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the-most-pathetic-edge-marquis · 8 months

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at the red table of your heart

it’s here. it’s time. inspired and enabled as always by @fuckmeyer, @su-angelvicioso, and this specific post by @bellasdumptruckass...Jasper reunites with María years down the line.

(ao3 here) (pt. 2 -- coming soon!)

Jasper finds María in her garden.

Of course, he thinks.

His chest aches, just a little, as he stands on the sun-baked hill and watches the girl in the white dress.

She’s stone-still among riotous green, arms loose and palms-up. Her face tilts towards the sun, eyes closed. The opal gleam under her brown skin casts little prisms of light onto the leaves around her. Thick black curls spill over her shoulders and down her back, long and loose instead of braided up for battle.

When was the last time he saw that?

And all of a sudden, he’s overflowing with memories. Ones he spent decades trying to forget. Drowning himself in the Cullen’s rainy days and crowds of human heartbeats and the too-gentle flutter of Alice’s fingertips—

But that’s not how it works, he knew that.

It’s all just as vivid as those century-ago days.

María on her knees, sky-blue skirt tucked up out of the dirt, hands wrapped gently around a pale clump of roots in rich black soil. Eyes fiercely focused, but smile so soft.

María, rising up out of the shooting-star tangle of a whole field of flame-orange madreselva, a smear of dirt on her cheek. He traced a careful thumb across it, felt her breath stop when he let his hand linger.

María skidding to a halt halfway through a hunt, squealing with delight and bouncing on her toes—¡anacahuita! Jasper, ayudame—and he’d known what she meant, that she wanted a seedling to transplant, but instead he plucked a single papery white flower and tucked it into her curls.

She’d looked up at him, eyes bright and wary, teeth a little bit bared. But she couldn’t lie to his gift, hadn’t learned that yet. The air bled melancholy, anticipation, fondness, a tiny biting exasperation, and…something else. A sparking, fizzing, electric emotion he didn’t want to name, so he just tucked it under his tongue—

Of course.

Peter and Charlotte gave him directions to this house when he asked, but now he’s sure he could’ve found it from anywhere and known it belonged to her.

The garden is bigger than the house. A whole sea of trees and flowers and cacti filling the valley where she’s tucked the little adobe home.

She always used to dream about that.

But when they lived together it was in the rotating bases they would find to keep the army in, abandoned barns and half-burned missions and once, their happiest stay, a sprawling ranch where three of the horses had still been grazing when they arrived. There had never been time for a garden to grow this elaborate…

She must’ve sensed him, he thinks. Even with her eyes closed, her instincts are more than good enough for that.

But she’s still just…standing, turned towards the sun. Leaving him to stare at her profile from this lonely hill.

He squashes the sudden, violent hope that it’s because she knows he’s not a threat, because it’s equally likely that this just means she doesn’t want to talk. That, or she’s hoping he’ll leave. (He’s probably earned that.)

He’s too far to taste any emotions but his own.

So move, he tells himself, but his feet won’t quite do it yet. He forces himself to inhale.

He can taste María on the air. The crisp break of rain against hot desert rocks, the cool, sweet bloom of yucca flowers at night…he can’t tell if it’s actually her scent, layered this thick over the valley she’s calling home, or if he’s just swallowing memory. Either way she’s filling his lungs, creeping into his veins, and he’s dizzy…

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

They aren’t the tailored ones Alice sent him off in, they’re a shitty black pair he picked up at a Walmart before he crossed the border. He’s already torn a hole into the pocket from doing exactly this too many times. He can’t quite bring himself to care. Alice…

Move, he tells himself again, and this time his feet obey, sending him slipping down the slope.

Alice smells like vanilla and buttercream. Like the almost-sickly sweet hiss of air-conditioning in the patisseries she drags him into whenever she gets the whim to visit Paris. Alice is bright and flitting and always, always in motion.

Alice had gritted her teeth at him for months, refusing to tell him what was wrong. Eyes flashing as she pretended everything was fine.

He’d finally dragged up the courage to tell her that he thought he needed (a break, a clean break) to travel for a while. Maybe visit some old friends.

She’d snapped I know, and turned away.

He must’ve had the decision made even then, and just not known, to come find María. What else could she have seen to make her that angry?

He reaches the edge of the garden.

Seen from above, it had been a glorious lack of order. None of the neat, separated rows he hadn’t realized he’s come to expect from living with the Cullens and Esme’s obsessive landscaping.

María’s valley twines around and over and through itself, flowers and herbs and cacti of all sorts sharing shade and sun and the murmuring spring he can hear trickling and pooling along the valley floor, scaffolding each other into one overflow of color.

Pale, bristling greens wash into yucca emeralds, interspersed with silvery pines and their waxy needles, and through it all wildflower colors spiral in kaleidoscopic shades. It fills his lungs with an elation so sharp he thinks it could split his chest clean open—

But here, where mountain slope smooths down to valley floor, there is order too, starker and simpler than the pattern he’s sure he could pick out in the rest if he tried. A single, painstaking line of flowers. Tiny and sunset-red, bell shapes swaying on the woody stems.

Salvia de belize, María had said, digging up a branch to carry with them as they moved, like she did every time, and Jasper, decades into loving her, had only then found out why. It really grows farther south, but Javi…Javi said it means protection.

Jasper steps across the line so carefully he doesn’t rustle a single stem.

María still hasn’t moved. He doesn’t need her to.

Now that he’s here, on level ground with her, the pull towards her is stronger than magnetic. Stronger than gravity. It’s both, maybe—the web of electromagnetic ache that birds follow south for the winter, that carries nesting sea turtles up onto the same beaches where they were born for all the decades of their lives—

He’s close enough to drink in every detail. A new scar, hooked over her jaw and curving into the soft flesh underneath. The curl of her smile, too small to be seen from a distance, just a quirk of the leftmost corner of her lips, soft and knowing. The sky-blue paint on her fingernails. The perfect stitches, too neat for human hands and too painstaking for machines, in the huge red-pink-orange flowers embroidered along the cuffs of her puffed sleeves and the hem loose and flowing over her scarred thighs.

She’s beautiful. And Jasper hadn’t forgotten because he will never forget anything, but he had let it settle, like silt to the bottom of a pond. But now the river’s carved its way back, crashing in and churning everything into glimmering clouds—

“María,” he whispers. He didn’t know it was possible for his throat to feel this dry.

Look at me, he doesn’t say, mírame, mi amor, por favor.

I’m sorry, he doesn’t say, lo siento, te quiero, I never should have left.

I was drowning, he doesn’t say.

Because he had been. He’d had to leave.

She had watched him, wary, filling the air between them with coppery discontent, with mistrust as bitter as black coyotillo berries, and he’d had no answer but the violence in his hands that he had sworn he would never wield against her. His only other choice had been to run.

And he doesn’t regret it. He doesn’t. He’s grateful for what he has now��

María opens her eyes.

Gold.

He’s drowning in it, he’s burning.

Her eyes are gold.

Bright as the sun crashing into the open over mountains, sparking in the bellies of the clouds, searing away the night. Smooth. Gleaming. Unmistakable—gold. Even as she spins out of the shade of the ahuehuete that he’s trying to tell himself is toying with his vision.

“Jasper,” she says. Coolly cordial, a little bit mocking.

