#i try not to think too much of myself. be humble (although perhaps at this point its to a detriment) but i doubt im immune from

[exanuz]

tensimm clothes swap

[raineandsky]

#126

An older man steps forwards towards the altar, a rather simple thing, barren of any offering. A golden chalice sits aloft in his hands. “A gift,” he proclaims, “for our beautiful goddess.”

He places it carefully upon the altar’s surface, stepping back patiently. This is the part where whichever god he’s offering to takes a look at his gift, decides whether he’s worth helping, gives him their divine intervention. He’s done it before. He knows what’s coming.

What he doesn’t expect is a skittish presence to wrap him too tight with an awkward “… you don’t have to do that.”

Most of the gods the man has met are warm, intimidating, bright. This one is… well. Clearly rather tame—for a goddess, at least.

“My goddess,” he says with genuine surprise, “I seek your advice. A gift in return for your wisdom.”

The air is humming with nervous energy. It’s making him anxious too. “I enjoy passing on my knowledge,” the goddess says a little desperately. “There is no need for bribery.”

“No, I’m not trying to—” A trick, perhaps? The gods are known for toying with their followers. “No, my goddess, I simply aim to create a mutually beneficial transaction.”

“If you so wish, although the chalice is quite lovely in comparison to what I can offer you.” Something of a nervous laugh, forced and painful. “What is it you seek?”

The goddess of the travelling merchants. A small god, and a rather niche one, but a god with a loyal following none the less. From her title alone, the man can picture the types of people coming here to worship her.

“I am but a humble pelt seller, my goddess.” The man points rather unnecessarily to the chalice he’s laid on her empty altar. Now he’s thinking about it, he can see why her altar’s empty, given her attitude. “My wife is due to bring us a child. I want only the best life for them both.”

A tense, uncomfortable silence. “I do appreciate you seeking my guidance,” she starts slowly, “but I fear I am a little out of my depth with such a request. The goddess of fertility is in the temple down the street. Or, perhaps, if you seek fortune, the god for that is in the next town—”

“Please excuse my interruption, my goddess, but that is not what I came to ask for.” The man turns his eyes down to his feet, like he’s trying to avoid her gaze, as if her eyes aren’t everywhere. “My pelts are the business that gives my family life. Please, with your blessing, I could sell enough to create the life I want for my wife and my child.”

“You want a blessing but still want to work?”

“It would mean something to know I did it myself, even if I did it with the blessing of our beautiful goddess.”

“Oh, stop, please.” The goddess hums thoughtfully. “That is sweet. I will bless you—of course—I will bless you and your cart and your pelts and your donkey, if you require.”

The man bows as low as his rickety back will let him. “Thank you, my goddess. That is really too much.”

“Not at all.” An awkward laugh ripples through the air that cringes the man to his core. “My blessings are rather meagre compared to other gods, anyway. It is only fair.”

He’s never met such a self-conscious god in his life. Aren’t they meant to be powerful, self-righteous creatures? The man would almost believe her to be human, if not for the overwhelming presence to give her away.

The goddess blesses him, his cart, his pelts, and his donkey, as promised. He bows again in thanks before he turns to take his leave. He can feel her uncertainty before she speaks.

“Your chalice,” she says hurriedly. “You appear to have forgotten it.”

“As I said, my goddess,” the man replies, “it is my gift to you in return for the kindness you have shown me. Please, accept the compassion you have allowed me and keep it.”

She may be a goddess, but she can’t stop him from turning on his heel and continuing on his way back out into the town.

The man doesn’t visit her again—he has no need. His business flourishes, his worries vanquished, his wife and newborn child healthy. The goddess of travelling merchants cannot help the merchant who has already found success.

If only he’d needed to visit her, though. He would see that, after all this time, she has started accepting gifts. Small tokens of appreciation she has learnt to take instead of disregard—blankets and teas and gemstones.

And amidst it all, her prized possession—a bright, golden chalice.

[strxnged]

MONDSTADT: # when you tell them you see them as a "main character." (1/4)

content: voiceline style responses. mentions of alcohol, ignorance of mika's release. 500w

__ albedo ㅤ“i don’t like to think about myself in that way. i'm only interested in discovering the many hidden stories of this world, similarly to you. well, if you think that makes me a main character… i won’t argue with you.”

__amber ㅤ“hehe, you think so? maybe you’re right! i’ve always wanted a book to be written about outrider amber of the knights of favonius! but don’t you think you play a pretty big part in this story, too?”

__barbara ㅤ“oh, my! you must be mistaken—did you take me for jean? it’s me, barbara, and i’m certainly not main character material—not yet! although… if you were trying to compliment me, that was very kind of you. i’ll try not to let it go to my head, don’t worry!”

__bennett ㅤ“yeah! that’s why i got an adventurer’s team named after me! um… but since i’m the only member right now… i guess that makes me the only character, huh? … yeah, main character by default is still a main character. i’ll take it!”

__diluc ㅤ“uh… i’m not sure why you’re saying that. word of advice, i think you ought to keep your darkknight fantasies to yourself.”

__diona ㅤ“did i finally make a bad drink? something’s off in your head, alright. what is that even supposed to mean… ‘main character’?”

__eula ㅤ“oh? indeed, if i were in a story, my importance would be key. my keen sense of justice and deserved glory. it would be a story about revenge, etiquette, and honour. perhaps someone should write such a book and sell it to the children of mondstadt.”

__fischl ㅤ“such diction is foolish in my presence. i am no character of a story, but the author of many fates.”

__jean ㅤ“oh… i think it improper for you to regard me in such a way… i’m only the acting grand master, and i haven’t done nearly as much for mondstadt as vennessa or varka.”

__kaeya ㅤ“oh-ho-hoh, you’re trying to flatter me, aren’t you? try dry praise like that after i’ve had a few more drinks.”

__klee ㅤ“heehee, the main character? i’m not from a picture book, you know.”

__lisa ㅤ“hmm.. don’t you think working at a library after being the akademiya’s most distinguished graduate of 200 years would speak better of desires for the opposite? sweet of you to say, though, cutie.”

__mona ㅤ“the responsibility of a main character is far more than that which comes with wealth of knowledge and birthright. yes, i think your comment is suitable, since i’m also altruistic, wise, and humble, all in a unique enough way…. don’t give me that look.”

__noelle ㅤ“how kind of you to say! but—ahem—since i’m not yet a real knight, it must be a very sad story to read.”

__razor ㅤ“razor wants to read that story! does teacher have it?”

__rosaria ㅤ“i... hmph. you should read more books, i think you’d change your mind. stop scowling at me and say something more useful.”

__sucrose ㅤ“w-what? a main character? even a narrator would have trouble trying to define me interestingly. but then, would that mean i will discover more in my research? i’m not sure but i wouldn’t mind that.”

__venti ㅤ“you’re always saying that now that you know about my past. well, if i’m not recognized as the archon, at least i have some importance to someone, hehe.”

author's note: thanks for reading; i hope you enjoyed. reblogs are appreciated, and if you enjoyed, consider following for the continuation of this series :)

➳ NEXT

➳ GENSHIN MASTERLIST

[commanderjuni]

[ OUTDATED ]🦋CHARACTER TALK | MESMER SRABBA

ok to anyone who knew laff for like. upwards of just a few days. IGNORE HER. HER NAME IS BENCHED FOR NOW. in her place i'd love to introduce.... drum roll please.....

MESMER SRABBA! (or well. personal story through living world season 2 srabba anyways)

as i mentioned in a previous few posts, srabba actually was an older character that has the prestige of being my FIRST toon i levelled, pain stakingly, bowls of apple sauce and crafting balls of bread dough and all, from level 1 to level 80. i remember trying to spec virtuoso on her, but for whatever reason not even i know i must've gotten fed up and deleted her

over time i was a little upset about that choice so i tried. MANY MANY MANY TIMES to remake srabba. she's been through

being made an inquest lab rat (failed)

being made a thief (not really a fail but she sure aint one now)

being made a thief. again. (i wanted a pink spectre. didn't work out.)

positive i made her a necromancer at least ONCE.

being made a ranger? i think?

and many few other attempts. but by some declaration of fate, srabba is back and here to stay as my mesmer and fated commander.

however, since i'm going through story in chronological order and haven't gotten past living world season 4, she very much so has some growing to do! (literally, kinda)

i've also picked and tossed a few things about laff out as to give myself some more creative freedom with srabba: i've realized recently i have this weird habit of constricting myself and forcing myself to go with the same idea, but for now i think it'd be better for me to just. do whatever! improv! toss things in and fish things out!

I'm mostly pulling elements from Laff's story, since she's kinda being repurposed into Srabba! Thus don't mind any parallels yaknow /lh

aaannnyway....

MAJOR RAMBLE BELOW THE CUT!! no spoilers whatsoever, but it's gonna be a long post x)

Srabba, during Personal Story, is about 13 years old. Like most asura her age, she is smart, crafty, and markedly intelligent. Before applying to the College of Dynamics in LWS1, Srabba is a ward of the Progeny Protective Service.

Her parents perished in the infamous Thaumanova Reactor meltdown when she was only four years old; Srabba only escaped after they had to yell and urge her to run away to safety with the masses fleeing to escape, which she did, and it is still something plaguing her to this very day.

Srabba not only faces the challenge of lacking a direct guardian to care for her, but also has to navigate the difficulties of being hard of hearing in a society that revolves around discussing and debating scientific theorems and gizmos… Which isn't exactly easy to do when you can't hear much below normal talking- and all the background noise: the buzzing and humming and clinking of asuran society- it makes it even harder to understand what someone is saying to her.

Srabba relies mostly on lip-reading and making educated guesses to understand what others are saying to her. Although she had experimented with hearing aids in her younger years, as she approached her teenage years, she grew less interested in the idea of being "dependent" on the creations of others.

Instead, she aspires to create her own hearing aid device to assist her. This challenging project is a main motivation for joining the College of Dynamics. She is eager to improve her creative thinking skills and enjoys the freedom of starting from nothing to bring her own ideas to life, which is quite different from the, in her humble opinion, dull livelihoods of Statics students who merely tweak existing designs.

In regards to her personality, Srabba is best described as the following:

Witty

Smug

Crafty

and Stubborn

Very, very, very stubborn. Srabba is a very independent person, who finds that despite not having a primary caregiver, she has strong footing when it comes to operating solo, and takes great pride in it.

... Perhaps too much pride.

Because of this, Srabba never has been the most inclined to working with others or, Eternal Alchemy forbid, collaboration. The idea of having to depend upon others is... a frankly scary thought, and one she doesn't like submitting herself to. If she can do it herself, she'll do it herself- no matter how long it'd take.

And the 'Mesmer' part of her name isn't just for show. Srabba is a certified, bonafide mesmer.

Her abilities sprung to life very recently, when she was about 11 years old. She's had only two whole years to really acclimate herself to the intricacies of mesmer magic, but she has a surprisingly great grasp at it. It may or may not have something to do with, oh, y'know... Being born on top of an Inquest lab experimenting with chaotic energy and all. It happens!

Srabba primarily follows the Chaos specialization. As the quote goes: "Where some see chaos, I see opportunity". Srabba views the tragedy of the Thaumanova Reactor as a unique proposition. Although the reactor exploded, it showed the potential using chaos energy actually had. It could transport people place to place, it could disorient and befuddle one's mind, and most important to Srabba: it could bend time and space.

Because of her close connection with chaos magic and energy, Srabba finds that among other factors, she'd fit in well in Dynamics. Her project aside, Srabba has a bright passion for studying chaos magic and energy, and seeks to be the "big leader" on the subject. She not only wants to know how to use it, but how to conserve it, and contain it, and master her own control of it so well, she could figure out how to either revert or lessen the damage in the Thaumanova wreckage.

As for Srabba's actual manipulation of mesmer magic, she's adept in confusing people: with or without actual conditions. She can be here, or she could suddenly be there. She could be right in front of you, or you could just be talking to a clone of herself and you wouldn't be too much the wiser unless you paid close attention. Her illusions are fueled by her innate psychic ability like most mesmer's, and her innate psychic ability is... frighteningly powerful for her age.

Let's be thankful she doesn't know too much about her potential at the moment.

Between the three signature mesmer masks, Srabba follows the Phantasm of Sorrow: she doesn't actually brandish this mask, but rather wears it on her face. Her sad, droopy eyes and thin-lipped frown and big, down-turned ears makes it easy to think she has something troubling her... But for all we know, she actually could be laughing in her head about how moronic some of her peers look. Nobody is the wiser to what goes on in her head, and she very much so likes it that way. It fuels her ego a little. (Light-hearted)

While she rarely finds herself in need of physical altercations, she always keeps two swords at the ready. She finds manipulating her magic through them surprisingly easy, and she is currently studying the art of mantras and phantasms. She especially hopes to start learning all the cool space and timey wimey magic, too.

She's a girl with a lot of plans, aspirations, and irons she wants to start putting in the furnace.

[ourlittledinosaur]

Mommy: The Ultimate Sleep Association

New Post has been published on http://ourlittledinosaur.com/mommy-the-ultimate-sleep-association/

Mommy: The Ultimate Sleep Association

More Than the Old Adage

You’ve heard the saying, “all babies do is eat, sleep, and poop”. And while these three things certainly are the majority of my baby’s day (with perhaps the exception of poop, which isn’t currently an every day occurrence), there is so much more going on than that.

He is learning and growing at an amazing rate! And I don’t know about your babies, but mine has been playing with toys, fingers, faces, and toes for quite a while now.

Sleep on a Deeper Level

I’ve been thinking a lot about my son’s sleep, as it is currently the biggest challenge I am facing. Why, you may ask? Because I’m very tired and his sleep habits so drastically affect my sleep habits.

Choosing Our Sleep Method

I have mentioned before my dedication to the no-cry method. Each parent has their different style and this is simply mine. I make no judgments about others who have chosen different methods that work for them.

While I subscribe to the no-cry idea wholeheartedly, there have been times when I’ve played with the idea of just setting my son in his crib and walking away. In fact, I’ve gone as far as to set my son in his crib without his normal sleep associations, but before I get to the walking away part, instant whimpering and tears melt my heart and I’m quickly set back on the path I chose in the first place. (Yes, I’m a sucker!)

My husband and I have been following the No-Cry Sleep Solution ideas for about two months now. Have we seen improvement? Yes, we have. When we started, my son was waking up every hour from 8 pm to 6 am. Now, and nearly six months old, he wakes up about three to four times a night. Has it been a quick-fix? Nope, but that was expected.

In the book, author Elizabeth Pantley even says, “it will either take time or tears”, and just as she said, we too have chosen time.

To recap our specific challenge, I have been working on changing my son’s sleep association from nursing to sleep each time he wakes up.

In the beginning, we struggled to make breastfeeding a reality, and he was a sleepy, lazy eater as it was. The natural progression was that nursing became his main sleep association. It wasn’t truly an issue until we were blind-sided by the four month sleep regression and I realized I’d allowed a “bad habit” to form.

The amount of patience and shear will power it has taken to stick with this method has been a challenge simply because it is not a quick-fix method. I must be honest, the method may work faster for others as I have not been as consistent as I should be – some nights I just choose the fastest path to sleep, instead of the methods spelled out in the book I have mentioned.

The lack of sleep has impacted me in so many ways and I’m learning many things about myself and what I need to improve upon.

