smash your hand through the computer screen when anxiety riddles your bones. 

That’d leave a permanent scar. The General had been so kind to make sure your hand was patched up from when you’d shattered your mirror.

“General,” you greet quietly. “Good morning.” 

He smiles. “Just Jing Yuan, if you please.” He leans against the side of your desk. “It’s almost time for morning tea, so… I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me for a walk now.” 

You glance down at your screen. 

‘Morning tea’ was quite literally thirty minutes away.

You look back up at him. “Right now?” 

“Fresh air wouldn’t hurt.” 

“Sir, I’m already on thin ice as it is. Madame Fu will–” 

General Jing Yuan politely waves you off. “Everything will be taken care of for you. I’ll see to it myself.” 

You bite down on the inside of your cheeks.

Well. 

Slowly, and with uncertainty, you stand and dust off your pants. There’s a dumb grin on your lips. “General, I’m starting to think you might be flirting.” 

General Jing Yuan leans just barely closer to you and narrows his eyes playfully. 

You almost died. Still, though your voice wavers, you ask, “I hope you haven’t been thinking of me.” But you do hope. You really do. 

You reach down to turn off your computer screen, but you blindly feel around for the button, because you’re afraid if you look away he’ll disappear. 

He seems to understand. He tilts his head. “Maybe I have.” Then, he offers you his hand. “Come. We’ll walk and talk.” 

So, you go with him, and your heart almost leaps out of your chest when he only barely sighs in relief. 

(Madame Fu watches you both leave, twenty-seven minutes before everyone is scheduled on a fifteen minute break. 

She, at first, decides she’ll stop you both at the door, but it has been quite a while since General Jing Yuan has worn a genuine smile on his face. 

With a heavy sigh from her lips, she lets it go. 

But only for today). 

PHAINON ࣪ ִֶָ ⋆ . call my name

as overly formal and unnecessary as it sounds, the amphoreus' hero has always been lord phainon to you. while it comes with great honour and respect, much like how it applies to your master; lady aglaea, it feels like there's a barrier between you and him, and he doesn't really like that, considering that he'd like to know you better, closer.

so naturally, he revels in making you drop the honourary title, and the best way to make you do so (based on his countless personal experiments of trial-and-error, which he very much enjoyed) is to catch you off guard. shock you enough to make you forget all about the formality, enough to make you see him not as just amphoreus' hero, but as phainon himself.

one of the times that happened was when you found a lost little girl in the wood. so you asked around the village nearby if she's familiar. you were starting to get some leads when you stumbled upon an elderly man who commented, "my, what lovely family you three look".

"no, we're not-".

"well, thank you so much, good sir. unfortunately, they're not family members. we're actually looking for this child's parents. although i'd like to note that i do look forward to starting a family with this woman".

"phainon!".

of course, that's just one method of making you fall into his plan. there's trill in guessing how you'll react. the blush that never fail to paint your face rosy red always manage to make him fall deeper for you. but nothing made him completely weak than you calling his name consciously out of your own choice.

not even mydei's hardest punch to his gut could do as much damage as you do in this situation.

he was looking at the moon one night all alone when you appeared beside him. "someone seems busy with his thought. would he be so generous to share?", a teasing tone laced your words, making him chuckled. you always seem to know how to calm his nerve when it's going wild.

"just.. thinking about the battle to come. do you think we'll make it this time?". from the hill you're standing on, the ruins around the perimeter glowed under the moonlight. the destruction they faced was unmistakable. from the way he sympathetically shifted his gaze upon them, you guessed that perhaps it's from his previous battle, one that you didn't embark together with, one that he failed.

without warning, you took his hand in yours, caressing circles on the scars on it, a gentle smile gracing your lips. "of course we will, because you have me by your side", you announced pridefully, so full of confidence that it felt contagious on him. "and you by mine, phainon".

you voice was so low, as if a whisper of a mother soothing her crying child, or a girl confessing to her lover of her affection. but he heard you loud and clear.

although, he felt like he needed you to repeat that again because his system was in a mess from you saying his name that he didn't get to savour it to its fullest.

