#oh how I’ve missed the terrible lighting of junior events

[leahthedreamer]

Ami Nakai (JPN) SP spins || Junior Grand Prix Bangkok 2023

[aquadrazi]

Find Someone to Carry You

Chapter 4

*****Thirteen years after the death of the Yiling Patriarch*****

“I heard the Jin Sect Leader died” “Died inside one of his whores is what I heard” “I heard the new young sect leader has been training with the Ghost of Gusu” “I heard that those young cultivators are the best in generations” “Is it true that the Second Jade of Lan turned down Chief Cultivator?” “I’m not surprised. He’s only seen around his group of Juniors when they are on night hunts” “Jin Guangyao seems to being a good job running the Jin Sect in the boy’s absence” “It seems the Jin and Lan sects are becoming closer and closer” “Maybe, but it doesn’t seem that the Ghost of Gusu cares about sect politics”

........Mo Manor…….

Lan Wangji arrived quickly after he saw Sizhui’s signal flare light up the night sky. He liked to keep his distance these days to see how his Juniors handled hunts on their own, and then would come when summoned if there were problems. They had been asked to rid the Mo Estate of some resentful energy, so apparently things were more complicated than they were led to believe.

As the Juniors recounted the events that led up to them signaling for help, Lan Wangji surveyed the area. One particular area drew his eyes.

He walked towards a run-down shack and signaled for the Juniors to follow him. The demonic hand would be dealt with, but he had a feeling there was more to this story than first appeared.

The Juniors had swarmed past him before he had finished taking in the scene, with their weapons drawn.

“Wait” He stopped them. “Tell me, what do you see?”

“Senior Lan, there is a demonic cultivator laying in the center of an array. We must kill him”

“Oh? Why must we?” Lan Wangji realized that it was high time for this lesson.

“Because demonic cultivation is evil”

“Who told you that?”

“Master Lan”

“Why is it evil?”

There was shuffling and silence.

“Is it the cultivation itself that is evil, or is it the cultivator?”

“Master Lan says that demonic cultivation erodes the mind and turns the cultivator into a monster”

“The Yiling Patriarch used demonic cultivation and he killed thousands before he was finally defeated”

“He killed my parents” Jin Ling added quietly, loud enough to only be heard by the few standing around him.

“Do you see a monster?” Lan Wangji asked calmly, despite the reference. He did not miss that most of the Juniors tensed up at the mention of Wei Ying. They had learned at a very young age that talk of the Yiling Patriarch was not tolerated around him.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe”

“What is the array even FOR?”

“I see a boy in need of medical attention.” Sizhui said stubbornly while putting his sword away. The other Juniors followed suit. Sizhui had assumed a leadership role amongst them, they all seemed to follow his lead regardless if it was a night hunt or what game they were going to play after lecture.

“Alright. Sizhui, you take charge of seeing that Young Master Mo here doesn’t bleed to death. The rest of you, see what clues can be found in the room as to what happened here.” Lan Wangji was proud of his son. He had hoped that being raised in Cloud Recesses wouldn’t cause him to see the world as black and white, as it had for him when he was growing up.

Lan Wangji could see little bits of Wei Ying in the boy, even though he didn’t remember his time in the Burial Mounds. A-Yuan was so young when everything had happened, and when Lan Wangji had found him, the boy was suffering from a terrible fever. He still has nightmares from time to time, but Sizhui would brush them off as crazy dreams, and not memories of his past.

“Senior Lan” Jin Ling whispered next to him. “I think the spell was designed by the Yiling Patriarch.” He had found a bunch of papers and was presenting them to Lan Wangji.

How could he possibly know that?

“I- I recognize the handwriting.” Jin Ling’s hand trembled a little as Lan Wangji took the papers from him. As the Juniors grew older, Lan Wangji had spoken out loud to them less and less. However, since they had spent so much time together as they grew up, the Juniors all had an uncanny ability to read Lan Wangji’s miniscule changes in facial expressions and body language. Lan Wangji didn’t have to say anything to prompt the boy to continue his explanation.

“When I went back for my grandfather’s funeral I went looking for…” He looked around to see if anyone was in earshot, then spoke again even quieter “…the screaming man. I went back to the room I had seen him in with grandfather and Uncle Jin when I didn’t see him in the receiving hall. He wasn’t there, but there were a bunch of items that had belonged to the Yiling Patriarch there. I’m guessing that my grandfather had them collected so he could research demonic cultivation. I… read some of the journals. His writing was…distinct.” The boy almost looked ashamed as he finished his explanation.

It only took a glance for Lan Wangji to confirm that the spell was designed by Wei Ying. “You are correct”.

“It seems that the spell was designed by Senior Wei, probably during his time in the Burial Mounds with the Wen remnants.” Lan Wangji announced to the room. “So we now know that we are dealing with something that we probably haven’t seen before.”

“The Yiling Patriarch?”

“So it IS demonic cultivation.”

“I wonder if it worked…whatever it was”

Don’t be emotional.

Let them find the clues themselves.

Let them put it together.

Let them come to their own conclusions.

They are good kids with open minds, they don’t see the world as black and white.

They’ve been taught to think and gather evidence before they judge.

“Senior Lan. I’ve compared the array to the one in Senior Wei’s drawing, it was correctly drawn. I see no reason for the spell to not have worked. Also, it appears this spell is a Sacrifice Summon, so Young Master Mo would have given up his soul and offered his body as a vessel to…something… be it a demon or another spirit, to…get revenge for him.” Lan Jingyi reported.

“Has anyone found a note?” Sizhui asked from where he was tending to the boy. “If it was a Sacrifice Summon, then there would be a note with instructions for what the spirit needed to carry out.” He channeled spiritual energy into the slashes on the boy’s wrist. The ones that would only go away once whatever it was that the boy wanted done was accomplished. His eyes widened when they closed up. “Wait! The spell didn’t work. The wounds closed.”

“So that IS young Master Mo then”

“Oh good”

“What? He’s still a demonic cultivator”

“I heard he was crazy”

“At least he isn’t an ACTUAL demon”

“He must have been in a lot of pain to want to give up his life, and all future lives for revenge”

“What do you mean?”

“The caster gives up their body to another, and their soul is destroyed in the process”

“So he was expecting to die”

“Why would anyone do that?”

Uncle would be very irritated at the Juniors chattering while looking for clues. However Lan Wangji didn’t discourage it. He liked to hear what they were thinking, and where their thought processes were going. He found it was easier to teach them if he KNEW what they were thinking, rather than guessing. The irony was not lost on him. If he had been more verbal with Wei Ying maybe things would have turned out differently. He would not make that mistake again.

No, he encouraged his Juniors to voice everything they thought and felt. He wanted them all to know that they could rely on each other no matter the situation. He never wanted to see another cultivator on their own, battling the world, misunderstood. His Juniors would have each other, even after he was long gone.

“I found a note!”

“What does it say?”

“Who was he trying to summon?”

“Who did he want revenge on?”

Their questions were broken by a sudden screaming coming from young Master Mo. “No, no please. Please stop. Please let me go, I’m scared. I don’t want to. Please, it hurts. I’ll be good, I swear. I’ll be good. Please!”

Sizhui pulled the boy into his lap and held him tightly so he couldn’t thrash about. “It’s okay, Just breathe. No one here will hurt you. Can you breathe for me?” He said soothingly to the boy while rocking him.

The boy continued to sob and beg pathetically into Sizhui’s shoulder as Sizhui whispered into the boy’s ear and rocked him gently.

“He was trying to summon the Yiling Patriarch. He wanted revenge on those who…had abused him.”

“But the spell didn’t work.”

“Does that mean that the Yiling Patriarch is alive?”

“That can’t be. The Jin clan saw him burst into a million pieces”

“Well, if he is definitely dead, then that must mean there wasn’t a soul to summon”

No soul.

Wei Ying’s soul was destroyed.

Wei Ying hasn’t just been avoiding Inquiry for the past 13 years.

He wasn’t just hiding, feeling hurt and betrayed.

His soul was destroyed, so there was nothing left to talk to.

Wei Ying would never reincarnate.

Wei Ying no longer existed.

Lan Wangji felt like someone had reached into his chest, ripped out his heart, and was squeezing it in front of his eyes.

“Se-Senior Lan? Are you okay?”

The Juniors were staring at him with looks of concern. “Mn” was all he could manage for them.

“Let’s regroup back at Cloud Recesses.” Sizhui suggested, realizing that his father was having some sort of emotional crisis. The Juniors murmured and nodded in agreement as they took samples of the talismans hanging from the walls, and all the papers that had been found, and exited the shack.

The boy in his arms whimpered as Sizhui lifted him up, even though he was careful not to press against any of the injuries he could see.

“It’s going to be okay now. No one is going to hurt you again.” Sizhui tried to soothe the boy as he carried him out of the shack. “We will help you”.

“Senior Lan, can you fly on your own?” Lan Wangji felt an arm on his shoulder, steadying him.

“I will be fine” Lan Wangji responded. It wasn’t a lie, he was sure that he would be fine to fly. The Junior stayed by his side as he left the shack, which he was glad for because his legs were fighting him to stay standing up. “I will just need a minute.”

The cool night air helped him to focus on the present. There was a young boy who needed their help, and a demonic hand to get to a secure place. There was also the information that the Jin sect had Wei Ying’s work from when he was in the Burial Mounds, and had been using it in experiments for years. Young Master Mo was one of Jin Guangshan’s bastards, and had been kicked out for being crazy. Perhaps he had been part of the experiments. That would explain the demonic cultivation.

Lan Wangji breathed deeply and steadily until his mind calmed down. They would travel back to Cloud Recesses, the boy would be tended to, and they would look through the clues and try to get a better picture of what was going on.

Once those things were taken care of, then he would allow himself to fall apart.

[suckmyballshoney]

Could you maybe recommend some good fics?

Okay mom, this is the list of the best things I’ve read ! And because I am incapable of choosing only a few, there is like 100 fics in there, it’s crazy. I’m a fucking mess, it’s a fucking mess, there are all amazing fics and I have no self-control so take it all 😂 (please appreciate it, I spent so loooong on it ! 😂)

For anyone reading this, here’s an important note I need to make before we start : this only comes from my opinion, with ships I like and my own preferences in themes. If one of your fics or a fic you liked is in there, well good for you because I loved it ! And if it’s not, it doesn’t mean that it’s bad or anything like that, just that I haven’t read it or that I missed it yesterday when me and my tired eyes went through the historic of the THOUSANDS of fics I’ve ever read in the fandom, it’s a fucking lot and I surely missed some.

Also, some fics are locked so if you don’t have an account, you won’t be able to see them.

I tried to organize it, I really tried, and for the sake of safety I’ll note the NSFW ones, if you go read, take care of yourself and read at your own caution, because I can read pretty much about anything doesn’t mean anyone can and have too so check the tags every time ! Take care of yourself and enjoy the ones you read ! 💙

Emotional fics

Like ribbons by heroics (Dan/Max, NSFW)

I will always be there for you, brother by someone_worth_racing_for (Nico/Carlos, NSFW)

And in the end I will seek you out amongst the stars by mandzilkos (Charles/Max)

Bitter/Sweet by Tianvette (Seb/Mark)

Night Bus by EverythingIsAJokeIncludingMe (Lando/Carlos)

Black Over Red (the death of a King) by onehonor

not magnificent by secondlifetime

toffee by simplyverstappen (Dan/Max, NSFW)

terrible sting, terrible storm by singlemalter (Lando/Carlos)

I got everything at my fingertips (How can I resist when it feels like this?) by komkommertijd (Dan/Max)

Holding together what can not be held by Quagswagging (NSFW)

The spleen of monte carlo (and how to deal with it) by altissimozucca (Charles/Max)

Interlude/infatuation by toro (sapoeysap) (Alex/George)

I’ve not hate (that’s how I know I lied to you) by GufettoGrigio (Lewis/Nico)

Phantom limb by Charona (Dan/Max, NSFW)

(Dis)closure by Charona (Nico/Kevin, NSFW)

Under Greece’s stars by Lily_Anna (Lewis/Nico)

Hate is a terrible feeling by scarletred

Fluff and/or funny fics

be still my foolish heart by jorgelorenzo (Carlos/Lando, NSFW)

That's What Friends Are For by KyoukayKanata (Carlos/Lando)

Some Boys Just Wanna Watch The World Burn by onehonor (Lando/Charles)

you ('cause you feel like home) by maxverstappens

amor (la leche style) by toro (sapoeysap) (Carlos/Lando)

Nico’s Greatest Achievement by F1_rabbit (Lando/Max)

Mystery Man by simplyverstappen (Lando/Carlos, Dan/Max)

There’s love in this life, there’s no obstacle by Pericardiaca (George/Alex)

Drowned in oxygen by scarletred (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

We’ll Always Be Okay by Thatsrightmyhype (Max/Lando, NSFW)

Tying Cherry Stems in Knots by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

And they were quarantined by scarletred (Charles/Max)

50 Sentences of Carlos and Lando by palalabru (Lando/Carlos)

The Day Kevin Magnussen Attempted Murder (and Fernando learned not everyone likes to be babied) by Quagswagging

You Say We're Just Friends (But Friends Don't Know the Way You Taste) by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

it's not that hard to open eyes that close when they couldn't have by circuitricardoporno (Lando/Carlos)

An analysis of inappropriate behaviour between teammates, featuring Lando Norris and Carlos Sainz Junior by WhiteWolfCraft (Lando/Carlos)

Darling, we’re a paradox (but I think we’ll manage) by altissimozucca (Pierre/Daniil)

Far away truths by raikkonen (armario) (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Thank you, Anytime by sensibleshoes28 (Charles/Max)

Game Stops and Spanish Restaurants by Anna_banana (Lando/Carlos)

Catch you when you fall by maxverstappens (Dan/Max)

soulmates (or: max has a love-hate relationship with coldplay) by altissimozucca (Charles/Max)

your love I’m lost in by maxverstappens (Lando/Max, NSFW)

Last night you were in my room (and now my bedsheets smell like you) by LostInSpace and MerlinSpecter (Dan/Max)

Abu Dhabi 2035 by Charona (Dan/Max)

A Drink Too Many, Or Maybe Less by ColdWhiteLight (Kimi/Seb, NSFW)

Oh, Sandman, bring us a dream by bonotje (Lando/Max)

So happy Christmas (back on the bad list) by toro (sapoeysap) (Alex/George)

You’ll pull at my neck and we’ll break what can’t be broken by grwyish (Charles/Max)

Set alight my skin (and I’ll melt like ice) by Directionless_Foray (Lando/Carlos)

irish spring 5-in-1 by Anonymous (Pierre/Daniil)

Others

Like Magic by Rizz07 (de-ageing fic)

Even though you know we fly (Don't call me angel) by Alexa_Plays (George/Alex)

Have You Come Up A Name For Your Chassis? By Asahi_9L1314

Rule 63 by WhiteWolfCrack (George/Alex, NSFW, genderswap)

I took the stars from our eyes and then I made a map by Directionless_Foray (Lewis/Seb)

kiss me under the light of a thousand stars by altissimozucca

if you wanna come back, it’s alright by raikkonen (armario) (Pierre/Daniil, NSFW)

F1 Rarepair Drabbles by raikkonen (armario) (NSFW)

Fringe contender by redpaint (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

www.tumblr.com by legolasass

Lady, I need my dog back now…and my Nico too by Anonymous (Lewis/Nico)

A moment you need me to stay by circuitricardoporno (Lando/Carlos/Isa, NSFW)

McLaren Unboxed | The Papaya Boys | #2020 by legolasass (Carlos/Lando)

The Performer by theinanitor (Jenson/Seb)

spotlight on me and i'm ready to break  by Pericardiaca (NSFW)

The banterzone by groooovybaby

Lance stroll’s exclusive hallowe’en party by raikkonen (armario)

So, let’s dance (when we’re not supposed to be) by Directionless_Foray (Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Long fics/series

Three Wishes For Verstappen by PoemAboutCitylights (Dan/Max)

Solar Flare by Tianvette (Jenson/Seb, NSFW)

Baby I'll Rule (Let Me Live That Fantasy) by komkommertijd (Dan/Max)

knife's edge by restless5oul (Charles/Max, NSFW)

In High School by Zig_Zag_F1 (Charles/Max, George/Alex, Carlos/Lando, NSFW)

Everyone’s shagging because I said so by Wellthisdidntgotoplan (serie, NSFW)

The Experiences of Blossoms by magic_one (serie)

New love old love by circuitricardoporno (serie, Alex/George/Lando, Lando/Carlos, NSFW)

Every colour illuminates by circuitricardoporno (serie, Lando/George, NSFW)

Bad baby by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Max and Pierre by kakkakerssi (Pierre/Max, NSFW)

The five last fics of sirius (Alex/George/Lando, NSFW)

All Behind A Mask by JustAnotherF1Fangirl (Lando/Carlos)

Youtube AU by simplyverstappen (serie, NSFW)

Sons of the gods by EverythingIsAJokeIncludingMe

Falling and finding by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Can’t go on without you by FadingDragon (Dan/Max)

Magic verse by simplyverstappen (serie, Dan/Max)

The higher we soar the smaller we appear to those who cannot fly by RosaNautica (Romain/Kevin, NSFW)

Ten Important Events In My Life by komkommertijd (serie)

Crowns by simplyverstappen (serie, NSFW)

Sebastian and Kimi raising the chaotic trio (aka a Highschool AU) by greeny1710 (serie, NSFW)

The Grid’s Apocrypha by singlemalter (serie, NSFW)

Quiet healing by Directionless_Foray (serie, Charles/Seb, NSFW)

Max and Lando by kakkakerssi (serie, NSFW)

Our families by greeny1710 (serie, NSFW)

French fics (of course I had to include that category)

Passer le temps by Jae_Universe

Dead Hearts by Laeana (serie)

10 façons de mourir by Laeana (serie)

Love is a seduction game by Laeana (serie)

Pffffiouuuuuu that is DONE ! So long 😂 MP/mom I hope you have enough to read for the next WEEKS !

All the writers mentioned above that have a tumblr are here and they deserve a fucking lot of recognition : @someone-worth-racing-for @onehonoramongstthieves @verstappened @nicorosberg @komkommertijd @bwoahtastic @havertzs @alphatoro @gufettogrigio @kyoukai-kanata @landonenorris @f1rabbit @shellhaeds @scharletred @palalabu @landolait @bottasvaltteri @sleepyverstappens @yxllowish @storm-in-my-teacup @rizz07 @redpaint @nxrrislandx @laeana @lilyanna13 and all the others that I didn’t find their tumblr account 😂

[autumnslance]

((Free Day for FFXIV Write 2020, a WIP I’ve dithered on for awhile. Early Stormblood; follows the "Foibles" prompt’s events. Below the cut for those who prefer Tumblr to Ao3.))

Rhalgr’s Reach slowly recovered from the assault as the days passed. The bodies had been buried and all rites given, the living granted their too-brief time to mourn. Now came clearing the rubble, repairing what could be repaired, and somehow finding replacements for what could not.

Recruitment and morale were low, but Conrad and M’naago hoped to make steady progress while working with the Alliance forces, as even the token victories managed before the assault had aided their cause considerably. The Imperials, for their part, seemed content to allow the Eorzeans to have the East End and much of the lower Fringes, secure as the enemy was in Castrum Velodyna.

Krile, Arenvald, and a few other junior Scions continued to lend their aid to the efforts, even as they prepared to escort the worst injured back across the border to Gridania once they were well enough to travel. Y’shtola would continue on to Mor Dhona to recover in the comfort of the Rising Stones and take her turn as the senior Scion in the Toll; Thancred was now in the Reach, since she was injured and their comrades headed to the Far East.

Thancred’s mopey thoughtfulness since arriving in Gyr Abania had not been lost on Y’shtola, and she resolved to draw the cause out of him before she left. It would not do to have their senior representative in a surly mood at this critical juncture. The next opportunity presented itself not two days before she was scheduled to leave.

“What exactly is the problem now?” Y’shtola asked as Thancred entered her little sectioned-off “room” in the Barber to deliver her tea, then dropped onto the floor between the bed and the chair she currently inhabited, as he sighed heavily.

“So grouchy. Do you also require your medication?”

“No. And I am not ‘grouchy’. You obviously wish to discuss something.”

“It is not that I mind aiding the war efforts here in Gyr Abania,” he said with no further preamble. “I am simply missing people, with so many now off to the Far East. Having you ready to return to Mor Dhona seems to have sharpened that feeling somehow.”

“I am terribly sorry my recovery is inconvenient to your mood,” she said as she sipped her tea. He had remembered exactly the right amount of honey and cream.

“That is not what I meant and you know it,” Thancred said, settling onto his back, hands behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling.

“I am merely waiting for you to arrive at the point.”

“Remember when we were all still back in the Waking Sands, and I was rather foolishly pining after certain colleagues?”

“No,” she said, as acerbic as possible. He glanced up and caught her smile. “It only happened often enough to make keeping track difficult,” Y’shtola teased. Then she grew serious. “Except perhaps in one instance, where so far as I can tell, you never truly stopped pining.”

He winced and looked back at the ceiling. “You don’t miss much. Though I like to think I was managing my boyish infatuation and simply enjoying having so good a friend as Aeryn has turned out to be. I honestly expected nothing more, and I know there was...another interest.”

Y’shtola nodded. She had not known Lord Haurchefant well, but what she recalled was entirely favorable. She had returned from the Lifestream after the man’s sacrifice, but had heard much from Alphinaud and Tataru.

“I thought,” Thancred continued. “On my return from the wilderness, that much had changed for both of us. We practically had to learn how to be friends all over again. We sorted it out, however, and talked--about Minfilia, Lord Haurchefant, and others.”

“And you find your ‘boyish infatuation’ renewed?”

“No,” he said flatly. Her ear flicked at the seriousness of his tone. “I know those; they are often fleeting things, much as I enjoy that time and company. Or, did; I’ve not experienced such since...well, since before our Lifestream mishap, actually. Oh, I have spent a night or two sating physical desire with willing company, but it is...less satisfying, after everything.”

“Don’t tell me you have become celibate.”

He laughed. “Perish the thought! But it’s not as much of a priority anymore. For one, events do not always afford the time. But mostly because...There is only one person I am truly interested in, but she is--so far as I know--not interested in me.”

“You just said your infatuation had not returned.”

“It has not,” he replied. “I have been examining the situation, and have come to a new conclusion.”

“Oh?”

“I believe I am...perhaps...falling for her,” Thancred said quietly, reluctantly.

Hearing him say what she had long suspected was somehow still surprising. It was not that he had never fallen in love before--Y’shtola had been present for those few affairs, as both critic and support--but it was exceedingly rare that he allowed himself such a luxury; she had seen him too often sabotage his own relationships, usually due to his own deep-rooted feelings of inadequacy hidden behind his charming smiles and sarcastic wit. The man had only recently developed the capacity--or perhaps more accurately, the willing vulnerability--for the deeper levels of communication required to maintain longer term relationships with an intimate partner. Perhaps that contributed to this realization; Y’shtola knew he and Aeryn had been speaking more.

