#imagine if its like an old bastard name like snow in got but for space... HELP

[prncefinn]

the set up for a rey solo pun reveal... I'm still mad about it

[shirewalker]

Be My Valentine - A Nikolina Fic

Nikolina Appreciation Week 2020 ♛ [Day 1: Valentine’s Day]

Summary: Alina finds her old friend, and secret crush, Nikolai at a romantic getaway she should have taken with her ex. Nikolai wastes no time in making her feel better. And reawakening certain... feelings.

Pairing: Alina/Nikolai

One-shot

Rating: Teen

Also on AO3

Be My Valentine

Well, this was officially the worst Valentine’s Day in all of the recorded history. At least, as far as Alina was concerned.

She stabbed the heart shaped waffle and fought back yet another onslaught of tears, wondering why the hell she’d still come to this place when the reason to come in the first place was no more.

“Bastard!” She hissed at no one, remembering with some satisfaction the look of shock in Mal’s face when she’d thrown the dirty mop water at his face just a few hours before coming here. “Served him right.”

“Whoever it was, to earn that look on your face…” A voice spoke from above, followed by a whistle, both of which Alina recognized in a blink.

She looked up, mouth parted in a wide O.

A smile. One she knew oh so well. “I know I wouldn’t want to be the object of your anger, sunshine.”

“Nikolai…!” She gasped. The next moment her chair was on the floor and her arms were winding tight around his neck. Nikolai. Her best friend. Her secret crush. Well… former. Former best friend. Former secret crush. Who knew what he thought of her now?

Scolding herself for her hasty reaction, Alina let him go and awkwardly picked up her chair. She looked everywhere but Nikolai, not wanting to see the look on his face. Sure, he’d smiled. But…

“Do I have a huge, disgusting pimple on my face?” He asked, humour lacing his words.

She frowned and shook her head, “What? No!”

“Then why are you so diligent in not looking at me, sunshine?” His voice softened, “I missed you.”

She pressed her eyes shut and half-shrugged, half-nodded, “I missed you too, Nikolai.”

He touched her cheek briefly, forcing her to finally open her eyes and face the music. Saints, his eyes were still that shocking storm of green and caramels. Hazel wasn’t enough to describe them. No. They were magnificent and calling them just hazel was downright rude.

And that smile… It still took her breath away. “So,” He started, a corner of his mouth tilting up, “How have you been? And why are you in this romantic getaway but all alone?”

Alina slumped into her chair with a sigh, “Because I wasn’t going to waste a perfectly good trip. One I paid in full.”

Nikolai sat in front of her. He laced his fingers under his chin and arched an inquiring eyebrow, “And why would it be wasted…?”

She swallowed down the bile and anger that bubbled up with that question. Then, remembering she was in the restaurant of the inn – a public place – she hissed, “I wanted to have a romantic Valentine’s getaway with Mal, so I got this to surprise him. Funny thing, he had a surprise for me too. And not a good one.” She stabbed her waffle again and wished for blini all of a sudden. “Imagine my utter surprise and disgust when I go to his workplace to show him the tickets and find his face stuffed between his co-worker’s legs. Oh, and she was calling him all sorts of dirty names and asking him to do all those things he did so well. So, not a one-time thing. Not that there would be any reasonable explanation for him to have his face between her legs!” The waffle flew out of her plate, startling Alina back into reality.

She looked up to Nikolai, expecting anything but the mix of revolt, anger and pity in his eyes. No, not pity. More like… Like he wished he could have spared her this.

Nikolai picked up the ruined waffle and waved in a waiter. He ordered them a plate of blini and hot chocolate. Then he looked back at Alina and sighed, his jaw tense. “I’m so sorry, Alina. No one deserves that, especially you.” He grabbed a napkin and started to press it into shapes, “I knew he wasn’t worthy of you, always so angry at your spending time with friends… Always so… So possessive of your decisions. But you loved him. And you were so happy to find him again after so long.” He sighed and curled and uncurled his fists, “But I never expected him to hurt you like this. Saints… I want to cave his face in.”

Alina blinked at the casual way he’d uttered such a violent suggestion. But she found she didn’t mind the idea. Not at all.

She drank some water and flashed a watery smile, “I know. I guess I was… Blind.” She shook her head. She certainly had been blind. And scared. Oh, what a coward. Instead of acting up on her budding feelings for Nikolai, she’d ran back into Mal’s arms just because he’d said he’d always loved her. Hah! What a lie. And how easily she’d fallen into it.

“Don’t blame yourself, sunshine. You’d always wondered what could have been.” He paused while their food was settled, only speaking again when the waiter was gone. “So, I take it you came here out of anger. Not wanting to throw away the cash?”

“I hoped I could forget all about it. About him, about the time I wasted with him…” She took a bite out of her blini and groaned, “But this place is stuffed with happy couples. It’s a bit hard to pretend otherwise. I can’t even…” She held her tongue, face growing hot with embarrassment.

But Nikolai wasn’t about to let it go, “Can’t what?”

She mumbled her reply into her mug.

Nikolai leaned in, hazel eyes shining with mirth, “Say that again?”

There was no point in denying it. He knew she’d said something juicy and wasn’t going to let go. She sighed and uttered the words, “Can’t even hook up to get back at him.”

Nikolai chuckled, “Because… couples?”

“Yes.”

“Well, would it be your only reason for hooking up with someone?” He asked, as casual as asking about the weather.

Alina shrugged, “Well, it was my first reason. But I guess I want to feel… Free again. Put it behind me. Feel good. He wasn’t… Well, let’s say that co-worker was definitely playing his ego.”

Nikolai snorted. He needed thirty seconds before composing himself and flashing the most mischievous grin he had, “Oh sunshine. Don’t ever change.”

--

They spent the next few hours catching up, a mix of regret and relief flooding Alina’s mind as she realised she’d missed Nikolai far more than she had thought. How had they drifted apart so easily?

Had she been so in love with the idea of being with Mal that she’d forgotten herself?

“Mum hates it, of course.” Nikolai chuckled, his hazel eyes like embers in the firelight, “She thinks I’m a fool for avoiding those balls. As if attending parties will help me become the heir she needs.” He shook his head and put away an empty glass.

“She seems to be under the impression you’re royalty, huh?” Alina joked, watching the way Nikolai’s lips stretched onto a grin he’d always reserved only for her. Saints, it sent her stomach into a series of backflips.

“You know her. So, what about you? How’s the florist shop going?”

She bit her lip and shrugged, “Not going.”

In an instant, Nikolai’s good humour slipped away, “What do you mean? I thought the shop was as good as yours.”

“The bank didn’t approve the credit and the seller got a better offer.”

Nikolai was silent for a long moment. Then, “And I wasn’t there…” It was more of a mumble to himself, she was sure of it, but she had still heard it.

“It’s fine. There’ll be another chance.” She said, trying to dispel that look of guilt that clouded Nikolai’s eyes.

“But you loved that place. I shouldn’t have been a gentleman. I should have insisted of helping you get it.”

“Then it wouldn’t be my hard won prize.” She countered, just like she had so many times before.

Nikolai chuckled, “I know. That’s why I always respected your decision. Still…”

“Don’t worry, Nikolai. It’s not like I don’t work with flowers. I just do it from my home.” A website, personalized orders and a living room always looking like a greenhouse. Well, considering Mal was out of the picture now, Alina could easily shift things around and have more space for her work.

“You shouldn’t.” He said. Then, in a flash, he was up, and offered a hand, “How about we keep business discussions to another time?”

She eyed the hand with curiosity, “Sure. What does that have to do with your hand hanging in front of my face?”

His wink overflowed with mischief, “They’re playing music over there, come on. Let’s dance.”

Dancing? With Nikolai? A sure way to fall back into that crush of hers. It was a terrible idea. Yet Alina’s hand still found its way to his own hand, and she found herself being led to a small dance floor, where Nikolai didn’t waste a second to sweep her off her feet.

Maybe there was still hope for Valentine’s Day.

--

“Well, that was exciting.” Nikolai fake-whispered as he led her to her room. “We should do it again tomorrow.”

Alina bit her lip, keeping a bubble of laughter out of the darkened corridor, “We covered the entry with snow, Nikolai! We can’t do it again without risking getting kicked out.”

“But making snow angels at midnight is so fun!”

“If you’re the one covering the other person with snow.” She bit back, though her bite was harmless as she couldn’t keep a grin off her face.

“I had to chill you a bit, you were looking so flushed I worried for your health!”

And just on cue, Alina’s blush turned ten shades darker. “Shut up.” She hissed, hoping he didn’t notice how red her face was.

But Nikolai wouldn’t be Nikolai if his keen eye didn’t catch it.

He braced a hand on the door, right next to her head and leaned in until their noses almost touched, “Why? Am I… Closing in on something?”

His closeness was too much. It made her remember all sorts of feelings she had and didn’t act on. It made her heart skip several beats only to then race to catch them. It made her stomach flutter like a million butterflies had burst to life in there. It made her wonder if he’d follow her through the door threshold.

She scoffed, or tried to, and looked away, “Like what?”

A corner of his lips curled up, “Like how badly I want to kiss you.”

What?

Alina gaped like a fish at him, blinking fast and wondering if pinching herself would be too much at this moment. “Did you…?” She rasped, her heart beating faster than it could beat. It wasn’t natural to beat this fast. Surely she was going to faint any moment now.

Nikolai let out a breathy chuckle, his hot breath teasing her further into cardiac arrest. “I did, sunshine.” He reached up with his other hand to play with a lock of her hair, “I have been dying to kiss you for so long, I no longer remember when it started. I do remember when I realised it was too late to make any move, though…” He added with a softer, sadder tone. “He was back and you needed to know.”

Just like that, Alina’s stomach fell flat on the floor. She looked down, her violent blush freezing in a second. “You really know how to woo a girl, huh?”

“I’m just being honest, sunshine. I remember when you dumped a freshly made pie on my head after you found out who I really was. Never again.” He chuckled, “Plus, I love that look on your face when I give you nothing but honesty. Makes me want to… do things.”

And there she went again. Stomach fluttering, heart going wild, cheeks blazing.

“Are you stalling?”

He shook his head, the tip of his nose brushing hers for one aching second, “Just making sure I read the signs right.”

“Oh?” She uttered, realising she had a hand grasping the lapel of his coat, “What signs?”

He hummed and leaned down to brush a kiss on her throat, right where her heart was beating so loud, “That you are thinking of me and me alone. That you’re no longer looking for ways to get over… him.” He let out that last word with such venom and offense on her behalf, Alina found herself actually turned on.

“I… I really…” she cleared her throat and pulled him closer, “My head is full of you, Nikolai.” She winced, “That came out wrong…”

His laugher startled her for a moment, before his mouth was kissing her neck again, “Sunshine, you are… brilliant.”

She started to moan, the sound far too loud for a dark corridor in the middle of the night, “Nikolai… Please…”

His hum reverberated throughout her body, igniting her blood in a flash, “I want to take my time with you, Alina. My sunshine…” He looked up, pure adoration and longing in his eyes, “I want to enjoy every second we get together. All of it.”

“Me too.” She said in a breathy voice.

Nikolai leaned in and smiled against her neck, proceeding to slowly kiss every bit of skin he could kiss. He made a slow trek up her neck, along her jaw and down the other side of her neck, earning sweet moans out of Alina’s mouth to the point she was close to begging for his lips on hers.

The breaking point was so close, Alina’s legs were ready to give out on her.

And that’s when Nikolai cupped her face between his hands and offered her the most beautiful smile he had to offer her, “Saints, sunshine… I love you so much. Being apart was… too much. Too much…” And then… at last…

He kissed her.

And it was…

It was…

Far better than anything she’d ever dreamed of.

