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dilf-din · 1 year

Text

Silver Spring (Din Djarin x reader)

WC: 1200

Summary: I was listening to Fleetwood Mac today and had a lot of feelings. Some angst but mostly fluff

A strong wind whipped through the grassy hillside you found yourself perched atop of. This planet’s sun quickly sinking into the sea below you casting fiery rays of pink and orange on the water and sky alike. The sound of the tide coming in was drowned out by the salty wind rushing around the three of you. Grogu leaned against the basket you had brought from the crest carrying your dinner for tonight. His little chest rising and falling, his little hands rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. You had been begging Din to park somewhere green for a few days so you and the child could stretch your legs. The last few weeks filled with countless hours waiting for his return. The two of you reading and rereading his little board books, tossing a ball against the wall, singing songs and dancing around the hull. You were so clearly full to the brim with cabin fever when he came back. He stood on the open ramp, arms crossed watching you twirl with Grogu wrapped tightly in your arms. You were singing him a nursery rhyme from your home planet while the little green child broke out in giggles. He was the first one to see his father, wiggling out of your grasp and tottering to him with his arms up. Din knelt to meet him, greeting him with a, “Hey little guy.” You bent over catching your breath and smoothing out your tunic from your little romp.

“Looks like you two were having fun,” Din remarked, a hint of teasing in his voice.

“If you take us somewhere pretty, we can all hold hands and twirl like kids in a school yard,” you panted, “I don’t think there’s room for all three of us here though.”

He chuckled at your response, “We’ll see.”

“Please Din,” you pleaded, “If you leave me here again to come up with another dance routine I’m going to lose my blasted mind.”

Of course he obliged, saying that you were ahead on quarries and credits and it would be nice for the child to have a break. The underlying tone of his voice implied that it was just as much for you and you knew it.

You were always thankful for his good moods, when he allowed room for frivolity instead of his usual strictly business mindset. You stretched your legs out in front of you. The sea grass tickling you through your thin pants.

“I’m going to take him to bed if you want to try to get a fire going,” Din said standing and plucking Grogu’s sleep heavy body up and cradling him gently in his strong arms. “Figured we could stay out here a little while longer if you wanted.”

You smiled at the thought of it. He had never said it in as many words, but you knew he had grown to miss your company, especially when he was gone for long stretches of time.

“Will we be able to keep a fire going with all this wind?” you called to him.

“It shouldn’t be an issue,” he said over his shoulder, continuing towards the Crest. It was parked partially under the cover of some trees about a hundred meters from where you had all gathered to eat. You trailed behind him looking for some drier wood pieces littered amidst the yellowed, dancing blades.

When you were satisfied with the pile you had made with a little extra to hopefully last a few hours, you set to making a small pit. Using the flint you kept tucked into your belt, you had a nice fire going in no time. You were just sitting back to admire your work when you heard Din’s footfall approaching from behind. You drew your arms around yourself as you caught a chill from the wind, his gloved hand extended offering down your shawl for you.

“It gets cold here pretty quickly,” he said smoothly, kneeling down to sit as well. There was a rock jutting out of the ground that you had gotten somewhat comfy against, large enough for both of you to sit and enjoy the fire and hide from some of the biting wind.

“Thank you,” you replied wrapping yourself in the warm layers.

You sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes, watching twin moons rise higher in the onyx sky casting glittering reflections on the wild sea surrounding you. You had taken to plucking some of the longer grass and braiding it to keep your hands busy.

“Din,” you started. His helmet turned slightly towards you, “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead,” he said calmly.

“Have you ever been in love?”

He had been sitting still this whole time but you could feel his presence tense slightly. He took a long time before replying, “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered,” you said, nothing detectable in your voice but innocent curiosity.

“Have you?” he asked after a beat.

You chuckled softly, “Yeah, once. Or at least I thought. I was young, we both were. We never would have lasted what with my plans to leave Tattooine. He was content to stay there, and I just always needed,” you paused, “more.”

Din hummed in contemplation. The silence wrapped around you both again. A low howl of the wind, the crackle of the fire, his steady breaths through the modulator. By now you had several braided strands and were working them into one big braided piece. You couldn’t tell, but he was watching you intently through his visor, the deft sureness of your fingers. He thought of how nicely they would fit in his own.

“I have,” he broke the silence again, “Been in love before.”

You hoped your face didn’t give away how shocked you were to hear that. Not that you couldn’t see someone falling in love with Din, you just always imagined he had been the same. Stoic, married to his work.

“We were also young. I met her on Nevarro when I first got in good with the guild. A local crime mob didn’t like the way I had busted a few of their guys, I went in to find a quarry one day and was met with her corpse instead,” he finished, his boot digging into the ground and loosening some of the soft earth. The nervousness of him sharing something so heavy was obvious in his body language.

“Oh Din, I’m sorry, I-“

“You didn’t know, it’s okay.”

You allowed the silence to settle in again.

“Was she pretty?”

He waited awhile before giving a simple, “Yes, she was.”

A mix of emotions were battling out in your chest right now. Guilt for bringing it up, sadness for the grief he must carry, jealousy at his heart longing for someone else. You tried to stamp out those feelings any time they came up, but it happened so frequently now, it was getting harder to ignore.

“Like I said, we were young,” his voice startling you. “It was, we didn’t know what we were doing really. It was different.”

You paused. “Different than what?” you drew your gaze to his helmet glowing orange in the light of the fire.

The wind roared wildly around you and you almost thought that you imagined the next word that fell from his lips.

“This.”

#the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian drabble #the mandalorian fluff #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin fic #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin drabble #din djarin fluff

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possibilistfanfiction · 1 year

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Prompt: “please stay”

it's rained more lately in los angeles than you ever imagined it would; you've been to the desert and lived through a summer here, the haze in the air and mirage on the pavement and a few days where it just never cooled off. but it's dreary and damp lately, parts of the city flooding, puddles everywhere. cold winds have blown in overnight, swathes of loose palm bark in your yard when you had looked outside.

it's still cold and stormy; the sea, you're sure, is angry outside — grey and infinite in its depth. most days, the wonder of the world sits in your wrists, in the junctures there, in the small bones beatrice knows all the names of. most days, the wonder is in everything: the orange poppies blooming along the hillside, and the perfect amount of lime in good guacamole, and the way beatrice tastes like cinnamon when you kiss her in the afternoon, lazily, like you've always had time.

but some days it sits heavy along your spine: you spent an eternity — eight months, earthside, but you don't know how to measure that, not really — in darkness, in nothingness, in white space so bright your eyes burned.