She also knew a few things Aeryn had confided to her, when seeking a viewpoint with more maturity and experience than Lyse or Tataru could offer.

This was going to be tricky; neither of these dear, swiving idiots would say anything to the other if not nudged--or outright shoved--in the proper direction. Luckily for them, they had both chosen her as a confidante.

“Have you asked her if she is interested?” Y’shtola asked.

He frowned, his uncovered eye turning to her. “I know she does not care for intimate relations--”

“And yet, she has had some form of intimate relationships,” Y’shtola pointed out. “That she does not look at others and feel such attraction does not preclude a want for intimacy--including physical, in some cases. In any event, it does not mean one wants to be without close companionship.” She paused to take another sip from her cup while he thought. “If she is willing for something other than friendship, then she can set boundaries and communicate what she is able to give. ‘Tis a matter of respect and patience, which I know you fully capable of.” She leaned over, careful of her slowly healing injuries. “And I will not hear excuses that you are not ‘good enough’ for the Warrior of Light, Thancred.”

“Gods, I must be in a state, if you are being kind,” he smiled up at her fondly.

She smiled back and reached down her free hand; he took it and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I’m a bit surprised, however, that you have no words of warning about entertaining such notions with a colleague,” he said.

Now he was looking for a reasonable out; she wasn’t about to give it to him. “I trust that to be something you have already considered yourself, and part of the reluctance to admit to these feelings,” Y'shtola answered as she let go of his hand and sat back again. “Denying your heart will do no favors for your working relationship, either; it must be confronted and discussed like reasonable adults.”

Not that her friends were reasonable, but they could at least pretend for a time she mused as she sipped more tea.

“‘Tis a moot point at the moment, you know,” he said. “She is in the East. It shall be moons before they’re all back.”

“Then we shall have to keep you from stewing over the matter too much in the meantime,” Y’shtola replied lightly. “And if your feelings have not changed by the time our colleagues do return to us, then you shall have even less excuse to not speak with the woman.”

“Logical as ever. Thank you, Shtola.”

“You’re welcome, Thancred. Now, will you get off my floor?” She set aside her empty tea cup.

“But it’s cool and actually fairly comfortable. I think I wore myself out running Arenvald through his paces earlier. The boy’s come a long way and has far too much enthusiasm for sparring practice.”

“Thancred, please; I wish to nap.”

“I’m not stopping you,” he replied cheekily, hands behind his head again, a faint smirk on his lips as he closed his eyes.

Y’shtola sighed--exaggerating a tad, perhaps--and carefully, slowly, moved from the chair, giving him only a light kick in the ribs as a formality. He playfully grunted at her tap, otherwise not moving, as she lay down carefully in her bed.

She was not sure if he actually intended to sleep as well, or was simply using her room for the companionable silence and safety from Resistance officers and enthusiastic sparring partners it offered. No matter; she did not truly mind his presence--he knew she had fewer nightmares of Zenos (helm looming over her, cold voice taunting before the world shattered, leaving her drowning in her own blood) when another was near--and if Thancred sought his own form of comfort, she could not begrudge him that when their fellow Scions were ever so far away.

The pair slept, keeping each other company.

[pollylynn]

Title: The Glass Cell WC: 1600

“You know reality isn’t fiction, right?”  — Dr. Clark Murray, A Death in the Family (1 x 10)

She wears a dress of her mom’s to prom, he decides. He imagines it in detail—cut-work lace over taffeta in bright emerald green, a satin empire waist band a shade darker, a full A-line skirt. He envisions her with mismatched quasi-punky hair hanging down to half hide her dramatic eye-makeup. She stands out, of course. In a sea of off-the-shoulder, halter neck, heavy fabrics in primary colors—crayon red, royal blue, black, black, white, white, red again, with an ill-advised plunge neckline. She stands out. 

She likes her date, though she doesn’t exactly let him know that. He imagines that, too. She doesn’t exactly let anyone know that she likes this boy on the verge of being a man, because she’s not sure that she’s supposed to. He’s quiet and sensitive. Not a dork—not outright unpopular, but a dark horse candidate for asking her in the first place, and her unexpected, unhesitating yes had sent shockwaves through the eleventh grade. 

She is awkward on the dance floor. She is a vision in her mother’s dress, but there is architecture to it. There is a hidden foundation that requires time travel of her ribs, her spine, her hips, and her date—the boy on the verge of being a man—has no idea where to put his hands during the slow songs. She has no idea where to put hers, so she locks her fingers behind his neck. She breathes Let’s get out of here well before Boyz II Men get to the spoken-word part, and they do. 

They race across the ballroom with their fingers linked, laughing like fools. They leave her friends, his friends, the tiny intersection of their friends to gawp as they bang through the double doors.They roam the streets around the hotel in a spiral pattern, talking and talking. 

She shivers and pulls the cream-colored silk-and-seed-pearl wrap close around her. With well-intentioned gallantry, he tries to drop his tuxedo jacket over her shoulders. He misses, and they both watch in horror as the long tails drag through something nameless and awful before he can catch it. 

The hem of her dress is dirty and her mom’s dyed-to-match pumps with their rhinestone butterfly clips will never be the same. But they share french fries at a nameless diner. They share a tentative kiss in the back of a cab as the boy escorts her home. They share a burning, frenzied, back-against-the-glass follow-up in the doorway of her apartment as the sun comes up. 

She misses curfew by a lot. Her mom brings her coffee and toast in bed long after morning has tipped over into afternoon. She asks a million impertinent questions about the boy she likes, about the evening, about her plans to save up for what should be an astonishing dry cleaning bill. 

This is how it happens. This is what he decides. 

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

She sprains her ankle on move-in day. He knows. He sees clearly how the events unfold. 

She has a plan. She has keys in hand by 8:01 am. She has a spot for the van with her things, hardly a block away, and her second-hand office chair can serve as a makeshift dolly. She has almost nothing. It’ll be two dozen quick trips, she figures, but the apartment is full of junk. 

Oh yeah, the creepy building manager tells her, last guy skipped out. 

The junk is her problem, apparently. Her problem. She plumps down on some kind of ottoman and immediately regrets it as an oily smell rises up. It’s not just the ottoman, though. The whole place reeks of food and animal fat. She registers the distant clatter of dishes, of silverware, and the hiss of a hot grill rising up through the floor. 

She props her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. She wastes ten precious minutes of the three hours before she has to have the van back contemplating the space that is smaller, dingier, filthier than the unit she saw when she signed the lease. 

She hauls herself up and lugs the ottoman and a broken laundry basket full of dirty t-shirts with her down to the dumpster. She bumps milk crates full of electronics odds and ends down the stairs. She carries awkward lamps like jousting lances. 

It’s a box of kitchen things that does her in. It’s a mile wide and heavy. She knows she should unpack and repack it. She should make two trips, three, four, but she’s tired of this. She misses a step. She goes down to the landing. She can feel the rush of heat into the ankle she has wrenched badly. 

There’s a neighbor—a pair of neighbors—who hear the commotion. They rescue her, Cleo and Pete, who are just a little older than she is. They extricate her from underneath the box. They help her into their apartment and give her an ice pack. They give her a stiff drink and an ace bandage. 

They share stories about the guy who skipped out in the middle of the night—his questionable activities and his even more questionable taste in music. They order pizza and won’t take her money when she offers. The three of them agree that the building manager almost certainly collects clown paintings by serial killers. 

They insist that she spend the night on their couch. She protests. She tries to put weight on her ankle, then gives in. She spends her first night not in her first apartment staring at a ceiling that belongs to strangers with tears leaking from the corners of her eyes because her fucking ankle hurts. Because she doesn’t have the money to pay for another day of the damned van. Because her mother is dead and she is alone in the world. 

He knows all this. He sees it clearly. 

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

He cannot picture the shadows on her skin in that basement room. He sees the backs of his own hands criss-crossed infinitely with weak, unflattering light coming in through the cage. But he cannot see hers. Would her fingernails be as neat and no-fuss as they are today, or would they have been ragged with the pain of all the long years before she made it that far? 

Would she—and the possibility is like a lattice work of burning hot ice spreading through him from the inside—would she have gotten the chain for her mother’s ring when she first put on the uniform? Was there a time in that dingy apartment—in her college days with her dad drowning and her left wrist as yet bare—was there a time when when she would have slipped it on her finger each morning instead of ducking her head to let the delicate links of a think gold chain slither down over her collar bones?

He doesn’t know, any more than he knows if she would have risked the rickety table with its hard, back-breaking chair. He cannot say whether she would have waited for the most desolate hour each possible night, then set to work right where he did, or if she would have, instead, arranged herself on the cracked tile floor, knees drawn up and hunched over the tight beam of a penlight. 

He looks for signs of her in the creases and ragged edges, the rusty indentation of an ancient paperclip removed and replaced, the corner of a thin stack torn away along with a now-missing staple in a moment of frustration. He scours the faded, triple-carbon paperwork and holds the glossy, terrible photos at an oblique angle to the light from his desk lamp, the light from his computer screen. In the riot of smudged, overlapping fingerprints he wonders which might be hers. 

It’s no use, this afterthought of a search. She is nowhere. There is no detail remembered from his own few hours spent in that basement room, no physical trace of her presence in the file itself that sparks the rush of absolute clarity with which he envisions her at the junior prom, her on move-in day at that first three-story walk-up that smelled of chicken wings. 

She is nowhere, because he has never once bothered to imagine her—not once. He relives the abrupt sting of her rapped out pair of questions—You don’t think I’ve haven’t been down there? You don’t think I haven’t memorized every line in that file? He sits, staring at the file now with tide of shame advancing, receding, advancing. 

He didn’t think. In all these weeks, he has not once thought about the space between the wound delivered and the scars she bears. He has not once thought about the dreams she must have cast off, what it must have cost her to forge a path to that basement room. He has not once considered what those long years must have been like. He has never stopped to ask himself how the woman she is now—the relentless, fiercely intelligent, extraordinary woman he has come to know—could ever have come to accept her mother’s death as a random, wayward event.

He thinks now. He asks himself now. He tries, now, to picture the shadows on her skin, the tense outline of her body and the tight beam of a penlight. He tries to imagine that lonely work, but he can’t. 

She is gone from him. She is nowhere.  A/N: This is an especially weird not!thing. I had to decide that Castle has the actual Johanna Beckett file that he’s taken, not just copies. That doesn’t make much sense, but the autopsy photos look to be originals, complete with labels and handling wear. Fixation on those details is just a distraction from how not a thing this is. 

images via homeofthenutty

[selfishsunnies]

i wish you sidewalk pennies - JJ x reader

warnings: not more than the show

notes: This is just a filler chapter... so much is ab to go down you guys I am so ready. we just gotta get there. Feedback & questions are apriciated!!!

word count: 2,300 roughly

CH. 2- “melodies & giant plastic dinosaurs”

It had been a few days since that night after the party. Kie had to work a few shifts at the wreck, so that left Alice alone in the house. It’s not that Alice wouldn’t help out at the restaurant, they just hadn’t asked. It left her with a lot of free time. She didn’t really remember the island, so she couldn’t head to the beach nor did she feel comfortable going by herself. Alice didn’t really trek outside of her comfort zone very often, but this whole summer was miles out of her little box.

With the cell phone towers down often and the wifi in the house being spotty, she spent a lot of time reading. She had brought a few books with her, but quickly finished those and had to resort to Kiara’s bookshelf. It was outdated, probably stuff she had read in middle school. Alice didn’t really mind though, she had read most of them, too. She picked up one she hadn’t and began reading. She quickly lost track of time and before she knew it, her aunt was home. She knocked lightly on Alice’s door, peeking her head in. The woman looked tired, bags under her eyes, her eyebrows pinched together. 

“Hi, dear. I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“No,” Alice said, closing the book, “it’s okay.”

“How’re you doing? The first few days can be rough.”

“I’m good, Kiara’s friends all seem super nice and I’m loving the weather.”

Her aunt pinched her nose when Alice mentioned Kiara’s friends, but smiled softly. She thought about what she’d said, about being good. This wasn’t a lie. Alice really was having a good time. She felt relaxed for the first time she can remember since her parents began fighting. She didn’t miss her friends as much as she had imagined, although she wished she could group facetime and show them around the house or update them more often. She certainly didn’t miss her parents’ arguing. Her dad had lost his job a few months ago and it seemed he had no intention of getting another. Alice tried not to be home as much as possible to avoid them both. She kept busy with her job, school, and soccer practices, but now, all that was over. 

And Kiara’s friends did seem nice. They were all instantly so accepting. She felt like they were all little kids again. She wished she remembered when they were.

“Well, we’re here if you ever need anything, baby.” She placed her hand on Alice’s cheek and kissed the top of her head. Alice nodded, grateful.

The next night, the four of them had dinner together at The Wreck. It was past closing time, but it was the end of a long week and Kiara had the weekend off. Her father had been working late hours to prepare for the height of the season, he was calling it. This meant they celebrated the last few moments of calm before the storm. 

“So, Alice,” her uncle started, a glass of rum and coke in his hand, “are you still singing?”

Alice blushed at the question, “Not like I used to.” She tried to laugh it off. Alice used to train extensively, lessons twice a week, binders filled with sheet music, always doing a vocal warm up. That all changed when she got to high school though. She started playing for the school’s soccer team, her classes got a little harder and she needed more time to study. She started going to lessons only every other week, missing recitals for soccer games, until one day during senior year, she just didn’t go back. She never did the school’s musicals, though. When people learned that Alice could sing, they always assumed that meant she did theatre. It did not. Alice was a terrible dancer and didn’t particularly like acting. So, she stuck to singing. 

“Aw, really? I remember you used to love coming down here because it meant you got to skip lessons. That didn’t stop you from singing though.” Kiara said, laughing.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you don’t remember?”

Alice shook her head sadly.

“Oh come on,” her uncle started again, “you never stopped singing. Used to make kie and the neighborhood kids perform talent shows for us and your parents in the backyard, couldn’t have been older than five.” 

This earned a laugh from everyone at the table, “No way!”

“Oh, it really was the sweetest thing,” her aunt sighed, reminiscing. 

The thought of John B and JJ performing in a backyard talent show had Alice nearly in stitches, Kie too. 

“Oh, I cannot wait to hold that over their heads,” Kiara exclaimed. The laughter soon died down, making everyone realize how empty and quiet the restaurant was.

“Well, maybe I’ll start again. I’ve got tons of time,” Alice said with a smile. She was only half kidding. She really did love to sing.

“There is that fundraiser event at the end of the month.”

Kie sighed, loudly, “Mom, that is such a kook thing. Where does that money even go? Who are they even fundraising for?”

“Dear, they’re-” She started to reply, but was cut off again by Kiara ranting, “They’re a waste of time and good money that could be given to an actual cause.”

They went on like this for a few minutes before Alice could butt in, “Uhm. What?” she asked. 

“The kooks are planning a fundraiser event for god only knows what and I am being forced to go.” Kiara shot a look at her mother.

“Of course we are going, it’s a really big deal. Everyone’s going to be there and,” she reached out and placed her hand on Alice’s arm, “and they need entertainment.”

“Oh, I don't know. That’s kind of-”

“Mom, please. No.”

“Honey,” her aunt's tone was tight, the crease between her eyebrows returning, She turned her attention towards Alice, “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”  

Alice nodded her head in agreement. She silently made the promise to herself that she was not doing it. Alice had been out of practice for too long to just begin performing for an important event like this. The thought of singing in front of more than about five people made her stomach swirl. That was a different part of her life, one that Alice has left behind when coming here.

A few hours later the girls wound up at John B’s. Him and Sarah were laying in a hammock out back, tangled up in each other. JJ was rolling a joint while Pope sat next to him, talking about some tv show he just finished, “No, dude, it was crazy.” When they walked into the yard he stopped talking to kiss Kiara on the cheek and then returned to his spot next to JJ. He waved a nice hello to Alice and Sarah yelled her hello’s from the hammock. Her voice was smooth and a little giggly like she had been drinking. 

“Kie, you want a hit?” JJ asked, holding the lit joint closer to her. She took it from him and formed O’s with the smoke she exhaled before handing it to Alice.

“Oh, I uh, I don’t know.” She stuttered out. 

“Just like this” Kie demonstrated, very poorly may she add, before handing it back to Alice. She tried her very best, and still managed to choke. She coughed and coughed. This earned a laugh from JJ, “So I take it you don’t smoke?” 

“I’ve just never tried, no one smokes back home. I guess it’s just not a thing.” 

“You’re telling me no one where you’re from smokes weed? Bullshit. You’re just not going to the right parties.” He was laying in the grass, arm tucked under his head, a smug look on his face.

“I go to plenty of parties,” Alice said in defense. It’s true, Alice rarely turned down an invite to a kegger back home. She had only ever lost one beer pong game, and that wasn’t even really her fault. 

“I don’t deny that. I’m just saying you ain’t going to the right ones if there isn’t weed.” JJ took another drag and formed O’s of his own. By now Kiara had moved to sit in between the two boys and was leaning against Pope. Alice sat on his other side, leaning back on her hands. 

“I don’t know dude, even if it was there I couldn’t smoke it anyway. At least not in high school. Shit messes up your breath support and stuff.”

“She used to be a singer,” Kie clarified, “a natural talent really.” She said, poking fun.

“Ah, cool. So like musicals and stuff?” Pope asked, bless his heart. She felt her face light up now that the attention was all on her.

“No,” Alice answered with a chuckle, “like choir and recitals and all that.”

“She’s being humble, Miss first in the state.” Kiara shot back.

Now it was her turn to clarify, “That was like sixth grade! And it was just a junior competition. Anyway, enough about my miserable singing career, what’re we doing tonight?”

JJ raised his head to look at her, “this.”

“What? What about crazy adventures? You’ve all told me the stories.”

“We’ve retired,” John B spoke up for the first time since she’d been there that night. 

“Retired? At the young age of 18, that’s quite a shame.” Kiara giggled at Alice’s sarcasm. 

“Maybe if we didn’t spend a whole summer being chased by the police and a bunch of big men with guns, we wouldn’t be so tired.” Pope spoke up.

Sarah started to chime in, “Yeah, or get stranded in the Bahamas.”

“Facts.” John B said.

“Okay, okay,” Alice began, “I’m just saying, it’s a little depressing.” The crickets were loud in the trees and she closed her eyes, taking in the silence, the lack of cars speeding by. Truthfully, Alice didn’t mind sitting here all night. At home, there was always something going on, somewhere to be, someone to be with, but here everything felt like a choice. One that Alice could decide whether or not to pick, and the outcome was always good.

*********

“This is it,” John B said, gesturing outwards. Alice looked around at her new friends.They were all smiling wide staring at her, waiting for her reaction.  After much convincing, everyone agreed to go on an adventure that night. They didn’t tell her where they were going, but when they arrived, she was confused to say the least, “Uhm. Okay.” Kie swung her arm around Alice’s neck, “You really have to take it all in.”

“I- Okay. I just don’t understand why?”

“Why do you have to take it all in?” She responded.

 “No, no. Like why is it here of all places and why a dinosaur?” 

Alice tilted her head staring at the massive dinosaur statue in front of them. They had all piled into the van and drove for what felt like forever until they arrived in a little town Alice had never been to. They parked and walked to the center of town to come across this. It was huge, really. It’s neck and tail longer than three of her on top of each other. And it was surrounded by hedges and flowers and a few benches. It was the most random statue she had ever seen and it was right here in the middle of a town.

“I don’t know. Some historical shit.” JJ said, “Bet I can climb it.”

“No, JJ.” Pope dismissed and then turned to Alice, “It’s a replica of brachiosaurus. Part of it’s leg bone was discovered here in the 1800’s, so they built it to commemorate that.” Alice smiled at this explanation, thankful for Pope’s knowledge.

When they turned back to look, John B already had JJ sitting on his shoulders, trying to lift him further up the statue. 

“Guys, stop!” Sarah yelled, but she couldn’t help but laugh. He was close to hooking on to the neck. 

“This is just pointless, what are you going to do when you get up there?” Kie asked, coming over to stand where Alice and Pope were. The two boys ignored the question, obviously struggling to get JJ’s leg over. Alice couldn’t help herself and took out her phone to record a video. 

Finally, they did it. JJ was sitting on this massive dinosaur, posing cheesily for pictures while everyone laughed and egged him on.

“Imagine riding one of these things down the street,” he yelled from the top, “no one could stop me. I’m on top of the fucking world.” They were doubled over with laughter until someone spotted a cop car pulling up, “shit.”

“I cannot get caught right now,” John B said, quickly turning away from the car and grabbing Sarah’s hand. 

“JJ jump!” Pope yelled. The others were on the move down the street and ALice could see the two cops approaching the group. 

“Pope I can’t jump! Do you see how high I am right now?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “In more ways than one.”

Alice kept her eyes on the police, inching their way to them, “C’mon!” 

JJ swung his leg down and got as close to the ground as possible before leaping off and tumbling to the ground. He laid there for what felt like an hour before getting up and beginning to sprint away. The cops started to chase after them, but Alice was frozen on the scene. When she went to move, she realized Pope was already gone. 

“Bro, move!” JJ yelled and grabbed her wrist, dragging her alongside him. They ran until they saw the van, Pope behind the wheel and Kie on the passenger side. Sarah was holding the back door open and the pair made it with just enough time to drive away. 

[buzzdixonwriter]

My Five Most Influential

Someone asked:   Who are the most influential writers in your life?

Good question.

The broad answer is that one gets influenced many different ways by many different sources.  I enjoy poetry and song lyrics because they find ways of conveying the strongest emotional content in the most concise manner, music brings a sense of dramatic rhythm and fulfillment, the visual arts suggest ways of subtly adding many insights to a single strong idea, etc., etc., and of course, etc. (and that is also an example of a creative influence in my work).

But…to boil it down to those whom I most consciously made an effort to emulate, we find ourselves facing five creators that primed the pump.

This is not to say others whom I began following after them didn’t wield a lot of influence (thanx, Ernie, Bert, Jack, Bob, and Hank!) but these are the foundation of everything I’ve done in my career.

(And to those who notice a lack of diversity, I know, I know…but to be honest I have to acknowledge the truth, and the truth is for whatever reason, by chance or by choice, by fate or by fortune, these five dominated my sensibilities.  I trust that I’ve grown and expanded my horizons since then, but they’re the hand I got dealt.)

. . . 

Carl Barks

I loved ducks as a kid and my grandmother and aunt would always bring me a passel of duck-related comics when they came to visit.

There were some Daffy Duck comics mixed in there but while I know I looked at and enjoyed them, none of them stick in my mind like the Donald Duck and Uncle Scrooge stories of Carl Barks.

