#tell me you're a cis man without telling me you're a cis man

[wolfertinger]

wis talking about trans men being rewarded for being men / women rewarded for being masculine really hit a fucking nerve in me. sure, on a societal level, if you're stealth and you pass then you gain male privilege. it may be stressful to you, but others won't know that, they'll simply treat you like a man. i'll give her that. however, REWARDED? for the past few YEARS of my life i've been ITCHING to get surgery just so nobody can tell me SHIT about my breasts or my uterus. once they're gone, they're gone, and family will still mourn their loss! while they're still on your persons, people will try every trick in the BOOK just to convince you to keep these things. to essentially, remain a woman. to not transition. even other fucking trans people online will talk about how gross it is to look like an icky cis man! does she think that gnc cis women/pre-T trans men being ALLOWED to dress masculinely is the same as BEING REWARDED? there's a difference between encouragement, and heteronormative cis people begrudgingly allowing you to 'play dress up' in their eyes, because they view you as less threatening to the status quo. you know, because those percieved as women are generally not taken seriously? i could have sworn we had a word for that...

i think she does not actually understand, the goal posts are constantly moved. just because conservatives SAY one thing, does not mean it is true.

for example. for years now, terfs have cried about how "trans people are manipulating tomboys". but now, as "masculine" or gnc women are being attacked, under the very assumption they are trans. these same women are victim blamed, and told to conform more, to be more feminine, so they are not a target. tomboys are often treated as fetish bait to conservatives, seeing them as "fixable women", rather than women comfortable in something, other than what is expected of them.

you can barely be gnc in this society, without people throwing a fit. wis is literally using terf logic, while calling others terfs, to shit on trans men.

[vole-mon-amour]

"wrong face", "wrong voice" how about you stfu?

we all agree that this is the wrongest opinion out there right?

[vivalasthedas]

my general like personal barometer of whether someones criticism and take on veilguard is one i care to give the time of day (regardless of if I agree with it or not) is how weird they are about Taash.

You can not like a character, that's absolutely fine. I do think in past games you have usually had the opportunity to be more of a dick to companions and face consequences of that on your relationship with them , but if the ONLY TIME someone brings this up is specifically to 'tell them to shut the fuck up/stop being such a brat/grow the fuck up' I nope out so damn quick.

[asha-the-confused-lolita]

I just had a discussion with my friend about fanfiction and how we tend to assume that women are the writers without any actual proof. Then I said, hey, I know fanfiction written by gay and trans dudes. But then I remembered, wait, I think I know one writer who just must be cis het based on his work. Anyway, all writers, be honest, who are you?

Please reblog if you're interested in the results.

[nerdvi]

In the wake of the whole james somerton fiasco and inspired by this post, I wanted to share a few of my um, soft signs, like, orange flags to detect when someone is bullshitting you.

First of all, I am on the spectrum which means 1) I tend to take what people say at face value and 2) I have a strong sense of justice which makes me prone to biases, all of which combined means I am at perpetual risk of swallowing the bullshit.

So, what to do about it? You turn on the critical thinking and pay attention.

As one of my favorite youtubers, Hannah Alonzo, likes to say: "consider the source, remember the motive". Who is talking to you?? What do you know about them?? What biases might they have?? How do they interact with your own biases?? Where are they talking from?? Is it anger?? happinness? boredom?? Also, why are they talking to you? Are they trying to sell you something?? Are they trying to convince you and why?? How do they go about the finantial motivation, if present? If you have, in this case, a white cis gay man talking to you as it he has it the worst of the worst in the world, there's probably some exaggeration and you should start to wonder. There's a good chance he's bullshitting you.

How they talk about women and POC No, no, stay with me. There's a rule I had back when I was dating men: Always beware of how they treat their mother. With the exception of extremes like mama's boys and cases of abuse, how a man treats the woman with whom they have that familial bond is a good indicator of how they are going to treat you. Do they berate her? speak ill of her? are aggressive or controlling? do they dismiss her opinions? Same with creators, and by god I tell you, specially cis male creators, queer or otherwise, always always beware of how they speak of women, how they treat women, how they treat POC. Somerton had a weird vendetta against straight women. It went mostly unnoticed. Then, he was dismissive towards lesbians and other queer women and it was once again overlooked. Then he went ahead and made sinophobic content about genres and cultures he knows NOTHING about. Again, it went unchecked. What I am telling you is IT'S NOT NORMAL. Contempt about women and non white-western cultures is not normal and if someone has them as them as an enemy or a scapegoat, they're probably bullshitting you. Take what they say and fact check it, see for yourself.

If at any point in a video or an essay you find yourself thinking "wait, really??" then it's time to fact check. Is it a bit suspicious?? is your logic telling you that's not quite how this works?? Then take to google, my friend, they might be bullshitting you. At worst, you dodge a fake fact, at best, you learn way too much about a topic you were already interested in.

Beware of the lack of nuance. I can not stress this enough. We all love monochrome, but life and societal issues are never black and white. It's just impossible, there's too many factors to consider. If you are being presented situations or anecdotes as absolute truths, you're probably being bullshitted. If it's too good to be true, it is. If it sounds waaay too convenient, it probably is. A good researcher, a serious investigator, will always have some nuance because they have done the work and checked the sources. If someone provides you 1) no nuance and 2) no sources, THEY'RE BULLSHITTING YOU.

These are the ones I can come up with just of the top of my head, I'm sure there's more and please, add them. Remember that naivité isn't a crime, I'm fairly naive and that's made me distrustful, and these are some of the techniques I've found that help me navigate through a world of information without losing myself.

[genderqueerdykes]

coming out as a trans man saved my life.

i was so fucking depressed before i found out what the concept of transgenderism was. forced on to estrogen & progesterone as an intersex teenager to try to "fix" my intersex variation, i was the most miserable i had ever been in my life. changes were happening to my body that i didn't want. i was a miserable wreck who hated my body, hated how i sounded, hated how people saw and addressed me, hated the expectations people placed on my body... everything. i felt like a stranger in my own body. i felt like i was speaking with someone else's voice. everything felt wrong. i was constantly uncomfortable, ready to claw my skin off at any moment. a deep, agonizing, howling pain right in my fucking soul that i couldn't soothe no matter what i did.

finding out that i wasn't forced to stay trapped in my body the way it was, and that i wasn't obligated to continue being addressed by terms that made me feel like i was dying inside literally gave me a new lease on life. i went from hating literally everything to suddenly buzzing with energy, realizing that i could take my life into my hands and change it for the better. for the first time in my entire life, i had hope for the future. the prospect of starting testosterone HRT and stopping the estrogen/prog ... it gave me a rush of emotions unlike anything else i had ever felt. hormones i actually wanted. changes to my body i actually wanted. i felt ALIVE. i saw something i actually wanted deep in my heart and soul for the first time in my life and i reached out and i grabbed it as fast and as hard as i could. and i never let go.

i had something to look forward to. i could finally let my facial hair grow out without judgment. i could finally dress the way i wanted to. i could finally use names and pronouns that felt like mine. yes you can do these things as a cis woman- but that wasn't working for me. pretending that i was "cis"- a dubious concept for myself as an intersex person- no longer worked for me. i couldn't keep up the lie anymore. and not having to felt like throwing off a heavy blanket that was smothering me.

i finally saw light. i could finally breathe. i finally felt like i was in my own body. trans manhood is liberating. trans manhood is empowering. trans manhood is fulfilling. trans manhood is an act of creation, bringing your life and your body and your mind into your hands and doing what you know is right for you. i will never feel shame for this part of myself. it literally saved my life. and if you're a trans man, too, coming out or acknowledging it can save you too. trans manhood is a blessing. don't you ever let anyone tell you it is anything else but that.

i will never go back into the closet.

[ghelgheli]

Afab people can also develop a gendered subjectivity in response to transmisogyny, whether they've been victims of it or not, just as amab people can develop it as a result of misogyny. So, if transfemininity is also defined by this characteristic, afab transfem also fit into it. Your objection to this fact is just a bias based, at best, on ignorance.

-

It's is a bioessentialist prescription because you're adopting a conception of transfemininity that dictates that to be transfeminine, you have to fulfil to expectation of being male assignment at birth. this is no different from someone who uses the bioessentialist conception of womanhood which require female assignement at birth. Both are form bioessentialism that we should not perpetuate at our level, but rather we should re-thinking these gender categories in a way that doesn't align with bioessetialist conceptions

whoops! you caught me out aha. I forgot that afab trans people have subjectivities shaped by transmisogyny. I also forgot that cis womanhood is defined in large part thru transmisogyny: the fear of being clocky, constant affirmation by distancing from the tranny-object except when it's hot to have a bit of a jawline now, palatability as opposition to the monstrosity of being the shemale. I guess cis women are transfeminine too!

let's remember, while we're at it, that transmisogyny is the spectre that haunts the subject of the cis man. the gendered border policing lest one take a step too close to sissification, the prohibition on behaviour that could threaten to make him a girl—oh! cis men are transfeminine too!

in fact, we're all transfeminine! transmisogyny, as the recognition and attempted correction of the tranny-glitch that undoes the threads of gender, asserts itself against all of us. it is impossible to be a gendered subject without having contours shaped by the domineering pressures of transmisogyny, because that is what demands we all fall in line to the gendered nightmare. oops! all transfem!

but wait. a certain group, deprived now of unique identification, has just lost the ability to describe its gendered situation. it has been swallowed up by the seas of inclusive thinking or whatever. I guess that's okay :) I guess we'll drop our complaints :) we were a nuisance in the first place, weren't we? sorry. so sorry for existing this way.

listen to me. listen to me not as your fucking ephemeral gender oracle telling you what you want to hear before being thrown away, not as your bullshit mouthpiece granting you entrance to this mystical domain you want to claim for yourself, but as a god damn person for once—an impossible thing to ask of the transmisogynistic tranny wannabe, I know, but try!

you cannot escape hegemonic gender and its violent devices with flaccid platitudes about "re-thinking these gender categories" as though by changing the names of things you can change the things themselves. transmisogyny is the bioessentialism, and transmisogyny is why I am a failed man—the faggot embodied—something less than both man and woman—a gender traitor specifically against my assignment itself. and if you cannot recognize the unique ways that transmisogyny is deployed unrelentingly and irrevocably against the ones who will never be able to resort to birth assignment as a defense—against the ones who cannot throw their hands up and say, "I was never supposed to be a man in the first place!"—you have not understood the first thing about the root source of transmisogyny, and it is no surprise to me that you have no sense of transfemininity as a political category, a(n un)gendered class.

[catgirlhell]

listen, i just think everyone should become a lot more normal about trans women and black people.

i think if you'd participate in the smear campaigns against a trans woman you'd be willing to lynch a black man, and if you're willing to lynch a black man you're willing to kill a black woman even quicker. i feel like if your reaction to an allegation of abuse against a minority is to condemn and excise a person from community without ever confirming evidence of accusation then you are no different than the monsters who lynched Emmett Till.

you are prepared to maim and destroy a person based on hearsay and you will call it "protecting your community." you are the same as Trump with the Central Park 5. you are every single jury that has put an innocent black man to death. you are the girl on my 5th grade soccer team who tried to get me suspended for not passing the ball to her by crying to the coach and saying i called her a slut, you are my sophomore chemistry teacher who called security on me for "making her feel unsafe," you are my high school debate partner who threatened to strangle me if i made physical contact with her and tell the world i tried to rape her.

you are every single fair-skinned cis girl who has known exactly how blow the whistle that summons dogs that kill negroes, and my job is now to make sure you never come near me and mine for the rest of my life.

[doberbutts]

What do you think gay men are attracted to in men that they can’t be attracted to in women?

It can’t be anything about femininity or masculinity obviously. That’s both sexist, and cultural so can’t be what drives men-only attraction.

It can’t be anything about stated identity because someone could lie just as easily as they could tell the truth in such a statement, and it makes no sense because homosexuality and heterosexuality exists in other species with no stated identities. It’s not like other animals without gender are all pan.

Saying idk it’s the vibes or some indescribable trait men have that women can’t but “I can’t explain” is a nonanswer.

Soooooooo what is it? Or do you think any sexuality but bi/pan is just cultural performance or an identity rather than an inborn orientation?

- [ ]

I know you're saying this to be transphobic but the answer is, genuinely, I don't know because I've never been able to describe what makes me attracted to some people but not others.

Most gay men aren't attracted to every man alive. While sometimes one can name physical traits or personality types, sometimes it really is just "I dunno, there's just something about him". What is that something? What drives that attraction? I don't think anyone has the answer to that. I don't always know what draws me to some men over others- at this point there's often some amount of physical and personality traits that many have in common, but not all of them, and not everyone with those traits catches my eye.

