#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

[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. 

[cuubism]

I’m BEGGING for more “retired!Dream opens up a weird magic fey bookshop” au. Its so intriguing!

you are in luck. i wrote more

--

"So," Hob says, leaning in the doorway of Dream's study-of-sorts, "much as I love the recommendations, do you mind if I browse?"

He's taken, recently, to meeting Dream on the upper floor of the shop, bringing coffee and watching Dream label and sort his new books in incomprehensible categories. He usually gets some interesting book facts out of it, too, or strange little stories -- "this book washed up on the Sardinian shore some years ago", "this was signed by a long-dead author, I've been curious to see how long it will take for a collector to find it," "an old man bestowed this upon me on the eve of his death, it's the only copy in existence" and so on -- not to mention the pleasure of Dream's company. He is so odd, and so engaging.

Dream looks up at him now with a tiny smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes. "Of course. Find whatever you wish."

Hob has been wondering if Dream's serendipitous knack with books will extend to browsing, to random finds. Only one way to know.

He leaves Dream to his labeling and goes to wander the shop.

This time, he does get swallowed in Oneiromancy, where he finds Sleeping Worlds, a book about dream travel. Then he wanders deeper into the shop, passes categories like, "Cat Training," CLOCKS, "Mathematics: Easy -> Impossible", and, "♾". Of course he goes into Infinity, and picks up The Birth of Numbers, a book whose text starts in the center of the page and spirals outwards, font growing larger as the book goes on, and in another section called "Romance: DIFFICULT LEVEL" -- whatever the hell difficult means -- he picks up a tiny book that's just one line, one syllable on each page.

I

on

ly

want

ed

you

to

see.

God, Dream's shop is weird.

Dream finds him there some time later, deep in Sleeping Worlds. "I see you've had a productive day."

"Yeah, sorry, lost track of time."

Dream keeps looking at him with a little smirk.

Worry darts through Hob's stomach. "Wait, what time is it?"

"Midnight," says Dream, with satisfaction. "I've absorbed you."

Yeah, no kidding. Hob scrambles to his feet. "Jesus, Dream, sorry. I'll get out of your hair."

"No matter. This is what The Library is for."

Hob goes to hand him the books, and he waves a hand. "Keep them, I will get them back eventually."

Ominous. Great.

"Gonna break into my house and retrieve them?" Hob asks. He probably wouldn't even mind, to be honest.

"Nothing so alarming." He gestures Hob forward, and Hob follows, lets Dream walk him out.

It is, indeed, pitch dark outside on their shared street. Hob's supposed to open the cafe at 6. Whoops.

"Thanks for the books, Dream," he says. "And for. Ten hours of distraction, apparently."

Dream leans in the narrow doorway of his shop. "Of course. Come browse... anytime."

And he melts back into the shadows as Hob steps down onto the street.

--

Hob wonders if he's an idiot for wanting to ask Dream out. Dream is clearly some kind of other thing, and hanging around him did kind of get Hob cursed. But the way he bites his lip when he's making notes in books is so cute. His unerring ability to make perfect book selections is both strange and endearing -- even the books Hob had picked up on his own had been exactly what he hadn't known he was looking for. Hob's heart picks up every time he steps into the cafe.

But if he's to ask out Dream, his own personal weird bookshop creature, he has to do it right.

And he knows how.

The next time Dream comes in for coffee, Hob sits down across from him and hands him a book. Dream looks at it in surprise, and Hob has the sudden thought that as the all-powerful selector of tomes, he probably isn't gifted books himself.

The book is called, Broken Hands. Hob had pulled it off his own shelf. Dream doesn't ask him what it is, instead he flips open the cover and reads, as Hob had hoped he would.

The first page of Broken Hands has the following paragraph:

Kissing her hand, he came to know himself. Kissing her mouth, he came to know them both. When they went onward, for now only in his mind, he kissed more of her, and more, and more, and then, he knew her. He wanted to know her.

Dream reads it, and looks back up at him. Offers a tiny smile. Yes, Hob knew he would get it.

"You have something you would like to ask me, Hob Gadling?" he says softly.

"You have something you want to answer?"

Dream takes a long sip of his coffee, but looks at Hob over the rim of the mug, a smile in his eyes. Then he swipes away the milk foam from his upper lip with his tongue and says, "I'd say that you are very foolish, to still wish to associate with someone who did, in a sense, get you cursed. But that I find myself grateful for this foolishness. People do often come back to the library, once they find it-- but they don't often come back for me."

