#but it does mean picking up the slack left by those who have left you behind

[zeb-z]

I could make a whole essay just about the symbolism of this latest episode, and I just might, but can we talk specifically about the scene where they escape the caves. Where Wrecker asks why Tech gets to blow it up, Tech stresses they need a precise shot, and it’s a drawn out moment of Tech leveling his blaster, narrowing his eyes, and firing the shot.

Just after Tech is showing an iota of emotional vulnerability about his lost brothers, about having to respect Echo and Crosshairs decision to leave and walk a different path, about how moving on means adapting - he stresses the accuracy of a shot, raises his blaster, and fires, because someone has to do it right.

Can we talk about how that shot is filmed exactly how Crosshair’s shots are all filmed. Camera focus, side view to eye view, to view of the target getting hit. Can we talk about that please.

[catpriciousmarjara]

DP X DC: Dani Does Things and Leaves, Explains Nothing

Heavily inspired by this dp x dc prompt and the comments and reblogs under it:

Please go check it out and @stealingyourbones entire page. They have some great dp x dc content and meta.

Local Ghost Princess Decides to Help Out Fellow Clone, Leaves Chaos Behind, Heroes Left Concerned and Very Confused, More at 10.

Now Dani knew that this world had superheroes. She knew they had an organization of sorts that had a hate-hate relationship with various government entities and a love-hate relationship with the public, depending on who you asked. However she had no intention of being involved with them. She was on vacation after all. Besides this world was just a stopover anyway. Why bother when she wasn't here on official business? But it seemed that while she didn't want anything to do with the heroes, they, however inadvertently, wanted something to do with her. How else will you explain one of the worst cloning results she had ever seen crash into a tree right in front of her while she was enjoying a nice cup of litchi boba tea in the park?

The botched clone job slid down the branches and hit the ground with a thud. She raised an eyebrow at the the rampant malevolent magical lines running through the body exacerbating the overall instability of the clone's anatomy. Clearly this individual had run into an irate mage who cast some sort of destabilizing curse and shot them right out of the sky. Dani was thankful this was an isolated section of the park and that she had put a rudimentary avoidance ward over the area. Otherwise, a superhero crashing into a tree would've caused quite the ruckus and interrupted her boba time.

She took a sip of her boba and crouched down to examine the conked out hero. This one was the one they called Superboy wasn't he? She grimaced at the state of his engineering. Whoever did his cloning did not know what they were dealing with. Her own cloning went better and she was ectoplasmic goop half the time. And Vlad was dealing with halfa DNA! Probably the most complicated genetic material in existence. Superboy over here was constructed from actual tangible genetic sources and yet...ugh.

Honestly speaking beings of this plane probably wouldn't have noticed anything wrong. A level down in power scale compared to the individual who acted as genetic donor, most likely that Superman guy, and random instances of destabilization would most likely be the extend of their knowledge regarding their faulty cloning. And when those instances of instability gradually ironed themselves out they probably patted themselves on the back and thought all was well. She should cut them some slack.

Dani hummed as she chewed on her boba pearls. Unfortunately she wasn't known to be the most merciful when it came to ensuring the well-being of clones.

Suckers probably didn't pick up the fact they unleashed a possible catastrophe upon their world. Superboy was obviously fashioned from Kryptonian DNA. A species known for becoming near godlike upon absorbing solar energy from a yellow sun. That means that their bodies have mechanisms at play beyond simple biology. Specifically energy pathways and an energy processing core. Superboy wasn't a level down in power from Superman because of some biological imperfection, he was weaker because of flawed energy absorption and storage. And that meant that his energy core was unbalanced, and once it reached a particular threshold...well its gonna be a spectacular light show this side of the galaxy that's for sure. Of course it was just a possibility. There was no guarantee he would reach that threshold in his lifetime. Unless he ran into a white mage who was vicious enough to cast a juiced up imbalance curse that is. And what do you know! Turns out you can organically be that unlucky!

She put down her cup and ran a simple diagnostics. Sure enough the magic had intensified the issue. This man needed help, the kind of help that wasn't usually available in this part of the omniverse. But she just so happened to pass by and just so happened to have expertise in this field so today was somehow simultaneously Superboy's lucky and unlucky day. He really was going through it.

As to why she would interfere that's easy. She was the Guardian of Cloned Beings after all. She can't have a fellow clone suffer could she? And plus, what were the chances that he would end up like this right in front of one of the only beings that would know how to fix the issue? Dani grinned in glee. Truly the laws of causality worked in intriguing ways.

She stood up and let her talons manifest, plucking the strings of SuperboyConnerKon-el's make and striking them one by one in the tune of an old Krytonian melody. Shame what happened to them really, but all things had their fate. It truly was great to see some of them survive and make a home elsewhere. Dani wished them the best.

As she worked, untangling knots, and straightening out blockages, the hero finally began to stir. His eyes opened and they were understandably unfocused. Disoriented and confused, he looked kinda like a bamboozled Cujo and Dani felt her lips twitch up in a toothy smile. For some reason that seemed to startle him. She mentally frowned. Did he expect her not to smile at him? That would've been rude of her. Dani might be a gremlin but she was never impolite.

"I'm just about done with the curse", she told him. "Leaching out the corrosive magic was easy but I need to repair your energy coils and that's tricky. Don't worry though. Everything's on the house. Always did have a soft spot for the House of El ever since my aunt married into it for a short while."

Dani pulled a particularly stubborn power node open. "I would like your permission before doing that through. Body autonomy, informed decisions and and all! So yes or no? You'd detonate like a bomb if I didn't though."

The young hero's eyes widened. He still didn't seem to know what was going on so she hit him with a short term clarity spell. And a small information spell to cover her bases. That got him to gather his wits enough and she watched as he processed the influx of information. His complexion was ashen when he got through the bundle and he finally managed a shaky nod. Good enough.

Dani smiled at the Kryptonian. "Great! Now this would take like twenty minutes give or take five. You can sleep now." She promptly knocked him out cold and cancelled the spells so as to not overload his brain.

And just as she predicted, twenty minutes later, she plucked the last string with a flick of her wrist and surveyed her handiwork. Exemplary if she said so herself. One of her best work! Cheerfully she shot an awakening spell at Kon-el and crouched down again, patting his head.

"You might need to be careful for a few days while your body adjusts to its new energy capacity and conductivity. Your overall system has been optimized as well so be careful", she told the groggy young man.

She paused. "And don't worry. I didn't access your mind. This was all strictly physical repair aimed at preventing you from exploding like a supernova and taking the planet with you."

And once again that part made his eyes widen. Good. He truly understood the urgency. Or that could just be him being loopy after solar energy overload. It was a bright, sunny day after all.

She stood up, creating a portal to the next world on her itinerary. She looked back at the most likely high as a kite Kryptonian. "You kinda owe me for all that extra work hero! I might just come to collect one of these days!", she joked as the portal swallowed her body and she was lost to the spaces between spaces.

She'd already told him it was all on the house so Dani didn't think that anyone would take that last part seriously. However she forgot the fact that one Conner Kent was in her own words 'high as a kite' and hence might miss some crucial details.

She also forgot to leave behind an explanation packet.

And thus she was utterly unaware of the chaos she left in her wake, happily traveling through the multiverse.

..............................................................................................................................

"So you're telling me that not only did someone find me when I was out cold and get rid of the spell, but they also rearranged my guts and gave me an upgrade?"

"...Yeah."

"What the fuck?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Conner, do you remember anything? Anything at all? Whatever they did required some serious magical power. We don't know why they did it or how. For all we know they could've done something dangerous that we can't detect yet."

"Litchi boba tea".

"Kon what the hell?"

..............................................................................................................................

"...Its in bits and pieces...but I'm pretty sure there was a woman?...white hair, green eyes...something something on the house...something about an aunt and the House of El?...and there was this strange white symbol on her chest and this really soft music was playing that went something like this...(confused humming noises)...and something about me owing her?"

"Kara? Why are you looking at me like that? What's wrong?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Let me get this straight, Superboy was healed by the Kryptonian primordial goddess of portals, messengers, travelers and other such domains, and not only did she save him but also gave him a tune up? And explicitly said that he owes her now? And this powerful divine being, who is also supposed to be the daughter of Krypton's Death God according to legends mind you, is most likely still on earth with motives unknown? Plus your entire House is descended from her family?"

"...Yeah that about sums it up."

"..."

..............................................................................................................................

"Oh man why did this happen just when I was going to go on vacation? Why couldn't the Death God or whatever reschedule?"

"Death gods notoriously don't reschedule, they're death gods. Also she's the daughter of a death god, not one herself. Most death gods are also famously fair. If not fair by our standards, fair by theirs".

"...That's good to know?"

"I confess I don't know about the fairness of children of death gods however".

"...great. Thanks anyway J'onn".

"You're welcome".

..............................................................................................................................

"You okay there man? Someone just rifled through your body and did who knows what...that's gotta be terrifying. You want to talk? We're all here for you, you know that right?"

" Thanks guys. And yeah it was freaky. But apparently I would've exploded and blown up the planet with me if she didn't do that so I guess I'm more grateful than scared."

"...Explode and blown up the what now?"

..............................................................................................................................

"Is there anything more we should know about Clark?"

"Legends say she has a brother and he's associated with great calamities?"

"...."

"Bruce? You alright?"

..............................................................................................................................

DPXDC refuses to be done with me. Leave me be accursed crossover! Leave me be!

(Btw Kon didn't make the connection because he was really out of it, and not because Clark and Kara didn't introduce him to Kryptonian culture.)

Thoughts and suggestions are welcome!

[lordprettyflackotara]

hitchhiker || chapter four || the proxies

tw: stalker hoodie, hoodies a bit gross in this one ngl, i think this is a fair warning, paranoia, blood, some fluffy shit w tim

i am proud to announce that hitchhiker now has a masterlist with a link to wattpad! find it here!! thank you to everyone who has helped me navigate using other platforms <3

<— previous chapter

Hoodie could understand your appeal.

What he couldn’t understand, was why Tim and Toby had picked you specifically.

Sure, your skin was soft and glowy. Your big innocent doe eyes were doll like. Hoodie’s darker urges craving to see them weep tears under his hand. Although you had overlooked their original odd behavior, was that enough? Were your looks and obliviousness enough to keep you alive?

Hoodie couldn’t understand Toby and Tim’s infatuation with you. It was becoming truly nauseating, sitting through them yapping about you all day long. You were the hottest topic of conversation, the rants about Jeff’s sloppy murders long discarded. Since he couldn’t figure it out, he figured he’d have to do his research.

And every good research session begins the same way: observation.

Hoodie had no issue watching you. He watched as you scrambled to get ready for work, showering so quickly he hardly had time to watch you dry off. He sat perched in an old oak tree across from your building, the overgrown branches and leafs concealing his presence. He noted you truly were oblivious, all of your curtains wide open. Maybe you thought being on the fourth floor saved you from having a peeping tom. In which case, you were terribly wrong.

He watched as you chatted with (who he assumed to be) Nova while running around, his eyes narrowing. Your friend seemed put together, a navy blazer and slacks dressing her thin frame. His eyes flickered back over to you, watching you get ready for work. You did have a nice figure. Your apron only emphasizing the fact. Hoodie had watched Nova slide on the blazer, her upper arms toned with muscle. Huh. So much for a lazy overweight detective. Those targets were easy to get rid of. Toby, in the mist of his yapping about his delightful walk home with you, mentioned Nova. He mentioned the vanilla folder and the case she was working on. Hoodie believed he was the first of the three to have the suspicion she took Winston’s place.

Usually task forces would lay off of the investigation once their colleagues began getting killed. But every so often, there would be a feisty motherfucker who only wanted to indulge in the case deeper. He watched as you darted out of your apartment, Nova grabbing her things and following you. His eyes searched for the vanilla folder. He watched her pack her beat up satchel, random white papers and pens being thrown inside. Yet, no vanilla folder. He grinned devilishly as Nova exited your apartment. Toby would be keeping a close eye on her investigation as she studied the Winston case. They had eyes everywhere, your date with Tim proving to be useful. It gave Hoodie enough time to truly snoop around.

His mind circled back to the vanilla folder, the bane of his existence in your best friends possession. Nova hadn’t left with the documents, the vanilla folder not on her person. Her not leaving with the folder meant one thing and one thing only: it was in your apartment. What did that mean? That Hoodie was going to be able to steal it with ease.

\/

You felt like you were becoming paranoid. Your shift at Olive Garden was the same stressful experience it always was. Screaming children. Argumentative customers. Loud laughter. However, you felt like you were watched. You couldn’t figure out how or why. Your paranoia made you check on your tables faster. Your eyes constantly flickered around the restaurant, searching for the culprit. But all you found were families or couples eating their pasta and bread. By the end of your shift you were beat, shuffling into the bathroom to change clothes.

Davidson park was practically a straight shot from your work, there was no sense in dropping by your apartment. You briefly glanced at yourself in the mirror, not wanting to acknowledge how terrible you felt you looked. You were sure your lips were cracked and your eyes had dark circles decorating them. You shuffled into a bathroom stall, slipping out of your work uniform. You wondered if your perfume could truly mask the nauseating smell of pasta sauce. You began to put on deodorant, the light in the bathroom flickering.

You blinked a few times, trying to ensure you weren’t just sleep deprived. You looked up, a large bug caught in the ceiling light. It was bouncing between the light stick and the glass, creating the smallest sound of movement. You could see its shell, as well as its leggings thrashing around. You shoved it off, resuming changing into your normal clothes. You shoved on your boots, the unsettling feeling of you being watched falling over you again. This time you looked at the bottom gap of the stall door and the floor, a large set of black business shoes standing outside of your stall door. You blinked a few times, as if to double check what you were seeing was really there. “Hello?” You croaked, your mouth seemingly running dry. When was the last time you had drank water?

A gust of wind rushed past you, your head snapping behind you. You were in a tiny bathroom stall, what the actual fuck was creating wind? You turned back to the front of the stall, the pair of shoes now disappeared. Shoving your shirt over your head you exited the stall, looking around the bathroom. All of the stalls were empty, an eerie silence ensuing. Looking up you noticing the bug was no longer moving. Logically you should’ve been fine with it, the small creatures demise caused by the electricity. But the sight of the smallest pool of blood from the bugs corpse made your stomach churn, your face growing pale. How was that possible? The bug was a beetle, not a mosquito or anything with a handfuls worth of blood.

You ripped away your horrified gaze, forcing yourself to look at the floor instead. You shuffled out of the bathroom in a rush, the door hitting the wall as you flung it open. Ignoring the weird looks and questions from your coworkers you left the restaurant. You felt unsteady as you got in the car, your hands planting themselves firmly on the steering wheel. You felt like you had just seen a ghost, the crimson paint staining your mind. You swallowed and attempted to even out your breathing as you put the key into your ignition. You needed to get your shit together. You took a deep breath, putting your car in reverse and heading to see Tim.

\/

Hoodie took his time inspecting your apartment, trying to see what he could find out about you. His curiosity as to what made you so interesting nagging him mid mission. With his partners not around, it gave him the freewill to be as nosy as he wanted to be without repercussions. Your apartment was tiny and cluttered, but he determined your clutteredness was from the lack of space more than being messy. Hoodie’s opinion shifted slightly at the sight of your last outfit on the bathroom floor. Your red lacey underwear caught his eye, the blonde smirking under his mask.

How long had it been since he had been with a woman? He squatted down, picking up the fabric with his ring finger. Hoodie could just imagine your round ass in these, the red complementing your skin tone. He lifted his ski mask just above his nose, inhaling the crotch material of your dirty panties. His face flushed red with lust. His cock was slowly beginning to grow in his jeans, the proxy pulling himself away from the fabric. He took a deep breath, imagining his tongue in between your folds as you pleaded for more.

Ahh yes, Hoodie would do anything to see you beg.

Regaining his focus he wadded up the panties, shoving them in his back pocket. He needed to focus. He left your bathroom, rounding over to your bedroom. Your dresser was covered in various perfumes and jewelry. Did you have more money than you were letting on? He picked up a large necklace, the fake jewels shining back at him in the moonlight. Thankfully you left your lamp on, the blonde beginning to rummage through your belongings more unhinged. He lifted up your mattress, looked under your bed, in your pillow cases, in your nightstands. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. There wasn’t even a trace that it was here.

Hoodie gritted his teeth as he pulled open your dresser drawers. His anger temporarily subsided as he eyed the first drawers contents. Rows of undergarments and bras nearly made his eyes pop out of his head. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. He rummaged through your drawers, the folder no where in sight. He stomped into the kitchen, the living room empty besides a couch, old wooden coffee table, matching with a the same wooden TV stand, and an ancient television. His eyes wondered around your kitchen, landing on a stack of bills with large red OVERDUE stamps plastered on the front. Hoodie picked up the one on top, examining it.

Huh. Not necessarily poor, just poor spending habits. He tossed the envelope aside, continuing his search for the vanilla bane of his existence. And he wouldn’t be leaving until he found it.

\/

You walked beside Tim down the sidewalk path, cool breezes rushing past the two of you. “So how was work?” He asked, starting conversation. Your shift was unnotable, if you took away the feeling of being watched and blood bug. “The usual. My table five had a lot of screaming children but it ended up being fine,” You answer as honestly as you could. You didn’t want to sound crazy, your paranoia getting the best of you. “What about you?” You added. You shoved your hands in your army green jacket, Tim’s hands shoved in his own mustard coat. For a brief second you saw a look of shock flash across Tim’s face, before he resumed his usual expression.