I understand you feel this is a non-answer but it's also the answer given to me by the cis gay men I have dated, as well as the one that most closely aligns with how I experience attraction 🤷‍♂️

If you don't want to date trans people, don't date trans people. I don't want to date someone that doesn't want to date me either. I have enough men thirsting over me and my body that I don't need your approval for anything I do in bed with those men.

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 12.9k words

★ notes; hi, hello part three is here! this is the last part of the series hehe and thank you kindly for patiently waiting <3 this contains non-explicit smut, so it's not that graphic but the goods are there, just a heads up. it's been so fun sharing this with you guys, writing this series genuinely made me love jing yuan so much more, he's such an endearing character to write. trust that i WILL be back for more JY, but for now, i hope you enjoy :3c

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

III. A (PERFECTLY) TIMED SURRENDER

Days later, you take the late train to the Luofu, like ripping off a bandage under the cover of night. Fewer passengers. Fewer chances to second-guess the whole trip. The hum of the engine is steady—something to hold onto while your thoughts spiral.

By the time you reach the hotel, your legs ache and your wrist hurts from dragging your suitcase up the uneven ramps. The lobby’s too bright. The hallway’s too clean. You scan the keycard, step inside, and barely get the door shut before your phone starts buzzing.

Jiaoqiu: you alive?

Jiaoqiu: did the train explode?

Jiaoqiu: i can ring up an ambulance 

You don’t even get a chance to answer before the call comes through. You sigh and accept it.

“Tell me you’re hydrating,” Jiaoqiu says without preamble, voice crisp with the background beeping of hospital monitors. “And that you wore the orthopedic sneakers I recommended. Or are you planning to let your spine compress into powder before your guest lecture?”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sink onto the edge of the bed.

“Hello to you too,” you murmur. “Aren’t you in the middle of your shift?”

He clicks his tongue. “I have five minutes before I need to run an ECG and bully someone into doing their rounds. Talk fast.”

You pick at the corner of the hotel blanket. “I haven’t even unpacked.”

“But you have checked all escape routes in case of a sudden general-shaped emergency?”

“You’re mixing metaphors. He’s a professor.”

“Sure,” Jiaoqiu drawls, “and I’m a resident who gets enough sleep. Humor me—have you seen him yet?”

“No, Jiaoqiu. It's three in the morning,” you say too quickly. “And I won’t. Hopefully. Feixiao said I didn’t have to see him.”

There’s a pause on the line, the kind that means he’s making a face.

“You know,” he says slowly, “for someone who writes so well about emotional honesty in literature, you are spectacularly bad at applying it to your own life.”

You lie down fully on the bed, one arm flung over your eyes. The jab stings, but not as much as you thought it would. “I came here to give lectures and not disgrace the Yaoqing campus. Not to do… whatever the hell you're insinuating.”

“This is you spiraling because you’re back on the Luofu and you haven’t figured out if you want to punch him, kiss him, or cry about it.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“No you’re not,” Jiaoqiu simpers, just as a nurse yells something unintelligible in the background. “Okay, I really do have to go. But hey—if you need me to fake a medical emergency to get you out of a dinner with the literature faculty, my pager’s on.”

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, and for once, the teasing slips out of his voice. “You’ve done harder things than this.”

You know he means it. And you wish that helped.

“Sleep if you can,” your best friend adds. “And drink some water, for once in your life.”

The call ends, and the silence that follows is too loud. You let it settle around you like static, eyes on the ceiling. The bed’s too soft. The air’s too dry. And the city outside hasn’t changed a bit.

Unfortunately, neither have you.

The morning comes too early.

You sleep like a stone and wake up with the creases of the pillow pressed into your cheek, your mouth dry as paper. Unfortunately for you, there’s no time to wallow. You shower quickly, tug on your nicest set of “please take me seriously” professor clothes, and remind yourself that this is what you came here to do.

Before you leave, you hold a staring contest between yourself and the complimentary water bottle on the night stand. Jiaoqiu's doctor voice hovers in the depths of your mind, preaching about getting at least eight glasses in you everyday.

You chug it down with a forlorn sigh.

The Luofu campus feels the same. Maybe the lampposts are newer, and the fountains finally got cleaned, but the bones of the place are untouched. Stepping back onto it is like cracking open a memory and finding the ink hasn’t faded at all.

Professor Ying meets you just outside the entrance to the Literature Department, beaming like he’s greeting a prodigal daughter.

“You're here,” he greets with a theatrical flourish, “Back from the academic wilderness!”

You try not to laugh, but it's a futile effort. “It’s only been a couple years.”

“Too long,” he insists, pulling you into a brief, careful hug that smells like old books and black tea. “I’ve read your symposium paper three times. Feixiao sent it to me the moment it came out.”

“She did?” you ask, startled.

“Oh yes. She was very smug about it. Said, ‘Didn’t I tell you she’d be brilliant?’ and then called me an idiot for not stealing you back from Yaoqing sooner.”

You wince. “Please don’t let her do that.”

Professor Ying chuckles and waves a hand. “No promises. Now come—let me show you around the old place. We’ve rearranged the faculty lounge, and the printer still jams the same way.”

He walks you through the department like it’s a garden he’s proud of. Students trickle past with coffees in hand, the halls buzz with soft conversation, and the sunlight filters in through windows you used to nap under. You still remember which step on the west stairwell creaks. You still know the exact angle to push open the back door when it sticks.

It’s a kind of ache, how much you remember.

Professor Ying opens the lecture hall door for you like it’s a ceremony. “You’ll be in here tomorrow. The class looked excited when I told them—and a little terrified. I may have said you once debated a visiting scholar into submission using nothing but classical poetry when you were still an undergrad.”

“That’s slander,” you snort.

“It’s good press.”

You laugh, easing into your skin a little more with every step.

For a moment, it feels like you never left.

After a long day spent catching up with old professors you now call colleagues, classmates who never quite left the area, and (thankully) not a single run-in with the ghosts that still haunt the edges of your thoughts, you march back to your hotel room.

You sit at the narrow desk by the window, a cup of lukewarm tea cooling beside your tablet. Outside, the maglev sighs past in the distance like a ghost trailing the skyline. Your room is still and sterile, the air humming low and steady. On the screen of your laptop, a lecture outline glows a soft, officious blue—half-finished, overly formal, and far too rehearsed.

You scroll through it once, then close the file with a sigh. It reads like someone trying to prove she belongs here. Someone performing competence rather than believing in it.

Leaning back, you rub the ache from your neck and open a new document.

Lecture Title: When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

You pause, watching the words settle across the page, lips twitching slightly. 

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

Now, this feels closer. Not a defense or an argument. Just a question worth sitting with. The kind of question that curls through a classroom like smoke, unanswered and all the more alive for it.

Your fingers start moving again, slowly at first, then steadier as the shape of the lecture emerges.

You think of old paperbacks worn at the edges, of sleepless nights spent re-reading passages that made you feel seen, even if you didn’t quite know why. You think of a certain professor’s voice asking, “What makes this narrator trustworthy to you?” as if peeling back the layers of the page could reveal something about yourself, too.

As an added flourish, you list a few key texts—familiar ones, but sharp enough to cut:

The Soldier’s Regret, where the narrator insists he’s dying until the final line sees him stepping onto a transport home.

A City Beneath the Rain, a Xianzhou classic where a poet mourns a lover who may never have existed at all.

An early modern novel you loved, written entirely in letters, where each writer swears they’re telling the truth—even when their stories contradict.

The outline comes to life as the hours stretch on, your tea long cold, the hotel dim and quiet around you. It’s not quite done, but it breathes now—something that can flex and shift in a room full of undergrads who’ve yet to be told their instincts matter.

Just before you close the file, you add one last question at the bottom:

What does a narrator’s unreliability tell us about ourselves, when we choose to believe them anyway?

You sit back and let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment. The city outside hasn’t changed. But maybe the way you speak to it has.

Afternoons on the Luofu are always a little too bright, a little too fast.

You tighten your grip on your satchel as you weave through the familiar hallways, the low buzz of students and faculty washing over you like a tide you almost recognize. Professor Ying is already in the lecture hall when you arrive, flipping through a stack of notes he probably won’t use. He looks up as you step inside and grins, bright and familiar.

When he introduces you, he covers all the bases—your name first, then a flourish of accolades: recipient of the university’s best dissertation award, now a rising scholar in modern literary analysis, and a proud alumna of the department. He wears his pride openly, like a badge.

There’s polite applause. Some students look curious. Others scroll quietly on their phones. A few stare blankly, the way only undergrads facing an 2 p.m. lecture can.

You’re gathering your notes when a hand shoots up from the third row—hesitant at first, then more determined when you nod to acknowledge it.

The student, a boy with sleep-mussed hair and a skeptical squint, lowers his hand and asks, “If you were produced by the Luofu campus... why are you teaching at Yaoqing?”

The room goes a little still. Even Professor Ying looks briefly thrown, his easy smile faltering. It's not a rude question, just blunt in that way only undergrads can get away with—earnest, oblivious, and weirdly cutting all at once.

You don’t miss a beat. But somewhere under the practiced smile, something twists—a flicker of a memory:

Jing Yuan’s office, sunlight spilling across the floor, catching on the glossy leaves of the dracaena you'd nursed back to health together—Commander in Leaf, standing sentinel by the window. The slow, deliberate way he’d said, You’ll make a very kind professor one day.

You blink once, clearing your thoughts like dust off a shelf.

“I like to think the Luofu taught me how to think,” you say lightly, “but Yaoqing gave me the space to put it to use.”

A few students glance at each other, murmuring. Professor Ying recovers with a small chuckle, tapping his knuckles lightly against the podium as if to say good answer.

You smile, smooth down the front of your blouse again, and move on.

“I won’t keep you long,” you say, even though your lecture outline stretches past forty minutes. “But I’d like to talk about something we all rely on, whether we realize it or not—narrators. Specifically, the ones who lie to us.”

That gets a reaction—small but immediate. One student lowers their phone. Another tilts their head.

You write on the board:

When Literature Lies to Us: The Story of the Unreliable Narrator

Then underneath:

Why do we trust stories? What happens when they betray us?

You start slow. Not with definitions or textbook terms, but with questions that itch at the back of the brain. You ask them to think of a time they realized a narrator couldn’t be trusted—how it felt, what it changed about the story, what it changed about them as readers. You move through your examples—the soldier who survives the war he insists is fatal. The poet who mourns a lover never confirmed to be real. The letter-based novel where truth tilts depending on who’s writing it.

“The narrator,” you say, “isn’t a window. They’re a person. And people forget. People deceive. Sometimes they don’t even mean to.”

One student raises a hand. She’s got sharp eyes, a pen tucked behind one ear. “But if they’re lying… why do we still root for them?”

You pause, a smile curving across your face.

“Because we want something from them. Not facts. Not accuracy. Something else. Connection, perhaps? Or even catharsis. A version of the truth that feels more real than reality.”

A murmur ripples through the room—thoughtful, restless. You see it land.

By the time you’re winding down, the energy’s shifted. A boy in the back who looked half-asleep is now furiously scribbling notes. Another student lingers after class, asking about a memoir she read last semester where the author recants half the book in the epilogue. You answer what you can. Suggest a few titles. Smile when Professor Ying pats your shoulder on the way out.

“You had them,” he says. “Not many can say that before the first cup of tea.”

You shrug, still buzzing, still catching your breath.

“It helps,” you say, “when you care for the things you talk about.”

The rush of the lecture leaves a strange, lingering hum in your chest—an aftershock of nerves, adrenaline, and something warmer you don’t want to name. You tell yourself you should head back to your hotel, or get some lunch at the university cafeteria. Anything to stop your thoughts from buzzing too loud.

But instead, you wander.

It’s too easy to fall into old habits—feet tracing half-forgotten paths, mind slipping sideways into memory. Before you know it, the signs around you shift: History Department, East Wing.

The halls here are quieter, lined with heavy, wood-paneled doors and dusty glass displays of ancient banners and ceremonial armor. The floor creaks in the same familiar places. The scent of old paper and sun-warmed stone rises up to meet you, achingly unchanged.

You round the corner before you can think better of it.

There it is: the office tucked neatly into the bend of the hallway, where the afternoon light used to pool like a lazy cat across the threshold.

The door looks the same—scuffed at the bottom from years of use. But the plaque beside it catches the light too sharply, too new. When you step closer, you find that the name engraved in sleek, unblemished characters is not his. You don't even notice how your heart sinks at the sight of it.

For a moment, you just stand there, reading and rereading it, as if expecting the letters to rearrange themselves under your gaze.

But they don’t.

“Well, well. I thought I saw a familiar face sneaking around.”

