#should I start writing posts about books?

[suguwu]

WOULD THAT I: PROLOGUE

The Gojo boy doesn't have a soulmate.

When you're both children, you overhear him being referred to as inhuman, between his power and his lack of a mark. The next time you see him, you use a marker to write your name on his skin, too young to understand what it means.

You forget, but Gojo—

Gojo never does.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

masterlist

pairing: gn!reader x gojo

wc: 2.6k

notes: thank you to my beta, as always! especially for putting up with my bratty ass and reading this early so i could post it earlier. this has been a fun fic to get started and i hope you enjoy the prologue!

content warnings: none. see masterlist for series content warnings.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate.

You don’t think you’re supposed to know; it’s only ever talked about in hushed voices. The clans all speak like that, sometimes, each word a butterfly’s wing as it flutters from their mouths.

The servants, however, are louder.

One of them has a voice like a lark, a sweet, trilling song. It carries. You learn to hear her coming, to recognize her shadow against the shoji. You know the edges of her by heart. Sometimes she spreads her arms out as she makes her way through the hallway; her kimono sleeves flare out behind her like wings. 

“There’s something wrong with the Gojo heir,” she sings one afternoon, her fluting voice half-muffled by the shoji. “Those eyes of his—it’s like he can see right through you. And Fujioka says he doesn’t have a soulmark.” 

Another servant hushes her. “Don’t gossip,” she chides. 

“It’s true, though!”

“That doesn’t mean you should repeat it.” 

She huffs, grumbling something too soft for you to hear anything aside from the melody of it. The other servant laughs quietly before chivvying her forward. You watch until their shadows disappear, leaving only the hallway light to filter golden through the shoji. 

You return to your coloring book.

The Gojo boy doesn’t have a soulmate, but that doesn’t mean anything to you.

Not yet. 

—

There’s a boy in the courtyard.

He’s hopping from stone to stone in the koi pond, his snow-white hair glittering under the morning sun. He moves like a dancer, each step sure and swift, never once slipping on the wet rock. When he gets to the biggest rock in the pond, he crouches down, his back to you, and drags his fingers over the surface of the water. The koi rise to meet him, firework scales flashing in the sun. 

You watch him from the engawa, peeking out at him from behind one of the columns. You’ve never seen him before, and you’d remember him, with his starlight hair. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, not turning around.

You stay quiet.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “You can’t hide from me.”

He glances over his shoulder and the world goes blue.

It’s the cold burn of a comet’s tail streaking through the velvet night. It’s oceantide, relentless and unyielding. It’s a slice of the sky brought down to earth, heaven devoured.

Then he blinks, and he’s just a boy again. 

“Who’re you?” you ask, stepping to the edge of the engawa. 

He lifts his chin. “I asked you first.”

You introduce yourself the way your mother taught you, bowing to him shallowly. 

He scoffs. “You’re not even from the main clan.”

“Are you?”

“I’m not part of your stupid clan.”

“Oh.”

He stares at you, his crystalline eyes sharp-edged, all prismatic ice. “You don’t know who I am?”

“Nope.”

He rises to his full height, unfolding like an elegant crane. “I’m Gojo Satoru.” 

You tilt your head. The servants’ humming gossip made the Gojo heir sound ethereal, a fallen star that had burned away into human form as it plummeted through the heavens. His eyes are otherworldly, and you can feel the power rippling out from his lean form, as unstoppable as the tides, but—

“You’re just a boy,” you say. 

He scowls. “Am not.”

“Are too.” 

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he says again, deeper this time, an intonation, a promise, a curse. His eyes flash, St. Elmo’s fire, a lightning strike of blue. “I have the Limitless and the Six Eyes. I’m not just a boy.”

You would believe him, but the last bit sounded more sulky than anything else. You’re about to tell him so when someone calls your name. You glance over your shoulder, but there are no shadows against the shoji yet.

When you turn back around, there are wet patches shining on the stones in the koi pond, an imprint of the past, but nothing else.

The Gojo boy is gone.

—

Your mother is hovering. 

She smooths down your yukata, chasing creases from the thin cotton with trembling hands. There hadn’t been time to change; she’d pulled you out of your lessons and hurried you down the hallways of the estate. 

“Bow low when you meet him,” she tells you, though she hasn’t bothered to tell you who ‘he’ is. “Understand?”

You nod. 

There’s a fine layer of sweat gleaming at your mother’s nape as she kneels before the shoji. She reaches out to open it; her kimono sleeve slips down, revealing the elegant curve of her wrist. You focus there instead of the opening shoji, the slow slide of it a hissing snake, coiled to bite.

The shoji clicks, a chime of teeth, its maw wide open. You take in a deep breath and step through, your gaze on the tatami mats. Someone shifts.

“Oh, it’s you.”

You glance up, directly into the gaze of Gojo Satoru. His eyes are as otherworldly as you remember, a crisp, clear blue framed in long lashes, like a snowy-edged mountain lake. He tilts his head as you gape, his hair gleaming bone-white in the sun streaming through the open shoji. 

You blink. “What’re you doing here?” you ask, and next to you, your mother hisses in a low, sharp breath. 

Gojo shrugs. “Dunno. The clan said I had to come and they caught me when I snuck out.”

The woman behind Gojo clears her throat. “Gojo-sama,” she says, her voice like the shivering leaves when the summer breeze stirs to life, “they’re a candidate for you to train with.” 

He eyes you. “Why?” he asks. “They’re not very strong.”

“Hey!” 

“You aren’t, though,” he says. “I can tell.”

You throw yourself at him.

His eyes widen, a devouring sea, and he grunts as you make impact. He’s sturdier than you thought; he’s slight, but it’s all lean muscle, even though he can’t be much older than you are. Your mother calls out your name, horrified, but Gojo is already recovering, grappling with you for control. 

By the time the adults pull you apart, Gojo is nursing a rapidly-purpling mark high on his cheekbone. Your split lip aches; you tongue at it and wince. You can taste blood, sour and metallic. You glare at Gojo even as your mother bows deeply to the woman.

