This is probably a little too much nuance, but whenever I see a "all borders are violence" post (a political position I generally agree with!) I always add a little asterisk that says "*but the border checks that keep you from bringing homegrown produce into big agricultural areas to avoid the transmission of parasites and invasive species are actually fine and if we were more vigilant about that kind of thing maybe we wouldn't have spotted lanternflies in the states."
Customs management (you do not want people importing a bunch of stuff that doesn't meet your country's safety standards, for example)
Things like that one lake in Europe where three national borders coincide and they built an island specifically so you can run between countries for fun
still his favorite - xavier x reader/mc
content: pre-relationship, flashbacks/dreams, yearning, angst from anecdote 3 refs
Napping at his desk has become a dangerous pastime for Xavier.
It's not a new habit by any means, let alone one tied specifically to his work desk. He'll gladly (and unwittingly, on occasion) snooze away just about anywhere.
But lately, the Hunter's Association has proven to be a troublesome place to sleep. Worse than missing his stop on the subway, or even more perilous than catching some quick shut-eye after a fight on the battlefield.
Because sometimes, when he wakes and sees you seated at your desk before him, Xavier sees sunlight filtered through the window to highlight your uniform. Not the protective leather and boots, but a soft yellow cardigan, sneakers squeaking against the floor each time you shift.
Caught in half a dream, he'll stare at the back of your head, and feel the urge to pass you a note; scribbles and doodles that say nothing and mean everything. Sneaking in a promise in the margins to share his earbuds after class.
When his fingers are too heavy to reach for his notebook, he sleepily concocts a plan to tempt you into letting him borrow your favorite eraser. He'll forget to give it back so you'll track him down later, even though you both knew you would've found him without the excuse. Still, in adolescent minds riddled with innocent rose-tinted daydreams, with anxious butterflies in your chests each time your eyes meet, an excuse makes it easier.
And other times, when he wakes to blink the haze from his mind, and sees your desk empty before him, he feels much, much smaller. Back to a time where the numbers of his age truly matched the youth of his face. When you were the only friend he'd known, and his favorite.
Still his favorite. Still gone.
Xavier stares now, bleary eyes half-open and fixed on that empty seat. Waiting to see the ghost of you turn around, pretending to check the time on the clock behind him.
His lashes flutter, nearly falling shut, but he clings to that mental image of your eyes sliding down to meet his. Just once more.
A tap on his shoulder rouses him again, but he groans, burying his face back into his arms.
Another tap, and then another. The poking is relentless until he stirs, frowning up at whatever classmate was disturbing him.
Xavier's heart stills when your familiar eyes peer down at him. There's a cup of instant noodles in your hand, steam billowing up into your face, which is contorted somewhere between amusement and exasperation.
"Back with us yet, sleepyhead?" you tease him, crossing the blurry gap between dreams and reality.
Your voice is a touch deeper, your smile a little more guarded. But there's a familiar lilt of fondness that has his eyes widening, his face softening, until you become visibly flustered.
"How long?" Xavier croaks out, fingers twitching as he yearns to reach for you, trying to shake the sleep from his heavy muscles.
Your brows furrow, and when you turn to glance at the clock over his head, his chest squeezes until it hurts.
"I went to check out that Protofield anomaly in the historic downtown area about…two hours ago?" You look back at him, a disbelieving smirk crossing your lips. "Have you been asleep that whole time?"
Protofields. Downtown. Xavier's mind plays catch-up, slow and ramping up until—ah, that's right. Linkon. Work.
He sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. It's always disorienting, how far back his sleeping mind could go, how he has to readjust in a split second across space and years (so many years).
"Mm, yeah," he mumbles.
When he hears you snort, he looks back at you, seeing clearly now the differences. Marks of age, of a different lifetime, of over three centuries since he last saw you.
How terrifying, how easy it was for him to slip back into a time so long past.
"Here. Saved you the last of that new hotpot flavor."
