#heaven and hell. yeah

[doctordaymytoiletsister]

Let's kill God.

[Should We Be Picking Out China Patterns Or What?, Bailey Herdé / The Borgias 3.10 / Normal People, Sally Rooney / The X-Files 5.19 / caption from Mythic Quest 4.05]

[tampire]

My favorite horror movie is grabbing on to you.

[goobigoombi]

WIP Wednesday (Friday Edition)

Tagged by @alice-dead and @liberaquantobasta-catossa 😘

Here’s a sneak peak of a collab with @postboxrose that I’m painting feat. Solas and her Inky, Luella.

Tagging: Anyone (I’m late lol)

[skyrigel]

Just thinking about giving Simon handjob

He's sitting with his muscular legs spread wide open while you're sitting in between his thighs, holding his girth through your palm but unable to take the whole of it. Clumsy fingers spreading out, up and down pulling the foreskin, licking the under sight from the base where your palm can't stretch all of, keeping him warmed up.

Simon's tip is flushed red, leaking precum which you gather and pump him more with your fist.

Soft moans and hiss escape his mouth, coaxing sweetly to you, “Jus' there lovie, ye-ss like that love.” His deft fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you occasionally for a kiss because he can't stop whining with your touch, splattering, “fuckfuckfuck,” and “That's my good girl, my pretty dove.”

He goes crazy when you squeeze his balls, holding his shaft with both hands, your thumb massaging the tip while other palm glided around his length, working him up. Eyes hooked on him, seeing him leaned back with trembling mouth of damned words which poured out of him. Down from the base and back, just as he liked, biting your lips and dazed at the sight of him so flushed.

It's the image alone of you, two fingers shining with his slick that you bring up and taste — salty and sweet, everything that was him, that his cumes on the spot, shooting ropes of hot cum over your face and nipples he'd been twisting all along, your neck and hair and palm covered with his seed.

“That was so amazing, love,” He cooed at you, marveling at the sight, his thumb reaching out to smear the cum on the corner of your mouth to back on your glistening lips.

All marked up by him.

You smiled slyly, “Couldn't have tell baby.”

Masterlist

[rosieofcorona]

makes me insane btw that solas had the orlesians announce him as the inquisitor's 'elven serving man' at halamshiral. like yeah i understand the sociopolitical reasoning of it in that environment and i understand that it's part of his whole Humble Apostate™ disguise but have we considered that it's also very hot through a romance lens? he's content to be seen and known as lavellan's- not the inquisition's, just one (1) specific person's- subordinate? lavellan's serving man? get out of here

[wolfythewitch]

I put your jesus art on my wall (/ω\)

(hope that's ok)

Heaven yeah that's definitely okay

[mblue-art]

and then we unceremoniously get shoved into a closet for 7 mins after the game (😳)

(based on this)

[rat-spit-village]

sad wolf hours </3 put that lyrium dagger away boy it's time to Yearn

[void-pitcher]

crowley being alone while creating the stars while needing a second person to kickstart them & muriel having a desk alone in heaven and getting vistors only once every few centuries & aziraphale being put on earth for six thousand years with no other angel in sight & hell being constantly overcrowded to the point where just getting through the crowd is the first torture method they use on humans & furfur and shax wanting a promotion just so they can have a chance to not have to constantly be crowded & demons showing up on earth so often that theres even a group teleporter thats used enough to get broken all r just living rent free in my head at all times

[catsharky]

I'm sobbing and clawing at the screen begging Larian to just let my Tav give more hugs because so many of these characters need it.

WIP cause this is getting colours, I just like how the lines look

Edit: Colours

[shanastoryteller]

The boy with the demon blood is always watching him.

His gaze had been alternatingly reverent and despondent before Lucifer’s rise. After, it’s cold, appraising, and only when Dean isn’t looking. It reminds Castiel of the few times that Michael has set his eyes on him and it makes the place on the back of his back itch where his wings would be. Lucifer’s vessel should not remind him of Michael. It’s not right.

