ART OF THE BEDCHAMBER | Part 1

ONLY BY LEE HI – jing yuan (hsr) x gn!reader, modern!au, sfw

genre – fluff, angst word count – ~2,100 warnings – mentions of emotional cheating + divorce synopsis – although it's been years since your divorce, some part of you is still afraid to be in a relationship again. what does it actually mean to love someone, and are you capable of it?

The atmosphere and the situation you’re in are jarring, dissonant, mildly uncomfortable, as if two disjoint parts of your life are colliding. And you’re not that far off the mark – it’s definitely a rare occurrence for a sole employee to be having dinner with their boss. In fact, throughout all of your years working under the same man, you can’t remember a single time the two of you were alone, aside from check-in meetings and project discussions, but those interactions don’t really count because they were all in the office.

You can’t even bring yourself to sip from your beer mug, frosted from condensation, golden bubbles sizzling to the surface and reflecting the glaring lights hanging from the ceiling. You can only watch with a tamed face and bated breath as your boss, in all his suited and charismatic glory, rattles off a list of menu items to the waiter.

“Is that enough?” 

Your boss turns around, gleaming silver ponytail swishing behind him, so that he’s fully facing you when he asks his question.

You simply nod, at which the waiter takes his leave.

Now that there’s only the two of you, you wonder how awkward this dinner will turn out to be. You’re not the most vocal, and even if you were, you don’t particularly care for or have the talent to come up with small talk. But it seems that worry's speedily addressed because your boss, with his large hands yet stealthy fingers, hums as he begins to pick away at the pickled vegetables and roasted peanuts with his chopsticks.

He just munches and snacks, until there’s none left in his dishes, and you push your small plates towards him.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?”

You shake your head, and with a delighted chirp of thanks, he quickly chows through your portions as well.

Compared to your quiet booth, the rest of the restaurant is boisterous and rowdy. You can hear the karaoke rooms at the back, drunken singing and screaming bleeding through wooden walls, and the parties sitting around – families, couples, friend groups – are cracking jokes, nagging at each other about table manners, dropping utensils. Clearly, this place is more suited for celebratory events or just a good time, but definitely not for business operations.

The comedy of your current circumstances only compounds. Actually, upon reflection, it's hitting you that this last week of your life has been laughable in a pitiable, disorienting way. 

Around this same time last week, your boss had called for an emergency team meeting before everyone clocked out, none other than to ask for a volunteer to accompany him on a last-minute business trip and work overtime during Christmas. Of course, no one, including yourself, wanted to, especially given the risk of the trip being extended due to the weather. However, unlike your coworkers, you didn’t have an excuse other than the fact that you wanted to stay home, eat junk food, and binge-watch dramas. After all, they all had romantic dates to go on or family gatherings to attend to, and you didn't, especially after your divorce.

You could feel the side glances, the shuffling of feet, the unanimous holding of breaths in the conference room, and you waited for three more long, torturous seconds before you finally sighed and raised your hand to opt for the position. The only good thing that came out of that was your boss' gleaming smile, solely directed to you.

You bitterly complained about the meeting to your work friend afterwards.

“We don't usually eat on my floor. What's going on?”

You looked over your shoulder to see your work friend, Fu Xuan, walk over and take a seat beside you, setting down her lunch box and a plastic bottle of green tea onto the table.

You glanced around, making sure no one else was present. When the coast seemed clear, you leaned close to her ear.

You muttered, “Just tired of all the talk going around. Can’t have any privacy over there.”

Fu Xuan huffed and crossed her arms. “You can say that again. I was already on my way to your office when I heard the gossip from your break room.”

“What are they saying?”

“Probably the same things you’re hearing.”

You slumped into your seat, resting your elbows and forehead on the cool surface of the table. Fu Xuan’s hand came to pat you on the back.

“Is it so bad to be divorced?” you grumbled.

Fu Xuan sighed. “Not at all,” she affirmed, “especially in your case.”

Fu Xuan’s the only person in the office that you would consider a friend, so naturally, she’s the only one who knows some of the details regarding your last relationship.

“You did what you had to do,” Fu Xuan continued. “It was the right decision.”

“I know,” you groaned. “I just still feel guilty, and everyone’s still throwing a pity party, and it's not helpful because I've been feeling like a complete loser.”

“They’re being ridiculous. It's been, what? Two years at this point?Besides, doesn’t this work out in your favor?”

You shot her a pointed glare. She simply harrumphed in response.

“Fu Xuan, nothing’s going to happen. I’ve been working here for years, and nothing has happened.”

“Only because you were married for most of said years.”

“Still. Nothing has happened since the divorce.”

