#bonus traditional front-facing angle under the cut

[front-facing-pokemon]

[amoretheiwa]

Closet Conversation

Tim and Kon have had a thing going for a little while now--a friends-with-benefits kind of things. But Tim isn't sure he can't keep up the pretense of only friendly feelings towards Kon. So things start to come out... That's basically it.

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Read on Tumblr below the cut

Tim found himself hating Kon just a little bit when the Kryptonian finally pulled completely away and didn’t seem even nearly as out of breath as he was. Sweat made Tim’s face damp and he willed his arm not to swipe at his forehead, chest still heaving.

Kon grinned at him—teeth blindingly white and lips still swollen—as he began to reach for his costume pieces.

“I think I have a new favorite room here,” he said with a wink.

Tim pushed down the emotions—and arousal—that evoked and rolled his eyes.

“If every place we did anything like this in ended up as your favorite room, half the Tower would be your favorite.”

Kon raised and wagged his eyebrows.

“Exactly.”

Tim scoffed and turned around, searching for the discarded pieces of his uniform. In the midst of their little…tryst, the oddest things ended up in the oddest places. His boots were in opposite corners and his cape was stuck over the door handle.

“One of these days someone is going to need something in one of these closets and they’re going to find way more than they expected.”

Kon snorted.

“So what? Good for them.”

Tim tensed for a split second before going back to getting dressed. Their friends with benefits arrangement was mutually beneficial. Kon got out his insane amounts of pent-up sexual tension, Tim got stress relief and the added bonus of close proximity to his current crush/best friend. If he could even still call it a crush after the past few years.

Maybe it was the Bat-training, maybe it was his attempt at keeping feelings out of the whole thing, whatever the reason, Tim was finished getting dressed even as Kon was still looking for his top. Tim allowed himself to watch as his friend floated up to the top of a cabinet. His butt looked good at this angle. Tim felt his cheeks flush and turned around, crossing his arms. Robin tradition or not, he mused bitterly on the stories he had heard from Dick, messing around in random rooms in Titans Tower does not seem smart or safe.

“That was dumb,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes.

“What was?” Came Kon’s voice most definitely too loud and too close.

Tim whirled and glared at his…friend.

“This,” he gestured at them both, at the room. “This whole thing was and every time we have done it and probably every time we will do it. It’s a dumb thing with dumb perks.”

Kon furrowed his brows, blue eyes glinting.

“What’s dumb about it?”

Tim scoffed.

“Everything. It’s firstly unsanitary,” Kon outright laughed. Tim pursed his lips. “Secondly, it could end causing problems between teammates.”

Kon tilted his head.

“How so? Unless you don’t like my skills,” here the half-Kryptonian wiggled his  hips, “I don’t see any reason to stop.”

Tim felt his heart jump and his blood roil. Ignoring the fact that Kon could hear all the ways his body was betraying him if he was even bothering to pay attention, Tim continued. He turned around again, crossing his arms.

“Say you and Cassie get back together, or you meet someone else. It just would be problematic!”

Kon shrugged and pulled his shirt on. He went to tuck it in as Tim spoke again.

“That was dumb.”

“I know. I heard you the first three times.”

“Crazy dumb. Crazy, stupid sticking fingers into light sockets kind of dumb.”

Tim glared at the wall, not saying anything else. Before he knew what was happening, Kon was pinning him against the wall just as he had been before, only this time both his hands were above his head and Kon wasn’t touching him anywhere else.

“What’s so dumb about this, Tim?” He asked in a low, sultry voice. It wasn’t exactly the same as his sex voice, a little more serious and less out-of-breath, but still far from his hero's voice.

“Is there something that bothers you about this Tim, or is it something about me?”

Tim swallowed, his throat suddenly extremely dry. Even though they had just spent quite a bit of time in there, certain parts of his body were telling him they were more than willing and ready to go another round, maybe even two, with Kon.

“This isn’t a personal commentary on either of us, Superboy.”

Kon leaned in closer to Tim but still didn’t touch him anywhere else. The familiar tingling of his TTK wound its way up from his ankles to rest low on his hips, pushing him further into the wall. He attempted to swallow again.

“Isn’t it though? You don’t have any problems with Bart and Jaime, or Steph and Cass.”

Tim tensed and a good portion of his arousal went away.

“Because they’re all in a public, committed relationship. Any of the potential fall-outs are at least partially anticipated.”

Kon pulled back some.

“Really, Tim? You’re going to go full-on Bats on me like this?”

Tim resented the fact that even Kon called him out on his more Bruce-like qualities—it wasn’t like Jason and Dick weren’t enough. He grit his teeth and tried to pull his wrists free from Kon’s hands. The clone didn’t fight him but didn’t let him just slip away, either.

“This has nothing to do with being a Bat, and even if it did that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.”

Kon floated back some, giving Tim some more space without really freeing him.

“No, you’re right,” Kon put a hand through his hair, “this has nothing to with being a Bat. This has everything to do with you and your repressed emotions. It might make you fit in with the rest of your crime-fighting clan but you didn’t inherit it from them.”

Tim contemplated slapping Kon right then and there. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that being the one to initiate physical contact would mean Kon had won in some sick twisted way.

“I’m no detective but I think there’s something else that makes you see this as dumb,” Kon said softly, almost gently.

Tim flinched and closed his eyes. He was by far not prepared for this change in tone. Fighting, he could do—it’s all he and Kon had ever done before they became friends. But emotions, pity? Hell no.

The silence in the closet was deafening, and if his heartbeat was even half as loud to Kon as it was to him he knew there was no point in hiding. They stood there for what felt like hours before he opened his eyes. Behind his mask, he felt a sense of anonymity rarely afforded to Timothy Drake-Wayne. But in front of Kon? Kon-el, Conner Kent, the clone of Superman himself and containing Lex Luthor’s DNA, was not stupid. Even if he liked to be underestimated as such. He knew it was a lost cause that he was going to have to either come up with a really good lie (even by his standards) or tell the truth, as heart-wrenching as it would end up being.