Typically my grandmother would read these comics to me and I’d imprint the dialog and captions in my brain, replaying them as I looked at the pictures over and over again.

Barks never wrote down to his audience, and his stories covered a vast array of genres, everything from straight domestic comedy to oddball adventures to screwy crime stories.

Donald and his nephews encountered dinosaurs more than once (another big favorite of mine), and Uncle Scrooge setting out to explore the asteroid belt in order to find a new home for his fabulous money bin was another tale I loved literally to pieces, but A Christmas For Shacktown remains my all time favorite graphic novel.

I’ll concede there are better graphic novels, but none of them warm my heart the way that Christmas story does.

Barks showed it’s possible to combine heart (not to be confused with sentimentality or =yuch!= schmaltz), vivid characters, and strong, intricate narrative.  His plots where typically filled with unexpected twists and turns but his characters were always deeply involved in them, not just along for the ride.

He’s one of the greatest storytellers in the 20th century, and his work remains timeless enough to last for several centuries to come.

. . . 

Ray Bradbury

The first Ray Bradbury story I remember encountering was “Switch On The Night” in its 1955 edition, read to my kindergarten class towards the end of the school year.

This would place the event sometime in the spring of 1959.

“Switch On The Night” captivated me because it was the first story I’d ever heard that showed what could be seen in the dark that couldn’t be seen in the day.

Even as a child, it made me realize the night wasn’t scary, but contained wonders and insights we miss in the harsh glare of day.

I don’t recall if the kindergarten teacher told us the name of the author, and if she did it didn’t stick, but boy howdy, the story sure did!  Did it open the doors of the night for me, or was I already inclined to be a night person and it simply confirmed that as a valid identity?

I dunno, but I’m typing this right now at 12:24am.

And the thoughts Bradbury planted in little Buzzy boy’s brain stayed and grew and flowered, as you can read in my poem, “The Magic Hours Of The Night”.

The next time I encountered Ray Bradbury’s writing was in grammar school, certainly no later than junior high.  I was already interested in science fiction by that point, and had read “The Pedestrian” in one of my school English books (we weren’t taught the story in class; the teacher skipped over it for whatever reason but I read it anyway then re-read it and read it again and again).

Anthony Boucher’s ubiquitous 2-volume A Treasury Of Great Science Fiction was in my grammar school library and in it was Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” (which I would later learn was one of his alternate Martian Chronicles and a crossover with Fahrenheit 451) and in that story he offered up a veritable laundry list of outré and outlandish fiction to be tracked down and read, authors to dig up and devour.

Oh, man, I was hooked.

So of course I began looking for all the stories and writers Bradbury listed in his short story but I also began looking for Bradbury’s own work and before you could say, “Mom, can I get a subscription to the Science Fiction Book Club?” I’d read The Golden Apples Of The Sun and A Medicine For Melancholy and R is For Rocket never once dreaming that at some point in the future the roadmap Ray plopped down in my lap would eventually lead to us being co-workers (separate projects, but the same studio at the same time) and friends.

There is a beautiful yet deceptive simplicity to Ray’s work, and even though he wrote his own book on writing (The Zen Of Writing) that has lots of good insights and professional tricks & tips, he himself wasn’t able to explain how he did it.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a good Ray Bradbury parody.

I’ve seen parodies that clearly are intended to evoke Ray Bradbury, but only in the same way a clumsy older relative might evoke Michael Jackson with a spasmodic movement one vaguely recognizes as a failed attempt at a moonwalk.

But, lordie, don’t think we didn’t try to emulate him, and while none of us fanboys ever came close, I think a lot of us did learn that less is more, that the right word carries more impact than a dozen paragraphs, and that there’s magic in even the most ordinary of things.

And of course I discovered the film and TV adaptations of his work, and in discovering them I also discovered that there are some things that just can’t be translated from one media to another, and that the light, effortless appeal of Ray’s work on the page (paper or pixel) can at best be recaptured with a good audio book reader but even the best dramatic adaptions -- even those by Ray himself -- are cold dead iron butterflies compared to the light and lively creatures flying about.

So eventually I stopped trying to write like him, and instead picked up the valuable lessons of mood and emotion making an impact on a story even if the plot didn’t make much logical sense.

Decades later I would become a fan of opera, and would learn the philosophy of all opera lovers:  Opera doesn’t have to make logical sense, it just has to make emotional sense.

Ray Bradbury, opera meister.

. . . 

H.P. Lovecraft

As noted above, Bradbury’s “Pillar Of Fire” tipped me to numerous other writers, first and foremost of which turned out to be Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

Okay, before we get any further into this, let’s acknowledge the woolly mammoth in the room:  H.P. Lovecraft was a colossal asshat racist.

He was a lot of other terrible things, too, but racist is far and ahead of the rest of the pack.

It’s a disillusioning thing to find people one admired as a youngster or a teen later prove to have not just quirks and eccentricities and personal flaws, but genuinely destructive, harmful, and offensive characters.

I’ve posted on that before, too.

How I wish it were possible to retroactively scale back that hurtfulness, to make them more empathetic, less egregiously offensive (in the military sense of the word), but that ain’t so.

We have to acknowledge evil when we see it, and we have to call it out, and we have to shun it.

Which is hard when one of its practitioners provides a major influence in our creative lives.

Here’s what I liked about Lovecraft as a kid:  He was the complete opposite of Ray Bradbury.

Bradbury’s instinctive genius was in finding the right word, the simple word that conveyed great impact on the story, drawing the reader into the most fantastic situations by making them seem more familiar on a visceral level.

Lovecraft achieved the exact opposite effect by finding the most arcane, bedizened, baroque, florid, grandiloquent, overwrought, rococo verbiage possible and slapping the reader repeatedly in the face with it.

If Bradbury made the unreal real, Lovecraft made the weird even more weirder.

And let’s give this devil his due:  The Strange Case Of Charles Dexter Ward and The Dunwich Horror are two masterpieces of horror and serve as the bridge between Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King, not to mention his creation of Cthulhu and other ancient entities existing beyond the ken of human knowledge…

…oh, wait, that’s where the story simultaneously gets messy yet provides a convenient escape hatch for fans.

While Lovecraft created Cthulhu, he did not create the Cthulhu Mythos.

That was primarily the invention August Derleth, a writer / editor / agent and H.P. Lovecraft’s #1 fanboy.

Lovecraft had some loosely related ideas in his stories and several themes he revisited repeatedly (in addition to racism).

He also had a circle of fellow writers -- including such heavy hitters as Robert “Psycho” Bloch and Robert E. “Conan” Howard -- who picked up on his ideas and, as way of a tribute, incorporated them in some of their stories.

Derleth took all this and Lovecraft’s unfinished manuscripts and short ideas he jotted down and turned it into a whole post-mortem industry, linking all of Lovecraft and other writers’ tales.

And he did a damn fine job of it, too.

So much so that the Cthulhu Mythos has taken on a life of its own, and pretty much anybody can play in that cosmic sandbox now (including Big Steve King and a ton of Japanese anime) and so Lovecraft’s works have an enormous influence on pop culture…

,,,but Howard hizzowndamsef can be -- and is -- cancelled.

Derleth and various biographers downplayed Lovecraft’s virulent racism for decades, and I don’t think Ray Bradbury was ever aware of the scope and tenor of Lovecraft’s bigotry when he name checked him in “Pillar Of Fire” and other stories.

In a similar vein Bradbury didn’t know -- because thanks again to overly protective literary executors, nobody knew -- just how big a racist asshat Walt Whitman was, either.  It is one thing to call shenanigans on a Bill Cosby or a Harvey Weinstein or a Donald Trump because their egregious behaviors were noted long before they were held accountable, but quite another to do so on a creator who died while hiding their most awful behavior from thousands if not millions of fans who felt inspired and uplifted by their work.

It’s one thing to call out a contemporary bigot and not support them by not buying their work, it’s quite another when their bigotry has been shielded from view and fair minded, decent people have used their work to draw inspiration into their own creativity.

Of course, I had no way of knowing all this when I was in junior high and seriously began tracking down Lovecraft’s work.  

He possessed a flair of the horrific and unearthly that to this day is hard to match (but easier to parody).  He was a tremendous influence on my early writing (truth be told, I zigzagged between Bradbury’s stark simplicity and Lovecraft’s overarching verbosity, giving my early oeuvre a rather schizophrenic style) and the ideas he sparked still reverberate to this day.

If only he hadn’t been such a giant %#@&ing asshat racist …

. . . 

Harlan Ellison

In a way, I’m glad neither Harlan nor his widow Susan are alive to read this.

I cherished Harlan as a friend and greatly admired his qualities as a writer.

But damn, by his own admission he should have been thrown in prison for aggravated assault on numerous occasions (he was courts martialed three times while in the Army).

We’re not talking about arguments that spiraled out of control until a few wild punches were thrown, we’re talking about Harlan by his own admission stalking and ambushing people, knocking them unconscious or causing grievous bodily harm.

We’re talking about sexual abuse and humiliation.

We’re talking about incidents he admitted to which if true put people in life threatening situations.

And yet ironically, in a certain sense Harlan (a bona fide Army Ranger, BTW) was like the U.S. Marine Corps:  You’d never have a greater friend or a worse enemy.

I became dimly aware of Harlan in the late 1960s as I started diving deeper into literary sci-fi, transitioning from monster kid fandom to digests and paperbacks.  Harlan first caught my attention with his macho prose (years later a similar style also drew me to Charles Bukowski) in stories like “Along the Scenic Route” (a.k.a. “Dogfight on 101”) in which Los Angelinos engaged in Mad Max motor mayhem but soon it became apparent the macho posturing was just a patina, that the heart and soul of much of the work reflected great sensitivity and often profound melancholy (ditto Bukowski).

Harlan was a fighter, and again by his own admission, he acknowledged in his later years that he was not a fighter because his cause was just, but rather sought out just causes because he knew he would be fighting regardless of his position, yet possessed a strong enough moral compass to point himself in the direction of a worthy enemy…

…most of the time.

He hurt and offended a large number of innocent and some not-so-innocent-but-certainly-not-evil people.

He also helped and encouraged a large number of others, people who had no idea who he was, people who had no way of adequately reciprocating his kindness and generosity.

He defended a lot of defenseless people.

He also mistakenly defended a lot of terrible people.

If someone tells me Harlan was a monster, I’ll agree:  Monstre sacré.

What made his writing sacred was that no matter how outlandish the situation, Harlan dredged up from the depths emotions so strong as to be frightening in their depiction.

Skilled enough not to lose sight of humanity, outlandish enough to conjure up ideas and emotions most people would shy away from, Harlan hit adolescent Buzzy boy like an incendiary grenade.

Unlike my first three literary influences, Harlan was and remained active in the fannish circles where I was circulating at the time.  He regularly wrote letters and columns for various fanzines, including a few I subscribed to.

In a literary sense he stood, naked and unashamed, in full view of the world, and that willingness to go beyond mundane sensibilities is what made his work so compelling.

He certainly fired me up as an adolescent writer, and proved an amalgam of Bradbury and Lovecraft that got my creative juices flowing in a coherent direction.

I don’t think I ever consciously tried to imitate him in my writing, but I sure learned from him, both in how to charge a story with emotion and how to fight for what’s right regardless of the blow back.

I loved him as a friend.

But, damn, Harlan…you could act so ugly...

. . .

H. Allen Smith

Who?

Most of you have never heard of H. Allen Smith, and that’s a damn shame.

I’d never heard of him either until I stumbled across a coverless remaindered copy of Poor H. Allen Smith’s Almanac in a Dollar General Store bin in Tennessee in the late 1960s (it was a memorable shopping expedition:  I also purchased Thomas Heggen’s Mister Roberts and Let’s Kill Uncle by Rohan O'Grady [pen name of June Margaret O'Grady Skinner]).

Reading Smith’s editorial comments (in addition to his own essays and fiction he edited numerous humor anthologies) I realized I’d found a kindred soul.

Smith had a very conversational tone as a writer; his prose seemed off the cuff and unstructured, but he slyly used that style to hide the very peculiar (and often perverse) path he led readers down.

He sounded / read like a garrulous guy at the bar, one with a huge number of charming, witty (and delightfully inebriated) friends in addition to his own bottomless well of tall tales, pointed observations, and rude jokes.

Of all the writers mentioned above, that style is the one I most consciously tried to emulate, and one I seem to have been able to find my own voice in (several people have told me I write the same way I talk, a rarity among writers).

Smith was hilarious whether wearing an editor’s visor or a freelancer’s fool’s cap.  If you know who H. L. Mencken was, think of Smith as a benign, better tempered version of that infamous curmudgeon (and if you don’t know, hie thee hence to Google and find out).

Compared to my other four influences, Smith didn’t need to add the fantastic to his fiction:  The real world was weird and wacky and whimsical enough.

A newspaper man turned best selling author, Smith became among the most popular humorists of the 1940s-50s-60s…

…and then he died and everybody forgot him.

Part of the reason they forgot is that he wrote about things that no longer seem relevant (TV cowboys of the early television era, f’r instance, in Mr. Zip) or are today looked upon askance (and with justifiable reason; the ethnic humor in many of his anthologies may not have been intended as mean spirited, but it sure doesn’t read as a celebration of other cultures, viz his succinct account of an argument following a traffic accident between two native Honolulu cabbies rendered in pidgin:  “Wassamatta you?”  “’Wassmatta me’?!?!?  Wassamatta you ‘Wassamatta me’?  You wassamatta!”).

I’m sure I picked up a great many faults from Smith, but Smith also had the virtue of being willing and able to learn and to make an effort to be a better person today than he was yesterday, and better still tomorrow.

I’ve certainly tried applying that to my life.

Smith’s style was also invoked -- consciously or not -- by other writers and editors, notably Richard E. Geis, the editor of the legendary sci-fi semi-prozone, Science Fiction Review (among other titles).  Smith died before I could meet him, but while I never met Dick Geis face to face we were pen pals for over 40 years.

Geis certainly sharpened specific aspects of my writing style, but the real underlying structure came from H. Allen Smith.

Smith’s work is hard to find today (in no small part because whenever I encounter one in the wild I snap it up) but I urge you to give him a try.

Just brace yourself for things we might consider incorrect today.

. . . 

So there’s my top five. 

With the exception of Carl Barks and Ray Bradbury, none of them are without serious flaw or blemish (though Smith seems like a decent enough sort despite his fondness for X-rated and ethnic humor).

In my defense as an impressionable child / teen, I was not aware of these flaws and blemishes when I first encountered their writing (primarily because in many cases efforts were made to hide or downplay those aspects).

The positive things I gleaned from them are not negated by the negative personal information that came out later.

I can, for the most part re the more problematic of them, appreciate their work while not endorsing their behavior.

Ellison can only be described in extremes, but his fire and passion -- when directed in a positive direction -- served as a torch to light new paths (his two original anthologies, Dangerous Visions and Again, Dangerous Visions, pretty much blew the doors off old school sci-fi and belatedly dragged the genre kicking and screaming into the 20th century).

Lovecraft I can effectively ignore while finding entertainment value in the Cthulhu Mythos.

But I must acknowledge this isn’t the same for everyone.

For example, as innocuous as I find H. Allen Smith, if a woman or a member of a minority group said, “I found this in particular to be offensive” I’d probably have to say, yeah, you’re right.

But I can still admire the way he did it, even if I can no longer fully support what he did.

. . . 

By the time I reached high school, I’d acquired enough savvy to regard to literary finds a bit more dispassionately, appreciating what they did without trying to literally absorb it into my own writing.

I discovered for myself the Beat generation of writers and poets, the underground cartoonists of the late 60s and 70s, Ken Kesey, Joseph Heller, Philip K. Dick, Ursula K. LeGuin, and a host of others, some already alluded to.

Some, such as the Beats and Bukowski, I could enjoy for their warts and all honest self-reflection.

Yes, they were terrible people, but they knew they were terrible people, and they also knew there had to be something better, and while they may never have found the nirvana they sought, they at least sent back accurate reports of where they were in their journeys of exploration.

By my late teens, I’d become aware enough of human foibles and weaknesses -- every human’s foibles and weaknesses, including my own -- to be very, very cautious in regarding an individual as admirable.

While I will never accept creativity as an excuse for bad behavior, if a creator is honest enough and self-introspective enough to recognize and acknowledge their own failings, it goes a long way towards my being willing to enjoy their work without feeling I’m endorsing them as individuals.

It’s not my place to pass judgment or exoneration on others bad behavior.

It is my place to see that I don’t emulate others’ bad behavior.

Every creator is connected to their art, even if it’s by-the-numbers for-hire hack work.

Every creator puts something of themselves into the final product.

And every member of the audience must decide for themselves if that renders the final product too toxic to be enjoyed. 

    © Buzz Dixon

[yehet-me-up]

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Pairing: Donghae x reader

Genre: fluff, office!AU, based on The Hating Game 

Rating: PG13 because I can’t help but swear 😂 Kissing, but nothing explicit

Word Count: 2,478

Summary: The company carnival was your idea. The kissing booth was all his. What happened that night is definitely both of your faults.

Request: donghae from super junior with either 11, fluff! (almost nobody writes for them, youre a godsend) I hope you like it, love!!! <3

The energy is palpable as the employees file through the gates into the field. You can’t help but smile and feel proud. 

When Mr. Turner entrusted the annual company party to you, it felt like a test. A big test. Pull this off and the promotion was practically guaranteed was the unspoken message. 

Too bad you had to work with the biggest flirt in the entire office and your perpetual rival - Lee Donghae.

‘Watch out, nerd.’ A man shoulders past you unnecessarily. 

The gate is at least four people wide, but Donghae never misses an opportunity to ruffle your feathers. You make an angry noise, not unlike the sound your cat makes when he watches the neighbors dog eat from his bowl.

‘Oh. I’m so sorry. Did you not see me, old man? Misplaced your glasses?’ You can’t deny taunting him back is one of your favorite hobbies, and the fact that he’s six months older than you brings you enormous joy. ‘Do you need me to call the nursing home to come and get you?’

He turns to face you full on and you bite your lip to contain your groan. Of course he looks good. He always looks good. But tonight he looks extra delicious in black jeans and a light blue button down. He even rolled the sleeves up in the early May heat. Bastard. 

His hair is brushed casually off his forehead and he watches you with amusement in his dark eyes. ‘Only if they pick you up at the same time,’ he volleys back. ‘I care about the environment, you know.’

You snort and throw your hands up, walking towards the carousel and leaving him in the dust. He might think this promotion is his, but he has no idea. Over my dead body.

He follows you, slinging a casual arm across your shoulders. ‘I think we did a fantastic job, nerd. Thanks for the assist, I can’t wait for Mr. Turner to see this.’

Shrugging his arm off you face him and narrow your eyes. ‘I should be thanking you for the assist. This was my idea.’

He gives you a lopsided smile of victory and runs a hand through his annoyingly luscious hair. You want to smack him in the chest. Or yell at him. Or push him to the ground and kiss him so hard he can’t breathe. Any of those will do.

‘Whatever,’ you spit at him, looking at your clipboard to distract yourself from your raging anger and lust. ‘Just stay out of my way tonight. Everything needs to go perfectly.’

He pulls a length of thick red fabric from his pocket and waves it tauntingly in your face. ‘Don’t worry darlin’, I’ll be occupied and out of your way all evening. I’ve got a job to do. Unless you want to trade.’

You swallow harshly. Somehow in the chaos of the rides being delivered and the vendors asking millions of questions this afternoon you’d forgotten that he volunteered to run a kissing booth to raise donations for the Employee Support Program.

Half of you loved how thoughtful it was and wanted to sing at getting to see the heart of gold you know is buried in there, somewhere, under layers of sarcasm and arrogance. 

Half of you wanted to break something at the idea of him kissing Amanda from accounting and Zora from marketing and every woman, and probably man, in the company in-between.

‘Well. I hope you brought some mints,’ you say in a strained voice. ‘Wouldn’t want to subject anyone to your terrible breath.’

‘Hey, you okay?’ He frowns, reaching a hand for your shoulder that you easily dodge. He’s already touched you twice tonight and you feel like you’ll explode if he does it a third.

You cough and clear your throat. ‘Fine. Just have a packed schedule. Have fun making out with Kevin Williams in accounts payable.’

When you push past him this time, he doesn’t follow, just sighs in defeat. You’ve won this round, but at what cost?

The night goes smoothly. Spectacularly, even. Everyone’s kids seem to love the magic show and the row of old-school carnival games. Miraculously Jacob Donaldson avoids throwing up on the ferris wheel. The specialty popcorn and hot dog stations are a hit.

‘This is so fun! You did amazing.’ 

You turn and see Michelle beaming and carrying an enormous cotton candy.

‘Aw, thanks. I’m so glad, I’ve been a worried mess about it.’ You sigh and re-check your list.

‘Stop worrying and enjoy yourself!’ She slides an arm around your waist and gives you a half hug. ‘Has Mr. T raved to you yet? He was just telling me at the bottle toss that this is the best company party he’s been to in twenty five years.’

‘No way,’ you gasp.

‘Yes way,’ she teases and gives you a squeeze at your waist. ‘That promotion is yours babe. You got this.’

For the first time all night you let your shoulders relax and you take a deep breath. ‘I know Donghae’s going to try to take all the credit though.’

She snorts. ‘I think that man has his hands full right now.’ She motions past you to the kissing booth.

The line snakes all the way from the booth to the popcorn vendor three spots down. ‘Oh my god.’

‘I know, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Beth happier. She’s had a crush on him for ages.’ She says, raising her brow at you in a knowing way.

‘I do not have any feelings for Lee Donghae,’ you protest. ‘Other than seething hatred of course.’

‘Mhmm keep telling yourself that,’ she says, taking a big bite of her cotton candy.

‘Ugh. What an infuriating man.’

‘You really should do something about that.’

‘No. It will all be over soon, regardless. Either I get that job and he’ll be my employee. Or he’ll get it and I’ll fling myself directly into the center of the sun. Problem solved.’

‘Yep, you’ve clearly got it under control.’ She barks out a laugh and walks backward with a taunting raise of her brows. ‘Don’t have too much fun.’

You groan and lightly smack the clipboard to your forehead. ‘Fantastic.’

‘And let’s give a huge round of applause for the people who put this event together tonight!’ Mr. Turner claps his hand awkwardly to the one holding out the microphone while the rest of the employees join in.

The lights facing the stage are bright in your eyes and you can feel the heat coming off the man next to you. Donghae looks over at you with a wide, victorious smile. Lipstick is smeared in the corners of his mouth and you’re torn between laughing and crying.

He winks at you and steps up to take the microphone. ‘Thank you Mr. T. We couldn’t have put on this event without such excellent leadership.’

‘Kiss ass,’ you hiss under your breath.

‘My wonderful colleague and I are so thankful to you all for coming out. As you know we’ve been working hard to make this event special. I’m so glad you’re all enjoying it. Don’t forget to come and give me a kiss!’

