#and now i have to wait another week to see my beloveds again

[magnetic-rose]

i understand this is an ensemble cast but there was not enough dr langdon on this week's episode of the pitt

[foldingfittedsheets]

I was telling my coworker Tyler about my weekend and he was in hysterics listening to my cascade of bad and bizarre decisions. Since most of my coworkers know I have some small notoriety here he asked, “Did you put this on tumblr?”

“No! I’m too embarrassed!”

He exclaimed, “You write about your UTI’s and dildo bathrooms and this is too embarrassing!? Pillows??”

So fine. Here’s my embarrassing pillow story for your enjoyment.

I have been struggling desperately to find a new pillow that I love. My Tempurpedic Symphony was over ten years old and disgusting and I needed to stop sleeping on a biohazard so I finally tossed it. I tried to replace it with a new one but Tempurpedic changed the density and the new one is shit.

Thus began the saga of pillows. My parents got me a Purple Harmony. I liked it very much in store. At home it was too tall. I exchanged it for the low. This was too low. Frustrated I called my mom to ask if she liked hers to which she said no so I asked to give it another shot.

Enter, the villain. My mom’s house does not smell bad. But it does smell strongly. It’s hard to quantify and again it’s not a bad smell it is simply powerful and foreign. The pillow I took from her was saturated with what my beloved and I began to call Mom Smell.

The pillow still smelled like mom’s house weeks after coming into our home, even after being slept on and with protectors and pillow cases, the smell permeated. The pillow was still too tall. So then I entered an experimental phase. The purple pillow is made up of a latex insert with a gel grid around it on the outside. The inset was too tall, but I could use the gel grid external to wrap around a pillow that was too low!

I stuffed every conceivable iteration into the purple grid. I tried the new symphony. I tried existing pillows in my home. I even borrowed a pillow from the back room at work which wasn’t in inventory so it was okay and the worst part was that was the perfect height but too soft to stay that height and ended up disappointing me and being surreptitiously returned.

I then tried an IKEA pillow that a Reddit thread suggested was similar to the original symphony and was delighted to learn that it came in three pieces so the height could be adjusted. This kicked off a new round of experimentation after I realized the pillow itself was rock solid and hurt my ears. The 1” insert could be added to things to try to bring too low pillows to the correct height. I still need to try to return this pillow.

I then turned to my friend who also owns a mattress store and asked if he had a Technogel pillow to trade for one of the Purple pillows. He agreed and I ended up with a Technogel that’s 5.5” which is sliiiiightly too tall. Then I remembered:

During this frenzy of pillow madness I’d foisted two pillows onto my mom in exchange for the purple pillow and belatedly realized that one of them was a Technogel that had been too low. Now with an insert I realized it could be perfect. So I got the pillow back but I faced a problem.

The Mom Smell.

I didn’t want to wait two or more weeks for the smell to pass normally. So I got the pillow back and indeed, it had Mom Smell. I then remembered that my beloved had been gifted something called “pillow mist” from their employer ages ago that had a sage smell I liked.

So I took the pillow, sprayed the inside of the dryer and set it to low to coat the nice sage smell into the foam.

This was a mistake.

The dryer suddenly reeked of sage and musk, the heat having amplified the mist out of all proportion. The whole upstairs screamed the contents of the innocuous bottle and my head instantly hurt. Now not only did the pillow reek of a new louder smell, so did the dryer.

I looked around and spotted vinegar and decided to wipe down the dryer with it in hopes of wiping out the overpowering mist smell. Afterward it smelled like hot vinegar which was something of an improvement. I regarded the pillow and could practically see animated smell lines coming off it. I wiped that with vinegar too. Then it smelled like SAGE Vinegar Mom.

I finally collapsed in a puddle of defeat, having created and defeated several problems but ultimately having made a pillow much stinkier than before.

My beloved came home.

They listened to my tiny tale of woe with increasing amusement.

They asked, “Why didn’t you use the Febreze?”

“What? They don’t have Febreze that’s unscented, do they?”

My beloved walked into the bathroom and came out with a bottle of unscented Febreze that would have solved my problem instantly. I facepalmed hard enough to cause brain damage.

I sprayed the pillow. It sat for a few days, ready to join my parade of pillow experiments. The sage and vinegar are both thankfully gone.

It does however still smell faintly of my mother.

[biowho]

Here's every version of the letter the Inquisitor gets from their LI plus Varric (which didn't make me cry at all)

If your Inky didn't romance anyone:

Inquisitor, Greetings from miserable, rainy Minrathous! (Don't tell Dorian I called it that.) The rotten weather here is making me nostalgic for Skyhold. The mountains were freezing, but at least the air didn't smell like wet garbage. We'll have to get in another game of Wicked Grace, soon. Harding picked up the trail again. I'd tell you not to worry, but I know how useless that is. Instead, I'll just say: I've got a great team on this. Neve could stare down the Maker, and wait until you meet Rook. He's/She's/They're a natural: Smart, resourceful, completely unpredictable. You'd like him/her/them, as long as you don't try to beat him/her/them at cards. Chuckles'll never know what hit him. I'll write again once we have something solid for you. Drinks at the Hanged Man are on me when this is over. Take care of yourself. Varric

Blackwall:

My love, You have summoned me to Minrathous, and I will answer your call, as soon as responsibilities here in the South allow. I have missed being by your side. Will these troubles be the last we face? The world seems always to conspire, through duty or disaster, to pull you away from me. I do not resent it. You are dedicated to purposes far larger and more significant than myself. I hope you do not think me a fool for hoping that one day, your only concern will be the color you wish our walls to be painted, or the flowers we will plant beside our gate. I'm partial to carnations. Yours always, Thom

Cassandra:

My love, We are no strangers to duty, or the separation it demands of us. You head for Tevinter, and though I want to go with you, there is work we both must do. I will not falter in the tasks that wait before me and I pray my actions, in whatever measure they can, will keep you safe. The others see only confidence in my resolve, but you have always known more than mere appearance. I confess to you, and you alone, that I am afraid. I'm afraid of what may happen, that Thedas will face such turmoil as it did before. I know not what awaits us. Yet even in the face of uncertainty, there are two things I cannot doubt and never will. The first is that our paths are never separated long. That I will find you at my side when I need you, as you will find me at yours. I will play my part in this and follow as soon as I can. The second thing I never doubt is you. Whatever lies before you, trust yourself. Trust your heart as I trust it. It will not lead you astray. Yours, Cassandra

Cullen:

The top of the letter has been punctured by small, sharp teeth, leaving most of a beloved name and a few sentences chewed to read. I fear the puppy started on this letter shortly after I did. I'd start over, but I must send this tonight if it's to reach you. Matters are settled here and I make for Tevinter as soon as possible. I almost believed chaos might spare us this time. I can't say I wished to see Minrathous before now, but I am eager to see you. I long to see your face and know that you are all right. You are I've There's I wish I was better at putting into writing all that's in my mind. For now, simply know that I love you. It is the most cherished constant of my life. The days ahead will not be easy. I know there's much you carry, more than many realize. But whatever you must face, you will not meet it alone. You have my sword, my counsel, my - I could write this list forever when all I mean to say is this - Whatever you need of me, I am yours. Cullen

Dorian:

Amatus, I'm writing. Again. Yes, the sending crystals still work and yes, you'll be in Minrathous in a few short weeks. But a letter, written in blind longing, is real. It can be touched, and it can be held, when ink and paper must substitute for your skin on mine and my breath in your ear. I used to scoff at frequent declarations of affection. Trite, I thought. Save them for rare and precious moments. But time and love are no longer things I care to squander, especially not as we race again toward calamity. And so, in each of these fleeting, ephemeral seconds, I will tell you that I love you. Whether penned or spoken, or conveyed by glance or action, I love you. In this moment, and in all the moments to come, for as long as they do, I love you. I will find you soon. Yours, Dorian

Iron Bull

Hey, Kadan, Not the first time we've marched toward different battles. I know you're keeping the crap from catching fire up in Tevinter. Wish I could be there, but I'll make sure there's a world for you to come back to when you're done dealing with crazy vints and stupid Antaam and whatever other crap Solas kicked up. (Shit, the Antaam. Remember when I was worried what would happen if I went tal-vashoth? That right there!) I know you're gonna be careful, and you've got Morrigan there. Just take care of yourself. If anything happens to you, I'm going to have to take Krem and the Chargers and stomp across all of Tevinter to come get you. It'll be a whole thing, and you know it'll upset Dorian. Being apart from you made me realize something else. I spent so long being whatever the Ben-Hassrath wanted me to be. An investigator. An agent. A mercenary sending reports. These past years, since the Inquisition ended, I've been able to just be what I want to be. And what I really want to be is yours. I like the person I am when I'm with you. So come back safe. Love, The signature appears to be a stylized rendering of the Iron Bull's head.

Josephine:

My Dearest Lord/Lady, I have spoken to friends in Minrathous. They offer us their hospitality, not to mention shelter from the worst intrigues of the Archon's Palace. While you're well acquainted with the roving eyes of grand courts, please take care. Tevinter's regard can be the oldest and cruelest of them all. The family writes the weather back home is beautiful. I do miss our quiet times together. There is a question I've wanted to ask you for so long. I would like to pretend I have been busy, or it was not the proper time. But, if I am being honest, I only waited because I have been afraid of choosing a poor moment. Please, let me make a promise to you here. When we return to Antiva, I will ask you, on the steps of the estate, if you will do me a great honor. And I dream you will say yes. Always yours, Josephine Postscript: I cannot believe it nearly slipped my mind. Yvette and Lord Otranto send their best wishes, and hope to see us back home in time to welcome their third child.

Sera:

(An artistically doodled journal page presumably from the Inquisitor's partner, Sera.) Keep this as close as I need you. (A drawing of a pile of flowers, with lines like it's moving, an arrow pointing to it labeled "us.") - North again, Mini-wrathus still stuck up its own pucker. - Magiturds are scared of us. They don't even know. - We work with Maevaris, right? She's wow. - So many Friends! Jennies in all the walls! - We kill him this time. He took from us twice! (A drawing of a cracked egg scribbled out, with "can't even joke" in letters that tore the page.) - Still thinking of you sideways. - Never mind the Dalish, here's the Veil Jumpers! Tempest-kin! (A drawing of a tall, shorthaired elf (Sera?) and Irelin brandishing two fingers, backflipping as a tree explodes in runes.) - The memory thing makes my head spin. If that Rook doesn't take it, throw it out. - Tell Morrigan ppbbth! for me. - I'll also tell her ppbbth! She knows why. - Tell them to Stripe. Him. Up. I wanted more books. (More heavy scribbles that tear.) - You meet; I'll keep you safe. Then I'm your time off, and you're my time on. (The last section has different colored inks, like Sera has returned to it several times.) New naked names: -Sweet-tits (scribbled out) -Bestest (scribbled out) -Loverly (scribbled out) -Lovey (scribbled out) -My-for-always-and-ever - name's not too long, time's too short. -But "Sweet-tits," though (scribbled out)

Solas:

Vhenan, I do not know if you will see these words. My ritual is ready and will soon be set in motion. Perhaps when you read this the world will be as it once was, and you will see why all I did was necessary. I cannot ask your forgiveness, but I hope you come to understand. That night in Crestwood, when I shared the truth about your vallaslin... you do not know how close I came to breaking. I could have shared the truth, or even put my plans aside and simply stayed with you as Solas... as I wanted. I regret the pain I caused you. What I feel for you will never change. The note is unsigned, but the handwriting is Solas'.

[roosterforme]

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 8 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: It has been too long since you heard from Bradley. Perhaps something went wrong. Or maybe he was avoiding you. Just when you start trying to accept that the last few months were too good to be true, things start to turn around again.

Warnings: Fluff, angst, language, Bradley being sweet

Length: 3000 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

Days went by. With only two weeks left of Bradley's deployment, you weren't really expecting to receive air mail at school with your name on it, but you certainly did miss it anyway. Your students asked about him every morning, wondering if he'd sent a new email, hoping for another video with Marty. But you got nothing in either of your email inboxes.

He was on your mind almost constantly. What happened on his mission? Did the Navy decide it was okay to cut off communication right when you were completely attached to hearing from him? Did this really mean you had to wait until the aircraft carrier arrived back in San Diego? 

It was right before your students were due to arrive in your classroom that you had perhaps the most distressing thoughts of all. What if something went terribly wrong and he didn't survive? Or what if this was simply his way of ghosting you before he had to see you in person?

Jayden raced in ahead of the rest of your class, calling your name along the way. "Did Lieutenant Bradshaw write back yet?"

You pointed him toward his desk as you shook your head. "I already explained that he may not have time to respond before his deployment ends."

Jayden just bounced in place in front of you. "Then that means he can visit us when he gets back!"

Now a small group of your kids surrounded you, and you wished more than anything that you could tell them that Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, their beloved pen pal, would definitely be visiting your classroom in a few short days. Instead you told them, "Please, take your seats so we can start our Natural History lesson."

This turned out to be your new normal. Every time you got an email notification, you jumped to unlock your phone, but it was never a message from Bradley. When you saw a box tucked in your mail cubby in the school office, you ran for it, only to find the science supplies you ordered weeks ago had arrived. You even forced yourself to go back and read some of the old emails from him, just to make sure it all really happened, but his words left you aching for more.

...I like giving Gorgeous teachers butterflies...

...You'd look adorable snuggled up in your bed. But then again, when aren't you completely Gorgeous?...

...Gorgeous girl, you're messing with my head...

...And it's not a matter of if I touch you, it's a matter of when...

After nearly two weeks had gone by, you tried to figure out if the USS Theodore Roosevelt was back in port, but short of driving to North Island to see for yourself, you couldn't seem to find a solid answer online. And if you did drive there and found it at the dock, what were you supposed to do? Contact the US Navy? If they told you that nothing happened to Lieutenant Bradshaw and that he was perfectly fine, you'd be mortified. If they told you something in fact did happen to him in the last two weeks, you'd be devastated. That's assuming you could even get them to give you any information at all which was doubtful.

On Friday, you were on the verge of tears as you got ready for work. "You're being ridiculous," you whispered, and that fact made you want to cry even more. You tried to take the time to make yourself look presentable, thinking that may be the key to having a good day. Your outfit was cute. Your makeup looked nice. But you weren't smiling, and you didn't feel like doing so at all. 

You grabbed your bag, hoping the short ride with your favorite playlist would be enough to get your spirits up, but all you could think about was how you probably weren't cut out for life with a guy in the military anyway. Waiting around like this to see what was going on was making your stomach upset, and you weren't getting enough sleep. When you closed your eyes, you just pictured a very kissable face with a scarred cheek and big brown eyes.

"You need to focus," you scolded as you parked your car and headed into the school with your ID badge. You had eighteen kids who required your attention, and you'd once again give it to them, because you were fantastic at your job. 

This morning, Violet was the first one to mention Bradley in passing, and you had to shake your head. "Please find your seats. If I hear from Lieutenant Bradshaw, I promise I will let you know. I'm not hiding any letters or emails from you all, okay?" You tried to smile as you said, "I'd like to hear from him every bit as badly as you would. I can guarantee that."

You struggled through your morning lessons, often reminding yourself that you needed to focus on your students. Then you sat quietly at your desk with the classroom lights off during lunch, scrolling back through the dozens of emails you'd exchanged with Bradley on your phone. You pulled up the picture of the sun setting behind him in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and even though you tried, you couldn't find anything other than the most sincere expression on his handsome face.

Maybe he would text you this weekend, letting you know he was back and your date was on. You had to believe he would still contact you. When the bell rang, you counted to ten, and then your students came flooding back through your classroom door. They wanted to tell you all about how Jasper from Mrs. Wynn's class got in trouble during lunch, and you humored them before saying, "I'm sure none of you would misbehave like that in the cafeteria."

"No way!" Henry promised.

"That's what I like to hear," you told him with a forced smile. "Once you're all in your seats, we'll start our math lesson. Maybe I'll put a few aviation problems on the board at the end if you show me how well you can focus for the next twenty minutes."

You had just started copying the first fraction that you wanted to discuss from your notebook onto the board when there was a sharp knock on your classroom door. You sighed and let your forehead rest briefly on the white board, knowing that another disruption would completely derail your kids after all the lunchtime nonsense. When you turned to face the door, they were already starting to chatter with each other. 

"Come in!" you called out, and every head in your room whipped around to see who was there and what they wanted. 

When the door swung open, the room went silent. The first thing you thought about was how peculiar it was to see someone in a khaki military uniform standing there. Then your eyes slid up that tall, muscular frame as your lips parted in surprise. As soon as you met his gaze, he smiled and said, "Hey, Gorgeous."

You couldn't speak. As he took a full step into your classroom and pulled the door closed, you finally noticed he was holding some pretty flowers. Then he was heading your way, his combat boots squeaking ever so slightly against the tile floor with each long stride. Bradley Bradshaw wasn't hesitating at all as he made his way directly to you while your students started talking again.

"It's Lieutenant Bradshaw!"

"I knew he'd come visit us ever since I asked him to!"

"Does this mean his deployment is over?"

"Why does he have flowers?"

He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of you, and the butterflies in your belly were fluttering so much, you were convinced you could float off of the floor. You weren't sure what else to say, so you simply whispered, "Bradley."

His smile grew as he said, "I love the way that sounds when you say it." You could only squeak in response, and his warm gaze flicked from your eyes down to your lips. At this rate you'd be a puddle at his feet in the next ten seconds. He swallowed hard, cheeks flushed as he leaned in closer, taking another small step forward until his boot gently bumped your shoe. His voice took on a raspier edge as said, "You told me you wanted me to kiss you as soon as I saw you."

He didn't stop slowly closing the distance, and when you reached out and let your fingers tangle with his, you whispered, "Please." Then you closed your eyes as his lips brushed feather light against yours. You gasped. He was here. Nothing had ever felt as good as this in your life. You opened your eyes to find him grinning right in front of you, and you chased him for another one of his dreamy kisses.

"Lieutenant Bradshaw kissed her!"

"I think they're in love!"

"They are definitely going to be girlfriend and boyfriend!"

Bradley wrapped his fingers around yours a little tighter as you and he laughed, and he ducked his head before looking up at your class. His cheeks were the most alluring shade of pink as he told them, "Hey, I hope you don't mind that I decided to surprise you and your teacher."

"We don't mind!" shouter Oliver as he was practically sitting on his desk now in excitement. All of the kids were bouncing with anticipation, and you couldn't stop smiling as Violet clapped her hands together.

"Great, because I brought my responses to your last batch of letters, too. I can't thank you enough for being my pen pals for the last few months. You made my time away from home a lot more fun." He turned to look at you before softly adding, "And you made coming back home feel really good."

You wanted to kiss him again. You wanted to run your fingers along his scars and press your lips to his skin in their wake. You wanted to bury your nose against his neck and inhale the smell of his skin and his uniform collar. You wanted to feel his mustache on your lips. Instead, because every eye in the room was on the two of you, you told him, "I'm really happy you're here." You tugged on his hand so he was standing front and center, and you turned to your kids and asked, "What do we say when we have a special guest visit us?"

"Thank you!" they all shouted in unison.

"That's right," you told them. Then you looked up at Bradley, and he handed you the flowers with a crooked little grin, and that's when you noticed he had a small notebook in his hand as well. 

"Can I call each kid up to get their letter?" he asked, as if you would deny him anything at the moment. "Then I can put faces to all of the names."

You were still definitely at risk of melting. "You wrote each of them a personal letter again?" you asked him, holding your flowers to your chest and trying not to swoon.

"Yeah," he replied, opening his notebook to show you. He stood there, looking devastatingly sexy, tearing out a page for every kid. He called each of them up and talked to them for a minute. He remembered the name of Jayden's dog. He remembered that Violet loved neon-colored everything. He remembered that Henry said his grandfather was in the Navy. He remembered so much, and he was so willing to indulge all of their questions.

You just stood there with your flowers and watched this endearing man captivate all nineteen of you with his words. He let Oliver try on one of his insignia pins. He drew a diagram of an aircraft carrier on your white board. He met your gaze more often than not. He smiled at you every time he did. He told your students that the reason they were so smart was because you were such a good teacher. The butterflies were here to stay now.

When you looked around, you noticed that your kids were cherishing their personal notes just like you were your flowers. You didn't want this afternoon to end, and yet, as soon as the first bell rang at three o'clock, you jumped to attention. The sooner your students cleared out of the room for the weekend, the sooner you could hopefully have a few minutes alone with Bradley before he wanted to go home and rest.

"We need to pack up," you announced, finally setting the bouquet down on your desk while Bradly affixed his pin back on his uniform shirt.

"Do we have to?" whined Jayden. "Lieutenant Bradshaw like just got here!"

He had in fact been in your classroom for over two hours, but you couldn't blame them for wanting more. Bradley cleared his throat and looked at you as he said, "I could come back again?" with that sincere gaze you were already weak for. "Spend a few more hours answering questions? Maybe bring some engine parts with me?"

You bit your lip before you could whimper out loud, and he started to head in your direction. "We would love that," you told him.

"Yeah?" he asked you as your kids erupted into a rowdy mob, grabbing all of their belongings as the final bell rang.

"Mmhmm," you hummed, waving lazily to your students as they shouted their goodbyes to both you and Bradley. His steps had him reaching you right as the last few kids left your room, and you whispered, "You'll come back?"

He reached for your hand as he said, "I'll do anything you want, Gorgeous." He must have been able to read the needy look on your face, because when you tugged on his hand, he came all the way to you. His other hand ended up at your waist as his lips found yours, and this time, the feather light kisses deepened as you parted your lips. Bradley groaned softly, kissing you just right, and then he whispered, "I've been dying for this."

Your arms went around his neck, kissing him a little frantically, melting at his touch and the feel of his soft, wavy hair between your fingers. "Me too," you told him before pulling his bottom lip gently between yours. He backed you up until you bumped into your desk, and all you could think about was how good his weight would feel on top of you.

Your skin felt too hot when he finally broke the kiss, panting softly as you ran your thumb along his scars. "I didn't like not hearing from you the past two weeks," you told him, and his brown eyes softened even as his hold on you tightened a little bit. "It was... kind of scary."

"I didn't like it either," he told you. "And I was going to text you immediately when we docked this morning, but then I decided to just come here instead." He grinned as your fingers crept back up into his hair. "If they didn't let me sign in with my military ID in the front office, I don't know what I would have done. I just wanted to see you."

You kissed his chin and said, "Usually I hate surprises. But this one was perfect."

"Okay, see, that's good information to know," he rasped. "I only got a ride home long enough to throw my duffle in the front door and hop in my Bronco. I stopped for the flowers, and then I just wanted to get here with my notebook."

You tipped your head back and whispered, "How am I supposed to deal with how sweet you are?"

"Oh! That reminds me," he muttered, rubbing his hand along your back before releasing you and strolling over to where he left his notebook on Oliver's desk. The way your body wanted you to follow him was surprising, but it gave you a chance to look at him again from head to toe as you stood next to your desk. There was nothing out of place on this man, and you pressed your lips together as his bicep flexed against his shirt sleeve. He tore another sheet of paper from his notebook and said, "I have one more note to deliver."

He walked back over to you, and when he held it up with a hopeful look, you took it from him and read.

Hey, Gorgeous. I couldn't wait one more minute to see you. And now that I'm here, I don't want today to end. Is there any way I can convince you to let me take you out for our first official date tonight instead of tomorrow? Bradley

When you looked up from the page, his eyebrows were raised, and that crooked little grin was hovering close to the surface. "I know I said to plan for tomorrow, but I can't fucking wait that long."

You bit down on your lip, shocked by how much better today turned out to be than you could have ever imagined earlier this morning. "Yeah. You've convinced me, Bradley. Tonight sounds perfect."

With that, you were treated to a little smirk beneath his mustache. He carefully took the sheet of notebook paper from your hands, set it down next to the flowers on your desk and proceeded to kiss you senseless.

----------------------------

He's going to make me hyperventilate. Those kids were SO excited to have him in their classroom, but they were nowhere near as excited as Gorgeous! He's home! And he wants to have his beach picnic and takeout and makeout sesh immediately. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 9

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[anisangeldust]

Religion in your lips 𝜗𝜚⋆

Summary: A turning point had been established in your relationship with the president. Or several..

Part: ← ii →

Warnings: obsessive behavior, stalking, creepy/perv Coryo, misogyny, masturbation (m), wet dreams, emotional abuse, manipulation, mentions of grooming, allusions to murder, objectification.

A/N: I need him expeditiously. Also I’m so sorry that this is so late! I’m working as fast as I can!

A dastardly crime you had unwillingly committed, you had began to not only wedge yourself into the life of the president, you also absentmindedly plagued his whole being. One week, one week of work and you were already a problem.

Coriolanus couldn’t help the way you became his muse, you occupied every free and taken crevice of his mind, yet you were so blissfully ignorant of the predator so carefully stalking your move; waiting for a prime opportunity to pounce. The President was a smart man however, he knew that patience was key, and if he wanted to have you at all, he needed to be careful.

Everyday he’d watch from his office as you took your lunchtime break, sitting within the gardens of the presidential estate and chatting with the gardeners. Taking notice of which flowers you seemed to be drawn to, as to which he decided he’d get you a bouquet of your favorite under the feign guise of thankfulness. Testing the waters he thought.

So Coriolanus couldn’t help but feel satisfied when he saw the small smile on your face. Was it that easy to impress you? Nevertheless, he felt immense satisfaction when you tucked the little note he wrote into your front pocket and took one of the flowers to place in your hair.

The young president swore he’d never care for another again, yet here he stood, in lust with a simple worker, and sooner or later he was going to get what was his. To get you.

——

“Gypsophila is a highly toxic flower, deadly if consumed. But it is very pretty.” You rambled to the president as he sat sipping tea. The most beautiful sight you were, so full of life, so happy, oh how he craved to posses you; to destroy the youthful innocence you paraded like a trophy.

“Interesting indeed.” Coriolanus nodded, his gaze never leaving your perky chest and silky hair. A beat of comfortable silence passed when young Snow remembered his fiancée’s behavior, the dwindling aggravation now building up again. “And i’d like to apologize on behalf of my bride-to-be. She is a little shall I say.. enraging at times” He sighs and leans back.

“Worried I was not Coriolanus.” Your smile and innocent acceptance made him furious in a way. The need to sink his teeth into you was almost overwhelming. He wanted to cut you open and crawl inside your ribcage. This was a feeling he’d known never before, and he was positive it’ll linger for the rest of his natural life. Before you blessed him with your presence, he had yet to see someone so willing to do a good job, your aura was addicting.

“You know, I don’t really love her.” The words left Coriolanus’ lips before he could stop himself. He almost chuckled at the way your brows furrowed.

“My condolences? Why.. are you marrying her then?”

