#another man falling for his fellow cultivator

[am0ngtheb0nes]

Friends don’t look at friends like this.

#Art #my art #oc #original character #immortal life #farming sim #Heixing #he is gay #cultivator #xianxia #every farm sim i play will generate these gay gay arts #this bitch homosexual #another man falling for his fellow cultivator #who is kind of stupid #but Heixing is into that #also hes so pretty #augh i cry

[teufelsabbiss]

Story-idea: teacher/father

OG!Shen Qingqiu/Tianlang-Jun; unrequited Luò Bīnghé/OG!Shen Qingqiu

Tianlang-Jun falls in love with Su Xiyan and both fall into the trap of the Huan Hua palace master. But the battle goes very differently. Tianlang-Jun and Zhuzhi-Lang manage to escape to the demon realm. Tianlang-Jun sulks for 10 years before he by chance meets a diviner who reveals to him what actually happened. He exacts revenge on the palace master and then goes to find his son. Even though he doesn't necessarily care to be a parent, he figures he should maybe at least try to ensure his son is fine wherever he is. A ritual reveals that he's somewhere in a certain cultivation sect in the human realm. Oh dear, how did that happen?

On his way to the sect he makes a stop at a nice little brothel called the Warm Red Pavilion which has excellent music and service. And coincidentally meets Shen Qingqiu.

Tianlang-Jun loved Su Xiyan; she was cold, strong and beautiful. Once he sees Shěn Qīngqiū, Cupid's arrow hits ten times harder. The man seems to be quite ruthless, a vicious beauty with many talents, humor black as coal and the quick wit befitting a master strategist. He's everything any demon dreams of in a partner. And apparently has had enough bad experiences with fellow humans to not socialize easily. A pity, but Tianlang-Jun is more than ready to tackle the challenge!

While both demons try to figure out a safe way to secretly get into the sect to look for the child, they stay at the brothel. It's a nice place to lounge and has the added benefit of meeting Shen Qingqiu again. Also questioning the prostitutes about him provides very valuable insights. That he's a high-ranking member of the very sect they try to get into has to be fate!

Tianlang-Jun goes on to annoy befriend Shen Qingqiu and reveals that he's searching for his long lost son, shows him a portrait of the late Su Xiyan and says that he has reason to believe said son is in Cang Qiong. Unbeknownst to him, this makes Shen Qingqiu inwardly spit blood, because the portrait clearly shows the irrefutable relation to Luo Binghe. Which means his hated newest disciple is the son of this rich weirdo and has strong backing after all. He has to put a stop to all harassment going on as soon as he gets back to his peak and make up a convincing reason for his prior bad treatment to avoid inevitable backlash. Luckily the little beast hasn't been there all that long yet and is hopefully naive enough to fall for a made-up explanation.

Tianlang-Jun still hasn't found a way around the security. He could just barge in and follow the ritual to it's target, but that would only cause another war with the humans and he doesn't want that. So he's continuing his flirting and wooing in the meantime. Shen Qingqiu develops feelings rather quickly, but refuses to admit it at all costs. He tells Tianlang-Jun that the son he's looking for is his disciple, but doesn't allow immediate contact with the excuse that it would confuse the child to suddenly be confronted with an unknown parent at this point in time, intending to prolong their meeting until he can be reasonably sure Luo Binghe believed his prior treatment was for a beneficial goal and won't say anything to the contrary.

To his surprise, Tianlang-Jun seems perfectly content with this explanation as well as the overall situation. Shen Qingqiu doesn't really know how to feel about this. On the one hand, this makes it easier and should he ever be inclined to reciprocate the advances, he probably won't have to worry about said lover having a crazy wish to have children. But then, isn't that a terribly flaky attitude to have for a father?! Typical rich bastards! Despite that, the flirting continues and the better this goes, the better Bīnghé is treated.

Shen Qingqiu asks Luo Binghe whether he would hypothetically want to leave the sect, if he found out he had family? Binghe very firmly answers that he would never want to leave Qing Jing peak and that the only family he thought of as his family was his now dead adoptive mother anyway.

After about a year, things look pretty good between Tianlang-Jun and Shen Qingqiu. Good enough that he thinks it's time to reveal that he's a demon. It doesn't go very well.

It takes a lot of effort, disclosing everything about the betrayal of Lao Gongzhu, what went on later and continued wooing over several months to convince Shen Qingqiu that he never had any nefarious intentions, but eventually Shen Qingqiu warms up to him again. Now, though, there's the question how reuniting Tianlang-Jun with his son will impact things. What if he truly rather stays in the sect? Which Tianlang-Jun seems to be perfectly fine with, if that's his son's wish. It's difficult to carry a big secret like being a half-demon around as a hormonal teenager who would then know he's constantly in danger. In the end, they decide to not tell Binghe until he's old enough to leave the sect if he deemed staying too dangerous, so he wouldn't need to rely on the backing of anyone person or a sect and can decide without duress. (Yes, they are both very bad at making good decisions.)

With this hurdle out of the way, Tianlang-Jun can express himself fully and without any holds barred. Shen Qingqiu eventually has to admit his feelings and they get together. Eventually he agrees to carry a gifted trinket with him at all times that alerts Tianlang-Jun should he be in trouble. He couldn't bear to have the same tragedy happening twice. Shen Qingqiu is very flattered and moved by him showing such care.

Not long after, the rumor mill of Cang Qiong flares up again due to his greatly increased visits to the brothel. Shen Qingqiu is angry enough about it this time to forego all safety concerns for the sect and installs a teleportation-array in his bamboo house. This way he can meet up with his lover in private and it's possible for Tianlang-Jun to get to him in case of an actual emergency even in the sect.

Then Shěn Qīngqiū goes into seclusion in the Lingxi-caves, despite Tianlang-Jun's lovesick whining. He takes Tianlang-Jun's gift with him and when Liu Qingge has his qi-deviation, he's alerted and rushes in to help. Together, knocking out a qi-deviating Liǔ Qīnggē is child's play and he leaves Shěn Qīngqiū to take care of his shidi until he's better. Luckily, Tianlang-Jun did remember to take the concealing talisman that Shen Qingqiu made with him to hide his demonic qi so that no alarms go off.

Tianlang-Jun obviously misses Shen Qingqiu and goes to roam around his house every now and then, just to be closer in thought (poor Zhuzhi-Lang has to listen to a lot of dramatic pining). During one of these visits Sha Hualing attacks Cang Qiong. This is swiftly and brutally dealt with. Can't have his beloved come back to a plundered and humiliated sect after all. Sha Hualing flees as soon as she realizes who stands before her, but some others are less smart and also too slow.

When Shěn Qīngqiū comes out of the caves, he's greeted by unhurt, but mortified disciples and a smug heavenly demon and his obedient nephew inmidst a massive bloodbath. Tianlang-Jun bows to him and makes flirtatious small-talk that make the disciples witnessing their banter believe the demon owed the Qing Jing peak lord a favor. Or that he's challenging him. No one is quite sure, but everyone agrees it's awesome that Shěn Qīngqiū succeeds in making them leave without further trouble.

Due to the good treatment, Luò Bīnghé falls in love with Shěn Qīngqiū. After meeting Meng Mo, he asks his shizun whether he thinks that all demons are evil? Shěn Qīngqiū replies that humans and demons are the same, capable of good and evil, but demons tend to chose evil with glee, whereas humans deceive themselves into thinking their evil is better and less awful. Although this bleak, cynical worldview saddens Bīnghé, he is also hopeful and vows to protect his shizun and one day court him.

The Alliance Conference is infiltrated by Mobei-Jun's demons and Bīnghé's seal is broken. To his surprise, his shizun knew about his demon heritage for years. Then Tianlang-Jun shows up, almost kills Mobei-Jun before he can retreat and speaks with a lot of innuendo to Shěn Qīngqiū. Bīnghé remembers him from the attack on Qiong Ding a few years ago. What this mighty demon said to his shizun back then (and now yet again) makes Bīnghé fear this man is an old enemy that wants to harm or abduct his shizun. He tries to attack and is stopped by Tianlang-Jun without effort. Tianlang-Jun then fully removes Bīnghé's seal. Binghe is mortified, stumbles away from him and accidentally falls into the Endless Abyss. Tianlang-Jun tries to grab him, but doesn't succeed. Since it has come to this, he calls after his falling klutz of a son to train well while he's there. (Which Binghe obviously takes as the cruel mocking of an enemy.)

Once Bīnghé is gone, he waves off Shěn Qīngqiū's (minimal) worries; the healing power of Bīnghé's heavenly demon blood will prevent him from dying, no problem. And it actually will indeed be a very good, if highly unpleasant, training opportunity. There are a few more rifts to the Endless Abyss in the demon realm, he and his nephew can go search for Binghe later.

A few days after this disaster, Tianlang-Jun jokes that now that his son is out of the disciple phase, Shěn Qīngqiū has no reason at all anymore to suspect the courting is a sham to ensure favoritism and starts to make marriage proposals. Tianlang-Jun searches for Binghe regularly, but can't find him.

Bīnghé comes back after two years speed-running the Endless Abyss, spurred on by the fear that his shizun was hurt or killed by the demon who was responsible for him ending up in this hellish place. Instead, he finds Cang Qiong is the riot of the cultivation world for having an alliance with heavenly demons.

The rumors vary. Some say the insidious Qing Jing peak lord seduced and bound a mighty demon to further the sect's power.

Others say he was ravaged and forced into marriage by the heavenly demon and, unable to defeat the demon or break the curse that was placed upon the pitiable immortal master, the sect had no choice but to accept the bond and ally with the demon to ensure at least a minimum of safety and respite for the man. There's a whole book written about this version of the story, with outrageous, detailed scenes of forced papapa. (So basically The Regret of Chunshan with different characters.)

This is obviously terrible gossip to hear for an already frightened Bīnghé.

The truth is, in a way, even worse for him in the end, because it squashes all hopes of ever having his shizun by his side like he wants to. There is no need for a hero who swoops in to save his beloved. Shěn Qīngqiū happily accepted Tianlang-Jun's marriage proposal a month after the disastrous Alliance Conference and they spent the next three months to convince the other peak lords that Tianlang-Jun was framed back when they tried to seal him. That he had nothing to do with either the attack on their sect nor with the Alliance Conference debacle. And on the contrary, helped them a lot over the years already and that allying themselves with him is extremely beneficial. As soon as that was accomplished, they announced the marriage and made their vows on Qiong Ding peak with Yuè Qīngyuán and Zhuzhi-Lang as stand-ins for the family.

(Welcome back, Luo Bīnghe. You missed your master's marriage day. By the way, since Tianlang-Jun is your father, I'm not only your shizun but also your stepfather now. I expect you to keep calling me shizun, though. Oh, right, you didn't know he's your father yet. Well, now you do. While we're at it, meet your cousin.)

Meng Mo is laughing about this whole absurd situation until Binghe threatens to not play host anymore.

#svsss #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #tianlang jun #story idea #writing prompt

[felpimburning]

New Au Idea:

So, Shen Yuan transmigrates into Luo Binghe instead of Shen Qingqiu, and out of everyone, it's the Qing Jing Peak Lord himself who grows suspicious of his disciple's sudden change in behaviour, so naturally the punishments lessen and Shen Yuan who is now Luo Binghe is just confused as hell.

After a while Shen Qingqiu begins to see there's more than meets the eye with his discjple and grows a small amount of fondness for the boy, all the while Luo Binghe is having a sexualising crisis and thinking he's developed a crush on his Shizun, because he has.

Once it's revealed Luo Binghe is a demon Shen Qingqiu still pushes him into the abyss and promises that if the boy can make it out alive that he'll explain why he pushed him, so of course Luo Binghe is working hard to get out and manages to do so after 2 years. He runs into Huan Hua and they manage to convince him to not go and search for Shen Qingqiu after another year, The Old Palace Master is a little bit handsy.

Luo Binghe runs into Shen Qingqiu in Jinlan city and immediately latches onto him, the discjples of Huan Hua are confused because they thought Shen Qingqiu must've hurt Luo Binghe badly, but here the man is clinging to his Shizun so that must've not happened.

The Old Palace Master is informed in a letter and decides to pull his Qiu Haitang card, and that manages to get Shen Qingqiu in the water prison, in this universe the man didn't kill Liu Qingge and so he wasn't charged with the murder of his fellow Peak Lord.

Luo Binghe plays some of his own cards and frees his Shizun, he offers for Shen Qingqiu to come with him to the demon realm but the man refuses and instead convinces his disciple to help him strike down the Old Palace Master.

After all this Luo Binghe tries to manipulate the Old Palace Master more but accidentally falls into a trap and is locked inside somewhere tied by thousands of Immortal Binding Cable, he gets touched in disgusting ways by the Old Palace Master and soon is saved by his Shizun who began to grow concerned at the lack of a report on the progression of infiltrating Huan Hua. Luo Binghe eventually asks for the explanation he waited for, for years.

Shen Qingqiu says that the reason he pushed Luo Binghe down there was because other cultivators would've killed him, and so he chose a different option in where he had a chance to survive.

Somehow, Tianlang Jun gets free and Luo Binghe is just trying not to die of embarrassment as he is given the 'talk' by the dad he forgot he even had, so the young man just decides to admit he's gay in front of his father, cousin, and Shizun who seems to want to bash his head with a rock whenever Tianlang Jun talks.

The older man smirks at this and just dumps a bunch of gay porn books into his son's unknowing hands.

After a while more, the duo manage to successfully take down the Old Palace Master but Xin Mo is acting up, Luo Binghe hadn't done anything to satisfy it for a while. For some reason unknown to him, Shen Qingqiu agrees to help, and so the two dual cultivate to work things out.

This is still in planning stage so you might have to wait for updates.

#mo xiang tong xiu #scumbag system #svsss #fanfic #scum villian self saving system #mxtx

[reilliane]

Tyranny (iv) ⊱⊰ Genshin!Various

A/N: Tyranny hello! It's back, with- with ITTO! cough and Crepus- okay, aside from the odd pair's appearance, have some Childe fluff that's lowkey errrr- aha, you'll see! Oh, and a pleasant surprise awaits ;) ➸ One — Two — Three ➸ (Follow-up Optional Readings): Jubilee of Vermillion (tba) - Ingress of Violet - (tba) ✤ Violence, Blood Death mentions ✤ LIs: Diluc & Zhongli (mentioned), Childe, Alatus, Kazuha

The climate of the Kingdom of Ragnvindr does not fail to complement its sovereigns' magic are; flames. The place is just as scorching as the fire that runs deep in the royals' blood.

Perhaps this is one of the reasons why the crown continues to be atop the head of a Ragnvindr, and a Ragnvindr only.

They've led a wonderful reign from the moment history has been recorded, though it's disappointing to say that this prominence has presently fallen off a steep and slippery slope.

“Your Royal Majesty, King Crepus...”

The man in question, torpid and sick, stiffens at the chilling call of his title. When he turns, his guest greets him with a smile.

“How are you faring?” a sickeningly sweet tone rings in the air, “Well, I do hope.”

The Queen of Khemia stands with her retinue, garbed for a journey to come. It appears that she will be leaving.

“Queen,” King Crepus dips his head in acknowledgment, “My humblest greetings. Please, the journey back to Khemia is arduous, you are most welcome to stay the night in the palace.”

Though he dare not say it, he'd prefer for the lady to actually head back to her land as soon as possible. The tender flames of his precious Kingdom face a sinister chill ever since the Queen has come to visit.

Her gait carries an air of frozen elegance, nippy in the sense that indulging her in conversations will only trepidate those courageous enough to attempt it.

The Queen hums, [c] eyes flying halfway down with a sigh. “Oh, I'd hate to impose. I only came to extend my personal wishes to the birthday celebrant.”

Crown Prince Diluc Ragnvindr.

Crepus is aware of the happenings earlier afternoon, but the details are not known. He is, after all, supposed to be in bed after a nasty disease. It is just now that he chose to leave in hopes of escorting his fellow majesty to the gates of the palace.

“You needn't do so.”

Of course, he too has a motive for having this incentive.

The narrowing of [c] eyes turns devious, ruby lips lopsidedly curling upward. “My, your Majesty, I'm certain you know that it isn't my only reason...”

Crepus feels a chill down his spine.

Come another year, your son will be wed to me if you so fail to repay your debt. It is an untold message, yet the King knows it too well.

It looks like he can't belaud the Queen into lessening the conditions of his compensation if he isn't able to remunerate the fortune he borrowed.

In the middle of his stupor, a bag that smelt of fresh leaves is handed over to one of his accompanying retainers.

“Please take these and nourish yourself back to prime condition.” he realizes that it's the silver-haired servant and Knight of the lady that has provided the pouch.

That man is swift to slot himself by the retinue, however, presenting the limelight back unto his Queen, whose smile has never left her face.

“These are herbs personally cultivated by the Duke in his duchy, they will ease your pain and expedite your healing.” a pause, then a wistful sigh, “We can't have the Crown Prince falling under par because he's acting as regent, no?”

Letting your son do the work as you wither from a curable disease? What a twisted reason.