“My deepest apologies,” she says, tightening her grip on the sleeve of your yukata and forcing you to bow with her. “I don’t know what came over them.”

The woman clicks her tongue. “The child should be punished,” she says, and your mother stiffens. “I would suggest—”

“No.” 

Everyone looks at Gojo. He thumbs at a rip in his kimono, grinning widely. It bares his teeth. 

“I’ll train with them,” he says.

“Gojo-sama—”

“I said I’d train with them. Now can we go? I want a popsicle.” 

The woman sighs. “Yes, Gojo-sama.” 

Gojo sweeps by you and your mother. He pauses right next to you. “You’re weak,” he tells you, ignoring the way you bristle, “but at least you’re fun.”  

He’s out the shoji before you can respond.

—

Summer settles over Kyoto, a wet lick of heat. Even the wind seems to feel it; it ripples honey-slow through the trees, barely strong enough to stir the air. Frogs move into the koi pond in the courtyard; they sing along with the cicadas’ sawing choir. 

“Catch it!” Gojo shouts as your hands spear through the murky pond water. It gushes free from between your fingers as you come up empty-handed, the frog you were aiming for frantically disappearing further below the surface. “You’re so slow.”

“Am not!”

“Are too,” he counters, holding out his cupped hands. A plaintive ribbit sounds out from between them. “I already caught one. It was easy.”

“You’re annoying.”

He stares at you, his blue eyes icy. “You’re annoying.”  

“You’re the one who came over.”

He rolls his eyes. “We train at your estate.”

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come we train here? Your estate is probably better.”

He shrugs, opening his hands enough to peer down at the frog. It glistens in the sunlight, the same deep green as the lush courtyard. It makes a break for freedom; he closes his hands again, his long fingers sewing the gap shut. “I like it better here.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Why?”

“I just do,” he says, voice flat.

You don’t ask again.

—

“Why are we here?”

Gojo blinks, his long white lashes sweeping over the sweet curve of his cheek. “Why are you whispering?”

Your cheeks heat. The Gojo estate is a sprawling, massive maw; you’ve felt devoured ever since you set foot in it. Even the golden light that slants through the shoji feels cold. There are ikebana arrangements lining the halls, the leggy, deep purple irises sculptural as they rise proudly from the vases, but it still feels like a mausoleum. 

“We’ve just never trained here before,” you say, taking care to use your regular voice. “So why are we here now?”

He shrugs. “They insisted.”

“Who?”

He dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, his long pianist’s fingers cutting through the air. You roll your eyes, long used to his occasionally imperious ways. The two of you continue along the hallways, you trailing after him closely, as if caught in his gravity, an orbiting moon. 

You almost run into him when he comes to a sudden halt. You peek around him—in the last few months, he’s gone through a growth spurt, one that your mother says will come when you’re his age, and he’s too tall to peer over his shoulder—and see a servant bowing low, her ebony hair glinting.

“Gojo-sama,” she says. “Please follow me. The elders are waiting.”

He sighs, a dramatic heave of his chest. “What do they want?”

“They didn’t specify.”

“Ugh.”

“Gojo-sama—”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says. “Go tell those geezers I’ll be there soon.” 

You wince right along with the servant. Gojo’s disdain for the elders is not new, but it still unnerves you every time, as if they will come along and smite you down. 

“C’mon,” Gojo says to you. “Let’s get it over with.”

The servant clears her throat. “Only you, Gojo-sama.”

He glares, his blue eyes burning, a comet streaking through the sky. “No,” he says. “They’re coming.”

“They cannot.”

“I said they’re coming.” 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, eyes wide. “Really.” 

Gojo looks back at you. For a second, his mouth is a wound, tender and pink, but in the next breath, it’s gone, frozen under a layer of ice.

“Fine.” 

You bite your lip, but he’s already walking away. You catch yourself before you reach for him. He disappears down the hallway, his hair glinting like exposed bone.

The servant turns to you. “This way,” she says, her voice perfectly neutral.

You follow her to an empty room; she slides the shoji shut behind herself as you settle onto the cushion at the chabudai. You gaze around the room. There’s not much to take in; it’s wealthy in a subdued way. You fidget with the hem of your sleeve and then get to your feet.

You slide open the shoji leading out to the engawa; it opens onto a huge, lush courtyard. The plush flowers are weighted down by their own blooms, their stems curving like a dancer’s back. A shishi-odoshi rings out with a hollow thud; a few songbirds scatter, their wings rustling like leaves as they soar towards the sky. 

You step out onto the engawa. It’s still early enough that the sun slants onto the wood, warming it. You sit down and bask in it, tilting your face up for the sun’s sweet kiss. You lay back, your eyes fluttering shut.

A voice wakes you.

“He’s an insolent brat!” a man hisses. “He needs to be taken in hand!”

“He’s too powerful,” another man answers. His voice is calm, but you can sense the ripples in it, the thing lurking underneath. “We can only do what we’re already doing.”

You go still. They can only be talking about Gojo. Their footsteps echo; they’re drawing closer and closer.

“It’s not enough.” 

“He’s still young. Maybe we can mold him.” 

The first man snorts. “You don’t believe that.”

“No, I don’t.” 

“There’s something wrong with that boy,” the first man says. “Those eyes—that power—and not even a hint of a mark. He’s barely human.”

Their footsteps are starting to fade; their voices become murmurs. But you still hear it when the second man says:

“I don’t think he’s human at all.”

Then they’re gone, fading from your world like malevolent spirits, dissipating on the wind. You unclench your fists and find that your nails have bitten into your skin, little half-moon curves cutting through the leylines of your palms. 

Gojo shows up a mere minute later. He slides open the shoji with a bang; his eyes find you immediately. 

“C’mon,” he says, stepping out into the courtyard. His eyes are shadowed; his lips are pulled tight, an unstitched wound. He’s heard them, you realize. You’ve never seen him bothered by other people’s opinions; your chest aches, a pressed bruise. You open your mouth to say something, but you can’t find the words. 

He grabs your hand as he passes by you, tugging you along behind him, ignoring your surprised yelp. “Let’s go before those stupid geezers find me again.” 

