#there's at least two sets of pictures that are practically identical

[qroier]

they're always next to each other

[sunboki]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss? au (hehe), domestic/soft minho, fluff

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out, inexperienced kissing, annoying coworkers

WORD COUNT. 6.9k words

AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼

PLAYLIST.

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes

Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.

Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.

This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.

It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.

Hyeongmi’s face.

What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.

“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.

“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“

“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“

Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.

Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.

She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.

Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.

It irritates you.

Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.

Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.

Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.

“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.

And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.

Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.

Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.

“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.

“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”

Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.

Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.

“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”

Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.

“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”

Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.

“Shoot.”

He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.

“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“

Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.

Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?

…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.

“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.

Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.

He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.

When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.

That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.

Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.

You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?

Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.

It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!

Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.

What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.

Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?

Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.

You blame the alcohol.

Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.

“Minho.”

He grunts.

“You’re really pretty.”

Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.

What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.

Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.

“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”

And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.

You blame the alcohol.

The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.

Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.

First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.

Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.

You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.

Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.

Over.

And over.

And over.

The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.

Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.

He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.

You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.

“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.

All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.

Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.

Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.

“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.

He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.

“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”

He’s hopeless too, apparently.

Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.

In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.

Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.

As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.

Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.

Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.

Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.

“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.

“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”

Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.

Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.

At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.

Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.

Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.

Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.

Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.

“Come here.”

You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.

If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.

“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.

How unfair a human can be this round.

Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.

Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.

“Yes?”

He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.

“I’m not feeding you.”

Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.

“No.”

“Y/n.”

You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.

Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.

Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.

Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.

“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”

“Yes ma’am.”

And of course he has to be endearing.

Such a pain.

You’ll stop by tomorrow.

If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.

Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.

The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.

Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.

Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.

January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.

What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?

The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.

Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.

Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.

Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.

It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.

Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.

Come over to my place after work.

What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?

As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?

Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—

Woah. Stop there.

Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.

A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).

So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.

Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?

You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?

Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.

Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.

..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.

Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.

Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.

Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.

Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.

Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.

What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?

Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.

Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.

Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.

A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.

And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.

You really, really want to date him.

And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.

Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.

Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.

“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.

You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.

“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”

“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.

Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.

Your wish?

Let Minho and I go well. I like us.

Every bit of it was the truth.

Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.

Maybe.

Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.

“So.. how does this work?”

‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?

He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.

“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”

You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.

Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.

“Together?”

Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.

He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.

“Together.”

Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.

Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.

Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.

It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.

One in particular you recall:

I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.

Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.

This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.

Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.

Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.

Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.

..Until a midday conference.

Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.

More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.

“Are you- Are you two holding—?”

Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.

Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.

Pouting.

Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.

Unbelievable.

If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.

This was simply an early death.

“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.

And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.

“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”

Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.

“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.

“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“

“I...”

Want to punch you in the face.

You keep it to yourself.

“I’m gonna go.”

Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.

Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.

You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.

Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.

Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.

Or so you thought.

“Y/n?”

“Yes, Hyeongmi?”

“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”

Apparently, it can go lower.

Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.

Your beach day.

“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”

All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.

Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.

“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.

Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.

“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.

He knows.

“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”

Ah. You want to kiss him.

“Minho.”

He turns on his heel.

Kiss me.

You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.

Close, closer.

No. Not yet.

Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?

Not yet.

“..Okay.”

Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.

It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?

By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?

Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.

Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.

Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.

“Alright, be honest with me.”

He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.

“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”

Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.

He’s breaking your heart.

You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.

“Of me?”

The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.

“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.

Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.

“Y/n.”

Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.

He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.

“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“

“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”

Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.

He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.

“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.

“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.

You burst out laughing.

“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.

“What? No treat for valentines?”

Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.

Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.

Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.

“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”

And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.

Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?

Knock.

Knock.

Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.

Knock. Knock.

Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?

There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.

And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.

Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.

He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.

Lee Minho is nervous.

Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.

His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.

“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”

And his ears are red.

You’re going to implode from how cute this is.

Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.

Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.

What.

Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.

“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”

…

You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.

Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.

Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).

For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.

Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.

He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.

As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.

That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.

Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.

Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.

Oh how you love him.

Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.

Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.

Nose, cheek, but never lips.

No.

Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.

“We-“

The look he’s giving you, shock.

You feel a hundred degrees hotter.

“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.

Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.

“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“

“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”

His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.

“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”

His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.

“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”

You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.

Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.

You add that to your long list of things you love about him.

Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.

If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.

“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”

Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.

“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”

One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.

Gentle.

“And I can teach you how.”

It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.

It’s terrifying.

“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”

You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.

Curse the shakiness of your voice.

“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”

You quickly shake your head.

No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.

“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”

It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.

Best word to describe it? Messy.

“Breathe through your nose.”

“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“

You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.

Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?

“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”

His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.

Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”

“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”

“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.

Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.

“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.

From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.

Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.

And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.

“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”

Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.

Of course he does.

Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.

Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.

It seems the Valentines Pact sealed the deal.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

FIC TAGLIST. @gimmeurtmi @jisuperboard @porang-poranglinos @palindrome969 @stayceebs97 @inniescandy-01 @idklin0

[overandundertarot]

On Loop 🔄

What's the cycle you keep perpetuating, and how can you finally break free?

pick a picture(1-2,3-4) to select your pile.

PILE ONE: King of Pentacles, Knight of Wands reversed, Ace of pentacles reversed, Knight of pentacles reversed.

I get the sense that this pile is a succesful pile of people. If someone looks at your life from an outsiders perspective they'd think its all chocolate and rainbows. You work hard and play hard. The fruits of your labour are obvious. You love to adorn yourself with your success. But despite this there's always a sense of what else? What's next? Is this it? You work towards success. Material gains. But you don't work towards your own satisfaction. You don't know your passions, your creative talents. You've neglected them. Sometimes you may find yourself sick of the people and environment around you. It feels like there's no deeper meaning. Make money and go out, next day repeat. This is the pile of people who may go on to have a life story such as being a successful business person who made a six figure salary but quit it all to become a bookseller in rural Italy.

How can you break out of this cycle?

Well, the answer is pretty obvious. You have to stop prioritisng money and monetary gain. You are too attached to money, so much so that you LIVE for money. You just can't let go of the comfort it gives you, the esteem, the safety. You are also too attached to 'productivity'. You may be really into hustle culture. If you're not working, who are you? To break out of this cycle you need to separate your identity from productivity, finances, career. Who are YOU? What do you like to do to relax? How do you indulge yourself? If you had a whole month purely to yourself, no obligations, what would you do? How would you spend your time? Essentially you need to start devoting your time and energy to yourself RADICALLY. Even if it makes no sense, even if it feels scary, even if it makes you feel lazy.

PILE TWO; Death, Queen of cups, Two of swords.

This is funny to me because usually when people have to break out of a loop, change is involved. They have to break out of something, introduce a new habit and do something different. However for you the loop you have been perpetuating is the change. Particularly of a healing type. I feel like youre always trying to climb the mountain to look into the horizon; whats next for me? How more can I improve? How more can I heal? What spiritual practice should I look into next? I feel like this is not even a distraction tactic, its just in your nature to always be curious; to always be applying yourself. But this loop is bringing dissatisfaction in your life. The energy from this pile is calm and inspiring, like a refreshing dive into a lake, or the sound of rushing water. You may be the therapist friend in your friendgroup or the one that always seems to have got it together. Also, for a lot of people in this life, you jump from relationship to relationship too quickly, you fall in love easily but also fall out of love easily. The relationships end amicably and it seems that you remain friends with these people long after.

How can you break out of this cycle?

Whatever the change may be; love, location, hobbies, healing and growth. You should allow yourself to grow roots somewhere, at the very least you should think about it. What are your requirements for setting up station in a place? What is needed for you to be somewhere long term in a way that can still appeal to your needs? Allow yourself to think about this, allow yourself to grow. By changing so constantly you did not allow yourself to reach the full potential of what you applied yourself to do. There's something here about backward procceses as well. Let me use the example of finding love, travelling to get away from that love and then doing the whole process again in the new location. But on top of that, going to the starting point again and renewing the whole process. Kind of like running in circles. There is something at the core that you are looking for in all these changes. And you just have to dig a little deeper to find it; it is with you and closer than you might have ever expected. There are somethings around you that you are not seeing or taking for granted.

PILE THREE; King of wands, Two of wands reversed, Ace of wands, Five of wands reversed.

This is a fiery, ambitious pile. You could be leos or have a strong solar influence. Pile three you are ambitious, but that ambition feels like it leads you nowhere. The cycle you're perpetuating feels like its out of your control. I feel you change your ideas to accomodate other people, trying to make them more appealing to others. Maybe you feel that other people don't understand your point of view and you want to make it digestable to them. You feel that you should be a leader or you feel constantly pushed in that direction without actually being able to measure up. Well, you have these inspiring qualities, but you are focusing too much on your reception and other people. Has any of the work you've produced appealed to you truly? You're meant to shine, if other people don't understand you, maybe that's part of your appeal. There is a lack of momentum, a blockage of the flow. The cycle is that no matter how much you try; you do not produce results.

How to break out of this cycle?

The ace of wands is obvious enough. Get inspired! Be somebody you are proud of. Do things that please and appeal to you regardless of what other people think. Be the first person to credit yourself, and if necessary don't feel ashamed to be the only person to do so. The opinion of other people is important to you, because you crave the spotlight, you want to be seen and appreciated but you have to get comfortable with the reality that this will not always be the case. There are internal blocks to work through. You'll have to be in conflict with yourself. Everytime you doubt yourself or think of what you are capable of as too simple or 'basic', you have to fight yourself. Loudly dissaprove of that, show even the simplest of your work and gass yourself up for it. Let's take an example of an artist. To you, you may be the worst artist in the world but to someone else, your art has value. In this situation don't change your artsyle to fit the mainstream or hinder yourself from showcasing your art and showing it to other people, sending it to magazines etc just because you hate it. They may love it and it could be the thing that propels you to fame. Or maybe it was a drawing that only took 5 minutes to draw so you think it needed more effort than the time it took so you scrap it. But it was a good drawing that was suitable for presentation. You have to treat yourself like you're the shit!! Affirmations may work for you. I feel that something as simple as; 'I am awesome' may have an effect on you. 'I am beautiful.' 'I am amazing.' 'I am kind.' 'My work is good.' 'I did great!' Do you even tell yourself these things? Build self confidence, don't be ashamed to be perceived as pridefull.

PILE FOUR: The moon, Knight of pentacles, The lovers, Seven of cups.

Confusion, illusion. You're hopping from one idea to the next. I think you're the type of person who has very good ideas. And you work on them, in the beggining but then abandon them for your next one. You want something that is going to sustain your attention. Something that will feel like your true calling. It seems you feel that you can only work when motivated. There is a lack of discipline. Some of you are talking to people? Or hoping for communications from people and you are working very hard for them to help you. But its for nothing, their promises are lies. I have a feeling you know this but are still holding on to the hope. For some of you, this looks like constantly signing up for dating apps or websites and being ghosted. Also, being a people pleaser and trying so hard for people who don't care about you. Either way, there is self deceit involved in your situation. You don't have a clear view of your reality and are operating on grounds of your assumptions being true when they are not.

How can you break out of this loop?

Keep dreaming, but be more discerning about it. When you find yourself held within one of your hyper fixations, know that this is not the end all be all. Possibly, keep working on all those things at the same time. You will eventually come to see that one of them is one that you can do well and enjoy at the same time. The one that strikes the perfect balance. Keep the fact that you always have other options available at the back of your mind. Also, there is advice to put in the work, but the slow boring, grueling work. Particularly when it comes to a project or a person. Steady progress is what will help break you out of the cycle because its something you haven't seen much of. For those who are going through this cycle with romantic interests, the partner who makes you feel steady and is reliable is the best one for you. Even though they may not necessarily be the most 'exciting' option. This isn't to say that you should settle with someone just because they fit the description. But assess your partners more keenly and look past passion and into what you actually need from a relationship and who can provide that.

****

That's all! I haven't posted a PAC in a while so it felt really good to work on this and post this. If you liked the reading feel free to like the post and reblog! If you'd like to book a private reading with me, send me a dm or check out my private readings post in my masterlist pinned on my page!

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Aita for not making any of my characters, that I have to crank out daily, pansexual/polysexual/omnisexual specifically and only making them bi?

🏳️‍🌈👶🏼 so i can recognize this later lmao also I'm not panphobic or anything, this isn't about the validity of the label, pan is fine.

So i (20snb bi) have a project I'm working on where I take all the characters from a specifc media I'm into and pair them up with each other to make every possible ship kid from every possible ship(excluding characters who are kids themselves or are related or something, that shit is gross). Basically taking every character and pairing them up with another and creating a kid I think they'd have. Its a big project with lots of characters and I'm easily over 400 at this point. I really enjoy this, even if I'm not even 25% complete.

However I set a schedule for myself that at least one ship kid needs to come out each day which, considering I draw them, color them and give them some development and some even have siblings, (The refs themselves easily take me an hour to an hour and a half) I have to make lots of them quickly to keep up with my daily grind. I've been doing this project for over a year and although it's stressful, I can get them out quickly with breaks for myself.

Their character sheets all have some pretty basic info like their name, gender, pronouns, personality and more but it also includes their sexuality/orientation. I have a pretty basic list of options for what their sexuality will be: straight, lesbian, gay, Enbian, bi, Aro, ace and aroace with a few random things like polyam, WLW and a good amount of the something-loving-something/juvelic terms. I did this because, well, there's not many entirely unique orientations outside of them and although I love mogai/xenogenders and complex identities, I dont want to potentially drag up discourse or bring problems to my budding art blog over it. Its just not worth it to me to turn something I really care about on its head, even if I like microlabels.

In this case, I'm using bi as an umbrella term as most of the other terms share the same definition with slight variations in wording or action but not much difference in practice. We all like everyone, it's basic stuff. However, apparently this is a problem.

I've gotten one or two anons asking me questions about my guides asking some kind stuff like is this lesbian ship kid a butch or femme or Is this picture of them now or just at the age you put on the ref and other harmless stuff. Then things got rude with some Nbphobia but thrice now I've gotten asks:

1. Asking snarkily if im a panphobe

2. insulting me for not specifically writing pan or Omni and just writing bi.

3. Saying that I "clearly dont care about pansexual representation." Then brought up how my primary oc is native american so i clearly care about representation but that oc used to be a sona and I'm native?? Its confusing. (And Lowkey racist shit to just assume any native character is a "diversity quota" character instead of just a person existing but I digress-)

Im not pan, im bi so ig these people assume I'm not cool with pan people which isnt true? I have nothing aginest them, they are just pretty similar and I dont feel like it matters if they are specfically bi or pan or poly or any other label. I don't go into details like that for any other sub-group, not even pronouns and I included combinations and some common Neopronouns. I understand the importance of representation but my project has less than 50 people looking at it every day, Im not netflix or something. I'm one guy on the most LGBT blogging site with a big project and very little audience, I'm not showing people who wouldn't already know what pan is that pansexuality exists.

This project isn't that deep considering the characters in question aren't human/dont have human characteristics.(no it's not hazbin/helluva) Also ive never spoken about lgbt discourse or stated anything remotely close to it beyond the guides just passively having characters who are an LGBT identity. I've not even mentioned all the potentional orientations they could have so I'm not sure where/why this came up in the first place. The most politcial things ive said are calling out a creator in my fandom who outed themselves as a transphobe and mentioning im pro-palestine. That's it.

I mean this is pretty low stakes, I can just block these people and be done with it and this some seriously online shit but I just wanna check.

Am I being an asshole for just writing bi instead of specifying their mspec label because I have to produce characters quickly and I don't see enough of a difference to warrant a change/specification that would ultimately slow and clog an already stressful and complex project?

I dont think I am but idk lol

What are these acronyms?

[ilguna]

☼ the other woman pt2 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; a lot has changed these past six months, including the way you feel about Finnick.

warnings; swearing, it's cringy at the end lol

wc; 1.1k

notes; annie slander.

extra notes; kinda songfic, Should've Said No by Taylor Swift.

part one.

–

The filming process for the movie went on to last six months, and during that period of time, you were tortured for almost every second of it. In the beginning, it was difficult. Once the media heard about the break up and the cause behind it, that’s all they wanted to talk about for the longest time.

It was big news when you two started dating in the first place, because Finnick loved you, someone who didn’t fully understand the world he was living in. And now, it was making news again. After he said he liked being with you because you were on the outside, he had done a full one-eighty and claimed that it was easier for him to be with someone who was also famous.

