Author's Note; How is it that Varka, the Grand Master himself, is the reason I post on this blog again ( -∀-) I'm TECHNICALLY on break on my art blog, but writing this silly Varka drabble called to me :0
Content Notes; varka almost gets taken out, THE grand master of the knights of favonius v. some siren, siren!reader, possibly ooc, SHORT drabble to get back into the groove, all done in one take so beware any potential mistakes, kinda abrupt ending
It had been a long day as were most days on this long expedition. Unfortunately for Varka, there was no alcohol to drown the tiredness away. A simple walk near the sea would have to do.
It's quiet, a nice quiet. Varka adores his expedition team for all they are, but he needs this silence every once in a while. Not a single noise but the crashing of the waves and the occasional animal. How peaceful.
Varka whistles as he picks a pebble from the sand, skipping it across the sea.
"Still got it," he mutters to himself as the pebble jumps across the sea. A perfect skip, if he does say so himself.
He turns, ready to return to camp, as a voice calls out.
"Varka," it hums. A gentle melody cutting through the silent night.
"Varka." Again. It reminds him of home. The dandelions in the wind. The sound of the windmills creaking.
"Varka."
He finds himself knee deep in the water when his senses return to him. A giggle enters his ears as he feels a hand creep up his arm.
"Woah, woah!" Varka immediately shouts out, clumsily turning to face the culprit. "Hey, hands off!"
Another giggle echoes in the quiet night. A splash to his left. Then, something brushes up against his leg.
Instinctively, he reaches below the water, his hands blindly searching for whatever was messing with him. A mischievous sea animal... surely.
Then, he grasps an arm. A human arm. Perhaps he let out a scream. Perhaps.
A head pops out of the water. Then, the rest of the mischief maker appears. At least, the rest of their torso does.
Varka stares in disbelief, words escaping him as he stares at this person. This unsettlingly beautiful person. Abnormal, one might say.
A chuckle breaks through the silent stalemate.
"I have never been caught before. Much less by a simple human."
"Hey!" Varka shouts in immediate protest. "You're looking at the Grand Master for the Knights of Favonius, stranger."
"THE Grand Master, you say. Quite the human I've caught then." The stranger grins before disappearing beneath the water and reappearing at Varka's left. "You sure appear to be a grand master."
Varka feels his left arm lift, causing him to stumble. "Hey! Ever been told about personal space?"
"Ah, you'll have to pardon me." His arm falls back to his side. "It isn't often that humans break away from my spell. You intrigue me, Grand Master."
"You keep saying humans. Are you not?"
"Keen observation." A hum escapes the stranger. "But I shouldn't reveal too much. After all, there is safety in mystery."
"Huh?"
All Varka receives in response is a splash directed at his face. Rude.
"Grand Master!"
Varka turns, spotting a pair of knights waving at him from the shore.
"Grand Master, what were you doing all the way over there?" One of the knights question as Varka sets foot on the dry sand.
"I was... investigating. Nothing too grand."
"You should be careful, Grand Master. The locals warned us about sirens lurking about. Dangerous creatures, they are," one of the knights explains.
as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with.
instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.
★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader
★ word count; 12.6k words
★ notes; welcome to part one! this takes place in the luofu campus of xianzhou university, where the reader is a senior graduate student on the cusp of completing her degree~
MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3
I. A (NOT-SO) TACTICAL RETREAT
You weren’t meant to be here.
The original assignment was to shadow Professor Ying in the literature department—a comfortable, quiet position where you’d spend most of your time buried in books and chasing poetic metaphors, close-reading rhymed stanzas like they held the meaning of life. That was the expectation. That was the plan.
But somewhere between administrative mishandling, departmental reshuffling, and what you now suspect was a clerical error left to rot uncorrected, your file ended up on Professor Jing Yuan’s desk.
You didn’t even know he took teaching aides. Most of his lectures were rumored to be self-contained and independent. Maybe even untouchable.
Now you sit in the back of a cavernous lecture hall that smells faintly of chalk and dust, scribbling frantic notes about ancient war strategies while Professor Jing Yuan sketches battle formations in sweeping, confident strokes on the whiteboard.
Your pen can barely keep up.
“Logistics encirclement,” “passive resistance formations,” “Sky-Faring Enforcers.” You underline terms in your notes like you’re planting flags in hostile territory, planning to Google them later and pray for footnotes. The names come fast, the dates blur. It’s all so large, so steeped in legacy and consequence, you feel like you’ve shown up to a war reenactment with a library card.
Jing Yuan's voice doesn’t help. It’s calm and steady, the kind of voice you trust even when you don’t understand. He talks like he’s walked the paths he’s teaching—knows these stories not as facts, but as decisions someone once had to make.
You try not to stare, but fail spectacularly.
He’s taller than you expected; taller still when he moves. His hair is pulled back into a loose tail, strands of silver catching the overhead light when he turns. His sleeves are rolled up, cuffed carelessly, and you catch the edge of an old scar ghosting the inside of his forearm.