"no, that only come once".

safe to say that he spent the rest of the night begging that you call his name like you just did. but where's the fun in a challenge if you just give him what he wants?

⊹₊ author's note ₊⊹

this is kinda silly, but someone implied that phainon isn't as innocent as what we originally thought he would be did something to my brain chemistry. and you know what? good for him. this man needs some fun before he d***

thump thump | liu xiao

for already being familiar with the multiple sides of liu xiao's nature, you're sure impressed by yourself for still falling for it.

w.c: 1.1k

a.n: is it bad that i would defend liu xiao to hell and back even tho i can name at least three characters that objectively deserve to point a gun to his head? yes but i had to write this

liu xiao doesn't give a shit about pool. maybe he has a knack for it, and maybe he likes having the upper hand in the sport, but it's not as though he makes it a weekly routine to aim a cue stick against a billiards ball.

and yet, he's never been as terribly entertained by a game of pool like he is tonight.

all too mutually familiar to one another, it had been hard to miss each other upon fleetingly walking past each other – only for a brief moment and within the distraction of your respective companies, but it was simply impossible to not stop in your tracks and lock eyes.

you should've known better than to accept his invitiation for a game while wearing that on-brand smile.

halfway through, the game wasn't a game anymore. or maybe it was, but definitely not in pool and extremely much to his one-sided entertainment.

you're multiple vacant pool tables away from the people you both had initially arrived with. in the back of your mind, you can't help but wonder how visible you are to their attentions, the room solely lit up by dimmed lights hanging over each table.

on the long edge of yours, you're leaning back against it, hands clawing onto the wood hard enough for your knuckles to whiten and nails almost break.

the conversation that had diverted you away from the game had been one that should in no way reach the ears of others; exchanging matters involving individual field of works kept secret from most of those in your surroundings, clearly of importance and yet, you can hardly remember a single word of it. not in this situation.

you'd subconsciously left your cue stick across the table. liu xiao rests his palm on the tip of his own, the free palm keeping his weight up on the edge, right next to your own. he's leaning forwards, very much so, to such extent you can feel his even breath fan your skin.

"it's a shame that you don't want to negotiate. i'm sure we'd benefit equally of it," liu xiao sighs, but he hardly sounds upset by your firm rejection. you can tell, because he's still showing you that pleased smile. "i don't enjoy forcing people into business though, so i won't bother you any further about it."

"if you get that, move back already," you croak out, trying to stay as composed as possible despite being completely betrayed by your eyes refusing to meet his.

"why?"

unbelievable question, really, but nothing shocking when it comes from liu xiao.

"i believe we've already made it clear that i'm not interested in business–" your sorry excuse of an argument is interrupted by a quiet gasp when he leans in even closer. "a-also, this looks really weird to the rest."

"that's funny." his smile widens, and the smugness in it makes you wonder if it'd be a bad idea to hockey-check him into the closest wall. "you've never struck me as someone who cares about what others think – not that they can see anything from here anyway."

"they have no idea we already know each other and it's better like that. i don't want them to get the wrong idea."

"about what?"

"y–you know what i mean! it's not like we're close to begin with," you hiss back at him. you can tell your confidence is slowly but surely starting to shatter though and you attempt to swerve the topic before he can push it any further, "besides, i want to finish the game already."

liu xiao briefly raises an eyebrow at this. his hand leaves the edge of the table and you just can't help but flinch when you suddenly feel his fingertips over the skin of your cheek.

coming from him, the touch could be anything from a threat to a way of entertaining himself even more. whichever it is – because you honestly can't tell this time – you're left frozen beneath it. it doesn't help when the digits ghost down your jaw and by the time the tip of his index finger rests under your chin, you can hear your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

"even though you've never cared a bit about pool?" liu xiao taunts, his finger sinking lower alongside your neck with each word he speaks. "i was actually surprised to see you here – you must really want to keep your true colors a secret from your friends, no?"