Of course. This is the game they play, (or did, before Calgary and the long silence that had to follow it). Even though they both know he can taste her joy warm and smoky on his tongue; feel her longing crunching stale and brittle behind his molars.

He’s supposed to drawl something back now about how he’s just passing through.

And then she’ll say something like oh, of course, don’t let me interrupt your important business, and he’ll say well now I don’t know, reckon I could be persuaded for a lady like yourself and she’ll laugh—

But he can’t speak.

He had his jaw torn off, once, in a particularly bad fight. A soldier curled a fist into his mouth and ripped straight down, catching him off-guard enough that he had no chance to roll with the motion and save himself—and this doesn’t feel like the moment of loss, the splitting pain, but…

There’d been no time to reattach it, after he killed the thrashing newborn. Just to shove it into his pocket and on to the next, and he’d finished that battle missing the bottom half of his face.

By the time María was free to realign it, kissing her venom along the scar to seal it, the nerves had shut themselves down and took the whole night to wake up.

This feels like that.

The dizzying disconnect of dead weight where his words should be, numb tongue and teeth that won’t unclench—

“Jasper?” she repeats. There’s the worry now, lemon-sharp and prickling at his skin. Her dress swishes as she takes another step toward him. Her eyebrows crinkle, and—

And her eyes are gold.

Which means she’s stopped hunting humans. Stopped killing them.

Stopped the crushing waves of terror. Bitter seawater and rotting fish. Panic flooding his own lungs and convincing him he needed air, crashing up to linger in the back of his skull and scrape there for weeks afterward.

Which means—

“Jasper.” She’s close enough to touch, now, squinting up at him from a bare breath away. She props one hand on her hip, reaches the other up to wave in front of his eyes. “Hola, ¿me oyes?”

Which means he could’ve stayed.

He flinches back from the thought on instinct—that’s the one, the one thing he’s not allowed to think, never—

María freezes, fingers hovering just above his wrist. He wants to tell her that it’s not her fault, it’s him, all him, but…

Her fear is growing stronger, salt scalding his tongue next to the sour.

There’s another memory bubbling in his throat, one so sweet he could choke on it. María in Monterrey, the day after they retook it.

The sun was out, blinding white overhead, but she hadn’t cared.

It’s one day, she’d said that morning, eyes still blazing-red with the way they’d gorged last night in preparation for the fight. Her smile towards Nettie was even brighter, sharp and giddy and lashing painfully hot against Jasper’s skin, a knot of emotion he’d been far too young to begin to untangle. What could anyone possibly do to me now?

Jasper had tailed her down the street just in case—lurking in shadows, too fast for human eyes to catch, his pale skin and his scars, (even then, bare months into his undeath, he’d had scores more than her), too suspicious to risk. He’d watched.

Watched the way she smiled, small and soft, as she walked.

Her skin shone, flashed carnelian-red, obsidian-black, flame and shadow and sun-white glow—but so did the silky ribbons she’d braided carefully into her hair, the gold bracelets on her wrists, the ruffled red rose behind her ear, her purple midnight-shimmer dress.

Most people melted away when they saw her, hurrying back into doorways or behind passing carts, hands flashing through the cross. Some of them kept walking, gazes politely averted, but Jasper could see the tension in their shoulders.

But one little girl had skipped straight into her path and frozen, her black eyes wide with nothing but awe. She’d reached out a tentative, chubby hand to the lace embroidery of María’s skirt—

And his general, who just the night before had torn out the throat of the king of Monterrey and laughed with the venom still silver on her teeth, bent to the child’s level and offered her the flower straight out of her own hair.

“Your eyes,” he rasps.

The furrow between María’s eyebrows deepens, but she flashes him a cautious smile. “What, you’re this upset I borrowed the idea?”

His laugh carves out of his throat without permission—she doesn’t look any less worried.

“Jasper, really. It’s nothing. Sometimes I don’t feel like going into the city to hunt.”

Somehow the pressure on his throat grows worse. He’s choking.

He’s drowning again—like he has been for decades, pulled thrashing under another wave. The starving, itching discontent, but his certainty that there was no other way—trapped in between two options that are slowly killing him—

And like she always does, she’s strolled so easily above his storm. Sometimes, she says, and the ease in her voice…

He’d run to Peter and Charlotte first, when he first left Alice and their icy months-long argument behind, and—eventually, like he always did—caved and asked about María. Charlotte had paused, worrying her bottom lip for far too long.

She’s doing...well, Jasper, she’d said finally. Softly. Better than...better than I think she’s been in a long time.

And Jasper is—is—

He slams his eyes closed, but they burn all the same. A dry sob grinds its way out of his chest.

“Te extraño,” he whispers—and he knows, he knows she’s right in front of him, but it’s still true, and suddenly those are the only words he can find—“María, por favor, te extraño—”

For a second, she’s silent and still. It’s just Jasper and his shuddering breaths—

A hand cups his cheek.

He leans into it, crashes down with all his weight. She doesn’t waver, doesn’t flutter, just stands.

“Jasper,” she says. Her cool fingers fall away, and reluctantly, he opens his eyes.

He can’t read her face, soft and still resolutely set, eyes darkening to ochre. It doesn’t matter. Melancholy is sticky on his tongue, grief blurred ozone-heavy in the air around them.

“Follow me,” María says.

And, like always, Jasper does.

#maría my beloved #jasper whitlock / maría #is this original content?#IT ISSSSSSSSSSS #LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOO #i have. so many thoughts abt this #there's a literal director's commentary version of the document on my computer lmao

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excineribusbooks · 1 year

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The Roots Grow Riotous, by @hansbekhart

[Note: This project was completed in June 2021.]

Do you ever read the first chapter of a WIP and just know you need to bind it once it's finished?

Roots was that fic for me. Months before it wrapped up in April 2021, I was drafting layouts in my head, researching fonts, and hoping hansbekhart would be cool with me creating a physical copy of their fic. (I always ask author permission before I bind a fic, just to be polite.) Luckily, they were!

I wanted not only to play with the fic's central image -- plants endlessly growing from Lan Zhan's body -- but convey the pressing claustrophobia and panic that settles over him as the story progresses. So the design of the chapter headings started small.

Just a cute little leaf! A tiny vine curling up! And then...

By the second-to-last chapter, they splayed everywhere into this chaotic, choking mess that overwhelmed the actual text of the heading. I half-joked on Twitter that I was walking a very fine line between "this is thematically appropriate" and "graphic design is my passion!! (◡‿◡✿)," and I hope I ended up more on the side of the former.

You can read "The Roots Grow Riotous" at the link above! Trust me, it is well, well worth it.

#book arts #bookbinding #fanbinding #ficbinding #the untamed #mdzs #ex cineribus books

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tanoraqui · 6 months

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Director s commentary for This Blessed Plot, if possible! Really any line is pure gold, though I admit my favourites had been ones about how first thing land remembers is Luna fleeing, and how if it could choose, itd get her out before everybody!. But whole fic is amazing!

The first thing the land knows—such that it is a thing that can know, more than simply ground and grass, growing trees and ever-twilight sky. The first thing it knows, as a thing that can know, is firm hands cupping soil, a smile that is content for just an instant before it is determined, and a whisper of “Here” that means mine.

