#please do pass this on if you feel inclined. i'm looking to get like. survey reach. y'know.

[knifearo]

aspecs: i've been thinking a lot lately about the "ace people can still have sex in a relationship/aro people can still be in romantic relationships" sentiment and the logistics of being aspec in relationships in general. obviously, the predominant sentiment is that you should be able to have a relationship where the other person will be happy without having sex/being romantic with you. if you feel comfortable sharing in tags/replies/reblogs/asks/whatever, though, i'd really like to hear people's experiences with sex/romance in relationships as an ace/aro person. have you found it generally possible to have a relationship with an allo person when you're ace and don't want to engage in sex? what are people's experiences being aro and being in relationships (labeled romantic or otherwise) with alloros? reblogging for reach is appreciated and any related experiences you feel comfortable sharing are completely welcome <2

[besanii]

I'm really curious about lwj meeting a-yuan. I mean, they met in the past, will lwj recognize him? Will he finally learn about wwx's involvement with the eyes of god?

There is a young man sitting by the bed with Wei Wuxian’s wrist between his fingers when Lan Wangji enters the room. His first thought is danger—they may be married now, but there are still those who oppose the union, and Wei Wuxian’s presence in his life, both socially and politically—and he immediately shifts to a more guarded stance: shoulders back, feet planted, eyes focused on the stranger in such close proximity with his consort. But then Wei Wuxian laughs quietly and shakes his head fondly and the fear eases enough to allow the tension to bleed from his person as he takes another step into the room.

Wei Wuxian spots him first, over his visitor’s shoulder, and his smile widens with delight.

“Lan Zhan, you’re home,” he says, beckoning him closer with his free hand. “Come, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

It is easy to be swept up in the moment when Wei Wuxian is brimming with joy; Lan Wangji had always been helpless against it when they were youths, even more so now that they are married. There is nothing he would deny him—could deny him—if it means bringing Wei Wuxian joy. He’s already walking forward, reaching out to take his hand without a thought, brushing his lips over his knuckles tenderly. The casual display of affection never fails to bring colour to Wei Wuxian’s cheeks, a fact that Lan Wangji has learned only very recently and resolved to utilise as often as possible.

“Wei Ying,” he murmurs. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better,” Wei Wuxian says, slightly breathless. He clears his throat and gestures for Lan Wangji to take a seat beside him on the bed. “Lan Zhan, this is A-Yuan. He is…an old friend.”

The young man slips off the stool by the bed and sinks to his knees, clasping his hands in front of him in a formal bow.

“Wen Yuan greets Hanguang-wangye,” he says.

Lan Wangji stiffens. “Wen?”

Wei Wuxian squeezes his hand and gives a tiny shake of the head as Wen Yuan continues.

“Please be assured that I mean you no harm, Wangye,” he says. He lifts his head to allow Lan Wangji a proper look at his face; his eyes are bright and clear, no hint of deception in them that he can see. “My bogong was Yiling-hou, Wen Ruoheng.”

Wen Ruoheng, the Marquess of Yiling, Wen Ruohan’s younger cousin. From memory, Wen Ruoheng had not been a major participant in the war, choosing instead to remain neutral for as long as possible before Wen Ruohan had strong-armed him into obeying. Even then, Lan Wangji had known the man to be nothing but honourable to friend and foe alike and had held great respect for him until Jin Guangshan had ordered his execution before anyone had had the chance to defend him.

That his line had survived the genocide that followed the war and is here in this room with Wei Wuxian…it was difficult to believe. He catches Wei Wuxian’s look of concern out of the corner of his eye and pats his hand reassuringly; he motions for Wen Yuan to rise.

“How did you come to be here?” he asks. “According to the reports from Lanling Jin back then, Jin Zixun had left no survivors.”

At the mention of Jin Zixun, both Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan’s expressions darken. The man has been dead for almost ten years now, but it seems their hatred of him has not lessened in the slightest. Lan Wangji had had very few dealings with him before his death, most of their interactions had been perfunctory at best—formal greetings at state banquets that had little value to them outside of social niceties—but he had witnessed a few of his more…unsavoury characteristics in the aftermath of the war.

