#Fortitude // Solo Posts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

beautifulpersonpeach · 2 years ago

Note

BPP, sorry if you've answered this question before but what is your best song from Face?

***

Hi @tabbypuppykitty

I’ve had a rethink. I think Face-off is now my favourite song on the album.

Set Me Free Pt 2 is still top 3, but Jimin’s enunciation on Face-off brings a smile to my face every time I hear it because that man is too damn sassy for his own good lool.

In the latest Suchwita episode, Hobi revealed that Jimin practiced live singing six hours everyday before and during FACE promotions.

Six hours. Every day.

That made me pause. I started thinking about everything that happened during FACE. I don't talk about this at all here because I won't ever share personal pictures and I know I was incredibly lucky and many other people here likely deserved to see him before I did, but I saw Jimin live during his very first shows for FACE.

He was so happy. The joy on his face and the way he worked the crowd... like a fish in water. He gave some of the best performances of the year during FACE promotions. The whole project and the thoughtful way he went about promoting the album, is noteworthy.

youtube

(You should watch this if you haven't already)

But then I remembered the BS, the way k-pop stans reacted to the album, to the MVs, to the encore stage, the way BTS akgaes indulged in their sociopathy on his account, how BigHit failed (the anger Jimin biases feel is justified but some of y'all are wallowing in it). I remembered a few of Jimin's Wlives, how so much has been going on for him this year, and then tried to fit 6 hours daily practicing into it...

I have to stop myself when I think about Jimin. He has such latent intensity, like a glamour, a force field around him... it's like a black hole that sucks everything, including you, into him and his world. It scares me.

I know I whine about Jimin biases but y'all amaze me ngl. It takes a special fortitude of heart to bias Jimin. This post already sounds incredibly effusive, but I don't believe I'm exaggerating when I say he's a truly beautiful person. It's almost as though the world does not deserve him. It's impossible to not love him, desire him, care for him... want more sooner for him. I see all that, but I also see that man is stubborn as fuck.

He took his time to start work on his solo album. The middle of the Vegas concerts is when he said he suddenly came to his senses, shook himself out of that trance, and earnestly started putting together the FACE project. He'd written songs before, but FACE was its own thing. The personal stories he chose to communicate, the care in lyricism and production, the quality... Jimin created art in FACE and trusted that those who care for nothing but the best, will love it.

That's sexy, but the way he went about it also betrays a conservatism in him. It's a shadow of the edge in him, that thing about him that causes a tinge of anxiety when you watch him too closely.

I'm not sure if I'm making sense, but what I mean to say is you need a special kind of courage to bias and love Jimin. I recognize that. When I write what I do here, I always remember that. I also have very little respect for solos. And those two sentiments aren't mutually exclusive.

But taking it back to Face-off, my favourite thing about it is Jimin's sense of humour and skill coming through in the song, as well as how he enunciates his words. To really hear the switch in his tone, you need to stream in this order:

Like Crazy > Alone > Set Me Free Pt 2 > Face-off

By the time you get to Face-off, Jimin's voice has already gone through every variation possible, but then he brings out a tone I've heard only one other artist do well (Rihanna), and that tone is disgust.

Pure, refined sass. And he's already got the sauciest voice in k-pop.

youtube

The melodic and tonal choices Jimin makes at these timestamps fucks with my head:

1:53 - 2:08;

2:16 - 2:25;

2:41 - 2:56....

(lol, at this rate you might as well just listen to the whole song again.) Jimin is fantastic in the whole thing.

Europe is where Jimin belongs, but America would eat Jimin up too. The country already does if we're being real, America already loves Jimin. But given the right concept, Jimin would devour because he always does, and the world should get to see it. I hope I get to see more of it. As I've said before, if you feel inclined to communicate that to BigHit, I strongly suggest you do.

During Suchwita, Hobi showed how he's planned content for fans almost years in advance. It's possible Jimin does this too, planning music and content for fans to see months later... (So we might not learn why he went to London, for months...)

Yeah... I don't have the strength of heart to bias Jimin. Good luck to y'all.

...that was kind of a lot lool. So to calm down, Jimin:

Anyway, sorry I rambled. Face-off is a really good song and Jimin did an excellent job on it. The whole project is very good so I can't wait for the next songs we get from him. Shit can't get worse than BB deleting D2C sales so on the bright side, we can only go up from here, and for Jimin who already owns the record as the first soloist in history to debut #1 on the Billboard Hot 100, up will be a good spot to be.

Stream Like Crazy, Seven, All Day, and HUH?!

#jimin #park jimin #jimin face #bts #kpop #bangtan

119 notes · View notes

walkawaytall · 2 years ago

Text

My Han/Leia Fics by Era: Return of the Jedi and beyond

I've written like 20 one-shots this year and figured I'd categorize them by eras, as decided on by me. Here's all the stuff set either during Return of the Jedi or shortly thereafter, listed from shortest to longest. I think the farthest in the future these get is a few years post-ROTJ, but I like to pretend our favorite scoundrel and princess lived quite literally happily ever after.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

A Tolerable Sort of Hell One-shot | 923 words | G General vibe: hurt/comfort, a bit angsty, a bit mushy, hopeful ending.

Summary: Still half-blind, still recovering from hibernation sickness, Han Solo slips in and out of the present during the hours immediately following his rescue.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Presumptuous Man One-shot | 1631 words | G General vibe: mild peril, humor, a bit of romance.

Summary: Han is concussed during a mission and has made that Leia’s problem.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Tell Your Sister One-shot | 1731 words | G General vibe: Leia reacting to Anakin's last words, supportive Han, a bit of dark humor.

Summary: Anakin Skywalker had some of the worst last words ever uttered by a human being. Leia has an appropriate reaction upon hearing them.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Reconstitution One-shot | 2058 words | T General vibe: angsty, bittersweet, a post-war exploration of PTSD and adjusting, hopeful ending.

Summary: Life after the war is different than what Leia expected. Not bad different; just different.

A Leia/Han slice of life sort of thing set shortly after the New Republic is established. Also, I think this is my favorite of everything I've written so far.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

All the Voices One-shot | 2138 words | G General vibe: fluff, mostly just a bunch of cutesy fluff involving Han being excited to be a dad.

Summary: Pregnancy causes Leia's bad dreams to get worse. The solution? A nighttime routine involving Han telling ridiculous bedtime stories to their unborn child.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Fortitude One-shot | 2610 words | G General vibe: angsty, sad, hopeful ending.

Summary: Five times Leia Organa lost everything and one time she didn't.

(This isn't exclusively ROTJ, but about half of the scenes take place during and after ROTJ, so I'm just throwing it in here.)

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Every Version of You One-shot | 2872 words | T General vibe: angsty, hurt/comfort, hopeful ending.

Summary: Leia prepares herself for the aftermath of revealing her parentage to Han.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Opportunistic One-shot | 3550 words | T General vibe: moderate suspense/peril, hurt/comfort, angsty Leia.

Summary: Leia goes rogue in Jabba's palace.

#fanfiction list #my fics by era #my fics #star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #hanleia fanfiction #hanleia fanfic #han x leia fanfic #han x leia fanfiction #return of the jedi fanfic #return of the jedi #my fics list

5 notes · View notes

hautsreadsmarvel · 6 months ago

Text

Here comes… “DAREDEVIL”, the Man Without Fear! (issue 1)

It's another solo series debut, which means it gets its own one-issue post. I never got into the Daredevil show, but wow, this story did not disappoint.

I haven’t drawn explicit attention to it before, but if you’ve been reading the cover images and such, you’ve probably noticed…

…the Marvel crew love hyping themselves up. It must be so exhausting to continually speak in nothing but superlatives, but somehow they have the fortitude.

Big fan of this artstyle.

Matt Murdock was raised by his single father to study hard and get a good job to avoid being a washed-up boxer like Papa Murdock. He hits the books, gets to law school, and also hits the gym. Meanwhile, Murdock Senior has become too old for any legitimate manager to take him on, other than a cruel and amoral figure known as the Fixer.

Matt goes on to save a blind-deaf person from being run over by a car while crossing the street, but the careening car splashes him with a toxic, radioactive chemical that takes away his sight. It also boosts his other senses…

(The explanation of his powers is pretty cool, but dags nabbit, now I can’t stop thinking of “perhaps a little more Sodium Chloride next time”.)

…and some time after that, his father is ordered to throw a fight on behalf of the Fixer, but knowing Matt is in the crowd and wanting to make his son as proud of him as he is of his son, he fights for real and scores a win. The Fixer takes unkindly to that and has him shot in the dark.

Thus begins our quest for revenge.

People make the joke “Daredevil is a blind guy with the power to see”, but this is so much cooler than seeing. Along with his background as a boxer’s son, it really drives home that Matt Murdock is an “intellectual” fighter whose every move is considered and honed.

Art, great. Fights, great. Matt’s backstory, conflict with the Fixer, and the way the two are woven into each other (in media res busting up the Fixer’s goons → backstory providing context and emotional weight → fucking up the Fixer and putting the killer behind bars), great.

And Matt’s willing to get dirty to get his vengeance, as right after the Fixer dies of a heart attack he uses a false confession to get a real one on record. I know the CCA wouldn’t let a hero purposefully kill someone, but I was willing to believe he was going to do murder to the Fixer and his gunman.

Honestly, I think the Marvel crew earned themselves the right to hype up this issue.

As to the scant things I didn’t like about this story, Karen Page, our nominal tritagonist, is just here to gush about men as is the norm for most of the women so far. Even then, Matt’s law partner Foggy has excellent wingman instincts and that kind of serves to wash the taste out.

