#fortune's drabbles

[fortune-maiden]

Feveruary Day 18: Delirious

I was waiting to share this one :3

double drabble again :D

“We need a new hiding place,” Lu Guang tells him urgently, in a voice barely above a whisper. “The notebook can’t stay here. If they find it…” “They won’t,” Cheng Xiaoshi promises, pretending not to notice the nails digging into his wrist. “Didn’t I tell you I’m the master of hide and seek? They’ll need to overturn all of China before they find it. Leave everything to me.” Lu Guang nods. He lets Cheng Xiaoshi brush away the bangs in his eyes, and lies back down onto the lower bunk, whispering more reminders. Only when he’s asleep does his grip on Cheng Xiaoshi’s wrist slacken, allowing the latter to go handle his promised task. Cheng Xiaoshi shakes his head as he fixes the blanket and soaks the washcloth anew. Gently, he wipes down Lu Guang’s flushed face, hoping that something between this and the antibiotics bring down his friend’s fever soon. He slips away eventually, exhaustion and worry hanging over him like a thick coat. When he checks his phone, he finds a new message from Qiao Ling. How’s he doing? The text reads. Bad. Cheng Xiaoshi writes back truthfully. He’s completely out of it. Keeps worrying about some notebook.

[gingervitus]

Best Left Unsaid: a Rookanis Drabble

Inspired by @mythals-whore's post today about Rook overcooking pasta and getting banished.

I'm not good at writing generic Rook because I love my dingus LoF Rook Ella too much but I couldn't get this out of my head, so here have this thing I did.

Rook is desperate for… something.

Anything really.

It really isn't until after she and Taash have one too many drinks with Isabela down at the Hilt. Her head has been swimming with good Rivaini rum. Top shelf shit. Forehead pressed against the bar, she listened to her boss berate her choice in romantic interest. “C’mon, Rook! With an ass like that, you could be doing leagues better.” All she could do was groan. Her feet were multiplying as she stares down at them. “How bout that tasty warden? The one with his tits out all the time!” While she wasn't watching, she could just picture Isabela with a drink in one hand while she pushed her chest up with the other. “I mean, don't get me wrong. The guy's fucking loaded, but is that really worth all the headache... and the fucking old bat on top of that?”

Of course it was. He was. He still is. She's completely hopeless when it comes to him, and Isabela honed in on that. A shark in bloody waters. “Damn it, Rook!” She couldn't lift her head to look at Isabela. In part because she was very drunk, but also there was a shame in the revelation they both seemed to be having at a fucking bar “What did I tell you about keeping your nose clean with this one? But here we are.” Her face had never burned so hot before. She wasn't sure if she was going to cry or laugh or vomit. Maybe all three. “A fucking murderer for hire? Really?” Assassin, she had corrected when she finally found her voice, because as she had learned murderers were hobbyists. “Fucking Crow is what he is, and you're bloody in love with him. Unbelievable.”

And now she stands hauntingly sober over a simmering pot of water cooking delicately handmade pasta because she's a fool who fell in love with the human equivalent of an affectionate street cat. A broken little bird who just so happens to be very invested in a sauce, but she can't be sure exactly what type of sauce it is. She really isn't able to even recall what he chopped up ingredients wise to put in it. Just that she had been mesmerized by his forearms as he worked. And that she commented about the hair he pulled back away from his face. And that he smiled when she approached, having been able to tell that the steps belonged to her. “Are you watching the pasta?” he asks without looking up at her, stirring his sauce dutifully.

Her eyes snap back down to the pot in front of her. “Of course,” she reassures him with a wave of her hand. “Don’t you worry.”

“That's good because I could have sworn you were not watching the pot at all,” he counters. The corners of his eyes crease with the smirk that crosses his face. “It seemed that you were only looking at me."

“What an odd thing to say because I am nothing if not giving my full attention to this wonderful pasta,” she replies quickly, but her face has to be betraying her. Maybe she can play off that the flush is from the steam of the water. “How very dare you accuse me of neglecting my culinary duties.”