“We left Yiling when I was very young,” Wen Yuan explains. “My father was the younger son of a concubine. He was never really favoured and didn’t have an affinity for the military arts, so after I was born, he took my mother and I to Chongyang. We lived as peasants, as doctors, along with members of other branches of the Wen clan.”

The smile on Wei Wuxian’s face turns wistful.

“That’s where we met,” he tells Lan Wangji. “ I stumbled across their settlement while out surveying the farmlands with my parents. A-Yuan was only three then. I must have been about ten or so, but he liked to follow me everywhere like a little duckling!”

The thought of a ten-year-old Wei Wuxian, still yet to outgrow the baby fat on his cheeks, with an even younger child clutching the hem of his robes, brings a soft smile to Lan Wangji’s face. He glances over at Wei Wuxian when he feels a weight against his shoulder as he tucks himself against Lan Wangji’s side; his heart skips a beat, as it unfailingly does every time Wei Wuxian welcomes his touch, and his ears heat.

Wen Yuan ducks his head politely to hide his own smile.

“Xian-gege would come to visit us quite often while we were growing up,” he says. “He even had me enrolled in school when I was old enough, and personally taught me how to use a sword. He taught me everything I know. I owe my whole life to him.”

“Ah, that’s an exaggeration,” Wei Wuxian says, embarrassed. “I did what I could, but the rest was all you, A-Yuan.”

“Without Xian-gege, A-Yuan would not be alive today,” Wen Yuan insists. “I pledged my life to your service once before and I’ll do it again. I’m not a child anymore, Xian-gege. You can’t stop me.”

Wei Wuxian laughs helplessly in the face of his determination, but Lan Wangji can see the pleasure and fondness in his eyes. He does not yet know the full extent of their history, but he is grateful nonetheless to see Wen Yuan’s unwavering devotion to Wei Wuxian. He beckons for him to rise and resume his seat by the bed.

“Wen Yuan,” he says, once the younger man is settled. “You said you owed Wei Ying your life. What happened?”

Something unspoken passes between Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian as they exchange glances; although he does not pull away, Wei Wuxian sits up straighter and lifts his head from Lan Wangji’s shoulder, his grey eyes somber. But it is Wen Yuan who speaks, his words careful and measured.

“When the war broke out, my family was still in Chongyang,” he says. “Anti-Wen sentiments were growing stronger by the day, and we were only a very small settlement. Bogong insisted we move back to Yiling, where he could protect us. But not everyone could go—those who were too old, too weak to travel. In the end, only a handful of people decided to leave. My parents and I stayed behind with the rest.”

His hands curl into fists in his lap.

“We stayed for as long as we could,” he continues, staring at his lap. “And Xian-gege helped as much as he was able: getting us food, speaking up for us when others wanted to use us against Qishan, protecting us against people who tried to take their anger and hatred of the Wen out on us. But he couldn’t protect all of us, not forever.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes drift closed as if in pain, and Lan Wangji’s arm tightens around his waist comfortingly; Wen Yuan continues speaking, his eyes distant and unseeing.

“My parents begged him to take me away, to keep me safe. But then…not even a few months later, a mob attacked our settlement in the middle of the night and burned it to the ground.” A chill runs down Lan Wangji’s spine as he raises his head to meet his eyes. “There were no survivors.”

The look in his eyes is familiar—Lan Wangji has seen it in his own reflection, in Wei Wuxian’s, and in the faces of countless others, both during and after the war. Haunted by ghosts and shadows, struggling to piece together fragments of their old lives. He inclines his head, a gesture of empathy that Wen Yuan accepts with a nod of his own before he continues.

“Xian-gege kept me by his side, told everyone I was his protege, that he was training me to be a soldier. That way, no one would question who I was, or try to hurt me.” He looks to Wei Wuxian then, guilt and regret warring on his face. “I was not in Yunmeng when it fell. I—I wasn’t there to protect you, Xian-gege. I’m sorry.”

Wen Yuan slides from the seat and onto his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. Wei Wuxian exhales around an aborted noise of protest, his lower lip trembling as his eyes grow wet.

“No, it wasn’t your fault, A-Yuan,” he says, voice choked by his tone fierce. “No one could have known what would happen. You were only doing what I had told you to do. It’s not your fault.”