"isn't that just–"

you cut yourself short when he slowly drags his finger across the curve of your collarbone. shoulders hunching even more, your head sinks lower, as if you care so much more about the old, shoe print-stained wooden floor than the fact that you can almost feel his forehead against your own.

it may undoubtedly be in liu xiao's nature to play with any functioning part of one's brain – god forbid you already don't know that – but at the very least, he knows what lines to not cross; the digit doesn't travel any further than right below your collarbone, showing no signs of departing from your absolutely blazing skin, but humbly staying in place.

that could be great and all, in fact you could even appreciate the thought, had it not been for the realization slowly sinking in the longer the touch lingers within that area.

it finally hits you, how your heartbeat isn't only hammering in your ears, but in his as well. your eyes widening is enough to reveal your new knowledge.

"what's wrong? i know it's way out of my ability to get you scared – you're not angry with me, are you?" your silence drags out a chuckle from him that he doesn't as much as try to hide. "or is it something else? i'd love to find out, you know?"

cat got your tongue. your thoughts, your sanity, composure, confidence, guts and everythig. that said, you're hyperaware of the half-lidded eyes behind the glasses boring into your own, tips of your noses grazing against each other and the way you can feel his lips almost, almost touch yours–

"y/n, are you done? we're leaving soon!"

you can only faintly hear your company calling out to you from the other side of the room, but it's just enough to get your mind together. your painfully tight grip releases the table, yet they barely have the strength to push him aside by his chest. when your shoulder bumps into his, you don't care the slightest about turning around to face him and apologize, opting to instead let your rushed feet drag you away from there. while reuniting with your friends, you do your best to ignore liu xiao far behind you.

"it was nice seeing you again," you hear him call out, and you make out that stupid smile lacing his words, "let's finish our game next time."

HEIRLOOM

── ♡ FAUST LAVINIA

faust's painful reminiscence of the past, just before everything was lost.

Most nights, Faust dreams of fire.

It nips at his blistered, cracked soles as his parched throat screams for mercy or water. Not a single sound ever leaves his lips, and he’s left with this helpless silence and the burning tightness of rope against his skin. Through his vision blurry with tears and pain, he’ll see Alec, grim-faced and like a skeleton. The flames crackle louder.

Sometimes, Alec’s face is swapped for another, and he’ll see you standing desolately amongst the crowd of still bodies. He can never see the expression you are making, but you always turn and leave halfway. The dreams where you are there always manage to hurt the most.

He rouses himself awake, and after so many centuries of these same nightmares, his heart no longer pounds and he does not desperately grasp for the bedsheets to his side. Now, all he feels are dull aches and a fresh wave of regret. He forces his sweaty body to sit up and reaches blindly for his jug of water. It does little to relieve, but Faust has long since accepted that little can soothe him. He has hurtled to a murky territory in his mind long ago, and he’s only just begun those reluctant steps towards greener grass.

He wonders if you’d be proud of him, but he quickly abandons the notion by digging his face back into the cotton fabric of his pillow. Useless thoughts.

(i)

Faust can’t recall a time when he hasn’t yearned for you. It came as easy to him as breathing. In that sense, you were also integral to his survival through childhood.

He remembers his mother, back when her face wasn’t covered in grime and she still had a full head of hair, who liked to coo that you and Faust have been drawn together as early as babies. You would crawl towards the space he played, and his tiny fists would cling to you even while doing something as mundane as napping. His mother and yours always paired the two of you together, just from the fact you both were wizards and there would be no solidarity to be had outside of each other. This closeness remained, even as the both of you grew into your heights, and tragedies continued to happen around you. However, you both lived in absolute certainty that life would always remain like paradise as long as you had each other.

