#every once in a blue moon I remember TAD exists

[gl1tched-g0th]

Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil the song that you are.

[depressedacadamia]

Dimples

Summary: Apparently Nico has dimples and Will did not know.

A/N: Heheheee, motherfuckers my exams are in a week and a half and I haven't revised shit. Instead, I'm writing these. Wish me luck, this might be the only fic I post for the next 2 weeks but if you're lucky, I might post pt 2 for 'How to passive aggressively say Fuck you in flower'. Toodle pip and <3 from mee!

Extra edit: I forgot it was solangelo week, woops. 

Read on A03

Nico Di Angelo was not known for smiling. He was not known for grinning or laughing. He was however, known for snarling, sarcastic, outdated remarks and terrifying people to the point where they’d rather face death itself than face him and his wrath.

So of course, Percy and every logical being would avoid him at all costs when he was in one of his ‘moods’. These so-called ‘moods’ referred to when Nico seemed particularly dangerous, like when his eyes had a dangerous glower to them that hinted he enjoyed threatening others a tad too much- in fact, so much so that Leo had suggested that Nico may be a sadist (That hadn’t gone well for Leo, to say the very least).

But of course, William Andrew Solace was in no way a logical being nor was he very fearful of Nico’s alternating and very much violent auras. Now, this wasn't necessarily a bad thing necessarily, in fact, it was the very thing that had started their relationship and while everybody thought Will was insensitive with his historical jokes he made towards Nico, Nico greatly appreciated being able to understand something from his time.

Will, on several occasions, related him to Captain America in Marvel's Avengers.

So when Nico, in his terrifying rage, stormed into the infirmary, Percy wasn’t sure what he was about to witness. Were these two having an argument? Nico looked like he was going to set the infirmary ablaze or perhaps bury it 6 feet under- it was truly the unpredictability that created the suspense and fear.

“Where are they?” Nico’s voice was calm, cold but sharp. His words felt like the gentle, smooth slant of a knife, apply pressure and you get cut. Nobody dared to answer. The infirmary’s silence seemed like one of lambs, too scared to speak out until another leader did. Whether they expected Nico to simply leave if no one answered, they certainly did not expect him to ask again.

“Where. Are. They?” He punctuated his words, his voice combined with a deadly hunger that could only be satisfied with death.

The room felt like a cave. The only words being echoed back were Nico’s own words, bouncing off the smooth walls of the infirmary. The corners seemed dark, the white presence of the infirmary slowly being poisoned. It seemed like fate sealed their hands- they were like lambs to the slaughter: helpless.

“WHERE ARE THEY!” Nico roared. This time, he did not wait for a response. He took a small glimpse at the camper in front of him, who was obviously avoiding his gaze, and the next thing the kid knew was that he was pinned to the wall with a metre of stygian iron under his neck. The kid hyperventilated and in a moment of sheer panic and pure fear, blurted,

“I don’t know where they are! “

Nico, holding the camper up with one hand, shoved him into the wall again. “ But you hurt them anyway?”

The camper was completely clueless but he wasn’t stupid. Simply denying whatever Nico was accusing him of would increase Nico’s rage and that could lead everyone down a very dark road.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt them! I swear...” He started to sob. “ I swear it was an accident!”

“You hurt them! That isn’t an accident. You will pay for your crimes. I swear I will-”

“-Dear god, Nico what the hell?” A voice of pure confusion entered the infirmary. Nico, on recognising the voice, felt his head snap backwards-trying to find the course of the voice. There on the other side of the infirmary, with his leg in a cast, stood Will solace, still as unfashionable as ever.

Nico almost teleported to Will, considering how fast he appeared by his side. “ Are you okay? It’s okay, I found out who did it and-”

“-Jesus, Stalin, calm down there.” Will looked at the terrified boy who was in tears. “This kid knows nothing. He wasn’t even there. Were you just putting on some show trials?”

Nico had to resist the twitch in his lips at the communism jokes. Ever since Will had found out that Nico’s weakness was communism jokes, he had been exploiting it, just like the working class were exploited, and using it to his own advantage.

“Wait, this kid wasn’t involved?” Nico looked at all the terrified people in the infirmary, still frozen to their spots, waiting for the go sign for them to continue with their lives.

Will waved his hand. “Go ahead, continue with your business. He will be on his best behaviour now that I’m here.”

“Uh, says who?”

“Says my broken leg.”

On the mention of a broken leg, Nico’s worry instantly returned. His hand reached out to touch Will’s face, in a gesture of affection before quickly snatching it away. Will reached for his hand, took it in his own and intertwined their fingers as in to say It’s okay, they support us. It’s okay, I love you and you love me. It’s okay, I’m not ashamed of being in love with you.

Nico appreciated the gesture and once again, fought the urge to give in to the overwhelming desire to smile at his perfect boyfriend.

“Are you okay? Can you show me your leg? What happened? Why can’t you heal it?” The words began flying out of Nico’s mouth, the concern on his face unhideable. His eyebrows were cutely creased together and he kept on placing his hands all over Will- it was driving him crazy.

“Calm down there, communist. This is my injury, not yours.” Will joked, trying to hide his blush- truth be told, he did not want to tell Nico the real reason behind how he broke his leg because it was honestly the most ridiculous reason one may ever hear in their entire life.

Nico let out a little snort of laughter after hearing another communist joke but was careful to keep it on the downlow. He noticed that Will was being quite indirect and avoiding his gaze: he knew that could only mean one thing.

“What did you do to break your leg?” Nico smirked wickedly, understanding that Will had, once again, been quite idiotic.

Will, gasping in mock offense but also quite embarrassed by how well his own boyfriend knew him, let out a bubble of nervous daughter. “ Hahaa, what do you mean? I broke my leg the same way everyone else does...”

“... which is?”

Due to the vast amount of broken legs he had healed, Will actually knew how to answer this question. “ Through sports.”

“Sports?” Nico snorted. “ You? Sports? Have you ever even run in your entire life? I swear the only thing you do is heal and read. Maybe sleep on the offhand you listen to me.”

“You can’t talk over there!”

“Just tell me how you broke your leg, for the love of the Gods!”

“I was having a competition with Percy for who could heal faster.”

“You were doing what?”

“A competition Nico, have you ever heard of one? Normally the losers forget they exist so I wouldn't be surprised that you had never heard of one-”

“No, I know what a competition is, you idiot. What I don't know is, why on earth you were having a regeneration competition with Percy of all the demigods you could have chosen, you chose the one with the ability to heal themselves as well?”

Will pouted slightly, his eyebrows making a small frown. “I would have thought you would be halfway through murdering Percy right about now.”

“If Percy managed to win, then honestly, you kinda deserved it.”

“I thought you liked me!”

“I thought my boyfriend wasn’t an idiot!”

“Technically I won because Percy was too baby-ish to break his own leg!”

Nico took a very long pause. Slowly, he began shaking his head, from side to side. The expression on his face was illegible but eventually it morphed into one of laughter. His laugh was rich and so was the expression on his face. His lips were curled upwards, his eyes were creasing, with long beautiful dimples on both sides of his face- as clear as the moon on a clear night.

The infirmary was silent. They simply stared at the beautiful angel who graced the place with their voice. They were horrified and in awe. Nico Di Angelo was capable of smiling! He was capable of laughing!

It was a fucking miracle.

“What did I tell you!” Percy yelled, throwing his arm over Annabeth who simply sighed. “I fucking told you! I knew he had dimples!”

Will, slightly stunned, simply took Nico’s face in both his hands. His crystal blue eyes were wide open and to Nico it looked like the ocean was inviting him to take a dive into int’s complex and unknown depths.

Into the unknooooowwwwwnnnnnn.

He cursed himself for that being his first thought. He then cursed Will for making him watch Frozen because it was apparently culturally inappropriate to not have seen it. Then he cursed himself again for cursing Will.

“Holy shit,” Will whispered as he stared into his boyfriends grinning face. “Holy fuck Nico, you never told me you had dimples.”

“Language.”

“Holy shit, holy fucking hell. You cannot smile at me like that Nicolo Di Angelo and expect me to keep my language appropriate. Have you ever seen yourself in a mirror?”

“Calm down,” Nico groaned, throwing his head backwards. He could feel his palms getting sweaty from Will’s words- what could he say, he was slightly embarrassed.

“Wait!” Will cried. “ Do it again. Smile again!”

Nico gave a sultry smirk and Will whacked his arm. “ I asked you to smile at me, not seduce me. Smile!”

“Who wouldn't be happy to be seduced by me?”

“Just smile, please!”

Nico sighed before looking at his gorgeous boyfriend. His eyes darted down at the cast around the leg and immediately Nico remembered the cause of injury. He started laughing, his lips stretching into a genuine smile and his dimples flashing all across his face. Will, still holding his boyfriend's face, couldn’t help himself as he brought their lips together.

Will was so used to feeling Nico’s smile when they kissed so when he brought their lips together, he didn't know what he was expecting. It felt different for some reason, it felt more.. It felt better, it felt like he was getting a new piece of Nico. Feeling Nico smile and seeing him smile were two different things and now that he could picture Nico’s smile as he kissed his smiling lips, Will thought he’d explode from happiness.

Will pulled away quickly, his hand still cemented to Nico’s grinning face. He had pulled away just so he could see Nico’s smile and more importantly his dimples again.

“What?” Nico’s innocent voice and grin combined confirmed for Will that if he died on that very spot, he would have died a happy man.

“Holy shit, you’re the cutest person ever.”

And with that, he brought their lips together again.

Neither of them noticed Thalia and Annabeth sulking as they paid up their debts to Percy from losing the bet.

[subtleappreciation]

Here’s a little hc inspired by @ryanssance and I’s conversation about dreams. love you beann <33

I genuinely believe that Jason can dream. For all the shit Jason has gone through, we all know for a fact that he has nightmares quite often.

However, I think the only reason as to why he even lets himself sleep (other than the fact that he has to maintain his mental/physical health) is because he loves dreaming.

When he sleeps, he has the most vivid dreams of the bunch. He’ll have dreams t hat feel so real that it’s a true escape to his reality.

He probably has had good dreams with his parents and old dog. Perhaps they were little reincarnations of the good days he had with them.

He’d dream of happy days with the batfam, good times with people who had passed away, spending special time with the one he loves... the whole nine yards.

But then when he wakes up and he’s choked; frustrated at the fact that he can literally feel the dream slipping through his fingers. Seeing the wonderful people that he knows and loves falling further and further into the shade of darkness only to be awoken to a bright light shining through his curtains.