“The usual,” He answered truthfully. He shoved off the uncanny feeling of the Operators static depriving his senses. It wasn’t a usual punishment, the Operator more angry he had to send Kate than anything else. He always had a soft spot for the girl. “We both hate our jobs huh? You look like you just had a ptsd episode,” You chuckled, playfully elbowing him. Your innocence made Tim’s heart flutter, even with the deeper meaning your words unknowingly had. “You’re one to talk about ptsd episodes. You looked scarred when talking about screaming children,” Tim teased. He playfully poked your side, causing you to giggle. The moon hung in the sky, in seemingly a creepy smile. You made Tim feel normal, even if his life was no where near it.

“Oh please anything involving children provokes that face. I can’t imagine having them,” You say. The two of you strolled in unison, the street lights illuminating your path. “Really? Not even down the line?” Tim asked curiously. Of course it was impossible for him to have kids. He would never allow you to get pregnant, not from him or Brian or Toby. There was always the chance the Operator would be interested in the child. He couldn’t risk it. “Maybe. I’d always be afraid I let the wrong guy get me pregnant though,” You admitted. You felt your face go pale with embarrassment. “Oh fuck I said too much huh?” You laughed nervously. Tim couldn’t help but smile at your nervousness. You had no idea how cute you were.

“Not at all. You don’t have to worry around me. I’ve seen and i’ve done weirder things,” Tim told you. You both walked to the towns lake, the watery murky black as the moonlight reflected off of the glassy surface. “I’m really glad I met you Tim. I feel like you get it,” You say honestly. Tim raised an eyebrow, an owl hooting in the distance. “Get what?” He asked curiously. You flashed a nervous smile, tucking some hair behind your ears. “Like you get me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to fit in everywhere I went. Yet I feel at home with you three. It’s such an odd comforting feeling,” You explain softly. Tim took a step towards you, gently grasping your neck. Your eyes fluttered close, your breath hitching as his hot breath danced across your cool skin.

His chapped lips pressed a long kiss to your forehead, his touch soft and sweet. And most importantly, purposefully gentle. Tim pulled away slowly, holding your face in his gloved hands. You looked up at him, mesmerized by his chocolate orbs. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, soaking in your touch. You wanted to kiss him, his lips just out of reach. Tim wanted nothing more than to kiss you, his core yearning to taste your sweet plump lips. But he was trying to restrain himself. He knew he couldn’t have you. None of them could.

Slowly he pulled away from you, turning his gaze back to the black lake. You could feel the heat still dancing across your cheeks. Dumbfounded you turned towards the lake as well, standing side by side with the man you yearned for. There was an unsettling silence, one you decided to break.

“Hey Tim?”

“Hmm?”

Your mouth ran dry, your nerves getting the best of you. “Nothing never mind,” You babbled. You wanted to tell him about the bug. The shoes. The paranoia. But you didn’t want to scare him away. Tim raised an eyebrow, digging in his jeans pocket. He pulled out a beat up box of cigarettes, the red and white box shining in the moonlight. “Cig? It would help you loosen up a bit,” He offered. You had never considered touching a cigarette a day in your life. But the box sitting in Tim’s hand couldn’t look more intriguing even if it tried. Slowly you pulled one out of the box, looking at it. Tim did the same, immediately putting the stick to his lips. “You’ve never smoked before huh?” He asked. Shooting him an anxious smile you chuckled. His bluntness relaxed your nerves, your shoulders relaxing.

“What gave it away?” You asked him. Tim began digging around in his pocket, searching for a lighter. “You mean besides the fact that you’re eyeing it like it’s poison?” Tim chuckled. You rolled your eyes, the brunette flicking the lighter. He gave it a few flicks, the lighter finally producing a small flame. He inhaled sharply, the end of the cigarette lighting. “Haha very funny,” You replied dryly. Tim grinned as he exhaled the tobacco smoke out of his nose. You blinked, your morals seemingly nose diving out of the window at the sight of him. “You’re holding it like a nerd, go ahead and place it in between your lips for me pretty girl,” Tim instructed. Your cheeks turned pink as you placed the cigarette in between your lips. “Great now keep it there. When I tell you to, inhale for me,” He said. His words were getting to you, from his praise to referring to do things for him.

It made your core throb with an ache you had ignored for a long time.

He brought the lighter to the end of your cigarette, sparks flying as he tried to ignite it. The lighter refused to ignite, Tim’s eyes narrowing. “While I figure this out, you wanna tell me what you were going to a moment ago?” He asked. He took a step closer to you, attempting to block the wind from extinguishing the flame. “I uh, it’s hard to explain,” You said, your cigarette still dangling from your lips. Tim shook the lighter, growing increasingly annoyed. “I have terrible insomnia, nothing you can say will scare me away,” Tim told you. He said it so nonchalantly.

“You have-?”

“Yes, now it’s your turn.”

You stood dumbfounded. Another fast breeze blew past the two of you, your hair flying in the wind. “Well I just, um, I feel like i’m being watched. All the time,” You explain slowly. Tim tried to ignite your cigarette again, the lighter very clearly out of fluid. “Considering you’re the prettiest girl i’ve ever laid eyes on, I can believe that,” Tim chuckled. He took another large inhale of his cigarette, the foul stench flooding your nostrils. You felt like a ball of warmth, your mouth running dry. “You don’t mean that,” You say quietly. Tim raised an eyebrow, tossing the empty lighter aside. “I’m a lot of things, but i’m not a liar,” He whispered. Tim easily towered over you, your eyes meeting his, cigarette dangling from your lips.

Tim’s large hand guided you to hold your cigarette in between your index and middle finger, the orange end still on the edge of your lips. Quietly he moved closer to you, the two of you watching as the end of his cigarette hit the end of yours. With each passing second you grew more flustered, his face an inch away from yours. Despite the freezing cold weather outside, Tim made you feel an indescribable warmth. The kind that blossomed from inside of your chest and made your heart throb. “Inhale for me,” Tim murmured. You did as instructed, ignoring the feeling of flames engulfing your throat. You wanted to stay this close to him forever.

You felt the tobacco swirl around your lungs, your gaze landing on Tim’s. You removed the cigarette from your lips, allowing the wind to guide the smoke out of your mouth. “Feel better?” Tim asked. You began to cough, giving him a thumbs up as you looked away from him. Tim grinned as you bent over slightly, trying to clear your lungs and inhale oxygen. As his large hand patted your back you realized that you’d willingly throw yourself into his warm flames. No matter how much they threatened to burn you.

—> next chapter

[leclsrc]

can I request prompt number 10 with Carlos Sainz

kissy spells – cs55

genre: fluff, drabble, 1k celebration

10: a hello/good-bye kiss that is given without thinking — where neither person thinks twice about it.

“—and we’re all just determined to have a productive weekend where our strategies go as planned.” You finish, smiling slightly at the interviewer who nods along, totally invested. You’ve woefully been assigned to answer engineer questions for this network your stress has blurred the name of, seated beside Carlos who chips in with his occasional two cents.

You can’t say you’re not grateful, though: this is the most alone time you’ve had with your boyfriend in weeks.

It’s honestly criminal. Turns out, the sweet spot between keeping things private and wanting to always be together is absurdly hard to pinpoint and stay on. The only pros are you’ve become creative at crafting excuses to sneak off. Oh, and two new sex positions for tight spaces (who knew?) But apart from those, it’s an endless repeat of hiding, pretending, ignoring.

Which is why, despite the fact that you’d rather be working than talking about working, you consider this to be a moment of refuge. Both of you have been so unbelievably, dizzyingly tired lately, it helps to just be in each other’s presence. Your knees touch slightly, yours bare to Carlos’ denim as you fiddle the hem of your shorts and listen to him talk. After this, it’s back to work, your fifth year now of still coming to a mutual decision of “let’s not go public just yet.” 

The interviewer says both your names and you smile at the camera, holding for a few seconds before she waves a signal and you relax, exhaling. You turn your stool toward Carlos and offer a smile, one that translates telepathically into I want to die and you’re coming with me. Like always, your telepathic conversations click; he raises a brow, which means I don’t even get a choice?

None, you say through a slight shake of your head. You both laugh, always amazed at the love you share that leads to the moments of connection like this. He smiles again, narrows his eyes, turns his head to the side a bit. I love you. You need not say or do much. You know he knows what you say back; he’d know even if you made no change to your expression at all.

Still caught in your bubble, you both jolt out when the producer pipes up monotonously. “Uh… you guys can go. Your segment’s over.”

“Oh,” you say. “Oh. Okay. Thanks so much. I’ve got a meeting with some other engineers from—so yeah.” You shuffle awkwardly off the stool, unaware that you and Carlos had just been mindlessly talking while they waited for you to leave.

Carlos follows suit, shaking their hands. “I need to go discuss with Mattia, so. Thanks again, everyone.” You pick up your wallet and clipboard, which you’d left to rest on a nearby table; Carlos takes his Gatorade beside them. Caught in the sudden rush of having to leave, your minds both exhausted from the stress, you just offer a quick smile as Carlos leans in and pecks you goodbye.

You kiss back quickly and smile. He does it all the time, especially when you’ve just slept over, or when he drives you both around. You don’t think twice, turning around and walking toward the rest of the paddock and prepping for your meeting.

The interviewer and producer stare at you both, then each other. They’re slack-jawed. Did Carlos and his engineer just kiss? And then… walk away? Not even acknowledging the kiss? “Did you get that?”

“I did. It’s on the camera.”

“Okay.” She pauses. “You owe me ten bucks.”

[hetagrammy]

do you have any thoughts about Wales with the pacific siblings?

Wales my beloved, and oft overlooked (including by me). I honestly need to look more into Welsh emigration/history, but I do have some inklings about their interactions. Character-wise, I think that Alwyn was typically there to pick up the slack that Arthur left behind when he had to go abroad or was otherwise occupied with matters of state. Hazards of being your brother's confidante.

So for Alfred... how about those Welsh Quakers? Alwyn adored the chubby, occasionally sickly, little bean Arthur brought home just as much as anyone. I think that was compounded by the fact that Arthur was so emotionally attached to and open with Alfred when he was a baby. Alfred was a little ray of sunshine, and I think the idealism that came so naturally to him was endearing to Alwyn. Like in Ireland, the aftermath of the American Revolution actually inspired some nationalist sentiment in Wales and a lot of Welsh people moved to areas like Pennsylvania. As for Alfred, I think he loves Alwyn of course, but I don't think he exactly appreciated Alwyn in the way that he probably should have. He was loving and warm, but who in his childhood wasn't? I think it was lost on Alfred how much actual parenting/co-parenting Alwyn had to do behind the scenes, as well as the amount of influence he had on him.

Apparently the Welsh had a big hand in building up Canada during the 19th century, and I feel like that's indicative of the relationship between the two. Definitely won't underplay the influence that Alasdair had on Matthew, but I think that Alwyn was able to act as a good guide for him as well. In a family that has trouble expressing vulnerability in earnest ways, Alwyn is probably the most well-adjusted, and I think that Matthew would be drawn to that as someone who is more sensitive himself. I think that Matthew finds Alwyn can relate to him best as well, as they serve as family peacekeepers (especially on Arthur's behalf), and tend to fade into the background because they serve that role. They're both diplomats who will kick ass when pushed, and I like to think that Alwyn had a role in that. Sitting a young Matthew down and telling him "Taking the path of least resistance doesn't mean putting up no resistance." Where Alasdair acts as a protector and Arthur as a stern father, Alwyn is a role model. I think he's also one of the few not to underestimate Matthew.

Alwyn was indulgent with Ralph in way he wasn't really getting from anyone except for Molly and Matthew, which was further complicated by Molly's long stay in America post 1851 and Matthew's prolonged periods in Canada post 1848. Alwyn is smiling and nodding when little Ralph is showing him pictures of lizards from his homeland and asking if he can show him any dragons in return. I think their shared love of animals was a big bonding point for them, with Alwyn being willing to take him out and about in the woods or mountains to go birdwatching or exploring. Sure British fauna isn't so exciting as Australian fauna is, but it was something to give Ralph some entertainment and intellectual stimulation.

Alwyn is Zee's favorite uncle and I will stand by that. Eleanor takes a lot after Arthur what with the grumpiness, the practicality, the bluntness, the obstinance. That's something Alwyn understands very well having been around Arthur for so long. However, she's more down to earth, curious, and forward-thinking than Arthur could ever hope to be, and I think that Alwyn makes a better attempt to understand that than Arthur does at times. Arthur doesn't understand her, but he indulges her, Alwyn indulges her but also tries to understand. Eleanor in turn appreciates this, and she finds him to be a stable and comforting presence who lets her just be herself. I also think their shared love of rugby is definitely a strong bonding point as well.

I guess the ongoing theme here is that Alwyn is a person who operates off of understanding what makes people tick, and using that knowledge to make people comfortable. He's a diplomat at heart, and he's at his best when using those skills with the people he cares about. Rather than piling expectations on his niblings, he's there to sort of guide them through how best to fulfil those expectations from where they are.

[cybertron-after-dark]

what is wayward sparks :0?

YOU'VE ACTIVATED MY TRAP CARD >:3

This is gonna end up being a long ass post about my very goofy iterations of my blorbos and the unbelievably fucked up version of Cybertron they inhabit, so to spare those of y'all that mostly follow me for the canon tf content, I'll just put all this under the cut

To summarize, wayward sparks is the non-existent tf cartoon I've been Envisioning for a few months that starts off goofy and low-stakes but gets progressively more and more fucked up as it goes. The absolutely BRAINLESS lookin bumblebee I keep posting is supposed to be from this AU, as well as the borderline catgirl skywarp, the really grumpy Optimus, and most of the other tfa-esque redesigns I draw.

The Story

Cybertron's been at war for millennia, everyone's sick and tired of it, especially the Decepticons. They're backed into a corner, being captured and killed left and right, and a loss is just around the corner if they don't do something drastic.

So Megatron does something very drastic indeed.

He steals the Allspark, in a heist that, frankly, should've gotten his entire high command killed (though, very suspiciously, they suffered no casualties and got out unscathed, save for Blitzwing, who clipped a wing), with the intent to ambush the Ark, and finally neutralize the greatest threat to his movement and his people: Optimus Prime. Unfortunately for everyone involved, the Allspark doesn't particularly like being used as a weapon and instead decides to put everyone in timeout on an isolated little backwater planet called earth until they can learn to get along and stop trying to kill each other.

Team Prime (Optimus, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Bulkhead, Wheeljack and Prowl) are all WOEFULLY unprepared to be stranded on an alien planet with only each other, Decepticon High Command (Megatron, Starscream, Soundwave, Shockwave, Blitzwing, and Lugnut), and the very strange, very small, and VERY trigger happy humans populating the tiny rural forest town they managed to crash near.

Meanwhile, back on Cybertron, the remaining Decepticons are trying their damnedest to keep hidden, and survive underground, and the Autobots try to figure out what to do while their leader is missing. While the Autobots are left floundering without Optimus, the other active Primes and their followers (Sentinel Prime, Rodimus Prime and Windblade Convoy (yes I know she's not a prime anywhere else but let her girlboss)) try to garner favor with the Senate by picking up the slack, and taking the Decepticon problem into their own hands.

The Autobots

Aka, Optimus Prime's merry band of dysfunctional freaks.

Optimus had to find out the hard way that being a Prime means a direct connection in his mind and spark to an eldritch, incomprehensible god that likes trolling. So now he has to hear Primus in his head at random saying shit that does not make sense. And now that he's in there it's kind of a no takesies backsies situation

While being a Prime is supposed to grant you a degree of divine power, that power is only made manifest through strong dedication to a bot and to a cause. That intense loyalty is also what allows you to handle the connection in the first place. Primes that become disillusioned with their masters have a track record of going completely mad. Unfortunately for Optimus, pretty soon into his career as a prime, the Senator he swore loyalty to disgraced himself hard enough to be sentenced to shadowplay and empurata. Senator Alpha Trion ended up taking him in so he could keep functioning as a prime. It'd be a shame to lose such a talented bot. And with the whole threat of lovecraftian madness looming over his head, he pours his whole spark into following his every order.

Bumblebee is not a Prime, nor is he even particularly religious (even though his boss has a god that's taken up residence in his head) but for reasons nobody can quite seem to decipher, Primus absolutely loves the little gremlin, which manifests as Bumblebee having impossibly good luck.

There's not a situation he can't fling himself into headfirst and wildly intoxicated that he can't come out of with barely a scratch. It's actually given him a pretty warped perception of the war and hardship in general. He really wants everyone to just stop worrying so damn much. Everything always works out in the end, right? So why does everyone gotta be so grouchy all the time? Especially Prowl.

Prowl cannot fucking stand Bumblebee.

This mostly stems from the fact that the little yellow bastard seems 100% intent on making him "happy" and refuses to leave him the fuck alone. Prowl is, to put it bluntly, really fucking depressed. Originally, his function was law enforcement, but he became quickly disillusioned with the job when he realized just how corrupt the Praxus police force really was. When he quit, he felt he lost his purpose, stuck living with nothing to make of himself. Joining the Autobots was supposed to fix him, but even though he's started to turn his life around, he can't say he feels much better. He spends most of his time holed up in his quarters, either maintaining the team's weaponry or just binging old datatrax on teletraan-1.

Oh, and ever since he got to Earth and found out about anime, he's gotten to be a bit of a weeb

Taking care of the team's medical affairs is Ratchet, and even if he wasn't a massive perfectionist he'd have his work cut out for him. His entire team is prone to making stupid, reckless decisions that end in somebody getting disassembled somehow. Their erratic, chaotic behavior makes his processor ache just thinking about it. Unfortunately Ratchet is pretty paranoid, and generally unable to think about anything other than how wrong everything can go all the time.