Tim was just about to open his mouth and say—he didn’t know what, but something—when their communicators went off.

“All Titans, come in. We’re needed ASAP!”

Kon pulled all the way back this time and sighed.

“We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Tim didn’t follow Kon out immediately, instead letting his head fall back against the wall.

If I have any say in the matter we won’t.

Tim had almost forgotten about the uncomfortable conversation that happened after his and Kon’s most recent…meeting. Almost. And God did he hate that he couldn’t bring himself to just calling it what it was—sex, ­unattached and as platonic as it can get sex. Fucking, banging if he wanted to be crude, but it wasn’t much more. No making love for Tim Drake. No, he is much too busy and sleep deprived as it is, let alone emotionally repressed as others had so kindly put it.

He would have completely forgotten about the fact that his best friend (are they even still best friends at this point? What were they supposed to be?) still wanted to talk if it wasn’t for said friend. Tim had hit the showers—finally—after their quick mission. A gangbanger that had gotten too big for his britches decided to dabble in Venom and wrecked a few city blocks by the time they were able to stop him.

While he pulled on some civvies, Tim winced. It was far from the worst battle he had ever been in (hello Ra’s al Ghul, Damian) but bruised ribs were bruised ribs. ��­­­A knock on his door had him tensing. His schedule did not allow him to spend much more time at Titans Tower. After all, he had business back in Gotham of both the suit-and-tie kind and the crime-fighting kind.

“Come in,” he called out. Whichever Titan it was hopefully wouldn’t take up too much of his time.

He heard his door open but knew immediately it wasn’t Bart or Cassie; both of them would have instantly been chattering about something or other. Tim knew in his gut it was Kon before he turned around.

“Do you need something?” He asked, voice cold in a manner he didn’t frequently use on friends and family, just barely keeping himself from crossing his arms.

Kon made sure the door was shut before walking over to Tim’s desk and sitting in his seat. The clone leaned back a tad, just enough that his t-shirt rode up his jeans some. Tim was suddenly very grateful for Kon’s fashion taste and the fact the high-waisted jeans covered skin that otherwise would have been visible and very distracting.

“Yeah, I do, but not right now. This is more of a…a prelude to talking about what you and I need.”

Tim made the split-second decision to not sit down but did finally give in and cross his arms.

“Fine. I don’t have much time so spit it out.”

He hoped that the minute shaking he could feel wasn’t noticeable, but who was Tim kidding? Even with half of Superman’s genes, this was still a superpowered Kryptonian. He leaned against his dresser, the distance exactly enough to not be awkwardly far away but not so close as to make the conversation too intimate, too personal.

Kon eyed Tim. It wasn’t a sensual checking out or aggressive sizing up, just a drawn out and unsubtle observation. Tim began to fidget, a tell and a nervous habit Dick and Bruce had yet to fully train out of him.

“Well?” He finally prompted, undeniably impatient.

Kon leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and hands clasped together.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you brought up earlier, man, and I want you to know that I wasn’t just being a jerk for no reason.”

Tim snorted.

“Like you’ve ever needed a reason to be a jerk.” Kon snapped his head up and glared at Tim.

Tim raised his hands in surrender, genuinely regretting the words.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. Continue.”

Kon pursed his lips for a beat before doing just that.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I still stand by what I said earlier even if some of the…personal digs weren’t relevant. It’s a Bats thing to stay emotionally unattached and I’m not like that. I hate it, I actually really hate it. So even though we’ve got this friends-with-benefits thing going on you’re still one of my closest friends. Besides,” he leaned back again, grinning now, a glint in his eyes and the beginnings of a smirk around his mouth, “it’s not liked we don’t keep each other happy.”

Tim swallowed. His heart was racing but he also felt kind of faint. Instinctively the oblivious side of him wondered if he had maybe been poisoned but he knew instantly that that wasn’t the case.

“So you’re saying that you want to keep this up, nothing changing, even though I think it’s dumb?”

Kon groaned and closed his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face.

“I don’t know man. Ideally, there’d be more than just amazing sex in random rooms but since that’s all you’re gonna give that’s all I’m gonna take.”

“Fine b—wait, wait what?” Tim’s voice squeaked in a way it hadn’t in a few years. Kon’s eyebrows furrowed and his cheeks flushed slightly.

“Do you like me?”

Kon looked miffed at having been interrupted but shrugged.

“Yeah, man, I guess. We are friends after all.” Tim stood up and shook his head.

“No, no, you don’t understand. Do you like like-like me? Like, physically and emotionally attracted to me? As in don’t want to just fuck?”

Kon rolled his eyes.

“Well duh. Why do you think I broke it off with Cassie? I straight up seduced you dude, I just realized pretty quickly you weren’t into me on the same level. It’s cool though.”

“Why did you think I’m not into you? I thought it was obvious and you were just humoring me while getting all the benefits.”

Kon raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to speak but froze. He dropped his head back and started laughing.

“What’s so funny about this?” Tim said, speaking louder so that he could be heard over Kon’s laughter. Emotions were racing through him like a heard of horses but the most prominent one had rapidly become confusion.

“It’s, it’s just that this whole time I, I tho-thought,” Kon wheezed, “thought that you. I don’t know, I just didn’t think you were interested that way.”

Tim felt his jaw metaphorically drop.

“Are you kidding me? We could have been dating this whole time?”

Tim ran his fingers through his hair and gripped it, pacing. Kon stood up and smiled. He walked up to Tim who had begun muttering at light speed, and gently stopped him, holding his shoulders.

“Tim, hey, Rob,” he said softly.

Tim looked up at him and sighed. He bit his bottom lip, and Kon’s eyes flashed down toward his lips.

“Let’s let go of this whole mess and just start over, okay?”