“You know, capital business.” He sighs and leans back. If only he had picked you! Such a scenario had swept through his mind many times since he’d met you. If only he could’ve waited. “Such a shame I choose such a…brat.” He scowled at the thoughts of his fiancée.

The look on your face was somewhere between shocked and startled. It was amusing how Coriolanus could tell you were biting your tongue to hold back your own thoughts on his future beloved.

“Allow me to not meddle in your personal business Coriolanus.. but I suppose if you want unsolicited advice, it’s never too late to change your mind. You’re already president. One called off marriage won’t kill you” your polite voice was so calming to the achy soul he possessed. The young Snow knew you had no idea of his intentions for you, and that thought was delicious.

“I appreciate your insight darling. I shall think about your words carefully. I fear you’re too smart for the position you hold at the moment.” He chuckles. You deserved the seat of First Lady, the title of his wife, do be the mother of his future kids, and it took every molecule of his being to hold back from expressing that desire.

Comfortable silence fell into the room, only the quiet scuffling of feet or sipping tea piercing the lack of noise. The thought of being so comfortable with a person was a concept so foreign to Coriolanus. the last person he was comfortable with had betrayed him, left him to die in the forest. Something about you, however, was different. His songbird didn’t see what she missed, she craved the wild life she had. You enjoyed order, respected Panem, you’d never leave him like she did. You’d never leave him like she did. A pang of vulnerability struck the president’s chest. Could he really trust you? Would you betray him like she had? No, you wouldn’t, because he could control you. And you’d let him.

If the want wasn’t already clear enough in its mind, that moment solidified it. He had to get rid of Livia. He had to have you. and then his face falls in the same breath. A foreign thought crossed his mind at the same time though. What if you already had someone? The idea made him seethe. How dare someone else have what’s his? He’d ask you. No need to jump to conclusions right?

“Darling. You’ve never mentioned any kind of boyfriend? Don’t mind my prying, I’m just curious.” He says in masterly hidden mock confusion.

“Oh uh.. I was dumped actually. Right before I took this job. He said he needed to focus on himself or whatever else they all say” his words adding a small flush to your cheeks.

Good. This was good. No, this was excellent. Single and vulnerable. Ready for the perfect man to save you from your pain and heartbreak, ready for a strong and handsome man like him to make you feel worthy again. He couldn’t have written this better himself.

“Oh darling, I’m so sorry. He sounds like a dunce, you’re clearly too good for him anyway.” Coriolanus smiles, opening up the door of careful manipulation.

A bloom of pink popped into your cheeks at his words. “Thank you Mr. President. I’m thankful we’re over. And I appreciate your compliment.” Your murmur back was almost funny. And the attempt to hide the flush on your face with turning and dusting a random surface was funnier to him.

“You’re welcome darling.” His short response and wink made your heart beat visibly faster, but he chose just to let you do your job and not bring it up. Mentally he was kicking himself. For having you so close yet unreachable. How was he supposed to get rid of his bride-to-be? It would be a scandal, one too big to cover. The Cardew family would stop at nothing to tear him down if he left her, he’d lose all he had. Amidst his thinking, he stood up and pleaded against the bookshelf you were dusting. “You can tell me if Livia says something rude. You’re a maid, yes, but you’re still a person. Don’t be scared to let me know if she’s making you uncomfortable.” He cooed smoothly.

“Will do. Thank you Mr. President. Though she isn’t that bad. We just got off on the wrong foot. But of course I’ll tell you if she does anything.” Your cheery attitude was refreshing. A light in a dull atmosphere.

“Thank you darling.” Coriolanus kissed your hand gently before leaving. What a gentleman.

——

Damn you and your little dress. Damn you and the fabric that clung to your curves so nice. How could he focus on anything? His eyes darted around his office, desperate to find something to focus on, and find something he did. A rag you’d left. A rag that you clipped onto your skirt to wipe off your forehead occasionally. Immediately, Coriolanus stood up and took the white fabric in his hands. It belonged to the manor, it was soft and good quality, and upon further inspection, it had a small stain on it. Your sweat.

His pants tightened as he brought the fabric up to his nose and took a whiff, your perfume lingered on the threads, teasing him. The thought of using Livia crossed his mind, after all, what was she good for if not as a tight cunt? But it felt almost insulting to you to fuck Livia in your place. The last time he did it left a sour taste in his mouth. He couldn’t just take you, not yet, he needed more time before he made his move. Left with no other options, Coriolanus locked his office with a click and sat down in his chair.

He freed his erections from the confinement of his pants and boxers, softly stroking his hardening cock with the marked cloth. The sight of his pre mixed with the little bit of sweat had him going crazy. The need for you was insatiable, he couldn’t help himself as he pumped his hand up and down his cock, stopping to tease the fat tip with his new prized possession. He brought the tag up to his nose to smell your scent again, pumping his dick as he inhaled the fumes. He came to the thought of spreading you open like a flower and indulging in your soaking pussy. He was only lightly embarrassed when his mind came to. Though it was drowned out quickly by the satisfaction of his orgasm. He needed you badly, and he was more determined than ever to get you.

——

Over the next few days he gave you small gifts, chocolate, a bracelet, an up in pay, all because he “felt bad you got broken up with” of course. He was a compassionate man, of course he cared about you! How dare you think he was just going this to get you to trust him and tell him more about your private life? He was. It was a little tiring having his other staff ask you the questions and then report back to him, but the smile and flush on your cheeks made it worth it. And his attempts weren’t in vain, the longer he pined, the more you told him, the more ammunition he had to get you to say more; a deliciously vicious cycle.

The more you trusted him, the more you told him about anything Livia did, He expected Livia to be an asshole. He knew that it was only a matter of time before she was rude enough that you said something. What Coriolanus didn’t expect, was for his fiancée to physically harm you. And especially not right in front of him. The soft thud and following mewl of pain from outside his office had caught his attention. He got up and went to the source of the sound, only to find his fiancée standing over your crumpled form.

“I thought your job was to clean? How are you supposed to get anything done if you’re such a klutz? Oh come on, that didn’t hurt” she taunted as you tried to get up off the floor. It was clear she pushed you, or tripped you in some way, that didn’t matter to Coriolanus though, she hurt you. And he was pissed.

“Hey, what the fuck happened here?” He demanded, anger pointed 100% at Livia, though the anger made you wince.

Livia turned around immediately, acting like she had found and helped you. “Oh It’s all okay Coryo, she was just cleaning and she fell, nothing to worry about, I was just making sure she’s alright!” Livia clutched her chest, gently helping you up. Coriolanus didn’t believe it for a second.

“Really? Is that true?” He said as he turned to you, eyes squinted in disbelief

You felt put on the spot, he’d be mad if you lied, but you couldn’t just tell him she did it and run the risk of her hating you more than she already did, so the former seemed best. “Y-yeah. She, she did find me. I just fell” you muttered sheepishly.

Coriolanus knew you lied, and that angered him, But he also knew that you would’ve told the truth if Livia wasn’t there. The knowledge that you were going to tell him everything after was comforting enough for him to huff and sigh “I’m sorry. I just don’t appreciate dawdling.” He sailed in an eerily calm tone. Livia snickered like she’d won something, and Coriolanus forced himself to just keep walking and not shout at his fiancée.

Young Snow was standing and peering out of the window in his office when he heard you open the door and walk in. He heard you gently start to clean the many books and surfaces that lined the room. Coriolanus liked that about you, you never spoke to him unless he spoke to you first, and it turned him on.

“My anger was not directed towards you.” He started “though I’m slightly miffed that you lied to me. Tell me what she actually did” he turned around to look at you, his face stern yet inviting as he waited for your explanation of the events.

He noticed your slight gulp and timid frame as you put down your rag to look at him. “She uh.. I was wiping down lamps in one of the lounges when.. she- she pushed me into a table, and a p-picture frame landed on my head..” your mumbles and stutters would have been cute if he was pissed off. The nerve that woman had, and to play victim too? He was just about at his wits end with her.

“It’s okay darling. I believe you. And I’m quite annoyed that she would abuse staff like that. She’s jealous that you’re better than she is, that’s all” he coos and walks towards you. He gently puts his large hands on your arms “you’re doing great. You’re the best maid I could’ve asked for. Now go finish your job for today. I’ll get you something for the inconvenience and I’ll talk with her.” He said as he leaned down and gently kissed your cheek.

——

“I don’t appreciate you abusing staff Livia.” His voiced was stern and unapologetic, the opposite of how he approached you, as he entered his quarters of the presidential manor.

“What could you possibly be talking about Coryo? If it’s about the maid then I told you, she fell and I found her. It’s not my fault she’s a klutz.” Livia scoffed at the mention of you.

Coriolanus slammed his hand on the wall, his eyes full of fire. “I didn’t give you permission to speak woman. Shes been working here 3 weeks and she’s ‘fallen’ twice. And both times she was conveniently in your surroundings. If it happens again I’ll be very, very disappointed.” He says through gritted teeth and goes to walk away but stops. “And my name isn’t Coryo. Its Coriolanus. I don’t care that you’re my fiancée, you’ll treat me with respect.” He demanded before pushing past her to take a much needed shower.

Falling into the clutches of morpheus came easier than expected that night. In the realm of dreams, Coriolanus' unconscious mind becomes a canvas of desire and longing. Your delicate form becomes the centerpiece of his erotic fantasy, envisioned sprawled across his desk, the epitome of seductive submission. As the dream unfolds, his touches and caresses paint vivid imagery, a private symphony of pleasure that reflects his deepening admiration and desire for you. Coriolanus' dream grows even more intense as you become increasingly sensual and inviting, giving yourself to him so fully and passionately. The boundaries of his imagination blur, and he loses himself in the intoxicating pleasure of your presence. He moans and groans, overtaken by the overwhelming sensations of desire and satisfaction. He whispers your name gently, his voice filled with both reverence and need

When his eyes cracked open to the rays of morning sunlight, he was both grateful for the opportunity of another day with you, and irked that he woke up to the sleeping body of his useless fiancée.

——

Coriolanus started looking forward to when you’d come into his office to clean and chat. What was once cold small talk had morphed into you telling him everything about yourself. How you were a recent academy graduate, you were open to but didn’t have any plans for University, you had a white cat named Pearl that you love like a child, and you preferred tea to coffee. All facts that seemed so mundane about others were so tantalizing coming from your lips.

“So this job is only until you decide on what you want to do? That’s a shame. You’re very good at it. Replacing you wouldn’t be fun. But I’m proud of you for working and earning money. Not many people do that in the capitol. Especially not those who come from rich backgrounds like you do.” Coriolanus said with feigned nonchalance as he absentmindedly stirred his tea.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of people who could clean the mansion just as well, if not better than I” your tone was sweet and soft, you’d never understand. No one could ever be you, you were too important, how would he survive without you? He wouldn’t.

Coriolanus stood up and chuckled “I’m sure, but none of them are as kind, or sweet, or as beautiful as you” he coos and tilts your chin up to look at him “none of them could captivate me like you have” he murmurs. This was a now or never moment. He couldn’t go back now, and with your big eyes preening up at him he couldn’t resist. He gently leaned down and captured your lips in his own, gently cradling your head and holding your face.

“Coriolanus..” you murmured and he gently broke away with a small smirk playing at the edges of his lips, his gaze cast down to look at your wide and surprised expression.

“Shhh.. I know you wanted that too darling, tell me to stop and i will” he mumbles as he captures your lips in his own again, gently waiting for you to accept the kiss. A wave of satisfaction washes over him as he fells you relax and accept the kiss, he grins against your lips as he feels you hands on his chest.

Your lips tasted of a sweetness he had never experienced, how he was meant to pretend he didn’t want you was a problem for the future, right now all that mattered where your lips and his desires. Getting rid of Livia may have to happen sooner than he anticipated.

Taglist!

@daenerysqueenofhearts @caramelandvenus @yoursrosie @wearemadeofstardust0 @kay-lla @mrsriddlenott @sleekervae @ianales @qoopeeya @arzua10 @matcha-muses @jitsuki12 @nojeicintjzonfhw @poppyflower-22 @lustforrush @jefferson-in-the-tardis @aurabambi @royal-sunflower @rovckwells @rubys-rere @iydImsydxoxo @lucyisdoingfine @nyxxoxo @paradisepoisons @miserableblood @poppyflower-22 @anonymous14261703170309 @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sqct @anakinluvr4ever (tell me if I missed you and you’ll be added🫶)

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[9:03 am]

(cw: f!reader)

The phone on your desk was ringing loudly throughout your office. It was extremely strange considering you had just entered your office and your secretary hadn't informed you of any calls. The only person who had the direct number to your phone was your husband, CEO!Johnny, who had just dropped you off at work.

You set your things on your desk and answered the phone, "did I accidentally take your coffee or something?"

"No, I was just thinking," he starts off, you can hear the blinker clicking in the car, "you know how we were talking about the beach this morning?"

"You mean when you saw me swipe past a picture of my cousin at the beach?" You ask with an arched brow as you lower yourself into your desk chair.

"Yes, honey, exactly. Well, I made a quick call to your assistant, then I called my assistant, and now we're going on a week long vacation to Bali at the start of next week!" He exclaims.

"Johnny, I have meetings next week," you sigh, scrolling through your calendar on your phone which is now empty next week.

"Had meetings, my love. I know you're also looking at your schedule so right about now you should see some new events being added to this week. Your assistant is making you a nail appointment, a hair appointment, shopping, and lunch with your beloved husband— all on my card of course," Johnny explains and you can hear the smile in his voice.

"You don't have to do all this, you know?" you ask with your own smile.

"What kind of husband would I be if I didn't spoil the love of my life?"

"I have my own money," you insist.

"But you should spend your money on you, honey! Your money is yours and my money is our money. Look, I'm pulling up to the office, I'll talk to you later, alright?"

Sure enough, on his lunch he calls you for your daily lunch chat. He tells you about some data he's been analyzing for most of the morning and you tell him about your meeting.

Your assistant knocks on the door and your brows furrow, pulling your phone away from your ear to call out, "come in!"

In comes your assistant, her hands full with a floral arrangement bigger than the top half of her body. There are bright green, vibrant pinks, and vivid yellow hues of flowers and foliage that now rest on your desk in a ceramic vase.

"Oh my god! Johnny, you did not," you mumble into your phone speaker.

"It's to keep you inspired and encouraged until we're in Bali. There should also be another gift arriving soon..." he trails off, almost as if he's waiting and straining his ear to hear your assistant knock again.

Strangely, your assistant knocks just a few seconds later holding a bright orange box. She sends you a wink and you immediately spring for the box when the door shuts behind her.

Johnny is on speaker now, listening to you tear into the gift he sent you. He can hear you gasp in shock, "Johnny Suh, you did not!"

"A Birkin for my baby, you're welcome!" He laughs contently, wishing so badly that he could see your reaction. He knows though that if you both FaceTimed, he'd never want to hang up. Hell, he didn't want to hang up regular phone calls with you.

"Thank you, honey," you breathe out, removing the dust bag to reveal smooth black leather, shiny silver hardware and an earthy, woodsy scent from the expensive leather.

"Is this for our vacation?" You ask, holding the bag out at arms length to admire how good it looks in your hand.

"No, it's a just because gift," Johnny states simply. You can imagine his nonchalant shrug.

"You spoil me," you coo into the phone.

"Well, I love you so..."

"I love you too so... I had my assistant make us reservations at your favorite restaurant tonight as a thank you for the vacation," you rush out excitedly.

"My love, they're booked out for two months. How did you manage that?" Johnny asks incredulously.

You cringe, taking a second of silence before responding, "she name dropped your name and said you were planning on proposing."

"I'd propose to you a million times for any reason at all."

"Do not go buy another ring, Mr. Suh," you state coldly.

"Yes, my love. I'll see you after work, have a wonderful day," Johnny sighs dreamily.

"I'm being serious," you insist.

"Damn it, my love, I already sent my assistant to Cartier!"

[trickbxbes]

𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐌𝐞 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧

[𝐃𝐚𝐞-𝐇𝐨 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

Summary: After being the sole winner of the games, Dae-Ho realizes he’s not the same man anymore. Does this version of him deserve his wife?

Warnings: Angst, hurt and comfort, sole survivor Dae-Ho

The sky poured as Dae-Ho reached the front of his apartment building. The dark clouds blocked the twinkling stars in the night sky. His clothes drenched with rainwater. He stared up at the building, more specifically, a window. There was a faint glow of yellow on the walls of that studio.

He shakily sighed, you were home.

But just as he takes a step to enter the building, he finds himself frozen where he stood. His first thought was a simple ‘why can’t I move?’, before it sunk in. It hadn’t been that long to the rest of the world. To Dae-Ho however, it felt like an eternity. All he wanted when he was in those games was to run back into your arms. Your loving arms that always made him feel safe, loved. He had entered the games to pay off his debts so you and him could live a normal life. Because no matter how he tried to keep you from his problems, your kind heart always kept you involved. He felt like he didn’t deserve you, no matter how much you told him otherwise. And that was before the games.

455 people died so he could be here. The money he now owned, came from the blood of those 455 people. Why? Why was he the one to survive? It played in his head like a sick record. And when he thought about it deeper, how many of the 455… did he kill with his own hands?

He was as still as a statue. He knew for a fact, he wasn’t the same person as the one who first entered the games. His once beaming heart of light was now shrouded with grief and darkness. The kindness in his eyes was replaced with a jaded anguish. 455 people. 455.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You were in your kitchen, trying to make a meal for yourself. But every movement you made felt heavy. Invisible weights shackled your limbs. The bags under your eyes were deep. Your eyes roll down to the wedding ring on your finger. A reminder of the man you loved so dearly, a man you haven’t heard from in a week.

You knew your Dae-Ho, he’d never do this to you. All of his stuff was still here. Which led you to worry deeply on another possibility. Perhaps the loan sharks caught up to him? Maybe they took him somewhere, and you’d never see him again. The wait was agonizing.

Knock knock knock.

Your head perked up to the door, and you bolt to the door. Could it be? Have your prayers been answered? Opening the door, you see your beloved standing there. Your heart nearly leaped out of your chest. Dae-Ho looks at you, his eyes softening. “(Y,n)…”

Without wasting a second, you hug the man desperately. “Dae-Ho!” Tears well up in your eyes as you clung to him. He’s stiff, stiffer than you’ve ever felt him be. But as he steadily wrapped his arms around you, his grip then got tight. His strong arms nearly squeezed your breath out of your lungs. His shoulders shook slightly, as he held back his own overwhelming emotion.

When you pulled back, you felt his hands gently grip at you as if you’d disappear once he let go. You cup his face, your face contorted with concern.

“Oh God, where have you been? A-are you hurt? I-I was so scared I—“

“(Y,n)…”

Dae-Ho’s voice sounded as if someone had their hands around his throat. Thin, and croaky. Then, you took notice of how different your man looked. His skin was paler, his frame thinner. There was no light in his eyes. “Dae-Ho… what happened…?” You closed the door, and then put your hands on his shoulders.

Your love took a deep breath, he pulled out a card from his pocket. You looked at it with some confusion, but you allowed him to elaborate.

“This card… has all the money to pay off my debt, and more.”

He didn’t break eye contact as he continued, his lip quivering. “But to get this money, I had to endure and do unspeakable things. Things that… made me not the man you once knew.” His hands shakily take yours, as his eyes watered. Your heart twisted in knots seeing him look so broken. Before you could speak, he then asks,

“Would you fall in love with me again… if you knew all I’d done…?”

His question carried a burden he didn’t wish to place on your shoulders. You’re quiet, processing his words. You didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Your lips part, and you ask,

“What kind of things did you do?”

Your query made Dae-Ho take a shaky breath. The memories of the games made him let go of your hands, as if feeling unworthy. “I-I had to play games, for my survival. So many people died. I found a group though, people I soon called my friends.” A single tear rolled down his cheek, he’s unable to meet your gaze. His shaky hands rose to his chest, holding each other. “But every one of them are gone now. And some of their deaths… were my fault.” His voice cracked, he tearfully looked at you again.

“But all of that was to bring me back to you…!”

Despite everything, all the trauma, all the guilt, he still hoped and begged… he wouldn’t lose you too.

“So tell me. Would you fall in love with me again? After everything I had to do, I’m… I’m not the same person. I’m worse, I’m… I’m not the man you married. I’ve hurt people, I’ve killed people…I can’t change any of that…!So… I have to ask… because…”

You knew what he meant. He loved you, of course he did. Your silence only increased his anxiety. You lift your hand, looking at your wedding ring on your finger. There was a distant look in your eyes.

“If that’s true, can you do me a favor? Let me sell this wedding ring. If you have all that money, I’m sure you’ll be able to find one for yourself. Better than any pawn shop.”

Your words broke Dae-Ho’s heart into little pieces. He looked like a kicked puppy. Even though he was setting it up, he didn’t expect for you to agree with his guilt. “You…really…?” But one thing in your statement brought him anger. The last comment. His eyebrows furrowed. “‘P-pawn shop?’ That ring… belonged to my halmoni. A ring she saved specially for me as the first born son! It’s a family heirloom! A blessing of our love! To sell it… that’d make her roll in her grave!”

“Only my husband knew that! So I guess that makes him YOU!”

You shout back instantly. Dae-Ho’s wide eyes stared into your soul with shock, before they melt into realization. “(Y,n)…”

You take a deep breath. “I will fall in love with you, over and over again. I don’t care what you had to do to survive…! You’re mine!” Hot tears pooled in your eyes next. All the emotions you had been experiencing this past week coming out at once. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same person! You’re always my husband and I’ve been waiting for you…!”

That broke your Dae-Ho into sobs as the two of you embraced each other emotionally. All the pain he had inside of him, spilled out intensely. Everyone who died, everything he lost, all to make it back here. He didn’t need to speak, you knew what he wanted to communicate through his wails.

He didn’t think he’d make it back.

He did everything he could to be here back in your arms.

He loved you, so much.

Your hand found the back of his head, and you stroked it gently. His cries wet your shoulder, his hands gripped your back. You softly wept beside him. He had went through so much misery. The two of you are unable to stand, slowly sliding down to your knees.

Dae-Ho pulls back to hold your face tenderly. His eyes scanning your face for any sign of dismay or deception. But all he saw was your loving gaze as you held his hand on your cheek. He sniffled.

“I’m yours.”

You smiled tearfully, kissing the inner palm of his hand. “I love you.”

Your husband sinks his head into your shoulder again, letting you cradle him soothingly on the floor. “I love you…” You knew there was more to come. He may have escaped the games, but he’d never escape the horrid memories. The monsters of his grief would always come to taunt him. But little did they know that you weren’t going to leave him to their mercy. You’ll be his protecter, just as he was to you.

[fallstaticexit]

Prev / Next / Beginning

AN: Still got a bug but I couldn’t go another day without sharing more of this beloved story of mine 💜 next update will return next week! Just a couple more before we end part II and begin part III.

Transcript under the cut

Nancy: [panting] Ok...ok, I-I think I get it. Thank you.

Darling: It’s not even close to the real thing. I can give it to you, if you want it. No strings.

Nancy Narrates: [If my heart wasn’t so lost in Vanessa, would I have said yes]

Nancy: [whispers] I’m not a cheater.

Darling: Ah. Right. Your boyfriend. Fuck, my bad. I got caught up in the moment. Come on, let’s wake up M and Knox and call it a night.

Nancy Narrates: [Boyfriend. Not once did I think about Geoffrey]

Darling: You’ll figure it out. It’s not easy but you’ll find the real thing. But, if you tryna figure it out some more, holla at me. [chuckles]

Nancy: [chuckles lightly]

-

Bob: Found something!

Geoffrey: Seriously? Is it an address?

Bob: Not an address. It’s a phone number. I doubt the Villareal’s have their residence shared to the public.

Geoffrey: Dude, you are seriously a genius. I owe you one!

Bob: No worries, my man! Nothing gets me ready for 8am exams like a good old fashioned 2am espionage.

Geoffrey: Anything to see Nancy smile again. I’m going to surprise her on our anniversary.

Bob: If I don’t end up as crazy about Eliza as you are with Nance, then I’m doing something wrong.

Geoffrey: DId you have fun with the Theta’s tonight?

Nancy: Yeah... yeah, it was fun..

Geoffrey: I’ve been thinking about our anniversary all day. I can’t wait to take you out. Come on, let’s get you to bed.

Nancy Narrates: [He doesn’t deserve my lying]

Nancy Narrates: [I wish I could say it would be the last time I did]

-

Geoffrey: I know I’ve said it already, but you look amazing tonight, Nance.

Nancy: Thank you. You look very handsome too.

Geoffrey: My girlfriend has great taste in wardrobe. I say it everytime.

Nancy: You’re really easy to dress. You’re like my living doll.

Geoffrey: I can’t believe it’s been 2 years. I still can’t believe how lucky I am. When you said you had feelings for me that day in the courtyard, I almost didn’t believe it. I thought you were too perfect for me.

Nancy: [frowns] That’s not true. You’re a catch, Geoffrey. Anyone would be so lucky to have you.

Geoffrey: I’m glad it wasn’t just anyone. I’m so happy it was you.

Nancy: [smiles softly] Thank you for loving me. It’s more than I deserve.

Geoffrey: [grins] You deserve it all. Here’s to many more years of you and me. Oh! By the way, I have a gift for you, and don’t tell me I shouldn’t have.

Geoffrey: Ta-da!! I know how much you miss your friend Vanessa, from high school so I had Bobby do some digging around. Didn’t find much but we found her number! The number works too, I called it and it went to voicemail. You should give her a call! Catch up.

Geoffrey: I get it, Nance. Other than you, Bob is like my favorite person in the world. If he ever up and moved without a word, I’d be crushed. I know you’re making a ton of new friends now, but hey, there really is nothing like having your best friend around, right?

Geoffrey: Nancy?

Nancy Narrates: [What would I even say. How do I even being to convey the longing, the sorrow, the love that I’ve held on to for two years. What would I do when I hear her voice again]

[phone rings]

Vanessa: Hi, you’ve reached Vanessa Villareal. I’m away from the phone but if you leave your name and a call back number, I’ll be sure to reach out to you. Chao.

[beep]

[patrophthia]

congrats for the 1K!! would love to read a fic where reader has been loosing her vaseline lip therapy boxes and she asks theo where it’s gone, he says he doesnt know abt them but he took some 2 see why reader likes it sm & now hes obsessed aswell 🥹 thx uu

hi omg thank you! i always see you on my notifs and am so glad you finally sent in an ask!!!

dirty little liar | theodore nott

pairing: theodore nott x reader

genre: fluff, established relationship, shy theo and he’s so cute about it

part of my 1k celebration event !

Theodore Nott (your beloved boyfriend) is a dirty little liar. He wasn’t a good liar at the start of your relationship, and he sure as hell wasn’t one now; sitting pretty on the Slytherin’s common room sofa with his bag a few inches away from him, the flaps open after his attempts at pulling out a quill.