He hates waking up to his real reality—expected to go back to his life full of pain and regrets—to have his dreams linger in the back of his head for the rest of the day.

He can never seem to fully remember the dream that made him so happy and full of serenity. The feelings of being at ease…

Nothing pisses him off more to have that moment of happiness only for it to be taken away from him at the last minute.

As much as he hates the feeling of pain when he can’t remember the dream, there’s nothing worse than the feeling of waking up from a nightmare because like his dreams... he feels them more than anybody. 

If he could even savor one good dream to tie him down and remind him that the nightmares are only nightmares, he would probably sell his soul for it.

That’s when he starts to keep a journal.

Whether it was a suggestion from Alfred or the therapist he finally manages to call every once in a blue moon, he bought a relatively cheap leather-bound notebook from the bookstore he passes by all the time.

At the start of his attempt at journaling, his handwriting was messy, way messier than his usual penmanship but that’s because he spent all his effort into writing down everything he could remember before they all dissipated into the unknown. 

His writing was also botched in the sense he couldn’t quite get everything down the first dozen times because of the emphasis in pressure to recall only seemed to stress him out and send his train of thought out faster.

Eventually he started to get better at gripping his thoughts and his writing got a tad bit neater. He gradually became more patient with himself, relishing in the things he could remember.

The next step from that was filling in the gaps with his own creative imagination, even if they barely pinched exactly what had happened in dream itself, the mere reminder he could recall he would flesh it out with a more creative outlook.

Overtime, Jason built himself a mighty collection of dreams and stories that required a new journal; this brought upon a new frustration the morning his ink ran out of paper to write on. He made do with cramming his remaining thoughts in random crevices.

Roy came across said journal once, it was rather inconspicuous and unfamiliar, so he took a quick harmless peak but despite the mess the redhead just got too engulfed in the stories. He skipped over the personal bits but the dreams were interesting.

Jason came home and had snatched the journal out of Roy’s hand before he could even welcome his best friend home, angry and a little possessive of his thoughts.

Roy didn’t bother defending himself because he was so in awe with how creative his friend was, that he could only utter, “Publish this shit,” to him.

Jason was so frazzled by this statement-bordering-demand that he could only reject the idea as he took his journal to his room.

His best friend tailed him through the apartment for the next half an hour encouraging Jason to at least consider writing poetry or a collection of short stories with his innate talent for creative arts.

Jason continued to refute the idea but it did leave an impression on him. He found himself relishing in his journal later, going over the stories. Most brought him smiles, others confused him, but for the most part he found joy in being able to recall the vivid dreams as he read the words, like a reminder that just kickstarted the old-school projector in his mind.

Eventually he did start testing out on refining his jottings, attempting poetry and yeah… short stories.

Perhaps he eventually gets the confidence to read them out loud to Roy or Alfred

In a better world that clearly only exists in our minds, he publishes under a pseudonym (for obvious reasons) and becomes a famous but faceless author/poet :) 

Thanks for reading! I might do more of these... who knows ;)

[imfallingdown-icantwakeup]

Fishmonger’s Daughter

Jaskier had a life that he walked away from to become a Bard. He has travelled across the Continent both by himself and with his Companion, Geralt of Rivia. What happens when they happen upon a familiar town and find a familiar face? Slow burn Jaskier/OC Reader-insert type

Chapter one: Mad world

Word count: 3515

“One stop. That’s all I’m asking for.” Jaskier pleads from behind his companion, legs creaking from under him with every step. “One measly stop, in a forgettable town, for one night that you won’t remember five years from now. But I will. I will write the most beautiful sonnet of this night. The moon, the stars- “Jaskier was no fool. He knew what he was signing up for by tagging along with the Witcher on his travels. He just remembers the White Wolf taking more stops to bathe. He couldn’t stand the onion smell that was reeling from them both any longer.

               “Will it get you to shut the fuck up?” Geralt grumbles from atop Roach, not even bothering to look at the bard. He knew Jaskier meant well. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t annoyed with the constant talking, singing and complaints. Even if it was better than travelling in silence.

               “Yes!” Jaskier exclaims, excited that Geralt finally understood that he had needs too as he extends his arms to enunciate his point. Finally. The road was long, however he walked quietly for the remainder of their journey. He didn’t want Geralt to suddenly change his mind and take his bath from him. The Witcher was pleasantly stunned and tucked that sacred piece of information away for later. A promise of bathing will make him quiet. Must be almost as good as sex after being stuck with him for so long, at this point.

They came to a familiar town that sat at the edge of a forest, and memories flooded Jaskier as he led the way to the inn, taking a short pit stop a resident tavern, for a ‘local specialty’ Jaskier insisted. Geralt followed wordlessly, asking no questions as to how Jaskier seemed to almost prance down the streets humming an older song, one that the Witcher hadn’t heard from him before. Peculiar. Seeing as Jaskier always had Geralt listen to him sing his new songs before he ‘serenaded’ the public.

Fucking always.

               Geralt tied Roach outside the inn, Bee and Barb. Unique enough. Jaskier had disappeared inside with a smile too wide on his face and that told Geralt nothing good. Only bad things could come from this if it made Jaskier so happy.

 ____________________________________________________________________________________

                 My mother used to tell me that my touch was ‘as light as a feather’s’. That I drifted through life as a pocket of air and that every move I made went unnoticed by those around me. My feet never touched the ground, my head in the clouds, a slight breeze being the only sign that I was even present. I was rarely acknowledged, my presence always overlooked by those around me.

It was Jaskier that told me it was only when I started to leave that people noticed me. It was when they clutched their chest, wondering why it was so much harder for them to breathe. He said that I had always given him the ‘breath of adventure’.

Adventure. His first true love. No matter how much I wanted that love to be me. It had been years since I’ve seen the man, but there was hardly a day that I hadn’t thought of him. His sweet goodbye under the tree, our tree we used to climb as young children, was the one memory I clung to most.

I remember the way he hugged me that day. The way his arms wrapped around me, and that it almost hurt, but in a good way- as if he wanted me to sink into him. It’s as if he wanted me to carve a hole into his chest and live there to travel the Continent with him, to keep inside of his body. I remember not breathing, I remember not needing to because for once someone else was doing it or me. For once, someone else was the warm breeze filling my chest with their air, the air of adventure. The whole memory brings nothing but joy to me now, but all I can think of is how much I read too much into things. How much I inference and want him to want me.

Thank goodness my mother wasn’t here to see how far I’d fallen since he had left our small town and subsequently, my life in its entirety. Five years was a long time for him to be gone. He had traveled and made a new life for himself and travelled the Continent. Fighting beasts, befriending Witchers and bedding women. All while I strayed five miles from your hometown to a slightly smaller village to become a local barmaid, waiting hand-and-foot on drunken patrons.

The day had been started out dull and rainy. It turned long and boring inside of the old inn, where everyone convened to seek refuge from the incessant raindrops. Nothing to do except bring beer and food to those who ordered. No new travelers to converse with. The Bee and Barb was popular in   this province for its up-and-coming bards, new faces every week trying to earn a name for themselves like their predecessors before them. After a while, all their voices seemed to blend in, the songs sounding the same. The melodies all had the same rhythm, the cadence of the words was too similar.

               Nothing like Jaskier’s songs.

               I push the thought to the back of my mind as I weave through the patrons, the tray high above my head as I push past drunken men and women to get to the table on the other side of the room. Mid-day to evening was always the busiest, and I couldn’t imagine why. I mean, sure, this is the cleanest establishment in town but that shouldn’t mean that these people should make my job impossible by being in the way all the time. I clear my tray with a smile, grabbing coins and slinging them into my pocket with a polite smile that was plastered on my face.

               A young lady was singing with her lute in front of a crowd as I made my way back to the bar and I swore that I saw a familiar shade of brown hair make its way to my counter. Strange. I hurry back seeing two customers waiting for me, one broad the other… Not so much. The broad one was dressed in black leather, weapons strapped along his back. Didn’t look like he needed them with his size. The other man was a tad shorter, less broad in build. His clothes were of a more vibrant color you noticed as he heaved himself onto a stool, turning his whole body sideways so his elbow rested on the bar, while also giving you a glimpse of his profile.

               I had to take a double look as I see a glimpse of him. There was no way. After all this time, Jaskier just happens to walk in here? Your Jaskier with his Witcher in tow, off to another hunt? It had been years since you had seen him. Would he recognize you as easily as you did him? You were best friends, once upon a time.

If only fairy tales ever did exist.

I feel like my feet are rooted to the spot while something pulls me forward, an invisible force. Destiny, maybe? Preposterous. It had been at least five years since you’ve seen the man. Since he went to make a name for himself and make a name he did.

               I slowly drudge over to the counter, head down as I walk behind, sliding the tray across to Theodora as I approach the bard and his companion, a mixture of anticipation and skepticism swirling it’s way though my veins at the sight of him. He hasn’t changed much. His eyes still a baby blue, lips that look to good to kiss, hair, albeit greasy, I would still love to run my fingers through. Although friends don’t want to run their hands through friend’s hair, do they?

               “Welcome. What may I serve you gentlemen tonight?” I ask, tone a bit rushed as I stare at the man with pale hair, my polite smile still stretched over my face. His eyes are a gold amber color as he stares right back, handsome face set in a soft look of reverence as he mulls over the words he’s about to say. This must be Geralt of Rivia. Just as he is about to speak, the Bard interrupts him, leaning between the two of us on the bar so I would be forced to look at him.

               “Does Vilod still make his homemade mead with the juniper berries mixed in?” Jaskier asks in a rush. My eyes turn down to him and a mischievous smile sparks on his face as our eyes meet. I nod at him meekly, not trusting my voice. Should’ve guessed that’s what he would ask for after all these years. Damn mead instead of where I am. “I know you.” He says, raising a finger whilst shaking it at me. I shake my head as my smile grows from nerves. Maybe I was important enough for him to remember, better than all those silly adventures he thought the world of. I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear as I glance down, clearing my throat as I tense under his gaze.

               “I get that a lot. But, no, I don’t thin- “I protest before I look up and see a light flash in his eyes. If I blinked, I swear I would have missed not only the look in his eyes, but his action. He jumps from his seat in a commotion, stool colliding to the floor with a loud ‘thunk’ from the force of his upheaval as he claps his hands together once before turning towards his companion, either ignoring or not noticing the annoyed glances from my patron around him and Geralt.

               “Thank you, Geralt. Really. Thank you,” He gestures to me then back to Geralt in a sort of quick introduction before continuing, “because it is you, Elowyn.” His voice takes on a new level of excitement as his baby blues lock eyes with mine and I giggle at him slightly, looking down before nodding at him. He obviously hasn’t learned of his affect on those around him yet. Good. That was one of my favorite things about him.