His coat hangs on the back of his chair like a flag surrendered at half-mast, and his posture is entirely too relaxed for someone discussing high-casualty engagements and tactical collapses. You almost forget he’s describing events soaked in blood.
You hadn’t planned on being so attentive. But now that you’re here, the world you were trained for—the poetry and delicate metaphors—feels thin by comparison. It’s only your second day, and you feel like you've already sat through half a semester's worth of material.
You’ve barely spoken in class. You’ve mostly kept to your corner, quiet and watchful, like a misfiled document waiting to be retrieved. You’re not even sure if anyone else knows why you’re here. You certainly don’t.
But then—
Jing Yuan calls out, and your name lands like a pebble breaking the surface of a too-still lake. He follows up with a question, and it's a miracle you even catch it.
“You’re familiar with the Siege of Ardent Vale, aren’t you?” The professor asks resonantly.
You swallow thickly as your heart misfires. He doesn’t even look at you—just flips a page in his notebook as if it’s natural to say your name and ambush you with a question like that.
And now half the class is glancing at you, curious and expectant.
Your voice is softer than you want it to be. “Uh, it's where General Haoran ordered a tactical retreat that's still being debated to be an act of treason to this day.”
Jing Yuan nods without pause. “Good. Then you’ll understand why the general’s retreat wasn’t a failure—it was a calculated sacrifice.”
It’s not a compliment, but it lands in you like one anyway. Thank gods you actually bothered to go over the two-hundred page reading he emailed you this morning. The lecture resumes and the world starts to right itself. Yet, something in you seems to have tilted just a few degrees off-axis.
You stare at your half-filled notebook and realize you haven’t written anything since. You’d been holding your breath. You don’t know why.
When class ends, you linger.
Your hands are slow on the zipper of your bag. The last to stand, the last to move, like inertia has taken root in your spine. You glance toward the front of the room, where he’s gathering his notes with unhurried precision. The classroom empties around you like sand draining from an hourglass.
You’re not sure what you’re waiting for—until you remember the time card.
The slip of paper feels flimsy between your fingers as you approach his desk. It’s a mundane task. Routine. He’s supposed to sign off your weekly hours so the department can track your contributions. You’d meant to drop it off without ceremony. Now it feels like a pretense.
He notices you before you speak.
You hold out the time card like it’s a peace offering.
“Ah,” he says, and it’s not quite a greeting. He takes the paper from your hand, glancing over the numbers with the same attentiveness he gives to maps and casualty reports. His pen scratches softly against the corner of the desk.
“Everything in order?” he asks.
You nod. “I think so.”
The silence stretches.
He doesn’t hand the paper back right away. Just rests it on the edge of his desk, fingertips still grazing the corner like he might anchor it there. He looks at you, now fully—no pretense of distraction.
Those golden eyes of his remind you of those lions carved in temple stone: half-asleep, all-knowing. He looks at you as though he already understands the shape of the question you haven’t asked yet.
Your breath sticks behind your teeth. You can’t name what you feel, only that it’s too much for the narrow distance between you.
Jing Yuan finally nudges the signed card back toward you with one finger. “Let me know if the hours change.”
You nod again. It’s the only thing that seems safe.
You take the paper and slip it into your bag like it might wrinkle if you move too fast.
You don’t look back when you leave. But all through the day—when you sit in the library, when you wash your lunch thermos, when you try to reread the notes you’d scribbled—it stays with you.
Not the words. Not the moment.
Just the way Jing Yuan looked up like you were supposed to be there.
Like it wasn’t a mistake at all.
The café smells like cardamom and warm bread, and the door chime rings out as you push it open, a little breathless from half-jogging the last block. The air inside is golden with late afternoon light, caught in the leaves of the hanging plants and the steam curling from ceramic mugs. You spot Jiaoqiu instantly—no one else has hair like that, long and peach-soft, tucked lazily into a half-knot like he just rolled out of a dream.
He’s already claimed your favorite booth by the window. There’s a croissant on a plate, torn neatly into halves, and he nudges one across the table the second you slide into the seat across from him.
“You’re late,” he says, voice mild, eyes just a little too knowing.
“I was in a war,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “Mentally. Strategically. And then I got hit with a pop quiz from a man who talks like he’s personally lived through four dynasties.”
Jiaoqiu blinks, slowly. “So... you’re telling me your new job is time-travel.”
You stare. “He called on me. By name. In front of the entire class.”
“Was this before or after you fell in love?”
You toss a sugar packet at him.
Your best friend catches it midair, smug. “I’m just saying. You’re glowing.”
“I’m mortified.” You sink into your seat and take a too-big bite of croissant to muffle the noise you’re pretty sure is your soul detaching from your body. “This was supposed to be literature. I was prepared for stanzas and symbolism, not high-casualty engagements and dead generals.”
“And yet,” Jiaoqiu says, tilting his head with mock-gravity, “here you are. Survived the siege. Braved the great halls of strategy. Emotionally wounded, perhaps. But alive.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but you’re already smiling. “I hate that you’re not taking this seriously.”