They’re sitting in a diner, a cup of coffee in front of him that he has no intention of drinking, Dean is in the bathroom, and Sam is staring at him again, lip pulled back just enough that Castiel can’t tell if it’s a grimace or a snarl. He is not well versed in humanity, but he wishes for this to stop. It’s distracting. “What is your problem?”

“You,” Sam says bluntly, which Castiel had not expected. “I don’t trust you.”

“Because your judgement in this area is without reproach,” he says, surprising himself. It’s just that Dean is predictable. Understandable. Sam is not. It’s frustrating.

That look on his face is almost a smile. “Exactly. I trusted you in the beginning. You’re an angel, a being of good, who brought my brother back to life. Why wouldn’t I?” He shakes his head, a faint look of disgust on his face that Castiel is used to seeing there.

He thought Sam’s self recrimination was wholly centered on his role in releasing Lucifer. He does not know what to do with the realization that some of it is directed towards him. “I am still all those things.”

“No,” Sam says. “You’re the good soldier who left my brother to rot. I tried to save him and couldn’t. I nearly destroyed myself doing it. You could have saved him and didn’t. You could have prevented all of this if you’d pulled him out before he broke the first seal. But you didn’t, and then you left him there for another ten years, letting Alistair sink his claws into him.” He leans forward. “My brother was only useful to you broken. I’m not going to forget that again.”

Anger rushes through him. Dean is often frustrating. Sam is infuriating. “I was following orders.”

He realizes too late that he’s only confirming Sam’s assertions. To his credit, he doesn’t appear at all satisfied with the admission. “That’s why you and Dean get along, you know. Two good little soldiers in a pod that rebelled too late and are suffering the consequences.”

Sam has not spoken of Dean like this, has not been anything but accommodating and sorrowful to his elder brother since killing Lilith. His description of their actions sounds too much like Lucifer for Castiel’s comfort. They’re nothing like him. It is Sam who is the devil’s foil. “What are you, then?”

“An idiot,” he says. “You and Ruby are the same, manipulating us both to start this stupid apocalypse. I know you let me out of the panic room, Castiel.”

He goes very still. There are several defenses available to him, but all only confirm Sam’s assertion that he’s a good little soldier that rebelled too late, that he was as Ruby. Perhaps this is where so much of Dean’s frustrations around his brother come from. He is not right, but it is difficult to find the words to prove him wrong.

“If you were going to try and deny it, that would have been the time to do it,” he says dryly. “If you hadn’t, the apocalypse would have been averted. I can’t kill Lilith if I’m dead and even if one of you had done it, it still wouldn’t matter. Lucifer can’t puppet a corpse. Over before it begins.”

Castiel means to choose his next words carefully. Instead, he says, “You have not told Dean.”

Sam shrugs, looking at the window, his eyes tightening in pain. “He needs something – someone – to hold onto right now. It can’t be me, so it’s you. But I’m watching you, Cas. Manipulate my brother again, and I’m not going to care how useful you are in averting the apocalypse or what it’ll do to Dean to lose faith again.”

“Why can it not be you?”

He looks over at him, startled. It’s nice to be able to be the one to put him off balance for once. “What?”

“Why can Dean not hold on to you?” he repeats. Despite every attempt from heaven and hell to prevent just that, it seems to him that Dean is holding onto his brother more tightly than ever.

Sam’s expression shuts down, but not before Castiel sees the tidal wave of grief there. “You didn’t know him before hell. You don’t know what you took from him by leaving him there.”

He’s back on uncertain territory. It’s the only kind he ever seems to be in with Sam. “Is he very different?”

Dean does not appear overly different from an outside perspective. His personality and priorities seem roughly the same as they were reported to be before hell. Traumatized, perhaps, but it’s not as if Dean is any stranger to that.