This time a real smile touches his lips. Not anything crazy. No teeth involved. But it's an honest little grin no less. For her. “You think I do not notice,” he adds as he rests the wooden spoon along the rim of the pan. His eyes shift toward her, and her heart hammers inside her chest. “But I do.” Is he… flirting with her? A breath catches in her throat. Their eyes hold a mutual gaze that crackles with a feeling she can't quite name. Maker help her, she wants nothing more than to… “Rook, how long has the pasta been floating that way?”

She glances down at the pot of rolling water. “Oh… I don't know,” she admits. It's the truth. Really, she hadn't wanted to help with dinner. That was the excuse to spend the extra time with him. As of late, she's wanted nothing more than to simply be near him. “A while?”

Nostrils flare. The corners of his lips fall from the glorious little grin she's been gifted. “Mierda,” he mutters, snatching up the spoon. He attempts to lift one noodle from the water, but the long strand easily fell apart and back into the water. Mush.

They stand in silence for a moment. He doesn't move, simply stands with the spoon over the pot of still hot water. “Lucanis, I am so sorry,” she sputters. “I didn't realize–”

“Rook.”

“I should have–”

Suddenly, there is a hand on either side of her face, which stops any coherent thought from entering her brain. He stares at her hard, brows furrowed. There are hairline scars there she's never noticed because she's never been this still and close to him: one on the edge of his left eyebrow and one over his lips. She finds herself wondering about the stories behind them. Hearing more tales of his adventures. Pressing her lips against them.

When their stance finally hits him, his eyes twitch as if they want to go as wide as hers are, but instead, they slide shut as he inhales deeply through his nose. “It is… okay,” he says. She doesn't believe him. “But you should get out of my kitchen.”

“I… uh…” Her brain is a puddle. His hands are warm against her burning face. She would be content to melt into the floor if it meant they could stay like this. “Okay.”

“Thank you.”

His hands fall from her face, and as she leaves the dining hall, she touches where his hands had been, still in disbelief.

That night, she will find a steaming cup of tea in front of her seat at the table. 

A new blend that's picked up from the markets in Treviso. 

One that he thinks she will like. 

One that is purchased without her presence but because he thinks of her often. 

“You are wonderful at many things, pasta is not one of them.”

She loves the tea, and they both smile, most things remaining unsaid for the time being.

[v-thinks-on]

Ren fell back on his futon with a sigh, his legs dangling dejectedly over the side.

However, he didn’t have long to wallow as Morgana, true to his feline form, padded over to Ren and pawed at his side. “I warned you Akechi was bad news.”

“Even you couldn’t have predicted this,” Ren retorted, not moving from the futon or even bothering to open his eyes. “I still can’t believe it. I thought it was going so well too—he even took me to that jazz club that he likes. What was the point if he’s just going to kill me?”

[v3lv3tsin]

at this point, i think i can read the future when it comes to enha:

i started writing this fanfic about 2 weeks ago (it's from a series i'm working on)

and literally today enha decides drop an aniversary dance practic link here where jakes is a chef, like that's just future telling atp

also: if i were to do a community would anyone be interested to join (it would mainly focus on speak peeks, updates on the fics, any new fanfic ideas you would want me to write about)

[daedalusdavinci]

7 w/ solkat?

7. Unflinchingly settling your head into your lover’s lap while they watch television/are reading a book/doing their favorite hobby. Then asking your lover to explain what’s going on/what they’re doing. i wrote this stream of consciousness and i dont feel like editing it so you get what you get

The nice thing about Karkat is that he's always good for background noise. Whenever you need something else to drown out the voices, he's always there, ranting and raving about some inane bullshit you couldn't care less about, but enjoy hearing regardless. It's an odd day when you can't hear him puttering around the house and mumbling under his breath, cursing out a chair you didn't push in that he tripped over or the food that isn't cooking fast enough. The cat Dave convinced you (convinced Karkat, just by virtue of forcing Karkat to hold it for more than five minutes until all the ice around Karkat's heart melted) to take in is just as loud as he is, and at all hours of the day, you can hear them talking to each other, Karkat's grumble interspersed with the cat's loud meows.

He's quiet today, though. Rose left him with a new book the other day, and apparently today is the day he has the attention span to devour it. You're treated to an uncharacteristic silence as you work, and for a while, it's sort of nice. Until it isn't.