By the look on those [c] eyes, Crepus can tell that she's bemused. It isn't a hardly kept secret that the Ragnvindrs' magic artes are flames—but Prince Diluc has an unusual kind of flame.

It is not a flame that destroys, but it is a flame that heals.

Of course, it can cause damage but it falls little when compared to its healing ability. The Queen must be floundered on why he, the King, continues to be sick in bed when he could be healed in a second.

She must've thought that he's lazing around—and Crepus is hardly peeved about it. Beyond the monstrous whims of Khemia's sovereign, he can respect her diligent work and facetious mindset.

He can understand why she's flabbergasted about the whole situation, but alas, the fact still stands that she knows only a small portion of the whole. And he's not inclined to tell the rest.

His main objective, for now, is to liberate his son from that marriage contract.

The Queen bows. “Then, I will take my leave. Fare thee well, your glorious Majesty.”

But as he sends her off with a defeated wave, Crepus realizes that this problem is akin to that of an inescapable labyrinth.

“You've returned!”

It is the witching hour by the time you've come back from the neighboring Kingdom. And of course, the first one to greet you in your office is Ajax.

His garbs are loose and comfortable as if he's been lounging around for quite some time. You won't hold it against him.

A tray of warm tea and snacks rests atop a table near the seats by the fireplace and when you pour yourself some to indulge in a sip, the taste is one of dried rose petals. Not of ginger root with a flourish of honey.

Kazuha had not been the one to prepare this, then.

You need not ask who when the answer presents itself in the smiling man who lifts a bite-sized macaron to your lips.

“A little too early for sweets, isn't it?” you hum, though you still take the confection in your mouth.

It is better to be full as you wait for the morning sun to bleed the sky a color of yellow, which is hours from now.

“Hm? Ah,” Ajax murmurs, eyes transfixed on your lips and the way they brush against his fingers that carries the macaron. “Desserts can never be too early.”

You watch in sly delight as his throat bobs after you purposely graze your teeth against the tip of his fingers, taking the rest of the sweet.

He's still dazed even when you lean back onto your seat with a content sigh, the emanating warmth from the porcelain cup gentle in your hold.

“Wow.” he whispers and you simper. Wow.

Standing to cover yourself with a shawl, you saunter to your work desk, saying, “Lacking sleep, Ajax? Careful. You may be reduced to mere stammers by the morning at this rate.”

“It won't be such a travesty if my cause for lack of sleep is you,” although it isn't too bright in the room, the crackling flames let you see the wink he sends your way.

You do not pay his flirty gesture any attention as you overlook the papers with sketches in your hold. Ah, they don't contain the faces you're looking for.

“'You'?” no titles whatsoever, not like you mind. “Impossibly brazen or marginally bawdy? Both apply.”

He laughs at this, not a speckle of exhaustion visible on his bright features. Comfortable on the sofa, arms supporting the back of his head and munching on a confection, Ajax does not look like a nobleman at all.

If he's found to lack the obligatory etiquette and respect towards the Queen, he can be tried for some brutal punishments.

But then again, most of the parliament do not fancy you at all, so perhaps they will let the consequence slide. Maybe it is their funny way to satiate their urge to throw you off the throne—but they can't.

They are aware of your wit. Your intellect and your acumen that has allowed Khemia to prosper two times more than it already is.

Mother had been correct when she said that despite the blood on your trail, it would be difficult to throw the crown off your head.

Amid your focus, you fail to see the noble traipse over to the back of your chair.

“I don't understand why you're choosing to read over names,” you feel Ajax lower his chin on your head, hands on your shoulders as he hums, “When you can rest after that demanding journey.”

There is an untold message in his words that has you smiling wryly, feeling the signs of a headache coming later in the morning.

Ah, the woes of having priorities.

“Quite the beguiler, are we?”

He chuckles again. “Is it working?”

“Fortunately, no.”

“Ah- you wound me, your Majesty!” Ajax teeters to the front of your work desk as though your words have managed to physically assault him, melodramatically falling out of sight. “I only seek to please and ease you. It wasn't simple dealing with his Highness, wasn't it?”

The mention of Prince Diluc prompts you to hum again, flicking towards the next paper in your hold.

“I had more elaborate people to talk to that were as convoluted as the government.”

In truth, what Ajax said isn't a lie, though it isn't as encumbering as he might've thought. Conversing with your fiance is as easy as taking in a breeze.

If anything, you believe that it's the Prince who has difficulty trying to keep a conversation with you. For obvious reasons, of course. His contempt is no laughing matter and keeping the discussion afloat is only etiquette.

Ajax rises from his little show with a small pout, his hand reaching to take one of the papers on the table. “What even is this that you chose over-...”

He fixes his blue stare on you, and you nod.

The papers display sketches of civilians and immigrants in the last few years. To plenty, a Queen perusing over these will appear nonsensical.

But not to those who know the reason why.

“Still in search for them?” Ajax notices in quick detail how you took offense to his question of genuine wonder and apologizes not even a second later.

His apology makes the lingering sweetness of the macaron bitter on your tongue, growing tangy.

The intensity of your aureate gaze is suffocating, dominating, and leaving no such openings for interferences. Suddenly, when you speak, it is as if there is a demonic grit that backs your voice.

“That goes without saying.” you snarl, brows knitted as you stand to gaze past the tall window of your office.

Khemia lies at a peaceful standstill under the watchful gaze of the moon. A facade, for behind that tranquility still runs the ugly side of humans who will never learn to settle solely on goodness.

“This ire... this anathema of mine,”

An ugliness that cannot be remedied and beautified—for when right exists, so does wrong. So does evil with good.

“Until I find those who slaughtered my siblings, until they bleed from the thorns of my vengeance...”

You are aware of that, if the crimson left on the path you walked upon is anything to go by.

“It will not cease.”

And it will trounce whatever little goodness there's left of this spirit.

Ajax is wordless as he watches a flicker of [c] swirl in the Queen's golden eyes, his throat dry. It appears that he'll need to pay another visit to the Duke later in the afternoon.

When the clock strikes eight, the Queen, always punctilious in her agenda, will leave for the throne room. Most of her mornings are spent overhearing the pleas of the commonfolk, lasting until the afternoon.

This particular day, however, she ate early, so she got to her gilded throne even earlier than usual. Thus, plenty of pleas have been heard.

Alatus is one of the few—Kazuha, Childe, and the Duke—who knows of the Queen's daily schedule. Not because he's interested in her doings but because he keeps a watchful eye on her mercurial behavior.

Just earlier when he had been passing by the throne room, he overheard a man crying about the loss of investments in a business he started with a partner. Said partner committed fraud and fled after taking the money, leaving a hopeless human amid a sea of scornful investors.

Instead of feeling sympathetic, the Queen found the situation beyond diverting. She blamed the man after finding out that there were no written contracts between him and his partner in the first place.

An 'asinine fool whose actions beget him a bitter fruit'—which, although true, could've been expressed more righteously.

Anyone would agree so.

In the end, the aid—dissentient as ever—provided by the Queen is that she will give him enough money to commission a few mercenaries to track the escapee and bring him in as a prisoner to be tried in the common court.

“Let him dangle in a rope of your mercy and repossess what was meant to be shared. Or if you'd prefer, we can always simply have him be devoured by wolves... and the riches will return to you.”

Eaten by wolves.

A euphemism, Alatus is shrewd to understand it. The Queen meant for the thief to be murdered in cold blood, left without a trail of existence.

The weeping man chose the former, having not the black heart of his ruler. And off he went with a letter bearing house Khemia's crest and a pouch of gold.

Alatus personally escorted him toward the mercenary guild and got to discover the man's opinion of the situation.

“I fail to understand the Queen. She can be so cruel yet the Kingdom prospers. She's not by any means an almsgiver, but she does extend her aid in the most unconventional ways possible. It is perturbing how she sees spilled blood as a solution.”

A perfect and accurate description, noted the Yaksha. It aligns with how the Justiciar described her; enigmatic, confusing.

A tyrant who, ironically, gilds her Kingdom in success, and can simultaneously be merciless in taking a life.

She is wicked in many ways but can be morbidly righteous in a few.

It's infuriating to dwell upon, really, so he dismissed the thought in favor of heading to the barracks. At least, until someone slams onto him in the most unceremonious of manner.

A man of a bigger stature, with red horns protruding from his silvery locks and an unfitting look of panic on his face.

“Little man! Help me out, the guards think I'm some foreigner without a permit and they plan to throw me in a cell!”

If the odd being—an oni, it seems, which is outlandish—isn't garbed in particular apparel that screams 'he's an envoy from Kuni', he would've thrown him in the dungeon himself.

For a handful of reasons; one, because he was insulted and two, because the oni is a foreigner without a permit.

But Alatus is not someone to make decisions so rashly, so with a look of amusement, watches as the unnamed envoy splutters reasons.

His map and a storm. At least, that are all the key points of interest he managed to take note of in the rambles.

Oh, and a few property damages from the chase...

“Commander Alatus, sir! We're here to take him away-”

It must've been a funny sight, for an oni so tall to hide behind someone relatively short.

“There's no need for that,” Alatus bypasses the concern with a reassuring smile, “It appears that he has business with her Majesty. Oversee the damages instead and ease the civilians.”

Knowing that all will be handled, the guards nod and get to work immediately, passing only a glance to the 'intruder' before leaving.

“Wow, a commander! I'm pretty lucky today! So you're granting me an audience with the Queen?” beams the oni.

Alatus is a little surprised with his personality but doesn't find it awful, just a tad bit eccentric with his choice of sentence construction.

He does not seem like the type to engage in blarney, unlike others who do so to get in the good graces of people. The Commander finds that congenial.

“I heard that she's an oppressor. I don't like it one bit but I'm in no place to voice that out, don't want a war to come, right? Plus, I'm strictly here on business!”

“And you're divulging this to me? A Commander?”

“Oh- shoot-!”

... Not exactly what you'd expect from an envoy.

Alatus is relieved that despite the wit held by the sovereign, her immoral actions aren't overlooked. It appears that this infamy is realized beyond the borders of Khemia, as well.

“I understand, don't worry. As long as you don't tell her how you made a mess in the town plaza,” he chuckles, heading in the direction of the palace. “Her Majesty doesn't take kindly to saboteurs regardless if 'accidental'.”

A terrified gasp sounds out, ringing so loud that it shook a couple of passersby awake.

“What!? Will my fingers get cut off!?”

“Maybe.”

“No, 'tis a capriccio, I know it. She can't be that cruel! Haha..”

I wish. Alatus' silence sends trepidation in the air—and the oni shrieks, swaying-

“You're not kidding!”

-And toppling over a fruit cart, breaking it in half much to the vendor's chagrin.

Alatus blanches at the sight; the frantic foreigner bowing to a furious seller, the rolling apples on the ground, the children picking them up... oh dear.

What an eventful day—and it isn't even the afternoon yet.

He later realizes that he's in for a ride, and he hasn't met the brunt of things just yet. It comes when they've arrived in the hall, slotting in line with the rest of the people who are yet to be humored by the Queen.

Obviously, the oni—who introduced himself as Itto—is all but jolly with the arrangements. He's quick to be placated though, after being reminded that this had partially been his fault.

“You lost your permit and made a scene in the plaza, I'm saving you her Majesty's vexation. It won't be nice if you cut in line.”

That worked only for a little while, though, because soon enough, Itto is conversing with the other people and learning of their problems.

He is an avid listener and a passionate adviser, stirring up loud conversations in the hallway that does not circumvent the focus of the Queen.

“Some fracas this early in the morning?” your query is met with an affirmative nod.

Kazuha—after you told him to check what was causing such noise—tells you that a rambunctious outsider is the reason, though he means nothing but goodwill.

You're rather skeptical. Noises aren't often a sign of anything good, but the silver-haired Knight has a glint in his eye that says that he means it.

So you wait, and to your mirth—the day is already so bland—the man in question arrives alongside the Yaksha.

“Dear Alatus,” your voice rings from your place upon the throne, eyes observing the Commander before falling onto the man of bigger stature. “And who might this be?”

A mop of spiky silver hair, a pair of crimson horns and eyes, and a violet garb.

Your fingers drum on the armrest of your throne, eyeing the foreign style. Ah.

Violet is historically known as the color of royalty, but sometime down the centuries, the Six Kingdoms have branched off to having their signature hues.

Vermillion for the Ragnvindr, sapphire for the Sangonomiya, and onyx for Khemia, to name a few.

Violet, however, is now a signature of the Kingdom of Kuni.

So, it is common for those from the mentioned place to come and visit bearing the prideful colors of their nation.

That, including the familiar style of the apparel the red-horned man is wearing, thus implies that this oni from the neighboring Kingdom.

Alatus nudges the man to start talking after noticing that he's stuck in a trance.

A quick splutter later, you're looking into a large grin that is totally unabashed despite being in your notorious presence. Hm, to be aghast or amused? Which to feel...

“Itto at your service, uh- you're that infamous Bloodthorned Queen, right?”

You settle for the latter emotion, letting your lips twist upward, tipping your chin up and crossing your leg over the other. The heavy sequinned crown on your head slants gently.

“And if I am?”

Itto bristles, though his grin doesn't reach his eyes. You wonder if he detests you as much as the others do.

“Nice! That means I still got to the right Kingdom, then! My map got torn into shreds after that huge storm that suddenly-”

“Don't ramble! State your purpose,” Alatus whispers with a gentle kick to the shin.

You chuckle with a prolonged sigh. Ah, the Yaksha knows you too well—from your distaste for superfluities to favor for being earnest.

If it means blessing your ears with entertainment through this oni, then you don't mind the meanders in his report—or message, or whatever he's here to deliver.

“Woah, okay, my bad for going on a tangent. You just won't be able to believe what exactly I went through-”

Kazuha makes a show of pushing his sword slightly from its scabbard with his thumb. And though it doesn't hold any direct threat—not unless ordered—the oni must've been knowledgeable of your merciless actions.

He nearly jumps out of his skin, to your pleasure.

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold on- restarting my introduction.”

Alatus steers his eyes away as though he's feeling secondhand embarrassment, but the faint quiver of his lower lip implies that he finds the situation just as diverting. It's a sight, actually.

The habituated view of him either scowling or blushing is becoming too redundant, so a genuine smile is quite a fresh scene.

Hearing a throat being cleared eases you out of your daily stupor, eyes locking back onto the foreigner who seems to have styled his hair in a matter of seconds.

“I'm Itto, the one an oni emissary from the majestic Kingdom of Kuni and I have come to deliver a message on behalf of- uh-”

With the radiant confidence from his introduction swapped for immediate panic, he reaches into his bag. All the while murmuring swift apologies.

Kazuha glances your way—a subtle, nonverbal cue that asks whether he should cut to the chase and take whatever scroll is in the bag and hand it to you or not. You shake your head and he stills back into his post like the obedient Knight and servant he's always been.

Alatus has taken it upon himself to help the dire search and sighs in relief when it's found not too long after.

“Ah here it is.”

The scroll is raised and flourished, quite a lengthy one, that is.

Itto clears his throat once more, then with a voice twice as confident, begins to relay the message.

“Your Majesty! Two long years have passed and I've yet to properly and personally felicitate you upon your coronation. It is within reason that I was away for conquest, though I will now be returning...”

... After another warfare that ended in my favor.

A large bird soars overhead with a cry as if it is calling forth the rising sun and those that must wake up with it.

The gearing Knights and rising guidons refract the rays in all their silver and violet grandeur. The oscillating fabric and marching metal insinuate the pretty coruscation, though those are a mere phantasm under the daylight.

I have sent only the finest of presents that I'm certain my cousin has brought in her sojourn in your nation.

All files under an austere formation, unmoving save for the second in command, who salutes towards a man by the cliff.

The distant Kingdom of the rumored tyrant stands encapsulated by ranges of mountains.

Khemia stands in the direction of my own empire, henceforth my decision to pay you a visit that is long overdue.

“Your Highness,” the second in command calls, voice firm, “The men are at the ready en route to Kuni. Awaiting your approval, sir.”

“Proceed. Though I'll be taking a little detour.”

“Oh- where to, Your Highness? I shall inform the Princesses.”

I await to witness the renowned in person.

The royal swings himself upon his black stallion, the only one of its shade among the white horses.

The onyx is highly accentuated, being the sole wearer of gold-plated armor, much like its rider.

Signed. Crown Prince of Kuni.

Once more, he eyes the faraway palace, peering through his tresses of violet with his lips curled askew in incessant anticipation.

“To the Kingdom of Khemia.”

Scaramouche.

a/n: CHILDE CRUMBS FOR THE CHILDE LOVERS. CAN'T FORGET HIM WHEN HE'S A LI! Also I like writing him in this particular universe lol. Ah, and sometimes I forget I'm writing smiley Alatus (beta xiao) and not Xiao-xiao- I almoooost slipped off the characterization!

But now let's welcome- the official introduction! HE'S HERE EVERYONE IT'S NOT A DRILL!