#hrm liveblog #daredevil #marvel comics

1 note · View note

hillslicensing-blog · 1 year ago

Text

Harley Vests for Women: The Meaning of Freedom with the best leather biker vest

New Post has been published on https://ashipwreckinthesand.com/harley-vests-for-women-the-meaning-of-freedom-with-the-best-leather-biker-vest/

Harley Vests for Women: The Meaning of Freedom with the best leather biker vest

The open road, a symphony of roaring motors under the great sky, draws those who seek independence and adventure. In this crowd of enthusiasts, women bikers stand out with strength, independence, and flair. The ladies harley vest, a sign of the trip rather than the destination, is fundamental to their wardrobe.

Harley vests were popular with early motorcyclists who wanted protection and style. Women use this clothing to express their tales, accomplishments, and recollections. Each patch, stitch, and worn mark tells a story as unique as the rider.

Vest materials vary as much as personalities. Leather is still popular because it protects against the weather and connects to motorcycling’s history. With its versatility and informal appeal, Denim is a lighter, more approachable choice, reflecting the laid-back bicycling culture. Functionality and personal statement define the vest, regardless of material.

Function extends beyond material to design and features. External and internal pockets are carefully designed to hold keys, phones, and wallets without compromising the vest’s slim silhouette. From fast rides to leisurely strolls, adjustable sides suit the rider comfortably and stylishly. Practical design aspects emphasize a commitment to the rider’s experience, making the vest lived in rather than just worn.

These vests become a rider’s voyage diary with personalization. The fabric is covered in club, rally patches, and pins, creating a mosaic of experiences and affiliations. This personalization promotes community and individuality, letting riders proudly display their tales and relationships. The vest allows one to express oneself without words.

The vest’s goal is safety, even though aesthetics and personal expression often eclipse it. Reflective features are discreetly included in vest designs to improve visibility. This balance of safety and style represents a comprehensive awareness of rider needs—protection and expression perfectly integrated.

Beyond materials, usefulness, and safety, the Harley vest has a deeper, intangible soul. It symbolizes motorcycling’s freedom and independence and a connection to the road. It represents the fortitude to be different, embrace the adventure, and carve one’s own path. The vest is armor, protection, and a statement of the rider’s spirit.

The Harley vest is crucial to women’s riding culture. It symbolizes empowerment, rejection of convention, and self-discovery. In meetings, on solo rides, or as regular wear, the vest symbolizes community, shared passions, and the unspoken tie between motorcyclists.

Finally, the ladies’ Harley vest is a travel companion, a storyteller, and a symbol of women riders’ tenacity. As the countryside passes, the vest remains a constant, a bit of the wide road woven into their lives and a reminder of the voyage and the miles yet to come. Not only where you’re going or have gone, but who you are—a rider, adventurer, storyteller. All vests embody this essence, a bit of the open-road fantasy.

Weaving Identity and Adventure via Ladies’ Motorcycle Vests

Among the loud engines and the whisper of the wind against the wide road, the ladies’ motorbike vest symbolizes identity, freedom, and solidarity. Women riders’ clothing is a statement of uniqueness, a shield of resistance, and a canvas for self-expression.

The fabric choice of these vests is vital to their story. Leather has long been the foundation of motorcycle gear due to its durability and traditional style. Its ageless charm and protection from the elements and asphalt reflect motorcycling culture’s rich heritage. Reinforced denim and synthetic textiles have joined leather to meet varied purposes. These materials combine history and innovation to offer weight, flexibility, and stylistic variants while keeping the vest’s strength and freedom.

Design and utility blend seamlessly in these vests. Thoughtfully integrated elements like adequate pocket space for personal goods and adjustable straps for a tailored fit make the vest useful and significant. These aspects demonstrate an awareness of riding’s practicality, balancing convenience and accessibility with the need for a unique vest.

Customization makes the motorbike vest a personal emblem. Patches, needlework, and pins are more than decorations—they’re badges of honor, emblems of belonging, and milestone markers. Each addition visually documents the rider’s trip, from rallies to clubs and causes. This tapestry of personal and common experiences gives riders a strong sense of identification and belonging.

While less obvious, these vests incorporate safety in subtle yet crucial ways. Designs often use reflective elements and high-visibility hues to satisfy aesthetic preferences and road users’ visibility needs. This safety feature integration emphasizes the vest’s dual role as a statement of self and a road safety device.

The motorbike vest has excellent meaning for women riders. It represents the independence of two wheels, the empowerment of taking charge of one’s trip, and the camaraderie of people who share this desire. Motorcycle riders and women seeking independence and self-expression use the vest as a symbol. It represents a break from tradition, risk-taking, and celebrating women riders’ strength and energy.

The ladies’ motorbike vest evolved with the culture and perception of women motorcyclists. Once considered accessories or anomalies in the motorcycle world, women have carved out their own niche, altering the culture to honor their contributions, leadership, and road rights. The vest symbolizes this progression and future paths.

The wearer creates a vest to express freedom, overcome limitations, and pursue personal growth and adventure, just like riding. From material to design to insignia, each option reflects the rider’s identity, ideals, and adventure.

Ultimately, the women’s motorbike vest is more than clothing. It symbolizes independence, bravery, and sisterhood. With each mile and encounter, it writes a new story. In motorcycling, where the road is a physical and figurative journey to discovery, the vest is a constant companion, defender, and soul canvas. Every stitch and patch represents the travel, adventure, and tenacious will of women who follow the open road.

In women’s motorcycling, the vest dresses the body and encases the spirit, echoing personal and collective adventures. This outfit transcends its physical utility to symbolize female empowerment, breaking social bonds, and togetherness among women motorcyclists. It’s a visual discourse of resilience, a patchwork of accomplishments, and a shared narrative of journeys and obstacles. The Harley vest, designed for women, is a cultural item in the motorcycle community, symbolizing independence, sisterhood, and rebellion. Each vest, with its own story, inspires more women to ride motorcycles. Women challenge norms and leave a legacy for future bikers with this style choice. The vest is a proclamation of independence, a piece of armor in the search of freedom, and a canvas on which innumerable adventures are engraved, saluting women riders everywhere’s indomitable spirit.

0 notes

consideratesea · 2 years ago

Text

my friend is looking over some poetry I'm working on and I want you guys to read an exchange we had if you have the fortitude for a long personal post lmao anyway, read on and take in as able:

FRIEND: I sense a "call of the void" but I am confused how it fits with the theater. Other than playing a dying character. What is the void onstage? What pulls you back there?

ME: ah. I think my personal lived experience is getting in the way here? the theatre IS a void. some of them are literally called black boxes. you can lose yourself watching a play. and while you're on stage you mostly can't see the audience! if you're lit well you're staring out into a black wall (and god help you if you have to look at or avoid eye contact strategically with the audience instead you just pray they're making the right facial expressions lmao)

I also find stage fright to be a sort of void like I have almost blacked out before shows lol my skin gets all purple and I'm sweating and freezing and have a completely blank brain and then I'm on stage for 30 seconds and it mostly goes away haha. and it's not the same but near akin to that is when you know your lines or your solo or song or dance or monologue or whatever so well that you fly into autopilot and leave your body and watch yourself in the damn show (until of course you REmEMbeR what you're doing and slam back to earth)

there were also many many times in my high school and college years where I would be in an auditorium or theatre (seating near 500 in hs and 1500 in college) alone, with all or most of the lights off. I was sometimes in there for a legitimate reason and I was sometimes in there because I had snuck in but it was a quiet place to breathe. to think. and I was never walked in on, which was such a rare gift in my life, to just be secure in my aloneness.

so who knows how all that may get translated into this stanza haha

#👀 if anyone would like to read or edit a stranger's amateur poetry lmk lol #poetry #writing #death of the author and call of the void idk #is this a case for the mcdonald's drive through shocked woman meme or am I coherent?

1 note · View note

trastornadosrevista · 2 years ago

Text

GOJIRA Y MASTODON: VUELVEN A LA ARGENTINA COMO PARTE DEL “THE MEGA-MONSTERS TOUR

¡Prepara tus oídos para la experiencia musical más intensa del año! Gojira y Mastodon, dos de las bandas más influyentes de la escena del metal mundial llegarán a Buenos Aires de la mano de su "Mega Monster Tour 2023". Un evento único, que promete hacer historia y representa una oportunidad de lujo e irrepetible para los amantes del metal y el rock progresivo.

Gojira, una de las bandas más aclamadas de la escena musical actual por su enfoque artístico musical, la profundidad de sus letras y la complejidad de sus composiciones que buscan expresar de alguna manera la naturaleza dual del bien y el mal de la humanidad a través de un sonido denso y oscuro pero atravesado a la vez por melodías extraordinariamente pegadizas capaces de hacer vibrar a las multitudes.

"No puedo evitar ver a la humanidad como un parásito", -comenta el guitarrista y principal compositor de Gojira Joe Duplantier-, "sin embargo, las cosas más hermosas surgen de los seres humanos". Bajo este enfoque el cuarteto francés, compuesto por los hermanos Duplantier, (Joe en la guitarra y Mario en la batería), Christian Andreu en la guitarra y Jean-Michel Labadie en el bajo, han creado en el 2021 el disco “Fortitude” en el 2021 con letras que encajan perfectamente dentro del escenario post-pandemico y se convierten en un verdadero estigma motivacional para seguir adelante.

