#i am a flower vase in an infinite flow world

[danmeiblr]

Finally, a Danmei Blog for Lesser-Known Danmei, Some of Which Are Not Even Translated Yet

Hello, hello, I’m Miya, a voracious danmei reader that gobbles novels every night like it’s her daily sustenance. I’ve been reading danmei since late 2018, and like most people in English danmei spaces, I was introduced to it through MXTX’s Mo Dao Zu Shi / Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation. Since then, I’ve read many other danmei, like all the other popular ones—Little Mushroom, The Husky and His White Cat Shizun, Devil Venerable Also Wants to Know, etc.

Anyways, I have read almost all of the novels the English fandoms are currently obsessed with. Because of this, I often can’t relate to the excitement you guys still have over them because those novels feel like ages ago to me. I’ve long moved on from them and found other novels I love more. (I also read the bulk of those popular novels during my depression era, and I don’t wanna bring up memories of that)

So yeah, I sometimes feel like an outsider in English danmei spaces because nobody wants to talk about the novels I wanna talk about because nobody even knows about them 😭😭😭

Thus, this blog was born.

Mainly, I will be liveblogging the danmei I’m reading. I used to post them on my main @miyamiwu, but I’ve recently transferred my liveblogs from there to here. Just a fair warning: my liveblogs won’t be spoiler-free. I also don’t use spoiler tags because, well, nobody even knows the novels I’m blogging about so nobody would care if it’s a “spoiler” 😭😭😭

Aside from this, I will also post:

reviews of some of the great novels I come across

recommendation lists (you can also ask me for recs!)

rough English translations of the scenes I’m reacting to (otherwise, I won’t make sense)

general thoughts on danmei genres and tropes

translation ramblings

Basically, anything and everything about danmei.

Some stuff about me:

I run the @lizonkanovels website and used to post MTLations

I am studying Mandarin, but I’m nowhere near fluent in it. (I’ve also been too busy with college that my studies have been put on-hold.)

I loooove talking about the intricacies of translation and even took a class on translation theory before. You will see this reflected in some of my posts.

My favorite genres/tropes: whodunit, unlimited flow, horror, broken mirror, and 甜宠 (lit. sweet love/pampering, fluffy novels basically).

Current favorite danmei: Fourth Perspective by Mo Chen Huan

Also a fan of the 188男团 series by Shui Qian Cheng. My favorites in the series are Years of Intoxication and Blazing Armor

Well, that’s pretty much it. If you’re interested in discovering new danmei to read or just learning more about danmei, feel free to follow me~

You can also check out what novels I’ve posted about on my Danmei Directory:

https://danmeiblr.tumblr.com/directory

(If you’re on the mobile app and can’t access the link above, just copy it and paste it directly on your browser.)

[kushtrimthaqi]

Requiem for a Friend, Rainer Maria Rilke

poems like this.... (In memoriam Paula Modersohn-Becker)

