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taintedjeon · 1 year ago

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‘𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞…’ 𝐦𝐲𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬; 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦

✞ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: alternative!yoongi x reader ✞ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2k ✞ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: yoongi has tongue pierings, bigdick!yoongi, dirty talk, raw sex, riding, nipple play, nipple biting, minor hair tugging, size kink, using a polaroid during sex, mention of dacryphilia to open

disclaimer: this is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. yoongi is used solely as a face and a name for the story. this is not a representation of real-life scenarios.

series masterlist | main masterlist

“Don’t hide your pretty noises. I want you to cry for me.” Yoongi emphasises his requests as he speeds up his pace. His lips bathing your shoulder in kisses as he makes his way up to the sensitive part of your neck, causing you to shiver under his touch.

His name leaves your lips in a sinful prayer for the man in between your thighs. You can’t think, you can’t breathe, all you’re able to do is feel him filling you to the brim with all of him as tears wet your eyes, obscuring your vision.

“You’re fucking perfect,” you hear Yoongi muttering into your chest as you move yourself up and down, impaling yourself on his cock, “treating me well, ni—ah, fuck baby!”

Yoongi’s head is thrown back against the plush grey headrest of the couch, his bottom lip caught in between his teeth as he grunts in pleasure. One of his hands rest on your hips, the warmth of his palm and the coldness of his rings decorating his lithe fingers causes shivers to run over your body.

He is incredible. Insatiable even. Yoongi knows your body better than you know it yourself. He knows just how to fuck you right, every single time.

With your body shaking and eyes screwed shut tight in arousal, you miss Yoongi reaching out beside him. A click, accompanied by a quick bright flash takes you by surprise, causing your eyes to flutter open.

Halting your movements, you peer down at Yoongi who is staring straight into your eyes — blackened, blown out and filled with lust. You clench your pussy around his cock and smile at the polaroid in his hands.

“Want to remember this moment.”

“Well let me help you,” you tell him as you grab at his hand and place it on your tits, guiding him to palm you. Yoongi is more than happy to indulge you and plays with your nipple in between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging at the bud, watching it harden under his touch. You lace your fingers with his and then watch as he snaps a new image of him groping you.

One of your hands comes to rest on the back of his head, fingers gripping into his long strands of raven hair and giving them a soft tug in that way he loves. You lean down and kiss Yoongi with a surge of urgency. It’s wet and messy as your tongues tangle and lips smack against each other. His dual tongue bars give the kiss an added edge as he usages it to his advantage to lick against your lower lip before pulling at the skin in between his teeth. From below, you feel Yoongi lift his hips causing the tip of his cock to press deeper inside of you. A strangled moan slips past your kiss bitten lips at the welcomed pleasure.

Yoongi is thick and heavy inside of you, stretching you loose in ways no man ever has done before. Sex with Yoongi is always exciting and with added kinks to explore with each other, he always leaves you wanting more every time.

“How’s my angel doing?” He whispers as he plays about with the settings on the camera before pointing the lens back in your direction.

“G-good, want to keep going—fuck!” You curse at the end as he moves his hips again and snaps another image of you as your face contorts in unadulterated pleasure.

“G’on, move for me princess, show me how cock drunk you get for me, yeah.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You slid your hands across his chest, tracing the lines of the dragon tattoo that spans across his well built upper body. Through lustful eyes, you watch as Yoongi bites his lip at your touch and you keen, knowing that you’re the one to bring Min Yoongi down to this state with you.

Lifting your hips, you glide your cunt from his base to the tip, managing to feel every vein that wraps around his pretty length.

“Fuck, wait stay there. Let me get a picture of this, holy shit…” Yoongi proclaims and takes the third picture on the polaroid. “Don’t move. Keep yourself hugging my tip, fuck you gotta see how wet you got my cock princess.”

You do as you’re told and you keep your body positioned above him, cockhead nuzzled snuggly in your small hole as you await the polaroid to print the film.

Minutes pass and it doesn’t take long for your legs to start trembling from your muscles being stagnant in this position for a little longer than you’re used to.

“Yoongi, I wanna fuck!” Your protest comes out whiny as you fight the urge to drop yourself down to begin fucking him again.

The sound of the polaroid printing is heard between the both of you and you watch as Yoongi reaches for the film, shaking it in the air for a few seconds before looking at it.

He groans, and you feel arousal build up and leak onto Yoongi’s cock. The sounds that Yoongi creates, every moan, every rumble of his chest pushes you to keep still.

Next thing, Yoongi is twisting the picture around for you to see with your own eyes and what a sight it was. His length looks swollen with use, hard and stunningly decorated in those pretty veins you enjoy giving attention when he allows you. His length glistens under the flash of the camera from the juices he has spilled from your pussy and now it’s your turn to moan.

“Can you see too? The way I barely fit inside you…” he trails off. “Look at you struggling to take my fat cock in your tight cunt, I’ve never seen anything so fucking stunning. This is art.”

Warmth spreads around your body at his words as you look at the image as he speaks to you with so much filth. You flutter around him, utterly brain dead from Yoongi’s cock.

You’re not given enough time to think before Yoongi rocks his hips up, stroking your walls beautifully as he pulls you down to bury himself back in the hilt of his home which is your pussy. Tears gather in your eyes, giving them a sparkle that Yoongi loves to coax from you as he throws the camera back to the side in order for him to guide you up and down his throbbing dick.

The burn in your thighs is present and makes itself apparent as you continue to work your muscles into overdrive as you ride Yoongi like your life depended on it. Yoongi wraps both his hands around your back, palms resting against your clammy skin as he whispers filthy praises and prays of you into your skin, absolutely lost in the lust that is you and your tiny cunt.

You scratch at his chest, digging your nails through the dragon tattoo, breaking the skin and knowing that there will be a trail of red desire marked into his skin for the evening.

“You’re so big!” You hiccup, feeling Yoongi increase the speed of his hips into you, his ego swelling at your words.

“Ah, your pussy is leaking all over me, making such a mess of me angel.” Yoongi punctuates his words with a firm buck into your cunt, Yoongi highlights the loud squelching sounds of your ministrations.

One of his hands finds your wrist and brings it up to his mouth where he places kiss after kiss on each knuckle. He guides your hand further down until it finds the column of his throat and you rest there.

“G’on princess, choke me a little,” Yoongi grunts through gritted teeth and so you do as you’re told, applying a light amount of pressure around Yoongi’s throat. You watch as Yoongi’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth opens in pleasure, his tongue coming out to lick at the corner of his lips. The glint of his tongue ring makes you whine. Your body manages to fight through the overstimulation of his cock fucking into you over and over again as you take over as much as Yoongi is allowing you.

Now, you’re using each other and it’s never felt so fucking pleasurable. You eye the polaroids that Yoongi had taken early scattered around the sofa around his body and you smirk as the tears are rolling down your cheeks in small rivulets. You are both drowning each other in sex so intense, the pleasure borders on almost painful.

With each drop off your hips, you feel him deep in your stomach. Your body burns in overexertion but you don’t stop until you’ve both reached your ends.

“I’m taking you so well, Yoongi, can you feel me!?” You swivel your hips as you ask.

“Nobody got a pussy like yours… best pussy I’ve ever fucked, princess, swear.” Yoongi rasps through your hold on his throat. At his words, you squeeze your fingers just a little tighter around his throat.

“You gonna come, angel?”

You nod at him. “I’m so close, please. Please, I need to!” You beg him to let you finally reach your climax, your hips working faster.

“Just like that baby, you’re doing so good.” you could hear that his voice is straining as his hips become sloppier in their movements. Your spare hand reaches for the headrest of the sofa behind him.

“Fuck, yes, keep going, keep going, I’m gonna fill you to the fucking brim, gonna watch you bloat with my cum,” Yoongi is loud, not afraid who around you both hears his promise to you.

The living room fills with moans and skin slapping against skin as the pair of you use each other to reach your climaxes. Finally, yoongi leans forward and takes a nipple in between his teeth and runs both his tongue bars over the hardened bud back and forth. Yoongi bites down hard and in return, your pussy vices him in and your hands release from his neck. All at once, Yoongi’s breath hitches as the air returns to his burning lungs and comes inside of you, filling you with his hot sticky white seed as he paints your body with filthy praises.

Soon after, you meet your orgasm shortly behind his own. Your body stills as you tremble above him as your body releases your arousal all over Yoongi, making a mess of him and probably the couch underneath.

He is quick to wrap his arms around you, holding you as your body twitches through your orgasm. Yoongi can’t help but give tiny shallow thrusts to help aid you through it.

You both bask in the glow of intense sex as you both collapse onto each other. Yoongi is the first to move as he wraps his arms around you and lifts you up off of his softening cock. The feeling of him moving through your sensitive cunt causes you to hiss but you pout when he has fully removed himself.

After catching his breath, Yoongi guides you to lie down on the sofa as he reaches once more for the polaroid.

“Yoongi, what’re you—,” you’re cut off with the familiar click of the camera and bright flash momentarily brightening up the living room before bathing it back in it’s natural darkness.

“I can’t fuck you that well and not get the money shot, can I?” You hear the smirk in his voice. You feel a hand wrap around your ankle and then your legs are being pried apart slowly. “C’mon, let me see how messy you are for me, yeah?”

Now it’s your turn to laugh as you indulge Yoongi in his request, giving him the opportunity to get the device up close and personal to your cunt before snapping a new image.

