#↳ interaction

[beauclary]

WHO: Open to Anyone WHERE: Rosie's Diner WHEN: March 6th / a little after 6pm

To look at him now, it's almost difficult to imagine that there was a time when Beau Clary had the infectious sort of charisma that could engage an entire room. Hell, an entire stadium, at least once a week for a good chunk of the year for nearly all of his life. He's almost a shell of that man now ― at least in mind and spirit, if not in body. It's almost comical, actually, for someone so physically imposing to hold himself so small ; a hardened pebble in the sole of the Wexley, jammed into the grooves. Out of sight, out of mind. To his credit, he's done a commendable job at convincing himself he prefers it this way anymore.

But he's been lured out of the quiet lonely isolation of his apartment under a moral obligation to appease the kind hand that feeds and now ― now ― Beau stands in the middle of Rosie's Diner looking a bit like a deer in headlights. He feels a bit foolish, really ― it's not as if he doesn't know these people, even if he doesn't really know them, but he feels awkward and bumbling, like a perfect stranger stumbling into a family reunion. In spite of the fact that he doesn't really know where to go, he feels inclined to get out of the way, so he locks his gaze on the nearest empty chair and quickly makes his way over.

Looking up a bit sheepishly once he's seated, Beau clears his throat. ❝ Hi. Oh, hell, Ihis, um ― I'm sorry, this seat weren't taken, were it? ❞

[lindsohalloran]

who @santiagodiazmunoz where the common room when april 5th

there are at least a dozen or more chairs scattered throughout the common room and yet, maisie has insisted that the pair of them sit on the floor because ❛ there's more space down here, uncle lindy, duh! ❜ and lindsay, to his credit, does not argue her logic. it's likely he would've conceded to her regardless of the circumstances ― she's not wrong, after all, and coloring the walls of a soon-to-be cardboard fort is hardly a task to be contained to a table and chairs ― but in truth, he's been on auto-pilot for the past, what? twenty-four hours? thirty-six?

( he should be keeping better track ; his mind feels clumsy, uncoordinated. )

he catches wind of a name, a scrap of information with zero context as its churned from the rumor mill, but even just the sound of it has his heart stuttering an anxiousguiltyhopeful arrhythmia in his chest. lindsay o'halloran knows better by now than to get his hopes up ― it isn't as if the name is uncommon, and the likelihood that it's actually him ... well, linds has never been much of a mathematician, but he's aware enough to know when the odds are stacked against him. ( more so, even, knowing he's the reason they've been placed that way. ) even so, it's as if a few simple syllables have thrown his heart for a loop and sent his mind scrambling desperately after it. santiago. a name that once found a home on his tongue and now scarcely comes to visit. only in the wee hours of the night, in the melancholy embrace of solitude. his own fault, it's his own fault!

oh, but does he miss it!

his good hand is curled around a dying washable marker as he continues to fill in flower after lopsided flower ( his fault again, not maisie's ― her sunflowers and daisies look lovely, and his wilted in comparison ) but his head is over three thousand miles away, somewhere hot and humid and sunny and aching. there's been a lump in his throat for hours now, too thick and too stubborn to be swallowed down ; he chokes out laughter around it, smiles at maisie as if nothing's wrong. nothing is wrong, is it? no more than it has been. nothing has changed. he's only allowing himself to get carried away in his imagination, in the messy work of holding out hope. how long has it been since he's been a hopeful man?

the sound of footsteps approaching the common room is enough to have eyes like tumultuous waters lifting toward the door. lindsay isn't entirely certain who he expects to find ― mal, perhaps, come to collect maisie for another afternoon of physical education and self-defense, or roman and june to provide two extra sets of hands on their makeshift, cardboard construction site ― but he hadn't even allowed himself to dare think that it might be ... that it could ever possibly be ...

❝ mo ghràdh. ❞ the words are whispered so softly they're heard to no one but lindsay, disappearing beneath the clatter of plastic against tile as the marker falls from his hand. he swallows thickly, suddenly struggling to breathe for the air that's been so swiftly snatched right from his lungs. lindsay looks back to maisie, tries to keep his voice calm and level as he addresses her. ❝ m-mais, luv, be a good lass an' finish up the north wall, will ye? i'll, ehm ... i'll be righ' back. ❞ a hand reaches out to pat her head and gently ruffle her curls, and when he pulls it back, it's shaking. his throat feels tight and his eyes are burning as he rises to his feet but he steels himself as best he can before turning to face a man who's felt more like a memory for months.

