#but anyway here’s a practice scribble I did during some downtime

[checkereddreams]

Studying and practicing…I’m still alive I swear.

[noisytenant]

i started daily journaling/de facto bullet journaling in may and i've kept it up ever since with at most ~a week downtime. this might be the longest i've held onto one organizational habit. sharing my strategy in case it helps anyone else...

i purposefully bought multi-packs of really cheap crappy ~5x7 lined paperback journals (in my case moleskine, i know they're shit but that's the point) so i wouldn't feel any preciousness toward using them. i can take them anywhere in my bag and i don't care much if they get banged up (though they hold up well). i started numbering and dating them on the front as well.

they're both task journals (to-do lists etc) and personal journals. i scribble anything i want in there. i take notes from conversations and write down peoples' contacts in there. i write entries stating what i did during the day and sometimes i have neurotic breakdowns in there. it's like a boring survival horror diary LOL.

i will say this isn't an effective reflective/introspective journal. it's essentially notetaking on my own life; it isn't the kind of journal to meditate on and reach deep insights about my psyche. that's okay.

i think "journaling" is sometimes touted as a tool for self-expression and deep emotional healing, but that assumes a very particular mindset, approach, and skillset within the writer. personally, i can't think much about how i feel when all i can think about is what i need to do during the day, so the first step in taking better care of myself emotionally is simply equipping myself to get those things done--to free up mental space.

there's also a lot of talk about whether "introspection" as discussed in the modern day is a means of mindfully reflecting your inner experience, or more an attempt to individualistically define and externalize all aspects of yourself so you're an easier customer. i think it can be both, but the point is it isn't a universal good. ...but i digress.

the journal works because i don't try to preemptively filter my thoughts into different locations. oftentimes my feelings+experiences reflect actions/tasks and vice-versa. i don't think i could use a journal that was only to-do lists, or a journal that was only my feelings. but now most of my notable thoughts and experiences are all in one place.

anyways, for the to-do lists, i write one every night as one of the last things i do before the next day.

i rarely get everything on the list done, but i don't necessarily need to (consider adding ABC(DE) prioritization labels; i do this mentally). what i take from bullet journaling is that i reference the previous to-do list (and sometimes go a few lists back) and copy over relevant tasks while allowing myself to leave things unfinished and to drop tasks completely. if i do something i didn't plan on my list, i add it and immediately cross it off.

when you notice yourself rewriting the same tasks for several days, usually it's because there's some hidden step you're missing or a subconscious reason you're avoiding it. the art of defining and scoping tasks is a really important skill that i won't get into here, but the point isn't to get frustrated when something keeps getting kicked along--it's to get curious and to try different approaches.

in general, i think a lot of the skill is in striking a balance between what emotionally feels good for you (what triggers a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment, what makes you feel insecure and demotivated) and what you need on a technical level to maintain progress. for example, you want to balance setting manageable task scopes with not overwhelming yourself. you want to celebrate the little things without feeling like you're fluffing up your list with inconsequential tasks. you want to figure out how much work you need to frontload without making the act of task-writing itself a chore. and you'll definitely need to plan for your practices to evolve based on your current needs.

something my friend told me when getting started is to start a to-do list with a box that says "make a to-do list" so you always have one thing checked off from the start LOL. i think trying little tricks like that helps you test the waters of what feels good for you.

if i were to add anything to my practice, i'd like to get into making a monthly backlog like what the original bullet journal guy suggested (IIRC), where i've recorded every task for the month in one page and i can review what hasn't been done by the end. sometimes i drop something because it can't be a priority for the next 1-3 days and then have to circle back, and it might be easier to do that if i referenced a more clean-cut page. but i can be neurotic about page space allocation so i've held off. maybe i'll start it this month o'december...

but yeah. it's kind of crazy to have been doing this for this long, and though i'm still often struggling with executive dysfunction, i feel it's borne some tangible benefits and generally has made me feel a lot more in control of my life during a difficult time. hope you can find something that works for you as well. smiles :)

[marjansmarwani]

For a prompt, how about an alternate version of a meet cute? Like maybe TK keeps on stealing Carlos’ coffee order without knowing it until one day he finally does? Feel free not to use this, just thought it would be adorable ❤️

I obviously did not get to this in time for Lone Star week, but I still wanted to do it, so here you go.

It’s also the first entry into my new drabble collection on ao3, which is pretty cool. And yes, it is adorable - if I do say so myself. 

standing on the ocean (until I start sinking) 

[Ao3 Link]

Characters: TK Strand, Carlos Reyes

Pairings: TK Strand/Carlos Reyes

Length: 1,527

Summary: A collection of drabbles from tumblr prompts

1. A coffee mix up and an alternate meet-cute for our boys

———————————————————————

TK thought he was settling into Austin pretty well. He had been keeping busy with the renovations at the stations and the interviews for the crew, but in his downtime he had been doing his best to explore the city. So far he had found a good jogging route, a great organic market, even a decent boba place. The only struggle had been a coffee shop.

There was one right around the corner from the station that he had been hopeful about. The decor was kind of a cozy modern style and they had a great tea selection. He had ordered a matcha latte and leaned back to wait. The vibe of this place was pretty great; it was somehow simultaneously energetic and laid back. His name was called and he stepped forward, grabbing the cup nearest to him on the edge of the counter, flashing a smile to the barista. He took a sip as he turned around and almost spit it out. It was definitely not the green tea he had ordered, but he opened the lid to confirm.

The lid lifted to reveal the warm brown of coffee rather than the vivid green matcha he had been expecting. He turned around to say something, but one look at the barista drove any thoughts of complaining from his mind. She was a young girl, no more than 19, and she was working by herself. She already looked frazzled - TK couldn’t bring himself to put anything else on her. With a sigh he replaced the lid and exited the shop. As he took another sip he gave thanks that she had at least managed to put some hazelnut in when she screwed up his order; it actually wasn’t half bad.

