GiftyArtFanfic

“Roleplaying… in bed?”

From the couch of your apartment, Ashveil looks up at you with raised eyebrows and a slight tilt of his head.

Without wanting to sound too much like a freak, you quickly follow up with a “remember that last movie we watched, where the couple pretended not to know each other at a bar?”

His eyes light up. “Oh! Yeah, I remember that, that did look fun,” he nods, “wouldn't be the first time I do something along those lines.”

Well that's very great to hear. Which means he can probably be convinced to do something that's not quite so tame, right?

You nod along. “I’ve always wanted to try something like that, so, I was wondering whether you'd like us… to…”

You trail off as a wide, downright evil smirk spreads across Ashveil's face

“Wh- what?”

“Oh, nothing,” he shrugs, “hadn’t expected my sweetheart to be so kinky, that's all –”

A pillow promptly lands in his face, earning a yelp from him before it falls to his lap. His eyes are wide.

“H- hey, I’m being vulnerable here!” you stutter between astonishment at his behavior and embarrassment at how quickly he clocked you.

As much as you like to tease him, his intuition isn’t all that bad, and he has the very annoying trait of reading you better than you’d like to, at times. So what if you're a bit into that stuff? Everyone has their peculiarities, the childhood trauma that somehow got turned into a weird fixation and now serves as a coping mechanism more than anything. Roleplaying is fun, and that's the end of it.

You huff, insecurity creeping up. “If you’re just teasing me with no intention to do something, I can just shut up.” Being teased is one thing, feeling like you’re being made fun of is another.

“Aright, alright. Why don’t you tell me about what you have in mind, hm?” Patting his lap, Ashveil invites you to join him, and he wraps your arms around your waist once you do. Another smirk spreads on his face. “No need to beat around the bush with something as meek as ‘pretending to meet at a bar’. What’s your goal here, love?”

Here it goes. After thinking about this for months, you finally have the chance to lay bare all those desires that you’ve been hiding within the deepest parts of your depraved brain. Gosh, you’ve seen this guy naked and whimpering – why are you suddenly getting shy about this?

“Okay, so… You know that old fairytale called red riding hood and the big bad wolf?”

“Not predictable at all.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

“You can't predict a plot twist in a movie even if it's obvious from the first damn minute.”

“I can predict you just fine. I think that's a lot more fun.”

You're going to strangle this man. That shit-eating grin is just asking for it, really. Instead, you retort to more civilized methods to get back at him.

“Hm… Though, I’m not sure that you can pull off the big, bad wolf,” you lament, rolling off of him and flopping down next to him on the couch.

Ashveil sputters, every point of his pride wounded to a degree that rivals insulting his very own being. He’s downright offended. “Me? I am THE big bad wolf,” he retorts, frantically pointing to all the wolf badges and motifs all over his clothing. “That’s my entire thing!”

You tilt your head from side to side, taunting. “I don’t know. The big wolf is supposed to be scary – that’s the whole fun of the scenario. It’s about the dynamic, the adrenaline,” you explain, a director in another life, it seems. A side eye meets those grey hues. “And you’re a lot of things… but not frightening.”

For a moment, it seems that Ashveil wants to protest, but his expression slowly softens, eyebrows furrowed and gaze pensive. When he opens his mouth again, it’s a soft, low murmur. “...I don’t want you to fear me.”

The sudden shift in mood is a whiplash, making you feel guilty for teasing him like that. He was a feared Galaxy Ranger once. Aeons, you know he can still be intimidating when he wants to be. Of course he wouldn’t want to put you in the same spot as corrupt scoundrels and evildoers.

You lean up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Hey, come on. I could never be scared of you,” you promise, taking his prosthetic hand into yours and pressing it against your cheek.

“Are you sure?” His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “I know I’m not the infamous ‘First Fang’ anymore, but I don’t want to cross a line there’s no going back from.”

You huff. “I’m more resilient than you think.”

“I know you are,” he smiles.

“So leave it to me to determine where that line is.” A pause. “How about this: you can be as scary as you feel comfortable being. And if something goes too far, I’ll stop you, ‘kay?”

That proposal visibly lets his tense shoulders sag with relief. Nodding, Ashveil’s head drops to your shoulder, where he lets out a small sigh, “...yeah. Sounds good.”

“Also, just saying. I wouldn't be choosing this scenario if I wasn't into a bit of fearplay, you know.”

“Not to mention your very obvious love for seeing this old wolf in action,” he giggles, and you clearly feel a smile against your neck.

You ruffle his hair with a chuckle.

…

Usually, the setting of Little Red Riding Hood is a forest, but there are no forests anywhere close to Duomension City without travelling for miles. So no flower picking, no forest path, and no cabin in the woods where dear grandma lies in wait. Thankfully, the whole dressing up part is the easiest thing about this – there’s all sorts of peculiar people running around every day, and your little red and wolf cosplays won’t stand out from the crowd. Which means the only thing you need to focus on is somehow translating the old fairy tale into a modern version without losing the charm of the original.

“... Narrator, you know what this is all a buildup for, right?”

You sit on the chair in Ashveil's office, with Mr. N sitting on the table while he taps his phone. The detective is out to run errands, and his faithful assistant has offered to help you out on your little mission of coming up with the details of the scenario. Frankly, having the monkey meddle into the whole thing is a bit…

“Rest assured that I know what Mr. Ashveil and you are planning with this,” he nods, occasionally checking something on the computer. “I’d rather the both of you find a location more fitting for your little adventure than the office. I've marked down a few reputable places, and sent you some links about helpful tips and tricks for what you two have in mind.”

Uhm. Are you– Are you seriously getting kink PSA from a monkey? Why is he so well informed?? The logical explanation would be that, as the one actually doing the detective work in the agency, Narrator has collected a lot of info about all sorts of places. Or maybe he used to be into that stuff when he was still human. You don't want to think about any other possible explanation.

…

A few days and lots of communication later, you and Ashveil decided on a location. Initially, you eyed the website of a love hotel that uses imagenesis to create whatever environment you want, but just one hour in a room was more than your monthly salary. Nope, that was definitely too much for your budget, not to mention Ashveil’s. Instead, you found a little motel aimed at kinky couples, advertising soundproof rooms, a snack bar and free contraceptives, as well as a collection of accessories like handcuffs or blindfolds for rent. Still a bit pricey, yet the both of you agreed that doing anything like that within the thin walls of your apartment would not only be super embarrassing, but could also lead to prying neighbours assuming things they shouldn’t. 

So here you are: dressed in your favorite red hoodie, just a few streets from Perdido Station, following the route that you agreed on. Hopefully nobody recognizes you two… You try to keep your eyes fixed to the screen of your phone, wanting the surprise of Ashveil popping up to be as genuine as possible. Walking alone late in the evening is not a very smart thing to do, though, so you still try to stay aware of your surroundings as best as possible.

“Good evening, Little Red Riding Hood,” a voice calls from an alley, a dark purr beckoning you to stray from your path and walk right into your doom.

You walk past him.

Behind you, you can hear confused footsteps going into one direction, then the other, before you see the flash of white and red press past you to hide in another alleyway a few steps ahead.

You can't help it. You know it's cruel of you, and you're barely holding in your laughter, but you had to do it to him. 

“Good evening, Little Red Riding Hood,” Ashveil repeats, louder this time, because you clearly didn't hear him.

That's when you finally look up from your phone and turn to face him: from beneath his usual coat, a long, black tail sprouts forth, a raven dark fading into white, similar to his own hair. One tall ear peaks from the raised side of his fedora, the other hanging down on the other side, almost blending into his hair. You’d make a comment about how the one floppy ear makes him look kinda silly, but you instead find yourself staring. It’s easy to forget it when you often get to see this man at his worst, but Ashveil is gorgeous. His silvery eyes, staring at you from behind hooded lids, the hint of a smile on his delicate lips, and now, the ears and tail that not only fit beautifully into his overall aesthetic, but also remind you of what’s about to come.

Ah, right, you gotta answer him.

“Uh… Are you talking with me?” Feigning confusion, you look around the empty alley.

Ashveil’s eyes narrow, tilting his head. “Where are you going so late in the evening?”

“That’s none of your business?”

“That’s not –” A deep breath, before the wolf continues, irritation mixing into his deep voice. “You’re supposed to say ‘to my grandmother’s house’, Little Red,” he grumbles.

Seeing Ashveil pout, even if he’s just pretending this time, never fails to amuse you.

You frown at him. “And why would I say that? My grandma doesn’t even live anywhere close…”

Teeth gritted, hands flexing, he narrows his eyes again. “Because that’s how the story goes.”

You do your best to look at him as if he was a random weirdo on the streets who knows every officer by name with how often he gets the police called on him. Then, you snap your fingers. “Oohh, I get it! They’re doing some kind of Red Riding Hood adaptation, right?” Suddenly crowding his personal space, you lean in closer. “Is this a promotion for a new movie? Do you walk up to anyone wearing red? Is someone recording this?”

Ashveil can do nothing but look dumbfounded as you take out your phone and snap a selfie with him.