It makes Hob sad to imagine--Dream the perennial custodian of The Library, shepherd of its patrons, gifting small touches of coincidence and magic, but always in the background, a bridge and not a destination. Meanwhile, Hob likes the strange books, but it's Dream he keeps wanting to hover around, to lure back into his own space.

He dares to take Dream's hand and squeezes. "...So?"

"I'd say that I'd like to get coffee with you, if you know a place."

Cheeky thing. "Yeah, there's a Starbucks a couple blocks down," Hob says, gesturing, and Dream chuckles. Hob's still holding his hand, and brings it to his lips for a light kiss, and gets to watch as Dream's cheeks tint pink. His heart lifts in his chest. So easy and light.

"You're gorgeous," he says, and that blush deepens. "I'd suffer even Starbucks for you."

"You would suffer much, then," says Dream.

"We'll get our Starbucks and wander around WHSmith and have a fabulous date," Hob says, and Dream's face goes through the most exquisite journey of horror.

"You demand too much," he says, faint. "You enjoy my suffering."

"Little bit, yeah." Hob's certainly enjoying the reaction.

Then Dream looks at him in challenge. "Very well," he declares. "You've set the date. Now you must follow through."

Hob can't even spare a thought to the distasteful activities he's now gotten himself into--he has a date with Dream. "So that's a yes?"

Dream smiles again, a tiny, pleased thing. "It is a yes, Hob Gadling."

--

They do go to Starbucks. Hob is treated to the glorious sight of Dream sipping a pink drink out of a long straw, which is so worth dealing with the coffee. Then he indeed drags Dream to WHSmith, where Dream stands in the middle of the brightly-lit store, spins in a circle staring at carefully lined book displays with wide eyes, says, "Hell would be more merciful," and bolts away. Hob follows him, laughing.

Outside, he finds Dream leaning in the shade of a tree, looking vaguely shell-shocked. Hob really shouldn't keep laughing at him, but he can't help it. "Were you traumatized permanently by the big chain store?"

"Yes," says Dream, but, despite the perilous adventure, smiles. "You are a cruel man, Hob Gadling."

"Nah. Just harnessed the fluorescent lighting to chase you back into the safety of my arms."

"Oh?" Dream pushes off the tree and steps closer, until he's standing just before Hob, close enough to touch. "Was that the goal?"

Hob takes the leap that's offered and touches Dream's cheek with a light hand. "Did it work?"

This close, in the midday light, Dream's eyes are almost grey. The shade of the tree dapples his skin. It's still odd to see him out of the contained space of his bookshop, of Hob's cafe, but it does make this feel more real. A part of the world beyond the spun-sugar story of their orbiting binary stars.

Dream rests a feather light hand on Hob's chest. Studies Hob from under his eyelashes. And instead of answering, he leans up and, with that same light touch, presses his lips to Hob's.

Hob revels in the mere touch of him for a moment, but doesn't let it stand at light for long. He takes Dream's face between his hands and deepens the kiss, sweeping his tongue into Dream's mouth, swallowing Dream's hum of pleasure. If only he could put into the kiss what he had felt when Dream had handed him Nightingales. A sudden finding of something long lost that was always meant to be rooted in his heart.

When they part, he makes good on a promise and does pull Dream into his arms. It feels like a great indulgence. It also feels right.

"Make me a solemn promise, Hob Gadling," Dream says against Hob's cheek, arms wrapped around his back.

"Anything."

"Never take me here ever again."

Hob laughs into his hair, squeezing him tight. "What could one possibly want from here when The Library exists?"

This seems to greatly gratify Dream, who preens in Hob's arms. Hob kisses the shell of his ear, then his cheek, then they part again, and he takes Dream's hand. "I'm glad you expanded your horizons with me for a day."

"And now I will shrink them again," says Dream. "Except for one." To which he runs his thumb along Hob's lower lip, a touch Hob sways forward to follow almost drunkenly as Dream smirks. "Come."

He starts leading Hob back in the direction of their quiet street, and far far away from any fluorescent lighting, and Hob follows, touching his lips fondly. And lets himself be cautiously, tentatively hopeful that this will continue spiraling up into something real, because he wants it so bad. Curses and all.

[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

[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. ───

[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.

[simlit]

Chosen of the Sun | | dawn // nineteen

| @sani-sims

next / previous / beginning

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.

