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(MIS)DEVOTION ⋮ YAN!JING YUAN X FEM!READER

General Jing Yuan is someone you dedicate a lot of your time and trust to, and in return, he makes sure you lack nothing. But when your life begins to feel unsettled and circumstances force you to live together under his protection, you find yourself discovering different sides of him—some you might not be ready for yet, some you still fail to comprehend. WORD COUNT: 30.7k. [READ ON AO3]

• CONTENT: plot and smut, ostensible yandere jing yuan x unaware reader, mentions of corporal punishment, inappropriate personal dynamic (general and personal assistant), power imbalance, stalking, angst, drugging, manipulative behavior, reader idolizes and idealizes jing yuan, vomiting, induced dependency, ankle injury, blowjob, edging, fingering, dub-con sex.

• A/N: Tbh, this was originally supposed to be me expanding on an older idea, but I decided to simply include that old fic entirely for context and write the rest around it. About the first 4k words are from that older fic (edited), but the rest of this work is freshly written. I also hope Jing Yuan here is cunning enough🤞I wanted to elaborate on his strategic mind, but unfortunately, I can’t outsmart him — a downside to writing a character much smarter than you are. Also, some paragraphs are longer to avoid hitting the 1000 block limit, so apologies for that!

“Your mind has drifted away from me yet again.”

The general’s low, humming voice cuts through your thoughts, snapping you back to reality. Only then do you notice the sound you have been tuning out — a rhythmic drip onto the floor in rivulets.

Your mouth parts in terror as you realize it’s the tea you were supposed to pour into his cup — not over his important files. A hot stream spills over the desk’s edge, pooling at your shoes, and encapsulates what you’ve been becoming: an incompetent assistant.

You set the pot down with a thunk.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry—” Your eyes dart at him with the most earnest of apologies before they frantically scan the office for something to rectify your mistake.

Though you are genuinely sorry, as always, you instinctively anticipate his comforting words rather than those of ridicule. Do not fret. It’s a mistake anyone could have made — you already hear it in your head. Because, following the pattern you’ve become familiar with, that’s what should be his priority: I hope you are not hurt.

You really do hope for that to be uttered by him, for you to be able to tell yourself that it is not so bad yet. The core of your late clumsiness, manifesting itself in many mistakes, is rather simple: you are worried about a certain situation occurring in your life. Yet, thus far, while your case is still unbeknownst to him, your general has shown you an unheard of patience.

“Hm. You’ve been quite all over the place lately. I might have lost count of how many times I’ve seen you create a disarray in my office.”

Okay. Perhaps it is not this time that you will be indulged.

“I…”

His words, though still sounding as light and teasing as they often are made to, make your body burn with blooming shame, as he for once is taking the matter more seriously. You abandon the search for some towel, frozen by his infiltrating gaze demanding explanations especially; your ignominy now falls from his desk freely.

You cannot truly blame him for finally choosing to be less lenient with you. Considering how prone you’ve been to blunders lately, you wouldn’t be surprised if any other superior had gotten rid of you long ago already.

At the very least, Qingzu is not here today.

You take a leap to be in front of his desk again, stationing your duty, away from the sizable plant you had half a mind to hide yourself under.

Then you speak, trying your hardest not to make it sound like a balderdash. “I won’t make any excuses for myself, General. I should have been more aware of my surroundings…” Though it’s still barely more than a murmur, coming from a dog whining in guilt. “I’ve been falling short in my work and not meeting your expectations.”

His golden gaze lets the silence stretch with its solemnity, filling the room with even more tangible tension — he’s analyzing your nervous mouth as it writhes in need to make more excuses. His own expression however gives nothing away, only adding to your pile of nerves. There is nothing to soothe you here as there usually would be.

Steepling his fingers over the desk, he speaks evenly, if not almost listlessly, “I see. Please, come here for a moment.” He nods towards the space behind his seat.

Your heart hammers at even more frantic pace, so fast you swear your entire body pulses. A myriad of scared thoughts flash through your mind, with one louder than the rest — are you finally going to face punishment for your carelessness?

“Well?”

Driven upon his insistence, you have no choice but to walk over to his side, each step heavy with trepidation. Your mind lingers on those ruined scrolls, trying desperately to remember how crucial their contents were and yet not being able to recall. His eyes never leave yours, weighing your fear as if it could further diminish your value as his assistant.

You stop right in front of him, and he turns in his seat to face you properly.

“Please give me your hand.”

You tried to reassure yourself that, whatever he has in mind, he is still a fair man — one who would never truly hurt you, preferring brains over brawn, preventing over correction. But now, your imagination goes straight to the worst-case scenario. It must be a corporal punishment — why else would he require your hand?

While you did assume that someone like your general would never resort to violence unless absolutely necessary, perhaps he is still traditional, or maybe this is simply a military habit, regardless of how strategic of a man he is.

If he truly intends to strike you, then his hits will be the most unbearable, unparalleled in strength compared to most. You surely won’t be able to lift your hands without sharp pain shooting down to your elbows for days.

“General… I… I’m so sorry, again, I—” You try to plead with him, as pathetic as it further paints you.

“I know that you are. Please extend your hand for me. We have to deal with the situation meticulously,” he says with a heavy sigh, as though even he has had enough of your meekness.

Deal with the situation, meticulously at that. His words ring through your head, and so you believe you are screwed indeed.

Knowing that any hesitation will only exacerbate your punishment, you offer him your shaky and clammy hand.

Your stomach drops when he opens the drawer of his desk and reaches for something. You close your eyes, unwilling to behold the length or texture of the object of discipline. A click echoes as some container pops open, and you nearly jump at the sound.

Then there’s a sudden burst of warmth on your hand. But it is no sting of pain, only a gentle touch of another person.

Opening your eyes, you see him smiling, almost as if he enjoys your dismay — also silently asking if you seriously believed he would harm you. Yet that malice really cannot be so, for he massages your hand with an ointment so diligently, so softly, as if it were a delicate bird in his grasp.

“Huh?” You cannot hide your surprise, stupefied by the revelation.

You’re well aware he’s always been a fan of teasing you here and there. This one maneuver might be a bit too cruel, however.

“What kind of leader do you believe me to be, to expect I would disregard my dear assistant’s burn?” He laughs softly at your oversight, continuing to apply the salve. “While it is relatively small, I wouldn’t want you hissing in pain all day,” he adds with a tinge of mirth to his voice.

The burn. You were so caught up envisioning the effects of his disappointment with you, then its punishment conducted by your general’s hands, you didn’t even notice that your hurt had formed as a small blister already.

Tracing a few splotches of darkened flesh between your knuckles with your eyes, you tune with the aches only now.

Seriously, that benign approach of his toward you; you think he’s too being kind to you, putting the treatment of a tiny wound above his important papers.

“General… I could have managed it on my own…” You sound and definitely feel flustered, evading his gaze. “And where did you even get this burn treatment from?” You clear your throat.

“I foresaw a moment like this,” he explains placidly. He notably takes a bit longer that it is necessary to massage the wound, as if at this point, it’s more about treatment of your spirit, rather than of your skin. “You spilling hot tea was destined to happen, and it did just happen.”

This preemptive measure only taunts your sense of shame to be all the more bloodthirsty. How predictable your carelessness has become, how bad must it be, for him to start anticipating your mistakes….

“Thank you. It already hurts much less…” you say quietly, a little bit tired at yourself.

He pats your hand in response — for a moment, you itch to hold his hand, if only to ground yourself — and pushes the vial into your grasp.

“Now, you are all set to take care of this mess. After that, you and I will have a conversation.”

Once the tea puddles and stains are gone, along with some of the shakiness in your hands, you sit down across from your general, wondering if you’re possibly discussing your own termination. He may have helped you with your burn, but that doesn’t imply you’re off the hook just yet or even at all — call that care simply his generosity.

“Are you mad at me?” The words slip out before you can think them through, fully vulnerable.

You’re this accustomed to his small gestures of comfort. It’s in his nature to never make a mountain out of a molehill, yet he’s not flippant either. That stoic stability is something you’ve come to rely on — and so, without it expressed as sanguinely as always, you can’t shake off the feeling that even he is irrevocably fed up with your clumsiness. And try telling that to someone who often puts him on a pedestal.

“I’m not mad at you. Why do you think so?” he inquires, offering you no more than flat expression. Too bland for your ongoing anxiety.

Your breath hitches. You cannot exactly tell him that you operate based on his reassurance; that would be unprofessional, and you already work on borrowed benevolence.

“I cannot imagine how frustrating it must be to…” you begin hesitantly, rubbing your hands against your thighs, “… constantly have to watch your personal assistant make embarrassingly simple mistakes… jeopardizing important matters that the fate of Xianzhou Luofu depends on.” With how erratic you are, you speak in nearly one breath.

“It is.” He doesn’t hold back at being frank. “In this instance, your carelessness certainly sets my work back, as I must wait for a copy of the ruined document to be approved before I can work over it again. And time is precious in many cases.”

While he didn’t end up punishing you, it for sure feels like being whipped by him. You cannot remember the last time you’ve received a direct criticism from him, having been busy spreading yourself thin to impress him; also realizing that a simple sorry won’t cut it for him.

The truth is, you fail to fully grasp your attrition, you being ungainly and fumbling over the simplest of things — even with the other issue you’ve been struggling with encroaching your mind. You weren’t always this clumsy, regardless of any personal problems happening in your life.

Your general, in the past, had made it evident he thinks a lot of you, and you are ruining that good reputation nowadays. Accidents happen to the best, but ones of this extent…

Is it him? The pressure to do your best for someone of his stature you’ve felt from the beginning of your labor for him, dreading the idea of being dispensable? He’s not replaceable; as for you, there’s many awaiting in line to take over your vacant spot should there be a chance to. You’re an ant to his greatness, even if he’d scold you for downplaying your worth. And yet you still wish to make him shine right until his swan song comes.

But then, wouldn’t you be pressuring yourself to stay hyper-aware of your surroundings like you always did, rather than withdrawing focus into the recesses of your mind? Just how when you want to impress someone so immensely, you only end up moving like a nervous wreck, acutely conscious of their presence breathing down your neck.

“I understand,” you say solemnly, lowering your gaze to your lap like the coward you’ve become. You don’t know what else is there to say. Promising him your mistakes won’t happen again is counterproductive — they will happen again. Instead, you add, “I will ensure to be more circumspect.”

He neither acknowledges nor accepts your words, choosing to get to the root of your problem instead. “Why is my dear assistant so distracted these days? I don’t remember you ever having such aspen hands,” he notes with a small sigh.

Fingers drum against the desk in thought, the sound droning in your ears as your anxiety spikes again. You clutch onto your knees, sitting on tenterhooks.

“You can tell me,” he adds more softly, seeing you.

So there’s finally a bit of ray shining through the clouds. Nonetheless, it sounds more like you should tell me — it’s your last call to redeem yourself.

You lift your gaze with something hopeful arising in the storm of angst, to which he smiles lightly — encouragingly so to you. Perhaps, once he hears you out, he will change his mind about firing you.

You begin to realize the truth behind your nightmares is probably closer than you believed it to be, or rather, than you allowed it to be — rejecting the notion the real cause is starting to affect your professional life you were supposed to separate from the private section. You have not yet confessed to the general, unwilling to burden him with something your mind potentially made up.

You lack efficient evidence to prop your suspicion, so it might as well be work-related stress paranoia created by you a bit on edge about the important role. It could even be a simple case of minor memory loss, correlated, and you’re overreacting.

“I can’t help but…” you start to explain with a slight spluttering to your voice, “feel like someone is following me. Or rather, entering my place. For weeks at this point. Yet, I have never caught anyone.”

Raising his eyebrow, he assesses your claim. He remains steady, not panicking over the prospect, not debunking it either, like a proper leader would. “Were there any signs of forced entry?” your general asks seriously, pausing his fingers’ movements to not discourage you from talking.

“N-no, but… it’s as if some of my items have been used. I thought it I simply keep forgetting the last time I used them — I tend to be be in hurry in the mornings — but with how often it happens, I don’t think it’s a coincidence anymore…”

“What items?” Appearing curious, he leans back on the bench, crossing his arms.

“Well… I always make my bed in the morning, but sometimes it looks as if someone slept in it after I come home from work… some of my favorite snacks go missing… my clothes appear rummaged through… and…” Your embarrassment swells at the last mention you’re about to make.

“Yes?”

“Some of my… underwear is gone, not simply lost in laundry.”

It’s clear that this person, a perverse one at that, wants you to notice their presence, to have themselves occupy your thoughts constantly. You only refuse to imagine what they’re doing with your undergarments.

Your general takes your words in for a few seconds, noting how you suddenly can’t look him in the eye again, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

“Have you thought of installing cameras?” he asks calmly again. He chooses not to comment on your observations, as you know there’s no point in dwelling over them when he’s gathering information.

“Yes…” You nod your head, tracing the galaxy above of Luofu outside the open ceiling. Tiny stars flick there, illuminating the sky gracefully, but instead of handing out the beauty of the stellar, they connect into a constellation of some monstrosity you imagine awaits you back at your home. You snap your gaze back at him, a bit shaken. “However, when I contacted one of the companies, they warned me that if this person can bypass the door’s high-tech security without a problem, breaking in without a trace left, they could likely hijack the cameras and intrude my privacy too.”

Unless they entered your house some other way — but that would be in an incredible feat or agility. The only other entry to your apartment is by reaching the tall height of its building, specifically the balcony hung a few floors above your neighbors.

“I see.” He hums with acknowledgment. “Have you noticed anyone following you?”

“No, General.”

Your eyes brim with tears at the thought of everything. His own soften, though they linger on your trembling lip a moment too long to consider it a simple perceptive behavior.

“Looking back at things, all of these concerns seem valid,” he concludes mildly, keeping his tone calm like you like it. “It would be imprudent to immediately dismiss them as mere forgetfulness. I also trust your intuition that tends to be correct quite often.” He nods to himself. “You’re very brave for telling me that.”

Your chest is noticeably lighter when he offers you the benefit of the doubt, not denying the possibility that you truly might have a stalker.

“But I also would hate for your personal problems to interfere with your obligations towards me… I’m sure you understand.”

Oh. Of course — he’s still not letting go of your ineptitude. You’ve taken him for granted far too many occasions. Just how long can you keep hoping for him to pardon you?

“My apologies. I can’t stress this enough, so— please, don’t fire me. I’ll do anything!”

You plant your hands on his desk and bend over to reach him and plead with your entire being accumulated in your desperate gaze.

His brow raises. “…Anything?” he repeats, amusement weaving itself into his voice.

You don’t know what’s so particularly entertaining about this, but you don’t bother to question it at the moment. “Yes. Anything!” you insist with all of your being..

Your general laughs, diffusing a bit of the tense atmosphere. “Well, anything is excessive. But perhaps, you can start with something else.”

“What is it?” You slump back into your seat, now embarrassed by your show of desperation.

“It would be a good idea to look into the matter. And since you live on your own…” He stretches his arms above his head until he groans tiredly, apparently confident in his decision. “It might be wise for you to stay near me meanwhile.”

You like to believe you have made peace with the fact that he sometimes makes bold moves; while most of them are well thought through, boldness and strategy are still not always exclusive to each other. But as for this one, whatever he’s trying to imply, it already takes you by surprise. You blink twice, struggling to grasp the meaning of his words, even if they’re rather obvious.

“Um… forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but wouldn’t a hotel room be enough as a temporary accommodation...” you say nervously.

“Do you have a guarantee that this possible stalker won’t follow you here as well?” he questions rather bluntly.

Of course you don’t. It’s doubtful a simple receptionist or a layman of a security guard would be a big obstacle to bypass for your stalker, who already seems skilled enough.

“Err… How near are we talking about?” you ask therefore.

“Maybe you should move in with me — temporarily, that is.” He pauses his talk to laugh soundlessly, seeing you all goggle-eyed in response. “My courtyard is roomy enough to assign you a spot with plenty of privacy. Meanwhile, we can look into any possible suspects or traces they left,” he explains with his hands.

You cover your mouth in surprise. “That’s… inappropriate!” you end up blurting out, out of instinct.

“It’s not.” He snickers, waving dismissively. “Not if it’s a matter of preserving your wellbeing. You can stay here, safe, for the duration of the investigation.”

If he says that, then you imagine it must be true. Still… “Wouldn’t that get you in trouble, if anyone were to hear about this?”

Your general’s reputation already teeters these days. Some of the decisions he makes, while yielding the most optimal outcomes, are risky at their core. You can already imagine the headlines — Arbitral General of Luofu having an affair with his assistant, shameless enough to have her living at his house—

He can see all that worry written across your face and laughs quietly again, making your cheeks burn — it’s as though he knows something you don’t. “Whatever you must be thinking, you have quite the imagination. As for your concerns, I’m sure others will understand your situation — you are not the first person I’ve hosted at my estate for protection reasons. Meantime, I could help you train yourself how to handle stressful situations without those affecting your work.”

If you weren’t so desperate to make amends with him, as well turning wretched from the fear of being watched, there is a chance you would turn down the proposal, assuming a cloud knight to guard your house is all you need. But if there’s anyone that can protect you against that intruder, you believe it’s your general.

“Alright. But I really don’t want to put you out…” you acquiesce, fidgeting with your hands. The idea of living with him has you nervous — to put it mildly. It almost feels like a nuclear option, simply because it’s living in close and intimate proximity with someone you who admire a lot.

“You won’t. I assure you,” he says, exuding enough confidence for you to believe him.

He leans forward slightly, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the desk as his gaze locks onto yours with unwavering certainty. “If there is really anyone stalking you, we will look into that adequately. Perhaps, as soon as they see just who you have protecting you, they will realize there is no point in continuing their pursuit,” he speaks warmly.