“I’m taking it very seriously,” he says, all calm sincerity—until the mischief flickers at the corner of his mouth again. “Just not in the way you want me to.”
The two of you lapse into a familiar rhythm after that—sips of coffee, flaky pastries, the kind of conversation that loops and winds like a lazy river. Jiaoqiu tells you about his med school rotations with the kind of offhand grace only someone wildly competent and chronically underslept can manage. You talk about those pests in your apartment, and missed laundry cycles, and the way one of the undergrads in Jing Yuan’s class looked at you like you’d committed war crimes for getting the answer right.
Eventually, though, it creeps back in—the anxious hum under your skin, the question that’s been rolling around your brain since the semester started.
“I still don’t get it,” you say, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip. “How I even ended up there. I was supposed to be working on poetry, Jiao. I had a plan.”
He leans back against the bench, arms stretched out like he’s anchoring the entire booth. “Yeah, well. Maybe the universe decided you needed a bit more bloodshed.”
You make a face. Jiaoqiu chuckles.
Then, more gently: “Maybe it’s not a mistake, you know. Maybe it’s just a reroute.”
You glance out the window, where the sky is streaked peach-pink, like his hair. The thought settles somewhere in your chest—still foreign, but a little less unwelcome.
“You really think that?” you ask.
Jiaoqiu shrugs. “I think you’ll make it meaningful, wherever you land. You always do.”
You don’t say anything for a moment. Just sip your coffee, warm and a little bitter, and try to believe him.
You triple-check the office number before you knock.
Jing Yuan’s email was short. “Stop by this morning when you're free—let’s get you started on grading.” Just that. No smiley face or further elaboration. Not even a signature.
You tell yourself it’s a normal request. Reasonable, even. But your heart doesn’t seem to care about reason. It’s already doing that off-rhythm thing it does when you're called on unexpectedly in class or when your dissertation adviser uses phrases like “reassess your direction.”
Still—you go. Because it’s your job. Because you need this assistantship to keep your funding. Because your name already ended up on the wrong file, and backing out now would feel like letting the wrong choice define you.
You raise a hand and knock twice.
There’s no immediate answer, but you hear voices inside. You hesitate, shift your weight. When no one tells you to come in, you crack the door open and peek in carefully.
Jing Yuan’s office is brighter than you expected—sunlight cutting across stacks of annotated books and meticulously arranged models of warships. A collection of plants of varying shades of green sits along the windowsill, and they look cared for, well-tended to. The professor himself is seated at his desk, sleeves rolled up, fingers laced in front of his mouth like he’s pondering the meaning of life—or a particularly difficult chess move.
Across from him sits a boy.
He can’t be older than fifteen, maybe sixteen at most, all sharp eyes and a serious expression. His hair is long and pale gold, tied back neatly. He looks like he belongs on a fencing team or in a school for gifted prodigies—not in a university professor’s office.
They both look up when you step inside.
“Ah, there she is,” Jing Yuan says, voice warm but unhurried. “Come in.”
The boy sizes you up immediately, not unkindly—just with the open curiosity of someone who doesn't think he needs to explain why he’s here.
You linger near the door. “Should I come back later?”
Jing Yuan waves the idea off with a tilt of his hand. “You’re on time, and Yanqing was just leaving.”
The boy—Yanqing, apparently—rolls his eyes. “You always say that when you want me to stop winning.”
Jing Yuan’s mouth twitches like he’s holding back a smile. “A good general knows when to retreat.”
Yanqing stands, slinging a sports bag over one shoulder. “You’ve definitely been hanging out with academics for too long. You used to be cool.”
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.
content notes; Natlan AQ spoilers, spoilers for Capitano's real name & backstory, grief, anger (reader), depictions of a nightmare, angst, gn!reader, can be seen as a continuation of my previous capitano drabble
author's note: Please, if you're going to read this, make sure you checked all the content notes! This one is pretty heavy, so please read with caution. I did my best to take from my own experiences as well as some research to make this accurate. I'd hate to write something that was insensitive to people who have gone through these experiences as well. Of course, grief is different for everyone, so I will most likely not be accurate to everyone's experience, but I did my best!
You hate the quiet. Despite its emptiness, you feel closed in. For a nation known for its heat, you feel undeniably cold as you sit, looking out at the blazing sun.
It mocks you. Its bright rays remind you of the life prior to all of this. Your beautiful home. Your love. Everything.
There's a knock. You don't flinch. It was common for the soldiers to check up on you constantly, especially after what happened. However, the soft tone that calls out to you is unexpected.
"Sorry to disturb you. Oh, it's Ororon, by the way. Do you remember me? I brought you some carrots last week. Were they good? They were from my garden, so I can guarantee that they were fresh."
You remembered him. The child from the Masters of the Night Wind. You grew to have quite the connection when he agreed to help the Fatui. The soldiers had told you about him coming by to drop off vegetables. He hadn't stayed long, especially since the soldiers had told him you weren't taking visitors.
You sigh. You wonder what he would say in a moment like this. You should get up. Get up. Get up. Get up already.
