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dramas-vs-novels · 1 year ago

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**Some elements were thrown out of alignment by Fatal Journey, but the vast majority of it still fits

A Bit of a Radical Proposition::

**Based on show, not book.

There is more evidence in the show that Mo Xuanyu was Huaisang’s benefactor rather than the reverse. Think about it–

Jin Guangyao says that he caught Mo Xuanyu reading a forbidden scroll about the Sacrificing Summons and booted him from Carp Tower for it.

There is no mention of Huaisang ever being in the same room as Mo Xuanyu, let alone getting a copy of it from him.

Guangyao wouldn’t have let Mo Xuanyu just walk out with that document and doesn’t mention it going missing.

If Huaisang arranged everything by himself and manipulated Mo Xuanyu- how did he get the Summons? Or how did he know Mo Xuanyu had seen it before and trust a mentally ill man would remember how to do it correctly?

You see Wuxian and Mingjue each figuring out in their own times what Guangyao did, but not once do you even get a hint of Huaisang suspecting Guangyao.

When he comes to see Wuxian and Wangji at the end of episode 50 he says “The things I need to do, I won’t shirk from doing them”, but never makes any mention of realizing what Guangyao was.

Mo Xuanyu was accused of getting too close to Qin Su, what if he either saw Mingjue’s body being taken to the vault while stalking her OR was never stalking her in the first place?

Mo Xuanyu had more opportunity than anyone else in the series to figure out what happened to Mingjue.

Sisi and Bi Cao were looped in using notes from an anonymous source (Huaisang).

Huaisang could very well have been made aware of the plot in that way as well.

‘Your brother was killed by Jin Guangyao. Work with me and together we can destroy him.’

Mo Xuanyu likely hates Guangyao for his own reasons.

Mo Xuanyu returned from Carp Tower and immediately started doing whatever he could to obscure his appearance so that people forgot what he looked like.

Could be part of his insanity (the man definitely had screws loose), but also could be the first step in a plan to pave the way for Wei Wuxian.

Why 16 years? Why then?

Without any mention of Huaisang beginning to piece things together, there is no way to figure out why it took 16 years to solve the mystery.

Everything that happened happened in the past- Xue Yang has had the Stygian Tiger Seal for around 13 years, Wen Ning and Song Lan have been puppets, based on Guangyao’s response to Qin Su, their son has been dead for a long time.

There is no inciting incident on Huaisang or Mo Xuanyu’s side of things.

Unless they were waiting for something- like for the shattered soul of Wei Wuxian to pull itself back together as Song Lan hopes Xingchen’s will.

What happened to Wuxian for 16 years?

SHOW (not book) has Wuxian resurrecting into his own body.

Jiang Cheng searched the cliff below Nightless and never found Wuxian’s remains.

Generic cultivators and Wangji alike tried every method to find Wuxian’s soul, but no one ever could.

Perhaps because it was contained in a pouch?

Huaisang had no reason to hate Guangyao by the time of the Battle of Nightless. He had no reason to save Wuxian’s body and soul other than the simple loyalty of a friend who knew the other cultivators would probably never give him a proper burial.

Huaisang never jumped on the anti-Wuxian bandwagon, neither did Mingjue for that matter.

Mingjue could have given Huaisang permission to place Wuxian’s body in one of the Nie tombs- either as a friendly gesture or thinking they might need to suppress the resentful energy burning inside him.

Could also explain why Wuxian is fine resentment-wise after he comes back- if his soul spent 16 years burning off all of that hatred in a Nie tomb with the monster souls also sealed inside.

Where did Baxia’s spirit come from?

Guangyao is terrified of anything Nie Mingjue. He and Xue Yang kill Mingjue with his own saber, and no one could confirm Mingjue’s death all those years.

The last time you see Baxia whole is in Guangyao’s possession (Xue Yang’s hands), and the sword itself isn’t seen again until the temple drama.

If Huaisang found his brother’s saber there would be mention of it.

There is no sign in the Nie Saber Vault of one of the sabers being removed, and Wuxian never identifies Baxia specifically until she manifests in her true form. They even specifically say the Saber was taking them there to identify itself as a Nie artifact, not necessarily to show them its casing (the blade itself).

If Mo Xuanyu found some forbidden Wei Wuxian treatise and made a study of his methods, he could coax the spirit from a saber and give it to Huaisang.

What grudge did Mo Xuanyu have with Jin Guangyao?

Guangyao wasn’t coming after Mo Xuanyu (or else he would have continued going after Wuxian when Wuxian was pretending to be Mo Xuanyu).

Huaisang simply saying “Hey, if you’re doing this anyway would you mind adding a slash?” makes no sense without there being some kind of relationship to Mo Xuanyu (nothing romantic).

How would Huaisang know Mo Xuanyu had seen the sacrificing curse?

Also, it’s such an unusual, forbidden, and rare curse how would he know enough about how it worked to coordinate anything?

Huaisang didn’t unleash Baxia until well after Wuxian was resurrected, and he waited in perhaps the most gossip-filled place in the city (and close to Mo Manor).

Maybe listening for word of Mo Xuanyu showing strange behavior around the incoming Lan to know when to put their plot in motion?

The storyteller says he was paid to tell the tale of Wei Wuxian for three days, like Huaisang was actively waiting.

The death of Jin Guangyao visibly shook Huaisang.

If he felt that way about the death of someone he hated so much, why would he stand by for the death of someone who never caused him any harm- who was in fact doing him a favor?

Huaisang is always shown to be fairly upright and moral, not someone who thinks the ends justify the means. Certainly not the type to kill an innocent to resurrect an innocent.

How would Huaisang have known to use Mo Xuanyu to resurrect Wei Wuxian?

Again, Huaisang likely wouldn’t know on his own about the Sacrificing Curse. It was so rare it likely wasn’t in many books.

Only acknowledging the book long enough to say the treatise on the curse that Mo Xuanyu read was written by Wei Wuxian as a purely theoretical concept.

Let alone just casually knowing someone he could get close enough to manipulate into using it.

A feat supposedly achieved without the Mo family ever knowing Mo Xuanyu had any contact with cultivators.

If Mo Xuanyu kept it secret that he had met Huaisang, that means he had a reason to.

Mo Xuanyu and Jin Guangyao had almost the same story–

Mo Xuanyu’s mother wasn’t a prostitute, but she was ruined by Jin Guangshan and died wretchedly, leaving behind a son who loved her.

This likely endeared Mo Xuanyu to Guangyao somewhat- kindred spirits and all.

Guangyao kills people for sneezing suspiciously, he wouldn’t just let Mo Xuanyu wander off unless he felt something like pity for him.

Even so, Guangyao threw Mo Xuanyu out of Carp Tower with the same vicious energy he himself was expelled with, returning him to an abusive family.

Both men ended up twisted and angry. Mo Xuanyu manipulated everyone by pretending to suck while actually utilizing highly complex cultivation, becoming only the sixth to attempt the Sacrificing Curse.

Again, only acknowledging book long enough to say how difficult and rare the curse was.

If Guangyao can play the white knight, why can’t Mo Xuanyu play the fool? He wasn’t mad until he returned from Carp Tower and had a reason to hate Guangyao.

Therefore, I would like to propose the following:: Mo Xuanyu wasn’t some victim of Nie Huaisang’s manipulations. He was, in fact, Nie Huaisang’s partner- and perhaps the one who actually started it all. Huaisang built the framework of his vengeance on what Mo Xuanyu brought to him and worked in tandem with him until Wuxian’s resurrection.

#nie huaisang #mo xuanyu #wei wuxian #nie mingjue #jin guangyao #the untamed #mine #SHOW NOT BOOK #inevitably though someone will comment or send an ask with 'well actually the BOOK'#the phrase 'show not book' is not code for 'what about the book'

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sorceresssundries · 17 days ago

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Ruined

Pairing: Gale x Fem Tav

Summary: Regency Era AU! Tav is burdened by whispers of a cursed love life. Twice betrothed to promising men, only to lose them to tragic fates, Tav’s allure has become a point of fascination and fear. Intrigued, the recently arrived Mr. Dekarios pursues her despite the ominous rumours that surround her.

