#which I put on a placard next to the museum display case it was in lmao

[roboromantic]

for art class I'm supposed to draw a character

Dodging an attack

Performing an attack or spell

Doing victory/defeat poses

and between that and the weapons UI thing we did for Photoshop it's just like. I'm not against violence/combat being in video games, I'd just rather do something more creative. fighting has been done to death, if you will.

I can and probably will reinterpret these into non-combat terms (dodging idk, a falling boulder, performing a spell doesn't necessarily mean it's a *combat* spell, victory/defeat can be success/failure) but the fact that it's the default is. well realistically it's preparing you for work in an industry where again, combat is a key component of most games, but I do think it's kinda depressing.

[myforeverforlife]

portrait of you.

For @colorful-taste​! Junmyeon and 48. "We've become the clingy couple that you used to complain about." (I hope you like it! 💖)

Come send in a request here!

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

Word Count: 2,164

Masterlist

You loved your boyfriend, you honestly did. But sometimes, you wondered if he really needed rows upon rows of jackets in his closet. That didn't even count the shirts and pants folded away in numerous drawers, as well as accessories.

From where you sat on the floor in his walk-in closet, everything seemed even more cluttered and suffocating. Junmyeon had kept a lot of the clothes since he had begun his career, unable to throw things away because of the sentiment that each one had. 

"Chanyeol bought that for me!" he said once, as you were trying to help him sort through his clothes. The puffy jacket was a bright-yellow color, and a few sizes too small for him now. But still, he refused to let you give it away or throw it out. 

Shaking your head, you brought yourself back to the present. "Sweetie, we're going to be late for the exhibit. You look fine."

Junmyeon came back into the closet, two different ties in his hands as he held them up. "Which one do you think is better?"

"Myeon, you don't need to dress up. It's just a normal museum exhibit." 

"It's Van Gogh, Y/N," he said, as if that explained everything. Although you supposed in Junmyeon's eyes, it did. "But maybe ties aren't the way to go." He placed them on top of a small dresser, placing his hands on his head as he looked around the room. He was truly a sight to see — white button-up left open over his chest, and tweed pants threatening to slide down his hips. 

Sighing, you stood up and smoothed your hands over his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down. "You always look amazing, no matter what you wear. But, I think you're really overthinking it right now. Just go with your gut." 

Junmyeon smiled bashfully, emphasizing the round apples of his cheeks. "You're right." He pressed a soft kiss to your lips, before following it up with a kiss on your forehead. "What time is it?" 

You pulled out your phone, both of you grimacing as the screen lit up. "Almost two. But we should leave soon, there's always traffic and parking to think about."

Junmyeon began scrambling to change out of his clothes, hands and feet flailing as he struggled to pull his arms out of his sleeves. With a giggle, you reached over to help him out, folding the garment over your arm once it was finally off. 

"I'm surprised you didn't plan your outfit already." Junmyeon was by nature, a meticulous planner, but even more so when it came to figuring out what to wear. You didn't mind though — not when the end result was so appealing to look at. "Oh, I did," he replied. "But when I put it on today, it didn't look right." He hummed thoughtfully, rummaging through a rack of cardigans. 

Setting his button-up down, you squeezed his shoulder reassuringly as you passed by. "I'm gonna run to the restroom, but we really need to leave when I come back."

"Shoot," Junmyeon gasped, quickly moving over to a set of shelves and pulling open the top one. 

You could hear him moving around, hangers clattering against each other and drawers shutting closed even from your spot in the bathroom. Upon returning, you were pleasantly surprised to see that your boyfriend had found an outfit that he liked.

Junmyeon stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring down at his phone as he texted someone. He was unaware that you were back, so caught up in his conversation as you took the time to admire his beauty. You almost felt like you were studying a portrait in an art gallery, studying every detail that made up Junmyeon's overall charm. He had gone for a simple, black and white striped polo shirt with some well-worn light blue jeans. On his head, he wore a black felt beret, only it was sitting backwards. Altogether, it made for a very pleasing sight, especially with the face of the wearer. Junmyeon let out a soft giggle at something he read, awakening a fluttering sensation in your chest. 

"Are you ready?" you asked sweetly, touched to see how his face lit up when he heard you.

"Yep!" Junmyeon stuck his phone into his pocket before checking that he had his wallet in the other one was well. Walking over to you, he wrapped an arm around your waist. "Let's go!" 

This was an event that both of you had been looking forward to for a long time — the arrival of the special Van Gogh exhibit. The two of you were a pair of avid museum-goers, and were frequent visitors at the Leeum and Daerim museums. But this journey was different, a visit to see a traveling exhibit on its stop in Seoul. The Van Gogh interactive exhibit was on loan from a museum in Australia, and had been making its rounds through Southeast Asia before coming to Seoul. A wide assortment of Van Gogh's works were projected on large screens that formed an almost maze-like setting, immersing visitors in his work. 

You and Junmyeon could hardly wait once you heard that it was coming to Seoul. 

Junmyeon was practically buzzing with anticipation, his hand tightly holding onto yours as both of you were let in. "Wow," he breathed out in awe. 