you didn't sleep, or eat, not like here. the halo in your back burnt and burnt and burnt, and the divinium through your organs, taken out by unknown hands, had left gaping, excruciating wounds, which eventually, because you stayed so, so still, turned into painful, barely-healed scars, half shrapnel, half burn. there was nothing, and you were nothing, and you missed your mom and your sisters and your friends and beatrice, with her steady shoulders and her reluctant laugh and her gold eyes.

it's still dark, still early, the dawn inky blue outside, stretching as a bruise against the pale skin of the sand. you roll over in your big bed — safe, piled with a soft white linen duvet; a mattress that beatrice had ordered specifically for your spine after consulting jillian and then making a spreadsheet of pros and cons between different brands and models — and take a deep breath. it's here, and it's now, you remind yourself, touch your fingers to the worst of the divinium scars, puckered along your right ribs. you place the palm of your hand against the worst of it, the opposite of stigmata, maybe, and breathe into it, let your chest expand all the way into your belly, all the way down your spine, filling your heartspace.

and then you look at beatrice, the duvet down around the middle of her bare back. the tan of her skin from the sun, the black tattoo down her spine, her hair — short and dark and messy — and the peaceful planes of her face, delicate despite it all. calm, and unworried, the bow of her lips and the freckles across her cheeks. she had told you, excitedly last night, how incredible the swells were supposed to be this morning, because of the storm, but you look at her and you think of riptides and not being able to swim and how this world, this life, bold and bright, wouldn't be much different for you than nothingness if anything happened to her. if she wasn't here with you, to eat really good ramen and grumble her way through terrible movies and steadfastly do the laundry.

you scoot closer to her, drape an arm across her waist and kiss between her shoulder blades. you've learned that bea is easy to awaken but almost impossible to really wake up when she feels relaxed and safe — but sometimes you think you know each other differently than anyone, a familiarity that has saved the world a few times over. in one of the classes you audited — philosophy, which had mostly been awful and full of gross white dudes — you had learned that recognize meant, really, to know again. to know again, and again, and again, like the veins mapped across the backs of your hands or the hue of a lover's eyes.

she stirs and blinks awake, slowly, and there they are: brown, so smart, with flecks of gold that light up in the sun, that you know even in the dark dawn.

'ava, are you okay?'

her voice is rough with sleep and slow and beautiful. you're so, so greedy, wanting this life and the next with her. you wouldn't renounce it for anything. kingdoms and realms could fall at your feet before you said anything of the sort.

'please don't go surfing this morning.' your voice is a little wobbly and she shifts onto her side, fully, to face you, concern etching a line between her brows. she looks around blearily, her features and posture sharpening in a split second.

'did something happen?'

'no,' you say, and leave the but something could alone; something always could. instead, 'i just — it's stormy, and i want to sleep in with you here.' let me love you like this, you think, and press your lips to the scar on her shoulder before you rest your forehead against hers, run a gentle hand through her hair. let me keep you safe. let me keep you warm, in this room in this bed in this house in this city of angels where nothing can hurt you, where i won't let anything touch you, not ever again. let me wake up to you again and again and again.

she doesn't fully believe you, that it's nothing, but she relents easily enough, trusting that you'll tell her if you need.

'please stay.'

she sighs, kisses you, touches the same scar against your ribs. 'okay,' she says, just like that, and you breathe into the palm of her hand.

#this is exclusively bc there's been more rain this winter in LA than i have ever seen it's wild & DELIGHTFUL but yknow. vibes #avatrice #avatrice fic #wn #warrior nun fic #prompts #butch bea 🥺🫡#i guess it's in that universe lol no real content here in that regard but it's cool #ava's gotta be fucked up a LITTLE u know #anyway sky full of song ‘in a city without seasons / it keeps raining in LA’#me rn

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peaches2217 · 8 months

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♡ let your Luisley (I hope that's right I just took a quick glance 🤭). headcanons run wild

I owe you my life

♡ - Romantic headcanon

Luigi is the epitome of conventional Beanish beauty standards: tall with lanky limbs and a subtly but pleasantly round midsection. Peasley immediately finds him attractive, and that attraction becomes an infatuation when Luigi stops merely reacting to his flirtations and starts actively flirting back. (Luigi, for his part, has no idea he’s returning Peasley’s playful advances; he’s just a nice guy trying to play it cool and NOT make it obvious that he’s completely smitten, an effort that’s failing in the best way possible.)

Truthfully Peasley initially doesn't expect it to go anywhere, and Luigi, though he secretly hopes otherwise, doesn't either. But this bashful human is entirely too fun and fascinating to relegate to an unrealized fling, so Peasley begins regularly exchanging letters with him after the whole mess with Cackletta is settled and everyone returns home.

And that's how the infatuation becomes a genuine romance, slowly but surely.

Luigi doesn't have many stories to tell, so he just writes about his day-to-day experiences and hopes it doesn't bore Peasley. What he doesn't know is that Peasley delights in all of those mundane tales because no one's ever thought to share scenes from their personal everyday life with him. Luigi is so earnest and it makes Peasley feel like, well, just a regular guy. It almost worries him, how much he comes to enjoy that feeling.

And the more they talk, the more Luigi's starry-eyed idolatry of Peasley falls away, and the more he realizes that he's every bit as human (er, sentient and full of complex emotion, at least) as he is. He writes at length about his mother one day, and Peasley in turn discusses his father, all of the good memories and how terribly he misses him. Luigi's cried over his own diary enough to know that the smudges and wrinkled spots in the paper are tears, Peasley's tears, and he cries right along with him.

It's a few months before the Beanbean Kingdom is settled again and Peasley feels he can safely break away for short periods without putting undue stress on his mother, and the very first thing he does is pay a certain pair of brothers a visit. He gives Mario thirty seconds' worth of acknowledgement before spiriting Luigi away to some grassy hillside so they can finally speak at length face-to-face, and in the following hours, he comes to confirm something he's suspected for a good while now: he's in love.

He kisses Luigi goodnight after escorting him home, and his trip back to the Beanbean Kingdom is delayed because he has to explain to Mario why his twin brother has passed out face-first in the front yard.

A week later, Peach and the Mario bros are invited to spend a week in the Beanish capitol to partake in their largest annual festival. Peasley has it all planned out: each day he'll present Luigi with a gift, always more grand and precious than the one preceding it, and on the final day he'll make his intentions clear. That goes out the window as soon as Luigi steps off the plane. He whisks him away for some privacy and asks him, plainly and openly, for his hand in courtship.

And once Luigi's conscious again and has recovered from the shock, he, of course, accepts.