“Hmm, I haven’t seen any ads at all, are you gonna use this video as material? Because I wanna be paid for this if this is gonna go online.”

The dread of paying money catches up to him, because he snaps back into his role and glares down at you. “There is no adaptation! This is no movie, and no ad campaign either,” he huffs and puffs and blows the – no, wait, wrong fairy tale.

Putting your phone away, you take a step back. “Uh, so… You’re a cosplayer, then? A really weird one,” you add under your breath.

“Listen –”

“Hang on.” Fishing your phone out of your pocket again, you hold it up to your ear. “Oh, hi babe! Yeah, I'll be home in a min.”

There is no other person on the line. You just need an excuse to get away… and to ragebait Ashveil as much as possible. Without another word towards him, you walk off towards the Dreamless Coffee location nearby, leaving him behind. Aeons, you'd pay to see the expression on his face right now.

Instead, you follow the plan the two of you set up, sitting yourself on one of the little tables outside the cafe without ordering anything. Checking the time on your phone, you see that you still have about half an hour before you have to head for the motel, and you start to wonder: What will happen once you get there? Will Ashveil really put on a granny costume and lay down in bed? A grin spreads on your face as you imagine him trying to imitate the voice of an old woman, pitch croaking and cracking. He may be able to look like one, with a bit of makeup, but his voice has always been his biggest giveaway.

Maybe Ashveil has something completely different in store? After all, you've put a lot of creative liberty into your version of the fairytale, but what matters is the core, right? Unassuming little thing gets ravaged by the mean wolf. Adaptation, modernization, all begets change. What matters is having fun, for Aha’s sake!

Some part of you… worries. Not because you don't trust Ashveil, of course you do. But this is the first time the two of you are doing this, and you hope that it's not too much for either of you.

Relax. That's why you have safe words and gestures, you remind yourself. It's all gonna be fine.

Inside your phonecase, the keycard to your room sits snugly, and every time your fingers run over it, you’re reminded that this is all going to happen soon. You’re finally going to live out this fantasy. It’s gonna be fine, and fun, and hot.

Perhaps an eternity passes, even if it’s over in seconds, as your phone screen flickers to life with the sound of a timer. It’s time.

Ever since Ashveil got released I've wanted to write a Red Riding Hood fic, and after a lot of time slacking off, part 1 is done! I'm posting this part already because this fic got significantly longer than expected; part 2 will be out sometime this week!

He tutted at you, which always irritated you in a way, as it meant you had already lost. Jing Yuan, your clever strategist, your ever watchful General and how he so often was able to pull out whatever ruse you were trying to hide. Such frustration came with softened edges, because really it was all from how he loved you so.

“I would like for you to tell me the truth, unless you would like for me to pull it from you myself? Your body does tend to react quite..sensitively to my methods, wouldn’t you agree?” Jing Yuan mused, your eyes flitted down to see his large shaft, half hard in his trousers. You gulped shamefully, knowing that this entire situation had your pussy aching and wet despite the uproar of emotions going on in your head, the gusset of your underwear uncomfortably sticking to your lips.

He’s about to devour you, rightfully so, when you sniffle. Jing Yuan, whose eyes have not left your sweet face, watches you beg for him. So softly, meek and weak.

“I need you, Jing Yuan.”

Ah, he smiled, chuckling softly through his nostrils and not minding at all when you groaned and swatted his shoulder for it. He was all too happy to remind you how important you have always been in his life — such an old man as himself was not going to take advantage of your sweet soul.

He helped peel your sodden panties off first, a wide palm gliding down your inner thigh to press you open just a little more. You felt your pussy flutter at his touch that didn’t quite reach the place you wanted, but in your distraction your lover nosed at your cheek, prompting you to meet his gaze. He always looked at you so fondly it nearly made your body seize with shyness, only a whimper of his name said before he was kissing you.

He allowed his lips to tentatively work yours open, swallowing down every one of your whimpers and little sighs. Your fingers reached down to toy with the zipper of his pants, gliding along the hardness throbbing against his thigh until he smiled against your mouth and helped you pull his hefty cock from its confines. His tip was at your entrance, tacky and weeping with pre as he started to press into you. It was always a stretch, but always worth it.

“Please…” you murmured into his mouth, lashes fluttering at another tiny push of his fat cock splitting you. Jing Yuan’s broad figure was hunched over you, his starlight hair a curtain around your face when you cried out at his heavy, full sheath into your cunt in one mighty stroke. You nearly passed out at the knock of him against your cervix, but your lover did not allow it. He kissed you ardently, his hands sliding down to beneath your ass cheeks where with each handful he hoisted your bottom half up to meet the thudding smacks of his hips meeting yours.

“You were withholding things from me, but know that I won’t let you run from me. I love you too much for that, do you understand?” he grunted with his jaw clenched at his punctured thrusts. You were so wet and pliant, nodding with your nails digging into his scarred skin.

You being squished on the couch under him, you had nowhere to go and no choice but to moan into his shoulder, your ass in his hold and shoving you onto his cock over and over — you were always so in awe of his well placed stamina, leaving you shaking and screaming. Much like you hoped today would end the same.

But instead, because of the overwhelming feeling of it all, being in his arms after fighting with yourself so much, you began to cry. Jing Yuan cooed, settling your ass back down against the couch and his thumb finding your swollen clit in one swift movement.

“Let it all out, little one. I’ll catch you.” he promised, the press of his thumb harder on your slippery clit and cock still wrecking your insides.

You wailed, back arching as far as it could muster while still being pressed against Jing Yuans chest, tears so rapidly falling down your cheeks and voice growing raspy as you tightened around him with your face in his neck. He groaned deeply, the sound of a powerful man so enthralled with you dizzying, kissing and mouthing at your hot wet face while you shook at his cock still fucking you until he met his climax with a full body shiver. You were so warm, being filled with his creamy seed and his bulky body settling over yours with a gentleness only Jing Yuan could muster. You shuddered in his arms, still sniffling and sobbing quietly, unwilling to let him move away from you.

Jing Yuan kissed to side of your head, whispering I love you as you cried and allowed your previously withheld vulnerability fall away with him.

“Anything you are going through, we will do so together. Such is my vow, that I take very seriously you know.” Jing Yuan murmured, nuzzling against the side of your face as your breathing settled. You nodded again,

“I’ll try to be better about it Jing Yuan.”

He kissed your lips and when he gave you again his sweetly knowing smile, you felt more tears begin to well up.

“And if you have trouble, I have no qualms doing this again to aid you.” and at that, you laughed, a smile vivid and real and beautiful.

That was really all he wanted, and while you needed the reminder that it was all possible again to feel this way.

Blade

If ever there were a man who was more than willing and able to notice the little things about you, Blade would find him and insist with a blank but steady stare at how he was in fact, more so than that. He was oddly kind, someone from a nightmare when you first encountered him. All shadows and scowls and a stormy past that caught you admittedly off guard with his tender hand and need to keep you close with a kiss to your temple or a plate of cut up fruit set wordlessly beside you. He was aware that even now you still kept a lot of your heart from him, and in fairness he too sometimes expressed difficulty in showing all of his heart. But he was resolved to continue to love you thoroughly, and it made a wounded man such as him exceedingly glad to be loved in return by you. It was no surprise then that in Blades perception he knew you were struggling and in an awkward but endearing way he approached you with a pinch to your chin to lift your gaze up to him.

You frowned, eyes darting away from his sharp red gaze and he sighed deeply as he sat down beside you, pulling you suddenly into his lap and uncaring of your protesting whine.

“Something is bothering you.” he stated simply into the side of your neck. His knees spread and in turn spread your knees too where you were seated in his lap, bandaged hands settled on your thighs, but you just huffed softly with your head still turned away.

“I just…I had a long day.” you said quietly, and a little annoyed too if Blade heard correctly. He didn’t like the sound of it, your apprehension and frustration had your heart thudding but your body tired. His palms stroked your legs, down to your knee and back up your thighs again in a comforting manner.

“Blade…” you said softly, adjusting yourself on his lap with your ass pressed against his crotch. His hands on your thighs creeped up, and you’d felt the way he inhaled your scent with his face in your neck,

“Will you make me feel better?” you asked, the words coming out warbled and wet, shyly turning towards your lover. Blade looked at you with low and shadowed eyes, nodding solemnly before he leaned in for a kiss.

From the angle, kissing him was difficult, and different — however knowing Blade you dared not move from his lap and kissed him anyway, letting him grunt into your mouth and then nuzzle his nose against your cheek to bring his kisses down to your neck. All this time you writhed slowly in his lap, just enough to feel his cock hardening against your back but Blades steeled hands didn’t let you tease much longer.

Instead he spread your legs wider with his knees and his fingers went to the gusset of your underwear. You’d only been wearing a comfortable little nightgown, something easy and cool on a warm night. So with your sleepwear disheveled and your panties growing more and more sopping with your essence, your chest arched and nipples strained against the fabric as Blade stroked a finger up and down your clothed slit. Your head fell back to settle in his shoulder, eyes fluttered shut.