I have my dead, and I have let them go, and was amazed to see them so contented, so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful, so unlike their reputation. Only you return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock against something, so that the sound reveals your presence, Oh don’t take from me what I am slowly learning. I’m sure you have gone astray if you are moved to homesickness for something in this dimension. We transform these things; they aren’t real, they are only the reflections upon the polished surface of our being,     I thought you were much further on. It troubles me that you should stray back, you, who have achieved more transformation than any other woman. that we were frightened when you died. . .no; rather: that your stern death broke in upon us, darkly, wrenching the till-then from the ever-since— this concerns us; setting it all in order is the task we have continually before us. But that you too were frightened, and even now pulse with your fear, where fear can have no meaning; that you have lost even the smallest fragment of your eternity, Paula, and have entered here, where nothing yet exists; that out there, bewildered for the first time, inattentive, you didn’t grasp the splendor of the infinite forces, as on earth you grasped each Thing; that, from the realm which already had received you, the gravity of some old discontent has dragged you back to measurable time—: this often startles me out of dreamless sleep at night, like a thief climbing in my window. If I could say it is only out of kindness, out of your great abundance, that you have come, because you are so secure, so self-contained that you can wander anywhere, like a child, not frightened of any harm that might await you. . . But no: you’re pleading. This penetrates me, into my very bones, and cuts at me like a saw. The bitterest rebuke a ghost could bring me, could scream to me, at night, when I withdraw into my lungs, into my intestines, into the last bare chamber of my heart such bitterness would not chill me half so much as this mute pleading. What is it you want?  Tell me, must I travel? Did you leave something behind, some place, which cannot bear your absence? Must I set out for a country you never saw, although it was as vividly near to you as your own senses are?  I will sail its rivers, explore its valleys, ask about its oldest customs; I will stand for hours, talking with women in their doorways and waiting, while they call their children home. I will watch the way they wrap the land around them as they work in field and meadow; will demand to be led before their king; will bribe the priests to take me to their temple, before the most powerful of the statues in their keeping, and to leave me there, shutting the gates behind them. And only then, when I have learned enough, I will go to watch the animals, and let something of their composure slowly glide into my limbs; will see my own existence deep in their eyes, which will hold me for a while and let me go, serenely, without judgment. I will have the gardeners come to me and recite many flowers, and in the small clay pots of their melodious names I will bring back some remnant of the hundred fragrances. And fruits: I will buy fruits; and in their sweetness that country’s earth and sky will live again.  For that is what you understood: ripe fruits. You set them before the canvas, in white bowls, and weighed out each one’s fullness with your colors. Women too, you saw, were fruits; and children, moulded from inside, into the shapes of their existence. And at last, you saw yourself as a fruit, you stepped out of your clothes and brought your naked body before the mirror, you let yourself inside down to your gaze; which stayed in front, immense, and didn’t say, I am that; no: This is. So free of curiosity your gaze had become, so unpossessive, of such true poverty, it no longer desired even you yourself; it wanted nothing: holy.     And that is how I have cherished you—deep inside the mirror, where you put yourself, far away from all the world. Why have you come like this and so denied yourself? Why do you want to convince me that your amher necklace still was heavy, with a heaviness that cannot exist in the serene heaven of paintings? Why such a mournful look? Why do you hold out your body’s contours as if they were your palm, so that I see the lines only as fate.     Come here, into the lamplight. I’m not afraid to look the dead in the face. When they return, they have a right, as much as other things do, to pause and refresh themselves within our vision.     Come here; let us be silent for a while. Look at this rose on the corner of my desk: isn’t the light around it just as timid as the light on you? It too should not be here, it should have bloomed and faded in the garden, outside, never involved with me. But now it lives on, in its small porcelain vase: what meaning does it find in my awareness?