“Yeah, these are definitely going into the wank bank for later.”

#min yoongi #bts fanfic #min yoongi x reader #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #yoongi drabble #yoongi faanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagine #min yoongi smut #yoongi one shot #bts smut #bts fluff #bts x you #bts angst #yoongi angst #yoongi smut #yoongi series #yoongi fanfic

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0-n-1-x · 6 months ago

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Hey hey hey! I just read your Damian x photographer reader post (love btw) and instantly became infatuated with the idea of Reader who takes pictures of Gotham vigilantes for the news. Kinda like Peter Parker taking pictures of Spider-Man? (Not a 1 to 1 comparison but you get where it coming from) Basically they’re close with Damian but they don’t know Damian’s Robin. Cue secret identity shenanigans!

Damian Wayne x Hero Photographer!reader

link to my masterlist <33

As a talented photographer, you’ve made a name for yourself by capturing the best shots of Gotham’s vigilantes in action. Your photos of Batman, Robin, and the rest of the Bat-Family often end up on the front pages of Gotham’s newspapers, earning you both praise and a bit of notoriety in the city’s media circles. You and Damian have been friends for a while, bonding over your shared love of art and your similar work ethics. He admires your dedication to photography, though he’s secretly amused by the fact that you’re unknowingly photographing him in his Robin persona.

You and Damian have been friends for a while, bonding over your shared love of art and your similar work ethics. He admires your dedication to photography, though he’s secretly amused by the fact that you’re unknowingly photographing him in his Robin persona. Despite being so close to Damian, you have no idea that he’s actually Robin. He’s careful to keep his vigilante life separate from your friendship, though he occasionally drops hints that go right over your head.

There have been multiple instances where you’ve almost caught Damian in his Robin gear. Whether it’s seeing a flash of green and red out of the corner of your eye or noticing how familiar Robin’s fighting style seems, you start to get the feeling that there’s something more to Damian than meets the eye.

One day, you capture an exceptionally clear photo of Robin, and you can’t help but notice something oddly familiar about his eyes. You brush it off at first, but the thought nags at you. Damian, of course, is aware that you took the photo and goes out of his way to ensure you don’t connect the dots.

Whenever you talk to Damian about your latest photos, he can’t help but tease you a little. He’ll ask about your “favorite vigilante” or make subtle comments that hint at his dual identity. You laugh it off, thinking he’s just poking fun at your obsession with Gotham’s heroes. (i like to think that your favorite wouldn't be him, and he'd be slightly offended and try to explain why he's robin's better than his brothers other vigilantes)

There are times when Damian has to abruptly leave your hangouts to attend to Robin duties. He always comes up with an excuse—whether it’s a sudden family emergency or needing to take care of something important. You find it a bit odd but don’t press him on it, chalking it up to Damian’s sometimes mysterious nature.

One night, while you’re out trying to get some action shots of the infamous Gotham Vigilante Group, you get caught in the middle of a dangerous situation.

As you leaned over the ledge to get a better angle, you suddenly heard the sound of gunfire echoing through the alleyways. Your heart leapt into your throat, but you didn’t move, focusing your lens instead. Sure enough, you spotted Batman and Robin making their move on a group of heavily armed thugs. You quickly snapped a few shots, your heart racing with the thrill of the moment.

But then, something went wrong. One of the thugs spotted you—your lens reflecting just enough light to catch his attention. Without thinking, he pointed his gun upwards and fired.

The bullet whizzed past your head, shattering the brick near where you crouched. Panic surged through you as you scrambled back, nearly dropping your camera. Before you could react, you saw a flash of red and green—Robin was suddenly there, pulling you out of harm’s way.

He shielded you with his body, guiding you towards a safer spot on the rooftop. His gloved hand was firm but gentle as he held onto your arm, his other hand reaching for a grappling hook.

“Stay close to me,” he ordered, his voice low and urgent.

You barely had time to process what was happening before Robin swung the two of you off the rooftop, carrying you safely to a nearby building. Your heart pounded in your chest, both from the fear of what just happened and from the adrenaline of being in such close proximity to the vigilante.

When your feet finally touched solid ground, you stumbled slightly, still reeling from the close call. Robin’s arm was still around your waist, steadying you, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and warm he felt, even through his suit.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with concern.

You nodded, but your mind was spinning. There was something about his voice, the way he held you—something that felt so familiar.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you managed to reply, your breath hitching slightly as you looked up at him. Your eyes locked with his, and suddenly, everything clicked into place. The green mask, the intense gaze, the way he said your name earlier—it was Damian. It had to be.

“Damian?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Robin stiffened, his grip on you tightening for a split second before he quickly let go, stepping back. His expression was hidden behind the mask, but you could see the conflict in his eyes. He hesitated, clearly torn between continuing the charade and telling you the truth.

“I—” he started, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

“Damian, it’s you, isn’t it?” you pressed, your voice trembling slightly. “You’re Robin.”

#dc x you #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne headcannons #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne headcanon #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x male reader #damian wayne x gender neutral reader

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charleslelurk · 2 months ago

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kindly requesting some Nortrell, numbers 15 or 16 or 21 please!

(I think these are the somno, cock warming and voyeurism but my memory for numbers is bad so sorry if they don’t line up!)

many thanks!

So many options but I am going with Nortrell + Voyeurism

From here

Max keeps waiting for Lando to notice, for him to clock the tiny green light in the otherwise dark room, how the camera above his dual screen streaming set up is shifted slightly towards the bed.

He made sure to get Lando sitting on the edge of the mattress like this, with Max between his knees, Lando facing right towards it. If his eyes weren't closed, he would be looking straight down the lens.

It's not actually streaming of course, just the camera turned on so the light is visible, the desktop reflecting their dark room into an obsolete editing program. But Lando doesn't need to know that, shouldn't know if Max is going be able to play with his fantasy tonight. He's going to let Lando flirt with the kind of exposure he can't have, the one that would surely end his career, push McLaren into a decision against him. But he can have this, the allusion of it, tonight.

Max swallows around Lando's cock again and he makes a whimpering little noise above Max, somewhere between a cry and legitimate crying. It has Max's own dick twitching where it's straining against his briefs.

Max pulls almost entirely off of Lando's cock, dragging his tongue along the vein on the bottom as he does, and switches to mouthing at the head, trying to give his aching jaw a break. He knows this would be over if Lando just fucking noticed...

After his respite, Max sinks down again and Lando's fingers bury themselves into Max's hair, gripping tightly. He's close, but Max doesn't just want Lando to finish, he wants Lando to experience the entire situation Max has arranged, for his effort to pay off.

He needs Lando to open his fucking eyes.

Max pulls off and Lando makes another insane noise that fills Max's gut with heat.

"Bob?" His voice sounds wrecked. He grips Lando's cock in his hand, slowly pumping it as he waits. It's not enough for Lando to finish, more to drive him crazy than anything. And maybe finally look at Max again, maybe catch the green pinprick of light over his shoulder.

Lando finally opens his eyes and looks down blearily at Max, frowning at the unsatisfactory way he's handling Lando's cock.

"Mate, what..."

"Babe," Max says, rising up slightly on his knees, so if Lando looks at him the light should be just past his head. "You want to come?"

Lando huffs a stupid little, mirthful laugh. "Yeah," he says as Max starts properly jerking him off again, hand fast, noise snapping and slick in the room. "That's like--the entire--the entire fucking point--like--"

Lando's brain seems to be barely working and Max just wants him to see the fucking light. If he closes his eyes again, Max is giving up the entire ploy and will just suck Lando's pretty dick and be done.

"Lan--" he starts again.

"Is--" Lando interrupts, and Max tries to see in the dark where Lando's looking if he... did he...?

"Did--is your--" Lando stutters.

Max digs his thumb in by the head of Lando's cock and he shudders above Max.

"Max, Max, did--"

"What?" Max asks, all innocent and shit. "Did I what? Did I leave the stream on?"

Lando is spilling in his hand before he finishes the sentence, shuddering and moaning, mouth open and eyes fixed down the lens over Max's shoulder. Bingo.

#I have changed details in this like three times so I'm just going to post it and be done #charleslelurk kink prompts #my fic #nortrell #nortrell fic

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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 11 months ago

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Polaroids: Chris Redfield x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Oh babe, you've been with me a long time. That's like 6-ish years I think

Thanks for sticking around ;)

Contains: Detailed polaroids of boudoir shots, male masturbation, phone sex(?), dirty talk/degration

His brawny shoulders slumped as he was finally able to take a real breath for the first time in over a week. He had just freshly showered with hot water for the first time in such time, it felt almost euphoric to get all of the caked-up sweat and grime and dried blood off of him. Now dressed in clean clothes, Chris stalked back into cozy bedroom of the hotel. It was a shock to him that the B.S.A.A. forked over money for something like a hotel, but he wasn’t complaining. Cracking his neck for some relief, his tired steely-blue eyes scanned the room as he walked up to the locked patio door. He carefully opened it and slipped outside, his skin prickling from how cold the air had gotten as his exhales clouded in front of him.

He needed to relax.

His hand reached into his front pocket and felt around for the carton of cigarettes before fishing the damn thing out. His other hand reached into its respective pocket and produced the fancy metal flip lighter you had gotten for him as an on-the-whim gift a couple of weeks ago. He noticed that the cigarette carton was lighter than he remembered, he was just hoping it wasn’t empty as he leaned up against the metal railing of the patio.