-----

The first time the coffee shop screwed up his order he knew it was an accident. It had been busy and the poor barista had been overwhelmed.

But the second time? He was starting to wonder if this was personal.

Of course it was the one day he was running late so by the time his order arrived on the counter he grabbed it and was out the door and halfway down the block before he even took a sip. He faltered in his steps as he peered down at the cup. Not only was it not his order, but it was the same exact mix up as last time. He ran through the process of ordering in his head and wondered if maybe it was something about his inflection that made “matcha latte with oat milk” sound like “hazelnut coffee.” He glanced back at the shop and considered going back and asking for a replacement, but a quick glance at his watch told him that was not happening today. He sighed and took another sip of the hazelnut coffee as he continued his walk to the station.

He hoped whoever had his matcha was enjoying it.

------

The third, fourth, and fifth time it happened TK simply accepted his hazelnut coffee without question.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like coffee; it was just that he preferred to not drink it before a shift because they certainly drank more than enough of it during shift. Though if it was going to keep showing up with hazelnut, he supposed he couldn’t complain too much. It could be worse; it could be caramel, or something fruity.

He had mentioned the predicament to the others once in passing and Mateo had asked him why he didn’t just go to a different coffee shop. TK really didn’t have a good answer to that. There was just something about that place that he liked. It had a good feeling and the employees - despite the fact that they apparently had a mental block when it came to his order - seemed really nice. He had gotten chatting with some of them during slow mornings and had found that they were genuinely kind and interesting people. The proximity to the station didn’t hurt either.

Paul suggested that maybe they just thought that hazelnut coffee should be his drink, and TK didn’t know how he felt about being essentially set up on a blind date with his drink order. Judd simply wondered why he was even going to a coffee shop anyways when that had a “monstrosity of a coffee maker or something” (his words) there at the station. TK waved him off with a roll of his eyes, but the truth was that it was kind of a ritual. Something he always did and had always done before his shift. It helped to ground him; to calm him before the start of another inevitably crazy and stressful day.  

So it continued; each day before his shift TK would enter the coffee shop, greet the baristas, order his matcha latte, and leave with his hazelnut coffee. It became a routine; just another aspect of his life here in Austin.

On one such morning, TK relayed his order to the usual barista - Shannon - manning the register. This morning there were two people on shift so she relayed the order to the other barista, who picked up a cup and labeled it with a sharpie from her apron pocket. TK furrowed his brows, “Have you always labeled the cups?” he asked, “I don’t remember ever noticing that before.”

Shannon shook her head, “Jayla’s new. She just moved to town and apparently that’s what they used to do at her last job, so when she asked if we did I figured we may as well try it.”

TK nodded as he stepped out of line and let the person behind him step up to place their order. As much as he liked this place experience had shown him that accuracy was not their strongest suit, so this labeling practice could be interesting.

He leaned on his usual spot against the wall before the counter, idly fiddling with his phone as he waited. When his name was called he stepped forward and grabbed the cup. He was about to take a sip when the inscription caught his eye. He turned the cup to see it better.

“Carlos?” he read aloud, puzzled. He heard a chuckle from behind him.

“So you must be the coffee bandit,” a smooth voice said. TK spun around to find a (very attractive) police officer smiling at him. TK gaped at him for a moment before his brain managed to put together the pieces. “Carlos?” he asked.

The officer grinned and stuck out his hand, “Carlos Reyes, nice to meet you. Should I just call you Mr. Green Tea, or do I get to know the name of the man who has been stealing my coffee for the past month?”

Oh. Oh.

“TK Strand,” he said weakly, reaching out to shake the offered hand, “and I am so sorry. I had no idea; I just thought it was a mistake.”

Carlos raised his eyebrows, “For an entire month?”

TK shrugged, “Stranger things have happened. Besides, it seemed like something silly to get worked up over. What about you? You clearly were not looking to be drinking matcha every day, why didn’t you say anything?”

Now it was Carlos’s turn to look a little sheepish, “Same as you I guess. It didn’t seem like enough of an issue to make a fuss and I was honestly curious to see how long it would take before you figured it out.”

TK looked at him incredulously, “You knew I was taking your coffee? For how long?”

“It is kind of my job to figure things out,” Carlos said dryly, gesturing towards his uniform (which TK could not help but notice fit him very well), “I was pretty sure after the second time, and certain after the third. I have to say that the matcha kind of grew on me though.”

It was TK’s turn to laugh, “The hazelnut coffee’s not too bad either.”

The stood in silence for a few moments before TK spoke again, “I suppose I owe you some coffee, at the very least.”

Carlos hummed consideringly, “I supposed that’s fair. Besides, if we order together I think I stand a much better chance of actually seeing my coffee.”

“So, is it a date?”

Carlos reached around him to the counter and grabbed the cup waiting behind them. He grabbed a pen from the jar next to the register and scribbled something on it. He replaced the pen and handed the cup to TK with a sly grin.

“Count on it,” he said before taking his coffee from TK’s other hand and exiting the coffee shop.

TK remained rooted to his spot by the counter, stunned by this latest turn of events. He couldn’t believe that had just happened. There is no way any of this was real. But a glance down at the cup in his hand proved him wrong. His name was scrawled underneath the rim in sharpie, and below that; in blue pen and neat handwriting, was a phone number.

TK felt a grin spread across his face even as his heart fluttered. He knew there was a reason he liked this coffee shop.

Got a moment? Leave a comment!

