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hello there ! this is a sideblog to accommodate my other liked fandoms.

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[masterlist]

you often amaze QIUYUAN with your colorful imagination.

and that’s putting it kindly. you always have something outright frisky to say whenever he’s around — no matter the hour, no matter the setting. be it amidst the bustle of a crowded street or behind the safety of your private walls, your tongue is a weapon sharpened by mischief and unchecked affection.

(you once told him with a straight tone and face that he could do anything to you and you'd like it. qiuyuan did not know how to reply to that declaration. do you even know the weight of your own words?)

over the time he's spent with you, he's learned that there are two constants in your presence: trouble and tenderness — one often disguised as the other. your blatant honesty is, in some parts, admirable; in others, it’s a miracle he hasn’t imploded from sheer exasperation.

yet for all his complaints, he listens to every word. he always does.

still, the day you learn to time such frivolity may or may not ever come.

in your own defense, however — even the sturdiest of mountains and calmest of seas could sway at the sight of his sculpted abdomen, the cut of his jawline, the scars peppering his mouth-watering back beneath the morning light, the serene daze that seems to follow his the timbre of his voice...

"your thoughts are tilting downwards — cease it immediately."

sunlight filters through the blinds of an unnamed inn. you’re still tangled in the bedding while qiuyuan is already getting dressed, tying his sash with a focus you snort at.

you grin innocently, but your reply does not match your expression, "downwards?"

qiuyuan does not grace you with a reply. for his own sake, most likely.

he could be walking like an ordinary person, eating like an ordinary person — breathing like anyone else, and you'd always find a way to break the silence with inconvenient behaviors. as for what such behaviors entail; he'd really rather not name them one by one. too many to count, too inappropriate for him to word.

(though he is just as guilty for indulging every one of them. your advances are encouraged by qiuyuan himself; this thought makes him sigh.)

which brings him the ultimatum; you somehow turned his ability to read a mind's thoughts into your own weapon.

and, he moves to brandish his own weapon, hearing at the friction of metal against stone, he doesn't mind at all.

from beside him, you don't bother hiding the fact you are staring intently. he feels your gaze crawls all over his skin — watching like a predator in wait, in an anticipating silence as he sharpens his blade with care.

“i'm jealous, gege. you polish that blade more tenderly than you touch me.”

you know fully well why that is. it's almost like you hadn't tempted him to go rougher. he envies your effortless capacity to act oblivious.

“the blade rusts if neglected," comes his curt reply.

he already knows where this conversation is going — but he is mere a fly to a flame.

the sunlight compliments the contours of your face, the imminent curve of your lips, “and what happens if i’m neglected?”

the world momentarily disappears when he is brought to dive within depths of his mind. unearthed and bare, he recalls too clearly the warmth of your skin, the way his name sounds when whispered against his throat. it is a memory that does not fade, no matter how he wills it to.

q-qiuyuan, please, i'm almost — ! — then you fall apart in his hands, like a flower blooming beneath the rapture of the heavens.

he grips the hilt tighter, pretending it’s the blade that trembles.

for a man of principle, he is torn asunder at a flick of your wrist.

for a man in love, he calls that very ruin divine.

“you sulk until I surrender.”

he is not one to be so direct with his weaknesses, but you always hear him. always do, always will.

you will recognize his bouts of vulnerability with a precision more than anyone else could attain to achieve — how utterly pathetic he is for you, how he's willing to bring down the sun, moon and stars should you ask.

your giggles fill the empty crevices of his mind and threaten to consume his entirety whole. maybe it already has.

qiuyuan has his eyes closed, turning to the direction of your voice.

