#((THIS IS OLD ART BUT I KEPT FORGETTING TO POST IT HERE))

[phvntomess]

gonna make a new art tag soooo prepare for spam !!!!!

[yasu-kun]

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.6k words

★ notes; welcome to part one! this takes place in the luofu campus of xianzhou university, where the reader is a senior graduate student on the cusp of completing her degree~

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

I. A (NOT-SO) TACTICAL RETREAT

You weren’t meant to be here.

The original assignment was to shadow Professor Ying in the literature department—a comfortable, quiet position where you’d spend most of your time buried in books and chasing poetic metaphors, close-reading rhymed stanzas like they held the meaning of life. That was the expectation. That was the plan.

But somewhere between administrative mishandling, departmental reshuffling, and what you now suspect was a clerical error left to rot uncorrected, your file ended up on Professor Jing Yuan’s desk.

You didn’t even know he took teaching aides. Most of his lectures were rumored to be self-contained and independent. Maybe even untouchable.

Now you sit in the back of a cavernous lecture hall that smells faintly of chalk and dust, scribbling frantic notes about ancient war strategies while Professor Jing Yuan sketches battle formations in sweeping, confident strokes on the whiteboard.

Your pen can barely keep up.

“Logistics encirclement,” “passive resistance formations,” “Sky-Faring Enforcers.” You underline terms in your notes like you’re planting flags in hostile territory, planning to Google them later and pray for footnotes. The names come fast, the dates blur. It’s all so large, so steeped in legacy and consequence, you feel like you’ve shown up to a war reenactment with a library card.

Jing Yuan's voice doesn’t help. It’s calm and steady, the kind of voice you trust even when you don’t understand. He talks like he’s walked the paths he’s teaching—knows these stories not as facts, but as decisions someone once had to make.

You try not to stare, but fail spectacularly.

He’s taller than you expected; taller still when he moves. His hair is pulled back into a loose tail, strands of silver catching the overhead light when he turns. His sleeves are rolled up, cuffed carelessly, and you catch the edge of an old scar ghosting the inside of his forearm.

His coat hangs on the back of his chair like a flag surrendered at half-mast, and his posture is entirely too relaxed for someone discussing high-casualty engagements and tactical collapses. You almost forget he’s describing events soaked in blood.

You hadn’t planned on being so attentive. But now that you’re here, the world you were trained for—the poetry and delicate metaphors—feels thin by comparison. It’s only your second day, and you feel like you've already sat through half a semester's worth of material.

You’ve barely spoken in class. You’ve mostly kept to your corner, quiet and watchful, like a misfiled document waiting to be retrieved. You’re not even sure if anyone else knows why you’re here. You certainly don’t.

But then—

Jing Yuan calls out, and your name lands like a pebble breaking the surface of a too-still lake. He follows up with a question, and it's a miracle you even catch it.

“You’re familiar with the Siege of Ardent Vale, aren’t you?” The professor asks resonantly.

You swallow thickly as your heart misfires. He doesn’t even look at you—just flips a page in his notebook as if it’s natural to say your name and ambush you with a question like that.

And now half the class is glancing at you, curious and expectant.

Your voice is softer than you want it to be. “Uh, it's where General Haoran ordered a tactical retreat that's still being debated to be an act of treason to this day.”

Jing Yuan nods without pause. “Good. Then you’ll understand why the general’s retreat wasn’t a failure—it was a calculated sacrifice.”

It’s not a compliment, but it lands in you like one anyway. Thank gods you actually bothered to go over the two-hundred page reading he emailed you this morning. The lecture resumes and the world starts to right itself. Yet, something in you seems to have tilted just a few degrees off-axis.

You stare at your half-filled notebook and realize you haven’t written anything since. You’d been holding your breath. You don’t know why.

When class ends, you linger. 

Your hands are slow on the zipper of your bag. The last to stand, the last to move, like inertia has taken root in your spine. You glance toward the front of the room, where he’s gathering his notes with unhurried precision. The classroom empties around you like sand draining from an hourglass.

You’re not sure what you’re waiting for—until you remember the time card.

The slip of paper feels flimsy between your fingers as you approach his desk. It’s a mundane task. Routine. He’s supposed to sign off your weekly hours so the department can track your contributions. You’d meant to drop it off without ceremony. Now it feels like a pretense.

He notices you before you speak.

You hold out the time card like it’s a peace offering.

“Ah,” he says, and it’s not quite a greeting. He takes the paper from your hand, glancing over the numbers with the same attentiveness he gives to maps and casualty reports. His pen scratches softly against the corner of the desk.

“Everything in order?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

The silence stretches.

He doesn’t hand the paper back right away. Just rests it on the edge of his desk, fingertips still grazing the corner like he might anchor it there. He looks at you, now fully—no pretense of distraction.

Those golden eyes of his remind you of those lions carved in temple stone: half-asleep, all-knowing. He looks at you as though he already understands the shape of the question you haven’t asked yet.

Your breath sticks behind your teeth. You can’t name what you feel, only that it’s too much for the narrow distance between you.

Jing Yuan finally nudges the signed card back toward you with one finger. “Let me know if the hours change.”

You nod again. It’s the only thing that seems safe.

You take the paper and slip it into your bag like it might wrinkle if you move too fast.

You don’t look back when you leave. But all through the day—when you sit in the library, when you wash your lunch thermos, when you try to reread the notes you’d scribbled—it stays with you.

Not the words. Not the moment.

Just the way Jing Yuan looked up like you were supposed to be there.

Like it wasn’t a mistake at all.

The café smells like cardamom and warm bread, and the door chime rings out as you push it open, a little breathless from half-jogging the last block. The air inside is golden with late afternoon light, caught in the leaves of the hanging plants and the steam curling from ceramic mugs. You spot Jiaoqiu instantly—no one else has hair like that, long and peach-soft, tucked lazily into a half-knot like he just rolled out of a dream.

He’s already claimed your favorite booth by the window. There’s a croissant on a plate, torn neatly into halves, and he nudges one across the table the second you slide into the seat across from him.

“You’re late,” he says, voice mild, eyes just a little too knowing.

“I was in a war,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “Mentally. Strategically. And then I got hit with a pop quiz from a man who talks like he’s personally lived through four dynasties.”

Jiaoqiu blinks, slowly. “So... you’re telling me your new job is time-travel.”

You stare. “He called on me. By name. In front of the entire class.”

“Was this before or after you fell in love?”

You toss a sugar packet at him.

Your best friend catches it midair, smug. “I’m just saying. You’re glowing.”

“I’m mortified.” You sink into your seat and take a too-big bite of croissant to muffle the noise you’re pretty sure is your soul detaching from your body. “This was supposed to be literature. I was prepared for stanzas and symbolism, not high-casualty engagements and dead generals.”

“And yet,” Jiaoqiu says, tilting his head with mock-gravity, “here you are. Survived the siege. Braved the great halls of strategy. Emotionally wounded, perhaps. But alive.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re already smiling. “I hate that you’re not taking this seriously.”

“I’m taking it very seriously,” he says, all calm sincerity—until the mischief flickers at the corner of his mouth again. “Just not in the way you want me to.”

The two of you lapse into a familiar rhythm after that—sips of coffee, flaky pastries, the kind of conversation that loops and winds like a lazy river. Jiaoqiu tells you about his med school rotations with the kind of offhand grace only someone wildly competent and chronically underslept can manage. You talk about those pests in your apartment, and missed laundry cycles, and the way one of the undergrads in Jing Yuan’s class looked at you like you’d committed war crimes for getting the answer right.

Eventually, though, it creeps back in—the anxious hum under your skin, the question that’s been rolling around your brain since the semester started.

“I still don’t get it,” you say, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip. “How I even ended up there. I was supposed to be working on poetry, Jiao. I had a plan.”

He leans back against the bench, arms stretched out like he’s anchoring the entire booth. “Yeah, well. Maybe the universe decided you needed a bit more bloodshed.”

You make a face. Jiaoqiu chuckles.

Then, more gently: “Maybe it’s not a mistake, you know. Maybe it’s just a reroute.”

You glance out the window, where the sky is streaked peach-pink, like his hair. The thought settles somewhere in your chest—still foreign, but a little less unwelcome.

“You really think that?” you ask.

Jiaoqiu shrugs. “I think you’ll make it meaningful, wherever you land. You always do.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just sip your coffee, warm and a little bitter, and try to believe him.

You triple-check the office number before you knock.

Jing Yuan’s email was short. “Stop by this morning when you're free—let’s get you started on grading.” Just that. No smiley face or further elaboration. Not even a signature.

You tell yourself it’s a normal request. Reasonable, even. But your heart doesn’t seem to care about reason. It’s already doing that off-rhythm thing it does when you're called on unexpectedly in class or when your dissertation adviser uses phrases like “reassess your direction.”

Still—you go. Because it’s your job. Because you need this assistantship to keep your funding. Because your name already ended up on the wrong file, and backing out now would feel like letting the wrong choice define you.

You raise a hand and knock twice.

There’s no immediate answer, but you hear voices inside. You hesitate, shift your weight. When no one tells you to come in, you crack the door open and peek in carefully.

Jing Yuan’s office is brighter than you expected—sunlight cutting across stacks of annotated books and meticulously arranged models of warships. A collection of plants of varying shades of green sits along the windowsill, and they look cared for, well-tended to. The professor himself is seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers laced in front of his mouth like he’s pondering the meaning of life—or a particularly difficult chess move.

Across from him sits a boy.

He can’t be older than fifteen, maybe sixteen at most, all sharp eyes and a serious expression. His hair is long and pale gold, tied back neatly. He looks like he belongs on a fencing team or in a school for gifted prodigies—not in a university professor’s office.

They both look up when you step inside.

“Ah, there she is,” Jing Yuan says, voice warm but unhurried. “Come in.”

The boy sizes you up immediately, not unkindly—just with the open curiosity of someone who doesn't think he needs to explain why he’s here.

You linger near the door. “Should I come back later?”

Jing Yuan waves the idea off with a tilt of his hand. “You’re on time, and Yanqing was just leaving.”

The boy—Yanqing, apparently—rolls his eyes. “You always say that when you want me to stop winning.”

Jing Yuan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “A good general knows when to retreat.”

Yanqing stands, slinging a sports bag over one shoulder. “You’ve definitely been hanging out with academics for too long. You used to be cool.”

“You’re imagining things,” Jing Yuan says smoothly. “Go.”

Yanqing sighs but turns to you before heading out. “If he makes you grade multiple-choice by hand, complain to the department. It’s a trap.”

You blink, not understanding how he can possibly know that. “Noted.”

Then he’s gone—just like that—leaving the office a little quieter in his wake.

You take the seat across from Jing Yuan, still a little off-balance from the encounter. 

“Is he—?”

“Not a student here, no,” Jing Yuan answers, already reaching for a folder. “He’s much too young to be in college. However, I’ve known his family for a long time.”

There’s no further explanation. Just a calm slide of papers across the desk toward you. 

“Here’s the rubric,” he says. “Most of the essays won’t follow it. That’s half the battle.”

You pick up the folder and scan the first page, heart still slowly decelerating.

“I’ve never graded for military history before.”

“Good,” Jing Yuan says. “You’re less likely to let nostalgia cloud your judgment.”

You glance up at him.

He doesn’t seem like someone you could ever catch off guard. And yet… there was something softer, just for a moment, when he spoke to Yanqing. Not gentle exactly, but familiar. Like someone who knew how to be responsible for another person’s well-being. 

You wonder what kind of man that makes him—what parts of that softness, if any, he shows to students. Or if it’s only visible in moments like this, when the door is shut and he forgets to perform being unapproachable. Not that he's much of that either way. 

You flip the folder open again. “Is this all of them?”

“For now,” Jing Yuan says with an encouraging smile. “Let’s see how you do before I trust you with the full onslaught.”

You try not to grimace. You also try not to overthink why that made you feel a little proud.

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Tuesday, 10:14 AM

Hi Professor Jing Yuan,

I've left the the first batch of graded essays on your desk (rubric applied, comments included). Please let me know if any of them made you want to revoke my assistantship.

Sincerely hoping none of your students write to the Chancellor about me

P.S. One essay compared ancient siege tactics to online gaming strategy. I didn’t dock points for creativity, but I did question my own existence.

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Jing Yuan  To: Me Date: Tuesday, 11:02 AM

Hello,

Thank you for the thorough grading. You’ve managed to strike the rare balance between mercy and mild academic intimidation. Well done.

As for the siege/gaming comparison—don’t question your existence. It’s a generational phenomenon. At least they weren’t trying to sell me a crypto pyramid scheme disguised as a thesis on empire-building (this has happened).

I’ll review your notes in full today. Unless you hear otherwise, assume you passed the test.

— JY

P.S. You may be entitled to financial compensation for psychological distress after reading these papers. Check with HR.

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Me To: Jing Yuan  Date: Tuesday, 11:45 AM

Professor,

I appreciate the reassurance, and the HR tip. I’ll submit my trauma claim immediately—would you recommend “excessive passive voice” or “unexplained references to Machiavelli” as the primary cause?

Also, not to alarm you, but one student believes your class is secretly a metaphor for late-stage capitalism. I didn't have the heart to tell them it wasn’t.