You’re slightly frustrated when you find him, brows furrowed as you scan your surroundings for the small tub you’ve grown so fond off. “Theo, have you seen my lip therapy?”

Theodore cocks his head at your words, feigning cluelessness as to what your ‘lip therapy’ was. “No?” He supplies, sounding unsure of himself.

You don’t really think too much of it though, this was the third time this week you’ve asked him this very question. Each time pretending as if he doesn’t know what it was you’re looking for.

“Are you sure?” You ask again with a slight disappoint glint in your eyes.

He hesitates, wanting to let up yet he’s played this game for too long to let loose of it so easily. “Mhmm,” he hums.

You sigh, taking a seat besides him on the sofa. Your thigh bumps into his bag slightly, knocking out the contents within its pocket. You frown a bit, picking up the items that spills out of it.

Gum. Quill. A few sickles. Eye drops. Another quill. Vaseline lip therapy.

Wait, Vaseline lip therapy?

You hold the small container in your hand, looking up at Theodore suspiciously to only find him looking back at you with a sheepish smile. You have half the mind to throw it at his face and call him a filthy liar while the other half of you want to shut down and take in the utter betrayal from your boyfriend’s actions. Instead, you stay calm and ask him to: “explain yourself.”

Theodore bites the corner of his cheeks, eyeing the tub in your hand carefully. “Uhm— you’ve always had it— it was always laying around, and I knew you used it so kept it for you.”

“You kept it for me?” You ask him, untrusting. Theodore nods. “Then why did you say no when I asked you if you’ve seen it.”

He’s dead. Not figuratively. He just really fucked up, didn’t he? “I forgot?” As if it couldn’t have gotten worse, he gives you the worst lie you’ve ever heard.

“Right.” You’re nodding, and he thinks he might actually get away with it. But things are never that easy, is it? “Tell me the truth or we’re through.”

Surely, you don’t mean— nope, your face is too stern for you to be bluffing. He’s shy when he answers you truthfully: “you’re always using it I just— I wanted to know why you liked it so much so I tried it and just forgot to place it back where I found it.”

“And the other two?”

“Malfoy and Zabini saw me using it and stole it for themselves,” he grunts, clearly annoyed by his friends behaviors. You laugh and he’s the one to frown now. “What?”

“Nothing,” you giggle, “you’re just cute.”

The tip of his ears singes red, cheeks heating at your words. “So you’re not mad at me?”

You laugh again, rolling your eyes playfully as you tossed the small container in his direction. He catches it with ease, eyes shifting between you and the tub. “Just mad enough to remind you that you owe me three of these little replacements.”

When you stand up, his dark eyes are still on yours; lips jutting out slightly as your warmth slips away from the sofa where you sat mere seconds ago. And when you lean down, placing a short kiss on his lips (one he was quick to return) out of pity, you can’t help but comment on how it: “seems like the stolen products were doing its job.”

— from bee: i need to apologize for long it took me to write this, im really sorry bae omg TT

[sunasrin]

☆⋆ﾟ𓂃 いとし凛 : NEW YEARS

── after a full day of preparation for New Years, your boyfriend of 4 years didn't show up.

.࣭𓆩̟࣪𓆪̟ pro!itoshi rin ‹ ˖࣪ ִֶָ ‹ fem!reader : (★) 2.4k w ──

⋅☾ IMAGINE , angst to fluff , comfort , heartbreak , happy ending

lexi's note . · ☄︎ hello! This is my first writing for bllk ! If you enjoy, please do insist on requesting !! I might make this as a mini series, but we'll see, due to college ! Other than that, here is some things that I'll like to go over with ! First English isn't my first language so please bare with me if I don't make sense or either the writing ! Second, this imagine will contain sorts of heated arguments, cussing, etc. Therefore, I wish you guys a happy new year! 🫶🏻✨️

As the sky shimmered with stars against the inky black atmosphere, the dining table gleamed under the soft glow of candlelight. Every plate was accurately placed, reflecting the anticipation and care that Y/n had poured into the evening. She stood by the door, her heart a mix of excitement and worry, waiting for her handsome boyfriend to return home. The table was set at exactly 7 pm, each dish carefully chosen to be his favorite, creating an inviting smell that mingled with the delicate scent of flowers in the centerpiece. Y/n knew Rin's demanding schedule well, his travels for tournaments and intense matches often keeping him busy. His practice was supposed to end at 10 pm, and with their home just 30 minutes away, he should have been back by 10:30. Yet, as the clock ticked closer to 11, the silence of their cozy home grew more unsettling. She tried to reassure herself, imagining Rin picking up last-minute gifts, but the unease gnawed at her. However, five minutes turned into 30, then an hour, until it was 11:59. The only sound breaking the silence was the TV, counting down from 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1... ushering in 2025. A new year without... Rin. Her beloved boyfriend. Y/n's heart sank as the fireworks lit up the night sky outside, their vibrant colors mocking the emptiness she felt inside. She had spent weeks planning this night, hoping to surprise Rin with a celebration that would show him just how much he meant to her. But now, as the new year arrived, she was alone, her mind racing with worry and fear. Had something happened to him? Was he hurt or in trouble? The thoughts swirled in her head, each one more terrifying than the last. Another hour had passed, hitting exactly at 1:45 in the morning. Y/n let out a soft sigh, the sound echoing in the quiet of the house as she moved to clean the dining table.

The remnants of their romantic dinner lay scattered, the once warm food now cold and uninviting. She carefully put the leftovers into the fridge, the door creaking slightly as she closed it, then turned her attention to the dishes. The water splashed as she washed them, the warm suds contrasting sharply with the chill in her heart. She tossed the melted candle into the trash, its waxy remnants a sad reminder of the evening that had slipped away. With a heavy heart, Y/n glanced back at the dining table, now a shadow of its former charm, before trudging up the stairs to their shared bedroom. The familiar routine felt hollow tonight, but she tucked herself into bed, pulling the covers tightly around her as if they could shield her from the pain. She switched off her lamp, the room plunging into darkness, but sleep eluded her. As the clock ticked closer to 2 am, she sighed again, her eyes fluttering closed, finally succumbing to a deep slumber. Meanwhile, Rin was oblivious to the turmoil at home. It was 2025, a new year full of possibilities, and he thought little of his late return. After a lively dinner with his team to celebrate, he hadn’t expected to stumble into the quiet apartment at 3 in the morning. He sighed, the sound of his keys jingling as he unlocked the door, the familiar creak of it swinging open greeting him like an old friend. As he stepped inside, the silence wrapped around him, the only light coming from the hallway, casting soft shadows on the walls. He shrugged off the unease creeping into his chest, assuming Y/n had gone to bed early. But as he entered the bedroom, a chill ran down his spine. Y/n’s side of the bed was untouched, the sheets neatly made as if she hadn’t been there at all. A wave of concern washed over him, and he glanced at her nightstand, where her phone lay, untouched and silent. “Y/n?” he called softly, his voice breaking the stillness. The silence stretched, and his heart raced with worry. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Leaning over, he gently brushed a hand against her shoulder.

The next morning felt like a repeat for Y/n. Rin had early practice, and she knew he wouldn’t be home until 10 at night again. She didn’t care much; it had become the norm. To pass the time, she decided to do some chores around the house. As she moved from room to room, she stumbled upon a pair of nasty socks hidden behind the couch. “Ew, it has spider webs on it!” she exclaimed, grossed out. These were the socks Rin had been looking for for soccer. With a sigh, she picked them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, shaking her head at the dirty socks that happened to be found. She sighed to herself as she pushed the couch back to its place. She continued to work around the house, diligently moving from one task to the next. She swept the floors, her broom gliding across the wooden planks, collecting dust and crumbs into neat little piles. Next, she tackled the carpets, the hum of the vacuum cleaner filling the air as she meticulously covered every inch, ensuring no speck of dirt was left behind. With a bucket of soapy water and a mop in hand, she scrubbed the tiles, watching as the grime dissolved and the floors gleamed once more. Finally, she turned to the laundry, carefully folding each piece of clothing, smoothing out wrinkles, and stacking them into tidy piles. Just as she was about to finish, Rin comes home, his face a mix of exhaustion and frustration. Y/n didn't pay much attention to his facial features but asked, "How was your day at practice?" Rin, irritated from Bachira and Isagi's constant annoyance, responded roughly with a stern voice, "Don't worry about it." He scoffed, his irritation evident in his tone. "Well, I should worry if my boyfriend is sounding upset. Here, help me put the laundry away," she states, trying to keep the atmosphere light. Rin groans, "Why me? Do it yourself. I want to rest." He slumps onto the couch, his body language screaming fatigue. She hands him a stack of freshly folded clothes, her eyes softening as she watches him. "Come on, it won't take long," she says gently, hoping to ease his frustration.

"No, for once can you fucking leave me alone? You're all over me, it gets annoying! You're too clingy! Why can't you just do shit for yourself without asking me for help?" he screams irrationally. "Me? Annoying? Clingy?" she chuckles, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Seriously, me out of all the girls you fucking dated! Itoshi Rin, do you not notice the hard work I put in the entire day? I work my ass off just for you to sit here and discredit me? Like seriously I'm the one you should be thankful to, that you still have a clean home to come to, food on the table for you! So don't sit here and say I ask for help too much, which I don't. I understand you're upset because of practice, but lashing out at me is not okay!" she heaves, her chest rising and falling heavily with emotion. "Whatever, all you ever do in this house is nag. Without me, you wouldn't be able to pay for a roof over your head!" Rin snaps, his face flushed with anger. Y/n's eyes widen in shock, but she quickly regains her composure. "Nag? Is that what you think I do? Every day, I wake up early to clean this house, cook your meals, and make sure everything is perfect for you. And you think all I do is nag?" Her voice trembles with a mix of hurt and frustration. Rin turns away, his jaw clenched. "You wouldn't survive a day without me. I'm the one who pays the bills and keeps us afloat." Y/n takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "You think money is everything? What about the emotional support, the care, the effort I put into making this house a home? You can't just dismiss all that because you're upset. This isn't fair, Rin." Y/n just stood there in disbelief. "It's fine cause honestly, you weren't ever there for me in the first place. Example, last night. You knew we had New Year's planned out. But still, didn't even try to make the effort to show up. How is that nagging? If you had plans yesterday, I could've sworn you would've said something to give me the heads up!" She screamed, but more irritation began to set on fire for Rin. "Maybe it's because I didn't want to sit my ass home with you. You complaining, whining, and your clingy self, it's a nuisance. As a matter of fact, I'd rather go out than be stuck at home with a bitch who nags like you!" He screamed, chest heaving from the words he spat out.

Y/n just stood there, mouth agape, body shaking, and tears slipping out of her eye sockets. Her eyes tried to search for lies in his cold grey teal eyes, but all she saw was anger... no remorse. She felt the weight of his words pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. The room seemed to close in around her, the once familiar walls now feeling like a prison. The memories of their happier times flashed before her eyes, making the present moment even more unbearable. She remembered the laughs they shared, the promises they made, and how she once felt safe in his arms. But now, those memories felt like a cruel joke, mocking her for believing in something that was never real. Rin's face was twisted in anger, his eyes burning with a fire she had never seen before. "You always make everything about you, Y/n. Every single time. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of you," he continued, his voice dripping with venom. Each word was like a dagger to her heart, tearing apart the fragile threads that held her together. Y/n's mind raced, trying to find a way to respond, to make him see how much he was hurting her. But the words wouldn't come. All she could do was stand there, feeling the tears stream down her face, her body trembling with a mixture of sadness and rage. She wanted to scream, to fight back, but she felt paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the moment. Rin sighed before leaving the living room, making his way up into the shared bedroom, slamming the door shut, causing her to jump to realization. Rin sighed before leaving the living room, making his way up into the shared bedroom. The tension in the air was palpable, and each step he took seemed to echo the unresolved conflict between them. As he reached the bedroom, he slammed the door shut with a force that sent a shiver down her spine, causing her to jump in realization.

Y/n stood frozen in the living room, the sound of the door reverberating in her ears. It was as if the slam had shattered the fragile silence that hung between them, bringing to the surface all the unspoken words and buried emotions. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on her. She sank onto the couch, her mind racing with thoughts and memories. The image of Rin's back as he walked away was etched into her mind, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between them. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. The room around her seemed to blur as she replayed the events of the past few days in her mind. The arguments, the misunderstandings, the moments of silence that spoke louder than words. She realized that they had been drifting apart for a while, and the slammed door was just the final punctuation mark in a sentence that had been written long ago. As the minutes ticked by, Y/n knew she had to face the reality of their situation. Still, she couldn't leave Itoshi Rin; she still loved him. Y/n knew that Rin didn't mean the words he spoke. It was just that they were in the heat of the moment. But... still, why did it hurt so bad? Why did his words send knives stabbing into the soft heart she let him hold on to? Just why? Y/n knew Rin's frustrations came from a place of stress and exhaustion. She had seen the weariness in his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was watching. She understood that his words were born out of that momentary lapse, but it didn't make them hurt any less. The sting of his accusations and the sharpness of his tone had cut deeper than she cared to admit. Her mind wandered to the happier times they had shared, the laughter and the quiet moments of understanding. Those memories felt like a distant dream now, overshadowed by the lingering pain of their recent fight. She clutched her chest, feeling the physical manifestation of her emotional turmoil. As she sat there, tears began to blur her vision. She couldn't help but wonder why love had to be so complicated, why the person she trusted most could also be the one to cause her the most pain. She knew Rin hadn't meant to hurt her, but knowing that didn't make the pain go away. It only made it more confusing, more tangled in the web of their emotions.

Even so, an hour had gone by after the argument. Rin was still cooped up in the room while Y/n was thinking about the outcome of the argument. Until she heard the door swing open from their shared bedroom. Footsteps coming from upstairs traveled all the way down to where she was seated, and then she felt a dip next to her. Y/n couldn't look. She couldn't look at his face. She knew that if she looked into his beautiful grey teal eyes, she would forgive him easily. "Baby," he started, grabbing onto her hand that was still shaking. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. You're not clingy, you're not a nuisance, you're not a hassle, you don't nag at me, you don't complain, you don't whine, and you’re definitely not a bitch." He began. "Then why did you say those words?" she spoke up with a whisper. Rin's face softened as he felt agony and guilt creeping into his body, sending chills down his spine. "I didn't mean it. I was upset from practice, and I'm sorry for missing out yesterday night. I know that we planned it out, but by the time I was going to text you, my phone died. I couldn't text you, and I honestly should've let you know about the plans that were made." Rin grabbed her chin to lift her face up, looking into her teary eyes that were now swollen red. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing. Y/n's heart ached with the weight of his words, but she could see the sincerity in his eyes. The tension between them hung heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the warmth they usually shared. Rin's hand trembled slightly as he held her chin, desperate for her forgiveness. Y/n's mind raced with conflicting emotions. She wanted to believe him, to let go of the pain and embrace the love she knew was still there. But the hurt was still fresh, the wounds still raw. She searched his eyes for any sign of deceit but found only remorse and a deep longing to make things right. Rin's voice broke the silence once more, softer this time, almost a plea. "Please, Y/n. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you. But I promise, I'll make it up to you. Just... give me a chance."

"You hurt me." She cried again, her face in her palms as she leaned forward, pressing her forehead onto his shoulder. Y/n continued her cries while Rin patted her back and whispered soft apologies. After her crying calmed down, Rin kissed her forehead, and she smiled, happy to know he owned up to his actions. "So, do I get another chance?" he pleaded. "Welllllllll..." she began, teasingly drawing out the word. "Babyyyyyy," he practically begged, his voice filled with desperation. "I'm just kidding," she smiled. "You can have it, but the trust... you're going to have to make it all up." She spoke before booping his nose. Rin smiled, a mixture of relief and determination in his eyes. "Now you're going to refold all this laundry," Y/n pointed out. "What? Why?" he whined, looking at the pile of clothes with a dramatic sigh. "Do I have to repeat myself?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "No, ma'am," he saluted, a playful grin on his face as he began to fold the laundry. Y/n watched him, feeling a sense of warmth and contentment. She leaned down and gave him a small peck on the cheek. "Thank you," she smiled before going back to folding clothes alongside Rin, her beloved boyfriend.

As they folded the laundry together, the atmosphere in the room shifted from one of tension to one of quiet companionship. The rhythmic movements of their hands, the soft rustle of fabric, and the occasional shared glance spoke volumes about their commitment to each other. They knew that rebuilding trust would take time, but in that moment, they were united in their effort to move forward. Rin paused for a moment, looking at Y/n with a tender expression. "I promise I'll do whatever it takes to make things right," he said softly. Y/n nodded, her heart swelling with hope. "I know you will. And I'll be here, every step of the way." They continued to fold the laundry, side by side, finding solace in the simple act of working together. The future was uncertain, but as long as they had each other, they knew they could face whatever challenges came their way. In the quiet of their shared space, they found a renewed sense of connection and a deepened understanding of what it meant to truly love and forgive.

[xoxochb]

⋆·˚ ༘ * love grows (where my rosemary goes)

warnings: implied nudity, sex jokes, most quotes are direct from the tower of nero so credits go to uncle rick!! pairing: apollo x goddess! daughter of aphrodite and ares

two weeks. if you counted the time he was gone it would have been more but he was alive then. now he lay silently… and you anxiously wait. artemis places her hand over your free one in comfort

“he will wake up soon”

it was utterly ridiculous. you were a goddess, an immortal goddess yet you still worried about the waking of your also immortal husband. regardless the tears brewing in your eyes, threatening to pool out

“why don’t you grab a snack? take your mind off things”

“no,” you shake your head “I need to stay here”

the hunter goddess sighs and stands, patting your shoulder. “well, I will get you something”

the silence returns to the room. you look around at your surroundings (that you had got quite comfortable with over the past two weeks), a white marble chamber, a columned terrace with a beautiful view of olympus and the intoxicating scent of jasmine and honeysuckle. it was something you grew to hate and yet love. you hated it here because all you could do was sit in sorrow and wait for your beloved to wake from his two week slumber. but you loved it. you spent every day, every night here and you despised it

you sigh and look up to the renaissance painting adorned ceiling. you nearly shed another tear but a squeeze to your right hand stops you. or it leads all the tears to pool out. that’s a story for another time. you snap your head back down to where your husband lays— you see him stirring and his eyes flutter open. you don’t know what to do first; to cry, to scream, to hit him, or hug him. apollo chooses the third option for you. then the both of you break into a sob, holding each other tightly like maybe if you let go one of you would disappear into thin air

“you are such an idiot” you breathe out and you hear the sun god laugh in response— it made you realize how dearly you had missed the melodic laugh of his. or how every room he would walk into would be taken over by melodies instantly, every sound now a beautiful composed tone to it. reluctantly you took a last whiff of his scent and pulled back, yet still unwilling to let your hands leave his.

“how long?”

“what do you mean?”

“how long was I out? what century is it?”

you processed this question. maybe because you wanted to laugh but that would’ve had to stay as something only you knew

“since you fought python, only two weeks have passed”

you expected many different reactions after this statement but the one that hadn’t dared cross your mind was the chosen surprise. apollo jumps up from the couch and throws the sheet to the side, standing fully nude before you. your cheeks redden and you studiously admire the ceiling once again

“what about my friends? they’ll think I’m dead!”

“your sister sent clear omens of your success. they know you’re back on olympus. now would you please put clothing on?”

you hear apollo’s euphonious laugh again. “nothing you haven’t seen before”

“apollo!” you warn. and just as you asked you can feel a breeze from his wishing clothes onto himself. you return your head back down before standing up with a wide smile “thank you”

apollo wraps one arm around your waist, the other hand going to brush your pink cheek before placing a kiss to it. “you’re happy”

“you’re awake”

he places a kiss to your lips now. slowly and un-rushed. but everything good comes to an end eventually

he doesn’t go far, lips still brushing against yours as he speaks, “am I need somewhere?”

“yes,” you frown “but do you think you could stay here a bit?”

“as long as you want”

[blackleatherjacketz]

Frostbite

Loki x Female Reader

Summary: Set before the events of Thor (2011). You’ve been having sex dreams about your friend Loki for weeks now. After your betrothal to another man, he gets jealous and lets you know he’s been having them, too.

Warnings: 18+ Only! Explicit Smut, Mature Content, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sex Dreams, Sleep Walking, Dubious Consent, Confessions of Love/Lust, Asgard, Enchantment?, Kissing, Face-Grabbing, Groping, Possessive Loki, Jealousy, Loki Using His Frost Giant Powers To Go Down On You, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Rough Sex, Bonus points if you catch my Hamilton reference.

Word Count: 2.5k+

Thank you to @mrsbuckybarnes1917 for brainstorming this with me!

Read more Loki!

The crickets are well into their nocturnal symphony as the flames from the worn down torches illuminate the great hall. Their warm, amber glow radiates into the apertures and hallways that branch off from the main path, highlighting them just enough to guide your way. You can’t recall exactly what had awakened you from your slumber, or when you had left your chambers in the royal palace, but your feet somehow seem to know exactly where they’re taking you.

Just as one accepts an amount of false realities in their dreams, you can’t help but accept this blissfully hazy version of your friend graciously greeting you in his personal quarters. You’ve dreamt of him like this before; his face always a little blurry and the details a little bit fuzzy, but a few things about him remain the same. His scent as he draws you near, the flavor of his kiss and the way he cries out your name always seem to stick with you, haunting you well into your waking hours. These dreams have increased in frequency as time went on, eventually making it harder for you to look your beloved friend in the eye. You had almost resorted to ignoring him completely during your everyday life, anxiously awaiting your time together once you resigned again to the mansions of rest.

You can smell him again here and now as you walk in the twilight of consciousness, that deep crisp scent flooding your senses as his face slowly comes into focus, the sharp angles of his features more beautiful than ever in the wavering light of the torches.

Wait a minute, that’s never happened before.

“You’re really here.” His voice is clear and undistorted, yet softer than the one he puts on for Thor and Odin. This gentle timbre must be reserved only for you.

“Wait a minute, this isn’t…” You blink a few dozen times to try and focus your vision, squinting as you look around his bedroom to make sure that you are where you think you are. You can clearly see the ornate details carved into the furniture at your side, noting that none of the designs are shifting or blurring together like they often did in your slumber. “This isn’t a dream?”

“Not this time, I’m afraid.” He shakes his head blithely, a satisfied grin curling his lips upward as he approaches you.

“This time?” You ask, wondering how he could possibly know about the fantasies that kept you coated in a film of sweat beneath your covers at night. Has he been watching you? Reading your mind when you weren’t paying attention? Or is he merely toying with you like a cat would a mouse before biting into its neck?

“I’ve been having them, too, you know,” he starts, the deep collar of his nightshirt revealing a peek at his chest as he gets closer to you. “The dreams we dare not speak of.”

He knows. Your heart drops into the bitter acid of your stomach, tightening your insides as he stares at you expectantly. But wait a minute, did he just say…?

“I thought it was nothing more than a mere coincidence until you started to avoid me.” He touches a strand of hair that cascades down your shoulder, contrasting against the sheer material of your night dress that barely covers your naked form. “Until I noticed your cheeks flush scarlet at my gaze.”

You watch his eyes darken as they take you in, forcing those dreamlike feelings of longing to rush to the surface once more. That all too familiar moisture begins to pool between your thighs, triggered by the mere warmth of his touch as he slowly breathes in your scent.

“I don’t,” you try to protest, cheeks blushing again despite yourself as you try to find the right words, any words in fact, to defend your reaction. “I didn’t…”

“I wanted to see if it was more than just some misconstrued fantasy of mine,” he ignores your mindless bumbling, snaking his fingers through your locks up to the base of your neck. “And after tonight’s announcement, I knew I had to find out for myself.”

It’s all starting to make sense now, the sudden betrothal Odin had announced at dinner tonight had caught you both off guard, forcing you to glance up at each other in a shared, silent panic that you didn’t quite understand until now. You knew that this day was coming eventually, but you didn’t think it would be this soon; that a complete stranger would show up and derail your hidden feelings for your best friend whom you were secretly dreaming about for months now.

“I didn’t have any control over that,” you admit.

“I know that!” He spits, grabbing onto your face. His thumb and forefinger press your lips into a pucker as he all but picks you up and backs you up against the wall. A jealous shade of green flashes wildly in his eyes, nearly drowning out the icy blue in them entirely. “It’s maddening to think that he gets to taste you every night! Like he even knows how to please you, how to make you moan his name in every pitch on the scale after all that we’ve done together!”

All that you’ve done together? Your chest heaves as that twinge of jealousy turns to a dangerous hue of anger as he bares his teeth at you. “Loki, those were just dreams.”

“Were they?” His voice cracks for a split second as his lashes flutter against your cheek, his stifled breath hot on your lips as he holds you in place.

With your heart beating wildly against your rib cage, you recall the deeply manipulative nature of his powers, wondering just how coincidental these shared dreams actually were. Had he enchanted you into falling for him night after night, or were your romantic feelings there for him all along? As impossible as it is to say which came first, what you can tell Is how strong your feelings are for him right now, and what you can do about them in this moment.

You decide to close the gap between you by pressing your lips against his, feeling him willingly lean into your embrace as he loosens his grip on your face. All those dreams from all those nights have finally led up to this, his hands finally venturing down your shaking frame, surveying every curve of your body as he presses his against it. His fingers grasp at the linens of your dress, hurriedly pulling them up above your thighs as his tongue parts your hungry lips in order to taste in earnest what he’s been dreaming of for so long.

Without breaking the kiss he lifts you up, hoisting your hips onto his as he squeezes the muscles in your thighs to bring you even closer. He stumbles backwards with your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands feeling their way up your backside as he fumbles against chairs and tables, desperately squeezing onto your cheeks. An ancient vase topples over in his attempt to guide both of you onto his bed, shattering into hundreds of pieces before he tosses you onto his bed with a force you hadn’t seen him use before.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” he says under his shortened breath, lifting up your skirts to needily massage your inner thighs. “For so long.”

“So have I.” The sight of him above you like this is absolutely unreal, the gravity of it not quite sinking into your brain as his fingers graze deftly over your needy center. In your dreams, this part always seemed to merge together with your inevitable climax, his groans mixing with yours in a cluster of images and sensations, the details never quite being laid out before you… until now.

A single strand of hair falls in front of his eyes as his fingers pass over the length of your swollen heat, taking their time to spread your lips apart as your hips instinctively roll toward him. He grins at your eagerness, dipping his head down just enough to blow his ice cold breath over your sex. It freezes your nerve endings in a prickly, tingling sensation you didn’t think possible, shocking you to your core. It forces your body to shiver, contracting your muscles in rapid succession as you hear him laugh mirthfully before dropping his head down even lower to lick a strip up your now frozen cunt.