"what is funny?"

you had always been good at pretending at what you were not. for all your self-proclaimed innocence and ignorance, you had always took pleasure in calling out his leniency.

and when you speak, the wind shifts with your movement, your voice a lot closer than he last heard —

"the term surrender implies you resist, gege."

the fly tempted by the flame is ensnared and scalded, yet it only kisses the flame softly in return.

extra:

from the surface, outsiders will often think you're the needier one — always pestering for a kiss no matter the circumstances, always around his waist with a plead for his warmth, always on his tail like a leech to suck him dry of everything he knows, like he wouldn't lay it out on a platter for you to feast on.

but between the both of you, it often goes unmentioned that he himself might be the one who's more crazed.

you still warm at the memory of his blade being pressed against the throat of a persistent admirer. it caused quite a stir in the village you've both stopped in, nearly exposing himself to the bounty lingering in his shadow.

you'd never seen him let his emotions take over, except for that one time.

qiuyuan looks back at you when you stay quiet for too long, nearly bumping into a crooked lamp post that he had to pull you away from.

he keeps his hold on your upper arm, pulling you away from you daydreams and grounding you back to reality.

"we can return to the inn if you're still fatigued."

at the tone of his concern, you quickly brush off your lewd thoughts, smiling giddily up at him as you laugh, "if you wanted another round, you could've just asked!"

qiuyuan replies with silence and a very loud thought you suspect goes along the lines that he should've let you hit the post.

yes, i have.

story spoilers (short rant) under the cut!!!

For a man without eyesight, QIUYUAN can do a lot of things.

He can pierce the hearts of his enemies with ease, cook meals without batting a lid, discern both familiar and unfamiliar surroundings in an instant, read your emotions better than any man with two working eyes could ever hope to — you get the gist of it. He fares just like any other person.

You wouldn’t have known he was blind, really, not unless you looked close. Not unless curiosity got the better of you and you finally asked about his eyes — those elusive, cloudy things that never seemed to look directly at you, no matter how hard you tried to catch them.

(“What? You’re telling me you’ve been blind this whole time?”

He does not reply.

You were about to ask how a man who cannot see could cultivate such precise swordsmanship, until you remember something from a distant past.

“But you mentioned I had a fair face during our first meeting.”

He does not elaborate.

“... You have no sight and now you can’t speak?”

He does not make an excuse.)

And in that manner, you truly think it is strange.

For all his practiced, almost perfect ways of adapting to a life of a blind man, for all the subtle precision of his movements and the effortless grace that makes everyone else look clumsy — Qiuyuan always, always, seems to forget where your lips are each time he leans in to humor you with a kiss.

You like to think you know enough that you are not oblivious. In fact, you are well aware of how his forte functions in relation to his surroundings, having been… loved a lot… by him, yet this does not placate your confusion.

Qiuyuan is sharp and concise in everything he does. He never wastes time. He never rushes either. Every movement of his is deliberate, efficient. Most details are trivial to him; he only cares about the things that matter to wandering swordsmen — sharpening their blades, bathing in rivers, mending their coats by the firelight. He may notice everything, even the things in between, yet very rarely does he make them his business.

(Thinking about it, you recall the time he mentioned he liked the frequencies of your bold personality, that or it was the smell of your virtues. What did he mean by this?)

All in all, why would kissing you be any different?

If anything, he seems to take his time with it — tracing the ridge of your eyebrows, brushing the faint frown between them, mapping the moles scattered across your cheeks and neck as if they were constellations he needed to memorize. His fingers trail the bridge of your nose, linger at your lashes, circle your cheekbones in slow, unhurried motion, before resting the pad of his thumb on your bottom lip.

Your entire being feels like it’s on fire.

Qiuyuan is sharp and concise. He never wastes time. So what is he doing?

“Your thoughts,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that slides under your skin. “I sense chaos within it. Do you want to share?”

His eyes — that muted gray, misty and distant, as if trapped in a perpetual haze — are directed right at you. And for some reason, it's now you who can’t maintain eye contact. You look everywhere but him, at the stars stitched into the sky, at the restless trees swaying with the wind — anything to forget the feeling of the feather-light pressure of his thumb on your lip.

“D-don’t look at me like that.” You stutter against your will.

“I can’t see, nor look,” he replies evenly. “I am simply facing where a threat looms.”

Like lightning, your eyes are on him immediately, raising a brow at him. “What threat?”

He chuckles, rare and quiet, and your stomach flips at the sound. “That’s what it takes for you to look at me. Interesting.”

You glare, half annoyed, half flustered. “Qiuyuan, what are you trying to say?”