               “Yes, Jaskier. It is. You’ve been a long way from home.” I comment as I turn my back to get his mead, filling two mugs three-quarters of the way before I turn to get a couple of handfuls of berries from behind the counter. He says nothing in response as I get their drinks ready, possibly stunned to silence. I crush the berries before adding them to the top, making sure to add some honey in as well. I place the two glasses in front of the men, catching eyes with Jaskier before I see someone waving me over from behind him as I sigh heavily. For one night, one forsaken night, can’t I have just one decent conversation? If only, except that my night has just begun. “See you later, Jas.” I walk away, towards the drunken men and woman of the Bee and Barb. My only place in life, it seems.

               How dull and dreadful.

                 As he looked over to her, it suddenly stuck him how beautiful she was. Her hair was hanging loosely around her in waves, always in their perfect waves, reminding him of her laughter which was rich and dark like dwindling sunlight over the hills. He had the oddest impulse to run his fingers through the strands tenderly. Were they as soft as they looked? Would his fingers glide through easily or would they get caught on a knot, pulling her head back revealing her long pale neck? Would she allow him to do such an intimate act? He could picture her now. Head thrown back, eyes closed, full lips slightly parted moaning his name.

               He didn’t recognize her at first. Her head had been down, but the moment her eyes had connected with Geralt’s, he knew. In that moment Jaskier knew instantaneously who that woman was, whilst being enamored all he could do was keep asking himself ‘why’?

               Why did he ever leave?

               He needs to get closer to her, to see her better. Does she still have a scar under her chin from when she fell when she was nine? On her cheek, was there still a freckle in the shape of a heart by her temple? He leans on the counter, sitting in her path to the more handsome man. He didn’t know if he could bear her pining for the stoic man, it would kill him.

               “Does Vilod still make his homemade mead with the juniper berries mixed in?” HE can’t help but ask. This is the reason they came here in the first place, may as well humor Geralt. Show him what true mead tastes like.

“I know you.” His voice is filled with mirth as it floats through Geralt, making him stop in his tracks. The young woman shook her head as she blushed, and Geralt had a felling he knew their situation, if all too well. The smiles, the looks. Geralt looked between the bard and barmaid as she fetched their alcohol, ignoring Jaskier’s antics.

They look at each other as if they were almost lovers, like they should have kissed and made love and laughed in bed together, but they chose to stay friends instead. They looked at each other with what ifs and could haves, and all he can see in Jaskier’s eyes is regret. He can hear her heart pound in her chest, her breath quicken as she walks back. Was she feeling the same? Maybe both hearts were filled with regret. None of this was his business though, nor would he make it.

As she walked away from the pair of men, Jaskier couldn’t help his eyes from trailing after his newfound muse. Geralt, on the other hand, swiftly brought his tankard towards his lips, taking a hearty chug of the sweet mead. The Witcher would never admit it out loud, but maybe Jaskier was onto something about this homemade alcohol.

“She has to come with us.” The brunette blurts out, gaze never breaking from his long-lost friend. Geralt simply rolls his eyes with a soft ‘hum’, finishing the sweet drink before taking Jaskier’s from in front of him. “Her mother was a healer so she may prove useful in a pinch.” He continues, eyes finally moving to his companion. Geralt simply nods once at the bard, and he jumps in excitement, taking his tankard from Geralt. He finishes the drink and wipes his face before setting out to find this Elowyn to sweep her off her feet, although Geralt doubted she would simply drop her life and run away with a bard and a Witcher at the drop of a hat.

Spheres, how he wished he was right.

 It took little convincing from the bard to sway the sweet, sweet maiden to join their- well, Geralt’s voyage. Jaskier was just the public relations expert, swaying the outlook of the mutant to his fellow human beings. It wasn’t like Geralt wasn’t an unreasonable man. Grumpy, yes, but never unreasonable.

Her lips curled into a slight smile that radiated warmth through his whole being as her bright eyes stayed glued to his for a fleeting moment and damn did he love it. He was addicted already, and he didn’t know what to do about it.

They sat under a large shade tree while it rained softly around them. The soft ‘pitter-patter’ of the rain surrounding them seemed to set the rhythm for Elowyn’s heart whenever her eyes caught his, and all she kept asking herself was ‘why’?

Why did she ever let him leave?

               Before him sat a woman, a damn gorgeous one at that, and he was stunned that she was letting him unravel her mystery, becoming a part of her present. How crazy is the thought, how could he have never noticed that her eyes were just the right shade of honey brown, a lightness around the iris while the darkness clung to the edges or how her laughter reminded him of summertime. They had been friends for so long, and yet he’d never really looked at her. Jaskier found himself staring, desperate to learn more.

               “What are you looking at?” She questioned, finally pulling him from his daze. Gods, how embarrassing. Jaskier was at a loss of words. A bard, speechless. Why did he suddenly become nervous? They’d been friends for years, since before they could walk. Friends weren’t supposed to make you nervous, or make your hands sweat. Was that butterflies in his stomach, or was it the berries he drank earlier not settling on his stomach after not having them for so long?

               “Um… You-You have a bug in your hair.” He stuttered. He went to reach his hand out, maybe run a finger through her hair but thought better of it. Friends don’t touch other friend’s hair, did they? He suddenly didn’t have any answers, any guidelines for the dangerous territory he was heading in. She shook her head, splaying her dark red hair around her and the smell of roses and honey hits his nose sharply, making his heart stutter in his chest. It was as if she were stealing the very air from his lungs as she looks back up at him with her doe-like eyes, her skin almost glowing under the dark tresses of her hair.

               “Is it gone now?” Elowyn asked so casually, as if suddenly everything hadn’t changed. As if her smile didn’t hold the warmth of the sun. That would make for a good line in a song.

               “Yes,” He hummed, aware of how his voice sounded, of how his teeth were crooked, of how completely lovely she was. “Yes, it’s all good now.” Did he dare tell her that she was beautiful? No, that could ruin everything. He decided that maybe this feeling would pass. That maybe when they rode out tomorrow, she would go back to being his best friend, and not a girl that somehow took up the space in his chest and lungs, making it hard for him to breathe. Maybe this epiphany was only temporary, and they would eventually fall back into their rhythm. But did he really want that?

               “You know, I’m really glad that we found one another again.” She says, smiling sweetly at him from under the shade of their shade tree. Gods, what wouldn’t he do to see that every day? He laughed gently and noticed that she had turned her body to face him, sitting so that their knees were touching. How could she be doing all this? All she did was sit there, and she was taking his breath away. It had to be some sort of magic, some sort of spell she cast on him. The way her eyes twinkled as she looked at him, the gentle smile on her face.

Her dark hair framed her face well, her nose small and button-like, cheekbones high and lips full. What he wouldn’t do to feel them pressed against his. Someone should make her into a sculpture, he should mold her features in warm clay to commemorate her beauty forever, longer than any ballad could. Jaskier wasn’t sure if there were any words in any language that could capture the raw beauty she held in that moment, eyes twinkling in the dark sunset with a smile just for him. If only his hands were dexterous enough to catch the fine details of her face, to catch the innocence and beauty of Elowyn. It took him a moment to remember that she spoke to him as he smiled back, snaking a hand out to pat her knee.

               “Me too. We should head to the tavern. Find Geralt before he leaves us.” Jaskier informs her with a soft smile. He stands and extends a hand to help her, and almost sighs in pleasure when their hands collide as he squeezes her hand slightly as he tugs her up standing next to him. Who knew that even holding hands could feel so good? Her hand was so warm, and so damn soft. As quickly as the moment had come, it was gone. He had to release her once she was standing upright, her head falling just at his chin.

               “He wouldn’t really leave us, would he?” Ely asks as she peers through her long lashes up at him. Fuck, he just wants to kiss her. He laughs lightly as he turns on his heel and starts walking away towards the tavern, hands resting in his trousers as he begins whistling a new tune, a new song coming to life in his mind. A sweet melody wafting though the air between them as she follows with giggling, taking his answer as a yes.

               Maybe this adventure wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[thelostgirlfindingneverland]

Take me to Neverland (Part 1)

Imagine: Ending up in Neverland and meeting Pan for the first time.

Sometimes I would sit in front of my mirror and just study myself. There was no real rhyme or reason in this, I just did. I studied the way I smiled, how I looked when I scrunched my nose, how I glared, everything. I guess you would think me weird because of this and trust me I do not blame you, but it’s just something I’ve always done. Like today, my sixteenth birthday, I sat in my pink, poofy chair in front of my floor length mirror doing the same thing I’ve done for years. Since midnight I have just been looking in my mirror waiting for some type of change. People say your life will completely change when you turn sixteen, yet I didn’t feel any different and I sure as hell didn’t look any different. I still had the same just past my shoulder length dirty blonde hair that never knew what it really wanted to do because it has always been thick and in between wavy and straight. I always had to either straighten it or wave it because just blowing drying it would leave it in this weird in between stage that I loathed. I still had the same dull, grey-blue eyes and round/square face shape. My friends always told me I had beautiful eyes, but I never believed them. They were lifeless and dull, not like those beautiful girls with sun kissed hazel eyes or piercing blue eyes. To bring them out more I covered both lash lines on the top and bottom with black eye liner and mascara. Huffing I scrunched up my nose and studied my face some more. One thing I can say I was proud of on my face is that I never seemed to get acne. While the rest of my friends suffered through pizza face and having to pound on concealer like it’s nobody’s business, I sat there with peachy smooth, clear skin. The downside was that I always looked a tad younger than everyone else. Today was going to be different, I was going to have some type of change; I needed it. Satisfied with looking in the mirror I stood up and let out a breath. My outfit fit into my regular guidelines: high-waisted blue jean shorts, a black Nirvana tank-top, a red/black/grey flannel wrapped firmly around my waist, grey knee high socks, finishing with worn out black high-top Converse. Walking out into the living room I looked over my shoulder, dad was in his office, as usual, busy working and Kai, my husky, was lounging on the couch.

“Oh, you lazy bum you,” I said dramatically as I jumped on the couch next to Kai. She let out an excited bark and licked my cheek. “Love you too,” I smiled.

“Could you be quiet out there, Lux? I’m a little busy,” dad yelled.  “Yeah,” I mumbled as I hugged Kai.