For a moment, he lets his finger hover before he lets the tip tap against the desk once, setting his decision in motion. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth appears, then vanishes immediately, leaving his amber eyes to anchor you with their usual, relaxed expression.

“Thank you, General… there is no way I can express my gratitude properly, I—” you talk sweetly, wiping those few tears you’ve shed. Your other hand, you press onto your chest in relief, and you smile with hope. You feel much safer, knowing no harm can befall you when you have him to guard you, that the crisis already feels like it’s behind you. You might be no soldier, yet even as his personal assistant, you get to see why it’s worth following him. “I will make sure to repay you greatly.”

He reciprocates your smile easily. “I’m being nothing but noble. I wouldn’t have you feel indebted,” he says, resting his head on his palm, a contended yawn passing through. “Although, the least my dear assistant can do for me is to keep smiling — so wide, just like that,” he adds teasingly, that now, your shy chuckle stems from something else than dread.

You have been proven you have nothing to fear with him around, so long you count on him.

“I will try for you, General.”

“Excellent.” He stands up from his seat, ready to start first preparations. “Oh, and…” He looks at you in that “I know you well so you better listen for the sake of your wellbeing” type of look.

You sigh inwardly, knowing he can be and is about to be stubborn. “Yes?”

“Perhaps you ought to take a day or two off. At least, until I get the estate prepared for your arrival, and establish a baseline of the situation.”

“It’s not necessary—” you try to say. You’ve already slacked off more than it’s necessary, and the constantly growing pile of documents on his desk is trying to eat you alive.

“It is. More than you think. It’ll allow you to cool down, as well rest after prolonged stress.” The slight sternness to his voice makes it clear to you it’s an order, not a suggestion. “Meanwhile, I’ll have someone guard your house, so you don’t have to worry about staying here for a little longer.”

You frown. He smiles wider. You know you have lost.

“Alright. If you say so, General,” you mumble reluctantly. “Thank you again.”

“And finally, here is your room. You will have a plenty of space to unwind at the end of the day.”

With this guest room in the sleeping wing as a final destination, your general finishes giving you a little tour of his spacious, refined house of a siheyuan style.

It matches the style of other houses on Luofu, yet it is undoubtedly far heftier in comparison. You can already see yourself sinking into a slumber as luxurious.

As for the owner himself, he stands in front of you in the lit corridor, being that flicker of hope for your mind — finally able to declutter from the noise the person responsible for stalking you has been inflicting.

“Thank you so much, General!” You beam with genuine gratitude, stopping yourself last moment from giving him a hug. You can finally focus on your duties with more flexibility.

He smiles gently, looking down at you with warmest of his gazes, his hands behind his back. “Don’t mention it. I will always do everything in my power to ensure my assistant’s safety. No harm shall befall upon you.”

With every handing of a beau geste, he manages to knock breath from your lungs with such burnished words. You do know he must mean those in a rather friendly way, always so eager with his altruism for those in need; however, they still tug at your heart and have you flustered from the sheer intensity of them.

You truly have little to worry about, with an exception for your ability to remain cool around him.

“Ha ha… that’s very reassuring.” You scratch your cheek in a small show of abash.

He pats your shoulder as he often does, the gesture spreading all the more of that gooey feeling of giddiness in you.

“And if you happen to hear scratching at your door at night, do not fret. It’s just my cat who thinks she owns every space,” he remarks humorously. “Albeit, she mostly chooses to sleep by my side.”

“Oh, I see.” You nod your head in acknowledgment, storing the given information for the sake of your mental wellbeing. “Good to know before I assume it’s some monster trying to get to me…” You frown, as if you genuinely considered such possibility.

He laughs quietly, dispersing that momentary fright of yours. “I doubt there’s any around. But should you find any, please come to me immediately.”

You look at him carefully, wondering if you caught the implication correctly. “Do you mean it seriously, or are you teasing me, General…?”

He huffs through his nose softly, his hand still on your shoulder. “You should come to me said in all seriousness. Whether your fear is a product of your imagination or an actual threat.”

The more he offers you something, the more you start to think about how he’s so kind to you. It’s unlikely you could ever find such an employee again, and so you have to count your blessings and make sure you are worthy of him. If anything, seeing how much he has done for you lately, the patience he shown you, you feel all the more motivated to get better and spruce up your work ethics. Your job is to assist and take some burden off his shoulders, meaning it’s you who has to be reliable first and foremost.

“I see. Thank you,” you say with renewed enthusiasm. “And your room is…?”

“Oh, right. My room is right over there.” He points at three doors away, the opposite side of the corridor, finally letting go of you that still circulates his warmth.

His room is rather close to yours. A good thing, knowing he’s within your reach.

“I see.” And feeling inclined to ask: “Is there anyone else staying here with you at the moment?”

“Not currently. I just had a delegation leave last week,” he informs, leaning back against your door with his tall presence. “You seem lucky enough. Although, Yanqing might storm into here from time to time. Please try not to mind him.”

“No, I would never mind his presence here.” You shake your head resolutely. “I also understand that he’s your retainer.”

“Hm. That seems right.” And when you furrow your eyebrows, wondering what he’s getting at, he teases, “You know, you look just like someone who’d buy him a new sword despite him being on a spending ban.”

Your mouth opens in offense. “I would never!”

You protest, affronted, only makes him chuckle. “Truly?” He tilts his head, his gray bangs falling to the side.

Alright. Maybe you would, if the boy pleaded with you enough. Not that you’d hand your general the victory so easily.

“Of course not. You’re his master, not me. I shall not interfere with your methods,” you say awfully wisely, crossing your arms.

“Unfortunately, you underestimate his skills in persuasion.”

Perhaps.

Working for the general, you naturally get to see Yanqing often. You and him are on good terms, especially when you’re a person capable of coercing the general to stop being lazy when the boy especially needs him. And seeing him work so hard and put pressure on himself, it’s easy to respect him despite his (for the immortal race, at least) younger age.

“You know what they say, General…”

“Oh? And what do they say?”

He comes awfully close, teasing you in that oppressive way he can exhibit by simply entering your space, as if he can never get enough of it.

Your heart skips a beat, kicking into double-time. “Er… that… go big or go home,” the saying leaves your mouth awkwardly, and you take a tentative step back.

“Do they now?” He smiles a bit smugly, in a manner that makes you wish you could wipe it off.

“Yes. At least the younger generations do.” You scoff.

“So you’re calling me old now?” He sighs pitifully, placing a dramatic hand against his forehead.

You find yourself suddenly wanting to clear the misunderstanding, even if the man in question is clearly taunting you. “N-no, not at all—”

“I was jesting, of course.” The audacity comes with how unabashedly he admits it. “Though, now I’m curious if you have heard that from Yanqing himself. I find it hard to follow up with what younger generations say these days.”

“General!” you scold, quickly and finally deciding to disappear inside your room. “Please don’t even try to bother to ask him that!” And so, you slide the door shut, effectively removing yourself from his frolicking sphere.

“I’ll consider, though no promises. I hope you’ll feel at home!” he shouts behind the door before his steps retract.

You already do feel home, in a way; he’s for sure being himself regardless of where you are.

You still indulge him every time.

Someone once told you that you make the general all boyish, more like a younger version of himself again. Their speech had a negative sound to it, this person infamously describing General Jing Yuan as someone who used to wreak havoc, but you took pride hearing that. Because if you can make him smile in that brisky and radiant way instead of letting him erode and turn gloomy, it is all worth it. You’ll keep that star shining among others.

The night has fallen, veiling Luofu like a diaphanous blanket with neon lights shining through. Yet sleep doesn’t come to you at all.

You wanted to believe that the process of acclimating in a new place will be easy on you, stemming from the fact that you have a big protector staying a few feet away from you, him wielding centuries of experience in martial arts to further cement his capabilities.

But with only one night in, your mind decides it needs more time to catch up with the sense of security your potential stalker has stripped you of — even with the dim lights on.

The shadows cast from the furniture around the room appear suspicious, forming into abominations, and you anticipate for one of them to throw itself at you the moment you close your eyes. Your ears pick up any tiniest noise, even if it could be wood contracting from the humidity drop.

You end up shedding off the soft duvet and leaving the room with a spring in your step, deciding to hold your general to his kind offer. In a way, it has you feel guilty, considering you should feel safe with someone like him on board. And yet, the mind has its own opinion.

Even just walking down the corridor sets you with a sense of unease, that you wield your phone with flashlight on because you were too nervous to actually succeed in locating the light switch. You pad across the corridor quietly, your heart jolting at every cracking sound in the floor below your feet.

Well aware he favors sleep immensely, the idea of waking him up in the middle of the night causes you even more anxiety — regardless of his invitation standing still. The knock you give on his door is therefore subtle; you wish not to wake him up abruptly.

You hear nothing at first. For a good minute, you are forced to stand here and let fear slowly get ahold of you. But right as you’d decide to give up and walk away, your ears catch footsteps, and soon, the door slides open.

Struck with both relief and nervousness, you clutch your phone to your chest.

“Did something happen?” the general asks drowsily, in a middle of a yawn as he stands in the doorway. Wearing airily-woven dark pants and white shirt for sleep, additionally, his hair is an abundant mess, loose strands sticking in every direction as if they’re his whiskers.

You’d laugh at such sight befitting of his person if it weren’t for your mood; though with how sleep-ridden he tends to be, you’re still surprised he’s not a somnambulist on top of everything.

“I… I’m sorry for waking you up, General. I couldn’t sleep…” you mumble. “I’m just so alert… I can’t turn off my brain.”

“Hm.” He asses you shortly, head to toe, noticing your obvious tense posture. “Please come inside,” he swiftly decides. He steps aside for you.

“Thank you,” you say and hurry inside, what feels like the safest zone in the entire house and even Luofu as a whole.

Your general sits down on the edge of his spacious canopy bed now disheveled with beige covers. He pats the spot next to himself. “Tell me what troubles my dear assistant.”

From the sound of his voice, you can tell he is still half awake. You move to sit down next to him, keeping respectable distance, while your eyes quickly take in his room.

It’s a rather simple, yet elegant master bedroom, pretty similar to yours. There’s no much jumble a bunch of trinkets would give. It’s mostly laid out with well-crafted, heavy, traditional furniture made of likely varnished mahogany arranged in harmony. Along, there’s a dark screen in front of the lattice windows on the right side of the bed, shanshui landscape on the light walls above it, and a few decorative pieces around.

On his bed rests the white cat, that you start to stroke for the sake of getting hold of yourself. Even asleep, the sweet creature purrs, as if recognizing you — you’ve got the chance to take care of her in the past, when the general had no choice but to leave for a business trip.

“Um… it’s probably stupid, but… my room keeps making noise. And my mind plays tricks on me.” You smile, in a wry way directed at yourself. “I don’t think anything in actuality is happening.”

For a moment, he observes your hand gliding through the fur, white almost like the one resting on top of his head — seemingly lost in thought, even appearing a bit wistful.

“I see,” he says eventually, still glancing at the tiny creature. “That’s understandable. You must still be in a defensive mode.” His voice is raspier at this hour, nearly giving you chills.

He looks rather defenseless too, like he often does when conducting an unwarranted nap in the middle of his work. Despite all that, it’s as though he can command with his presence alone — his body never fully slackens, muscles on standby for a possible enemy.

A natural-born general. Luofu is alive for centuries during his leadership now, exceeding others, whether he had to cause some controversy along the way or not.

Or whether he even wanted to be a general in the first place. The highest throne faces the strongest winds, he has told you before. You often wonder what his real dreams consist of. But if he is where he is, you’ll continue to support him, in its right and in its wrong.

You nod, finally letting go of the cat. With that, his gaze moves to you. “It’s like… I feel sleepy, I can tell I’m exhausted, but every time I close my eyes, suddenly, I am forced to focus on every sound, and even feel a presence looming over me…”

He smiles encouragingly. “I assure you, there is nothing or no one else in your room. But,” he pauses, some bigger idea formulating behind his eyes, “I also understand that rationalization of the issue may still not be enough to soothe your mind. Therefore…”

“Yes?"

“Would you care for a cup of relaxing tea?”

“Tea?” you echo curiously.

“Mhm.” He nods, still drowsily, and ruffles his hair with his hand. “I have a special herbal mix that can help one sleep. Would you like to try it?” he asks gently.

“I thought these were… pretty overrated, no offense,” you say dryly. “As in, they can certainly help, but are not capable of making you sleep on their own. I don’t think it’s enough for how restless I am...”

His smile becomes a bit smug. “I can change your conviction about those.” He taps your forehead, having you reflexively close your eyes, much to his entertainment. “It’s true that what they typically sell is usually no more than leftovers wrapped in teabags. But I have my own special blend,” he informs confidently. “So?”

If he thinks so, you assume this must indeed be something of value.

“Yes. It doesn’t hurt to try, I suppose,” you acquiesce.

“That’s the spirit,” he praises and pats your head. “You can stay here, if you so wish. Or you can come with me. It’s your choice.”

You immediately decide to do the latter.

“I will come with you, General.”

Inside the kitchen full of cabinets matching the style of the rest of the house and celadon pottery, he nods at the table for you to sit down.

As you do, you gain the chance to observe the general’s routine as he moves around. Setting the kettle on the stove, he reaches to one of the cupboards, acutely remembering where he put that tea.

It makes you wonder if he struggles with sleep himself. Perhaps it’s easier to rest during the day and not so easy at night when the world falls quiet and cannot mute anything jarring. You suppose a man like him would have a lot to ponder about.

The thoughts in his head clinking against each other like a set of porcelain stacked tightly together in that cupboard, unsteady and threatening to fall out once he opens the door, therefore he stays silent.

A small can is opened before he offers you to peek inside. The strong aroma hits you immediately; more potent than the typical herbal scent, already promising.

“Hm. You’re right, General. I don’t think I’ve tried this mix before.”

“I worked carefully to obtain the best blend.” Smiling proudly, he explains this as he sets down the table with a tray and a tea set.

When water reaches the right temperature and you can hear loud whistling, he removes the kettle and pours into the pot.

“Here, try it,” he says encouragingly as he pours you some into your cup you hold up with your tired fingers. “I even added some dried fruits so it’s more easy to drink. Personally, I despise bitter medicine.” He frowns at the thought.

“I can imagine that.” You snicker, earning a dramatic look.

“So ungrateful.”

You shrug and take a sip after blowing at the liquid.

He inspects you as you do, eyes moving along the raises of the cup; this gauging for your reaction with keen attention nearly gives you chills in result.

“How is it?”

“Tolerable.”

“You wound me.”

“Well, it’s no crispy soda.” You smirk.

He shakes his head, heaving a sigh. “My dear assistant has gotten so spoiled.” He finally sits down, his gaze not straying from his focal point. “In any case… That tea is no panacea, therefore I will not make any promises, but it’s certainly a good starting point. I wouldn’t want you getting addicted to sleep pills.”

“I didn’t know you were so traditional, General.”

“A new broom sweeps clean, but an old broom knows the corners,” he chuckles. “Sometimes, it’s the old remedies that work the best. Hopefully, this one will serve us well.”

“Us?” you repeat with confusion.

He blinks in small surprise, then quickly clarifies, calm, “Well, if you sleep well, so do I — there will be no need to wake me up.”

“Ah, you’re right, General…”

Over the time, as the conversation flows betwixt you two, you can feel heaviness biting at your eyelids.

“Wow, General…” You’re unable to stifle a yawn. “Those herbs might be doing wonders already… I feel like I could sleep even on this kitchen counter…”

He smiles, all satisfied. “I’m happy to hear that, though I would prefer if you allowed me to escort you back to your room first.”

You can only nod your head, recognizing that you may be too drowsy to go on your own.

With his arm around your shoulders, he leads you through the corridors. You find yourself leaning a bit into him, your head on his shoulders. He doesn’t comment on it, thankfully.

You don’t even register the moment you’re finally in bed with his help. You know he says something to you as he tucks you in, though it’s mostly distorted balderdash to you and you cherrypick individual words. “…is alright… you should be… see soon… Sleep well—”

The tea you drink ends up working as intended. You don’t remember the last time you slept so immersed. In the morning, you barely manage to gather yourself from the cozy bed and get ready. If it were up to you, you’d gladly sleep in for at least one more hour. You trample the floor in search for work-appropriate clothes, half coherent yet definitely grateful.

Your general probably struggles too, though he doesn’t really need any herb for that. His indolence has a tendency for making you think he’ll be late, even if he always appears punctually one last minute exact before his shift starts — smirking and poking at you for being such a worrywart.

You meet him at the gate of the estate, thankful that he is actually present. “Good morning, General,” you greet, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, only for him to grab it for you anyway.

“Good morning,” he greets back enthusiastically, ignoring your small pout. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well. I have to give it to you — you were right about those herbs doing wonders for insomnia.” You smile brightly at him — and he smiles as wide at that.

“I’m really glad. Let’s catch this day together.” With his hand on your upper back, he starts to guide you outside.

You fly a starskiff… together. Originally assuming you should take your own route to avoid any conspicuous behavior for people at the office, he instead seems casual enough about the matter. Perhaps his words about it being no more than helping you in rough situation were correct; however, you naturally anticipate uncomfortable rumors that might gather.

With one reason especially; he sinks into another wave of sleepiness, with his head lolling onto your shoulder. While you sit all uptight, both flustered and unwilling to wake him up, he appears awfully comfortable, tickling the skin of your neck with his thick hair and languish breathing. You get the chance to observe him in his most peaceful; you often do when he falls asleep standing at the desk, but you have a hunch he’s especially snug with you, his palm gently resting on your arm.

