#like. More often than i usually do to the point where i feel like it's overwhelming or annoying or looks desperate but hey maybe i am

[blissfullsvn]

if i say, i love you

summary. after a long day, all you really want is to be in taesan’s arms.

pairing. han taesan x reader genre. fluff, established relationship word count. 0.9k warnings. n/a a/n. fun fact: this wasn’t the original taesan fic i wanted to post for his bday bcs stms it’s easier to write sth in 3 hrs than finish a draft you’ve had for the past 5 months 👩‍🦯 but as always, please enjoy this, and i hope everyone gets to have their own taesan in their lives :) masterlist

you and taesan have never been overly touchy with each other. it’s not that you both dislike physical touch; you just tend to express your feelings more often through quiet moments spent together.

today, however, you need taesan more than ever.

you trudge inside your shared apartment, your body feeling unbearably heavy. taesan is sitting on the sofa with headphones and his ipad propped up on his knees, a contemplative look on his face. it’s a familiar sight, one that occurs whenever a new idea for a composition strikes in his head and he has to record it down immediately, so you usually leave him alone to not disrupt his creative process.

seeing this, you force yourself to stand by the door, hoping for at least a greeting before you can retreat inside your room—if your boyfriend was busy, you’d rather break down without him seeing.

almost immediately, taesan looks up and smiles, the kind where his eyes are squeezed into crescents and whiskers appear under them. but when he finally sees you, he instantly plants his feet on the floor, setting his ipad aside and ripping off his headphones.

“y/n?” his voice is soft and gentle. he always treats you like a delicate flower; it makes you feel like you can fall apart in his presence and he’ll be there to pick up your pieces.

“y/n,” he calls again, and he’s about to get up before you briskly walk towards him and all but jump on him.

with your knees on either side of him, you wrap your arms around his neck and drop your head on his shoulder. noticeably, taesan tenses at the uncharted touch, and a moment of hesitation lingers. but his arms quickly shoot up to envelop you, hands resting firmly on either side of your torso as he holds you tightly against himself.

he remains silent, letting you take in his warmth as he gently caresses your back. you nuzzle against his neck, wanting to get as close to him as you can. despite his surprise at your touch, he doesn’t make it known and mirrors your actions, nosing your collarbone as he pulls you even closer.

you thought you would break into tears immediately in his arms, but the more you lean into his touch, the more you feel your weariness dissipate, until the huge lump in your throat eventually melts as well.

sensing your breathing calm down and your body turning lax against his, he places a kiss on your neck and whispers against your skin: “i’m here.” it’s a simple declaration; two words that neither push you to speak nor stop you from sharing, but just to remind you that, whatever it is, he’s always by your side.

“i… had a bad day today,” you begin, and taesan’s hold on you never once falters. as you tell him about what happened, his fingers continuously draw idle circles on your back, and he hums softly to reassure you that he’s listening.

“how do you feel now?” taesan, gentle as ever, asks after you stop talking.

“...a lot better,” you confess and nuzzle against his neck again, landing a peck there to emphasize your point.

“i’m glad.” the smile is evident from his voice alone, even if you can’t see his face.

a few more moments of silence pass between you, the two of you simply relishing each other’s company. it’s only when you catch taesan’s ipad light up with a notification from your peripheral vision that you remember what he had been doing before your almost-break-down.

you pull yourself away, but your hands remain on his shoulders, as do his on your waist. “you were composing something before this, right?” your eyebrows are knitted in guilt, lips jutting out similarly. “sorry, i didn’t mean to interrupt you… you can continue now.”

“no, don’t apologise,” taesan replies immediately, shaking his head. he reaches up to tuck your hair behind your ears and smiles, fondness seeping from every pore, “i’ll always put you before anything else.”

it’s strange how the emotions you initially expected to spill over from your negative experiences today are now threatening to escape from these seven words instead. with the lump returning to your throat once again, you don’t trust your voice to speak.

instead, you move your hands to cup his face and lean down to place your lips on his, letting your body do the talking instead.

with every movement, your feelings translate from your heart to his. his grip on your waist tightens as he cranes his neck to capture more and more of these feelings, until both of you are rendered breathless from all the emotions filling your bodies, squeezing around your ribs, your lungs, and your hearts.

when you pull away, the dazed look on taesan is something that you want to carve into your mind forever. for someone who’s never uncomposed, the fact that he’s been rendered like this, and because of you, makes your insides twist with something far greater than you can explain.

“i love you.”

for now, you’ll settle with the word ‘love.’

© blissfullsvn 2024. All Rights Reserved.

[esouliie]

COME FIND ME, MY LIGHT.

(natasha romanoff x reader)

summary | What began as an attempt to bring Christmas back to Natasha turned into something deeper as both of you realised that love is what truly warms the heart this season. By Christmas Eve, Natasha wasn’t just in love with the holiday again: she was in love with you, and maybe- just maybe- you had been in love with her all along too.

tags | christmas fic! hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, dead family trope, alternative universe so no avengers, you’re both a bit sad! :/

notes | i want a christmas love like this so what better way to manifest than by writing a fic abt it hehe. this was also inspired by my fav person’s return to tumblr and her love for the holiday - @please-destroy, thank you for inspiring this by just being you! this is also a part of your gift, surprise!! everybody, go read her stuff now. it’s truly amazing!

word count | 5K

Merry Christmas!! ⊹♡

Since the moment you met, you knew Natasha carried a storm inside her. It was always tamed, hiding just beneath the surface of her eyes. But, from a year of friendship, you’ve noticed that storm that seemed to erupt around this time of the year. Being your only friend, she was always the one to accompany you on your trips out around the city. It’s there where you noticed the way she flinched at carols and avoided the cheerful chaos of Christmas markets you brought her too, by moving through it as fast as she can. The world’s merriment seemed to mock her darker memories. She confessed one night, in a rare moment of vulnerability and a very expensive bottle of wine, that Christmas had always been a painful time for her. Her voice, usually steady and unwavering, softened as she looked at you across the table. She told you about her sister, Yelena—the only person in her family who had ever truly cared about Christmas. Yelena had been the kind of person who could find joy even in the bleakest of places, someone who refused to let the world’s coldness harden her heart.

“She loved it,” Natasha said, her lips curling into a wistful smile as if she could still see Yelena bustling around their childhood home. “The lights, the snow, the decorations. She’d drag me into whatever shop she could find, looking for things to make the house even more festive. Ornaments, candles, the cheesiest, most stupid Santa hats—whatever she could get her hands on.” She paused, her gaze unfocused as though she were looking back through the years.

Yelena had been the one to make Christmas feel like magic. She knew all of the Christmas carols, singing along even if the notes were slightly off-key. This joy followed her into her adulthood, and even when she became sick. Every year, she insisted on stringing up lights around their shared apartment —“even if we don’t have a tree, Natasha, we’ll have lights. You know it’s all about the glow.” She was fearless, mischievous, and relentlessly stubborn in her belief that joy was worth chasing, even if it didn’t come easy. “She’d bake,” Natasha continued, her voice thick with emotion. “Not well obviously— she couldn’t stand for long at the point. Plus, her cookies had always been terrible—but she didn’t care. She’d make a mess everywhere and laugh at herself, daring me to do better. I never tried, though. I always just watched her and took her to bed whenever she was done.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass, her knuckles whitening slightly. “She believed in traditions, even when there was no reason to. Especially when there was no reason to,” she added, “she said traditions gave people hope, something to hold on to in the dark. I didn’t get it then—I still don’t fully— but with time, I understood she was trying to help me be okay with the world when she was no longer around.”

Yelena had been more than just a younger sister to Natasha —she had been her tether, her mirror, her light. She was the last person left of her family, and the only one who ever made Natasha feel things she often tried to ignore: a steady warmth, a strong connection, the possibility of life being worth more. She was everything Natasha wish she could be.

And when Yelena died, Christmas died with her.

“There was no one to care about it anymore,” Natasha said, her voice breaking for the briefest of moments before she pushed the emotion back behind her walls, blinking her tears away. “No one to make it mean anything.” You reached across the table, placing your hand over hers. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t meet your eyes either. For a long moment, the two of you sat in silence, the air between you thick. “She would’ve liked you,” she murmured after a while, her voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “Yelena… she always liked people who made things feel… safe.”

Your chest tightened, the weight of her words settling deep in your heart. You realised, in that moment, just how much Natasha trusted you—how much she had given you by sharing this piece of herself. From that moment, you made a promise to yourself: a promise to return Yelena’s light back into her life.

⊹♡

One morning, you found yourself lost on a tree farm. Rows upon rows of evergreens stretched out like soldiers in formation, their frosted branches from the night before glistening in the morning sun. You pulled your scarf tighter around your neck, the crunch of snow beneath your boots the only sound for a moment. Natasha walked beside you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat, her eyes on swivel but not necessarily looking at the trees. She hadn’t said much since you picked her up that morning, you weren’t entirely sure if it was the early start or the occasion that silenced her.

“This one’s nice.” You said, gesturing to a stately Fraser fir with almost symmetrical branches. She stopped, gave the tree a quick once-over, and shrugged. “It’s fine.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, moving along until you could find the next one. You had planned on finding a tree that you both could put up at her place, but with each step, it seemed like this tree would be better suited living at yours. You tried again. “What about this one?” You pointed to a taller tree, its branches also slightly uneven but full of character. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I guess. If you like it.” Her tone wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t inviting either. You let out a small breath, watching it cloud in front of you before dissipating into the icy air.

“No, we can keep looking.”

Laughter and the occasional clatter of a fallen tree echoed through the air. You couldn’t see them mostly but could imagine families adorned in colourful hats and scarves scattered across the farm. Natasha, however, didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes back to skimming over the trees with a detached disinterest and her surroundings, her mouth set in a way that told you she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Do you want to go home? You asked gently.

She paused, her head tilting slightly as if weighing whether to respond. “You wanted a tree,” she said finally, her voice even. “So we’re getting a tree.”

“It’s not that important.” You said. “If you’re not into it, we can go.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m fine.” She said, her voice clipped. Then, softer: “Let’s just look over there.”

You didn’t press her further.

The two of you wandered deeper into the farm, the trees becoming denser, their branches heavy with snow. You found yourself wondering if Natasha even saw them, her eyes not even bothering with her environment anymore as she kept her head down towards the snow, her mind clearly somewhere far away. “How about this one?” You tried again, stopping in front of a modest blue spruce. Its branches were sturdy, the kind that could hold up heavy ornaments, and its shape was pleasingly perfect. She stopped beside you, her eyes lingering on the tree. She didn’t say anything right away, and for a moment, you thought she might dismiss it like the others. But then she tilted her head, considering.

“It’s okay.” She said, and while it wasn’t glowing praise, it was a step up from fine.

“You sure?” You asked, not wanting to push.

She nodded, her gaze lingering on the tree a second longer. “Yeah. It’s fine.” She finished, before turning abruptly back in the other direction. Later, the workers secured the tree to the roof of your car, their cheerful banter filling the space as you and Natasha stood off to the side. She didn’t say much, but when you glanced over at her, you thought you saw her mouth twitch—just the faintest hint of a smile. “Thanks for letting me tag along.” She said quietly.

You offered her a small smile. “I’m glad you came.”

⊹♡

Snow finally began to settle permanently in the middle of December. It clung to the rooftops and frosted the tree branches outside your apartment. Winter had truly arrived. You hadn’t seen Natasha since that morning; her work had whisked her off to the West Coast for an urgent business trip, leaving you to decorate the tree in your tiny apartment alone. Your living room was silent except for the soft hum of a holiday playlist you’d set to shuffle, but you were used to the lingering echo since moving in.

You missed her terribly.

