#like its just way too much for me eve if i take the easy way out on coloring its never getting done

[red-dyed-sarumane]

if u made a picrew would u rather create items based on characters u know, ur own ocs or just cool clothes and hair and things u want ppl to use

fun fact for u a few years ago i started making one but i got tired of coloring the same thing 700 times & didnt know about color adjustment settings so now its just sitting barely finished on my puter.

anyway to answer ur question i would do my options for funsies and not really base it off any charas in particular. but the amount of options i want to give it is a little too ambitious for my own limits.

[silkjade]

MIRACLE ALIGNERS

neuvillette x reader ⤀ warnings: none ! ⤀ synopsis: the melusines play matchmaker ⤀ notes: do they need an ideal mother

Your relationship with fontaine’s melusines started when you took on the menial task of helping menthe tailor the sleeves of her too long cuffs, and was solidified after your wholehearted support for aeval’s aquabus tour. In such a small community, word travels fast and your popularity skyrockets when mamere paints your portrait as her muse of choice. 

It’s not like you mind, as they’re quite easy to get along with—very sweet, if not a little naive—and you do enjoy their company when they greet you on the streets or invite you to tea. Still, it comes as a bit of a surprise when a few approach you, absolutely convinced that you’d be a great companion to their ‘very lonely, very human friend.’ 

…Which is how you come to find yourself seated at cafe lucerne, impatiently tapping your fingers at this supposed ‘friend’ who would be so rude as to make you wait more than 30 minutes past the designated meeting time. You take a deep breath to keep your irritation at bay, convincing yourself that any friend of the melusines, especially one they speak so highly of, must be a good person.

As you continue to wait, one table away, something very blue crosses your line of sight, and you look up to discover that it’s none other than the esteemed iudex himself, the chief justice who radiates such an air of refined elegance that you cannot help but sit up a little straighter in his vicinity. Seems this day just got a little more interesting as it’s not everyday you run into the notoriously elusive monsieur neuvillette just out and about on the streets of fontaine.

You yourself have been to your share of trials at the opera epiclese, seen him from his seat up above, looming over the courtroom, high and mighty. Up close, he’s still all sharp lines and perfect etiquette, the very personification of grace, but you can’t deny the fact that he’s so much more handsome in person. 

He casts a glance towards a nearby clock, and while his expression remains largely neutral, his violet eyes dance, perturbed. Perhaps he’s also meeting someone here? You deduce that it must be so, judging by the fact that he’s seated at a table clearly meant for more, and since you obviously have the time, you might as well play detective, which now begs the question: who could he be meeting?

You highly doubt it’s lady furina, so perhaps another official? Except an outdoor cafe is hardly the place to conduct such business. Besides, the average fontainian would be much too intimidated to dare keep someone of such high regard waiting. Maybe a friend, then? 

Your head tilts as you think through your observations. At least outwardly, monsieur neuvillette is…cold. He presents himself the same way in and out of court: untouchable as the sun, but with none of its warmth. He’s private and stays out of the public eye, only ever seen interacting comfortably with the archon and…the melusines… 

You lean back in disbelief at the way it all clicks. Impossible. The friend the melusines so adamantly wanted to introduce you to is…monsieur neuvillette? What a ridiculous notion to even entertain. Besides, it’s public knowledge that he’s much more of a father figure to them… although it does explain why they seemed so tongue-tied describing this so-called ‘friend.’

And…he does look quite forlorn sitting there, face blank and fingers laced together. You make a mental note to remind your little friends that as amiable as he may be with them, they cannot just blindside you with the chief justice of fontaine. Still, a meeting is a meeting, and it’d be terribly rude of you to just up and leave.

“Um, pardon me monsieur neuvillette but you wouldn’t happen to be meeting anyone here, would you?”  

Neuvillette blinks. What a pleasant surprise; not many approach him of their own accord. “As it happens, I was supposed to meet a few melusines for tea.” He gestures to the evidently empty table, though his sharp ears catch the faint whispers amidst the rustle of leaves to his side. 

“However, I suspect they may have forgotten to inform me of their change of plans.” He clears his throat, tilting his head towards a nearby bush where the tips of a few very colorful pairs of ears wiggle in excitement.

The corners of your lips quirk into the beginnings of a small smile. “That’s funny—a few melusines insisted that I meet a very human friend of theirs, though he’s yet to show up.” For obvious reasons, you decide to drop the fact they called him lonely behind his back.

Ah. So you were the kind individual his melusines often spoke so fondly of.

“Perhaps he attended the trial this morning. It did run longer than anticipated.” Yes, you knew there must have been a valid explanation to the tardiness. 

“Well, maybe we can keep each other company while we wait?”

Neuvillette gestures at the empty chair across from him and you swear the sun seems to shine a little brighter. “I would very much like that.”

© silkjade — do not steal, plagiarize, translate or repost any content onto any other platform

[kinardsevan]

𝐢'𝐦 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤

listen. i'm still so convinced it's Tommy up on that crane in 807 that my brain keeps writing scenes 😂😂😂😂 so have this:

"Buck, you need to-"

He can't hear Bobby's words as he races up the ladder, panic rising faster and faster in his chest.

"Hey no no no no no!" He yells, throwing himself over the side. His hands grasp tight around Tommy's. "Stop stop stop! Please!" The words are coming out of him in sobs, but large hands grip around his wrists and a moment later, the older man tilts his head up and his eyes lock with Evan's.

"Ev-..." He cuts himself off, his voice wobbly and raspy from his current predicament.

"Just stop," Evan replies, snuffling as tears run down his face. "Stop moving, stop- just stop."

"Ok," Tommy replies, his voice weary as his fingers tighten around Evan's wrists that much more. The blonde glances up toward Chimney on the opposite crane. He's still working to get the harness unstuck, but apparently only having mild success with it.

"My legs are numb," Tommy states, blinking slowly. Chim looks up at them.

"Fuck this. I'm going to cut him down. The 217 can get the line fixed," Chimney states before heading back down the ladder in quick succession. "I need bolt cutters!"

"Evan," Tommy rasps. His hands are sweaty now, hanging onto the other man's arms.

"No," Evan replies, his voice tinged with anger now. "You have to hang on."

"You have to let go," Tommy counters to him, his voice exhausted. "Evan-" His grip slips on Evan's arm, and beneath them there's scrambling to get the inflatable placed properly. He glances over at the other crane as Chimney finishes reascending it.

"I can't," Evan replies, his own voice strained as he grips onto Tommy's arm with both hands now. "Fuck, Tommy, I can't."

"Why not," he asks wearily.

"Because!" Evan yells at him. Several tears fall off his face in quick succession, one landing on Tommy's own face as it continues its descent downward.

Somehow, even from beneath him, even with most of his blood volume hanging out in the lower half of his body with no way to make it circulate properly, Tommy manages to give him that look, the one that says he's really paying attention.

"Evan." He says it like it's Evan who needs to be talked off the ledge, like he's the one hanging in the middle of the air being held up by a crane.

"You don't get to give up now," Evan growls at him. "You already did that to me once this week."

"Are we really talking about this now," Tommy asks him. His fingers slip a few millimeters, but Evan curls his hand tight under Tommy's elbow, trying to pull him up.

"Seems as good a time as any," he replies. A humorless laugh slips out of him.

"I've almost got it," Chimney calls from the other crane.

Evan gulps. "It was too much, too fast," he states. "Asking you to move in. I s-said things that made it sound like I wasn't invested-.."

"It's fine," Tommy replies, sounding mildly exasperated.

"No its not," Evan argues, squeezing tighter on Tommy's arm. "it's not. Because it made me sound like I was asking you to move in because it's the easy option, like I wanted you to stay without any consideration of what your life looks like outside of what we are. Or were."

Tommy stares up at him, still blinking slow and long. Evan pulls his arm up inches higher, trying to take more of the weight off of his lower body.

"But it's not that," he says, sniffling again. "I lept before thinking, a-and made it into a thing that it wasn't and has never been." He sniffles again. "I didn't ask you to move in because I wanted to be impulsive. I said it because I want a life with you, a-and I was afraid to own that and what that means for me." He pauses and gulps, lets out a breath. "I was so pissed at you for breaking up with me, a-and you were doing the same thing I did. You were protecting yourself." Tommy stares up at him, eyebrows quirked slightly in confusion.

"I thought if I didn't say it, it was safer, that we-..." He shakes his head at himself as he feels the tension pulling Tommy back toward Chimney starting to wane as the bolt cutters work through the metal. "But I also want the whole damn thing with you. I'm not in it because it's easy, or because you were the first man to kiss me. I'm in it because I'm in love with you."

Tommy stares up at him still, giving him that damn look again, and the slack goes looser, his weight becoming even heavier on Evan's arms.

"I love you," he repeats. "I love you so damn much."

Tommy grants him a weary smile. "I love you too, Evan."

His weight falls entirely on Evan then, and both of their arms jerk out straight, Evan leaned roughly over the crane as he tries to keep holding on.

"Evan, let go," Tommy tells him.

"Please," Evan begs him, and he's not even entirely sure what it is he's begging for. "Tommy-.."

"I love you too," he repeats. "But you have to let go."

Evan gulps, forces a breath in, forces his tunnel vision to open up, and realizes the inflatable is ready and will catch Tommy. "I'll meet you at the bottom."

"Sounds good," Tommy rasps. And then, against everything that tells him he should, Evan lets go, watching as Tommy drops the 30 feet onto the inflatable crash pad. As soon as his body hits, Evan is already double-timing his way down the ladder. He makes it down in what he's sure is record time, running past everyone else to get to Tommy's side. Hen already has him on a stretcher, attached to a dozen leads and assessing his legs.

"Risk of compartment syndrome," she states. "Likely dislocation of the left hip. He needs x-rays and we need to go."

"I'm going with," Evan announces, refusing to hear reason to any other option. His hand is tight in Tommy's as soon as he's next to him, his other hand combing down the other man's hair as he stares down into those blue eyes. They're already brighter from his circulation picking back up. "I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."

"Good lord just kiss the man already," Gerrard calls from the back of the crowd. Evan whips his head around and Tommy leans up off he gurney, both of them giving the old grump a shocked expression.

"What?" He asks. He has that grumpy look on his face once more, like he still thinks that their lifestyle is beneath him (at the very least). "We all know it's what you're thinking. I just said it."

Evan turns back toward Tommy, and the blue eyes meet.

"My boyfriend's sister once said there better ways to get someone's attention than this," Tommy says. Evan lets out a laugh, color flushing through his cheeks at the dignification of boyfriend. He curls two fingers under Tommy's chin and kisses him, both of them ignorant of the whooping and hollering happening around them.

"Like that," he whispers when they finally part, pressing his forehead into Tommy's. Tommy has a hand fisted around Evan's shirt, keeping him close.

"Yeah, that works," he whispers back. "I love you, too, Evan. I love you, too."

[meazalykov]

tis the season

lea schuller x nwsl!reader

summary: surprises are apart of the christmas holiday

for @katelynnwrites

it’s two weeks before christmas when you make the final arrangements to fly back to munich.  

the lie comes easily when you’re on the phone with lea, her voice soft and slightly tired after a long training day.