Oh yeah, by the way my name is Lucy Oakwood, but everyone just calls me Lux. You’re probably wondering where my mom is. No, she didn’t die nor is she suffering from a terminal illness. She’s alive and well; no sob story here. The only sob story is the fact that she’s never here. All she does is work and when she is home she sits there and nags at my dad and I all day. I know I’m not the size 2 you were in high school mom, but for Christ’s sake I don’t need to be reminded of it every time I grab dessert. I’m not that big; I’m only a size 5 and not too short either, 5′5″. For my height and weight I am perfectly healthy and gosh dammit if I want an extra slice of cake I’m going to get it without anyone giving me shit for it, especially my mother. She should be supportive and loving, instead all I get are empty smiles and cold hugs.  

“I’m taking Kai for a walk,” I yelled. Hell, he probably did not even hear me.

“Come on Kai, lets go,” I said sweetly as I walked out the door, Kai following. Kai didn’t need a leash, she was well-behaved enough.

After walking for some time I decided to stop off at the park. It was a Monday, yeah my birthday was on a Monday, but it was during the summer so there was only a couple people out, most of them were out fishing by the river. I, however, was headed near the wooded area to my favorite swing. Kai barked and ran around chasing butterflies as I swung. I expected too much from today. No one could hangout, my two best friends, my only friends were on a family trip up North, my parents were working, and I was sitting on a swing with my dog. Nothing changed whatsoever, if anything I felt emptier that I ever had in my whole entire life. Taking a breath I reached into my purse and pulled out a cigarette and my black BIC lighter. What did I care anymore? It’s not like anyone actually cared about me anyway, they were too busy with their own lives. I lit the cigarette and it burned, like usual, setting my throat on fire. I inhaled deeply then exhaled watching as the smoke plumed up towards the sky. For the first time since I’ve smoked these god awful things I didn’t cough. Continuing smoking I closed my eyes and listened. The sound of children shouting and playing, adults talking amongst themselves and on their phones, dogs barking, bees buzzing around, and the light wind filled my ears. It all sounded happy, peaceful and yet I was sitting here like an empty shell. No one takes the time to talk to a lonely, shy girl who’s no better than a fly on the wall. I was invisible. Don’t get me wrong, I loved solitude. It was nice to be by myself and escape for a little while, but let me tell you one thing, being alone, literally, and feeling alone are two totally different concepts. At least if you are alone, you can change that by calling someone, but feeling alone is the hell I have been in every day of my life. Dusk swept over the sky and I decided it was time to head home.

“Kai, come on girl. Time to go home,” I yelled. She happily ran over and pranced by my side as we headed out of the park.

Something, anything, make something different about today, please. I thought, pleading as I looked up towards the sky. Get me out of this town; take me somewhere where I belong. Tears fell from my eyes before I could catch them, it was too late. I sobbed all the way home. Walking inside my parents were sitting in the living room watching TV. They never wished me a happy birthday.

“Hey Lux,” my mom smiled. “Oh hey, Lux,” said my dad after.

“Hey guys,” I mumbled as I made my way across the living room.

“What’s wrong?” my dad asked. I closed my eyes and turned around. “What is today, dad, the date?” I questioned as I squeezed my eyes shut praying that he would remember.  

He sent me a confused look, “August 2nd.” I opened my eyes and looked at him.

Then it hit him, a look of worry swept across his face. “Oh Lux, I’m so sorry, it’s your birthday.” He got up and went to give me a hug, but I pushed him off.

Tears rimmed my eyes. “Not just any birthday, dad, my sixteenth birthday,” I angrily.

“Lux I-” I cut him off. “No, you no what, just never mind. I don’t care anymore,” I hissed as I turned headed for my room.

“You do not talk to your father like that young lady,” yelled my mom. “Get back here now!”

“Or what mom? You just going to tell me how fat I am or something? What?” I yelled. Her jaw dropped, she was speechless.

“Lux!” my dad exclaimed and before I knew it, my face was met by his hand connecting with my cheek. He hit me, he seriously fucking hit me. I grabbed my cheek wide-eyed and ran to my room, slamming the door behind me. Tears fell freely as I grabbed my black, duffle bag from my closet. I was done; I could not stand this shit anymore. Stuffing what I needed into my bag I looked at Kai. She looked at me with worry in her eyes.

“I am sorry Kai, but I cannot be here anymore. I know there’s a better place somewhere out there for me,” I whispered to her as I rubbed behind her ears. She whined and laid down giving me her big, blue puppy dog eyes. “I know, I’ll miss you too,” I said, tears swelling in my eyes as I leaned down to kiss her head. This was it; I was leaving, for real this time, no turning back. I straightened up and opened my window.

“Bye Kai, I love you,” I said as I swung myself out my window with my bag. Surreptitiously, I walked past the front of my house and down the street. I left them a note telling them why I left and that they should not come for me. Whether they understood or not I was going.

***3 hours later*********

After some time of walking I found myself at the beginning of a nature preserve. There was no way around it and I was not going to turn around now, so taking a breath I started making my way through the wilderness praying that I wouldn’t end up with poison ivy. Or worse, poison oak. The nature preserve seemed to go on forever and my feet were starting to ache when I decided it was time to take a break. Up ahead there was a small stream and to the right was a rather large rock followed by a huge log on the ground beside it. I hopped up on the rock and laid down looking up at the now black sky. Stars scattered the clear sky and the full moon shone brighter than I had ever seen it before.

“I wish to be anywhere but here. Take me away to a place where people like my parents don’t exist. Hell, where no parents exist, so no one can tell me what to do anymore. Take me to a place where I’m free and no longer so lonely. I believe….I believe in a place like this. Please,” I whispered to the night sky. “I believe, I do, I really do believe,” I whispered one last time before I was swept off into a deep sleep.

*****************************************

I am woken up by merciless light causing me to roll over when I realize that I am not on the hard rock I fell asleep on. In a panic my eyes shoot open and I stand up. I was no longer in the middle of a nature reserve next to a stream I was somewhere else. I was on a beach with the calm blue sea to my right and a dense, green forest to my left. I took it all in at once and it was like I couldn’t breathe. My stomach was in knots. Where was I, my thoughts screamed? It was then that I realized I still had my duffle bag. I grabbed it fast; looking through it making sure nothing was stolen. I furrowed my eyebrows when I realized nothing was taken, so if someone took me here why didn’t they take anything?

“Oh fuck,” I whispered to myself aloud as I looked around.

Biting my finger nervously, I slung my bag over my shoulder, dusted myself off and started walking down the beach. There had to be something here…..someone? It seemed like I was walking forever when I saw the end of the beach, there was no where else to go except through the forest, so I took a deep breath and went in.

This place was like a never ending, beautiful hell. There was no one, not a single soul around except for the hum of animals and insects in their natural habitat. How the hell did I end up here? Where the hell was I? My thoughts were screaming at me as I trenched through the forest. I now regretted wearing these shorts and knee-highs. My knee-highs were getting completely destroyed and my thighs were getting mercilessly attacked by branches; scrapes covered them. With each step I was getting more and more angry and hungry. Not watching where I was going I tripped over a log and went tumbling down a ditch. Everything went black.

Moments later I woke up and instinctively touched my face. Looking at my hand I saw the blood. I had hit my head on a log causing a gash on my forehead close to my hairline. Now there were scrapes covering my whole body. I couldn’t take it anymore. My head felt like a thousand needles were being drilled into it, my body was on fire, and all I wanted was a juicy burger and fries. I flipped my head back and screamed at the top of my lungs. Not just any old scream, the *if I did this at home someone would probably call the cops* scream, or the scream when you just let it all loose. All the anger, all the throbbing pain, all of it let out in one ear blistering scream. When I was done, tears filled my eyes and I let them pour out. Grabbing my bag, I threw it behind my head and laid myself down. This was it; I was going to die alone. I was tired and so ready to just give up, so I closed my eyes and let sleep consume me.

When I woke up, I had prayed that this was all just one big dream and I would be in my comfy bed at home. But no, I wasn’t that lucky, when I awoke, I was in the same place I was before, laying on the ground in a ditch using my duffle bag as a pillow. It was pitch black and I could not see a thing. What would I do now? It was too dark to try to get up and find my way back to the beach. I sat there for minutes in deep thought when I heard the crack of a branch to my left.

“Who-who is it!?!” I yelled as I stood up fast grabbing my duffle.

“Now, now that’s no way to treat someone who could help you, now is it?” a voice said.

“You didn’t answer my question and where are you, I can’t see a thing?” I asked as I backed up into a tree.

“So many questions girl, and we only just met,” the voice said when out of no where a fire appeared before me, lighting up the ditch. I held my breath and looked up. It was a boy, probably around my age no older than 18. He had light brown, shaggy hair, green eyes that were so piercing they mimicked emeralds, and he wore green, patched together clothing as a shirt and pants. Around his waist was a belt and a dagger. I eyed him questioningly.

“Uh-uhm-uh wwhere arree wwe?” I stuttered.

He smirked and his eyes glowed with pride. “We, my dear, are in Neverland.”

[semicolonthefifth]

CROSS ch.3 - Sleepwalk

Many villages lined the Black Road, but much are alike in both design and reason for why they exist. Centuries of colonization, and Aurora is still untapped of what it could offer. Humanity has barely scratched a percentage of the planet, on account of both the world’s vicious sand storms and unforgiving climate. In addition, the natives practically own the mountains, and aren’t at all welcoming of humans digging too deep into their homes. Yet to this day people continue to stake their claims, coming to Aurora to find whatever section of rock or dirt that’ll hopefully grant them riches - ranging from lost Old Earth salvage, Deltan artifacts, or rich metals. When the dream dies, they settle down and try to make their fortune in another way: by settling a town.

When you travel the Road, you’ll find plenty of towns - some thriving, others dying, and many others to be completely abandoned. Often times these towns are a farm of sorts, others act as mines, and the rest offer some sort of service to travelers. You’ll have places built around a cookery, a goods store, churches, or - most commonly - a bar. When you’re living on a place like Aurora, you’ll always need a place to relax and have yourself a drink.

Jason had gotten a bad rep in a lot of the better spots along the Road. When you’ve got a habit of hunting your bounty into the one place everyone takes restage at, you tend to cause a fight or two. It doesn’t help that there’s sort of an unwritten law, that a bar is the most neutral spot you can find. So naturally, Jason had to drive for a long stretch of the road after dumping Sid’s body, all to find one bar to rest himself in. The one bar he could find a good change of getting a break was further south, in a town east off the Black Road and nearer towards Moresatta than Calberi:

A quiet little place called “Blondie”.

Population: about 48 people. Mostly men, with some women, children, and a few elderly.