It was a kiss with magic. It was so…! The kind of kiss she was sure was what people meant with true love’s kiss in fairy tales. It made her fly. It made her glow. It made her so happy…!

And then, it was over far too soon. Despite the fact that her lips were swollen from kissing so hard. Despite the fact that her lungs had been burning for air. Despite the fact that she now knew every detail of Nikolai’s lips.

It was too short.

“Wait…” She started, only to be stopped by a quick peck on the lips.

“Tomorrow, sunshine. I… Trust me, I too want to kiss you until I can’t breathe, but… I want to take our time. And, well… Tomorrow…” He chuckled, “Or I suppose today in a few hours… We can continue this, yes?”

“I guess…” She let out, still holding onto his coat.

“Well,” Nikolai started, opening the door to her room with a drunk smile on his face, “Happy Valentine’s Day, sunshine. I look forward to making it a memorable one…” Then he kissed her again and was off to his room, leaving Alina behind and fashioning the stupidest grin on her face.

“Me too…” She let out with a sigh, slipping into her room with a thousand ideas of things to do with Nikolai.

This Valentine’s Day was officially the best in recorded history. And it was only beginning.

[waltwest]

The Freelancer

The following is the first thirteen pages of a short story I am writing titled “The Freelancer”. I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the unappealing formatting, this site does not have the most comprehensive text editor.

                                          I.

             Studying the Keurig machine, I wondered how many complacent people it took to ware the word “brew” off the button, leaving behind nothing more than a “b” and an “e”, which looked curiously like an “s”. I imagined this instant coffee machine as the alter in which lost souls came to pay tribute to each morning before assuming their monotonously drudging tasks; lips drawn, eyes downcast. These people were never happy, not even content. It certainly wasn’t a wish of theirs to be here. Men who dreamt of becoming accomplished composers became pencil pushers. Women who yearned to be animators had landed at secretary. The office is where you come to lay your ambition to rest. Maybe it is a lack of assertiveness in demeanor which lands one here, maybe it is the fate of mere circumstance.

           But I, Maxwell Goodman, knew what my job meant; I knew I worked among the dead. Luckily, there was a spark of life that incessantly flickered within me. With my ten ounce mug full before me, I reluctantly took my communion once again.

           Safely back within the confines of my particle board cubicle, the manila folders and stacks of paper demanding this or that seemed to never be satisfied.

           God, who knew lightbulbs could generate so much paperwork, I thought to myself.

           I sat in silence and regarded the congregation of slain trees covering my desk. My collar was sticking to my neck… Trying to strangle me, for God’s sake. My mouth was dry and coated with the thick taste of cheap coffee. My desktop stared into my eyes expectantly, patiently waiting for me to pound away on the keyboard like a good boy… Like I was supposed to. The bulbs may be bright, but they can’t sell themselves!  That’s what my boss Lonny loved to say. Lonny… God, how can someone be balding so terribly at thirty years old? Is it just bad genetics, or too much cortisol?

           I felt a hand clap on my shoulder. “Max-o! Lovely morning, isn’t it? Hey, in case you weren’t aware, Sweet Charade is having a bogo on donuts until the end of the week…”

           Speak of the devil.

           I swiveled my squeaky and unbalanced office chair to face my boss. “Gee, thanks for filling me in, Lonny. You know how much I love that maple-iced.” I responded, attempting to sound enthusiastic. Lonny was a nice guy, he really was. It’s really difficult to be rude to a guy like Lonny, with his premature baldness and all. You kind of had to feel sorry for him in a way, it was impossible to predict whether or not he was just one snide comment away from completely breaking down. He’s kind of unstable, emotionally. Also, his wife died last year. She fell off a cliff. No really, she did. Her and Lonny took a vacation to the Grand Canyon last August. Kept complaining about how bright the sun was and how she “couldn’t see a damn thing.” Next thing you know, she was trying to take a picture of a bird flying above and somehow managed to fall right off the edge of a cliff. Worst part is, she was eight months pregnant with their son, they were going to name him Clint... So yeah, all in all it’s pretty tough being rude to Lonny.

           “I know they’re your favorite, it’s why I told you. Oh, hey-“Lonny pulled his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bloated manila envelope”-think you could handle this for me? Just a little bit of inventory mumbo-jumbo. Nothing too serious!” He was really trying to exude a devastating level of charm, though the effort was ineffective.

           One side of the envelope was sagging down in the air under its own mind-numbing weight. I never thought an envelope could actually look depressed, it almost made me giggle. Grudgingly, I acquiesced and accepted the package with the lift of the eyebrows and a nod. I didn’t want to be mean, but I also didn’t want him to think I was thrilled about all the extra nonsense. Hell, he might’ve even pulled another folder out of his waistband or something if he got the idea I was happy about it. “Here, how about closing this deal for a thousand LED’s to the grocery store down the street as well…” No, I had enough paper, truly.

           Lonny gave me another hearty clap on the shoulder, his bulbous belly jiggling a bit from the force. Again, I had to prevent myself from giggling… I find myself doing that more frequently than I would care to admit. I get the urge to laugh at the worst times, always. “Thanks, Max. I know I can always count on you.” He confided with a smile of endearment. It was difficult to tell whether that was a positive thing or if this was going to come back and bite me in the ass. Probably the latter.

           Ole’ Lonny then gave a sly wink and swaggered off with the air of one who just successfully pawned off his work to an underling, because he could. What a bastard, I thought. He was an alright guy though, I suppose.

           After a formalized second trip to the alter, I submerged myself in the humming of the fluorescents above me and the ocean of paper before me. Seven more hours…

           At precisely 4:59pm, I slapped all of the folders shut and jabbed the power button on my computer with vehemence. My eyes burned like hell, my head was pounding from all of the caffeine, and my hands were all clammy. Very uncomfortable. God, I couldn’t help but to feel that it wasn’t worth it at the end of each day. I was constantly attacked by the bigger picture. What purpose was I serving? What kind of impact was I having on the world? I dwelled upon these questions often, but couldn’t stand beginning to think about the answers.

           After I ended my quick demoralizing contemplation, the sodden procession of rejects began to file out of the glass door. And with the exchanging of “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows,” my co-workers fell into their hybrid sedans and putted on down the road. Usually I am pulling into my apartment complex before anyone has even started their cars, but I felt like watching today. Sometimes I like to detach myself from situations and just observe.

          Like this one time, I was sitting on one of those couches that are situated in the walkway at the mall. You know, those areas where they have four couches are situated in a square all cozy and whatnot, just in case the going gets too rough. Anyway, I was sitting on one of those couches, just watching. I peered into a shoe store and beheld a child throwing a royal fit, really overdoing it. He was around tromping everywhere, steam spilling out of his ears and all. He was screeching about a pair of shoes he wanted but couldn’t have. They were these real hip joints, green canvas with blue laces. They were disgustingly ugly, if you want to know the truth. Knowing how these retail stores are, I bet they were like a billion bucks. “I want the shoes! I want the shoes!” He was yelling.

          “I can’t get you those… I can’t. I’m sorry, you know I would...”  His father replied weakly, trying his damnedest to not contribute to the mayhem. He looked sad as hell, embarrassed even. I couldn’t tell whether he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford the shoes, or because his son was being such an ass about it; I suppose it could’ve been a mixture of both.

          “Mommy would get them for me! Call Mommy! I want Mommy!” The kid was belligerent. Stompin’ his snow boots all around the store, trying to leave imprints in the god damn carpet. It was winter by the way, Christmas time.

          “Oh, you know I can’t do that… I’m sorry, I can’t afford the shoes son. Daddy can’t afford them right now.” He was really trying to be quiet and take control of his bratty offspring. Gosh, he looked so ashamed. I cannot stand ungrateful kids. The father ended up buying his son a cheaper pair of sneakers, to the stomping child’s dismay. I say he shouldn’t have bought him any shoes at all, the way he was acting.

          There was something disturbing and insightful about that encounter, though. If I had just been walking by and heard the kid hollering I would have thought he was acting like a bastard, and that would’ve been it. And he was acting like a bastard, don’t get me wrong. But it is intriguing how the layers of the family dynamic unravels, the more you just watch and listen. The divorced parents, the mother always outdoing the father in order to gain their son’s favor… I was able to see a man who didn’t really know what he was doing with his life, or how he’d even gotten there in the first place… He wasn’t in control, maybe he never was. Maybe he never will be. So yeah, I enjoy sitting back and observing sometimes, beats the hell out of boring conversation.

          Anyway, it was time for me to leave work. I grabbed my pointless little leather satchel and walked out the door. Outside, the air felt nice and fresh… I love the revitalizing effects of fresh air. It was especially neat that evening because there was also one of those breezes that whips really good every so often. It made me hungry. So, I decided I would grab some Chinese food on the way to my apartment. It’s on the way, and I have a huge thing for oriental food… especially lo mein noodles.

                                         II.

             Pint of greasy noodles clutched in hand, I stepped into the elevator of my building and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor. I have a fear of heights, so initially I was not too keen on the idea of living so high up. But the thing was, I was pretty down on my luck, I suppose you could even say I was vulnerable. I needed a place quickly and this building was convenient for me… As I said, once I realized the only space for rent was on the top floor, I became a little nervous. But, the woman whom I talked to about the whole thing convinced me that rent was actually cheaper on the top floor. So, despite my uneasiness with heights of any kind, I took the place thinking I was scoring some sort of exclusive insider deal. But, after a few months of residing there and conversing with my neighbors, I learned I was paying around $96 more a month than most people in the whole god damn building. Even the other tenants on my floor were paying less than me. Something about my apartment being a “colonial” this that and the other. I don’t know. I swear to God I’m too gullible sometimes. I still had a year left on my lease.

           Up, up, up the elevator went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, ding! Thirteen. The doors opened and I made my way down the hall. I will admit, the building itself was not too impressive. The ceilings had a few leaks, the walls were painted an awful yellow. Sometimes the air conditioner shut off randomly. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. Everything could always be worse, don’t ever forget that.

           Of course, my special “colonial” apartment was way at the end of the hallway, number 327. As I approached my rickety door, my eyes locked onto a lone piece of mail sticking out of the little metal mailbox. A quick pulse of endorphins spread throughout my brain. I love getting mail. I pulled the envelope out. It was from the Print Box publishing company! Panic, fear, and excitement rose within my chest all at once.

           I guess I forgot to tell you. I have longed to be an author for as long as I can remember. It is my dream, I guess you could say. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting published, or even acknowledged for that matter. I have written many different stories and have sent them to every publishing house imaginable. I’ve even sent short clips to shitty magazines hoping to get a bite, to no avail. The only responses I have gotten have been rejections. Most often they don’t even take the time to respond… Trust me, it’s not like I wanted to sell lightbulbs as a career, you should realize that by now.

           And while I had never received positive criticism or encouragement in the past, it was impossible to not feel hopeful when I got a letter back from a publisher. I believed that one day my luck would shift. It had to… Right?

           I hurried and shoved the key into the door, then shot straight to the couch to read what Print Box had to say. My noodles sat on the coffee table, untouched and getting slightly cold.

           I ended up sitting frozen for a couple of minutes, staring at the front of the envelope… As if the address lines were going to tell me that it was going to be okay, this time was different. Really, I was savoring the moment. I had a certain amount of measured confidence when it came to this letter. In my opinion, the story I sent to Print Box was amazing, one of my best yet. It was a story about an inter-galactic space traveler who ends up meeting God and finding out He’s not how everyone thinks He is. I promise it’s not as crumby as it sounds. It was good. You would just have to read it.

           Life seemed to be still around me; a foreboding, ominous stillness. Blood was rushing to my ears. My hands shaking ever so slightly, I ran my finger underneath the seal, and took out the prophecy within. Please, let this be it. Please.