Por su parte, la emblemática banda de rock progresivo, Mastodon, con una carrera de 21 años a cuestas, es una agrupación que ha cambiado por completo el curso del metal del siglo XXI, con una marcada influencia en la cultura pop, ganadores del Grammy, dueños del top ten de las listas de Billboard, ha lanzado en septiembre de 2021, “Hushed and Grim” una obra maestra que trasciende los límites del metal y toca las fibras más profundas de la experiencia humana. En un mundo incierto y lleno de desafíos, su música nos recuerda que no estamos solos y que siempre hay esperanza en medio de la oscuridad.

¡Gojira-Mastodon Mega Monster Tour 2023!, un espectáculo sin precedentes, prepárate para vivir una velada llena de pasión, poder y la mejor música que el mundo del metal y el rock progresivo tienen para ofrecer.

Entradas: https://www.movistararena.com.ar/

#gojira #mastodon

0 notes

theradicalscrivener · 2 years ago

Text

Life is suffering.

I'm struggling to hold it together long enough to finish the semester but it's going Not Well. The good gnus is I have finished a few short stories. The bad gnus is ... Everything else. I'll need to figure out when to post some of the stuff from the past few months because I'm never sure if I should be aiming for "peak hours" or just post it whenever is convenient. Unfortunately, I've been to exhausted to do anything other than work and such for a while now. I'm hoping that in a few weeks when I finish my finals I'll be able to unwind a bit and get some housekeeping stuff done. I also need to figure out what stories I've actually posted here and what I still have left to share. I know I did some CDE recently as well as the first stage of a slow(ish) macro growth story which I don't think has been posted here. I feel like I've also done some one shot stuff.

I'll try to give a brief recap of the past few months because I know people have been asking but also I know that most people don't want to have to scroll past a massive block of text so I'll keep it snappy.

I'm in an upper division accounting class. The final class I need to finish my bachelor's in accounting degree. The professor has structured the entire class around being a group oriented endeavor. All assignments (sans exams) are group projects. You'd think being an upper division course, everyone would be knowledgeable in the field and have at least the bare minimum moral fortitude and work ethic but you'd be wrong. My group has refused to do any work and since I dont want to fail because of other people I've been doing the work of 5 people by myself which is a huge part of why I'm so worn out.

I've spoken with the proff about it and at first she seemed to be on my side. Literally the whole class knows I'm the only one in my group doing work. During all the presentations I'm the only one who speaks and when the other members are forced to speak/answer questions they have no idea what to say. Like I've literally written briefs for them so they'd at least have something to say and they refuse to even read that.

A few weeks ago the proff pulled me aside after class and said that she'd grade my work separately from the rest of my group and that I should do the final assignment (which is like 40% of the class grade) solo and leave the rest of the group to handle themselves. I did the entire assignment by myself and emailed it to her rather than submitting it through the group portal. She responds to my email and said she has no idea why I would email her directly and told me i was supposed to use the group portal. She has no memory of us every talkin about the group issues so now the rest of the group are getting my grade on the final project even tho they didn't do anything. I haven't even heard from them in weeks. To make matters worse the proff never changed my grades and so I have the grades for the rest of the group (which are very low because we are graded on the participation of the whole group and since most of the group never participates in the presentation, and when they do they don't know anything about the subject I'm getting graded down for them not doing their job.)

I have a few more weeks and a few more assignments left of this shit. I just need to survive til mid may. Hopefully I don't crash and burn completely.

In other gnus. Things at work have been insane. I've been doing triple duty there as well. I work two jobs. One is a salary job which is tough to really say how much I actually do there ( but even then my salary is only 800 a month so it's not meant to be a full time job). On top of that I have my hourly work. I've been putting in over 100 hours at the hourly work pretty consistently lately.

On top of all that ny grandmother passed away at the start of the month. I ended up on an impromptu road trip to go to the funeral and deal with family stuff all while keeping up with work and school. I'm back home now but I'm extra exhausted and also down bad with the Rona. I'm tired and sore and sick and cranky as all get out.

But hopefully... I just need a few more weeks.

21 notes · View notes

actualtays · 3 years ago

Text

Her Odyssey: Character Creation

Welcome to Actual Tays, the blog where I (@taylorannnx) play solo games and write them down like I'm back in my teen days writing fanfiction. (Please note, none of this content is sponsored, I just miss writing fanfiction but also TTRPGs are my life now.)

Today we are starting Her Odyssey by S. Kaiya J, which is a solo journaling RPG powered by Caltrop Core (created by @titanomachyrpg).

Her Odyssey is a solo journaling RPG about a wanderer trying to return home - or find a new home. Built on Caltrop Core, this game allows you to build a rich world, create a character backstory, explore an ongoing adventure, or all three at once - with nothing more than a deck of standard playing cards and a handful of d4s.

As inspiration beyond the loose parameters of the game, I'm going to be using the Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks to help me with worldbuilding and inspiration for story elements. Will this game be cliché heavy? Probably, but you've been warned.

You can vote on which game variation I play with over on Twitter.

In Part 0 of this game, I will be creating my character by assigning stat points and answering the awesome "Who Is Your Wanderer?" prompt questions.

The Character: The Stats

In this game, you have 11 points to assign across three statistics: Vitality, Quickness, and Fortitude.

Vitality (fire; bodily strength and force of presence): 2

Quickness (air; cunning wit and dexterous body): 4

Fortitude (earth; steadfastness and self-belief): 5

The Character: Introduction

"My name is Alba Clarke, I use she/her pronouns, and I am looking for my husband, Peter Clarke. He is an officer in the tenth battalion of the fifty-first regiment. Have you seen him? I'm his next of kin and no one will tell me where he is."

The guard, in their dust-smeared tangerine uniform, pushed air disdainfully out from their nose but otherwise ignored the short woman standing in the ruined street before them.

"Please," Alba continued, clutching the grimy knit shawl around her shoulders as a gritty breeze began to pick up. "I've been walking for days. I left behind anyone who survived to find him. I need your help."

The guard shifted and raised a weathered hand to lift their neckerchief over their mouth. Their eyes seemed unfocused, resting on a disintegrating flyer clinging desperately to a downed telephone pole across the street.

Alba grumbled and kicked the deflated tire of a rusting green car as she turned away. The impact sent a shock up her leg, and she winced twice: once from the pain, and again from the embarrassment of the high-pitched squeak that surely did not escape the guards notice. Clutching the strap of the worryingly light satchel around her shoulder, Alba stalked off down the cracked pavements, careful not to trip on the weeds bursting up from the ground.

She thought of her husband, and of their home, a place of love and safety, now lost to intentional destruction and endless waves of the undead. The wooden stairs that had been lined with their wedding photos and post-it note reminders. The glass was all smashed now, scattered like caltrops on top of splintered steps that prevented anyone from reaching the top floor. The notes reduced to ash in an attempt to start a fire. She remembered the bedroom, bright and open with cream walls and large windows to curl up reading books. Now they were blackened with mould, and the windows had been taped up with cardboard, then taped up again to stop anything from seeing movement from within.

As the whistling of the wind swelled into a roar, the bang of a bin tumbling over startled Alba out of her thoughts for long enough to notice a shadow looming from behind her in the afternoon sun. She turned, and saw a familiar shambling shape turn into the road. Her chest tightened and her knees quaked as she heard the guard shout something into a walkie-talkie before retreating rapidly down an alley. Quickly averting her eyes, Alba quickened her pace away from the animated remains of her mother and on towards the next orange speck in the distance who might hopefully be a little kinder.

Reminder: You can vote on which game variation I play with over on Twitter.

#actual plays #actual tays #solo gaming #solo journaling game #original character #where is my husband #zombie survival guide

8 notes · View notes

captainpikeachu · 5 years ago

Text

I need to really make a post about all the reasons that I love Nile.

- she got to have her own solo arc, her own solo fight, she gets to have agency, the story allows for her to have a choice, something that even the comics didn’t even give her

- she might be the new kid on the block but she is not belittled, or treated like she’s an idiot who needs older people to tell her what to do, nope, she might be “a kid”, but she is just as competent and intelligent as the rest, the future legacy of the immortals is in good hands with her

- her moral fortitude, I respect her so much for that, she knows that she might have to kill but she doesn’t want to become some unfeeling killing machine

- she won’t leave anyone behind

- her kindness, to the kids she was interacting with, and to Booker at the end

- “it wasn’t your gift to give” - seriously I love that she suffers no fools, I love that she’s not going the route that so often these movies can do with the whole “well greater good matters more than personal autonomy”

- her refusal to let Andy give up, and showing Andy and the team that they do have purpose and what they do matters

- she has the one brain cell

- except when she shot her own foot when she could have just told Copley she’s new LOL

Anyways, I just want to say that Nile Freeman is so awesome and I love her and I can’t wait for more of her in the sequel!

#the old guard #nile freeman #nile freeman appreciation day is all the time

1K notes · View notes

thetorturerwrites · 5 years ago

Text

Lamb Ch 8 - Stop This

***This amazing artwork was gifted to me by @elmidol. Please do not re-use or re-post it without permission from them and/or myself. Don’t be a dickbag.

Previous Chapter

Summary: For hours, you kept vigil. Your terror believed you to be alone in a mundane forest, and you strained to hear a gnarly growl, an angry hiss, or even the snap of a twig to alert you of a predator’s presence.

But this was not a normal woodland, and there was only the gentle rustle of reeds and leaves in the breeze. This place was perilous but subtly so, the danger disguised as beauty.

You drowned in worry, chewing your cheeks and lips as you waited for him to return or to appear from between the trees where he hovered, watching you struggle. He would, you nodded to no one. Surely, even he wouldn’t leave you alone in peril. You told yourself this over and over, demanding that your heart make your brain believe it. Surely, offering your body and potentially pregnant already made you worth something.

