#six-leaf clover

[mcvalleyrambles]

At this point I feel like I'd be entitled to at least a tiny bit of luck

[oysters-aint-for-me]

i found a five-leaf clover!!

[aby55-of-the-ab5o1ute]

hm..

interesting..

[whitecloverwitch]

Batch found on 16-06-24

1x 6 petals, 3x 5 petals, ?x 4 petals

Love finding lucky clovers, a bit of a pain to press and dry them all. I want to do something else with them in the future, maybe resin would be fun.

[escargoonie-goo]

I was trying to practice line confidence and these were the only good drawings

[healingjourneyaqua]

Good Vibes, Today, As Usual✨

[ayukas]

WHERE THE CHERRY BLOSSOMS FALL

the year slips away after march. tomorrow it will be december. tomorrow i promise not to write about you again.

pairing oh sion x fem!reader genre hurt/comfort, first love au, unspoken love au, grief/mourning word count 1.7k notes hehe

you always wrote him letters.

it started when you were six years old, messy block letters on a crumpled piece of notebook paper, sealed with an uneven sticker of a smiling star.

you never attempted to stop, scraps of receipts, the backs of old class worksheets, the margins of your math notes—they all bore your handwriting, curling around the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say. words that trembled too much when spoken aloud but sat calmly when written down.

the letters were kept in a wooden box under your bed. inside it were other little pieces of your heart—the first four-leaf clover he found for you, a broken plastic keychain from the arcade, the movie ticket from the time you both skipped school just to watch a terrible film and laugh yourselves sick.

you told yourself that one day, when you’re braver, you’d give them all to him.

one day.

dear sion, you laughed so hard today you fell off the swings. you looked so ridiculous lying there like a starfish and i laughed so hard i had to sit down next to you. i think that was the happiest i’ve ever been and i really wanted to tell you. but i couldn’t. maybe tomorrow.

summers were made for the two of you.

sun-drunk days where the air tasted like metal and dust, biking through the scorching streets, plastic bags tied to his handlebars and ribbons to yours. your pockets clinked with coins scavenged from couch cushions, just enough for popsicles from the corner store.

sometimes he’d race ahead, glancing over his shoulder with a teasing glint in his eye. other times, he’d hang back just enough for you to pull ahead and throw your hands up in victory, your laugh ringing out high and bright.

when the sun sank and the rains came sudden and heavy, you’d huddle together under the huge umbrella outside the convenience store, sharing a bag of chips and watching the puddles.

“you think we’ll always be like this?” you asked once, chin propped on your knees, pretending not to look at him.

sion crunched a chip, thoughtful. then he smiled—the kind of smile that felt like stepping into a warm house after a cold walk.

“yeah. always.”

dear sion, you let me have the last chip today even though you wanted it. i saw it in your eyes. you’re such an idiot but i love you. and one day, i’ll tell you properly. i promise.

spring arrived like a sigh.

the cherry blossoms bloomed through heavy clouds, lining the streets like something out of a dream. sion always insisted on walking the long way home from school, past the biggest tree at the edge of the park.

once, he plucked a blossom from a low-hanging branch and dropped to one knee in the middle of the sidewalk, holding it out to you like a knight offering up his defences.

“milady,” he said, overdramatic, his voice rich with laughter.

you snorted, shoving at his shoulder—but your hand lingered just a second too long, fingertips brushing against the curve of his collarbone, feeling the heat of him.

for a moment, you thought—maybe today. maybe i’ll say it today.

but then he jumped up, brushing off his jeans, and the world spun forward like it always did. and you just smiled instead.

dear sion, i think if i kissed you under the cherry blossoms, time would stop. but i’m too much of a coward. maybe next spring. next spring i’ll be brave enough.

the last real letter you ever wrote him while he was still breathing wasn’t even a letter at all.

it was a sentence, scrawled hastily across the back of a grocery list you were supposed to hand to your mom—

i miss you already and you haven’t even left yet.

you shoved it into his jacket pocket at the bus stop, your face burning. he pulled it out, read it, and laughed—that beautiful, easy laugh that always made you feel weightless—before ruffling your hair and promising he’d be back before you even noticed he was gone.

you can still feel the ghost of that touch sometimes, when the nights stretch long and hollow.

sion lied.

but you don’t blame him. how could you?

march bled into april. april bled into silence. you forgot how to count days, only knowing how to count the ways the world felt emptier without him.

you kept writing.

because you thought if you stopped, it felt like you were letting go—and you weren’t ready to. not yet. maybe not ever.

you wrote letters and folded them carefully, leaving them by your windowsill. you wrote letters and tucked them under the cherry blossom tree, in the earth he once danced on. you wrote letters and whispered them into your pillow at night, hoping somehow he could hear you, wherever he had gone.

your friends stopped asking if you wanted to hang out. your teachers started giving you that soft, wary look, like you were something fragile about to break. your mom cleared away his photos from the living room shelves when she thought you weren’t looking.

you saw. you saw everything.

still, you wrote.

dear sion, i saw a boy riding his bike today. from far away, he looked just like you. my heart nearly broke itself open trying to catch up. but alas, it wasn’t you. it’s never you.

the cherry blossoms bloomed and fell without you noticing. summer came back hot, thick and unbearable. then suddenly, it was winter which settled into your bones, familiar and unwelcomed.

you started forgetting the sound of his voice. you started hating yourself for it.

it’s almost march again now.

you sit at your desk, an unfinished letter before you, fingers curling and uncurling around the pen. the sky hangs heavy with rain, the old cherry blossom tree outside your window stripped bare and aching against the grey.

your room smells faintly of dust and something else—something sweet and rotting—the memory of flowers blooming where they shouldn’t.

you close your eyes and think of him falling off the swings, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. you think of him offering you a cherry blossom with mock-serious devotion. you think of all the words you swallowed, the bouquets you grew inside yourself, never plucked, never given.

dear sion, it’s been almost a year. it feels like yesterday. it feels like forever. i still write to you. everyday, almost. i wonder if you get them. i wonder if you read them and laugh at how stupidly, endlessly, and desperately i loved you. i did. i still do. i love you. i love you. i love you. god, sion, i miss you. i miss you so much it feels like my body forgot how to hold anything else. they say the first year is the hardest. they say it gets easier after. i don’t know if that’s true because every spring still smells like you. every summer still sounds like your laugh. and every winter still feels like you left yesterday. you’re everywhere and nowhere all at once and i miss you so much. i hope wherever you are, there’s a swing set, cherry blossoms and a bag of chips waiting for you. i also hope you know i really did mean to tell you. i hope you know i really tried. i’ll come by the tree tomorrow and i’ll bring your favourite chips. we can sit for a while, and maybe this time, i’ll say it out loud. that i love you. that i’ve loved you everyday ever since i’ve known you. and i’ll keep loving you, even after all the tomorrows run out.

you fold the letter carefully, hands trembling only slightly, and hold it to your chest.

outside, despite the rain, a single blossom has unfurled at the tip of a branch—a stubborn, ridiculous thing, blooming against all odds.

the next day dawns cold and pale.

the walk to the park is slow, your letter tucked safely inside your pocket. the familiar cherry blossom tree stands ahead, its skeletal fingers reaching for the overcast sky. a thin wind sighs through the empty playground, causing the rusty swing chains to clink softly against each other.

for a long moment, you just stand there, watching the branches sway.

you half expect him to come running around the corner, shoes kicking up dust, grinning that grin that made you forgive him for everything.

but he doesn’t.

he won’t.

you step closer to the tree, your boots sinking slightly into the soft, wet earth. you sit down under it, your back pressed against the rough bark. the letter feels impossibly heavy in your hands as you unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases with trembling fingers.

your voice, when it comes, is thin and unsteady. you begin to read aloud.

“dear sion. it’s been almost a year.”

your voice wavers, but you swallow hard and keep going.

“it feels like yesterday. it feels like forever.”

the words blur as tears fill your eyes, but you don’t stop. you owe him that much.

“i still write to you. every day, almost. i wonder if you get them. i wonder if you read them and laugh at how stupidly, endlessly, and desperately i loved you.”

you close your eyes against the rush of grief, pressing the heels of your palms into them until the world is just dark and quiet.

“i still love you.”

a sob tears its way out of you—raw, broken, and barely human—you clutch the letter to your chest, curling in on yourself like something wounded.

“i miss you,” you whisper. “i miss you so much.”

the swing set continues to creak in the wind, a hollow, aching sound.

you wonder if he’s listening. you wonder if he’s laughing gently, telling you to stop crying, dummy.

you wonder if he’s proud of you—for finally saying it, even if you’re too late.

when you can breathe again, you carefully fold the letter back into a small, neat square and tuck it into the hollow of the tree’s roots, where the earth is soft and welcoming.

you pat the ground once, like sealing a secret.

standing up, you brush the dirt from your knees, take one last look at the swings, the tree, the empty spaces he left behind.

“i love you,” you say again, aloud, to the grey sky, to the restless wind, to the ghost of a boy who never really left you.

“i always will.”

you turn and walk home alone, but for the first time in a long time, your chest feels a little lighter.

somewhere, you think, sion is smiling.

and somewhere, maybe—he’s carrying a bouquet of all the things you never got to say.

perm. taglist ♡ @dreaminabtrj @ddolbyong @f6llsun @egojo1st @sungbites @nonverdolly @strwberie @blondemrk @chenlezip @markkiatocafe @stqrgr7 @jisungji @taroddori @haeriaes @kukkurookkoo @polarisjisung @dudekiss3r @dejundesign @uncasings @sweetpinkblueberry @spacejip @yushiela @insbread @t-102 @haelvrty @pl4netx1a @haeivie @natakgae @fae-renjun

[alexsoenomel]

Through The Amplifier

Summary: Seeing Metallica with Dean for his birthday 🎶

Based on: THIS

Pairing:  Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI , implied smut, actual smut (but cute fluffy smut), mentions of death, Dean and Reader being nerds

Word count: 8k (I like writing backstories sue me)

Song mentioned (The actual setlist btw): Ride the Lightning,  For Whom The Bell Tolls, Lux Æterna, Until It Sleeps, Whiplash, Too Far Gone? Welcome Home (Sanitarium), No Leaf Clover, The Call of Ktulu, Moth into Flame,  Wherever I May Roam, Inamorata, Blackened, One and Enter Sandman ( Also Wrong Side of Heaven and Jekyll and Hyde by Five Finger Death Punch)

Note: This year I saw one of my favorite bands and finally fulfilled my lifelong dream. I went by myself and had an absolute blast so this idea just came to me.

Like/ reblog or both if you like it :)

“Are you sure you don't want to come with us, Sam?” I said as I pressed the buy tickets button. The website loaded for a couple of seconds before my phone went off. 

“Yeah, I'm sure. I don't listen to Metallica,” Sam told me as I checked my email to see two tickets for Metallica in Inglewood, California in six months.

“How can you NOT listen to Metallica?”

“Not my cup of tea, I guess.” 

“You, Charlie?”

“I don’t like old men in leather,” she simply said, making me chuckle.

To say that I was excited would be an understatement. I was overjoyed, ecstatic, and adrenaline-filled, already mentally preparing for the concert. It was indeed destiny. Metallica was performing two days after Dean's birthday in Inglewood, and since we both shared one dream: seeing them live, I saw it as a sign. Videos from their M72 world tour have bombarded my social media ever since it started, and I decided it was now or never. 

“How much are the tickets?” Sam asked.

I bit my lip and mumbled: “14k.”

“For two tickets?!” Charlie’s eyes widened in disbelief. 

“Each,” I simply said. 

" (Y/N)?! " Sam's gaze was on me, and I could feel it burning. I looked at him and smiled awkwardly, and he gave me a silent look of judgment. 

“I can explain!” 

“I'm listening!” He said, voice as sharp as a knife. 

“You know that rich vampire guy I was sleeping with before we met?” 

“The son of the rich vampire?” 

“Yeah, that one. After we killed them I found his laptop where he kept all of his secrets plus his bank account and asked Charlie to transfer everything to me.” 

“How much?”

“Everything,” Charle said proudly. 

“Untraceable and undetectable thanks to her, so technically it’s not our money,” I added.  

“But wasn't that two years ago?” 

“Yeah, he had a lot of money,” Charlie told Sam as he stared at me connecting the dots.

“That explains why the fridge is always full now.” 

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Charlie said.

I chuckled. 

Sleeping with a vampire was probably the stupidest thing I have ever done. I didn’t know he was a vampire until I woke up one morning in his bed drowsy with two small holes on my neck. By then, I had been a hunter for ten years and The Winchesters were not in the picture yet. I’ve only heard stories about them; some hunters told me that they were monsters in human form, savage, causing chaos wherever they went; and others had kinder words in mind, like heroes, good, impossible to not like. After I realized what he was I was shocked, but not surprised. I had been collecting red flags like baseball cards all of my life, but I’ve never slept with an actual monster. I’ve been with narcissists, egomaniacs, momma’s boys, but never with a vampire. That day I made a mental note: “Never trust guys on dating apps. Sleazy pubs are better for finding sex.”

The day I planned to kill him and his old man was the day that I met the brothers and Charlie. I caught them trying to sneak into the property from the back, since the cameras there weren’t working. I saw them because I was trying to do the same so the servants wouldn’t see me. I could smell hunter’s blood from a mile away and they could too. Sam told me bodies were piling up in LA and I had no idea because they would cover their tracks well and I was too busy having sex with one of the perpetrators. Dean on the other hand was rolling his eyes because he couldn’t believe how reckless and stupid I was. We didn’t start on a good foot whatsoever. He thought I was annoying and I thought he was an obnoxious jerk. That was before we killed the vampire family. 

After we finished the job with minor injuries we went to celebrate –drink. It was Charlie’s idea and I still thank her for that. A few beers later I realized the reason why Dean and I didn’t see eye to eye. It was because we were two sides of the same coin. He was a stubborn nerd with alcoholic tendencies and daddy issues and so was I. And the best part was we both liked the same type of music. Sam and Charlie saw right through us and left after two hours and we stayed and talked for hours. A few more beers and a whole lot of bickering and flirting later, we were fucking in his car like it was our last day on this Earth. I collected one more red flag that night and had too many orgasms. Drunk on sex we both went to his motel room where we had even more sex and barely got any sleep. 

The next morning Sam and Charlie were grinning at us while we were trying to wake ourselves up with caffeine. 

“I see you guys had a lot of fun,” Sam said, noticing our dark cycles. Charlie giggled. 

“Yeah, too much fun,” Dean said, trying to keep his eyes open. 

When it was time to say goodbye and exchange numbers, Charlie had yet another brilliant idea. 

“You should come with us,” she said, leaving the brothers speechless, Dean especially. 