           It read as follows:

           “Dear Mr. Goodman,

           We received your manuscript for ‘Creator’s Paradox’. After review, we are terribly sorry to inform you that we have decided not to publish your work. It is simply not a fit for us.

Best Wishes,

Print Box Publications”

           A cold knife sank deep into my chest. What? That’s it? The letter trembled in my hands. The excitement and hope fled my body entirely, and had been replaced by sorrow and confusion, even anger. How could this be? I should have known. I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Why would this time be any different? It was then that I thought maybe I should just give up. I am no good at this, I absolutely suck. That must be it… They say to chase your dreams, but what if you are just terrible? I had never felt such dread. Maybe I was meant to sell lightbulbs for a living…

           Unceremoniously I ripped the bad news in half and let it fall onto the table. Sinking back into the frayed cloth couch, I would have been completely okay with just disappearing in that moment, I felt deflated.

           After a shameful amount of sulking, I forced down the then limp noodles, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and slid out onto the balcony.

           The night was warm, but not unreasonably so. It was that time of year when you keep a jacket in the backseat of your car, because you can never be certain which way the thermometer will flow. But even though the night was cozy, I had a rain cloud hovering over my head. I was already beginning to accept my future. The cardboard cutout life I was going to surrender to. 401k’s, strategies to improve my credit score… That sort of thing.

           I sipped my beer and looked out upon the terrain before me, in the most reflective of moods. I had to admit, the view was pleasurable from up here. I lived in the boot heel of Indiana, by the way. An area of the world where it is commonplace for urban and rural landscapes to collide, battling for a prominent grip over the territory. Upon my perch, I could see and feel the city below me: the streetlamps, stoplights, cars honking at nothing in particular, the smell of gas and concrete which invaded the nostrils. But when I looked beyond the ring of cityscape, seemingly endless fields and  small hillocks rolled into the horizon, with a strip of highway interceding here and there. The occasional semi would be finding its way through the night, like a worm over soil. It was comforting in a way, made you feel like you could always just escape if you wanted to or needed to.

           I found and traced one semi making his way across the fields. He was at such a distance, I could only distinguish him by the studded lights that adorned his truck. He looked so lonely, plodding along out there, all by himself. I wondered, was he happy? Did he choose his life for himself? Or did he just throw in the towel, like I was having thoughts of doing… I suppose I would never find out. Not like I could pluck him off the road and ask him. Or her. I shouldn’t just assume they are a man. I wonder how much truck drivers make? I heard they bring in quite a bit of dough, actually… I pictured myself taking the reigns of my own eighteen-wheeler; soaking in the sights, getting into a bit of trouble at the various truck stops. It didn’t feel right, though. For a moment I felt my skin squirm.

           The fight of two alley cats below suddenly tore me out of my trance. I noticed I was rubbing my fingers together really hard, and all of a sudden the stench of garbage filled the air. It was all discomforting. I realized that this was the moment that was going to lay the foundation for the rest of my time on Earth. Will I push onward, and become who I want to be? Or do I choose the easy, less turbulent path, and adjust. We all stumble upon this fork in the road at some point throughout our lives. Although, unfortunately, most are blind to the path tucked behind the brush, the path we were each destined to take. We only see the wider, more trodden path of conformity.

           As I stood at the helm of my splitting path, I knew within my heart which route I was going to take. There was no question… I was going to part the foliage and venture into the canopied forest.

                                         III.

             The time was getting close to ten, but I had struck a vein of determination and inspiration. I was not going to simply shrug it off and go to sleep.

           Back and forth I paced around the cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. Television, resting upon an empty entertainment center. Plastic lamp situated in the corner. Generic cream carpeting. Bland, unextraordinary.

           I paced and paced, contemplatively gripping my chin.

           I knew I had to write something. But what should I write a story about? Gosh, I began to get nervous. In the early twentieth century, here was this Italian novelist named Cesare Pavese. There is a quote of his wherein he states, “the only joy in the world is to begin.” The only feeling I get when I begin something is anxiety and confusion… I can see where he is coming from though, I suppose. There is bound to be intrigue when diving into something new. And anxiety. Shit, where the hell did those Valium go?

           My pacing shifted its course to the bathroom. On the way I passed the boring ass photos that were framed in the four-foot-wide hallway, standing guard. A vase of flowers sitting on a patio table. A tire swing. It felt like the first time I had ever seen these pictures. So generic… So dumb. God, they made me want to puke. Why didn’t I take them down whenever I moved in? My blood pressure was rising. Fucking stock photos.

           I crashed into the bathroom and swung the mirror open. The ole’ medicine cabinet, baby. Where everyone goes when in need of a little chemical therapy. We’re all guilty…

           Sifting through prescriptions old and new, some in my name, others not, I eventually found what I was searching for. Also, upon studying the array of medications in front of me, I realized I may have a slight drug problem. Oh well, it’s not as bad as it once was.

           I recall one incident in particular from the past. I must have taken twelve Xanax bars, maybe more. I went to the park (I love the park) and was feeding some pigeons; leftover Doritos I had found in my car, they were at least four months past the expiration date. Anyway, after just tossing chips around all over the sidewalk for about half an hour, I took a particularly special interest in one of the pigeons. He was a bit smaller than the rest, and one of his eyes was circled in black. Incredibly unique, at least in comparison the others. He was really taking control of the situation too, despite his size. Really getting in there, hardly sharing any of the precious chips. Greedy bastard… I think that’s why I liked him so well.

           Anyway, I decided that I needed him. You know, with his attitude, maybe he could protect my pad or something. I don’t know, I was pretty high. So, after wrestling with him for a bit (if you can picture that), it became clear I could not just pick the rowdy fucker up. Had a lot of fight in him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled out a cigar from beneath his wing and started puffin’ at me, head all cockeyed and whatnot. “C’maaaaaaaaaan, that all ya got?” I had to regroup, construct a more inventive method of capture.

           Bingo. Easy. He may have been all brawn, but he still had an observable weakness… Doritos.

           With an inward smirk, I strategically (and sloppily) began making a trail of chip crumbs that led to the opened passenger-side door of my car. Worked like a charm, perhaps too well. The whole damn flock began tottering and flapping over to my car. At this point I realized my coveted plan may have had a detrimental absence of foresight,  I thought I was surely doomed. But as always, there was a solution. When the horde got within a few feet of my vehicle, I started kickin’ and screamin’ at all of them. They all flew away quick as can be, except for my new friend of course, the bravest of them all. Victory. I finally managed to coerce the prize fighter into my car with one last huge Dorito, and off to the races we went.

           He shit all over my seats, my dashboard, everything. God, it was terrible. Stunk like hell, too.  To make a long story short, we were never meant to be friends. He continued to mercilessly defecate all over the apartment, pecked the hell out of my ankles, he was extremely aggressive… Not house trained in the slightest.

           Needless to say, I was positively sick of this bastard by this point… I decided the best course of action would be turning him into profit. I took him down to the gas station and tried to peddle him off to the cashier for three dollars… He declined. But to be fair, I believe if he wasn’t at work and whatnot, trying to look good for his boss, he would have gone for it. He truly looked like he wanted that pigeon something fierce… Got all wide-eyed, sweat gathering at the brow. Either he wanted that pigeon, or he was deathly afraid of it. It was almost weird, his intensity.

           Yeah, I used to be kind of awful about it. That happened right after high school. I wasn’t too productive back then, sometimes I wish I could go back and change those years.

           Anyway, I quickly swallowed forty-five milligrams of Valium in the bathroom, on account of my soaring blood pressure and all. The stock photos didn’t help. Plus, I really needed to buckle down and figure out what I was going to write and how I was going to blow the socks off of the publishers and leave their feet steaming. This had to be the big one.

                                         IV.

             I set up shop in the kitchen, the only place in my apartment that has a table and chair. I had my tools for creation all laid out. A trio of freshly sharpened pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those noise machines that produces rainforest sounds and whatnot. Yes, I like those, and yes, I still believe in pencil & paper. Staring at a computer screen for extended periods of time isn’t quite healthy for you. It’s terrible on the eyes, you know. Additionally, there is something therapeutic about manually writing out each letter of a word, your hand carefully forming every one of those curves… The act feels intimate, and poking at a keyboard just isn’t the same. But I digress.

           Let’s see… Romance novels are too cheesy, you almost always know how they are going to end. I had already recently tried my hand at space exploration. Though space is endless, making the potential for stories based in space limitless as well. Still, I wasn’t really in the mood at that moment. Ugh, brainstorming is too much work, truly. This is why I like it best when the ideas come to me naturally.

           Just as I was delving deeper into thought, or trying to, my phone rang from the counter behind me. It gave me a shock, partly because it was getting so late and partly because hardly anyone ever called me.

           Casually I looked to see who my caller was. “Silas,” the screen read. Of course. Silas is an old pal from school that I kept in touch with for some reason. He’s a morally decent guy I suppose, has a good heart. He just never quite grew up.

           “Hello?”

           “Maximillian! What’s up?” He was totally stoned. In the background I could hear the bubbling of a bong along with feminine laughter. I heard something else too, faintly… Was that… Street Fighter?

           “Hey, Silas. It’s almost one in the morning, what’s going on?” I tried my darndest not to sound rude, sometimes I have a problem with that.

           “Oh, nothin’ much man…” More laughter, it caused me to wonder what the hell was so funny. “Hey, Max, do you have any molly? Need some molly… Ecstasy.”

           Initially I figured he was stoned, but he was progressively sounding more drunk than anything. Probably both. “Silas, I haven’t done molly in over three years. What the hell are you thinkin’, do I got any molly? No, I do not… Are you fuckin’ drunk?” This guy blew my mind sometimes.

           Awkward silence. More bubbling. And yes, that was certainly Street Fighter. “Damn dude, my bad… For some reason I thought you might.” More silence. Generally, it’s difficult for this man to process more than a couple of sentences at a time… Got a hell of a heart though. “Well, okay. Hey, do you know anybody who does?” He sounded wistful, maybe even a bit desperate. All the sudden I had the feeling I was not the first person he called about this. It made me sad in a way.

           I sat crisscross on the tile. Why there instead of the chair? I don’t know, it’s what I felt like doing then, okay? I liked the fresh perspective. “No, ‘fraid not. Haven’t touched the stuff in a long time.” Pause. “What the hell ya been up to anyway, Silas?” I was genuinely interested. I began picking at the tile with my fingernail.

           “Uhhh, nothing really. I-…” He really had to think about what he had been up to. “Went to a Cannibal Corpse concert last week. Yeah, concert and stuff.” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep, or become a corpse himself. God, look at all that dust beneath the fridge…

           Just then, I got a wonderful idea. “Gee, that sounds like loads of fun. Hey, Silas. If you were going to write a story, what would it be about? You know, if you were just going to write a story or something… About anything.” I was curious. I wanted to squeeze his mushy brain and see what came out. Plus, the Valium had me feeling a bit conversative.

           The line was quiet for awhile. I could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep, phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, slobber dripping from his chin. “-A story? Story… Probably about a barbarian or something. Barbarian who has a club and nails chicks in his cave. Like Conan, I guess.” Silence… “Hey, Conan nailed chicks in caves, right?” He was asking someone next to him.

           Boom, inspiration flooded the inside of my head, almost making me dizzy. How didn’t I think of this before?

Obviously, his idea was stupid. But the barbarian aspect intrigued me. How fun would that be? A barbarian who finds himself in a world of magic. Brings it back to Earth for the betterment of humanity. I don’t know, something silly like that. Something people will read, something that will keep them entertained.

           Silas focused his attention back to me. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with him. “Max, buddy. Hey, Max. Do you have any molly, by chance?”

