There was this woman poet in 4th century China called Su Hui (èè), a child genius who had reportedly mastered Chinese characters by age 3.
At 21 years old, heartbroken by her husband who left her for another woman, she decided to encode her feelings in a structure so intricate, so beautiful, so intellectually staggering that it still baffles scholars to this day.
Came to be known as the Xuanji Tu (ççŁć) - the "Star Gauge" or "Map of the Armillary Sphere" - it's a 29 by 29 grid of 841 characters that can produce over 4,000 different poems.
Read it forward. Read it backward. Read it horizontally, vertically, diagonally. Read it spiraling outward from the center. Read it in circles around the outer edge. Each path through the grid produces a different poem - all of them coherent, all of them beautiful, all of them rhyming, all of them expressing variations on the same themes of longing, betrayal, regret, and undying love.
The outer ring of 112 characters forms a single circular poem - believed to be both the first and longest of its kind ever written. The interior grid produces 2,848 different four-line poems of seven characters each. In addition, there are hundreds of other smaller and longer poems, depending on the reading method.
At the center a single character she left implied but unwritten: ćż (xin) - "heart." Later copyists would add it explicitly, but in Su Hui's original the meaning was even more beautiful: 4,000 poems, all orbiting the space where her heart used to be.
Take for instance the outer red grid of the Star Gauge. Starting from the top right corner and reading down, you get this seven-character quatrain:
Notice how it rhymes? tĂĄng / cÄng / huÄng / shÄng
The rough translation in English is: "The benevolent and wise cherish virtue, like the sage-kings Yao and Shun, With steadfast will I swear to the heavens above, What I revere and feel - how could it be wanton or dissolute? My heart's sorrow grows, longing brings only grief."
Now read it from the bottom to the top and you get this entirely different seven-character quatrain:
And the meaning is just as beautiful and coherent: "Grief and sorrow, longing fills my worried heart, Wanton and dissolute fantasies - is that what you revere? I swear to the heavens my constancy is true, May we embody the sage-kings' virtue, wisdom, and benevolence."
That's just 2 poems out of the over 4,000 you can construct from the Xuanji Tu!
At the very center of the grid, the 8 red characters wrapped around the central heart, she "signed" her poem with a hidden message:
Empress Wu Zetian herself, the legendary woman emperor of the Tang dynasty, wrote a preface to the Xuanji Tu around 692 CE (baike.baidu.com/item/%E7%BB%87âŠ).
Incredibly, there's even far more complexity to the Xuanji Tu than just the poems:
- The name çç (Xuanji) - Armillary Sphere - is astronomical in meaning and the way the poems can be read mirrors the way celestial bodies orbit around a fixed center. It's a model of the heavens.
- Her original work, with the characters woven on silk brocade, was in five colors (red, black, blue/green, purple, and yellow) which correspond to the Five Elements (äșèĄ) - the foundational Chinese philosophical system that explains how the universe operates. So it's also a model of the entire cosmic order according to ancient Chinese philosophy.
- It's also of course deeply mathematical with this 29 x 29 perfect square grid, with sub-squares, lines and rectangles, and a structure which allows for symmetrical reading patterns in all directions
- Last but not least, the content of the poems themselves contain multiple registers. On top of expressing her personal grief and longing for her husband, it's also filled with accusations against the concubine (Zhao Yangtai) he left her for, reflections on politics (with many references to sage-kings) and philosophical reflections.
So the Star Gauge is simultaneously:
- A love letter (expressing personal longing)
- A legal brief (arguing her case against her rival)
- A cosmological model (structured like the heavens)
- A Five Element diagram (encoding the fundamental structure of the world according to ancient Chinese philosophy)
- A mathematical construction with perfect symmetry and precision
And yet, for all this complexity, we should not forget this was all ultimately in service of the simplest human message imaginable: a 21-year-old woman asking the love of her life "come back to me".
Her husband did, eventually. According to what empress Wu Zetian herself wrote in her preface to the Xuanji Tu, when he received Su's brocade he was so "moved by its supreme beauty" that he sent away his concubine and returned to his wife. As the story goes, they lived together until old age.
OP: Ever since I sent the kids to learn minyueæ°äč(traditional Chinese musical instruments), they've become like this. (The instruments in the video are guzhengć€ç and dagu性éŒ, OP mentioned that live audio recording was poor, so they re-recorded and then dubbed in.)
under the weather, in the doldrums, long shot, toe the line, groggy, aloof, overhaul, mainstay, pooped, keel over, in the offing, give a wide berth, footloose, flying colors, press into service, shake a leg
Chock-a-block. Scuttlebutt. By and large. Above board. Slush fund. Batten down the hatches. Shot across the bow. At loggerheads. Squared away. Dead reckoning. Down in the doldrums. Touch and go. Fathom/plumb. Leading light. Overwhelm, overreach. Skyscraper (originally a sail at the very tip top of a mast!). The bitter end.
Basically, Crowley confesses to aziraphale a lot, but it freaks AZ out so he takes Crowley's memories and puts them in a box. After the Armageddon That Couldn't az gives Crowley the memories and then there's angst or whatever.