He typically tries to put forward a very straight laced, very orderly image of himself, but it's a bit difficult to keep up that demeanor when the overthinking spiral takes him. And nobody makes him spiral quite like Wheeljack.

Wheeljack is generally just here to blow shit up and do some Weird Science. Typically this results in Jackie himself getting blown apart with whatever he's trying to explode, but he had a blocker installed for most of his pain sensors ages ago, so he doesn't mind too much. Especially not when there's a top notch medic he loves to annoy that can put him back together when that happens.

And when the good doctor gets completely tired of his shit, he's got his good buddy and lab partner Bulkhead to help him out too.

Bulkhead is a sensitive type, and largely considered to be the voice of reason on the team. Unfortunately, he often has trouble making his voice heard to begin with. He tends to be pretty quiet and really bad at voicing his thoughts, especially when those thoughts are about something that stresses him out. Given he works with Wheeljack, it's a miracle he isn't nonverbal entirely.

He loves his friend, he really does, but it gets frustrating seeing him get blown apart so often Bulkhead worries for his safety because Wheeljack seems to be incapable of worrying about his own. It's pretty easy for him to get caught up in Ratchet's overthinking episodes with his own anxiety until someone snaps them both out of it

How all of them have managed to survive this long, let alone nearly win the war, is anyone's guess.

[Apparently I just hit the image limit so I'll do the cons in a reblog lmao]

[wander-over-the-words]

BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #3

Title: Hey, Good Lookin’

Prompt: Food/Cooking

Summary: The one where Sinclair has a secret dinner date.

Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Johnny Topside; mentions of Sander Cohen, Andrew Ryan, Stanley Poole, Frank Fontaine, Grace Holloway, Tasha Denu, Gilbert Alexander.

Pairing: Augustus Sinclair/Johnny Topside.

Warnings: alcohol consumption; mentioned sex (no actual nsfw or ‘fade to black’ happens, but like. it’s date night, it’s gonna happen and they both know it, and also it’s mentioned they’ve banged before), kidnapping, period-typical homophobia, forced imprisonment.

Notes: Third submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Cooking’! Take this as a sort of preview of an AU I’ve had in my back pocket for a while now. You could also say this is the first time Delta’s ever spoken in one of my fics ;3

Songs used: Night and Day, Crazy He Calls Me and Easy Living, all by Billie Holiday.

All material belongs to Irrational Games.

Fic also available on AO3.

…

It’s a thirty-seventy split on how often Sinclair cooks for himself and how often he dines at one of the many restaurants out in Rapture. He’s a capable man, ain’t one of those fellas who leaves the kitchen work to the lady of the house (and not just because there ain’t a chance in hell of there ever being a lady in his house), and he does honestly enjoy the art of cooking. Got tons of recipes stored away in his mind, some from his childhood and some adopted from his time building up his riches after he’d moved to Georgia, alongside his accent and perfect English.

But then he’s also a man who enjoys being rich, and he enjoys what he’s capable of doing since he’s rich; one of those things is the ability to afford wining and dining whenever he damn well pleases. One doesn’t get a tummy like his without spoiling themselves, after all.

Tonight, though, wining and dining isn’t an option, unless Sinclair wants the rumour mill to downright implode upon itself.

He’s humming along to the record gently spinning on its player in the living room as he prepares a sauce for the pasta he’s planning on cooking, apron tied around his neck and waist to protect his date night getup: a nice formal ensemble, complete with navy blue waistcoat and matching slacks, red tie, shiny black shoes and, embedded in the cuffs of his perfectly white shirt, a pair of gold cufflinks in the shapes of sharks that he’d bought for himself as a birthday present (and he’s sure his date will appreciate them, even if the kid’s favourite animals are actually whales; will probably see ‘em and immediately ask if Sinclair would like to hear an interesting fact about sharks, bless him).

The finely-chopped beef and onions have browned within the pan, and Sinclair’s added the tomato sauce and tomato paste; he glances at the clock to check the time - five minutes until seven o’clock - before he grabs a bulb of garlic, loosens it, then picks out three of its cloves to mince and add to the sauce. A few more seasonings, a dash of sugar and a bit of a mix later, and Sinclair adjusts the temperature to let the sauce simmer.

He grabs a tall pot from the cupboard next to his left knee and fills it halfway with water from the tap, then sets it upon a ring on his stove, flicks the temperature up and prepares to wait for it to boil.

And good timing, too - because there comes a sound at his front door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Sinclair pauses immediately, looking toward the entryway to the kitchen behind him without turning his head, waits for a second, then he slowly holds up an index finger.

Knock, knock, knock.

Second finger goes up. Wait.

There’s a beat where nothing happens, and Sinclair cocks his head, arching an eyebrow, and then…

…Knock, knock, knock. 

Three fingers, and Sinclair bobs his head in a pleased nod as he grins.

He whisks his apron off and steps out of his kitchen, making his way to the front door; the knock selected for their code is finished, which means Sinclair knows exactly who it is.

He stands in front of the door and composes himself, holds out his hands and shuts his eyes, then hovers a hand in front of his face and wipes downwards in the air. As his hand moves, his grin is replaced with an irritated frown, and only once he’s confident that he can keep that frown in place does he open the door.

“For the love of God, kid!” he immediately says to the tall man standing on his doorstep, stern and purposely loud, with his hands on his hips. “I thought I informed you of the rules when yer workin’ for me: namely, that none of the folks on my payroll are allowed anywhere near my place of residence unless it’s a dire emergency!” 

“Oh, I’m awful sorry to bother you at this late hour, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnny Topside says, looking so frightfully worried and embarrassed, with his shoulders lifted like he’s trying to hide behind them, clutching a pile of papers tied with string to his chest as he looks anywhere but Sinclair, “but I just…I just can’t wrap my head around this paperwork you wanted me to sort out and I-I didn’t wanna screw anything up, so I…I thought it best to bring it to you, just in case…!”

Sinclair huffs a sigh as he leans a hand against his doorway, using his other hand to pinch his brow.

“This is the third time this has happened, son,” he says, then drops his hand from his face so that he can frown sharply at Topside. “Personally, I’m startin’ to think I’m gonna need to look for a new assistant.”

“Oh - Oh, no, p-please, don’t fire me, Mr. Sinclair!” Topside exclaims, looking at Sinclair in the face now. “I-I really need this job, it’s the best one I’ve been offered! I swear, I’ll get better at it, if you…i-if you just show me how…?”

Sinclair sighs again and looks away as he considers it, then he looks back at Topside as he nods to gesture at his apartment. He steps aside.

“Fine. Get on in here, quick - before I end up changin’ my mind.”

“Thank you, sir…” Topside mumbles as he hurries into the apartment, nearly dropping his stack of papers as he goes.

As casually as he can, Sinclair glances around the hall of the Mercury Suites to check for witnesses, then he steps back into his apartment proper and clicks to shut and lock the door - and the second the door is closed, he turns on his heel, marches over to Topside, snatches the papers from Topside’s hands and nonchalantly throws them aside, then he reaches up to grab the lapels of Topside’s overcoat in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss.

Topside allows himself to be pulled in, fully expecting it, and reciprocates immediately. He settles into the smooch with one hand cupping the back of Sinclair’s neck while the other arm wraps itself around his waist.

They lock lips for several long moments, repeatedly breaking and restarting kisses, until Sinclair leans back and opens his eyes to grin up at him.

“Five star performance as always, kid,” he says, reaching up and resting his wrists on Topside’s shoulders to loosely hug his neck with his hands. “Are you sure you don’t wanna head back down to the theatre an’ tell ol’ Cohen you’ve reconsidered his offer ta go up on stage?”

“Oh, gosh, no,” Topside replies, “I’m nervous enough goin’ up on the small stage. Besides, uh,” his brow furrows as he looks away, “he, uh…he upsets me.”

“Aww. You don’t like the fella responsible for your new name?” Sinclair asks, and when he receives a displeased frown - borderline pout - in return, he chuckles and adds, “I’m just messin’, honey - and don’t worry ‘bout it, that man upsets the lot of us.”

Then he presses another kiss to Topside’s mouth.

More kisses are shared, then Topside’s breaking the pattern to turn his head in the direction of the kitchen, still so close that Sinclair is two inches away from kissing his cheek.

“Somethin’ smells heavenly, though!” 

“Mm-hmm. Makin’ spaghetti.”

“Oh, goodie,” Topside says cheerfully, and Sinclair has to chuckle at his unbridled enthusiasm for something as simple as spaghetti, let alone the fact that he chooses to use the word ‘goodie’. “I’m famished.”

“Well, that’s good news for the both of us, cause I went an’ stopped by the bakery on my way home too. Picked up a li’l sweet somethin’ for dessert. An’ then after that, well…” there’s a twinkle in his eye as he smirks thoughtfully, looking at Topside from under his eyelashes, “we’ll just hafta see where the night takes us next, now, won’t we?”

He slides his hands across Topside’s shoulders and down his arms with a deliberate slowness, pressing down upon Topside’s flesh in a massage that can’t even be disguised as casual - especially not with the fact that Sinclair isn’t at all shy nor subtle in the way he rakes his gaze up and down Topside’s body.

“Could just be, chief,” Sinclair goes on, lifting his gaze to Topside’s rounded, beet-red face, “that one of your awful headaches comes around ta ruin our dinner plans, an’ you’ll end up havin’ ta stay the night…”

Smirk widening, he winks, as if Topside needs a hint on what Sinclair means, as if they haven’t done this kind of rendezvous several times already. It’s just fun to mess with the kid, that’s all - he gets all shy.

On cue, Topside gives a hard enough swallow that his Adam’s apple does a jump in his throat.

“...Just might,” he says slowly, “be feelin’ one coming on already…” then he adds, “boss.”

“Hm. Well, from my experience, I know how painful they are for ya,” Sinclair puts a hand to his heart, all humble-like, while his other hand lays itself on Topside’s chest, “and I just cannot - with my dear conscience intact - allow one o’ my finest employees to try an’ make it home on his own, in such a terrible condition.”

Topside gulps again, then nods.

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Sinclair.”

“It is kind o’ me, isn’t it?” 

Sinclair chuckles as he drops the joke, then leans up to press a final kiss to Topside’s mouth before he winks again and turns to go. 

“I’ll go on an’ fetch you some wine, honey - you go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

Sinclair pulls himself from Topside’s arms, starting a saunter to the kitchen, but stops when he catches sight of the papers he’d flung to the floor earlier; he’d thought they were just blank pages, but now that he takes a closer look at them, he sees they’re covered with writing and numbers.

He arches a brow, then looks to Topside over his shoulder.

“Where did you say you got these papers?”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t, but I ripped ‘em out of a phonebook,” Topside says, fiddling with his tie with one hand. “Figured it’d be the most, ah, believable - though, I suppose I should put ‘em back, otherwise I won’t be able to, ah, heh…call anyone. Heh.”

Topside moves to stoop down to pick up the papers as Sinclair sincerely laughs at the joke, then cocks his head, setting a hand on his hip. 

“An’ you’re always tellin’ me you ain’t brainy, lookit you.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Topside replies with a casualness that Sinclair dislikes, head down as he straightens the pile of pages, the string having loosened when Sinclair tossed them, before he stands back up with the papers held to his chest. “Ask any o’ my old schoolteachers, they’ll tell you. Good with my hands, not my brain.”

Sinclair scoffs at the notion, then realises the record that’s been playing since he’d started prepping the meal is starting to wind down, and so before going to get that wine for the two of them, he strolls over to the player to change the record.

“Well, I’ll vouch for that first skill you mentioned,” Sinclair says as he sets the new record down on the turntable, then delicately picks up the needle to get the music back, “but I choose to politely ignore that second part.”

Topside smiles at him, then turns around to put the papers on the nearby coffee table. He pats them twice, like he’s telling them to stay, then straightens up and follows Sinclair into the kitchen.

Immediately, Sinclair fetches the bottle of wine he’d set aside for the evening - a dark, rich brand that had cost a pretty penny - and opens the drawer by his hip to grab the corkscrew. 

Topside’s gaze drifts over the counter space that Sinclair has used to prepare their meal, then winces, sucks a breath through his teeth and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.

“Y’know, I’m, uh…I’m startin’ to feel a little guilty here,” Topside says.

Sinclair arches an eyebrow, stabbing the screw into the wine’s cork.

“And what would you be feelin’ guilty about, honey?”

“Well,” Topside doesn’t look at Sinclair as he speaks, still holding his neck, letting his hand hang off of it by its fingers, “you’ve cooked for me a good handful o’ times now, and I feel like I’m not…playin’ equal, as it were.”

Sinclair scoffs, a sound that’s nearly completely overshadowed by the pop of the cork coming free from the wine bottle’s lips. 

“Now, that’s not true. You’ve cooked for me before, remember?” he says as he reaches up above himself to retrieve two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet, then starts pouring the wine. “I do: made me a mighty delicious breakfast each mornin’ you’ve woken up in my apartment - unless, of course, I’m thinkin’ of some other cuddlebug who I allow to lay between my sheets.”

(And what a treat that first time had been, waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast and walking into his kitchen to find the man who’d made him worry about the thickness of his apartment’s walls cooking for him - and to add the bow to that present, Topside had elected to only dress in his drawers and Sinclair’s apron, like he was trying to make Sinclair’s version of Heaven a reality. He’d said it was because he was distracted by his own idea of cooking breakfast on the way back from the bathroom, and Sinclair believes him because God knows, the man’s mind moves a mile a minute, but…well. Yeah, Sinclair had been late to work that morning - and was wearing his shirt collar suspiciously high.)

Red in the face, Topside briefly gets distracted by the nickname, uttering a small “Oh, gosh…!” as he grins and looks down at his twiddling thumbs, flustered, before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on what they were just discussing.

“But that’s breakfast, that’s…that feels a lot easier than a big dinner like this.” He gestures at all that Sinclair’s done. “Dinner feels more…more special, y’know?”

“Well, pumpkin,” Sinclair carries the glasses over to him, offering one out that’s taken immediately with a hushed word of thanks, “if we were to have these rendezvous at your place, folks would be wonderin’ why I’m suddenly so partial to spendin’ nights at my own hotel. Not to mention, the walls are a lot thinner there and, well, that’s no good for anybody involved, now, is it? Whole point of meetin’ here is so we don’t get into any trouble that we can’t afford ta be in. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not too keen on speakin’ in whispers the whole evenin’ we spend together.” 

“Oh, I know, I just…I wanna cook for you.”

Sinclair watches as Topside clears his throat and looks Sinclair in the eye, then frowns with determination and straightens up, puffing out his chest.

“You should, uh. Lemme cook for you. Properly.”

Sinclair smiles into his wine glass at the sight of him: his fella, who’s always shy and reserved, not wanting to take up much space or bother anybody, who’s always mild-mannered and careful not to offend, with that big ol’ serious look on his face.

Only time Sinclair’s ever seen him drop the gentlemanly approach was when they first met, at the Sinclair Spirits down in Fort Frolic, and that had only been because Topside was full of booze from drowning his sorrows.

“Well - I’d never turn down the offer of a good-lookin’ man wantin’ to cook me a dinner,” Sinclair says, his words cracking the confidence Topside’s applied; he sees the kid’s face bloom bright red and his frown and straightened posture falter. “You’ll hafta share with me the recipe, though. Whole plan’ll fall apart quicker ‘an a house o’ playin’ cards if anybody spots you turnin’ up at my door with armfuls of groceries.”

“I’ll pay for ‘em,” Topside says the instant Sinclair’s stopped speaking, still frowning. “Pay you back for ‘em.”

Sinclair hums through another smile and sips his wine.

“In the meantime,” Topside says, and the confident mask falls as he rubs his neck again, “is there any way I can help right now?”

Sinclair huffs a laugh, then gestures towards the small, round, mahogany table off to the side of the kitchen, initially used for whenever Sinclair needed extra space when preparing meals or wanted a different view than the one in the actual dining room, now used whenever Topside stops by for a date.

“If it means that much to you, sugar, the table needs settin’.”

Topside looks over at it, then nods once.

“I can do that,” he says happily, then sets his glass of wine on the counter and goes off to do just that.

Sinclair titters as he turns back to where dinner’s cooking, setting his glass of wine aside for now. He retrieves his apron and ties it back around himself, then collects the spaghetti from a separate cabinet; water’s more than boiled by now. He turns down the temperature, lest the water boil over, but before he can put the spaghetti in the pot, he finds himself distracted, looking over his shoulder at his fella.

Topside’s collected a tablecloth from the cupboard he knows they’re kept in and now he’s unfolding it, then wafting it through the air to straighten it out before gently laying it over the table. He pats and smooths out creases, then grabs a couple of coasters from the pile of them that Sinclair leaves on the far end of the kitchen counter, next to the fridge, and takes them back to the table, placing them carefully down like he’s balancing them precariously. He then collects his glass and places it down on one of them, in front of the seat that faces Sinclair.

Topside shrugs off his black overcoat and the blazer he wears underneath that, then lays both of them over one of the two chairs at the table. He then pops the buttons on his cuffs and rolls them over before drawing his sleeves up to his elbows, and as Topside goes back to the cupboard he’d gotten the tablecloth from to get placemats, Sinclair lets out a soft sigh at the sight of those broad forearms.

Hell, everything about Topside is broad. His shoulders, his chest, his arms and legs; the first time Sinclair had seen him without his shirt, muscles on full display, he hadn’t hid his admiration for the shape the kid is in, and Topside had just shrugged and given a shy “I work out.”

