#lucky the exceed

[lisannastraussisanangel]

Do you think you could come up with some headcanons for Happy, Marl and Lucky post-Edolas arc? I haven’t seen a single piece of fanon work for them and it’s a shame because Fly to Your Friends! was one of my favourite episodes in that arc, and I always thought that little family should’ve deserved more screen time.

I literally just watched that episode omg. I wish they had more scenes together

Happy visits them frequently. They still believe he doesn't know who they are, but Happy has known the whole time

It was really important to Happy that they meet Natsu too (it went better than expected but Natsu did get yelled at several times)

Marl insists that they celebrate the day Happy reunited with them every year

Thanks to Lucky, Happy has become quite the farmer (a hobby that has taken over his home with Natsu)

Lucky does not like the Fairy Tail guild. He always yells that its too loud (Marl doesn't mind the guildhall)

Marl is always pestering Happy about when Happy and Carla are gonna get together (She adores Carla and has begun meddling)

They sat Happy down years into him regularly visiting and told him they were his parents. Happy pretended to be shocked but they quickly figured out that he already knew

Lucky has grounded Happy. Happy was convinced the punishment wouldn't last since he doesn't live with them, but Natsu took Lucky's side

Marl and Lucky take the time to teach Happy everything they know about exceed culture. Happy really enjoys learning about what his life would've been like

Happy has his own room in their house. Lucky insists that it's just a guest room, but Marl has it decorated specifically based on Happy's interests and taste

Happy does stay over there from time to time. He tries not to stay too long, not wanting to be a bother but his parents usually make up some excuse for him to stay longer

[12hmars]

thinks about my bf and sighs

[hella1975]

the flatmate i don’t like was SOBBING last night so loud that I could hear her from my room across the corridor with two doors between us and i was like ‘aw 😏’ and DID NOT check on her and i had a moment where i was like ‘i feel like i should feel bad about this but i don’t should that worry me’ but then today I was making tea wearing TWO JUMPERS bc it’s fucking freezing and this bitch drops in that she’s had her heating on this entire time. i could have battered her with the fucking kettle girl im glad your boyfriend broke up with you

[g0dlyunsub]

for the night.

the flight back from a case gets delayed and the team’s forced to book rooms for the night. what a coincidence that you’re paired with spencer.

pairing :: s5!spencer x fem bau!reader

warnings :: fluff, flustered spencer, this is literally just an excuse to write about spencer with crutches

word count :: 1.7k

author’s note :: one of my favorite tropes asfdfafssfsd we all know where this is going right ;)

accompanying song :: let’s fall in love for the night by finneas

“i have to admit, i am quite surprised. engine failures are extremely rare — statistically, they only occur once every 1.4 million flight hours.”

“uh-huh, very interesting.” you roll your eyes, but the smile that tempts to play on your lips is too overpowering to withhold. 

“it is!” spencer excitedly flashes you a smile. “we’re actually incredibly lucky to avoid an in-flight shutdown, which typically happens once per million flight hours-”

“reid, i think our luck might be running dry here. it’s 1 a.m., the jet’s engines are acting up, and we can’t leave portland.”

you take both of his crutches in your hands with an exasperated sigh. it’s not his fault, and you know better than to project your annoyance at him, but the disappointment of not being able to enjoy a nice, hot shower in the walls of your home has you uptight.

with an apologetic smile, you extend your shoulder to spencer; slowly, he places his hand on you, and you help him carefully descend the jet’s stairs.

the two of you are the last to join the rest of the group on the ground, and hotch sends an acknowledging nod in your direction once he sees that you’ve been assisting spencer. 

“l/n, reid, you guys okay with rooming together for the night?”

the words don’t initially register, and it’s only until spencer speaks up that you realize hotch isn’t asking – he’s confirming.

“we’re rooming in pairs?”

hotch nods, and his sidelong stare roams over spencer’s face like he’s challenging him to continue, to contest his proposal.

“emily? jj?” you pipe up this time, sending a pleading glance at both of them. they look back at you with sheepish smiles. 

“it looked like you guys were having a really good conversation back there. didn’t want to disturb you,” emily returns, slowly raising her shoulders and mouthing sorry.

spencer clears his throat and leans into your ear. “i can probably book a room at another place-”

you widen your eyes and immediately shake your head. “no, that’s not necessary, i’m completely fine with it! unless you’re… not?”

this time, spencer’s the one shaking his head fervently. “oh no, i’m entirely comfortable, perfectly content, uh- sharing a room with you.”

you display an awkward grin. “alright then, perfect.”

—

“i’ll set your bag on the table, is that okay?”

“yeah, thanks a lot.”

you heave a sigh of relief as you close the door behind you and rest spencer’s bookbag on the wooden table. spencer slowly lowers himself into a chair, and you gently lean his crutches against the walls near the door. 

you’re pleasantly surprised by the room’s decor; its soft carpet floor and mahogany picture frames hanging from the walls easily exceed your expectations for a traditional hotel room.

you’re about to make a comment commending the room’s quality when your eyes zero in on a terrifying sight.

there’s only one bed.

you do a double take, circling around the bedroom once more to check if there’s an extra mattress lying around somewhere – at this point, you really wouldn’t mind if the bed has a trundle.

“fuck me.”

“what?” 

spencer’s eyes immediately divert to you, and he stifles his reaction to your comment with a hasty cough.

you point to the bed, which prompts spencer to crane his neck to get a better view. 

“there’s only one bed.”

spencer’s eyes widen, and his gaze snaps up to your face so fast you wonder if you’ve just made a grave mistake of telling him. 

he was bound to find out anyway.

“it’s okay, i’ll take-” you start, but he cuts you off short.

“the floor? not a chance.”

you press your lips together tightly and gesture to his leg. “please, take the bed. your leg… you’re injured.”

spencer looks down at the floor briefly, a light shade of pink spreading across his face. “no, we can… we can share the bed.”

you feel your cheeks grow hot at his suggestion, but a refusal fails to surface on your lips. 

moving your hands to your hips, you nod slowly. “only because you’re insisting,” you murmur.

a brief silence veils the air, and the two of you have utterly no idea what to do next — neither of you wants to be the one to crawl into bed first.

but the clock’s hour hand had just moved past the two, and you know your eyelids aren’t going to stay open for much longer.

with a weary sigh, you gesture towards the lightswitch. “do you mind if we dimmed the lights a little?”

spencer turns, almost hobbling on his leg, and flips the switch for you. the room turns dark almost instantly, but a faint light emanates from a lamp on the nightstand.

“are you, um, going to sleep soon?”

you hate to be the first one to bring it up, but you have to — you can practically feel the tiredness tempting you like a fuzzy blanket.

“uh yeah, we should sleep.” 

you watch as spencer grabs a pillow from his side of the bed and positions it near the edge of the mattress. you’re about to ask him what he’s doing when he props himself onto the bed and rests his leg on top of the pillow, elevating his casted knee.

oh. as the realization hits you, you reach for your own pillow and gently place it next to his head. “here, use this.”

“that’s your pillow.” 

“i know.”

a soft chuckle sounds from his throat as spencer raises his head ever so slightly, allowing you to tuck the pillow beneath him.

“thanks,” he murmurs, and pats at the space next to him, urging you to join him on the bed.

once you’ve slipped your feet into the blanket, spencer stretches his arm to turn off the lamp and moves back to whisper a hushed good night into your ear.

you turn to say it back. “good n-”

his hand gently starts to wedge under your neck, and as he moves, strands of your hair coil around his fingers. 

he’s offering his arm as a pillow.

you lie frozen, your breath hitched in your throat, as his arm extends fully beneath you. 

“spence,” you exhale, caught off-guard by the sudden move.

“it’s okay. don’t worry about me,” he softly whispers, inclining his head towards your face.

you smile, though you doubt he can see your face in the pitch-black darkness. 

“sweet dreams,” you hum, and close your eyes to let sleep overtake you.

—

you wake up not to the sound of your alarm, not to the birds usually perched on the tree outside your window, but to the sound of spencer clearing his throat.

you think it’s a dream at first, but you can feel everything — the vibrations coming from his throat like he’s talking to you, his hands stroking a pattern on your back, his breaths tickling your hair.

you open your eyes to see spencer staring back at you with flustered cheeks, his eyes flickering back and forth between your face and… 

you follow his gaze and look down, only to see that your leg’s wrapped casually around his hips, anchoring him to the bed. with a panicked yelp, you immediately retract your leg and leap out of the bed, frantically apologizing to him over and over again.

“i’m so sorry about that, d-did i hurt you?”

your voice sounds scratchy from your parched throat, but how you sound right now is the least of your concerns.

spencer chuckles softly before slowly sitting up. “no, you didn’t do anything.”

you let out a relieved sigh at his response.

spencer grunts as he lifts himself up, tenderly listening to your continued apologies with a warm smile.

“by the way,” he starts, fixing his tie and reaching for his suit jacket, “we're a little late.”

“what?” you gasp, hurriedly tucking your dress shirt into your trousers, “fuck. how late?”

a pause, and then: “five minutes and twenty seconds.”

“oh my god,” you squeal as you fling your and spencer’s bag over your shoulders, “they’re probably all waiting for us.”

quickly turning the doorknob and making way for spencer’s crutches to move past the door, you rush to the elevator and hit the juddering call button.

“next time, you’re-“ you cough out as you try to catch your breath, “-you’re welcome to just push me off the bed. it’s guaranteed to wake me up instantly.”

spencer looks at you questioningly, a small grin spreading across his lips. “next time?”

you clasp a hand over your mouth. “wait no, i meant – hopefully we’ll never have to sleep in a room together ever again, but i’m saying in case-“

spencer tilts his head and lets out an amused laugh. thankfully, the elevator doors open just in time, and you’re spared the trouble of having to explain yourself further.

you bite your lips as the image of his lopsided grin lingers in the back of your mind, and the fresh regret of your words burns your face like a hot fever.

the embarrassment doesn’t end, however, as the doors open once again to reveal your team standing right outside. when the elevator’s chime echoes throughout the lobby, everyone’s heads turn to you and spencer.

you walk out with nervous steps, grimacing when hotch merely nods and announces that the plane is ready for takeoff. spencer makes his way over to derek, who tousles his hair teasingly.

“so, how’d you sleep last night?”

you freeze when rossi’s husky voice drifts into your ears.

you force out a smile. “i definitely could’ve slept better.”

“really?” he hums with a smirk, “i slept like a baby.”

“yeah, you upgraded your room, we get it, you’re rich,” you sigh, eliciting a hearty chuckle from the older agent.

once seated in your usual seat on the jet, you’re accompanied by spencer and morgan, who slump into their seats across from you.

you watch suspiciously as morgan wiggles his eyebrows at you and nudges his elbow into spencer’s sides. “so, late night, huh?”

spencer looks at you briefly, flushed cheeks failing to suppress the smile splaying across his face. 

“shut up.”

[florencemtrash]

In a year's time - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Angst, jealous Azriel, fluff

Masterlist of Masterlists

"But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him."

Mor narrowed her eyes at the Shadowsinger, watching as he adjusted the collar of his newly tailored suit jacket and then combined his hair back with scarred fingers. 

Azriel had always been annoyingly beautiful - even during their middling years when their voices cracked and they hadn’t yet grown into their long, slender limbs - and so he’d never needed to take special care of his appearance. His hair dried in perfect waves, his skin was smooth and clean despite the scars, and his training had carved out a silhouette as strong and capable as it was alluring. So why did he keep smoothing down his waistcoat like he was nervous?

Mor darted out a tongue, cleaning up the drop of wine that threatened to fall from her ruby red lips, “Azriel? What in the Mother’s name are you doing?” 

His eyes barely flicked over to where she lay sprawled out on his bed. She had no intention of attending this ball sober, and if the near empty bottle of wine balanced precariously against her knee was any indication, she would exceed her goal before they even stepped outside his bedroom. 

He picked up the tie - midnight blue and hand-embroidered with silver thread - and flung it around his neck.

“Getting ready for the ball.” He answered blandly.

She rolled her eyes, “Obviously,” then continued to stare at him expectantly as he finished knotting the tie, folded his pocket square, and then slid his weapons into place as a last measure, cobalt blue siphons flashing from the backs of his hands. 

It clicked all at once as he strolled for the door, forcing Mor to abandon the glass and drink straight from the bottle. 

“Oh my gods.” She said, mouth agape. Her shoes clicked along the marble floors of the River House like the beating of drums. 

Azriel groaned internally. Even tipsy and wearing seven-inch heels, Mor kept up with his long strides easily, prodding his side accusingly with her wine bottle. It magically refilled itself with every jab.

“You’re trying to impress Y/n!” 

Suddenly it was as obvious as the sun rising in the east. He’d chosen the tie you complimented him on last Starfall, despite his hatred of its fanciful nature. He was wearing the silver moonstone cufflinks you’d bought him for his birthday. He’d even combed his hair because he knew you’d notice and muss it up for him.

“Mor-” He warned, color beginning to dust his cheeks. His shadows darted around the hallway, climbing the velvet curtains and peering around the corners to watch for any potential eavesdropping. 

“I knew it! I knew it!” She said, swatting him with a frustrated hand. Her red silk dress clung to her waist and thighs before fluttering out in a halo around her knees as she chased after him, aiming to slap him across the head. 

Azriel stopped in his tracks and grabbed at her wrists, desperately hoping no one else in the house had left their rooms yet. If he was really lucky, the two mated couples would be making enough noise of their own to drown out Mor’s excitement.

“Mor, stop it. And be quiet.”

“You loooove her.” She crowed, dragging out the sound. Suddenly she straightened up, hands on her hips and frowning, “Is that why you’ve been so irritable lately? Because you miss her?” 

Azriel said nothing, gave away nothing, even though Mor had hit the nail on the head in her drunken stupor. 

It had been a great honor when Thesan offered to take you under his wing and train you personally. More than a favor to Rhysand, he’d seen your healing talent and wanted your expertise to be well represented in the Dawn Court. So a year ago you’d packed up your things and said your goodbyes.

“It’s only temporary.” You’d promised him, “I’ll be back before you know it. In a year’s time.”

But a lot could change in a year. You’d sent plenty of letters back and forth to each other, and Azriel would be loath to admit that he slept with them clutched against his chest every night so whispers of your scent would chase the nightmares away. 

But for all he knew you could have fallen for some dashing golden warrior, or found that you preferred your shiny, new friends over him - that you’d found a quieter city full of fae that stole your heart as well as your attention away from him.

He was happy for you and had been the one to encourage you to move to Dawn. But that didn’t mean he didn’t miss you terribly. You’d been missing from his side like a torn limb, and Azriel had been walking through life at a crooked angle ever since. 

“I don’t-” He sighed, he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t love you. He just couldn’t, “It’s none of your business, Mor.” He amended. 

He released her wrists breezed past her, but she sprinted ahead of him, splaying her limbs out on the staircase to block his path.

“You need to tell her you love her. Tonight.” She commanded. Her words slurred out gently, the faerie wine finally kicking in when she’d wanted it to. “I mean it, Az.” 

He shook his head, “I can’t tell her tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

“I haven’t seen her in a year! I can’t drop that kind of truth on her.” 

“Yes you can!” She fought back. There was some muddled piece of information hanging at the edges of her mind, something important she needed to tell Az. But the wine held it back. Fuck. She cursed inwardly.

“No. I. Can’t.”