Flipping open the top of the carton, Chris originally sneered at the sight of an empty cigarette carton only to notice that it wasn’t in fact empty, but filled with something other than tobacco.

Retreating back inside from the biting cold, he got a good look at what was inside thanks to the light illuminating from the bedside lamp.

His cigarette carton was nearly packed full of some thick-looking paper. There was no room left in the carton for him to slide his thumb in and take them all out, but he did manage to snag at the paper with his nails and pull them all out at once. The empty carton fell to the carpeted floor as Chris turned over the multiple pieces of paper which had turned out to be polaroids.

The heavy flip lighter fell from his hand and clattered against the carpet at what he saw when he turned them over in his hands.

His jaw unhinged a bit, his eyes wide, his blood suddenly boiling hot inside of his veins.

He shuffled through the polaroids like they were a deck of cards.

They were all of you.

They were all of you looking sinful as hell.

Chris sat down at the foot of the bed, legs spread as he stared at the polaroids one by one.

You looked absolutely divine in all of them, like you had been ripped straight from an adult magazine. He couldn’t help the slight tremble in his hands as he looked them over one by one.

The one he had first saw was of you in a loose black satin robe that was long enough to cover the curve of your ass. Your back to the camera, head turned, eyes peeking over your shoulder and right into the lens at the flash. You had garters strapped to your hidden waist, black silky bands stretching down the length of your legs to cling to black cotton knee-high socks that hugged every curve your legs had to offer.

The next was of you on your shared bed, the sheets rumpled up slightly beneath you. Your robe was gone, showing off the navy blue little number you had on underneath it. A deep blue babydoll dress was just see-through enough for him to make out the curves of your hips and waist. Your breasts were cupped by dual pads that pushed them together, a little golden bow right between the cups as you purposefully let the straps sag on your shoulders. Your hands were messing with the hem of the dress, small gold accents were stitched into the near-opaque body. You still had on the garters and thigh-highs as you sat on the bed facing the camera. Your face was painted, eyeshadow smoky and lips a deep matte wine color.

Chris felt his dick throb in his pants, drums of life stirring up the shaft.

He flipped the card to the back of the line, eyes lighting up at the next one. You were on your knees in a completely different set of lingerie. It was a bra and panty set that was ruby red. Your breasts were pushed together, the panties you wore hugged your hips and waist oh-so fucking well. It left so little to Chris’ imagination. You were on your knees on the bed, one hand was holding a compact open and the other was attempting to clean up your lipstick. The glossy red looked as though it had been kissed off, red smudged against your chin. He wanted to feel those lips wrapped around his throbbing dick so fucking badly. He wanted you to leave lipstick rings around his dick up to where you could take him before you gagged and pulled away.

The next was of you standing again with your back to the camera. You were bent over the vanity dresser in your room. Fuck, the angle you had your back at and the way your ass was just right there begging to be spanked had Chris pawing himself through his tight sleep pants. You were facing a mirror and the polaroid camera caught the reflection perfectly. You wore an olive green corset with a darker-colored thong and no bra. Instead, you had positioned your arm to be right under your breasts, hiding your nipples while also pushing your breasts together. Your other hand was swiping on dark lipstick across your pouted lips. Your eyes looked right into the camera through the reflection in the mirror, almost like you were staring right at Chris.

The next was of you completely naked but your body was slightly obscured by the sheet you had protecting your sensitive areas from view of the camera. You were on your knees again, fully facing the camera. One of your hands was holding the sheet up to your breasts, palm open and pressed flat against your tits to push them together for support as much as possible. One of your legs had not been tangled in the sheets, instead, it was out in front of your person, bent at the knee to show off the delicate curves of your body. Chris cursed to himself, his mind begging to feel your thighs wrapped around him as he fucked you mercilessly into that fucking bed. Your hair was tousled as though you just had sex, your eyes dazed on purpose and your makeup had been painted on naturally.

The last one was his breaking point.

You were wearing nothing but his old S.T.A.R.S. jacket. Nothing. You were completely naked sitting on the bed, one leg crossed over the other to hide your cunt from his greedy eyes. Your hair was touseled, your makeup was light with only eyeliner and a dee and nude lipstick. You had the jacket on in just a way that it barely covered your breasts but made sure to cover your nipples. He noticed that you were also wearing his old dog tags as well, the cold silver nesting comfortably between your breasts.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

As he looked at the last polaroid again, he saw that you had drawn a little arrow in the bottom corner pointing to the other side. ‘Call me when you see these’ you wrote on the back.

Chris stood up quickly, ignoring the swirling of his mind and marched over to his phone on the nightstand before he sat back down. He tossed the other five polaroids onto the nightstand and kept the one of you in his S.T.A.R.S. jacket in his big mitt as he tapped your name on his phone to call you. The phone only rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey handsome,” you purred.

You knew. You fucking knew why he was calling.

You fucking devil.

“(Y/n),” Chris grunted into the phone.

He was pawing himself, squeezing his clothed cock in his hand as he nestled the phone between his jaw and shoulder.

“Did you see the little surprises I left for you?”

He could hear rustling in the background. You were in bed, he could hear the tv on in the background at a low volume.

“I did- fuck- I saw ‘em. You looked hot as hell, baby girl.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

His mind was foggy from lust. His brain was going one million miles a minute. His dick was practically controlling his thoughts.

“What’re wearing right now?” he growled into his phone.

His hands snatched at the waistband of his sleep pants and boxers, peeling them both down until his heaty dick sprung out, nearly hitting his chiseled stomach. He squeezed himself at first, gritting his teeth as he felt a pressure tingle right behind his belly button.

“Mmm, just one of your shirts and a pair of shorts, the one you like, the one that you can see my ass poking out,” you hummed. Chris could just see you now, in a shirt that swallows you and a pair of shorts just waiting to give him a surprise should you bend over. “It’s pretty cold here, though. I may put on a jacket.”

Chris groaned, his hand giving his cock a good few pumps before he reeled his hand back to spit into his palm. He heard you laugh softly and sultry before you moaned. Were you also masturbating?

“You don’t know what you do to me,” Chris growled.

“I have an idea, Captain.” Chris’ head nearly smacked into the wall at just the way you called him. His mouth opened as a deep moan pushed through his chest, his hand quickened its pace against his dick. “Was that your favorite one of me? In your old S.T.A.R.S. jacket, just me naked?” He let out a pathetic whine, eyes squeezing shut as his chest grew heavy. “What were thinking when you saw that?” you spurred him on.

“I’m gonna ruin you when I get home tomorrow night,” he snarled, his cock twitching in his hand. His head had leaked precum, his thumb massaging his slit as he grit his teeth and moaned again. “I’m gonna fuck you into the mattress, make you choke you on my dick- ah! Fuck~”

His chest seized as he felt his climax beating his nerves senseless.

“Oh, I look forward to that, Captain Redfield.”

#resident evil #chris redfield #chris redfield x reader #chris x reader

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rinzydings · 7 months ago

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Hey hey!

Do you like fantasy, intricately twined stories, and magic? My friend over at Bisset House Press is looking for ARC readers! If you have the time and like the premise (pasted below), please don't hesitate to sign up! I'm posting on tumblr for them because they currently don't have one haha.

Two teenagers on the secretive Island of Faodail have finally joined the ranks of their predecessors: they’ve begun to have dreams of their past life. This is a natural cycle on the Isle that Katiyana has been waiting for ever since she turned sixteen the previous April. Having been raised in the Coven, she knows exactly what’s happening. Vincent, however, does not. He was raised outside of the circle of magic users, and is bewildered by every new piece of information these sequential dreams drop on him. As the month passes, they slowly put together that they’re dreaming of each other. With the help of their mutual friends, and Coven members who have already been through the process, the teens work through revelations both comforting and terrifying. Everything does happen for a reason, especially on Faodail, they just never expected it to be like this. Coven Chronicles: Magickal is an introduction to the Island of Faodail, through the lens of someone steeped in its history and magic, and someone learning everything for the first time. This dual-POV story will lead you through each dream and everything surrounding it, unfolding the past Katiyana and Vincent shared together, and the future they could build with each other.

>> ARC sign up form here!! <<

Sign ups are open July 22nd (now!) - August 2nd!

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[Video ID: This video contains three slides. The first slide is of table filled with weathered paper, bound scrolls, and burning candles of various sizes in a hazy atmosphere. The text reads, "If you love…"

The second slide is three smaller videos stacked and overlaying a lavender field as a background. The first video on the top is one of a small, purple crystal ball surrounded by beads and candles. It reads: "Magical Realism." The second video is a group of pre-teens/teenagers of various heights and hairstyles, smiling and laughing at the camera. It reads: "Found Family." The third video is the back/side shot of a girl sitting in the foreground, brunette waves obscuring her face as she writes in a notebook. The backdrop is green and blue, heavily blurred, implying a lake view. The text reads: "Info Through Dreams."