“Alright, you’re being ridiculous, too,” Fu Xuan concluded.

You hissed, lunging at her. “I’m the one being ridiculous? You’re here, trying to delude me!"

Fu Xuan skillfully dodged your attempt, and instead, managed to grab your face in place so that the two of you were glaring eye to glaring eye. "I'm not," she insists. "In the few meetings I've been in with him, he always finds a way to bring you up, and don't get me started on the look on his face when he talks about you. Also, didn't you tell me he dropped off some medicine at your place that one time you were sick?"

You shook your head. "He just does all that because I do good work, instead of giving him more things to worry about."

“Either way,” Fu Xuan gritted through a thin smile, “enjoy your trip with your boss. Merry early Christmas, you fool.”

Upon reflection, you begrudgingly have to admit that you agree with your friend on several fronts.

Yes, your coworkers are being dramatically awkward, and yes, this business trip can probably fuel a lifetime of daydreams about your boss.

But sometimes, you're not sure if you're over your divorce yourself.

You separated from your partner because they were emotionally cheating on you. They had never really realized it themself, but you could tell they were meeting the same colleague every few weeks or so with feelings and intentions that extended beyond platonic.

To be fair, you can’t really bring yourself to blame your ex either. You’ve always had a more reserved and conservative nature, so it’s not easy for you to say or do anything affectionate. Your ex had always seemed fine with it, and never once brought it up as a concern when the two of you decided to get married for the sake of it. But upon reflection, there had always been some distance, some measured level of politeness, between the two of you, and it only grew as you were promoted in work and, thus, spent more time in the office. Even on days off, you barely spent time together, not when you were busy recuperating sleep and energy. Needless to say, you were quite absent in your marriage, and you can’t fault your partner for seeking comfort in another person.

You put an end to it, for both of your sakes. But ever since, you’ve questioned whether you’ve truly experienced love – if you’re even capable of loving someone at all.

In fact, saying you loved your ex feels… off. You definitely cherished and cared for them as a person, but if someone asked you why you loved your partner at the time, you would have trouble coming up with an answer. Maybe your ability to love is only limited to that.

Still, what’s making you think otherwise is…

The clattering of ceramic plates against the tabletop jolts you from your reminiscence. All of the dishes your boss had ordered have arrived, and you can barely make out his face from all of the rising steam.

“Don’t hold back! My treat, for all of your hard work,” he encourages.

You shake your head, replying, “Not at all,” and you watch as your boss swallows a mouthful of piping hot white rice and scoops spoonfuls of boiled tofu and pork onto his plate.

Honestly, you could get full just from watching him eat. More than that, you think you’d even give him all of your own portions if it meant that he could continue to eat so happily and cheerily.

And that’s exactly the thing. This… crush? Infatuation? Love?

Is this love? Because if it is, it feels so different – far more consuming and overwhelming – from even the faintest rushes of adrenaline and excitement you experienced from your ex. And you’re having these emotions for your boss, of all people.

You can’t lie to yourself for much longer. You know the real reason why you didn’t want to go on this business trip.

It’s inappropriate to date in the office. It’s risky to have to deal with power dynamics. It’s stressful to find new jobs, if you two started to date. Wait, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

You take a bite here and there, to mimic a performance of actually gorging yourself, but your eyes are trained on him. As the steam dissipates, you notice the slight beads of sweat forming at his temple, the flick of his tongue as he licks his glossy lips, and the reddening of his cheeks from the spice and heat.

You knew this trip would break down all sense of self-control.

It’s hard to maintain discipline when, for the past 72 hours, your heart has been tortured to its limits. You saw him when he was sleeping on the five-hour bullet trains to and from your destination. You helped him adjust his tie when you noticed it was astray, which required you to lean in close enough to smell the lingering scent of his cologne. The two of you were even mistaken for a couple by a barista, which neither of you denied because the coffee shop was running a Christmas discount for couples and families. He even called to wake you up from your nap, voice barely more than a deep purr, gentle and teasing and lilting, and you still think that was the best wake-up call, literally, in your life.

If anything, it’d be ridiculous if your defenses weren’t so worn down already, and you know you don’t have that kind of mental strength in the first place, no matter how stoic your exterior might appear.

You don’t even look away when he catches you staring. With a tilt of his head, he asks if you’re alright, at which you nod again, but there’s no way he doesn’t see you gulp.

If these feelings, in all of their riveting, painful, confusing glory, are love, you never want to have them for anyone else ever again.

The rest of the dinner proceeds the same, but it’s midnight by the time the two of you finish.

“Good night, Boss,” you say as you give a small bow.

You had expected him to dismiss you with a laidback wave, but instead, he says, “Wait.”