The gallery was filled with visitors, from couples admiring the work together, like you and Junmyeon, to groups of friends or family, and even a few individuals wandering around alone. People milled about the open space, marveling at the enormous screens that were currently projecting Van Gogh's "Wheat Field". The billowing clouds looked so soft and fluffy, swirls of white and shades of blue mixed together. The fields of wheat were painted so meticulously, individual brush strokes making up the stalks of grain. It all looked so real, you could have sworn that you were really there. 

Painting by painting, you and Junmyeon watched in wonder as Van Gogh's works flashed before your eyes. At one point, Junmyeon turned around and pointed at the floor. "Y/N, look!" 

Spinning around, you were taken aback to see Van Gogh's "Almond Blossom" projected on the floor below you. A cluster of blossoms overlapped with your feet, the colors creeping up onto your shoes as you exchanged a delighted smile with your boyfriend. 

Of course, Junmyeon didn't forget to take pictures himself, documenting his favorite pieces as he snapped photos of the images. You even took a picture of him posing in front of a large screen displaying "Cafe Terrace at Night", Junmyeon crouching down and pretending to sit in a chair. 

"Did you take it yet?" he asked, squatting and trying to hold an effortless grin.

"Oh, this one's no good," you lied, trying to hide your giggles. "Hmm, no the lighting is weird from this angle." You stepped to the side, taking a photo before shaking your head. "Not this one either."

"What?!" Junmyeon exclaimed, teetering on his feet as he tried to maintain his balance. "Are you serious?" 

You burst into laughter, coming over and showing him the photos you had taken. "I'm kidding! I'm sorry, Myeon, I couldn't help it." 

"Gosh," Junmyeon sighed, finally allowing himself to stand back up. "You're so mean, Y/N. How long were you going to make me stay like that for?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Oh, not much longer. But I'm glad to see your workouts have really been paying off." You patted his stomach as you gave him back his phone, hand brushing over his clothed abs.

Junmyeon shook his head with a grin, playfully swatting your hand away before swiping through the many photos you took. Both of you laughed over some of the funnier ones, Junmyeon visibly trying to maintain his cool composure even as his face said the opposite. 

It was easy to get swept away by the marvels of the exhibit, the paintings constantly changing even as the room stayed the same. From specific works like "Irises" to assorted views of the countryside and self-portraits, the pair of you were spellbound. Most of the visitors reacted the most when "Starry Night" appeared, the swirling skies and repeated brushstrokes evoking a sense of calm. 

"It's amazing how he made all of these," Junmyeon whispered to you. "He put so much emotion into each of his paintings, and we can still feel it, all these years later." He hugged you from behind, lightly swaying both of you from side to side as the animated paintings continued to play on the screens. "I'm so glad I get to experience this with you," he murmured into your ear, placing a delicate kiss on your shoulder.

Leaning back against him, you closed your eyes. "Me too, Myeon. There's no one else I'd rather have with me." 

Everyone was reluctant to leave the room, still entranced by the interactive displays. But the next area held informational placards on all of the works displayed, providing more context behind each individual piece of work. You and Junmyeon soaked it all in, not leaving a single one unread.

As you neared the end of the placards, you noticed the entryway leading to another part of the museum. "Myeon, look!" you pointed out.

The museum had a cafe set up, normally left minimally decorated in shades of brown and gray. But for this special installation, the cafe had gone along with the Van Gogh theme and changed its interior accordingly. Tiny, elegant light fixtures hung from the ceiling, resembling the stars in Van Gogh's "Starry Night". Even the walls had been covered in the painting, making you feel as if you were an actual part of it. 

You wasted no time in lining up to order something, coaxing Junmyeon into trying one sweet treat with you. Just as he was consistent about many other things, Junmyeon was particular about maintaining good eating habits. "Just one!" you reasoned. "Today can be your cheat day."

Junmyeon stared wistfully at the beautifully decorated cakes and other desserts displayed in the cases. One particularly beautiful cake caught his attention, decorated with a sapphire mirror glaze. "Yesterday was my cheat day though," he said woefully. "But it's a special day today. You deserve it! If it makes you feel better, we can split something?"

Junmyeon's eyes shifted uncertainly, a hand rubbing the back of his neck before he gave in. "Okay, but just for today." 

You rubbed your thumb over the back of his hand, leaning against him as the two of you waited in line. "You deserve a treat every once in a while, Myeonnie. You work too hard." 

"Which is why I'm glad I have you to remind me." He sent you a flirty wink, chuckling when you pretended to look away. "You know, we've become the clingy couple that you used to complain about." 

"I don't know what you're talking about," you sing-songed, trying to ignore the familiar sensation that Junmyeon evoked in you. He made it too easy for your stomach to start doing somersaults, for the dormant butterflies to wake up in a frenzy even with just a simple smile of his. 

"You don't remember how when we first started dating, you said I was too cheesy? How the tables have turned," he said with a smirk. 

"You're still the cheesiest," you countered, melting into giggles when Junmyeon swooped in to press a prolonged, sticky kiss to your cheek. "Myeon!" 

"What?" he feigned innocence. "I can't show you how much I love you?" Junmyeon smiled to himself when you hid your face against his shoulder. You mumbled something he couldn't make out, words muffled against the fabric of his shirt. "What did you say, sweetheart?"