“You will have to tell me what’s on your mind eventually girl.” Blade said calmly, letting his finger press down a little harder to hear you gasp.

You nodded, “I…I will Blade, just please…” you sighed, his fingertips rubbing at your clit through the fabric, the sensation making you hazy.

“Please what?” he responded quietly, fingers still against your core.

“Please make me feel better. Please keep touching me…”

Blade grunted in that deeply, taking two fingers to pull your panties to the side while his other hand went to cup your cunt. You hissed at the lack of touch, but he then brought up his middle finger to part your soaked pussy, stopping his fingertip right at your clit to pet at it. Your thighs trembled when he began to stroke your slit, pausing to press at your clit here and slipping his finger inside you there. He changed his middle finger to his middle and ring finger then, sliding them all the way in while you keened and gushed into his palm. The way he stroked your insides with his fingers, thrusting them absurdly fast and precise — only a testament of the way he was always so attentive to you, left your hands grasping at his wrist though entirely unsuccessful to get his ministrations to slow down.

With the pleasurable pressure building between your legs, your back bowed as Blade finally brought his other hand in to play, swiping and pinching your clit until you began to squeal. You gasped pitifully until your head swam and your face grew hotter at the sensation and tears then surprisingly began to quickly steam down your cheeks. You came with a sharp cry, Blades fingers still working inside you. Dripping down his wrist and tacky from your release, pussy fluttering around his digits while your sobbing gasps left your throat dry.

You went limp after your orgasm, shaking and crying in his arms. Blade withdrew his fingers from you, watching the shimmering gossamer threads of your bliss sticking to him until breaking lewdly before he turned you in his lap, your cheek against his chest while you trembled. Your tears soaked his bandages and you sniffled that you would help him change them soon, and to your surprise you heard a lighthearted snort come from Blade. You blinked up at him, and he wiped at your wet eyes with his knuckle,

“This is not about me. It’s about making you feel better. Do not try to change the subject.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were, and I will not allow you to forget that I am here for you in whatever way you should desire.” he retorts, keeping you pressed into his sturdy hold. You nodded weakly, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

“Okay Blade, thank you for the reminder.” you said quietly, curling into his lap even more. Blade sat still until your breathing evened out and you were asleep, tears dried on your cheeks and your lips parted in happy slumber, not seeing his slight smile down at you.

Ratio

To be loved by Veritas Ratio, meant to be seen. Even on the days you admittedly, did not want to be. You could hide your every bad or ugly thought the best you could, opting to smile and giggle until the doctor was cupping your cheeks and nearly glaring at you for not being honest with him, and even with yourself in his desire as your lover to at the very least make you aware of his want to be there for you. So maybe on occasion, because of that, you don’t fight it.

Even if it means you’re embarrassed and your hands are clammy, cheeks warm and heart thudding. You’d had a terrible week, feeling drained in every sense of the word and if you didn’t do something soon, you were positive you were going to collapse from heartache. Ratio was seated at his desk, reading to no one’s surprise, ever beautiful and concentrated and he had told you many times that he had no issue with you interrupting his work or reading if you needed his time. But still, it was difficult to muster the courage to go to him, for numerous reasons.

“Are you going to come here or shall you stare at me a little longer?” he remarked, not looking up from the page he was on. But when you didn’t come forward he closed the book and looked to you, holding out his hand to beckon you nearer.

You came to him not fully out of obedience you told yourself, but because you really did need him. Ratio cupped your cheek and his thumb found your bottom lip, tilting his head with a pinched brow to gaze at you most inquisitively. He waited with patience, much more than he offered most. Your eyes wavered, but you rocked forward on your toes until your lips collided with his, gently enough to show your shyness but bold enough to captivate him as his arm wound around your waist and he deepened the kiss in return. Your breaths became heavy, lips locking and your hands threading into his hair.

“To what do I owe this affection?” he mused against your mouth. You were backed against his desk now, nearly sitting atop of it.

“I just…I really need you, Veritas.” your breathing is rasped, low as you shakily admit the words to him. You resolve not to tear up, but he catches the twitch of your brow and the way your lips fight to go down into a sad frown. He hums, kissing you assuredly and petting at your sides while you hug him closer.

“And just what are you particularly needing my dear? Something tells me you would like more…physical attention from me?”

You nod, slowly and quietly as you bury your face in his chest almost shamefully. Your core was hot, needy, and his familiar body against yours only had your ears feeling stuffed with cotton. Ratio tilted your chin up and narrowed his gaze at you, not wanting to push but to see your little details, the ones that make you, you. With a sigh, he turned you around, a palm flat against your spine with his fingers splayed out to press you down against the cool wood of his desk.

He was glad he didn’t have much there, plenty of room for you to comfortably lay and for him to come up behind you with his crotch pressed against your ass. You waited and rocked on the balls of your feet, breathing growing heavier when he hands pushed up your skirt, flipping it over your ass fully and his palm stroked along a cheek, then down the other, petting at the globes of your ass until you whined his name, a plea for more. He simply hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them slowly down your legs — watching raptly at your glaringly evident need that manifested in silky strings that stuck to the gusset until they broke, the fabric laid in a small heap where it fell around your ankles. Your bared pussy was swollen to his trained eye, so needy and wanting and dripping. His clever and deft fingers slipped against your slit, rubbing until they parted for him to roll your clit against the pad of his middle finger.

Though he knew that was not what you desired. You were holding a breath, letting it out when his hand left you and you heard the sound of him undoing his pants, a telltale clink of the belt and you’d hoped he didn’t notice the way your pussy dripped a little more just from the sound of him taking his cock out. He pressed his tip to your entrance, bulbous and fat and leaky where it smeared along your pussy, gripping one of your ass cheeks tightly as if to help spread you for his thick cock. Your chest stuttered when he pressed forward a little at a time, he watched the petals of your pussy open and suck him in with every inch until you whimpered pitifully, ass backing up in urgency for him to move. It wasn’t until he was sheathed all the way in, balls tightly snug against your clit and a warning hand pressed down on your lower spine. You heard him groan, low and steady, and then he was snapping his hips. Your nails scrambled against the desk, trying somehow to ground yourself from his overwhelming thrusts, whining loudly at the sensation of his cock pushing and pulling at your insides, the cling of your cunt nearly wrecking Ratio himself.

He wasn’t letting up however, even as you in your position raised onto your tippy toes and your eyes rolled back into your head, he fucked you thoroughly, not minding the wetness smacking between your bodies that splattered onto his lower belly. His fat balls swung and hit your clit, but he in his knowledge hunched over you with a nip to your shoulder blade at the same time that his hand worked underneath your body to find your clit and to roughly rub at it until you were nearly kicking your feet and wildly moaning his name. It’s then he heard the break, the way you were shattering and sobbing as tears pooled under your face where you cried onto the desk. You were a mess, arching your ass up while he fucked you to tears, and he opted to wrap his arm around your chest and pulled you up — to where you could only look up at Ratio through your teary eyes,

“That’s right darling, I’m here. You can take it.”

You came with a warbled gasp as your eyes glazed over, unfocused but still trying to look up at your lover who was enthralled by your beautiful vulnerability. His thrusts became stuttered, your ass rippling and bouncing off his sharp hips until he was in you to the hilt, cock lurching to flood you with his spend. He wasn’t about to allow you to collapse, his bicep flexing as he kept you held against his chest and you sniffled and hiccupped while he pressed a few reassuring kisses to the side of your face. He held you from behind until your crying settled to little sobs, and after Ratio pulled out much to your chagrin — the wet plopping of your releases falling to the floor.

He didn’t even wince, just hands on your waist to set you atop the desk and in your mutual nakedness he held you to his sweaty skin, kissing along your dewy brow.

“Do you feel better? Or shall we take a bath and perhaps, talk a little?” he suggested with a soft smile. You nodded, hands wandering up and down his back.

“I would like that very much…and to…talk. Thank you Veritas.” you said in a gentle, lovesick reply, and was met with a fond kiss to your lips.

“As you wish, anything to make you feel a little less alone.”

He carried you to the tub, and suddenly you hardly remembered why your week had left you so hurt, not when you were reminded so gently of the love he was always ready to provide you.

Mydei

The baths were always a good way to relax and unwind, met there by your beloved Mydei who was hard to miss. His broad, rippling body lounged against the side of the bath, arms spread out on either side of him and his long lashes resting against his cheekbones as he exhaled in relaxation. All he needed was one thing, or rather one person, you.

He knew you were going to meet him for a bath, but even for a prince and a warrior, Mydei found himself growing impatient for your presence. He did not want to go out looking for you just yet, lest you were already on the way. But just when he was about to get out of the water, you had finally appeared.

However he was taken aback almost immediately with your disposition. Your usually bright eyes were clouded over, clutching your towel around your body as you shuffled to the side of the bath. You did not even greet Mydei which was a strange occurrence, the man used to you kissing him and snuggling up to his side whenever you took a bath with him. So when you dropped your towel and sat across from him in the baths instead of beside him, he was now more than sure you were upset about something.