It was a mining town that then turned into a wet stop for any traveling drunkard looking to stretch their legs before making the long trek for the city at the South end. From what Jason could remember off hearsay, it used to be quite the popular spot before a more easily reachable settlement was made, and the mines hit an impassable blockage that essentially killed the mining work there. It was named by its founder, for reasons that weren’t explained - save for the rare comment about an ‘inspiration’ of sorts. Besides the bar, a barber, and an alright tortilla shop, there wasn’t much else to get out of the place.

Jason met some regulars to the spot in his travelers, and they all described the bar’s selection of ales to be alright. There wasn’t anything better for miles on end - Jason couldn’t care less for quality at this point.

It took another 20 or so minutes before he would see the town coming over a hill, with a few lights twinkling to signal that any life was there. The wide swerve off the Road was rough, but after driving through some bumpy terrain he slowly came to what he assumed was the saloon. With the night still dark, and his moon dour, Jason didn’t pay much attention to the layout of the town - very few lights were set up in the town, and all Jason could care to pay mind to was where bar stood.

He slowly walked out the car and towards the large structure that acted as the town’s north-most landmark, and from a quick glance of the many lights and the muffled sound of music, he knew this was the bar. Jason made his way for the backdoor, and from the moment he steps in… he feels an all too familiar pain in his head.

Then he remembered.

Blondie was a town that greatly enjoyed the age of the Wild West from the Old Earth, from calling its bar a saloon to the style structure they built, along with all the stuff they hung on the walls of this very establishment. The place was at once a bar and a place of worship of the old. You saw posters that worshiped the heroes back in those days: legends like Wyatt Earp; Billy the Kid; and even good ol’ Harmonica. There were replica bull skulls, a set of guitars and tapestry. A table at a far off corner had a neatly made model of what those western towns looked like back in the day - all too similar to how Blondie is built, now that Jason thought about it. There were even the guns hanging around the place. Fake, of course -bought replicas from an artist, most likely.

Jason looked at it all. He observed the place, and wished even more he was elsewhere.

A music player was nestled by the hallway leading from the main bar floor to the back where Jason had entered. He have a look to see what was playing: an instrumental little thing called “Sleepwalk”. Santo & Johnny. Jason felt in a similar mood.

Then. “Jason?” He heard.

“Jason!” He heard again. “Jason, is that you?” Shouted a patron within the bar. Glancing from where he stood, Jason looked down the hall and saw a friend of his: a man by the name of Frankie Houser, seated next to a guy utterly new to this place.

Frankie was a tall, lean twig of a man at 6 feet in height. Atop his head was a set of red curls that looked like a broccoli had sprouted from his dome. His teeth angled forward whenever he spoke, and the apple in his neck stuck out for all to see. Though he made it all work with what Jason could best describe as the most honest and happiest of smiles. He wore a set of layered leggings that seemed to weigh him down, along with suspenders that hung over his gray-colored wife-beater. His boots were long and brown, almost turning red from the sand. Frankie kept a side-arm, a typical handgun, hanging off a holster to his side that kept him safe for his travels.

Beside him (on Frankie’s left) was another fellow, a curious one from appearance alone. A short, young-looking man that sat proper, unlike Frankie’s more laid back position. He was the cleanest thing in this entire bar, with a nice dark blue-colored suit that was one size too big on him - all over a light blue dress shirt with an obnoxiously green tie. He had dark brown skin, and short layer of black hair on his head, with none over his face. No dirt covered him, and no weapon was visible. Nothing except a backpack held tightly against his chest, only let go briefly so he may wave at Jason. A strange thing to see out here in some bar, Jason thought.

Making his way over, Jason took a seat beside Frankie’s right - all the while giving both men a handshake along the way. Frankie was firm and energetic, meanwhile the kid was weak-wristed but polite. Jason winced on the former more so the latter. With Jason seated, he looked to a bartender that had been waiting nearby - a grizzled, old looking man who gave a little nod to the new patron.

Jason placed his order: a glass of mildly sweet Deltan Ale, a straw, and a plate of ice.

Frankie turned to Jason, “Nice to see you, man. How’s like treatin’ ya?” He asked, with as much kindness and genuine interest. It was about the nicest thing thrown at Jason’s way today.

“Well”. Jason tsked, “Ain’t exactly going my way.”

“That about the truth for all of us, ain’t it?” Frankie responds. “Seems like nothing ever goes our way. Still, I’m sure you’ll find some good coming over yours. Just need to keep ya’ chin up.” He takes a pause to sip from his own drink - a glass of water, one for him and a similar for the friend beside him. It was then that he coughed a bit. All of a sudden a thought entered his mind and he swallows up his water before resuming his talk with Jason.

“Oh, almost forgot - rude of me. Jason, allow me to introduce to a new man here in the wastes. Kid’s name is Charlie. Charlie Wills. Landed onto Aurora, straight from Tyrell.”

Jason chuckled harshly, “Seriously? Tyrell? THE city, Tyrell?”

Charlie nodded before speaking gently. “That I am.”

With more a chuckling escaping from him, Jason then asked further of the young man, “What the heck are ya doing out here in the Black Road? Shouldn’t you be heading on over to Moresatta or something?”

With a slight hesitancy, Charlie’s response was interrupted by Frankie’s own explanation, “Actually, he’s taking the scenic route. We’ve been passing by every site we can find along the way. The kid’s loving all the villages we’ve come to visit so far - along with all the many delicacies they come to offer. Quarter of the trip’s spent trying out foods, I tell ya! Had in me now more than I have the past week!.” He lets out a long breathy laugh at that, bringing Charlie a clear look of embarrassment.

“Hilarious.” Jason comments, a tad positively at first but becomes more serious when he speaks to Charlie. “Hey, kid? Try not to waste too much time on the Black Road though. Drivers like Frankie here can’t be spending all night on the Road.”

“He’s alright, Jason!” Frankie exclaims, once more interrupting whatever reply Charlie was about to make. Frankie then continues, “He’s paying for my troubles, for starters. Plus, I’m having the time of my life. I get some moments to stretch my legs more than I would a straight drive anyhow.”

Charlie finally gets a word in, explaining that, “I’m doing my best not to take advantage of Mr. Hosier. Forgive me if I can’t help myself to stop so much, but you have a wonderful place here. Tyrell’s lovely, but Aurora certainly captures my interest far more by a great margin. Mr. Hosier here has been a great driver since he picked me up from Calberi, and all the sights I’ve seen have already made the expenses worth it. I must say, you have a beautiful world here, sir.”

“Yeah, well so is a lady with experience.” Jason remarked with a lazy grin. “Pretty to look at, but mess with her and she’s already got a knife aimed for your throat.”

Frankie stifles a chuckle, but Jason continues - again, seriously. “Listen, kid, do yourself a favor- go back home. Aside from the two cities, there ain’t nothing to see here on Aurora. It’s a wasteland, empty except for a bunch of folks killing each other all the damn time, and a lot of gangs playing dress up while proving to see who can shoot each other more.”

“Well I’m sorry to say, but t-that’s precisely why I came.” Charlie nervously shoots back, proceeding to open up his backpack and dig right in. “I’ve got - if you let me a moment - some things I wanted to see here that you don’t get in other worlds. All we ever hear about Aurora are the gangs, he natives, and the various wars. So much history bottled up in this one planet, it’s all so interesting yet nothing I’ve read at home really do it justice. Tyrell barely gets anything, and oftentimes what we do get is questionable in its legitimacy. I had to come here, to confirm it myself that it’s all true.”

He keeps on digging, prompting Jason and Frankie to side-eye each other with looks that equally find entertainment at Charlie’s naivety. They don’t say anything, however they’re somewhat intrigued by what the young man’s looking for. Eventually, Charlie produces a thick black binder. He opens it up, revealing a colorful collection of prints and photographs - to which the two natives of the planet take a gander.

Charlie flips past the first couple of pages to show off a small selection of printed replicas of old war-time posters - from the era of conflicts happening on Aurora. They depicted humans in UROE infantry gear, either lining up in inspirational formations or firing their rifles at sword-wielding giants. He turned a page, briefly pausing to let them examine each photo before continuing on to the next. The next set featured prints of a different tone: humans, holding their hands up in union with the giants, set against amber colored mountains. Additionally there were prints which shows 5 humans and one giant, all working at a construction site with words emphasizing “union” and “working to the future”. From how each print looked, it seemed that the original posters were painted before being copied for mass distribution - with a warm, inviting feeling that nostalgia-lovers would love to get their hands on.

Eventually Charlie did some commentary as he showed off the prints -  a bit of confidence making its way up the surface. “Check it out. War propaganda from around the Great Aurora War, nearly a millennium ago. Back then we didn’t know whether to trust the natives or to present them as enemies, so marketing sorta changed in those years. All of it made from a printing company in Aurora, who only got a brief clue of what Deltans looked like from news and word-of-mouth.”

He turned another page, commenting further, “Then see here: prints of the continued war with the Kronian Empire.” The young man, smiling at the two men looking down at his book, turns the page to showcase further pieces in his collection. He pointed to various prints, all of them depicting red-eyed figures, either in pale white face or under black gas-masks. There was one print in particular he directed to the most, where it featured a looming, red-eyed gas-mask wearing creature leering deviously over a group of human colonists. It displayed the text: “OUR HOMES ARE IN DANGER”

Page after page he turned, with Charlie showing off more of his historical collection. Jason was honestly interested at this point, especially when he noticed that none of it remotely mentioned the Old Earth. There were so many detailed, organized prints of Aurora history - even stuff he never heard about.

Charlie’s commentary drew Jason away from his initial cynicism - made all the better as Charlie came out of his shell and was eager to share history with a couple of locals. Though it also helped that, by the time he was listening, Jason’s plate of ice and drink had arrived. The kid kept on talking, being so open and smooth in his vocals, with all the nervousness having gone away.

He’d say this like, “This is a photo of several Deltan natives making the first trek down the Black Road; you may notice how some look uncomfortable with the surface at first.”

Or, “A print showcasing the opening of Moresatta. I managed to get this printed straight off the archives back home - it was so exciting.” He was quite captivating when was in the zone.

Frankie, out of them all, was the most absorbed into it. In between his listenings and close examinations, he’d make the passing comment of “been there” and “seen that”. Every now and then he’d even correct Charlie on something, like how the Deltans rarely fought each other in colonized lands - prompting Charlie to grab a napkin and write the info down with a pen kept in his pocket. Of course there was a disappointment in Charlie: it scratched off the goal of seeing two Deltans fighting, as he heard from the stories.

By the 30th page however, it got too personal for Jason. As they closed halfway upon the hour, Charlie began turning the pages towards more recent history - and Jason felt less enthused.