“i wish i could come,” you say, shifting on your couch as you stare at the tickets on your coffee table. 

“but the pride has me doing all this promotional stuff… media shoots, a kid’s camp, the whole thing. you know how the off-season is over here in america.”

lea hums on the other end, a pause where you can tell she’s disappointed but trying to understand. “it’s okay,” she replies, though her voice says otherwise. “i know you’re busy.”

“you’re mad,” you tease lightly, trying to keep things playful so she doesn’t linger on it too much.

“i’m not mad,” she sighs, but you can practically see the pout on her face through the phone. 

“i just miss you. christmas is better with you here.”

its time likes this when you regret leaving germany to pursue the more competitive league. yes, you weren't getting much play time at bayern (now being a starter for orlando and winning the league and championship) but at least you had your lea there with you.

“i miss you too, sonnenschein,” you reply softly, a pang of guilt settling in your chest. 

you’re lying to lea, but for a good reason—one she’ll never see coming.

getting obi on board with your plan was surprisingly easy.

“so you’re telling me you’re flying back to propose to lea,” she says when you call her later that evening. you can practically hear the grin on her face.

“yeah,” you laugh nervously. “she has no idea. i’m gonna need your help sneaking around though… like a lot of help. can i stay at yours when i get in? i just need her to not know i’m there until christmas eve.”

“obviously,” obi replies immediately. 

“this is gonna be so fun. she’s gonna kill me when she finds out i knew, but it’ll be worth it.”

“she’ll forgive you,” you grin.

obi laughs. “maybe. just don’t mess up the proposal, y/n.”

“not a chance,” you say confidently, though your heart starts pounding at the thought of the big moment.

when you arrive in munich two days before christmas eve, obi picks you up from the airport. the cold air hits you immediately, a stark contrast to florida’s weather, but it doesn’t bother you. 

the city feels like home, even though you left for the opportunities in the nwsl. your chest tightens a little as you pass familiar streets and shops on the way to obi’s apartment.

“she thinks you’re still in orlando, right?” obi asks as she pulls your suitcase into her building’s elevator.

“yep,” you confirm, stretching your arms after the long flight. 

“we talked last night. she said she’s just decorating and baking for her christmas party. apparently she invited half the bayern team.”

obi grins. “you’ll have quite the audience, then.”

“i’m not nervous about the crowd,” you lie, though your stomach flips just thinking about it.

“i’ll believe that when i see it,” obi teases, unlocking her apartment door. 

“just keep quiet while we’re here. she’ll come looking for me eventually, and i’m a terrible liar.”

“got it,” you reply, plopping onto her couch. “and thanks again for this.”

“anything for my bestfriend and her lover,” obi says dramatically, earning an eye roll from you. but you smile anyway.

it’s christmas eve, two hours into lea’s party, when you arrive at the building you once called home. obi’s beside you, grinning like an accomplice in a heist. you take a deep breath as you stare up at the lit windows of lea’s apartment. 

inside, you can hear music playing and faint bursts of laughter—probably giulia or sydney causing chaos.

“ready?” obi asks, handing you a santa hat to wear.

“ready,” you exhale.

obi opens the door, and the warmth hits you immediately as you step inside. for a moment, you’re frozen in place. the room is full of people—some of your old teammates, like tuva and giulia, as well as other familiar faces from bayern. 

sydney spots you first, her face lighting up in pure shock as she nudges giulia beside her.

“y/n?!” sydney shouts, grabbing everyone’s attention. all at once, heads turn your way, and chaos ensues.

“are you kidding me?” giulia shrieks, pulling you into a hug that nearly knocks you over.

“what are you doing here?!” sydney adds, squeezing your arm as she laughs.

“merry christmas?” you offer, grinning as tuva joins the dogpile of hugs. you’re swarmed by familiar faces, everyone excited and surprised to see you back in munich.

across the room, by the tv, you finally spot lea. she’s standing there frozen, eyes wide, her lips slightly parted in disbelief. you can’t help but laugh at her stunned expression.

“did you know about this?” lea asks obi, her voice loud enough to carry over the chatter.

obi raises her hands defensively. “maybe,” she replies with a smirk.

lea gives her a light punch on the shoulder, shaking her head with a small smile.

when you’re finally done greeting everyone, you turn your focus to her. the room seems to blur as you make your way over, her eyes never leaving yours.

“hi,” you say softly, pulling her into a hug. she holds you tightly, her face buried in your shoulder as she exhales shakily.

“you lied to me,” she murmurs into your ear, though her voice holds no anger—just relief.

“i did,” you admit, kissing her temple. 

“but it was for a good reason.”

she pulls back slightly to look at you, eyes narrowed playfully. 

“you’re lucky i love you.”

“i know,” you grin, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before leading her toward the couch.

the evening feels like stepping back into a life you still hold close to your heart. you sit beside lea, your legs tangled as the two of you share cookies from a festive tray. her hand rests lazily on your knee as sam and georgia argue over which holiday movie to put on. 

the room smells like cinnamon and pine, the soft hum of laughter filling the spaces between conversations.

it’s like you never left.

after a while, when the last of lea’s guests filter out just after midnight, you watch as she shuts the door, her movements slow as if the weight of the evening is finally catching up with her.

you finally got to say goodbye to obi, who gave you a hidden smirk before walking about the door. 

“i didn’t think i’d see you this christmas,” she says softly, turning to face you. her smile is small but filled with warmth.

“i didn’t want to miss it,” you reply, standing up to meet her in the center of the living room. the apartment feels quiet now, the twinkle lights casting a soft glow across the space.

she steps closer, her arms wrapping around your waist. 

“well, i’m glad you’re here.”

you take a deep breath, your heart pounding as you reach for her hands, gently pulling them away so you can hold them in yours. she frowns slightly, confused by the sudden seriousness in your expression.

“i need to talk to you about something,” you say quietly, meeting her gaze.

“go ahead,” lea swallows nervously.

“lea… ever since i met you back in 2020, i knew you’d be someone important to me,” you begin, your voice steady but soft. 

“at first, it was just your smile—you were so confident, so full of life when you came from essen while I came from freiburg. then i got to know you a bit more as the first season together went on, and i realized just how special you are. you’re strong, lea. not just on the pitch, but as a person. you always take care of everyone else, even when you don’t have to. you have the biggest heart, and you love so deeply… being with you has made me better in every way.”

you pause to take a breath, feeling the emotion swell in your chest. lea’s eyes are wide, her hands squeezing yours tightly. you can see the tears already gathering at the edges of her lashes, but she doesn’t say anything—she just lets you speak.

“even after i left for orlando, even with the distance, we’ve stayed strong. you’ve been my home, no matter where i am. and i want to make that official. i want to spend the rest of my life with you, lea.”

you release one of her hands to reach behind you, pulling the small velvet box from your pocket. your heart pounds as you slowly drop to one knee, your gaze never leaving hers.

lea gasps softly, her hands covering her mouth. you smile up at her, your typical confident smirk softening into something far more tender.

“so,” you say, voice light but full of emotion, “will you marry me, sonnenschein?”

“you’re… you’re insane,” she breathes, reaching into her jogger pocket. your eyes widen as she pulls out her own velvet box, and suddenly she’s dropping to one knee as well.

you freeze, blinking at her in disbelief. 

“lea, what…?”

she laughs softly, tears brimming in her eyes as she mirrors your position. 

“you think you’re the only one who plans things, liebe?” her voice is shaky, her smile trembling as she opens the box in her hands, revealing a ring that catches the warm glow of the twinkle lights.

“i’ve been carrying this for weeks,” she admits, her cheeks flushed. 

“i thought about waiting until you came back to munich for the next international break… but now you’re here. and i don’t want to wait anymore.”

there’s a moment where neither of you say anything, both of you kneeling on the living room floor, tears streaming down your faces as you stare at each other. your heart is pounding so hard you think she can hear it.

“so,” she continues, her voice soft, steady despite her shaking hands, 

“if you’ll marry me… then yes, y/n, i’ll marry you.”

“you’re proposing to me while i’m proposing to you?” you choke out, a watery laugh escaping as you wipe at your face.

“looks like it,” she grins through her tears.

you don’t know who moves first, but suddenly you’re both laughing and crying, holding each other as the rings sit forgotten between you. you pull back just enough to look at her, cupping her face as you whisper, “yes, sonnenschein. a thousand times yes.”

“and yes to you, liebe,” she replies, leaning in to press her forehead against yours.

your hands are trembling as you both reach for the rings, and you can’t help but laugh when neither of you can slide them on properly at first. “stop shaking!” you tease, though you’re no better, fumbling with her finger as you finally slide the ring into place.

“you’re shaking too,” she fires back, laughing as she slips the band onto your hand with care. for a moment, you both just stare at each other’s hands, the weight of the moment settling in.

“we’re really doing this,” you whisper.

“we are,” she murmurs, smiling softly.

you don’t know who leans in first, but the kiss that follows is deep, filled with every unspoken word, every long mile you’ve spent apart, and every promise of the future you’re now building together. 

when you finally pull away, your cheeks are wet, her eyes shining as she looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

“merry christmas, y/n,” she whispers.

“merry christmas, lea,” you reply, your voice soft, steady, and full of love.

masterlist

[deepestnightcolor]

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Kinkmas - 17th of December⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

ᴀ/ɴ: Door 17 is ready to be opened, are you willing to look into it? Thank you soooo much for still being here if you are!

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x Fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 636 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: I think that one is just fluffy, with slight mentions of mischief :D

Okay, hear me out. Sam is NOT dumb. But it is easy to get Sam excited, you know?

And our boy would be EXCITED for the Feast of the Winterstar.

He would be the kind of person starting to blast “All I want for Christmas” as soon as Spirits Eve has passed and decorating his room as soon as humanly possible without Sebastian to choke the spirit right outta him.

And can you imagine him with Vincent? He would read him all the Winterstar stories he would find, make the festivities as magical as possible for him. He would be the kind of guy to wear boots two sizes bigger than he usually wears to stomp through the snowy garden and back toward the forest to tell Vincent it was Santa. (He even would make a stop at Marnie’s  because he and Shane once bumped into one another and “there can’t be two Santas” (they played rock, paper, scissors to settle the argument).)

He would also definitely make you part of all his traditions if you would be so inclined, telling you about them with sparkling eyes.

He would be so busy preparing everything all season – it is honestly endearing.

Sam is the kind of guy to wake up early on the day of, all excited for everyone else to wake up, pacing around the room until he finally hears some movement.

But poor boy would also be exhausted by the end of the day, crawling into bed before anyone else, ready to just sleep, even though he would definitely tell you that he only wants to rest his eyes a little bit.