[george-weasleys-girl]

Congrats on reaching 200 followers! You deserve all that and more! If I may, could I request a fic where the reader has a crush on George (or Fred take your pick) and he has a crush on her as well but they’re both too afraid to say anything out of fear of ruining the friendship until one Christmas break the reader is staying with the Wesley’s and Hermione and Ginny are asking how she can tell the twins apart and she’s explaining things like George’s eyes sparkle when he makes someone laugh and his smile is much warmer and softer than Fred’s that always looks like a smirk and she confesses she knows all of this because of her crush and George is just in the doorway like this 🧍and they have a cute confession at the lake or on the roof. I feel like I just spewed out a ton of stuff so please take what you like or ignore it! Congrats again!

Tysm💕 This is so sweet! I hope you enjoy it!

Warnings: couple of curse words

Christmas Confessions

Y/N and George had known each other forever, it seemed. Arthur and her dad had been best friends at Hogwarts and were each other's best man when they married. After the dust settled from the First Wizarding War, their families grew quite close, frequently getting together for dinners and picnics, and even going on a few vacations together.

Y/N was the same age as the twins and a "girlie girl" who had no qualms playing Quidditch, climbing trees, and blowing up things while wearing pink taffeta and bows. She fit right in with the mischievous duo, despite her penchant for frilly dresses. For many years, she was known as the Weasley triplet.

As they got older, Y/N gravitated more toward the younger twin and his gentler demenor. He, in turn, grew closer to her. Yet, it wasn't until their fourth year at Hogwarts that George realized his feelings for Y/N went beyond mere friendship.

He'd never forget the exact moment he realized he loved her. It happened almost a year ago at the Burrow on Christmas Eve. He and Fred decided to have a little fun and switch sweaters to see how long it took for anybody to notice. Just as they were coming downstairs, Y/N, Ginny, and Hermione returned from their walk.

George moved to help Y/N with her coat.

"Oh, thank--."Y/N began, and then she noticed his attire. "George, why are you wearing Fred's sweater?"

Fred's face fell. But George's lit up like the sun when he realized that she could tell them apart with barely a look, and then he realized he couldn't remember a time when she'd ever mixed them up.

His heart skipped a beat.

"She sees me. Not Fred and George. Just me. She's always seen me."

And that was all it took. George was a goner.

~•~

One Year Later

George watched Bill kiss his newest girlfriend under the mistletoe, a painful tightness growing in his chest. He'd intended to tell Y/N how he felt by now. The words were right there on the tip of his tongue every moment of every day, and yet whenever he tried all he could imagine was her looking away, biting her lip as she searched for a way to let him down easy. And he'd say, "That's ok, we can just be friends." She'd nod and smile, "yes, of course." And they'd try, but it'd never be the same, both of them afraid to get too close in fear that the other might take it the wrong way. Everyday, they'd drift further and further apart until their friendship was nothing more than a distant memory.

He looked around the room at the happy, festive couples laughing and talking. His mum and dad. Y/N's mum and dad. Bill and his girlfriend. And even though Percy's girlfriend wasn't there yet, she would be soon. Yet, another couple to drive home to George of what he didn't have and what he may never have.

The room suddenly felt too small, too loud. He needed to get away. To be alone. Turning, George headed upstairs, hoping he could sleep his loneliness away.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard laughter. Y/N's laughter. George turned and followed the sound, intending to simply bask in its glow for a few minutes.

Y/N, Ginny, and Hermione were huddled up in Ginny's bedroom, looking through old photo albums. "It's hard to believe that was you," Hermione laughed, looking at a picture of a beaming eight year old, mud-covered Y/N wearing the pinkest, frilliest dress she'd ever seen, flanked by the two equally beaming, mud-covered twins. "I can't imagine you wearing something like that today."

"Sometimes I can't believe it myself," Y/N giggled, looking down at herself. Gone were the fluffy dresses and bows, replaced with jeans and tall, black boots. The only thing left of that rambunctious, little girl was the color pink. It remained Y/N's favorite color. So much so that Molly knitted her Christmas sweaters every year in pink, with her initial knitted in a bright magenta.

"Which one is which?" Ginny squinted at the picture.

"Oh, that's Fred on the left and George on the right." Y/N said matter-of-factly.

"How do you do it?" Hermione asked.

"Do what?" Y/N eyebrows scrunched together.

"Tell them apart," Ginny clarified. "We all get it wrong sometimes, except for you. You never mix them up."