You heard the water slosh gently, looking up to see your vision obscured by sheer muscles and tattoos of red as Mydei made his way to you, his hand coming up from out of the water to cup your cheek. It was then he caught the stray tear that left your lashline, wiping at it with his thumb. You squeezed your eyes shut and drew your knees up, even as your much bigger lover curled himself around your figure and quietly kissed your shoulder.

“You can depend on me.” he said quietly, after another kiss had followed the first. You sniffled, looking over at him with red rimmed eyes, and Mydei's heart ached at such a sight, at the one he loves so deeply sad in this moment.

“I know Mydei, I just….it wasn't the best day.” you sniffle, finally leaning closer to him and allowing his large hands to pull at your body. He kissed at your cheeks as he pulled you onto his lap to straddle his narrow hips, while your arms wound around his neck and you pressed your face into the pinky blonde of his locks that smelled of luxurious and comforting oils. Your body started to react from just his nearness, you always do pliant in his sturdy hold, naked figure rubbed up against his as he gently worked at your hips in the warm water. You didn’t want to admit that you were growing needy, but your lover was already a step ahead of you,

“Allow me to take care of you, if anything, to get your mind off of things.” he said like a promise, wide palms splayed on your hips moving to your waist and hoisting you closer in his lap. Your tits wobbled, nipples pert and achy, and he kissed them while your head fell back with a sigh. For such a fierce fighter, Mydei’s kisses and his love for you was so gentle and thorough, focused on kissing and sucking at your chest instead of paying attention to his hard cock standing talk between your bodies. It was pressed against your bellybutton as you writhed and wiggled in his lap, sending more waves of heavy need coursing through you down to your toes.

“I just want to feel you, Mydei.” you said with a rasp, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth as he helped you raise yourself up higher, the grasp of his cock in your delicate fingers to settle against your pussy pulling a low groan from the Kremnoan prince, waiting patiently for you to work yourself down onto his thick shaft. You shivered as your hips swirled to take more of him, a high pitched whimper in your throat as he kneads the globes of your ass you finally set fully down on his cock. The stretch, and the warm water had you weak and jelly- limbed, taking a breath with your breasts tightly pressed against his chest.

He looked at you, a long glance while his hands encircled your waist and he began to bounce you in his dick, crying out loudly enough to ensure anyone too close that the heir was taking thorough care of his lover. You felt weightless despite the heavy and intense pressure in your lower belly, coiling within you as he fucked you on his cock and you could only hold onto his shoulders as water splashed outside of the bath. You shakily reached between your bodies to touch your clit, but Mydei opted to go from moving you up and down to grind you against him — his sharp pelvis rocking against your swollen, needy clit while his fat shaft felt like it was knocking the wind out of your lungs. It was overwhelming, to the point of the tears you had been crying turning to tears of complete pleasure, your thighs trembled when your pussy tightened up around him and as your tears fell down your face salty and uninhibited, he kissed at each one he effortlessly continued to slam you down onto him again and again. You could only wail and sob his name as he fucked you, clawing down his back until the hefty throb of him filling you up with a low gravelly breath of your name alerted you of his orgasm that hit at the same time as yours. You fluttered around him wildly while he throbbed and twitched, your belly warm and your heart lighter.

Even as you let your cries turn to soft sniffles, Mydei held you carefully with comforting strokes down your spine until you peeked up at him for a wet kiss and a familiar smile that thrilled him.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, pushing your damp hair from your face. You nodded but didn’t leave his lap, tracing his red marks with a finger.

“You’re good at making me feel better, Mydei. Thank you.” you murmured, an I love you following suit as he kissed you in return. Though the affectionate words made the prince blush despite the fact he had just finished pleasuring you — he was always grateful that he was the one to share these things with you, good and bad.

A voice from behind is the only thing that stops you from thwacking him over the head.

“Come now, leaving so soon?” Jing Yuan hums, his voice a waking rumble in his chest as he shifts in the space behind you. “Surely it’s far too early for even you to start the day.”

“Let go off me, it’s too hot.” You huff, emphasising your words with another attempt to get out of his hold. “You’re not making it any better.”

Jing Yuan gives your waist a squeeze.

“Is that so?”

“Be serious, am I the only one sweating? You’re like a human furnace.”

The mattress appears to shift for a moment, and you’re sure if you had your eyes on the general right now he’d have shrugged. “A small price to pay.” His voice follows, proving you right with his smug response. “I find I sleep much better that way.”

“Well, I must tell you you’re alone in that regard.”

You try to shove an elbow back in rebellion, but when it’s met with a hard wall of Jing Yuan’s muscles and a slow, sleepy chuckle from the man behind you; you assume he couldn’t have felt it as anymore than a tickle.

“You wound me.” He breathes against your skin, making you shudder as he tucks you in closer. “Your feeble attempt to escape is noted but ultimately denied.”

“You’re torturing me here.”

“Torturing you, hm?” Jing Yuan murmurs, stroking his thumb beneath the damp fabric of your shirt. “Is that truly how one would refer to their current position?”

You lose your focus on how warm you are when Jing Yuan’s words are followed by his strong biceps pulling you closer to his bare chest, the movement allowing you to feel the way his cock is already hard and aching against your lower back.

His lips press just short of your ear now, tresses of white hair falling along your face as he presses you into the pillows.

“I have a few other terms in mind that you may find much more fitting.” His breath against your skin makes you shudder. “And you’re not exactly making it easy for me, are you? With all of your movements. I would consider you quite calculated, my dear.”

It’s almost involuntary the way you grind your hips back to meet him.

You find yourself wiggling yourself towards him, clutching at his forearm and despite the way you’re sweating against his form— his skin is warm and grounding. His fingers finally slide beneath the fabric of your shirt, and he digs his hands into the supple skin of your hips to keep you in place when he grinds up against you again.

“I’m sweaty though.” You murmur, pressing yourself back hard against Jing Yuan.

He’s busy pressing kisses down the length of your neck, the warmth of his hands only leaving your skin in favour of shoving down his boxers. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

“I of all people know nothing deters you, Jing Yuan.” You throw a half-lidded look over your shoulder. “Though I must admit you have a way of convincing people.”

His chuckle is a slow release, accompanied by his aching cock springing free behind you and smearing beads of precum along the skin of your thighs when you grind back to meet it.

“I have years of negotiations beneath my belt, my dear.” Jing Yuan reminds before his hands return to your skin, and in one smooth motion he lifts up your thighs enough to pull your damp panties to the side. “Though I would consider this one to be amongst the utmost important.”

Jing Yuan’s lips are back against your ear before the press of his aching cock slides its way through your glistening folds. It’s followed by a slow, languid roll of his hips as the heavy shaft drags along the glistening slick of your pussy, soaking him to the base as the blunt head catches on the hood of your clit and it’s gentle enough to make you twitch.

Your head drops back against Jing Yuan’s chest, and you spread your thighs wider when he pulls you back again. His cock presses against your tight hole now and your voice appears to catch in your throat. “I don’t think Fu Xuan will be happy to hear you take this more seriously than your duties.”

That makes him chuckle again, but he doesn’t respond immediately— too busy placing a few open-mouthed kisses along the dip of your shoulder before he’s suddenly sinking up into you.

“Perhaps it’s best we don’t tell her this one, hm?”

It’s all so lazy but deliberate, the way Jing Yuan groans against your throat while one of his hands move to rub soothing, slow circles into your clit as your pussy clenches around him. Accompanied by the stuffy heat in your bedroom, and how deep he already feels, you feel dizzy and full— arching back against him as you attempt to take even more into your flexing walls.

Until you feel him glide past the soft spot that makes your whole body twitch, and you manage a weak, dreamy whine when he eventually bottoms out. His heavy balls press tight against your ass, and when your pussy flexes again— you suddenly find it easier to ignore the wet press of your back against the general’s chest.

You feel Jing Yuan’s jaw clench when you relax against his body once more, feeling his large, warm palm return to its place beneath your shirt as he takes a slow handful of your breast. A thin layer of sweat meets him there, but instead of cringing away— it appears to allow the soft, lazy back and forth swipe of his thumb over your nipple to feel that much more gentle.

“Shall I consider this negotiation a success then, my dear?” Jing Yuan asks after a moment, his voice sounding much more dazed from where he now rests.

And if you didn’t find yourself equal parts full and comfy all of a sudden, you would surely find that previous fire to thwack him would come back.

But instead you wiggle your hips a bit more, enough to make Jing Yuan’s cock throb from where he’s pressing up against your walls and when it’s enough to make him take a sharp breath. You consider that a victory in itself.

“Atleast offer me a fan to cool down next time.” You tease before settling down again, eyes fluttering with sleep.

“Oh, I am sure that would be no trouble at all.” He responds in kind, his voice rougher with drowsiness but still as sly. “You need only ask.”

If your eyes weren’t closed, you would roll them.

“Go to sleep, Jing Yuan.”

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

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

Your pen can barely keep up.

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

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

You try not to stare, but fail spectacularly.

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

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

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

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

But then—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When class ends, you linger. 

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

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

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

He notices you before you speak.

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

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

“Everything in order?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

The silence stretches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the words. Not the moment.