Kindness, Humility, & Apologies

This week, my husband was sick and so I tried to be a good wife and let him sleep. Usually, after I have gotten up for the majority of the night wakings, my husband will get up with my son at 5 am. This is when my son becomes alert for the day, and I take a nap to recover from the night’s events.

After morning two of going it alone, it’s mild to say I was cranky. In fact, I was outright mean. Not to my son, whom my husband and I truly try not to have any negative emotions around, but toward my poor husband. Why was I mean? I was jealous of his sleep, of course!

The week previous, I had been sick too, and although my husband took care of my son as much as possible, my son only falls asleep with me, his ultimate sleep association. So no matter how much I needed to sleep, my son needed me more.

So after my sleep-deprived, not-fully-recovered-from-sickness self lashed out at my husband, he calmly got up, sick as he was, to spend time with my son and me. Of course, I immediately felt guilty and humbled by his kindness toward me. Realizing the horrible person I was for waking him up so cruelly, I started to cry. “I’m so sorry honey. I didn’t mean it. I’m just…so…tired.”

He gave me a hug and a kiss and told me to go lay down for five minutes. What an amazing man my husband is.

I went into the next night fully aware that I would be exhausted the next morning, but I was GOING to let my husband sleep and I was GOING to be happy to be awake with my baby, and I was GOING to be the mother and wife God wanted me to be.

Being a Source of Comfort

With much prayer throughout the night as I woke up with my son, each time becoming more and more difficult as my body craved sleep, God gave me peace about the situation and revealed a few things to me.

Here I was, a mother, incredibly blessed to even have a child, and this child only wanted me. He fussed for me and I got out of bed and began our “go back to sleep routine”. I picked him up, held him, spoke gently to him, nursed him and patted his back, then propped him up on my shoulder and stood and swayed with him.

As he fell back to sleep, I gently stroked his face, then kissed him, and whispered, “I love you, son.” Upon lifting him up to put him back in his crib, I hesitated and hugged him close, just soaking him in and enjoying his warmth and soft breathing.

Then I began again to lay my son in his crib. As I lowered him, he put his arm out on the bed, creating resistance to being put down (smarty pants) and whimpered. He wasn’t ready just yet, so I picked him back up and just held him close.

As I held him and swayed, I realized, this baby feels so much comfort, safety, and peace in my arms. Not even my husband can get him to sleep at this stage (and my son loves his Daddy). For now, these precious and fleeting moments are mine and mine alone. What a privilege to hold such a place in my son’s life.

Our Interactions with God

Whenever my husband and I are trying to decide how to deal with a new challenge as parents, we try to understand how God would want us to handle the situation. How can we best emanate God’s character in our lives towards our child and towards each other as well?

When it comes to this sleeping thing, God is teaching us patience. Especially me!

A few weeks back, I was chatting with a friend (who has four children, I might add) about asking God for patience through the night. She said, “I have to pray for patience with one of my kids every day. And I’m usually confronted with a situation that TRIES my patience.” I said, “Yes, I know God uses circumstances to build our character. But I didn’t really want my character built at the moment, so my prayer last night went something like ‘please give me patience RIGHT NOW!'” She laughed. (Now how’s that for irony? A little impatient praying for patience.)

Through mothering my son, God truly is teaching me how to be a more patient and loving person.

When all I want is sleep, my son needs my attention and comfort. And although he is not “cooperating” with what I would like him to do regarding sleep, I will wait. I will give him the time he needs to adjust. I will train him, day by day, to learn to sleep without me. No matter how long it takes, I want to choose to lead him gently.

This path is probably not the easiest one. It’s certainly not the quickest way to restful nights. It is a sacrifice, and is requiring a graciousness that God is providing beyond my own abilities.

When I think about how God interacts with us, I am so humbled. How often are we “uncooperative” with His plans for us, yet He is patient, kind, and consistent in His guidance. His methods are perfect. He alone is wise. He is gracious and merciful beyond our comprehension or ability to imitate.

Learning Lessons

Despite already giving us so many gifts, God continues to provide peace and comfort in these times in the wee hours of the night, when the only words I can short-sightedly pray are, “please let this child sleep tonight”.

And yes, I have wondered, “Why would God not immediately grant this request for sleep? He gives good gifts. Sleep is a good thing, right?” Yes, but perhaps I am needing to learn these lessons now. Perhaps there is a more difficult challenge than sleep-deprivation in my future. (Teenage years come to mind…)

I am also reminded that my sleep sacrifice for my son pales in comparison to the sacrifice God provided us through His own son.

I’m so very grateful for the comfort and peace He provides me, though I admit, I rarely embrace it. Just like my baby putting his hand out to keep from being set down, I want to acknowledge His comforting presence in my life and embrace the peaceful place God has provided in Himself as my Father.

How Sweet it is to be Loved by You

Despite the “problem” nursing to sleep has caused (particularly in public), during my son’s nap today I was again reminded in such a sweet way, what a privilege it is to be his “ultimate sleep association.”

My son sleeps longer if I nap with him, and let’s face it, I can use the sleep anyway, so win win for us!

He awoke from his light sleep, and I had moved back a bit, away from him (one of the suggestions given for co-sleeping). With his eyes still closed, he reached his little hand out searching for me. I watched, as he patted his lovey, and the bed next to him, then I moved in close to him and said, “I’m here, baby.” Upon feeling me next to him and hearing my words, he went right back to sleep.

Then tonight as we were going through our bedtime routine, my son lifted his head off my shoulder, not to fuss or burp (as is typical), but to lift his hands to my face. He proceeded to pat at my mouth and my nose, (and my eyeball…) before laying his head back down on my shoulder.

With my heart as warm as can be, all I can say is, “This is love” and how very sweet it is.

“But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.” James 1:4

What about you?

What lessons has God taught you through your interactions with your children? Your spouse?

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[sarasapen]

Among the Blues and Greens

Another installation of the Little One series.

Summary: Meditation often allowed for Jedi to discover and learn about their thoughts and feelings, aiding them in solving their problems. This meditation session unfortunately reveals more than you’d like.

Or the one in which Obi-Wan’s Padawan realises she loves him.

Warnings: Language, meditation, slow dancing, yearning, revelations, forehead kisses, Past Obitine relationship mentions

Word Count: 3k

Star Wars Masterlist

-------

 You were a fraud.

 Whenever you felt particularly emotional, you meditated, as any good Jedi was supposed to do. Before daybreak, the gardens at the Sundari Royal Palace were relatively uninhabited, at least by people. You didn’t mind the plants and animals. Their energies were soothing, incorrupt, they just were. That’s how you find yourself there, for the third day in a row, trying desperately to calm the tempest that’s seen fit to take up permanent residence in your mind.

 Why were you a fraud? A fake? A poser?

 Because here you were, years of training under your belt, pretending to meditate. Fraud.

 It was an old ‘trick’ that young Padawans- very young Padawans, you added- resorted to when they were made to meditate. Sitting there with your eyes closed, trying to keep your breathing even. No actual self-exploration or deep diving into your mind, just putting up a facade that any force insensitive being wouldn’t see through.

 Unfortunately for you, Obi-Wan Kenobi was Force sensitive.

 “You’re pretending,” He muses, lowering himself beside you and crossing his legs, assuming the same position you were in. You keep your eyes closed, forcing your breaths to remain even as if he hadn’t even spoken. He sees right through it, amusement weaving into the deep blues that were his signature.

 Oftentimes you wondered what it was like, to be in the middle of all that was him. Observing one’s signature from the outside was very much different than actually experiencing it. Each individual’s signature was different, and his signature was always so wonderful… You wanted to learn more about it, about him. But you knew you wouldn’t ever dare to be brash enough to even brush your signature against his, let alone delve into him fully.

 His signature morphs, from the vibrant, rich hums to a gentle, soothing wave. He’s meditating.

 You scowl.

 He’s barely been sitting down for a minute, and he’s already accomplished what you’ve been trying to do for the past three days.

 “Focus your thoughts on something,” He suggests quietly, sending out a wash of calm over your prickling irritation. He’s guiding you, as he used to do years ago when you were a young and distractible little thing, and you let him.

 You’d let him do anything.

 You’re swept backwards into the deep abyss that’s your mind, and you fall freely, watching Obi-Wan’s signature withdraw slowly from yours. It’s like watching waves upon the shore, gently sweeping backwards and away, taking with it such tiny, essential parts of you while simultaneously shaping you into a thing to behold. It was always, before anything else, soothing.

 He didn’t like studying others’ energies too closely. It was a common trait amongst blue sabers, whilst reading people's energies were crucial for the Jedi, studying them at great lengths could often prove to be uncomfortable. But yours, he had said. He wouldn’t mind spending days traversing the inside of your mind if you’d let him.

 When you were younger, you’d asked him what your signature looked like to him. He said it was a mass of shades of green that were so beautiful he doubted the mere names of the colours or any other descriptive words would be able to do them any justice.

 Beautiful, was the word he’d always use.

 And he was…gentle, and kind, and smart. You exhale slowly, no longer stiff in your posture. He’s always been so patient with you, even with his occasional sarcastic comment. The perfect Jedi.

 Even as a youngling, you’d hear exaggerated stories from Padawans slightly older than you, or, at least, he insisted they were exaggerated. A few years into your training with him, you began to think that maybe the far-fetched stories weren’t so far-fetched after all.

 You’re so lucky, younglings would say shortly after you had become his Padawan. After all, Master Kenobi’s previous Padawan was the Chosen One. You’d have to be something special to attract his attention.

 And you were lucky. But not for the glory and the awe that sparkled in people’s eyes at the mention of his name. It was for his undivided attention on you, his genuine interest in the things you enjoyed, his efforts to shift your training to aid in what you wanted to specialise in, even if it was wildly different from what he was good at.

 Not that there was much he wasn’t good at.

 You loved the way he carried himself, not with arrogance or pride (both of which you thought would have been deserved), but with a humble sort of almost shyness. You loved that he pushed to do better, to be better, not for himself but for you and Anakin. You loved the way he conducted himself with people, even those considered to be the lowest of the lows, he treated them with so much respect and kindness.

 Perhaps it was just that he was a decent human being, but that didn’t mean you loved him any less.

 You loved the way he’d throw in a sharp remark when facing an adversary, or the way he’d stand tall even in the face of-

 Hold on.

 You loved him.

 You loved him. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

 “What are you thinking about?” Obi-Wan calls from beside you, his voice no louder than a low murmur, and it still makes you flinch. “You’ve grown tense.”

 Play dumb. You could do that. Just… blurt out something random and leave it at that, and then you can-

 “She seems nice.”

 FUCK. Not that fucking dumb oh stars above you were so fucking screwed-

 “She… The Duchess?”

 “Yeah, your Duchess.” Oh kriffing hells, if you could just. stop. talking.

 “Duchess Satine is not my Duchess,” His force signature dips suddenly, as if he’s reeled everything back into himself. It pulls you along with it, and you can no longer pretend that you’re meditating. Not with the way your Master turns to face you, studying your features with a concerned curiosity. You tense up again, keeping your eyes trained on a lone tree, a distance away. There’s a caterpillar crawling on one of the branches, and you focus on that. You can tell that he can tell. He’s always been so good at reading you.

 “You…” He starts, but stops himself, straightening and regarding you once again.

 “Sometimes I find myself having to meditate more than usual. Even up to a few times a day, if I’m…” Obi-Wan’s gaze flickers down from your eyes for just a split second, a movement so quick he doesn’t even realise he’s done it. “Distracted.”

 There’s a stutter in your signature, one you try to hide by slamming up your walls, but the brush of Obi-Wan’s hand against your arm has you faltering. The waves of him approach slowly once again, waiting patiently beside the storm that’s your signature.

 “What’s gotten you so tense?” He probes gently, the weight of his hand against your shoulder mirroring the gentle reassuring taps of his signature against yours.

 “Do you love her?”

 You know what. There’s a ledge. Right there. You could just jump off. If you were dead you wouldn’t be facing this amount of embarrassment.

 “...I used to,” Obi-Wan reveals, and his admission surprises himself more than it does you. Not that he wasn’t aware of what the extent of feelings for Satine used to be, but admitting it, out loud? It was something he had never done before.

 “Used to?”

 “It was a lifetime ago, when I was still a Padawan.”

 It’s strange. Neither of you want to continue talking, to keep delving into dark and murky uncharted territory, between the blurred depths of what’s allowed and what’s forbidden. It scares you. It scares him too. 

 “So… what? You decided to give her up?”

 He should say something about the way of the Jedi, that attachments were forbidden, and that had anyone else known, they would’ve expected him to leave Satine. If it were anyone else asking him this, he would’ve said it, accompanied by a deserved lecture on subtlety and manners.

 But you’re the exception.

 You’d always be his only exception.

 So, instead, Obi-Wan says, “The Duchess, while a remarkable woman, has a very different outlook on life than I do, even back then.”

 There's a stretch of silence that he feels like he needs to fill. “Besides, it gave me the chance to meet people even more remarkable.”

 “Not many people can compare to the Duchess of Mandalore,” You mutter, closing your eyes to block out the sight of him when he gets to his feet.

 “No,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Although the Duchess couldn’t come close to comparing to you.”

 And with that heart-stopping revelation, he leans down and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

 “Focus,” Obi-Wan whispers in your ear, and then he’s gone.

 Now you really couldn’t concentrate.

——

 “Breathe,” Obi-Wan had instructed you, sitting beside your fidgety body with his own long-since perfected form.

 It was the second week into your Padawan training, and it had taken Obi-Wan twenty three minutes to get you to sit still. Not including the sixteen minutes it took to get you past the normally three minute walk from library to your room, or the seven minutes it took for you to pad over to him and sit beside him. Not for your lack of trying, Obi-Wan mused, watching you fidget once again.

 Your eyes fly open at his words.

 “If I stop breathing during meditation will I die?”

 Yeah, okay, that one was on him. It takes a lot of control for Obi-Wan not to choke on his overwhelming surprise at your words.

 “Meditation can only occur when you stop speaking, little one,” He hints, keeping his posture straight. Thirty two minutes now, he’s been sitting in this position, not meditating, but focused on your wild little signature.

 “Oh, yeah,” You concede, shifting again and screwing your eyes shut.

 Master Kenobi, the whisper-shout in his head very nearly startles him, and Obi-Wan can’t keep pretending his focus is impeccable. He turns to regard you with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. If I stop breathing during meditation, will I die?

 Again, to your credit, you weren’t exactly… speaking.

 Perhaps that’s why, with a self-indulgent smile, he sends back a quick no.

 Okay, you accept happily, shifting again in your seat. Your early days were so much like Anakin’s. Both of you, filled with a curiosity and outlook on the world that only children could view, and it baffled him to no end that both of you viewed him in exactly the same way.

 You just accepted everything he said without much thought, readily eager to believe that your Master was always right, because what else could he ever be? It was perhaps that specific period of time during both his Padawans’ training that Obi-Wan was the most stressed. The first few years were the years he felt as though he could disappoint you the most, to fail to protect you and teach you and nurture you.

 He didn’t fail. He didn’t even come close. You’d tell him if you could. Anakin would tell him too. But it just wasn’t a conversation Jedis had.

 And…there.

 You’re not meditating. Obi-Wan opens his mouth to say something, but the words die in his throat when he feels you oh so carefully reach out your signature. He follows along at a distance, careful not to alert you, and he watches as your signature gingerly approaches the plant situated outside your apartment door.

 The plant. You were connecting with the plant.

