#the smut is in pt 20 and it's written so you don't miss much else i don't think

[thistableforone]

piling up here some tag games I’ve been tagged in ✨ pt. 3

🌼 this picrew chain - tagged by @occhi-verdi-come-il-mare

i'm so late to this but!! very cute

🌸 5 songs you’re loving right now - tagged by @julesnichols

i'm afraid these are mostly in italian rn ahah

too sweet (hozier)

considera (colapesce e dimartino)

so american (olivia rodrigo)

euforia (annalisa)

modì (gio evan)

ragazzi fuori (clara)

rocketship (llunr)

aria (margherita vicario)

picture you (mumford and sons)

ted lasso anthem (marcus mumford). always.

🌻 15 questions, 15 friends - tagged by @julesnichols

are you named after anyone? nope, no one. my dad just liked the name

when was the last time you cried? i don't remember clearly. maybe last week?

do you have kids? no thank you

what sports do you play/have played? i don't play anything currently, but i used to play volleyball when i was a kid (+ swimming for a couple of months)

do you use sarcasm? not much

what is the first thing you notice about people? the general vibe really, and if they smile or not.

what is your eye color? brown

scary movies or happy endings? i don't watch scary movies!! definitely happy endings :)

any talents? mhh... writing? taking nice pictures? but those don't really feels like talents...

where were you born? north of italy!!

do you have any pets? i have two babies (my cats)

how tall are you? 1,67 m more or less

favorite subject in the school? math, but at the end of high school i really loved literature, english, politics and IT, too.

dream job? as someone said, i simply don't dream of working :)

🏵️ 20 questions for fic writers - tagged by @beckstraordinary

How many works do you have on AO3? 20, a very nice round number!!

What's your total AO3 word count? apparently around 198,713

What fandoms do you write for? i currently write for the ted lasso fandom only

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? Breaking down (the walls) - hope you'll be safe (in the arms of another) - Touch me (like you do) - we should just kiss (like real people do) - no one's keeping score

Do you respond to comments? yes i do!!

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? i think i only wrote one and it was a ff about maura isles

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? it's rather hard to compare happy endings, so i can't choose

Do you get hate on fics? it hasn't happened yet

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? yes i do, that's how i started basically (i miss it a bit, recently i've not been in the mood much). i'd say that my smut is... unnecessarily long and emotional. i fully believe it's a great way to understand who a character is.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? i wrote two - one was a castle x rizzoli and isles crossover about kate and maura together in college that i dnf-ed at a certain point. the second was this supergirl x rizzoli and isles crossover i'm still very fond of. i had so much fun writing that, and i still think it makes perfect sense :)

Have you ever had a fic stolen? not that i know of

Have you ever had a fic translated? yes, very recently!!

Have you ever co-written a fic before? no, i don't think i could

What’s your all time favorite ship? i don't think i have one above all. i was really into caskett (castle) and supercorp (supergirl), but now i've grown past both, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? i have a supercorp wip that i thought was very cute

What are your writing strengths? i think... construction of the line as a whole, if that makes sense. i try to make the words flow well and sound nice together. also dialogue, showing emotions through little gestures, intimacy, and lately introspection.

What are your writing weaknesses? i can't for the life of me write descriptions. of anything. i hate adjectives. i also get hyperfocused on the dynamic between two characters and refrain from including anyone else. oh also worldbuilding/background stuff... i just don't care.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? i don't think i've ever included it. but if i had to, i would do it with my own language.

First fandom you wrote for? only italians will get this one... un medico in famiglia. i still remember the first time inspiration hit.

Favourite fic you’ve written? definitely you said yes as I said please. i'm so proud of it and i was really inspired!!

no pressure tags, for whichever game you want to participate in!! @occhi-verdi-come-il-mare @rancoreedisprezzo @julesnichols @calicomarie11 @fuddlewuddle

[baoshan-sanren]

Part 18

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about - I’m really temped to name this “How To Communicate With Your Husband: A Narrative in Many Parts by Lan XiChen and Nie MingJue”

pt.1 here | pt.2 here | pt.3 here | pt.4 here | pt.5 here | pt.6 here | pt.7 here | pt.8 here | pt.9 here | pt.10 here | pt.11 here | pt.12 here | pt.13 here | pt.14 here | pt.15 here | pt.16 here | pt.17 here

XiChen knows he is being selfish.