You give up on coding when it feels like there are bugs crawling under your skin, irritation at a boiling point. The code isn't making sense, you can't concentrate, and the screams of the imminently doomed are no longer background, piercing howls destroying any coherent thought you might have left. Your wrists are sore, your neck hurts, your head is throbbing, you're stiff and your eyes are dry and you can't remember the last time you ate. You're done.

Sparks jump from your fingertips as you shove your chair back and ditch your computer. There's a buzzing in your ears that's probably you, but you're too irritable to care as you stalk down the hall to the kitchen. Nothing sounds good, but you know you need to eat if you want to push through this, so you tug open cupboards and force yourself to consider the food anyway.

The cat (Dave wanted to name it Carcinisation; you wanted to name it Hexadecimal. In the end, you compromised on Hexbug, because Karkat said there was no way Dave was naming it after him, Rose liked the nickname Hex, and Dave liked the callback to a human toy you've never heard of) starts meowing at you immediately, trailing a few paces behind you like a starving stray, when you're 100% sure Karkat has been feeding him all his little heart desires. He's as obnoxious and needy as the human who brought him here, and you ignore him, because he's being dramatic and you're so charged up you think you'd shock him if you even tried to pet him. (You do drop him a few treats, because you feel bad.)

In the end, you heat up leftovers. The smell of warm orange chicken makes your stomach perk up a little, and as you eat a few pieces on the way to the couch, you feel a little less like blowing your apartment off the map.

Karkat, predictably, has tucked himself into his favorite corner of the couch with a blanket and the new book. Hex runs past you to jump up on the arm of the couch and complain about your abuse, and without looking up, Karkat lifts a hand to scratch Hex's little, whining head. Because you are the superior lifeform, you flop down on Karkat's other side and bravely resist the urge to complain about Hex framing you.

Karkat looks up for you, though. He blinks the way he does when he's been reading too long, like his eyes are refocusing like a camera lens, and he can't quite see what's in front of him right away. "You look like shit," is the first thing he says.

"Wow, thanks." Despite yourself, you feel your grouchiness crack a little. It probably helps that you're eating now, but there's just something about Karkat, too.

His fingers brush through your hair, like swiping away the static. "You're sparking."

"You don't say."

"Sometimes you don't notice." He's right. He stretches his legs out, unfurling, and his knee pushes into yours. "How's your head?"

"Hurting."

He hums. You don't give him much to work with, and he watches you for a while, thinking. His fingers fiddle absently with the hair at the nape of your neck, arm propped against the back of the couch. His presence makes you feel a little bit more grounded, and so you eat and try to focus on that. Eventually, his eyes drift back to his book.

By the time you finish eating, it stops feeling like enough. You feel less shaky and irritable, but your head is pounding with the force of screams, and you need something else. You push your empty bowl back on the coffee table and twist, dropping sideways across the couch with your head in Karkat's lap. He has to lift his book to accommodate you, but he doesn't protest for a second, seemingly expecting it. His nails drag soothingly along your scalp, and your eyes shut instantly, a wave of relief rolling over you. This is what you needed. Definitely.

Hexbug weaves between you like an asshole, determined to fit himself in the middle of the action. He plops down in the middle of your chest like a big, furry sack of shit, squirming into you to get comfortable until you start petting him. He goes loose instantly, purring quietly at first, and then loudly, the vibration of it rattling your very bones. It feels like it shakes the pain out of you, some inexplicable healing power stored in the rumble of your adorabeast. "He's louder than you," you tell Karkat.

"Tell me something new," Karkat mutters, absentminded.

"What are you reading?"

"Are you asking because you care, or because you want to rag on my taste?"

"Legally, I'm obligated to say the latter, but you know it's both."

Karkat sighs. And then, he talks. And he keeps talking. And the voices fade a little further into the back of your mind, and you relax.

[desiderium-eden]

Mikhail would rather have joined the festivities outside. As much as he prided himself in his abilities to navigate polite society in the way deemed appropriate by most of the realm at large, he was still Navkan at heart. And greeting guests was getting tiring. At the very least, he was bored. Retreating back to his seat by the throne for a short rest. Well, as much of a rest as he could get while maintaining his posture and appearing enthralled by his "harem".