“A hunter alone in a world is a terrible thing,” she told them. 

“Did you just quote Maester Aemon?” I asked her. It was nice meeting a fellow Game of Thrones fan.

“You just became even more awesome!” She said and high-fived me. “She is coming with us, guys!” 

I was indeed alone. I started hunting when my parents got killed by a werewolf when I was 19. I had no extended family just one friend and she had no idea what I was doing in my free time.  

Sam and Dean just stared at each other but naturally agreed since Charlie was running the house and therefore I was moving to Lebanon, Kansas. 

For the first time, I had my room and a place I could call home. The bunker was gray and dark and grew on me rather quickly, but things between Dean and I were strange at first. We both thought we were going to fuck each other’s brains out and never see each other again, but the universe (in this case Charlie) had other plans. He was actively avoiding me until I told him to suck it up and talk to me. We didn’t speak, instead, we were memorizing each other’s scars and moles in different positions…over and over again. We even woke up Sam a couple of times while Charlie was clueless since she slept with headphones.

Slowly, we were falling for each other and each kiss became more fatal than the last and since we now lived together, we were spending every waking moment in each other's presence. It wasn’t until one evening we were drinking and a young handsome guy decided to shoot his shot with me and Dean in a drunken jealous rage told him to piss off when he saw his hand on my hip. When the guy refused to leave me alone Dean punched him in the face and we got kicked out of the bar. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! I was about to tell him to fuck off!” I screamed at him and he just stared at me in complete silence. 

“DEAN?”

He came closer and cupped my cheeks with his hands kissing me gently. This time the kiss was different; it wasn’t filled with lust; it was more gentle and vulnerable. His lips were as soft as ever and for the first time I was so painfully aware of them, I wanted him to devour me whole. 

“Why are you such a dick sometimes?” I asked, his face inches away from mine.

“I don’t like when people touch what’s mine,” he said, putting a strand of hair behind my ear. I suddenly became aware of my heartbeat. 

“Since when do I belong to you?” I asked him, trying to keep a cool head even though my body was on fire. We never made it official, but we both knew it was inevitable. 

“Since I belong to you, dickhead,” he said, and from that day on I was his and he was mine. 

***

 I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t in love with Dean. We never said the words, maybe because we were too afraid to verbalize our feelings like grownups, but I knew he loved me just as much as I loved him. His eyes would always sparkle whenever we shared eye contact – even when we fought. He fought a lot, but mostly on hunts, because I would never listen to him and he knew better. In the end, we would get the job done and have angry sex to blow some steam. I’d never thought I’d end up dating a male equivalent of me. I could finally say I was happy with my life, even though objectively speaking it was awful 99% of the time. I was thankful for my chosen family and the fact that I got to experience love for the first time. 

***

I had a hard time keeping the secret, but six months later it was time to celebrate his day. Sam, Charlie, and I decided to make everything Metallica-themed. His cake was a classic chocolate cake but the candles were two small guitars one white and one black (one had the number 3 on it and the other one had 6), The frosting was black and had a picture of the band from the 80s when Cliff was still alive. Dean loved Cliff’s bass, so we knew he was going to love the cake. 

“Happy birthday, Dean!” We all said in unison as I was putting the cake on the table in front of him. Dean’s eyes widened, sparkling with delight, as he stared at the cake. His mouth dropped open in a gasp, revealing a grin that spread from ear to ear. His cheeks flushed with a rosy shade, and he could hardly contain the bubbling excitement as his eyebrows lifted in disbelief. It was a moment of pure wonder etched across his face. He blew his candles after we sang Happy Birthday to him and now it was time to open the presents. 

“This is from me,” Sam said and gave him a bag. 

 Dean pulled a black shirt from it. 

It was a beautiful Metallica shirt, a brand new one from their 72 Seasons merch collection with their yellow album cover and Metallica written on the top. 

“Holy crap a Metallica shirt!” Dean said looking at the beautiful design. Sam smiled at him. 

“Thank you, Sam! It’s perfect!” He then added. 

“You’re welcome, Dean,” Sam said and hugged his brother.

“Now it’s my turn!” Charlie exclaimed and gave him her present. 

Dean pulled out a CD and a cassette tape from a small box– their 72 Seasons CD and a limited cassette tape of the same album. 

“Oh my God! Charlie!” Dean was bursting with excitement and my heart was melting. I don’t think I remember the last time I saw him this happy. His inner child was healing mine – he deserved the world.

“One is for your car and the other is for your laptop!” 

Dean immediately jumped from the chair and hugged Charlie as tight as possible. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“You’re welcome, birthday boy.”

Now it was my turn. While he was licking the frosting with his fingers I sent him his ticket. 

Dean was staring at me as I was smiling back at him. 

“Check your phone, handsome,” I told him, trying to contain my excitement. 

Dean's brow furrowed just a touch, creating a faint line across his forehead as he checked his phone to see that he got an email from me. 

“What is this?” He mumbled under his breath and opened it. 

Dean’s face lit up with pure joy as realization washed over him. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open in a wide grin, showcasing his astonishment, while a breathless laugh escaped him. He looked at me for a second before staring back at his phone.

“ARE YOU FREAKIN’ SERIOUS?” He then asked in disbelief. 

“Yeah, and guess what? We will be right in front of the stage,” I said and showed him my ticket on my phone. 

His cheeks flushed with color, and his eyebrows shot up, giving him a look of sheer exhilaration. He could hardly contain himself, there was an almost childlike glee as he wrapped his hands around my waist and lifted me, completely swept away by the moment. I squealed as he spinned me around like I was a ballerina. It was a mix of shock and joy, a perfect reflection of his excitement to see his favorite band live. When he kissed me my feet hit the ground. 

I knew he would remember his 36th birthday for the rest of his life.

***

We packed our bags the next day and went to the airport. Our flight was at 6 pm, so we arrived around 3 pm after lunch. Sam and Charlie came with us because Dean didn’t want to leave Baby at the airport parking lot. We said our goodbyes and went to check in. 

“Don’t let him do anything stupid,” Sam told me. 

“Don’t worry I won’t! We will be stupid together,” I grinned and Sam looked concerned. 

*** 

The flight was quick and smooth; we didn't even feel it. Since it wasn't my money (well not really) I decided to splurge and booked us two nights in the four-star hotel next to the YouTube Theater where the concert was scheduled. They had a pool, spa, and breakfast buffet, so naturally, I figured Dean was going to appreciate it. 

“I don't have swim trunks, (Y/N),” Dean told me as we were entering our room. 

“Yeah I know, that's why I bought you a pair a couple of weeks ago,” I said.

The room was an epitome of elegance, bathed in warm light from sheer curtains. A plush king-sized bed, adorned with crisp white linens and a couple of soft pillows was calling our names. A sleek nightstand held a vintage lamp in the corner, while a polished desk offered a coffee maker and a big flat-screen TV handing across the bed was screaming Dean’s name. The en-suite bathroom was heaven, featuring a spacious glass shower, complete with fragrant candles and premium toiletries.

Every detail was screaming luxury and I knew I made the right choice.

We put our bags on the floor and I turned to Dean to see him staring back at me. 

“Happy birthday, handsome!” I said and kissed him gently. He immediately pulled me closer to him, closing the gap between us, deepening the kiss, and making me moan a little. I could feel his stubble on my face, his hands on my hips, slowing moving downwards to cup my ass. 

“Shower?” He asked before moving his lips to my neck. 

“Please,” I managed to say. 

After having a quick shower we went to bed and he made love to me until we eventually fell asleep only knowing the sound of each other's names. I loved that man with all my heart and soul. 

***

The next morning we woke up at around 8 am, which was our usual time, and went to have breakfast. 

The breakfast buffet was a sight to see. There were freshly baked pastries like croissants, danishes, and muffins, all warm and inviting. A big bowl of colorful fruits sat nearby, with strawberries, melons, and pineapple ready to be picked.

In another section, you could find hot dishes: scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and plump sausages. There was also a selection of artisanal breads, with butter and a variety of jams to choose from. The drink station had fresh coffee and juices. Dean and I were salivating. 

“Oh, this bacon looks crisp!” Dean said joyfully as he put a handful of bacon on his plate. 

“If monsters don't kill us, high cholesterol sure will,” I chuckled and put a couple of pieces next to my eggs. 

Breakfast of champions: bacon, eggs, fluffy croissants, coffee and for dessert fluffy American pancakes with maple syrup. No matter where we went we would always eat the same thing for breakfast.

“The pancakes are so good, my God!” I said as I stuffed my face.

“I need more bacon!” Dean said and went to get more. 

After breakfast, we ended up taking an hour-long post-breakfast nap.

***

The concert was at 9 pm. After we woke up Dean wanted to go swimming before lunch so I gave him his new and only pair of swim trunks: blue shorts with yellow ducks all over. 

“Seriously?” Dean said, looking at himself in the mirror next to our bed.

“I look ridiculous.”

I tried so hard not to laugh.

“It was either ducks or small purple dildos.” 

Dean's face went blank as he looked at himself once more.

“Ducks are good.” 

I, on the other hand, bought a black bikini that was perfect for my body. The sleek design highlighted my figure, and the black color added a touch of elegance. I was oozing confidence and sexiness and Dean couldn't get enough of it. His gaze never left my body and it was filled with admiration and affection. His expression was a mix of pride and appreciation. He was on another planet.

“Dean?” 

“Um?” He asked, his eyes still fixed on my figure, his mouth partially opened. 

“Your gun is showing.” 

He looked down and saw what I meant. 

“Crap!”  

“Let me take care of that before we go!” I chuckled and pointed to the bed. 

***

The pool was nice and big. After an hour of fucking like rabbits we went for a swim only to realize we were too exhausted to do anything with our bodies, so we went to the sauna. 

In the sauna, my skin felt like it was being enveloped in a warm embrace. The heat made me aware of every pore, and I could feel the sweat starting to bead up and trickle down. It was both soothing and invigorating; my skin felt alive, flushed with warmth. 

“I can't believe you planned all of this,” Dean said and closed his eyes, enjoying the sweat dripping from his skin.

I wanted to say it. I wanted to say those goddamn words, but I bit my tongue once more. 

“I know, I'm the best,” I said proudly, while in the back of my mind the sentence "Love makes you do crazy things" echoed over and over again. 

***

Lunch time, another post food nap and it was time to get ready. Dean wore his usual: jeans, a new Metallica shirt he got from Sam, a leather jacket, and combat boots. I decided it was time to turn myself into a rock’n’roll bombshell. I was going to wear leather black pants, Dean's old Ride the Lightning shirt I “borrowed” and never gave it back, and my staple: black Dr. Martens. I did my hair all nice and curly, and my makeup was a bit over the top and not something I usually do.

I was standing in front of the mirror as I started with a flawless matte base, then created a smokey eye with deep blacks and a dramatic wing. Thick eyeliner and voluminous false lashes (that I bought just for this occasion) made my eyes pop. I swiped on dark, matte plum lipstick and defined my brows to frame my face.

A touch of contour enhanced my cheekbones, and I added a hint of shimmer to my inner corners. Feeling powerful and sexy I was ready to heal my inner child with the love of my life. 

“How do I look?” I asked Dean as I put on my leather jacket. 

He bit his lower lip and scanned every inch of me in a second.

“Freakin’ gorgeous,” he exclaimed, making me blush. 

He was never shy to give me compliments and show me how attracted he was to me. Even in pajamas, dying from period cramps, and crying because my favorite ice cream was sold out, he would still tell me how amazing and pretty I was. Like I said, I loved that man with all my heart and soul, it was pathetic and beautiful.

I kissed him and we were on our way. 

We came four hours earlier at around 5 pm, a few minutes before they opened the gates and let us in. In an hour Ice Nine Kills was going to perform and after them Five Fingers Death Punch. When we came in, the pit was already filled with people, but it wasn't full yet. We found a spot just a few inches from the stage. My heart was pounding, I couldn't believe I was there, while Dean was squeezing my hand tightly not wanting to let go. 

“Do you want a beer?” Dean asked me. 

“I don't think that's a good idea. If we drink we will have to go and if we have to go we will abandon this perfect spot. A lot of people are already coming in.” 

Dean nodded.

“Water?”

“That will do,” I agreed, considering we would be standing probably until midnight, staying hydrated was important.

He left to buy us two cups and came back after five minutes. The space was already getting crowded and I was growing impatient. 

“I still can't believe we are here,” he told me. He was buzzing with excitement, eyes shining and bouncing on his heels. 

“Do you think they will play Enter Sandman?” I asked him. 

“I hope so. Pops used to play that song all the time in the car when I was a kid. Sam hated it.” 

“My dad used to sing me that song whenever I couldn't fall asleep. I was a lousy sleeper but for some reason, that song would always put me into a coma.”

I told Dean as I remembered how much I missed my old man.

“You're still a lousy sleeper,” he said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. 

“Yeah, because now I cannot sleep without you,” I said and kissed his cheek. I always had trouble sleeping, going to bed after 3 am, waking up at 3 pm, tossing and turning, nightmares, and so on… until I started sleeping next to him. I was never a big cuddler, especially since I would always feel uncomfortable whenever someone would try to hold me while I slept, but with him it was different. I would sleep like a baby next to him, he was home to me. His heartbeat was my white noise and his warmth was my safe space. 

He smiled back at me and at that moment the show began. 

Ice Nine Kills was…something else. Dean and I were trying to decide if we liked the music or not, but one thing we agreed on was: that we LOVED the performance. Gore, blood, and chainsaws were all far too familiar, but we especially loved horror references. The music was not bad, but considering we were both classic rock fanatics it wasn't something we would actively listen to. 

“I love the Nightmare on Elm Street reference,” I commented after they finished the first song. 

“Not bad,” Dean agreed as he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and pulled me closer. 

We were jamming to songs we'd never heard before. People around us were either utterly confused or dancing and head-banging like it was their last day on Earth. 

“Oh! That's the Texas Chainsaw Massacre!” Dean said in my ear. 

“I know,” I laughed, but I don't think he heard me considering the music was pounding in my ears. 

After a good hour, they were done. The crowd was growing impatient again and so were we. 

“Five Finger Death Punch is next!” I said and took a sip of my almost empty cup of water. 

“I'm kinda excited about that.”

And to be honest I was too. We heard a couple of their songs like Wrong Side of Heaven and Jekyll and Hyde and instantly fell in love with the singer's voice. Dean even said the vocalist sounded a lot like David Draiman of Disturbed and I definitely could hear that. 

We were waiting for what felt like hours and my legs started to hurt. I forgot what it felt like standing for so long; the last time I went to a concert I was 16 and my family was still alive. Dad took me to see Deep Purple, it was an unforgettable day. 