( ach, but he doesn't even have the right to be so emotional, does he? he doesn't deserve that grace. he's not forgotten how he left things. )

his face has changed. lindsay's footsteps slow to an eventual stop a few paces away and for a second, it's all he can do to stare ; to take in each and every detail, new and old, commit and recommit them all to memory. his face has changed, but not by much. lindsay's just never forgotten what he looks like. he never could. he's lost weight ; his face is thinner now, tired, a fair bit scruffier than he'd last seen. but there's a familiar crease of smile lines hidden beneath the rough, a warmth still lingering in his gaze that warms him somewhere deep inside, a lit hearth on a freezing night. fingers twitch at his sides ; lindsay wants to reach out and touch him, to cup his jaw in his hand and graze his cheek with his thumb and feel him, but he makes no move to initiate such contact.

there was a time when he wouldn't have hesitated to run into the other man's arms, but he could never assume he'd be allowed such a privilege, not now.

instead, lindsay clears his throat, lest any words get tangled in the tightness of his chest. and then he asks, simple and soft and shaking and sounding not even a shred like the man he tries to appear, ❝ santiago? ❞

[doctorvikjain]

who gray gardner ( @insainted ) when april 14th where the basement / near the incinerator

when vikram approaches the massive steel construct, it is with all the careful reverence of a man approaching a god ― something far more powerful than he, unwavering in its blaze of intensity. there is a minor tremor in an outstretched hand, an involuntary twitch of muscle just before a spread palm is pressed flush against cool metal. eyes slip shut as he draws in a shuddering breath that twinges in his lungs and he can feel the chill as it races up his arm, but in the dark of his mind, he can feel instead the hot lick of flames against his skin, the warmth of the harsh and unforgiving inferno hiding within. he can almost see it―

the echo of heavy footfalls is enough to rip vikram from a dangerous reverie before he's had long to indulge it, startling him enough to elicit a half-gasp that has him just as swiftly scrambling for the monogrammed handkerchief in his pocket. he presses folded linen to his lips in an attempt to stifle any sounds from his protesting lungs ― or lung, rather, the finicky bastard ― so that he can better listen, and he quickly realizes what ever company he's suddenly acquired in the basement intends to join him. vikram clears his throat to force down a cough before it can sputter out of him and instead schools his expression into something more neutral as he turns to face the doorway. oh, what a delight.

vikram recognizes the man, even if they've never formally met. and while he knows of him, vik cannot would never confess to knowing him, not truly ; his only source of intel on the man comes from a rather unreliable source, however long he's heard it speak of him. but he is not blind toward odette's ... intense affection toward the tall, tattooed gamer, and so vikram puts on a disarming smile with practiced ease when it's his silhouette that appears. ❝ i'll confess, i don't suspect either one of us is meant to be poking around down here, but they hardly show you everything in the grand tour, do they? i won't tell if you don't. ❞

his chest is achingly tight as he takes a half-step forward, but he speaks past it to continue addressing the man. ❝ gray, is it? you must forgive me for being so easily startled these days, but it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. dr. vikram jain, but please, call me vik, i insist. i imagine odette would shudder to hear something so professional. ❞

[judahfisher]

who ruth @ruthellry when the old rich fuck's birthday party where the w bar / late at the party

oh christ, but he feels fucking amazing right now, don't he? judah would say he couldn't recall the last time he'd gotten absolutely crossed ― it used to be that a bad day was met with a couple of joints and a fifth, a self-care routine of sorts, but there were more bad days than good in this shit stain of a city and as it turned out, keeping a clear head was kind of a life or fucking death situation ― but that's a lie. he can remember exactly the last time, and it was back in fucking december. the fact that he hadn't been fiending for it was a testament to the willpower of both his mind and his liver. and yeah, okay, maybe jonah's right about this place being culty. of all the conspiracy theories his twin as cooked up over the years, judah's inclined to believe his thoughts on the wexley more than most. ( he doesn't know about fucking aliens, alright? but he can tell that this place is strange. )

to their bizarre fortune, strange does not necessarily equate to unsafe. he might not trust these folks to look out for him and his twin ― and he likely wouldn't do the same for them ― but he's confident enough that they'll protect the safety of their home that he doesn't think twice about indulging in the free booze in between puffs of his own private stash in the stairwell. there's a shit-eating grin on his lips as he lets his feet carry him back toward the bar he's visited a handful of times already, and he's got half a mind to harass blondie behind the counter just for shits and giggles.