His mind had just begun to drift elsewhere when an announcement was made. A late arrival? That was unexpected.

The members of the harem move before he could even lift his eyes. Draping themselves over him in an almost obnoxious manner. May in his lap. Amara across the back of his chair. Caius kneeling at his side. With Airee and Aelin standing a step, maybe a step and a half, in front of him. The protective barrier of bodies putting him on edge as his gaze connected with the latest delegation...

The color drained from his face. His hands balled into fists, trembling as May took one of them into her own. More to monitor his quickening pulse than to calm him as he stared at the Ahreum princess. Or rather, past her. To the man immediately behind her. His eyes locked on Mikhail's as the ahniri offered him a sickeningly sweet smile.

[tigorrrr]

Kiss, kiss, breathe me in with every thousand, every thousand

My magic wand is in your hands

We won't play a game of "Cat and Mouse"

Your hands have already gone too far

This is just a happier end version of this drabble that I finally finished, although this drawing is not connected to the canon-ish drabble I would so love if they'd danced their arguments away ppffff

[quinttyz]

i’d like to think that as their relationship progresses more and more,,,aloth becomes more assertive in intimate stuff??

for awhile it was mostly tempest initiating stuff :0 like actually holding hands (cough cough *KNUCKLES CLOSE ENOUGH TO BRUSH AGAINST YOURS HMP*), kissing, and almost breaching the territory of physical intimacy ,,

Tempest would notice Aloth’s kisses becoming more desperate, more yearning for her. Aloth wouldn’t notice how needy he was for his lover’s lips until Tempest felt the wall behind her. He was pushing her up against it, one hand cupping her face and the other enclosing her between him and the wall.

“Aloth-ah..please I need to breathe,” she exhales, gently pulling his lips away from her. Aloth’s eyes suddenly widen, realizing his actions.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize,” he starts, the tips of his ears already becoming redder and redder. He looks away from her, embarrassed, but he couldn’t help but stare.

Her face is flushed and her hair was all tousled up because of his fingers. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising up and down in a rhythmic pattern, hypnotizing him-

“You really like seeing me all hot and bothered for you, huh?” Tempest suddenly teases, eyeing him. She was expecting him to shy away from her flirtatious comment and vehemently deny where his eyes wandered at but, he did not back off this time;

“I do, and darling, if you would have me for tonight I would love to see more…”

[frankmillerturnonyourlocation]

Drabblecember 9: A Walk Outside

Word count: 300

Universe: Snicketverse

The air was cold on Lemony's neck– this jacket had no hood, and the zipper clicked against the buttons of his sweater as he walked in a way that reminded him of the ticking of a wristwatch, or maybe an uncommonly polite cuckoo clock. It was a good coat, other than those two things, but those two things were particularly galling in this moment, a word which here means "absolutely terrible for what Lemony needed to do, which was to use this walk to organize the twisted mire of thoughts currently plaguing him." Again, other than that, the walk was going well.

The house behind him was well-lit, and if you hadn't been inside, you could easily make the mistake of assuming it was full of warmth and kindness, as well-lit houses in early winter look like they should be. The kind of house that could offer refuge from the cold, a safe place to flee to–– that's what it looked like, from this distance. Lemony trudged on.

"Lemony! Wait up!"

And yet, tonight, it seemed it was the kind of house people would be more likely to flee from.

Lemony did not slow, but Emerson soon fell into step alongside him. At his asking expression, they shrugged and said, under their scarf, "Figured you could use the company. Or something like that."

Lemony considered that. A certain type of company could help Lemony organize his thoughts. Another kind could bring the gears of his mind to a total standstill, like pouring molasses over the gears of a cuckoo clock, or possibly a largeish wristwatch.

He looked at the person settling in to his left, the kind of company who could clear the entire tangle of fragmentary plans from his mind. "Something like that," he agreed, and they continued on.