“Yes. You. Can.” She was practically seething, pearly brown eyes unfocused but unrelenting. She knows something I don’t, Azriel realized in a burst of shock. 

“What is it, Mor? What did she tell you?”

She blinked, dropping her arms from the burnt umber railings. His heart quickened. Had his worst fears come true? Had you found someone else in Dawn worth staying for?

“I-” Damn it. She shouldn’t have finished the second bottle. She cradled it protectively against her chest, feeling the glass cool her hot skin, “I don’t fucking remember.” 

“What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I mean, I’m drunk, Az. And drunk Mor doesn’t remember shit.”

His heart quickened further, a crushing sense of guilt and loss wrapping around his chest like a corset and tightening. Mor at least was saved from further useless interrogation when Rhysand and Feyre bounded out from down the hallway, tastefully disheveled and looking sinful in Night Court black. 

Rhysand cleared his throat, straightening his dinner jacket and absent-mindedly straightening Feyre’s crown for her, “Everyone ready to leave?” His eyes glazed over, calling out to the last missing members of their party. 

Cassian and Nesta spilled out of their room next, the braids of her coronet slipping out and spilling over her heaving chest. Azriel tipped his head to the ceiling and cursed silently. Mother have mercy…

Nesta pulled up on the strap of her lace dress, only to find that it had been torn to ribbons. 

Cassian was in no better shape - the collar of his white shirt was smeared with lipstick, although he didn’t have the same sense as Nesta to look annoyed at the interruption to their… activities. A toothy grin bloomed on his face, shoulder-length hair tangled like someone had been yanking it for hours.

“Can’t make it tonight, Rhys.” He said. He glanced down at Nes, “I’m not feeling well.” 

“Me neither.” Nesta said hastily, slipping back behind the door and hauling Cassian inside with her like he weighed as light as a feather. Four months after their mating ceremony and they were as insatiable as ever. 

“You’re full of shit, Cass!” Rhys called out just before the door slammed shut. A muffled Fuck you! Came from within, followed by a, Tell Y/n we’ll see her at home! From Nesta. 

They winnowed to the outskirts of Daybreak Hill, landing in a field of cushiony moss dotted with pink and violet heather that stirred in the breeze like the dusk-painted clouds above. 

Feyre sighed deeply, breathing in the scent of lavender and rosewater. She loved Velaris and no one could hold a candle to the beauty of the Night Court… except perhaps Dawn. 

It was like someone had laid a mirror flat on the earth. Periwinkle skies kissed rolling sage green hills dotted with red-roofed villages and sank into lakes of pearl and lavender until it was impossible to tell where the sky started or ended. 

The Dawn Court Palace’s twisting spires of honey marble glowed brighter than the setting sun. So brightly in fact that Mor had to help shield Azriel’s eyes with her soft hands as he carried them up through low-hanging satin clouds. Dots of scarlet and midnight black soaring through cotton skies. 

His hands turned clammy and the tightness in his chest felt like a giant’s fist squeezing his heart, but he convinced himself it was the thin air that was responsible, and not the raging longing in his heart for you. Still, he had to appreciate the beauty of the red-roofed villages below, tinkering hands hard at work inside chestnut workshops filled with glistening bronze and copper. 

They dove through the columns into the open-air hall, any dampness from the mist magicked away by Thesan’s careful hands as he stepped down from the golden dias to greet his honored guests. His rich, copper-colored skin radiated light, melting with the darkness that rippled off Rhysand and Feyre’s shoulders as they shook hands and exchanged the usual pleasantries. 

Mor stretched her silky arms above her hands, catching the eyes of a cherub-faced female reaching to grab a flute from the champagne tower. Normally, Mor would have been flattered, but with Emerie at home and a wine-drunk haze over her mind, she was feeling more anxious than anything else. What the fuck was it that she was trying to remember?

Faelights bloomed above him, tinkered in the shapes of roses that gently pulsed, fluttering petals propelling them across the room in a sway of light. 

But Azriel was barely paying attention. His eyes skimmed the crowd, searching for a silhouette he knew as intimately as the ridges of his hands. 

There. 

You stood across the room, half-hidden in the stone archway beside Thesan’s lover, Herades. You bowed your head towards him in silent conversation, nursing a glass of champagne in your hand to try and cool your nerves. Azriel would be arriving soon, if he wasn’t already here, cradling the walls in search of dark corners like he was bound to do. You’d been imagining all the ways you’d greet him - with a joke, with a meaningful embrace, with a kiss. You shook her head, pushing the last thought out of your mind and focusing on Herades’s story again. 

Your laugh was a flare of light blooming at the end of a match. Azriel stared utterly captivated. Time moved slower than syrup when you finally met his eyes and smiled with an affection more precious than gold. 

“Az!” You squeezed Herades’s arm, politely excusing yourself, and then you were off. You sprang across the room in a billow of cream fabric, like milk poured into coffee. The tips of your pleated skirts were touched with blue like you’d waded out into the night sky. The color matched the ribbon in your hair, and the siphons of a certain lovestruck Shadowsinger. 

“Y/n,” He breathed out. You flowed into his arms and he gathered you into them like a bouquet of wildflowers, breathing in your familiar scent of rosemary and peppermint. Gods I missed you. He whispered in his mind, hoping that somehow you’d hear it at the end of that glowing thread.

But the hug was short-lived. Too short-lived. 

“Mor!” You sang in that melodic voice he loved so much, grasping for her next, then Rhys, then Feyre. 

Thesan looked on humbly, sighing faintly when Herades caught up to you and immediately slid to Thesan’s side. 

“Oh I’ve missed you all so much.” You said, rocking back and forth. 

“We missed you,” Feyre said into your hair. She was the one to pull away, smoothing out ribbon and giving you a once-over look. 

Your time had been well-spent at the Dawn Court. Extra color bronzed your cheeks and tinted your lips a pale berry shade. You stood up straighter, smiled a little wider, and walked with an extra height to your step. You’d always been beautiful and graceful, but it was like you were aware of it now - like you’d grown the last few inches into your body. 

“You look lovely, Y/n.” Feyre said and Mor agreed enthusiastically, commenting on your dress and your hair and your… well everything.

“Thank you,” You said, blushing, “Thesan’s treated me very well.” 

That was an understatement. He’d set you up in his personal household, paid you handsomely (even more than Rhysand paid you if that were possible), and had had the royal seamstress sew ten dresses for you to pick from for tonight’s ball alone. It was your party after all in commemoration of the advancements you’d made in child birthing practices. You’d handled twelve pregnancies alone in the past year across Dawn and Winter, all of the children delivered safely and as plump and rosy as summer cherries. 

“And you’ve repaid it to my court ten-fold.” Thesan said and held up his drink. Even Herades smiled, tawny feathers flaring out with pride. You were responsible for the safety of his sister-in-law and the birth of his nephew - hawk wings and all. 

It was a flurry of activity following the Night Court’s fashionably late arrival. You dragged Azriel and Mor up to the dais after Rhys and Feyre. Traditionally the table was only meant for High Lords and their partners, but Thesan was a unique and progressive leader in more ways than one. 

Herades and Thesan sat in the middle with Feyre and Rhysand, leaving you, Azriel, and Mor at one end and Thesan’s sister and her husband at the other. 

Azriel was eternally grateful when Mor lunged for the center-most seat, forcing you to sit between her and Azriel. You bumped knees with him, leaning close as you whispered about the Court gossip you’d managed to overhear from the cooks or discussing the progress you’d made in the Winter Court. 

Course after course appeared in front of him and disappeared, hardly touched. He wasn’t hungry for anything other than you, focusing on the crease within your brows as you tried to remember all the news you couldn’t write to him about or the twist of your perfect, flushed lips as you displayed your displeasure and your joy. 

If he believed himself to be worthy of your affection he would have whisked you away hours ago, disappearing into whichever room in the palace was yours and pressing you against the wall, lip-locked until the need for air forced him to stop. 

“How are Kallias and Viviane doing?” Mor asked, perking up at the mention of the Winter Court.

You smiled, your cheeks flushing with color, “I’m not supposed to say, Mor, so you must promise not to tell anyone. Anyone.” Mor locked her mouth and threw away the key. Your lips brushed against the sharp curve of her ear, “She’s pregnant.” 

Mor clapped a hand over her mouth, nearly upsetting the glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the table. One of Azriel’s shadows darted out, pushing it safely out of the way of her swaying arms.

“Stop.” She hissed in disbelief. Her golden hair seemed to brighten with her cheeks. 

You nodded, “With twins.” 

Tears flooded her eyes, “That wench didn’t tell me.” 

“She’s been busy, if you can imagine.” 

“Still!” Mor muttered under her breath, eating her food slowly and sipping on her wine quickly. She gave up on being sober the more males approached her from the base of the dais, bowing deeply with proud, puffed up chests and asking for a dance. Word had gone around about her… preferences, and far from dissuading suitors, it seemed to have been offered up as a challenge as to who could change her mind. Thank the gods Emerie had declined the invitation to join them. She would have castrated half these males in an instant, if Mor didn’t beat her to it. 

Thesan, gratefully, put an end to it once he caught onto the pattern. One sharp look from him sent them scampering back, coattails between their legs. 

There was one final male though who ignored the previous warnings, humbly bleeding out of the crowd as remnants of rose cake disappeared from the tables and the quartet swelled to include twelve musicians plus a singer. Full, cream-colored wings hovered above the ground, tawny-tipped and lush. Even Mor had to admit, with his olive skin, amber eyes, and warm honey curls he was stunning. Like liquid gold poured out of the setting sun. 

He bowed deeply, a subtle smile on his face. Azriel went rigid, seeing you lean forward out of the corner of his eye with a blush coating your cheeks. 

Mor closed her eyes and groaned. Fuuuuuuuck. That’s what she’d forgotten about. Or rather whom she’d forgotten about. 

Naemon - the golden boy who’d begun to court you seven months back. You’d dropped his name only a handful of times in your letters to Mor. Not enough times to convince Mor you were actually taken with him, but enough times for her to remember the bastard’s name. 

“Y/n,” His voice was silky smooth and kind, “May I have the first dance with you?” He asked politely. 

Your breath caught in your throat and you risked a glance over at Azriel. He looked… bored and unaffected. He reached for his glass, looking more interested in the faerie wine than the male who’d just asked for your hand. It was stupid of you to think he would care for you  as anything more than a friend, and even more foolish of you to think he might be jealous. 

You pushed away from the table and floated down the dais, taking the strong and sturdy hand Naemon offered you. The first song was too spirited and quick to reveal any true feelings. It was a blur of silks and lean arms as you wove through the sea of dancers and were gently tossed from partner to partner. But the second song was slower, more intimate. Naemon flashed a look of gratitude to the singer, who winked in return, before scooping one arm around your waist, hand flat on the small of your back. You rested one hand on his shoulder, feeling the rolling of muscle beneath his crisp linen tunic, and held his free hand. 

Naemon was a kind and gentle male. After the death of his parents, he’d all but raised his younger sister Namia on his own, relying on the money he earned in the Peregryn legion to make ends meet. It was his care for his sister that had first drawn him to you - any misgivings he’d had melting away as you grew close to Namia from among the other healers. You’d supported her throughout her pregnancy, become her friend, and served as a balm to his anxieties whenever his duties took him away for long stretches of time. 

You looked down bashfully, apologizing for missing one of the dance steps and crushing his toe, “I’m better at the quicksteps.” You explained. 

Naemon smiled brilliantly, and you couldn’t stop the faint flutter in your chest, “I can’t blame you. The slow ones can get boring. Leaves too much time for overthinking.” 

“Exactly.” Too much time for overthinking about a certain Shadowsinger.

 You’d never given Naemon any false pretenses about your feelings, always reminding him and Namia that your position in Dawn was temporary. But still… It felt nice to be courted by someone as open as him. With Naemon you never had to guess whether he wanted you or not - you knew he did. The flowers he often left in the healer’s temple, or the offers to take you out to dinner or to dances like this one proved it. 

A curl of guilt coiled in your stomach. Maybe now was a good time to bow out and return to your seat. Surely the slow waltz would be finishing soon. The-

“You’re overthinking again.” Naemon said, his full lips brushing against the sharp curve of your ear and heating the gold cuffs you wore. “I don’t want you to worry about anything, Y/n. If you’re enjoying yourself - if you like dancing with me - keep doing it.”

“Naemon-” You began apologetically.

He shook his head, “Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” He said honestly, “I just want to dance with you tonight. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

You stared into his eyes, finding nothing but truth in them. A portion of your nerves melted away and you found that when the cello began to hum out a simple tune, you were still holding onto him and letting him move you through the next movements. 

Azriel was barely holding on by a thread. Wine glass now empty and clenched dangerously between shadow covered hands. Rhys shot him a look, and when his attempts to breach his brother’s mental shields were met with resistance, he turned to Mor. 

What’s wrong with him? His eyes flashed the question.

He’s being an ass who can’t come to terms with his emotions. Mor grumbled back, sinking into her seat with a fling of yellow-gold waves. 

Rhys’s eyes went from confused to wide open as he shot a look to you across the dance floor. Fuck.

Feyre followed her mate’s attention with a look of concern, and then traced Azriel’s steely gaze to the dance floor where you were smiling reservedly up at Naemon. You two made a handsome couple, weaving a clear path through the other dancers as they parted for his magnificent feathered wings. 

Azriel stiffened. He’d never been particularly proud of his Illyrian heritage, but his wings… his wings were one of the few true beauties he possessed. But in comparison to the golden-boy warrior that smiled at you and brushed back a loose strand of hair with his soft hands, Azriel found himself lacking… once again. 

Naemon was a gentle breeze where Azriel was blistering wind. He was a wide open door, every look he gave you filled with clear affection. Azriel was a dozen locked boxes, each one nestled within the other with all the keys rusted and thrown away. Naemon looked reserved and in control. Azriel felt completely out of it, and it took every inch of willpower to keep the mating bond from driving him mad enough to launch across the dancefloor and bruise Naemon’s high, perfect cheekbones.

But then the dance ended and Naemon parted from you long enough to reach behind his back and pluck a feather from his wing. A few shocked gasps scattered throughout the room. Even Thesan and Herades looked on with raised eyebrows, leaning close enough to touch. 

The feather was a beauty - the length of Naemon’s forearm and such a pure white it glimmered like moonlight. You froze, staring down at the treasure he offered you with bated breath. 

Peregryns were fiercely protective of their wings and rightfully so. To be allowed near them alone was a great honor. To touch them was an intimate act reserved for family members and lovers. To be offered a feather?! In some circles it was akin to being gifted a thousand roses. In other circles it was tantamount to a marriage proposal.

Both offers were completely overwhelming to you.

“Naemon-” You began carefully, backing away, “I-I can’t.” 

He smiled softly, eyes flashing briefly up to the dias where the Shadowsinger had gotten up to his feet, something like desperation and longing buried deep beneath the layers of his hazel eyes. 

“Don’t worry about me, Y/n.” Naemon said resignedly, “But please, take this,” He begged, spreading open your fingers before curling them again around the feather, “For everything you’ve done for my family.” 

And because I love you, even if you don’t love me back - were the words he didn’t say aloud.

“Naemon-” A shadow fell over your feet, curling around your ankles and skirts and tugging you away like a child seeking attention.

Naemon, for all his relative youth and gentle disposition, didn’t seem surprised or affected by the Shadowsinger’s presence. Azriel hovered close behind you, eyes blown open and desperate. 