tripping over his own feet is unintentional, obviously, but the way he plays it off as anyone's fault but his own has purpose. clearly it's not the booze or the untied boot laces at play but rather the very stationary body he's stumbled into. hard. a hand grips onto a woman's shoulder as he steadies himself. ❝ sh-fuck, sweetheart, you really oughta be more careful! watch yourself, yeah? ❞

[that-sweet-jester]

poor Sevika's been embarrassed ever since, yet still stuck around😔✊

[skarsgards-bill]

Andrew Garfield talks to Elmo about grief and the passing of his mother

[miggylol]

Surprise! Tumblr just got turned into an epic fantasy RPG, just like [your favorite appropriate media franchise]. And the Tumblr RPG's plot needs to have all of its characters covered, in roles both large and small.

That means that you are assigned to a stereotypical RPG role inside our new fantasy world. Spin this wheel to find out what you are now doing for a living.

[gongyussy]

good thing from jp twitter this week is queen of old man yaoi michiru sonoo discovering the term old man yaoi

update: somehow it got impossibly more wholesome

quick translation: おかえり: welcome home あ 終わった 終わった: ahhh, it's over! it's done! コーヒー? お茶?: coffee? tea? コ~ヒ~ ありがと: coffee, thank you~ ネクタイレア★★ ネクタイ取るレア★★★★: seeing him with a tie on, rarity level ★★, seeing him take a tie off, rarity level ★★★★ にあうな~: it suits him~

also please do follow: AraigumaSha: sensei's twitter account marureviere: maru, who does such valuable work highlighting bl manga for an international audience

[biowho]

My housemate's cat came into my room while my dictation was on...

[mearchy]

my favorite genre of fictional character is like "i am terrifying to almost everyone, i'm very good at killing, i can endure anything, i've become exceptionally good at playing into my reputation, and if you try to give me positive social interaction i will react with confusion and cower in a corner like an abused animal. and i may try to shoot you. but there is also a chance i may imprint on you like a feral dog receiving its first loving touch! good luck."

[beauclary]

who ziggy turner ( @ziggyturner )where the rooftop garden when april 11th / morning

beau clary has always been an optimist, whether by nature or by necessity ; blue eyes, wide and bright, have been trained to seek out brighter angles and silver linings since he was just a little boy, self-soothing his own sensitive heart. and his softer edges might make him appear ignorant to some, but make no mistake, beau clary is not dumb. he knows that there is no real good to what's happening in the wexley, not really. but goodness gracious, is he tired! tired of worrying and wondering about unknowns, of not trusting whether or not next time he'll be fast enough, if he'll still be able to keep ziggy and their sister safe when the next threat arises in what's supposed to be a safe space for them all.

so he'll have to be forgiven if he's taking a moment to be selfish. it's unlike him, certainly ; it's rare he stops thinking of those he loves in favor of sparing a thought toward himself, but in spite of the circumstances, he's trying to allow himself a little grace. his partner, his family is safe ; they don't have to leave the comfort and familiarity of his loft ; his routines have hardly changed and he's still got access to the gardens. ( they've not had to face the obstacle of runs yet, and it's on beau's agenda to seek out a moment to speak to sada before trips out of the wexley become a constant reality. ziggy can't go out there! ) it feels cruel, to allow himself solace in such comforts that haven't been extended to his friends, but beau can only do so much. his heart still aches for them!

hands still in the garden where beau is knelt on the rooftop alongside ziggy, bare hands curling into the soil as he leans into the garden bed and lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment ; the gentle spring breeze tousles faintly sweat-damp hair and the warm glow of the sun turns everything a peachy-gold behind his eyelids. it's not just his head or his heart that's tired ; his body is beginning to feel the ache of exhaustion these days, unfamiliar and uncomfortable as it weighs heavy on his limbs. his weight falls back on his heels and, unbidden, his head comes to fall against ziggy's shoulder with a soft sigh. his eyes remain shut. he's fine, really, just ... just resting for a moment. with just the two of them up here, he allows himself this small moment of peace.