“Your temperament is truly a wonder I can never hope to comprehend,” he dismisses your glare like he always does — calmly, playfully, infuriatingly — and leans closer still. His breath ghosts across your cheek. “Do you not like it when I let my hands wander?”

He already knows what's bothering you. Of course he does.

Yet that tone teasing, deliberate — to make innuendos is not like him. Againt your better judgement, it sends heat curling through your chest, fueling the warmth of your face. Still, you force yourself to stay on track, to pretend you’re not already melting under his touch.

(You’d let him do anything he wanted to do to you, you realize with a dangerous clarity.)

“You always touch my face like that before you kiss me,” you say quietly. “Why is that?”

He pauses. Not long, but long enough for you to feel the shift in the air between you.

“Back when we first met, I did not lie when I called your face fair.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or fall apart. He senses your confusion, and treads further.

“Is it not right for me to appreciate it,” he adds, “now that we are much closer?”

When he leans in again, it is slow and unhurried. The air grows still, heavy with something unspoken. You can feel the warmth of him, close enough that your breaths tangle in the space between.

His hand moves slightly, fingers brushing against your jaw, lingering like a phantom.

The rest happens somewhere between thought and sensation. A shift forward, the briefest contact, so light you might have imagined it — and then stillness, a silence that hums louder than any sound could.

You do not move. Neither does he. And yet something in you has already unraveled.

For a man without eyesight, Qiuyuan can do a lot of things.

He can fight, cook, survive — even sense the smallest flicker of thought that crosses your mind.

But kissing you into a puddle of madness?

That, you think faintly, as his fingers slide into your hair and his lips tilt into a small, all-knowing smile against yours — might just be your favorite of all.

And perhaps, might just be his too.

— beneath the moon and a burnt plumpcake's mercy, he'd always come home to you.

cw; 2k words, qiuyuan x gn! reader, sfw, fluffyyy, established relationship, GEGE QIUYUAN yes he's called gege here, reader is kinda a mess but what's new from monicahar amirite, mainly from his pov, subtle (not really) yearning, set during moon-chasing festival but its not the one that occurred in-game, apologies in advance for minor lore consistencies ladies n gentlemen we gotta deal w it cuz as of right now we know next to nothing about this guy aside from the fact that he's the most crackable of all time :D (also cant believe i finished a fic in the great oct 2025)

The moon is full, the breeze is gentle, the streets are alive — and, and... that kid is far too noisy —

“You’re just describing your surroundings,” QIUYUAN remarks.

Your face burns. “T-that’s none of your business! What if it has a meaning for me?”

Qiuyuan does not grace you with a reply, for which you are silently thankful for.

The Moon-chasing Festival is in full swing across the city of Jinzhou. Lanterns and music wind through the streets in harmony, their glow and melody spilling into every corner. Stalls and booths line the shopfronts, children run amok with their fretting parents in tow, elders gather by the storytelling and puppet theaters — even the soldiers are squatted down, gambling over board games and bottled wine.

A righteous swordsman at heart, Qiuyuan is not pleased by such sights. Much to your dismay, he makes this disdain perfectly clear whenever he saunters off to speak sense into the soldiers loitering about (though intimidating them might be the more accurate term). When his lecture concludes, he returns to your side, leaving behind a set of men who now stand at attention and avoid breathing too loudly.

“They’re people too,” you mutter, frowning. “Aren’t you being a little harsh?”

“They chose to take up the shift, so they shall commit to their task.” His arms cross, eyes closed — his tone flat, yet tempered by reason. “The festival is bright, and danger comes easy when it hides deep in its shadows. Should the city’s safety be jeopardized, they will be the first to take up arms.”

Under your breath, you boo at him, unimpressed at his talent of killing joy. He only exhales through his nose and reaches out to pinch your right cheek; all with his eyes still closed. Not that it'd help anyway.

Aside from being known for the tale of the fox and the moon, the Moon-chasing Festival is nothing short of grandeur for its atmosphere — a celebration that began as a solemn vigil to honor the fallen heroes of Huanglong, whose bravery safeguarded the peace the people now revel in. Over time, mourning turned to merriment; remembrance intertwined with joy, for what better way to honor the dead than to live fully in the light they left behind?