With his relationship with Annie being out in the open, they could finally post pictures and be seen together. They no longer had to hide their identities, something they could’ve been doing for months until you finally caught on. You thought they would ease into it, but they didn’t care. 

They were all you were seeing for weeks.

You tried to hide, to go back to the life you were living before you’d started dating him. Except, the tabloids wouldn’t let you go. They wanted to hear your side of the story, what it was like during your time together. They wanted the messy details, the worse the better, so they could use you as a reason to smear his name and get more attention for it.

You couldn’t do it, you didn’t have the heart in you to. You could say a hundred nasty things about him, but half of them wouldn’t be true. In honesty, Finnick was one of the best boyfriends you’ve ever had. Up until it was revealed that he’d been cheating on you, of course.

You would’ve been in the right, you just didn’t want to start a fight. You let him go, and you were set on moving on from him.

Well, you tried to at least. Finnick had made a great impact on your life, whether you liked it or not. You made a lot of friends in his industry, most of them still talking to you. One of them is actually his best friend, Johanna Mason, a rock singer.

Johanna wasn’t your favorite friend of his by any means at the start, but as soon as you started talking to her more and got a hang of her personality, you hit it off. You opened up and began to talk to her the same way she joked with you. The two of you became attached at the hip overnight.

That’s why, when you wrote a song, the first person you went to was her. You felt silly, mostly because you’ve never written a song in your left. And you didn’t know what to do beyond that point. So, you pitched it to her, sang it to her, gave her the ideas of what you wanted in the background.

You told her that if she wanted it, she could have it. She then turned it back around on you, telling you that it wasn’t her genre, but she could definitely see you singing it. You tried to tell her that there was no way you were going to become anything more than a ghost writer, but she made you give it a try anyway. 

She wouldn’t let you invest a penny into the project. She funded the entire production, she helped you tweak the lyrics, she was there when you recorded the song. The only thing she couldn’t do is help you get a record company to pick it up. So, you uploaded it independently, thinking nothing would come of it.

However, with her promoting it on every social media site that she could, the streams started rolling in. The half of Finnick’s fan base that liked you, were the ones that streamed it the most. You were practically an overnight sensation.

It would only be a few weeks later, at the end of the six-month mark, when the announcement was made. To no one’s surprise, Annie Cresta—the actress known for serial dating her co stars—dumped your ex-boyfriend, Finnick Odair. It was less than twelve hours later, when all the pictures of the two of them were deleted off of her social media.

It was the best day of your life.

Or that was until Finnick texted you a couple days ago, and it’s pretty obvious what he wants. He asked you to stay the night you confronted him, and he didn’t stop texting you until Johanna told him to leave you alone, two weeks later. He was making you upset.

It was weird, having his name pop up on your phone again. You couldn’t breathe for a second, but as soon as you read the message, the feeling was gone. Of course he’d come back to you once it was over. You told him this is what would happen, and now that he’s alone, he can’t live with it.

Well, you’re tired of being nice.

You sit down in front of the camera, adjusting the guitar in your lap, plucking at the strings. You tune the guitar, looking up at your phone every now and then. The first song you wrote was about your feelings immediately after the break up. And now that phase of heartbreak is gone, you’re got more ideas.

“Hey, guys.” You murmur, “I know it’s been a minute. I promised that I’d try to keep up, but I’m still new to this.” You strum the guitar, “I have been working on some new ideas, but this is an old one that I recently picked up again.”

You begin to strum faster, “I’m going to sing you a part of it, and I promise, the rest of it is being worked on.” You stop for a second, long enough for them to hear you clearly. “This one is Should’ve Said No.

“It’s strange to think the songs we used to sing. The smiles, the flowers, everything is gone.” You sing. “Yesterday I found out about you. Even now just looking at you, feels wrong.”

You take a breath. “You say that you’d take it all back, given one chance. It was a moment of weakness and you said yes.” You shake your head. “You should’ve said no, you should’ve gone home. You should’ve thought twice ‘fore you let it all go.

“You should’ve known that word, ‘bout what you did with her’d get back to me.” You tilt your head to the side, glancing at the camera. “And I should’ve been there, in the back of your mind. I shouldn’t be asking myself why.”

You grin a little. “You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet.” You can’t help the laugh that leaves you. “You should’ve said no, baby and you might still have me.”

[heliads]

i've got my eye on you

Nico Rosberg has moved on from 2016; the silver war; all of it. So he thought, at least. Lewis is still here, though, and that makes the forgetting so much more difficult.

masterlist

Nico Rosberg is not lonely, most of the time. He’s a busy man; he meets a lot of people, takes them out to drinks or dinner parties, and exchanges LinkedIns as often as phone numbers. It’s a good life. Keeps him sane. 

Sometimes, though. Sometimes, Nico finds himself waiting for something else, something better, something real. That’s when he crosses the line he swears he’ll never touch again and thinks about someone specific. There is a man living in his very same complex, someone who knows Nico better than the scores of environmental activists and Sky Sports reporters, and Nico doubts they’ll ever be the same again. 

They were good in the beginning. Better than good, they were the best and everyone knew it. The silver arrows, finest of the fine. They had identical white race suits and the same exact drive to win. That’s where they ran into problems, of course, because the podium only has space for one king to have a crown. The other has to be left in the shadow, the cursed second place. No one could live like that forever. They certainly didn’t.

Still, they were the same in almost every aspect. Nico swapped up their hats once, towards the end. He had wanted to throttle whoever had the idea to make their merch so similar. They may be on the same damn team, but that doesn’t mean they have to match in everything else as well. Same logo, same colors, and then Nico had taken off his cap to fidget with it and saw Lewis’ name there instead of his own, embroidered into the black fabric with the precision of a machine stitch. 

Funny how Nico can literally walk around wearing Lewis’ name against his skull, and they still have no more claim to each other than complete strangers. Worse than strangers, actually. They had once been everything.

Some days, he thinks about it all the time. Other days, he forces it out of his mind until he can almost delude himself into thinking it’ll never show up again. And, on other, worse days, such as this one, Nico walks into the lobby of his home building in Monaco, both of his daughters holding his hands, and he spots Lewis across the room, pulling a suitcase behind him. Must have been a race weekend. Nico knows it is, of course, fixates over every score like he’s still in it, but. It’s easier to pretend that he could forget.

Usually, Nico’s good at brushing off encounters like this, but they’re just too close for that tactic to work. Nico wasn’t expecting it; last night ended up being late, plus he’s been out with the girls all morning. That’s why he doesn’t just keep walking, why he actually stops and stares. Lewis comes to a standstill around the same time. Must be the jetlag getting to him. That, and the fact that they haven’t been face to face outside of a race or work setting in months.

Nico should keep moving. He doesn’t, even as his girls tug at his hands in confusion. They know of Lewis, certainly, they’ve seen pictures up on the fridge and online, but they didn’t know Lewis like Nico did. No one could.

“It’s good to see you,” Nico says uncertainly. Pleasantries never fail.

Lewis shudders slightly and nods. “Yeah, you too. Hope the girls are doing well,” he adds, as if he can’t see both blonde daughters right by Nico’s side. They’re still holding onto his hands, one apiece, and eyeing Lewis with wide, curious stares. They’ve inherited that from him already, it seems, the inability to look away.

“Do you two want some sweets?” Lewis asks suddenly. “I keep a bag in my luggage.”

Nico frowns, asks something asinine about drivers and nutritionists and fitness goals. Lewis just chuckles and says that he never actually opens the thing, just keeps it in the bag so he can practice self discipline or something else insane like that. God, he always tried to be the best of them.

His girls don’t know any of that sort of life, though, and won’t so long as Nico can help it, so they just clap their hands and plead for a treat or two. Nico gives the appropriate nod when it’s clear that Lewis is serious.

Lewis kneels down to the ground, unzips the top of his suitcase and pulls out a bag. Crisp, unopened, just as promised. Lewis’ resolve held all this time, then broken just now. The plastic tears easily. It doesn’t take much.

Lewis considers the bag. “I’ve always been fond of those. They remind me of some stuff I used to love a while back. They were from some small town, I don’t remember where.”

“Hoddesdon,” Nico says. He states the place aloud like he’s rattling off one of a thousand countries or capital cities, some bright child with a knack for memory games who will grow up into a man who knows too many languages but not enough people with whom to practice. “You’re talking about the candy from Hoddesdon.” Town near the place they used to kart together. Close enough to walk or bike from any hotel or flat. Two boys could do it easily if they were inclined to stay out all day and night, and they usually were.

Lewis’ head snaps up, and the brief look of shock and wonder reminds Nico of when they were kids. It’s the exact same expression Lewis would wear when Nico agreed to buy him some sweets. Even though Lewis would beg and plead with him all day long, the moment Nico said yes Lewis always looked surprised, as if he never truly expected that Nico would go along with it. That Nico would go along with him. Maybe that’s why Nico always caved. It meant he got to see that look again. 

Painfully, it also reminds Nico of how Lewis had looked when he found out Nico was retiring in 2016. They were in the midst of a massive crowd with too many overlapping voices and faces, but somehow Nico had still been able to look out across the crowded room and sight Lewis the moment Nico opened his mouth and announced his retirement. 

It had been the same expression then as now. The brief drop of his stomach like a roller coaster, the smooth spread of a poker face to cover up any emotional slips or wide eyes. All of it. Lewis had never told Nico any of this, of course, but Nico has known Lewis long enough to read his body, his mind, his entire life. It’s why he likes pointing out Lewis’ flaws on Sky Sports; just another way of proving that he’s still got it, that no matter how much Lewis changes, Nico Rosberg still knows exactly what makes him tick. 

More often than not back then, it was Nico. It’s still Nico now whenever they awkwardly run into each other in their complex or Nico analyzes him a little too well on live TV. 

Right now, though, Lewis is not angry at him, just caught off guard. Something in the back of Nico’s brain says that he likes that more. Nico scowls to himself and wonders why he hadn’t shut that voice up years ago. 

“Yeah,” Lewis says at last, after a weighty pause that Nico isn’t entirely sure doesn’t solely happen in the confines of his own head, “Yeah, it was.”

To distract himself, Lewis remembers what he’s promised and hands some individually wrapped candies to the two blonde girls clustering in front of him. Nico remains where he is, watching as Lewis replaces the bag in his luggage again, closes the top, stands up and mumbles something about how he’d better get going. Crazy travel like always. You know how it is.

Nico does know. He nods, giving Lewis the reprieve he needs to head to the lift. Nico thinks that he might actually lose his mind if he was in the same small box rattling up to their floor, looking anywhere but at Lewis, so he diverts his girls to throw their trash away first and Lewis gets away. Another lift comes in a short time. Everything is just as it was before, but– not at all.

His daughters cheer over their new sweets, giggling down the hallway about how they were able to convince Mr. Hamilton to give up his secret stash. Nico is plagued by the sudden thought that if he had married Lewis like he’d wondered about all those years ago, if they had adopted these girls instead of them being Nico’s by bloodline, that he might laugh about their reaction being inherited from Lewis instead of, you know, from him. It makes Nico think about just how much of Lewis is left in him. It makes him question if any of Nico is trapped inside Lewis, waiting to be let free. 

Even after he gets back to his place and locks the door carefully to guard against any unwholesome influences, Nico’s entire train of thought is rattled for the rest of the day. Nico has been trying his damndest to avoid Lewis every time they catch the lift or leave the building around the same time, and he knows full well Lewis has been doing the same. He’s all but admitted to it a few instances before.

This is why they play this elaborate game of hide and never seek, then. Nico lies awake at night, remembering paths he hasn’t gone over in a long time. The start. The glorious first act. How it had all broken to pieces. Nico had said before that he doesn’t regret the rivalry, that it only pushed them to greater heights, and he stands by that now. Still. That doesn’t mean his blood doesn’t run dark with grief to think of everything they once had that is gone forever now.

Nico can remember talking with his communications handler about it one time. He and Lewis had been fracturing for a while by then, but they’d only started showing it publicly for a few weeks. The guy had told Nico that this was good, actually, that people liked the slow burn death of it all. It was like watching a railway crash in slow motion, the guy had said. You know it’ll hurt and you know it’ll end badly but you just can’t look away for the life of you. 

It had made Nico’s veins thrum with the unhappy sickness of needing to prove the truth to be a lie. He’d wanted to spit in the guy’s face; swear at him until he ran out of breath; go drag Lewis in front of a live camera and make out with him until their gums bled, just to prove that they were still totally fine. 

Look where all that pent up self-justification got him, though. Nico and Lewis are hiding from each other in the same complex, too convinced that the other needs to change to ever leave. The comms handler must be laughing at them still, gleeful and victorious after Nico made him rich. 

There was a lot that even the viewers didn’t see. It’s not like either of them really tried to hide it, how they broke apart, but even so. People only saw the same few photos of sun bleached hair and gap toothed grins and unicycles, they didn’t know all of it. Nico thinks that’s for the best. The thought that anyone could know even half of what they had is intrusive and wrong.

When he closes his eyes, he can see all of it at once, overlapped like a thousand magazine clippings. Sleeping over and staying out late and making the same stupid jokes every time. Trying each other’s food and loudly arguing irrelevant details and racing and racing and racing. Small nothings that only serve to make him smile. More important stuff. Secrets Nico has only kept to himself.

Nico has only kissed Lewis once. That’s not counting stupid things like kisses on cheeks, everyone knows those don’t actually matter. That’s why you can get away with doing them in the background of televised interviews, in large crowds, even next to your father. People wouldn’t care, anyway. They’d laugh and say that he and Lewis were European, that’s what they did. It wasn’t real. It could never be real. When you count up how many times Nico wanted to kiss Lewis and didn’t, though— well, that would be like damn near every day. 

The one kiss was different. That was on purpose. He’s thinking about it now. It was late at night. 2015. Abu Dhabi. Nico had wanted to win that championship more than he’d wanted anything in his life. Maybe he’d fucked himself over in Austin, maybe even earlier, but it was still Lewis with the security of that title once the final race was over. He’d driven beneath the waving flag, he’d smiled and cheered in all the photographs, and Nico had felt this terrible sort of rage simmering beneath his bones.

The kiss had been later, at one in a successive chain of afterparties for both Mercedes drivers, technically, but mainly for Lewis. Lewis was the one who got it done. Lewis was the one who made them all proud. Lewis was also the one who pulled Nico aside when everyone else was busy getting shitfaced or screaming their heads off.

It had been dark. No one had seen. Lewis had grinned at him, asked Nico if he was really going to sulk the whole night. Nico had said something stupid like why shouldn’t I and give me a reason to stop and, well, Lewis had. Nico can still feel that night burned into him, taste it like all those times he drank champagne on a podium straight from Lewis’ hands. Salt and sweet and shameless. 

Lewis had pulled away just a little, enough to smell the alcohol on his breath, and asked if he was better. Nico lied, said yes, and swore to himself that he would win the next championship just so the next time this happened, he would not be the one to suffer. Betrayed with a kiss. Nico had made a proper Judas after all. He can still see the faces of everyone at Mercedes after he walked out of that contract, how even Vivian had cautiously asked him if he was really sure this was what he wanted. No one knew Nico Rosberg at all, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

Still, though. Thinking about the past makes him think about the kiss. They may have been somewhere between tipsy and wasted when it happened, but Nico swears that it had been a long time coming since before the fights even started. It just took the ache of resentment to let them cross that bridge and leave it burning.

He shouldn’t think about it anymore. He definitely shouldn’t think about how he’s still in the same building as Lewis, so close. Viv is out with the girls at the moment. No one would know. If Lewis rejects him here and now, well, Nico can always go back to his green energy fanboys and YouTube subscribers to soothe his ego.

This is a bad idea, and Nico can’t help it. He paces back and forth on the hallway he thinks might be Lewis’, dragging his heels like Lewis might be able to sense his hesitation somewhere, wherever he is, and come out at last. At the start of it, Nico has about a thousand different things he wants to say, accusations and apologies and mundane pleasantries all.

At the end, when Lewis does come out of his room, Nico doesn’t say anything. Can’t say anything. Instead, he just sort of nods, raises a hand halfway like he’s doing that weird half-jog at the start of a crosswalk. 

Lewis waits, silhouetted against the threshold of his door, and when it’s clear that Nico won’t be doing or saying a whole lot at the moment, smiles and asks, “What, come here often?”

It’s a stupid joke. Nico laughs anyway. “We both live here,” he says somewhat impetuously.

Lewis tilts his head to the side, considering this. “Not right here, I think.”