           I didn’t have the time for this anymore. I needed to get to work. “Sorry, gotta go. Goodbye, Silas.” I hung up the phone. Krosmere… That’s what his name will be.

           I bounced up from the floor and positioned myself back at the table.

           I took a deep breath, turned on the trusty rainfall machine, and poised my pencil. It was time to craft the legacy of Krosmere, rogue barbarian. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited to start something. I was now beginning to feel the meaning of Cesare Pavese’s words.

                                        V.

             A ray of early morning sun dove into the kitchen from the window above the sink, casting the table before me in an orange-red glow. There I was, hunched over my papers, clad only in an old white tee-shirt and a pair of pinstripe boxers. Every hallow in my body had filled with salty perspiration.

           Truly, I had not realized how late it was getting. Or, rather, how early… I risked a glance at the clock on the oven. “5:41am” it read in its obnoxious neon green radiance. Somewhere down the hallway I could hear the maddening wail of my alarm clock trying to be a voice of reason or something, I suppose. How did I not hear that until now? BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH. God, I just wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall. I have done that quite a few times already. Like after Cinco De Mayo last year. Threw that motherfucker so good it flew out of my room and smacked the wall in the hallway. Or after the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Hell, it wasn’t even morning time, and I’m not into sports! I just went into my room and punted the sumbitch right into the ceiling. I can be childish sometimes. There was also that one time when my ex-girlfriend threw the alarm clock at me… Does that even count? I don’t know. My alarm clock is actually quite beaten up, I should probably buy a new one.

           “5:47am”. As I sat there a couple more moments, I felt intruded upon. As if the sun was invading my privacy, putting me on a stage for all the world to laugh at. Don’t you hate that?

           I strutted to my bedroom, sticky boxers and all, and silenced the howling beast. On my way out, after tripping over an extension cord gone awry, I stood face-to-face with the blasphemous stock photos. Those motherfuckers were taunting me, I know they were. The flowers! The fucking tire swing! Are you kidding me? Rage flared within me. I seriously could not begin to tell you why or how I allowed these abominations to remain for so long. They really made me want to puke.

           Instinctively I tore the frames from the wall and stomped back to the kitchen with them tucked under my arm. I could’ve sworn to God they were burning me with their wickedness, their phoniness.

           I found myself in front of the window, the same window the damn sun broke in through. I disengaged the lock and threw it open. A blast of chill air sucked inward, air you could tell was leftover from the night. It had a nice smell. It was then that I realized how muggy it had been in the kitchen. Like two (or more) people were in here having sex all night or something. If only.

           I peered outside into the shifting sky. You know, there isn’t a lot to brag about in Indiana, but the sunrises are absolutely beautiful. Picturesque, you could say. Deep reds that bleed over the entire Earth, splashes of orange, streaks of lavender. They are serene.

           I felt a searing on my side. Pulling the photos out from my arm, I flung them out into the open air without so much as a last glance. I suppose I could have thrown them in the trash, but then they would still be inside the apartment. They had to be eradicated, and immediately. With pleasure I envisioned gravity pulling them down, down, down, all thirteen floors, where they would meet their well-deserved demise on the sidewalk below. Gosh, I hope they don’t hit anything… An afterthought.

           It took only a grain of sand in the hourglass of our universe for the photos to collide with the pavement, marked by a satisfying crash. Later some would testify that a dog’s yelp followed just after the commotion, but I heard no such thing.

           Smug and triumphant with a menace destroyed, I turned on my heel, only to be blasted with more joy as my gaze fell upon my papers on the table. Oh, my work! My lovely work!

           The lack of sleep, the now sweat stained boxers… It had all been worth it. I had spent all night crafting the structure for what I know, without a doubt, will be my best story ever. The big one.

           I had finished the outline, was already on the second chapter of the story. Hell, I even sketched out a picture of ole’ Krosmere. A muscle-bound barbarian. Thick, long brown hair (like mine). I made him only have one nipple, though. You know, to add character and all that. Really, I am a terrible artist. I couldn’t draw my way out of a two-dimensional square if I had to.

           I still had about three hours until I needed to start selling lightbulbs, which was fine with me. You can do a lot in three hours, if you really try. I figured I could make some breakfast, get cleaned up, maybe even go for a walk. Working through the day without a wink of sleep was not something I really looked forward to, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Adderall. I’m fairly sure I had someone’s script in my cabinet still. You know, for emergencies and the like.

           With a newfound pep in my step, I threw the pan onto the rusted stove and began cracking some eggs, whistling along with the birds perched among the rooftops outside.

[jack-kellys]

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVE DAAAAAY!!!

here's a fic for the holidays that will make up for @suddenly-im-respecsable's and @papesdontsellthemselves's angst

———

a snow party for the rest of our lives

words: 1800ish a bit more

warnings: cursing, nsfw jokes, its race guys

———

“Can we open any?”

“No.”

“Pleeease?”

“Race, you are a grown-ass man and you still use that tone with me?”

Albert slumped forward as he felt Race drape himself across his back with a long sigh.

“Albie, how am I not supposed to think about presents for an entire day?” Race asked, fitting his chin in the crook of Albert’s shoulders.

“Well,” Albert considered, bringing Race’s arms around his stomach. “Know how it snowed last night?”

He felt Race nod, his gold curls tickling his neck.

“You know how a lot of people are away or inside, too?”

Race nodded again.

“Then do you wanna…have a snow party in Central Park?” Al smirked.

Race let out a long gasp at the prospect, making Al laugh. Exactly the reaction he wanted from Race.

“Uh how about abso-fuckin-lutely?” Race beamed. “Acting like we’re ten years old on Christmas Eve day is an immediate yes.”

Albert kissed Race’s temple, then hooked his hands under Race’s legs and hoisted him onto his back, making Race laugh—and Albert’s heart melt—and kiss the back of Albert’s neck as he carried them to their room. He dumped Race on their bed and went to his dresser, pulling out clothes for Race.

“I can pick my own shit, Al, what,” Race laughed.

“No, you can’t, cause you never put enough on, and I’m not letting you get frostbite,” Albert countered. Race shrugged in agreement, putting on what Albert picked as Al went to go get changed himself.

Soon enough, the two were both bundled up and ready to go. Albert couldn’t stop smiling at Race, with his soft blue scarf matching his eyes like that.

“You look adorable,” Albert said, rather shyly. Race blushed, leaning down the slightest amount to kiss Al’s forehead.

“So do you, beanie boy. Now let’s go!”

•••

Race practically pranced around the streets as it started to snow again, spinning whenever there was enough space on the sidewalk. Albert couldn’t stop smiling—Race had this special naivety about some things that made something in Albert’s chest bubble with happiness. He couldn’t imagine never feeling that way again.

“Albie, c’mon! We’re almost there,” Race grinned behind himself, practically skipping the last steps into the park.

“I know this was my own idea, but Jesus, man, you’re like, five,” Al huffed.

“No, I’m twenty-five and having a good fucking time! You should try it,” Race said with a cheeky smile, making Albert roll his eyes.

They walked a few steps inside, taking in the trees laced with white, the air filled with the silent beauty of snow.

“I forgot how amazing it was this time of year,” Race breathed, a serene expression on his already pale face, eyelashes adorned with snowflakes.

Albert’s eyes were only on Race, watching his excitement with a full heart. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, really amazing…” he said softly.

And just like that, the moment was over, Race looking at Albert with mischief in his eyes. “Do you wanna build a-“

“Yes, but no singing that or I’ll literally punch you so hard you’ll miss Christmas,” Albert said with a straight face, zipping up his pockets so nothing would come out of them. Race gave a singular nod in return, his lips pressed together before laughing. He knelt down to the snow, packing a small snowball and then rolling it to accumulate its size.

“You do the bottom one. I ain’t into that heavy shit,” Race said, presumably working on the middle.

“Yes you are. You’re only like thirty pounds behind me on the bench press,” Albert deadpanned, starting on the bottom anyway.

“Shush, babe.”

They continued their snowman, laughing as their proportions were way off.

“Oh, no,” Race gasped, “we don’t have anything to put on him!”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Albert said, dejectedly taking his beanie off and placing it on the snowman. Race removed his scarf in solidarity, wrapping it carefully around their creation.

“Our son’s all grown up. He’s come so far from just being the bottom,” Albert said, wiping a fake tear away.

Race smirked. “So have you,” he snickered, making Albert’s jaw drop before his face went red.

“The worst part,” Albert growled, “is how fucking good that was.”

“Haha, that’s what I say whenever you to—“

Race didn't get to finish his dirty sentence because Albert tackled him into the snow after screaming “you little shit!”

Albert leaned over Race, Race’s eyes scrunched closed. He blinked one open.

“‘The worst part,’” he mocked, “‘is how fucking good this is.’”

Albert was in a state of shock. “I literally—oh my god, we’re not gonna fuck in Central Park,” he groaned.

“Yeah, but I’m on fire today, ain’t I?” Race smirked. Albert slowly returned it, an idea forming in his head.

“Fire, huh?” he said, gathering some snow in his hand. “Better cool you off then.” Then, he dropped it directly on Race’s face without any sign of emotion.

Race immediately shrieked, swiping it off of him as Albert burst out laughing, only to earn him a wad of snow in his face as well, his nose quickly feeling like it was going to freeze and fall off his face. Albert scrambled off of Race a good distance, packing a snowball and chucking it at where Race still lay. It broke apart on Race’s stomach, making the other boy sit up with a furious expression. Albert nervously started making another one. Race’s wrath was quite terrifying. His own would be, too, if he didn’t show it so often. Race’s was almost secret. Albert scootched himself backwards, throwing another one at Race. He dodged it, now coming towards Albert, who froze mid-backward crabwalk, resting on his arms as he watched Race storm towards him, snow whipping around his icy eyes. Al stared at his stomach as Race put his boot on it, pushing Albert into the ground with a small “ouff.”

Race leaned down. “This is so nostalgic. Just like old times, if ya catch my drift.”

Albert rolled his eyes. “There is no way you ain’t happy when I top,” he said, resting his hands behind his head with a sly smile.

“You cocky bastard,” Race shook his head, taking his foot off of Albert, who took it as an invitation to sit up. “Nope,” Race said simply, kneeling and pushing him back down, meeting his lips with his own.

Albert wanted to resist it. He really did. He was cold, and in the snow, and his face was still wet from the snow Race had pressed into it.

But he kissed back anyway, hands coming away from his head and moving to Race’s cheeks, immediately feeling warmer. Albert felt Race’s hand sneak up his side, and rushed to meet it with his own before it could reach his pocket.

“Race,” he muttered around Race’s mouth, “I already said we cannot fuck in Central Park.”

“Not my fault you get hot in the wrong scenarios,” Race hummed.

Albert thought back to Thanksgiving at Katherine’s house. Whoops.

“Well, it is a little your fault,” Al shrugged, pulling his lips away from Race’s.

“Not my fault you can’t resist meeeee—“

Albert sat up and heaved Race over his shoulder, then stood, grabbing their belongings from their snowman.

“Fuck you, man,” Race said, banging Albert’s back with his fist.

“Yeah, y’ clearly wanted to, which is why we’re getting a coffee break. Cause of your bad behavior,” Al retorted. Race kept whining as Albert took them to a nearby Starbucks.

Finally they were settled with their respective drinks, Albert blowing on his hot chocolate while Race sipped his white chocolate mocha, Al rolling his eyes.

“Ain’t that practically just warm milk?” he scoffed.

“Ain’t yours?” Race retorted.

“Fuck off.”

They ended up talking until it was dark, which was no big surprise. They always found something to talk about.

“Shit! We have to go skating!” Al said suddenly, standing up.