[pharawee]

Downtime

He almost doesn’t make it out of his javelin. Not without Zoe’s help anyway. It’s really no big deal. Nobody in their right mind expects the life of a Freelancer to be without risk. Scrapes and bruises are practically part of the job description. Kill a few Scars here, recover some Shaper relics there, and earn a couple of cool-looking scars on the way. Granted, he could have done without the Outlaw ambush – or the Skorpion nest on his eventful and much-interrupted flight back to Fort Tarsis – but here he is, still in one piece, with what looks (and feels) like only a few pints of blood soaking into the lining of his suit. Not to mention the broken servos, the damaged joints, the slightly scorched coat of paint.

As if the old Ranger javelin isn’t run-down enough as it is.

But that javelin’s the only thing left from his life before the Heart of Rage, and that has to count for something.

It doesn’t make tumbling out of his suit and right onto his arse any less painful, however.

“Ouch”, he states the obvious, then winces for good measure when the cold flashes of dizziness refuse to subside immediately. One of his knees has definitely seen better days, that much is certain. As for his right shoulder—or is it the arm itself? It’s difficult to pinpoint the many sensations. He’s hurting all over and the experience is a distinctly unpleasant one, to say the least.

“Damn”, Zoe has her back to him. Her eyes are still on the javelin. She gives one of the broken servos a careful tug. “You really put her through her paces this time.”

“You know”, he muses as he tries to push himself off the ground, “It’s actually hard to say—”, he grunts. “Hard to say who did the pacing.”

At that he watches her shoulders stiffen in concerned realisation. But before she can turn around a familiar voice cuts through the relative quiet of the deserted market.

“You’re back!” And in a flash Owen is at his side. He hovers above him for a moment before he feels gloved fingers on his shoulders, breath on his messy, damp hair. “I mean, of course you’re back. It’s not like I wasn’t there for all of it. The fighting, your Ranger’s many, many safety warnings, the surprisingly creative use of expletives…” Owen hesitates for a moment, then his angular face with its expressive eyes and wide mouth swims into focus beside him. There’s worry etched onto his forehead, fear mirrored in the downward twist of his mouth. “And you—“, and it almost comes across as an accusation, “—are very much not alright.”

Owen is his cypher, has been for the past couple of months. They’re working together (when there’s work to be found), sharing their meals (when there’s enough coin left for anything else than a quick bite to eat) and taking turns sleeping in the small, uncomfortable cot in their shared quarters (which works reasonably well since there are about a dozen sleeping arrangements to be found in the bowels of Fort Tarsis that are far more comfortable). During his missions outside the Wall (precious few as there are these days) Owen is far more than a guide, far more than just a voice to lead him in and out of danger. Owen is his constant. Owen hears what he hears, sees what he sees, and—as a cypher—feels what he doesn’t. It’s not that he as a Freelancer is deaf to the Anthem of Creation, but Owen is the one in tune. Without Owen he’d be flying blind.

Which also means that he has witnessed much of his recent incompetence first-hand.

He cringes at the very thought.

“Nothing a drink or eight won’t fix”, he then decides. Not that he can afford a bar tab that impressive.

“You really don’t look so good”, Zoe now chimes in. “I can fix your javelin, but you definitely should get yourself looked at by a doctor.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He wobbles to his feet (or foot, more like, since his right knee absolutely refuses to its part) but although he tries to keep his balance, he’s glad for Owen’s steadying hands.

“She’s right, you know”, Owen says quietly as they begin to make their way through the empty market in a kind of half-hobble, half-limp.

“I’ll sleep it off”, he says, and he’s determined to fool even himself.

“Oh, really?” Owen pulls him a little bit closer. There’s a smear of fresh blood on the patterned leather of his overtunic. It glistens darkly in the warm light of a few scattered lanterns. He’s tempted to wipe it off with a flick of his thumb, only that would mean letting go of Owen’s arm, which in his current state would only complicate matters further. “Remember when you crashed into that big, angry Skorpion? Because I do. And taking a rough tumble down that cliff right after? Into the patch of stinkhands?”

He groans.

“Don’t remind me.”

“Only I might have to because apparently ‘concussion’ is right at the top of your list of battle souvenirs.”

He steers them both to a stop.

“I’m not concussed.” Because he knows from experience that concussions go with some seriously annoying headaches that he won’t forget anytime soon. “I’m only a little woozy.”

Owen’s fingers dig into his waist protectively.

“Only a little woozy, he says. Oh, alright then. Shall I put on the kettle and we’ll call it a day?”

“Actually, that’d be—”

But Owen cuts him off.

“I was joking.” And he props him up and looks at him in earnest. His round eyes are wide with concern, his mouth is tense and serious. “After what you’ve just been through there’s no way I’ll just drop you off at home to go about my evening.”

He sighs. It takes him a moment to do the math.

“You do know we can’t exactly afford a doctor. Not with the javelin doing its best impression of a heap of scrap metal.”

“We can’t afford the extra downtime, either. Once there’s new contracts on the job board…”

“If there’s new contracts on the job board”, he reminds him. “Think we’ll even get paid for this one?”

Owen considers this.

“Well, you did take out most of the Outlaws.”

“And the Skorpions. The Skorpions count, right?”

“Which leaves us with what – 400, maybe 450 quid?”

“And I only almost lost a limb.” He manages half a shrug, and is instantly reminded of the stabbing pain in his shoulder. “All in a day’s work”, but it comes out all crooked and hoarse, like the mockery of a cheap joke.

“Oh, ha ha! Very funny. Goes well with that cut on your forehead.”

“My what?”

He briefly touches two of his fingertips to where he assumes he could have hit his head and slumps in defeat when they come away sticky and wet. He’s definitely had better days. Then again, he’s had far worse.

“Come on”, Owen nudges. “Let me patch you up, at least. No reason we’ll have to wallow in our misery.”

“We?”

And they slowly wander the many-staired underbelly of Tarsis like a pair of overbeered Arcanists.

“I was there, remember?” He touches him once affectionately where shoulder meets collarbone and the wrinkled folds of his scarf. “I might not have been with you in person—although there’s an idea we should probably keep in mind—but cypher things have a tendency to get all mingled.”