“Babe?” You asked quietly, closing the door behind you carefully. The room was quiet, the only thing that could be heard was soft chatter coming from the TV. You had been seeing a flash of blond hair all throughout the day and it had never been in one place, it seemed. No, Sam had been bustling around all day, stopping by here and there to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, lips, forehead, whatever place he could reach on his way past, sometimes spinning you around. Even during the feast your lover was bursting with energy, heading around the tables, talking, chatting, laughing. You had seen him playing with the kids, too, letting himself be dragged into their happy excitement. Or maybe it had been the other way around? You hadn’t been sure- Long story short, Sam had been an energetic ball of Winterstar spirit all day, so it hadn’t caught you too much off guard when he had finished his conversation with Sebastian by slapping him on the back and handing him a gift, telling him he would see him around before wandering up to you. “I will go home and start us off with a movie, baby. Join me soon?” he had asked, pressing another kiss to your forehead. You had nodded and had sent him on his way. It honestly hadn’t been long until you had wrapped up your own conversation, and now you were here, in your shared bedroom, taking in the scenery. Sam was lying splayed out on the bed, holding a Winterstar cookie in one of his hands and the remote in the other. His pants were still hanging around his ankles, but the blond was knocked out. A small smile crept on your face as you walked up to him, carefully pulling his pants off his body completely before you covered him with the blanket. The gift you had been holding found its place under the tree before you slid under the blankets next to your spouse, letting him dream of reindeers and Santa and snow. Little did you know you were the most prominent feature in his dream and the cause of his smile. That doesn't mean he will sleep through the night, though. Oh no, it is highly likely that Sam will wake you up hours later, mischievous glint in his eyes when he holds up a mistletoe, his hand slowly sliding down your body. "I think I haven't given you your second part of your gift yet, baby," he would whisper as his finger traced up the inside of your bare thigh. There he was again.

[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. 

[harry-on-broadway]

Santa's Helpers: An Ever Since New York Extra

A/N: It's been like two years since I've written anything but I've been thinking of these two a lot lately. Please be nice and enjoy this unedited, very fluffy ficlet!

Sometime in the future…

Greta rolled her neck as the Q train approached the 86th Street station. She gathered her tote from the seat beside her double checking to make sure that none of the last-minute gifts she’d purchased between shows had spilled out. The doors opened and she stepped onto the platform, side-stepping some tinsel and less festive litter as she made her way to the exit. 

The chill of the December air hit her with its full force and she braced against the wind and she climbed the stairs to street level. Just a few blocks and she’d be home, cozy in her pajamas with a warm mug of tea. She pulled her scarf further up her face and set out. 

“Evening, Jim,” she said to the doorman on duty as went to scan her card. 

“Evening, Greta,” he replied. “Got your hands full there.” He buzzed her in and Greta nodded her thanks. 

“Had to get some final presents after the matinee today,” she said with a laugh. “I severely underestimated how crazy the stores would be the day before Christmas. So I guess I deserved the chaos?”

“I’ve been there before,” Jim chuckled. “Do you have a show tomorrow?” Jim asked. 

“Thankfully, no.” Greta said. “Two shows on Christmas Eve is tough, but getting tomorrow off makes up for it.” 

“Melissa and I still need to get down there to see you,” he said wistfully. “Into the Woods is one of her favorites.”

“Well, we’ll be there for a while…hopefully,” Greta added as an afterthought. “Let me know what night works for you and I’ll make sure there’s a pair for you all at will call. 

“You don’t,” Jim tried to protest. 

“Nope. It’s the least I can do, Jim. You take such good care of us, you deserve it.”

“Well thank you, Greta. We really appreciate it. I’ll check with her schedule and let you know. Merry Christmas.” 

“Merry Christmas, Jim,” Greta called over her shoulder as she stepped into the elevator. 

When it stopped at her floor, she rummaged through her purse, digging for her keys, and when she reached the door she unlocked it and eased it open. After quietly closing it, she set her bags down and toed her flats off, as the gentle sound of nails on hardwood echoed through the entryway. 

“Hi Taffy girl,” she whispered as the Golden Retriever trotted towards her. “Did you have a busy day?” The dog just nudged her hand, seeking pets, which Greta obliged. 

“Harry?” she whispered, as she walked to the living room, dragging the tote full of presents behind her. 

“In here!” he whispered in return. 

What Greta saw before her, brought a smile to her face and warmed her heart. Her husband was seated on the floor, looking positively cozy in his sweats and hoodie, surrounded by toys and various accoutrements of gift-wrapping. In front of him were what she conservatively estimated at about 120 pieces of wood and plastic that would eventually be assembled into a play kitchen. 

“Did you get it?” he asked. 

Greta reached into the bag. “You requested a pack of pretend food?” 

“Oh, honey I love you so much,” he sighed, relief rippling through him. “I never thought I’d be stressed about plastic food for a fake kitchen.”

“And then we had kids…”

“And then we had kids…” he echoed. “I hope it wasn’t too bad?” he asked. 

“I mean…I do think Times Square Target on Christmas Eve is the tenth circle of hell, but I’d do anything for those little nuggets so it’s fine.” 

Their daughter loved watching the two of them cook and “helping” to pour things into various bowls and cups, and her little brother was starting to get the bug as well, so when Harry suggested a play kitchen as a Christmas gift, Greta was immediately on board. While the playset had been surprisingly easy to obtain, plastic food proved to be much harder, resulting in the last minute shopping trip to ensure the two kids sleeping peacefully upstairs had a perfect Christmas morning. 

“I was going to make some tea, but then I can start wrapping? Or assembling? Do you want a cup?”

“That would be great, baby,” Harry said. “There’s cookies on the table too if you want a snack.” 

Greta headed to the kitchen, grabbing mugs and tea bags while the electric kettle began to boil. She smiled when she saw the cookies, covered in way too much sugar and icing, imagining Harry gently reminding their kids that the cookies just needed a tiny bit of decoration. She put some onto a plate and brought the treats and beverages back into the chaos of the living room. 

“Thanks, love,” Harry said, focused on the instructions in front of him, as Greta sat the mug on the coffee table behind them.

“What made you decide to tackle this tonight?” she asked, warming her hands on the mug. 

“Well, the real answer is that I thought it would make them happy to tear off the paper and see it built rather than sitting in the box. But selfishly, I figured it would be easier for me to put it together without them hanging off of me. Might have misjudged that though,” he muttered as he frowned at the instructions. 

“If you’ve got that covered, I can get started on the other gifts if that works?” Harry nodded in agreement and Greta reached across the floor to grab various books, dolls, and other toys, along with some wrapping paper and bows. “I grabbed a couple other things when I was out this afternoon.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Mmmhmm. Nothing big…a couple of books. Some fancy glitter crayons that are supposedly washable.”

“They’ll certainly put that to the test.” 

“You can say that again,” Greta chuckled. “I found a couple of Jellycats as well.”

Harry turned to shoot her a look. “I thought we had a ban on more Jellycats entering this house," he teased. 

Greta had in fact said those exact words a few months prior after more stuffed toys had been gifted to the kids by their very doting grandparents. “It’s Christmas. I’m showing leniency.” 

Harry let out the loudest laugh he dared before turning his attention back to the construction project in front of him. The two worked in companionable quiet, the only noises the sliding of Greta’s scissors on the wrapping paper, the gentle taps of the mallet against wood, and occasional slurps of tea. 

“Remember when Christmas used to involve fun for us?” Harry asked. “Before we became Santa’s helpers? No putting together toys using instructions written in French. No wrapping. I could throw something in a gift bag, toss some tissue paper on top, and call it a day. Focus my attention on unwrapping you. Although I was hoping I’d get to do that again this year.” He snuck a glance at Greta out of the corner of his eye. 

It was Greta’s turn to let out a laugh. “Are you seriously trying to come onto me right now?”

“Is it working?”

“It would if I wasn’t so tired.”

“Yeah, I’m talking a big game right now, but it will be a miracle if I stay awake long enough to get this built.”

Greta reached out to rub his back, and Harry leaned into her touch as she kneaded at a particularly tight knot. “How bad was it today?” Greta asked, bracing for the worst. 

When their daughter had been born, both Harry and Greta decided that they would take a break from work to fully focus on their newborn. The break was intended to last a couple of months, and then one of them would return to work and they’d figure out an alternating schedule to ensure one of them would always be home with the kids. 

However, a couple of months turned into a year, which turned into two, and then their son joined the crew and the process had started all over again. Greta hadn’t been sure how she’d adapt to motherhood, juggling it with her career. She’d always had faith in Harry but felt less confident in herself. But from day one, their little family had been everything she’d ever hoped for. They were raising two city kids, who coasted down the block on their scooters, knew which bodegas had the friendliest cats, and were already infinitely cooler than either of their parents.

As perfect as their family life was though, she still found herself longing to work again and create something away from home. And when she whispered that desire to Harry one night, he’d been nothing but encouraging, pushing her to do what made her happy. 

“Does that make me a bad mom though? Wanting to leave my kids and do something else?” she said so quietly she wasn’t sure Harry heard her. 

“No,” Harry had assured her. “You’ll be setting a great example for them, showing them that being a parent doesn’t mean giving up on your dreams.” 

A couple of months later, Greta had booked her first Broadway show in years and Harry fully embraced his role as a stay-at-home dad. And while doing eight shows a week while raising two kids under six was a task not for the faint of heart, she felt more fulfilled than she ever had before. That fulfillment wasn’ entirely guilt free though, and every time she kissed her kids and husband goodbye and headed to the theater, she felt a twinge of guilt and prayed she wouldn’t miss any big moments in the hours she was gone. 

“Not too bad,” Harry said slowly, bringing Greta back to the present. “We did a snack instead of lunch since we did brunch with you – that was the toughest part since neither was in the mood to eat and they fought me the entire time.” He exhaled and shook his head. “They are your kids is all I can say.” 

Greta scoffed and swatted Harry with the empty wrapping paper roll. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They are articulate and emotive and have no problem telling me how they feel in a way that makes me think I’m the least intelligent person in this family.” 

“Oh my God, what did they say this time?” 

Harry smiled. “After much whispering amongst themselves, they informed me that their ‘characters’ wouldn’t eat carrots, so they would be abstaining today.” 

“They seriously said ‘abstaining?’”

“Yes, my love, your daughter did.” 

“Where’d she learn that?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Harry replied with a laugh. “But yeah, after the carrot incident, we went to the park so they could burn off some energy. We came home, made those cookies, had some dinner, ended the night with some coloring. They wanted to give Santa some pictures to go with his cookies, And then we read a book and they went to bed.”

“They drew pictures?” Greta tried to hide the wistfulness in her voice. 

“Yep,” Harry nodded. “They’re on the table. They made a couple for you too.”

Greta got to her knees, and reached over the coffee table to grab the loose papers that were sitting next to Santa’s untouched plate of cookies. The drawing on top was mostly scribbles in varying hues of red and green, clearly an original piece by their son who was still grasping the concepts of drawing shapes. The second drawing, likely done by their daughter, were a bit easier to decode and featured four figures – presumably their family – waiting by the front door, while Santa and nine brown blobs – likely reindeer – waited on the other side. And the third…

“Harry, did you draw Bluey in a Santa hat?”

“Uh, yes, that was a request from both of them,” he said as he screwed on a door to the front of the playset. “Bluey was our background noise while we drew.” 