“Loki!” You breathe out, limbs already shaking from his little parlor trick as the chill runs up your spine, hardening your nipples even more. Your teeth begin to chatter as he spreads your legs further apart, his saliva now warming your icy organ as every hair on your body stands on end.

“You look even more beautiful like this than in my dreams,” he huffs, his mouth finally melting the liquid barrier of your opening as he slides two fingers inside. His tongue dances over your bud as he pushes his digits in, working together in tandem to stimulate that internal organ as sparks of pleasure shoot up into your core.

“Oh gods,” you mumble, the shivering in your limbs finally calming down enough for you to reach down and stroke his hair as he enthusiastically thaws you out.

Those internal sparks come faster each time, speeding up as your convulsions from the ice die down, the two opposing forces balancing each other out as every sensitive nerve he touches inside you comes alive. You let your eyes fall shut as he bites down on your clit, adding yet another sensation to your nervous system as a needy whimper escapes your lips. He sucks your bud into his mouth, greedily tugging on it as he nibbles just hard enough to turn those sparks into flames. His ministrations send them blazing their way up through you as they light a path through your muscles into every layer of your skin, igniting them into the very tips of your fingernails and strands of your hair.

You cry out his name as your pleasure finally combusts, exploding into a giant firework of ecstasy as your body shivers and shakes despite the freezing cold that was there only moments ago. Your internal warmth vibrates within you as you instinctively clench down, pulling his fingers in even deeper as he relentlessly dines on your melting flesh, hungry eyes glancing up at you periodically as your bones rattle in delight.

Wow, you should have sleep walked into his bedroom a lot earlier.

“That never happened in the dream,” you jest, still shaking as your bliss gradually fizzles out.

“No,” he smirks, finally coming up for air with a sinister gaze. “Let’s make reality better than our dreams.”

He slithers up your body, his mouth leaving a messy trail of your juices on the fabric of your dress while what little remains glistens on his nose and chin. His hands peel your sleeves off your shoulders, exposing your breasts just before taking one of your nipples into his mouth. He groans into it as your hands travel down his neck and back, massaging the muscles along his spine beneath his shirt as he tastes your skin. The twinge of his teeth on your nipples send your body into overdrive as your moans occur more often, growing in volume.

“You’re making so much noise and I’m not even inside you yet,” he chides, kissing his way up your chest and neck as your moans reverberate in your throat. He pecks at your chin and jawline as your body relaxes from the brief lack of stimuli, your hands smoothing their way up into his hairline as he finally kisses your lips. He tastes even better than before, his frosty tongue mixing with the tang of your arousal as he rhythmically thrusts his clothed erection between your legs, all but soaking through his night clothes.

“Wouldn’t want to wake Odin, now would we?” He chuckles haughtily into your kiss for a moment, his lips pulling into a mischievous grin as he slowly leans back from your embrace.

Your body yearns for him already, addicted to his touch as that short amount of time devoid of contact seems to last too long already. You watch him push his pants down past his hips, freeing himself from the only barrier left between you as your hands reach out, grazing up his biceps and over his shoulders as he crawls back on top of you.

“Only I get to ruin you like this,” he whispers, his voice dropping an octave as he grabs hold of himself, gliding the tip of his cock over your well spent cunt. “Not him, not anyone.”

You nod as he blinds you with pleasure, passing over your bud a few more times before pushing all the way in, filling you up without mercy. His girth stretches you out, his length hitting your cervix with each needy thrust up into you as he gives himself over to you again and again. His breath hitches as his mouth catches yours, his moans turning into whiny whimpers, nearly losing himself before sliding his arms beneath your thighs to push them up toward your chest.

“I want you to think of me every time he touches you.” His hips snap against your thighs, hitting that bundle of nerves at a delicious new angle as they promise another orgasm to rival the last. You want to wrap your thighs around his waist, to pull him in as close as possible in order to share the impending euphoria just as you had your dreams. But he continues to hold your legs in position up by your shoulders, straining your muscles as he keeps rocking into you. It triggers your body to convulse again as it nears the brink, the rhythm of his thrusts a little more desperate each time. “I want you to promise that you’ll always be mine.”

His efforts flip a switch inside you didn’t even know was there, encompassing you in a delightful ethereal glow that makes you feel as if you’re floating, levitating through all nine realms at once. It’s beyond exhilarating, washing away any other thought from your head besides him pumping mindlessly inside you. Nothing else seems to matter now; not Asgard, not Odin, not your betrothal… all that matters is Loki. All that matters is this.

Your skin tingles as he slides into your cunt at a much more frantic rate now, sweat dripping down his chest as his eyes roll back into his head, a sudden deep shade of blue flushing over his skin. A breathy growl rattles in his chest as he sheaths himself inside you faster, further, deeper before he comes undone and that blue tinge fades just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Promise me!” He collapses on top of you as he finishes spilling himself inside your walls, his chin tucked snugly into the base of your neck as he finally releases his grip on your thighs.

“I promise.” You kiss into his forehead, hearing him pant his way down to a regular rate. You can feel his heart beating against your own now, a detail your dreams never seemed to give you as his breath chills the skin behind your ear as he remains inside you. “I promise I’m yours.”

“Good,” he whispers softly, lazily tracing the outline of your face. “I’ll be sure to visit you in your dreams even after you get married.”

[prettyboykatsuki]

✮ cw ; fem!reader, reader is a soldier + shorter than jing yuan, referred to as wife (they are engaged), sfw

✮ wc ; 683

✮ a/n ; wrote this on my phone bc if i went on my laptop it would be a fic

“General is summoning you to his chambers,”

One of your roomates gives you a half-look of amusement as she ties her hair back with a black hair band.

“He’s calling on you a lot these days,” She says, pony tail swishing as she moves to sit on the edge of her bunk “How bad did you screw up last week for him to be this persistent?”

You stand to your feet, tossing a shirt at her with a look of disdain. Though her words irritate you, it’s probably better they believe in them.

“Shut up. I’m pretty sure he’s just looking for a chess partner since Master Diviner isn’t around,” You reply with a hint of annoyance “Knowing him it’s nothing important.”

“Perks of being unit captain,” Your other roommate adds sarcastically. You curse at them under your breath before leaving your room.

It’s late now, as you’re being led once again to the General’s chambers. The walls of the dormitory seem to close in like this, faintly illuminated by dimmed candlelight and the moon filtering in through the window.

The soldier instructed to guide you disappears once he’s knocked. You stand alone in the dark, waiting only moments before the door slides open to reveal General Jing Yuan.

He smiles at you bemusedly. You’re sure your feelings show on your face - an impossible furrow in your brows. You curl your hand to a fist, right hand over your heart with your eyes to the ground.

“General Jing Yuan, Sir.”

He leans against the door frame, a low laugh in his mouth.

“At ease, soldier. Come in,”

You avoid looking up at him as you cross the threshold of his door as you have so many times before. It slides closed behind you as the General sits on the edge of his desk.

“Why have you called me here, Sir?”

“I’ve called you here as my lover, not my Captain. No need for the theatrics.”

You sigh.

“I had a feeling. People are going to start being suspicious. And this is a gross misuse of your position.”

“Misuse, you say? How accusatory,” He tilts his head in amusement “Is it so wrong to want to see my beloved after hours?”

A flush fills you at that.

“It’s inappropriate as your subordinate, Sir.”

“You’re my lover before that. And my soon to be wife. This much is nothing.”

“You’re impossible to reason with.”

“Yes, yes. Now kiss me,”

You give him another look of disproportionate irritation but relent as you usually do. Jing Yuan is a strange man. His generally lackadaisical behavior is easy to adjust to. His penchants for being doted on less so. You walk over to him anyway, standing between his legs to give him a brief.

Perhaps you’re too foolish. He’s quick to draw his arm around your waist - a small smile on his features as he holds you to his body. He grins, leaning down to kiss you more tenderly. Longer and deeper and more foolhardy. He doesn’t kiss how you’d expect him too. It’s impassioned in a way that makes it hard for you to stand straight. Leaves you weakened, hands curled at his chest as he holds you.

He pulls away to place kisses on other parts of your face. Your cheek and the corners of your mouth and where your eyelashes meet your lids. He only pulls away entirely when you’ve laughed against your will.

“There it is,” He says, accomplished. You don’t bother suppressing it “Quite refreshing.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Most lovesick men are, are they not?”

You yield at his persistence.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been engaged to one.”

He grins at that. “A shame you’ll never get to find out.”

“Any more than this will be difficult and annoying.”

“But this much is just fine?”

You sigh in faux exasperation.

“Yes. Just this much,”

Jing Yuan hums, dropping his chin on the top of your head with a contented hum.

“Really? I was wondering if I could make love to you before it became suspicious of you to return. Pity,”

“Jing Yuan!”

[suguwu]

christmas countdown

Your company is taking on a new project and desperately wants the backing and expertise of retired CEO Jing Yuan. Dispatched out into the countryside to bring him on board, you find it won't be as easy as you think.

Jing Yuan strikes a bargain with you: spend the upcoming days with him, until Christmas Eve, and he'll tell you exactly what it will take for him to come back if you don't figure it out yourself.

Let the Christmas countdown begin.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

pairing: jing yuan x gn!reader

word count: 16k (whoops)

notes: this came about through dms with my beloveds @petrichorium and @lorelune! they both were invaluable, and lore also was kind enough to beta for me, along with another friend. this fic feels like it possessed me; i wrote it in just over a week.

fic notes: hallmark au, gn!reader (they/them pronouns), jing yuan is taller than the reader, age gap (jing yuan is in his early 50s, reader is in their late 30s), this is mostly just fluff.

divider by @/cafekitsune.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“This is the third Christmas you’re missing,” she says, voice thickening, and you can almost see the way her eyes are going glassy with tears, shining beautifully in the light.

“I know. But this project is huge and I’m so close to the promotion—”

“You’ve been saying that for years.” 

“This is different. The CEO herself asked for me,” you say with a sigh.

“When would you leave?”

“I leave tomorrow.”

“That’s almost a week until Christmas! Maybe you’ll get back in time! Or maybe it can wait until the new year?”

“No, Mom. The project is waiting on getting this person on board, it can’t wait that much longer. It’s just Christmas, I don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“It’s time with your family,” she snaps, the words shattering at the edges, honed keen with hurt. 

“I’m sorry. Next year, okay?”

“That’s what you said last year.”

“Mom.”

“Fine. But think about it, please. We miss you.”

You sigh. “I miss you guys too.”

The conversation continues on from there; she tells you that your father has taken up gardening, renting out a space in a greenhouse nearby, coaxing it into a full lushness that has him coming home flecked with flower petals. He’s already plotting out a vegetable garden come spring. 

You listen as she chatters away, throwing in the occasional “uh-huh” as you scroll through your emails, typing as quietly as you can. You pause as she goes silent.

“Mom?”

“Are you working right now?” 

You wince. “I just had a few emails—”

The line goes so quiet that you reach for your phone to see if your earbuds have disconnected. They haven't. Your stomach roils.

“Mom?”

“We’ll talk later, then,” your mother says, and the pit in your stomach grows at the sorrow threading through her voice. “Good night.”

You hesitate. Then your email pings again.

“Night, Mom.” 

She hangs up, and the click of the line sounds like a dour bell, but it’s chased from your mind by the bright chirp of your email. You settle back down with your laptop, digging into work once more. 

When you finally glance up from your laptop screen hours later, your eyes stinging, you realize it’s snowing. 

In the orange glow of the streetlights, the flakes look like embers flickering through the sky, like the sparks of a bonfire on a summer’s eve. It’ll be stomped into slush tomorrow, trodden under so many boots, but for now the snow dances through the air, a ballet all its own.

It muffles the world, blanketing your apartment in oppressive quiet, and not for the first time you feel small in your own home. You shiver. The high ceilings of your apartment feel like a gaping maw, arching and empty. 

You shift uneasily and turn on a soft lofi playlist despite the headache that’s settled in at your temples. It fills the air, creeps all the way to the empty corners of your apartment and softens them with sound. 

You let out a gentle breath. Still, something cold uncurls behind your ribs, sinks its teeth into bone until it hits marrow. You pick up your phone, swiping up to your messages with your best friend, and you’re halfway through typing out a message before you catch yourself. A quick glance at the clock makes you wince. Your phone thunks against the table as you toss it down. 

It’s late and she has a new baby—she needs as much sleep as she can get. You can’t disturb her, not for something as silly as this. You scrub a hand over your face and get to your feet.

It’s quiet as you get ready for bed, even the soft music doing little to soothe you. You turn on every lamp in your bedroom, flood the room with light, until it’s as if the sun has risen and is cradling you in its warmth. You keep them on until the last moment, flicking them off only when you’re tucked in bed. 

That cold thing stays with its fangs sunk in until you fall asleep. 

***

The airport is nearly deserted by the time you land.

It’s late, night blanketing the terminal, held at bay only by the light pollution of the airport. Your shoes click against the linoleum as you hurry through the empty hallways, eager to be done with your exhausting day of travel. 

The taxi driver that heaves your suitcase into the trunk is talkative, but you’re too busy checking your phone, flicking through the emails that poured in while you were in the air. The car rumbles to life beneath you as you pull up an attachment, scanning over the analysis quickly, scratching out a few notes on a scrap piece of paper you’ve pulled from your bag. The countryside rolls by as you work, pitch black except for a few lit windows from passing houses, little lighthouses in the deep sea of the night. 

“Here we are,” the taxi driver says cheerfully, killing the engine in front of the inn. 

It’s clearly old but well-maintained, a piece of the past caught in the resin of time. There are fake candles guttering in each window. The wreath on the door is almost as big as the door itself, dotted with lights that twinkle like little silver stars and topped off with a perfect crimson bow. 

“Thanks,” you say to the driver, trading a tip for your suitcase before heading up the steps of the inn. The scent of pine wafts around you; you step inside before it can stick to your clothes. 

“Hi,” you say to the receptionist, who puts down her magazine. “I’m here to check in.”

“Name?”

You tell her. She nods and you check your phone again as she checks you in. Luckily, it doesn’t take long, because the long day is beginning to weigh on you, an ache deep in your bones. 

“Let us know if there’s anything you need,” the receptionist says.

“Thanks.”

You pay little attention to the room, simply stowing your suitcase before pulling your laptop from your carry-on bag. There’s a small desk that you settle at; your laptop screen glows brightly as you open it. The world blurs, smears like a watercolor. You blink the fuzziness away to answer a few more emails. 

A few turns into many, catching up on all of your current projects now that you have another project to take care of. The headache that slowly blooms is familiar; it lingers behind your left eye, throbbing like a wound. It’s what finally gets you to set down your laptop for the night. It’s late enough that when you peer out the window while getting ready for bed, even the stars seem to have gone cold, twinkling faintly. 

By the time you crawl into bed, you don’t even want to look at the clock. Still, you see it when you set your alarm, and you wince. You only have a few hours before it goes off. You curse yourself and roll over to finally, finally go to sleep. 

Tomorrow comes too quickly. You wake with the sun, before your alarm, watery light pouring into your room, pooling in soft gold puddles on the floor. It catches on the prism dangling from the window, throwing rainbows against the walls, a whirling ballet of color. 

You make a mental note to close the curtains tonight. You hadn’t even realized they were open, with how dark the countryside is around the inn, far too used to the ambient light of the city. When you peer out the window, all you see is woods framing a large, clear space still dusted with snow. 

In daylight the inn is even more quaint, brimming with Christmas decor: with thick garlands draped over the doorway arches, weighted down with golden ornaments that catch the light, sending it flickering like the flames roaring in the fireplace. Sprigs of holly are tucked among the garlands too, little fireworks of color. Add in the mounds of fake snow lining a sprawling ceramic village and it’s a picture-perfect display. You trace a finger over the tiny wreath on the village bakery’s door. 

“Mornin’,” someone says behind you, a deep rumble of a voice, shaking through you like thunder splitting the sky. You turn around and find a man beaming at you.

“Good morning,” you say.

“Looking for breakfast? It’s in the dining room, right through there.” 

“I was really just looking for coffee.”

“That’s in the dining room too,” he says. “I’m Lee. I own the inn with my husband.”

“Oh,” you say. “That’s nice. It’s lovely. I’m sorry, though, I really have to get to work.”

He raises a brow. There’s a whole conversation in that brow, you think. One you’re not interested in having. 

You give him a tight smile. “Excuse me,” you say. “That coffee is calling me.”

“Sure,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

You trade nods with a few other guests as you get your coffee, but you’re in and out of the loud dining room in a matter of minutes. Your room, foreign as it is to you still, is a welcome respite from the chatter that fills the inn. 

The coffee is good. It’s rich and nutty, the warmth of it warding off the slight chill that lingers in the room from the large windows. You try to peer out one of them but it’s whorled with frost, ice spun over the glass like embroidery, just opaque enough to let in the light.  

You settle back down at the little desk and boot up your laptop. Your inbox has slowly filled up again, and you’re starting to work through it when your boss slacks you. 

Qingzu: You’re off your regular projects for now.

Me: ??? I’m almost done with the analysis.

Qingzu: Fu Xuan wants you to concentrate on bringing Jing Yuan on board. I’ll delegate your usual tasks. 

You wince. Your coworkers are going to hate you.

Me: I can still do the analysis at least.

Qingzu: What the CEO says goes. Focus on the job she gave you. 

Qingzu: Also it looks like the address we have on file for Jing Yuan is outdated.

Qingzu: You might need to do a little searching. 

Me: Okay.

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face before exiting out of your email. Not for the first time, you wonder why Fu Xuan didn’t reach out to Jing Yuan herself, considering she’d succeeded him at Luofu Corp. You’re not sure how negotiation from a stranger is the better option. And it would certainly have made your life easier. 

At least she’s given you a profile on him. The picture is unnecessary considering how many magazine covers the man has graced, but it’s there, and you won’t say no to looking at a pretty face. Even in his official picture, there’s a small, lazy smile on his face. He looks half-asleep, but his golden eyes are knife-sharp.

A tactician's mind, Fu Xuan said, and you believe it. 

You read through the profile carefully, taking in details large and small, trying to get a sense of the man you’re supposed to lure out of retirement. He’d retired early, barely into his fifties, and he’d only picked up a handful of projects in the last two years since, mostly charity work. You sigh, deeply jealous, and read on. 

The profile isn’t particularly helpful; to be honest, you hadn’t expected it to be. You’ll need to meet him and gauge him for yourself to see what the best avenue is.

You shrug on your coat before leaving the room, slipping past a ragtag group of children. They’re led by a little girl in a hat bigger than her head, the fuzzy flaps of it bouncing as she scuttles down the hallway, her face shining triumphantly, a mug of hot cocoa carefully balanced in her hands.

You hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, glancing between the door and the front desk. You sigh and head towards the front desk. Lee smiles at you.

“Whatcha need?” he asks.

“I’m looking for someone in town,” you say. “I was hoping you could direct me to them.”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Jing Yuan.”

His smile shatters at the edges, a slowly spreading crack. He leans back on his heels and eyes you up and down.

“You a reporter?”

“No.”

He nods to himself. “Should have known. You look a little too corporate for that.”

You smooth down your coat self-consciously. Maybe you should have brought some more casual clothing for this trip. 

“Can you tell me where he is?” you ask.

“He’s not interested.”

“What?”

Lee shrugs, rocking back on his heels again. You think of a great pine tree swaying in the wind, bending, never breaking. “Whatever you want him for, he’s not interested.”

“How about he tells me that himself?”

“I’m sure he will,” he says. “If you can find him.”

“Which I assume you aren’t going to help with.”

“Sorry.”

You roll your eyes and stalk towards the door, wrenching it open and fleeing into the outdoors. The sun is shining but the air is frigid, the type of cold that sinks right through clothing and into your marrow. You shudder and pull up the collar of your coat to try and block the worst of the chill as you walk towards downtown. 

It’s an easy walk; you find yourself in the heart of downtown in just a few minutes. It’s just as quaint as the inn, the lampposts lining the street decorated with wreaths faintly dusted with pristine snow. You glance up at the lights strung between buildings, shimmering like the icicles they’re mimicking. 

It’s pretty, you suppose. You think people would flock here if they knew about it. Still, despite how small the town is, the streets are filled with people, some of them shouting greetings back and forth.  

You duck into the crowds and weave your way through them carefully, pausing just before a cafe. A thought occurs to you as you take a quick peek through the frosted window. You peel off your gloves, holding them in your hand as you step into Auntie’s. 

“Excuse me,” you say as one of the waitresses comes over to you, a tray balanced against her hip. “A man dropped these a block back and I thought I saw him come in here. I was hoping to return them. He was tall and had long white hair that he was wearing tied back. I think it was with a red ribbon.”

“Sounds like Jing Yuan,” she says. “You sure paid close attention to him.”

You cough, fidgeting with the leather gloves and she laughs. “Most people do,” she reassures you. You flash her a small, embarrassed smile. “He’s hard to miss, handsome as he is. I can give them to him next time I see him.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “If you know where he is, I don’t mind bringing them to him. I’m just enjoying wandering around town.”

Her eyes narrow; ice seeps into them, the slow creep of the first frost. Her grip tightens on the tray. 

You blink at her guilelessly, trying not to hold your breath. 

Her shoulders uncoil. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just—nevermind. I haven’t seen him today. I’d check along Aurum. That’s the main street. If you don’t find him, you can come back here and I’ll give ‘em to him.”

“I’ll just check a few more shops,” you tell her. “I’m on the lookout for Christmas presents, anyway.” 

“Cutting it close, aren’t you?”

“I know, I know,” you say. “I’m so bad about it. Thank you!”

“Bye.”

You hurry out the door, flexing your fingers against the cold as you keep your gloves in your hands. The second and third store yield the same results; the fourth shop is a bust too. The locals are more protective of Jing Yuan than you’d thought. You get a suspicious look every time you describe him, and that’s without even mentioning his name. 

You step outside the fourth shop with a huff. At this point, you’re worried that someone is going to insist on keeping the gloves. There’s only so many times you can spin the same story before it bites you in the ass. Plus, your hands are freezing; the sunlight is doing little to warm the day despite the rays bathing half the street gold. 

One more store, you think. Just one more.

You groan when you see the next store is a bustling toy shop. Children tug at their parents’ hands and smudge their noses up against the windows with gap-toothed grins. They spill out of the entrance like little ants, almost tripping over themselves as they babble excitedly to their companions. They part around you like flowing water as you make your way inside.

“Excuse me,” you say to the first person wearing a nametag that you see, holding out the gloves. “A man dropped these a few blocks back. I tried to catch up but couldn’t, but I thought I saw him duck in here. Have you seen a tall man with white hair tied up with a red ribbon?” 

“Funny,” a rich voice says from behind you. “I don’t think those would fit me.” 

You freeze. 

The man peers down over your shoulder; a few strands of fluffy white hair brush against you as he examines the gloves you’re holding. He tugs one free of your slackened grip and holds it up against his hand, which dwarfs the glove. His low hum resonates through you, a honeyed drip of sound, soft and warm.

“A little small, don’t you think?” he asks.

You turn around.

Jing Yuan smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with it. There’s a wicked amusement tucked up secret in the corner of his full lips; you try not to scowl. 

You see why Fu Xuan called him a scoundrel. 

Still, there’s no way out of this. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” you say with a shrug. “And I did find you, so.” 

He chuckles. “That you did.”

“I—”

“Uncle!”

You blink as a blond blur zips past you and almost crashes into Jing Yuan. The blur turns out to be a young boy—no older than twelve—carrying a sizable sword. It’s almost as big as he is. 

“Uncle,” he says again, tugging at Jing Yuan’s sleeve. “Look what I found!”

“It’s a very nice sword, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan says, his smile softening. “But let’s wait and see what Christmas brings, hmm?”

Yanqing pouts for a moment before he glances at you. You realize he shares his uncle’s eyes, as golden as the sun. He blinks. “Are you another reporter?”

Jing Yuan leans down to be closer to his height. “Worse,” he whispers. “They’re corporate.”

The boy wrinkles his nose. 

Jing Yuan’s smile threatens to turn into a grin. “Go put the sword back, please,” he tells Yanqing, and you watch him dart off again. 

“Could I—”

“I’m afraid I’m busy,” Jing Yuan says. “And you may have heard that I retired.”

“I know, but—”

“Business has no place in a toy shop, you know.”

“That’s not what the toy seller would say.”

He tilts his head, a sliver of a smile unfurling on his lips. “I suppose so,” he says thoughtfully. “Either way, I am busy.”

“Fu Xuan sent me,” you try.

He sighs. “Yes, I had assumed.” 

“If I could just get a bit of your time—”

“Not now,” Jing Yuan says. “I’m with my family.”

“But at some point?”

“You’re at the inn, yes?”

“I am.”

“I’ll come find you tomorrow. Does that work?”

“Really?” you say and cough as he smiles, golden eyes twinkling like the ornaments decorating the toy shop. “I mean, that works. Here, here’s my card.”

He takes it; it looks tiny in his hand. He says your name, rolling it over his tongue like he’s tasting it, like it’s something to be savored. Your cheeks heat. A small smile plays across his lips. 

“Tomorrow, then,” you say.

He nods, his white hair swaying with it, like dandelion seeds caught on the wind. “Tomorrow. Come on, Yanqing.”

You start as the boy goes past you like a little darting fish, settling at his uncle’s side and tugging on his sleeve. “Can we go to the smithy?” he asks as the two of them turn to leave. “Please?”

Jing Yuan laughs, the sound rich, spilling over you like smooth chocolate. “Just to look,” he says, and they’re almost out the door when you realize—

“Wait!” you call out. “You still have my glove!”

Jing Yuan pauses and glances back, one golden eye rising like the sun over the mountain range of his shoulders. “Oh?” he asks, raising a brow. “I thought you said it was mine?”

Behind you, the employee stifles a laugh. Your cheeks burn. “I—”

He chuckles. “Here,” he says, handing it back. “I’d hate for you to be cold.” 

Then he and Yanging are out the door, leaving you standing in the middle of the bustling toy shop. You clutch at your glove; it’s still warm from his hand, like the soft heat that lingers in the hearth stones long after the fire has gone out. 

It occurs to you that you may be in over your head.

***

The feeling doesn’t go away the next day. 

“Where exactly are we going?”

Jing Yuan flashes you a smile; the edges of it curl into something smug. He’d called early and met you at the inn, coaxing you into putting your coffee in a to-go cup before shuffling you out the door with no real explanation. “Christmas tree shopping.”

“Christmas tr—I thought we were going to talk about the project!”

“We are,” he says easily, pulling into a gravel parking lot surrounded by towering, barren oaks. In the distance, you can see a grid of pines, laid out like an embroidery pattern. “But it’s Christmas.”

“It’s five days away.”