Tim nodded vigorously. Kon grinned and leaned in, kissing him softly. When he pulled back, Tim seemed to be a little in shock.

“So, Robin, Tim Drake-Wayne, would you like to go on a date with me tonight?”

Tim pulled back a little and stared Kon down.

“As much as I want to say yes, I’m way too busy tonight. How about tomorrow? I can make time for a few hours if you can.”

Kon grinned and kissed Tim again, lingering this time.

“I can always make time for you, babe.”

“Babe?”

“Well, yeah, if we’re boyfriends then I reserve the right to call you babe.”

Tim couldn’t deny that he wasn’t getting flustered and flustered quickly.

“Alright, Kon,” Tim grinned, “it’s a date.”

[the-new-van-horn]

FANTASTIC REVERIE.

NOTE: A Classic!Nicklijah moment. This is the first drabble I’m posting on Tumblr. Please forgive the plainness.

Elijah recalled a bit of contempt for the point of view Nick’s class had for their professor the man had had when he’d returned after a day of wearing one of his shirts. The archaeologist had been quite put off by their reaction and Elijah had honestly found it quite amusing if he were honest. The gesture had been a harmless one, even though he had to reassure the older male of this fact about a hundred times before he left the house that morning. It would seem he was the only one certain of the truth behind that statement. And so, he’d made it a point not to be too involved with Nick’s professional life if he didn’t have to. While it was amusing, Elijah could relate to the discomfort of being viewed as an item when they were not. Given the true nature of their relationship, it was all around a safer bet not to feed the hungry whims of college girls and their strange tendencies to dig a little too deep into the personal lives of the older men they were supposed to be learning from. That aside, there were still some occasions where it could not be avoided. Today had been one of them as a new development in the artifact case had popped up and demanded immediate attention. He’d only gone to pass off information, but he could feel the stares of students as he quietly wiggled his way into the classroom and seated himself in the back. The board was full of information Elijah knew nothing about and Nick had his back turned to the class as he went on about something to do with ancient Mesopotamia. A part of Elijah wondered if he’d have enjoyed traditional school if he’d had the chance to attend. His wonderings were cut short, however, when the professor turned to face the class again. He had a question in his mouth, but Elijah didn’t hear it. He was far to focused on the fact that he was wearing glasses. Months. They’d been working together for literal months and Elijah hadn’t the slightest clue that Nick needed glasses at all. Was that something new? He’d be sure to ask about it later.

------​

Elijah had found a comfy spot between the fireplace and the coffee table (as per usual) with a couple of pillows and a cup of joe. For a man who enjoyed sweet things almost as much as Nick did, it was maybe a bit odd that he preferred his coffee black. He was sprawled out on the floor with a pillow under his stomach and a computer lit up in front of him. He was reading through an article with his glasses dropped down to the tip of his nose and a rather focused expression. One of Nick’s tees hung loosely from his thin frame – something he didn’t even consider as he’d swiped it right out of the pile of clean laundry earlier. By the time Nick had gotten to the flat, the glasses were gone, but he didn’t need them to take note of Elijah’s comfort level. The younger man looked like a college student himself rather than Nick’s partner in a serial murder case. He looked up at Nick when he came in and frowned slightly. He didn’t address the issue right away. “Been looking into that John Horabik guy.” He pushed the computer out and at an angle some so that Nick might be able to see what was on it. The image of a middle-aged man in a business suit was displayed neatly beside an article titled ‘I Survived an Ancient Egyptian Curse!’ There was a story that followed, but Nick was a bit too far away to read it. “Is it legit then?” The archaeologist raised both eyebrows, pinning Elijah with a curious expression. “Not a clue, but, even if it isn’t, there’s still a lot of interesting information here.” He pulled the computer back towards himself before patting the ground next to him. “I’ve already copied the piece and started highlighting things. Finally, a lead that doesn’t make me want to destroy my own liver.” “You don’t drink enough to justify that worry.” Nick countered plainly as he took to Elijah’s unspoken order. He flopped onto his stomach, leaning in a bit to get a better look at the screen. The action sent a bit of a chill up Elijah’s spine, but he let it go for now. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t considered it. You’ve got a nice collection of temptations here.” The younger man taunted with a smirk. One that elicited only an eyeroll from Nick. He also pushed the joke aside in favor of the article before them. “He’s a cheap, sh*t politician. Got his fingers stuck in the wrong cookie jar and made some powerful people angry. He provided a name, but all the searching I’ve done on that has led to nothing. An alias, I’m sure. But look-“ he pointed at the screen to a highlighted line. Nick squinted a little. “’I had the knife in my hand and I was terrified…. Dadada… shaking with fear… blahblahblah… pinched myself with my free hand and it gave me just enough of a distraction that the knife missed any vital organs.’” He read aloud, reaching up to rub at his own chin. Suddenly, his vision was cut off as something slipped over his eyes and onto his nose. “You look ten years older when you squint like that.” There was a playful lilt in Elijah’s voice and it became clear all of a sudden what had happened. The lenses themselves did not help his vision at all. Instead, the article was a lot blurrier than it needed to be. The transparent frames that ringed the little bit of the world Nick could see answered just who’s glasses had been forced onto his face – confirmation that Elijah’s skillset, in all the random things he was good at, did not include seeing. Nick didn’t say anything for a long moment, but, even with his poor vision, Elijah could clearly see the older man’s confusion. He started laughing, head bobbing onto the keyboard with amusement-induced weakness. Nick grumbled a little bit despite the clear signs that he wasn’t truly bothered by this action. “I am ten years older.” The laughter settled into something Elijah could at least speak through. “Sure, but you look damn good for ten years older. The glasses are a bonus. You should wear them more often. Would be good for eyes. And mine too.” He bumped his shoulder to Nick’s in jest and then swiped his glasses back. There was a brief moment where the honorary detective went without as he used Nick’s sleeve to wipe away the smudges. “Shut up.” Nick didn’t know what else to say, but there was the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Something that didn’t go unnoticed as Elijah slipped the frames back onto his own face. He mirrored the expression ten-fold, even showing teeth. “Not in a million years.”