Five Finger Death Punch came at exactly 8 pm. The band made everyone jump and scream. Their energy was unmatched and the vocalist was giving his all. His voice was strong. The guitarist even threw a couple of picks and Dean almost caught one.

“Damn it!” He shouted. 

“Don't worry, maybe you will catch one from Kirk later.” 

We all completely lost it when they closed the show with the iconic song Dean and I both loved: Jekyll and Hyde. I was singing my heart out with my man and the rest of the crowd while the singer was jumping around the stage. This whole band had such a strong presence, and I decided to check their other stuff after the show. 

"Thank you all for being an incredible audience! Your energy means the world to us. I hope you enjoyed the show as much as we loved performing for you. It was an honor to open for one of the greatest bands to ever exist! Enjoy the rest of the show and be safe!” The singer said and the whole stadium screamed and clapped. 

“DAMN RIGHT!” Dean yelled and I smiled. 

Seeing Dean so at peace with life and enjoying the present moment made my heart flutter. That man deserved the world and even though I couldn't give him one where he was truly happy (mainly because that would require him to leave hunting behind and he would never do that) I could still make his world a little bit brighter. 

I turned around and kissed him, leaving a smudge of lipstick on his perfectly full lips. 

“Are you ready?” I asked him whipping the stain from his lips with my thumb. 

Dean grinned widely, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Abso-freakin’-lutely!” 

People around us were shouting, screaming, and clapping from excitement, and some people went to get more beer, and pee before the show– it was a beautiful chaos around us. 

“My legs are killing me already,” Dean complained, trying to stretch as much as he could in the sea of people. 

“Yeah, mine turned to stone,” I said and checked my phone only to see they were 20 minutes late. Being late was my biggest pet peeve; even the legendary band that was Metallica didn’t have an excuse. I groaned silently and looked at the empty stage again. I was impatient and filled with adrenaline; ready to sing my heart out, but at the same time I was missing the hotel bed. 

Ten minutes later, our favorite chaotic drummer appeared, sending the whole stadium into a state of pure excitement and borderline madness. He waved and then Robert and Kirk appeared with their guitars and big smiles on their faces. The crowd was cheering even louder. 

“Kirk’s hair is fabulous!” I told Dean, while we were clapping. 

“Yeah, Sam should take some notes!”

And finally, there he was, in the flesh, our favorite voice and my favorite silver fox: James. I've had a crush on James ever since I was a little girl and seeing him right in front of me in his black leather pants, black boots, black shirt, and his beautiful gray beard and hair made my heart beat faster. The man had the presence of a God and I was his loyal worshiper. 

“Oh my God! IT'S HAPPENING!” Dean yelled and hugged me from behind. 

As the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted, Dean and I felt a surge of adrenaline once again. The opening chords of Ride the Lightning sliced through the air, and we couldn’t contain ourselves. With a wild grin, Dean threw his fists in the air, the pulse of the music igniting a fire within him. I was too starstruck to sing, my voice too shy to come out as I was standing there with my phone in the air trying to record a video with my shaky hands. It was my dad's favorite song and I wanted to immortalize this very moment.

Meanwhile, Dean was transported into another dimension. He swayed to the heavy riffs, shouting the lyrics as they echoed around him. Each note was a release, a reminder of the thrill of being alive. At that moment, we were just fans—no monsters, no worries—lost in the pure magic of live music.

“GOOD EVENING INGLEWOOD! ARE YOU READY TO HAVE SOME FUN?” James' voice was powerful with a gravelly timbre that conveyed excitement. We all screamed and with that, they started playing the second song. 

“HOLY SHIT!” I yelled when I realized it was indeed For Whom The Bell Tolls.

As the iconic opening riff surged through the venue, Dean’s heart raced. He felt the familiar rush of nostalgia wash over him, memories of late nights with Sam on the road in the Impala echoing in his mind. The deep, heavy chords resonated in his chest, and he instinctively raised his fists, the crowd's energy fueling his excitement. 

With each thundering beat, he found himself singing along. His grin widened, and he couldn’t help but sway with the music, lost in the moment. For Dean, it wasn’t just a song; it was a reminder of everything he fought for—the bond with his brother, the battles they faced, and the moments of joy amidst the chaos. This was rock and roll at its finest, and he was right where he belonged.

 I, on the other hand, was trying so hard not to cry. The haunting melody of For Whom the Bell Tolls wrapped around me, pulling at my heartstrings. I felt a mix of exhilaration and nostalgia, the weight of the moment overwhelming as memories flooded back—times spent with my family, laughter shared, my mom telling my dad to turn the volume down. Oh, how I missed my parents at that very moment! The intensity of the crowd, the energy of the band, and the raw emotion in the music made it hard to hold back tears. It was a cathartic release. Dean was standing behind me pulling me closer with one hand as I was holding onto his index finger. I wiped my tears and sang my heart out for my mom and dad and after they finished the song I was left with a slight pain in my right ear. I might have forgotten to bring earplugs, but the truth was I didn't want to nor cared about protecting my ears from potential damage. To quote Dean: “Metallica is too good for earplugs.” 

After bringing back so many good memories it was time to mix it up and play something from their newest album.

The melody of Lux Æterna hit me like a bolt of electricity. It opened with a powerful, aggressive guitar riff that instantly raised the tension in the air. As the verses rolled in, the haunting yet energetic melody intertwined with a sense of urgency. When the chorus exploded, the vocals soared, filling me with a mix of exhilaration and defiance. I was completely engulfed in the sound, feeling every note resonate deep within me, embodying everything I loved about Metallica as Dean pulled me closer to him while we were jumping in sync. 

“Lux Æternaaaaaaaaa!” We would sing completely out of tune with James. 

As Lux Æterna blared through the speakers, the crowd became a living entity, energy surging with every note. Fans pumped their fists and sang along, their voices rising in a powerful roar. Some swayed with eyes closed, while others jumped, danced, and headbanged, united in exhilaration. 

“You guys are amazing!” James said. He was covered in sweat and I was salivating. The man was a definition of aging like fine wine and my daddy issues were showing. 

I turned to Dean who was hypnotized, his eyes never leaving the stage. 

"Would you give me a hall pass if I cheated on you with James?"

Dean arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk crossing his face. “James, huh?”

Amusement in his eyes, he added. “If you think I’m letting you run off with a rock star, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“Really?” I smirked.

“You’re mine—rock star or not.” 

I couldn’t help but laugh at Dean’s reaction. “You think I’d leave you for James Hetfield? Really?” I teased, arching an eyebrow. His playful jealousy was endearing, and it warmed my heart.

Dean smirked, leaning in with that familiar teasing glint in his eyes. “Just making sure you know where my head’s at,” he said, his tone light but with an edge of seriousness.

“Rock star or not, I’m the one who gets to take you home.” He chuckled, and I could see the warmth in his gaze. “It’s you and me against the world, always.” At that moment, I felt a rush of affection, knowing our bond was stronger than any fleeting fantasy.

As the opening notes of Until It Sleeps fill the venue, the crowd erupts into a frenzy, a sea of raised fists. The energy was electric, and I felt the pulse of the music vibrating through me as everyone swayed together, singing along with wild abandon.

Beside me, Dean’s face lit up with pure joy, his excitement infectious. I glanced at him, my heart swelling with happiness, knowing this moment was deepening our connection. Surrounded by the thrumming bass and the roar of the crowd, I realized this night will be one we’ll always treasure. The crowd swayed around us, but at this moment, it was just us. He sang every word with fervor, and I couldn't help but join in.

The set list was out of this world: Whiplash, Too Far Gone? Welcome Home (Sanitarium), No Leaf Clover, The Call of Ktulu, and Moth into Flame are just a few they chose. 

During Wherever I May Roam Dean and I were screaming every word so hard that I knew our vocal cords would hate us later. We would usually listen to that song after every successful hunt. It became a staple, a reminder of why we do what we do, and a beacon of hope. 

“HOLY SHIT!” I shouted at him with a huge grin on my face.

“HOLY SHIT!” Dean shouted back and kissed me.

The band was looking so good.

I loved seeing Robert jamming with the fans with his signature long and beautiful braids while absolutely nailing every note on his base and Kirk just being Kirk and owning the stage in his green leather jacket. Lars was an absolute beast even at 60 years old. 

When they started playing Inamorata, James took his time to walk around the stage while playing his guitar and smiled at us all. I could see his face as clear as day: his blue eyes had that sparkle of happiness; he had been doing this for decades and you could still see how much it made him overjoyed to see people enjoying his band's music, his smile was infectious and captivating and I couldn't believe he was standing right in front of me. 

I turned to see Dean – he was completely mesmerized, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, staring at James as if he were witnessing a miracle. I chuckled softly, knowing he was the happiest man alive. It was beautiful to see this vulnerable side of him, and I couldn’t help but lean closer, sharing in his joy as the music enveloped us.

The next two songs were Blackened and One. To be completely honest I forgot about Blackened. I was so high on adrenaline, oxytocin, and serotonin that I couldn't remember the song and I was too embarrassed to ask Dean about it. I knew it was an old song, a classic, and I knew Dean would give me a death stare so I kept my mouth shut and listened to him sing (yell). 

After the forgotten song James and his bandmates decided to rip our hearts out.

The ominous sounds of distant gunfire and explosions played through the speakers and the crowd fell into a hushed reverence. The chilling audio of war set an intense backdrop for the song that used to make me cry. The moment I recognized the opening notes of  One, a thrill shot through me, and I felt my pulse quicken in anticipation. It was as if the world around me faded away, leaving only the haunting melody that resonated with the depths of my soul. I never thought I would hear this song live. My dad showed me the music video when I was eleven (my mother was furious, and thought it was inappropriate) and I cried my eyes out, but loved the song. I rarely listen to that song though, it was too raw and reflected sorrow and despair in a way I knew far too well. 

Dean took my hand and placed a soft kiss as James started to sing. I pulled him by his shirt and kissed him, wanting this moment to last forever. He cupped my face pulling me closer, ignoring the sound of people around us screaming the lyrics. It was just me and him, always. 

When I broke the kiss I was inches away from his face. 

As the crowd roared and the lights pulsed, I turned to Dean, adrenaline still rushing through me. With One echoing around us, I blurted out, “I love you.”

Time froze as surprise washed over his face, vulnerability breaking through his bravado. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the music. At that moment, amidst the chaos, I saw that beneath his tough exterior, he was just as scared of love as he was of losing it.

His eyes locked onto mine, and a slow smile spread across his face. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice softening amidst the music.

Before I could respond, he pulled me close, his arm wrapping around my waist. “I love you too,” he whispered in my ear.

At that moment, surrounded by the concert’s chaos, everything felt right. 

Throughout the concert, I took a couple of videos and even got a picture of James shredding his guitar for my new phone wallpaper, but nothing could prepare me for the next song.

“ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?” James said as the opening riff of Enter Sandman sliced through the air, the arena exploded into a frenzy of energy. Lights flashed in sync with the relentless beat, illuminating faces filled with exhilaration. The heavy guitar reverberated through my body, a primal force that united the crowd in a shared heartbeat.

“DEAN!” I shouted, jumping up and down in excitement. 

“I CAN DIE HAPPY NOW!” He screamed. 

Everyone was singing, fists pumping, the raw intensity of Metallica's sound creating a charged atmosphere that felt almost electric. It was a moment of pure chaos and exhilaration, where the music enveloped us, and nothing else mattered.

Suddenly giant yellow and black balls began to fall from above, bouncing energetically into the crowd. They bounced and rolled, creating an atmosphere of pure chaos and fun. Fans reached up, trying to catch them, laughter and cheers erupting as the balls added an unexpected burst of excitement to the already electrifying performance. The sight of those bright, playful orbs amidst the intensity of the music created a surreal, unforgettable experience. One fell on us too as we jumped with other people making it fly to our left. I was trying to take a video but my hand was shaking while I couldn't stop jumping next to Dean screaming and feeling my throat slowly tighten. 

Kirk nailed his solo, while his hair stayed fabulous and James was getting himself ready for the big finale. 

“Hush, baby, don't say a word,”

“And never mind that noise you heard,”

“It's just the beasts under your bed,”

“In your closet, in your head!” 

Dean and I were screaming at each other's faces, filled with nothing but love for one another. 

“Exit light!”

“Enter night!”

“Grain of sand!”

“Exit light!”

“Enter night!”

“Take my hand!”

“We're off to never-never land, yeah”

James voice was so raw, so strong, I was still trying to figure out how he was 61 years old. 

“Boo!”

“Yeah-yeah!”

“Yo, whoa!” 

The song ended. I was already getting sad because I knew it was the end. I checked my phone and it was almost midnight. 

The song finished and we all cheered and clapped wanting more.

I heard people yell encore, but after 15 songs they were done. Lars threw his drumsticks at us and someone behind us caught it. He said thank you but the crowd was so loud I couldn't hear him. Until he got in front of the microphone and said: “You were amazing tonight! Thank you for coming!” 

We all screamed even louder. Robert came and tossed a couple of picks and people in front of us were fighting to catch it. He threw five picks in total, covering every part of the pit.

“Come on! I want one!” Dean yelled. We were all still clapping. 

“Wait for Kirk! We are close!” I told him. 

He indeed came next and blessed fans with a couple of picks, but Dean was now too close to catch one and it flew right above his head…

“DAMN IT!” 

James, covered in sweat and looking like a God came right in front of us. I was standing there, completely ignoring Dean and trying to remember every corner of that man's face. While I was in Neverland and watching James throw his picks I didn't even register Dean screaming my name. 

“(Y/N)!” 

“Huh?” I snapped back finally and saw him holding a small white pick that had White Fang written on it.

“OH MY GOD!” I yelled. 

“I DID IT!” He yelled back. 

I loved seeing my man truly happy. I loved that band and I loved everything about that day. 

***

Getting out of the venue was a nightmare. The crowd surged around us, bodies jostling and voices blending into a chaotic mix of excitement and exhaustion. I clung to Dean’s arm, grateful for his steady presence as we stepped into the cool night air.

“That was insane,” I said, smiling up at him. He grinned back, eyes still shining with adrenaline. As we navigated through the sea of fans, I felt a rush of happiness, knowing we had shared something truly unforgettable.

“That was incredible!” Dean exclaimed, his voice full of energy. “ Best night ever! Best birthday ever!” His smile widened as he looked at me, clearly still buzzing from the concert. 

My legs were in pain, I was thirsty and sleepy but it was all worth it. 

We were back in our hotel room 10 minutes later, both covered in sweat ready to sleep. 

I took off my clothes right away, feeling like my legs were on fire. 

“I'm in so much pain!” I complained. 