Lifting your head, you made an effort not to shy away. "I love you too," you confessed. You cringed inwardly, fighting to urge to retreat back into your hiding spot. But seeing how Junmyeon's eyes lit up so brilliantly held you in place, your smile mirroring his own. 

"I love you more," he countered, his bunny smile only growling larger when you groaned. "Too cheesy?" 

"I should have expected it, coming from you. I don't mind," you joked. "I've grown used to it by now. I don't think I can last a day without your cheesiness."  

Junmyeon's tender eyes drank you in, committing every detail to memory — staring at you intently as if you were the subject of his painting. Even in a gallery full of artwork, he only had eyes for you. 

A furrow appeared between your forehead as you wondered what Junmyeon was thinking about. "What is it?" 

He shook his head, content to keep his sappy musings to himself for now. "Nothing. Just got lost in my thoughts."

"Don't get lost in them for too long. I'll miss you." 

Junmyeon giggled, shaking his head. "Don't worry." 

He would never stray too far away from you, his muse.

A/N: I went back and watched junmyeon’s heart4u episodes to get inspo for this oneshot, and this idea just jumped out at me! this exhibit is based off of a real traveling exhibit (although I made up the cafe lol 😂 I really recommend checking the official site out, and watching the promo vid they have here at: https://grandeexhibitions.com/van-gogh-alive/#explore)

Come send in a request here!

[nomolosk]

Snapshots (AU Yeah August 2020)

read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655623/chapters/63037192

Day 16- Magic

“So where do you guys want to start?” Marinette asked as they moved further into the museum. 

“You know me,” Alya laughed. “I’m all about ancient manuscripts- three thousand year old gossip is totally my jam!”

“Magical Artifacts,” Adrien said simply.

“Come on, man, live a little! I know your dad’s a stick in the mud, but do you really don’t need to join him down there,” Nino complained. “Now, I decided on extinct animals- you know, from before the Magical Tide? I’m telling you bro, there are some really ridonculous skeletons in the Natural History wing. There’s this one animal called a ‘giraffe,’ and I’m pretty sure they put too many bones in its neck, because there’s no way an animal of that size could survive the blood pressure needed to keep it’s brain alive.”

Adrien chuckled and Marinette smiled as well.

“Well, I’m here to look at-”

“Oh let me guess,” Alya interrupted, shooting Adrien and Nino an amused look. They all grinned and shouted, “Textiles!” loudly enough that one of the docents actually shushed them. Snickering, they subsided and moved on.

Marinette crossed her arms and rolled her eyes as they walked. “I was going to say ancient fashions.”

“Right, because that is such a difference,” Alya teased.

“Seriously, Mari, even my father doesn’t study fashion all day every day,” Adrien said, then stopped. “Actually… that was a lie. He probably does do that.”

“I don’t!” Marinette tried to protest. “It’s just that, well, somehow everything I get interested in ends up leading right back to… clothes!”

“Could you at least mix things up a little and make your report on jewelry instead of the clothing?” Nino asked.

“I mean, I could… That would actually be really interesting, now that I think about it. They do have an exhibit on ancient jewelry said to have been magical. Let me look.”

She pulled the pamphlet out of her pocket- because of course she’d gotten a new pamphlet even though all of them had been to the museum several times- and opened it up.

“Right, here it is: ‘Miraculous or Not? A collection of gems and precious metals that may once have contained powerful spirits.’”

They all made appreciative noises. 

“That sounds a lot more interesting than a third analysis of Merlin’s robes, Marinette,” Adrien teased gently. 

Marinette felt her cheeks grow hot. “Fine. Jewelry it is.”

“I’ll go with you. The ancient artifact exhibit is on the other side of it anyway,” Adrien said, looking at the map. “You guys coming?”

“No, manuscripts are way on the other side. Sorry, girl! Take lots of pics, though! I mean, they probably won’t be anything to look at, because the ancients had terrible style, but you never know!”

“It’s fine. Go catch up on who was cheating on who in Ancient Paris!”

“I’m out, too. Sorry, bro- skeletons are right in the middle.”

“No worries. Meet up for lunch?”

Everyone agreed to that and they went their separate ways.

The collection was small, only taking up one standing display case. There were two pins- one that looked like a simple amethyst oval, and the other like an enameled fan of some kind. The enamel was cracked and missing pieces, but Marinette thought it would have been quite striking when new, as the colors were still vivid. The placard said it was made in the shape of a now-extinct wild bird called a peacock. 

Beside those were mounted a hair comb in the shape of a bee in tarnished silver, a copper necklace with an enameled fox-tail pendant, a pair of obsidian stud earrings, a titanium ring that was described as a ‘signet,’ and a jade buckle or charm with carvings that reminded Marinette of a turtle shell that may have been strung on a cord as a bracelet.

Those were all in the center, a grouping suggested by the box they were found in (displayed on the bottom of the lighted case), as they had all been on the top level. Around them were hung various other bracelets, rings, necklaces, a few headpieces, and even something that looked like a ring-and-bracelet combination with the pieces joined by broken chains and a cabochon jewel that would have sat on the back of the hand. 