You get to your feet, dragging yourself to the door. You must look like a mess as you crack the door open. Ororon's facial expression shifts. Pity. It's always pity when it comes to you. Pity. Pity.
You force a pleasant expression, but you know it looks strange. Your eyes are puffy and red, which help distract from the lack of light in them. Your skin has lost its color. You look pathetic. Extremely so.
"I just wanted to check in again. They actually let me through today, so are you feeling a bit better? I brought some spinach. Granny says they're good for you. Oh, and she asked me to bring you one of her wind chimes for your nightmares."
He hands you a basket with said items. You stare. Your heart felt... warm for a second, but then, the thought that had been haunting you comes back. Were you allowed to accept this? Were you allowed to be happy again? No, not without him. It wasn't fair.
"Oh, one more thing. If you're up to it, the Archon is holding a ceremony tomorrow. It's to unveil the monument to the fallen heroes."
Heroes. Was he a hero? Perhaps to the Natlanese he was. To you, he was a fool. Tied to duty all his life. He left you because his duty to his people came before you.
"I could come by, and we could go together if that would help you feel comfortable. I'm sure Granny won't mind passing by. She hasn't seen you in a while."
Could you stand to see such a thing? A monument to fallen heroes. Could you stand to stare at their immortalization of his honor? Did you owe it to him to try to attend even if the idea causes your heart to twist?
Ultimately, you nod despite the jumbling thoughts in your mind. You needed to make the first step forward, but did you deserve to take that step without him?
It begins happy. You are staring at the cloudy sky with him by your side. You are smiling, and so is he. It almost seems unreal. You've dreamt of this before. It's a memory of when he proposed to you. It was a day you hadn't expected. He always found a way to surprise you, whether it be through gestures or gifts. That day had been no exception.
"You're stiff. Is something the matter?"
"Ah, I suppose I am nervous."
"Nervous? About what?"
"The future. Our future."
He turns to you. You see his smile soften before his face becomes a blur. Again. Just like every night since he left.
When would be the next time you'd see his face? The one hidden behind the mask? Did you even remember what he looked like? Is that why this kept happening? Were you forgetting?
"Did I frighten you?" You let out a breath you hadn't known you were holding as you stared at him. His robes changed. His face became obscured.
"It's me, my love. Do not cry. I am right here."
Liar. Liar. Liar.
There are tears in your eyes again. However, unlike your first nightmare, they don't startle you. You simply wipe your cheeks and sit up. You were sure you wouldn't get any more sleep, so you got ready for the day.
For the past week, you had been in bed, refusing to come out of the room. The soldiers didn't mind you. They brought you food and water and reminded you of your return trip home. You couldn't stand being in Natlan any longer. Not when they threw you glances of pity.
The first knock at your door is a soldier delivering your breakfast. They seemed startled to see you out of bed, almost dropping the tray in their hands.
"It's nice to see you again." Is all they say before they exit.
The second knock at your door is the duo of Ororon and Citlali. They also seemed startled with a hint of relief amongst it. Although, you notice the crease between Citlali's eyebrows as she stares at you. Regardless, she greets you with a smile.
"Thank you for agreeing to come along. I'm sure it isn't easy for you at the moment. If you need anything, we'd be happy to assist in any way," She reminds you to which you nod.
"Granny's right. We're happy to help," Ororon adds.
"Let's get going. I'm sure the ceremony will be starting soon."
You can feel their stares. No matter how much you look away, you feel their stares. Their pity. Stop. Stop it. Don't look. Please.
You are grateful for Ororon's tall stature. Once he notices your discomfort, he does his best to keep your figure hidden. Despite this, you continue to stare at the ground.
You don't lift your gaze as you hear Mauvika take her place in front of the monument. You didn't want to look at her. You didn't want to look at him. You didn't want to look. You were fearful of it coming down on you again. The fear. The dread. The knowledge that he was gone.
"I would also like to take the time to recognize a Fatui Harbinger who sacrificed his life for our cause."
You can't stand it. You feel your heart clench, and your eyes squeeze shut.
"You don't owe them anything! What have they done for you? They treat us as threats!"
"... he defeated his fated foe and protected me in the process."
"My duty is to my people as well as those who fight alongside me."
"But, on this occasion, we honor him as one of our own. In Natlan, all heroes are worthy are celebration."
"What about your duty to me?"
You feel a hand on your shoulder, causing you to look up for the first time since you arrived. Mauvika stands before you, her hand planted on your shoulder.
"I know there are no words that will erase your pain."
"I want to be the one to hold you and love you through it all."
"But I want you to know--"
"Will you marry me?"
"He was a hero."
Hero. Hero. He was a hero to them. What was he to you? A duty bound fool.
"The Captain saved us, all of us. He will always be remembered--"
A fool, but he was your love. He still is. He always will be. Thrain. Thrain, why did you leave me?
"Thrain," you mutter. Your voice cracks. You look into Mauvika's eyes. Her confident stare is a contrast to your shaky gaze. "His name is Thrain."