 You’re calm, he realises. Nearly ridiculously so, if he didn’t know any better he’d think your signature was that of a fully trained knight. The spurts and bursts and branches that were usually your energy flutter gently down, acting obedient and serene.

 It’s… for lack of a better word, beautiful.

 So with your thoughts centered around that little plant outside, all Obi-Wan has to do is give you just a little nudge that blocks out all other distractions for you- maybe it’s cheating, but he wants to see what will happen.

 And then you’re meditating.

——

 “It’s the first time I’ve worn a dress!” Swishing the fabrics of the skirt around you, you’re easily entranced by the movement. It’s a pretty dress, courtesy of the Mandalorian court, floaty and airy with barely there off-the shoulder sleeves. It reveals more of you than Jedi robes would ever, but you’re so enraptured with such innocent curiosity that Obi-Wan doesn’t even try to suppress the affectionate smile he gives you.

 “You look lovely,” He responds honestly, pushing himself off the couch and taking slow steps towards you.

 “I feel like a… like a…” You pause, glancing up from your skirts to fix your eyes on him, mind racing.

 “Like a?” Obi-Wan prompts.

 “Like a cloud!” You settle for, twirling around as if to emphasise your floaty feeling.

 “A cloud?” He confirms, voice laced with amusement. He takes your hand, twirling you around once more through your giggles.

 “Yeah.”

 “Well, you’re the prettiest cloud I’ve ever seen,” Folding his hand over your own, he steps into your space mid-twirl, his other hand coming to press flat against your back. He doesn’t know what propelled him to do this, to press you against him and pull you into little steps around the room. The giggles he gets from you are enough to diminish any second thoughts he gets, so he hums softly, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.

 Your little impromptu dance session is made to end as quickly as it started, a knock on his door reminding the both of you the reason for such fanciful dressing.

 A dinner.

 It was exciting to you, as most off-world mission events were, so different from the usual routine of your life on Coruscant. Your excitement is blindingly obvious, and yet Obi-Wan, who’s long since tired of having to accept invitations lest the Jedi be perceived as discourteous, Obi-Wan says nothing at all. He gives you a warm smile and gestures for you to move towards the door.

 And oh, what a dinner it was. The food was marvelous, the company a little less so, but the moments you’d glance up at your Master to find him already watching you made up for it. If only he weren’t seated so far away… and so close to the Duchess. You don’t turn your head in their direction again.

 Apparently a royal dinner on Mandalore was not just dinner, so after an hour of sitting at a table several seats away from your Master and surrounded by boring politicians, you’re ushered into a ballroom. Several ask for your hand to dance, but you turn them down with a polite smile and even politer excuse. You want to dance, you do. Just… not with them.

 Then you see her.

 She had changed her dress, and she was gorgeous. Elegant and beautiful and carrying herself with such grace even on the dancefloor, she looked every bit the Duchess she was. You sort of hated her.

 “The prettiest, huh?” You mutter bitterly under your breath, taking a moment to try to calm yourself. You take another breath when you turn to face Obi-Wan, expecting his eyes to be on her. Everyone’s eyes were on her.

 He’s looking at you.

 You immediately curse yourself out for the snide comment, hating that you’ve revealed yourself, your insecurities, that he’s going to admonish you for a silly little comment that just slipped out.

 Instead, he holds his hand out towards you, and bends down a little in a bow.

 “If I may have this dance, my dear?” The words come out as a low murmur, and even with the loud applause of everyone around you signalling the end of the Duchess’ dance, you hear him perfectly. Your cheeks are flushed and you’re trying impossibly hard to keep your breathing even as you slide your hand into his, letting him lead you to the middle of the dance floor.

 It’s strange, you think.

 The two of you have been in arguably far closer quarters than you were in now, with a decent amount of space between your bodies, joined only by your hand in his and his other hand on your waist. You’ve trained together, sparred together, been forced into close confines in the middle of missions and on occasion even slept in the same bed together.

 Obi-Wan’s grip on your hand tightens, the tips of his fingers skimming up your back and brushing tantalisingly against the skin that’s uncovered by the dress.

 No, this… this, in front of a whole room of people from all over the galaxy, this was far more intimate than anything ever before. It’s almost as if you’ve been transported back in time just a couple of hours ago, when it was just him and you in the privacy of your quarters.

 “The prettiest,” he confirms, voice low in your ear. Your breath hitches at his statement and all its implications. “It’s not even a competition.”

 Good things, as all things do, must eventually come to an end. Obi-Wan guides a slightly tipsy and very giggly you back towards your room, laughing despite himself when you trip over your own two feet. The last thing he wants after a successful mission is for you to get concussed by falling.

 He bends and effortlessly sweeps you into your arms, letting you swing your legs in the air. It’s not the first time he’s been in this position with you. Perhaps he’s carried you like this a little too often. His thoughts don’t linger on that topic for long.

 You change out of your dress and sit cross-legged in front of him, letting him brush out your hair and pull it back into a braid for you to sleep in, actions so practised that they’re not even spoken about.

 And on the floor of your room, discarded almost carelessly at the end of the bed, lay two weapons beside each other, one green, and one blue.

-----

The next one will be Obi-Wan’s revelation ;)

-----

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[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

hello 💗

a 14 and 19 with Damian, please?

I was very tempted to turn this into a whole story so I’m sorry if it’s too long for a ficlet, I swear I stopped myself from writing a lot of stuff which was hard because I have like .000000000000002% self-control when it comes to Damian. Kinda proud of myself, ngl.

14. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

19. “God, you are so fucking cute.”

His stare unnerved you. Damian was very hard to read as he was, but you found the task particularly arduous at the moment.

Was he mad at you? Had you said something he found stupid?

“What’s got you so...” You made a gesture with your hand, unsure as to how to ask what the fuck was going on.

You were supposed to be on the lookout in case your target made an appearance and according to Dick the probability was quite high since his own target was nowhere to be found.

Leave it to Bruce to cover every corner of the city.

“So what?” Damian demanded to know.

You shrugged, avoiding his gaze with the pretense of paying attention. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

Humming, Damian crouched down just beside you. “Two people right?”

“There’s a third one,” you explained, eyes on the building across the street. “But they come and go every ten minutes or so. I’m guessing they give updates.”

He remained silent, observing the moving figure. He must’ve been thinking the same you were — they knew they were being watched.

A sudden sense of guilt washed over you. What if you ruined it? With a sigh, you told him, “Although... I could be wrong. I might be counting each second too quickly.”

Shuffling, he turned to the side to once again look at you. “You’ve been counting the minutes?”

You nodded, abashed. “I forgot my watch.”

Shaking his head, he whispered under his breath, “God, you are so fucking cute.”

You chose to believe you had heard him wrong, and for your own wellbeing and the task at hand, decided to ignore his comment.

He wasn’t having it. “Look at me.”

Inwardly, you cursed him. It was clear to you that he could tell how flustered his comment left you wether he had meant it or not. Damn him and how good he was at reading you.

And so you looked at him because you weren’t a coward and you liked his pretty eyes way too much for your own good.

“You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” he said even more lowly than he had already been speaking.

No, you didn’t. He drove you insane because of it — you never knew if you were imagining things or if he was as into you as you were into him.

You didn’t think this was the time or place either. “You’re gonna make me lose count.”

“I brought my watch.” He was done with the chase, with the painfully cold shoulder you gave him when he refrained from telling you how he felt.

Damian didn’t blame you, he was hot and cold too. But your cold, in his not so humble opinion, was actual torture. You could be crueler than anybody else expected —yourself included— and he enjoyed it when he wasn’t on the receiving end.

You wetted your lips and finally answered his question. “No, I don’t know.”

“I figured. For somebody so smart, you’re painfully oblivious.”

Ignoring what you assumed he meant as a compliment, you said, “You aren’t the easiest person to read.”

He looked away from you. Damian couldn’t possibly hold your gaze when confronted with the things he needed to work on still.

Being unreadable was needed in this line of work, perhaps one of the most crucial characteristics any superhero or vigilante could have. And it came with a high price.

A price he had been willing to pay until he got to know you. Until he got to come up with unrealistic scenarios he replayed before going to sleep. Your hands in his hair, his arms around you...

He knew you’d like it. He had seen you around other people long enough to know how affectionate you could be, the small things you did for them when they were upset and what you expected in return when you were feeling down.

It was unfair for him to read you so easily when you hadn’t even been sure he wanted to be your friend mere months ago.

But Damian wasn’t known for giving up easily and he wasn’t going to start now.

“I suppose I’m not,” he agreed. He couldn’t bear to gaze at you again, not now, even if it was one of his favorite things to do. “Should I promise to change?” he asked with the hope that you wouldn’t want him to change a single thing.

And for once in his life, the universe was on his side. You chuckled softly, what an absurd question. You challenged him with another, “Do you want to change?”

It was a loaded inquiry. He could choose not to answer and you wouldn’t think any less of him, why would you when you wouldn’t have known the answer if somebody were to ask you the same thing?

Damian, who had wondered for years what it meant to be himself, chose to confide in you, “I don’t think I’m that bad.”

Your eyes deviated to the building in front of you. Still two figures. You wanted to ask the time, and you wanted to assure him he was not only not that bad, but really fucking great in your eyes.

And you couldn’t do both because life is about tough choices. The mission or him? Finally finding out who’s been poisoning the water system or letting out those feelings that have been eating at you for almost a year?

He gave you a way out because he knew how to read you. Because even in a vulnerable moment he had an unfair advantage over you. “I don’t think they’re coming.”

“Should we contact the others?”

‘We’ felt different now. Unbelievably intimate for two people who didn’t know what was going on between them.

“Tim might need backup,” he sighed.

Neither of you moved. You didn’t know what to say now, or if you should even attempt.

For the first time that night, he didn’t know either. So he contacted Tim directly and asked if he was safe before explaining himself.

“Should we get moving?” you softly asked.

Damian shook his head. “He wants us to wait here in case they’re trying to shake us off.”

Good plan. Or at least not the worst you had heard in the past three weeks.

You grabbed his wrist to look at the time. His breath faltered — he was kidding when he said you didn’t know what you did to him.

You chose not to comment on it when you used to stumble through your sentences around him. “Do these people not sleep?”

“We’re no one to talk.”

“Truuuuue, but at least we do cool things.”

Cool things like avoiding the fact that you two almost confessed your love for each other.

And beating assholes up. How could you forget that one?

You couldn’t take it any longer. You would regret it your whole life if the conversation was never finished. “I don’t want you to change, you know? I’ll admit I’d like to get to know you better... to know what’s up with you without making you say it and all that stuff, but not at the expense of your boundaries.”

“I can let you in,” he assured both you and himself. “I don’t have a problem with you knowing anything about me, as rare as it sounds.”

You gave him a small smile, unable to put into words what it meant to you. What he meant to you.

“I just hope I don’t scare you away,” he confessed.

[hello-everyfandom]

“I just got you this because I saw it and thought of you!”

Warnings: Light swearing

Pairing: George Weasley x Reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: Your love language is Gift Giving

(This is apart of my series “Love Languages”, please check it out!)

“Close your eyes.”

“Should I be worried?” George asked quite warily. 

“Will you just-” you huffed, “Please?”

“At least let me know what I’ve done wrong before you jinx my tongue to the top of my mouth.” George jokingly pleaded.

“If you know what’s best for you,” you lowered your voice to match his joke, “you’ll close your eyes.”

“Alright, but I’m trusting you,” George placed a grin on his lips, the dimple of his left cheek becoming more and more prominent. 

“Now, hold out your hands,” you said feeling more and more excited.George hesitantly put his hands out in front of him and jokingly flinched when you touched him. His comedic flinch made you laugh as you scanned him over to ensure his eyes were shut. Satisfied with George’s compliance, you slowly reached into your bag to pull out a wrapped gift. When it was safely in his hands, George’s fingers crinkled around the wrapping paper. He opened his eyes and saw you looking excitedly from the gift in his hands and to his confused face. 

Instantly, George began to sweat. Had he forgotten an anniversary? Or a birthday? Or some other holiday? 

He cursed in his mind, fuck fuck fuck fuck.

“Go on then!” you smiled, “open it!”

George looked uncertain as he slowly unwrapped the gift revealing a small box. He lifted the box to see a small shaped coin. “It’s... uh.” He asked, picking it up and fiddling it with his fingers.

“It’s a coin!” you giggled at his confused reaction, “I bought it when I was in Russia over the summer to visit my cousin at Durmstrang.

“Oh! It! It is a coin! I love it!” George moved to pull you in a hug before you chuckled and pushed him away.

“It’s not just a coin. It’s a coin that has been enchanted.” You pointed to the head on the coin, “When you flip it, it’ll tell you whether or not someone is near you. See?” You took it out of his hand and flipped it in your hand, immediately it flipped to Heads. “For pranking, yeah?”

George looked at the coin in wonder and then again at your adoring face. “I... I love it.” He put a hand on your cheek and leaned to press a loving kiss to your lips. “But, I...”

“What is it?” you asked, holding his hand to your cheek.

“I’m so sorry, love. I think I... I think I forgot our anniversary or birthday or... I don’t. I’m so unbelievably sorry!” George spewed out.

“What!” you exclaimed in surprise, “No! No, no. Our anniversary isn’t until October!” you began to laugh, “I just got you this because I saw it and thought of you!”

George let out a breath of relief before feeling tense once again, “But, I didn’t get you anything...”

You pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand, “I don’t expect you to! It was just something for my love, that’s all.” you looked up to see George’s concern written within his brows, “Really! I just got it for you because I thought it would be nice.”

George shook his worry and began to smile, “I love you, you know that?”

“Oh, I know. I’m the most glorious girlfriend in the entirety of the world.”

“And so humble as well.” George grinned before giving you another long kiss. 

George grew up with seven siblings. While he grew up with hand-me-downs and knitted clothing from his mother, you grew up on the richer side of the Wizarding World. He wasn’t used to receiving expensive gifts and frankly felt a little uncomfortable and insecure. All the gifts you had given him must have cost a fortune, something he would never truly acquire. And although he loved his family and his upbringing, he cannot help but feel shameful at the fact that he cannot shower you in gifts as you did to him. 

It began with a new quill, then some pranking supplies, and soon the smaller gifts like the flowers you collected for him and the ties you bought turned into new robes and wand adjustments from Olivander’s. He accepted them graciously and sometimes even refused gifts as they seemed to be too expensive. With your assurance, he took them with a smile on his face but his head hanging low. 

With your anniversary coming up, George could feel the hole in his pocket becoming larger and larger and the money he had saved up had gone to ensure the twins’ ability to start their own joke shop. 

“I have no idea what to get her,” George flopped down on the couch. 

Ginny, who was sat to his left, looked up from her book.“What do you mean?” She raised her eyebrow at her miserable older brother and looked to his twin who sat on his right.

“I mean,” George groaned and placed a hand over his eyes, “What do you get the most perfect girl in the world? What do you get her that she doesn’t already have?”

Fred began to laugh, “It’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“Oh, I think it has,” Ginny chimed in.

“What the bloody hell are you two talking about?”

“Georgie, can’t you see?” Ginny grinned teasingly, “You’re whipped.”

“Like Mum’s Christmas cream, you’re entirely whipped,” Fred added.

George sat up instantly and looked at his siblings with annoyance, “Well, we already knew that!”

Fred and Ginny joined together in laughter, noting how George’s vein is popping out of his forehead. 

“Will you two stop your bloody, dumb, shitty teasing and just-” George groaned again and flopped back on the couch, “Help me?” He asked almost pathetically.