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone following along with this story. It is unfolding in a very unique way that I did not expect. I appreciate you all. <3

Content Note: Menstruation & red mustache, suicidal ideation, talk of pregnancy

Word Count: 4.5k

For hours, you kept vigil. Your terror believed you to be alone in a mundane forest, and you strained to hear a gnarly growl, an angry hiss, or even the snap of a twig to alert you of a predator’s presence.

But this was not a normal woodland, and there was only the gentle rustle of reeds and leaves in the breeze. This place was perilous but subtly so, the danger disguised as beauty.

But the nagging doubt never receded. His compassion, if he truly had it, was warped by solitude and eons of ends. You knew he would kill a thing to end its suffering rather than lend it aid.

Huddled in on yourself as best you could in your bondage, you kept the tears at bay until fatigue won out over fortitude. Limp, aching, wrecked, you contemplated screaming the way you did the first day. It drew his attention, after all. Instead, you cried as quietly as you could. He did not come, would not come; this was your punishment.

When your mind could no longer resist, you succumbed to fitful sleep, hounded by dreams of his terrible helmet and angry face. Repeatedly, you jerked awake from his haunting shouts only to still be hanging from the damn tree. How long would he make you endure this?

Shivering and miserable, you barely noticed the bright light emerging to your left. Larger and stronger, hotter and hotter, it grew, catching your eye and sending both wide open. You blinked hard to be sure you were awake, that you weren’t imagining it, but on it grew to the size of a man. The sort of man you’d seen only once before in your life.

The sort of man who wasn’t a man at all.

Even if you were half-dreaming, or half-mad, there was no mistaking who it was. There was only the unanswerable question of what he wanted.

On a wince, you turned away when he stepped from the center of that dazzling aura. You didn’t want to look. Although you instinctively knew that if The Ren was real, so too must be his brother, you didn’t want to see it. You didn’t need more evidence that the decision you made to journey here was ludicrous.

Unphased by your flinch, his ethereal fingers skimmed your chin, and his overly warm hand cupped your cheek. The near tenderness of it made you want to wretch. It was too much. He was too close. The Ren was cool to the touch, calming and, somehow, tranquil. This creature burned too brightly. You felt singed by his very touch, and you didn’t want even a second more of it. There was only one way to make him stop, though.

Begrudgingly, you looked up into such familiar eyes; but whereas you knew irises that flitted from color to color, these shone a brilliant gold, piercing and fixed. They traveled the length of your body, and you could do nothing but endure his assessing eyes upon your nudity.

“Stop this.”

His voice radiated through you, flipping your stomach. It startled your heart out of rhythm, forcing a choking wheeze from your straining ribs. It was a punch to the gut, a sameness that was just slightly off. He spoke with a voice you knew, but it teemed with something unnameable, something you felt in your bones. It was wrong, as though he worked to make sure you knew who and what he was with his voice.

Abruptly, the light bulb blinked on. This was pure demand disguised as niceness. The Galaxy belonged to him, and he was very accustomed to getting his way.

“You do not know what you do.�� He pinched your chin and forced your face nearer to his glowing gaze. “Stop this before you do greater damage.”

His touch turned fiery, angrily so. It was a threat, intended to punctuate your mortality with the slightest, most insignificant gesture. Fear knocked your knees, but you set your jaw against the blossoming burn and jerked away from his fingers.

The calm shroud evaporated, replaced by annoyance. It was a look you knew well; but this time, you didn’t shy away from it. His hand tightened to a fist, and he towered over you, leaning in menacingly. You perched on the verge of saying something monumentally stupid when he glanced over your shoulder toward the mossy path, clocking something you couldn’t see. One last stern look to you was all there was before he disappeared, sucking all the heat and then some from the little nook as he went.

Your trembling turned to quaking, a mixture of cresting adrenaline, fear, and what now felt like arctic cold. Your entire body shook terribly, unable to find any equilibrium in the wake of cold warring with hot.

Your particular deity came into view, and you slumped against the tree, ready to beg that he take you from here. You wondered how you must look, terrified and wild-eyed with your teeth chattering, chest and abdomen heaving, and fingers scrabbling against the ties at your wrists.

All of which he completely ignored.

The contented noise he made as he lifted you into granite arms and curled your legs around his waist jolted through you. Relief flooded in at the feel of him against you, and you let loose a pitiful whinge and pulled at the ties. All you wanted to do was curl into his broad chest, regardless of how childish it would feel.

Having his own agenda, cool fingers grazed your labia, plucking at the meat before sliding further down to assess your readiness. The realization that he meant to have you here, in the open, struck a chord you couldn’t put your finger on. But if you kept secret what just happened, the penance for it could very well be another night on this tree.

You twisted in his arms and shook your head to get it on straight, but he only tucked his face into the crook of your neck to lick at your sweat-slicked skin. He mistook your attempt at gathering your wits as reluctance and bit at your jaw. He clawed at your backside to keep you still, and you hissed at the drag of his nails.

“Did you think it would be only once, lamb?” He shifted you in his embrace, scraping your back against the rigid bark. His next words came against the corner of your mouth, a husky promise that set your insides to clenching. “You’ll sacrifice this pretty cunt to me over and over.”

“N-n-n...” Freezing, feverish, and foolish, you couldn’t control your tongue. Pushing a knee up under his arm, you squirmed and thrashed until you thought he might slap you. “S-s-s-solo.”

The Galaxy stopped.

The Ren’s normally disinterested features morphed into murderous, and his fingers gouged into the soft swell of your hips. He stared at you, seething, and your very soul shrank from him. Cowering, waiting for the strike, you turned your face away, squeezed your eyes shut tight, and braced for the explosion of his anger.

What was a calm breeze whipped up into tumultuous wind. The silver twilight sky darkened with thick, gray, thunderous clouds. Plants and flowers and trees curled away from their creator, burrowing down as though to survive his wrath. Stars that hearkened to his every whim blinked out, casting the land into midnight blackness.

Whatever fear Solo produced in you vanished in the face of this. You knew what The Ren was capable of, what he could accomplish with nothing more than his mood.

You clung to him, knees tight around his middle, ankles hooked at the small of his back. He was the eye of the storm, the only bit of steadiness in this now abysmal environment. His eyes flashed lightning bright, swirling ominous shades of crimson and smoke. Suddenly, his wide hand snatched up your face, turning it right and left. You knew the skin flushed and heated from Solo’s touch, but could he see it somehow? Did the man beget of light leave a mark on your flesh?

Enraged, he shoved you away, letting his wolfish stare rake over the rest of you. You balked, shifting uncomfortably as he gripped your outer thigh and turned you to one side. Tangling fingers in your hair, he yanked your head back to inspect the jagged neckband for signs of tampering. It was then you understood he was looking for evidence that his brother sullied you, coerced you away from his claim.

You were naked, disheveled, and visibly struggling with all that transpired; and no doubt, the majority of anyone he’d ever known found Solo to be the more appealing brother.

“I-I-I didn’t.” You stood onto your toes and tried to lean into him, as though you could calm the brute with your nearness. “N-nothing happened. He said go away; that’s all. I-I swear.”

Hoping to placate him with that information, you shrieked as it only launched him into a roar that cracked the very ground you stood upon. From nowhere, his arcane scythe flew into his hand; and when the saber ignited, every vein in every leaf of every tree electrified to match until all the land was aglow in a scarlet-infused fog.

“Please,” you begged, haggard and croaking. “It was nothing. I didn’t do this.”

Rattled to the root of your spine, you were a breath away from apologizing for your very existence when the arc of his weapon came for you. It was so fast you didn’t have time to scream. In a blink, you knew Solo turned his brother from you, made him see this was senseless and that you couldn’t do what you’d promised.

Your time as a stupid girl was at an end.

It wasn’t until you felt Ren’s inflexible grip around your upper arm that you recognized you weren’t dead. He hauled you onto your feet and threw you at the path from which you’d come yesterday. Disoriented and ungraceful, you tripped and clattered to the ground in a mess of shredded cloak, boots, and knotted hair.

“Go back.” He hefted you from the ground and tossed you further down the minor road. “For once in your idiot life, do as you’re told. Do not leave Hosnia. Am I understood?”

His voice was unlike anything you’d heard before. Even from him. It was sonorous on a cosmic scale, and it shook loose a mudslide behind him, substantial chunks of mountain crashing to the ground. The outright malice weighting every word made your eyes ache, your lungs tighten.

Before he could shout at you again or bury you beneath the rubble, you ran.

He was gone a week before you strayed further than his bedroom and the bath. You kept to the outside, deciding it wouldn’t do to have him find you snooping through his things. Again. You roamed winding paths and explored small caves in what he called Hosnia. You also investigated the lasting effects of Solo’s presence. Large footprints left a scorched path on the ground. The bark around where you hung was charred, and many of the bushes in the vicinity were fried down to stems. Nothing here was meant to withstand so much light, such intensity.

With the absence of The Ren’s bombastic anger, everything settled back into calm, though the stars didn’t shine as brightly, and the flora didn’t bloom as vibrantly. Everything he created seemed to miss him terribly. You didn’t let yourself fear he wouldn’t return until you admitted you missed him, too.

Hugging yourself, you trained your eyes upon the red clay footpath and wandered aimlessly for what felt to be an entire day. At the Demarcation, you found his small band of soldiers patrolling. The sight of them jarred you because wherever he’d gone, he went alone. And he left his cadre of ghouls to keep you here, to contain you.

The thought was unsettling.

When you came upon the pulverized altar, the exact spot of your tethering, you lost all control. Sunk down in the very center of it, you howled strained, lonely, wrenching sobs. He left you here. He left, and he wasn’t coming back. He might be dead, and he left you here to rot, an abandoned, foolish child in the middle of a cruel, deadly world.

