#sorry this take is a little spicier & i promise this is not a vague or a side step at any one it's just how i feel about these things

[t-errifier]

🔥 rpc topic of your choice

i won't go too in - depth with this one. but i really don't like the trend of DNIs & i'm actually kind of glad that it's ... dying out? do not get me wrong, i do feel there is certain cases where a DNI is a valid thing, & i would have no problem telling someone when i think it is valid, when it's not. however, i do think that most people should curate their own experiences with a person. not base it off of someone else's negative experience. because, there is cases when two people did not mesh. they ended up on someone's DNI for it & then some take that as the gospel, alienating them on a minor charge. it turns me off from following someone if i see a MASSIVE LIST of people not to interact with if you interact with them.

[hailqiqi]

One Bed(sit)

Took a while to get round to it! Here's the next chapter of my RR fic with @sciroccoorion35

Words: 2,175

Ch1 AO3 | Ch2 Tumblr/AO3 | Ch3 AO3

Chapter Four: Talking and Walking

Lockwood had always imagined his first date to be somewhere romantic. When he was a boy covered in grave dirt he’d imagined a moonlit stroll by the canals, where he would play the dashing hero and rescue his faceless girlfriend from any lurking Shades; after meeting Flo, that daydream had morphed into sunlit picnics on grassy hills covered in daisies (Flo certainly didn’t need a dashing hero of any sort). 

Growing older had meant he wasn’t sure he’d ever get around to a first date – he had clients to court, agents to train, a business to run, plus – who knew how many tomorrows he’d have? No, he’d put his childish fantasies of romance aside long ago.

And then Lucy had crashed into and out of his life in a most bewildering fashion, a hurricane of destruction with her warm compassion, short skirts and steely resolve that had ripped apart every preconceived notion he’d ever had with so much force that he’d been too overwhelmed to realise what was going on until he’d almost – and then actually – lost her. Twice.

Since figuring a few things out (albeit almost embarrassingly late), Lockwood had had an entire four months to dream, scheme and plan. Primrose Hill was the place, he’d decided: if he ever got Lucy back, he’d take her up to Primrose Hill to watch the sunrise, with a thermos of hot chocolate to share between them. It would be a quiet, intimate moment, just the two of them as the ghosts faded and the promise of new hope dawned. Then he’d take her out for breakfast.

Staying at Lucy’s place hadn’t been part of the plan, and Tooting was a little far from Primrose Hill to make it work. But he’d tried to keep his eyes peeled on the cab rides over, trying to spot anything that looked like it’d make a good first date spot. Assuming he could actually ask her, at some point; it was a little awkward to try to bring it up when he was ostensibly imposing on her for her safety.

For their not-a-date breakfast they’d ended up in Tooting Market, a bustling indoor/outdoor area stuffed to the brim with people and stalls of all kinds. Lucy had expertly led him straight to a red-and-white stall in the back corner where the middle-aged owners seemed to know her quite well, judging by how interested they’d been in Lockwood’s presence. By the time they’d taken their seats at a wobbly plastic table Lucy’s complexion rivalled that of a tomato and Lockwood, fearing he’d fared no better, was trying to look at anywhere but her.

‘One aloo paratha and one butter chicken paratha, to keep you going!’ The lady from the stall placed two plates down on the table, along with a few small bowls of sauces. ‘Plus, here’s a little something sweet, to keep you sweet to our Lucy.’ Placing a bowl with wrapped sweets in it, she winked at Lucy, smiled at Lockwood, then turned and trotted away.

Lockwood stared after her, the fresh insinuation echoing in his ear.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Lucy hissed from across the table and Lockwood snapped his gaze to her. ‘They don’t normally do this.’

‘Right,’ Lockwood said, his face hot. ‘Er… At least we got free sweets out of it?’

He nudged the small bowl, filled to the brim with colourful sweets, and Lucy brightened noticeably. ‘I’ve never tried any of those,’ she said, then shot him a small grin. ‘Maybe it was a good thing I brought you here after all. Even if…’ She trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the space between and around them, and Lockwood felt his confidence wane a little more.

‘Right,’ he said again, after a moment. ‘So, er… How do we eat these?’