Looking at the collection made Marinette feel oddly sad. The legend on the placard said that the jewelry was supposed to have contained something like spirits that granted the wearer different magical power sets depending on which jewel was worn. Some of them were pretty vague- no one really knew what the two broaches could have done just from their appearance, but the fox necklace had probably had something to do with deception- but the box had had an ancient yin-yang symbol that housed the earrings and the titanium signet ring, suggesting that these two were often paired or worn together, and represented opposite powers that could only be used in balance with each other.

If that were really true, she wondered what it would have been like for those ancients who wore them. Magic had re-entered humanity’s grasp over 200 years ago, and she couldn’t even imagine a world without it. Perhaps these jewels had once served as the only conduit magic had left, and she wondered how that had affected the wearers. Had they been startled when they first discovered it? Were they afraid of the power? Had they used it for good… or for evil? 

Many records had been destroyed in the years after the Magical Tide that had changed everything, so it was impossible to know for sure. She’d learned in history classes that the ancients used electrical devices and stored most of their records that way, and of course everyone knew that magic played havoc with the electrical field.

She took careful notes while Adrien wandered around the rest of the exhibit, even taking the time to make a quick sketch of each piece and the box they had been found in, before remembering that Alya wanted pictures. So she snapped a few of those to be developed later, and signaled to Adrien that they could move on to his exhibit.

As they left, neither of them noticed a short, red-haired woman, and a squat black-haired man gazing thoughtfully, and perhaps even longingly, at them.

“I hate this,” the man said. “I hate being human- it’s itchy.”

“You think I like it?” the woman replied. “This is merely a projection- it’ll fade soon enough. And in the meantime, the memory rewriting is actually working in our favor. Hawkmoth thought he was being so smart… the akuma would have had them on the first day if not for that.”

The man shifted as if he wanted to scratch his back. “You should be the only one allowed to change reality- you never make me a human.”

The woman snorted. “I couldn’t agree more. Fortunately, she can’t sustain anything for very long, no matter how much power Hawkmoth poured into her.” She smirked. “I can feel the next wave coming already. I wonder what it’ll be this time…”

@auyeahaugust

[wingedfabray]

White Horse

Tagging: @classicallyclarington & Quinn Fabray When: February 14th, 2018 Where: Metropolitan Museum of Art What: Hunter and Quinn discover what it means to be stuck. Warnings: None.

Hunter smiled cuttingly as he stared outward, beyond the threshold of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, to the cooling twilight of the glistening New York City night. He stood up straight, shoulders broad, head level under the weight of his Ice King crown. Underneath the crown of polished jewels, he wore a suit the color of pine needles, trimmed to perfection, and he stood behind the heavy front doors of the Romanesque museum in the middle of the foyer. He had sent a white horse to Boreas Park to bring his intended to the site of their first Valentine’s day together, which was, technically, supposed to be unavailable to the public at such an hour. Lucky for us, Hunter thought, Claringtons and Fabrays are not the public.

Quinn arrived at the Met Museum on a white horse, more than a little bewildered. There hadn’t been much explanation, when the valiant steed had arrived at the Boreas entrance and a riding helmet had been passed along. She’d briefly pat his nose before doing the only obvious thing to do, and mounting up. Shoe-clad hooves had made a typical clop-clop sound as they pulled to a stop in front of the museum, expectedly devoid of people, as it was supposed to be closed. But apparently she shouldn’t take anything at face value, because the doors easily gave to her eager hands. She pulled the helmet off, looking around the blessedly-empty space, breathless until her eyes landed on Hunter. God, if he hadn’t been pulled from a magazine. The ice crown glimmered in the museum lighting, the suit was the perfect cut. As always, he was Hunter Clarington. Nights spent together hurting, and this felt more familiar than any of that ever would. This felt like why they were together. Her smile matched the bright lights reflecting off his perfect crown, “Mr. Clarington. You never do anything halfway, do you?”

Hunter Clarington grinned sideways as Quinn entered. The image of her, stepping through the grand romanesque threshold was an image he knew he wouldn't soon forget; the symmetry was pleasing and the subject lovelier still. He made his way toward her with another crown in his hand, and very gently fixed a few strands of hair which had fallen out of place from the ride over before setting the crown evenly on her head. "Do I really have to answer that question?" He quipped, grinning still, and leaned down to kiss her cheek before sliding a hand along the small of her back and guiding her over to where his enchanted rowboat, filled with cushion on the inside of the shell, was hovering three or four feet above the ground. "Well, Happy Valentine's Day, my lady. Should you like to tour your domain?" He asked well and proper, offering a hand to help her into the boat.

Quinn shook her head, what could be construed as an affectionate sigh slipping past her lips. It was so typical of him to go as extravagant as possible, and she should have expected no less. There was something about the way he said ‘your domain,’ with his grin, and that Aether-damn boat. It felt like the first time he’d shown up on her doorstep, and she’d stumbled getting in. “Why thank you.” She took his hand, using the leverage to make a much more graceful entrance than she had over a year before. Once safely inside, she returned the kiss to his cheek with a smile before taking a seat amidst the cushions. “How on Earth did you manage to book the entire Metropolitan Museum…” She managed breathlessly after a moment.