The third slide is of a set of hands holding a tablet featuring the cover concept of the book (which is pale pink, featuring a side profile silhouette of a woman within a floral border around her head and another around the edge of the cover itself.) Sparkles flash on and off screen around the tablet and hands for emphasis. The text at the top of the slide reads: Join our ARC team!" and the text at the bottom reads: "Coven Chronicles: Magickal. ARC Signups July 22 - Aug 2." End ID]

#2024 books #new author #lgbt books #witch books #queer books #new books #arc reader #arc readers wanted

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petrodragonicapocalypse · 5 months ago

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basically the plan is i bought this little dual lens stereoscopic digital camera on ebay and im gonna take it to gigs and learn how to edit red-blue anaglyphs and make 3D music photos which will be viewable to people who can freeview stereograms (basically no one) AND people who own red-blue 3D glasses (also no one i think). stage 2 develop brain

#could be huge for society in general #my posts

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mariacallous · 11 days ago

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In 2024, a wave of violent rampages disrupted China’s carefully cultivated image of stability, exposing underlying tensions often obscured by the country’s tightly controlled narrative. Dubbed “Xianzhong-ology” by netizens—a reference to an infamously bloody Ming rebel Zhang Xianzhong—these “revenge on society” attacks unsettled a nation unaccustomed to such public displays of disorder. Unlike incidents in the past, this spate of violence seemed to reflect deeper fractures within Chinese society, sparking widespread unease and forcing an unusual degree of national introspection—as well as a broader push for greater security by the authorities.

For Chinese President Xi Jinping, these attacks represent a profound challenge—not just to governance but to the narrative he has spent his career crafting. Shaped by the tumult of the Cultural Revolution, Xi prizes stability above all else. The 2014 Kunming train station knife attack, attributed to Uyghur separatists, spurred sweeping counterterrorism measures, including a vast surveillance apparatus. But the current wave of violence is different. These are not acts of ideological extremism or organized resistance—they are eruptions of despair. Surveillance cameras and facial recognition software cannot anticipate or address the kind of desperation driving these tragedies.

But are these attacks truly on the rise, or has the hyperamplified lens of social media distorted perceptions, making rare events feel omnipresent?

China’s Ministry of Public Security consistently reports that the country remains one of the world’s safest, with homicide rates among the lowest globally. Violent crimes, from theft to fraud, are reported to have decreased significantly since 2019. This narrative is further supported by the 2024 Rule of Law Blue Book, published by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences, which paints a picture of a society largely free from widespread criminality. The veracity of these figures is uncertain; criminologist Borge Bakken has argued that the vast majority of crime in China never appears in the official figures.

Whether the figures are real or not, this statistical assurance contrasts sharply with public perception—and, in some cases, doesn’t even correspond with police departments’ own reports. According to a BBC tally, police recorded just three to five pedestrian or stranger attacks annually between 2019 and 2023, but that number jumped to 19 in 2024. Casualties followed a grim trajectory: Fatalities rose from three in 2019 to 16 in 2023 before surging to 63 in 2024, while injuries increased from 28 to 40 before spiking to 166. It remains unclear whether all such incidents are officially reported. Meanwhile, social media platforms such as Weibo played a pivotal role in amplifying these events, spreading news to millions of people before state censors could intervene.

Like mass killings in the United States, the roots of this violence often seem to be personal frustration. Consider the Zhuhai car ramming, where a man’s dissatisfaction with his divorce settlement ended in 35 deaths. Or the Wuxi vocational school attack, where a student’s frustration over academic failure and unpaid wages led him to stab eight people and injure 17. There are common threads in these attacks: economic insecurity, diminishing upward mobility, and the absence of robust mental health support systems. For years, breakneck economic expansion served as a salve to social problems, masking deep-seated inequities and offering hope to millions of people. Today, that foundation feels increasingly unsteady. Youth unemployment officially hovers around 20 percent, though experts believe the real number is much higher. Disillusioned young people, some embracing the tangping ethos of “lying flat,” have opted out of the rat race altogether, rejecting a system they see as failing them.

The collapse of the real estate market has only deepened the malaise. For decades, homeownership was more than a financial milestone—it was a cornerstone of middle-class identity and a promise of stability. That promise turned out to be false: today, as property values plummet, millions of families are instead trapped in financial quicksand.

Economic woes are compounded by stark inequalities. The wealthiest 1 percent of Chinese citizens now control more than 30 percent of the country’s wealth, while the bottom half hold just 6 percent—a gap on par with the United States and Europe. By 2015, China’s richest 10 percent were taking home 40 percent of the nation’s income, outpacing France but still trailing the United States, where the figure stood at 47 percent. For a government that has staked its legitimacy on delivering “common prosperity,” this glaring disparity is a dangerous contradiction. Local governments, drowning in debt, are increasingly unable to provide essential services such as education and health care, forcing families to shoulder burdens they cannot sustain. These pressures have created a society on edge, where every setback feels insurmountable.

There’s little social support for people struggling. Despite growing awareness, mental health remains a deeply stigmatized issue in China. Counseling is scarce, and seeking help is often viewed as a sign of weakness. According to the World Health Organization, 54 million Chinese people have depression and another 41 million anxiety disorders. The problem is particularly acute among young people: A 2022 study reveals that nearly 40% of Chinese college students experience subthreshold depression, with heightened risks linked to financial strain, chronic illness, and pandemic-related stress. Barclay Bram, a fellow at the Asia Society Policy Institute’s Center for China Analysis, whose research focuses on mental health developments and youth unemployment in China, cautions against oversimplified narratives about the mental health crisis. “There has been a surge of interest in mental health in China over the past two decades and especially since the [COVID-19] pandemic. This means that we need to be careful when stating that mental health is significantly declining in China—it may well be that people are seeking treatment at higher rates and therefore appearing more in statistics,” he said.

While awareness and diagnosis may be increasing, many experts argue that deeper structural issues are also at play. Rising social pressures, economic instability, and limited access to mental health care are fueling both despair and, in some cases, violence. Wei Zhizhong, the chief expert at Guangzhou’s Yiwei Duxin Psychological Counseling Center, points to China’s rapid socioeconomic shifts, which have left many struggling with emotional and psychological distress. Others contend that the country’s underdeveloped mental health system fails to provide timely intervention, allowing crises to escalate unchecked.

However, Bram emphasizes the importance of avoiding unfounded assumptions: “We should be careful when attributing recent attacks to mental illness. There is plenty of stigma around mental health in China, and without clear diagnostic evidence backing up the connection between specific perpetrators and mental health, we should be cautious about making armchair diagnoses from afar.”

Yet there is a palpable sense of the psychological toll of the last five years. “Burnout is everywhere, but not everyone recognizes it,” said Chang Che, a writer who has extensively covered social trends in China. Che highlights an inequality not just in how mental health is viewed but also in how it is addressed: In China’s first-tier cities, a burgeoning discourse around personal and societal ills has emerged, led by an educated, middle-class population equipped with tools such as therapy and self-help literature.

They theorize their exhaustion, analyze the broader status quo, and explore pathways to change. Outside these urban hubs, however, the same pervasive burnout exists but often without the language, resources, or frameworks to address it. In Shanghai, burnout is a topic of conversation; in Wuxi, it’s an unspoken reality. This divide is reflected in the attackers themselves. Many come from marginalized backgrounds or belong to older generations, often from regions where economic decline and social isolation have deepened their struggles. Without access to mental health resources or structured coping mechanisms, frustration festers and, in some cases, erupts into violence. The disparity in access to mental health resources and coping mechanisms may partly explain why violent outbursts often emerge in less developed areas, where avenues for relief are far more limited.

Despair and violence are tests of the system. China’s weiwen, or social stability maintenance system, is formidable. It employs an array of tools—from high-tech surveillance to the suppression of dissent—to preempt unrest. However, it provides no solutions to the underlying causes of societal discontent.

The government’s response to the 2024 attacks illustrates this tension. In Zhuhai, authorities implemented a profiling system designed to identify “high-risk” individuals—those without spouses, children, income, or assets and who had suffered significant setbacks. The approach reflects the state’s reliance on identifying and managing perceived threats rather than alleviating the underlying social and economic pressures that create them. Bram warns of the potential pitfalls of this strategy: “There is a risk that the government will conclude from these attacks that people facing difficult life circumstances—divorce, unemployment, bankruptcy, etc.—are inherently ‘sensitive’ individuals, i.e., high-risk. This risks pathologizing and securitizing the vicissitudes of life, increasing the pain for people already suffering.”

Worse, the very act of labeling and monitoring these individuals could deepen their alienation, further inflaming resentment. If state intervention manifests as harassment rather than support, it may not only fail to prevent future violence but could, in some cases, push those already on the brink over the edge.

State-controlled media has no time for examination of deeper problems. Each attack is framed as an isolated tragedy, disconnected from systemic issues. News reports are sanitized, social media posts deleted, and public discourse stifled. While this approach shields the government from immediate accountability, it deepens the gap between leaders and the public.

Lynette Ong, a political scientist specializing in authoritarianism at the University of Toronto, argues that fractured state-society relations and eroded trust have created fertile ground for frustration to manifest in alarming ways, including acts of desperation. “I expect China to be a society that is increasingly difficult to govern, with the possibility of rising violence,” she said. “Zero-COVID strained state-society relations and broke down trust between citizens and both the central government and grassroots agents.” According to Ong, violent acts—whether self-harm or targeted at others—often represent a form of venting against systemic challenges that remain unresolved.

For the Chinese Communist Party, the stakes are significant. Each “revenge on society” attack challenges the party’s carefully curated image of harmony and control, raising uncomfortable questions about deeper societal issues. These incidents may reflect growing disillusionment rooted in inequality, unmet expectations, and a weakening social compact—issues that cannot be addressed solely through surveillance and suppression.