“How much did you want to spend?” Ginny asked, quieting her laughing.

“I don’t know! I just know that I don’t have enough.” George moaned.

“A necklace for the lady, perhaps?” Fred suggested making George shake his head.

“She’s already got enough necklaces and jewelry to fill an entire block on Diagonalley.”

“New quill?” Ginny added,

“No, she’s got her school supplies shipped from some store in America.”

Ginny and Fred began to suggest more and more things to which George either did not like because they were not “you” or because you already had them.

“Oh for fucks sake,” Ginny exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “What the hell can you buy?”

Fred thought for a moment, putting his fingers to his lip as he usually did deep in thought. “What if you don’t buy her a gift?”

“And what? Don’t get her anything at all?” George said sarcastically, “Good plan, you bellend.”

Fred reached over the arm of his chair and gave his twin a good wallop on the shoulder, “No, you dickhead. Don’t buy her anything.”

Ginny caught onto Fred’s idea and nodded, “That’s actually not a bad idea, Georgie, don’t buy her anything.”

“Hello??” George yelled, “Are you two not thinking right?”

“George, stop being a smart arse,” Ginny berated, “Get her something homemade instead.”

George opened one of his eyes to look at his sister who stared back at him in annoyance. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Ginny mocked, “Make her something.”

George groaned again making Ginny and Fred roll their eyes. “But I can’t make anything but dung bombs.”

“Then, you’re out of luck,” Ginny stood up, dusting off her pants. 

Before she could leave, George bolted up and grabbed her wrist. “Gin!” He yelled, “You know how to knit, yeah?”

“Uhm,” she looked to Fred for assistance, “I guess, Mum tried to teach me once, but I-”

“Brilliant!” George grinned, feeling his frustration seep away, “Then you’ll teach me!”

“Georgie,” Ginny rolled her eyes, “I don’t really even know how to knit myself, nevertheless be able to teach you.”

“But, you’ll help?” He asked, putting his puppy dog face on.

Ginny looked at her older brother, her weakness, and let out a sigh, “Fine, whatever.” George shouted in victory, “But, you have to also write Mum and ask her because she knows more than I do. And... you have to tell Y/N that the idea was mine.”

George reached up and kissed his sister’s cheek making her scream in disgust, “Yes, done and done! You are the best sibling in the entirety of the world.”

George turned sharply and sprinted up the stairs to write a letter to his Mum.

“What the hell am I then?” Fred crossed his arms, “Toasted squid?” 

The following days were spent with Ginny and George trying, and rather unsuccessfully, to knit a sweater for you. Fred watched in the background making witty and snide comments. Molly had written back with such haste that Pigwidgeon was nearly on his last breath before arriving at Hogwarts. She sent many words of encouragement and told him that he was the absolute “sweetest” which was in large contrast to Ginny’s frustrated and rather harsh criticism.

“No! You’re supposed to go over not, George! Have you even been listening this entire time?”

“Of course I have,” George said defensively, “It’s just confusing, that’s all.”

“Why can’t we just use magic?” Ginny whined.

“Because then it wouldn’t be homemade, hence the word, home, little sister.” George frowned, “What does it matter anyway? She won’t like it.” 

“Georgie,” Fred pushed off of the wall he was leaning on, “Stop being such a worry-wart.” He patted a hand on his shoulder, “Y/N is the sweetest girl, just because she’s richer than Merlin knows and can afford whatever she wants and doesn’t have to care about-”

“Alright, get on with it, Fred,” George warned.

“She’ll love it no matter what.” Fred finished, sending his twin a much needed reassuring smile.

“I hope so,” George sighed and picked up the needles once again. “Now, what the hell do I do again?”

By the time your anniversary approached, you were nearly bouncing with joy. You had gotten George the perfect present, something he’d never ever expect. Thankfully, your anniversary landed on a Sunday so you woke up and rushed to get ready in the morning. George waited, anxiously, on the stairs for you until you emerged. 

Dressed in jeans and a nice blouse, George was nearly breathless upon seeing you. He gulped as you walked down, seeing the gold necklace your parents had gifted you for your last birthday and pearl earrings they’d given you after getting amazing marks on your exams. 

“Hi,” you said softly, locking your fingers with his.

“Hi, darling,” he said back, pressing a kiss on your cheek. 

“Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary,” you sighed contently and began to walk to the portrait.

“Now, what shall we do on our momentous day of love?” George asked, swinging your joined hands. 

You pulled your bag up closer on your shoulder and smiled back.“I think,” you paused, “we should go on a walk. A long, romantic walk.”

“Then a walk we shall take!” George led the way, pulling you through the corridors making you giggle. 

It was a delightful day spent with kisses and fond memories. You snapped a few photos of your boyfriend with the old camera you had bought.

“Now, I’ll never understand,” George raised his eyebrow, “Why you have a camera older than time itself rather than one of those new, fancy-schmancy cameras.”

You looked admiringly at the photo your camera just printed. As it developed, you could see the two of you, cheeks pressed together, you with a shy smile and George with his tongue sticking out. Another photo you had taken moments before was a snapshot of George’s lips pressed to your cheek and you could just make out the blushing on your face.

“Well,” you looked back up at your boyfriend, “I just happen to love old, worn things I suppose. Why do you think I’m with you?” you added, teasingly.

“Oi,” he defended, “ ‘m only a few months older than you, love. And I’m not worn, I’m newer than a baby’s bottom. You’re the only girl ‘ve been with.” 

“Only? As in there will be more?” you asked, a taunting tone on your tongue. George looked at you, as lovingly and as gentle as he ever could, and thought nothing more of the life you two would have. Happy, content, any other words that describe a healthy and romantic relationship. His thoughts began to waver at the idea of how he’d only be able to afford a small flat, that is if the joke shop even took off in the first place. He thought of all the expensive things he could never afford and how you may resent him. As you looked at him, you thought of the happy children you’d have and the copious amounts of dogs and cats you’d care for. George swallowed harshly.

“Only.” He repeated. You blushed once again and leaned to kiss him. The feeling of your touch on his made George fall quicker, deeper, and madly in love. 

After dinner in the Great Hall, in which George absolutely refused for anyone to sit next to or in front of you in order to make it more “private,” the two of you were laid, cuddled on your bed. George could feel the anxiety and panic set in when he realized soon he’d be giving the girl of his dreams a disappointing gift. 

You hummed, sweet with content, and put your chin on his chest. “I’ve never been happier.”

“I’m so glad,” George ran his fingers through your hair, pushing the stray ones behind your ear. “But,” you said as you sat up, “I do believe anniversaries come with a certain type of exchange.”

“Oh?” George asked, sitting up as well. His fingers felt knotted and his throat was closing up. He had sneaked his gift in, awfully wrapped in some colorful parchment, and placed it under your bed.Be confident, George pleaded and tried his best to act cooly. 

“I’ll go first, may I please, please go first!” you begged. 

George bit his tongue, much preferring he’d go first in order to deal with the disappointment before anything and also give you a chance to dump his impoverished arse.

“Of course, darling,” he nodded making you squeal in delight. George breathed deeply and closed his eyes, holding his hands out as he usually did when you gave him gifts. In his hands, he could feel a box wrapped with a bow.

“Alright, go on!” you nodded eagerly. George let out a shaky breath before carefully removing the bow and lifting the lid. To his delight, he picked up a pair of wool socks that were embroidered with small hearts on the sides. “It’s-”

“Socks!” you finished for him, “Because you get cold feet, remember? Now, when you are playing Quidditch or cold at night, you can wear them and think of me!” George broke out in a grin and thanked the heavens for his girlfriend and all the luck in the world that it took for him to find her. “I love them.” 

“Really?” you asked, pointing at the hearts, “I did those myself!” 

“They look wonderful, I absolutely adore them.” He leaned and kissed you. 

The kiss was long as George put a hand on your neck to pull you closer. His lips moving against yours made butterflies take flight and your bones become weaker. As he pulled away, you rested your forehead on his trying to catch your breath.

“My turn?” George asked making you nod. George pulled out his crappily wrapped gift, that Ginny told him off for, and put it in the bed. 

“Oh! Wrapped it yourself, I see?” you teased. George nodded proudly, becoming more and more confident in his gift. 

As you lifted your fingers to rip the paper off, you paused and faced him with another sly smile.

“Alright! Okay, I was going to save it till the end of the night, but I simply cannot wait.” George’s eyes widened as you jolted off of the bed. “You didn’t think I only got you socks, did you?” you asked, moving towards the trunk at the end of your bed.

“No, wait, Dear, the socks are lovely, I don’t need another-”

“I know, I know, but I couldn’t help it!” you sent him a wink, “Now, this one is the actual gift.”

“Actual gift?” George stuttered.Pulling out a large object, larger than your entire frame, George clenched his jaw. You struggled a bit to put it on the bed but managed and sat down in front of him.

“Happy Anniversary, my love.” your voice made him wince a bit.

You watched in utter excitement as George began to slowly unwrap his gift. Removing all the paper, George nearly fainted seeing his gift. A new broom, one of the best in the world, something he’d never ever be able to buy for himself. A broom, costing more than Merlin knows galleons. 

“So!” you bounced, “Do you like it? I saw at your other games, that bludger took out part of the tail end of your broom and I could not live with myself if you had an accident due to a faulty broom! I went and got it myself,” you said proudly. 

“And! It’s the fastest, rarest, and nicest type of wood, with a partially enchanted seat to help you stay upright!”

George’s hands shook, holding the broom.

“I-”

“Speechless? That was my entire goal!” you raised your fist in victory. 

“Y/N-”

“I know! And, not to mention, now you can wear your socks during the game! Two gifts in one!”

“Y/N-”

“I debated on getting you new gloves, but they wouldn’t be shipped in till middle of November and-”

“Y/N,” George said softly but firmly making you look at him with concern. You had never seen this facial expression on George as his eyes were nearly welled with tears and his lip was red from his biting.

“What’s wrong?” you asked frantically, “is it the wrong size? I gave the shopkeeper your height and everything-”

“No,” George said, putting the broom to lean on the wall next to your bed. “I can’t take this.”

“What do you mean? Love, I got it for you!” you laughed, waving your hand.

“No, Y/N, I seriously cannot take this.” You frowned, 

George’s voice was shaky making your heart drop. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s too expensive-”

“Nonsense, I saved up for it!”

“Baby,” George said, small and timid, “I cannot accept any more expensive gifts from you.” 

“What do you mean?” you questioned, leaning forwards to grab one of his hands, “the price doesn’t matter to me, I literally could not care,”

“But I care.” George protested. 

You nearly began to cry as you saw a tear dripped down George’s cheek. You sat up so you were sitting on your knees and gingerly placed your hands on his cheeks.

“My love, what’s wrong? Won’t you tell me?” you whispered, rubbing soft strokes with your thumbs. 

“I...” George struggled to find the words to describe how awful he felt, “I cannot take your gifts. And... and I’ll never be able to give you these types of gifts.”

Your eyes widened in surprise before you began to furiously shake your head, “George Weasley, what in the world are you talking about?”

“I’ll never be able to give you expensive things like necklaces or pearls or nice perfumes or nice suppers at fancy restaurants. I’ll never be able to give you the gifts you deserve. You deserve to be treated like a princess or a queen or anything and I cannot give you that, I can’t.” George let out.

You thought of his words in utter disbelief. Never once did you ever think of George’s economic standing and neither did you care. 

“But you do treat me like a princess,” you encouraged, making George moan with more tears, “You do. You tuck me in when I’m all tired from classes and make me cuppa’s in the morning. You massage my shoulders when I’m stressed and you hold my hand when you know I’m anxious.” You pushed his head up so your eyes met, “I mean that, from the bottom of my heart. I don’t care if you cannot give me expensive gifts or fancy dinners or anything, I care that you love me and want me to be by your side.”

“But, you give me all these-”

“I do it because I love giving you gifts! I love seeing you smile. And not all my gifts are expensive, sometimes I give you flowers I’ve seen or biscuits from the Great Hall. My darling, you do not need to worry if I feel as though you cannot provide for me, because you provide more than enough for me. I don’t care about money or gifts or anything like that.” you assured. 

George went silent and you began to pepper his cheeks, nose, and forehead with kisses until he cracked and started to smile. 

“I’ve just got the best girlfriend ever, haven’t I?” George asked, pulling you onto his lap. 

You curled into his chest and nodded.

“Oh, absolutely.”

It was quiet between you two again until you chimed up, “Well... may I have my gift now?”

“Uhhh, it’s uhh,” George stuttered. “It’s not amazing.”

“Don’t care!” you grinned and picked up his gift. “I’m so excited, I could nearly pee myself.”

George jokingly shoved you, “Oi, blimey well don’t do that. Not while you’re sitting on me at least.” 

You shoved him back before opening his gift. George held his breath as you unraveled the present and saw his gift. Your heart nearly stopped. You picked up the sweater, moving the parchment aside, and placed it on your lap. The sweater was yellow and made with soft wool. On the front, there was a badly made daisy, the flowers you always got for him during the Spring. Touching the fabric softly, tracing over each petal you stared at.

“I know it isn’t much but-” Before George could finish his apology, you took him by surprise and wrapped your arms around his neck tightly. Pressing kisses on the crook of his neck, he could feel your smile.

“I absolutely love it.”

“Really?”

“With all my heart, I’ve never been given something handmade nor something so sweet.”

“I made it... myself.”You picked up the sweater and laughed, “I can tell. How long did it take you?”

George paused, thinking and smiling sheepishly, “A few weeks maybe.”

“And you made it all by yourself? No magic?”

“No magic,” George confirmed, “But, Ginny did help me... she and Fred helped me come up with the idea.”

You shifted in George’s lap, moving so you could toss off the blouse you were wearing and shrugging the sweater on. It was warm and smelled of honey and pine and the string he had used made you feel as if you were wrapped in a hug of his. 

“George... I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” 

George blushed a deep red as you kissed first his cheek and then his lips.

“You’re welcome, Darling. I’m just glad I’ve finally given you a good enough gift.”

“Well,” you kissed the skin of his neck, “I’ll wear it every day. But...”

“But?” George asked, wrapping his arms around your waist. 

“But, I think right now, I’d like it off,” you suggested, lowering your eyes at him.

“Off?” George asked confusedly before his eyes widened in realization. “Oh! Oh, off!”

“You’re so smart, aren’t you?” you snorted before pulling George in for another kiss.  

[whoneedsapublisher]

Plan For Love Throughout the World

Some Ya Boi Kongming fic, which frankly is just a logical extension of what already happened in canon. Nanami x Eiko.

Words: ~650

Summary: After the wrap party ends, and the bar is all closed up, Eiko finds out that her exciting day isn't quite over yet.

Also on Ao3

***************************

“Hey there, bigshot.”

Eiko blushed, tugging her hat down over her eyes as she closed the back door of BB lounge behind her.

“Come on, Nanamin,” she said. “You’re as bad as Kongming.”

“But you are a bigshot now, aren’t you?” Nanami said. “Soon I’m going be able to drop your name when we’re trying to get Reborn Azalea booked.”

“Jeez, didn’t you already tease me enough today? Did you really wait out here this whole time just for that?”

Even with her manager insisting that after such a special day she didn’t have to help close up the bar, Eiko had insisted that she’d still do it. After all, some cleaning was the perfect way to wind down a little after such an exciting set of performances. If Nanami had been waiting her since the bar closed, then…

Nanami smiled, her eyes softening. “No,” she said. “That’s not why.”