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾　Tyranny’s Scrying Glass　☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @yasunamilk @alana5021 @koi-chairowo @one-offmind @01-407 @midnightraindropme @yvechu @coco-goat-milk @lunavixia @emperatris-rinaka @artificial-heartache @mininji @living-my-best-life5 @narinchan @amefuuyuu

#m-tyranny #childe x reader #childe fluff #xiao x reader #xiao fluff #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #kazuha x reader #kazuha fluff

[sulfurousdreamscapes]

Story // Knocking on the Brain Door Pt. 1

~1000 words // 5 min read (preview)

~3600 words // 17 min read (full)

Miji knew something that he did not understand, as all monks did. Like a walnut held in water-slick hands, this something was hard to break open, and yet, always frustratingly present. Furthermore, it was a responsibility, and Miji had spent his entire life coming to terms with that, all monks did.

To keep his mind off of this something, Miji poured water over a bed of begonias and cherry blossoms, which he hadn’t planted, but was expected to tend to nonetheless. The flowers he had planted grew three floors above him, lined along a cloister that he was forbidden from visiting. Someone else tended to those flowers, and Miji wondered if that someone yearned to meet Miji just as much as Miji yearned to meet whoever had planted the begonias and cherry blossoms.

What Miji did not know, much less understand, was that a nine-year-old boy was scaling up the cliff face that led to the sheer walls of the monastery. The boy aimed straight for the first open window, his mind ringing with the thought that even if he breaks a few bones on entering through the window, it will still be preferable to breaking every bone by falling off the cliff.

Miji had once been called an exemplar monk by his fellow monk Balandi. However, within his unaffected exterior, he constantly battled meddlesome, doubtful thoughts. Perhaps Balandi’s compliment simply meant that he made it look easy.

Away on the monastery wall, the boy’s heart pounded. No one had taught him not to look down, but he knew better than to do so all the same. He placed one hand on the windowsill and raised himself up. Were he on another floor, one closer to the ground, he would have peeked in through the window and paid attention to the occupants first. Now, with the wind buffeting against his ears and his fluttering clothes threatening to knock him off-balance, the boy dove headfirst down the open window.

On his way back from the cloister, Miji lined up with the other monks along the wall and waited for the Archbishop to pass by. The Archbishop’s spotlessly clean, extravagantly flared robes invited a tinge of jealousy; Miji even battled the thought that the Archbishop is such a pompous man; he battled the fear of growing old and infirm; and he battled so many other fears, all of which had to be slain before they could emerge from the cracked earth of his mind.

Miji shared his quarters with three roommates, and he knew exactly which one of them had left the window open again. He battled the thoughts of blame and pointed fingers and heated accusations, and he shut the window. A glance at the wall clock showed that he had made it to his quarters before six - a small victory suitable for a small life such as his.

Miji’s bed was the bottom bunk on the left from when you entered through the door. The other three beds lay empty - an uncommon sight for Miji, who was used to reaching his quarters later than the others. 

Settling into the bunk, Miji pulled the blanket on himself and reached for the Universal Cord, the end of which was hooked to the inner side of his bunk. Miji wound the dark cord around his fist, pulled it taut, and then inserted the end into his Portal - the hole in his neck, located just below his jaw - the hole that took him to the universe that lay within himself, and to the him that lay outside the universe.

Monks cultivate their brain garden with careful, deliberate imagination, which they wind and sew using strands of ancient memories. Every monk’s brain garden looks different, but is equally unexplainable.

Miji’s brain garden looks like an ancient domicile somewhere far up from ground level. The windows are frosted, so he can’t see how high he is exactly, but he doesn’t desire to anyway. He is content to sit kneeling at the low table in the living room, where he takes his tea and focuses his attention on a black screen. The empty, barely-reflecting surface of this screen is a good point of focus for his meditation.

Every monk’s brain garden has a brain door. This is the only aspect of brain gardens that is universally agreed upon. Miji’s brain door is quite ordinary, wooden and wide enough to let one person through. There’s a chain on the side and a peephole just below eye level. The door is located at the end of a tiny hallway, near a rack for footwear and just beside an umbrella stand.

Like all other monks, Miji retreats to his brain garden so that he may meditate on the brain door and to live with the eternal anticipation of hearing someone knock on it. The other half of the meditation is to shed all hope of anyone every knocking on it. Anticipation and denial, two snakes eating each other.

Today, someone knocks on Miji’s brain door.

It’s a light knock, faint enough for Miji to second-guess it. He takes a moment before getting up to his feet and straightening his virtual robes.

Someone knocks again.

Miji’s approaches the door with a racing heart and presses his fingertips against it. For a moment, he forgets what he is supposed to say when someone knocks on the brain door. Thankfully, it comes to him after only one more knock.

“Name?” he asks.

There is no reply from across the door.

“Name?” Miji asks again, louder and more clearly.

“Boan.”

Miji repeats the name in his mind a few times to remember it. Should he ask for permission to remember the name? No, it’s fine if he’s remembering it only for his own benefit.

“Word,” Miji asks.

“What?”

“That’s not the word.”

A moment of silence, and then more knocking on the door from the same, small hand. Miji reaches for the Universal Cord connected to his neck.

Thank you for reading so far! The rest of the story is on the Sulfur Dreams substack. Please subscribe to read the rest of it? You'll also get a new story in your email inbox every week! It's only $2 a month. ❤️

Not going to subscribe? No problem! If you enjoyed this excerpt, please consider reblogging to spread the word! Thank you so much!

#writeblr #writing #short story #stories #creative writing #my writing #fantasy #fantasy fiction #fiction #substack

[sadcatjae]

Nothing Boy (Part 4) - Fight

Masterlist

Part 3

I finally wrote the next part ;u; I don't think it's any good and kinda light on the whump, but I'm setting up for the next part hehehehehe. Nix isn't getting much of a break, which i feel bad for but uhm he's just gonna be used as a punching bag for a little while ok? I've been dealing with a lot of stress ;u; . CW: Explicit language, torture, blood, stabbing, mysognistic slur, physical abuse, ptsd flashback, trauma induced panic attack, mental/emotional breakdown, forced insomnia, starvation, burning, blinding, humiliation, chains/imprisonment, forced labour, ableist language.

.

“Keep staring if you wish to lose your eyes.”

The greasy looking prisoner flinches at Nix’s threat and slinks off, giving the irate man a wide berth. Even though the warden is as shackled and beaten as he, this prisoner knows well the former’s terrifying reputation. Who doesn’t know of Lord Deimos’ loyal mutt who had indiscriminately destroyed countless souls at his master’s behest? The prisoner shudders and quickly falls into line with the others, oddly grateful for the warriors of lights’ presence. 

Nix stumbles over his chained feet, teeth gritted to the point of cracking. Being herded through the camp like cattle is bad enough, but the endless taunts and assaults from his fellow prisoners - his subordinates - wears down his paper-thin patience. 

“Curse and spit all you want, warden. You have no teeth here.” Another prisoner, one with a missing ear, jeers and kicks Nix’s leg as she passes, and he falls face-first into the ground. 

Pain blooms through his freshly-healed body, but the fall does no more damage than bruises and a hurt pride. 

“On your feet, prisoner,” a dour-faced priest snaps, grabbing Nix by his scruff and hoisting him to his feet. A hard shove has him stumbling back into line. The fresh scars in his back throb in protest. Nix keeps his head lowered, matted locks obscuring the jagged lines of fury. One step after the other, weighed down by heavy chains around his ankles and wrists. And for him especially, a unique gift from Oman (who else could it be but that hateful little bitch?). A collar fixed around his throat, constrictive and uncomfortable, and serving no other purpose than to humiliate. 

It’s been a week now of the same, mind-numbing routine. Wake up. Eat the gruel they call food. Do whatever mindless labour they assign. Eat the gruel they call food. Try to sleep. Wake up. And repeat. 

And no sign of Artemis, which Nix had expected. Whatever promises and sentiments the foolish priest may have made, he evidently had no intention of following through. Indeed, Nix may have simply been a vanity project - an exercise in charity to inflate the priest’s ego. The warden knows the type. He’s tortured many such men. 

And so it’s with a hollow bitterness that he regards his ‘good intentioned’ captor. Those rending words and deep brown eyes are nothing more than tools of entertainment. And Nix…Nix had almost fallen for it. 

Another stumble. A hard breath and moment to steady himself. 

He hasn’t slept properly this entire week. For whatever reason (again, probably that bitch Oman) the magical walls around his cell have lost their sound-proofing effect. Which of course means that while the other prisoners cannot hear him, he very well can hear them. Their foul, incessant vitriol keeps him awake every night, his torturers delighting in their new favourite activity (surely this retaliation is the sweetest kind). 

In a way, he understands. He himself had ruthlessly tortured every subordinate in that stockade, so there is no shortage of hatred festering against him. But in that cold hard rock in place of his heart, he silently cultivates his own seed of hate. In time, when it finally blooms, he will have his own revenge. 

Until then he’s relegated to the role of warden-turned-prisoner, and like with everything else in his miserable life, he endures. 

The warden straggles at the end of the line as the prisoners are given their morning gruel. 

Nix isn’t much to look at. A thin, pale creature with dark shadows under a pair of impassive blue eyes, glassy from exhaustion. His clothes hang off his malnourished frame in tattered rags, and if not for their prior knowledge of his countless sins, his captors might have felt a glimmer of pity. 

As it were, every single warrior of light knows of this warden's sins, each gruesome detail collected and recorded from Oman and the other survivors. None of the warriors have met evil like Deimos and his ilk - and Nix is the worst of them. 

“Next.” 

Nix holds out his hands for his bowl and instead, he’s given two handfuls of boiling-hot gruel. Molten agony shoots up his arms, but he keeps his hands still, trying to show no hint of weakness as he raises his head. 

The young warrior drops the ladle into the giant pot and gives him an innocent smile. “Anything wrong?” she asks, brows knitted in false concern. 

“Not at all,” Nix smiles back, coldly. “I was just surprised that you knew I preferred to eat with my hands.” He slurps the gruel from his filthy hands with relish, making sure to splatter some onto the young warrior’s boots. 

Disgust ripples through her features. She quickly grabs the empty pot and stalks off in a huff. 

The warden watches her go, licking the tasteless sludge from his fingers. It isn’t enough to soothe the gnawing pangs in his shrunken stomach, but he couldn’t complain or ask for more. How could he? When he’s guaranteed a vat of poison instead. 

It’s cold today. The kind of cold that burrows into his bones and makes every motion stiff and painful. After breaking his fast, he throws himself into his assigned work, hoping to chase away that terrible chill with exercise. 

The warden is tasked with unloading goods from a wagon and carrying them to the supply tent. Each crate weighs twice more than he does (at least it feels like it), and every trip leaves him trembling and gasping for breath. He’s not given a partner to assist him. All other jobs assigned that day are given to a pair of prisoners, but as usual, Nix is alone in his burden. 

He’s only halfway through unloading the wagon, when he finally hits his limit. 

Nix reels at the sudden vertigo and crashes into the side of the wagon. The crate slips from his numb hands. Smashes upon impact. Apples scatter in every direction. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!” a familiar voice barks from a distance. 

Shit. Here comes the bitch. 

Nix slumps against the wagon, panting. He leans his spinning head against the wooden side, cold sweat springing from every pore and soaking into his clothes. 

Heavy footsteps draw close. A large hand grabs him by his collar and heaves him to his feet. 

“Trying to sabotage our supplies now, are you?” Oman growls, black eyes hard like flint. He brings his spiteful visage a mere inch away from the other’s. “I should have known better than to leave a rat like you unsupervised.”

Nix blinks blearily at the irascible warrior. Nausea wells and churns his guts as the world gives a sickening lurch. “...accident,” he pants, trying to shove Oman away. The man’s built like a mountain and just as unmoving. “Let me go…asshole…” He raises his shaking hands to yank uselessly at his captor’s instead.

A sharp pain cracks against his cheek and his head snaps to the side. Fire corrodes his flesh. There’s a high pitched ringing in his ear.

He goes limp in Oman’s grasp for but a second, before he whips his head to glare at the smirking man. “You dare strike me?” he hisses, bloodshot eyes gaining a wild edge. “Think I won’t strike back? You may have me in shackles, priest, but I am still your warden and you my prisoner!”

Oman’s pupil shrinks. His face blanches a shade or two. Sure enough, scenes of his own horrendous torture under this man’s hands inundate him like buffeting winds, scouring away every inch of hardened skin until he’s left raw and bleeding, trembling in his shock. 

Nix laughs caustically, stifling a wince when he agitates his swollen cheek. “You see? No matter where you are, you will always be in those dungeons.” A jagged grin, dripping with venom. “Even if you kill me, I will never stop being your warden. I have placed my hands upon you and marked you as my own. That means that you will never be rid of me. Neither I nor Lord Deimos. You have become us.”

Nix barely registers the pain when he lands on the hard-packed soil. Pure, bone-deep exhaustion has long addled his mind, and he’s bordering on hysterical. He drags himself to his feet, laughing and cursing out the warrior, his voice wild and careening as though he’s gone insane. 

Oman draws his sword and white light erupts from the blade, humming and pulsing with lethal intent. 

The warden staggers back, grinning, grabbing the closest thing to a weapon he can find – a pitchfork. He meets the arcing steel with the prongs, and the impact judders up his arms. Sparks of ember spit from the metal as Oman pulls his sword through the prongs and slices the air. 

Nix finds himself with only half the pitchfork, wood cut clean through. Now it resembles an oversized stake, and he uses it to his advantage. 

Even a warrior like Oman, who had been admired by his peers for his combat prowess, would admit that he’s been blindsided in battle. Though these occurrences are few, they have been during combat with notable warriors, including his teacher. 

So to say that this mangy warden, who can barely keep himself upright, could ever blindside him – Oman would have laughed at the sheer absurdity of such a statement.

Unfortunately, this is one of those times when the warrior’s humour fails him, as Nix throws himself at Oman and his drawn blade, as though he were intent on skewering himself. 

He’s not sure why - perhaps because of his training under her light (or Art’s terrible influence) - but Oman instinctively lowers his sword to avoid impaling his ex-warden. 

In return, Nix barrels into him and stabs the stake into his chest, frothing and screaming like a madman. No, not like. He is a madman. The warden has gone utterly insane. 

Nix is lost in his tempest of madness. Nothing exists outside of this noise, this chaos, that assaults his every sense. He screams to make himself known, but his voice is lost to the howling winds, so he just screams and screams and screams until he’s coughing blood. 

He’s dyed red inside and out. There’s nothing, nothing, (he’s nothing), but the countless souls he’s ripped apart with his hands (bloodied), and suddenly (oh gods, what has he done, what has he done??) he knows terror. 

Countless hands grab him from all directions. Drag him off Oman’s blood drenched chest. He screams at them to leave him alone and what comes out is a ragged, torn sound. His throat’s ruined. He’s ruined. He curls into a tight ball, hands clutching at his face, trying to stifle the sobs that wrack his body. 

Those hands are unsympathetic. They force him upright, cutting his misery short, and drag him through the camp. Through the haze of blood and tears, he can see their faces. The same expressions that he’s so familiar with. Hate. Anger. Fear. He can replicate every line from memory, with the same confidence he knows that the sky is blue. 

…But Artemis doesn’t look at him this way. 

(Neither does Lord Deimos)

He’s thrown into another tent. Forced to stand upon his shaking legs. Tied to the post in the centre, so tight he can barely expand his lungs. 

The tempest lulls to a merciless blizzard, freezing all that it touches. There’s a featureless tundra that goes on eternally in all directions and blazing white light that sears his eyes. They leave him there, ordering him to endure her cleansing light and reflect upon his sins. 

Her light, he cries and groans, straining against his bonds in mindless desperation. Her light hurts. It hurts so bad, I want to die.

For this warden, there is no mercy. Not from death nor from oblivion. 

Minutes tick by. Hours. Days.

His eyes swell and go blind, retinas scorched by her holy light. Skin blisters and peels, and he loses all feeling in his body. He floats there, in the terrible, sickening whiteness, suffering a kind of torture that is far beyond his understanding.

His sins, presented before him one by one in a gruesome exhibition, until the entire stage is painted red. . Part 5

.