Mood music: Beyond the World of Man - KOLARS > https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7KQou6PT9VM

@xnevermarks

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 73: Courting Disaster

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter Four. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: Canon-typical body horror, insects, butchery mention, mild robot discrimination, food description.

So many people, so little time.

_________________

Although once a DeMarco-Boyle Housewares, this space no longer prided itself in selling quality furniture, appliances, or other domestic goods. 'Choly, Sticks, and Angel followed a wide corridor. ‘Choly took in the interiors of the place, mentally distanced from the clack of his cane on the wood flooring. With its complex, radiating door frames, and austere, faintly metallic chevron wallpaper, he could nearly believe the building had always been laid out in such a way--if not for its unusual inverted curly light bulbs and the chartreuse-to-vermillion tint they cast. They passed a dozen or so people before the corridor opened into a lobby, whose mode of dress suggested coarser more contemporary fabrics in unrestrictive, breathable cuts. Though something to which he normally wouldn’t have payed attention, it irritated his read of the place that he couldn’t with any confidence definitively say the color of anything.

He shrank smaller, if only internally.

The closer to the interior entrance to the mall, the more distinctly ‘Choly could discern the sounds of socializing. A stout Latin woman with teal-streaked victory rolls and dark heavy makeup sat at the front desk, bored with her literature. Above the desk, a sign from the ceiling read “Anchor Inn Concierge.” He nodded to himself, understanding very little.

As they stepped into the mall proper, 'Choly's jaw slacked. He had underestimated the population of this settlement. Unable to visually count everyone in open walkways or in shops, he instead returned his attention to the building itself. Store fronts of both floors now boasted neoteric neon lettering and icons, all in the same strange glow as the fixtures in the Anchor Inn... and the massive armillary-reminiscent chandeliers. Brilliantly streaked Barre granite comprised all the main interior façade, ornamented with all manner of sleek nautical lines and rounded corners. In intervals, an unassuming yet oppressive angular bronze-patina face repeated along both sides of the second story’s frieze, from intricate, motion-traced niches. He unlikely would have noticed them, if not for the chandeliers; though the skylights let in some amount of natural light, it would otherwise have been all but pitch dark inside without its unusual fluorescent fixtures.

Arriving at the first crossway, to their left lay an anchor location called The Hall, and their right, an anchor which read See’s. Sticks had to stop and think a moment before they continued to their left. ‘Choly’s head tilted, but he followed, suddenly admiring the teal and coral chevron tiling floor.

“I thought you wanted the food court,” ‘Choly mumbled, doing his best to keep close. “Is this place really running like a prewar shopping mall?”

“In a lot of ways, Ant Lane is a holdover from the before times,” Sticks replied. “Some tradition’s held fast, but it’s also adapted so people could legit live here. I told you earlier, let me handle the finances. I’ve got to see a fella about a can of Cram.”

The Grey & Gould Jewelers to the immediate left of entrance to The Hall, once a Fallon’s Department Store, now touted itself as a gold and silver exchange. ‘Choly nearly committed to staying outside with Angel, except the Mister Handy did not hesitate to enter with Sticks. He reclaimed his composure and followed.

Again, that green-red light illuminated the glass-top display counters and their contents. Hurricane fence provided a grate between customer and clerk; behind it, safe deposit boxes lined the two longest walls. He opted to stay out of Sticks’s way and instead browsed the various goods on display. Ancient jewelry, trinkets, and implements amounted to much of what he could lay eyes upon. He supposed it wasn’t so strange that weapons were absent from this pawn shop, but noticing it consciously set him on edge. Angel remained glued to him as he endeavored to identify if any of the jewelry caught his attention.

The broker did instead. It wore a blond hornet’s nest beehive, clearly a wig, a faded silk necktie, and nothing else. Its dark sunken eyes studied both his ghoul companion and the valuables laid out on a velvet tray, as did the two and a half long, thin, sinewy tentacles which seemed to have replaced its tongue. Its trapezius-thick neck and broad shoulders supported a head jutted forward, but its pale, muscular, mangled, venous torso lacked arms until the hip region. ‘Choly both loathed and appreciated that the counter itself censored what the lower half of the creature must have looked like, but he could make out at least two hands supporting its slouch across its side of the counter.

His cane dropped from his arm to the vinyl wood floor, eliciting the attention of the three other customers, the broker, and the blond ghoul. Angel picked it up for him and handed it back.

“Sir, you seem most on edge,” it spoke at a hush.

“I don’t think that’s an Unfolded.”

“Hard to say, though I suspect you’re right. You should go accompany Mister Hawthorne. You emphasized before how much you wanted to be up to speed with things. What better way than to be involved?”

He agreed with it. Once the shop resumed its activity, he sidled up to Sticks with bated breath.

“See anything you like?” the ghoul entrepreneur asked him with a furtive side glance. “And please don’t say Darryl.”

‘Darryl,’ the broker, slapped Sticks’s right hand playfully with a tentacle, and made eye contact with ‘Choly. The chemist let out a tepid chuckle and wiggled the fingers of a hand upheld, and Darryl waved back with a guttural affirmative.

“What you’re up to interests me more.” He squinted in thought watching Darryl resume plucking at a glass abacus while scrutinizing Sticks’s valuables. “...Wait a fuckin’ minute. If I had to cover the cost of your Pip-Boy with all my gold and silver, then where did this come from?”

Sticks stuttered, and crossed his arms to quieten a nervous laugh.

“Well, I couldn’t just leave all this stuff in the golf course safe. You weren’t about to press that robot to fork it up, now, were you?”