Without Natasha here, you were unable to focus on anything but yourself: your terrible breakup last Christmas that had you packing your bags and running away to a different state, your argument with your family that had been the last time you’d spoken to them and the reason why you weren’t invited home this year, your sadness that crept up whenever you were forced to sit in silence with yourself. Deep down, you know she could see through you, could see how you suffered much like she did. It’s why you both clicked together instantly. But the difference with Natasha is that she never pried, never pushed you to talk about what you weren’t ready to say. And it wasn’t like you wanted to dwell on these things, but they lived inside you now, demanding attention in the silence.

Your ignorance was bliss, until it wasn’t.

And days when Natasha went away were the worst.

The doorbell rang at a late hour. Behind it stood Natasha, her coat dusted with fresh snow, her cheeks flushed pink from the nipping cold. She looked exhausted, her carry-on slung over one shoulder and her laptop bag in the other.

“You’re back?” You blurted out, wondering why she was here and not at her own place. It was Wednesday after all.

“I wanted to see you.” She admitted, shuffling awkwardly at her confession.

You pulled her through the door, allowing her a second to set her bags down with a tired sigh, her shoulders finally dropping as the door clicked shut behind her. “How was the trip?” You asked as you moved toward the kitchen, already reaching for the kettle and her mug.

“Exhausting.” She replied, shedding her snow-damp coat and draping it over the back of the chair. “And frustrating. Clients were indecisive, as usual, and the meetings went in circles half the time.”

You gave her a sympathetic look as you handed her a steaming mug of tea. “At least now you’re done for the holidays, right?”

She hummed in agreement, her fingers wrapping gratefully around the warmth of the cup. Despite the drink, you noticed her shiver and disappeared into your bedroom. You rummaged through your drawers, pulling out an oversized purple sweatshirt and some grey sweatpants.

When you handed them to her, she raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t have to—”

“You’re not sitting around in wet clothes, Natasha.” You cut her off, gesturing toward the bathroom. “Go change.”

By the time she emerged, looking infinitely more comfortable in your clothes, you had noticed the snow starting to pick up outside. Large flakes swirled under the glow of the streetlamps, a storm intensifying.

Perfect weather for what you had planned.

You grabbed a spare hat and scarf from the coat rack, along with a pair of gloves, and tossed them at her.

“What’s this?” Natasha asked, catching the items with a puzzled expression.

“We’re going out.”

“Out? In this weather?”

You were already pulling on your own coat and boots, ignoring her protests. “Yes, out. You’ve been cooped up in airports and meeting rooms for weeks. You need this.”

“I need sleep.” She muttered, but she already had her coat, reaching for the hat, her lips twitching as if she was trying not to smile.

“Come on. You urged, grabbing her hand and tugging her toward the door.

The streetlights cast a warm golden glow on the fresh blanket of snow, and for a moment, she hesitated. Her reluctant smile cracked through the guarded exterior she so often wore when you were outside. It was like sunlight breaking through clouds. Looking down at her watch, she noticed the time read 1am. “Oh my God, it’s the middle of the night,” she moaned, shaking her head, “and it’s freezing!”

“You’re Russian.” You deadpanned. “Aren’t you genetically programmed to thrive in this?”

She shot you a withering look, but the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her. “That’s not how it works and you know it.”

She turned back around towards your building but before she could move any further, the first snowball struck her shoulder with a soft thwump. She froze, blinking in disbelief. You stood a few feet away, grinning triumphantly, the remnants of the snowball crumbling in your hand. She swung back around, her eyes narrowed, lips parted in exaggerated shock. “Oh, so that’s how it is? These are your clothes you know!” Before you could reply, she bent down, scooped up snow, and hurled it at you. It hit squarely on your chest, the icy cold seeping through your coat.

“Hey!” You yelped, laughing.

“You started this!” She shot back, her voice light—playful in a way you rarely heard.

And then it was war. Snowballs flew in all directions, and the street filled with your laughter, echoing off the quiet houses. Natasha’s aim was deadly accurate, and you were sure she was holding back for your sake. It was quite pathetic. At one point, she feigned defeat only to pounce on you with a pile of snow that left you sputtering.

“You’re a cheat!” You gasped, brushing snow off your face.

“And you’re slow!” She quipped, already forming another snowball to smush in your face.

The cold stung your nose and turned your cheeks raw, but none of it mattered. What mattered was the way Natasha laughed—real and unrestrained, her head thrown back, the sound almost musical in the still night. It was the kind of laugh that felt like a gift, something rare and precious, and you never wanted it to end. Finally, both of you collapsed onto the snow, breathless and flushed. The stars peeked through the gaps in the clouds, and the world seemed impossibly quiet, save for the sound of your labored breathing. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her knitted beanie (that actually belonged to you) slightly askew. “Okay,” she said between gasps, “I admit—that was fun.”

“You’re so welcome.” You teased, shifting to look at her.

“But that’s only because I beat your ass.”

She looked so beautiful in this moment. Her cheeks were rosy, the same shade as her damp hair where stray snowflakes had melted. She was at peace—something you wish you saw more of. You brushed a gloved hand against her cheek, then leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her icy forehead, unable to stop yourself.

“You were right. You’re freezing.” You murmured.

“Maybe.” She replied, her smile small. She shifted closer, laying her head on top of yours. “But I don’t mind.”

⊹♡

With both you and Natasha no longer at work, meant she could hang out with you more often. It was late one evening —you both had spent the day inside your apartment doing absolutely —when she insisted on a walk, claiming the air was getting "stuffy," though you suspected she just needed an excuse to stretch her legs.

Somehow, you had ended up in the suburbs in New Jersey.

“You know, this is kind of perfect.” She said, glancing over at you with a small smile. “No one’s out right now.” You laughed softly, the warmth of her gaze doing more to fight the chill than the layers you’d bundled yourself into. “Yes, well, the suburbs In Jersey are surprisingly magical when nobody’s around.” You joked, sarcasm evident, as you nodded toward the rows of houses strung with twinkling lights. It felt like something out of a postcard, the kind of scene you’d only read about.

The two of you turned a corner and were met with the soft harmony of voices carried on the wind. A group of carolers stood in front of a house, lanterns glowing in their hands as they sang “Silent Night.” Natasha paused, her steps slowing as she tilted her head to listen. Her expression softened, a rare kind of calm washing over her features.

“You don’t strike me as the caroling type.” You teased, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“I’m not.” She admitted, though her lips curved into a grin. “But... it’s nice, isn’t it? Peaceful.”

It was odd. This was the first time you’d seen Natasha act normal with the idea of Christmas.

“They make it look so easy.” She said after a while, her voice quiet.

“What do you mean?”

“They make it look easy believing in... I don’t know. The magic of it all.” She added, as her brow furrowed.

You turned to look at her, the soft glow of the carolers’ lanterns catching in her green eyes. “Maybe it’s not about believing.” You said after a moment. “Maybe it’s just about... letting yourself feel it. Even if it hurts, let yourself feel all of it.”

She stood quietly for a beat before adding, “Yelena loved this song.”

You stayed silent, letting the moment slip away as she became lost in the tune. Natasha's expression contorted with pain as the song finished and the group moved on, but made no move to leave. Without hesitation, you clasped her hand tightly, guiding her away and back in the direction of the city.

You both walked in silence the entire way home.

⊹♡

The next time you saw Natasha was the following weekend when she came over for a sleepover. You could tell the temperature had dropped even more just by the state you found her in at your door. You could only see her eyes. She was wearing your beanie again, with a scarf wound tightly around her neck and the exposed parts of her face. She carried a mismatched tote bag that practically bursted at the seams, the telltale sign of someone who couldn’t quite decide what to pack.

She’d never slept over before.

Well, purposely.

Later that night, in the cozy warmth of your kitchen, you began pulling out ingredients for gingerbread cookies, demanding the taller woman come stand beside you once her ‘bones were warm enough.’ Natasha remained perched on a stool, her favourite mug clasped in her hands, watching you with a raised eyebrow and a half-smirk.

"Our first sleepover. And you’re putting me to work? At this hour? I almost died coming over to see you.” She teased, glancing at the clock.

It’s nearly midnight.

"It’s time for midnight gingerbread.” You replied, beaming as you tied an apron around your waist. "It’s a tradition now."

Now?" She echoed, laughing. "This is literally the first time we’re doing this."

"Exactly, that’s how traditions start."

Natasha rolled her eyes but hopped off the stool to join you, muttering under her breath about wishing she had froze to death on the way over before tugging at your apron strings like a mischievous child, pushing you slightly away from your spot so she could fill it.

“Fine, let’s get this over with.”

The process was chaotic from the start. Natasha’s never baked before, and it showed. The first mishap happened when she cracked an egg with a little too much enthusiasm, sending yolk sliding across the counter. And from then, she managed to do nothing correct without your assistance. You were halfway through laughing when she retaliated by flicking a bit of flour at your cheek.

"Did you just—"

Before you could finish, she grinned devilish and dropped more flour over your head, “oh no, looks like you’ve got a little something there.”

Again, the process was chaotic.

Precision measuring gave way to messy improvisation as flour flew through the air in clouds of white. Natasha was unrelenting, chasing you around the island with a bag of powdered sugar like it’s a weapon. By the time you called a truce, the counters, the floor, and both of you were completely dusted with flour. "You look ridiculous.” You said, laughing so hard your sides ached. She wiped a streak of flour off her nose and smeared it onto your shirt. “Speak for yourself. You look like you’ve never seen the sun before.”

When you finally managed to clean up enough to resume baking, Natasha was benched to mixing the dough— far far away from the flour— but it took her all of ten seconds to abandon the spatula and dig in with her hands. “Are you sure this is hygienic?” She asked, grinning as she squished the dough between her fingers like it’s Play-Doh.

You’re pretty sure she doesn’t know what Play-Doh is.

"Absolutely not.” You replied, shaking your head. But neither of you cared. Somehow, The batter never even made it to the oven. After a mutual taste test—"for quality control," Natasha insisted upon —you realised you (she) had eaten most of it. "So, we’re out of ingredients." You admitted, licking a stray smear of molasses from your thumb. Natasha plopped down on the floor, leaning back against the cabinets with a satisfied sigh. “Good.” She said, licking a bit of dough off her finger. “The batter’s better anyway.” You sat beside her, the warmth of the oven lingering even though you never used it. The kitchen was a mess, the cookies a total failure, but none of it mattered.

You both fell asleep that night with the biggest smiles on your face.

⊹♡

Natasha ended up staying the next weekend too. Christmas fell on a Sunday, the big day seemed to sneak up on both of you, but for now, it was Christmas Eve, and the night stretched on, timeless and unhurried. After watching a few Christmas movies, the two of you found yourselves curled up in front of your fireplace — the fireplace being a YouTube video on loop coming from your television. The crackling flames painted your surroundings in shifting shadows, the room bathed in a burnt orange haze that made everything feel a little softer, a little more intimate. Natasha’s arms were wrapped securely around you, her presence grounding and warm. You hummed an old carol you heard once before under your breath, a lullaby that filled the quiet. Her hand traced lazy circles on your back, her fingers light but steady, as though she was trying to etch the moment into her memory. You watched her, unable to help yourself. The way the firelight kissed her skin, the soft rise and fall of her breathing, the peace in her expression— how rare it was to see her like this. Truly at ease. Vulnerable, but not guarded. You wanted to hold this moment forever, to preserve it for her in the way she deserved, and selfishly for yourself.

Falling for Natasha wasn’t difficult. From the beginning of the friendship, there was a constant undercurrent, a slow burn that never fully ignited, yet refused to fade. You fell in love with her so suddenly—in the quiet moments—that you couldn’t figure out when she became more to you than just a friend. Or if she was ever just that. And over the past year, you’d learned there was so much more to her than the cold, unyielding exterior she presented to the world. No one loved as much as she did. And now, as you sat basically on her lap, the space between both impossibly vast and unbearably close, you realised that falling for Natasha wasn’t just easy—it was inevitable.