“That’s basically Christmas,” he says cheerfully. He slides from the pickup with feline grace, the flex of his thighs obvious even under the thick denim of his jeans. You stay put in the passenger seat. He raises a brow. “You don’t want to talk?”

That sends you scrambling for the passenger door. 

Jing Yuan doesn’t bother to hide the little smile that blooms on his lips, an unfurling flower. You scowl at him as you join him next to the pickup; it has no effect.

“Shall we?” he asks. 

You huff and follow him onto the tree lot. He clearly knows where he’s going, weaving through the pines with a dancer’s ease despite his size. You stop at a row of sizable trees, their blue-green needles rustling in the wind. They’re dusted in the lightest layer of snow, like frosting sugar has been sifted over them. 

You’re searching for the words to start your pitch when he hums. 

“What do you think of this one?” he asks, testing the thick branches of a plush pine, watching critically as needles scatter everywhere. It releases a waft of the sharp tang of pine. 

“It’s a tree.”

“Noted,” Jing Yuan says dryly. “Thank you for your input.” 

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” you tell him as he moves on to the next tree. “I thought we would go to your office.”

“I don’t have an office,” he says. “And the rec center needs a Christmas tree.” 

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

He glances at you. His eyes are the color of amber shot through with sunlight, a deep, rich gold. His gaze is knife-edged, a flaying thing, and it sinks beneath your skin to open you on its blade. You fidget with your sleeve.

When he smiles, it’s soft and maybe a little sad. He doesn’t say anything; he just hums again and moves to the next tree.

“Jing Yuan!”

“Keep moving,” he says. “We have to deliver the tree too, you know.” 

“We have to what?”

He laughs, loud and bright. “You heard me,” he says cheerfully. “Now come on.” 

You follow him through the rows, giving him clipped answers when he asks your opinion about a tree. Finally, after several more trees—that all looked the same to you, tall and full of pine needles—he finds one that he’s pleased with. 

He tells you to wait with the tree and disappears down the row.

When he comes back, he has an ax.

“Um,” you say. 

“Hm? Oh. It’s fine,” he says, resting the ax nearby as he ties his hair up into a high ponytail.

“Is it?”

He hefts the ax up and motions you back before swinging. He strikes true, the trunk starting to splinter under the hit, and the next one is in the exact same spot. The tree groans in protest, but Jing Yuan doesn’t pause. His powerful shoulders bunch and flex as he keeps the ax in motion with ease, though he’s beginning to pant a bit by the time he’s halfway through the trunk. Sweat glints on his brow; it dampens the edges of his hair, darkening it to the silver of the moon. 

He swings the ax again, his biceps bulging, and a crack splits the air. The tree starts to topple, falling into its neighbor, which keeps it mostly upright. Jing Yuan wipes his brow, chest heaving, and belatedly, you realize you’re staring. 

Behind you, there’s the crunch of pine needles under boots. Two men wearing name tags stride by you and clap Jing Yuan on the shoulder. They confer with him for a moment before they pick up the tree and start carrying it back towards the parking lot.  

“There,” Jing Yuan says, sounding satisfied. “We can go now.” 

“Do you often just…cut down trees?”

“Only at Christmas.”

You snort. He chuckles before gesturing you back to the parking lot. You head back and come up to the pickup just as the two men finish tying off the tree in the bed of the truck. Jing Yuan gives them firm handshakes; you pretend not to notice just how much cash is transferred between their palms. 

The two of you climb back into the truck. You have to move your briefcase in order to sit comfortably and the sight of it sets you back on track.

“You said we’d talk about the project,” you accuse.

“You didn’t say anything,” he says, putting the truck into gear. “So there wasn’t anything to talk about.”

You scowl at him. He pulls out of the parking lot; the truck trundles down the road. 

“Insufferable,” you mutter, but from the way the corner of his lips lift, he’s heard it. 

Quiet falls. The radio is crooning a soft Christmas song, but it’s faint, like an echo of the past. The heater is on, and the truck’s cab is soft with warmth, like sinking into bathwater after a long day. You lean against the window. Your breath fogs over the glass, a marine layer, and you resist the urge to draw something in the mist. 

The rec center isn’t far; you pull up to it just a few minutes later. Your phone rings just as Jing Yuan hops out of the truck.

“I need to take this,” you tell him. “It’s work.” 

He hums, something flashing across his face. It’s gone quickly, rolling by like a summer storm, and you’re already picking up the phone, your coworker’s harried voice filling your ears. 

The phone call takes a while. At one point, the truck rattles around you—a quick glance in the rearview shows a group of teen boys pulling the tree free from the truck bed, leaving a sea of needles in their wake, a forest floor brought home. Their laughter fills the air, audible even through your earbuds. You turn up the volume.

Jing Yuan shows back up just as you’re finishing your call. There’s silvery tinsel woven into his hair, barely visible except when it catches the sunlight, a lightning strike gleam. “You must be cold,” he tells you. “Come inside.”

You shake your head. “I need to go back to the inn,” you say. “I have a project that just went sideways.”

He sighs. “As you wish,” he says, and climbs back into the truck. 

You flick through your phone as he drives back to the inn, answering emails and trying your best to put out the embers of the fire that had sprung up on your project. When you reach the last one, you click your phone off and glance at Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye.

The cold wind has nipped at his cheeks until roses bloom on his pale skin. The tinsel in his white hair shines, the full moon draped in ribbons of silvery shooting stars, and he’s beautiful in an untouchable way, a statue come to life.

Except—there’s a small, lopsided smile tucked up secret in the corner of his lips. It sweetens his mouth and adds a puckish curve; it makes him real again. It’s a contentment that you didn’t know existed, a quiet happiness that radiates from him. 

Something in your chest goes tight.

You clear your throat. He glances over at you, that tiny smile fading into something more polished. 

“Something to share?”

“The project.”

“Ah,” he says. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

“I suppose you have me trapped, don’t you.”

“For as long as the car ride,” you agree.

“Go on, then.”

You give him a basic overview, sweeping over the vast lay of the project, upselling things you’ll think he’ll care about while cutting out a few of the things you think he won’t. It’s hard to tell how it’s landing; you’re slowly realizing that Jing Yuan is a hard man to read. You suppose it makes sense, considering his years at the highest level in corporate, but it feels odd.

“I can see why Fu Xuan wants me on board,” he says as he pulls into the inn’s driveway. “And it is the type of project that appeals to me, which she knows.”

You let out a soft breath. “I don’t suppose that means you’ll come on board?”

He parks. “No,” he says.

You sigh. “I thought not. What would it take for you to come on board?”

“Don’t you think it’d be more fun to find that out yourself?”

You scowl at him, ignoring the way the corners of his lips lift. 

“No.”

Jing Yuan glances at you, his eyes gleaming, the sun come down to earth.“I'll tell you what,” he says. “Spend up until Christmas Eve with me. You can talk to me about the project until then. And if you haven’t figured it out by then, I’ll tell you exactly what will get me onto the project.”

You eye him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Deal,” you say, sticking out your hand. He shakes it, his grip firm. You can feel the heat of him even through your gloves. It’s soft like the early spring sun, a gentle warmth that blooms through you. 

“Not that I mind, but I will need my hand back.”

You let go immediately, snatching your hand back like you’ve been burned.

Jing Yuan smiles at you, eyes crinkling. 

“I have to go,” you say, scrambling for your briefcase. You think you hear him chuckle under his breath as you pop the door open. You don’t even say goodbye; you slam the door shut before striding off towards the inn, pretending your dignity isn’t lying in pieces. 

At the inn’s door, you can’t help yourself. You glance back.

Jing Yuan smiles and gives you a little wave.

Your cheeks go hot, a supernova burn. You retreat into the inn quickly. 

Lee calls out a greeting, but you ignore him and rush to your room. You curse Jing Yuan’s name as you boot your laptop up. Your cheeks are still warm. You scrub your hands over them as if that will help. 

Your email pings. With a sigh, you scrub at your heated cheeks one more time before you delve into your inbox. 

The rest of the day passes in a blur of phone calls and emails; by the time you look up, stomach grumbling, the sun has set, leaving behind only its reflection in the moon to lead the way. You push back from the desk and rub at your stinging eyes.

When you go downstairs to grab something to eat, the inn’s lounge is full of people. You balk, unsure, but your stomach rumbles again. You make yourself a plate and sit down at the edge of one of the crowded tables, picking away at the food as laughter fills the air around you. 

There’s a couple at the other end of your table, hands intertwined as they talk, pressing close to hear each other over the noise. The shorter woman smiles at her partner, quick and bright, a shooting star burning through the night sky, and you look away. 

Across the room, a group of teens are laughing among themselves, draped over each other casually. You watch them for a moment. They vie for the handheld console they’re playing with, passing it back and forth as they chatter excitedly.

Something cold slithers behind your ribs. It winds around the bones like ivy, sending roots down into your marrow.

You take the rest of your meal upstairs. 

***

The morning light streams through the frost on your windows, the feathered whorls of ice glittering as they cast dancing shadows on the walls. Beyond your window, the inn’s yard is full of bundled up families swooping down the slight hill in brightly colored sleighs, their whoops barely audible. 

You watch a little boy tug his father up the hill. He’s so wrapped up in layers that he’s waddling. He throws his hands up in the air as they coast down the hill, snow kicking up behind the sleigh, his father wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady. 

Someone says your name.

“Sorry,” you say, coming back to yourself and the conference call you’re on. “Could you repeat that?”

They do and you refocus, tapping away at your keyboard as you sip at your coffee. You’ve stepped back into some of your usual projects now that you’re at Jing Yuan’s whim. He’s clearly a late riser, based on the time. 

He calls when you’re on your third cup of coffee. He tells you only to meet him in front of the inn in fifteen minutes. You’re out the door in ten, stamping your feet on the inn’s porch to keep warm, tucking your chin into your coat’s collar in hopes of keeping warm. 

Jing Yuan pulls up a few minutes later. He slides from the car gracefully, looking cozy in a fleece-lined bomber jacket. You tuck your chin further into your coat collar as the wind gusts. He eyes you for a moment.

“Do you have anything warmer?”

“I brought clothes for business meetings, not whatever you have planned,” you say irritably. 

He chuckles. “Fair,” he says. “Hold on.” 

He disappears to the trunk of the car. When he comes back, he’s got a thick scarf and hat with him, the knit of them full of lumps, clearly handmade. There’s a neon bright pom-pom on the top of the hat. 

“No,” you say flatly.

He chuckles. “Alright.” 

The wind chooses that moment to gust heavily, biting through every layer to kiss frigid against your skin. “Shit,” you bite out, and when Jing Yuan holds out the hat and scarf again, you take them.

You jam the hat on your head and wind the scarf around your neck before burying your chin in it, pulling it up over your mouth and nose. When you breathe in, the air is tinged with what can only be traces of Jing Yuan’s cologne, a faint hint of warm cedar and bergamot, woodsy and bright. Beneath that, there’s a hint of smoke, of woodfire. It drapes over you like a soft, warm blanket. You resist the urge to close your eyes to breathe it in again.

“Cute,” Jing Yuan teases. You glare at him, but from the smile he gives you, it’s not very effective. You glare harder. 

“Let’s go,” he says, urging you towards the car with a gentle hand at the small of your back. You can feel the weight of it even through the thick material of your coat. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. He chuckles as you glance away. 

“Where are we going?” you ask as you slip into the passenger seat.

He flashes you a coy little smile. “You’ll see.”

You huff; he just smiles.

It doesn’t take you long to get back to the rec center, but you make the most of it, chattering to him about the project, trying to figure out what to highlight based on his reaction. He responds amiably, even asks a few questions, but it’s not enough. You know it’s not enough. 

When you arrive at the rec center, Jing Yuan pulls around the back of the building. Before you can even ask, the answer comes into view.

“Oh,” you breathe, cutting yourself off mid-sentence about the marketing strategy, taking in the massive skating rink. The bleachers are covered with twinkling lights and pine garlands, massive red bows dotted along them like flowers. There are lights overhead, too, dripping down like icicles. A Christmas tree sparkles in the far corner of the rink, weighed down with ornaments and topped with a shining star. 

Jing Yuan parks and you balk.

“We’re not—”

“We are,” he says cheerfully, the corners of his lips curling up into a lazy smile. 

“What does this have to do with the project?” you ask desperately. 

“Ah ah, that would be telling.”

You gape at him. He chuckles and gets out of the car; you follow him after a moment. He guides you to the skate shoe rental hut and before you realize it, you have a pair of skates on and are at the edge of the rink. You’re not even sure how he convinced you. 

Jing Yuan is already on the ice. He moves like a dancer despite his bulk, swaying over the ice like kelp in a current, rippling and beautiful. There’s something utilitarian to it too, not a single move wasted. An athlete’s precision. 

He comes close to the edge and holds out a hand to you. “Ready?” he asks.

“I know how to skate,” you snap at him. 

“Okay,” he says, skating backwards to give you enough room to kick out onto the ice. 

It takes you a minute to find your feet, skates almost skittering out from under you, but you find your balance quickly and start to skate through the rink. The ice is smooth beneath you, perfectly slick, and you pick up speed. When you glance to your right, Jing Yuan is there, keeping up with you effortlessly, a small smile unfurling across his lips.

His hair is streaming out behind him, barely tamed by the thin red ribbon holding part of it back. You think of the pelting snow of a blizzard, beautiful and dangerous, and look away just as he turns to you.

“So shy,” he says, a laugh rumbling in his chest, and you consider how much it might hurt the potential of the project if you hit him. 

“I’m hardly shy,” you tell him.

“That’s true,” he says. “I don’t think anyone shy would have claimed their gloves as mine.”

The tips of your ears go hot. “I needed to find you.”

“I’ve heard that you can ask people things.” 

“I tried. They’re protective of you, you know.” 

His smile softens, goes tender at the edges. “More protective than I deserve,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the whipping wind. 

You bite at your lip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye; his smile is distant now, like the sun dipping just below the horizon.

“Jing Yuan?” you say tentatively. 

He blinks. “Hmm? Oh. Sorry.” 

You hum. “You skate well,” you say instead of the question that’s lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“So do you.”

“My mom was a skater,” you say, looping around a tottering child. “She taught me when I was little. I haven’t gone in forever, though.”

“How come?”

“Too busy.”

“Too busy working,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You think of the Instagram photos from a few weeks ago, all of your friends at a nearby rink, glowing under the lights as they pile into the frame, caught eternally in joy. The pictures of the food afterwards, of the drinks they used to warm themselves up, each one dotted with a little sprig of holly. 

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Too busy working.” 

He hums. 

You push yourself to skate faster. He keeps up with you smoothly, his footwork impeccable. 

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You glance at him; he meets your gaze steadily, his eyes the color of sunlit whisky, deep and rich. “I’m not upset,” you say. 

“Alright.” 

The two of you skate quietly for a long while, keeping an easy pace around the rink, avoiding the wobbling tots being coaxed by their steady parents. Teens spin around in circles until they’re dizzy, falling to the ice with a laugh. There’s a girl holding hands with another girl as she scrambles across the ice like a baby deer. You watch them bobble along, a little smile blossoming on your lips.

“Careful,” you hear Jing Yuan warn, and you look up just in time to see a teen boy windmilling his arms as he comes straight at you. Before you can even blink, there’s an arm around your waist, tugging you out of the way. The momentum sends you directly into Jing Yuan; he turns the two of you quickly and grunts as he hits the rink’s edge, taking the brunt of the impact. 

You end up pressed together. His arm is still slung low around your waist, holding you to him, the tips of your skates just barely touching the ground; you’ve fisted your hands in his coat to keep from falling. You can’t help but lean into the warmth of him. This close, you can smell his cologne more clearly. It’s different on his skin, the woodfire scent all but gone, while the cedar and the bright flash of citrus from the bergamot still lingers.

“You okay?” he asks, setting you down. His big hands are gentle as he steadies you, touching you as if you’re something fragile, something to be protected. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” You still have your hands fisted in his jacket. You let go one finger at a time before stepping back. 

“I’m fine,” he says, straightening up. “Doubt it will even bruise.”

“Thanks,” you say. “For the save.” 

“You’re welcome. Think I’m done with skating for the day, though.”

“Me too.”

The two of you skate to the edge of the rink; Jing Yuan holds out a hand to help you from the ice. By the time you’re done returning the skates, the sun is setting, the fiery orange horizon giving way to the encroaching teeth of night. 

“I should get back,” you say. “I still have some work to do.”

Jing Yuan glances at you. His gaze is assessing, golden eyes keen, and you wonder if this is what it felt like to be under his scrutiny when he was still a CEO. If other people felt his gaze like an autopsy cut, opening you for his perusal. 

“Sure,” he says easily. “If you have to.”

“I do.”

He takes you back to the inn. Your goodbye is quiet, though he takes one last jab at how you look wearing the hat and scarf as he insists you keep them for now. 

You watch him drive off, unable to shake the feeling that somehow, you’ve disappointed him. 

You work for a while, your room quiet, before you give up in the middle of an email. You shut down your laptop and get ready for bed. 

It takes you a long time to fall asleep.

***

“Do you really get up this late?” you ask, checking your watch as Jing Yuan climbs out of his car. 

“No,” he says, sounding amused. “Do I give that impression?”

“They literally called you the Dozing CEO.” 

“There are worse things to be.”

“That’s true,” you say thoughtfully. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about the second stage of the pro—”

“Later,” Jing Yuan says. “Right now it’s time for coffee. Let’s go to Auntie’s.” 

The snow crunches under your boots as the two of you walk into town. The crowd is even bigger today, filling the streets. There’s a band at one end of Aurum, the musicians bundled up as they play lively Christmas music. They take a request from a passing child and they clap in delight as the band starts to play. 

“Is it always like this?” you ask.

Jing Yuan nods. “The holidays are a big deal around here,” he says, holding the door to Auntie’s open for you. “It’s a close-knit community.”

He greets the hostess by name and asks about her family; she chatters familiarly with him as she leads the two of you to a booth.

“I can tell,” you say once she’s left. “Is that why you came here?”

He pauses. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, giving you a little smile. It’s soft, that smile, and sweet at the edges. Your cheeks heat a bit. “But yes, that’s a large part of it. That and I wanted to be out of the city.” 

“Really? I thought you loved the city.”

He tilts his head in question.

You cough. “Most of the profiles I’ve read say you like the city.” 

“When I was younger,” he says. “But now, I find the quiet suits me.”

The waitress comes by with a coffee for him; he thanks her kindly before returning his attention to you. 

“The quiet here has been nice,” you admit.

“Would you ever leave the city?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I’ve been there for almost twenty years now. I moved there when I was eighteen. Besides, that’s where my job is.”

He hums lightly. “So it is.” 

“Speaking of—”

He sighs, cupping his coffee between his big hands to warm them. “Go ahead,” he says. “I said I’d listen.” 

You launch into the second phase of the project, outlining the plans and how they’d be executed, as well as what his backing and involvement might look like. Jing Yuan drinks his coffee as he listens, only pausing you once so he can ask the waitress a question. 

You wind down and he smiles at you. “You’re very convincing,” he tells you. “I can see how you got Feixiao to come on board for the last project that Luofu did.” 

“But—” you say, knowing what’s coming.

“But I’m not sold.” 

“Of course you aren’t,” you grumble under your breath. Jing Yuan breathes out a laugh and your face goes hot. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine.” 

“You’re very tolerant.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.” 

He chuckles. “I suppose I am,” he says. “Retirement has taken much of the bite out of me, I’m afraid. Though I don’t consider that a bad thing.” 

“It’s not.” 

He rests his chin on his palm, gazing at you from under his long lashes. Only one of his eyes is visible; the other is behind the silver of his hair, a sun hidden by clouds. His eye is heavily lidded, but his gaze is as keen as ever. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” 

“Right,” you say, flustered and unsure why. “Me too.” 

“I find the best part of retirement is the softness,” he says. “It gives you room to be gentle. With yourself. With others.��

“You sound like a self-help book.”

“I do meditate quite often,” he says, eyes crinkling with his smile. “I would recommend it.” 

“I don’t have time to meditate.”

“All the more reason to find some time for it,” he says mildly, taking another sip of his coffee. A droplet clings to his lower lip; he catches it with his thumb before licking his thumb clean. You almost choke on air.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a coy smile unfurling on his lips. 

“F-fine.” 

That smile grows larger, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Alright. Let’s have a late breakfast, shall we?”

“Okay.”

The food comes quickly, filling the air with the scent of crisp bacon and the sharp, woody tang of rosemary. The eggs melt on your tongue, perfectly fluffy, and Jing Yuan smiles when you let out a pleased sigh.

“Good?”

You nod eagerly, taking another bite.

“Good.” 

You’re both quiet as you eat; when it comes time to pay, Jing Yuan doesn’t even let you reach for the bill, simply handing the waitress his card with a flick of his wrist. His playful glare silences you before you can even protest. 

When you stand to leave, he gestures you in front of him. He follows you out the door of Auntie’s and the two of you stop under the awning—hung with crystalline stars that catch the sunlight as they sway in the wind—to stay out of the way of the crowds. 

“Walk with me,” he says, tugging lightly at the end of your (his) scarf. 

“Okay.”

The two of you thread through the crowds; eventually, they thin out and you settle beside each other. You take in the quieter part of town, still Christmas ready, with fake candles flickering in the windows of the offices and thick wreaths adorning the doors. 

“Pretty,” you say absentmindedly, toying with a ribbon as you pass, the material velvety under your fingertips. 

“Yes,” Jing Yuan says, sounding fond, and he’s already looking at you when you glance at him. “Come along, we’re almost there.”

“Where?” you ask, but you round the corner and the answer is there.

The park is beautiful, even barren, with the tree’s empty branches reaching towards the yawning sky. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, though it’s turned to slush on the paths. You and Jing Yuan pick your way around the worst of the melt, until you find a massive gazebo. 

It’s a sight. It’s draped in garlands, each dotted with sprigs of holly and bright little lights that flash like shooting stars. Poinsettias line the gazebo, their stamen golden starfish amid the sea of crimson. 

“Wow,” you say. 

“It’s my favorite place in the park,” Jing Yuan says. “Though it’s normally a bit more subdued.”

“I would hope so.” 

“But it’s not what we’re here for.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he says, resting his hand on the small of your back and guiding you forward. “Let’s keep going.” 

You talk quietly as you wander through the park until you suddenly notice there are a lot more people than there were before. Before you know it, you’re in a line. You look at Jing Yuan, but he simply smiles.

“No,” you say as the horse-pulled sleighs come into view.

“That’s what you said about skating, too.” 

“Why is this town so into Christmas?”

“Why not?”

You sigh and let him guide you forward, abruptly aware that his hand is still at the small of your back. The weight of it prickles along your skin. He gives you a light push towards the front of the line. 

The sleigh that pulls up in front of you is large. It’s decked out in garlands and holly, filled with soft, fuzzy blankets that look like they would keep you warm on even the coldest nights. The mare in front of it nickers, her tail flicking from side to side. 

Jing Yuan slides into the sleigh with feline ease, though he’s broad enough to take up most of it himself. You hesitate.

He chuckles, patting the spot next to him on the bench. “Indulge me,” he says.

You sigh and slide in before sitting down. You immediately regret it. “It’s cold,” you whine, the chill seeping through your pants, but he simply tosses one of the blankets over you and tucks it in at the side, blocking out any chilly air. 

“There,” he says. “Ready?”

“Okay,” you say, and the driver flicks her reins, sending the mare into a trot. The sleigh starts to slide forward and you grab onto Jing Yuan’s arm without thinking, sinking your fingertips into the muscle of his forearm. 

He chuckles again and pats your hand. “You’ll get used to it,” he tells you. 

“And if I don’t?”

“You can always keep holding on to me.” 

You immediately let go. 

He gives you an indolent smile. His eyes crinkle with it, and you want to curse him for being so handsome. Instead, you huff and bury yourself deeper under the blanket, which has slowly been heating.

“I could be working,” you mutter.

“Would you rather be?”

You blink, not having expected Jing Yuan to be listening to you that closely. “I—It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.” 

“I just—it’s what I’m good at,” you say, and it sounds like a question even to your own ears. “I’m a good worker. A hard worker. I don’t really have much else to offer, so it makes sense to work all the time.”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

“What?”

“You have much more to offer than just work,” he says gently. 

“I really don’t,” you say miserably. “I barely see my friends and I worry about overwhelming them, and my family is just—”

You pause. “And I also just said all of this to you, basically a stranger and also who I’m supposed to be recruiting, so this is just embarrassing now. Goodbye.” 

He catches you by the wrist as you start to throw the blanket off and try to wiggle away from his side.

“And here I thought we were more than strangers by now. I’m a little hurt.”

“Jing Yuan!”

“Alright, alright,” he says. “But it’s okay. I’m here to listen if you want.” 

“I don’t,” you say, refusing to look at him as he reaches over you to tuck the blanket back in around you. “Just forget I said anything.”

Silence falls, broken only by the steady trot of the mare and the soft jingling of the bells you hadn’t noticed on her bridle. 

“That’s part of why I retired, you know.”

You glance at Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye. He’s staring off into the snowy treeline, his golden eyes hazed over, the sun under morning mist. “I wanted to be good at something other than work. And I wasn’t.” 

“That’s not true,” you say softly. “You and your friends—”

“Fell apart,” he says, and you subside. You know just as much about the group of company heads deemed The Quintet as anyone does, which is to say that you only know of their end. Their exploits, their dreams, all overshadowed. Companies—people—that rose into the sky and then fell, burning up in the atmosphere until they were meteors, destined to crash. 

Jing Yuan, barely out of his twenties, was the only one left standing.

“I put in years of work to try and get everything right again,” he says. “To acquire their companies and do right by them. I did it, too. And then I stayed. Because I was good at it. Because I didn’t know what else to do.” 

You chew on your lip before throwing caution to the wind. You rest your hand on his forearm and don’t move when he jolts. His eyes cut towards you, burnished amber, and the sharp edges of him soften. 

“You’re more than just work,” he says. “I can promise you that.” 

“Okay,” you say softly, because what else is there to say? “Okay.”

The both of you are quiet for a few minutes. You chew on everything that’s been said, careful not to sink your teeth into the meat of it. You’ll leave that for later, preferably in the dark of your own apartment. Next to you, Jing Yuan seems perfectly at ease, and not for the first time, you’re jealous of his composure. 

“Look,” he says suddenly, nudging you gently. He points to where the park meets true forest, where the saplings grow teeth. “Rabbits.”

“Where?” you say, leaning around him to try and see it. “I don’t see anything.” 

“Here,” he says, and suddenly you’re encased in warmth, his arms wrapped around you as he points. You peer down the line of one bulky arm and finally see a family of hares in the underbrush, their downy fur as white as the snow that surrounds them. 