You quirk an eyebrow, and he chuckles. “It’s late. I can’t have one of my most senior employees getting kidnapped.”

“I’m no child, Boss.”

Regardless of your reservations, he proceeds to call a cab, with the first stop being your place. As soon as the car reaches the front of your apartment complex, you hop out.

But it seems your boss is subverting all of your expectations of him and his character tonight.

He gets out as well, telling the driver to give him a minute or two, and walks over to you.

“Boss, you don’t have to wait for me. The entrance is right there.”

He laughs, broad shoulders jumping a little. “It’s not for that.”

He unravels the red scarf wrapped around his neck and leans forward, beginning to wind the wool and cashmere around you instead.

It’s so late. You’re so tired. You don’t have energy to put up any pretenses.

For the first time, you lose your cool in front of your boss. You’re a flustering, bumbling mess, taking clumsy steps backwards, to no avail because he’s holding you hostage with the scarf.

“It’s cold – what are you – I don’t need –“

“A belated merry Christmas,” he mumbles with a small smile. Instead of its usual brilliance, though, it’s gentle and soft, as fragile and fleeting as snow. “For a very special someone,” he finishes.

He leans back once he’s done. You glance down, hands coming up to grip at the thick cloth. “But Boss…,” you mumble, a little muffled, “I didn’t get you anything.”

“No, no, you already did.”

“What?”

But he’s already rounding his way back. You don’t move from your spot, watching as the car pulls away and as your boss turns around, giving you his signature lackadaisical wave through the rear window, before he’s out of sight.

Mouth agape, you look back down at the scarf, only then noticing a small gold embroidering at one end of it.

Jing Yuan, it reads.

You can't resist the urge to bury your face into the plush and warmth of the scarf.

Without a doubt, you’re in love with your boss, Jing Yuan.

winter event masterlist

To My Sweetheart Who Carries A Wounded Heart Ch. 10

Series Masterlist, Chapter 1 🤍, Chapter 2 🖤, Chapter 3 🤍, Chapter 4🖤, Chapter 5🤍, Chapter 6🖤, Chapter 7🤍, Blade & Reader's Relationship, Chapter 8🖤, Chapter 9🤍

Blade’s phone was ringing, & your name was on the screen.

Did you find out about the affair? Are you calling him while crying your eyes out? Though that could be the case, it seemed less likely that you needed to learn what was happening. So why in the world would you be calling him right now? He doesn’t know or have a single idea, but he probably shouldn’t keep you waiting, whatever it is.

“Y/N?”

“Ren, hey. I’m sure you weren't expecting my call but right now I have no idea where Levi is and I'm feeling like crap. Are you busy with anything right now?”

He did not think he could get any more worked up, but hearing the sorrow in your voice as well as the fact you just told him you felt lonely almost made him see red. In all honesty, he was about to run to his dining room, snatch his keys from off the table, and rush to his car but he hadn’t even showered, let alone brush his teeth. Though he’s sure that you’d let him do all that at your place if he were to leave right now he couldn’t show up unpresentable to you, could he? That could ruin some of his image on you and he’d rather jump off a cliff than let that happen. (He really would.)

“Hello~? Do you have plans? I saw on your calendar you were off but if you already have somewhere to be then-”

Shoot, he got lost in thought for a moment there. Of course, he didn’t have anything to do, he’s never occupied when it comes to you but he’s sure you’re not aware of that fact.

“No- I’m free. I mean-”

He coughs, and you end up giggling from the other end. His ears turn a bit pink from embarrassment as he clears his throat and he decides to speak again.

“Just give me like, 30 minutes I'll be there soon, alright?”

“Mhm. See you soon.”

He could hear your not-so-subtle chuckles before you hung up, but he was already throwing his phone onto his bed and making his way to the bathroom, turning on the shower before brushing his teeth at a speed that definitely made sure they were pearly white. Again, he could never look like a mess in front of you, it just didn't sit right with him.

Blade didn't even wait for the water to fully warm up before stripping and grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste, getting inside, and deciding to multitask with everything. In the back of mind, Blade knew that he shouldn't be this eager to see you, shouldn't be in such a rush to want to be in the company of a married woman, but he couldn't help it. It's always been this way and he doesn't really want it to change any time soon.

~

After getting himself situated and hopping into his car, Blade's brain took more time to realize that today would be a lot harder for you than any other. He just notes that he was sad as well. You wouldn't know how much courage it took for him to not run into that hospital room and hold you in his arms.

It was a loss of a life. One that could have brought you so much happiness, but was stripped of you.