Life truly can be unfair; your general is not just a cunning man. The mole under his left eye is enough to make you think he’s well-favored by gods, bringing attention to the rest of the beautiful composition of his face. If those sharp features are of a sculpture to gawk in awe at, then you are his humble patron.

Before you’d hit the Seat of Divine Foresight, your general takes you to the breakfast establishment he’s a regular at — and where he has his own section.

“Eat to your heart’s content. My treat,” he says with another sip of warm puffergoat milk.

The setup on the table is marvelous, making your mouth water at the sight. All kinds of meals greet you: shrimp and soup dumplings, pork buns resting on the steamers, rice noodle rolls, lotus leaf-wrapped sticky rice, steamed fish, congee, and stir-fried vegetables. He does eat a lot, standing tall and wide as a man, who also regularly trains.

“Thank you. I don’t remember the last time I saw so many goods or even ate pro—” You halt your speech, realizing what you just reveled. You not eating enough is something you know he would take seriously.

“Oh? Finish your thought,” he challenges with a small smirk.

“It’s nothing,” you try to say casually.

“It clearly is not, if your first instinct was to state exactly those words,” he argues rather bluntly.

“It’s just that…” you start nervously, “I was so stressed, and… I might have been unable to digest food,” you say apologetically. “But I will eat now, I promise!”

He sets down chopsticks for a moment and leans back, looking at you thoughtfully. “Have I been making you work too much?”

“No, not at all!” you quickly reject, waving your hands and chopsticks in front of your face. “I was stressed about that…” you lower your voice as if they could hear, “stalker.”

He nods at that, acknowledging your explanation. “I should have guessed so. Still, if they bring you such burden, perhaps you should ease on your workload.”

With that said, he places even more food onto your plate — making it indisputable that you eat. You sigh pitifully.

“No, I… I should be able to manage, now that I can take that stalker concern off my shoulders for a bit.” You try to reassure him so he doesn’t dare to think of being willful and cutting your hours. Then you feel like being more petty for all these times that he teased you. “Besides, I doubt you’d be happy with a mountain of paperwork waiting at your desk.”

It works, in a way, as your General’s expression suddenly turns grumpy; just for a moment though, for he flashes you a blinding smile. “And I should be grateful for all that pesky paperwork you have been helping me with. My life has never been easier since.”

You feel your cheeks flush, overwhelmed by the intensity behind the praise. “No, it’s simply my duty…”

He is the sun, and you are the shadow that follows him, basking in his glory. You have made yourself comfortable here, needing nothing else. Or maybe you’re one of the thousands of other minute rays, each one insignificant alone, yet together they complete him. Sometimes, it’s easy to doubt yourself and think that you get to keep your spot by his side simply because the general either likes you or is too bothered to look for a new subordinate. And yet, you think you’d fight tooth and nail to keep yourself close to him, letting no one else be here — whether it makes you selfish or not.

“Duty or not, you do exceptionally well.”

Ah, your heart.

“Well, if you were to exclude my latest series of failures…” you mumble under your breath, incapable of looking him in the eye.

He softens his tone. “They’re… excused,” he reassures as he grabs his chopsticks again, seemingly trying to stop himself from gorging in front of you with his eyes greedily wandering over the table. “I won’t hold it against you, not knowing your current predicament. I would only be concerned if you were to purposely start neglecting your duties.”

“Thank you for your understanding, General.”

The rest of the meal proceeds smoothly, save for the moments where he insists that you eat a little bit more. Or when… you notice his appraising gaze. “What is it?” You can feel him staring intensely at your face, that you stop eating.

“You have some rice on your face,” he informs politely. “May I?”

“Oh.” You nod your head, despite small shyness the prospect of being touched by him there inspires.

And you find his hand to be very warm, the moment his fingers brush your skin. Carefully so. For a moment, you even think that his past lovers must have been very lucky, being offered such tenderness—

You quickly reject the thought, reminding yourself of that he’s your superior, therefore the reverie is not appropriate at all. But he is still almost beguiling, and you are easily distracted by his proximity; all the more when he chooses to concentrate his sharp gaze on yours for a modicum of second, your breath hitching, only to then look down at the rice grain.

“There you go. All clean,” he says, all amiable that it doesn’t help you to clear your mind at all.

You are chock-full of his warmth and it still is never enough; as if you await for it to reach your bone marrow one day.

“Thank you.” You clear your throat.

His lip curves knowingly, though he doesn’t make any quips. “Ready to go?”

“Naturally.”

At the office, you try your hardest not to mess up your work again. Try to is crucial wording here. Lines blurry together to make no sense, you fall out of concentration with the tiniest of snaps in the air, and things just evade your hands while you feel as though time is of essence.

Ironically, little of this happens due to the stalker lingering in the background like a ghost; you simply feel the pressure to make it up to your general and prove that you’re still competent, the same way providing contradictory results. Has he asked you to? No. But you losing his approval somehow feels imminent.

He stops you when you move to grab another file pile from the desk. This way frustrating you, as you were about to finish organizing them by their importance. “There’s no need to hurry,” he chides lightly. “This isn’t a race, and we don’t have any pressing deadlines at the current moment.”

“I know, but…”

His hand stops yours, covering it entirely. Your throat goes dry. “Sit down.”

“But—”

“Please, sit down for me.”

That for me always works on you. You have no choice but to listen, sinking into your seat. “I don’t want you being lenient with me, General,” you vocalize your dissatisfaction in a peeved manner.

His brows narrow down. He does not appear angry; if anything, he’s curious. “I’m not being lenient, if only understanding,” he corrects you.

“How much more understanding can you be?” These words leave your mouth bitterly, as you scowl. “I refuse to leave things to chance—” The moment you realize your waspishness, you quickly apologize.

You’ve become much more irritable ever since that stalker started bothering you; you don’t want to be taking it out on someone innocent, who, if anything, is helping you deal with them.

The general stands in front of you, looking down at the product of your stress with nearly amusement — instilling irritation in you again, as you personally fail to see what’s so funny.

“Am I a joke to you?” you grumble petulantly as you cross your arms, earning a shake of head.

“No. My apologies if I gave the impression,” he laughs it off softly. And instead of further arguing with you, he reaches for a solution. “Would it help you if you worked on your own today?”

Your mind reads it wrong — as pretty much him kicking you out because you were too chafed in your attitude.

“Not because I suddenly resent your presence. I only want for you to be comfortable,” he clarifies before you could overthink it, knowing to anticipate this much.

“I…” Part of you still wants to insist on you staying. Another part knows better. Stop being so ungrateful and just accept his offer. He does so much for you, and you do what? Be snappy with him? Any other superior would have had your stuff out of this office already.

“You’re right,” you ultimately agree, albeit begrudgingly. “I think some space might help me work better. I apologize for attacking you, General.”

As you leave his office, in the corner of the eye, you see him scribbling down something in his pocket notebook — hoping it’s not some type of written warning for you.

Your general ends up staying behind at work, forecasting to be here for a while longer than you as he needs to take care of few things, urging you to go home first therefore — whether that’s regarding your stalker or his own business. Despite enjoying napping during office hours tremendously, he can be and especially has to no choice but to be industrious.

Perhaps the naps are the key to stalling the mara growth. Hopefully.

He still has someone transport you home. The knight responsible for your safe passage doesn’t inquire much, especially not about you and the general living together. You’re grateful, not needing small talk after the first day at the office since the revelation. His silence is also a relief. Your ears already have caught some rumors regarding your situation, but most could be narrowed down to either a scornful comment about the general babysitting someone scared to be on their own or word of concerns offered to you. Nothing unusual for the Seat of Divine Foresight.

You enter the house with a duplicate access card you were granted.

With you on your own, you sensed your anxiety about to strike miles ago. Therefore, you try to distract yourself by making dinner. Even if he keeps on insisting that you owe him nothing, you still wish to reward him somehow. Only for you to fail miserably.

You find yourself hoping he’d come back already, unable to gate your mind from imagining there is something waiting for you around the kitchen’s corner, every noise suspicious.

And then hours stretch. He’s taking even more time than usual, and you have to stop yourself from calling him multiple times. You burn something once so you try again. It doesn’t work out either so you grab another ingredient, only to cause even more food waste. You try one last time, sitting down by the table as you wait for the broth to gain flavor; intermittent with you looking out onto the corridor.

You freeze up hearing the door open; but with the familiar sound of him removing his equipment, your shoulders sag in relief. The moment you see him enter, you run to him and throw yourself at him. Your arms squeeze him viciously, palpating his tangible form for your comfort.

“Whoa there!” Your general laughs in surprise. “What happened to you? Did my dear assistant miss me this much?” While you’re all nerve-wracked, he sounds awfully amused by your actions. And still, his hand rubs at your shoulder. “I would certainly hope so.”

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you speak into his chest, “I’m sorry… I was scared to be alone… but I also wanted to make us dinner, General…”

“If burning my house down is the next step, then you are certainly succeeding.” As much as he’s nice to you, letting you ruin his kitchen is unacceptable.

“Oh no!” you exclaim with panic, tearing yourself apart from him. You haven’t noticed that the soup is burning at the bottom of the pot.

Before you could turn off the stove, his hand stops you. “I’ll take care of it,” he decides confidently.

“But—”

“No but. I need my kitchen in one piece,” he says with small disapproval.

“Right. I’m sorry.” Sitting down again, you look like a kicked puppy; although, you’re joyed he is finally back.

You watch him remove the pot from the stove, roll his sleeves and wash his hands, and then grab new ingredients from the fridge. It’s a relaxing sight to watch, slow life of it grounding you with his certain way around the kitchen, and the evening light makes him nearly incandescent, stealing your breath away.

“What were you doing out there for so long, General?” you ask curiously, playing with sprinkles of salt on the table. “If I may ask, of course.”

“You may,” he says over his shoulder as he chops tofu. “I was looking into your situation.”

You feel your guts churn, anticipating something bad to be revealed. “Yes? And did you find something?” Your voice trembles.

His head swivels, and he peeks at you with quite solemnity. “We had a look at your house.”

“And did you find anything?”

“Yes.”

Your heart stills; nonetheless, you push for answers. “What exactly?”It begins to frustrate you, the rate at which he reveals the information step by step.

“Wiretap. Whoever is harassing you, they ensured to further intrude your privacy. Other than that, there is no other evidence left. They do quite a clean job.”

Your mouth opens in silent shock. You weren’t simply paranoid. You weren’t dramatic. The situation, in fact, is far worse than you have been imagining. All of your conversations. Things you’ve said to yourself. Tears and other noises. You imagine that whoever is behind this, they enjoyed hearing you immensely.

“You had good instincts to tell me about your suspicions.” Your general stops the chopping and turns around to face you, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“But…” Your voice is barely above a creak. What makes less sense to you is what is there supposed to be about you that got them so hooked on you, therefore, you consider another possibility. “Could it be… this person is less personal and more about reaching you through me?”

His brow raises, ever so subtly, and still, appearing somewhat condescending, as if you are saying a joke. “I rather find myself doubting that. There is not much about me to be found here, and as you have said before, they went through your personal belongings.”

“Yes, but… why would they even be that interested in me?” You frown. “I mostly just work…”

“You tend to underestimate yourself, a precious bird like you.” He huffs, full of humor. “I’d know something about this.”

The way he weaves his words like they’re made of silk is not good for your health. You’re far away from being conceited already, so hearing his words, they pierce through your heart with double strength. Flushed all over your body, words of protest die in your mouth.

“Not to say I justify their actions,” he adds more seriously. “If anything, people like them need little reason sometimes. Only they know the definition of what is special to them.” His gaze infiltrates through you, as though he expects you to agree.

And you do, considering him sensible. “Perhaps you are right, General…” You sigh, rubbing the side of your neck in thought. “You seem well experienced in those topics. Is that a common behavior you notice?”

He smiles at you, in a wry, knowing way. “An old horse knows the way. Over the centuries, I have had an unfortunate chance to see less favorable behavior in others. It also… gives you the opportunity to reflect on your own tendencies.” Then he adds, as if remembering the most crucial part, all stern, “Their behavior is certainly outrageous, and I’ll ensure that they face proper punishment.”

“That makes sense…” This burden of having knowledge — no wonder immortal kind loses their minds after reaching a certain age, having witnessed world in all colors possible.

He nods. “In any case… it is prudent for you to stay here until we can find the person responsible.”

“Yes…” you agree quietly. There is no protest from you, no concern about making yourself humble for once — you cannot imagine going back to your house where someone potentially willing to hurt you may be awaiting.

“Besides. I rather enjoy having you here,” he adds to lift up your spirits.

Smiling shyly, you mumble, “Thank you, General.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says softly. He then clasps his hands together. “Now. The dinner should be ready soon.”

But you don’t feel like you can stomach anything, not after what you found out about. “I’m… I’m really sorry, but I really don’t feel like eating?” you say apologetically, hopeful for his understanding.

“I see.” He looks genuinely disappointed at the idea of eating on his own, pulling strings of your heart. They always seem to rest in his fingers. “You’ll take your tea, then? Perhaps you should head to bed early today.”

You consider. “Can I have that tea on an empty stomach?”

“It’s probably not the wisest idea,” he mutters, lighting up as if just found a cheat code to have you here for a tad bit longer. “I’ll prepare you something lighter, at least. Would that be alright with you?”

And you know you can’t deny him. “…Yes, General.”

A few days pass, spent in you clinging to your general’s promise about looking into that stalker, their likely whereabouts and connections included. Apparently, they make circumstances more complicated, having exercised enough self-control after your sudden disappearance. No activity was registered near your house, painting a suspicion that they know well who you work for, and so the consequences for targeting you behind that fact.

You have managed to settle in rather nicely at the general’s house. For one, his presence is comforting and calming. For two, there’s all kinds of slow life luxuries to take from your surroundings. With the evening nearing, you decide to indulge yourself with a round of your favorite movie, well-earned after work. You’re lucky enough to have it playing on one of the channels today.

Heading inside the sitting room, you find it to be already occupied by your general. Taking a nap, he lies in a position of a man ready for departure into afterlife — on his back, his hands crossed at his chest. With his tall body, he takes up the entire space of the couch. It would be an adorable sight, seeing him all peaceful, if it weren’t also a good reminder of the often tedious work to keep him awake, only to fail at withholding sleep breaks. Nothing will make this man budge once he sets his mind on something, the rule so golden that he often presents you with another (particularly terrifying) idea.

But since he’s at home, his own home, waking up him up just so you can watch a movie would be plainly rude. Therefore, all you decide to do is get a blanket for him. With him all bundled up, you turn around to leave.

A sudden grip latched onto your wrist stops you. “What’s the hurry for?” he asks groggily before yawning.

“General—”

“You should stay,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t sleeping… just meditating with my eyes close. Don’t mind me.” The same old excuse. If anyone, he was sleeping rather contentedly, and instead is still aware enough to know when someone’s approaching.

Your general slowly sits up and pushes you onto the seat next to him with remarkably little effort. “Indulge me, will you?” he says teasingly. “If we have more time to see each other outside of the office, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take advantage.”

That makes you nervous, if anything. You sometimes get to see him outside your work — business banquets, training fields, or you (not so) occasionally running into each other — but it’s different being on your own with him at his house. You’re certainly not supposed to be some type of best friends. And yet, he doesn’t seem to mind the whole stalker situation as much as you originally wished him to; perhaps there’s no point in panicking, so he at least tries to find silver lining in it. However, there is some part of you that has always wished to see him up close; in his natural habitat, you may say.

“That’s… I… actually have always wanted for us to be able to pass time like this,” you admit shyly. “But—”

There’s a genuine surprise painting itself on his face; it’s a momentary ripple in the water, as his expression turns rather content. He tilts his head, looking at you with curiosity. “Is that so?”

You nod your head, even if the proximity leaves little space for being confident. “I don’t mean anything inappropriate by this… I simply… “ you can feel your heart race, clutching your knees, “wish to understand you better. I feel like I don’t know you that well even years later.”

You have always admired him, your general who ensure that so much a single hair does not fall from your head, people’s general who leads others to greatness. The world shines brighter around him, but you still have no idea what exactly illuminates him. Maybe it’s some type of darkness reflecting the light and he wishes not to burden, or even scare. You want to believe you are ready to face the truth regardless.

“Do you want to know something, then?” he asks more quietly, leaning in closer to your face.

“Yes.” You nod your head rapidly, and as your eyes spark up with excitement, his only turn more joyous.

“Are you absolutely certain? It might overwhelm you at first.”

You look at him with question. Perhaps you were right about the truth dissonance. That makes you all more eager to hear him — not to be nosy, but to be of comfort.

“I am certain, General.”

“Good,” he says seriously. He even grabs your hand. You assume that he must be doing this to ground himself — so you let him.

“You have always been my favorite.” He must realize the impropriety of his words, considering previously given warning, yet his hand keeps stroking yours as if it’s the nature of thing. And when he sees your astounded look, he asks, “Is it really so wrong to say?”

Your breath hitches. What he said could easily leave anyone simultaneously stunned and flattered. You can only imagine how many people have dreamed of being referred as such by him, to earn his favor and trust. Yet you also completely comprehend that this isn’t in any shape or form appropriate. Not even because of the ranks between you, if only for the fact that leaders, at least the responsible ones, shouldn’t make their favorites.

“That’s… probably not professional,” you nearly squeak out these words, struggling to grapple him with any more potent argument against. You have absolutely no clue where did this come from. You don’t remember him ever saying anything like this, nor do you believe he has ever implied that beyond simple liking for you before.

“Unfortunately, treating things as strictly professional has never been enough to keep Luofu safe.” He laughs softly, as if undeterred by your reaction.

“But this isn’t about Luofu’s safety though?” This is purely personal. You’re not sure why he came up with this example.