They ain’t just for show, either: he’d lifted Sinclair into his arms no problem to carry him to his bedroom (something no man has ever done before; it’d honestly left him more than speechless), and besides, he was a diver before accidentally coming to Rapture, with the needed strength to carry one of those big suits on his back. 

But the nicest thing about Topside’s physical form is that he isn’t like some of those boxers who take part in competitions down at The Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern, with their muscles so large that they look like they’ll break out of their skin at any moment, veins all popping and limbs abnormally bulky - an obvious case of ADAM usage (and maybe over-usage, in some).

Sinclair likes muscles on a man, but their kind just makes him wrinkle his nose a little in disgust; he can’t look at them without wondering how they’re so comfortable like that. 

Topside, though - he did everything right when it came to bulking himself up because he’s muscular, but he’s lean as well, to the point that his muscles aren’t immediately noticeable when he’s got his overcoat and blazer on, but good God, they become noticeable after he takes off those outer layers and you can see the definition of his biceps and thighs in their respective sleeves, how wide his chest and shoulders are. All so natural that he could tell Sinclair that he’d popped out of his mother like that and Sinclair would believe him.

Besides, if there’s anything one notices when they first see him, it’s Topside’s height. Sinclair’s never met a man so tall before; Sinclair himself is a couple of inches off the average height of a man his age and he just barely reaches Topside’s shoulder, if they’re standing straight and not counting any lifts like shoes or hairstyles. A full foot over him, and he’s only seven years Sinclair’s junior.

His stature is part of why he’s ended up with the ‘Johnny Topside’ moniker: Johnny Topside was the name of the protagonist of one of Cohen’s films, a piece of propaganda for Ryan that he hadn’t dared allow Ryan to see beforehand, calling it his magnum opus. Ryan had put his trust in Cohen, and that had all been a mistake. It’d been a film about a diver discovering Rapture, falling in love with it the second his feet had touched Rapture’s floors, and abandoning his ideals and his life on (a wildly exaggerated version of) the surface entirely. 

The film had been short-lived because Ryan took issue with someone coming to Rapture without an invitation, even when Cohen genuinely hadn’t meant offence, and all records of the film and its merchandise and posters had all been hurriedly hidden away somewhere in Fort Frolic. But it was too late: enough people had seen it that there were reviews in the papers and kids wanting to be ‘just like Johnny Topside’. From that point onward, Ryan saw it fit to instate an official rule that he see every piece of media produced in the city before it’s released to the public, the whole thing had been a great embarrassment to both Ryan and Cohen - and of course, Sinclair had gotten a laugh out of seeing the whole thing crash and burn.

The fella who played Johnny Topside in the movie was big too (not as big, but still big), as is Cohen’s preference in his leading men, and so when this diver had shown up in Rapture - in a suit nearly identical to the one of the character’s, with a similar build and seemingly living out the events of the long-lost film - everybody was convinced on what to ‘jokingly’ call him: this man is the real Johnny Topside. And thanks to some work from Stanley Poole and the Rapture Tribune, nearly everybody calls him that.

The only people who don’t are the ones Topside’s managed to personally befriend - because they’d been the ones to listen when he mentioned he actually hates being referred to by that nickname. Even Sinclair uses his real name, when he isn’t using the host of pet names he has for him.

And Sinclair doesn’t blame him for getting upset about it: a man’s allowed to hear his own name, after all. He personally hates it when people use any shortened form of Augustus, as the likes of Fontaine are wont to do (which is why Sinclair hates speaking with him; his name is not ‘Gus’). Besides, Sinclair saw that film when it premiered; gave it two stars at best, he’d fallen asleep during the second act and only woke up in time to see the very last scene.

Of course, Topside’s vastly aware of how big he is too; he’s always making sure he’s not in people’s personal space and trying to come off as friendly as possible from the quickdraw, so nobody gets intimidated by him. Not his fault he’s built so big, and the muscles are just used for heavy-lifting and the odd bit of DIY.

Topside’s already informed him of how he’d overheard some workers complaining about carrying a recent shipment and offered his help, thus spending a whole day down in Fontaine Fisheries lifting crates for no pay, and he remembers Topside telling him about how he’d help folks build anything from furniture to their garden sheds back on the surface - “And I’d only ask for a glass of lemonade in return.”

Sinclair had been the one to pay for Topside’s wardrobe, since the kid had come to him in a suit that was obviously too small for him (because all clothes are too small for him), and he still remembers the looks on the tailors’s faces when they’d measured Topside up. 

Still, they’d worked their magic alright, and Topside’s now got a wardrobe that actually fits him comfortably. He’s come to Sinclair this evening in a black suit, patterned with white pinstripes; since he’s removed the blazer, his crisp, white shirt is exposed, alongside the dark grey sweater vest he’s got pulled over the top of it and the navy blue tie at his throat. 

(Topside is also the only man Sinclair’s ever met that could make a sweater vest look attractive, the way it’s stretched over his pectorals until it’s taut, fitting but only just, in the same way that Topside’s rolled-up sleeves hug his biceps and his trousers hug his thighs.)

As he walks about Sinclair’s kitchen, collecting the salt and pepper shakers and the basket of napkins and placing them down in the centre of the table, his shiny, black shoes clack against the floor tiles. His dark hair also catches the light due to freshly-applied hair gel that he’s used to mould his hair into an impressive pompadour, like a large tube of spiralled hair atop his head, long enough that it stands out from Topside’s forehead, if just slightly, and loose enough that a few strands stick out at odd angles in a way that gives the style a little more charm. The hairstyle’s apparently all the rage up on the surface nowadays, but either way, Sinclair’s always appreciated a man who knows how to style his ‘do.

Got the body of a thug, the style and personality of a gentleman, and the gentleness of a lamb. 

Could he be anymore Sinclair’s type?

The song on the album fades out. After a few seconds of silence, the next song - Billie Holiday’s Night and Day - blares and as he goes about collecting two plates from the higher cupboards and bringing them over to the table to put down upon the placemats, Topside starts quietly singing along, with a look on his face that clearly says he’s not aware he’s doing so.

“Night and day, 

You are the one,

Only you beneath the moon 

And under the sun

Whether near to me or far,

It’s no matter, darling, where you are

I think of you…”

There’s another thing: the pipes on this man.

Topside came to him one day, during the photoshoot for the newest line of Sinclair Spirits advertisements (the initial reason that the two of them have spoken beyond the one conversation), telling him how he’s gonna be getting up on stage down in Pauper’s Drop and would Sinclair like to come and watch. 

Sinclair had elected to - and admittedly, the biggest reason for doing so was to keep the morale up amongst his workers. Topside was and still is the new ‘it’ celebrity in Rapture, and practically every business worth its salt wanted him to be a part of them for the profits he’d bring in, attaching his name and face to their products. Sinclair wanted to ensure Topside remained part of the Sinclair business family, and if taking an hour or two out of his day to listen to some singing was what it took to boost the kid’s opinion of him, then so be it.

(Not that that opinion hadn’t been high already; it couldn’t have been more obvious that Topside was carrying a torch for him.)

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was melting the second Topside had opened his mouth up on that stage. His plastered-on smile had fallen into open-mouthed shock and wide eyes.

Mother of mercy, he’d thought in awe, if he ain’t got the voice of an angel…!

He’s almost annoyed that Grace Holloway had discovered the man before he could (not that he has a music-based business, but - Sinclair Records?...There’s an idea, keep that one in his back pocket). Topside used to be the bartender in the Limbo Room and apparently, Grace had overheard him singing along to one of her rehearsals and had immediately gone out, grabbed him and pushed him up onto the stage. 

Smart woman - the Limbo Room’s seen more traffic than ever. Topside doesn’t go on every night like Grace, but when he does, the place is swarming with folks who wanna come see him, either for his voice or his reputation. Almost makes Pauper’s Drop look less like a slum town - almost.

(He does wish Topside had taken his offer of getting him out of that town, but Topside had said he’d made friends there, and he’d feel like he was betraying them if he just went away like that on another man’s dime. The closest Sinclair got to convincing him to go elsewhere was changing the location of his bartending job, from the Limbo Room to the El Dorado Lounge over in Ryan Amusements; the least he can do, in the meantime, is make sure Topside’s got all he needs over in the Sinclair Deluxe. If anybody accuses him of having favourites, he’ll admit to it and point out that Topside is a dear employee of his, even if that hasn’t actually been the case for a while.)

Maybe he should be thanking Grace also, since hearing Topside sing for the first time had been the moment the ‘keep it professional’ lenses had been slapped away from his eyes, but then he could also laugh in her face about it, considering her well-known opinion of Augustus Sinclair.

Thank you, Miss Holloway, for making his life better. How thoughtful of you.

“Honey,” Sinclair says, interrupting Topside’s quiet singing as he gets back to dinner, putting the spaghetti into the pot, “when is it that you’re next showin’ your face at the Limbo Room?” 

“Uhhh,” Topside says, staring into space as he ponders, clutching a fistful of cutlery and a lone fork in the other hand, “Friday, I believe. I’ll hafta ask Grace.” 

He looks to Sinclair.

“Are - Are you gonna come watch?”

“Don’t I always?” Sinclair replies smoothly, eyeing the strands of spaghetti.

“Sure, but - but y’know, you don’t have to. If you’re busy, and all.”

Topside goes back to quietly setting down cutlery, adding, “I don’t wanna get in the way of your work.”

Sinclair smiles. “Please - you’re not gettin’ in the way of anything. Whole point o’ me showin’ up is that I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on worth missin’ your performance. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away - or whatever the Rapture version of that phrase may be.” 

He swears he can feel the heat coming from Topside’s face because he knows Topside’s getting flustered again, and it makes him smirk.

“O-Oh, well…that’s good…that you like my singin’,” Topside says after a moment, “cause it makes me feel a whole lot better about bein’ on stage when you’re in the audience, so I can look at you. You make me feel…more confident.”

Sinclair cocks his head with a flattered smile, then stirs the spaghetti sauce as he replies, “Could help ya feel more confident on the El Dorado’s stage too. Ain’t too far from my neck of the woods (much as I could do without a stroll through Andy’s mirror maze). I figure it’s handier singin’ there when you’re up workin’ the bar too.”

“Oh - Oh, gosh, no,” Topside adamantly shakes his head, baulking at the mere thought, “no, there’re…too many people in there for me to sing in front of. I struggled enough getting up on the Limbo Room’s stage, I can’t get up there.”

“Hm. Well, I reckon it’s down to you in the long run, but trust me when I say you could bring the house down, wherever you’re singin’.” 

“Oh,” Topside says, grinning bashfully at the compliment. “Well, it’s not really about my singin’, more about my nerves. But it’s okay, though! I like singin’ in the Limbo Room. It’s small and mostly quiet, me an’ Grace get to sing together sometimes, and I get to help out Pauper’s Drop. It’s a, heh, win for everybody, I guess.”

It’s quiet between them as the spaghetti sinks into the water and the table is finished being prepared for dinner, then the clacking of Topside’s shoes come closer, and then there’re big, strong arms wrapped around Sinclair’s middle and a freshly-shaven chin is rested atop his head.

Sinclair smiles at the warmth he’s suddenly encompassed in - Topside’s like a walking heater, so he’s naturally splendid to cuddle with - and says, “Careful. Don’t muss up my hair, now.”

Topside chuckles. “Always careful not to.”

It’s almost unconsciously that Topside starts to rock him back and forth, swaying gently at the hips along to the song, and Sinclair grins, shuts his eyes and leans his head back against Topside’s chest, hands coming to rest over Topside’s arms as Topside resumes quietly singing along to the last trek of Billie Holiday’s tune.

“Night and day,

Under the hide of me,

There’s an, oh, such a hungry yearning

Burning inside of me

And its torment won’t be through

‘Til you let me spend my life

Making love to you

Day and night, night and day…”

“Easy there, chief,” Sinclair says as the song ends, tilting his head to look toward Topside over his shoulder, “keep this goin’, and you’ll have me passin’ out in this dinner I’m makin’ you.”

“It’s alright,” Topside says, “I’ll catch you.”

Sinclair titters, then reaches over to retrieve his wooden spoon so that he can stir the sauce again.

After a few seconds where the only sound is of the food cooking, the record in the living room starts to play Crazy He Calls Me, another by Billie Holiday, along to which Topside starts to sing, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sinclair that Topside gives his waist a little squeeze when he sings about moving mountains if ‘he’ wants them moved.

“Size that you are, honey, I reckon you could move ‘em easier than a God,” he says, and Topside chuckles.

After a few more lines, he interrupts his own singing to say lazily into Sinclair’s hair, “I should be thinking of what I’m gonna cook for you.”

Sinclair puffs out a tiny laugh at Topside’s sheer insistence on this meal he wants to make.

“Hard to go wrong in the food department, chief - there ain’t much I won’t eat.”

“Well, I wanna make it special for you,” Topside replies. “Maybe try and recreate one of my old family recipes or somethin’.”

“In that case, it already sounds like a treat and a half.”

Sinclair grabs for a new wooden spoon from the drawer by his hip to scoop up a small amount of his spaghetti sauce, bringing it up in the air and turning just so he can hold the spoon up to Topside’s face.

“Here, honey. Give this a taste for me.”

Topside leans forward and puts his lips to the spoon, pulling off the little blob of sauce and leaning back as he smacks and licks his lips quietly, then he hums and smiles wide. He rests his head back atop Sinclair’s, this time tilting it so his cheek is pressed into Sinclair’s hair instead of his chin.

“Now, that,” he says, “that is just heavenly. Is there anythin’ you can’t do, Augustus?”

Augustus scoffs out a laugh. 

“Plenty I can’t do, pumpkin, I think you’ll find.”

“I don’t believe that.”

The music continues to croon, as Topside keeps on with his gentle swaying of them both. Sinclair feels awkward that he’s going to have to ask Topside to stop soon, so he can finish up their dinner, and to be honest, he feels reluctant. 

If the public were nicer about people like them, they wouldn’t have to pretend Topside suffers with headaches just so he can stay the night with nobody commenting on it (well, Christ knows, the paparazzi would, if they caught him, but that’s what Sinclair’s paying Stanley Poole for). They could be like this for longer too, not just sharing a night together before having to separate. 

Topside can be snuck into his office with the excuse of him being his ‘assistant’, they just have to think of a lie for why the door gets locked behind them, and sometimes, they can get away with going on dates in public, so long as they aren’t too touchy-feely about it. Sinclair’s taken Topside to several of his favourite restaurants, and even taken him on a special trip down to Arcadia, where Topside had fallen to his knees in near tears at seeing grass again. Sinclair had even bribed Tasha Denu to allow them to see the bees when no one else was around, and they’d each been allowed to take home a jar of honey (and that was easier to get away with, if only because Tasha’s in the same boat they are).

Such is the way down here, no matter what Ryan believes.

“I missed you today, Augustus,” Topside says quietly.

Sinclair glances over his shoulder at him.

“You saw me just yesterday, sugar,” Sinclair replies.

“I know, but…” Topside gives a small sigh, struggling briefly with his words, before he goes on, “It’s just…I see tons of faces every day - at the bar or up on stage - but…I still always feel real lonely when you aren’t around, y’know? You’re one of the few people down here that I feel comfortable around, and...the only person I feel like I can just be myself around. Maybe I’m just bein’ foolish, but…it’s how I feel…”

Sinclair is briefly left at a loss for words; Topside’s the first man to ever see it fit to wax poetic to him. The few men he’s taken to dinner had been upfront when they’d asked him out, and he likes that, but none of them had made him feel all…fuzzy and warm and…loved like Topside does. Like he’s brought the colour into Sinclair’s life. 

It’s a little overwhelming at times, but he’s getting used to it, and more importantly, he enjoys it.

“Well…if it’s foolish, then they’ll call us both fools,” Sinclair replies, turning in Topside’s arms to face him, planting his hands on Topside’s chest, “cause I’ve been missin’ you as well, pumpkin. Lord knows, you’re the only fella in this city that I can stand ta spend any personal time with, outside o’ bein’ cooped up in a meetin’. Well - ‘cept maybe Gil.”

“Gil…? Oh. That fella you’re working on that…project with. The machines an’ all.”

“Mm-hm.” Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “But you don’t see him with an invitation to my apartment, so I guess you’re just a special case, aren’t you, puddin’?”

He winks, and Topside smiles extra wide, looking at Sinclair in such a way that Sinclair can picture cartoon love hearts floating about his face. The thought’s amusing enough that it makes it extra disheartening when Topside’s smile falls into a thoughtful little frown.

“...You’re makin’ living in this city worth it,” he says quietly.

Sinclair’s face falls. 

Predictably, Topside never got used to living in Rapture; it was the entire reason Sinclair found him nearly passed out on the bartop of Fort Frolic’s Sinclair Spirits. Of course, Sinclair doesn’t blame him for still having his misgivings about the city. After all, they all came here of their own volition, while Topside…well, if they’re all completely honest, they essentially kidnapped him. 

It hasn’t all been bad, even setting their relationship aside - that trip to Arcadia they’d taken and how close Topside now is to sealife are the big standouts. 

The first time he’d seen a whale up close had been in the middle of the night, and he’d excitedly woken Sinclair up, telling him to come look, quickly. Sinclair’s been here for far longer than him, so whales are no longer anything he fusses over, but Topside was glued to the wall-sized window beside his bed, nearly reduced to tears when hearing the whale sing, and then waving goodbye and wishing the whale safe journeys as it swam out of view. As a diver, he’d said, he’d never been allowed to get that close to the bigger sea animals; that whale had been near enough for him to touch, if he’d had his suit.