P.S. Your plants looked happy this morning. What’s your secret? Is it war crimes?

 

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

From: Jing Yuan  To: Me  Date: Tuesday, 12:07 PM

Ah, yes. The Capitalism Conspiracy student. They also referred to siege towers as "vertical expressions of socioeconomic anxiety." I nearly gave them extra credit for commitment.

And no—no war crimes in the plant care. Just sun, water, and unflinching honesty. Plants appreciate consistency. People, I find, are more complicated.

Keep the essays coming when you're ready. You're doing well.

— JY

P.S. If you ever do submit that HR form, let me know. I’d like to include a supporting statement titled: “The Emotional Toll of Watching Students Cite Wikipedia Without Shame.”

You drop by Jing Yuan’s office later that week to return another stack of graded essays. Despite not being able to interact with him much outside the usual lectures you assist with, that email thread from a few days ago was enough to bolster your confidence a little. There’s a skip to your step as you approach his door—which is already ajar when you arrive, but the Professor is not at his desk.

Instead, he’s crouched near the windowsill, scowling at one of the plants like it just insulted his ancestors.

You pause in the doorway. “Should I come back when you’re done interrogating the ficus?”

He glances over his shoulder. “It’s not a ficus. It’s a Dracaena marginata. A fine, resilient species. Or it was, until about three days ago.”

You step inside, amused. “Looks more like it’s staging a slow, quiet rebellion.”

The plant in question is, in fact, not doing well. Its once-straight stalks are drooping slightly, and a few of the leaves are browning at the tips. You can practically hear it whispering help me in chlorophyll.

“Sunlight’s good,” you say, setting down the folder on his desk. “But this one’s rootbound. See how it’s curling at the base? It needs a bigger pot.”

He frowns, lightly touching the edge of a leaf. “I bought it a new ceramic pot last year. It was hand-painted. Expensive.”

“You bought it art, not space,” you say, kneeling beside him to inspect the plant more closely. “They like to stretch out.”

There’s a pause. Jing Yuan watches you for a moment like a siege leader waiting for an opening. Then:

“…You garden?”

It’s not a question you expect, but it’s nonetheless welcome. You nod, pulling a loose leaf free and tucking it into your sleeve. “I’ve got a balcony garden in my apartment. Helps me think.”

“That explains the bonsai-level precision in your grading.”

“It would also explain why I noticed when your Dracaena is crying for help.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of him. It’s low, a little tired, but real.

You reach for the pot instinctively, gently rotating it. “If you’ve got an extra container and some soil, I can help you replant it. Or you can let it suffer quietly in the name of aesthetic minimalism.”

Jing Yuan considers this. Then stands. “Give me a moment.”

He disappears into the adjoining storage room—who has a storage room in their office?—and returns with a clean terracotta pot and a small bag of soil.

You blink. “You were ready for this.”

“I prepare for many things,” he says mildly. “Plant crises among them.”

Together, you settle in on the office floor, scooping soil and untangling roots like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You talk about nothing in particular—the heat outside, a student who cited Sun Tzu and SpongeBob in the same essay, Yanqing’s latest complaint about Jing Yuan supposedly cheating his way out of their most recent chess match.

At some point, you glance up to find him watching you. Not in a way that feels invasive. Just… interested.

You clear your throat and look back down. “You know you can name it something more inspiring than ‘General Shu’ now.”

Jing Yuan hums. “I thought it was fitting. Resilient. Stubborn.”

You pat the soil around the base of the newly potted plant. “That explains why it was dying.”

He chuckles again, softer this time. “I’ll let you name it, then.”

You freeze. “Really?”

“Consider it compensation. I suspect this plant now belongs to both of us.”

You look at the little thing, now sitting straighter in its new home.

You smile. “Okay then. Let’s call it Commander in Leaf.”

There’s a long pause. Jing Yuan’s expression goes carefully blank. Then—

“I take it back.”

But he doesn’t. And the plant stays in his office.

And from then on, so do you—more often than before, under the excuse of checking on its progress. But sometimes, you don’t even bother pretending anymore. The plant’s recovery has become a shared mission. 

Jing Yuan is at his desk when you arrive with the intention of dropping something off. The Professor is reading something on his tablet, and he doesn’t look up right away. Instead, with absolute solemnity, he lifts a hand and salutes the windowsill.

“Commander in Leaf,” Jing Yuan says. “Still holding the line.”

You pause in the doorway, blinking. “Did you just… salute the plant?”

“Of course,” he replies, deadpan. “He’s earned it.”

You glance at the potted Dracaena, now thriving in its new pot. “I didn’t realize we were running a fully militarized photosynthesis unit.”

Jing Yuan gestures at the neat little placard resting beside it—carved from a scrap of wood, inked in neat calligraphy: Commander in Leaf. Beneath it, someone (probably him) has scribbled in smaller letters: Current status: maintaining strong morale.

You try not to laugh. (You fail.)

“Tell me you don’t do that when other faculty stop by.”

“I do,” he says calmly. “It’s a good way to find out who I shouldn’t share committee duties with.”

You step closer, pretending to inspect the plant seriously. “Well, I’ve been keeping a care log, if you're interested.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you?”

You pull a folded scrap of paper from your bag and read off:

Day 1: Showed exceptional resolve in the face of partial shade. Day 3: Stood tall during unexpected drafts. Day 5: Fought off one fruit fly. Took no casualties. Day 9: Received verbal affirmation. Responded with photosynthetic vigor.

Jing Yuan sets down his tablet, clearly trying not to smile. “Have you considered publishing?”

You shrug. “I’ve been advised to reassess my direction.”

He chuckles at that, but there’s something softer behind it too—quiet appreciation, a flicker of something he doesn’t name. You place a tiny watering can you found in the campus gift shop on the side of his desk, one he eyes with abject curiosity.

“Figured the Commander might appreciate the upgrade.”

Jing Yuan studies it, then glances at you. “You’re enabling him.”

“I’m nurturing morale,” you say. “There’s a difference.”

And then—for just a moment—his expression shifts. Gentle. Fond. Like he's not just looking at a joke between colleagues anymore, but something growing beneath it.

Something worth tending to.

The steam curls around your face as you lean over the bubbling pot. Red broth on one side, bone broth on the other. A perfect yin-yang of culinary comfort. Jiaoqiu’s already dropped half the fish balls in, muttering under his breath about the soul-crushing nature of med school exams.

“I swear, if I see one more mnemonic about cranial nerves, I’m going to lose my actual nerves.”

You try not to laugh as you scoop tofu into your bowl. “Which one’s the ‘some say marry money but my brother says big brains matter more’ again?”

“That’s all of them,” he groans, dragging a ladle dramatically across the broth. “All twelve. Living in my head rent-free.”

“Sounds crowded in there.”

“You have no idea.” He glares at the simmering pot like it personally betrayed him. “My coffee budget is bigger than my rent. The library staff know me by name. I may have hallucinated an anatomy diagram giving me a thumbs up.”

You grin and offer him a slice of lotus root like a peace offering. “That’s the med student experience, right? Caffeine, despair, and aggressively highlighted textbooks?”

“Don’t forget emotional repression,” he adds, biting into a fish cake. “Anyway, you look good. Suspiciously good. What’s going on over there in the land of tragic poetry and military strategems?”

You pause, mid-stir. “It’s been… weirdly okay?”

Jiaoqiu raises a brow. “Okay? Hey, blink twice if you’ve been replaced.”

You toss a mushroom at him. “I mean it. Jing Yuan’s—” You stop, chewing on the words. “—surprisingly easy to work with. He’s smart, obviously, but not the ‘talks over you and steals your points’ kind of smart. More like the ‘lets you flounder on your own and then makes one comment that solves everything’ kind.”

He narrows his eyes with a subtle nod. “That sounds… vaguely hot.”

“It’s not,” you say way too quickly. “He’s just—good at what he does. Calm. Thoughtful. Weirdly into plants.”

“Uh-huh,” Jiaoqiu says, dragging out the syllables. “And do you always bring up your professors at hotpot, or is this a new kink you’re developing?”

You shove a ladle of noodles into his bowl to shut him up. “I’m trying to vent here!”

“About a professor you lowkey admire and keep accidentally bonding with over greenery.”

You glare at each other for a second before dissolving into laughter, the kind that makes you tear up a little and clutch your stomach.

Eventually, Jiaoqiu leans back with a satisfied sigh. “Okay. So maybe med school hasn’t completely wrecked me. This was a good call.”

“Hotpot heals,” you agree.

“It really does heal,” he says, quieter now. “I’ve missed this.”

You poke at the broth with your chopsticks, always grateful for his company. “Me too.”

Subject: Slide revisions for Monday From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Saturday 6:57 PM

Hi Professor,

Attached are the updated Week 5 slides. I rearranged the treaty discussion to come before the maps, and trimmed a few of the citations that were threatening to become sentient. Let me know if it’s structurally sound or if anything still feels haunted.

Also: question four might be too spicy for undergrads. I stand by the phrasing but am prepared to be talked down.

Hope you’re enjoying your weekend and not, I don’t know, reorganizing your succulents alphabetically.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Saturday 8:21 PM

Hello,

Structure looks solid. I made two margin notes, both minor—one redundant citation and one slide where the background image appears to be a JPEG of despair. Excellent work overall.

Re: question four. It is a bit incendiary, but I admire the confidence. Maybe save the academic provocation for Week 6. Let them breathe.

On the subject of breathing: I wasn’t reorganizing succulents (though they could use it). I was reading. Found something… uniquely on-brand for this correspondence:

“Flora as Archive: Botanical Symbolism in Pre-Exodus Military Texts.” Dense. Ridiculous. Potentially cursed. Naturally, I thought of you.

Let me know if you make it past page five without losing your will to live.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Me To: Jing Yuan  Date: Saturday 9:08 PM

Professor,

Your faith in my tolerance for cursed material is… flattering? Concerning? Unclear.

I skimmed the abstract. I have questions, the first being: who writes a thirty-page metaphor about turnip cultivation and post-conflict identity? And the second being: why is it kind of compelling?

Also, for the record, that JPEG of despair is a historic mural fragment. I spent twenty minutes photoshopping the cracks out. I’m choosing to interpret your comment as affectionately brutal.

Will report back once I emotionally recover from this plant propaganda.

 

Subject: RE: Slide revisions for Monday From: Jing Yuan  To: Me Date: Saturday 9:44 PM

That mural fragment is effective—if the desired emotion is melancholy existential drift. Still, I commend your editing. The cracks are barely visible.

Glad the turnips spoke to you. I suppose there’s a fine line between madness and brilliance. Or at least between absurdity and your inbox.

Enjoy the descent into leafy symbolism.

— JY

Two months since the semester started, your workload decides it’s time to blossom into a full-grown monster.

Between juggling your assistantship under Professor Jing Yuan, keeping pace with your regular course load, and trying to carve out coherent progress on your dissertation, you’re starting to feel like one of those historical figures who attempted a three-front war. Spoiler: they never win.

Jing Yuan isn’t exactly demanding—at least not in the traditional sense. He rarely gives direct orders, but his casual suggestions tend to multiply into tasks that somehow land squarely on your to-do list. A guest lecture outline here. A batch of annotated readings there. The occasional deeply cursed archival article on botanical semiotics in military treatises that somehow, maddeningly, ends up being... useful.

Meanwhile, your own classes don’t pause for breath, and your dissertation committee’s emails are starting to read less like check-ins and more like distant threats in polite academic language.

You’re not drowning yet. But you’re definitely treading water with a stack of books on your head.

Which is the main reason why you slip into the campus greenhouse, where the door clicks shut behind you with a soft hiss. Warmth folds around your shoulders like a thick cloak—humid, tinged with the scent of loam and crushed stems. You let yourself breathe for the first time all week.

The air is golden. Not just from the lamps, but the hour—late enough that the sun threads through the glass in ribbons, catching on leaves, pooling against the tiles. You step lightly, careful not to disturb the quiet.

And then, in the corner, past a curtain of broad banana leaves—you spot movement. A glint of silver-white, not mechanical but alive, shifting as someone bends low over a planter bed.

Jing Yuan.

His coat is folded neatly on a bench. He wears something simpler now—sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark fabric dusted with soil. His gloves are peeled halfway off like he started removing them and got distracted. You can see the way the light catches in his hair, bright against the foliage, and the gold of his eyes when he glances up.

You hadn’t expected him here.

He doesn’t seem surprised by you. “Evening,” he says, as though this were routine, and you both belong here, quietly orbiting the same sunlit corner of campus.

“I didn’t think anyone else came this late,” you say, still hovering just past the herbs.

He gestures without looking up as he smooths out the soil at the base of a plant. “These don’t wait for office hours.”

You make your way over, the soles of your shoes silent on the damp stone. There’s a long planter in front of him—lavender, mint, and something else you can’t quite name.

“What’s that one?”

He glances at it. “Scutellaria lateriflora. Skullcap.”

You blink. “Is that the one from the cursed plant paper?”

His expression twitches, clearly amused that you recall. “The very same. Though I promise this variety won’t inspire an existential spiral. Unless you steep it improperly.”

You squat down beside him, close enough to smell the greenery, and just a little of him—clean, herbal, something sun-warmed.

“Are you always this poetic about tea?”