Greta gazed at the drawings once more, biting her lip and trying not to cry. 

“You OK, love?” Harry asked, glancing over at her. “You’ve gone quiet on me.” 

“I just…” Greta sniffed. “I don’t regret going back to work, but sometimes I feel sad. And guilty. I’m missing things. I was gone all of Christmas Eve. And like when they were babies it was nice and everything but they’re never going to remember that. They didn’t know what Christmas was! But now they do and they’re going to remember that I wasn’t here.” She sighed. “I just feel so…awful.”

“Honestly, I probably shouldn’t say this but I let them eat way too much sugar today so they likely won’t remember much. Like they crashed hard.”

“Harry!”

He tried to suppress his smile. “I’m kidding, love.” He put down the comically small screwdriver he’d been using and scooted closer to her, taking her hand in his. “Greta,” he said looking into her eyes. She knew he was serious given the lack of pet name. “You’re not awful. You’re an amazing mother. Of course they miss you when you’re not here, but those aren’t the memories they have. They don’t sit here saying ‘Remember when Mumma missed snack time?’ They talk about all of the memories they have with you. ‘This is the book Mumma read to us last week!’ or ‘We need to tell Mumma about the dog we pet!’ They love you and they sure as hell don’t think you abandoned them.”

“But I still feel guilty…” The tears she had been holding back started to fall. 

“And I will too whenever I decide to start working again. It’s a fact of life. But you’re you. You always show up for the ones you love. You’re here when it matters most. And you’re going to be here tomorrow, right?” Greta nodded. “Yeah, you are,” Harry continued. “You’re going to watch our kids open way too many presents because we spoil them rotten and you’re going to try and fail to get them to clean up the wrapping paper before Taffy eats it.” The Golden’s tail thumped at the mention of her name. “We’re going to eat too many sweets and then the four of us are going to curl up and watch movies until we fall asleep and that’s what they’re going to remember.” 

Greta sniffed. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve you, but thank you, Harry. I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Greta.” He leaned over to give a quick, but loving peck on the lips. “Now help me get these doors on.” 

Greta laughed and wiped her eyes, before crawling over to hold the doors and other pieces while Harry screwed them on. When he finished, he applied the decals to the pieces, and stocked the cabinets with the fake food, while Greta finished wrapping the remaining gifts and arranged them under the tree. They tag-teamed wrapping the large piece of furniture, knowing their kids wouldn’t look at the wrap job twice before ripping it open, but as Harry so eloquently put it, the present looked like it had been wrapped by an elf that had failed out of the North Pole.

“All done?” Greta asked, as she put the scissors and tape back in the kitchen, and hid the wrapping paper scraps in the bottom of the recycling bin. 

“Just about,” Harry said around a mouthful of cookie he’d swiped from Santa’s plate. “I think you missed one.” 

“Where?” Greta said, whipping around. 

“Here,” Harry replied, slapping an unused bow atop his head. Greta arched a brow. “What? Too cheesy?” Harry grinned. 

“No, I just thought my present would be a little lower…” Greta trailed off. 

“Mrs. Alcott-Styles! Are you saying…” Harry waggled his brows suggestively. 

“Well, you did say you were tired earlier…”

“I’ve woken up,” Harry said, sounding more alert than he had all evening. 

“Don’t keep me waiting then,” Greta called over her shoulder as she walked upstairs, Harry following close behind her. 

***

A few short hours later, Greta opened her eyes. She could have sworn she heard something, but only silence remained. She snuggled in closer to Harry, but once again, she heard tiny thuds echoing through the hall. 

“I think some munchkins are about to give us our wake up call,” Harry mumbled against Greta’s forehead.

Moments later, two kids with bright eyes and dark curls matching their father’s burst into the room, taking a running leap and landing on their parents’ bed. 

“Mumma, mumma, mumma,” their son whispered (Greta and Harry had been working on the concept of an ‘inside voice’ with him in recent weeks to middling success). “I think Santa came!” 

“I think he did too, baby,” Greta said, smoothing an errant curl on his head. “Do you think we should go see if he left you anything?”

“Yes!!!!” the children shouted, pulling at their parents to coax them out of bed. “Come on, Mumma!” 

Greta swung her legs out of the bed, feet searching for her slippers. “Faster,” urged their son. 

“Mumma! I drew Santa a picture,” their daughter said. “I told he could look at it but couldn’t take it since I needed to show you. Can we please go downstairs so I can show you?” 

“That’s very sweet, honey,” Greta said, pulling a sweatshirt over her pajamas. “And, yes we can go downstairs now.” 

Before she followed her kids out of the room, she turned around and caught Harry’s eye. 

“See,” he murmured, barely audible. “They still love you and you haven’t missed a thing.” 

Greta bit her lip, biting back tears of the happy variety this time. 

They opened lots of presents. The kitchen and the Jellycats were a hit. Taffy ate some wrapping paper, and the kids, once again, ate more sugar than they should have. Many movies were watched, many books were read, and many “meals” were cooked in the fake kitchen and served to Greta and Harry, both of whom “ate” those meals with great enthusiasm. 

Harry was right. He was always right. These were the memories that mattered. 

[orqheuss]

Orqheus(s)' Masterlist!

🔥 - Smut, 🌸 - Fluff, 🩸 - Angst, 🎭 - Comedy, 🎀 - Hurt/Comfort, 💗 - Romantic,✨ - Platonic (💥 - gore/blood, 💀 - main character death)

All fics are cross-posted on Ao3, Tumblr, and (some) on Wattpad

If there's a particular headcanon you'd like to see, please message me! I am open to requests!

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST MY WORK WITHOUT TAGGING ME.

Fandoms are listed in alphabetical order!

Any trigger warnings present are posted on each fic.

Hazbin Hotel

I do not own the characters depicted.

One-Shots

Alastor x Reader

Journeys end in lovers meeting (🩸💗/✨💥💀) - Tumblr x The battle was over and the residents of the Hazbin Hotel had won. What would have happened, though, if Alastor wasn’t able to heal himself? What would have happened if you were also on the verge of dying?

Alastor Character Study

Stamped on these lifeless things (🩸💥 💀) - Tumblr x With his final moments quickly drawing near, something approaches Alastor that has him questioning everything. (Human!Alastor meets Demon!Alastor AU)

Hogwarts Legacy

I do not own the characters depicted, nor do I condone J.K. Rowling's actions.

One-Shots

The Shadow trio (Ominis x Sebastian x MC)

May I feel said he (🔥🌸) - Tumblr x Studying in the Room of Requirement can get quite tedious, especially with NEWTS around the corner. What is one to do when you're trapped between your two bored, ravenous, and incorrigibly competitive boyfriends? (Inspired by the poem "may i feel said he" by E. E. Cummings) A Fish to Water (🎭✨) - Tumblr x Becoming an animagus is not an easy feat. As much as you love your two best friends, sometimes its more fun to play a prank and take the absolute piss out of them. How would they react if they found out your animagus form was a little bit...fishy? Seven new ways that you can eat your young (🔥) - Tumblr x Slytherin's are known for their end of the year parties. On the eve of their graduation, though, Ominis hears something that makes his blood boil with jealousy. (Inspired by the song "Eat Your Young" by Hozier) Mallowsweet Bliss (🌸🎭✨) - Tumblr x “Oh, you lovely, hopelessly naive thing. Yes, mallowsweet has a great smell, but it also has an even better taste when eaten, and an absolutely enchanting effect on the mind when you smoke it.” AKA, the three of you get incredibly stoned on your stash of mallowsweet. My darling, my sweetheart, I am in your sway (🌸💗) - Tumblr x The Founder's ball only comes around once a year, and with your graduation fast approaching, you knew two things. One, you knew absolutely nothing about ballroom dancing, and two, you were irrevocably in love with both of your best friends and wanted to go with both of them. Was there a way to kill two birds with one stone? Not yet corpses (still, we rot) (🎀✨/💗💥) - Tumblr x Tremors were wracking through the entirety of Hogwarts, and you were nowhere to be found. Little did Ominis and Sebastian know, the repository had been opened, and you were the only thing standing between the wizarding world continuing to thrive or falling to ruin at their very feet. Mingle our ashes and bury us together (🩸✨/💗) - Tumblr x After everything that had happened in your fifth year, your mind was becoming too much for you to bear on your own. After a rather dreadful conversation with yourself, you knew there was only one way to stop your personal torment. (TW! Attempted Suicide) Insatiable Gravity (🔥🌸🎭) - Tumblr x When it rains, it pours, and when your trapped in the downpour with your two best friends, the only option is the inn down the road. The bad news? There's only one room left, and in that room is only one bed.

Ominis x MC

In the pursuit of knowledge (🔥🌸) - Tumblr x When you and Ominis are alone in the Undercroft, it isn't uncommon for some secrets to come to light. After revealing that you've never been kissed, were there some sparks flying between the two of you, or was it just the firewhiskey talking? How could I fear any hurricane (🎀💗) - Tumblr x After almost severely injuring Ominis during a duel in Defense Against the Dark Arts, you retreat into yourself far out of the reach of your closest friend. There's only one thing Ominis can think of to do to bring you out of your turbulent mind. (Inspired by the song "Francesca" by Hozier) In any version of reality - Soulmate!AU (🌸💗) - Tumblr x Ominis was sure that he didn't have a soulmate. That is, of course, until he hears you sing one winter night in the desolate music room and is transported through the past to the first time your souls ever met. (Inspired by the song "Epic iii" by the Hadestown 2017 Original Soundtrack) Clumsy Love (🌸💗) - Tumblr x A relaxing day in the Room of Requirement takes a turn that you never expected. Not that you were complaining, though. Who doesn't love a little bit of dancing? If only your heart would stop trying to pound its way out of your chest whenever a certain blond Slytherin was near. I would know him blind (🔥💗) - Tumblr x You'd been with Ominis for some time, and as much as you loved your intimate times together, you wondered what it would be like to be in his shoes for a change. Your darling husband is more than happy to help you satiate your curiosity. Snake Charmer - Greek Mythology!AU (🌸🎭-ish) - Tumblr x Why was everyone so interested in the new girl? Ominis Gaunt was about to find out.

Ominis Gaunt and the Sallow's

Free and young and we can feel none of it (🎀✨) - Tumblr x Ominis knew that he had to leave his family home. The abuse would only get worse if he stayed. One winter night, he fled to the only place he felt safe, and into the arms of an unlikely friend.

Sebastian x MC

A duel most desirable (🔥) - Tumblr x Emotions are running high, and a friendly duel between you and your best friend, whom you're completely and entirely infatuated with, takes a very...steamy turn. Anything to make you smile (🌸💗) - Tumblr x Sebastian, remembering you lamenting about not being able to experience going to Hogwarts as a first year, decides to take you on a romantic boat ride so you could enjoy the journey from Hogsmeade like he did as an eleven year old. Too bad he forgot one crucial thing: he was terrified of the Black Lake.