Warnings: Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Porn with Plot, NSFW

Word Count: 6K

A/N - this was written as part of a prompt challenge, the prompt was 'Let me ruin you.'

Tav was, yet again, compelled to endure the dreary monotony of another wretched ball. It was the seventh of the season, though indistinguishable from the first—or indeed from any that had succeeded it. The floral arrangements, while marginally altered, brought no true novelty. The pheasant, a substitution for last week’s goose, was hardly the culinary triumph the hosts had envisioned. Yet still, the gathered throng twittered and preened, as though this fête were the crowning glory of the season.

It was not.

She often found her thoughts wandering from the oppressive glow of chandeliers to the untamed wilds beyond the manicured grounds. There, she imagined herself letting her hair and laughter fall loose, and riding bareback through the weaving woods she often drifted to, lured by wildflowers and birdsong. Or even further, to the ocean where the waves beat and pulled against the shore and promised mystery and new horizons.

Her daydreaming and lack of refinement had often left her labelled as preoccupied, unladylike, vexing.. To those throughout her life who had attempted to curtail her tendency to wish for the unobtainable. Corsets and etiquette may have done their best to pour her into a shape worth enduring, but there were no rules nor laces tight enough to bind the wild beat of her reckless heart.

But here she was, bound again and bored again, at another repetitive show, for another repetitive year. Constantly torn between wanting to be wild and needing to be secure.

This season, like the last, had brought Tav yet another marriage proposal - her third in total. She accepted it with the quiet resignation of one who had grown all too accustomed to the inevitability of such offers.

Offers which, so far, had ended in tragedy.

Two seasons ago, she had been affianced to a fine gentleman of estimable rank and fortune. Their engagement was announced amid great fanfare, and society applauded the match as one of rare brilliance. Alas, before vows could be exchanged, her intended husband succumbed to a sudden fever, leaving Tav bereaved and pitied.

The following season, she accepted another suitor, a baronet’s eldest son, whose devotion bordered on zeal. Yet fate struck cruelly again: he fell from his horse mere weeks before their nuptials, his neck broken in an instant.

After the second tragedy, the whispers began. They followed her like shadows, flitting from one fan to the next, growing more embellished with every retelling. Some claimed her beauty was too perfect, a snare set by the Fates to lure men to their doom. Others murmured curses, of misdeeds from ancestors long ago visited upon the innocents of the present.

Whatever the tale, Tav was transformed in the eyes of society - from the most captivating of melodies, to the siren who used it to drown the besotted.

She was hoping that the third time would, indeed, be the charm many claimed it to be. The only reason she had accepted the invitation to this particular ball was due to the request of Mr. Rowle, a solicitor who spent most of his time in London and was in search of a wife to keep in his large house in the countryside.

He had asked for her hand, and she had accepted. It was to be announced later this evening.

Mr. Rowle was the kind of man who could hardly be described as remarkable. He bore the vigour of watered-down wine, and his presence filled every room he was in the way a stale breeze might fill a drawing room. Still, he had taken a particular shine to Tav after realising, quite astutely, that she possessed both beauty and a good name, with very little competition standing in her way. His appreciation for her was pragmatic, driven by the efficiency of her family’s connections rather than any deep passion.

Tav had no illusions. She knew what marriage meant in this world. Mr. Rowle, for all his mildness, was no different from the fiancées who had come before him—well-intentioned, perhaps, but uninspiring. A man who would offer comfort and stability, if not love.

He was aware of the rumours that surrounded her, but Mr. Rowle was not a superstitious man, and so after only a couple of dances and several conversations about the weather and the local wildlife, he had visited her home and made her an offer of matrimony. It was swift, practical, and utterly devoid of romantic flourishes. He had no grand speeches, no sweet promises, only a proposal that seemed as casual as the conversation they had shared over punch.

Tav had felt nothing. Certainly not elation, nor disappointment, nor even relief. There was nothing in Mr. Rowle’s offer that made her heart race or her pulse quicken. His offer was as placid and dull as his presence.

And yet, she agreed. Not out of a sense of duty or obligation, but because she could not think of a reason not to. The prospect of becoming a solitary wife in a large, empty house with a husband she did not love seemed no worse than the alternative—more of the same, the same crowded balls, the same endless parade of unremarkable suitors, the same stale expectations.

“I shall make do,” she had resolved to herself, turning her thoughts away from her own desires.

Not that she particularly minded being on her own. In fact, she found her company much more invigorating than any other person she had socialised with all season - save, perhaps, one.

Mr. Gale Dekarios was a recent attendee to the events of the county, and was the subject of countless fluttering eyelashes, timid stares, and whispered speculations. Wealthy, strikingly handsome, and possessing an education that was the envy of many, he had recently taken up residence in the county after parting scandalously from his lover in the capital. A member of the nobility, it was said - though no one dared utter whose name, precisely - with whom he had been an illustrious paramour until he had, regrettably, fallen out of favour.

Quick-witted, and perhaps a touch too clever for his own good, Mr. Dekarios had the uncanny ability to sharpen a room’s attention merely by entering it. Tav had disliked him instantly. She rolled her eyes at the chatter of scandal that clung to him, noting how it seemed to polish his reputation rather than tarnish it.

The same clucking mothers who had pecked at her name until it was in tatters, pushed their daughters towards him at every opportunity. Hoping that a dance or a conversation would lead to a betrothal between the rich, educated former lover of a noble and their insipid waif of a daughter.

She certainly had no intention of tripping over herself to catch his eye.

Mr.Dekarios however, was not quite as sure-footed.

He was intrigued by the woman of substantial beauty who often seemed to flitter, disinterested at the corner of the gatherings. Filling her own glass, and tapping her feet to the music as she sat in solitude, thinking no-one could see the rhythm of her slippers beneath her gown.

He had asked about her almost immediately. Discretion was paramount, of course, so he made his inquiries with care, approaching a variety of confidants and acquaintances. Their answers, though varied, all carried the same shadowed thread.

She was a beauty, they said, as luminous as she was mysterious. Yet her allure was whispered to come at a cost. Twice, she had been betrothed, and twice tragedy had struck before vows could be exchanged. Both men, hale and hearty, had perished suddenly and unexpectedly. Fever claimed one, and a fatal fall took the other. Another one, some solicitor , was apparently rumoured to be next in line.

Some spun her tale with a touch of poetry, casting her as an otherworldly enchantress whose perfection ensnared mortal men. Others muttered more pragmatic warnings, hinting at curses, ill luck, or sins of her forebears.

Whatever the version, the message was clear: she was a woman to be admired from afar, not pursued.

And yet, after watching her, Gale found himself thoroughly unconvinced.

The first time he asked her to dance, she had declined with polite finality, offering no further explanation. It wasn’t rejection so much as dismissal, as though his request were little more than a passing inconvenience. He hadn’t been discouraged.

The second time, she wavered—her lips curving into a subtle smirk, her eyes alight with a glimmer of something that might have been amusement. Still, her answer had been the same. No.

The third time, however, her disbelief at his persistence had given way to reluctant acceptance. “I’m not sure this is wise,” she had said, even as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.

“Wisdom is overrated,” Gale replied, his grin laced with mischief. “But if it’s any consolation, I promise not to step on your toes.”

And so began the pattern that would define their every subsequent meeting.

Each time they danced, his hand held her waist with a touch that grew imperceptibly firmer, his dark eyes dipping lower, his gaze lingering longer. She told herself she imagined the faint stroke of his thumb against her gloved hand, yet each time the contact sent a spark rippling through her. For the first time, she understood the folly—and the wisdom—of feeling alight from something so small.

Unlike other partners, he eschewed the usual, droning topics of weather and the quality of the supper. Instead, he asked questions that surprised her. He wanted to know about her family, her thoughts, her opinions.

She had flirted and bantered, and he had laughed - beautifully, richly. A sound that disarmed her completely and, more often than not, drew her own laughter from her lips until her corset protested against the joy.

But beneath the growing warmth between them, a shadow still lingered. Tav couldn’t ignore it. Surely Gale, for all his charm, was not unaware of her reputation, the whispers that followed her like a darkness even beneath the brightest chandeliers. Surely he, like everyone else, knew of the misfortunes that had befallen those who dared to come too close.