Every page was a painful memory for Jason, and especially the world.

The mass incarceration site built in off the Road to house countless numbers of UROE prisoners, only to lead into a jailbreak many years back. With it brought the near endless supply of raiders and bandits that roam the Black Road, causing so much trouble from that catastrophe.

The crackdown by the UROE, which began with arming various militia groups to fight back the raider scourge. All that did was lead to even more violence along the Road.

The deadly raid on the Black Road hospital up North, leading to dozens dead. Nobody had a chance there.

Everything that came in before or during his childhood, and yet still messing up his life to this day.

Then the photo that Jason hoped wouldn’t come… finally arrived.

Charlie turns the page, explaining at first, “Of course there were many people we saw fighting the raiders in the vids that aired in Tyrell. They were probably the most popular ones when you consider the views they got. It was a group of these cowboys, dressed up like in the Wild West - calling themselves the Crimson Crosses. See, I even got a photo of two such members right--”

He stopped right there, almost completely. Charlie took notice first of Frankie’s slight cringe, before then directing his sight at Jason.

Charlie had seen this photo about a dozen times, but a new detail emerged then. The photo showed two young men, both wearing a set of wild-west inspired outfits over their tall, powerful frames. The garments consisted of brown vests; long-sleeve collared shirts, dull dark pants, and a dark overcoat covering much of it. Atop their heads were similarly sized wide-brim hats, and around their necks a bandanna. As well, both men shared the exact same style of hair, and exact appearance of face. Between them was an overweight, gruff-looking bandit tied up with a lasso, with both men posing triumphantly beside him.

Below the photo, on a sticker Charlie used to caption his photos, it read, “The Cross Twins, Frederick and Jason, capture the Butcher of Red Peaks.”

Jason hesitantly grabs the photo - his mind felt like it was screaming ‘no’, but a part of him felt like he needed to see it. He brought it closer and looked down at the picture, and at that moment all the color and life in his face drained completely - and in its place, a flood of bad memories once walled up behind years of alcohol.

Meanwhile Charlie looked towards the stranger, studying his face in relation to the photograph. There he was: Jason Cross of the Crimson Crosses - older, stronger…

And now he’s downing an entire glass of ale.

[thetrashbang]

PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds Needs A God

No multiplayer game gets to live in a void for long. No matter how hard you may try to bleed yourself of troublesome concepts like context, or backstory, the reality is that people like to speculate. People like to tell stories. Doesn’t matter how goofy or outlandish; the creeping tendrils of narrative eventually wrap around the foundations of even the purest, most context-free experiences. Why are we bombing these crates? Why are we stealing that flag? Why are we fighting? Why are we here?

Somebody will come up with an answer. It’s the human thing to do.

But for PlayerUnknown’s Battlegrounds, it feels like that answer has yet to come. One hundred players parachute onto a deserted island, where the average density of firearms per square meter exceeds even the most deranged fanatical NRA wet dream, and a slowly constricting hemisphere of crackling blue energy forces them to mercilessly gun each other down until only one is left standing. It’s an absurd, nightmarish premise; a theoretical scenario seemingly engineered to turn people into rabid beasts, fighting tooth and nail merely for the privilege of living a few minutes longer. Who would orchestrate such a competition, and for what purpose? Is it an experiment? A ritual? A blood sport? Is some Silicon Valley bazillionaire sitting in a darkened room somewhere, surrounded by monitors, cranking his sad rubbery hog to every rifle crack and arterial splatter? Nobody seems to know, or care.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t either; PUBG is fun enough without framing. And yet, tonight’s winds bring an uneasy chill, carrying whispers of restlessness, indignance and fury. You feel it, don’t you? There’s a philosophical schism in how we approach Pubguh—the very concept of ‘battle royale’, even—and the hairline fractures are beginning to show. Players whine and gnash their teeth at the red zone, esports organisers desperately attempt to harness the format for views, and the proverbial chicken dinner seems to attain a more and more mythical, trophy-like status by the day; a reference to back-alley gambling now ironically viewed as a badge of ultimate prowess. This isn’t a healthy relationship. This isn’t a healthy attitude.

What Plunkbat needs, friends, is a god.

Well, okay, not necessarily a god god. Divine power is optional. I’m not asking Brendan Greene to start wearing a white toga and chiselling his patch notes into stone tablets, as much as it would set an entertaining precedent. The job requirements are flexible: I’m simply asking for someone vengeful and capricious, with unfathomable intentions, inscrutable thoughts, and—at least within the bounds of the playable space—immense, unassailable power. Like any god, you need not supply scientific proof of their presence; you merely have to attribute sufficient existing phenomena to them, and change people’s collective perception of the world. Ooh, got’em.

See, battle royale games represent an important shift to me. I’m a competitive person by nature. It’s etched into my mind, irreversibly chiseled by years of test scores and parental praise and all the other ego-stroking bullshit that you were subjected to if you were a certain kind of ‘gifted’ child. “You’re the best. You should be the best. You should be winning. Why aren’t you winning, what the heck is wrong with you?” So it bleeds over, into hobbies, work, and of course, online shooters, in which I regularly demonstrate that I have an innate… whatever the opposite of aptitude is. I react slowly, I zone out, I bean myself on the head with my own grenades, and if you exert the slightest bit of pressure, I’ll empty half the magazine into a wall and drop my weapon through a gap in the floorboards. I’m not good, and yet some unreachable, fundamental part of my conscious will never be satisfied with that knowledge.

You would think, then, that Pubby-G would only serve to exacerbate this mindset. And yet, in a world of delicately tuned esports that are built from the ground up to be pure, unfiltered tests of skill, it feels like the only game to grant a genuine absolution of responsibility; a kind of freeing fatalism. There’s a sense in a lot of classic multiplayer experiences—like, say, Counter-Strike—that every outcome is more or less deterministic; a product of a series of controlled variables and actions. With every failure comes the overwhelming impression that it could have been averted, given enough competence, foresight, and concentrated guarana. By contrast, a porridgey cocktail of chaos flows through the veins of battle royales, surrounding you with factors that are not only impossible to influence, but—in many cases—impossible to know at all. You are swept up by the gusts of a hundred butterflies’ wings, tossed to and fro by the whims of the random number generator, bombarded with unavoidable risks and squeezed into unmanageable situations. It’s easier to go with the flow, accept that at any given moment you may have your head unceremoniously taken off—by somebody lying flat on a distant hill, or hiding behind one of the game’s ten thousand trees, or concealed in a shrub on the far side of the Moon—and concentrate on all the minute actions you can make to ever-so-slightly nudge the odds in your favour.

But it’s not always clear that this is the reality of Puhburger. With its vast scale and often languid pacing, encounters can feel like isolated incidents, detached from the cascading series of events that led up to them, despite being anything but. Anyone can parse the map for circles of safety and non-safety, and understand that their arbitrary placement gives certain players an advantage; it’s less apparent that the figure in that upstairs window might have had their sights trained on the area, or seen you first, shot first, picked up a better weapon, obtained a better vantage point, or some other action, because of a dizzying permutation of astral alignments that neither of you could even begin to grasp. So we get futile attempts to establish a level playing field, find meaning in accomplishment, divine fair elements from unfair, and generally make things needlessly stressful for everybody involved. Except the infuriatingly smug yours truly, of course.

How do you make that clear, though? How do you concisely impress upon people that their fate is almost entirely out of their hands, in such a way that they adopt an attitude of acceptance? Blaming the roll of the dice doesn’t come to mind as swiftly when you never see them rattling around, nor the way their innumerable ripples propagate across the map. Furthermore, as current events have taught us all too well, it’s a lot easier to ascribe fault to individuals than to an invisible, fundamentally hostile system. So what do you do?

You give the system a name. And, if you can, a face.

Allow me to momentarily slam us into reverse. When Valve released Left 4 Dead way back in 2008 (oh god, it’s going to be ten years old this year?) they made quite a song and dance about the game’s AI Director; an invisible, unknowable entity that would dynamically dole out items and zombies in a manner consistent with the tenets of dramatic tension, ensuring players were subjected to a “fast-paced, but not overwhelming, Hollywood horror movie”. While the opacity of the AI Director’s machinations always made me a tad sceptical of its mechanical effectiveness, giving people a name to pin the blame for all their earthly woes on was a masterstroke. Notorious video game jokesman Yahtzee Croshaw—the one with the hat and that trendy 00s cynicism, remember?—reported that he once witnessed someone praying to the AI Director, and I bet you all the pipe bombs in the world that players’ personification of it didn’t stop there. Short of making a catastrophic error, I never saw anyone get chewed out for not pulling their weight, and when tones got heated—as they inevitably do, when you’re throwing yourself against the frigid slopes of the higher difficulties—they were directed in the vague direction of the director: for its expectations, for its lack of pity, for being unfair. Awareness of our lurking orchestrator changed our perception of the experience, even though we couldn’t entirely prove it wasn’t just somebody sitting in a black box, disinterestedly flipping a coin over and over.

So, why not do the same for a game that does? Put a face on the system that holds a fundamental grip on who lives and who dies. You don’t need to change a thing under the hood; you need only introduce the vague implication that the evolving state of the battlefield is a consequence of a thinking, feeling, mysterious overseer. A bloodthirsty oligarch watching from their lavish observation zeppelin, a dystopian TV network broadcasting a deadly future sport, an amoral team of government agents sealed away in a bunker control room, an inexplicably sapient Shiba playing with a selection of levers, or indeed, a literal deity. People will take the faintest contextual cues and run amok with them, ascribing everything they can to the will of the one who set this conflict in motion: item drops, circle position, all the way down to the subtle spread of their bullets as they sail through the air. Yeah, maybe it’ll start off as a running joke; an ironic indulgence, the “thanks Obama” of Puddlebounds. But that’s the thing about ironic behaviour: get enough people doing it at once, and you’ll cultivate sincere participants without even realising it. We will learn to absolve ourselves of responsibility, and engage in the unhinged pandemonium of battle royale with the mentality that befits it.

There’s just one problem: you need to be able to keep a secret.

I’m still working on that part.

[theboredtanuki]

Writing practice #1: Starbucks promote

*Author's not : So this was supposed to be a short AU thing to help get me back into the writing mood but it turned out longer than I expected. I even started writing an alternate version but I don't know if I'll post that one. Anyway, this is a simple love at first sight story. Enjoy.

*******************************************

Title: Something Interesting.