The battle is over. The Nightless City has fallen. A constant string of messages are circulating around Wen RuoHan’s palace, attempting to reach Nie MingJue, the man who had led all the sects and clans into battle, who had been the figurehead, the rallying cry, the mastermind responsible for the demise of the Wen Sect. They will want him to take Wen RuoHan’s place as His Excellency; XiChen knows this without having to be told, without having seen any of the messages. Every moment Nie MingJue is not out there, with the Sect Leaders, is a moment Jin GuangShan will use to his advantage.

A new wave of flames engulfs his back, and he hisses through his teeth, feeling tears gather in his eyes. The flow of spiritual energy MingJue is passing through their clasped hands does not lessen, but his fingers tighten, as if offering comfort.

There are far more convenient places in the palace they could have gone, but Wen Qing had steered them to a small set of chambers in the south wing, a place that had belonged to Wen RuoHan’s personal healer. It would seem that the man had abandoned his post in a hurry; none of his tools or medicines were disturbed, and even his coat still lay tossed over the worktable chair. Wen Qing had named him a hopeless coward, but a capable and well-organized coward nonetheless. Barking orders at her brother, she had rifled through the cabinets and chests with single-minded focus, gathering medicine and herbs, and muttering angrily under her breath.    

The salve she had produced burns with the fire of a thousand suns, and XiChen does not understand how the cure can hurt more than the act of being whipped dozens of times. But he clenches his teeth and endures the pain, clinging to MingJue’s hand.

Six Nie cultivators stand guard outside the chambers, and no one is allowed to pass by them. XiChen cannot guess how many people, Sect Leaders and messengers alike, have been turned away so far. At one point, they could all clearly hear angry shouting outside the door, and although the voices had been unfamiliar, XiChen had felt his stomach twist with guilt.

“You should be out there,” he had said softly, without looking at MingJue.

“I am already where I should be,” MingJue had responded firmly, and no more was said on the subject.

XiChen knows he is being selfish, and childish, and that his uncle would be aghast, but he does not want Nie MingJue to leave his side ever again. He does not care about the battle. The first group of Nie cultivators who had found them in Wen RuoHan’s receiving hall had been accompanied by a dozen men from the Jiang Sect. They had brought with them the only news Lan XiChen had cared to hear, that his brother is alive and well, and that the remaining Wen had surrendered. He does not care about politics, or celebrations, or the choosing of the next Chief Cultivator. For the first time in his life, he wants only two things, and he wants them for himself alone. He wants his husband to remain by his side, and he wants to go home, to QingHe Nie.

His left shoulder lights on fire, and a small sound of pain escapes him, despite tightly gritted teeth.

“I am almost through,” Wen Qing says.

Her voice is firm, but kind. XiChen wants to reassure her that he can bear the pain, but is afraid to open his mouth, least more sounds escape. MingJue’s thumb brushes gently over his wrist, and XiChen looks up, just for a moment, just so he can give him a reassuring smile. It is a poor one, he knows, his face tight with pain, his teeth clenched, but MingJue does not seem to mind.

They are sitting across each other on the narrow cot that had been the healer’s bed, their knees brushing. It seems dreamlike, this physical proximity, when even in their marriage bed, the space between them had been infinitely wider. The pain is almost a welcome distraction. He aches for it, the sheer intimacy of breathing each other’s air, his body insisting that he should sway in closer. At the same time, he is conscious of the dirt and grime on his skin, the blood in his hair and under his nails. He cannot understand how MingJue can stand to touch him, when XiChen can barely stand to touch himself.

His torn robes are pooled around his waist, and he is achingly aware that this is the first time he has been partially undressed in front of the man he had married, and that he has never felt less desirable in his life, not even on his miserable wedding night. The fact that he must live the rest of his life with the scars Wen RuoHan had inflicted is too unbearable to think about. XiChen knows that MingJue cares for him a great deal; the man had made his affection abundantly clear. But he also understands that the depth of his affection may not necessarily translate into physical attraction. If Nie MingJue did not find him desirable before, how likely is he to do so now?

“I am done,” Wen Qing says, and he almost sobs in relief.

“Do not move yet,” she says sternly when he attempts to roll his shoulders, “I cannot cover the wounds. The medicine needs air to work.”

“How long?” MingJue asks.

“Long enough that I can look over your wounds. Strip.”

“I am fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I am barely injured. There are plenty of others who may need you more.”

“Master Lan,” she says tightly, “would you care to weigh in with your opinion?”

XiChen thinks he likes her very much.

He looks up at MingJue, trying on another smile, and this one comes a little easier than the last.

“Let her look, at least,” he says softly, “It will ease my worries.”