“So you… mingled?” As a Freelancer he’s got the practical implications of cypher support down, of course, but sometimes he still can’t wrap his head around it all. It’s something he’ll probably never fully understand.

“Yep. And it probably saved our hides”, he adds not without resolve.

“Yeah, it definitely did. I can’t even remember the—”

“The terrifyingly large horde of Skorps? Don’t worry. I can.

By then they’ve reached their humble accommodations. “Home” isn’t much more than one bare-walled room with a small window overlooking—surprise!—nothing much in particular. The shelves are cluttered with equipment, the table overflowing with loose parchment. There’s an old cot set in one corner of the room, a rudimentary cooking stove in the other. A thin, wooden door leads into the windowless, perpetually dark bathroom stall.

An overcrowded strider is nicer to live in than this, but they’d rented it with their own hard-earned money. Only the best for their team of aspiring entrepreneurs.

“I hate this place”, he states matter-of-factly.

“So much so apparently that you’d rather make off with a bunch of angry Skorpions.” Owen gently guides him over to the cot, frowns at the state of him—the unsteady leg, the way his right arm hangs limply by his side, presumably the cut on his forehead—then paws through the contents of the shelves until he’s found the old wooden box that holds their meagre first-aid stash: rubbing alcohol, a few ointments and powders, old bleached strips of cloth that make for sturdy bandages.

“I’m the better roommate by far”, he decides.

“Owen Corley—Skorps hate him.”

“And just you wait until I’m out there with you!”

But that’s an idea (frequently talked about as it is) that just doesn’t sit right with him. It’s one thing for him to risk life and limb over a scroll of Arcanist scribbles or faulty sensor equipment. But Owen… Owen deserves better than this. It’s not like the Anthem isn’t dangerous enough already.

“Damn, those Outlaws really put you through the mangle.” Wooden box in his hands he kneels between his legs and searches his face for further signs of discomfort.

“You should see the other guy”, he replies weakly.

“I did”, he pipes up and grins as he uses his teeth to wiggle out of his gloves. “I’d say most of those Outlaws are second-guessing their life choices by now, but you exploded them into a million pieces. Score one for the good guys!”

A few crumbled sheets of parchment rustle to the tiled floor as Owen sets down the box on the small table next to him. He gestures for him to take off his shirt and he obliges without even a hint of hesitation. There’s no room left between them for false modesty. A week of unsanctioned teenaged shenanigans will do that to you – never mind the years they’ve spent apart until circumstance led them to team up indefinitely. Owen busies himself by undoing the clasps of his protective kneepads, then undoes the laces of his boots.

“Need any help with that?”, he then asks, not unamused, as he looks up from his work and catches his partner halfway out of his shirt. The pain in his shoulder and arm makes it difficult to manoeuvre the stretchy fabric over his head and by now he’s helplessly stuck.

“Maybe…”, he admits reluctantly.

“That’s what cyphers are for. We live to serve.” Owen begins to tug at where the shirt clings to the sides of his chest.

“Wow, that’s a little…”, comes his muffled reply from underneath the folds of his shirt.

“Yeah, let’s not overgeneralise”, he adds sheepishly. “I’m always here to help is what I meant to say.”

His fingers feel cold but not unpleasant on his overheated skin. He shivers against the touch, so unexpected is its sudden caress. And when he finally manages to pull free from the constraints of the white fabric his face is flushed, and he finds that Owen is smiling down at him, lips slightly opened, a faint blush high on his cheeks.

“That’s quite the look on you”, he teases and pats his knee in a moment of shared camaraderie.

After which a distinct greyness descends upon his vision and he finds himself being pulled backwards by gravity until with a forceful exhale his back slides against the wall the cot is set up against.

“Woah there!” Owen’s voice is ringing in his ears and he feels the weight of his fingers being snatched away. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay”, he lets himself answer as if from far away, determined not to let the crushing waves of pain get the better of him. “You didn’t mean to.”

The gentle weight of Owen’s fingertips returns to carefully probe the skin around his swollen knee.

“But I knew”, the words tumble out as he works. “I saw you fall. I felt—”

“You mingled. I know”, he says calmly, earnestly, as exhaustion settles on him like a heavy blanket.

“You better lie down”, Owen decides after a moment of contemplation. “I don’t think the knee’s badly damaged. A bit of ice and some rest will probably do the trick.”

“See, I told you so.” He smiles, self-satisfied despite the pain and overwhelming fatigue. He half-buries his face in the crook of one elbow and doesn’t resist when Owen’s hands guide him to lie back until his feet dangle over the cot’s edge. He’s stronger than he looks. And this stupid bed? It’s too small even for one of them to sleep on comfortably (which is a pity, all things considered, and has to change as soon as possible).

“No promises.” But Owen’s reassuring touch is ghosting up and down one of his arms now and he’s fighting the urge to answer the gesture in kind. “If the swelling hasn’t gone down some by tomorrow I’ll drag you to the doctor myself. So what if we end up grounded for a week with scraps of stale leftovers for food? Live to fly another day, right? Strong alone, stronger together – isn’t that what they say?”

“I love you too, Owen”, he mumbles without much thinking about it, and later he finds that he doesn’t regret the choice of words at all.

[Ao3 link]

[keisskyrunner]

Sweetest of Them All [Lúcio/!ShortReader]

“A little more to the right, Cio!” You called.

“Sure thing babe.” The DJ agreed easily as he slowly shifted to the side, taking care to maintain his firm grip on your ankles, steadying your balance.

“Okay almost got it! Ugh why is this shelf so high?!”