You start, then relax instantly as Professor Yukong steps into view, arms crossed, the same amused smile tugging at her lips. She looks exactly the same, down to the deep green scarf she always wears when the weather starts to dip.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” you say, which is the sort of thing people only say when they absolutely are.

She hums. “Of course not.” Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a piece of hard candy, holding it out without ceremony. “Still like lychee?”

You take it, smiling before you even realize it. “You really never stopped doing this?”

"Some traditions are worth keeping," Yukong says with a wink. She steps closer, peering at you with an assessing glance. "It’s been too long, little one. You’re thinner than I remember. Are they working you too hard at Yaoqing?"

You shake your head, pocketing the candy. "Maybe."

Yukong hums, but doesn’t push. Her gaze flicks briefly toward the office door, and a knowing smile curls at the edges of her mouth.

"You know," she says, voice light, "this hallway’s been quieter these days. Not quite the same without certain... noisy neighbors."

Your expression slips before you can stop it.

She pretends not to notice. "The new fellow’s decent enough. Keeps his door closed, doesn't trail students behind him like ducklings. Not much for houseplants, though." She tilts her head, studying you over the rim of her glasses. "Shame."

You fold your arms loosely across your chest, playing along. "Sounds like a very serious improvement." 

"Oh, tremendously serious," Yukong agrees, eyes glinting. "But I'd say it's an even bigger improvement for that last tenant. He moved up in the world. Some might say way up."

You raise an eyebrow despite yourself.

Yukong smiles, pleased that she's gotten your attention. "New Dean of the History Department. His office on the top floor now. They even gave him a window big enough to land an airship, if you can believe it."

The news settles over you strangely, making your brows knit together. Jing Yuan? The Dean? You don't remember seeing that specific title in his list of credentials back at the symposium. This must be a recent development. 

...or that pesky professor just didn't want to brag.

"He's been busy these days," she adds, her teasing softening into something almost kind. "Too busy, if you ask me. The students miss him. Faculty too, though they’d rather eat chalk than admit it."

You force a small smile, your fingers tightening around the strap of your satchel.

"Good for him," you say, and you mean it. Mostly.

Yukong watches you for a beat longer, her smile turning a little wistful, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she drops another foil packet in your hands.

"Take another," she says. "You look like you need it."

You laugh again and accept, slipping a second candy into your pocket like a charm. 

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, soft and gray at first, then heavier, darker, like they’ve been waiting for the perfect moment to fall. You adjust your satchel and quicken your pace, already picturing the kettle in your hotel room and the dry change of clothes folded neatly in your suitcase.

It’s time to leave campus. You’ve done your part—guest lecture delivered, awkward reunions sidestepped, mostly. There’s no need to linger.

Your steps slow near the path that forks toward the Humanities Building. Just for a second.

Top floor. Big window. The Dean’s office.

You imagine it, without meaning to—how it must look now. Probably neater than his old office. More formal. Less green. You wonder if Commander in Leaf made the move with him. You wonder if he still lets the sunlight in.

No, you think, firm and fast. No good would come of it.

You pivot toward the opposite direction, toward the gate. The greenhouse crosses your mind next, like a flicker of a different life. But that, too, you let go. You don’t need to revisit every corner of the past to know it still aches.

Then the sky growls low, and you’re rounding the last corner when you see him.

Jing Yuan stands half-sheltered beneath the overhang by the east wing annex, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other holding a phone to his ear. His coat is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly. A folder is clutched against his side in a way that looks almost careless, and even if his silver hair has always looked professionally unkempt, there's a disheveled air to it that suggests he might be just a little stressed out. 

He looks different. Not unrecognizable or diminished, but human in a way memory never allowed.

Your body angles away before you even think, the instinct to retreat swift and familiar. It would be easy. One turn, a few quick steps, and this could remain a moment left unclaimed.

But then he lifts his head.

Those golden eyes, steady and unerring even in the fading light, find you the way they always have—without hesitation, without question, as if part of him had been waiting all this time without ever meaning to.

For a moment that feels stretched thin and breakable, you stand there, caught between habit and longing, between every line you once drew and the way he looks at you now, as if none of them ever mattered.

Jing Yuan speaks into the phone, low and brief, the words too faint to catch. A moment later, he slips the device into the pocket of his trousers and pushes away from the doorframe. He straightens—not with the polished ease you remember, but with something rougher, wearier, real.

The distance hangs there, dense and humming, like a question neither of you knows how to ask.

And then he says your name.

Not sharply, not even expectantly. Just your name, shaped by something quieter than regret and heavier than memory. The sound of it cracks something open in you.

You could turn away. You should. The kindness would be in the leaving, in preserving whatever fragile peace you've managed to build.

But you don’t.

Your shoes scuff softly against the pavement, and in the hush that follows, the wind shifts, carrying the scent of rain.

He watches you come closer, never once looking away. Up close, you see the exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, the ink stains along his fingers, the disarray he once would have hidden without a second thought.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Jing Yuan says to you, voice low and rough around the edges, as if unused to being this bare in your presence. “I didn’t mean to...” He glances down, mouth twisting briefly, then lifts his eyes again. “...catch you like this.”

You almost smile at the absurdity of it—as if any meeting between you now could be anything but inevitable.

Instead, you shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Jing Yuan exhales, a sound somewhere between a breath and a worn-out laugh, and rakes a hand through his hair—only making the mess worse. His gaze moves over you, steady and searching, lingering on small, familiar details: the way you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, the faint crease between your brows, how you stand like you might bolt if given the slightest reason.

“You’re here,” he says.

The words are simple. Deceptively small. But they land hard, knocking something loose in your chest.

You clear your throat. “Just until tomorrow.”

It’s barely a defense. Barely anything at all. His hand flexes once around the folder he carries, then falls still again. For a moment, you think he might let you go. That he’ll spare you the awkwardness, the ache. But instead, after a pause, he shifts his weight and asks:

“Would you walk with me?”

No demand. No expectation. Only an offering—set gently between you, like a bridge you could choose to cross, or leave untouched.

You should refuse. You know that. You should say you’re tired, or late, or that the rain is about to fall. But before you can think better of it, you nod—small, instinctive. 

“Okay.”

The faintest breath escapes him, but Jing Yuan says nothing as he steps back just enough to make room for you beside him.

You fall into step together, the annex wall sliding past on one side, the wet gleam of the gardens catching the silver light on the other. His pace is slower than you remember—not sluggish, but deliberate, as if he’s learned there’s no need to rush anymore.

The silence that gathers between you isn’t brittle. It’s heavier than comfort but lighter than regret—an old rhythm you didn’t realize you still knew how to follow.

After a while, Jing Yuan says, almost casually, “I was at a meeting, but I had to step out to take that call.”

You glance at him. His hair’s still mussed from his hands, another smudge of ink lingering on his knuckles.

“And you just left?” you ask, raising a brow.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “You can do the same thing if you so wished. Free will has its perks.”

You huff a quiet sound, half disbelief, half amusement. “That's what people normally call terrible leadership.”

“Really? I'd like to call it delegation,” he says easily. “An essential skill, grossly overlooked.”

“For good reason.”

The banter slips out before you can guard against it, familiar enough to be dangerous. You look away, toward the narrowing path ahead, and try not to feel how effortless it still is—how the space between you folds itself back into something it once knew by heart.

You aren’t the same people who parted ways all those years ago.

And yet, standing here, side by side, you can’t help but ache for how easily you once fit—and how, somehow, you still do.

"You should go back," you say after a stretch of silence, trying to infuse your voice with lightness. "They’re probably wondering where their fearless leader wandered off to."

He doesn’t speed up. In fact, his pace stays steady as ever.

Jing Yuan glances at you, the dryness in his eyes cutting through the moment like a quiet truth. "If I leave," he says, "how will I know you’ll still be here when I get back?"

The words hang there, not heavy with accusation but with something quieter, more dangerous. An openness you aren’t sure you can bear.

You stop walking. So does he.

The breeze rustles through the leaves, and for a moment, the world feels a little too still. All you can hear is the hum of the annex lights.

"I’ll be here," you say, your voice lower now, softer. "Let's have lunch tomorrow. We’ll catch up."

You mean it—of course you do—but even you hear the way it rings: a polite diversion, a way to push the conversation into the safer distance of the future.

And damn him, Jing Yuan hears it too.

"No," he says, with a quiet finality that doesn’t invite discussion. "Dinner. Tonight."

Your heart stutters.

Before you can find a reason to decline—fatigue, the night, the thousand little excuses—you hear him finish, almost gently: "I’d rather not wait until tomorrow. Not if you’re willing."

The weight of that "willing" breaks something inside you. It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. As if he’s still giving you an out, and he’s afraid of pressing too hard and losing what little ground he’s reclaimed.

You look at him, really look at him, and you realize it’s not the waiting you’re afraid of.

"All right," you say, the word slipping out before you can second-guess it, the surrender in it quieter than you expected. 

And for the first time tonight, he smiles. Not the faint, polite curve you know he shows the world, but something quieter. Something real.

It lodges itself deep in your chest, where all your carefully built walls used to be.

As promised, you waited for Jing Yuan's meeting to conclude, which didn't take too long, gratefully. Though he insisted that you could wait for him in his new office, you declined before he could even finish the sentence. You weren't ready for that. Not yet. 

Instead, you lingered by the empty seats near the entrance to the east wing annex, listening to the echo of footsteps in the hall, watching the windows darken as evening gave way to night.

By the time he reappeared, coat in hand, the rain had already started—soft, persistent, the kind that settles in like a quiet thought you can’t quite shake.

You hadn’t brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn’t.

Naturally, Jing Yuan had, and now the two of you walk beneath the narrow span of his umbrella, shoulder to shoulder, closer than you’ve been in years. Rain taps gently around you, but beneath the fabric, it’s warm—quiet in a way that feels almost private. You keep your eyes ahead, pretending not to notice the warmth between you—that it doesn’t feel like something you’ve missed.

Because how can you long for something that never was?

The familiar glow of a hotpot restaurant blinks ahead. You pause with him beneath the sagging awning, rainwater dripping in lazy rivulets off the umbrella’s edge. For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain drums softly above you, steady and unchanging. 

Then Jing Yuan pushes the door open, and you follow him inside—into a place that still smells like broth and memory, like nothing’s changed at all.

The chipped sign still wobbles in the breeze, and the heavy scent of broth and chili oil clings to the doorway like a permanent welcome. Inside, the scratched tables and handwritten specials plastered on the walls haven’t changed, either. Even the crooked "Cash Only!" sign still hangs stubbornly above the register.

You almost expect to hear Jiaoqiu’s voice ringing out over the chatter, arguing over spice levels, dropping chopsticks between rounds of hotpot. Instead, it’s quiet—almost wistful, like the place is suspended in time.

You linger just inside the entrance, phone in hand, caught between the past you knew so well and the strangely fragile present.

On impulse, you snap a few pictures—the menu, the battered counter, the little window where steam fogs up the glass, all of it somehow untouched, preserved.

Not two seconds later, a text notification pops up.

 

Jiaoqiu: MY KINGDOM.

Jiaoqiu: 🔥🍲🔥🍲🔥🍲

Jiaoqiu: do they have those do it yourself takeout bundles now

Jiaoqiu: if they do, PLEASE bring some home

Me: You know Mr. Choi doesn't believe in innovation.

Me: The best thing I can bring home to you is me.

Jiaoqiu: eh, i'll take it.

Jiaoqiu: wait a minute 

Jiaoqiu: why are you there, you never go there alone

Jiaoqiu: who are you with????

Jiaoqiu: answer carefully

 

You suppress a smile, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Across from you, Jing Yuan is studying the menu, his focus sharp enough to suggest he’s planning a military campaign rather than picking dinner. You tuck your phone away before you can do something foolish—like tell Jiaoqiu the truth.

"You sure you can handle it?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

Jing Yuan leans back in his chair, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the picture of nonchalance. "I'm sure."

You give him a look. "They don’t joke around here. Medium spice is basically a dare."

"I'll manage," he insists, which is exactly the kind of overconfident answer you expect.

You hide your grin behind your menu.

The food arrives fast—plates of thinly sliced meats, mushrooms, greens, and a bubbling pot already simmering at the center of the table. The broth you picked is bright red, oily, and angry-looking.

Within minutes, Jing Yuan is coughing discreetly into his sleeve, eyes watering slightly.

You reach over with the calm cruelty of long practice and plop another pepper-laden meat slice into his bowl.

"You could surrender," you say, utterly deadpan.

He gives you a betrayed look that almost makes you pity him.

"My best friend, Jiaoqiu would've loved this," you add, laughing as you pop a non-lethal mushroom into your mouth. "He used to sneak ghost peppers into the hotpot just to see who cracked first. You would’ve been prime entertainment."