Her curiosity eventually overcame her. One evening, as the music faded and the final steps of their dance drew them close, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips. His touch, light and brief, sent a shiver through her even as his dark eyes locked onto hers, steady and full of something she dared not name.

“I would like to pay you a call tomorrow,” he said softly, the intimacy of it wrapping around her like a caress.

Bemused, and emboldened by their growing familiarity, she could not help but challenge him. “Have you not heard, sir?” she asked, tilting her head with mock gravity. “Any man foolish enough to commit himself to me meets a grisly end. I am the curse of the county.”

“I am well aware of your fascinating history.” His lips twitched, a grin threatening to break free. “It reminds me of certain females of the animal kingdom who are known to murder - and occasionally devour - their partners after the union is complete. It seems you either possess exceptional efficiency or lack the intelligence to at least wait until the marriage contract is signed.”

“Intelligence?” She arched a brow, her smirk sharpening. “Sir, I lack the patience.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding with exaggerated sagacity. “Then perhaps next time, you ought to choose a suitor whose company you can bear for long enough to secure the contract.”

“If I find such a man,” she countered with a smile, “I shall let you know at once.”

His laughter rang out, warm and unguarded, sending a strange ache through her chest. It had quickly become her favorite sound—a sound that made the rest of the world fade, if only for a moment.

But the following day, when he arrived at her home, she turned him away.

Not because she wanted to. On the contrary, she found herself hovering near the window long after his carriage had departed, her hands gripping the sill as though it might steady the tumult inside her.

No, she turned him away because she understood the danger of marrying for passion in a world where she was not allowed to express it.

And somewhere deep down, buried beneath her rational mind and resolute exterior, there lingered a fear she dared not voice. The rumors, as wild and swirling as they were, had taken root in a corner of her heart. No matter how much she dismissed tales of blood curses and ancestral magic as foolishness, the whispers of society were insidious. If you are told something often enough, if you hear it echoed and embellished in every corner of every room, the ability to believe it burrows cruelly and stubbornly into the softer places of the soul.

It didn’t matter that no proof existed, nor that the very idea was absurd. The possibility, however faint, was enough to haunt her.

And the thought of such a fate befalling Gale—his dark, knowing eyes dimmed, his laughter silenced, his warm hand gone cold—was too cruel to consider.

She accepted Mr Rowle’s proposal the very next day.

And so here she was, at the ball where it was to be announced, once again folded up into manageable pieces, and ended up feeling so confined it became difficult to breathe properly, let alone laugh or flirt or, god forbid, enjoy oneself.

She thought once more of the woods and the ocean, of a freedom she would never find, and it all became too much.

She slipped from the crowded room, the clamour of prattle unbearable, and wandered aimlessly through a labyrinth of endless, identical corridors. The monotonous expanse seemed to stretch without end, until, at last, she stumbled upon an unoccupied alcove. With a soft, relieved sigh, she surrendered to the cool solidity of the wall, allowing herself the rare indulgence of slouching heavily against it. The breath she released felt as though it had been held captive not just for hours, but for the entire length of the season itself.

Her reprieve, however, was fleeting.

“Miss Taventon,” came a familiar velvet voice, “I was hoping to stumble into you.”

It was a cruel challenge, to maintain both eloquence and ire in the presence of someone so devilishly handsome. Yet, she resolved to rise to the occasion all the same.

“A pleasure Mr. Dekarios,” she replied, her voice carefully even. Her eyes flicked down the corridor behind him, searching for signs of life. It was, to her dismay, empty. The usual din of aimless chatter was absent - ordinarily a blessing, but now a vexing reminder that to be alone with him, even for a moment, was to court the sort of scandal that clung like burrs to one’s reputation. She lacked both the energy and inclination to untangle herself from such a mess.

“Perhaps we may continue this discussion elsewhere,” he offered, wanting to protect her decency but not at the expense of losing the pleasure of her company. His interactions with her had become a sparkling rarity he would loathe to let slip between clumsy fingers.

His eyes caught the faint light of the sconces, their gleam too knowing, his half-cocked smile far too disarming. Indeed, Tav found herself wholly disarmed. Her wits scattered like leaves in a strong wind, and she could scarcely think clearly enough to determine what she ought to do—or say.

Before reason could intervene, her hand shot out, taking hold of his arm with a firmness that startled even her. She pulled him into the nearest room without so much as a word of explanation.

The door clicked shut behind them, and they found themselves within a study, low-lit and mercifully empty. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, the scent of leather-bound tomes mingling with faint traces of cedar and ink. An extravagant writing desk stood as the room’s centerpiece, the only witness to their impropriety.

He was so close, gazing down upon her, the scent of plummy wine and heat simmering upon him. A dangerous thought flitted through her mind. If she so chose, she need only rise to the balls of her feet and kiss away the smile that played so smugly upon his lips. What might it taste like - that peculiar blend of arrogance and charm? Would it be sharp and bitter, like unripe fruit, or unexpectedly sweet, a slow trickle of late-summer honey?

The notion startled her, sending a betraying flush to her cheeks. To taste his superiority - to swallow it whole, to let it nourish her own fire - was a thought too bold, too improper. She stepped back abruptly, the motion breaking the spell his gaze had woven around her. The weight of his eyes remained upon her, unrelenting, as though he could divine the secrets she so desperately sought to hide.

Her lips parted, but no words formed. What could she possibly say to shatter the charged silence that hung between them? She felt unmoored in a storm she was unprepared for, swirling with curiosity, and something perilously close to longing. Yet even in her disarray, she knew that silence was a weapon she dared not wield for too long.

“I hear you are betrothed,” he said first. His tone was peculiar, sharper than usual, edged with something she could not readily name. “My sincerest congratulations.”

For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw the faintest flicker in his expression - hurt, perhaps, or resignation. But the mocking tilt to his words fanned her anger, quick and volatile.

“If your intention is to bait me with sarcasm or false pleasantries,” she snapped, indignant, “then I can assure you, your ire is wasted.” Her cheeks flushed with the heat of her temper. “You have very little appreciation of my position, and I will have no judgment from you, nor from anybody else.”

Her voice trembled on the edge of breaking, her hot-blooded nature betraying her as usual, and she felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to spill. She turned her face away, willing herself to regain control, furious that he could provoke her so easily.

“I apologise,” he said, gentler now. “If I have upset you, I assure you, it was never my intention.”

He reached out then, instinct overriding reason, his hand hovering in the space between them. He longed to trace the line of her jaw, to gently guide her gaze back to his. He lived for those moments when her eyes met his, those fleeting seconds when the world fell away and he could lose himself utterly in their depths. To be this close to her yet deprived of that connection felt like an unbearable cruelty.

But just as quickly, reason caught up with him. He hesitated, his hand faltering mid-air before he let it fall back to his side. He thought better of himself—of her—and allowed her the space she sought, even if it meant she kept her face turned from him, her eyes averted, her expression unreadable.

“If that was not your intention, sir,” she asked “then what is?”

He hesitated once more, caught between decorum and the desperate urge to speak the truth. If her engagement was to be announced tonight, as rumour suggested, this moment might be his last chance—his last opportunity to tell her what had remained unsaid for far too long.

In the silence, her eyes once more found him, too curious and impatient to be coy.

“My intention… was to make you aware of my feelings for you. It is no use, I can hide them no longer, and if this is my final opportunity to make them known then.. I would be a fool not to take it.”

If he expected her to be flattered, he would be disappointed.

“I see.” She said, whilst waiting for her thoughts to arrange themselves into a suitable order. “And you have decided to make this confession, alone with me? On the night of my engagement? How noble of you, sir. How thoughtful.”

He had the decency to blush a little, “I did not mean to.. I did not think..” “No, because you have no need of thought. You may act as and how you please with little to no repercussions upon your indelible reputation. What is one more scandal to the mystical and ravishing Gale Dekarios? It would surely only further your allure, to have talk of another lover notched upon your no-doubt dwindling bedpost.”

“Now, hold on..”