He hums, brushing stray soil from his wrist. “Only when I think someone’s listening.”

The silence that follows doesn’t feel heavy. If anything, it feels… held. Like both of you are aware of it and choosing to let it stretch.

He glances sideways. “When I was freshly inducted into the military, stationed out west, the field medic used to grow this in cracked pots behind the barracks. Said it calmed the nerves. I didn’t believe him until he gave some to my superior before an inspection and she started smiling at clouds. That Master of mine hardly ever smiled at anything.”

You bite back a laugh. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Terrifying,” he agrees.

There’s something in the way he says it—offhand, but with an undertone that feels oddly personal. Not quite nostalgic. Not quite casual, either, but you appreciate the fact that he trusts you enough with that piece of himself either way. 

You nod, gently. “You talk about those days sometimes. Like they’re far away and close all at once.”

Jing Yuan doesn’t respond right away. He looks at the plant again, brushing a thumb along the rim of the planter. The movement pulls his sleeve just enough for you to glimpse the faint scar curving along his forearm—old, pale, out of place in a space so gentle.

“Some things grow where they shouldn’t,” he says quietly. “Doesn’t mean they didn’t belong there.”

The words settle between you like pollen. You’re not sure what to say to that. You’re not sure you need to.

He stands, brushing off his palms, the motion fluid. “You’re welcome to help yourself to the skullcap, by the way. Though I’m not liable for any poetic side effects.”

You look up at him. “You think I need calming?”

“I think you’re the kind of person who’d try it just to prove it doesn’t work.”

That gets a smirk out of you. You don’t deny it.

As he heads for the exit, he glances over his shoulder. “Try not to start a revolution in here. The basil’s still recovering from midterms.”

And then he’s gone—coat in hand, a soft echo of steps fading into the evening.

You sit for a while longer, listening to the greenhouse breathe, your fingers trailing along the edge of a leaf as if it might answer back. And maybe you’re considering what turnip metaphors and medicinal tea have to do with feeling seen, and why you haven’t quite stopped thinking about that faded scar of his.

The next day, you’re expecting a quiet office when you head to Jing Yuan’s door—a folder of notes tucked under one arm and your brain already cycling through exam revisions. Instead, you find two undergrads you recognize from Jing Yuan's afternoon lecture hovering outside, looking like they just escaped something mildly inconvenient.

“He’s not in,” one of them says, clutching a half-finished iced coffee. “A note in there told us he’d be in the faculty lounge if we needed him.”

They give you that look students give teaching aides—half pity, half solidarity—and shuffle off. You hesitate a beat, then turn toward the lounge.

The history department’s faculty lounge is tucked behind a nondescript wooden door with a plaque that reads STAFF ONLY in fading gold letters. You knock twice before pushing it open and stepping into a room that somehow smells like old books and even older coffee.

Jing Yuan is there, of course, lounging like he owns the place. He’s leaned back in a battered armchair, coat draped over one armrest, silver hair catching the afternoon light. He lifts his gaze when you enter and gives you a lazy two-finger wave.

“You found me,” he says. “You’re getting better at that.”

You open your mouth to respond, but someone beats you to it.

“Gods, can you not flirt with your assistant in front of the rest of us?” The voice is sharp, unimpressed, and belongs to a petite woman with cotton-candy pink hair and the energy of someone who’s never lost an argument. She’s curled up on the couch with a mug that reads I WARNED YOU.

You recognize her as Professor Fu Xuan.

Jing Yuan doesn’t even flinch. “Who’s flirting?”

“You, constantly,” Fu Xuan mutters, before turning her attention to you. “You poor, brave soul. Blink twice if he’s making you carry the exam load.”

You blink. Twice.

“That’s what I thought.”

Before you can recover, another woman rises gracefully from a nearby armchair. Her dark green hair is tied back in a neat twist, and her grey eyes are warm behind gold-framed glasses. She offers you a small bowl with individually wrapped candies.

“Don’t let her scare you,” she says kindly. “I’m Yukong. You look like you could use something sweet.”

You take a candy, half out of politeness, half because you haven’t eaten since morning. It tastes vaguely like rose and citrus, delicate and grounding.

“Thanks,” you say, a little overwhelmed. “I didn’t expect—”

“A small army?” Yukong finishes for you, smiling.

“You get used to it,” another voice adds, smooth and unbothered. You turn and see a man leaning against the bookshelf, flipping casually through a thick volume without actually reading. He has platinum blonde hair, tied loosely back, and green eyes that give away absolutely nothing.

“Luocha,” he says, not quite bowing. “You must be the one keeping our dear general from turning into a full-blown recluse.”

“He does that anyway,” Fu Xuan mutters, blowing on her tea.

“I’m just here to go over the exam revisions,” you manage, glancing at Jing Yuan like he might rescue you from whatever this is.

“Of course,” he says, rising from the armchair and stretching. “Come on, we’ll take the corner table. Ignore the others—they thrive on chaos.”

“That’s slander,” Fu Xuan calls out.

“That’s true,” Yukong corrects, gently.

Luocha chuckles and disappears behind a newspaper.

You follow Jing Yuan to the far end of the lounge, still holding the candy. It’s strange—being here, surrounded by people who know him as more than just a professor. It makes him feel a little more human, and for some reason, that’s both comforting and dangerous.

Banishing any unnecessary thoughts, you settle into the chair opposite him, placing your folder between you. It’s strangely quiet in this corner, despite the low hum of faculty chatter around you and Fu Xuan loudly proclaiming that if one more student confuses “Sun Tzu” with “Sun Wukong,” she’s going to eat her own syllabus.

Jing Yuan pulls out a copy of the exam from a slim folder, annotated in a neat, looping hand you now recognize from your inbox. He flips it open, tapping a question midway down the page.

“This one,” he says, voice low and even, “asks students to compare the leadership strategies of Commander Yushi and General Heizen during the Exodus conflicts. Too broad?”

You glance at it. “A bit. They’ll just regurgitate what we covered in lecture five.”

“Which is unfortunate,” he sighs. “That lecture was supposed to make them think.”

“Half of them were barely conscious,” you remind him. “You said ‘dual-pronged encirclement maneuver’ and someone in the front row started drooling.”

He chuckles under his breath. “True. You proposed trimming the essay section. We could cut question five. I won’t miss it.”

You flip through the pages. He really did design the entire thing himself—questions layered like tactical puzzles, some straightforward, some clever enough to make you pause and think, Wait. That’s mean. It’s a good exam. Annoyingly good.

As you jot a quick note in the margin, you glance up at him. He’s leaning on one elbow, watching you work with the kind of patience that doesn’t press, just… waits. His eyes are warm and a little sleepy, like the afternoon light has started to soak into him, and the soft gold in his gaze reflects it.

There’s that tiny beauty mark under his left eye you’ve never really noticed until now. His lashes are unfairly long. And his voice—still murmuring something about a possible bonus question—is the kind that sneaks into your bones when you’re not paying attention. Smooth. Low. Like warm tea before bed.

You blink.

Oh no, you think, with a brief internal panic. Is this how it starts?

“I’m not saying we have to keep the trick question about forged supply manifests,” he says lightly, still watching you. “But I did go to the trouble of disguising it as a logistical analysis. I’m proud of that one.”

You exhale, grateful for the distraction. “Fine. Keep your sneaky logistics trap.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

You scribble “Q5: CUT” in your notes just as Yukong passes by and sets down a small dish of ginger candies between you both. “For concentration,” she says, and pats your shoulder with such sincerity it nearly undoes you.

Across the lounge, Fu Xuan is arguing with a vending machine. Luocha is still pretending to read.

“Do you usually hold meetings out here?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

Jing Yuan shrugs. “My office gets too quiet sometimes. The lounge is… alive. Easier to think when people are talking about unrelated nonsense nearby.”

“Is that why you dragged me into the chaos?”

“No,” he says, smiling now. “That was just a bonus.”

You roll your eyes and try not to look directly into the sunlight pooling over his hair.

You really, really get why students throw themselves at his RateMyProfessors page now.

You were fine before, totally unaffected.

And now?

Now you’re thinking about things that have nothing to do with military history.

Focus, you tell yourself, flipping to the next page in your folder. You’re here to revise the exam, not psychoanalyze your supervisor’s face.

Still, the corners of your mind itch with the question you don’t want to look at too closely. You scrawl a note about formatting consistency just to drown it out.

Jing Yuan takes one of Yukong’s ginger candies without a word and pops it into his mouth like it’s some ancient rite. “Question nine,” he says, voice a little muffled, “do we like the phrasing? ‘Assess the ethical implications of fabricating casualties in war records—’”

“Sounds like you’re goading them into starting a campus debate club.”

“Isn’t that the dream?”

You snort. “Your dreams are chaos.”

“They’re very well-structured chaos,” he replies, then frowns at a smudge of ink on the corner of the page. “You know, I designed this whole exam with the intent of provoking deeper thought. Stirring unrest in the soul. That sort of thing.”

You lean back in your chair. “So basically, you want them to suffer, but elegantly.”

He taps the exam. “Academically suffer.”

You both laugh, and it’s easy in the way that most things with him have become lately. The weight of the lounge fades, backgrounded by Fu Xuan’s lecture on historiographical incompetence and the clack of Luocha’s polished shoes as he walks past humming something vaguely ominous.

You glance at the clock. Time’s slipped by.

“We should wrap this up,” you say, but your hand doesn’t move to close the folder.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You know,” Jing yuan starts, quieter now, “you’ve been doing a good job.”

Your eyes flick to his face, uncertain.

“Managing the assistantship. Handling your own coursework.” His gaze is steady, kind. “Even keeping up with my overcomplicated exam drafts. I believe not everyone who's been unceremoniously thrust into the wrong department can handle all this with the same amount of grace.”

You shrug, suddenly aware of how warm your ears feel. “It’s… been a lot.”

He nods. “I imagine.”

And there’s nothing grand about the moment. No swelling music. Just sunlight on polished tile, the echo of faculty voices, and a long look from the professor who’s never raised his voice in front of you, who listens like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You gather your papers. “I’ll send the revisions by tonight.”

“Don’t rush,” he says as you rise. “But I’ll look forward to them.”

You’re halfway to the door before you realize you’re smiling.

Me: Jiao...

Jiaoqiu: what happened?

Me: I think I understand now.

Jiaoqiu: what exactly are you understanding at 4pm on a tuesday

Me: Why students are weirdly obsessed with Jing Yuan

Jiaoqiu: ah.

Me: He’s—

Me: Warm eyes. Calm voice. Good posture. Intelligent but not condescending. And the emails make sense now. They’re part of the charm offensive.

Jiaoqiu: i see. you’ve developed an awareness of your supervisor’s aesthetic qualities.

Me: HE GAVE ME CANDY

Me: Well, Professor Yukong gave us the candy, but he gave me one himself too

Me: He also thanked me. Sincerely. Like a real person. Not a professor-shaped cryptid.

Jiaoqiu: was he wearing that coat again? the long one?

Me: Uhh, he wasn't, but it was hanging on the back of his chair.

Jiaoqiu: just confirming the visual.

Me: He has a beauty mark under his eye. Did you know that?

Jiaoqiu: i do now.

Me: And he smells like rain and maybe some kind of medicinal herb and I feel like that should be illegal in academic spaces

Jiaoqiu: i mean, they let me into med school. the bar can’t be that high.

Me: He made a skullcap joke

Me: Botanical skullcap

Jiaoqiu: the way i don't even know what in the world that is

Me: He said he wasn’t liable for poetic side effects

Jiaoqiu: that’s either flirtation or an extremely specific form of mentorship

Me: What do i DO

Jiaoqiu: nothing rash. nothing career-ending.

Me: I keep rereading his emails like they contain subtext

Jiaoqiu: do they?

Me: Maybe. 

Me: I can’t tell. They’re so calm. TOO calm.

Me: I think he could talk me into planting an herb garden on the moon and I’d just nod and ask about soil quality

Jiaoqiu: honestly, that tracks

Me: Jiaoqiu

Jiaoqiu: look. you’ve had a long day, you’re a little enchanted, and you’re tired. this is a potent combination.

Jiaoqiu: sit with it. don’t panic. just… notice.

Me: You’re no fun

Jiaoqiu: i’m the right kind of fun. the kind that keeps you from embarrassing yourself in front of your professor-crush

Me: He is NOT—

Jiaoqiu: skullcap, rain, and calm emails

Jiaoqiu: not a crush at all

Me: I hate how reasonable you are sometimes

Jiaoqiu: you’ll thank me at graduation

You don't see him for a few days. Which is fine. Healthy, even. Distance. Perspective. Emotional regulation. Jiaoqiu would be proud.

So when you finally do spot him again—across the corridor, carrying a stack of books and talking to a first-year—you have exactly two seconds to remind yourself: professionalism.

He notices you immediately. Of course he does.

“Hey, there,” he calls, with that same infuriatingly composed tone and a smile that's too warm for comfort. “Do you have a moment?”

No, your brain screams. I’ve had too many moments already.

“Yes,” you say, like a normal, rational adult. “What is it?”

You catch up, walking beside him now. He smells like rain on stone and, faintly, dried basil. You are not thinking about that. You are thinking about exams. Revisions. Your future. Commander in Leaf.

Yes. Focus on the dracaena.