"He sounds like a menace," Jing Yuan says hoarsely.

That makes two of you, you muse only to yourself.

He looks... lighter this way. Less like the man who stands in doorways, all unreadable eyes and quiet intensity. In moments like this, he feels more like a person you remember—a man who lets you get away with your mischief, who lets go for just a moment.

Spicy downfall aside, you both fall into easy conversation—old stories, half-forgotten classmates, absurd tales of Jiaoqiu’s failed cooking experiments. The laughter slips in between your words, slow and genuine.

But then, somewhere between the second round of meat and the third refill of tea, the air changes. It’s subtle, a shift barely noticeable. But it’s there—the way the conversation begins to slow, the pauses that linger a little longer.

The air between you hums, heavy with more than just steam. You set your chopsticks down carefully, aligning them with a precision that fools no one. 

Across from you, Jing Yuan watches, quiet and steady. He doesn’t push. He’s giving you space, giving you the choice. To cross this battlefield or to retreat, like you’ve both done so many times before.

"You’re waiting for me to say it," you murmur.

The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. "I’m waiting for you to stop pretending we don’t already know."

Your heart pounds once, a desperate thud against your ribs. Not from fear. From something that feels suspiciously like hope.

You draw a slow breath, tasting the words before you speak them. "We weren’t just arguing about literature and history at the symposium, were we?"

The memory flickers sharp and vivid—the way your words had clashed like blades, how each rebuttal left you a little more breathless, a little more exposed. You remember Zichen’s teasing afterward, Yingyue and Lihua's boisterous approval. But what holds the most gravity during those three days wasn't the keynote speeches. Or the panels. Or the debates.

Your lips still tingle from the spice of the broth, but beneath that, there’s something else—an unfamiliar warmth that lingers. The faint memory of his breath, so close, and the press of his hand against your cheek, as if he’d been holding onto something more than just the moment. 

Across the table, Jing Yuan’s eyes catch the light—deep gold, unwavering.

"If that was a debate," he says, voice dipping lower, "it’s the only one I’ve ever wanted to lose."

The table between you feels too wide now. Too much distance when you’ve already come this far.

You think back to the lecture you shared this afternoon. The unreliable narrator you told the students about whispers cruelly in the quiet corners of your mind, threading doubt through your ribs like a slow, relentless tide.

It’s too much. It’s too close. You will ruin this.

You know it lies.

Yet, you still listen.

"You were my professor. I was just your TA," you whisper, the old excuse slipping free before you can stop it. "It would’ve been wrong. It would've ruined everything."

For a long moment, Jing Yuan remains silent, his gaze steady, not quite judging, but heavy with thought. His fingers hover near the edge of his cup, unmoving, as if your words have settled between you like an unwelcome guest, lingering in the air.

There’s something almost imperceptible in the way his eyes shift, as if he’s measuring more than the space between you. A flicker of something deeper crosses his expression—something close to regret, but not quite. He exhales, slow and controlled, the faintest tremor beneath the surface.

At last, his voice breaks the stillness, though it carries a weight that suggests more than mere disagreement.

“You’re not just my student anymore.”

It’s not a reprimand. Not a dismissal. Just a simple truth, cutting through the deafening silence.

“And I,” Jing Yuan adds, quieter still, “have been waiting for you to see it.”

The ache in you grows so sharp you almost flinch from it. All those years spent holding your breath. All those moments you tried to name as nothing.

You look at him, stripped of every title, every excuse. Right now, he's just Jing Yuan—impossibly patient, as if he would wait forever if you asked.

"You still want this?" you ask, and your voice trembles just slightly with how much you want the answer to be yes. 

Jing Yuan leans in, slow and deliberate, as if he means to erase the distance between you piece by piece. His elbows rest on the table; his hand inches forward, close enough that if you reached out, you could brush your fingers against his. His smile finds you, quiet and unhurried, and it feels like coming home.

"I never stopped," he says.

And just like that, the world shifts.

Small. Tremendous. Inevitable.

Your fingers brush against his—tentative at first, a whisper of contact. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, palm open, offering himself to you with a quiet certainty. The touch is simple, almost laughably so. No grand declarations or dizzying fireworks—only warmth, steady and unwavering, grounding you in a way nothing else ever has.

His thumb traces the back of your hand once, slow enough to make your heart stutter. When you glance up, he’s watching you with a softness that nearly undoes you completely.

"You know," you say, a broken sort of laugh catching at the end of your words, "Zichen would lose his mind if he knew we were holding hands at a hotpot restaurant."

Jing Yuan’s smile deepens, wry and unbearably fond. "Then we’ll simply have to tell him it’s been a long time coming."

Something in you breaks open at that. Something tender and foolish and irreparably yours.

"It has been," you whisper, squeezing his hand as you ground yourself in the moment. 

For a long while, you simply sit there, breathing the same air, the world around you blurring until there is nothing left except the two of you.

And for the first time in years, you don't feel like you’re balancing on the edge of something terrifying. You feel like you’re standing on solid ground.

Right where you’re supposed to be.

When you make it back to Yaoqing the next day, you let your suitcase down on the floor with a soft thud.

You toe off your shoes and cross to the balcony, the city basking in sunlight, its streets awake and bustling beneath a clear sky. Your little garden is exactly as you left it—orderly rows of potted herbs, trailing flowers reaching lazily toward the warmth, their colors vivid and alive in the light.

The contrast is stark, almost jarring after the damp chill of the Luofu night, where the rain had hung heavily like an unspoken thought.

Carefully, you pull a small pot from a paper bag that's accompanied you back home.

A dracaena stem cutting, the leaves still tender and new. Jing Yuan had given it to you when he saw you off the platform earlier this morning, wrapped in a makeshift sling of old newspaper, like something precious. Commander in Leaf told me to send you off with one of its offspring. 

You're grinning before you realize it. 

You set the pot down by the railing, nudging it into place among your other plants. It fits easily, like it had been waiting for a space here all along. Your fingers linger on the soil, smoothing it out with practiced care.

You're still crouched there, brushing a bit of dirt from your hands, when the front door rattles.

Jiaoqiu stumbles in a second later, still in his hospital ID badge and wrinkled shirt, his hair flattened strangely on one side like he’d tried—and failed—to nap in the break room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"You’re back?" he blurts, blinking like he’s seeing a ghost. "Already?"

You nod, standing up and dusting off your knees. "Got an early shuttle off the Luofu."

He blinks a few more times, as if trying to make sense of the timeline through sheer exhaustion. "You crossed half the goddamn continent overnight and beat me home from a shift?"

You shrug. "Missed my plants."

He snorts, rubbing his face with one hand. "Unbelievable." But there’s a smile tucked under all the grogginess, fond and exasperated at once. "Anything good happen while you were off having your midlife crisis?"

You hesitate, just a second too long.

His eyes sharpen immediately, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Don't tell me... Oh my god."

You glance down, suddenly sheepish, then back up. "I had hotpot with someone."

"Someone." He squints at you, suspicious. 

"Jing Yuan."

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jiaoqiu lets out a full-body groan and throws his bag onto the couch with an unnecessarily dramatic thud.

"You’re telling me," he starts, stabbing a finger at you, "that you made a core memory with your boyfriend at our favorite hotpot place?"

You blink. "First of all, not my boyfriend."

Jiaoqiu waves you off, too tired for precision. "Core. Memory," he repeats, as if personally wounded. "Overshadowing years of beautiful, platonic hotpot tradition. The betrayal."

You laugh, too relieved and too tired yourself to take him seriously. "You’re ridiculous."

He sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand lost hotpot dinners on his back. Then, quieter, almost grudging: "I’m happy for you."

You soften, the tightness in your chest easing a little. "Thanks, Jiao."

He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, shuffling toward the hall. "Tell your not-boyfriend I’m billing him for emotional damages."

You catch the faint slam of his door as he disappears into his room, leaving you alone again in the soft, growing light. Outside, the dracaena sapling catches a beam of morning sun, its tiny leaves trembling in the breeze. 

You smile, and this time, it feels like you’re finally growing into something new.

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 10:12 AM

Hi Professor,

It's been a while since I sent one of these. No slides attached, no looming deadlines, just a slightly belated thank-you.

Thank you for the hotpot. And the dracaena cutting. And for not making it weird, even though I probably did, several times.

Private Leaf has officially joined the ranks on my balcony. He's holding the line bravely between the rosemary and a basil plant that thinks it’s a tree. Early reports suggest high morale.

Hope you’re settling back into the Luofu without incident, or at least with manageable levels of it.

All the best.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:03 AM

Hello,

I'm relieved to hear Private Leaf has survived the initial deployment. I trust he'll adapt quickly under your capable command.

As for making it "weird"—if you did, I was too busy trying not to burn my mouth to notice. (You were right about the spice level. I am still recovering.)

The Luofu persists. Minor uprisings among the administration, but nothing beyond the usual skirmishes.

I’m glad you wrote. Even without haunted slides or rebellious citations.

— JY

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Me To: Jing Yuan Date: Monday 11:27 AM

Glad to hear the Luofu remains unconquered. I was worried they might stage a coup in your absence and replace you with a sentient syllabus.

Also: you have no one to blame but yourself re: the spice level. I distinctly remember offering an alternative. You chose valor (and chili oil).

Anyway, I'll be moving Private Leaf to my office soon. If he turns feral without Commander in Leaf around to supervise, I reserve the right to file an official complaint. 

Thanks again. For everything.

 

Subject: RE: Hotpot Diplomacy From: Jing Yuan To: Me Date: Monday 11:51 AM

If Private Leaf does go rogue, I recommend appealing to his better nature. Or bribery. That tends to work on young recruits.

You’re welcome. And if you ever need reinforcements—plants, spices, or otherwise—you know where to find me.

(Preferably somewhere outside a boiling cauldron of doom.)

— JY

In the months that follow that quiet but eventful dinner, you and Jing Yuan fall into some sort of routine. 

First are the visits. 

 

(The distance between the Luofu and Yaoqing isn’t something to scoff at. It takes a three-hour train ride for either of you to make the trip. And given how plainly Jing Yuan had said he wanted to pursue a romantic relationship with you—verbatim, so you couldn’t twist his words into something safer—figuring out how to manage that distance was the first obstacle on the list. Between your stacked schedules, it all felt a little impossible.

But Jing Yuan has a way of making things happen, when he truly wants to.

You never really expected him to follow through so effortlessly. Yet sure enough, every two weeks, Jing Yuan's visits become a rhythm—a quiet but steady thread between the two of you.

At first, it feels like a formality, just another professional visit between departments. Even Feixiao has vouched for his recurring presence at Yaoqing, but there’s something deeper in the way he manages to carve out space for you in the midst of his packed schedule.

And, in that small window of time, you realize that his visits aren’t just about business.

They’re about you.

Sometimes, you’ll find Jing Yuan standing outside your office, with that soft, knowing smile of his, always a little more than what you expect. The first time it happened, there was no forewarning, no heads up. You simply answered the annoyingly long string of knocks on your door with a shout directed at who you thought was Zichen, only to be proven wrong.

Shortly after, he made a home of your office chair’s twin—his coat slung over the back, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, your copy of Courts and Dust balanced in one hand. The light filtering through the window gives his hair a sun-warmed sheen, and the faint scent of the tea you made earlier still lingers between you.

Every so often, your gaze drifts to the faint scar etched along his inner forearm. A jagged line that speaks of something distant, a memory he keeps hidden. You've come a long way in many ways, but that question lingers.

Despite everything, you still don't have the heart to ask.

“You annotated this section twice,” Jing Yuan says without looking up, oblivious.

You swallow thickly, eyes returning to the spreadsheet of grades before you. “Because students never read it the first time.”

There’s a beat of silence, the kind that stretches gently but never pulls. He flips the page. You pretend not to notice that his eyes haven’t moved. Somehow, you feel like the roles have been reversed between the two of you. 

You shouldn’t be used to this already—his presence here, the second mug beside yours on the windowsill, the little routine forming like threads tugged quietly into place. And yet, the air doesn’t feel like it did on the Luofu, when everything between you was uncertain and bracing and unspoken.

“Do you always work like this?” he asks eventually.

You arch an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid if you stop, something will catch up.”

That hits a little too close. You shut your laptop.

“I meant what I said. About pursuing you." He closes the book, careful with the fragile spine, and leans forward just slightly. “I’m not expecting you to leap right away. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t say anything for a while. But your hand drifts to the edge of the pot by the window—Private Leaf, sturdy and greener than ever—and you tilt it just so the sunlight catches the newest leaf.)

 

Then the phone calls.

 

(Jing Yuan usually gets in touch past midnight, and the hum of your desk lamp is the only thing louder than your heartbeat. Your students’ papers are spread in messy stacks, but all of them go forgotten the moment his voice filters through the line.