He hands the microphone back to Mr. Turner and swaggers back to your side amidst thunderous applause, particularly from the women in the audience. You want to scream. 

For long seconds the two of you stare down each other while the crowd breaks up. Michelle calls it the Running of the Bulls whenever you’re together. All these years later and you’ve never asked her which one of you is the bull and which is the runner. It probably depends on the day.

You huff and storm off the stage. When you turn and look back at him he’s waving the red blindfold in your direction. Well, at least tonight you know you’re the bull.

The line at the damned kissing booth finally dwindles down as the night wraps up. You said goodbye to Mr. Turner and his wife chatted happily with you for ages about how much fun their family had, so you hope he remembers that when the promotion is decided.

Most of the food vendors are closing down and you realize you haven’t eaten all night. ‘I should go and eat a garlic chili dog and go make out with that jerk,’ you say to yourself with a laugh.

Maureen Jones is currently kissing the object of your woe slash secret desire. Her hands clutch his defined biceps and you can see he’s doing absolutely far more than necessary.

‘Better yet, I’ll teach him a lesson. With my tongue.’

You set the clipboard on a table and march over to the short line, heat and a desire for revenge swimming in your veins. He kisses another three women and two men before you’re finally at the front of the line. And the last of the line, you think, looking behind you at the stragglers leaving the fairgrounds.

‘Well, don’t keep me waiting all night,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I know you’re there.’

The blindfold appears thick as you step close. At least you hope it is. God only knows how much he’d delight in the fact that you caved and finally kissed him first. 

What if he’s genuinely just been messing with you all these years? 

What if everyone is wrong and he actually does dislike you? 

Oh, no. Bad idea.

Before you can step away he reaches for you blindly, his hands finding your waist and one of your elbows, pulling you closer. With him sitting on the stool you’re finally the same height. His lips are even fuller up close than you thought, or perhaps it’s just the sheer amount of work they’ve put in tonight.

He pulls you to him and lifts a hand to find your chin, guiding your face to his. The kiss is brief, far quicker than you thought it would be. A firm warm pressure and then it’s over.

You lift your hand to your lip. You should let him know the night is over. You should say something, anything. A cutting remark. A sarcastic apology. A joke about his kissing skills. 

But if he knows it’s you standing there... Oh lord what have I done?

After a beat he interrupts your thoughts by lifting his other hand and holding your face. It’s so quiet in the corner of the carnival that you can hear his breath and yours as he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs. 

With a soft hum he stands and seals his lips to yours once more. In surprise you fist your hands in his shirt. All you can do is cling to him as your world shifts off-center. 

He works his mouth against yours and your knees go weak. You were right, fortunately or unfortunately for your incessant fantasies of him, his lips are perfect - full and soft and achingly right against yours.

You try to speak, to give voice to the confusion and delight coursing through you, but the only thing you can focus on is the way he feels and tastes as he claims you. 

Slowly your grip loosens and you run your hands up his chest, feeling the muscles beneath his shirt. You wind your hands through his hair and want to moan - it’s just as thick as you always thought it would be.

His hands caress your neck, slowly undoing you as they trail down your back to hold your waist firmly. Thank goodness there’s hardly anyone around to see the way you press yourself against him, moulding your curves against his hardness.

This is wrong. I shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do this. He gently bites your lower lip and you feel your eyes roll back in your head. Oh fuck it.

Rational thought slaps you upside the head and you remember who you’re kissing. You back up several paces, breaking the kiss. 

He slowly takes off the blindfold, blinking in the lights from the nearby rides, watching you carefully. He doesn’t look surprised at all to see you standing there, in fact, he looks like he was expecting you.

‘What on earth was that?’ you ask, breathless. It helps that he looks just as undone.

He gives you a lopsided smirk. ‘I kissed you, nerd. Finally.’

You fold your arms and fix him with your most intense stare. ‘What do you mean finally? How did you even know it was me?’

He laughs, looking up at the sky dotted by stars. ‘Darlin’ I’ve been smelling that perfume of yours for so many years I would recognize it anywhere. I think I even smell it in my dreams.’

‘Oh.’

You reach for any of the familiar feelings that normally rise in you around him - anger, hostility, sarcasm, joking, lust. But all you find is softness. The absence of dislike is so shocking you feel like you’re floating in air.

‘Oh? That’s all you’ve got? I can’t believe I rendered you speechless,’ he says with a grin. ‘It’s a day for the record books.’

That does it. ‘I’ll show you speechless.’

In two steps you’re against him and in one breath you pull his lips to yours by tugging on his ears. You can taste his surprise and savor it, kissing him with all the passion and heat and desire you’ve kept hidden just beneath the surface for years.

You feel him smile into the kiss and you make a noise of excitement and pleasure against him. He hums in response and wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you off the ground and spinning you around.

Pulling back, you grin down at him. ‘Wait. You don’t even like me,’ you protest, pushing his hair off his face so you can see his eyes clearly. ‘In fact, I’m pretty sure you hate me.’

He laughs, the bright and rich sound wrapping around you. ‘I feel a great many things for you, darlin’. But none of them is hate. Why do you think I suggested a kissing booth?’

You frown at him in confusion. ‘So you could make out with half the staff and live up to your playboy reputation?’

He presses a quick kiss to your chin. ‘So I could finally kiss you, duh. About time we figure out what this is between us, don’t you think?’

If he was joking or being a dick you would have easily told him to screw off. But the sincerity in his face holds no teasing for once. 

‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ He opens his mouth and you cover it with yours, giving him a hard kiss. ‘But if you make any sort of joke about me admitting you’re right-’

He cuts you off with another kiss and you laugh against him. Oh, screw it.

[bearsfakedthemoonlanding]

Lover Boy

since so much of my dysphoria has to do with other people’s perceptions of me, i spent a lot of time exploring myself while on the arms of other people.  i’ll talk about them at length later, but for now i want to talk about her.

she said to write about us, and well.  i’ll do anything she asks of me.

i’m nineteen years old and we’re in my freshman year dorm room.  at the beginning of the school year our small cluster of three had gone about picking up people wherever we could find them, dragging them along with us and watching them decide to stick around or drop away.  there were a lot of nights sitting on that dorm room floor with a small crowd of people, giggling over some card game or bottle of alcohol, daring each other to tell secrets and exchange kisses.  

is it crazy to admit i don’t remember if we ever kissed, back then? 

those were good days.  i liked our friends, and i liked the down time.  i liked being so far away from home and so far out of my parent’s sight.

while a number of our evenings were spent with a whole crew of us, laughing and screaming and being rowdy into the night, and even more significant number of nights were spent with just a handful.  the original three of us, sometimes an extra here and there, but when i think back to those nights my memories dance with her.

just her, always an arm lengths away.  she would let herself in and sit on my bed, lounge on my floor, take up space on the bean bag.  it didn’t matter what i was getting up to, when she knocked i’d let her in, and we’d be there together quietly

i’m nineteen years old, and my long distance girlfriend has been slowly building up towards breaking up with me for months now.  i can feel it coming, like watching a tsunami roll in in slow motion, too in shock to do anything, just frozen in dread. 

things are crashing down around me, and there we are in my dorm room. i don’t remember what series of events led to us being so comfortable, but by this point it wasn’t strange to find us pressing against each other’s sides or lounging in each other’s laps.  it was purely platonic, back then.  nothing but young, giddy innocence.  we’re on the floor with a group of other’s around us, and i’m either drunk or i’m tired, but i’ve sagged over sideways.  my head is pillowed on her thigh, and suddenly her fingers are in my hair.  petting, combing, nails scratching gently against my scalp and i realize.

oh no.

the guilt eats away at me, the idea that i could have a crush on anyone while dating anyone else, but as the relationship continues to crumble and buckle under the weight of our distance and a lot of childish mistakes, everything comes to a head. 

we all separate for summer vacation, and my girlfriend and i separate for good.  i go home for the summer, mopey and heartbroken, but the entire three months i’m away my phone continues to chime.

we’re still taking up space in each other’s lives. i’m happy to have made a friend.

i used to not understand her.  she was hard to read, distant, very reserved with her feelings.  in sophomore year once i was in her dorm room when our friend-- her roommate-- received terrible news.  our friend broke down, and i watched the panic that flitted over Her face as she stared.

i’d never seen her helpless before.  she was so collected. so in control of herself.  she stared at our friend crying and had no idea what to do, and i shouldn’t have found it charming, but well.  anything she does is charming to me.  has been for quite a while.

sophomore year was spent clinging to those same old friends and hesitantly making news ones, while also making quite a few mistakes.  a friend offers me THC chocolate, and one moment i’m sitting there bored waiting for the drug to kick in, the next i look down and see three sets of hands in my own lap.

she doesn’t seem to mind as i cling to her, burying my face in the crook of her neck and hanging off of her arm while she carries on a conversation i cant even begin to keep up with.  every so often i hold my wrist out to her and ask to her to check my pulse-- i’ve never felt my heart beat like this before.

she bares it patiently and assures me every time that i’m fine, no frustration, no irritation, just fine. always, continuously fine.

i’m twenty-two and it’s valentine’s day, and i don’t know why, but she’s been sad for months.  i’ve memorized our routines, gotten used to her once-a-semester breakdown (always just a week or two before finals, and always bouncing right back afterwards.  it was easier to track her emotional state than it was mine).  but senior year was different.  she hit hard and didn’t bounce back, and by now we were best friends.  i wanted to do something nice for her.

it was selfish in a way.  i knew she didn’t reciprocate feelings, but i couldn’t give up the hope of changing her mind, couldn’t resist the temptation of offerings and gestures.  a kiss to the side of the head. lending her my sweater.  an arm wrapped around shoulders. a small bouquet of roses on her desk with a carefully written note.

she bore it all patiently.  our entire college career, i was convinced that she was just bearing me patiently. i went through phases and feelings and drama in an endless tumble of activity, always changing, always something, and she was steadfast.  laying in my bed and listening to whatever i had to say, let me talk and talk, rarely as affected by anything as i was.

it was both easy and impossible to love someone so steady.

the first time we shared a bed, we were sophomores in college.  early that fall semester we’d gotten far more tangible with each other, picking up where we left off and continuing to sitting on laps and leaning into each other’s sides. 

i wasn’t quiet about my feelings, dropping hints whenever it seemed appropriate, until a mutual friend asked us outright. they said we would be cute together, asked if we would date.

no, she said. she was straight. 

i took several steps back.

but while i wrestled my feelings back under control and carefully reigned in my behaviors, nothing in her demeanor changed.  still wrapping herself around my arm, leaning into my side, laying on top of me, starting up fights.  we spent so many nights throwing each other around on dorm room beds, fighting and wrestling, and i resorted to tickling while she nipped at my fingers and dug her nails into me skin.  we laughed ourselves breathless.  i was endlessly baffled by it.

but friends could be close, i assured myself. friends could be tangible, could be physically affectionate.  there was nothing wrong with it. 

when she tells the story, she says i asked her over.  i wasn’t feeling well. i don’t remember.  but she came over in her pajamas and curled up in my bed.  my roommate was away, and the lights in the dorm room were on.  she was tucked into my side, nestled under my arm, and by the time i realized she was asleep i was too petrified to move and break the spell. i was convinced that if she woke, she’d go away.  

we slept with the lights on, me hyperaware of every sensation even in cat naps, until my alarm went off in the morning and i hesitantly retracted myself from her arms and made my way off to class.  

she stayed in my bed all morning, made friends with my roommate when she returned.  they would grow to be incredibly close, become best friends, and i would spend the next several months ruminating on that night. 

in december i confess, tell her my feelings, that she’s the most amazing person i’ve ever met and that nobody else makes me happier.  she politely declines, says she can’t love me Like That.  I reel myself back in, having done all that I can, and spend my free moments thinking about that evening and trying not to stare every time she steals my clothes and wears them out in public.

best friends, i told myself, and it was fine.

junior year was terrible for both of us.  while i tangled myself up with somebody terrible, she grew more and more distant and declined every invitation to hang out with us.  i let him monopolize my free time, meaning there was little time that i spent with her.

do you know how ridiculous it is to spend a whole relationship missing somebody else? 

regardless of all that, she was the first person i told.  we took a long walk the night after it happened, wandering around campus as we were keen to do.  she was wearing my clothes.  we found ourselves on the top of the parking garage, and i confessed two things.

i lost my virginity, and i think i might be bisexual.

she laughed, not meanly, and i had been so terribly afraid she’d be mad at me. i wasn’t sure why i needed her approval so strongly.  she was there the first night, 

and five months later for the break up, she was there again

we spent a long time wandering around campus late at night, neither of us speaking as i waited for her to piece her words together.  this wasn’t anything new.  i’d become quite accustomed to this particular brand of communication, and i would have waited contentedly all night long for her to figure out what she wanted to say. i still would. 

we walked through campus, but unlike other times, the longer we went the more she grew visibly upset.  visibly upset wasn’t ever her forte.  she was so cool, so calm, so reserved and careful with her emotions.  they were nobody else’s business.

she shoved her phone into my hands, and she was crying as she demanded i read it.  the shake in her voice sticks vividly in my memory.  she’d never cried before, not in front of me. i read the whole terrible thing on her phone-- a love letter to her from the boy i was dating, an exchange of messages, him bullying her into meeting-- and while i knew i should have felt heartbreak and betrayal over him, all i could feel was anger for her

he had made her cry

me, well. he could do anything to me. i’d accepted no small number of terrible treatment from him, but he had made her cry.  he’d made her afraid.  he knew what she meant to me, and he’d done it all anyways.

she followed me around for hours afterwards, letting me build myself up to a shouting, ranting rage as i called the arrangement off.  let me talk and talk and listened patiently as i said nothing of any importance, pulled me back gently when i kicked at a wall and buzzed close at my elbow as i sagged onto a frozen concrete bench.

she’d been scared of losing me. i was scared of the fallout of telling him ‘no.’ but i had her back again, stuck to my side, and it was so. so comfortable.

she used to talk about “when we were older.” make up elaborate scenarios of us both being professors, of us teasing the students with rumors of a romance that didn’t exist.  talked about living together, convincing everyone we were married in some elaborate prank.  she talked about our children, first as separate entities-- her children and my own-- but it wasn’t long before our fictional families morphed into one and they just became Ours.

i talked about being old folks together in the same nursing home, and she agreed.

best friends, we called it.  i was so scared that if i didn’t stick a label on it, it would cease to exist at all.

twenty-two years old and we’re in our shared dorm room.  i’ve come back from class or work. she hasn’t gotten out of bed. 

i don’t realize she’s shirtless until i’m already falling on top of her blankets, and by then its too late to turn back.

it’s no strange thing in our senior year for our roommates to return and find us sprawled out on top of each other, both under and over the covers, arms wrapped snuggly around waists, noses tucked against throats.  we’d spend hours tangled up in each other, holding conversations with the others as if nothing was out of the ordinary. 

we called it best friends.

this day it’s still daylight, and no one is home, and she’s nearly naked under the covers and i’m wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt as i lay on top of her.  a sheet separates us.  neither of us acknowledges the situation.  she curls up against my side as if this is ordinary, and i wrap my arms around her.  we lay together, there, for hours. 

we call it best friends.

in the car in the dark we talk about god.

i don’t talk about god with anyone.  i’m queer and my family is conservative.  the church that raised me left a lot of tender areas that never quite healed right when i grew up.  even now, 900 miles from home and two years removed from the church, i think back on things and feel the cold fist of fear coil tight in my chest.

i don’t like being so angry.

but we’re in the car in the dark and we talk about god.  we’re several days into our cross-country road trip, just the two of us, and while i’d been afraid that so much time alone in the front seat together would lead us to resent each other, we’ve done nothing but kept comfortable companionship the whole time.  like we always had.

of course, though. we were best friends.

we’re moving her to new york city.  we’ve just grabbed dinner at a small diner in nebraska-- the restaurant had been a bizarre sort of gambling den, but outside of the darkened room next to us, we were alone.  i let myself imagine she loved me, held her hand in front of the waitress and made a modest show to paying the bill and holding the door.  we split a desert.  we laughed the whole meal.  the waitress couldn’t have cared less, though i felt like i was getting away with something.

we’re in the truck and we talk about god and i’m relieved to hear she doesn’t renounce the idea entirely.  

quickly into the drive exhaustion sets in.  i feel dizzy and delirious, and when i nearly drive us off the road in a tragic attempt at merging back onto the interstate, she calmly takes the wheel and sets us right again.  unshakeable, always. i am endlessly impressed with her. 

i spend the rest of the evening thinking about holding her hand over the center console while sappy, romantic country songs play on the radio and put fog in my eyes.  i don’t, though.  we’re just best friends.

when we park for the night outside of a walmart, i curl up in the drivers seat and imagine we cleared out the back, crowded together in the back seat and slept in each other’s arms.  she was less than a foot away in the passenger seat. i missed her.

the summer between junior and senior year she confessed in a roundabout way.  we were best friends, she said in a several page letter on my phone’s screen.  and she loved me.  she wished she could love me like that, but she couldn’t. 

i paced the fields miserably and showed the phone to my mom, who’d gotten better over the years about talking about my romances, homosexual or otherwise.  she’d warmed up to this one quickly, had probably seen it coming from day one. 

it can’t be like that, the confession said, and i believed it wholeheartedly.

and then senior year it came again. i love you, but not like that.  it can’t be like that.  we can’t be like that.

it was april, late april. we graduated in a month and then i’d be losing her forever.  i figured i had nothing left to lose. 

i asked her on a date.

she asked me why.

i figured we might as well try it, just to say that we did.  she agreed. i thought so hard and so long about kissing her that evening-- after going out to dinner, and exploring old antique shops, playing around in a casino we were both too poor to even look at, mocking the glistening marble tile, running down the strip to the roller coaster that had become our tradition. 

she caught my hand and held it, and we were clumsy with each other, trying to figure out how to match pace and settle into a rhythm. 

i didn’t kiss her that night. we got alcoholic slushies and made our way home, and inside our dorm room were both of our roommates, who had no idea what we’d been up to. 

i figured it was over, that was it.  i didn’t make the big move and it had all come to an end. i flopped hopelessly onto my bed while listening to my friends talk, and then just like an old habit, she nudged me over to make room and pressed herself into my side.

the two of us accompanied our roommates on countless double dates.  they were dating and very wrapped up in each other, but they always offered to take us along.  they liked big events.  liked group activities.  

we rented a hotel room for her twenty-first birthday, and we went to see the chippendales boys.  our male friend elected to stay behind, and my other roommate and i found ourselves absolutely unimpressed with the show while my love stared wide eyed.  

she cheered along with the other women in the crowd and thoroughly enjoyed the show, and even though she sat there with her knee pressed against mine under the table, and her eyes sparkling any time she turned to smile at me, i felt hope slipping through her fingers. 

i was still a girl then, and had been clinging to the idea a bit more firmly that evening.  i wanted to look nice. i wore a dress, something that showed my chest and my waist and my legs, and she was wrapped up in these men on stage, and i felt absolutely disgusting.

the four of us slept in one bed that night, all curled up together in a way we would do several more times before the end of the school year.  in the morning me and her awoke alone to find a note, on of them had felt ill and they had decided to split early.  we curled up together in their absence and stayed there as long as the hotel would allow.

she’s in my childhood home.  it shouldn’t feel as intimate as it did, but it felt like every ‘fake dating/take them home for christmas’ fanfiction i had ever read.  she laughed with my parents, sat on the couch.  besides my mother, my family is terribly homophobic, and armed with this knowledge she let me rebel against them by pressing against her side, putting my arm around her shoulders, sending cheesy, doughy smiles her way.

she wasn’t afraid of anything, and i realize as i write this-- she’s always been willing to appease me.  always gone along with my nonsense.  i don’t know what i did to deserve this. 

guess its what best friends are for.

that night we’re in my childhood bedroom, squeezed together in my twin bed, and everything feels odd. we lay there on our backs, shoulder to shoulder, and we say nothing.  until the tension begins to break me, and i roll over and say fuck it. what are we doing. come here.  

she sleeps against my chest. my parents are in the next room. i don’t know if they suspect anything, but our actions were nothing but innocent anyways-- abominable by nature or otherwise.  they leave us be.

it is odd to wake up with her in my bedroom.

the air is frozen and bitter.  we’ve been out of school for five months, haven’t seen each other in nearly that long, but here she is again.  back in my hometown.  she’s holding my hand. 

i lend her a jacket and scarf and we drive two miles in the dark to a haunted house.  we wander the fair grounds, and as we make our way through the trail of boy scouts leaping out in masks trying to scare us shitless, she clings onto my arm for dear life and lets me pretend to be brave.

it’s bitingly cold, because it’s november first in indiana and the snow has started to fall.  her hand is burning warm where it holds mine in my pocket, and her breath is warm when she leans in and presses against me.  her breath puffs against my neck.  my nose is frozen when i press it to her cheek. 

we’re best friends.

we spend four long days wasting away in a motel room together, watching terrible tv shows and touching as much as the confines of our relationship will allow.  in the mornings i wake up first, but when i begin to stir she whines and pulls me close, spooning against my back and wrapping her arms tight around my middle. she presses her back between my shoulder blades and doesn’t let me move.

we get drunk in an empty bar and spend long hours talking and laughing and smiling at each other. 

we wrestle, and any time one of us wins and pins the other, we freeze uncertainly, not sure what else we’re supposed to do. 

i drive her to the airport so she can return home, and when we hug goodbye in the parking lot she presses a kiss to the side of my neck before she disappears.  i can’t feel my hands as i drive to a diner and sit numbly in a booth, fending off tears and making myself sick on greasy food, trying not to think too hard about anything.

it’s july.  we bit the bullet four months ago and have been romancing each other properly ever since, even with the long distance separating us.

over a year prior, when i had asked her to change my pronouns, i’d been terrified.  eighteen months before that, when i’d come out as bisexual to her on that parking garage, i’d been shaking.  i’m more confident now, though, as i ask how she feels about me starting testosterone.

it’s a change that will affect her too, i figure.  she deserves to know about major changes with the person she’s dating.  it could affect a lot.  our future, our children, our reputation, our sex life. 

she is unconcerned. she’s wonderfully supportive, but at the same time cavalier.  i shouldn’t be surprised. she’s cavalier about almost everything.

less so, now that we’re no longer holding back with each other, but her poker face remains infinitely better than my own.  my own responses to things seem like melodrama compared to her unaffected calm.

i’m worried she isn’t thinking it through thoroughly, worried she might not actually care.  

a week later a letter appears in the mail.  it’s three pencil drawings, a little damp from a sudden downpour shortly after it was delivered.  three images of a naked figure-- one with smooth limbs, delicate curves, breasts, thin arms and shoulders.  another with harder lines, denser limbs, thick hair decorating the legs and lower abdomen and neck and jaw.  and a drawing in the middle of a figure with hair on their legs and tape binding their chest

and the weight of the gesture is enough to draw tears out of me. 

the drawings are tacked to my wall now, and as i reflect on the past five years of knowing her, i still can’t piece together how i have gotten so impossibly lucky to earn her love.

if i was writing this at any time other than midnight with only four hours of sleep, i might be able to put it more eloquently.  but there were things that i needed to express.  how absolutely and utterly in love i am.  how amazingly she treats me.  how comfortable we are, and have been, for such a long time.  i don’t mind how long it has taken us to get here.  i think the journey here was all part of it.

if you’re looking to date anyone, find them on the floor of your freshman dorm. stick to them, patiently.  learn all of the ways that they care for you.  you really ought to date your best friend.