Then standing, that dirt trickling from one hand, and the call, “Simon! Bring me that hammer, I found where I’m laying the first stake,” as daffodils and dogwood begin to rise and send out roots. They aren’t hands for dirt—the callouses are from swords, quick and bloodied from wars of yesteryear. But it is a hero’s sword (even un-, barely-claimed Faerie land knows some things) and the magic is full of fresh, growing things. A wooden stake and ancient words, drops of blood in the earth, and what matters more is the strength behind them, the willingness to grow and build anew. It matches the hills pushing ever-up from the earth, rising as their mortal cousins on ground prone to shatter. It keeps pace with the eternal, perfect twilight and the life already racing beneath it, the tall trees and strong grasses and wild, blooming roses.

Mine, the land agrees.

[…]

The first thing the land knew was a claim, but the first thing it remembers is when the rose woman fell from her road. There was not a road and then there was, and then it snapped shut as she pulled her skin that last inch tight, choking with the constriction as she fell. The echo of a horn ended with the snapping-shut of the road, passing by to chase the path she had built from strands of hair torn desperately from her scalp and flung far ahead. She caught herself on hands and knees before she collapsed, and took a breath and screamed as she clutched her fox-furs even tighter, as thorns bound it to her flesh until it was so close that there was no room for them to grow.

So they grew around her, wild riotous roses from the drops of her blood as she wrapped her three clever tails around herself and buried her head in her arms. They grew and hid her flash of silver-orange fur, and hoofbeats passed on Roads nearby—but no more horns sounded.

[…]

They met when he was building a stone wall, which he planned to mark out a garden, and she was standing where he thought of as inside it. She was holding a wooden spade, shaped from a kind oak, for she had been growing roses in these hills for many years already. Some events in time happen literally, and some are only ways of turning a thought into a story, and in Faerie, many are both.

[…]

If they had to choose, like, if the hills themselves were burning down, they would save their rose woman first. But then, she had merely planted her roses all through the land, not claimed it in blood and oath. So it was not as much her decision to make.

These are all about the way that Sylvester is the one to whom the knowe, the faerie land of Shadowed Hills, is bound as land to lord and lord to land - he claimed it with magic and blood and ancient oaths - but it's also bound to Luna, and not just because the two of them are married. It actively resonates with Sylvester's spirit even before he chooses it, that's why he chooses it, but Luna was the first person who desperately sought it, who wanted something from it, who plunged her magic and her self into it and started growing things as it yearned for, even if she made no formal connection. If Sylvester hadn't come along and claimed it, it still probably would've ended up her true domain over time, adapting to her nature.

That's why, in a 'the house is burning down; who do you save?" situation, the hills would choose to save Luna before Sylvester. Because Shadowed Hills loves them both, but it's Sylvester's land at its root, by blood and oath and affinity. So it's Sylvester's wishes that it would honor, in such an urgent question.

#irleughlivelyatalanteangodfan #my fic #ask meme #october daye

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yahargul · 3 months

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Nooooo is it gone? :( it was so good I wanted to reread.

Do you remember the name? I think it was something about roots or vines? Haha it’s been bothering me that I can’t remember the name.

Thanks either way, and for the recs too, I’ll give em a read :)

the roots grow riotous by hansbekhart!

i actually found the link again but it's hidden as a mystery work - maybe one day the author will bring it back

#textp #answers

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rabbitcrimes · 1 year

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hello everyone does anyone have a copy of roots grow riotous it is in fact so so so so important to me :(

#wangxian #edit i got it and if anyone needs it im happy to share #meltdown cancelled thanks to the lovely people in the wangxian tag

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the-marathon-continues-nip · 1 year

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just, another fan of roots grow riotous here

that's what's up !

roots grow riotous groupies unite ! 😅

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lansplaining · 1 year

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roots grow riotous seems to be the only fic hansbekhart has taken down... i wonder if it’s getting published as an original story

#it's absolutely good enough and can stand on its own

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theartistknownaslymond · 2 years

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Whumptober 2022 day 3

Hair's breadth from death: Gun to Temple | "Say goodbye" | Impaled

Today I extend my apologies to Will Scott.

Warnings: sectarian slurs, gang scuffles, stabbing. Badly written Scots.

Context: in the AU the Scotts are fans of Glasgow Rangers and the Kerrs are fans of Celtic. The two football teams have a rivalry and are known as the Old Firm. The support for the teams is rooted in sectarian divisions - Rangers supporters being traditionally Protestant, unionist, while Celtic (pronounced 'sell-tick') supporters are traditionally Catholic, supporters of Irish Nationalism (if you're wondering how this fits with Wat Scott's hatred of the English let me tell you there's a whole spectrum of hypocritical views on both sides and Wat is quite capable of thinking of Scotland as the ruler, what with their king having taken the English throne).

Also Bonkers was a real nightclub in Glasgow. Apparently when it closed down in the early 2000s, crime in the area decreased by 30%.

---

"Where the fuck is he?" Fergie Hoddim leaned on the deck and glared out at the punters below them. Her skinny arms glistened with sweat beneath the sickly fluorescent lights.

Alec Guthrie shook his head and lifted a set of headphones to his ear, keeping his attention fixed pointedly on the turntables he was operating, though he, too, swept a nervous eye over the crowds.

Bonkers Show Bar was a dangerous place at the best of times, an early-opening watering hole that drew in all species of gang-banger, roaster and madman from across the city. Drinkers were accustomed to music that got them attuned to their amphetamine-fuelled heartbeats: hardcore noise to choreograph their fights to, to absorb and swell the screamed insults and muffle anything that wasn't abuse just well enough that it could he misconstrued as such anyhow. As a rule, the maniacs on the dancefloor at Bonkers didn't give a shit who was operating the decks, so long as the beat never dropped and the bar never ran dry.

Nevertheless, an appearance by the St Mary's collective raised expectations. The neds didn't care about much, but they knew their local heroes and they knew Lymond was famous as fuck even outside Scotland - they knew he was the real deal, and any other line-up sent from St Mary's was just scraps. For them, it was Lymond or bust - anything else was nothing but an insult, and you didn't show that kind of contempt for the crowd at Bonkers without it turning riotous.

Happy hour had ended and the punters had begun to realise that Lymond wasn't lurking round the bar anywhere. No one had even announced his immanent arrival - though the band members DJing had, indeed, been counting on him turning up before the watershed.

Only Will Scott remained calm in the face of a sea of boiling, furious Scotsmen. He handed a couple of seven inches to Randy Bell and gestured for him to pass them to Alec.

Randy didn't look reassured. He shook his head and yelled in Will's ear: "There's only so much damage control a house remix of I Don't Like Mondays can do!"

Will rolled his eyes. "Trust Alec - he'll make magic frae it, just you see..." He folded his arms and surveyed the battlefield. He wondered what was holding Francis up, sure he did, though he remained confident of his own ability to keep the crowd entertained in the meantime.

He'd conceded to the dress code that the place insisted on enforcing and was growing warm in his long-sleeved white shirt and tartan trousers, but the outfit made him feel in control and professional. Lymond expected professional behaviour in his absence, particularly when others were representing him and his enterprise, and Will was determined he wouldn't let his old friend down. After the hell of the slave contracts he'd been on, Francis deserved his own label to have as much success as possible, and Will was going to help him achieve that.