By the time you’re in his office, that becomes a little easier—mostly because the aforementioned plant is right there, perched on the windowsill in a spot of prime sunlight, looking suspiciously healthy.

“Look at him go,” you say before you can help yourself.

Jing Yuan follows your gaze. “I’ve been misting him in the mornings. It seems to be working.”

“Diligence suits him.”

He smiles faintly. “He’s doing better than some of my students.”

You snort. “Don’t let him hear that. You’ll spark an insurrection.”

“Commander in Leaf would never.”

The two of you share a brief look, the kind where something unspoken but light passes between you. And then the moment ends, and he’s pulling out a printed copy of the revised exam.

“I tried to balance the military context with a few of the more… symbolic prompts,” he says, handing it over.

You skim through it, grateful for the distraction. “Number four’s going to make someone cry.”

“I did wonder if it was too cruel,” he muses. “But they’ve had two weeks to prepare.”

“Academic cruelty builds character,” you mutter, deadpan.

He hums in agreement, his gold eyes glinting just slightly. You don’t dare look too long. Not with the sunlight catching in his silver hair. Not with the faint scar on his forearm visible today, a quiet reminder that this is someone with more layers than he lets on.

And then, softly: “I appreciate all the work you’ve put into this.”

“It’s part of the job,” you reply quickly.

“Yes,” he says. “But you do it well.”

You nod, uncertain what to say to that—what to do with the way it makes your chest feel a little too full. You glance toward the dracaena again, like it might save you.

It doesn’t.

For the next twenty minutes, you pretend to reread the same paragraph on the exam sheet while the silence stretches. Jing Yuan doesn’t fill it. He rarely does. His silences are never heavy—just still. Like something has settled, not ended.

Eventually, you speak. “Do you ever miss it?”

He glances up.

“The field,” you clarify. “Before all this.” You gesture vaguely to the office, the syllabus-covered corkboard, the stack of ungraded papers like a small, judgmental monument to academia.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair. The sunlight catches at the edges of his hair, silver turned almost gold. “Sometimes. Not in the ways people expect.”

You raise a brow.

“I don’t miss the orders. Or the politics. Or the cold.” His fingers drum once against the table. “But I miss the quiet moments. The calm between chaos. Sitting in the brush, waiting for dawn, and realizing you still remember the name of the flower growing next to your boot.”

You don’t expect that answer. You don’t expect how much it stays with you.

“Is that why you started gardening?”

He gives a small shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe the plants started growing in spite of me.”

You glance at the dracaena, upright and glossy-leafed in the window. Commander in Leaf, steadfast as ever.

“He’s come a long way,” you say.

“He had good guidance,” Jing Yuan replies, and though his eyes are on the plant, you feel the words land somewhere else entirely.

Your heart does a very annoying thing.

“Anyway,” he says after a beat, pushing his chair back with a soft creak, “I’d say we’ve got a solid draft now. Unless you have other edits?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s good. Pretty balanced.” You add, “Almost disappointingly so. I expected more trick questions.”

“I’ll save those for the final.” His tone is dry.

You stand, smoothing your shirt automatically. “Thanks for looping me in.”

“Thank you for being looped.”

The reply makes you smile—helplessly, almost.

As you turn to go, he calls your name. You pause, hand already on the doorframe.

“If the Commander ever starts looking droopy again,” Jing Yuan says, “I’ll know who to call.”

You nod. “He’s tougher than he looks. You both are.”

He tilts his head. There’s something unreadable in his expression—not solemn, not quite soft. Just… present.

You leave before you can overthink it.

You didn’t plan on running into Professor Fu Xuan.

You just wanted a quick lunch—something solid to ground you after spending way too long noticing the warm timbre of Jing Yuan’s voice instead of focusing on actual exam logistics. You end up at a tucked-away dumpling stall behind the philosophy building, a personal favorite, quiet and slightly out of the way.

Fu Xuan’s already there, halfway through a steaming bowl of noodle soup and eyeing you over the rim of her cup.

“Fancy seeing you out in the wild,” she says. “The aide emerges from the general’s office.”

You blink. “That makes it sound like I’ve been stationed there.”

“Am I wrong?” She gestures to the empty seat across from her with a flick of her chopsticks. “Sit. You look like you’re still digesting something complicated.”

You do sit. And to your surprise, she pushes over a bamboo steamer. “Pork and chive. I don’t share these lightly.”

“You don’t do anything lightly,” you mutter.

Fu Xuan smirks. “True.”

There’s a lull as you both eat, and then she says, “So. Jing Yuan.”

You pause mid-bite. “What about him?”

“You tell me. You’re the one he trusts enough to help rewrite his midterm.” She sips her soup like it’s a perfectly timed dramatic pause. “You’re also the one currently wearing a very conflicted expression.”

You wipe your mouth with a napkin that suddenly feels too thin. “He’s… fine.”

“‘Fine’ is the most suspicious word in the language.”

You sigh, leaning back a little. “He’s good at what he does. Smart. Weirdly thoughtful. Doesn’t crowd people.”

Fu Xuan gives a snort. “No, he broods from a comfortable distance. Very scenic.”

You glance down at your food. “There’s a reason he keeps that distance, right?”

That gets her attention.

“I mean, he listens. He remembers things you say. But I don’t think he lets people in.” You pick at the edge of your chopsticks. “It’s not just about professionalism. It feels older than that. Like something that stuck long after it was supposed to.”

Fu Xuan’s expression shifts—less teasing, more thoughtful. “He’s not a bad man. He’s just someone who’s lived through more endings than beginnings. You’d know that if you looked closely.”

You do. That’s the problem.

“Anyway,” she adds briskly, “don’t make those eyes at him unless you’re prepared to see it through. He’s not built for half-measures.”

You bristle. “I’m not making eyes.”

She raises both brows, unimpressed. “Then you’d better tell your face that.”

You glare. Fu Xuan passes you another dumpling.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she says, but her voice is gentler now.

You both fall into silence again. Outside, campus life carries on—students laughing, bikes whirring past, spring trying to force its way through lingering chill.

Eventually, Fu Xuan taps her chopsticks once against the edge of her bowl. “Still. I haven’t seen him this animated about course planning in years. So whatever you’re doing... keep doing it. Just don’t lose yourself while you’re at it.”

You nod. It’s not a promise, exactly. But it’s something close.

It’s late.

The kind of late where the campus forgets it’s alive—hallways hushed, the library glowing like a last ember, vending machines buzzing like distant wasps. You told yourself one more hour, just until you finished the last essay question on a mock exam you prepared for yourself. That was two cups of coffee and half a pack of mints ago.

You should be heading home. Your body knows it. Your bag’s already slung over one shoulder, keys in hand. But instead, your steps drift—not toward the exit, but down the corridor that passes the history department. Familiar territory by now. Not on your way, not exactly. But close enough to pretend.

You don’t expect him to be there. It’s almost midnight. The building’s cold. The corridors echo with the kind of quiet that usually only follows snow or grief. But still—something tells you to check.

The office door is ajar.

And there he is.

Jing Yuan’s hair is put up haphazardly, the lamplight casting a quiet halo behind his head. He’s leaned over his desk, one elbow propped as he reads through a stack of papers with the slow patience of someone unhurried, even this late. His coat is folded over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled up. The warm gold of his eyes shifts slightly when he notices you in the doorway.

“…Burning the midnight oil?” he asks, voice low and warm as ever. The kind of voice that could lull even the most caffeine-wired grad student into sleep.

“Could say the same to you,” you say, stepping inside. The door shuts softly behind you. “I was studying at the library. Figured I’d check on Commander in Leaf.”

He glances toward the plant in the corner—green, lively, unmistakably proud in its new pot. “Still standing. Though I suspect he’s angling for a promotion.”

You smile. It’s automatic now, the way banter slips between you. Like water finding the grooves already carved into stone.

You nod toward the stack of papers. “Grading?”

“The midterm,” he confirms. “Figured I’d get ahead of it before the weekend. It’s not as bad as I expected.”

“You mean they actually listened to our review slides?”

He hums. “A few of them, anyway. One of them referred to the Heavenly Kings of Wuwang as a ‘well-dressed disaster cult,’ which… technically not wrong.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. “Do you want help?”

He looks at you for a beat too long, eyes flicking down to your slightly wrinkled sleeves, the shadow of fatigue under your eyes. “You should go home.”

“I should. But I won’t.”

He says nothing, just gestures to the second chair near his desk. You take it.

For a while, you grade together. The silence is companionable—no background music, no clacking keyboards. Just the faint scribble of red ink and the occasional mutter of disapproval from either of you when a student tries to cite a fictional general as precedent for wartime tax reform.

It’s only when you glance over at him—when the light hits just right—that you notice the scar along the inside of his left forearm. Faint, but long. Old, but not forgotten. You’ve never asked. He’s never told you.

You don’t mention it now, either.

Instead, you say, “You ever get tired of it? Teaching, I mean.”

Jing Yuan’s pen pauses mid-mark.

“Sometimes,” he tells you eventually. “But I like seeing which parts they remember. What sticks. What they misunderstand in interesting ways.”

You nod, understanding more than you want to admit. You don’t ask if he’s talking about the students.

After a while, you find yourself reading the same sentence three times in a row.

“You’re tired,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be.”

He exhales, slow and even. “You’ll make a very kind professor one day.”

“Kindness doesn’t get you tenure.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it keeps you human.”

You don’t realize how long you sit there, papers forgotten, silence stretching. Not tense—just full of the kind of things that don’t need to be said aloud. You catch yourself watching him—his steady hands, the way he rests his chin in his palm, the quiet gravity of him.

And you wonder, not for the first time, when this stopped being just an assistantship.

You’re in the department office, waiting for the ancient copier to finish spitting out the last of Jing Yuan’s annotated lecture slides, when you decide to check your TA hours.

170 out of 200.

You blink at the number on your spreadsheet like it might change. It doesn’t. You’ve been diligent about logging every hour—lectures attended, exams proctored, papers graded, a few mildly deranged office hours. It shouldn’t surprise you. You’re nearly there.

You feel… weird about it.

You’d expected relief. And part of you is relieved—fewer commitments, more time for your own coursework, your looming dissertation. But there’s another part of you that lingers. That doesn’t want to check the final box just yet. The part that’s gotten used to the rhythm of those quiet mornings in Jing Yuan’s office, sipping tea while parsing Warring Alliance era strategy memos. The part that’s started to anticipate his dry comments and rare, unexpected smiles.

You shake yourself out of it, grabbing the warm stack of papers from the machine.

Back in the shared TA office—a cramped but surprisingly functional space Professor Yukong somehow wrangled into existence behind the college’s back—you set the stack of papers down and pause.

Something’s on your desk. A small, folded bundle. It wasn’t there this morning.

It’s wrapped in soft linen, tied with a bit of twine. No name. No note. Just a familiar, earthy scent curling upward. You untie it carefully.

Inside is a small bunch of dried skullcap—the same herb you spotted growing in his plot at the greenhouse.

You stare at it for a second, a little dumbfounded. Your first thought is, Did he just leave this here? Your second thought is worse: Did anyone else see this?

A gift, technically. But not the kind you can laugh off or easily categorize. It’s thoughtful. Personal. Quiet. Not the sort of thing a professor normally gives their assistant.

You sit down slowly.

Maybe he left it as a joke. You had poked fun at him for being into medicinal plants. Or maybe it’s a peace offering—your last meeting had been… intellectually heated. Or maybe—

Your phone buzzes.

 

Jiaoqiu: just checking in.

Jiaoqiu: how’s your day going? have you eaten something that isn’t instant noodles?

Me: Hey, I only did that during undergrad

Me: Also… Jing Yuan left me herbs.

Jiaoqiu: What kind of herbs are we talking? Romantic gesture or assassination attempt?

Me: Skullcap. Dried. On my desk. No note.

Jiaoqiu: So… romantic assassination. Got it.

Jiaoqiu: Want me to counter with a medicinal bouquet and a handwritten card that says “Talk to her, coward”?

 

You don’t reply immediately.

Your eyes flick back to the bundle. He’d mentioned it once, in the greenhouse. A quiet offer tucked between jokes about turnips and revolution. Back then, it felt like a kindness. Now, you’re not so sure what it feels like.

You’ve logged 170 out of 200 hours. Thirty left. Maybe less. Then it’s over. Someone else will sit in that chair beside him, revise his lecture slides, edit his exams.

You’ll go back to your classes. Your dissertation. Your own little world.

So why does it feel like something else is beginning, just as this chapter is supposed to close?

 

Jiaoqiu: btw did commander in leaf make it through the cold snap??

Jiaoqiu: i have this theory he’s absorbing all your suppressed emotions

Me: He’s thriving actually

Me: New growth and everything

Me: Better adjusted than me

Jiaoqiu: ok so he’s the emotionally stable one in this situationship

Me: It’s not a situationship

Me: He just left me a bundle of medicinal herbs on my desk

Jiaoqiu: ah. the classic “here, soothe yourself” move

Jiaoqiu: brutal. tender. textbook.

Me: He just gave me some skullcaps

Me: ..which we talked about once, like, months ago

Jiaoqiu: oh no

Jiaoqiu: he REMEMBERED a SMALL DETAIL

Jiaoqiu: you’re doomed

Me: Shut up

Jiaoqiu: never

Jiaoqiu: also: how long until you hit 200 hours?