—

George had always claimed food was magic to the mood, and – as with most things – he was probably right. The awkwardness had vanished quickly once they’d begun eating, Lucy explaining what each dip was and laughing at his expression when he’d tried some of her (much spicier) pastry. They’d picked up some spiced tea from another stall (which smelled divine but tasted strongly, and while Lockwood enjoyed it, he wasn’t sure he’d order it again) and then Lucy had coyly suggested a walk through the market, her lips quirked in a fashion that suggested she was probably laughing at him but trying to hide it.

Perhaps Lockwood wasn’t as good at hiding his curiosity as he’d thought. The idea rankled – he’d worked hard to be the picture of dignity, thank you, and he’d always thought of himself as reasonably worldly – but he didn’t mind that much. The market was, after all, utterly different to anything around Portland Row, and different again to the bustling East End street markets he’d frequented with Sykes. Plenty was familiar (Cockneys in flat caps hawked groceries all over London, it seemed) but there was even more that was unfamiliar: tables laden with vibrant, rich fabrics, battered books in scripts he couldn’t read, baskets of fruits he’d only seen in old photographs. A butcher’s shop proudly hung a whole, skinned lamb in the window; the shop next to it displayed colourful mountains of spices piled taller than Holly.

‘It’s pretty cool, right?’ Lucy smiled up at him, her hand in his coat pocket as she took another one of the sweets they’d been gifted. ‘I figure it’s about as close as I’ll ever get to leaving the country.’

Nodding, Lockwood looked around again. If he ignored the double-deckers passing – and the weather – this could easily be a market in some far-off land. Was this how his parents had lived? Walking through foreign markets, shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing exotic sweets as they discussed their next move, their next stop, their children back home?

It had always been strange to know his parents had travelled the world while he’d barely ever left London; it was an even odder feeling to realise he hadn’t even seen as much of London as he’d thought. There was so much more to them that he had to live up to.

Lucy pressed an unwrapped sweet in his hand, shaking him out of his reverie. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah,’ he answered, even as Lucy’s hand left his to dip back into the pocket of the coat that was once his father’s. (Zero finesse – she’d make a terrible pickpocket.) ‘Just thinking.’ Casting his eyes around for a safer topic, he found his gaze simply landing on her. ‘This isn’t the sort of place I’d imagined you’d end up in, to be honest.’

It hadn’t been what he’d meant to say, but it was true. He’d thought she’d go to Fittes or Rotwell’s or Tendy’s, and, if she was going to live out, somewhere like Whitechapel or Lambeth. Areas that were cheap enough – she didn’t like to spend money needlessly – but definitely more central, since the majority of hauntings cropped up in central London (population density being the likely cause there). Tooting was far enough out that George had made a biting remark about the lengths she was going to to avoid them, which he’d certainly thought about more than once when he’d first seen the hovel she’d chosen to live in. What other reason could she have for living somewhere like that?

Now, though, he wasn’t so sure. As they stepped out onto the main road he looked at Lucy – really looked at her. She was tired and run down, yes; her appearance had certainly seen better days. And yet, she stood taller, held her head up higher. The tales passed along the grapevine from the teams that had worked with her both terrified and elated him, and he wondered, not for the first time, if he’d been holding her back. Maybe that’s why she’d run so fast and far.

The sign for the Underground appeared at the corner ahead. ‘Why did you choose to move out all this way, Lucy?’ he asked, aiming for nonchalant.

She frowned at the question, and Lockwood had to resist the urge to reach out and smooth her brow. ‘Portland Row is cosy, and Marylebone is lovely and everything,’ Lucy started, clearly choosing her words carefully. ‘But this’ – she gestured at another spice shop as they passed, and the group of ladies in headscarves gathered around the till – ‘this is one of the things I’d hoped for when I first came to London.’

Lockwood frowned. ‘I thought most people wanted to see Big Ben and the palace. Tower Bridge, and all that.’

‘Well, yes, the grand buildings are wonderful too,’ she said, ‘even though half of them are haunted. But I wanted to see…I guess I wanted to see people who were different to back home, and not just in the way you are.’

Lockwood blinked.