#writing Luigi is difficult for me so I haven't written much for these two #but holy SHIT I LOVE THEM SO MUCH #AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME GET THIS OFF MY CHEST I'M SO HAPPY #peaches’ prodigious prompts #luisley #peaches has opinions #luigi x peasley #peaches’ illustrious lore

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owlespresso · 10 months

Text

gloaming. yuri leclerc.

tags: fem!reader, reader has a personality and vague hints of backstory, sfw, pining

a/n: this is pretty self-indulgent. just fluff.

The night is quiet. Snow-covered fields stretch around you on all sides, leading to a distant tree line full of old, stubborn pines. The winter’s frost has grabbed tight hold of the land, blighting everything above the snow in a fine coating of frost. You can see your breath, like a brief curl of dragon’s smoke right in front of you.

One of the month’s many virtues is its distinct lack of insects. No crickets to chirp and no mosquitos to menace any patch of skin you dare leave uncovered. Not that you’ll have many in this weather. There’s quite a long way to go before winter ebbs into early spring. The patch of land Dimitri allotted you so generously after war’s end will remain in crystalline stasis until the season's turn.

In the distance, over the hills, you can see Fhirdiad’s towering silhouette. Its rough lines and pointed domes and salient spires cast an imperious picture on your east horizon. Did the people of the capital enjoy tonight’s midwinter festival? Did friends and family rush onto the crowded streets to partake in merriment and games and fantastic feasts? The streets played host to an astounding variety of breathtaking ice sculptures all around the noble districts. You wonder if any happened to feature the king.

You look away, back to the treetops painted frosty white, glistening in the eldritch dark of the night. The stone building you’ve chosen to occupy was once a manor and a military outpost, created to overlook these very vistas. The honorable members of House Rowe often utilized it to rest their heads when too exhausted too plod back to their hillside manners out west, leaving their gilded, cushioned carriages to wait in the front yard all evening. Heavens forbid they struggle for even a moment with a minor chill.

You shut your eyes and drink deep the wintry air. The icy sting in the air is sobering, granting you clarity. Dinner was spent alone, enjoying more mixes of wines and liquors than you would prefer to admit. Sometime along the way, you even attempted to wrangle the guards into drinking alongside you. It was at that point that one of them politely inquired if you would like to take a walk.

And now, the fresh air pricks at your numbing cheeks. The hazy remnants of your late night rendezvous with the liquor cabinet are battered back by winter’s embrace and your own irritation.

Across the countless times you have imbibed in your short life, you have discovered that being drunk is fun until it is decidedly not. It’s fun until you require your motor skills, fun until your stream of consciousness rolls into a riptide loosening the leash you keep wrapped ‘round your emotions. The festivities are long over. You're not even sure what occasion they had been celebrating. All of these winter festivals blend together after the first three.

You slump over the flat stone of the wall, bent at the waist. Your fingers don’t even reach the edge. Faint footsteps scruff across the old stone behind her. Quiet, but purposefully loud enough for you to hear. That alone tells you who dares approach.

“Do you believe in god, Yuri?” your ragged voice sounds unfamiliar to yourself. You don't budge from your prone position. The stone cools the overheated side of your face, seeps through your layers. You can feel the wild thrum of your heart begin to slow, cooling the agonizing sear of you pumping blood.

“I believe that it’s long past your bedtime,” Yuri says, a broken piece of glass crunching under his heel. “And I believe in the Goddess. How could I not when she blessed me with you?” The mocking drawl in his voice forces the corners of your lips into a deep frown.

He’s not going to leave, anytime soon, so you slide back onto your feet. The sudden change in position has you swaying on your feet, foot stumbling out of place. Before you can take a tumble and make even more of a fool of yourself, Yuri grasps your shoulder, touch grounding. You regard him with as blank a stare as you can manage. Despite the lashing winds and otherwise unpleasant conditions, Yuri is unflappable as always, long locks of lavender laid atop his shoulder. He’s traded his cape in for a dark cloak, sticked lines of embroidery lacing the cuffs and bottom of the garment, dance around its bone white buttons.

He’s still all purples and reds, but the smokey greys you’ve come to associate with his wardrobe have been traded in for darker shades. And he looks good, like he hasn’t lost a night of sleep in his life.

“Can’t sleep,” you mutter, kicking a nearby pebble. It’s sent skittering under a nearby table. Yuri regards you flatly, lips pressed into a thin, straight line—as thin as his petal plump lips can press, anyways. They’re coated in a subtle shade of pink, tonight, just blush enough to look natural. He rarely ever applies any intense, saturated shades of lipstick or gloss, lest it distract from the keen smolder of his eyes and his natural good looks.

Though, it doesn’t matter much what he wears. He dazzles on every occasion, sways swathes of civilians with his silver tongue and striking smile. He’s horribly, magnificently magnetic. Anyone would be lucky to have him, for what he has and what is underneath it all. He would surely make a marvelous spouse—

He flicks your forehead, sending you stumbling backwards. Before you can take a tumble onto your arse, he does you the good favor of snatching you by the arm to steady you. When had he come so close?

Up close, his chagrin is much more obvious. You shift uncomfortably under his stare. You cannot recall what having a mother was like, but you can imagine this is what being scolded by one would feel like.

“Where do you go in that head of yours?” he says with a sigh, wry smile breaking out across his pink petal lips.

“I… I don’t—” you stammer, scrambling for mental purchase.

“You can tell me all about it later,” Yuri takes your hand with a graceful flourish of his cape, drawing you close to the firm, lean line of him. The scent of faint lilac wreaths around you like an old, comfortable coat. “When you’re a little more sober, at least.” There’s a genteel grace to his steps as he shepherds you towards the stone staircase.

“Where are we going?” You’re left to do aught but follow, a sudden, giddy giggle erupting from your chest as you stumble into his side.

He sighs, belied by his wry smile. He relinquished his hold on your hand to wrap an arm around your waist, the stretch of his body so blessedly warm against your own. He chases the clinging chill away, dizzies your thoughts into paste.

You hardly hear him ask, “Bed. Yours or mine?” His question rattles you out of your drunken stupor. Your eyes go wide as saucers, palms hot with sweat as you struggle to form an adequate answer. Despite having known him for quite some time, his directness still manages to fluster you—an effect he likely intended, given his devious simper. What’s somehow worse is that you can’t bring yourself to be cross with him.

“Y-Yours,” you hardly realize you’ve spoken your mind until Yuri breaks out in a loud, genuine laugh. It’s unlike his typically tame chuckles, a sound of sheer exuberance that makes the inside of your chest twinge. You like hearing him this happy. You want him to be this happy all of the time.