Chapter Fics

The Shadow trio (Sebastian x Ominis x MC)

Life is not a paragraph, and death, I think, is no parenthesis (🩸💗💥) - Ao3 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 (All fic titles in this series come from various E. E. Cummings' poems) Victor Rookwood kidnapped you, in broad daylight, on the streets of Hogsmeade, and Sebastian is willing to do anything to get you back. Will he and Ominis be able to find you before it's too late? (TW! Graphic depictions of torture)

For whatever we lose (like a you, or a me) (🩸💗💥) - Tumblr x The Scriptorium called your name, and who were you to ignore its song? At least, that's what you told yourself as Sebastian pushed you and Ominis deeper and deeper into the mausoleum. (Pre Parenthesis!Universe)

Awake, chaos: we have napped (🩸🎀💗💥) - Ao3 x After everything that happened to you that night in the poacher camp, it was only normal for you to have nightmares. After a particularly rough one, will your partners be able to pick up the pieces? (Post Parenthesis!Universe) (TW! mentions of attempted rape/non-con)

I like my body when it is with your body (🔥🌸💗) - Tumblr x Sebastian believes that he doesn't deserve to be happy after everything he's done. His partners don't agree, and are hellbent on proving him wrong the best, and most effective, way they know how. (Post Parenthesis!Universe)

I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) (🔥🌸💗) - Tumblr 1 2 3 The finale of "Life is not a paragraph, and death, I think, is no parenthesis." It is a beautiful day to get married, and you couldn't ask for better partners. (Post Parenthesis!Universe)

The sun does not weep for Icarus (🩸✨/💗💥💀) - Tumblr 1 2 3 4 The arrival of the Daily Prophet brings the news of Sebastian Sallow's fate after the events of his fifth year. Ominis and his new friend can't help but feel guilty for their decisions. (TW! Child abuse, suicide)

Even the iron still fears the rot (🩸💗💥) - Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 It was supposed to be a normal trip to Hogsmeade. But, when Sebastian and Ominis are kidnapped by poachers determined to seek revenge against the one who killed their fearless leader, will you be able to save them in time? (TW! Graphic depictions of torture)

Ominis x MC

How to ask for help - 5+1 Times (🌸💗) - Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 The five times you helped Ominis, and the one time he helped you.

Headcanons

Sebastian x MC

Sebastian Sallow headcanons

Misc

HL boys as things my students have said - Part 2 Sebastian and Ominis wand headcanons

[emblemxeno]

Tbh I don’t quite understand the sentiment that Engage doesn’t have good or any worldbuilding at all, like tf is up with that. First instinct would be “them 3H fans again!!!” but other long time FE fans also consider it lackluster and idk I don’t agree. 

Each of the four nations all have surface level distinctions, but in-depth internal layers, such as...

Firene values peace, gratitude, and its harvests, tea, and medicine. It’s the kingdom that would usually be taken advantage of, but the reason it maintains its peace is through aggressive policy done by its leaders, currently by Eve and very notably followed up by Celine. Medicine and health is taken seriously cuz the last king died from an illness, the same illness which the current and well loved prince is suffering from. The Firene retainers are all nobles sans Louis, who is noted to have gotten his role because of his domestic skill in tandem with his martial prowess; this implies a sort of status quo, one that’s maintained to keep things peaceful, though not overly enforced to the point of oppression. 

Brodia is wealthy and martially strong, yet prideful. The nobility is noted to take advantage of the constant wars on Elusia, as it fuels economy, which in turn fuels more wars. The wars against Elusia themselves are partly an extension of Brodia’s pride: aggressive expansion done in the name of “keeping a wicked nation in check” and to further Brodian way of life. Because strength is valued, the Brodian retainers are all common folk who proved themselves, sans Citrinne, who develops a complex about her strength because of it. Mining is the primary income source after warfare, something that Diamant wants to shift towards to the dismay of war benefitting nobles.

Elusia is the kingdom of knowledge, and as such, is the only nation noted to have a major place of education. The arts and the leisure seems to be highly valued here, due to an author, an artist, and a native to a hot spring centered village being recruited. Retainers, like in Brodia, are decided by strength or capability; after all, you don’t often have a Crown Princess’s servants be a former assassin and a former prince without skill and knowledge being paramount in the decision making. Hyacinth has too much love to go around, and so has a wife as well as many mistresses, and many children as a result. Knowledge begets avenues of possibility, which means one can use said knowledge to selfishly get ahead (such as the Elusian court where backstabbing and fake platitudes to appeal to the King and Queen were common place) or to benefit the world around you (Hortensia using her intellect and talent to help war victims, and Ivy utilizing Elusia’s creativity and innovative practices to better the public’s wellbeing). Seeking knowledge, however, can entrench one in dark practices, which is why the worship of the Fell Dragon went from notable to beligerent and dangerous.

Solm values freedom, and is notable for being a strict matriarchy. Only women take the throne, Merrin’s village is only ran by women, and Panette and Pandreo’s family church was headed by their mother. While open minded and easy going on the surface, Solm having its own elite vigilante group and having spies throughout the continent means that the queendom takes measures to ensure freedom very seriously; these actions are similar to Firene, which is brought up in Celine and Fogado’s support, and the two themselves are indicative of each of their nations cultures. Unlike the other nations, there’s no strict basis for who becomes a retainer, since you have a chef, a priest, and two runaways. The people of Solm live their lives how they want, and its culture is more open to entertainment and large gatherings than other nations.

And this is just what I whipped together from memory. I’ve no doubt that there’s tons of other minute details that, when pieced together, form more descriptions of the nations as a whole. This, to me, is on part with how the GBA games and Echoes built their worlds. Very solid in depth readings, with surface level broad strokes to entice the player in should they choose to put more hours into learning the ins and outs. And that isn’t even getting into the artistic directions of each nation and the characters (like outfits, seasonal representations, food/ingredients, etc.). Hell, the entirety of Elyos is shaped like a ring for crying out loud! It’s screaming “yeah the rings are this central to this world, enjoy your stay.”

I like that. Engage knows what it is and what it wants to present. No more, no less.

[quick-catton]

Quick–Catton Masterlist

**Masters of the Air Sideblog: @johnslittlespoon (I'm mostly hanging out over here at the moment! Writing a longform fic, so all my energy is on that for now, but I'm still deeply in love with Saltburn and foresee myself writing more fic for it in the future too. <3 Thanks for all the patience in the meantime!)

Saltburn Headcanons Sideblog: @saltburnirl

AO3 & TIKTOK

Tags: EDITS | BRAINROT | FICS | ART | ASKS

Barry Keoghan Film Masterlist [All Links]

Always open to requests/ideas/brainrot asks. :-)

ALL MY FICS vv

Let's Look Up At The Stars (I Like You Where You Are)

[SFW | 3K Words | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, New Year's Eve, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Mutual Pining, Canon Divergence]

“What, d’you have a midnight kiss you need to get back to?” Felix teases, nudging his shoe against Oliver’s. Oliver shakes his head, exhaling a cloud of white and fogging up his glasses, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. Felix is starting to look cold too, now, but it seems like he has more to say, so Oliver waits patiently. Patient is easy, it means he doesn’t have to talk; he can do patient.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Get a Good Angle (Be a Good Angel)

[NSFW | 5K | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, Friends to Lovers, Praise Kink Discovery, Teasing, First Time Blow Jobs, Slow Burn, Fluff & Smut, Drama Queen Felix]

“You always forget your sunglasses,” Felix says fondly as he holds out a pair of shades. “I brought a spare for you." Oliver takes them with a smile, relaxing back onto the towel and putting them on.

“Ah, good boy,” he jokes lightly, patting Felix’s arm in thanks as if he were a dog bringing him the morning paper. He senses him tense up, and he turns his head questioningly, but Felix just rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face into his folded arms. Weird.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Makes Me Wanna Dress Up For You

[NSFW | 4K | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, College AU, Strangers to Lovers, Panties, Blow Jobs, Hook–up, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Pet Names, Anal Sex]

“These are pretty.”

Felix looked up and just about burst into flames on the spot.

“Oh my god, that’s not– I don’t– Those aren’t mine.”

They were very much his.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Boy, I'm Just A Loser For Your Love

[SFW | 3K | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, 5+1 Fic, First Kiss, Fluff, Pining, Oliver Is In Love, Felix Is Oblivious]

“You’re just jealous,” Felix says playfully. Farleigh cocks his head to the side, a cool smile making its way onto his face.

“Jealous of what? That he won’t kiss you despite you giving him fuck–me eyes all semester?” The words roll off his tongue with ease.

Or: 5 times Felix kisses Oliver, and 1 time Oliver kisses Felix.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Why Don't You Figure My Heart Out?

[NSFW | 3K | Felix Catton/Oliver Quick, Valentine's Day, Oxford, Oliver's First Kiss, Gay Confusion, Making Out, Grinding, Hair-pulling, Frottage, Coming In Pants]

“There, there, Ollie,” Felix teases. “You’ll have your first kiss someday.”

“There’s no rush,” Oliver mumbles absentmindedly, not meeting his eyes, and Felix feels his world stop turning.

“What?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[simlit]

Chosen of the Sun | | dawn // nineteen

| @sani-sims

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EDELWYN: Already? What a pity. KYRIE: Suppose I could introduce to some of the others at a later date? EDELWYN: Oh, really? Well, that would be grand! Why don’t you come over to my manor tomorrow night. I’ll prepare something! LUCIEN: Is there going to be another party? EDELWYN: Yes, yes, why don’t you come as well, Your Highness. This will be quite the spectacle. Of course, if it’s all alright, Your Grace? KYRIE: Certainly. Tomorrow evening, then? EDELWYN: Tomorrow EVE: Well, that was easy enough. He seems to do most the talking on his own. Not the most interesting specimen, but perhaps the perfect candidate for your plans. KYRIE: Mm. Let’s hope. EVE: Have you someone in mind already to go? KYRIE: I do. I’ll spare you anymore time with the Duke. As you said, he’s not the most interesting. EVE: That is a great mercy. KYRIE: Speaking of mercies… our night is coming to a close. Things are winding down already, I’m sure we could get away without too many noticing. EVE: And leave Åse? KYRIE: She seems perfectly happy to babysit. Come on, Eve, let me enjoy a night without my shadow. EVE: Oh, very well. EVE: You never told me why he’s really here. KYRIE: I thought it’d be obvious. If it was my choice at all, he wouldn’t be. But the High Priestess cares little about what I want. And maybe she’s right to override my wishes. After all, things aren’t safe. EVE: And he is going to ensure your safety? You’re better off with any of us. KYRIE: A point I’d previously made myself. But, well, I exhausted my goodwill with her. That’s my fault. EVE: That woman wouldn’t know the right thing to do if it smacked her in the face. And you shouldn’t take on any guilt because of it. I won’t believe she’s trying to protect you out of love. KYRIE: No, I know that… EVE: sighs I’m sorry, Kyrie. KYRIE: Don’t be. EVE: You said your sister is alive. Then, you still have family. KYRIE: Yes, maybe… EVE: Maybe? KYRIE: I don’t know. I don’t want to think about that, now. EVE: Alright, then, we won’t. EVE: It’s beautiful out here. KYRIE: Mm. The city has its bright spots. I’ve gotten to see a good few of them this passed month. EVE: You didn’t get out much before? KYRIE: No. Though, maybe that’s my fault, too. Maybe I’ve been too complacent with my cage. I guess nearly dying changes your perspective. Even if I did choose that path. No, especially because of it. EVE: You want something different? KYRIE: I’m starting to. EVE: I’m glad. You shouldn’t lay down and let them dictate your life for you. KYRIE: I never wanted that. I never wanted to be so… indifferent to everything. I suppose I just thought there wasn’t anything I could do. I didn’t see a way out. Maybe I still don’t. But I’ve been asking myself if I might ever find my way to something better, then, what would “something better” really look like? EVE: And have you come up with any answers, yet? KYRIE: A few. Perhaps, most importantly, I realized I don’t want to spend my life alone. EVE: No? KYRIE: I don’t know. Being around the ten of you… those of you who have, for whatever strange reason, chosen to engage with me willingly. It’s different. And it’s nice. I wish I’d had more of it, before. But I know I don’t want to lose it going forward. I suppose, if we all survive this, many of you will move on, return home… Admittedly, it does make me… sad. Maybe more frightening is the idea I might have to learn to do this all over again, but on my own. Without the Moon EVE: I can’t speak for the others, but it’s not strange at all that someone would enjoy your company. I imagine it will be very difficult to go back home after everything. But then… what’s the rush? If you wanted to spend more time with someone, whoever it might be, then maybe you need only ask? KYRIE: Would you stay, Eve? EVE: If you’d like me to. KYRIE: Hm. Then suppose I shouldn’t ask just yet. There’s still chips left to fall. Maybe in the end, you’ll find I’m not the person you thought I was after all. EVE: Kyrie? KYRIE: Not tonight. Maybe some other day I’ll have the courage to tarnish that good image you have of me.