“How did you even see them?” you breathe, watching as one of them noses at another, who shifts back into the brush. “They’re beautiful.” 

“They are,” he says.

The horse nickers and the hares freeze before darting off deeper into the underbrush. You watch until you can’t see them anymore. You settle back before realizing you’re almost in Jing Yuan’s lap, his strong arms still wrapped around you. He’s warm against you, his chest firm despite the slight softness around his middle, and you can feel his voice rumble through you as he asks the driver a question, one you can’t quite make out through the static in your ears. 

You push away quickly, settling on the far side of the sleigh. It doesn’t do much, considering his size, but at least you’re further away from him. Hopefully without alerting him to anything.

From the puckish curl of his lips, that hope is dashed. Still, he says nothing, continuing to talk with the driver as you stare out the side of the sleigh, huddling under the blanket now that you’re bereft of his warmth.

After he’s spoken to the driver, he turns back to you, that same little smile blooming on his lips, an unfurling flower. You brace yourself. 

“If you’re cold, the ride’s almost over,” he says. “And then I assume you need to go back to work?”

You almost say yes. You almost take the out he’s given you, but you look at him instead, at the way his expression crinkles his eyes and the way his aureate gaze has softened. You look at Jing Yuan and something behind your ribcage writhes, battering against the bones.

“No,” you say quietly. “I think I still have more time.”

He smiles.

***

The two of you spend the rest of the afternoon in the park, meandering through the expanse of it and chatting the whole time. You only turn back towards the inn when it starts snowing, a light fall of fat, fluffy flakes. They catch in Jing Yuan’s lashes when he turns his face up to the sky, his white hair cascading behind him, a river of starlight. 

He’s beautiful. You’d known that before, of course—the man was a staple on magazine covers for a reason—but like this, it’s a different type of beauty. You wish you had words for it. Instead, you content yourself with watching him.

He cracks open an eye and sees you looking. “You’re staring,” he says, a small, sly smile blooming on his lips. “Something on my face?”

“Snow,” you say dryly. “You’re going to catch a cold.” 

“Ah, so you do care.”

“Maybe,” you say, and relish the fleeting look of surprise that he can’t quite hide. It’s gone as soon as it came, replaced by his usual small smile, but you think there’s a pleased edge to it. “Now hurry up, it’s cold.” 

He lifts his face to the sky for a moment more, letting a few more flakes drift down onto him. You wait for him. You’re cold even with the hat and scarf, but he looks so content that you can’t bear to drag him away. 

Finally, he strides to your side. The two of you head back into town, taking a route that extends the walk. You chat quietly for a majority of the time, though sometimes you lapse into a comfortable silence, simply watching the snow fall. 

He insists on accompanying you all the way to the inn’s doorstep, citing the icy path. You roll your eyes but don’t argue; his smile makes something in your chest twist. 

“Thanks,” you say at the doorstep. 

“For?”

“Everything,” you say, a little bit helpless.

He smiles again, gentle like the spring sun, and then says: “I’d like to take you to the house tomorrow.”

“The house? Whose?” 

“Mine.”

“Oh,” you say.

“Only if you’re okay with it.” 

“You haven’t murdered me yet.” 

“True,” he says, that same little smile unfurling on his lips. “There’s still time, though.”

“Jing Yuan!”

He laughs, low and rich, more a vibration than a sound, as close together as you are. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah,” you say. “See you then.”

“Goodnight,” he says. But he stays until you give him a tiny shove. 

You go to sleep with a smile lingering sweet on your lips.

***

It’s still snowing the next morning. The flakes fall delicately, dusting over the trees like icing sugar, coating the inn like a soft blanket. You watch it as you sip your coffee. It’s slow and steady, like a snowglobe settling after a flurry. 

You can tell when Jing Yuan pulls up; your phone vibrates on top of your closed laptop. You gulp down the rest of your coffee before throwing on your coat. The walk from the inn to his car is short but cold. You shiver as you slip into the warmth of the car; he reaches over and tugs your hat down a little more firmly.

“Thanks,” you say. “Definitely couldn’t have done that myself.”

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s go.” 

The drive to his house is longer than you thought. It’s on the far outskirts of town, set back into a grove of pine trees, not at all the modern manor you’d thought it would be. It’s still large, but there’s a modesty to it that fits him.

He pulls into the garage and leads you inside, where you immediately hear running footsteps. Jing Yuan smiles as Yanqing rounds the corner, all but throwing himself at his uncle.

“You took forever,” he complains.

“I had to go pick up my friend here,” Jing Yuan says, patting the boy on the head. “We can get started now, though.”

Yanqing peers at you. “Are they helping?”

“Helping with what?” you ask, shrugging out of your jacket at Jing Yuan’s gesture. 

“Gingerbread, duh.” 

“Oh, um—”

“They’re helping,” Jing Yuan says smoothly, ushering you forward into what you quickly realize is the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen, filled to the brim with sleek kitchenware. There’s already ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter, perfectly arranged.

“I’m afraid to touch anything in your kitchen,” you say. 

He laughs, rolling up the sleeves of his dark red sweater. You watch his forearms flex, the muscle rippling beneath his skin, the tendons in his hands cording. 

“Don’t be,” he says. “Now let’s get started before Yanqing eats all the chocolate chips.”

Yanqing pauses with another handful of chocolate chips almost to his mouth. He gazes at his uncle for a moment and then defiantly pops it into his mouth. Jing Yuan sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

The boy chatters at the two of you as you measure out the ingredients for gingerbread, though he mostly speaks to Jing Yuan. For his part, Jing Yuan listens intently, paying as much attention to Yanqing as he would to any adult. He nods seriously when Yanqing complains about something that happened at school.

“And then they took away my sword—”

“Wait,” you say, stopping in the middle of mixing. “Sword?”

Yanqing stares at you. “Yeah. My sword.”

You look at Jing Yuan, who laughs. “He’s a fencing champion,” he explains.

“I’m the best in the region,” Yanqing informs you, his chest puffed up. “But one day I’ll beat Uncle.” 

You start mixing again. Jing Yuan is a former champion—that has been detailed in almost every magazine he’s ever interviewed with. With good reason, too. You’ve seen the photos of him in his fencing gear, his face mask by his side, his strong thighs outlined by the uniform. He’d been sweaty and smiling broadly, his senior Jingliu at his side, her lips pressed together sternly but her eyes gleaming. 

“Ah, this old man can’t keep up with you anymore,” Jing Yuan says, ruffling Yanqing’s hair. 

“Liar,” the boy grumbles. 

Jing Yuan laughs again. “That looks ready,” he says to you. “Yanqing, do you want to roll it out?”

“Nope.” He’s already sorting through the candy that’s on the other counter, unwrapping various ones. “I’m picking decorations.” 

“It’s up to you, then,” Jing Yuan says to you with a little smile.

“I don’t see you doing very much work,” you say. He’s leaning against the counter, looking half-asleep. 

“I’m supervising.”

You point your spatula at him. “You dragged me here. Come help.”

“Of course,” he says, pushing off the countertop. He pauses to stretch, reaching high, just enough for his sweater to reveal a slice of his belly and the tiniest hint of silvery hair. You almost drop the spatula. He grabs it before you can, a smug little smirk playing across his lips. 

But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to lightly flour the countertop and dump the gingerbread dough onto it. He flours the rolling pin as well, his big hand easily reaching around the fullest part of the thick pin. When he starts to roll it out, his hands and forearms flex with each motion, the veins protruding slightly from beneath his skin. 

You decide it’s better for you to look at something else. You focus on Yanqing, who is humming happily to himself as he picks out varying decorations. 

“Those would make good pine trees,” you say, pointing to the waffle cones. 

He eyes you. “How?”

“Like this,” you say, flipping them over so the mouth of the cone is against the counter. “And then you pipe on icing to make it look like a tree.”

He deliberates for a moment. “We can try it,” he allows.

“Okay.” 

He slips away to another counter that’s got piping bags and tips laid out all over it, along with several different colors of icing. You glance at Jing Yuan. “You really have everything, don’t you?”

He smiles, cutting out a few shapes from the rolled out dough. “Not everything,” he says. “But I do try to stay stocked for gingerbread house day.” 

“Do you do it every year?”

“Yup,” Yanqing says, sliding in next to you. “Since I was little.” He concentrates on the piping bag for a moment, pressing the tip down until it’s at the bottom of the bag and then grabbing a glass and pulling the edges of the bag over the edges of the glass. It holds it nicely and he starts to pile icing in.

“I can tell,” you say, watching his careful precision. He doesn’t reply, too busy piping on the first bit of icing. 

There’s a blast of heat at your back as Jing Yuan opens the oven to put the gingerbread pieces in. The pan clinks against the rack and then the heat at your back is softer, a gentle warmth instead. Jing Yuan leans over you to see what Yanqing is doing, his long white hair draping over your shoulder, a waterfall of moonlight.

“Clever,” he says. 

“Pretty sure I read it in a magazine.”

He hums. “Still clever.” 

“I guess.”

“Look!” Yanqing says. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Very good,” Jing Yuan says, and he’s not lying. Yanqing has an eye for details, swirling the piping to achieve a needle-like texture in the deep green icing. “Now you can put ornaments on it.” 

“Yeah!”

You watch him fish through the varying candies to find a handful of circular red and gold ones, which he starts pushing into place in the icing. He works diligently, setting them into patterns, but you’re distracted by the heat of Jing Yuan against your back. He shifts behind you and your fingers flex.

The timer saves you. Jing Yuan pulls away as it dings; you hear the oven open and close again as he sets the gingerbread on racks to cool.

“Make one,” Yanqing says suddenly, shoving a waffle cone into your hands. “We need more for the forest.” 

“Is there going to be a forest?” Jing Yuan asks mildly. “I thought we were making a house.” 

“We can do both!”

 “I see.” 

The three of you work on trees as the gingerbread cools. Yanqing chatters away, telling you all about his most recent bout and what he asked for for Christmas. It’s cute, really, watching him and Jing Yuan interact, his hero worship obvious even from such a short amount of time.

You’ve just put the finishing touch—a silver gummy star—on top of a tree when the doorbell rings. Jing Yuan pushes to his feet with a groan and goes to answer it.

When you look up from your tree, Yanqing is staring at you.

“Uncle doesn’t usually bring corporate people to the house,” Yanqing says. “So how come you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Yanqing’s gaze isn’t quite as knowing as his uncle’s, but it’s gutting in its own way. “I think it’s because you’re sad,” he tells you. 

“I’m not sad!”

“Okay,” he says in the way that pre-teens do. “Lonely, then.”

He grins in triumph when you can’t refute that. Then his brow furrows. “I think he’s lonely too,” he confesses. “He doesn’t want to say it, though. But he is.” 

Your stomach twists.

“Yanqing—”

He glares at you. “He is!”

“I’m not saying he isn’t,” you say softly. “I just don’t think you should be talking about it with me.” 

“But you understand!”

You sigh. “Yanqing,” you say. “If Jing Yuan wants me to know something, he’ll tell me himself, okay?”

“No he won’t,” he mutters.

“That’s his choice.”

His brow furrows; his lips twist, a sour lemon kiss. “Fine,” he says.

You bite at your lip but he doesn’t say anything else. “Let’s build the house?” you offer. 

“We have to wait for Uncle.” 

“What’s he doing?”

“Delivery, probably.” 

That certainly explains the scuffing noises that have been coming from the hallway. Before you can go investigate, though, Jing Yuan reappears.

“Did I miss much?” he asks, before looking at the still dismantled house. “Oh, you didn’t start.”

“We were waiting for you,” Yanqing says.

“Oh? So considerate.” 

“Let’s build already!” Yanqing says, practically bouncing in place. “Uncle, c’mon!”

Jing Yuan laughs and joins the two of you at the counter, looking down at the pieces of the gingerbread house. “Yes sir,” he says. “Where do you want to start?”

“Here!” 

It takes several tries to even get two of the walls to stick together. Yanqing makes you and Jing Yuan hold them together as he pipes in royal icing to be the glue; the two of you crowd together on one side of the counter to try and keep them upright. This close, you can feel how thick Jing Yuan’s bicep is as his arm presses against yours, courtesy of his broad shoulders. 

Finally, the icing sets. When you and Jing Yuan pull away, the walls stay standing, earning a cheer from Yanqing. He immediately picks up the next wall, gesturing for Jing Yuan to hold it in place. You take advantage of your moment of respite to pull up one of the kitchen stools, nestling into the plush of it. 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Jing Yuan warns. “We’ll be putting you right back to work.” 

“Yeah,” Yanqing says. “You’ve gotta hold the next wall while the other one sets.” 

“Okay, okay,” you say, reaching for the next piece of gingerbread. You set it in place, holding it carefully, bracing the corner of it with your fingertips and the side of it with your other hand. Yanqing ices it quickly, and you wince as he manages to get a good amount of icing onto your fingertips. 

“Oops,” he says, looking abashed but not sounding particularly sorry.

“It’s fine,” you say, lifting your fingers away from the join of the walls, still bracing the wall itself with your other hand. You pop your fingertips into your mouth one-by-one without thinking, the sweetness spreading across your tongue rapidly, the sheer amount of sugar enough to make your teeth ache. 

Jing Yuan coughs. 

When you look at him, he’s already gazing at you, his eyes darkened to topaz, a deep, rich golden brown. For a second, his lazy smile goes knife-edged, something hungry tucked up into the corner of his mouth, but it’s gone when you blink, only a faint amusement remaining. 

“There’s a sink if you would find that more useful,” he says, nodding towards the farmhouse sink just behind you. “Though far be it from me to stop you.”

Your cheeks heat. You wait a moment, letting Yanqing take the brunt of the gingerbread wall before you pull away. You wash your hands as the two of them chat behind you, the water burning hot as you try to compose yourself. 

The little smirk Jing Yuan sends you when you turn around doesn’t help. 

You take in a deep breath before rejoining them, taking the final wall and putting it into place. The three of you continue building, chatting the whole time. Yanqing’s delight is infectious and you find yourself laughing with every mishap and quietly cheering each time a wall stays up. The roof is the most precarious part; it takes the three of you several tries to get it situated. 

“Now it just has to fully dry,” Yanqing announces. “Then we can decorate.”

“And in the meantime?” you ask. 

“I’m going to my room!” he says, taking off down the hallway. You blink and glance at Jing Yuan.

“He means he’s going to snoop under the Christmas tree,” he says. 

“Oh.” 

“He thinks he’s sneakier than he is.”

“Don’t all kids? Besides, didn’t you peek under the tree when you were a kid?” 

“I would never,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Who do you think I am?”

“The type to sneak under the tree. I bet you shook boxes and everything.”

He chuckles. “I stopped after I accidentally broke one of the presents doing that.” 

“You didn’t!”

“I’m afraid so.” 

You laugh, the sound bubbling from you like a spill of champagne. “Oh my god.” 

Jing Yuan smiles, his eyes crinkling with it. “Don’t tell me you never shook the presents.”

“Of course I did. I just never broke anything.”

He hums. “Of course not.”

“Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“You’re so annoying.”

He smiles, popping a candy into his mouth. You watch the way he licks the residue of it off of his lips. “Now, now, be nice.” 

You pick up a candy too. It’s watermelon, the taste bursting over your tongue, stickily artificial. “Are we spending all day on a gingerbread house?” you ask. 

“There’s a Christmas market that I’d intended to go to.” 

You hum. “Alright.”

“No need to sound so excited about it.” 

“Excited about what?” Yanqing says, flouncing into the room. He’s pink-cheeked and looking pleased with himself. You assume the present shaking went well. 

“The Christmas fair.”

The boy’s face lights up. “We’re going, right? Right?”

“Yes,” Jing Yuan says. “After we finish decorating.” 

“Is the icing dry yet?”

You test the gingerbread house carefully, seeing how well the walls and roof hold up. They don’t move under your gentle prodding nor when you apply a bit more pressure.

“I think so,” you say. “Let’s decorate.”

The three of you set to work. You and Jing Yuan mostly follow Yanqing’s direction; you build a chimney out of non-pareils, the uneven sides like trendy stone work. The fir trees are sprinkled around the yard, each one more decorated than the last; the shingles to the roof are made of gingerbread too, carefully cut into a scalloped edge. The very top of the roof is lined with gumdrops, the rainbow of them like Christmas lights. Chocolate stones make the pathway to the house; the path is lined with little licorice lamps. 

Altogether, it’s probably the fanciest gingerbread house you’ve seen. Granted, Jing Yuan had clearly gone all out on different types of candy—so many types that you barely use half of them—but Yanqing’s eye for detail makes it all come together. 

“Wow,” you say, putting a final star-shaped sprinkle in place over one of the windows, where it joins a line of others, a draping of fake Christmas lights. “This is really good, Yanqing.”

The boy puffs up. “I’ve won my school’s decorating contest before,” he says.

“I can see why.” 

He beams and then turns to Jing Yuan. “When are we going to the market?” he asks.

“After we clean up.” 

A pout creases his face for a moment, his lips turning down in an admittedly endearing way. “Fine,” he sighs, looking at the messy counter. You’d tried to keep the mess to a minimum, but between icing and sugar-dusted candies, you hadn’t quite succeeded. As Jing Yuan and Yanqing start to sort the candies and put them away, you start scraping up the dried-on icing. 

For a moment, you think Jing Yuan is going to protest, but when you flash him a little stare that dares him too, he subsides without saying a word. You grin triumphantly and he smiles, soft and sweet. Something in you twinges. 

You push the little flutter aside, wetting a paper towel to scrub off the worst of the icing. The three of you work away, chatting lightly, until the kitchen is almost as pristine as when you got there.

“That’s good enough for now,” Jing Yuan says, taking in the kitchen with a critical eye. “We’ll get the candy in the pantry later.” 

Yanqing perks up. “Christmas market?” he asks.

Jing Yuan nods, a fond little smile unfurling across his lips. “Go change your shirt.” 

Yanqing looks down at his shirt, which is spattered with icing from when he got a little overenthusiastic with the piping bag. “Okay!” he says, running off. 

You head to the sink to wash your hands again; they’re sticky with leftover icing. Jing Yuan meets you there with a dish towel to dry your hands. His fingertips linger over your palm as he hands it to you. You take in a soft breath, but the touch is gone as soon as it comes.

Yanqing returns and the three of you bundle up—apparently the market is an outdoor one. Jing Yuan fixes Yanqing’s hat despite the boy batting his hands away. Then he turns to you and tugs at the end of your scarf. 

“Ready?” 

You nod. The three of you pile into one of Jing Yuan’s cars. The ride is mostly quiet, with Yanqing and Jing Yuan chatting here and there, but you’re busy looking out the window at the rolling countryside. It’s picturesque in a way no painting could ever capture, the trees lit golden by the setting sun, the snow glittering like stars as it sits heavy on their branches. The firs bend under its weight while the bare oaks soar into the sky, as if they’re painted in long, sweet strokes. 

You pull into a stuffed parking lot. You shiver as you get out of the warm car, burying your chin into the scarf as your breath puffs out in a gentle mist. 

The fair is stunning, little stalls lining the closed-off street, each decorated in its own way. Each of them is festooned with lights and garlands, with little stockings hung carefully from the tables. There’s a baker with bread shaped like wreaths, the crust of them perfectly golden-brown, tucked into star-patterned cloth; a weaver with stunning blankets with complex designs; a blacksmith with all sorts of metalwork, each more beautiful than the last. And those are just the first few stalls.

“Wow,” you breathe.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jing Yuan asks. “I hear it’s grown through the years. It seems to get bigger every year.”

“I’m surprised this place isn’t known as a Christmas destination.”

“It is,” he says. “If you know the right people to ask.”

“How did you find it?”

“A friend,” he says, and there’s something in the set of his mouth that keeps you from asking more. “Come on, let’s go take a look.”

“I want to go to the blacksmith!” Yanqing pipes up.

“Go ahead,” Jing Yuan says. “Don’t go far, please.”

“Okay!”

The two of you watch him take off into the crowd, his golden crown of hair bobbing along, dodging adults and other children alike. Jing Yuan sighs, shaking his head, but gestures you along to the first stall. 

You linger over some textiles, including a beautiful tablecloth embroidered heavily with holly, each sprig carefully woven to look as real as possible. You can tell that love was stitched into it, and going by the stall owner’s gnarled fingers, she’s been doing it for a long time. 

“It’s beautiful,” you tell her, stroking your finger over a holly leaf. She smiles and starts to tell you about her process; you listen intently, Jing Yuan lingering patiently at your side. 

When you finally move to the next stall, someone calls Jing Yuan’s name. He smiles as they approach. They chat amiably for a few minutes before he excuses himself. 

As you wander through the market, you notice that it’s a pattern. Multiple people come up to Jing Yuan, all full of smiles and good cheer, talking to him like he’s an old friend. Some of them eye you curiously, but just nod your way when you’re introduced, going back to catching up with some news they’ve heard or thanking Jing Yuan for a favor he’s done.

“You’re popular,” you tell him as you both step into another stall, this one filled with ornaments. They shine brightly under the twinkling fairy lights strung over the stall’s top. 

“Am I?”

“Mhm.” 

He hums, picking up a snowglobe ornament and giving it a little shake. You watch the fake snow settle at the bottom, revealing the little girl building a snowman, her figure exquisitely made. “They’ve been very welcoming since I’ve moved here,” he says. “I’ve been lucky.” 

“I think it’s more than luck,” you say quietly. “I think you give as much as you get.”

He flashes you a little smile. “Maybe so.” 

The two of you continue on before someone stops Jing Yuan again, this time near a stall that’s too full for the three of you to step into. You do your best to shift out of the way of the people making their way through the market, but it’s hard to do so with so little room. 

You’ve just been knocked into when Jing Yuan loops an arm around your waist and tugs you into his side. It pulls you out of the line of fire for the crowds filtering by. He’s a line of heat against you and you feel it when he chuckles, the sound rumbling through you. 

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, cheeks hot. 

“Good,” he says, and leaves his big hand high on your hip, keeping you close. He goes back to amiably talking to the other person as if he hasn’t noticed. If you lean into him, just slightly, no one but you needs to know. You peer at him from the corner of your eye. You take him in, from the moonlight spill of his hair to his sunrise eyes, to the little smile on his lips as he chats away.

He belongs, you realize, watching him slot back into his conversation with ease. He’s a part of the town, and based on how many people have come up to him, an important one. You think of the way the locals had eyed you when you’d been asking about him. It makes sense now. The town protects him as one of their own because he is one. And he’s happy, a subtle glow to him, a type you’ve rarely seen and likely never achieved yourself. 

Something in your chest squirms, fluttering against the bones of your ribcage, trying to slip through the gaps. You resist the urge to press a hand to your chest. 

He pulls away from the conversation a few minutes later, the hand on your hip dropping to the small of your back as he guides you forward. He stops to talk to a few more people, his eyes crinkling with his smile each time as they come up to him. It’s mesmerizing to watch. 

And you’re asking him to give it all up.

Not all of it, you remind yourself. It’s a project, not a job, but something in you winces nonetheless. Your chest tightens, like a ribbon wrapped around it is cinching in. 

Jing Yuan glances at you as you step away from his warmth, his hand falling from where it’s been resting on the small of your back. His brow furrows, but it passes quickly, a guttering candle. 

You keep your distance for the rest of the fair. You’re still close enough to almost touch despite the thinning crowds, but the gap feels like a gulf between you, as if you’re oceans away. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” you say, but from the way Jing Yuan eyes you, he doesn’t quite believe you. He opens his mouth, but you’re saved by Yanqing, who runs up with sparkling eyes.

“Uncle!” he says. “The blacksmith says we can go to the forge and watch him!”

Jing Yuan chuckles. “Did you badger him into it?”

“No!”

“Alright, alright. We’ll set up a time with him later, okay?”

Yanqing pouts but nods. You hide your smile behind your scarf. 

“Let’s go home,” Jing Yuan says. Night has fallen, the sky velvety and dotted with stars. He glances at you. “Would you like me to drop you at the inn?”

You nod. He hums. “Alright.”

The three of you pile back into the car. The inn isn’t far—you probably could have walked, but the cold night has only gotten more frigid. Jing Yuan comes up to the inn’s doorstep with you, catching you by the wrist when you’re halfway up the stairs. You turn around and he looks up at you, his golden eyes shining under the moonlight. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and it takes a moment to gather yourself, too focused on the way his thumb is rubbing small circles on the delicate skin of your inner wrist. You realize you’re leaning towards him, a flower to the sun. He smiles at you, eyes crinkling, and you see it again, that soft glow to him. 

Something clicks into place. 

“Nothing will make you come on board the project, will it?” you ask, sounding too calm even to your own ears. You shake off his hand. “There’s never even been the slightest chance.” 

Jing Yuan lets out a low, slow breath. “No,” he says. “There hasn’t been.” 

“Right,” you say. “Okay. Thank you for everything.”

“What?”

“My job is done,” you say. “If I can’t convince you, there’s no point in me being here.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” you say. Your chest hurts. Something sinks its teeth into your ribs, chipping away at the bone. “I came here to get you on board.”

“That’s not what the last day or two has been,” he says softly. “Right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He reaches for you, brushing his gloved fingers against your cheek. “Yes, you do.” 

You pull away. “I’ve been here to get you on board, Jing Yuan. To do my job. That’s all.” 

“You—”

“I’ll catch a flight tomorrow,” you say. “It shouldn’t be hard, since it’s Christmas Eve.” 

He lets out a low, slow breath. He gazes up at you, his golden eyes flickering with something you don’t dare name. 

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“It’s time for me to go,” you say. “It’s been time for me to go since I got here, apparently.” 

He says your name softly. It rolls over you like morning mist, blocks out the world. You take in a shuddering breath.

“Goodbye, Jing Yuan.”

He sighs. “If you change your mind, I’m having a Christmas party tomorrow. You’ll always be welcome.” 

You nod sharply, turning on your heel to go inside. Jing Yuan says your name again. You glance over your shoulder. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—

“Travel safe,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say, and then you’re inside the inn, leaving Jing Yuan standing out in the cold behind you. You don’t wait to see if he lingers, ignoring Lee’s cheerful greeting to make your way back up to your room. 

You book the first flight you find. It’s late in the day, but that’s fine—you can catch up with your emails and calls. You’ve barely checked your phone today. You can’t quite bring yourself to do it now.

After your flight is booked, you close your laptop and fold your arms, resting your head on them. The fangs sunk into your rib bones dig deeper, hitting marrow. 

“Fuck,” you say, sitting up and scrubbing your hands over your face. “Fuck.” 

You stare out the window, into the deep bruise of the night. The woods rise beyond the hill, the trees skeletal as they reach for the sky, barely visible in the dark. Stars glitter coldly high above; the moon shines like a lonely mirror. It all feels distant, like a world you’re not part of.