Sam laughs and Castiel flinches before he can think not to. “Our father’s words haunted him, you know. That he had to either save me or kill me. In some ways, selling his soul for me was a relief. Not only was it a complete rejection of that order, but it meant that if I did have to be killed one day, he wouldn’t be the one to do it. Not that he ever would, because people have tried to manipulate him into it before. Me included. So I guess you can take some sort of pride in it, being the one who succeeded.”

Castiel regrets starting this conversation. He thinks that Dean cannot possibly still be in the bathroom and wishes he would return. “You are not dead.”

“If you’d left me in the panic room,” Sam says. “I would be.”

That is likely true.

“It was perfect,” Sam says bitterly. “Me, strung out on withdrawal, alone and isolated and hallucinating and dying. Dean with all of his worst nightmares confirmed. Except he’s faced that before and it still didn’t end with me dead. He needed a push. He needed a way to save me or kill me that wouldn’t be his fault, his hands, that he could drink and hide from. And leaving me to detox alone in that room did that, gave him an out that he told himself he could live with.” He tilts his head, mocking and sharp, and Castiel would very much like to stop seeing Michael in Sam Winchester’s face. “But you never wanted me to actually detox. Not with Lilith still alive when I’d need years of training to be strong enough to kill her without it. You didn’t want me clean. You wanted me twisted so far around that I’d be easy to control.”

Zachariah had wanted that. Castiel hadn’t known. He was just following orders.

Dean might accept that explanation. Sam never will. He believes blindly following orders to be a weakness. It’s difficult to argue against it when he’s right. If Castiel had not followed orders he did not understand, they would not be here. But following orders is all he’s ever done.

“I should have known better,” Sam says. “That’s on me. Dean played his part too, but he’s got enough to deal with right now.”

“You intend to let him continue blaming you,” Castiel says. Dean’s mistrust and anger hurts him. It’s easy to see. Here he has the information to rid himself of it, at least partly, but he’s keeping it to himself.

His mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “It’s me or him. He went to hell for forty years for me. I can spare him this.”

Castiel tries to imagine Dean’s reaction if he uncovers how close he came to Sam’s permanent death, how it was something he chose and could have prevented and did not because of actions and assurances that Castiel gave him.

Sam is an abomination. He is, also, human, and no amount of demon blood down his throat is going to change that.  

“Before hell, Dean might have forced me to detox, but not alone,” Sam says softly. “He never would have left me to die alone.”

He searches for something safe to say, something to extricate himself from this conversation. What he settles on is, “You and Dean’s relationship confuses me.”

Sam laughs again. Castiel doesn’t flinch this time. “He pushes me to leave and then blames me when I do,” he says, exhaustion leaking into his words. Sam often looks tired. Castiel has never wasted time wondering precisely why. Perhaps he should have. “It never occurs to him that if he just stopped pushing, I’d stop leaving.”

A self fulfilling prophecy. The apocalypse was supposed to be like that, except that in the end heaven and hell had needed quite a lot of work to get it started. Destiny isn’t as easy as Castiel had been told it would be. “Why are you telling me this?”

It’s that cold, assessing glance again. Comparatively, it’s almost comforting now. It’s better than the grief. It must be exhausting, mourning a man who’s right in front of him. “So you know to watch yourself, Cas. I’m looking properly now. And I see you for exactly who you are.”

It’s not an idle threat, not from Lucifer’s vessel, not from the man who killed Lilith, but there’s a shiver down his spine that’s not quite fear. He’s a low ranking angel, all things considered. Like a god on earth, but celestially insignificant. He is to take orders, to follow his father’s will and his brothers’ guidance and never stray from this well trodden path.

No one has ever seen him before.

[inorheona]

hualian on my mind

[0nsyu-archive]

EVERY Stranger Than Heaven trailer detail (that I spotted). Many thanks to @risu5waffles for letting me bother her for a quote and to my voice actor SayersTheArtist!

TL;DW:

[superbat-lmao]

Jason is never brought back, and instead of being lost in the time stream, Bruce dies. And realizes there’s an afterlife.