“This is what Christmas is supposed to feel like.” She said, her voice barely above a whisper, like a thought she hadn’t meant to say aloud. As if she didn’t want to disturb the silence. Her gaze was distant, yet there was a softness in her tone that made your chest burn. You hesitated, the words catching in your throat before they could fully form. “You miss her.” You finally said. It wasn’t quite a question, but Natasha understood. Her eyes flickered to yours, that same vulnerability reflecting through. “I always miss her.” She admitted, her voice even quieter now, almost fragile. She didn’t need to say Yelena’s name; you knew. “It’s strange… even after all these years, I still expect her to be here sometimes. Like she’ll just walk in, scolding me for not keeping the lights on all day or dragging me out of the house to help on her latest conquest.”

Your heart cried out with something deep and tender, the kind of feeling no words could ever quite capture. “I’ve got something for you.” She looked at you, her brow furrowed slightly in curiosity as you stood and walked to the Christmas tree. From beneath its branches, you retrieved a small, carefully wrapped box and brought it back to her—one of many gifts you’ve bought for her. “This was supposed to be for tomorrow,” you said, sitting down beside her again, “but I think it’ll mean more tonight.” She took the gift, her fingers brushing against yours briefly before she began unwrapping it. Beneath the paper was a small music box, its pearl-coloured sides adorned with golden, intricate carvings. She opened the lid, revealing a tiny engraving inside: the words “My Light” in Russian reside underneath a picture of Yelena in her youth, dressed as an angel for a school nativity play, her beaming smile radiant and full of life.

Natasha’s breath caught, her fingers trembling slightly as she traced the edges of the engraving. “How did you—” she began, her voice breaking.

“You have to twist the key, Nat.” You said softly, closing the lid of the box.

She turned the key, the lid opening to reveal her younger sister all over again; as the music box began to play a gentle melody. But it wasn’t just music—it was a recording, faint but unmistakable hidden under the notes. The sound of Yelena’s voice filled the room, singing “Silent Night” with all the enthusiasm a child could muster for the slow song. Natasha’s hand flew to her mouth, and tears streamed freely down her face as the recording picked up another voice. It was quieter, steadier, but unmistakably hers. A younger version of her sang along with Yelena, their voices blending, only broken by their shared giggles as they sang together, sometimes stumbling over the lyrics. Her shoulders shook as she listened, and you reached for her, pulling her into your arms. She clung to you, her face buried against your neck, her tears damp against your skin, as sobs rocked her slender frame. You held her tightly, wishing you could somehow ease the weight of her grief and the bittersweet joy of this moment.

Her lips trembled as she tried to form words in the broke of your neck. “This…this is the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. I don’t even know how you did this—” She pulled away from you to glance back at the music box, her fingers delicately tracing the engraved picture of Yelena. “She was my everything. The only good thing I had for so long – moya sestra (my sister), moy malen'kiy svet (my little light.)”

You nodded, squeezing her hand. “I know. And now you have her again, even if it’s just a little piece.” Natasha set the music box down carefully, as though it were made of glass. She leaned forward, confident in her actions, in her love for you—a soft kiss pressed to your lips.

She had never kissed you before.

She wanted to again.

“Thank you.” She whispered, her voice barely audible. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You leaned in, kissing her once again, the taste of salt comforting. “You deserve everything good in this world,” you said softly, stroking the remnants of her tears, “and you deserve love, Nat. I’ll promise I’ll remind you of that every day.”

You placed a delicate hand over her heart and spoke, “I see you. And in this light of yours, I see her.”

She kissed you again, softer and longer than the last, her lips brushing yours; fuelled behind every emotion, every feeling, every part of her heart that now belonged to you, “Thank you for giving her back to me.”

You smiled softly, brushing a stray red curl away from her face. "I promise to make every Christmas something worth remembering, for as long as I can. To remind you there’s always light to find, even in the darkest nights."

She leaned in, resting her forehead gently against yours. "You already have."

You smiled, brushing a stray red curl from her face. “I promise to make every Christmas something worth remembering for as long as I can. And to remind you of her light. With you. With Yelena.”

She leaned in, her forehead pressing gently against yours. “You already have.”

[verstappenf1lecccc]

AM!Fernando Alonso x wife reader. While all the drivers have their annual dj nee together, they have their own diner with the Strolls. Just what I know since him and Lance are not there. Maybe they had kid(s) (you decide) And Lance being their fav uncle. Spending time, banter, sweet. Anything. Thanks!! :))

I’m sorry this is out rather late!! I’m on vacay so hehe

A Night with the Strolls

The annual driver’s DJ night was in full swing, but Fernando had decided to take a different route this year. Instead of joining the usual crowd for the glitzy and glamorous event, he and his wife had a more intimate plan—dinner with the Stroll family. Lance, being a close friend and mentor to Fernando, was like family, and his wife had grown just as fond of him over the years. The kids, their two young children—Mateo, 6, and Isabella, 4—were more than excited to be spending the evening with Uncle Lance.

The evening was filled with laughter and playful banter as the children chased Lance around the house, calling him their personal jungle gym. Lance, with his larger-than-life personality, was their favorite playmate. His laughter was contagious, and they clung to him as though he was the most important person in their world.

“I think I’ve earned the title of ‘Best Uncle’ tonight,” Lance said with a grin, lifting Mateo into the air and giving him an exaggerated spin.

Fernando, watching from the couch with his wife beside him, couldn’t help but smile. “They’ll want you to take them on a road trip next, you know,” he teased, a proud glint in his eyes as his son clung to Lance’s neck.

“Why not? I’ll just kidnap them and take them away for a few days. They’ll love it,” Lance joked, raising both kids high and making airplane sounds.

Fernando’s wife, sitting quietly next to him, couldn’t help but feel a sense of peace as she watched the scene unfold. The laughter of their children, the light-hearted teasing between Lance and Fernando, and the warmth of the Strolls’ family felt like a dream. She had never imagined a life like this. Coming from a broken home, where love had often felt uncertain and fleeting, she never thought she would find herself in the kind of family that Fernando had created. But here she was, surrounded by the kind of warmth and stability she had always longed for.

She turned to Fernando, her heart full. “Look at them,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet admiration. “They’re so happy. I never thought I would find a family like this.”

Fernando smiled, his gaze never leaving her as he leaned closer. “You gave me everything I never knew I needed. I’m the lucky one.”

As the evening progressed, they shared moments of quiet connection. The kids ran around, laughing and playing, while Fernando and his wife enjoyed the peace and comfort of each other’s company. At one point, Fernando leaned in closer to his wife, his hand finding hers on the table. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as though they had always belonged there.

“Do you ever think about how we ended up here?” Fernando asked, his voice low, almost as if speaking to himself.

She looked at him, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I think about it all the time,” she replied. “I never imagined I could be this happy, this… whole. When I was younger, love always seemed so fleeting, like something that couldn’t last. But now, with you, it’s different. I feel safe. I feel like I’ve found my home.”

Fernando’s gaze softened as he took a breath, pulling her hand closer to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand, a gesture of love so simple yet so profound. “I was lost, you know. In all the glitz and glamor of racing, the fame, the attention… none of it felt real. None of it meant anything until I found you. You made me feel like I finally had a place, a purpose. When I met you, I finally felt like I was home.”

Her heart melted at his words. She had always known he was a passionate and driven man, but hearing him speak so vulnerably touched her in a way that no victory on the racetrack ever could. “You are my home too, Fernando,” she whispered. “You and our children. There’s nowhere else I would rather be.”

The connection between them was palpable, a silent understanding that, despite the world around them, this was their safe space, their place of love and trust. He leaned in then, brushing his lips gently against hers in a kiss that felt like a promise. Soft, tender, yet full of all the love he held for her.

They pulled away, but Fernando’s hand lingered on her cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of her jawline. “You are everything to me,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “More than I could ever ask for. I will always choose you. Always.”

Her eyes shimmered with love as she gazed at him, feeling the depth of his devotion in every word. “And I will always choose you,” she said, her voice steady but full of affection. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, Fernando.”

As the evening wore on, the kids grew tired, and Lance’s playful energy began to wind down. They all gathered around the table, enjoying a quiet meal together. Mateo had managed to convince Lance to tell them a new story, a tale of knights and dragons, and even Isabella, usually quiet during dinner, listened with wide-eyed wonder.

Fernando’s wife watched them, taking in the sight of the Stroll family. Lance, ever the jokester, had always been there for Fernando, and it was clear to her how much Lance admired his friend, not just as a teammate, but as a role model, a father figure.

Fernando had often told her that he had always been close to Lance, but she hadn’t realized just how deep their bond ran. Lance saw Fernando as more than just a colleague. He saw him as a mentor, a guide, someone who had been like a brother to him. When they were younger, Lance had looked up to Fernando—admired his success, his drive, and his unwavering loyalty to those he loved. Over time, that admiration had blossomed into a deep friendship, and now, it was clear that Lance adored Fernando like a father.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, man,” Lance had said more than once. “You’ve taught me more than just racing—you’ve taught me what it means to be a man of integrity, to be a good person.”

Fernando had always brushed it off with a laugh, but deep down, he knew how much Lance’s words meant. He had always tried to be a good role model, not just for his kids, but for the people in his life. And seeing Lance with his children—how the kids gravitated toward him, how he genuinely loved them like they were his own—touched him more than he could ever express.

Later, when the kids had been tucked into bed, and the house was quiet, Fernando and his wife took a moment to sit outside on the patio. The stars above them seemed to twinkle in the soft night sky, and a light breeze stirred the air. Fernando pulled her into his arms, wrapping his jacket around her as she nestled closer.

“You know,” he began, his voice soft and full of love, “I’d like to have another child. A third one. What do you think?”

Her gaze met his, and she felt a mix of love and uncertainty. “I would love that, Fernando, but I’m not sure I can go through it all again. After… everything we’ve been through. I’m scared.”

Fernando’s expression softened as he kissed the top of her head, his arms tightening around her in a protective embrace. “You don’t have to be scared. Whatever we decide, I’m here with you. And no matter how many children we have, we’ll have everything we need because we have each other. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her heart swelled at his words. She had always known Fernando was a strong man—on the track, in the spotlight, and in their home—but it was moments like this, when his vulnerability shone through, that made her love him even more.

“I love you so much, Fernando,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion. “You make me feel safe. You make me feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

His lips brushed against her forehead, a soft kiss that spoke of love, of promises made, and of the beautiful life they had created together. “And I will always love you, mi amor. You are my everything.”

As the night continued, Fernando and his wife held each other close, their hearts full of love, their bond stronger than ever. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of their family and the quiet of the night, they both knew that no matter what the future held, as long as they had each other, they were home.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

the game lasts 14 hours: rosquez [e], part 1

Marc had been dreaming—yes, dreaming is a good word for it. One minute, he’d been upright on the bike, panting like a dog inside his sweat-damp helmet, Pecco half a heartbeat behind, the grandstands around Sepang a blur of color and heat-fuzzy people. The next, he thinks he’d been down, or dead.

Now there’s someone hammering on his door. Hard enough he can feel it pulse on his teeth, on the tips of his fingers that are cold and numb.

His eyes are gritty. Everything about his body moves a heartbeat too slow, unresponsive. It takes Marc a moment to drag himself upright, to convince his legs to move. Dead fits better, he is sure of it.

The pounding becomes deafening. Marc forces air into his lungs once, twice—and off he goes. He swings the door open, almost closes it again once he sees who’s there. He could be dreaming, still. Or very high on the good painkillers.

“Marc,” Valentino croaks.