Race followed suit. “Have to?” He cocked his head.

“Yes,” was all Albert said, offering his hand to Race as they threw out their cups and left.

“Alright, well, we going back to the park or try Rockefeller?” Race asked, Albert thanking the heavens he had dropped his inquiry.

“I was thinking back to the park. Not as many people,” he shrugged.

“Sounds good!” Race smiled, swinging their hands.

They made it back to the park, finding the rink all set up with lights The ice glowed against the dark, making Albert smile.

“Haven’t been skating in a while, have we?” Albert murmured. “Kinda wild, considering….the entirety of high school.”

“Let’s make up for it then. You go really fast the whole time using your hockey skills and I will only spin the whole time,” Race said, effectively making Albert laugh.

The moment they got on the ice, though, it was like someone hit a switch.

They started out slowly, holding hands and gliding along, but quietly. The earlier jokes and name calling was gone. Albert felt like they were the only two people in the ice, like it was a performance—a dance between them, everyone else only watching, not skating along. Race turned inward, resting his hands on Albert’s shoulders and skating backwards as Albert placed his hands on Race’s hips. Race was smiling, a small but sentimental quirk of his lips that sent Albert’s heart reeling.

“You look really perfect, Tonio,” he breathed, blushing slightly.

Race’s smile widened. “So do you, Albie.” He pressed a soft kiss to Albert’s lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Sunshine.”

Soon enough, their time was done, and they had to get off the ice for the next group.

“That was so perfect, babe,” Race beamed. “Best Christmas Eve ever!” He unlaced the skates quickly, putting his boots back on and standing up. “But I am so ready for blankets, holy shit.”

Albert grinned, his heart hammering in his chest as he stood up as well. “Me too. Let’s go home.”

They walked through the park again, the path still snowy, Race rambling about how much fun he had today, but Albert stopped walking.

“Oh my god, Al, and then we—Al?” he stopped to, turning around. He gasped, his hands over his mouth. “Oh my god…”

Albert was kneeling, a knee in the cold snow, and pulled a black box out of his now unzipped coat pocket.

“Hey,” he said.

“H-hey,” Race laughed, gesturing for Albert to continue. Albert took a shaky breath.

“You know that I’ve loved you since we were fifteen. You even called me out on it, scaring the shit out of me until you kissed me. And then I knew it’d be fine, y’know? Cause you were by best friend. You are my best friend. And I know it’ll be fine—well, more than fine, the best, actually—if I could spend the rest of my life with you. I want to so bad, Antonio. I can’t spend my life without my best friend. So...Sunshine, w-will you marry me?”

He swiped at his own tears as he looked at Race’s face, tears streaming from his as well. Race nodded, coming down to where Albert was kneeling.

“Yes, oh my fucking god, a thousand times yes!” he cried, throwing his arms around Al, enveloping his lips in a passionate kiss. Albert kissed back, arms tight around Race's back as they crashed backward into the snow. They laid there for a moment, giggling and crying, until Race asked, "wait, shit what's the ring look like?" Albert laughed, sitting them up and actually opening the box. Inside was a silver band with tiny yellow gems circling in the middle.

"Yellow?" Race smiled. Albert blushed, looking shy.

"You're my sunshine, babe."

Race hugged him tighter. "Jesus fuck, I love you so much!"

They walked home arm and arm, a new accessory on Race's finger.

[fitzwilliamburke]

     location: Eastern Squad offices, floor 66      time: 8:05am, the morning after Hattori’s retirement party           ( solo )

     “Burke.”     

It’s eight in the bloody morning. Eight in the bloody morning and he’s sporting a hangover the size of Missouri from the party at Leaping Lizards the night before and suddenly, for no apparent reason whatsoever, Snow is howling his name from the door of his office, practically storming over to the desk where Fitz is just trying to get his head on straight in peace.

     ‘Yes, Chief?’

     “I’m sure you’ve noticed that something is horribly wrong,” Snow says, his face sober, sombre, as he closes the distance between them and takes a seat across from Fitz. He feels a little like a psychoanalyst, all of a sudden, sitting across from the Chief like this, with him looking like someone’s gone and murdered half his family and-- oh, Merlin, has someone gone and murdered his family? Fitz certainly hopes not, he was hoping for an easy day, at least until the hangover tonic he’s taken starts to do the trick.

     ‘Is there?’

     “What, you haven’t tried to get a coffee?”

     ‘I’m a tea man, Chief.’

     “Of course you are. Damned Brits. Right, well, thing is: someone’s stolen our damned coffee machine, Burke. The LuxBrew 3000. Do you know how much my wife spent on that? Anyway, look, I need someone to get it back and you’re not out on any cases, so I’m giving this one to you. I’m sure it’s the Central Squad, revenge for whoever set those damned doxies loose last night, but they swear up and down they spent the whole morning clearing out their offices, so we can’t rule out the others. Midge says it was still there at 4 this morning, so there’s a chance someone is storing it in their office. You get it back to me by one, you hear?”

     ‘Ah, it’s just, I’ve got all this paperwork to get through,’ he replies, gesturing one hand vaguely towards the stack of unfinished paperwork he has absolutely no plans to get through today. A convenient excuse not to go on a wild goose chase round the entire MACUSA building looking for a bloody coffee machine.

     “There’s something in it for you,” Snow says, and Fitz can already tell from the look on his face that whatever it is, he thinks it’s good. Thinks it’s something Fitz won’t be able to resist. “I’ll give you Friday off. No questions asked.”

And, well, it turns out that after all this time, Snow knows Fitz pretty damned well. 

A coffee machine, he thinks. Not a problem. A Friday off for nothing. It’s not an offer he can turn down, especially if it means he’s got a perfectly good reason not to get any real work done for the remainder of the day. 

     ‘Alright, Chief,’ he says, sitting up, taking his feet off the desk to look the other man eye to eye. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

     location: Central Squad offices, floor 67      time: 8:15am

     “You know just as well as anyone else that we’ve been cleaning doxy shit off every square inch of this place since seven thirty in the fuckin’ morning,”  Kennedy Stokes sighs, one hand on her hip in the space between the lift and the Central Squad’s main office area. He can see, looking past her, that she’s probably not lying -- there’s still the unpleasant lingering scent, and he can see spots they missed on the back wall of the equally unpleasant gray-teal color of  fairy excrement. The pranksters in his own office had really outdone themselves, but Stokes and her ilk seemed to be facing the day with a rather grim sense of defeat, uncharacteristic of any auror who had a trick up their sleeve -- especially a trick like a stolen coffee machine. 

     ‘Then I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a look around,’ he replied, glancing over her shoulder. He couldn’t very well check every desk drawer, or every cabinet in their breakroom, and if they were disguising their guilt this well he imagined it’d be hidden somewhere better than just tucked away somewhere, but he’s at least got to pretend he’s trying hard, here, in case Snow starts asking around to see if he really deserves that Friday off.

He’s made plans, already, spent the last ten minutes and the lift ride up here dreaming about what he might do with a day off, imagining the possibilities, settling somewhere between seeing a show and abso-bloody-lutely nothing. An entire weekend, even, he could get out of town, if he wanted, maybe go to a quiet beach somewhere and find someone cute to--

     “You’re not gonna find anything, Fitz. But alright, sure, be my guest, I guess.”

She moves to let him pass, returns to the stack of files she has been working her way through cleaning off, charming flakes and swathes of the sticky substance off of the pages that had been left open on various desks overnight -- an unexpectedly fatal mistake. Her attitude alone is a pretty clear indicator that if the Central squad is behind this, she certainly wasn’t a part of it: she’s too quick to let him in, too resigned to the fact, and he’s known Stokes for a number of years now -- she’s not that good of an actress.

A quick sweep of the office (it does smell like doxy shit, noxious and cloying, the scent lingering even where those present have managed to scourgify most of the actual residue away, and he’d rather not linger for any longer than he needs to) mostly confirms his suspicions -- it it’s Central, he’s not going to find the evidence he needs here. No LuxBrew turns up under an upturned trashcan or in a desk drawer or anything that might make his damned job any easier.

Not a great start to his day, he thinks, and makes a note to check back in when the office is finally clean, maybe with a Bubblehead Charm to make his search a little easier. 

     location: Pacific Squad offices, floor 69      time: 8:35am

Every single auror in the Pacific Squad office is hungover.

That isn’t an exaggeration, he notes. He’s never seen so many sour looking faces, but it’s clear they all celebrated a little too hard last night, and while the rowdier of the crew might have had the wherewithal to snatch the machine before the worst of the hangover hits, his tempting offer of one of his special hangover tonics to whoever can turn the machine over turns up no results among the miserable faces before him.

There is no LuxBrew in sight.

He’s going to need to take a different approach.

     location: Department Lobby, floor 50      time: 8:45am

The gentleman behind the front desk had been easy enough to persuade to let him see the security logs. An easy smile and, when that didn’t work, the invocation of Snow’s wrath, and he’d been granted access to the book in which every out-of-hours entry into the MACUSA building was logged, which he was now combing through, looking for any familiar name between the hours of four and seven-thirty, when the night-time sign in books gets put away for the day. 

Unfortunately, a third of the people who work in the building get to work early, and so there’s not an insubstantial list of names to go through towards the latter hours listed. 

He’s got coffee on the brain, by now; he won’t drink it, ordinarily, but he’s been thinking of it so much he can almost smell the phantom scent of it as he pours over the log, running through the names one by one, cross referencing them with the list he’s made in his notebook of every auror on every squad in the building who might be under suspicion. Seriously, he can smell it, almost like it’s right under his nose--

A clink of ceramic on marble. He glances to the side, sees the chipped white coffee mug with the MACUSA logo printed on its side, filled to the brim with black coffee.

     “Morning, Burke,” says a voice, and he glances up from the security log to see a face he hasn’t seen in some time: Ishmael Hanson, an old classmate from the Academy, still as smug looking as they’d always been. Files tucked under their arm, the other elbow up on the marble countertop where Fitz is standing and working, they look amused to see Fitz standing here squinting at the visitor log. “Looking for someone?”

     ‘Working a case,’ he answers, tense, distracted. He’d much rather get this over with than chat to Hanson for any amount of time.

     “Wow, this early? That doesn’t seem like your usual work ethic. Need a hand? A coffee maybe?”

     ‘More of a tea man, Hanson,’ he says with a sigh as he turns his eyes back to the never-ending list of names. There’s one -- Aurora Powell, Pacific Squad, came in just past six, that could be a lead...

     “Well, suit yourself.”

And then he realizes, a second after Hanson is gone: he knows that smell. The stench of it on Snow’s breath every damn morning, the odor whirling through the Eastern Squad offices every morning from eight until just past noon, the way it’s seeped into the very walls of the breakroom. It’s not just coffee. It’s LuxBrew coffee.

     location: Mountain Squad offices, floor 68      time: 9:05am

They’ve barricaded themselves in, the bastards. 

They must have re-sealed the wards after the second Hanson was back inside, because for all his spells, all his ward-breaking charms, all his literal physical banging at the damned door, the thing won’t budge, and what’s worse, one of the wards sent of a flurry of sparks at his feet, scuffed his shoe up right at the toe when he’d tried kicking the door in.

Lincoln’s know for his specialty in locking charms and blocking wards, and the squad seems to have put him to good use. Locked door means they’ve got something to hide. Locked door means Hanson knows Fitz is onto him -- or that Hanson was intentionally baiting him with the coffee downstairs just to watch him squirm. 

This isn’t bloody worth it.

He’ll have to find another way in, a way to break through the wards or get into the offices another way. He’s positive the damned thing is in there, he can feel it.