You didn’t go outside after that.

You wept for days, even as you tried to force yourself to function, to pass for some kind of alive. You wandered room after room, which only fueled your heartbreak because you found that he collected artifacts from all throughout the Galaxy. Some rooms were expertly furnished, decorated to bear the theme of what you thought of as the objects’ homeworld. Some were haphazard and chaotic, the contents thrown inside and forgotten. These made you cry the hardest because you felt just like those rugs, those tatters.

Useless. Forgotten.

At the end of the second week, your menses came, and you fractured all over again. Collapsed against a wall in the throne room, you unraveled into choking, heaving, mournful sounds you didn’t know yourself capable of making. No Ren. No family. No child to potentially keep you company, to give you purpose. The physical ache of your insides was pale in comparison.

You were utterly alone.

And you could not die. Not without The Ren to release you.

There was no escaping this hell, this monotonous existence wrought with only bottomless desolation. This was the sum and scope of your world now. You would be a wailing wraith disrupting the perfect silence with your lunacy.

“Find me in the Balance, beloved.”

The voice you had been desperate to hear for months broke through your delirium, stunning you to stillness. It was as clear as if she sat beside you, and you looked around frantically. You called for her, shouting when you received no answer. In the astounding silence, you pleaded. You begged her to save you, begged the universe to let you join her. Pressing your forehead against the icy wall, you willed yourself to expire.

“Just die. Please, just let me die,” you murmured over and over.

As though to answer your plea, the barrier against which you rested shimmered to life with diaphanous color. It drew your head up, meeting your despair with the faces of your family. On a shocked cry, you rocked backwards, away from the thing; but as soon as your touch disconnected, it returned to a lifeless, muted slab.

Inching forward, you warily, carefully, pressed your fingertips to the surface; and again, the faces of your family parted the gloomy veil and blossomed into a lovely gossamer picture. Through tears turned grateful, you watched the memory play out. It was summer, and you’d all gone for a picnic. You and your brother picked as many wildflowers as you could find to decorate the small shrine Nona brought to bless the outing.

One memory tumbled into the next, silhouettes shifting as though in a delicate waltz. Three vignettes was all it took for you to understand that he watched people’s memories this way, and you could watch yours so long as you touched it.

Shot up onto your feet, you ran through the rooms and collected every pillow and blanket you could find. You tore sheets and blankets from one bed after another and dragged over rugs to soften the hard floor.

If this was your new eternity, you would spend it with them the only way you could.

This was how he found you, buried in a nest of your own design, bundled up in another stolen shirt, and asleep with your knuckles pressed against the seam where wall met floor.

The scrape of his teeth roused you. He bit and licked and sucked at the ruddy stains on your inner thighs, drawing you from your dreams with each nip. A breathy, satisfied sigh slipped loose; and in your sleepy fog, you reached down to curl your fingers into his silken tresses.

The next purr you heard was decidedly not your own, and you slammed into awareness just as he buried his face in your pussy. On an alarmed squeak, you tried to inch away, to twist out of his grasp, but he dug his fingers and nails into your back so deep all you could do was whine.

His wicked tongue plundered through the folds and crevices of your sex before delving down and into the very proof of your failure.

Fat tears collected at the corners of your eyes because if anything you'd done here was worthy of punishment, of being cast out, it was this. This inability to live up to your word.

When he tipped your hips and parted your thighs wider, opening you up for him further, you forgot to feel sorry for yourself. Then, he bit and tugged on your labia and sucked on your over-sensitive clit, making you forget how to even inhale.

This was vulgar in its most base form, and you groaned aloud at how fucking pleased he seemed to be. He hummed and growled. Each obscene squish earned you a new murmur and tempted you to sink further into this sin with him.

You writhed and moaned, trying to coax him into just the right spot without words. But he set his sights on a new target and crawled up your body, stalking you even though you'd already been caught.

He nudged your legs apart wide with his hips and pushed his cock into your gory entrance easily. A quick rock of his hips had you pinned, penetrated, and gasping for air.

He bottomed out on an exquisite moan, and you finally let yourself look. You knew your eyes went wide, knew your mouth fell open in shock. His perfect features were not only painted in your blood, they were accented by a large scar running from forehead to clavicle.

Your mind swam with a million questions, but there was nothing to say. You'd been claimed by a barbarian, the battle king come to take what was his.

Your cunt gushed a red river, lubricating the way for him, and he slowly, languidly fucked you open, giving you long, measured passes until your body accepted him eagerly. You thought you might combust because he was here. He was inside of you, and you weren’t alone. The patient tempo of his hips increased, stunting your lungs and lifting you into an arch. You struggled and panted at the end of a particularly deep, delicious thrust, whimpering at the staggering fullness you felt. Of body. Of spirit.

You desperately wanted to hear his voice, for him to praise you or call you a dumb girl, but he said nothing, giving you only a raspy chorus of grunts. Matching him, you bit at your lips, both upper and lower, to keep from moaning; but when he shifted to kneel between your thighs, you lost the fight for silence.

Whether it was the sight of your blood or your overwhelmed hiccups, something spurred him into a harsh pace; and soon, the sound of his body slapping against yours countered your shrieks and cries. He dug one hand into your abdomen painfully, gouging at your flesh with unkind fingers to hold you in place so he could pound at you forcefully. With the other, he scooped your blood from around his relentless cock to paint your thighs, your belly, your ribs with it.

Bringing you down to the level of savage, too.

Pungent iron and tang perfumed the air; and when he bent over you to lick and bite at a stain he’d just made, you curled upwards to meet him. You gaped as he lifted his gaze to meet yours, lost to the swirl of want and demand. Holding his stare only made him fuck you harder, but you held it, fighting through the tremors and ribbons of ecstasy threatening to throw you off course.

His eyes shone nearly entirely black with only the faintest swirl at the edges of his irises, as though he’d descended into absolute madness and still fought his way back. His cheeks and nose blushed ever so faintly, and his plump pink lips pressed into a hard line as he concentrated on what you assumed was not pulverizing you. Carmine swooshes of your blood decorated his mouth, jaw, and chin, casting him as every bit the fearsome monster many believed him to be.

And though he wracked your body, all you could think was that he was magnificent.

“There go I to meet him,” you whispered, unaware you even began the war prayer. “Bone-breaker, world killer, Prince of the Void.”

He snarled and wrapped his hands around your rib cage, pressing in viciously, but he did not stop you. You left your body, suspended in the grip of death more now than ever before; but still, you prayed to him, and he allowed it.

“There go I to find him, to tell him my sorrows, all my joys and pains.”

A ravenous growl dripped from his beautiful lips, and you, adrift in this lewd mass, traced the fresh scar upon his face with the gentlest of touches. As he drilled you nearer to mindless, you struggled to maintain his stare and pay attention as the inky chasms filled in with the vibrancy you remembered.

“Finish it.”

He groused behind gnashing teeth, lifting your hips entirely off the ground to make himself a better angle. You clung to his neck, yelping in alarm, but he held you effortlessly, keeping your cunt right where he wanted it.

“There… go… I…”

You quaked under the sheer demand of his thrusts. Nothing like last time, he threw himself into you, stabbing at your pussy so furiously you thought you could feel the fat head of his cock shoving the words up and out of your throat. He was going to kill you; you decided. Screaming at the end of his dick, just like all the others.

“Think you're a warrior now, hm?”

He snaked both arms along your back and lifted you against him. Settling back on his haunches, he wound your arms about his neck. He mouthed at your jaw, your lips, your pulse. And though he held you like you were nothing, this new position sent your weight down onto his thick cock, which earned you a sinful sound you knew you’d pray for again.

“Finish it.”

Finding his rhythm in this new configuration took seconds, and he crashed up into your cunt brutally. Even the sensuous way he breathed, deep in his broad chest and punctuated with a bit-back groan, melted away your heartache and emboldened you. Pressing your forehead to his, you curved your hand along his scalp, carding through the lustrous strands. You poured every bit of feeling, of concentration and outright need to be pleasing into this moment. You steeled your voice against any hint of wobble or breakage.

“There go I to beg him,” You nudged his nose with yours the way you had the first day when you offered your body to him. “Maker of mercy, keeper of the balance.” You swept your lips across his, feather soft and hesitant. “Carry me home.”

As you finished, he gripped your ass tight, sheathed his cock in your heat to the hilt, and captured your mouth on a fierce kiss. Hard hips bucked, pumping you full of his seed, taking back what he thought his brother spoiled. Awestruck, you watched the orgasm roll across his face. It started as a grimace and locked jaw and ended as flared nostrils, rolling lips, and the bob of his throat when he swallowed.

Leaning forward, he eased you to the blanketed floor and settled himself against you, still wedged between your thighs and stretching your cunt to its limit. He sucked a mark into your skin just below your ear and licked at the skin just above his collar. You silently begged that the hum vibrating against your chest never stop and mewled when he shifted his knee further up to keep you open indecently.

His hips rocked into yours again, signaling he was not yet through with you, and you blew out a ragged breath. His hands pinched and palmed and skimmed all while his dick dragged out nearly completely only to push back in tantalizingly slow. You felt a new dollop of warm and sticky pour from you each time he did it, but you couldn’t tell if it was blood, arousal, or a mixture of both.

His honey-smooth voice, when it next came, rolled through you and made you dizzy. As he’d done so many times before, he slid his thumb, and that erotic drug, along your tongue, shooting you so high into the heavens you could only stare, bewildered and lost to the ravages of his desire.

“This is the last time you’ll bleed, little lamb.”