The party faces a stark choice. It can double down on its control tactics, risking further alienation, or it can confront the uncomfortable truths behind these crises. Real reforms—addressing inequality, expanding mental health services, and restoring trust in institutions—are essential. Yet Xi’s administration has shown little appetite for meaningful change. Stability, for now, means preserving the status quo, even as cracks in the system continue to widen.

But the cost of inaction is growing. As grievances accumulate and remain unaddressed, isolated acts of violence may become more frequent, evolving from aberrations into a grim pattern of societal dysfunction. The state’s heavy-handed tactics, designed to suppress dissent and manage crises, risk creating an environment where desperation festers unchecked.

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shenzhenbrilliantcmostechnolo · 2 years ago

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Dual Lens USB Camera Module – A Smart Device for Smart Users

Dual Lens USB Camera Module is designed for environmental versatility and featuring long-range capabilities and high-resolution depth perception.

#Dual Lens USB Camera Module

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professionalcameramodulesuppl · 2 years ago

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Looking for the camera module? Check out the WDR camera module! We offer a high-quality camera module with face recognition in 1080p at a reasonable price. Visit our website today and contact us at +86 136 9976 9387.

#Dual Lens Camera Module

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is-this-art-or · 29 days ago

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Reflections in Candlelight:

“In the dim glow of a flickering candle, the bathroom becomes at once a stage and a sanctuary. The image is simple at first, a naked woman capturing herself in the bathroom mirror, but that simplicity is deceptive. The mirror, divided into three panels, fragments the body into three distinct versions of itself, each revealing a different angle. This is where vulnerability finds its form, and where the line between observer and observed blurs into obscurity.

The candlelight softens the harsh edges, casting deep shadows that obscure as much as they reveal. Each panel of the mirror shows a different angle, revealing different perspectives on the scene, one the farthest from the light half cut-off, as though included as an afterthought. The next captured fully, bathed in revealing light, the phone featured front and center. The third, almost washed out by light and steam lingering at the edges of the mirror. For a moment the nudity overcomes the presence of the phone there in the figure's hand. She is simultaneously exposed and concealed, the phone reminding us that this vulnerability is a choice. The viewer, for a moment, takes on the role of photographer, exploring the vulnerability of revealing oneself for consumption and then being reminded that this whole scene was constructed. Now aware of their role in this staged scene, they are compelled to reflect on their participation in both viewing and creating.

The act of holding the camera brings an intensely personal element to the image. It’s not just a captured moment; it’s a moment deliberately made. The presence of the camera in the frame reminds us that this is a constructed scene, carefully staged rather than spontaneously caught. The viewer is not merely a passive observer but is invited into the act of creation itself. In this way, the viewer becomes the creator, embodying the dual role of the one behind the lens and the one reflected in the mirror.

This duality, the creator becoming the subject and vice versa, forces a confrontation with the self. The image is not just about being seen; it’s about the power dynamics of seeing and being seen, of staging and being staged, blurring the lines between the personal and the performative. In this selfie, we find a raw critique of the boundaries between art and pornography or intimacy, between spontaneity and deliberation. It invites the viewer to consider not only what is being seen but also the process of creation itself. This is not merely an image; it is a constructed moment that speaks to the complex relationship between the artist, the subject, and the audience.”

The story:

I took this photo as I got ready to jump in the shower. I remember I had a migraine so I didn’t want to use the overhead lights, and I remembered a candlelight image I took earlier that year and decided to replicate it. I remember moving the candle around until it cast the light just how I wanted it and moving myself and my phone until I got the best image. There are 5 or 6 pictures in this set, but this one is my favorite. I love the intention I put into it, the fact that I was recreating a previous shot, the inherent vulnerability of nudity and being in the bathroom. I love that I was trying to create a shot that felt like it was catching a moment, but it could never be anything but staged. I loved the layers.

Getting Philosophical:

This blog was inspired by a handful of experiences: an ethics class where we considered whether pornography could be considered art, the 8,000+ naked pictures of myself, some of which I consider art, and a general sense of external shame for having and embracing my sexuality. While philosophy and the art world have their own definitions of art and what it is, I propose this definition as a sort of thesis for this blog: art is something created by a person intentionally to convey a message. At first glance, this definition seems comprehensive. Art usually evokes emotion in its audience and is crafted with purpose. However, even this seemingly straightforward statement warrants a deeper examination. Let’s break down the components: Art is (something) (created) (by a person) (intentionally) (to convey a message).

Something: This one is easy, any object or complete work

Created: to be created is to be made - Oxford Languages agrees with me here, meaning to be brought into existence.

By a person: For the sake of this discussion I will define a person as a human being or homo sapien. While this seems simple it becomes complicated when we consider non-human creators, like AI.

Intentionally: This means it was done on purpose.

To convey a message: Here we start to see the complexity start to arise. Different fields have different ideas about what this means. Semiotics, the study of signs and symbols and their use and interpretation, has a slightly different perspective on the topic than a sociologist might take, than a philosopher might take, etc. For instance, in the US a red octagon tells us we should stop, this is a result of socially agreed upon messaging telling us what to understand. But what happens when a message was received without intention? Consider this: A building catches on fire due to an electrical fault, a man walking by sees this and perceives a message from the divine. Neither the building nor its creators ever intended to convey such a message and yet it was the one received. This leads us to the question: Must a message be intended, or need it simply be derived through perception?

Consider still life and landscape paintings. To a typical observer, these don’t exist to convey a message, there is no political subtext or hidden meaning, but this is far from the truth. At the very least these types of paintings are asking you to see the beauty of the world through the artist's eyes, saying without words, “Look at this moment in time, see it’s beauty as I did.” This alone is enough to convey a message.

So, we have two questions to lead us forward: Must meaning be intended? And must that meaning be clear?

With this in mind we can expand from our granular examination, each set of parentheses emphasizes a different idea that we will examine:

I believe that art is: [something {created by a person] (intentionally} to convey a message.)

Created by a person

What does it mean to be created by a person? The nuances are endless, especially with the advent of technology ranging from pottery molds to AI generated audio, video, and voice products. Consider pottery: is a ceramic work only handmade if it was thrown on a wheel or sculpted by hand? Does the use of tools interfere with our definition? And does the use of molds negate the human effort embedded in each final piece? What about fabric arts? Is a shirt only hand made if the fabric was hand woven and the final product hand stitched? What if the creator uses mass produced fabric and a sewing machine? Is this no longer hand made? Digital art further complicates this: Is an image created by a person if it was completely drawn on a computer? What about if a human types a prompt into an AI image generator and carefully curates the results? Is this a human creation? They did cause the thing to exist, but their labor was not in the creation of the image but in the curation. These questions might seem foolish, but they are not without merit, as technology advances, we must consider these questions.

I’ll give you my answer while saying I am open to debate-

In my mind, to be created by a person means that a person caused the thing to exist, this ranges from using one's physical body to create all the way down to using one's mind to prompt a computer to create. The important thing to remember is that human creation is not the only component of my definition of art.

Created Intentionally

What about intentionality? Trees in a forest aren’t art, they are trees doing tree things, but if I capture the trees in film, have the trees now become art or is only the photo art? Is the photo even art at all?

And what do we think of spilled milk forming an attractive pattern? If a toddler spilled their milk across the floor and just before their caretaker cleaned it up, they paused to admire its intricacies, did the spill become art in that moment? The child might have spilled the milk on purpose, to convey to their caretaker that they were displeased, thus we have an intentional act to convey a message, but was the intention to create art? Of course not, so again we must examine if the art had to be intended as art to be counted as such.

Further still, what do we have to say about pour painting, the new format of engaging with paint that consists of spilling it across a canvas and manipulating the canvas to approach a desired result. Obviously, this act was done with the intention of creating something at least approaching art, and it was done by a person, and taking my previous definition of message conveyance that the message could be as simple as “see the beauty in this as I saw it,” I would argue that this is in fact art.

Back to the point of intention though, the trees in the forest were not trying to be beautiful, they were trying to live and I, the photographer, perceived them as beautiful so I captured them in that moment. The spill was (could have been) intentional, but the goal was not to create anything, the goal was to destroy. The pour painter is creating with the intention to create.

So, must the intention to create art be present in its creation to constitute the final work as art?

Again, I’ll give you my thoughts and look forward to hearing your thoughts-

I do not think that the intentionality in this definition is limited to the intention to create or be art, but rather the intention to convey something to another must exist.

Intentionally convey a message

This feels like the funkiest part of my definition, as shown above by my questions about if a message must be intended or simply perceived. Must the message be significant? Can the message be as simple as wanting to share something you found interesting?

As you’ll find reading through this blog, I take a rather broad definition of art. I think a broad definition is only appropriate when considering how many exceptions to the rule there are, how many times the rules have been changed.

An invitation-

As I write these posts, I find myself exploring new and interesting ideas. I invite you to join me on this journey, there will be moments of the erotic, sometimes obscene, maybe even intimate. We will explore thoughts and ideas, expanding on whatever comes to mind. I hope for these posts to start a conversation, and maybe we can find my niche.