(Given that Bruce knows magic is real it’s not that much of a leap to realize there’s an afterlife. Of course, the bigger realization for him was that he ended up in heaven of all places.)

Bruce gets to see his parents. He spends all of his time with them, getting to know them, explaining his life to them. They have all the time in the world and Bruce feels a sense of peace he hadn’t felt when he was alive. By the time he gets to explaining his children, actually getting to tell his parents that they have grandchildren, he realizes they’ve stopped talking.

The novelty still hasn’t worn off for them, for Bruce getting to have real conversations with them and for his parents actually getting to see their son again. It’s no surprise that it knocks the wind out of Bruce when he remembers. Remembers that he’s dead. That his son is dead. That it doesn’t seem like a bad thing anymore because it means he can finally see him again.

But his parents have a weird look on their faces. They had all pushed through the awkwardness, how Bruce wasn’t their little boy anymore but a stoic adult who has techniques for withstanding torture and lacks emotional vulnerability. How Bruce hadn’t gotten a chance to actually know Thomas and Martha beyond scattered society stories that painted a caricature of who he’s talking to now.

But when he realizes that Jason is here, Bruce lights up. He can finally see his son.

So he asks his parents how to visit Jason. His parents had mentioned spending time with their own parents, meeting family members from different generations, how eventually Bruce would get to meet them too, he knows they know how to navigate the afterlife. And he’s finally ready to learn.

When Bruce asks, Thomas excuses himself from the conversation. Says that there’s someone Bruce has to talk to and he needs to go get them.

Martha waits with him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Thomas comes back with a blonde woman that Bruce almost doesn’t recognize. She looks nothing like her picture in his files, or the one Jason kept on his desk.

Thomas and Martha give Bruce and Catherine space while they talk about Jason.

She explains how when Jason had first come to the afterlife, Thomas and Martha had reached out. How the four of them had talked, bonded, grown close. How it had taken Jason time to emotionally recover from his death, from the betrayal of his Mother. From what he felt was the betrayal of his Father.

Jason didn’t want to see him.

Catherine had tried to explain, but Bruce hadn’t been able to follow much of the conversation after that revelation.

His son, who Bruce had turned into a cautionary tale for his other children, who he had missed every single day, who he had grieved and torn himself apart over, didn’t want to see him. And Bruce deserved it. Had chosen to get into a helicopter and left him standing in the sand. Had buried him.

Catherine is far gentler about it than he deserves. Says that Jason loved him, was grateful for everything, but just wasn’t ready.

He would still agree to seeing Thomas and Martha, still saw them as his grandparents, but couldn’t handle seeing Bruce, even if he missed him. Dying didn’t fix everything, the afterlife wasn’t some solution to all of the problems people had when they were alive. The afterlife was just the ability to have more time. And people didn’t come back from what Jason went through easily. Catherine tells him in no uncertain terms that Bruce will have to regain Jason’s trust. If he actually is interested in getting to see him.

Bruce tells her he will do anything to see Jason again. She nods and tells him she’ll keep in touch.

So he waits.

And waits.

And sees his parents, his grandparents, his great grandparents.

And waits.

He waits so long that he sees Harvey.

He sees Talia.

He sees Alfred.

After that, the waiting doesn’t feel quite the same. After all, he eventually sees Dick, again.

Bruce spends his time in the afterlife waiting for his children, and he is both saddened and relieved when he finally gets to see them again.

Dick, thankfully, is first. Bruce is also thankful he had to wait so long to see him again.

Eventually, after long, long lives, they’re all back together. With some new additions. Bruce gets Tim and Damian and Cass and grandchildren and so many people he has missed. Selina visits on “Tuesdays” and eventually he has a new level of normal for his afterlife. Of getting to see his family, his friends.

Dick is the one that eventually tells him.

He doesn’t say much, exactly. Can’t tell him how he is or anything concrete, but he says that he’s seen Jason. That some of the others have also been to see him.

Bruce tries to respond, to have something to say to that, but he can’t. The afterlife isn’t painless, and there’s nothing he can say that won’t hurt whoever he says it to. So he nods at Dick, places his hand on his son’s shoulder, and lets it be.

