Comfort

Comfort

Content: fluff, the general comforts you and reassures you that all will be okay, he calls you 'dove', old writing from nearly a year ago raahh

 A soft touch brushes against the side of your chin before the same hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and Jing Yuan’s large frame leans in to nudge the side of his face against your own. A soft ‘hm’ flies from his throat, a question posed without any words but he knows you hear him, and you understand. His other arm wraps around your lower back only to hold you and pull you closer, giving you all the physical reassurance he could, offering his presence and warmth as a comfort. Your silence only made him worry more, and it affirmed what he was thinking. He nudged his cheek against the side of your head gently once more, a low exhale falling from his nose as he kept running his fingers through your hair. He wouldn't let you be in this alone. He'd never. Jing Yuan slowly inched away, only to have space to plant his lips onto the crown of your head, a small smile growing in his lips as he searched for your distant eyes that seemed to harbor all the weight of the world, all on their own. "Hey now..look at me.." he prompted, one finger sliding under your chin to get you to look up. 

"Everything will come at its own time, alright? Stressing over things will only make them worse, and tomorrow won’t come any sooner because of that, so how about you and I relax, hm? Just to forget everything, just for a night.. What do you say? I’ll help you get into this work once you’re better rested” You felt sick of everything, all of it made your head spin and throb and the soft rumble of his voice was like a spoonful of honey, just what you needed.

"My sweet little dove... I'm so sorry to see you going through this.. I wish I could take it all away, change it with a snap of my fingers. I hate to see you so down” He coos, a small frown playing across his lips as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and his other arm pull you closer against his chest. 

"However, I need you to remember that you're not alone on this journey. Whoever may come and go in your life is not worth the stress you're putting yourself through. And I'll always be by your side..one form or another.. understand? I’ll always be here, for as long as you want me..”

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

OC emoji

I think Boothill, when you're alone and the night is quiet, bumps his head against you when he wants affection.

It's the only part of him that can feel (aside from his heart that beats for you). It's not just a request for affection.

He's trusting you with the last part of him that can feel. Trust that you'll treasure the last part of his humanity. That you'll treasure him.

I want to smooch his lil noggin'. (´ε`;)

♦Blade and his sick s/o

”You haven’t been.. acting too well lately. What is it?”

He is doing his best to empathize with this state you are in, head buried in a pillow, groaning at every move you make, skin feverish to the touch. 

He remembers, vaguely, getting sick himself in the past, but whatever he felt at that time escaped his memory. His sickness never lasted long when he was more…human. Now the only sickness he has is the mara, and that can hardly be compared to what you are going through. Your illness can't even hold a candle to his state - but he does not judge nor belittle you. 

He knows he needs to be gentle, caring, warm, soft, he needs to be everything he is not. 

So he is uneasy, tense, but he wants you to be better, he knows that much for certain. So what little he can do, he cooks, even if the kitchen ends up in some mild mess caused by the cursed shaking of his hands and the occasion jerking of it, the bones and nerves locking in at worst moments during the cooking process

Whatever he cooks, he has to take it back a step in the process a few times before actually taking it to you. He just wants it to be the best it can be, and it happened too many times when his hand flinched and he poured too much salt into the stew.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to eat in this state..so I brought you this. Come on, eat. You need your strength back”

And when you ask to cuddle him he is reluctant, he isn’t the most calm sleeper there is, or even when he is awake, he can’t stay still so long. But as you lay your head on his chest and snuggle closer he can’t help but feel a sense of responsibility to remain still as much as possible.

Even when the uncomfortable itch settles at the tips of his fingers and slowly burns its way up his entire arm. He bears it as best as he can, until you are dozing off and deep in slumber. He then sneaks off, carefully crawling from underneath you, tucking you in beforehand, and goes to clean up the mess he caused. He returns before you wake up, watching over you.. doing what little he can. It gives him a sense he's doing more than he is, and it gives him purpose besides the Destiny Elio scripted out. For once he is doing the protecting instead of hunting.

Was meeting you ever in his script..?

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

Old hcs. Hope y'all like em nonetheless.

Broken Memories

Genre: angst

A/N: More older stuff to post, hope you all enjoy. I did a quick proofread but knowing me I'll just say that there still may be some grammar mistakes :p

Lofty clouds sail over the Xianzhou Lofu, welcoming some distant warmth to befall the people after what felt like years and years worth of rain. Fresh air brings in the freshness which the rain left behind, feeling like a new slate of paper ready to be written on, but Blade just watches on in solemn silence. Tendrils of pain and ache make its way through his body in steady, continuous waves, not letting him relax, but not letting him move either. For him, only the present moment exists, and in a twisted way he is forced to accept it. His life knows no end, so he makes scarce peace with the present.