Nico narrows his eyes, debating whether he truly has to explain the abstractions of flat rooms versus buildings, but Lewis breaks into that light chuckle of his and Nico lets go of his irritation, he lets go.

“I’m kidding, man,” Lewis tells him, still unable to hide a laugh, “Just trying to mess with you. Can I ask why you’re here, though?”

It’s a fair question. Nico is, in fact, loitering outside of his former friend turned rival turned something’s door like he’s got nowhere better to be. He doesn’t, but that’s beside the point. Truth be told, Nico himself doesn’t entirely know why he’s here. It just seemed like the place he needed to be.

“I was thinking,” he begins, “About a lot, actually. It’s been a while.”

Lewis stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, and then all of a sudden his entire being relaxes and he opens the door a little more. Good of him for finally recognizing an olive branch when Nico offers it. God knows he’s been practically screaming it every interview they’ve shared, every time they’ve met each other’s eyes in the paddock when he was there with Sky Sports.

“Wow,” Lewis mumbles, “Yeah. That sounds– that sounds good.”

This time Nico can’t hide his derisive snort. “That’s terrible. We’ve been avoiding this for ages. I run into you, we act nice, then run off. We have to face this.”

A brief spark of anger flashes through Lewis’ eyes– good, that’s something Nico can handle, something familiar that they can both feel better about than this strange nothingness– but even that’s gone soon enough. Lewis doesn’t have to put up with him like a teammate, Nico supposes. Whatever they do from here on out is their own undoing, the red purely on their ledgers. He wants to drown in it.

Lewis knows this too, Nico can taste it like blood on a bitten tongue. They stand there for a moment longer, daring each other to take it further. It’s a familiar game, one they’ve played since kids. I’ll go faster if you do. You’ll jump off the bridge so long as I go first.

The heavy pause ends with the gasp of a caught breath. Lewis hesitates a bit, wobbling on the heels of his feet, then rocks back down to earth at last. “You can come in, you know. If you want to.”

The sentence sort of makes Nico sick. There was a time when he wouldn’t have had to offer such a thing at all. The invitation would have gone without question. Nico thinks he lived half of his childhood at Lewis’ place instead of his, in hotel rooms and bedrooms and streets behind houses. The other half Lewis was at Nico’s. The thought that at some point they would be grown and staring at each other, having to wait for a formal question to share each other’s space, is nothing short of horrific.

Still, it’s better than they’ve been for a long time. Nico can still feel Lewis’ gaze washing over him again and again, taking in the details. They’re older, both of them, but not beyond the urge to stare. He can feel the weight of it on his throat, heavy like a chain, and it robs him a little of his faux confidence.

 Nico nods once, the movement jerky and unsteady. “Alright,” he says, smiles, loosens his collar, and follows Lewis in.

f1 tag list: @j-brielmalfoy

[blade-that-was-broken]

Well there’s child that bites that’s Bruce jr I believe, there is the one that got stuck in the ketchup bottle that one is also real hyperactive so maybe HC those two as twins make em identical nightmare children. I saw a fanfic where one of Bruce’s kids was like super allergic and intolerant to practically everything which causes problems cause Bruce owns a restaurant. And of course there is anarchist daughter. You should definitely give Bruce and brandy at least one pair of twins or triplets to justify him eventually having like 8-9 kids by the time he’s like 40ish.

Thanks for the ideas! Since we basically know nothing about them and most of them I don't even think have names at this point (?) it can be kinda of difficult. Bruce was about 13 when their parents divorced and it has been about fifteen years so Bruce is only about 28 at this point. He's not done having kids but he's got several already.

"Those two are twins, Jr. likes to bite," Bruce grimaced a little as he showed John some pictures. Brandy insisted on driving back home, even though Bruce said he could do it. He wasn't sure what her game plan was but she wasn't taking no for an answer. John just silently looked at whatever Bruce showing him at any given time and didn't seem to mind the rant and chatter. "And his twin is really... hyperactive. I love them to death but wow, they are everywhere, you have no idea."

"I can probably fix the biting," John replied.

He'd been doing that, insisting he could help or fix things or whatever. Bruce really wasn't sure what to make of it. His first instinct had been thinking that John thought there was something wrong with his kid that needed to be fixed and that made him upset. Sure, Jr. shouldn't be biting and they would work on that but he wasn't some broken thing to be fixed.

John said everything so plainly and Bruce couldn't really determine his meaning.

But he kept telling himself that John wasn't exactly himself either. The doctors said he would probably come back to himself. He just didn't really know who his brother was anymore.

"Uh... this one is allergic to pretty much life in general, especially cats, for some reason?" he said, flipping through the photo. "Which is tough because out neighbor loves cats and well... he's been kind of taking a liking to them too."

"Feed him eggs from a farm with barn cats," John replied.

"Uh... what?"

John looked up at him and tilted his head a little. Bruce had to take a moment to take that in. Clay did the same thing. Geez, how was he going to tell everyone else? He'd figure that out later.

"Helps with allergies."

"Okay...? It can be difficult with the restaurant since there is a bunch of stuff he's allergic and intolerant of but we are working on a medication regiment. And he's not really supposed to be around the kitchen anyways," he continued, trying to keep things normal but his speech just kept getting quicker and more excited. "They are going to love you. They have always wanted an uncle living close by. I know technically you don't have to stay out here but it is the best and you have an in!"

"An... in?"

"Me!" Bruce nodded with a grin. "I can get you set up with a fantastic place when you are recovered, if you want. You can stay with us as long as you want, I just know a lot of people tend to be independent so I thought hey, maybe he'd want a little place on the beach or something instead but then again, we haven't really seen each other in..."

"Alright, honey," Brandy interrupted. "You are getting a little excited."

"Where else would he go? We are by far the most financially stable and it's Hawaii for heaven's sake. People would kill to live here. There can't possibly be anywhere better. He doesn't even have an address."

Brandy just shot him a slight glare in the rearview mirror.

"Uh, he's right... uhm about the address thing," John confessed. "If I needed to spend my leave off base, I usually just found a camping spot or stayed with one of my squad."

Brandy's face twisted into something interested and possibly mischievous. John wouldn't have been able to catch it but Bruce definitely could. "Oh! We would love to hear about them! You must be very close."

"We are," John shrugged, lightly. "Might as well be family at this point. Kinda curated an orphans, losers and runaways club. Or in my case, all three," he chuckled.

It was the first time Bruce heard any sound that could possibly be classified as vague amusement from John, although Bruce wasn't entirely sure if it was genuine. He knew one thing; he didn't really like the type of humor.

"Except for Chaz, he's just a fool," John snorted. "They wouldn't let me get rid of him."

"What about the others?"

"Dickory is one of the best. He's very cunning but you can count on him even in strange plans. Pete is retired, not that you'd ever know he was there in the first place. Barely said a word. We useta call him Growly Pete cause that's generally how he was."

Okay. Best friend. Crotchety old man. This was okay. This seemed normal.

"Tresillo... hasn't been with us long but he's shaping up to be a good kid. Needed some discipline but considering his parents weren't exactly in the picutre, I get where he's comin from. He's grown a lot in the time that he's been with us, we're really proud of him."

Brandy glanced at Bruce again. He knew what she was thinking.

He wasn't going to think about it.

"Anyone else?" she asked.

He listed off a few more. "And then... and then Delta."

"Oh! Who is Delta?" Brandy asked with a smile.

"She's mah girl."

His what?

"My partner in crime, the law, whatever you wanna call it," John replied, rubbing his arm and looking out the window. "Go-to gal, best friend, right hand man or I'm hers, whatever you got, it's us. By some miracle the military thought it best to keep us stationed together. She ain't crazy but probably a good choice on their part."

"So, I suppose we will be seeing her visit sometime?"

"I'll haveta call her sister and see what all happened after well, this," John shrugged. "But maybe. It used to be where you found one of us, you wouldn't find the other far behind. I dunno how that'll be now. Things are different, but uhm... I'm hopin' she''ll come around sometime.''

[wooahaeruby]

Chapter 27: Secret Secret

Chapter Word Count: 4,060

Anything in Bold Italics are Korean/Another language.

Master List | Prev | Next

When Jihoon went back to the jewelry store with a single manager, masked up and nearly covered from head to toe to keep his identity hidden. It was later in the afternoon, just after the longer dance practice and before an actual meeting with Bumzu and Seungcheol. He had received an email during a break saying that the ring was ready for pick up and he wanted it in his hands as soon as possible after waiting a long week. When he entered inside, there were a few customers floating around but he was thankful to see Myung behind the register working on something.

“ Myung-nim,” He said quietly, bowing his head, “ I received the email-?” 

“Ah~” Looking up to him, she smiled, motioning him over towards the back of the room. “ I’ll grab it from the back, meet me over there.” 

Jihoon shuffled his way over, leaning himself against the counter before his manager joined to stand beside him. 

“ How are you going to hide it?” 

Oh shit, he didn’t properly think of that. 

“ Uh- I’ll probably give it to one of you…or Cheol-hyung…or pray that Ruby-ah won’t find it in the apartment.” 

His manager laughed, crossing his arms. “ Such a smart plan.” 

The sarcasm made him huff and roll his eyes. “ Listen, I was more busy thinking about sneaking around and getting pictures with them in the shot but not looking. I want to at least try and get a picture or two.” 

“And here I thought Lee Jihoon wasn’t cute.” He lowered his voice but the tone was laced with teasing. 

“Haha.” Another roll of his eyes. 

Myung was standing before him not long after, holding the square, black velvet box in her hand. “ Are you ready to see it?” 

“More than ready.” He smiled behind his mask, watching as she slowly opened the case and his breath caught in his throat. 

It looked…perfect. Better than he had hoped. Much like the first, it had the three set diamonds on the side, but what stared back at him was no longer the glittering round diamond. The ruby’s red color looked dazzling under the white lights, seeming freshly buffed. 

Reaching up, Myung handed over the box. He didn’t realize his hands were shaking until the ring box was in his hands.��

“ It looks amazing, Myung-nim.” He finally let the breath he had been holding out, never taking his eyes away from the piece in his hands. 

“ It’s an eight and a half. If it is too big like we assume, we resize for the first time for free. If you bring it in for a cleaning, the first one is also free. You purchased the insurance in case it gets lost or stolen so all of the bases are covered.” 

While he didn’t want to, Jihoon closed the box, holding it tightly between his hands. “ Thank you, I'm sure we will be back here in the future.” 

“Just give a call, we’d love to continue doing business with you, Woozi-ssi.” Quietly, she bid you a goodbye after handing over the vouchers for the sizing and cleaning. 

Sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Jihoon opened the box in his lap, ghosting his thumb over the silver of the ring setting. The manager commented that it was pretty and that he thought Ruby was going to like it (but made a comment much like Cheol that they’d like whatever he gave them). 

Jihoon was quick to shove the box in his pocket and pass through security to get up to Bumzu’s studio. He didn’t bother to knock, having come acquainted well with the other producer over the years. Seungcheol was lounging back on the dark couch, hugging a pillow to his chest with his phone held up with the other arm. Bumzu has his feet kicked up on the couch from his desk chair, also holding up his phone. It was clear the both of them were waiting for his arrival. 

Seungcheol leaned his head back to meet Jihoon's eye, peering at him upside-down. “Sup?” 

“Hi.” Shutting the door behind him, Jihoon shed off his outer jacket and sat between both Bumzu’s and Seungcheol’s feet, stretching his arms and legs out. “ How long have you guys been waiting?” 

“Not long, but that doesn’t matter.” Cheol was quick to sit up, criss-crossing his legs and holding out a hand. “ Lemme see.” 

“ Can’t I sit for one minute?” Exasperated, Jihoon looked unamused at the older man’s antics.

“Um…No.” This time, he put both hands out, making grabby-hands. “ Give.” 

Jihoon reached into his pocket and pulled the velvet box out, handing it over to his friend. Almost instantly Seungcheol snatched the box from his hand, pushing the top back to reveal the ring. With shining, wide eyes, Seungcheol took it in, bringing it extremely close to his face, examining it by turning the box in his hand.

“ It’s gorgeous.” He hummed, peering at Jihoon from the corner of his eye. “ Any ideas for your own wedding ring?” 

“Can they say yes before I even think about it?” 

“You are no fun, Jihoonie!” 

“ Hand it over.” Holding out his own hand, Bumzu motioned for it, having not seen it yet, only hearing the gushing from Jihoon. The box was handed to Jihoon only to be snatched away once more, leaving him a bit defeated but unsurprised by their antics. Bumzu was quiet in his analysis of the ring, nodding his head a bit with every turn of the box to view the different angles. When he finally closed the box and passed it back over to Jihoon, he smiled, reaching over and patting Jihoon on the shoulder. “ You picked very well, ‘Hoon-ah.” 

“Gross, you guys are getting weird,” Faking a gag, Jihoon shivered. “ Can we just work on some music?”

“ Jihoooonnnn-ahhhh~” Hyeji bursted into his studio, his head shooting up from staring down at the strings of his guitar. Vernon and Wonwoo were sitting behind his desk, both discussing something between the two of them. “ Oh hey guys.” 

“Did they get back to you?” With the days counting down, Jihoon had been getting anxious on whether the greenhouse conservatory would be a feasible venue. 

“ They did!” Hyeji pulled up the email on her phone. “ We have the fourteenth booked after hours.” 

“Thank god.” He leaned his head back against his chair, sighing. “ Now that we have that, we can get a place booked for everything after.” 

“Cheol-hyung suggested the barbecue place.” Vernon chirped up. 

Wonwoo nodded but spoke up himself. “ Shua-hyung said the fancy bistro we all like.”  

“Ah- I haven’t taken Ruby-ah there.” Jihoon cringed, “ But I don’t see why not for the bistro. Hyeji can you-”

“Alright on it, boss.” She gave a thumbs up, shooting the three of them finger guns. “ Three more weeks!” 

And she was gone as quickly as she came, her silhouette disappearing down the hallway. 

“Hyeji is an interesting person.” Wonwoo commented, going back to whatever him and Vernon were working on. 

“ Hyeji is…something.” 

Ruby was dead asleep. Jihoon tried to wake them a few times but each time they either didn’t move or mumbled to leave them alone. They had been running around all day in the apartment cleaning and getting things done despite him asking them to sit down for maybe five minutes. 

When he did manage to stop them in their tracks, when they were in the middle of sweeping the floor, Ruby was reluctant, grumbling about the apartment needing to be cleaned. Jihoon had asked if there was anything Ruby needed help with or anything they wanted to talk about prior to getting them to sit down but both questions got a no. He didn’t have to fight much to have them sit, even bribing them with a peak at the new album’s instrumental. 

For a good while, he just held them, letting Ruby rest their head on his chest, ghosting his hands up and down their back. Every so often he would ask if they were okay, if something was wrong. Each time Ruby shook their head until they confessed that they were nervous for Jamie and Kazuki coming and wanted everything to be perfect. It had been so long since the three were together and even Jihoon knew that the time they’d have together wouldn’t be enough. He tried his best to reassure them, whispering sweet nothings and words of affirmation that he knew made their heart flutter even the smallest amount.

In the end, they were curled up in the mountain of pillows in the corner of the couch, the weighted blanket wrapped snugly around them. Ruby had migrated over when he went to the office and sent an email with some music files the managers asked for. 

Though it wasn’t ideal to do this…

As quietly as he could, Jihoon stood from his spot and went to get his gym bag. Though it wasn’t the best place currently to hide the ring box, it was the best way to hide it from Ruby since they refused to touch it. Their excuse? With how much he forgets to take clothes out of it, the bag is radioactive. Kinda rude if you were to ask him. 

Jihoon took out his phone and opened the camera, holding the ring box tightly in his hand. He made sure that they were asleep for a hundredth time before lining up a shot. 

Jihoon opened the ring box and held it up, letting the dim living room lights hit the ruby gemstone just right. He got Ruby just off to the side of it, unconscious and looking absolutely comfortable. It was cuter with their sock covered feet peeking out from under the blanket and everything above their lips just able to be seen. When he was satisfied with his placement, he snapped a few pictures and had a brilliant idea. 

Well, more of a dumb one but he thought it would be funny to show them later. He turned around and held the ring box up to his face with Ruby still sleeping behind him. Holding his phone up, he once again lined up the shot but took a selfie, smiling wide in one but gave a mischievous grin in the second, knowing he was keeping a big secret that they didn’t know. Looking through the pictures, he snickered silently to himself and hid the ring back in his bag. 