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

Like it wasn’t a mistake at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss a sugar packet at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You make a face. Jiaoqiu chuckles.

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

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

“You really think that?” you ask.

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

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

You triple-check the office number before you knock.

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

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

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

You raise a hand and knock twice.

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

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

Across from him sits a boy.

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

They both look up when you step inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is he—?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

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

Hi Professor Jing Yuan,

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

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

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

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

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

Hello,

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

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

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

— JY

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

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

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

Professor,

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

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

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

Subject: Re: Graded Essays (Batch 1)

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

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

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

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

— JY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…You garden?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “You were ready for this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

“I take it back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to laugh. (You fail.)

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

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

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

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Figured the Commander might appreciate the upgrade.”

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

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

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

Something worth tending to.

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

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

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

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

“Sounds crowded in there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hotpot heals,” you agree.

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

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

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

Hi Professor,

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

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

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

All the best.

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

Hello,

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

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

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

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

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

— JY

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

Professor,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy the descent into leafy symbolism.

— JY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jing Yuan.

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

You hadn’t expected him here.

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

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

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

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

“What’s that one?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you always this poetic about tea?”

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

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

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

You bite back a laugh. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Terrifying,” he agrees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You recognize her as Professor Fu Xuan.

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

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

You blink. Twice.

“That’s what I thought.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s slander,” Fu Xuan calls out.

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

Luocha chuckles and disappears behind a newspaper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

“I knew you’d understand.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were fine before, totally unaffected.

And now?

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

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

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

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

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

“Isn’t that the dream?”

You snort. “Your dreams are chaos.”

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

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

He taps the exam. “Academically suffer.”

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

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

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

He notices. Of course he does.

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

Your eyes flick to his face, uncertain.

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

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

He nods. “I imagine.”

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

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

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

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

Me: Jiao...

Jiaoqiu: what happened?

Me: I think I understand now.

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

Me: Why students are weirdly obsessed with Jing Yuan

Jiaoqiu: ah.

Me: He’s—

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

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

Me: HE GAVE ME CANDY

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

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

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

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

Jiaoqiu: just confirming the visual.

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

Jiaoqiu: i do now.

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

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

Me: He made a skullcap joke

Me: Botanical skullcap

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

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

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

Me: What do i DO

Jiaoqiu: nothing rash. nothing career-ending.

Me: I keep rereading his emails like they contain subtext

Jiaoqiu: do they?

Me: Maybe. 

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

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

Jiaoqiu: honestly, that tracks

Me: Jiaoqiu

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

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

Me: You’re no fun

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

Me: He is NOT—

Jiaoqiu: skullcap, rain, and calm emails

Jiaoqiu: not a crush at all

Me: I hate how reasonable you are sometimes

Jiaoqiu: you’ll thank me at graduation

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

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

He notices you immediately. Of course he does.

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

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

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

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

Yes. Focus on the dracaena.

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

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

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

“Diligence suits him.”

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

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

“Commander in Leaf would never.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” he says. “But you do it well.”

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

It doesn’t.

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

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

He glances up.

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

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

You raise a brow.

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

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

“Is that why you started gardening?”

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

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

“He’s come a long way,” you say.

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

Your heart does a very annoying thing.

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

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

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

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

“Thank you for being looped.”

The reply makes you smile—helplessly, almost.

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

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

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

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

You leave before you can overthink it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fu Xuan smirks. “True.”

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

You pause mid-bite. “What about him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That gets her attention.

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

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

You do. That’s the problem.

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

You bristle. “I’m not making eyes.”

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

You glare. Fu Xuan passes you another dumpling.

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

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

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

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

It’s late.

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

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

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

The office door is ajar.

And there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I should. But I won’t.”

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

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

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

You don’t mention it now, either.

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

Jing Yuan’s pen pauses mid-mark.

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

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

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

“You’re tired,” he says.

“So are you.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be.”

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

“Kindness doesn’t get you tenure.”

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

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

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

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

170 out of 200.

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

You feel… weird about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sit down slowly.

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

Your phone buzzes.

Jiaoqiu: just checking in.

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

Me: Hey, I only did that during undergrad

Me: Also… Jing Yuan left me herbs.

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

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

Jiaoqiu: So… romantic assassination. Got it.

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

You don’t reply immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: He’s thriving actually

Me: New growth and everything

Me: Better adjusted than me

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

Me: It’s not a situationship

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

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

Jiaoqiu: brutal. tender. textbook.

Me: He just gave me some skullcaps

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

Jiaoqiu: oh no

Jiaoqiu: he REMEMBERED a SMALL DETAIL

Jiaoqiu: you’re doomed

Me: Shut up

Jiaoqiu: never

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

Me: 30 to go, maybe less

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

Jiaoqiu: ...you okay?

Me: I don’t know...

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

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

Jiaoqiu: emotions.

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

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

Me: Please.

Jiaoqiu: say less

You don’t mean to pull away at first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Of course.”

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

The silence is companionable. But not quite the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence after stretches for a beat too long.

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

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

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

And you don’t come back.

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

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

And then graduation arrives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But your feet are already moving.

You don’t think. You just go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until it does.

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

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

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

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

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

“He misses your pep talks.”

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

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

Your throat tightens. “I know.”

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

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

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

“Be well.”

You nod. “You too.”

And this time, you really go.

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

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

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

So you left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your voice falters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heal.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

↳ITOSHI RIN

his initial reaction was to just roll his eyes at you.

"you're not funny. who would even go out with you?"

by now you're used to rin being an asshole. he's got a smart mouth and he knows what to say to get on your nerves. so you keep it to a simple, "not you, apparently," to shut him up.

and it does, for only a few minutes.

"why am I only hearing about this now?"

it's ironic how suddenly he's so in your business, unhappy with how you didn't tell him beforehand. rin tries so hard to keep himself in check, not giving you the reaction you wanted. but it devastated him; on his bed, in nothing but a pretty bra and a pair of panties, talking about some other man?

no, rin was not having it at all.

you almost snicker when he says you shouldn't be going out with 'other guys' because you two were having sex. but his argument quickly dies down when you remind him of the first rule he set when you started your nightly- and sometimes daily- sessions: "we're not exclusive"

he thinks of pushing you down the bed, getting his hands all over that pretty body of yours. you won't resist, that he's sure of, but he can't risk seeming desperate, especially not in front of you. that's pathetic.

he mumbles a few things along the lines of 'whatever' and 'let him fuck you with his micropenis'.

but rin is petty, he really is. at least when it comes to you. so he quickly turns to the silent treatment - as if he wasn't mostly silent. he wouldn't text you or respond to your calls for two whole days, which is more reaction than you would have liked. a lot more.

until you were out with some girl friends and you receive a notification.

Rin [2:34 pm]: how was the date.?

once you tell him it was a joke, and how he took your bait like a fish, it's safe to say he was less than pleased. the first thing he does is to invite you over. and as absurd as it is, he tells you to go to his place that very minute. which you don't mind too much.

rin made sure to remind you that no matter who you run to, he'll always be the only one who can please you so good. he's the only one who knows exactly how make you quiver and cry in little time. afterall, your pussy has long since been molded to remember him. aching for him every minute you wake and every second you sleep.

rin made sure you know your place. under him. no other man.

↳ SATORU GOJO

gojo knows he's lucky, he really does. no woman took him the way you do. no woman understood him the way you do. no woman excited him the way you do, in all ways a man could be excited.

so when you tell him that? it's safe to say gojo was about to burst.

of course he is. you're his girl, whether you like it or not - which you do. you can't just go to another sleazy man when you have the strongest himself wrapped around your finger. that's unfair. and your reason? because you wanted to settle? heck, he'll 'settle' for you. he just needed some more time. can't you give him that at least?

"oh? with who?" "he's not a sorcerer, i don't think you know him."

first of all, why would you assume he doesn't know anyone who isn't a sorcerer? that's rude. although he doesn't, it's still rude. and why would you even go out with a non-sorcerer? what could be so special about him that gojo can't offer?

but gojo can't let you go. call it what you want, he's not planning on letting go.

he's not a jealous man. he's the strongest, he has everything a man could want. jealousy is a feeling he's yet to meet. but now it burns in him. although gojo's eyes were ice blue, now they're burning. and the hottest fires always burn blue.

as if second instinct, he's quick to pull you onto his lap, earning a yelp and a wide-eyed look. it's enough to know he's getting what he wants. his fingers reach for that clothed, soft spot between your legs. his long fingers begin to move, slow and steady, making your hips moves softly to the rhythm he's created, begging for more fritction.

his lips ghost against your ears, not exactly touching the sensitive skin but touching it all the same.

"i don't think i know him, no. but i'll make sure you forget him. you don't need a guy like that."

↳FUSHIGURO TOJI

he stared at you for a few seconds, his gaze unreadable. toji is no fool, and he won't play your little game. especially not by your rules. toji is not bound by law, jujutsu, physical limit, or society. he won't let you mess around. not when he's so desperate to see you, albeit afraid of the commitment. not when he left his entire life, slowly becoming the perfect man so he could give you everything.