The look he gives you in response nearly startles you. A bit on a sharper side, as if evaluating your counterargument as some form of insolence. Unheard to you, for he usually encourages you to debate your case when you find him questionable. You immediately wish to apologize, even if you’re not fully convinced you are in the wrong.

“No. It is not,” he says solemnly. “What I’m trying to convey is… not all matters can be treated as black and white.”

“But what about this one?” you dig for answers nervously, your sweaty hand trembling in his.

“I know the way you look at me sometimes,” he delivers remarkably bluntly, stealing your breath entirely.

“W-what?” you ask, incredulous, not sure if you caught his almost accusatory words right. Perhaps you find yourself gawking at him in awe quite often, daydreaming during your job when you shouldn’t, however… potentially suggestive or enamored with is not how you remember yourself acting. You admire him the way a soldier would admire their leader. Emanating something else has to be purely accidental.

“It’s alright. There’s no wrong answers. Not with me here.” Reassuring you, he even sounds affirmative.

“But General, I really didn’t—”

“Shh,” he shushes, placing a finger on your lips. “As I’ve said, it’s quite alright. It can stay a secret between us.”

Is he right? Seeing something you didn’t see yourself because you were too afraid to acknowledge it? You trust your general. You believe him to be wise, as well awfully keen on details. His conclusion wouldn’t come unprompted, no? All of this causes a disarray of thoughts going haywire, your brain unable to fully process the sheer possibility of you ever seeing him in a romantic light. You have worked hard to ensure that you adhere strictly to the protocol, the occasional exception being healthy dose of scolding.

He seems actually serious about it, gripping your hand like a steady current; he’s not pressuring you to answer, yet he’s not letting you debunk him either. Between you, his assistant of many years, and him, a general for centuries, you suppose he’d know better, even if you’re supposed to know yourself — he has a terrifying flair for reading people, occasionally scaring you with how well he has foreseen something about you.

And if he’s not mad at you for the prospect… this should be your chance to come clean about your supposed desire. Even if him being fine with it should be a cause of concern. You don’t believe he’d ever throw such words lightly. “I… I have always admired you, General. I’m sorry if my behavior seemed inappropriate.” You take the responsibility onto yourself.

He smiles at your confession, seemingly understanding. “Not at all. I’m glad you could finally say this aloud.”

You feel some weight off your shoulders, though there is still something that concerns you. “However… shouldn’t you be… discouraging this?” Yes, he’s said you are his favorite. But you assume the implication is no different than simple workplace favoritism. You’re an adorable assistant that works hard, listens to him, and is so easy to be teased at times. Perhaps you are closer to a pet he wants to spoil and fondle—

“What if I were to say that the feeling might be reciprocated? I do quite treasure you myself.”

You are dumbfounded for the second time in a row, now even worse; he’s involving feelings. Seeing how grave the situation is becoming, you stand up as if burned. You should be happy — it’s as good as it gets being his personal assistant It’s hard to be. Nothing makes sense to you. “Admiration?” you repeat incredulously.

He nods his head.

“In… what way, exactly? What is there to admire about me?” You begin to hate this. Those half-spoken answers of his. Vague enough to not let you on, not subtle enough to be disregarded.

“Why don’t I show you?”

“Show me?” You have a bad feeling about his motivated look.

“Yes.” He stands up too.

You gulp down nervously. “I don’t think—”

But his hands are already on you — one on your waist, the other on back of your head — locking you in place — and then he presses his chest flush to yours. You curse him for his agility, staring at him with a huge, red no plastered all over your body.

It’s a short-lived display. His lips end up on yours.

He moves all languid, in no hurry, not even worried about the possibility of you rejecting him —moving even as you stand in your stupor, his eyes slightly open to watch your contortions. Every move your general makes seems to be well-thought and likely to bear intended results at least half of the time; it’s the case this time as well. None of the divine foresight has anticipated this. This isn’t written in the stars, as though he’s making his own path, taking you as his victim along. Your fingers twitch, itching to push him away.

And yet, some part of you finds it hard to deny him. For you think you owe him, and for you’ve come to expect his presence. The feeling of his lips on yours, if you were to remove the part screaming about forbidden, is nice and fuzzy. He’s spreading poison all over your mouth, it still sugary enough to melt on your tongue.

Against your good conscience, you find yourself kissing him back, hesitant or not.

Seeing at least some enthusiasm returned, his fingers weave themselves through the lower portion of your hair, dragging your lips closer to his now devouring mouth. He acts in a way you’ve never seen in him before; repeatedly growing hungry in his movements, groaning into your mouth, digging further to see you breathless. It’s as if he can’t get enough of you, further solidifying his words about you being his favorite.

You whimper at the small pain at your scalp, so the one in your lungs, yet you dive for that goodness hidden below the taboo, focusing on the softness on his lips instead.

When he’s finally done, he yanks you close, letting your head land on his chest. You’re not allowed to regret much, with you still hazed and him immediately moving onto another topic. “Have I ever hurt you?” he asks, half-roughly from how breathless he is on his own.

“No…” You shake your head slowly, the dizziness worsening. “Why?”

“Then where are such concerns coming from?”

“I…” You’re not sure what he’s exactly referring to. Your surprise about his supposed affection? You finding this dynamic inappropriate? You’re not even wrong; at least, if anyone were to hear about a verbatim situation, they would disapprove. Your heart pounds as if this behavior of his is shameful, giving you the first taste of real disappointment for him.

“Has been someone giving you wrong ideas about me?” he asks with a rueful intonation.

“No! I’d not even listen to their travesty… I know the truth,” you quickly clarify, eyes wide. “I know you’re a good man.”

“Then why don’t you let the truth guide you this time as well?”

You cannot even define the truth, is the problem, throwing you off terribly.

It’s not that you’re totally oblivious to hidden, perhaps darker parts to your general. You’ve been there for him many times when he earned an earful from different generals, or you yourself heard rumors about less favorable actions of his only the tightest circles know about. You sometimes turn a blind eye to the documents that pass through the office. However, you believe most of them to be necessary evil. You know he is therefore a capable man, in a variety of that word’s meaning. You’ve learned how to ignore those, but also rationalized this as an inevitable part of leading, as well politics overall.

Eat or be eaten.

And yet, this sort of confession seems the most selfish, lacking the pragmatism behind the intention.

“You trust me, no?” he asks after noticing how silent you’ve become.

He allows for your head to surface, only to receive a worried look. “I do. I really do, General…” You try to convince both him and yourself. You do trust him: there’s simply an error in your system, a mismatch of information.

“Then what exactly are you fearing?” He strokes your cheek, speaking all softly again.

You lean into what now feels like a bear trap. “I really don’t think this is appropriate…” Your breathing grows shakier as you speak. “If anyone were to know…” There’s a lump in your throat at the thought. “I also… don’t want to ruin our relationship…” He’s ruining what you build about him in your mind, the structure falling apart.

“No one has to know for now.” He’s really doing this, willing to take such risks.

And you’ll follow him, because following him is what you have always done and know, starting freshly an adult. “I’m sorry for doubting you. It’s just that… I don’t know what to make of it. I mean, you kissed me, and…” You laugh nervously.

He smiles, running his finger across your trembling lips. “We don’t have to… make any decisions in haste. We can take it slowly and see where it leads us.”

Where he leads you, you think as somewhere in the back of your head, a heavy door shuts locked. You’re unable to wrap your mind around what it entails exactly. But confused and not wanting to disappoint him, you find yourself nodding like a good assistant that you are.

You dedicate another day to work, this time choosing to spend it in a separate office yourself — every time you look at your general, you feel his lips on yours. He doesn’t rush you or summon you to his side, as though believing you only need time to make peace with certain parts of yourself.

To sweeten the pill, you try to tell yourself that perhaps he is simply lonely, soon to remember himself and recognize his mistakes.

After the workday is over, you choose to relax in his garden, sunbathing one of of the wooden lounge chairs here. The sight brings smile to his lips the moment he spots you. “Ah, so that’s where you sneaked into. I will be starting dinner soon.”

Your eyes pry open in small terror, as you have not heard him coming at all. If anything, you’ve been more sensitive to unexpected noise these days. He stands there casually, holding a small tray full of fruits he then sets down next to you as though it’s some form of truce.

“Oh? I’m excited. Or I would be, if you didn’t decide to scare me like this!” you scold with a grumpy expression.

He shrugs at that like some rascal; as if you aren’t feeling small with him above you, chest puffed. “It’s nothing special. Just some stew,” he replies nonchalantly. “Regardless. How have you been liking the courtyard area?”

You want to be mad at him. You really do. But when you clearly see that childish excitement at the idea of sharing his pride with you, it’s hard for you to shoot it down. “Your garden is beautiful, General,” you praise with all earnestness.

You taste it more and more, the sense of zen the beautifully trimmed and lush garden inspires. It’s a quiet blend of disciplined beauty and cultivated calm — stone paths, refined evergreens, and soft blossoms arranged like brushstrokes. A red moon-gate frames the bamboo beyond, while a still pond reflects rock formations and drifting koi. Even the wind here feels measured. Nature here has been gently brought into harmony with order, inviting all kinds of life to enter.

“Thank you,” he gives you a small bow. “I put a lot of effort into managing it. Birds from every corner seems to enjoy the results.” As if to paint him just, some finch flies down and perches itself on his shoulder.

If animals like him, especially the ones so vulnerable, you suppose that your general truly must be worthy of your trust. He’s always been here for you, at least. And now, when you think about it, who is there for him these days? You try your best, but is it enough?

“Is something wrong?” He immediately notices your energy changing, letting that small bird fly away just like your mood does. “You look sad all of the sudden.”

“I wonder if it doesn’t… ” you choose your words carefully, not wanting to accidentally intrude, “get a bit too quiet, to live all alone, in a space as big as this one.”

His brows raise at such a question, though he doesn’t scold you. He assesses you and your empathy for him with something hard to describe for you. Wary, though not entirely displeased.

And the answer you receive is surprising; for one, it is honest, for two, there is no hesitation to make it your business. “I do get lonely sometimes.”

He gets lonely; him arranging the sentence to focus on his perspective perhaps surprises you the most. There is no passive “it does get lonely.” Usually, you don’t get to see this side of him. He keeps his deepest thoughts to himself, not going beyond mentions of pleasant memories that don’t require too much concealment for the sake of their privacy or even the risk of reanimating controversy. Therefore, it’s easy to prick up your ears and tune yourself to catch more. You definitely don’t want him to feel ever forlorn.

Sometimes, you even wonder what is it exactly that stopped him from settling down with someone — he’s married to his work at most. You can imagine his title plays a significant role here, but throughout history, that hasn’t stopped every of his predecessors. Grudges being at play wouldn’t surprise you.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you say a bit awkwardly in response as you fumble with your hands, not sure what else to add to make him happy enough. “You can always… count on me, General.”

After what you say, his look turns wistful. He gazes at the horizon for a moment with his hands behind his back. The layered garden stretches with no stopping point, as if it could endlessly conceal his loneliness by veiling him with its tree crowns. He sails away afar with his mind, waiting for the waters to take him again, glaive raised, in hopes for something else than boredom. And as he says something, for once, there is no crowd to scream in glory, and no friend to pour him wine.

“You needn’t trouble yourself. I’m merely an old man, with an old luggage,” he chuckles lightly, turning his head to face you again. “But. Seeing that my assistant is there for at least some time soothes my soul. Hopefully, she is enjoying her stay, in spite of everything.”

“I am!” you say immediately. You can even imagine that finally leaving will be bittersweet. The idea of you helping him makes you incredibly happy; you take it as him saying that he does consider you his companion. It shouldn’t be that surprising, considering that he kissed you and implied a start of something still undefined to you, yet you like hearing it from his lips. Unlike the kiss, it’s gentle and innocent.

“Then that makes me a very happy man.” He leans down close to you, stirring your heart, and picks up the tray.

“Would you care for a refreshment?” he offers cheerfully.

“Y-yes, General.”

From those a few fruits he brought you, he picks up your favorite, along with a knife. Instead of simply handing you the rejuvenating treat, he snicks a piece of it before putting it near your mouth. Covering the sunlight as he crouches down at your feet, you still feel very hot.

“General… I can eat on my own. I’m no child,” you say with embarrassment, eyes darting away from his satisfaction.

“No, you are not. But you do make an impressively grumpy face when I try to feed you.” That cursed lilt is at it again. He’s not even hiding it, that inclination to tease you all to his heart’s content.

You think that one day, you should try to pay him back tenfold. Even if you believe you’d have to possess a herculean strength of mind to be able to tackle a man like him. How does one even tease a man such as him, and actually succeed in making him budge? Maybe by… Licking his fingers as he feeds you that fruit, for starters, as a warmup for the future. Maybe you’ll learn more about him, exactly what makes him tick, and hit him with it.

You see his eyes widen for one, capturable moment, and his hand twitches in surprise, as a shiver goes through him like tiny thunders. Worse, that confused looks linger, as if he considers it to be a loss of control — you taking the initiative.

Then he laughs it off as if nothing, already scheming. “I see that you are adapting.”

“You’re forcing me to,” you reply with a proud huff. “Give me the fruit or I just might bite you next time.”

Reluctantly, he hands you the remaining fruit. But even then, you don’t feel freed of his grasp. He watches you eat, eating himself, but awfully slowly, more focused on you with something transfixed. He licks his lips, consuming you still.

He’s been odd since that kiss. No, he must have been off from the beginning of you ending up here, for the kiss to actually happen. You don’t know if it’s nerves or him deciding to be more open about something; you know that being inspected by him is as intense as always.

After you feel refreshed (and your heart troubled anew), you eventually find yourself yawning.

“You could take a little nap,” he proposes softly. “I’ll watch over you until you wake up.”

“What about the dinner?” It would be more optimal if he cooked meanwhile, though you don’t want to pressure him.

“It can wait. I myself…” he yawns, “feel a bit sleepy around this hour.” He sits down on the grass behind your chair, just to let his head fall onto your lap.

You tense up, flustered. “General… shouldn’t you just sit.”

“I find this much more comfortable.”

“How so. Your neck will hurt.”

“Then maybe you can massage it for me after—”

“No way!” You scoff. You’d probably massage him anyway.

“Fine. Then I guess I will have to simply deal with it…” The volume of his voice slowly dissipates.

“I feel like you’re just trying to take a nap yourself. So much for watching me.” You sigh.

“I’m sure I’ll sense when you wake up this way.” And so with that said, he dozes off. The rascal has enough indecency to fall asleep before you do, contradictory to his offer.

Your hand elevates itself and twitches right above his head. You stroke his hair so it doesn’t prickle his eyes, feeling weird about all that happened recently. A few weeks ago, you’d be worrying about a mountain of paperwork. Today, you are wondering just when will he kiss you again, and if the feeling will be so intrusive this time as well.

You let the sleep dissolve it like smoke.

Rinse and repeat, you and your general go to work together, work together, come back home together, and spend time and shop together. You almost forget that you even have a stalker, with the general taking care of it in the background and then you in person. Days blurs into one another, and you stay close to him especially as you traverse outside, unwilling for there to be blood in the water.

Currently busying yourself in the kitchen, you almost yelp, feeling a hand on you out of nowhere. “Your shoulders are finally not as tense. That makes me happy.”

“General!” you scold, turning around.

“Well, that is if not counting this moment,” he remarks humorously.

“Please don’t scare me like that,” you whine.

“Hm. I’ll consider that, but no promises.”

You give him an unimpressed look. However, you cling to his words with hope. “Am I really… appearing more relaxed now?”

“Yes. I suppose staying here with me has been treating you well.”

“I suppose that too.” You smile gently.

Maybe he’s been right. You had it relatively easy since coming here. If anything, it’s staring to make you feel greedy, since that one fateful kiss. You wonder what it’d be like to have more of him, clinging to the feeling of security he’s been harboring in you — overriding sense of rationality. Work finally progresses as it should as well.

“Good. You’ve been a loyal assistant for me for many years. It’s high time someone takes care of you as well.”

“Oh, um… you’ve been doing plenty for me over the years. And it’s my job to take care of you, not the other way around…” You turn back around, hiding your face.

“I suppose this is your main duty. However, you are still my responsibility,” he says assuredly.

“But—”

“No. Just no, sweet thing.”

Your eyes widening at the new nickname, your heart stammers before a surge of warmth goes through you, effectively distracting you from making further complaints.

Choosing better over teasing you over that for once, only smirking, he leans over you to close the cupboard above you so you don’t hit your head by accident instead.

“Careful here.”

You freeze for a moment, feeling small in his shadow, his body brushing against yours. And right as you think he’s going to withdraw, his arms wrap themselves around you.

“So what are you making?”

“What?” you ask in stupor, your cheek against his chest.

“The food,” he says nonchalantly, perfectly comfortable — looking down at you intently.

He’s hugging you as if you two are some… lovers. You should push him away. You don’t want to. But you should remember how unprofessional it is—

“I thought I could get us dinner,” you finally answer, a bit stiff. Which probably sounds romantic without you meaning to because all you’ve wanted is some way to repay him, at least somewhat. “I don’t know what yet.”

“Us, huh? I ought to be grateful. I’m sure it will be lovely to try your cooking for the first time.” He’s full of energy again. “Well, second time, but that first attempt doesn’t count.”

As you glare up at him a little, only then does he let you go; the ghost of his warmth does not.

Yanqing visits the house same day, taking advantage of the fact the general has some extra time off today. Or rather, he made sure he does.

He flies into the kitchen like a lost bee in flurry through the garden door, stopping in tracks as he spots you are here as well.. “Oh, I’m sorry, General. I didn’t know you had a guest.” The boy nods at you. “Hello, miss,” he says respectfully. “It’s good to see you again.” Then he turns to the general. “Can I ask, what is miss doing here?” He doesn’t want to be nosy but curiosity ultimately wins.