Hunter Clarington waved her off with a laugh, smooth and low as he took his suit jacket off from around his shoulders to better free his arms to row, "I know a guy," he whispered, teasing. He always knew a guy. Momentarily, he moved forward to fit his suit jacket around her shoulders. His eyes locked with hers as he did so, powerfully. He still wasn't quite adjusted to romance in the way he supposed he should be as a subject to betrothal, but fixation - that was a state he knew well and dwelled in often. After a moment, he glanced down again, to pour a glass with a rich red wine, "This is a Spanish Merlot. 1938." He explained as he lifted the bottle, and handed her the glass. Then he moved back to take the handles of the oars and, sinking the blades into the thin air, propelled them forward to the galleries, drifting. It was like a dream.

Quinn pulled the suit jacket tighter around herself, momentarily caught as Hunter held her gaze. There was something there, something different and charged. She hadn’t realized she hadn’t taken a breath since he’d leaned forward to place the jacket around her shoulders until he broke the moment by handing her a glass of wine. Her breath left her in a huff that she hid behind a generous gulp of a wine that should most definitely be sipped. It was rich and old and felt too-hot settling in her stomach. “Hunter…” She started, rough, but didn’t finish. It took a moment of gliding through the air, and another much smaller sip of the wine before she could put words to her thoughts, “You’re…ridiculous, sometimes, but I quite enjoy it.” The theme of honesty that they’d established late one night under the effects of a truth sticker had stayed with her, even then.

Hunter Clarington chuckled softly as he rowed, through the winding walkways of the Egyptian wing. If he wasn't such a skilled oarsmen, he likely would have knocked over and destroyed several priceless artifacts, but he was nothing less than cool and controlled when it came to his bladework. "Hunter Clarington, ridiculous. I have never heard that before." He said, glancing back her way after having taken a look at their course. His face broke into a grin, revealing his jest, and he glanced back again. "I have to admit, I do exhaust myself. It's difficult to imagine how I'm going to top this next year."

Quinn was watching his arms, glass halfway to her mouth, when he glanced back at her. If she were anyone less composed, that would be the moment she shook herself out of it, but she only allowed an easy grin, and did her best to play it off. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Hunter. You don’t always have to top yourself. Not…” With me, but she trailed off, because that wasn’t necessarily true. She was still Quinn Fabray, she still expected and adored grand in a way it seemed only Hunter could understand. “Not with this, at any rate.” She looked around at Ancient Egypt. This wasn’t how she would usually peruse a museum. Quinn was borderline obsessive over details; history had long been one of her favorite subjects. Displays passed by with every easy stroke of the oars, and she could only catch brief glimpses of the placards and informational screens. She looked back to Hunter, and thought of the words, “Next year. Next year, I can be the one to plan the Valentine’s Day agenda.”

Hunter Clarington 's eyebrow quirked, for a moment, when he thought he caught Quinn staring at his arms, muscles engaged with each stroke. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen that look before. It immediately surprised and amused him. At her suggestion, he chuckled and nodded approvingly, "As difficult as it is for me to relinquish control in most situations, I am going to hold you to that." It was then that he checked the oars in the still air, bringing their boat to a slow, gliding halt as they pulled up alongside the ruins of a remarkably large ancient temple, inside of which were mountains of cushion and blanket, velvet and silk, obviously contemporary, but still fitting. "This is the Temple of Dendur. It was an ancient Egyptian temple, commissioned by the Emperor Augustus and built by Petronius, the Roman governor of Egypt in 15 B.C." He exposited, eyes tracing over the monument. Two thousand years. He wandered, briefly, which Clarington it was who lived and breathed two thousand years ago. And which Fabray. Briefly, it overwhelmed him. Perhaps visibly so. He swallowed, "Just 15. The people who first entered this temple were so close to God in time and space that they must have," He swallowed again. He never invested his time and energy into religion, before. Before. "Felt it." He finished. "We can sleep here if you want. Should we take a detour?"

Quinn looked to the Temple, eyes tracing the columns, and the old tan stone, lost somewhere in the reverence in Hunter’s voice. There was something about ancient things that made everything feel so much bigger than herself, than that moment. They were part of something vast and so, so important. It was almost hard not to feel small, inconsequential, despite how much their families fought to be everything. She tore her eyes from the temple to look at Hunter once more, eyebrows lifting, one hand falling to point at the Temple of Dendur, “There? We’re sleeping there?” Aether, he had gone all out. And staying, staying felt different, somehow. This wasn’t an evening out anymore.

Hunter Clarington "There," Hunter confirmed. He climbed out of the boat carefully and extended a hand to Quinn to help her out as well, before lifting their picnic case from among the cushions in the boat. Everything that had ever happened in the history of time and space had let up to this moment, this Valentine's day with one Quinn Fabray. It was empowering to say the least. "Where Kings and Queens have laid their feet. I only thought it natural." He hummed, smiling winningly as he attempted to lighten the weight of history on their backs, "I had evening clothes packed for the both of us. Obviously, I don't know what you're accustomed to wearing at night, so there are a few options. You know, I didn't realize how much work a lot of Achilles' errands were, I'm an unnaturally demanding person."