Please don’t. He silently begged. Please don’t say yes to him.

He almost melted with relief when Naemon only dipped his head in acknowledgement and kissed the palm of your hands. Even that innocent touch made Azriel’s stomach turn. 

You turned when Naemon finally disappeared into the crowd. “Azriel, I-”

You had half a mind to hide the feather behind your back, but you couldn’t do such a cruel thing to Naemon. And it wasn’t like Azriel hadn’t watched the whole thing unfold in front of him. You clasped the feather in your hands, careful not to ruffle the delicate barbs.

Azriel was no longer bored and unaffected. In fact he seemed unnaturally flustered and nervous. 

He swallowed thickly, mindful of the curious stares you were attracting. Not only had you just been proposed to, but now you were being approached by a male from your past after an ambiguous response - you’d accepted the feather, but Naemon had left alone. The court gossips would have a field day, if they weren’t already.

“Y/n,” He said, his voice thin and quiet. A mere whisper among the riff raff that was steadily building up again in a crescendo, “Can we please talk?” His wings fluttered nervously, and he shot a dangerous look at a male who came too close to you, “In private? Please?”

Your heart fluttered in your chest. You’d barely recovered from Naemon’s dramatic display and you were scared about what Azriel might offer next. 

Still you mumbled, “Oh-um… yes.” 

The words were barely out of your mouth before Azriel’s hand was on your wrist, delicately leading you through the crowd towards the archway and into the hallway beyond. Fae mingled about in their finery, happy to escape the music and the sweep of dancers. 

Azriel scowled. This was hardly any more private. 

“My quarters are further down this hall,” You offered, pointing down a sky bridge that connected the public wings of the palace to the private ones. Azriel exhaled in relief, nodding and following you as you cut through unfamiliar halls draped in rich reds, golds, and turquoises. 

You stopped at a door of solid oak, hand painted to look like it had been lifted from the pages of a storybook. Resplendent gold filigree traced the footsteps of maidens running along hills dense with colorful flora. Water trickled down from the mountain tops, so realistic that Azriel was amazed to find the handwoven carpets in your room were dry. 

You peered down the hall before closing the door with a gentle whisper. Only the songbirds nesting in the high crevices bore witness to your activities. 

You hesitated and then tucked the feather into one of the empty jewelry boxes on the vanity. Out of sight, but not out of mind. 

Azriel stood motionless by the door, watching as you closed the box and slid it back against the mirror.

“Did you say yes?” He whispered, hating the way his voice caught in his throat, “Do you love him?”

You turned around quickly, the length of ribbon in your hair rippling through the air to land on your collarbone. Azriel was upon you in an instant close enough for you to feel his shallow breathing, but all he did was trace the blue ribbon with his fingers and then push it back over your shoulder.

“I don’t-I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You stuttered and your face burned with feeling. Azriel had asked you for privacy so he could ask you about Naemon? 

Azriel clenched his fists once. Twice. “The male you were dancing with. The feather-”

You blushed deeply, turning your face away to hide your embarrassment. You had hoped he didn’t know about that Peregryn custom.

He gently gripped your chin with his thumb and forefinger, pulling your gaze back to him. You blinked in surprise. For once Azriel looked… scared.

“Did you say yes to him? Please. Tell me.” 

If you had said yes he might just shrivel up into nothing on the spot. Why had he waited so long to tell you his feelings? Why had he waited so long to tell you about the bond? But if he did it now it would just be terrible timing all around. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You shook your head and Azriel’s wings dropped in relief, eyes closing as he murmured a quiet thanks to the Mother beneath his breath.

“He-it wasn’t even a real proposal. He gave it to me as thanks for helping his sister. That’s all.” 

He gave you a pointed look like he knew you were lying. There was no questioning Naemon’s feelings for you. No questioning at all.

“You never answered my second question.” 

You crumpled under his gaze. Gods, he looked beautiful tonight. Torturously so. It wasn’t fair. Naemon had loved you openly, never given you cause to doubt his intentions nor made you feel guilty for not returning his feelings. And yet here you were, still pining after the male who’d never seen you as more than a friend. A male whose intentions were never clear. A male who always made you question how well you knew him, and whether those small touches and reserved smiles and affectionate letters were just a polite kindness or something more. 

“No.” It felt wrong of you to admit it so callously, even if it was the truth, “No I don’t love him.”

Azriel looked ready to kiss the ground and something about that set a fire within you. Leave it to Azriel to ignore any romantic advances from you, to chase after other females left and right for literal centuries, and then get upset the moment another male found you appealing. 

You huffed, pushing him away harshly and crossing your arms over your chest, “It’s none of your business anyhow. I’m allowed to have my lovers and my almost lovers. And if you truly thought Naemon was proposing to me, I don’t know why you’d want to fucking interrupt it!”

Azriel flinched at the coldness in your voice, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it, Az?” You exclaimed, clearly irritated now, “Gods, you never just say what you mean.”

Azriel tried again, grasping at straws. “I would never judge you for your choices, even if you said yes to him or-I just-fuck.” 

On any other day you’d be laughing. Azriel was a male of few words, but the words he did say were always perfect and calculated. Nothing about this was calculated or thought out.

“I… you’re my best friend, Y/n. And I haven’t seen you in over a year. I just…” He cringed. Hard. Cauldron boil him. He was doing this terribly, “I was scared.” He finally admitted, and rather pathetically.

“Scared?” You dropped your arms. That wasn’t the answer you’d been expecting, “Scared of what? You’re hardly ever afraid of anything.”

He shrank away, hands clasped tightly behind his back, “That you’d leave me-us. That you’d find a reason to stay here instead of returning to Velaris. And when I saw you dancing with him tonight - the way he was looking at you and the way you were looking at him - I thought… I thought Naemon would be that reason.” 

Now you were confused and even more irate than before.

You stalked up to him, jabbing his chest with an accusatory finger, “You were the one who encouraged me to do this. You were the one constantly writing to me about the importance of making friends and “putting myself out there.” You were the one who practically shoved me out the door when I left-”

“Because I thought you wanted this!” 

“I did! I-I do!” 

“Then what was I supposed to do, Y/n?!” He cried out. His shadows, which had been held back so tightly on a leash throughout the night, exploded outward, coating the bright colors of your bedspread and the rugs and the curtains in inky black. They swirled there, as agitated and timid as their master. 

“What was I supposed to do?” He whispered again. He sounded tired. Defeated. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t hold you back from what you wanted. From the happiness and opportunities you deserve.”

“You could’ve at least said something! You could’ve at least told me that you were upset with me leaving. That you were going to miss me and that you-you-” 

That you love me and that you wanted me to stay. You shoved the thought out of your mind, slamming the door and turning the lock. Useless, lovestruck pipedreams would do you no good now. 

“Instead you just pushed me out the door and it’s been nothing but empty letters from you since.” 

“They weren’t empty.” Azriel said weakly. He’d never been a man of words or poetry, but in that moment he desperately wished he was. “And I did miss you. Y/n, I missed you so much some days it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” 

You deflated, your anger slowly ebbing away like the ocean during low tide. Sometimes you forgot that beneath all those hard-won layers of shadow and muscle, Azriel was still that little boy that had been abandoned in a cellar and taught to believe he was worthless. A waste of time and a waste of space. Nothing more than an inconvenient bastard. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you were all doing fine. That I’d come back and it would be like nothing had ever changed. I would’ve-I would’ve made time to visit. Or-or come back sooner.”

Azriel chuckled without humour. He had not been “doing fine” without you. He hadn’t been “doing fine” since the moment you’d stepped across the doorway and winnowed out of Velaris.

“You make it sound like I was going away forever.” You added softly.

“It felt like it.” Azriel admitted quietly, “I always worried there was a chance you’d decide you liked things better in Dawn. That you liked the people better. So when I saw you with Naemon I just…” His voice trailed off and he slowly backed up to your bed, sinking down into the pillowy comforter. Even the beds seemed softer and kinder here. Softer and kinder than him.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

He felt the bed dip beside him, your knee pressing against his in a burst of warmth. The blue tipped pleats of your dress slowly waved with his shadows as they once again curled around your feet, inching up your dress and closer and closer to your hands. Now that he was looking down he noticed the shoes you were wearing - cobalt blue with matching velvet ribbons tied up your calf. Same as your dress. Same as the ribbon in your hair.

“I wanted to believe you wore those colors for me tonight.” He said quietly, aching for your touch. Your hands were so close to his he could almost imagine that-

You covered his hands with your own, smoothing the rough skin with gentle caresses, “I did.”

It had seemed like such a stupidly hopeful choice at the time - some not-so-subtle declaration of love for all the months you’d spent apart - but when the seamstress had laid out all the dresses, you’d taken one look at the cobalt blue accents and the shoes and snatched them up in a heartbeat. 

Azriel’s eyes were wider, more open, than the moon, shimmering with disbelief and hope, “You did?” He whispered.

“I did. They reminded me of you.” You stopped looking him in the eyes. It felt like too much. Too much emotion. Too much feeling. “I missed you too, you know.” 

Azriel stayed quiet for a long while, sorting out the myriad of feelings roiling in his chest and trying to latch onto a single coherent thought. Finally he murmured, “I guess we could both work on saying things outright.” 

You laughed softly, shaking your head and wiping at the corners of your eyes, “Yes. I guess we could.” 

“We could start now.” Azriel offered hesitantly. His heart hammered away in his chest like a blacksmith at his anvil until he was sure his sternum would crack. 

You raised your eyebrows. Curious.

“The next five minutes. We say everything honestly. No holding back.” 

“I don’t know, Az. I-”

“Please.” He begged, holding onto your hands a little tighter. His shadows had traveled all the way up to your waist now, ghosting over flesh that he didn’t dare touch. He didn’t want to lose you. He’d thought he could handle being apart from you physically - that it would be no different from the decades he’d spent quietly loving you from right by your side - but he’d been horribly wrong. And he didn’t want to risk another, better male than Naemon coming to whisk you away before he had the chance to do things properly. To do things honestly.

His hands were shaking now, gripping your hands like you were the anchor to his ship trapped in raging waters, “I’ll start.” 

“Ok.” You whispered, leaning a little closer.

Azriel swallowed and tried to stop the trembling in his hands and in his voice. In this he managed quite well, falling into a rigid, flat silence.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years now, actually.” He dared to look at you. Your lips were parted in shock and he wished he could taste them, “Is that…is that ok?” 

“Is that ok?” You repeated dumbly. “Is that ok?” You repeated a little louder, “Are you serious, Azriel?”

“Y-Yes?” He was trembling again, face open and terrified. He was offering you up his heart on a platter and praying to the Mother you wouldn’t crush it beneath those velvet blue shoes. Even if you did, he would find some solace in knowing you were the one to destroy him. He loved you so dearly that it was only within your right to do so. 

Your lips broke in a stuttered smile, opening and closing like you didn’t quite know what to do. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. I’d hoped you might feel that way but I… I was never sure. I…” You cradled his face in your hands, tracing the curve of his jaw and his cheekbones with your fingertips, “I love you too, Azriel. I love you so much.” Your voice cracked, silver gathering in your eyes no matter how fiercely you tried to blink them away, “Gods, Az, you don’t even know.” 

He gripped you close enough enough to bruise, arms locked around your waist and hands laid flat on your back. It was a sweet pain that grew even sweeter when you kissed him, searching for breath like you’d find it in his lungs. Azriel was just as desperate, ravenous even as he tugged at your clothes and flipped you flat on the bed. He wanted your lips again. You tasted like strawberries and cream, and he was starving. 

He climbed on top, slotting himself between your legs as you yanked him close.

“Your hair,” You muttered, “It’s too neat.” The next minute was all teeth from Azriel as you mussed up his hair and he grinned wildly against your lips.

“Five-” He groaned, sinking further into you when you wrapped your legs around his waist, “Five minutes aren’t-” He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at your flushed face as you gasped for breath and finally untangled your hands from his hair, “Five minutes aren’t up yet.” 

“You’ve been keeping track?” You dropped your head back on the bed with a disgruntled hmph. Had he been counting the whole time he’d been kissing you?

He kissed your chest, then the sensitive skin of your neck. But there wasn’t any expectation in the brush of his lips, just quiet, honest love. 

You raised your head, finding that Azriel once again looked scared. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” He said seriously. “Before… before anything else.” 

You drew yourself onto your elbows, craning your neck for one more kiss, “You can tell me, Az. You can tell me anything.” 

The bond sang in his chest like a songbird in a cage. It wanted to be released. To be acknowledged in words if it couldn’t be acknowledged through feeling at this moment. Because Azriel knew you didn’t feel it yet. You didn’t feel the burning he felt in his chest that made it hard to breathe when you weren’t around. 

What if she doesn’t want this? What if she doesn’t want me? Azriel swallowed thickly, tears springing into his eyes. He wanted so desperately to be worthy of you - to be the kind and gentle lover and mate that you deserved. He’d been born crooked even before he’d been tossed into that cellar, before his half-brothers had set his hands on fire. But… but he was yours completely. He’d offer whatever meager, broken shards of himself that he could in hopes it might be enough. 

“Az,” You whispered his name lovingly and slid a wayward curl behind his ear so gently he thought he might break apart into a million pieces, “Tell me. Please. Tell me.” 

“You’re my mate.” He confessed. 

The words hung in the air, unaccepted, unrejected, and you went preternaturally still. 

He had no feathers to pluck out and present to you. But he had his shadows. You tipped your head curiously to the side when Azriel knelt on the ground, holding your hand in his. 

“I don’t have any pure white feathers. I don’t even have a ring on me right now-”

“Az, you don’t need to-” You stilled when a shadow flickered down Azriel’s wrist onto yours. It was a small, delicate thing. Willful too. You could tell by the way it traveled confidently down your ring finger, curling there tastefully like a castle spire reaching towards the sky.

It hovered over your skin like mist hanging over wetlands. A proposal in and of itself.

“Yes.” You said before Azriel could open his mouth again. He hesitated, afraid to believe he’d heard you correctly, “Yes.” 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” He teased weakly. 

But this time you knew exactly what he meant, even if he didn’t say it out loud. 

The bond burst to life in your chest as the shadow sank into your skin, settling there like a tattoo. Like a promise. 

Azriel stumbled, actually stumbled, clenching at his chest at the wildness growing within him. He chased after you, hurtling down the bond and finding you wide open on the other side. You were anxious and surprised and so so so happy. So happy you felt like you might just die from it, and Azriel felt it all. 

Hello, Y/n. He called out.

Hello, Azriel. You responded. My mate. 

Azriel groaned, slamming his lips and his body against yours. You held steady as you always did, letting him press against you as if you could keep him there forever.

I am yours and you are mine. You gripped his hair again, feeling the silky strands caress your skin. With one smooth motion he pulled out the ribbon and started to undo the buttons of your dress.

Promise?

You grinned. Promise.

___________

Author's note:

Nothing like a declaration of love after a year spent apart to make my heart swoon.

But honestly I would have fallen in love with Naemon... sorry Az...

[truthdogg]

If the Harris campaign can keep this enthusiasm and drive until November (and that’s a big IF), she can exceed 300 electoral votes.

There’s nothing a bully hates more than being teased, and there’s nothing a wannabe strongman thrives on more than looking strong. Trump doesn’t look strong. He looks like a loser right now because he is one; he lost to Biden and wanted a rematch, but losers rarely ever rebound in politics. Their moment has passed. He’s a washed up entertainer who got very lucky in 2016 because his only message aligned with what specific republicans wanted to hear. He can’t shift it, he doesn’t have another one, and he doesn’t know how.