He picked up the mic as Alec and Fergie blended the next record in and scanned the upturned, rapturous, restless faces before him. "Aye, Hope Street, how is it?" he bellowed.

The crowd rumbled like an earthquake.

"Oh aye? D'ye even ken what day it is, any of ye?"

The heckles were beautiful. Will laughed at every word he caught:

"The day after the day after I was born!"

"The last day of yer career!"

"Piss off and get the man on!"

"Yer ma's birthday!"

"Pay day ye wee ginger cunt!"

He nodded at their answers. "Aye? Then ye havna had enough o' the good stuff if ye still ken so much, eh?" The beat throbbed in time with Will's excited pulse and his smile spread, crafty, over his face. "What're ye wasting breath hollerin' for? Away an' get wrecked, boys!"

As the punters grizzled and howled back at Will's provocation, Fergie faded another track in, and Bob Geldof's nasally voice drowned them out:

And he can see no reasons

'Cause there are no reasons

What reason do you need to be shown?

Ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh...

Tell me why!

I don't like Mondays...

Will grinned at Randy, who didn't look at all reassured. "I was gonna go tae the bar fer us and now ye've got them all riled!" he whined.

"Och, c'mon ye fearty," Will slapped his shoulder. "I'll protect ye. It's no worse than derby day at Ibrox."

He shoved Randy ahead of him, gestured at Fergie and Alec to confirm they were ok to hold the fort and that they wanted drinks too, and waded into the crowd.

Will towered above the melee of bodies and grinned at the un-lip-readable things that were spat at him. A hand on each of Randy's shoulders, Will guided them to the bar and leaned, gangly, over the shorter man to yell his order across to the server.

Randy looked squirrelishly about him in a way that made Will cuff him with a gentle paw to the ear. "Chill out, man. Ye'll only attract trouble if ye go about expecting it."

"Will, wait, isn't that -?" Randy's shoulders tensed under Will's easy touch. "What the fuck are they doing here?"

Will turned to see where Randy was staring and let out a sigh.

By the entrance to the club, a group of lads in black jackets were scuffling and shoving one another. A disproportionate number of them shared the same thick aubern crew-cut and cold brown eyes - a family trait as recognisable as the Celtic bands Will was sure were tattooed on skin hidden beneath their clothes, as recognisable as the songs they sang on the terraces and the sectarian insults they hollared in the streets. Will immediately regretted having invoked derby day.

The gang of Kerrs had identified a pair of enemies on their territory - maybe the bald man and his scar-faced friend had English accents, maybe they'd said something unwise about the Fenians, maybe they'd simply expressed a dislike of the colour green and a preference for blue. In any case, the Kerrs were intent on meting out some kind of lesson to them, no matter the imbalance of numbers at play.

The club security wished to make it clear that the lesson could be taught outside rather than in such close proximity to the bar and the dance floor, and as Will watched, the vortex of furious men began to move towards the doorway, their ringleader dragged by his jacket between the beefy grip of two burly doormen.

"Oh, that's gonna turn nasty..." Randy muttered.

"It already is," Will replied. He didn't feel the same stirring of hatred he knew his father felt when he saw a member of the Kerr family, but by god he came close to it when he saw a whole bunch of them whaling on only a pair of men.

"Och, Will, no..." Randy said weakly as Will's hands left his shoulders and he began to move towards the disturbance.

"Stay back, Rando," Will didn't turn, but gestured behind him even as Randy struggled to keep pace with him through the crowds.

By the time they got to the door, the Kerrs and their prey had been successfully moved out onto the street. Will stalked past the security guys, who now stood in front of the building with arms crossed, letting whatever unfolded outside their establishment unfold.

"Oi! Enough o'that, lads!" Will yelled with the supreme confidence only someone well over six foot and reconciled to his height could muster. He strode straight for the tangle of men blocking the gutter of the main road and waved cheerily as a taxi honked in objection to the obstacle.

"Och look, the huns've brought reinforcements," one of the Kerrs sneered, turning away from the sport of tenderising their targets with jostling and abuse.

A couple of his cousins, or siblings, looked up and spat over their shoulders.

"Tis the Orange bastard himself!"

"Wheer's yer daddy wee hunny bunny? Are ye finally fit tae take o'er the business, aye?"

"Whisht and shut yer trap, Tommy," Will stood over them, his arms relaxed by his sides, his nose far beyond the reach of their solid foreheads. "What's the fuss here, eh? Don't like the tunes me and my pals've been spinning?"

"Could do with better material, aye. Ye gonna play Fields of Athenry if we ask nicely?" Tommy Kerr's lip curled.

"Wheer's yer man Lymond, eh?" another Kerr demanded as the group's attention gradually turned its focus onto Will. "He'd play what we want tae hear - he's a friend of the Irishman, eh?"

There was a moment of leering and jeering and elbowing one another as the name Oonagh O'Dwyer was bandied about.

Will smirked at them. "He's on his way, lads, but the main act always comes on late, surely ye ken that?"

There was a chorus of sneering chuckles as they closed in about him, but Will remained calm. He'd been sparring with the Kerrs since the first Old Firm game his da had taken him to as a too-tall four year old, and he didn't fear their words or their posturing - not in the middle of the main street, not this early in the night, not when he was there as a musician and a colleague of Lymond's instead of a Rangers fan.

Randy wasn't so calm. Will felt the other man's fist close on the fabric of his shirt as Randy shuffled near for protection, or maybe to cover Will's back. "Will, I think we should go back in. Lymond might be here by now, and he'll no be happy if we're scrappin' out here and no DJing...Remember what he said about sticking to the plan?"

Will pretended to ignore him, but he was quite happy to make peace anyway, whatever plan Randy imagined Lymond had. "Whadya say, Tommy? I'll even buy you and the boys a round of Jamesons - if they sell that shite here..."

The Kerrs chuckled again with menace, enjoying the taunt and the opportunity for fresh offense. Nevertheless, the offer of drink wasn't one to be dismissed out of hand, and they appeared to be considering it - at least up until their original victims, Baldy and Scar-face, decided they'd been unfairly neglected since Will showed up.

"I wasna done, ye Fenian coward!" screamed Baldy, grabbing one of the Kerrs by his jacket, hauling him round and striking a blow to his face.

"Here, Tim, ye want some?" Scar-face launched his head at another of the Kerrs' noses and there was a wet popping sound as cartilage and bone crumpled.

Will was at the centre of it all as things kicked off and he grabbed for whoever he could get a hold of, trying to push Baldy back with one big freckled hand planted on his forehead and simultaneously scruffing a Kerr by the shirt collar with the other. Bodies surrounded him, shoving and struggling, elbows and fists and feet lashing out in search of the right landing. Will felt the squeeze of the tumult around his torso, nothing compared to the crowds shoving in the pit when they played on stage, but increasing in determination as the Kerrs and their antagonists exchanged ever rowdier insults.

"Hoi, hoi, cut it out ye walloppin' donkeys!" Will slapped at Baldy's pate and elbowed a Kerr in the jaw. He wriggled and jostled among them, trying to drive himself between the sides, to force them apart however he could. Sure, his toes got trod on, his shins got kicked and his ribs got pummelled, but it was nothing he couldn't handle - or dole out just the same, when the fighting was really happening around him, not to him.