But Sinclair knows that no matter how many happy moments Topside has down here, if someone offered him the chance to go back to the surface, he’d take it in a heartbeat, and he’d hesitate only because he’d want Sinclair (and perhaps his other friends) to come with him.

“I’m still worried of what Mr. Ryan thinks of me.” Topside confesses.

“Now, don’t get yourself all worked up about that,” Sinclair says, leaning up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth.

Ryan’s been questioning Sinclair since Topside’s image went up with Sinclair’s name slapped beside it, like he wants Sinclair to act as some fucking double agent, to find out what Topside ‘intends to do with Rapture’. Sinclair could only spew lies that Topside is just like his namesake: he loves Rapture and wants no harm to come to it, he’d hated his life up top, he’s a working man and a responsible employee who just wants to make his way down here. Anything to dissuade the paranoid bastard’s ideas.

He doesn’t hide his distaste for how often Ryan is choosing to talk to him, either - he misses when Ryan would swear they wouldn’t speak again, then call him up two months later because he had a problem he wanted Augustus to solve. His evident irritation at having broken his own word just…tickled Sinclair something silly.

Topside looks away, then adds, “He scares me.”

“Andy?” Sinclair gives a dismissive scoff. “Honey, he’s nothin’ but a kitty cat playin’ at bein’ a lion: can’t even muster up a roar when he wants ta.”

Topside looks him in the face. 

“Yeah, but…he’s got the most influence in the city and all, so…” 

Not accordin’ to some, Sinclair thinks, then shrugs a shoulder and reaches up to cup Topside’s cheek.

“Sure, but you know someone else who’s got some influence in this town, kid - and that’s me. More’n you think I do, even. I can getcha new jobs and another place ta lay your head, but most importantly, I offer protection from the other big names lookin’ to snatch you up - includin’ Ryan. So don’t waste time thinkin’ on him, sugar, cause you’re on my side now, and I’ve got everythin’ covered. Just stick with me, kid,” he gives a wink, “an’ we’ll be goin’ places, just like I told you.”

Cause I would sooner see Ryan rot down in Persephone than I’d see you doin’ so, Sinclair wants to add, but then he’d have to explain what Persephone is, and then…this date and this relationship would be over.

Topside stares at him for a moment, then nods.

“Nobody else I ever wanna be with,” Topside replies with a bashful smile, which makes that fuzzy feeling spread all over Sinclair’s body, and the two lean in to kiss.

Sinclair wraps his arms around Topside’s neck, hand carefully cupping the back of his head so as to not disturb his hairstyle, and one of Topside’s arms encircles Sinclair’s waist, while his other crosses over Sinclair’s shoulder blades, holding him nice and close; one little pull upwards, and he’d be taking Sinclair off his feet. 

They hold the kiss for several seconds, then break it to begin another, and then another and another, until Topside’s starting to run his hands down the slopes of Sinclair’s waist and Sinclair’s feeling heat bubble in his lower tummy, then Sinclair forces himself to pull back.

“Oughta go sit yourself down, chief,” he says with a small grin, “otherwise I’ll never finish cookin’ this here food, and we’ll be mussin’ up both our hairstyles ‘fore we planned to.”

Topside chuckles happily, and Sinclair’s hesitant to use the word ‘cute’ with anything another person does, but…his laugh is real cute.

Topside starts to pull back from him, but not before briefly cupping Sinclair’s cheek in one of his big hands, and Sinclair puts his hand over Topside’s and nuzzles into it with a warm smile, kissing the palm. He lets Topside go so that Topside can go and sit at the table, elbows atop it and resting his chin on the backs of his folded hands.

In all the conversation, Sinclair didn’t even notice the song had ended, and Billie Holiday’s Easy Living starts to play (what can Sinclair say? He’s a fan). They were distracted long enough that most of the instrumental beginning is done with, and when Miss Holiday soon starts to sing, Topside sings with her.

“Living for you is easy living

It’s easy to live when you’re in love

And I’m so in love

There’s nothing in life but you,”

Sinclair looks over at Topside as he graces Sinclair with his dulcet tone and he could just melt from the soft, adoring look Topside’s giving him as he sings. He’ll choose to blame it on the heat of the kitchen, though.

Focusing now back on dinner, Sinclair turns off the heat under the spaghetti, then uses a pair of tongs to transfer the spaghetti to the sauce, letting it cook the rest of the way in the pan instead. With a tablespoon, he takes some of the pasta water and mixes it into the pan alongside the sauce and pasta, to help get the sauce to just the right consistency. He ends up using about eight scoops of the water, then reaches for the butter to add a small pad of it to the pan as well to ensure the sauce becomes good and creamy.

He’s distinctly aware of Topside watching him and occasionally looks over at him as he mixes the pasta into the sauce, giving him little amused smirks as he sees Topside looking at him like he’s some master chef from whom Topside wants to learn. 

Silly, really, cause Topside’s already proved himself a good cook. Those breakfasts he’d made Sinclair had been heavenly.

When the spaghetti’s fully cooked and good and covered in sauce, Sinclair flicks off the heat entirely, then tells Topside to bring the plates over.

Topside does so, muttering about how silly he’d been to put the plates on the table when Sinclair would obviously need them, and Sinclair gives them each a good helping of spaghetti before dumping his tools into the sink to be washed later and throwing off his apron.

Topside’s a gentleman and takes both of their plates to the table, setting them back down on their respective placemats, and Sinclair gives him a thanks as he collects his glass of wine. They then sit opposite each other at the table.

Sinclair stuffs a napkin into the collar of his shirt to protect his clothing and goes to pick up the pepper shaker, only to stop himself when he sees Topside clasp his hands together in a prayer, shut his eyes and press his forehead to his hands, whispering grace.

Laying one arm atop the other, Sinclair doesn’t join him, simply waits until he’s done. 

The first time they ever went to dinner together - a business dinner, mind - Topside had tried saying grace too, and Sinclair had turned wide-eyed in a second, nervously looked around, then scrambled to stop him. Of course, Topside hadn’t understood, just politely told Sinclair it’s fine if he doesn’t want to do it too, this is just his faith, but Sinclair had quickly explained that they don’t…do religion in Rapture, and that Topside could get them both in serious trouble if he continues. 

Predictably, Topside had gotten upset, muttered how he’s not even allowed his religion down here, but relented with a slight huff and told Sinclair he’d make amends later, in the privacy of his hotel room. 

Here, in the safety of Sinclair’s apartment, Topside can do whatever he pleases, so Sinclair stays quiet and lets him get on with it.

Once he’s finished, Topside lifts his head and gives Sinclair a grateful smile, then Sinclair reaches for that pepper shaker.

“Oh!”

Sinclair looks up, lips a perfect ‘o’ in surprise.

“Your cufflinks!” Topside says, staring down at Sinclair’s arm. “I didn’t even notice before - they’re sharks!”

“Oh,” Sinclair says, tone just dripping with fake wonder. “Why, they are, aren’t they? I just,” he waves a hand dismissively, “ended up throwin’ on these old things.”

Topside grins at him, then.

“Do you wanna hear an interestin’ fact about sharks?” he asks.

With a smile, Sinclair goes through with sprinkling pepper on his spaghetti, then twirls his fork into his noodles, wrapping up the prongs, then lifts it to his lips.

“Lay it on me, honey.”

[ratinayellowbandana]

For the prompt thing if you’re still up for it: hoodie

Happy writing!!

please pretend I'm not answering this ask from september in december. I hope this is worth the wait. it might be the fluffiest thing I've written in years.

word count: ~1.5k

also on ao3

Imogen hadn’t expected to be at the barn so long. She was meant to be home two and a half hours ago, and the twist of guilt in her stomach is difficult to ignore. That and the pangs of a skipped dinner provide an altogether dreadful end to a dreadful day. 

The weather suddenly turned brisk after an unseasonable warm spell, and Imogen’s fingers are cold-bitten. The horses, most of whom she finds to be altogether well-behaved, were getting on her last nerve. Barring Leonard, naturally, who is always a bit spicer than the rest. The cranky old gelding is never really one for people. Imogen can’t blame him, either. The chill irritates his joints, though, and there’s only so much his grain supplements can do.

Imogen steered clear of him as best she could, leaving his care to one of the other stablehands.

The barn was busy today, flooded with children on school holiday and parents desperately needing them to get out of the house to burn off some energy. Let the sugar-fueled kids loose on someone else’s property and let someone else parent them for a while. Unfortunately, it made Imogen’s life harder each time she had to remind an ebullient child not to run around the horses while the parents chatted by the barn door, unwilling to dirty stroller wheels and designer slippers.

Imogen loves her job; she really does. She’s a barn manager at a property a few miles outside the nearest city. Far enough away that she can pretend she’s back home in Gelvaan and close enough to commute from her apartment. It’s a lesson barn offering day camps, event hosting, and boarding. It even has a small pond and arboretum that they decorate for the holidays. The evergreen branches fill with twinkling lights, and the sculpture garden is adorned with festive additions. 

Their walking path through the holiday decor attracts a decent crowd in the wintertime, and they get a relatively steady stream of tour groups. Imogen loves being able to teach the children about animal welfare. The looks on their round, city-raised faces as she leads a thousand-pound animal from its stall is priceless. Especially the little ones who look between her and Flora, her most unbothered mare, with awe and reverence. Those are Imogen’s favorites, the ones who want to be here so badly they would burst–Do you want to pet her nose?–if it wouldn’t frighten the animals.

She doesn’t even mind the toddlers who take fistfuls of mane in pudgy hands and squeal with joy–Yeah, honey, the horse does say ‘neigh!’–though she pleasantly reminds them to use their gentle hands. 

It’s the families who expect the world to bend to their every whim that have Imogen feeling just a bit murderous during what should be a joyous time of year. But those are the families who will pay by the hour for private lessons and board the ponies their children will visit once a month. They’re Master Faramore’s ideal clientele, which means they pay Imogen’s salary. So Imogen plays nice. 

She was supposed to have a relatively easy day, but one of her staff members called in sick, and another conveniently forgot to mention he would be out of town, so Imogen was left to pick up the slack. Normally, she wouldn’t really mind–these things happen, and she likes working with the horses, anyway–but with two days until their biggest publicity event of the year, she is being pulled in five directions at once. 

The Winter’s Crest Parade is huge for the stable. A few years back, Imogen finally convinced Faramore to let her test an initiative to fund riding lessons for kids who couldn’t afford them. A thing like that would’ve changed Imogen’s life growing up, and after months of begging and promising, no, it really wouldn’t cost him anything if they fundraised, Faramore agreed. The parade was a valuable opportunity to highlight the beneficiaries and promote the program. The stable trailered the most bomb-proof horses into the city along with the old red and white barouche and walked between the high school marching bands and scout troupes, waving at the crowd. 

The event attracted nearly forty thousand tourists last winter, and Imogen hopes this year will be the same. Preparation was well in hand. They’d pulled the cart out of the storage barn and cleaned it up last week. Today was supposed to be all-hands-on-deck oiling all of the tack.

Every time Imogen settled in with her sponge and her hair tied back, something came up. 

A haggard parent of a, in Imogen’s opinion, bratty ten-year-old attempting to lecture her about which pony her daughter wanted to ride for her lesson–

We assign the lesson horses based on skill level, ma’am–

The influx of visitors wandering the property– Please don’t climb the trees!

And the restless horses– Leonard! Don’t you dare bite at–

Imogen was bone-weary by the time the barn closed to the public, and the remaining staff went home for the night. She couldn’t bring herself to ask them to stay late so close to Winter’s Crest, and with the warning signs of a headache brewing on the horizon, isolating herself was doing everyone a favor, really. 

Her feet dragged her across the concrete floor and into the tack room, where she flopped onto a pile of saddle pads. She indulged seven minutes of self-pity and pre-grieving for the ache in her back before picking up her oil and cloth to condition the leather harness straps. Just one more, she promised herself a half dozen times until her fingers grew stiff, and she finally registered the time.

Which is how she finds herself climbing the narrow staircase to the apartment she shares with Laudna two and a half hours after she was due back. Laudna, from whom she had three missed texts when she finally remembered to check her phone.

Today, 6:08pm: Will you be home soon? I’ll start on supper, so it’ll be warm when you arrive.

Today, 6:54pm: I hope you don’t mind I ate without you. I wasn’t sure when you would be back. There’s a bowl keeping warm for you in the oven. [IMG_2136.JPG]

Today, 7:26pm: I hope everything’s all right. Let me know when you’re on the way?

Imogen responded immediately, lips tight with the guilt of making Laudna worry. 

Today, 8:32pm: Shit. I’m so sorry, Laud. Got caught up in work and didn’t notice the time. Be home soon.

She fumbles the key in the lock and winces at the noise in the quiet hallway. She removes her muddy work boots and leaves them on the shoe mat, careful not to dirty Laudna’s preferred pair of black flats. Pushing the door open, Imogen is greeted by the clean, piney smell of the candles Laudna likes to light in the evenings. Says it makes her feel like she’s out under the stars, even in the city. Imogen’s stomach growls at the lingering scent of whatever Laudna cooked wafting from the kitchen.

She can hear soft music playing from the living room. Setting her keys in the bowl in the entryway, she pads down the corridor until she can see the couch. A record spins on the vintage gramophone Laudna had found at an estate sale. Her face had lit up, and she talked the appraiser’s ear off until he’d given it to her at a substantial discount. Imogen had watched the encounter with pride and no small measure of adoration. 

Laudna is curled on the sofa, a novel fallen to the side. Perpetually chilly, she is bundled beneath two blankets and, Imogen notes with a fond smile, Imogen’s hoodie. The pale blue hood is drawn up to warm her ears. Her head is quirked at an awkward angle against the headrest, and Imogen knows she’ll have to move to the bed before long unless she wants to wake up sore. Laudna’s breath comes in slow puffs, sending a few loose strands of hair fluttering across her closed eyes. A mug of tea cools on the coffee table. 

Imogen steps closer and crouches near her head, careful not to startle her. 

“Hey,” she says softly, brushing strings of black and gray from Laudna’s sleep-smoothed face. Laudna stirs. “Im’gen?”

“It’s me. ‘M so sorry I’m so late; I got stuck at the barn.”

Laudna hums. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

Laudna’s brow furrows. “Imogen,” she scolds halfheartedly, voice still hushed and creaky with sleep, “There’s food in the oven.” 

“Thank you, darlin’.” Imogen presses a kiss to Laudna’s forehead and cherishes the way her nose scrunches as she burrows deeper into her blankets. 

“Join me when you’re done?”

“I’d love nothing more.” 

[alittlextrathatway]

Line: "Show me the places where the others gave you scars." Location: CFD Christmas party.

Alright 5th and final part of the Firehouse 40 AU.

You can find the rest here: part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4

***

It’s been a while since Matt had an official date to a CFD function. The last time was with Gabby, right before that relationship completely fell apart.

Gabby’s moved on — in her personal life and her career — and so has he, but he forgot how much of a fishbowl the CFD can be. Especially, when a guy walks into a room with Sylvie Brett on his arm. Sylvie Brett in her duty uniform is appealing enough, but Sylvie all dressed up for a holiday party? She’s bound to draw a few slack jawed stares.

When he picked her up, he nearly had a heart attack at the first glimpse of her form fitting holiday red dress. It was low cut, with a neckline that reminded him if the top half of a heart, and thin straps framing her sternum. The way it emphasized her neck and collar bone left him with the urge to lean down and bite the graceful swanlike line her features seemed to draw. The fact that he’s managed to keep that whim to himself is a testament to his self control.

She’s gorgeous to him all the time though, even when returning from a call drenched in unknown substances. The image of her crawling out of the back of 61, just over 24 hours ago, covered in a poor kid’s vomit is fresh in his mind. Her first shift as PIC on 61 didn’t quite go the way she hoped, but she bore it like the consummate professional she’s always been.

That level of proficiency is sexy as hell to him. She faces the ugly stuff head on and never flinches or compromises in her empathy. She’s not only gorgeous on the outside, but the inside too. However, he recognizes he could potentially be biased. It comes from knowing her heart as well as he does, and from being fortunate enough to have spent the last two months sharing space with her at one residence or another.

So, he assumes most of the people in the room are staring because she makes such a striking picture, even when compared to all the festive Christmas decorations that surround them. It’s not until Sylvie quickly directs her gaze down at the floor and squeezes his hand in a vice-like grip that he realizes anything’s wrong.

“Everything okay?” He asks.

“Um, yes, but I need you to keep standing there, blocking me from view for the moment, and I also need to tell you something I probably should have mentioned by now.” When she looks up at him again, her face is pinched and her eyes are apologetic.

“Okay,” he says, bracing himself for a deep dark secret. Something that might flip the last couple of months on their head.

“You know the CFD Chaplain we’ve had for the last few years?”

“Yeah, Sheffield, right?”

She nods. “That’s him.”

“What about him?”

“Well, uh, we were briefly engaged a few years ago.”

Matt has no idea what to do with that information. “How briefly?”

“Just a month or so — until he suggested I should think about quitting my job once we got married and then I very quickly realized it was never going to work,” she confesses. “I should’ve said something sooner but I just — I mean how do you bring up a failed engagement in casual conversation?”

She bites her bottom lip and stares at him with wary expectant eyes as if she thinks he might blow up at her at any moment.

“Sorry I sprung that on you,” she whispers, her eyes leaving his and widening slightly. “But he’s headed this way and more than a few people in this room know I jilted him so we’re for sure gonna have an audience.”

He wants to tell her not to worry. He has no room to be critical of botched engagements or trying to make it work with someone who simply isn’t the right fit. His entire romantic history is full of those exact same things.

“Sylvie,” the Chaplain greets as he joins them.