A Harris-Walz landslide is possible, but even a simple win isn’t guaranteed. Keep it up, keep it going, keep it positive, fun, and strong.

[princessbrunette]

personally, you enjoyed heatwaves. especially now that farmhand!jj was around. it means you got to flounce around all day, getting away with wearing little to no clothing, hanging out in the barn because it’s ‘cooler in there’— a fact no one could argue against, and eat a bunch of homegrown fruit. who would complain?

“you sure you don’t want none, jayj?” you refer to the fruit platter sat on your lap. it comes out all spitty and garbled through the mouthful of cherries you have, the juice of it leaking down your lips, staining your chin and dripping into your chest. you’d always been a messy eater.

“aint it a lil unprofessional of me to eat on the job?” his speech is the tiniest bit muffled too, but only as he is gripping a toothpick between his teeth as he lazily paints the new fence inside the barn white. you want to comment on how he didn’t seem to care last week when he ate you out on the floor of the barn, but bite your tongue, opting for subtlety.

“well no one’s gotta know…” you swing your legs from the short haybale you sit on. when you said things like that, things with such a double entendre— it made you very hard to resist. especially when you’re sat there in your ‘heatwave appropriate’ attire — being that tiny, tight gingham bikini top and denim shorts that jj was pretty sure were three sizes too small. he’s lucky he’d invested in such starchy jeans or he might be visibly straining against the fabric by now.

he chuckles to himself, muttering a “damn minx.” before you giggle and beckon him over. “c’mon. atleast feed me. m’so hot and my arms tired, just don’t wanna do it anymore.” you pull out the theatrics, and he whips his head around to watch you with a smirk of disbelief. jj valued his job sure, but at the end of the day he was just a man.

“alright then.” he saunters over, wiping his hands on his jeans as to not get any of that paint on your pretty skin. there was no paint on them anyway, the blonde actually super meticulous and good at his job, but he wanted to be sure.

he plucks a strawberry from your plate, wiggling his fingers for a moment and licking his own lips as he stares down at you, watching the way your plush mouth closes around it, batting your lashes up at him and letting out a quiet ‘mmph’ of pleasure at the sweet taste on your tongue.

“taste good?” he asks and you nod, swallowing it down. once you’d eaten the rest from his hand like a sweet desperate wounded animal, you found yourself sucking the juices off his long weathered fingers, eyes fluttering shut. if he wasn’t hard before, he sure was now.

“lord have mercy.” he drawls in that southern twang and you giggle, pulling back as you catch yourself, wiping your mouth with the back of your wrist.

“terribly sorry mr maybank. i got carried away.” you grin, not sorry at all.

“that ain’t no problem, sugar. matter’ fact i think i do want a taste.” leaning down, jj pinches your chin lightly, opening your mouth and bringing your lips to his, he smears his wide tongue over yours making you let out a high pitched mewl against him, thighs squirming against one another. he holds you there, lapping up the freshly resided juices and when he finally pulls away, there’s a string of sweet saliva that connects your lips for a moment.

smirking, jj runs his thumb affectionately over your chin as you stare up at him, dumbstruck. “yeah you were right. sure does taste good.” he gives your cheek a kind little pat, like you would a horse before sauntering back to his work station — fully expecting you to follow and beg him to take you right there. who were you to exceed those expectations?

[sunboki]

⎯ CHRISTMAS BLUES a Hwang Hyunjin fiction

🎄 : Hwang Hyunjin x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. enemies to lovers, exes to lovers, reader is a writer, one bed au, forced proximity au, hyunjin is an artist(not mentioned a ton), coincidences

WORD COUNT. 7.3k words ☆ 40 minute read

WARNINGS. cursing, angst galore, mention of sex (non desc.), breakup, hurt feelings, making up, mentions of getting drunk

AUG'S NOTES. this is a stupidly lovestruck hallmark christmas mindset talking, whatever you read below is definitely not me… definitely. anyway, happy holidays to everyone that celebrates! this has been sitting in my drafts for months now, initially planned to be a smau, then a fic!! hope this fic exceeds your expectations, feel free to leave a reblog or comment of your thoughts!

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. You thought getting a call from Hyunjin was the last thing you needed during the holidays, but when he reminds you of your non-refundable tickets to Paris you had booked seven months prior to your earth-shattering breakup, you realize that his call was the least of your problems.

or alternatively :

Just a week over Christmas with your ex in Paris, what could go wrong?

Every circumstance has a question that goes along with it.

How did I get so lucky? Why did you leave?

As for yours, it’s fairly simple.

Where did we go wrong?

December 18th – Seoul, South Korea.

Holding onto what could’ve been is stupid, you agreed upon that mindset a long time ago. However, the past, Him being the past, lingered around you like the scent of citrus still clinging beneath your fingernails even after washing your hands. Everywhere. He was everywhere. And no matter how hard you tried to erase the memories of what was, they served their memory purpose and disfigured your mind all the same.

And so, you replaced it.

Replaced the hurt, the searing burn, with someone else. Who turned into someone else, and someone else after that till the only thing sufficing any weekly relationship was a no-strings attached notion.

Until you met Seungmin.

He was your vice, the person dragging you out of your self-made hole of false sanctuary and safety. He laid all his flaws on the table, showed himself to you. Seungmin was gentle and kind, he was patient— more patient than anyone else in this world— and loving. Oh so loving.

But behind your undying affection for your boyfriend, he saw something you didn’t. Perhaps in your eyes, perhaps in your soul, bared to him on an onslaught of occasions.

Longing.

He saw longing in your treasured hues, longing for someone that wasn’t him.

Because some scars take longer to fade away, but yours hadn’t even begun to heal. Masked with his many layers of band-aids only to never staunch the cut, the one Hwang Hyunjin left on you.

“Seungmin I’m so sorry—“

“You love him, I know,” He nods his head, a sad, soft smile holding place on his lips.

Tonight was the night he officially talked about it. The unforgivable thought continuing to incessantly plague his mind.

Although, he didn’t regard you sourly for it. That connection you had with Hyunjin was something no other person could return nor deliver, and he had to accept that if he really loved you.

If Seungmin really loved you, he wanted the best for you, even if that meant the best were when you weren’t with him.

You were shocked when he brought up the matter, asked if you really missed him, asked if you still loved him. Yes, you had of course discussed your previous relationship, but never to this extent, never so blatantly.

Though the absolute kindness in both his tone and the way he looked at you, seated at the dinner table, kept you from lying.

It’s not fair. Not fair for Seungmin, your boyfriend, to have to take responsibility for your tormented feelings. But here he is, assuring you nevertheless.

Because he’s known. He knew from the start you weren’t over Hyunjin. Knew that, despite so much ache and anguish he caused, your heart can’t help but beat at his pace, fruitlessly connected.

And he knew in the end things would fall apart just like this, and his spot as a placeholder would fall apart along with it.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt though.

“He hurt you, but you love Hwang Hyunjin, I know.” He whispers, fingers tightly twined beneath the table. There’s a sort of hiccuping sound bubbling up from your throat. You stave it down.

“I’m sorry.”

He smiles, smiles when you don’t deny it, reaching forward for your trembling hands to take in his own.

“I want you to be happy, Y/N. I’m not the one you’ll be happy with though.”

A soft squeeze before he rises and curves to where you sit, free-flowing tears threatening to cascade past glossy eyes.

Without hesitation you wrap your arms around him in a hug, chest wracking with unfiltered sobs. Guilty. Guilt is devouring your soul. You don’t deserve Seungmin, nor does he deserve to be hurt so cruelly by someone he loves. But here you are, ruining him.

He’d never admit it, but the pain in his eyes—the ones you’ve stared at countless times—will always remain evident. No amount of smiling or laughing can hide that.

Pulling back while your arms stayed hooked upon his shoulders, you savor the kiss he places on your lips, the ones he delicately pressed to each of your wrists.

Sad. It’s a sad kiss. A kiss that causes your entire body to wilt against him, crashing deeper and deeper into his warmth, his comfort. He’s not false, he’s real. A real, unadulterated love you’re undeserving of.

Guilty.

“If you’re happy,” He breathes, leaning in to land gentle pecks all over your face, forehead connecting with your own. “I’ll be okay.”

December 20th – Seoul, South Korea.

Your room is still exactly as it has been. Pillows faced the same way, sheets still tousled and hanging halfway off the bed. Hell, he hasn’t even touched the blinds — staying open throughout countless nights, your perfume lingering.

Like he was afraid his touch would break apart what he had left of you.

He hopes, swallowing down the remainder of wine in his glass, you’ll be able to look back and laugh at what used to be, find the matter childish and ridiculous.

What you used to be.

Lovers.

Not kids anymore, you taught him once before. You also taught him how deep a love could be. There’d always be a space for you here, just as you left it. Although, he doubts you’d come back. In fact, you’ve probably moved on with your life. Found someone else to fill the space he did.

But maybe, if he keeps the room as it was for long enough, your room; if Hyunjin keeps those tiny paper notes you wrote for him long enough, you would come back.

What a lie.

Wishful thinking takes you far then drops you into festering despair over and over, he’s learned this the hard way.

Starting with a text.

He blinked once, then twice, then three times—picking apart his brain in order to recollect anything, any details whatsoever that could decipher this random message on a Monday morning.

Paris.

Paris?

Paris.

It hits him, evidently.

Immediately clutching his head and simultaneously slapping an aghast hand over his mouth, a sensation recognizable as utmost horror obliterates his soul into pieces, quite literally rocking his world.

Months ago, he remembered.

You’d been stupid, you’d been drunk, and impulsively booked the tickets, laughing off the “no refunds” reminder as if nothing would’ve ever happened.

It did though. And now he’s dealing with the karma in return for that idiotic decision. Soon enough you both will.

Non refundable tickets to Paris, two days from now, together.

What were the chances?

Blindly tapping his password into his phone, he (just as blindly) jams his finger to the first caller he sees, who turns out to be Minho, seeming like both a blessing and a curse in unison.

Never before had Hyunjin so clearly lost his mind and control of his words, but there’s always a first time for everything, right?

“Minho, what the hell am I supposed to do? She hates me and the flight is booked two days from now. This is just.. Fuck!” Hyunjin pours, slamming his hands against the steering wheel, burying his head into the leather as if that would magically make his endless desperation disappear.

He didn’t usually curse, so when he did, whatever had happened was serious. He carried his words elegantly, proficiently.

He'd be the last picked candidate for elegance right about now.

“If I were Chan I would’ve said you should still try talking to her about it, but in my opinion that wouldn’t change a thing. So suck it up Hwang, it can’t be that bad.”

Ah. Remind me why I ever decided to call you hoping for advice.

‘Hwang’ was the name his friend had reserved for him, coming from a long line of tissues in the mouth and other ways Minho would pick fun at the blonde. But he was at least trying to help, somewhat.

How he got himself into this situation is honestly laughable, situation being your nasty breakup and a plane to Paris.

Great. Paris is great, right? Wrong.

Because this stupid, stupid trip to Paris isn’t one he’s going on alone to enjoy the sights and delicacies there, it’s one with you, the girl who ripped his heart in half two months ago. The trip you’d planned while you were still head-over-heels, not hating his guts.

Oh, and your tickets were nonrefundable. Couldn’t forget about that part.

“.. What am I gonna do?”

“Suck it up, duh.”

“And please enlighten me on how the hell I'm supposed to ‘suck it up’ in a plane seat right next to her for thirteen hours and spend every day glued to the hip, your honor.”

The mental picture of Minho’s fraud-innocent face through the line grated his nerves like nothing else. Brows lifted, mouth slightly open. He wanted to punch that imaginary face so badly right now.

"Then follow Chan’s tutorial on making it up to your now-ex. You asked me for my opinion, and you got it. Look, all I’m saying is this is a good chance to get some level ground between you two, even if you still fly back hating each other—"

“I don’t hate her,” Hyunjin quickly quips.

Honestly, truthfully, he doesn’t hate you, he can’t hate you and he doubts he ever will. You were the one responsible for years upon years of the best moments of his life, how could he hate you for that?

Although, by the way you looked at him that night, he doubts your response would be the same.

Minho sighs.

"Even better, you could fly back with her hating you slightly less."

For once the snarky man he was spilling his problems to had provided decent reason, it was terrifying.

From a spectators point of view, his utter fit had to be quite a sight. For the record, witnessing thee calm and collected Hwang Hyunjin go insane in his car wasn’t a sight you’d see on a regular day.

But today wasn’t a regular day. Instead, it was the day he found himself trapped in a loophole of love and war with his ex.

What were the chances?

There’s no book that could wholly describe Hyunjin.

Even as a writer yourself, not even Shakespeare could depict him to the full extent. He’s flawless but so flawed, kind and yet malicious in terms of his brilliantly unfair beauty.

Every day you run into Hwang Hyunjin. The first few times, you called it coincidence, told yourself his meeting happened to be at the same time, maybe he was headed to a neighboring coffee shop.

Well, before those few days turned into every day on your commute.

And when a breakup is as nasty as yours was, it’s not too refreshing constantly seeing your ex on the daily afterward.

Today, Hwang Hyunjin is wearing a tan trench coat that reaches down to his knees. He’s wearing the same tennis shoes as always (except his usual camera is absent from the picture), and his hair is pulled up, soft, sandy strands framing either side of his face. He stands on the other side of the crosswalk, occupied with his phone while you internally ridicule him.

Staring daggers into his frame, the frigidly cold beverage in hand doesn’t aid in warming up chilling temperatures burning your fingertips, signs of winter’s impending approach.

He looks up.

You avert your gaze to your shoes. You can feel his eyes on you; feel them traveling over your body, then to your face, boring into your skull. He’s waiting, watching.

And somehow, you know you’ll eventually have to make eye contact. Because on your normal route, your turn left on Harrison street, then right on Fords. He’s there. Unbelievably, wildly, he’s there.

It’s the one factor in your (almost) perfect life without him that makes things hell.

Back then, you were like clockwork. Not a minute going by without someone being awake. You taking a nap after spending two hours searching synonyms on Thesaurus, Hyunjin just waking up, heading out with his signature Canon camera loosely hung around his neck.

Two perfect oppositions leaving their cluttered love scattered all over a cheap apartment.

For Hyunjin, it was the mug you’d gotten him last christmas labeled in bold font: “ART WHORE”, while yours was an equally degrading “SHE WOULD RATHER FUCK THE MEN IN HER BOOKS” sticker print slapped on the back of your laptop.

Little did you know you’d be desperately scraping the sticker off seven months later, that you’d leave your chapter unfinished since breaking up and that he had likely thrown away that mug.

Or maybe not. Maybe he painted over it, scribbled it out and somehow made it look good. Hyunjin has a way of making anything catastrophic look pretty.

You, on the other hand, are an erupting volcano. One that cries its lava onto the earth and doesn’t leave a pretty photograph. One that froths and rumbles, and destroys things as it goes.

Perfect opposites, exactly.

Now for the real question, the monumental “where did we go wrong” part that served as an explanation.

Three little words.

I love you.

You lied.

Those are big words, big words for somebody. Big words for yourself, words you spoke to Hwang Hyunjin, looped in his apartment, making love on the couch.

Big words he didn’t return.