#kylo ren smut #kylo ren x reader #kylo x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #lamb

59 notes · View notes

solomonish · 4 years ago

Note

Just "secret anon" will do haha. Btw the ask was meant as a response for the "smile" post, as well as a reaction to the lovely asks that other fellow Solo Stans gave you.

You're right! He's such a sweet guy--a shame that you don't really get to see it much since most of his softer sides are either hidden in higher main story chapters or in non-F2P friendly URs.

Speaking of that, have you played the Circus Event? His demon UR there was so precious! I won't spoil much, but let's just say that he really lets his guard down with you and even tells you some aspects of himself that many are not privy to. I was smiling all throughout my reading. It was worth grinding the DP for it. (It also looks really pretty! AHHH he is so so pretty.♡)

If you're a VIP member, he tells you "Only you can understand me", or something along those lines...though I think most of you already know that haha. I don't know. It's just so cute that MC is the first person he always thinks of when he's happy? When he's sad? When he's thinking in general? You are in his thoughts enough for him to say that while in your presence, he loses sight of his goals? That being with you just brings him at ease?

I cannot fathom the mental fortitude he must have to keep a facade and hide his weaknesses. The fact That MC is the only person?? In the entire world?? In his millenia of existence?? To be his refuge?? What had he been enduring while we had yet to exist??

Segue: He was already confirmed to be King Solomon in the main story, but not much of his kingly side was mentioned in-game as they focused more on his sorcerer side. I couldn't help but think that either:

a) the devs forgot about it (the most likely reason)

b) something really really really bad happened. Bad enough for him to deny his once kingly existence (the reason my masochistic plot-inclined self wants)

irambledbutialwaysdothatwithSolomonasatopicIhopeyoudontmind. I also tried to keep spoilers as minimal as possible aaaaaaa

EDIT: I posted too late and now we have fluffy headcanons aaaa now I feel bad haha.

Just gonna leave a cute little headcanon here:

Solomon is a naturally curious person--in his quest for the truth and discovering the Universal truth, nothing can bring him more joy than sharing a piece of that truth to someone who had shown him that true wisdom isn't discovering a singular truth at all, but to find one of his own that would give his existence meaning: you.

Sweetheart Solomon 😍🥰 that would actually make a really good url hmmm

Haha but the "non F2P-friendly URs" makes me laugh. You're telling me there are parts of this game that are f2p friendly?? >:0000

I did play the circus event but unfortunately I did not get his UR 😔 im f2p so event UR cards are basically out of the question for me. The closest I ever got was Lucifer's wedding UR and even after spending so much DP and having all the cards I STILL had to wait for him to come back in Lonely Devil..... (places hand against window) Solomon UR please come to me soon. I will grind so hard for you as soon as you come back....

Ugh but hearing that it's super sweet makes me SO impatient!!! I want him!! I love him!!! >:[ grumpy

I dont get VIP lines (again, f2p 😔) but YES......like when I log on and he gets super happy like "You're back!! I was wondering if I'd get to see you again today" or "There you are! I was hoping I'd get to see you" its SO CUTE he sounds SO HAPPY......and his first intimacy level calls....when he sees something funny he instantly wants to share that joy with you.....ugh. he's so sweet I love this man

Be careful with that mental fortitude point secret anon......I might turn it into angst and have him face a mental collapse when MC dies.....or have to face eternity again with only one brief spark of genuine connection.......

Idk much about for real king Solomon but I think its very sexy of OM Solomon to be THE Solomon. Like he's been powerful and great since the beginning of his time??? And now he's with me?? Lowkey wrapped around my little finger?? Yes please what a hot concept

Don't feel bad, its never too late for angst or fluff or anything!!! But damn that really dies sum up the solostan experience. God I love him so much. Let us be together solmare!! I only need one route. The solomon route. Gimmie NOW

#long post #asked and answered #secret anon

11 notes · View notes

dracosollicitus · 5 years ago

Text

Star Wars AU Sampler

Damerey Edition! Here’s a sampling of some universes I’ve written, in case you wanted a brief escape in these trying times. Some are short, some are long, and I tried to capture a wide variety of some of the AUs I’ve written in the last two years.

Post-TLJ AU

(Written before TRoS):

Bound to the Light (Rated M, 166k words, w/ a 22k sequel)

Race You (Rated E - for last chapter, 5+1 AU)

Resistance Pilots and Their Tempers (Rated T, 5+1 AU)

A Droid and His Damerons (Rated G, BB-8 POV)

Rise and Fall (What I thought TRoS was going to be like Before TROS happened, unfinished until someone convinces me to finish it)

Canon-Divergence AU

From Cradle to Grave (Childhood Best Friends AU)

Undercover!Poe - Spice Runner AU (to explain away the awfulness of TRoS characterization - In Progress)

Jedi Bodyguard AU (Senator!Poe, Jedi!Rey Rated E, 90K slowburn)

Smugglers AU (Rey and Poe work with Ben Solo as smugglers, Rated T)

Forbidden Affair AU (Jedi!Rey, NRDF Pilot Poe)

Modern AU

Sugar Daddy AU (Rated E)

Flower Shop AU (Rated E)

Coffee Shop AU (Rated E, 150K words)

College AU (Rated M, TW for past sexual assault, 120K words)

High School AU (Rated G - multiple HS AUs exist, but I just picked one of them)

Park Ranger AU (BB8 as a squeaky porcupine! Rated E, cowritten with the fab @aimmyarrowshigh

Some Dad!Poe (Roadside Assistance, Rated T)

Thanksgiving/Military AU

Photographer/Subject AU (Rated E, Poe’s a Formula One driver)

Fantasy/Mythology AU

Vampire AU (Rated T, unfinished currently until someone tells me to Just Finish It and/or bump the rating)

Selkie AU (Selkie Rey, Fisherman Poe, Rated E for last chapter)

Zombie Apocalypse AU (Horror Elements, Rated M for horror and eventual smut)

Hades and Persephone AU (Rated E)

Dionysus and Ariadne AU (Rated E)

Orpheus and Eurydice (Rated T)

Different Fandoms AU

“Jane Austen” AU/Regency - Force and Fortitude (Four-part series)

“May the Force Be Ever In Your Favor” aka the Hunger Games AU (Poe as Finnick, Rey as Annie, TW for violence and sexual exploitation of Poe after his games; Part Two of the series is sitting unfinished on my hard drive/part two aligns with Quarter Quell)

Hogwarts AU (First in the Series and Last in the Series have different ratings)

Pirates of the Caribbean AU (rated T)

Princess Bride AU (Rated T)

Christmas Movies AU

“25 Days of Damerey” - 25 part series of random universes

Love Actually AU (Prime Minister Storyline, Rated T)

Other AUs

Medieval Royalty AU (Rated E, mostly done)

Superhero AU (Rated T, Superhero!Rey, Journalist!Poe)

World War II AU (Codebreaker Rey, Pilot Poe, Rated T)

Titanic AU (on indefinite hiatus, but if you wanted to imagine Poe as Leo, now’s your chance)

A/B/O AU (Rated Super-E, addresses consent issues)

90s AU/Missing Person AU (Rated M)

Did your favorite make the list? Any new ones on here? Let me know what your favorite was, if there’s any extensions you’d like to see some day, and/or if there’s any unfinished ones that You Really Wish I’d Just Finish Already! I’d be super thrilled to hear from you, and super thrilled if you shared this list!

#damerey #jedipilot #poerey #poe x rey #damereyconnection #star wars #masterlist of au #part one of au #AUs #there's ... 125 more where that came from

106 notes · View notes

walkawaytall · 2 years ago

Text

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Leia Organa/Han Solo, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker Characters: Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Han Solo Additional Tags: Leia Organa Needs a Hug, Hopeful Ending, POV Leia Organa, 5+1 Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Movie: Star Wars: A New Hope, Movie: Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, Movie: Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Destruction of Alderaan (Star Wars), Carbonite Freezing (Star Wars), Echo Base (Star Wars), Post-Battle of Endor (Star Wars), Vignette, (sort of) Summary:

Five times Leia Organa lost everything and one time she didn't.

#star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #leia organa #han solo #luke skywalker #leia organa fanfic #hanleia fanfic #hanleia #angst #5+1 things #5+1 times #my fic

9 notes · View notes

grapefruitsketches · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 8, Memory

Final part of my Songxiao post-canon fix-it fic series, started under the Untamed Spring Fest 2020 event:

Please see the reblogged version of this under the my-writing and songxiao-fix-it-series tags on my blog - will be a pinned post for the next little while - for links to previous chapters/the Ao3 version!

4,134 Words

“Remember your assignment, Xiao-daozhang!” Wen Qionglin said good-naturedly, although Song Lan knew that undertone well, the one that softly implied an or else if the kindly reminder wasn’t heeded.

And with a soft nod from Xingchen, and the requisite farewell bows, Wen Qionglin had gone.

The farm was quiet.

For the first time since Xingchen had awoken in Cloud Recesses, the two were truly alone.

It had been Wei Wuxian’s idea.

“You know,” he had said, chewing thoughtfully on a particularly tough piece of pork, “Lan Zhan tells me that your guqin playing has gotten pretty good, Song-daozhang. Right, Lan Zhan?”

Hanguang-Jun, apparently long resigned to his husband’s insistence on starting conversations not only during meal times, but mid-bite, nodded.

“I wonder if… now that you don’t usually even need an interpreter… if you two might want some… alone time?”