Remembrance of days already long and gone make their way to his head, when white locks fell down his back instead of raven black, and when he had friends to speak off, company to talk to, and dreams to dream about. In the long faded and broken memories he sees himself, Yingxing, strike a hot piece of metal over and over again until he gets it to the desired dimensions. Deft hands grab onto the pincers and tools and a bucket of cold water to mend the metal, and the process flows on effortlessly under his watchful gaze. Yingxing feels even more anxiety pool in his chest unlike he usually feels, his gaze fixated on carving the blade to have a more intricate design - this was no ordinary blade in the end, made to be given to some soldier or some higher up as compensation, no - it was a gift. It had to be perfect. Beyond perfect.

The dagger was curved and elegant, and in his hands it demonstrated to perfect balance between the point and hilt, and many little details were put into it in colors of gold and rose gold, your favorite gemstones, your favorite color in the leather grip, your favorite shapes, and about anything else he could incorporate into the dagger without overthrowing its aesthetic and its practical use. It shines beautifully under the pale sunlight, the rain clouds drifting away after days worth of rain. Yingxing smiles at his work, lifting it up above his head until he sees the reflection of his own eyes in the blade, full of mirth and under one eye there’s a smudge of charcoal. He can’t help the pride that makes his chest swell, and neither can he afford to wait for the following day to give it to you. So he makes quick work of packaging the blade and following the narrow roads, searching the entire city until he finds you and just gives the gift to you right then and there, in broad daylight with little introduction. Red paper is wrapped around the wooden box, not in the most skilled way, but in a caring way, and he relishes in the compliments you rain down upon him when he explains what it is, or even why he gave it to you. For once he feels really seen. His life-long mission is for once cast aside in favor of admiring this little side quest he ventured upon. And he feels like he could throw everything away if it meant seeing your joy every day. That evening you have invited him back to your home, served him tea and shared your events of the day, along with more passionate comments about the gifted dagger. 

Blade sighs, remembering your smile, your face, and he remembers how different it now looks in his distorted memories. He is forgetting.. He knows the face he sees in his memories is not the one he knew, he feels it in his bones and in his blackened heart. There is just something missing. The visage of his eyes can’t focus on your face nor the details of your clothes or your hands when they gripped his.

The broken dagger in his lap is unfixable - Yingxing is no longer here to mend it as before. Blade can only hold onto the essence of its memories until the whole world goes dark, and that says plenty of his grief and regret. His chin tilts down to look at the dagger, his finger jabbing at the broken blade as if it was a foreign object to him, something extra terrestrial, as if he didn’t pour his heart into it decades before. Perhaps he did pour his all into it, maybe that’s why the dagger followed the same fate as he did, as the smith poured a piece of his soul into his art. He can only hope the dagger does not represent you.. he hopes you’re out there, somewhere, happy, healthy, alive..

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

“May I hold you?” you ask Jing Yuan one afternoon as you lie sun-warmed in his garden. 

You almost think he is asleep until he invites, “Please,” carrying a smile in his voice. 

With ginger movements, you reach over and place your hands on either side of his face. It begins as mere holding, but soon you find your touch roaming. You smooth your fingers over his eyebrows and trace down to each side of his jaw. From here your hands climb up again, and once more back down, mapping out each crevice and dip of his face, his skin, his bone, until you are certain there is no part of him remaining that you do not know better than you know yourself.

You play this game with yourself, sometimes. You imagine people not as people, but as planets. After all, what is a person anyway, if not a world of their own? You trace the ridge of his nose, and imagine there lies a mountain range. Around his eyes you find oceans. Where his cheeks dip, there are valleys, and a river runs between his lips.

“What are you doing?” Jing Yuan asks. There is an element of amusement to his question, but his voice is primarily gentle. Endeared.

You still your hands. They rest on his cheeks while your thumbs brush back and forth over his skin, holding him. Though the world melts back into the familiar shapes of his face, there is still an assured sturdiness to his features which is grounding; a gravity which draws you towards him, as if you were the moon to his planet. Small, perhaps, and bare, but casting light on him wherever you can.

You answer, “I think I’m holding the world in my hands.”

You feel Jing Yuan’s smile through the way his cheeks press into your palms. Two hands cover yours, large and calloused, but gentle, and hold yours securely in place against his face. There is the tender press of lips to your skin as he turns his head enough to kiss the inside of your palm.

You hear Jing Yuan’s smile through the way his words come warm and bright and filled with adoration. You wonder why you thought him a planet, when he is so clearly the sun.

“And I am being held by the universe.”