If linear time existed in the afterlife, then Bruce could say he’d been here longer than he’d ever been alive. Long enough that even Clark stops by occasionally.

It’s rare for him to be alone now. If he wanted it, sought it out, there is always someone for him to be able to talk to, spend time with. But sometimes, if he wandered out a little too far, he could find a small brook he used to play in as a kid, before the West end of the property had dried up.

Here, his Father had “built” a small bridge over the brook. It was part of a footpath that traveled through this part of the afterlife. If he squinted, Bruce could pretend he saw the West wing of the manor, and in the other direction, the edge of Gotham proper.

Clark would have called him Huckleberry if he’d seen him, one leg dangling over the edge of the bridge, the other bent, lying on his back. He could pretend he felt the wood grain, or maybe even a splinter as he listened to the flow of the water. Bruce had closed his eyes, wondering if now that he was dead and the brook wasn’t dried up, if it had fish in it. If it was someplace he could take Dick fishing. He’d gotten it into his head recently that he wanted to try a bunch of father-son bonding activities with both of his dads, so Bruce and John had been making a list.

Between one second and the next, Bruce felt a presence next to him. You didn’t have to travel on foot in the afterlife, or stick to any sort of conventions from being alive really, it was more of a courtesy thing than anything else.

When Bruce opened his eyes, he expected to see Tim, who broke those sorts of conventions more frequently than his siblings. Bruce had a feeling it had something to do with the boy’s obsession with science fiction, but he also presumed it was because he knew Bruce really didn’t mind.

When he glanced up at his son, Bruce lost all pretense of maintaining the “body” that was lying on the bridge. He would have said his heart stopped if he’d still had one. As it was, blinking, breathing, any of the processes that emulated life that people unconsciously maintained here, stopped.

Jason wasn’t even looking at him and Bruce couldn’t take his eyes off his son’s face, unwilling to jeopardize whatever this was.

He looked older, his jawline more defined and he sat taller, legs dangling off the bridge. Age was a funny thing in the afterlife, you could control how you appeared to others, but your mental state usually drew you towards a particular age. For his children, they mostly appeared in their 20s. Bruce kept himself in his 30s or 40s, unless his parents asked. Jason, if Bruce had to guess, was about 20, maybe 22 at the oldest.

When Jason finally looked over at him, he remembered how to breathe. He tried to clear his throat, to think of something to say, to tell Jason how much he missed him, how much he loved him, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. And then he was talking.

“Alfred said that what happened to me was a tragedy. Dick called it a nightmare. At first, Mom didn’t know how to talk about it since being a vigilante was hard for her to picture. She still doesn’t really get it, but I can’t exactly blame her. We led pretty odd lives for a while there.”

“I’ve met Tim and Damian and Cass, you know? Met their partners, their children. They’ve told me a few stories. How some cases went, missions with the League. Their own hero teams. I think Tim was the most excited to talk to me, not so sure about the others.”

“You’ve still got Alfred in your corner, although it’s odd seeing Dick argue for you. One thing about this place is that your memories don’t stay fuzzy or nothing, so all those fights you guys had? Crystal clear. Actually thought he’d take a swing at me once, not that it’d do anything. Still, glad you guys ended up figuring it out and all.”

“Mom said she came to see you when you got here. I’m assuming that’s why I haven’t seen you, although that’s a surprise too, you actually listening when someone asks you not to do something. The way the others talk about you I’d think you became Big Brother after I left. Worse than Babs even.”

“I’ve tried thinking about it. I mean, it’s been years since it happened and all but. I still don’t know what there is to say. Everyone’s been trying to convince me that you’d actually want. Well, that you’d want to see me. Talk or something.”

“But I know what I did. What happened. It’s why I left, I knew that you didn’t. That you wouldn’t ask me to leave, but that. You didn’t want me to stay.”