[sagesiren]

“Grant?” Peggy’s hand was already going for her gun, calling him by his cover name in case an agent was within earshot. “What is it?”

“I think it’s today,” he said quietly, wiping his hands and standing up. He started to gather his lunch and returned her blank look with a meaningful one. “When Steve shows up.”

An endgame deleted scene from Peggy’s POV for Steggy Week! Read at AO3, or below the cut:

Peggy flipped through the file Zola had given her while she ate, ignoring her long-suffering husband who had most likely joined her for lunch with the intention of them exchanging at least a few words. He was sitting across from her at the table in the otherwise empty break room, passive aggressively reading the paper for the second time.

“If you want to leave, you’re welcome to,” she said around another bite, underlining a sentence about diagnostics for Howard’s review and then brushing away crumbs. “I can try to make more time during tomorrow’s lunch.”

They both knew full well that she’d be equally busy, but it was the thought that counted.

At Steve’s lack of response, she looked up. He’d gone ashen, back straight as a board.

“Grant?” Peggy’s hand was already going for her gun, calling him by his cover name in case an agent was within earshot. “What is it?”

“I think it’s today,” he said quietly, wiping his hands and standing up. He started to gather his lunch and returned her blank look with a meaningful one. “When Steve shows up.”

“Oh. Oh.” She set down her pen, frowning up at him. “Do you remember what time?”

Steve checked his watch. “I think I’ve got a little while before I—he gets here, but I should hunker down somewhere that he won’t go.”

Peggy nodded, getting to her feet before she realized she had no action to take. There had been other moments like this, when he’d give her a warning that something was going to happen then refused to give any more information on it, but this was the first time she’d be interacting with his younger self, the first time that she’d be directly interfering with something that might change the future.

She fiddled with the pen, twirling it in her fingers. “Is there anything I should know before he gets here?”

Steve gave her a tired, familiar look. “Pegs,” he started.

“This is different from the other events,” she interrupted, her hands going to her hips. “If I say the wrong thing, who knows what sort of damage I could do?”

“If you don’t know what’s supposed to happen, then it’s unlikely you’ll mess it up.” Steve grabbed the newspaper and rocked back on his heels. She could tell he was anxious to get out of sight. “If anything changes, you could be altering the—”

Peggy held up a hand with a sigh. “Alright, fine, I don’t need the lecture.” they’d argued enough about the things he’d felt he couldn’t say to her – both before the fact and while she was cleaning up the aftermath of her lack of knowledge – that she knew exactly how this would go. “I’ll figure it out.” She gestured for him to leave.

Steve hesitated, and she could see him struggling to not tell her something, as his already-creased face wrinkled with guilt. He finally leaned closer and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You’ll be fine. No pressure, okay? Find me after.”

“I will. Go on.” She smiled tightly, and he took that as the permission he needed to leave.

Peggy pinched the bridge of her nose in the silence that followed. If she did anything odd in the next hour, if she misspoke, or tripped, or sneezed, or lord knew what other kind of minor thing that might disrupt all of space and time, then she could start an alternate timeline where her alternate self lived without Steve ever coming back to her all those years ago.

No bloody pressure.

If she had no idea that his past self would be showing up, she’d have been carrying on with her work, so she shook herself out of running through the worst case scenarios in her head and sat back down to finish her lunch and mark up the report, tapping her pen impatiently while she tried to get through it all.

When Agent Brewer knocked on the doorway to the break room, she nearly jumped. “Ma’am? There was a discrepancy in the quarterly R&D budget, and Stark would like for you to reevaluate.”

“Of course he would,” she muttered. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Peggy stuffed the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth, tucked the file under her arm, and then tucked a few extra strands of hair behind her ear, hoping she was at least presentable. Not that she needed to impress any version of Steve.

She kept her eyes peeled on everyone she walked past. This resulted in some flustered junior agents, some salutes from the vets who still hadn’t shaken the habit, and confusion from everyone else who was used to her tendency to read while walking.

Peggy didn’t let it bother her, too focused on Steve. She was half expecting to find him in Howard’s office, as and Howard been arguing over his lab’s budget for the last two weeks, and she knew he was avoiding her, but instead she found Stark’s assistant waiting just outside the office with a folder.

There was no way a younger looking version of the Director’s husband was going to slip into that office unnoticed.

Whatever fumes of patience Peggy had been burning through for the last hour depleted at the sight of the assistant. “Where is he?” she demanded. Howard was probably about to leave early, avoiding her on the grounds of seeing to his pregnant wife, but his assistant was a convenient target.

“Mr. Stark went to find Dr. Zola—”

She brushed past him and into the office, taking a quick and hopeful look around. “Is that what he said he was doing?”

“He just wanted me to give this to you, Ma’am,” the assistant said, holding out the folder with a placating look. “He has some new projects that could really use more of a… financial focus.”

“For the love of—You can tell Mr. Stark that if he is going to avoid me for much longer he can expect his funding to be cut in half, effective Monday. I have more pressing issues to deal with in this state, let alone the rest of the world.” She strode over to Howard’s desk and grabbed the first folder she saw in the hopes of finding another good reason to continue slashing his budget, and for the helpful effect of looking busy.

The assistant, Sergeant something or other – she couldn’t be arsed to remember his name considering he was the fifth assistant this year – turned to head out of the room, and Peggy focused all of her mental energy on her peripheral vision, hoping that as soon as he was out, someone else would walk in.

“I shouldn’t even be worrying about this right now,” she mumbled to herself, but trailed off as she actually caught a few words in the file.

Her technical knowledge of the Tesseract might not have been on Stark or Zola’s level, but she knew enough to understand that the unusual energy readings weren’t a good sign. “Sergeant?” she called, hoping he was close enough to hear as she hurried out of the office.

“Should I take this to Mr. Stark?” he asked, turning around and reaching out his hand.

“Find Dr. Zola for me instead. Tell him I’ll meet him in my office in fifteen minutes.”

Howard’s assistant hurried off. She watched him leave, mind reeling at the implications of the changed energy signature, Steve temporarily forgotten, when she stopped short at the security guards that were combing through the hallway.

If he'd seen the security, he might have left in a hurry.

She might have already missed him.

At least she had enough time to smoke before her meeting with Zola, even knowing how terrible they were for her health.

The week that she’d stopped smoking at Steve’s behest was when they’d had one of their bigger arguments about Steve’s strict, self imposed time rules. She very adamantly believed that if he was going to make her live through every terrible surprise of the century, the least he could have done was let her enjoy her favourite vice, and she knew for a fact lung cancer wasn’t going to be her downfall. Steve could only be patient with her nicotine-withdrawal-induced frustration for so long, and wound up giving up on the argument.

Whether or not the pack she kept in her office now was to prove a point to him was neither here nor there. She was distracted as she walked in, trying to remember how many she had left in her drawer, and flicked on the light.

She froze. Standing in the middle of the office was Steve.

He was dressed in a stolen uniform, with fewer laugh lines than the man she was married to now, and more weight on his shoulders than the man who crashed the plane during the Second World War. She opened her mouth to say something, but all of her worries about altering the future made her silent.

“It’s really me,” he said, holding his hands up. She realized that, had she been faced with a Steve Rogers after thinking Steve Rogers had been dead for the last thirty years, she would likely have reacted the same way she was now. So far, so good.

“Prove it,” Peggy said, her voice weaker than she expected it to be.

He fumbled in a pocket and produced the compass, his eyes shining as he opened it up. He showed it to her, his shoulders hunched forward like he still wasn’t used to taking up as much space as he did. Or maybe he still felt awkward talking to her.

She stepped forward, touching the compass, her hand brushing his. “You’re here,” she said gently, looking up at him. It was part reminder, part message; he was here, in her office, and he was here, in the building, waiting for her to find him. “How is this possible?” she added, knowing that’s what she’d ask if she didn’t know.

“I can’t say,” Steve said, and his voice nearly cracked with emotion, “and I can’t stay for long.”

Everything about him was tired. She knew he’d spent a long eleven years without her, and this Steve was fresh from burying her, from losing everything.

She stepped closer again, putting an arm around him, and before she even had her hand settled on his back he’d pulled her into a near bone-crushing hug. “I’ve missed you,” she breathed against his chest.

“I’ve missed you, too, Peggy. So much.” He tilted her head up, eyes studying her face like he was memorizing it. He looked so young, the man standing before her, compared to the greying man who was likely hiding downstairs, sweet talking their head of accounting Jeanette into giving him one of the pastries she’d brought into the office that day.

It was even more striking to remember thirty years ago when this version of Steve showed up at her flat and seemed so old to her, so harrowed. She wondered what he saw in her, now, what he would see in her when he came back to her all those years ago.

“I still owe you a dance,” Steve added with a watery smile.

Peggy went on her toes to kiss him softly, a hand sliding up to cup his cheek. He deserved that much for what little time they had now. “We’ll dance one day,” she said. “You’ll buy me a record player, put on our song, and you’ll explain to me what all this was about, won’t you?”

“Yeah, I will,” Steve said, resting their foreheads together. His voice was dreamy, and she could practically hear him thinking about the date they’d made over the radio all those years ago. This time she knew it would really happen, even if he didn’t. Not yet. “We’ll have our dance, Peg.”

Peggy stepped back and brushed under her eyes. “I’m assuming you have some sort of mission to finish?”

He nodded, straightening his shoulders. “I’m happy for you,” he said, glancing down at her hand. “I’m glad that you… found happiness.”

She followed his gaze and flushed when she realized he was staring at her ring. God, she wished she could tell him that the inscription on the inside had his initials. “I’m happy that you have a chance at a new life,” she said, touching his arm as he moved toward the door, turning to keep him in her sights for longer. “And Steve?”

His hand was on the doorknob, and he wiped at his face before turning around, utterly miserable and far too young.

Screw the time space continuum; he’d always needed a push where she was concerned.

Peggy gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll see you soon.”

                                                        _________

When she found him, he was sitting on the edge of Jeanette’s desk, accidentally flirting in that way he did, being far too charming and genuinely interested in what she had to say. Peggy stood there watching him for a moment before he pretended to notice for the first time that she was there waiting for him.

“How’d it go?” he asked under his breath as he came over, pulling her into an abandoned conference room.

“Fine,” Peggy said, and looked up at him. “I might have… encouraged him to come back,” she admitted.

Steve just laughed lightly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Yeah, I remember. ‘I’ll see you soon?’ Really, Pegs? I spent half the time in that battle trying to figure out what you meant.”

“You did not,” Peggy said with a laugh, giving him a gentle shove.

“Sure did.” Steve smiled, wrapping an arm around her. “Thank you, by the way, for saying that. I don’t know if I would have stayed otherwise. And, you know. For being my chance at a new life.”

“You’re so sappy,” Peggy teased, but her voice was soft, reveling in having this Steve, her Steve, standing so close. She, too, was glad she'd found happiness.

“You’re the one that said it first.”

She tilted his head down to kiss him. “Let’s head up to my office. I have some things to do, and you can sit there and look pretty while I take care of them.”

He grinned. “Yes, Ma’am.”

[zig-a-zow]

As told by Aiden [Chapter 3: Wild hearts]

Summary: Aiden Zhou had everything figured out. He was a Junior at high school, he would graduate in two years, attend a prestigious school such as Juilliard and become the best musician he could be. Of course, despite being practically a prodigy at what he loved, he had a lot to learn yet, especially the most important lesson: there was more to life than what he once thought.

Pairings: Aiden x MC (Grace Ashton), Michael x MC (Callie McKenzie)

Word count: 3702

Notes: Hello there! What is this, you might be asking yourself? Well, nothing other than what the title says: High School Story as told by Aiden. The events from the book, but from his perspective, plus extra scenes/fanon lore. There are significant changes in this story, though. For once, I have two MCs, best friends Grace and Callie. However, one of them will be significantly more prominent due to being Aiden’s love interest. Also, each chapter has its own song, cause how could I write about Aiden without music included? Click the lyrics to listen.

Ch. 1 - Ch. 2 - Ch. 3 (It’s right here!) - Ch. 4 - Ch. 5 - Ch. 6 - Ch. 7 - Ch. 8 (Coming soon!)

Wild hearts, run

Your time has just begun

Keep chasing for the sun

Don’t slow it down.

It wasn't long before Grace's attention drifted from him to the sliding glass doors, where they could both see her friend Callie walking out of the house, a stunned expression on her face.

Grace quickly ran toward her, and as Aiden could see, a few other classmates did the same. He didn't exactly know why, but he followed her.

"Callie? What's wrong?"

The blonde girl looked shaken, and her blue eyes darted toward Grace immediately. She sighed deeply, approaching her friend to hug her tightly.

"It's awful... Caleb and I just walked in on Brian and Zoe making out!"

Even though her voice sounded slightly hushed due to her face being pressed against Grace's shoulder, it was loud enough for the rest of them to hear it. Aiden looked around and recognized the people around them.

Maria, his classmate, and as far as he knew, the only one besides him that wasn't a Sophomore, was the first to speak with a frown.

"Well, that explains why he run away almost crying" she said with a thoughtful expression, before catching herself. "Oh, and this is terrible, of course!"

"Can't say I'm surprised" commented Michael, whose hair was still damp from the pool.

"That doesn't matter right now!" Callie let go of Grace for a moment, straightening up with a look of resolution on her face. "We have to go after him and make sure he's okay!"

"Excuse me, 'we'?"

All eyes turned to him, and Aiden made an effort not to take a literal step back. He cleared his throat, suddenly on the spot.

Luckily for him, Grace piped up just in time.

"Gonna have to agree with Aiden here" she said, shrugging slightly. "Callie, we barely know the guy. Hell, we barely know anyone here. It's none of our business."

"That, and... nobody here really hangs out with him, so the same could be said about us" Michael spoke again, hiding his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "So yeah, hard pass from me."

"But... he's one of us! Wouldn't you want someone to go after you if the tables were turned?"

"No. I'd want to be left alone, thank you very much."

"Well, I'm with you, Callie" Emma's voice was heard as she approached the center of the circle, looking a little less shy at the moment. "He needs m-- us, right now."

"Count me in as well. What Zoe did is disgusting" stated Maria, solemnly, even though a tiny smile crept into her face a second later. "Not to mention Caleb could persuade a few more people to attend Homecoming."

Once again, all eyes turned to Aiden, and he gulped loudly. He had been so absorbed in listening to everyone else that he didn't even think about what he would do.

He considered silently for a few seconds before he sighed deeply, almost in defeat.

"It's the right thing to do. So I'll join your group."

Michael let out a low chuckle at that, that almost made him frown.

"It's the right thing to do... wow. Good for you, pal, your medal's in the mail."

"Well, he's not wrong" Grace mumbled, joining the other side in a symbolic and literal way. "I still don't care, but there's no way I'm staying in this lame party instead of running around town. Sounds like fun."

"The right thing for the wrong reasons, got it" after a moment Michael joined them as well, shrugging slightly. "I got nothing else to do, I guess. Come on, let's go."

Callie squealed at that, and she put her arms around both of their shoulders for a few seconds as she happily beamed at them.

"Aww, I knew you two would come around! Now, any idea where Caleb would run off to?"

"Maybe The Golden Griddle?" Julian's voice came from behind and Aiden startled slightly, but luckily nobody seemed to notice or care. "That's where I'd go to grab a burger and sulk."

"Alright, let's go!"

Grace cleared her throat to get her attention.

"Callie."

"Yes?"

"Your clothes."

"Oh, right!" Callie's pale cheeks turned red when she realized she was still wearing her swimsuit. She walked toward the house. "I'll be right back!"

She disapeared from view, and a few minutes later she returned. And with that, the seven of them started their way toward The Golden Griddle. As he walked with his hands hidden in the pockets of his jeans, lost in thought, Aiden realized that Grace fell behind to match his rather slow pace.

"Hey... don't let that Michael guy get to you" she said with a low tone, for him to be the only one able to hear her. "I personally think it's very noble of you to do this just because it's the right thing to do."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Like, I've never heard another kid our age say something like that. Unless you count heartthrobs from crappy YA novels."

Aiden couldn't help but laugh under his breath at that, shaking his head slightly. When he turned to her, she was giving him a curious look that made him blush lightly in return. He shrugged.

"I appreciate it. But I wasn't letting him get to me anyway, his opinion means very little to me" he admitted as they finally made it to the place in question, and the rest of the group hurried inside, leaving them behind. He opened the door for her. "After you."

Grace snorted at that, but he could tell she wasn't mocking him. With a simple nod she walked in, and he followed suit.

The diner was almost empty, except for Wes and Autumn, two Seniors that he knew from school. They were sharing a milkshake while the rest of the group was already talking to them. Wes was shaking his head with a smirk as the two of them approached at last.

"Callie McKenzie, one of the newest students to Berry High, recently transferred from Hearst" he was saying, and his eyes promptly found Grace, his smile widening. "And Grace Ashton, of course. Missing New York yet?"

"A little, but this place is okay so far" she replied, shrugging as if his words weren't that important. "Now, will you stop the mysterious edgy act and tell us who you are? Seems only fair."

"It's Wes. He makes it his business to know everything that goes on around town" said Maria almost immediately, and as Wes was about to say something else, she hurried to continue. "No, we don't have time for witty banter. Have you guys seen Caleb?"

"No, not lately at least. He wasn't here if that's what you're asking" replied Autumn, before acquiring a worried expression. "Why? Is he okay?"

"I don't think so... he walked in on his girlfriend cheating on him with his best friend."

At Emma's words, Wes clicked his tongue as he shook his head, releasing Autumn's hand so he could fold his arms above his chest.

"Took him long enough to find out."

"Wait a minute, you knew about this?" Aiden couldn't contain himself, frowning slightly without even noticing. "And you didn't say anything?"

"Yeah, man, how dare you? Don't you know that telling him was the right thing to do?"

Michael's voice managed to make him scowl, his dark eyes throwing daggers at him for just a millisecond. It wasn't like Michael cared anyway, as he simply gave him a mocking smirk in return.

"Maybe so, but my job is to know, not tell" Wes replied a second later, oblivious of their silent exchange. "However... if I were you, I'd try the arcade. Caleb likes to blow off steam there."

"Oh, yay! Thank you, Wes!" Callie gave them both a warm smile before leading the way back to the door. "Come on, everybody, there's no time to lose!" 

The rest of the group clearly didn't share her enthusiasm, but that didn't seem to bother her at all, in fact it was almost like she wasn't even aware of that. As Callie walked in the front, with Michael, the rest of them followed at an average pace.

It wasn't strange that a brief silence took place at first, since most of them hadn't interacted much before that night, and they were just meeting the two new girls.

Maria cleared her throat.

"So, Grace... you used to live in New York?" she said after a moment, a bright smile on her face. "I've always wanted to visit. How is it there?"

Grace, who was distracted typing as she walked, looked up from her phone with a brief expression of confusion before she smiled, tucking her phone back in her pocket.

"It's... big. Like, really big" she walked a little faster to match their pace, shrugging slightly. "But believe it or not, I like it better here."

"You used to live here?" Emma asked after a moment, and Grace gave her a low chuckle.

"Yeah, for ten years. Then my mom wanted us to move with her to New York, but after almost six years dad wanted to come back here. He thinks it's a better environment for my little sister."

Aiden remained silent as they kept asking trivial questions about her life in New York. He really had nothing to ask at the moment, although he did feel curious to a certain extent. Luckily for him, their path was coming to an end, as he could see the neon lights of the arcade ahead.

"Oh, wow! This place is huuuge!" Callie was bouncing from place to place as the rest of them walked inside, immediately surrounded by bright colorful lights. "We have to come here again someday, just to have fun!"

Nobody replied, probably because they had spotted a group of familiar faces. They approached only to see that they were all admiring Sakura's dancing skills in Disco Dance Rebellion.

"Good evening, we don't mean to bother, but we were wondering if maybe you had seen Caleb Mitchell tonight?"

Aiden's voice was barely audible due to the chiptune music coming from the machine next to them, but Myra seemed to have trained ears because she could understand his words right away.

"He came here and beat Sakura's previous score" she replied, just as the music finally stopped. "But as you can see, she just beat him! Go Sakura!"

"Could you tell us where he went after that?" asked this time Emma, with a grimace. "We need to find him..."

"We don't know where he went, but he left about ten minutes ago" Aiden recognized the guy that spoke next as Luis, another of his classmates, who promply blushed slightly at the sight of Emma. "It's nice to see you, Emma... and everyone else, of course!"

"Yeah, sure..."

Aiden could see that Luis was blushing even more at Myra's words, and couldn't help but feel a tinge of symphaty for him. Clearly he wasn't the only victim of her ruthless teasing.

"This is all very interesting, but can you guys tell us where he went?" Grace intervened after a moment, her arms crossed above her chest. "That's the only reason we came here, to be honest."

"Yeah, uh, about that..."

They all turned toward Michael when they heard his voice, and he promptly pointed to the game where Sakura was dancing previously, although she wasn't alone now. Callie was right beside her, getting rid of her blue cardigan with a huge smile on her face.

"I don't care about winning, I just wanna dance!" she was exclaiming, clearly replying to whatever Sakura had said before and they couldn't hear. "Let's do this!"

Grace succesfully caught the blue cardigan her best friend threw at her, a slight smile on her face as she shook her head.

"Welp, seems like we're staying here for a little while."

"No, no, this is good!" Myra grinned at the rest of the group, and proceeded to explain when she saw their confused stares. "Sakura is the one who talked to Caleb, so she must know where he went... so if your friend beats her, she might just tell you guys!"

"I see..." Grace seemed to be deep in thought for a few seconds, before she turned to the game that was just starting. "Woo, go Callie! Make me proud!"

"Yeah, you got this!" Michael joined in a few seconds later, apparently understanding what Grace was trying to do. "Callie, Callie, Callie!"

Maria and Emma exchanged a quick glance before joining the chant enthusiastically. Aiden took a moment to consider if he really was willing to potentially look ridiculous cheering for a stranger in a completely unimportant game for a cause he wasn't even invested in. Just one glance at Grace's bright smile was enough for him to decide.

With the five of them cheering loudly for her, Callie seemed to put a lot more effort on her movements, and soon enough the victory tune was heard.

"Noooo! You bested me!" Sakura's cries of defeat could be heard as well, and her boyfriend Nishan quickly approached to comfort her.