“Bold. I like it.” he teases, jostling you in his grasp.

“Oh shove it—wait!” you huff, but stay in step with him, struggling not to stumble as he shepherds you down the stone stairs A line of torches straddle the descending path. In your drunken haze, you had forgotten about the two guards posted at the bottom. The sight of them shocked you stiff-still. Your fingers curl into the fine brocade of his black cloak, pulling him flush to the wall. “Wait!” you hiss, voice nearly lost in his many layers.

“What? Did you leave something behind?”

“We can’t be seen sneaking around together!” you insist, and are immediately incensed at the eyeroll he gives you.

“And why would that be? Too ashamed to be seen with a charlatan like myself?” he drawls, yet takes you in closer. There’s a mean glint in his eyes, something decidedly wicked as his breath ghosts over your cheek, teasing your ear.

“Of course not!” you protest, eyes wide, cheeks got. How could you have misspoken so terribly? The last thing you wanted was to make him feel judged for the life he led, for the methods he employed in his occupation. “It’s you I’m worried about. What’ll people say if they saw you consorting with the Mad Witch of the Wend? No one would… would…” You draw a trembling hand over his chest, feeling the cool silk under your fingertips.

“You’re worried about my image? How darling.” Yuri coos, clearly disregarding the seriousness of the situation. People talk, servants talk, guards talk. If you two were to be seen on a random, midnight rendezvous, then word would surely get back to the capital, where plenty of available, valuable bachelorettes could hear.

“Of course I am. You could still marry someone nice and rich from the capital. Someone connected…” you reason. You blink your bleary eyes attempting to clear the blur that sticks to your periphery like stubborn burrs. The world at its edges is opaque and slow as melting candle wax. This is precisely why you typically abstain from the absinthe and fine brandies which tradesmen plod through the outpost. It makes your head dull and your words impossible to find.

“Hm. No. I don’t think I will. Noble life never agreed with me.” Yuri gives your cheek a consoling pat. You get the feeling that he is still, for some reason, very amused. Which is preferable to him being offended, or hurt. You don’t mind him laughing at you, you think, not when genuine mirth flatters him so. “If I’m going to make a difference, it’s not going to be with someone else’s spending money.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He tugs you past the posted guards, ushering you within the hollow halls of the outpost. Torches positioned on the wall shed gentle light up and down the small tunnel. You break beyond the thick walls which surround the inner manor—a proud, brutal building that sits a hybrid between the harsh stone architecture meant to shield from the cold and the slender, elegant cathedrals and house manors found en masse within the capital.

“I know.” Yuri shoots you a conspiratorial, knowing look. His thumb rubs gentle circles into your side. You can feel his touch through the two layers you have on, his arm having scooped beneath your outer cloak with dangerous efficiency. “The fact that you still think I could find some nice, doe-eyed girl from the upper crust to fall in love with is adorable, but I’m not interested in all that.”

He pulls you through the inner sanctum with a self-assuredness that would make you think he owned the place. His strides are slow. His voice keeps his strides slow and his voice quiet, sticking to the walls and where the shadow sinks the deepest. His cape swishes and billows around you, keeps you shielded from prying gazes of glancing guardsmen. Every step he takes is quixotically quiet despite his heels.

“I just want you to be happy. With someone nice. Who can help you make your dreams come true.”

He scoffs. “Ugh. When did you become such a ham?” you shove him again, and he laughs. “If you must know, I’ve already found the person I want to spend the rest of my days with.” He herds you to a nondescript wooden door, jamming a key into the lock before thrusting it open. The room is deathly dark, the only light slipping in silvery through a slit in the curtains.

Incredulous and wide-eyed, you gape at him as he draws you inside, wondering if you had heard him properly. While he engaged with a number of brief romances and paramours, he never seemed entirely beholden to the idea of a permanent entanglement. Which you will not judge him for. Only members of the nobility prioritize marriage so persistently, all too eager to shuttle off their children to new, unloving homes for the sake of power. You can’t imagine Yuri buying into such a sham—even if the court’s coffers could fund his ambitions.

“You are? Who is it?” you finally muster up the gumption to ask. There’s a strange, cold feeling at the pit of your stomach. Burgeoning dread you cannot make heads or tails of.

“Worried they’ll steal me away?” Yuri says with a fond smile. He looks at you while he lights the bedside lamp. He does it with magic, you realize, catching the tail end of his somatic gesture, pointer finger aimed straight at the lamp in question, thumb quirked skyward. You’ve seen him do it a few times before in battle, spells interwoven with fast footwork and flashes of forged steel from underneath his half fastened cloak. “You don’t need to worry your pretty head about all that—but you’ll be relieved to know that they live nearby. Very nearby, in fact.” He said, voice slowing to emphasize a point you don’t quite comprehend.

He unlatches the clasps on his cloak, gently dropping it over a nearby wooden chair. He smooths his hands over the back of it before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. If you were perhaps a shred more sober, you would have immediately looked away. But you watch as he deftly sheds the silken garment, exposing planes of leam, pale flesh to the slight candlelight.

He clears his throat, with a knowing smirk. You pointedly snap your gaze downwards, pretending to find sudden interest in the floorboards. They seem to glow a soft, warm brown, aged polish scuffed and scratched with the wear of time.

Hastily, you follow his example, casting off your outermost layers with great haste. It’s second nature to shift down to your undergarments at this point. Despite his teasing, you’re comfortable with Yuri. Word of his cunning and cut-throated customs is rife in both the underbelly and upper crust of Faerghus, but none of the gossip mongers who gab on about him actually know him.

Years spent at his side have let you understand exactly the kind of man he is. Which is also why you know he would never be interested in someone like you. You’re something broken, something bent, misshapen by the malicious hands which made you. The idea of being coveted, of being loved strikes within you an uneasy feeling of wrongness.

Ah, but you’re sure he’s still waiting for an answer…

“Yuri…” you begin. You don’t quite remember what you had been discussing, you realize with a strong swing of dismay. Yuri, blessed with an unfathomable amount of kindness, is quick to remind you.

“What? Does the honored Marquis truly want to know the sordid details of my sex life? How scandalous!” he exclaims. You guffaw, dropping onto the mattress face-first, still in your boots and trousers.

“I just wanna make sure you’re with someone good.” you mumble, pressing your face into the pillow. It’s cool, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you burrow further into the cushions. The entire bed smells like him, and if you were possessed of but an ounce more of sobriety you would be too abashed to savor it.