For a moment, MingJue looks betrayed, but comically so, and XiChen ducks his head again, not wanting to laugh at him.

He ducks his head even further when MingJue shifts away. Suddenly, he is exquisitely alert to every tiny sound that his ears can pick up; the belt unwrapping, the layers of robes brushing against one another, the material sliding down MingJue’s back. Although his gaze is lowered, they are still sitting so close that XiChen can see each layer being deposited on the cot in front of him, the blood-spattered coat, the outer robe, the soft gray inner robe that lands on top of the others, as softly as a cloud drifting down.

He raises his eyes slightly, following the pile of material to the curve of the spine, a hint of a hip bone under the cloth, the stretch of powerful muscles above it, and his breath stutters loudly at the sight. Embarrassment floods him immediately, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his face growing hot. He nearly flinches away when MingJue’s hand seeks his out again.

“XiChen?” MingJue says, a thin thread of worry in his voice.

XiChen feels a hysterical laugh building in his throat, and swallows it down.

“Just-- pain. Do not worry.”

Wen Qing snorts somewhere on the other side of MingJue, and XiChen thinks he would like to die of shame now.  

“None of these need stitching,” she says, “turn. I want to see the cut on your back.”

There is a short silence, during which XiChen tries to focus on something else. Anything else. Anything that is not his half-dressed husband sitting within touching distance. It would be so easy to just reach out, and--

XiChen is fairly certain that MingJue will refuse the position of Chief Cultivator when it is offered to him. He is also fairly certain that Jin GuangShan is ready for MingJue’s refusal, and that he has already set strategies in place to make himself the next best option. Jin GuangShan would only make a decent Chief Cultivator when compared to a ruthless tyrant; he cannot be allowed to take the place Wen RuoHan had vacated, not unless they mean to fight another war in their lifetimes. XiChen should be out there, speaking to the Sect Leaders, trying to steer them to a more appropriate choice. He should--  

“It is already healing.”

“I said I was fine.”

She lets out another distinctly unladylike snort, “You can get dressed. I will check on my brother.”

XiChen had noticed Wen Ning tuck himself away in one of the side chambers, as if afraid that he will be in the way once Wen Qing no longer has need of him. However, it is equally as likely that he may not be comfortable in XiChen’s presence. He had stood witness at Wen RuoHan’s shoulder when XiChen was whipped, visibly distressed, but utterly silent. XiChen sincerely hopes that Wen Ning does not feel guilty for anything that had occurred.

“XiChen.”

Forgetting his resolve not to look up, XiChen does just that, and feels his mouth dry.

MingJue had shrugged back into his inner robes, but they are loosely tied, and they conceal nothing. Not the breadth of his shoulders, the ridge of his collar bones, the solid muscle of his chest. But it is the small pouch MingJue holds out that causes XiChen’s heart to jump painfully in his chest, and erases everything else from his mind.

Even as he is reaching out to take it, he can see that the knots in the handkerchief are not his own.

“I did not touch it,” MingJue says, as if reading his mind, “I did not know if I had the right.”

The knots fall apart easily in XiChen’s hands, and he feels too many things at once, all of them conflicting, and all of them full of indescribable hurt. That night, he had been so certain that he was moving towards his death; he had mourned all the words that had gone unsaid between them, the time that had been wasted in questions and doubts, the future that they could have built together. Everything he could not say was tightly knotted under the blooming magnolia tree, all the restraint released, given to the one person he had expected to understand.  

“You are my husband,” he says, hating that his voice sounds weak and unsteady, “You have always had the right.”

Had he truly carried it all this time, on his person, near his skin, and never once held it in his hands?

“XiChen,” MingJue says softly, his tone infinitely patient, “do not dance words with me, you know I am not capable of doing the same. My rights and your desires could be worlds apart. You did not give me permission to touch it, so I did not.”

Flustered, XiChen looks up, to find MingJue watching him with the same forbearance so obvious in his tone, as if willing to wait as long as XiChen needed him to, as if nothing else mattered. The hurt he had felt bleeds away in a rush, and he gathers up the ribbon before his cowardice can prevent it, pressing it in MingJue’s palm.  

“I did not send it to my husband for safekeeping,” he says, his heart beating wildly in his throat, “It has always been yours to touch. Not because you have the right, but because I wish it.“

It is devastating, the bewilderment of MingJue’s expression, as if XiChen had come out with something utterly preposterous, rather than an admission of affection. He will blame himself for this later, perhaps not too cruelly, but enough to reconsider all the ways in which he expresses himself. But at this moment, he is too impatient for such thoughts. He squeezes MingJue’s hand, feeling a sharp, daring intensity he would have never thought himself capable of before.