You suddenly feel nervous, taking a subtle step away from the general. You definitely don’t want the boy to start suspecting something; he’s already been taking in his image, wielding the instinct for noticing many details, just not as much patience.

“My assistant will be living with me for a while,” his mentor informs calmly.

Yanqing’s expression bears struggle with understanding, though there is no suspicious frown to suggest he finds the idea unusual. Perhaps to others, being hosted by the general truly is nothing inappropriate — thankfully to you.

“Did something happen?” he asks with worry.

“Well, that depends on whether you’re capable of keeping your mouth sealed, young man?” the general inquiries playfully.

“I can! I will! I promise!” Yanqing exclaims with a hand on his chest.

Both of them look at you expectantly.

“You can speak. Unless you find it uncomfortable to,” your general assures you.

You could simply lie to avoid making Yanqing worry:, however, you suspect he’d try to investigate on his own if you did, or that he would even conjure up a wrong idea. Besides, you know how important it is for him to become a maven of a soldier, and learning about uncomfortable topics is one of the avenues.

“No, its okay…” You take a sharp inhale. “Yanqing… me and General Jing Yuan were made to believe that… someone has been following me and entering my apartment. Stalking, in other words.”

Yanqing clenches his fists, his face turning sour immediately. Your general watches the sight with mild interest.

“For the time being of the investigation, we’ve decided that it’ll be safer for me to stay with General,” you add.

“That scoundrel…!” The boy fumes. “You’ve made a good decision, miss! I’m sure that General will keep you safe! But I also wouldn’t mind helping myself—”

His general’s hand stops him, landing on his shoulder. “Now, now, Yanqing. Don’t get ahead of yourself. But you are right about one thing,” he says softly as he ruffles the blond hair, making his apprentice scowl. “I will watch over my assistant.”

“You better do, General! This isn’t a joke.”

“Don’t I know that.” He sighs. Then measures him with something more serious. “But why are you here?”

With the talk about you, Yanqing got sidetracked. “Oh, right! I wanted to train with you, General,” he says, full of energy. “Everyone at the headquarters is busy lately… I don't even have many people to spar with, hmph.”

Your general looks at you, as if he’s asking you if it’s okay for him to step away. You nod. “Fine. But we’ll play a round of starchess first.”

“Huh?” the blond whines. “That’s not fighting.”

“A battle of mind and body are not so different, young man.”

“You’re just making excuses to beat me again,” he grumbles, but ultimately runs outside to where the board waits.

As you and the general stay alone for a brief moment, you ask, “Can I… at least prepare you two something to drink?”

“Oh?” He seems rather joyful at the offer. If anything, you don’t remember the last time you have seen truly lively like he is these days. “How domestic of you.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Thank you. We will have it,” he interrupts, then kisses your cheek and runs off himself before you could scold him.

There’s something wrong with you lately; a change happening, seeping into your pores and threatening to kill you from the inside if you don’t let it take a root.

You’ve always been eager to cater to the general’s needs, but now, more than ever. It’s undeniable that you feel indebted to him, despite his assurance that keeping one of the citizens safe is simply his duty. It’s also… having the chance and even pleasure to stay near him, as confusing as it sometimes is, allowed you to become even more intimate with each other — and inspire you to need to get to know your general even better, now that you got a taste of him.

Anytime you close your eyes, all you see is that smile of his, hear his voice, feeling disappointed he’s not here that your feet make a beeline for him on their own. “You can always count on me,” he repeats over and over in your mind until some amorphous figure having your voice skitters towards him.

Tonight, before you could ask him for your tea remedy as always, you set on to take a walk first. You’re not sure if you’re ready to see him again, even if he was with you just a few hours ago. With a robe thrown over your nightly attire, you take a stroll through his garden. It’s dark by now, the Luofu ship’s artificial light deciding to end the day a bit earlier today, simulating seasons of the year. Every step is illuminated with the garden’s lights awakening sensors, keeping your vision in tact.

You suddenly stop, hearing a noise in the distance. A few more careful steps, and you can see it’s your general… currently in the middle of his weekly training. Sporadically lazy or not, he still has to maintain his shape, as well the skill. You’d simply let him be, if it weren’t for the sight that is what truly stops you; half-naked, chest glistening with sweat, and that steel focus, that your eyes gain their own autonomy.

Only after brief stupor, you decide to withdraw; making a mistake, as your footwear scratches across the stone path with too much noise. The speed in which he turns his head around is commendable, though your heart rate already escalates. “Oh. Good evening.” He greets you from the distance, wiping his forehead as he beams you a smile.

“G-good evening, General. I’m sorry for the interruption…” You quickly avert your gaze in respect for him — even if he isn’t particularly bothering to hide himself.

Unfortunately for you, you can hear his quick steps approaching you right as you show that weakness. He crosses the space between you two in no time. “Is there something wrong?” he asks when in front of you, placing his hand on your shoulder.

You flinch, feeling the hotness, the sudden proximity rendering you with barrage of emotion. “No… I just…”

“You’ve seen such sights before, I’m sure.” So he noticed what troubles you.

Only then do you look at him, with a question in your trembling eyes. Does he mean him, in a state of training like this, or does he mean… seeing nude men? “Umm… what sights?” Whether you have some experience or not much of it, it is him who’s the man you spend most time with. When your gaze inadvertently falls onto his broad chest, you look again away.

“Me training, that is. You’ve been here before, to… urge me to wake up, to put it mildly.”

You nod your head, gladly going along this version of things. “Yes, of course…” You did run into him like this in the past. But mostly, your thoughts were overridden with pressure to have him moving, you too passionate to ponder over nudity.

“Why? Were you think of some other man?” he sounds playful, yet his eyes sharpen for a moment as though he envisions you like that.

The question takes you by surprise. It feels unusual, coming from his lips; your personal affairs are usually yours. Although, the line between personal and professional gradually gets tarnished, until you will become inextricable like a raindrop merging into another. You shake your head, finding yourself increasingly flustered, and perhaps frustrated. You can face more and less pleasant guests that the Seat of Divine Foresight takes. You can negotiate and deny someone of entrance. You can comprehend military jargon. But when it comes to your General, he has a relatively high skill in leaving you unsettled.

“Are you sure?” he drags on, leaning in closer.

“Why does that matter anyway?” you ask boldly, gulping when you feel his breath fan your face. That golden gaze, usually droopy, now vivacious for you, is nerve-wracking.

“Would it be wrong of me to say I cannot ignore the thought as much as I should?” he drawls.

“Huh?”

“I’m rather accustomed to having your eyes on me. The idea of them wandering elsewhere stirs me restless.” His hand ends up on your cheek, as he meets you with a mischievous though honed stare.

This admission throws you for a loop. You never assumed your General could be jealous; especially about you. But with a what a tease he tends to be… Maybe you’ve been getting it all wrong, all along. It’s easy to doubt yourself when he almost never says things as they are. Maybe, perhaps, what if I, almost — hearing all that repeatedly only muddies the water and baffles you.

“What are you even doing, General?” you ask, taking on a sudden bitter tone.

Though appearing to be slightly surprised by your reluctance, his hand doesn’t leave your face, stroking it to soothe. “Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to overstep. Will you forgive me?” He seems regretful enough as if it’s a simple matter of modesty, further amplifying your perplexity.

“I’m so confused. I don’t know what you want from me. It’s as if…” you trail off.

“As if?” he probes.

“As if you’re playing with me. You do as you please and then you barely explain anything to me. While you act like this is normal!”

Maybe that’s it, a hoax. Maybe your general is toying with you; like a cat would by pawing at their smaller prey that is too scared to move away. He can have anyone, there’s many willing to jump and dance as he pleases, so why wouldn’t you be a passing fancy at most? Why is he suddenly all over you, just because there is no one to bother or see you? You doubt he’s ready to start a controversy just because of one, pretty to him, assistant.

“Do you really believe your words to be true?” The explosive sternness in his voice nearly scares you, so does the scornful look directed at your accusation.

He corners you, stalking towards you as you step back, your heart pounding. It’s a futile attempt to run, as he pins you to the stone wall of his house, holding your wrists at your sides with your arms spread like wings. So crude, you would say he’s angry with you.

“General…?” you ask with panic.

“We can joke about many things, but as for me taking you seriously, it should never be questioned. Never.” He accentuates each word with hot iron.

The grip turning bruising and there being no angle to run toward scares you. You get the gist of what his enemies who faced him must have felt like; the man who tends to be lackadaisical is easy to underestimate, so the moment this lion rises with fierceness, only then do you comprehend what trouble you actually are in. You even feel guilty again — for doubting him. “I’m sorry…” you say with a quiver.

You’re a mess at this point. You’re well-aware that you shouldn’t be getting this close to him, or rather, allowing him to; but it’s so difficult to deny him, and above everything… You feel on top of the world with him. Appreciated, taken care of. Who else would look after you so much? Who else would ensure that you lack nothing, and that you are safe, and that you are even loved?

Yet is still intimidates you, the suddenness of his impropriety and the aggression, as if all he needed was to have you alone to finally act on his desires. You’re not sure why didn’t do so before, if he apparently is not as scared of repercussions as much as you are. Or maybe he needed that final push himself. To have you in his enclosure and see what it’s like to have you at his fingertips. You probably don’t know anything, you can only assume. After so many years spent together, you don’t know him well at all — you know what’s on the surface, and sometimes you do manage to read what’s below, you anticipate his needs, you see what others would miss… and yet, he’s the vast ocean you have merely explored, currently drowning in it.

Tears well up in your eyes, and you look at him with pain. “I feel so ungrateful sometimes. I know you did a lot for me. But I also… don’t know what to expect from you.”

This time, there is no verbal reassurance. His eyes don’t soften. There is no seductive craft about how everything is alright and that he understands. He kisses you. Madly, still locking you in place, swallowing your mouth with his. It quickly becomes heated, as if he’s pouring his thoughts about you — and as you wonder about their depravity, you quickly become breathless and cry into his lips. Just how much did he hide? Speaking must be difficult for him, or just inconvenient, so for once, he lets the actions speak.

You find yourself being lifted and pressed against the wall, any ability to think brutally ripped away from you. A gasp leaves your mouth, and you suddenly feel overwhelmed. Your legs wrap around him preemptively. You can feel his still flush chest crushing you against the surface, and the unexpected hardness building up and pressing between your thighs, driving you insane.

He’s extra greedy for you both, fondling your bottom as he licks the stream of your tears from your lips and pushes his tongue in, letting you taste your own sorrow. Your stomach tickles as you try to keep up with him, not having it in you to push him away. He appreciates that, rewarding you with some quick praise thrown between the kisses.

The moment he lets you breathe again, or rather, lets you breathe a bit more, he immediately attacks your neck. “You asked me that question, and I don’t know if you truly want to know,” he says between hard suckles that have you gasping and gripping onto his shoulders, “You might think of me as a brute…”

You think you could never believe him to be that: and yet, he seems to be proving you otherwise. This paralogism to your deification of him brings a question of how much longer can you survive him.

“That’s… for me to decide…” you argue back with a moan. “I’m tired of you speaking for me…”

He glares at you, panting. “You meddle with my sense rationality. Is that what you want to hear?”

Probably the closest thing to him being forward about how he feels about you. In a way, you like the idea of him being affected by you so much, nearly fragile; but above all, it still should scare you. “Yes,” you say boldly. “You finally are not a coward.”

At those scalding words, he suddenly lifts you up and starts carrying you inside, still catching a few kisses on your mouth along the way. As if you only encouraged him.

“General…?” you ask nervously between the blur of lips, your heart pounding at the what he’s trying to initiate.

“I know what you need,” he says so confidently it’s as if it’s not about his desires but yours.

Do you really need this? You can feel first waves of arousal, wrung out of him even when he’s all messy, as if he’s still being deliberate with you. He has corrupted you, perhaps.

Eyes darting around, you fight between pushing him away and drawing him closer.

You never get enough time to, for he brings you into his house as if returning from a successful hunt. Inside his room, he swiftly removes your robe he throws somewhere, one-handed, and places you at the edge of the bed. Before you could catch up with reality, he drags you by your legs to lie down flat. He sinks to the floor be between your thighs.

“What are you…”

“Let me make you feel better.” And so he parts your thighs, staring at you with some sort of malaise.

Your ears are ringing, your body pulsing all over at his words. About what? You wish to ask. But instead of that, you worry if you’re being too greedy again. After all that he’s done for you, it’s him taking care of you first — again?

“Wait, please, I want to…” You push at his shoulder, trying to stop him from removing your shorts.

“You don’t need to,” he growls, salivating like a borisin over your legs.

“But I really want to, General,” you nearly beg. If you don’t have him in your mouth within next five minutes, you might cry. “Wait, please, I want to…” you try to interrupt him again as he lays a bite to your thigh, trying to shut you up.

He reluctantly obliges, looking up at you with heavy breaths. “What is it?”

“Let me take care of you instead.”

You slowly stand up, him moving back in response, taken aback by your offer. And as he fully stands up, you sink down to your knees on the floor, validating your decision.

You look up at him with desperation. “Please, will you let me?” You squirm over your feet you sit on, itching with the need.

“You…”

“I want to make you feel good. And no, it’s not because I feel like I owe you.” At least, not entirely; there’s a storm of desire brewing in you, one you didn’t think was possible with him in the center of it. But he is finally there, sitting like a king inside your head, waving his hand for you to obey.

“It’s hard to deny you,” he ultimately acquiesces, a shudder of satisfaction passing through his voice.

All grateful, you tug at the button of his linen pants; he aids you, slightly lowering them down.

The size of what graces your eyes should have deterred you — slapping his abdomen once freed, nearly reaching his bellybutton, and decorated with white curls going up his stomach. Should have, as you are too far in your need to stop now.

You grab his cock carefully, reverent, sighing at the thick, warm, and throbbing weight in your palm. You stroke your general a few times, gauging how good it makes him feel. Then you rub translucent pearls that gathered at the tip.

You hear him take a hissy inhale at the touch, all wound up with you. Glancing up at him, it’s his mouth parted and eyes staring at you with heat.

It satisfies you. So you lean forward to wrap your lips around his tip needily, softly groaning at his taste. You withdraw to kiss and lick at it a few times before taking him in again.

His palm rests on top of your head, with sequence of gasps every time your lip or hot tongue comes in contact. You rendered him rather speechless. The way you look up at him surely could be considered one of the most remarkable sights, worship contemporary with need.

You slowly push your head lower, feeling as he stretches the corners of your lips with his wide girth.

“Mhm… take it slow… no need to rush…” he assures, stroking your head.

You swallow a bit more of him, reaching just a half of his length when you gag, tears prickling at the corners.

“Careful… it won’t go anywhere…” he jokes, and laughs even more when you give him a tiny scolding look. Then moans as you suck harder, biting his lip.

He’s a gentleman, not pushing your head down. He doesn’t need to, as you please him willingly — nodding your head up and down, spreading your saliva and warmth. What you cannot reach yet, you handle with your hand, even if you barely manage to close it around.

“You… truly… are wonderful.” You feel his hand stroke your hair as you take him down till his tip brushes the back of your throat, a praise on its own.

You moan around him, sending vibrations down. His stomach clenches in front of your vision, and he groans gutturally.

He makes a bold inquiry, regardless of how awry his voice is becoming, “Does it feel good, pleasing me?”

You moan again, as if confirming, closing your eyes for a moment to focus on the weight in your mouth, as well as the scent. You shuffle on your calves, feeling aches building up between your thighs. You think you’re right where you should be, for once in many weeks.

Focusing on where he needs you the most — withdrawing to suck on his sensitive tip — your hand works to stroke him. And finally, you push your head downward to meet at least some of him through your tight throat, in one fell swoop.

Your general lets out a low moan, stuttering his hips at the sudden tightness around his cockhead, barely stopping himself from gripping your hair.

There’s wet noises as you bop your head down, with you catching breath through your nose those moments where he’s not nestled inside your throat.

He must be able to tell you’re struggling a bit, huffing hard and trying to relax your throat, but seeing your hard effort in order to pleasure him, he allows himself this selfishness. He only wipes the excess slobber that begins to drip out of your mouth for you.

Your jaw aches, impossible not to with the size stretching your mouth wide, yet you push through and force your muscles to slacken, staring up at him with longing. You’re doing so good for him. You’re giving him something. He allows you to touch him, to watch him unravel. It’s you and him here and no one else— You get dizzy, inhaling his scent, feeling his warmth in your mouth, that your teary eyes turn hazy and heavy. You could live here, in this memoria, offering him requisite bliss so he can rest those old and tired bones and think of you as his own saving.

As if to help you, he pushes his hips forward, burying himself a bit deeper in your throat.

You gag, yet you don’t swat him away, holding him onto his thighs until your nose brushes against his abdomen. Then you pull back, inhaling raggedly, and push your soaked mouth onto his length again.

“You’re doing good.” He pats your head, speaking like he’s proud of you. “Worry not, I’ll take care of you afterward as well.”

You feel your stomach elate at the thought.

Eventually, it doesn’t take you that much to draw him close to the edge, not too many more gags and shallow thrusts, and you can feel him twitching, threatening to spill into your tight cavern.

“I’m about to…” he warns, throwing his head back slightly and closing his eyes.

But you don’t stop, only look more desperate. You take him even deeper, forcing him to choke even more than you are choking.

You cough up as his slightly salty load sticks up to your throat, clamming it and removing your ability to breathe. He gets lost for a moment, pressing his hips close to your nose. It’s only when he comes down a little that he suddenly starts to pull you off of him, realizing that your sounds are a bit too muffled.