But then he noticed the cold, a damp sensation spreading unexpected against his skin in among the warm knot of bodies. It was like a drink had been spilled down the left side of him, a whole bleeding pint of something flat and sticky - it made his shirt cling with the texture of day-old Buckfast. He tried to turn to see if someone else had joined the affray fresh from the bar, and as he twisted he felt it: a direct line of agony impaling him just below the ribs.

Pain lanced through him, blasting past shock, bypassing every other function, every other reflex. Will let out a cry, his legs buckled, and the group around him recognised the timbre of complaint caused by a serious injury - they stepped back, like petals peeling away from a bud, and with none of them nearby to catch his weight or break his fall, Will dropped to the tarmac, too helpless to soften his own landing.

His knees took the brunt of it and his jaw hit next, so he lay face-down, stunned by the excruciating claws of pain that reached up and around his body, spreading from his abdomen to his shoulder. He could see the smart shoes of the clubbers retreat as he blinked back nausea, gasping like a stranded fish. The others were leaving: one step, two, a nervous shuffle.

"What did ye do?!"

"Me? It wasna me!"

"How many times do I hafta tell ye tae leave the blade on a dance night?"

"I didna, it wasna mine!"

"Jesus, ye think it was the huns?"

"The huns are carrying now?"

"Aw, fuck..."

"Wheer'd they go?"

"Ah, shite..."

"We gotta git, boys, Ahm no takin' the rap fer a deid rock star..."

"He's no rock star, he's just another Prod..."

"Orange bastard..."

"Pity about that drink he offered - I could aye do with that..."

Will listened to them scatter into the night and managed to exhale a winded-sounding moan, or something like a bleat. He might as well have been pinned to the street for all he could do - he knew his life was leaking out, leaving him empty and light, so if he got up he'd just blow away into an alley like a greasy old crisp packet. His fingers flexed on the road surface and he wondered where the taxis were - he needed to get out of the way before they ran him over...

He whimpered again and felt agony in his shoulder. He screwed his eyes shut and felt tears leak out - god, what was he crying for? Francis, who he'd let down? Grizel, who'd be mad at him if he got back late?

The voice he heard as he felt himself sinking into himself was neither Francis' nor Grizel's however, but it spoke in deep, sorrowful tone: "I'm glad you called me, Randy, but I fear we may be too late. It could be time to say goodbye..."

"Don't say that, Swami, not before Francis gets here..."

No, Will tried to repeat, his lips moving though no sound emerged. Not before Francis gets here.

#whumptober #fair warning: incoming whump!#band au: disorderly knights #character: fergie hoddim #character: alec guthrie #character: randy bell #character: will scott #every day i write the book

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solthemighty · 9 months

Text

Sunlight and Fire

Silva was born into a world of colors, shades and hues so numerous he couldn’t count them all, varied and beautiful. But strangely, the color of the sun, of gold and flowers and so many other things, has grown with him.

His cradle was green leaves and soft grass, new eyes taking in the veins beneath the verdant surfaces. The sky overhead was grey, pale silver light passing through the clouds while crystal rain fell in droplets upon his face. Lightning, yellow and stark against such a uniform background, crackled with energy and set trees alight in orange fire. Silva, newly birthed from the Mother into the storm, watched the lightning and felt fear.

As he grew, tended to and nursed by dryads and river spirits, his forest cradle grew dense and lush in the coming spring. Vernal danced through the spaces between branches, sang songs with the coming of new life, the plants budding and blooming in riotous colors. Pink, purple, white, red, green, blue, all coiled together along vines and branches and stems that bent whenever Silva passed by. The nature spirit coaxed the young god to join in his merriment, and daisies grew around Silva’s feet wherever he tread.

The god grew older still, the trees swaying to bow as he moved between them. Autumnal cast the leaves in warm hues of red, orange, and yellow, an ombre that reminded Silva so vividly of fire and magma flowing beneath the earth. Lightning struck, storm winds toppled the forests and flooded the rivers as war began. The forest was alight in yellow flames and lightning, and his once lush home became a grey mountain, bubbling and belching molten rock high into the atmosphere with his rage.

When the fighting was over—for now, the promise hissed—there was rebuilding to be done, as the remaining dryads mourned their fallen kin and the river spirits snuffed the last fires. Silva gathered them all, his nature bound brethren, at the foot of that grey mountain, dried black as ash fell like snow around them. The forest he regrew, the grass and trees growing thicker and twining around him, swaying toward their god, was darker than before, evergreen and deadly with roots to trap and vines to ensnare. Solstice swept over the land, and the flowers that bloomed there seemed to glow white while their thorns flashed amber in the dim light, spreading around the base of the mountain like a protective shield. In many ways, it was.

The city Silva built, heeding the pleas of frightened mortals, became golden, as the new residents painted their houses in colors of brown and red and orange and oddly, yellow. Yellow flowers mimicking those at the base of the mountain, and golden murals in the shape of Oro’s horns took shape along walls and roofs, the solstice casting everything in bright sunlight. Silva was almost blinded as he walked through the city, once small and humble, now resplendent and full of life.

When there was time, in rare stretches of peace, Silva would trace the patterns on Oro’s back, glowing with white-hot gold beneath dark stone skin. His friend would say nothing, would only wait his turn until Silva was finished, and then the vines that made up the god’s hair would be tended to, stone skin on stone skin as they curled together, powerful yet frightened.

Solaris’ hair is as yellow as the sunflowers she creates to adorn the grounds, tending to the flowers that turn their heads toward the sun. Silva changes their colors, from a lemon hue to blue or purple, all for Solaris to throw her head back and laugh, flaxen hair blooming as she lets the world know of her joy. Silva would dance with her in the square to make more flowers bloom, and the daisies from before made a triumphant return.

Ophel’s eyes shine sallow in the low evening light as they sing in the entrance’s antechamber. They sing of victory, of peace, of tales so old Silva remembers them dearly, all reflected in the color of the spirit’s gaze. The spirit sang of betrayal, of heartache, and of a god who saved them, and all Silva could do was beg that the spirit not thank him. He has done many things, impossible things, but he did not wish to be thanked for saving a life. He has taken far too many.

Winter descends on the mountaintop, the snow dusting the tops of trees and casting everything in a somber silver. Secretly, or perhaps only cautiously, Silva finds winter to be his favorite season. With his yearly visitor, Silva may admit that he has a bias. Hiemal does not wear yellow, preferring blues and greys that suit his pale visage more, but his blue mingles so nicely with the colors of Silva’s wardrobe. He dons a golden robe this time, and the god expects the blues and yellows of their clothes to meld into green, to bloom into snowdrops and winterberry and crocus as snow settles on the windowsill. Instead, they tangle but never mix, the gods a bit too in their cups and sprawled over cushions on the floor, laughing and touching and kissing through the haze as the lanterns cast the room in warm light.

Of all colors that Silva has seen, of all colors his flowers take on and the many shades of gems hidden beneath the rock, he always finds himself partial to the color of sunlight and fire.

#creative writing #fictional gods #samsara's world #just wanted to mention #all characters are queer as hell #queerplatonic relationships

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quintalon · 2 years

Text

A companion piece to Crooked.

Cold.

It was a constant and an absolute. It has been so since the beginning and would be so in the end.

Cold. Quiet. Dark.