“I cannot feel my legs!” Dean said. 

“I'm gonna shower. Wanna join?” I was in my underwear standing next to him waiting for him to stop staring at my boobs.

“Coming!” He simply said and started taking off his pants while his eyes never left my boobs. I loved the fact he loved my body. I, like any woman in this cruel “man's world” sometimes would look at myself in the mirror and just hate what was staring back at me. His little stares were a strong reassurance that I was bullshitting.

Usually, showers meant fooling around (shower sex was complicated), but we were too tired for anything but kisses. We lazily washed ourselves in silence, kissing each other here and there. 

“So you love me, huh?” He smirked between kisses. I just smiled at him as the warm water was pouring down my back. 

“Yeah, imagine that! You're loveable,” I said as I was shampooing his hair. His eyes were closed but his mouth formed a small o. 

“Well…” 

“Shut up!” I told him. 

After we were all nice and clean it was time to finally get some sleep. I put on a clean pair of underwear and Dean's old Led Zeppelin shirt I also “borrowed” and he put on a clean pair of black boxers. 

We snuggled underneath the blanket, my head resting on his chest, feeling my body slowly relaxing and falling asleep. 

“You really think I'm loveable?” Dean asked, suddenly. I was half asleep, but this question tore my heart a little and now I was wide awake. I knew he thought he was unworthy of love, unlovable, unclean and it made me incredibly sad, especially because he was the definition of a hero with a heart of gold. 

“It’s hard to not fall in love with you, Dean. If you could only see yourself through my eyes, you would understand,” I told him and lifted my head and kissed him, but this time deepening the kiss. I was tired, and my body was in pain, but the urge to be close to him, to love him, was consuming me. He moaned into the kiss and immediately got on top of me. My hands went in his damp hair. 

We kissed for a while, our souls intertwined, our bodies keeping each other warm before his hand went into my now wet panties, his finger entered me making me arch my back, moaning even louder into the kiss. I was still in pain, but Dean's touch was slowly healing me until all I could feel was pleasure and love. His finger suddenly left my panties and I was left needy and desperate, but he wasted no time and took off his boxers, his dick fully hard. “Lift your hips, sweetheart!” He demanded and I did, letting him take off my underwear. 

He kissed me again before he positioned himself between my legs and entered me. I was so wet and desperate that I took him all instantly. 

“You feel so good!” He whispered, his voice deep and raspy, sending shivers down my whole body. I dug my nails into his back as he started to move, light moans escaping my lips.

We were one. One soul, two bodies, always. 

“Dean!” I moaned pathetically over and over again as his pace became more erratic. I was so close, so so close.

“God, I love when you say my name!” He managed to say as his face was buried in my neck. “Say it again!” He said and slammed into me. 

“FUCK, DEAN!” I screamed, digging my nails into his back, even harder. I could feel the orgasm coming like a tidal wave. 

“Oh God!” He moaned into my ear and slammed into me over and over again. 

My toes curled, my whole body stiff as my skin was covered in goosebumps. An intense wave of electricity rushed through me as I came so hard I could see stars. Dean didn't stop until he came into me, filling me up completely. I'll have to worry about potential pregnancy tomorrow since we completely forgot the concept of condoms. 

We were both breathless, covered in sweat, and panting in each other's faces. 

“Best birthday ever?” I asked him.

“Best birthday ever,” he smiled. 

I was not ready to check out tomorrow. I was not ready to board that plane and say goodbye to this hotel room. I was not ready for this to end. 

As I was laying on his chest, slowly drifting away with my thoughts and as my body relaxed and felt heavier with each passing minute, Dean was playing with my hair and before I started dreaming I heard him whisper:

“I love you so much, sweetheart.” 

[rosyblooom]

blooming season 🌷 (2) | ln4

"grief is just love with no place to go”

PAIRING: lando norris x fem nepo!reader WORD COUNT: 2.5k WARNING(S): mentions of death & blood, swearing SUMMARY: four years after she fled monaco, y/n is back on the anniversary of her father's death. however, an unexpected encounter with an f1 driver disrupts her plans.

part 1 | part 2 <- | part 3

You're not sure how much time has passed since you entered the car, but it doesn't matter. It feels like an eternity. Everything feels overwhelming today—you're the mouse in a world full of elephants, and you don't know how to cope. You want to scream, but your voice feels strained; you want to cry, but there are no tears left. All you can do is sit idly in what feels like a tiny lifeboat in an ocean rippled by giant waves crashing straight at you.

"Feeling any better now?" Lando's voice interrupts the silence, pulling you out of your daze.

You snap your head sideways to face the brunette boy, your brows furrowing as you simply stare at him.

"Hey," he sneaks a quick glance at you before focusing back on the road. "You've been quiet the whole ride. Are you feeling any better now?"

Narrowing your eyes, you fix him with a wary glare before rolling your eyes and bringing your feet to the edge of your seat, hugging your knees tightly. "What's it to you?" you finally respond, gazing through the window.

"Look, I'm trying to make things less… tense here. You could, you know, meet me halfway or something."

"How about you stop trying," you snap, glaring at the side of his face. "Just be quiet. Let's get your hand wrapped up, and then you can just leave."

Lando swallows, his eyes darting between you and the street ahead. "I don't think—"

You cut him off sharply, "Obviously, you just missed the freaking turn."

"What? No, I didn't, look," he points at the GPS that's currently rerouting. "Oh."

"Yeah…"

"No need to worry, it's already figuring out a new way. See?"

"Another inconvenience?" you ask, annoyance laced in each word. "Yeah, actually I do."

Lando purses his lips and drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "I'm guessing I'm the first inconvenience?"

"Wow, you can connect dots," you deadpan, sinking into your seat and resting your forehead against the vibrating window.

*********

The elevator door dings open, and you release a relieved breath upon finding its carriage empty. Lando enters first, settling into one side, while you press your back into the opposite wall.

"Let me guess," Lando begins, trailing his fingers up and down the row of twenty buttons, "your floor is the—"

"Sixth," you interject, your patience wearing thin as you take a step towards him and push the number six, causing it to light up.

Lando sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, nodding. "That was going to be my guess, you know?" He glances down at you, his gaze meeting yours briefly before drifting elsewhere.

Feeling hyperaware of his closeness, particularly the warmth emanating from him, you shift back into the opposite corner of the elevator, but he follows.

Your brow furrows as you grunt, "Personal space, remember?"

"Hold on a second." You feel the gentle touch of his hand atop your head, and moments later, he plucks something green from your hair, fixing you with a pointed look as he extends his palm to you. "A four-leaf clover," he exclaims, excitement glinting in his eyes. "Make a wish on it."

You swat his hand away from your face. "No thanks."

"What, there's nothing you want to have? Nothing you want to wish for?"

Sure, you have a wish—only one. You want your dad back, you want your old life back. The one that felt like summer every year, when there were no cold days.

Feeling the tightness in your throat as your vision blurs, you quickly blink away the incoming tears—you don't remember the last time you cried—and remark sharply, "No, I don't—nothing that's possible anyway. Keep it... or don't, I really don't care."

Just in time, the elevator door dings open, and you rush out of the tight space, desperate for more room.

*********

Fumbling with your key, it takes a few attempts before you finally manage to slot it into the keyhole, agitation coursing through your veins. With a satisfying click, you push the door open, only to find the apartment strangely empty.

Lando squeezes in behind you, causing you to stumble slightly before regaining your footing, shooting him a glare.

He strides down the hallway, with you trailing close behind, and into the brightly lit living room. The space is perfectly tidy, almost unnaturally so—there's not a single thing out of place.

"You sure you live here?" Lando glances back at you, eyebrows raised.

"No, I don't," you reply flatly, "this is actually where I bring idiot boys with no sense of self-preservation to kill."

Lando chuckles, his grin widening slowly. "So, you do have jokes then?"

You shrug and head down another hallway, making a beeline for your bedroom. As you push the door open, memories come flooding back—pictures of your dad adorn the walls, nestled in frames atop the dressers. It's like stepping into a time capsule; everything remains as it was four years ago, yet now it feels tainted.

Without wasting a moment's breath, you flip each picture frame on its head. The images taunt you with their stillness, incapable of conjuring the scent of Dad's favourite cologne or the resonance of his soothing voice. Pictures can't replicate the warmth of his hugs.

Once done, you kneel by your bedside table and retrieve a pair of scissors and bandages from the drawer.

"Now this looks more like it," a voice remarks behind you, causing you to startle and slam the drawer shut, rising to your feet. "This actually looks like someone lives here.”

Balling your empty hand into a fist, nails digging into your palm, you grit out, "I didn't tell you to follow me in here."

Lando raises his hands defensively. "I'm sorry, I was just worried. You were gone for a while, but uhm," he swallows, eyes flicking to the scissors you're clutching.

"Seriously?" you brandish the scissors, "I'm not going to stab you, if that's what you're thinking."

"Sure..."

With a sigh, you take a step forward, but he instinctively retreats, prompting you to shake your head and let out a chuckle—it's been awhile since you've done that.

"It's for the bandage," you remark, crossing your arms. "Also, you do realise you're the intruder here. If anyone should be scared, it's me. But I'm not a scaredy-cat, am I?"

"Neither am I," he insists, dropping his arms.

"Good. Let's head back to the kitchen, then."

*********

Lando leaps onto the counter, eliciting a groan from you as you cut the gauze into a shape that fits the wound on his palm.

Swiftly retrieving a clean tea towel from the cupboard, you situate yourself in front of him, arm extended. "Hand?"

He complies immediately, dropping his hand into your palm, and you begin to dab the skin around the cut dry. Once sure nothing is wet anymore, you reach for the gauze and carefully place it over the wound.

Lando hisses, causing you to tilt your head up, only for a sharp pain to suddenly spread atop your head. You both release loud groans, your hands instinctively moving to massage the throbbing spot on your head, while you watch Lando rubbing his chin.

"What the hell is your problem?" you finally manage after a while.

His eyes widen. "What the hell is my problem? You're the one who suddenly moved," he gestures to you, "you could've given me a heads up or something."

"How was I supposed to know you'd be hovering over me like some weirdo?" you retort.

Lando offers no response; instead, his lips gradually curve into a full-blown grin as he begins to chuckle.

You don’t react, simply staring at him blankly.

“C’mon, don’t lie now,” he says, tilting his head with a smile, “That was kinda funny, you have to admit.”

Despite theatrically rolling your eyes, a small smile betrays your true feelings. Still, you simply shrug and say, "Whatever."

"Alright, cool," Lando nods with a grin. "I'll take that. I'll take a 'whatever' anytime over all the other stuff you've been saying."

Taking the bandage from the counter, you close the gap between you, freeing his hand and delicately wrapping the bandage around the injury.

"You make me sound like a bitch," you mutter, flipping his hand over to inspect the wound. "I'm not—or at least I don't mean to be."

Lando props his free hand onto the counter behind him and leans back, raising his eyebrows. "To be honest, I thought that was the whole vibe you were going for."

You pause, setting the bandage roll on the counter and narrowing your gaze at him. Before you can respond, he quickly adds, "Hey, no judgment from me! I can handle difficult."

"Very funny," you say, shaking your head with a smile as you toss the tea towel into his face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Lando chuckles, retrieving the towel from his face and sliding it out of reach. When his gaze returns to you, his smile fades, and he simply stares, causing your expression to falter and your eyebrows to furrow.

"What do you think you’re looking at?" you snap, feeling as if you're suddenly trapped in a glass cage.

Leaning forward, a slow smile dances along Lando's lips. "You’re very pretty when you smile," he nods, "you should do that more often, it suits you."

Your expression falters, and you feel your heart sink with guilt. Today marks the fourth anniversary of your dad's passing—the first time you’ve felt strong enough to acknowledge it, to face the hurricane head-on—and here you are, spending it laughing, as if it's not a day plagued with immeasurable sadness and pain.

Isn’t that selfish?

It sure as hell feels like it.

Just like that, the walls rise once more as you fix Lando with a blank expression, swiftly grabbing the bandage roll off the counter. "Let’s just get this done, okay?" Your voice is strained—it scratches at your throat.

"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, confusion swimming in his bright eyes.

You swallow hard and grasp his hand, continuing to wrap up the wound wordlessly.

"I’m sorry," Lando tries again, "If I said something wrong, I’m sorry."

Sighing, you shake your head, and though you feel his gaze piercing your skull, you refuse to tilt your head up to meet his eyes head-on. "Nothing to apologise for," you state quietly, focusing on the task at hand.

This is exactly why you keep to yourself—your pain is yours alone to bear; it's unfair to burden others with it. You're not the same carefree, easily agreeable Y/N you once were back then. That part of you left the world today, four years ago, with your dad.

"Done," you declare, cutting the excess bandage and patting it down. Then, you create some much-needed distance between yourselves, heading towards the sofa and collapsing onto it.

"You know the way out," you yell, squeezing your eyes shut as you focus on your breathing.

The calm doesn’t linger for long, though, when you fail to hear footsteps or the door clicking open. You shoot upright, only to find Lando at the tap, an empty glass in his hand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" you ask, propping your elbows on the couch’s backrest.

"Getting some water," he gestures toward the faucet and flicks it on. "I’m thirsty."

"You can do that at your own place."

"What, go home for water and then come back?" he shoots you a perplexed look before taking a swig from his glass. "Seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?"

Rising to your feet slowly, you make your way to the opposite end of the counter and lean against it, resting your hands on the cool surface. "And why would you even come back here?"

"For you to check up on me," he explains, waving his bandaged hand in the air, "make sure I don’t develop an infection. I’ve had one before, it was awful."

As if momentarily blinded by sunlight, you blink more than necessary as you process his words. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The cut, it could get infected after being exposed for so long. So, I think we should wait out the day," he shrugs, "just to make sure it doesn’t get worse."

"And why can't you just go to the hospital?" you press, confusion evident in your voice.

His lips curl into a sly smile as he scratches the back of his neck. "I don't know, you seem to know what you're doing. I trust you."

His admission knots your stomach—you can't recall the last time someone willingly stuck by you after all your attempts at self-sabotage.

You're a pusher. You push and push until people fall off the edge of the cliff, leaving you in the comfort of yourself. So, this catches you off-guard. But strangely enough, the proposal doesn’t make you squirm with disgust, but rather... want? You're not quite sure; it's an old feeling, one you struggle to understand.

"Fine, okay," you sigh, shaking your head in disbelief at your own acquiescence. "I think you're being dramatic, but fine."

Lando nods, a grin spreading slowly across his face. "Great."

The weight of today bears down on you, a stark reminder of your initial plans—ones you can't simply reschedule. No, these you can’t ignore; they're a boulder in your road. Today is the day you will visit your dad; today is the day you will see his tombstone for the very first time.