‘You know, growing up we were always told that Britain had the greatest empire in the world, but you wouldn’t bloody know it where I’m from. And home – I mean, your home’ – Lockwood’s heart skipped a beat at the correction – ‘is wonderful but daily life isn’t too far off from what I grew up with. I wanted somewhere different. Somewhere life would be entirely new.’

Lucy hated change. After all, isn’t that why she’d left?

Turning into the station, she made a beeline for the ticket machines where she punched a few buttons in swift succession then stopped to look at him expectantly.

‘I’ve got a monthly, I don’t need...’ she trailed off as he continued to stare at her and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, nevermind. I’ll pay for it.’

With a start, he reached past her. ‘No, no, I will…’

The last time they’d taken the Underground together Lucy had trailed after him and surreptitiously checked the map at every stop, one hand wrapped firmly around the pole. Now she chided him to hurry up on the stairway down – ‘the ones via Bank are eight minutes apart at this time of day so I don’t want to miss it!’ – and leant against the closed doors, utterly at ease in the crowded train as she talked about her favourite Thai place.

His smile was firmly in place as the train trundled forwards, but he couldn’t help but take the opportunity to study Lucy whenever she glanced away. In the four months they’d been apart she’d built a whole new life; the only thing different about his was a bit more cash and the Lucy-shaped hole. He might have managed to insert himself into this new life of hers for the foreseeable future, but then what? It was growing increasingly clear that this new Lucy didn’t actually need him.

—

It was these thoughts, perhaps, that kept Lockwood skulking under a lampost by Clerkenwell Green while Lucy went to confront Mailer, her new (to him) plain black tote slung over his shoulder.

They’d discussed him assisting, obviously, but Lucy had insisted she’d rather deal with it herself. And so Lockwood had remained behind as Lucy stole off after Mailer, watching as she snatched him into an alleyway. He couldn’t see what happened next but he kept his eyes on the mouth of the alley and his ears pricked for any sign of a struggle, ready and willing to jump in at the slightest hint that she was in trouble. None came; Lucy had learnt well.

Soon enough Harold Mailer – looking considerably worse for wear - came slinking out of the alley, double and triple checking each direction as though expecting a Changer. And a minute later – there, sheathing her rapier: Lucy. Lucy, who he had nothing left to give that she couldn’t get herself, who had slept next to him the night before and yet now seemed so out of reach, casually walking away from threatening a boy two years her senior as though it was an everyday occurrence.

She looked around briefly, her demeanour cool and unruffled, and then her eyes met his and her whole face lit up, her trademark grin so brilliantly warm it was as though the sun had come out. His answering grin bubbled up from within unbidden, a bark of laughter leaving his lips as he waited for her to cross the short distance towards him and wondered why he’d wasted his morning worrying.

Her eyes were on him the whole time, and she looked so ridiculously pleased with herself it was hard to remember that they were on serious business. He stood straighter, offering her her bag; Lucy squeezed his arm as she took it, and then fell into step right beside him as they headed off again. Their hands brushed as they walked and Lucy made no move to step away. That realisation alone could have kept him warm without his coat.

As they walked, she recounted her encounter with Mailer, the light never leaving her eyes, and Lockwood was struck with a thought: perhaps this new Lucy didn’t need him the way she had before, but she certainly seemed to want his company – and that, perhaps, was even better.

[currentlyprocrastinating]

Saeran | Indescribable

Summary: Even the most talented poet would fail to convey the profound beauty Saeran sees in you.

Genres/Tags: Fluff

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 911

Notes: Bit of irony for you: I had to rewrite the summary sentence about twenty-or-so times lol. Anyways, this is the first thing (of two) that I sent to another fan, although I made more modifications/additions to this because it was so short. Still in present tense. Partially unedited, but only near the end. Also, this got spicier than the original. Sorry lolol ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Just did the word count and- LMAO 911 WORDS?? LOLOL CALL 911 COS MAH HEART CAN’T TAKE THE FLUUUFFF HAHAHAHA

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Saeran offers you that sweet smile you’ve come to love so very much. His hands, calloused from their constant hard work in the past, calloused from tending to gardens both then and now, cup your cheeks delicately. They’re warm, his hands -- warm from the blanket you and him are wrapped in, warm from the now-empty mugs of hot chocolate which sit forgotten on the side table. And his fingers: long, slender, skillful; the tips are littered with tiny scars from a habit he has since been able to break. You’ve never voiced it, but you rather enjoy feeling the ridges of his scars under the pads of your fingertips. You enjoy his reactions even more: flustered, or relaxed, or both. Sometimes he shuts his eyes, content, goosebumps raising along his fair skin. Sometimes he shies away, which further motivates you, if only to encourage him with soothing touches and hushed reassurances that his scars don’t make him ugly, that you love his scars, that you have countless of your own, that they are merely proof that he survived the battles life so mercilessly threw at him.