However, he could make it better. Blade's not the greatest at expressing his feelings at times though he's always could effortlessly make you smile. He was certain he could do it today, too. So why not go pick up a little something for you while he's on his way? Surely it couldn't have any negative effects.

~

A/N: I've been having second thoughts about this fic. I looked back to some previous chapters and realized I was not too fond of the way it was written. One person said the way I write Blade is ooc… (on Tumblr) which didn't help my encouragement to write this. I'm excited about the new fic and I'm going to be investing a lot of my energy into that one because I don't get much feedback about this one, it's harder to do better. Therefore, this fic is going on Hiatus until further notice. I'll be using that time to learn more while working on something else.

I MIGHT add chapters randomly if I have work done but updates are not regular as of now. But it will not be abandoned. (I believe.)

If you have any questions or comments, don't be afraid to leave them. ♡ ~♪◍•

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by the way if we're mutuals you're always free to

tag me into things [your art, games, etc etc]

"bother me" with asks

send me reminders if I missed something because I have memory issues and tumblr is stupid sometimes

ask for my steam or toyhouse or pinterest or p much anything tbh. if I'm uncomfortable I'll tell you.

😭😭😭

I won’t forget you.

On this year women's day, all we could think about are Palestinian women in Gaza.

Nearly 9,000 women have been killed in Israeli attacks in five months. Another 2,100 are missing and presumed dead, while 23,000 have been wounded and over half a million are displaced.

“Palestinian women, especially in the Gaza Strip, are exposed to the worst humanitarian catastrophe,” Ashraf al-Qudra, the health ministry’s spokesperson, said on Thursday.

Dozens of women and girls have also been detained and face harsh conditions in Israeli custody, including sexual abuse.

Women in Gaza also struggle to find menstruation products and access the necessary pregnancy and post-natal care. The consequences on reproductive health, including a rise in stress-induced miscarriages, stillbirths and premature births, have increased significantly.

Women in labour are undergoing caesarean procedures without anaesthetics, and a shortage of post-operative care such as medication, antibiotics and pain relief further exacerbates the situation.

According to the health ministry, 5,000 women give birth monthly in Gaza under “harsh, unsafe and unhealthy” conditions caused by Israeli bombing and displacement.

There are 60,000 pregnant women in Gaza suffering from “malnutrition, dehydration and lack of medical care.

There have also been repeated cases of Israeli soldiers mocking Palestinian women by posting videos and pictures of themselves rummaging through personal belongings in Gaza homes, making derogatory comments and posing with women’s underwear.

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

It has been very hard to know what to say in the light of all the atrocities we've witnessed in Gaza these last few months, but harder still to stay silent. I'm heartbroken pretty much all the time, but I think we cannot look away; for all that it's worth, I will continue to march and learn and boycott and call for a permanent ceasefire.

Olive trees grow deeper than the occupation can reach. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

This was short but so good (idk what to say im kinda spechless from how good it is)

Cercavo amore ma alla fine...

ೃ⁀➷ TW/CW: DARK CONTENT, 18+ (MINORS/AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DON’T INTERACT), Bad English, AU?, Yandere, Obsessive Behaviour, Purity Talk, Angel Luocha, GN Reader (no use of pronouns or body parts), Manipulation, Christian Talk?, Sorry its bad lol, let me know if I need to add more TW/Tags ♡ My blog contains dark content, be careful when interacting/following! Please if you like my work don't forget to reblog/interact with me♡ Minors, ageless, blank blogs, and silent readers will get blocked if interact with me. ➳ Pair: Luocha x Reader (Honkai: Star Rail) Words Count: 732 Title comes from the song Cercavo Amore

⤠ Acido suono sento solo te, sento solo te il resto che cos'è (Luocha, GN Reader, Yan) ⤟ HSR Masterlist ⤠ Whose dick is bigger HSR ⤟

welp.. here we are. with luocha. again lmao this was supposed to come out time ago and now I'm in a hurry cause I'm going to the cinema.... so sorry if this is a mess, between work, the hospital and me being in a hurry now it's probably bad lmao anyway luocha <3

Luocha was one of the most beloved, beautiful, and kind angel. Many look up to him, no matter their ranking. He was the picture perfect for the idea of an angel: long blonde locks, green capturing eyes, a kind and gentle smile with a soft and curated voice to accompany with.

Truly a perfect angel.

If only he didn’t have a dirty, dirty secret.

You.

You were… A normal human being. For angels, that's it. There were always some humans who were god favourite, for unknown reasons (maybe there just weren’t), so angels are supposed to look after them but you, you… You are just there. God had no plan for you, but Luocha did.