He’s panicking—maybe. Probably. It’s there in his wide, watery eyes, in his hands, wobbly and clammy. He jitters, looms on Marc’s doorway shaking worse than an addict.

“You have to believe me,” Valentino spits once it becomes clear Marc won’t speak. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, his fingers tap on the wall. His mouth pulls to the side, like he sucked on something sour. “I’m in a time loop, it’s—”

“Alright,” Marc cuts him, “do you want to come in?”

Valentino blinks. His shoulders jump, grow stiff, and he sways a step back before he remembers himself.

“You always say that.”

There’s a strain in Valentino’s voice, a knot unswallowed. Marc wonders if he should bring that up, decides against it. It’s easier to move to the side, invite Valentino in wordlessly. He should ask how he got his room number, how he bribed the staff to let him come up.

Or not. It wouldn’t be that surprising.

Valentino stumbles like a baby deer, all long, uncooperative legs. Sweat prickles on his throat, on his forehead. His gray shirt is fucking soaked with it. He looks—it must be said—like shit.

“You look like shit,” Marc decides to inform him. It’s a little—mostly—because he can’t think of anything else to fill the silence. He never can.

“You always say that too,” he scoffs.

Offense is better than panic—Marc hates when people panic around him. And it makes Valentino suck in a breath, convulsive, short, and then another, one more after that, each one easier. The minutes tickle by until he collapses into a plush arm chair, a puppet with his strings cut, sleeplessness carved into the bags under his eyes, into the gray sallowness of his face.

Marc checks the clock on the wall, the aggressive, bleeding red of the numbers. 05:13 AM. It’s early, still, but he needs to go on a run, have breakfast with Álex, sit down with his crew to smooth out his tire choice. Five points between him and Pecco, he can’t afford to make a mistake.

He doesn’t have time for Valentino going on a full freak-out, and yet—

“You believe me.”

Marc sighs, gets around brewing himself a mug of coffee. Only one, he isn’t sure if Valentino should be taking any caffeine when he’s this close to a heart attack. It’d be funny, for this to be a loop where he dies so early, doesn’t learn anything from it.

“You don’t contradict senile people.” He’s smiling, a little, a sharp grin tucked on the corner of his mouth.

Ha ha, Valentino barks. He’s clinging to the armchair so hard the fake leather creaks under his bitten bloody nails. “You believe me. I know you do.”

It isn’t usually this difficult to not be an asshole before 7 in the morning.

Marc could be cruel—it’s not often he gets to catch Valentino wrong-footed, genuine. His anger is so mirror smooth, an opaque, enchanting thing. Few people can dig into him and make it hurt. He could be much kinder, too. Say something like you’re obviously afraid, it’s not the time to question anything, of course I’d help.

Not a good idea. There’s a timeline where Valentino punches him for that, he thinks.

Marc is also very tired of offering kindness to Valentino.

He swallows. “Let’s say I do.”

Valentino lets out this noise—like Marc stabbed him right between the ribs, right where it hurts. It’s the thing about him, one of the worst ones. Doesn’t he know that a good third of Marc’s life has been spent dealing with what he says? Rolling with those wild fairytales, bracing for the next hit.

It sticks to the roof of his mouth. I believe you believe that, soothing in the same twist where it’s mocking, an oystershell of the unkindness that Marc has been rehearsing once he stopped showing his soft underbelly.

“Is this the first time you’re coming to me?” He asks, raises an eyebrow.

“No.”

“Really?”

Valentino hums an unwilling assent, kisses his teeth. The sharp tsk sound is so familiar that Marc feels like he was plucked from his body, tossed ten, eleven years ago. The sense of vertigo has him braced against the narrow, non-descript counter, watching out for the trickle of coffee that will—maybe—ground him. He’s an optimist.

“Twenty-six,” he huffs out, scowls. It sounds like it was pried from him laboriously.

The coffee machine beeps. Marc does the unwise thing and turns his back on Valentino, fiddles with the buttons. He will take it with sugar today. He fucking deserves a spoon or two, something sweet to soften the blows.

“I’m guessing I’m not exactly helpful.”

Marc feels a hand pressed between his shoulder blades, hot as a brand, that touch raking over his nerve endings even through the protection of a shirt. It’s proprietary, tugs on his guts like a fishhook. His insides might as well spill out, redredred and so overly honest it hurts. He flinches, remembers he shouldn’t have. His mouth twists, lips pressed together.

Everything suddenly aches.

“Are you ever,” Valentino breathes out because he never had a problem with being cruel.

It’s easier to hold on to that—it’s the gentleness that has Marc grinding his teeth, dull pulses of pain settling in his jaw.

He closes his eyes, then forces them open—you can’t run from a tricky corner, or from Valentino. “Any reason in particular you’re messi—”

“I’m not messing up with your weekend,” Valentino hisses. Time loop, right. Marc is still annoyed at being interrupted.

But his face is so close, Marc can spot each new wrinkle, the skin of his earlobe sagging under the weight of his earring, the patchy, half-shaved stubble on his oddly cadaveric cheeks. He forgets to not be charmed, forgets how abrasive Valentino can be.

“In my experience, you typically are,” he counters, mostly to be difficult.

Valentino’s face spasms. Marc counts down the seconds until he hardens, becomes a naked blade under sunlight. His expression crystalizes into his usual mask, except for his bottom lip wobbling, the manic glint in his horribly blue eyes.

“Allora, it’s always a fight with you.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Marc curls his hand around his mug, sinks into the heat radiating against his palm. Valentino tightens his grip on his shirt, turns him around. He has to look up—if it’s through his lashes, well, it’s so very early, and he hasn’t taken his coffee yet, and he’s bleary and good as dead.

Neither of them speak.

It’s 05:28 AM, the clock cheerfully informs him. He needs to get going, or he won’t have time to go on his run.

Marc doesn’t move. Valentino keeps him boxed against the counter, gripping his arms. It’ll bruise. His bones creak under that hold, but it’s the closest to tethered he’s felt in a while. He lulls himself into that false security, knowing it’ll bite, knowing he’ll take the bite anyway.

“So why come to me?” He asks, once the silence grows boring, once it starts gnawing on his sanity.

Valentino lets out this laugh—a little hysterical, choked. “It’s not my first choice. Uccio tries to give me Alprazolam and Luca tells me to go back to bed.”

Marc hums, faux-commiserating. “It’s good advice, have you tried it?”

“Right?” He keeps laughing or making that noise that looks like a laugh and sounds like it’s tearing him apart stitch by stitch. Marc could try looking into it, divining the omens of his day on his spilled guts.

Or—

“What happens next?”

He wants to know what Valentino will say today—it’s his favorite part of any game they play, getting roped into those stories. Falling for Valentino’s deranged Cesar on death row charm.

This time, Valentino skips the charm. Marc wishes he weren’t so disappointed.

“You’re going to die.” He nods, yes and?

Valentino grows stiff, death-serious, mouth wrenched in a snarl that bares his sharp canines. The press of his fingers goes from settling to a permanent ache, right over the place where he broke and didn’t heal right. It’s good, the kind of pain Marc can sink into and enjoy, constant, so dear by now.

“You can’t not care. You believe me.”

He smiles—bland, strained around the edges. His face feels like clay. “There’s always tomorrow, no?”

It’s a joke. Almost one. Marc has barely spoken when he notices how flat it falls, how he misses the apex of comedic timing by a mile.

There’s barely enough time to set his coffee on the counter. Valentino crowds into him, or wrenches him closer. They’re chest to chest like this. Blurring into each other, Valentino’s thumb splayed over the longest scar on his arm, Marc panting hotly over his protruding collarbone.

“You just don’t—”

“Valentino,” he sighs.

Marc has—they’re both bleeding, the walls of his hotel room pressing into him grimy and suffocating like a slaughterhouse floor. It’s too much blood, too much history, too much. Marc has made him angry. The ugly anger. A knotted mess Valentino can’t smoke-and-mirrors his way through, that pours out of his flashing eyes, his grinding teeth, his hands digging into Marc like he’ll crack open his ribs.

He doesn’t remember how many times he’s seen it before. Not many. Valentino is pathologically non-confrontational, his smiles slick and meaningless right as he lines a shot. Maybe he’s losing his mind, fraying, shattering.;

And maybe Marc is losing his mind too. I got you, he thinks, triumphant—the poisonous, acrid triumph of racing even when his arm twists like it’s trying to kill him. He still can make Valentino lose his footing. No one else but him.

“You’re going to die,” Valentino repeats, takes a step away from Marc like he’s scalding. He starts pacing, a caged thing, a Russian doll of nervous ticks. “It’s going to be—it’s going to be fucking terrible. It’s going to hurt. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

Marc looks—briefly—heavenward. Valentino scoffs.

And that’s it. Another one.

“How many times have you gone over today?” He asks, hopeful and hating himself for that hope.

Valentino smirks—like he has a knife tucked between his lips, joylessly, scraped raw. “Once or twice. It’s not like you ever take it seriously.”

The sound of the door slamming closed echoes in his chest. Marc tries to breathe, fails. Has to bend over the counter, the cold marble a blessing against his overheated skin. The chilly shock hoists back to his own body, but the nausea remains, a mouthful of thorns and bile he can’t swallow.

He wishes that Valentino would answer once—just once—how long he’s been on a time loop.

But he can’t linger too long on that. Marc has to go out now, go on a run, have breakfast with Álex, talk with his crew about his tires, die on T5 of lap 12.

Ater sixty-two runs, he’s pretty damn good at it.

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

How do you think ghouls would react or cope with their(maybe occasional) impotence. Cause I have to imagine it’s hard enough trying to cling to yr libido amidst a fallout, & even w/ apathy/desensitization like… ghouls have endured Major nerve damage— burns are one thing, but radioactive burns from enough gamma ray exposure… anyway we take major liberties as fallout fans & I adore (most) every ghoul across the games(god they Always have to have a sad backstory…) but I keep getting hung up on like. The emotional toll, Especially concerning new budding relationships

Friend, I owe you a huge thank you, because this ask came at a perfect time for me; I got it when I was ironing out the finer details of the newest Raul long-form piece and it really helped gel things together for me . I had given this topic some thought before, especially with characters like Cooper and Raul (who are very similar men who have very similar reactions to their traumas IMO...maybe more on that later), who I think would neglect their sexual needs for decades on end.

The physical stuff almost goes without saying. Almost. Yes, I think a large part of the fandom, me included, usually takes liberties with how well most of our favorite ghouls can jump straight into the fray, but too much realism and none of our protagonists would survive very many intimate ghoul encounters. You'd literally have to die for the dick (or metaphorical dick), and not a sexy death, either. I often try to include some of the more realistic physical aspects of ghoulification, though, especially for older ghouls who would definitely be feeling the impact of their age at a few centuries old.

I'd say that the scarring and the nerve damage would tie for first in how much potential they have to hamper your sex life, but I suppose they sort of hold hands. Scar tissue often has nerve damage and hence is less sensitive (except to things like heat and cold, the sensation of which can be amplified by the presence of scarring). The lack of sensation could make it difficult to become fully physically aroused, even with proper stimulation, and it could make sex feel different than it did before, even if you're perceiving the sensations. Some aspects of it could even be unpleasant, painful. I think "outercourse" is probably a big hit with ghouls, honestly.

Scarring isn't the worst situation you could end up in as a ghoul, though. Gamma radiation is incredibly hard on connective and soft tissues, so if you live long enough, well...needless to say, many of the nude feral ghouls you see in-universe have no genitals. Those who are "flash-ghoulified" by a single massive dose of radiation like John Hancock also run the risk of coming out with burns so bad they cause contractures (an injury where the length of your muscle/tendon/skin is shortened and stiffened, causing it to lose much of its function), or burns so bad that flesh fuses to flesh. Ghouls have a wide range of bodies and injuries that decorate those bodies, some much more unfortunate than others. They all still want to be loved on some level.