“You’re still up.”

“You’re one to talk.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a hand brushing your sleeve more than silence. On the other end, you hear the faint sound of his kettle. He’s brewing tea, probably that floral blend he pretends not to like when he’s on campus.

“Did you eat?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “Did you?”

“Answering a question with a question. You really are a professor.”

“You really are nosy.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, and you imagine the curve of his mouth, the way he probably leans back in his chair as though he’s still in your office, opposite your desk. The space between Yaoqing and the Luofu isn’t short—not with classes, not with time—but somehow, his voice manages to bridge it like a warm coat thrown over your shoulders.

There’s no pressing need to define anything just yet. Only the ritual of it: he calls every other night when you bring your work back home, and you text him photos of your garden on Sunday mornings. He always points out which plants are thriving. You always leave out that you used his old notes to figure out the watering schedule for the skullcap.

Sometimes he tells you about his day. Sometimes he listens to yours. And at other times, like now, you both sit in companionable quiet, not saying much at all.

After a while, you glance at the time. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

But neither of you hangs up just yet.)

 

Lastly, the gifts. 

 

(When you completed a particularly difficult paper on the historical roots of literature, it was a surreal experience. 

That afternoon, as you sat in your office reviewing your notes, a knock on the door broke your concentration. It was too early for Feixiao to be dropping by, and Zichen would have just walked in. So when you opened the door, you weren’t prepared for the sight of a delivery—a box, elegantly wrapped in deep crimson silk, the kind of gift you only received for something truly special.

Curious, you carefully lifted the lid. Inside was a stunning bouquet, its colors a mixture of rich purples and soft pinks. 

It was beautiful, but what caught your attention most was the small card nestled between the petals.

In the language of flowers, these represent respect and admiration, a reminder of how you’ve blossomed into something extraordinary.

You smiled as your fingers traced the edges. Anyone could guess who they were from.

The flowers were a deliberate selection—a mixture of lavender for devotion and pink roses for gratitude. There were even a few sprigs of rosemary, signifying remembrance. Feixiao had likely spilled the news to Jing Yuan the moment your success was confirmed. And true to form, he had gone out of his way to choose something meaningful.

Taking the bouquet into your arms, you placed it gently on the desk, savoring its scent. A part of you felt the warmth of his thoughtfulness despite the distance between you. Even when miles apart, he found ways to show that you mattered, to celebrate your triumphs as if he were right there beside you.

Just as you admired the flowers, your phone buzzed with a message.

It was from Jing Yuan, as if he knew the moment you’d seen the bouquet.

 

Jing Yuan: I hope the flowers bring you as much joy as your success brought to me.

Jing Yuan: Congratulations on your accomplishment :)

Jing Yuan: I look forward to hearing all about it soon.

 

A wave of affection swelled in your chest, and as you gazed at the flowers, you couldn’t help but think—long distance might be difficult, but it was also filled with these quiet moments, these little efforts that somehow made the space between you both feel a little less vast.

 

Me: Thank you. I can’t wait for you to see it in person.

Jing Yuan: I suppose you're not excited to see me?

Me: ...Fine. 

Me: I can't wait to see you too.)

 

It doesn't happen all at once.

It’s a slow, careful unraveling, stitched together by quiet hours and smaller things that mattered more than you thought.

Of course, you don't let him do all the work—you reciprocate each grand gesture, each minuscule effort however you can. You even dedicate some Saturdays to spending time together at the Luofu. 

Whenever you hop off the platform, Jing Yuan is always waiting. Sometimes at the terminal, or at the station’s tea shop, casually flipping through a book while pretending not to check the time. The moment your eyes meet, the distance you spent hours crossing disappears completely.

It’s in the way he smiles. The way he reaches for your bag without asking. The way he says your name like he’s been carrying it in his chest the whole time.

You fall into a rhythm here, too. Late lunches in quiet places he’s memorized just for you. Shared walks through familiar gardens, the kind you once only saw from the edge of a memory. On quieter days, he brings you to his new office—still filled with neat stacks of papers, the same old Commander in Leaf thriving in the corner. He makes tea while you sit on the couch he’s cleared for your visits. 

You leave just as the sun begins to set, and Jing Yuan walks you to the station every time. He never makes a scene of it—just a warm hand at your back, a lingering look before the train doors close.

Back in Yaoqing, your days return to routine, but something's shifted.

You're no longer bracing yourself against absence. You're learning how to hold love gently, how to trust that it won’t fall apart simply because it spans a few hundred miles.

What grows between you and Jing Yuan doesn’t just endure the distance—it finds a way to bloom because of it.

After the flowers, the train rides, the playful banter in your office, the consistency remains.

It’s a weekend this time—his turn to visit—and the two of you had agreed on something simple: dinner, a movie, nothing extravagant.

The screening ran longer than expected. You hadn’t checked the time when you left the cinema—too distracted by the lingering warmth of his shoulder against yours, the way he leaned in to whisper sharp commentary beneath the film’s most dramatic scenes.

It isn’t until the credits finish rolling and you step into the cool evening air that you realize: the last train back to the Luofu left twenty minutes ago.

“It’s alright,” Jing Yuan says, unfazed and already reaching for his phone. “I’ll just find a place to stay for the night.”

That should’ve been it. You could’ve let him.

But something compels you—some small, braver part of you that’s grown louder since all this began.

“You don’t have to,” you say. The words come out too fast, but you don’t take them back. “Jiaoqiu’s not home. You can stay at mine.”

He looks at you. Not surprised, not smug—just quietly searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “He’s at a conference all week. You’ll have the couch to yourself.”

There’s a breath of a laugh from him. “Understood.”

And that’s how you end up here: your apartment a little too warm, the tea a little too hastily made.

Jing Yuan’s coat hangs over the back of your dining chair, and he’s already taken off his boots at the door like he’s done it before. You’re not really nervous per se, but something stirs in your chest as you watch him move with the same ease he had in your office, like he belongs wherever you are.

Later, you hand him a folded blanket, a pillow, and—after rummaging through your closet—one of your old college shirts and a pair of Jiaoqiu's sweats that got mixed up with your laundry.

“They might be a bit snug,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “But it’s better than sleeping in your coat.”

Jing Yuan takes them with a small smile. “You’re too kind to your stranded guests.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a while. When he reemerges, his hair is down—long, unbound, still a little damp around the ends. He runs a hand through it absently, like he’s used to the weight, unaware of the way it steals the breath from your throat. The shirt fits a little too well. The sleeves cling to his forearms, and the hem rides just short of his hips.

You try not to look too long.

He settles onto the couch, the blanket bunched loosely at his side. You think you’ve adjusted to the sight of him—seen him in every shade of light, every kind of mood—but somehow this version still catches you off guard. Hair loose, eyes soft, the curve of his mouth just shy of a smile.

“Thank you again,” Jing Yuan says. “I mean it.”

You nod, though your fingers are still curled a little too tightly around the edge of the mug in your hands. You’re not drinking anything. You just needed something to hold.

“I don’t mind,” you say. “It’s really fine.”

He watches you for a beat too long. You pretend not to notice.

“I would’ve booked a hotel,” he offers, almost teasing now.

“I know,” you reply, eyes flicking toward the darkened hallway. “But I didn’t want you to.”

That admission hangs in the air, soft and bare.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts, his knee brushing lightly against yours where you’ve drifted closer to the edge of the couch without meaning to. You don’t pull away.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable—it’s dense with something else. Anticipation. Relief. The ache of having waited this long and still not knowing what comes next.

And that’s when it happens.

You don’t remember who moves first. Maybe it’s both of you. Maybe it had always been coming to this. One moment, the air between you is thick with the weight of everything unspoken. The next, his hand is on your waist, yours curled into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder, and the distance between you vanishes completely.

His hand finds your waist, and your fingers curl into the borrowed fabric at his shoulder. Jing Yuan exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for months, and then he kisses you.

Jing Yuan's lips brush yours once, then again. When you answer with a soft gasp, leaning in like you’ve waited a lifetime, the kiss deepens. Heat coils low in your belly as his other hand finds the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting you toward him like he’s afraid of losing the moment.

You taste tea on his tongue, feel the slight tremble in his shoulders as you press closer. His hair falls forward, strands slipping through your fingers as you anchor yourself against him.

And just for a mere second, you remember the symposium. That moment you shared by the railings, months ago, when he’d almost kissed you. When you’d stood too close, hearts racing, silence stretching long enough to feel like surrender.

But this is no almost.

This is all the wanting you couldn’t name back then, poured into every kiss he gives you now. Every inch of you answers him with a need that feels long overdue. You can’t deny it any longer, not to yourself, not to him. You’ve been falling toward this moment for years, your lives tangling together in ways neither of you could have predicted.

“Jing Yuan,” you breathe against his mouth, like it hurts to say, like it means too much because it does.

He answers you with another kiss, deeper this time, needier. The blanket falls away. The pillow tumbles off the couch. You don’t notice. His shirt—your shirt—bunches under your hands as you slide them beneath the hem, seeking warmth, seeking skin.

When he groans, it’s not from surprise. It’s from restraint.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. His lips are swollen, his hair a halo of silver around his face in the soft light.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulling him back in without hesitation.

“Yes.” 

There’s a deep, shuddering breath he takes before his mouth crashes against yours again. His hands find your hips, gripping you with a surety that almost feels like a command. You meet him, heady with the same raw want, the same urgency. His chest presses against yours, the warmth of his body seeping into you, grounding you in this moment. Every inch of space between you is burned away by the press of lips, by the roughness of his hand at your waist, pulling you closer, closer still.

Jing Yuan's breath quickens as he tugs you onto his lap, the motion fluid, practiced—as if he’s done this before, as if he’s always known this was the way it was supposed to be. His hands slide under your shirt, his fingertips warm against the bare skin of your back, a touch that sends a ripple of heat through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You can feel his heart beating fast against your chest, just as frantic as your own. His kisses are desperate now, each one deeper than the last, as though he’s trying to imprint himself onto you, to remind you of every moment that’s led up to this.

The familiar scent of his cologne—woodsy, subtle—mingles with the heady perfume of your own desire. It’s intoxicating. You let your hands roam, tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the muscles of his shoulders, the soft curve of his neck. His skin burns under your touch, and you press in closer, your body reacting to his presence like it was always meant to.

When Jing Yuan pulls back again, his eyes are dark with the kind of hunger that makes your chest tighten. He looks at you like he’s asking permission for something that’s been building up for years.

This isn’t just about tonight. This isn’t just about the warmth of his body against yours or the heat of the moment. This is the culmination of everything—the quiet hours, the stolen glances, the letters, the lectures, the shared silences.

You don’t answer with words. Your body already knows what it wants, and it’s not about holding back anymore.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly rise from the couch, pulling him up with you. His hand finds yours instinctively, the touch of his fingers warm, firm. You guide him to your bedroom with a steady, sure step, each one carrying the weight of everything unspoken that’s finally coming to the surface.

When you close the door behind you, the quiet of the room settles around you both, amplifying the thrum of anticipation that fills the space between your hearts. Jing Yuan doesn’t say a word as you turn to face him, but there’s something in his gaze—something hungry, but still searching, still waiting for the go-ahead.

You take a deep breath, feeling the moment stretch between the two of you, the years of careful distance and restraint dissolving into the charged air. With one last look, you close the distance, pulling him toward you as you kiss him again, but this time, it’s different.

It’s deeper. More desperate.

His hands are everywhere, sliding off your shirt, grazing your skin with the touch of a man who’s been holding back for too long. You respond in kind, your own hands trailing down the front of his sternum, feeling the way his heartbeat speeds beneath your fingertips as you undress each other.

Everything becomes a blur—the sharpness of his touch, the warmth of his breath, the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

You step back, guiding his hands with yours, leading him to the bed. There’s no hesitation this time. There’s no second-guessing. This is years of waiting, of longing, of wanting to finally let go. And as you fall into the bed together, everything feels exactly like it should.

Jing Yuan guides you through it with saintlike patience. His voice is a steady murmur, checking in with you softly—asking if you want this, if you're comfortable, if there’s any pain at all. You always knew him to be considerate, even as a professor, but you never imagined that kindness could stretch into something this intimate.

"Ah, I didn't think you'd be so sensitive," he murmurs sweetly. 

Thoughtful as he is, Jing Yuan still knows how to turn up the charm when he wants to.

His large hands are splayed across the plush give of your thighs—amber eyes admiring the mess between your legs. You've slicked up considerably, clenching around nothing as his lips draw into a candid smirk. You're not sure whether you want to pull his face into your sopping heat or bury your head under a mountain of pillows. 