“Kyle, hi,” she says with a too bright false smile. “Have you met Matt Casey? He’s a captain over at 51.”

“Your new house,” Kyle states with a nod, turning to offer his hand to Matt. “We’ve met a few times over the years. Haven’t we, Casey?”

“We have, yes,” Matt replies, suddenly remembering a conversation with Sheffield about where to take his new fiancée for her birthday dinner. Matt had given him a couple of suggestions but never followed up on whether or not he had taken them. In light of what Sylvie just revealed to him, he realizes she must have been the fiancée. “Been a while since you dropped in on 51 though.”

And now Matt understands why.

“You’re right. I promise I’ll work on correcting that soon.”

Yeah, he bets he will based on the moon eyes the Chaplain keeps throwing at Sylvie. For her part, Sylvie definitely isn’t returning them. She looks antsy and uncomfortable. Matt tries to imagine running into Gabby tonight and has to rein in a wince. Sylvie doesn’t know about Gabby. He imagines it would be just as awkward as this moment with the chaplain.

“Well, if you’ll excuse us,” Matt says, pointedly threading his fingers through Sylvie’s. “Our chief and his wife are right over there, and Sylvie hasn’t had the chance to meet his wife yet. I don’t want her to miss her window.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Kyle says, stepping aside. “We can all catch up later.”

“Sure,” Sylvie agrees, still holding her blatantly forced smile. “We should definitely do that.”

Like hell they will. He doesn’t care that this man once had a relationship with Sylvie, but he does care about Sylvie’s unease. If she doesn’t want to be around Kyle, then she won’t have to be.

He leads her away from the chaplain, but stops just short of Boden and Donna.

“I am so sorry, Matt,” she immediately begins to ramble. Her nerves exploding to the surface as she talks. “I should have told you, I know, and I’m sure you’re furious with me but I swear I wasn’t trying to hide it. I—“ She cuts herself off when she realizes he’s smiling at her with with warmth and amusement. “Wait, you aren’t mad at me at all, are you?”

“No,” he states, chuckling slightly. “In the grand scheme of things, we haven’t known each other that long. There’s no timetable and learning things about each other.”

“Oh,” she says, blinking owlishly at him. “Okay.”

“And in the interest of full disclosure, you’re not the only one with a failed engagement under their belt,” he reveals, blushing slightly. “Personally, I have two.”

She gasps, eyes bright and full of mirth. “No way. You too?”

Her incredulity cancels out any shock he might have experienced from her news and he finds himself laughing at her. “Sheffield was fiancé number two?”

She nods. When talking about the chaplain she looked more embarrassed than haunted, but this first fiancé was clearly different. Worse. “The first one is why I came to Chicago. At some point I realized I was living his life, not mine. So, I left.”

There’s more to the story than that, he can tell. But she can have her secrets. She’ll tell him when she’s ready. After all, he’s yet to tell her about Hallie. If anything now he knows they both have scars that run deep, deeper than they may appear at first glance. It’ll all come out with time. Something he hopes they have plenty of if he gets his way.

He’s spent two months getting to know her — eagerly filling in the puzzle that is Sylvie Brett. He doesn’t have all the pieces yet but he has enough of them to understand the most vital parts of her. Her good heart, her empathic soul, and her resourceful mind. She impresses him more and more every day and, in truth, there’s no one he’d rather spend every second of his free time with than her.

His hands land on her waist, urging her toward him. She follows his lead, bring her arms up to wrap around his neck. Intentionally, he meets and maintains her gaze. “The guy sounds like an moron,” Matt tells her. “But if he led you here to me then at least some good came from him.”

“It’s funny,” she says, thoughtful expression on her face. “If I had a chance to go back and change anything about my life, you would think I’d use it, wouldn’t you? That I’d use it to spare myself some pain or humiliation or something.” She sighs contentedly, running one of her hands through his hair until it can rest at the nape of his neck. “But I wouldn’t.”

“No?” He asks, curious about where this conversation is headed. “Not at all?”

She shakes her head. “It’s too big of a risk. I mean, change any part of my past and…maybe I don’t find my way to Chicago, the CFD, or you. And I don’t want to imagine my life without you. Not if I can help it.”

The sentiment rocks through him like a seismic shock. It shifts his entire being and sends happiness like he’s never known breaking through the surface. An irrepressible smile overtakes his face and he can’t stop himself from kissing her. It’s a short but firm kiss. Maybe a little deeper than is perhaps decent in a room full of their colleagues, but he doesn’t care. Because in this moment he knows something with as much certainty as he knows the compartments on 81. Backwards, forwards, and with his eyes closed.

“I love you,” he declares. If he doesn’t say it now he’s afraid he’ll come up with a million reasons to chicken out.

Her breathing hitches and for a moment he worries he’s misread their entire relationship, but then the moment passes and she smiles so bright she nearly blinds him. “I — god, Matt. I love you too.”

“You do?” He asks in disbelief. “You really do?”

She nods, smile never faltering. “I really do.”

He kisses her again and this time he doesn’t give a single thought to who’s looking. Sylvie Brett loves him. She picked him. And he’s going to make sure she never regrets it, not for a second. He always wants her to feel as if all their struggles and their broken journeys were meant to bring them together — to believe being with him in the end is worth the pain.

Because that’s what he believes too. The disappointments and the losses hurt a lot less now that he knows they were preparing him for her.

[ritens]

dd2 has me doing mental gymnastics bc I don't really like interacting with canon all that much in ANY setting (nervously looks at wf, the chosen operator thing sucks, dont come at me).

puts this under readmore bc the ramble got too long oops just quickly going over Rau's story to see what canon events even tie in there at all.

It's just unfortunate timing in an unfamiliar place. Rau happened to be in Melve with his family, passing through really. Dragon makes a feast of his heart, he gets treated and dragged to Vernworth with strangers wanting to put him on the throne but he runs off because it's all too fast paced for him.

Disa does what Disa does best which results in Rau being enslaved on the Volcanic island with his memories missing.

He escapes the place, thank you Rook and goodbye Rook. Nobody picks him up from the griffon landing area and he simply wanders off on his own. (rather he wanders off BEFORE the soldiers arrive)

The guy spends a week trekking through the forests until he ends up in Vernworth again where Brant finally gets his hands on the stray Arisen to fill him in on his supposed duty.

Raures summons a mangled pawn at the big riftstone in the city and ends up leaving the thing alone at an inn for days to let him recuperate. During this time Rau runs the infiltration tasks in the palace for Brant.

Once Lane is good enough to walk, they set out for the Nameless Village and never return to Vernworth again. The pawn has his claws in the Arisen and does his best to distract the hero from his charge.

And the rest just doesn't happen for Raures. He sticks to his wandering lifestyle like he did with his parents before the Dragon scorched them and ate his heart.

They visit the Sacred Arbor at some point and travel to Battahl through illegal means. They assist those in need along the way because Rau is a stouthearted, kind man (if a little blind).

Brant is hot on their heels at times, exasperated beyond measure. Lane distracts him too by sending him the wrong way, but keeps Rau in the dark about the matter.

The pawn also murders Ambrosius on the beach as he detects the kind of energy is hidden in the small blue crystals. Better safe than sorry is the excuse he gives himself.

The (severely incomplete) bestowal of spirit was a mistake when it comes to Lane's OG master, Amaury LMAO he literally got all of the worst traits from the prick before the good ones could come in. Lane's learning those on his own now, through life experience. (((Exercises his sliver of free will to be a little bitch)))

After an unmentionable amount of time Raures loses his spark and is forced to retire as a New Arisen is made to pick up his slack and continue the cycle in his stead. He is devastated by the fact as the fog is lifted from his mind and realization finally washes over him.

He then notices that the pawn he adopted is still sticking with him despite his lost status. They have a falling out when Lane comes clean about his past and his motives and the role Rau unknowingly played in them.

Upset, Rau then FINALLY makes way to Vernworth to see if he can aid in any way. And Lane is left at Rau's cabin in the woods to think things through.

---

Raures is very dutybound so his initial reaction to Lane's manipulation, betrayal even, was very negative. But he eventually takes pity on Lane and goes to fetch the pawn before he can answer another Arisen's call and travel beyond the rift for good. Rau imagined himself in Lane's shoes and figured he would've done the same if he were in the such position.

Lane can no longer sense Raures either so their means of communication has got to become more direct too. It's difficult but they'll make it work.

---

Pathfinder is a tricky obstacle though I'm still trying to figure out what to do about that bastard. Rau does probably heed him. And he can very easily tell him that his pawn is corrupt and is getting in the way of his charge but there are many former Arisen who failed... How did they manage??? (or rather not manage)

[daylighteclipsed]

As someone who only got into KH as an adult, what do you think of Riku's motives during KH1? There's very different opinions from long time fans. From dismissive it's just badly written, he's being petty, it doesn't make sense, he's desperately in love with Kairi so he resent Sora, he's a fuckboy who always want more and never could have enough to it's gay panic from soriku fans. Some even call it plot holes since the games don't state it outright. As a new adult fan how do you see it?

I think Riku is someone very unhappy. He feels left out and forgotten by Sora and Kairi. He's jealous, for multiple reasons, but only understands some of them. He's built his identity around being the more mature, cool older brother figure, which drives an emotional wedge between him and Sora&Kairi who allow themselves to be more childish and carefree. And he doesn't really know who he is outside of this role -- hence, his fear that if Sora and Kairi don't need him anymore, they won't want him around and he won't really have a purpose. But it's a role he doesn't actually enjoy playing, as we see he's much happier when he abandons those expectations in order to follow his heart and be true to himself.

I think those expectations, forcing himself to play that role, is part of why Riku fails to express how he's feeling to his friends and begins retreating from them -- which is the "change" Kairi picks up on, but also, for instance, Selphie notices Riku sitting by himself and staring at the ocean for long periods of time. Riku's always wanted to see other worlds, but I think, by the time KH1 starts, he's started talking about it more frequently. He's started making it happen by building the raft. He is so focused on leaving, he, in his words, hasn’t even thought about what he wants to do when he gets where he’s going. I think he's frustrated that Kairi and Sora aren't really taking the raft seriously -- and though he knows Sora likes to slack off and it's not personal, I think he's hurt especially by Sora's lack of care because this is supposed to be their dream, and Sora seems happier goofing around with Kairi. But Riku tells himself it's fine because once they're sailing everything will be different. Everything will finally change. Right?

Those expectations -- to be the cool older bro figure who's strong and unbeatable and always levelheaded and never needs help, the sort of ideal Sora strives for -- are also, I think, part of why Sora does not reach out to Riku and ignores all the signs that something is really wrong until it is too late. He's used to Riku never needing his help. Even if Sora notices something is up, he's not worried because Riku can handle it on his own -- because he always does. And while Sora does gradually abandon this mindset the more he sees that Riku is capable of being manipulated and defeated -- he's only a year older than Sora, he's a kid, and he needs help sometimes because everyone does -- it's not until the end of KH2 that Sora fully gets this, as Riku lets Sora be his support and admits he's always been jealous of Sora. This is the moment they both really become equals.

What Riku tells Sora about being jealous of Sora’s ability to follow his heart and live more carefree isn't the whole truth, but it is some of it… I personally do think Riku has feelings for Sora. In KH1, I don’t think Riku understands this. A lot of what we see in the beginning of KH1 seem to be relatively new developments. Riku retreating from his friends and becoming obsessed with building the raft and leaving, like I said. But also Riku’s dragging Kairi (as a romantic interest) into his rivalry with Sora and mean-spirited teasing. Based on Sora’s surprised/confused reactions to Riku’s behavior, this has to be relatively new. If I were to speculate… I would say that Riku perhaps noticing or at least perceiving a blossoming romance between Sora and Kairi, which would also have been relatively new, is what spurned this change in behavior from him and the sudden building of the raft instead of just dreaming about it.

And that doesn’t necessarily mean Riku is jealous of Kairi in a romantic sense, as many people can feel jealous or forgotten when their best friend begins dating or hell even just starts spending a lot of time with someone else. We see this kind of jealousy when Riku meets Donald and Goofy, too, and it’s that feeling of abandonment by Sora that even pushes Riku to trust Maleficent. Riku’s mean-spirited teasing about Kairi really could just be because Riku feels like he needs Sora to feel inferior to need Riku around and Riku wants Sora’s attention… But I think there is enough, especially looking at the series collectively, to strongly argue Riku is also jealous of Kairi in KH1 because he has feelings for Sora that he doesn’t understand or know how to handle. You don’t have to like it, but to completely deny it as a possibility at this point is foolish.

There’s also the fact that Riku feels like working with Maleficent is the best move in terms of most quickly saving Kairi. To Riku, it looks like Sora is goofing around in all these different worlds, playing hero with his special sword and his new best friends who think he’s so special. He’s prioritizing people he just met and strangers over Riku and Kairi. For Riku, who seems to have always had Sora as his first priority, and probably just assumed the reverse would be true, that’s gotta feel so insane and when he’s already been feeling like Sora’s not pulling his weight in their friendship lmao… But Riku still offers Sora a chance to help him save Kairi, for them to work together.

Sora turns his blade against him, and Riku realizes Sora can’t do what Riku believes is necessary to save Kairi. Sora is not willing to get his hands dirty to help Kairi... but he is willing to sincerely fight Riku as an enemy. And that’s the breaking point for Riku, I think. That’s when making Sora lose and hurt begins to take precedence over helping Kairi. Riku wants to cram Sora back into that dependent, inferior role that Sora never truly belonged in, was (much like Riku playing the superior) also unhappy in, and certainly by the end of KH1 does not fit in any longer.

KH1 Riku’s also arrogant lmao. He’s not happy playing the repressed but cool older brother, but he is used to always winning and being the best among his peers, so that’s going to affect what he thinks he can/can’t do or handle, like when he shouts that he’s not afraid of the darkness, for instance. His failures in this game (and having his butt handed to him by Sora) definitely humble him.

So we have Riku’s motives. We have an idea of what he’s feeling and thinking: He’s jealous of Sora. He’s jealous of Kairi. He’s jealous of Donald and Goofy. He fears if Sora doesn’t need him around, Sora won’t want him around. He’s unhappy with the role he plays and the way things are and desperately wants everything to change. He feels abandoned by Sora. He feels responsible for Kairi losing her heart and wants to save her as quickly as possible. He’s arrogant. He thinks working with Maleficent is the best move to fix his mistake… and later the best way to hurt Sora, as badly as he feels Sora has hurt him.

Maybe it’s not easy to extrapolate everything from only the first game or even a first run-through of the first game, but I think it all makes sense.

[yellowkitkieran]

hiiii i have a kt request 🫶🏼 can you please write something where andy’s invited kieran and his gf to his house and it’s the first time that kieran’s taking someone with him and he’s nervous? (+can we also get andy teasing kt? that’s always fun) ignore this rq if you don’t like it but PLEASE WRITE SOMETHING FOR KIERAN ANYTHING PLEASE

thank youuu

Settle the Nerves (Kieran Tierney)

Masterlist

Word Count: 2.7k

Kieran Tierney doesn't get nervous. Not before cup finals, not before scotland matches in front of a packed house, and definitely not when one of his best mates invites him over. 

Definitely not, especially when he's been given a plus one.

Andy Robertson's dinner parties are always heaps of fun. When it's just the lads, it's normally the entire scotland squad that shows up to either celebrate a win or console each other after a loss. They're a tight knit group- win or lose, it's nice to have the support in place. Those ones are always full of story telling and drinking, and usually end up with half the squad sleeping off various intensities of hangovers in some of the guest rooms. 

This time it's different. It's nearing Christmas, and it's set to be a feast this weekend, kicking off the holiday season for any of the lads that can make it. Amdy's wife and daughter will be there, which means it'll be tame- a fact Kieran doesn't mind at all. And this time, your name was included on the whatsapp message next to his own. 

It's not that he doesn't want to bring you along- he does! Of course he wants to show you off, but he's also terrified the lads will scare you off with old stories of him. Despite only dating for a few months, you mean far too much to Kieran for him to entertain the possibility of something going wrong. 

You're more excited than he is, that's for sure. You haven't stopped talking about it since he mentioned it in passing a few weeks ago. Picking out your dress was a task in a half you told him- enlisting multiple of your closest friends to help make sure it was perfect, not too over the top and not too scandalous. Whatever you picked, Kieran is sure he'll love it… and also sure you'll steal the show. 

And now as Kieran stands before the closet in his childhood house, he finds himself wishing he'd brought his Arsenal cufflinks from his home in London. Instead he'll have to use the little rose ones of his father's, which he doesn't really mind, it's just that they've got sharp edges and they'll be harder to fiddle with at dinner. He's gotten good at hiding his tics in public settings. The occasional post match interview at Arsenal wiped that out of him quite quickly. 

A knock on his door startles him and he curses under his breath when he drops the little velvet box, sending the cufflinks flying. "Yeah? Who's it?"

"It's me, babe. Are you almost ready?" Kieran sighs, scooping up the jewelry from under his dresser and sliding the links through the holes at the cuffs in his freshly pressed black dress shirt. 

"Yeah love, I'm about done. Just have to get my shoes on and I'll be ready. Mum and dad gone already?" They'd informed Kieran when you arrived that morning that they'd be spending the weekend with a family friend across the countryside, so you had the house to yourselves. 

"They left ages ago, Kieran. I'll wait in the foyer, yeah? Hurry up though! I can't be late to meet your mates!"

Kieran quickly finishes buttoning his top, throws on his slacks, and ties up the laces of his Oxford shoes- the ones he hates because they pinch his toes- and checks his hair one final time in the mirror. He looks decent enough, he needs a haircut but his barber back in London can't squeeze him in for another week. He'll get to it eventually- right now he has a party to attend.