He can smell it. 

     location: Evidence and Seized Property Storage, floor 52      time: 9:35am

    ‘Milly, love, it’s just a bloody piece of paper,’ he insists, leaning on the high desk at which the old house elf sits across from him. One spell -- he’d found the case number and everything, thanks to Fay, but she’d been caught up in other work, and he’d been forced to schlep his way down to floor 52 on his own, to del with the temperamental and notoriously stingy house elves who watched over the labyrinth of old evidence himself, much to his chagrin. One spell, which could allegedly unlock any door, undo any ward, and take down any magic barrier, and it was all he needed to get into the Mountain Squad’s barred offices and take a look for himself for any evidence to confirm his strong suspicion that they were the culprits here.

     “You need form 1-A-456 to remove any evidence unrelated to a current case from Evidence Storage, auror Burke,” she replied, her voice graveled with age but still with the telltale squeak that every house elf he’d ever encountered had. 

     ‘This is related to my case. It’s got a spell on it I need to use.’

     “I don’t make the rules, I just follow ‘em.”

Her voice is decisive, her gaze even, daring him to contradict her and the careful order of bureaucracy, and he withers under it. It’s clear there’s no way he can cheat his way Milly -- she takes her job far too seriously, he knows, to let him get away with it. He could fight this battle for the next two hours, eat up half the time he’s got left to find the damned machine, or he could concede to the order of things, have her help him find one piece of paper amidst the towering labyrinth of evidence storage.

     ‘Alright, alright. Have you got the bloody form?’

     location: Mountain Squad offices, floor 68      time: 11:50am

He had nearly given up. He really had. Somewhere between form 1-C-568, which he’d needed approved by three other aurors in order to even access form 1-A-456, and the fifth trip upstairs to get Snow’s signature on a newly-conjured page, he’d nearly said fuck it and decided that one day off wasn’t worth it for all of this.

But he had it now, the piece of paper tucked delicately into an evidence bag, the bag gripped in his hand. The handwriting is poor, hard to read, but he remembers the events surrounding the Scranton robbery well enough that he can make it out, still. Advanced lockpicking charm. If anything will get past Lincoln’s bolted door, it’s this. 

He stands back, a bit, not wanting his shoes to become the victim again if this goes arse-end-up, and readies his wand, glancing at the paper one more time to make sure he knows the spell. 

     ‘Sera Apertus.’

There’s a pop, then a hiss, then a few more sounds he can’t quite identify, the sounds of wards breaking and locks sliding out of place, whisper-quiet, and damn, he’s impressed that the charm worked just the way he’d hoped it would. The door stands in front of him, still closed but unlocked, now, unprotected. 

He reaches his hand out cautiously, wand still at the ready just in case the charm missed anything, any unexpected curses or jinxes lingering around the general area of the doorway, but nothing happens when his hand touches the brass of the door knob, nothing happens when he turns it except that the door clicks and swings open, letting him in -- finally -- to the Mountain squad office, and to the surprised faces of the handful of aurors inside as they turn around to see who has made it through their wards. 

Wand still at the ready, he faces them down, the culprits, the coffee thieves, the loathsome pranksters who caused him hours worth of strife, and who were now going to win him his well-earned Friday off. 

     ‘Where is it, then?’

     location: Interrogation Room 14, floor 64      time: 12:10am

He has just under an hour. Just under an hour to break Ishmael Hanson, get the coffee machine, and get back to the 66th floor. 

He sits across from them at the interrogation table, a mug of tea in front of him. It’s not very good tea, but with everyone in the Eastern Squad looking for non-coffee caffeine this morning to stunt their lingering hangovers, it’s the best he could find. He makes a mental note to remember to bring in a box from home, hide it somewhere in one of his desk drawers for occasions like this. 

Well: he has, by his calculations, thirty five minutes to break Ishmael Hanson, ten to get the LuxBrew from wherever it’s stowed, and then five to get back to Snow before the deadline’s passed and he’s missed his shot at an entirely luxurious Friday far, far away from this chaos. He’s going to need it, when all this is done. 

     ‘Where’s the coffee machine?’ he says, and across the table from him, Hanson grins.

     “What coffee machine?”

     ‘The one you stole from the Eastern Squad break room, Hanson. The one you were drinking coffee from this morning in the lobby. The one your squad mates confessed to stealing, last night, after the retirement party, before they confunded poor Midge and bribed her into telling Snow the machine was there when she cleaned. Where is it?’

     “Ah, that coffee machine.”

His grip tightens around the mug of tea in his hand. 

     “You’re the big detective here, why don’t you tell me what you think happened, where you think it is?”

     ‘I think you’re an utter prick with a death wish, goading me because you know I’m a better auror than you. I think the LuxBrew is up your bloody arse, or at least, it will be if you don’t tell me what you’ve done with it.’

Hanson presses their lips together, a silent my lips are sealed gesture, and Fitz very nearly throws the mug at them. It wouldn’t even be a waste of tea, he thinks, blithely, since it’s such bloody awful tea. 

He stops himself, though, and it brings his anger to up against a wall, his frustration escapes and leaves him exhausted thinking about the furious running up and down from floor to floor, the back and forth, the hours of unnecessary paperwork, the scuff on his shoes.

He has thirty four minutes to break Ishmael Hanson.

He can’t do it.

So he does what he’s always done, as the tension seeps out of him and leaves him hollow. He finds another way.

     ‘You’ve got to tell me, Ishmael. You’ve seen what Snow’s like when he hasn’t had his coffee. Imagine that, but in perpetuity, for the rest of my life. I won’t survive it. None of us will.’

Ishmael, finally, looks like they’re considering it for a moment.

     “What’ll you give me for it?”

     location: Eastern Squad break room, floor 66      time: 12:58pm

     “What do you want?” comes Snow’s gruff voice from behind the closed door to his office, and Fitz can’t help but think he sounds like he’s likely more hungover than the rest of them, even still, even now. 

     ‘Brought you something,’ he says through the door, and he can hear Snow behind the door rushing to get up at the sound of his voice, making his way out from behind the desk to where he can open the door and stick his head out.

     “Burke. You found it? Please tell me you found it.”

He holds out the mug of fresh, pungent, LuxBrew coffee in one hand, offering it out to the chief, letting a smug grin of self-satisfaction cross his face. Sure, it took him half the bloody day to get through it; sure, he was going to need to take his shoes in to get the leather repaired; sure, he didn’t even give a damn about coffee; but Snow had been right: he was the right man for the job.

And it only cost him a month of Hanson’s paperwork to prove it. 

[hellomissmabel]

Vino o Gelato Epilogue

MASTERLIST

AO3 account

Pairing: Steve x reader

Warnings: The reader grew up believing someone else was her father. Her real father had been sent away by his family. Pepper being a bitch.

Word count: 1.232

Summary: Y/N travels to Italy in search of her biological father. As she’s looking for a place to stay, she walks into the small artisanal gelateria where Steve works. He helps her get in touch with her father and introduces her to his friends. But is Y/N really ready to meet her father? Or is there another reason why she should stay in Italy?

A/N: Written for @yourtropegirl

Series masterlist can be found here

“You sure about this?,” your mother asks you softly as she smooths over the collar of your jacket. Bruce picks up your two suitcases and tells your mother it’s time to get moving to the counter for check-in.

“Yes, mom,” you assure her as you sling your backpack over your shoulder. “C’mon, they’ll start boarding soon and it takes a while until I’m at the gate.”

It’s been six months since you’ve last flown. After the heart-breaking confrontation with Pepper, you didn’t hesitate to book the first flight back to New York. At that point, you didn’t take into account the repercussions this would have for both Tony and Steve, something you regretted deeply afterwards.

Tony tried to change your mind, calling you up and begging you to come back to the villa. Pepper had left the house shortly after you’d run out and he hadn’t seen her since, expecting to receive the divorce papers soon.

Steve, on the other hand, respected your choice and after an hour of complete honesty about your feelings and where you wanted this relationship to go, he even helped you book the ticket. After spending the night together in intimacy, he drove you back to the airport in his navy blue cinque-cento. You left with the promise of Skyping him as soon as you got home.

It was difficult, maintaining a healthy long-distance relationship and of course there were a lot of bumps in the road. You often felt like a broken bottle of wine, until the next time he’d make an unexpected phone call and you’d feel as fresh as a scoop of artisanal gelato.

After checking in your luggage and scanning your boarding pass, you’re all set to go to the gates. “This is where I leave you,” you sigh sadly, hugging your mother tightly as Bruce presses a chaste kiss to your temple. “Promise me you’ll visit us in Italy. I really want you to meet Steve. And not just Steve, but also the rest of the expat squad, their surrogate mother May and of course my half-brother Peter.”

“Of course we’ll visit you, honey,” your mother replies with tears in her eyes. “Just as long as you promise to pay a visit to New York, too.” And with that final promise, you bid goodbye to your two loves ones as you’re on your way to two other loved ones.

The entire flight you’re a nervous wreck, going over the pics in your phone that Steve sent you shortly before departure. For example, there’s a photograph of the Vespa Tony bought you in anticipation of your arrival, one of the entire family of internationals at one of their Friday dinners, and the new double bed, closet and couch Steve got for the two of you since his room at May’s B&B is one of the largest and holds enough space for both of you. It’s not an ideal solution, but it’ll work for now while you’re scanning your surroundings for an apartment.

The very moment the plane’s wheels connect with the asphalt of the runway below, your entire body is on high alert. You’re one of the first passengers to get off and you sprint towards the baggage claim, retrieving your luggage as soon as you spot it. Fortunately for your tired feet, the airport is relatively small and you can easily find your way towards the main hall where you know Stevie will be waiting for you.

He’s holding up a sign that says “Gorgeous American girlfriend from New York”, putting it up high in the air so it’s the first thing your eyes notice after fighting your way through the thick crowd.

“Steve!,” you yell as you rush into his arms, leaving your bags unattended and collapsing onto the floor, all your attention drawn like a magnet towards him. Embracing your waist as tightly as possible, he lifts you up in the air and twirls you around as his pure voice filled with laughter and happiness resonates against the airport walls.

“I’ve missed you so much,” you murmur in between kisses as you pepper his face with affectionate little pecks. Steve puts you back down on both your feet and drops the sign so he can kiss you properly, connecting your lips in a tender, slow kiss.

A deep male voice coughs softly and reluctantly you break away for air. There’s your father, standing just a few inches away from you and Steve. “What about your old man, hm? Did you miss him, too?,” he chuckles as he opens his arms for you to fold into.

Releasing Steve from your doting kisses, you jump from one set of arms into another as you embrace your father lovingly. Nestling your head in the nape of Tony’s neck, you inhale deeply the familiar scent of smoky oak and fresh musk. Finally reunited.

With Tony’s arm slung over your shoulders and Steve holding your hand, you leave the airport and head straight for a new beginning. It’s take some time to adjust, but you’re confident in the choice you’ve made. It’s hard leaving your life as a New Yorker behind, but it’s not an impulsive choice.

Impulsivity came 6 months ago when you left Italy head over heels, not even allowing yourself some room to breathe and collect your thoughts after you’ve been blatantly accused by Pepper. Even though Tony offered to talk about it and work through their issues, even suggested couple therapy, him and his now ex-wife will never be able to be in the same room again. Fortunately, Tony has the vineyard to keep his mind off Pepper, and with you by his side he feels like he can conquer the world despite all the hardship he’s been through.

Steve and Tony are friends as well and recently he decided to involve Steve some more in the family business. He’s still got his job at the ice cream shop where it all started, and his job as a tour guide at the local tourist centre. But every now and then, especially during the harvest, he helps out at the vineyard. Just like you had planned, you moved in with Steve as soon as you set foot on Italian soil, although it was much to Tony’s disappointment who had hoped you’d stay with him at the villa.