"We are truly sorry for the inconvenience. Please have a nice day. " As he watched yet another disappointed costumer storm out into the crisp morning light, Yoichi's strained business smile finally twitched. "tch...fucking idiot." he whispered harshly under his breath. 'What is wrong with people these days!?' The whole unicorn frappachino debauchery had been the bane of his existence for the past few weeks. The stupid trend had died months ago yet there were still a few doltish Instagram wannabes who kept crawling back asking for a goddamned unicorn frappachino and the worst part was that he got yelled at when he told them they didn't make the damn things anymore. Why!? He didn't know how to make them, he never even liked them! Honestly, he was so close to yelling back and calling them out on their bullshit, but he wasn't ready to get fired over some silly costumer's antics. Going job hunting again would just be one big hassle plus it would be difficult to find another manager who was understanding enough to let him wear a light dusting of makeup on a workday.

He heaved an exasperated sigh and ran a hand through his dark, slightly waved hair that fell just past his shoulders. Damn, it was still morning but he already felt like punching someone in the eye. "You hanging in there, Chi? " Like a dull butter knife hacking through his slightly murderous thoughts, Eugenie's flat toned voice rang out as she worked the espresso machine behind him. There might have been a hint of concern in there somewhere, he wasn't sure. One never knew when it came to his small bestie. "Haa... sometimes I wish internet trends could just burn in hell." " 'nother unicorn frappa order? " "It's the 10th one this week and it's just Tuesday! Whatever happened to regular plain coffee!?" "Don't let it bother you, sweets. Just blame the internet like everyone else does." "Tch... I hope they trip on a fidget spinner and break their IPhone. " He heard a chuckle for his tiny friend. 'Oh...she laughed. There might be a blue moon tonight or something.' It was very rear to get away sort of reaction from Genie (emotional or otherwise), so much so that he and most of their other close friends used her sparse emotional responses as either a forecast for natural disasters, a luck/love horoscope or a sign of the second coming of Christ. Whichever one it was, she never seemed to mind. It was all in good fun anyway. "Well, 'nough about the internet," her voice returned to its original stoic tune, not even hinting at her brief moment of amusement, "You need to cheer up. You promised to help me with my new piece after work. Can't have my pretty model being all pissy now, can I? "

He smiled. "Still won't give up on calling me 'pretty', will you." "Nah. " "Even if I offered to clean your house for a week? " "Oh, please. Both of us know you can't clean worth shit. " "Haha... Yeah, you're right. " And just like that, he was laughing again. Like whole ordeal with the customer never happened. It was amazing how she could cheer him up without even trying. It might be some weird superpower or something but nevertheless, he was lucky to have her as a friend. "Hey... Thanks, Gee." She glanced over her shoulder at him with the same blank look but her calm blue eyes had a gentle sparkle that somehow conveyed her appreciation. "Any time, babe." With that, she scurried off to deliver the espresso order, leaving Yoichi to face his counter once again. He took a deep calming breath and was ready to give the day another try. Eugenie was right. He didn't have to time to get so worked up over a few dense costumers. Who knows, maybe something interesting might take his mind off the whole incident. Just as that thought crossed his mind, a dull thud drew his attention to the front entrance as a tall man made his way in with a hand lightly rubbing his forehead. 'Wow, that hair... Wait, did he just walk into the glass door...? ' Yoichi quickly covered up his upcoming giggle with a discreet cough but he didn't miss the open chuckles of the few patrons in the cafe who witnessed what happened.

'Poor guy ' He began to observe the slightly disoriented young man. He looked to the first thing that had caught his attention, the man's hair. At first he thought it was a normal dark colour but when it caught the light of the sun, he realised that it was dyed dark purple colour that faded into navy blue at the tips. It was also very VERY long. It ran past the man's firm looking rear and was pulled back into a single braid with a cute little red bow at the end. It was rare to see guys who kept hair like that. It was almost...whimsical in fact. He took note of the man's pale green eyes darting from the menu above the counter to the white floor tiles, desperately trying to avoid any eye contact after his embarrassing entrance. He also took note of his height. He was a tall guy, about 6"2 from Yoichi's estimate, with a somewhat muscular frame that was draped in a casual shirt, light sweater and jeans. He had an overall gentle disposition despite his current state of nervousness of which Yoichi began to find oddly adorable in a way. He didn't usually make it a habit of checking out the odd male costumer who came in and out of the cafe but this guy was different. Just seeing him filled Yoichi with this strange urge. An urge to tease him relentlessly until he was too embarrassed to function. It seemed like a perfectly normal feeling to have. Almost.

"Welcome" to Starbucks, sir. How may I help? " The guy almost jumped through the roof at the sound of Yoichi's voice, as if he hadn't realised he had just walked up to the counter. Yoichi began to have a hard time keeping his business smile from turning into a full on grin. The guy was way too cute. "Oh! umm... I-I'm sorry. I would like a C-cascara Coconut milk Latte. P-please... " Yoichi never thought he'd hear the voice of an angel until today. Despite his constant nervous stuttering, his voice had this odd placidity to it, as if it belonged to some lake fairy or something. He wouldn't mind listening to him talk a bit more. "Okay, and what size will it be? " "Umm... a-uh - what are the sizes again?... Ah, yes! Grande, please." He looked quite proud that he could remember those silly size names and honestly, it was hard not to feel proud of him as well. Not when he had that small triumphant smile on his face. "And your name, sir? " "Oh... Akito. " 'Akito...' Yoichi committed it to memory. He wouldn't forget that name. He didn't want to for some reason. "OK, sir. Your order will be out shortly. " "Alright. Thank you very much. "

The nervous tension seemed to ease off Akito. His face relaxed into an easy smile and Yoichi thought he had lost his heart for a moment. 'Not fair. That smile is just not fair ' Yoichi reluctantly pulled himself away and began making the latte. He stole a few glances at him every few seconds. They had made eye contact a few times, he was sure of it. He watched him fiddle with his phone in an attempt to be discreet. 'Hehe... such a cutie. ' "Cute one, eh. " Eugenie came up beside him to make another costumer's order, "you going for it? " "You think I should? " "He's not the usual spot on your radar but, " she glanced back to give Akito a quick once over, "he seems harmless enough. " He smiled and gave his petite friend a small playful nudge. "I don't need your approval, short stack." She nudged him back. "You never ask for my approval. That's why you've had such shit exs." "Hey now. They weren't all that bad. " Nope, they were. But he wasn't planning to admit he had shit taste in guys. Genie sighed and shook her head like a disappointed mother. "Just go before someone else picks him up. " She was right. Most of the store's patrons had gotten over Akito's not-so-graceful entrance and were now throwing curious glances his way, some were openly starring at him. One brave soul even took a quick picture. And from his sudden stiff posture, Akito noticed them as well . 'Ha, don't even think about it. You leeches.'

He was about to put the finishing touches on the latte but stopped. Why was he suddenly interested in this guy? Akito wasn't even his type. He usually went for the stereotypical bad boy and this guy gave off more of a big puppy vibe but there was just something oddly interesting about him. This was the first time he picked a partner on the basis of being "oddly interesting" but since he hadn't dated anyone in almost 8 months, maybe "interesting" was what he needed. With his mind made up, he finished the order and called out for Akito to pick it up. He looked up at him as he made his way to the counter, making sure to keep eye contact. He dropped his stiff business smile and went for something more friendly albeit a tad bit flirtatious and lastly he made sure their fingers brushed against each other as he handed over the drink. "Have a nice day, sir" "I-um... T-thank you." Yoichi didn't miss the bit of red that creped up on Akito's cheeks as he turned to leave, stumbling a bit with the door on his way out. Yep. Interesting was definitely what he needed. **********************************************

And that's it. I hope you enjoyed that. Some feedback would be nice. Thank you.

[ice-daddy-vitya]

“And when I looked in his eyes, I swore I saw the stars...”

Viktor Nikiforov swore that there were moments where he’d become so lost in Yuuri’s gaze, that he wouldn’t even notice the passing of time. There were days where all he wanted to do was just stare at the beautiful man beside him. Whenever he’d become lost in Yuuri’s eyes, Viktor found it impossible to look away. And he never wanted to.  He took notice to the way Yuuri’s eyes always reflected how he was feeling; even if the other didn’t openly vocalize it. For example, the way Yuuri’s eyes always sparkled whenever he was lost in deep thought. The way they became like distant and deep pools whenever Yuuri felt anxious or sad. Or, god, the way they lit up like stars whenever Yuuri smiled, or laughed. Especially when discussing a topic Yuuri loved... they would always become smaller, brighter, so full of expression and emotion, with cute wrinkles at the corners whenever Yuuri would laugh particularly hard. Viktor always knew, without Yuuri having to speak, what he was feeling. To Viktor, Yuuri had the most beautiful eyes in the world. And that’s why, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how they’d reached this point of their conversation.  “I wish my eyes were as beautiful as yours, Vitya...” 