He went into the bedroom to change, pulling back the comforter and dimming the lights. While it wasn’t hard, Jihoon slowly unwrapped Ruby from the blanket, hearing them murmur and grumble before he managed to get their arms around his neck and lift them up to wrap their legs around his waist. 

“ Come on.” He whispered, feeling them drop their head on his shoulder. “ Time for bed.” 

Jihoon couldn’t make out the next round of grumbles they got out but he was slow in walking towards the bedroom and laid them down. Ruby clung to him, refusing to let go with him leaned over. Gently, he ran a hand up and down their side, trying to coax them but it only made them tighten the hold. 

“ Love, can you let go for a moment? I can’t lay down.” 

Ruby shook their head so…he did the only sensible thing and lied flat on top of them, hearing an oomph and a forced breath of air being pushed out. It was only a few moments before they released him, starfishing out but he refused to move now. 

“ Get up-” They tried to shift onto their side, trying to get him off but he was definitely hard to move

“ I don’t know, comfortable over here if you ask me.” 

“You are heavy-” Trying again, Ruby used their arms this time, even just attempting to get either of them on their side. “ Gym rat-” 

“Ask nicely.” 

“Move, you slab of meat-” 

With a laugh, Jihoon rolled off, only to pull them to his chest. “ Go back to sleep.” 

“Already done..” Ruby yawned, pulling the covers up over them to better. 

“ Let me get this straight, its called Fuck My Life?” You asked, sitting beside Joshua on the couch in Universe Factory . “So as a group, you guys can say fuck but Vernon can’t say it in his solo? Sounds rigged.” 

“Okay well, He wrote the lyrics for Black Eye himself so it was his choice.” Joshua side-eyed you before looking back at his phone. “And the company also has a role in it.” 

“Still sounds rigged, but okay.” 

“ I know why Ruby-ah is here, but why are you here, Hyung? Don’t we have a day off?” Turning in his chair, he peered over the half wall towards both of you.

“He says day off and here he is in the studio.” Kicking your feet up, you eyed him with a raised brow. “You’d think as someone that holds himself to a high standard would listen to himself.” 

“Hasn’t done that since the day I met him.” Joshua mirrored your lounging pose and the glance you sent towards Jihoon. 

“The green room days…” 

“The horrible green room days…” 

“ If you both are going to be idiots, can you at least do it quietly?” 

“Who does he think he is?” You crossed your arms. 

Joshua copied you. “I don’t know, definitely rude though.” 

“My soulmate and he still treats me like this.” Shaking your head, you watched as Jihoon took a deep breath in and slowly let it out. There was a hint of annoyance in the bond that had you holding back a chuckle. “Soulbound and I’m still an idiot.” 

Jihoon pointed to the door. “ Out, both of you, I have work to do.”

“There's the door!” You yelled out before Joshua followed behind quickly. 

“There’s the door, bitch!”

And now the both of you were cackling while Jihoon looked just about ready to beat the two of you up. 

“ We’ve been here for four hours, Hoonie, can’t we get out of here and spend a day not at home or in the studio, even if we just go out to eat?” 

“Can I join?” 

“No, I’m making it date night.” 

“Ew, couples are gross. I’m getting out of here.” Joshua stood, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He patted Jihoon on the shoulder with a light chuckle, leaving the studio and disappearing beyond the door. 

“Insufferable.” Jihoon stared blankly at the two of you for a moment, something running through his mind before he huffed. “Fine.” 

“Don’t sound too excited.” You sounded disappointed but Jihoon was quick to step up and shook his head.

“ Don’t be like that!” He complained, slumping back in his chair. “ Going out is just…labor intensive.” 

“Labor- All we are doing is eating.” Standing up, you stepped over to him, placing a finger under his chin and tipping his head back. “ Are you worried about fans getting in our faces?” 

Jihoon placed his hands gently on your hips, letting his thumb knead into your hip bones. “ I enjoy my privacy.” 

“Can we make a deal?” You tilted your head, seeing the tired eyes that he had been sporting for the last week and a half. 

“ Depends.” He tilted his head like you did, leaning forward and resting his chin on your stomach, staring up at you lovingly. 

“ Once a month, if we can and feel up to it, maybe we can go out and say fuck it to being spotted? Not like the world should be surprised at this point.”

His shoulders deflated but his expression didn’t change. Jihoon let his eyes gaze over your face and slowly his lips pursed, eyes reflecting back all the lights from the ‘galaxy’ he had on the ceiling. Wrapping his arms around your waist, the purse on his lips turned into a full on pout and he leaned his weight on you. 

With his hair getting longer and longer, you brushed it back from his face, twirling a few strands around your finger. “ You can say no instead of pouting at me.” 

“It doesn’t feel fair to you.” Jihoon muttered, feeling him drum his fingers against you.

Scratching at his scalp, you swore he could have purred with how he leaned into the touch, let his eyes roll back, and closed his eyes. “ But I’m not going to be a dick about it if you do say no.” 

The hum of the bond was warm and inviting, letting you smile down at him with bright eyes. 

“You’re playing dirty.” 

“I’m giving myself an advantage.” 

“Once a month?” 

“Once a month. We can go somewhere casual, just to get out and have a good dinner without the entire security team and the guys butting in.” 

“We’d need some security just in case.” He didn’t even open his eyes, still letting you message his head. 

“ Jisung and your head of security? They can sit away from us though.” 

“Compelling argument.” 

“So…” You clasped your fingers together behind his head, cradling it easily. “ Is that a yes?” 

“If I say yes, can we get burgers?” 

You silently snickered, nodding your head. “ Only if we can get ice cream after.” 

“Deal.”

That was how the four of you ended up in a decent burger joint at a booth towards the back with Jisung and another security guard at a table diagonal to you. Instead of taking seats across from one another, Jihoon had slid in beside you, both of your backs facing the entrance to better keep you hidden while also keeping you close. 

“ Wait wait, you never told me that Jamie and Kazuki are Mingyu-ah and Jeonghan-hyung biased!” He laughed alongside you, face scrunched up in a wide smile. 

The plates before the two of you were nearly done aside from some fries. 

“ Jamie calls Mingyu-ah ‘Big Sexy’ .” Exposing your friends was fun, especially when you see the glee on Jihoon’s face. “ And Kazuki thinks that Jeonghannie is really pretty.” 

“Of course he thinks Jeonghan-hyung is pretty, every Jeonghan-hyung stan does.” 

“ They really do.” You shoveled a few fries into your mouth. 

“ Jamie has been bugging me for days asking if I can introduce him to Mingyu-ah. And you know Mingyu-ah, if someone fawns over him, he is in love.” 

Jihoon snorted. “ Oh? Like you?” 

“Hey, whoa! I’ll have you know, because you were there, that Mingyu-ah fawned over me first because I’m the same age as him! Same with Seokminie!” 

“Mhmm.” He nodded, clearly not believing it. “ I hope his soulmate can tolerate his clingy ass.” 

“Honestly? Humble him, I hope they won’t.”  

“That’s mean, he already gets bullied enough by us.” 

The two of you bursted into a fit of laughter, leaning on each other. You grabbed onto his arm and his hand gave light pats to your thigh, trying to catch your breaths. Honestly you don’t know how long the two of you had been sitting in the booth just eating and talking, enjoying the hum of the bond and the time spent together. The occasional look at where your security sat showed it evident that they had finished long ago and were either chatting or messing around on their phones with no one of interest looking at the two of you. 

“Who do you think is going to find their soulmate next?” 

Jihoon pursed his lips, leaning his head side to side. “I’m placing my bet on Cheol-hyung, him or maybe Wonwoo.” 

“Ohh, good guesses. I was also thinking Seungcheol-ah next. Wonwoo is a good guess too. I was thinking of either Seokminie or Shua.” 

“ I really want to see what kind of person Cheol-hyung’s soulmate will be. We both know he can be…a lot sometimes but I want to see who will have to put up with him forever.” 

You chuckled, nodding. “ Same with Wonwoo’s. I know they can write back and forth to one another but who can put up with his weird personality? Will they also like video games?” 

“You and I are pretty similar in some aspects, same with your grandparents and my parents. It will probably be the same with them.” 

“...Hey ‘Hoonie?” 

Turning his head to face you, he raised a brow. “ Yeah?” 

“...Can we get ice cream now?” 

His bright laughter filled your ears. “Ahhh-” Jihoon leaned his head back before nodding, sending you a wide, toothy smile. “ Yeah, yeah we can.” 

There were fans at the cafe you both decided on, it wasn’t a surprise. With it being a smaller place and a more open concept, it was easy to get spotted. The sun had set, bathing the city in a dark blue sky. Though you sat at a corner table, both facing away from the windows and the fans that were trying to get pictures, Jihoon felt uncomfortable, sharing a bowl of ice cream with you. 

You needed something to distract him. 

“ Remember the day when we first met?” 

He frowned for a moment before his eyes lifted and focused on you. “ Of course I remember it.” 

“You said to me that you were there to listen to me and get to know me. You said we’d get mad at each other.” You let a smile spread on your lips. “ I think about that a lot.” 

“We have to admit, we did a decent job at all that in the beginning.” He matched your expression. Jihoon loved over his shoulder towards the fans behind both of you then back towards the ice cream you shared. “ Then the fight over the live…” 

“Still can’t believe you did that.” You bumped into his shoulder, hearing him scoff. “ But I hope you know I appreciated it.” 

“Did I ever tell you what happened that night after I got back from the studio?” 

Frowning, you shook your head, leaning on your elbow to better see him. 

“ Cheol-hyung was about ready to kill me.” Jihoon shook his head, still smiling. “ That night…It was the first night I thought that I wanted to protect you for the rest of my life.” 

“ Do not make me emotional right now.” Poking a finger into his chest, he shook his shoulders in a laugh. “ I’m serious, Lee Jihoonie, I will kick your ass.” 

“Hmm, sounds like a challenge.” Jihoon leaned in, your noses nearly touching. “ Do you want to know the moment I really fell in love with you?” 

“Jihoonie…” Narrowing your eyes, he leaned his arm on the table and supported his head with a hand under his chin. 

“It started the day that you were really down before we flew to Bangkok.” The soft gaze he set on you made you flustered and a blush flourished on your cheeks. “ You made that stupid joke to lighten the mood when I was in my head, ‘how dare you call my soulmate dumb?’. I should have been the one helping you but you ended up helping me. Then we went to the dorms and you made another joke about me liking you. It was the second time I really wanted to protect you but the day that I knew my feelings were more than just liking you.” 

You didn’t say a word, watching as he leaned in, pressing your foreheads together, that silly little thing you both did. 

“ The day at the airport was when everything solidified and I had told you. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops of Japan.”

“You are pushing it.” It was a baseless warning, swallowing down any bubbling up emotions. 

“ Can’t I tell my soulmate I love them? When they were trying to make me not feel like a thousand eyes are staring at us?” 

“You can, and I’m more than happy to distract you anyday.” 

“Ruby-ah,” He placed a gingerly kiss to your lips, short and sweet with the prying eyes not far from you. “ I love you.” 

“I love you too, Jihoonie.”

[zaccosnacco]

Poisonous Fires (1)

So gonna post the first part of this little story I’ve been writing! Tell me what you guys think!!

Content warnings include: Swearing and Graphic descriptions of someone being set on fire

This is the beginning of a Holyfire/Fieryworship story (Skiddad x Ignacio)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was some muffled talking from beyond the window, someone was listening in on the conversation that was transpiring. Quiet, a figure in a crimson cloak got closer to the window. Inside viewed a board, evidence plastered all over it connected by thin velvet strings, that was a problem.

Two policemen were idly chatting, though it was hard to pick up on what they were talking about besides what was in front of them. One seemed to quickly turn towards the window though, suspicious of the thing lingering just outside the view of that said window. He was on to him. The other cop however seemed to roll his eyes, suggesting something and –

The two were heading out.

Now was his chance, the evidence was left sitting in the room, they didn’t even try to cover it up in case someone happened to peer through the window. They had just simply flipped the light off and left. This was almost too perfect.

Ignacio was the one who was watching them previously, he had been sent to get rid of the evidence, rid the police if necessary as well. But sadly he had to save that for another day. The cult would still be very proud that he at least did the first thing. He had no objections really, he got to set something on fire which was his specialty. If he was lucky this place will burn to the ground before the two came back.

For now he had to get inside first, which was relatively easy. Nobody was here after all. So he crashed a window and crawled through. His cloak however got caught on a shard of jagged glass before he could fully get inside, which caused him to stumble over onto the floor. Doing anything in these cloaks was hell, but he couldn’t just not wear it. It covered his identity under its crimson folds, just in case the cops were to interrupt him. Getting the fabric caught on everything was just a small price to pay. It however didn’t help with how embarrassing it was to trip around, he was supposed to be feared, not a clutz.

His cloak tore a bit as he finally forced himself inside, practically throwing himself so he would continue, and he landed right into the pile of jagged shards. Wonderful. It wasn’t too much of a big deal to him though, it was just glass. His cloak was perfect for protecting him from all the cuts too, another bonus, he told himself that.

He went to stand quietly, brushing the shards off of him for a moment before heading into the main room he wanted to be in. The evidence room, or some sort of office in this house. And to the cultists' shock there was a lot of incriminating stuff. Well it wasn’t too shocking, these policemen have been on the case for so long now. It would be a shame if it all went up in flames wouldn’t it?

Ignacio stepped closer to the board, inspecting the pictures and newspapers one by one. This reminded him of something you’d see a conspiracy nut have. But he didn’t want to look too closely, it didn’t matter in the end. They didn’t even seem that close to figuring anything out. But some of this stuff was still damning. Especially the picture of the cultist. Ignacio eyed it lightly, now how did the police get this picture?

He shouldn’t be staying in this place for too long though, he had a time limit and didn’t know when the cops would be back. So Ignacio dug into his pockets, pulling out a metallic lighter, new and shiny just for this occasion, the flame even excited dancing around when opened. His excitement easily matched the flames as he went to linger it closer to the evidence board, lightly toasting the photos before he completely set it ablaze.

The hungry fire eagerly devoured the wooden board, it barely stood a chance against the embers. Ignacio smirked as he backed up, seeing his work spread.. Really quickly. It never dawned on him how fast this building would feed the flames but now he was witnessing it.

Panic, lots of panic. He stumbled backwards, looking around for the quickest exit. He really didn’t want to get eaten by his own creation, they would have no mercy on him. This cloak was especially becoming a bigger problem. On his way to dash for his exit he ended up completely tripping over it, landing right into some of the flares.

It only seemed like a flash before the cultists cloak became engulfed in flames, the previous crimson fabric charing around the edges now. Ignacio stumbled upwards, trying to beat the fire off of him as he backed into the window he had come in from. It wasn’t working though, the fire kept spreading. It was almost surprising how he was still able to remain quiet, especially when he started to feel the flares make contact with his skin.

He urged to scream out, but instead he quickly pulled his hood off to at least protect his face in some way. The fire kept spreading though, eating at his legs and causing his knees to buckle right at the window. He slammed into that said window, more of the left over glass shattering as he fell and stumbled onto the ground beside it. His exit was set ablaze by him too, he hadn’t even realized at first until more flames consumed him.

Now they were eating at his arm, Ignacio finally making a sound of panic as the flames climbed up each of his limbs. He could feel tearing, bleeding, and an ungodly amount of pain. He cursed and cursed as he stumbled upwards again, nothing was stopping his destructive creation, it was going to eat him alive.

This whole mission was a terrible idea, he should have known this from the start. But his fiery urges pushed him forward, as a pyromaniac it felt like heaven being able to light something on fire no matter how big nor how small. Ignacio was sure the only thing he had ever loved were these flames. Yet, they were going to be the very thing that was going to end him. Almost ironic in a way, he didn’t have many objections.

He still fought desperately, to the point where it was getting hard to breathe. All the smoke, all the blaze, it was engulfing him slowly and he was sure he lost his chance to leave this house ages ago.

The hungry flames reached his torso and finally he was forced down, his legs couldn’t handle anymore of this. The pain, all pain. The fiery blaze was easily ravenging him like a lion at this point, his cloak couldn’t protect him from this. He felt like screaming now, a ditch effort? It felt pathetic though, you really are going to scream like a little bitch because you accidently stepped on an ember? He couldn’t bring himself to open his mouth, it wasn’t worth it.

Ignacio just sat against a counter, god knows when he even got into this room. Things were blurring together.