“Where are we going?”

“Away from here.”

“But my shoes—”

He glances back at you and you drown in blue. 

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Let’s go.” 

He doesn’t answer; he just tugs you along. You stare at the back of his head for a moment, trying to make sense of the expression you’d seen flash across his face before he’d turned around again. You can’t understand it, but you know one thing.

He’s never looked more human to you.

—

The next time you see him, you’re prepared.

You uncap the marker with your teeth. You reach out for Gojo’s arm; he pulls away before you can grab hold, as quick as a darting fish. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Give me your arm.” 

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” 

He eyes you for a moment, but gives you his arm.

You push up his yukata sleeve to expose the tender underbelly of his wrist. You start to write, laboring over each stroke of the marker, keeping it as neat as you can. The silver ink covers the rivers of his blue-green veins as it sinks into his skin, a childish tattoo. 

“There,” you say, finishing with a somewhat-shaky flourish. “Now you have a mark.”

Gojo stares at you, his cerulean gaze lit from within, the sea beneath the sun. He covers the katakana of your name with his free hand, careful not to smudge the still-drying characters. Under the shadow, they fade to gray, but they still glint and glimmer the same way real soulmarks do. 

You hum, pleased with yourself, cap the marker, and toss it to the side so you can start training. 

You don’t know it yet, but it’s your last session with him. He disappears into the dawn like a fading star, spirited off to Tokyo to continue his training. You’ve only spent six months with him. Still, it aches, a pressed bruise, but you’ve always known he would outgrow you; his power is a black hole, always devouring. 

Life, ever unmoved, continues on. 

The boy you knew fades from your memories, though you never forget him. It’s impossible, with the stories that come out of Tokyo, how he completes missions that no one his age should be able to handle. 

Still, you forget things. The tilt of his mouth; the cadence of his voice. He becomes a shadow of himself, a shade with burning blue eyes. 

You forget that you once wrote your name on the delicate inside of his wrist. 

Gojo, though—

Gojo never does.

[sunahsvt]

—DON'T BELIEVE THE SIGNS

miya atsumu x fem!reader

+ angst (no comfort what y'all expect), lovers to exes

other tags: microcheating, LAZY WRITING, babe/baby nicknames, small cases

wc: 3.7k

note: not proud of this one but i was itching to start and finish this tonight. so :-) not proofread yet again. also if yall read this note pls drop some hq angst series in my ask box plsplspls

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR POST ANYWHERE IN OTHER PLATFORMS

atsumu loves you. he definitely does.

a year into the relationship— and six months of courting— he can say he's contented with you, and he shows it through his words and actions.

there was a time when atsumu drove past the hotel where his ex— who he once thought of was his greatest love— booked their first anniversary to.

you were on the passenger seat, your hand on his where it rests on your lap, fully unaware what was going through his mind. both his hand twitched. you, who didn't let things go unnoticed, giggled at him, brushing your thumbs on the back of his hand.

in his eyes, of course, you're his greatest love.

atsumu walks through the aisle, cart in tow. his eyes saw a chocolate bar he hasn't seen in a while— the exact chocolate bar that his ex had given him for valentine's one time.

he shook his head, asking to himself why he was still reminded of her.

he didn't think much of it the first and second time, but as time went by and more things reminded him of his past lover, he was almost convinced the universe was giving him signs that maybe he hasn't really moved on— that maybe you two weren't really meant for forever. he was almost convinced.

and because he wasn't fully convinced, he didn't do anything about it, but you were beginning to notice something was off.

"baby, did you get my chocolates?"

"yeah, it should still be inside one of the paper bags."

you jumped off of your seat, eyes tired from looking at your laptop screen due to your work from home job.

you croached down to look for the 3 musketeers chocolate you dearly love, but there was only maltesers and twix bars. you frowned.

"i don't see any muskeeters in here, babe," you whined.

his eyes furrowed, "huh? i bought maltesers. aren't those your fave?"

you shook your head, your lips forming a thin line.

atsumu's eyes widen slightly in realization, you almost didn't catch it.

the silence passed for a minute, both of you staring at each other. you weren't sure if you should confirm it, but in your mind, he didn't need to.

he mistakened her favorite chocolate as your's.

he apologized, but that doesn't mean it didn't get worse. that doesn't mean signs about his ex didn't stop showing up, and that doesn't mean it didn't gradually made him uncomfortable.

y/n: can you take out paella for dinner? cant cook tonight :-(

tsumtsum: ocake

y/n: ty! i love you!

tsumtsum: i love u

when atsumu got home that night, he had bought paella for take out good for two. being a considerate boyfriend, he made sure it wasn't seafood since you're apparently allergic to shellfish.

but when you padded your feet to the dinning room and saw the chicken and chorizo paella, your eyebrows knit together. you weren't a pick eater but seafood, especially shrimp, was your absolute favorite. you were looking forward to having seafood for dinner.

but why isn't it seafood paella?

you gulped the hurt that you were feeling rising up your throat from your chest. atsumu was too busy looking for something to drink in the fridge.

"was there no seafood available?"

he glanced over his shoulder to look at you, "what do you mean? you're allergic."

"babe."

"what?"

"i love seafood."

this time his eyes slowly closed, realizing another mistake. another thing he forgot about you.

"what are you not telling me?"

he couldn't tell you. not when he wasn't sure, so he shook his head, apologized and made up an excuse.

from there on, he kept trying to make up to you. but it just didn't feel the same anymore because it either felt like out of obligation or he was trying to cover up the other things he hurt you for. each time he does, he doesn't realize his temper was thinning.

you tried to communicate with him over and over again whenever something felt off.

but your patience, your empathy, your love can only go so far.

what he doesn't notice is he wipes his lips or cheek whenever you kiss him.

what he doesn't notice is he glowered whenever you talked.

what he doesn't notice is he stopped exerting effort.

he doesn't notice he's showing all the signs that he's gradually falling out of love.

he doesn't notice that he's losing you.

but you do.

you, the silly lover girl who didn't let things go unnoticed.

you tried one last time to communicate to him your feelings. irritated, he only said, "i'm tired of this."

so after you waited him to go to sleep, you decided to leave.

you place a hand on his forehead and kiss the back of your hand as goodbye, fearing that even in his sleep he'd find annoyance in it— that it'd wake him up or he'd wipe the kiss away even in his sleep.

that was the last time atsumu has seen you.

and he noticed now that he shouldn't have believed in the signs.

general masterlist | haikyuu masterlist

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR POST ANYWHERE IN OTHER PLATFORMS

[mdzs-owns-my-ass-i-guess]

(Un)disclosed

Based off this post I made yesterday about Hua Cheng collecting Xie Lian smut throughout the centuries. Enjoy!