[ivefallenforyouandicantgetup]

It’s so wonderful that specific songs can just bring such happy and peaceful and comfortable feelings to you :)

[fortune-maiden]

FX Week Day 6: Temple

Day 6 of @fxweek :D

This is actually the very last drabble I wrote chronologically (assuming I don't write any more lol)

In Feng Xin’s humble opinion, it wasn’t fair that the things he should have been smug about were the things he hated the most. “Thank goodness for the Ju Yang temple. There’s always one of those around when we need ‘em,” Mu Qing cackled, leading them to their lodgings for the night. Of course he had a temple in this area – why wouldn’t there be a temple to the fucking fertility god in the middle of someone else’s fucking territory and – “Wait.” Feng Xin suddenly realized something. “Why do you always know where my temples are?” Mu Qing went silent.

[idolsummons]

unfortunately for everyone, i'm now thinking very hard about yu

[hislittleraincloud]

Lucky Little Fortunes (Rated PG-13 [underage drinking, mild language], drabble/1,350 words, Jairo, fluff af, age gap, deleted/extended scene from Under Virgin Circumstances)

I recall why I took it out: It was too Cairocentric, this perspective (and I wanted to keep a balanced perspective, even though it's Cairo's story and the narration puts it all on her). I think flow was another reason, I wanted to keep the three days of sex and bonding more isolated from the main UVC story. I have more little bits like this scattered around.

Part of this (about the Paperblanks) is already part of UVC, so yes, you have read that part before.

All great writers have muses. Right now for him, that was me, and I was perfectly fine on my new pedestal since I had a good sense of balance. He told me that it had been different, before.

I got him talking about Bea. Actually, our one and only argument during this time was about his wife, and it wasn't what you think. May not have been what I thought either, because I was slurrin’ my words.

“Don't — please don't do that,” he pleaded.

“Do what? I'm just havin’ an — other drink —”

“You've had enough. You're weavin’ —”

“I — I haven't had much more than you —”

“Okay, fine, I'll stop. I'll stop!” He set his tumbler down noisily on the island and grabbed me by the shoulders. Hard, at first, but my face must've told him so and he softened his touch. I didn't know it at the moment, but he was terrified. “I'll stop if you stop. Please.”

He nearly broke down before I set the glass down on the counter, empty. He admitted his feelings about writers and alcoholism, and that Beatrice Harker had a problem. A bad one, that'd only followed the trajectory of her creative rut, and one that led to separate sleep and sometimes separate bedrooms. Through shaking hands I felt the destruction of his soul, that bleached bone monument crumbled into itself under the cruel moonlight of excess.

Needless to say, I began my journey towards alcoholic moderation under his watchful eye. One drink a day, at the end of the day was fine, though white wine with dinner was also acceptable.

We didn't exactly follow that last part very well, but only because white wine doesn't go well with Chinese takeout. There's a little place on the corner of Benson and Turner that has the best spring rolls, and Jon had mentioned before that he was a fan of shrimp fried rice. It was convenient for us (though maybe not for the UberEats guy who had to bring it all the way out to my house), because neither of us felt like cooking after so much fucking.

It felt like I was learning, hands-on, with and about Jon at every moment, even as we ate a simple meal while writing in our notebooks. He’d ditched his stuff back at the courthouse; his lawyer dropped it off with Bea, but Jon had no desire to be anywhere near her for any blinking amount of time. I had given him one of my blank Paperblanks—actually, he had his choice of my blanks, of which there were several stacks from the cases that Daddy had his friend from the company send over—and he chose one with a rather feminine cover design. He defended his choice by saying that the antique green matched my bedroom, but it was more of a yellowish chartreuse than the blue-green teal of my walls. Sunnier, especially with the fairy etchings in gold drawn by the same artist who illustrated early versions of Peter Pan.

“Plus it's Andew Lang! You know who he is, right?”

I fell even deeper in love with my writer—teacher, mentor, friend, lover—right then and there. I wanted to be with him forever, write with him, make love with him, have his kids, live and die with him.

Suddenly the idea of taking a year off to write in the Old World didn't seem so monumental as it was necessary.

“Take it, then. I told you you could have any which one you like. Just so long as you don't steal the credit for what I write,” I winked.