Forgotten Moments by Bookwormgal (T)
Every time that Crowley confessed how much he loved his angel, Aziraphale made him forget. At first, out of denial of what Crowley was telling him. Later, out of fear of what would happen if Crowley's feelings were discovered.
But no matter how many times the demon forgot about his previous confessions, he never stopped. And it broke Aziraphale's heart every time that he took those memories away.
Hiya! Hope you are well! I was looking for a fic where Aziraphale and Crowley are less pining mutually through the times but rather are both aware that they like each other but are also aware that they cannot like each other so itâs about restraining casual touches before they turn even more raunchy. Ie, lots of sexual tension and tacit flirtation. Basically I read this fic and really want to read something like it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525292?view_adult=true
Hello. I haven't read the one you've mentioned, but these are the fics that came to mind. Various levels of physical contact and touching, but many types of tension and not being able to be open about their feelings...
Technicalities by curtaincall (M)
Aziraphale is always very careful with his wording. Crowley's never really been in a position to question it.
De Amore by Aethelflaed (G)
Aziraphale has come to Paris to find the answer to an important question:
What's it like to be in love?
Crowley's not sure why he wants to know, but he's willing to discuss it to make his angel happy...
A Midsummer Afternoon's Curse by cyankelpie (G)
(Aziraphale is the victim of a love spell, and needs Crowleyâs help to break it. Which is a problem, because itâs very difficult for Crowley to focus while Aziraphale lavishes him with affection.)
The rest of the sentence got knocked out of him by a large, off-white blur that flew out of the door and tackled him. âCrowley,â said a familiar voice, though the breathy fondness and affection in said voice was anything but familiar. âI knew youâd come.â
Oh. It was Crowley. Crowley was the target of Aziraphaleâs magical infatuation. Aziraphale wanted Crowleyâs help ridding him of this newfound affection for Crowley.
And Crowley, who somehow needed to be the level-headed one in this situation, was utterly fucked.
You, Soft and Only by thehoyden (E)
He hadnât expected a sudden lapful of angel.
âVery sorry about this,â Aziraphale said, and kissed him.
these furious passions, these chances by Ark (E)
Jesus fucking Christ, heâs in love with Crowley.
Between the Lines by cyankelpie (G)
Crowley took a gulp of ale and gestured with the mug. âLoveâs a big word. How can you be sure? Humans mistake these things a lot.â
âAngels donât. If they knew I could feel it, maybe theyâd try to tone it down a little.â
Crowley stopped moving. Aziraphale was still talking, but he couldnât hear over the pounding of his pulse in his head. âYou can feel that?â he said, when he regained enough of his composure to put together a sentence.
âYes, Iââ Aziraphale broke off just for a moment, and his eyes flicked down to the table. âYes, I can feel it, Crowley.â
(It's hard being two supernatural entities on opposite sides who are in love with each other. It's even harder knowing that those feelings are returned, and that acknowledging it openly would be disastrous.)
Connor, I need you to look me straight in the eyes and promise me, unless it's for health reasons, that you will never touch your moles because they are fucking beautiful.
sorry for the obnoxious watermark, but my drawings are doing numbers on twt and I've already saw people remove it with AI, so yeah. As always no watermark and other versions only on patreon
I am absolutely in love with this artist!! Have see almost all of your stuff and every one knocks the breath out of me, they are so gorgeous! Marz thank u for sharing! U always got my support!!
Thereâs a knife in Deanâs hand that shouldnât be there. The wooden handle is cool under his calloused grip, solid and so familiar. His palms are littered with invisible scars from repeatedly, pointlessly, tearing at his chains in Hell, and he can feel them all running across his skin in burning lines, as if the knife knows.
His ears are ringing, and his head is pounding, but he grips the handle tighter.
âYou're the most caring man on earth. You are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know.â
âWho are you?â Deanâs mouth moves, but he barely recognises the voice that comes out, barely registers the words.
âIâm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.â
That voice. He knows that voice. Doesnât he? But theyâre only just meeting. He canât-
âYou changed me, Dean.â
âYeah,â Dean says, though he doesnât even know what heâs saying. âThanks for that.â
In one fluid motion he slams the blade into the heart of his target. It slides in with no resistance, only stopping when itâs buried to the hilt, as far as it can go, but it has no effect.
Dean looks up into a strangerâs face thatâs so familiar he could pick it out of a crowd of a million people. Eyes so vibrantly blue he wants to drown in them. A self-satisfied smirk that makes him want to punch the guyâs face, even as a phantom pain of broken knuckles bursts over the back of his hand.
The ringing in Deanâs ears increases in pitch and volume and he staggers back from the sound, holding his head in his hands.
âGoodbye, Dean.â
âCas?â Dean whispers, finally feeling in control of his voice.
The stranger â his best friend â pauses at that, and his head tilts to one side as he pulls the blade free from his chest and drops it to the ground with a loud clang.
Dean barely registers Bobby taking a swing, and the easy way he goes down after a quick touch of his forehead, because it feels like if he lets go of his head it might explode.