"It's okay, Princess Peach, I know you'll beat the record... again."

"Don't call me that in public...!"

Callie was breathing heavily after all that dancing, and her best friend caught her in a hug right after she stepped out of the plataform.

"You did it, you beautiful beast!" Grace exclaimed with a grin, before turning her around and gently pushing her forward. "Now go ask Sakura if she knows where Caleb went."

Soon enough they all were in their way to the beach, which was hopefully the very last stop on their little journey. Grace was the last one to leave the arcade, because Luis had stopped her for a moment. Aiden wanted to stay and hear what he had to say, but obviously that would be too nosy of him.

But asking afterwards wasn't that bad, right?

"Let's just say he's very interested in Emma's relationship status, y'know?" she replied then, a tiny mischievous smile on her lips. "Maybe he likes her 'cause they're similar? Like, shy and awkward and all that."

"Mhm. Maybe so" he muttered, keeping his eyes to the front before he spoke once again. "Do you think that's for the best? I mean, when you look for a partner, do you look for someone who potentially shares your interests or even personality traits?"

Grace remained silent for a few seconds, and when he looked down, she was giving him a playful smile. She shrugged.

"You have a very interesting way of speaking. I like it" she admitted, before she let out a sigh. "And no, I don't look for anything specific. I don't have a type, if that's what you're asking. Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you have type? You like people like you or different? Birds of a feather or opposites attract?"

"Oh! Uh..."

Aiden kept quiet for a few seconds, thinking deeply. He was aware that he had asked first and now she had the right to ask back but he wasn't expecting to share so many things about himself in a single, fateful night.

He sighed.

"No. I don't think I have a 'type'. Then again..." he mumbled as they finally reached the beach, walking in the tricky sand. "I haven't been looking for a partner in a while, so it's hard to say."

"Well, maybe it's time to change that...?"

"There he is!"

Aiden didn't have much time to properly stammer and make a fool of himself at Grace's words because they both heard Callie announce Caleb's presence a second later.

He gladly took the chance to walk a little faster so he could finally reach the rest of the group, with Grace following close behind.

Caleb was sitting on the edge of the water, a few feet away. He seemed to be very lost in thought, because he didn't hear them at all. The group formed a circle to discuss what they could do next.

"Well, obviously someone should go and talk to him" said Maria, and when a few of them tried to walk away toward him, she continued. "Only one! Let's not overwhelm him."

"I'd go, but I'm terrible at all this... feelings stuff" Julian spoke next, and for the second time Aiden startled slightly. He was ashamed to admit that he had forgotten about him. "Maybe someone else...?"

"I'll go!" Callie exclaimed with a smile, grabbing her cardigan from her best friend's hands so she could put it back on. "I'm really good at this 'feelings stuff' as you call it! You guys make a fire in the meantime."

And with that, she simply walked away, almost skipping in the sand. They all watched her sit down next to Caleb and start talking to him, before turning to each other once again.

"Well, he's in good hands. Let's get that fire started" said Grace, pulling a lighter from the pocket of her jean shorts.

"Do you... carry that with you all the time?"

"You never know when you need fire!"

"Like now! Gimme that" asked Michael, practically ignoring Emma's question and puzzled look, catching the lighter that Grace threw at him. "Now we only need some wood."

While the others started looking around for some dry branches, Aiden could feel his gaze drift to the pair at the shore of the beach. They seemed to be talking still, before hugging each other for a few moments, and standing up.

"There it is!" Michael's voice brought him back to reality, and when he turned around, he could see a small fire burning. "I can't take full credit though, you guys helped a little."

"A little?! We gave you the wood, you just turned on a lighter that isn't even yours!" exclaimed Maria, frowning slightly, but he just shrugged it off as he tossed the lighter back to Grace.

"That's more than others did."

Of course Michael was talking about him, but there was no way he was going to give him the satisfaction of reacting to his words. Especially because he was right, after all.

Callie and Caleb joined them just a few seconds later, and the whole group formed circle around the fire to have a taste of its warmth. After a moment of silence, in which apparently nobody knew what to say, Maria finally spoke.

"How are you holding up?"

"Honestly, I feel like I've been hit by a train..." Caleb replied almost immediately, and he certainly looked like he meant it, at least until he looked up and smiled slightly. "I can't believe you guys came all this way to find me. I thought I knew who my real friends were before tonight, but I was wrong. It's all of you."

"You should thank Callie" Michael offered the girl a tiny smirk, and she looked away with embarrassment. "She's the one who convinced us to come."

"Oh, please. I was just doing the right thing."

Callie probably wasn't aware that she was paraphrasing, but Michael certainly was. Aiden could see him bite his tongue so he wouldn't let out a snide remark this time, and that was the most satisfying thing he had seen tonight.

"Well, thank you anyway. You didn't have to, but you still did it. That says a lot."

Callie blushed even more at Caleb's words, and made a gesture with her hand, as if she wanted him to stop. Michael cleared his throat loudly. "Ok, so... you gonna teach Brian a lesson for stealing your girl?"

"That won't solve anything!" exclaimed Maria, frowning at him. "He needs to move on."

"No matter what you choose to do, you can count on us" Callie placed a gentle hand on Caleb's shoulder, with a smile.

"Yeah, that's nice and all, but it's getting kinda late and my dad already sent me a bunch of emoji infested texts."

Grace's words prompted everyone to check their own phones, and Aiden almost gasped. If his parents weren't texting him as well, was only because they were still getting the hang of their devices. Did they really spend almost two hours walking around?

The group mumbled their agreement, and soon enough the fire was extinguished. They all started their way back to Brian's house, since most of their cars were parked close by. Aiden found his rather quickly, and as he was about to get inside, he felt someone tap on his shoulder.

When he turned around, Grace was standing in front of him with a bright smile.

"Hey, before you go... I just wanted to tell you that I had a blast tonight" she said, hiding one of her dark curls behind her ear. "And it was mostly because of you, so thank you."

"Oh... no. I mean, thank you" Aiden swallowed hard, looking away as he felt his face burn. "I didn't expect to have a good time tonight, but I did..."

"... and it was because of me?"

A quick glance at her was enough to make him feel even more embarrassed, but it was worth it. Her eyes were shinning with anticipation.

"I guess you could say that, yes."

"Heh. So... are you gonna give me your number or do I have to ask you?" apparently she could noticed just how flustered he was because she simply extended her hand to him. "Just give me your phone."

Aiden hesitated for a few seconds, before he pulled his phone out of his pocket and gave it to her. She quickly typed on it, and her phone rang, so he assumed she had texted herself to get his number. To his surprise, she took a few seconds to snap a picture of herself before giving it back.

"There. I'll see you tomorrow."

He muttered a reply that he wasn't sure she heard, as he watched walk away and climb on her own car without looking back.

When he was sure she had already driven off, he checked his phone. On his contacts list, a new name was added. "Grace 👑", alongside with a selfie of her, that she had just taken right in front of him.

It took him a few second to look away from her.

Wild hearts, run

We're all animals inside

Go brave into the night

Don't slow, slow, slow it down.

Chapter 3 is up!

It took me a little longer to update this time, but I’ll try to be quicker next time. Also, if anyone would like to be tagged on my updates so they don’t miss them, please tell me! Thanks!

I hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is appreciated and encouraged. Thanks for reading!

[iphoenixrising]

I said I was kind of going on a hiatus. Too many things in my brain pan, but I connected with such a wonderful person, @careamorran, and had to write a thing based on a spectacular piece of art :D The post is here, and I really just wanted a little fun and maybe a little angst ;)

**

The blast of sunlight in his eyes is the conscious train rolling down the track. You know, right at his face.

After his syrupy thoughts evaluated the stabbing to his eyes as something non-lethal, the need to throw something sharp and vaguely bat-shaped at the defenseless windows fades enough that he can squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

Dammit.

He and Jay have plans for the day. Partially because it’s been two years today, and since Jason Todd is actually a sentimental cinnamon roll underneath the intense murder you vibe, Tim had managed to wrangle his reluctant significant other into finally getting the new ident set-up. It’s been a long time coming, and they’ve been arguing on and off about seeing to the details for weeks.

(“Things like a driver’s license, Jay.”)

(A careless shrug with a mouth full of meatball sub, “I drive, Timmers. I drive all the time.”)

(“Legally. The key here is legally.”)

His boyfriend had finally caved for their anniversary, and Tim would be damned if they missed the opportunity because of a long night in Gotham’s seedy underworld.

(Black Mask? Totally an ass hat, and no, he gives no shits about ruining the guy’s night. Seriously, fuck him. Mask literally hit on the Red Hood, right in front of him.)

With a soft groan of the newly conscious, Tim sits up, still wavery, and in desperate need of caffeine.

Desperate. Need.

The yawn is jaw-cracking, and he’s already reaching over for the lump of still-snoozing, just a tuft of dark hair peeking out from under their fluffy comforter in Jay’s room at the Manor.

If he grins a little, thinking someone as bad ass as the Red Hood is incredibly cute, well, no one else would ever have to know.

“Jay,” his voice still husky is bordering on fond, “we should get up, it’s late.”

He’s expected the inevitable, “where’s m’ good morning kiss, Timmy?” and to be pulled back down because Jay is really just as bad as Dick when it comes to pre-consciousness cuddling.

The hand moving fast to grab his wrist, to stop him from making contact isn’t necessarily unexpected because of reasons like ingrained instincts and Robin training. The occasional accidental injuries aren’t anything new. At times, it might be things like terrible nightmares or remnants of the Lazarus Pit. On the flip side, it might be residual panic because instead of Kon or Bart or Steph or Bruce, it’s Jason spitting out a mouth full of blood and gripping his harness with wide eyes and stuttering heart.

“Hey, calm down, it’s just--”

And whatever he’d been about to say in the usual soothing way dies in his throat when Jay turns, still in the t-shirt he’d thrown in before they’d fallen into bed last night, and--

Tim’s eyes go wide in shock and surprise.

Who the fuck is in bed with me!?

The set of jawline and ensuing frown is so painfully familiar--

From that time when Tim was a kid with a camera and Robin dove in out of the night to save him from a thug.

A Robin in his prime.

A Robin that’s fifteen instead of twenty-five.

Holy shit, Batman.

“Oh…” is about all his half-wired brain can muster.

Those eyes, the same ones from the painting in the main hall that used to be one of his safe places, the eyes without the green flecks, take stock, roving over Tim’s sleep-mussed hair, his face, his bare throat and chest, his too-big boxers.

And something seems to click.

“WHAAT THE FUUUCK?!!”

Is about as horrified as you can imagine.

The ensuing fight is really anticlimactic. Jason has aged-down equivalently, so while he can still duck, dodge, and fight better than any average person, he doesn’t have memories further than now meanwhile Tim hasn’t lost an ounce of his edge.

“You need to calm it down, Robin,” he tries while blocking a punch that is decidedly lower than what he’s used to. Yeah, throwing out that little bombshell is really a 50/50, but nothing else he can possibly say would help either:

*I’m your boyfriend, and you will be seriously pissed at yourself if you hurt me.

*I was the Robin after you, promise.  I only got pants because those green panties were a hard ‘no.’

*You haven’t tried killing me in a whole year. Can we stop trying to break the record?

As it turns out, maybe he should have because those eyes go wide and the fight takes on a more desperate turn.

Well, fuck.

He catches the knee before it takes out his jaw, his suddenly longer reach catching the much smaller fist in the palm of his hand. “That’s enough, Jay. You’re going to--” get yourself hurt.

But the younger is panting and red-face, gritting his teeth with narrowed eyes, and an obvious plan in the works when he realizes he’s not going to beat Tim.

“Who,” and the tone isn’t as low and growling as the Red Hood, but it still jars Tim right in all the places where he’s still mesmerized by the second Robin, “the fuck are you and how didja find out?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, so I’m going to let Bruce and Dick fill you in,” he replies, easing back slowly.

The teenager’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“How about this then: you hide books all over the Manor. Alfred found A Separate Peace, The Outsiders, 1984, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Once and Future King just to name a few.” He leaves the ones he’s found off the list just because the memories of his post-Robin life are apparently gone, and Tim is in no hurry to fill him in on the horrific events starting with the trip to Ethiopia.

Jason’s mouth falls open in a little ‘o’ of shock.

“One more just so you feel better about this: the first time B got hurt, seriously hurt, defending you, you called Dick at Titan’s Tower in New York.” His hands up in that not dangerous pose, he eases just slightly closer, tilting his head to actually look down. “It was that time with Killer Croc and you were freaked out.”

“How--” the teenager struggles, blinking at him with those blue, blue eyes, all of it without the Pit’s influence riding him.

With that realization, a horrible kind of plan hits Tim right in the brain pan.

“I know you’re Robin, so there’s some evidence, Mister Junior Detective.”

Jay gives him a huffing sneer, “real wise ass, ain’t cha?”

“Learned from the best,” he deadpans with a sad half-smile and fond eyes, “So, I vote we go downstairs, find Alfred so I can have some coffee, and then Bruce so he can have a holy shit moment of his own.”

Still staring at him, still calculating the risks and possible nefarious plots afoot, Jason only follows because he’s planning the best way to take this guy he’d woken up with down (and maybe staring down at his ass) while they went down the grand staircase.

Luckily, as it happens to go in Wayne Manor, at least someone has the patience to deal with things like utter fuckery.

That person will always be Alfred Pennyworth.

“Good morning Master--”

If Tim wasn’t as light and fast on his feet, there would be a whole lot of smashed ceramic all over the floor.

“My-my word, Master...Master Jason?”

“Mornin’ Alf,” the teenager waves a little, grinning sheepishly. “Found Slick here runnin’ the halls, so’s I thought maybe ya know who he is.”

(Slick? Tim arches a brow at that because really)

Alfred blatantly looks over, immediately getting back his usual calm, cool, and collected. “I do hope the scuffle I heard upstairs did not result in any bloodshed on the Turkish carpets, Master Tim.”

“I’m hurt at your complete lack of faith in my kick-ass skills, Alfred,” he waves a hand on his way to the sideboard where wonderful things (like coffee, please, please, please give him coffee to be able to deal with this and what he should very much not tell Jason) waited. He pauses to get his thoughts together, makes a mental Venn Diagram of the potential backlash of both scenarios, and adds cream with a little sugar so he doesn’t down the first mug liked boiling lava.

“I’m Tim Drake. Nice to meet you, by the way. It’s much nicer when we’re not trying to kill each other,” and yeah, that’s Alfred clearing his throat just a little. “I’m also a vigilante, so of course I’ve heard of Robin,” luckily, the way to trip up Jason’s radar is to tell the lie with just enough truth mixed in, “and I do work with Batman sometimes on out-of-town cases. I also do data collection and reconnaissance for the Titans, who I’m sure you’ve at least met at this juncture.” First few desperate sips accomplished, he moves to take a spot at the table and wait until Jason warily joins him, scrappy and scrawny, eyes that take in everything.

And he moves lighter on his feet, without a hell of a lot of burdens and probably a mass of missing scars from things like crowbars and insane psychopaths that deal in megalomaniacal delusions of grandeur. It’s a Jason Tim’s only known with a mask, and it’s a rough moment to stop himself from reaching out across the table to grip those twitchy fingers, but all he can do is swallow his heart back down in the vicinity of his chest, glance at Alfred with a little Batanese using just his eyebrows.

Without giving the his younger boyfriend an opportunity to ask, he cuts in with, “occasionally, B lets me stay over when a case gets...rough. It was last night anyway. I’m sorry I surprised you, but I’d been awake for about seventy-odd hours by then, so I was pretty compromised.”

Pretty much all true.

During the distraction, Alfred turns to busy himself at the sideboard. A glow in Tim’s peripheral is probably the butler texting the fam. B, Come downstairs immediately; Damian, please do not yet come downstairs. I shall bring breakfast up straight away. Dick, your presence would be appreciated at the Manor. It seems we have a situation. To make it a little more obvious he’s being serious, Alfred completely takes advantage of a displaced Jason, too busy staring Tim down from across the table, to snap a discreet picture to follow-up all those texts.

A fresh glass of juice and a side cup of coffee makes some of the tension ease from Jay’s shoulders, “sounds pretty stupid, you feel me? First rule of being a cape: take care a’ yerself. What we got against these crazy assholes? At the end of the day, it’s yer fists and yer brains, so ya gotta make sure ya got enough in ya ta take the beating.”

And it’s a fifteen-year-old Jason pointing a finger at him around his juice and all mock-serious, which it totally why he starts laughing without snorting coffee up his nose. Points for him.

“You are terrible at mocking B in lecture-mode. Terrible,” he shakes his head a little once he’s sure he isn’t going to choke, “more practice, okay? You’ll totally get there, but don’t think you’re ever beating out Dick. He is the official runner-up in the Best Dad Lecture category.”

A heartbeat and Jason starts to crack a grin, laughing out loud in that younger voice, the blue of his eyes without the Pit lingering, without the grim realizations of the day he’s going to die (again). He’s so heartbreakingly innocent of it all (and Tim just wonders how Bruce is going to take this because things like tears and BatDad are going to go down soon--he can feel it).

So by the time Alfred emerges from the kitchen with warm eggs and fluffy waffles, the tension has eased down between the former Robins by the way they throw stories back and forth.

“Yer kiddin’ me,” Jason deadpans back.

“All true, I swear. Freeze and Ivy watched him bust his bat ass--”

“Y’know, there was one time he fell through a crappy roof right inta a ladies’ shower, right?”

“I’m sorry what now?”

“That ain’t what she was thinking, Timmy. Just takin’ a shower and boom, there’s the Bat admiring the decor an’ shit.”

The mental image is enough to get him started all over again, laughing while huddled over his precious, beautiful coffee and lost staring at the fucking beautiful sight of his younger, unburdened significant other. Even better, more evidence in favor of the formulating plan clicks into place with Jason’s easy laugh and wild gestures. But it all comes down to basic facts: fifteen or twenty-five, this is the crazy idiot he loves. And if this is a golden opportunity to give the guy a second chance, one without the Joker and ticking bombs, without being buried alive, and thrown in the Lazarus Pit, it might well be worth the effort.

[rosetlntsmyworld]

Chassés and Lattes (Dela/Jinkx)

7: “Well, that’s tragic.”

SUMMARY: A spilled cold brew and ruined dance tights leads to some unlikely romance. Jinkx is terrible at walking in straight lines, and worse at flirting. Dela picked the wrong day to wear white.

Part of this drabble challenge - message me a number and pairing ;)))

Dela was blissfully unaware of her surroundings to say the least. Headphones on as she stood in the queue, humming airily as she ran through the steps she was planning to fit to the song in her head. Of course, teaching choreography of any sort to small children was about as straightforward as herding a few dozen hyperactive cats - five-year olds being less interested in learning the difference between third and fourth position than they were in twirling, and discussing the events of the previous night’s episode of Sesame Street - but she guessed she got points for trying. She had her dark hair scraped back into a bun - fully-dressed for class save for the Mary-Jane pumps she was donning in place of her practice shoes. Of course, this had to be the day that every single black leotard she owned was sitting in her long-neglected dirty laundry pile, but she’d thrown a white one on with a black cardi and hoped for the best. Of course the kids would question it, but then they questioned everything. Anything, she supposed, to avoid having to do any actual ballet.

She was entirely on a planet of her own as the line moved forward, slinging her purse over her opposite shoulder and fishing her phone out of it to skip this song. Perhaps Anaconda wasn’t the best thing to plan a class to. And perhaps she should have thought about planning said class before she was in the line in Starbucks, where she’d detoured before actually showing up to the studio. And so naturally, it came as a shock when she felt a body careen into her own, grabbing her shoulder to steady themself as they tripped. Dela twitched with the shock, instinctively throwing an arm out to the other person, again helping them in their pursuit of staying upright.  She eventually looked at this clumsy individual, the stranger’s eyes meeting her own as they stood upright properly.

Shit.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry - are you alright?” Dela had to try hard to speak coherently. The woman facing her still held onto her arm, a light smile on her cherry-painted lips. Said smile was drawn into a look of tentative worry as she had her brows furrowed, her awkward panic rife on her face. But she was fucking gorgeous. Now it wasn’t just the right that had Dela catching her breath - bright green eyes smiled into her own, a halo of coppery auburn hair framing the woman’s face from under the brim of her black felt hat. A nervous laugh accompanied her words - her voice kind and nervy all at once, that laugh decadently sweet and somehow charming in spite of its awkwardness.

“I- uh- yeah, I’m fine.” Dela eventually said with a toothy smile, nodding to assure the other woman as she lowered her arm, taking a step back. Okay, despite how blown away she was by the physical appearance of the red-headed beauty, that didn’t detract from the fact that she was now ominously...wet. And cold. “Are you-” “Oh, fuck.” The redhead slapped her forehead, a drawn grimace spreading across her face as she blushed to a shade of scarlet somewhere between her lips and her hair. “Oh no - I’m so fucking sorry- you shirt, I…” She trailed off, receding back into herself with a shrug and her teeth in her own lip as Dela looked down at herself - an enormous brown stain down her front, extending from her belly down to the white of her tights; a small pile of ice cubes on the floor and the other woman’s now-empty cup still in her hand. “God, I’m so fucking clumsy- I’m really sorry.”

Dela shook her head, giving a thin-lipped smile as she placed her hand on the other woman’s shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay - don’t worry, sweetie. It’ll wash out.” “Dammit, you’re probably going somewhere, too - I’m such a fucking klutz, honestly. Do you want me to- I dunno, help you clean up a little or something?” She offered with that same nervy smile on her face, her thin brows furrowed and hands wringing inside the sleeves of her black jumper.

“Oh, no - really, I…” Dela grimaced. “I’ll dive into the restroom, it’ll be fine.” “Well, I- look, at least let me buy you a drink or something. To say sorry.” She cocked her head to one side, trying her hardest to help in some way. Poor dear - the embarrassment was rife on her face, Dela pitying her as much as she was starting to fancy her.

“Okay, if you insist.”

“So, what did you say your name was?” The redhead leaned against the bathroom wall as Dela scrubbed at the front of her leotard with damp toilet paper to seemingly no avail. She still had her arms folded - black skinny jeans and Docs making up the latter half of her simple outfit. Dela liked it, immensely. Subtly artistic - somehow endearing for just being a black sweater and pants.

“Uh, Dela. Dela Putnam.” She said with a smile, looking to the other woman. Thank god she was cute - there was no way in hell this coffee stain was shifting. And thank god she preferred her coffee cold - she’d maybe not have been as sympathetic if this wasn’t the case, regardless of how cute she was. “That’s sweet - I’m Jinkx Monsoon. Don’t laugh.” “Well, that’s tragic.” She gave a tiny giggle. “I don’t think I’ve got much right to say anything at all - ‘Dela’ isn’t really even a name, and I work with kids, so that’s by far not the most offensive name I’ve ever come across.”