Me: 30 to go, maybe less

Me: then that’s it. new TA, new semester, everything resets

Jiaoqiu: ...you okay?

Me: I don’t know...

Me: It’s like... It’s ending. But it’s also not.

Me: Like I’m supposed to be wrapping up a job, but instead it feels like I’m standing at the edge of something I don’t have a name for

Jiaoqiu: emotions.

Jiaoqiu: you’re standing at the edge of emotions. they’re terrifying. i respect that.

Jiaoqiu: want me to come over and bring aggressively flavored ramen?

Me: Please.

Jiaoqiu: say less

You don’t mean to pull away at first.

It starts with little things. A quieter tone when you speak to him. Choosing to stay behind and tidy up the lecture hall instead of walking with him back to the office. Opting to eat lunch in the shared TA workspace, even though you know Jing Yuan usually takes his in the garden courtyard behind the department.

It feels responsible. Professional. Healthy, even. You’re nearing the end of your hours—just under thirty to go. Soon, your time as his assistant will be over. He’ll request someone else next term. And you? You’ll move on, return to your thesis, maybe pick up another departmental job. That’s the way these things go.

So you draw the line early. Just enough to avoid the sting of missing something before it’s gone.

Jing Yuan doesn’t comment. He never has been the type to call things out directly. But the shift doesn’t go unnoticed.

You see it in how he pauses, just barely, when handing you papers. How his eyes flick to yours when you walk in, and then back to his desk before you’ve settled in. How he thanks you more often, in small, unassuming ways—like leaving a fresh cup of tea at your elbow without saying anything, or gently replacing the pen you snapped between your fingers during grading with a sturdier one from his drawer.

Once, you find Commander in Leaf repositioned on the windowsill beside your usual seat, basking in the filtered light. A silent reminder of something shared. A joke you no longer make.

Even the emails change. Not in content, but in tone. Still warm. Still punctuated with occasional dry humor. But more deliberate. Like he’s carefully preserving what remains.

On a Thursday afternoon, he passes you a stack of prefinal drafts without looking up.

“You’ve been making great time on the grading,” he says. “Thank you.”

You nod. “Of course.”

He watches you from the corner of his eye as you sit down, but he doesn’t press. Just goes back to marking answers with his usual steady hand.

The silence is companionable. But not quite the same.

And as you glance at the hours left on your timesheet, you wonder if you’ve made the space too wide. If it’s possible to miss something that hasn’t even ended yet.

You hand him your timecard on a quiet afternoon, the department office door clicking softly shut behind you. No ceremony, no lingering goodbyes. Just the two of you, like always—though this time, the space between you feels more final than it ever has.

Jing Yuan accepts the card without a word at first, his fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. He glances down at the total hours—200/200 neatly inked in your handwriting—and then back up at you.

The look on his face is hard to describe. Not surprised, not even disappointed. Just… sad. A quiet, unassuming kind of sadness that doesn’t sit easily on his features. His usual calm composure is still there, but this—this is something else. Something more human.

He recovers quickly, because of course he does. The corner of his mouth lifts into a wry half-smile.

“I see you didn’t pad your hours with invented emergencies,” he says. “I was starting to think you’d start making things up. ‘Accidental syllabus combustion,’ maybe. ‘Commander in Leaf went rogue.’”

That earns a faint smile from you. “Commander in Leaf wouldn’t betray us. He’s too loyal.”

Jing Yuan chuckles, then leans back slightly in his chair. “I suppose that’s true. You’ve trained him well.”

The silence after stretches for a beat too long.

Then, with a small nod, he says, “You’ve done well. I hope the rest of your work treats you a little more kindly. You’ve earned it.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to say anything else. You thank him. For the opportunity. For the patience. For everything.

You mean to say more, but your throat tightens before the words can form. So instead, you leave.

And you don’t come back.

You avoid the history department for the rest of the semester—not out of pettiness, but preservation. It’s easier this way. Easier not to walk past his office door and wonder if he still keeps the same tea stash. Easier not to run into Professor Yukong, who always had sweets tucked in her drawer for you. Easier not to catch Professor Fu Xuan’s narrowed eyes and her sharp-tongued comments that somehow still carried a note of reluctant fondness.

You miss all of it. But you keep your distance. It’s what you chose, after all.

And then graduation arrives.

It comes cloaked in the usual chaos—ill-fitting gowns, last-minute speeches, cords that won’t sit right, and students buzzing like the summer’s already begun. You move with the tide, hood slung neatly over your shoulders, name card clutched in your slightly sweaty palm.

You don’t expect to see him. Not really. The ceremony’s enormous, and the history department graduates early on. You assume he’s long gone by the time your name is called.

But later, after the recessional, as you’re navigating a sea of photo ops and teary-eyed classmates, you catch a flash of silver hair near the edge of the crowd.

Jing Yuan stands under one of the shade trees, away from the noise. A few faculty still linger nearby, chatting or clapping former students on the back. He’s holding something—probably a program—and he’s not in academic robes. Just his usual dark button-up, sleeves neatly rolled, and that calm, unreadable expression. He wears the scar on his forearm, not quite like a badge of honor, but something he doesn't bother keeping a secret. Like it was always a part of him.

Regret blooms in the back of your throat when you remember that you never once asked about it. 

But you can't pay it much mind when his yellow eyes find yours, making you freeze. 

Jing Yuan lifts his hand in a small wave. Not beckoning, just... acknowledging. And then, like always, he gives you the chance to decide.

Somewhere in the crowd, Jiaoqiu is probably scanning faces, phone in hand, ready to shout your name. He'd come all this way just to cheer you on, stepping in for your parents with that easy, unshakable loyalty of his—even with a mountain of exams waiting for him by the end of the week. 

You should go. Return Jing Yuan’s gesture with a polite wave, a quiet goodbye. It would be the sensible thing. Clean and uncomplicated.

But your feet are already moving.

You don’t think. You just go.

The shade under the tree is cooler than you expected. Closer now, you can see he’s tired—creases around his eyes a little deeper, hair pulled back a bit less carefully than usual. But his smile is soft.

“Congratulations,” he says, quiet enough to drown in. “I meant to send a message, but this seemed better.”

You nod, words caught somewhere in your chest. “Didn’t expect to see you here, Professor.”

His mouth curves slightly. “I’m very good at showing up when I’m not expected.”

You almost ask why he came. Almost. But instead, you say, “Thank you. For everything.”

He glances at the program in his hands, then back at you. “I should be thanking you. I’m still finding things in the office that you organized without telling me.”

That gets a smile out of you, small but genuine. “Somehow I knew you’d never notice until I was gone.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, and for a moment it feels like nothing’s changed.

Until it does.

He looks at you a little too long, then says, “I kept cultivating the skullcaps in the greenhouse.”

You blink, surprised. “Really? Until now?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Made a surprisingly decent tea,” he adds with a quiet chuckle. “Though I can’t say it helped my sleeping habits.”

Your lips twitch, unsure how to respond to the unexpected admission. You wonder, for just a moment, if he's saying it to bridge the growing gap between you two, or if it's just an offhand comment like so many others he's made. Either way, the words settle between you like a lingering warmth.

You smile, feeling a hint of nostalgia tug at you. “Tell Commander in Leaf I’m proud of him.”

“He misses your pep talks.”

Then, he pauses, real and full of the unspoken.

“If you ever want to come back,” Jing Yuan says carefully, “there’s always a place for you.”

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

You both know you won’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But as you turn to leave, you hear him call out, just once. The way he says your name reminds you of the first time he did in class, soft yet resonant. Enough to make your heart ache for something that wasn't even there to begin with. 

You look over your shoulder, he’s smiling again. That same soft smile, gold eyes warm despite the distance.

“Be well.”

You nod. “You too.”

And this time, you really go.

The Lit Department’s post-graduation celebration was supposed to be the culmination of everything you’d worked for. You'd dressed up, laughed with your peers, toasted to your future, and enjoyed the camaraderie that had become familiar over the past few years. The music was loud, everyone’s smiles seemed just a little too bright, but it was fine. You were supposed to be fine.

You even managed to have a good time, at least for a while. You wandered through conversations, shared some drinks, and even found yourself laughing at the absurdity of being a part of something so transient. The thought of moving on, of never seeing these faces again, was supposed to be exciting, but there was an underlying emptiness to it all—something you couldn’t quite shake.

You found yourself excusing yourself early, mumbling something about needing to check on your plants or pretending to have a deadline to meet, something that would get you out of the door and away from the questions of “What’s next?” and “Where will you go now?”

So you left.

By the time you step into your apartment, it hits you—the silence, the fact that you didn’t really feel like celebrating anymore. It’s not the career prospects or the future you’re afraid of. It’s the realization that this chapter has ended, and with it, the strange feeling that something you never really had is finally gone.

You’re drunk. It’s been a while since you’ve had this much to drink, so the buzz makes it harder to shake the feeling of having left something unfinished behind you. Something that was never really yours to begin with.

Before you can think, your fingers are already tapping in Jiaoqiu’s number. He answers groggily.

“What's up?” His voice cracks slightly. “Is anything wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you slur, even though you know you’re not. “I just—Jiaoqiu, I don’t get it. I don’t get why I’m—” you choke on your own words. “I’m still thinking about it, about him. It’s just stupid, right?”

You hear him shift on the other end, his voice more alert now. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. What happened?”

“I thought I was fine,” you continue, voice breaking as tears blur your vision. “I thought I was—God, I thought I was fine. I had this whole plan to just go, graduate, and move on. But knowing that... that was it, that's where it all ended, I just…”

Your voice falters.

“He doesn’t even know. I never said anything, Jiaoqiu. I never told him, and now it’s over. It’s over and I can’t even…” Another sob escapes, and you bury your face in your hands, feeling the sting of missed words, missed chances.

You hear him let out a slow breath. “You knew it was ending. You knew this wouldn’t last forever.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling the ache in your chest. “But I didn’t expect it to hurt like this. It was just... nothing, but now it’s everything. And now I’ll never know what could’ve been. I’ll never know if I could’ve said something. Or if he even cared.”

“I know it feels like that right now,” Jiaoqiu says, his voice steady, but soft. “But I think you’re putting a lot on something that wasn’t really yours to carry. It’s okay to let go. You don’t have to hold onto it anymore.”

You choke back a sob, wiping your tears away furiously. “I know. I know, but it’s not that simple.”

You fall silent for a moment, only hearing the soft hum of the phone against your ear.

“I should’ve told him,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “I should’ve said something. Maybe I wouldn't feel so fucking torn up if I did. But I never got the chance, and now it’s just… over.”

“Maybe you’ll get that chance someday,” Jiaoqiu says gently, the words careful but sincere. “But you’ll be okay. You’ve always been okay.”

You laugh bitterly, wiping your eyes. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But for now, I’m just an emotional mess, huh?”

“You always are, but you’re still my favorite mess.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head even though no one can see you. “Thanks, Jiaoqiu. I’ll survive. I always do.”

After the call ends, you sit in the silence of your apartment, still aching, but feeling just a little bit lighter. Even if you couldn’t say the words to Jing Yuan, even if you couldn’t let him know what had been growing between you, you had to accept that it was over. It had to be.

But for now, all you could do was let the tears flow, and let time do what it does best.

Heal.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[sakrafka]

I love your art so much, it inspires me to draw in my own style that isn't influenced by other popular styles typically liked. I love how you use vibrant colors, and the silhouettes of the critters you make are so fun. I also only got Tumblr so I could view all the art you post. 🤭❤️ But, I just wanted to ask how you developed your art style, if you had any influences growing up, and generally how it came to be. THANK YOU‼️‼️

Thank you so much for the kind message :DD I really appreciate you!! Multiple people have asked me this before so I'll try giving a more detailed answer!

I have been drawing ever since I could hold a pencil, I'm autistic and drawing has always been my "safe-space" and the only thing that really relaxes me! I think my main inspirations that affected my style the most were the Dragonology books, I had them when I was little and I was obsessed. I kept tracing over all the art and mimicking the style (around 8-10 years old). Petson and Findus is another one! I first started sharing my art and seeing online artist at the age of 17; I made a Deviantart and I really loved Z-doodler and Picolo-kun (I think those were their names?). I'm also obsessed with Károly Reich, I grew up on books illustrated by him! These things specifically don't really inspire my art anymore, but the basic foundation of it was, I think, built on these styles!

Then, for some reason I got obsessed with trying to develop an art style that is unique to only me, as much as that's possible. I regularly sat down, and tried to create new stylistic choices by forcefully thinking of new ways of drawing. I tried to forget everything I know, and come up with new ways to convey something.

I also have an "inspiration folder", with random pieces of art. I sometimes took 4-5 pieces that were my favorite, and tried to adapt little stylistic choices from their art to mine, and combine them. I did this very sparingly, because I don't want my art to look like anyone else's (again, as much as that's possible, since styles overlap and stuff)!