“You mean to say you stole all that from Bogey!” Angel exclaimed, furious. “How could you!“

“You’re right to point it out. Wicked big deal that I did separate these liquid assets from Bogey,” he grinned, watching Darryl in encouragement that the creature continued its appraisal. “We’re both broke as fuck. Aside from some clothes for you, we gave everything from the golf course to Sanctuary. This stuff is the only way we’re going to afford anything while we’re here, Mindy.”

Sticks’s angle stymied both chemist and robot. Meanwhile, Darryl had taken up a handheld chalkboard and diligently written on it with chalk in tentacle. It held up for them its declaration, crabbed and rapid, but no less efficacious: It’s impossible to steal from robots. They don’t have belongings. Knowing history on curios influences appraisal. Screwing over a robot’s worth 20% bonus. ‘Choly snorted, wide-eyed and aghast, but decided that saying anything further would just dig him in deeper. Sticks chuckled and applauded. Darryl gestured to the abacus, but neither could discern the value he’d arrived upon, so it erased its board and printed it right in the center of the tablet: 1260.

“Holy shit, man. You’re always too good to me.”

The amount of caps quoted choked ‘Choly up. Darryl went to the back of the room to scoop the payout from a bin, into a large fabric drawstring bag on a scale. The creature returned and slid the tray of the Cram tin’s contents under the counter. It plopped down the sack in front of Sticks, eliciting a pleasant grin.

“You’re a pleasure, my friend. Thank you.”

Darryl’s parting gesture by tentacle could have been genial or hostile, but ‘Choly waved again regardless, sticking even closer to Angel than before.

“You still all right to walk?” Sticks asked, sliding the sack into his apron. “The food court’s all the way at the other end of the mall, and you already look like you’re struggling. These folks might not like that security let Angel in here, but they can’t argue with a guy needing a wheelchair.”

“Do allow me to help you, Sir. It ails me, to feel as though I must divide myself up until there’s nothing. Surely, you could manage the trip atop me?”

“Why the fuck do they hate robots?” he snarled, mounting Angel mostly in spite. He teetered upright with the reins, but held steady, glaring at the green-red internally lit glass shaft in the crossway which once hosted the mall’s central functioning elevator. “The Rust Devils didn’t come through here, did they? And what is Darryl!?”

“Wish I knew.” Sticks shrugged. “ The sentiment goes back a long way. Glad you’re rising above it, though.”

His frustrations distilled into a short-tempered sigh.

“Getting down there is one thing. Getting back to the inn will be another. --We are returning to the inn, right?”

“Only board available to visitors.”

Along the way, pockets of people in the walkway stopped to watch ‘Choly ride his Mister Handy, varying from appalled to impressed to confused. Without the requirement to heed the method of his gait, he more easily took in details around him from his vantage. A few black ants the size of house cats wandered through the mall, and its denizens didn’t so much as bat a lash, with the exception of two or three happily coddled as though pets. Children accounted for an appreciable percent of the population, as did ghouls. No other denizen resembled Darryl. Though he did not pause to browse, several pop-up tent kiosks at the center of the walkway enticed him despite their continued tradition of seeking one’s attention by any means necessary. He halted where the mall took a slight bend, staring at a large store which looked to host nothing but thousands of pieces of lambent glass, hung from the walls and ceiling.

“Burlington glass,” Sticks said. “It’s pretty, I guess. Pretty weird. Don’t want to know what’s in it to make it go.”

“The glow must last a long time, if it’s in the chandeliers.”

“Yeah, those folks handle all that. They’re electricians. Or maybe not, since there’s no electricity involved. I don’t think. All the lights, that’s their doing.”

“The installments are certainly not electrical,” Angel agreed.

Rather than speculate himself, he progressed the group on. At the second crossway of the mall, the guards processed visitors at the main entrance to Ant Lane to his left. To his right, the still-named Sutter Grove had become something between a library and bookstore. Straight ahead, the anchor store’s entrance façade still retained the staggered framed lettering of a General Atomics, though the title now read Customs House.

The food court lay between the Customs House and Sutter Grove. The Laners had erected a roof-high wall of salvaged car hoods and gull wing doors hoods to separate it from the walkway. Four armored guards screened both the incoming and outgoing traffic of its entrance, an extra measure of their guarantee of thoroughness. ‘Choly’s breathing shallowed as he dismounted in preparation of complying yet again.

He knew better than to question it. He remembered the harrowing checkpoints at Deenwood.

“Anchor Inn security warned us you’d be this way,” one of the guards said. “Can’t say why the Aldermen would okay your robot, but none of us is right to argue. No weapons, right?”

Angel demonstrated yet again, with a flourished weariness quickly becoming routine.

Two guards, both correctly male this time, patted down ‘Choly and Sticks.

“That some kind of bulletproof vest?” one asked ‘Choly.

“It’s a sort of back brace.” He bristled when the guard untucked his shirt and pulled up it and the cardigan to inspect his lower back. The guard could barely tuck a finger between the material and his skin.

“Can you even breathe under that thing?”

“Better than without it, that’s for sure. Are we all right to go in?”

“Ehh...” The first guard clicked the car handle button on one of the lowest gull doors in the wall. Once the pneumatic hinge raised it out of the way, he reached through to pull the handle of a second door, which opened the other direction. “Bone appetite.”

‘Choly sighed once the court-side door shut, relieved they had not bothered to check inside Angel, but the next breath slammed his olfactories. Aromas of roasted meat and fresh baked goods mingled with the tang of raw seafood and sharpness of bulk spices. He prinked at his shirt tails while his senses acclimated. Eight white Egyptian revival columns rounded the octagonal space, but no longer neatly divided the restaurants and grocers’ kiosks from the seating area. Tall standing lamps supported swirled Burlington bulbs similar to the chandeliers. ‘Choly looked at the bulbs a fraction too long, and their wavelength burned a reverse in his vision for some time. He rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, hoping to locate some kind of fresh food that might agree with him.

He realized the name ‘SEE’S’ emblazoned all the guards’ armor, even those at the main entrance and the Anchor Inn.