âCas?â Dean says again, looking into the face of a man that he both doesnât know and knows better than anybody. Thereâs an almost ghostly reflection overlaid onto him, except this version looks older, with deep crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and heâs both crying and smiling. It makes Deanâs chest ache fiercely.
Donât go. Donât leave me. I love you too! Why canât I say it!
Like an elastic band snapping into place, the ground suddenly feels solid under Deanâs feet and the ringing sound vanishes, leaving him finally clearheaded. He gasps in a desperate breath and for the first time realises where he is.
It canât beâŠ
Itâs the barn where they met.
Shards of glass from the broken lights are scattered across the floor, glittering in the shadows, sigils and protective charms have been hastily painted along the walls, and there he stands amongst it all, drowning in his trench coat â Castiel, Angel of the Lord.
The last thing Dean remembers is sitting on the cold, hard floor of the dungeon, choking on his own sobs, while his heart shattered inside his chest.
HowâŠ
Casâs eyes narrow as he stares intensely at him, and his eyebrows scrunch together. âYour soul⊠itâs older than your body⊠thatâs not possible,â he rumbles. âAre you time travel-â
Heâs cut off as Dean lunges at him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his face into the crook of his neck. He smells so strongly of ozone that it makes Deanâs sinuses hurt. But heâs here. Itâs Cas. Heâs alive.
Dean laughs wildly, afraid that heâll cry if he doesnât let out some of the energy crackling inside him. âMaybe!â he almost yells into Casâs coat collar. âFuck, maybe Iâm time travelling, maybe Iâm dreaming, maybe I died on that fucking dungeon floor, but you were- and I just-â He thinks of Casâs contented smile as he was sucked into the black void of the Empty and holds on even tighter.
Cas feels like a living statue beneath him, but the pulse in his neck kicks up a notch just before he throws Dean off and steps backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.
It had always been that way with Cas â the cracks in his façade, the imperfections, the humanity. Even now, even when heâs as perfect a soldier as he can be, there were always cracks.
âYou should-â Cas starts, straightening up to his full height, and clearly trying to shake off how much this interaction is clearly not going how he planned.
âShow you some respect? Buddy, you donât know how much of my respect you have. God, I never even told you. I should have told you. You thought-â Dean says, barely coherent, running a hand through his hair, â-you thought you were always the player that could be swept off the board and nobody would care. Well, I care! You son of a bitch!â
Cas stares at him like he canât understand a word heâs saying, which is fair, he supposes, heâs not making much sense.
How can he be back here again, with all his memories intact?
Dean stares hard at the younger Castiel and the fierceness of his love almost takes his breath away. It doesnât matter that Cas doesnât know him yet, it doesnât matter that heâs still loyal to Heaven right now, it doesnât even matter that Dean still has no idea how he got back here â none of that matters.
If this is his second chance to do better by Cas, to stop him from dying, or from taking in the Leviathan, from losing his mind helping Sam, being a vessel for Lucifer, making that stupid deal with the Empty⊠If this is his chance to tell him how much heâs loved, to know how much heâs loved â Deanâll take it.
Casâs eyes widen.
Dean doesnât know if heâs reading his mind or looking at his soul, but whatever Cas sees has him flee in a flurry of wingbeats. Gone.
Even that feels achingly familiar, and Dean has to laugh again, trying to convince himself that the tears he rubs away fiercely with his arm are just from laughing too hard.
If heâs really in the past it means heâs got a second chance to stop the impending apocalypse and keep Sam from the Cage too.
Heâs going to have his cake and eat it, dammit.
Besides, itâs already happened once by total accident, and this time Dean knows what heâs doing and what heâs feeling â how hard can it be for Cas to fall for him all over again?
My respect goes out to everyone who writes fanfiction. Whether you're crafting epic sagas, filling in missing moments, or just having fun with an AU, it takes so much creativity and dedication to bring those ideas to life.
Writing isnât easyâfinding the right words, keeping the momentum, and sometimes just convincing yourself to start can be a challenge. And yet, fanfic writers do it anyway, pouring love into their stories, expanding worlds, and giving us all something to obsess over.
Iâve even tried writing myself, and let me tell youâitâs hard. I donât know if I can keep it going, and now I completely understand why there are so many unfinished fics out there. It takes so much effort to see a story through to the end, and honestly? That makes me respect fic writers even more.
So if you write fanfictionâwhether you share it or keep it to yourselfâjust know that itâs appreciated. Youâre amazing. Keep writing.
AU where Arthur finds out about the prophecy and pieces together that "his closest ally Emrys" must be Merlin because who else would it be, but incorrectly assumes that Merlin doesn't know and therefore has never practiced magic before.
Even better if he finds out early season 1 so He's just so devastated the entire time and he's just like "I can't believe this, this prophecy is going to turn my best friend into a sorcerer, and it's all my fault for being the once and future king" and Merlin's in the back just murdering a sidhe
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weatherâd every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up â for you the flag is flung â for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbonâd wreaths â for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
Youâve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchorâd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
germansingergirl
jbbartram-illu
titsay
janainaart
annaxmalina
baratheonpilled