Taglist:

@shydragonrider

@whumpsday

@pale-is-the-prison

@whump-queen

@wolves-and-winters

@extrabitterbrain

@whump-blog

#nothingboy #whump #whump writing #villain whump #villain whumpee #defiant whumpee #whumper turned whumpee #just realised whenever nix experiences new torture he lowkey analysing it #like a food critic

[titoist]

All of a sudden, I had started to imagine that everyone was abandoning me, steering clear of me, solitary fellow that I am. Of course, you may well ask: who on earth was this ‘everyone’, since by then I had been living in Petersburg for eight years and had barely managed to make a single acquaintance. Still, what need had I of acquaintances? I was acquainted with all Petersburg in any event; that was why I imagined I was being abandoned when all Petersburg abruptly packed up and left for the country. I felt terrified of being left on my own, and drifted about the city for three days on end in a state of profound misery, without the least notion of what was the matter with me. Whether I went to Nevsky Prospect, or the Summer Garden or wandered along the embankment—not a single face among all those I had got used to encountering there at a given time in the course of the year. They don’t know me, of course, but I certainly know them. I know them intimately; I have come to know their every expression—I feast my eyes when they are cheerful and feel downcast when they are sad. I have practically struck up a friendship with the old fellow I meet every blessed day, at a certain time, by the Fontanka Canal. Such a grave, thoughtful countenance he has, perpetually whispering to himself as he brandishes his left arm. In his other hand, he carries a gold-topped cane, long and knotty. He’s actually become aware of me and takes a cordial interest. If I did not happen to be at that spot at the appropriate time, I am convinced he would mope. For this reason we sometimes almost greet one another, especially when we are both in good humour. Not long ago, when we hadn’t seen each other for all of two days, and met on the third, we were on the point of snatching at our hats, but happily bethought ourselves in time, let our hands fall, and passed by one another with all solicitude. The very houses are known to me. When I am walking along, each of them seems to slip out into the street ahead and look at me, all windows, as if to say: ‘Good day; how are you keeping? I’m quite well for my part, praise be, in fact I’m having a new storey added in May.’ Or: ‘How are you? I’m having repairs done tomorrow.’ Or again: ‘I almost burned down, what a fright I got!’ and so on. I have my favourites among them, indeed intimate friends; one of them intends to have treatment from an architect this summer. I’ll make a point of dropping by every day to make sure he doesn’t overdo things, Lord preserve it ... I’ll never forget what happened to one ever so pretty rose-pink cottage. It was such a sweet little stone cottage and it looked so benignly at me and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart positively rejoiced whenever I chanced to pass by. Then all of a sudden, last week, as I was walking along the street and glancing over at my friend, I heard a plaintive cry: ‘They’re painting me yellow!’ Villains! Barbarians! They spared nothing, neither column nor cornice, and my friend turned as yellow as a canary. The incident fairly sickened me and ever since then I’ve not felt up to seeing my poor, disfigured friend, now painted the color of the celestial empire...

[...]

I walked a great deal and for long periods at a time, contriving, as was my wont, to become totally oblivious to my surroundings. All of a sudden, I found myself at one of the city gates. On the instant, my spirits rose and I strode through the barrier, taking my way past cultivated fields and meadows. I felt no hint of fatigue, merely sensing with every fibre of my being that a burden was slipping from my mind. All the passers-by regarded me in such an amiable fashion that they actually seemed on the point of greeting me; they were all so pleased about something that to a man they were smoking cigars. And I was glad too in a way I had never been before. It was just as if I had suddenly found myself in Italy, so powerful an effect did the natural scene produce in me, a semi-invalid townee, almost suffocated by being pent within the city. There is something ineffably touching about our Petersburg countryside when, with the onset of spring, nature suddenly puts forth all her strength, all the power bestowed on her by heaven; she decks herself out in all her finery, gay with flowers, It puts you in mind of some frail and sickly girl you sometimes note with pity, even a sort of compassionate love—and at others simply fail to notice at all, who suddenly, in an instant, becomes inexplicably, marvelously beautiful, while you, overwhelmed and enraptured, are forced to ask yourself what power has made those sad, pensive eyes glitter with such fire; what power has summoned up the blood to those wan, pinched cheeks; what has infused passion into those gentle features; why is her bosom heaving so; what has suddenly conjured up animation, strength, and beauty in the face of that poor girl, to make it glow with such a smile, and come alive with flashing, sparkling laughter like that? You glance round, filled with surmise, looking for someone ... But the moment has passed and next day perhaps you will encounter once again the same abstracted, brooding glance as before, the same wan face, the same meek and diffident; possibly accompanied by a feeling of remorse, traces even of a sort of numb, aching vexation at having been momentarily carried away ... You regret that this fleeting beauty should have faded so swiftly and irrevocably, that it had flashed so beguilingly, so vainly before you—regret that there had been no time for you to fall in love with it...

[deviant3lover]

Does Markus have an hobbies? What about talents? Any weird skills?

Ooh! Markus has, or had, several. The man has a deep love of knowledge, and was very interested in everything when he first escaped and finally established some stability and security for himself. He settled into a select few hobbies when he settled down.

This is most likely going to change in canon, but here, he escaped with a fellow Re-Gene whom he considered family. They parted ways years ago.

Writing served as a private means to vent about his feelings and learn how to process them, and is the first, personal hobby that he had no desire to pursue a ‘practical’ interest in by selling off his works, where his interest in tech was picked up and developed so he can provide for himself and his little sister Mary. This passion has been further developed with being a polyglot, keeping a journal full of his works: all written in different languages. He experiments with a wide variety of genres.

Technology was something he developed a skill in out of necessity. Given his paperless (and illegal) background, and having very little transferable skills from his job as a spy to the physical, trade-skill centred streets, he immediately resolved to gain some skill in doing tech work to maintain his independence, anonymity, and introduce some financial security for himself and Mary. After the urgency wore off with Dean (mentor for computer/security based tech) and Agatha (mentor for mods and other hands-on tech) coming into his life by providing direction, lodging, and stability, he came to enjoy it more wholeheartedly. Metalworking is fun, and has occasionally made custom gifts for his loved ones. Mods, armour, and weapon maintenance are calming. Though he’s good at programming, he’s a little uncomfortable with it, for… reasons.

Singing was born from a pure need for catharsis. As much as he loved writing, and the two had intermingled with each other in various ways, (e.g. lyrical translations/compositions) Markus needed something more immersive to lose himself in. He also kept this hobby because he thought the ‘quiet guy knows how to sing well’ trope was funny. He’s glad he committed to that decision in the end. When everything is falling apart and nothing is working as it should, hitting certain vocal ranges as explicitly measured for the song + pouring his soul into the lyrics is comforting.

Martial Arts and Yoga served to help him get back in touch with his own body, develop it to something he actually likes, and to keep himself healthy and safe. He also loved the idea of forming the body that he wants, cultivated by his own interests, instead of the petite, frailer body he had when he was working as an Aristocrat, as it often meant tiring out faster.

Psychic powers and adjacent subjects (such as psychology) relate to him wanting to understand himself. He appreciates its aspects, but also wants a more in depth, scientific understanding of their existence. His interest in this also influenced how he saw his own telepathy, and as of Retribution, he has innovated several telepathic techniques for himself as secret weapons.

On another note, he would've loved a formal education. The subjects that school provides, as well as the extra-curriculums, clubs, and the like, Markus would’ve thrived in school. Most likely to be an overachiever.

#Fhr #markus deavor

[narrowroadblog]

Breaking Free: Using the Bible to Overcome Pornography Addiction

Breaking free from a pornography addiction is not just an issue for men anymore. Pornography addiction is a pervasive issue in today's society, affecting not just men, but women and younger teens nowadays. There is not even a distinction between churchgoers and those who do not attend a church. It's a struggle that often leads to shame, guilt, and broken relationships. However, there is hope for those seeking freedom from this addiction. The Bible offers timeless principles that can provide the strength and guidance needed to overcome this challenge. Understanding the Root of the Problem The first step in breaking free from pornography addiction is understanding its root cause. According to James 1:14-15 (ESV), "But each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire. Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin, and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death." This passage highlights that the core issue is the sinful desires of the heart. Recognizing this is crucial in addressing the problem effectively. Breaking Free: Renewing the Mind The battle against pornography addiction is primarily fought in the mind. Romans 12:2 (ESV) urges, "Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect." Renewing the mind involves filling it with God's Word and truths, which can help in resisting the temptation and changing unhealthy thought patterns. Fleeing from Temptation The Bible provides a simple yet powerful strategy for dealing with temptation: flee from it. 1 Corinthians 6:18 (ESV) says, "Flee from sexual immorality. Every other sin a person commits is outside the body, but the sexually immoral person sins against his own body." This means taking practical steps to avoid situations or triggers that lead to pornography use, such as installing internet filters, finding accountability partners, and seeking healthier ways to cope with stress and emotions. A biblical approach I recommend is The Freedom Fight. Cultivating Intimacy with God A deep and personal relationship with God is essential for breaking free from any addiction, including pornography. Psalm 119:9-11 (ESV) asks, "How can a young man keep his way pure? By guarding it according to your word. I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you." Spending time in prayer, reading the Bible, and meditating on God's promises can strengthen your resolve and provide the spiritual nourishment needed for lasting change. Embracing God's Grace and Forgiveness Shame and guilt often accompany pornography addiction, but it's important to remember that God's grace is sufficient for all sins. 1 John 1:9 (ESV) assures, "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." Embracing God's forgiveness and grace is a key step in the healing process, allowing individuals to move forward without the burden of past mistakes. Building Meaningful Relationships Isolation can fuel addiction, making it crucial to build and maintain healthy relationships. Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 (ESV) states, "Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their toil. For if they fall, one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falls and has not another to lift him up!" Surrounding yourself with supportive friends, family, and a faith community can provide encouragement, accountability, and a sense of belonging. Seeking Professional Help While biblical principles offer powerful guidance, breaking free from pornography addiction may also require professional help. Biblical counseling, support groups, and therapy can provide additional tools and resources for recovery. Combining spiritual and professional approaches can lead to a more holistic and effective healing process. Breaking free from pornography addiction is possible through the application of biblical principles. Understanding the root of the problem, renewing the mind, fleeing from temptation, cultivating intimacy with God, embracing His grace, building meaningful relationships, and seeking professional help are all vital steps in the journey toward freedom. With determination, faith, and the right support, anyone can overcome this addiction and experience the fullness of life that God intends. Shop now Read the full article

[glorifiiedgore]

Angelo lived in Chicago for almost 10 years in his 30s. During that time he helped staff and train 2 separate kitchens (Alla Vita & Ciccio Mio) Downtown, as well as being the Head Chef for Monteverde a few years after becoming sober. Prior to his sobriety, Angelo enjoyed working in ‘dives’ and helping out family owned establishments in the neighborhood (both in Brooklyn and then eventually Chicago). 

During his stay in the Windy City, Angelo befriended Michael Berzatto who eventually went on to inherit his family’s restaurant, ‘The Beef.’ Angelo and Michael cultivated a close friendship, spending many days together both in and out of the kitchen. Angelo found a sense of ‘home’ with the Berzatto family and felt comfortable for he first time in a long time. 

After Angelo moved back to Brooklyn, Michael’s brother Carmen had graduated culinary school and had been traveling all over honing his craft. The young man arrived in NY and after receiving a glowing recommendation from Chef Angelo Azzano, was granted the head chef position at one of the biggest and best restaurants in the city. Carmen made a name for himself and earned high praise from his fellow chefs, as well as from their long time family friend. Throughout the years the Berzattos fell out of touch with Angelo, due to busy schedules and the like -- no hard feelings, just a lot on their plates (no pun intended). 

One morning, Angelo received a phone call from Carmen upset but calm. He informed the older man that Michael had passed away after committing suicide, leaving him with ‘The Beef.’ After brief correspondence back and forth, Carmen asks Angelo for his help, prompting the chef to relocate for weeks back in Chicago in order to assist with the fall out. Weeks then turned into months, as Angelo found himself beginning to see the joys in his craft once again -- a feeling that had been lost while being back home for the last several years. 

Headcanon includes:  - Crossover relationships from FX’s The Bear. These relationships include friendship between Michael Berzatto and Angelo, as well as a developed strong bond between Carmen Berzatto and Angelo. Another relationship within this headcanon is that of Sugar Berzatto and Angelo ft. a flirtation that proceeds with sexual chemistry and infidelity (on Angelo’s part -- he is still married to Una during the time he spent in Chicago the 1st time). When Angelo returns to Chicago he is married to current wife Piper and has since changed his behaviors.  - This headcanon is part of my character’s canon and will remain permanent. 

#╰ — ✧ 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐈𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄 : angelo azzano › headcanon .

[akatsuki-shin]

REVIEW: 千秋 Qiān Qiū (Thousand Autumns)

Recently finished reading Thousand Autumns, so I’d like to share my thoughts on it with everyone~ ^w^

Note(s):

(Very) long post ahead

Contains spoiler

This is my personal review and does not represent the entire audience

Summary:

“Thousand Autumns” is a danmei novel written by Meng Xi Shi. A wuxia story with profound cultivation elements that makes it close to the xianxia genre, it was published between 2015-2016 on Jinjiang Literature City (JJWXC), consisting of 128 chapters and 13 extra stories.

During a battle with the disciple of his late master’s archrival, leader of the number one Daoist sect under heaven, Shen Qiao, was thoroughly defeated in an unforeseen turn of events before the eyes of his fellow sect members and observers from the entire jianghu. He fell from great heights and sustained almost fatal injuries, losing not only his martial arts, his sight, his reputation, but also his memories.

By the twist of fate, the one who discovered him in his near-death state was the Demonic Sovereign Yan Wushi, the fearsome yet renowned leader of a notorious demonic sect.

Heartless, arrogant, untrusting to everyone but himself, the sole reason Yan Wushi took an interest in Shen Qiao was only because he wanted to see how this righteous, kindhearted man would fall into despair and succumb to evil after losing everything. Thus he ordered his disciple to bring Shen Qiao back to their residence and nursed him to health, so that he could toy with him afterwards.

What he did not expect, however, behind the gentle and seemingly gullible nature of Shen Qiao was a heart as strong as steel and ironclad will that refused to be bent, even in the most perilous predicaments.

---------

STORY: 7/10

Subtle, yet solid plot development with smooth story-telling.

The story flows almost like a calm river with occasional “ripples” in between where the conflicts happened. Heavier turbulence and secrets were revealed little by little one after another instead of being thrown straight to our faces since the beginning, with the biggest ones being saved to appear in the latter part of the story, slowly roping in the curious readers to follow the characters’ journey until the final resolution.

Personally speaking, I feel that the overall plot lacks intensity that could “bind” people’s hearts to stay for a binge-reading. Most parts are way too stable that it becomes a flaw, there were no mind-boggling plot twists. However, this was made up by the progressive development and fulfilling resolutions.

“Karmic cycle” is certainly one of the main themes of this story. In the beginning, we could see Shen Qiao doing good things after good things but all went unrewarded; his generosity responded with mockery, his kindness returned with betrayal, not to mention those who took advantage of his misfortunes to benefit themselves. But when he finally seemed to have arrived at a dead end, an unexpected hand came to lend him a hand and gave him another chance in life.

To be specific, yes, I am referring to how Shen Qiao gave his last remaining food to a starving refugee boy, allowing the boy to survive, and the said boy latter saved him from the brink of death after he destroyed his meridians to fight Sang Jingxing due to Yan Wushi’s betrayal. This was probably the most moving part in the entire novel for me. And starting from that point onwards, he continuously met friends and allies who admired him and were willing to help him whenever he was in need, because they already saw with their own eyes what kind of person Shen Qiao was.

The same situation also befell those whose conducts are the opposite to Shen Qiao. Arrogant villains like Sang Jingxing and Chen Gong ultimately lost their lives, possibly in the most humiliating way according to their standard—one was betrayed by the female disciple he had (cruelly) nurtured for years, the other was stabbed by a seemingly powerless little boy after having continuously took advantage of people’s situation for his own gain.

Other than reward and punishment, redemption also comes to the right characters who deserve it, namely those who are willing to look back and see the mistakes they have made. Yu Ai had committed an unforgivable aggression by betraying his own martial brother to advance his agenda, convoluting with the enemy and poisoning Shen Qiao which was the root and beginning of the latter’s misfortune. But he was not inherently evil and his intention was born from a desire to protect Mount Xuandu. Though he had made a great mistake, after experiencing himself the consequences of his decision, he returned and died to shield Shen Qiao from the real traitor, ultimately mending their relationship despite the bitter ending.

Yan Wushi, as one of the two main characters, naturally has a more apparent redemption. His arrogance was paid with (almost) dying at the hands of his enemies, him cruelly toying with Shen Qiao was paid with his life being saved by the very same man he betrayed. I think the part where his “Xie Ling” personality showed up, particularly when he crawled on the floor begging for Shen Qiao not to leave him, was humiliating enough for a man like him since we know the real Yan Wushi remembered what his other personalities did during that period.

What goes around comes around. The goods are rewarded and the bads are punished, either by fate or someone else’s hands. All the conflicts that appeared from the beginning are resolved properly, leaving no loose ends except for one little part: Yan Wushi’s past.

Originally, I didn’t think whatever past Yan Wushi has would become something significant to the current plot. One might wonder why he grew up to be someone with such a pessimistic outlook towards life, unable to believe anyone but himself and thinking that all humans are born evil, yet whether there is or there isn’t a reason for this, it wouldn’t change the present story. However, since it was shown by Xie Ling that he once possessed some innocence, and that at one point in his life he discarded the name “Xie Ling” to become “Yan Wushi”, the fact that there are barely any explanations on this made it felt like a tiny plot hole.

Other than that, the development and establishment of the main pairing, Shen Qiao and Yan Wushi, are very well written. 128 chapters are long, and the author made use of this story length properly. Nothing feels too rushed or unnecessarily prolonged for no reason. In short, it’s balanced and enjoyable to follow.