Sticks already seemed to have his stomach made up over dinner, though he still accompanied ‘Choly eyeing everything. Many fresh dishes resembled thick stews or dumplings. He could identify chowder and fruit pies without question, but struggled with all else. Menus’ numbering often contained slashes and several symbols, typically in a variation of P/C/$. A few listed ‘PULLS ONLY.’

“Those are the prices, then? And the exchange rate?”

Of course cash would be worth the least, typically requiring four or five times more.

“Cash, caps, pulls. Hope you like Vim,” he grinned aside.

‘Choly toed disgust and confusion.

“Vim?”

They wandered the grocers and spice merchants in curiosity. A couple of merchants shooed away ants trying to get into their wares, negotiating with them to behave sooner than strike at them in any way. The one restaurant that had existed before the mall’s repurposing which did not offer prepared food, housed the butchers with the largest selection. Much of it lay on ice beds in twin large deli refrigerators. ‘Choly skimmed all the different cuts of meat, seemingly more intent on feeding his brain than his body. Opalescent Mirelurk appendages and their louse-like hatchlings, like deformed crustaceans. Iridescent Fog crawler and Stingwing tails reminded him of overgrown lobsters. Husked Bloatfly and Bloodbug thoraxes, unidentifiably lumpy if not for the meat price tags. Dark Radstag rump and shank, ribs, and loin. Ruddy, well-marbled Brahmin flanks and tenderloin. All kinds of eggs filled one shelf, even some small jars labeled ‘Mirelurk roe.’ Skinned Pelts hung behind the counter, along with chickens strung by the neck, and rabbits strung by their feet.

Two girls ran the counter. The spindly elder, no more than sixteen, had long straight dark hair with a fringe, and wore a frog-knotted tweed bolero shrug over a crepe chemisette with a high lace collar, bedecked in jingling aluminum junk jewelry. While another patron arranged an order with her, she casually cracked into a can of Vim Refresh, ritualistically separating the ring pull tab from the can to pocket it. ‘Choly could hear the discussion involved Radfowl, and eavesdropped to reassure himself. The demure younger girl, likely no older than twelve, had short curly hair and wore a too-big cardigan over a too-many-layered pinafore. From a stool beside her workbench, she diligently tackled butchering the mutated geese the hunters had brought inside. Their Neapolitan mastiff lay calmly beneath the counter.

Several other prewar animal meats appeared amongst the mutants, but the one which stood out to ‘Choly had the label Iguana. Too many textures, colorations, and shapes comprised the hefty pile of over-butchered meat for him to believe it all originated from the same creature. He frowned to Sticks, who’d turned from the ice bed display to scan the court in thought.

“There’s wild iguanas running around?” he mumbled to the ghoul, with worried inflection. “None of that looks like lizard meat.”

“Hm? What, oh.” Sticks looked for the Iguana on display, and ‘Choly pointed to it. Hesitant, he dug for the right phrasing. “It’s slang for meat that you’re not sure where it came from. If you’re hungry enough, it’s hard to stay picky.”

“Can’t waste a thing these days, can we?” the elder ribbed in a viscous Maine accent, having just finished up with her customer. She draped herself over the deli counter to sip at her soda. “Name’s Phin. Little Lucy Grandchester over there’s my sis Wanda. And that down there with a watchful eye, that’s Box. We’ve got just about any cut of meat you could crave.” Her face messed up through a swig. “...Think I’d recognize two geezers with a robot. How the hell did you smuggle in that thing?”

“We didn’t smuggle anything!” ‘Choly defended. “I’m Melancholy.”

“...Yeah, well. You just gonna loiter? You’re blocking the path to paying customers here. Scram!” She finished off the drink and threw it at them. ‘Choly’s reflexes couldn’t get his hands up fast enough, and it beaned him in the mouth. She pumped a fist and stood to get another soda from buried under the ice. “Two points!”

‘Choly rubbed at his mouth and scowled, teetering on wielding his cane in retaliation. Sticks and Angel pulled him along, the former laughing at his pouting.

“...’Two points’... My face is not a basketball hoop...”

A flighty, younger man stopped them. He had slicked hair, plus-fours, an afghan-knit ulster, and a large lace shawl with no shirt.

“--Hey, listen. Word of advice, since you looked so interested there. Best be keen about what you buy from the Clark sisters. They’re turning a pretty pull by making sure they’ve always got Iguana for sale, but nobody could say for sure how come they’ve had so much lately. I’ve had my suspicions for a few months now, but I’ve seen it a few days ago. They’ve been provoking the Royces up the Lane, then scooping up what gets blasted off. And I’m positive similar could be said of the Radfowl hunt earlier.”

“I know full well what Iguana might be,” Sticks insisted, no less repulsed by the implications than before. “Sounds like you’re the girls’ competition.”

“Not that there’s any competition for their knife skills, but I’m no butcher. Look, your robot helped them out something wicked. Lots of small parts no one else bothered with. A PERSON could be next! You’d better turn that thing off the moment the ants say so! Or we’ll--”

“--I’m right before you, mate,” Angel spat. “I believe I’ve had enough of this hostile attitude. I attend my owner--and friend--to assure they’re taken care of. We’ve all complied with your settlement’s regulations. I mean no harm, and I swear by Asimov that I would never chop up any moral, law abiding citizen!”

“Just what a robot would say,” he sneered, fed up with the pair. “I have better things to do than argue with a flaming tin can.”

“Good,” Sticks muttered. “So do we.”

“Among other things, I’m brass,” Angel sniveled on their way to where Sticks had clearly wanted to eat from the start. “Not a tin part in me!”

“We know, chap. We know. Now, my belly’s getting impatient like you. How can we interest Mister Carey in eating tonight? Ant Lane’s food court has a bring-your-own-bowl policy, but this place has killer bread bowl stews. Dinner’s on me.”

The savory, yeasty aroma of the restaurant snared him, and he hemmed.