We were writing in our notebooks and eating when I noticed him cracking open one of the fortune cookies for its fortune. He adjusted his glasses to read the little strip of paper that he smoothed out between his fingers.

“What're you doin’, Teacher?”

“Just readin’,” he answered, to my bemusement. “I collect ‘em.”

“You collect ‘em?”

He flipped the one in his fingers over to a barking laugh, and my man—my very naked man—popped up to go over to his pants, extracted his wallet from his back pocket, and came over to me like a little boy getting ready for show and tell. His bifold wallet was well-worn and very well could've been older than me, the impressions from his bulky credit cards stressing their scratched outlines around its calfskin face.

He placed the current fortune down before shoving his fingers into the most hidden pocket, and one that had left irregular rectangular stress markings on the back. He pulled his fingers out, pinched around a thick pile of fortunes, the ink still bright and legible. They were your standard fortunes, but they were around twenty years old. He and his wife—his girlfriend at the time—consumed a lot of take-out during late nights of writing.

“Why’d you keep ‘em?” I asked, after having read ‘Everybody feels lucky for having you as a friend.’ from the top of the pile. It didn’t have anything on its back.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Guess my magic can be enhanced by looking at ‘em.”

“I see.” I imagined burning the whole pile right then, in front of his face. But the choice was his. At least, I had to keep telling myself that. “You think you got a use for them now?”

He stared at the pile while I tried my best to telepathically nudge him in the right direction. His eyeline was fixed, staring at the old paper strips that looked like cheap ticker tape confetti.

“I suppose I don't,” he said, shaking his head. “I don't wanna go back to any of that.”

Good boy.

“Forward, darlin’,” I said.

“Goddamn right,” he popped up, sprinting towards the kitchen.

“Hey, what're you doin’?” I called out. I heard the clattering of drawers and cabinets being open and shut until he came back crumpling a sheet of newspaper into a ball, a thing of Ronsonol and the pilot lighter in his palm. He scooped up all of the open fortunes and dropped them into the ashtray, soaking the end of the newspaper and lighting it all on fire.

“Forward,” he said.

I could see the years die in his eyes as he watched the flames lick into the air from the ashtray.

“Forward,” I assured.

I'll admit, his initiative took me by surprise. I was afraid I’d have to do it myself.

The smoke suddenly billowed as the flames stretched tall, but I guess Jon had poured a bit too much lighter fluid onto the poorly balled newspaper. Thankfully, my parents have fire extinguishers all over the house, and after a frightening close call with the wall, the fire was out, and we could continue eating and writing.

I never really considered those things any fun until then. I don't even like the taste of ‘em. Well, I didn't before. But now that all of his and that witch’s fortunes were gone, it was like his slate was wiped clean; the crisp crunch of a brand new cookie tasted sweeter and more satisfying as I watched him write with a peace on his face that I don't think I’d noticed until then, if it’d been there. I read mine, but was looking to him as he unfurled another.

“So what’s yours say?” I asked him, humbling my tone towards playfully interested.

“ ‘Character development is the true aim of education’. Yours?”

“ ‘A warm smile is testimony of a generous nature’. And on the back, it has the Chinese word for ‘husband’.”

“Ah, almost forgot about the back,” he flipped his over. “Huh.” He handed me the little strip of paper, and on its back was the Chinese word for ‘wife’. “I think our fortunes got switched.”

I glanced at both sides and sighed, pairing his with mine in my fingers and reaching over his chest to place them safely on the endtable.

“Mmn-nn.”

“No?”

“I think we got lucky,” I made sure he knew of my intentions as I slid into his space with my knee skating over his thigh.

I did, at least.

[moderatelyquicksilversposts]

Master Feiyu scolded his pupil, Qiang, for consulting the I Ching by tossing coins instead of using the meditative yarrow stalks.

Mortified, Qiang, who’d been deriving great benefit from the oracle, set about manipulating the sticks. He asked if he’d been wrong in using coins. He got Hexagram 7, The Army. Not understanding the answer, he abandoned the divination.

Later he asked again, but tossed his coins instead. Again he got Hexagram 7, which he still didn’t understand. What Qiang did understand was that there was nothing wrong in his choice of method, but plenty in his choice of master.