“Again. Adorable. But you should really watch out for yourself,” he hums. His footsteps trail away from the bed, and you’re about to look over your shoulder when his hand wraps around your ankle and tugs, urging you onto your back. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of suitors breaking down your doors everyday…” His fingers run down your clothed leg, to the leather and latches of your boots. You watch the graceful weave of his fingers as he slides them off, one after the other. He’s taken off his gloves, allowing you to just barely feel the fleeting warmth of his hands as they briefly swipe over your skin. “Though, I suppose I should be grateful.”

“That I’m gonna be lonely forever?” you grumble, turning onto your side.

“That I don’t have any background checks to do.” Yuri says, further away this time. You glance over your shoulder to where he’s gently dropping your boots near the door. So much care and compassion for something so small.

“Oh… Does that mean I can ba…background check the person you like?” you ask, and he smiles.

“Of course,” he says. His fingers weave through his long lilac locks, handily undoing his hair tie. He drops it on the nightstand before slipping underneath the sheets to settle beside you. “I have full confidence in your investigative skills, and you’ll quite like the person I chose.”

“That’s because you have good taste,” you mumble, eyes slipping shut. You wait a moment, and then two, and then three before opening one eye to peer at him. “Can I get a hint?”

“Again, don’t worry about it. At least, not right now. I’ll talk your ear off about it tomorrow, okay?” he says, consoling. His hand runs over your hair, fingers sliding down your neck. A flush of heat rolls through your spine, so silken and sanguine that you can’t suppress a shudder. You retreat to the cool comfort of your pillow, letting his touch sap the tension from your sore muscles. “When you have a better chance of actually remembering what I say.” The meat of his palm presses against your upper back. His heated touch saps the remaining tension from your body, soothing you enough to slip into the beginning phases of sleep.

“...Fine.” you huff, but there’s no real bite behind it. It’s half muffled into the pillowcase. You know Yuri likes being a man of his word, but he’s also a man in demand. There’s no telling if one of his gang members will burst through his door and announce a sudden tragedy that demands his attention. There’s no telling if he’ll be gone in the morning, a note left in his place written in that familiar, tidy cursive.

His roaming touch wanders upwards, warm fingers spanning across the nape of your neck. His thumb rubs soft circles into the skin together, and the touch alone would keep you awake if not for the alcohol muddling your system.

“And I’ll be here when you wake up,” he continues, as if sensing your apprehension. “You have my word on that.”

#fe3h x reader #fe3h/reader #yuri leclerc/reader #yuri leclerc x reader #yuri/reader #yuri leclerc #oz write #featuring fe3h

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mammameesh · 1 month

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Peacock

for my friend @jamilas-pen who likes crack and birds (I think)

and for my friend @a-noble-dragon who brings all the drabbles to the yard...

The new blue peacock brings all the peahens to the yard. David would rather sit on the hill and eat his grapes in peace, thank you very much. Their keepers try to steal his hillside friend, which is just rude! A few well-placed pecks will show them! Instead, they corral the blue peacock nearby.

Oh! No! David has only one friend!

But wait! The blue peacock starts the mating dance in front of David instead!

Can black Peacock's blush?

David is awkward, but he dances back.

Three peafowl sit on a hill. Every time a keeper approaches, David just squawks.

#color based drabble challange #when you want to world build #but only have 100 words

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shegeekery · 10 days

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Misfits (extended) Chapter 1 - Reunion

Note: This first chapter is a rewrite of the one-shot I posted here a while back.

Chapters: 7, plus a short epilogue Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Loki (TV 2021), Thor (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Loki/Original Character (implied) Characters: Loki (Marvel), Jane Foster (Marvel), Original Characters, Odin (Marvel), Frigga | Freyja (Marvel), Heimdall (Marvel), Hades (Marvel) Additional Tags: Non-Graphic Violence, Nonbinary Character, Hair-pulling, Lots of talk about death Summary: Jane Foster is feeling out of place in Valhalla. She's not the only one. When Jane is given an impossible mission, Loki and her friends want to help — but what is Loki really after?

Chapter Index: Chapter 1: Reunion (this post) Chapter 2: Clown School Chapter 3: Graduation Chapter 4: Trouble in the Mead Hall Chapter 5: Hades' Domain Chapter 6: Fortress Chapter 7: Laevateinn Epilogue

Jane’s first day in Valhalla felt like a dream.

Odin and Frigga were waiting for her in front of the hall by the time she made her way up the hillside. Frigga embraced her warmly. Odin beamed at her and invited her to dine with them privately for the first night.

Over supper, Odin patiently explained what would be expected of her as a warrior of Valhalla.

Jane had picked up a bit of Asgardian and Scandinavian folklore during her time with Thor — and a great deal more in New Asgard — but nothing had really prepared her for this . She was a scientist. She’d never believed in any sort of afterlife until she found herself face to face with Heimdall at Valhalla’s gate.

“Your duty is to fight, to train, and to ready yourself for the Final Battle,” Odin told her.

The gist of it was that she would have to join the other warriors on the battlefield — and most likely die — every day, only to be resurrected in time for the evening meal in the massive mead hall.

When she asked what and when the “Final Battle” would be, Odin was less forthcoming. Thor had told her that the army of Valhalla was a no-show at Ragnarok. Maybe they were being held in reserve for something even worse?

By the time supper was finished, Jane felt overwhelmed and exhausted. So much for ‘rest in peace’, she thought. Seems like being dead is more work and a lot less peaceful than being alive.

Frigga took pity on her and showed her to a surprisingly spacious suite in a nearby building reserved for the nobility and honored heroes. She urged Jane to get plenty of rest, telling her that she would return in the morning to show her around and help her get settled.

As soon as Frigga left, Jane collapsed on the bed. Her dreams were filled with images of battle, blood, and fighting.

When morning arrived, she inspected her new home. There was no kitchen, but on a table she found a basket of fruit, cheese, and bread that she was fairly certain hadn’t been there the previous evening. She munched on her breakfast while she looked around.

In a closet, she found an assortment of clothing and armor, all in her size. There was even a near copy of her ‘Thor’ outfit. She didn’t know yet whether she’d be expected to fight today, so she opted for a simple tunic, a tough leather jerkin, comfortable trousers that tied at the waist, and brown leather boots.

Frigga arrived and took her for a walk around the compound. A horn sounded in the distance, a mournful, martial sound. Frigga explained that Heimdall sounded Gjallarhorn to start and end each day’s practice. Moments later, the sounds of armed fighting drifted up the hillside from the battlefield below.

They walked through the practice yard — a flat area with hard-packed earth — and into the armory.