In terms of the potential emotional roots to impotence, you'd think that that would be just as large a hurdle as the physiological stuff, honestly. I don't think there's a character in the Fallout universe that hasn't experienced significant personal loss and hardship at some point in their lives. For many, life is loss and hardship. Overall, it's a very un-erotic world full of emotionally unwell people. "Apathetic" is a great word to describe the average person you meet. It's not like you can just schedule an appointment with a therapist downtown, either, or call the crisis hotline when things are at their worst. Unfortunately, the most effective way of dealing with one's emotions while continuing to stay alive is to simply swallow them down or drink/use them away. That sort of emotional constipation can have unforeseen physical consequences, especially if it goes on for years and years.

But, as I've pointed out before, love often finds us at the most unexpected times in our lives. It's both a blessing and a curse if you're a ghoul; even those who don't hate ghouls often have no love for them, so actually being desired feels amazing, but to be loved is to be truly known, seen...a level of vulnerability most ghouls actively avoid, lest it be used against them. Tender emotions and sex are both massive, easy cudgels to wield. Ghouls also have to navigate the hostile waters of fetishization when it comes to people who do express attraction to them. Still, the temptation of love, true companionship is enough to make most risk it, and taking that risk makes it sting even more when your body doesn't want to cooperate.

It would be a bit of a vicious cycle: a lack of confidence and too many insecurities causes issues with one's performance in bed, which takes a further toll on your confidence and plays into your insecurities, which makes the issues in bed worse...and on and on. For many, it would definitely be an uphill battle. I imagine that for some, sex with other ghouls would be preferable simply for the fact that you both understand that sometimes your brain and body don't want to be team players. Though, I also imagine there are some who can't stand sex with other ghouls and consider it "depressing". Self-hatred is easy when the whole world seems to hate you, too.

[shiraishi--kanade]

Ayo ayo ayooooo? 👀

With the post being “hey guys I'm going to leave my fawn response traumatized female character with you for a bit I sure hope when I get back she hasn't been girlbossified and otherwise mischaracterized to fulfill your own catharsis and ideas on how a victim should act and feel”

And ya tagged honamiiii? Ayooo? 👀

Can you please explain what you mean by that?

This is just me wanting you to talk about one of my favorite characters and how the fandom tend to mischaracterize her 🥹

Mhm I'm not a Honami expert! I've actually not read much about her past the main story, but the main story is what I was thinking about in that post.

One of Honami's major conflicts early on (main story and, if I remember correctly, her first focus?) is that her good-natured and kind-behaviour has resulted in her being bullied for, let's face it, petty and bullshit reasons. She's not the only Leo/need member to face that, because there's also Shiho who was in a virtually the same situation; but Honami's response to that bullying was different, and it's basically agreeing with her bullies and doing what they wanted of her ("pick a side", forming a more stable friend group, basically, changing her behaviour). She adjusted to the demands of people who put her through trauma in an attempt to please them and stop the bullying - that's fawning, a textbook definition of that. That's a trauma response.

And Honami is definitely more affected by it than a lot of people tend to remember. She's the only character outside of n25 who has expressed having suicidal ideation at some point. So it's not just her going along with bullying or conforming to the situation to be in a more comfortable position - her bullying was severe enough to cause her that level of trauma (in a combination with other factors like leo/need falling out), and her desperate attempt to appease other people was a trauma reaction.

If you actually listen into what she's saying, all of the above is very in plan view. She's very clearly hurting. She is people-pleasing, objectively speaking; just not in a way people accuse her of and not for the reason they think she does. She also has other signs of fawn trauma response; she has difficulty saying no to people, struggles with boundaries, and struggles to identify her own needs (later in the same chapter she mentions not even knowing what friendship feels like anymore, but I think Honami ignoring what she wants vs what other want of her is a kind of running theme in the main story anyhow).

As for mischaracterisation... I feel like the fandoms actually ignores Honami to the extend where it's hard to actually notice patterns. So the mischaracterisation is actually just not acknowledging her trauma and her response to it actually exists, and not engaging with that in a meaningful way. Every once in a while I see portrayals of Honami as much sterner or commanding than she canonically is, and I believe this is in a way due to her becoming a leader and the tropes that role usually involves mixing up with the fandom's generally poor understanding of her character. Honami's trauma response never went anywhere, she's just doing better now and growing into her role; this is not to say she's mentally weak or otherwise, because trauma responses are bullshit and maladaptive for everyone and aren't an indicative of your personality. I just think people don't quite get how Honami would behave in a crisis situation if one arose, which is often the premise of the fanworks. So they slap a generic "overprotective mom friend" reaction on her. So. *Shrug*

[witchezandwonderz]

Letters in the Dark

Pairing: Aegon x Reader

Summary: Aegon finds a deep connection with someone through meaningful letters...

You voted for fluffy Aegon so here he is, loud and proud- likes, reblogs and comments are unbelievably appreciated x

The sound of steel clashing echoed faintly from the practice yards as she balanced a basket of freshly pressed linens on her hip. Being a seamstress in the Red Keep wasn’t a glamorous job, but it was steady work. Most days, she spent her hours stitching hems or patching cloaks torn by reckless knights.

Every day was just as busy as the previous, and Y/N was overwhelmed with tiredness and stress, for there was an upcoming event in which Queen Alicent had ordered her to ensure that the entire families clothes were perfection; this meant that her working day was even longer than usual.

Finally arriving at her quarters, she practically ran into the room and shut the giant door firmly behind her, pressing her back against the closed door and fluttering her eyes shut, briefly, taking a deep breath and appreciating a moment of silence.

When reopening her eyes, a stained piece of parchment that peeked through the gap under the door caught her eye. She squinted and bent her body in an attempt to gain a clearer view of the parchment.

"How curious." She whispered to herself as she moved closer- she barely spoke to other humans, or, more so, other humans did not speak to her, let alone send her letters. She reached out and gently guided it from underneath the door, being delicate in the hopes that it would not rip.

She unfolded it carefully, her brow furrowing as she read the neat but bold handwriting:

“To the one who works in silence, You must find your days tiresome, toiling away beneath the weight of others’ expectations. But remember this: no matter how unseen you may feel, your hands create things of worth. And that is more than enough.”

Y/N blinked. She read the words again, her mind racing. Who would send this to me? There was no signature, no name, only the mysterious words that somehow seemed to see her, to understand the exhaustion that clung to her bones. She shook her head. Strange.

Y/N found the letter strange, but she found the meaning even more curious- how did this person know of her feelings? How did this person know of her loneliness? Of her sadness? Of her longing to be noticed? She decided to reply- perhaps too quickly, indeed.

Excited by the circumstance, she quickly grabbed a fresh piece of parchment and a quill, frantically and carelessly dunked it into a pot of ink and began writing.

“To the one who writes in shadows, Your words are a rarity, a gift I did not expect. I often feel like a mere shadow, unseen in the vast halls of the Keep, and yet your letter spoke to something within me. It’s not often that I am reminded that my work, though unnoticed, matters.

I do not know who you are, nor do I know your intentions, but for once, your words have brought me a small comfort amidst the chaos. I wonder, does anyone ever truly see the ones who serve without question? You have, and for that, I thank you.

Yet, I must ask, who are you? And why do you choose to write to me, of all people? I will wait for an answer—though I do not expect one. Until then, The One Who Works in Silence."

She was aware of the difference in length between the two letters, that being that hers was significantly longer than the original senders- but she did not care. This was the first time in years that someone had spoken to her- really spoken to her. Y/N was beginning to think that she was seen as a walking piece of machinery at this point.

Unfortunately, she did not know where to send the letter too- so- she decided to put it in the exact spot where she had found the original note, in the hopes that the sender would return to find it. Y/N wedged the note in between the door and allowed herself to fall into a peaceful slumber, imagining all of the possibilities of whom would be writing to her.

Once waking at the crack of dawn, as usual, Y/N would normally get dressed immediately in preparation for her daily duties. On this occasion, however, her mind automatically flew straight to the prior nights events- the letter. She sprang out of her small, uncomfortable bed and lightly ran to the door- the cold floor boards stinging her bare feet as she moved. If she was completely honest, she did not actually expect the person in question to have responded within a mere night time.

Y/N bent down so that she was held up by her knees, and peered down through the gap in the door. She felt disappointment cloud her as she saw that her parchment was still in the exact spot where she had left it. Nonetheless, she looked closer, just in case. When noticing that the parchment was a slightly darker shade of beige, she smiled to herself. She was mistaken, for it was not her note. They had replied.

Y/N's hands trembled as she reached for the note, her fingertips brushing against the slightly rough parchment. She could not help but feel worried, for a secret exchanging of notes with a stranger may be seen as an act of traitorous events, in the eyes of the King, Aegon. She shook her head at the thought- she did have a habit of overthinking. For a moment, she simply held it, staring at the folded edges and the small blot of ink that marred the corner—proof of its hurried creation.

She sat back down on her bed, swiftly and quietly- the walls were thin and she did not want to wake anyone near. Carefully unfolding the parchment, she sat back slightly in an attempt to seek better comfort from her cold sheets.

"To the One Who Works in Silence, You searched for my reply, and here it is. I must confess, your response lingered in my mind long after I first read it. I am both glad and uneasy that my words have found their mark. Glad, because you deserve to know how deeply you are valued, and uneasy, because I fear my own words may fail to convey the truth of what I feel.

You ask why I write to you, and I wonder if I can provide an answer that satisfies us both. It began with admiration, perhaps—your quiet diligence caught my eye long before I found the courage to put quill to parchment. But it did not stop there. I saw a beauty in you, not just in your face, which holds a grace unmatched in these stone halls, but in the way you move, the way you dedicate yourself to your craft without seeking applause or acknowledgment.

You intrigue me, and I cannot help but feel drawn to know you more. In a world where so many feign sincerity, you seem so utterly and beautifully real. That is why I write to you. That is why I hope you will not turn away from my letters, though they come from someone you cannot yet see.

As to who I am, I am bound by duty and expectation. My name carries weight, and with it, chains I cannot yet escape. I will not lie to you—there may come a time when I must reveal my identity, but for now, I ask you to see me through my words.

Yours, with all honesty, The One Who Sees You."

Y/N felt her cheeks burn hotter and hotter as she read the letter, she read it once, and then twice, and then a third time. She wanted to find a deeper meaning, she wanted to know who this admirer was.

As to who I am, I am bound by duty and expectation. My name carries weight, and with it, chains I cannot yet escape.

So, whoever this is, is someone with a title- someone with a title who resides within the red keep, or at least is extremely close with someone who resides in the red keep. But who? It could not be the King, despite her hopes that it would be. Perhaps Aemond? She shook the thought away, for she had indeed met Aemond many a time, but in every one of their encounters he had offended her in one way or another. Y/N let out a deep sigh, for all she could think about was the fact that a man, for the first time in her life, regards her as beautiful.

The next few weeks involved many letters indeed, sad ones, happy ones, angry ones, emotional ones, you name it- there was a letter for it. Y/N felt naïve, but she honestly felt like she was in love with this secret person- she had never revealed so much of her life, of her emotions. Similarly, she had never experienced anyone being so open and honest with her, either. She burned with desire- all she wanted to know was who it was.

As always, she sat on the end of her bed re reading the previous letter that he had sent during the night.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted her deep and chaotic thoughts. Y/N cleared her throat and flung her sheet over the note before calling "come in."

The door opened and with that, the King's mother, Alicent, entered the room. Y/N had always quite liked Alicent- she was good to her. Especially when Y/N had been sent there to work when she was a child; Alicent saw that it was wrong, to have a child as a servant, so, arranged for Y/N to be taught how to make clothing. Hence, why Y/N was now the lead clothing maker for Kings Landing.