Nevertheless, Tony finds a lot of support in his son, Peter, and you and Peter are as thick as thieves now. They both regularly pop by at the B&B to say hi to May, something Tony never did because he respected Pepper’s wishes to not involve May in their marriage. But now Pepper’s out of the picture, Tony has realised that those old feelings he once harboured for May, hadn’t really disappeared after all. They continue to enjoy joint custody of their son and maybe, in the near future, they’ll find their way back to one another.

Now you’re working together with Bucky and Tony at the vineyard, making a name for yourself while simultaneously strengthening your relationship with your father and half-brother. Business is going very well and this presents you with the opportunity to discover the world as you attend and compete at various tasting competitions. You’re finally able to live the life you actually enjoy living, and at the end of the day, Steve will always be waiting for you at home.

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplansteverogers @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @barnes-heaven @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @mellifluous-melodramas @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @supernaturaldean65 @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep @aletheladyinred @beyondbarnes @xbergiex @reniescarlett @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @lovemarvelousfics @yknott81 @rrwilson66 @pegasusdragontiger @salty-holographic-stickers @sammyissassy @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @kudosia @bellejeunefillesansmerci @lumelgy @mizzzpink @southernbellestatues @daringtodreamawake @neurotic-narwhal @cokamarie24 @blue1928 @movingonto-betterthings @breezy1415 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @jesspfly @weenie-butt @debzybrazy @fuckingchaotic  @always-an-evans-addict @petersunderroos  @thegreentgirl @nedthegay

Series tag list: @incoherent-smiles @phiauniverse @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @mo320 @suz-123 @wildestdreamsrps @lexicon411 @katemcgraw @youpocketwitch @3dsaunt @void-imaginations @mylittlefandomfanfictions @anotherotter @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @redroomproperty @mirachowder

Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you!

[book-boys-are-my-guilty-pleasure]

Imagine: Being Ramsay’s little sister and running away from home. When you find out that Jon Snow is trying to reclaim Winterfell, you join him.

For: my bestie @mentally-in-canada ily! Enjoy :P

Warning: Some season 6 spoilers if you’re not caught up! <3

“Ramsay!” You screamed, “Ramsay stop please!”

Your half-brother just grinned at you as he dangled you off the cliff near your home, “Father told you not wander in the woods alone, you could get killed. Or worse.”

Ramsay’s tone sounded more like a threat than a warning. You gripped his wrist as hard as you possibly could and begged, “Ramsay, please, please stop. J-just let me go, please!”

“Is that what you want little sister, you want me to let you go?” He taunted.

You nodded frantically as a few tears slipped out of your eyes, “Please!”

“Alright fine,” He sighed sarcastically, and released you hands. The only thing you heard over the sound of your own scream was your brother howling with laughter, “You asked to be let go!”

You jolt awake in your bed with a scream. You wipe the mixture of tears and sweat off your face. You were 7-years-old when your 10-year-old brother threatened you by hanging you off a cliff, though he didn’t actually throw you off, the memory of it and everything else he had done to you still haunted you. Ramsay was evil, and your father always sided with him. You may have been the lady of the Deadfront, but your father and brother never treated you as such. You were 17 now and Ramsay was already making suggestions of marrying you off to form alliances with other houses.

“Lady Y/N,” Your handmaiden calls as she walks into your chambers, “Your parents are awaiting your presence at breakfast.”

You groan in response and roll out of bed in a very unladylike manner. You quickly wash up, change, and head downstairs.

You’re eating in silence, listening to your father and brother talk about plans to kill off other houses, eventually you get tired of listening to them and you zone out. Ramsay finally snaps you out of your daze and says, with his mouth full, “Lord Edward of House Forrest will be bringing his son Caspian here tomorrow, so try dressing like a proper lady for once.”

“Why?” You ask, disgusted at the food that was falling out of your brother’s mouth.

“You’re to be betrothed to him of course!” He drones.

“What?!” You ask, dropping your spoon, “I’m seventeen Ramsay! I don’t want to get married yet!”

“It’s not really your choice now is it?” He asks, beginning to get irritated.

“But-”

“Enough Y/N, this has been settled,” Your father interrupts, taking your brother’s side as usual.

“Fine!” You get out of your seat and storm off. You parents and brother call after you, but you don’t turn back.

You storm up to your chambers and quickly change out of your dress, into a pair of trousers and a baggy shirt, and you let your hair out of its tight bun. You pull up a loose floor board and take your sword out of its hiding place, you put the sword in your sheath and climb out of your window.

You had been looking for an escape for years, but you had never been able to convince yourself to leave the safety of home -it may not have been a good home, but it was still home. Now you finally had a reason. You were seventeen years old; you would not let your brother and father marry you off to some stuck-up, thirty-something-year-old lord. You rush to the stables without being seen, it was early in the morning so everyone was too busy working to pay attention to you. You take your horse, and manage to get past the guards.

It’s been six years since you left your home. You had found a small tribe of people who had taken in, and upon discovering your identity, they made you their leader. Over the course of the past years, you had made a few alliances and gathered many other men and women under your rule. You had decided that all of your people would be fighters, whether they were men or women. The skills of your people is what attracted the alliances.

“Lady Y/N!” Your advisor, Lord Joseph -a young man from a royal house who, like you, had escaped his family’s brutality- comes up to you with a note in his hand, “A raven has come from one of my old friends.”

“What does it say?”

“Roose Bolton conspired with the Frays and the Lannisters, and they killed Robb Stark, his pregnant wife, and his mother. Your brother has been legitimized, he is officially a Bolton, and your family has taken over the North,” Joseph says sadly, there’s a hushed whisper falls across the room, everyone worries about what this might entail.

“They are no family of mine,” You hiss, “You are my family, every person in this room is my family, and no matter who becomes the new King of the North, I will not let anyone hurt any of you!”

The tension lifts and your people begin to cheer your name.

Time went on and you had begun to train your people harder, there was a war coming, you could feel it. Stannis Baratheon had already lost his life fighting against the Boltons. You had heard about what your brother had done to Sansa Stark, and it absolutely shattered your heart. Ramsay was never a good person, but never in your life had you wanted to kill him, not until now at least.

“Lady Y/N,” Lord Joseph snaps you out of your thoughts, “Jon Snow, the bastard son of Lord Ned Stark has left the Wall and is coming to reclaim the North, and he is searching for allies to fight with him against the Boltons.”

You smile at him, “Our time to fight has come my lord.”

“And so it seems,” He laughs. You spend the rest of the night drinking, laughing, and discussing strategy with Joseph. He had become like the brother Ramsay had never been to you and you had no idea where you would have been without him by your side.

Morning came and you got ready to ride to meet with Lord Snow, but once you arrive you are told that the battle has already begun.

You approach the site of the battle and see that your brother’s army is brutally beating Jon’s. You lead your own army into the battlefield and begin fighting.

You see one of your brother’s men coming up from behind Jon with a sword. You quickly leap in front of him, taking him by surprise, and stabbing your through his stomach.

Jon turns to you and gives a quick thanks before noticing that he doesn’t know you, “Who are you?”

“We’ll have time for introductions later my lord,” You say before killing another man who advances towards you, “Just know that my people and I are on your side.”

He nods at you before parting ways.

You continue to fight aimlessly; many of your people had been killed off, and things were looking dim.

Your sword pierced the heart of another man when you made eye contact with your brother. It took him a moment to recognize you, but when he did, his eyes filled with such intense hatred, a hatred that you had never seen in any other human in the world. You knew your face mirrored the same hatred towards him.

Suddenly the knights of the Vale appear and save you from defeat.

As you ride into Winterfell Jon finally turns to you, “Thank you for your help my lady, but I must ask, who are you?”

“My name is Y/N my lord,” You pause for a moment, “Y/N Bolton.”

Jon’s face falls and he just stares at you in shock without saying anything, “My father and brother are terrible people, I ran away from home over six years ago, and when I heard what my family was doing, I wanted to do anything I could to help.”

“Bolton or not, you have proved where your loyalty lies Lady Y/N,” Jon smiles at you.

You stand stone-faced as Jon beats the life out of your brother. He pauses for a moment and Ramsay painfully turns his head towards you, he spits out some blood and mutters, “Traitor.”

Jon is about to continue his attack but you stop him. You walk over and look down at your brother.

“Ramsay,” You spit, every syllable drips with venom. You proceed to place your foot on his throat, applying enough pressure to hurt, but not enough to kill him. You didn’t want him to have that easy a death, “You were always an asshole even when we were growing up. I had hope that you would change, that deep down there was even an ounce of humanity in you, but I was wrong. You are a disgrace to humankind. Both you and father. You are a disgrace to the Bolton name. You don’t deserve to be called a man, you are a disgrace to men, but most importantly, you are a disgrace to bastards. Both you and father just a waste of air and space on this planet and now both of you are gonna be forgotten in the matter of… oh wait, who are you?”

Before he get the chance to respond, you walk away to see if any injured person needs your help.

Jon was declared King in the North, and eventually he called you up.

“Lady Y/N, you have proven your loyalties to the North, as the last surviving Bolton, I give you the Deadfront, where you will rule and serve as an ally to the North.”

You bend the knee to Jon, promising to serve him and the North. I’m going home.

End.

Masterlist // Rules List // To-Do List

[xwubzxbubzx]

Summer of Stancest - Mindscape

Well this thing got away from me. Warning for memory manipulation, dark Ford, unreliable narrator and blood magic. (approx 3k and sfw-ish)

Structural Integrity

 i. Cangiante

The Renaissance art style Cangiante is characterized by the painter's changing to a different, lighter, hue when the original hue cannot be made light enough or, on the converse, changing to a darker hue when the original hue cannot be made dark enough.

The fall is endless. The swooping sensation of a hypnic jerk stretched out into eternity. He lands gracelessly, knees shaking as he falls forward with a soft splash. His arms are stretched out before him, fingers digging into the soft sand; water slithers over the back of his hands. His eyes are clenched shut. He heaves: once, twice. Nausea pulses in his skull and sinuses before he takes a deep breath and reorients himself. He feels loose and untethered; a floating phantasm. The water is a boon, salty and cool, dribbling off his clothes and palms leaving him completely dry as he pushes himself up gingerly.

Stan's mindscape is slowly healing devastation — the remnants of a seaside town after a hurricane. A ghost grey ocean laps at his boots, tugging him forward into its depths. Even the salt in the air is heavy with something he cannot identify, thick and cloying like hopelessness. It reminds him of Glass Shard Beach.

He shouldn’t be here. This is an invasion of the most intimate and primal form. But Ford has always been a little selfish, he’s self-aware enough to admit that, and this — this is for both of them really, this is for the best. He's wanted Stan to himself since he was young, has wanted him helplessly devoted to him alone.

Joy bubbles in his chest, making him feel lighter. Finally after all these years—

He's had this spell in the corner of his mind for a very long time, it's a refinement of the possession curse he'd documented so long ago, when he wandered the forests of Gravity with naive temerity, when he was still a wet behind the ears boy purporting himself as a scientist. He's rather proud of what he's created, it is an elegant marriage of sorcery and science — and is it bad that he's proud? He had to worked for hours, amalgamating neuroscience with the occult until he'd finally found a way to alter a mindscape permanently. He feels almost like Bill, but no, that is not a line of thinking he wishes to follow and even so, Bill couldn't change you from the inside, couldn't reform you into the image he wanted. What Bill Cipher did Stanford Pines did better.

And it is different. He loves Stan, he always has and he has dreamed of this for decades. He's entitled to this.  Surely after 30 years of suffering on the other side of the portal he deserves this? It shouldn’t even be a question. It was Stan, after all, who had pushed him into a literal hellscape and Ford has forgiven him. He truly has, but only an idiot would ignore the pattern of behaviour Stan was exhibiting. His brother was always so stubborn and bullheaded, so destructive. He has always needed a guiding hand. He has always needed Ford.