Warnings: suggestive content, long post

...the ornate, white robe slid down the prince's shoulders like water, the gold embroidered silk pooling at his feet in a glittering heap. He looked up at the commoner, a coy look in his eyes as he gauged the other's reaction. His skin, perfectly stretched over his form, bore no markings or imperfections, flawless just like the other had expected it to be. His neck and the tops of his shoulders turned a very light pink, just like the apples of his cheeks.

It was a sight equal parts beautiful as it was arousing, so overwhelming that the commoner fell to their knees as if in worship. "Your Highness..." they spoke, voice reverent, eyes glinting with adoration as they stared up at their prince. "I don't deserve to look at you like this, you're-"

The prince's hand came to cup their face, looking down at them with gentleness and a subtle hint of something dark and hungry in his eyes. "Earn it then."

"How, Your Highness?"

The prince carded a hand through their hair and took one step closer. "You know how."

"I don't, my prince, I know nothing." The commoner whined, so willing to please their voice shook. "Please, won't Your Highness teach this lowly one?"

"Open your mouth."

Xie Lian shut the small book with such a powerful thud that the brittle pages nearly clapped between the old, hard covers. His face burned with shame, fingers trembling as he placed the offending item back on the shelf he had taken it from, all but shoving it into position.

Xie Lian had never read such a shameful text before - granted, erotic art and writing never interested him and so he never looked at any of it, especially considering the requirements of his cultivation path - but to think the first ever he would lay eyes upon would be one of himself was far too ironic!

He should have known not to snoop around Paradise Manor when Hua Cheng was not there - but he became antsy in the ghost king's absence and even a little lonely, so what was he to do but try to explore the nooks and crannies of his husband's abode?

But though he had started off thinking he might find peculiar items, explicit stories of himself definitely exceeded all of his expectations.

It was likely Hua Cheng had stored that book away to ensure no such inappropriate and perverse stories circulated to soil Xie Lian's reputation further - of course whoever had to have written such things did it to make fun of Xie Lian, most likely after his fall, turning his image into one of a salacious lover rather than an ascetic god for the sake of mockery.

With a sigh, Xie Lian calmed hid shaking hands and reached for a second book, hoping to find solace in another story that would be as fascinating and enrapturing as the many pieces of literature Hua Cheng kept in the Manor's main library.

Opening another small book, this time a red one, Xie Lian flipped through the pages until he reached tge one where the book's spine had broken. That page must have been read often!

"Your Highness, this humble one is-"

"Silence." The prince's authoritative voice rang through the main hall of the palace. "Have I allowed you to speak at all?"

Their eyes widened and they swallowed dryly, looking up at Xie Lian with tearful eyes. The kind, gentle smile and soft gaze had been replaced with a sharp, cold look, the very picture of authority and respect a crown prince should be. His features did not look any less regal, though, even anger and disdain fitting his handsome face.

"N-no, Your Highness..." they replied at last, voice quivering with fear. "Please punish me... I've wronged you too much, my prince, I've been disobedient and audacious..."

A small, barely there smile pulled at the prince's lips, a dangerous look in his eyes.

"What punishment would be fit for the likes of you, then?" He asked, voice almost playful had it not been so dark.

"Kill me, Your Highness..." their voice came, small and fearful. "I deserve to die..."

"It would be a waste, though." The prince quickly intervened, taking slow, small strides around the other. "A waste of a good servant, and a waste of a good body."

Their eyes widened, following the young royal's movements until they could no longer turn their head, Xie Lian now standing behind them.

"I have decided on your punishment." He spoke, tone low, so close that his lips nearly touched the other's ear. "And you will take it - and like it."

Xie Lian dropped the red book to the floor with a small yelp, so embarrassed he felt like he could have burst in flames. Had his people truly seen him in such a shameful way?! Had it been lust and desire that he instilled in their hearts rather than righteousness and grace?!

Xie Lian couldn't possibly remember of any instance where he had behaved suggestively as a young crown prince, not to mention he had never shared a bed with anybody until he married his now husband, Hua Cheng. Why would people come up with such terrible stories about him if they had no root in reality? And to think they could be so vastly different... he had been portrayed as wanton but gentle in the first one, only to be turned into a depraved royal in the second! Had he truly instilled such fantasies?

With a defeated sigh, Xie Lian sat on the small chair beside the reading table in the corner of the room, folding his arms on it to lay his head down and hide his burning cheeks. Could he be considering himself grateful that Hua Cheng had locked all of these away or even more ashamed thinking perhaps Hua Cheng had read them?

Xie Lian hoped the ghost king hadn't... he did respect Xie Lian greatly, but Xie Lian knew what kind of perversions his beloved could conjure in their bed (and other places, some more creative than others!)... could he have read all of these terrible stories himself?

Xie Lian felt even more flustered at that thought, and lifted his head from the table, trying to stir his attention elsewhere. His eyes fell upon another small book, an incospicuous black one with a red tassel bookmark halfway in it.

Hua Cheng had definitely begun reading that one, so Xie Lian hoped it was a normal book this time and not another pornographic depiction of the crown prince of Xianle taking someone to bed more or less gently.

The creature had to have been some kind of ghost, a powerful thing wielding a sort of dark energy that acted as both its limbs and life force. Whatever had willed it into existence must have been angry and resentful, the dark forest reverberating with growls and haunting moans as it skittered among the trees like a feral beast.