You and your boyfriend, Lúcio, were in the midst of an impromptu baking session. The idea was sparked out of nowhere while the two of you were hanging out during the downtime in between missions. You’ve been engaged in general small talk while cuddling on the recreation room couch, musing about the happenings on the base and on missions. That’s when you got the brilliant idea to bake some cookies for everyone in the base to spread a little cheer. Despite neither of you having any baking experience, your boyfriend supportive as ever, enthusiastically agreed.

Which was how you found yourself balanced precariously on Lúcio’s shoulders as you attempted to reach up for the bag of flour which had eluded the both of you when you were gathering ingredients to bake. Whose idea was it to put the flour so high up here anyway?! Sure everyone else here was practically a giant... but still! NO MATTER, with your combined height you managed to get within reach of the ingredient. Just as your fingers grasped the bag -

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS FINE DAY, MY FRIENDS?” A loud booming voice startled the both of you as the steady shoulders of your boyfriend flinched and all but disappeared beneath your feet. Hands still grasping the flour, you fell through the air with a yelp and landed on a very firm yet soft someone in a brilliant explosion of flour as if winter has come very early in the Overwatch kitchen.

Having closed your eyes as you fell, you opened them only to be greeted by the sight of your boyfriend underneath you, coated in a sprinkling of flour (you have absorbed a good amount of it on your back and hair) which contrasted with his dark cocoa skin. With the look of surprise on his face, your significant other simultaneously looked adorable and handsome. You couldn’t help but smile lovingly (and dopely) at him, your cheeks warming up as he returned it.

“Oops.” You looked up to see Reinhardt sheepishly survey the scene before him. “My bad.” You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips which only served to infect Lúcio and Reinhardt, and soon, all three of you were simply laughing uncontrollably in the flour covered kitchen.

-S-

After cleaning up the mess, Reinhardt left your company owing to prior engagements, but not before eliciting a promise to save some cookies for him. Luckily enough, the baking session wasn’t called off since the crusader was able to find another bag of flour in the top cabinet (who keeps putting them up there?!). The both of you wasted no time in getting to work, all the while humming, singing, dancing and playfully bumping into each other every once in a while.

Working together in natural sync, it wasn’t long till you found yourselves closing the oven door on your trays of cookie dough and setting the oven timer according to the instructions on the recipe. You both collasped together on the kitchen chairs, a little bit exhausted from the baking process. However, it wasn’t long until Lúcio perked up beside you, pulled out a pen from his pants pocket and looked around quickly, only to start writing on his arm after seemingly unable to find what he was looking for.

“New song?” You asked curiously. Though you had seen him get suddenly inspired by a new song before, writing it on his arm was a first.

“Mhm,” Your significant other answered absently mindedly as he concentrated on writing the notes on his arm. After a beat or two, he started to hum, as he was prone to do as he wrote. The tune sounded cheerful and uplifting, having an all-around feel good vibe. After a minute or so, he switched the pen to his other hand and continued writing on his blank arm. It wasn’t long till there wasn’t much space left.

“Hey babe could I use your arm?” Your boyfriend flashed you an excited grin as his hand continued to write. With his passion and enthusiasm, how could you ever say no to him? You offered your arm to him and he grabs your hand gently, maintaining eye contact as he lifts it up to his lips for a quick tender kiss of thanks. And then he was writing notes on your arm, the nib of the pen gliding tickishly over your skin as you tried to stifle your giggles. If anything your boyfriend looked happier than before as he continued to hum the song in his head and gently marked the notes on your skin. It was hard not to fall in love with him all over again, to love him even more intensely than you already did. But every day, he pleasantly surprised you more and more. By the time he was done, almost every single available space on your arms were filled with notes. Altogether, they made a really pretty picture.

“I really hope I don’t wash this off by accident before you can get it down on paper properly.” You frowned at your boyfriend’s masterpiece doubtfully. Wrapping his equally inked arms around you, Lúcio pulled you into his lap and pressed a reassuring kiss to your temple.

“It’s alright babe I just needed to get it down somewhere, I’ll remember most of it now that I’ve written it.” He smiled brightly at you, a hand going up to caress your cheek.

-S-

The smell of baked goods rushed to meet your senses as you opened the oven door once the timer went off and you’ve switched off the power. Carefully, so as not to burn yourself, you manoeuvred your oven mitten-clad hands to grip the the first tray firmly and pulled it out. You were delighted to see that the cookies turned out great, at least appearance wise. Setting down the tray on the kitchen table, cleared meticulously by Lúcio, you repeated the process until all 4 trays were cooling nicely in the open.

Once they were sufficiently cooled and wouldn’t quite burn your fingers, you and Lúcio carefully arranged them on plates (after making sure you’ve washed your hands of course). You left the kitchen briefly while Lúcio was transferring the last cookies to grab a notebook. Scribbling a short note to say that everyone was welcome to the cookies, you ripped out the page and returned to the kitchen. You walked in just as your boyfriend arranged the last piece.

“Looks good for us first timers.” You grinned, folding the note neatly and sliding it under the plate. “Hopefully it’ll taste as good.”

“Why don’t we try one for ourselves?” The DJ suggested, picking up the topmost cookie on one of the plates and then extending it to your mouth in a gentle offering to feed you. “Would you like the first bite, babe?” You blushed slightly at his sweet gesture.

“Sure, thanks Cio.” You accepted somewhat shyly and took a bite out of the offered cookie. Eyes widening slightly in surprise, you looked at your boyfriend. “It’s good!”

“Really? My turn to taste then.” Instead of taking a bite from the cookie, he leaned forward and licked a stray crumb from your cheek. “Mm it’s pretty sweet, probably because it’s made by the sweetest of them all.” This time, you definitely couldn’t stop the stronger blush that warmed your cheeks.

“Smooth flatterer.” You protest, hitting his arm lightly. “Now try the cookie for real.” Still grinning cheekily, the DJ did as asked, making a face of approval at the pleasant taste. “We did good!” He was however unprepared for the quick and sweet kiss you pressed to his lips. Now look who’s the one blushing!