I developed certain characteristics in my art style that I have never seen before, for example the way I shade with these little triangle shapes. This is something that I "came up with" and didn't see anywhere before. They only started appearing a few weeks after I started sharing my art with this shading, and all the people who did it were followers of mine haha (it is completely possible that someone else did this before me as well, though - I'm only saying that this is something that, as far as I know, I came up with!). I'm attaching a screenshot of the shading I'm talking about:

So yeah, I would really love to try and make up new things that are unique to me (again, as much as that is possible), and I don't have any specific inspirations as of right now; the most inspiring things to me are totally random things, like a nice leaf, a song, or anything really! I have that type of imagination, I don't know the name, where I can rotate the apple in full HD 4K and even smell it lmao. So it often happens that random pictures just pop up in my head, completely unprompted, and I often draw these.

Also, I know my current art style is not very unique; this is because in recent years I focused on making my art style a bit more "digestable". I started selling my art, and I became a bit forced to make things that *most* people like. So, it is very hard to balance my will to make an art style that is super unique to me, while also drawing in a way that is nice for most people and easily consumable. But if you srcoll back to the beginning of my blog, you can see more unique pieces where I really tried to experiment!

Here are some artists that I like, aside from the ones I mentioned! (all instagram handles)

esztter_t

sournoodl

artkaisucks

lillaboleczillustration

foliveli

salamispots

clarelewlew

tudi.juli

gyunyuya

clara_winnie_

apple_toast And many more probably!

[simulacrum3ade68b1]

Idk I’m tired today so the art is shittier

Also there’s an old one of Christine I kept forgetting to post and it’s actually nicer so here it is

[iamshyasfuck]

Ehem so- I KEEP forgetting to post my art on other platforms other than tiktok lol so um lemme just post the poppy playtime thing alr-

Designing the Heads of Playtime Co.

Leith Pierre Edition ᡣ𐭩.ᐟ

Our beloved arrogant business man, Leith Pierre. The head of innovation of Playtime Co, taking over when the former CEO of the company suddenly disappeared.

A few more doodles and headcanons ִֶָ☾.

Headcanons

His favorite dessert is Strawberry Sundae with chocolate chips.

His favorite toys are huggy wuggy and boxy boo, huggy wuggy is his n1 tho.

Very good with ice skating surprisingly, handles the weather pretty well too, probably being his favorite season, just complains about shoving the snow though.

I think him and Eddie knew eachother since college/high school, maybe they weren't as close friends back then but I think they talked to eachother the longest, then in Playtime Co Era they both are in eachother's close friends circle.

Loved listening to the radio when he was a kid, I hc he had an old fashioned radio that was given to him by his uncle, one time he dropped the radio and it broke, he tried to put the pieces together but he couldn't really do much about it. He still kept it for the memory.

I think he was either an only child or the youngest child of his family, with a lot older siblings.

extra drawings ⋆˙⟡

also here's a more clear look into the color pallete(yes I like filters sue me)

[trud-hub]

TR:UD!C00lk1dd x Reader Relationship Headcanons

READ TS BEFORE YOU FREAK OUT AND JUMP ME

source, found in the trivia section

NOT forsaken c00lk1dd, i will NOT write anything for forsaken

here you go TRUD!c00lk1dd fanz

sorry if its ass, ill try to make the next 1 better

was in a rush to get this posted cause the trud xreader side is drier than the sahara desert

background info provides context, but skip it if u want to get straight to romance

BACKGROUND INFO

Before the Xploit outbreak, you were C00lk1dd's closest friend. You often spoke up for him, and for this he grew slightly dependent on you

When you were exiled from Robloxia after numerous people had falsely accused you of hacking, C00lk1dd did not take it well

He desperately sent appeals for your ban to be revoked, yet the admins refused to acknowledge him time and time again

Not being able to help you, especially after what you had done for him, ate away at his conscience

So, he became a hacker. He figured if he couldn't get the admins' attention, he would become a threat they couldn't ignore

The Xploit outbreak happened. It had glitched the Banlands' code. You and everyone else had gotten infected with the virus, but a portal connecting to Robloxia opened

1x1x1x1 had tried to kill you upon seeing you in Robloxia but decided to recruit you upon realizing you were infected. Those infected with the Xploit cannot die; fighting you was a lost cause. Although you were reluctant to work with him, he was much stronger than you were. Had you refused, he would have brought on a fate worse than death upon you

While he was introducing you to John Doe, a familiar face caught your attention

"...(username)?"

Amnesia won't stop C00lk1dd from remembering you. His new appearance won't stop you from remembering C00lk1dd either

When he held you in his arms again for the first time in forever, nothing else mattered. Not John Doe's confusion, not 1x1x1x1's deadpan expression, and not the bewilderment of the Guest staring you both down

Right now, the world only consisted of you and your best friend

After you had gotten settled in, C00lk1dd brought you to a secluded area in Crossroads. There was a lot of catching up you two needed to do

He could only tell you what he remembered. The gaps in his memory prevented him from being able to answer most of your questions

Needless to say, you both had changed considerably

RELATIONSHIP HEADCANONS:

C00lk1dd confessed his feelings for you shortly after your return. On the day he lost you, he realized just how abruptly life can take away the things he loves. If he didn't confess to you now, he worried he'll never get the chance to again

He's had a crush on you for years, which lingered even after your exile. No matter how much he tried to let it go, it always resurfaced

You were never his type – too bold, brash, and reckless. Which is why he had expected it the least when you, of all people, had stolen his heart

But through you, C00lk1dd's learned to love the things he's hated

Your subsequent silence made him nervous. Did you not reciprocate? Will this make you hate him? Are you going to leave him again?

Turns out you hadn't refused his profession of love — you accepted it with a press of your lips onto his

The kiss caught him by surprise, but C00lk1dd soon melted into it. It was you who had to pull away because he kept prolonging it

There aren't many places for dates in a post-apocalyptic world. However, if there was time in between rounds, he scavenged old shops with you to collect trinkets

C00lk1dd had recently picked up DIY projects and art to busy himself, so let him know if you find any crafting materials

It isn't easy to get him to show his prototypes to you because your opinion matters the most to him. Whatever he's managed to work up, he's afraid it wouldn't be good enough

Checks up on you often. Sometimes it would take the form of a quiet inquiry into how you were doing, or a reminder to take care of yourself

...Perhaps he forgets that the infected don't need basic necessities to live, their rotting bodies are kept alive by the Xploit

Even then, he tried cooking for you and the other killers, but he kept cutting and burning himself. It pissed him off beyond belief

In the end, the ingredients were torn to shreds. Zero food was made

If C00lk1dd had to choose what he loved the most about you, it would be your courage. Even if the entire world were against him, you'd stick up for him over and over without hesitation. It's mainly what made him fall in love with you

However, it is also what gets you into trouble. He wishes you were less reckless, but he would be a hypocrite. Deny it all he wants, C00lk1dd would lose both his eyes if it meant he wouldn't have to part with you once more

Your shared willingness to sacrifice yourselves for one another leads to awkward situations

An easy way to fill up his patience meter is to stun you, especially if said stunner was Shedletsky or Builderman. Targeting may not be an efficient way to kill all the survivors, but avenging you is the only thing on his mind

Physically, his favorite part of you is your face. You may think he's listening to your rambles with how intently he stares at you. In truth, he's only admiring your features

He isn't openly affectionate toward you in public. If you were to lean in for a kiss while the other killers were within the vicinity, he would push you away

Private settings are a different story. C00lk1dd's like a koala — clinging onto you as if you would disappear if he let go. He smothers you in hugs, and kisses if he feels daring

He's not very vocal about how he feels, so it's rare to hear him say "I love you" or call you pet names. He does, however, express his love through quality time (or by lingering around you like a wasp, whichever wording you prefer)

He's extremely possessive because he's afraid of losing you again. Memories of you are the only things left untouched by his amnesia — he thinks you're the only friend he's ever had

Vehemently refuses to part with you, even during rounds. He's by your side so often that 1x1x1x1 jests he's akin to a lost puppy

He easily gets jealous. He sulks like a child when your attention is on someone else for too long and starts glaring daggers at said person

If he were in a bad mood, C00lk1dd would start verbally assaulting the other party. There's no telling when this happens; his mood swings are unpredictable. But when he starts, it's hard for him to stop

You would have to physically haul him away during these moments, lest the situation escalates

He calms down easily afterward and regrets losing his temper

Your boyfriend doesn't want to bother you with his feelings, especially with how irrational you can get. He bottles them up until they erupt at the wrong moments

This, as well as miscommunication, is the cause of many of your arguments

C00lk1dd usually isolates himself for a brief period when these happen, too guilt-ridden to face you

However, the loneliness that accumulated in his heart from avoiding you was too much to bear

His apologies come in the form of bouquets filled with origami roses (since all fauna in Robloxia had died out), and sweet hand-written notes

It's not long before the others see him hovering around you again, albeit less overbearingly

C00lk1dd thinks you've both kept the relationship fairly discreet, but the other killers know something more is going on between you two

They don't care though, so long as it doesn't interfere with their own goals

On a torn mattress that you both had stolen from a run-down motel; C00lk1dd's chest pressed against your own. His arms wrapped around your figure, holding you in a tight embrace. Strands of hair fell recklessly on your face – each going a different direction. His fingers brushed them aside.

"C00lk1dd?"

There is something about your eyes that draws him in. People now think you are cold. Lifeless. But, amidst that icy tundra, stood the embers of a fire that once burned brightly.

"Hey — C00lk1dd. If something's bothering you, just say it."

A fire that kept him warm, a fire that lit the resolve that ran deep in your veins, and a fire that he would never let anyone snuff out again.

"I know that look in your eyes. You're zoning out again, aren't you?"

His thumb mindlessly caressed your cheek.

"Mmph?!"

Dry, chapped lips collide with his. His pupils dilate, and he is pulled out of his train of thought. For a second, he had almost forgotten to breathe.

"Now you're listening." The corner of your mouth upturns as you pull away.

"...Sorry." C00lk1dd's apology comes out in a soft whisper.

"The next round will start in a few hours."

The brows on his face knit together. He heaves out a large sigh and pouts, tightening his hold on your waist.

"Don't wanna go yet..." He lightly tugs on the hem of your shirt.

"Want the others to catch us like this?"

"........"

"Give me a few more minutes." He groans, burying his face in your shoulder.

[paperismissing]

SONADOW ZOMBIE AU

Fuck, i keep forgetting I have tumblr, and I REALLY don't know how to use it, but i've been told to post this here so here am I!! [Yapping alert, you can jump to the art if you want] Since it's tumblr, I suppose i can write a bit more about my sonadow au. (I also use an alt to post sonic stuff but im too lazy to make another tumblr account so i'll just assume my shyness)

It all started on this very talented artist's strawpage (nenemyum on twitter!) after i just started drawing sonic stuff. I want the practica and I had just relistened to an old favorite song of mine "The Zombie Song" so I went and drew a zombie sonic and a survivor shadow...

After they talked about it i was very happy and kept drawing, but I was very shy of ever posting sonic drawings, specially sonic ships since i was just starting...

EVENTUALLY I got the courage and started making stuff for it, so here it is, the first reference sheet and first chapters of the comic, enjoy!!

Reference sheet

Sonadow Zombie au 1/?

[antarcticcrew]

❗Changes to My AU❗ – Private’s family Update📝

Hello Crew! I just wanted to explain something that’s been holding me back from making content lately: I really don't like the original headcanons I made for Private’s biological family.

They were written early on, before I really started developing this AU deeply, and they ended up way more dramatic and complicated than I meant. Honestly, they created more plot holes than they solved—and even if none of you noticed, I couldn’t stop thinking about them.

The truth is: his backstory was only ever supposed to explain a few simple things—how he got to the U.S., why he knows Uncle Nigel, and why Nigel thinks he’s spy material. That’s it! But I overdid it, and it started affecting how I worked on the rest of the AU.

So I’ve officially rewritten it! The new version is way more straightforward, better characters and fits the tone and canon of the AU better. It’s not meant to be a huge emotional arc—just background info to support other parts of the story.

The older headcanons are still up if you want to see them, but they’re no longer canon. BUT the physical designs for the characters are still good.

Thanks for your patience—I know I haven’t posted much, but I’m still working on things, It just takes me a bit to produce art, especially when I am still learning how to draw! If you have any questions I will be happy to try and answer them down below. I love you all and your engagement and words mean the world to me ❤️

Private's Updated Family Info:

Sam Fishy, an MI6 agent, became the reluctant guardian of Theodore (aka Private) after the boy's mother—someone Sam had a one-night stand with and had quietly been paying child support to—unexpectedly passed away. Sam took in the two-year-old out of a sense of responsibility.

At first, Sam tried to be a decent father, but the pressure of balancing espionage work and parenting quickly wore him down. After a few months, he became emotionally distant, though he still provided for Theo in every material way. Theo never lacked toys or comfort—just connection. He had a few playmates here and there, but his relationship with his dad remained cold and unfamiliar. Especially when he was never aware of what exactly his fathers job was...

The only warmth in Theo's life came from his "Uncle Nigel," who kept up a fun, goofy persona around the boy. Nigel, also a spy, (but like his brother has to hide that from private) was often busy but made time to visit when he could—and those visits meant the world to Theo. Still, he spent most of his early childhood feeling deeply lonely.

When Sam had to go to the U.S. for work, he brought eight-year-old Theo along under the pretense of it being a vacation. But it was the same empty routine in a different country—Theo alone in another room while his dad worked.