“Are you—”

You swallow it all before he could unplug your mouth, even if it comes with difficulty from how thick his spurt is. Maybe it’s been a while for him, or maybe he’s naturally so potent. With how his load clings up your throat before your saliva could water it down properly, you cough few times.

A string of saliva connects between your lips and his tip as he pulls out fully with a soft sigh, appearing content at your act of altruism.

You open your mouth, showing him how free it is of any leftovers. His gaze darkens at the sight, and his throat apple shifts as he gulps.

He chuckles softly, pulling his lower clothes up. “Unbelievable. I must have underestimated your willfulness.”

You nod quietly and rest your forehead against his thigh for a moment, catching your breath.

“You did well. You always do,” Jing Yuan murmurs, rubbing your swollen lower lip with his finger.

The praise goes straight to your stomach.

“Now, come here.” Offering you his hand, he helps you stand up.

Tons of thoughts mantle your head at this time, but you find yourself susceptible, heeding until you get back on his bed.

Instead of moving to be somewhere above you, your general sits on the edge of the bed, next to you — being closer to someone in charge of you rather than bedding with you. He’s not where he was at first, kneeling between your legs, so you wonder if he changed his mind about the course of action.

His fingers trail over your thigh, watching the neverending squirms as they start.

“General…” you whimper breathlessly, your chest still rising irregularly. You have a bad feeling, wondering if he took to your subservience so much he’s now dragging this scene out, like he often does with many things.

“Jing Yuan,” he corrects you, finally permitting himself true selfishness.

“Huh?”

“When we are together, you should be able to drop the formalities.” He sounds resolute. “Can you repeat it after me?”

You’ve said his name many times before. When introducing him, when reprimanding him, when talking affairs. Yet it always happen with a prefix of his title. There’s alarms ringing, telling you that this is the end — once you comply to this, you can never truly retreat to your old relationship; or rather, what remains of it.

You concede anyway. He had you wishing you could say it many times lately, handing you the forbidden fruit and telling you to take the bite if you wish to be his completely — subtly so, yet as effectively.

“Jing… Yuan.” Flicker by flicker, your heart feels nearly as loud as your trembling voice.

“Very good.”

Serving you a smile not so pretty, Jing Yuan leans down for one more kiss with his hand on the other side of your body, not caring about the taste of himself still lingering on your tongue. His fingers keep brushing your thigh, way too gently for you all tense at this point. Even the way his hair falls over your face has you sensitive, demanding more.

It’s driving you crazy, how slow he’s taking this, building up your heat and not relieving it. When he withdraws, you look at him with a plea in yours.

“Will you…” Your lips quivers. “You mumble you’ll take care of me after…” you say with tears in your eyes.

“You’re right, I did. I almost forgot,” he says apologetically. He definitely didn’t forget. “Then allow me.”

Your sleep shorts are gently slid down, with him grazing his fingers on your skin along the way.

There’s an embarrassing wet patch on your underwear that gets revealed. Jing Yuan sighs, something sharper brewing in his golden gaze.

You feel naked before you actually are.

“It seems I was right.”

Your stomach twists at his words. “About…?”

“Our desires going both ways.”

You suddenly remember that one conversation. But before you could ponder on it for too long, spiral even, his fingers touch your clothed cunt and your hips rise on their own.

“Look at you,” he mocks gently.

You squirm under his gaze, trying to shut your thighs. He keeps them open with his palms on the insides of your thighs.

“Such eagerness from a simple act of service,” he teases.

Hot with shame, there is still something about his jab that gets you needy. Perhaps you’ve grown so accustomed to being relentlessly poked at, that now, you begin to desire more.

“I assume you want even more. Need, perhaps.”

You nod your head despite your dignity.

“Say it, or I won’t be able to do it properly…” he taunts, bordering on condescending.

And you still indulge him. “Please… I need you to touch me more,” you beg, all whiny. “Make me feel good.”

“Hm. I do owe you something.”

One finger, at last, slips underneath the band of your panties. Jing Yuan straight up groans at the feeling of your wetness meeting him immediately.

“So wet…”

“I-I’m sorry…”

“What for?” He cocks a brow. “This is a good thing. It means even your body recognizes me.” He just keeps saying things that only embarrass you further; and yet, your body wants more.“Just like…” His finger lifts to flick at your clit, knuckle stretching the fabric above as he does that. “This, for example.”

Finally, a real moan escapes you. You’re even more sensitive than you remember yourself to be.

He rubs on your bud slowly, spreading pleasure across your groin.

“Jing Yuan…” You look up at him hovering over you, feeling small underneath his ministrations. The way he gazes at you, as though he’s restraining himself from pouncing on you and still so patient, makes you realize he could do everything to you if he only so wished to.

Hearing you use his name unprompted, he rewards you with even more pressure, smiling benevolently. Every tiny reaction of pleasure as he massages your clit, he observes carefully, pushing your chin back at him every time you dare to look away. “Eyes on me.”

He eventually removes your panties, keeping you only in your shirt.

“Pretty…” he mutters, staring at your naked cunt fluttering around nothing.

“Don’t stare like that…” you mutter. The room gets even hotter for you, twisting and spinning.

His finger glides through your slit, spreading your wetness all around; even inspecting every bit of you as he slightly parts your sensitive entrance too. You moan, shuffling your head around the pillow below you.

“How can I not, when you’re being all precious for me?” He chuckles.

You wiggle your hips around as his finger finally slips inside, not sure what he means. You grab his hand, not sure whether to push him away or any closer; in any case, he doesn’t stop. Thrusting in properly, he directs his fingertip at the back wall of your pussy.

A gasp leaves your mouth. He is even here, inside of you, asserting your belonging to hin. You hear the wetness stir as he moves his finger around, in and out.

“Did you think about this before?” he inquires like some deviant.

“What?”

“Me doing this to you.” He clarifies rather eagerly.

“I have never—”

“Yet your body is taking me so willingly. Are you perhaps lying to me?”

Him assuming you repressed something in yourself, you wonder if he’s right, even if part of you starts getting tired of him speaking for you, targeting your ambition about how much you know yourself. It is that you were made for him rather than yourself, from the look of it.

Just one finger spreading you feels a lot; all the more after you didn’t let anyone touch you in a while — and he most likely knows that as well, treating you with care yet slowly pushing past your limits.

So when he adds a second into play, you cannot control the small spasms in your legs. His digits are thick on their own, knocking breath out of your lungs.

“You’re so sensitive…” he marvels, especially seeing your tears.

You bunch up sheets into your hands, feeling your shirt start to cling to your back. And yet, you start to move your hips along his fingers, feeling something nice building up—

And so he stops.

“Huh?”

“I said I’ll take care of you. Let me handle the process,” he scolds, startling you.

He’s so mean, you begin to believe. Just a devil underneath that soft smile. Another layer. Put them all together and you’ll be hit with something completely different every day.

“O-okay,” you mumble, feeling few tears slip down your hot cheeks.

He resumes; it’s even worse, his long and thick fingers leaving you little mercy, now moving in and out fast. You’re so full already, width and length-wise. Worse, his thumb meanwhile plays with your clit as if it’s a tiny button to manipulate.

But every time you feel closer to something good, he slows down, having you shed all the more tears. “Please, stop teasing…” you whine after he does it again.

You know him well for this one to be understood. How can he not bide his time, seeing your expression unravel, you clinging to him for all your worth?

“General…” you plead out of force of habit.

“That’s not the name,” he says sternly, and pinches your clit, having you shriek.

“J-Jing Yuan…” you rectify your mistake.

“Yes?” he asks more kindly, playing with your addled mind.

“Please… let me finish…”

“I will.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, filling you with relief that he must have changed his mind at your pitifulness. Relief being momentary, as he suddenly pulls out his fingers.

“But you said—”

“And I meant it. However, I haven’t said it’ll happen using my fingers.”

Oh no. Feeling small terror, you immediately picture yourself unable to handle the real thing. You assumed all you will do is get each other off; at least, today.

“I can’t… I—”

“I’ll make it work, don’t worry. You don’t think of leaving me hanging, do you?”

You want to say that you already made him feel good. But he’s hard again, as if it’s your fault for being so enticing. And you can’t disappoint him.

“I only wish to make this an even better experience for you,” he adds softly, further pulling you into his plans. “Will you let me?”

“…Okay.”

“Good.”

He stands up, grabbing the band of his pants to remove them, while not looking away from you — teasing you with the slowness and openness of his action.

Despite what you said, you nearly topple off the bed, feeling instinctual need to get away once you see what’s hanging between his legs again. With your ankle in his hold, he drags you back to the center.

Jing Yuan climbs to be above you; forces your legs ajar using his knee and slides in between them. You gulp.

“Lift your arms for me,” he instructs rather roughly, desire chewing through his tone.

As you comply, hesitantly so, he removes your shirt over your head. He observes your body with great hunger, not so subtly licking his lips, as his hands trail all over your torso, ending with a squeeze at your breasts until you whimper.

“Such beautiful sight and you act all shy with me…” He huffs with amusement, watching you tear up even more.

“Now…” Grabbing his hard length with a hiss, he places it over your mound, checking for something.

“Jing Yuan?” You wriggle your hips, feeling a few drops trail down.

“I just don’t know if you can handle it easily,” he says with pity. “What if you break like a poor thing under me?” Those words do nothing to comfort you.

And when he lies down on you more comfortably, he lets his length fall down to rest at your entrance, then drags it across your clit and folds by steering his hips, he has to grab you tight by your hips. Because just the tip has you trying to scramble away in small panic.

“No, no, no — it’s all right, I’ve got this. I’ll take care of everything,” he says as if he didn’t purposely provoke you.

You still brace your hands against his stomach, no matter how pent up your body is to get to finish, but he pushes forward, managing to get the tip hook at your entrance.

“Jing Yuan—”

“You’ll see soon,” is all he offers you before he thrusts in, getting at least one third of himself coated in your slick.

There is some discomfort, no matter how well he stretched you out on his fingers. You let out a small sob, writhing your head back, muffling his content gasp.

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” he coos, lifting one hand off your hips to stroke your face. “What is a moment of discomfort to something much greater? You’ll feel really good soon, I promise.”

You soon get a sense he enjoys you struggling like this — probably the clinging part, your hands on his biceps, with the way his eyes zero in on your trembling lips every time they open to whine about him — but it’s hard to tell if you aren’t simply sweating your brain instead.

“Just a little bit more, sweet thing.” His thumb wipes at your clit in slow circles, helping your body to accept him with less tension squeezing his cock.

With that, he soon thrusts in more deeply, grabbing your hand that flies at his chest to push him away again. “We’re almost there. You don’t want to take this process for granted, do you?” Instead, he presses a side kiss into your palm.

Then he licks it, and with you squirming in jolt, he takes advantage of your distraction to snap his hips forwards and sink into you fully, groaning as you envelop him entirely.

Suddenly, your legs flail around him, and a yelp follows, your eyes tearing open. “Jing Yuan!”

“You’re fine,” he says a bit dismissively. “So tight…”

He pulls out tentatively before thrusting in again, having you cry out and scratch at him. Seeing not that much hesitation from your body — at least, not enough to worry about injuring you — he begins to move, the pace slowly increasing. His hands slide to rest under your back. He glides them through as it keeps arching, unable to handle the fullness ruling the bottom regions of your body, or even the way his muscular body crushes you.

He’s nearly tormenting you, having you heave from how difficult it is to take him, the pressure unbearable. Despite the difficulty, you feel as though you might finish soon, for what was taken from you halfway through rapidly builds up again.

He croons at you, seeing you take him anyway — he can tell your body is slowly accepting the intrusion — and offers you a brief warm gaze at your tears. The stretch he’s knocking into you has you crying still, but the friction feels so good, you have little strength to be mad at him.

“It’s too much…” you whine this. “I’m so full of you…”

“I know, I know. Part of me wonders…” he says before he moans, while adjusting his grip on you as your poor legs flail around his hips and try to push away with their feet, “… if you can even move after I’m done with you.”

Hopefully not, he must think as he fucks you deeper. He’d probably like to tend to you while your limbs refuse to cooperate for an unforeseeable future — at this point, you begin to suspect he takes simple pleasure from tending to you, looking back at the past weeks. Never a burden, if something to make his lonely life meaningful. Yet he’s so selfish too.

You mewl at his words.

“D-don't worry,” he utters through his teeth, eyelids heavy from the pleasure you’re bringing him. “I’ll take great care of you.” He kisses you to reiterate his point, rolling his tongue around yours, biting your whining lips too.

His forehead then rests on your shoulder as he suckles below, oscillating between biting here too, as if to purposely drive you mad.

You have never thought you could be so sensitive. You roll your head to the side and back, in some protest against something so vivid. In his hands, your body is merely an instrument, attacked from both ends. So dizzy too, as if your mind is being severed, the physical rest sinking into the mattress below you.

It just goes like this; your walls trying to push him out, clamping on him, then forced and stretched open again. It’s maddening. It’s way too intense — his skin on yours so loud in the room, scent of sweat, his hair grazing your skin, his teeth stinging you. You feel pressure on your abdomen and you wonder if you’d feel him moving underneath if you placed your hand over there. You decide not to check, too scared of the truth.

He still overwhelms you even more; his hands grab onto your waist before he starts pushing you down onto his dick properly, still attached to now your neck like a vampire, as though he needs soothing himself. You get to hear his own moans and grunts falling into your ear.

“I know what you need. I always do.” This conviction scares you more and more every time he somehow seems to prove you right.

Suddenly, he maneuvers you around — hands on your hips, hoisting and flipping you. You find yourself on top of him.

“Jing Yuan?”

“That’s a much better view.” He chuckles, even if you tremble so terribly, unable to sit down fully on what you’re still sheathed on. With strain in your legs, you do your hardest to keep yourself upright.

“Come on. Show me yourself properly.” He encourages, stretching his arm to squeeze at your breast lazily.

You don’t know if you can do this. You don’t think you can. Being fucked and fucking yourself on it are completely different things. This position is even worse. With gravity at play, you are meant to take him inside your cunt even deeper, feeling his tip easily rest at your cervix as though it’s capable of opening even impossible. And yet, when it comes to helping you, he does nothing — knowing you have no choice if you even want to cum. When you do gather enough courage to start to move up and down, it is with difficulty, you not stopping just because you really need to finish. You’ve been wound up for too long.

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to please me.” He teases, fondling your nipples in away that still makes you think how good he’s to you. He is nonetheless taking care of you, making you feel good, isn’t he?

“I am, but… it’s just so much—”

“I’d say that’s a good thing… feeling this intense.” He helps you grind your hips around by motioning his from below, hissing as you tighten around him. “I-it means that you are focused on me.”

“You’re so mean, General…” you whimper.

He is, not because you called him mean, especially if rightfully, but just because you used the title again, suddenly snapping your body down onto his cock. “You were saying?”

“What—” You cry out, digging your heels into the mattress to force yourself away.

“You need to remember to use my name,” he says suddenly roughly, pushing your body down by your hips till your hole takes him to the hilt and his balls slap you that your skin stings.

“I’m sorry, Jing Yuan…!”

But even if you are — he can see it clearly, you always worry so much about his feelings —feeling your tight heat around him suddenly reminds him of what he’s been stalling, so he simply goes for it.

“Mhm. You better be. I’m not just a stranger,” it slips out of his mouth without realizing. “I’m the one who takes care of you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid, who sees it to it you don’t know want—”

You’re too fucked out to question why does it matter to him this much anyway, or why does he sound so condescending. His hips move with all the greater vigor, only forcing you onto his length, to be frictioned to no end. His pubes grind against your throbbing clit, making your blood rush all over your thighs.

“Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan, Jing Yuan—” you keep crying, feeling too much for a brain to safely process. It almost hurts and yet it feels so good. He’s breaking you. He’s breaking you apart, fixing fragments of you to be with his influence, arranging his own composition. You’re just a rag doll in his big arms, hoisted and fucked like you weight nothing. He leaves no space inside your pussy untouched, nearly unbearable, that you can barely feel your legs that are uselessly kicking the bed every time he half-lifts you.

Among the cloud on your mind, you still remember one thing. “At least… please, pull out…”

“I will. I promise,” he says hastily.

“Okay… please, I wanna cum now…”

And he obliges, maintaining this pace for you. You scratch at his chest again, feeling this bundle of warmth in your belly kindle, about to burst completely. You allow him to keep fucking you like this, so fast now, holding onto his chest, his arms, his hair even, not knowing what to do with yourself and this destruction. It doesn’t take you much longer to finish with a scream of his name, your hole pulsing before clamping down and locking on him. Coming untouched, in a way you didn’t anticipate.

“You vicious…!” he curses through clenched teeth, especially that he’s already not far behind you.

Now gripping your forearms instead, nearly instilling fear in you that he’ll break them, no matter that he still maintains some control, he keeps fucking you through your climax with little mercy.

Your tears roll down freely, stinging your face the same the brutal overstimulation does. “No, it’s too much—” Your body tries to slope down from how lightweight it suddenly feels, but he keeps using you.

“Hush, just a bit longer…!” Unwilling to let go of his bliss, feeling his own orgasm biting at his loins terribly, he pushes you down for the last time with a loud but muffled grunt, clinging to those last bits of control.

You don’t even realize he does what he was not supposed to do anyway, fucked out; not until you feel a shoot of warmth within you. “Jing Yuan…?” you ask with alarm.

“I apologize,” he says with strain as he thrusts in the cum into you regardless, “I… failed to time it right.” A heavy pant follows. “Will you forgive me?”

In your state, it feels hard to see why it’s a bad thing he didn’t listen. And you don’t want to be mad at him either. So you nod your head, even if that seed of doubt lingers deep in your stomach.