The people of Jinzhou greatly appreciate their home’s natural beauty. Spring, winter, summer, fall — the arts are of particular appreciation in these outer lands. Though more pragmatic than most, Qiuyuan in this way is no different.

To know of no far and near — accurately describes the distant swordsman who wanders Huanglong. By extension, Qiuyuan is someone who does not linger in one place for too long: transient to most, acquaintance to few, friend to fewer, and lover to one. On usual occasions, loitering in the heart of festivities and rowdy crowds is not his preferred method of passing time. The wayfarer upholds a dignified integrity that no one dares to challenge; thus, no one questions his purposeful solitude and lets him live as he pleases.

Except you, of course.

“Gege! Gege! Look!” you grab his arm in your excitement, leaving the booth to usher him to another. “Yumyum Haven’s teaching their Plumpcake’s recipe this year again! We need to snag a spot before they run out just like last time!”

Qiuyuan, in all his grace, does not have the heart to tell you he isn’t fond of cooking — or baking, for the matter. Nature is his friend, and nature does not offer ready-made flour and batter for such processes. These ingredients do not hold frequencies for him to sense, nor does he have the eyesight to look at what he’d be cooking.

Still, when you turn to him, eyes alight and smile brimming with excitement, his reasons begin to crumble like old parchment. He knows this isn’t his world — the scents, the sounds, the laughter — but he can’t bring himself to refuse you. It’s unfair, perhaps, how easily you undo him with a single look.

But it’s you, and you’ve always lamented missing out on the famed recipe at last year’s Moon-chasing Festival. Alas, gold is not pure; everything is flawed, even his own resolve, especially in the face of his beloved. So he does what he usually does in the presence of your persistent charm — forgo logic and follow his heart.

(You are his heart, and he will always follow you.)

“This particular cake is sold all across Huanglong. What is it that makes this recipe a cut above the rest?” Qiuyuan asks, his voice calm as the baker demonstrates each step before your eyes — eyes that glimmer with wonder and curiosity beneath the lantern light.

“It was one of the first magistrates of Jinzhou who conceived the Moon-chasing Festival for all of Huanglong to celebrate,” you say, mildly entranced as the baker melts osmanthus sugar into a golden syrup, its scent mingling with sizzling butter. “So of course Jinzhou would have its own version of the festival’s main dish. I heard it tastes like a race against the moon — a journey home, they call it.”

Qiuyuan opens his eyes, cloudy and enigmatic as ever. “A journey home?”

You snicker, a mischievous glint lighting your gaze. “I guess you wouldn’t know, wayfarer. Yet another reason to actually try it!”

The restaurant’s Moonlit Fair special comes with a small twist: after receiving the recipe for their beloved Plumpcakes, each participant must bake it themselves. It was the very reason you wept for last year’s Moon-chasing Festival — watching others join in the fun while you missed your chance to try it.

Qiuyuan lingers at the edge of the crowd as the head baker ushers you forward, laying out ingredients and utensils in neat rows before you. Your laughter, light and melodic, threads through the murmur of voices and the clatter of mixing bowls — and suddenly, he finds the noise of the festival a little easier to bear.

You make him feel too much, too often — a turmoil of fondness, protectiveness, and something softer he does not dare name. Though something bitter simmers when one overly friendly participant decides to strike up a conversation with you.

You catch his figure in the crowd, and he hears your heart beat faster. Thump, thump — Qiuyuan keeps the sound close and tunes out everything else. “Gege, watch me kill this recipe!”

The noisy participant follows your line of sight, sees a blind man standing tall above the crowd glaring straight at him with misty eyes and quietly removes themself from your presence.

Qiuyuan is in a state of tranquillity once more.

But you… aren’t particularly great at baking, considering this is your first time doing so. How you would ‘kill’ this recipe is up for the Sentinel to decide. Or him.

“You love me, right, Ge— no, Qiuyuan?”

You never say his name unless you’re desperate.

Who was he kidding? Of course it would be him tasting it first. He’d eat anything you made. He’d do anything for you.

He tries not to think too deeply about how natural that thought feels — or how your laughter from earlier still lingers faintly in his chest, tangled with the ghost of irritation he felt when someone else drew it out of you. It’s foolish. Petty. Unbecoming of him. And yet, the ache remains, warm and unrelenting.