Maybe he can come up with an excuse not to go. His throat is bothering him- yeah, scratchy like he's coming down with something. Kieran scratches the stubble under his chin; that idea won't work. You'll see right through him, since it's the same excuse he always uses. 

"Right, let's get on with it then." Kieran tousels his hair one final time before opening his door. He expects to find you waiting. Instead he's greeted with one of his favorite sights: your curves.

Before he's taken a single step, the rich emerald green at the hem of your floor length gown distracts Kieran. He allows his eyes to trail up, up, up over the curve of your backside to where the gown fades to a deep black, dotted through with small dust like crystals that catch the light. The second Kieran steps out of his room you turn, flashing him a brilliant smile. It's then that Kieran finally is allowed a view of you in your full glory. He grins, immediately drawn to the deep v neckline that he swears ends only a few inches above your navel. 

You spin, the flared skirt swishing with the motion. "Well, how do I look? Think your friends will be impressed?" 

"Mouthwatering," Kieran murmurs and means it literally. He'd be drooling if he had an ounce less of self control. You step towards him and he lays a gentle hand on your waist, conscious of leaving the satin fabric wrinkle free. "I'm not sure I should let you out of the house, let alone meet all my mates." Kieran leans forward to pepper the underside of your jaw with kisses. You tip your head back after the first, trying to get away, though he'll chase you tirelessly. He holds firm on your waist now, refusing to allow you to leave him high and dry. 

"Kieran," you whine, dragging out the last letter for a few seconds. "We're gonna be late. You took too long getting ready-" 

"Because I knew you were gonna look absolutely bloody gorgeous, and I had to compete somehow-"

You push at his chest, hard enough that he breaks away with a sigh. "And because of that we have no time to be distracted by kisses. We have to get going! Andy's waiting for us!"

As you drag Kieran to his car, all he can think about is marching you right back inside. For the entire ten minute drive, his hand never leaves your thigh. Sometimes he lays it flat and lets his warmth soak through the thin fabric, and once in a while he traces shapes with feather light fingertips. If nothing else, at least you've distracted him from the ball of nerves that's settled in his gut. Until he parks his Audi outside Andy's house, that is. 

Kieran stumbles up the stone path after you, using your grip on his wrist to propel him along at your speed. You raise a fist to knock on the white painted door but Kieran reaches for the knob and opens it before you have the chance. 

"-be here soon darling, if you could just finish picking up your toys? Thank you my love- Kieran!" Andy, previously crouched down to speak with his three year old daughter, claps Kieran on the shoulder. "Well don't you clean up nicely! And this must be your girlfriend- hello love, great to finally meet you. This one never shuts up about you and I must say, I can see why!" 

Kieran's cheeks blush a furious shade of pink. "Come on mate, don't start already!"

"You're pretty." The soft compliment comes from the toddler hidden behind her fathers legs, clutching his dress pants in her tiny fists. 

You crouch to be eye level with her, not a second thought about it. Kieran's heart swells to double it's size when you murmur, "Thank you sweetheart, you're ten times prettier than I am though. Your dress is gorgeous! I love the fluffy pink skirt!"

Noticing Kieran's wistful look, Andy leans in to whisper, "you'll have one of those soon enough mate. Especially if you keep looking at her like that."

"I- what? Cut it out! It's only been three months mate- I'm not thinking like that!" Actually, he is thinking like that. Has thought of that plenty of times. You, holding a baby, cooing at his daughter, who would look just like you. A few years later, maybe a boy as well- and that would be enough for him. Kieran loves you, and he told you as much on your fourth date. He's reiterated it every day since then, and you've always returned it with the same enthusiasm. 

"Oh you're so in love mate," Andy coos, poking Kieran's side. "Just say it! You love her- the lads are gonna love it!"

Kieran scowls at his friend, "Oi leave me alone Robbo! Like you weren't smitten with your missus the second you saw her!"

Andy glances over his shoulder and smiles at his wife, a beautiful brunette woman who matches his chaotic energy perfectly. Andy was transparent from the beginning, telling the team again and again that he'd marry her- and he did, three years ago, at one of the most love filled ceremonies Kieran has ever attended. 

"I mean just look at her mate, how could I not be? That's my gorgeous wife in there!" Andy whistles and she grins at him, wagging her towel at him before taking the last dish out of the oven. "Your lassie will be your missus soon enough, Kieran. I've not seen you so starry eyed anywhere but a football pitch."

Kieran rakes a hand through his hair while he watches you follow Andy's daughter down the hall. The little tyke insisted on showing you her stuffed animal collection and really, how could you say no? 

"Look, just… don't say anything yeah? I love her, I do, and I'm terrified of messing this up. And can you help me keep the lads in check too when they get here? I don't want them scaring her off."

"I've already told them to behave, and with Mila here I'm sure they will… speaking of my daughter- Mi!"

Mila pokes her little head out of her room with a brilliant grin. "Yes, daddy?" Kieran would fold instantly if he were in Andy's shoes. Instead, his friend holds firm with his arms crossed over his chest. 

"Did you steal Kieran's friend from him?" When Mila only giggles, Andy clicks his tongue. "What did daddy say about that?"

"Umm… to not to?" 

"Andy it's fine," Kieran murmurs, knowing that you love children of all ages and are probably perfectly content to hang out and have a tea party. "Honest, she won't mind."

Andy sighs, scowling at Kieran in a way that makes him feel as if he's the one being scolded. "Alright, but after dinner you're getting tucked in and watching Frozen in the theater room, okay?"

"Okay daddy! Now I have to pour the tea- bye!" Your laughter permeates through the slammed door. A smile creeps onto Kieran's face; he'll never not love that sound. 

For the next twenty minutes, Kieran helps Andy set the table, pick out a few bottles of wine, and pours himself a glass for good measure. Since he'll be driving he'll cap himself at just the one, but you'll be free to have as much as you want. 

McGinn and McTominay are the first ones to arrive, with half a dozen other lads coming by soon after. Kieran is mid conversation with Scott when an arm snakes around his waist and your head rests on his shoulder. 

"Sorry mate, one sec-" Kieran turns and kisses the crown of your head, murmuring "Alright yeah?" And waiting for your nod before turning back to his friend. "Scott, this is my girlfriend." Independent as ever, you take over the introductions and shake Scott's hand after giving him your name. Kieran can't keep the proud smile off his face. Despite his nerves, he's proud to call you his. 

"I was just telling Kieran how I'll never forget the time he had to streak through the changing room-"

"Scott," Kieran half growls, having warned him already not to bring anything like that up. Why couldn't he pick a story like the time Kieran slipped on the pitch and nearly broke his ankle instead? That one was far less embarrassing. You don't need to know all the silly little details. 

But when you tip your head back and laugh and the arm you have around his waist goes tighter to ensure he doesn't materialize into a ghost and slip away, Kieran forgets why he was worried in the first place. "Were you? Kieran never shares his fun stories with me… please, do tell!" 

Scott launches into his story, starting again from the beginning. You watch with curious eyes, laughing at the right parts and nodding at others. Kieran's attention is locked on you. On the way your eyes crinkle, on how your laugh draws in anyone in a five meter radius. Kieran's arm winds possessively around you, hand settling on the curve of your bum as a fes of the other lads join the conversation. Will any of them try to steal you? No, of course not- they all know you're Kieran's and none of them would try changing that. It doesn't stop the primal side of Kieran's brain from wanting to make it perfectly clear who you belonged to. 

By the time everyone's arrived and sat down to dinner, you've made friends with the whole squad. Kieran had no doubts about that- though his nervousness has quieted down and he's much less scared about being embarrassed. How can he be, when you reassure him with a kiss after each story? One to his jaw, another to his cheek- you leave him looking forward to the next story solely so he can have a bit more affection from you. 

During a lull in conversation, Kieran refills your wine and leans over to kiss your temple. "Having fun my love? You seem like you're enjoying yourself, if those rosy cheeks say anything."

Your hand rests on Kieran's thigh under the table, the muscle going tense under your touch, "mmhhmm, I'm having loads of fun! I love you baby… you're so pretty- I love hearing stories about you!"

"Oh, you're tipsy already… you're adorable." Kieran kisses the crown of your head twice. "I love you darling, are you gonna make it through this dinner without falling asleep?" 

You push against Kieran's hand when he brushes his knuckle under your eyes. "Mmhhmm I'll be okay- I'm supposed to have another tea party with Mila after dessert. I can't miss it!"

"Alright baby, if you say so," Kieran murmurs before leaning in to give you another kiss. Andy slaps the table from a few seats down, his bellowing voice breaking above individual conversations.

"Oi, Kieran! Quit snogging your missus at the table will ye? My daughter is present!"

Kieran smiles sheepishly at your Mila, who's mum has slapped a hand over her eyes. "Sorry Mila- uncle Kieran promises he'll behave now." As Kieran speaks, he snakes a hand under your arm and rests it high on your thigh. "Anyway, have you lassies heard about the time Andy had to stand on boxes for a set of kit release photos?"

Andy groans, "I'm always at the front- I was bloody sick of it! It was only for a few photos, I just needed a little boost!"

The rest of the night is filled with banter and stories of all sorts. You're too far gone for that tea party you promised Mila, so Kieran scrawls a rain check on a note for the toddler to cash in at a later date. Kieran herds you home, carries you to his bedroom and sets about getting you dressed and ready for bed. Once you're comfortable in one of his shirts and cuddled into his side, he kissed the crown of your head a million times. 

"Keyyyyyyyyy don't do that- you're making my head spin!" 

"Ah, sorry my love… you're drunk hmm? That's alright, I'll look after you. You just sleep yeah? I love you, sleep tight my darling." Kieran presses a soft kiss to the center of your forehead before you tuck your head under his chin. As your soft snores and gentle breathing lull him towards sleep, he's not sure what he was so nervous about in the first place.

[siriuslysatorusimping]

Another Level Author Discussion: Hollow Echoes

I absolutely LOVE that so many of you have so many thoughts about the most recent addition to Another Level! This part was incredibly challenging for me to write and I'm so very proud of how it came out and how the emotions came across.

I decided to post this because I was going to end up writing full-length books in the comments replying, and I thought this might be better lol For those who haven't read it yet, I'm putting the discussion below the cut so you can avoid spoilers!

If you haven't already and want to know more, you can find Another Level on AO3 :)

In all honesty, I struggled to write this part a lot because I already had the outcome planned. I knew from the start that this would be their first big fight and it would test them, but that they would come out stronger. I also knew that I wanted to keep Gojo as close to our real Gojo as possible, meaning that he's likely not going to apologize for hurting her. In his mind, he was justified in being upset, so whatever he did or said was justified as well.

You will see some of this in the upcoming chapter for Hollow Echoes.

Something I want to convey in this story as a whole is that people are messy. Humans are filled with lots of emotions, and pain is one of the hardest to work with because people in pain are typically unpredictable.

Gojo is human. And he is far from perfect. While he shouldn't have lashed out the way he did, it's very human of him to direct that anger at the first person he comes in contact with. It's actually why he had isolated himself in the first place because he knows he's not okay enough to be around people when he's like that even if he doesn't know how to say that. He doesn't want to risk ruining the persona he's built of being carefree and nonchalant by taking his anger out on others, so he shuts himself away for a few days to get a handle on his emotions and then slides his mask back in place. She caught him while he was still trying to find that mask again and it threw him off a lot. Hence his lashing out. 

He's also furious with Nanami. More than he's upset with Rinko, actually. Because Nanami overstepped quite a bit here. Well-intentioned, but he ignored the fact that Gojo clearly wanted to be left alone.

We're going to see that Nanami struggles with letting people handle things alone, he is a fixer. It's a trait that's pretty common in a lot of people even if they don't mean for it to be harmful: Your not being okay is making me not okay or is disrupting my life, so I need you to be okay again so I can be okay too. While many times it's because they care about that person, it rarely has good results, and this is a prime example of that.

Gojo missing jobs is disrupting Nanami's life because he's having to pick up some of the slack, and Yaga is getting angry as well. So, he does what he thinks will fix it: have Rinko talk to him. Because Gojo acts differently with her and is softer with her, Nanami thought that she would show up and things would just fix themselves. He's going to keep thinking that without meaning to.

So, while Rinko and Nanami both meant well, they blatantly disrespected Gojo's wish to be left alone.

Should he have communicated that he wanted to be left alone explicitly? Maybe. But they both should have realized that if he wasn't answering, that was him communicating his desire. Rinko did realize this, but she ignored that instinct in favor of listening to people who had known Gojo longer.

Nanami asking Rinko to cross a boundary by invading Gojo's space without permission - and her doing so - hurt Gojo quite a bit. Because it's what everyone else does and he didn't expect her to be like that. It's why she had a key to his place when literally no one else did. Because he thought he could trust her to not do exactly what she ended up doing.

I also made the purposeful choice to have her not mention in her messages that she was coming over. None of her messages even implied such, so he was truly blindsided by her showing up and entering without his permission.

Honestly, I have been on both ends of similar situations and it's really hard, so I'm happy with how this turned out because it starts to convey that complexity just a bit.

So, while being upset with him is completely understandable - and Rinko will be because she's also human and has emotions and is valid in them - his reaction makes sense from a purely human perspective. She also already knows that what she did was wrong, how she went about trying to check on him, and she'll acknowledge it. She knows he's human. Probably better than anyone else in his life at this point, and she understands what it's like to say and do things just because she's hurting.

He is going to admit to her that it's one of the things he likes most about her, appreciates about her. Because she sees a human with too much being asked of him when she looks at him instead of an untouchable god, like so many others do. He's going to tell her such, too.

Because if you'll remember, at this point, there are two people who have worn him down enough to land a hit on him: Toji Fushiguro and Rinko Kurisaki. And they did it days apart from each other, for completely different reasons. Gojo was escorting Riko Amanai less than a week after meeting Rinko. 

This was intentional. And it's a trait that irritates him while drawing him to her more. Her comment to Shoko about him being so different with her because of their first encounter? Not far off. She and Toji are cousins. First cousins. His father and her father were brothers. So, bastard or not, their blood relation is more direct than she ever talks about or wants to admit because it's the same amount of blood they'd have shared were she a legitimate child. And the fact that Toji was actually her first introduction to the Jujutsu world as a kid doesn't help with that.

Rinko has viewed herself as weak for multiple reasons and it's made her rely more on her brain than her cursed energy. After training a bit with Gojo, she's relying on both. 

But think back to their fight in Make a Good Bleed: she knew she couldn't beat him, so she focused on wearing him down and being annoying. And then when she saw an opening, she took it.

After just a few meetings with Toji, without him trying to teach her anything, she realized how useful having no cursed energy could be and learned to mask her own to make herself seem weaker. She is incredibly tactical and it will show even more over time. But what makes it even better is that she doesn't realize just how tactical she really is because she has believed what the main clan has told her since the day they met her: half-breeds are weak.

If you'll remember when she called herself a half-breed to Gojo, he clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes at her. That wasn't because he didn't like being bested, it was because he didn't like that she called herself that. What did he say to her after?

"Zenin's are strong." He doesn't differentiate that. She has Zenin blood, so she's strong, 'half-breed' or not. He'll hear Naoya call her this once, and he's going to lose his mind.

Does any of this mean he's off the hook? Oh hell no. But, it's one reason she reacted the way she did in how quickly she retreated and blamed herself there at the end.

TLDR: Humans are messy and imperfect, and Gojo is no exception even if he is the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer in the world.

[live-from-flaturn]

I humbly request The Great Halloween Tranq Dart Incident with the prettiest of pleases.

For those of you wondering "wtf does this mean?" please check out This KimChay Prompt Fill for context!

tw: tranquilizer dart/symptoms of sedative

wordcount: 1k

Title: "Where is the Batman?"

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” Kim asks, gesturing at his eldest brother’s three bodyguards. Pol, Arm, and Pete are wearing color-coded outfits complete with short capes and matching witches hats. 

Pol does a little spin to show off his spring-green suit and the vines wrapped around the base of his hat. “I’m Fauna!”

“I’m Flora,” Pete waves. His burnt orange ensemble is an exact copy of Pol’s except for his hat, which is covered in pink and orange flowers. 

Arm does some of the least enthusiastic jazz-hands Chay has ever seen, his blue cape fluttering slightly as a result. “And I’m Merryweather.”

“AND I’M PRINCE PHILIP!” Tankhun announces, strutting down the hallway in a pair of enormously puffy sleeves and tailored slacks. “They’re the three good fairies.”

Pol elbows Pete. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

“Hey!”

“Well it’s true,” Arm adds. 

Tankhun shushes them and turns to Kim and Chay. “You two look amazing, by the way!”

“Thanks,” Chay grins. Kim is ninety-nine-percent sure his boyfriend is blushing furiously under his cowl. It’s Porchay, for fuck’s sake. “Kim helped me with the makeup.”

“I like your mask,” Pete says. “You’re supposed to be Anne Hathaway’s version of Catwoman, right?”

Kim nods his assent. “It’s custom.”

“And he helped pick out this awesome Batman outfit!” Chay pipes, holding out the edges of his cape like the original comic logo. Kim stifles an indulgent smile – these costumes had technically been his suggestion, after all. He hadn’t wanted to state out loud that he’d been paying close attention to Chay’s new advantage in height, but that didn’t stop it from being true. “Isn’t the cape sweet?!”

“Super sweet,” Pol agreed. “Now, shall we head for the ballroom?”

—

Chay leans into his boyfriend’s side and whispers, “I’ve never been to a fancy Halloween party like this before. Will it be scary?”