Y/N shrugged. "Ever since I've known them, Fred's been the smug one. He doesn't smile so much as smirk. But, George, when he smiles, he lights up the room. And his eyes," Y/N's voice took on a dreamy quality. "The way they sparkle and shine when he makes someone laugh. It's like he's achieved the greatest thing in the whole world just by making them laugh."

Hermione and Ginny shared a knowing look.

"Sounds like someone may have a little crush," Ginny teased, shaking Y/N out of her reverie.

Y/N didn't speak for a long moment, chewing on her bottom lip as she wrestled with what to do. After a few long moments, she nodded to herself and spoke. "Swear to me that what I'm about to tell you goes no further than this room."

Hermione gave a solemn nod. "I swear."

Ginny held up her pinkie. "Pinkie promise."

All three girls giggled and linked pinkies.

Y/N took a deep breath. "It's not a little crush. I'm full-on madly in love with George. I have been for as long as I knew what that meant, maybe longer."

You could've heard a pin drop.

It was only then that Hermione noticed someone standing in the doorway. "Oh, hi."

Y/N turned to see George staring straight at her, his expression blank.

"I think we need to talk," he said. "Meet me downstairs."

Y/N swallowed and nodded.

~•~

George walked downstairs in a daze, uncertain if he was dreaming or not. All this time, they'd loved each other in silence. All those times he'd wanted to spill his heart out to her while she had secretly wanted to do the same. He felt a little foolish for never noticing. But, none of that mattered now. A small smile spread across his face as he pulled on his coat. Now that the shock was wearing off, a light-headed giddiness began to set in.

Y/N arrived downstairs a few moments later. George was bundled up for going outside, his scarf wrapped around half his face, hiding it from view. Her already racing heartbeat picked up the pace. Without a word, she pulled on her coat and everything else she needed to stay warm on a cold, snowy day.

George's eyes twinkled when he offered his hand. Y/N took it, tilting her head in question.

Giving her hand a squeeze, he led her outside. They'd only taken a few steps when he stopped, held up a finger, and ran back into the house. Y/N cocked an eyebrow, her nervousness morphing into curiosity, and more than a little confusion.

George was gone no more than a few seconds when he came running back out, slipping a little on an icy patch. Then, grabbing her hand, he continued sprinting through the snow, pulling Y/N along behind him.

"Where are we going?"

No answer.

"George? Did you hear me?"

The only response she got was another squeeze of her hand. Y/N rolled her eyes and stumbled along, trying to ignore the growing stitch in her side.

Much her to her relief, she soon saw where he was taking her. Thank goodness it wasn't too much further.

"Here we are!" George finally spoke. They were standing next to the lake where they spent most of their summers. But, rather than a welcoming sky blue, it was a hard, steel grey, almost indiscernable from the snowy expanse surrounding it.

Y/N held her side, trying catch her breath. "Are--are you trying--to kill me?"

George chuckled. "I thought you were in better shape."

"I'm in excellent shape," she rasped. "But I had to run three times faster to keep up with your long-ass legs."

"Oh," George gave her a sheepish grin. "Sorry. I was just in a hurry to get here."

Y/N smiled and shook her head.

George brushed the snow off of the fallen tree that they often used as a makeshift seat. Then, sitting, he patted the empty spot beside him.

Y/N followed his lead, sitting next to him. Neither spoke for a long while. Despite Y/N's apprehension, it was, as always, an easy, comfortable silence.

"There's something that I've been wanting--trying to tell you for a long time," George began, taking her hands in his. "It wasn't until now that I thought I could."

He paused, taking a deep breath. "I love you too. I think I've loved you all my life. It just took me a while to realize it." George squeezed her hands. "If it's ok with you, I'd like to be more than friends. So very much more."

Y/N stared at him, hoping the recent lack of oxygen hadn't addled her brain, and this was just some sort of a vivid hallucination. "You love me back?"

George couldn't help but chuckle at the stunned look on her face. "Of course I do," he replied, cupping her face in his hands.

She simply stared at him for a moment, then a smile that took his breath away spread across her face.

"I think this is part where we kiss," George's eyes sparkled. "Can I kiss you?"

"Yes. Yes, please," she said as they leaned toward each other.

"Oh wait!" George jumped back, startling Y/N. "I almost forget." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a smushed sprig of mistletoe and held it above them. "Now, I'm ready.

Y/N laughed out loud. "Is that what you ran back in for?"

"Yep," he replied proudly.

"You cheeky bastard," she quipped, earning a wicked smile from George.

"But you love me anyway."