Thrain. Your strength gives out. You feel your legs buckle under you, and you fall to the ground in tears. You look pathetic. You're sure of it, but you couldn't take it anymore.
Not them pitying you. Not them treating him as a hero. Not them acknowledging his strength, not his life. Not them honoring his title, not his name.
"His name is Thrain," you repeat between tears, clutching your hands to your chest. Your ring reflects the bright sun, reminding you of his smile.
"Don't cry, my love. I only wish to make you happy. Will you grant me my wish?"
"I will."
"Even if death rips me from your arms, I shall stay by your side. You will never be alone again."
Long time no post, sadly. College has really had me busy these past few months, so I apologize for not being able to bring any new content recently. Unfortunately, this post isn't a new post either :(
I just wanted to tell you guys that I made a new blog for my oc and art content to keep this blog from becoming too muddled. I know some of you are just here for my writing content (which is completely okay!), so I want to make sure you can access that content more easily.
If you like my oc/art content or maybe you would just like to support, feel free to check out my other blog :D Have a nice day, everyone ♡
Little fun facts about my Natlan ocs because they're my babies (I'll potentially add more as they come up):
× Selena is blind due to her erasing parts of someone's memories (I'll talk more about it when I talk about their character stories) an eye for an eye kind of exchange
× Rai (an oc I've posted previously) is Selena's past disciple
× Selena's snake is called Ixtli
× Ilhuitl claims he isn't highly superstitious but still believes someone is talking about him when he sneezes
× Ilhuitl and Selena live together due to Selena losing her father (which is important to her backstory)
× Before Selena moved in, Ilhuitl used to leave his hair down (Selena braids his hair every morning)
× The reason behind their matching black eyes is that they both paid a price for their power
× Selena's hands and lower part of her arms became red after the issue mentioned before (memory erasure)
author's note; bringing forth my soft capitano agenda with a short drabble
content notes; gn!reader, established relationship (married), you adopt ororon for a bit, mention of having children (as in raising them together), slight hurt/comfort, slight spoilers about capitano's origins
When you hear your husband's been injured in an altercation with the Pyro Archon, you were rushing out of the Fatui camp immediately. Multiple Fatui soldiers chase after you, telling you to return to camp.
"Lord Capitano will have our head if their partner gets injured! Move!" You hear one of the soldiers call out to their comrades. You ignore them. The only thing on your mind is to make sure your husband is alright. You know he's strong, stronger than you know, but it doesn't ease your stress.
In your focused state, you don't notice the man you're worried about approaching. You bump into his chest, almost tumbling over if not for him catching you by the shoulders.
"What are you doing outside of the camp, beloved?" He asks, looking down at you. You don't answer, your hands quickly moving about in search of his wounds.
"I heard what happened. Are you okay? Does it hurt? Where did you get hit?" You sputter out your questions, not bothering to let him answer.
"Excuse me..." A voice interrupts, causing you to turn your head. You make eye contact with a dark-haired male. He definitely wasn't a Fatui soldier, but his clothing reminded you of the locals.
"Who is this?" You ask, turning back to Capitano.
"A child from the Masters of the Night Wind. He assisted with my escape," Capitano answers. He readjusts his hand, leading you back to the camp with his hand on your back.
The male walks beside the two of you, interjecting whenever needed to explain himself.
Ororon is his name. You learn much about him as he spends time at the Fatui encampment. Whenever your husband is out, you find yourself making small talk with Ororon.
You learn about his garden. You smile when he promises to bring you some of his vegetables. He tells you about his family back home. He tells you that his granny will be especially furious with him when he returns home. You wonder what kind of woman his granny is.
As the days go by, you realize Ororon is a very sweet, young boy. You find yourself worrying about him more. When he goes out to search for herbs, you secretly tell the soldiers accompanying him to keep a very close watch of him. You always offer him an extra serving of food despite your husband's insistence that he's eaten enough.
"You're overfeeding him, beloved."
"It's better than underfeeding!"
When Ororon returns home for the first time, your husband notices your faltered state.
"You spoiled that child as if he was your own. I fear you have become too attached, beloved," Captiano remarks as he takes a seat next to you.
"Ah, I suppose so..." You admit. You chuckle soflty, resting your head on his shoulder. "We don't have any of our own, so I suppose I was just projecting."
"Children..."
"It's a silly dream of mine. Don't worry."
Capitano shakes his head. "It isn't silly at all. I suppose... I never believed you'd want children, especially with a man such as I."
That shocks you. You lift your head, facing him. "Why wouldn't I? There isn't anyone else I'd rather have children with."
You understand his hesitating. The curse he bears makes the future he once dreamed of almost impossible. You don't want him to believe that. He deserves a future as much as any other person.