The others wouldn't understand, they hadn't seen what Ford had. They hadn't lived the way Ford had. And though he loves the twins, they are burdened with a very planetary mindset. They fail to see the bigger picture, which is unfortunate; yet he cannot find it within himself begrudge them their youthful innocence. No matter, they would never know anyway.

He can see the vague shape of the Mystery Shack, twisted and broken. He walks to it, wet sand crunching underneath him, it shimmers slightly, a mirage that solidifies and gains detail as he moves towards it. There are gaping caverns in its side as though it was the gouged out corpse of some broken creature, corridors lead off into the dark abyss of the sea — nothingness, the roof and walls bend and sag under an unknown yet ever present weight.

What is more corporeal is the boat he can see off into the distance behind the shack. Shrouded in fog as it may be, the dimensions of the Stan-o-War are perfect. Their relationship made physical in the gnarls of old wood and red paint. Even the fluttering sail is patched up in the same exact places he remembers from his youth. This pleases Ford on a fundamental level, he enjoys being the singular point of his brother's existence, his true and unwavering north. The only thing worth remembering.

He thinks for a moment that perhaps the relative tangibility of the Stan-o-War may be due to their constant contact and interaction before dismissing the idea. It is more romantic this way.

Ford had considered using some bastardized form of the memory gun. The technology is all there, merely requiring fine tuning and tweaking, but he can't; he can still feel his fingers shaking as he presses the trigger, white light engulfing his kneeling brother's downturned head, the picture of a man facing a firing squad. He can't do that to Stan again and isn't that such a testament to his love?

And if he is grateful to the machine, it is only because amnesia makes his brother the perfect canvas. He could not do this when Stan's memories were firm and worn smooth and hard, but now they are malleable little things that mold beneath the pressure of his hands. Besides, technology was so clinical, so cold. Magic had a certain charm to it — an attitude, an aftertaste. It would allow him to embed his signature into the very depths of Stan's psyche, carve his name into the building blocks of his brother. He cares so deeply for Stan, and he's only ensuring the right kind of reciprocity.

He goes inside the Shack first. The door swings open with a pained creak and just like in a dream, its external construction play no role in its inner dimensions. The inside is not as dilapidated as he'd imagined. Dark and dusty perhaps, mired in years of futility and anger but there is a certain lustre in the wood, a gleam in the burnished metal of the door handles, the faint scent of tenacity and success and hope. His brother is such a resilient man.

He knows where he must go, down the corridor into a room that is littered with glass, broken snow globes everywhere — the gift shop. He bends and picks up a glass shard, placing it in his pocket. The shelves have all tilted to the side, angry slashes on the wall; the souvenirs form an indiscernible heap on the floor. Crossed out words, question marks are strewn across the room, remnants of 30 years of half-remembered oddities and curios. The vending machine is silent and empty, looming up in front of him. It is impossibly large, and reaching it takes an unimaginably long time as though each of his strides are an inch long.

He taps out the code, muscle memory causing his fingers to dart across the pad, and it slowly shifts to the side, a jarring screech echoing across the room as it moves. The stairs are old and rickety, but they have always been so. It is the elevator that different, it is smaller than he remembers but he does not care. The ride down fills him with an unfathomable excitement; he begins making his final preparations — he is so close.

When the door opens again, it is 1982 and Stan and Ford are fighting, his brother is gripping the burnt skin of his shoulder. He watches, just for a moment, and admires the smoothness of Stan’s skin under the sickly glow of the portal, the heart rending desperation of his sobs after he pushes Ford into oblivion.

Stanford presses his palms against the border of the memory, sigils carved and bleeding on his hand, and everything rewinds, changing ever so slightly as the original memory is rewritten and remade. Ford’s demand for Stan to sail away is more poignant — a rejection of the highest form. The way they grapple is now mired in a sultry, erotic tension; each move a subtle caress lost in anger. Even his fall through the portal is different, their eyes meet and what passes between them is a lover’s farewell. He does not need to alter the desolation Stan feels when he realises he is alone, that is deep enough.

A small rivulet of blood traces its way down his finger, collecting at the tip before wobbling faintly and dropping to the floor. His job here is done.

The next place he visits is Stan’s safe. The iron monstrosity trembles as the light from the hall way is cast on it. It is barely tangible, shivering and unlocking as he touches it, falling open in rapturous recognition. He does not expect to see the deed with his name lying inside, the ink in his name still fresh and spreading. He tries to move it to the side but his hand falls through. The bottom of the safe has disappeared and he has an eagle’s eye view of his return home.

Stan looks so hopeful, his arms spread out to welcome him. He wants to step inside and gather him in against his chest, hold him close but he can’t. His past self walks through and their meeting is as painful as he remembers.

This time as the drop of blood falls, the world below him reforms into something softer. When he holds Stan’s hands behind his back, the tremble Stan had repressed now shudders through him, electric with something that was not there before. His lips graze Stan's ears longer than they should, whispering I was scared for you. And when Stan falls forward, Ford’s knee heavy on his back, his brother doesn’t struggle against him but melts, putty in his hands. His eyelashes fan against his cheeks as he revels in the sensation of Ford against him in the space between heartbeats.

Ford feels like a voyeur, just watching this, but this was the reunion they both deserved. He closes the safe again, the numbers etched into the dial glow a livid scarlet before darkening back to black.

His hands in his pockets he turns his back to the Shack and leaves without a second thought, the Stan-o-War awaits.

The walk is colder than he imagined it would be, the wind is sharp and unyielding. His trench coats whips behind him. The Stan-o-War is large and it looks almost faded from up close, as though the sun and sea air have bleached it. He traces the wood with his fingertips, searching for an opening, leaving strokes of red in his wake.

He’s adding a special touch to all of Stan’s childhood memories by doing this and in some ways he thinks this is fitting; Stan was him for so long that perhaps it was time for Stan to truly be something in his image. It’s only a faint trace of a charm, a spice in the air; the kind that would have one close their eyes, just to focus on the aroma, to try and grasp the delicate strings of a long forgotten but exquisite memory. He breathes out, magic permeates the air in front of him before disappearing, absorbing into the ship. The wood is darker now, richer and toned with burgundy, his brother is redesigned before his eyes.

As he moves to the other side of the boat, he sees it. A small rocky outcropping. He scrabbles up it, careful to keep his bloody hand inside in his coat, close to his beating heart. From there it is child’s play to reach the deck.

He observes his surrounding quietly, nostalgia curling a loose grip around his heart. The sail catches a gust of wind and flutters, there is no darkness in its shadow: it is him and Stanley, shimmering like they are in a painting, unbearably young. He presses the fabric into his palm and the summer days he’s observing from 40 years in the future are hotter. Sweat drips down Ford’s back and Stan is watching him, his face unreadable but hunger in his eyes.

It is easy too, Stan was always the tactile one,  who sought physical comfort as a refuge from his fears. There are hundreds of moments that he can recall, Stan’s warm body pressed close to his. His larger frame trembling like a leaf as he cried about their father or, if he remembers correctly, when they were very young and still foolish enough to fear nature more than man, thunder. The memories are sweeter this way, syrupy with the heat between them.

He’s wanted Stan for so long it feels like he was born like this, that his desire was written into his DNA, into his genes. It stands to reason, then, as identical twins, Stan should feel this way too.

In each plank of wood, there is a story but he focuses on only the most important ones. The ones where he barely has to change a thing, so that the light falling on Ford is just this shade of warm and romantic, so that their hands brush against each other for a shade longer than brothers do, so that blushes bloom across Stan’s skin as often as bruises. So that the ache in Stan’s chest is not just overwhelming fondness and protectiveness but unrequited love. He edits a thousand days like this, dribbling blood all over them. He edits a thousand nights too, making them laden with fear, hope and bone-deep yearning.

Even though it does not seem like any time has passed, there is a rising expectation in the air; the sky is still covered by dark, brooding clouds but they look closer, burdened down by something. It will rain soon.

He is tired but he is almost done. There is only one more place he must visit — the swing set. He has only the barest inkling of where it could be, but Ford trusts himself, trusts in the knowledge he has of his brother.

He walks far into the land, until he can no longer see the crest of the sea against the horizon. Until the Mystery Shack is a dark smudge against the grey scale. But he knows where he must go.

When he finally sees the metal outline of the swing set glinting in the half-light, he runs. It is broken and rusted but that means nothing. His hand has stained the inner lining of his coat, the blood is thick and congealing. His fingers are stained red.

A drop falls. It is not red.

It has begun to rain. Ford knows he must hurry.

He places his bloodied hand on the metal, relishing its coolness. Each bump drags against the barely formed scabs on his palm, drawing fresh blood in its wake. In between the chains that hold the seat up Ford can see Stan sitting, his head bowed. He is translucent, water falling through him onto the seat, or perhaps those are tears.

It is the day Stan was kicked out, Ford is sure of it. He looks pitifully small, curled up in the swing like that, shoulders racked with heaving sobs as he cries. His arms can barely support his weight and he is slumped against the chains, needing them to stay upright. He is borne down by the events that have transpired. Ford moves closer, seeking to comfort him, and places his hand on Stan’s shoulder; the boy looks up at him, face swollen with unshed tears. Reflected in his eyes are a kaleidoscope of emotions: the panic Stan must have felt when he realised Ford's project was broken, the plea for Ford to forgive him, the betrayal as Ford turned away from him and closed the curtains.

The blood seeps into his clothes, it mixes with rainwater and clings to his skin; it is now so much worse. The self-hatred that Stan has always felt is rawer, a barely healed wound. Stan believes he has been cast out by the only person he could ever love fully. And Ford feels guilt, a hollowness in his chest; it hurts to put Stan through this, but he feels relief as well, as though he can finally breathe after 60 long years. Stan has now suffered with him, the same way he has since they were children.

He is done here, done with mess of Stan’s mindscape. His brother is made anew.

He’s never thought to imagine that perhaps Stan has loved him all along, and while not exactly in the way that Ford wants; Stan would try for him, he would follow him to the end of the earths if he was asked. That he was broken enough to accept whatever Ford requires and enjoy giving it to him —  for any scrap of affection — because he has been tearing apart at the seams without his brother and he needs Ford too much. Far more than Ford needs him.

   Ford comes back to himself with a choked gasp. He is dizzy and his heartbeat hammers in his ears, hummingbird fast; his body protests upon his return, preferring the lax comfort of being soul-void. He feels heavy and wooden, his head is slumped back and his neck aches. He is damp. He clenches his fingers and they twinge painfully before he pushes himself to sit upright, his coat shifting around him.  

There was Stan, just as he’d left him; lying soft and supine in the darkness, safely nestled under the thick duvet. His face is slack and his brow is unlined. Little huffing breaths escape from his mouth, condensing in the cold winter air.

Ford shifts, a draught passes through the house, ruffling Stan’s grey hair, which is spun silver in the winter moonlight. A shiver of anticipation sparks through him, but he quells himself. He must be patient.  He rises from the couch next to his brother’s bed with some effort, the chill leeches the elasticity from his tendons. An audible crack rings through the air as his knees straighten. Stan stirs slightly.

Ford watches him, breath caught in his throat.

Stan opens his eyes. “Sixer?” His voice is heavy with confusion and sleep and something deeper.

A pale shaft of moonlight trickles across his face, highlighting his features in haut-relief; he seems dreamy and warm, a light blush staining his cheeks. He turns to looks at Ford, his pupils dilating, ink spreading in water.

Ford smiles.

  it’s also on my ao3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11618865/chapters/26123268

part 2