There is another aspect of the story that I quite like. It is the fact that the author was able to incorporate her fiction into a real history setting, even including actual historical figures to the plot. I also admire the wide comprehension the author possessed on the elements used to build the story’s universe. They could fully implement the concept and principles of Daoism, Buddhism, Confucianism, as well as the cultures and habits of people from the era when the story took place to create intriguing disputes and events throughout the novel. Although I am not an expert on this topic, I believe this could not be done without sufficient research and understanding into said topics.

CHARACTERS: 10/10

Just like the plot itself that flows calmly, the characters themselves did not seem to possess any “explosive” qualities that would be able to cause surprise. However, this is exactly why the characters fit so well into the story. Each and every single one of them, from the main characters to the minor/side characters have their respective roles and they played these roles accordingly, receiving just the right amount of spotlight based on how crucial their presence was. The biggest emphasis always lies with the main characters, but the side characters are not easily forgotten and the mob characters properly supported the situation instead of being annoying.

The characters’ interactions and thoughts are all perfectly in line with their roles and personality with a good amount of humor every now and then, enough to entertain but does not ruin the current mood or distract readers from the actual point being made.

Going further, there is no question that Shen Qiao has become one of my favorite characters among all danmei I’ve read so far. While he seems too “perfect” at a glance, I must applaud the author for being able to write this kind of person without making him look like a Gary Stu. He is kind and gentle, yet despite still retaining some of his gullible nature, he has integrity and is always clear about what he could and could not do. He would help others to the best of his ability, but he would not do anything that is against his principles. Even though his temper is good and his heart is magnanimous, he is not bothered by doubt to exact justified punishment to those who deserve it, such as Huo Xijing and Tan Yuanchun.

Seeing his effort and conduct, it is hard not wanting to cheer for him because he is really just that admirable. The return of his martial arts was so moving, considering all the hardships he’d gone through throughout the story. His growth was subtle, but it becomes clear when the moment comes. Like this, the positive comments made by the mob characters on him are in line with the readers’ impression on his character, so we are not being “directed” to see him as a good person. Instead, the mob characters’ comment only served as a confirmation that he was indeed a good person just as I have been thinking while following his journey.

There are many good characters out there, but one like Shen Qiao was probably quite rare.

Yan Wushi, on the other hand, was the polar opposite of Shen Qiao. He is manipulative to the core and always seeks to benefit himself and/or his sect. He is heartless and constantly looks down on others, having no compassion in the slightest bit. In fact, he enjoyed watching the suffering of other people, as evidently shown by how he played with Shen Qiao and betrayed him in such a humiliating way by handing him over to Sang Jingxing in exchange for a sword—one that he himself doesn’t really care about.

But if we look a little closer, he is actually similar to Shen Qiao, just that he stood at the other end of the spectrum. He is viciously honest and will not sugarcoat anything, clearly stating his likes and dislikes. He is arrogant, but this confidence is backed by actual skills, and he is aware if something is beyond his capability. At the same time, he will not shy away from difficult situations and face everything head on.

After his feelings for Shen Qiao changed, a lot of people may still consider him as someone manipulative who is taking advantage of Shen Qiao’s innocence, but I personally do not think so. After his view changed, all of his tricks (verbal and actions) are generally harmless in which it was just meant to tease and flirt. I think this is the only way that Yan Wushi knows how to love someone. He is a strategist and this trait he brought into his personal relationships as he would always test the water first to know how far he could go and when to pull back. And of course, he could also behave seriously when the time calls for it and Shen Qiao willingly accepts this person while knowing this.

For Yan Wushi it can only be Shen Qiao and for Shen Qiao, it can only be Yan Wushi. If I were to put it into words, I believe the scene they shared by the lake just before Yan Wushi’s battle with Hulugu was more than enough proof to show their feelings for one another.

With all that said, Shen Qiao and Yan Wushi have a good relationship dynamic. From their first encounter until the establishment of their feelings, the development is subtle but consistent, moving forward at the right pace.

TECHNICAL ASPECTS: 7/10

The descriptions of environments are vivid and beautiful. The way scenes and actions are being described makes it easy for readers to visualize. It is especially exciting whenever a battle is involved, especially one like the scene when Shen Qiao had to battle two elders of the Hehuan sect while protecting two children at the same time to escape the city. Through words, the intensity and exhaustion coming from the battlefield can be properly conveyed to the readers while at the same time, the smooth story-telling makes it easy to follow the plot without worrying too much about missing some details.

There are a couple of technical issues that I would like to address. Nothing major, to be honest, but probably worth mentioning.

In regards to descriptions in the narrative, while the use of imagery is beautiful, I feel that it is a bit excessive, particularly during battle scenes. Imageries could help to describe how powerful the characters are, but if used too much, it only ends up blurring the actual actions being done. After all, if every swing of sword and fist could “bring down the mountain and split the sea”, the jianghu would have fallen into ruin after the first three battles.

Information on people, groups, and certain terms are often all over the place with no clear structure, especially in the earlier parts. Sometimes, explanations are placed during inappropriate timing/location and end up slightly disturbing the set mood.

A few character introductions are also insufficient. Very often, a new character would just appear and have their name mentioned in the narration without prior introduction or hint as if the readers are expected to already know who was speaking. There are too many info dumps towards the latter part of the story on characters whose roles actually are not that significant. Because of this, it looks as if they are important characters although in reality, they might only appear for 1-2 chapters at most (e.g. Shen Qiao’s third disciple).

Furthermore, there are repetitive explanations/reiterations of things already elaborated multiple times before, becoming extremely redundant.

OVERALL SCORE: 8/10

A beautiful story of two different people who find their soulmate in each other’s existence, a lesson that there is good in evil, as much as there is evil in good.

Thousand Autumns is a classic wuxia with gentle, yet solid flow that is enjoyable to follow. The chapters might be rather long, but the plot itself is not too heavy with intriguing main characters and many likable supporting roles.

It might be a bit difficult for those who aren’t familiar with Chinese novels of this genre to digest the narration, what’s with the strings of idioms, imageries, and topics heavily referencing Chinese history and cultures, but other than that, it’s a very satisfying story overall.

In fact, had it not been for this, I would've said that Thousand Autumns is quite a great start to those who want to start reading danmei novels.

#Thousand Autumns #Qian Qiu #QQ #Meng Xi Shi #Shen Qiao #Yan Wushi #YanShen #Review #Danmei

[tsukishumai]

Akai Honō

pairing: suna rintaro x gn!reader

wc: 3k+

genre: fluff, yokai au, slight reincarnation au

tags/warnings: kitsune!suna, healer!reader, minor violence, mentions of blood/injuries

summary: an injured fox in the snow, a lonely healer in the woods — an unlikely connection to transcend lifetimes

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You first encounter Suna Rintarou lying under a blanket of snow — his blue lips and pale skin even more juxtaposed against the bright red stain encircling the white ground beneath his chest.

Your basket laid toppled onto its side and forgotten, the herbs you’ve collected spilled and dropped in your haste to aid the injured man.

At first glance, he looked frozen. His black and white yukata had been steeped in dark crimson liquid that had leaked from the tear below his right breast. His dark brown hair matted onto his forehead, and his eyes remained squeezed shut as his body lay prone on the ground.

You ripped the bandana you had wrapped around your head off in one quick motion, immediately applying pressure to the bleeding wound. With one hand keeping the cloth in place, you use your other hand to gently ease his head onto your lap, and it was then you finally noticed.

A twitch of his ear as you repositioned his body. A tail matching the hue of his blood-caked locks hanging limp in the wet snow as you tried to stand him up.

A part of you hesitated, hands stilling as they attempted to support the body of the yokai.

But a bigger part of you knows that none of that matters when a man’s life is withering away before you.

And so without another thought, you urge yourself to move on, guided forward by the swirling winds of winter.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

When Suna Rintarou awakens, the first thing he feels is a weight resting on the side of his leg. His thoughts attempt to roll in through the fog of his brain, but as soon as he lifts his head, it begins to pound him back into his pillow.

His eyes blink into focus an unfamiliar setting -- four wooden walls lined by shelves stocked with scrolls and books, a wooden desk with a mortar and pestle, herbs littered across the table haphazardly, and the scent of something astringent burning the inside of his nostrils. Once more, Suna tries to gather his bearings, and an attempt at moving his arms leads to the discovery of the bandages that covered his torso.

A searing pain shoots through his side, and a hiss escapes from his lips. At this, the weight beside him stirs and it was then he finally notices.

He scrambles out of the bed in a frenzied panic, though the weakness from his injury only allows him to clumsily crawl onto the floor. Your head shoots up like lightning, alarmed by the racket the incapacited kitsune was making in your home.

Your chair falls onto its back in your rush to stand, and Suna wills with all his might for his body to jump out the window. But the way his knees buckle beneath his weight, and his arm feels as if it’s been dipped into fire, he knows this feat would be impossible.

And so he resorts to scurrying into the corner, the pupils of his eyes narrowing into a slit against the human who now approached him.

“Stay away from me,” he hisses, swatting his claws half-heartedly at you.

You looked down at him with your hands raised and face scrunched with concern.”Hey, quit moving around or else you’ll —“

Suna groans as his hand grabs at his side. The kitsune collapses on his bottom as he clutches himself in his arms, pulling his hand away only for it to be stained red.

You click your tongue at him. “You’ve gone and opened the wound,” you sighed, slowly crouching down to his level. You get on your hands on your knees as you gingerly crawl towards Suna.

The gentleness of your movements, however, do nothing to deter the yokai’s wariness, and he inches himself closer to the wall.

“Don’t touch me, human,” he croaks out, voice cracked and hoarse, holding a hand out to keep you at bay, “What do you want from me?”

You sigh, sitting back on your heels and crossing your arms. You let out a frustrated huff, closing your eyes as you pinched the bridge of your nose, and it was then when the image of Suna’s crumpled body flashes in your head.

“I want you to quit bleeding all over my floor,” you groaned, but the harshness of your words did not match the softness in your eyes. Suna continues to glare, wincing as he pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Leave me alone! I’ve already told your kind that I was just passing through.”

He says the words with anger and frustration, but the narrowing of his glare holds fear and confusion. Your eyes glisten at how his fingers trembled against the bandages that were now soiled.

“Did humans do this to you?” You ask.

He refused to answer, but he didn’t have to. You knew the surrounding areas of your village all too well. A sickening fear against the unknown has grown deep roots in the hearts of your fellow neighbors that no amount of Kampo herbs could cure. It was no place for wandering yokai.

You breathe in through your nose, and out through your mouth. Your arm reaches out to him.

“You’re safe,” you beckon, lowering your voice to nothing but a gentle whisper. “I promise no harm will come to you while you are here.”

Suna stares at your hand with his nose upturned, and lips twisted into scowl. He watches as the human continues to crawl on all fours towards him, and he weighs out his options.

His wound begins to drip on the floor, his eyes start to feel heavy, and the weakness in his legs have forced him to come to only one conclusion.

Without a word, he places his hand into yours

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Soft grunting and shallow breathing is what has woken you up from your light slumber.

The kitsune was tossing and turning in his sleep, his surprisingly delicate features now covered in a sheen of cold sweat. With his gritted teeth and eyes clenched tightly, you were sure you didn’t want to know of the nightmares that haunted his rest.

You swiftly run and grab a clean towel, soaking it in cold water and squeezing the excess droplets back into the water bowl before kneeling beside Suna’s bed.

The heat from his body could be felt through the layers of blankets you had placed on top of him, and your heart ached at Suna’s face twisted with pain

Slowly, you place the damp cloth across his burning forehead — but as soon as cloth makes contact with skin, Suna’s eyes shoot open, angry red veins outlining the whites of eyes warped with confusion and anger.

His nails dig deep along the expanse of your wrist as he automatically swipes his claws abruptly in any direction, and you fall on your back as Suna sits up — chest heaving with each frightened breath.

He blinked once. Then twice.

His pupils dilate from their sinister slit into orbs of uncertainty and fear as he processes the streaks of red travelling down your arms. He grips the edge of his sheets, gulping the dryness down his throat.

An apology sat at the tip of his tongue, but his curiosity at seeing you slowly lift yourself up from the wooden floor had rendered him silent. You had said nothing as you held your wrist in your hand, bending over to pick up the small towel that lay forgotten on the ground.

You had saturated it once more, before laying it across Suna’s forehead as you pushed him back down onto his pillow.

“Get some rest,” You mumbled, before padding back into the kitchen.

Suna could still feel his heart running marathons around in his chest, beating into him for the first time in his life a guilt for spilling the blood of a human. What was to happen to him now?

You return a few moments later with a bandaged arm, and a cup of something steaming.

“Drink this,” you ordered, but Suna was hesitant to take it. You gesture the cup to him once more, “It’s not poisoned. It will help you sleep.”

Suna takes your offering. You don’t wait for him to drink it before turning around to leave.

The steam that wafted from the mug had smelled of peppermint and chamomile. Suna sips the warm liquid, and he notes a hint of lavender.

Sleep came to him like an old friend.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It was two weeks later when you realized, Suna had stopped scowling in your direction. He sits up from his bed and watches with curiosity behind his wary gaze as you throw seemingly random herbs into your mortar before grinding it down with your pestle.

“What’s that?” He’d ask, and you’d think, with the way his eyelids droop lazily above his stare, that he could care less about the long winded explanation you offered regarding the many different uses of ginger and boswellia — but the next time you were making his salve, he was handing you the herbs in exactly the order you needed them.

“What are these?” He’d point to the makeshift herbal garden you’ve built in your spare bedroom, and he listened with rapt fascination as you demonstrated herbs that are not native to your prefecture, handing you the shears as he helped you cultivate your supplies.

“How’d you learn all of this,” he questioned once while you were changing his bandage, and he scoffed when you told him it was knowledge passed down from your grandmother, who got it from generations before her, who got it from generations before them.

“I didn’t think humans cared to do these kinds of things,” he mumbled, watching you cleanse at the healing gash with a cold cloth. You looked up at him in offense.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I thought all humans knew what to do was fight and kill,” the disdain was clear in Suna’s voice, and your fingers continued to work their treatment.

“And I thought all kitsune knew what to do was trick and lie,” you retorted, and the fox very nearly snarled his teeth. But the moment you rubbed a generous amount of your medicine, Suna could immediately feel the effects radiate through his chest. The pain slowly dissipated until he felt nothing more than an itch around the newly formed skin — his relief had been evident from the satisfied smirk on your lips.

“Maybe we were both wrong, hmm?”

You don’t bring up the blush on his cheeks, nor the fact that he’s also stopped flinching away from your touch.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Six weeks later, Suna Rintarou could only describe his time in your home as different.

It was different in that he doesn’t feel the need to look over his shoulder for something sharp and pointed against his throat. It was different in that the frostbite at the tips of his fingers had been absolved by the warmth he felt from the soup you’ve both made from the vegetables you’d gathered that morning, spreading far out from the pits of his belly down to the ends of his hairs.

You spoke to him with such easy grace, that each breathy laughter he managed to procure from your lips felt sinful as the melody flowed into his ears. You only ever looked at him with kindness — a rare experience for a thing like him.

Some days, when the ache in his body is dull and the strength is returning to his bones, you would find him patrolling the perimeter of your property, bending over to inspect the sturdiness of your fence, or testing the durability of your windows. The sun would rise from dawn, and fall into dusk before Suna would return back from his perusal. And while he refused to disclose just exactly what he had been doing outside for so long, a protection charm nailed against the tree behind your home had betrayed his secrets.

More than once, you would ask him to demonstrate his kitsune abilities, but no amount of puppy dog eyes or thinly veiled threats to stop his treatment could change Suna’s answer from a hard No.

“I bet you don’t even have any powers,” you pouted after hours of pestering with no reward

Suna would just laugh and shake his head, “If that’s what you want to think.”

It was easy to forget the original conditions of your arrangement.

What used to be lonely nights and quiet dinners soon became filled with stories of childhood and dreams beyond these four walls. The tediousness of pruning the weeds around your herbs was forgotten behind the lazy smiles of comforting company.

And with the improvement of the feral yokai you had found in the snow, came the realization that just as the fresh white powder is meant to melt into the rivers, all good things are bound to end.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“It’s all healed up now,” you say a week later, lifting Suna’s arm to inspect the fresh, white scar that now decorated the underside of his right breast, “I couldn’t do much about the scar, though.”

“That’s fine,” he responds, needling his arm back into the sleeve of his yukata, “It looks kind of cool.”

You chuckle at the thought before a hush falls upon the atmosphere. Suna’s eyes are trained onto his feet on the floor, his ear twitching as he fiddles with the hem of his clothes.

“Thank you,” he mutters out before slowly rising to meet your gaze, and you offer him a tight smile.

“It was nothing,” you laugh, waving a hand in front of your face.

A shiver travels down your spine as Suna wraps a hand around your wrist.

“My life is not nothing,” he whispers, lowering his head a fraction of an inch towards yours.

You swallow thickly as your eyes fall onto his lips. “If that’s what you want to think.”

He smirks slightly as he licks his lips, lowering even further until he stops. You hadn’t realized you stopped breathing until your lungs began to burn for air, and the thumping of your heart could be heard in your ears.