“No. I shall hold no more. This is perhaps my final chance for a match, as limp and uninspiring as it is, it is still a match. I do not have the luxury of flitting my way across ballrooms and wearing scandal like the latest fashion. My name is muddied, and my future with it. This engagement is my chance at a comfortable and secure future, do you understand?”

“It is strange, my lady, as secure and comfortable are not words I would have associated with you, or your future.” For one so intelligent, Gale Dekarios often demonstrated the wit of a backwards ass.

“And what words did you associate with my future? Ruined? Destitute? Cursed? The only curse that has befallen me is the one that prevents me from charting my own course. You think I wish to marry that man? I assure you I do not.”

“Stubborn is the word I would use! And infuriating!” His voice was rising to meet hers. “You ought not to worry about the match” he remarked, exasperated. “This time you are bound to vex the poor soul into an early grave”

“Yes, I am vexing! I have been told many times. And I am stubborn, I am glad of it. Because if I am not then I am meek, and if I am not curious then I am stale, and if I am not passionate then I..” she could feel the words crack in her throat, truths she did not want to admit were being spilled from her like poisoned wine “then I am ruined. Not the ruin that this stagnant, monotone tribunal has decreed, but truly ruined. The kind of ruin that steals the sun from my skin and the fire from my soul. That straightens my curls along with my spirit and leaves me pale, faded, and hollow.”

She was blazing, alight, and so achingly, achingly tired of it all.

“The ruin they speak of, the one they condemn with such piety - freedom, passion, love without boundaries or permission - that is no ruin at all. That is a privilege. One that you are entitled to, sir, but I am not and now never will be. I crave to be so ruined.”

Her chest heaved as she finished, her final words hanging in the air like a dare. She was certain he would turn and leave her, that her outburst was too wild for a gentleman of his stature to bear. It would hurt her, for him to turn, but it would not destroy her. She was made of obstinance and wildfire. She would endure.

But he did not turn. He stood there, gazing at her with an expression she could not read and a patience she did not understand.

“Then let me ruin you.”

She was a match struck.

Before she could form a reply - before she could even think - he crossed the small space between them in one deliberate step. His hand rose to cup her cheek, his palm warm against her flushed skin. The touch was surprisingly gentle, belying the fire burning in his gaze, and for a moment, she thought he would simply hold her there, suspended in this unbearable torment.

But then his lips were on hers, and the whole world tilted.

The kiss was no delicate brush of affection. It was a collision. His lips claimed hers with an urgency that stole her breath, leaving her reeling.

She should have pulled away, every rational thought in her mind screamed that she must. But instead, her hands betrayed her, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, the only thing keeping her upright.

His hand cupped the back of her neck, strong and steady, his fingers threading through her hair as he tilted her head to deepen the kiss. When his tongue swept against hers, the shock of it sent a jolt through her, every nerve in her body alight. She met him with equal fervor, her tongue pressing against his in a rhythm that had been desperate to know. A low, primal sound rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her as he pressed closer, his body warm and solid against hers.

The moan sent a shiver through her, and she felt herself leaning into him, her fingers tightening their grip as though afraid he might pull away. But he didn’t. His other hand slid to her waist, strong fingers splaying across the delicate fabric of her gown as though he might anchor her to him.

She could feel the heat of his breath, could taste the faint hint of wine on his lips, and the sheer reality of it overwhelmed her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a chaotic echo of this is madness.

And yet, she couldn’t stop.

Her body betrayed her again, arching toward him. When his lips parted from hers, moving to trail a line of fire along her jaw, she let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Gale,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking his name might shatter whatever fragile spell had woven itself around them.

But he only paused for a moment, his lips hovering just above her ear as he spoke, his voice rough and low. “Tell me to stop.”

She opened her mouth, the words poised on her lips. But no sound came.

His forehead rested lightly against hers, his breath coming fast and uneven.

“Tell me to stop,” he repeated, his voice low, rough, and trembling with restraint. “And I will. But kiss me again…

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, his gaze searching, as though he feared he had gone too far. But there was no condemnation in her expression, only a fire that mirrored his own.

He paused, as though steadying himself, “Kiss me again, and know that I am done. That I am yours. That I will ruin you for all others but me—and me for you.”

His words unraveled something deep within her, loosening threads she had clung to for far too long. She felt her breath hitch, her resolve wavering as she stood on the precipice of something she could not yet name.

“Yours?” she whispered.

“Everlasting”

The weight of his promise pressed against her, both a burden and a liberation. She knew the cost of stepping over this threshold, knew what it would mean to claim him as hers and to give herself in turn. And yet, in that moment, the world beyond the walls of the study—the rigid rules, the whispered judgments, the life that awaited her—seemed so distant, so inconsequential.

Her hand rose of its own accord, trembling as it brushed against the collar of his coat, tracing the fine fabric. She felt the sharp intake of his breath, and it emboldened her.

She kissed him, branded him, a kiss to end all others.

A sound escaped him then, something between a sigh and a growl, and before she could say more, his tongue was against hers again.

He broke away briefly, his lips hovering just above hers, his breath warm against her skin.

“There will be no going back,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.

“Good,” she replied, her fingers curling tighter into his coat. “I have no wish to.”

His hands were large and practiced upon her corseted waist. He knew that he would not be able undo her now the way he wished to. He wanted to rip the strings and restraints that bound together the softness of her body. What a waste, what a crime, to tighten and pull together someone as vivid and iridescent as her. To compress her heavy breaths and even heavier laughter into a space too small to hold it. He wanted to hear her, unbidden and unbound. Taste her, full and soft and naked beneath him.

His eyes swept over her, lingering on the curve of her throat where pearls pulsed teasingly, the flush that painted her cheeks, and the slight parting of her lips as she fought to catch her breath. What need did a creature like her have for silk, satin, or pearls? They were dull imitations of beauty, mere adornments trying to mimic what she carried so effortlessly.

It was her—the way her skin caught the light, the way her hair fell in wild waves when she let it loose, the way her laughter could ripple through a room and silence even the most biting of whispers—that made those lifeless things shine. They owed their luster to her, mere shadows granted brilliance by proximity to the source. Just as he felt by being close to her.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice low and rough with longing.

She released herself from his grasp to a noise of frustration, before stepping back until the back of her legs met with the solid wood of the grand writing desk. It was covered in papers, books which held little interest. He wished to throw them all to the floor, nothing that lay upon that desk could ever possibly be as entrancing as even the thought of Tav laying splayed across it - spine arched and back rising.

“Show me.” She said.

She perched upon the desk, and his breath was ragged and eyes hungry as she lifted her skirts tantalisingly slowly, inch by inch, revealing her feet, her ankles, her calves. How hard he was, just from the sight of her ankles. He wished to kiss each part of her she was unveiling, parts he had imagined in his dreams night after night. Pushing his tongue against her insole, running along the delicacy of her ankle and up her calf. Further and further and further up until his teeth could grace her stocking clasps and he could finally indulge in the scent of her greatest intimacy.

He fell to his knees before her, in lust-induced worship. He had found a Goddess made mortal, and he wished to venerate her with sermon and satisfaction until her divinity returned. He would offer his mouth - tongue and teeth and words, upon every altar she owned. Purl hymns and benediction into the slick heat of her sacred cunt until she offered him blessing after blessing in return.

His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her closer to him as his mouth claimed her. He wanted her to fall apart against him, to know that no other would ever worship her like this, with such complete surrender. Her cries filled the room as he licked and moaned and devoured, and when she trembled beneath him, he knew he had her.

But the fire blazing between them refused to be sated.

He rose to his feet in one swift motion, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her flush against him. Her skirts were rucked high, her bare thighs wrapping around him instinctively. She reached for him, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers until she freed him, her hand wrapping around the hard, pulsing heat of him.

“We do not have to...” he groaned, desperately clinging to the last vestiges of proprietary, to throw a lifeline despite drawing himself.

She needed no lifeline from him. Gasping, she positioned him against her, and kissed him hard as with one rough, claiming thrust, he buried himself inside her. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, her head falling back as he filled her completely. The desk groaned beneath them.