It was a pipedream because eventually, Faust has a sister and his father disappears into the night, leaving the scrawny teenage boy to quickly take up the helm of his family name. He changes almost overnight, and spring days tending to chores and sneaking off to play vanish. There is resentment in his violet eyes, even as he gently tends to the sobbing baby in his hands. There is anger burning within him when he watches his mother be laughed at and spat on by chauvinist men as she asks around for laborious work. Life dealt him a cruel hand, and he stays awake to the cries of his sister as he wonders what he did to deserve this.

Your presence also begins to dwindle in his life but to no fault of your own. It’s he who keeps pushing you away, telling you he has work to do or he can’t waste his spare moments on you. He sees your hurt and desperately wishes you would one day give up and find someone better to bless your presence with. You never do, and you still knock at his door every morning even when nobody can open it for you. He knows you don’t like this new version of him, but history keeps you returning to the front step.

Some of the light returns to his eyes when he meets Alec Granvelle, who unbeknownst to Faust, had been watching him heal an injured cat found near a hedge. When he heard a “That’s amazing!” behind him, his heart threatened to jump out of his throat. The stranger, eyes the colour of bluebells and hair akin to the feathers of a dove, moves to sit beside him, and Faust’s fear stills to a stop when the boy asks to see more magic. After he is entertained, he still follows Faust back home and begins aiding in the chores without prompting.

When the pale-haired boy finally leaves, Faust thinks that will be the end of it, until the next morning when his door is carelessly opened and Alec walks in as if he owns the place, ready to help out again. No matter how many sharp remarks Faust throws his way, Alec never flinches, and soon Faust reluctantly lets him occupy a small space in his life. He sometimes feels guilty when he thinks of you, but decides it's for the better. You will always deserve better.

Life shifts courses again when Alec visits one day, with you following closely behind him. Alec proudly announces he made a new friend that he wanted him to meet, ignorant to the facts, and you’ve decidedly ignored the blue-eyed boy to fix Faust a disappointed stare. When Alec leaves later that evening, Faust apologises to you sincerely and slowly things begin to settle into their norm.

With the added addition of Alec, a trio is formed and while life does not stop being a hardship for him, Faust finds that he is coping better now that he has the two of you to look forward to seeing. Despite this, you don’t seem fond of Alec and the situation only worsens with the white-haired boy’s flippant attitude. He didn’t understand, always assuming the two of you would have gotten along. You both were stubborn, chatty and free-spirited. However, he decides to leave it be and have the both of you work it out on your own, but it only takes you a night to childishly confess you were jealous, much to his bewilderment and Alec’s amusement. Since that day, a silent rivalry had been born between you and Alec, fighting over Faust’s affections much to the wizard’s bemusement. Idiots, he thought affectionately.

Faust, now four hundred years old and bitter, wishes he could have told you that you were right in not putting your unconditional trust in Alec Granvelle. The only idiot had been him.

He clutches the wedding band in his hand tightly.

(ii)

Despite his penchant for joking around, Alec was an overthinker. Faust pins this to be the reason for Alec’s ultimate undoing.

Alec was always the one with the concepts, while Faust had all the skills to see it to completion. The proposal of a revolution was their grandest, and final plan.

Faust never liked the leader of the country and the nobles who maintained the system. Alec was in a similar agreement. They needed change, and they knew this as they watched the common people struggle while the wealthy paraded the streets in luxurious clothing, even a piece of fabric worth the yearly income of a single villager. It escalated when Faust’s mother died of a preventable illness, unable to afford the expenses to see a doctor despite Faust almost breaking his back to afford the fees. She had to be buried at a hillside, an unmarked grave because they couldn’t afford a headstone. The memory of holding his little sister’s tiny hand in his as she wailed loud enough to shake the Earth’s core had been burned to his mind, and he never wanted to see her cry like that again.

Alec brings up the idea as the three of you sit at a riverbank, overlooking glimmering water as the sun threatens to set on the horizon. You react first, the glare you send is scathing, but you go ignored as Alec’s eyes fix exclusively on the desolate Faust, who sits with his legs to his chest, numb with grief. There is a long silence, and he feels your hand gently rest on his arm in worry.