The young prince did not have the time to react this time, though, and he failed to dodge the many winding limbs stretching towards him - and so, despite his valiant efforts, his arms were bound above his head, pulled taught, and his legs, though kicking, had been spread apart and held in place by the creature's tentacles. This way, his spine bowed forward, arching against the merciless ghost's hold, writhing incessantly in an attempt to escape.

He put his whole strength into every attempt to free his limbs, thrashing like a fly caught in a spider's web, but all he managed to do was tire himself out, breathing heavily as sweat glistened down his body, soaking the remaining tatters of his clothes and making them stick slightily to his skin.

His guan had long been lost in the fight, and so his long hair flowed down his back nearly to his knees, further sticking to the sweat dripping down his back and making him overheat even more.

When it had become apparent to him that struggling was futile, Xie Lian tried calling out for help - but the beast had lured him too deep into the forest for anybody to hear, and so he had given that up quickly as well.

There was no more time to think, his heartbeat picking up as he felt two of those ghostly limbs suddenly caress his neck, one wrapping around it whilst the other slid up and down his chest, tearing the material of his robe.

But when Xie Lian tried to struggle, the limb around his neck tightened until breath could no longer fill his lungs, so he stilled, watching with wide eyes as the tentacle tore at his clothing, leaving him bare.

It wasn't until two other limbs slid up his thighs that the prince realized what was going to happen to him, one of them wrapping around his-

"Gege?"

Hua Cheng's soft voice tore Xie Lian's attention from the story and he immediately fumbled to close the book, his shaking fingers barely managing not to drop it.

"S-S-San Lang!" He shakily replied, feeling as if he had been caught doing something unmentionable. "What are you..." he cleared his throat, realizing he sounded high-pitched, "What are you doing here? You're back early!"

"I am not...?" The ghost king spoke, a controlled expression on his face as he continued, "It is past midnight."

"Ah. I must've not noticed..." came the sheepish response. "I've been...uh...reading..."

"I see..."

A long stretch of silence followed, neither of the two daring to say anything or even gaze at one another for more than a few seconds. It seemed that they both shared an understanding of what they should have been addressing but neither had the courage to speak up.

It was Hua Cheng that did, though, when the quiet became unbearable.

"Gege, I'm sorry..." his expression became ashamed, saddened even. "I understand if you find me repulsive now-"

"San Lang, did I not tell you I could never find you repulsive?" Xie Lian spoke, his voice soft, "I just wish to understand. What are these books? Why have you been collecting them?"

Hua Cheng swallowed, feeling every bit as mortified as Xie Lian did, even though his demeanour didn't betray much.

"Gege knows I have loved him for over eight centuries but I have not had the honor to stand by his side until recently. Despite this, my love for you never faltered - it grew and developed to what you know it to be today. This also means I have lusted after you as well."

Which, in truth, Xie Lian was not exactly surprised about. It was a given, after all, and it wasn't as though they didn't have sex nearly every night - all that desire had to have come from the same place the love did.

"So... I have found a...niche of writers that created these... erotic stories about his highness, the crown prince of Xianle, and...I have kept them for my own...use."

"Use?" Xie Lian quickly parroted, feeling a strange heat pool in his stomach.

"Yes. I am sure gege knows what I mean..."

Xie Lian's eyes drifted towards the black book and the red tassel that lay in it. "Is that one your favorite?"

"One of them." Came the strained reply, Hua Cheng's voice betraying a feeling of both vulnerability and excitement.

"I see." Xie Lian looked up the tall shelf, stretching nearly to the ceiling, and he couldn't suppress a small, muschevous smile as he leaned against the table on his palm, toying with the ring on his necklace with the other. "Then, would San Lang wish to share his other favorites with me, then?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

[otrtbs]

Hi I hope you're doing well 🌷

I had a question. I'm totally asking out of pure curiosity, it's not a criticism or anything of the sort.

In ahb (this masterpiece of yours) Sirius's favorite painting is Degas' Dancers.

I wanted to know if you knew the background of this painting and if making it Sirius' favorite was a deliberate choice or if you had no idea at all.

Because the Ballerinas in Opera Garnier in Paris were all really young and mostly, they were poor. The dancers were often their family's hope to crawl out of misery.

The audience was full of men.

In fact, the sad flip side was that there was a whole prostitution network behind the scene. With these young girls. Men could pay for backstage access to watch ballerinas change and sometimes rape them.

So Degas was a big customer.

That's how he painted the dancers and most of his works.

That's again how he sculpted the ballerina, her tutu was added meaning the 14 year old girl was posing nude.

Degas is also suspected of being Jack the Ripper, there are a certain number of credible leads and potential evidences.

That's why I was wondering if you knew.

Since there is this whole chapter where they insult Picasso (as they should) I found it strange that Degas being a known major p*do did not receive the same treatment.

Ps: I'm french, I don't know if I made any mistakes writing this, if I have please excuse me I tried my best 🙏

Okay hi, hello! I am doing well and I hope you are as well! You have unlocked Art Historian Thesis Nat, so I am going to put an extremely lengthy post under the cut, I'm so sorry (this is literally my area of study,,, i fear i am incapable of being brief about this)

I do want to clarify that right off the bat, I don't necessarily think many of these art historical figures are "good people". Like none of them are the best, most moral, upstanding citizens you should model your life after (but they're also dead sooooo). But I also understand that I did take some time in my fanfiction to make my hatred for Picasso very clear, and so I can also understand the confusion in not extending that same hatred towards Degas. But there are a few reasons for that, that I'll try to explain below!