“Then… what is it?”

Nanami reached out and took Eiko’s hands in hers gently. “I already thanked you,” she said. “For giving us the courage to make the music we really wanted to again. For setting us free from the fear and the despair and the obligations we’d given in to.”

Eiko stared into Nanami’s eyes, seeing the warmth deep inside them. Had Nanami always looked at her like that?

“But… that was from the three of us,” Nanami said. “I wanted to thank you as just me.”

Eiko shook her head and squeezed Nanami’s hands. “You deserve my thanks just as much as I deserve yours. If you hadn’t told the crowd to quiet down back in Shibuya…”

“That’s not enough to make us even,” Nanami said.

“It wasn’t just that. If we hadn’t sung together the way we did… if you hadn’t told me about Azalea… without you, I never would have gotten this far. So, really,” Eiko smiled. “Thank you, Nanami.”

Tears welled up in Nanami’s eyes. “Eiko…”

She cleared her throat and shook her head, blinking the tears away.

“There was one more thing,” she said, meeting Eiko’s gaze again timidly. “Back on that rooftop… you said that you loved the Nanami who sings on the streets.”

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they were blazing with a conviction that captured Eiko’s attention instantly and completely. “I’m finally free to be that Nanami again. And I… love the Eiko who sings on the stage.”

“Nanami…”

Eiko wasn’t sure which of them started to lean in first. Perhaps it was neither of them, and both of them had simply had the thought at the same time.

Their lips met in the middle and Eiko’s eyes fluttered closed.

It wasn’t a very long kiss, nor a particularly bold one. But it was an exciting one nonetheless. And when they pulled apart, Eiko pressed her forehead against Nanami’s and smiled, looking into her eyes.

“I love you, Nanami.”

“I love you too, Eiko.”

On the streets outside of the alley they were standing in, the city was just starting to wake up. People were going about their day as the dawn broke upon Tokyo. Neon had gone off, and the sound of birds carried on the wind.

On the roof of BB Lounge, a lone man chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink.

“Once again, I find myself humbled,” he said, speaking as if to a figure beside him, although there was no one there. “To think that I, a man of war, could help to bring happiness instead of death. Even if I provided nothing for their relationship besides a few starting sparks.”

He looked out upon the waking city with a satisfied smile.

It was a new day. And in the peace of the morning, flowers bloomed before his very eyes.

[klixxy]

Genshin Fic Recs

so... i ventured into the vast world of Google looking for some good GI fic recs... only to find such a pitiful amount that i was promptly devastated. therefore, the solution is to make my own! :D

keep in mind most of these will be ChiLi or XingYun, and yes, i will try not to include smut unless it was one i really really liked. if anyone wants a separate list for just smut (though that will most likely be shorter) i can try to make one later.`

ft. my bookmark comments :)

CHILI

wrapped up in pure gold by beyondwinter

(chili; accidental marriage; chili/childe-centric; 22k words; ongoing)

"Do you understand its meaning, Childe?" He finally asks. There's a hard glint in his eyes, like he's trying to steel himself for his answer.

"Yeah." Loyalty and devotion, right? Between business partners? "I do. It's traditional, isn't it?"

Zhongli's eyes glow a warm amber in the near darkness, reflecting the soft shine of the lanterns. He studies his face with a strange intensity, as though Childe were a piece of high quality Nocticulous Jade being sold for suspiciously small sum and he's trying to find the blemishes that would explain the price. The weight of his gaze should be uncomfortable, boring into him like he can see into the very depths of his abyss-tainted soul, but Childe finds himself preening under the attention instead.

Childe accidentally proposes to Zhongli. Zhongli accepts.

The World is Water by Millereflets

(chili; smut; hurt/comfort; chili-centric; 7k words; oneshot)

Childe doesn't visit Zhongli until it's almost too late.

(my bookmarks: HOW DO YOU MAKE A SMUT SCENE SO POETIC HOLY SHITTTTT)

Set in Stone by seredemia

(chili; fake dating au; angst; some smut?; chili/chiilde-centric; 55k words; ongoing)

What do you do when you write about a certain six thousand year old consultant so much in your letters that it somehow convinces your entire family you're not only dating each other, but that you're also engaged?

In Childe's case, the answer is plain and simple: he goes along with it, of course. Absolutely nothing can go wrong if he makes a contract with the God of Contracts, vowing that the two of them will pretend to be lovers for the duration of his family's stay in Liyue. Afterwards, they'll return as normal and speak no more of this mess. No feelings or complications involved whatsoever.

Contract accepted. A fool-proof plan set in stone. Right?

Private Ledger of the Eleventh Harbinger by JuHuaTai

(chili; humor; getting together; chili/ekaterina-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

“So guess what I did next?”

Ekaterina contemplated not answering, but Harbinger Tartaglia was just… grinning and waiting. It’s honestly rather creepy the longer time passed.

In the end, she gave a long suffering sigh that seems lost on him, “You bought him the Erhu—“

“I bought him the antique, cor lapis based Erhu,”

-

When she first left her homeland for the unknown nation of Liyue, Ekaterina was ready to be many things: To be a soldier, to fell Tsaritsa’s enemies in her name, to bring glory to Snezhnaya and her leader.

Being a receptionist in a cozy bank wasn’t so bad in comparison, but she absolutely can do without the front row seat to Harbinger Tartaglia’s (expensive) love life.

i know i'm where i'm meant to go by paperclips (pastel_paperclips)

(chili; humor; fluff; chili-centric; 12k words; ongoing)

"Childe," Zhongli says suddenly. "I am enjoying myself greatly." Childe’s face breaks into a grin. "Then-" Zhongli gasps, grabbing his wrist and tugging him over to an unsuspecting peddler with a cart full of rocks. "Is that an intrusive igneous pegmatite formed in the Inazuma regions?" Childe’s grin smooths into a small, adoring smile. He has all the time in the world to figure the other man out.

OR: Finding the Geo Archon is on Childe's to-do list but hanging out with Zhongli is significantly more fun.

CHILIVEN

Crumbling Stone by avtorSola

(chiliven; ANGST; PAIN; mind control; zhongli-centric; 74k words; ongoing)

When Morax unleashes his plan to test the Liyue Qixing and his adepti, he does not take into account the stirring of the Abyss Order in the north and the corruption of Dvalin - for why would he fear an organization that works in such shadows? He is secure in his power, after all, unlike his flighty ex, the absentee archon of Mondstadt who rises only when his people are in danger.

But, somehow, the Abyss Order discovers his plan. Somehow, they capitalize on it. And he, the God of Stone who cannot sicken, is struck down - taken by an order bent on destroying all of humanity as Liyue crumbles around him. For even Archons aren't immune to Durin's blood, and Morax is no exception. But then the question becomes - if even Archons may fall to the agony of this corrupting burn - how is their traveling friend Aether immune?

The answer comes from beyond the stars - an ancient malice that knows no kindness or mercy. A malice whose legacy the Abyss Order now bears, seeking to topple all the Archons and their people into the void of utter destruction. And they have begun in Liyue.

Fortunately, it takes a long time to erode stone.

(my bookmarks: IM SCREAMING AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

PLATONIC ZHONGVEN

left-behind city by trixstar

(platonic zhongven; angst; ANGST; venti-centric; 1k words; oneshot)

"An associate of mine has just informed me that Rex Lapis, the Geo Archon has been assassinated."

Venti blinks.

Or: Venti and how he copes with finding out he is all that remains.

i circle ten thousand years long; and i still do not know if i am a falcon, a storm, or an unfinished song by birdsofpassage

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 4k words; oneshot)

Venti and Zhongli, and the vignettes of a much-needed vacation around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: ; - ;      ;  -  ; )

oh ye with little faith by air_fried_air

(platonic zhongven; angst; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

Two former archons do a little tour around Mondstadt.

(my bookmarks: why are all genshin angst fics so melancholy.... i feel so empty)

the wind through the mountain tops by glassdrachma

(platonic zhongven; humor; hurt/comfort; zhongven-centric; 21k words; finished)

Boredom brings Barbatos of Mondstadt to bother a certain ex-Archon of the Earth.

(my bookmarks: venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship venti zhongli friendship-)

XINGYUN

the art of exorcism by Agried

(xingyun; ghost au; hurt/comfort; chongyun-centric; 9k words; oneshot)

On the road back from one of his jobs, Chongyun runs into Xingqiu, the wandering swordsman. And then they keep meeting, over and over again. or, alternately; how a ghost and an exorcist learn how to love, one step at a time.

Bane of All Evil by tzitzimeme

(xingyun; humor; romance; chongyun-centric; 24k words; hiatus)

When Chongyun unintentionally offends Liyue's second most powerful adepti, he vows to mend the thorny relationship between Adeptus Xiao and human exorcists-- even though no one has succeeded in currying Xiao's favor for over a thousand years.

His best friend Xingqiu offers to come alone, mainly because he's worried about what kind of trouble Chongyun will run into. Along the way, they receive help from others: Xiangling packs them meals for their journeys, while Zhongli gives them advice on what demons to track.

Childe is just there because he thinks the whole thing is hilarious.

[On indefinite hiatus due to burnout; sorry!]

kiss me slowly (so i don't forget) by xiwangmu

(xingyun; humor; romance; light angst; xingqiu-centric; 8k words; oneshot)

Wangshu Inn Bulletin Board

Guest Message: My best friend whom I harbor affections for kissed me last night, but due to his special condition he does not recall a single moment of it. I am quite conflicted about whether to disclose these events to him or not, because that would most certainly require me to confess my feelings as well. If anyone has experience in romancing boys with excessive positive energy, this one humbly asks you to share some advice.

Reply: Our greatest apologies—although we would like to offer some words in response, we simply cannot decipher your handwriting. Perhaps you may return with a neater message next time?

time trials by idlestars

(xingyun/many ships; humor; modern au; xingyun-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

A modern social media AU.

Xingqiu Teases Demons. Chongyun Almost Cries. [The clip shows Xingqiu, lit by the sickly green of night vision, as he stares bored into a dark room. He’s alone - Chongyun left to see if Xingqiu could lure out the ghosts. Xingqiu glances at the camera, smirks, and then opens his mouth.

“Hey demons, it’s me, yah boy.”]

OTHER/GEN

woe be the wallet of the god of wealth by glassdrachma

(gen; humor; identity reveal; keqing/zhongli-centric; 12k words; finished)

Or, the story of how the Yuheng of the Qixing came to idolize, befriend, and discover the identity of the God of Geo, in that order.

(personal comments: hilarious, made me burst out into laughter multiple times, and was just a masterful piece of writing)

to dream of dust by miao_x

(guili/gen; ANGST; hurt/no comfort; zhongli-centric; 5k words; oneshot)

Some nights, Zhongli dreams.

He dreams of soft light, golden song, and a gentle breeze whispering tales of millennia past. It is warm, familiar, and comforting.

It feels like home.

And then he opens his eyes, and awakes to reality.

(my bookmarks: oh zhongli... made me cry)

To drown in your own tears by C_rin_nyan

(guili/gen; ANGST; TEARS; PAIN; zhongli-centric; 2k words; oneshot)

As Rex Lapis, he had never shed a tear, even as he slaughtered hundreds, destruction following his every step. As Zhongli, he had shed much more than he would like to admit, however.

Or, “Zhongli’s soul gave its last scream long ago, yet even now, the echo of said sound was still strong enough to reach Rex Lapis.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 15 - ao3 -

“I thought Sect Leader Wen was above visiting other sects,” Lan Qiren said sullenly, leading Wen Ruohan on a tour through the Cloud Recesses. He had nothing better to do: classes had been temporarily dismissed on account of sect business, what with the teachers all being recruited to receive the Wen sect’s retinue; at this rate, this year’s rogue cultivators wouldn’t learn anything of value, and Lan Qiren had the sneaking suspicion that it was somehow all his fault.

“I can’t imagine why you think that. Don’t I attend every discussion conference without fail?” Wen Ruohan said smoothly even though that wasn’t what Lan Qiren had meant and he knew it.

Wen Ruohan normally treated himself and his clan like the imperium, preferring to summon visitors rather than go to visit. Presumably, in this instance, it was only that his desire to bother Lan Qiren had overcome his vanity, or else perhaps he’d reminded himself that even the Emperor would sometimes summer at the homes of his lackeys, allowing them an unasked-for opportunity to pay homage to him.

Truly a very irritating man. Lan Qiren was almost entirely sure that it wasn’t his adolescent brain speaking, either, though he supposed he couldn’t discount the possibility entirely – he’d been very irritated by Cangse Sanren, too, and they were friends now.

Actually, he was still pretty irritated with her sometimes. Maybe it was just a symptom of adolescence. Or perhaps it was that strange similarity he sometimes found himself observing between them, whether it was their seeming timelessness or their overweening arrogance...

Well, when in doubt, there were always the rules: Do not disrespect your elders.

Also possibly Have affection and gratefulness, though that one had always been hard.

Lan Qiren took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, and then released it, taking stock of himself: his walking pace was steady, his hands were clasped together so that they didn’t flail, and his appearance was calm. It was just a matter of getting his emotions under control, and he had plenty of experience with that.

“You’re right,” he finally said, releasing his irritation with an effort of willpower. “You do. I was being rude, and it was uncalled for. Is there any particular part of the Cloud Recesses that da-ge would like to see? I doubt the Library Pavilion or the main buildings have varied much since your last visit, but the gardens and wild forest are beautiful this time of year.”

Wen Ruohan was quiet for a while, the two of them walking side by side in silence, and then unexpectedly he said, “Does the Lan sect use well-water or river-water as your main source of drinking water?”

Lan Qiren stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not telling you that. That’s private!”

“Is it?”

“Not everyone’s like the Nightless City, telling everyone that they rely on a half-dozen imported sources for their food and drink and challenging them to try to do something about it,” Lan Qiren said crossly, and tried to remind himself Sneering for no reason is prohibited. “I’m not actually a half-wit, you know.”

“You misunderstand me,” Wen Ruohan said, though his eyes, narrow with satisfaction like a cat, suggested that he would have been more than happy to take advantage of the situation if Lan Qiren had been so foolish. “I only wished to know whether it was the source of water they are drinking that has rendered them all blind to the treasure they hold in their hands.”

“…I’m not showing you our treasury, either.”

Wen Ruohan barked a laugh. “That’s not what I meant, either. Why don’t you show me your Wall of Discipline? I’m sure there are a few new rules since last time.”

There probably were – the rules were like water, both eternal and in a constant state of flux – so Lan Qiren obediently turned his feet in that direction.

“It’s not a work-day,” he warned. “So you’ll miss out on any carving. But the rules are there, and I can answer any questions you have about them, if you like.”

“Any question? A bold claim.”

“Any question I know the answer to,” Lan Qiren clarified. “If I don’t, I can ask one of my teachers, or look at the books in the library.”

They walked in silence a little longer, although a surprisingly comfortable one given their age difference and Wen Ruohan’s general aura of barely restrained bloodthirst. Perhaps Lan Qiren was just getting used to it.

“Have I disturbed your afternoon plans with my visit?” Wen Ruohan eventually asked, gazing at the Wall contemplatively.

“I was going to meditate in the Cold Spring,” Lan Qiren said. “But it’s nothing I can’t do another time.”

“A Cold Spring?” A faint smirk flickered on Wen Ruohan’s face. “That’s useful for the suppression of yang energy.”