"what a silly joke. you know i'm not that dumb, don't you?"

he knows he's right when you stop for a fraction of a second, trying to contain your pretty smile. you deny, telling him that you're completely serious. you wanted a relationship, and you wanted to finally be able to be at 'peace'.

"oh really?" he quirks a brow, a look of clear amusement on his face. "that's too bad, i don't think women who cheat can find peace."

"it's just a single date, toji. i'm not cheating on him." "not yet," he flips you around so you're laying right under his bulk form. you giggle, and it confirms his suspicions further. you were just testing him. good, he'll make sure this stays just a joke.

"hmm? are you jealous, toji?" "of who?" he's quick. he's smart. and he won't let you mess around like that without getting something in return. he leans in, close to your neck. one of his hands find your waist, softly caressing the skin with calloused fingers. "we both know who you'll actually be with tonight."

↳JING YUAN

the general was in love with you. absolutely, utterly, completely in love. he couldn't admit it, not to you or to himself. but as your nights with him turned from one while you're drunk to more than he could possibly count, you infatuated him. you invaded him, corrupting his thoughts and time and feelings.

yuan wasn't sure if he was right for you, although he knew you were right for him. he didn't want to jump into a relationship he was unsure could last. yuan didn't think he could give you what you want, and you sure as hell wouldn't back down from what you deserve. that's why he admired you so much. you weren't easy. you won't allow him to bend you to his liking. you were a challenge he enjoyed.

"hmm? who's the lucky gentleman?"

jealousy was obvious, clear as day. disdain dripped from his usually sweet words. yuan was not taking the news too well, and it shows despite his soft smile.

"kaoru," you say a name he doesn't know. "do you know him?"

"i don't recall someone with such a name," he confessed, his eyes narrowing in thought. he tries but he doesn't know anyone wit that name. "is he good looking?"

you smile a little at his reaction, pleased with the jealousy he's showing. "i don't know. he's not my type, but i'm exploring options."

"what am i then? an option?" you almost snicker at the amount of petty in his question. he wants to confirm his worth, make sure that he's above comparison to you.

"don't be cruel, yuan," you give him the satisfaction of an answer. "it's not like that."

yuan tries to convince you to stay, kissing all over your neck just how you like it, reminding you who you're with and how you need not find another man because it is yuan you belong with. before he knows it it's heated, and he finds himself craving you more than ever.

"i want you," he whispers, one hand tangled in your hair and breath ragged.

"i'm yours to take, yuan."

usually, that's enough for him. but jealousy thrums in him and he pushes a little of you, his expression dark but it's not lust this time. "you're not," he breathes. his eyes study your feverish eyes. "you're going out with another man."

your eyes widen, you were so lost in him you forgot.

"shut up," you pull him towards you, mouths meeting in a lewd kiss. "it was a joke. "

the words come to him from an almost distant land, as if they had rode on the wind for years and years just to find him.

“still yourself…” jing yuan looks down at yanqing with the same look jing liu had when she was training him, as if she lives and breathes through him in his memory. he reminds yanqing to remain controlled and calm, but maybe he’s also uttering these words as a reminder to himself.

jing liu is not here. reminiscing won’t change the present - but he grasps on tightly to those memories as if they were still happening.

“like this, general?” yanqing’s voice is like a soft melody that pulls jing yuan back into the moment, and he breathes in the air of the now - it smells different than he remembers it as a child. it has no scent of strife, no scent of turmoil or intensity.

jing yuan smiles at his pupil, his eyes glimmering with the gentlest look of melancholy, hope, and adoration all at once. he feels yanqing’s urgency to grow, his need to become stronger, taller, bigger…

jing yuan feels that desire in his soul, as if this boy has caused him to come out of himself and view his past fragmented memories in real time.

he sees himself in yanqing, so he’ll tell him everything he wished he heard from his master back then.

he sees himself in yanqing, so he’ll guide him.

he sees himself in yanqing, so he’ll love him.

he’ll watch him grow, and grow, and grow until yanqing develops into the man he has always wanted to be.

“that’s perfect,” he nods back at his pupil, smiling and admiring the moment as if he wanted to frame it forever - keep it close to his heart, display it all over the walls of his mind.

jing yuan takes in the smell of the autumn air again and realizes - these are the winds of peace.

he was really nervous right now, but his excitement rivaled it. giving him a handjob in a room where anyone can walk into was scary, but it made him even more eager. if they were ever caught the people would know how much of a slut their general

“you just need to stay quiet” aeons knew how loud he can be, singing your praises as he gets lost in the feeling. “easier said then done…” at least he’s aware of how loud he can be. when your hand wrapped around his cock he was already letting out a sigh, head falling back in the wall as his body leaned against it.

“remember baby, stay quiet” with one last warning you started moving your hand up and down his cock. it harden in your closed fist, slit starting to leak with pre cum and he let out low moans, was he even trying to hide his sounds? jing yuans hips bucked into your fist, cock going in and out, slicking your hand up with his pre cum

his low moans turned louder as you continue to play with his cock. the more he fucked himself into your fist the closer he got to cumming, knot in his lower stomach tightening and his legs shaking. moaning out praises of how well you treat him filled the air, someone can most definitely hear him.

he knew he was getting louder so he tried concealing his sounds in the crook of your neck, teeth biting at the skin to ground him. “be a good boy and try to be more quieter” the way you said it so nonchalantly had jing yuan whining into your skin. he was slowly breaking down into a puddle of mush just from a hand job, and here you are being composed and teasing.

it’s not fair, but it feel so good to be controlled and jing yuan loves it. loves how he’s getting closer to making a mess the faster he fucks into your fist, loves the kisses and praises you give to his cheek as you bring him closer to loosing his sanity. and he loves when his cock is finally twitching and releasing his fluids.

it paints your hand in milky white and he watches as his cum leaks down your hand and onto the floor below. he can see his legs twitch and buckle slightly, that’s when he realized he couldn’t keep himself up that he had to lean his body weight on you. “did so well for me, general” hearing you say this makes him close his eyes and bask in the aftershock, your hand slowly milking his cock to help him ride his high.

he thought he this would be the end, thought he would have to go back to the piles of paper sitting on his desk. but those sweet words you say makes him forget all about them, maybe he’ll even forget about the paperwork all night long since he knows how greedy you are. “are you up for another round, general?”

Jing Yuan

Being the General of the Cloud Knights; his job is very difficult, especially with his young retainer Yanquig who loves to do anything that involves swords. Be it battle, be it spar, but after the day of constant running around, Jing Yuan, especially since he couldn't take his afternoon nap.

Arriving home after the long hours of the day, he was greeted by his lovely wife, who had a smile upon her face. His hands latched on her waist as he dove in for a kiss nearly melting in her embrace.

Your laugh had reached his ears as he buried his face into your neck after his welcome home kiss. "My general, how was you day?" His lazy grin was etched onto his face as he began to lightly press kisses against your exposed neck, making you shudder a bit.

"I missed my darling little wife all day, I couldn't even get you out my mind," your cheeks burned at his voice right next to your ear made a shiver go down your spine, and his eyes took notice. "Hm, it looks like you got something on your mind, mind telling?"

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took his hands into yours, a flustered expression upon your face as you looked up at him, his lips still curled into that lazy teasing grin.

"It's been quiet a bit since we've been married, and I just wanted to know if..." Your words died on your tongue as you looked to the ground before speaking up once more. "I wanted to know if you'd want a child... with me?"

"Oh, is that all?" Your heart sank as you slowly nodded from his tone, "Well, I thought you were going to break some bad news to me," His hands slipped to your hips gently rubbing through the fabric. "Well, come let's go then."

And that's how you ended up in bed with your husband's fingers sliding in and out of you prepping you for him. His hand clasped around your throat as he pressed his lips to your neck, three of his fingers just sliding in and out of you.

His voice whispering in your ear as you felt yourself clamping down on his fingers. "And when we have a child, maybe we could have more?" Cause he knew, if you were going to bare his children, he would enjoy seeing your glow with your swell belly wanting to just fill you up once your child popped out.

"Maybe we could also adopt Yanqing and give him a few brothers and sisters, yeah?" His eyes looked down to see where your slick and cum soaked his fingers after letting you cum twice on his finger and hand. "Well, here, let me just fill you up now." He turned you to face him as he pressed his lips against yours.

His fingers spread your folds open as he moved his hand that was around your throat to guide himself in, before pushing his fat cock into your wet hole.

You were already shaking and panting for air after your second orgasm on just his fingers alone, his fat cock was stretching you out once more. "I will never get used to this feeling..."

His hands went to your hips as he began to pepper kisses against your exposed chest, his hips thrusting up to bury himself more into your dripping hole.

"You want me to fill you up? Fuck a baby into you? Look how cute you look with that expression, I wish you could see yourself," he chuckled as he brushed a stray piece of hair behind your ear pressing his lips to your already bruised lips.

"Just a bit more and I'll fill you up nicely before we go again after all, I just want to watch my cum drip out of you when we are done."