Quinn took Hunter’s hand as she stepped out of the boat – Lucy, she reminded herself, briefly thinking of their first date and Hunter all but confirming her suspicions about the boat’s name – but her eyes never left the temple. He was saying something about kings and queens and evening clothes that she half-absorbed, appreciating the levity but focused on the history. She’d once told Puck she wanted to teach, that history classes were her favorite and if she could spend her life learning and teach others, that would be enough for her. “I’m sure what you picked is just fine.” She finally offered, looking to Hunter with a smile; it was a genuine smile, one of the very few that reached her eyes. One hand wrapped around his forearm, and she leaned forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’ve done perfectly, Hunter.” She said quietly, before pulling away. “Now, what can I do to help?”

Hunter Clarington pressed his lips together as he closed his eyes against the touch of hers on his cheek, chuckling softly. This was a new custom. Lips. After almost a year of witty, subdued banter, breathless moments of conscious ladder-climbing, now they used lips. He considered that this was perhaps the first time she'd kissed him for something other than a mere greeting, but remembered her lips brushing his forehead that night after New Year's. He tucked that away, and, turning to look at her with his the corners of his mouth still turned up, his eyes full of something warm and somewhat dazed, lifted the bottle of the Spanish red, "Well, you can help me finish this wine, for one. Would you like to get comfortable before or after dinner?"

Quinn looked to the bottle, then to Hunter, catching on something in his gaze; he never ceased to surprise her. The image she’d grown up memorizing, that picture of crisp suits and smiles that were only directed at just the right person, had blurred and sharpened and blurred far too many times since Hunter Clarington had waltzed onto campus. She felt so different than she had then, but then she wondered if he did, too. Even with the Met rented out for a private party for two, and a bottle of fine wine in hand, Quinn felt a world away from fifteen, a new name on her lips and the world spread in front of her. Her gaze flicked to their accommodations for the night, then back to Hunter, “Wine and dinner first sounds lovely.” She offered an arm, “Shall we?”

Hunter Clarington took her arm in his own in a single crisp movement, face fixed on hers for several moments before turning forward toward their destination. He thought that the twitch of his eyebrows in those few moments of looking at her must have given away his confusion, in some capacity, at the unfamiliar feeling twisting in his chest. Leading her over to the middle of the temple, he offered a hand to help her to the ground as he opened and began to unpack their "picnic" case. He rather disliked the word picnic. It sounded like quirky peasant terminology; but now was neither the time nor place for that. No, now was strawberries. Chocolate cake. Caprese salad. Melon and prosciutto. Tuna tartare. All the good art that ever was made, and her. "I thought I might have overstayed my welcome as far as bacon goes," He explained, pouring himself a glass of wine, and gesturing his glass toward Quinn's, "To..."

Quinn ’s lips twitched into a smile as Hunter pulled the items out of the basket. Of course, it was everything she’d expect to find at a luncheon, mid-spring with sundresses and hats with broad, floppy brims. The fruit looked fresh, and she was beginning to feel something almost familiar. But it wasn’t, all at once; she looked to Hunter with his glass raised towards hers, and she thought perhaps unfamiliar wasn’t as bad as she’d always feared it would be, and better yet with someone to share it. She raised her glass, “To us. To another year to come, and every adventure it might bring.” It had been just over a year, since Hunter had spoken with her father. One year. She tapped her glass lightly against his, and took a long pull.

Hunter Clarington nodded, a very pronounced nod, just one, and echoed her. "Us," He agreed, taking a long sip from his own glass. It was exquisite wine, and although he was trying these days to indulge less in self satisfaction, well... he'd had to admit, he'd done an excellent job. He turned her words around in his head as he drank. Another year. More adventures. Aether God, more adventures. All the terrible adventures they had been through in the past year, and still it made him smile to think on it. Strange. More wine. He took a melon and prosciutto skewer from the dish and handed it to her before taking one himself, and falling backward onto multitudinous cushions, "All of the food you see before you was made completely help-free. One hundred percent Hunter Henry, so do be kind with your facial and verbal reactions." He chuckled, and ate.

Quinn set the glass down in favor of the skewer, musing momentarily over how close prosciutto was to bacon, before deciding that was hardly a thought worth mulling over. More importantly, Hunter had assembled the entire dinner himself. The thought was both flattering, and curious. Achilles’ death had brought many changes, and Quinn knew the nights spent with Hunter afterward had only been the beginning. The loss had sparked much more in Hunter than she’d expected. His speech had been…something else entirely, both inspiring and terrifying. She’d wanted to shake him and hug him all at once. “If it tastes half as good as it looks, you’ve nothing to worry about.” She twirled the skewer before taking a bite; it was hard to go wrong with melon and prosciutto, and Hunter hadn’t. The moment stalled as she took another drink of wine, musing. “Have you…enjoyed doing things for yourself, Hunter?”

Hunter Clarington awed, and turned to lounge on his side. He lay with his legs stretched and his elbow propping him up, lazily taking food and wine as his eyes grazed over the minute details of the Temple of Dendur. "I'm glad you like it," He smiled, in the midst of hording sliced strawberries to his side of the cushion layout. At the accompanying question, he shrugged halfway and nodded a bit, "I do, the better part of the time. I actually find laundry fairly relaxing. Of course, a select few... fans of ours have figured out my laundry schedule and I tend to come back home with a few more bras than I left with." He laughed, taking another drink, "Some things are unpleasant, but overall, I think it's an improvement. Perhaps next year I'll be diplomatic like you, take a roommate. Can you imagine the poor kid who gets told he has to room with Hunter Clarington? I'm very intimidating, you know, and /very/ specific."