"Really?" you groan. "We've been dancing around each other for years, and you still choose to draw it out?" 

He laughs. Of course he does. But Jing Yuan gives you some sort of reprieve when he moves lower down the mattress, hooking your legs across his broad shoulders before placing a kiss on your inner thigh. His gaze never strays from yours, intense and unrelenting.

"I'm a patient man, darling," he says. "I can string you apart until morning if I felt like it."

The words land like a challenge, and your body tightens in response. As much as you’ve longed for the kind of devotion he’s offering, you're too wound up—too desperate to wait any longer.

You need him. Carnally.

Fortunately, Jing Yuan is nothing if not generous. 

He makes you fall apart on his tongue with two fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt—mercilessly suckling at your clit as you spasm beneath him in the height of bliss. When he feels that the tremors of pleasure have calmed, his golden eyes find yours in the haze. You can't help the rush of heat that fills you when he swipes his tongue across spit-slicked lips. 

Jing Yuan surges forward, easing his large frame between your thighs so he can capture your lips again. The tangy aftertaste lingers on his mouth, but you devour each other like the world ends tomorrow, despite. 

"Can I...?" He frames the plea around a moan when you grind against his leaking shaft. "Y-You're free to refuse, of course."

Trust this man to ask permission only to retract it afterwards. You fight the urge to roll your eyes before laying down on top of your pillows, making sure the half-lidded stare you shoot him carries the message well.

"Jing Yuan," you start, spreading your legs apart for him once more. "If you don't fuck me right now, we're going to have problems." 

He pauses for a second, eyes widening by a fraction. As if he isn't used to hearing you talk like this. Still, the the astonishment fades quickly, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. He presses a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, voice low and teasing. "Do you have any condoms, darling? Forgive me, but I honestly didn't plan on getting to see you like this." 

Neither did you. But the universe works in strange ways like that.

"I've..." Your face heats up, embarrassment coloring your cheeks. "I've been taking contraceptive meds since we started...dating."

That draws his full attention. His gaze sharpens, interest unmistakable, and his smile takes on a new edge—pleased, warm, and just a little dangerous.

“Is that so?” he says, voice dipped in honey. “Now that’s something I wish I’d known sooner.”

You’re not sure you want to dwell on the implication behind his words. But it doesn’t matter—not when time feels like a luxury neither of you can afford. The urgency in your chest is mirrored in his touch, in the way his breath stutters against your skin. You love him so much, you can hardly breathe. 

Oh. 

You love him. 

Jing Yuan, completely unaware of the dawning realization, gathers the pearlescent liquid at the tip, lathering the rest of him with his own essence. His teeth catch along his bottom lip slightly as he eases himself between your legs. You nearly squirm when he rubs the head along your glistening seam.

"You're still free to refuse," he murmurs, but there's little weight to the words. 

You shake your head, legs circling his hips in a feeble attempt to bring him closer. Jing Yuan chuckles, nosing at the crook of your neck as his lips flutter over your pulse like a promise. 

"Please," you nearly beg. "We've waited long enough, don't you think?"

His breath catches—a hitch you feel more than hear. That word, please, does something to him. You feel it in the way his hands settle more firmly on your waist, grounding you both. In the way he lifts his head just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to memorize this exact moment.

"You're sure?" he asks, quieter now. Not doubting you, just giving you the chance to change your mind. He always has.

And maybe that’s what makes your answer so easy.

"Yes," you breathe, the word framed around a soft, easy laugh. "Always, yes."

That’s all it takes.

Jing Yuan exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for too long. Then he kisses you—slowly, thoroughly, reverently. You feel the shift in him, and in you. This isn’t about urgency anymore. This is about presence. About devotion. About making up for all the years of stolen glances and unspoken longing.

And when you finally move together, it’s not with haste but with the deep, aching patience of two people who have known each other in every other way. Everything is quiet now but the whisper of breath, the rustle of sheets, and the soft cadence of your name on his lips—spoken like a vow.

These things linger in the air like they wish to be remembered.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—entwined, breath mingling, the hush of your shared want settling over everything like a second skin. But eventually, Jing Yuan lifts his head again, eyes catching yours.

And gods, those eyes.

Gold like the moment before sunrise, like melted metal—brimming not just with desire, but with something quieter beneath. 

You reach for him without thinking, fingers threading into the long strands of his silver hair—silken and cool to the touch, like moonlight slipping through your hands. He leans into it, into you, a sound caught low in his throat.

Every line of him is taut with effort. The kind that speaks of restraint, not hesitation. The flex of muscle beneath your palms is measured and deliberate—each motion a study in control, until you feel it unravel. Slowly. Beautifully.

He moves with the kind of care only someone who has thought of this moment a thousand times could possess.

And when he presses his forehead to yours again, his voice comes out low and reverent.

“You're everything to me.”

Fingers digging in, you cling to him. Not out of fear.

But because nothing’s ever felt more right.

In the aftermath, you lie tangled in sheets and warmth, Jing Yuan's heartbeat still faintly pulsing beneath your cheek where you rest against his chest.

One of your hands drifts across his forearm, fingers brushing the pale scar that arcs along the muscle like a memory half-buried. You’ve seen it before—in passing, under rolled-up sleeves, or whenever he gestures too broadly during office hours. A dozen times, you thought to ask. A dozen more, you hesitated.

But now, in the hush between heartbeats, with nothing left to guard—

“What happened here?” you ask, your thumb grazing the seam of old pain.

Jing Yuan glances down, his gaze following the movement of your hand. For a moment, he says nothing. Then, with a soft exhale, he answers, “Military. A long time ago.”

You shift slightly to look up at him, head still tucked against his side. “One of the wars you talk about in class?”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “One of those, yes. The more recent ones. My battalion was deployed when I was just a little older than my students now. We were green. Thought we’d be home in a month.” He pauses, voice softening. “It didn’t go that way.”

You don’t interrupt. You keep tracing gentle lines over his skin.

“There were three of us that stuck together,” he continues after a beat. “Yingxing. Dan Feng. And me.” The names come out carefully, like they’ve been resting at the edge of his mouth for years, waiting for the right moment. “We were always watching out for each other. Gods, we were stupid sometimes. Brave. But mostly just stupid.”

He’s smiling now, but it’s tinged with a kind of quiet grief, the kind that only comes from surviving what others didn’t.

“I remember once,” he says, eyes distant, “Yingxing tried to sneak a bottle of wine into base. Dan Feng caught him before I could, but neither of them gave it up. We ended up sharing it, passing it around in silence, watching the stars like idiots who didn’t know if tomorrow would come.”

You feel something shift in his voice—affection, longing, something deeper than memory. It’s not just nostalgia.

“You were close,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

He hums low in his throat. “Closer than we should’ve been, maybe. In that kind of place… bonds form quickly. And deeply. You hold on to what you can.”

You don’t press him. You don’t need to. The way he says their names tells you enough. There was love there. Complicated, perhaps. But real.

“I think about them a lot,” he says. “Even now.”

Your fingers still against his skin. He places his hand over yours, grounding the moment. And when he looks at you again, it’s not with regret—but with trust. You’re not just someone passing through. You’re someone who’s here now, who sees him, scars and all.

“They’d have liked you,” he says eventually, eyes soft. “Yingxing especially. He had a terrible sense of humor. You’d have put him in his place.”

You laugh into his shoulder, and he smiles at the sound—tired, but genuine. The kind of smile that only surfaces when it’s safe to do so.

“You don’t have to tell me more,” you say. “But I’ll listen. If you ever want to.”

He nods once, slow and sure. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he presses a kiss to your temple and pulls you closer, your fingers still curled around the part of him that never really left the battlefield.

But then—a soft chime cuts through the warmth between you. A text notification. The real world, slipping back in.

Jing Yuan’s arm tightens around your waist, a soft, unspoken protest, urging you to stay. As if to say let it wait. You soothe him with a gentle kiss, brief and tender, your lips brushing his with quiet reassurance that you’ll return before you slip from his embrace.

You reach for your phone.

Jiaoqiu’s name lights up the screen, followed by a flurry of texts. You can feel the weight of golden eyes reading over your shoulder.

 

Jiaoqiu: are u home rn...

Me: Yes. Why?

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing someone over

Jiaoqiu: don't judge me

Jiaoqiu: his name's moze

Jiaoqiu: one of the nurses from the er shift

Jiaoqiu: i've been trying to make this happen for a month now

Jiaoqiu: and we might've gotten close during the conference :3c

Me: Oh!

Jiaoqiu: yeah...

Jiaoqiu: so please tell me ure not in the living room

Jiaoqiu: or anywhere visible

Me: ...I'm just in my room

Jiaoqiu: perfect

Jiaoqiu: just keep your door shut 

Jiaoqiu: and don't come out for like an hour. maybe two

Jiaoqiu: three if he's enthusiastic

Me: No promises

Me: Also, you might want to knock first if you need me

Me: [Sent an image]

Jiaoqiu: hey

Jiaoqiu: HEY who is that in there with you 

Jiaoqiu: is that jing yuan

Me: Perhaps.

Jiaoqiu: oh my god

Jiaoqiu: are you fucking kidding me 

Jiaoqiu: i'm bringing home a man and you're also—

Me: Hey, this is a sex-positive household

Jiaoqiu: you know what 

Jiaoqiu: this is fine

Jiaoqiu: love this for us

Me: That's the spirit.

Me: Now you have to tell me when you guys finish

Me: So we don't all use the bathroom to wash up at the same time 

Jiaoqiu: oh my fucking god 

 

You don’t even get the chance to put your phone down before an arm snakes around your waist and tugs—gently but firmly—pulling you back into the warmth of the bed.

“You’re handling this like a military operation now?” Jing Yuan teases, voice smooth but carrying a hint of indignation. “Making sure there’s no friendly fire in the bathroom?”

You glance down at your phone—Jiaoqiu’s colorful messages still open—and let out a quiet sigh. “He’s bringing someone over, so I figured I should keep things lowkey.”

Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully. “Clever. But it feels a bit like a betrayal, doesn’t it?” His fingers trace up your side, slow and deliberate. “Here I thought we’d earned some peace and quiet tonight.”

You scoff, about to say something witty about splitting rent, but then he flips you gently onto your back, looming over you like the war god you’re pretty sure he used to be. His hair falls over one shoulder, tousled and shining silver in the lamplight, and his golden eyes narrow with mock offense.

“I fought a long campaign to get you in this bed,” Jing Yuan murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “Don't think I’ll surrender you now just because your roommate’s got a date.”

You laugh softly, curling your fingers into his hair and tugging lightly. “Surrender implies you ever stood a chance.”

That earns you a low, pleased growl, and then he's kissing you again, quick and claiming.

“Then consider this a counteroffensive,” he says, already pulling the blankets back up and tugging you under them.

“Didn’t realize this was a battlefield.”

“Oh, it is,” Jing Yuan chuckles, burying his face against your neck with a victorious sigh. “And you, darling, are already well and truly conquered.”

You laugh graciously, curling a hand behind his neck and pulling him into a long kiss—slow and sure and just a little smug.

The war is over. The treaties are signed.