“What?” You said innocently at the wide eyed look your significant other gave you, “there was a crumb there, I was just getting rid of it.” The comment elicited a laugh from him. Before Lúcio could reply however, you were both reminded that this was very much a shared area.

“Ew, you guys do have a room you know. Could you restrict your lovely dovey fluffy love within that space?” Hana’s voice sliced through the moment like a sharp knife on butter, though one could hear the affectionate teasing underneath the pseudo-disgusted tone.

“We’re sorry Hana,” you laughed, “we made cookies, would that make you forgive us for our transgression?” It was then that the gamer noticed the plates of cookies on the table.

Reaching for one, she examined it critically. “Hmm, not bad. Fine, just this once.” Hana made to take a bite out of it but before the cookie could come any closer to her mouth, it was snatched out of her grasp.

“Ohh a most fine speciemen of the cookie kind.” Genji held up the treat, looking at it at all angles with overly exaggerated interest.

“Hey green man, that’s mine give it back!” Hana glared at the ninja as she tried to reach for the snatched cookie while Genji moved it further and further away from her.

“I believe it is in my possession now. Winky face.” After his cheeky imitation of D.Va’s signature line, the younger Shimada took off, Hana close on his heels.

“Hana there are -”

“YOU CAN’T EVEN EAT THAT!”

“-more over..”

“NEVER SAY NEVER THERE ARE SOME THINGS I CAN STILL INGEST!”

“-here...” you trailed off as you watched the gamer fruitlessly chase the cyborg ninja who dodged her skilfully every time she came close, almost laughing maniacally. Lúcio chuckled, placing a warm hand on your shoulder.

“Well Angela’s not gonna be pleased if he ends up in the medbay.” You turned to Pharah as she shook her head indulgently at the chase happening before her. She smiled at the both of you.

“You guys made these?” The security chief asked, eyes shining brighter at the sight of the cookies. “I couldn’t help but smell it on the way in.”

“We did, we wanted to do something for the base. It’s our first time though so we hope it tastes good, please help yourself!” You answered cheerfully, offering her a plate.

“Thank you,” Pharah smiled warmly in appreciation as she took one and bit into it. “They’re exquisite! I’m sure everyone will love these.”

-S-

And sure enough they did. Some like McCree and Tracer walked in and openly helped themselves to the treats, thanking you and Lúcio when they found out you’ve baked them.

Others like Hanzo and Solider 76 basically tried to remain unseen and sneaky in getting a sample of the cookies. You caught Hanzo the first time, and he left quickly, cookie in mouth, despite you telling him it was alright to help himself to them. You would later catch sight of him sneaking out 3 cookies, giving the other 2 to his dragons who purred in delight. You smiled to yourself and pretended not to see for the sake of the Shimada’s pride.

Lúcio did have to stop Junkrat from stealing an entire plate after he tasted his first cookie. Thankfully, Roadhog ended the matter when he took the plate from his partner-in-crime and rationed each of them a reasonable share of the treats, grunting a sincere thanks. Reinhardt did come back for his cookies as promised, and made sure to let everyone in the base know how delicious he thought it was and that everyone should have a taste.

-S-

The both of you collasped into bed at the end of the day. Lúcio was quick to pull you close to him, smiling as you snuggled closer to him.

“That was pretty successful for our first time baking wasn’t it?” You whispered contentedly.

“Mhm it sure was, we should do that again sometime.” Your boyfriend replied affirmatively, a hand sliding up to cup your cheek.

“Absolutely, as long as I’m with you, I’m up for anything.” You giggled, laying your hand on top of his. Glancing down, you noticed that the shower hadn’t washed off much of the ink on your arms and the notes were still quite legible. Then again you hadn’t made much effort to scrub it off even though Lúcio had already written them down in his notebook. “We still match.”

“I like to think that these are the notes that bind us together in moments like these.” The DJ grinned.

“Smooth talker. Even if these do fade, you’ve already inked them permanently on my heart.” You smiled as you kissed the tip of his nose.

“Who’s the smooth talker now?” Lúcio teased, his smile turning tender as he gazed at you. “And you’re the song that I’ll always hear in my heart.” Cheesy as it were, as the both of you were, a warm blush dusted your cheeks only to be interrupted by a yawn that came out of nowhere. Lúcio chuckled, kissing your forehead lovingly.

“Someone’s sleepy. Goodnight babe, tomorrow is a new day.”

“Goodnight Cio, I can’t wait to hear the song tomorrow brings.”

A/N: Had the idea to write this very self-indulgent fic out during my study breaks and between this and that, darkness, light, frantic essay writing and candy mountains this is finally done! Been a bit spaced out and anxed out lately and writing this did help since Lúcio has a special place in my heart. While I may no longer be good at him (if I ever was) his cheerful upbeat personality is really brightening and encourages a sense of positivity (and we both have the same height!). I was actually writing a Lúcio/!MuteReader fic which is going to be much longer but well, that’s going to take time *laughes nervously.* Hope you guys enjoyed my fluffy self-indulgent interpretation of Lúcio >_<! Cheers with love 💕.

[dualwieldingtymber]

In the Game - ch 2

Regan gets to see just what it is Cullen does during his weekly get-togethers with his friends.

Note: This is in the same universe as the Starting Over series with Regan and Alistair, but it involves Cullen and Regan Trevelyan, more than a year before Alistair and Regan Cousland meet. I just kind of wanted to do something a little different with this pair, and thought this could be fun.

Note: Unlike my normal writing, things in this chapter are bolded for emphasis, and the italics are reserved for events occurring in the game.