Viktor glanced down to his fiancé, who was looking at samples of Viktor’s new promotional posters for his return to figure skating. They were all spread out on the coffee table, and Viktor and Yuuri (well, mostly Yuuri...) had been discussing how well the photos had come out. Viktor had gone to the kitchen for a moment to grab them some glasses of water, and had just stepped back into the living room, about to sit back down, when Yuuri made the surprising comment.  “What are you talking about, Zolotse? Your eyes are gorgeous...” Viktor commented as he sat, handing a glass of water to Yuuri and looking at him with a questioning gaze. “Who on Earth told you otherwise?”  Yuuri simply shrugged, shaking his head in reply as he drank from the glass. “No one, really. I just... My eyes are nothing special. They’re brown, boring, average.” (’... Like the rest of me...’ Yuuri was tempted to add, but he wasn’t in the mood to have that argument with Viktor, especially since they’d had it so many times before.) “They aren’t like yours, Vitya. Your eyes are this beautiful shade of blue. And, like everything else about you, they’re perfect.”  Viktor quickly spoke to interject. “Firstly, we both know I’m far from perfect. Secondly, my eyes are blue, which is perhaps the most overrated color for eyes in all of existence.” He chuckled a bit at that, rolling said blue eyes before leaning in and placing a gentle hand to cup Yuuri’s face. His thumb gently traced soft lines back and forth along Yuuri’s cheek, and he stared into those same “boring” brown eyes, finding himself lost in them almost immediately.  “You, lyubov moye, are the farthest thing from boring or average. Every single time I stare into your eyes, I swear I see the stars... There are galaxies in your gaze, Yuuri. Beautiful and endless, and I want to explore every single corner, every sun and moon and planet. Knowing that these eyes chose to find me, Yuuri, that they chose to only look at me...” Viktor paused, letting out a deep sigh before he continued speaking. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together in a gentle touch, his voice growing quiet in a near whisper.  “Yuuri, you have no idea how blessed I feel that of all the people on this planet, you chose me to live within your universe... ”  Speechless and a tad embarassed, Yuuri’s lips curled into a soft smile. It was very much like Viktor to be so ridiculously romantic, even when Yuuri had been almost certain for most of his life that there was nothing extraordinary about him. But Viktor was always so adamant on making sure Yuuri knew otherwise, and for that, Yuuri was ever grateful.  Choosing not to use his words at the moment (because he was a bit flustered and didn’t trust himself to speak) Yuuri’s gaze instead shifted to stare at Viktor. Half lidded eyes gazed out with nothing but love and admiration into the very same galaxies he saw in Viktor’s eyes. It was then that Yuuri understood; the love that was reflected in the way Viktor looked at him, must be the very same love Viktor felt when Yuuri’s own eyes focused on Viktor. And that love shared between them was the most beautiful thing Yuuri had ever experienced in all of his life.  Viktor, glad that Yuuri finally got the point, decided to punctuate his statement with a very soft, very chaste kiss; lingering for only a brief moment before pulling away. His hand moved to lace their fingers together, holding Yuuri’s hand tenderly.  The silence was only broken when Yuuri let out a small laugh, which startled Viktor and caused him to look at his fiancé questioningly. “What is it?” He asked, watching as Yuuri’s attention returned to the posters on the coffee table.  “It’s nothing.” Yuuri smiled and shook his head. “I just... I was going to ask if I could keep these samples. They really are beautiful photos of you, Vitya.” (And, of course, Yuuri wanted to appease his childhood fanboy by adding more posters to his collection.) Viktor simply laughed in reply, before nodding a bit. “Of course, my love. You can have them. Besides, I have yours saved with the rest of my collection, too.” He added with a small wink, causing Yuuri to blush and his eyes to widen. Yuuri knew Viktor had his own collection of merch that had been building up over the past year, but a big part of him had been trying to play into denial of its existence. He parted his lips as if he was about to protest - but, remembering the conversation they’d literally just finished having, he laughed instead. It was then that Yuuri also decided to act, feeling a temporary rush of confidence, and  a surge of affection for his fiancé. He closed the distance between them once more, but, unlike VIktor, he didn’t keep the kiss light or chaste this time.

Safe to say, Yuuri never again thought of his eyes as boring or average again after that night. 

[bussanbaby]

Hurricane heart

It’s the small things that speak of love.

And some days are just worse than others.

Magnus’ sunlit Friday makes his heart feel like a hurricane. It begins early with a call tearing him out of sleep about a warlock child falling unexplainably ill and a rushed home visit, a mother’s grief and fiery assurances that it’s going to be okay, don’t cry please, he’s still here for you to love.

 A slew of clients next – the next one more late and even more fussy and demanding than the last one, all Magnus do this and that and dance as I tell unless I won’t pay. Not that Magnus necessarily needs the money, he’d be fine without it, but it’s about something more than that, payment for services rendered, an act of assistance, two people respecting each other; all because he wants to do something to help the world. The smile surrounded by his goatee is a fake one, all business-like, stretched thin like a guitar string waiting to snap, a dare and a warning all at once, a do not push me too far.

Hours tick by like sand slipping through fingers, quick and fleeting and the warm sun turns into a gloomy, unpleasant evening. There’s thunder angrily stomping around outside the loft windows and the usually welcome pitter-patter of rain is now grating on Magnus’ nerves. The same goes for the ticking of his ancient and probably priceless Grandfather clock a room over. It’s the rhythmic nature of it that makes it feel like a presence hanging over his shoulder and quietly judging his handiwork.

 Magnus prides himself on making his loft feel as homely as possible, a haven, an oasis for any kind of person, especially himself, but today it’s cold and hollowed out. He almost expects an echo to answer his sigh. The light is either too dark or too bright, his table too low, his clutter too present, each thing pushing into Magnus’ peripheral vision, unwanted thoughts like guests extending their stay for the third time.

 His back hurts from sitting hunched over his living room table while he works away on a potion with a deadline for yesterday. His eyes are tired from translating fae manuscripts and reading the fine print on summoning contracts, there’s a stress headache budding right behind the front of his skull and everybody wants something, right here, right now.

 Magnus, help me talk to this demon!

Magnus, make me a potion to forget my lost lover!

Magnus, do this and do that and don’t even expect a thank you, because why would that be necessary!

 He’s tired. He’s so, so tired and he hates the claws of exhaustion, both mental and physical, prickling at his skin. Usually, a day like this is something he handles fine, but he woke up off-kilter, like a boat tilted sideways until it finally sinks. Magnus feels like Titanic already split in half.

 He grits his teeth, even when he knows he shouldn’t, the muscle in his jaw jumping without his control, waits for the potion to turn from yellow to a light blue after the last ingredient is in. When it doesn’t, it’s the literal last drop that makes the cup of his frustration run over. His anger is ice-cold and menacingly quiet, it burns him from inside-out.  

 Magic stretches his veins, swelling alongside Magnus’ annoyance until it bubbles up in his throat as a growl. He stands abruptly from the couch and the furniture shudders, an earthquake in the form of a person making it jump. Orange and red sparks drip from the tips of Magnus’ fingers, falling onto the carpet to leave little scorched dots behind.

 All of the books stacked by the side fly and smash against the wall with a deafening thud and some of the pages tear free, now falling like leaves and Magnus just stands, breathing heavy with fists clenched and the last thing before the lights overhead flicker is the sound of a door opening and combat-boot clad footsteps rushing against the carpets.

 Magnus was so caught up in everything that he didn’t notice the tremor in his wards indicating a guest, but with only certain people allowed in, it’s easy to guess the tall figure halting their steps with an arm halfway to a Seraph blade and a strange kind of grace.

 Alec hangs on to the doorjamb with his hands, clearly expecting enemies, but seeing only Magnus in the middle of a mess. His face shifts from wariness to confusion and then melts into vague understanding as he takes everything in. Magnus watches his lips part around nonexistent words, before he squints, one-eyed and inquisitive.

 “I wanted to see you, but it seems like a bad time…” He explains, but instead of leaving, approaches Magnus, eyes searching and hands reaching up to rest on broad shoulders. A simple touch is enough to pull the cork on the overflowing bathtub and Magnus’ rigid posture falls, fingers unclench, he breathes.

“No, no, it’s just-“  Magnus just shakes his head, the simple motion making his headache twice as difficult.

 “Bad day?” A crooked little smile shows up on Alec’s mouth, Magnus’ personal favourite. A wry thing, not oblivious, but very familiar with the feeling of the dam breaking.

 “Very bad day.” He agrees and sighs deeply from the bottom of his chest, before wrapping his arms loosely around Alec’s waist. There’s that familiar, faint scent of a leather and a cologne he could recognize in miliseconds.

 “Wanna talk about it?” It’s a sweet thing to ask, very Alec-like, honest in its attentiveness, and this time it’s Magnus’ turn to smile, a private thing, there and gone. He shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to worry Alec, but they promised to be open and upfront about their troubles, so in the end, he complies.

 “Not now, later perhaps.”

 Warm fingers move up his neck, eight digits pressed into his spine and thumbs at the hinges of his jaw.

 “It’s like you’re actively trying to grind your teeth into dust.”

 A lilt of laughter colors Alec’s voice as he works away at the pain in small circles and after the moment it feels a little bit better already. Magnus closes his eyes and focuses his attention on the heavy weight of Alec’s gaze on him, the proximity of his body, the warmth radiating through a thin shirt into his fingertips. 

He imagines a calm ocean, waves spilling playfully over each other and his magic settles – fills his chest and spills into his abdomen, unbridled energy willing to settle down when kindly asked.

 That’s the funny thing – Magnus’ magic is such an intrinsic part of his soul and his sole existence that it sometimes feels like it has a mind of its own. He notices it always wakes up at the slightest touch of Alec’s fingers, whether it’s them skimming the top of his palm in passing or a deep embrace where they press into skin and muscle. It sings in his heart, happy just as he is with the love of his life.

 They stand there for a while, Alec massaging all the knotted and tense muscles he can reach without breaking away and Magnus just enjoying the attention, the feeling of loneliness dissipating after the whole day spent around people. When Alec speaks again, voice a tad bit hoarse and even more pleasant, Magnus tugs him closer, presses their bodies against each other until they feel like one. Those long, spindly fingers move from his neck to his hair, scratch along the shaved sides and brush through the strands standing straight up, before dancing across his face – soft touches along his browbones, following the slope of his nose and dipping into the shape of his Cupid’s bow to rest against the corners of his mouth.

 “I don’t know if you know him, but there’s this guy that I’m dating, yeah? He’s tall, buff as hell, and gives great advice. He told me once to step back from work and just breathe every now and again. Find a new perspective. Maybe you should listen to him.”

 Magnus smiles again and this time the smile sticks, not a bomb about to go off but a fireplace with the flames crackling like a song. This Alec is one of his favourites, chocolate with a sprinkle of pepper – playful and caring and casual with a side of flirty, leaning his body against Magnus, arms resting on his shoulders and hands clasped where he can’t see them.

 Magnus remembers that it’s his turn to say something.

 “I don’t recognize him, but it sounds like you really like him.”

 “Oh, I love him, actually. And that’s why I think he should take a five minute break from this, whatever this is.” Alec says, punctuating the last part of his sentence with a jut of his chin towards the bubbling glass on the table and a flurry of papers on the ground.

 A break it is, then.

 Arms wrapped around bodies, knees knocking together, they stand in an embrace. It’s honestly all Magnus wants right now, as he presses his forehead against Alec’s rain-damp skin, feels a breath skim across his lips and something hums in his chest. He’s content to stay like this for a hundred and one years, because this kind of tenderness is a step away from painful.

 It did not come easy for them; months ago, there was resentment and guilt and the sentiment of impossibility. But then, a touch of hands and the world turned upside down. And they’re still here with their own private gravity; the moon and the stars could be sold and the sun could burn out and Magnus would pick a quiet offer of getting takeout and watching something light-hearted over any gemstone or treasure.

 Clients want and his people need and Shadowhunters demand, but it doesn’t matter. Because he has Alec too. Alec, who comes to see him, because there’s an empty space behind his ribs and because there’s a mouth he wants to kiss into the deep darkness of the night and there’s books to be read side by side and songs to be danced to and skin to be touched. Because there’s no hidden motive.

 They part with a mutual sigh and while Alec reaches for his phone to order food, Magnus snaps his fingers – the mess disappears, at least for a while until he has to deal with it, but for now the hurricane is calm.