He finally did it, screaming out when the flames touched his face. His rest of his body had became numb a while ago from the scolding temperatures.

He just had to hope anyone heard him, though it was already too late in the long run. He collapsed finally, his body sliding onto its side as the flames traced the counter he had been previously against. This was it, his stupidity had gotten him killed. The very flames he loved mangled his body, chewing at the skin, muscles and.. It stopped.

It stopped, never hitting anything vital and barely reaching more than his cheek. Despite this he was still unconscious, not dead. He could barely breathe, yeah, but his body was stopping any more physical damage.

A pump of energy pulsed through him, causing him to suddenly cough and wheeze. His body trembling, but still no sign of getting up.

And no sign that he did, however it became apparent that he had been noticed as missing. Not by the police, but by the cult. They knew the place had been set on a fiery blaze, but where was the prideful culprit? It would be simply embarrassing if he had burnt himself to death, or was fed to the house fire.

Nobody will come back for him.

–

Suddenly there was that blurred reality again, his eyes struggling to adjust. Was he dead? He did seem to get eaten by flames earlier, yet his body only ached. He would almost tear up from it if he didn’t know better. He groaned lightly, pushing himself to sit up with a light tremble. Where was he?

Ignacio shook his head, looking around again. It didn’t really look like a burnt house.. But his stubborn vision still hadn’t come back to him. He just knew he was sitting on something soft, sitting against something rough and that it seemed dark.

“Ignacio.” Someone suddenly spoke, freaking the arsonist out for a moment as he scrambled to come to his senses. Someone else was here, who else was here?

He went to speak up in response, only to be met with incoherent choking. He wanted to demand who that was, but he couldn’t. It seemed his throat had taken a bit of damage during his unfortunate circumstances. But it better not be permanent, he would be miffed if he wouldn’t be able to tell people off anymore.

“Don’t speak, you took quite a large amount of damage, yeah?” The person spoke again, right they were still here. Ignacio choked on a growl in response, hostility was his nature. Though his hostility seemed to gain a chuckle from the unknown figure near him.

Now that he thought about it he almost recognized that voice. It was smooth and almost charismatic, it annoyed him with the familiarity.

Ignacio went to rub his head lightly, hearing another snicker from the person. It was pricking away at his nerves though, who did this guy think he was?

Finally the cultist's vision was coming to him, his eyes adjusting to the new location. He was outside, the prickly feeling under him being grass. It was night time still, it must have not been that long.. Or it had been days that he was out, he wasn’t sure but his body still hadn’t fully recovered.

“Ah, have you finally come to your senses? You’ve been out for a while, it's to be expected that your body is still disoriented.” The person spoke again, getting closer and kneeling over to the burnt man.

Ignacio could hardly believe his eyes, the person who was with him he did know. However last time he checked he had been in the ground.

The man before him tilted his head, that familiar smirk plastered on his face. His hair still long and black, not even looking a mess. He still wore almost all black, except for a different red turtleneck that the arsonist has never seen him wear before. Then there was the pendant, which was new too. Not like the pendants were a new thing to the cult he just has never seen this wicked man sport one before, because.

He was the cult's previous leader, Father Leviathan. Him being perfectly alive was almost shocking, especially to Ignacio who just seemed to stare in shock to the others' amusement.

“Ignacio, I can see you recognize me. It has been a while hasn’t it?” Leviathan spoke, casually holding out his hand for the arsonist in front of him. But to nothing, Ignacio didn’t even reach back, in disbelief. He was so such he was dead, did that mean that he himself was dead? Was he hallucinating? The cultist just couldn’t figure this out.

The leader didn’t seem to care that Ignacio didn’t take his hand, casually going to grab his hand himself and pull the dude up. The arsonist had found himself gasping, the sudden pain that flooded him was indescribable. Leviathan took note of this, though he seemed to be inspecting him lightly with a hum.

“Can you walk? You look shaky, and it would be truly embarrassing if you collapsed in front of me.” Leviathan asked bluntly, still holding onto Ignacio's hand as he helped him stand. He wasn’t expecting a response though, it seemed like the arsonist fried his vocal cords. He would have expected more complaining from him by now if he could talk.

Ignacio still seemed startled, a lot was going on at once. The pain, the awakening, and seeing the face of the leader again. Not to say it was very pleasant of a surprise, Leviathan had a way of getting on his nerves when he had been previously alive.

The arsonist suddenly tried to speak up again, choking and coughing a sentence that was barely understandable. “W… w-hy are.. … y-you so c… cas.. sual.” He stammered, his tone almost harsh if it wasn’t for the painful choking. Despite this Leviathan heard him completely coherently.

“Casual? Of all the questions in your mind you ask that, why you should already know nothing is a big deal, especially for me.” Leviathan replied, his signature smirk still not disappearing. He however suddenly pulled Ignacio closer to him. “I can answer the question about my previous death though, you see. The eyes of the universe would never let me rot, it came back for me, brought me back to this mortal plane with this pendant, I can tell you’ve been so curious about that too.” He whispered casually.

Ignacio went to speak again, seem to push the leader back for a moment. He didn’t like being pulled close by anyone, let alone someone that should have been dead. He went to try and speak up again though, only Leviathan beat him to it. “I know Ignacio, it seems so strange that this necklace can do such a thing. But have you ever asked yourself how you are currently alive? You are covered in burns, almost being devoured by your own flames as you trapped yourself in that house, I bet you can still feel that dreadful feeling of the fiery flares taking your skin off slowly.”

The cultist seemed to shudder in dread, not liking the casual reminder. He could still very much feel what Leviathan was talking about. His body ached, but.. It only ached, he looked down at himself. His clothing burnt and torn up, his skin however only covered in harsh burn scars from what was exposed. It hurt but he really should of not made it out of that house like the leader had mentioned. He wasn’t sure how to feel from this. He could also still feel a ghostly burning feeling even when he wasn’t on fire anymore, he didn’t like this.

“Relax, be proud of yourself, you have proved that you are capable. Look at you, pushing through the burning pain, you stand so tall despite the tremble in your core. One could be impressed by such tolerance.” Leviathan suddenly spoke, playfully elbowing Ignacio. He was being reassuring for once, a rarity only seen by the fire enjoyer himself. It seemed the leader wasn’t all cruel with his words.

Well he wasn’t cruel to someone he was so fond of, Ignacio knew that. Except he wasn’t impressed that he was fond of him, some people would die for the leader's praise but Ignacio would rather die if he was praised, well kind of. He just didn’t appreciate this to begin with.

Leviathan will surely change that opinion though. “Oh lighten up, I never understood why you always have such a sour soul. Well, I can kind of understand, but you should really take praise instead of complaining about it mentally.” He hummed simply, going to push the shorter man's chin up so he was looking at him again.

Ignacio gave him a surprised look, of course as the cult leader he could read someone so easily.. Even someone like him who was hard to figure out. Of course this was still suspicious, how did he know what he was thinking?

Leviathan just hummed in response. “Oh my you are just filled with questions, aren’t you? All will be answered in do time, let's just get you up and out of this forest, shall we tread your place?” He suggested, his head tilted to the side lightly again, pulling Ignacio over again before he could even think of a response.

Looks like this was gonna be a long day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2800 words!! Please if you like this start to the story tell me!!

[applepiewinchesters]

Happily Ever After? (Crowley x Fem!Angel!Reader)

Requested by: Anonymous 

Word Count: 2,333

Summary: A threat from Hastur nearly ruins the life Crowley had built for himself. 

Warnings: Minimal editing lol, angst 

 Before Crowley finally confessed his feelings for you, it took quite literally every ounce of Aziraphale’s willpower to not tell you how the demon felt. It was in his nature to love love and just seeing you two pining for each other for centuries nearly had him turn to drinking due to the frustration.

Crowley finally told you how he felt when he thought he was going to lose you for good. Cliché, he knows that, but you reciprocated the feeling. Which surprised him given you two are so different. He was a demon, you were an angel. Complete opposites.

You lived with Aziraphale in a cozy, two-bedroom flat. Your room was decorated in flowers and beautiful and bright paintings. You wore white practically all the time besides the occasional pastels.

Crowley lived in a flat that looked straight out of a vampire’s wet dream. It was dark, quiet, perfect for any creature of the night. Crowley wore exclusively blacks, grays, and reds.

But nonetheless, here you two were, together, and most importantly, happy.

It had been nearly a year since the apocalypse that didn’t happen. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had heard from their respective head offices since then after the ultimate identity switch of the ages.

Everything was perfect. You often stayed at Crowley’s his usually dark flat filled with light because of you. He couldn’t have pictured even five years ago that this would be his life now, his eternity now, at least he hoped.

Hope.

It was a weird feeling to have as a demon. All hope seemed to have been ripped away from him when he’d fallen, or sauntered, as he liked to say. He became bitter for quite a while, even excited to thwart off happiness, as was his job.

But you, with your smile and your cute, stupid laugh. You broke him. Made him happy, gave him hope, and now, he truly couldn’t picture life without you.

So, when he came home one day and found Hastur waiting for him in his flat rather than yourself, he felt that filter of perfection over his life begin to crack.

“Hastur, long time no see,” Crowley spoke, casual as he took off his jacket, throwing it across the back if the couch.

The other demon smirked, “Making a life for yourself it seems,” Hastur replied, ignoring Crowley’s attempt at small talk.

Crowley felt his neutral expression falter. “So it seems,” he said.

“An angel?” Hastur began, taking a step towards Crowley, “I’m sure you know the backlash that could be involved, for the both of you of course.”

“I thought we had an agreement, both sides leave us alone, after last time I thought you’d all learned your lesson,” Crowley challenged.

“Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever, just as your little relationship won’t, if you don’t put a stop to it, we will,” Hastur spat, and with that, was gone.

Crowley grit his teeth, hands balling into fists. They weren’t going to touch you, and he’d do whatever he could to make sure of that. You were too good for them, too good for him, and he knew that, he always knew that. He never should’ve played into his little fantasy of a happy life.

It was then that you breezed into the flat. Your long hair falling beautifully down your back, you were dressed in one of his favorite dresses, a pretty purple color.

“Hi love,” you told him, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “I got you a new plant!”.

You held up a small succulent proudly, the gesture made his heart feel like it was being squeezed.

Crowley realized he hadn’t said anything and cleared his throat, “Thanks.” It was short, harsh, the slight fall of your smile didn’t go unnoticed by him. It hurt.

“Something wrong?” you asked, setting the small plant on the side table next to the couch.

“Nothing, why do you ask?” Crowley replied.

“Oh, um, you just seem…off,” you spoke, leaning against the back of the couch.

“I’m fine, angel, I don’t need you to worry about me,” Crowley told you before stalking out of the room, leaving you confused.

*

Over the next few days Crowley’s demeanor towards you changed drastically. In his eyes he was protecting you, pushing you away. In yours, he was cold, closer to the Crowley you’d met in Eden.

He was short with you, barely wanted you in his flat. He made every excuse in the book not to spend time with you. It hurt you, he’d been fine earlier in the week and now, he was almost cruel.

You’d finally had enough and after helping Aziraphale in the bookstore you found yourself at Crowley’s flat, pounding on the door. You usually weren’t so curt but given the circumstances you wanted an explanation, or to help, whichever made this right.

After knocking for several minutes, the door was finally swung open, Crowley stood there dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, his hair a mess.

“What?” he all but spat at you.

The venom in Crowley’s voice caught you off guard, but you stood your ground.

“I came to see you, we’ve barely talked recently, and you’ve been acting strange all week almost, you’ve been…cold,” you replied, looking down at your feet.

Crowley laughed, the sound making you jump, it wasn’t happy, it was almost emotionless.

“I’m a demon, it’s what I do,” Crowley told you.

You looked up at him, his sunglasses were on so you couldn’t see his eyes, but this felt wrong, this wasn’t Crowley, your Crowley.

“But you aren’t, not to Zira, not to me, you…you love me, you’ve said it countless times, if I’ve done something wrong just tell me,” you practically begged, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

“Maybe I just realized this isn’t going to work out,” Crowley answered. “I mean really darling, did you think we were going to live happily ever after?”.

Crowley nearly broke at the look on your face when those words left his lips. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t risk getting you hurt, it would be selfish to keep himself happy knowing you could be in danger.

“Fine,” you finally choked out, “it’s over.”

With that you were gone, walking quickly down the hall towards the elevators.

Crowley slammed the door to his flat, tossing off his glasses and running a hand over his face to try and stop his own tears. That was it, you were never going to forgive him now, Heaven only knows what Aziraphale was going to think of him.

He threw himself on the couch, head in his hands. He was fucked, but maybe it was what he deserved.

It wasn’t very long into the night that another knock sounded at his door. Crowley didn’t bother getting up from the couch, he was lying on his back, an arm thrown over his face while his other hung off the couch, a half-finished bottle of bourbon in his hand.

He jumped though when the door opened of its own accord and Aziraphale strode through, looking angrier than Crowley had ever seen before in the 6,000 years he’d known the angel.

“My dear boy you better have a perfectly good explanation as to why you caused Y/N to storm into the flat this evening crying,” Aziraphale spoke firmly, shutting the door behind him.

“Piss off,” Crowley groaned, throwing his arm back over his eyes and taking a swig from the bottle in his hand.

“No, you don’t get to push me away as well,” Aziraphale replied, coming around the couch and grabbing the bourbon from the demon throwing himself a pity party. “It took nearly an hour to console her enough to get her to tell me what happened.”

At that, Crowley’s heart shattered all over again, he really hurt you this time.

“I don’t deserve her angel, we all know that” Crowley spoke, managing to sit up rather ungracefully.

“So, you hurt her? Treat her with utter cruelty this entire week so that you could break her heart at the end of it?” Aziraphale retorted.

“It’s better this way,” Crowley sighed, looking up at the angel in front of him, Aziraphale could see the redness of his face, he’d been crying as well.

“You and I both know that to be completely untrue, you two are perfect for each other, you make each other happy, at least you did, until you mucked it up,” Aziraphale spoke curtly.

Crowley grit his teeth, “Hastur threatened her alright?! He said if I didn’t end things with Y/N they would! You and I both know they would kill her given the chance!”.

Aziraphale’s face fell, “I thought with what happened they were leaving us all alone?”.

“I did too, it was stupid of me to believe I could be happy with her,” Crowley replied, exasperated as he sat down on the couch.

Aziraphale was silent before he came and sat beside his best friend on the couch, putting a gentle hand on his knee.

“She deserves an explanation, at least more of one than what I plan to tell her when I get back, and an apology,” Aziraphale told Crowley before standing up and heading for the door. He turned back before leaving, “And you’re wrong.”

Crowley looked up, raising an eyebrow, “You deserve to be happy, both of you,” the angel finished, before pulling open the door and leaving the demon alone again.

*

The next day Crowley stood outside the bookshop. He felt hot, hotter than normal at least with being a demon and all. He also felt like he could throw up, something he had never done before but knew it would be unpleasant to behold.

Before he could psyche himself out, he pushed open the bookshop door. The familiar smell of old books was somewhat comforting. Aziraphale rounded the corner of one of the shelves, eyes falling on his best friend.

“She’s upstairs, I’ll get her, at least, I assume you’re not just here to skulk?” Aziraphale questioned.

"Please, I’ll be over there,” Crowley spoke, nodding to where two couches sat.

Aziraphale nodded before disappearing and Crowley turned, flipping the OPEN sign on the shop’s door to CLOSED. He didn’t need any human interrupting this asking if Aziraphale sold whatever a “Colleen Hoover” was.

Crowley sat then on one couch, taking off his sunglasses. He didn’t need to hide anything, especially not from you. You always said that his eyes were beautiful, he hoped maybe that there was some part of you that still did.

When Crowley heard footsteps he stood, smoothing down his jacket, he was more nervous than when he’d finally told you he loved you.

You soon appeared, Aziraphale in tow. Your hair was up, and you were dressed in more comfy clothes, leggings and a sweater. Your normal smile was replaced with an emotionless look, your arms were crossed.

“Love,” Crowley greeted, “can we talk? Please?”.

Your expression didn’t change as you shrugged, “Why should I listen?”.

Crowley was stung slightly from the coldness your voice, but he supposed after last night, it was a fair tone.

“I want to apologize,” Crowley told you. “Explain myself.”

You thought for a moment before sighing, “Fine,” you answered.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Aziraphale spoke up, giving you a knowing look that said he’d come running if needed.