The direct historical documentation of Pablo Picasso's violence towards the women in his life is vast and damning. If you want particularly good insight into his violence and abuse, then I recommend reading Marina Picasso's (Picasso's granddaughter) memoir titled: Picasso: My Grandfather. I also recommend Françoise Gilot's (romantic partner of Picasso) books, Life with Picasso and Picasso and Matisse. It is through the memories of the people who loved Picasso and who loved him in turn, that we hear of his sadistic nature that drove his lovers to suicide and we get personal letters that he wrote to Gilot in which he says things like "Dora, for me, was always a weeping woman… And it’s important, because women are suffering machines" and "For me there are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats." His granddaughter has this to say about him: “He submitted [women] to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence, once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them.” And Gilot says: "I am the only one to not have been sacrificed to the sacred monster(…) and is alive to tell the tale. He was a wonderful person to be with, it was like fireworks, amazingly creative, so intelligent and seductive(…) but he was also very cruel, sadistic and ruthless with others and with himself (…) It was the greatest love of my life, but you have to protect yourself (…) The others did not, they clung to the powerful minotaur and paid a very high price."

Why this matters: The evidence for Degas being so virulently misogynistic and cruel towards women is extremely less substantial and more speculative in nature.

Degas being Jack the Ripper. Degas being Jack the Ripper started off as a tiktok theory posed in early 2024, (though you can find an article as early as 2004 written by The Guardian's art critic here) and while fun to think about and speculate, it isn't true. August and September and November of 1888 is when the Jack the Ripper crimes were committed in London and Degas was in the South of France at that time receiving medical treatment because he was in extremely poor health. (Which you can find in The Letters of Edgar Degas edited by Theodore Reff (I'm sure there's. free PDF version out there somewhere)). Also, self-admittedly speculative, but Degas didn't visit the East-End of London when he did make his excursions to London because he was classist 😭. So, it would be odd for him to know the ins and outs of the streets where the murders took place. And also he had failing eyesight starting at 36, so the odds of him being Jack the Ripper are extremely slim.

The Ballerinas Yes, while it is true that the ballerina's were often subject to horrific conditions and were prostitutes for the "wealthy" patrons of the opera house, this does not mean that Degas partook in that. in fact, most historical documentation surmises he didn't. Degas considered himself a "realist" painter rather than an impressionist painter, wishing to document "real life" in all of its ugliness, beauty and unstylized truth. Therefore his primary concern was documenting the opera house and ballet in all of the moments, not just when the girls were dancing on stage. And in many of his paintings, Degas captures the opera patronsn in his ballerina paintings as lurkers behind the stage curtains as sinister black shadows, or as men predatorily watching in nice suits (e.g. Ballet, 1876 and The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (1874)). But Degas himself, was NEVER a ballerina patron, he is even quoted as saying "People call me the painter of dancing girls. It has never occurred to them that my chief interest in dancers lies in rendering movement...". (now this is not because Degas was morally outraged at what was happening to the ballerina's, but because he viewed the men abusing the girls as committing a sin against God by sleeping with prostitutes). But while Degas had access to backstage, he was never a customer. And in fact, Degas is a notorious, well-documented celibate. This is because Degas believed sleeping with women would make him lose his special painting ability. No lie. Here's a direct quote from Vincent Van Gogh in his a letter to his brother Theo about the artist: "Degas lives like a little lawyer and does not like women, for he knows that if liked them and went to bed with them, he would become intellectually diseased and would no longer be able to paint." Degas was also known to reject ballerina's advances as well (again, fearing women would take away his magic painting power).

Feelings towards women By all accounts, Degas friends describe him as being reclusive towards women to being jovial with them, but always kind to them outside of a working environment. He even developed friendships with his fellow contemporary women painters. In a working environment, Degas was obsessed with perfection, demanding ballerinas contort their bodies in painful positions, and making them hold those positions for hours at a time. By all accounts, this was not because he hated them, but was obsessed with capturing their movements, the limitations of the human body, and he demanded perfection from himself. (x x x) (i.e. his obsession for his work and drive for perfection as a painter made him demanding and harsh towards his subjects, not his pure hatred of women).

Conclusions: So by many accounts, Degas was not particularly fond of women, and had little regard for his dancers. But the claims that he must have slept with the ballerina's and been a patron/customer "because that's what all men did back then" are not backed by any evidence. only evidence to the contrary. I went in on Picasso because those that were close to him have written first-hand accounts of his monstrocity. This is not the case with Degas. So, while I didn't tear him down like I did Picasso, I wasn't lauding him as a saint either. I highly recommend reading the article called Degas's Misogyny by Norma Broude which details the ways in which modern times have run away with this idea of Degas being a sadistic woman-hater and how we've gotten to this point. Anyway, TLDR; I was aware of the dark "underside" of the Paris Ballet at the time in which Degas was painting his works. Do I think he is Jack the Ripper and a man who participated in ballerina prostitution? No, not at all. At the end of the day, I am just an art history girl, telling anyone who will listen that there is not enough documentation on Degas to take these claims as 100% truth, or put that man up there with Picasso. Peace and Love! <3

[writingquestionsanswered]

i'm having trouble with getting my story's opening written out. i have a loose idea of what should happen but when i start writing it i feel like it needs more honing and isn't just what it needs to be. i do have much of the later story planned out better but i feel like when i try to write those later parts out they feel sort of hollow when i'm not sure what i'm building from since the start is kind of unclear. i'm still in the planning stage/on my first draft so i know there's plenty of room to change stuff and getting through the first draft will help me figure everything out better but it's hard to stay motivated when what i'm writing feels kind of flimsy.

Story's Opening Needs More Honing

Writing Great Beginnings and Endings Figuring Out Where to Start a Story Deciding How to Open Your Book Plot & Story Structure Master List

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

[not-goldy]

Further to your post about Jikook’s relationship I noticed during their Texas Hold ‘em game their conversation went like this:

Jimin: Like doing 10 pushups

Jungkook: Or 15 burpees

Jimin: We have a lot of rounds to go. How about just 3 pushups?

Jungkook: We should do at least 7.

Jimin: Per one round?

Jungkook: Yes

Jimin: How about 5 pushups?

Jungkook: Five? (Holds up 5 of spades)

Jimin: Five? (Holds up 5 of hearts)

Jungkook: (chuckles) All right, let’s start

Their negotiation skills are impressive.

Honest to good!!!!!!