It is an old argument, Lan Wangji surmises from the way they speak. An old argument that has been going on for years, best left to the people involved for a resolution. He strokes his thumb over Wei Wuxian’s hip, grounding him with his touch.

“Where have you been since the war?” he asks instead. It successfully cuts through the silent argument between the other two, and Wen Yuan turns his attention back to Lan Wangji.

“Travelling, Wangye,” he says. “Doing my part to aid survivors. Searching for…”

He breaks off with a questioning look at Wei Wuxian, who turns also to Lan Wangji and takes hold of his hands.

“Lan Zhan,” he says. “I told you I had been taken prisoner after Yunmeng fell. Do you remember?”

Lan Wangji nods, his whole body going rigid at the memory. Wei Wuxian hesitates, looking down at their hands before he takes a deep, shuddering breath and meets his eyes again.

“I haven’t told you everything,” he confesses quietly.

Notes:

Yiling-hou (夷陵侯) - Marquess of Yiling, Wen Ruoheng (温若恒)

Yet another OC - think of him as like a nice version of Wen Ruohan. In canon, Wen Qing and Wen Ning are children of WRH’s favourite younger cousin and A-Yuan is the son of one of their other cousins (Wen Ning mentions that A-Yuan looks like his 堂弟 - a younger male cousin on his father’s side - and I’ve taken this to mean he is Wen Yuan’s father).

bogong (伯公) - great-uncle (father’s father’s older brother)

// buy me a ko-fi //

Master Post is here

[thymes-gnu-rowman]

Hihi

this is my first longer story I’ve posted here,

so please give it a look if you’d like :0

it’s about a butler and his weird employer,

!!!constructive criticism and ideas are always appreciated!!!

Butlery

Chapter 1:

“Hey Hae...!!” came the gleeful cajole from his employer.

“Very funny,” he mused, continuing to wipe the dirty countertops from dinner preperation. A total of two faux-marble countertops. He wouldn’t be prone to joviality when he’d been jobhunting the whole week without prospects of hire.

“I have an important question for you.’ Abraham hummed, placing a hand on his butler’s back. Hae assumed a more proper posture and looked up at the childish tall man.

His employer was a large, dark man, juvenile and gleeful, and had a penchant for 90’s fashions. As he flicked the yin-yang symbol that dangled from his left ear, he hummed awaiting the attention of the smaller man.

Hae adjusted the bow-tie on his neck, feeling the formal attire was unnecessary for the caliber of his job...and its surroundings. Putting down the rag. He pulled down the sleeves of his grey dress shirt, then adjusted the hem of his charcoal vest. A final dusting of whatever nonsense may have appeared in his dark semi-combed hair appeased him and then he shortly bowed to his employer.

“Please ask away, Sir.”

Abraham frowned.

“I told you, don’t call me Sir.”

A note of remembrance flashed behind Hae’s eyes. Abraham had asked him to not call him that. He mentioned he preferred Abe.

“Pardon me, Abe,” slipped from his lips. He nearly smiled at the informality. None of his previous employers had ever been so lax.

“Abe works. I was thinking Master, but that’s ok too,” Abe mused, totally serious.

Anything that might’ve inclined Hae to smile had flown out the window.

“I wanted to ask,” Abe began as he picked at his fade with a squat metal-toothed comb, “if you’d like to make this a permanent position.”

Surprise sprinted over Hae’s visage, a mere flick of his thick brows.

“I thought this was only for the week?” he asked, but internally was enthralled because it was the first prospect of a steady job he’d had in nearly a year. Not many in East Alemand had need for or could afford a butler, the only job he was qualified for besides Burger King and he couldn’t afford to move.

“I like not having to pick up after myself,” Abe deadpanned. “WIll you consider it?”

“I’m in,” Hae agreed immediately. He disliked sounding so desperate, but why hide the truth? And despite Abe’s modest living, he paid decently. He had his character flaws, sure, but he’d be willing to deal with a semi-slob if he’d be paying his wages. Though a butler, he wasn’t that much of a neat freak.

“Great, man. You can bring your stuff over tomorrow. Before you go, could you make me some more of those rice buns you brought yesterday? I’ll need them for work.”