You moved and sat across from Crowley on the other couch as he took his seat. It was silent for a few moments before Crowley began, “I know I have no right to ask your forgiveness darling, but you at least deserve to why I treated you the way I did.”

You didn’t respond, but Crowley kept going, “Hastur stopped by a few days ago, he told me Hell knows about our relationship. He threatened you love; he said if I didn’t break things off, they would. You mean everything to me, and it scared me. I couldn’t stay with you knowing you would be in danger, so I pushed you away and I know now that was stupid.”

“Incredibly stupid,” you commented, making Crowley sigh.

“I deserve every bit of hate you have for me right now, but I just wanted you to know I am sorry. You have no idea how much it hurt to see you walk away last night. But I only came to explain myself; you don’t need to forgive me,” Crowley finished.

“I know I don’t,” you answered.

Crowley hung his head, he knew you’d never forgiven him, th…

“But I will,” you spoke, cutting off Crowley’s thoughts.

When he looked up again, you only nodded.

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley told you.

“Aziraphale told me what you’d said last night, I know you wanted to protect me, but I can take care of myself, with or without you,” you said, and Crowley nodded.

“I-I know, I never should have said those things to you darling,” Crowley said.

You only nodded in response, Crowley ran a hand through his hair, “Can... can you, c’mere?” Crowley asked you.

Getting up from your spot, you walked to where Crowley sat across from you. Crowley took your hands in his. “I promise to make this right, completely, I’ll do whatever it takes. I love you, angel.”

You smiled just slightly, finally. “I love you too,” you replied.

Crowley brought your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently, lovingly.

Aziraphale rounded the corner again as you sat beside Crowley, looking rather pleased.

“Now, don’t you two go pulling anything like that again, it was hard enough getting our favorite demon to apologize this time,” Aziraphale spoke firmly, it made you giggle as you held one of Crowley’s hands in your lap.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley replied, pressing a kiss to your head.

And besides, if someone dared come for you after this, he could promise it would be the last time Hell or Heaven ever crossed him again.

A/N: First, to whoever requested this, thank you and I hoped it lived up to what you were expecting! Thank you so much for reading, it really does mean a lot!! ❤ Second, let me know what you thought! Also, to those two who may be reading this and sent in requests I am going to get to those soon! I have been rather sick and also busy with work lately but will get to writing more very soon! 

[dirty-bear-rick-sanchez]

Double Dessert

Trans Morty oneshot! I was thinking of my own grandad while writing this, because he was very supportive of me when I came out but also worried about me getting discriminated against.

Also there are two very subtle Red Dwarf references in this. If anyone catches them please let me know as I will be so happy you have no idea. There’s no clear timeframe for when this is set apart from the fact the Citadel still exists but it’s not really really early on in the show.

Summary: while visiting the Citadel, Morty makes friends with another Morty whose Rick seems to be unusually overprotective. ~3.9k words. Warnings for mention of sexual assault (the Mr Jellybean scene) and its aftereffects, stressful coming out, discussion of trans stuff in terms that might not be everyone’s preference (e.g. a trans guy saying he used to be a girl), some ignorance of trans stuff (nothing hateful, just a lack of understanding), eating insects (I know a centipede is not technically an insect but you get the idea). There’s also a brief joke about Mortycest, but nothing like that actually happens and I don’t think it’s anything out of the ordinary for the show.

Disclaimer before we go in that I’m a trans guy.

Despite Morty’s much shorter strides, he keeps pace with Rick easily in his excitement to be on the Citadel. True, his grandpa might hate it, and he has his own fair share of bad memories of the place, but there’s something about the hustle and bustle that appeals to him. Maybe it’s the benefits of getting to go somewhere that clearly isn’t Earth without the risks that are usually present in the places he goes with Rick. After all, everything in this place is designed for at least one of the two of them, unlike the alien planets they visit, where even the most innocuous-seeming things could be deadly.

Rick pulls him into some sort of shop and instantly makes for a particular section. It’s clear he knows what he’s looking for, and Morty can identify the look in his eye that means he’s about to spend 45 minutes deliberating between two practically identical products. Not wanting to get involved, he wanders off alone to check out what the store has to offer. The best possible description he can find for it is ‘electronics store’, but there are plenty of items that don’t fit this category. Although the bulk of the shop is clearly intended for Ricks, he notices a small section at the back that seems to be aimed at Mortys, and wanders over, curious.

He’s looking around in interest when his eyes land on another Morty with the unmistakable expression of shock that indicates he’s never been here before. The Morty looks fairly typical, with no clear modifications or mutations of any sort. Even so, there’s something about him that looks subtly different in a way Morty can’t quite place.

“Hey, man.” he greets the other Morty, who starts at his voice, as if being startled out of a trance.

“Oh! H-hey.” the other Morty responds, his voice slightly high, like he’s scared.

“I-is this your first time on the Citadel?” Morty asks, trying to make the other Morty feel better, but also genuinely interested in having an actual conversation with another version of himself. Rick’s disdain for the Citadel means that Morty has spent fairly little time in the presence of his other selves.

The other Morty nods. “Y-yeah. Rick told me about this place, but he doesn’t really like to come here. This is the first time he’s let me come with him.”

“Yeah, my Rick’s kind of the same way. He doesn’t really like the Citadel. I-I think it’s kind of cool, though!”

“Me too! Check out this thing!” 

The other Morty indicates a machine that reminds Morty of the stands at theme parks that sell photos taken on rollercoasters. On the screen are many pictures of Morty posing with various girls. Some might be real, taken in other dimensions, and some are clearly edited, but both Mortys amuse themselves by looking through the options, especially when they discover there’s a whole folder for Jessica. The machine has prices listed in a currency Morty doesn’t recognise for printed copies of the photos. 

“Why would we pay when we could just take a picture on our phone?” Morty asks, pulling his phone out of his pocket and snapping a photo. When he opens it, instead of the picture he’d been expecting to see of himself with Belle Delphine, the screen shows Rick’s laughing face, flipping him off, with text reading ‘LICK LICK LICK MY BALLS’. The two Mortys spend a couple of minutes tilting their heads at the screen, trying to figure out how it works, even though they both know neither of them has a hope of understanding. 

Eventually, the two get bored and turn their attention to a selection of stim toys in various shapes and colours instead. The Mortys are joking around and laughing together when they hear heavy footsteps and a Rick calling out for his Morty, slightly frantically.

“Geez, I wouldn’t want to be that Morty, am I right?” Morty quips, before noticing his counterpart’s guilty expression.

“Aw, geez, that’s my Rick. He’s gonna be mad that I wandered off.”

Morty opens his mouth to reply, but is cut off by the other Rick as he spots them.

“Morty! I-I told you not to wander off like that!” 

The other Rick crouches down and takes his Morty by the shoulders in a manner that’s uncharacteristically affectionate for a Rick. His eyes shift to the side and he notices Morty. “Wh-wh-who’s this? What’ve you been doing?”

“I-I’m Morty C-137. I, uh, I actually didn’t ask your dimension, did I?”

“A-70.” replies the other Morty, at exactly the same time as his Rick snaps “None of your business.”

“Rick!” protests the other Morty. “Can you not be rude to my friend?”

“Oh, your friend? Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was in the presence of your esteemed friend. How could I be so selfish as to worry about my only grandson, wh-when he’s busy hanging out with his friend?” 

Again, while the sarcasm is very Rick-like, there’s an air of over-protectiveness beneath it that Morty finds unusual for a Rick or, at least, unusual in that it’s expressed so openly.

“Rick, come on. This is the first time I get to meet other Mortys!” the other Morty whines, and something about it seems to wear the other Rick down.

“Fine.”

“H-hey, Rick, do you think Morty could come over sometime? To our dimension, I mean.” the other Morty asks excitedly.

Rick A-70 eyes Morty suspiciously. “No.”

“What? Why not?”

“Morty, remember what we talked about? Before I agreed to let you come with me here?”

Morty’s emotions shoot between indignation and confusion and concern. He really doesn’t understand whatever is going on here. However, it’s clear that the other Morty does, as he looks down and sighs. 

“Yeah.”

“Good. Now, come on, we’ve gotta get home so I can stabilise these cadmium-II coils.”

“Aw, but Rick!” the other Morty protests.

“But nothing! This is very sensitive machinery, Morty! Do you know what happens if I don’t get it home where I can store it properly in the next 10 minutes? Do you? It’ll be useless, Morty, and I’ve just paid 200 blemflarcks for it, so say goodbye to your friend.”

“Aw man.” sighs Morty A-70. “I-it was really nice to meet you. I wish we could’ve hung out some more.”

“Hey, why don’t you stay here with me and my Rick for a bit? Th-that way your Rick can go back and, and sort his stuff out, and we can keep hanging out!” Morty suggests.

“Can I, Rick?” the other Morty pleads.

“No.” 

“Aw, c’mon, please, Grandpa?” 

Even Morty can see the other Rick’s face soften slightly at the word ‘Grandpa’ for the briefest of moments before he scrunches it up in annoyance. 

“Who did you say your Rick was again?” Rick A-70 asks, turning to Morty.

“C-C-C… C-137.” Morty stammers, something about this Rick’s harsh tone making him nervous. Recognition flashes across the other Rick’s face, and Morty worries that he might say no. But, to Morty’s surprise, he sighs and gives in.

“Fine. Where’s your Rick?”

“Th-this way.” Morty heads in what he hopes is the correct direction, the Rick and Morty of dimension A-70 following behind him. Finally, he rounds a corner and finds his Rick, exactly as he knew he would be, poring over two identical-looking products.

“Hey Rick, can my new friend hang out with us for a bit?”

“Sure, whatever, Morty.” Rick responds, clearly not paying attention. The other Rick taps him on the shoulder. “Morty, I’m trying to - oh.” he cuts himself off as he sees Rick A-70.

“Look, pal, I’ve gotta get back to my dimension and deal with these coils before they go critical. My Morty has decided he can’t bear to be apart from his new friend, so will you look after him while I jump back home?”

“Please, Rick?” Morty begs.

“Eh, sure, why not.” Rick responds with a shrug and turns to go back to his items but the other Rick catches his shoulder and stops him. Morty can see him squeezing hard enough to cause pain.

“You better not let anything happen to him, got it? I’m trusting you because you don’t trust other Ricks either, but if anything happens I will know and I will fuck you up.” Rick A-70 hisses, staring intently at Rick for a few moments before pulling out his portal gun and pressing a button. Rick’s own portal gun glows in his pocket and Rick A-70 portals away.

Rick rubs his shoulder irritably and turns to Morty A-70.

“Geez, kid, your grandpa’s a real bag of laughs, huh?” Rick snarks.

The other Morty chuckles nervously. “Yeah, sorry, h-he’s kinda protective.”

Talk about understatement, Morty thinks. It’s unusual to see a Rick act like that towards anyone, let alone a Morty, but part of him is almost jealous that his new friend’s grandpa actually displays affection for him. Morty snaps out of his reverie to see A-70’s nervous expression and quickly pushes away the thoughts to deal with later, smiling at his counterpart.

The two Mortys start to kid around again while Rick picks up and pays for what he wants. Once he’s done, Rick turns to his two grandsons.

“You kids wanna get some lunch?” he asks. Both Mortys agree enthusiastically and Rick portals them home to drop off his purchases before they get into the ship. Surprisingly, Rick remains on Earth, flying to a relatively local restaurant. Morty wonders if he took the other Rick’s threat to keep his Morty safe more seriously than he let on.

The restaurant is fairly quiet, so they don’t have to wait long to be seated or served. Rick is quieter than usual, content to scribble what appears to be blueprints on a napkin until the food comes and then wolfing it down, leaving the Mortys to their bonding. Morty is fascinated to learn what the two of them have in common and what they don’t, amazed that another version of him can be so different and yet so similar at the same time. 

At first, the other Morty seems to be enjoying himself too, since it’s quite a novel experience for both of them to actually interact with a kid their own age, even if it is just another Morty. As the meal goes on, however, Morty notices A-70 start to get more uncomfortable, eyes flicking around uncertainly, squirming in his seat.

“H-hey, man, you OK?” he asks his other self. A-70 starts slightly at his question.

“Y-y-yeah, I just, I, um… I need to pee.”

Morty is surprised. “Oh, well, I-I think I saw the bathrooms just over there.”

His other self shakes his head. “Yeah, I just, I, um, I, my Rick, um, my Rick normally comes with me.”

Morty feels his eyebrows raise. “Your Rick won’t even let you go to the bathroom alone?” Rick A-70 had seemed unusually overprotective, but that seems too far for any Rick.

“N-no, it’s not that, it’s, um, I… I don’t like going alone. He comes with me… to make sure nothing happens.”

Ah. That makes more sense. Morty remembers all too well what had happened to him in that tavern in the giant courthouse steps. It had taken him a while to be able to go into public bathrooms after that, too. In fact, he clearly remembers a time when he’d wet himself in Rick’s ship because he hadn’t been able to bring himself to even enter a bathroom on one of their adventures, much less use it. He knows Rick must have known the reason because, for once, Rick hadn’t snapped at him or made fun of him for it, which, in a way, had been even worse. Still, that had been a long time ago, long enough that Morty is now usually able to use public bathrooms without too much of a problem. However, it makes sense that something like this could have also happened to this Morty, and that he’s still affected by it. That would explain why his Rick seems so overprotective, too.

“H-hey, man, it’s OK, I get it. I’ll come with you.”

A-70 seems to brighten at that. “R-really?”

“Sure!”

The two Mortys head for the bathroom. When they get there, A-70 heads for the stall, which surprises Morty slightly, given his own history, but he concludes that maybe this Morty had something happen to him at a urinal instead, or that the lock makes him feel safer, or maybe he just has to take a dump. However, A-70 comes back out almost immediately after entering.

“I-it’s out of order.” He says, wringing his hands nervously.

“W-well, hey, we’re the only ones in here. If you want me to guard the door while you use the urinal-”

“I can’t.”

“I-it’s OK, I can even wait outside if you want-”

“I can’t!” the other Morty cries. His response surprises Morty, and he flinches slightly.

“W-why?”

“Because I don’t have a penis!”

“Wha-I… d-did something… happen to it?”

“No, I never had one!” A-70 is getting increasingly frustrated and Morty doesn’t understand. “I-I’m transgender.”

“You’re a girl?”

“I was a girl. Not anymore.” A-70 responds, looking at the floor, one arm wrapped across his chest, clutching his opposite arm. “I-I thought you knew.”

“N-no, I-I didn’t realise. Sorry, man.”

A-70 doesn’t respond, and Morty feels himself talking nervously to try and make the situation better. “Can’t you, like, use the women’s?”

A-70 grimaces at that, and Morty knows he’s said the wrong thing. He panics more and keeps talking.

“O-or, hey, I think my Rick has a centipede you can swallow that eats your pee! D-do you want me to ask him?”

The other Morty nods, and Morty thinks that he must really not want to use the women’s if he’d rather swallow the centipede. He doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t want to make things worse for his other self. He places a hand on A-70’s shoulder.

“C-come on, let’s go ask him.”

A-70 seems hesitant. “W-w-what are you going to tell him?”

This stuns Morty. “Uh, that you need to pee but you can’t because the bathroom is out of order?”

“You won’t tell him that I’m… trans, will you?”

Morty blinks. “Why not?”

“My Rick said I shouldn’t tell people. He says they might try and hurt me.”

“What? Come on, it’s Rick. You’re his grandson. He doesn’t care if you’re different to the other Mortys. There’s Mortys that are cowboys a-and hammers and all sorts of things.”

A-70 seems a bit more willing but still worried. “OK. B-but can we at least ask him in private?”

Morty smiles reassuringly at his other self. “Sure thing, man!” A-70 smiles back at him, weakly, and he feels a slight sense of relief.

As they walk back to the table, Morty sees A-70 holding his hands together at his solar plexus, exactly the way he does when he’s nervous. No matter how many other versions of himself he sees, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being amazed at the similarities.

They reach the table and Rick looks up at them. 

“R-rick, can we talk to you outside?”

Rick’s eyes flick between the two Mortys, trying to work out what’s going on.

“Fine.” he gives in after a few seconds, standing up. The three of them walk outside to where the ship is parked.

“Wh-what is it, Morty? I-if you’re about to ask if you guys can go somewhere private so you can masturbate with twice as many hands, fine, but at least wait until I’ve had dessert.”

“What? No!” Morty exclaims, shocked by the suggestion. “No, Rick, I… do you have the centipede?”