He drove into her with a raw, relentless intensity, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her closer, deeper, with every thrust. The sounds of their coupling filled the room—her breathless cries, his low growls, the slap of skin against skin. She was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed, and he would have her again and again until she knew it.

Her legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his back as her body arched against his. She met him thrust for thrust, her hands clutching at him as though she feared he might disappear. She was wild, untamed, and he was utterly at her mercy.

“Gale,” she gasped, her voice rippling with pleasure.

He kissed her messy and feverish, a clash of teeth and tongues as their passion spilled over. He swallowed her cries as her body tightened around him, her release ripping through her with a force that left her trembling in his arms.

He followed moments later, his own release crashing over him like a tidal wave. He held her close, his forehead resting against hers as their breaths mingled, their bodies still joined. The room was silent save for the sound of their ragged breathing, the scent of their lovemaking hanging heavy in the air.

She smiled up at him, her eyes alight with mischief and satisfaction. “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, low and warm, as he pressed a tender kiss to her temple. “One cannot always be a gentleman,” he murmured, his voice thick with amusement.

Her gaze drifted over the room, taking in the disarray they’d left in their wake—papers crumpled and askew, books knocked from their orderly piles, and an inkpot that had tipped, its dark contents staining the pristine wood and smearing across important-looking documents.

“We’ve made a mess,” she said, her tone somewhere between scolding and delight.

“More than a mess,” he replied, his disarming smile lighting his face. “Ruined, I would say.”

Her laughter spilled into the room, bright and unrestrained, and he caught it in a kiss. His lips brushed hers softly at first, then with growing fervor as if he could never quite get enough of her. Reluctantly pulling away, he began the task of tidying her up, his hands reverent as they smoothed her disheveled skirts.

He knelt before her, fastening her stockings with a devotion that made her heart race. Each clasp was accompanied by the soft press of his lips to her thighs, a mixture of penance and unrepentant indulgence. When her hair pins were hopelessly scattered, he did his best to tame her curls, his fingers clumsy yet endearing as he pinned them back into something resembling order.

Satisfied—or at least as much as either of them could be—he sank into the grand leather desk chair, its creak breaking the quiet. With a gentle tug, he pulled her onto his lap, cradling her against him. His hands roamed her back and waist, languid and adoring,

“There is a packet ship,” Gale said, “Leaving from Falmouth in three days' time. We could be on it.”

She stilled, her lips barely parted, and her gaze lifted to meet his. “A ship?”

“Yes,” he replied, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, a smile that resembled a promise. “A fine vessel. A friend of mine—Wyll, a duke’s son—will be aboard. The Nautiloid. We could go together. You and I.”

Across the sea. How many nights had she stood at her window, gazing out beyond the carefully manicured hedges, imagining the vast, untamed expanse of the ocean? How often had she dreamed of a ship’s deck beneath her feet, the wind twisting her hair into wild hurricanes, no land in sight—only water, only freedom?

Her breath quickened, her thoughts racing, but he continued, seizing the moment. “I had planned to leave earlier. The tedium of society was wearing unbearably thin. I long for further study, for exploration.” He paused, his voice softening as he lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “But I stayed. For fleeting moments in your company, for the hope of something more.”

Her heart swelled and twisted in equal measure. “And you are not afraid? That becoming my companion will pull you towards an early grave?”

He laughed softly, the sound rich and warm as he cupped her cheek. “Afraid? No. I could think of no better way to end my days than by your side.” His gaze grew serious, intense. “No supposed curse you bear frightens me. I think your suitors thus far were simply not of strong enough disposition to keep your wild flames stoked. And so, they burned out. As many would.”

“And you,” she asked, arching a brow, though her voice was edged with a smile, “are not at risk of combusting, I suppose?”

“I’d like to hope not,” he replied, his grin returning, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth as though to trace the smile that bloomed there.

“So, Mr. Dekarios,” she began “if I do board this ship with you, if I cast off everything I know and chart my own course, what will we find there?”

His smile softened, his hand falling to hers, their fingers lacing as though they had always belonged together.

“Adventure”

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 #gale bg3 #gale baldur's gate #gale fanfic #Regency AU

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rainbowsky · 21 days ago

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In all my years of being a GGDD fan, I don't think any year has ever been better than this last one.

In the past I have watched them struggle and face incredibly difficult situations, be forced to spend almost all of their time apart, and deal with scandals and setbacks.

2024 was a year I could never have dreamed of for both of them. Watching them both thrive so well, take charge of their careers and their lives to a degree never before seen, and to have so much time for their personal lives - it's all I've ever wanted for them.

And you can see how well they are thriving, how much happier they are, how much healthier they are, and how much of themselves is stamped on every single thing they do.

I frequently see fans spinning negative fantasies about them, and it makes me sad. As if there isn't enough pain in the world, why generate more in your own mind?

A lot of turtles tend to overly romanticize 2018 and 2019 because they were the years that The Untamed was filmed, promoted and aired, and that's where a lot of our favorite GGDD content was born. I think that's rather self-centered and shortsighted. If we take five seconds to remove our rose-colored glasses, surely we can see how difficult those years were for them.

Yes, they got to work together for a few months, they got to spend some fun time together promoting The Untamed and even got to be somewhat open about their affection for each other in front of a crowd, but outside of that summer dream, they were both in pretty precarious positions in their careers, and both of them faced a lot of really gruesome anti attacks. Neither of them had very much control over their careers or their choices, and their management situations were atrocious.

We don't even have to talk about 2020. That was an incredibly difficult year. GG was the focus of one of the worst cyberbullying and nearly career-ending scandals that's been seen in that industry. He was being threatened, the people connected to him and the brands that he dealt with were being threatened.

Any time he tried to do anything in his career, whether it was an appearance or an endorsement, antis would come out in droves and protest until it was shut down. There were active organized hate campaigns whose entire purpose was to destroy his life and his career. People were trying to infect him with COVID, and there were other threats upon his life. Multiple times online hate campaigns tried to spread the rumor that he had died.

He couldn't go anywhere without people following him and chanting hateful slogans at him and trying to infiltrate the hotels he was staying at. It was terrifying.

DD was constantly overworked, exhausted, always on the move with barely any time to come up for air.

They had to spend most of their time apart, including some of the quarantine time, when DD was isolated so that he could begin filming LOF, right when the worst of the scandal broke. GG's grandfather died, and he faced so many personal burdens.

They did get some fun times together of course, and there were some huge successes for both of them, including GG's spectacular comeback at the end of the year with his sea of red for Tencent All Star Night. Even turtles worked to help ensure he had his red sea.

And GG and DD got to clown around and be silly as well, and they made a real effort to show us that they were getting through fine, they would be okay and that they were still the same people, still able to be happy. We got so much candy that year, and so many great LRLG messages as well.

But that was just a sign of their character and strength. Make no mistake about it, that was a difficult year.

The intervening years between then and now have been a bit of a mixed bag. There were a lot of COVID frustrations (scheduling issues, Kafkaesque hoops to jump through, inability to travel outside the country, risk of ending up in a prolonged lockdown, inevitable health stress), they had to spend a lot of time apart and there were more and more crackdowns on the entertainment industry, on the queer community and on fandom culture, which made things feel positively dismal and oppressive - at times even scary.

However, it's undeniable that things have been gradually improving for them. They've both been building more and more autonomy and control in their careers, and building more respect from audiences and within the industry. They've both been prioritizing their personal lives more and more. And yes - they've BOTH been looking happier, more relaxed, more balanced.

I've talked about that a fair bit over the past couple of years. Most recently in this post.

Looking at 2024, they have had so much more free time in their lives, have been able to spend so much more time together in the same city, have spent time with each other wherever they were filming, and even got to travel and spend some fun downtime outside of China.

They are in such powerful positions compared to even a couple years ago. They have made great connections and worked on some amazing projects.

GG has been working with some of the top directors on some of the most anticipated projects in C-ent. He recorded an entire solo album and several music videos, and did all of that on his own time and on his own dime, and released it to critical acclaim and massive success with audiences.

He has been the talk of the globe in fashion circles and entertainment circles, and has been the global face behind some of the most successful and exciting campaigns for some of the most prestigious brands in the world.