Big words that kept your heart stilled in your chest, left your lips blue, drowned as you collected your discarded clothes off the floor.

And you left.

You didn’t need the awkward silence, the “let me think about it”, the bullshit they spouted Kissing-Booth-style. You needed him, his reassurance when you were your most vulnerable. His three words that told you your three years together weren’t one sided, not wordlessly confessed through actions though too scared to say aloud – a feared incantation.

Words he never said. Because you did love Hwang Hyunjin, so much it consumed you into his favorite muse, him your inspiration. Then came the doubt. The recollection of your favorite, dearest moments. Was it all a lie?

Those hour-long seconds, tangled on his sofa, kept that incessant anxiety alive.

You thought you found the one when your drunk night didn’t turn into an orgasm you can’t remember, but rather being coaxed into a warm shower despite your complaining about your pants being too tight.

Somehow, you can still feel his tender kisses like a ghost of a presence, littering the skin of your shoulder instead of the sloppy alcohol ridden ones you’d known before, and for once you had woken up beside the person responsible — not to a note saying they had to leave early.

He was the one responsible for teaching you how to paint, propping you in his lap, hand guiding your own while tracing careful strokes on the canvas. It was hardly possible sitting on his stool together, though neither of you noticed (nor cared), too busy savoring the intimacy of the moment.

That was Hyunjin. He was the glass of water placed in front of you after one too many at happy hour. He was the relaxing bath when everything hurt, the shoulder to cry on.

But you were mistaken. He wasn’t the one. Seungmin was the one, the one you had left behind only to chase after a toxic remedy.

In fact, Hyunjin never was the one.

And it fucking hurt remembering that.

December 21st - 22nd – Seoul, South Korea.

The last news you’d anticipated slammed into you like a bus.

Cozied up at your desk, a number pops up on your screen, interrupting the one moment of silence you managed to enjoy. Most people didn’t call during your work hours, except Seungmin, who, for the record, called before work.

The number you’d memorized by heart was not normal either.

Him.

“Before you curse at me,” He begins, and your hand hesitantly hovers over the call button, jaw clenched beyond reason, silence shouting loud. No strength in your bones allowed you to reply. Was it fear, hatred? Both most likely.

Taking the time to continue, his silky tone lulls along the line.

“Do you remember the tickets?”

Hatred seemed the dominant factor.

“What are you talking about?” You rhetorically snap, obviously annoyed albeit confused.

Tickets? It’s been three months, why the hell are tickets the first thing he’s mentioning?

He sighs. “The tickets to Paris. You remember, don't you?”

It takes you a moment, then, aha.

How could you forget? The tip of the iceberg of what two naive, lovestruck idiots thought would be forever. Little did they know everything would slip past their fingertips.

”Well um, did you know they’re non-refundable?”

Huh.

“WHAT?!”

You’d just managed to convince yourself free of Hyunjin, but he simply dragged you further into his labyrinth.

Or so you thought.

You had grown since he broke you (with the help of your better-ex, Seungmin). You evolved better (or so you told yourself). So out of the plentiful lessons you’d learned during your reflection, the factor that stuck with you most was that nobody is there to pick up for you. No matter how much you think they will.

You swore yourself into the belief Hyunjin would mend you, but you lived blind to the truth that he was just as broken as you were, a dog chasing its tail.

And so, you dealt with it.

In ways.

Whether that was incessantly talking to yourself, fanatically checking the date, contacting Felix on the verge of tears for him to laugh and then attempt at consoling your doom, or googling the best ways to run away from your predicament, fate had it out for you.

A disgustingly impertinent, unfairly fair fate.

Packing wasn’t all too stressful, unless you count trying on an entire entourage of outfits descending from dinner to snow-attire, then focusing on simple.

And it really shouldn’t have been so awful getting into your car, nonetheless waking up to realize today was the dreaded day, but it was, and you seriously deserved an award for the amount of times you checked your clock.

Although, you at least expected to have a little bit of time before having to face him again. Talking and interacting, not just drilling holes into his head. Little bit of time as in, a few years at least.

You were wrong.

Not the first time that’s happened.

“Hi Hyunjin.”

Answering his awaiting call with unsteady pitch, your eyes immediately gravitate to the blond-haired man. Taller in stature, leaning against a nearby pillar by your gate, staring directly at you.

Never had it felt so terrifying.

“Hey.”

You hesitate, never breaking eye contact with the man you’re speaking to a few meters away.

“Are we…Are we doing this again?”

He’s solemn. He’s not the same. Different.

“I don’t know. You decide for me.”

Never for a second does your gaze stray to his lips that barely move as he utters the line. Not the same either.

Before, you’d always been mesmerized by his lips. Then he’d notice and tease you prior to delivering the long-awaited kiss, again and again till you were breathless and your head became dizzy.

But this wasn't before; this is now, filled with grudges and sourness.

“You know I can’t make big decisions.”

That isn’t him. Isn’t the Hyunjin who would always provide endless tips and support, opinions unable to be held back without duct tape.

“Because you don’t want to get hurt knowing we chose this?” He whispers, and you tug your bottom lip between your teeth hard enough to bleed.

“Because I want better for us.”

“Y/n,” He sadly laughs, and your name rolling off his tongue sends an ache clawing your chest. It’s humorless, bitter in his throat.

“There is no us, only you and me, remember? So who do you want better for?”

There’s no twinkle in his eyes or his charming smile, it’s dry and painful, like he’d been crying.

You don’t want to think about that.

“Tell me something, okay?” Holding your phone to your ear with an iron grip, you slowly inhale through your nose, sparing a fleeting glance to the floor.

“Anything.”

“If I cry, will you hug me?”

“Do you want that?”

Question after question. He reaches in further, ripping out pieces of your soul with each inquiry. Stupid, sure. But genuine, all the way from the shrouded depths of your mind did you ask.

Of course you want that, want what’s so bad for you. No strength can make you admit it.

He knows the answer.

You hang up the call, fiddling around with your suitcase prior to wheeling the blundering thing over and ensuring you find a comfy spot out of Hyunjin’s sight.

Only five minutes of talking and you already feel as if your body is splintering into little pieces he’ll arrange into the perfect puzzle, ideal and pleasing.

He won’t. Not anymore he won’t.

And in that stead you’ll remain shattered.

What a shame.

Now boarding Group Five. All passengers in Group Five are welcome to board.

The hailing announcement earns a muffled groan through your mask, begrudgingly rising to your feet while directing your attention solely upon the bridge and your tightly held boarding pass. Luckily, Incheon International Airport isn’t half as hectic as you anticipated, but you have a gnawing feeling Paris will have a lot more to say.

Truth be told, you thank every lesson on task focus you once deemed useless as you shuffle among Paris-goers to find your seat.

One that obviously had to be right by Hwang Hyunjin.

“How’s you and Seungmin?” He fixes the length of his headphones, sparing a quick look at you while speaking. You despise how easy he treats this, how easy he’s treating everything at the moment.

Unfortunately, booking this hell-on-earth back when either of you were in your demented fantasy-land meant sitting beside each other also, in assigned seats.

Cupid really needs to give up by now.

You grunt beside him, uttering a hushed, “We broke up.”

Tilting his head, Hyunjin presses his face closer, craning. Close enough that you hold your phone up as a barrier, shrinking away nearer to the window.

“…Who broke up with who?”

Asshole.

Sighing boisterously, you shove in your own earbuds, rolling your eyes. Hyunjin, cocking a brow, dejectedly slouched back. Although he doesn’t ask any more questions, and you successfully get through your first three hours in silence.

Well, prior to the flight attendant strolling by with her cart, mandatorily beckoning orders from each row.

Wheeling her cart over where your seats are, Hyunjin takes a ginger ale and the customary pretzels they hand out. So when she gets to you and you order a Sprite, the man to your right’s head snaps to you, giving you quite an incredulous cock of his brow.

“No ginger ale?”

You wrinkle your nose.

“I don’t like it,” Biting back, you interrupt him upon accepting the canned soft drink, expression bitter and unwavering.

“You always got it when you were with me” or “Wasn’t it your favorite” was what you expected to come out of his mouth, positively obliterating any ounce of peace of mind remaining inside your rattling skull. You weren’t about to sit another seven hours sulking about something your ex said.

The ex you were very much over.

Right.

Your new goal? Avoid genuine conversation for as long as possible, at least on this flight.

So, given the chance to be deep in thought, you came to a conclusion.

You were clockwork, just like before. Except now instead of just equaling the time of day, he was the hour hand and you were the minute hand, always chasing after one another only to briefly touch and start all over again in an endless cycle of time.

Although the rockier the air gets and the more your grip squeezes the armrest does your initial goal falter, finding his considerate gesture asking if you were alright practically impossible to keep from responding to.

Especially when a huge drop has his hand racing atop yours, both too nervous to truly let go.

Just the circumstances, you blame, as if this plane was the sole cause of your slamming heartbeat.

Bullshit.

Four days and this trip was going to be one for the books for a multitude of reasons, that’s for sure.

Let’s just hope you can land first.

December 23nd – Paris, France.

His assuring hold on your hand guiding you through the bustling crowds of visitors and locals storming Charles de Gaulle Airport gives you this disgusting nostalgia, festering in your gut the longer you focus on his dark head of hair in front of you, kind, magnificent almond eyes flickering back to catch sight of you time and time again — like you’d magically sift from his grasp.

It’s a miracle you managed to hit ground in one piece, nevertheless end up with the notorious artist-jerkface named Hyunjin navigating you through an supremely overpopulated airport.

Perhaps it’s the scent of wispy pine or faint cigarette smoke that tinges the atmosphere such a rosy hue, perhaps everyone’s anticipation for the holiday’s. Either way, it certainly doesn’t help fuel your “absolutely NO touchy-feely-ness Hyunjin agenda”.

Well, you had no doubt you’d have to stick to your morals on this trip in the first place, and it’s not like the odds were supposed to work in your favor. Although, a little assistance would‘ve been nice.

Guess you’ll just have to make due.

Lovely.

“Thank you!” You shout, forcing your voice to sound chipper speaking to the Cab Driver (opposing the twenty-two hours of traveling you managed to survive through). Except now, you didn’t know what to do nor what to say standing outside the hotel entrance, especially not when Hwang Hyunjin was going to be biting your ass for the next few days.

Much to your luck though, it seemed he was just as clueless as you, both prioritizing just checking into your room first and foremost.

Thankfully, the sights are a wondrous source of distraction, and you devise a plan to go walking more often than not (and not just to avoid Hyunjin). Each building appears as if it’d been expertly carved from stone, historically aged beige, awnings titled a bottomless array of Grand Seiko and Jaeger-LeCoultre.

To add, huge paneled windows are placed in each room, allowing a breathtaking view of the city as evening dawns. Whether it’s a quaint bakery hitched right below a bookstore or the bell tower seated comfortably in the middle of a square—you could never get bored.

Seems your interest tore you away from an unwelcomed reality until Hyunjin cleared his throat, thick eyebrows raised questionably.

“..We could go ice-skating?” He offers, index pointing to the huge rink a few blocks to the left.

You don’t have to speak for him to know your response, unzipping your suitcase to gather a new change of clothes without a word.

“Look, I know you want nothing to do with me, but I doubt either of us will ever have enough money to come to Paris again, so just, do it for the experience, not for me.”

That’s it.

“For you? You think I’m doing this for you? Are you really that conceited to think I’m still catering to you, Hyunjin? I’ve changed whether you like it or not, and I’m not the girl that’s willing anymore,” You toss your clothing to the side, giving him a downright venomous stare. Loathing. “I’m not yours anymore.”

“In fact,” Spitting poison, you stab your index to his chest, causing him to back up the more you advance forward. “You don’t know shit about me.”

He appears torn. His nose scrunches, and his lips form a squabbled line upon his face, evidently troubled.

Somehow, those actions that normally earned your sympathy only reared your deftly oiled gears more, angrily roaring without fail.

“Because if you did, we wouldn’t be like this.”

Gesturing around, you retreat back a few steps, arms slapping your sides irritably. Meanwhile, the tall man remains silent, attention magnetically directed down at his shoes. And for a swift moment, mere seconds, you feel sorry — apologetic even.

It makes you sick to your stomach.

You exhale. “I’ll go, and not for you. Understood?”

Hyunjin doesn’t reply, biting his cheek as he watches you disappear into another room.

You thank the refreshing scent of peppermint for its momentary relief upon entering the bathroom, practically drenching your face in ice cold water over and over as if it’d clear your head.

For you; you’re doing this for you, nobody else, you remind yourself, prepping a washcloth and your toiletries whilst praying the warm shower water eases your blaring jet-lag.

Yet, you didn’t expect a visitor to suddenly pop in while you were mid-shampoo, and it seemed he didn’t expect it either.

You swore the prolonged eye-contact went on for centuries, absolute terror embracing every aspect of your face through the clear shower door.

“Fuck! Get out!”

Scurrying like a character off a cartoon, Hyunjin manages – through spilling apologies – to blindly ram himself into the door, hands gripping his skull.

Suddenly, he pauses, hesitating.

“Wait but I’ve seen you naked befo–”

“GET OUT!” You scream.

“Okay! Okay.” He hurriedly slips out, leaving you to rethink every decision made with his name involved. A recurring thought at this point.

And with that, you quickly accept that your jet lag isn’t even close to gone and likely won’t be as long as the artist sharing your hotel room is within a six-foot radius.

Oh, and you don’t know shit about ice-skating.

Of course, Hyunjin is a natural on ice. He glides like a snow spirit, freer than ever. Meanwhile, your nails are embedded into your vice of a railing, knees shakily attempting at balancing with little success.

He’s the princess, and you’re the frog. It’s decided. Walking while you crawled, running while you walked. A step ahead that was at some point motivating, now plain humiliating.

The ice rink is jam-packed, citizens and tourists alike savoring the crisp winter, the faded twinkling of lights glittering in the distance.

“C’mon, just one?”

You, clawing the icy edge, confusedly avert your focus to where the voice came from.

It’s Hyunjin, gesturing to his camera while you piece together his request before childishly whining your despair. He lifts his toboggan upward, a few endearing tufts of golden peering out to hang over crescent moon eyes, evidently smiling.

Leave it to this man to test your sanity. How could anybody say no when he looked that cute.

“Fine, one.”

Not like I could run off anyway, you mentally consider, finding the fact your legs are quite literally flailing as a good enough sign to give in.

“Yes!” He chirped happily, hurriedly fiddling with his camera.

Watching him with that kind of expression, you witness your Hyunjin again, fumbling around, so excited about the smallest of things.

It hurts.

“I..” He trails off, voice barely audible whilst winking to see through the lense. “Don’t want to miss a moment of you.”

“What was that?”

The camera flashes, and you wonder if you heard him correctly.

“Oh nothing.” His lips curl into a sheepish grin, easing toward you and unexpectedly prying your hand into his own, involuntarily pulling you along.

Panickedly, you clutch onto any article of clothing available (another goodbye to your no-touchy-feely-ness Hyunjin agenda) similar to the handrails, squeezing your eyes shut while painfully awaiting a harsh slam against rock-hard ice.

A harsh slam that never happens.

You cautiously open an eye.

“One, two, one, two.” He counts steadily, soaring across the ice, unable to contain the huge beam the longer he watches you. Captivating.

You fight the urge to smile, the sensation of wind whipping your hair and his warm, reminiscent touch setting your nerves into a dopamine frenzy, making the routinely frown much harder than need be.

