#alieninterests

    A certain level of excitement had taken over Persephone, she seemed to be nearly bouncing on her heels as she approached the other.  Evidently, she had an idea.  What sort of idea?  Well that was yet to be seen.

    “Hades!”  Her voice had a soft hum to it, like she wanted to tell the full extent of her plan right away- but she didn’t.  Instead, smiling warmly up at him, she continued.  “Remember the ‘shiny rocks’ you made before?  What kind is your all time favorite?  Or favorites- if you can’t pick one.”

“So, don’t stop me if you’ve heard this before,” Maya started as she poured the Qunari another very large glass of mead, “Which is bigger?  Horns or cock?  And you are more than welcome to show everyone in the bar.  You know, for science and further understandings of your people.”

A gun to Boris's head as soon as the blonde slides in to the passenger seat of his car, Julia doesn't seem to be taking any chances. "Drive." She smells like cigarette smoke and the bottom few sprays of an expensive perfume.

it’s neck-kissin’ time

“You have had... far too much of this fancy... whatever you called it.” Atticus is snickering, enjoying the attention and the playful push-and-pull of the two of them fumbling at one another between glasses of too-strong liquor, though he knows it will go no farther than that. He likes Varric too damn much to do something as stupid as sleep with him half-smashed.

For now though, he tilts his head to let his friend’s mouth press hot against his skin, and hums in appreciation. He wraps an arm around Varric’s waist, the two of them sprawled clumsily in the flattened grass, and opens his eyes to see the stars swimming in the sky overhead.

They are both so stupidly drunk.

If you look closely, you might see Orpheus sweating as he looks up at the King of the Underworld, though that might be less to do with nerves and more to do with it being swelteringly hot down here.

He thinks, perhaps, that he’s supposed to sing--but he hasn’t in a long time, and can hardly summon the muse for it now. Instead he smiles sadly, and clasps his hands behind his back.

today on: SAY ANYTHING ELSE, BULL // @alieninterests

“Daddy’s c--what? What, what exactly are you imp--first of all--I’m not sure I like your tone, sir, and if you must know--”

Jaskier goes through about seven different protests in the span of ten seconds, all of which come out indignant and spluttering and none of which he manages to finish.

Geralt, who has been waiting impatiently for Jaskier to come to him, sighs sharply through his nose and appears at his shoulder instead. He’d heard the comment, obviously. It doesn’t touch him; rolls off of him easily. “Dandelion,” he says, interrupting Jaskier’s tirade with a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t have time. Move.”

“I will not. First this man threatens me into singing for him, now instead of being rightfully ashamed of his actions he’s making--”

@alieninterests

When the Qunari approaches him, Geralt is expecting a fight, not... whatever this is. Pissing contest, maybe? It’s hard to tell. He’s just tipsy enough to not really care either way. But the Bull’s words still sound like a threat rather than a proposition - perhaps because Geralt can’t conceive of them being anything else.

“Half of Novigrad’s kissed him. Not much of an achievement.”

He hasn’t risen from his chair. He looks slowly at Bull, a slow turn of the head, and of course he has to lean back to get an actual good look at him.

Orpheus is not shy or meek, even--maybe especially--down here. The walls of Hadestown cannot hold him, and Persephone's favour keeps him safe while he wanders within.

Hades' favour is another thing entirely, something Orpheus is not even sure he has, even when they're close like this, the god of the underworld reclining in silence and the bard flitting close to bid him farewell, as if they were old friends.

They are old somethings, certainly. Orpheus has grown used to wandering this domain. To bothering Hades with questions and dreams, and finding ways to make him listen to something other than the pounding of machinery, even if it's only for moments at a time.

He leans over Hades' throne: rests their foreheads together, doesn't flinch at Hades' sharp intake of breath. The god smells of burning coals and loneliness even now; Orpheus breathes it in, thinking of how sad it is that anyone should be down here this long, that they should live without seeing the sun.

The kiss he gives to him is just the slightest press of lips, soft as the start of a melody. He doesn't push further than that, save for brushing his knuckles against Hades' jaw as he retreats.