Welt Yang

It is absolutely no secret that Welt Yang is the father-like figure of the chaotic trio, with his wife being the mom, and Himeko being the wine aunt. Exploring the Xianzhou Alliance with Trailblazer and March 7th without his wife was a handful.

Welt wanted nothing more than just go back to The Astral Express and sleep wit his wife. But what is she doing here now with Dan Heng at her side and is that...?

Welt shook his head as he took your hand and pressed a kiss to your cheek, "How and why are you here [Name]? Are you okay? Any injuries or bruises?" His worried face made you giggle into your hand as your pressed your lips to his to quit his babbling.

"Shh, I'm fine. I'm a bit sad you underestimate me though... You hurt me," Welt's eyebrows furrowed as he opened his mouth to retaliate but was cut off by Dan Heng. "Mrs. Yang was with me, she is perfect fine and safe."

You let a giggle fall past your lips as you wrapped your arms around Welt, as one of his arms held you against him taking in the scent of your perfume making him just want to drown in your warm hold.

But ultimately Welt sighed out, and motioned for you and Dan Heng to follow after him, "I'll take you where me and the other two are staying. I'm pretty sure you two need some rest after your little journey to catch up with us."

After arriving to the place where they were staying Dan Heng went with his two chaotic friends shared room, and you were left to bunk with your husband.

When you turned to him after you locked the door he just sighed out after seeing that glint in your eye. "Indulge me?" He smiled a bit as he placed his cane nearly the door and moved to kiss you as clothes slowly came off.

His hands gently groped at you body, his mouth moving across your skin as he breathed in your lovely scent that seemed to drive him insane. You giggled as you slipped off the edge of the bed and gently took his cock into your mouth making him groan lowly.

Your tongue licked his slit as one of his hands went to the top of your head and gently scratched at your scalp the more you took him into your mouth.

Your hand moving down to massage his balls as abruptly bucked his hips upward forcing his dick down your throat as he muttered an apology as he gently pushed you off of him and pulled you up.

His lips pressed against your as he pulled you on top of him as he laid back against the bed, his lips not bothering to part from yours. His hands on your hips as you gently reached down and guided his cock against your folds before lowering yourself down as his cock pressed against the deepest part of you.

You shuddered above him as you parted from the kiss and pressed you hands against his chest as you began to bounce on him. "I-I think it time... for us to have our own little chaotic child."

Welt sighed heavily but his little smile didn't falter as his hands helped you with your bouncing. "If that's what you want, who am I to decline my wife?"

Your eyes softened as you leaned down and kissed him once more, unable to stop the warmth that spread throughout your body as he accept your little proposal.

“nothin’ really. just missed you”, he grumbled, softly stroking through your hair as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “is it wrong of me to miss my beautiful wife?” 

you giggled, head leaning on his shoulder as he slowly caressed his way down to your ass, hand gently massaging over the clothed skin… before he suddenly slapped your ass, making you squeal in surprise. 

“what the…? what’s wrong?!”, you asked him, heart racing in shock, voice rising a couple of octaves in surprise.. 

“mhm, nothing, dear. however, shouldn’t i be the one asking that question?”

you were absolutely confused about what was going on – you couldn’t remember a thing you possibly did wrong. 

“so, what was going on with you and that trailblazer from the astral express, hm? dan heng, wasn’t it? you were quite close with him throughout their stay, dear”, he expressed his problem; finally it all clicked. 

you just had tried to be a good host for your guests of the express; after all, they were the ones helping on xianzhou without asking anything in return. after the situation had been cleared, jing yuan had invited the trailblazers to stay over and rest properly before they would go on their way to continue on with their travels. 

you just didn’t realize that you had been spending an awfully lot of time with dan heng, who shared some of his very detailed notes about previous travels he made with the express after you asked him for some. you had always been curious about the world outside of xianzhou and the fact that dan heng had such a detailed databank filled with notes and memoirs had you impressed. 

they had left only yesterday so it kind of made sense why he only brought it up now. 

“i was just trying to be a good host, jing yuan. that’s all, i promise”, you replied, “were you jealous?” 

you couldn’t help the giggle, just finding it very adorable that a powerful man like jing yuan and your husband of many years still managed to find moments where he felt jealous and protective over you. only little did you know that he was planning on showing off who you really belong to, even if his so-called competition was already on another planet. 

“what if i was, dear? isn’t it normal for me to be protective of my gorgeous wife? i have many enemies, darling, it’s an instinct of mine”, he chuckled before he lifted you up onto his desk, standing right between your legs which you instinctively wrapped around his waist and your arms around his neck. 

you softly brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “i’m not saying anything against that. in fact, i find it endearing how you still can find situations to be jealous about me”, you giggled, pulling him down closer to you so that you could kiss him. 

“mhm, yeah, sure”, jing yuan rolled his eyes. 

it took you by absolute surprise when the general of the xianzhou luofu pinned you onto his desk, hands over your head and a confident smirk on his lips as he saw the shock in your face. “aww, dear, don’t be scared. it’s just me after all, it’s just your sweet husband. don’t you love it when i get rough with you, dear?” 

“i hate it when you’re right”, you grumbled as a reply, “you could’ve been a bit gentler, though.” 

“i thought i was more than enough gentle back when we had our honeymoon? thought you didn’t want me to be soft and careful with you any longer?”, he murmured into your ear, having you shiver in excitement for what was expecting you. 

but it also had you worry about the other employees at the luofu; after all you hadn’t locked the door to avoid someone just barging in. and now jing yuan was initiating something that you would consider a very complicated situation to explain. 

“don’t worry, dear. no one would even dare to come in without knocking. but doesn’t it sound enticing? the thought of someone seeing you how i horrible treat my lovely wife when i ravage her and make her feel good?” 

your eyes fluttered shut, the image of him fucking you on his desk were all you were picturing now, how filthy his mouth had become over the years you two were together and married – not that you were complaining, not at all. nodding, you agreed to his suggestion. 

“good girl”, he mumbled, placing a gentle kiss underneath your ear, a spot you always had been very sensitive about, before he slowly untied the knot that held your dress together and pulled it off your body and lowered his head to tease your body with his sweet and innocent pecks over your shivering skin. 

“you are so beautiful, dear. i love you so much”, he praised you and stopped with his kisses as he reached your panties, standing back up to slowly as he pulled the fabric off your legs. “but don’t forget why we are in this situation in this moment. don’t think i have forgotten about the way you spent more time with that trailblazer than your husband.” 

you couldn’t help rolling your eyes in annoyance, eyes widening as he suddenly grabbed your cheeks with just one hand, forcing you to look at him. “don’t give me that attitude, love. i don’t like how bratty you have become recently and i think it’s time i remind you who you belong to and who is in charge”, he snapped, no longer was he your dearest husband who’d treat you so sweet and like you were his most treasured possession (which you were, there was no doubt in that.) 

no, now he was just the strict general of the xianzhou luofu who would not let you talk back to him in any way. 

and for some reason, this visual of him being in absolute control was turning you on; quite a lot. 

“mhm, dearest, you’re so ready for me already. have you been anticipating that i would initiate something?”, he chuckled, leaning back down without breaking eye contact as he softly started teasing you with his lips on your thighs, softly caressing them with soft pecks before he reached your entrance. 

the moment his tongue was playing with your clit, you squeezed your eyes shut, moaning his name and grabbing a handful of his hair to pull him in closer; to have him do more than just teasing your sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“ah, ah, ah. none of that, dear. don’t think that just because i’m feeling nice right now, you get to do that. hands off of me”, he said, voice authoritative and not allowing any sort of back talk. 

you simply did not know what to do with your hands, now that you were forced to pull them off from his locks; usually he would allow you to touch him all you wanted. jing yuan knew that you loved being close to him whenever he would make you feel loved and cherished with his not-so-gentle actions; so not being able to touch him had you quivering around, which he – obviously – did not like either. 

“dear me, you really are testing my patience today, are you not?”, he grunted, stopping with his mouth on your clit as he pinched your nipples, having you jolt in surprise. “do. not. move. or i swear to you, you will regret it. i might just go ahead and open that door for everyone to see what a pretty little slut you are for me. but you would like that, wouldn’t you, dear? you would love to let everyone see who the only man in your life is that can make you feel so good.” 

before you could reply, you felt two of his fingers pushing inside; unable to hold the moan coming out of your throat with your eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. he was very fast to pick up a pace moving his fingers in and out of you, just as he was stimulating your clit with his other hand’s thumb. 

“mhm, you’re already so ready to take me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

you nodded, you were so light-headed that you were unable to reply with words as he would have preferred for you to but he didn’t say anything. 

as he was curling his fingers inside, you whined, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to your release and the thoughts of someone watching him fucking you with his fingers had you even more excited. 

“get up”, he suddenly stopped, keeping you so close on the edge and went a step back before he grabbed you by your hips and had you standing against his desk with wobbly legs. “turn around and hold onto the desk.” 

once you did, he pinned you down onto the desk, your body shivering at how cold the wood was against your naked body. 

unable to see him any longer, you didn’t know what was going to happen or when. you could only trust your hearing; and you could hear him unbuckle his belt and just after a couple of moments, you felt his tip teasing your entrance. the anticipation of when he was going to push in had you on the edge. 