[oldiesstationlover11607]

This idea just blessed my mind and I’m not sure if you had something like this before, but I was thinking about Tyler x reader, where they started dating like at 14/15 and kind of like their relationship through the year.

Btw, I very very much liked you previous work for my request!!! Much love 🪬

Timeline - Tyler Joseph x Reader

Warnings: small breakup but they get back together lol

Word Count: 2551

A/N: HII I hope this is what you meant - I wasn't sure if you meant the jan - feb year or years until now so i just did that bc i like that better lol enjoy!

New Year’s Eve, Age 14

We met at a New Year’s Eve party at our parents’ work – the only kids at the party while the rest were snug in their beds, escaping the cold weather outside. I didn’t really know Tyler that well at the time, aside from the fact that we had a couple of classes together and that our parents were friends. The smell of catered food filled the air, but what I remember most was the giant tablecloth hiding us from the world. We were tucked underneath it, gossiping and laughing about things neither of us would care to admit later.

“I bet we’ll get stuck at parties like this every year until we’re adults,” Tyler muttered, rolling his eyes as the sound of adults chatting filled the room.

I nodded in agreement, though a small part of me felt excited—like it wasn’t so bad, being stuck here with him.

“Hey, maybe next time we can bring better snacks and make it more fun,” I joked, nudging him playfully with my shoulder. His grin widened, and for the first time that night, I noticed how easy it was to talk to him.

A Few Months Later, Age 15

Our parents’ friendship meant we saw each other more often. Weekend dinners, work events, school functions – Tyler was always there. It didn’t take long before our inside jokes and late-night texts became a normal thing. He’d sneak glances at me in class, and I’d find myself waiting for him at lunch.

It was at one of those weekend dinners that something changed. We were sitting on the porch, far away from the noise inside. The cool night air made the stars look brighter, and I could feel the warmth of his arm next to mine.

“I think you’re really cool, you know,” he said out of nowhere, his voice quieter than usual. “And… I kind of like you.”

His words hung in the air between us, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined them. My heart raced, and before I knew it, I was smiling.

“I like you too, Tyler,” I admitted, feeling the weight of my confession lift from my chest.

We didn’t say anything for a moment, just sat there in the quiet, but it felt different – like we were no longer just two kids stuck at a party.

Age 16

A year later, we were officially dating. Tyler asked me out the day before my sixteenth birthday. It wasn’t anything extravagant—just a movie night at the mall—but to me, it felt perfect. He held my hand during the whole film, and when it was over, he insisted on walking me home, even though it was out of his way.

“I guess this makes it official,” I teased, as we stood outside my door, the soft glow of the street lamp shining on his face.

He grinned that same grin from the New Year’s Eve party. “Guess so.”

Before I could say anything else, he leaned in and kissed me. It was soft, sweet, and just enough to make my heart skip a beat. We both laughed afterward, awkwardly pulling away, but the butterflies in my stomach told me I wouldn’t forget it.

Age 18

High school graduation was bittersweet. We’d spent four years figuring each other out, and while our relationship had its ups and downs, we were still together. But now, the reality of college loomed over us, and neither of us had made any decisions.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen,” Tyler admitted one night, as we sat on the hood of his car, staring out at the city lights. “I mean, I want to stay with you, but…”

“I know,” I whispered. The uncertainty scared me too. We had grown so much together, and the idea of drifting apart felt like losing a part of myself.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if that was true. Tyler’s hand found mine, and we stayed like that, holding on to each other a little tighter, trying to make the moment last.

Age 19 

Life after high school became a whirlwind. Tyler had started playing more shows, small gigs here and there. It was clear that music wasn’t just a hobby for him; it was his passion. He’d spend hours working on songs in his basement, calling me late at night to play new riffs or share lyrics.

By the time Twenty One Pilots released their self-titled album, things were different. Tyler was different. His focus shifted more and more to the band. Don’t get me wrong – I was proud of him, but I could feel the distance starting to creep in. There were nights when he was on stage, surrounded by people, and I’d be sitting in the back of the room, wondering when we’d have time for us again.

“We’ll figure it out,” he promised after one show, his voice tired but determined. “I’m doing this for us.”

I wanted to believe him.

Age 22

By the time Regional at Best came out, the band’s momentum was undeniable. Tyler was writing more, performing more, and slowly slipping away. We’d gone from texting constantly and spending weekends together to barely seeing each other for weeks.

The night we broke up was quiet. We were sitting in his car, parked outside my apartment. I could feel it coming, the way the silence settled between us.

“This isn’t working, is it?” I finally said, my voice trembling.

Tyler’s hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. He didn’t deny it. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered. “But I don’t know how to do this – the band, the tours, us. I’m just… lost right now.”

I nodded, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. “I love you, Tyler. But I can’t keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

That was it. No yelling, no blame. Just the quiet, inevitable end of something we both knew had been slipping away for a while.

Age 24 – Vessel

Vessel was a turning point – not just for Tyler, but for us. After months of barely speaking, he called me out of the blue. It was late, past midnight, but I recognized the familiar strain in his voice immediately.

“I’m recording again,” he said. “But something’s missing. I’m missing you.”

I could hear the vulnerability in his words, and it took me right back to when we were kids hiding under that table at the New Year’s Eve party.

“I don’t know how to fix everything,” he admitted, his voice small. “But I want to try.”

Hearing him say that—hearing him want to try again—made something inside me soften. We weren’t perfect, far from it, but we both knew that what we had was worth fighting for.

When we got back together, it wasn’t easy. He was still touring, still building the band with Josh, but this time, he made an effort. We made an effort. He made space for me, for us, even when it felt impossible.

Age 26

Blurryface changed everything. Tyler had been in a rough place when he started writing it—doubting himself, his music, everything. He shut himself off from everyone, including me, spending days locked away in the studio. It was like the closer he got to finishing the album, the further he drifted emotionally.

I’ll never forget the night he came home, completely worn out. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, collapsing onto the couch next to me. “The pressure, the expectations… it’s too much.”

I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close. “You’re not alone, Ty. I’m here.”

He looked up at me, eyes glassy, and for the first time in a long time, he let his guard down completely. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Blurryface was a huge success, but what mattered more was that through it all, we grew stronger. We learned how to communicate better, how to be there for each other even when life got crazy.

Age 28

It wasn’t long after Blurryface that Tyler proposed. We’d been through so much together—years of ups and downs, breakups and makeups—and it finally felt like the right time.

He popped the question in the most Tyler way possible: quietly, privately, just the two of us. We were sitting on the porch again, like we had when we were kids, talking about everything and nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he started, his voice soft, almost nervous.

“What’s that?” I asked, glancing over at him.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small box. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Tears welled in my eyes as he opened the box, revealing the ring. “Will you marry me?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes,” I whispered, pulling him into a kiss. “A thousand times yes.”

Age 30

The release of Trench was an emotional time for Tyler. He was proud of the album, but it came from a dark place. But despite the intensity of the music, life was looking up for us. We’d been married for almost two years, and I was pregnant with our first child.

The day I told Tyler was one of the happiest moments of my life. His eyes lit up in disbelief, and he pulled me into a tight hug, laughing and crying all at once.

“We’re going to be parents,” he whispered, resting his hand on my stomach as if he couldn’t believe it.

Our daughter was born just before Trench dropped, and Tyler was there for every moment he could be, even in the middle of the hectic album release. Seeing him hold our baby girl for the first time was something I’ll never forget. The way his eyes softened, the way he cradled her so gently—it was like he’d found a new kind of love.

Age 33 

By the time Scaled and Icy came out, the world was a different place. The pandemic hit, and like everyone else, we were suddenly confined to our home. For Tyler, it was both a blessing and a curse. He wasn’t on tour, he wasn’t caught up in the constant whirlwind of shows and travel, but the isolation took a toll.

We spent most days together as a family—me, Tyler, and our two kids. It was strange at first, having so much time. We made forts in the living room, did puzzles with the kids, and Tyler wrote music whenever he found a quiet moment. He even turned one of the rooms into a makeshift studio, working on what would become Scaled and Icy.

But there was this undercurrent of restlessness in him. I saw it in the way he’d pace around the house, or stay up late working on songs. He was trying to stay positive, to push past the uncertainty, but the weight of the world had a way of creeping in.

One night, as we sat on the couch after the kids went to bed, he leaned his head against my shoulder. “I miss performing,” he admitted softly. “I miss connecting with people. It feels like there’s this… distance between me and everything that made sense before.”

I stroked his hair gently, trying to comfort him. “You’ll get back there. The world will get back there.”

He sighed, nodding, but I could tell the anxiety was still gnawing at him. Scaled and Icy was different—it was brighter, more optimistic than anything he’d made before, but I knew that beneath that surface, Tyler was still wrestling with his own doubts.

When the album dropped in 2021, it was strange not to celebrate it with a tour. Everything was virtual. Tyler and Josh did livestreams, connected with fans online, but it wasn’t the same. Yet, despite the limitations, the album was a success. It was a beacon of hope during a dark time, a way for fans to escape, even for a little while.

At home, Tyler tried to stay present with the kids. He’d sing them songs from the album, making silly faces to get them to laugh. I could see how much it meant to him to have this time with them. For all the chaos the pandemic caused, it brought us closer as a family.