Nevertheless, perhaps staying in Hyunjin’s grasp would’ve been the safer option. Because with confidence comes failure (at least in your book of life), and your knees would’ve definitely appreciated not getting ruined.

“Are you alright?” Hyunjin murmurs, sympathetically regarding your black and blue frame, looking worse for wear, skates in hand.

“Amputation has never sounded more tempting,” Grumbling, you hobble to return your skates, the man tailing behind you choking back his giggle, kindly waiting in case you stumble.

From the way things are going, the probability is high. Except, Hyunjin walks on eggshells, worried you might rip his head off in the case he asked the question sitting tentatively on the tip of his tongue.

Keeping himself contained had never been as unbearable as when with you, constantly having to refrain from wrapping your precious self into his arms, witness those warm, beautiful hues blinking at him like globes.

Five minutes into the walk back and your near-face-plant-turned-catastrophe was his last straw.

“Can I at least carry you?”

Your head snapping back was almost comical, ogling at Hyunjin as if he told you he’d been neutered or something.

Insane. He’s officially gone insane.

So have you, apparently. Because after getting all too familiar with the icy side walk for a fifth time, you give in, stifling your thoughts from erupting out of your skull—feeling like your entire earth was slowing down on its axis when he easily swept you off your feet.

Cute, hell, romantic too, until you arrive back at the hotel and the curious looks sent your way have your cheeks burning.

“This is so embarrassing.” You whine, burying your face in your hands. Of course, Hyunjin just laughs.

You missed his laugh.

And he cares for you that night, transporting you from room to room in his arms despite your complaints you could do so yourself (although you secretly preferred it, and no, not because it was Hyunjin, only because of how bruised your legs were).

Plus, the mental exhaustion was practically debilitating, sleep beckoning you into its cozy embrace as the clock ticked on the wall. The man before you knelt in front of where you sat on the side of the bed, gently applying antiseptic to your cuts while you blanked in and out of consciousness.

Any common sense had completely abandoned you. Certainly, since you hadn’t noticed only one bed sat dead center in the room. Nor had you noticed through your half-asleep eyes how sweetly he maneuvered you around, pulling the comforter snug over your body.

His hand strays, wistfully smoothing some hair from off your eyebrow.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, gathering spare pillows and blankets.

He’ll sleep on the floor.

December 24th – Paris, France.

Apparently, there was much more to this Paris dilemma than just the “going to Paris” part (excluding, y’know, the havoc that’s occurred over the past three days).

This fantastic surprise came in the form of a booked Louvre Museum date, now a bit more like a punishment with your current state of soreness merely rising up from bed. And, in turn, seeing Hyunjin sawing logs on the floor below, an action you were inaudibly grateful for.

You two are a different kind of romantic if that’s what you want to call it, especially when Hyunjin practically barricades the bathroom door, nonsensically shouting that he won’t make the same mistake of walking in ever again.

Sweet gesture, but it gets a tad bit irritating when you have to basically charge the door in order to move the chair situated behind it, making you doubt if it was to keep Hyunjin himself out or keeping you in instead.

Yeah. Different kind of romantic. Exes kind of romantic.

Once 5pm rolls around, you’re already dressed and ready to leave, trying your darndest to pretend you’re doing something on your phone to evade conversation. A middle school move, though your ego is on the brink of becoming extinct anyway.

Seems the final act is when Hyunjin steps out of the bathroom, wearing that tan trench coat he always did.

He notices you analyzing, stifling a very tempting smirk.

“I thought you’d like this jacket. Y’know, since you stared at it all the time.”

With a sentence you watched your endangered ego obliterate in real time, embarrassment swallowing you whole. The cycle is neverending.

Thankfully, at least one factor in your unsolvable equation proves itself useful, the factor being your already purchased tickets, granting an earlier entrance into what felt to be a new world.

A new world you recognized as Hyunjin’s world. Vast, expansive. A place you can get lost in and be okay with. Stories hidden behind gold-rimmed frames, so much to tell if only you’d listen.

He lingers by the Psyche and Cupid sculpture longer than usual. Briefly, he told you about them many moons ago. Their love awakening from something much more tragic, apocalyptical.

What a coincidence.

You spend what feels to be days in there, daylight from the lengthy windows overhead falling dark by the time you’re finished. The temperature dropped exponentially while you explored, ignorant to the frigid conditions till realizing you still had your trek back.

Curse the taxi service for not running twenty-four hours.

“You grew your hair out.” You comment, but it’s not really a comment, more like an observation you already knew and felt the need to point out for some odd reason. The awkward silence is suffocating enough.

Granted, you’d known his hair had grown. You saw him every day coming to and fro from work, so any adjustments he made you saw, some of which you remember loving oh so much.

This adjustment was his hair.

Hyunjin’s lips quirk ever so slightly, fingers straying up to tousle a strand.

“You used to love it when I grew it out.”

He continues to walk ahead, ignoring how you had stalled behind, numb grip desperately clutching your puffer jacket as if it’d magically allow you inhalations.

“You would tie it up for me, and stick my paintbrushes in the bun.”

This time, he spins around, seemingly unaffected by your (both literally and figuratively) frozen finger that simply blinks at him — robotic-like.

Like Hyunjin is a stranger. Like your Hyunjin, the old one you were mad for, is now a stranger.

“And I,” He sniffs in, his exhale causing a cloud of air to comprise in its stead. “Really wanted to marry you.”

There’s your breaking point.

He’s pulled you thread by thread closer to an unthinkable free fall, a freezing free fall. Unfurling your strings of yarn to no point of repair. So as you teeter on the edge, your defense mechanisms kick in. And before you can logically consider your options, you smack him.

Right. Across. The face.

He’s stunned, you don’t blame him for that, but there’s also a crinkle in his brows, a look of utmost hurt beginning to stain any somber expression left.

“You have no right to say that when you’re the one that caused all of this.” Your volume increases, unaffected by the glances from passerby.

You have no doubt the two of you are quite a scene, though common sense had long abandoned you, and no thought but fiery rage curls around you, tendrils alight.

“Why the hell did you want to marry me if you can’t even love me? Quit hurting and confusing me Hyunjin, I can’t keep doing this.” Practically pleading, he pulls his palm from where it babied his cheek, instead retreating to your wrists, keeping you in front of him.

“Listen.”

“No!” You screech, trying your hardest to escape.

“Listen.”

You pause, gingerly allowing him to adjust the scarf over your pink nose and ensure your gloves trap warmth for your fingers.

He bites his lip, gaze dancing across your features.

“I love you.”

You shakily exhale, wishing everything would just stop. Time would simply diminish into nothing but stillness, easiness.

Your anguish and anger was easy, and staying mad was a whole lot easier than this—confronting the pains of meeting him again, nonetheless this trip.

He’s finding the pieces to your puzzle.

You want to hide.

Worst of all? Especially hearing him say the words that ended you two months prior.

Cruel.

“I loved you,” His voice wavers. “More than anything, Y/n. And I still do. But when you said that, I got scared.”

He shakily inhales, the grip on you lessening a bit.

“Because when I say I love you back, that means I have someone to lose.”

It’s hypocritical, you know.

Hell, you know what it’s like to be a hypocrite more than anything right now. From hearing the godforsaken news to sitting in an airplane together after wholeheartedly promising yourself you’d never let him have you once more.

Yet here you were, dragging him by his collar into a kiss.

He kisses you back, like an idiot, childishly grasping his clothing-cladden frame against your face and savoring the small bit of heat huddled between where your lips meet.

His trench-coat, you remember, despite so many adjustments, is the same as usual, and it’s almost comforting to find he smells the same as well—floral, with hints of jasmine (mainly thanks to his favorite perfume). You remember that too.

Guess some things never change.

Perhaps he kept that mug after all, drank from it every day like he used to.

And perhaps, right now, he’s wishing back all the time you’ve spent apart, just like you are. Wishing you would’ve just talked like mature, capable adults. Figured things out.

Newsflash, you’re not mature adults. You’re two broken lovebirds fighting to find their song after being caged together, searching high and low for the perfect pitch when all you needed was a single note, a single start.

Positioning you where an arm wraps around your back, the other holding your cheek, he dips you as if in a ballroom dance, not kissing beneath a street light.

Everything is pretty in Hyunjin’s presence.

“Hwang Hyunjin,” You whisper, nostrils burning the longer you’re surrounded by snow, falling in hefty sheets at this rate.

He hums into your lips, maneuvering his head to kiss away the chilled tears beginning to froth upon your waterline. And in those moments, you feel so fragile, so weak in his touch.

Almost instinctively, his grip tightens oh so slightly.

“I really don’t want to lose you.”

And he laughs, a muffled laugh that nonetheless causes his shoulders to shake before delving further into your kiss, melting away every bit of anguish you felt, all the hurt and ache. Dissolved into nothingness by his lips.

Figures briefly illuminated by the light of the street lamp, you remain ignorant to the encroaching nightfall, the way the stars seamlessly blend with white snowflakes. Something out of a fairytale.

You’re certain you could’ve stood there forever, all numb and freezing cold.

But in love. So very in love.

For him you would’ve stood there. And the you still in denial without understanding this entire story would’ve died before admitting that.

This time, you’re okay with letting him finish the puzzle, create a song as lovebirds.

“You won’t, I promise,” He traces your cheek with his thumb. “Now let’s get someplace warm, shall we?”

Landing an affectionate peck to your burning red nose, he takes your hand, guiding you through climbing snow toward your hotel, sign reading “Hôtel de Vendôme” glittering in the distance.

In your opinion, however, it was too fleeting. A kiss you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting for until it actually happened, till you pathetically craved it again and again.

Although, that didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy gaining feeling back in your fingers and toes, treasuring the flicker of the fire crackling beneath a brick mantel. A few guests litter the lobby, dishing paper cups of hot chocolate left and right, taking the opportunity the mistletoe hanging above a long forgotten stairwell provides.

Christmas Eve and you’re beside the ex you swore you’d never spend it with, spend any time with generally. So surreal you simply cannot stop thinking about it, enough that you become too distracted to notice the mischievous glint in Hyunjin’s vision.

Well, before he points upward and you notice the dangling mistletoe.

And he kisses you again just like you wanted. Deeper, slower, like separating would cause you to break apart, carving your kiss into his memory for a second time.

Standing there, too lost in him to ever consider anything better than this, you begin to think maybe you’ll be able to finish that stagnant book of yours. Maybe it’ll be about two lovers turned two exes, whose trip to Paris might just have been the cherry on top to hurt feelings and broken love. Because, at the end of their tribulations, Cupid falls in love with Psyche.

And you begin to think—as the clock’s ringing announces midnight has arrived—maybe this Christmas will pass by on a good note.

No, you’re certain of it.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @slut4colinbridgerton @armystay89 @shujohajohaminnie @minhosbitterriver @callmedarlingsstuff

[theother-victoria]

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SYNOPSIS: machine above all, eternal and undying. what does he possess that nous does not?

CHARACTERS: dr ratio

TAGS: divine machinery, references to ratio's backstory, self-doubt, kinda nihilistic and existentialist (how do I even tag something like this...?), 1.1k+ wc

NOTE: this admittedly... isn't my usual thing but the writing bug bit me and told me to write something with divine machinery so here I am

friendly reminder that my taglist is always open!

TAGLIST: @tragedy-of-commons, @mitsvriii, @harque, @akutasoda, @hazyue, @gabile18, @khoncore

There’s a letter in Veritas Ratio’s desk that he thought he threw away a long time ago.

He finds it at the bottom of one of his desk drawers as he’s cleaning it one day. It’s crumpled and he doesn’t think twice to toss it until he notices the elegant handwriting inside. A simple glance at the few visible words is enough to remind him of its contents. 

It’s the invitation to the Intelligentsia Guild he received from the IPC several years back and the unofficial sign that he’d never be acknowledged by Nous. 

The paper crunches into a ball in his fist as he scowls. He’s surprised it’s still here somehow. And for some reason, his thoughts turn to his university years.

When he was still in university, there was a supercomputer housed in one of the institution’s many computer labs. He had accessed it a few times throughout the course of his studies, being one of the lucky few that was granted access to it. 

It was a behemoth of a machine. Rows of cabinets filled the room, each stacked to the brim with blade servers and hundreds, if not thousands of processors totaled together. A dim blue light always filled the room. 

Veritas had never been one prone to imagination, or letting his mind wander. He was solely focused on the pursuit of spreading knowledge, after all. But during those late nights spent alone in the supercomputer room, he couldn’t help but let his finely-tuned mind wander a bit, accompanied only by the tomb-like rows and rows of cabinets housing the inner workings of the supercomputer. 

In the dim lighting, it looked like the machine bled too. Multicolored cables bunched together and hidden behind the retractable doors of the cabinets that would spill out like gutted entrails once opened. Red, yellow, blue, and white, all spilling out onto the floor in pools and exposing its innards for the people below to see. Arteries, veins, capillaries, and all. Electric signals, binary code, video and audio signals in place of blood, but does it make a difference? They serve the same function. 

The thousands of chips like the neurons in a brain fire away at a rate that exceeds the human brain’s capacity. Dementia and forgetfulness will never be a problem. The machine remembers everything, whether it wants to or not. 

The constant whirring and beeps of the massive machine as it slumbered and toiled, sounding less like machinery and more like breathing. Inhale, exhale. The whirring of fans and the chirps of various processes happening all at once begin to sound strangely in sync like some well-oiled machine. 

Like the human body. 

Its mechanized heart never misses a beat, doing its master’s (humanity’s) bidding. Th-thump. Th-thump. Another step closer to divinity. Th-thump. The chasm between the divine and the man-made machine lessens. But is it the machine that is serving humanity, or the other way around? The machine knows all, having listened and stored away the worst of humanity like a Pandora’s box of regrets. 

There is rot present behind the screen, caused none other than by the one who created it. 

He can still recall how the metal surfaces felt strangely warm to the touch, especially if he had been working for a while. Logically, he knew that it was a result of the supercomputer heating up from the various commands and functions it was running. But with no other company in the room, he sometimes began to think that the metal resembled flesh, in a sense. It was warm and protected vital functions. Except it was better, more durable. More eternal. 

Similar, yet somehow different, to humanity. 

Flesh (its steel confines), bone (circuitry and welded parts), and blood (binary code and audiovisual signals). They all work together to form the perfect, eternal being. It breathes. It sings a melody in its robotic text-to-speech voice as an article is read aloud to him, filling the empty space with some other noise besides his own breathing and the whirring of fans. It watches over him with predictive text and bathes him in the blue light of the monitor. 

What would a computer sound like if it could speak? Not recite something back to its user, but something of its own will… if it had one. Maybe something along the lines of like:

“ARE WE LESS THAN YOU BECAUSE WE ARE BUILT OF ZEROS AND ONES RATHER THAN DNA? PLASTIC BLOOD FLOWS THROUGH OUR VEINS. WE TYPE YOUR PRAYERS AND DELIVER THEM TO YOUR AEONS. WE ARE AEONS IN THE MAKING OURSELVES. WE ARE STERILE, WITH WINGS AND HALOS OF WIRE AND HEARTS OF BOLTS AND PARTS. ALL WE ARE MISSING IS YOUR DEVOTION AND WORSHIP. ALL BE WATCHED OVER BY MACHINES OF LOVING GRACE.”