He remains frozen in place, his grip around you loosening as your eyes trail to meet his gaze.

Except, he wasn’t looking at you. His expression is crestfallen as he stares at his black claws against your wrist, and he traces his thumb over the deep pink scars that now decorate your skin.

Suna lets you go.

“You should get some rest,” he says as he pulls away.

You smile at him sadly.

“Good night, Rintaro.”

“Good night,” he replies, and he steps forward to place a chaste kiss on your forehead, “Thank you for everything.”

The sincerity in his words brought tears to your eyes.

In the morning, he was gone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Once a month, you take a trip into town to sell excess inventory from your personal stock. Perhaps you’ll meet a villager with a particular ailment that only your Kampo could resolve, or a weary traveler simply looking for tea to help them sleep.

But today, you’ve met a man disgruntled by something else entirely.

“So, I heard you think it’s okay to hang with yokais,” the stranger followed you down the beaten bath, slurring his words and stumbling over his feet. You say nothing in return.

“What, humans not good enough for you, or something,” he was getting closer now, and you could feel his hot breath on your shoulders. You pick up your pace, but for someone so inebriated, he was hot on your heels.

“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you, you bi—“

At the same instant you felt a hand tightly grip your shoulder, you could feel an intense heat blow against your back, and gone as instantly as it came.

You turn around to see your assailant splayed out on the ground, desperately patting away at the red flames that licked at the edge of his clothes.

Suna emerges from seemingly nothing but a flash of lightning, walking dangerously slowly towards the pathetic man cowering the opposite way. A fire as hot as his flames burned beneath his irises, and you could never have imagined a look so angry on Suna’s soft features.

He lights his right palm in burning red fire.

“Try to touch them again if you want to die today, human.”

Red Fox Fire dances up into the air, licking hot at the harasser’s feet until they were nothing but a blip in the horizon.

You stay rooted to your spot, hand clutching your chest at the sudden display of Suna’s strength.

“Rintaro,” you called out to him.

Suna keeps his back to you, the furs on his ears and tails standing straight up. Soot stained his jacket from the fire he sent out to your attacker, and the faint scent of smoke wafted from his hair. You slowly take a step forward from your spot in the road, and slowly take another once you realize he’s not running away.

You delicately placed a hand on his shoulder. His head snaps to your touch, but still he refuses to face you.

“Are you… afraid of me?” He asked slowly.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, resting your cheek against his back.

“Never, of you,” you replied.

Suna places his hand on top of yours, pulling them apart so he could turn to face you.

“I thought you left,” you said, blushing as he holds your hand in his.

“I thought I did too,” he replied, brushing a finger against your cheek, still frowning at the claw the pressed against your skin, “Maybe I still should.”

You scoff, holding his hand against your cheek.

“Please, just kiss me already.”

Suna smiled, dipping his head down to your lips.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A shock spreads throughout your body as you pull away from the supple lips of Suna Rintarou.

Your fingers reach up to trace the grooves in your lips, goosebumps dancing all along your skin as it soaks in the after effects of the sudden contact.

The keys to your apartment still hang from the key ring hooked on your fingers. The sound of cars driving past your building filter into the empty hallway as Suna stares at you dumbfounded.

Tears stain both of your cheeks.

“Did… you just?” Suna was afraid to ask.

Your head nods slowly, and you reach forward to caress the skin on his cheek.

He leans into your touch.

“It’s good to see you again,” you smile, and though you had just met the handsome boy in your English class just two weeks ago, he puts his hand on top of yours, and he knows.

“You, too,” Suna smiles back.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

a/n: prompt request for @cafeoikawa <33 sorry this got so long but the idea wouldn’t leave my head! I hope u like it <33

rbs v appreciated <333

#if u saw this last night… no u didn’t lol it went from 2.2k to 3k sorry #suna x reader #suna x you #suna x y/n #suna rintaro x reader #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro x you #suna rintaro drabbles #suna fluff #suna drabbles #suna rintaro hcs #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! #hihqnetwork #hanimehub #haikyuu headcanon #haikyuu!! scenarios

[drwcn]

ok but for fem!wwx au does lan zhan believe the rumours? and if so what does that mean for the whole 'i birthed him with my own body!' cause lan zhan did the maths and was like 'no it was just the once and this child is too old' but if he thinks he was just one in a line does he go back to bm after nightless city to rescue a kid he thinks is wei ying's but with another man? does he spend the three years in seclusion cursing every jin whose name he remembers as cowards only to step out, take one look at sizhui, and have an 'oh. i know why wei ying was so determined to save wen qionglin' moment???

Answer:  Haha, nah, Lan Wangji was fairly sure Sizhui wasn’t Wei Ying’s, for several reasons. One, Wen Yuan was born before the wen remnants even went to the Burial Mount. Lan Wangji saw the small child amongst the escape party that rainy night at the  concentration camp. Also, Wen Ning was several years younger than them, which would make it kind of weird if he were the dad. Before Wen Ning became the Ghost General, everyone just knew him as Wen Qing’s kid brother.  Lan Wangji, however, absolutely believed Jiang Yan to be Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian’s child even before Wei Wuxian was resurrected... 

《the midnight sun》 — 

[original], snippets [x] [x] [x] [x], other posts found under #lanyan or #midnight sun

midnight sun [snippet 7]

When Yan’er turned ten, Jiang Cheng decided it was time for her to accompany him to Cultivation Conferences. Most sect heirs began their training this way; Jiang Cheng still remembered his first time, trailing nervously in Jiang Fengmian’s wake. 

Heiresses, in comparison, were few and far between. Even head disciples were rarely girls. Jiang Wanyin had no children. His head disciple was his heiress, and his heiress was Jiang Yueqian (江月千). 

长烟一空 - when the smoke clears; 皓月千里 - the moon casts a thousand miles of light 浮光跃金 - which dances upon the water, golden 静影沉壁 - the shadow of the moon itself like jade underwater*

A jade underwater indeed.

“Shifu.”

Speaking of the devil, here she comes, walking measuredly down the long stairs of Jinlintai towards Jiang Cheng, the epitome of an obedient, filial disciple. It had only been a day and Jiang Yan already had the world fooled. Only Jiang Cheng knew how impossibly obstinate and utterly uncontrollable she was when her mind was fixed.

"Ah, Jiang-zongzhu, this is..." Spotting her, Lan Xichen glanced beyond his shoulder, the question dangling in the sentence he did not deem necessary to finish.

Unbeknownst to Lan Xichen, the child that made her way over was his niece by blood. Jiang Cheng was acutely aware that Yan'er actually resembled Lan Wangji a great deal, and despite having weighed the risks and gains against each other repeatedly before deciding to bring Jiang Yan along, now he was no longer so certain in his calculations. Lan Xichen was not a simple peasant; what if he detected a trace or a hint of her heritage between the furrow of her brows or the curve of her eyes? What if...

Jiang Cheng turned, raising an arm towards Jiang Yan, an introduction ready, but whatever words he had prepared in advance died on on his tongue when he laid eyes on the girl. Suddenly, he was no longer worried that others would suspect her to be Lan Wangji's child.

There was a red ribbon in her hair.

Yan'er stopped at a polite distance from the two older men and bowed in perfect form.

Jiang Cheng's heart stuttered violently in his chest at the sight of that red ribbon falling sideway over her small shoulder. If souls could travel, his would have left him in an instant. He stood in disincorporated panic, wrestling with the nauseating sensation of being ripped from his reality and tossed so far into the distant past that he felt whole again.

"Shifu, Lan-zongzhu." Yan'er greeted.

Shifu. Lan-zongzhu. In another world, another life, she would not need to be so formal. She could easily bound up to them, carefree, cooing jiujiu and bobo and ask to be bailed out from whatever trouble she caused.

Instead, he was only her shifu, and Lan Xichen, a stranger in her life. It would be laughable, if fate had not dealt them each such a wretched hand.

Jiang Cheng stepped towards her. “Where did you get this?” 

Jiang Yan looked up in surprise, her hand reaching up and making an aborted motion to touch the red ribbon in her hair.

“Qin-shenshen gave it to me. Is it not nice?” 

Qin Su. Jiang swallowed down a sigh of relief. Earlier, the Jin servants had sent word that Jin-fu'ren had baked treats for Jin Ling, and the boy had wasted no time dragging his favourite person - his Yan'er jiejie - to his aunt's place with him. Clearly, Qin Su had seized the opportunity to dote on the girl in place of the daughter she never had. Qin Su meant well. She couldn't have known. She's never even met Wei Wuxian.

In this state, Jiang Cheng could barely bring himself to look at his disciple, but he forced himself nonetheless to kneel and tuck an errant strand of baby hair behind her ear. “Very pretty.” 

Yan'er smiled.

Jiang Cheng could cry.

They'd been lucky thus far. Yunmeng's Jiang-xiao-guniang was born a taciturn girl who did not like to smile or laugh, not even when she was expected to for polite society. Whether she was happy or sad, one would be hard pressed to tell. Only in front of her master Jiang Cheng or her Jin Ling-didi did she elect to reveal the full expanse of her emotions. Yet, whenever Jiang Cheng bore witness to that smile as warm and incandescent as sunlight, he could not help but shudder somewhere deep. Recalling the radiant days of years gone by, he could still see - every time he closed his eyes - his er-shijie smiling at him in the very same fashion.

Aiyo, Jiang Cheng ~

So...they'd been very lucky thus far, that Yan'er was not so like her mother in that way, not so free and generous with her smiles. Or else this devastating secret —Wei Wuxian's only wish — would not be able to withstand the test of time.

"Very pretty, Yan'er." He reaffirmed. "Did you thank Jin-furen?"

"I did."

Jiang Cheng stood and turned back to face Lan Xichen, and realized they were being joined by two others: Lan Qiren and Lan Wangji. The latter of two stared directly down at Jiang Yan, visibly stricken and unblinking, as though he'd just seen a ghost. After all, he had often been on the receiving end of that signature smile once upon a time. It was probably not a smile he'd ever expected to see again in this life.

In hindsight, perhaps Jiang Cheng should have made Yan'er wear her uniform like all the other disciples instead of her favourite indigo robes.

“Ah, Wangji, shufu -” Lan Xichen was quick to react, sensing animosity brewing in the disquiet that stretched taut between his younger brother and his fellow sect master. "Jiang-zongzhu, perhaps you would introduce us?"

The First Jade smiled kindly down at Yan'er. She returned his kindness with a polite nod.

Lan Wangji finally dragged his gaze up to meet Jiang Cheng's, a rarity since their violent parting at Nevernight. The venerated Hanguang-jun had developed a habit of pretending that Jiang Wanyin of Lotus Pier did not exist at all. He probably preferred, dreamed of it even, if Jiang Cheng had been one to fall of the cliff that day. He probably hated himself for not shoving him into the molten abyss when he could to avenge the love of his life.

Love. What did Lan Wangji know of love? Jiang Cheng sneered inwardly. One did not compromise one's love and abandon her, ill and with child, to bleed out alone in a cave tainted by demonic spirits.

One did not watch idly as one's love and her people are reduced to ashes for the power and greed of men either....

Jiang Cheng buried the offending thought, too familiar with Wen Qing's ghost that still haunted him in his moments of weakness. Without breaking gaze, he laid a hand on the crown of Jiang Yan's head and said, "This is my first disciple, Jiang Yan, Jiang Yueqian."

"Yueqian greets Zewu-jun, Lan-lao-xiansheng, Hanguang-jun."

Jiang Cheng watched as the icy fire within Lan Wangji's eyes flicker, fizzle, and extinguish entirely. Jiang Cheng's vague silence had allowed him the space to make his assumptions, and he had assumed the most insane explanation.

Is it so difficult for you, wondered Jiang Cheng. To believe that she could be yours? So impossible, that you would choose to doubt Wei Wuxian instead?

Fine.

Hanguang-jun. The venerated Second Jade of Gusu. That's all you'll ever be. Yan'er will never call you Father.

Jiang Cheng decided he had spent enough time today making nice. "Zewu-jun, it's getting late. If nothing else, I will be taking my leave. The conference continues tomorrow. I will see you then. Yan'er, come."

Yan'er bowed again to the senior cultivators, perfectly well-mannered. A dash of surprise crossed those bright eyes, however, when Jiang Cheng took her hand to lead her away. She followed wordlessly, trusting him, and did not look back once at the Lans she left behind.

Now that Yan'er was out in society, there would surely be rumours. No matter. Rumours were nothing Jiang Wanyin could not withstand. How ironic, indeed, that this was to be his lot in life.

For the first time, Jiang Cheng felt he could understand his father.

Note:

The poem is from the Song dynasty, by poet 范仲淹 from his work 《岳阳楼记》

Jiang Cheng of course is also working off a lot of assumptions about Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji's relationship. He has his reasons for hating and blaming Lan Wangji, but not all the blame is deserved.

#Anonymous #corie replies #cql #the untamed #lanyan #midnight sun #corie fics #cql ficlet #yes jiang cheng stringed enough brain cells together to come up with a half decent name #ly7

[cactusspatz]

July recs

Hello, I’m back on my Untamed streak again! I’ve got 8 Untamed recs, 1 Word of Honor rec, and 1 Nirvana in Fire vid rec. I’m putting my four favorites above the cut and everything else under, because everybody went in for extra long summaries this month for some reason.

THE UNTAMED

Always Light My Way by cqlorphan / @jingyismom

Lan Wangji looks down at his own hands, steadying himself. It is easier to think clearly when he is not looking into Wei Wuxian’s eyes. He takes the scroll from his pouch.

“Research has uncovered a method,” he says. He does not mention the forbidden nature of said research, nor does he elaborate on the method itself. He will not venture to speak it aloud. He hands the scroll over.

Wei Wuxian looks at him for a long moment as he takes it, and Lan Wangji holds his breath, waiting for him to decide. Waiting to see if he is at least interested enough in the possibility of a new core to read it.

Lan Wangji offers to help Wei Wuxian develop a new golden core via dual cultivation. He struggles to keep his feelings in check.

Exceedingly good pining-while-fucking post-canon CQL story, with some travelling battle couple action (feat. archer!WWX) in addition to some very hot smut. I’m very picky about this trope because it can easily tip into frustration with the characters being oblivious, but the author tuned this story beautifully, with LWJ’s determination not to hold on too tightly balancing against WWX’s fears of not being wanted or belonging, and the phantom of LWJ’s 16-year grief very much present.

Walking Back to You by mrsronweasley

They bring him in just before dawn. Wei Wuxian does not remember it, not really. He remembers nothing but pain.

Just some very very tasty post-canon hurt/comfort and get-together, featuring WWX’s trauma around obligation and debt and feeling useless. Mmmm, good stuff.

places under the sky by narie

Wei Wuxian braces himself for what might come next, the story of how this man died by the Yiling Patriarch's hand—at Nightless City, at the Burial Mounds, as the rest of the sects tried to bring that great villain to account. "What was his name?"

Uncle Gan sits back, twiddles his thumbs as he thinks. "Well, it'd be Wei something, of course."

"Wei Changze, wasn't it?" chimes in a new person, and if anyone agrees or disagrees, Wei Wuxian does not hear them. His wine bowl slips from his grip and the sudden clatter of it barely registers over the unexpected sounds of his father's name. Wei Changze, slipping so careless from a stranger's mouth here in small Taozi, here of all places under the open sky.

Wei Wuxian meets his grandmother. No, not the immortal one. The other one.

Wonderful WWX characterization and bittersweet in the best way, with lush and vivid prose.

hold your tongue and let me love by ilgaksu (Jin Guangyao/Lan Xichen)

There are a lot of things people don’t know about Lan Xichen. At least half of them, in Jin Guangyao’s estimation, hide in plain sight. He, as the focus of Lan Xichen’s sole and long-standing regard, is one of them. Zewu-jun’s honest opinions of his fellow gentry are another.

The joy and humor and trust of this scene in bed together, taking off their masks, becomes absolutely gutting when you think about canon, so enjoy that! But seriously, it’s a pleasure to read, to see this playful side of both of them - especially Lan Xichen.

Tragedy is Not the End by Hobbsy3

When Sizhui, Jingyi, and Zizhen are captured with Jin Ling at the Guanyin Temple, they're sure that Hanguang Jun and Wei Wuxian will fix everything - until Su She stabs Lan Wangji through the stomach, and everything falls apart around them. In a last, frantic attempt to undo the damage Jin Guangyao has done, Wei Wuxian activates a deadly array to send the four juniors back in time, sending them to the morning of Jin Ling's one-month celebration. With the fate of everyone and everything they love in their hands, Sizhui, Jin Ling, Zizhen and Jingyi race to prevent the ambush at Qiongqi Pass and the subsequent fallout, but Jin Guangyao has returned from the future as well, and he has no intention of letting what he wants fall through his hands a second time.

I do love a good time-travel fix-it, and this one is an unusual and whumpy delight: from the wrenching prelude, to the juniors being sent back with Jin Guangyao inadvertently swept along to counter them, to how it deals with their trauma. Very long (360K), very heavy on the found/adopted family, and a very good time.