    Don’t be frightened if I understand it now; it’s rising in me, ah, I’m trying to grasp it, must grasp it, even if I die of it. Must grasp that you are here. As a blind man grasps an object, I feel your fate, although I cannot name it. Let us lament together that someone pulled you out of your mirror’s depths. Can you still cry? No: I see you can’t. You turned your tears’ strength and pressure into your ripe gaze, and were transforming every fluid inside you into a stronger life-force, that would rise and circulate, in equilibrium, blindly. Then, for the last time, chance came in and tore you back, from the last step forward on your path, into a world where bodies have their will. Not all at once: tore just a shred at first; but when, around this shred, day after day, reality expanded, swelled, grew heavy— you needed your whole self; you went away and broke yourself into fragments, as you had to, painstakingly, because your need was great. Then from the night-warm soilbed of your heart you dug the seeds, still green, from which your death would sprout: your own, your perfect death, the one which was your whole life’s perfect consummation. And swallowed down the green seeds of your death, like all the others, swallowed them, and were startled to find an aftertaste of sweetness you hadn’t planned on, a sweetness on your lips, you who within your senses were so sweet already.     Let us mourn together. Do you know how hesitantly. how reluctantly your blood, when you called it back, returned from its incomparable circuit? How confused it was to take up once again the body’s narrow circulation; how, full of mistrust and astonishment, it came flowing into the placenta and suddenly was exhausted by the long journey home. You drove it on, you pushed it forward, you dragged it up to the hearth, as one would drag a terrified animal to the sacrificial altar; and wanted it, after all that, to be happy. Finally, you compelled it: it was happy, it ran up and surrendered. And you thought, because you’d grown accustomed to other measures, that this would be for just a little while. But now you were in time, and time is long. And time goes on, and time grows large, and time is like a relapse after a long illness.     How short your life was, when it is compared to those empty hours you passed in silence, bending the abundant strengths of your abundant future out of their course, into the new child-seed that once again was fate. A painful task: a task beyond all strength. But you performed it day after day, you dragged yourself in front of it; you pulled the lovely fabric out of the loom and wove its threads into a different pattern. And still had courage enough for celebration.     When it was done, you wished to be rewarded, like children when they have swallowed down the draught of bitter tea that perhaps will make them well. So you chose your own reward, being still so far removed from people, even then, that no one could have imagined what reward would please you. But you yourself knew. You sat up in your child bed and before you stood a mirror, which gave back everything, whole. And this everything was you, and in front of you; inside was mere deception. the sweet deception of every woman who smiles as she puts her jewelry on and combs her hair.  And so you died as women used to die, at home, in your own warm bedroom, the old-fashioned death of women in labor, who try to close themselves again but can’t, because that ancient darkness which they have also given birth to returns for them, thrusts its way in, and enters.

  Once, ritual mourners would have been procured— women whose job was weeping, who were paid to howl the whole night through, when all is silent. That’s why you had to come: to claim the mourning which we omitted. Can you hear me mourn? I would like to fling my voice out like a cloth over the fragments of your death, and keep pulling at it until it is torn to pieces, and everything I say would walk around shivering, in the tatters of that voice. But mourning is not enough. I must accuse: oh not the man who withdrew you from yourself (I cannot find him; he looks like everyone), but in this one man, I accuse: all men.     When somewhere, from deep within me, there arises the vivid sense of having been a child, the purity and essence of that childhood where I once lived: then I can’t bear to know it. I want to form an angel from that sense and hurl him upwards, into the front row of angels who cry out, rememhering God.     For this suffering has lasted far too long; none of us can bear it; it is too heavy— this tangled suffering of spurious love which, building on convention like a habit, calls itself just, and fattens on injustice. Show me a man with the right to his possession. Who can possess what cannot hold its own self, but only, now and then, will catch itself for a blissful moment, and throw itself away into the air, as a child throws a ball. As little as a captain can hold the carved Nike facing outward from his ship’s prow when the lightness of her godhead suddenly lifts her up into the bright sea-wind: so little can one of us call back the woman who will no longer see us, but, as if by miracle, sets forth along the narrow path of her existence, in perfect safety— unless, that is, he wishes to do wrong.  For this is wrong, if anything is wrong: not to enlarge the freedom of a love with all the inner freedom one can summon. We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

    Are you still here? Are you standing in some corner? You knew so much of all this, you were able to do so much; you passed through life so open to all things, like an early morning. I know: women suffer; for love means being alone; and artists in their work sometimes intuit that they must keep transforming, where they love. You began both; both exist in that which any fame takes from you and distorts. Oh you were far beyond all fame; were almost invisible; had withdrawn your beauty, softly, as one would lower a brightly-colored flag on the gray morning after a holiday. You had just one desire: a years-long work— which was not finished, in spite of all your efforts.     If you are still here with me, if in this darkness there is still some place where your spirit resonates on the shallow sound-waves stirred up by my voice: hear me; help me. We can so easily slip back from what we have struggled to attain, abruptly, into a life we never wanted; can find ourselves entangled, as in a dream, and die there, without ever waking up. This can occur. Anyone who has lifted his blood into a years-long work may find he can’t sustain it, the force of gravity is irresistible, and it falls back, worthless. For somewhere there is an ancient enmity between our daily life and the great work. Help me, in saying it, to understand it.     Do not return. If you can bear to, stay dead with the dead. The dead have their own tasks. But help me, if you can without distraction, as what is farthest sometimes helps: in me.