As he’d talked, Jason’s gaze had drifted back towards the water below them. His tone, retrospective and light, changed. Accusatory.

“It’s fucked up that you kept the suit, Bruce. No one wanted to admit it, but I know about the case. At least it meant I knew what you wanted was Robin, you enshrined the damn thing. So, yeah. I took off. Not like it worked out much better but it’s too late now. I don’t know what you want me to say. I figured dying would at least get me out of the lecture but I can’t even have that now.”

“So. Tell Dick this is me paying back that favor I owed him. Or whatever, I don’t really care. But everyone can stop coming around and all. I’ve said what I wanted to. I’ll hear you out and then I say we’re square.”

Jason had been looking away from him still, but when he got to the end of what was likely a prepared speech, he finally looked at Bruce. His face went slack in surprise. Bruce could have laughed at the expression if he wasn’t already crying.

“Jason. You are my son, even if,” Bruce took a breath. “Even if you don’t see me as your father. I never would have asked you to leave because I never wanted you to go. I can’t imagine- I love you. I have missed you every day since I lost you. I did not handle loosing you well. I understand that you’re upset and I think there’s a lot we should talk about. Even- especially if it’s going to be difficult. I am so sorry, Jason. None of it was your fault - it was mine. Please. Please let me try to- I don’t want to lose you again.”

[genericpuff]

he doesn't know yet tho b/c this meme is from the future, don't spoil

[moonsvillain]

have been toying with the idea of an au wherein shen jiu, after burning down the qiu household and running away, comes across xie lian rather than wu yanzi poaching him immediately afterwards:

i'd imagine in this verse he runs away to town rather than immediately being found in the aftermath of what he's done. at this point, shen jiu would be too paranoid to consider reaching out for directions to cang qiong mountain even if he wanted to make it there: what if they knew what he did? or figured it out if he did know? (if he even had the mind to think of these things through his panic)

he doesn't want to end up begging on the streets again, though—too alike his childhood and last time he was in that position, shen jiu ended up with the qius in the first place

so he takes refuge in temples that he comes across, stealing food when he can before moving to a different part of the rather large town he's ended up in so there's no clear pattern of when he shows up at whichever food stall

despite not holding that same respect and unwavering belief in gods (how could he, after everything he's gone through? shouldn't they have stepped in, sometime? what god would let him suffer as he did, separating him from the only person he loved?) he knows better than to try them, and begrudgingly thanks them for the shelter (because this he did appreciate, at the very least, if nothing else)

winter hits hard when it does, and shen jiu, after spending so many years in the qiu household, forgot how the cold seeps into your skin and bones without solid walls to keep out the frigid breeze.

he quickly falls ill with nothing to protect him from the elements but his threadbare clothing, and when he grows ill, he becomes slow. shen jiu nearly gets caught stealing, running away before he can be dragged to a town guard for his offence, but earning himself a nasty wound to his leg as he retreated

sickness + the cold + the wound leave him weak and wanting: missing qi-ge, reminiscing on nights where they'd curl up together for warmth, still cold but not alone, the two of them steady against the storm that raged on ahead of them

fever-ridden and teetering close to death, shen jiu wanders into a temple late at night and sinks to his knees, falling to his side, heart-rate slowing. in his delirium, he misses the figure taking shelter from the storm in the corner, watching him

shen jiu wakes up (he doesn't expect to), warm while he hears the wind whistle. he's still in that temple from earlier, but it's considerably... cozier. a small fire warms the inside and his clothes aren't as damp against his cold skin. his fever's broken, too—he doesn't know how long it's been, but he's glad he didn't die: never realized that he wanted to live until he was close to forfeiting his right to

here is where he meets his accidental saviour: xie lian stood over a slowly bubbling pot of stew that smells heavenly to shen jiu—he'd eat just about anything at this point, starved

his immediate distrust of xie lian stops him from being truly excited about his appearance

their relationship is veryyy shaky at the very beginning: shen jiu refuses to trust him and xie lian refuses to abandon this strange child he found on the verge of death