You can feel the bump of a small scar on his left index finger. It’s slight, for his touch is just as tender, but you know him well -- you know his body well, his hands like the back of your own. Better than your own, in fact. You can easily picture yourself spending hours doing nothing but studying every inch of him, untouched by boredom, filled only with undying fascination.

You’re brought back to the moment when Saeran traces a careful finger under your eye. Your smile, initially a response to Saeran’s loving mien, falters to something of a sheepish nature. A small frown presses his lips together, and you can’t help but feel a little guilty.

“It was just a really interesting book... but I’ll control myself better this time.”

“Just ten more minutes; I want to finish this drawing real quick.”

“I gotta get this paragraph right; I’ll go to bed soon, I promise.”

“I finally beat my writer’s block, I can’t stop now!”

“I’m on a roll! Look, look! Look how good these drawings are turning out!”

“Shoot, I just hit the climax of plot. I have to keep reading!”

You brace yourself for another well-deserved lecture, your sheepish expression falling further and further. But Saeran’s frown curves into a gentle smile, and his eyes shimmer with an adoration so pure and focused that it’s nearly overwhelming. Your lips part to convey your vague surprise; your brow furrows a bit, inquisitively.

Saeran breathes out a quiet noise of amusement. When he speaks, his voice is soft; he doesn’t dare raise it, lest he disrupt the tranquil air.

“Words can’t even began to describe,” he whispers, “how I see you.”

You blink, skin heating up under his palms. You try to respond, but you find your voice trapped in your throat. You’re awestruck -- you always are. Saeran always manages to catch you off guard.

“‘Beautiful,’” he murmurs, “doesn’t even scratch the surface. ‘Talented’ is the biggest understatement ever.�� His thumb strokes your rose-stained cheek. “You’re beyond perfect, my love, beyond any description in any language.”

You lift your hands, trembling, and place them over his. Emotions choke you suddenly; it adds a glossy sheen to your captivating eyes. Saeran leans closer, one hand sliding down to cup your jaw instead, and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. A sense of bliss envelops you at the contact, and your eyes fall shut.

“Every little quirk, everything you call a flaw,--” a delicate kiss just below your eye, as if to sooth the dark shadow “--every lie your insecurities tell you -- I love every single part of you.” Another peck, this one under the other eye. “You’re my everything. You’re my angel.” Saeran rests his forehead against yours. You open your eyes, and find a beautiful shade of blue gazing back at you. “You’re all mine,” he says, lips almost brushing yours, “and I couldn’t ask for anyone better. Because there is no one better for me than you.”

“Saeran...” You have nothing more to say. You had nothing to say in the first place. His name, spoken on an exhale, entered the air all on its own.

His lips meet yours, briefly, in a chaste gesture. “I love you, [Name].” His breath, warm and sweet, teases your parted lips. “I love you so much.”

I love you, too. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Your lips twitch, but every muscle is too sedated by the sheer effect Saeran has on you. However, Saeran does not seemed bothered by your lack of response, not in the slightest. In fact, he takes advantage of your silence, and captures your upper lip between his. A small moan shudders in your throat -- you have it bad. Real bad.

It’s slow; the few seconds it lasts feels like an eternity. He parts -- barely, a mere centimetre, perhaps less -- and your hands clutch his. Don’t leave now. Don’t you dare leave now.

He wouldn’t dream of it.

“I love you,” he says once again, in a breath, one that mingles with your own. “I’ll always, always love you.”

“Me too,” you manage, or perhaps you only think it. You aren’t sure, but it doesn’t matter, for Saeran’s lips meet yours again, and all you can think about is him.