“Kids? Really?”

She nodded. “I’m a dance teacher. Ballet, mostly - I do a little tap and jazz too. And a couple of adults’ burlesque classes too.”

Jinkx raised an eyebrow, laughing incredulously. “Burlesque?” Now Dela was the one to blush. “Yeah - like, striptease. It’s classy.” She added with slight panic. “No pole or anything - I don’t do it for money. I just think it’s kinda...empowering, y’know? Does that sound stupid?”

“Not at all. I mean, you’ve definitely got the body for it,” Jinkx smirked, rising fully to her feet and standing beside Dela as she threw the wodge of sodden paper into the trash. “Your boyfriend must love it.” She laughed at this, shaking her head. “No way in hell. The last boy I kissed was my junior prom date, and he dumped me for my brother. I kinda bat for the...other team.” She admitted bashfully, eyes downturned and shy. “Not that you’d think it, based on looks and profession.”

“Hey, hey - no need to be shy; uh, me too. Now I can just tell you without feeling like a pervert that I think you’re beautiful.” Jinkx grinned tentatively, only meeting Dela’s eyes in their reflection in the mirror. “I- uh...More than beautiful, actually - you’re so…” she stammered at this, suddenly struck dumb.

“I’m glad I’m not the only one.” Dela turned to her shyly as she reached into her purse to fish out her business card. “Look, here’s my number. If you wanna catch a movie or go for a drink, now you’ll know where to find me.”

“God, I never thought spilling my coffee would get me a date.” Jinkx tittered, grinning broadly. “I mean, I’m glad it was you - I think that guy in front of me would have knocked my teeth out.”

“I’m glad you trashed my outfit. You’re gorgeous - and oddly charming. It’s very sweet.” “Thank you,” she twirled a lock of her hair around her finger as she grinned shyly. “I...I know we’re in a Starbucks bathroom like a couple of teenagers, and I know it’s fucking dorky, but...would you mind if I kissed you?”

“I wouldn’t mind in the slightest.”

“Ex-cuuuse me, Miss Dela?” “Yes?” She turned around from her position sat down on the bench against the studio wall, checking her register to ensure everyone had paid as all the moms departed with their darlings at the end of the class, to find Lola, one of the more precocious of her students, standing behind her with her hands behind her back - bright as a button and grinning as though she knew a secret. “What’s up, Lola?” “Uh...Why were you late today?” “I don’t think I was that late.” She said with an airy smile, looking the young girl in the eyes. “Why do you ask, princess?” “Well, you’ve, uh- you’ve had lipstick on your cheek all class.”

[wilddaydreamingcat]

The Untamed Episode 2- translation of Chinese subs

Thank you for all the likes! Here is the translation of the Chinese subtitles for Episode 2 of the Untamed.

Please do not post this outside Tumblr, thank you.

The Untamed – Episode 2

   Wei Wuxian: You’re just a donkey, yet you will only eat tender grass with dew drops. You won’t even eat grass that’s slightly yellow. You throw tantrums refusing to move when not satisfied with your food, and show defiance by kicking your hind legs! Fine, You’re a great master, all right? Great master, let’s move! Oy, great master, what are you doing?

  Cultivator: How much longer do we have to walk?

  Cultivator: I don’t know. We should be there soon.

  Cultivator: It’s dreadfully hot.

  Cultivator: It’s so hot. I’m so thirsty.

  Cultivator: We’ve been walking for so long, when can we have a rest?

  Cultivator: How much further?

  Cultivator: There’s a well there. Let’s get a drink.

  Cultivator: I’m out of water too.

  Cultivator: I’ll get it. Here.

  A-Yan’s Mother: A-Yan!

  Cultivator: That’s strange. We’re almost at the foot of Dafan Mountain*, why is the needle still not moving?

*Translation Note: 大梵山 dà fàn shān (Dafan Mountain) = Great Brahma Mountain

  Cultivator: Is your compass broken? Get a new one when we’re back. Dafan Mountain is less ten li (5 kilometres) away, we’re reaching soon. We cannot rest long. If someone else takes the credit, we won’t be able to earn the accolades.

  Wei Wuxian: My cultivator friends, is there something going on recently at the Dafan Mountain that you are speaking about?

  Cultivator: You may not know this, But Dafan Mountain was once a blessed land, but for some reason, it later began to wane. Recently, we heard of hauntings caused by soul-eating spirits, that absorbed the souls of countless people.

  Cultivator: No, I don’t think that’s entirely correct. I’m afraid there are no soul-eating beasts or soul-eating spirits around here. Look, none of the needles of the Evil-Seeking Compass are moving.

  Cultivator: If that’s the case, why are there stories of people losing their souls? Perhaps there’s a problem with your compass?

  Cultivator: How can it be? Don’t you know who made my compass?

  Cultivator: What do you mean by that? Of course I know. This Evil-Seeking Compass is made by Wei Ying, Wei Wuxian. The things he made are not always perfect, why can’t I have my doubts?

  Cultivator: I didn’t say that you can’t doubt it, nor did I say that the things he made are perfect! Sir, why are you making slanderous accusations?

  Cutivator: Anyway, the things made by Wei Wuxian are just bad quality!

  Cultivator: I’ve had this for many years and it’s always worked fine! It’s never been wrong before!

  Cultivator: Why do you believe in him so? Is he your father?

  Cultivator: He’s my idol!

  Wei Wuxian: Fine... Let’s go! Great master, move!

  A-Yan: Here!

  A-Yan’s Mother: A-Yan! My apologies.

  Wei Wuxian: Thank you. Want the apple? I’m not giving you, will you move?

  A-Yan: Lil Apple! Lil Apple!

  Wei Wuxian: You hear that? Hear that? I’ll call you Lil Apple from now on. Let’s go.

  A-Yan’s Mother: A-Yan! A-Yan!

  Wei Wuxian: Young Lady?

  A-Yan’s Mother: A-Yan! A-Yan! I beg you, stop dancing! A-Yan! A-Yan. A-Yan! A-Yan!

  Wei Wuxian: Madam, what’s wrong with Young Lady A-Yan?

  A-Yan’s Mother: A-Yan is my daughter. Not long ago, she was engaged to be married. Unfortunately, her husband-to-be was short-lived. That day, he went up the mountains to chop firewood. A-Yan insisted on going up the mountains to look for him. We didn’t expect... after she returned from the mountains...

  A-Yan’s Father: A-Yan!

  A-Yan’s Mother: ...it was like she became a different person...

  A-Yan’s Father: A-Yan!

  A-Yan’s Mother: ...she neither ate nor drank...

  A-Yan’s Father: A-Yan!

  A-Yan’s Mother: ...and didn’t recognise anyone.

  A-Yan’s Parents: A-Yan!

  A-Yan’s Mother: She recognises people sometimes. It’s just that she behaves strangely, always dancing towards the direction of Dafan Mountain. What terrible sin did our clan commit? Immediately after A-Yan got better, her father lost his soul, and passed away not long after.

  Cultivator: Help! Somebody!

  Cultivator: Help! Somebody! Is anyone there?

  Cultivator: Anyone? Help! Help!

  Cultivator: Help! Is anyone there?

  Cultivator: Somebody, please hurry! Help!

  Cultivator: Help! Help!

[Jin Ling, courtesy name – Rulan]

  Jin Ling: It’s always you idiots. There are over 400 Spirit Binding Nets on this mountain, and over ten of these got damaged by you people even before they caught any prey.

  Wei Wuxian: One Spirit Binding Net is already considered a luxury, and he actually put up over 400 nets at once? That’s so typical of the Lanling Jin Clan.

  Cultivator: We request Young Master Jin to make an exception, please put us down!

  Cultivators: Yes, please put us down.

  Jin Ling: All of you can continue hanging up there, so that you can stop walking around and interfering in my business.

  Cultivators: Young Master Jin, please put us down!

  Jin Ling: You can wait till I capture the soul-eating beast. I’ll put you down if I still remember any of you.

  Cultivators: Please put us down! Young Master Jin, we beg you!

  A-Yan: Lil Apple! Lil Apple! Lil Apple! Lil Apple!

  Cultivator: Help!

  A-Yan: Lil Apple!

  Cultivator: Please put us down!

  Jin Ling: Oh, it’s you?

  >Wei Wuxian: What? You know me?

  Jin Ling: You went mad after being driven out? Look at how crappy your appearance is now. Uncle* did the right thing when he expelled you. The Mo household

actually dare to let you outside now?

*Translation Note: subtitle uses 叔叔(shū shu) – uncle who is the father's younger brother

  Wei Wuxian: I didn’t expect Mo Xuanyu to really be the old Sect Leader Jin’s illegitimate son.

  Jin Ling: Hurry up and get lost! Seeing you makes me sick. Pervert.

  Wei Wuxian: Who are you accusing of being a pervert?

  Jin Ling: I’m accusing you! Get lost quickly!

  Wei Wuxian: You really are an ill-raised brat with no mother to teach you manners.*

Translation Note: 有娘生没娘养 – lit have a mother to give birth but no mother to raise you

  Jin Ling: You...! What did you say? How disgusting, you lack spiritual power and couldn’t cultivate, so you use such evil methods! You better watch out! Don’t you know who’s coming today?

  Wei Wuxian: Oh, I’m so scared.

  Jin Ling: If you don’t release me, I’ll tell my uncle*! You can wait and die!

*Translation Note: subtitle uses 舅舅(jiù jiu) – uncle who is the mother's younger brother

  Wei Wuxian: Why is it your uncle and not your father? Who is your uncle?

  Jiang Cheng: I’m his uncle! Do you have any last words?

  Jin Ling: Uncle!

[Jiang Cheng, courtesy name – Wanyin]

Uncle!

  Jiang Cheng: Stop right there. Jin Ling, why are you wasting time here? Do I really have to help you up? Look at you, such an embarrassment. Get up right now!

  Jin Ling: I’m going to break your rotten legs!

  Jiang Cheng: Break his legs? Didn’t I tell you that anyone who uses the Yiling Patriarch’s evil tricks must be killed and fed to your dog!

  Wei Wuxian: I really did not consult the almanac before going out today.*

*Translation Note: The almanac 黄历 (huáng lì) that this sentence is referring to is a calendar that follows the Chinese Lunar month. It lists down auspicious and inauspicious days. Ancient Chinese people frequently consulted the almanac to determine auspicious or inauspicious days, usually to set a date for weddings, grand events or funerals. An example of this is the 通胜(tōng shèng) , which is still being used today. Wiki Link: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tung_Shing

  Jiang Cheng: So it’s Second Young Master Lan.

  Lan disciples: Clan Leader Jiang.

  Jiang Cheng: Hanguang-Jun truly lives up to his great reputation of appearing wherever there’s chaos. Why do you have time to wander into the deep forest today? Is Second Young Master Lan here to snatch the credit from the juniors, or are you here to find someone? These past 16 years, you have travelled far and wide.

  Lan Jingyi: Clan Leader Jiang, what do you mean by that?

  Jiang Cheng: What do I mean? I believe Second Young Master Lan is well aware.

  Lan Sizhui: Young Master Jin, night hunts are supposed to be a fair competition between clans. However, Young Master Jin has put up nets all over Dafan Mountain, making it difficult for other cultivators to move around lest they fall into a trap. Surely,

this is a violation of the rules of the night hunt?

  Jin Ling: They are stupid and got themselves caught. What can I do about it? If there’s nothing else, we can wait till I’ve caught the prey.

  Jiang Cheng: Lan! What do you mean by that? Jin Ling is not yours to discipline! Release the spell now!

  Lan Sizhui: Clan Leader Jiang, there is no need to be angry. The Silence Spell of the Lan Clan does not harm anyone. As long as he does not break it by force, it will be released upon the time of one incense stick.

  Jiang Cheng: Right now!

  Jiang disciple: Clan Leader! Clan Leader!

  Jiang Cheng: Speak! What bad news do you have to report now?

  Jiang disciple: Just now, a sword of blue light destroyed the Spirit Binding Nets that you have arranged.

  Jiang Cheng: How many?

Jiang disciple: All of them.

  Jiang Cheng: Over 400 Spirit Binding Nets! Excellent work, Gusu Lan Clan! Jin Ling, since Hanguang-Jun wishes to punish you, let him do so this one time. It’s not easy for him to discipline the juniors of another clan. You can go.

  Jiang disciple: Yes.

  Jiang Cheng: Why are you still standing there? Are you waiting for prey to stab itself on your sword? If you can’t capture the creature in Dafan Mountain by today, don’t come back to see me again!

  Lan Sizhui: Clan Leader Jiang, the Gusu Lan Clan will pay for all the Spirit Binding Nets.

  Jiang Cheng: No need.

  Lan Wangji: You may proceed with your work, do your best but do not put yourselves at risk.

  Lan disciples: Yes.

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian! Don’t cause trouble again!

  Jiang Yanli: A-Xian, have some soup. It’s your favourite lotus root pork ribs soup.

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian, You promised to assist me! Did you forget? You said the Gusu Clan had Twin Jades, but the Yunmeng Clan has Twin Heroes!

  Jiang Yanli: A-Xian, you, me and A-Cheng, the three of us must always be together, and never separate.

  Wei Wuxian: Senior Sister... Senior Sister!*

*Translation Note: The Netflix subtitles uses her name ‘Yanli’ in here, but what Wei Wuxian actually said was 师姐 (shī jiě), which is the way of addressing one’s senior female fellow student in a martial arts sect/clan. Wei Wuxian never addresses Yanli by her name in the entire series, because that would be considered rude, and he really has a huge amount of respect for her. I guess the full literal translation would be ‘Senior Martial Sister’, but it’s shortened here as ‘Senior Sister’

  Cultivator: This Young Master Jin, the Jin Clan and Jiang Clan are always indulging him. He’s so high-handed and domineering despite his youth. If he takes charge of the Lanling Jin Clan one day, he’ll turn it upside down! We can forget about staying alive!

  Cultivator: He lost both parents at such a young age, so you can’t blame them for spoiling him.

  Cultivator: So what if he lost both parents? In this world, there are so many who have lost both parents. If everyone was as overbearing as he is, how does anyone stand it?

  Cultivator: Even so, Jin Ling had such a tragic past. Before he was a month old, his father was killed by Wei Wuxian. His mother, Jiang Yanli, was also eventually killed because of Wei Wuxian. Jiang Yanli suffered much injustice, to have raised such a wretched ingrate. You can’t blame Jiang Cheng for having so much hate for the Yiling Patriarch. These past 16 years, whenever he encountered anyone who uses Wei Wuxian’s evil spells, he punishes them severely. If anyone is to blame, it’s Wei Wuxian. He had enemies everywhere, and was surrounded by enmity.

  Wei Wuxian: You really are an ill-raised brat with no mother to teach you manners.

  Jin Ling: You...

  Wei Wuxian: Jin Ling is my senior sister’s son. How could I say that to him? I thought I had hardened my heart, but in the end I am still a person with feelings. Lil Apple! You’re back.

=====================================

  Lan Jingyi: Sizhui, we’ve searched everywhere, but we haven’t found any trace of soul-eating spirits or soul-eating beasts. Who’re you? Sneaking around like that.

  Lan Sizhui: Old Mister, may I know what you are doing here?

  Old Man: I’m here to keep guard. I guard this graveyard.

  Lan Jingyi: I thought we’d found some evil spirits.

  Lan Sizhui: Old Mister, how long have you been here?

  Old Man: I can’t remember. At that time, Old Master Wen sent me here, I dared not leave. Later, so many died, the graves increased as well, which easily attracted evil things.

  Lan Sizhui: Are there any strange places in Dafan Mountain?

  Old Man: Yes, yes. Both of you should go to the Tiannu Temple* at the top of the mountain to have a look. At that place, there’s a statue of a dancing goddess. It’s a block of stone that looks exactly like a person. Don’t you think that’s strange? Previously, Old Master Wen, Old Master Wen said... What did he say...

*Translator Note: Tiannu Temple - 天女祠 (tiānnǚ cí) lit: Goddess Temple)

  Lan Sizhui: Let’s go to Tiannu Temple and have a look. We might discover something there.

  Old Man: Old Master Wen...

  Lan disciples: Thank you, old mister.

  Old Man: He said... What did Old Master Wen say... Old Master Wen... Oh right! That statue can move!

=====================================

  Wei Wuxian: This stupid donkey only knows how to eat. Lil Apple? This is Soul-Gathering Grass? The Soul-Gathering Grass can absorb spirit essence from the soil. It’s usually found growing beside the graves of cultivators. Perhaps there’s a large number of cultivator graves here? I didn’t think that you’d be such a clever eater. It looks like this place is shrouded by a dark fog because of the large number of cultivators buried here. Spiritual essence lingered here without dissipating, and the Soul-Gathering Grass grew.

======================================

  Wei Wuxian: Excuse me for troubling you, would you know which clan does this graveyard belong to?

  Old Man: They’re no more... The Wen Clan is no more...

  Wei Wuxian: The Wen Clan? Wen Clan...

  Wen Qing: Wei Wuxian, this is where my clan’s people are buried.

  Wei Wuxian: That’s not right, the ones causing trouble here are not soul-eating spirits! Oh no! Jin Ling! Where’s the old man?

======================================

[Tiannu Temple]

  Lan Jingyi: According to legend, hundreds of years ago, A hunter from Fojiao Town* went into the deep forest and found a strange chunk of stone within a grotto that resembled a human being. It had four robust limbs in a dance-like pose. What’s more amazing is the head of this statue seemed to have the facial features of a smiling female. The people of Fojiao Town thought it was miraculous and concocted many stories about it. According to the locals, this Tiannu Temple is extremely effective with granting wishes. Why is it so decrepit? Is there no one cleaning it?

*Translation Note: Fojiao Town (佛脚镇Fó jiǎo zhèn) lit: Buddha’s Foot Town

  Jin Ling: A chunk of broken stone- that someone placed here, conferred upon it the status of a deity, and daringly offered it incense and worship in this place. These rural and backward villagers, are just worshipping and praying to the gods all day, not knowing that even the gods are unable to fend for themselves. What’s more, this is nothing more than a nameless deity. If it’s so effective, then let me make a wish now. I want the creature that has been eating people’s souls in Dafan Mountain to appear before me right now. Can it do that?

  Cultivator: I agree, the words of Young Master Jin makes sense.

  Lan Sizhui: Hey, what’s wrong with you? Hey! Wake up! Senior Mo!*

*Translation Note: Sizhui is now using a respectful honorific when addressing Wei Wuxian, and calls him ‘Senior’ (前辈 qián bèi)

  Wei Wuxian: Everyone leave! Beware of this soul-eating goddess.

  Lan Jingyi: The goddess’s pose has changed!

  Wei Wuxian: Why are you still standing there? Run away, quickly!

======================================

  Wei Wuxian: Children, children! Wait for me!

  Lan Jingyi: Who are your children? Do you know whose clan we belong to?

  Wei Wuxian: Fine, dear big brothers, can you just set off one of your firework signals to call your clan’s Hanguang-Jun to come over here?

  Lan Sizhui: Oh no! We used up all the signal pellets that night at Mo Manor.

  Wei Wuxian: You didn’t replenish it?

  Lan Sizhui: We forgot.

  Wei Wuxian: You actually forgot this? When your Hanguang-Jun finds out, get prepared for your punishment.

  Lan Jingyi: We’re done for. We’ll be severely punished by Hanguang-Jun this time.

  Wei Wuxian: You definitely deserve punishment, If not, you won’t remember this lesson.

  Lan Sizhui: Senior Mo, how did you know that the soul-eating creature is the dancing goddess?

  Wei Wuxian: I saw it.

  Lan Jingyi: What did you see?

  Wei Wuxian: The pile of graves. That’s why I deduced that it was definitely not the actions of soul-eating spirits or soul-eating beasts.

  Lan Sizhui: Why?

  Wei Wuxian: Seriously, can you Lan Clan members, study a little less of those long, stinking lists that need to be memorised, like etiquettes and protocols, family history, and cultivation history Can they please teach you things that are more practical? Soul-eating beasts and soul-eating spirits replenish themselves by absorbing the undispersed spiritual essences of the dead. Let me ask you, the many cultivator graves here have undispersed spiritual essence that is not yet absorbed, why would it absorb the essence from living people?

  Lan Jingyi: That makes sense. Wait. So you’re not a madman.

  Lan Sizhui: How about Young Lady A-Yan?

  Wei Wuxian: I’ll ask you again. A lady’s husband-to-be goes missing. What would a powerless young woman do?

  Lan Sizhui: Pray to the gods.

  Wei Wuxian: Correct. In fact, A-Yan also has a special characteristic. Among all the people, why was she the only one whose spiritual senses were returned?

  Lan Sizhui: This...

  Wei Wuxian: A-Yan’s father, dearly loved his daughter. When he realised that his daughter’s spiritual senses were taken, and medicine was of no help, putting him in a hopeless situation, what would he do?

  Lan Jingyi: I know! He went to pray to the gods as well! So, he too, had gone to Tiannu Temple to make a wish. His wish was “I wish that my daughter A-Yan’s spiritual senses can be found.”

  Wei Wuxian: Correct. The Dancing Goddess then spat out A-Yan’s spiritual senses, which is why her spiritual senses were damaged. That is the reason she would imitate the Dancing Goddess’s dancing pose and her smile.

  Lan Sizhui: So, those words from Jin Ling just now “I’ll make a wish now, to have the creature that absorbed the people’s spiritual senses appear before me right now.”, caused the Dancing Goddess to become alive!

  Wei Wuxian: Jin Ling! Has anyone seen Jin Ling?

  Lan Sizhui: Why does the Dancing Goddess...

  Lan Jingyi: ...look completely human-like?

  Wei Wuxian: That’s not right. Lan Zhan and I sealed her previously, why did she come alive again?

  Lan Sizhui: Young Master Jin, quick, set off the signals you are carrying!

  Lan Jingyi: Hey, why did you draw my sword? Why are you playing a flute at this time? It sounds awful. He’s still a madman.

[Wen Ning, courtesy name – Qiong Lin]

  Wei Wuxian: Wen Ning? Isn’t Wen Ning dead? How can it be him?

  Lan Jingyi: What ghastly creature is this?

  Cultivator: It’s the Ghost General! The Ghost General, Wen Ning!

  Lan Jingyi: Wasn’t Wen Ning turned to ashes alongside the Yiling Patriarch 16 years ago?

  Wei Wuxian: That’s not right, it’s an illusion. Who created this illusion? And who would put in so much effort? Was it so that I could summon Wen Ning?

  Cultivator: The Dancing Goddess has disappeared. It’s a fake.

  Lan Sizhui: What?

  Cultivator: Surround him! Everyone! We must stop him, don’t let him run away! This is Wen Ning! What are you afraid of? Don’t be afraid! The Yiling Patriarch is not here!

  Cultivator: That’s right! What there to be scared of? His master’s corpse has already been torn to pieces!