"You'd be a wonderful father," You reassure, placing your head on his shoulder once again.
hi!! i read your recent freminet fic and i LOVED IT. if i could, maybe i please request a freminet x gn!reader drabble (preferably romantic) where they meet at the aquarium? thank you!!
author's note; hiya, nonnie >< always love a cute little drabble, so I'm happy to do your request! I wrote the drabble as if it were a date. I hope that's alright with you :D
content notes; gn!reader (per request), pretty in reference to reader, slight lyney shenanigans ft. lynette, drabble
"Where are you heading, Freminet?" Lyney asks as he notices Freminet, stuffing his bus pass into his bag. Freminet stiffens slightly before turning back to face Lyney.
"It's nothing important..." Freminet mumbles, gripping the strap of his bag. He's avoiding eye contact. It definitely was important.
"Mind if we come with then?" Lyney proposes to which he hears Lynette shift in her seat. She gives him a look as if to ask: 'When did I become part of this?'
"No! I mean, um... I wanna go by myself," Freminet quickly retorts. He shrinks back a bit, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I need to go... before I miss the bus. I'll call when I'm coming home," He says quickly, rushing out the door.
It's quiet for a bit after the door shuts.
"Lyney, stop."
"Stop what, dear sister? I'm not doing anything."
"We're not following Freminet. He said he wanted to go alone."
"Well, who's to say we didn't just happen to end up in the same place as him on complete accident?"
"You're buying me dessert after this."
Freminet fidgets with his plush as he waits by the aquarium's entrance. Despite only standing around for a few minutes, he already felt like an eternity passed. What if you changed your mind? No, he had to think positively, like Lyney tells him to. No jumping to conclusions.
"Freminet!" He jumps slightly as he hears his name. He looks up, spotting you rushing over. You looked pretty. Really pretty.
"Were you waiting long?" You ask as you stop in front of him. "Sorry... the bus got delayed. You know how traffic is on the weekend."
"It's okay," Freminet mumbles. "Wasn't waiting long..." How does he tell you he thinks you're pretty? Does he just say it? Does he have to lead up to it?
"Let's head in, yeah? I heard the displays are amazing here!"
"Yeah, let's go."
The displays were as beautiful as you said. The moon jellies, starfishes, clown fishes, rays. Freminet found himself being amazed by them. He had gone to multiple aquariums before, but he continued to be a star-struck child each time. His favorite part was, and always will be, the touch pool.
You're a bit scared when you two walk into the touch pool. He notices you being hesitant to dip your fingers in the water to touch the starfish.
"Is something the matter?" Freminet asks, taking his fingers out of the water.
"Ah, it's nothing," You mumble as you continue to hover your fingers over the water's surface.
"Lynette, do you wanna touch the starfish?"
"It's slimy..."
"We can do it together... don't be scared, okay? It's a friend, like Pers..."
Freminet reaches his hand over to yours. "It's okay. We can do it together, if that'll make you more comfortable..."
"... yeah, that would make me feel better."
Freminet nods, placing his hand on top of yours. He carefully guides your hand to the top of the starfish. You flinch a bit at the sensation at first, but you keep your fingers steady.
"Wow... it's a little weird but definitely cool!" You chuckle, running your fingers on the bumps of the starfish. "And really pretty..."
Pretty. The starfish is pretty. Freminet believes all sea creatures are pretty. However, he thinks you're prettier than any sea creature he's seen.
"Freminet's all grown up... going on dates, making moves. I'm so proud!" Lyney exclaims, practically crying into his sister's shoulder.
"You're too loud, Lyney. They're going to hear you," Lynette comments, poking at his head. She pushes him to hide into the gift shop as she notices Freminet turn his head slightly.
"Would you quit your fake sniffling?" Lynette mutters, pushing her brother's head off her shoulders.
"Just yesterday, he was asking me how to ask someone out! Look at him now!"
"Yeah, I got it. You're proud."
"Not just proud! Estatic!"
"Shush, they're coming over," Lynette whispers, ducking into a hoodie rack and pulling Lyney along with her.
"... you really do know a lot about the sea, Freminet!"
"Yeah... I do deep sea diving as a hobby, so..."
"Wow! Deep sea diving? That's amazing!"
"Really...? You think so?"
"For sure!"
As Lynette hears their voices become more distant, she carefully pokes her head out. She does a quick scan before stepping out of the rack.
"Let's head back. There's not much more for us to do," Lynette says.
"I can think of one more thing," Lyney interjects, holding up a small plush. He slips it on top of a shelf nearby.
"What's the point of doing that?"
"Oh, dear sister, you'll see!"
"Cute..." You mumble, looking up at the penguin plush perched on the shelf.
"Do you like it?" Freminet asks, looking up at the plush.
"It's pretty cute..." Your eyes leave the plush and land on the keychain hanging from Freminet's bag. "Oh, it looks just like the one on your bag!"
Freminet looks down at his bag, nodding to himself. "It does..."
You smile, reaching up to grab the plush. "We can match!" You chuckle to yourself, skipping over to the cashier.
"Match..." Freminet mumbles, staring at your retreating figure. "Matching..."
Like partners? Romantic partners? Freminet stands still, his face blooming red. Matching with you?
