[Two male leads + one-on-one, both inexperienced + angst first, sweetness later + the top is a wolf in sheep’s clothing + imprisonment and forced love]
A cool, jade-like bottom x a possessive emperor top
“Uncle, half my life belongs to you.” On a snowy night twelve years ago, the boy Xun Huimo huddled in Song Jilin’s arms, a fox-fur cloak wrapped around his trembling shoulders.
Twelve years later, after a palace coup, Song Jilin gazed at his father’s severed head at Xuanwu Gate and his twin sister hanging herself in Fengyi Palace. His voice turned to ice. “Xun Huimo, I wish I’d never saved you!”
Three years later, on the desolate northern frontier, a dark cloak covered his frozen body. Song Jilin bit into his wrist, and the scent of agarwood struck him like a shock. “Back then, you said, ‘Put on the fox-fur cloak and you won’t be cold.’” The emperor gripped the crescent-shaped scar on the back of his neck. “Now it’s my turn to take you home.”
Mist curled through the heated pavilion as a silver spoon scraped against the creamy curds. “Open your mouth.” Xun Huimo offered him a bowl, but it was knocked over. A shard cut Song Jilin’s palm. Xun Huimo bent down and licked away a drop of blood. “You saved me twelve years ago. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
“Take care of me?” Song Jilin stared at him. “You call it taking care of me when you chain me to the steps and bind my wrists with red cord?”
A candle crackled. Xun Huimo gripped his chin, his thumb rubbing over the old scar. “When you were exiled, did you know I knelt in Shengchen Palace for three years? Every night, I touched the broken jade you gave me and remembered you saying ‘Don’t hide’ at the hot spring.” His hand paused as he undid the buttons of Song Jilin’s inner robe.
“I want to hide now.” Song Jilin closed his eyes and let him kiss the beauty mark at the corner of his eye.
“Too late.” Xun Huimo swept the secret letters off the table with his imperial robe and pinned Song Jilin beneath the brocade quilt, his palm settling over an old wound at his waist.
“It should hurt. That way, you won’t melt away like snow.”
Snow fell on vermilion walls for twelve years. Only the warmth of your palm was a grave to call home.
If hatred is sugar laced with poison, I would lick every last trace of warmth from your fingertips.
My mom cried so much, the writing is so good 😢
After reading it, I feel a little sad for what happened to King Ming.