And in the hush between heartbeats, you finally let yourself believe in the peace you’ve made together.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hi! you have likely answered similar questions before (and if you have feel free to just link to those posts if you don't wanna answer again) but my boyfriend (cis man) and i (trans person with a vagina and bottom growth (been on t for 8 months)) have been having some issues with our sex life and had a really good conversation about it recently, but i don't feel like the conversation really did everything i wanted it to.

our relationship started out like "fwb lite"? because i had just started college and wanted to start exploring sexually but i wasn't ready to do a lot of things because of past trauma and stuff, so we hung out a lot and like kissed and kinda groped eachother in private lol. by the time i was ready to try out penetrative stuff i got on birth control and he started taking antidepressants for the first time. initially that was fine, he just couldn't cum bc antidepressants. and then his sex drive starts to flag a little, which was expected.

my 19th birthday happens and he takes me out on a really sweet romantic date (my first date ever!) and we have a great time and start to talk a little about "what are we". a couple months later we start "officially" dating and he becomes a lot more affectionate because he's not worried about mixed signals anymore and its great. his sex drive continues to slow down and i understand because of his meds (i have also been on antidepressants for a long time)

several months of him continually not being interested in sex go by, i continue to make sure he understands that its ok for him to not want to have sex and that i don't want to pressure him to do anything. i start to get pretty frustrated though, because i have a very high sex drive and i love him very much and i like having sex with him, but almost every time i initiate he isn't interested and he initiates maybe 2 or 3 times in the span of 4ish months.

a couple weeks ago i initiate again and he agrees and so i start slowly but he feels uncomfortable so we stop. i ask him if we can talk about what's going on and we finally do and im really relieved! i wanted to talk about it for a while but i didn't want to press him too hard because he's been dealing with a lot so i wanted to just be as supportive as i can. he explains that sex just hasn't been really interesting to him lately and that its just a lot of work, but he doesn't like not being in an active role because its hard for him to stay in the right headspace if he's not doing anything. obviously thats all understandable and im glad he shared that with me.

i try to explain my side of the experience without complaining about a lack of sex and i talk about how i wish he had told me that he doesn't like when im doing everything because that was my attempt to get him more into it when we have sex. i talk about how having sex with him is both something i like doing because it feels good and also because it's a very emotional and vulnerable experience for me. i explain that being penetrated is a really scary thing, you're letting someone be physically inside of you its a pretty intense emotional experience! (at least for me) and he tells me he has genuinely never thought of sex like that before and he's really shocked to hear me describe it like that. we talked through it some more and i think it was a good experience for the both of us.

we are both on summer break right now and live far away from eachother so i won't see him again until fall semester, but there are still some things that i worry about with like the state of our sex life? i wanna a) get to a point where our emotional experience with sex is similar if possible and b) get to a point where we can compromise about when/how frequently we have sex, but i don't really know how to approach any of that? i don't ever want to force him to have sex when he doesn't want to or make him feel uncomfortable or coerced or anything, but i also feel like there needs to be some sort of compromise for me to feel like my wants are being met? but i don't know how to bring that up without being like pushy. am i being like insane and selfish?? i don't know but i really want to have a strong healthy relationship with him im really serious about him and i want us to last for a long time.

idk this is very long and probably all of the context isn't necessary but yeah thats my plight thank you for reading all of that mess i hope you have a wonderful summer 🫶

this one is covered in my FAQ I think

[blueberrymori]

✭warnings/tags: MALE!reader (CIS OR NOT) , male pronouns, sweet nicknames, a little anxiety on the part of the reader and Tim, anguish with a happy ending. WITHOUT THE USE OF Y/N OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT. ✭ask: yes. Find the ask ( HERE )

When you and Tim started dating he told you about not coming out to his family yet, he didn't see anything wrong with being bisexual and coming out but he wasn't ready to tell his family about it yet, he wouldn't admit it but he was afraid of family rejection. It had been four months since you had been together and Tim was always afraid that he would take you to Wayne Manor and his brothers would catch you two together.

Always being understanding with Tim, you were together in your room watching a series on the computer screen, Tim's hand in your hair stroking you, he was out of focus on the series, Tim had been nervous these last few weeks, he was a bit distant. Tim didn't like keeping secrets from his family, or from you, and he didn't like hiding the fact that he was Red Robin and a member of the Batfamily, he didn't like keeping you a secret, but he was afraid of his family's reaction.

That night Tim slept at your house, he barely slept, he just stood there watching you sleep, he held you close that night just wanting to have you close.

Months went by and Tim couldn't take it anymore, so in the eighth month of dating Tim called you to come to Wayne Manor, he spent those months practicing with you how to come out to his family, here you are and he's in your bedroom laughing sitting on the bed.

-You're too nervous, calm down, darling - Tim said as he watched you freaking out about what clothes to wear to look good at his family's presentation, not just as a friend but as his boyfriend.

- I'm nervous, aren't you? It's the first time I'm going to meet your family and if they don't like me, if they don't think I'm right for you - Tim stopped laughing but his smile remained on his face. He got up from the bed and walked over to you, he walked over and hugged you. 

- Love, why do you think that? -I'm sure they'll love you, well maybe Damian won't but he's always like that, he doesn't like a lot of things, don't be offended,- Tim said kissing your cheek and neck. -You'll look great in whatever outfit you choose, okay? Don't freak out about it - Tim said, kissing his cheek.

-You're very calm, did you sleep or are you smoking something you can't? - Your comment made him laugh as he went back to bed and sat down to wait for you to choose your clothes.

When you arrived at Wayne Manor, Tim was holding your hand and laughing at your nervousness as he opened the door, when the big door opened and creaked it broke the silence of the manor, Tim kept holding your hand until the first voice came, it was Alfred's, the old butler walked from where you think was the dining room.

-Master Tim, you're early today, I see you've brought a friend - Alfred says looking at you and smiling gently, he notices Tim holding his hand but chooses not to comment.

-Ah yes, a friend - Tim, looked at the floor and then at you and Alfred, and cleared his throat - not just a friend, he's my boyfriend - Tim said a little quickly while looking at Alfred, the white-haired man could see Tim jumping slightly and squeezing his hand tighter.

He laughed slightly, and walked over to the two of you and grabbed your shoulder.

-It's a pleasure to meet you, I'm sure you make Tim very happy, young man -Alfred says smiling at you, he pats you gently on the head and looks at Tim -so have you told your father and brothers? - Alfred said as he smoothed Tim's hair, smiling when he saw Tim nod.

-Don't tell me what? - Bruce said as he walked out of the kitchen with Damian following him and complaining about something, Jason and Dick behind him talking to each other as they watched Damian complain.

Tim put his arm around his waist and let out a sigh he didn't even know he was holding in - I'm bi, and that's my boyfriend...for almost a year now - Tim said nervously, he looked at his family and his boyfriend, he had a puppy dog look in his eyes as he looked into their eyes for support.

Dick Jason and Damian looked at you from behind Bruce and then looked at Tim, Jason was the first to open his mouth - so you're gay? congratulations I guess - Jason said, making Dick sigh.

-I'm bi, actually, and thank you, I think - Tim said, not letting go of you for a second. 

-Doesn't he talk? - Damian said, staring at you undisguised.

- Damian! - Dick and Bruce scolded him at the same time. Damian crossed his arms and continued to stare at you, waiting for an answer to his question.

- Yes, I can talk, it's a pleasure to meet you - everyone there could see his nervousness, the flaw in his voice and his hurried tone.

- The pleasure is ours, so young man, you and Tim have been dating for how long now? - Bruce said, holding out his hand for you to shake, his lips rising into a smile as he saw you raise your trembling hand to shake his.

-We've been together for eight months, nine in two weeks, Mr. Wayne - Bruce let a slight laugh escape his lips at your nervousness.

- Call me Bruce, and breathe, there's no need to be discouraged - he said with a reassuring smile. - And welcome to the family - he added.

That night was the most relaxed Tim had been in months, when he was finally able to take you out for a family dinner and spend the night at his house, and it was safe to say that Tim was very happy that your family had accepted him and his relationship with you.

[genderqueerdykes]

hey anon saying "my abuser was a trans man so trans men hate trans women" I just want you to know I'm a transmasc person who was literally abused horrifically on the basis of sharing a similar pronoun and gender identity to my then-girlfriend's ex. she used the abuse of an entirely unrelated person as an excuse to insinuate I never respected her and would regularly scream at me and even invalidated my trauma over a relative dying using her own trauma.

she also, unsurprisingly, was a rampant transandrophobe, calling me horrible and transmisogynistic because I challenged her as a trans woman over saying blatantly transphobic things about trans men and transmascs (myself included).

because it was never about truth, it was about being on top and being the most inconvenienced and being in control of the conversation of suffering (this went beyond us fighting over my gender).

think why you feel that way, that you need sole dictation over the conversation and can't let anyone else breathe their words about experiences that may challenge how you feel, anon

if I were to do what she did, and say I was uncomfortable with trans women because they can be abusive, I would rightfully be ripped limb from limb for the transmisogynistic notion that trans women are remotely a monolith or are abusive based solely on my experience

but I guess trans men aren't owed that same equivalence. they are forced to live a double standard there. because you don't respect us enough for it. why is that.

"because it was never about truth, it was about being on top and being the most inconvenienced and being in control of the conversation of suffering,"

"if I were to do what she did, and say I was uncomfortable with trans women because they can be abusive, I would rightfully be ripped limb from limb for the transmisogynistic notion that trans women are remotely a monolith or are abusive based solely on my experience"

i had to highlight these bits in particulare because good god you worded this so perfectly. i am so sorry you have had this experience but you knocked the ball so far out of the park that i am genuinely in awe of how well you conveyed this, and how absolutely fucked peoples' double standards are when it comes to abuse and how people think that trans men and mascs have it "so much easier in life". you're dead on the money. NONE of this has to do with talking about oppression and looking out for one another.

this behavior is about control.

it's about controlling the narrative. some people literally get so insecure when the conversation turns away from them for even a moment, they think it means that everyone is their enemy. yes, trans women have an absolutely awful time in cisheternormative society. so do trans men.

i have been emotionally and sexually abused and harassed by 3 separate trans women. one of which struck me with an object, another who stole something out of my purse while i was asleep and continuously kept trying to get in my pants after she found out i had a vagina despite me repeatedly turning her down, and another who mocked me for my psychotic episodes and repeatedly swore up and down that i didn't have DID and just in general gaslit and emotionally abused the fuck out of me. the woman who hit me also constantly kept insinuating that penises are what make a man a man, and would not stop making me feel bad for not having a biopenis.

once everyone found out i had a vag, suddenly, i was a cishet woman in their house and i was public enemy #1. i had to deal with my cis gay male roommate shrieking about how he's gay, boobs and vaginas are disgusting, he's a MAN attracted to MEN. meanwhile, my ex girlfriend (the one who hit me) made me feel like shit for being a man without a penis almost every single day. she would guilt trip me about how she missed being with partners with biopenises and would spend all day telling me that she loved me, but then would turn around and scream and yell at me and tell me that i'm an evil asshole.

the transandrophobia i have had to deal with at the hands of other trans women has been absolutely fucking staggering. we need to stop fostering a culture where this is okay because it's genuinely getting people hurt. like you said, if a transmasc were to say "i hate trans women, they're all mean and shitty and abusive," they would literally be torn limb from fucking limb. and rightfully so, because it's a dogshit thing to say. but we HAVE to start telling people who do this to trans men to fuck OFF and stop it.

i am very sorry you went through that. i hope things improve for you, and that you're able to spend time in company that treats you with respect. nobody should have to deal with literal profiling just because of their gender.

is that what we're doing now? profiling people based off of their gender? how is that progressive? how is that liberating? how is that trans rights? it ain't.

[eff-plays]

Goddd I keep seeing ppl defend the use of "non-binary" and saying it's unapologetic and doesn't allow for interpretation and how that's good because that means bigots and chuds won't be able to look away and deny anything.

And like cool I'm glad that you found this empowering in some way but to imply that anybody who doesn't is a hater who doesn't get it or a bigot is uuh. Well it's fucking insane and I'm tired of being nice about it!! Sorry dude! If you think anybody who's uncomfortable with Taash's writing is a bad person then you're brain broken!

First of all the implication that representation should be written to pre-empt the reactions of bigots rather than to organically depict and integrate the people you're claiming you care about kinda sucks ass?? Kinda insane actually? And also like ... how has that worked out for them lmao. Taash has become the icon for Veilguard itself among the very chuds it set out to prove something to.

Second of all. Dorian didn't go around saying "I am a homosexual man. I am gay" but we still knew what the fuck his story was about. Sera didn't say "yeah I'm a lesbian btw" and we still knew! If they'd established that using modern language was something that was fine in previous games, this wouldn't have been as jarring. But they didn't!

Third of all I'm fucking tired of having my own discomfort with the writing of Taash be sneered at as though I, a literal nonbinary person who literally has a mother who doesn't "get it" and literally has struggled to figure out where I belong due to my multicultural, immigrant existence, am the same as a trans/enbyphobe for not liking the fucking SLOP I'm being served.

Like, it's fine! It's fine if you like Taash! I'm glad you relate to them and that you see yourself reflected in them! Genuinely! I wish I could say the fucking same! But if I have to see another fucking "um actually Taash is so so so so important to me and anybody who doesn't feel the same way is just a bitter hater and a bigot who doesn't GET IT" I'm going to start blasting.

The blanket-dismissal of genuine criticism as bigotry or just "not getting it" or implying that anybody not comfortable with this "representation" somehow has no emotional intelligence is so much fucking WORSE to see than the reactionary chuds. Like okay wow you, the person supposedly pretending to be SOOO concerned with enby rep in video games are telling ME, a fellow enby, that I'm the same as an anti-woke reactionary assholes who hate us both? Is this a joke??

Well, to be fair, I have yet to see anybody actually, like, tell me they're nonbinary but liked Taash. Mostly it's people going "well yeah um anybody OVER THERE who doesn't like them or is made uncomfortable by their writing is a bigot" without acknowledging that fellow enbies might fucking hate their writing, too. Because that would be acknowledging valid criticism. And we can't fucking have that, can we?

Fuck, man. You felt that Taash was good rep. I felt that it was bad rep. We're both entitled to feel this way, but you don't get to dismiss ME as a bigot because I wasn't pleased with this depiction of a nonbinary person.