“...I’ll give it a shot. As long as it isn’t Iguana.”

Sticks eyed the menu.

“Radfowl tonight.”

‘Choly’s mouth skewed.

“Looks like we ended up seeing the fruits of our effort earlier anyway.”

“...Yeah, but now it costs me some pulls.”

Sticks ordered for them. Angel carried their tray in one tendril, and a Vim in each of the others, and took them to sit at a vacant cafe table. After setting down their meal and providing utensils from its storage, it held ‘Choly’s cane for him.

“Spasibo.”

“But of course! What are friends for? Now dig in, gentlemen!”

Beneath the lid sliced from the crusty boule, the center of the bread had been scooped out to house a thick creamy stew of earthy vegetables and tender nuggets of dark meat Radfowl. A few spoonfuls in, and ‘Choly swam in how hearty the whole thing was. He bit into the bread lid with a crunch, then sopped with the remainder of it, eyelids heavy with comfort.

He had his reservations opening his chilled can of Vim, but when he needed a drink, he popped the pull tab on it. He distrusted his ability to drink from the opening without cutting his mouth, if he folded the tab off now, but he promised himself he’d do so before discarding it. A sip yielded herbal flavors more at home to a tonic than a cola. Burdock shone out more strongly than any hint of sarsaparilla, with a bright, somewhat grassy back flavor of orange-vanilla. He hadn’t remembered much liking Vim before, but he liked it well enough now.

He took another bite of his stew. When he looked over to Sticks, the ghoul was already half done, ripping into his bowl to dip with.

“Delicious, though this thing’s so big. I don’t think I can eat it all.”

“I’ll be more than happy to help you finish anything you can’t,” Sticks smirked. “I always look forward to this place every time I visit. I can’t get ‘em but every few years, with how my travel arrangements tend to work out.”

‘Choly noticed then that Sticks had ordered more than the two bread bowl stews and two sodas: a slice of warm latticed pie sat on a square of parchment.

“Can’t not start off our stay at Ant with an apple pie. Some prewar comforts are still around. Split it with me? Surely, you’ll have room for at least a bite.”

‘Choly fell doe eyed.

“Fresh bread, familiar desserts. You’re right. I do think I like it here.”

Go to Next »»»

[ilosttrackofthings]

fitz/ophelia + “we’ll figure it out.” (bonus points for baby au)

Thanksgiving is over. It’s officially not-too-early for Christmas fics.

Half-asleep, Fitzreaches a hand out across the sheets. He finds a tiny chest, hears aneven tinier squeak in response to the light pressure, then reachesfarther. He expects to find an arm or hair, but his palm lands on apillow instead.

He drags himselfinto consciousness, enough he can lift himself up to look. There’sJuliet next to him, just where he felt her, and then Ophelia’spillow laid out lengthwise alongside her. He blinks, peering aroundblearily. The clock on the nightstand says two in the morning, waytoo early for either of them to be up unless it’s to change adiaper or get a bottle, but Juliet’s sleeping like a log.

Finally he picksout the faint glow slipping beneath the bedroom door. Curious, heclimbs out of bed, hoisting the baby into his arms as he goes. She’sfast asleep, doesn’t even stir except to nuzzle into his neck whenhe settles her against him.

The front room’slit only by the TV. It turns the windows into eerie half-mirrors; hehear the ocean out there, but he can’t see it.

He expects to findOphelia dozing, using the age-old practice of watching TV to fallasleep, but when he comes around the side of the couch he finds hersitting up on the floor. She’s wearing the headphones, so there’sno sound he can hear, and she’s scribbling almost frantically at anotepad.

“Oph?” he asks,reaching out for her shoulder.

She jumps, bangingher knee against the underside of the coffee table. A pained whineescapes her while her face scrunches up.

“Oh, shite. Oh,fudge,” he adds,remembering the baby in his arms.

Luckyfor him Ophelia’s only now pulling off the headphones. Between thetwo of them, he’s the only one with a cursing problem around littleJuliet seeing as he’s the only one who ever learned how; it neverseemed quite right to program that into AIDA and, now that she’s human, she has yet to pick up the habit. Butshe’s made it very clear she doesn’t appreciate him using thosewords around their daughter.

Hecarefully sits on the couch and sets Juliet down behind her mother.She’s still asleep, thank heavens, and makes not a peep.

“Lemmesee,” he orders.

Gingerly,Ophelia angles her leg out from under the table, then braces her footagainst the floor with one leg bent so he can take a look. Thelight’s still dim, but luckily there’s a wintery scene playingout on the screen, giving him enough white light to make out thereddened area. She hisses in a breath when he prods it.

“You’llhave a nasty bruise for certain, but it doesn’t look like you didany real damage. Do you think you can stand on it?”

Shegives him a look he’s learned means are all humans mad oris it just Leopold? He waitscalmly for her to parse itout herself.

Shestraightens the leg. “Yes. I believe I can.” Her eyes settle onJuliet. “It was easier when I had diagnostic systems.”

“Youhave those now too.” He taps her head, reminding her that’s whather nervous system is for. She doesn’t seem convinced—or interested inanything other than little Juliet. He takes a look at the notebookshe dropped on the table. “What’s all this?”

“Nothing,”she says. She pushes the notebook away, hiding it under a stack ofmagazines.

“Wereyou taking notes?” he asks, thinking of what he saw her doing when he camein, but a glance at the TV shows it’s just some cheap holiday film,one of the hundreds that play nonstop this time of year.

“Yes,”she says, so softly he barely hears it. She’s touching Juliet’shair, playing with the soft,curling strands.

Fitzlooks from her to the screen and back again, still confused.

“Idon’t know how to do this. I was never a child, I never had aChristmas. I don’t know how to give her one.”