[art-now-usa]

"Love this world and myself " for Willem de Kooning., Andrey Bogoslowsky

This work comes as a part of my "Slash- Splish- Beng!!- Beng!!" ..... series.....)) Words come out of color, From abstract energy color emerges and mind forms thoughts and words as a result of this creative meditation....)) This is new. I started this series in June 2014. It says: "Love this world and I love myself and I love life, And All All life" The blue makes me think of some sort of creature, Lovely blue organism. Organic and passionate. This and many of my works can be exhibited "Any side up"!!!...."Why do I paint" Essay- June 2015 Why do I paint- statement. "Not for the money. Not for the fame. Not for my ego. I’ve painted for over 30 years because I don’t know of any better way to spend my day. I paint like the bird sings after the matting season is over- for fun. I paint like the sun shines everyday, like the river flows downward and the ocean never stops waving. I paint because this is the way things are. Painting is the nature of me. And I am in the very nature of painting. I am infected by painting. I belong to a clan of strange people who paint, sculpt, make new music, write poetry and make movies and cartoons. My style is free of any associations. No one can say my brush movements or graphite drawing elements resemble someone else's work. I am free of De Kooning. I am free of Rembrandt. I am free of Leonardo, Picasso, and Van Gogh. I even freed myself of Jackson Pollock -and that was very hard. But the hardest is to free my self from my own self. To let go of any presumptions I have about reality and how it should be interpreted- how it should be painted. I would like to make a little contribution to humanity. I’d like to give back to this world I have taken so much from. My unique style of painting -- brushing around, drawing, dibbling, dripping, scraping and splashing -- flows directly from my personality. The way I care about the subjects I paint is more than a practical choice. I look deeply in to my heart, in to the darkest corners of my inner world and choose my subjects very carefully. I started painting sail boats six month ago. The visions of open sky, and free sails getting blown by the wind, and the sun and the moon above -- it’s not an accident. I want to inspire a feeling of freedom and liberty. I want to liberate the viewer’s soul. My colors are dramatic in some places, but others relaxed, so one's eye-mind can have a break. A painting has a starting color or two. Let's say I decide the dominant color here will be yellow and the rest will contribute to bring out the beauty of yellow. I have to say colors sing to me. But I feel each color has a mystery of its own. The world of colors is infinite by nature. And so ma I, and so am I. The rhythms of my brush strokes are as diverse as the rhythms of mother nature. The brush strokes are stronger closest to the main object. Some subjects I paint might seem irrelevant, incredible, too far fetched, too scientific and inaccessible, or even wired and aloof. But that is OK by me. I see flowers as one of nature’s most elaborate expressions of erotic beauty, in a very abstract and organic way. Not arrogant, but very sensual and delicate, with hundreds upon hundreds of sizes and shapes and colors. Flowers are a truely infinite source of inspiration. I can paint a new flower each day -- for the rest of my life -- and every one will be different. It feels good to have infinity as my resource and creative challenge. My “cosmology” series was inspired by reading Astronomy magazine in 2004. I realized outer space is diverse and beautiful. The gas clouds called nebulas are made out of many elements we find on Earth. They are elaborate in shapes and rich in color when viewed through different light filters. I realized that the universe looks different depending on your point of view. So if one gas cloud looks like a horse head to us on Earth, from the other side it might look like an airplane. One hundred billion galaxies in our visible universe, and each galaxy has no less than one thousand gas clouds. This brings me very close to an infinate number of shapes and colors to work from. I use the same force of nature as the universe does -- gravity -- to create my cosmology paintings. I break all the rules I was taught in art schools. The paint flows almost freely on a horizontal surface as I put the canvas flat on the floor, and only little bumps I create by putting things under the canvas on the floor prevent the paint floating out of my control. The paddles dry up with their natural, infinitely detailed shapes of arms, faces, snakes or birds. In my early years I painted erotic figures posed in grotesque novelty situations. It was lots of fun. Now, my figures are more like avatars -- imaginary deities with no traditional mythology attached. I make my own myths as I go along. A big canvas might take me a year or longer to paint. I have plenty of time to tell my creation story; for example, how "this nude figure standing by the oceanside has a twin sister who was banished from the land for being a moon worshiper". My figurative works are correct in all the anatomical details, but I like to elaborate, to give them extra powers, perhaps by making their eye lashes extend to "the edge of known universe". Skulls are a new additon to my repertoire. As I come of age, they are a reflection on my inevitable mortality. My new series of florals where I started adding vases made out from cut out pictures from art books stimulates my imagination. I give a cosmic significance to Vermer's work. I take a picture of Mayan ceramic figurine and draw with silver( pure silver) marker over it, creating a mysterious star map and the character depicted becomes my " star gazer". I cut out sculptures by Michaelangello Buenarotti, especially his late works, salves, and I mount then on the side of my semi abstract flowers. The language he- Michelangelo spoke 500 years ago, spoke in stone I speak now in color. My hand knows well how to make " undeciphered" writings after I have made hundreds of them on my "space rocks" or other objects. I create a back ground with pure 18 K gold marker and then run a very thin almost watercolor layer of color and writing becomes a mysterious message beneath the surface. I like mystery. I like to discover and find out new things as time goes by. And this is how I " construct " my paintings. Passionate brush work you see at first glance is just an invitation to look longer and discover something for yourself. And about yourself. Art needs to show beauty, and absolute love to this world. And this is my mind set when I am painting." Thank you for reading. Andrey Bogoslowsky