[lindsohalloran]

who ashton @ashton-ryder when mr. wexley's birthday bash where the w

❝ ―look, it wasnae my fault, ryder, ❞ lindsay defends himself, leaning against the bar of the w as he fixes his long-time friend ― and the event's makeshift bartender ― with a pointed and unwavering stare. ❝ she came up tae me with a feckin' fistful of 'em, talkin' all ❛ can ye hold 'em for me please, uncle lindsay? ❜ as she's dumpin' jelly beans in me palm. and i was jus' gonnae hold 'em fer her 'til she was done playin', but i've a heavy feckin' sweet tooth― ❞ ashton knows this about him, certainly ; street food sweets were one of very few vices for the ex-scotsguard back in belize, and he could frequently be found with pockets full of of fresh wangla from one of the vendor carts near the base. ❝ ―and i couldnae resist, figured just a few couldn't hurt. and jaysus were they stale, like ― probably from last feckin' easter, so they are ― wee, hard lumps o' sugar. how was i s'posed tae know there was a feckin' barbie shoe mixed in with the lot? t'weren't no more or less toothsome than the candy. i couldnae tell a feckin' difference. ❞

there's a shake of his head and a chuckle in spite of himself as lindsay lifts his glass to his lips. ❝ christ alive, i cannae believe i ate it. ❞

[doctorvikjain]

who ashton ryder ( @ashton-ryder ) where undisclosed location when april 15th / late morning

for a man well-versed in the art of suffering ― and, more than that, the many ways it can be implemented ― and in spite of an ever-waning constitution, there is very little that turns the iron stomach of dr. vikram jain. therefore, when it is brought to his attention that the powers that be within the wexley have taken prisoner in the form of one of their own and locked him away like an animal in a cage, a morbid curiosity is instantly piqued. it is no wonder, then, that vikram swiftly volunteered his skill set to assist in the drugging and prolonged detainment of the hostage. of course he is wont to investigate ― hardly shy of a day out of quarantine and already, he has found himself work!

but the sight that greets him upon entrance to the small, dimly lit room is one that gives vikram momentary pause. the space is somehow both sparse and cramped and the acrid scent wet metal and body odor hang heavy in the air ; there is a bare mattress shoved carelessly into a corner and, atop it, a nearly naked and clearly withering man. a low, thoughtful sound rumbles from somewhere low in vikram's throat as he spends a moment in the doorway, simply cataloguing the details of the scene before him. he would not treat the animals he tested on so poorly.

and then he strides in, his gait long and purposeful and aided by the periodic click of a cane ; it should be enough, vikram estimates, to rouse the man from whatever semi-conscious state he's in. ❝ i do not presume to know what they intend to do with you, ❞ vikram states bluntly as he arrives at the foot of the bed and holds tight to the handle of the cane to crouch down, allowing him a better vantage point to inspect the man. ❝ but at this rate, i suspect you are more likely to succumb to gangrene or sepsis before they arrive at a decision. ❞

vikram clicks his tongue, a disapproving sound, and nudges the mattress with his foot. ❝ sit up, please. there is no need to pretend, i know the drugs they've given you have worn off― ❞ there's an edge to his voice as he says this ; he does not agree with the methods or substances they've chosen to subdue him, but that is not any concern of this man's, ❝ ―and i wish to give you a proper introduction while you're still lucid. if it's the same to you, i'd rather not address your ass while i did so. ❞

[judahfisher]

who hannah @hannahxinterrupted when the old fuck's birthday party where underneath one of the tables in the atrium ( at least judah is )

knees are pressed into the tile so intently he's sure there will still be marks on his skin from the grout lines and he can still taste her on his lips when he pulls away from warm, sweet flesh, careful not to knock his head on the solid underside of the table. ( there's an assortment of glassware just above him, separated by only about an inch or so of wood, his own drink among them ; he doesn't mind causing a scene if anyone sees the glasses rattling, but he'll be damned if he's going to waste a perfectly good glass of whiskey. ) he swipes his lower lip with his right thumb, wiping away the lingering glisten as the palm of his left hand spreads flush against her leg and gives her trembling thigh a solid squeeze. and then he's shifting beneath the table ― there's a rustling of fabric as he bats the corner of a slightly too-long tablecloth out of the way before his head appears just inches from her chair.

there's a devilish grin tugging at his lips as he emerges, splitting his features in two as a curious gaze searches his immediate surroundings to see if anyone's around to spot him before landing on hers. ❝ well? is the coast clear, doll, or should i bide my time and go back for seconds? i do love a good dessert buffet. ❞

[rioblitzle]

working retail