He got to travel a lot outside of China, and build on some of the great connections he's made over the years. He got to spend time with his parents traveling Europe!

He's given us so much incredible content with his vlogs and photo sets. It's just mind-boggling how much he's given us over the past couple of years.

DD took initiative to propose and participate in a documentary series where he got to explore interesting locations and engage in some of the most extreme outdoor activities. What could possibly be more exciting for someone like him?

He got to work with a team of conservationists who are fighting to save pangolins, and filmed a documentary there as well. Knowing him, that has to be one of the most rewarding things he's ever done in his life.

Both documentaries were highly acclaimed and award-winning.

Speaking of awards, he debuted as a film star and has been nominated for all of the top awards in China both for his film work and his drama work!

He has signed a new contract with his management company that will certainly have put him in a very powerful position in the company as their top breadwinner. He has been exceptionally successful with endorsements, holding more endorsements than anyone else in C-ent.

He got to play tennis on the top of The Great Wall with one of the top players in the world (regardless of how much I despise Djokovic).

He got to be an Olympic torch bearer! He is the ambassador for multiple high profile organizations and projects.

He earned his auto racing license, joined a racing team and finished in first place in his first ever auto race!

Make no mistake about it, they are both now solidly calling the shots in their own lives and careers, they are living their best lives, and they are both happier than I have ever seen them in all of these years.

And much more healthy! Just take one look at them and you can see how much healthier they both are. They've been playing a lot of sports and doing a lot of active outdoor activities together, and it shows in how much happier and healthier they are.

Frankly anyone who can't see that has their head stuffed firmly in a moist dark place.

I urge everyone to center GG and DD in all of our fandom explorations, theories and interpretations. The reality is that the more that they get to focus on their own lives and careers and personal freedoms, the less candy and CPN we're likely to see. We should be happy for them rather than try to spin sad tales about it.

#bjyx #yizhan #fandom reflections #bxg perspectives #rumors of their misery are greatly exaggerated #i wanted to get this out a lot earlier but my day got sidetracked #king gg #king dd

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mountaesan · 18 days ago

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of pomegranates and love stained fingers ; p. sungho

pairing. idol!park sungho x reader genre. fluff , est. relationship , lots n lots of domesticity ! synopsis. in which sungho shows you that love could be found at an ordinary kitchen table , amidst a mess of pomegranate peels and love stained fingers word count. 1.9k warnings. nudity and bathing in a non-sexual context , a lot of inner dialogue , sungho is… such a gentleman i actually might have fallen in love with him while writing this (yes this is a warning) playlist. the way that i am by abby powledge notes. this is. so. so. so. self indulgent. but oh to be loved and to be seen by park sungho (◞‸◟)

Pomegranates are a contradiction wrapped in a tough, leather-like skin.

On the outside, they’re unassuming. Their ruby-red hue is muted by a dull, almost dusty sheen, like they’ve been brushed by centuries of history. But break one open, and it’s utter chaos. Vivid, gleaming seeds spilling out in clusters, their translucent walls catching the light like small, blood-red jewels.

The juice is relentless. It stains fingers, clothes, and countertops with a color so intense that it almost feels alive, impossible to tame.

And it doesn’t simply mark, it claims. Eating one is an exercise in both patience and surrender. Each seed is a burst of a tart sweetness that’s worth the mess, but it leaves you wondering how something so beautiful can also be so unruly.

That was exactly why you loved pomegranates. They were a little wild, a little untamed. It was in the way the juice stained your fingers, leaving behind traces of something alive and uncontainable. It’s how every seed is a burst of flavor: tangy, sweet, and unapologetically bold. For you, pomegranates were a reminder that the best things in life aren’t always neat or simple; they’re messy, vivid, and unforgettable.

Back in your adolescence, when you were still a hopeless romantic and believed in fate and soulmates and such, you had a theory: that anyone willing to peel a pomegranate for you was to be the one. The one the universe had assigned you—your soulmate. The person you’re meant to share the messiness and beauty of life with, because, let’s be honest, peeling a pomegranate isn’t just an act, it’s a labor.

It’s tedious, requiring patience and precision to carefully break apart the tough skin without crushing the delicate seeds. The juice inevitably smears, the tiny ruby jewels scatter, and by the end, it looks like a small battlefield in the kitchen.

You thought of it as a test of devotion. Who else would endure the sticky fingers, the risk of stains, and the painstaking effort, all for the sole purpose of handing over a bowl of gleaming seeds? Your theory wasn’t about the pomegranate itself, it was about what it represented: the willingness to take on something cumbersome and time-consuming just to bring joy to someone else.

In your teenage mind, peeling a pomegranate was love distilled into action. A quiet, unspoken declaration that said, ‘I see the things you cherish, even the messy, difficult ones, and I want to be a part of them.’

So you used to wait, watching the people in your life with a careful eye, jokingly tossing your theory at dinner tables and gatherings but secretly hoping and wondering if someone might one day sit down, pick up a pomegranate, and show you that love can be as simple, and as profound, as peeling fruit.

But as you grew older, your pomegranate theory began to feel like a relic of a softer, more naive version of yourself. You used to imagine someone peeling away the tough, leathery rind, their hands stained red with love and effort, and thought to yourself, ‘that’s love.’ But with time, the weight of practicality started to take hold.

Your theory about pomegranates, something you once held close with a spark of whimsical belief, soon became just another one of those silly little things that poets and hopeless romantics dreamed up.

So, you tucked your silly theory away in a dusty corner of your mind, dismissing it as an innocent fantasy of your youth. You searched for love that was grounded, sensible, and serious about the practicalities of life. You looked for someone who could handle the demands of life without the weight of romantic idealism like yours clouding their judgement.

There was no room for mess or chaos anymore, certainly not for the kind of love that required peeling pomegranates, both literally and metaphorically.

A loud slam of your front door made your ears perk up and you heard the familiar rustling of your boyfriend’s clothes as he shuffled through the living room. You could almost envision the way he shrugged off his outer coat before neatly hanging it on the coat hanger by the entryway.

“Baby? I’m home!”

“In here!” you called out. The bathwater lapped at your knees, forming small waves that crashed and fell against the porcelain wall of your bathtub. Sungho knocked on the bathroom door, but only out of courtesy, before he pushed it open and greeted you with a bright smile.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he knelt by the side of the bathtub to press a warm kiss to your forehead.

“You’re home early.” you pointed out. A hand reached out to stroke your boyfriend’s cheek, a single droplet of water running down the slope of your arm and landing back in the bathtub with a small plop.

“Mastered the choreography first so I could come home to you,” he replied, ever so gently leaning into the warmth of your palm. “Did you just start your bath?”

You nodded, the corners of your lips lifting at his sweet words. “Just a few minutes ago. You don’t have to keep kneeling like that, you know. Your knees are going to hurt.”

“I’m fine,” he said with a chuckle. His gaze softened as he noticed the way the water cradled your form, the steam rising in delicate swirls around you. “Want some help?”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Are you volunteering to join me?”

Sungho laughed softly, shaking his head. “Maybe next time, but I can still take care of you from here.”

Before you could respond, he reached for the loofah sitting on the edge of the tub and dipped it into the warm water before lathering it up with your favorite body wash. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second of this small, intimate moment.

“You don’t have to, you know,” you murmured as he started gently running the loofah along your shoulder. His featherlight touch sent a slight shiver down your spine.

“I know,” he said, his voice steady and warm. “But let me.”

His voice was so soft, so filled with love, that you couldn’t bring yourself to argue. You let out a small sigh of defeat and leaned back against the tub as he started gently running the loofah over your arms.

Sungho’s touch was delicate, as though he was handling the most fragile thing in the world. The loofah glided over your arms, his hand following to rinse away the bubbles.

“You work so hard,” he murmured, almost to himself, as he moved to your legs. “You deserve this.”

The words made your chest tighten with emotion. “You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

“No such thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, his hand brushing the back of your calf. “Taking care of my partner is the easiest thing in the world.”

You let your head rest against the edge of the tub, closing your eyes as his hands continued their tender work. The care and love infused into every motion, the way he poured his entire being into making sure you felt safe, cherished, and adored made your heart squeeze tightly.