To Song Lan’s relief, Xingchen (having completely missed the combination of Wei Wuxian’s suggestive eyebrow raise and Hanguang-Jun’s silent mouthing of Wei Ying!, and the sudden flush Song Lan could feel rushing to his face) was able to, quite innocently, consider the idea, “Hmm… I mean, if you two don’t mind us being here alone, then it might be nice… I mean… it might be good to test how well this works, just the two of us… if we are to… to travel alone again.” Xingchen’s voice faded out, and Song Lan felt his heart quicken. They had not yet discussed what might follow their time at the farm. For months, it had seemed enough to imagine that where they were might as well have been where they always were, where they would forever be, even though both knew there had been a beginning and so there would be an end.

But now… Xingchen’s mental state had seemed to be improving steadily as of late. There were still nightmares, still outbursts. But they were more controlled. Xingchen seemed to be getting more comfortable with the idea that these emotions would rise from time to time, and, at least out loud, did not chastise himself so much for them.

“What do you think, Zichen?” and with this offer of a future, of a something that came next, of a return to something that looked like the normal of his life twenty years ago, of course, Song Lan caught the other’s hand and squeezed a quick, enthusiastic, Yes.

And so, after seeking Wen Qionglin’s approval of the suggestion, the date was set for the cessation of Wen Qionglin, Wei Wuxian, and Hanguang-Jun’s rotating visits. Letters were sent to the Juniors, who were liable to pop by at a moment’s notice, that the farm would be off limits until and unless Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen decided otherwise.

It would be just the peace and quiet that the two had wanted, had deserved, for so long. Just the right way to ease back into the peace and quiet on the road that so clearly characterized Song Lan’s favourite memories - the two of them alone, side by side.

Or so Song Lan had thought.

Barely five weeks in, he began to feel restless. He and Xingchen went about the daily chores, took boat rides, had picnics, cooked, cleaned, took walks, explored. But the farm was starting to feel exceptionally small without the ever-rotating collection of friends (did Song Lan dare acknowledge them as family?) to distract from the sameness of the scenery, the sameness of the limited range of activities. Fuxue seemed to whine at his back, Shuanghua humming comfortingly, but Song Lan felt that it too wondered, why, now that they were not held here by obligations to friends and family, they were not pursuing far more important matters.

But it was also Shuanghua that brought echoing words of Wen Qionglin back to Song Lan, words that reminded him that there was still work to be done. Here. Now. Work that needed this quiet alone time to work itself out.

Why does Song-daozhang still carry Shuanghua for you?

Remember your assignment!

Song Lan wondered what that assignment might be, but never dared intervene or ask about Xingchen’s solo sessions with Wen Qionglin. It had hurt at first, to be suddenly excluded from the meetings, but he had soon recalled what his early sessions had been like, and flinched at the thought of Xingchen being there. He had been grateful even then that he had been using sign language at the time. He didn’t even have to worry about Xingchen overhearing anything in a moment of lucidity from the spirit pouch that had never left his side.

If Wen Qionglin had taken the time to remind Xingchen of the assignment as he left, it must have been important. He was sure Xingchen had not forgotten, but knowing Wen Qionglin, it wouldn’t be anything easy.

It was clear Xingchen was working hard on his recovery. Song Lan did not think Xingchen realized how light a sleeper he was now, but every morning Song Lan watched, as Xingchen reached for the blade. He saw that, every morning, he flinched away. A full arm’s length still between his fingers and Shuanghua. He watched how Xingchen steadied himself before standing back up, seeming to conclude that today, again, was not the day. Xingchen would sigh, unconsciously letting his fingers brush the raised scar, the only spot on Xingchen that Song Lan tried to avoid looking at, before lying back in bed.

Xingchen would then let a hand drift over to Song Lan - maybe to his hair, his waist, his arm - before apparently falling asleep so the two of them would seem to wake up together just a little later (Song Lan always making a show of stretching not long after this morning ritual, Xingchen mirroring with a sleepy yawn, both doing their best so that the other didn’t realize they had been awake for quite some time by then).

But Shuanghua was not the assignment. At least, Song Lan didn’t think so. Instead, the hints came at the quietest of moments. While the soup bubbled. While they dozed in the sun on a nearby hill. When Song Lan stopped rowing for a while and let the stream carry them lazily downriver. Xingchen would sit up, maybe open his mouth, maybe raise an arm to meet Song Lan’s. Sometimes, he would even seem to start to say the words, “Zichen, I…” or “I need to…” before pivoting suddenly to something wildly different than his tone had originally implied, “…am hungry. Let’s go make dinner” or “…tell you this terrible joke Wei-gongzi told me.”

Song Lan’s heart ached for him. He was clearly trying, so hard. Xingchen was tired. His face drawn, strength returning but fortitude slipping. And there was nothing Song Lan could do except to play, over and over again, the chords, I’m listening.

It had been three months that they had spent alone at the farm. Xingchen knew he was running out of excuses. And while the excuses ran out, and his ability to resist weakened, the pressure within him mounted. There were nights where he couldn’t sleep, torn between his desire to just let go, and his fear of turning out to be too much for Zichen after all. He knew Zichen wouldn’t leave, but in a way, that made it worse.

But the peaceful days went on. And Zichen seemed only to get sadder. The notes of the guqin not intrusive, but still imploring.

I need to tell him. But I can’t. He had said.

You want to tell him. And you can. Wen Qionglin had corrected.

But what if he does not want to know? Xingchen had asked.

What would you want him to hide from you?

And even though it had taken months, and the pressure building to near unbearable levels, for Xingchen to realize, he finally understood that Wen Qionglin was, as always, right.

“Zichen… I need to… no, I want to… talk to you about, about Yi City.”

The words had come out of him in a rush. Xingchen honestly couldn’t believe he had finally said it. But there the words hung, heavy. Finally escaped from his lungs, his heart, unretractable.

A long, unbearable silence followed, and Xingchen heard the sound of urgent shuffling, the guqin being dragged closer to Zichen. The instrument had apparently been left with wheelbarrow as they dug up fresh potatoes. Xingchen heard a faint clapping sound, Zichen ever unwilling to let a speck of dirt touch the smooth surface of the instrument.

And the chords which finally came, ones so familiar, so commonplace, brought tears to Xingchen’s eyes when he heard them answer. I’m listening. But this time, they were followed by something more. No matter what.

And so Xingchen began.

Song Lan had known, or at least suspected, most of this.

He remembered vividly the way Xingchen had laughed when Xue Yang had teased him, had seen the quiet little home those three had shared. He also had heard directly from the now, thankfully, dead man what brutal manipulations had been imposed on Xingchen. And Song Lan knew only too well, though most of his other memories as Xue Yang’s puppet were dull and distant, what revelation had been Xingchen’s breaking point, remembered this moment clearly. Song Lan had internally screamed out, realizing only then that there would never be a way for him to break out of the control the needles in his neck imposed. Because if Xingchen’s grief torn face, his gut-wrenching scream wouldn’t let him do anything more than turn his head just ever so slightly towards his beloved, nothing would.

But he listened. Of course he listened. And Xingchen clearly needed to speak. He tensed, but was not surprised at the guilt Xingchen carried, at the I should’ve knowns, all the I’m sorrys, every if only I hads. Each one a punch to Song Lan’s gut, hearing the weight Xingchen had been carrying, but bearable in that Xingchen was clearly letting off some of the pressure that Song Lan had watched Xingchen undeservingly endure since he had awoken. Had felt this man turn on himself even as far back as when he first felt the squirms of a reassembling soul in the pouch he had carried.

A hand on his thigh, “Zichen.”

Song Lan looked up, startled out of the trance Xingchen’s words had put him under. He realized Xingchen had been silent for a few moments, waiting anxiously for Song Lan’s response.

Song Lan reached for the hand, carefully slotting his fingers between Xingchen’s and holding tight. Xingchen smiled, a smile which finally seemed to light up his face the way it should. And something, a pressure Song Lan hadn’t noticed until now, burst inside him as well. Tears flowed freely from his - from Xingchen’s - eyes.

Song Lan thought of the young girl Xingchen had described, that he himself had met so briefly. He thought of Xingchen’s soft smiles at the younger visiting cultivators, and Song Lan wondered, as Xingchen must have, how A-Qing would have gotten along with them if she had truly had the chance.

He thought of loneliness and grief, how they could each inspire such compassion, such horror, or both. He thought of life, death, renewal. Baoshan Sanren, Yi City, Baixue Temple.

He thought of all the ridiculous thoughts that had crossed his mind over the long twenty years they had spent apart. That Xingchen must hate him. That Xingchen must blame him. That what had happened to Xingchen was his fault. He had fought these thoughts for years. Wen Qionglin supporting him, then Hanguang-Jun, now Xingchen. But until now, until hearing the same thoughts mirrored in Xingchen’s voice: that Xingchen, Xingchen thought he could ever be hated? That Song Lan could ever truly think any of this was Xingchen’s fault? Only now did Song Lan truly understand how ridiculous he must have sounded, similarly taking on all the blame.

Wen Qionglin had had regrets. Hanguang-Jun had had regrets. Each of them had demonstrated to Song Lan that your darkest moments, your biggest mistakes, your worst actions, did not have to define you. They had shown him that forgiving yourself could sometimes be a selfless act. If absolving himself for actions he’d taken under another’s control, if acknowledging his own growth past lashing out at Baixue Temple, could present the possibility to Xingchen that he could forgive himself? If Song Lan telling himself that no matter what he had done - willingly at Baixue Temple, unwillingly as a puppet - he was still worthy of living a life with the ones he cared for and who cared for him, if that made it any more likely that Xingchen understood that he deserved at least the same? Then suddenly any further moral quandry dissipated.

But he had to say something. He reached for his guqin, wondering just how to explain this to his partner. Instead, what came out was a question that had haunted him since the moment Shuanghua had pierced his chest.