“That makes me happy.” He draws you down for a kiss, laughing prettily at how you barely can follow him. And if he is happy, so are you. It’s always like this. “Will you give me one more?” he asks into your lips.

Before you could even say anything, he flips you around onto your belly.

“No, I can’t…!” Gripping the pillow, you squirm underneath his heavy body suddenly crushing you again, his legs at your sides. “I’m still sensitive…”

“Shh,” he coos as he rubs his tip between your swollen folds, having you shiver from the overt sensitivity. He fucks some of his cum inside, while his hand holds your nape. “It’ll feel good, I promise. I know what you need.”

With that said, he thrusts inside your sore hole again, wasting no time with building up the pace this time. The mess around your thighs is made to be even worse as he pushes it in and out in slight splatters. When your arm tries to push at him from behind, overwhelmed from the overstimulation, he simply laces his fingers with yours, holding your hand down to the mattress.

You are therefore forced to take him as he pleases; a brutal drop of his body that brackets your hips, his balls constantly slapping at your clit, him slipping inside fully and pulling at your walls that you think he’ll break you. He’s not even moving that fast, but all that Jing Yuan needs is to keep using his strength. The buildup of your pleasure is no longer incremental, if akin to being thrown into deep waters. You drool into the pillow, far away with your static head and succumbing to mostly sensations as your eyes roll back. And yet, you still wait for him to make you feel ecstatic all over.

Both the bed and your body shake, moving forward with every powerful thrust of his. Your legs flail, as you feel yourself hastily being thrown back onto his length.

With one more time that you try to push him away, even if it’s done weaker and in some mock attempt of control, he rests his body harder on yours. His arms slip under you, hands going to grab your breasts and give your nipples attention again. He buries his face in your nape, kissing and biting here, veiling you with his thick hair, until your toes curl.

You’re worn down by him; Jing Yuan has you seeing stars again very quickly, but now it’s working with nerves already frayed. Judging by the stutter in his hips, there’s no much latency between you two. You imagine someone like him would have an extraordinary stamina, so for him to lose his mind as quickly as you do, you believe he must have been hiding his desire for you for so long. It’s terrifying, how long you went as oblivious.

“You better remember this night…” He huffs between the thrusts.“You certainly can’t take it back.” You writhe underneath him at the words, clawing at the bed sheets. You whine, warbling sound in your throat as he hits another good spot with his blunt tip. “It’s alright—” he says as he delivers another merciless thrust, your pussy squelching with your own wetness and his previous load, “It’s for the better.”

You don’t know what he means by that; he’s probably slipping a few real thoughts because he cannot help himself, inhibitions lost from the feeling of your wet heat around him. And yet, you yourself are too rendered stupid to even have the ability to analyze his words.

Especially when your next orgasm takes you with all its savagery, warmth exploding up your stomach and forcing you to suddenly go limp. Your ears ring as he keeps chasing his own, and the room spins terribly. It’s only when he bites down a particularly harsh mark, painful, that you are animated again. You also realize he broke his promise for the second time.

You feel him spill in you. “Y-you—”

“If it happened once already… there’s no need to keep it in,” he excuses, rubbing your poor breasts as he does few more shallow thrusts to ride out the last of bliss. Breathing heavily, he pulls out, his hand carefully placed on your back, before he’s sitting up on his knees.

Gaining your bearings, you become acutely aware of the soreness, sweatiness, and exhaustion sticking to you. Slowly craning your head towards him, your face covered in your tears, it’s him transfixed — observing the mess drip out of your quivering hole, down the valley of your trembling thighs, as if it’s some grounds waiting to grow flowers. He pushes two fingers in, not allowing it to leave just yet.

“No, stop…” you whine at the feeling of sensitivity remade.

“Shh.” He keeps going a few more times like this, even running his other hand along the welted bite with something content in his eyes. Only when his spent begins to dry, he leaves the bed for a moment.

You don’t even bother to move; you can’t. With eyes closed, you tune your ears to listen to his steps around, a bit anxious without him here.

He returns with a wet cloth a few moments later, as well a glass of water. It scares you he can still move easily — if you weren’t so tired, would he have you impossibly longer? To be expected of a man of his strength, and yet… it’s easy to underestimate him sometimes. Jing Yuan must paint himself as weaker deliberately, just to corner his opponent last second. He smiles when propping the glass against your lips with a brush of your hair; you drink eagerly. After wiping you clean too, he draws you close into his arms, tucking your head under his chin.

“I feel weird,” you mumble into his chest, as though expecting for him to fix it. It already is unusual, being naked and chest to chest with your general. But that’s not even the main issue.

“I understand. It was a lot to take, wasn’t it?” He laughs softly, churning your guts who don’t know if they’re happy or humiliated. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

You nod. He’s here, you tell yourself too. He’s here, and maybe he took a piece of you, but he is here nonetheless.

“There you are,” he praises as if nothing. “See? Nothing is wrong. You’re just a little bit tired, so am I.”

Your trembling limbs, he moves to rest across his lap sideways before he starts to massage them gently with one hand. You cling to him harder, cheek pressed against translucent chest hair. In return, he rubs your back up and down with his other hand, allowing you to come down on your own terms. Although, he accidentally rubs across your tender spots as well, chuckling when you squirm.

“Jing Yuan…” you scold drowsily.

“Mhm. My apologies. I just quite enjoy the sight of my markings on you.” He certainly doesn’t sound sorry.

“What are you? You grew fangs without me knowing?” you grumble, frowning even with your eyes closed.

“You would not be entirely mistaken.” Despite him sounding as though he’s joking, you choose not to check his expression. You try to fall asleep instead, determined to let dreamland wash it all away.

“What would you do without me?” he asks eventually, warm. He smooths down your hair with his big palm, occasionally humming some notes.

The question nearly scaring you, despite how playful his tone is. Maybe it’s not. Half of the time he says something playful it only ends up being truth in the end. He appears to be particularly happy to have you in this position and you feel like you are yet to fully understand why, something going beyond simple adoration. Because that’s a good question. It seems he became an integrated part of you, as if half of your meaning and value was replaced with him.

You wouldn’t be yourself therefore, you think right as you begin to succumb to slumber. You’ve been moving within the space he has already defined, rather than against it, after all.

“They stopped bothering me quite some time ago, didn’t they?” you note that with a tiny yawn after Jing Yuan has exhausted you again; a few nights later. You’re resting on top of him, naked chest to chest until your hearts sync. A bed sheet wrapped around you is like a safety cocoon, but you’re still not sure what to make of this relationship. That stalker has stopped bothering you after you moved in with Jing Yuan. Seeing and hearing no suspicious activity for weeks now, it’s as though they have simply given up.

“Hm, seeing that you have the general on your side must have been deterring enough.” He chuckles, rubbing circles into your lower back.

What he says sounds plausible, if not infallible because it’s him who said it. Of course, anyone who knows better wouldn’t think of targeting someone aquatinted with him. But the more you think about, the more ironic it becomes how well you’re falling into his hands at the same time. You must be overwhelmed. So perhaps… a break would do you good.

“I should probably come back to my house then. I had better go before I grow roots here,” you say wryly.

“So soon?” he asks with surprise.

“Sorry?”

Clearing his throat, he restates, “I mean to say, you cannot tell whether they won’t be pestering you the moment they see you’re on your own again. That’s been the crucial point from the start, to protect you until we catch them. No sooner, no later.”

“Yes, but still…” You lift your head from his chest to look at Jing Yuan. He immediately strokes your face, unable to deny himself to touch you any moment these days. “Am I then supposed to live in fear forever? Forever on your behalf?” It’s been weeks turning into couple of months.

He looks you deep in the eye, evaluating your restlessness to go. “Just until we catch them,” he decides, serious enough to let you think he ruminated it thoroughly.

“How do you even catch them if we just let them be?” you still question.

“That’s a good question,” he sighs softly, “However, I have my own ways, so do my subordinates. You needn’t worry.”

Yet again, he’s not giving you details. In the past, they were redundant to you, for you truly didn’t want to have to think about the unpleasantries. Now, you itch to be involved, unable to rest until the case is resolved. “Hm… it’s taking quite some time, however.”

“It is, unfortunately,” he murmurs apologetically, as though he’s sad on your behalf. “Not to endorse them, but they seem to have exceptional patience,” he jokes lightly.

A patient stalker is the worst stalker. Biding their time, prowling silently, as they triturate your sense of safety meanwhile and force you cling to someone else. If they were to simply attack or try to abduct you, that’d make things easier. Jing Yuan is remarkably patient on his own, so you get a front row seat to see the patience’s immutable ability to slowly drive one insane. Still, knowing you might be a target again once you leave his nest, it’s easy to let him be that dominant side.

You try to dispel your tension. “You know, Jing Yuan, maybe we should pull off some movie trick… If they see me again, we can set a trap on them.”

“How cunning my darling has become. Should I be worried?” he teases, rolling a strand of your hair between his fingers before he presses a tiny kiss here.

Your heart flutters at the sight, though you make sure to answer wittily. “Yes. Watch me expose every of your secrets.”

His eyes narrows a little at that, though his smile widens in amusement. “So the worm has turned. Then I shall stay cautious. Perhaps you will become the next general, preceding me in paperwork.”

“Oh, so I am just paperwork to you?” You pout.

“Oh, no, no. Not just paperwork: it’s paperwork and phenomenal affinity for expressing disapproval towards me.” He grins lazily.

“Wow. How tragically was I reduced.” You look grumpy.

He laughs. “Don’t worry, there is much more to you,” he claims with absolute certainty. “I have never neither doubted that nor you.”

“Thought so. And there’s only a handful of people that can handle you, Jing Yuan,” you say knowingly, a bit cocky.

“Yes, it seems abundantly clear that you can handle me, dearest.”

The double entendre is not lost on you. Especially when you’re still sore. You feel that furious heat on your cheeks again. “That’s just foul.”

“Really? And what do you think I was referring to? Care to show me?” he taunts — right before you find yourself on your back again.

With another evening, your routine ends with a kitchen run where Jing Yuan hands you your tea — you still don’t trust yourself to go without it. But after the warm kiss goodnight, the route to your bed from the kitchen is interrupted the moment you feel your stomach squeezing with something edgy. A tickling sensation overtakes your throat as well, and you can tell this is a harbinger of your body rejecting what you just consumed.

You quickly run to the nearest restroom. You vomit; with that, the contents of your stomach flush out the tea you have just consumed.

Deciding you don’t want to bother Jing Yuan with it again, you settle on the idea it being a sign to try to finally sleep on your own. It’s high time you become independent again. You don’t bother to dim the lights once you eventually reach your room — you’ve been keeping on one lamp like one eye open ever since you ended up here, too anxious to sleep in total darkness.

The results are far worse than you anticipated. You roll in your bed, all antsy. You check on your phone but everything online lacks loudness enough to distract you. You conclude you must be that used to the sudden blacking out or falling asleep by his side the nights you visit his room. But right as you’re about to get up and seek his room, you suddenly freeze, hearing the door open. You’re pretty sure it’s not something you imagined, the sound being clear enough.

Your shoulders relax a bit as you realize it must be Jing Yuan checking up on you, especially when you recognize the silhouette of his messy hair. How kind of him. Not wanting to start a discussion about the perished tea and be a nuisance, you close your eyes, pretending to be sleeping as he plods to you.

He stops at your bed, you hear. Must be watching your breathing.

But when a good minute passes and he still doesn’t move, you find your pulse spiking, cold sweat of dread covering you. What is he doing, staring at you like a creep? You definitely are alright, physically speaking. Then you hear him sigh, and he speaks. “Just a little longer.” You’re not sure what he means by that. Another thing you note, he’s not sounding sleepy at all. He’s usually asleep at this hour too.

His hand moves to rest on your cheek, in a familiar to you motion. It’s nice as it often is; until his fingers squeeze it, rather roughly, as if assessing something.

You squirm at that; mentally cursing yourself. You feel his hand muscles freeze, as if unsuspecting you to sense anything tangible. That has you wonder if he’s been here before — since the tea would probably have you less receptive. Was he? Dread overcoming you, you try to steel yourself, pretending you just murmured something in your sleep rather than was awaken. You even turn to your side…

But who are you fooling. He probably recognizes your unusual stiffness, as he suddenly whispers your name. That finally forces you to drop your act. Still, you move as though you just woke up, stirring slowly before you open your eyes. “What are you doing here, General?” you ask sleepily.

The use of the title disappoints him, and you can see it in a sudden frown that passes through. As for whether he believes your act, it’s hard to tell. “I was checking your temperature,” he informs calmly, not removing his hand. “You seemed wearier than usual. Did something happen?”

That sounds plausible as always, if you were to consider him squeezing your face in a possessive grip as something merely to indulge him. And yet, the unpleasant feeling in your stomach has you thinking otherwise. For a moment, you felt like a real prey, in a way you imagine you’d feel facing your stalker at night. And you trust your instincts enough not to ignore the somatic effect.

“But… why are you in my room?” you ask warily.

He’s still unshaken. “I was checking up on you. Even if the tea helps, it doesn’t mean nightmares cannot take over as a side effect. But it seems the tea has failed you tonight?” You nod, so he sits down next to you.

“I… I felt sick and ended up throwing up your tea.”

“Oh.” He hums with understanding. “Is there the chance that you ate something unfresh today?”

“I don’t recall anything like that.” You really don’t. “Could it be… the tea? Having other side effects?”

Come to think about it, that tea has been keeping you knocked out rather well. Although some herbs are more potent, and the entire galaxy has plethora of weird plants, can a simple tea really work so well, on equal with a sedative chemical compound?

“It shouldn’t, unless you’re allergic or have sensitive stomach.” He sounds sure of himself.

“What herbs are in it, then? Maybe I’ll be able to pinpoint which one isn’t for me from memory.”

His eyebrows furrow for a moment, a bit bothered by you posing unnecessary questions. “You probably wouldn’t recognize half of the terms in it,” he chuckles, now grasping your hand to stroke over the duvet. Normally the gesture would have you lean into it, yet you find your body to be on guard. “You don’t need to worry about it. They’re harmless.”

“I want to know. Please,” you say, adamantly.

Jing Yuan looks at you intensely for a second before he sighs, as if you are inconveniencing him. “Hm. Very well.” He recites the herbs’ names, half of them being common sleep helpers, such as valerian root, chamomile, lavender, passionflower, and lemon balm. The other half, they do not ring the bell, though at the very least, you don’t recognize anything commonly known as harmful.

“I see. I’m guessing that I’m just sensitive to one of them…” You decide to let it go, for now.

“It would seem so.” He offers you a comforting smile, as well a kiss to your forehead before tucking you. “Will you be fine on your own, or do you require anything?”

Originally ready to sleep in his room; now, you feel in need of space. “No. I’m already much better,” you attempt to reassure.

But after he leaves, fortunately not pressuring you to have another cup, you find yourself using a search engine to check the ingredients you have memorized. Frustratingly, nothing online suggests toxicity, not beyond a caution warning for pregnant and breastfeeding women, and people with high blood pressure for some of these. Maybe you have imagined it, the darker possibility that Jing Yuan has been sedating you. The thought that he lied about the components omits you too — whether he is or not, it’s hard to verify it on your own.

Unless… You decide to send it for testing; in secret.

You barely sleep that night, mind plotting, but when you do, it comes with a great price in a size of a nightmare.

As it turns out, testing unknown substances is far more perfidious than you’d imagine — you realize Jing Yuan’s kitchen might contain something illegal, especially in case it’s one of those outdated ingredients.

You didn’t know who else would be eager to help you with something potentially illegal, other than this infamous Bailu of the Alchemy Commission you set up a meeting with next day. She herself is known for unconventional methods, so you have come to her for help. You see her regardless of the fact that you are worried about Jing Yuan finding out. For the past few weeks, you’ve been going home together, not going out much on your own in concern of being attacked; besides, everything you needed was at his house. Therefore, you had to stage an excuse about your friend needing to see you in emergency.

If anything, your actual friends have been complaining about not seeing you these days, and you had to tell them it’s for the sake of your safety. At this point, it feels as though you have the cheek to feed them such lies. Deeply immersed in Jing Yuan’s life, or rather, he in yours, you exempted yourself from the social scene.

Thankfully, he allowed you to leave work early, urging you to stay safe. And taking the herbs from his kitchen, you found out that he never bothered to hide them. Perhaps it’s worth staying optimistic…

Or not, because Bailu’s answer worries you. “This… how did you even get this?” The small girl frowns, scrunching her nose in displeasure. She slams the can on the small table in front of her, shaking her head.

“I… bought this concoction to help me with sleep.” You lie, not wanting to get Jing Yuan in trouble. This tiny and obscure room in which she takes patients already suffocates you enough. “But it made me sick, so I was wondering if there’s something wrong with it…” You sit tight in the chair she gave you. “…Is there?”

“And who sold it to you?” she asks fiercely, tugging on her blue braid in thought.

“I don’t really remember. It was a long time ago. I might have ordered it online. Please, can you just tell me what’s in it?”

She shakes her head again. “Ignoring regular stuff, there is also Ashen-Heart Blossom! It slows down a racing heart and lowers blood pressure to force into immediate sleep. But it is highly cardiotoxic and gastrotoxic in incorrect proportions!” She fumes, clenching her small fists. “It’s not just something to help you sleep. It works like a sedative in bigger doses. No wonder your stomach is irritated,” she grumbles. “This is why you people should never order shady stuff online!”

“Oh my…” you gasp, covering your mouth at her earful. Why would Jing Yuan have and use something like this? Why even blend this into the rest, if this is enough on its own? “Can this… poison me? I drank it for multiple times in a row.” In deep concern, your hand drops to your chest as you try to still your heart.