As he finished, Sungho pressed a soft kiss to your damp shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment. “All done,” he whispered, and you noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Thank you,” you said, meeting his gaze.

Sungho smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Anything for you, gorgeous. Always.”

He stood up and grabbed the big, fluffy towel from the nearby rack, shaking it out to fluff it up. “Alright, come on, let me help you out.”

You shifted in the tub, the water sloshing as you moved to stand. Sungho reached out instinctively, steadying you with his strong, gentle hands. His fingers pressed lightly against your arm and waist as he guided you to step out of the tub.

“Careful,” he murmured, his brows furrowed in concentration.

The moment your feet touched the bath mat, he draped the towel around you, cocooning you in its warmth. You couldn’t help but giggle as he adjusted the plush fabric, tucking the edges around your shoulders like a protective shield.

“There we go. Let’s go get you dried up, and then we can go see the present I got you.”

The kitchen table was a mess—juice stains spreading across its surface, pomegranate seeds scattered among paper towels and discarded bits of rind. Sungho sat across from you, elbows resting on the table as he carefully pried apart another piece of fruit. His fingers were stained a deep crimson, the juice clinging to his skin and pooling in the small creases of his knuckles.

“You’re making such a mess,” you teased, watching as he plucked a cluster of seeds free and placed them in a bowl.

He grinned, unfazed. “Worth it.”

He picked up a few seeds between his stained fingers, flicking away the stubborn bits of membrane, and brought them to your lips. “Here.”

You let him feed you, the tart sweetness bursting on your tongue as he watched you with unspoken fondness. It wasn’t until you noticed the way his brows furrowed in concentration, focusing on getting a particular seed unstuck from the membrane, that it struck you how absurdly thoughtful this was.

“When did I even mention that I like pomegranates?” you asked, your voice softened with wonder and adoration.

Sungho glanced up briefly, his lips quirking up into a sheepish grin. “You told me once, when we first started dating. You were talking about how much you loved them as a kid. Said they were your favorite fruit, even though they’re a pain to eat.”

You blinked, stunned. The memory was hazy even to you—just a passing remark in some forgetful conversation. But he’d remembered.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” you murmured, feeling your chest tighten with an unfamiliar mix of emotions.

Sungho shrugged, returning his attention to the pomegranate in his crimson stained hands. “It’s no trouble. Besides, I like seeing you happy.”

You looked down at the table and took in the chaos of it all: the stains, the mess, his juice-streaked hands, and something deep inside you shifted.

Suddenly, you were seventeen again with your heart wrapped in whimsical theories about soulmates and love.

This was it. This was what you had been searching for back then but had long stopped believing in. This was the kind of love you’d once dreamed of but had dismissed as a silly, adolescent fantasy. Yet, here it was, sitting across from you with juice-stained hands and a soft smile, proving you wrong in the most beautiful way.

Your teenage self had been right: peeling a pomegranate wasn’t just about the fruit. It was a quiet act of devotion, a willingness to embrace the mess and the effort for the sake of someone else’s joy.

Sungho broke your reverie by holding up another handful of seeds, his smile so effortlessly warm that it sent a pang through your chest.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice wavered slightly.

“I know,” he replied. His tone was gentle but resolute. “But let me.”

And as you opened your mouth for the next bite, you realized that love didn’t have to be a grand, sweeping gesture.

Sometimes, it was sitting at a messy kitchen table with stained hands and sticky fingers, peeling pomegranates because someone mentioned, just once, that they liked them.

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silviakundera · 1 year ago

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Yeah, I would personally argue that WWX is neither oblivious nor does he, during the Burial Grounds era, in essence misunderstand LWJ! They certainly do not know all of the emotional undercurrents and personal secrets of the other. But LWJ is not mistaken to think that WWX won't back down and bow his head to orthodoxy, give up his flute and the Wens. WWX is not mistaken to think that LWJ will ultimately adhere to society's rules of order and obey his sect - this isn't a misunderstanding. In both novel and drama, LWJ is simply not ready to walk his own path, against gentlemen's etiquette & proscribed moral behavior, and decide on his own (& against his family) what is wrong and right. Not until WWX is at death's door...when it's too late.

I too dislike the miscommunication tropes when it's lazy. But MDZS isn't a lazy narrative. This is a tragedy that's built step by step, that happens because of who these characters are. It's incredibly true to all of the characters and no one is forced by the narrative to be stupid in order to make the plot work.

I think the reason the wangxian miscommunication doesn't upset me as much as other stories using that trope is because they're not misunderstanding over a surface level issue that could be cleared up with one conversation they're aren't speaking the same language. When lan wangji says "come back to gusu with me" wei wuxian hears "let me punish you" and lan wangji means "let me save you". Not to mention that there's a lot about their circumstances that make it so they can't clearly communicate like wei wuxian can't reveal he doesn't have a golden core so lan wangji can't understand why he chose the demonic path. In the end its only post resurrection when they learn eachothers language and secrets come to light that they can be happy and honest with eachother.

#tbh i really despair when wwx and lwj are written #as dumb and blind to the obvious in fanfic #that removes the gorgeous tragedy of it all #its so engrosing and awful BECAUSE there are no breaks #there is no easy fix #in the novel every flashback pieces together #an impossible situation #where both wwx and lwj failed #in the drama u witness a slow motion car crash #that feels inevitable #its only years later #that they have a second chance #and they are both ready #wwx can put down his burdens and start fresh #lwj can leave behind rules of order and propriety #cql #mdzs #the untamed #wangxian

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ninibeingdelulu · 7 months ago

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How he react when you…

ft. leon kennedy, cloud strife, zack fair, simon “ghost” riley

How he react when you kiss/lick/nibble his earlobe/neck/jaw.

Leon Kennedy -

The hardened former rookie cop would freeze completely still at the first intimate swipe of your tongue along the wiry tendon of his neck. Eyes fluttering shut, Leon would fight back a full-body shudder, teeth gritting as that rugged jaw twitches with mounting restraint.

As your nibbles and caresses increased against the sensitive flesh behind his ear, his calloused palms would clench into white-knuckled fists. Battling the ingrained instinct to defensively seize and subdue like with any other threat. Until, at last, Leon can resist no longer.

A strangled rumble erupts from his broad chest as he twists with feline grace to back you against the nearest solid surface. Pupils blown wide with smoldering hunger, he braces one strong forearm by your head as the other hand cups your nape with surprising tenderness despite the desperation ravening behind each fevered caress of his lips along your jawline. The first of many tremors to rack your entire frame that night.

Cloud Strife -

The stalwart AVALANCHE mercenary lurches as if jolted by a live current when the first pass of your tongue grazes that sensitive spot below his jaw. Spiky blond brows knit sharply over those blazing mako-tinged eyes squeezing shut on a guttural groan torn straight from his diaphragm.

Though his initial fists clench at his sides instinctively, Cloud permits no further retaliation - whether physical or to extract himself from your wandering affections. Quite the opposite, in fact. His head lolls aside, granting you ample access to continue feathering scorching kisses and teasing flicks of your tongue along the sensitive column of his throat.

Only once your relentless sensual torment threatens to buckle those powerful thighs entirely does Cloud shudder and haul you flush against him with dizzying abruptness. Equal parts possessive and reverent, he claims your parted lips in a soul-searing kiss, broad palms framing your face like a precious treasure as he savors every ardent swirl of your twined tongues.

Zack Fair -

That blinding, boyish smile wouldn't dim one iota as your teasing ministrations first make contact. At least, not outwardly. Inside, however, Zack's breath would leave him in a harsh gust as electricity lances up his spine from the languid glide of your mouth torturing that sensitive zone.

Far from the fierce, untamed passion of some of his counterparts, Zack would be endearingly awestruck and bashful at the outpouring of tenderness behind such a simple act. His fingers would splay tenderly through your hair, those sparkling blue eyes crinkling at the corners with unbridled adoration as you eagerly bestow your affections over every inch of accessible flesh.

Inevitably, he'd succumb to the smoldering fog of arousal steadily consuming every rational thought. Zack's doting caresses would roam freely along the sculpted planes of your body, lavishing you in turn with a breathless reverence and earnestness reserved for only you until the lines blurred completely between worshiper and revered.