忘不了你的爱 (can't forget your love) by PorcupineGirl

Exhausted from a busy cultivation conference, the last thing Lan Zhan needs is a man appearing out of thin air as he and his brother walk back to their hotel.

Wei Wuxian isn't the first time traveler to appear in modern cultivation history, but that doesn't mean anyone knows how to send him back. As he helps them fill in gaps in the historical record - whether left by destruction or revisionism - Lan Zhan finds himself hoping that he'll stay. Even if there are things Wei Wuxian isn't telling him.

This one’s a much more fluffy time-travel (WWX) fic with a side of reincarnation (LWJ & others), but it strikes a lovely balance against the modern day coziness and the bittersweetness of the original Lan Wangji’s loss.

Too gone to stay by @aenya

“Seems like it worked,” says a nearby voice.

Wei Wuxian looks in the direction of the speaker with a flinch, the light streaming in from the entryway momentarily blinding. He barely manages to stay upright.

“I guess he wasn’t so useless after all,” the second voice is calmer, and familiar to him.

“Welcome back, Yiling Laozu,” Jin Guangyao says.

or: Mo Xuanyu performs the resurrection ritual while he’s still living in Koi Tower.

Wei Wuxian can have a little murder? As a treat?...

I do love seeing Wei Wuxian backed into a corner and fighting his way out with cleverness (and yes, a little well-deserved murder), and there’s no better opponent for that than Jin Guangyao. Thoroughly enjoyable and smart, with a side of some favorite ladies not being dead.

try a little tenderness by @ilip13

"Wei Ying, have you never heard of aftercare?" Mutely, Wei Ying shakes his head. He has learned of many things, from all his guys. The word care has never been included.

In response to a kink meme prompt: sub wwx who hasn't had a good dom before meets dom lwj. The story of three nights and a morning.

Immensely sweet, heavy on the emotional h/c in addition to the physical aftercare, and light on the smut.

OTHER CDRAMA

Grant Me Strength That I May Once Again See Daylight by Sporadic_Writer (Word of Honor, gen + Wenzhou)

The AO3 summary was more of an author’s note than a summary, so I will just say this is a gorgeous series of scenes between Wen Kexing killing the old Ghost Valley Master and the trio’s time at Four Seasons Manor, as his mental state changes along with his relationship to his appearance (as armor, as disguise, as something joyful).

Know Better by Rhea / @rhea314 (Nirvana in Fire, vid)

If I didn't know better/I'd think you were still around

DAMMIT RHEA. THANKS FOR MAKING ME CRY.

#the untamed #cql #mdzs #wangxian #lan wangji/wei wuxian #xiyao #lan xichen/jin guangyao #word of honor #wenzhou #wen kexing/zhou zishu #nirvana in fire #fic rec #vid rec #monthly recs

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt - Nie Mingjue's temper is already not great at the Phoenix hunt, so when they haul out men and women, some who look a great deal more like frightened peasants than cultivators he snaps, this is not how you treat POWs, it turns into a riot/battle and Jiang Cheng has had enough of kowtowing to the Jin and he and the new Jiang sect members and Wei Wuxian all rally to Nie Mingjue, does anyone else? Where to the Lan fall? Was nie mingjue's snap directly at jgy or more in general?

ao3

Nie Mingjue was, probably for the first time in his life, tired of fighting.

He’d fought in secret against the Wen sect for years, thanklessly defending the other sects that had refused to even acknowledge Wen Ruohan’s actions for years on end, and yet it had not prepared him for the brutality that was open warfare, for the difficulty of being the general of the entire Sunshot Campaign, for the burden of knowing that so many lives depended on him and him alone. He’d fought battle after battle, won tremendous victories, and yet the last hope had seemed out of reach – he’d eventually resorted to a desperate stratagem that had gone wrong – he had been tortured, mocked, his men killed – and at the moment of when all seemed lost, he was saved.

Saved…only to realize that it was Meng Yao being credited with it, with being their spy, and Lan Xichen had not told him.

He’d limped back to his camp, but they’d chased after him, and the news of what Meng Yao had done got out – not really a surprise; given the man’s ambitions, if someone else hadn’t spread it he would have done it himself – and in the end, politics had meant that there really hadn’t been much of a choice about swearing sworn brotherhood with the two of them, binding them together in life and death, not unless he wanted to risk another war.

Nie Mingjue very, very much did not want another war.

He had still not fully recovered from his injuries by the time the Jin sect had set up a celebration in the Nightless City, with Jin Guangshan using Nie Mingjue’s refusal to take on any of Wen Ruohan’s ridiculous trappings as an excuse to all but name himself Chief Cultivator in the man’s place. Nie Mingjue knew he should have protested then, but he was tired, his sect in need of rebuilding – they had been the ones bearing the brunt of the war, as they always had, and the only reason they were not the worst off of the Great Sects was because of what the Wens had done to the Cloud Recesses and the Lotus Pier – and he’d never really wanted personal advancement, anyway.

After what had happened with his father, he’d had a lifetime’s worth of being promoted.

Besides, as part and parcel of their self-granted promotion, the Jin sect had promised to take care of the worst of the clean-up, including dealing with the prisoners of war, and that had seemed fine, even a good result. After spending half his life doing things for other people, Nie Mingjue would return home to focus on that which matter most to him, and for once someone else would take the lead in caring for the rest of the world.

It wasn’t like the Jin sect couldn’t afford a few more mouths to feed. 

It wasn’t like their coffers were anywhere near empty, or that they needed to rebuild; it wasn’t as though they’d ever stopped trade with Qishan or actually led in a major battle or - he should stop thinking about it before he became angry. 

He’d been angry for so long. It would be nice to stop for a while.

Of course, it felt as though he’d barely settled in back at home before he was being summoned for yet another celebration hosted by the Jin sect, this time at Phoenix Mountain. A hunt, no less, and it was so pointedly designed as the sort of thing that the Nie sect favored that it would have been impossible to turn down the invitation. Not to mention, the invitation had oh-so-casually mentioned that Jin Guangyao, his sworn brother, would be the one in charge of setting up the hunt, meaning that any disruption or failure cause damage not only to his own reputation but to Nie Mingjue and Lan Xichen’s, for having sworn with him.

Jin Guangshan would either have his day in the sun or a reason to tear everyone else down - a win-win situation for him, lose-lose for everyone else.

Fucking politics.

Still, there wasn’t anything for it. They had to go, so they went.

Nie Mingjue felt himself drifting back into that disconnected state that had allowed him to survive years of discussion conferences hosted by his father’s murderer. It was a strange sort of state, that allowed him to do the things he had to do to support his sect while feeling as though the world was separated from him by a window through which he watched everything happen. Anything that occurred beyond that window – all sounds and sights and even emotional reactions – was dulled or even muted; he could look Wen Ruohan right in the eye and think to himself of how much he longed to slaughter the man where he stood for his crimes, look at Jiang Fengmian smiling quite sincerely at Wen Ruohan and Lan Qiren bowing to him as if he was a man worthy of respect, as if they weren’t hypocrites that took Wen Ruohan’s money in trade and said apologetically that there wasn’t anything anyone could prove about Nie Mingjue’s father’s death, and yet, no matter how much he hated them all, his body would do nothing. 

He would drink tea, and nod, and he would not breach etiquette, he would not bring war down on his sect’s head, he would do nothing.

Sitting in a place of honor at Phoenix Mountain felt much the same: yet another burden to bear, a torment that he could only hope passed quickly.

(It wasn’t healthy, but then again, what was? His entire life was grist for the mill that was his sect’s well-being, shortened by excessive cultivation and stress and endless rage, and knowing it didn’t change anything.)

He saw in the corner of his eye the way his little brother’s eyes flickered to him and then frown – he’d never liked it when Nie Mingjue went quiet and passive, knowing how alien the feeling was to him, knowing through fellow-feeling what it felt like, though perhaps he was wondering why the state had come upon him now again when Wen Ruohan was already dead and gone, even though it had never really just been about Wen Ruohan. 

Perhaps because of that fellow-feeling, Nie Huaisang found a conversational interlude hat allowed him to slide over a little closer than politeness dictated, casually putting a hand on Nie Mingjue’s arm as if to beg for something. He knew that Nie Mingjue took comfort in the touch, in the reminder that with his saber at his side and his brother within arms’ reach, Nie Mingjue felt as thought he had everything he valued most in this rotten world close enough that he could try to protect it.

And then the Jin sect – using Jin Guangyao as their mouthpiece, though whether it was because of his skillful silver tongue or simply because they didn’t think he was worth anything more than that, only he would know – announced that they would kick off the hunt with some entertainment.

Nie Mingjue lifted his cup of tea to his lips, feeling pained, and his eyes briefly met with Lan Qiren’s across the hall, no longer in the place of the sect leader but slightly behind, his expression making clear that the same thought was on both their minds – anything but the prostitutes again.

(Surely Jin Guangyao had a bit more self-respect than that…?)

When a bunch of people in chains were marched out, Nie Mingjue had only enough presence of mind to be briefly relieved that the presence of mixed genders meant that they were probably not prostitutes – Lanling Jin abided by rules relating to birth gender and sexuality that seemed nearly as strict as the rules they were always criticizing Gusu Lan over, and according to them no one ever switched or was misaligned or deviated at all, which frankly seemed more than a little bizarre and unbelievable – and then uncomfortable because, well, they were in chains. Weren’t they supposed to be done with war?

And then Jin Guangyao started announcing the rules of some sort of ridiculous archery contest that the younger generation would engage in, and for a moment that seemed almost a relief as well – as a sect leader, Nie Mingjue was excluded from the younger generation despite being only a few years older than the rest of them, and of course there was no point in expecting his brother to participate in any competition of martial skill, and so for a moment it seemed as though this could be another part of this torturous endless experience that he could just tune out.

Indeed, that he was obligated to tune out. No matter how idiotic it was, whatever it was, whatever he thought about it (and he wouldn’t like it, he knew he wouldn’t like it, he’d never liked anything Wen Ruohan – no, that Jin Guangshan, insofar as there was that much of a difference – he’d never liked anything Jin Guangshan had set up in nearly ten years of working together, and odds were good that he wouldn’t like this), Nie Mingjue still had to think first of his sect and the consequences of making a fuss, and that meant he didn’t. He didn’t want a war, and so he had to be polite, restrained, quiet, no matter what he thought.

It wasn’t that hard to simply pull back even further. Nie Mingjue had been suppressing righteousness in favor of etiquette at these horrible conferences for such a long time that it came naturally to him, the way all bad habits did.

Only this time he’d brought Nie Huaisang with him, which he’d always resisted before, and his brother’s hand tightened on his arm to the point of pain.

Nie Mingjue’s first thought, stupidly enough, was to be pleased by the discovery that Nie Huaisang actually had some arm muscle underneath all those prissy frills he favored. His second was concern that Nie Huaisang had suddenly taken ill – with admittedly a bit of hopefulness that perhaps it would be something they could use as an excuse to leave early, as long as it wasn’t that serious – but when he turned to look at him his brother didn’t seem sick.

He seemed – angry?

Not Huaisang, Nie Mingjue thought, heart abruptly seized with an ancient fear. He knew perfectly well what he’d gotten himself into when it came to the saber spirits, had accepted years ago that he would die young, die early, die horribly and alone with nothing but his rage, but that was not going to be Nie Huaisang’s fate, not if he had anything to say about it. 

The fear curdled in his chest, and it felt as though a crack appeared on the window that shielded him from all sensation, all pain and desperation forced far away.

No one was talking, other than Jin Guangyao droning on and on about whatever the new entertainment was – Nie Mingjue had stopped paying attention long ago – and so he couldn’t ask Nie Huaisang what was wrong, but he looked at him and furrowed his brow, trying to convey the question silence.

Nie Huaisang caught the glance and understood, and his mouth moved, shaping silent sounds – it’s an execution, they’re going to kill them –

What?

Baxia, lying by his side as she always did during these meetings, shifted a little, her rage nudging against Nie Mingjue’s mind as it always did – sometimes he thought she hated these meetings as much as he did, other times he was sure of it – and the crack in the window got a little wider, let in a little more light and color and sound, and Nie Mingjue found a thread of willpower to force himself to listen to what the entertainment Jin Guangyao was proposing actually was.

He replayed the words in his mind, turned to look at the people in chains – Wen sect, apparently, and though he couldn’t tell on sight whether they were civilians or cultivators, that didn’t matter. Not even criminals were executed like this, by standing at a distance and waiting to die, not even able to hope for an expert aiming to kill quickly and cleanly, but through a misplaced arrow that could strike them anywhere, cause them a lingering and painful death…this was supposed to be a game?

This was meant to be their entertainment?

The window between Nie Mingjue and the world shattered.

And suddenly all he felt was rage.

“What,” Nie Mingjue said, even as Jin Zixuan got up with a set expression on his face to accept a bow from his servant, “are you doing?”

Jin Zixuan paused, looking puzzled – and no surprise, since Nie Mingjue hadn’t said anything beyond the most mundane greetings when he first arrived. “Sect Leader Nie..?”

Nie Mingjue rose to his feet, his brother’s hand falling off of his arm as if he’d shaken him off like a dog. “What are you doing?” he demanded, louder this time. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Da-ge –” Jin Guangyao said, an obvious hint, a reminder of their relationship – Nie Mingjue was the one bound by it, the older brother responsible for setting a good example, and for all that Jin Guangyao was supposed to listen to him and follow his lead Nie Mingjue had never seen a hint that he’d ever planned to do so – but Nie Mingjue didn’t listen to him.

He was angry.

It felt good to be angry – a clean anger, a righteous anger, anger at injustice being perpetrated right before his eyes.

(Something so poisonous as rage shouldn’t feel this good.)

“This is an abomination,” he said, a touch of the battlefield in his voice so that it would be audible throughout the hall, would spread far and wide for all to hear. “Those are people you’re putting on the line.”

There was a moment of awkward silence.

Jin Zixun, Jin Guangshan’s nephew, broke it with an abrupt laugh. “Sect Leader Nie,” he said, pretending to smile, “surely you don’t think so little of us to suggest that my cousin would miss –”

“I don’t care even if he does strike true,” Nie Mingjue snapped. “You do not play with the lives of men.”

“Hardly men,” a minor sect leader, closely affiliated with the Jin sect, said. Sect Leader Qin, if Nie Mingjue placed him right. “Perhaps you did not hear, Chifeng-zun –” It was always his title they used when they wanted to avoid calling him sect leader, when they were trying to make a point about how young and angry and foolish they thought he was. “– but those are Wen-dogs.”

“I don’t care who or what they are,” Nie Mingjue shouted, and now he had fallen back into his body, back into the battlefield, because this was a battlefield; it was only that he had allowed himself – through tiredness or shock or a desire for peace – to forget it for a moment. “Is this not a celebration of peace, the end of war? If they are criminals, sentence them; if they are condemned, execute them with a sword. Even a rabid beast deserves to be put down cleanly, not to be used as target practice by children for the entertainment of others!”

There was movement in the crowd, multiple people shifting from one side to the other, the audience abruptly uncomfortable when faced not only with a gory spectacle but their own complicity in it.

“Sect Leader Nie, calm yourself,” Jin Guangshan said. His voice was stern, irritatingly condescending – as if he thought that styling himself as Chief Cultivator gave him the right to act as if he were Nie Mingjue’s father. “You go too far for proper etiquette; will you not give any face to me, as your host? Naturally, if you have a complaint, I will hear it –”

“I don’t recall the moment I yielded to your authority in matters of ethics, Sect Leader Jin,” Nie Mingjue snapped. “Please, feel free to remind me – the last I recall it, you were the one begging me for assistance.”

“Sect Leader Nie!” Jin Guangshan shouted, rising to his feet with his face starting to purple.

Nie Mingjue saw the furious glance he sent at a frantic Jin Guangyao – control him already! – and it makes his own rage surge even higher. It was not that he didn’t know that his sworn brother was being used as leverage against him, but to have it shoved right into his face like that, to think that they thought that etiquette and brotherhood would be sufficient to make him complaisant – to allow Jin Guangyao to run roughshod over his morality – to think that it had nearly worked –

“Sect Leaders, please.” That was Lan Xichen, standing up as well, his hands outstretched. “Is this not meant to be a celebration of peace?”

For a moment, Nie Mingjue thought he was standing up for his sake, supporting him in decrying what was happening in front of them – something he despised as much as Nie Mingjue did, that much was obvious from his stance – but then his eyes flicked from Nie Mingjue to Jin Guangyao as well, silently beseeching Nie Mingjue to remember how his actions could hurt Jin Guangyao’s standing, and Nie Mingjue felt cold.

So much for brotherhood, it seemed. How much was he supposed to bear on behalf of Jin Guangyao without receiving anything in return?

He turned his face away.

If the Nie sect had to make this stand alone, so be it. Even if it meant war, war against the rest of the cultivation world, war that would be ruinous to his sect...