You let out a deep, slow breath. It does nothing to loosen the string wound tight around your chest; if anything, it tightens. 

You get ready for bed slowly, that fanged thing still biting deep, leaving teeth marks that ache deeply. 

When you fall asleep, the last thing you see is Jing Yuan’s eyes.

***

The next day dawns too early. You once again wake with the sunlight, having forgotten to close the curtains as you drifted around the room last night. The watery light pools on the floor, sweetly golden. The wooden floor is warm under your feet as you cross through the puddles of sunlight. 

You get ready for the day quickly. You pack up carefully, rolling your clothes up so they fit better before you tuck your toiletries in. You keep your laptop out to answer emails as they come in. The sun stretches along the floor as you work, barely coming up for air.

You don’t dare give yourself time to think.

You check out in the early afternoon. The receptionist is the one who checked you in. She’s quick and efficient, and you find yourself on the doorstep of the inn waiting for a cab in just a few minutes. 

The taxi driver is quiet;  you find yourself wishing for the same talkative driver as before. At least it would fill the air, give you something to concentrate on beside the noise in your head. 

It’s all mixed together, a slush puddle that you keep stamping through, expecting to not get splashed this time. Jing Yuan, the project, your work, the promotion—it runs through your head non-stop, circling over and over again. Your work, all for nothing. Your possible promotion, just beyond the tips of your fingers. Jing Yuan with his golden eyes and his lips with a smile tucked up secret in the corner of his mouth. Jing Yuan with his laughter and his dedication to the town. 

You check your email but it doesn’t help.

You’ve already told Qingzu that you’ve failed. She had taken it in stride; she made sure you knew that no one was going to blame you. The project is going to go forward with or without Jing Yuan. You knew that, but the failure stings anyway. Fu Xuan had asked for you specifically; she must have believed you could do it. 

You should have been able to. 

Except—you think of the quiet glow that Jing Yuan had yesterday. The way he’d slipped seamlessly into the town’s community, how they treat him as one of their own. He’s happy in a rare way, deeply content with his lot. How you’d felt at his side in the last few days, even as he dragged you around. What it felt like to not be so focused on work all the time; how it felt to live life again. 

Something in your chest warms. It rises through you like sparkling champagne bubbles, fizzing across your nerves.

You think of the way Jing Yuan’s eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

“Sir,” you call out to the taxi driver. “Can you please turn around?”

***

The party is in full swing by the time you arrive. There are people coming and going; laughter drifts out the door every time it opens. The path is brightly lit, with Christmas lights lining the side and elegant wreaths hanging from posts, each big red bow perfectly tied. They’re glittering with tinsel, woven expertly in through the pine boughs.

You slip inside quietly. It’s completely different from just yesterday: there are tables set up inside, piled high with an entire array of hors d'oeuvres, from tiny little tarts to a bacchanalian cheeseboard, overflowing with plump, glistening figs, wine-red grapes, and fine cheeses. The decorations have multiplied. There are fairy lights everywhere, twinkling merrily. They’re tucked into vast, lush garlands that drape along the tables; there are candles flickering in their ornate holders, little wisps of smoke dancing from the flames. 

It's easy to find Jing Yuan; he’s holding court by the Christmas tree, perfectly visible from the doorway. He’s chatting away with the small group that’s gathered around him, but there’s something different about him. Something you can’t quite name. 

He looks wilted, almost, like the flowers in the last days of summer, still thriving but sensing their end. He smiles at someone and there’s nothing tucked up secret in the corner of his lips. Your chest aches, something howling between the gaps of your ribs. 

He glances up and your eyes meet. He goes still, and then there’s a brilliant smile spreading across his lips, the sun come down to earth. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over to you. 

“Hi,” you say as he draws near, a little bit breathless.

“Hi,” he says.  

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words rushing from you like water. “The last few days haven’t been nothing. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s alright,” he says. “I’m sorry that I led you astray.”

“Why did you do it?”

He sighs. “I remember what it was like to work like that. To give up everything for the job. No one should live like that. And you seemed so lonely.” 

You wince.

“Sorry,” he says. “But it’s what I saw.”

You shake your head. “It’s not like you were wrong. And you made me less lonely, Jing Yuan.”

He reaches out and sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You sway into the touch, turning until your cheek is cradled in his palm. “I’m glad,” he says softly. “All I want is for you to be happy.” 

Someone whistles. You balk, starting to step back; Jing Yuan catches you before you can go far, pulling you in close.

“You’re under the mistletoe,” someone calls. 

You look up, and sure enough, there’s mistletoe hanging innocently above you, the tiny flowers white as snow. It’s tied off with a perfect red ribbon.

“We don’t have to—”

“It’s tradition,” you say, and then you’re surging up to kiss him. He meets you halfway and as his lips brush yours, warmth blooms inside your chest, embers stoked to flame. He cups the back of your head to pull you closer. You make a little noise; he swallows it down. 

There’s a certain greed to the kiss; a longing, too. He steals the breath from you; takes in your air and makes it his own. You kiss him harder, as if he might disappear. 

When you break apart, he leans down to press his forehead against yours. You close your eyes. You can hear people murmuring, but they seem far away. Only Jing Yuan feels real. You open your eyes and glance up at him. He smiles at you, his golden eyes crinkling at the edges. Your heart flutters behind your ribs, beating against the cage of them like a bird’s wings.

“Merry Christmas,” you breathe. 

“Merry Christmas,” he says softly.

He kisses you again and this time, it feels like coming home. 

[solar-wing]

⚣ Domestic Living With Jason 🩳

⚣🩳 A/N → I'm physically incapable of writing anything under 500 words. But, this was inspired by my love of compression shirts (especially the Under Armor ones and how I would do exactly this if my boyfriend tried to walk out wearing one). May start a series off this, we'll see. Warnings: Domestic Vibes. Married Energy. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Petty Jason.

⚣🩳 Summary → Domestic life is something. Domestic life with Jason Todd is another thing. One moment, you're ready to fight this man. Next moment, you're ready to fight this man. *wink wink* Wait, hold up. Jason, what the hell are you wearing?!

⚣🩳 Words → 1.5K

REBLOGS & replies are greatly appreciated, please! 💛

⚣ ENJOY 🩳

“Jason, hurry up! I need to get back so I can finish this essay.” Y/N yelled from the living room of his and his boyfriend’s shared apartment.

If you asked him a year ago what he figured living with his boyfriend would be like, he’d more than likely answer with a lot of freaking sex. Of course, other things came with it, but that was the first thing that always came to mind.

It also came with a lot of stay-at-home dates. Jason was unsurprisingly a natural homebody and loved to spend his evenings when he could with his lovely boyfriend cuddled against his body while watching a movie or playing a game and munching down on some takeout.

Truthfully, it was nice seeing how Jason was in a domestic situation. It served as a reminder to Y/N that under all those scars, grumpiness, and tough exterior was just a boy who wanted to be loved.

On the other end, living with Jason made Y/N take a long, hard look in the mirror and reflect on all the bad habits he had when living at home with his parents and starting college. For example, time management…

Before he started dating Jason, Y/N was the kind of person who waited till twenty minutes before he had to leave to start getting dressed. Whenever someone would text him and ask for his location, he’d respond telling them he was leaving the house now.

Then, when he was actually leaving the house and they’d text him again, he’d respond saying he was on the freeway. Truly, the best example of what not to do when he wanted to be on time somewhere.

After he started dating Jason though, and especially when they moved in together, Y/N sent a long apology to his parents who had tried for years to teach him better time management. The crazy thing about that was when they asked him why he was apologizing and he explained that Jason’s time management made him look like an angel, they didn’t believe him!

In their eyes, Jason was a saint who could do no wrong. Which was ironic considering Y/N’s dad promised to castrate any man who dared even look his son’s way. And his mom, well, not sure that’s really appropriate to mention.

Yet, when it came to Mr. Jason Peter Todd, he might as well have been hand-delivered from God himself. Maybe it was because his boyfriend could and would be late to anything else in the world (Lord knows Bruce went through hell and back just to get him to be on time for family dinner), but if it was anything involving Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N, he was twenty minutes early with a gift he picked up from the local Target.

It also could be that Jason was the world’s biggest kiss-ass (when he needed to be) and used that to wrap Y/N’s parents around his finger. Either or…

But now, since they were only going to the gym, Jason was of course taking his sweet time to get ready, which, every passing second was another snap of one of Y/N’s nerves. Truthfully, he would’ve just grabbed his keys and left without him, but the last time he did that, Jason went and bought a steering-wheel clutch to put on his car and hid the keys from him for two weeks.

Another thing Y/N’s parents would never believe about their son’s beloved boyfriend; the fucker was petty as hell.

“I’m coming, babe! Be out in a sec,” Jason yelled from behind their bedroom door.

“You said that five minutes ago!”

“Sorry, I don’t recall. Maybe you imagined it.”

This gaslighting motherfu–

Y/N had to take a deep breath to calm his growing impulsive need to bust down that door and slap the fuck out of his boyfriend’s neck. It didn’t help…

“You can’t hit your boyfriend. You can’t hit your boyfriend. You can’t hit your boyfriend,” Y/N mumbled to himself while tapping his foot against the floor repeatedly to distract himself from the ticking seconds passing by in his mind.

Two minutes later, the door opened and revealed his tall and bulky man looking ever so fresh and handsome. Though Y/N was still irritated beyond belief, the sight of his boyfriend’s handsome face who grew a smile and twinkle in his eyes when he looked at him always managed to dissipate his temper.

Not by much though. Jason’s neck still looked like a very bright and large target just waiting for a good sting from the palm of his hands.

Maybe Tim was right, they were a match made in heaven just off violent tendencies alone.

“That was not a sec,” Y/N reprimanded in a grumble.

Jason’s smile turned into a self-satisfied grin while he walked past his boyfriend to their coat closet, grabbing his abnormally large gym shoes. Seriously, what size is this man’s foot?

“Hey, it’s not my fault you waited till the last day to finish your homework.” He replied while tying his shoe.

“Um, actually it is. Every time I tried to sit down and work on it, you’d either start complaining about how I wasn’t paying any attention to you or you’d get randomly horny and start touching me in ways that shall not be named and I’d end up with your dick inside me.”

Y/N immediately regretted his words when he saw how Jason looked up from finishing his last shoe, a lustful blown look on his face as he eyed his body up and down. Thankfully, he didn’t seem like he was about to act on his impulses as he kept tying his shoe without looking before standing back up.

Why was that hot?

“Sounds like you need to practice self-control, sir.”

Oh, no he didn’t.

“Sir, I was already tempted to smack the back of your neck before. I beg you to not increase that urge.”

“Do it. I dare you,” Jason challenged, standing right in front of him with his towering frame. The tone in his voice and the look on his face were signaling something that Y/N was very tempted to answer, but he had to keep rationality in the forefront of his mind.

“You not worth it,” He responded, side-stepping him while going to grab his jacket.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Sir, don’t get fu–”

It was at that moment Y/N took a full look at his boyfriend, specifically what he was wearing. And while the sight was something he wouldn’t mind staring at, he definitely didn’t want other people staring at him.

“Excuse me, but what in the hell are you wearing?” Y/N asked, still looking him up and down.

Jason looked confused for a moment, also looking at his outfit, not seeing what the problem was.

“Um, a shirt and sweats? Is this a trick question or,”

“Why is it so tight? Who are you trying to show off for?”

This man was wearing a black compression shirt and gray joggers like it was just a regular Sunday. The Lord is watching, how dare he?!

Jason’s smirk immediately came back when he realized what he was really about, “Oh, what? I can’t wear tight clothes now to the gym?”

“Not unless you want me to fight bitches. Because, just in case you forgot, I do fight bitches.”

“Language, or I’m telling mom. And I like it when you fight over me,” He said while grabbing at Y/N’s waist.

He immediately popped the vigilante’s hands off him, “Don’t involve my mother in and hands off mister.”

“Our mother, thank you,” Jason corrected.

“It’s giving incestuous, and last time I checked, there is no ring on this finger and my last name is not Todd.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Y/N was sat.

“I-, that was really hot and we’re gonna move on from that,” Y/N responded, and Jason once again had a cocky smirk on his face. Lord knows this man was more than likely dead serious. He’d drop everything and drive to a ring shop right now.

“Anyway, you need to go change sir. I don’t need them dirty, mud-bathing rats staring at what is for my eyes only.” Y/N responded, pointing back to their bedroom waiting for Jason to move.

“Oh, so I need to go change, but when you were wearing those tiny shorts, showing off what’s supposed to be for my eyes only, I got told to mind the business that pays me,” Jason asked with a laugh.

“Are you on my payroll?” Y/N questioned.

“No.”

“My point still stands.”

“You think you’re funny,”

“I think I’m hilarious, actually. In fact, I’m so funny, I’m going to get the extra small shorts I just got in the mail since you want to play with me.” Y/N turned around and sprinted for their bedroom.

“Oh, I’ll play all day,” Jason mumbled under his breath before throwing their gym bags down to the ground and kicking off his shoes before following his boyfriend into the room.

They did not make it to the gym, but they definitely got their workout in.

☀️ | Jason Todd/Red Hood | ☀️

☀️ | Masterlists | ☀️

[ficandkaboodle]

Vaginismus: Terzo x Fem!Reader

A/N: Stg if I ever see this purple fucking freak darken the doorway of my mind, I'm going for his kneecaps. He will never be able to slut about on the floor again, and then what will he do? Thanks, y'all, for being so patient as I almost daily had a meltdown over the structure of this. And HUGE thanks once again to @angellayercake for being my ever-patient beta with amazing input and ideas!! I hope I did our bastard boy some kind of service.

Word Count: 8.8K. Sorry, this bad boy is a hydra: For every sentence I deleted, more words would come in its place

CW: Reader has a vagina, hurtful comments from past relationships, reader's mental state is kinda fucked at a few points, hints at extremely uncomfortable interactions to "make the relationship work". Sooo...Vaginismus and its delightful conditions, I suppose. Oh, and a hint of Google Translate Italian. I'm sorry, I tried referencing @/foxybouquet's ever so helpful guide the best I could but alas, I am still a moron. MDNI

Papa III was a notorious flirt, even by the standards of the sexually liberated Church of Satan.

Everybody knew this, from the Clergy to Sister Imperator to the ghouls to his many, many lovers. And yet, when his sights finally fell upon you, everyone knew: Something in him had changed. At the very least, his methods sure had.

Secondo raised a brow when he first saw his brother lightly jogging up to you in the hallways, panting for you to wait up. Primo sported a knowing smirk when he watched the normally suave man sheepishly inquire about the meaning behind certain flower arrangements. Quite the departure from his usual bouquet of red and white roses, the older man couldn't help but note.

A startled Copia quickly became suspicious when the brother that tended to tease him the most came to his office one day, armed with top-shelf juice boxes and nutty chocolate bars – just the starting price for whatever info he was willing to give his dear old fratello about his new favorite Sorella.

The ghouls had a field day whenever they came upon the old man either sulking or even swooning over how a recent interaction had gone. One even swore they had scrounged through his wastepaper basket (don't ask, it’s not worth it) and found crumpled up drafts of sonnets. Sonnets!

It was the Siblings, however, who seemed to take the most notice of his antics. And, unfortunately, the most offense.

Certainly, plenty of the congregation had received a bouquet or two from their beloved Papa Terzo. Many had been wined and dined, and some were even whisked away for a night of passion and excitement in a glamorous metropolitan hub. Terzo had gotten around, and he would probably continue to get around until he either died mid-orgy or until his dick fell off. (And even if the latter did happen, it probably wouldn’t slow him down. Not until his fingers and tongue followed suit, anyway.)

It was cyclical: You would be an interest for a week or two before your time would be up, and you would part ways as he turned his attention to another, leaving you with memories of a whirlwind dalliance to reminisce about for years to come.

This was simply something that was understood and accepted without much of any animosity amongst Siblings. This was just how things were. Or at least up until now.

They must have noticed there was something about the way Terzo pursued you. For starters, nobody could ever recall a time when the man actually needed to really pursue anyone, let alone to the extent and care he currently displayed.

They could tell when a peer was actively trying to heighten the tension, turning their back to him but still glancing over their shoulder to shoot a heated stare. An invitation for him to keep it coming. Really putting the “play” in “playing hard to get”. But generally speaking, most of what Terzo needed to do was snap his fingers and whichever Sibling or ghoul he had his eye on would eagerly crawl into his lap and then into his bed.

Maybe they saw a shine in his eyes that wasn't there when they had him. Or maybe they thought he leaned just the slightest fraction of an inch closer to you than he ever did with anyone else. Or maybe they swore his voice sounded different when he spoke with you. Lighter, but not out of an upturn in pitch to sound friendlier. It was more like it carried less weight. Almost as though he felt less burdened by some unspoken thing. Some thing he never cared to share with them.

Granted, you didn't help matters by actually enjoying the odd conversation or two (or over a dozen) with Terzo. (And by "odd", this meant the animated discussions that borderlined two-person seminars on subjects like the Hays Code, or how viewing certain films through a gendered or queer lens could enhance the suggestion of the story.)

And anyone who spotted you alone on the quad sharing a snack would've been convinced you were on an impromptu picnic, rather than the fact Terzo had found you and offered you pickings from his secret snack pocket.

Sure, it was just a sandwich baggy of cheese doodles, but the point still stood: You had Terzo's full attention, his intrigue, his consideration, his snacks, and you hadn't done a damn thing to deserve them! Any interaction between the both of you, every awkward joke, every instance of eye contact, every exchange of a genuine honest to Satan smile, had the Siblings of the abbey biting and clawing at the walls in envy.

You did your best to appear unaffected by it, preferring to keep your head down and say as little as possible when around them. Nothing to suggest you felt superior to them (not that you did anyhow). Regardless, you were fairly certain that, if it were up to them, they would bring back human sacrifice for the sole purpose of getting you out of the picture.

Thank Satanas, then, that none were present to witness the latest event.

There Terzo stood, his normally focused and powerful gaze fighting hard to be maintained. It was abundantly clear that he wanted to look anywhere but at you. Still, he resolved to keep that nervous on his face. His gorgeous, paintless face.

It was startling to say the least. Actually, no, scratch that: To truly say the least would be to just stand there, gaping like a goldfish as you failed to find the right words – any words – that truly encapsulated even a fraction of what you felt. Which, for better or for worse, was exactly what you found yourself doing.

After all, almost nobody outside of his own family had seen Terzo without his papal paints. They may as well have been tattooed on him the moment he’d perfected the design all those years ago! Not even the paramours he’d collected since then had gotten a glimpse of his bare face, despite the many opportunities they’d had from the nights spent in his quarters. The mystery as to why this was left plenty of room for speculation and imagination, creating a juicy mystique that Siblings and ghouls loved to salivate and chew on.

Admittedly, you yourself occasionally wondered what his deal was, but you ultimately chose not to ponder on it. If Terzo liked how he looked in makeup more than he did without, then that was his business. Honestly, it never even really occurred to you to ask him about it even as the two of you grew closer.

But as you took in the visage before you, you felt you had a good theory going: If Terzo went about the Ministry like this, he’d never know a moment’s peace again!

"Is . . . Is it . . . okay?" he asked quietly. Okay? Okay!? Satan’s taint, if it weren’t for the very apparent tension, you might’ve thought the man was teasing you! The man looked like an old movie star, all debonair and dashing!

The fight to respond in a timely (and coherent) manner was difficult, but you managed to stammer out, “More than okay.” You gulped down some shakiness. “Y-you’re very . . .handsome.”

Internally, you cringed at how wobbly you’d come across but thankfully that seemed to be enough. The warmth in your cheeks intensified as the nerves in his smile carefully evaporated, along with a slight tension in his shoulders.

Unfortunately, the consciousness did not remain, and almost immediately you found yourself delegating focus to other things. Like the beauty mark that lay just beneath the right corner of his pleasantly pink lips. Lips that were saying, “— if you would be interested, of course.”

You blinked. Were you interested? Wait . . . Interested in what, exactly?!

“Y-yeah, sure. I’m down,” you chirped before you could stop yourself.

While you tried your damndest not to look mortified or embarrassed, Terzo looked delighted. Possibly even elated.

“Oh, eccellente!” he clapped his palms together before offering you a mix of a nod and bow. That sharp characteristic of his eyes returned once more, pinning your form as he purred, “I look forward to it.”

Oh, fuck. “Can’t wait!” you replied. Of course, now the concept of urgency settled in.

As you walked back to your room for the night, you knew three things to be certain: The first was that that face of Terzo’s would likely be making many appearances in your dreams tonight. The second thing, branching off this, him showing you his face was a sign you’d let things get far too far.

And the third thing? You had to put an end to your exchanges ASAP.

Sure, you’d peppered this into your thoughts many times before, but after this? This moment of extreme vulnerability on Terzo’s part? No more peppering: It was time to actually pile in everything you had and outright reject Terzo’s advances. No room for stuttering or bending or swaying or swooning and second-guessing!

You repeated this like a mantra over and over, praying that the resolution would still be there in the morning. And it was – but only after you took an icy shower. You’d been spot on when you anticipated that gorgeous, gorgeous face invading your dreams. What you hadn’t counted on, though, was the nature of what all went on:

Snowflakes catching on his lashes as you ice skated on a pond (the power of dreams erasing his waking world clumsiness); his lips smiling around a forkful of the pasta you’d just cooked together; his broad nose nuzzling lovingly into your hair during a quiet night in; those entrancing eyes focused on the movie playing before you as his arm settled warmly around you. It gave you further comfort as you pressed into his side, so perfectly slotted that it was as though you only ever belonged there, right next to him.

You regretted disregarding the alarm bells that blared at the start of this whole nonsense, and now look where that got you: You needed a cold cleanse just because you saw a man’s unpainted face! You were worse than a pent-up Victorian! Did you really want to prolong things until you’d start to "feel" those smirking lips pressed against the column of your neck, or “feel” those large hands skirt along your form, leaving a deliciously pleasant fire in their wake?

Certainly, that might’ve made for a good night’s sleep in theory. But in reality? It was a nightmare in the making!

It was bad enough just wanting to do all those dreamy things and more with the equally dreamy Papa. But that, of course, meant the "more" part would eventually come around. After all, your waking life already wasn't too terribly far off from the things that went on in the dream.

Your days weren't filled with skating on the pond or chatting over romantic dinners but at this rate, they very well could be a possibility. In an ideal world, the wait for these things to happen would be filled with anticipation. But the sad, shower-cold reality was that this wait was weighed down by dread and predictions of what was to come. After all, for all Terzo's patience and kindness, even he had limits. Sometime soon, his patience with your inexactness would run out and he would come to collect. Experience told you that was just how it was.

You may not have had a pursuer as passionate as Terzo, but you’d had enough instances that ran about the same: There was that high, that thrill in an almost honeymoon period-like chase. Then there came the actual vulnerability where you’d tell them of the conditions that came with a relationship – the conditions that came with you. And yeah, they’d start off insisting that nothing about that changed how they felt about you . . .  But then they’d realize your condition would outlast their gimmick.

You felt your face twist with displeasure as sentences of the past began slipping through the cracks and into the forefront of your mind.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Calm down already.”

“Just relax already.”

Then came the pain (both kinds); the giving up; and then you were right back where you started: Alone together, with a body that hated you that you hated right back. The only real difference would be how much your weariness increased, making you more and more reluctant to play along with the idea of any potential romance. Meanwhile, to them, it was a game: You were just playing hard to get, that was all. But you’d surely stop when they and they alone were able to conquer you, to cure you.

Did you really want to wait around and see Terzo become like that?

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

No. Absolutely not. You weren’t sure your heart could bear it, much less your body. Besides, if word got out that he’d shown you his face, then it’d be all over for you. You’d rather incur the wrath of rejecting what many would kill for than face what might happen if they learned how far you’d gotten by doing nothing at all. At least with the former, there was a chance the Siblings let you keep your bones intact.

You had a plan as you prepared yourself to step out and face the day: Keep calm and function as normal until the chance to say those simple words hit you: “Terzo, I am not interested in you in any way, shape, or form. While you are attractive, I am not attracted to you. Please leave me alone from now on.”

A devastating lie, perhaps, but a necessary one. One you would need to deliver by tonight.

But hey, the day was still quite young. There was plenty of time for you to find the courage, right?

. . . Well, you didn’t find it in the hallway when you heard that oh-so familiar, cheerful call of, "Buongiorno, Mia Sorellina !", prompting you to pick up speed and disappear down a different corridor. Nor was it there when you caught sight of a black flutter of robe. It could’ve been a wandering Cardinal’s cassock but you weren’t prepared to stick around and find out.

And even though you spent nearly the entirety of afternoon mass, head bowed, praying for the Dark One to simply grab the strength and shove it into you, you didn’t feel any more emboldened. Apparently, your body meant it when it didn’t allow for anything to enter it – intangible things included, it seemed.

You groaned inwardly from both disappointment and discomfort as you lifted yourself off the kneeler and back into the pew. There was also the added stressor of feeling sets of multiple eyes on you: From Siblings stewing in envy; from ghouls who wanted to take a gander at the Sister who had flirty Papa III wrapped around her finger; and, worst of all, from Terzo himself.

The one time you dared to look up at his seated form on the altar, you caught a hint of a small smile directed at you.

You tried to return it, at least enough to suggest to him you were fine and happy to see him despite your earlier actions, but the sorry attempt lost any pretense of pleasantness when your eyes got caught on something: Even in the sea of his dark robes, you could make out the dull shine of leather gloves poised in his lap. Helping them to stand out more, however, was how each fingertip was adorned with a golden nail.

Correction: A golden claw. The fine barbs would fit right in on the hand of a ghoul or perhaps some other dæmonic creature.

Normally you were fascinated by the accessories but in your increasingly unwell state, these gloves intimidated you. It was like you had been reduced to a fearful prey animal and all you saw was a threat.

A thought, sharp as those gilded talons, slashed beyond your imagination and into the walls of your most sensitive place. They pierced and drilled into the intimate area just long enough for you to know they were there – both in your mind and your body – shanking their way into a place nothing was meant to enter, let alone something so dangerous.

Although a primal need to defend yourself shot through your nervous system, you were too incapacitated to do much more than body-jolting inhale. Your only defense, you had long-since learned, was to freeze. Your brain buzzed in an unpleasant manner as you started to come down from the imaginary fingering.

“You’re overreacting,” scoffed the voice of a past partner. “It’s just a finger.” You hadn’t spoken to them in years, but the disregard in their voice remained fresh, further embittering you to the fact that that was what managed to creep into you rather than the bravery you so desperately needed.

You had to pray once more that Terzo hadn’t noticed anything. A change in your already shifty demeanor, the way your legs twitched inward but not out of lust (not when Primo’s sermon was focused more on wrath today), or how your body’s momentary lurch. Much like your prayer for strength, though, you suspected this plea went ignored. You didn’t need to look up and see Terzo’s smile falter to think that.