“And for cultivation, and for healing, and for encouraging clarity of thought,” Lan Qiren said, and managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “Of course, if da-ge is having some trouble controlling his lascivious thoughts, he is welcome to try it out. Such requests are not uncommon among newlyweds.”

Wen Ruohan was smirking outright now. “Tell me, little Lan, has that sharp tongue of yours ever cut the inside of your mouth? Or is that something you reserve for me?”

Lan Qiren pretended not to hear him and instead pointed out one of the rules on the Wall. “I always rather liked that one.”

Wen Ruohan glanced over and saw Have wins and losses - otherwise known, colloquially, as don’t be a sore loser - and grinned. “Oh, really? I find I’m rather partial to Honor the aged and wise, myself.”

“Really? And here I would have thought someone as humble as da-ge would opt for Do not say one thing and mean another, or maybe the prohibition against praising yourself.”

“Are you saying I do not count as aged, little Lan?”

“I would never question your years,” Lan Qiren said. “But the rule does include two clauses.”

Wen Ruohan was surprised into a snicker. “Sharp and sharper! Is this more of your vaunted Do not tell lies?”

“Be of one mind,” Lan Qiren retorted. “Anyway, you enjoy it, or else you would’ve just pointed out Do not argue with your family.”

“Indeed, I am not Qingheng-jun,” Wen Ruohan said, his smile poisonous, and Lan Qiren, struck dead on by the accurate blow, could only glare at him. “My little brother can argue with me any time he pleases…and does, I find. I told you to come to the Nightless City, and you disobeyed.”

“Learning comes first,” Lan Qiren said. “I had classes. Like I told you!”

“And your father and brother agreed with your prioritization?”

Lan Qiren winced, having not told them of Wen Ruohan’s request for exactly that reason.

Wen Ruohan only smirked, though, and did not call him out on it further. “Perhaps I will take you up on your offer,” he remarked instead, and for a moment Lan Qiren had no idea what he was talking about. “Travel is always so wearying, and I’ve heard fine things about the quality of the Cold Spring in Gusu.”

Right, that.

Lan Qiren was pretty sure he was allowed to make that offer.

“Unless of course you planned to have other company there…?” Wen Ruohan glanced at him and saw his confusion. “Your little immortal’s disciple lover?”

“Certainly not!” Lan Qiren exclaimed. “Men and women do not mix like that. Anyway, she’s not my lover. We’re only friends. She’s agreed.”

Wen Ruohan’s eyebrows went up as if Lan Qiren had revealed more than he’d intended.

“Very well,” he said, sounding almost agreeable. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Lan Qiren eyed him suspiciously.

“I’d still like to meet her.”

Of course he would.

“She might not like you,” Lan Qiren warned, shaking his head. Cangse Sanren was a warm and generous person, but her views were unshakable once set, and she feared nothing; he could only guess at the monstrous clash of egos that was about to take place. “But she should be by the training field at this time of day; we can go there next.”

Wen Ruohan reached out and ran his fingers along the Wall – seemingly at random, hitting Change clothes after taking a bath and No adornments that make sound as he did – and then turned to follow Lan Qiren with a look in his eyes that Lan Qiren did not understand.

“Then let us go,” he said.

As he’d thought, Cangse Sanren was practicing alone in the training field, looking especially fierce with her hair flowing freely in the wind as she danced with blade and horsetail whisk. Lan Qiren waited until she was done with her current set before clearing his throat to announce their presence; when she turned, he pulled out a ribbon from his sleeve – he’d taken to carrying spares – and offered it to her.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,” he said to her. “It doesn’t matter how high your cultivation is, it’s still not going to help you in a fight if the wind changes mid-move and you get smacked in the face with your own hair.”

“Maybe,” she sniffed. “But I look amazing.”

Lan Qiren rolled his eyes.

“This is Cangse Sanren, a disciple of Baoshan Sanren,” he told Wen Ruohan. “She has no personal name, so don’t ask for one. Cangse Sanren, this is Sect Leader Wen.”

Lan Qiren had heard rumors that Wen Ruohan had once had a personal title, but that he hadn’t liked it, and that he’d ensured that no one ever dared to use it to his face. At any rate, Lan Qiren didn’t know it now and could not use it as an introduction.

Not that Cangse Sanren would have cared, of course. She raised her hands in a salute, boldly keeping her head raised and the bow shallow enough to be insolent.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“And I of you,” Wen Ruohan responded. “It’s been a long time since a disciple has descended from the immortal mountain. Tell me, are you planning on joining the Lan sect?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “Are you planning on proposing some alternative you think I might like better?”

“Perhaps I will. You never know what the future might bring.”

“Knowing the present and the past would seem a sufficient guide to me.”

Lan Qiren looked between them in growing alarm as they exchanged seemingly pleasant words in cutting tones. It wasn’t that he hadn’t expected this, but perhaps not quite so quickly...

“Could the two of you maybe not do this?” he asked, feeling a little plaintive. He didn’t want to have to explain how a casual tour designed to kill time had escalated into an inter-sect issue. “Cangse Sanren, if my da-ge’s presence bothers you, we can just leave.”

Cangse Sanren broke away from the staring match she’d started with Wen Ruohan to frown at him. “You call him da-ge?”

“Is there any reason he shouldn’t?” Wen Ruohan’s voice was as smooth as the silk used to execute empresses. “He’s my sworn brother, after all.”

“Oh, I know that,” she said. “It’s only that he calls Qingheng-jun ‘xiongzhang’.”

Wen Ruohan seemed a little surprised by that. He glanced at Lan Qiren, who scowled back at him. “So what?” he said, feeling oddly defensive. “You asked to be called ‘da-ge’.”

“I suppose I did,” Wen Ruohan said, and his lips curled upwards in satisfaction.

“Hey, Lan-xiao-gege,” Cangse Sanren suddenly said, and Lan Qiren automatically glared: he didn’t like her calling him that. “Could you get me a ribbon from my room?”

“What? I just gave you –”

“There’s one in particular inside a qiankun pouch on my desk,” she said, barreling on. “You can just bring the whole thing. I need it rather urgently, and for various reasons cannot go myself.”

“But –”

“You shouldn’t deny a lady in need, little Lan,” Wen Ruohan interjected. “Don’t forget that chivalry is one of your rules. Go and return; I will wait for you here.”

“And I’ll keep an eye on him to make sure he does,” Cangse Sanren said, which was horribly rude even if he did somewhat need that reassurance. “Please, Qiren-gege? Would you?”

“…all right,” Lan Qiren said, having the distinct feeling that he was being ganged up on. “I’ll be back right away.”

There was a rule against running, but he’d long ago mastered the art of walking as quickly as he could without breaking any of the rules against haste; he was able to retrieve the pouch and return to the training field within a single ke, which he thought might have broken some sort of record. Even so, by the time he returned with the pouch, Cangse Sanren and Wen Ruohan were standing side-by-side with identical expressions of smug satisfaction that suggested that they’d accomplished whatever it was that they’d so obviously wanted him out of the way for.

Hopefully not a recruitment into the Wen sect. His brother would kill him.

“Ah, Qiren-gege!” Cangse Sanren said, and accepted the pouch. As if purposefully adding insult to injury, she tied it to her waist without even bothering to pretend to root around inside for the ribbon or whatever thing she had so ‘urgently’ needed from it. “You’re the best.”

“And you’re a pest,” he told her, but she only looked pleased with herself. He wasn’t going to get any answers out of her, and he didn’t even bother to hope for one from Wen Ruohan, who was exactly the same. He looked at him regardless: “Da-ge, are you done here? Even though they haven’t sent word, I’m sure the elders have finished preparing to receive you properly, so you can finally do whatever it is that you came to the Cloud Recesses to do.”

Get out of my way maybe, he meant, and not especially subtly, either.

“Uh, Qiren-gege,” Cangse Sanren said, grinning at him. “I’m pretty sure he’s already doing that.”

Lan Qiren refrained from rolling his eyes at her yet again – nobody would gather up their entire retinue to travel halfway across the cultivation world to see him – and turned expectantly to Wen Ruohan.

“I gave my lieutenants orders to begin negotiations without me,” he said, looking disinterested. “Your sect elders will not want me to disturb them until they have reached preliminary agreement on the main points, so as to avoid losing face for either sect in the event we can’t reach an appropriate resolution.”

Lan Qiren hadn’t thought of that. He supposed it made sense.

Irritating, irritating sense.

“We’ve already seen quite a lot of the Cloud Recesses,” Wen Ruohan added. “Why don’t we take some tea in your rooms?”

Lan Qiren thought about his rooms, which were still in a terrible state, and tensed – he’d neatened up as best as he could after his tantrum in the little time he’d had to himself, but removing all the broken things had left the space bare and uninviting. He wasn’t even sure he even had a matching tea set left.

“You should go down to Caiyi Town,” Cangse Sanren announced. “It has a thriving market full of unique goods, and from what I hear you have a new bride, Sect Leader Wen. If you don’t get her something from your trip, she’ll never forgive you.”

Wen Ruohan hummed thoughtfully, and Lan Qiren seized on the excuse to nod fervently and usher Wen Ruohan towards the gates instead of his rooms.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find something to her taste,” he told Wen Ruohan, and for some reason remembered how the man’s long-nailed hand, capable of crushing mountains, had so delicately held the bowl Lan Qiren had painted as he had drunk his wedding toasts, as if he’d been afraid of causing the slightest damage to it. “There’s plenty there.”

“I’m sure there is,” Wen Ruohan said, and to Lan Qiren’s relief they were able to spend the next two shichen wandering slowly through the market. Wen Ruohan seemed to be particularly interested in stalls or shops selling household goods, whether vases or inkstones or paperweights, or else in paintings and other decorations; he solicited Lan Qiren’s thoughts on them all, and insisted on hearing them no matter how much Lan Qiren tried to demur.

“I really don’t know how much it’ll help you to know that I personally prefer my décor to have neutral colors with abstract designs,” he said, rubbing his forehead after one particularly extended discussion with a very enthusiastic shop manager in which they, again, did not make any purchase. “I doubt your new bride shares my excessively particular tastes.”

“What makes them excessive, rather than simply a preference?” Wen Ruohan asked, strolling over to where Lan Qiren was standing and running a finger along the blanket Lan Qiren had been absent-mindedly kneading with his hands out of lack of anything better to do. It was made of multilayer silk, airy as a cloud but trapping enough heat to allow for some warmth, and some clever designer had introduced some sort of subtle pattern to the embroidery that made it feel almost fuzzy. Lan Qiren had liked it at once, although regrettably it was the sort of expensive that was beyond the reach of even his generous allowance, especially since he’d so recently depleted it; it would have required him to rely on sect credit to obtain it.

He was technically entitled to do so, especially as one of the main branch family, but it wasn’t worth the snippy comments about Do not wallow in luxury that he’d invariably get for it. When he was younger, his brother had, in a rare moment of sympathy, told him that he’d be able to do much more and allow himself far more freedom while still avoiding such criticism if only he weren’t so insistent on talking about the rules all the time, but at that age Lan Qiren had struggled tremendously with focusing on other subjects and it had seemed easier to simply give up a few privileges. Later, of course, he’d realized that he didn’t have to give up those rights at all – the rule against luxury was intended to forestall dissipation and waste, the prioritizing of self-indulgence over duty, not occasional purchases designed to make life more comfortable – but his austere habits had remained. It was easier to pretend to have a preference towards asceticism and restraint than to admit that he was just being picky again, that he’d rather no blanket than a scratchy one or that loud colors or busy designs hurt his eyes and distracted him from his studies no matter how beautiful the art.

“I don’t suppose you remember those greens they were serving, the first time we met?” Lan Qiren asked dryly. “The ones I didn’t eat? It’s a bit like that.”

“Mm, I recall,” Wen Ruohan said, which surprised Lan Qiren: the other man’s memory must be prodigious to recall such a small event in such a long life. “You cried when you tried to force yourself.”

“It was a physical reaction,” Lan Qiren said through gritted teeth. How did Wen Ruohan always manage to find the most irritating take on any subject? “I gagged, that’s all. Anyway, all I meant was that I’m picky and particular, set in my ways and preferences, and what I like doesn’t necessarily transfer to other people.”

He wanted to ask Are you planning on getting something here already, but that would be crossing the line from blunt to intolerably rude, given that Wen Ruohan was his guest and his elder. Instead, he waited until it seemed like Wen Ruohan was done talking, and then edged pointedly towards the exit in the hope that the older man would get the hint.

In the end, they returned to the Cloud Recesses just in time for dinner, in which Lan Qiren was seated next to Wen Ruohan but which, per Lan sect rules, was silent, and was happily sidelined for most of the discussions that took place afterwards, which were mostly about sect affairs. The next two days Wen Ruohan spent fully ensconced in negotiations with Lan Qiren’s father and brother, and the day after that he was scheduled to leave – he had made plans to visit the Jin sect next before returning to Qishan, a route that ever so coincidentally would make it convenient for him to unofficially swing by Qinghe on his return as well – and in the end they only had time to take tea a few more times, almost always in the company of others.

Lan Qiren breathed a sigh of relief at having managed at least one successful one-on-one interaction with Wen Ruohan that hadn’t blown up in his face. He obtained belated permission for his invitation to the Cold Spring and mentioned to Wen Ruohan that he could take advantage of it during his next visit, whenever that might be – Wen Ruohan had seemed pleased by the offer – and obediently watched the visitors depart before returning, at long last, to his classes.

There were whispers, of course, but he ignored them with the ease of long practice. His sworn brotherhood was unusual, inevitably drawing attention; that would not change, just as it would not change the existence of it, and so other people would simply have to grow bored of their gossip first.

It wasn’t until later, when classes broke for the day, that he finally went back to his rooms.

His rooms, which –

Did not look like his rooms.

Lan Qiren stared.

What should have been bare walls and a cracked table and a bed with a single sheet had been transformed: there were paintings and vases, each with the subtle designs he favored, the latter filled with flowers emitting a cool and subtle scent; the incense burner had been replaced with one of delicate and intricate copperwork, a perfect match to the copper accents that adorned the new table, made of dark wood, that had replaced the one he’d broken. Even the pillows and blanket had been replaced – and he recognized that blanket, expensive and unnecessary, with clever embroidery and multiple layers of silk –

“His taste’s a bit much, I think,” Cangse Sanren said from behind him, having apparently followed him in at some point when he hadn’t noticed. “But I suppose you can’t fault him for efficiency.”

Lan Qiren turned to stare at her. “You – you knew about this?”

She grinned at him.

“You didn’t say – you didn’t tell – !” Lan Qiren looked around. “He was shopping for me?”

“All your fault,” she said cheerfully. “Apparently you were the one who started it all, giving him a gift –”

“He was getting married!”

“Some men are unreasonably competitive, Qiren-gege. Your sworn brother is one of them.”

“I – a competition – ?!”

“Possibly he also felt bad about getting you drunk and taking advantage of you,” she said. “And wanted to make up for it somehow. Just a thought.”

Lan Qiren flapped his hands in the air, unable to form words for a while – not least because he was pretty sure Wen Ruohan didn’t do emotions like felt bad, and probably maxed out at this made you have feelings which are inconvenient for me – and then finally settled on some: “What did the two of you talk about?!”

Cangse Sanren poked at the new guqin stand in the corner, dark wood and copper as well, embedded with a few dimly glowing night-pearls, and nodded to herself in satisfaction at its balance. “Blind people with no judgment or appreciation, mostly.”