The compromises they make and please they never put their needs in competition with each other! I'm always in awe of them

These two ought to write a book on how to have a successful relationship

[zahri-melitor]

I don't believe Joshua Williamson is acting on his own accord strictly when it comes to shoving Damian forward as the only actual son, i think that was DC's intent. And it's why i think Damian should have never been kept as a recurring character in the main cast, he should have died back when Grant Morrison intended in Damian's initial conception.

If they were going to have another Robin he shouldn't have been related to Bruce.

Ink has a very good post that goes into how Williamson's characterisation in this manner is actually out of step with what's going on in a bunch of contemporaneous titles written by other writers. In this circumstance, it's very much more likely to be the writer rather than editorial, because even though Williamson's remit with the titles is to be focused on Damian, the problem can be seen particularly in the lack of care with how Williamson treats the other Batfam characters he has appear, and how he describes their relationships in a manner that suggests that really Bruce has a son who is more important than any of the adopted children.

Like, let's take the Bruce and Lex scene I just complained about. It would have taken a single word balloon for Bruce to push back with "you mean my son" there, after Lex (the person who killed Dick Grayson on panel) completely waives Dick and Bruce's relationship's depth away with the term "former ward". The only reason anyone should be using the term "former ward" for Dick and Bruce in a comic set at any point after Gotham Knights #17, a comic that came out in May 2001, is to be an enormous asshole and be corrected about their actual relationship. This scene from Williamson came out twenty one years after Dick was adopted.

Five months earlier, in Nightwing #84, during Fear State, Tom Taylor specifically has Bruce say to Dick "I watched my parents die in that alley. I wasn't going to let that happen to my son."

There may very well be people in editorial who want to push the Only Blood Son agenda, but it's certainly not consistent and it's certainly not a mandate people are being held to, because if it was we wouldn't have so many examples in the opposite direction.

This has been something that's been a niggling issue with Williamson's writing since he started on the Bat books. It's been a problem again as recently as Batman & Robin #12 2023, which came out on 14 August 2024, where Williamson frames significant retcons around Alfred and Damian's relationship that not only present characterisation that the two frequently did not display in the periods called out, but in one in particular specifically removes both Dick and Tim's agency and position in the narrative at that time (the R.I.P. flashback).

It's honestly just petty at this point.

[lizardsfromspace]

Okay, this is the conclusion to my posts about Sophia Stewart. I'll never do something like this again

Everything I've posted is from her own book or her web presence btw. That's all I'm drawing from and if anyone tells me any information about her they gained any other way I'll block them immediately so uh, don't

Towards the end she reveals some of her other pitches. By showing she copywrote sequels to the Matrix and Terminator

Lots of strange details here - she wrote The Matrix 4 in 2000? They didn't even start filming The Matrix 2 & 3 until 2001. Also, we can see in this book that her pitch has nothing to do with The Matrix or Terminator, but she claims she wrote direct sequels to both?

(Her explanation for how both very different films are ripping off her work - a 1:1 copy, she claims - is, hilariously, that The Terminator plagiarizes it front to back, while The Matrix plagiarizes it back to front. What?)

But also she didn't write it. She registered copyright on a synopsis for The Matrix 4. She has concepts of a plan for a Matrix 4.

The book ends with a pitch for another...she calls it a book, but it's a movie pitch? And this, too, is just a synopsis for some grand epic series, light on detail of character and plot and heavy with lore and rants (in this case, primarily about God and Adam & Eve). Of course her exhaustively long but barely sketched-out epic movie pitch has a prologue, which is also full of Christian-tinged Ancient Aliens pyramid power woo.

Sophia Stewart is unimportant, bc she represents a class of writer. Writers who have Ideas. Who have outlines and plot points but no real story, bc they never write it. But they think just having Really Good Ideas is enough - that you should get credit for coming up with a good idea for a story, regardless of if you make an actual story out of it. They're a "writer", but they never write. Despite this they often have a deep case of Dunning-Kruger, churning out outlines that leave out basic details like "what happens in the climactic battle" and the personalities of characters while insisting that an inability to author anything shouldn't keep you from being praised as a genius author

If that type of person is lucky enough to have money, they become a studio executive or tech guy, both professions awash in the uncreatively creative, or they hire ghostwriters. If they're not, they become the type of person to file spurious lawsuits under the misapprehension they own basic plot concepts. It's the "I coulda made the majors!" of writing, except, you know. Baseball players who didn't make the majors still actually played baseball at some point. I assume from now on all those types will just pump their outline into ChatGPT and try to sell the gunk it slops out and then claim they 'wrote' it so uh, uhhhhhhhhhhhh

The only reason I made these posts was discovering the conspiratorial angle to her work, bc who cares if a major studio has to deal with a spurious lawsuit? That was the part that actually sucks. But also, she does a lot of press: profiles on news websites, podcasts, that documentary was even made by other filmmakers, who actually make films. It's persisted from blogs and chain emails all the way to podcasts and TikToks. All of this uncritically spreads her story, but I also have to ask: how many actual African-American science fiction writers do those platforms profile? How many of them get documentaries made about their work? How much air is being sucked out of the room by the decades long misinformation about the "true" creator of The Matrix? And why is that misinformation so persistent when it takes a trivial amount of effort to find out it just isn't true? It feels good to support the underdog against the big studio, but in this case it just isn't true.

The sad truth is a lot more Hollywood plagiarism cases look like this than are real exposures of wrongdoing, but people tend to accept them at face value since they feel like a little guy taking on a corporation, though in reality it's just two writers suing each other. Take The Holdovers case, where people immediately turned on it, but if you look into it, the two scripts have very little in common, and the accusing writer makes odd claims like a human character in The Holdovers being a ripoff of a billboard in his script.

Or look at Groundhog Day, which was accused of plagiarism by Richard A. Lupoff, writer of the story "12:01 P.M.". The two stories have nothing in common besides a time loop; in Groundhog Day he's reliving a day, in 12:01 PM he's reliving an hour. Groundhog Day is a romcom, 12:01 P.M. plays it for horror. Groundhog Day never reveals the source of its lop but it's clearly fantastical in nature, 12:01 P.M. is explicitly science fiction. In Groundhog Day he escapes the loop, in 12:01 P.M. he never does. You can't deny Lupoff felt personally slighted, but at the end of the day, a world where a writer could own the concept of time loops would be a dystopia where creativity and art would die.