"I've got somewhere to be tonight," you say, twisting your fingers into painful yet somehow soothing shapes. "So you'll have to leave then. And I’ve got to run some errands throughout the day, so you can, I guess, join me... or you can just stay here—stay out of my fucking bedroom—and yeah, watch TV or whatever it is you do."

"Got any food?" Lando inquires, swinging open your refrigerator doors to reveal painfully empty shelves, save for a lone box of leftover takeout from last night.

"That's a negative," he answers his own question, closing the doors with a sigh before turning to face you. "Can we grab some food while we're out running errands?"

Your stomach grumbles in agreement before you can respond, so you simply nod, snatching up your keys. "We should go now, then."

Lando falls into step beside you in the hallway, and you shoot him a sideways glance, adding, "We'll handle my errand first, then we can grab food."

He holds the door open for you, gesturing for you to pass through. "No complaints from me."

4:05 ───────────ㅇ─ 4:28

TAGS: @leclercdream @evitarubio @landossainz @lottef1 @averymjn

[heideez]

stanley always goes crazy decorating for holidays after he gets ford back. first christmukkah winter celebration conglomerate out of the portal? soos has never seen stan humming christmas carols, stringing lights on a tree, prepping food like a frenzied mother but lo and behold, here he is. he’s overjoyed by it, watching stan so happy, and, having brought him around for so many of their holidays, he’s so eager to finally be pulled into the pines’ fray.

he has a few little boxes, on the stan o’ war. they’re filled with seasonal decorations, paper four-leaf clovers and fireworks and jack-o-melons to be tacked onto the wall, their mother’s old menorah to be pulled out of storage. he likes marking time, but he also likes having an occasion to celebrate. cmon, six, let’s take today off. its flag day! what in the multiverse is flag day? dunno! well, a day of rest could be beneficial…

after all, things are worth celebrating, now.

[hunn1e-bunn1e]

Hello,I'll have saw the post Sinbad ask with dorm leader of twisted wonderland, can you do a same but with vice leader or first years group please?

Trey Clover, Ruggie Bucci, Jade Leech, Jamil Viper, Rook Hunt & Sebek Zigvolt - Sinbad (Magi, Aos) Male Reader

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Hey @ryu-things, you have no idea how long I've been pushing this ask back and procrastinating. I was trying to avoid it until I got done with all of the unfinished single-character asks that I have backed up, but I suddenly stumbled upon a really good song that I could use for the lyric quote. So here I am, suffering once again. (post note: somehow Lilia transitioned into Sebek 1/3 of the way through, so I'll do a part three of the first years and add Lilia there.) The lyrics quoted in this one are from the song “Cautionary Tales” by Jon Bellion. —Benny🐰

                                                                                                   

❝𝕭𝖎𝖌 𝕽𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖓, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖎𝖝𝖙𝖍, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓- 𝕳𝖊𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖞, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉! 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌, ����𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖊𝖆𝖕𝖔𝖓- 𝕳𝖊𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖞, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉!~❞

. . .

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♠️  Trey has been the target of many flirtatious comments already, so you'd think he wouldn't be too flustered, right? The suggestive remarks and sexy smirks would simply roll off of him, like water off a duck's back. Except… He didn't think that [Name] would corner him up against a wall in the kitchen and whisper so close to his ear that he could feel the dampness of the world-hopper's breath. Trey didn't expect just how large the foreign king's hands would be as they engulfed his waist. The Vice Dorm Head didn't take into account that [Name] would treat him with such respect yet be so blunt with his desire. By the Seven, is this even legal?

♠️  Considering that the Queen of Hearts was well… the Queen of Hearts, Trey isn't too surprised at [Name] being the king of an entire country back in his old world. Although the bespectacled man didn't believe him at first since he's a naturally skeptical person, the man did come from another world. Not only that, but the foreigner gives off the air of a natural-born leader who has experience with being in a significant position of power. Trey will ask [Name] if he can spare some advice to Riddle about being an important public figure who holds power over others. He trusts his childhood friend, of course, but the clover-haired man can't help but feel that the redhead could still use the help.

♠️  This bespectacled man is about to lose his marbles if he receives one more ridiculously expensive ingredient from that hard-headed king! This has to stop; Trey is really starting to feel bad. How is he supposed to give [Name] gifts that are of equal value if the guy is buying shit that costs upward of one hundred thousand madol!? His family owns a local bakery for Seven's sake, not an international catering company! Not that Trey doesn't appreciate the foie gras, gold leaf, and fresh morels; he does, but he wishes [Name] would give him something less expensive and more personal. He also wishes that the world-hopper would stop spending such ridiculous amounts of money on the most unimportant shit.

♠️  Now, Trey is certainly not a jewelry connoisseur, however, he is absolutely certain that he's seen jewelry of a similar style to [Name]’s draping off of Kalim and even Jamil on certain occasions. They are quite lovely things aren't they, though, the six-pointed stars that were engraved into a few of them were telling enough of their true origin. Apparently, [Name] had gotten them from a structure called a dungeon; what the otherworldly man described as a giant spire that erupts from beneath the sands of the vast and vacant desert at the command of a magi. Whatever a magi is supposed to be… The Sindrian king even offered to make Trey one of his household vessels! Even if the bespectacled man still has no clue what that's supposed to mean…

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“N‐now listen, you! This is a kitchen. It's meant for kitchen-related activities and not… n‐not this. You'll dirty the counters if you keep this up. H‐hey! Don't give me such a look!”  

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🍩  Its safe to say that Ruggie was very caught off guard when he was on the receiving end of someone's flirting.  He's sure that he's not exactly anybody's first choice when it comes to a romantic partner, he'll, he's not even the first choice for a friend. But the hyena beastman can't deny the thundering of his heart in his throat when [Name] appears behind him and rests his face in the crook of his neck. Nor can Ruggie admit the swirling thoughts of a future together whenever the charismatic [Name] sneaks into the Savanaclaw Dorm kitchen and lifts him onto the countertop so the man can hand feed him. The feeling of large hands holding the underside of his thighs is forever burned into his mind.

🍩  Aw jeez, not this shit again. No offense to [Name] or anything, but this hyena is really burned out by all this royalty stuff. If the Sindrian king turns out to be another jealous royal, Ruggie's going to start ripping his hair out; one Leona is more than enough for him to deal with. He would ask the otherworldly man to talk some sense into his Dorm Head but he doesn't even bother, he lost hope long ago. [Name] being a king does sound pretty cool though, if the foreigner ever wants to spare him some gold or food the Ruggie will welcome it with open arms. The hyena beastman does think about how it would feel to sit on a throne, but a king's lap is comfortable enough for now.

🍩  Oh, for him? [Name], you shouldn't have– just kidding, keep them coming, ol’ Ruggie can pawn some of these beauties for a hefty sum of madol and then he can send it to his family back in the Afterglow Savana. O-oh, the Sindrian king is wondering why his little doughnut lover isn't wearing most of the gifts he bought them. Those are– those are in his room! Yes, his room. This hyena just didn't want to dirty anything that was given to him by someone as important as [Name], with him being a king and all. The ol’ Rugster definitely didn't sell most of the gifts that were given to him, absolutely not. But… on the off chance that that's exactly what happened, surely the foreigner wouldn't be mad at him, right? He's got priorities after all.

🍩  You know, Ruggie doesn't mind it too much when [Name] wears his gaudy jewelry when they cuddle, so long as this hyena gets to wear some every once in a while. For some reason, though, the henchman of the second prince of the Afterglow Savana only wants to wear the jewelry that the otherworldly man won't let him touch. But how could he blame him, it's the scrap hound in him, looking at things he can't have with big wanting eyes. [Name] will have to end up showing Ruggie just how important his accessories actually are eventually and it's safe to say that the hyena beastman will no longer let his Sindrian sugar daddy wear such dangerous things while he wants to be vulnerable for a moment.

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“Hey, if ya ever get tired of eatin’ the same ol’ royal meals, yer pal Ruggie‘ll take care of it for ya. I'll clean yer plates lickety-split an’ free o’ charge. Heck, I'll even throw in a free fridge cleanin’ for ya as a bonus! All this with a downpayment o’ absolutely nothin’!”  

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🐬  Is Jade flustered? No, no, dear, he's more amused than flustered. This slippery eel hasn't had someone speak to him in such a bold way before, aside from Rook, but the hunter goes about it in a much more eloquent way. [Name] wants to wrap an arm around his waist and pepper his neck with kisses. Alright, but the monarch from another world better expect a bite or two placed over his Adam's apple in return, it's only fair.~ [Name] wants to sit him on his lap and whisper sweet nothings in his ear? That's fine, but he'd better expect Jade to take those sweet words up a few notches into dirty territory,  this eel won't hold back. The king had better watch himself and stick to flirting with the mushroom lover only; this vice dorm head doesn't share.~

🐬  Hoh? A king? [Name]? It's not that Jade doesn't believe that the Sindrian man is royalty, he just doesn't want him to know that he believes it. It was fairly obvious by just the way that the foreign man carried himself and even subtly in the way he spoke. Hell, even Floyd figured it out -not that this eel is saying anything about his brother- was it even a secret at this point? But even so, Jade doesn't care too much about [Name]’s social status and will continue to pretend that he doesn't believe the man for the sake of seeing his frustration. That glare that the Sindrian man shoots him whenever the gentlemanly eel once again denies his claims, is really gratifying in a way.

🐬  Yes, that hand-crafted broach is absolutely stunning, and yes, these rings are embedded with treasured stones from all around Twisted Wonderland,  but does Jade want them? Absolutely not. What use would he have for them? Sure, he could wear a few of the accessories that [Name] gifted him to any formal events that he may need to attend, but other than that, they'll just sit around and collect dust. He will certainly take his time to sit down with the world-hopper and discuss preferences; although the slippery eel prefers to do it the difficult way and make the king guess instead. Luckily for Jade though, [Name] seems to like the ones that play hard to get the most, so the influx of gifts being sent to the twin's shared room in Octavinelle skyrockets. Poor Floyd is so annoyed at being buried in fancy gift boxes, give him a rest already.

🐬  The amount of side-eye that this man gets from Azul whenever [Name] comes into Monstrou Lounge all decked out in gold and jewels is downright atrocious. Jade loves his otherworldly himbo boy toy, but it's becoming a bother to try and steer his childhood friend's schemes away from him at this point. Especially since a few of those accessories radiate a foreign magical signature and the Seven knows how power-hungry that four-eyed takoyaki is. So [Name], if you would be so kind, stop broadcasting your vulnerability to the group of people who are known all around the college's campus for taking advantage of vulnerable people, you dumbass. Jade himself is a part of said group, he hopes that just because he and the Parthevian native are in a certain relationship, the man won't assume he's a good person.

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“Oh my, you're still going on about that? I understand that you're magicless, but I doubt lying about your social status will help your situation. Honestly, I'm starting to believe you're having delusions.”  

 

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🐍  While Jamil appreciates that [Name] is trying to cheer him up, such vulgar words are- are unnecessary. Yeah, as much as I love our beautiful serpent man, he can be a bit dense. No matter what compliment, kind gesturing, or suggestive remark the king flings at him, he will immediately assume one of four things; 1. Those were meant to be passed onto Kalim, 2. They're trying to insult him in some way, 3. They need a favor from him, and 4. They're just trying to annoy him. But even then, Jamil can't ignore how hot-faced and tongue-tied he gets when [Name] pinches the brunette's chin between his large, calloused fingers and plants a searing kiss on his lips. Or how the Sindrian man leads him away to take a break and runs his fingers through his long dark brown hair.

🐍  As soon as the words ‘I'm also the king of’ left the handsome worldhoppers lips, Jamil could only let out a long resigned sigh. Of course [Name] was royalty, which explains why that man is so childish and irresponsible; running around and leaving masses for other people to pick up. The Al Asim servant resented the charismatic man quite a bit after that revelation; going as far as to slap his hands away whenever the other tried to touch him. Jamil will feel a bit bad after a while though, [Name] hadn't done anything wrong and he was taking his frustration over his situation with Kalim out on a third party. Thankfully the foreigner accepted his apology immediately and even offered to take him and his sister back to Sindria with him, how sweet.

🐍  Once again this serpentine man assumes that all kind words and gift-like objects being given to him are things that he's meant to pass to Kalim, and he does just that. It was only [Name]’s asking whether or not the gifts he had given him were useful and Kalim pointing out that the gifts were addressed to him by name that Jamil finally got it through his thick skull. This time, surprisingly, it was the Al Asim prince who was exasperated at his servant and not the other way around. The prince even made it a point to tell people to give all gifts meant for him directly to him so that they'd leave his servant be. (responsible Kalim for the win!) Looking over his now recovered gifts, Jamil couldn't help but flush at how costly they were. The thought of [Name] spending so much money to please him made the basketball player both embarrassed and endeared.

🐍  At first he didn't really notice them, but after being pulled against the muscled chest of his word-hopping fling(?), he was smooshed onto the business end of a few of the man's familiar-looking accessories. The imprint of a six-pointed star was on the side of Jamil’s forehead for days after that, to which the idiot whose arms he was in made a joke about him having a shiny forehead. [Name] got a good bonk on the head after that. The Sindrian man had once shown Jamil a djinn that dwelled inside his necklace, but after seeing the look that the serpentine man was giving the djinn, [Name] decided to keep the rest to himself. Now, the dark brunette gets frequent reminders that, if he so chose, the foreign king would take him with him when he eventually went back to Sindria.

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“You'll take me back with you? You'd really do that for me? Then please… remember you said these words to me… and take me away from this place when the time comes.”  

 

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🏹  Well [Name], prepare to be outdone by a true professional. Rook will make the foreign man swoon so hard it's not even funny. The Parthevian native wants to pin this hunter to a tree, oh, haha look, now he himself is against that tree while the bob-headed blonde attacks his neck in between whispers of recherché poetry that he wrote earlier that day. That Sindrian king is lounging on a blanket in the wooded area just on the outskirts of the Pomfiore dorm campus and trying to coax the Frenchman onto his lap? Oh my, what's this? [Name] is now practically nude as Rook kisses and caresses each and every inch of his muse's warm muscular body. Somehow the blonde finds this thing the two have going on to be even more thrilling than a hunt.