“…what?!”

“I may have also mentioned that your room was looking a bit too ascetic recently…”

“Cangse Sanren!”

She laughed her peculiar laugh, the deep one that came from her belly and made everyone around her want to join in, and took to her heels as if afraid that he might chase her. Lan Qiren seriously considered it for a moment, wanting to scold her and also to extract every detail about how she had almost certainly tried to scold one of the most terrifying men currently living, but he found himself drifting over to the bed instead, putting his hands into the comfortable blanket and already imagining how well he would sleep with it tucked tightly around him.

Fine, he thought, scowling down at it with a glare that was for no one’s benefit, not even himself. Maybe next time he writes inviting me, I’ll even go.

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[thoughts-on-bangtan]

“Let’s BTS” asks about “I like you the most” and Jin’s reaction

by Admin 2

First of all, I want to wish you all, far away in the world of Vmin and BTS, a healthy and peaceful Easter, if you celebrate it, and a nice weekend for those who don’t! Since Admin 1 is quite busy right now and currently also participating in Camp NaNoWriMo, I (Admin 2) will take over our blog for a little while though Admin 1 will still be lurking and checking comments etc. I want to emphasize right away (you will probably notice it anyway) that I have no literary talent compared to Admin 1. I'll try to worthily “replace” Admin 1 for the time being and talk to you about Vmin and more.

Unlike Admin 1, I am not so careful with shipping discussions (and I even like them) as long as everything is done respectfully and we’re all sticking to the truth about the BTS members. I don't like criticizing other shippers because I understand that other fans may love their favorite members and ships just as much as we love Vmin or Namjin, but sometimes it’s inevitable that I have to say something.

So, I invite you to a discussion. I am open to discussion.

We got two interesting questions about “Let’s BTS” and specifically Jin’s reaction to vmin and I want to discuss them.

From anon: Hi, just wanted to see what you made of Jin’s reaction to Tae’s message to Jimin on the Let’s BTS show. I’ve seen some people say he looks so done and even annoyed with it. I can understand him looking apprehensive at first because Tae is a bit of a loose canon, but everyone’s reaction after is to laugh and smile and shout but Jin is very stoic. I’m kinda new and wondering whether he isn’t a fan of Vmin’s brand of declaring their love on national TV. Although when I think of how he behaves with Joon - I’d struggle to wonder why he doesn’t like it. Any thoughts?

From anon: Hi, I cannot believe what I’m reading about Tae on some platforms. What is wrong with people? Anyways I wanted to ask you what you thought of Jin’s reaction to Tae’s message for Jimin? I’ve started seeing people saying that Jin hates the fact they’re close that’s why his reaction was weird. I’m a vmin shipper but Jin is my bias and I can’t get my head around the fact that Jin doesn’t love them both dearly. He did look “apprehensive” perhaps but I’d say with Tae being Tae; that isn’t surprising.

In order to answer these two questions and to form my opinion on the matter, I’ve looked at the situation with regard to Jin and other members several times.

I admit that I’m surprised myself that Taehyung went this far. Actually, it's not even about the content of his words, but about the whole circumstance and the atmosphere that he created around his "confession". I don't know who added the music, whether it was a Taehyung hint or simply something the editors and PD thought of, but the whole situation and phrase gained even more "meaning" and "seriousness" through it.

I seemed as though the background music was supposed to make the moment remind everyone almost of a scene from a K-Drama (or one of vmin’s playful roleplays), but it only added to the effect of this being a serious, sincere and weighty moment instead.

Taehyung joked around by turning the table and pretending the envelope was not intended for Jimin, but this just led to an increase in the tension displayed by the members and the moment itself, and yet still Jimin was immediately convinced that he was the one for whom the envelope would be. Everyone was acting (which makes it sound like they were faking it which isn’t what I mean) like they were curious, but you could clearly see everyone's tension and nervousness, especially when looking at Jimin. Taehyung added that the contents of the card within the envelope were for Jimin's eyes only, emphasizing the seriousness and intimacy of what he was about to say. As a result, Jimin’s reaction led to uncertainty, nervousness, and at the same time an awareness of the sincerity and seriousness of Taehyung's words.

The words "I like you the most" are (on a superficial surface level) nothing big when compared to "I love you", but they still had the biggest reaction. Jimin wrote "I love you" to Suga and absolutely no one reacted nervously, everyone joined in on the declaration, and the situation was relaxed and even funny. Why did Taehyung’s words cause such reactions then? Why?

My thought is this: When the envelope was revealed to be for Jimin, it was met with tension by both members and Jimin. We all know that Taehyung can be a bit of a loose cannon sometimes, even on national television, when it comes to Jimin.

Jungkook immediately commented that "it’s about friendship", Suga laughed nervously and loudly, as if he wanted to end the situation quickly, and Jin had a serious face that didn’t seem all too positive or eager about what would happen next.I'm not going to go into Jimin's reaction here, but rather Jin’s, since that’s what the anons were wondering about.

In my opinion, Jin doesn't like situations that slip into seemingly too private matters. He is definitely the kind of person who gives up the least private information. The situation with Vmin clearly didn't suit him. And not because Jin doesn't like Vmin (because that’s simply not true), but because he knew this program would be broadcast nationally and streamed worldwide, that it would be debated, that every word would be analyzed, and most importantly, because the team that recorded the show wasn’t their own but one that belonged to KBS. Jin doesn't want anyone to have access to BTS's private life, after all he even asked the You Quiz editors to cut what he saw as too sad/depressing about his answers so clearly he thinks about and considers many such things. I think Taehyung didn't care all that much, but Jin did care.

Perhaps I will go too far in my analysis and imagination here, but let's not forget that in the near future Jin is going to have to leave for his military enlistment in the highly conservative Korean army, which holds very homophobic views. Any shadow cast on any of the BTS members (even if some of them are already suspected to be queer) can endanger Jin or make it even more difficult for him to perform his service well and safely. The suspicion that two of the members might be in a relationship with each other would make Jin an accomplice, since they belong to the same group and would lead to him also being suspected of being queer, guilty by associating basically. This is my opinion at least.

Jin is the oldest and feels responsible for BTS, much the way Namjoon does as leader, for everyone including Taehyung, because Jin is aware of the wave of hatred that will be/is poured onto Taehyung across sns after such a public statement. According to Jin, in my humble opinion, this is neither the time nor the place to take such a step in such serious manner. As long as everything was done in form of jokes and witty answers, Jin was joining in and having fun, but when it was Tae's turn his face became serious, as if to warn Taehyung. Jin knew that "Taehyung's atmosphere" could/would fluster Jimin and the entire team, and could become the subject of rumors spread by the staff that isn’t their own.

So no, Jin’s reaction wasn’t because he hates vmin or anything like that, because that’s not true on any level, but because Taehyung’s words about liking Jimin the most were perhaps too sincere for the setting they were in, raising too many brows, and that’s potentially why he reacted the way he did. After all, if you watch the 5th Muster concerts, and especially the one in Seoul, when vmin stand at the very end together, Jin approaches them and throws water at them as though to pull them out of their bubble and back into reality. All in good fun and because he simply cares a lot about them.

Also, an alternative and even more simple answer could be that Jin’s face has no relation to anything I just said and doesn’t tell us anything about what he thought about Taehyung’s words. After all in some interviews he also just sits there quietly and watches/listens to the other members and that doesn’t mean anything at all, or at least nothing negative. But since you asked for my thoughts, here they are, though they don’t have to be right.

I actually have no idea what the reactions are to this show in Korea and among the general public, but I've seen the reactions to Tae’s words across various sns, which one of the anons also mentioned so I’d like to talk about those for a moment as well.

My hair stood on end when I read some of the responses/posts about Taehyung. I never thought that people who call themselves ARMY or fans of BTS would have such opinions about any of the members. A wave of hatred literally flooded Taehyung, like Admin 1 previously mentioned in their answer to an ask.

I just wanted to cry. It shocked me how far shipping can go (literally playing with actual, living people with no regard to their own words and thoughts) that it can cause such extreme emotions in "fans". It's hard to say which is more negative and alarming for some, Taehyung potentially really having (romantic and reciprocated) feelings for Jimin, Taehyung's feelings not being for the “right” person, or the mere fact that Taehyung's feelings are for a person of the same gender.

It’s also interesting to see how deceptive some are. I don’t even mean that “Taehyung and Jimin like each other most” is ignored, which it is, but rather that those mutual feelings were manipulated to twist them into a completely different direction and to another person, or turned into mere jokes or sarcasm. As if all of this simply never happened.

On the other hand, the fact that Jungkook unbuttoned his shirt before going on stage for “My Time”, as opposed to him not doing so during rehearsals, has become very important and an example of J*k*ok being in a relationship, how that’s now even clearer than ever before and is an indisputable fact, according to shippers. Apparently, J*k*ok were flirting with each other throughout the entire segment and show and only had eyes for each other. Somehow Jungkook imitating Jimin is the final piece of evidence to prove everything shippers ever claimed and thus, according to them, everyone must now see that they love each other romantically.

I've carefully watched this show three times, this particular segment and everything else too, and frankly I haven't seen anything that could be called anything even close to flirting when it comes to the two main ML ships. I'm mature and I think I know what flirting is and I can “read” the simplest human behavior, but I really couldn’t see any of it. In my opinion, Jungkook imitating Jimin is clear and open and not a secret. I fully understand Jungkook, I would also follow Jimin in his place :-) Jimin's dancing and looks, as well as his professional work ethic, are truly breathtaking, inspiring and worth imitating. However, this has absolutely nothing to do with romantic affection or a romantic relationship between them, in my opinion.

Hence, I fail to understand these behaviors which in turn lead to a wave of hatred against Taehyung and the, repeated, disregard, belittlement and erasure of Jimin’s and Taehyung’s friendship and relationship bond, and even some going as far as pretending anything vmin was simply not there at all just to make their ship seem more real, booo.

[thetypedwriter]

A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab

A Darker Shade of Magic Book Review by V.E. Schwab 

I should really trust myself more. 

Do you ever have that one gut feeling or you just know yourself and if you’re going to like something or not?

That was my experience with A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab. I’ve read only one other V.E. Schwab novel and it was Vicious-you can read my review on it HERE. 

And while I by no means disliked Vicious, I was also not nearly as enraptured as everyone else seemed to be about the novel and about Schwab pieces in general. 

So when another Tumblr user recommended A Darker Shade of Magic I figured that I owed it to myself, this other user, and to Schwab to not write her off entirely and read something else she had crafted, even though I knew deep down inside that I probably wouldn’t like it. 

Buttttttt, the opposite has happened before, like with The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid. 

However, once again, while I by no means detested the book, I was less than enthused by the work and the reading experience as a whole. 

As a sort of flimsy disclaimer, I do generally tend to read YA and when I delve into adult fiction it’s often hit or miss with me as I usually feel bogged down by repetitious details and boring descriptive paragraphs that I find unnecessary and the main reason why adult fiction is so slow and banal (in my opinion). 

So, the amount of YA I read and the tropes and pace that comes with that kind of material is on me as I’m simply just very used to books working that way. But, once again, there have been outliers and I truly think that only so much of my boredom and dislike can be explained away due to what I’m familiar with. 

Onto the actual novel, A Darker Shade of Magic is really the story of two characters, Kell and Lilah, two separate people from literally two different worlds. You see, Kell is an Antari, a rare being that can tap into the pure magic of the world and wield it to his liking, allowing him to pass between the veil separating the worlds.

Lilah, on the other hand, is a conniving thief with the stereotypical heart of gold and tragic backstory. She inadvertently finds herself in possession of a magical stone and in the troubling presence of Kell himself, leading her on an adventure between worlds as they try to restore the stone to Black London where it belongs. 

Along the way, Holland, the only other Antari, is out to get them both and the stone, dripping blood in his wake, the stone itself is too powerful to resist with disastrous consequences if you don’t, a darkness of sorts is infecting the different London’s and the people in it, and political machinations run abundant and bloodthirsty as worlds crash for the first time in years. 

It sounds very action-packed and intriguing and for some of you it may very well be. 

For me personally, though, I just could never buy into this world that had been slowly crafted and built upon. Schwab does a great job of creating the world(s), the people in it, and finely tuned details so that each London had a distinct flavor with their own set of issues and conflict. 

I just didn’t care. 

Kell and Lilah were fine as characters. I found Kell to be whiny more often than not and he would constantly tell himself that he would stop doing something (like taking items from one London and bringing it into another) and then never follow through. It also irked me that Kell was this all mighty, all kind and altruistic person. I found that boring. 

Lilah, on the other hand, I liked a great deal more. It’s a bit tiresome to me that Kell and Lilah will no doubt develop feelings for one another, but it’s far from the worst pairing I’ve ever seen. Lilah is fierce and I often liked her lack of empathy and her cruelty, which I found much more realistic than Kell’s humble persona given her backstory and her circumstances. 

All the other characters didn’t even make a blip on my radar to be honest. 

Holland is evil. I got the impression that Schwab was trying to make him be one of those I-once-was-good-but-pain-carved-it-out-of-me-characters, but it just didn’t work for me. I found him empty and shallow and I didn’t have enough information about him to really care about his actions and motivations. 

The twins from White London, Astrid and Athos Dane, are almost comically vile and corrupt. Once again, I’m sure Schwab has a backstory on the ruling twins and their iniquitous ways, but I just couldn't shake off the indifference I had while reading this entire story. 

Rhy was simply there for comic relief and not much else. 

The writing itself was good and decently paced, although I did find some parts, particularly bits of Kell whining, to be monotonous and wearisome, the rest of the story was written just fine with some bits of well-timed action and riveting fight-scenes. 

However, none of it was enough to shake off my apathy. 

At the end of the day, the story and its characters failed to suck me in and engross me. I wasn’t attached to anyone and I didn’t feel the particular need to read the story at all. Towards the end, my motivation was more about finishing the book so I could move onto something else than it was actually reading the conclusion and wrapping up the tale. 

This book wasn’t for me. 

I tried, I truly did, and gave myself, this user, and Schwab the benefit of the doubt, but this was strike two. It’ll take a prodigious amount of convincing to get me to read another Schwab novel, and I certainly have no interest in reading the rest of the Shades of Magic trilogy.

  All that being said, even though this book and perhaps this author aren’t for me, doesn’t mean it won’t be for you or to your liking. If adult fantasy really tickles your fancy, this could be your great big love. Take what I’m saying with a grain of salt as I know I’m biased towards YA and my familiarity with that. If you don’t fall into the same category as me, it’s highly likely you’d really enjoy A Darker Shade of Magic. 

Recommendation: If all you read is YA like me then this is probably not your cup of tea. If you’re on the fence, then check it out from your local library free of charge and give it a spin. You might find that you crash and burn or that you’ve found the next exhilarating series to add to your magical fantasy repertoire. 

Score: 4/10

[unpeumacabre]

soaring dragon dancing phoenix - 龙飞凤舞: prologue

Yunmeng is no longer home for Wei Wuxian, for he is no longer welcome. And so when he visits he can always count on Jiang Cheng descending upon his head with the full strength of heaven's fury, to chase him out. But one day when he sneaks into Yunmeng again, days go by without Jiang Cheng making an appearance. Something has happened to Wei Wuxian's prickly shi-di, something that - once they reunite - they will find is far greater than they could ever have anticipated. Accompanied also by Wei Wuxian's dear friend (?) Lan Zhan and a Lan Xichen who has only just reluctantly left isolation, the four of them set out on a journey that will bring them across the greater part of China to the mystical Kunlun mountains of mythology - and more importantly, may bring them love, healing, and reconciliation.