As it had been for millennia and would be for millennia more.

Nothing ever changed.

Until one day something did.

It awoke from an ancient slumber. Years, decades, centuries had passed since it last was aware, since it last surveyed the world.

A feeling it had not felt in countless ages called out to it, pulling it from its endless sleep.

A thrumming, a pulse, a surge that engulfed it and drew it out of the cold, quiet dark.

Power.

Power it had not sensed since it last walked upon the earth, seeking and hunting and taking.

A power that exuded warmth and life and light. A power that it could not ignore, that it needed to find, needed to consume.

It creaked and groaned as it moved, its limbs slow to remember their purpose. It crept forward infinitesimally, the soil and roots loosening from around its lumbering form.

Inch by inch it moved, crawling and shuffling through the ancient wood drawing closer and closer to the source of the power.

It stopped on the edge of a clearing, blending into the shadows and branches.

Nestled in the center of the clearing was a cozy, little cottage. Warm light poured from the windows and smoke curled from the chimney in an inviting display.

A tinkling laugh drew its attention to a window on the upper floor. A man with fair hair twirled a woman with riotous curls. They spun and swayed together to a timing all their own.

And it knew.

This is from where the power emanated.

The man and the woman. Together.

Separately, they held power, yes. But together. Together they created a power so pure, it seeped into the very ground around them. It spread and grew until, inevitably, it reached the cold and quiet and dark heart of the forest nearby. Until the power reached into and had awoken it.

Drawn towards them once more, it crept closer to the treeline. The power was strongest in the clearing, a pulse radiating from the cottage.

Slinking a limb to graze the grass just inside the clearing, it focused on the pulse. The power was new and fresh, but not quite ripe, not quite complete. It was still growing.

It sunk back into the darkness under the trees, settling into the soil and shrouding itself in bark and branches.

It would watch.

It would wait.

It would consume and absorb the power into itself when it was time.

And it knew.

The time would be soon.

Also on AO3.

#creak #crooked #surprise #I finally wrote something after 2 years #ficlet #ao3 #spooky season

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wangxianficfinder · 11 months

Text

In the mood for...

~*~

1. I just finished Wind Rose in the Clouds and now I'm ITMF LWJ flexing his Chief Cultivator powers to Make Things Better (tm). Any recs for His Excellency being all excellent at cleaning up chaos, protecting the weak and living without regret? @mreisse

~*~

2. Hello! I was thinking about Phoenix Mountain kiss aus..... anyone have good recs?

~*~

3. Looking for some model aus! Either one or both!

The Roots Grow Riotous by hansbekhart (E, 104k, wangxian, modern, fashion au, garment company, casual sex, group sex, implied/referenced cheating, switching, recreational drug use, angst w/ happy ending, single dad WWX, panic attacks, implied/referenced self-harm, grief/mourning, catharsis, body horror, floral horror) if you can get your hands on it. Wwx is a model and lwj a fashion designer. Unfortunately, it is no longer on AO3 D: D: D: / Both users @justgot1 and @the-marathon-continues-nip have copies

SIMILAR! by mistake or design by seraffim (E, 51k, WangXian, Fluff, Smut, lil bit of angst, Fashion Designers AU, everyone works in the fashion industry, Dialogue Heavy, POV LWJ, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Co-workers to lovers) they're not models but fashion designers but I really liked

Walk, Walk, Passion, Baby by westiec (E, 3k, WangXian, Modern AU, Fantasy, Fashion & Models, Dragon LWJ, Phoenix WWX, Semi-Public Sex, double dragon dick, Frottage, but make it fancy, LWJ is a biter, Shameless Smut, Getting Together)

Addicted (to you) Series by sunandseas (E, 18k, WangXian, Modern AU, Pining while fucking, POV WWX, Bratty WWX, lwj rails wwx while on the phone, Fashion & Models, Under-negotiated Kink, Consensual, Enthusiastic Consent, PWP, Gratuitous Smut, Breathplay, Porn With Plot, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, Lwj is worshipped in his pretty skirt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Ambiguous Relationships, Friends With Benefits, kind of)

The Yiling Clothes Horse by empress_cixi (T, 26k, wangxian, modern, fluff & humor, falling in love, fluff & angst)

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4. itmf for a fic with stubborn lan zhan! smth similar to a burden of figs by spookykingdomstarlight bc i love when he gets like that:)

~*~

5. ITMF Healer wwx @whateverweilanlovechild

Just a Tiny Mistake by Dudette_Mal (T, 57k, WIP, WangXian, Time Travel Fix-It)

Odd Geometry | End Racism in the OTW by lunarladyofthelake (M, 17k, WIP, WangXian, Elemental Magic, Kind of an ATLA fusion AU but it's kind of not., This is also extremely AU, Yes I was lunarvampyr originally this is me again., JFM never adopts WWX, Canon Divergence)

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6. For itmf, do you have any fics where Wwx is targeted by Gusu Lan elders or members after Wangxian marry

Thanks! Lots of love ❤️❤️

a light hidden and singing by occultings (microcomets) (E, 48k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Canon Era, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, Slow Burn, brief family abuse, mentions of wangxian's canonical kinks, Misunderstandings, Blood and Injury, Rimming, Outdoor Sex, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, First Time, Miscommunication, Canon Divergence, Happy Ending) (Link in #7)

Scenes From Three Winters by LtLJ (G, 12k, WangXian, Post-Canon, CQL canon, Romance, Family Feels, Family Drama, Family Issues, Happy Ending, PTSD issues, Body Horror, But just a little, canon typical curses, Bad Parent LQR)

Concord by Deastar (T, 41k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Gūsū Lán Sect Rules, Depression, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending)

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7. For the next ITMF, is there anything like “我的皇后是農民 | sowing seeds in the cold palace” by sweetlolixo or “Honesty is the Best Policy (Except if You're an Asshole)” by piecrust? I just need some angsty wangxian that makes me cry

sowing seeds in the cold palace has untagged lwj bashing. just a heads up for those who intend to read.

How You Would Let Me Have You by longleggedgit (E, 15k, WangXian, XiQing, Arranged Marriage, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, First Time, The LXC/WQ is a "mutual beards" situation just FTR)

Regrets by antebunny (G, 37k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Time Travel, Fix-It, Temporary Character Death, Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Descriptions of Love, and other squishy feeling, Angst with a Happy Ending)

🧡 decay by antebunny (G, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, the fluffiest ending, Hurt/Comfort)

Concord by Deastar (T, 41k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Gūsū Lán Sect Rules, Depression, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending) link in #6

总有一天; a place to hide (can’t find one near) by yiqie (E, 76k, WangXian, Modern AU, Pianist,Getting Together, Mental Health Issues, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Depression, Hospitals, Overdosing, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Additional Warnings In Author’s Note, This is really rough but it is hopeful!) LZ isn't a jerk, but it's very good and very angsty

~*~

8. ITMF A) smart wwx like ik he already is but i wan him smarter than nhs

B) any story where ppl are not uk saying like he should be grateful lwj likes him or ppl not calling him oblivious cuz ffs he's not . U stand in his place get fucked up by world, then become some kind of big villian for doing right, and then get small mixed signals and then get called oblivious for not getting those mixed signals. Because I'm srry u were busy surviving, starving, feeding, saving and SAVING , giving urself up, and SACRIFICING urself. @whateverweilanlovechild