Chapter 1 is here

Find it on Ao3 here

“Alright then.”  Cullen looked around the table, his eyes lingering on Regan for just a hair longer than the others.  His cheeks grew warm when she gave him a nervous smile.  “When we ended last time, the group – Cerastes, Amnon, Aratur, Breeches, and Corwin – was standing outside the mayor’s home.  They had agreed to find and rescue the mayor’s son from a group of raiders who are demanding an enormous ransom.  Supplies have been acquired and Breeches has managed to convince the mayor to hand over a note that confirms the group is working for him.  Also marked on the map is the location the boy had been taken from.  Since Varric had an emergency in Kirkwall, I’ll be covering for him tonight.  Who is doing what?”

Dorian sat up just a hair straighter.  “Cerastes looks at the group and shrugs before starting toward the road.”  His voice shifted just slightly, growing somehow more aristocratic as he slipped into character.  “’Might as well get a move on, then; the boy isn’t going to rescue himself.’.”

“Aratur starts to follow him, but stops next to the elf.  ‘Breeches …’” Cassandra dropped character for a moment to shake her head.  “Maker, I still can’t believe you chose that for a name.”  She ignored the rude gesture Sera responded with and resumed the heavily Nevarran accent she had opted to use for her character.  “’Breeches, why was it so important that he give you that note?’  I try to look over her shoulder to actually read what’s written.’.”

“’Want to be able to go where we need to, yeah?’.’”  Sera’s voice didn’t change in the slightest, giving Regan a slight pause as she tried to figure out if this was in character or not.  “I hold up the note, so she read it.  Can she read it?”  A small slip of paper slides across the table.

Cassandra ducked her head slightly and flipped through the pages of her folder.  “I assume it is written in common?“

Cullen nodded.  “Yes, and as far as I know, all of you can read common.”  He skimmed his notes, letting Cassandra and Sera chatter back and forth about the note for a moment.  “Bull, what’s Amnon doing?”

Bull put his mug down, already half-drained of ale.  “Following Cerastes.  Not much else to do at this point, and tittering over a note isn’t high on his list of things to do.”  He flipped through the papers in his folder and scribbled a couple words in one margin.  “’Where are we headed?’.”

“Corwin looks over the map the mayor had given them.  ‘It looks like the drop point is deep in the forest outside town, and the mayor said his son was taken from a stall in the market … here.’  He scurries over to catch up with Cerastes and Amnon with the map, calling behind him for the other two to come on.”  Cullen slipped a hand out from behind the game screen to give Regan’s arm a little squeeze.  He knew it had to be boring for her so far, not having her character in the game yet.  But the smile she gave him seemed to say she was enjoying herself anyway.  “So, where are you all going?  Back Into town?  The forest?  The place the mayor’s son was taken from?”

“'We should look for hints where they grabbed the boy.'.”  Bull started fingering the dice in front of him.  He enjoyed the downtime where there wasn’t a lot of dice rolling well enough, but the combat was where he really got into things.  “’Maybe they left something behind.’.”

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“You now have a scrap of paper that has a list of seven names.  Two are crossed out, three are circled, and two are left alone.  One of the circled names is that of the mayor’s son.  You do not recognize any of the other names, though you can tell three of them appear to be elven and the rest are human.”  Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.  He could feel the tips of his ears grow warm when he caught her smiling at him from the corner of his eye.  It had taken longer than he’d expected to get the group into the market and to find the note.  He felt bad that his girlfriend had been sitting there just listening to them all instead of actually participating.  But with any luck, that would change soon.

“Are any of the crossed out or circled names elven?”  Dorian pulled out a small note pad and flipped to a blank page.

Cullen nodded.  “Both the crossed out names are elven.  The third elven name is not one of the circled names.”  He watched as Dorian made a few scribbles on his notepad.  Once his friend had stopped writing, he grinned.  “I need you all to roll a perception check.  Regan, I need you to roll a stealth check.”

“Oh-kay.”  Regan had to search the sheet in front of her to figure out what to use.  “So I roll … this guy and add … what, again?”  She held up the appropriate die, elated that she’d remembered correctly.  Cullen had given her a few lessons, and she’d studied, but it was different with everyone suddenly watching her.  She felt a little better when everyone’s gaze turned toward Sera, who obviously wasn’t happy with her roll.

“Right.”  Cullen couldn’t stop the proud grin.  “And then you add your dexterity modifier.”  He ignored the teasing smirk from both Dorian and Bull and waited for everyone to give them their rolls.

The die fell gracefully from Dorian’s hand.  He did some quick math and frowned.  “A likely unhelpful fifteen.”

A beefy hand gave Dorian’s a comforting squeeze as the die tumbled from Bull’s other hand.  “Well, twenty-three might help, at least.”

“I seriously can’t believe this.  The barbarian gets a twenty-three and what do I get?”  Sera flopped back in her seat, stunned.  “I rolled a freakin’ one.”

Cassandra, who had been consistently getting the same three rolls for most of the night rested her elbows on the table and just laughed at her result.  “Unsurprisingly, sixteen.”

“Corwin rolls a ….”  Cullen groaned with frustration and shook his head.  “Well, that’s useful.  Corwin rolled a five.”

Regan dropped the die, checking her sheet as it landed on eighteen.  “Um, twenty-four?”

A soft chuckle could be heard behind the game screen, followed by the buzzing of Bull’s phone.  Bull skimmed the hastily texted hint, glanced over at Cullen, then Regan and grinned.  “I make a quick look around of all the market stalls, just trying to …. make sure we haven’t missed anything.  ‘We’ve found all we can here.  Move on to the ransom point?’.”

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“And the Legendary Wolf hits for 86 points of damage to Amnon, so halved is ... 43.”  Cullen checked the initiative order and grins.  Somehow, Regan had managed to roll well enough that no one had noticed her character sneaking along behind the group.  He’d hoped they would have spotted her during the trek from the market to the forest, but their most perceptive player had rolled nothing but ones and twos, and the one character who had noticed something odd in the market had rolled poorly on perception checks ever since.