https://www.saatchiart.com/art/Painting-Love-this-world-and-myself-for-Willem-de-Kooning/661122/2110233/view

[psychotherapyconsultants]

Can Opening to Your Own Creative Gifts Make You a Happier Human Being?

“You cannot use up creativity. The more you use it, the more you have.” – Maya Angelou

Are you an Imaginista? A Creativa? An Inspirista? A Wild Enthusiast? If you had your way, would life be lived out loud, in Technicolor, vibrantly glowing, tap dancing to a rhythm that you alone can hear? And then, would you invite people to dance, sing and play along with you?

Sadly, many were encouraged to lip synch, color inside the lines, stay inside the box, play it safe, and keep their light under wraps lest they shine too brightly and intimidate others. These types of messages likely came from adults who feared their own creative gifts and passed on the limiting thoughts. As adults, we have the freedom to discard or accept them.

I was a creative child who would paint, draw and use all 64 crayons in the Crayola box. I would make up songs and stories, design faerie villages when I was in the woods, see myself as a mermaid in the ocean, pretend that my bicycle was a horse, and imagine I could fly. My parents encouraged all of that and yet, there have been times over the years, when I squelched my self -expression, not wanting to overshadow anyone or feel like I was too out of the box.

In my professional life, I recall two supervisors who felt threatened by my free-spirited nature that didn’t adhere to traditional mores and expectations. I did my job well in each case, but each of them was more mainstream in their dress and demeanor and when this walking billboard for color and creativity came to work, they were a bit rattled and made it known.

What I have since discovered is that when I am in creative mode, I am better able to problem solve and come up with solid solutions for myself and my clients. Infinite possibilities are lain out before me, and rather than focusing on the roadblock, I can reroute and GPS-style, recalculate to find these other options.

On my desk at my office sit a magic wand (I ask clients that if they could wave it over themselves and could affect any type of change in their lives, what would they want it to be?), a magnetic poetry kit that they can use to write poems, a Hoberman Sphere (think colorful K’nex in the shape of an expanding and contracting ball that can be used for relaxation breathing), and an Easy Button (the red and white contraption from Staples that when you push it, it says, “That was easy.” I do it at the end of every day before I head home.)

A few years ago, I taught a class for employees of a mental health treatment program and we did an exercise that highlighted the value of creative outlets.