In Chicago, that’s when Theo ran away.

When Sam discovered his son’s absence, he searched for him and eventually found him with young Skipper, Kowalski, and Rico.

He could’ve taken him back. He was going to, originally. But seeing his son happier without him felt like betrayal. In Sam’s mind, he’d done everything right as a father, sacrificed a lot in his life. He couldn’t see how distant he’d become, how much his work had taken over.

So blinded by pride, he turned away—believing that if Theo wanted a different family, he could have one.

But when Nigel caught wind of what happened, he became intrigued. Even though Sam told him to forget about the boy, Nigel believed it was all part of some bigger plan. He hadn’t seen Theo’s potential as a spy at first—but maybe this was his way of breaking into the agent life. So he kept tabs on him over the years, eventually visiting again in the future to enlist his help with the Red Squirrel situation.

[kimberlygbart]

Role Swap AU Masterpost

If you're old enough in my blog then you remember [this]

Yeah in the end I never even updated that, it's almost a year since the mod was actually released but hey I'm here!

This also might be the last post regarding the AU. It's over fr, I've reached my dream in wanting to release a mod of it and getting fanart sooo yay, the AU is done for, but dw! I've kept Whitmore, turned him into an OC.

If I don't forget to post again lol Y'all will see more of him!

Anyways here is the mod!!!

Above it's all art I've made for it alongside a GIF :P

And below the cut, you will find more links, such as gameplay and all the music! INCLUDING the full-ass complete lore of the AU!

ya that's right!! Community game played my game ain't that crazy! Okay so here is all you need to know:

This is an AU where Whitty (now who's referred as Whitmore as his last name only) and Updike (Gabriel in this AU, he doesn't know his last name or anything since he was abandoned) switch places. ONLY they do in this AU, all others stay the same. Conrad Whitmore was raised by The Greater Good (similar concept to SCP) after being found in abandoned and crashed down lab as a doomsday experiment. TGG saw him as an useful tool Being fed well and trained since childhood, he's naturally taller and bigger than average Whitty. Also more tired. Just because Conrad had a good childhood doesn't mean he was free of trauma btw ☝ He had many experiments done on him such as vivisectomy, endoscopy and multiple blood tests and even organ removals, however he was often manipulated by TGG into doing this of free will, ever since as a kid.

For those who ask "well what about Carol? Does she still date the Whitty from this universe?" yes she did! Hex and Carol are/were still Conrad's closest people he has had in his life But Carol eventually broke up with Conrad once she learnt the true nature of his job. A big rift developes between them, with her trying to desperately convince him TGG is not the better solution it claims to be, while Conrad defends it with his life for is the only thing he knows. Their fights escalate a lot, until she visits him in his office. Needless to say it didn't go well.

I have an animatic as well! In a resume, their (verbal) fights gets him so agitated, he enters his ballistic stage where he hasn't felt that in years besides while a kid. And during his rage he pulls the trigger while Carol calls him names (monster being one). TGG covers the crime, the lyrics are important btw!

This all happened when Conrad was 21, Carol's death is tragic enough he enter a depressive episode + is taken back to his 'original bunker house' (where he was raised) by TGG for 5 years for reevaluation. Hex is the only one who knows what happened because Conrad told him. That's pretty much the lore? I think? UH anywasy tldr I became so attached to Conrad I've scrapped the 'swap' alternate reality of it and turned him into Whitty's twin brother (and Carol isn't dead there).

Also out of respect for Sock.Clip, Gabriel, or TGG no longer exists, I'm just dumping this here to be registered in my tumblr since it was the only social media I never uploaded the lore of my AU completely. But yes, swap whitty is fully dead, ofc ppl can make art for it duh, I just mean I won't be making content of it ever again, Conrad instead is being brought to the 'original' fnf world, and will be currently Whitty's twin, but his lore or story has been completely rebooted.

Thank you for reading all this damn ur a true homie!!!

[dr9com9ge-ix]

Were there any ideas that you considered for your Sprunki AU before scrapping it at the last minute?

So alot of Sunshine suburbia is like- Being developed still! So “Last minute” isn’t really that… Applicable? I’ll just list a bunch of things I remember changing. (Also the delays and inactivity isn’t a loss of interest- Its more so I’ve grown a bit busier with having a job for a moment!— Also headaches ow)

- Most of the character bios (aka the initial design posts) on this account are technically outdated compared to the sprunkisunshinesuburbia blog’s, especially like… A bunch of designs (I stare at OWACKX/Oz’s old design and shudder…)

And like portions like “Raddy was a bounty hunter” etc- Aka don’t really take too much of the info of those posts as canon to the au.

- Deciding all sprunkis have tails of some sort, For mostly just “Tails are cool. This makes them more interesting silhouette-wise” and like it makes me happy they’re a little less ‘ just a colorful human’ and more ‘Colorful critter!” This especially applied to Jevin who uh… I was almost gonna leave as is but people kept making bald jokes and I was getting a little annoyed.

Actually not a little! Very annoyed. But the current design I made is like… My favorite now so at least the bald jokes made something good happen! (I also REALLY didn’t wanna give him poofy emo boy hair I’ve seen alot because like… Idk I just did not think it fit him for whatever reason and also I think he should be allowed to be a little bald… as a treat.)

- During christmas, My friend Mira gave me the design for Luxia, The Lighthouse creature so she and some more characters got incorporated into the story. Initially the town was only going to have Glowe and Therman as sort of duo running the town but then it became 4 people when I made Syno and Nymn aka the Lighthouse keepers. (Wonderful Art below by @knightmira )

- Also making Glowe and Therman a biiit older than like late twenties— They where formerly like 20+ but I went “That’s a little young to be founding an ENTIRE town” so I tacked on a decade. I also think people should be less scared of making characters older than 20 or something.

- Making Tunner actually have a horse- Its now a weird critter thats horse-like but not a horse! It’s called a honse! (Very different I know but I think it’s funny and it stuck) A bunch of the critter designs (Including Honses and Blinkers) are by my pal Aqua! Also the doodle below is of Tunner’s Honse, Cornbread! Possibly from an earlier period… She’s an ol’ girl. She’d be alot scruffier but he takes good care of her.

- Having like… “Normal” animals. I’m a big proponent of “I could do MORE with the world building!!! There’s NO way critters on Cacophony would be exactly the same as earth animals!!!!!” so like— Making equivalents/counterparts for certain animals! Like cats- I’m telling you now that they’re called “Meows” in this solely because I think sprunkis would call alot of animals after their sounds. (Not all- But like some of em)

- Similar to the animals- Some plants are more fantastical. I say this specifically because like. In Vineria’s old bio on this blog that she smokes weed- It’s actually Sprunknip now! It’s a bit siller- Works like weed and catnip to sprunkis!

- Sky’s age- I actually for awhile thought he was 15 but actually he’s 14. This one is literally just me forgetting and then remembering.

I think! That’s about it? Idk what else to put here!

[rainandsentences]

What Remains

older!art x f!reader

synopsis: healing takes time and rain pours strongly around, he borrows you his shoulder and you can breathe safe air.

rate: 16+

warning: mention of past marital-abuse

a/n: i love to read all of your nice comments under my posts, it helps me a lot with motivation. thank you all. <3

————————————————————————

It starts with the rain.

The kind that sneaks up on you — no thunder, no warning — just the quiet insistence of cold water soaking through silk and skin and whatever dignity you were holding onto that night.

You had made it to the end of the charity gala. You’d smiled for cameras, raised glasses to donors, given polished answers to shallow questions. You’d played the part perfectly — the ex-wife with the glossy recovery and sharp heels.

Until one snapped. Mid-step, on the stone curb outside the venue. Your ankle twisted just enough to sting. You cursed softly and laughed like it was funny.

You looked around, you were expecting the insult, the push and the cold gaze that followed after those. They didn’t arrive, he was not there anymore and he couldn’t get close to you.

Everything started with a harsh word, a push then a slap then a black eye and rib pain; the constant shame and the feeling of not being able to run away. Specially not from a man that powerful, a man that your parents encouraged you to marry and that you genuinely loved after a while.

Charming and very good looking, narcissistic and manipulative.

Your light faded quickly but you stayed… until you woke up in the hospitals with a severe head concussion and bruises all over your body.

The divorce didn’t went easy, he didn’t went easy and after a long process and a sue you finally could leave forever.

What was before that? What would happen to you now?

You were smart, you had your own career so you were back in the business a few months later. Now you were there, nervous and with your hair wet.

Art had been walking beside you the whole time, just close enough to feel like something but not enough to draw attention. He didn’t laugh. He bent slightly, hand hovering near your elbow — not touching, not assuming.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

You weren’t. You were tired. Soaked. Bone-deep tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t touch.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stood beside you while you slipped off both heels and carried them barefoot down the sidewalk, the sound of your steps drowned by the rain.

The reunion a few years later after graduation suited you well, you remember him because of his insatiable love for tenis or at least that was what it seemed when he was in the court. You shared a few words in the reunion, you laughed and you remembered the old times in college. He knew about you, he remembered you and even before he used to text you from time to time to catch up with you.

Friends, that’s what you were.

You weren’t sure why you turned left instead of right. Why you walked down the quieter street, away from the car you had waiting. Maybe it was the pull of silence. Or maybe it was because Art followed without asking questions.

Three blocks later, you stopped under the eaves of a closed café. Shivering, one arm across your chest, heels dangling from your fingers. The rain softened to a mist. The streetlight flickered.

You looked at him.

“I’m sorry, i think i drank too much.” You say “I feel clumsy.”

“It’s okay, I can walk you home also you can have my shoes.” He leaned down to take his shoes off but you stopped him.

“Let’s just… stay here.” She hugs herself as the rain kept falling.

“We’ll catch an horrific cold if we stay here.”

“Just a minute.”

Art didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t speak at all, he observed the cars and his eyes occasionally lingered in your face.

He knew what you went through, how it was still hard for you to forget, to stop flinching and mostly to start smiling again.

“I was terrified of nights like this.” you said. It came out too fast. “Because it meant him around the house being angry at everything, even me.”

—“It was hard for me to be here now, i think that i’ll meet him around the corner of my apartment or even in this party…” You sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Your voice cracked. You weren’t sure if it was from cold or the weight of finally saying it out loud.

You waited for him to pity you. Or tell you how strong you were. Or remind you how far you’d come. The things people say when they want you to stop bleeding in front of them.

But Art stayed quiet for a long time. Then he said, gently:

“Honestly I admire your strength of coming to the reunion, you don’t have to apologize for anything, trust me, it heals different when you say it out loud.”

Something in your chest folded.

He didn’t reach for you. Just stood there, letting your breathing slow in the space between you. The way someone might wait out a storm.

You stared at the ground. “I think the worst part is I didn’t even cry when I left. Not until three weeks later, when I realized I didn’t have to ask permission to buy my own shampoo.”

You felt him look at you. Not with sympathy — something else. That soft, grieving understanding people carry when they’ve hurt quietly too.

“Sometimes the grief comes late,” he said. “When it’s safe enough to land.”

A long silence.

Then, quietly: “I never liked him.”

That almost made you laugh. “You barely knew him.”

“I knew what you looked like around him. That was enough.”

You finally looked up. His shirt was soaked through. His curls clung to his temples. And still — he waited. Not moving closer. Not pulling away.

“Can I…” Your voice caught. You didn’t know how to ask.

But he understood.

He stepped forward, slow enough for you to back away if you needed to. You didn’t.

You let your forehead rest against his shoulder. He didn’t wrap his arms around you. Just let you lean. Let you breathe.

The rain kept falling.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like you had to explain yourself to be held.

[orionskittles]

i kept forgetting to post art omg

here's fluttershy and applejack! working on making redesigns for all the mane six and idk if u can tell but with applejack i tried to sort of experiment with drawing a different body type? bc all my characters have the same body type and it hasn't bothered me much in the past but now i rlly think i need to work on it so. i tried.

and uh my fluttershy drawing is a redraw of this stupid old drawing ("old" = idk less than a year ngl) (warning stupid bad old art jumpscare below)

anyway i'm working on a rarity redesign next and i am STRUGGLING with the mane and tail sjfsjcsjcidcz

also i might add some more to my redesign for fluttershy bc i wasn't rlly thinking too much abt it when i was making it, i might change her mane a lil, add some flowers or smth, we'll see

[snoozykazoo]

happy springtime allergies! 🌸

The flowers at this time of year are so lovely! sniff sniff sniff… They’re pretty enough that I’m THIS close to forgetting the pollen up my nose. So it goes. Regardless of springtime allergies or not, it’s Snoozy Devpost time!

If this is your first time seeing us, hey! We’re Snoozy Kazoo, a game dev studio of six guys who make dumb, silly, and fun games. We made the Turnip Boy games, and we’re currently in the midst of working on our latest game, Hobnobbers!

This month, we're getting into our task management workflow to help all you fellow indie devs out there!

What's Snoozy been up to?