#alternative #artwork #authors #love poem #makeup #portrait #tattoos #mirror #whatevenisart #whatdowethink #inanimate insanity invitational

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tummymoth · 1 month ago

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Of (Tattoo) Guns N' Roses [6]

Chapter 6: You Can't Put Your Arms Around A Memory (read on Ao3 here)

Chapter Summary: Xie Lian takes an unsolicited trip down memory lane.

Additional Info: CW: depictions of a panic attack, blood and injury, and gore are contained within this chapter (tags have been updated accordingly). Please use your discretion before continuing to read!

Word Count: 5,672

<<Beginning <Previous

The engine rattles with effort as he merges onto the highway. Cars in the faster lanes whizz by him, their sound competing with the music emanating from the radio.

“You’re doing me a favor by driving me to the office,” the man beside him says. “I do hope I’m not keeping you from anything.”

“Nothing at all.” He feels his lips curve up in a smile. This is a lie.

The man doesn’t need to know.

“I hope you don’t mind that,” the man says as he gestures at the dual camera with a blinking red light on the dashboard. The tiny monitor displayed a playback of them both in the car alongside a live feed of the road in front of them. “It’s just for my peace of mind. I have one installed in my car, but it’s in the shop.”

He nods in understanding. “That’s helpful. Maybe I should install one of my own.”

“You can have this one.”

“I don’t want to be a bother. Thank you, though.”

“You’re always so helpful, aren’t you? Eager to please.”

Discomfort licks at the base of his spine as the man’s voice dips into something avaricious. He ignores it and smiles.

This is a compliment. He takes it for the praise that it is and basks in it.

“That’s what friends are for, no?”

That’s what they are. Friends. He feels proud for getting to this point—for reaching the level at which he can consider his mentor a friend.

“Friends?” The man teases as he feigns hurt. “Surely, I thought we’d be beyond that after all these years.”

“What else is there to be?”

An impossibly warm hand on his knee. It’s hot, burning hot. Like still-smoldering coals on his skin.

His hands constrict around the wheel in silent malaise.

“Companions,” the other man puts simply.

Fingers trace scalding circles through the fabric of his pants. The lingering heat leaves him feeling like an ant under a child’s magnifying lens.

He laughs as he takes the next exit. “I can’t joke right now. I’m driving.” The fingers withdraw.

A moment of silence comes and goes like molasses. He thinks he’s going to drown in it.

“And your… venture. How is that going?”

“Oh, same old, same old.” Another lie.

It took him ages to find the perfect place for a flower shop. Lots of room for shelving. Big windows for natural sunlight. He pushed back a meeting with the realtor to next week to be in this car. He hopes there are no other parties interested in the space he’s looking to buy.

The man doesn’t need to know.

“Your mother would be proud of you,” the man observes. “How long has it been since…?”

A frown threatens to pull at the corners of his lips. “Ten years tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you miss her.”

The cloying smell of hospitals and sterile sheets still lines his lungs. The afterimage of harsh fluorescent lights is still burned into his retinas. If a room is too quiet, the beeping of a heart monitor rings in his ears as some twisted, faux tinnitus.

“I guess so.”

“Do you ever think that you could have done more for her? For them both?”

“Ah…” The smile on his face feels taped on. His voice still has its light tone; it’s the same one that was trained and practiced to be used in business meetings and international affairs. His skin feels pulled taut. “There’s not much I can do now besides honor their memory.”

“What would you have done differently?” The man presses.

“It’s been years,” he says, though it feels more like pleading. A lump finds its way to his throat.

“Xie Lian, look at me.”

“I need to keep my eyes on the road.” Chestnut-brown meets obsidian regardless. “I’d rather not talk about this. I’m sorry—”

“It’s been years, yes. I’m happy I was able to help you through them.” The man’s voice grows sharp with an austerity he has never heard from him before. He doesn’t like it.

“After all, who would have been there to keep Xianle together while you spent your time ‘healing’?” The other man lets the word fall from his lips as if it’s something unpalatable.

“Well—”

“Don’t you think you could have done better?”

He does. God, he wishes he did.

“We’re going to reach your office soon.”

“It could be yours,” the other man casually drawls as if the words aren’t knives embedding themselves into his psyche. “But I suppose assuming responsibility for your parents’ legacy is too much compared to the life of a prince spoiled by luxury.”

He’s blinking away the moisture building up along his lashes. His knuckles are white. The painted lines on the road blip in and out of his vision.

“Please stop…”

“Xie Lian, I said look at me!” The other man’s voice thunders in his skull. The roar of it is as omnipresent and suffocating as the crashing of waves, indistinguishable from the blood rushing in his ears.

“Jun Wu, stop!”

The steering wheel is yanked off course. Xie Lian sees the lamppost heading toward him before he feels the car swerving off the road.

He slams on the brake.

It doesn’t work.

His fingers brush the leather of the hand brake.

It’s too late to pull it.

He is fading in and out of consciousness. Eyes to the sky.

The asphalt is somehow simultaneously digging into his skin with a piercing vengeance and rocking underneath him. He wills his arms to push back against solid ground. They buckle under his weight. He attempts to get his legs to abide by his command.

A lance of molten pain shoots up from his right ankle.

He registers the low keening of an animal nearby. Its breathing is labored and gurgling with something Xie Lian doesn’t want to think too hard about. He desperately hopes it isn't his fault.

He tries to sit up again. His ribs ache with the effort. The animal’s cries grow louder, more plaintive. He finally manages to push himself into a poor imitation of a sitting position.

Red stains his clothes. So, so much red.

He looks down at his legs. His right foot is bent at an unnatural angle.

Bile rises in his throat.

He hears the animal’s whimpering cries morph into an ear-splitting wail. God, it’s strident; he’s gritting his teeth to bear how it grates. He would look around to see where the awful noise is coming from, but his eyes are fixed on his foot.

Why won’t it stop? Xie Lian digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. He doesn’t care about the bits of asphalt lodging themselves in his skin. The pressure behind his eyes is immense. He struggles to think as his vision fades in and out.

Howls of pain ebb and flow into groans before they crescendo one more. The throbbing in his head doesn’t cease.

The animal’s cries take on a weird cadence, like some caricature of human speech. Xie Lian doesn’t have the mind to try and parse words through the gurgling mess of incomprehensible utterances. He tries to bring his knees to his chest.

A pathetic yelp rings through the air just as the cloth of his pants tugs at raw flesh. It’s sticky with semi-dried blood. Bits of gravel and rock are embedded in his skin. Just a breeze of air passing by sets his tissue alight with stinging.

Every movement hurts. God, it hurts. Where is Ju Wu?

He glances over at the car—that tiny movement sends him into another dizzy spell—and sees how the hood is crumpled at the point of impact with the streetlamp. He thinks the worst.

Ever-present cries turn into desperate, wet gasps for air. The ringing grows louder in his ears. The skin around his throat is burning. He can hardly breathe.

Xie Lian isn’t detached enough from the situation to look for help. He unwittingly grips at something, anything to pull himself up. His fingers find nothing but unsympathetic asphalt and scratch themselves raw.

He coughs up blood and gasps for air. Every expansion and contraction of his lungs gnaws away at his nerves and sends serrated signals of pain.

Help me…

The words never fall from his lips. He can’t quite command them to form the necessary shapes.

The animal moans.

Someone help. Please.

Help me, help me, help me, help, help, help, help.

The animal continues to let out disconcerting noises, wretched and drawn-out.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS, IT HURTS!!

“IT HURTS, IT HURTS, IT HURTS—”

Xie Lian woke up with a scream lodged in his throat and fingers frantically feeling for his scar. The blistering phantom pain was so sharp in his mind, he half-expected them to come away with scarlet.

Harsh antiseptic. A heart monitor. He’s on a gurney being wheeled to god knows where.

He could do little more than cradle his head in his hands as a roiling deluge of images and sensations came to the surface of his mind.

Someone is asking for his name. Any attempted words are cut short by a bitter, metallic taste. Warm wetness covers his chin.

Some absent, detached part of him registered the sound of hoarse panting invading the space of his bedroom. A clapped hand over his mouth did very little to muffle it. Every now and again a whimper escaped, leaving shame in its wake to fester deep in his belly.

His eyes darted around the room, not quite adjusted to the dark. He could vaguely make out Ruoye’s silhouette atop his cat tree. The cat usually slept either at the foot of his bed or near his pillow.

I must’ve startled him… he thought with no small amount of guilt.

“This laceration needs to be closed immediately!”

“But the fracture—”

“Disinfection first, then we’ll deal with his ankle. Somebody page Dr. Mei! ”

His face was damp with salty tears. The room spun around him. Why was it spinning?!

Blood. There’s too much blood. He gags on the metallic tang. His forearms burn something vicious as a medic cleans the road rash on his skin with saline and extracts asphalt from his flesh.

Still hyperventilating, Xie Lian gathered his right hand into a fist and steadily pressed his knuckles into his sternum in an attempt to keep his heart from beating out of his chest.

“You would have lost all vocal function if the cut on your neck had been a centimeter in any other direction. Maybe even your life.” The doctor’s voice is erudite. Detached, but warm.

“You’re incredibly lucky.”

Lucky? Death would have been kinder.

The detective is not nearly as welcoming. “I’m here to ask questions about what happened in the incident between Mr. Jun and yourself. It’s in your best interest to tell me everything you remember, Mr. Xie.”

It went on for weeks. Xie Lian hadn’t wanted to press charges; he begged Feng Xin not to call the police.