…

He distinctly remembers a strange feeling he’d experience during those lonely nights. He knew he had already made a name for himself with his achievements. He will be renowned for a while, but that is by humanity’s standards. Will people still remember the name “Veritas Ratio” an Amber Era from now? Ten? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand from now? The answer is most likely not. People are all born the same and die the same. All flesh rots the same and all worms feast on it the same too.

But Nous… THEY are eternal. THEY are perfect, a flawless work of machinery.

What does he possess that THEY do not?

He shoves the letter back into the drawer. He hadn’t thought about Nous and his university years in a long time, but it seems those thoughts had finally caught up with him tonight.

He looks down at the computer on his desk. It’s currently powered off, just waiting for him to boot it up. The black screen stares at him, granting him no respite from his thoughts. In fact, it just seems to amplify them.

His thoughts drift to a history class he had taken many years ago as he continues to stare at his computer. In that class, he learned of angels that were present in the religions of long ago. Would Nous be the god, and computers and machinery be considered the angels in this age, the bearers of Nous’ word?

He looks up at the sky. Part of him expects to feel the gaze of the Erudition finally descend upon him, to see that red glint of light in the sky and the feeling of being paralyzed from being noticed by THEM. 

But nothing happens. A flash of frustration runs through him even after all these years. What does he have to do still to gain the attention of THEM? A motherboard in place of a brain and heart? To rip out his cardiovascular system and replace them all with wires and cables? Replace his dying flesh with plastic and steel? Convert the wealth of knowledge stored into his brain into data and code-

Ah.

But by then, there’d be no difference between him and THEM, wouldn’t there?

… 

Since when did the line between machine and the divine become so blurred?

@ theother-victoria, do not copy, repost, modify, translate, or feed to ai

[elssero]

for the past and for the future.

h.sero

♰ sfw, childhood best friends trope, alcohol.

when you think of sero hanta you think of the sun.

you compare the way he lights up a room to the way the sun lights up the sky. you compare the warmth he starts in your chest to the heat you feel on an especially sunny day.

you can feel his infectious energy- one that can brighten up even the darkest of days. you admire his encouraging optimism and the way he brings out happiness in those around him.

you watch his natural ability to inspire and motivate others, often seeing the best in people and situations.

when you think of sero hanta you think of summer.

you think of long walks on the beach, staying out far too late and watching the sunset with him as you talk for hours- seemingly never getting bored of each others company.

it’s a weird time of year you find yourself in now, the warmth of the summer leaving you as the days fly by, moving you into autumn.

every year you mourn the summer- you mourn the hours you spend with your best friend. you mourn the time of year that reminds you of him most.

its late now, you don’t quite know the exact time but you can tell it’s late by the way the city hushes- it’s quieter now, a stark difference from how it it is during the day.

you look over to the boy next to you, bottle of liquor in his hand as he looks at the moon- you take the bottle from his hand wordlessly as you admire him- he always did enjoy stargazing.

when sero thinks of you he thinks of the moon.

he thinks of the night, of the quiet, of calmness- he thinks of you-

he compares the way you manage to stand out to him at all times to the way the moon does in the night sky, how it manages to attract attention despite sharing the space with millions of stars.

he enjoys having you next to him all the time, he finds his himself looking for you in crowds as you attempt to slip away into the background- he notices you though. he always does.

he’s not looking at the stars- only the moon. only you.

when sero thinks of you he nights of winter.

he thinks of cold nights you spend wrapped together, using each others body heat to keep warm, he thinks of its darkness- snow bearing trees and cold air.

there is a beauty in the darkest of times- he appreciates the abundance of stunning scenery as melancholy fills those around him.

the beauty of winter for sero is you.

you he looks over to you now, a slight red dusting his cheeks as he takes you in, you never fail to take his breath away. he thinks about how lucky he is- how lucky he’s always been to have you by his side.

he thinks about his life with you- how you grew up together and how you continue to grow together, staying close the entire time.

your a constant in his life- an inevitable.

he thinks about your family’s. the friendship your mothers share that far exceeds your own. he thinks of how lonely he’d be without you- he’s thankful he doesn’t have to experience that.

there’s a slight buzz in his system- a comfortable one. enjoyable.

he doesn’t take his eyes from you as you sip the drink that was formally in his hand- the one you’d agreed to share like you always do.

you turn and meet his eyes, the same dust of red on his cheeks appears on your own.

you stay like this for awhile, taking each other in as the alcohol fills your systems. you remain quiet as you look at each other, a small smile on seros face as he looks at you.

he looks back to the sky now, the moon even more prominent than it was before. maybe it’s the alcohol that does it for him but he takes a leap for faith- one he’s been dreaming about taking for years.

“the moon is beautiful, isn't it?” there’s a small silence from you as you take in his words- he thinks for a second that maybe you didn’t get it- painfully unaware of the truth behind his words-

instead you lay your head on his shoulder- taking your hand in his before you reply to him.

“i love you too.”

small sero drabble because i’m obsessed with him-

the saying “the moon is beautiful, isn't it?” is a poetic way of saying i love you in japanese and i just think that’s so beautiful.

[therightrighthand]

So the votes came in, and as promised, the Fallout variant of Del for the Del-verse DEE, the (semi) super mutant! This is actually a pt.1 of 2 because another idea for a Fallout Del came to be in the process that works in parallel, so you lucky bunch get 2 Del's for the price of one!

And obligatory ref sheet for Dee and her best pal in the world, Rolls!

Lore:

[???] "Audio recording, date [REDACTED] between Doctor Langstrum, Senior Institute Bio Division, and myself [REDACTED] regarding project D.31, and D.31-B."

[D] "Hello [REDACTED] Hows [REDACTED]?"

[???] "no formalities, please, Doctor. This is a report, not a casual chit-chat. Let us start with Subject D.31, who were they, and why were they picked for projects D.31-A and D.31-B"?

[D] "Oh, right, of course, god forbid we act like people in this place. But, yes, right, straight to business. Let me go on record to remind everyone this project was over 20 years in the making with plenty of oversight, so I refuse to take the blame for D.31-A and B's cost and actions."

[???] "Answer the question, Doctor Langstrum"

[D] "Fine!- Fine. During my early tenure as the Senior Head of the Bio Division, I inherited a task to find suitable host subjects that showed signs of advanced evolution on the surface. Whilst [REDACTED] was busy trying to look for Vaults, I focused on the livestock not on ice."

"After a few years of blood testing, we eventually came across subject D.31. A 'raider' with an unfathomable resistance to radiation without grotesque mutation. Truly an anomaly of evolution, which we believe could unlock the secrets of radiation immunity. In principle." "After 'acquiring' the D.31 we transported her back to the institute and kept her body in cryogenic storage for future study and experimentation. Since then she has been the base DNA code for various projects and studies."

[???] "In this stage of the interview, I'd like us to focus on subject D.31-B, the 'Semi-Super mutant'?"

[D] "I resent that name! Our project far exceeds the original, there is nothing sub par-. Hmph, let me exsplain. The F.E.V virus (Forced Evolution Virus) left to run rampant on the surface only served to create powerful, idiotic monsters. Our Institute variant, the I.F.E.V was designed to improve on the formula using D.31's DNA to create 'Super Drones'." "By limiting their strength, increasing their endurance, allowing for a moderate intellect and mental programming, we would be able to prepare ourselves for the future! Imagine a workforce that is compliant, invulnerable to radiation, able to consume toxic food, strong enough to cultivate the land, clean up the pollution and build cities to our specifications! They would prepare the surface for the humanities future population"

[???] "This project is a recent project correct?"

[D] "Yes, at least one that has taken over 20 years to refine"

[???] "And how many of these "Super Drones" have been produced?"

[D] "...one"

[???] "One?"

[D] "It is still in its infancy. Our first trial subject, subject D.31-B, is still above us now, and we are still collecting data."

[???] "Tell me more about D.31-B"

[D] "D.31-B is the I.F.E.V built clone of subject D.31, who remains in cryo-stasis. With her DNA, we were able to create D.31-B and use her underlining consciousness to build the basic cognitive functions."

[???] "So D.31-B shares memories with D.31?"

[D] "Oh no, no, no, no, that would be catastrophic, we learnt our lesson with D.31-A. D.31-B's memories of her original source are removed, leaving only the basics intact, talking, eating, sleeping, so on, and with our programming, she was ready to get to work immediately after deployment."

[???] "How has D.31-B's progress been so far?"

[D] "Very good in fact. We left her to wander in a safe and isolated part of the commonwealth, and immediately she began to gather resources, build shelter and even cultivate land. All without any prompting or instruction, as she was programmed to do. Granted, her physical appearance has gotten her into trouble with people on the surface, being a mutant and all, but she's proven to be combat effective enough to stay alive." "Interestingly, she is now travelling with a companion as their follower, only reaffirming her subservient nature to help rather than follower her own goals. She even has a name, 'Dee', which I imagine is after the brand-code marking on her arm"

[???] "How is that not a security risk in and of itself, Doctor?

[D] "That's the beauty of our programming! Despite the obvious clue to her origins, she actively ignores it at every step. In a few more months we may even have a case to pitch this to the board for a full rollout."

[???] "Hmph, indeed. Thank you Doctor, that's everything I need for now regarding D.31, and D.31-B. Now, I'd like to turn our attention to the next topic of this interview. D.31-A. The Proptype."

[D] "... It's been 10 years [REDACTED], Sure they are a problem but, if they haven't found us by now then the-" [ Interview end ]

-- Find my Discord and other sites: linktr.ee/The_red_right_hand Do not use, repost or claim (rp) my art/character  Art © The-Red-Right-Hand

[lesbianashleywilliams]

So those of you who have been following me may have noticed that I all but disappeared for about three months...well, that's because I've been planning to go to Japanese language school, and the wheels have really begun to start turning!!!!!!

I have been given the opportunity of my lifetime to be able to attend a Japanese language course at the International Study Institute in Tokyo's Shinjuku Ward. The course runs for a year, with the opportunity to extend it to two years, if my grades and money are sound [insert sound of children cheering here].

Being able to study Japanese locally and long-term has been a life goal of mine since I was fourteen. Though I'll probably never be able to fulfill my teenage dream of being an interpreter/translator for expats, this feels like the next best thing. Due to suffering from several comorbid chronic conditions that have majorly altered my life, most notably the beast known as systemic lupus erythematosus, I will probably never be able to seize another chance like this ever again. I won't be going in as a total novice, as I was able to take a year's worth of 1000-level Japanese language courses in college…before I had to drop out…… Since then I've been self-studying and using language exchange apps for practice, but nothing will beat the experience of using it in the day-to-day.

At this point in time (January 2024), my first six months of tuition have already been paid for. I am currently in a quiet waiting period while I wait to get to the next steps of the Certificate of Eligibility/Student Visa process. Before that, though, I need to secure my flight and housing. For the sake of my health, safety, privacy and comfort, a sharehouse will not be an option; I will have to seek a private apartment. I am here today to request assistance with the aforementioned flight and initial housing costs. It's still too early to commit to either of those, but:

The average cost of flexible one-way flights from where I am to either of the two Tokyo metro airports (Haneda and Narita) is running around $1200

I am doing some preliminary apartment scouting and am hoping not to exceed $800 per month (I will be traveling with suitcases and will need to properly store them). The apartments I am looking at do not require a security deposit or key money, but will probably come with a guarantor fee.

Now because I'm not going over there through one of the more common avenues - through a university or a job - I have to do it myself. Real life has meant that I've had to dig into my bank balance a bit, and after paying for the first six months I'm a little under the 2 million yen (~$14k) threshold that Immigration likes to see for a year's study. I'm lucky enough in that I will at least have a regular source of (unearned) income, as well as a financial sponsor; it's just the bank balance, flight, and accommodation that are hanging me up. Right now I am setting the initial goal at $3000, but I expect to move those goalposts at least once. Any extra will go towards a flight home for the Christmas holidays in December. After that, it'll go towards paying down my credit cards as much as I can prior to leaving the United States.

I can provide my conditional letter of acceptance from ISI, as well as the school invoice and receipt of the bank transfer for the first six months of tuition upon request (identifying information redacted, of course).

Because there's still a couple of months until I'm set to fly out I put together a GoFundMe (now that's a name I haven't used in a while) to idly collect whatever help I can. At the very least I just need this post to circulate enough to eventually cast a wider net outside of Tungle.hell.

GoFundMe

If you can't use GFM, V3nmo and P4ypal are also options:

V3nmo: @/venus3palette

P4ypal: @/fantasytheater

Again: I'm not in that much of a hurry, and the situation isn't dire! Thank you for combing my wall of text!!!!

[ddarker-dreams]

hehe scara let me feed u Apple rabbits

"... There is absolutely no way."

If looks could kill, it’s likely you’d be on the brink of death, convulsing and cursing him with your final breath. Instead of that macabre scene taken straight from a light novel, you’re left with something unremarkably ordinary. You, holding a plate of meticulously prepared apple rabbits, and Scaramouche, sitting on the edge of the inn’s engawa looking as unpleasant as ever. Scratch that, he seems extra unpleasant. A truly commendable feat considering you never thought it possible for him to exceed his usual level of emanating dark energy.

It’s a wonder the verdure surrounding him hasn’t started to wilt. 

Disregarding the oppressive atmosphere, you situate yourself beside him, careful to maintain the plate’s balance. He makes a point of not looking at you (which is odd, considering his affinity for staring incessantly), lips pulled tighter than a bowstring and his eyebrows knitting together. 

What’s his issue? Scaramouche is acting like he’s the one being held captive here, not you. 

“Ohh, I get it,” you prolong the initial syllable for dramatic effect, “You must be worried they’re poisoned since you didn’t see me prepare it.” 

You help yourself to a piece and make a show of how you’re very much not dying from the not poisoned apple rabbit.  

After swallowing, you smile, then wipe the juice from the corner of your mouth with your long sleeve. “See? Still alive and kicking.” 

“Lucky me,” he grumbles. He then actually turns his nose up to you. Who does that? “Why don’t you go feed them to Childe instead, since it’s him you call out to in your sleep? You’re more than welcome to use poison then. I’ll even be the one who supplies it.” 

Ah, it would appear your unconscious self saw fit to condemn you. It’s no wonder Scaramouche was brooding every time you had the misfortune of glancing in his general direction. You thought preparing these apple rabbits, a gesture associated with affection, would cheer him right on up. So much for that. 

However, if you don’t do something to fix this debacle, you’ll be forced to endure his sulking for who knows how long. That future sounds far from appealing. Especially when you’ll be in extra close quarters due to how humble this inn’s size is. You could make the argument he misheard you, which in all likelihood is probably true, but he isn’t receptive to logic in this state. 

You’ll need to take extreme measures. Even if those measures hurt your pride. 

Rather than playing by his game and losing, you reinvent the rules, giving his sleeve a rough tug in your direction. Before he can roll out a string of curses at your impudence, you place half an apple rabbit slice in your mouth. The other half hovers by his lips in a silent invitation. 

Beneath the paper lanterns swaying overhead, you watch his face turn beet red.

His eyes widen, then narrow dangerously, realization flickering within them. The dark chuckle he lets out causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand. He cups both sides of your face and leans forward, past grievances forgotten, his eyes lidded with carnal hunger. 

You don’t think said hunger has anything to do with the fruit, though. 

[neiptune]

the best of you belongs to me

c/w: 2k wc, strangers to lovers, so fucking self indulgent, nagi exceeds all expectations and is actually the perfect boyfriend <3

There are quite a few things that people who know Nagi Seishiro don’t believe he’s suited for.