"That I do," she said. And with that, they closed the distance, smiling into their first kiss.

~•~

@princess-paramour @milivanili99 @fancy-pantaloons @turvi @zvummyummy @xmjthewitchx @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @georgie-weasley

[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

[michaelcerasbestfriend]

sing me a song, piano man

thank you to @illusionsignmisdirection! this is my first fanfic, and i don't know a whole lot about elliott... but i did my best! hope you enjoy!

elliott from stardew valley x gn! reader, piano style fluff ;)

word count: 1.1k

______________________________________________________________

thursday afternoon... the day caroline forcefully instated to be your rest day, but she did not know how hard that would be. there is always so much to do on that farm, and it was irritating that no one really understood that. the days were you forget to give your cat water lead into nights were you are consumed with guilt, and by no means is it an easy job. that makes days off harder, because, really, what on earth were you supposed to do? so, when your friends leah and elliott invite you to read with them on thursdays, to give all three of you a break, and you happily agree... that is until you discover how hard that is, too.

of course, it is! it is such a normal thursday afternoon, and your legs lay across elliott's who is on the other side of the table. you always thought elliott's cabin was pleasant and warm, just like him, making it easy to be comfortable and study, the steady sounds of waves in the back making it the perfect place to be. but not today. not after these last few weeks, whereas you have had some extra thursdays to think. with those thoughts came the flavor of eve's apple, that is, sweet but forbidden. elliott has always been so kind to you, even from the start, and his greeting warmed your heart every time. you couldn't help but admire his lustrous, shiny hair and his confident gaze. of course you couldn't. and that is why this particular thursday is hard, because leah was "too inspired" to come. so here you are... in elliott's cabin, alone, on a thursday, with a book in front of you that you can barely focus on.

the book, of course, was a romance novel that elliott recommended you, which is probably the stem of this whole problem. elliott, who thought of this romance novel and thought that you should read it after, meaning that he was thinking of you while reading it. elliott, who probably thought of you in some of the scenes, just like you do, him, you reason. but there is not much reasoning when elliott's legs hold the weight of yours... there is not much reasoning when elliott hums lowly at something he reads in his book... there is no reasoning when elliott has his hair pulled up in a bun out of his face so he can read without his hair being in the way.

the more and more your brain spirals, the more your try to cover your face with your book. the heat starts to rise within you, sneaking up to cross over your face, making it a pretty tulip pink. its elliott's natural warmth and the heat outside that's making you this way. uh huh, but still. there is no way elliott is not able to pick up on your discomfort... he is an author after all. so, your eyes avert to his pretty red piano. the old thing takes up a majority of his cabin, and come to think of it, you rarely ever see elliott play, though it is immaculately clean, not a sliver of dust in sight. his hands probably look so pretty gliding against the keys... delicate and smooth....

"hello? farmer, darling? are you alright?"

elliott's words barely make it through the dome of your skull and into you brain to process, but when they finally do, your face turns bright. everything he does now is distracting, so much for a relaxing thursday afternoon... you reply a bit too frantically, so much for keeping any sort of composure, "yes! uhm- sorry, just feeling a bit of distracted today, heh."

though, elliott is able to trace your gaze back to his piano, wondering why on earth you would be so flustered, that is... unless you want to play and are too embarrassed to ask. why of course! definitely not because his hair is framing his face perfectly, and his eyes are emanating concern for you. you burn from embarrassment, of course. so, elliott does the gentlemanly thing, being the way that he is, and offers to let you play.

the poor man is just so oblivious even though romance is quite literally his job, but your pounding head is able to make itself useful and track elliott's mindset. you realize, oh now you have to play piano to not make yourself look like a fool in front of him. so you gently place your book down on the table, pretending that you care about it in the slightest, before walking over to the piano and sitting on the bench, with a master's grace... you hope.

you sit on the bench and crack your knuckles dramatically, trying to prolong this process as much as possible. the only song you know how to play is twinkle twinkle little star, something that your grandpa had taught you years ago, and though the memory would normally warm your heart, the heat within you is rising and so is your stress. you manage to play the first few notes of twinkle twinkle before messing up. you sigh, and try again, just to hear elliott let out a little giggle and come to stand behind you. the distance feels absolutely suffocating, and it only gets worse from here.

"you don't know much... do you? well, you are quite lucky to have a piano man such as myself by your side," elliott says proudly, puffing out his chest a little bit. the unease within you remains, but the light chuckle you let out eases some of the fursteration away... that is until elliott gently places his larger hands on top of yours on the piano, and that totally lights you aflame. your hands instinctively twitch at the feeling of another's skin against yours, and you cannot help but let out a shaky breath.