“Let’s do it,” He mummers and blue eyes glow under the setting sun. He pays little mind to your visible displeasure. Despite your reluctance, you never left. If Faust could have foreseen the future, he would have told you to run and never look back. A fruitless effort, because even if you knew the road following Faust would lead straight to hell, you would have danced all the way there.

(iii)

With Alec’s charisma and Faust’s leadership, the revolution army had already begun to kick off. They clambered supporters from all corners, humans and wizards alike. Alec’s preaching for unity and a centralised government appealed to the angry but hopeful masses, from which they met another addition to their group. Lennox Ram was a quiet man, a wizard and an ex-miner who has lived a solemn life of struggle and loss, and the revolution’s message was quick to touch his heart. He became a devout member and eventually began a close comradery with him, Alec and you. Unlike with Alec, it was easy for you to become fond of Lennox, and Faust figured you were just drawn to the reserved types. If you weren’t around him, you were with Lennox, and similarly, the dark-haired man seemed fond of you.

The first time Alec made a joke about you and Lennox becoming an item, Faust felt himself go cold.

“Don’t talk about them while they aren’t here,” He lightly scolds as he twirls the stick of chicken leg over the open fire, distractedly watching the meat slowly turn brown just so he doesn’t have to look into his companion’s observant eyes.

“My apologies, dear friend,” He chirps, but there is an underlying tease in his voice, a warning sign for what’s to come. “I shouldn’t say such when I know how you feel for them.”

Faust almost drops his dinner into the fire.

“Are you mad?” He retorts instantly as Alec roars in laughter, amused by his friend’s visible distress.

“Perhaps, but even a loon could see the tension.” He hums before taking a large bite of the meat in his hand. “At least from their end.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was rooting for the both of you, you know?” Alec jumps to explain, picking up on Faust’s growing irritation. “I suppose we have all been far too busy to spend time one-on-one, but even so you haven’t been paying much attention to them, have you?”

Alec’s words send the violet-eyed wizard to silence. Did he seriously imply that you had romantic feelings for Faust? He’s known you before the both of you could even talk. You’ve always been there, and he’s aware he takes advantage of your loyalty, at the very least he’d be aware of the fact you held such affection for him. He lifts his head when he picks up the bell of your laughter, watching you as you pass by the campground carrying blankets and quilts for the night, Lennox conversing beside you.

His heart seizes in his throat. Oh.

(iv)

“How beautiful!” You rave with your hands pressed to your chest, and this is the happiest Faust has seen you in a while. Nobody blames you for your excitability, the joy of today is infectious, and nothing cheers up the mood quite like a wedding. The announcement of the union between Charlie and Erica came as a surprise, and for the first time instead of strategising for battle, the revolutionary members were able to focus their attention on something more light-hearted and fun. You especially were devoted to the planning of the event, and this is where Faust learns something new about you.

“I would love to get married,” You whined over the rim of your glass, to which Faust nearly splutters into his drink. “It’s always been a dream of mine!”

That’s not true, because Faust remembers you had wanted to be a performer, a farmer, a doctor, and even a merchant at one point. When he says this, you scowl at him with no real ire in your eyes.

“Okay, well, it’s a dream of mine more recently!” You snap as Lennox, surprisingly, is the one who breaks into chuckles. “I’m only getting older. I’m losing out on my chance for young love! Nobody wants you when you are old and weary.”

“Now that’s not true,” Alec laughs nervously, reaching over to gently pat your arm. You must have been in a really good mood to not shove his hand away. “Who knows, the love of your life could be just around the corner.”

Faust pointedly ignores the teasing smile Alec shoots his way.

“He better hurry up. I’m tired of waiting,” You huff, tilting your head as you drown the remains of your drink. You sounded less petulant and more sad. Nobody around the table notices but him.