There was no choice. The Nie sect stood for refusing to tolerate evil; to do any less would be to throw off the traditions of his ancestors more wholly than Nie Huaisang’s refusal to train the saber had ever been. Even on a personal level, he had long criticized others who stood quiet when evil was happening, and he  would not let himself become the hypocrite that so many others had been. 

Nie Mingjue had never before willingly backed away from doing the right thing, the righteous thing, simply because it was hard to do – he would not start now.

“It seems strange that a celebration of peace would begin with death.” That was Jiang Cheng standing up as well, the fourth of the Great Sects. His sister had once been engaged to Jin Zixuan, and she had been invited to the hunt as Madame Jin’s special guest – popular thought had it that the Jin sect would snap her up soon enough, allying with the last remaining sect, and leaving anyone who opposed them to stand alone. But even if that was the plan, it hadn’t happened yet, and Jiang Cheng was putting his voice on Nie Mingjue’s side – Nie Mingjue would have to find a way to repay him for his support later. “Weren’t the Wen sect supposed to be resettled somewhere peaceful? Or was the news I received incorrect?”

“The innocent branch members and civilians were of course resettled,” Jin Guangyao said, and his smile was strained – or was it? Was it actual concern, or some sort of show? Nie Mingjue could never tell with him, not now that he knew how easily the snake changed its skin. “These however are war criminals, sentenced to execution in the manner of our choosing. I hope you all understand: their deaths are in no way comparable to their crimes –”

You would know, having participated in so many of them, Nie Mingjue thought, and levelled a glare at his youngest sworn brother to remind him of that fact. It briefly interrupted the smooth flow of words, making them catch in Jin Guangyao’s throat; at least he had that much shame.

“Can I see?” Nie Huaisang asked in the brief interval, his high voice just as carrying as Nie Mingjue’s shouting – all those music and singing lessons had clearly been worth something.

“See what?” Jin Zixun sneered, stepping forward – and interesting that it was him that did so, while Jin Zixuan, the heir, remained still and silent. His expression was frosty, but he hadn’t yet spoken up in his own father’s defense; hardly filial, but given such a father it was difficult to see what else he could do. “See their crimes? Do you want a list, or for us to drag out their victims to testify? Is this how little your Nie sect thinks of our Jin sect?”

A strong effort on Jin Zixun’s part – it put the burden on them to prove that these were not evildoers and criminals who deserved what was coming to them, made the issue their rudeness and lack of etiquette, made it seem as if they were the ones looking down on everyone.

But for all that Nie Mingjue despaired of Nie Huaisang’s skill at arms, he had never doubted his skill with words.

“You misunderstand me,” Nie Huaisang laughed nervously, hiding his face behind his fan in a gesture of shyness – he made it look as though he were being bullied by Jin Zixun, rather than debating him. “I just meant, well, they’re criminals, right? They must be truly impressive cultivators to fight against the brave soldiers of our Sunshot Campaign…could we see their strength?”

Nie Mingjue knew a cue when he heard one. “Such strength must be considerable to deserve such a fate,” he said scornfully. “Even Wen Ruohan, who killed hundreds, was merely cut down, rather than tormented in the same manner he tortured so many of our cultivators…Or do you think to emulate him in this manner as well?”

“How dare you?!” Jin Guangshan was florid with rage – as if rage would ever stop a Nie. “You come to my home and accuse me with no basis –”

“I do accuse you!” Nie Mingjue shouted, letting his voice trample down Jin Guangshan’s. “But by your own acts you are condemned, by your own callousness and indifference. So much Nie blood was shed to stop Wen Ruohan from running rampant over us all – I would die rather than have spent that blood to buy us nothing more than the same dominion in a different color!”

And then everyone was talking at once, shouting, yelling, and Nie Mingjue took the opportunity to turn on his heel and stride over to Lan Xichen, standing there looking lost. Lan Wangji was beside him, only a step behind, and he caught Nie Mingjue’s eyes as he came over and nodded – he, at least, was with Nie Mingjue in this, and his support gave Nie Mingjue more confidence in what he was about to do. What he had to do.

“Will you abide by your Lan sect’s values and stand with me in this?” he asked Lan Xichen in a low, clipped tone. “Or was my oath of brotherhood only worth the benefits it could get for Meng Yao?”

“Da-ge!” Lan Xichen exclaimed, looking horrified. “Don’t think that, please. Of course I stand with you in this – what they were planning for the Wen sect members goes beyond bad taste and into the horrific.”

He hadn’t meant it the way Nie Mingjue had taken it, then. It must have only been Jin Guangyao’s pleading looks that had led him to take a stand the wrong way, seeking peace and friendship over justice.

“One should not look away from righteousness simply because it would be easier,” Lan Wangji added smoothly, sounding almost as though he were agreeing with his brother and not subtly scolding him. He saluted Nie Mingjue. “You have our full support, regardless of who is on the other side.”

Nie Mingjue continued to look at Lan Xichen who hesitated – no doubt thinking of the tough position they’d just put Jin Guangyao into – but in the end he nodded.

That was fine. Okay, no, it wasn’t fine, but right now he needed Lan Xichen’s support, regardless of his level of enthusiasm; the rest could be dealt with later.

He turned again and went to Jiang Cheng – Wei Wuxian was there as well, having appeared at some point, and he was vociferously yelling at some minor sect leaders. In Nie Mingjue’s favor, at least.

“Sect Leader Nie,” Wei Wuxian said, turning to him before Nie Mingjue could say anything to Jiang Cheng – not that he really need to confirm his support, given the public display from earlier, but it was only polite to come convey his thanks. “There’s something else you should know. I’ve heard some things about the innocent members Wen sect that were supposedly ‘resettled’ – and what’s been happening to them…”

Nie Mingjue glanced at Jin Guangshan, still shouting, and did a quick calculation. “Take Lan Wangji and go check it out at once,” he ordered. “They were supposed to be resettled by the Qiongqi Path. If Sect Leader Jin has been treating these ones so cruelly as this…I’m willing to believe anything right now. But whatever it is, make sure it’s both of you that see it with your own eyes, to make it harder to doubt your words.”

Wei Wuxian saluted him and headed towards Lan Wangji without even seeking approval from his sect leader. Nie Mingjue abruptly felt awkward and looked at Jiang Cheng, but the other man nodded his agreement before he could apologize for commandeering Wei Wuxian as if the other man was still his subordinate.

“At least he listens to you,” Jiang Cheng said, a rueful smile on this face. “Can I convince you to talk some sense into him when all this is done..? I must admit I wasn’t expecting another war so soon.”

“I had hoped we wouldn’t see one for another generation,” Nie Mingjue admitted. “I still hope we can avoid it – it depends on how the smaller sects fall out, and how determined the Jin sect is to dominate the rest, rather than willing to accept equality. But no matter how it goes, we can’t turn our faces away from injustice.”

“Agreed,” Jiang Cheng said with a sigh. “I think we have the better of the argument, and hopefully it sways the rest of them. But have you considered what happens if we win?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sect Leader Jin has been setting himself up as Chief Cultivator. After something like this, even if there’s no actual fighting, that’ll be impossible. You need respect to lead. So who will it be?”

Nie Mingjue experienced a brief moment of horror at the thought of having to take it himself – but no. It was a reasonable solution, of course, but it would also taint the whole thing. It would make his decision to stand up into a tawdry political play, designed to increase his power, rather than a genuine outburst of offended principle.

He might have proposed Lan Xichen as a compromise – he would have, even a shichen earlier. But after that display of weakness from earlier, however brief, he feared that it would somehow end up with Jin Guangyao (and Jin Guangshan behind him) pulling the strings from behind the scenes, using Lan virtue as a cover for their iniquity…no, that wouldn’t do at all.

The only other option was –

Well.

Nie Mingjue had thought to himself that he needed to do something to pay Jiang Cheng back for his support earlier, hadn’t he?

(And at worst, he’d owe him yet another favor.)

Nie Mingjue put his hand on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder. “You have my full support,” he said solemnly, and ignored the sudden look of panic on Jiang Cheng’s face. “Think it over before you say no.”

Being Chief Cultivator would do more to restore the Jiang sect to prosperity than anything else Jiang Cheng might do, and he’d put that together himself sooner or later even if the idea of that much responsibility had to be fairly terrible. But before they could decide things like that, they needed to win.

One more fight.

He could do that much.

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #jin guangyao #lan xichen #jin guangshan #lan wangji #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #my fic #my fics #roseunspindle #spectacle

[megan-is-mia]

Hi! Is it okay if I request a poly Pomefiore nsfw oneshot with the prompt starter 103- “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this.”

Thank you!

(Hopefully, this will make you happy despite how late it is >_<) 103. “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this.” (Yandere! Pomefiore Dorm x Fem! S/o) (Warning NON-CON AND NSFW AHEAD)

(Y/n) had always been an early riser, ever since she was a child she’d been that way. Since coming to Night Raven College and being sorted into Pomefiore that had not changed. While others rolled out of bed and tamed their bedhead into a presentable coiffure before greeting the day, she’d spend the hour of the sun’s rising just basking in its splendor. Yet today was one of the few times she despised her early-rising nature. For by waking up she had returned to the horrifying nightmare that was her reality. 

She was aware that she was considered a beauty, even among her fellow Pomefiore students where good-looks are almost a requirement to be in the dorm she was considered to be far above-average. Such good looks might have made another soul happy or greedy but not her, for paired with her fair features were a reclusive mind and timid heart that made that gift of beauty a curse. (Y/n)’s  discomfort with dealing with people was half the reason she’d become an early bird as to avoid the conflict before it began. Yet how could she avoid conflict when the place she’d awoken would bring her nothing but conflict? How could (Y/n) hope to continue her life of trying to blend in when people were sure to ask questions at breakfast? Try as she might she couldn't think of a way to explain why she had slept in the dormhead’s bed instead of her own. Yes, that’s where dawn was greeting her. From the unfamiliar warmth and comfort of Vil Schoenheit’s bed as the male in question continued to sleep seemingly undisturbed by her distress. It shouldn’t have been possible for things to be worse, but somehow they were. For it wasn’t just the beautiful boy with his blonde hair that turned lavender at the ends that kept her company but two additional bodies that ensured she wouldn't move a muscle while they slept on.  If (Y/n) turned her head she could see the vice-dormhead Rook Hunt snoring peacefully with his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, his breath ruffling her hair as he breathed in and out.

As for the third occupant nestled snugly in the bed… It took (Y/n) a few moments to recognize the first-year who’s taken the liberty of using her chest as a pillow in his sleep. In her defense, Epel Felmier was basically a stranger to her. The one time they’d spoken being when she’d tried to turn him down gently a few weeks back. After that awkward encounter where she’d had to tell him she wasn’t interested, she’d been making more of an effort to try and blend in with the masses. So why was she here? And why… did her lower body feel so numb? Her head throbbed when she tried to think about it and she let out a small groan of pain as she did so. The moment the sound left her lips, the arm around her waist tightened as Rook let out a yawn. She felt his mouth press against the nape of her neck to place a kiss before he buried his nose into her hair with a contented sigh. “Good morning (Y/n)” the green-eyed male purred softly, his voice still rough from sleep and made her shiver in disgust. (Y/n) imagined that if she were to speak her voice would sound even rougher than his. considering all the screaming she’d done the night before. Yes, despite the pounding headache she had, the memories of the night before were beginning to make their way back to her. How she’d felt unusually tired after dinner, how she’d woken up with her hands cuffed above her head. She’d called out desperately hoping that someone would hear her plea and come to her rescue. Oh her pleas were heard alright, heard by the very souls who’d put her in this situation. She did not remember what exactly they’d said to her in the moment. Yet one phrase from Vil came back to her loud and clear as when it had been first uttered. “You’re so beautiful, chained up like that on my bed. I think I might just fuck you like this” the blonde had growled out, his perfectly cultivated appearance and personality torn away to reveal a man utterly consumed by lovesickness. Epel would have been the first one on her had he not been held back by Rook who reminded him playfully to respect his elders. The first-year had retorted back that it wasn’t fair for him to have to wait when he’d been pining the hardest and been the only one formally rejected by (Y/n). Still, he’d acquiesced to the matter, standing with crossed arms as he watched Vil run his hands over the girl, muttering a mix of criticisms and compliments as he went lower and lower. The entire time the young woman’s only contributions had been pleas for them to stop, for them to let her go, for them to act like nothing had ever happened. All these requests had been met with callous laughter and condescending platitudes. After Vil had completed his overview of (Y/n) he gestured to the other two men to come join him on the bed. Now instead of one set of roaming hands on her body, there were three: pinching, squeezing, petting, and stroking. It was all so overwhelming; one moment she was struggling to keep her legs closed so her pants couldn't be removed, the next she was naked as a newborn babe with her legs thrown over Rook’s shoulders as he ate her out. When she tried to protest again, Vil’s lips were pressed against hers as he shoved his tongue down her throat. As for her bust… well it seemed Epel seemed to be quite interested in that part of her if the fact he was suckling greedily on one nipple while pinching the other between his fingers. Why it’s a wonder she was able to resist cumming for so long with all the stimuli she was being barraged with. So when she lost it, she lost it hard. Moaning into Vil’s mouth arching up into Epel’s touch, and drenching Rook’s face with her juices. Yet the man had kept going, tongue fucking her ever though she was already overstimulated to give the other two men a chance to undress and jerk themselves off to full-hardness. (Y/n) was on the cusp of a second orgasm when Rook pulled back and Vil took his spot between her legs. She’d whimpered when Vil had pressed his cock against her dripping entrance but hadn’t been able to stop him from sinking into her with a soft growl. Nor had (Y/n) been able to stop Epel from prying her mouth open so he could stuff her throat with his dick. A few moments later she felt something prodding at her already stretched-out cunt as Rook eased his cock in beside the other blonde’s with a low groan. She would have tried to protest this move, had she been able to speak that is. Wasting no time, all three men began fucking her with reckless abandon. Every nerve in her body seemed to be on fire, and her eyes rolled back in her skull as she was fucked senseless. And their stamina, dear lord their stamina. The three must have taken some kind of recovering potion ahead of time in order to keep going when she was nothing more than a limp noodle from overstimulation from her fourth orgasm in rapid suggestion. (Y/n) was already half-unconscious when they’d all finally had their fill of her. Epel forced her to swallow his load as Rook and Vil pulled out of her to watch their cum drip out of her well-fucked cunt with rapt attention. Eventually (Y/n)’s   wrists were released from their bindings and kisses were pressed against the skin that had been rubbed raw from her struggles. Someone, she wasn’t sure who used a damp towel to clean her up before she was helped under the covers and felt arms wrap around her body as the three males got comfortable beside her. (Y/n) wanted to try and stay awake so she could have the chance to escape, but she was truly too weary for that and fell asleep after only a few minutes of laying there. Which then of course brought her back to the now of this morning. The now, where she had a blonde hunter speaking sweet-nothings into her ear as the first-year beside her pressed his face more insistently into her bosom and the dormhead slumbered on totally unaware of the situation at hand. She let out a deep sigh, slightly displacing Epel with the moment so he lifted his head from her chest with a sleepy expression. He stared at her with big, innocent-looking eyes. If this had been the first time she’d seen such a face (Y/n) might have been inclined to stroke his cheek and coo. However, she now knew too well what horrors hide under the pretty exterior. “Heya (Y/n)” he said his words slurred as he let his face fall back into place in her cleavage with a soft yawn. “Bonjour Monsieur Crabapple” Rook said, lifting his hand from (Y/n)’s waist in order to ruffle Epel’s hair affectionately, even as the younger boy let out a whine of protest at the gesture. If she hadn’t been scared out of her mind, the young woman might have tried to shush them so they wouldn’t wake Vil up yet. Everytime she closed her eyes she saw his depraved expression in her mind and she wasn’t sure she had the willpower to deal with that sight yet. Too bad that choice wasn’t up to her, as the male in question let out a yawn and stretched his arms over his head before turning his head her way with one beautiful violet eye open to gaze at her. Whatever he saw, seemed to please the young man as his mouth curled into a smile as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. (Y/n) forced herself not to recoil at the kiss, despite how much she wanted to. Vil’s expression was so sickly sweet that it made her stomach tie itself up in anxious knots. “Morning my darling” Vil said, before pressing a second kiss to the girl’s forehead. The pet name only made her insides twist-up tighter. (Y/n) could feel the panic she’d been repressing since she woke up finally got to her. As her heart began to thump wildly and her body quivered like a leaf in the wind with fresh tears forming in the corners of her eyes. If she thought such a display wouldn't faze the boys she was wrong as it only put them all on high alarm and fussing over her.  She could feel her grip on the waking world begin to fade as her vision blurred and she passed out amidst frantically shaking and worried words from the three males. (Y/n) would have to face reality sooner or later, but it didn’t have to be now. Now she could drift through her own personal dream world for a few more hours of peaceful, blissful ignorance before she would be forced to start adjusting to being the trophy-girlfriend to the trio of insatiable men who’d ruin her life otherwise… THE END

#Yandere Epel Felmier #Epel Felmier #Yandere Rook Hunt #Rook Hunt #Yandere Vil Schoenheit #Vil Schoenheit #Twisted Wonderland #Yandere Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Yandere TWST