If only Wei Wuxian could take his head out of his oblivious arse and start putting himself in other people's shoes for once...

Rating: Mature

Relationships: Wangxian, Xicheng, Wei Wuxian & Jiang Cheng

Read on AO3 (bc tumblr might mess up the formatting + more extensive author’s notes on the story)

Count: 1.5k

next ->

One year after the events of the Guanyin Temple, and the death of former Chief Cultivator Lianfang-zun.

Lan Zhan!

I agree with what you said about Sect Leader Yao, that old fart. He wouldn’t know a good idea if it bit him on the arse. If I were you I’d have snuck into his room at night and shaved off his eyebrows – but then again, you’re Chief Cultivator, and you have to follow boring things like rules and protocol. Don’t worry, the next time I’m in Pingyang I’ll … It’s a secret! Look forward to the next time you have a discussion conference with that pig-headed old fool.

I’ve finally reached Yunmeng. Little Apple took such a long time to get started from the inn in Jiangling. I think he had a crush on one of the serving girls, to be honest. Even apples didn’t work to drag him away from her. I had to conjure a mirage of her all the way from Jiangling to Yunmeng to get him going – can you imagine that? One of these days I’ll have to find a nice little female ass to keep his little Little Apple happy … Hahaha! I can practically see you rolling your eyes at me now, Lan Zhan. You still can’t take a dirty joke after all.

Anyway, I digress. It’s nice to be back in Yunmeng and be able to pick all the lotus pods I want and to flirt with all the pretty Yunmeng girls, although none of them are as pretty as you are, of course. You’d make a big stir if you came to Yunmeng – you should visit with me one of these days when you’re free! Although I know of course you have responsibilities as Chief Cultivator etc etc but I promise you it’ll be fun! One of these days I’ll come kidnap you. Then Lan Qiren, that old man, would really have an aneurysm, ha! I’d kidnap you just to see his reaction.

Don’t worry about me, I’m talking nonsense as usual. I wouldn’t really kidnap you, unless I was really bored. And Jiang Cheng would probably beat my ass for trying. Honestly, it surprises me that I haven’t had the honour of Jiang Cheng’s company yet. Somehow, he always knows the moment I step into Yunmeng – it’s like he has a spell set up to go off whenever I’m in the vicinity??? And he never fails to turns up for an hour or two just to shout at me, thrash Zidian around a bit and tell me to go back to Gusu. Then he storms off somewhere to drink tea or something. I swear he’s going to die of high blood pressure one of these days.

Well, I expect I’ll see him around. He’s bound to turn up sometime or other. Looking forward to your reply, and counting every one of your twenty words,

Wei Wuxian

***

Lan Zhan!

Thank you for expressing your concern for Little Apple’s wellbeing. He’s eating well (as usual) and living happily in the city stables where I left him. He has a new crush on the stable boy though, but I’m not worried about that – it seems like his affections are as transient as floating smoke and passing clouds. He seems to be like his former master in the sense of being indiscriminate with regards to his choice of partner, which makes me wonder why he’s taken such an intense aversion to me. I guess it’s just the same old story with me and animals all over again.

It’s my third day in Yunmeng, and still no sign of Jiang Cheng anywhere. Perhaps he’s simply busy with some night hunt or other and can’t be bothered to whip my ass into shape. I’ve been visiting his favourite haunts the past few days but no luck – it seems like he’s really busy this time. I’m starting to worry, and although I never thought I’d ever say this, I miss his grumpy ass. It’s been the longest I’ve gone without hearing him call me a fucking idiot, haha!

Anyway I have a funny story to tell! Yesterday I went to investigate rumours of walking corpses at the base of Yunmeng Mountain. Apparently some farmers came across them and ran away but one of them was caught and eaten.

But guess what, Lan Zhan? Actually, it was nothing more than a group of hermits who’d come down from Yunmeng Mountain five days ago after meditating in seclusion for three years, and they were doing their Bagua ritual circle walk around one of the dove trees at the base of the mountain. They hadn’t bathed once in those three years, and so when the farmers came upon them and saw them chanting and moaning and pacing around the tree they were mistaken for walking corpses! Hahahaha how ridiculous is that??? Anyway I cleared up the misunderstanding. The farmer who was apparently eaten fell down a cliff when he was trying to escape from the “corpses” and broke his leg, so the hermits rescued him and patched him up. He was perfectly fine. I talked to them and they seemed like a pretty normal bunch to me – they were quite a big group when they came down the mountain at first apparently but then most of them decided to go down south and back home instead of lingering in Yunmeng. That’s about all the excitement I’ve had so far, I think.

Well, anyway, thank you for the twenty-one words you used in your reply. You have gotten quite adept at teasing me, haven’t you? Looking forward to how else you may surprise me next,

Wei Wuxian

***

Lan Zhan,

No, I don’t think Jiang Cheng fell off a cliff too. As much as you might wish for it to happen, he’s still my brother an important sect leader, you know! Anyway I already checked all the cliffs around the mountain before I received your letter so it couldn’t possibly be so.

Besides, I went to Lotus Pier earlier today – just to check on how things are going, you know, in case they need my help or something, nothing to do with Jiang Cheng. I just stayed outside the gates because I thought Jiang Cheng would probably descend from the heavens on a cloud and break my legs the moment I stepped foot into Lotus Pier, but some of the disciples spotted me and asked me what I was doing there. They said there have been people disappearing just outside Yunmeng, to the southwest and twenty li outside the main city, and when some of the Yunmeng Jiang cultivators went to investigate a few days ago some of them disappeared. So Jiang Cheng decided to take a few more of the Yunmeng Jiang disciples and investigate himself.

Since I have some free time, I’ve decided to help them out. They’ve been gone for four days already – the beast must truly be a handful indeed. It might be fun to go and help, although I think Jiang Cheng might spontaneously explode when he sees my face. Well, maybe the explosion will end up killing the monster, who knows.

It’s quite odd, though; some of the disciples who escaped even said they saw the spectre of Jin Guangyao, that wily old fox, hanging around the cave where they were attacked. Although of course that is impossible, for he is probably still trapped in Nie Mingjue’s coffin, fighting a battle till the end of time. Well, I guess I’ll see for myself if what they saw was true or not.

I had not known that you were capable of silk embroidery. Your skill is indeed fine – as expected of the esteemed Second Master Lan! I shall treasure your gift until the end of time. The cherry blossoms flowered today, and they made me think of you. I wonder if you still remember visiting Tanzhou with me when we were looking for the remaining pieces of the Yin metal? Was it your first time attending such a festival? You looked so surprised by the petals raining down on you then! I miss those times. 

I will write to you again tomorrow when I have rescued Jiang Cheng from the human-eating monster. I will make sure to give you a good account of his face when he sees me there to interfere with his night hunt, ha!

***

Dear Lan Wangji Hanguang-jun Mr Chief Cultivator Sir,

I am writing this letter to you because I know you to be a good friend of Wei Wuxian. Just today, I visited Lotus Pier and found that my uncle has been missing for a week, and Wei Wuxian with him for two of those days. They have apparently gone in pursuit of a human-eating monster twenty li southwest of the main city limits of Yunmeng. It must have been a fierce creature indeed to have ensnared both my uncle and Wei Wuxian

Unfortunately, as I am currently extremely and regrettably tied up in Lanling Jin sect matters, this humble person would like to humbly request for your help in locating and possibly rescuing them. Thank you.

Best regards, yours sincerely and most humbly,

Sect Leader Jin Ling, Lanling Jin sect

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Made not Born: Part 1

Fandom: The Witcher (Netflix)

Pairing: Jaskier x Plus Size! Goddess! Reader

Warnings: 

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff​ aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long​

Summary: You’re a goddess of little things, but you were made not born. You tire of immortality, of the glitter that does not fade, of watching those around you grow and age and falter and die. You help Jaskier in a moment of need and in return he tries to help you. Perhaps you find yourself falling in love along the way.

Notes: 

You find him by the roadside. You’ve followed his journeys, one of the many mortals you enjoy watching the life of, and now you find him in need of help. His clothes are dirtied, he is sat in a muddy ditch, hair misplaced and blood bleeding from the broken skin of his lip. He is beaten and he is bloody, but not dangerously so. But you are a minor goddess, good for healing little wounds and mending small broken things. 

You don’t answer his questioning calls until you’ve placed a hand on his cheek and the bruises have faded, the cuts stitching themselves back together, the rips in his doublet mending. You doubt he knows what god you are, few do, but his eyes glimmer with recognition as he takes in your form. You are the homeliest looking of the gods, although by mortal standards anything but. Your hips are wide, your stomach soft, your skin is covered in marks and scars from your previous mortal life. Your hair does not shine and your eyes do not glow. You looked as you did in your mortal life, only with something extra, something which mortals could never place a finger on and could never quite describe. It was an essence that let them know you were more than them, something else, something other. For some this bred fear, other’s awe, some comfort, and many curiosity.

“You’re Desara” He lifts himself from his place sitting, only to kneel instead. Blue eyes twinkling up at you, taking in the strands of your hair, the colour of your eyes, the way your dress falls around your body as if purposefully effortless. He tries not to stare, he really does, but he’s never met a god before and you’re...godly, no...otherworldly, effortlessly beautiful, shining like a beacon and, most of all, you look kind. There is a softness in your face that he never expected a god to have, he always imagined there would be glares and glowering, thunderbolts and lightning. He always thought gods were supposed to be frightening.  You were the opposite of what he had imagined, you gave off a feeling of comfort and safety that had his shoulders relaxing without a thought.

“That’s what you mortals call me...I go by Y/N...” You rest your hands on his shoulders and urge him to rise, he towers above you. Another thing he thought impossible. He always imagined the gods doing the towering, but he has to angle his head downwards to look you in the eye. He isn’t sure if he’s supposed to look a god in the eye...he’s not sure what godly etiquette is. He’s fully prepared to make a massive faux pas and be struck down with some sort of plague or be crushed under the might of your godly powers. 

“Well, that’s very...”

“It’s a very mundane name, I know. I wasn’t always a goddess, you know?” You say with a small little smile, coy, playful. He shakes his head and swallows hard. He will admit he knows your name, knows that you are a minor goddess, known for little things, but he does not know what little things and he does not know your story or history. He always imagined that Gods were born. That they simply burst into existence or rather they existed and birthed everything else. He’d be lying if he said he was an overly devout man, he’d seen enough to be open minded, but had never been one for leaving offerings at shrines or speaking out prayers and thanks.  

“I was once a farmer’s daughter. I sowed the seeds, I threshed the wheat, I brought in the harvest...and then one day a god came to me and decided to make me a god too. She believed they needed more, believed she could create something more of me. I think she believed I’d become a great one, a powerful one.” You laugh and he thinks it is supposed to sound bitter and humourless, but instead it sounds soft on the breeze like the light strumming of his lute or the sound of birdsong on a spring morning. “So I became Desara, Goddess of the little things, the warmth of a hearth, the feeling of home after a long journey. Goddess of small creatures and little deeds, of jaunty tunes and a noiseless breeze. Goddess of the seed that roots and the weed that dies, Goddess of the daisy chains and flower crowns. Of worms and of rhymes. Of broken noses and split lips. My powers are minor and few pray to me. Mostly, little children who find my rhymes and songs amusing or who wind chains of flowers for their friends. They soon forget, however.”

“A rather impressive list, oh beautiful creature, oh mighty goddess” He is not sure how anyone could forget you. If you consider yourself minor and unimpressive he cannot imagine what the other gods are like, but he finds that he has no interest in finding out.

“Please. Y/N. I do not enjoy being....grovelled too or worshipped. I am so tired, Julian Alfred Pankratz. I have lived so long and so lonely.” 

“If I am to call you Y/N, then please call me Jaskier.” There is a pause before he continues, “Surely you have admirers at your beck and call?” He cannot imagine you without them. Cannot imagine why men and women would not flock to worship at your feet, why they would not revel in the swell of your hips or the softness of your body, the kindness of your face, or the gentle nature of your words. It seemed to him that anyone would be a fool not to admire and worship you. 

“Admirers are not loves. They grovel, they seek, they desire, they want, but they do not wish to truly know or listen or care. What I would give to be mortal again, to live in the moment, to know there is an end. To be loved for myself, a farmer’s daughter and not a goddess.”

“Is there not some way to do so? To become mortal, I mean?” He doesn’t pretend to know much about these sorts of things, that was always Geralt’s area of expertise, but it makes sense to him that anything that is made can be unmade, anything that is fixed can be broken. 

“For all my years, my knowledge of gods and kings, monsters and men is rather limited. If there is, I doubt the other God’s would tell me for fear that in some hateful fury I might make them mortal. Although I tend to avoid them where possible and would much rather leave them to their quibbling and return to a simpler life”

“Your predicament moves me, Y/N...I am humbled in your presence, “ You go to cut him off and chastise but he stops you, “Not because you are a god or some immortal being but because it is clear to me you have a mortal soul longing for what mortals do.  Love.” Perhaps he is flowery with his words, like most bards are, but you decide that he truly means what he says, no matter how poetic it might appear. 

“If you will permit me, I would try to help? I have little knowledge on the subject of Gods, but I know a friend who might know where to look.”

“The Witcher.” He looks surprised, “Us Gods watch, you know. From our skies and our seas and our grasses and our trees. I find you enjoyable in your journeys, Toss a Coin to Your Witcher really was a masterpiece,” 

“-Why thank yo-” You cut off the thanks, not needing thanks for speaking what you feel is the truth. 

“I watch and I know things. He is your friend and you are right, he knows a great deal about my kind and all the tricks to make or break us...do stress that I was not born a god, I was made...and surely what was made can be unmade?” You take a deep breath and humble yourself, kneeling in front of him in a way none of the other gods would,  “I...thank you, Jaskier...I wish to be me again and I no longer wish to be so old and weary and never age. Thank you for trying even if an answer cannot be found.”

“I’ll find an answer. For good or ill. I’ve never had a quest of my own before, a true adventure, and I refuse to fail you, Y/N. I hope I can return your mortality.” You feel a little of your composure slip at the genuine kindness and determination in his voice, at the hopefully gleam in his blue eyes. You blink away what tears have filled your eyes and stand up to lean forward, pressing a thankful kiss to his forehead, gentleness you bestow upon any you can, but rarely with such genuine feeling. 

“Thank you, Jaskier. I will aid in what little ways I can, but I am no greater god, I cannot do much but mend small breaks, and soothe little hurts.” It’s a warning, kindly, but one to remind him that if he needs help greater than you can give then there is little you can do. It would pain you to see one of your favourite mortals perish in an effort to help you, you wanted your mortality, but not at the cost of a life. Perhaps your mortality wasn’t even possible to regain.

You leave him there, kneeling in the dirt with soft eyes and a softer heart. To him it seems as if you become one with the leaves and the trees, drifting off to somewhere unknown and his eyes follow for as long as they can before you disappear entirely. He steels himself, rising from the ground, tugging on his now mended doublet and grabbing his lute. He has a witcher to find and despite their current differences, Geralt had made it quite clear that he didn’t want the bard hanging around, Jaskier needed his help and he would put up with the grump for you. A kind goddess in need of help regaining her mortality, beautiful as the sunrise and quiet as the moon, well, that was just a song that needed to be written and a story that needed to be told.