Hae, shocked at the change in topic. Problem one solved, and he’d finally be able to get out of that cheap motel in Midtown Alemand, not the greatest of places to be residing, and be able to save up his cash. He nodded slowly, intrigued at Abe’s interest in his baking. Abe had touched only one of the gyoung dan he brought as a final plea, but now he wanted more. It hadn't seemed like he had liked them all that much, but Hae did as requested. It beat having to fold the laundry. With a sigh he collected the ingredients he knew would cause a mess in the room he’d just finished cleaning.

————

Fighting for his life once more, in some predicament that was entirely his own doing, in a vaguely familiar land, sand encrusted and mountainous.

“Irresponsible,” the word echoed out across the hills from everywhere and nowhere as he gazed at his attacker.

Remorseless eyes smirked mirthfully in response, as glinting crimson blades effortlessly shredded the skin of his abdomen, his arms, his legs, drawing ribbons of red that whipped in the duststorm.

“Eternally, you are mine,” the beast chortled, and the whole of the craggy plane erupted in-

FIRE

----

“Sweet dreams are made of this-

Who am I to disagree?

I traveled the world-”

The music ceased as Hae tapped at the screen of his phone.

He knew he should’ve been more eager to get a move on on his first day of the job offer he’d be longing for, but the gyoung dan had taken him longer because he flubbed up the recipe the first time so he was super tired. He maybe got 5 hours of sleep, which was not nearly enough for him, but he’d functioned on less so he slunk out of bed and double checked his luggage. When he was sure everything was packed, he took a final look around the room, searching under the bed and near the window to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He found some important stuff he really needed to keep hold of, and shoved the important paperwork into his luggage, and the dense object into the pocket of his shoulderbag.

He got the small dufflebag containing his toiletries and headed to the bathroom. He hastily showered, dried, brushed, and changed so he could be on time, and grabbed a gronola bar from the front desk’s “continental breakfast”, grey luggage and duffle in tow. He hopped in his father’s mid-size, and drove to what he hoped could be a new home. At a redlight he noticed the mess of black strands his hair was and hastily tried to pat it down. It technically wasn’t his first day but he still wanted to make a good impression. He nearly missed the green light when he finished. This was the one time he almost wished someone was behind him honking loudly to set him back on track.

He arrived just on time, ringing the doorbell two minutes before 7.

Nearly ten minutes passed during which he alternatingly knocked and rang the bell, before he stepped off the concrete porch and peered around the corner. Pulling his bags over the patchy lawn he went around to the back of the house. This was his ticket to a home. Tugging the bag through some bushes, he regretted not getting Abe’s number. When at the back of the house he gaped at thedestruction. A huge hole yawned at him from the middle of the lawn. Immediately he wondered what creature could've made something like that.

It was scraggly and messy and oblong, but as he approached it a pile of dirt immediately coated him.

He sputtered loudly, dropping his suitcase and clawing at what felt like ants crawling down his shirt.

“Hae!” Abe's voice called from within the hole.

Sure enough as have peered over the edge, there was Abe nearly eight feet in the ground. Attired in a black tank top, long gray cargo shorts, and bare feet. He was covered in mud and brambles, and rather deep looking gashes, and he looked tired, eyes red and forming bags, hair a frizzy mess. Yet, his voice sounded energetic as it always did.

“Oi! What happened to you? You're a mess!”

“You're one to talk,” Hae grumbled under his breath but didn't have the nerve to roll his eyes on the first day. He'd been fired for pettier reasons. “Well anyway, when you finish putting your stuff away and get cleaned up, could you take over filling up this gardening plot I'm putting in?”

Hae wondered why he dug so deep for a gardening plot only to needy to refil it. Also why he was digging if he was trying to fill it up. He nodded anyway.

“Will I be in the guest room ?” He asked.

Abe paused mid-shovel and placed an arm behind his head.

“Oh yeah… um... I guess. Sorry. I didn't really get it ready though…”

Hae shrugged and proceeded surveying his surroundings. The shoddy garden door, basically a thin green piece of plywood, welcomed him, swinging merrily in the breeze, and rapping at the side of the lanky brick house as if tapping out hello in Morse.

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