  Cultivator: Attack!

Wei Wuxian: Just now, the flute music I played was too violent, it awakened his ferocious nature. I need to suppress him, calm his state of mind.

  Jiang Cheng: A-Ling!

  Jin Ling: Uncle.

  Jiang Cheng: Didn’t you carry any signals? What on earth did you encounter? Stop your pretence at bravery! Get over here now!

  Jin Ling: Didn’t you insist that I must take down the creature at all costs?

  Jiang Cheng: You dare talk back at me?

  Cultivator: Clan Leader.

  Jiang Cheng: What exactly happened to have put you in this embarrassing condition?

  Cultivator: Clan Leader, it’s Wen Ning.

  Jiang Cheng: What did you say?

  Cultivator: Wen Ning has returned.

  Jiang Cheng: Wen Ning?

  Cultivator: It’s Wen Ning. I’m sure of it.

  Jiang Cheng: This thing’s ashes has already been scattered to the winds before the public! How can it return?

  Cultivator: It really is Wen Ning. I did not see wrongly. He’s the one who summoned it!

  Jiang Cheng: Fine, you have returned. Lan Wangji, how dare you stop me!

  Wei Wuxian: What? You think you’re great and can beat anyone because you have money and status?

  Jiang Cheng: Why is there no reaction? Why is there no reaction? Impossible! Take off your mask!

  Wei Wuxian: No way!

  Jiang Cheng: You...

  Wei Wuxian: I’m afraid I’ll frighten you to death if I take it off!

  Lan Jingyi: That’s enough, Clan Leader Jiang. That’s Zidian.* Zidian will reveal souls that have possessed a body with one hit. When Wei Wuxian died that year, not only was his body not found, even his soul could not be summoned. It’s impossible for him to return to life unless he has possessed a body.

*Translation Note: Zidian 紫电 (zǐ diàn) = Purple Lightning)

  Jiang Cheng: How would you know if he’s really dead?

  Lan Jingyi: That year, weren’t you the one who killed Wei Wuxian with your sword?

  Jiang Cheng: Tell me! Who on earth are you?

=================================

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian! Go and die!

=================================

  Wei Wuxian: Sometimes, I really want to go back 16 years ago, return to Lotus Pier. Even if it’s just a dream, I don’t want to wake up.

  Jiang Yanli: A-Xian!

[Sixteen Years Ago]

A-Xian! A-Xian! A-Xian!

  Jiang Cheng: If you don’t wake up, I’ll set the dog on you!

  Wei Wuxian: Dog!

  Woman: Loquats for sale! Fresh loquats! Just plucked from the tree!

  Jiang Yanli: Don’t tease A-Xian.

  Wei Wuxian: We’ve arrived? Wait for me! I’m coming! Senior Sister, have all of us arrived?

  Jiang Yanli: We’ve not reached Cloud Recesses yet. This is Caiyi Town.

  Wei Wuxian: I wonder if there’s anything fun to do in Caiyi Town? We’re here to attend lectures, but all you’re thinking of is having fun.

  Wei Wuxian: Attempt the impossible*, right?

*Translator Note: ���知不可为而为之 (míng zhī bù kě wéi ér wéi zhī) is the Yunmeng Jiang Clan motto

  Jiang Yanli: Stop, both of you. You’re outside, not in your own home. You should still pay attention to your manners.

  Wei Wuxian: Senior Sister, look at him...

  Jiang Cheng: What’s wrong with me?

  Wei Wuxian: I want this one! Excuse me. Senior Sister, look at this little rabbit. Isn’t it fun?

  Jiang Yanli: It’s fun.

  Jiang Cheng: You’re still thinking of having fun? We’ve almost reached Cloud Recesses. This time, the lectures are being attended by the disciples of many great clans. Don’t let everyone look down on us because of your actions.

  Wei Wuxian: All right, I know!

  Jiang Cheng: Right, all of you listen clearly, from today onward, all our actions, our bearing and etiquette represent the face of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan.

  Jiang Disciples: Yes!

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian! Did you even hear that? Sis*, we’re travel-worn and tired from our journey from Yunmeng. Why don’t we find an inn to refresh ourselves before going to Cloud Recesses? That way, Yunmeng Jiang’s image will not be tarnished.

*Translation Note: The Netflix subtitles again uses her name ‘Yanli’ in their translation, but what Jiang Cheng said was 姐 (jiě) which is a shortened form for ‘elder sister ’ (姐姐)

  Jiang Yanli: Good idea. There’s still 10 days* before the greeting ceremony. We’re tired from our journey, let’s have a rest here.

  Wei Wuxian: We’re going to stay here? I heard that Gusu’s Emperor’s Smile is the most famous liquor.* The flavour is mellow and rich, you forget your worries once you’re drunk! I’ve coveted it for a long time. I can finally get hold of it today.

*Translation Note - amendment dated 23 Jul 2020 - changed the word ‘wine’ to ‘liquor’ 

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian, you’re not allowed to drink!

  Wei Wuxian: I’ll drink anyway. Furthermore, drinking brings me happiness. Why are you always stopping me?

  Jiang Cheng: You... Father shouldn’t have let you come for the lectures.

  Wei Wuxian: You...

  Jiang Yanli: Both of you, stop quarrelling. Let’s find an inn.

  Jiang Cheng: Wei Wuxian, I’ll say this one more time...

  Wei Wuxian: I know already, my ears are overworked by you! I’m going off!

  Jiang Cheng: Hey! Sis, look at him! I have a feeling that he will definitely cause a huge mess at Cloud Recesses.

  Jiang Yanli: A-Xian has a lively character, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Doesn’t Father often say that as well?

  Jiang Cheng: Sis, you and Father are always defending him.

  Jiang Yanli: His temperament will never change. Besides, doesn’t our Yunmeng Jiang Clan teach us to be unrestrained and follow our hearts?

Translation Notes:

Spirit Binding Net 缚仙网 (fù xiān wǎng): literally ‘binding immortal net’. In the series, Netflix translated it as ‘spirit net’. I have translated it as ‘spirit binding net’ as I felt that it better expressed what the net is used for. It makes sense that these nets are capable of binding creatures that utilise spiritual powers, which includes cultivators. I assume such things cannot be cut by an ordinary blade but only with a spiritual weapon.

Evil-Seeking Compass 风邪盘 (fēng xié pán): literally ‘wind evil disk’. I couldn’t find any instance in the episode where this was fully translated, as it was only mentioned as ‘compass’. So I have named it as ‘Evil-Seeking Compass’, since it looks like a compass and it seeks out evil spirits.

 All the weapon names will be translated using pinyin instead of their literal translation, for example: Zidian 紫电 (zǐ diàn) instead of ‘Purple Lightning’, and Bichen 避尘 (bì chén) instead of ‘Avoiding Dust’. Calling Lan Wangji’s weapon ‘Avoiding Dust’ sounds weird.

[fangirlandiknowit101]

To celebrate one year of Yuri!!! on Ice, I rewrote the beginning of Lessons in Love from Viktor’s point of view! I wanted to do something more spectacular but since I’m down with a cold... oh well. Made this header just for fun a couple days ago to go with it. Yoi didn’t necessarily change my life, but it did change my fandom life a lot so thank you Yuuri and Viktor, for being the best two people in love that I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing! I waited for the first episode to air since the trailer was released, already having decided that this would become my new fandom. I certainly wasn’t disappointed! Thank you yoi for a wonderful fandom experience, and thank you to everyone reading my stories, it means a lot<333 I hope you like this tiny little something! (灬ºωº灬)♡

Viktor groans, waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green. He’s not a fan of leaving Yura alone, and now he is very much alone in a huge ice skating arena, filled with strangers. Hopefully everyone is busy enough watching the competition that they won’t notice his son. Hopefully all the sweet-looking Japanese women surrounding their seats are just as sweet as they look.

He crosses the street, following a wave of people. Carefully tucked into his messenger bag is the gift that Yura had picked out for his recently discovered figure skating idol, the one he’d almost thrown a fit over Viktor forgetting to bring. There was only one choice – run over to the hotel and pick it up.

Luckily the hotel is close, and Viktor speed walks towards the park behind the arena. His son absolutely adores one of the Japanese skaters, and Viktor has already promised to order posters as soon as there are any on sites that aren’t complete Japanese gibberish to him. Perhaps he’ll have to try and buy some photos and order them as posters himself.

The gift is for this Japanese Yuuri, a name twin doing his first senior competition in the international circuit, here at the Four Continents. Everything Viktor knows about figure skating he’s learnt in the past few weeks, determined since the moment Yura stepped off the ice for the first time and declared that it was the only thing he ever wanted to do again, ever.

He almost misses the man pacing back and forth in the park, lost in thoughts of the look of pure, unprecedented happiness on Yura’s small face when Viktor had presented him with a pair of his very own skates.

Is that?

The man has dark hair falling into his eyes, and an official sports jacket showing his belonging to Japan. His face is mostly hidden behind glasses, nose tucked into the collar of his jacket, fingers tugging at his sleeves as he walks a circle around the small fountain at the center of the park.

“Yuuri Katsuki?” he asks, because there are only so many Japanese skaters there, and surely he can’t be entirely off the mark.

Not when he’s watched Yuuri’s Junior Worlds programs at least a hundred times in the past week alone. Yuuri – for he really suspects it’s Yuuri now – stops, frozen like a statue.

“You are the figure skater Yuuri Katsuki, right?”

Maybe he’s butchering the name terribly, between his Russian accent and general lack of knowledge of anything Japanese. He smiles, hoping Yuuri won’t take offense.

“Y-yes,” Yuuri eventually replies, cheeks reddening adorably.

“Fantastic!”

Viktor beams, unable to believe his luck. If Yuri knew what he missed out on he probably wouldn’t have insisted on staying to watch the first few skaters that Viktor will miss.

“My son is a huge fan of yours! His name’s Yuri too, so he was really happy when he found out you were competing! Oh, let me show you a picture!”

Excited, Viktor closes the small distance between them and whips out his phone, immediately opening his photos. Yuuri looks a little dazed, blinking doe-eyed at him. Up close, he’s even cuter than he is on Viktor’s computer screen.

Of course, Viktor’s interest is purely for the benefit of his son. It wouldn’t do if he found an idol to look up to if said idol wasn’t a cute sort of person!

“He’s seven, so he hasn’t really started competing yet, but it’s his dream to win the Olympics!” He laughs quietly, scrolling through pictures while Yuuri politely nods. “He’s so determined, my Yuri. Watched all the competitors and already decided that you’ll win!”

“Me?”

Yuuri looks shocked, as if he wasn’t described as Japans’s future ace! If possible he looks even more adorable, hands pressed over his mouth, so sweet and unassuming. Viktor couldn’t be more pleased with Yuri’s choice in role model.

“Oh, you know how kids are. He even made a sign so he can cheer for you! But it’s your debut, right? Good luck!”

When Yuuri only stares at him, Viktor wonders if he went too far. Maybe Yuuri doesn’t like talking to fans? Maybe Viktor interrupted some important pre-competition routine… Then again, Yuuri doesn’t look annoyed, merely stunned.

“I almost forgot!” He claps his hands together, remembering the Makkachin replica hiding in his bag. “We noticed you didn’t have a proper napkin holder when you competed in Japan, and we were going to throw it to you on the ice after your short program, but if you don’t mind?”

He digs through his bag, wondering if Yura would kill him for giving it to Yuuri like this, when he isn’t even there. Then again, this way it’s certain that Yuuri will see it. From what he’s seen, skaters don’t pick up everything thrown on the ice for them, so the chances that Yuuri would have held on to their gift in particular are slim.

“You don’t have to use it or anything, but Yuri would be so happy if you’d accept it! It looks just like our dog Makkachin, and he always brings good luck so I hope this one will do the same for you!”

Trying not to look like the overeager parent he is, he holds the napkin holder out for Yuuri, who takes it after a moment of hesitation. For some reason, he looks a little teary-eyed, biting at his lower lip.

“Thank you,” he breathes, flushing fire truck red when Viktor allows his smile to broaden again.

“We’ll cheer for you, so do your best out there!”                             

Viktor can’t help the wink he adds, trying to keep things light because Yuuri seriously looks like he might start bawling any minute now. It’s probably better to leave, before he makes things awkward for Yuuri.

He smiles again, Yuuri staring down at the Makkachin lookalike like he can’t believe something like a poodle napkin holder could exist in real life, and then slowly turns around to leave. He hoists his bag higher up his shoulder, wondering if it would have been possible to ask for a picture or if that would have been rude, because surely Yura won’t believe him when he retells the event.

“Wait, what’s your name?”

Viktor pauses, turning around in surprise at Yuuri’s shouted question. He hadn’t thought Yuuri would care, but the earnest look on the skater’s face tilts his lips up at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, it’s Viktor. Viktor Nikiforov. Nice to meet you!”

He raises his hand in greeting, heart skipping a beat at the way Yuuri’s face lights up with his reply. Wow, how old is Yuuri anyway? Definitely too young for him. Good thing Viktor will only follow his career for the sake of his son.

It’s a relief to find Yuri safely in his seat, eyes glued to the current skater on the ice. There are only 20 of them in the men’s division, Yuuri going out as starting number 12.

“Which one is this?” he asks Yuri, who shushes him first.

“Fifth skater,” is all he says, waving the printed starting order they’d brought. “Where’s Makkachin?”

“I’ll tell you during the break,” Viktor whispers back, both of them politely applauding as the skater from Australia finishes.

When Yuri finds out he’s first enraged, then jealous, then in awe that Yuuri had accepted their gift.

“He’s so cool,” he sighs wistfully, and Viktor pets his hair.

“I’m sure you can meet him sometime,” he says.

Yuuri does rather well in the short program, but the highlight of Viktor’s day – hell, the highlight of his year – is when Yura spots the fluffy poodle napkin holder Yuuri brings with him to the kiss and cry.

It almost lets him forget how much they’re struggling with life in general.

“He’s in eighth place,” Yura tells him seriously as they return to the hotel much later. “He can still win.”

“Mhm,” Viktor says, quick to connect to the hotel wifi and search for articles or comments about Yuuri’s performance.

There’s not a lot in English, so they settle for re-watching his program since Viktor recorded it with his phone. The next day is the ladies free skate and the pair skate, and they manage a bit of sightseeing in Taipei as well. Yura gets easily overwhelmed, though, and with things still a little shaky between them Viktor opts for dinner at the hotel.

The men’s free skate is… both fantastic and a little disappointing.

“They should have given Yuuri more points,” Yura grumbles once the price ceremony is underway, with Yuuri ending up in eleventh place. “He was much better than the others!”

Viktor, who knows nothing about scoring in figure skating but who also knows that it’s better to just agree, spends the waiting time wondering if Yuuri should really be wearing something as flattering as his free skate costume at the tender age of nineteen. He carries it well, no doubt, but even Yuuri looked slightly self conscious as he glided onto the ice for his turn. There were others with worse outfits though – in both the fashion sense and the propriety sense – but Viktor has to wonder if he’s starting to get old.

When they stand among the crowd waiting for a glimpse of the skaters as they leave the arena, he puts Yuri on his shoulders and pretends he isn’t heavy. He doesn’t expect anything – but Yuuri sees them when he passes, smiles when Yura starts waving like crazy and holds up tiny Makkachin in greeting.

“Let’s give him a thumbs-up!” Viktor tells his son, grinning as they do while Yuuri tries not to be swept up by the current of officials walking with the skaters, ultimately losing to the crowd and the looks from his coach.

“Papa,” Yuri says as he puts him down, Yuuri sadly out of sight. “We have to cheer for him at every competition.”

And Viktor, weak for the times that Yuri calls him Papa, weak for a figure skater from Japan with the sweetest smile he’s ever seen–

All he can do is say yes.

[oblivionoverh8-blog]

UNFINISHED

gimme dat “my entire family’s coming over on valentine’s day for some weird reason and i need you to pretend to be my significant other so they won’t bother me with it all day” + bonus points if they meet up beforehand to practice acting like a couple and “whoa i actually really liked practicing kissing you” (ϟ)

Peyton: lennox, i need you D: 

Luke: When have you not, Clark? 

Peyton: this one’s SERIOUS

Luke: Alas, we have very different qualifications for serious. 

Luke: Nonetheless, what is it? 

Peyton: don’t laugh 

Luke: Spit it out, woman. 

Peyton: ok

Peyton: i need you to pretend to be my boyfriend 

Peyton: just for one day 

Peyton: my parents are having a valentine’s ball and they’re expecting 

Peyton: hello?? 

Luke: I’m still here. 

Luke: Haven’t you got other men to cajole in to being your pretend-boyfriend, Clark? 

Peyton: but you’re my best friend 

Luke: Am I now? 

Peyton: please

Peyton: i’d do anything 

Luke: Our qualifications for ‘anything’ might be different, Clark. 

Peyton: i’d do anything that’s YOUR anything 

Luke: Bingo. I’m sold. 

Peyton: omg thank you 

Peyton: but uhm 

Peyton: can we practice?

Luke: My God. 

Luke: I’ll pick you up at three. 

Peyton: that’s the spirit <3 

“Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?” 

Luke rolls his eyes from the driver’s seat, and Peyton has to stifle a laugh. “If I’m your boyfriend, I assume you should be saying it more often than not.” Luke shoots back as Peyton slide’s in to shotgun - she flashes him a toothy grin. “You know I’m only doing this because you’re my favorite boy.” she assures him as she puts on her seat belt. (She misses the upward tug of Luke’s lips, the momentary flush of red that runs across his face as he pulls out of parking.)

“None of the others, then? Jase or Jamesie-poo or... who’s that one nerd? O’con’whore?” Luke taunts, garnering a light punch on the shoulder. “O’Connor. And no - none of them.” Peyton gives him a look he can’t quite read from his peripheral. “You were my first and only choice, dummy.” 

Luke has nothing to say to that for a fraction of a second until he lets out a guffaw, shakes his head in disbelief and leans over to turn on the radio. Some pop song fills in the spaces they can’t reach, and Peyton shimmies embarrassingly along to the beats and Luke hums the melodies that make sense. He is tap-tap-tap-tapping away at the steering wheel, and trying not to laugh too hard at how out of tune she is at the high notes, and his hand itches to grab hers - a boyfriend would do something like this, right? - so he keeps his eyes on the road, and she doesn’t spare any shame as she stares at him. 

“I guess couples should... hold hands.” 

“I’m pretty sure couples do more than just holds hands. - Ow! Hey, I’m helping you out here, Clark.” 

“Sorry. You’re just dumb. And, ugh, I’m really dreading this.”

“Dating me? Oh, how you hurt my heart.”

“No, idiot. My parents. This ball. They’ve been pressuring me about relationships for the looooongest time and I just want to deliver, y’know?”

“People-pleaser.” 

“Meanie.”

“How elementary. C’mere.”

“Why?” 

“Just... c’mere.” 

“I’m not sure if I’m ready for ‘c’mere’...” 

“Oh, bother. Just - ”

“Oh.” 

“This is how two people in a relationship sit, Clark.”

“I’m on your lap! If you think I’m going to sit on you like this through dinner -”

“Heavens no! Woman, are you crazy? Just...” 

“Just?” 

“Calm down.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay. What should I call you?” 

“I’m not sure. Babe?” 

“Not in front of your parents. Something a little more...” 

“Honey?” 

“Not quite. Too domestic. Almost like we’re an old married couple. - Hey, stop hitting me.” 

“Well, what is it then?” 

“Love? - Aha. You’re blushing. - Stop hitting me! - Love it is, then.” 

“Alright,... love. Ha. Feels weird. But it also feels right.”

“You know what else couples do?” 

“What?” 

“This.” 

“...”

“...”

“Oh.”

“ - Oh, indeed.” 

Tyler Clark had seen the many faces of his daughter, but happy had always suited her the most. And Tyler watched as his baby girl walked through the doors of their home, arm linked with a black-haired boy; watched as she looked nervous, the boy calm and collected; watched as he leaned to whisper something in her ear, making her face scrunch up - she was quick to disguise her impending laugh when guests swarmed in her direction, eating her up. 

The boy remained at her side, looking as though he were used to such events - a boy with a name, maybe? - and when the buzz died down around them a bit, he whispered another something to Peyton; this time, she is unable to choke back her laugh, and the boy cracks the smallest of grins while still managing to look collected. 

Tyler made his way to them. 

“Daddy!”

Peyton flings herself in to her father’s arms, and Luke stands by, watching how it is received. Her father balances his glass of champagne in one hand and laughs as he hugs his daughter back - but his eyes are on Luke, and Luke is aware. Once Peyton’s pulled away, Luke’s hand is already extended. 

“Good evening, Mr. Clark. I’m Luke Lennox.” he introduces himself in that tone, the one he reserves solely for parents and professors and business meetings, and is slightly chilled by the way Tyler Clark stares at him. (As though he can see right through Luke’s bullshit.) “My boyfriend, daddy.” Peyton whispers - as though it weren’t already obvious - and Tyler takes Luke’s hand, and pulls him in to a hug. 

Luke stiffens at the contact. He was expecting a firm handshake - a glare - nothing, at worst. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Luke,” Tyler says gruffly, the laugh lurking underneath his father facade. He pulls away and flashes Luke a mischievous smile - a mirror of his daughter - before stepping away from the ‘couple’. “Well, I’ve got a few other guests to greet - not that they’re any more important than you, my sweet - but I really must. I’ll see you all at dinner. Oh, and Peyton - do find your mother. She’ll be terribly upset if you don’t go find her before the plates are set.” 

When Peyton’s mother comes up to her before dinner, high-pitched and proclaiming that her daughter hadn’t even texted that she’d arrived, Peyton has to use Luke as an excuse to slide in to her seat. 

When Peyton’s mother comments that Peyton is gaining weight, Peyton pokes at her vegetables and slyly pushes away her plate.

When Peyton’s mother insists that Peyton drinks - which she never did, because of her aunt - Peyton takes the glass and doesn’t touch it the whole night.

When Peyton’s mother starts talking about how all the boys in elementary never really liked Peyton, and everyone except Peyton’s father and the guests are laughing, Peyton has to force on a smile and pretend that it is hilarious that Timmy Flores stood her up for junior high school prom. 

And Luke calls Peyton to his side when she glances at him with that ‘save-me-please’ look. And Luke glares at her and whispers that she ought to finish her food. And Luke takes away the alcohol, and doesn’t drink it either. And Luke holds her hand under the table and announces to the table that Timmy Flores is a God damn idiot, because he would do anything to travel back in time to take Peyton to prom, and hey, why don’t they have their own prom, then and there. 

This thrills the guests. Peyton’s mom takes another sip of her wine. Peyton’s father smirks as he cuts through his steak. 

Peyton squeezes Luke’s hand under the table, grateful. 

After dinner, the guests hold the two to Luke’s pronouncement for prom, so the radio strikes up some love song as everyone partners up -