But even though they were wrong, The Holdovers & Groundhog Day cases were based on real works of writing that existed. They were based on a real, if misguided, sense of violation from the writers. But in this case, we have a mere outline of a story with not even basic similarities to the stories she's claiming are a 1:1 copy of her work, and decades of media appearances based on exploiting a community college media student's mistake in 2004. Anyway seems bad

[piratefalls]

♥ 8 for the book asks?

8. What series has most pleased you?

Ooooh okay so it turns out I'm more of a standalone book person, but here's a few of the limited series I've read that I enjoyed for different reasons:

American Assassin by Vince Flynn/Kyle Mills.

I'll admit that I started the books because Dylan O'Brien signed on to do the movie based on the origin story of Mitch Rapp, a guy who loses his girlfriend in the Lockerbie crash and dedicates his life to avenging her death and eventually finds his way into becoming an assassin for the CIA. The originating author, Vince Flynn, died after the 13th book, and while I have love for the first half of the series, I actually like the books better after Kyle Mills took up the mantle. They're snappier, the writing is tighter, and they're action packed. Who doesn't like a story about a guy saving the day? And the more recent books are drawing from current events, which is both interesting and a little terrifying. Are they the greatest books I've ever read? No. Are they fun? Absolutely.

Rizzoli & Isles by Tess Gerritsen.

I love murder mysteries, I love smart women, I love stories centered around smart women. I was actually introduced to this by the TV series, and after I started reading them I was delighted to learn that the books and the series only have the main characters in common. The books are much darker, the relationship dynamics are different, and the medical scenes with Dr. Isles are fantastic because the author was once a practicing physician. I love this series and I can't wait for the next book.

Spoiler Alert by Olivia Dade

This was a thing I didn't know I needed. I hadn't realized that my reading books with fat female rep was really limited until I dove into it, and by the end I cried. This book touched on a lot of things that I've thought about myself and navigating the world as a fat person who's never felt desired and I wasn't really prepared for that coming from a romance novel based around a girl in fandom. There's also a good amount of commentary on complicated relationships with parents and living up to unattainable expectations. I'll fully admit that sometimes these characters are kind of childish, but I let the fact that this was set in the world I've loved for so long overshadow that. Unlike the other two here, I believe this series is complete, so once I read Shipwrecked this one will be put to bed. Will I read more Olivia Dade? Definitely.

book ask: book recs and recent reads edition

[jtypology]

new to typology? 🫂

don't worry, we've all been there!

why learn? well, in short, typology can provide you with a better understanding of yourself and others, unravelling our strengths and weaknesses.

where to start

although many people who are new to typology start off with an interest in mbti (mostly due to the popularity of 16personalities and personality database), i actually recommend starting with temperaments, big 5 and/or enneagram instead.

temperaments (the four temperaments) is an archaic system, one that has its roots in medicine. it is simple and easy to understand, with there being four main types (sanguine, choleric, phlegmatic, melancholic) that you can choose from, or blends between any two of them (for example, i am a blend between melancholic and choleric, therefore my temperament is melancholic-choleric). there are no contradictions between temperaments and any other system, and you can be either dominant in one or a blend of two just like yours truly!

big 5 is an empirically proven and scientifically endorsed typology system. it covers five core aspects of one's personality, such as openness to experience (inquisitive vs non-curious).

enneagram is a lot more complicated than the other two systems i've mentioned, featuring nine distinct personality types. however, i recommend tackling it first or prioritising it over the other systems, as i, and many others, would deem it the most important of them all. there is a lot to it, but that is simply par the course for typology. if you aren't prepared to read and dig deep, then maybe typology isn't for you.

resources :

"the complete enneagram" by beatrice chestnut !

beatrice chestnut is quite beginner-friendly, if you're just starting off, this particular book of hers is your best friend (mainly for enneagram, but also because it is a good taster of what you're getting into).

"gifts differing" by isabel briggs myers & peter b. myers

although i haven't mentioned mbti beyond discussing how newcomers cling onto it (typically 16p users), it is for this reason i feel compelled to share this particular resource. most people drop mbti the further they delve into typology, and i can't say i like the system either. however, this is your learning journey, and it's worth knowing what sites have been inaccurately portraying and selling.

there is lots of information out there relating to typology. other places to search include the internet archive for books and even personality database wiki pages for specific topics. remember to take a break if things get too overwhelming or stressful ! typology is for fun.

🫂

[corvidcall]

i very rarely get a sense of satisfaction from completing tasks. ive heard people say this is an ADHD thing, but idk. personally i think i might just be bad at being alive

[crystalkitty1220]

Man I wonder where the leader of the fear realm could've gone, it's alMOST LIKE NEVIN HAS AN

[gatheryepens]

…

[hopefulqueer]

I'm starting to think the reason I'm not as good of a writer as I want to be is because I like writing more than I like reading.

[luzisahomosexual]

When you read a book where the mc has mental illnesses and you really connect to the character & then see a review of said book calling the mc a “drama queen” & “over dramatic” for how they cope:

>:(

[rosicheeks]

Unfortunately relatable. I grew up in the church and have a lot of Christian trauma from that. I show up for special occasions for my parents… sometimes. But it’s uncomfortable from the moment I step through the door. Bigoted pastor, the self-righteousness disguising the prejudice, the political comments from the altar. Shots at young people left right and center as if the hell on earth wasn’t caused by the same older generation 90% of the congregation belongs to..

I miss being young in the choir and the youth groups and not struggling with it. It’s wild to look back at the younger version of me who was unshakeable in his faith and honestly just saddening.

I was texting my sister today about it and she said

“I 100% think ALL of us have a ton of religious trauma and everyone else in the family just doesn’t realize it cause they’re still drinking the kool-aid.”

I ran out of tag room and didn’t want to delete any 😭 seriously not lying I could write a book about all my thoughts and experiences