It was question after question, with multiple detectives screening him to ensure he gave them the facts—this was a high-profile case, after all. If charges were to be pressed against such an influential man—CEO of Xianle, one of the biggest conglomerates in this part of the country—they needed an airtight case.

Xie Lian wanted nothing more than to erase any details he could from his mind.

Harsh antiseptic. A heart monitor. He’s sitting on a chair facing a hospital bed. A hand feebly reaches for his own. The bouquet of pink tulips he’s holding in his other hand does nothing against the too-sharp, artificial fragrance that permeates the room to mask the scent of infection.

Yet here he was, drowning in the memory of it. Tears burned tracks down his cheeks as he gasped for air.

Her face is the moon—impossibly pale against a backdrop of greyed, brown hair. The smile she gives him is fatigued, but softhearted all the same. Her lips move.

A shuddering sob rattled his lungs. He knew what her final words were; he made sure to engrave them into his brain, after all. As years passed, the actual sound of her voice faded more and more from his recollection. He knew it soothed him. He knew it was soft. But try as he might, he couldn’t actually hear her.

He dragged his hand down his face, smearing tears across his cheeks in hot, biting frustration. What kind of a son was he, forgetting the voice of his own mother?

She flatlines. It’s indistinguishable from the ringing in his ears. There’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Time of death?” the doctor asks from behind him. A nearby nurse pokes their head up.

“Three forty-six a.m., Dr. Mei.”

The doctor nods and offers Xie Lian his condolences.

The hinge of his jaw is wooden like a puppet with its strings cut. His voice comes out robotically.

“Thank you for your time and effort.”

He distantly noticed the hallway light shining through the seam where his door didn’t quite meet the floor and froze. Soft, slow footsteps sounded out. He mustered the courage to hope that Mu Qing was just grabbing some water from the kitchen.

Xie Lian could already feel the guilt gnawing at him for being the reason his roommate was up at ungodly hours.

Tak tak.

Xie Lian flinched. A shadow was visible from under his door. Ruoye silently leaped from the cat tree with a dull thump, taking time to stretch before he approached the door with a loosely raised tail.

“Xie Lian?” His roommate’s voice was still heavy with a sleepiness he hadn’t managed to shake off yet. “Everything okay?”

Some quietly hysterical part of him thought that if he stayed silent for long enough, he could trick him into thinking he was asleep.

“Xie Lian?”

He stubbornly—childishly—kept his mouth shut even as he hiccuped with silent sobs.

“I’m coming in.”

The door swung open, leaving him little time to protest. He shrank away from the light spilling across his floor.

“...”

Mu Qing said nothing as the silence stretched out between them, save for the sound of the city traffic below them. Xie Lian didn’t dare move a muscle in hopes of blending in with the bedsheets. He stared vacantly at the wrinkles in his blanket, refusing to make eye contact.

“Why are you just letting yourself rot away?! Do you think it’s noble to wallow in suffering?” The voice yelling at him is laced with equal parts rage and concern. Xie Lian can’t find it in himself to acknowledge the words being thrown at him.

If he didn’t look at Mu Qing, he could pretend that he wasn’t being seen in this state—sniveling like a small child afraid of the monster under his bed. He could pretend that his raw embarrassment was just the aftershocks of his dream. He could pretend he wasn’t falling apart.

He could hide for just a little longer.

There was a soft rustling to Xie Lian’s left. From the way he jerked away from the noise, one would think a gun had gone off.

“‘S for you,” Mu Qing said. Dredges of sleep still clinging to the edges of his voice, he vaguely waved at the box of tissues he had set down next to Xie Lian. “Blow your nose.”

The mattress slowly dipped with a creak as he sat on the edge of the bed.

They both sat there for a moment. Xie Lian stared down the length of his bed with his arms around his knees while Mu Qing faced the door with his back to him—almost as if he was saving Xie Lian some face by giving him one last layer of privacy.

With all the confidence of a spooked horse, Xie Lian reached for a tissue and dried the wetness on his cheeks as quickly as he could. Any attempts at a thank you were stifled by the lump in his throat and came out more mangled than he thought it would. He recoiled at the sound of it cutting through the air and wished he could sink into the bed for eternity.

How inept was he? Unable to do the bare minimum of talking.

Mu Qing was the first to ease the wearisome silence into something quiet with a controlled breath.

“I won’t ask,” he said, all of his usual snark nowhere to be found.

In just three words, Mu Qing released him from the dread of having to flay himself open. The relief of it made a cry wrench itself from his lungs. A thousand words threatened to push at the seams of his lips and spill over in an acetic concoction of gratitude and guilt.

He said nothing. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. But he didn’t.

Useless.

“But I won’t let you sit with it by yourself. Even if that’s all you want to do.”

“I’m sorry…” The words dripped out before he could stop them, thick and doleful.

Mu Qing paused for a long while before he spoke. “...Don’t say ‘sorry’ if there’s nothing to apologize for. It’s a waste of time and makes you out to be a liar.”

Xie Lian willed himself not to cry harder. His tongue dumbly sat in his mouth like a piece of lead—impotent and ineffective. There was so much that he needed to apologize for.

He squinted past his tears to read the time from across the room. 4 am.

Mu Qing had work tomorrow—later today, rather—and here he was, staying up late to comfort Xie Lian because he couldn’t pull himself together. He had done something similar not too long ago, going so far as to take fewer shifts and ask for fewer hours so he could stay and watch over him.

God, the several weeks right after being discharged from the hospital were the most incapable he had ever felt in his life.

His car—a used Toyota Yaris that had been beyond its last legs when he bought the thing—had been totaled in the accident, so going back and forth to the courthouse with a broken ankle without help was out of the question. As with almost everything else then, the task had fallen onto Mu Qing’s shoulders.

Whenever he thought back to that time, it was never with a lack of shame.

He had fallen into a deep depression—never leaving his room if he could help it and barely eating. With the stress of going to court and trying to clinch a deal for the place he wanted to open his flower shop, he had no bandwidth left to work up an appetite.

Xie Lian closed his eyes and leaned against the bed frame. The tears had subsided, but his chest rose and fell with unsteady breaths as he remembered the long, arduous court proceedings.

His stomach turned at the memory of seeing Jun Wu in an orange jumpsuit a week after the accident, standing behind the bench without so much as a scratch on him.

There was no ugly twist of betrayal in the man’s eyes. He looked at him from across the room with the same forbearance a parent would for their wayward teenager—as if this was just a phase he would grow past.

That smile didn’t waver even as evidence had been presented to the jury.

Dashcam footage of their conversation right before the crash played on a screen for all to see. Xie Lian still remembered the shame, solid as tungsten, pooling in his gut as the tinny recording of his desperate voice rang throughout the courtroom.

His lawyer, a calm, no-nonsense woman who had professionalism radiating off her in waves, argued that there were injuries unattributable to the crash. She had wanted to press charges of battery on top of vehicular assault, saying that video evidence of Jun Wu grabbing the steering wheel and intentionally driving them off-course made for an airtight case.

Medical reports and images were given to the judge and presented to the jury in a laundry list of reasons why they should pity the sorry sap before them. Fractured ankle. Throat laceration. Multiple contusions of the body concentrated around his ribs.

Airtight case or not, Xie Lian had been the loudest to argue against taking Jun Wu to court in the first place. It had been the point of contention in many of the arguments between him and Mu Qing during that time (“You’re the victim in this case. Why are you still defending him?!”).

And yet, disappointment gnawed at Xie Lian’s ribs still when the man was declared innocent on all counts—soon followed by an all-consuming guilt for hoping that his former mentor would face any punishment at all.

Jun Wu merely smiles at him as he listens to Xie Lian apologize through the glass of the visitation booth. It’s his last day before they process the necessary paperwork to release him.

“I hardly blame you,” he says as if he’s calming a belligerent child. “It’s natural for princes to have others shoulder the blame when faced with distress. You’re still learning; that’s what I’m here for.”

“I think you should take a day to yourself,” Mu Qing’s voice cut through his thoughts.

The florist blinked dumbly at his back and discreetly grabbed another tissue to dab away any tears that may have decided to make an appearance.

Ruoye’s nose bumped at his other arm. When had he gotten on the bed? Xie Lian rested his hand on the cat's back and petted his fur out of habit.

His roommate reiterated his point. “It’s nearly morning already, and you’re in no shape to work.”

“There are people coming in to pick up their orders,” he managed to feebly reply.

The bed dipped once again as Mu Qing readjusted himself to face Xie Lian. In the dim light from both the hallway and the city lights outside, one could just barely make out the silhouette of his hair. It was uncharacteristically messy with some flyaways catching a light—a very different image from his usual neat and meticulously tidied appearance.

Xie Lian felt another pang of guilt as he imagined Mu Qing waking up with a start before rushing over to his room without enough time to so much as run a comb through his hair.

“They can wait a day.”

The florist shook his head. “I can’t.”

Chestnut Florals was the one thing Xie Lian could say he accomplished on his own. It gave him conflicted feelings to admit it, given the fact that he was pushing 30, but it was true. There was no way he could close the store on such short notice because of something as trivial as a bad dream.

Seeing that his mind was set, Mu Qing rolled his eyes and sighed (now that he was more awake, some of his usual snark was beginning to make itself known) before standing up.

“It’s not like I’ll do anything to stop you, but I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said, not unkindly, before excusing himself to his room and gently shutting Xie Lian’s door behind him.