Alicent smiled brightly at Y/N. "Y/N, you are late." She said, walking further into the room, her smile now fading. "Get dressed, I need your help with the finishing touches for the banquet." Alicent barely looked at her, clearly riddled with stress about the anticipated events.

"I will wait for you outside, hurry up!" Alicent called out, before walking out of the room and pulling the door shut. Y/N let out a deep sigh, for all she could think about was the fact that a man, for the first time in her life, regards her as beautiful.

She quickly got dressed, laced up her boots and tucked the letter into a draw, where she kept all of the accumulated confessions. She sighed, realising that she would not have enough time to write a letter back, she would have to wait until she is released back to her room to get ready for the banquet. Never mind.

Moments later, Y/N followed Alicent out into the hallway. The queen walked briskly, her gown sweeping the stone floors. Y/N tried to match her pace, though her thoughts strayed again to the mysterious writer, as they always did.

As they turned a corner, the two nearly collided with Aegon, who stopped abruptly, a startled look flashing across his face.

“Mother,” he greeted, his usual nonchalance missing entirely. His hands twitched at his sides, and his gaze flicked nervously to Y/N before darting away just as quickly.

“Aegon,” Alicent said sharply, crossing her arms. “Shouldn’t you be preparing yourself?”

“I—yes,” he stammered, his usual glib tone replaced by something softer, almost uncertain. “I was… just heading there.”

Y/N curtsied quickly, her eyes fixed on the floor. “My King.”

Aegon’s response came slower than usual, his voice quieter. “Y/N.” The way he said her name sent a ripple through her chest. She dared a glance up, meeting his eyes for a moment before he looked away again, his cheeks tinged with a faint pink. She felt awful- she had always taken a liking to Aegon, but she had a lover now- well, technically anyway and loyalty meant everything to her.

Alicent sighed. “Come, Y/N. We have no time to waste.” She moved forward, but Y/N lingered half a step behind, waiting for Aegon to move aside.

He hesitated, his hand twitching slightly as though he wanted to reach for something—or someone. As Y/N stepped forward, his fingers brushed lightly against the back of her hand, barely a touch, but enough to send a shiver down her spine. Her head snapped towards him in confusion, but he had already begun walking away.

To Y/N's surprise, Alicent stopped suddenly, in turn nearly causing Y/N to topple over. Alicent turned instantly, calling after Aegon once again. "Actually, I have changed my mind, Aegon!" Her voice carried loudly and echoed throughout the stone walls. Aegon hesitated before stopping and turning back, causing Alicent to speak once more. "I think you should do your fitting with Y/N now, there may need to be some finishing touches."

Y/N panicked, she did not expect to have to see Aegon so soon after the awkward, yet satisfying slight moment of intimacy.

"Now?" He asked, his eyes looking around him. Alicent nodded. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

Aegon shook his head before walking towards the pair. Alicent gave them both a curt nod before turning on her heel and walking briskly down the corridor, her gown flowing behind her like a banner.

Y/N and Aegon looked at each other blankly for a moment before Y/N decided to fill the awkward silence. "This way, your Grace." She flashed him a small, nervous smile, before using her arm to gesture down the hall.

Aegon did not speak, and one of Y/N's downfalls, she thought, was that she was incapable of allowing a silence- she just had to fill it, always.

"My apologies, your Grace, as this may sound out of my bounds but all of my things are kept in my room." She breathed, as they walked briskly down the empty halls. "Would you mind doing the fitting in there? Or would you prefer me to gather the things and do-"

Her words were interrupted.

"Your room will be fine." Her head snapped up at him, but he was looking at the ground once more. She did not respond with words, but instead hummed quietly.

Y/N’s nerves thrummed in her chest as they reached her modest quarters. Her hand trembled slightly as she opened the door, stepping aside to let Aegon enter first. He hesitated for a moment, then crossed the threshold, his movements awkward and uncharacteristically cautious.

“Please, your Grace,” she said, gesturing towards the small space. “It’s not much, but it should suffice.”

Aegon nodded, his eyes sweeping over the room, taking in the neatly folded fabrics, spools of thread, and tools that spoke to her craft. He seemed strangely out of place, his royal attire a stark contrast to the simplicity of her surroundings.

Y/N busied herself at her work table, retrieving the measurements and pins she would need. The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. She chanced a glance at him, only to find him staring at her with an expression she couldn’t quite place.

“Your Grace?” she prompted, her voice soft.

He blinked, as though snapping out of a trance. “Yes, of course,” he said hurriedly, stepping onto the small platform she had indicated.

Y/N approached him cautiously, draping the cloak over his shoulders. Her fingers brushed against his neck as she adjusted the fabric, and she felt him stiffen slightly under her touch.

“I trust the preparations are to your liking, my King?” she asked, trying to keep her tone professional despite the fluttering in her chest.

“Yes,” he replied, though his voice was quieter than usual. He shifted his weight, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “You’ve always done excellent work, Y/N.”

The use of her name, spoken so gently, made her pause. She looked up at him, her brows furrowing in slight confusion. “Thank you, your Grace,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon opened his mouth to speak, and then quickly closed it again. Seemingly having changed his mind, it opened once more.

"Y/N, I know about the letters."

Y/N felt her heart leap in her chest, and her eyes visibly widened. She told herself to calm down, and act natural.

"I am unsure of what you mean, your Grace." She breathed, busying herself with a needle. Aegon let out a sigh. "It is ok Y/N I know everything." He said calmly. Y/N unhooked the needle from the garment and looked at him. "I am sorry, your Grace." Her words left her mouth unbelievably quietly- almost a whisper, although she had not intended them too.

Aegon's eyes softened. "Why are you sorry?" He asked, but before giving her a chance to answer, he spoke once more. "It is me that should apologise. You have been speaking with me." He stated, he had not intended for the confession to be so sudden, and so blunt at that. Y/N's brows furrowed in confusion, it couldn't have been him all along- the King himself?

Aegon could sense Y/N's inability to find the correct words, so took the chance to explain himself further. "I have never felt so close to someone, Y/N, these past few weeks have been." He paused, and then smiled. "They have been so enjoyable, getting to know you. You are the only person that has ever truly listened to me, the real me."

“You?” she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. “You’re the one who’s been writing to me?”

Aegon nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on hers, vulnerable yet unflinching. “I am,” he said simply, his tone earnest. “It was selfish, perhaps, to write to you as I did. To let you share so much of yourself with me without revealing who I was. But I couldn’t stop. Your words—they were like a light in a very dark place.”

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Aegon took a hesitant step forward, closing the gap between them. His presence was overwhelming, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away.

“I know it must come as a shock,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But everything I wrote, every word, was true. I meant it all. And more.”

Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide, like a deer caught in headlights. "I meant everything too." Aegon instantly relaxed at her words, almost as if all he needed was the slight indication that she was not too disheartened with discovering that it was him.

"From the moment that I saw you, I felt close to you. This may sound, slightly strange, but the words that we have exchanged have caused me to develop deep affections for you." His eyes, that were firmly gazed into hers, now fell to the floor.

Her breath caught in her throat. “Your Grace…”

“Aegon,” he corrected gently, his hand covering hers fully now. “Please, just Aegon."

Aegon’s gaze flicked down to her lips, his breath uneven as though caught between anticipation and restraint. “May I?” he asked, his voice trembling with uncharacteristic shyness.

Y/N nodded, her cheeks warming as she tilted her head slightly.

He leaned in, his movements slow and deliberate, as though giving her every chance to pull away. When their lips finally met, it was soft, hesitant, and achingly sweet. The kiss was not one of fiery passion, but of quiet devotion, a promise that words could never fully convey.

When they parted, Aegon pressed a small kiss to her forehead, his mouth then curving into a shy smile.

"I want you to be my wife, Y/N." He admitted, looking deep into her soul once again. Y/Ns heart panged, for she wanted to marry him, of course she did- but she knew that it was not possible.

"Aegon." She whispered. "I love you." Y/N leant up and pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. "But, we would never be accepted." She bit her lip slightly.

Aegon shrugged. "Accepted by who?" He asked, a smirk now creeping onto his expression.

Y/N playfully rolled her eyes. "Your mother, for one, your sister, your brother, the whole of Westeros? I started as a servant, Aegon." Y/N rambled, panic arising within her at the thought of potential judgement. Aegon watched her with amusement.

"I am the King, Y/N. You may have been a servant once, but not now. You will be the Queen." His fingers intertwined with hers.

Y/N sighed. "You really think that it is this simple, don't you?" She too now held a small smile on her face. Aegon mimicked her expression before placing a kiss on her nose.

"I have spent my reign thus far, terrified that my mother will force me to marry a random woman. I have finally found love, a woman who I actually see myself having a future with." His hands now found the back of her hair, as he pulled her close and embraced her in a hug.

"I will not let you go now."

[coldlovehotblood]

SNOW-KISSED SERENADE

izzy makes up for missed time by making christmas unforgettable

w/c: 3,264

warnings: izzy is disgustingly cute

a/n: this is an early christmas gift for my bff violet @rocknrolldecadence ! sorry for taking so long queen… IM ONLY AN HOUR LATE ITS FINE ITS FINE *sweats* anyway i hope you all enjoy some more izzy fluff. merry christmas! <333

divider by @/strangergraphics

You had been suspicious for quite some time.

Usually, your boyfriend wouldn't care if you were in the room while he worked. In fact, he often invited you to join him, insisting you sit beside him either in the studio or on the sofa of your apartment as he tested different chords and scribbled down a line or two. You didn’t have to talk to him or be quiet or help, all he asked was that you sat with him. The few times you questioned why he requested such a thing, he replied with a shrug, saying ‘I just like you close.’

But as your relationship progressed, he slowly asked for you to come to the studio less, instead asking for privacy. Of course, you respected this. Really, his music-making process was none of your business, and it wasn't like you fully paid attention to what he was doing every time you accompanied him. With this in mind, it didn’t bother you. However, when the conversation steered towards songwriting or what he was currently working on, he changed the subject. That was strange for your normally very communicative Izzy who freely blabbed about anything that was on his mind around you.

Again, you respected the boundary he placed, but that didnt mean you kept a cap on your curiosity. Holding your tongue was easier than holding back wandering thoughts. It hurt to be shown that he did not feel comfortable sharing his art anymore, but you said nothing. There was no point prying, as over the years you learnt that was the quickest way to put him off talking about or admitting anything.

It got to a point where if you walked into the room and his lyric notebook was lying open in front of him, guitar sitting neatly in his lap, he’d lurch forward from where he sat, no matter how comfy he seemed, and snapped the book closed, body rigid, eyes a little frantic. Maybe even panicked.

After a couple of months of this, you decided one December that you'd get to the bottom of it.

Christmas had been drawing closer and closer, and you still didnt have any idea what you were going to gift Izzy. You had tried to subtly bring it up in conversations for a week or two, but he caught you every time, fondly kissing your cheek and telling you he didnt need anything. You would never turn down one of his kisses, but they were very unhelpful with your search.

Eventually, you settled on getting him some essentials and a custom engraved dog tag necklace. Peel back the layers of rockstar and he was a simple man. You knew that, no matter what you got him, he’d give you a big, glowing, toothy smile and a hug.

It was Christmas eve when you picked the necklace up from the shop, his name crisply engraved into the shiny silver tag, and he had come to your apartment to share a takeout dinner. He hadn't seen you for a couple of days and had begged previously over the phone to stay the night, promising to pay for the food in a childish, whiney voice. You couldn't deny him. You just had to pray he wouldn't find the hidden, snowflake decorated gift bag you had hidden.