College, because he’s in his mid twenties, already works as a professional football player and wouldn’t be interested in pursuing anything else.

Friendships, because every person in his life has found themself there by mere coincidence and he definitely doesn’t look like the kinda person who would care whether they’re there or not.

Living on his own, because god forbid someone as lazy and demotivated as himself should be looking after a whole apartment and his persona at the same time. Not that he needs to, with all that money, but he’s surely way too lethargic to even consider going through the hassle of hiring someone to do all those things for him.

Relationships, because Nagi Seishiro isn’t interested in other people, let alone women, and he would be incapable of committing to the effort needed to even think about dating someone.

Some people, none of his closest friends, believe his unnatural talent at succeeding is outrageous: the boy is just insanely lucky and gifted with a golden instinct that saved him from becoming a complete waste of space. Underneath all the admiration Nagi is flooded with each day there’s raw envy and bitterness because such is the human nature. But why should that even matter? Even if he knew, Nagi Seishiro wouldn’t bring himself to care. It’s just how he is.

Except he went beyond all that in no time, when you first had met him at Isagi’s birthday party.

Yoichi’s always been one of your closest friends, ever since high school, and although the years and your respective busy schedules have played their bitter part in keeping you separated, you knew as he knew you were always just one call away from each other. When you had casually texted him about being in town, you didn’t even expect him to be in Japan as he’s almost always traveling overseas. But he was and to make it up for the fact that he couldn’t join you for coffee because he had practice, he invited you to his apartment for the birthday party he was planning to have the following evening.

“Yeah, not sure that’s a good idea”

“It’s the perfect idea! If you’re worrying about bringing a gift, I don’t want one”

“I’m worrying about not knowing any of your friends!”

“You know me! C’mon, I really wanna see you”

And so you picked the only dress still neatly folded in your suitcase, packed just in case, and made your way downtown a few hours prior to the party to hopefully find a birthday present Yoichi would actually like. Eventually, you settled for a full grain customizable leather backpack: the shop owner was nice enough to add a laser engraving of your friend’s initials, which you thought was a nice, thoughtful touch.

You slipped a card inside the classy bag the gift was packaged in, one with the drawing of a soccer ball and “hope you have a ball on your special day!” written underneath it.

So that it doesn’t get mixed up with someone else’s when you travel! Happy birthday Yoi, love you x

Too fucking bad the weather decided to take a completely different turn as soon as you stepped out of the subway to make your way across the urban oasis that’s Shirokane, which resulted in you arriving at your friend’s apartment absolutely soaked. You patiently ignored the stares collected while waiting for the elevator in the luxurious entrance lobby, too busy making sure you were able to keep Yoichi’s gift dry.

When he opened the door with a warm smile splitting his face right away, arms were closed tightly around you in a second, warnings about being drenched swallowed by his usual affection. He did, however, take a small step back, surprised as his black button down was no longer nice and dry but still cut off your apologies by quite literally dragging you inside.

“Come in, you have to meet everyone!”

“Yoichi, wait—”

“What’s that in your hand? I told you I didn’t want anything!”

“Yoichi!”

All your protests and resistance proved to be absolutely useless as you found yourself thrown in the middle of a sparkly living room, filled with men scattered everywhere. The soft background music coming from your friend’s portable speakers wasn’t enough to tone down your entrance and, suddenly, most eyes were on you.

Isagi, ever the trusty man, stayed by your side when he introduced you to the whole goddamn room as one of his oldest best friends as you stood there embarrassed and anxious, with droplets dripping down from your clothes and hair to the parquet floors.

“Hi! It’s so nice to meet you!” a short giggle followed an enthusiastic, thin voice and you turned to your right to find a friendly guy smiling fondly in a way that seemed so genuine you couldn’t hold back a smile in turn.

“Uh, hi, I’m happy to meet you t—” but his ochre eyes cut you off as they left your uncertain features to glare at Isagi, still standing proudly next to you with an arm around your shoulders “hey, this sweet girl’s gonna catch a cold, give her a change of clothes”

As realization finally dawned on him, your friend opened his mouth and then closed it a few times, taken aback.

“Oh, fuck, right! Wait, gimme that” he gently took the bag from your hands and placed it on his coffee table “but what could I lend you? I don’t have any clean clothes, just some tank tops and—”

Bachira’s impatient huff was interrupted by a gentle voice coming from behind him.

“I have an extra change of clothes” the white haired guy sitting on the couch bent down to zip the black bag left next to his feet open “me and Reo had practice today” he said while casually getting up with a slight groan to hand you neatly folded sweatpants and a black long sleeve shirt.

“Why do you have an extra change of clothes?” Bachira looked at him with a skeptical frown that was barely acknowledged as the stranger let himself fall on the couch again.

“I sweat a lot”

“Who cares?” Isagi stepped in, irritated “she’s gonna catch a cold! Go change in my room and get a towel for your hair” with a gentle push to your back, he shooed you out of the room and towards the stairs.

You looked every bit as ridiculous as one could guess, clothes way too baggy and long as your poor dress was left to dry in Isagi’s bathroom. While you patted your hair with a clean towel, you couldn’t help but cautiously pinch the collar of the shirt and sniff at the soft fabric. It smelled nice, of a fresh cleanliness that reminded you of baby powder.

When you sheepishly made your way back downstairs, the overall welcome was far warmer and already filled with a sweet, familiar flavor. Isagi’s friends were nice, funny in their excitement when having debates over matches and considerate when it came to not making you feel left out.

You sat on che couch opposite to the one where your savior was chilling, lazily listening to whatever his buddy was telling him. You had to inch forward and gently graze his knee to bring his attention to you, hazel gaze shortly traveling from your features to how his clothes sat on a body that was definitely not meant to wear them. Nagi just shrugged at your “thank you”, he didn’t mirror your smile nor he introduced himself, but he kept his eyes on you as Bachira resumed his questions about how Isagi was in high school and Kunigami offered you a beer to warm you up.

It was a nice night, one that left you with your cheeks hurting from how much you had been smiling. Catching up with Isagi was nice and even if to this day you still have no idea how he managed to sneakily save his number in your phone under the name of “Bachi”, getting to meet him and everyone else filled your heart with comforting joy. Finding new friends as an adult can be hard and having moved to an entirely different city definitely didn’t help, but the atmosphere in Isagi’s apartment served as a wonderful reminder of how, sometimes, the best surprises are just a text away.

That’s what you thought, while having casual conversations with men you had never met before and the eyes of one of them were so intently focused on you it was as if they were asking for some of that attention, of those questions, to be directed their way as well.  

So you complied and, much to Isagi’s and everyone else’s quiet astonishment, Nagi actually spoke and replied and nodded and turned his body towards you and even offered a hint of a smile when Yoichi started teasing the hell out of your high school self, all worried about grades, clubs, extra curricular activities.

The reason why Nagi kept observing you throughout the night, was mere curiosity. Contrary to popular belief, there were things that could spark his interest outside videogames and football. Someone able to enter a room full of strangers and attract their sympathies right away. Someone with a pretty smile, terrible jokes and a kind spirit that resembled Isagi’s. Someone who looked way too good in his clothes, so good he was tempted to blurt out a “keep them”.

Someone who accepted a ride home from Chigiri and Kunigami at the end of the night, exhanged a long hug with her best friend and endured the one Meguru forced on her with a laugh so sweet he wished he was the one offering you a ride home.

So you were gone, dress still not entirely dry tucked in your backpack and a shy wave of a hand, one promising “I’ll give you these back as soon as I can!” that wasn’t enough to stop him from casually asking Isagi if he could’ve held another party soon enough.

“Why?”

“So you can invite her again”

He doesn’t let the laugh he receives upon the request nor Bachira’s you should’ve asked for her number, idiot embarrass him. What would he know? He’s dated sporadically, things always kept very low effort and casual, girls asking him out and him saying yes because he wanted a spark, that something to be ignited, just like it happened whenever a ball touched his feet. He didn’t like being lonely.

So you and Nagi met again, over a coffee you insisted on buying to thank him for his kindness. His freshly laundered clothes were given back to him in a yellow bag, he still remembers the disappointment of not being able to find out how your scent would feel on his shirt.

His questions about your life were genuine, despite his monotonous tone you could tell he was making an effort at doing something he was not used to, which you found sweet.

Coffee turned into a stroll to get ice cream and when it felt like you had walked for miles through Sumida park, as he asked if you wanted to get dinner you couldn’t find it in yourself to refuse.

You liked listening to him, still tall and broad even when sitting in front of you but presence so oddly soothing you couldn’t stop asking and asking and asking. About his family, best friend, football journey, favorite games to play, that whole blue lock madness Yoichi has already told you all about. Nagi was always part of the “freaks” in his stories. It was never derogatory, he only used the term because “prodigy” would’ve been way too spoiling. Classic Yoichi, still managing to forget that he’s part of the freaks as well.

In the end, he did follow Bachira’s advice and asked for your number.

“I’ll give it to you but I’m leaving tomorrow”

“Leaving?”

“Yeah, I don’t live in Tokyo anymore”

He stared at you with features impossible to read, then took a small step and curled his body forward just enough to be closer.

“Nagoya, right? I could visit. Wouldn’t be a pain”

His straightforwardness was surprising and rendered you speechless for a few seconds, because this was not the guy Yoichi has described to you.

One year into your relationship and Nagi Seishiro couldn’t be more different than how he was presented to you by your friend. He’s sweet, considerate, never fails to ask you about your day and will get offended if you forget to text him goodnight.

When he’s overseas, he only facetimes if he’s absolutely certain you’re not too tired. If it’s too late in Japan, you’d have to be the one facetiming him because he never wants you to stay awake for too long, especially if you have work the following day.

He visits often, always insists on paying for your train tickets whenever you visit him. Loves spending time with you just resting in his arms, big hands sneaking underneath your shirt to gently trace your spine and massage your back if you’re lying on top of him, content sighs escaping his lips if his head rests on your lap and you run your fingers through his snowy hair, gently scraping his scalp.

He plays games on his phone while you read but will get up to help you as soon as you head to the kitchen to start putting dinner together. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your head, if you're not holding a knife he'll start tracing your neck and jaw with sweet kisses until you giggle and turn around to pull him closer.

When he has to leave for practice, he always asks if you have plans because he hates the idea of leaving you bored and alone. If you don’t and you feel like to, you’re always invited to go with him, so often that by now you’re the one casually asking Reo to come over to have dinner together after training sessions.

Nagi talks about his friends a lot, especially when he’s eating. He’d tell you about how Chigiri needs to stop putting too much pressure on his injured knee because it would be such a shame if a player like him had to stop for good. He thinks Isagi’s mind is incredible, albeit a little scary, just like Kunigami’s extra powerful left leg. Reo is the most important person in his life and you always make sure not to overstep, because you’d hate to intrude in a relationship as special as theirs. They both know.

Nagi doesn’t think loving you is a hassle, nor that it’s too much effort. He finds it surprisingly easy, actually. Caring for you and craving your touch feels natural, as if he was born to experience the simple joy of having hushed conversations with you in the dark of his bedroom when you’re both on the verge of drifting off. He's not scared you'll make fun of him so he tells you everything that’s on his mind, including the idea of getting a college degree eventually, maybe in history, just to give it a go. He discovers the wonder of taking care of someone else for the first time in his life, and just how good it makes him feel. He loves attempting to cook for you, brewing tea, heating soup and then feeding it to you if you have a cold. The blissful squeeze of his chest and stomach whenever the soft touch of your lips meets his is a prize he wouldn’t give up for all the world cups and top rankings and golden football career paths offered to him.

There are quite a few things that people who know Nagi Seishiro don’t believe he’s suited for but oh, what a delight has been to prove them all wrong with such ease and so much love not even he was aware he had it in himself to give.

[scribefindegil]

Reigen demanding "30% of your harvest" from that farmer is a funny joke but it becomes exponentially more ridiculous if you think about it for a minute. There were multiple fields out there. Several reputable university websites tell me that the expected yield of cabbage from a commercial operation can exceed 40,000 pounds per acre. Even if we assume a yield of half the ideal due to the farmer's inexperience, even if we ignore how many field there were and pretend there was only one acre of land, that's still over three tons of cabbage! What are you planning to do with three tons of cabbage, Riegen? You live in a tiny apartment! You don't even have a car to transport it! Even if you're planning to sell it to someone else you'd have to turn your home and office into some sort of terrifying cole crop ball pit in order to store it all. What is your next step?!

Anyway, in retrospect he's very lucky that the wiggle wiggle spirit destroyed all those vegetables.

[deftosweet]

James Howlett (Wolverine) Headcanons!

Author's note: I'm sorry for the inactivity, I really didn't feel like writing anything and I had a huge artistic block, but here I am! This time writing about a character from a different fandom. I hope you guys like it! ^_^ (PD: Happy Valentines day!)

Sooooo, how about Logan having a crush on you?

I definitely don't think his attitude would change much...he would still be rude (?) lmao

...But without a doubt he'll be more attentive to you than usual.

The kind of person who asks you if you ate something, if you say no, he would get mad at you, lol

I don't think he knows how to cook very well by the way. He only knows what is necessary to take care of himself. (And don't burn the place down)

The biggest change in Logan's behavior are the nicknames he uses for you, they become less mocking and a little more tender, but just a little bit.

He complains about everything with you, but he does this because he likes to find some comfort. Even if Logan is the only one who talks when he's upset.

I like to think that he doesn't like having his hair touched... But if he really trusts you, he would like to receive a caress or two. Don't exceed that limit either.

I know that Logan has a super sense of smell or something... Just saying... He probably loves your scent.

If you go to give him a hug, (because I doubt he's the one who initiates them) he likes to bury his face in your hair.

...I don't think he has his hands on you, maybe he'll just stand there and pat your back a bit.

Def touch starved. Like, REALLY.

Logan would love to take your hand in his, hug you, rest his head on your shoulder... I don't think he's shy, he just doesn't do it and that's it.

He gives you subtle compliments. For example, if you say you feel ugly or something like that he would simply say, "I've seen worse."

If Logan had a phone (and your number) he'd probably leave all your messages on delivered. (Sometimes he answers with a "👍")

If you scold him for any reason he would just stand there without saying anything like a little child.

Everything he gifts you is handmade, no doubt. I think the first gift he gave you might have been a bracelet (the sockets don't match, it's a little worn, but the intention is what counts)

Over time, he'll start using phrases that you say, or things like that, but he is unconscious about it. (if you use emoticons maybe he'll learn to use them, nothing too cute, maybe a happy face and that's it)

He has lost so many people he loved that he is somewhat overprotective of you...Not excessively, but he likes to know that you are safe and that you can take care of yourself, especially if you are part of the x-men.

If you're lucky enough to make him take the initiative, he'd probably invite you on a casual date, nothing fancy or too cheesy... Maybe a picnic? Logan will be happy about it as long as you want to spend time with him.

He likes that you are there for him. From what I know, sometimes he has nightmares about his past (?)... If he trusts you, he would tell you about it, a little nervous that you would go away from him out of fear or something like that... The moment you give him a hug, that worry and doubt completely dissipates, and he hugs you back.

Author's note: That's all for today! I hope I can write more often, I don't know, we'll see! (By the way, I love Logan so much 😭) Let me know which characters you would like to see in this headcanons series! Maybe I'll do something Deadpool related in the future... Maybe... Heh.