“Shit.  For the first time in a while, Amnon’s actually concerned about his health.”  Bull scribbled his new hit point on his sheet and frowned.  He wasn’t dead, yet, but he was closer than he wanted to be.  And he still had to wait until the top of the next round before he could do anything.  With the two other wolves still circling him still waiting to attack, he might actually need to start plotting a new character.  “Who’s up next?”

“OK, Regan; you’re up.”  Everyone turned to look at the newest player who had, thus far, remained hidden while the rest of the group was interrupted, and subsequently attacked by, a pack of dire wolves with a legendary wolf leading the pack.

“Where is everyone again?”  Regan pursed her lips as she studied the map.  Her eyes followed Cullen’s finger as he pointed out Amnon facing off against the legendary wolf and two dire wolves and then the rest of the group facing off against the last three dire wolves about twenty feet away.  “I guess I’ll attack … whichever wolf is looking the worst out of those two.”  She rolled the dice and made her attack.

“So, while Cerastes, Breeches, Aratur and Corwin are busy dealing with dire wolves, and Amnon is doing his best to fend off the rest, a form darts out from the shadows and drives a pair of daggers into one of the wolves nearest to the tiefling, taking it out.”  Cullen pulled one of the wolf minis from the map.  “Breeches, you’re next.”

“Am I close enough to see what’s going on over there?”  Sera ran her fingers through her hair and frowned.  She wasn’t a lot of good in close-combat; most of her skillset was geared toward longer range, keeping out of the main scuffle and supporting the others.

Cullen checked out the map and nodded.  “Close enough, yes.  But can you afford to remove your attention from the situation in front of you to look?”

“Ugh; point.”  Sera sighed and grumbled.  “I hate when you have a point.”

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“Maker, how did it get to be 2 AM already?”  Cassandra pushed away from the table, fighting a yawn.  It was only luck that someone else was driving.  Regalyan had arrived half an hour previous and had been patiently waiting.  “I am so sorry, Galyan.  I thought we would be finished earlier ….”  She made her goodbyes and left the apartment leaning on her boyfriend tiredly.

“Never thought I’d be glad to bring in another  newbie,” Sera laughed, downing the last of the energy drink in front of her.  “But damn if you didn’t come in handy.”  The time wasn’t a big concern for her; Lace would be getting off work in the next half hour anyway.  “You did good.”  She waved to everyone and practically bounded out the door, eager to meet up with her girlfriend.

“I agree.”  Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight back a yawn.  As much as he loved his friends, he was quite ready to push everyone out the door so he and Bull could get some sleep.  “You did very well for your first time out.”  He leaned across the table slightly and smiled after glancing over at his partner.  “And thank you for keeping him alive.  Having to comfort him on the loss of his character would have made the evening much less enjoyable.”

Bull shook his head and hugged Cassandra and Sera as they left.  “Amnon would have been fine,” he assured his husband.  “A bit beat up, but nothing he couldn’t handle.”  It took no time for him to cover the distance from the door to the table, dodging Cullen as he finished cleaning up the supplies from the game.  He leaned over and wrapped his arms around Regan in a surprise hug.  “I’m glad we didn’t have to test that, though.”

For the next half hour, Regan helped clean up, after a few minutes of arguing with Dorian about whether she needed to help or not.  Cullen kept busy gathering up and very carefully putting away each mini, map, and sheet of paper in its proper place or folder.  Finally, everything was away and Cullen walked her to her car.  “Thank you for inviting me, Cullen.”

He wrapped his arms around her, hugging her close before stepping back and letting his hands slide down to her hips.  “I … did you enjoy …?  I hope we didn’t run on too long.”  He’d been surprised when she’d asked to come, and more so when she had asked to play.  He hadn’t intended on even talking about it  for a while longer; a lot of people were less than accepting of the past-time he and his friends enjoyed.  But she’d been curious - asking questions and honestly studying for the past week to try and understand as much as she could.  Throughout the evening, he’d looked over to check up on her frequently and she’d looked like she’d been enjoying herself.  But what if he’d only been seeing what he’d wanted to?

“It … was a little later than I’d expected.  She laughed softly, running fingertips along his arms.  She hadn’t expected him to walk her all the way out, but it was a welcome surprise.  As nice as Dorian’s complex was, it was still late, and dark.  “But I enjoyed the company.  That blond sitting next to me was kinda cute.”  She leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek.  “And smart.”  A kiss on the other cheek.  “And funny.”  A kiss to his nose.  She leaned in a little further and whispered in his ear, “And sexy.”

Cullen stifled a faint groan, gripping her hips just a little tighter.  The only real downside with playing the game at Dorian’s apartment was that he was with his girlfriend in full view of anyone who might happen to look out their window.  He found his voice and slid a hand along her spine.  “I’m sure he –“

“Do you think Lace would be willing to share Sera?”  Regan interrupted with a teasing grin, fluttering her lashes all sweet and innocent-like.

Cullen barked out a laugh and pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers.  He felt her fingers grip his arms and her body shift just a little closer.  He ran his fingers through her hair.  The soft whimper he received when they broke the kiss was music to his ears.  “What was that, again?”

She knew her cheeks were pink despite the evening’s warmth.  She had to be getting home, as much as she didn’t want to right then.  Who would have thought she’d meet someone like him at a work party.  “I love you.”

“And I love you.”  He kissed her one last time, ignoring the whistles coming from the window of Dorian & Bull’s apartment.  “I’ll call you tomorrow when I get off shift.”

Chapter 3 here

Additional note:  I want to thank @nerdyskirt for her help with all the D&D parts. I have never played Dungeons & Dragons (I tried once, but the people I was playing with were not very welcoming or patient with a newbie, so …). My knowledge of the game is pretty much limited to what I’ve seen on Critical Role, so … without her, this story wouldn’t happen.