I called it “Creativity Tree.” I invited them to draw a tree…even if it was a lollipop version harkening back to pre-school and then embellish it with pictures and words that symbolized their own creative genius. These professionals who spent their days attempting to enhance the lives of the members of the community, were able to engage in childlike playfulness and wonder. What a delight it was to witness the transformation.

You are invited to enter the Imaginarium in which you can indulge your creative nature. I have designed one in my mind, embellishing and enhancing it, for decades.

We are walking into a round room with windows on all curves and a skylight in the ceiling, to allow in the brilliant sunlight during the day and the star-sparkled night sky. Green, leafy and flowering plants hang above the open windows as a gentle breeze wafts through, making wind chimes tuned to various pitches, dance with delight. Take a deep breath and inhale the sweet aromas of lavender, vanilla and patchouli. Our eyes take in floor to ceiling book shelves containing tomes created from the hearts and minds of many generations of wordsmiths, filled with wisdom and magic. Some I have read, over and over, like old familiar friends and others are waiting for me to turn the pages. There is a large drawing table/desk designed from a reclaimed tree, on which sits my lap top computer which is a place where thoughts turn to words, which turn to images that soak into the minds of the readers and carry them away on adventures of all sorts. A crystal vase contains beautiful wild flowers picked from the fields outside my door and their riotously hued petals spread a smile across my face. As the sun hits its multi-faceted surface, it throws a prism projected rainbow across the walls.

A large violet cushy, comfy lounge chair on which is tossed a fleece lap robe welcomes me to curl up and read. It sits adjacent a curved tree stump table that supports a ceramic plate of a few decadently delicious, calorie free and fat free chocolate chip cookies (Hey, it’s my Imaginarium) and a mug filled with real Indian chai, redolent with cinnamon, cardamom and ginger.

Serene sounds waft through the atmosphere.  A large CD rack carries music from various genres, including, folk, Celtic, Cajun, Woodstock era 60’s rock, world music, singer-songwriter, drumming and classical which I listen to, depending on my mood.]

On the floor are drums of various sizes; a djembe, a dumbek, bodhran, frame drums, a hang, rain sticks and a wicker basket filled with smaller hand percussion instruments that are brought out to play during drumming circles.

Shelves are filled with all sorts of art supplies, including paints, paper, crayons, markers, clay, buttons, old magazines with which to create vision boards, as well as fabric of various sizes and textures. On the walls hang my works of he(art), that emerge from the combination of these items and my oh so vivid imagination. Joining them are those created by friends who are also artists and it is like having them in the room with me.

In this space, I feel completely free, without writer’s block (I often say that I have ‘writer’s runs’) to let flow the words that tickle my heart and mind, and take shape into stories and articles, poetry and books that are waiting to dance out into the world.

I encourage you to design your own Imaginarium from the seeds of your vibrant creative soul; making it a full sensory experience. Hear, see, taste, touch and smell it all. It will be unique to you. Perhaps you are a woodworker, gardener, musician, painter, interior designer, or chef, so your space may have tools, plants, instruments, a canvas stretched across a wall, fabric or pots and pans. Allow for you own sense of delight to unfold like a rainbow hued tapestry before you.

“Every child is an artist. The problem is staying an artist when you grow up” – Pablo Picasso

“Creativity is just connecting things. When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn’t really do it, the just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while” – Steve Jobs

from World of Psychology https://psychcentral.com/blog/can-opening-to-your-own-creative-gifts-make-you-a-happier-human-being/

[miyamiwu]

The agony of being invested in a story with interesting plot points and development but written by an amateur author who, in the end, falls back on the cliches and tropes that they had unknowingly subverted in the beginning

[miyamiwu]

wait, Flower Vase has a sequel???? I haven't even finished the first one yet! oh, how the time has passed. Flower Vase was still ongoing when I was reading it.

no wait, this is an entirely different story, it doesn’t seem like a sequel (why are there suddenly vampires?)

okay, it's not an actual sequel, but more like same characters, different worlds? Like, all the protagonists are surnamed Tang 糖 (Sweet) and seemed to have similar personalities...