Inside, Jane found a wide assortment of weapons in racks and on display along the walls. She picked up a hammer, but found to her dismay that it was much too heavy for her to wield effectively — that had never been a problem with Mjölnir. The longer haft felt strange, too. Mjölnir’s unusually short haft had actually suited her quite well.

Unfortunately, Thor’s hammer was still in the realm of the living. She would have to find another weapon, but she was at a bit of a loss there.

The truth was, she had to admit, Mjölnir had done much of the work for her.

She’d trained hard every day with King Brunnhilde in New Asgard. If not for the stupid cancer, she would have been in the best shape of her life when she died, and a fairly decent fighter. Still, without her magical weapon, she would likely be no match for the Asgardians and humans — most of the latter were Norsemen (and a smattering of women) who had been here for over a millennium — almost all of whom had trained in the arts of war from childhood.

She tried several other weapons: a sword, a mace, an axe, but she had no expertise with these. Finally, Frigga encouraged Jane to go watch the battle while she went to consult with her husband.

Jane leaned on the balcony railing in the practice yard, observing the action on the battlefield far below.

It didn’t look so bad from up here, but she was quite certain it would be a chaotic nightmare once she found herself in the middle of it. Anguished screams carried up the hillside and echoed through the valleys, somehow carrying over the constant din of metal crashing upon metal. From time to time, another distant figure would fall and be still while the fighting carried on around them. In some places, groups of warriors seemed to work together, while elsewhere it looked like a free-for-all, with fighters attacking anyone and everyone within their reach.

One band of warriors managed to destroy their nearby foes in a brilliantly coordinated attack, then immediately fell upon their own comrades. Jane watched in horrified fascination as a mace-wielding berserker spun around, clearing the field around him in seconds, only to be cut down by a thrown axe.

What in God’s — er, Odin’s — name am I doing here?

Jane wasn’t afraid of a fight, but she hadn’t particularly enjoyed it either. There was so much more to life — or, well, afterlife — than that, wasn’t there? It didn’t help that she had no idea what it was all for, in the end.

No longer really seeing the carnage laid out before her, Jane sighed. She didn’t even know many people here. There were Odin, Frigga, Heimdall, the Warriors Three — whom she had met briefly in Asgard — and a handful of New Asgardians who had fallen when the little town was attacked. No family or close friends. No Brunnhilde.

No Thor.

She wondered if it was too late to back out. Would Odin and Frigga be offended if she —

“Oh dear. I know that look.” The low, silken voice interrupted her thoughts.

Startled, she turned to see Loki standing next to her.

How did he…? Oh, right. Yeesh. Someone should put a bell on this guy.

The God of Mischief smirked at her surprise. “Didn’t expect to find me here, did you?”

Jane thought it odd that Odin and Frigga hadn’t mentioned that Loki was here too.

He was dressed much the same as the last time she’d seen him, in a green tunic with gold embroidery, a long green and gold coat styled to make his shoulders look larger, and matching leather trousers with black boots.

Still just as vain, even in death.

She wondered whether he had a closet with clothing in it, or just conjured clothing to match his mood.

“I, um, I guess I hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest.”

He chuckled. “Not to worry. Trust me, nobody was more shocked than I was when I came to and found myself walking next to Heimdall on the road to Valhalla. Never saw this in my future.” He gestured, his arms encompassing the massive hall and the field of battle below.

She managed a weak smile and nodded, not knowing what else to do. This was unexpected. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what it meant that Loki was here. Should she be worried?

“Neither did anyone else,” he added, with a touch of — was it sadness? Scorn? A bit of both? “They drew lots to decide who would have the chance to kill me first. There was a line…”

Jane found herself horrified and amused in equal measure. “I’m…sorry,” she choked out. “That sounds terrible.”

Loki waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I even let several of them win — guards killed when the Frost Giants invaded Odin’s vault. I took them all on at once to make their ‘victory’ more believable. Turns out people are more willing to forgive past transgressions once they’ve brutally murdered you a few times.”

Jane snorted in spite of herself.

He winked at her. “Makes room for new transgressions.”

She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the mercurial, unpredictable god. She hadn’t forgotten that he’d killed quite a few people in her world.

Then again, he had risked his life to help save her from the dark elf, Malekith. True, he’d been motivated by a desire to avenge his mother, but he’d also jumped to shield her from the blast of a black hole grenade, saving her life when Thor wasn’t even watching.

Loki seemed to be full of contradictions. I wonder if even he knows what he really wants.

Jane mentally went over what she knew of Valhalla’s entrance requirements. It wasn’t like the Christian Heaven, she remembered. It wasn’t about how you lived. It was how you died that mattered most.

She’d thought that Loki had died in Svartalfheim, which probably would have landed him here if it hadn’t been an illusion. Later, Thor had told her about Ragnarok and the nasty business with Thanos. Apparently, Thor was right. Loki really had died that time — and again, he’d died a hero.

More or less.

They stood silently a moment, watching the ongoing battle. Jane stole a sideways glance at Loki as he gazed down at the field. He seemed older than she remembered. Sadder, somehow, which was odd given that the last time she’d seen him, he’d just lost his mother and had now been reunited with her in death.

“What were you saying before? You know what look?” Jane asked.

“The look that says there’s been some terrible cosmic mistake, which will no doubt soon be corrected and you’ll be sent packing, off to where you really belong.” He mimed wrapping something up and tossing it into the distance. “I was the same when I first arrived.”

“And where’s that? Where do we really belong?”

“In my case… Hel. In yours?” He shrugged. “Wherever good little scientists go when they shuffle off the mortal coil.”

“But you don’t think that now?”

“Valhalla doesn’t make mistakes. If we’re here, it’s because we belong here.” He shrugged again. “Or so they say.”

“You’re not so sure?”

Loki turned to face her again, his mask of arrogant superiority slipping smoothly back into place. All trace of the vulnerability and uncertainty Jane thought she’d glimpsed had vanished.

“As it happens, I didn’t come here just to discuss theology with you. Odin, in his infinite wisdom ,” his voice fairly dripped with sarcasm, “has decreed that you, my Lady, shall be trained in the subtle art of dagger combat.”

“Daggers? Why?” Jane couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed. She had been ‘The Mighty Thor’, defender of New Asgard, after all. Now they were going to throw her into battle with nothing but a knife or two?

“I’m afraid we’re running low on magic hammers here. You’re tiny, but quick, and…reasonably intelligent,” he replied, haughtily.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Daggers require a certain finesse. Intelligence counts for more than brute strength.”

Loki leaned in. She was surprised by the way he towered over her.

He’s taller than I thought. I didn’t notice when he was with Thor.