This seems to throw Rick off his rhythm. “The… centipede?”

“The pee centipede. The one that you swallow it and it makes you not have to pee.”

“Oh, that. I-I mean, sure, but didn’t you just go to the bathroom? What do you need the centipede for?”

“It was out of order.”

“What? No it’s not. I used it earlier.”

“The stall is.”

Rick’s expression is a mixture of confused and exasperated. “It only eats pee, Morty. If you have to take a dump, y-you’ll just have to go in the bushes or something.” he waves vaguely in the direction of some nearby bushes.

“No, Rick, it’s not for me. It’s for A-70. He can’t use the urinals.”

Rick eyes A-70 questioningly. “Why not?”

Morty pauses, looking at A-70, not sure whether he should tell Rick or not.

“I-I don’t have the… equipment.” A-70 mumbles, gesturing vaguely towards his crotch.

Rick shrugs and tosses the centipede to A-70, who catches it and chokes it down in a way that tells Morty this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Poor guy must really not want to use the women’s if he’s voluntarily choosing this option instead.

“So, you have an accident, or you just never had one?” Rick asks, casual as ever, pulling his flask out from his lab coat and sipping from it. Despite having already swallowed the centipede, A-70 chokes again.

“Rick!” admonishes Morty. “Y-you can’t just ask that!”

He regrets his outburst immediately, worried that it makes the answer obvious. He’s never had a Morty friend before, and he doesn’t want to lose this one.

Rick shrugs. “Why? I-it’s not a big deal, Morty. You think I’ve never met a trans version of you before?”

“There’s more like me?” A-70 exclaims.

“Sure, there’s loads, in both directions. Plenty of Ricks who thought they only had granddaughters just to learn they actually had a grandson, or vice versa.”

“Why did you - why did my Rick never tell me?” A-70 seems shaken.

“I-I dunno, kiddo. Maybe he never met any. N-no offense, but your Rick, I don’t get the impression he gets out a lot.”

“Will you take me to meet them?” A-70 asks.

“Oh. I mean, I-I guess I could. I don’t exactly know their dimensions offhand.”

“Hey, yeah, y-you could like, form a club, o-or a support group, or something!” Morty suggests excitedly.

“Psh. La-ame!” Rick snorts. Morty shoots him a disapproving look, and he quickly backpedals. “What? Everything you’re into is lame, Morty. A-anyway, I want my dessert, c’mon.”

Rick ushers them back into the restaurant and Morty notices his other self seems much happier and more animated. He decides not to comment on the fact that Rick lets A-70 order first, or the fact that he lets him get both options when he can’t decide between two. The rest of the time passes pleasantly, much more so than usual, and Morty can’t help but feel a tiny prickle of jealousy at the fact that Rick is rarely so nice to him. At the same time, he’s enjoying having a good time with his grandpa, enjoying actually having a friend.

A few times, he catches Rick staring in the way he recognises to mean that Rick is doing something inside his own head. Once they finish, Rick pays, and they walk out of the restaurant before portalling back to A-70.

That dimension’s Rick is sitting on the couch, idly channel-hopping through interdimensional cable. However, his expression and the speed with which he gets up when he sees them betrays his nervousness.

“H-hey, buddy. Did you have a good time?” he asks his Morty, ruffling a hand through his hair as Morty A-70 runs into his arms for a hug. Again, Morty feels a familiar pang of envy at their easy affection. He wonders if this Rick was more affectionate with Morty when he thought he was a girl, and the habit never broke, or if they’re simply closer than he and his Rick are. He thinks again of the way his Rick treated this Morty earlier, but quickly pushes the thoughts away to deal with later.

“Rick! A-apparently there’s other trans Mortys! Can we go and see them sometime?” Morty A-70 asks, and his Rick visibly stiffens. 

“What did-” he begins, but Rick cuts him off, pressing a spot in his temple where Morty assumes an implant is hidden.

“I’ve sent a list of coordinates to your portal gun, if you want to check ‘em out. T-they’re split by gender, depending if your Morty wants to just meet other guys or not.”

The other Rick doesn’t look pleased, but his Morty grins massively.

“Thank you, Rick!” he exclaims, and his Rick’s expression softens as he sees his Morty’s happiness.

“C-come on, Morty, we’d better go.” Rick turns to him, waving off the other Morty’s gratitude.

“O-OK, Rick.” Morty turns to his other self. “I-I had a lot of fun today! We should do this again sometime! I’ve never been friends with another Morty before!”

“Yeah!” the other Morty replies enthusiastically, grinning at being called a friend. He turns to his Rick. “Can I, Rick?”

Rick A-70 looks at his Morty’s pleading eyes, then at their counterparts. “I guess so.”

“Yes!” the other Morty punches the air.

The two Mortys wave at each other as Morty steps through the portal with Rick. They emerge next to the ship and both get in.

They fly in silence for a few minutes while Morty tries to decide if it’s worth spoiling the happiness with his question.

“What is it, Morty?” Rick sighs.

“Wh-what?”

“I can tell you’re building yourself up to say something. Just spit it out.”

“W-well, I, um… you were really nice to that other Morty.”

“Weird way to thank me for paying for a meal for you and your friend.”

“I just mean… why do you never do that for me? You’d never let me get two desserts.”

“How else should a grandpa react to his grandson’s coming out?”

“C-coming out?”

“Coming out, like out of the closet? C’mon, Morty, you must’ve heard that one before.”

“I-I have, I just… would you do that, for me, if I came out?”

“If you came out, sure. Why, you got something you want to tell me? Or you just want double dessert?” Rick looks at him expectantly, and Morty isn’t sure how to respond.

“D-did you say there’s girl Mortys? Like Mortys like me who… became girls?”

“Sure, Morty. I-i-is that really such a shock to you? Ah, what am I saying, you had your mind blown by a cowboy version of yourself.”

Morty takes a moment to think. “So… it would be OK if I was one of them? If I wanted to be a girl?”

“Boy, girl, anything else you can think of, whatever you want. Y-you’ll still be the same pain in my ass either way.”

Morty feels a small smile spreading across his face. He knows what that means in Rick-speak. And though he’s never given much thought to his gender identity before, it’s nice to know that he’ll be accepted whatever happens. 

The jealousy he feels at the thought of Rick A-70 openly worrying about his Morty, hugging him casually, treating him like a grandson instead of a problem still needles at him, but it’s easier to ignore in the warm glow of acceptance. He knows it’s something that will come back to haunt him at the worst moments, usually when he’s trying to sleep or shower or when he and Rick have an argument, but he hopes that thinking about gender will occupy his mind enough to keep his thoughts from drifting too far towards the negatives for a while.

[sunboki]

— KEEP IT BUSINESS. TEASER a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. best friends to lovers, coworkers! au, first kiss..? au (hehe), domestic minho (what’s new) who is sooo soft for reader :(

WARNINGS. cursing, making-out?? annoying coworkers (lol)

WORD COUNT. around 5k-6k words

AUG'S NOTES. really really love minho so so much you don’t understand i’ve officially gone bonkers i- 😭😭 …if you want to be added to the taglist, feel free to send an ask/dm/comment!!!

SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.

or alternatively :

If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.

Four years.

It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.

The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.

.

.

.

Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.

Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.

Then the loneliness set in.

It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.

So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.

And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.

Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.

Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.

At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.

You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.

“Looking forward to it?”

Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.

“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.

The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.

You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.

Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.

“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.

Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.

“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.

Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.

Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.

8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.

Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.

Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.

Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.

Back at it, again.

Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.

Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.

Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.

Except, it seems he had the same idea.

Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.

Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.

“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”

“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”

Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.

Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.

Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.

In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.

“Drinks at my place?”

Your grown loudly in agreement.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Discede!

Witchy Wednesday, October 25, 2023

Fic-tober Masterlist

Heart Set on Amulets Universe Masterlist

Summary: You and Dalton go to Five Keys, New Mexico, to get answers about your training as a witch.

Warnings: fluff, Discede is Latin for "Be Gone" (teleportation spell from Buffy the Vampire Slayer), spoilers for Insidious: The Last Key (2018) and The Red Door (2023), witch jokes and references to movies with witches. 2.2k+ words

A/N: This might be my favorite Heart Set on Amulets fic I've written. I highly recommend reading the others (at least 'Heart Set on Amulets') first, if you haven't already! Please let me know what you think and enjoy!! :)

Pacing alone in your apartment, you feel your desperation growing. The last time you talked to Specs, he seemed confident that he’d find something soon and get back to you, but that was weeks ago.

“Can I come in?” Dalton asks, standing in your doorway and dangling your keys. “These were in the lock still.”

You nod and thank him as you take your keys and put them away. “Sorry, I’m just distracted. Specs hasn’t updated me in weeks.”

Dalton feels some recognition when you say ‘Specs’ but can’t place it. He hugs you tightly and rubs your back as he promises everything will work out.

“In the meantime, we could watch a movie,” Dalton suggests gently.

“We’re not watching Practical Magic again,” you say. He points at you, and you rush to add, “Or Hocus Pocus.”

“But you put a spell on me,” he says with a pout.

“Any other movie, Dalton.”

Dalton reluctantly agrees before pulling you onto the couch and turning your TV on. Just as you start to relax against his side, your phone beeps. You rush to grab it and gasp as you read the new message:

I found the tapes. -Specs

“Everything alright?” Dalton asks, leaning up to sit behind you.

“Yeah, yeah, great actually,” you answer, turning to face him. “Specs found the recordings of my training sessions.” You glance down to read a second message and add, “And another amulet, almost identical to yours.”

“So, New Mexico?”

“We don’t have to go right now.”

Dalton rubs his thumb over your cheekbone as he says, “You want answers, and I want to help. So, we go when you’re ready. Even if that’s right now.”

You smile as you lean against his hand, and he takes that as an invitation to kiss you. He brings his other hand to your jaw and feels a surge like a love spell coursing through his veins, starting where his skin rests on yours.

Dalton pulls back first and says, “I guess we should start packing.”

He makes no move to leave, insisting on helping you pack before you both go to his dorm to get his stuff. While you gather your things, you speculate about what Elise recorded and tracked regarding your abilities.

Dalton cuts you off to ask, “Wait- Elise? The woman in the videos about the Further?”

You shrug and reach for an old scrapbook, flipping to a picture of you and Elise the last time you saw her. Dalton confirms it’s the same Elise.

“My mom said that when I was in the coma- the Further- she was instrumental to pulling me out. She helped my dad when he was a kid and tried to help him again nine years ago, but it didn’t end well,” Dalton explains.

“The demon that possessed your dad is the one who…” you trail off, and Dalton finishes, “Killed her. Yeah. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything. Neither did your dad. She knew the dangers.” You place a hand on Dalton’s cheek and repeat, “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you.”

Dalton nods against your hand before grabbing your bag and leading you to his dorm. You decide to fly, booking two tickets on the first plane to Albuquerque while Dalton packs. It seems impossible to be this close to answers, but you’ve been waiting for years.

Dalton keeps his hand in yours, a hand on your back, or an arm around your shoulders until you exit the Uber and walk down Main Street in Five Keys. You point to a small restaurant at the corner and tell him Specs said to meet him there.

Dalton feels that same sensation of recognition as he walks beside you. He thinks something moves in the shadows but credits it to exhaustion and an old town. When you walk into the diner, Dalton’s eyes widen as he looks to the back.

“Dalton?” Specs asks, walking toward both of you. He says hello to you before turning his attention back to Dalton. “I haven’t seen you since…”

“Carl wiped my memory?” Dalton suggests.

Specs looks down quickly and then chuckles nervously. “I didn’t- um.”

“I’m messing you with you,” Dalton tells him. “It’s been a long few months, but I remember the Further. And my mom filled in the blank spaces.”

“She did?”

“Yeah, when I got out of the Further after almost dying she seemed eager to answer any and all questions.”

You elbow Dalton and whisper, “Easy.”

“I don’t blame you, though. No hard feelings,” Dalton offers, extending his hand and shaking Specs’.

“We should go to Elise’s house,” Specs says, turning his attention to you. “There’s a room where she worked and more information than I could dream of going through alone.”

You agree and climb into his car with Dalton, looking out the window as Specs asks Dalton about the Red Door and how they closed it. The ride is short, and you’re in awe of the house as you approach it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Specs asks. “Too bad it’s full of horrors and bad memories. The townspeople are trying to get it torn down, but Tucker and I are petitioning historical status – it’s been here a long time.”

“When Elise told me about her childhood?” you ask.

Specs nods and places a hand on your shoulder as he confirms, “It happened here.”

You stiffen and swallow harshly, only relaxing when Dalton’s hand meets your lower back and rubs a comforting circle. “Well, let’s see what she found out.”

Specs leads you inside, through an unused living room, and down the stairs. When Specs turns on the lights, you see a wall of shelves covered in journals and videotapes. There’s a section larger than the others labeled with your name. You look at Specs, and he nods, moving to set up the tape player for you. You toss your bag outside the door, wait for Dalton to do the same, and return to your side before you walk to the section Elise dedicated to you.

“There’s so much,” you whisper. “Where do I start?”

“Mind some advice?” Specs asks.

“Welcome it,” you answer, turning to smile at him.

“Start at the top left, work right, then go down. She organized chronologically. The tapes are most likely your training, and depending on how much of that you remember, may not be as helpful as the journals.” He pauses to point to one tape labeled differently than the others. “You don’t remember this. Read the first journal, then watch this.”

“What is it?” you ask as you pull it from the shelf.

“Depends on your reaction. I’ll be upstairs if you need anything. I hope this helps.”

Specs leaves, and you stare at the tape until the letters on the label begin to blur together.

“Take your time,” Dalton says. “We don’t have to do anything before you’re ready. And if you want privacy, say the word.”

You grab his wrist and shake your head. “Please don’t leave me.”

Dalton smiles and kisses your forehead before promising, “Never.”

Taking a deep breath, you grab the first journal and sit on the small loveseat in front of the TV set. Dalton sits beside you, leaning back to give you room without feeling alone. Cracking open the journal, you read notes about your first time meeting Elise. You remember answering most of these questions but are surprised by the detailed recollection of your words. The reading is quick, and most of the pages are filled with paraphrasing of your explanations and answers and scribbled theories beside them. You turn to the last page, and there’s a number taking up the whole page, the only other marking a small printing of the word ‘Answers.’

“What’s the number?” Dalton asks quietly.

“The tape,” you answer as you stand and put it in the machine. “Apparently it has answers.”

When you sit back down, you sit closer to Dalton and don’t hit play until his arm wraps around you.

“You’ll drift to sleep and then hopefully I can reach your innermost thoughts and maybe even your ancestors to learn the source of your powers,” Elise says.

You nod and watch her as she begins the hypnotization process. Less than a minute later, your eyes are closed, and your breathing is eerily even. 

“Hello?” Elise asks. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes,” you say, but it doesn’t sound like you.

“Who am I talking to?”

The voice says your last name then, “Of old.”

“Can you tell me about the girl’s abilities? Is witchcraft hereditary or something she happened to pick up?”

The voice laughs before answering, “Not only is this hereditary, but she is the last of a dying kind. We are spell walkers and witches of the purest blood.”

“Meaning?” Elise presses.

“She can walk spells, determine their origins and purposes, and being of pure witch blood, is able to do, as you humans call it, ‘magic’ without material or spells. She is pure. Powerful.”

You pause the video and look at Dalton, whose eyes widen as he turns to you.

“How’s it going?” Specs asks from the doorway.

“I need a second,” you mumble, brushing past him and up the stairs.

“Sorry,” Dalton tells him, standing to follow you.

“Dalton,” Specs calls, “let her know she’s not alone.”

Dalton nods and rushes up the stairs, finding you standing in a dark room with your arms wrapped around your waist.

“How did I not know?” you ask, glancing up at him. “I have that much power and didn’t know. What am I supposed to do with it, Dalton?”

Dalton wraps his arms around you and pulls you against his chest. “Hey, we’re going to figure all of this out. Together, okay?” he says.

Specs knocks and hands something to Dalton as he quietly explains, “I found this one yesterday. Elise left it for her.”

Dalton thanks him and holds it out as you step back. When you open it, an amulet falls out, but you catch it and hold it up. It’s very similar to the one around Dalton’s neck; the colors are familiar: almost an identical blend to the colors Dalton said your aura was made of. The first page of the journal is a note addressed to you.

“I’m going to let you read this one alone,” Dalton whispers. “I’ll be right outside with Specs, okay?”

You nod and thank him quietly, watching him leave before you start reading.