“I would ask my husband to put it back where it belongs. If he is willing.”

MingJue exhales heavily, but does not hesitate. The urgency with which he scrambles up to comply would be humorous at any other time. But there is nothing playful about the reverence with which MingJue handles the task, the gentleness with which he gathers up XiChen’s hair and slides the ribbon over his forehead. XiChen feels his touch from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine, a sweetness underneath all the ravaged flesh.

MingJue’s hand lingers near his temple for a moment, and he clears his throat, “Did I do it right?”

XiChen does not bother to check.

“Mhm. Now, you should kiss me.”

He does not mean to say it out loud, but the words are out, hovering in the air between them. For a few breaths MingJue’s stillness is excruciating, and XiChen wonders if has asked for too much, too soon.

His next breath is stolen by MingJue, and the next, and the one after. It is chaste, each press of the lips against his own, but XiChen feels intoxicated by it, the roughness of the upper lip scraping against his own, the hot breath against his mouth. His heart feels too large for his chest, every beat thrumming loudly in his ears. He follows MingJue’s mouth blindly when it moves away, catching the soft bottom lip between his own, tasting it with his tongue. The noise MingJue makes is utterly indecent, and XiChen’s body floods with heat in response.

He wants to hear it again; he wants to be the cause of every indecent noise his husband can make, every stutter of his breath, every flush across his skin. MingJue’s hand wraps around his jaw, the calluses scraping over sensitive skin, and his tongue licks across XiChen’s own, slick and hot. He swallows the soft whimper XiChen makes, equally as indecent as his own, and shifts closer, both hands now cupping his face, tilting his head, licking into his mouth with urgency that XiChen can feel in the pit of his stomach, a burning ache that borders on pain.

The sound of the throat clearing startles him so badly, that he jerks away as if scalded. MingJue grabs his arm not a moment too soon, otherwise XiChen might have propelled himself off the cot and onto the floor.

Wen Qing has the good grace to look contrite instead of amused. This is probably a smart thing, as MingJue now looks murderous.

A soft knock echoes against the door, and Wen Qing motions toward the sound, “That has been happening. For a little while now.”

The heat across XiChen’s skin is now solely the result of embarrassment. He thinks he had been very close to crawling into MingJue’s lap, and finding his way underneath the thin layer of the inner robe that is still precariously clinging to MingJue’s shoulders. All while Wen Qing and Wen Ning were a few steps away, perhaps unable to see them, but certainly able to hear. He wants to crawl under the cot and never come out. He wants to pull MingJue with him, and continue what they started until the restlessness under his skin is sated.  

MingJue gets to his feet, pulling the outer robe over his shoulders, and Wen Qing takes it as a sign that she can answer the door.

Nie ZhongHui steps in and bows quickly, his clothes still streaked with blood, a clumsy make-shift bandage wrapped around his upper arm. XiChen can practically see Wen Qing’s fingers twitch at the sight.

“What is it?” MingJue says, worry obvious in his voice.

“Sect Leader Jiang’s son is injured. The two healers Jiang Sect had brought with them claim that nothing can be done.”

“Wei WuXian?” XiChen asks, and Nie ZhongHui shakes his head.

“Jiang WanYin. Madam Yu-- is asking for assistance. She would be-- grateful if Sect Leader Nie would allow the Nie Sect healer to examine her son.”

XiChen is fairly certain that Madam Yu neither asked for assistance, nor offered gratitude, but he supposes she was right to send Nie ZhongHui, as he is more diplomatic than most.

“That must be me,” Wen Qing says, her voice deceptively bright, and MingJue grunts in response.

“I suppose we must face the music sooner or later. Give us a few moments, Nie ZhongHui. Arrange an escort in the meantime. Twenty should be sufficient.”

Nie ZhongHui leaves, and Wen Qing immediately begins gathering up her supplies, face determined, as if preparing for another battle.

XiChen stands up, pulling his torn robes back around his shoulders, “I will come as well.”

He expects MingJue to argue. To insist that he stay, and rest, and not aggravate his injuries. And for a moment, it does seem as if MingJue wants to object, each reason why XiChen should not further place himself in harm’s way easy to read in his eyes.

But he does not say any of them. Instead, he takes his outer robe off again, and lays it carefully over XiChen’s shoulders.