“And you may not wish to thank me by the time we’re done,” he whispered. “As the resident expert, I’m going to train you.” He stepped back and grinned wickedly as a pair of daggers appeared in his hands. The edges looked very, very sharp.

“Okay…”

Loki spun the daggers around in his hands and offered them to her, hilt first. She took them, hesitantly.

“Don’t worry,” he said in a mock-soothing tone that was anything but reassuring. “I promise to kill you quickly the first few times.”

“What?”

He laughed at her alarm. “You’ll get used to it.” Another pair of daggers appeared in his hands. He flipped them in the air and caught them expertly, then adopted a fighting stance and cocked his head, eyes glinting dangerously.

“Now then, my Lady. Shall we begin?”

Go to Chapter 2

#loki #loki fanfic #jane foster #loki mcu #loki laufeyson #fanfic #loki fanfiction

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baiyu-universe · 1 year

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Bai Yu 2021/04/08 Bazaar interview

He is from the Northwest

Bai Yu said he is not very good at writing poems, but he uses poems to express his heart in the dead of night (x). Perhaps, poetry is the outlet of his emotions. At this late spring and early summer, together with Bai Yu, we arrived at the Chahar Volcanic Group, nearly 500 kilometers away from Beijing. The strong wind rolled up the gravel and dust, and he walked between the mountains and the earth, writing what he saw and thought into a poem (x):

石径埋火种，风卷尘飞扬。

上行路漫漫，山高天地长。

芭绿别春意，斯人何处去。

沙流金石停，吾心忆此方。

(Sorry, classical Chinese poetry is out of my league. If anyone knows how to translate them, please help!)

Bai Yu was born on the loess high slope in northern Shaanxi. This dignified and historical land has left an indelible mark on him. In the eyes of many people, he is straightforward, heroic, and likes to meet all unknown challenges. He is "the most typical northern Shaanxi guy".

His home was built in a traditional cave dwelling (yaodong) on the hillside.

"Half of it was in the earth, and the other half was built with stones. At that time, there was no glass, and all the windows were papered."

He showed us the photos on his mobile phone: "Look, this is me standing on the roof." There were two vegetable gardens in his house. They grew cucumbers, tomatoes, and a vegetable called soft ground (star jelly). It grew in moist soil, and it was also a wild vegetable that he and his friends often ate when he was a child. There was also a willow tree at the gate of the yard, which was planted when his parents got married. This willow tree accompanied Bai Yu through his carefree childhood. Today, the willow tree was cut down by later residents. Time passed by inadvertently.

Bai Yu often shares photos of noodles on social media. For him, noodles are a taste of home and an unforgettable delicacy in his childhood. As long as he can remember, there has been a fixed time every evening, when all the neighbors' children would run out of the house with their bowls in their hands, squat on the rocks, and everyone would chat and eat noodles at the same time.

Now when he is filming, no matter how hard and tired he is, being able to eat a bowl of noodles is his happiest moment.

A few days ago, Bai Yu shared a little-known noodle dish on Weibo: Ge Lao Cai Noodles (x). When he was a child, he would stop in Luochuan for a bowl of noodles every time he was on his way from Yulin to Xi'an. At that time, there were no expressways, and people used the national highway. This year, Bai Yu and his cousin went back to Yulin for the Chinese New Year. On the way, Bai Yu suddenly remembered that they were about to arrive in Luochuan, so he suggested, "Let's go down and eat a bowl of noodles." Although the location is out of their way, "we still turned around to the national highway, just to eat this bowl of noodles."

Good acting is better than anything

When he first debuted, Bai Yu experienced hardships too. At that time, Bai Yu only said one sentence to himself: "You're suffering because you're not good enough yet." He is a person who can easily look at problems from an objective perspective. At that time, there was only one thought in his mind: "If I can do it better, it will definitely not be like this."

There is no shortcut on the road to reconciliate with himself, and Bai Yu has an exclusive secret recipe for this - reading a script. In great contrast to his appearance, he has a very rich "inner drama", and he always likes to imagine various scenes before going to bed. "I would imagine how I would express it if I acted in this plot." At this point, he laughed a few times embarrassedly to hide his shyness, "Sometimes I cry while reading certain part of the script."

But in life, Bai Yu rarely cried. In his own words, these sufferings are nothing, "just carry it and it'll pass." He understands that one can never put himself in the shoe of anyone else, and ever since he realised this, he has carried many things alone like this. "I know that I can carry it, and I also want to see how far I can carry it."

What supported Bai Yu to persevere in such an environment was his consistent enthusiasm for acting day after day. It's not difficult to act in one play, but the difficulty is to be able to gain a sense of satisfaction and identity from the career he is engaged in . "Sometimes I feel an inexplicable sense of satisfaction in my heart after filming a scene. It may be a very important scene, or a less important one, or a scene where I cry my eyes out, or It's a laugh-out-loud scene, I don't know when it will appear, and I've been looking for it."

After becoming famous, what really made him happy was still the inner touch brought by acting. "For example, when I played Jiang Yang, maybe a scene that made me cry would not bring me this feeling, but a sideshow scene would give me a sudden sense of satisfaction. The feeling would make me very proud and I want to continue to enjoy it."

"We all have to find something addictive in our profession. I don't really understand why I feel a sense of satisfaction in acting. I can't control this, so I always seek for it. Maybe there is the day when I figure out why and I can get it under control, then maybe it's time for me to say goodbye to this industry."

"I've lived thirty years now, nothing is better than the satisfaction I get from acting. "

At the age of 30, everyone will undergo some changes to some extent. The biggest manifestation of this change in Bai Yu is that he has become more "selfish". At the age of 30, he has undergone considerable changes in his thinking and personality. In the past, he would worry a lot and care about the evaluation of the outside world. Now he cares more about his inner feelings: "I will strengthen my inner voice, please myself, and face myself bravely. This is where I have changed the most."

"At the end of the day, I am very grateful for my experience. I was born in Wubao, then I went to Yulin, then to Xi'an, and from Xi'an I returned to Yulin, and then back to Xi'an. From child to adult, I've met more people and experienced more things than peers of my age. Why can we tell what is 'good'? That is because we have experienced 'bad', and acting is the same. The reason why we can feel happy is because we have experienced sadness. Experience is really important to an actor."

Speak to my heart, I'll treat you to dinner.

"Poetry is an instant inspiration after encountering something."

Bai Yu described it like this. He doesn't update his social media often. After work, he shared his verses with everyone in the middle of the night. "It's just that I have feelings about something in my life. Those words appear in my mind, and I record them."