[miyamiwu]

ASBDHDJFKF that KaiSagi panel really be the epitome of the enemies to lovers trope, huh? 😂

But yeah, I get your point. I do also enjoy the enemies/rivals to lovers trope. Strongly agree on that it forces characters to have development, but I disagree on how friends to lovers may not need that much character development since it’ll work anyway and it how it’s limited to just predictable fluff. It all really depends on how the author works with it. If the author wants vanilla, it can be vanilla. If they want it dramatic and spicy, then it can be dramatic and spicy.

The Bachira-Isagi ship is a good example of the friends to lovers trope. It started out vanilla and classic but became more nuanced come Second Selection arc. The author was able to make this typical sweet and cute pair into a dramatic one by, ironically, “breaking” their friendship.

Bachira was so ready to let go of Isagi here, and it was not out of hate or of conflicting ideals or out of any external factors or simplistic reasons like “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.” It was because he loved him. He loved Isagi so much, he’d rather break away from him so he can continue to stay by his side even if they’ll no longer be friends or partners. It’s that self-sacrificial aspect that makes it so juicy. Bachira would rather ruin what they had than to be left behind.

And it wasn’t just Bachira ready to sacrifice but Isagi as well. Isagi, a player who works strongly by logic, sacrificed the more logical play (interfering a possible pass to Rin) by meeting Bachira where he was instead

Bachira became rational to the point he wanted to break away from Isagi, but then Isagi responded, becoming irrational to the point he’d rather risk losing the game. He believed in Bachira so much, he can throw away everything else.

Sacrificing out of love and turning irrational out of strong faith in the other, faith which is only possible from having known someone for so long… If that still doesn’t make this trope dramatic, then I don’t know what will.

And it doesn’t stop there! These two can also diss each other!!

Bachira was straight-up looking down on Isagi here, and Isagi was so fucking mad, all he could say was a “shut up.” They are even more like a married couple because after this, we have the two of them acting like it never happened and they just went back to being lovey-dovey again

I could write a much longer essay on these two, but I’ll stop here for now so I can get to other ship examples.

My other favorite friends to lovers ship, which is unfortunately not canon 🥲, is from a Chinese BL webnovel called I am a Flower Vase in an Infinite Flow World (Ignore that long, ugly title).

It’s untranslated, but (edit: it’s now being translated) The plot is about the characters trying to survive in the Infinite Flow world. (Unlimited/Infinite Flow is a popular genre in webnovels, and if you don’t know what that is, just think of it as the death game trope.)

And since you’re equating Rivals to Lovers to the Enemies to Lovers trope, may I also introduce the Teammates to Lovers counterpart for Friends to Lovers? I ship the protagonist Tang Ning with his teammate turned best friend, Lin Yun.

It’s a death game, so you can expect their teamwork to be not that important since prioritizing one’s own life is only natural. And it was definitely like that in the beginning. Lin Yun is an ordinary guy who had teamed up with Tang Ning out of convenience, and when things turned bad, he was always ready to leave Tang Ning behind. He doesn’t mind being called selfish or a coward, for he thinks his life is more important.

Once, Tang Ning saved Lin Yun while almost getting himself killed, and Lin Yun berated him for being stupid and told him how he shouldn’t risk his life for teammates because teams are temporary. Tang Ning agreed with him on the not-risking-life-for-teammates part, but then gently said that Lin Yun was different because he was no longer just a teammate but his friend aaaaahhh

Later in the story, when Lin Yun was caught in some spell, Tang Ning, in order to wake him up, decided to be frank with him by saying something like “You’re so selfish, always saving yourself before others. One day, you’ll be the only one alive and you’ll be all alone.” And those words succeeded in waking Lin Yun up, and he realized then and there how much Tang Ning means to him. That, for all of his selfishness, there was no way he’d want to leave Tang Ning behind. Tang Ning has become so important to him, even more than his own life. And for that, Lin Yun tried to be braver and stronger so that he would never have to abandon Tang Ning.