🏹  His lovely muse is a king? It looks like [Name] has another new pet name courtesy of a certain huntsman. In fact, it's become Rook's favorite pet name, so his darling muse and everyone else in his vicinity is going to be hearing the words ‘Mon Roi’ as often as they breathe. Oh, this bob-headed blonde is dying to know what kind of wildlife is back in Sindria; he can describe beauteous landscapes in his poetry, what newfound fauna could be his prey, ah what thrilling thoughts he has. Since [Name] is the king, he'd certainly let Rook hunt to his heart's content, right~? You can't just tell him about all these curious little creatures and then ban him from hunting them; such a tease the otherworldly man is being, how cruel.~

🏹  The feeling of being spoiled with gifts by [Name] reminds him of how Vil ‘saved him’ during his first year when he was still in Savanaclaw. Although, Rook could never think back on his experience in his old dorm negatively; his roots are firmly planted in the Afterglow Savana after all. But instead of a haircut and rigorous skin care, he was given the best hunting equipment money could buy, and when it came to [Name]’s money, well there was a lot of it. As Rook's lovely Mon Roi told him, the greatest hunters are those who aren't afraid to become a beast themselves for the sake of the hunt.  These new intricate daggers that he was gifted seem to have quite the resemblance to fangs do they not?

🏹  Rook doesn't bother too much when it comes to his Mon Roi's jewelry, it's simply a token of a faraway home in his eyes; the hunter himself has many of his own. Yes, the bob-headed blonde does in fact notice that his otherworldly muse's adornments emanate a mystical aura and glow from time to time and yes the poetry enthusiast also knows that the giant blue figures that [Name] calls djinn do live in the ones with stars engraved on them, but he could care less. What Rook is really interested in is having his dearest muse hold that pose while he captures how the light bounces off the gold and jewels that draped across [Name]’s naked chest in this portrait. The hunter made sure to hang the paintings on the wall opposite his bed so that he could see his magnetic Mon Roi when he woke up every morning.

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“Ah~ Mon Roi, the tales you have given me do you no justice. You are far more magnifique than these simple words can capture. It seems that I have found myself a challenge to overcome; I must bid you adieu.~”  

 

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⚡  He keeps swearing up and down that he's been cursed by the otherworldly man; why else would he be feeling so odd around him after every interaction!? Sebek has been feeling flushed, and sweaty all over, having racing thoughts, been unable to sleep, and has continuously been stumbling over his words since he met [Name]! This has to be a curse; the half-fae wasn't experiencing any of these symptoms before! Even after Sebek demanded a duel in order for the foreigner to release the spell, to which wrestling on the bed was the request by the perpetrator, the curse only got worse! Now his mind is only occupied with thoughts of [Name] at any given moment; but he needs those thoughts for Waka-Sama, not some random human witch man!!!

⚡  So, the witchy human claims to be a king? HAH! Fat chance! There's no way Sebek would believe such an obvious farce, just who does this human take him for? The only royalty worth any salt is clearly his Waka-Sama, didn't you know? This half-fae knows what that human ‘king’ is up to, that man is just trying to lie his way into Waka-Sama's good graces, that's the only explanation! Even if Sebek knows that [Name] walks with the same regal posture as Malleus and knows that he has the same aura as Lilia does whenever they're sparring during swordsmanship lessons, he just won't accept it. And no, he will not accept a duel to change his mind.

⚡  A new sword and armor that cost millions of madol? Denied. As if Sebek would accept anything from some lowly human that definitely has plans to hurt Waka-Sama, he's not an idiot. Even if that sword looks expertly crafted and the blade is magically reinforced to cut through concrete like butter, h‐he's not interested in [Name]’s wicked wares! Ah, but… the weight of the blade is pretty good and the handle is very comfortable to grip onto… oh, and the hand guard is customizable too… A‐ah! Sebek wasn't admiring the craftsmanship, he was– he was just making sure that [Name] didn't place a curse on this sword is all. Yeah, that's it. What? No, he won't give it back, it was a gift, wasn't it? N‐not that a proud fae warrior like himself needs gifts from lowly humans!

⚡  Poor [Name] no matter what he does, Sebek continues his tsundere behavior. If the Sindrian king were to show the half-fae his djinn or metal vessels, who knows what he'd be accused of? Probably something like kidnapping his djinn and holding them against their will or saving a metal vessel for Malleus so he can trap him inside. But, if not that, Sebek would likely say that he has them for nefarious purposes. Whatever, [Name] better go back to the drawing board.

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“HUMAN! Remove this curse you've cast upon me at once, it's interfering with my duties to Waka-Sama! Wha- You still have the gall to lie right to my face!?”  

. . .

❝𝕭𝖎𝖌 𝕽𝖊𝖎𝖌𝖓, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖎𝖝𝖙𝖍, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓- 𝕳𝖊𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖞, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉! 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌 𝕭𝖆𝖓𝖌, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖊𝖆𝖕𝖔𝖓- 𝕳𝖊𝖞 𝕳𝖊𝖞, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕶𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕷𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉!~❞

🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.•°•.🐇.

Reblogs are appreciated ~ 𔓘

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[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Fate vs. Choice - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx has a decision, and a deadline.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Six o’ clock. Late evening.

The Cathedral of Progress.

Lanterns burned in their iron-scrolled brackets; the shadows cut flayed patterns on the granite walls. In the nave, the acolytes chanted, cloaked and cowled. In their palms, the lit tapers cast long, lean shadows across the stone floors. Their voices were a mechanized hymn: harmonized down to the smallest atom vibrating in the air. There was no music riding the currents. Only silence, draping a veil of total stillness over the congregation. Perhaps even eternal damnation, to those who dared trespass.

Jinx didn't give a ripe toot about damnation. She'd already fallen from grace: the moment she'd set a wind-up monkey loose to rescue her family, and jinxed them instead. Her own jinx, since that fateful night, was an inevitability, and a long time coming.

Now, at nineteen, she was the living, breathing epitome of it.

The harsh sweetness of coffee cut through the chants. Jinx cracked an eyelid open; for one long giddy second, the world spun in a sickening circle.

Then it righted itself. Or Viktor did: a cool hand clasping hers.

“Wake up, Jinx.”

Her eyes fluttered open. She lay, starfished in an indolent sprawl, in sweetgrass that swayed as if under an invisible caress. The aroma of lilies was ascendant; twilight had deepened their perfume. The night-garden was tucked into the courtyard at the heart of the Cathedral, abutted by a small cemetery of granite.

Under the surreal refractions of a stained-glass dome, it was a wonderland: teeming with long-dead saints, and the perfumes of late-blooming flowers, all a-glow in holy light. Upon closer scrutiny, the holiness inverted into the uncanny. Every plant, aspirating beneath the multicolored rays, was revealed to hold an almost numerical symmetry: logarithmic spirals of orchids, geometrically-profound petunias, grid-patterns of clovers all fractaling in golden ratios.

As if every organism—from soil grain to leaf tip—had coalesced into life under the touch of a divine hand. Or a very obsessive mathematician.

Or—both.

Then there was the tree.

It was a prehistoric sycamore of darkling wood: five times the height of the average Piltovan oculus; three times as broad across. The branches fanned out into spokes as big as a ferris wheel. The ends of each spathe, splayed wildly under the skylight, erupted into iridescent blooms. They were nearly gem-like in their purity: their crystalline petals glowing in colors of multicolored amethyst, chrysoprase, quartz, topaz, ruby. The canopy spread over the entire garden; the roots curled deep into the bedrock.

By nightfall, it gave off an eerie luminescence: bathing the garden in an ephemeral glow. By daylight, it cast a rainbow halo across the grounds. Its fragrance changed constantly: one minute pungent as wormwood, the next citrusy as lemon zest, another woody as cardamomh. Insects swarmed about its roots; butterflies flocked its boughs. Some even swore they'd spotted faeries dancing in rings beneath its shadow.

The hallucinogenic effects were, by Viktor's accounts, an ur-example of magicoreality: an object, space, or phenomenon that is created through the combined imagination of multiple entities. It was real, because they believed it real. And vice versa.

Like a mobius strip blossoming into being.

Viktor's acolytes had transplanted the tree—roots to stem—from Singed subterranean laboratory. Something in the soil of the Cathedral's grounds nourished it with unique potency: the tree flourished where naysayers, Silco chief among them, predicted it would rot. By the first month, it'd become the centerpiece around which every botanical beauty revolved. By the sixth, it was the brilliant heart of a preternatural paradise: creepers, ferns, lilies, ivies, marigolds, all erupting in a palette of purest life.

By the tenth?

The tree was worshipped as an entity unto itself. It dominated the cultists' rhetoric; it haunted their reveries. It was rumored that Janna herself had breathed life into its veins, rescuing it from the brink of collapse. Pilgrims from the depths below, voyeurs from the heights above, arrived in droves to seek the sheltering boughs as if for the same restorative breath.

And under those twirling branches?

They were never the same again.

Formerly pallid patients were rumored to stagger from their sickbeds, sit beneath the blossoms in solemn ceremony, then unfold from their atavistic comas miraculously reborn. Like larvae metamorphosing into butterflies.

From devolution to evolution.

But though the tree restored a measure of life to its devotees, its own was an hourglass suspended between grains. The fruits hanging off its branches evoked a spectrum of incandescent sea-shells washed by whitecaps onto arid shores. They were entirely inedible; ash and air. And as soon as they fell, their shells fossilized: petrifying into stone-crusted facets within minutes of detachment, before dissolving into inert dust.

It was the tree's perpetual paradox: the promise of life, forever beyond reach. And death, ever-encroaching at its heels.

In its shadow, Viktor, the most devoted disciple of one, held court weekly with the most notorious apostate of the other.

"Wake up, Jinx."

Viktor's hand, freed from its tight leather glove, squeezed hers. His fingers, long and thin, held a delicate strength: there were calluses, velvety, at the tips, and a roughness along the heel. A scientist's hands, evolved into a healer's. Tonight, Jinx saw ink smudges on the knuckles. There was also a tiny nick, from wielding a scalpel during the evening's surgery on a young boy's ruptured appendix.

The boy was safe. Tucked into a cot at the infirmary, with the others under Viktor's care: each dosed with enough poppy-milk to see them through the night. The boy's mother, one of the dozen souls who'd flocked to the Cathedral seeking the Machine Herald's aid, had wept at her son's restoration, kissing the hem of Viktor's robe in a show of gratitude.

It was a scene that Jinx had witnessed, over and over again, during her visits. And it never failed to unsettle.

Devotion, undiluted, had that effect. Especially when it was devoid of desire.

Daily, scores of souls passed in and out of the Cathedral. Each brought with them a problem, a poison, a plea. Each, Viktor addressed in their turn: salving their sores, purging their pustules, and bestowing, with a steady hand and a soft voice, his personal brand of salvation.

He never charged for his chem-modifications. Even the most complex, which took months to design, were given for free.

His payment, his only payment, was everything.

From the start, he’d made plain that his services were offered on a strictly non-partisan basis, and would cease immediately should any faction in Zaun attempt to co-opt his work. Except that was a lie. Everyone knew, in Zaun's hierarchical honeycomb, Viktor had no love for politics. But he was fiercely political: his sacrifices, solely and exclusively, were for the elevation of Zaun's future.

It was his singular obsession: the evolution of the present into an age of transcendence, and the eradication of the past into obscurity.

Viktor hated the past. A past that’d left him broken, disfigured, discarded: an imperfect specimen, unworthy of survival.

The same past, which had yet forged him.

And Jinx, his muse and mirror, who'd been reborn in its bloodshed.

"Jinx," Viktor repeated. "Wake up."

His hand squeezed hers, then let go. A moment later, a metal cup was pressed into her grasp.

The warmth radiated; Jinx's flesh drank it up. The coffee gave off its curls of aromatic steam: a nutty blend of chicory root, black chocolate liqueur, and the sweet whiff of anise.

Diluted, as always, with sweetmilk.

Viktor, his own cup balanced precariously between two fingertips, reclined with an easy elegance in the grass. His staff lay within arm's reach: the undying habit of a boy whose mind is always five steps ahead, but whose body is forever falling behind. Everywhere, leather-bound books were scattered, some facedown with cracked spines, others bristling with raven's feathers that doubled as bookmarks. An inkwell glittered, half-empty, on a stack of maps scribbled with notes.

In this garden, Vitya was ever-studying, ever-searching. Never satisfied with the knowledge already in hand, and the miracles already in motion.

Something he and Jinx shared in common.

Reclining on elbow, Viktor sipped from his cup with the other hand. Then he plucked a notebook from the pile, stirred through its pages with a fingertip, and resumed writing with his cockatrice quill: a rapid series of symbols that, unfurling, imprinted themselves in a secret pocket of Jinx's brain, and the darkest recesses of her heart.

Destiny: charted beyond the stars.

Jinx sat up, knees tucked against her chest, and drank from her cup. The flavor was just as it should be: bitter chased by sweet, complexity balanced by simplicity.

Viktor's handwork: the paradox distilled into metaphor.

Just like the garden, where every blade of grass grew exactly the same height, and every flower, in its arrangement, was a repetition into infinity.

Sipping, Jinx's eyes flicked from bloom to bloom. Then, she noticed:

A single blossom out of place.

A lone iris, curling its way from between the tree's roots. It was sly as an intruder, bright as a fallen star.

The same hue as Powder's wishful blue eyes.

Jinx's lips curled. Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingers traced the blossoming petals. They were silky, smooth. Almost too flawless to be real.

"Is this place," she whispered, "alive?"

It was only half-joking. During each visit, she could never escape the sense that the garden—multiform, deviant—was suffused with a spiritual awareness sister to sentience. And the tree, gathering them both under its protective penumbra, was rooted right to the crux of Zaun's stony heart.

"Not exactly," Viktor replied, without looking up from his notes. "Not by our reckoning. More a kind of... meta-life."

"Meta-life?"

Viktor, dipping the quill in its inkwell, shrugged.

"This tree is but a reflection—an iteration—of something larger-than-life. Something of a piece with the city's vital flow. A conduit of sorts."

"Like, what? A portal?"

"Perhaps," he said, and absently rested a palm on his leg, the site of his first augments. "Or perhaps a lens. Something which reflects, refracts, magnifies. An imperfect metaphor."

"Serpent's tongue. Apple's flesh. Devil's promise."

"Precisely. A system of shorthand within which meaning can be imparted, and context given."

Jinx's eyes lingered on the flower: a star's winking light, buried under layers of soil.

"What's the point, though?" she wondered. "I mean, yeah, I get it: a symbol's powerful. But if you're trying to forget the past—"

"Forgetting is not the same as erasing," Viktor corrected, patiently. "And what good is a symbol, Jinx, if no one knows what it stands for?"

Double-edged question and double-pronged answer: classic Viktor.

Sighing, Jinx returned to her cup. The coffee, cooled, had lost its bite. She drained it anyway, then let the cup rest in her lap. Her eyes, half-lidded, took in her companion.