"Something the matter?" You ask as you return to a blushing Freminet.
author's note; we need more freminet content, and I'm happy to contribute whatever I can 🫶 enjoy!
content notes; modern!au, gn!reader, less cohesive than I thought, wrote this late at night so not proofread
Wednesday. That's the first time Freminet sees you on the bus. It wasn't planned. He promises. The second time was. The third one as well. Not the first.
He doesn't remember what he was wearing. It was cold that day. It was probably his hoodie. He does remember wearing his snow boots. You told him they were cool when you sat a seat away from him.
He remembers you complimenting Pers, the small penguin plushie hanging from his bag. He remembers smiling and telling you an almost silent 'thank you'. He remembers you smiling back. He remembers wanting to see you smile again.
"Oh, this is my stop. See you around!"
He remembers you leaving before he could speak again.
That's why he's on the bus again. It's Wednesday. The bus is a bit slower today. It makes him fiddle with Pers, tugging on the chain and squeezing the plush.
He hears the ding of the bus doors opening. He looks up, hoping to find you amongst the other bus goers. It's a sea of colors, thanks to the raincoats worn by everyone. It's a flurry of florescent. It makes Freminet turn his head away. He blinks away the colors. He stares at the gray tone of the bus seats.
"Morning." Freminet turns his head, coming face to face with you. The light filtering through the window becomes brighter as he stares at you.
"Good morning..." He mumbles out, turning his head back. He didn't think this far. He thought you wouldn't be here. As much as he wanted you to be. He wasn't sure where to go past this.
"I like your freckles." That startles him.
"Sorry?" He stutters out, his ears flushing red.
"Oh, sorry, that was a little out of nowhere." You chuckle. "I like your freckles. They're cute!"
"Oh, thank you..." It goes silent, only the rumbling of the bus filling the silence. What would Lyney do? Say?
"Tell them you think their eyes are pretty!"
"Eyes..." Freminet starts, causing you to turn your head.
"Eyes?"
"Pretty eyes..." He finishes.
"Pretty eyes? Oh, you do have pretty eyes."
"No, um..."
There's a beep, signaling a stop. You look up.
"Oh, looks like this is my stop. It was nice seeing you again..."
"Freminet..."
"It was nice seeing you, Freminet! I'll see you next time." You smile at him again before rushing to stand up and exit. The world goes gray again, but Freminet knows it won't be that way for long.
You've lost count of how many people you've apologized to. Although most of them were polite, it didn't make you feel any less guilty. You weren't even the one holding them up!
Boothill has always been quite the gentleman despite his, at times, colorful language. He carried you when you were tired, rushed to open doors for you, and held your bags whenever you needed to go to the bathroom.
Now, what is such a 'perfect gentleman' supposed to do when a device decides to do his job for him? Obviously, beat up the competition and take his job back.
"Boothill, are you done yet?" You whisper to the crouched cyborg. He waves you off as he finishes tinkering with the automatic doors.
He clears his throat, getting up and practically strutting over to the closed doors. With a simple pull, Boothill opens one of the doors.
"Darlin'," He calls, motioning for you to walk through. You quickly scamper over, walking through the door. He follows suit, closing the door behind him.
"Boothill, you can't just break the door and close it on everyone else!" You exclaim as he wraps his arm around your torso.
"The staff'll help 'em! Don' worry so much, darlin'!" He answers, pinching your cheek with a toothy smile.
Happy 300+ followers (＾∇＾)ﾉ♪ As per tradition, it's time for another followers' event! Tell me what your favorite aspect/feature of a genshin or hsr character and I'll write a drabble. Thank you for over three hundred followers, guys <3 I hope I can continue to produce content people enjoy. Looking forward to your responses 💌
(This is a repost since I messed up the tags (´ . .̫ . `) I kept it short, so I don't take up too much space on the tags)
can iI venti reacting to you giving them flower romantically dabble also I'd like if the character and reader are in an established relationship?
author's note; flower giving requests are always lots of fun since I think all genshin characters deserve flowers :D this is either my first or second time writing for venti, so hopefully I can write him accurately (• ▽ •;)
content notes; gn!reader, non vision! reader, fluff, established relationship, short since it's a drabble, whopperflower jumpscare, flowers are given but I went a bit off request (my bad), possible ooc character
Despite knowing Venti already owns a bouquet of Cecilias in his home (you were the sender of said Cecilias), you noticed their petals wilting slightly and decided to fetch him new ones. Of course, as soon as you decide to buy him Cecilias, Flora informs you they've been sold out.
Therefore, you had to set out on a journey to pick them yourself. Flora was kind enough to mark a few locations on your map to ensure you would find the best ones.
How many Cecilias would be enough? Two, three? Perhaps four? You attempt to think back to the amount you got from Flora last time as you attempt to pick a Cecilia. It was definitely six? Or was it seven? It's not as if you had counted how many were in the bouquet at the time, especially since there were so many. You should be safe and grab a big bunch.
Your hand feels warm, so you look down and come face to face with a Pyro whopperflower. You immediately jump back, clutching the flowers you had already picked to your chest.
Since you thought the journey wasn't going to be very treacherous, you had left your weapon at home. Of course, without a vision, you had no other way to defend yourself.