"oh, dove, please relax. i have got you," elliott mutters while kindly guidning your hands above the keys of his old piano, instructing you on what finger to press down on what key. your flusteredness slowly fades as elliott gently maneuvers your smaller hands against the piano, and at last, you have learned the song once again, with the help of elliott's gentle hands :)

bonus: once you have practiced a few times, elliott sits next to you in the bench, taking away some air of yours as you try not to look at him, his hips pressed against yours. you both barely fit on the bench, made for just elliott. he requests you to play one more time, but as you start his hands reach up to the keys, as well, and he plays along with you, a soft, practiced melody floods elliott's little beach shack. the both of you sound perfect together.

[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.

[anawkwardlady]

Dadbastian week day 2 : Identity

(poem referenced is The Wolf and the Lamb by Jean de La Fontaine)

The reason of those best able to have their way is always the best: We now show how this is true A lamb was quenching its thirst In the water of a pure stream. A fasting wolf came by, looking for something; He was attracted by hunger to this place.

Humans are grasshoppers. Children are worth even less. After all, they're just beginning to gain a sense of value to humans themselves since it's so easy to make them, to lose them, to make some more. They’re nothing but an unshaped clay of potential for creatures like him. Shaped by knives, intentions and expectations, probable pain— until maybe one day, one or two walks outside, reeking of blood and rage, right into his mouth. And it's been this way since the dawn of time, time he killed for centuries to fill the gaping hole where a soul should be, which he filled with many others. 

When that unshaped clay signed his soul away, the demon signed away his freedom for a mere potential. No choice was left for any of them. He was to take on the role of hands and knives but did not think through it very much. He was himself unshaped clay of somesort, walking within the human skin of a protective adult. The demon looks down on the tiny thing that called him over. 

—What makes you so bold as to meddle with my drinking? Said this animal, very angry. You will be punished for your boldness

The now Butler looks at his wet gloved hands. They burn. Pain of the flesh is inconsequential, he could get a new one some time soon, it's a foreign feeling, while obviously unpleasant. Like maybe cutting a finger up while dreaming away. Pain of the ego however rings through his entire body. The unshaped clay now Master is behaving like a newborn pulling a cat’s tail over and over again. It soon enough will become a bit of an endearing trait of his, probably. When it’ll stop triggering his desire to maim. He looks up at this weak master who slowly gains a shape. 

—Sir, answered the lamb, let Your Majesty Not put himself into a rage; But rather, let him consider That I am taking a drink of water In the stream More than twenty steps below him; And that, consequently, in no way, Am I troubling his supply.

Blood is on the grass and more will pour. Body filled with adrenaline as it rips more intruders, more targets. Nothing is known of them, and the demon wouldn’t care to learn such things as family, names or any pleadings, any excuses. Death doesn’t come out of anger nor is it personal. He is ordered to execute and execute he does. Soon enough he only knows executing, can only smell blood and starts to drown inside his limiting cage. 

Everything morphs into each other, flesh is wounds is meat is guts is human. Like all the times he reached this state before, he gains the knowledge that better sleeps soundly inside. Wonders if it will finally be the time to toss aside those learned quirks of patience and care, of loyalty and dignity to give in to hunger. He used to quietly slip back inside, soiled with death, towards the master’s bedroom he entered without a sound just to stare at the little figure. The boy doesn’t move, probably won’t hear. He spent too many sleepless nights before, thus sometimes got a little help in his milk before laying down, to avoid complete exhaustion. Works wonders. Humans develop new tricks everyday to avoid children's screams. 

—You do trouble it, answered the cruel beast. And I know you said bad things of me last year. —How could I do that when I wasn’t born, Answered the lamb; I am still at my mother’s breast. —If it wasn’t you, then it was your brother. —I haven’t a brother.—It was then someone close to you;

The child is the weakest of its kind. His prey smells like death and yet it only brings questions. The demon should eat to appease hunger but cannot, because he chose to be Sebastian. Sebastian is a placeholder for a child’s needs but even that part doesn’t reason. After all, even a mother cat eats her sickest kitten. And it seems like deep down even the master knows the wrong kitten was dragged to hell. In the end, Sebastian showed up and ate what was on the plate. Nothing more nothing less. Everything in nature should take this life away. Nothing did. Humans tame themselves for preservation sake. Something valuable to learn about them. Tame yourself and wait. 