He was still garbed for his duties: a mauve linen robe with a high collar, its sleeves rolled up, the hem draping past his knees. It was a garment, once, meant to conceal. Now, it served a purpose quite the opposite. Its folds bared the armature that held Viktor together: once emaciated, now elegantly streamlined beneath a segmented exoskeleton of synth-plates. His bad leg, encased in gleaming obsidian augments, now held the flexile precision of muscle, and the springing strength of a steel cable.

The fusion was seamless: the stuff of futuristic fairytale. When he moved, it was with an almost regal glide. As if, somewhere in the gaunt structure of Viktor's frame, there was an ancient drop of royalty, finally emerging from its hardscrabble shell in a blend of princely asceticism and common-born resilience.

Under the tree's canopy, Viktor's pallor was offset by his deep-hued robes. The effect wasn't peaky so much as pearlescent. His untidy curls tumbled freshly-glossed along his shoulders: the barest delineations of a beard teased the contours of his jawline. The sum total was neither masculine nor feminine. Only androgynous; ethereal.

Transcendent as stardust.

The rim's of Jinx's eyes burned. Why was it that even at their closest, Viktor seemed as if he was dissolving into astral orbit, a beautiful moon drifting farther from reach?

And why did Jinx feel herself hurtling on an opposing trajectory: crashing to earth with fatal velocity?

The wind, still unseen, sawed gently through the tree's branches. Its blossoms whispered: the susurration of silk sheets, or a lover's sigh. Jinx found it fitting that, though the Cathedral of Progress was, technically, the building's newly-christened designation, ordinary Fissurefolk referred to it, unofficially, by a different epithet.

The Resurrection Root. The Everbloom. The Glass Garden.

And the most popular—

Der Wunschbaum.

Ur-Nox for Wishing Tree.

Except Ur-Nox was a double-edged sword. It was the language of the ancients; Mages and Guardians who'd lived in the time before Zaun had ever been. Their language, therefore, was the language of enchantment: one half lofty, the other half sinister. Wish, for instance, was rooted in the word Wunschet: to want. To desire beyond the bounds of reality.

But it was also rooted in Wählen: to choose.

A wish could be a heart's deepest desire unlocked. Or it could be a will to power: to take what you want, no matter the cost.

And me? Jinx wondered. What do I want?

And what will I give to seize it—or throw it away?

At her silence, Viktor stopped scribbling. His eyes, deep-gold, met hers.

"All right, Jinx?"

"Y-Yeah."

"You should wake up."

"Don't wanna."

"No?" Scritch-scritch went the pen, runes blossoming in its wake. Distantly, Jinx heard the acolytes singing, a ghostly engine of harmony. And—could it be?—Sparky's yips, cutting through the choir: a dissonant counterpoint. The greedy mutt, somewhere, was begging for treats. "If you do not wake, how will your Name Day be celebrated?"

"Multitasking's a thing. I've always been a pro."

"You are terrible at multitasking."

"Am not!"

"You fell asleep during the surgery."

"You told me not to interrupt. So I closed my eyes. But I was listening. I always listen."

"You were drooling." And, closing the notebook with the coordinates plotted inside, he set it down. In a single graceful movement, he'd shifted closer. Close enough to touch his thumb against the corner of her lips, where a grin had stolen in. Viktor's own lips, palely-parted, were a few inches away. "You look like a child when you sleep. Peaceful. It is... rare."

"I was havin' a sweet dream."

"Oh? Tell me."

"A night full of stars. Wishes a-popping like fishes. And a beautiful boy." Her voice, at half-octave, came breathless. Always, his proximity did that to her: an unravelling of everything she held dear about herself. Like deja vu—except more desolate. Dying, when you longed to be reborn. "Except he won't wish me a Happy Name Day. He won't even gimme a kiss."

At that, Viktor smiled: a slow, secret curl that was yet the saddest expression in the world.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "he is a fool."

"Yeah?"

"And a coward." The thumb, tracing the full jut of her bottom-lip, was cool as snowfall, and as chaste. "Because he knows, deep in his heart, that you are still a child. The child he sees when you sleep. And because, despite whatever tradition or legality declares, you are not yet a woman. Certainly, not the woman who, once she comes into herself, will outrace him, and his grand designs, and fly off on wings of stardust."

"You talkin' about Silco?" Jinx quipped. "'Cause, no offense, but he's no competition. I can outrun that fossil anytime."

The levity fell flat. Viktor's golden eyes, augmented to their depths, lost their imperceptible luster. A moment later, his hand retreated, as if it'd never been.

"I know," he said, "that this is only an interlude."

"You think so?" Jinx, impulsively, caught the hem of his sleeve. "Pretty harsh frame to put 'round forever."

"Forever means little in a cosmos of infinite permutations."

"Not so long as we're still us, right?"

"A conundrum in itself." He didn't withdraw, exactly. Only laid his fingertips over hers, knotted into his sleeve. "Are our mirrored selves—in the physical, in the quantum—so very different at their crux? Is one less worthy, less agentic, than the other? Or are they simply two sides of the same coin, flipped endlessly, until the universe collapses on itself."

"Yikes. Talk about buzzkill."

"I am not a man for platitudes, Jinx." The smile, sadder, stayed on the surface. "Not will I feed you falsehoods, in hopes that the future may hold more than the present."

"So you say."

"So I mean." And, surprising her, he caught her hand in both his own: a tender clasp. "We've pledged our spirits as one. We've plotted our course. Escape velocity is inevitable. But the path ahead will not be easy. Not for either of us. If anything, it will be harder, given what we must renounce to see the destination through. And I—I cannot be sure—"

A crack in his faultless equilibrium. In turn, Jinx felt her own fragile serenity evaporate.

"Sure of what, Viktor?" she said, with quiet ferocity. "That I'll change my mind halfway? Chicken out before the starting gun goes off? Let Silco dictate my choices, like I've always done?"

"No, Jinx, no."

He shook his head; the curls danced, a ribboning cascade of cornsilk. There were silver streaks beginning to thread at the temples. Thirty-three, and a full-grown man where Ekko was still shedding the last vestiges of boyhood. But moments like this, it struck Jinx that Viktor was, at his core, even younger than Ekko. Two orphans prematurely thrust into roles before their time: the savior leading his flock to the promised land, and the savant saving souls that the world would sooner crush underfoot.

But both, in their hearts, still children. Still seeing Jinx, and what she'd become. But never, ever seeing her for who she was: the girl, not the legend.

The woman, not the jinx.

"Never that, Jinx," Viktor said. "Never would I think so little of you."

"...But?"

"It's been difficult, these past months, for us to speak frankly."

"Vitya," Jinx said, a touch exasperated. "We're speaking now. Aren't we?"

"We are." A squeeze, gentle, on her fingers. "At risk on both ends. But I have never once doubted your commitment. Your passion far exceeds mine; far exceeds whatever designs I may conjure. The world will be a better place, with you striving to make it so. My only fear is that, if you choose this path, yours will be the lonelier one."

"Lonely, how?" The ghost-prick of tears. "We're bonded, aren't we? Even if it's not what either of us planned—"

"A bond that can never be consummated. Never, in any sense, bear fruit." His grip tightened; yet the timbre of his voice held no rebuke. Only truth. "I am a creature born of disappointment, Jinx. Faulty in form and function. Unfit for any world except the one I will create, and even that shall be a long time coming. Yet, in the Void, you gave me a glimpse of paradise, and it was... indescribable. All I will ever want."

"And?" Her lip quivered, but held. A child, he'd called her, and yet her voice was steel. "Wasn't it enough? Wasn't I—?"

"You? Not enough? My dearest." Even though his sigh was bittersweet, a mote of passion shot through: the same passion that'd flowed, so effortlessly, between them in the otherworld. The same passion that now translated itself—sublimated and yet quartered—into the gentle dexterity of his hands on a circuitboard fused to a sobbing boy's flesh, and the consoling caress afterward as the boy's mother, sobbing too, laid a kiss of gratitude upon her savior's robe. "You are the only star in a universe without light. But because you are, you are far too much. For anyone's good. Least of all mine."

The tears, against Jinx's will, spilled free.

"So I was a mistake?"

"Yes. And no"

"How?"

"You were a miracle," Viktor said, and his smile, in its sadness, was radiant. "And a miracle is a gift bestowed by Fate. Without factors such as deservingness, or suitability, or even equity, thrown into the equation. A miracle, simply, is. As you, Jinx, always are. I know you've made your peace with our bond. You've acclimated yourself to it, the same as I have. But if we commit—truly commit—to the path ahead, we must renounce the rest, in every way. And Jinx... I cannot, in good faith, ask that of you. Not when I know what you stand to lose. Not when I know all the ways you need, and deserve, to be loved."

The tears kept falling. Jinx made no effort to stop them. The garden, with its Wishing Tree, was a time-out from pretense. Not sanctuary, but as close as Zaun's chaotic confines allowed. The other one—the Wishing Wagon, in civilization's shadowed cul-de-sac—was her true refuge. But that was a different her, with a different future.

A girl who'd yet to realize her greatest wish. A woman who, at the crossroad's fork, could take a chance.

She'd never told Viktor about the Wishing Wagon. Same way she'd never told Ekko about the Wishing Tree. Both were secrets within secrets: mirrored halves of a fractured whole.

And Jinx, at the liminal space in between, wondering: What's it mean?

What did it mean that one man had her soul at knifepoint, but another was holding her heart hostage? What did it say that she and Viktor fit together just right, but she and Ekko were built from perfectly mismatched puzzle pieces? What did it matter if she needed them both, but in ways so opposite they might as well be a different language?

How could she make the ends meet?

Especially when her life—her death—still hung on Silco's strings?

And her past—her future—still hinged on Vi's?

"Maybe," she said, and caught her lip in her teeth, "that's the point."

"Oh?"

"Maybe... the glimpse of paradise was all it was. A glimpse. The rest's about struggling to make it happen. Because it's the only way. Because choice is nothing but fate with a kick."

"Jinx, no."

"Why not? It makes sense. In a twisted sorta way." Her eyes, smarting-wet, blinked hard. "Fate's not a pretty delivery-gal on the front step with a package. He's a blind old pirate, throwing darts at a map and laughing as they land. Doesn't matter who gets skewered. Once that bullseye hits, it hits. And you're on the hook. No takebacks." Her other hand, lifting, aligned itself with Viktor's jaw: stubble yielding velvety beneath her palm. "We were always gonna be on the hook, Vik. At least, in the Void, I saw where we’re headed. What, in the end, we could become. And sure, the path's not a fairytale. But if we don't take it, the rest'll be fucked. And blind old fate'll be laughing his ass off, watching us sink under the waves."

"Perhaps," Viktor said, and leaned into her touch. But the smile, always, stayed sad. "But Jinx?"

"Yeah?"

"Fate is not the same as choice." Turning his head, he laid a kiss, pure as a snowflake, in the heart of her palm. "Even the cosmos, no matter its dictates, allows breathing-room for free will. I have mine, and I know what they will cost. Now, and in every incarnation. But you, Jinx: you are still so young. Your wishes, the ones that matter, have yet to be made. And once they are lost, you will not have the chance to reclaim them."

"Because I'm a child, right?" The anger, a flashfire that filled her to the seams, in this garden only left her aching. "Too dumb to know what I want. Too naive to make the tough call."

All at once, Viktor closed the gap.

Silently, he swept Jinx into an embrace: a cradle and a coffin holding both living and dead in sacred embrace. His arms made a crossbones at her shoulderblades; his breath stirred the top of her scalp. They were both clothed, but Jinx felt her heartbeat resonating through their ribcages, keeping time with the rhythmic dirge of the Cathedral's chants, and the Old Hungry's distant chimes

Reality and dream: melded into one.

Somewhere, Sparky was pawing at Jinx's slumbering shape in search of belly-rubs. Behind her eyelids, neon bled through. She heard fireworks; smelled engine-grease. Felt an odd pressure on her spine that had nothing to do with Viktor's cool fingertips tracing its curve, and everything to do with being bound, on a visceral level, beyond this communion they both shared.

"Fate," Viktor breathed, and his lips, against her temple, imparted prophecy, "will always come due. But choice? That, my dearest Jinx, is an arrow aimed straight for the heart. And to deny it: that is an error far graver than anything science, or the cosmos, could dole out." He kissed her forehead: the sweetest absolution. "Your choice must be yours. Do not allow a hand, no matter how divine, to dictate it."

Jinx, closing her eyes, lay her cheek to his chest.

"Not even yours?" she whispered, as the tears stopped falling.

"My hand, like my heart, will belong with you, Jinx. Even if you choose another path."

"Mirror, mirror on the wall."

"In every iteration," Viktor murmured, a tender withdrawal, "of this cosmic joke. An imperfect metaphor. Do you understand?"

"I do," Jinx lied, and lifted her face. "Kiss me?"

"This is not a space for secrets, Jinx."

"Then it's a perfect place, ain't it? 'Cause I won't have any left, after tonight."

"You will," Viktor said, and his thumbs smoothed the fading tear-tracks from her cheeks. "You do. We all carry secrets within ourselves. But to hide one, here, is to desecrate the very vow we must keep. And to deny our truth—any of our truths—is the greatest dishonor to the other. Do you understand?"

Foreboding rippled over Jinx's skin. The garden, the tree, the chants: all the beautiful trappings of ephemera, slipping like sand through the hourglass.

"Viktor." She caught his hand in hers, holding it fast. "Please."

"I'll see you tonight, Jinx."

"Don't—don't go—"

"Tonight. When you make your choice. Whatever that choice may be."

"But—"

"Wake up now."

The hourglass, upended. The Cathedral, the garden, the embrace, dissolving. All the dreamscape and its dazzling details, blotting out.

"Viktor!" Jinx cried. "Viktor!"

"Happy Name Day, Jinx," he said, and the ghost-imprint of his kiss died before it met her mouth. "I will kiss you, truly, tonight."

The ceiling spun above: a galaxy's worth of stars, winking out. Her hands, searching, found nothing.

Nothing but the blue iris, unfurling at the tip of a finger.

And Viktor's voice, deep as midnight.

"Make a wish."

The last winking star: her own.

[discordiansamba]

still! thinking about the noctis au, as one does.

noctis' official story is that he's a first generation nephilim with an unknown demonic parent that was sheltered by asylum. because he had special circumstances, he wasn't raised with the other orphans. he has no special powers, but he's extremely strong and has strong regenerative abilities.

noctis' unofficial story is that he's a misfit azazel clone, and as a result was separated from the rest of the test subjects to be raised as an exorcist by a unknown mentor whose name was lost in the chaos of the blue night.