[tempi-fantrolls]

"Ey Laxi-taxi!"

Ailaxi froze at the sound of that voice (that stupid, annoying voice) and slowly turned around to face the owner.

Fortun was leaning on Ailaxi's fucking desk like the stupid fish owned the damn place, a shit eating grin on his face.

Ailaxi wanted to punch him.

"Your moirail isn't here." He said instead, tone curt but somehow only slightly angry.

The dumbass just hummed in contemplation.

"Musd be meand ta see you den."

Ailaxi glared at him. "Must be meant to see you." He repeated without the stupid vocal tick. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Fortun shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Ailaxi's barely hidden rage.

"Luck bullshid." He stated like that made any fucking sense. "Y'know."

Ailaxi pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Okay." He decided to agree. "Why would 'luck bullshit' mean I have to see you?"

Fortun shrugged again. "Dunno. Jusd god a feelin' I should be here so here I am!"

"Oh, great." Ailaxi said with all the sarcasm he could muster. "Well I've got work to do so," He let the sentence trail off as he turned away from the conversation to ruffle uselessly through some files, hoping the stupid fish would get the hint.

As usual, he didn't.

"Maybe I'm supposed ta help ya. Nah, dat doesn' feel righd."

Ailaxi took a deep breath to calm himself as Fortun continued to rattle off possible reasons he could be here. It wasn't a secret that he felt black for Fortun. It was actually pretty obvious. Well, to everyone except Fortun, at least. Ailaxi was pretty sure that the oblivious idiot had no idea. Which was only one of the many reasons he couldn't act on said black feelings.

Ailaxi rubbed at his eyes. "Fortun," He interjected, causing the fish to pause. "I really don't have time for this. Could you maybe, I don't know, figure it out somewhere that isn't my office?"

There wasn't any sound of movement so Ailaxi lifted his head to stare down the seadweller. Fortun's brows rose above his shades.

"Holy shid!" He exclaimed. "Ya god contacts!"

It felt like a rock sunk to the bottom of Ailaxi's stomach. "Fuck." The gray colored contacts must have shifted when he rubbed his eyes.

Ailaxi lifted his hand to correct them but Fortun got there first, pushing said hand aside, and holding Ailaxi's chin so he could look closer at his irises.

Ailaxi growled at him. This was a gross invasion of his personal space and he wasn't about to-

"Where'd ya ged dem?" Fortun asked earnestly before Ailaxi could voice anything.

"I," Ailaxi had been prepared to defend his choice to go grey, to fight even. He had not been expecting... that. "What?"

"Where did ya ged dem?" Fortun repeated slower. "I need some an', well, id's hard ta find anybody ta make em." Something dawned on his face as he finally let go of Ailaxi's. "Ohhhh. Dat's why I'm here."

Ailaxi rubbed his chin (stupid fuck has a hard grip) and glared at him. "Why the fuck would you need contacts? And don't tell me they're for someone else. I know you don't have any friends, dipshit."

Fortun stared at him for a moment before reaching up to remove his shades.

It was the first time Ailaxi had ever seen his eyes. Fortun never took off his violet tinted glasses. He looked almost naked without them. But, more importantly, he looked distinctly less violet.

"Holy shit you're royal." Ailaxi got out, staring uncomprehendingly at Fortun's fuchsia irises.

Fortun shrugged. "Blood fa blood er somedin'." He said simply before putting his shades back on. "Don' tell nobody? Uh 'Ray knows but, y'know."

"Uh," Ailaxi felt a bit dizzy. "Same."

Fortun hummed and nodded.

Then he clapped his hands together, making a noise loud enough for Ailaxi to flinch and rub at his sensitive ears.

"So," Fortun said, ignoring or not noticing Ailaxi's discomfort. "Contacts."

[purgatoryandme]

i miss your cbt fic series

I miss it, too! I've been making more time to write again these past two years, but it's still a bit of a struggle to try and produce creative writing when I write scientifically for a living. My pace is definitely a lot slower and I've been doing more short projects or spontaneous updates from notes I've had for 2+ years to get back into the groove.

TLDR is it's not abandoned, though my update schedule will probably stay slow af for quite some time ;_;