Quinn watched Hunter lay back, picking up her wine glass once more without a second thought. He looked casual yet composed, in a position she’d never quite imagined. How he managed to command a room even so grand and ancient as the one they were in, while lounged back and hoarding strawberries was a skill to be admired. Not that she felt she was below such things herself; she sat with her legs folded beneath her, skirt neat, a Fabray to the last, but comfortable nonetheless. “You? With a roommate? They wouldn’t last a week.” She laughed lightly, pulling some of the strawberries he’d stolen back towards herself. “I highly recommend the solitude, to be honest. It’s been…quiet at Boreas, now that my room is empty.”

Hunter Clarington hummed and nodded, "Not terribly quiet, I hope." He remarked, although still chuckling softly at the idea of himself attempting to share a space with another. As much as he did think he was growing, that was still more or less out of the question. Then again, he would have something close to a roommate after school, assuming Quinn Fabray would want to move in with him. He recalled telling her long ago - perhaps a year by now - all about how Lawrence and Cressida were prepared to move out of the Clocktower and leave it to them should their engagement go to plan; and, well, today more than ever it appeared as though it was going to plan. "Do you always want to live in New York?" He asked, lifting himself to sort their entrees. The tuna towers were tedious to say the least, and immaculate to say the most, "Well, New York is two different worlds as well, I suppose, between the city and upstate. But do you think you'll always live here?"

Quinn paused at the question, twirling a strawberry between her fingers, watching the way the leaves curled. Her father wanted her to take his place. It was going to be Francine – beautiful, elegant Francine – before Quinn had decided she was going to enjoy galas over books. It happened over time, earning a place at Russell’s side. Then he scratched Frannie’s name from the ballot, and Quinn knew exactly where she was sat in her ancient family’s line of succession. It all stood to reason that she’d inherit the family home; a portal from Lake George to the UMC had been set up generations ago. Then there was Hunter, and the clocktower that overlooked the city lights. She was expected to stay in New York, but…she looked up at Hunter, the smile on her face less bright then it had been moments before, but all grace nonetheless. “New York and Lake George, respectively. There’s nowhere better for someone who works within the UMC, is there?”

Hunter Clarington raised his glass to that, "There's nowhere better for anyone", he offered, enjoying the crisp sound of the clink of champagne glasses before taking a long, slow sip, "Except, of course, when less than strictly legal matters presume to transpire. Then New Jersey is the ideal. It doesn't count if it's in New Jersey." He chuckled, and tipped his glass up again in wordless reverence for the suburban repository of greed and lust and wrath. "I just mean I think I'd like to pass a few years in Italy after a well deserved retirement. Perhaps the rolling green hills of Scotland," He tried on the accent for size: "Ah was aye partial tae th' lallans". He knew immediately that it was a mistake, and cringed a little at himself.

Quinn breathed in, a quick burst unconsciously. Whatever shadow had plagued her smile only moments before lifted a bit. “Italy is beautiful.” She said on a breath. There was a distant memory of baptistries at night, of songs and angels echoing off turquoise domes, and that feeling of being whole and real for the first time in centuries. “The art and history is…” For the first time, she wasn’t sure she was putting on much of a show in front of Hunter Clarington. The feeling was curious, but not altogether unwelcome. “Uh, astounding, honestly. Scotland is beautiful, as well. I quite enjoyed Poland, and Norway; traveling has a way of reminding you how new our home country is.” She looked up, confidence easily restored. “You’ll have to brush up on your accents, should we settle in Scotland.”

Hunter Clarington chuckled, feigning a detrimental blow with the palm of his hand clapping over his right breast. It made a nice sound, muscle beneath the open instrument. He sat up from where he was reclining with his champagne, "If it comforts you, I don't imagine we should ever settle. Sure, we'd have places here and there, but our drive is to roam. To consume. And be subjected. Become intoxicated by the crisp summer air in Florence only to just hardly survive a Russian winter." He mused, draping a fur blanket from the mountain and pulling back to see her in it, head tipping to the side, "As long as the Earth and stars can stand it. Until the Prodigal Son returns." He considered momentarily how much he did enjoy dressing people up. Should his career path ever derail... then he added: "We don't have to go Russia."

Quinn smiled softly. It was warm and comfortable wrapped in fur; it made everything seem simple and easy. How Hunter knew that never settling was what she’d really wanted, she wasn’t sure, but then maybe it wasn’t about him knowing at all. Perhaps it was simply that they wanted the same things. She catches his hand in a gentle hold, the blanket of fur draped loose around her shoulders. “Please, Mr. Clarington, who are we, if we’re not brave enough to conquer even the harshest winters? We can’t skip Russia.” Her smile hints at teasing, but she doesn’t look up from the way his fingers look in hers. “Besides, with this blanket, we’ll be just fine.”

Hunter Clarington was charmed, of course, by her simple elegance, her reverent grace, and he had been all night long. However, when she caught her hand in his own, his eyebrows wrinkled together and his jaw relaxed momentarily from a half-sideways smile. Their fingers lock together nicely, the way he supposes it should be, in such a way in fact that he would suppose even Blaine Anderson could approve. His thumb glides over her knuckles once, then twice. It feels almost involuntary. It feels like instinct, shifting under his skin from the experiences of milennia of Bloodlines before them, practicing infatuation. Is there ever a moment he feels better known than when Quinn Fabray swears to stand with him in the Siberian snow? Before he finds the restraint to stop and use his words, his unoccupied hand grasps the side of her face very gently, his fingers sliding along her upper neck beneath her hair until his thumb stops in front of her ear. His eyes meet hers, searchingly, for just a moment before he leans in to press his lips against hers. It's over in an instant, experimental and chaste, but he lingers there close that they might brush together again.

Quinn had time to say no. His eyes searched hers, and it would have been a matter of blinking, the smallest shake of her head. But his thumb traced her knuckles like he knew every one, and his fingers were gentle and soft and easy despite all of Hunter’s sharper edges. He was right there she didn’t shake her head, she didn’t pull away. The space between them closed, and it was half her own fault, her body leaning forward, her head tilting up to meet him like a dance as ancient as the magic between them. It’s over before it registers, but he doesn’t pull away and she notices. It’s only natural for her hand to wind behind his neck, her fingers to splay into soft brown hair, to gently tug him back to her.

Hunter Clarington felt the corners of his lips turn up into half a smile as they found Quinn's again, his eyes sliding shut at the tug of his frame toward hers. It's ridiculous how aware he becomes of his own weight, of his breath and hers when they're kissing. It's just a slide of lips, firm but plush. His hand squeezes hers very gently when all the little atoms in his fingers come back to life from the flushed stillness of a first kiss, but he brings her hand up to rest on her shoulder so he can hold her just a touch closer, his palm sliding along the small of her back. His weight shifts forward with the motion. He wonders who Quinn practiced kissing on in her adolescence. Did everyone have kissing trainers? Was that just him? He steals just one more kiss before he pulls away, just hardly an inch, and convinces his eyes to meet hers. "Our lives are gonna be so cool," He chuckled in earnest, a touch breathless, "You um. Feel like New York. Swell of the Hudson in the morning. Grand Central Station after rush hour. The ancient glory of the Metropolitan." Was that hot? Brody would think that was hot. /Don't think about Brody./

Quinn feels the space between them, when he pulls away; inches between breaths, centimeters between her chest and his, none between their fingertips, intertwined tightly. He talks of rivers and cities that move, describing a feeling both abstract and so concrete. She feels just left of it, whatever it is he’s tumbling through. This wasn’t real. This was something that made her daddy smile, the final victory after years of making herself into something right. But then it was the two of them sharing covers and wiping away tears. Then it was the two of them versus the rest of the world. Then it was them, one whole, their fingers interlaced and their lips sliding together and it felt so real it ached. Her thoughts turned over his words and she laughed lightly, forehead falling onto his shoulder and a smile on her lips. Her hands fall to his waist and she squeezes gently. “You’re ridiculous, Hunter Clarington.” And he is, but he’s so much more than that, and she almost wishes she could forget. Almost.

Hunter Clarington hums and smiles as she falls into him just slightly, hands on his waist, head on his shoulder. His head turns in small degrees and he kisses the top of her head, lingers just a second as his hand slides across her back so he can stabilize himself, and his wine glass beside him, once more. Staring ahead, he chuckles at her refrain; his utter extravagance seems to be a topic of conversation they return to often. He doesn't mind. "I am /not/ ridiculous, I am just tipsy, and wearing a crown, and you look no less than compelling in fur, and /we/ are much better at kissing one another than I anticipated," He tells, and he imagines the quirk of her brow at that little admission from where her head is resting. /Oh, like she hadn't thought of it/. That amuses him too. He is suddenly very... well, tickled, by the state of things. Delighted, perhaps. For the first time in a little while. "Which is a win, if you do end up stuck with me." He teased, body relaxing as a breath of revelation moved through his chest.

Quinn felt Hunter relax against her, but caught on the word ‘stuck.’ It settled in her throat, and she wondered, not for the first time, at how accurate it might be. He was light and easy in a way she never thought they ever would be. It was never supposed to be like this. She hadn’t counted on liking him. Even so, it was hard not to think about how she fit against him, and the difference between something pre-determined, and something organic. Her heart stuttered and thumped and she closed her eyes against the thought, but couldn’t quite shake it. Her smile was easy when she leaned back again, her hands tightening against his hips before releasing as she slowly put inches between them. She picked up her glass, and held it out in front of her. “Cheers to being stuck. Happy Valentine’s Day, Hunter.”

Hunter Clarington chuckled under his breath as he raised his own glass, clinking it against Quinn's. There was a certain security in being stuck, the stagnancy of it. It was a promise that they were already well adjusted to what was to come, and in the deceptively gently February snow, Hunter could be well beyond glad for that. There must have been something in his eyes that turned serious for just a moment, just long enough before he assumed the comfort again. "To being stuck," He whispered, "Happy Valentine's Day, Quinn."