In the deep recesses of his mind, he still remembers that night when the moon hung high over Mingting’s dark skies. He had tilted his head toward the stars, his thoughts wandering — and somehow, they had always, always found their way back to you. Even when battle raged, even when meditation demanded focus, your presence slipped through his defenses like light through silk. You lived in the quiet places of his mind where no one else could reach.

Sometimes, he wondered if it was your Forte that did this — to unsettle him so completely, to pull him toward you with a force that felt almost divine.

(“You make me feel strange emotions, [First].”

“Huh? Like what?”

“I think of you more often than I rest. That is not normal.”

“That’s…” you pause, looking at him carefully. “What are you trying to say?”

“Is your Forte aligned with mind control?”

You blink. Once. Twice. He merely stares ahead, not sparing you a glance.

“I — what?” you fume, “If I could do that, I’d make you — I don’t know, scratch your butt or something! Pick your nose, now!”)

…He’d do anything for you, really.

Though there might be exceptionally rare exceptions.

“…What is this?”

The lump of overbaked batter on your platter doesn’t need to be perceived by his Forte to declare itself a tragedy — its appearance alone rivals the melancholy of your poem earlier. Judging by the collective gasps around the stall, everyone else seems to agree. The faintly acrid, burnt smell drifting through the air also happens to be coming suspiciously close from your station.

Qiuyuan gulps — discreetly.

It’s almost impressive, he thinks, that you can turn something so festive into a battlefield.

“You love me, right, Gege?” you get up on his face, eyes wide and pleading. “Right, right, right? Like a lot?”

He remains silent.

“I need to have someone appraise it so I could pass the baker’s test,” you smile at him prettily, batting your eyelashes. Did you forget he can sense intentions from a mile away? “You’d enjoy this for me, wouldn’t you? I tried to get the baker himself to try it, but he only smiled and nodded your way — said some stuff about how it was a taste of a home you’d enjoy. I do not know what he means.”

“… Whether I enjoy it or not, that would depend on the taste. It cannot be a given when indulged in subjectivity.”

“So you don’t love me,” you accuse him, garnering looks from passersby as you pout. “I see it now.”

“[First], your logic is not —”

“It is.”

Qiuyuan pauses, before closing his eyes and sighing.

“It is, indeed. I mean no intention to coerce your doubt of my devotion. I shall eat it and enjoy it, regardless of the taste of your dish.”

In front of the crowd, whose expressions are either pained, pitiful, or even horrified — they are all tuned out by Qiuyuan as he takes a careful bite from your plate.

For a moment, he tastes nothing but smoke and regret. The char sears his tongue, the texture crumbles like sand between his teeth, and the sweetness — if it existed at all — flees before it can make itself known. Yet somewhere beneath the bitterness and ash, something glimmers faintly —

— and then, suddenly, the world falls away.

The chatter of the crowd blurs into a low hum as fragments of memory surge through him — your laughter echoing through a misted forest, the way your hands cupped his face when he was wounded and refused rest, your voice calling out his name during a thunderstorm when even the heavens seemed to split apart. The scent of wild osmanthus drifts through his mind, mingling with the faint traces of smoke and sugar.

He remembers your first meeting beneath the scarlet moon of Mingting, when you mistook him for a statue because he refused to speak. He remembers your stubbornness, your radiance, your maddening persistence to live with the world rather than beside it.

Each image flickers like lanternlight in the dark, until all he sees — past the ruined cake, past the dim lights, past even his own wandering self — is you.

Qiuyuan realizes then, with startling clarity, that home was never a place, nor a journey that could be mapped across lands or seasons. Home was here, standing before him with batter on your sleeves and hope in you — messy, imperfect, but achingly alive.

He swallows. Barely.

“…It tastes dreadful,” Qiuyuan says at last, face utterly unreadable.

Your gasp is nothing short of theatrical. “You liar! You said you’d enjoy it regardless!”

His lips twitch, almost into a smile. Underneath the moon's faint glow and your beating heart, the faintest of warmth touches his usually stoic face.

“I never said I didn't."