Ah…! We’re so, so close to being able to announce something really exciting…! But you have to forgive me. I can’t say anything yet. Keep your eyes peeled — there’s going to be a LOT of exciting Snoozy News™️ come May. Even if I can’t say the big deets yet, I can at least drop this link right overrr here for you merch heads out there…

Cool Makeship Link 👀

Buuuut since we can’t talk about our projects, let’s talk about the next best thing: Project Management! This past month, Snoozy switched from our old task-tracking system to a new system called Codecks. Imagine if you could track your project progress with a deck-building roguelike, and that’s what Codecks is! It’s a nifty little tool specifically made for Indie Game Developers, which we just happen to be.

And to clear the air: no, we are not sponsored in any way by Codecks. Though if Codecks is reading this — we’d totally love to be!

We wanted to share how this system has been working for us, so any aspiring indie devs out there can see if this system is appealing to them and potentially benefit from it!

How it works

What’s made Codecks click for us is how it blends structure with playfulness. It doesn’t just let you organize your work — it encourages you to think about it in terms of clear progress paths, visual layouts, and deck-building metaphors.

We kept falling off of our past task systems because jugging a game’s worth of art, code, design, writing, marketing, and bug-fixing while ALSO needing to come up with constantly updating organization methods is. Hard. Codecks simplifies that process!

Codecks organizes itself into Cards, Decks, and Projects. Cards are tasks (like “Animate a Hob’s death!”), Decks are chunks (animating a Hob would go in our ‘Art’ Deck, but you could split it up further into a ‘3D Animation’ deck while also having a ‘3D Modeling’ Deck), and Projects are, well, projects! (‘Hobnobbers’ is, well, our project!)

What we like

Myyy personal favorite bit of Codecks is how it handles Conversations. Conversations can be had on any card, which makes it really easy to find discussions and notes on particular topics. In the past, we’ve used Discord to talk about ideas, critiques, and problems as they’ve come up. When notes are discussed quickly, they don’t necessarily quality for opening up the whole task itself, which has made remembering clarifications like “Wait, what resolution did this sprite need to be, again?” as simple as pulling up its relevant card.

Other people on the team love the ‘Required Effort’ settings, which allow you to set an amount of effort for each card and then see how much total effort a single person has. Basically, all of us adore the fact that you can use Markdown (which I, Yukon, am currently converting this post into for the Snoozy website haha). There are just a ton of little quality of life features that really feel like this tool was made by indie devs, for indie devs, and it’s really smooth to use!

But I’m just a little guy. Just a Small Man. With Few Dollars?

Codecks is free for up to 5 users on a team! If you’re a solo developer working on a project in your spare time, it’s probably more than suitable for you.

Aaaand that was our non-sponsored shilling of this tool we really like! There’s only so much we can say without going too into the weeds of it, but we hope that giving you a peep into our processes helped you out!

Team Corner!

It’s back a second time! Almost like it’s always going to be here!

This week we’ve got… badadadum, Jake! Our musician and developer!

What are you most excited for in Hobnobbers?

I’m most excited for the physics. Some of my favorite games have really robust physics simulations like Gang Beasts, Motor Town, and BeamNG.drive. I love sandbox games that have fun and unexpected environments to explore in a tactile way.

What’s something you’ve worked on in Hobnobbers recently that you’ve found particularly frustrating?

Audio Volumes and spatialization. In a 3D game, each space needs to sound different, and sometimes dialing that in just right can be a pain. Large open rooms and tiny little tunnels sound different in real life, and they will do the same in Hobnobbers, after lots of tweaking and iteration. Coming from 2D development, this literally opens up a whole new dimension of sound design.

What kinds of feelings do you hope for the Hobnobbers’ music to bring about?

I really want to mix dreamlike folktale and plastic consumerism. I am super inspired by I spy books, grimms fairytales, folk/americana music, and toy instruments for the Hobnobbers musical palette, and the music comes very naturally when the inspirations are so vivid. A lot of Hobnobbers is about simulating something tactile and physical in a digital space, and I hope to channel that into the music.

Yay! Thank you for your time!

Andddd we’re all wrapped up!

As a reminder, feel free to send in questions for us to answer right here on our Tumblr, or join our Discord and ask questions in the “ask-the-devs-❓” channel!

Keep your eyes peeled for this upcoming month in particular — we’ve got a lot of cool announcements coming up!

As per Devposts, see you next month!!

[raisingmybanner]

accretion [ə-ˈkrē-shən] noun: An accidental deposit of “foreign” material that was not part of the painting process, f. ex. dried liquid residue, flyspecks, etc. (from Stella Art Conservation, LLC) Riza Hawkeye has worked as Security Director for private art authenticator Roy Mustang for eight years with little trouble. However, recently Mustang has taken on riskier and higher-stakes jobs, putting himself and his team in danger of exposure and harm. The objective of a new undercover job – authenticating an elusive ink drawing while undercover on a three-week island retreat – hits too close to home for Riza. Secrets carefully kept threaten to be brought to light, exacerbated by the closeness required while posing as a young engaged couple. Hold on, they have to pose as an… engaged couple? For three weeks?!

I know, promo week for @royaibigbang 2024 is almost over and here I am with an actual promo post. Surprise! This story has been trying to escape my brain for years now, and I'm so grateful to the big bang for being the motivation I needed to get it into shape. I cannot WAIT to share it all with you on October 3 (SO SOON AHHHH).

Prepare yourselves for a romcom of royai proportions, featuring a modern-day AU, fake dating, forced proximity, slow burn, art nerdery, cameos from all your favorite (and perhaps least favorite) characters, idiots to lovers, heist vibes, and more feelings than you might initially expect.

I had the immense privilege of working with a team for this event, something that I've never done before. @aldrendaux was my wonderful beta, cheering me on and tidying up my mistakes every step of the way. (We've got Aldren to thank for the summary, too!) The story will also be featuring art by @areyousanta, @chewytran, @rizaposting, and @justanotherinterneruser. Sneak peeks of the art can be seen in Aldren's promo post here! Go scream at how gorgeous the pieces are!! (or maybe that will just be me, again, for the 400th time)

This fic was sooo much fun to write, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as well! Click through for a sneak peek of royai at a dancing class on their couple's retreat below the cut.

EDIT: Accretion is now live on AO3!

If her heart rate accelerated, it was just the surprise. It wasn’t the fact that her fingers slid through the hair on the nape of his neck for a moment before she quickly moved them down to his collar. It wasn’t the fact that the press of his body against hers felt too intimate, and too familiar. 

She was grateful for the fact that there was no time to linger on the sensations. Soon, Mustang was taking his first step, and Riza had to grip tighter to his hand and shoulder as she moved with him. She felt off-balance, pressed against him. Instead of supporting most of her own weight, she was now dependent on Mustang’s steps to be firm and guide her body along with his; it was a strange sensation for her. It was like clinging to the edge of a cliff face, trusting it not to drop her flat on her back.

Mustang, to his credit, stepped confidently, without wobbling. The added weight to his balance didn’t seem to throw him off at all, and she soon relaxed slightly against him and focused on keeping up with the music. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost forget who the cliff face she was clinging to for dear life was.

“I told you I would keep your feet,” he said, quietly. 

The words made her look up at him automatically and — 

His face was far too close. Too close and too soft, with that small smile and that sparkle in his eye, with the hair starting to fall across his forehead. 

This look and the feel of him, strong against her wherever they touched, was continuing to make everything hopelessly confusing. She had clearly misinterpreted his actions the other night, but she still couldn’t seem to shake her own reactions to him, which was just embarrassing. She was thirty years old, not a hormone-ridden teenager, for Father’s sake.

She realized suddenly that she was just staring into Mustang’s eyes without speaking and felt her cheeks heat with mortification.

“Yes, well, the night is young,” she said, trying to sound normal and unsure whether or not she achieved it.

“I’ll convince you to trust me yet,” Mustang said, holding her gaze.

[taygra5shaon]

Hi hi, I saw in a post you were more interested in trading fanfic for art than art for art, and I wanted to offer two scenes from adopted AU to see if you liked them. If you do, maybe you tell me the rough sense of the story and some details and I write it. (Sorry this is most certainly awkward as all hell, I'm bad at talking to people online. It's me, not you.)

Intro

“Lord Myrkul, there has been some mistake. The chosen ones that have been sent here are mere children!”

“There has been no mistake. The son of Bhaal, his truest heir, murder incarnate stands before you. The other is Enver Gortash, chosen of Bane, who escaped from Raphael, a demon of hell with nothing more than his intellect. He then had the good sense to call upon Bane and offer his eternal devotion. Yes, they are children, and all the better for you to be able to manipulate them and seize control of the netherstones when the time is right. Do not forget what is at stake for you.” Isobel would be returned to him, and though Kethric hated the thought of using children in this way, what choice did he have? For his daughter, he would pay any price. A small pale face peaked out from behind the teifling boy, clinging to the chosen of Bhaal. How unusual. She was ghostly, white eyes, skin, and pale blond hair, but clearly a little girl. 

“And the girl?” Kethric asked inside his head, for only his god to hear. 

“A bhaalspawn, the chosen bride of the Dark Urge of Bhaal, mother of future children, should this heir fail.” It was distasteful, choosing the fate of a child so young. Thorm had heard of prearranged marriages, but the idea of deciding such a thing for Isobel had been horrifying. To be born to such a fate. 

“Brother, who is that? Are we here to hurt him?” The small girl’s face broke into a wicked grin, but her hands still clung tightly to the leg of her… brother. Sister and bride, Ketheric thought with disgust. 

“I am Ketheric Thorm, chosen of Myrkul the lord of bones. I have been expecting you. Welcome to my tower.” The old man gestured for the children to come in. The chosen of Bhaal strode in without a thought, his little sister clinging to him still, her short legs almost running to get up. Bane’s chosen, this Gortash, attempted a similarly confident stride, but was gangly and awkward. His dark eyes darted around the place, taking in every detail. Ketheric sighed, this was going to be exhausting, but since his resurrection, what wasn’t? 

Scene 2

Little Orin stabbed him over and over, as tears streamed down her face. “Why does she get to have it? Why does she get to have the room when she’s not even here?! She had a mom, she has you, she has everything! Why does she have it and I have nothing! I don’t get to have anything that’s mine!” The knife stayed buried in his intestines as Orin began to beat at him with tiny fists. Careful of the blade Ketheric hugged her, covering her in his black and rotting blood. She continued to cry, throwing her arms around his viscerated waist. 

“It’s ok Orin. You’re right. You deserve to have your own room. Your own space that you can go to, to paint or just to be alone. A space with a lock where only you have the key. I’m sorry sweetheart. Shhhhh it’s ok.” He stayed that way, petting her hair until she stopped crying and he had healed close enough to lift her into his arms. The little girl clung to his armor and he carried her towards the room she shared with her brother, but stopped at a nearby one. It had been a guest room, and was probably covered in dust, but it was close to her brother, but also far enough away. “Get someone to come clean out this room!” he ordered to a nearby guard. “From now on this will be Orin’s room, and no one is to enter it without her permission.” The guard was surprised, but seeing the look on Thorm’s face he darted to find someone to clean the room. “Are you alright to take a last bath in your brother’s room while this one is cleaned up?” The little girl nodded, but kept clinging to him until he finally put her down. Her tears were black, like his own, and had stained her face. He gave her a small reassuring squeeze of her tiny hands, and then she walked into her former room. 

“My lord Myrkul, I need to amend the deal we made.” Ketheric had walked to his own rooms, and finally remembered to remove Orin’s blade before calling on his god. He would need to remember to return it to her.

“We had an arrangement, I return your daughter and you obey. No more needs to be said.” The rasp of thousands of bones answered him. 

“I will obey, oh lord of bones. I will keep up my end of the bargain. It is the other side I wish to amend.” The old elf drew a deep breath. “My daughter is dead, safe in the company of her mother and the embrace of Selune. Let her stay there, and instead grant me a different boon.” The god was silent, expectant. “Let moonrise towers and the shadowcursed lands fall under your domain. Let Bane and Bhaal have no influence here, not on those under my command and not on the children.”

“You would have me usurp their claim to their chosen?” 

“No my lord, merely shield them while they are here. Let your claim to this place supersede their claim, only while the children are here. For that, I will continue to obey all orders. I will ensure that the plan succeeds, and the will of the dead three is done.” It was a gamble, Ketheric knew, but it should be feasible. 

“You would trade your daughter’s life for these broken toys of other gods? They are monsters, each of them. You would give up Isobel for them?”

“They are children. They deserve a chance.”

“Very well. I am amused to see how this goes for you, my chosen. We shall see if you come to regret your choice.” The rattle of bones and smell of old crypts dissipated, and General Thorm fell to his knees and wept. 

GASP!!!!🤯🤩😍

omgomgomgomgomg....!!!!!

hello there @heyfrankhonest !

I'm so honored you write something and the two scene are amazing, I was smiling like a loon all the while I read this, and I thanks you so much of considering this trade!

so, both scenes are amazing, but I'm more into the first one, since Jacq and Gort are in it.

if I may add a tiny correction, Gortash alias Enver Flynn, didn't pledge for bane until he was a 18-19 years old, and in this au, he was hunted by Raphael's warlock. just Jacq and Orin were the important ones in the eyes of gods.

for the rest, I really like it, and the idea of Ketheric try to bargain them for his daughter and then he became affectionate for real is good👍

can't wait to see the rest!!!!

and for the art trade, what would you like?

(don't worry, I'm akward too when I talk first with someone other on internet, you're totally fine 🙃)