~*~

9. In the mood for Sect Leader!Lan Wangji, please! @emrysmerlyn

Temptation by Karmiya (E, 8k, WIP, WangXian, JYL & WWX, Sect Leader LWJ, Domestic Abuse)

Sect Leader LWJ tag

~*~

10. Hi, I have a request for the ITMF. I'd love to read some fics in which WWX finds out JC gave himself up to the Wen soldiers to protect him. Can be post-canon or canon divergence. Thank you! @fangirl-oracle

the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break by RoseThorne (E, 82k, WIP, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Soulmates, Self-Esteem Issues, Fix-It, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD, Handfasting, Panic Attacks, Getting Together, First Time, Aftercare, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, /Referenced Torture, Scars, Chronic Pain, Golden Core Reveal, First Time, Switching, sex-related injury, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, LSZ is a Wèi, Good Sibling JC, Dissociation, Burial Mounds Settlement Days)

❤️ Tragedy is Not the End by Hobbsy3 (T, 358k, wangxian, Time Travel, Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Golden Core Reveal, Canon Divergence from Qiongqi Pass, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Yunmeng sibling bonding, good dad wwx, good dad lwj, JZX Lives, JYL Lives, Junior Quartet Dynamics)

~*~

11. Wei Ying being in jin lings early life or him being there with jc to raise jin ling or him just raising jin ling

Death of a Ghost by Gotcocomilk (E, 107k, WangXian, WWX & JL, Canon Divergence, Ghost WWX, Hurt/comfort, Family bonding, Fluff, Angst) WWX is a ghost haunting lotus pier and befriends Jin Ling as he grows up (yes WWX comes back to life eventually)

To lurk, to lie in wait by trippednfell (M, 124k, WangXian, Modern with Magic, Huli Jing, strangers to co-parents to lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Dragons, Kid Fic, teenage juniors, background NieLan, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Fox Spirit WWX, Dragon LWJ, Blood and Injury, Additional Warnings In Author's Note)

~*~

12. Hello!!! For the next ITMF can you recommend me a fic where jgs is humilated/punished for his crime in the most painful/humilating ways. It can be a fic where sunshot generation investigate him in secret because of his ambition to have yin hu fu or because of suspicious accident that he cover up or something similar with that. I prefer canon era and modern with magic au but if you have recommendation in modern au its fine too. Thank you @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

~*~

13. thank you for the previous recommended fics!!! i really enjoyed themーand now im back lololol

does anyone know good zombie apocalypse or generally a wangxian fic in a post-apocalyptic world setting? I really loved this fic The Edge of Night haha and it would be nice to read some more, thank you!! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

a thousand teeth, yours among them by darkredloveknot (enheduane) (E, 10k, WangXian, Zombie Apocalypse, Blood and Violence, Mild Gore, Hook-Up, Falling In Love, metaphysical sexual body horror (??), Non-Sexual Intimacy, Melancholy)

Apocalypse AU Series by Red (zuwujun) (Not Rated, 211k, WIP, WangXian, Zombie Apocalypse, Mpreg, Heavy Angst, Dialogue Heavy, Childbirth, Canon character deaths, Minor Character Death, Canon Compliant, Family Drama, Post-Apocalypse, Gun Violence, POV WWX, Minor HuaXian, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts)

The World is on Fire, but at Least You're Here with Me by oliversong (E, 6k, WangXian, Modern AU, Zombie Apocalypse, Blow Jobs, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Established Relationship)

❤️ A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun (Not rated, 60k, wangxian, angst w/ happy ending, zombie apocalypse, zombie WWX, yunmeng trio, A Corpse Called By Name by jaemyun [Podfic] by Miss Appellation (Lizeth)) with lovely WIP podfic

Zombie Apocalypse Reverse! by AnnabelleEyesen (T, 8k, wangxian, JC & WWX & JYL, WQ & WN, zombie apocalypse au, humor, crack treated seriously, family reunions, WIP)

~*~

14. For itmf do you have any fics where lwj or Wwx are snake couples or just snake, any one of them?

Thanks ❤️❤️

Snake Eyes by PomeGranny (E, 4k, WangXian, Boypussy, Penis In Vagina Sex, Loss of Virginity, Strangers to Lovers, Implied Mpreg, Pheromones, Mildly Dubious Consent, Cultivator LWJ, Mating Cycles/In Heat)

Slithering Pleasure by sweetdeadlykittypaws (E, 8k, WangXian, WWX/Other(s), PWP, Size Difference, Anal Sex, Double Anal Penetration, Oral Sex, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Post-Canon, Huge dicks, Monster sex, Bestiality, a bit, Oviposition, Egg Laying, Urethral Play, not that much, Shameless Smut, Male Lactation, Choose Your Own Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Underage Sex, Incest, Nipple Fuck, wwx gets fucked by his small nagas, Gangbang, Come Eating, Don't Like Don't Read, Stomach Bulge, Come Inflation, A Bit of Fluff, Plot Twists, Somnophilia, Pregnancy Kink, Dirty Talk)

Kleptothermy by orphan_account (M, 3k, WangXian, Creatures & Monsters, Naga AU, Sexual Tension, Getting Together)

Concerning Monster Boyfriends by Anonymous (M, 49k, WangXianCheng, Modern with Magic, Monster Boyfriends AU, Xenophilia, Porn With Plot, Witch WWX, Naga JC, demon LWJ, Size Kink, Anatomically Impossible Everything, Enthusiastic Consent, Mpreg, Eggpreg, Cum Shower, Pregnancy Kink, Stomach Bulge, Anal Gaping, Cock Warming, Self-Love, Threesome - M/M/M, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Tanuki WWX, Bottom LWJ)

~*~

15. (Previous part in a FF) maybe even other fics where Yu Ziyuan leaves and takes Wei Wuxian with her if there are any 😺

~*~

16. Hello! For the next itmf, I wanna read wwx as a mortician or doing some job related to that. Thanks!

hush now, darling by thefullergirl (E, 18k, WIP, Female WangXian, Crime Scenes, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mild Gore, Autopsies, Dismemberment, Fem AU, medical examiner!LWJ, assassin!WWX, Angst, Character Death, Blood, injuries, Guns, Scheming, mentions of torture)

grave goods by luckymarrow (E, 28k, WangXian, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character Death, Modern AU, mortician!wwx, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Marriage Proposal, abrupt tonal shifts, Tragicomedy, Comedy, Romance, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Adoption, Implied/Referenced Abuse, for lan parents, it's not described and is all backstory, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Married WangXian, brief daddy kink, the barest hint of consensual non-consent, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, BDSM)

#11 of this post has some recs

Post Mortem by Cataclysmic_Calamity (E, 78k, wangxian, modern, physchological horror, friends w benefits, slow burn mystery, undernegotiated kink, dom/sub, consensual non-con, stalking, drug addiction, serial killers, angst w happy ending)

~*~

17. explicit itmf - i would love some smut fics from the top's perspective! (i'd like to ask for canon dynamics only tho, so lwj pov basically, thank you!)