-

As the cleanup of the small but lavish wedding comes to a close, Faust is the one who walks you back to your quarters. The cicadas chirp in tune with your rambling as you recall the auspicious day, despite the wizard having been beside you the entire time. He chooses not to point this out, a lightness in his chest as he finally has you to himself. For this brief moment, there is no war. There are no battles. There are no casualties. It’s just you and him chattering to each other as if you were starry-eyed kids again.

However, no time in the world would be enough, because you both slow your pace as your tent gets closer and closer. Soon, this peace will end and you both will be back tomorrow to your busy schedules with nothing more than passing glances. Faust bites the bait, blurting out the question that has been haunting him all day.

“Were you serious when you said you wanted to get married?” He asks, violet eyes flickering to your form. You ready yourself for a joke but seem to bite back when you take note of his stony expression.

“Yes,” You admit, but you hold no pride, sounding defeated instead. “It’s… gotten lonely. I just can’t help but think about the rest of my life looking like this.”

All because I choose you and this revolution over my happiness, Faust silently finishes for you. No stronger guilt causes his heart to sink than this one. It feels like his responsibility. A terse silence follows your reply before Faust opens his mouth again.

“If you could marry anybody, who would you choose?”

The question surprises both you and him, your eyes widening while he feels like his heart is beating so loud that everyone within the camp can hear him. You are quick to disguise your shock with a contemplative look, pressing a figure to your chin. After an agonising minute, you carefreely shrug.

“Anybody that would have me, I guess.”

“That’s not good enough,” Faust argues sharply and you frown in confusion. “You don’t marry someone just to settle with them.”

He was ready for you to shoot back with a defensive statement. Instead, your eyes soften and your tense shoulders fall, seemingly touched by his concern. You don’t respond, and Faust figures it’s the end of the conversation and readies to bear you farewell. What you say next almost makes him drop the lantern in his hand.

“... Then I’d choose you,” You whisper under your breath, loud enough for only him and The Great Calamity to hear. The night breeze suddenly feels like ice to his skin, and the fatigue of today withers away instantly. He almost wonders if he’s imagining this.

“What?” He says cleverly, voice hoarse. You look up at him, eyes glassy and hopeful, and when a sheepish smile makes its way to your face, he already knows you are about to laugh away your sudden confession.

He doesn’t give you the chance, stealing away your breath with his lips pressed to yours. He barely registers that he’s dropped the lantern to the ground when you press back against him, desperate. The rest of the world fades into the background until all that remains is you, you, you.

Almost four hundred years later, Faust still can’t say whether that night had been a mistake.

(v)

“What an ugly winter,” You mutter from where your head rests against his shoulder, your hand clutching his arm tightly. He knows you aren’t being literal, as the flakes that litter the sky and the snow-covered hill are unarguably beautiful. It was because of the events that had transpired earlier, Alec’s blood painted into the snow miles away. The man himself rests inside a medic tent, sleeping away the effects of healing magic. Faust had been practically forced out of the way by the army’s nurses after he had found out about his best friend’s missing arm. You decide to accompany him outside as you wait for the news regarding Alec’s health.

Faust doesn’t respond, and he knows you don’t expect him to, sitting in silence as snowflakes dance with the winter wind, the air forbidding. It felt like a sign of the worst of times. Oh, how right would that assumption have been.

“Everyone keeps leaving,” You speak again almost half an hour later. Your voice sounds watery, and your grip tightens. You had just begun recovering from the news of Erica’s death, who left behind an aggrieved widower, and now Alec’s ticking minutes hung over the air like a warning. “Do we even have any time left?”

Faust, again, doesn’t reply. The both of you don’t cry despite the tears that line your lashes. The answer was obvious. The sands of the hourglass do not stop, and the wedding ring around his and your fingers only tightens. Would it have been better to die on the battlefield alone, or knowing you would be leaving behind someone who loves you so?

It begins to storm.