The moment Papa Primo dismissed the congregation, you made quick work of the camouflage offered by the uniforms of habits and lace.

When a quick glance back allowed you to catch sight of a confused-looking Papa Terzo, you forced yourself to swallow the pathetic truth: You were never going to find the courage to even say sorry, let alone that you no longer wanted to see him.

What you did find – or rather, what found you – was an overwhelming torrent of grief and frustration as you flung yourself into your room and back into the bed where your day had started with a massive hitch. You shoved your face into your flattening pillow and hoped there was just enough down still left in it to muffle up your screams. And tears. Belial, you told yourself you wouldn’t cry over this sort of thing anymore. Over anyone. You should’ve been used to this type of thing by now, so what was the use in wasting energy like this?

What was the point in dwelling on how nice it all was, how nice Terzo made you feel, or how you secretly looked forward to your conversations, no matter how bizarre or intellectual? You gained nothing but the label of immature whenever you indulged in the schoolgirlish feeling of letting Terzo accompany you in the halls. Indulgence might have been encouraged by the Church, but not when it hurt or disrupted the paths of others’ own pursuits.

There was absolutely no way what you had done wasn’t going to inevitably end in pain of some kind, be it physical on your part or mental and emotional on Terzo’s.

But then again, maybe . . . Maybe you didn’t have to do this after all? Maybe you could make peace with where things were headed. You wouldn’t be able to let him inside of you in the traditional sense, no, but surely that just meant that you would just have to . . . adjust things? Yeah . . . Yeah, maybe that could work . . .

Maybe I could earn his love in other ways? Prove that I’m not ungrateful and won’t waste his feelings? Intrusive visions of you “earning” that love projected onto the walls of your mind. Under more pleasant, more normal circumstances, some of the ideas would’ve been a delight for you in some way. Par for the course of a healthy relationship.

But the possibility that these might be the only ways to grant you worthiness, to allow you to deserve Terzo’s attention and love, to deserve Terzo . . . It felt tainted. It felt like an even worse lie to perform. It burned like a poison through your mind and heart before becoming incorporated with all the other pains rising to the surface.

The knock at your door was a welcome distraction, but only long enough for you to forget the possibility of it being Terzo on the other side.

You contemplated pretending that nobody was home before a muffled voice said, “I can smell you through the door, y’know.” Ah. A ghoul. Better in that it wasn’t Terzo, but worse in that you couldn’t avoid them. To your chagrin, the trek from your bed to the door wasn’t nearly long enough to look presentable or like you hadn’t been crying.

You could practically feel their eyes through the mask, studying your tear-stained ones as they smelled the salt that had settled on your cheeks. Nonetheless, they continued ever professionally with, “Papa III has sent me to come retrieve you.” From the way they barely contained their tail’s amused wagging, it was clear that they were getting a rise out of the insinuations of the invitation.

You may as well have been off to the gallows (or worse, Sister’s office) with how dour your disposition was. Being a part of the Emeritus line, Terzo’s chambers were further away from your humble digs in the Siblings’ quarters. Still, it felt as though there wasn’t nearly enough time from your door to his for you to concoct whatever it was you could say or do. Which, to be fair, wasn’t really much to begin with anyway. You were screwed, your fate sealed the moment the ghoul knocked on one of a pair of the large, wooden doors.

“Entrare,” the room’s occupant answered. Your heart beat icy pumps as you and your escort obliged.

You’d never been inside Terzo’s quarters before, not that you hadn’t been invited. Granted, the first few times had been in the very beginning, before he’d realized that his usual tricks weren’t going to work on an unusual suspect. He never brought it back up again, even as the two of you appeared to grow more comfortable with one another.

It was a shame, then, that you were too possessed with anxiety to properly take it all in: In another, more pleasant mental space, you would have adored the large, framed vintage posters that decorated the rich purple walls, or giggled at just how much purple and gold this guy actually used in one admittedly spacious but still single space.

You couldn’t properly see it, being in what appeared to be more of a lounging area (really, how big was the average Emeritus’s room compared to the lowly Siblings’ quarters?), but you could just make out what appeared to be a bedroom down a small coridor. From what little you could see, there was a bed made of rich, dark wood with a velvety canopy.

Dramatic, but fitting for someone like Terzo, you mused in a split second of clarity before the gravity of the situation returned with ten times the weight as before. After all, here you were, standing in the boudoir of the man whom you’d been avoiding all day. Avoiding because you’d failed to do your due diligence and warn him against pursuing you. And there was his damn bed right freaking there – !!!

That prey animal instinct from mass began to skitter back as you instinctively began to look for ways out of this. Maybe you could leap out that Satanic Tiffany glass window? You’d be killing two birds with one stone if you did: You could get out of a confrontation, and the action would surely unnerve Terzo enough for him to draw back, right?

However, the make-believe agility and will to do so quickly dissolved out of you the moment you heard the voice you’d been avoiding all day once more. “Grazie, Wisp,” he addressed the ghoul. From the sounds of it, he must’ve been in a room off to the side, away from view. Despite Terzo not being visible to them, the ghoul still offered a bow in respect before taking their leave (though not without their nosiness prompting them to sneak one last look into the room).

You winced in sync with the door clicking shut, the soft padding of footsteps on the plush carpeting thundered in your ears as Terzo made his appearance. Even though he made sure to keep some space between the both of you, you still felt increasingly like a trapped animal.

As much as you wanted to cast your eyes down and pretend to be intrigued by the fact that the flooring was black instead of some shade of purple, acting as though nothing was amiss was your best course of action. Even if you felt your breathing hitch both with uneasiness and infatuation over the fact that, yet again, the man’s face was bare of his usual paints. It did, however, carry a small look of concern. While you felt guilty, perhaps him being worried would be easier to work with than him being outright upset?

You tried to predict the sort of things a concerned Terzo might say and what responses would be appropriate when you noticed something else about him: His clothing. You didn’t expect Terzo to be lounging in his own living space in his robes but even then, he tended to favor going about in his suit. This was the first time you’d seen him in anything that could be considered casual and not relating to his position as a Papa. The first time you’d seen him in pants that were actually tailored, actually! It was questionable if a men’s blouse made from what might’ve been silk could qualify as “informal”, but your brain was currently unable to drum up that inquiry.

Instead, it was too busy focusing on how the top was being worn: With only the top two buttons undone, the edge of what was more likely than not an absolute thicket of black chest hairs was visible. (If you were a stronger person – a better, more functioning one – you would’ve absolutely braved that thicket like a safari explorer.)

You gulped, realizing that maintaining eye contact was going to be harder than usual. If you were quicker about keeping your wits, you might’ve tried to speak up first. Maybe with a “Hi, Papa. How ‘bout that afternoon mass, amirite?” But Terzo beat you to it.

“. . . How are you?” he inquired. Surprisingly, there wasn’t even a hint of accusation in his tone. “Are you doing alright today?”

I’m anxious to the point of sickness and contemplating vandalism with your window, you wanted to say.

“’M alright. Just tired, I guess,” you shrugged. Judging by the way Terzo’s lips pressed into a thin line, he probably didn’t believe you. However, if there was anything you’d learned in your time together, it was that Terzo wasn’t exactly the type to prod. It was easy to assume from the flamboyant persona that he was far nosier than he really was. But the unfortunate and lovely reality was that Terzo trusted you. Worse was that he trusted you enough to both see his true face, and to tell him how you felt when you were comfortable. Your stomach dropped when you remembered the fact you’d been crying before this. Were your eyes still reddened and puffy? Did he notice?

“Vedo,” he replied before slowly crossing his arms. "Well, if that is the case, then perhaps we must do a bit of a raincheck for the evening, yes?”

Your brows lightly twitched in a nonplussed fashion. It was then that you finally noticed the full scope of the room you were in. It was more like a den than an actual lounging area, complete with a TV on a DVD loading screen and a couch sat before it.

You forgot to blink as it hit you. This was what Terzo had been referring to during his face reveal yesterday: He was asking you to watch a movie with him! And you, in your lovesick stupor, had agreed wholeheartedly to it!

Logic (and a sense of cowardice self-preservation) would have dictated that you leap at the opportunity to leave. You needed time to regroup. Maybe make a sacrifice to Satanas in the hopes that that might win you some courage to do what needed to be done.

But before you could commit to it, you reminded yourself: You needed to act unbothered. You’d already aroused suspicion in Terzo as it was. If Terzo thought you really wanted to watch a movie with him, as you had outright stated, then you needed to watch a movie with him. All you had to do was sit down at a reasonable distance and appear completely invested. Too invested to possibly think about how you wanted to tangle your fingers into his chest hair. Or how you absolutely shouldn’t want to do that at all.

“N-no, I’m good!” you insisted a little too eagerly. “I can stay up, I’m not that tired.”

He quirked a brow but questioned no further. “If you insist. Come: I have a small setup.”

The setup being an oddly-shaped popcorn bucket (why . . . did it look kind of like a pope hat?) filled with cheese doodles and a bottle of red wine to be shared between two glasses. You took only the smallest handful of doodles to be courteous but turned down the wine under the claim that you were trying to cut back. The reality was you couldn’t risk letting alcohol lubricate you into either melting down or melting into his lap as you both settled in.

The Man Who Laughs, read the title card. A name just vague enough to sound familiar though you didn’t really know a thing about it. When Terzo briefly explained that its main character, Gwynplaine, had been the visual inspiration for The Joker from Batman, you expected some early horror flick. Perhaps being treated to an hour or two’s worth of a spiteful man seeking revenge and wreaking havoc on the innocent. Odd choice in what you could only describe as a movie date, but you were already in too deep and far too high-strung to comment.

But as the film progressed, you found yourself surprised. Not only because the plot was far from what you’d predicted, but also because you also hadn’t been expecting a sense of solidarity. Sure, you’d never been a stage performer whose disfigurement made him a laughingstock to the pauper and nobleman alike. But nonetheless, Gwynplaine’s plight resonated with you. Something about being an introverted, soft-hearted person who feared their worthiness of love was thwarted by something they had no control over.

When you’d settled on the couch that evening, your goal had been to merely pretend to take the movie in. But the tenderness exhibited by the film’s two main love interests made that all but impossible for you. You now existed in a strange and uncomfortable middle ground: Too invested to keep your wits, but too aware of how uncomfortable the relation was. If this were some vintage horror flick, there might’ve arguably been a chance to hide any visible anxieties as suspense-born fear.

But between the “smiling” man swooning into the beautiful Dea’s touch, to him hiding into himself when his insecurities got the better of him, you just kept being reminded of your own circumstances, and how Terzo had given you his full face when you couldn’t even give him the truth.

A wave of self-directed disgust began to boil in you, causing you to briefly tic. Otherwise, though, you remained stiff. It was a fair film, after all, and it was a shame that you were corrupting yet one more thing that was dear to Terzo by equating it with your own problems.

But inside you were the beginnings of a nor’easter of biblical proportions: Deluges depicted you forcing yourself through your fears in a pathetic effort to prove to him he could still love you; the voices of failed relationships past split through your mind like thunderclaps; even the howling winds sounded like your whimpers whenever you trapped yourself in the bathroom, determined but failing to conquer Q-tips and dilators and even your own pinky finger. The flood they all created sloshed and battered about your insides and squeezed at your lungs, brutalizing your mind.

Just relax already, they said.

You’re just being difficult! they had accused.

Quit holding out! they demanded.

The film became less and less visible to you as you tried to steady your breathing and cling to something inside. Please, Dark Lord, great Old One, you prayed once more. Did you want silence? Freedom? For the moment to end, or for everything to pause? You couldn’t tell with all this noise. Please –

Forget it.

Despite being born from the storm, it hung over it, breaking through everything and silencing all. Even your prayer felt muted compared to how deafening the command sounded in your head. The voice did not belong to the Dark One, however. It didn’t even belong to the other Big Guy. You knew this voice, actually. It had been years since you’d last seen or heard from its owner, but you still heard it nearly every day since. And they always said the same thing every time:

No one is going to put up with this if you can't fix it!

You fought to contain any reaction from reaching the surface, but you failed: You shuddered. Violently so. You had to quickly cover it up with an overcorrection of tensing, but you thought you’d managed.

You didn’t even have time to make up an excuse when you caught Terzo moving from the corner of your eye. He was getting closer – no: His arm was getting closer. Angling to wrap around you.

There shouldn’t have been anything intimidating about the idea of Terzo, coming at you with 30% of his hairy chest out, possibly aiming to get some over-the-shoulder action. Unfortunately for you, at this point, you were beyond intimidated. This was made clear with your reaction of jerking away, emitting a gaspy, yelpy whimper you never knew you could even make.

And for a moment, everything but the film froze.

It was an odd juxtaposition, the swelling orchestral music playing as you both just stared at one another without a single hint of romance. You truly were like Gwynplaine now, hands covering your mouth as your eyes stared wide. Terzo’s own eyes being wide was rather commonplace, but the way he stared at you now made you feel uneasy. It was almost as though those big eyes of his were suddenly seeing everything in high definition, able to see now see every crack in the structure that was you.

The soundtrack could’ve played on for an eternity before his low voice quietly spoke above it.

“Mia cara. . .? Are you okay?” He sounded even more uncertain than he did yesterday when he asked you about his face. When you failed to respond, he tried much softer: “(Y/N).”

Your breath hitched, icy and cold in your burning throat. You could count the times he’d used your actual name on one hand. Nearly all of them had been during the very beginning of your interactions. Back when he was trying to prove the extent of his interest. Otherwise, it was always a term of endearment: “Mia sorellina” or “Tesoro mio” or “Piccina mia” and so on.

Always “mio/a”. Always his, even when you had no right to be. But now, as he stared at you, having to resort to using your actual name, he must’ve been starting to realize that . . .

Even though it had done you no favors this entire evening, you let panic guide you to spring into action. You stammered and struggled for words as you tried to make yourself untense.

“I-I’m – I’m sorry, I was just so enthralled –” Did that word even fit here? “I was really into the movie, the sudden movement startled me and –” But it wasn’t so sudden, was it? “I’m really sorry, I just –”

But you just what? You did not know, and it was extremely apparent the more you talked.

“I thought you were cold,” Terzo gently reasoned once your words tapered off. At this, the arm you’d feared was coming to corner you shook gently. In his hand was the edge of a throw blanket you’d been leaning against. “I was going to offer you some cover. I thought you’d been stiff this entire while, and then you shuddered, so I . . .”

His movements were notably slower now. Felt the need to be more careful, even if all he was doing was reaching for the remote to finally pause the ongoing show.

His eyes were less wide as well, but what they left in their wake was a firm yet troubled stare. It wasn’t meant to make you feel so afraid, but the feeling was there regardless.

“(Y/N),” he stated carefully. “If you are not comfortable, then I need you to tell me. I am a big boy, I can understand boundaries. If I’ve been moving too fast or made you uncomfortable in any way, I –”

“The problem isn’t you, it’s me,” you interrupted. God. Satan. Whomever had stuck around to witness this travesty. Being the truth didn’t make it seem any less lame. And judging by how Terzo’s demeanor shifted into being unimpressed, he clearly thought so as well.

“To be brutally frank, Sorella, I was hoping for a bit more . . . honesty.” The delivery of that last word faltered somewhat, but it was more than enough to provide a healthy punch to your gut. Actually hearing Terzo express disappointment towards you was far more devastating than anything your mind could have concocted. He’d already implied on multiple occasions how he’d often found himself on the shorter end of a seemingly mutual trust. Now you were just another person who’d failed to uphold their end.

While true, something in you felt the need to still fight back.

“No, you don’t get it,” you hoarsely insisted against the tightening of your throat. Your fingers immediately set to biting into your arms as they crossed.

“Then help me to!” he finally demanded. “You’ve been acting strange ever since yesterday, so what? Is it me after all? My face? What?!” The frenzy, while warranted, made everything inside you curl inward. Everything suddenly felt too big, too loud for the decreasing space inside you. Your lungs couldn’t expand enough, and you could practically feel the hurricane inside you banging at your eyes to be let out. Your teeth sank into your lips just as your nails sank even more into your arms. Anything to bite back and fight back what was quickly becoming inevitable.

He must have realized what he’d done, or perhaps he just used his eyes to see you practically shrinking. His expression uncrumpled into something more tender and apologetic, but creases of quiet frustration remained.

“Cara. (Y/N),” he corrected, his more patient voice from before returning. “I apologize for my outburst. Really. I do. But . . . Please: What is going on?”

If you opened your mouth, you were fucked.

“I cannot fix things if you don’t tell me what needs to be fixed.”

Soft like dynamite. The dam splintered, it cracked, and then it collapsed entirely. Your body was never one to take things in or hold them, after all.

“You can’t fix me . . .” It was quiet and light and it weighed down on your insides like no other.

Terzo’s brows gathered. “. . . Perdono?”

“I said you can’t fix me, okay?!” you repeated, your sentence made jagged and uneven by its sobbing delivery. The sudden explosion left the normally calm Papa taken aback. His lips parted, surely about to question what you could possibly mean, but the flood was unrelenting as it poured from your eyes and lips.

“I’m sorry! I lied! I lied, I lied, I lied, okay!? My body doesn’t work, okay, it’s fucking broken, and I knew it all along but I couldn’t tell you because I’m a f-fucking coward a-and I’m s-s-elfish – And – !” But this point, though, your throat far too tight and painful to even try continuing. Besides, you’d said all of what mattered, right? That you’d lied to him by omission, that you were broken, and that you were a goddamn selfish coward for pretending otherwise.

The truth hurt but you deserved this pain, having only yourself to blame that you were experiencing this on this man’s couch instead of in the privacy of your room. Everything in you screamed to get up and run back there, in fact, but you lacked the will to do anything other than stay put in a near-blinding fit of crying, probably fucking up the sofa with all the tears you were leaking onto it. You might’ve stayed that way even longer if it weren’t for a sudden nudging at your knee.

Apparently at some point during your pity party, Terzo had taken the opportunity to get up and . . . retrieve a box of tissues? Not leave? Or call for a ghoul to come and get you? Actually, that made a bit of sense: He was too much of a gentleman to kick somebody out while they were crying, no matter how awkward the circumstances.

As much as the punishing part of you wanted to reject it, the suffocation of your snotty nose was intolerable. You accepted the tissue box and dug in until your face stung with how much you had to wipe at it.

Terzo meanwhile resumed his seat, making sure to allow you space as you let out whatever nonverbal emotion you needed to let out. He didn’t force you to talk – not that you could, remaining a coughing, hiccupping mess even as the emotional tempest began to recede.

In fact, he himself didn’t say a word until you’d managed to work yourself down to pathetic, wet sniffles and tremors.

“. . . You know you’re not broken, right?” he asked. You almost didn’t hear it about you

You sniffled, perplexed. Terzo watched patiently as he continued, “Look: I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But what I do know is that you make me laugh. I like talking to you. I like talking with you. I just. Like you. So clearly, something about you must work, si?”

You shook your head. No. No, that’s what they all said. Maybe not like that, but they all said one of two things:

Either they claimed this didn’t bother them and that they could work with your condition, only to later realize they couldn’t keep up the lie; or they would ask to go your separate ways. He hadn’t done the latter yet, but after everything you’d put him through, he at least deserved specification to make that decision.

“No, I mean,” you took in a deep, shaky inhale. Mostly to calm the discomfort. “I mean. My body – It literally doesn’t – I have a condition, Terzo.” You paused just enough to let the words sink in – for the both of you. It never got easier to say no matter how many times you said it. “I can’t have sex. Not in a normal way, anyway. So, like. No penetrating or whatever. Not even, like, a tongue. Shit hurts so I don’t – I can’t bother with it. And like.” You twisted your fingers. “That feels kind of antithetical to the whole ‘living deliciously’ vibe or whatever you’re supposed to be promoting. So . . .”

So there. That was it. In a sick sort of way, you did feel somewhat of a weight lifted. The heavy, gross feeling of rejection still sat within you, but you had a familiarity with it. In time, it, too, would fizzle back into the recesses of your mind. You could . . . live with it there . . .

“. . . So what?” Terzo practically huffed, barely fighting back a smirk, one you couldn’t tell if it was from his own words, or in response to the stunned expression you now wore. “First off – and forgive me for missing any point – but you do realize that the whole of that whole ‘living deliciously’ shit comes from making choices, right? If sex is what you’re talking about, I don’t necessarily need sex. Is nice, yes, but. It’s not my whole fucking life, you know.”

. . . Well, no, but . . . To be fair, that rockstar persona certainly made that easy to not consider. Before you could argue this, he continued.

“Second off,” Terzo held up two fingers. “You do realize sex is more than just insert-dick-in-pussy, yes? Your Papa is . . . Well, he knows he is no blushing virgin, we shall say. No offense.” (At this, your expression blanked. Bemusement was superior to distress, though, you supposed.) “But do you really think that I think there is only one way to make sex count? Cara, per favore: Sex is sex! So long as everyone is having fun – and consenting! – then what is there to worry about?”

“E in terzo luogo,” he added a third finger before giving all three a wiggle, “do you really think that I would do all this if all I wanted was a quick fuck? I mean, think about it, piccina. Give me more credit.”

Well, when he put it like that . . . Your cheeks and ears burned less from humiliation, but from a much softer breed of embarrassment.

“Well . . . no . . .” you admitted. “B-but going back to the choice thing – I thought the idea was to make choices that don’t hurt anybody.”

He nodded with agreement. “Questo è vero. But here we are. And no one got hurt, si?”

You bit your lip, “But . . . I lied to you. I wasted your time, and – ” At this, Terzo’s hand rose, signaling for you to shut your yap.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, dolcezza,” he spoke, his features tame but stern. “You did not waste my time. Okay? I gave you my time. And I wouldn’t ask for a moment of it back. And do you know why?” He didn’t even allow you enough time to make a snarky response: “Because I chose to spend it with you. Even if I’d known, I’d choose you. And why would I not? Sei una bellisima compagnia, and I already love what we do together, even if it’s not fucking. Now, have I thought about us fucking? Yes! Often!” (You felt your blush deepening at his rather blunt confession.)

“But I have also thought about things we have talked about; things I would like for us to talk about; things I would like for us to do – besides each other, I mean. But it here’s a fourth thing.”

No fourth finger this time. Just him offering you his hand. You felt every particle in your abdomen squish and flip over the simple gesture, but curiosity made you pushed through to accept it. Even as his other hand came over on top of yours, any trapped feeling you might’ve had mere moments before never came forward. If anything, you felt . . . here? And for as buzzy as “here” felt, you didn’t want to run from it.

Terzo gave your hand a grounding squeeze as his eyes remained locked with your own. “I’m never gonna do something that hurts you. Alright?” he swore. “And if I do? Then I need you, I beg of you to tell me. Because if you don’t want to do anything, then we don’t do anything. We do nothing but enjoy one another’s company. That is plenty enough for me, dolcezza, I can promise you this. Do you understand?”

You gulped. You didn’t even realize your eyes had widened until you found yourself needing to blink back a fresh, much smaller batch of warm tears. You could practically feel your mind scrambling, trying to reference past experiences that could help you work off of this. Maybe proof he was lying, an argument you could present – something to make this all make sense!

But it found nothing of the sort. No one, in all those times, had ever offered a third thing, let alone one where you felt like you had an actual say in how things went.

Should . . . Should you nod? Could you be trusted to make the right decision here? You nodded. It was uneasy and uncertain, but the smile it gave Terzo seemed to be the proper answer.

“Good girl,” he affirmed. Oh. Yep. That was the right answer, you decided with a jittery exhale.

“Now!” Terzo exclaimed before giving the back of your hand a gentle pat and releasing it. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to finish our movie. Call me a firm nerd but I’ve waited all night to hear your thoughts on this, no joking.”

The change in atmosphere was dizzying as Terzo readjusted himself into a more comfortable position, as though you hadn’t just bared your soul and literal intimacies to him and had him respond in the most genuine and affirming way possible. Not as though it were nothing, but more like it was just not nearly as distressing as what you’d prepared yourself to face. With the storm settling and the fog of anxiety clearing, it became increasingly apparent just how discolored your thoughts had become by your past experiences. Of course Terzo wouldn’t be so rigid about sex: It went against everything he stood for, everything he was!

Of course, complete acceptance on your end wouldn’t be immediate. But you could work with this. Though, there was admittedly one last concern you had before movie night resumed.

“B-but.” You stopped short as Terzo turned his attention back to you. You had to remind yourself that the nerves you felt now were nothing compared to before. You could do this. “But . . . What if I . . . do want to do something?”

A bushy brow at the insinuation.

“N-not now! Not immediately,” you clarified. Suddenly the fringe of the throw blanket required your attention as you began fidgeting with it. “I just . . . You know.” You gave an awkward shrug and glanced up at him, a look of pleading twinkling in your eyes as you hoped he understood what you meant. Not any time soon, perhaps, but . . . Some day? You watched as the right corner of his mouth, the one where that darling beauty mark lay, rose up into a smile.

“Then, cuore mio, we talk about it,” he answered simply. “And, if you still want to ‘do something’ after?” He leaned in, the warmth of his smile heating into a devilish smirk.

“We do it. Whatever that may look like for us.”

You nearly blacked out when the bastard had the audacity to wink at you.

He then clicked play, shifting back into place as Gwynplaine and Dea came back to life. By the time you’d managed to regain your composure and refocus on the movie, Dea was cradling Gwynplaine’s tearful face in her hands. Assuming you hadn’t missed anything, this was the first time the poor soul had actually ever let her touch his face in all its deformed glory. And judging by her jubilant reaction, Dea couldn’t have been happier.

Good for him, you quietly delighted. It was absolutely what he deserved after all that time spent torturing himself over nothing. As you resituated yourself back into the cushions, you briefly noted how the voices from before, while still there, were much quieter. They lacked the power provided by the storm, and any time one of them seemed to try and get louder, you’d hear Terzo’s voice smother it out.

I’d choose you, he affirmed.

Good girl, he praised.

You know you’re not broken, right? he reminded.

It gave you goosebumps, though not the kind that the throw blanket could pat out. But you had a theory.

It seemed that the Old One had finally chosen now to put some courage in you. Better late than never, you supposed as you began to inch closer and closer along the couch until you could feel the heat radiating off Terzo’s body. The proximity in itself was thrilling enough, but the boldness didn’t stop there.

You tested the waters, leaning a little further into him, only for his arm to calmly come around you. Whatever space that remained was quickly closed as you felt yourself being tugged and cushioned into his side. You had only a nanosecond to catch the barely-contained smile on his face before you practically melted into place. Terzo’s touch, his scent, his warmth, his everything flooded into you, filling you with a simultaneous calmness and a vigor you hadn’t felt in years.

Your dream from before had been right after all: You belonged here, right next to your Papa.