You carefully take a step back, trying to not alert the Whopperflower. Silently praying to the Archons above, you take multiple steps back. Hopefully, this whopperflower would mind its own business and not attack you.
Despite your prayers, you see the whopperflower turn to you. You still, watching the whopperflower cautiously. Don't. Don't. Don't--
Your thoughts are interrupted by a large gust of wind blowing behind you. The gust becomes more aggressive as it reaches the whopperflower, sending it flying.
"Are you okay, my flower?" You hear Venti's voice behind you, causing you to turn around. You nod vigorously and thank him for saving you.
He chuckles in response. "What are you doing around here alone and without your weapon? It's dangerous."
You quickly explain how you wanted to buy flowers for him but ended up having no luck with Flora. That led you to Starsnatch Cliff, where you accidentally ran into a whopperflower. You finish off your explanation by extending the flowers in your grasp towards him.
Smiling softly, Venti takes the bunch from you. "I'll be sure to replace the ones you bought. These hold much more meaning, since you picked them yourself. Thank you."
"Now, what do you say to a little gliding? Let the winds guide us!" Venti cheerfully states, holding out a flower to tuck behind your ear. You quickly remind him that you still don't have your gliding license.
content warning; mentions of death/dying, angst, wrote this in one go, so there might be spelling/grammar mistakes
Neuvillette is happy to be the Hydro Dragon. He is able to watch humanity grow and flourish throughout the years. The continual circle of life and death intrigues him. He watches flowers bloom and rivers flow for years. He watches humans accomplish and fail. The constant rise and fall reminds him of the waves he used to swim among.
Neuvillette is happy to be the Hydro Dragon. He is able to live a life among the people of Fontaine because of his human appearance. He meets many lovely people, including you. He lives through experiences formerly foreign to him. He experiences love for the first time through you.
He is grateful for everything his life has given him, but sometimes he can't help but wish.
Neuvillette wishes he was human. With the ability to properly express emotion. When the court fills with shouts and cries, he can only look on. He cannot find his brows furrowing out of anger, or his eyes filling with tears. He merely watches.
"Why does it always rain?" Fontainians often ask after a court session. The Hydro Dragon wishes to cry only to find his eyes dry, no tears in sight.
"Why do you cry?" Is all he can ask when you break down in front of him. The Hydro Dragon wishes to understand only to find no answers when he looks into your eyes.
Neuvillette wishes he was human. With the ability to understand emotion. So, when you shed a tear, he would be the first to wipe it from your face and reassure you. Yet, when you do cry, he finds himself unable to understand why. Why do you cry? Why do you react in such a way? He doesn't understand.
Neuvillette wishes he was human. With the ability to die. So, you do not feel fear when Death's cold grip has you. So, he does not feel a common tightness in his chest when he feels your hands grow cold. So, he does not have to live without you.
Longevity is cruel when Neuvillette has to trace the carving of your name rather than your face. When he has to let the rain hit his head without your umbrella covering his head. When he can remember the sound of your voice and your bright smile years after you're gone.
"My love, I miss you." Neuvillette takes a knee in front of your gravestone, placing his cane down next to him.
"I miss you dearly... And," He pauses, feeling the rain beginning to fall, "I love you."
Neuvillette wishes he was human. With the ability to say 'I love you' without worry.
He wishes he knew how much he loved you before it was too late. He wishes and wishes, but he knows that no amount of wishing will return you to his arms.
... there is death." As morbid as it sounds to others, Blade believes a world with death would be ideal. For centuries, his hands have been tied to immortality with no possible escape. He only wishes to meet you in a world where his death comes as naturally as yours. He no longer appreciates life with how cruel it has been to him. However, if he knew death could take him, at any second, he would cherish the life he has with you.
... I only have one name." Childe knows better than anyone that he is a mere pawn for the divine's games. It is why he appreciates the moments he has with his family as well as you. In the moments where he is not Childe or Tartaglia, simply Ajax. A son. A brother. A lover. Not a soldier. Sometimes, he dreams of what the end may be. His first thought is always dying in a battle for the Tsaritsa. Yet, he wishes he thought of his family and you first. A life after the battle where he is allowed to be with the people who love him rather than the ones who use him. A life where his only name is Ajax.
... I am no god." The suffering of one for the happiness of many. It would be one way to describe Furina's constant turmoil. She deserved to be happy, but what would it cost? If you had to suffer, she would sit atop divinity's throne for centuries. Play the part of a reassuring god. Dance across the stage despite the pain. If she was allowed one selfish request, she would throw away her divinity for your warm embrace even if she eventually dissolved. She would be happy because her suffering would never begin. She is merely Furina.
author's note; I honestly feel like more characters can fit under each answer, but I'm writing this with half a braincell. If you wanna see me write for these prompts again, feel free to send in a request. Hope you guys enjoyed ♡
With Natlan coming up, I wanted to quickly post these. I have an idea of how all these ocs connect with each other. Inbox is open for any questions you might have :)