Luocha saw what everyone didn’t. Your beauty, your soul, your laugh, your smile, your pretty eyes when you would look at him, everything. He saw everything cause he was always with you; acting like your guardian angel, knowing that if he acted out of line he would fall. But where was the line? Luocha no longer sees it, no matter how much he searches. He passed it a long time ago, as it is far behind him.

The first and most important rule was to never have contact with humans, especially if an angel was guarding them. It could lead to terrible things, but no one knew exactly what. They never asked. They never dared, just following orders as they were supposed to, as they were created to.

But not Luocha. Something in him snapped, but no one could tell what or why.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he says, gently holding your waist so you won’t fall when you accidentally bump against him. Luocha can feel himself shaking, barely holding his excitement to be finally able to touch you, smell you… Sense you all over him, driving him even more insane.

“It’s okay, don’t worry about it! Thank you.” Oh, why does your voice sound sweeter now? Is it because you are directly speaking to him? You are so adorable, trying to push him away and his arm leaves your waist much to his dismay, so cute- he wants to eat you.

“I insist. How about a coffee?”

“Oh well…” you think, biting your lip like the cutie you are. He gulps, not so hearable thank god, but he probably appears more anxious than he wants to. His first impression isn’t the best, but still. Maybe it’s because he’s too beautiful. “If you offer...”

“But of course. I wouldn’t dream of letting you pay” Luocha smiled, his hand going to his chest and bowing. He offers you his arm to walk with a gentle smile, and you aren’t strong enough to say no.

The first date (that you didn’t know it was one) went surprisingly smoothly. For you. Luocha, on the other hand, was sweating in order to appear as normal as possible, a normal human beings who was absolutely no idea who he had in front of him.

None.

Absolutely no knowledge whatsoever.

But that was his first mistake: to make an actual contact with you. He wasn’t supposed to, and he shouldn’t have, now his thirst for you only grows by mere minutes, seconds even. He has no idea what to do. He can’t come back to his home after, can’t he? Or he can hide, at least for a while? Just to be an actual human being and be yours, truly yours.

That’s Luocha plan, at least.

One day his terrible mistake will be known, you can’t hide something for long, especially as an angel, but for a while, he can try. For you, for us, he thinks. Yes, yes he can.

Lying becomes easier, the more you do- something that should have terrified Luocha immediately, angels can’t lie. They aren’t supposed to, that’s the whole point. But now Luocha can, to you, to his fellow angels, everyone! It’s honestly amazing. His body shivering, a knot creating in his throat whatever he lies it’s intoxicating. It’s like a drug; the more he lies the more he feels alive, like a real person. Is that how humans feel all the time? Oh, he loves it.

And he loves you.

“Sleep now, my love…” Luocha says, caressing your cheek while you sleep in his angel form; his once beautiful pure white wings getting darker and darker. “I’ll do anything to make sure we are always together.”

This work belongs to @/alj0saray, do not repost, translate, copy, rewrite or share on tiktok without my permission. Reblogs are appreciated and encouraged♡

↳˗ˏˋTaglistˊˎ˗ ↴ none. want to be added to my taglist? Please check here! Feel free to send some feedback about it🤍

Reblog the fundraisers you mfs!!!!! I don't know why you all skip those to reblog some pic of a banner saying "FREE PALESTINE" or of news from Columbia University! Literally these people from Gaza have made an account on Tumblr and is writing in english to communicate what they need and you all are coming onto my blog or on the tag and not reblogging their posts. We have people both Palestinian and non Palestinian vetting the fundraisers! I mean more the reblogs, more the chance of the fundraisers gaining momemtum, the more there would be a chance of a donation. Please donate if you can and reblog!!! and follow them if it is possible.

@/mohammedayesh has posted about getting leaflets, telling them to evacuate Rafah. They are very low on funds. Go follow them and reblog their posts and donate if possible.

gofundme.com

Donate to Support My Journey to a New Start, organized by Mohammed Ayesh

‏Hi my name is Abed im making this account on behalf of my friend Muhammad Saeed Ayes… Mohammed Ayesh needs your support for Support My Jour

We have @/haneenatya too whose mother is suffering from eye stroke and need to evacuate. Please I have been following them for some days and it doesn't seem their own posts are getting much attention.

gofundme.com

Donate to Help my family out of Gaza, organized by Suheir Hojok

I am reaching out for your support to help my family get out of Gaza. Ever since October, the… Suheir Hojok needs your support for Help my

Follow them! They are on tumblr. Reblog their posts and donate. The protests in universities are being done on account of them. They should be our focus.

(EDIT: on re-reading my post it seems as if I am dismissing all that the students of universities are doing. I am not. I just meant, since all of it is to help Palestinians, we must not ignore them when they ask for help).