Bite and Bruise and Bind by ReformedTsundere (E, 4k, WangXian, Modern AU, Anal Sex, Rough Sex, Jealous LWJ, Biting, Friends With Benefits, Or Is It?, Idiots in Love, Pining, Like VERY Slightly Dubious Content, Begging, Blow Jobs, rimming mentioned, Marking, Deep Throating Mentioned, slight angst, Slight self-loathing, Happy Ending, little bit of crying, Barebacking)

something so flawed and free by verseau (E, 59k, WangXian, Modern AU, College/University, Graduate School, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Non-Sexual Submission, Kink Negotiation, Biting, Overstimulation, Cock Warming, Consensual Non-Consent, Spanking)

in the pines by astronicht (E, 13k, WIP, WangXian, Modern AU, Dom/sub, Under-negotiated Kink, Coming In Pants, Dirty Talk, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use, Sexting)

~*~

If you didn’t get an answer to your ask here, don’t forget to make use of @mdzs-kinkmeme and MDZS KINK MEME on Dreamwidth. Authors actually do use them for ideas. You may get what you order!***Your prompt doesn’t have to be kink! Fluff, crack, whatever - it’s all good!***

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic recs #i'm in the mood for a fic #the untamed #wangxian fic search #wangxianficfinder #long post

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trans-shmog-blog · 2 months

Text

"If sorrow is how we learn to love,

then let us learn.

Already enough sorrow’s been sown

for whole continents to erupt

into astonishing tenderness.

Let us learn. Let compassion grow rampant,

like sunflowers along the highway.

Let each act of kindness replant itself

into acres and acres of widespread devotion.

Let us choose love as if our lives depend on it.

The sorrow is great. Let us learn to love greater—

riotous love, expansive love,

love so rooted, so common

we almost forget

the world could look any other way."

~ Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

#Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer #compassion #meditation #love

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concealedrecs · 1 year

Text

Fic: The Roots Grow Riotous

Author: hansbekhart

Fandom: The Untamed, Mo Dao Zushi

Pairing: Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian

Rating: Explicit

Length: 104664

Recommendation: Sometimes a fic makes you inhabit a world, and the Roots Grow Riotous is one such fic. I don’t read a lot of fic as actively as I did Roots - when it was coming out, I remember texting a friend when the latest chapter dropped to let them know that we’d both be reading it. Hans does a phenomenal job here, probably because this is a “take your fic to work” kind of situation, but also because they have a way of writing people that just…sticks with you. Luscious and a bit mean, Roots is the kind of fic that sets the bar for other MDZS fics. It’s a must read.

#fic rec #fic recommendation #mdzs fic rec #wangxian fic #mdzs fic #wangxian fic rec #untamed fic rec #wangxian #mdzs #untamed #untamed fic

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eyes-of-mischief · 1 year

Text

weekly fic recs | 33

prompt: bureaucracy/office au

fandoms: bnha, dc, hq, mdzs

bnha

Heroics: Not Just Punching People Into Buildings, Apparently by stifledlaughter

"In today's practical test, you all will grapple with one of the worst aspects of being a hero," announced Present Mic to class 1-A. "Paperwork!"

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Sometimes, hero work isn't about capturing villains. It's about trying not to cry on the phone to the insurance agent after being on hold for an hour when they tell you that their company only accepts faxed forms.

He's Our Most Important Member by autumnconcept

As a member of the quirkless side of society, Izuku has long given up his dream of being a hero.

Remind him how he ended up in charge of an entire agency?

Executive Assistant to the Batman by heartslogos

“So what’s someone like you doing working for someone like Wayne?”

“We’re star-crossed,” Tim answers, because clearly this job has only improved his ability to mouth off with a complete and total lack of self-regard.

(Rewrite of my old Assistant!verse)

on my desk by monday by calamityjade

(explicit)

Dick Grayson was tired of living hidden in his father's shadow. He desperately needs to find a space where he can thrive as just himself, and figures seeking out a simple job might be a good start; but being Jason Todd's assistant gives him so much more than he expected to gain. (No capes AU. Jason Todd is a lawyer and Dick is hired as his assistant)

haikyuu

hyogo melon code of conduct by goldplate

(mature)

“You misunderstand me, Miya-san. We’re not here to discuss the legality of your… melons."

Osamu's home garden gets the attention of the municipality's building and lot code compliance office.

the right path by norio

"What do you expect from our company?" the interviewer asked.

A job. A straightforward path, the only concerns about the budget for printer toners. A solitary lifestyle in a cubicle. But Akaashi curled his fingers around his resume and thought wryly that if he truly wanted all that, he wouldn't be applying to an anime company.

mdzs

Best man for the job; a detailed treatise on Chief Cultivation by Aerlalaith

“Just these?” He had thought, perhaps, given Jin Guangyao’s notorious organizational skills, there might be a few more, but it does not overly trouble him.

“Oh no, Chief Cultivator,” Jin Guangtian says. “This is just the index.”

(The peerless Hanguang-Jun faces his greatest challenge yet: bureaucracy).

The Roots Grow Riotous by hansbekhart

(explicit)

Sometimes Lan Zhan doesn’t work through lunch. Sometimes he makes conversation with coworkers in the halls. Sometimes he goes home instead of spending the last hour trawling through Grindr. But mostly, that’s exactly what he does. The sameness is comforting. His life spools out in easily measured increments: capsule collections, yards of hand dyed textiles, ninety day lead times, sell through figures, cost of goods sold.

Every date in manufacturing can be calculated backwards and forward from a single horizon point: the date that the goods must arrive into the country where they'll be sold. Other than that, nothing else really matters.

Always Be Closing by betts

(explicit)

Wei Ying’s thumb hovered over Lan Zhan’s number. It would be a brief phone conversation. Not even a minute. He would tell Lan Zhan what needed to be done, and Lan Zhan would say “mn” a bunch of times, and Wei Ying would spiral all day about how much Mr. Hot and Perfect All the Time probably hated his guts, and it would be fine. Emotionally, no different than any other Tuesday.

Fine, sue him, he was a coward. He pulled up a new text and typed, My son is sick today. Going to doctor. Can you do smoothie hut call? 500m CRE + 250m LOC

He sent the text. The ellipses rose. He waited.

Or: During a long overdue divorce and messy custody battle, Wei Ying gets demoted to small business finance. There, he's partnered with a new closer who clearly hates him, until he finds out Lan Zhan is far more verbose—and dare he say flirtatious?—in writing than in speaking

But to be loved like a song you remember Even when you've changed by enbysaurus_rex

The manual was long, but it all boiled down to the same thing-- assess, capture, banish, assess, repeat. Keep the affected area to a minimum. Be proactive in protecting any device that can access the internet. Physical storage areas with names had to be up to standard (file boxes were allowed, so long as the lid was reinforced and could stand up to the particular talisman used), but anything else usually required paperwork and approval, even if it was retroactive. Wangji hoped everything was in file boxes this time, even though he knew it was in vain. None of his storage solutions had ever been declined, but it was a tremendous amount of paperwork, picture taking, and documentation for what was usually a relatively small collection. In this case, it was less likely to be true, and the documentation was likely to be equal to the names warded and sealed. He appreciated that.

#office aus have a special place in my heart #its something about the absolute soul-destroying imagery of corporate bullshit that gets to me #bnha fic recs #bnha #dc fic recs #dc #mdzs fic recs #mdzs #hq fic recs #hq #prompt #bureaucracy #office au #weekly fic recs

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