Wanting to be stronger, becoming a better person, facing your fears—all so you could protect the one you love. That’s such a beautiful and dramatic aspect of friends to lovers that should really be utilized more.

A more popular example of this would be the Killua-Gon ship from Hunter x Hunter. Killua had been taught since he was child to never face an enemy that he wasn’t confident that he could beat. This lesson was so “ingrained” into him that it’s become an instinct for him to run away when facing a stronger enemy. It has definitely helped him preserve his life, but in the Chimera Ant arc, it also became his downfall. His greatest fear is that one day he can’t help but leave Gon behind to die.

And so, he stood his ground against a chimera ant. Trembling in fear and with tears in his eyes, he declared in a shaky voice that he does not want to lose Gon, his most important friend.

Is that not beautiful? Does it not make your heart clench? Does it not keep you at the edge of your seat??

Friends to Lovers can be just as dramatic and intense as Enemies to Lovers. I consume a lot of horror, supernatural, mystery, and shounen media, so I’ve encountered many such complex ships that are more than just the predictable fluff you’d typically find in an ordinary modern setting.

Enemies to Lovers is sexy, but Friends to Lovers is supreme

AVSHDKDJFKDK I AM SO MAD

This is the second time I've seen friends to lovers lose in a favorite romance trope poll. Why tf does enemies to lovers keep winning??? I enjoy that trope too, but how is it better than friends to lovers???

Do the majority not prefer a gradual and natural progression in a relationship?? When two characters have inside jokes that only they know? Being with someone they actually enjoy hanging out with??? Someone they can talk with about their hobbies, dreams, and anxieties without fear of being judged??? The moment when sharing a bed is suddenly no longer just a usual thing they do but is now making them shy??? Soft and sweet moments between two people who are so comfortable with each other and that before they knew it they have become each other's home???? That italic oh moment when they just suddenly realized that "yes, I want this, and more of this for the rest of my life"??

Do you all really prefer two people trying to kill each other first before falling in love??? Whhyyyy

[miyamiwu]

Ten Blorbos

I wasn’t tagged, but I saw @butterfirefly doing this and just wanted to do it too so I can ramble about my blorbos hehe

Jiang Cheng - Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation

Always angry and very flawed. Very…human. His father cared more for someone else’s kid than he did for him. He deserved better.

Mu Qing - Heaven Official’s Blessing

…I just have a thing for the emotionally constipated, bad at communication, and constantly misunderstood tsundere that fandom tends to hate, okay?

Shang Qinghua and Mobei Jun- Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System

SQH - Shameless and pathetic but works hard. Very resourceful.

MBJ - Same genre as Jiang Cheng and Mu Qing, but sexier. And also more powerful.

Bai Ruoyao - The Earth is Online

[No official art that I know of 😑]

Shameless and seemingly strong, but is actually the one afraid of death the most. 10/10

Killua - Hunter x Hunter

Conditioned to prioritize his own safety before anybody else’s, but the fear of losing Gon got him breaking out of it. Character development is 10/10.

Lin Yun - I am a Flower Vase in the Infinite Flow World

[No official art]

Will not hesitate to abandon his friends to save his own skin. But then he realizes that losing Tang Ning is more terrifying than death itself. 10/10.

Song Juhan - Years of Intoxication

(I prefer his novel design where he has black hair, but all the results I’m getting are from the manhua… welp)

A fucking asshole that deserved every bad thing that happened to him, but he is so fun to read. It’s like watching a car heading straight to a crash and you’re enjoying every moment of it while munching on some popcorn

Bachira Meguru - Blue Lock

My son, my boy, my baby. He deserves the world

Qiu Shenji - White Cat Legend

Another one to my collection of dark, flawed, and seemingly evil men. (Let’s not talk about his war crimes)

Bonus:

Vein - Link Click

Hasn’t even made an official appearance in the show. But his design is so cool, okay? Plus, he’s hot