“Hm…” she assesses you. “You look stable enough. No pallor or incoherent nonsense or bleeding from your eyes.” She mumbles to herself. “Of course, it depends on the dose. I’d say, any is a bad idea, but lower amounts can still be expelled from your body without a bigger risk. How much did you have of it?”

You remember Jing Yuan pouring… “Two small scoops.”

“Hm. If you don’t experience more than vomiting once, you should be okay, so long as you don’t try drinking it again.” She points her finger at you, expecting you to listen.

“Of course. I won’t drink it again.” You stand up promptly, ready to get home and confront Jing Yuan about that ingredient. “Thank you for your help—”

Before you could get away, she stops you. “Wait a minute.”

You turn around, gripping a handle, a bit frustrated. “Yes?”

“Was it the General who gave it to you?”

You’re flabbergasted. “W-why do you think so?”

“I remember giving him that tea!”

If he got the tea knowingly, does it mean he deliberately drug you? “You know him?” you ask warily.

“Of course I do! He visits me regularly! He asks me how I am and brings me food,” she says as if griping about it. “But he also struggles to sleep and this tea was to help him sleep!”

Or at least, Bailu believes so. You don’t, not anymore. You didn’t know that he knows her, nor did you know that he’s been medicating himself. Just concealing everything as always.

“Um… I couldn’t sleep myself, so he offered me some of that tea…” you admit bitterly.

“Of course he did.” She sighs, before she decides, “Whatever. Just tell him to throw the rest away instead of giving it to you! Yours and his body are very different.”

The walk back to the station is awful, full of disconcert about the meaning behind the tea situation. And there’s this one particularly jarring thought making its appearance in that grotto of your growing distrust… could he be responsible for your stalker situation? It comes out of nowhere, like a hunch attached to your unpleasant feelings.

No. Jing Yuan wouldn’t hurt you. There must be some logical explanation, and it’s the credence you cling to. Perhaps even he is not aware of the effects of this plants, or that is it there, or how bad it is at least — as long as Bailu’s remedy works for him. If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done so already. He only took care of you.

You want to trust him. Especially that, you don’t know what you would do with yourself if everything turned out to be a lie. But… can you really just approach him and tell him that you didn’t trust him enough to perform a background check? You suppose voicing your concerns about vomiting is a safer option. If anything, it is truly high time that you start to sleep on your own.

Returning to his place, you find him only in the garden: playing the chess game on his own — on account of the two sides, and for a moment, you imagine yourself being one of the pieces he twirls between his fingers.

“Ah, there you are,” he greets, amiable as always, and stands up to approach you. Doing little to convince you that you are wrong about him. His happiness seems to be full of candor. Then he finally notices that dilemma etched all over your face. “Did something happen? You look troubled.” He places his hand on your shoulder after reaching you. “Is your friend alright?”

“Y-yes, she’s fine. I’m just…”

“Yes?”

He places his other hand on your forehead. “Hm. No fever.”

“I still feel a bit under the weather,” you lie, not telling him about the meeting. “I’m assuming that it’s the tea from yesterday, and so I was thinking that…”

“Yes?” His eyes narrow down a bit, as though he doesn’t fully believe you.

“Ge—” You quickly fix your mistake, seeing his expectant look, “Jing Yuan. I think… it’s time that I let go of those evening brews. I don’t want to be dependent on sleep helpers for too long.” You decide to lay it bluntly. “Or get sick again…”

You expect some aggression, at least on a micro level. Some advice against. Instead, he smiles in understanding, and nods his head. “I see. There’s no pressure to keep going. Especially if you feel sick afterwards. It seems to be my fault.”

Seeing him agree easily, you wonder if you were right about the more positive outcome — if he wanted to drug you, wouldn’t he be more ardent to keep you hooked? He would try to convince you somehow.

“I also would like to apologize,” he adds, taking full responsibility. “I should have known the herbs might be too strong for you. I seem to metabolize at a different rate. You see, these were originally meant for me. I sometimes struggle with sleep.”

That checks with what Bailu said. You’re also poignant by his admission, wondering just how troubled his sleep must be for him to have to sedate himself.

“Will you forgive me for this inconvenience?”

“Of course. You couldn’t have known.” You agree rather easily therefore. To you, it seems clear that it was all a big accident, not an egregious act of malice.

He draws you close to his side, arm around your waist, happy that there’s no bad blood between you. “How about a round of starchess?” He asks as he sits you two down onto the cushion.

“You’re going to win anyway,” you say, pouty, crawling onto his lap anyway. “I’m not racking my brain just for a predictable loss.”

“It’s not about winning or losing, but a battle of wits, and learning from the mistakes along the way,” he says theatrically, placing his head on your shoulders with ease. “Let me teach you everything you need to strive in life, will you?” he purrs, giving you shivers.

Sleep comes to you with difficulty the first night you try; well, second, if not including the first attempt. Your feet lead you back to Jing Yuan therefore; naturally. To your surprise, he’s up, sliding the door open in a matter of few seconds after you knock on it.

“I had a feeling you would be still awake. I don’t expect you to be able to sleep immediately.” He’s soft as ever, already opening his arms you fit right into before he’s guiding you to the familiar bed.

It’s both reassuring and rewarding, having someone to come to at the end of the day.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me… that stalker hasn’t bothered me in a few weeks. So why can’t I sleep?” You weave yourself into his limbs, face into the crook of his neck, like an animal burrowing itself for winter.

“They might be gone at the moment, but the feelings related to the event… they linger like a burden. It can take significant amount of time for a body to catch up with the feeling of safety. Let me be that still pond for you.”

You sigh wistfully. “It’s incredible, Jing Yuan,” you remark softly. “You seem to have a reassuring answer for everything. I’d probably keep beating myself over it if it weren’t for you…”

He just smiles into the top of your head. “Mhm. Allow me hold you until you fall asleep...” He yawns. “If anything, it’s perfectly reasonable for you to sleep here every night.”

“Huh?” Lifting your head slightly, you look at him with small fluster.

“You seem in need of someone,” he says knowingly. “And there’s certainly no reason for you to torment yourself with sleepless nights.”

Perhaps the issue lies in you growing accustomed to sleeping next at his side. Leaving this house, each day, becomes more and more impossible to play out in your head. This slice of haven keeps making you greedy. If anything, you wish to say Jing Yuan is yours. In a way, he is already. And you’ve been his for a long time.

For once, you allow yourself to rest in his arms easily, after a brief round of shooting the breeze. Easily, as you shut off any narrative, making space for his words solely. He tells you stories of the past. The wonders of other Xianzhou ships, or when he had rarer chances to see different planets. He has a knack for storytelling, drawing you into the vivid images with no trouble, as if you yourself were there with him. Every few sentences, he has himself asking you if mind his ramblings, nearly shy, asking you if you will forgive him for continuing. You tell him you don’t mind, naturally.

You only feel too cowardly to tell him about your nightmare from the the night ago. You’re very glad that mara hasn’t taken him away from you yet. You’d probably lose mind on your own — or maybe even go after him. Still, you end up voicing another concern, interrupting one of the retellings.

“Jing Yuan… I feel scared. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and...”

“What are you scared of, treasure?”

You swallow, your throat going dry. There’s always this conundrum: to say what you mean because what he does bothers you, and to not say anything because you don’t want to be ungrateful. “That I… I might have come to depend on you too much. I don’t want to be a burden, but also… I don’t want to be so needy.”

“Do you enjoy the life of struggle?” he asks straightforwardly, instead of acknowledging your worry.

“No, that’s not it…” you say with frustration. “Shouldn’t I be more resilient?”

“You are plenty of resilient already, managing to survive this thorny situation with honorable amount of mettle. You still pushed forward,” he praises, running his fingers across your arm. “You didn’t lock yourself up, but kept going and appearing at work. That counts for something, no?”

Looking to the side, at the windows veiled in night, you ponder over his grandiose words. “You must be right,” you ultimately agree, not wanting to be fastidious with him, regardless of your guts screaming at you. What would you even know? “You’re just taking care of me, right?”

“Of course,” he says with no hesitation. “As always.”

“We have to talk.”

Multiple days later, Jing Yuan interrupts one of your sunbathing sessions in the garden.

“Yes?” The seriousness in his voice has you sitting upright.

“We finally caught the culprit responsible for breaking into your house.”

Bewildered, you stare at him, not expecting for there to finally be some progress to your stalker predicament, let alone the end of it. Stalker you were starting to believe might as well be a ghost.

“Really?”

He nods.

“And who is…”

“A man, slightly older than you. One of your past neighbors.” Jing Yuan quickly fills you in, sitting himself on the stone bench next to you. His hand moves to rest on top of yours like it’s an innate thing.

You can’t believe this is finally over. And yet, there’s no immediate relief that you anticipated for weeks; instead, something still feels unwritten and unresolved. “Can I… see him? What is his name again?” There’s been many people who rotated your apartment complex over the years, each unique on their own.

Jing Yuan narrows his eyes. “Does it even matter?” he asks bluntly.

“Come again?”

“Why would you feel a need to know who he is?”

His question confuses you. Of course anyone would want to know, as well to work on organizing unwrought parts in their minds. “I just… want to ask him something.”

“Ask him what?” You feel his hand tighten on yours.

“Why… he did this,” you mutter, staring at Jing Yuan with irritation inflowing.

“Whatever reasoning he has, it cannot be anything good,” Jing Yuan still speaks calmly, as though your anger is a momentary disturbance. “You don’t have to try to comprehend malicious intentions he wanted to inflict on you. There’s no excuse. What matters is that he will be dealt with.”

“But I want to,” you say sternly. “It’s my choice—”

“A stalker doesn’t need any deeper reason.” Now it just feels as if he’s patronizing you, lecturing you as if he knows what stalkers think. “Just one thing about you, or, catching a whiff of your fear is enough to keep them going.”

“But… won’t there be some trial where I’ll meet him anyway?” You look for some clincher to finally convince him. It’s not even his choice to make. You fail to understand why Jing Yuan makes it such a big deal about something so salient, openly glaring at him.

“There will be. But I can ensure it happens quietly and swiftly, without the further need to stress you.”

You grimace. He’s been kind to you, but just how far can that kindness be given? This is one matter you wish to be the part of.

“Is there something bothering you? You can tell me.” Sliding a strand of your hair behind your ear, he awaits your answer.

You close your eyes, not even leaning into his touch for once, only heaving a tired sigh. When you open them, your lip starts trembling in prelude. “I told you, I just need to arrange everything in my head. Why are you being so difficult?” You rebuke him at this point, tears gathering or not. “We can rescind that protection mission you have made your priority so much.”

“I understand that much. And yet...” He looks at you pitifully. “I feel like you wound me.”

“Huh?” you exclaim with surprise. Despite not understanding his last words, feeling their connotation and seeing his downcast expression, sudden panic arises in you. “What am I even doing wrong?”

“I worked hard to make sure that fear for your safety is eradicated. What you want is certainly not for me to question, but I would feel disappointed for that help to be taken granted of.”

“Jing Yuan—”

“But I’ll arrange the meeting if you must. I don’t intent to impose.” Letting go of your hand, he stretches his legs as if to stand up and set his decision in motion, spiraling your panic.

“No, I—” You freeze, hand hanging in the air before you’d reach him.

You really want to talk to this person. But you really don’t want to hurt Jing Yuan either. Not to mention — what if he’s right? What if you do devolve in your peace, hearing that stalker tell you all his disturbing thoughts about you once he sees you? The grass is always greener on the other side, and perhaps he sees it better, your possible relapse at the cost of your curiosity.

“Forget it. You must be right,” you admit with reluctance, even if these words nearly suffocate you, stuck in your throat for a second. You put your head on his shoulder, soon to sniffle into it.

“Are you certain? We don’t have to make a decision in haste.”

You just nod.

“I see,” he says quietly, audibly relieved. “It’s all alright now. I am here for you. Always.” His hand strokes the back of your head, while the other one keeps you safely tucked against him by your back.

He carries you through this crying passage, safely, allowing you to leave everything that had bothered you in the last weeks behind. Your tears soil his shirt, and as always, he takes you and your woes with courage.

“You will always have a place here,” he eventually says when your hiccups become none.

“Thank you,” you mumble, regardless of your chest still feeling tight.

You start to think you should be leaving soon. The crisis is over, apparently — while there is still trial to come, you imagine Jing Yuan will ensure that stalker won’t roam the streets freely. Despite something reluctant in you refusing to budge from this place just yet, and perhaps you’ve become so used to Jing Yuan’s care so much it’s hard to imagine your life in a different way, you believe it’s about time that you fly away from this nest.

“It makes it… really difficult to depart from you,” you admit with small nostalgia, looking at him softly. “But I think I finally should, with that stalker arrested.”

“Perhaps there’s no need to.”

“Huh?”

“You seem to be doing well here. Not to mention, the house is bigger than yours, with that garden you enjoy so much, and it’s also closer to our office.”

“Do you mean…?” He makes your relationship sound official, you assume. With him, you have to read between the lines; at this point and since the day one. “But… what will people say?” you ask, torn.

You’re pretty sure that if you overstay your welcome, people will eventually catch up and start looking at your situation with suspicion. How do you even explain it? You’re no longer in need of his help.

“Close relations between people of the same office are more common than you think.” He chuckles lightly.

“What?”

“There is one way to make it official without instigating a dispute.”

You know what he means. Exalting your position through marriage. So long you make it official, no fooling around in form of an amour, the conservative rule allows such union even between the same party. You simply never anticipated something so nimble, like he has given it thought for a while now. Do you even want to marry him, no matter how much you might like or even love him? You weren’t meant to be his wife, if only a speck to make him shine. It would be easy to miss the old days where you could be of support to both him and Luofu.

“I don’t think… it’s a good idea at all. I’m sorry.”

There is no hurt of rejection, alluding you to believe he doesn’t consider your choice final.

“Of course, I am not officially proposing just yet.” He chuckles. “We don’t have to make this decision immediately, if you need more time,” he says rationally.

He’s been here for centuries. Whether it takes weeks, months, or even years for you to make up your mind probably doesn’t matter that much to him.

“No. Not now, not ever.” You indulged him in this affair. You enjoyed it even. But the idea of making it something of utmost value scares you. “I don’t know what are you doing.”You stand up, taking a few steps back with wide eyes. “This isn’t funny, Jing Yuan. All I did was spent a few weeks with you alone,” you continue your lament.

You know he doesn’t make big decisions suddenly, therefore, the seed of his supposed infatuation with you must have been planted a long time ago. The fact you went aware for so long is unsettling on its own somehow.

He stands up too, approaching you with certainty in his step, eyes sharply set on you.

“Are you even listening to me?” you snarl. “I am leaving this place.”

“But I love you.”

You stop at the edge of the path separating bushes behind you. You are frozen, unbelieving what your ears just caught. “Y-you don’t, why are you even—”

“But I am. Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”

Perhaps not. Yet to you, these words lack the warm cadence in which they should be uttered. He is warm in his speech, he gazes you at you as though there is no one else, but you just can’t taste it in the words that are always so carefully spoken, that sweetness of the dog days.

You don’t watch where you go and scrape your shoes against, your only objective to get away from him as you retreat. “No, but I really need you to retract these words, Jing Yuan!” you say with desperation amping up, stepping along the angle he corners you through. “Please.”

“I can’t,” he replies apologetically, moving forward. “The heart wants what it wants.”

Before you can even process his apology, you reel backwards. Your foot snags in a gap of the where the cobbles are missing in the path, and a sharp yelp rips from your throat. You manage to catch your balance in time, but panic sets in as your ankle throbs with white-hot pain. You scramble frantically to free your foot, but your desperate movements only wedge it tighter.

“Goodness. Are you alright?” Eyes open with alarm, he quickly grabs you, helping you to free yourself.

“It hurts so bad.” You moan from the pain continuously smiting you.

Jing Yuan kneels down, grasping your leg carefully to inspect it. “It seems just sprained, but rather seriously at that…”

Yet you barely care about your state as you look down at him, fearing the worst.

“Did you just…”

“Did I what?”

“I…” You can’t even form a coherent sentence, especially when he stares back at you in total innocence.

There seems to be genuine worry written all over his face. No sign of enjoyment to suggest he might have orchestrated your accident. You must be really tired, to have these thoughts to infer about him instead of remembering how clumsy you get when stressed.

“Nothing… it just really hurts.”

“I can imagine that.” He looks around, already envisioning what he’ll do to in order to tend to this injury. “Perhaps you should stay here for a little longer. Someone needs to help you move around.”

You’re not sure if you want to stay. You definitely don’t want to pay for it. But, Jing Yuan knows the best.

“Alright. But just for a few days, until I can move around on my own. No more.” You make a attempt to sound strict, as feeble as it is by now.

You don’t even know why you bother to make any ultimatums at this point. Fate seems to have its own conscience, favoring him for centuries too.

“Of course. I wouldn’t hold you here against your will.” He smiles with reassurance, all steady for you. Gathering himself up, he gently grabs you under your knees and shoulders, lifting you off the ground.

“As for my confession, you don’t need to answer it immediately.” The gaze he offers you is simultaneously as cherishing as it is poised, you finally notice. “We can save this conversation for once you have recovered. I’m sure that by then, you’ll make the right decision — and perhaps even see my point. You’ll have enough time to mull over all that.”

For once, you feel unable to speak.

“Perhaps… you will reach the same conclusion as I did,” he adds as he heads inside, looking ahead in search for something auspicious in his bright future.

After all, shaping circumstances to keep your paths intersecting has always been easy for him to finesse, Jing Yuan thinks.

It allows one to survive necessity without admitting enjoyment… and indulge in enjoyment without admitting necessity.

#though... when circumstances are not ideal...

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#though... when circumstances are not ideal...