The savory scent hits him before he sees you sliding another cup of instant noodles towards him. It leaves a streak of condensation across his desk, and he wonders how long it had been sitting there.
How long had you been trying to wake him? How long before that had you been beside him as he slept, dreaming of you?
Xavier shakes the wistful thinking away. He lifts the foam cup to inhale the steam, and then the noodles. His happy hum at filling his empty stomach barely interrupts him between bites, and his heart stirs when he hears you laugh softly under your breath.
You turn on your heel, ready to head back and eat at your own desk. But then you stop.
"Why…"
You stop, hesitate, and Xavier tilts his head.
You look at him, then away, biting your lip before you suddenly blurt out, "Why do you look at me like that?"
"Like what?"
You wave your hand, dismissive, or maybe looking for something that eludes you. "Like…I dunno. When you wake up, it's like you can't believe it. Like it's the first time you've seen me in years."
Xavier pauses. Dangerous, he thinks again. That ache settles back into his chest, and he feels much, much older.
#google translate does not capture the tone switch so i have to say. first two sentences are like. normal maybe kind of feminine posting tone #& the last is like. shounen manga protagonist. action movie hero. jojo's bizarre adventure character. #the tone you would use if you were holding a gun with the safety off (– @chadlesbianjasontodd)
i fucking love tumblr on new years i scroll past a glittertext gif wishing me a happy 2002 i scroll past my mutual wishing me a happy 2018 i scroll past a gifset wishing me a happy 2013 i scroll p
Hawks fic where you're sitting with Keigo in his office and ask him if he ever misses flying and it's bittersweet with either an undertone or romance or simply platonic I KNOW Y'ALL SEE THE VISION.
It was written in the empty walls of his office, still poised on the highest floor. Whispered in the cool breeze during his lunch breaks, taken on the radio tower atop the roof. Even how he'd walk through a doorway, shoulders folding in and tilting to the side for a pair of pantom limbs. It was all a painful confession: A part of me is missing.
The answer filled the office now with how he stared at the clouds sliding past his window; the pile of reports he'd been thumbing through long forgotten. The familiar rush of cutting through that fluffy white mist was so close, but so impossibly far away.
The question bubbled up in the back of your throat, but you swallowed it back down.
You were afraid to ask, because you were afraid of him knowing that you felt it, too.
Since the day you met him, when those wings were full and proud and a part of him, they felt like a part of you. They'd given you the rush of flight in a bid to impress you, all those years ago. They'd sheilded you in times of turmoil, held you so carefully during secret rendezvous.
But you asked anyway.
Not because you didn't know the answer.
But to open the door to mourn. Together.
"Do you miss it?" you asked.
This yellow eyes fluttered before they met your own, and then the silence settled between you. A smile tugged at his lips, small and whistful as he took one last look at the sky he loved so much, but had been long banished from.
"Sometimes," came the reply. It was a soft admission, almost a lie. One word to sugar coat his pain.
Some things never changed.
"but not as much as I would have missed this."
Your hands squeezed the seat of your own chair, brows raising like a question.
"This?"
He laughed, one light enough to make your shoulders relax and your aching heart slow into a more comfortable rhythm. Again, some things never changed.
"Had I not risked it all in that last battle, what's the chance we'd be sitting here together now? Safe and sound?"
Your lip disappeared between your teeth as you contemplated his question, but this was one you didn't know the answer to.
He scooted in his chair, rolling out from behind his desk as the wheels squeaked. His feet kicked until he came to a jarred stop beside you, then leaned into you with that lopsided grin on his face.
The same one he wore all those years ago, when he almost anxiously asked if you wanted to fly.
"I miss it, of course. Every day," came his heavy, truthful, answer. But his hand laid on the back of yours.
"But my wings were only one of many things I could have lost that day. And the least important of them," he squeezed a little tighter to your hand, "If giving them up lead to us being here, I'd make the same choice every time."
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
titsay