Age 35

Now, two years later, things are shifting again. The world is slowly coming back to life, and so is Tyler’s creative energy. He’s been talking more about his next project—Clancy. It’s something he’s been hinting at for years, but now, it’s finally happening.

The music he’s been working on feels darker, deeper, like he’s exploring parts of himself he’s kept hidden. He’s mentioned Clancy before in the Trench era, but now it feels like he’s diving headfirst into the story. He doesn’t talk much about it, but I can tell it’s personal—more personal than anything he’s ever written.

“You’re okay, right?” I ask him one night, as he’s sitting with his guitar, strumming softly. The kids are asleep, and it’s just the two of us in the quiet of the living room.

He looks up at me, his eyes shadowed but steady. “Yeah. I’m okay. I just… I want this to be perfect. I’ve been holding onto this idea for so long, and now that it’s real, it’s kind of terrifying.”

I sit beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to carry all of it by yourself, you know.”

He smiles, a soft, grateful smile. “I know. And I won’t.”

The Clancy era feels monumental—not just for him, but for us. We’ve come a long way since those early days of the band, when everything felt uncertain. Now, with three kids and a house full of memories, our life is different, but it’s still us.

The new music Tyler’s creating feels like it’s a culmination of everything he’s been through—his struggles, his doubts, the pressures of fame, and the love he’s built with me and our family. He talks about Clancy like it’s more than a character—it’s a part of himself, the part that’s still searching for answers.

And now, with the Clancy tour looming, things are picking up again. This time, though, it feels different. There’s a sense of balance, like Tyler knows how to handle it. We’ve been through so much together—breakups, makeups, the highs of album releases and the lows of feeling lost. But now, there’s a quiet confidence in him, like he’s learned how to navigate the chaos.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says as he packs for the tour, folding shirts into his suitcase. Our youngest is tugging at his pant leg, and he kneels down to kiss her forehead.

“We’ll miss you too,” I say, watching him with the kids. It’s always hard when he leaves, but this time, it feels different. Like we’ve reached a new understanding, a new chapter.

As he zips up his suitcase and turns to me, he pulls me into a tight hug. “This time, I’m not just doing it for me. I’m doing it for us.”

I smile, pressing my forehead against his. “We’ve got you.”

The tour will take him away for months, but I know we’ll be alright. We always are.

//

REQUESTS OPEN

[siena-sevenwits]

Goodness of Yesterday (Today will get its own post)

Christmas Eve was all bustle preparing for Mass and the reveillon afterward! The family was much taken up with preparing food, decorating the chapel, practising music, etc. It was busy in the best way.

Mass at the chapel got uncancelled as suddenly as it got cancelled! Our priest friend bounced back quickly enough from his surgery that he was able to make it. Everyone pressed him not to try if it would be too hard on his body, reminding him we could go to Mass at the main parish (our chapel is attached to the Catholic apostolate my parents run) but he really wanted to. He had to take it easy sometimes - he preached sitting down, and had an extraordinary minister distribute Communion - but I am glad he was in better health!

We had carolling in the pews before Mass. Really nice.

I am going to be honest - even though it's closer, going to Mass at our chapel is not my preferred option for Mass, and I prefer to attend at another nearby parish. I find it easier to be recollected and worship. But it was really important to me to be with my family for Christmas Mass, so I came, and I prayed for grace to really enter into that Mass well. And I do think Christ gave me some grace for that, even if I let myself be distracted sometimes. it was in many ways such a beautiful Mass, and I am so grateful.

A really magnificent spread for the reveillon! I did try to come mingle with the group, and even though I found myself struggling with anxiety again and ended up pulling out partway through, I am glad I made an effort and didn't just hide (Embarrassing, yeah. In some social situations, like at school, I am very confident, but there are some situations that for various reasons are harder for me to pull myself together. I am going to continue working on this whole anxiety attack thing in the coming year. I can't love people as they should be loved if I don't.) Anyway, my dad ended up sitting with me, and we ate delicious savoury food together.

Since we were kids, my siblings and I have had the tradition that we give our gifts on Christmas eve, and our parents give their gifts on Christmas Day. The tradition doesn't make as much sense when we've all been adults for many years, but we have always done it so! Delightful!

I read aloud the prologue of Wind and Truth to Brother One, and Brother Two, who is also caught up with the series, decided to join us for it. Great fun, lots of stopping to discuss as we went.

Fell asleep in Christmas.

[hayatoseyepatch]

SAMMM HIIIII I THINK I WANNA JOIN YOUR EVENT WITH UME 🥹

some the details about us:

obviously, we are polar opposites from our personalities. while i bring a calmness to his world, he adds so much excitement and joy to mine. clearly brings me out of my shell, makes me enjoy life without silly doubts that can sometimes ruin the fun for me

sooo we really love going ice skating. that's what we are most excited for as soon ad it gets cold. he's awful at it but is so innocently uncaring about making a fool of himself that it helps me get over my shyness and have a good time. i used to be a pro figure skater but dropped it for unfortunate reasons and always regretted it. just imagine him falling on his ass and looking up with his silly cute grin ugh

another thing i love and made him enjoy is going to christmas markets and explore everything but since i can get super overwhelmed in big crowds, having him by my side is a sort of security that i missed before; it's so easy to have a good time

definitely have to try all the new seasonal items. he's a big eater, so i can get a taste of everything without having to worry about food waste hehe

new years eve!! definitely a little party with everyone and a hot spring get-away trip the day after to start into the new year relaxed and cozy is a tradition by now

preferences: i love this season for the winter, less for christmas. always love the snow, the pale blues, winter sunshine, new years eve, snow, cozy cuddle sessions :>

i couldn't resist to include my selfship art hehe @/catyypss

THE WAY I WAS SO EXCITED FOR THIS ASK. Listen you know you and Ume is one of my favorite ships ever. So I absolutely RAN at the opputunity to do this.

I love how well you and Ume compliment eachother, you balance eachother out so perfectly and its so beautiful. You ground him and he pulls you out of your comfort zone a bit and I love love love it.

You know that this is canon absolutely 100 percent. You, me, Ume, and Suo have our double date nights always. I tried to keep more of a winter theme for this one with a little sprinkle of holiday. I hope you like it my beloved Winter!! ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭

Suprise! A little drabble for you ૮꒰���ི∩´ ᵕ `∩꒱ྀིა

Umemiya hummed happily, holding your ankle as he removed your boots, sliding your foot into the skates. Languidly lacing them for you, pressing a kiss to each of your knees as he completed his task.

“How’s that baby? Not too tight right?”

He beams when you confirm they were laced appropriately, going to work putting on his own skates before going to touch your shoes in the cubby. He wouldn’t lie, he was a bit nervous, having never skated before himself. But, when you had told him your love for it, how could he possibly not set this up? Umemiya would do anything to make you smile, even if that meant making a fool of himself. As he approached you once more, he offered you his signature smile and a hand as you both made your way to the ice, already feeling a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Okay, angel, you just gotta promise me you wont laugh at me too much when I do eventually bust my as, okay?”

He laughs, awarded with the melodic sound of your laughter, gasping playfully when you shoot back a ‘no promises, Haji’. Dramatically spalling a hand over his chest in mock offense.

“Fine then, I’m tasking you with the safety of my butt, my love.”

He hangs onto the guardrails, perfectly content in watching from the sidelines at the graceful way you glide along the ice. You were always nothing less than stunning in his eyes, but seeing you so in your element had him falling in love with you all over again. He smiled when you approached him once more, taking his hands in yours as you pulled him aways from the wall. He was fine for a while, keeping steady on his feet. However he got too cock, deciding to move on his own.

Big mistake.

He felt his skate slide against the slippery surface of the ice, grabbing your waist for balance only to bring you down with him. Yelping as he went sown, lading flat on his ass, gripping onto you so he took the brunt of the fall. Your eyes wide in shock from the loss of balance, looking up at him with concern flashing across your features.

“Shit, Haji are you okay?”

Your concerned tone is met with a loud peal of laughter. Just smiling up at you before he pulls you down, placing a sweet kiss to your lips before the two of you fumble to stand. Once you secure your balance once more he rubs the back of his neck.

“I guess I need more practice, huh?”

[vollmond-laboratory]

Mitile's 4th Anniversary SSR Card Story — "Between Strength and Kindness"

Part 1

[Manor Corridor]

Akira: (Is that Mitile…?)

Mitile: “…”

Akira: (He looks worn out, I wonder if something happened…)

Bradley: “Yo, Sage.”

Akira: “Whoa! Bradley…”

Bradley: “You showed up at a good time. Invite the Southern Shortie out for a holiday, would’ja?”

Akira: “Huh? I’m happy to do that, of course, but why—?”

Bradley: “I’ll leave ya to it then.”

Akira: “Ah… He’s gone.”

Akira: (From the way he was talking, it seems like Bradley knows why Mitile looks so tired… Well, I guess I’ll just pay Mitile a visit instead.)

[Mitile’s Room]

Mitile: “I’m glad to see you, Master Sage! I only just got back home, so I’m happy we didn’t accidentally miss each other… Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

Akira: “Well, I saw you going into your room a few moments ago… You looked kind of worn out, so I got a little worried.”

Mitile: “Oh, is that all! Well, to be honest… Mister Bradley has been teaching me magic recently, and it’s pretty tiring.”

Mitile: “It’s a lot more intense than the relaxed classes I used to have in the South, so I usually feel exhausted by the end.”

Akira: (Oh, I see… So that’s why Bradley came up to me earlier.)

Akira: “Is it difficult, then…?”

Mitile: “A little bit, yeah. It can be hard work, and sometimes I get frustrated or even angry at the way Mister Bradley speaks to me…”

Mitile: “But it’s really been worth all the effort! He did say to me ‘I won’t go easy on you as your teacher’.”

Mitile: “He doesn’t treat me like I’m just a kid — I feel like he really sees me as his equal in being a wizard… And that gets me fired up about working even harder!”

Mitile: “Thanks to him, I can use my magic in ways I never even thought of before!”

Akira: “That’s amazing…! Bradley’s very dependable.”

Akira: (Ways of using magic that Mitile’s never thought of before…? I can’t help but feel like that might be dangerous…)

Mitile: “Still, maybe I pushed myself too hard today. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Akira: “Oh, no, it’s okay. Just knowing why is a relief on its own. That being said… If you have the time, would you like to take tomorrow off with me?”

Akira: “We can relax in the Magic Manor together, or go out if there’s a place you’d like to visit. Preferably somewhere not too stressful, of course.”

When I smiled at him, the worried expression on Mitile’s face suddenly disappeared. Then, looking a little fidgety, he opened his mouth to speak.

Mitile: “If you don’t mind, then…”

[Plateau of Flowers]

So, the next day Mitile and I went to a plateau not very far from the Southern Tower at his request. A number of stalls lined the road beneath the clear blue sky.

Mitile: “The villagers from around here like to gather in this spot to sell each other some of their own handmade things. There are so many one-of-a-kind items that it’s fun to just look at everything!”