I have sometimes thought… what if I hadn’t found you? Would you be happier? If you had never known… who he was?

He braced himself for these notes to fall heavily on their mood, for Xingchen to freeze, withdraw, think that Song Lan wasn’t as easy a confidante as he’d thought.

“No.” That was all Xingchen said. A simple word, and a gentle laugh.

So Song Lan was instead the one who froze, surprised. After a few moments, Xingchen heard the volumes Song Lan’s stillness spoke.

Xingchen sighed, “The truth is important. I still missed you all those years apart, even if there were others, trustworthy or no, with whom I could temporarily relieve that feeling once in a while.” Xingchen leaned a cheek on his hand, tapping it thoughtfully, “I don’t even know for sure if I didn’t suspect even then that something was wrong with the man who turned out to be… to be Xue Yang…” Xingchen raced through the end of the sentence, the name hard to say even now, “I just didn’t realize… no, never mind.”

Please. Simple, not forceful. Enough.

Xingchen smiled weakly, “I know now this wouldn’t excuse anything, and it’s still a pretty silly conclusion to come to but… I suppose I just didn’t realize, didn’t even consider, that if this person wasn’t to be trusted, that if he was by my side, that he could still hurt people that weren’t ah… you know.”

That he could hurt people who weren’t you. Song Lan understood, and didn’t need to hear Xingchen say so, or guess the end of the sentence through the guqin to confirm. An easy temptation, to think that saving others could be as simple as sacrificing oneself. It was one they had each fallen into at some point, but one that, hopefully, they were finally learning to leave behind.

Xingchen rested a hand on Song Lan’s shoulder, inviting, warm. And Song Lan responded in kind, pulling Xingchen close. There would be no more gardening today.

The sun went down over fields that had only recently seemed so confining. The fields now seemed almost endless, comforting in their depth. The two cultivators lay side by side, enjoying the shade as they leaned against the trunk of an ancient tree. The warm pinks and oranges painted across the sky reminded Song Lan of the campfires the two of them had fallen asleep next to on so many nights, back when they were still dancing around the now obvious fact that they wanted to remain at each other’s sides for as long as they were able.

Song Lan absent-mindedly strummed the guqin, describing for Xingchen the swirls of fading light, the way the last bursts of sunbeams painted the leaves of the peach grove below them. He had been thinking of new ways to adapt some of his poetry into this auditory language, and realized with a smile he might just be getting it. He looked down at Xingchen, who was resting his head on Song Lan’s shoulder, breathing slowly, evenly. Xingchen shifted, the delicate features settling into a faint smile. Song Lan’s smile reflected Xingchen’s without a thought. There was no contest between the sunset and Xingchen’s peaceful expression. Song Lan knew from experience that not even thousands of sunsets could match the latter.

“Song Zichen,” Xingchen said, the use of his full name taking Song Lan aback for a moment, but his tone was still drowsy, if sombre, “I need you to know that I will never put you through anything like that ever again. I cannot change the past but I cannot, will not cause any more suffering. Not on anyone, but not on you especially.”

Song Lan’s answer came through powerfully, louder chords than those he had been playing until now coming through naturally, an effortless translation of his own feelings on the matter, And I need you to know that if you do, I will be there to help you fix it. Because I cannot allow suffering for you any more than you can for me.

“Zichen, Zichen. Always one upping me with your words,” Xingchen laughed, losing the serious tone he had held moments before, “Just you wait until I can spar again. Then we will truly have some justice.” Xingchen yawned and snuggled closer into Zichen’s side. Song Lan returned to his softer, melodic descriptions of the landscape. Xingchen fell quickly into a gentle sleep, one that Song Lan hoped to be a well-deserved deep and peaceful one.

Song Lan blinked his eyes open, the pale light confusing until he realized - it was the sunrise. Xingchen’s arms were wrapped around him, the other man sleeping later than Song Lan for the first time in a long while. Song Lan had no intention of moving, of risking rousing him, and in the moment, failed to see the problem with staying here forever.

Something tugged at his mind, though, a feeling that he was missing something important, something obvious. Not quite as urgent as the feelings he often had on the battlefield, those ones which had saved his, and sometimes Xingchen’s, life on more than one occasion, but something important nonetheless.

He blinked lazily, doing a quick sweep of the surroundings.

The garden tools still rested in the wheelbarrow, the remains of their late lunch turned dinner packed neatly in the basket nearby. The fields were empty. Fuxue rested on his back.

That was it. Fuxue.

Or rather, Fuxue’s near constant companion.

Having sat by the tree with the initial intention that it would only be a quick break, Song Lan had not bothered to remove the swords from his back. And now Song Lan realized that at some point in the night, as Xingchen’s arms had snaked around Song Lan’s waist, as Xingchen had pulled him closer, a hand must have landed inadvertently on a certain blade.

And though the sword was still sheathed, though the hand was nowhere near the handle on which it belonged, Song Lan thought he heard, clear as the early morning birds taking stock of their nesting grounds, Shuanghua sing.

And so the days passed, boredom slipped away as they found each other again, easily, even if slowly, now that the final walls had fallen between them. The nightmares became rarer, and the past more historical fact than vengeful ghost.

They were sitting on the edge of the bed, side by side, contemplating the same spot near the corner of the room.

“I think I will this time,” Xingchen said, smiling, sure, not needing Song Lan’s answer, just stating this as the truth.

And in that moment, Song Lan believed him, of course he did. Before Xingchen even stood up, Song Lan had seen him cross the room, grab Shuanghua by the hilt, wield it, stand ready to protect as many as he could, to vanquish evil where he must. Song Lan knew he would be there by his side. He knew that at the end of a journey, they would come back, to a place like this, but a place far less quiet, one full of people who needed and loved them and who one day the world would need and love.

The nightmares of the past may be rarer, but the dreams for the future were becoming far more haunting.

The Xingchen of the present finally did lift Shuanghua from the stand, and, even if somewhat more hesitantly than Song Lan’s mind had presented it, Xingchen once again stood, truly united with his sword. Watching Xingchen, but mind still racing weeks, years, decades ahead, Song Lan knew the first chords he played should have been congratulatory, celebratory, awestruck. But instead, the chords his fingers danced over without a thought were instead, We should start talking about our sect again.

And if the mere thought of Xingchen reconnecting with Shuanghua, had been dazzling, then the sight of Xingchen turning, laughing, sword in hand and exuberant agreement lighting up his whole face? The sight almost made Song Lan need to shield his eyes from the brightness. Almost. But then, how could he forgive himself if he missed even a moment?

There were more talks, more walks, more cooking, boat rides, gardening. A tension had been relieved, worries still lurking but temporarily eased, more nuisance than threat. And soon, the farm came to feel too small again, like a cozy sickroom occupied just a bit too long after the fever had passed.

They spoke of the sect they would build.

“Zichen, I was thinking… if you think it would be right, we could set our sect up where…”

At Baixue Temple, came the quick set of chords. And Xingchen had grinned, nodding. They could not bring back or replace what was lost, but they could certainly keep their memories close by as they rebuilt their lives and reclaimed the dreams they had long believed forever out of reach.

When Wen Ning appeared, months after he’d left, arms laden with carefully chosen gifts and treats from the various villages where his patients lived, he came upon a sight that brought an immediate smile to his face, a glow of pride to his chest.

The clashing of swords, sweeping robes, elegant but powerful leaps through the air. The Distant Moon and Gentle Breeze. The Distant Snow and Cold Frost. Swirling, dancing together in playful combat, like snow flurries on a winter’s day. Shuanghua in one’s hand, Fuxue in the other. And if there was still a hesitation in one’s step, unwilling to take an opening he had clearly noticed, or if the other sometimes struck a bit more gently than the teasing, taunting voice challenged him to, to Wen Ning, this was still success.

And weeks later, after the proper festivities were had, after Xiao Xingchen asked to see Jin Ling’s dog and Wei Wuxian accused him of high treason, after Ouyang Zizhen spent half a day in silence, before breaking and realizing if he was going to be remembered in stories or song, it would not be as a Song Lan or Hanguang-Jun silent type. After Sizhui taught Song Lan the word for “adorable” and Xiao Xingchen’s cheeks remained flushed the rest of the evening once Hanguang-Jun translated the chord for him, if after all that Song Lan held Xingchen’s hand, and Xingchen understood that that meant it was time. If Xingchen asked if Song Lan was sure, and if Song Lan made out the chords for Yes. If Xingchen said, “To Baixue Temple?” and Song Lan replied, “They would want us to rebuild.”

If after all that, as Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji watched the two cultivators set off, they felt a little stirring of nostalgia for the moment they had first detected whispers that they might have what they had now? If those two cultivators left side by side, one in white, one in black, a sword draped over each one’s back, and felt a feeling of rightness descend over them in a way it hadn’t for decades? Well, that wouldn’t mean that everything was back to how it was, or even that the world was as those two deserved it to be. But perhaps it meant it didn’t matter. That for them, it was enough to have each other, their dream, and an open road ahead of them. That the road behind, arduous as it had been, could be left as something only ever behind them. Always there, maybe having left a stain of dirt on robes or shoes so that it could not be readily forgotten, but not nearly as present as the road under their feet now.

And certainly never more important than the one they each had forever by their side.

[END]

Thank you so much if you've kept up with/read this whole thing! This is the longest fic I've ever posted, and just thinking of anyone having read so many words I wrote is both terrifying but so nice <3

Thank you again so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this journey!!

#songxiao #the untamed #cql #xiao xingchen #song lan #songxiao fix it series #mdzs #my writing

6 notes · View notes