For you have no sympathy for me, You, your shepherds and your dogs. I have been told of this. I have to make things even.

Tame yourself and wait. 

As the demon thinks of his hunger, the butler starts to mechanically check a mental list of tomorrow’s imperatives. His stomach tores apart. He wonders if the bread could make a good Pain Perdu for tea time. Blood sticks to his skin. The young master will be wearing his blue coat, because the air starts to get cold. 

He gently puts his tainted red gloves away, rearranges Ciel’s pillow and covers before disappearing like he came. Cleans the mess outside.

Tame yourself and wait. 

Saying this, into the woods The wolf carries the lamb, and then eats him Without any other why or wherefore.

Thankfully he was always more bored than he was hungry.

[morgana-ren]

More in depth 👏 more nasty 👏 whether for Bailey or Leighton it's your choice. Bring on the nasty. Indulge yourself. No holds barred

I'm going to do an actual nasty thing for Bailey but I'm on doped on medication right now so instead this ended up getting vomited out and it's pure pretentious, flowery shite but I wanted to get something out today, for hells sake. I wanted to save the actual more in depth and more nasty for when I'm even slightly coherent. If you've got any specific ideas for something worth a damn, please let me know. Scenarios and what not. Also for Leighton too.

𝙱𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚢 :

You have always belonged to me//Just like your first time//You will always be mine

The heartless caretaker; serpent in the skin of a man that he's shedding because of you. Turning his gaze isn't easy, but it is permanent. If you didn't want this, you should have kept your head down, paid your debts, and obeyed. He can hold a grudge with the same ease as a conversation but it's neither of those things he's interested in right now.

Fingers splayed across your throat and teeth bared, his desk becoming an altar to sin as he commits the only blasphemy he swore he never would. It's not him who kneels before it, but it's his voice that exhales 'Oh God' in an unholy sigh.

You've got a tongue that tastes like iron and blood on your teeth and you're not sure if it's yours or his. His hands threaded through your hair, your claws in thighs, and an entire life's worth of animosity to work through. It gives the term hatefuck a run for its money, and Bailey never forgives a debt.

He's like a Father; he's like a monster. Either way you lean into it, it knots your stomach and makes you sick, but this town has a way of twisting people up in the Kudzu so it's not unexpected that when you were born into the monster's den that you'd end up in his bed.

Save this time, it is the snake who was led astray into temptation. It is your venom pulsing through his veins even as he does his damnedest to ensure you suck it out in equal measure. It's ironic— You radiate purity and it slips through his fingers and under his nails, digging beneath his skin and burrowing in his black little heart. An itch he can't scratch; a stain he can't get out even as it's you who is filthy. You play at Eve but you are pure Lilith, and when you lie beneath him, it is all fight and fury as he devours the innocence he robs from you.

It is his by right. You cannot steal what belongs to you, and you have always belonged to him and what you do not give willingly, he will take.

Coiling tightly, enveloping completely. Hunched over you like a gargoyle with a stone sneer and cold eyes but hands so hot you swear they singe your skin as he burns the shape of his fingers into your flesh. That halo above your head cracks and splinters with every thrust and he could just take it from your head and bind your neck, keeping you tethered beneath him now and forever. You cry his name like a dark, forbidden prayer to an ancient and forgotten God and he is utterly lost in the paradise nestled between your thighs.

White feathers scattered across his floor, but the wings that envelop him bleed black. Bailey hasn't been religious since he was a boy but he has seen the face of God, and she whispers through broken lips that she forgives him even as he defiles an angel. He pumps corruption between your thighs-- the only corruption you've ever truly known and there's something so redeeming about sinning with divinity. Grace he was not gifted willingly but will bask in nonetheless.

When you hold heaven in your hands, it's only natural you'd never want to let go, and when you've gone through Hell, it's only a matter of time before you dance with the devil. His heart beats a Mephisto Waltz and he decides the moment he empties his damnation inside of you that he isn't much keen on letting salvation wiggle free of his grip.

And so he doesn't. He takes his communion in your tears and savors the holy water. He'll clip your wings and tug you down from heaven's grace as many times as it takes. The mark of the Beast is a tattooed serpent and once it is upon you, not even God can save you now.