Akira: “Thank you so much for bringing me to such a wonderful place. I’m excited to find my own personal treasure here!”

Part 2

Akira: “Still, there’s really so many stalls here. I’d love to visit all of them if I can, but I’m not sure we’re going to have enough time…”

Mitile: “What if we split up for now, and then when we find some stalls we’re really interested in, we can meet up again and show each other?”

Akira: “Good idea! I’ll be sure to find some great stalls to take you to you later.”

—

Akira: (They’re selling things carved out of wood at this stall. The fretwork pattern here is beautiful… Oh, that coaster might be nice to get.)

Akira: (I know Mitile has a habit of bringing drinks to his table when he’s studying, so I’m sure he’d get good use out of something like this.)

Blond-Haired Man: “Hmph, how could anyone try and sell such a misshapen ring for a price like that?”

When I turned to look for the source of those words, I saw a fairly tall man walking behind me with his shoulders slumped.

Akira: (That man doesn’t seem like a citizen of Southern Country… He’s being stingy over almost every item on sale here. What a rude guy…)

Blond-Haired Man: “This thing here is free, yes? I’ll be taking it, then.”

Stall Owner: “W-Well, hold on…”

Akira: “E-Excuse me…! If you do something like that you’ll be putting this person in a difficult position, so I really think you should pay—“

Blond-Haired Man: “Shut your mouth!”

Akira: “Wah!”

—

Mitile: “Oh, wow! These inks made of flowers come in so many beautiful colours… And the flower that was used as the ingredient is labelled on each of the jars.”

Mitile: (Maybe Master Sage could use these for writing in their book? I’ll bring them to this stall later so they can choose the inks they’d like.)

Mitile: (…Now that I’m thinking about it, I was happy when Master Sage spent a lot of time getting to know me and listening to me talk after we met each other for the first time.)

Mitile: (It still makes me feel kind of lonely to think that the only reason they were writing all that down in the first place was to help the next Sage after they leave…)

Mitile: (But I understand how it feels to want to go home, too. I’m sure they must have friends and family waiting for them to come back…)

Mitile: “Still… I really don’t want to say goodbye…”

Mitile: (Because the more I get to know about Master Sage, the more I find myself really liking them…)

Mitile: (…I wonder how much they think I’ve changed since they first wrote about me in the Sage’s Manual.)

???: “Shut your mouth!”

Mitile: “Did I just hear someone starting a fight…? Something might’ve happened over there…!”

—

Akira: “Ouch…”

Mitile: “Master Sage…?! Are you okay?”

Stall Owner: “Your friend there tried to scold this man for not paying for his things, but they were shoved to the floor…”

Blond-Haired Man: “Of course you’re going to get hurt if you attack someone so brazenly. It’s only expected that I would defend myself as a foreigner here.”

Mitile: “…Grr… I won’t let you bother any of the people here, or Master Sage!”

Blond-Haired Man: “What an impertinent brat. What could someone like you ever do to me, hm?”

Mitile took out his magic potion jar. At that moment, I saw Bradley’s face flash through my mind.

Mitile: “«Ortonik Cealsispilce»!”

(‘Bang!’ SFX)

Part 3

Akira: “Wah! …Huh?”

The man was unharmed, despite how the loud bang made him brace himself in fear. Nothing nearby seemed to have been destroyed, either.

Blond-Haired Man: “Gah! S-So you’re a wizard, are you?!”

Mitile: “That’s right! Cause any more trouble here and I’ll do a lot worse than make a loud sound next time!”

Blond-Haired Man: “S-Shit… I don’t need this!”

Mitile: “…Phew. Master Sage— Oh…”

Though there were few humans who held prejudices against wizards in Southern Country, many of the people around us still seemed shocked by the abruptness of the situation. Mitile’s gaze wavered with anxiety in the still and silent air.

Standing, up I gently grasped Mitile’s hand with my own. I could feel his fingers trembling against my palm.

Akira: “Mitile. You did a good job protecting everyone. Thank you. I think we’re all just surprised because the noise was so loud.”

Mitile: “O-Oh… Um… I’m sorry for scaring you, everyone.”

Mitile: “All I did was make the air vibrate to create a loud sound… It’s not the kind of magic that could hurt anyone, really.”

As he turned to face the people around him, Mitile explained himself with a sincere voice.

Stall Owner: “Ah, so that’s what it was. Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

Hatted Woman: “Ah, so it was like one of those bells that drive away beasts. It’s a relief knowing nobody was hurt just now.”

Once everyone had realised that things were alright again, the area quickly regained its former liveliness. Mitile’s tension was quickly washed away, perhaps relieved by the sight.

Mitile: “…That spell I just used was something Mister Bradley showed me.”

Mitile: “He told me that so long as my opponent isn’t a wizard, I don’t really need to use serious magic to scare them away.”

Mitile: “I thought— maybe I could use what Mister Bradley taught me to frighten that guy off without hurting him… But I ended up scaring everyone around me, too.”

Akira: “…You really haven’t changed at all, Mitile.”

Mitile: “Huh?”

Akira: “Since the day I first met you, all you’ve ever wanted is to protect others using your own strength. I think it’s amazing how that part of you hasn’t changed one bit.”

Akira: “Even though you’ve recently been thrust into a situation where you’re having to learn from people whose values are very different to your own, and you’re growing up at a surprisingly fast pace.”

Akira: “You’re really cool, Mitile. I respect you a lot.”

Mitile: “…Thank you so much!”

Mitile: “To be honest, while I was wandering around the stalls by myself, I couldn’t help but wonder how you thought of me now, Master Sage…”

Mitile: “So it makes me feel really happy to hear you say that!”

Mitile: “Oh, that’s right — I found a really great shop while I was looking around. They sell lots of different coloured inks made out of flowers. Can I take you there after this?”

Akira: “Oh, yes please! It’d be wonderful if I could write about everyone in the Sage’s Manual using flower ink.”

Mitile: “Are you going to write about my hard work and what I learnt today once we’re home?”

Akira: “Of course!”

Beaming at me happily, Mitile held my hand in his so that we wouldn’t be separated until we arrived at the stall he wanted to show me. I squeezed his palm gently.

The idea of having to someday leave behind my Sage’s Manual is a difficult one — because I never want to forget Mitile’s gentle warmth.

Sub-Episode: Mitile and the Door of Days Gone By

Akira: “Apparently, there’s a door that lets people see into the past appearing on the beach of Borda Island.”

Akira: “Speaking of the past, I used to get very anxious when I first arrived in this world. Whenever I felt particularly bad, I would calm myself down by recalling a certain memory of mine.”

Mitile: “A memory?”

Akira: “Mhm. Of an adult I trusted reading me a book when I was a child.”

Mitile: “Me too! I used to love having my father and brother read to me as a child!”

Akira: “Ahaha. We’re the same then, huh?”

Akira: “If you don’t mind me asking, how do you comfort yourself when you feel lonely, Mitile?”

Mitile: “Oh, um… Well, I’m not really sure…”

Mitile: “I have memories of being by myself, and feeling lonely and sad.”

Mitile: “Of course there have also been times when I was upset or angry, and didn’t want to see anybody at all, but…”

Mitile: “I guess what I mean is that I don’t really understand what loneliness is yet.”

Mitile: “Even when me and my brother fight, we usually make up really quickly.”

Mitile: “And if we don’t, I still have my friends from school to talk to, and Doctor Figaro, and Mister Leno — Mister Mithra, too.”

Mitile: “It’s not like I have plans to go somewhere far away all by myself…”

Mitile: “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever really felt truly alone.”

Akira: “Ah, I see! But you know, I think that’s a very good thing, honestly.”

Akira: “It makes me happy to hear that you’re surrounded by people you can rely on. It’s relieving.”

Mitile: “You really think so?”

Akira: “Yes!”

Mitile: “Loneliness… I guess what I really think of when I hear that word is Mister Leno.”

Akira: “Lennox…?”

Mitile: “Yeah. Mister Leno never spent much time in or even near the Town of Clouds, really.”

Mitile: “When people would talk about him, I’d always think of this man herding sheep all by himself on some far away mountains…”

Mitile: “Totally alone with only the sheep and his sheepdog to keep him company. Doesn’t that sound lonely?”

Mitile: “I remember that it used to make my heart pound. Though, maybe that’s not the right way to put it… I just thought it sounded like something I could never do.”

Akira: “I get it… Sheep and dogs are cute, but you’d start missing people after a while, right?”

Mitile: “Exactly!”

Akira: “What about Rutile and Figaro, then?”

Mitile: “My brother and I have always been together. I know he’s got lots of his own friends.”

Mitile: “And Doctor Figaro is a popular person everyone can always rely on.”

Akira: “Mm, I see…”

Mitile: “Maybe once I’m grown up I won’t feel lonely living by myself, though.”

Mitile: “I hope I can stay together with everyone, even when I’m older…”

[carefreemonk]

[ Seven Minutes in Hell ] - Uh. Husband Interrogation Edition?

Azama is as easy as ever to spot in a crowd. Python approaches him from the side, grazing his knuckles against the monk's arm as he draws closer.

"Hey, 'Zama. Mind if I steal you away for a sec?"

His tone is light as his hand finds Azama's wrist and clasps around it. The tug backward, however, is sharp and persistent. Only when he's gotten the two of them tucked behind the partially-closed door of a supply closet does he speak again.

"All that chuckling about blue-haired runts, and you were hiding an actual kid somewhere behind your back?"

Pure disbelief is at the core of his hissing voice-- accompanied by notes of urgency, irritation, genuine curiosity.

"It's just the one, right? Or are there others I should be on the lookout for if I wanna grab a glass of punch without getting hit with an interrogation?"

He's quietly stewing at this point. Doesn't even notice Python's approach, not until the shock of touch sends Azama jolting upright, star-blessed eyes briefly wide. They're just as soon shuttered, framed by a frown.

This is the not-so-vague beginnings of dread.

"Hm?"

And if he declines~?

But it's still so easy to fall into step behind Python, even if Python's voice lacks its usual cadence that puts Azama so at ease. (Even still if it feels more like he's being led to trial than anything else.)

...This night isn't getting any better, is it? The realization weighs like a stone in his gut. Multiple stones, in fact.

And, well, this closet getaway isn't really the romantic escape he might have hoped for, all told.

With a small, petulant pull to free his wrist, the monk takes to a light pout, leaning against the closet wall, arms crossed over his chest. Closed off. Not so much as pretending to look anywhere, not even behind veiled eyes. This is... Something. A bed of his own making, certainly. Come to unmake him at long last, perhaps.

He cracks an eye open. Arms sag, just a sliver.

"You'd believe me if I said it's complicated, wouldn't you?"

Phrased as such, disbelief is tacit betrayal.

The slightest of grins surfaces, beating down much competition for space on the monk's tight expressions predominantly featured this eve.

"Just the one, yes. She's quite delightful, isn't she~? Ever creative, and ever smart as a whip. Mitama takes after her mother in a lot of ways, but..."

The apple didn't fall too far from this particular tree, either, if you haven't already gathered ♡~

... Please don't be mad.