(both versions list him as rin and yukio's biological father. how do you hide the children of satan? easy. claim they're the children of a nephilim instead. suddenly things like rin's initial hair color and his violent tendencies stand out less.)

noctis never finishes high school, ultimately- but shiro does help him study in order to obtain a GED. the compelling visual of shiro sitting across from a 20 year old noctis at the kitchen table, tutoring him for the test while 5 year old rin and yukio play with kuro.

noctis has a motorcycle license, but not a standard driver's license.

his horns grow out long and thin, making them nearly impossible to hide with regular methods, so mephisto gives him decorative cuffs to put on them that makes them invisible to people without a mashou.

he goes through like. six dozen different image changes. he cannot settle on a look. he grows out his hair and then cuts it off. he experiments with facial hair but always shaves it off in the end.

he definitely gets a few tattoos. love the idea that they're all designs he associates with his friends, as if he's getting his memories of them engraved on his body so he never forgets.

(shiemi's four leaf clovers are tattooed right over his heart. he gets a firebird for suguro, prayer beads for konekomaru, foxes for izumo and a design like yamantaka's eye for shima all entwined on his back. shura's white snakes and yukio's caduceus are tattooed on his arms, so he can never forget how hard he fought to save them, only to lose them in the end.)

noctis does NOT get any taller. he looks at rin bickering with yukio when the latter starts getting his growth spurt and declaring he'll catch up to and surpass him one day like. i've got some bad news, kid. we are fucking cursed.

this timeline's version of rin 100% has piercings lol- several on his ears, but also a pierced tongue. noctis is just like yeah go for it, and so he does.

rin cares a lot less about people who call him a demon this go around- after all, his dad's a half-demon and he's cool as hell! what he does care about, ironically, is people talking shit about noctis. and people talk shit about noctis a lot.

rin, when he and shiemi have kids years down the line just looking shiro dead in the eye and being like: and here's your great-grandpa!

(noctis is cracking up in the background- at least until rin smiles at him and introduces him as grandpa noctis.)

nine year old rin, rolling up his sleeves: i'm gonna make dad breakfast in bed for father's day. :)

(noctis, overcome with emotion. he has such good kids!!

mephisto: didn't you say you weren't going to be their father?

noctis: shut uppppppp.)

rin & yukio like: our dad is rin from the future so if you think about our family dynamics for longer than five seconds they start to get really messed up. so we don't do that.

rin: -unless it's funny!

yukio, nodding: unless it's funny.

rin, yukio, tsukumo, and shura have been trying to get noctis and monaka together for years. as soon as the exwires learn of her existence they join in. they truly don't understand how noctis is not married yet.

(upon learning that noctis is a guilt-ridden rin from a bad future: ohhhh. yeah. that makes sense. but also he needs to cut that the fuck out. matchmaking time.)

noctis, meeting teenage lewin for the first time: ...who's that hanging around osceola?

mephisto: his name is lewin light, i believe!

noctis, recalling the lewin he knows from the future like ????? HUH????

once his life settles down a little, noctis does eventually poke his head into osceola's talismanic cooking workshops.

the Illuminati, ironically, have their eyes on noctis even without knowing his true identity- his unparalleled regenerative abilities are what catch their eye, but they don't attempt to recruit him because it's clear he's mephisto's creature.

[toxicanonymity]

Jailbird.

1.5k / Cellmate’s nephew!Joel x inmate f!reader

thank you @iamasaddie for the mood board!!!

PART 2 HERE: Collect calls

Summary: Your cellmate introduces you to her hot nephew and he comes to visitation hours. A/N: Part 1 of 3. This one is due to @beskarandblasters and @wannab-urs and their hilarious list of new joel tropes and @raccoonhandedhottie's nerve to put the idea of doing one in my head. My masterlist WARNINGS: References to sex work, ACAB. Horny phone/visitation talk, mild/non-explicit over-pants masturbation. Mickey Avalon Easter egg.

Without Mabel, you're not sure how you would've survived your first six months in lock-up. You were cuffed for solicitation when a dirty cop wouldn't pay what he owed.  He says he took it easy on you -- you also clawed him and spit in his face.  As soon as you told your new cellmate what really happened, she took a liking to you. She said you should've bitten him in the pecker.   Mabel had been there, done that. She even knew of the cop who put you away.  It wasn't Mabel's first time behind bars. She had the ink and reputation to prove it. Her knuckles said "TAKE NONE" and that was accurate.  By now, nobody gave her any shit. Soon enough, no one gave you any either. 

Mabel had a few photographs on her wall, mostly of her and a younger man. Not a particularly young man, but certainly younger than Mabel. He was probably in his early forties in the pictures, which were five years prior, before she violated her parole. She was giving you a poke and stick tat of a four leaf clover on your hand one day when you asked about the pictures. 

"I was wonderin' when ya were gonna ask about my lil Jojo. I've seen ya lookin' at him, ya little horndog..." 

She let you stammer around in response. "No, I, I'm just, making conversation, wanna get to know you better." 

"It's okay, baby. He's my nephew. All I got left. He's a neat kid."

"He looks happy to be with you–ouch!"

"Don't be a pussy. Oh, he's a real sweet boy. Bet he'd like you, too."

"What makes you say that?"

She looked up from your hand "cause ya got a cunt and you're not bad lookin'," she laughed. "Hey,” she raised her eyebrows. “You ever wanna borrow one of those pics, you let me know, I'll give ya some privacy."

"No thanks."

"Oh, come on. You can fold it so ya don't have to see my pretty face." 

You laughed. 

"Bet he'd dick ya down real good, too."

"What?" You asked, quietly disturbed. 

"He lives with me. Walls are thin." 

"Ah. That must be awkward."

"Not really! We're all human. I could even tell ya the kinda shit he says if ya want. He can get real filthy.  Or shit, I could just give ya his number."

"That's ok."

"Baby, he'd love to hear from ya. Trust me. I've told him all about ya." She put down the needle and picked up a tissue to dab your skin. 

"You have??"

"Oh yeah. Here, I'm gonna write it down." 

She took one of the photos off the wall and wrote his number on the back. Then she folded it in half and winked at you as she handed it to you. 

—----------------

It only took a week of her nagging for you to call “Jojo.” 

Your breath hitched when you heard his smooth, deep voice. The first thing he said was, “Ah, call me Joel,” and you could hear the smile on his face. 

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” you laughed. “Well your aunt’s told me a lot about you, Joel.” 

“Yeah, I can only imagine what,” he faux grumbled. “Real character, ain’t she?”

“I love Mabel,” you blurted out. 

You found yourself opening up about how in some ways, she was more of a mother figure than you ever had.  Joel was easy to talk to. It just came pouring out. You told him about Mabel’s antics and the mischief the two of you got up to. Things you’d steal from the cafeteria. The way Mabel kept the ladies in line who tried to dom you. Next thing you knew, your time was up.  You apologized profusely for talking Joel’s ear off about yourself. 

“Nahhhh, it was nice,” Joel said. “Hell of a lot more interesting than my life.”

“Well it was good talking to you,” you told him. 

He said, “Hey, call me back any time.”

There was nothing sexy at all about that first conversation, but his voice did something to you.  You squeezed your thighs together when you got back to your cell and looked at the photo. Mabel kept giving you a knowing look. 

—------

You started calling Joel regularly.  Mabel told you he liked you a lot, but you weren’t sure if you should believe her. She seemed overly eager to set him up. The conversations were brief and casual. When you didn’t call him one week, the next time you spoke, he told you he missed the sound of your voice. 

Something came over you and you broke the tension. “My voice?” you asked. “Joel, your voice. . . you dunno what it does to me,” you blurted out. Zero to sixty, just like that. 

“Well damn,” Joel said. “Shoulda said somethin’. Coulda given ya better than stories about Mabel.” 

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like whatever ya want, jailbird.” Your heart fluttered “Whatever gets ya hot and bothered.” 

“Honey, you could read me the phone book,” you told him. 

He chuckled. “Haven’t seen one of those in a few years.”  His voice was sexy to begin with but the sharp edge of the phone connection made it even hotter. 

After a moment of tense silence, he said, “Hey, uh, you notice any of your pictures missin’?”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, Mabel mailed me one. Didn’t tell me you were a fuckin’ smokeshow.”

You laughed bashfully. 

“Well she did. But I had to see it for myself, and shit”

“Well, thanks. You’re not bad looking yourself.” 

Your time was almost up. 

“Hey I’m comin’ to see Mabel later this week. Y’all got the same visitor’s night or what? Cause I’d love to see you, too, if it’s allowed.” 

“Nah, mine’s the next night.” 

“S’alright, i’ll come back for ya, sugar.” Your heart skipped a beat. 

“I’ve gotta go.”

“I know. Be good, jailbird.” 

—--------

It was visitation day and you were getting nervous. Mabel thought it was adorable. She helped you get ready. Did your hair nice. “He’s already smitten with ya, baby,” she said. 

You were escorted into the visitation room and sat at one of the booths, separated by glass, with a phone on each side. 

When Joel came in, you didn’t recognize him at first.  In just those five years, his beard had turned half-silver.  He was striking in person.  He was wearing a tight t-shirt and jeans. Tight jeans. You couldn’t help but size up the bulge in them. 

When you looked up at his face, he was raising his eyebrows at you like he caught you looking.  He sat down and put his elbows on the table. You picked up the phone, a little nervous, but more excited than anything.  He checked you out and smiled at you coyly before picking up the phone. 

“Like what ya see?” he said softly into the phone. 

You replied with a low whistle, then asked, “You always dress like a piece of meat?” He had a few hand tattoos of his own. Faded, blurred together. A spade between his thumb and forefinger. A spiderweb curving around one of his biceps. He’d probably done his own time. 

“When the hell are ya gettin’ outta here?”

“Up for parole next month,” you said. 

“No shit!” He looked genuinely excited. 

“Mabel didn’t tell you?”

“Thought she was yankin’ my chain.” He stretched his free hand behind his head and you watched his bicep.  “You been good? Think you’ll get out?” 

“Haven’t been bad.” 

“Good.” He lowered his voice. “‘Cause sugar, I’m gonna need to see what’s under that garb.”

You smiled with faux shyness, and he continued, “God damn,” looking at you like a juicy leg of lamb. 

You stared at each other, checking each other out for a moment. You watched his pupils dilate as your chest rose and fell with desire. 

You made small talk for a minute or two, all the while fucking each other with your eyes. But, things took a turn again.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked in a low, sultry voice. “Bet ya don’t miss the clients.” 

You shook your head. 

He lowered his voice further. “When’s the last time ya had a nice hard cock ya really wanted?”

Your eyes widened. “Shit, I dunno.” 

“Ohhh you’re in for it.” You looked around, paranoid, in disbelief that you could get away with a conversation like this. “Ain’t nothin’ harder than mine, baby.” He reached his hand into his lap. “Fuck. ‘specially for you.” You could see his arm moving very slowly but there was no mistaking what he was doing.  His eyes devoured you.

“Joel,” you sighed. “Fuck, I believe it.” 

And just like that, a guard approached him from behind. “Time’s up,” the guard said and glared at you.  You rolled your eyes as a guard approached you, too.

Joel said “Later, jailbird” and hung up the phone.  When he stood up, his massive erection was visible and made your heart skip a beat.  You glanced up to his face and he was wetting his lips. He winked at you with pink cheeks and your eyes immediately fell back to his crotch as he adjusted himself and the guard hurried him away. 

FUCK. You were gushing. Mabel’s Jojo. Joel. What a man.

---------

Part 2

Ty for reading. strip club manager!Joel will be an alternate timeline of this Joel set in the past while Mabel was on parole. DIFFERENT READER. preview

this trope actually gave me so many more elaborate ideas lmao.

------

All Joel:@ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @blackvelveteen1339 @manazo @wolvesandvampires @taeslarityy @str84pedro @lokanda  @kyloispunk @filthfairy @fieryglutenfreechickennoodles @harriedandharassed @moonlightdivine @worhols @fan-fiction-floozy @cutesyscreenname   @weddingfairy @pedropascal-whore @spideysimpossiblegirl @feministfanboi @gracieispunk @prettypartyfavor @am-3-thyst @babeincolor @milla-frenchy @switchbladedreamz @within-the-depths @am-3-thyst @may-machin @pedromania91 @sloanexx @paleidiot @yourmistysecret

[healingjourneyaqua]

Good Vibes, Today, As Usual✨

[bullet-prooflove]

Can I get "desperate love confession" for Tim and Lucky please?

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fallmoreinloveeveryday @elenavampire21 @floralfloyd @lamaudite

Companion piece to:

Lucky - Tim's assignment doesn't go to plan.

Stars - Tim's not like the other guys.

The Good Book - Tim makes you a promise you don't think he can keep.

After Tim’s convoy is blown up, they don’t let you see him.

You’re not on the list, they tell you.

The thing is you know that there is no one on that list. He has no family, his friends were all in the Hummer with him, most of them dead from the IED that blew up the vehicle. There’s just him alone, in a hospital bed with Lord knows what injuries.

You break into the field hospital later that night. You’ve heard he’s going to be airlifted to Germany in the morning. That means his injuries are severe, that they’re require more care than he’ll get out here in a tent situated in the desert. It’s that that frightens you because it means that there’s a very real possibility that you won’t see him again.

He’s unconscious when you slip into the makeshift ward after midnight, attached to a ventilator that’s seen better days. The sheets are drawn up to his waist revealing thick bandages across his chest. Small burns pockmark his shoulders, first degree you think from the cherry red colouring.

You pick up the chart from the end of the bed, studying the information intently.

The worse damage is the shrapnel from the secondary explosion, they’ve managed to remove as much as possible from his chest but there’s a few pieces close to his heart that they don’t have the resources to take out. It’s going to require a major operation with a cardiothoracic surgeon, which is why he’ll be on his way to Germany tomorrow.

It’s bad, you realise as you continue reading. Really fucking bad. If any of that metal inside him shifts, he’s at risk of bleeding into his chest cavity.

“I know we’ve never said it but I love you.” You whisper as you use your fingertips to brush his hair away from his features. “I need you to do your best to get through this surgery, to come back to me.”

You don’t know if he hears it, the sedation he’s under it’s strong. You need him to know that despite the fact you won’t be there, you want to be, that you’re thinking of him even though you’re over 4000 miles apart. You take the black Sharpie out of your pocket and turn his wrist over, drawing a four leaf clover on the underside. You press a kiss to it before you leave, hoping he’ll understand the significance.

It’s thirty six hours later that Tim wakes up in military hospital in Germany. His chest feels like it’s on fire, every breath a labour. He raises his hand to touch the bandages and that’s when he sees it. The black four leaf clover, drawn on his skin.

“Lucky.” He rasps, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes.” The nurse says kindly as she reviews his vitals. “You were very lucky indeed.”

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