His inspiration usually bursts out in those seemingly ordinary and trivial moments. When he was looking at the moon while facing the river, he wrote down his insistence through "松问何几常青绿，唯有一答常似松". Visiting old place, he expressed his feelings by writing "细雨纷落新长安，旧人故游寻旧魂". Bai Yu interacts with fans. Sometimes he published the first line of a pair and let the fans to complete the second line. Or sometimes he asked fans for the horizontal scroll of a couplet. "Speak to my heart, I'll treat you to dinner," he said to fans jokingly (x).

Poetry is not only a language, but also the most beautiful imagination that human beings can describe as a unique individual. “Every time I write a poem, it’s like a flash of lightning suddenly flashes in my mind, and then I can start to write something. When a person has no inspiration in his mind, he cannot write a good work, and things written by racking his brain have no soul." For Bai Yu, poetry is the reflection of the soul, and the soul is the key to poetry.

"We can only write down poems when some events or things really touched us."

Bai Yu's professor once told them: "You can only guard prosperity if you are able to endure loneliness."

"All your prosperity needs to be repaid with loneliness." Bai Yu said.

One role after another, one script after another, this is the "prosperity" in Bai Yu's heart. "I have played so many roles and dramas that I like. For me, this is prosperity." In this world, there are so many people with dreams, but only a small number of them can connect their love with their careers. About this, Bai Yu signed, "I think I have been very lucky since I was a child, especially after stepping into this industry. I'm lucky and I'm feeling happy."

The writer Mu Xin once said: true maturity is that you can still separate your heart from the world after you have experienced many things. This is why Bai Yu remains simple in the face of the complicated world, "I can see many things quite clearly, but I don't want to be blunt about them nor do I want to go with the flow. I can think about all things in a complicated way, but when I do it, I will still do it in my simplest way.”

Enduring loneliness and guarding prosperity in this complicated world, the hard part is that Bai Yu can still keep it simple. He accepts all honors, disgraces and disputes. He doesn't worry too much, but focuses on the present moment. Now Bai Yu is enjoying every moment of his life, because life itself is the source of poetry.

Q&A

Q: What do you usually do at home?

A: Recently, when I stay at home, I tend to lie down on the sofa, think about things randomly, watch dramas, play with my mobile phone, read scripts, and listen to music.

Q: You have been snowboarding recently, for a long time.

A: Yes. Snowboarding is my old hobby. After so many years, I finally had a relatively long vacation to immerse myself in it. This year, I have been in the ski resort for almost a month. I went there three or four times intermittently, and each time I went for about five or six or seven days, and I stayed for more than twenty days in total.

Q: What is the reason for liking this sport?

A: Freedom. Because I am really relaxed in the ski resort, I need to wear a helmet, goggles, and wrap myself up, which makes me feel very safe. I can play what I want and as I want, and I don't need to care what other people think of me. More importantly, I like snowboarding, just like I like riding a motorbike. When you slide, there is a sense of freedom similar to riding.

Q: Between freedom and feeling at ease, which one do you yearn for more?

A: You can't have the feeling of freedom all the time. It's enough to have it when riding a motorbike or snowboarding. It's very important to feel at ease, especially when acting. Only when an actor is comfortable at performing can it feel realistic.

Q: Which character do you feel more comfortable and more at ease in the process of playing?

A: Every role has my comfortable side and my real side. But after all, the role needs to be shaped by the actor: If I am completely at ease, then the role is just me, not a work completed by me and the character. You must and need to be at ease, but you can’t feel very comfortable all the time, unless you have completely integrated the character with you in the later stage of the performance, and the logic and behavior of the entire character have been symbiotic with you. By then It's okay to be completely at ease, but the actors can't be feeling so comfortable in the early stage of the acting.

Q: Is there anything you haven't tried but would like to try?

A: Many, there are too many things that I haven't tried in my life. I really want to be a civil servant for a day, an anti-drug policeman for a day, and a doctor for a day. For example, when I was filming "Grow Up", we went to the hospital for an internship. Just one meter away from me, there was a real person lying in front of me. He was anesthetized, had his chest opened and pleura cut. With a pull, the patient's heart was revealed, and I could even smell the burning smell of the chainsaw sawing human flesh. The best cardiac surgeons in the country finished the heart surgery calmly. What a strong mentality and confident professional ability! Usually we need a (leaning and adapting) process when acting, but what is the real process (of this profession) like? What kind of environment do they face? I actually want to try and understand these things. I also want to try to be a world traveler and navigator. I have so many things I want to try. Maybe I will accomplish them step by step after I retire.

Q: Have you ever done anything romantic? What state or thing do you find romantic?

A: For me, I think one of the more romantic things I did recently was a few days ago when I went to Sanya with my family, I sat by the sea in the middle of the night for a while, alone. I didn't think about anything at the time, just sitting there, completely in a state of emptiness, and I don't know how long I sat there, and it's quite strange in retrospect. The next day I even thought that I had never been to that beach, it was like a dream.

Q: Have you thought about what career you would choose if you were not an actor?

A: To be honest, I haven't thought about it. I wished I was an e-sports player or an extreme sport athlete before (becoming an actor), but I didn't really think about what I would do if I wasn't an actor. I can't think one as I am already an actor. Even if I decided not to be an actor now, what I would want to be must be different from what I wanted in the first place.

-END-OF-THE-INTERVIEW-

Some poems/verses Bai Yu has posted on Weibo:

Hello my 31th: x (rough translation: Let the flesh grow, leave the soul to walk. Hello, my thirtyfirst.)

Verses written in 2016 with a photo: x

Asking fans for a title: x (To this, Yao Chen answered: "A Drunken Night" 🤣)

Classical poem written for wrapping up The Long Night: x (the last line contains the phrase "White Snow in the Sunny Spring". The Chinese phrase is used to refer something very high in aesthetic but in the the novel of The Long Night it refers to the characters of Jiang Yang and Zhu Wei)

To Jiang Yang: x

Classical poem written for wrapping up The Wind Blows from Longxi: x (each line of this poem starts respectively with the word "Lu" (as Lu Yang), "Kun" (as Chen Kun), "Yu" (as Bai Yu), "Long" (as Longxi)

Classical poem written when on vacation while looking at the moon along the riverside: x (Note: "Someone asked me why do I like writing poems... I can only say I have the soul of an Old Qin people.")

Classical poem written when visiting hometown city Xi'an (aka Chang'an): x

Again, if you know Chinese and how to translate classical poems or if you find poems that Bai Yu has written but I didn't include, please help me.

#bai yu #白宇 #interview #bai yu the poet

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