A knock sounded from the door as you stood wiping down the last bit of your kitchen counters. You had decided to tidy up before he came to stay, as you knew he would rope you into evenings spent lounging around, on and off napping and staying firmly within each other's hold. No complaints, but this usually meant that, with each day he spent with you, your apartment became more and more messy. Not a big deal, but it was easier to clean when the disarray was built from a clean slate, not the beginnings of your own messes.

You almost skipped to the door with how excited you were. It was always fun when he came to stay. You had missed him. He’d spent a couple of days holed up with the band in some recording studio, working hard on their next big project. He often became fully absorbed by whatever he was doing so contact with you would become sparse. You knew him well enough to not panic when radio silence came. It was hard to complain about it when the fruit of his labour tasted so sweet. Guns n’ Roses, as a unit, were so hard working and it showed in the quality of their music. Izzy was simply dedicated to his craft. It was one of the things you found most endearing about him. You admired his passion.

He was looking at his boots when you opened the door, head coming up instantly when you said hello. He was carrying a guitar case on his back and wearing less than sensible clothing, black button up shirt open halfway, partially exposing his chest. This, paired with ripped jeans and only a beaten up leather jacket to fend off the nip in the air, you decided he was one of the stupidest people you had ever met.

“Do you have a death wish?” you asked as he leaned down to kiss you. He just laughed against your lips and moved the two of you further into the apartment, one of his cold hands finding the side of your face, the other resting easily on your hip.

“Damn, miss me that much?”

“I'm talking about your outfit. Izzy, it's leaning towards minus numbers out there and you're dressed in ripped jeans with your chest bared to the wind? Are you looking to get sick?”

“I’m so hot, the cold doesn't get to me. I think I recall us having this conversation–”

“Shut up, weirdo,” you rolled your eyes and kissed his cheek before pulling away.

He muttered something about your apartment being cosy and you repeated with playful anger that he was stupid. He argued that it was worth it because he looked good. To be fair, he did. In fact, he looked amazing. He always had in your eyes. So naturally handsome he sometimes took your breath away just by standing there. But however well put together his outfit looked, it was ridiculous considering the weather, every slight breeze whispering with the promise of thick frost and snow. That view of his chest was gorgeous but tempted the low temperatures to pierce right through him. You couldn't have him getting sick.

“What do you wanna eat?” you asked as he shrugged the guitar case off of his back, letting it lean against the side of your sofa.

“I don’t mind. Just name somewhere and I’ll give you the money.”

“You know, I was joking when I said you have to pay for it. We can split like normal.”

“No, I feel bad for being away for so long. Let me treat you. And anyway, it's Christmas tomorrow. Consider this one of my gifts to you.”

You argued for a short while and ended up chasing him with cash in your hand, insisting he take it. He just shouted a quick ‘Love you!’ before running out your door, slamming it closed to make sure you couldn't grab him by one of his sleeves. You huffed in defeat.

Damn him and his long legs.

He came back maybe twenty minutes later, two pizza boxes in hand, and you ended up eating sat in front of the TV, a thick blanket thrown over your tangled legs. It was so nice to have him back and beside you where you could feel the mass of his body against your side. Sure, hearing from him on the phone and talking was great, but being able to actually touch him, wrap an arm around his and put your head on his shoulder, was so much better.

You thought it was your imagination, but as time went on and the two of you got closer to finishing your food, the movie playing drawing to a close, Izzy started to tense up. If he was uncomfortable, he was masking it well on his face, but from how you leaned against him, you were able to feel how his shoulders were tightening and you saw his fingers curl into fists over the blanket.

Eventually, the credits began and the two of you got up to dispose of your empty pizza boxes. You were in a fantastic mood and couldn't wipe the pleased smile off of your face. You didn’t want to. This was an ideal Christmas.

“Should I give you your gifts now? Or should we wait for the morning? You don't have to open them now, but I'd rather just have them out before I wake up too groggy to remember where they're hidden.”

You saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed and eyes widened at the mention of gifts.

“Now?

“Yeah. Do you want to wait? I don't mind…” you trailed off when you saw him bite his lip and look down slightly, realising what was happening.

Was he nervous?

He didn’t reply to you so you said his name softly, startling him out of whatever daze his head brought him into.

“Um, actually, before you do, can we go sit again?”

“Whats wrong? Did you not get me anything?” you laughed nudging him.

“Well,” he took a small breath, “Yes and no?”

You tilted your head, not understanding. He ran a hand through his hair, still nibbling on his lower lip.

“Just come sit and I’ll explain.”

You started to suspect he forgot to get you something. You wouldn't have been angry– he'd been busy for the past week for goodness sake! Was he afraid you would blow up at him for it? No, you didn’t want him thinking like that. His presence meant everything, and even that alone was enough of a gift for you that Christmas. You opened your mouth to reassure him of this, but he simply held gentle fingers over your mouth before guiding you to sit on the floor with him, the two of you leaning against the front of your sofa.

He was still biting his lip, and the skin was turning to an irritated red, so you reached forward and carefully eased it from between his teeth

“You'll hurt yourself, love.”

His eyes widened again and he looked at you with an expression you couldn't decipher.

“You know, I won't be mad if you haven’t bought anything. That’s not what I’m looking for at Christmas. If that’s what this is, there's no need to worry.”

“No, it's not that, it's just…” he took a second, and you let him have it, “I have a gift, but its not something physical, if that makes any sense.”

You nodded your head and observed him as he sat there, no longer looking at you but rather keeping his gaze carefully on the floor. He took one more deep breath before reaching for his guitar case and placing it in front of the two of you.

For some reason, this felt like a moment– a movement for him and your relationship. Nothing was moving out of place, per se, but rather, moving in and adding to the solid connection between the two of you. The air was vulnerable as you sat there, watching him take in very intentional breaths. You could tell that, for some reason, he was incredibly nervous, and how you reacted to whatever happened next mattered. So, you didn’t move an inch and let him take his time, keeping your face carefully neutral but encouraging.

You could be patient for however long he needed.

“As you know, I've been working on a lot of music lately, and I’ve spent the majority of my time in a studio. I’m sorry for not being with you as much as I should be.”

You shook your head.

“No need to apologise. I honestly don’t mind. I know how much music means to you, Izzy. I would never take you away from your passion. Hell, it's your job.”

His eyes met yours again for a split second before he returned his gaze to the floor. His hands had begun to fiddle with the end of the blanket the two of you had abandoned previously.

“Thank you. I honestly don't deserve you. I’ve been more caught up in making music because I've been… more inspired in the last few months than I have in years.”

You smiled. That was genuinely great to hear. It pleased you to know he was doing well. His happiness rubbed off on you.

“And,” he continued, now looking up,” I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

“Huh?”

“Remember when I used to ask you to sit with me in the studio?”

You nodded.

“It’s because you inspire me. I found that writing became easy with you there because you've been the root of all of my ideas. Ever since we met actually, you've inspired so many different things.”

His ears started to redden and your heart skipped with pure molten love and excitement. You could've genuinely leapt to your feet and sprung comically high like a cartoon, screaming with joy. That was so special. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. You kept the same gentle and relaxed demeanour as before, but it was useless to try and hold back the giddy smile that took over your whole face.

“Is this why you’ve been so protective over your work?”

“Um, yeah. I didn’t mean to be so secretive, it’s just kind of… Kind of,” he looked away, that same beet red that grew on his ears now starting to come to his neck and cheeks.

“Kind of..?” you encouraged.

He took a peek at you before sighing, exasperated from having to be so honest.

“It’s embarrassing, okay? You probably think I’m fucking weird or something now.”

“No, Izzy. Actually, its quite the opposite. I think thats so sweet. I’m seriously so honoured to be an inspiration. You know how much I admire your work.”

He seemed surprised by your reaction.

“R-really?”

“Yes!”

He visibly became more relaxed, slumping a bit further against the sofa behind him.

“Oh thank God,” he breathed.

“Don’t tell me this is what you were so nervous about.”

“It is. I was going to buy you some clothes or something originally, but I thought, instead, I could show what I wrote for you. I burned a CD with a few of them on it for you too.”

Your mouth fell open. A few of them? Did you hear that right? He reached to open his case now and handed you a CD before taking the instrument out. You took it and looked at the front of the case. There was a paper slipped in the back of the plastic, on it, your name was written in neat cursive with a heart on the end. You genuinely could not believe what you were looking at.

He strummed experimentally, seeing if each string was in tune. You set it down and looked at him, eyes soft.

You were filled with so much love you could almost feel it coming up your throat. He didn’t realise just how much all of this meant to you, and you could tell. He was more at ease now, knowing that you were more than pleased with all of this. But you knew with the way the corner of his mouth raised once happy with the tuning of his guitar that he was unaware of just how incredible what he had done was.

You felt special. You felt loved.

“I was going to do this tomorrow, but now feels better. I’ll play you my favourite one, okay?”

You could only nod.

He began, and you were instantly enchanted. You paid careful attention to every chord, every word, every syllable. It was impossible not to. Everything about him demanded you look. He drew you in like that. The way his voice was filling the space made you want to lean in closer and maybe lean your head against his chest, but again, you didn’t dare move. The last thing you wanted to do was throw him off and scare him from ever doing something like this again.

He had been so brave and honest. You could tell that it took a lot of courage for him to tell you about this little secret. Izzy could be sappy every now and again, but playfully so. He was rarely so open. He was being open and vulnerable. Sincere. He had even flushed the sweetest red for you.

It was futile trying to stop the tears from forming in your lash line.

He finished with a final strum and his gaze returned to you once again, that unsure expression returning.

“What do you think?”

You sniffed before swaying forward and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He quickly put his guitar aside and made space for you, tilting his head to let your own fall to the crook of his neck. He put a cheek against your crown and laughed gently as you kissed all the skin you could from where you were tucked away, salty streams wetting your face as you cried. They weren’t just happy tears, but the result of being so stuffed with true, unwavering love you didn’t know where to put it, so it flooded out of you.

“I'm assuming those are positive tears,” Izzy spoke. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smirking. You could hear it in his words.

You pressed closer, seeking the vibrations that his voice brought.

“You are so dumb for thinking I'd call you weird,” you said, muffled by how you were positioned.

“How was I supposed to know how you’d react? There’s no way to casually say ‘Hey! You’ve been my muse since our first meeting and you’re the first thing that comes to mind when it’s quiet!’ I sound insane,” he huffed dryly.

You gave a scoff as your tears started slowing.

“I love you for you. This was really thoughtful and I’m a mess because of it. Are these tears not proof enough of my appreciation?” you joked, pulling away from his neck to look at him. “Should I run around like a headless chicken and explode into flames to show how this makes me feel?”

He let out a full laugh at that, making you smile once again. You noticed from the corner of your eye through the glass of the window that there were white flakes dancing in the breeze and you gasped, turning and pointing.

“Izzy, it’s snowing!”

“So it is.”

You took a moment to watch it fall like feathers against the black drape of night, contrasting colours striking. Beautiful.

The living room settled into true syrupy peace as you melted against your boyfriend's chest once again, eyes still steady on the sight outside. With the warm tangerine glow of display lights you’d wrapped around the TV stand, you felt a memory slip itself into place inside your mind.

You knew you would never forget that moment.

Izzy pressed a soft kiss to your hairline.

“Love you, sweetheart. Merry Christmas.”

“Love you too, idiot.”

“Hey!”

Silence came again, and you didn’t realise your eyelids were drooping. It was just so comfortable on his lap, his body heat bleeding into your skin so easily.

You had finally figured out what it was he was hiding.

‘Case closed’ you snorted internally, before drifting off, head blissfully empty.

[the-100-days-of-junkan]

Day 82

Another one that I love!~ Gonna be a lot of those from here on if you couldn’t tell!