Ghost -

One glimpse of that icy blue glare, and you'd know the elite marksman's mind was already whirring through a dozen calculated scenarios and counterattacks as soon as your lips made contact. Every toned muscle would go rigid, coiled like a cobra ready to strike or retreat at the first suspicious provocation.

Until, of course, realization trickles through that predatory hyper-alertness - this tantalizing torment stems from no external threat whatsoever, only the exquisite onslaught of pleasure steadily unravelling his razor-sharp restraint. As your roving mouth brands a searing path along Ghost's neck and jaw, his broad shoulders would slump minutely, permitting the faintest hitch of an indrawn breath to escape those chapped lips.

No vocalized encouragement or returned passion yet; such overt displays would likely always be suppressed lest they expose potential weaknesses to be exploited in the field. But like a silent storm front rolling in, Ghost's heated stare would spark with a new, tangible intensity wholly untamed and promising of the inevitable downpour still to come at your unhurried pace.

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animeyanderelover · 25 days ago

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Request: Can I request for Illumi, Pakunoda, Kurapika, Feitan, Pokkle from HXH and Aki and Makima from CSM with a tragic darling? Who was cursed to have a miserable and devastating existence? Who is forced to go through horrifying tragedies over and over again? And is destined to die a horrific and miserable death either by outside force, or the yandere themselves killing them and has no way to stop it?

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, overprotective behavior, paranoia, isolation, abduction, violence, mentions of darling's death, suicidal behavior

Tags: @jamayah @chxxz @leveyani @shenryu-sama @maggiequinn59 @hyakki-yosai

S/o is cursed with a miserable life

Kurapika Kurta

⛓️It is your curse that has bought you into the clutches of Kurapika but even as you are stuck with him, your life doesn't end up being safer or more peaceful. Tragedies and accidents haunt you no matter where you hide or run to and the curse bestowed upon your life pushes Kurapika's mind quickly over the edge. His own sanity deteriorates at a rate he would have never expected as he fails over and over again to protect you from the fate that is inevitable for you. He doesn't believe your words, doesn't believe that an early death is the only outcome for your life. His eyes glow a scarlet red whenever you even utter those words as he blames you for having given up far too easily. His hunt of the Phantom Troupe is joined by a desperate pursuit for an exorcise who can remove the curse that has been cast upon you yet he is plunged into dark despair whenever they fail to shatter the fate that gets closer every day. The paranoia festers into an untamable beast as his hold on you tightens, his fear growing that one day you will slip through his fingers and he will lose you forever. Hatred, desperation and fear burn his eyes red, a colour that will forever stay with them the moment your fate catches up with you.

Pokkle

🏹It is obsession that ties Pokkle forever to you yet he has been hurt more times than he has experienced the bliss that he once daydreamed about would come with a life with just the two of you. Your fate is one of suffering and heartbreak, your time on this earth limited. Pokkle has been witness to so many horrifying accidents and tragedies you have gone through and has never left any of them without bruises and scars all because he always shields you with his body to ensure that nothing happens to you. Mentally and physically he is shot. His hair is tousled, heavy eyebags rest under his eyes and he is constantly covered in bruises and wounds all because he is more than just desperate to protect you. At night he is too terrified to even sleep, dreads that you will pass away if he allows himself even a minute of rest. His emotions are all over the place, his sleep-deprived brain unable to function. In one moment he is sobbing in your arms that you can't leave him, in the next he's chaining you up with a hysterical look in his eyes. The moment everything happens as you have always known, he will fall into a deep depression where he will neglect himself until his weak body gives up on him.

Illumi Zoldyck

🤎Illumi is someone who believes himself to be in the right to own you and control you. It is the very curse of your existence that threatens this claim that he believes himself to have. You are kept separated from the rest of the clan much like Alluka as tragedies of yours should not befall the rest of the family. Only the butlers are there to protect you from yourself and only Illumi is the one who is allowed to converse with you at all. He denies you even the freedom of speaking that everything will be useless in the end as there is on force on earth that could save you, punishes you for speaking those words. He searches everywhere for an exorcist who will be able to release you of the curse you are in yet one after the other lets him down, their constant failures only being paid with their death in return as their existence is from that moment on of no worth for Illumi. Unable to control your life like he normally always does with his needles, Illumi finds himself filled with emotions that have his focus wavering, something that has never happened before. The moment you are no more he will move on with his life yet the memory of yours will be from that day on the curse haunting him.

Feitan Portor

☠️There nothing to be gained from keeping you yet it is your defeated mindset that agitates him more than anything. It is clear that you have already given up and resigned yourself to your fate yet for Feitan this won't do. You are not allowed to wallow in self-pity whilst putting him through so much trouble. He will make you suffer somehow and if it is the last thing that he will do. Feitan refuses to give you over to your cursed fate, rebells against it as he hunts down everyone who may be able to break you free from the life that you are otherwise doomed to live. His patience is of no saint though as all threads snap whenever a failure happens and he lets out his growing frustration on those who failed his expectations. You are his. You are not allowed to die an early death that he has no control over. You aren't supposed to die already. The agitation, the helplessness, that he is put through as he slowly has to understand that there is indeed seemingly nothing he can do is guaranteed to drive him mad. Perhaps ending your life through his own hands is the only way for him to exhibit a semblance of control over your existence. It will not bring him any joy though. Only a memory to forever torment him.

Pakunoda

💘Denial will not bring you very far nor will it bring Pakunoda very far. She is quick to understand that there is nothing she is able to do after trying and failing to figure out a way or to find a person who could ensure your survival. Even with all the connections and information that she has with her own Nen abilities as well as the Phantom Troupe there is nothing that she can do nor is there anyone else out there who could do anything to help you to lead a normal life. It is this knowledge that breaks her heart. The moment she accepts that though she decides that there is no reason for her to hold back with her own obsession. Time is ticking for you after all and it is ticking fast which leaves her with no time to take everything slow with you. Your own cursed fate leads Pakunoda to the decision to not hold anything back at all and to indulge in you as long as there is still time. She will not be denied the fleeting time that you have left on this earth. She herself comes to the conclusion that she will end your life at the end herself, giving you perhaps the most merciful death that you could have gotten. She will never be able to move on nor will she allow herself to do so though.

Hayakawa Aki

💙Perhaps it is his own cursed fate that has led him to find you and has also guided him to fall in love with you. Aki's own life is marked with nothing but tragedies and failure so your fading existence seems to be the cherry on top of everything. What was he thinking, believing that he could do something right with the only person he has ever loved as intensely? Your past, your present and your future all shatter him as the facade he tries to put on so desperately around you shatters. Deep down Aki is after all still a boy who has never gotten over the pain of losing his entire family in one flashing moment. No words could describe what he is feeling as he sheds tears of frustration and fear, unable to breathe properly as he clings to you. Is this really it? Is this how your life is going to end? Is this how his life is going to end? Without a single memory that can be just happy without the stain of death and sorrow? Aki comes to genuinely hate his existence and curse whatever gods exist up there for putting him through so much, for the fact that they will even take you from him. The only thing he can do though is focus on his revenge after you are gone until he too will die full of misery and regret.

Makima

⛓️What an anomaly you are. Makima is the Control Devil, the entire premise of her very existence is that she is the conductor who manipulates everyone. Yet she cannot control you. Your life is slipping right through her hands like sand as she can't hold on to it as you are cursed to die live and die in misery. In a way you are the very embodiment of everything she wants to get rid of as a world without pain, curses and death would be the ideal world for you. As of now she still hasn't achieved that goal of hers though and your time is ticking away. Still, she expresses no visible sorrow or grief even though she knows all about your fate. She doesn't know what it feels like after all, unable to react emotionally. Instead she searches for ways to keep you alive even if she has to use nonorthodox methods that might destroy the very core of your humanity. You will dangle within her chains one way or another and she doesn't care what methods and sorcery she has to resort to. She almost revels in the sensations she feels once you pass away though her goals aren still the same. She preserves your body, keeps it as she waits for a chance to bring you back. She will not tolerate her loss of control over you.

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