This journal documents your progress during your short time with me. I’ve also created a short list of tips for any future progression if that is something you desire. You are powerful and have unbelievable gifts, but they’re yours to use how you want to or need to. If you’re reading this, I’m gone, but find the people who will help you learn and encourage you daily. You can do anything you put your mind (and power) to. -Elise

While you’re reading and reminiscing on your short time with Elise, Dalton is getting answers to his own questions.

“This is yours,” Specs says, pushing a box across the table.

The box is filled with tapes and journals, not as many as you had, all labeled with ‘Lambert.’

“The Further is dangerous, Dalton,” Specs adds, “even for Elise. So even if you think you closed the door permanently, don’t ever let your guard down. You need to protect the people you love.”

“And if the people I love can help?” Dalton asks, looking over his shoulder to the room you’re in.

“Then let them.”

You exit the room a few minutes later, smiling as you hug Dalton. He tells you that Specs gave him Elise’s notes on him and his dad, and you glance into the box.

“The Further?” you ask.

Dalton nods and hugs you before Specs returns.

“You two can take the stuff, but you’re also welcome here anytime.” He hands each of you a key and repeats, “Anytime at all.”

“Thank you for everything, Specs,” you say, shaking his hand and hugging him quickly. “You’ve been more help than you know.”

Dalton thanks him, too, and smiles when Specs says, “Don’t be a stranger.”

As you walk toward the door, Specs tells you to wait and asks, “Have you tried teleporting yet? You did it no problem the last time I saw you.”

“You were there?”

Specs smiles and hands you a paper with a teleportation spell. Dalton reads it over your shoulder as Specs goes back inside.

“We should try,” Dalton says.

“What if it kills us?” you argue.

 “Teleporting with a beautiful witch,” Dalton says dreamily, “what a way to go.”

You move to stand in front of a window where you can see yourself and Dalton in the reflection. His arm wraps around you just before you say, “Discede!”

Your eyes are shut tight when you feel solid ground under your feet again. Blinking slowly to open your eyes, you turn quickly to see Dalton smiling widely.

“It worked,” you say as you look around your apartment.

 “Of course, it did, you’re a witch, babe. A good one.”

“We’re not watching The Wizard of Oz,” you say as you walk away from him and to the couch.

“But there’s no place like home!” Dalton singsongs as he follows you, collapsing onto the couch beside you. “Or you could just talk to me in Latin until I fall asleep, or kiss you, could go either way.”

[commsroom]

if w359 were to be adapted (and imagine this is a perfect world where adaptations are perfectly true to source and author intention) would you prefer a live-action w CGI or animated? how should Hera be portrayed?

oh god, okay. first i have to get over my gut reaction to the idea of a wolf 359 adaptation, which is... please no, not in any form, never. literally the nightmare scenario for me. but okay, other than that.

the wolf 359 that exists in my mind's eye when i'm listening to the show is, like... live action, physical sets, practical effects including some puppetry (for the plant monster, notably) - and that's definitely influenced by gabriel urbina citing farscape as the main inspiration for the tone of the show. so, in a perfect world, assuming at least the main characters would still be played by the same actors and everything... like that, i guess? i love to see fan animations, and there's the obvious benefit re: voice actors, but i don't think it would work. the realism and mundanity undercut by larger than life scenarios and science fiction nonsense is a necessary contrast to me, and the characters are just... such Real Life People, when i picture them in my mind.

and hera is definitely a big reason why i don't think the show can or should be adapted to any visual medium. when i commission art, my personal design for hera has that blue holographic look because 1) it's important to me to have recognizable visual signifiers, and 2) i want a way to give her a physical presence for artistic purposes while still suggesting some intangibility + distance. but i don't literally think she looks like that. if you are portraying what hera actually looks like, then there are two heras: viewed from the outside, formless and faceless, basically a disembodied voice without any other autonomous parts to express herself with, and the way she sees herself in her own mind and her own memories. from what we can infer, i honestly think the image hera has of herself is just of a regular human woman.

i don't know if you could portray hera in any visual medium, because... you can't show her, you can't make her a hologram or a face on a screen, and you can't make her... more robotic, with more expressive moving parts of the station, etc. because any of those things would imply something different about her than what exists in canon. like, i love the idea that eiffel looks at hera's cameras when he's talking to her, but it's important that something like hera's cameras never comes across as hera, as a physical presence. if that makes sense? the sense of isolation, the way hera feels trapped, at a physical distance from the others, unseen - that's such a central conflict of her character, the very literal way that her struggles are invisible to the others, and how the contrast between her internal vs. externally perceived self is at the heart of a lot of commentary re: identity, disability, etc. that surrounds her. audio is really the only medium where that can be maintained while still keeping hera an equal presence to the others - maybe there's some commentary you could make by deconstructing audience assumptions in a visual medium, but it would be difficult to make it the same.

... and that's not even getting into how music, and radio, and voice, and sound recording are all thematic components of the show!!

[saunne]

You know what babe? M gon ask u about yingheng now cause they 💯💯 need the spotlight as well and i WANT the world to know how crazy u are about them. Go fuck shit up dear spouse

*looks at inbox* *looks at ask* *looks at date*

WELL GUESS WHO FORGOR TO ANSWER. I did the XingRen one here but I guess ADHDon't then got in the way and since I open my inbox like, once every three month I just. Forgor. We're kinning Acheron in this house baby.

So. Heart is big cause So Many Thoughts but I think indicating that it could have taken off like a rocket from the top right corner towards distant horizons was also a possibility.

So, YingHeng. YingHeng as "HCQ Era Furnace Master Yingxing" and "Dan Heng of the Astral Express" (and for once it's fixated dynamic). It is a rareship and even more, it is a crackship cause there is absolutely no way for them to ever fucking meet in canon.

Doesn't mean I won't try tho.

(Long babbling under the cut)

It doesn't make any sense because they do not belong to the same timeline at all (700 years apart more or less) and because the only way for them to meet (and do more than that) would actually break the space-time continuum OR involve some really strange and fucked up revival/reincarnation with the existing possibility of destroying/replacing Blade in the worst case scenario process.

BUT AEONS IT DOES COMPEL ME SO MUCH and you would know cause I shoved at least 4 WIPs about them right in your face lmao.

I like this ship because it compels me and scratches a itch in a way that classic RenHeng never really managed to do except for certain fics.

I will admit that I sometimes have troubles with the RenHeng ship and the way their dynamic can be/is portrayed despite loving the ship. RenHeng has a common past involving Yingxing and Dan Feng their past-self/incarnations (whether one agrees or not with the theory/system of thought that DH = DF for that matter) and their ship is based on acceptance/rejection/reflection around this common past, the idea of responsibility and above all an idea of healing of trauma (for BOTH OF THEM).

The main thing is that RenHeng often involves violence (canonical and/or added one) and more or less toxic relationship tropes that I don't always have the desire or energy to deal with, even if the writing of the fic is of exceptional quality (I have a lot of RenHeng fics like that in the waiting list fir when I'm in the mood for it tho) . Sometimes I just want something that's still as emotionally charged but a lot simpler and that's where YingHeng came in.

The biggest problem for YingHeng is to "bring" Yingxing back into the picture and there are several solutions for that :

time travel (him coming or Dan Heng going)

dimensional travel (Curios are very practical for this kind of stupid plot)

Yingxing's memory having survived in one way or another (in an object, in Dan Heng's memories inherited from Dan Feng, sealed outside or inside of Blade)

Alternate Universe (it's easier to make him appear in a modern AU settings than in sorta-canon HSR settings lmao)

I like the third option the best, because it allows me to be able to keep Blade in the picture if I want (whether to do a YingHengRen or just an opposition/comparison study between Yingxing and Blade) or not ( by "killing" Blade by retransforming him/rewinding him back to Yingxing).

My two mains thoughts paths about YingHeng are “longing for something you never had” and “mourning for something you never thought you would have to mourn”.

"Longing for something you never had" is mostly Dan Heng centered. I like to start from the idea that Dan Feng's surviving memories can be a curse because they blur the separation line between their respective identities, but that it can also be a blessing. I like the idea that fuzzy and imprecise surviving memories of XingYue's passionate love could have been one of Dan Heng's greatest comforts during his imprisonment in the Shackling Prison. I like the idea that Dan Heng fell in love with the idea of Yingxing or at least fell in love with the idea of Love and Being Loved because of these memories of Yingxing.

All of this while being intimately aware that they were never intended for him.

I like the idea of Dan Heng longing for something that doesn't belong to him. Of being unable to let go of this feeling of "wanting/desiring/missing" Yingxing's love he felt in Dan Feng's memories despite wanting to separate as much as possible from Dan Feng and the burden of his unintended inheritance. Which can lead to a feeling of shame/embarrassment due to being sorta "voyeuristic" and yet attracted to it. Or on the contrary, a sort of defiance with a "these memories have been imposed on me against my consent so I don't have to feel guilty about anything, let alone my feelings about them".

For Yingxing, it was the idea of how he would deal with grief that interested me. Firstly the mourning of his life/friends (and what they became) if it's a time/dimensional travel scenario. Secondly, if his memory is forced back into Blade's body or stuffed in a newly created body to "re-alive him", the mourning of his past death and having to continue / start living again (whether or not he is immortal after said resurrection). If Blade remains alive it adds yet another level of mourning/philosophical reflection on identity, on what makes someone unique and all the tropes around "what would you ask/would say to your past/future self if given the opportunity". I like the idea of exploring the grievance of the one who died/should have died first ending up mourning the one who should have lived/who was supposed to live.

I like the idea of how Yingxing and Blade might treat differently the whole "is Dan Heng = Dan Feng ?" and "does Dan Heng has to pay for Dan Feng's mistakes/errors/crimes ?". I like the idea of Yingxing being "excuse me I was married to/in love with Dan Feng and I can tell you that Dan Heng is definitely not him" compared to Jingliu and Blade's "Dan Heng is Dan Feng" motto. I like the idea of exploring the theme of the difference between Dan Heng and Dan Feng through Yingxing's eyes rather than Blade's.

I like the idea of Yingxing bringing emotional and identity stability to Dan Heng by falling in love with Dan Heng not for his similarities with Dan Feng but for his differences with him. Because Dan Feng was irreplaceable and nothing could take his place in Yingxing's heart, especially not what would appear as a poor copy of his former lover. I want Dan Heng to feel comfortable asking Yingxing about Dan Feng, because Yingxing never compared them as a before/after or past/present but always kept talking about Dan Feng as if he was Dan Heng's deceased brother or distant relative.

Also, I'm sorry but I find Yingxing more aesthetically pleasing to the eyes than Blade, even more when you put him in the Artisanship Commission uniform and next to short-haired no Vidyadhara features 4-Stars Dan Heng. Also, Yingxing should have wrinkles like crow feets and smile lines. And not completely white hair, but more like a salt and pepper hair with mostly grey/white hair but some surviving black hair.

I think they should hold hands and cuddle in the Archives Room while Dan Heng updates Yingxing on what happened while he was dead and asks him about crafting and Zhuming to add to the Express Database.

*gestures* I'm nowhere near the term "sanity" when it comes to them.

[snake-and-mouse]

Tell me a favorite memory of yours, please and thank you 🖤🖤🖤

When I went to pick out a puppy to train to be my service dog, it was a bitterly cold and snowy January night. The house was a split level in the middle of a very confoundingly shaped suburb.

It wasn’t a real breeder, just a woman who happened to have both a male and female purebred chihuahua (I prefer large dogs, but my needs could most easily be met by a small breed that could be transported anywhere without hassle, not to mention food costs and my physical inability to care for a large dog when having a flare up) and wanted to make a hobby of breeding them.

This was her first two litters. Two, because she was fostering another dog (that they thought was a chihuahua or at least a mix, but had no way of knowing for sure) who it turned out, was actually not spayed, much to her chagrin. I dislike backyard breeding but we couldn't afford better.

The litters were born five days apart, over a dozen puppies between them. Christmas time babies with a slightly less immaculate conception. When we arrived we were told they had just been back from the vet, and given a clean bill and leave to be adopted.

Walking into the "puppy room" which was just a normal bedroom with a baby gate and spilled dog food all over the carpet, I was greeted by what I first thought was a suitcase with a pile of socks in it. It was actually a dog carrier with the top zipped open, and a huge mound of sleeping puppies inside.

The picture that made hasn't left me for half a decade and I hope it never does.

Now, I take animal care very seriously, and really needed aid for when I went to college. This wasn’t a respectable way to get a service animal, but I would still do my best. Failing wasn’t an option. I had plans for conducting myself. The correct way to present yourself to young dogs, and their overlooking mothers, strategies for how to assess the puppies to find the best service dog candidate in limited time when the inexperienced breeder wouldn't have done anything along those lines a professional would have, the unfortunately practical need to keep an eye out for any health concerns or signs this breeder wasn't trustworthy and the puppies were a risk to buy, and a more hopeful checklist of what I actually wanted and not just needed including a very set preference for a male.

All that went out the window because both my mother, who knew nothing about anything respectable, and the breeder's eight year old daughter, who was eight, were in the room.

Three half asleep puppies were scooped up and passed around by the little girl like she was handing out ice cream samples before I could conduct my assessments with any real sense. She just about tossed a puppy at me the moment I sat down, babbling in that excited way small humans do in the presence of small animals. Thankfully the momma dogs didn't seem to give a shit what we were doing with their babies.

Now, there had been one puppy I'd had an eye on from the pictures. Male, pretty, a healthy chub to him, a thick chocolate brown coat and markings like another puppy I'd almost chosen from a breeder who did end up being untrustworthy. The puppy tossed at me wasn't this puppy.

It was a girl for one. It looked similar, but... well, worse. Identical colouring, but a very thin coat, she was kind of pink through her fur. Like a naked rat. And she was scrawny, wrinkled because she didn't fill out her skin, noticably smaller than the already tiny other puppies. It made her big ears look cartoonish and her eyes bulging. The one I had been considering was from the legitimate litter, with a mother who's breeding and health wasn’t a complete mystery. This one was from the accident.

"She stays with my girl though. Her mom wasn't feeding her, but thankfully mine would." The breeder informed us.

An accidental puppy, who was a rejected runt, with a mother who might not even be the breed they guessed, not even the sex I wanted, and as cute as all puppies were I could admit she looked weird, even a bit sickly.

She made a little noise as she settled into my lap, bullying her way into the folds of my jacket, and then went right back to napping. She refused to budge a centimeter as I tried to look over the other puppies for actual options until I put her back despite her protests, my practical lists repeating stubbornly over and over in my head.

The male I thought I wanted woke up and promptly acted like a hyperactice menace, even for a puppy, rough with his siblings and unwilling to be still enough for me to hold him at all let alone lay in my lap, and I knew in a couple minutes I didn't want him (but my mother did, even as he tried to eat her shoe, because she always chose looks over personality)

I pretended to consider the other puppies, deliberating for around half an hour.

But honestly I knew.

I already knew from that first moment.

As soon as that annoying eight year old tossed her in my lap and she laid there like it was hers, I knew.

I didn't resist picking her back up for long and my mother gave me a sarcastic look while I picked over the other puppies but had that one parked firmly in my arms, because she could tell too.

As I settled into the car with Tanis (who wouldn't get that name for almost three days because I couldn't pick, she looked so strange no name really seemed quite right) all she cared about was being warm between the blanket and my stomach so getting a picture of her on my phone was so damn hard. She wouldn't really be photogenic until about two years old.

My mother decided to stop for dinner, some mischief to end the exciting night. Now that she's a trained service dog I bring Tanis into restaurants all the time. She turned out to be perfect, exactly what I needed, even though I barely knew what I was doing as I trained her.

But the first time, she wasn't trained. She was a baby, just barely old enough to leave her mother, and she and her brother slept hidden under a jacket on the booth next to me in my third favourite chinese restaurant for about an hour. And she didn't get close to being caught even once.

Now, she still doesn't get noticed even being right there in the open, quiet as death and staring the servers down with her still admittedly too-big eyes. But I really enjoy telling people, on the rare occasion they do eventually notice her and then always say the same oh wow I had no idea she was there! phrases, that she's very good at her job.

Which as far as she's always seemed to believe, from the very first time, was to just lay in my lap and snooze until I need her. I'm very lucky it seems to be her one and only goal in life.

(Baby pic tax for the long post, I promise you she's a good chunk older here than you are guessing and thankfully was already less bald and weird looking 😂)