“look at you being to impatient for me to fuck you, dear. so adorable”, he mumbled, gently stroking your hair out of the way and with one swift thrust, he was buried deep inside of you. you almost let out a scream in shock, but it was muffled by his hand covering your mouth before he started setting a fast and hard rhythm, the hand unoccupied was holding onto your hips, as he fucked you, relentless. 

“dear, you feel so good, so tight and warm around my cock”, he praised you, the hand on your hips suddenly off your body and you felt a stinging pain as he spanked you once more. 

“but don’t forget that this is still a punishment. you didn’t, right, sweetheart?” 

tears were burning in your eyes and you held yourself back not to let him win over you; doing your best not to let those tears roll down your face. 

the way jing yuan was grinding his cock inside had you absolutely in a state of total bliss – body no longer responding to your brain wanting to piss him off even more. maybe that was for the better, after all. maybe he would just finally stop teasing you so much and finally reward you by giving you the sweet release you have been waiting for ever since the first time he spanked you. 

“you’re getting impatient, aren’t you, baby?”, he asked, voice breathless and strained in exhaustion. 

“mhm, no. i’m okay”, you attempted to piss him off, which was not met very happily by your husband. “feels good, though.” 

“your body is telling a different story, dearest”, he groaned. “i can feel you clenching down on me whenever i try to pull out, i can see how you try to hold back those pretty tears of yours because you just feel so good, don’t you, honey?”

when his pace quickened, you couldn’t stop the moans coming out, neither could you stop the tears rolling down your tears as the stimulation got too much to bear. “aww, does my princess want to come?”

you could only nod vigorously, hands digging into the wood of his desk to steady yourself but it was no use – his rough and erratic thrusts were too much to handle. 

“oh, sweetheart”, he cooed, “i’m going to come, i’m so close, so, so close.” 

“fill me up. please”, you begged; the sudden want to give your husband the baby he wanted for quite some time now surfaced – you weren’t sure if you were ready for this or not before but for some reason, it suddenly felt right. 

“are you sure, princess?”, he mumbled. “we don’t have to.” 

“yes, for god’s sake, yes”, you cried, moving your hips against his as he slowed down. “fill me up with your cum, jing.” 

“oh, sweetheart”, he groaned, feeling himself get closer to his release as his thrusts lost their rhythm, and with a long groan and a string of curses, he came inside of you, making you feel so warm and full with his cum, even making you come with a cry, body shaking vigorously and tears rolling down onto some of his documents that were just underneath your head. 

“shh, it’s alright, sweetheart. you’re safe, you’re okay. you did so well for me, dear”, he comforted you, staying buried deep inside of you as he tried to calm down from his high. 

“i”m so proud of you, dear. i’m sorry for acting so foolishly childish about dan heng. i obviously know that everything is fine between us, but for some reason, the situation was somewhat infuriating for me. i don’t understand it myself, if i’m being absolutely honest, but i will work on my jealousy, yes?”, he apologized, as he pulled you up from underneath him on your desk. 

“it’s alright, jing. i’m okay”, you smiled as he grabbed your dress and put it back on you. “i love you.” 

he smiled back at you before he suddenly yawned making you laugh. 

“hey, this all is exhausting. i think we should both just head home and sleep”, he suggested with a grin as he tied your dress, grabbed your hand and pulled you out of his office, calling out for his secretary to clear out his schedule for the remaining day as he was now taking the day off. 

"Be patient, you said," Yuan hisses into your ear, thrusting harder into your sore cunt. He moans, deep and hoarse, right by your ear, and you squirm in his grip. But he shuts it down immediately, forcing your head deeper into the pillows. "I've been patient. Don't you think I deserve a reward?"

Each word is emphasized with a powerful thrust of his hips. You would've smacked your head on the headboard if he didn't have such a tight grip on your hair as he took you from behind.

"Yuan," you heave, but whatever you want to say is brutally fucked out of you. His hips slam the air out of your lungs, and you have to scrabble onto your wobbly arms to catch your breath. That is, if he doesn't push your head down into the pillows yet again.

"Hold... hold still," your lover whimpers above you. "Just a little... more-"

Yuan angles himself, and suddenly, his cock is hitting deeper inside you. You swear he's reaching your cervix, and you yelp. He's close. You can sense it even in your lust-fueled haze.

Yuan's thrusts increase in speed and ferocity, sore cockhead ramming repeatedly into your sensitive spot. You squeal and cum hard, legs shaking from the force.

He moans, hips jolting against yours as he spills inside you. It's hot and so filling; if you weren't so cockdrunk, you could've felt it in your belly.

He huffs, pants warm on your ear. You feel him press kisses on your skin before his hands gently wrap around your midriff, lifting you up and turning you on your back. You gaze up at him blearily: ruddy cheeks, heaving chest, hearts in his eyes. He smiles at you gently before collapsing on top of you with a hearty guffaw. You wheeze at the solid weight of him, and jokingly slap at his arm before succumbing to his whims.

You nuzzle into his neck, and you swear that he purrs at your touch. "You seemed like you enjoyed yourself~" you can't help but tease.

He hummed in agreement, turning on his side to grin at you. But it quickly disappears into a childish pout. "We could've been 'enjoying' ourselves much earlier if you just came home with me..." he grumbles.

A sly smile crosses your lips, and in an instant, you pounce on him. When he turns on his back, you jump into his lap and grind on his softened, sensitive cock, moaning at the stimulation on your sore clit. He groans, hands flying to your waist to keep you still.

"Then let's just enjoy ourselves now~" you whisper in his ear, sliding up until the tip of his length catches on to your hole.

is especially mad when the deadline is weeks away too, like damn calm down its deadline is in 2 weeks

nsfw hcs AAAA

ok so ive mentioned before he'd be a lowkey bully in bed BUT. but. he would be all about your pleasure if it means you'll stop stressing out, or stop with doing work thats in 2 weeks cuz cmon.. 2 weeks is alot.

or atleast he tries to be somewhat 'gentle', can't help being so big that your tight pussy can't handle yk? just loses himself when he's inside

like whenever he's like fucking you to make you feel good he has to remind himself that he shouldn't be like just doing for his pleasure and sake alone

ANYWAYS. likes to eat you out the most honestly, and especially when you are stressed cuz he KNOWS you love it when he eats you out

and knows you like it when he praises the HELLL out of you

oh and any position where he can see your pretty face reacting to how deep he's inside is just fine w him, just as long as he gets the chance to see you and your cute pussy sure

probably would sit you on his cock while he does your work for you :D!!

probably grunts and groans more than whine and moan, like he's just that kind of man when you stressed as hell yk?!?!!?

just wants to focus on you the entire time of having sex, and always asks if you want more rounds cuz like he doesn't wanna break you like he'd usually do haha

no but srsly he'll try his best to be gentle, every little sound you make counts!!

“Ah, yes, I...” You round up the last pile on papers on your desk, trying to look preoccupied. “I was admiring your… hair ribbon.”

An amused grin crosses his face, his palm cupping his chin as he leans forward. “My hair ribbon.”

“Mm. It…” You swallow, paperclipping the pile together before placing them down on the desk. “It contrasts nicely with your hair. I was thinking about what colour would work with mine.” You tug a piece of your hair forward, as if you were musing. This is the worst lie that has ever come out of your mouth and he knows it. He must know it.

“I see.”

“Well, if that’s all I can assist with, General, I’ll take my leave.” You stand then, already thinking how therapeutic it'll be to scream into your pillow about this interaction once you're safely back in your quarters.

“No, that’s not all.” Jing Yuan gets to his feet and strides over in what feels like two steps – those long, lean legs of his - and you’re frozen in place as he draws near. He’s a good head taller than you, his collar pretty much level with your eyes, and your heart is thudding at the proximity. Can he hear it?

“What else can I assist you with, sir?” You keep looking straight ahead, watching his Adam’s apple bob in a swallow. There’s no way you can look up at him in the face right now without your cheeks flushing an intense shade of red. Why does he have this effect over you?

“I was just thinking about my hair ribbon and how… distracting it’s been for you this afternoon.”

“I wasn’t distracted, sir. I just got lost in thought for a moment, that’s all.”

“Ah, you think I didn’t notice the earlier looks? You must be aware your pace of work has suffered from it.”

You drop your gaze to the desk. “I apologize, sir.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret – I’ve also been thinking what else it would look good against.”

“Oh?”

Suddenly, one hand grasps your chin and tilts your head up to meet his copper-eyed gaze, before the other encircles around your wrist and he holds it up against his chest. Your eyes widen, before he leans in and whispers in your ear, his breath feeling hot.

“Mm. I think it would contrast nicely against your skin, tied tightly around your wrists.”

“Tied…” you repeat, your breath catches in your throat.

“Suspended above your head, perhaps, as I trail kisses down your sweet neck.” He presses his lips just below your ear in a chaste kiss, before he gently nips your skin between his teeth, causing you to shudder. “Shall we see?”

- More Jing Yuan ribbon imagines.

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi