#(i just realized i had this in my drafts for a while!)

[harrysfluff]

Choices

A/n: Hello! Lol I am currently writing my applications for PhD programs and need a break. This was a draft I had and wanted to polish up for you guys. Btw i haven't written anything with angst or really a plot in a hot minute so I'm sorry for the plot.

Tw: smut (p in v, unprotected sex), angst (couple fighting)

Harry's forearms came on either side of your head as your bare bodies touched one another. Your hands snaked their way down his ass, grabbing at him in tight clenches. The bedsheets were crumpled together towards the foot of the bed leaving both of you exposed to the cold room. "I think we would make cute babies," Harry smiled down at you, pushing his hips deeper into you.

Harry had recently become obsessed with babies. He had brought it up to you a few months ago and hadn't stopped since. Harry never was doing things in order since some people would have at least waited for a ring. "I just know you my person and this is exactly what I want with you in this moment," he said each time. It slowly wore down on you, and as you started to come around to the idea. Suddenly, you were also imagining a small bundle that was a mix of both of you.

You could feel his hard self push against your clit, giving a light sensation from the bud. You let out a heavy exhale from the feeling, while your hands move upward to his back. "I think so, too. They would have your eyes." Harry buried his face into the crook of your neck, sucking against the skin gently. You threw your head back into your pillow, giving him more access. "And hopefully my sense of humor," you tease.

"Oi," Harry lifted his head back up, "What did I do? I'm just trying to make love to the woman I love." He defended.

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. "I just love to tease you. You get all worked up!" You brought his face down to yours to share a kiss. “It’s cute,” you shared before your lips collided. You opened your mouth slightly to allow his tongue to slip through. The kiss deepened as you engulfed each other. You brought your legs up providing the perfect angle for Harry. Usually, the two participated in more foreplay. However, the feeling of him against your clit had built up a hunger for him inside of you. Taking the cue, Harry slipped himself in.

The feeling of him inside of you always made you realize just how empty you felt when he wasn't. You pulled your lips away from each other as Harry slowly rolled his hips into you. The gentle waves of him caused a growing intensity in you.

Harry's brow furrowed, "I wanna savor this." He lowered his face down again for another passionate kiss. "God, I wanna be inside you forever. Do you want me to be inside of you forever?"

"Yes," you exhaled. "Please never leave me."

It came out as a whine which always sent Harry into overdrive. He pulled away from you. The emptiness makes you shiver. Harry's hands grabbed onto your knees, spreading them. You were completely exposed to him, glistening in the light as some of you leaked onto the sheets. Harry pushed himself in again, this time with more speed and power. "Fuck. I'm going to fill you up with my cum. Wanna have my baby, don't you?" He brought the pad of his thumb to your clit, rubbing firm circles. The movement sent pulses through your body as your breaths became more shallow.

"Yes, please fill my tummy with you," you begged. The feeling radiated from your pussy reaching higher intensity with each thrust from him. "I wanna have your baby so bad, H."

Every time Harry hears those words from you, a primal feeling erupts. "I'm about to fill you up," he grunted. His movements are becoming increasingly faster. "Fuck," he gasped, slamming his hips into yours. "Oh Harry," you screamed out as you released over him. Harry collapsed on top of you, still staying inside of you.

He stayed there for a moment, before lifting his upper body from you. His skin was sweaty and you could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. "You said you never wanted me to leave," he smirked, slowly rolling his hips into you. “I just wanna make you sure you’re extra pregnant,” he laughed.

You giggled too, still in your post orgasm bliss. “I think I’m plenty pregnant. We haven’t left this bed all weekend and I’m full of your cum,” you said pushing him off you. Harry settled on his side, his hand being placed on your stomach. He began to trace his finger gently, his eyes stayed concentrated on it. “You know it doesn’t happen immediately, right?” You say.

“I know but this is just so perfect you know? Like this moment. I don’t know I like imagining our baby. I would take them down the street to that coffee shop. And I could get a bike!” His eyes came up to yours, beaming with excitement. “You know I’ve been thinking of getting one since I’m always renting one. I don’t know I could get one and then get one of those baby attachments so we could ride around together.” His mind rambled on, imagining himself riding around with a little one. He settled onto his back and you nestled yourself into his side. Harry’s arm instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you close. “Either way it will be perfect. I’m winding down so I’ll have time and you’ll take off work -“

“Wait what?” You sat up, staring confused at him. You clutched the sheets around your chest, covering them from him.

“Yeah, I was thinking you could you know take some time off.”

“I didn’t know that. When were you gonna tell me you wanted me to quit?” You asked, starting to feel the heat in your face.

“Y/n I’m not asking you to quit I just think you should step back.” He defended. “I think it’s for the best if we can be there together in the beginning. And besides, it’s not like we need to worry about money.”

“But it’s not about money. It was never about that.” Your blood started to boil as you found your thoughts. “I’ve worked so hard for this between all my school and years at this company. I’m not gonna throw it all away because I have a family. I had this job before you and I’ll have it after you.” You hastily scooted off the bed and wrapped the sheets around you to hide your body from him.

“Y/n you’re not listening to me. I’m not asking you to quit. That’s not at all what I’m saying: I’m just saying we should both take a step back from work.” He pleaded in a gentle tone.

You walked right into your closet to grab some sweats. The last thing you wanted was for Harry to see your body. “Harry not everyone can just take time off,” you reply loudly before mumbling, “Not everyone is a fucking pop star.” You walk out to the bedroom to face him. “Besides why can’t you raise the kid? You have the time.”

Harry rubbed his face harshly. This is not how he envisioned the night ending. “You know what? Don’t take the time off. It’s fine I’ll raise the kid, it’s fine. I’m sorry I said you should back off. I didn’t think.” His tone was flat across each word as he spoke. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed, grabbing his underwear off the floor. His hands fiddled with the shorts, pulling them up his legs while his eyes stayed concentrated on the floor.

“Harry it’s not about that, I'm angry that you just assumed I would take time off,” you paused, trying to read his face. His brows were furrowed together and you could see he had clenched his jaw. "Like do you think that low of my job? Like are you just another out-of-touch celebrity? God the shit I put up with because of you. Listening to you complain about clothes and albums-"

His head snapped towards you, face hardened. "What the fuck? That was fucking mean Y/N and you know it." He stood up from the bed, grabbing his pillow and tucking it under his arm. "I'm gonna sleep in the guest room tonight. I need space right now."

You sighed, the guilt beginning to wash over you. Your face fell into your hands and you contemplated your next move. Following him downstairs would probably not solve anything, but going to bed angry at each other ate away at you. Your mind flashed Harry's face as he was storming out. He was angry and didn't want to even be near you. So much had changed in less than 15 minutes. Not wanting to antagonize him further, you crawled into bed almost engulfing yourself in the thick duvet.

The alarm on your phone went off as it did each morning. Having been use to Harry reaching over to you, you felt a pain in your chest when you were reminded of last night. Normally, he would have tried to pull your closer as you struggled out his grip to start your day. However, there was no struggle as you got out of bed.

You tried to slow your morning get ready as you were scared to go downstairs but yet it seemed to go over quickly. You planned to keep your head down heading out of the kitchen on the off chance he was there, and pick something up on the way to work. It was a solid plan till you got downstairs and saw no trace of him. You were grateful till you saw his car was gone in the garage. It was odd since Harry rarely drove in London and either walked or biked. You shrugged it off, not sure you could understand him right now.

Harry didn't message you all day. Each time your phone flashed a notification, you anxiously checked it wanting to see his name. You sent him a few messages admitting fault and wanting to reconcile yet there was no response. Now you were confused since Harry usually replied.

Turning your key into the door, you imagined him sitting on the couch. Perhaps he was waiting to see you in person to try and repair things. Yet, when you entered the home was undisturbed. There was no trace of him still. You wandered into the guest room and saw the bed messily disturbed. The pillow he had taken was still there. You walked over to it to hold it close to you. Inhaling, you smelled the comforting smell.

Just as you were setting down the pillow, you heard the door open and the sound of footsteps. Coming out of the room, you saw him pushing his shoes off. "Hey," you squeaked out. "I uh just wanted to say I was sorry last night. I should not have said that and I'm sorry." You gulped hard, your hands finding ways to fidget with each other. Harry's eyes came off the ground, peering back from you. They were still cold, and his lips were still in that hard-pressed line. "Harry please say something. I don't like it when you do the silent treatment to me." "I didn't want to say something I would regret," he said.

"Okay, that's fair but I'm sorry. I want to move past this, please." You came closer to him in an effort to reach out to him. However, as you came closer, he backed away from you.

"I'm not sure I'm quite as ready. You hurt me Y/n. Sometimes you're rude to me when we argue and last night crossed a line. I provide for us, for our family, and this is what I get? I understand you have a career but I do too and just because mine is different does not give you the right to belittle it." There was a pause as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Frankly, I don't know if I want to be with you right now. " Harry finally exhaled, regaining his composure. "Look I'm just here to grab some things. I need more than just a night in the guest bedroom." He pushed past you, walking up the stairs.

You stood there shocked and almost paralyzed. It wasn't until you heard him coming back down that you wiped the tears from your face. "Yeah, erm okay. I understand." You softly whimpered, wiping another tear. "I love you, okay? And I'm really sorry." You were struggling to find the words, burying your face in your hands.

Harry looked at you, his eyes softening at the sight. He would have wrapped his arms around you but felt his arms glued to the sides. There was a part of him that was reluctant to do so. "I'm sorry, too. I hope this isn't the end. I just need some time. That's all."

You nodded, wiping the tears more as you tried to compose yourself. "Yeah, I get it." You gave him a weak smile, watching him leave.

[catsukkii]

shoto has a staring problem.

dating shoto was…an experience. you were his first everything and you had to teach him a lot about relationships, not that you minded, sometimes he would just do odd things in your relationship.

one of those things, was he would constantly just stare at you. it was cute sometimes, but other times it was downright creepy the way he’d make eye contact all the time. Even when you’d shy away from his gaze, everytime you would look back he was right there with those damn eyes.

it was honestly starting to creep you out. what was his obsession?

once again, you were sitting at a nice little coffee shop, the environment was cozy and it was raining outside; how much more romantic could it get?

apparently not romantic at all.

“shoto…” you sigh as he stares into your soul again, “what is up with you and staring at me?” it seems he snaps out of his daze and looks at you, confusion evident on his face.

“what?” he questions quirking a brow. “It’s just..your always staring into my soul y’know? It’s a little creepy sho.” his mouth slightly parts and he nods in understanding.

“oh, I’m sorry. I thought that’s what people did in relationships? hold eye contact?” you furrow ur brows, eyes narrowing in confusion at him. where the hell did he here that?

“sho…who told you that?” at this point you have a borderline concerned expression on your face, he averts his gaze sheepishly, flustered and embarrassed by his upcoming answer.

“well…before we were dating..” he sighs and his face scrunches at the thought of admitting this to you outloud. “I made a tiktok, a secret one.” you’re nodding along, but this did catch you off guard considering shoto never used social media, especially tiktok.

“I obviously found your account and went through your…reposts.” you cut off his brief explanation with confusion. “okay but—wait wait, what does this have to do with your staring problem?” you express your point with your hands, moving them from your face to infront of you in an outwards confused motion.

“well…you reposted a video, and it said something like..” he pauses to think for a moment, recalling what the video said. “oh yeah, ‘when he holds eye contact’. so I’ve been trying to do it to impress you but..I suppose it backfired.” he cleared his throat and sheepishly avoiding your eyes, now because of embarrassment.

but this made your confused face turn into a fit of giggles, “aw sho, it’s cute to hold eye contact but not all the time and you’re also supposed to blink, silly.” he awkwardly laughs along with you, he’s slowly realizing how creepy he probably came off..he just wanted to impress you!

“yeah..I apologize.” he places his elbows on the wooden table and places his head in his hands in shame, you’re still giggling over the whole situation. “and I do mean to blink..I just get distracted by you and your voice.” he mumbles into his hands, causing your cheeks to flush and your heart to swell even harder.

“awww…you’re so sweet sho!” you laughter continues, you reach over the table and pull his hands away from his face to give him a sweet peck to the lips; which he quickly reciprocated.

you loved your emotionally constipated boyfriend with a staring problem.

a/n; had to post smth so have this draft while I suffer w dpdr !!

[mydearestbeloved]

Chapter 20 [Draft]

Sung Jinwoo/Trial Player!Reader

CW:

Inspired by @circeyoru ‘s “Future Power Couple”

[Masterlist🦋✨️]

Jinwoo expected a simple meeting.

The kind of meeting he had grown used to—just you, him, your butterflies, and his shadows. He wasn’t sure what he wanted out of today’s talk, but he knew it would be significant. So, imagine his surprise when, upon entering your shop, he was greeted not by you, but by a stunningly elegant woman clad in a mix of black and white, bowing deeply.

“Greetings, Sire,” she said, her voice calm yet warm. “It’s been a while. I hope Sir Jinwoo and his family have been well.”

Jinwoo blinked. That voice—so familiar. And that crimson hair, a vivid shade identical to that of one of your butterflies. He froze, a realization hitting him like a bolt of lightning.

“R-Red?” His voice faltered, disbelief clear in his tone.

The woman straightened, her fiery red eyes gleaming with unmistakable delight. “It truly is a pleasure to introduce myself to you properly now, Sire.”

She smiled brighter, and Jinwoo noted how similar it was to the glow your crimson butterfly displayed whenever it radiated happiness. She looked radiant, regal even, yet there was a gentle familiarity in her demeanor. Before he could say anything else, Igris’s shadowy form flickered out from his side, curiosity practically pouring off the knight’s ethereal figure.

“Oh, hello to you too, Sir Igris!” Red beamed, inclining her head toward him.

Igris stood motionless, the faintest tilt of his helm suggesting his own shock. Jinwoo didn’t know what was more surreal—the fact that one of your butterflies was now a person or the fact that she was now speaking to Igris like an old friend.

Then, he spotted you emerging from a doorway at the back of the shop, carrying a small box. Relief surged through him—finally, someone who could explain. He turned, and before he could stop himself, he fixed you with a very pointed, very intense stare.

You sweatdropped as you took in the scene: Jinwoo’s laser-focused expression, Red’s beaming aura, and Igris standing frozen while wearing what appeared to be a flower crown, likely crafted by Red.

“Stop glaring at me, Jinwoo,” you said, exasperated yet amused. “I’ll explain, seriously.”

---

The four of you eventually settled at a table in your shop’s small sitting area. Red served the drinks—tea for you, coffee for Jinwoo—before bowing again and stepping back to stand near Igris. Jinwoo’s eyes flicked between her and Igris, noting how her movements seemed to mimic those of her butterfly form—graceful, purposeful, almost weightless.

“So,” Jinwoo began, breaking the silence, “you can level up again now?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“And your butterflies?” His gaze briefly darted to Red, who had taken a seat next to Igris and was now carefully braiding strands of crimson into the ethereal knight’s shadowy figure. Jinwoo had to fight the urge to rub his temples.

“The adult stage unlocked after I completed my ascension quest,” you explained, your tone calm and professional. “Once my children max out their pupa stage, they can ascend to a more corporeal form and gain autonomy. Red here was one of the first to make the leap.”

Jinwoo flinched slightly at the mention of the ascension quest and, by extension, the demon castle. The memory of you nearly collapsing in that fight still lingered in the back of his mind. But something else about your words caught his attention.

“What’s your level now?” he asked, feeling a mix of curiosity and dread.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers brushing against the edge of your teacup. “I’m at level 150—”

Jinwoo exhaled, his pride slightly bruised but still intact. The gap was significant, but manageable. He’d just have to push harder—

“—last time.”

His mind screeched to a halt. “What?”

You fidgeted ever so slightly, a rare break in your normally composed demeanor. “Well, the system gave me cumulative EXP from all my previous quests. So, right now, I’m at level 200.”

Smack!

The sound of Jinwoo’s face meeting the table echoed through the room. You froze, startled. “Jinwoo?”

He didn’t answer, his arms now folded over his head as if to shield himself from the reality of your words. Even Igris seemed to flinch at the noise, the flower crown slipping slightly askew as Red stared on in muted curiosity.

With a sigh, you got up and walked over to Jinwoo’s slumped form. Gently, you ran your fingers through his hair, the soothing gesture a habit you’d picked up over the months. “Hey, it’s okay,” you murmured softly. “I’ve had years under the system and five years leveling up in an S-rank dungeon. Considering how fast you’re progressing, you’re doing amazing.”

Your hand stilled when Jinwoo’s fingers wrapped around it, his grip firm but not overwhelming. Slowly, he raised his head, his face still half-hidden in the crook of his arm. His ears were red, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes—half-lidded and glassy—refused to meet yours.

Oh my, you thought, struggling not to squeal internally. Is he… embarrassed?

Before you could tease him further, a familiar presence flickered at the edge of your mind. Your butterfly, Trick, spoke urgently: Mother! Miss Hae-In is—!

Simultaneously, Jinwoo’s gaze snapped to the distance, his expression turning serious. “You’re not coming?” he asked, though his tone held no judgment, only curiosity.

“No,” you replied softly. For a moment, you wanted to say more, to explain why, but you stopped yourself. Instead, you smiled at him, a look of quiet confidence and certainty.

“Then wait for me,” Jinwoo said, his hand tightening around yours before he leaned down to place a light kiss on your knuckles. His dark eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with an intensity that left your heart skipping a beat.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you.

He vanished into the shadows moments later, Igris trailing after him—but not before offering Red a small wave, which she returned with a subtle, wistful smile.

---

As silence returned to the room, you exhaled slowly, a strange determination settling in your chest. Red stepped up beside you, her expression now calm but expectant.

“Now then,” you said, setting your teacup down with a resolute clink. “Shall we see what these new powers can do?”

---

Jinwoo stood over the body of the Ant King, its grotesque form crumbling into ash under the weight of his shadows. But his focus wasn't on his victory. Instead, his eyes darted to the figure lying prone on the sandy ground. Cha Hae-In's body lay lifeless, save for the faint, flickering aura of a silver butterfly perched delicately on her cheek. It pulsed softly, a quiet rhythm that echoed her waning heartbeat.

The butterfly, one of yours. Jinwoo clenched his fists, frustration bubbling inside him.

"Why didn't she heal her completely?" Jinwoo muttered under his breath. You could’ve saved Cha Hae-In without breaking a sweat, yet you didn’t. His mind raced for answers. Was it the system? Had it restrained you again, as it so often did? Or… was there another reason?

His thoughts were cut short by the labored breathing of Hunter Cha. Jinwoo's jaw tightened. If you weren’t going to intervene fully, then it was up to him to finish what you'd started. You trusted him, didn’t you? He’d never failed you before—and he wasn’t about to start now.

The silver butterfly pulsed brighter, a soft hum that seemed to whisper, Hurry.

---

When Min Byung-Gyu opened his eyes, he was certain he should not have been able to. The last thing he remembered was the Ant King’s claws ripping through his body, the searing pain of his life slipping away. Yet here he stood, whole and unblemished, surrounded by a surreal, ethereal landscape.

The ground beneath him was soft, a mosaic of red spider lilies swaying gently in a nonexistent breeze. Their vibrant petals bled into a shallow pool of water, so pristine it mirrored the heavens above. Stars twinkled against the deep navy expanse of the sky, a sight unmarred by clouds or smoke.

And in the center of this dreamlike domain stood a figure cloaked in flowing white, her silhouette blurred at the edges as if dissolving into the glimmering butterflies that surrounded her. Her face was partially veiled, her lips and the tip of her nose visible beneath the translucent fabric.

"You really are a warm person," came her voice—soft, serene, and achingly familiar.

Byung-Gyu turned toward her, his eyes widening. That aura... that presence. It was healing, nurturing, and yet... unearthly. His heart told him he was in the presence of something divine, but his instincts as a healer told him this figure was no god. She was something more. Something human.

The woman smiled faintly, though there was a certain weight in her tone. "Would you like to return alive?"

Her words took him by surprise. Byung-Gyu took a step back, glancing down at his hands. His last memory was of his death—there was no mistaking it.

"I... What do you mean?" he asked hesitantly.

"I can give you a second chance to live," the woman replied. Her voice was unwavering, yet there was a detachment to it, as if she were merely relaying a message. "I think you deserve it. However, it’s not up to me to decide."

Byung-Gyu’s brows furrowed. He could feel the warmth emanating from her, yet there was something distant about her gaze.

"You have a strong sense of duty," she continued, her tone softening slightly. "But know this: if you accept my offer, you are to never step foot on the battlefield again. Even if your friends are in danger. Even if the world itself is ending. The moment you fight again, you will die."

Her words struck him like a thunderclap. Byung-Gyu’s lips parted as if to protest, but no sound came out. He stared at her, his mind swirling with questions, doubts, and fears. This woman—this being—spoke with an authority that was impossible to challenge. And yet, there was no malice in her decree.

“Would you accept?” She extended a hand toward him, her palm steady and unshaking.

Byung-Gyu hesitated, his gaze flickering between her hand and her veiled face. "If I accept…" His voice wavered, but he steadied himself. "Would you protect them in my stead?"

The woman stilled, her expression unreadable. Then, she gave a single nod. "I will stand by humanity’s side."

Byung-Gyu frowned. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He wanted to hear her say she would fight for them, defend them tooth and nail, as he had. But deep down, he knew better. This figure wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a protector in the way he was.

Still, there was something in her aura—something profoundly human. It reminded him of a mother’s love: steadfast, unwavering, and all-encompassing.

"...I'll try my best," she added quietly, her voice softer now, tinged with an emotion he couldn’t place. "Even if you don’t accept."

And just like that, his doubts began to crumble. He didn’t know why, but he trusted her. Maybe it was her warmth, or perhaps it was the quiet resolve in her voice. Whatever the reason, Byung-Gyu felt a strange peace settle over him.

"Then…" He exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing. "I choose—"

A soft flutter interrupted him, and he turned his head. A single butterfly had landed on one of the spider lilies, its delicate wings glowing faintly in the starlight. It flitted up toward him, brushing past his cheek like a whisper before disappearing into the wind.

And in that moment, Byung-Gyu made his decision.

---

It was a miracle. There was no other way for Jinwoo to describe it.

The raid had concluded, and the air was heavy with the lingering tension of their battle against the Ant King. Cha Hae-In was stabilized but unconscious, cradled in Ma Dong-Wook’s arms, her condition precariously maintained by the shadow Min Byung-Gyu had become. Jinwoo, adhering to Baek Yoonho's heartfelt plea, had released the shadow of the fallen healer. For Jinwoo, it was an act of respect, honoring the wishes of the man who had given so much for humanity.

They were preparing to leave the cavern when a panicked shout rang out.

“S-Something is happening to Min Byung-Gyu's body!”

Jinwoo’s head snapped toward the source of the commotion. In the dim light of the cave, the sight unfolding before him was unmistakable: Byung-Gyu’s decapitated body was now enveloped in a radiant, otherworldly glow. The light was blinding, drowning out the cavern in pure white brilliance. Gasps echoed through the group as everyone shielded their eyes.

What the—” Jinwoo muttered, his instincts immediately going on high alert.

When the brilliance faded, Jinwoo and the others were left staring in stunned silence.

Min Byung-Gyu's body lay intact. Whole.

Not only had his previously severed head returned to its rightful place, but the wounds from the Ant King were gone. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his face peaceful as though waking from a restful sleep.

And then he stirred.

The collective shock in the cavern was almost tangible. No one moved or spoke, rooted to their spots as Min Byung-Gyu’s eyelids fluttered open.

He blinked slowly, his gaze sweeping the room until it landed on Baek Yoonho, who stood frozen, eyes wide and trembling. Byung-Gyu’s expression softened as a faint smile spread across his lips.

“Hyung?”

The single word shattered the silence. Baek Yoonho staggered forward, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words that wouldn’t come.

“Byung-Gyu…” he finally choked out, his voice breaking.

It was a sight none of them could comprehend.

The others stared, their gazes flitting between Jinwoo and the revived healer. Choi Jong-In, Lim Tae-Gyu, Ma Dong-Wook, and even the A-rank reporter clutching his unpowered camera couldn’t hide their bewilderment. All eyes eventually settled on Jinwoo, silently demanding an explanation.

Jinwoo shook his head, signaling that he had nothing to do with it.

But inwardly, he knew. His sharp gaze caught the faint imprint of a butterfly at the base of Byung-Gyu’s neck, its golden shimmer unmistakable. It was your mark.

You had done this.

---

Later, when the others had left the cave to regroup and ensure Cha Hae-In received medical attention, Jinwoo lingered. He stood in the dim cavern, arms crossed, his shadowy aura faintly pulsing as he waited.

“You sure know how to make an entrance,” Jinwoo teased when the soft glow of silver butterflies appeared behind him, swirling gracefully before forming your familiar figure.

Your pout was immediate, and Jinwoo bit back a grin at how predictable you were. “You don’t need me, anyway,” you retorted with a sigh, brushing imaginary dust off your attire. “You have things under control.”

Jinwoo crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Did I?” he asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice. “Because it sure felt like someone went out of their way to ensure things went a little smoother.”

Your expression faltered for a moment, and you glanced away. “I only stepped in when it was absolutely necessary,” you admitted. “Min Byung-Gyu deserved a second chance. And Hae-In...” You trailed off, your tone softening. “She’s a good person.” Jinwoo didn’t press further, sensing there was more you weren’t saying. Instead, you shifted the topic.

“Jinwoo, help me test something,” you said abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.

He tilted his head, intrigued.

“I’ve been wondering why I keep accumulating experience even when the system doesn’t assign me quests anymore. You hog all the EXP and rewards,” you accused, narrowing your eyes at him.

The jab hit its mark, but Jinwoo’s pride wouldn’t let it show. Instead, he smirked. “Maybe you just can’t keep up,” he said, his tone deliberately teasing.

Your unimpressed stare nearly made him laugh.

“And what do I get for helping you?” he asked, leaning slightly closer, curious about how far you’d go to win him over this time.

“What do you want?”

The question, spoken with such quiet sincerity, caught him off guard.

Your gaze was steady, unwavering, as if you had already anticipated his response. Jinwoo blinked, momentarily at a loss. Was it wrong that your willingness to offer him anything stung a little? Did you think so little of his intentions?

“…Dinner,” he muttered, almost too softly to be heard.

You frowned. “Pardon?”

He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tick you had come to recognize. “Join me for dinner,” he said more firmly, avoiding your eyes.

Your lips twitched into a faint smile. “You do realize that sounds like a date, right?”

The effect was immediate. Jinwoo stiffened, his composure cracking as he quickly tried to explain himself. You could practically see the gears in his head turning as he stumbled over his thoughts.

You let him flounder for a moment before cutting him off with a soft laugh. “I’m joking. Sure, why not?”

Relief flashed across his face, though it was quickly masked by a neutral expression. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but your easy acceptance left him feeling oddly... dissatisfied.

---

As you suspected, your theory proved correct. You gained experience not through direct combat but by supporting others. Assisting Jinwoo, boosting his shadows, and stabilizing Cha Hae-In had all contributed to your growing level.

Yet, Jinwoo’s mood throughout the ordeal was noticeably subdued. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, there was a shadow of dejection in his eyes that even his loyal shadows couldn’t explain.

When you asked them, they only shrugged apologetically, as if to say, “We’re sorry, Lady (Name). We have no idea what’s troubling Our Liege.”

You rubbed your temples in frustration, your butterflies fluttering around you in a show of concern.

What has gotten into him now?

End Note:

Unfinished Draft of [23/11/2024] -

[bambi-kinos]

hey... what do you make of just like starting over and real love? do you think theyre rlly about paul? i think they are, but i struggle to believe john was finally making up his mind like that

Paul almost certainly thinks that (Just Like) Starting Over is about him. He purportedly listened to it on repeat for days right after John died and then there's the "walrus" referenced in the first draft of the lyrics, as well as the line about making love in Paris. I absolutely believe that Paul is the primary recipient of (Just Like) Starting Over.

I don't think it was John making up his mind per se...I think it was more like, John was unhappy with how he had left things with Paul and he was feeling optimistic about their future, so long as they stayed the course and renewed their love. However John is still John, he reached out to May Pang the same year and reconnected with a bunch of people out of the blue. Which is to say that yes, he did want to renew things with Paul and patch things up with him. But he also prepared some back ups in case that didn't work out for him. I think it was Harry Nilsson that received a middle of the night phone call from John where John was really warm to him after being out of touch for years. (Just Like) Starting Over was written with Paul as its true object and in John's heart of hearts I believe he wanted to make a new bond of love with Paul, but I also think that it is written as such that John could tell any of his old flames that "this one's for you" and mean it.

Which brings us to Real Love, I think that Real Love is also intended to be about Paul. However Real Love is a lot older and to quote a random twitter user I saw when Now and Then dropped, "it's another Lennon misery fest." When John wrote the beginnings of Real Love he certainly had Paul on his mind (hence the "lalalala farm" bit in the initial "Real Life" noodling around.) Whatever was going on with John staying in the Dakota, he was clearly longing for Paul and desperately wished things were different. But Real Love lacks the hopeful and anticipatory tone of (Just Like) Starting Over. I think John wanted to do more with Paul than sit in a studio with him again IYKWIM.

Real Love feels a lot more like an expression of John's regrets and how he wished things were different, that he had gone a different way. It actually strikes me as more of a venting song than something John really wanted to polish and bring to the public, "why must we be alone?" is a question John seems to have been asking himself through out the Dakota years. He put himself in this position and he is trying to understand why he did it to himself, even asking seemingly silly and pointless questions like "why am I so alone, why isn't Paul here with me, didn't I hold him in my arms just yesterday?" ('Yesterday' again....I said something wrong now he's gone away....and I don't believe in Yesterday myself....I never wished I had written it....now I long for yesterday....)

But when you're making vent art you don't ask yourself sophisticated questions, you ask yourself really obvious ones that you know the answer to but you've been scared to answer fully because it means accepting that you've known this entire time and haven't done anything about it. The Real Life demo we have ends with "just call him on the phone."

(Just Like) Starting Over is John making his first steps towards a new future that he wants Paul to be a part of while still being uncertain about what that entails. Real Love is John coming to grips with the scale of his loss and bewilderment at how he got here, the intervening years between his successful love affair with Paul vs the drug addled years in the Dakota being a smeared blur.

I don't think John had necessarily made up his mind about Paul. More like he realized his relationship with Yoko had run its course (whether he knew she was a parasite is another question.) That was his chance to be with Paul again.

[putting-eddie-munson-in-places]

can you put him in the ‘we are the world’ music video? (you get free reign on which celebrity he’s duetting with.)

Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson waits for his turn on the mic alongside (who we now know was his boyfriend at the time) pop sensation Steve Harrington, in the studio for the recording of "We Are The World"

[bread-bastard]

Walk Mary Home side route my beloved (featuring my dadsona Antonio!) Mary needs more love in this fandom fr 🤍

[spacedlexi]

people dont talk enough about how heartbreaking the marlon betrayal mustve been for clem too,,

this dude saves the life of her and her kid. takes them in has them patched up gives them their first hot meal in who knows how long. gives them a safe place to stay. possibly permanently. confides in her that hes trying to be a good leader but feels like and fears that hes failing. asks her to help him take care of the rest of the group. helps her get over her fear of dogs by asking her to trust him. and things go well. she feels safe. like this place could really finally be the home shes been looking for

but as soon as she finds out what happened to the twins. that marlon planned on giving up her and aj too. she immediately becomes a liability to him and he attempts to kill her for it. locks her in the basement to die by walker. then tries to turn the group against her so he can shoot her instead when the first method fails. and he nearly succeeds

then a majority of the group turn against clem the minute aj kills marlon. ignoring marlons mistakes but condemning aj for his. like clem wasnt betrayed by marlon in the exact same way he betrayed the twins. like she literally wasnt almost killed twice? and how long had he been considering giving her up? was it always some contingency he planned? did he truly want to keep them around and things only changed when he feared the raiders had returned? she'll never know

[glitteringstardust]

❤️ 👑 ❤️ | 👑 ❤️ 👑 | ❤️ 👑 ❤️

emperor kuzco stimboard

[teknikolor-walters]

Does anyone else feel a debilitating fear of getting better? Is this normal? Does it secretly prove I'm just faking everything for attention? Probably tbh

[anneapocalypse]

On Dragon Age II's Ending

The ending of Dragon Age 2 has always felt to me like the least morally ambiguous of any of the games' mage-templar decisions and frankly one of the least ambiguous "big" decisions in the series.

DA2 makes it extremely obvious that the Circle mages are about to be executed for something that absolutely none of them had any part in and no one, not even the Knight-Commander, is arguing that that isn't the case. You can feel whatever kind of way about what Anders did, and still recognize the staggering injustice of killing all the Circle mages for something that everyone, including the Knight-Commander calling for their deaths, is fully aware they did not do.

And just in case that wasn't clear, someone made a point of dropping in that bit of ambient dialogue telling us that Meredith is already trying to get clearance for the Right of Annulment before the explosion; she's just looking for an excuse. The game is pretty clear about the injustice of this situation, regardless of how many demons and blood mages there may or may not be in Kirkwall.

I'm a chronic replayer who enjoys making up new characters every time to see things I haven't seen before and I didn't have a particularly difficult time coming up with in-character, circumstantial reasons why a character might annul the Circle in DAO or recruit the templars in DAI and believe they're doing the right thing. For the former: dwarven noble who knows little about magic and believes what the Knight-Commander tells her, and chooses the wrong dialogue option with Morrigan in the party so Wynne attacks and therefore is not present in the party as an emotional anchor and a voice for the mages, and listens to Cullen when he says it's too dangerous to let any of the mages live. For the latter: non-mage human noble from a Chantry-connected family who just implicitly trusts templars, as he was raised to. Or Dalish elf who walks into Redcliffe, sees a magister stinking up the place and says "Well, the Dread Wolf take the lot of you then" and turns around and marches straight to Therinfal, conscripts the templars, disbanding the Order in the process. Just a couple of easy examples I've actually played.

But the ending of DA2 is a choice between "Yes, I will help to execute these people for something everyone knows they didn't do" or "No, I will not do that and I will help them defend themselves and escape." Of course it's possible to come up with in-character reasons to make the former choice, and I have! But it's much less of a choice a character could just stumble into, and you have to do a lot more ideological contortions for a character to do that and believe they're doing the right thing.

Yes, there are a lot of blood mages and demons in Kirkwall. While we don't get a lot of opportunities to treat blood mage NPCs with much nuance apart from Merrill as most blood mages are programmed to attack on sight (and this is likely a product of the game's tight development deadline), the game itself offers an explanation for this in the writings of the Band of Three, the Enigma of Kirkwall codex entry that you can collect throughout the story. While you have to look to find it, this history does make it clear that Kirkwall is meant to be an outlier, for reasons both political and historical (which is another post for another day). And Merrill herself, whether you agree with her viewpoints or not, does offer an important counterpoint: a character designed to be sympathetic while giving a more nuanced perspective to the player on why a mage might choose to use blood magic.

And yeah, even with the fact that the game makes you fight Orsino in the mage ending, I still think this. It's clumsily executed, yes, but Orsino going all blood magic harvester abomination is just one more example of what the game has been showing us all along: that mages (like most people) turn to extreme measures when they're backed into corners with no sense of hope, and the templars then use those extreme actions to justify further abuses of mages. I don't think it was strictly necessary (and for what it's worth, Mark Darrah agrees with that; it's a decision that was made out of concern for gameplay balance more than narrative and in hindsight he's said that he thinks it was a mistake), and I definitely think it could have been executed better, but as it stands it does fit an ongoing theme, and Orsino's actions still do not justify the murder of every other mage in the Circle.

And then there's that thing where Hawke can only receive the support of the nobility and become Viscount if they side with the templars, thereby agreeing to uphold the existing power structures in Kirkwall. It's easy to miss if you've never played through the templar ending (and also because Hawke doesn't hold the position for long and Inquisition doesn't really acknowledge that they ever did Correction: It is actually mentioned in the Champion of Kirkwall codex entry, and possibly other places as well, my memory just failed me), but to me that outcomes is absolutely inspired. It serves to highlight how deeply intertwined the nobility are with the Chantry. The nobles of Kirkwall want Meredith deposed because they feel she's overstepped her bounds by denying them a proper viscount, but they are not anti-Chantry or anti-Circle; they still want mages locked up, and they probably also remember what happened the last time Kirkwall's nobility decided to try and contest the Chantry's power in their city (see: Perrin Threnhold).

I find the templar ending genuinely interesting to play through in terms of seeing the story from that angle, and in terms of what it has to say about power structures and politics in Thedas generally and in Kirkwall in specific, which I also wrote about recently. (To say nothing of how differently it frames Varric in Inquisition when the Hawke he idolizes is the Hawke who slaughtered Kirkwall's mages to a one.) I would honestly recommend playing it at least once for lore reasons if you're into that sort of thing. But I would hardly say that you as a player come out of that ending feeling like you're playing the good guy.

And I'm not even arguing that all choices in the games should be this in-your-face. On the contrary, I don't think they all should. I like it when it's possible for a character to make a choice with unintended outcomes, or get accidentally locked into a worse choice because of previous decisions (like annulling the Circle and then being forced to kill Connor or Isolde). Those are some of my favorite kind of choices in these games. In this particular case, I do think the extreme nature of the choice is important to the story, both as the catalyst for the mage rebellion and to underscore why Anders did what he did.

So when people tell me that DA2 "both sideses" the mage-templar conflict... I respect that it's possible to feel that way about it, but I just don't see it. The game allows the player to role-play a character who might make various choices within its narrative; that is not the same thing as presenting all choices as morally equivalent in-universe, and it has never been the same thing, in any of these games.

If you're looking for one mage-templar choice that puts the injustice squarely in your face, I think the ending of DA2 is very much that.

[sysig]

Maybe something with Mousey being jealous of Hunter and Smoker for one reason or another? hehe

Day 7 - There might be a reason for that

Bonus:

[princeofhags]

i just finished reading about iraestra so wand of twilight for her as well!

Wand of Twilight. Iraestra conjures a spirit from the land of the dead to speak to them.

FANTASY PROMPTS | @foxboyclit

Smoke floods the altar in fragrant plumes, the familiar taste of myrrh coating the back of Iraestra's throat uncomfortably. Her steps, purposefully measured and slow, sound monstrous in the cavernous wings of the ceremonial chamber. The peace is further broken by the occasional murmur of an invocation or rustling cloth. There has been no order given for silence, but the trepidation hanging heavy in the air as the incense enforces the command. They all wait in the lurch of a breathless hush, an animal instinct to a known threat. Still, so that the hunter is not enthralled by your fleeing. Anticipation before the blow.

Does their visitor scent the fear he instills in the air, like a hound? Does the chorus of thrumming hearts beckon to him like the call of war drums? Bodies, so many bodies for him to open and bleed.

Itaestra does not doubt that he often relishes it. Bhaalspawn are such curious, depraved half-beasts.

Prince of the Blood. A self-given title, perhaps, but she has heard the reverence Bhaal's faithful pour at his feet like wine libations. Their honored guest is heir to a butcher's legacy. She thinks him little more than a glorified killer draped in the dressings of grandeur.

Iraestra does not cower or draw back from him, but there is still an instinctual unease at the thought of a Bhaalspawn being familiar with her. The Dread Lord’s wicked heirs do not know friends, only warm bodies to bite with steel. The world to them is already dead, merely waiting to be torn asunder to show its truest color: the crimson of fresh spilt blood.

A hedonistic dogma. She holds her tongue due to the respect granted to Bhaal by her own unholy master.

She observes the preparations for the ritual with only half an eye, attention commanded by the ophidian silhouette haunting the edge of the room. What a disquieting picture he paints. His height causes him to loom terribly, heads and shoulders above the flock of mortal meat. He need not even draw his weapon to kill half the room should he wish it. Each finger is tipped with a talon that catches the candlelight with each of his clenching hand. When he had spoken, his teeth had stood out vividly against the stone-black gleam of his scales. The dried gore on his scales embrace him as intimately as any lover.

The wicked length of a barbed tail flickers in what may be a sign of agitation in his people, or merely a quirk of the extra limb. His attention is riveted on the altar. She half expects it to catch aflame.

She attempts not to concern herself with his growing impatience. Any fool can cast a spell to converse with the departed; a Myrkulite only does so at the behest of another and the blessings of the Bone Lord. She will not disregard the tenants of her faith even for this Prince.

"You're eager," she observes. The dragonborn has not left the corpse's side since it was brought to her. Curious. He must be thoroughly invested in the secrets it would spill. "It was good that you preserved the jaw. A wasted trip had you not," she stops by the head, only the breadth of a few steps between her and the Prince.

At that, he finally regards her. Even in his initial instructions he had been short with her. "What of a tongue?

"Is this a theoretical or practical query?" Short of the patience to wait for an answer, Iraestra snaps at one of the attendants. "Bone Talker, check the mouth."

Questing fingers find only half of the appendage still intact. If removed before death, exsanguination is as likely a cause as any.

"It will do," she decides. "I am ready to begin." Her attendants step back as one.

The body has been prepared as best they can given its mangled state. This man, who can be no older than twenty, bares the marks of a slow death. The skull, partially caved, rests unevenly on the cloth. He does not even look peaceful now, as the victims of violence rarely do.

She steps forward, hands rising from her sides. Iraestra readies herself to speak the ancient words.

"Alone," the Prince's clipped voice rings out clearly. Not a request. Demand.

Iraestra hisses her frustration. Better vexation, than dread. She knows the vestments of anger well, slips into them like a second skin. Her mouth twists, her shoulders draw tight. Her hands are half-formed claws in the air. She hears the pound of her own heart in her ears.

What is so important that it cannot be witnessed by the others? What is to be done with her, who will attend to the questioning herself?

"Mistress?" Every cowled head in the room turns to look at her. They hear the call for her death as vividly as she. One of the fools is brave enough to step towards her, as if they could truly do anything to intervene. She admires them for their stupidity.

The Prince watches her, well aware of what he asks for. Trust or faith or maybe both. Clearly, he is looking for a reaction. Will she falter, will she balk? Could he make a bouquet of the stench of her unease? He regards her with a snake's stare, eyes cold licks of fire. He does not blink.

If he thinks he can subdue her so easily, then he is sorely mistaken. She is drow. She is Oblodra. Her own mother's hands were the first to ever try to take her life. He will find no easy marks here today. Let him slake his thirsts elsewhere. There are other, weaker creatures for him to gorge himself on.

"Leave us," Iraestra does not take her eyes from the Prince. She does not speak or move again until the door clicks shut behind the last attendant. How awfully similar it sounds to the closing stone of a tomb.

She rounds on him, irritation clear. "Why did you ask for me?"

The Prince is the first to look away, back to her hands and then the body. Iraestra does not feel like she has won anything of merit. It is impossible to tell if he is pleased. "The Banite confides in you. I thought to do the same."

He does not give a name, nor does she ask for it. She wonders at what the Prince knows of her talks with the other Chosen.

"And what if his confidence is misplaced?" A theoretical. Her loyalty is not often brought into question. It is rare that she pledges it at all.

"Then I will kill you," the Prince simply states.

She laughs. That intention is only the natural conclusion of the dance. There is no greater aim for those of his depraved bent. "So you say. Did you not plan to do so already?"

His head tilts in a particularly reptilian gesture. His glittering eyes have found the pulse in her throat, her bare wrists. She cares not for his study. It feels too much like a physical caress, high beneath dress and robe. One hunger is not too different from another, and she supposes they may be frighteningly the same for him. Both indulgences of the flesh, in the end. "Do not tempt me. Your blood would spill sweetly on this floor."

Iraestra sneers. "Cast your fetid gaze elsewhere, brute. You will not find easy prey in me."

He chuckles darkly. "Of that I am sure. I would savor the challenge as much as anything else."

"I was under the impression that there were more pressing matters at hand, given your early insistence on haste."

"Time can always be afforded for pleasure, sorceress. Consider the feel of silk on the skin. The burst of fruit between teeth and the rush of the juice down your chin, the clench of a lover tight around you as they sob your name. That final, shuddering breath that flutters out of the throat at death. Do you not feel the drum of the heart in your own chest? Do you not wish to dance to it? If you are so indifferent to it, I could show you how to listen to it once more. To feel it." How reverently he speaks, as if he is at the shrine of his own father-god. His lids have nearly closed in rapture.

There's smoke in the dragonborn's mouth and anticipation in his words, thick enough to choke on. He whispers with the tongue of a snake, words dripping from the depravities he utters.

As mad as his sister, the shape-changer, Iraestra decides with disdain. The seed of Bhaal is truly cursed with madness, complete and true. It was preferable when he was barely acknowledging her presence despite demanding it in the first place.

"You have nothing that I desire." Were she younger, still a fool turned by a pretty face, she may have once allowed herself to be seduced by the offer. She ignores the answering hook of arousal low in her gut, focusing once more on the misshapen head on the pillow. Reminds herself of whose hands exactly have crushed it. There is much to do before she is ready for the grave. "Now, if you will allow me to get on with this, we may be each rid of the other before long."

“A pity that you deny yourself,” but he nods. “Perform your rites. Regretfully, I cannot linger for long.” 

Iraestra does not regret that. She is exhausted and enthralled by him in equal measure. Let this be the first and last time she suffers his company. 

She begins her prayer to the dead. 

[sabraeal]

a heart felled by you, held by you; Part 1

[Read on AO3]

Inspired by @onedivinemisfit's Lilias Charity Gala pieces; Annie had a strong idea coming into the challenge, and we had a lot of fun hashing through what we felt would most represent Northern vs Southern fashion, and academic vs noble fashion. We struggle bussed hard over some of the male looks, had some real experimental ideas for Haki's dress that Annie really made into something special...and then I realized I would not have enough time to even get to the gala portions of this fic. So this chapter is a bit of a prequel, with more to come later...

The message arrives via the traditional method: clutched in the woolly mitts of a street urchin, another paw already extended for payment. The university is rife with them, always milling about underfoot, loitering in the exact walkways one would most like to hurry through before students— or worse yet, other academics— could waylay them. It also contains the traditional summons, or rather, the traditional stay put.

A representative will be coming, it threatens in the usual, toothless way the board prefers, as if their approval means anything more than being saddled with more responsibility. Please make sure that you are in-office when we arrive.

It is Lata’s personal tradition to disappoint them. To imagine them arriving at his closed door, scowls furrowing deeper with each unanswered knock. Sometimes he can even hear his name being cursed on the wind as his cart rolls out the city gates, headed to quarries unknown. They might find him when he returns, twice as cross for having been made fools in front of the whole department, but at least they meet on his terms, not some…board of academics so close to titles he can nearly smell it in their stiff collars and even more starched opinions.

That is not, however, how it happens this year. Oh, he meant it too— he’d already been looking at likely quarries when Shidan shuffled into his office, wondering if he might pull the same disappearing act he had the past seven years running. Lata may have spent his nascent years at Wistal dodging the dire undercurrents of Kain’s court, but even without such a thorough education in ignoring the unspoken intentions behind spoken words, he would have heard the man’s insinuations loud and clear: stay, please, our funding might depend on it. Academics weren’t exactly known for their subtlety, and Shidan was among the least of them.

It’s not the sort of appeal that typically moves him. And yet somehow as the day grew closer, he found himself more interested in the edits on Shirayuki’s proposal than in locations of wunderock veins, pausing more often to correct the application of Suzu’s hammer than the supply lists he’d kept on his desk since last semester. For all that he hadn’t meant to stay, somehow he had, and by the time he realized it, it was far too late to do anything but wonder how much more the temperature would drop before the university would finally open the thermal vents. The whole place would smell of sulfur for a season, but at least it would be warm.

It helped, of course, that their representative came early. Two days, in fact; the knock landing on his door with an airy cadence, as if the knuckles did not so much rap on the panels but dance across them. He expected something more thunderous, to be honest; a declaration and a reckoning all in one. He'd almost be offended, if he wasn't hoping for some noodle-limbed pushover as his auditor.

“Come in,” he grunts before he can think better of it. If he’d kept his mouth shut, they might at least assume he was out to lunch, or had been dragged out to Shidan’s lab to clap over whatever little achievement they’d eked out of those plants of theirs, as if it had anything to do with him. But now they know he’s here, trapped behind the mountain of papers on his desk— that’s the problem with being a collaborator, all the paperwork— with no escape but out a second floor window. An attractive option for a much younger, more morally— and physically— flexible knight, but certainly not open to him.

He braces himself. There’s seven years worth of scolding coming, of classes he hasn’t properly bought himself out of and reviews he has yet to provide as ‘part of this academic community’, with only a thin oak door to separate him from it. Just a simple twist of a knob, and they’ll having him so thoroughly pinned he might as well be up on cork. Scholaris Forzenalis, it might say, elusive specimen found on university grounds. Never before caught.

So it confounds him when they knock again.

“Come in,” he says, louder this time, annoyance bleeding into the words. “What? Don’t they teach you how to open doors in this university? Or do you all just sit around, waiting for your assistants to—”

With all the delicacy of shears slicing through silk, his door slips open. Instantly, his teeth clack to a close.

“Forgive me.” Those pretty manners he once protested protect him now, hard-ingrained habit driving him to his feet where intelligence fails him. “My lady. If I had know you would be the one sent on board business, I would have, er…”

Been in another country entirely. But one does not say that to Haki Arleon, daughter to a duke, sister to the commander of the guard, mistress of Lilias in her own right— and most important, Clarines’ queen-to-be. At least, not if one would also like to continue to rely on the crown’s largess. At least two of his grants came backed by Clarines’ treasury, and Lata would like to keep it that way.

“Would you like something to drink?” He glances at the kettle perched on the sideboard, probably as cold as the cup quarantined to the corner of his desk. “I could call for something.”

“That’s quite all right.” The future queen does not sashay into the room the way her brideroom might— the way he did once, the single, unfortunate time Lata fell squarely into His Majesty’s interests— but peruses it, stepping through the stacks of specimens and pausing to read each tag. There is no urgency in how she meanders through the room, no destination; at one moment bending over a table to squint over a fine bit of shale, and the next detouring to the cabinets for a well-tumbled example of aventurine. It reminds him of the girl who used to be carried through these hallowed halls on her lord father’s shoulders, those same wide eyes peering through every case, curiosity so strong it nearly put her hair on end— only to hide the moment a scholar approached, burying herself in the safety of his neck.

But that is not the woman who smiles at him now, settling into the overstuffed chair across from him with all the ease of a bird alighting to a perch. Or at least, it hasn’t been, not for a long time. “Are you quite sure I can’t get you anything?”

“I believe I am supposed to ask you for your books,” she informs him, too sweet to put him at ease. “The ones with your expenditures for the last year, as well as your proposed budget for the next one.”

Lata grimaces. Her father had a grimmer countenance, to be sure, but that pretty smile of hers is twice as implacable. Disobey me at your own peril, it says, radiating the same ruthlessness as a desert sun. I love to see crows feast on the corpses of poor listeners.

“That is what I’m supposed to ask, at least.” He glances up at her, quizzical, hands half-wrapped around his accounts. “But what I wanted to talk to you about is the gala.”

“The—” his mouth barely knows how to wrap around the word— “gala?”

“The charity gala.” A Wisteria might raise one brow— mockingly, the way their kind preferred to communicate— but she raises both, surprise and invitation rolled into one. “The one the board hosts every year to help fund their more promising projects.”

The one he always skips, since if there is one thing he likes less than rubbing elbows with lords and ladies, it’s watching his esteemed colleagues parade themselves like débutantes before them, courting every eligible purse in the room in hopes one might open for them. “Ah,” he manages. “That gala.”

What that has to do with him, he can’t fathom, but—

“We would like this gala’s funds to go towards funding the further research of the Phostyrias.”

There’s nothing in his mouth, but Lata nearly chokes on it anyway. “Excuse me,” he rasps, clearing his throat. Last years contributions topped nearly three million dir before he stopped paying attention. Enough to keep Shidan’s little pet project in the black for the next three years. Five even, if he minds his expenditures. “That’s no mean gift, my lady.”

She hums, hands folding neatly over her lap. “The board has been quite impressed with the progress made in the last year.”

Or rather, the progress one particular scholar has made in impressing its importance on the local lords. If the rumor going around the commissary had even a grain of truth to it, this year’s guest list was nearly half again the length of the last, and every one of them would be wanting to put their name on that girl’s dance card. One can only hope His Majesty has invested a similar interest in her footwork, otherwise there might be quite the crush in the infirmary come morning.

“Although I am always happy to hear of my colleagues’ good fortune,” he lies, the pleasantries falling from his lips with all the ease of oil from butter. “I must admit I do not see why you have chosen to bring me the glad tidings. The phostyrias is, after all, Shidan’s project, not mine.”

“Ah, but you are a collaborator, are you not, professor?” One corner of her mouth hooks too slyly for the sweetness of her face. “As I understand it, your wunderocks are crucial to the formation of those phostyrias bulbs no small amount of Lilias scholars have been sent to plant along the North's roads. And as such, I imagine that a goodly portion of that money will be given to you.”

It’s the same mental arithmetic he’d been spooling through since that announcement dripped from her lips. He hadn’t hitched himself to Shidan’s wagon for the money; there hadn’t been any when that girl cornered him at His Majesty’s little fête, just the sort of pluck that showed promise-- which wouldn’t have interested him in the slightest if the little she-devil hadn’t twisted his arm. Or rather, let her knight do it. But now that there is— well, it’d all been fine and good to give some free pointers here and there, or let Shidan’s students run rampant through his laboratory, pillaging his specimens in the name of science, but now that he could be paid for his time…

Well, there’s some personal projects that could do with a little attention. A lot of attention, if that guest list proves as flush as one might hope. “I suppose that is the case. Still, I am not sure why you would bring the news to—?”

“There is a small problem with the gala.” There’s so much carrot in Lady Haki’s smile it can only hide a stick. “You see, it has always been my privilege to host the event at Wirant. Our staff has always been delighted to put in the sort of work it takes to make the night a great success. But this year, well…I’m afraid the ballroom is being renovated.”

No doubt to be just as resplendent as the one in Wistal. With the marriage between the North’s most darling daughter and Clarines’ king finally set, it would be the duty of the Arleons to throw the engagement celebration— and it wouldn’t do for these southern lords with their soft hands and snobby opinions to come up and find Wirant lacking. Half the collective North would fall on their swords before they’d allow it to be said that the royal palace threw a better wedding than they did an engagement.

“Most years, we might impose upon the university for the use of their function room, however—” her hands splay helplessly between them— “with the recent rash of guests who have replied to our invitation, it will hardly be large enough to hold them. So of course it falls upon us to find another location.”

“A pity. Perhaps one of your noble acquaintance would be willing to hold it, my lady.” They typically were, so long as they felt they would be appropriately compensated. And with the request coming from the Clarines’ next queen— well, there were few who wouldn’t clamor at the chance for her favor. “Preferably one who won’t have an interest in holding it over you once you become ‘Your Majesty.’”

“That is—” those wide eyes bat once, twice— “what I am hoping.”

 Lata blinks. “My lady, once again, I must ask, what does this have to do with…?”

All at once, it comes to him. Dreadfully, finally. “No! No. My lady, that’s hardly—” he coughs, trying to catch his breath and his thoughts—“That’s not my estate.”

“Ah, that’s strange, then,” she says, too innocent. “When I wrote to your lord father, the duke was of the impression it was under your care.”

His teeth grind hard enough he can hear the fissures forming. “My lord father…?”

“He was quite confused why I would inquire about its use of him when his heir was already in residence.” Her head tilts, resting on two of her slender fingers. “I thought it best not to mention that you had taken an apartment closer to the university.”

But she would, if he proved too troublesome. It’s clear in the way that mouth of hers hooks into a smirk, too like another in recent memory. “I haven’t been in that house in years— nearly a decade! The whole thing is little more than a moldering pile. And the ballroom— why, it’s probably in pieces by now.”

“Is that so?” she says in the precise tone that implies, it isn’t. “Your lord father told me that he just had laborers in last summer to repair the place top to bottom. ‘Not an original board in the place,’ I believe he said. Quite proud of it in fact.”

Lata smothers a grimace. There had been work done on the place; father insisted. A bachelor with a skeleton staff can’t be keeping the roof in order, the old man had huffed, just let a place in town and I’ll have the place tidy as the day it was built. He could hardly tell the stubborn old goat he hadn’t been using it in the first place. “I don’t keep staff.”

“I’ll lend you mine.” The answer’s too quick— she’d been expecting that one from the start. “As I said, they’re used to events of this scale. It’s the extra bodies that causes the most logistical problems for these sorts of things,” she admits reluctantly, “and this time of year, Wirant is full of them. They probably would jump at the idea of using a space that’s empty to start.”

His words curdle on his tongue, mouth pursing sourly around it. If Lady Haki is anything like her father, this whole conversation has been planned in advance, every reversal anticipated and its counter prepared. She came in here with him already well and thoroughly routed, he just hasn't seen the how of it yet.

“I wasn’t even planning on attending,” he grits out, more confession than caltrop. “That fool celebration is always on the solstice, and I can’t abide the costumes and the dancing and the kissing games—”

“Then we will have none.”

Lata raises a brow. “You think you can stop that crowd from having their fun? Stop them from causing mischief when they’ve been saving it up all year?”

“We remove the masquerade element,” she says, firm. “And the roka garlands. Without the garlands, kisses have meaning, and without the masks, they have consequences too. Which will be discouragement enough for most.”

That’s true enough; southern lords might revel in their rakishness, but those from northern stock valued tradition, reliability, wisdom. To be caught kissing the wrong woman at midnight would do more than scuttle a courtship or two— it could turn half the north against a man, leaving a house to flounder to make contracts, sending their interests south when their neighbors wouldn’t deal with a liar or an oathbreaker.

“And the dancing,” he grunts, warming to the topic. “I don’t want it. I’ve attended a hundred galas in my time, and never once has anyone truly cared to—“

“I afraid, my lord—” Lady Haki lays a quelling hand over his— “the dancing is a must.”

“But…” He glances down where her palm rests, the point of her nails resting next to the soft flesh of his wrist, the weight of it pinning him to the wood.

“Fine,” he sighs, settling back in his seat, flexing his hand to soothe the burn of it. “Dancing it is.”

*

There was no hour in which the Royal Pharmacy slept; even in the dead of night the back rooms buzzed, pharmacists weaving through every inch of the labyrinthine passages, droning on like bees in their hive. Each one of them would sigh in relief at the end of their shift, shedding their duties along with their coats, eager to slough off the hustle and bustle for a moment of silence. But after so many years of haunting empty halls, catching only shadows of the people he called his parents, Ryuu found the commotion comforting. At least, so long as he wasn't in the middle of it.

When sleep dragged at his edges, tugging at the end of his pen or bobbing the crown of his head, it wasn’t to his dormitory that he wandered. It might have been a kindness to the pharmacists with no place to go, a luxury to the apprentices who grew up sleeping three or more to a bed, but to him it had only been another empty room, a convenient closet to keep yet another body. There was no comfort to be found there, no warmth, just the cold, silent shell of solitude.

But beneath his desk— that had been just the right size. With his back pressed to the wall, he could feel the steady thrum of the palace’s heart, the regular bustle of its pulse beating right behind the plaster. Curtain drawn, it was dark as a womb, and when he closed his eyes, the warmth of his body trapped between wall and blanket, he could believe he was being carried by his mother still. A drowsing child separated from the world by only the thinnest membrane, always feeling, never understanding, but safe all the same.

It wasn’t until he had come here to the university, with its hallowed halls and its neatly kept hours, that he knew it could be different. That a place could be quiet without being lonely. That he could live without the membrane between him and world, and still hear himself think.

A heady discovery, for a boy not yet thirteen. Exhilarating. Terrifying.

He misses it, now.

“Oh my,” Shirayuki gasps, squeezed from the crush lingering outside the laboratory door. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a crowd like that. Not in the university, at least. What is—?”

“The occasion?” Kazaha drawls, glaring up from his bench. “That would be Garrack Gazelt.”

“Garrack?” She follows the jut of his chin, but only so far as Ryuu, eyes rounding into a question. “Did she say she was going to…?”

“For the gala.” The very one he’s been dreading, now that Shidan’s informed him he’s old enough to attend. “The lab is being honored, and she’s come to—”

“Play plus one,” Suzu says, shouldering himself between them on the bench. “Shirayuki, do you think you could take over this distillation? It’s taking ages and I’m tired of—”

“Garrack Gazelt isn’t anyone’s plus one,” Kazaha huffs, nearly thunderous. “She’s the foremost expert on medical pharmaceuticals in the kingdom, if not the continent.”

“And Shidan asked her to go to this shindig, So she’s here.” Suzu shrugs a shoulder. “Plus one behavior, that’s all I’m trying to say.”

“That’s not—!”

“Really?” Shirayuki blinks, taking in the breathless crush. Scholars jostle each other, jockeying for their place in line, bony elbows taking the more determined further front. If they were wearing ball gowns instead of lab coats, Ryuu could have easily mistaken them for eager young ladies at their first soirée, ruthlessly trying to thrust themselves before the most eligible gentleman in the room. “All this for Garrack?”

“What’s that?” A cold breeze is all the warning they have before boots land on the sill, a disheveled uniform perched above them. “Don’t think the chief deserves the popularity?”

“I never said that,” she says primly, the smallest hint of a smile clinging to the corner of her mouth. “I just mean she’s more of a fixture here than she was a few years ago. You’d think the excitement might have banked by now. Just a bit.”

Suzu huffs. “Never underestimate the power of Head Pharmacist Gazelt. I shook her hand this morning, and I still haven’t—!”

“Wash it,” Ryuu tells him, wide eyed. “Now. Please.”

“Aw, but what if all the luck washes off?”

“You know how you always wonder why girls won’t give you the time of day?” Obi says, strained. “This is why.”

“But this many people?” Shirayuki murmurs, as if Suzu hadn’t spoken at all. “Who are all they, even?”

“Faculty.” Kazaha leans a hip against the bench, catching the crowd at a casual angle. “Students. More than a few fellows from neighboring labs. They’ve been coming in and out all morning with the worst excuses.”

“Oh, and your little not-really-a-question-more-a-comment was so clever?” Suzu snorts. “Maybe you should stop living in a snow house if you’re gonna throw ice like that.”

“I didn’t say—” Kazaha lets a breath hiss through his nose. “You’re just jealous that she said I had thought through the problem from every angle, while she only told you that yours was an interesting endeavor, which everyone knows means it’s stupid—”

Suzu’s close enough Ryuu feels him take a breath rather than hears it, rebuttal poised at the tip of his tongue— but the slam of the laboratory door startles it right out of him.

“There,” Shidan says, one hand still pressed to the paneling. “That’s enough of that.”

“Oh, come on now, it’s easier this way.” Garrack doesn’t so much perch on as prowl to his desk, improbably long legs stretching across the floor. “They’re not used to this sort of excitement. You gotta let them get it out.”

“You could get out,” he grumbles, ambling behind his desk. Ryuu doesn’t need to be as perceptive as Obi to know he doesn’t mean a word of it. “Then maybe they might find somewhere else to be.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” The scant few years he spent under her careful eye is more than enough to know the smart comment that smile hides, one that’s sure to slide right under Shidan’s skin and send him skittering for some science to hold before his temper can get the best of him, but—

But it all goes up like smoke when the door nearly bursts off its hinges, a bolus of black wool hurtling through.

“What is the meaning—?” Shidan’s teeth snap shut. “Professor, I didn’t expect you to—?”

“That woman!” Lata doesn’t so much rage as froth, pacing like a pot just before a boil. “Comes into my office, just to trap me in a corner. No! To flush me out of a my den, like a hound does a…a-- a fox would say she speaks out of both side of her face, that’s the sort of woman she is. And she came to me.”

“Ah.” Shidan leans back in his seat, hands folded over his belly. “I see her ladyship spoke to you about the charity gala.”

“Spoke? Strong-armed is more like!” Steam would be rising from him, if it could from a person. “Practically mentioned the thing in one breath, and then had me hosting it the next! As if I don’t have anything better to do than bring the glittering ton into my own home and let them pick over the place like locusts!”

“Host? You? In your poor excuse for a house?” Garrack raises a thick brow. “How are we all going to fit around the rocks?”

“Not my personal abode.” He scowls down at the chief pharmacist, clearly just have noticing her presence. “Her ladyship asked for access to the estate.”

“Your family’s estate?” Both brows hike to her hairline. “I thought you were disowned.”

“Dis—? You thought—?” Lata sputters, words rattling like a pot’s lid. “I went into academia, not— not gotten a girl in the family way!”

She lifts a shoulder at the precise angle meant to annoy. “Wouldn’t be the first noble boy to do both. Maybe you thought a book might shield you from a bad marriage as much as taking the cloth.”

He stares at her for a long moment, simmering, before turning back to Shidan. “In any case, the woman’s taken my whole household firmly in hand. Told me there’s to be dancing too, if you can believe it.”

It’s with practiced patience that Shidan manages a mild, “You don’t say.”

“Dancing?” Garrack drawls, arms folding across the stark white of her coat. “What next? Kissing at midnight?”

“No, none of that,” he huffs. “And none of those silly garlands either. It’s bad enough I have to suffer through the moon eyes children make during a reel, I hardly need them making worse decisions in an empty bedroom.”

“Or unlocked closet.” Her lips twitch, dangerous. “Or just a really nice, shadowed corner…”

Lata frowns, the sort that might be more forbidding if Garrack possessed the ability to be shamed. “If you’re quite done being a degenerate?”

One shoulder lifts, lazy. “Hardly.”

“In any case,” he huffs, putting his back to her— and Shidan square in his sights. “I suppose my one consolation is that I cannot be made to dance—”

“Lata!” The name bubbles out of her, escaping through the hand she claps over it. “You’re the host.”

“Yes?” His mouth pulls thin. “Oh, some will find it rude, I’m sure, but a man can’t be made to dance, not in his own home. Not even by that— that—”

For all that his mouth works, teeth biting around the start of syllables before abandoning them for the next, Ryuu finds he hardly needs words to understand what Lata is trying to convey. Not when his hands clench so eloquently before him, the way His Highness Zen’s does when Obi really has gone and done something unwise.

“No, I mean—” now it’s Garrack waving her hands, thought it seems she’s having a far better time than Lata is doing it— “it’s the host’s job to open the floor. So you’ve got to at least do it the once.”

His shoulders stiffen to an edifice even mountains would shy from. “I must do no such thing. If the host must open the floor, then everyone can spend the night with their heels firmly on the parquet. Why, who would even be my partner? There’s not a single woman in the whole of the continent that could compel me to—”

“'Not a single woman.' You poor bastard!” A guffaw tears out of Garrack, putting tears in her eyes. “Do you really not get it? Not only do you have to open the floor—” her voice burbles up to a pitch that blots out all Lata’s attempts at protest— “but you have to do it with the highest ranked woman in attendance!”

Lata stills. Blinks. Once, then twice. And with no fanfare at all, his whole face rumples up, twisted around a sneer. “Oh—!”

Whatever else the professor says is lost to him-- Shirayuki clamps her hands right over his ears, so hard it leaves them ringing. By the time he’s quite recovered— and Lata’s quite finished— the first thing he hears is Obi murmuring, “Well, Yuzuri’s not going to like this.”

*

“What do you mean there’s not going to be kissing?!” Izuru makes a good attempt to shush her, but Yuzuri refuses to be silenced on this, even if the whole commissary is staring at them. She even drops her utensils for good measure, fork and knife both, letting them clatter to the table in the growing lull. “I finally get invited to the most exclusive Solstice party in Wirant, and there won’t even be garlands?”

“It’s not in Wirant,” Kazaha adds, right at the same time Shirayuki offers, “It’s a charity gala, not a Solstice party.”

The both stop, sparing each other the briefest glance before Kazaha pedantically plows on, “I think the Forzeno estate is somewhere outside the main city. Before the checkpoint, at least, but not within the walls—“

“That’s not important,” she snaps, wishing she could take a pair of scissors and even out that terrible hack job he likes to give himself, as if a lack of skill and a proper mirror could pass for fashion. “It’s a charity gala on the solstice, which means it’s a Solstice party and there should be kissing.”

“We go to the university party every year and you find someone to kiss just fine,” Suzu comments around a mouthful of yams. “I don’t know why it matters so much that you can’t kiss someone there.”

It’s impossible to explain to him that she’s running out of boys to kiss— or at least, boys to kiss that aren’t Suzu. Which she can never do, because wanting to put her mouth on him is a new, debilitating mental illness she’d rather die than indulge. She just needs to go out and— and touch a little snow. Meet people who know that a quadrille is a dance, not some sort of…of duck species. Reintroduce herself into a dating pool where more of the mate selection know how to chew with their mouth shut.

“Because the university party is full of academics,” she settles on instead, as close to a confession as she can bear. “And this place will has a ton of guys— normal guys, who can talk about stuff other than…sediment layers and rhizomes and…and which side of the body your kidneys are supposed to be on.”

“They’re supposed to be on both sides,” Kazaha informs her with a concerned frown, just as Suzu adds around a swallow, “I thought you loved rhizomes.”

She does. That’s sort of the problem. “There’s going to be actual gentlemen at this party, with titles and money and good manners, and I’m not going to be able to kiss any of them! It’s demoralizing.”

“Well,” Obi hums, mouth already hooking into trouble. That what she like about him: he’s always ready to break the rules. Or at least scuff them up a little. “That’s only if you get caught.”

Shirayuki casts him one of her knowing looks, the kind that doesn’t say I know what you’re up to so much as I know you’re better than this. “If Lata isn’t comfortable with kissing, then you shouldn’t be thinking about sneaking around to do it.”

“Aw, Miss,” he sighs, fluttering his eyelashes; a poor way to hide the fondness in his eyes. “But sneaking around is the best part.”

“There’s going to be dancing,” Kazaha interjects, heading their frustrating not-flirting flirting off at the pass. “You can at least do that with your moneyed and mannered gentlemen. Aren’t there a half dozen novels you’ve read where romance blooms over a reel?”

“A waltz, usually.” Sometimes maybe even a schottische or a polka, if the heroine was more plucky than limpid. “And that’s still not the same as kissing.”

“Lata’s even opening the floor.” Suzu mulls the thought over as he picks at a roll. “Do you think he can dance?”

“Well, he is a lord,” Obi reminds him, loading up his fork. “Aren’t they born knowing how to cut a rug?”

“Well, sure.” His hair’s gotten longer in the colder months, the ends lingering down around his shoulders rather than up my his chin. Yuzuri hates how much she wants to run her fingers through it. “But I mean…he’s been holding up in his lab for years. He’s got to be rusty, right? Like if he breaks one of Lady Haki’s foot bones, is that going to come out of our—?”

“He did just fine when we danced,” Shirayuki adds with a pointed look. “That wasn’t so long ago.”

“Miss.” It’s more a laugh than her name, and Obi leans in, far too close for just friends. “Back then, anyone would have seemed like a master next to you. I think I still have bruises from that night.”

Pink chases up the column of her throat, settling right at the tips of her ears. By the way her eyes dart down before skittering away, Yuzuri doubts it’s from the teasing. “W-well, still. He hardly stepped on my feet.”

Obi’s grin goes sharp, wolfish, like she’s just a little frolicking lamb, and he’s hungry for lunch. “How could he when yours are always so quick on the draw?”

This is getting ridiculous. “I think we’re missing the most important part here,” Yuzuri reminds them, startling Obi back to a less ravenous distance. “Which is that there’s going to be no kissing! For anyone!”

“Wait, will I have to dance?” Suzu asks, worry slipping the last few syllables shrill. “I’ve never danced before. Not the real stuff. I don’t even know where to put my hands!”

“Maybe,” Kazaha drawls, angling himself toward her— and away from Suzu’s spiraling. “You could spend all that time you wanted to be swapping spit with rich boys and use it to kiss up to our donors instead.”

Yuzuri groans. “That is not the kind of kissing I want to do.”

His mouth twitches, threatening amusement. “But it is a kind of kissing.”

“Obi.” Suzu grabs his sleeve over the sweet potatoes. “You gotta teach me how to dance.”

Kazaha sighs, shaking his head. “Great. And now the blind are leading the blind.”

[maddy-ferguson]

talking to new people again is making me realize that (this is gonna sound dramatic) i haven't lived in five years but what i have done is watch a lot of movies and read a bunch of books and believe it or not that actually makes me an interesting conversationalist in some ways (?)

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

WIP Title Game

I was tagged by @riotstarruika!

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

(I had to censor the one because it's such a specific ship that when it gets anonymously posted for an exchange in a couple of days I don't want everyone to immediately know it's me.)

Tagging @saintmouthed @akallabeth-joie @opens-up-4-nobody @fremedon @everyonewasabird and @riotstarruika again, since it's been so long that you probably have entirely new WIPs by now. XD

[coridallasmultipass]

rosedave for the fucked up ship bingo

Omg, they actually get a bingo for me!!

I was filling it out and skipped 'pool of blood' because I was gonna go back to use a redder colour, and then I finished going through the first pass and was like, 'Oh no, there's no bingo!' Except I read it again and remembered, oh right, forgot the red.

But yeah, awwww! Dave/Rose was baby's first Homestuck ship lol. Like day 1 of reading it I was like, 'they need to date, now!' (Before I even got to all the ectobiological implications, but by that point, it kinda just added to it because of the way they interact.) ((Playing with them like dolls/psychological torture.))

About the t4t one, just a personal comment, I have a whole like, story outline set up where Dave and Rose both being trans plays a role for Bro and Mom (both also trans) to talk (argue, over the phone) about Sburb and stuff. I just reread my outline and hfffff really wanna clean that up. (It's more of a Bro thing tho, so I won't get into that here.) But yeah, Dave and Rose are both queer too, which is always nice.

And 'divorced' is probably more like the Alpha versions, but I feel like that counts, too, since we didn't get to meet them directly in the comic. For the alphas, they seem like the type to be in and out of a relationship with each other all the time, always making headlines like 'Strider and Lalonde spotted holding hands at local cafe! Did their breakup last?' Or like completely mundane shit like that. While they're both intoxicated, D will initiate a breakup over some trivial argument, and then come crawling back to R begging her to come back the next morning. He has the divorce lawyer on speed dial, but both the lawyer and R know the divorce isn't going anywhere, and to just let D blow off steam with legal threats as usual. Idk. I could talk for days ab the alphas, but it's gonna be a lot of like, my ideas of them, rather than what we see in canon, so I'll just leave it at that for now.

Man, tho, that bingo line. So true.

They're terrible for each other in that they were made for each other - each of their fucked up shapes fits the other. I especially love how Dave seeks out Rose to make her pry the information out of him that he's too embarrassed to say flat out, or even when he is actually opening up. He knows Rose is going to tease him, and yet he seeks that out anyway. All of their interactions are just pure gold.

They DO die in a pool of blood together (alphas, but also when betas go godtier just without the blood I guess).

Incredibly mixed feelings!! I shipped this before I got to the related part and had to reconcile with that lol. I mean it wasn't that hard though, since you're basically spoonfed this ship (whether familial, platonic, or romantic/etc) with how Dave is the butt of all the Freudian and incest jokes, but also how comfortable they are with being themselves around each other. Teasing example that I love:

And WHERE is the content?! Fr, where? Whenever I DO see content of them tho, it's really great, so credit where credit is due, there IS content, I just don't happen across it as often as I'd like to.

Speaking of content, I'm gonna include two of my faves, bc 'thinking about them always and forever' lol. SUGGESTIVE stuff as follows:

I'm always thinking about that one fan art of Dave and Rose on the bed (adult only: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/737296482257043456 ) or the one where they're on a wall niche (also adult only: https://coridallasmultipass.tumblr.com/post/739893243737702400/have-you-ever-drawn-any-rosedave-i-love-those ). [Ugh are the links adding?? Just gonna put them down as text, and hope it inserts.]

So yeah. Man, this post got long, sorry about that.