[aajjks]

DHP!JK

married men are so pathetic. especially men like ian.

he wholeheartedly believes that pacifying me with his dick will salvage my hunger for who i really want and for awhile, it did. because of his strong resemblance, it’s so easy to imagine that it’s him between my legs. “fuck~” i moan as he pushes my legs further apart to get deeper inside. the sound of my headboard hitting the wall is like music to my ears as i watch him piston his hips faster inside of me. “choke me” i say and he does it.

“tighter. tighter. tighter” i pant and the pain of his hands around my neck doesn’t feel so painful anymore. i think back to that day at the wedding when the aura of my life was slipping away—i get wetter just thinking about it. “h-harder daddy” i know he likes it when i call him that. he likes to feel in control and hurt me just as much as he makes me feel good and he hates the thought of another man touching me, especially his brother.

on the bright side…

you don’t feel great today. your nausea has been kicking your ass, your ice cold to the touch, your head is constantly throbbing, and you sleep almost all day. according to educational pregnancy blogs, these symptoms are normal. as your body is preparing to the fetus, everything begins to change and react to its preparation.

with jungkook’s help, he dresses you in a pretty beige dress, boots, and a fuzzy coat for the cold weather. as jungkook is getting ready, you style your hair in a simple half up-half down style and add a little make up to your face since jungkook will most likely drive straight to his parents house after the appointment.

“Yn… wow..” you start to blush as jungkook admires your radiant beauty. his eyes rake over your form and gently caresses your belly that’s poking through the dress. he presses a chaste kiss to your lips before taking your hand and excitedly, guiding you out of the apartment.

“I love you yn”

“i love you too”

you’re a nervous wreck when the nurse leaves you and jungkook alone to wait for the doctor. your breathing is ragged and your heart starting to pick up its pace which causes you to become very lightheaded. jungkook takes your hand in his and kisses the back of it. to help take your mind off of the baby, he talks to you about the upcoming snowstorm and how he’s a little excited about it. “you’re just excited because you want to play in the snow” and jungkook won’t deny it. truthfully, he’s excited to make snow angels with his baby once they’re born and so are you.

“hello, so sorry for the wait. my name is dr. lee minji. it’s a pleasure to meet you” the woman says as she shakes yours and jungkook’s hands. “i believe we’re here for a ultrasound, correct?” jungkook agrees.

“good, good. are you okay with the gender reveal now or later?”

“now, please. we can’t wait any longer”

“alright then. do you mind lifting your dress a little?”

“sorry” with jungkook’s help, he pushes your dress up a bit before returning back to hold your hand. dr. minji applies some cool gel on your lower stomach before pressing the transducer against your pelvis. just a minute later, dr. minji finds your little baby’s head.

“is…is that—,” your eyes fill with tears.

“uh huh, you’ve got a healthy baby boy”

~🫧

He’s shocked.

Tears fill to the brim of his eyes as he starts to cry. Jungkook hasn’t felt this kind of happiness in a long time. He cannot stop staring at the screen.

That’s—

“T-That’s our baby boy yn..” he sqeezes your hand is so so tightly because this doesn’t feel real. He cannot believe that he’s having a boy.

You are carrying his little baby boy. He had a feeling… he really wanted a little boy.. “b-baby.” Hes actually a mess right now.

Tears of joy fall from his eyes and you’re crying as well because you guys are so heavy right now and he doesn’t know what to do to express it. It just feels so overwhelming in the best way possible.

Jungkook picks your hand up and he kisses it repeatedly. “ I LOVE YOU SO MUCH. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY I AM.”

He even cannot contain his happiness in front of the doctor. He doesn’t care. “AGHHHGG THAT’S MY BABY BOY THAT’S RIGHT.” He puts his hands up like he’s just won a big prize.

Jungkook takes out his phone and immediately starts to click pictures of the ultrasound. And then he takes a moment to make a video of himself talking to the camera.

“H-Hi baby boy.. as you can see right now because I just found out that you were a boy and you have no idea how happy your mommy and daddy are. Your mommy and daddy love you soooo much.”

You giggle, even the doctor does.

Jungkook then puts his phone aside.

“Oh yn I AM SO HAPPY I’M SO HAPPY. I AM SO HAPPY.”

•••

Both of his parents sit right in front of him.

Jungkook and you are really excited, but nervous to tell his parents the good news.

“Jungkook? What’s wrong?” Jiyeon asks, taking a sip of her tea, hee husband is right beside her. “Yn are you OK sweetie?”

You nod, Jungkook squeezes your hand tightly.

“Well.. mom and dad I think there’s something you should know because we have to tell you.” He takes a deep breath.

“Yn will you please do the honor?”