Junko’s the Ultimate Fashionista (in the english release at least but hey Ultimate Gyaru has to have a little crossover right??), so of course she handles Mikan’s wardrobe the moment she’s allowed to. So . . . Extremely cute scene of her having Mikan try out clothes to see what she does and doesn’t like. 

An opportunity for Junko to pamper Mikan, AND i get to draw Mikan in a sweater???? Heaven. Also like are we all in agreement that sweaters just look fuckin amazing on Mikan?? Like I admit, I think I just like drawing Sweaters on Mikan but they just make her look so much cuter because of how god damn cozy she looks in em. 

Unfortunately that’s all I have to talk about for that topic? I think? So instead let’s shift over to a recent development involving Junkan!

I’m in the midst of working on the Junkan Christmas Eve comic, which hopefully will be getting posted on time a few days after this, and during the process of making there’s been something new with my current abilities.

I have officially hit the point of proper freehanding on these two.

Y’see this probably won’t make too much sense but i’ll do my best to explain. 

So normally when it comes to sketches I’ve done things a bit less proper compared to more professional artists. I usually get a little start on the anatomy, and then just start sketching all the character details and moving out from there. It isn’t often that I do a full sketch for the basic anatomy of a character, I only do it when I really wanna not fuck up a pose. And as you also know up till now only one piece in this event was drawn normally. Everything else is a sketch that i cleaned up and colored, or just a sketch. 

This is because generally speaking I can’t do art using my normal pen tool without a sketch to work off of, it requires a lot more finesse to use the G-Pen both because of the larger shifts that can occur in line width, and the slightly looser feel it has compared to my Pencil Tool. 

That’s all to say that I have drawn Junko and Mikan so many fucking times that I can just, draw them without proper sketches now. I’m at a point where I just need to draw the head, torso, and legs for an anatomy sketch, and then with the G-Pen I can just, draw from there. That’s big for me personally, and also fucked up because god how even??? There hasn’t been a drop in quality either so far, i’m still able to refine the expressions and i haven’t fucked up with the arms too much yet, I’d even say it’s resulted in some of my favorite Junkos and Mikans period.

Now, the catch is that again, this is only Junko and Mikan. I could prooooobably get to this point with Mukuro eventually just because her design is much simpler compared to other DR Characters? I struggle with getting her colors right rather than linework, but that’s about it and still not really useful in my main line of work unless I memorize every character that’s ever existed, and it took like 150 fucking times for Junkan I can’t do that for an obscure RPG character that I might get commissioned once and then never again. 

It’s also not something that I think i’ll apply to my normal Junkan works, because I am a perfectionist to a fault when it comes to pieces I care about and I want to make sure every detail these is exact. I need to be meticulous for ship art like this, every detail is important. And I can maximize that with sketching.

This new skill is basically useful for one thing. Speed. 

I pride myself on my efficiency, even if I have waned over the years due to burnout and overwork, when I get into it I can fuckin move with my art. And so if I need to say, make a 28 page comic in under a month? Being able to mostly skip an entire phase of the art process is very, VERY useful, ESPECIALLY because it’s a comic. Something which generally takes more time than my normal art by nature of it’s format and what it involves. When making the Comic for Day 60 it was all sketches, which was equally fast but could leave small imperfections at the time that either went under my radar or I just let slide because i was trying to be efficient. 

This is basically perfect for having to speedrun a Junkan comic, it’s all the speed with the usual amount of visual quality.

So in short . . . I’m turning into a nightmarish hell machine but specifically for drawing Junkan. I am genuinely curious how much farther I can go up from here, like, what the hell else could I be capable of with this???? Am I just gonna learn how to fuckin beam the art onto the canvas with my brain???

Moral of the story is just get mind numbingly obsessed with a ship and I guess you’ll get better at stuff??? I have no idea, i’m still kind of processing the comedic value of what this year has been because I was desperate for these two to make out. 

As always, Reblogs, Comments, and Little Notes in the Tags are appreciated!~ They always make my day!~

[mcybree]

Ok ok ok I'm not Tryna start discourse but bluestars prophecy was my first ever warriors book and bluestar will always be my favourite so I'm gonna make some counterpoints to you about her being a Smajor character

bluestar has always been led by an intense loyalty and dedication to those she loves and cares for - this includes her mum, her sister, her clan, eventually Firepaw when he joins the clan, and she has a VERY strong moral compass when it comes to doing the right thing - when she sees thistleclaw teaching tigerpaw to hurt a then baby scourge she very much discourages it and is against it

Afaik scott is Not like that, he doesn't have an emotional or love-driven moral code, he does things because they're smart decisions in the long term or because he wants to. Granted I havent seen a ton of his stuff but I have seen his limited life and 3rd life perspectives and he is very much a singular team player there, there to look after himself and well if people align with him that's great he's got allies (jimmy and Martyn) but he won't go out of his way to care for them

Bluestars defiance of starclan in the first series is BECAUSE she gave herself to them and what the warrior code demanded so much - yes she broke clan rules by having kids with crookedstar but she did everything in her power to make sure they'd have a happy life and felt terrible that thrushpelt was willing to say they were his to save her reputation. She didn't do it out of a selfish want, she only ever wanted to help her clan and those she loved, and her becoming clan leader is emblematic of that want. When she rejects starclan so wholeheartedly in the first series it's because THINGS KEEP GOING WRONG WHEN SHES TRIED SO HARD TO STOP THEM FROM DOING THAT - starclan has never cared about the sacrifices she made to keep her loved ones and clan safe, she lost her mother, her sister, her kits, her mate, literally everything, and things STILL KEEP GETTING WORSE. it's not a demand that she deserves to have everything good, it's a cry for help that shouldn't something go right after she's tried so hard???

C!Scott isn't like that. He puts himself above others and inherently believes he will get the best if he just plays his cards right, and he is good at it, he's very competent at lasting a long time in life series and getting what he wants - the ruthlessness of gem driven by desperation kills him in secret life, Martyn's complete fucking about face kills him in limited life, and I'm pretty sure it's etho who gets him out in 3rd life by luck. He doesn't plan to look after the ones he cares about, because he cares about himself first and foremost. Yeah you can argue when he doesn't get what he wants he gets annoyed, but his is less of a 'why don't I get this don't I deserve it' and more of a 'oh fuck this didn't work. Ok new plan double down on getting what I want by appeasing to people cos they're easy to read and therefore account for'

I don't doubt Scott would make a bluestar adjacent character if he made a warrior cats oc BUT his character would honestly be closer to darktail or ashfur than bluestar and that's that on that.

(sorry you activated 13 year old me's unskippable cutscene sjdjsjsjja this isnt meant to be a serious argument I just love bluestar a lot and love talking about her)

OKAY 1. this is fucking awesome thank you 2. i am going to do something new and exciting (advocate for scott instead of beating him to death with sticks) because unfortunately this bluestar info has only made me believe she is a smajor character even more.

As a general note when I talk about smajor characters as a collective here I’m referring to characters more in the realm of esmp/traffic/rats/pirates/etc, less vampire scott or necromancer scott who are intended to be villainous.

Scott characters tend to operate under a “If I am not a Good Person I may as well die” rule, and consequently abide by a strict moral code to keep themselves feeling clean. For instance: traffic Scott will never go back on his word, he will avoid dishonesty, and he won’t take from others unless he is sure that he can repay them. He will never betray his seasonal primary ally (even when they betray him first), and will often give people things just because they asked him nicely. He stakes a lot of his own identity on this, because it is through being a “good person” that he justifies his superiority (and, by extension, his own existence); in his mind he deserves the best and *is* the best because he is such a good person. When things don’t go his way, he thinks he doesn’t deserve it because he has been nothing but good, so he tries to place a reason. He often assumes that somebody must “have a vendetta” against him, even if this somebody is the world (see: him asking if limlife episode 1 boogeyman is some kind of joke played on him for not giving in to the boogey curse in Last Life.) which is very Bluestar to me, convinced that her misfortunes are a divine punishment.

This is all to say that Scott does have a strict moral code and deep sense of loyalty. Being a “good person” and devoted partner in the ways he understands it are so ingrained into what he is that I think he definitely has the capacity to be a Bluestar if he were raised being taught clan values, even if his internal systems are often built around never letting gross emotions be fully felt rather than what those emotions compel him to do.

[smute]

90% of the time i hate my brain but occasionally it surprises me. a couple days ago i was trying to get through this journal article and it was a complete disaster. like i just kept getting distracted, i had to start every sentence over like 5 times and im sure it took me 2 hours to get through the whole thing. in the end i felt like i had retained absolutely nothing. anyway, fast forward to last night and im suddenly recalling things from that article? how does that make sense? like sure some texts you have to digest... but how did my brain do that without me noticing? its as if my subconscious just sat on these thoughts for days and now they're coming out. lmao

[outeremissary]

I may be late but I never forget. Two months ago @dmagedgoods tagged me to fill this template out and at last I finally have. I’m... not much of a digital artist, so I’ve tried to compensate how I could. Unfortunately, resolution issues may undermine my efforts. I did my best though!

Due to having been tagged on this two and a half months ago I will not even be making an attempt to send this anywhere.

[heybaetae]

.

[pallases]

got my nails done for the first time btw i fear this will become an addiction

[lettersiarrange]

Since I just checked my ask box for the first time in a hot minute:

Just a note that tumblr doesn't tell me when I have new asks or messages and I rarely check my notifications. Helpful corrections of misinformation/any messages in good faith are appreciated (though it's possible I won't see them until weeks later, sorry), but if something I reblog angers you enough you feel the need to get hostile in my askbox on anon, I reccomend the unfollow button.

I'm also not comfortable posting asks asking for any sort of donations/directing people to your blog for donation purposes, sorry :// I just don't have time to vet asks like that

[hayatheauthor]

10 Flaws to Give Your Perfect Characters to Make Them Human

If you're tired of the usual vices like arrogance or impatience, here are some unique (or at least less basic) character flaws to give your perfect characters: 

Pathological Altruism

A character so obsessed with helping others that they end up doing more harm than good. Their inability to let others grow or face consequences creates tension.

2. Moral Narcissism

A character who sees themselves as morally superior to others, constantly justifying selfish or harmful actions because they believe they have the moral high ground.

3. Chronic Self-Sabotage

A character who intentionally undermines their own success, perhaps due to deep-seated feelings of unworthiness, pushing them into frustrating, cyclical failures.

4. Emotional Numbness

Rather than feeling too much, this character feels too little. Their lack of emotional response to critical moments creates isolation and makes it difficult for them to connect with others.

5. Fixation on Legacy

This character is obsessed with how they’ll be remembered after death, often sacrificing present relationships and happiness for a future that’s uncertain.

6. Fear of Irrelevance

A character-driven by the fear that they no longer matter, constantly seeking validation or pursuing extreme measures to stay important in their social or professional circles.

7. Addiction to Novelty

Someone who needs constant newness in their life, whether it’s experiences, relationships, or goals. They may abandon projects, people, or causes once the excitement fades, leaving destruction in their wake.

8. Compulsive Truth-Telling

A character who refuses to lie, even in situations where a lie or omission would be the kinder or more pragmatic choice. This flaw causes unnecessary conflict and social alienation.

9. Over-Identification with Others' Pain

Instead of empathy, this character feels others' pain too intensely, to the point that they can’t function properly in their own life. They’re paralyzed by the suffering of others and fail to act effectively.

10. Reluctant Power

A character who fears their own strength, talent, or influence and is constantly trying to shrink themselves to avoid the responsibility or consequences of wielding it.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Check out the rest of Quillology with Haya; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! Instagram Tiktok

PS: This is my first short-form blog post! Lmk if you liked it and want to see more (I already have them scheduled you don't have a choice)