(there's a strange sort of bond built up when you nurse someone back to life, dragging them away from the brink of death and xie lian isn't interested, but he's curious about this kid who stumbled into his temple at the dead of night on a midnight in winter)

shen jiu's torn between distrust and this desire for company he didn't know he possessed; after being alone with no one but the qiu household [before he went on his massacre] he didn't realized how much he wanted to share space with someone who wasn't actively hurting him until he was afforded the opportunity to experience non-violent company with xie lian

his distrust slowly declines when he finds out that xie lian is a cultivator. despite being arguably too old to learn cultivation to the fullest extent he could have if he started a few years earlier, he still desperately wants to learn

xie lian, perceptive as ever, slowly starts teaching him bits and pieces of the basics, teaches him to meditate, takes care to keep his distance when it looks like shen jiu's getting overwhelmed

shen jiu can't help but get attached. he hates it

shen jiu decides to test xie lian before resigning himself to this

he was snappy, impatient, and argued with xie lian, when he came over, one day, waiting for some form of punishment to come, bristling like a spooked cat.

nothing came of his experiment but a slight frown from xie lian, which made shen jiu feel almost bad—xie lian almost reminded him of qi-ge, which made him feel doubly bad because he desperately wants to find him

shen jiu came to xie lian the next day with a pastry [that he stole] as an apology. and a request:

"teach me how to cultivate so i can be a disciple at the cang qiong sect"

xie lian agrees easily enough: he's been around shen jiu to see that despite the late start, he has potential to be great [especially untouched by wu yanzi and his twisted form of cultivation]

shen jiu throws himself into his studies, working himself to the bone

xie lian is concerned by this and after trying to soften the load of his work doesn't make shen jiu slow down, he becomes stern: warns him against trying to chase too much frivolously

this leads to a breakdown of sorts—where shen jiu gets angry, dismissive, before becoming upset. the average emotional depth of a teenager but, like, 4 times worse because of the circumstances

xie lian coaxes the story out of shen jiu here; qi-ge [the first time he's mentioned aloud by name], the qiu household [only the barest of details. shen jiu refuses to dwell], and the night shen jiu made qi-ge leave, as well as qi-ge's promise to come back

shen jiu finishes by telling xie lian he needs to make it back to qi-ge, needs to see if he's still alive, he's been selfish for sticking around as long

shen jiu tells xie lian that he needs to figure out as much as he can, as fast as he can, so he can leave and make his way to cang qiong mountain with some sort of base knowledge to make it in. and that he's not sorry for pushing himself because he doesn't have time

xie lian is quiet for a while

puts a comforting hand on shen jiu's shoulder and tells him he understands; he knows someone who would do anything to make it back to the one they loved, understands the pain that comes when time and distance separates the two

however, xie lian tells him, he can't let shen jiu push himself. he'll only stunt his progress by hurting himself rather than speed things up

shen jiu is ready to argue again before xie lian offers to make the trip with him

shen jiu doesn't believe it at first—who would bother with helping him for this long if they weren't getting anything out of it? he already found this hard to believe, let alone the fact that xie lian would drop everything to travel with him for weeks on end

xie lian doesn't shake in his resolve, though. shen jiu figures out he's being serious and wants to argue, but he's just—relieved

so many people have stood as roadblocks on his path back to qi-ge; xie lian might be the first person actively trying to help them

it almost reignites hope in him; someone other than him believes in them. someone other than shen jiu thinks they'll make it back to each other and succeed in reuniting. xie lian's faith in him is like a gust of wind beneath his wings

he agrees to their road trip

[xie lian makes sure to tell his beloved he'll be away for a while]

[shen jiu doesn't notice that xie lian buys steamed buns off the same stranger in nearly every town they stop by for a night of rest in the following few weeks]

[xie lian notices, years later, when shen qingqiu doesn't recognize him upon their first meeting in decades. shen yuan doesn't know xie lian, but xie lian knows this isn't shen jiu, anymore]