“No,” Kim shakes his head. “Kinn planned it ‘to be fun’, so you don’t have to worry about business people showing up. It’ll be mostly off-duty bodyguards, staff, friends, and family.”

“Awesome.” Chay is hugely relieved. He follows Prince Tankhun and the three good fairies into the ballroom. Kinn and Porsche approach them. 

Chay barely holds back a snort of amusement. “Hia! What are you wearing?!”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Porsche huffs. He tries to cross his arms over his chest, but the gesture is interrupted by his fancy bra (made from two artfully bedazzled shells). 

“I’m Batman, and Kim is Catwoman. Isn’t he cute?”

“Meh, he’s alright.” Tankhun floats past the conversation only long enough to add. “He’s got a flat butt.”

“Phi!” Kim hisses, not unlike a cat.

“Sorry not sorry!”

Kinn chuckles and rolls his eyes at Chay, “Brothers, am I right?”

“Totally right, P’Kinn.” Kim and Porsche watch in horror as their boyfriends fist-bump. “So, what’s the pl–”

Chay’s question is cut off by a quiet scuffle near the door. Kinn excuses them both and scoops Porsche into his arms, hurrying to investigate. Kim and Chay stay put, chatting and joking. Everything is normal until Kim jolts forward and slaps a hand over his left ass cheek. 

“What the fuck?” Kim lifts his hand to show Chay a small green tube. “Babe, I am so sorry for whatever happens next.”

“P’Kim?!” 

“It’s a tranq dart, and my immunity for this isssss,” Kim trails off with a giggle. His eyes glaze over and he slumps more of his weight onto Chay. “Sssssss. That’s a fun sound.”

“Shit!” Kinn jogs over. “Did it hit him?”

“What do you think?” Chay deadpans as Kim continues hissing quietly through his teeth. 

“Okay. Right. Let’s get him upstairs.”

“Good idea.”

—

It takes Chay, Kinn, and two of the three good fairies to yank Kim free of his heinously tight pleather outfit. “Next year we’re going to do something less complicated.”

“Do you expect Khun Kim to get tranqued at a Halloween party every year?” Pol jokes. 

“Hey!” Kim complains. His eyes roll around the room, searching for one particular face. “Where is the Batman?”

“Hey babe,” Chay steps forward. He’s already swapped into pajamas and wiped (most) of the dark makeup from around his eyes. “I’m here.”

“It’s Bruce Wuce!” Kim exclaims with a theatrical gasp. “I mean Bayne Wayne!”

“Bruce Wayne?” Chay offers. His boyfriend tries to snap his uncoordinated fingers, but mostly they slide uselessly against each other. 

“Yeah! That guy.”

“You can just call me Chay,” he offers. Kim pouts adorably up at him and Chay waves the bodyguards out of the room. “Please ask someone to send up green tea and snacks, but otherwise I can handle this.”

“Are you sure, N’Chay?” “Oh yeah,” Chay laughs. “Do you know how many weird things I’ve heard Porsche say on morphine?”

“I want to hear about this,” Pol says. Arm agrees.

“Soon, but not right now.” Chay giggles. “Thanks again for helping me with P’Kim.”

“That’s literally our job.” “Well I appreciate how well you do that job. So there.”

“Ugh, how are you related to Porsche?!”

“Go,” Arm shoved Pol toward the door. “Leave the lovebirds alone.”

“I would be an owl,” Kim declares, startling Chay with his unexpected volume. Arm and Pol stifle laughter, hurriedly shutting the door behind them. 

“What would I be?” Chay asks, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. Kim scoots awkwardly closer and squints in concentration. 

“Hmmm… A plover.”

“Why?”

“Small.” Kim cups his hands together to demonstrate and thoughtfully adds, “Fluffy. Good at surviving.”

Chay’s throat threatens to close up. Well, it does until Kim speaks again.

“Shoes are dumb and we shouldn’t have to wear them unless it’s for safety reasons.”

“Huh?”

“Slippers are okay, though.”

Chay bursts out laughing, and Kim joins him at a much higher pitch. 

Kim falls asleep after tea and a snack, and Chay sits next to him with a smile still pulling at his lips. “Weirdo. Cute, but a weirdo.”

[hermannsthumb]

hello! the summer prompt list looks so fun <3 what about pool floats and lemonade.. maybe someone's been coaxed to lounge by the pool... IN the pool.. an unheard of idea. and with a (plastic) cup of lemonade too.. how risky!

26. Pool  + 19. Lemonade

from the summer prompts meme here

it's still sad and vaguely cold here but i am fantasizing about not being sad and cold, so i'm sending the boys to somewhere random and warm and doing some summer fills i didn't get around to last year!

-----------------------------------------------------

When Newt makes his way into his and Hermann’s shared hotel room, he's disappointed—but, tragically, not surprised, like, at all—to find Hermann shrouded in darkness and hunched over his laptop, tapping away wildly into what looks like his PPDC email. Shades and blackout curtains drawn in front of the two big windows, all lights but some tiny desk lamp switched off, Hermann himself bundled up in a sweater and his thick wool slacks like it's not ninety-fucking-degrees outside, all that shit. He's got the air conditioning blasting at least, but it's still enough to make Newt (flourishing happily in a pair of cut-off shorts and a tank top) wince. He sighs instead of greeting Hermann. "Dude," he says. "This is really pathetic."

He flips the overhead light on, half expecting Hermann to turn away and hiss at him like a vampire or something. No hissing, but he does scowl at Newt in a way that's probably even scarier. And also kind of funnier. For all of Hermann's posturing and stuffiness, sometimes he really does just look like a mean, puffed-up cat. "Go away," Hermann says.

"Nah," Newt says.

He tosses a brown paper shopping bag on Hermann's bed.

"It's a bathing suit," he says, before Hermann can poke his way inside. It's a hideous bathing suit, actually, but Newt was limited to the options the gift shop in the lobby offered, so it was either something floral and speedo-adjacent that Hermann wouldn't be caught dead in, or standard(/boring), baggy blue trunks with the hotel logo stamped across the left leg. He's actually kind of regretting not going for the floral ones, if not just to see if he could somehow coax Hermann into them. Hermann's skin above the small pale sliver just exposed by his pants hemline remains a tantalizing mystery to Newt. "I had to kind of guess the size, but I think it should fit okay."

"Bathing suit?" Hermann echoes suspiciously.

"It's nice out," Newt says. "There's a pool, you need a break, so we're going swimming." Newt spotted the pool the second their taxi dropped them off and has been fantasizing about it ever since. It's what got him through every minute of the week-long conference, every bitchy look Hermann tossed his way, every dumb question posed to him in the Q&A sessions. Compensation. Vengeance. They have twenty-four hours of downtime before they have to pack things back up and head back to the Shatterdome (which does technically have a pool, but it's indoors, rarely cleaned, and technically off-limits for anyone who's not a ranger, unless you're like Newt, who sneaks in to go swimming anyway), and Newt's going to enjoy himself.

Hermann pulls the blue trunks out of the bag, examines them skeptically, and drops them to the floor with more disgust than strictly necessary. He uses the end of his cane to push them even further away. Newt bends down with an eyeroll. “Don’t be a dick, man, those cost like, fifty bucks.” Official hotel merch or whatever. Okay, they actually cost closer to thirty-five, but Newt wants to make Hermann feel as guilty as possible. He picks up the trunks and kindly returns them to his ungrateful lab partner. “Look,” he says, “either you hang out with me outside for like, an hour, tops, and I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night, or I’m hanging out with you in here. It’s my room too, bro. Roomies.”

He's thinking movie night, pizza, chatting loudly with (at?) Hermann until he can get the guy to snap and probably attempt to smother Newt with a pillow. There’s a visible flash of dread behind Hermann’s eyes: it satisfies something deep within Newt’s soul. “You’re a despicable waste of space,” Hermann spits, but he slams his laptop shut, and angrily rips the bedspread off from around his body. The cuffs of his baggy wool slacks are rolled around his ankles and Newt catches a glimpse of sock garters. “Fine, you bastard. I’ll go for a swim with you if it makes you happy, and buys me a moment of peace tonight. You’re like—you’re like a bloody toddler sometimes, you know. You’re like—”

“Cool!” Newt says. Hermann gapes at him in wordless fury. “I’ll meet you in the hallway in ten.”

Hermann fidgets and tugs uncomfortably at the waistband of his little swim shorts the whole ride down in the elevator, and, lingering by the poolside, he does the drawstring back up twice while Newt kindly blows up a small, inflatable lounge chair he also bought for him at the gift shop for way too much money Hermann looks wrong like this somehow: out of his element of hunching over computer screens and breathing in chalk dust, swim trunks paired bizarrely with his little brown Oxfords (the only shoes he brought with them), glasses on a chain still bouncing against his chest. The pool is deserted except for them—their own private swim club. Probably because people are understandably kind of wary of bodies of water these days, even ones chlorinated and decently far from the Pacific. “It’s too hot,” Hermann gripes. He shields his eyes with his hand as he glares up at the sun. He smells almost nauseatingly like sunblock. He’s missing a sunhat, Newt thinks. One of those big, dumb, wide-brimmed ones that a movie starlet would wear in 1940-whatever. Or cat-eye sunglasses. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“You were ruining your posture in there,” Newt says. He hoists the lounge chair over his head easily and tosses it into the pool, where it hits the surface of the water with a satisfying splat. Hermann wrinkles his nose as no more than two droplets of water have the audacity to land on one of his skinny, hairless calves. Newt pats the lounge chair. “In twenty years, you’ll be like, 'man, I’m so glad my best friend in the whole world Newt was there to rescue me from a life of slouching and back pain, I should send him a gift basket.'”

“‘What was the name of that annoying fellow who used to make my every waking moment miserable?’” Hermann says. “‘I’m so thankful that I haven’t seen him in twenty years and will never have to, ever, again.’”

“Get in the pool, you drama queen,” Newt says.

Hermann delicately undoes each button of his crisp white button-down with one hand, and slips it from his shoulders one arm at a time. It’s strangely mesmerizing and even more strangely alluring, like Newt’s in the front row of the world’s stuffiest strip club, though Hermann is still wearing a loose undershirt beneath it. His arms are pasty and tinted a ghostly white with more sunblock. He has nice shoulders, unfortunately. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, easing himself out of his shoes, and hands both his shirt and cane to Newt as Newt offers him an arm.

He doesn’t look any less uncomfortable on the floatie once Newt helps him down onto it. More uncomfortable, in fact: one leg straight out in front, the other crooked half-under the water at a weird angle, slouching in worse on himself than he had been in bed as the floatie bobs and drifts with the rippling surface of the water. He squints up at the sun, scowling, and then squints over at Newt, still scowling. His knuckles are clenched tightly around the edges of the float’s pink vinyl. “I feel so relaxed,” he says, bitchily.

“I’m getting you a drink,” Newt says. “Stay right there.”

The small outdoor bar is thankfully open and manned despite the lack of poolgoers other than Newt and Hermann. Newt gets an overpriced cocktail with several skewers of pineapple in it for himself, and a modest spiked lemonade for Hermann, which he makes sure to stick the largest bendy straw he can find in the hopes of making Hermann scoff and roll his eyes. Hermann is still swaying awkwardly on his little pink throne when Newt finally kicks off his sandals and clothing and (flinching very slightly at the sudden chill on his skin) wades in to join him. Hermann greets him with an expression of mild horror. “What on Earth is that?” he says.

“It’s some sort of piña colada, dude, I don’t know,” Newt says. "It's good though."

“Not that,” Hermann says. He looks down pointedly at Newt’s waist. “Where did you find that thing? It’s absolutely hideous.”

Newt couldn’t get the floral speedo-thing for Hermann, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t absolutely get it for himself, even if it maybe, like, fits very badly, and he’ll probably toss it out the second they get back to the Shatterdome. He loves it. He loves it even more now that he knows Hermann hates it, and models it for him happily. “I think it’s funny,” he says, and hands over the lemonade. (Hermann's eyes widen in momentary mild scandal at the prospect of drinking in a public pool—the bar is there for a reason, man!—and then takes it anyway.) “Here, seriously, drink this, relax. We’re not on the clock. You can like, not be miserable for once. Isn’t it nice to not be miserable?”

Hermann looks kinda miserable.

“When’s the last time you went swimming?” Newt tries again.

“In the summer of my twelfth birthday,” Hermann says, solemnly. “We went on holiday to the coast. That was before—” He gestures at his left hip, where his undershirt has bunched up and his trunks have ridden down just enough for Newt to catch a glimpse of puckered scar tissue. “—so I was actually a decently strong swimmer then.”

“See? That sounds—”

“But I nearly drowned, of course, when my brother pushed me off some rocks,” Hermann continues. “He’d meant it as a prank; I suspect he didn’t realize how strong the current was, or how deep the spot beneath the rocks was. It was a bit frightening, really. My sister had to go in after me. We never went on holiday again.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “Okay.”

Hermann gives him a weird, half-smile. “I’m kidding.”

“Oh,” Newt says again, not entirely sure which part Hermann’s kidding about, and whether or not he should laugh. He gives an equally weird chuckle and takes a long sip of his drink to avoid thinking of something else to say as Hermann does the same with his own. Newt’s adjusted enough to the water temperature that it actually feels good now, especially with the hot sun beating down on them overhead. He shuts his eyes and curls his knees up until he’s no longer touching the bottom of the pool, letting his body go loose, relaxed. He feels Hermann reach out and snatch a skewer of fruit from his glass.

“Yours looks much better than mine,” Hermann says through a mouthful of pineapple. “Let’s swap.”

“Bathing suits?” Newt says.

He cracks an eye open enough to watch Hermann make a face at him, but he passes over his fruity drink anyway, accepting the spiked lemonade in its place. Hermann sticks his straw in Newt’s drink and drains it quickly. Between that and Newt’s extremely thoughtful(/expensive) trip to the gift shop for them both, he kind of feels like Hermann’s getting more out of this little adventure than him. Whatever, though, it’s fun seeing Hermann shed some layers. Of the metaphorical emotional sense. It’s fun seeing him shed some physical layers too, but those are strictly unprofessional thoughts for Newt to be entertaining about his stuffy co-worker. He’ll say this though—it’s great finding out Hermann’s limbs exist beyond the constraints of sweatervests and oversized pants. It's even better finding out he's kind of hot, in a bony, gangly sort of way.

Hermann polishes off the remaining few pieces of pineapple and sets the empty glass on the edge of the pool. He grazes one hand across the surface of the water, dipping his arm in up to the elbow, and smiles lazily at Newt. Newt feels a little funny, a little too warm—like maybe his few sips of booze have gone to his head already or he’s been out in the sun too long. Then Hermann flicks water at his face. “Dick,” Newt says, but he grins as (Hermann giving a half-hearted grunt of protest) he uses a dry part of Hermann’s undershirt to wipe off his glasses.

“I could go for another drink,” Hermann says. “If you wouldn't mind, that is, Newton."

"Ugh, fine."

[mermaidsirennikita]

This might be a difficult request, but do you have any recs for het romances (preferably HC) where the usual narrative of man = worldly and woman = naive is subverted? It doesn't necessarily mean that the woman has to be dominant or the man meek, im just looking for more interesting dynamics.

Thanks <3

Oh, for sure! Most of these are virgin hero books, but I tried to focus on the attitude of the heroes.

Check out:

Unclaimed by Courtney Milan. Historical, hero is a virgin who has a somewhat naive (though not judgmental) view of the world and wants to wait until he falls in love. Heroine is a sex worker who's been paid by one of his enemies to seduce and humiliate him.

Hotel of Secrets by Diana Biller. One of my favorite releases of this year thus far. Hero isn't super naive, but he is a virgin and does have a very black and white and principled view of the world, and is basically celibate because he doesn't want to deal with complex gray feelings. The heroine isn't a virgin and is the well-known illegitimate daughter of a baron; she runs a hotel and has to pick up slack for her flighty mother. The hero is a spy and very good at his job, but I'd call him emotionally naive whereas the heroine is emotionally worldly. This one is set in late nineteenth century Vienna.

Thief of Shadows by Elizabeth Hoyt. An all time favorite of mine, a Georgian historical with another virgin hero. The hero is a vigilante and he knows the world is Bad (his big thing is saving abused kids, and he runs a foundling home) but again I feel there's a level of emotional naïveté because he's sort of determined to keep those complications at arm's length. The heroine is a widow who's taken lovers and is very worldly and kind of cynical, if kind; she's also about six yeas older than him. He's poor and she's aristocratic, so he's also a bit out of place in her world. They fall in love, it's gorgeous, and I feel like he learns about a lot of emotional complexities and contradictions from her.

The Lord I Left by Scarlett Peckham. Not my favorite Peckham, but the hero is a virgin minister and the heroine is a dominatrix in training. A lot of what I'm talking about with his lack of worldliness is less the virginity and more him not knowing the truth of the world.

Mating the Huntress by Talia Hibbert. Paranormal romance novella. The hero is a virginal super lovey and sweet and naive werewolf, and the heroine is a werewolf hunter who's a lot more jaded. It's hot and lovely.

Dark Needs at Night's Edge by Kresley Cole. Conrad is a crazy vampire virgin whose life has mostly been madness and killing, no real social interactions for centuries. He meet Neomi, who's the ghost of this burlesque-dancer-turned-ballerina, very carnal and emotionally intelligent. Obviously a paranormal. One of my all time favorites, soooo very good.

The Rakess by Scarlett Peckham. Hero is a kindly single father who's not very familiar with society and its contradictions, heroine is a well-known man-eater who's writing her memoirs and ends up having a fling with him. I want to say it's Georgian?