Xie Lian’s hands hardly felt like his own as they fumbled for the right key to the shop.

He had sat in his bed until his alarm went off instead of falling back asleep, thanks to his nervous system buzzing with the jumpy vibrations of a live wire. He had to give it to Mu Qing; maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to show up to work with only a few hours’ worth of sleep to his name. But it was fine.

Sleep deprivation wasn’t the end of the world.

Not long after he flipped the sign from ‘closed’ to ‘open,’ Banyue arrived for her shift, setting her bookbag in the workshop before going about her opening duties.

“Good morning, Mr. Hua,” she quietly supplied with a small upturn of her lips, her smile widening when Ruoye quickly found his place on her shoulder.

The smile Xie Lian returned felt like plastic molding taped onto his face rather than a genuine expression. A tendril of frustration squeezed at his lungs at his inability to collect himself in front of her. She deserved better than that.

“Good morning, Banyue.”

After exchanging the usual pleasantries and half-heartedly listening to a brief recap of how her weekend was, Xie Lian retreated to the workshop to fully throw himself into the work that needed to be done. He will be productive today. He will stay focused. He will end the day with the satisfaction of having done something worthwhile.

He tried to, anyway.

Each time the door chime sounded up front, the florist's hands jerked with alarm. This would’ve been harmless if it weren’t for him being knee-deep in trimming flower stems and with quite a sharp pair of scissors in hand.

One particularly loud clang sent the scissor’s blade glancing off the skin of his fingers. Xie Lian cursed loudly as crimson already began to well up from the cut, quickly setting the scissors down and rushing to the sink.

“Mr. Hua? Everything alright?” To his left, he saw Banyue stick her head through the door. Concern furrowed her brows when she saw the bleeding.

He shut the faucet off and offered her the best smile he could muster, hurriedly grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser and pressing it against the cut. It was deceptively small—already bleeding profusely despite being only a few centimeters or so in length.

Stupid, he berated himself. I’ll have to start buying bandages in bulk at this rate.

“I’m fine. Just a bit of a hiccup. See?” he raised his now-covered finger for emphasis.

Banyue didn’t look convinced. “Alright…” She returned to her spot behind the register to attend to whoever walked in.

To say that his day continued with ease was a lie. He worked in near-silence, only opening his mouth to speak when Banyue popped her head into the workshop. More than ever, he was grateful that she was here to pick up calls. He didn’t need to focus on trying to maintain the facade of friendly conversation and could instead devote his attention to not cutting his fingers off.

The florist stepped back to appraise the arrangement he was currently working at. Pink anemone flowers were interspersed throughout a bundle of purple begonias, with some thistles thrown in for filler and contrast.

He frowned, unsatisfied with the result. There was something off, but he couldn’t tell if it was the angle of the stems or the ratio of the flowers themselves. Cool dampness grazed his fingers as he readjusted the blooms, taking extra care not to jostle the delicate plants. Both anemone flowers and begonias were particularly fragile; if the wind blew too hard or if the flowers didn’t get just the right amount of water, they were prone to wilting and losing their petals.

Once he felt the flowers were situated properly, he analyzed the arrangement once more. His shoulders rose and fell with a huff before he removed the flowers from the vase entirely, setting them in a bucket next to the vase to start over.

Xie Lian’s hands moved of their own accord. Maybe more anemones and fewer begonias would look better. He bit the inside of his cheek in thought, brows creasing in concentration as he lightly picked up stems and reinserted them into the vase. His smooth, practiced motions belied the mounting vexation brewing in his mind.

Harsh antiseptic. A heart monitor.

The stem held between his fingers snapped. He scrambled to catch the flower with shaking hands as it fell, only for it to slip through his fingers. Not wanting to leave a mess on the floor—he had enough going on; he didn’t need another injury on top of everything else—he numbly knelt down to pick it up.

Blood. God, there’s so much blood. Won’t somebody help him?

He shot to his feet.

Well, he would have if it weren’t for his head colliding with the underside of his work table. Hissing in pain, Xie Lian brought a hand to the crown of his head. It throbbed dully in time with his rapidly increasing heartbeat.

He needed to get up. Water droplets from the fallen flower were seeping into the cloth of his pants. It would stain.

Blinding pain shooting up from his ankle. A lance of molten metal.

Xie Lian gasped and, in a moment of delirium, glanced down at his legs.

Bent at an unnatural angle—

His ankle was perfectly fine. He was fine. He was safe. No injuries. He repeated this mantra to himself even as the dark wooden walls and smooth cement flooring of the workshop bled away—replaced by asphalt, gravel, and the wailing of an injured animal.

“Mr. Hua?”

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS—

“Mr. Hua!” Banyue’s fretful voice snapped him back to the present day. She moved to place a hand on his shoulder to jostle him, but Xie Lian shrank back before it could make contact. His head narrowly missed a second collision with the table.

Round, dark eyes studied him with concern as he slowly came back to himself.

It suddenly hit him that he was curled up under a table with his knees to his chest, hyperventilating like a madman.

The embarrassment of being seen like this was more than enough to tether him to reality. Xie Lian forced his breathing to even out and swallowed any remaining agitation, along with the bile that had managed to sneak up his throat at some point or another. He slowly straightened out his legs and made to stand up, doing his best to steady his wayward limbs.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Hua?”

“I uh… I hit my head on the table,” Xie Lian dumbly explained, clearing his throat and giving his best attempt at a smile. A cursory glance at the girl’s expression told him that her worry ran deeper than a simple bump on the head. Just how long had he been sitting there?

“It’s nothing, ahaha. Was there something you needed?”

Banyue said nothing as she continued to study him. He surreptitiously wiped at any dampness that may have gathered at his waterline and turned away from her, picking up the fallen begonia and tossing it in the trash.

He returned to the vase, halfheartedly working on the arrangement in silence. Banyue didn’t attempt to make any conversation as she observed.

She periodically handed him a flower whenever she thought he needed it. Somehow, every stem that landed in the grasp of his fingers was the correct one—he had cut them to specific lengths depending on where they sat in the arrangement. Xie Lian didn’t even need to ask.

“Could you pass me another anemone?”

Banyue handed him a couple of blood-red carnations instead. “This will look better.”

“Oh?” He gently inserted the flowers into the vase, making room for them by nudging the other stems aside and adding a couple of thistles. Taking a step back, he looked the arrangement over.

“Would you like to borrow my coat?”

Xie Lian coughed into his elbow to hide the heat on his face.

It seemed that she was right. They did look better.

“Maybe you should take the day off?” she shyly suggested. “Crimson Elysium is closed today, so I have the day off from my apprenticeship.”

He automatically waved the notion away. “You should spend that time resting or hanging out with your friends.”

“I didn’t make any plans for today,” was all she said as she handed him another flower. An anemone this time.

The florist glanced over at his employee. She had been working here for well over a month at this point, but he was surprised to see that a mere month was enough time for her to acquire an intuitive grasp on everything from floral care to the act of arranging itself. Wasn’t he supposed to be the experienced one here?

It wasn’t that long ago that he opened Chestnut Florals—five months, to whoever was counting—but he had been making arrangements and taking care of flowers since he was 17. People were allowed to have off days, sure, but cutting up his hands and banging his head on tables wasn’t the mark of someone who had been doing this for a decade.

He sighed, cowed by the fact that the 19-year-old found it necessary to pick up his slack at work, and nodded. His keys jangled against each other as he removed a spare key from the ring and handed it to her.

“Will you be alright closing the shop? Feel free to do so early if there are no customers coming in; everyone who had a pick-up scheduled for today came, anyway.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll pay you overtime since this is past the hours we agreed on,” he added, already feeling guilty for saddling her with so much responsibility despite her having volunteered for it.

“Okay.” She nodded and gave Ruoye a couple of scratches behind the ears. The cat butted his head against the palm of her hand, mewing softly as a low purr rumbled from his chest. “Take care of Mr. Hua for me, okay?”

The florist’s heart squeezed in endearment as he saw Banyue and Ruoye interact with each other. He weakly thanked her as he grabbed a Hello Kitty-themed cat sweater (an extremely lucky find at the local thrift store. If he ever found the person who was giving up these pieces, he would have to thank them profusely) and harness, slipping them on the cat.

“It’s no problem at all.”

With that, he wrapped his scarf securely around his neck and donned his coat before having Ruoye step into a set of cat boots (not thrifted, but he found them on sale, thank you very much). After waving Banyue a final goodbye and profuse apology, he left the store with Ruoye following closely behind.

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A/N: Unlike last chapter, I have several life-changing events that have occurred since our last encounter. But I'm back now ! We press forward (slowly, but forward regardless) !!!! I'm leaving for Japan (!!!!!) in a few days so updates will continue to be slow but rest assured, I have fluff lined up to make up for this chapter :)) Many thanks to my inspiration who, for the sake of what little self-respect I have left, I hope will never see this. As always, thank you for your patience and I'd love to hear your thoughts :)

#Hua cheng x Xie Lian #HuaLian #TGCF #tian guan ci fu #heaven official’s blessing #tgcf fanfiction #HuaLian Fanfiction #tian guan ci fu fluff #tian guan ci fu fanfiction #tgcf modern au #florist x tattoo artist trope #Moth's Manuscripts ﾟ𐦍༘⋆

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