Any enby, trans or cis (ally) haters of Taash who also didn't like their writing have my full permission to use all of my Taash hater posts to back up any argument they might have for why their writing sucks. I do not even care anymore. I'm a proud nonbinary multicultural Taash hater and anybody who tells me I'm wrong or bigoted for this can eat my shorts.

Also can we please. Can we please fucking stop with the "well you didn't have a problem with the word MAN or WOMAN so why does this bother you?" Like be so for serious. Be so so so so for serious. I won't even pretend that's a valid argument.

Anyway, give it up for the FIRST TRUE AND BEST ENBY REP IN DRAGON AGE:

[tyrantisterror]

So...

...your favorite book about mystery solving teens in a wizard school turns out to have been written by a bigot who actively funneled her ludicrous wealth into the political campaign of several like-minded bigots in order to make the United Kingdom even more hostile towards trans people than it already was. Worse, this is only the latest and most egregious bullet point in a long pattern of bigoted behavior, and one that only serves to underline what people have been telling you for years: you cannot support the Harry Potter franchise without also supporting repugnant bigotry.

And that sucks! I get it, dude, I really do, it sucks hardcore, because that series was part of your childhood, man! I, too, am a millennial, a child of the 90's. I understand what the heights of Harry Potter mania were like. I went to midnight book release parties at Barnes and Noble, I saw the movies on opening day. I had the incomparable experience of having that book series grow up with me - beginning as fairly childish stories fit for an eleven year old, and slowly getting more mature and complex with each entry. I understand how important the fantasy of a place like Hogwarts is - of going somewhere that values your weirdness, your oddity, your desire to see the world differently. A place where being an oddball and a weirdo with your head in the clouds is the norm, where you're surrounded by other people who want to see magic in the world. I understand why you don't want to give that up.

The bad news is that you have to. I'm sorry, there's no excuses anymore, and honestly, there haven't really been any for a long time. The best you can do is argue ignorance, and if your best defense is "Well I'm a dummy who never reads the news ever," well, that's not a great place to be in your life, is it?

The good news, my friends, is that giving up Harry Potter does not mean you have to give up having a multi-book series about mystery-solving teens attending a school for wizards in a world filled with magical beasts and dark secrets. Take my hand, friends. It's time we left the grade school bullshit of Hogwarts and went off to college together. Follow me to the Academy of Applied Arcana and Magic...

...and let me tell you about Wizard School Mysteries.

A BEGINNER'S GUIDE TO WIZARD SCHOOL MYSTERIES: THE NICOTINE PATCH FOR YOUR HARRY POTTER ADDICTION

Wizard School Mysteries is a series of novels about eight students attending a prestigious wizard college called the Academy of Applied Arcana and Magic, or the AAAM for short. These eighteen year old sleuths end up encountering all sorts of mysterious and deadly plots while trying to complete their studies, from unexplained disappearances to lethally-sabotaged sporting events, and even to outright unkillable monsters stalking campus and preying upon its students. By pooling their unique talents and perspectives, our eight meddlesome youths uncover the perpetrators of these plots and save the day, all while slowly unraveling the threads of a far greater scheme lurking behind the scenes.

Our protagonist is James Chaucer, a bespectacled wizard boy with shaggy black hair who escapes from an abusive home to begin studying magic at the AAAM. A chance encounter with a fortune teller on the road sucks him into the center of a prophecy that James is slowly realizing may be a much bigger deal than he initially believed. While generally even-tempered and unflappable, James has a tendency to overwork himself severely when trying to right wrongs, and is unyielding in his pursuit of justice and the truth.

Or, as one fan of this series said, "He's like if Harry Potter actually believed in something!"

James Chaucer is also a trans man, and his identity as a trans person is important to the plot - in fact, the first book's resolution would not be possible if James Chaucer was cis. This isn't a "oh there's totally representation in my wizard book series, you just have to read a tweet to know it's there!" thing, it's a part of the explicit text.

James's first friend is a goofy and kind-hearted wizard named Ivan Muromets. Coming from a poor home, Ivan is ignorant of a lot of things and often quick to call himself stupid, but his innocence also allows him to think up solutions and ideas that wouldn't occur to other people. He's a steadfast friend of James, and willing to give everyone the benefit of the doubt no matter how often he gets burned for it.

Ivan is gay, and again, this is explicit in the text. He develops a crush on another boy in the first book, and that crush turns into a relationship in the second - the first canon romantic relationship in the series, in fact. Again, not something that was hastily tweeted out, but explicit in the text itself.

He also doesn't constantly neg the source of his affection out of envy, like some characters who fill his role in other stories do constantly.

The second friend James makes on his way to the AAAM is Gretchen Pappenheimer, a well-read and highly intelligent wizard girl with curly brown hair whose vast supply of booksmarts is juxtaposed next to her relative lack of social skills. Though she can be acerbic and blunt, Gretchen proves to be every bit as loyal and caring a friend as Ivan, and her vast knowledge of obscure magic lore make her an invaluable ally to James on his journey.

Gretchen is a trans woman, which is also established early in the series itself - when James explains his situation, Gretchen comments that she has the same issue but in reverse, and her dysphoria plays a key role in the conflict of the third book. She is also black, and again, this is part of the text, not something that I arbitrarily decided to take credit for when a stage production of a semi-canonical sequel to this series cast a black woman as her in it, like certain other authors I could mention did.

Now, you may be looking at these three and thinking, "Hold on, is this JUST a Harry Potter rip off then?" If so, congrats, you fell for my bait! I purposely made the first three of our eight kids superficially resemble the famous wizard kid trio from Harry Potter to jab at the expectation that Wizard School Mysteries is just a knockoff/parody of it. But by the time you get to chapter three, you'll realize that the story goes wildly off those rails and into some very different territory indeed.

After all, I said there were eight of these meddlesome youths, not three...

The fourth member of this merry band is Margot d'Francane, a girl whose magic powers come on so strong that her body has grown far larger than is normal to accommodate it, and even then, the sheer amount of destructive magic power she constantly channels has made her left hand wither as a grisly side effect. The group's muscle, Margot is sweet, polite, and more than capable of putting even the gnarliest magic monster six feet under.

Our fifth youth is Rodrigo Cervantes, the seventh son of a nobleman and James's room-mate at the AAAM. Being the only member of the team who comes from money, Rodrigo understands fashion, wealth, and the customs of noblity that otherwise ellude his peers, which proves crucial when their rogues gallery includes at least one royal villain. Add to this his ability to scope out threats to the teams' morale and network with allies from all sorts of circles, and you have a valuable member of the Meddlesome Youths.

Rodrigo is of Arabic descent - this is, unfortunately, not stated explicitly in the text, mainly because Wizard School Mysteries takes place in a fantasy world that doesn't have our modern day countries but rather rough equivalents of them, so there's not really an elegant in-universe way to say it explicitly, but the intent is that Rodrigo is Arabic, and I have tried to establish that in ways that make sense for the setting.

The sixth student to join the team is Serena Takeuchi, a wizard whose boundless and bubbly enthusiasm is matched only by her sheer tenacity on the battlefield. With unsurpassed skill in utilizing crystals in her magic and a keen eye for figuring out the motives behind people's actions, Serena helps the team both in battles of spellcraft and of the mind.

While not explicitly stated in the text for the same reasons as Rodrigo, Serena is of Japanese descent.

Our seventh Meddlesome Youth, Charlotte Bolshe, isn't a human wizard at all, but rather an Ettercap, i.e. a kind of spider-fairy. Because if you have a fantasy series about a world of magic people that canonically has several species of non-human people who are magical, it'd be kind of weird if not a single one of them was a main character, wouldn't it? Charlotte is a sweet, compassionate soul whose effortless kindness disguises a truly cunning mind. She also has something of a Little Mermaid complex, being fascinated with humanity and envious of their ability to live in places and ways that she, as of now, cannot.

Hey. Hey, you. Yes, you, the goth girl who had a crush on Draco Malfoy when you were fifteen, and spent years arguing that he was actually misunderstood and deserved a redemption arc, only to ultimately be disappointed when J.K. Rowling gave him none of the dimensions you projected onto him and ended his character arc with the redemption equivalent of a wet fart. Do you still crave to see a blonde rival to a bespectacled wizard boy protagonist who has hidden depths and slowly but surely grows into a good person?

Well, meet Polybeus Antony. You will be annoyed by him when you first meet him. Hell, you might even hate him. But by the end of book 2, you will love him. He might even be your favorite.

And yes, he has ship tease with the other boys. THEY ALL HAVE SHIP TEASE! I TEASE ALL THE SHIPS, AND I DO IT FOR YOU, GOTH GIRLS WHO WERE INFATUATED WITH DRACO MALFOY!

...

ahem.

Of course, the core group of kids is not the sole appeal of Harry Potter, because it also has a large supporting cast of characters who are just as beloved, and Wizard School Mysteries is no different in that regard! We have wacky teachers...

...whimsical students...

...and diabolical villains...

Oh, and magical creatures, of course. Fantastic beasts, the lot of 'em.

While there are continuous plot threads and changes to the status quo that make reading the series in order necessary, each book has its own mystery that is more or less independent - i.e. you will not find, say, a redundant recurring plotline of "the Big Bad has a new evil scheme to get back his body and/or take over the world" each book, but rather new villains with their own schemes that are independent of those that came before, and new curveballs they throw at the protagonists AND the audience as a result.

For example...

Wizard School Mysteries Book 1: The Meddlesome Youths sees our heroes come together for the first time as they unwrap a scheme by wicked fairies to spirit young wizards away into Fairyland.

Wizard School Mysteries Book 2: Tournament of Death sees our heroes trying to identify the culprit behind a series of violent and, eventually, LETHAL sabotages of the participants in the school's annual spell-casting tournament.

Wizard School Mysteries Book 3: Wicked Witchcraft pits our heroes against a seemingly unkillable undead monster, while at the same time one of their own is trapped in a literal internship from Hell.

And that's just the three novels currently published! A grant total of eight Wizard School Mysteries books are planned, and as a treat, I'm going to post the in-progress covers of the remaining five entries at the end of this - though be warned, there might be slight spoilers in them.

Before that, though, there's one last question to answer: where can you buy this wonderful series?

Well, as of now, you have two options. You can find the entire series on Amazon.com, and likely will be able to do so for the forseeable future. As much as I hate to be tied to Jeff Bezos's business, at the moment it's the only site that allows me to get this book to all the members of my audience who want it for an affordable price. Until there is a better option, it's gotta stay on Amazon.

...but if you don't mind paying for shipping, I do have the ability to buy these books at production cost, i.e. without giving Amazon a cent of profit. Simply send me a DM and I'll work on getting you copies that don't put money in Bezos's coffers, then send you a bill for the price of the book + whatever shipping ends up being once I've sent them to you in the mail. I'll even autograph them for free!

Ok, time for those covers. You read? Start scrolling!

[velvetvexations]

I can't help but see a striking similarity between transfem TRFs and the fuckin tradwife "coquette" "pink job/blue job" girlies like

Yes, the role assigned to your gender works beautifully FOR YOU. Forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled that you refuse to stop forcing the whole worldview that makes it a "default" on ME because you can't feel #valid without convincing yourself that your experience is fucking universal.

Forgive me, ma'am, if I don't feel the need to treat you less like a person and more like precious unobtanium just because YOU feel more protected than objectified that way, let alone if I get really fucking skeeved out that you seem to think that requiring me to go through a cis man for MY healthcare decisions is more protective than oppressive and abusive. Forgive me if I'm not as convinced as you are that gynecological healthcare is a solved issue just because YOUR singular self-hating "theyfab" friend has a good doctor. Forgive me if I'm not convinced that your belief that it is my divine duty to live my life as a cold, stoic meat shield for every poor, defenseless, incompetent damsel in distress by virtue of being a man is as #feminist as you're trying to sell it as.

I get it. You feel neglected. You feel exposed. You feel unprotected and vulnerable. But stop just making up reasons to double down on what FEELS good immediately that basically amount to "women do X and men do Y and men are ALWAYS stronger than women and HAVE to be more responsible and if you say this ISN'T a rigid rule we all must follow you're INVALIDATING MY WOMANHOOD" fucking skill issue. Or are you telling me that every #girlboss you stan isn't a Real Woman either? Like these ideas don't become feminist just because you, personally, don't want to be hatecrimed (but think it should happen to OTHER people more often).

I'm a trans woman and I approve of this message! Everyone can reblog this justifiably angry statement with a trans woman backing it up!

Repeat after me: We should all protect each other. We are siblings. We are each other's guardian angels. I will do everything I possibly can for other trans people safe in the knowledge that they will do the same for me.