“Wellneither do I,” he says with a shrug. She finally looks at him,surprise and incredulity warring in her wide eyes. “I don’t. I’venever been a dad, didn’t have much of one myself. I’ll probablyspoil her rotten every year.” He rests a hand over Ophelia’s onthe couch cushion. “I don’t know what we’ll do—if we’llhave a big dinner with all our friends over or cut down a tree ortake a silly family photo to send out—those are traditions we’llhave to decide on as we go, like any couple would. We’ll figure itout together.”

Hergaze drifts back to Juliet. “But what if I do it wrong?”

“Youwon’t.” He bends forward to kiss her hair. “You’re her motherand you love her and you’re here to show it to her, that’s all Iever needed.” He squeezes her hand. “It’ll be enough.”

[demialwrites]

Harmony in the Bedroom Ch 3

Link to AO3 Page

"I see my advice is no longer needed," Genji said, with no actual annoyance behind his words. He moved to make room for his master and sat cross-legged next to your left side.

"Nope," you said.

He pinched your nipple, and you grinned and slapped his hand away.

Zenyatta offered his hand to you, and you took it. You shaped his fingers the same way as the first time, with the pointer and middle finger sticking out.

"I think I know you want me to do," he said, his voice gently interrupting you, "May I?"

"Oh? You go ahead then, Sweetie," you replied, letting go of his hand.

You watched his hand disappear from view as he slowly inserted his two fingers. They slid in easily, and you felt them curl inside you.

"Here?" he asked, turning his head upwards to look at you.

Whoops. You forgot he had no sense of texture on his fingers. You reached down with both hands to guide him to the right spot, and then took them away.

"There. Rub that, please."

He started to stoke the sensitive spot inside. You covered your face with your hands. You were blushing, embarrassed that an onmic could make you pant like that.

"Go, Master," Genji cheered, sounding like he was grinning under his mask, "Teach him about your clit next. Come on."

Genji's suggestion caused Zenyatta to stop and remove his hand. The lack of something inside you was disappointing, but Zenyatta seemed to have learned enough to move on. He sat back, ready for instruction.

"Can you show me?"

You paused before putting your finger to yourself, as you felt a little embarrassed with both of your loves watching you. Touching yourself was a very private thing. But these two would never laugh at you for something like this, and if Genji went too far with his teasing comments, he always apologized after. You reached down, and on autopilot, you touched yourself exactly the way you had many times before.

"Again, please."

"I'll do it slower this time."

He watched, his orbs slowly and methodically orbiting his neck.

"I think I understand," he said, and you took your hand away for make room for his.

He tentatively reached forward, and attempted to copy your movements. Surprisingly, he got the angle almost perfect, but the pressure was too light and the movement was not quite right. You were about to explain to Zenyatta what he could improve upon, but Genji reach over to grab his master's hand. He pressed Zenyatta's finger to you, showing him the correct pressure himself.

"I was gonna show him!"

"It is quicker this way."

"We are not fighting over my clit."

"Yes, we are."

"Nuh-uh."

"Neither of us has a penis, so we have to fight over something."

"Cut your sass, Genji."

"My Student," Zenyatta interrupted, "It is as if you have forgotten some of what I taught you about patience since our love took off her clothes."

Genji looked away indignantly.

"Funny how you still think with a penis you don't have, Honey," you teased him, lightheartedly. You placed a hand on the top of his thigh and squeezed, rubbing the inner skin with your thumb.

"I did not mean to interrupt," he said apologetically. "I just wish to be involved."

"That's fine. Just ask," you told him, smiling, "When was the last time I could seriously say no to you?"

He hummed happily and leaned down to press his visor to your nose.

"Lay still, please."

You waited patiently as Genji picked up a pillow from the bed. He lifted your upper body and knelt in the space behind you, sitting on his heels. He placed the pillow in his lap, so that you could lay back on it. He squeezed your shoulders.

"Best view in the whole watchpoint. Please continue."

"Show me what you learned, Sweetie. We can always start again if something goes wrong."

You settled back on the pillow, looking up at Genji. You felt Zenyatta insert his fingers into you again. He found the correct spot in no time and starting petting the inside slowly. You breathed deeply, the slow strokes causing you to further relax around his fingers. Genji gestured to his master, and the stroking increased in speed.

Next, Zenyatta pressed two fingers to your clit, rubbing with medium pressure and speed. Your head rolled back, and you made a cross between a sigh and whine. You wrapped your fingers around Genji's arm, needing something to hold onto.

"Don't stop, Master," Genji told Zenyatta.

Genji ran his hands gently up and down your arms, your sides, and your stomach. He caressed the sensitive skin on your chest above your breasts. He eventually settled on your actual breasts, kneading them and running his thumbs back and forth across your nipples.

Genji took his hands from your breasts and brought them to the side of your face. Though you didn't need it, him tenderly holding your face comforted you. His touch grounded you and kept you in the moment. His thumbs stroked your cheeks as he stared down at you from behind his visor. You stared back up at him.

Their attentions were all gentle, slow, and deliberate, as if they were afraid you would break if stimulated too hard, or, and maybe you were projecting a little, as if they were making love to you. Not the traditional kind of lovemaking, but it brought a wide, warm smile to your face nonetheless.

"I love you," Genji said, and it was the push that sent you over the edge. Your back arched, and your hips lifted off the bed as your body lit up with pleasure. It was one of the best orgasms you'd ever had, if not the best. You knew it felt so good because your two loves had been involved in getting you there.

"How was that?" Genji asked you, "Satisfied?"

"The best," you sighed, taking Genji's visor in your hands, "You both are the best. I'm lucky to have you."

"You are getting romantic on us. You know what that means, Master? It is cuddle time."

You wrapped your legs around Zenyatta's hips and squeezed affectionately, and then you pulled Genji in to press your nose to his visor.

Bonus: The moments where you fell in love with each of your boyfriends.

Genji:

You were outside the watchpoint, admiring the sunset. Looking at the colours relaxed you before bedtime. You were leaning against the wall behind the railing. You heard soft footsteps against the metal floor approach you. It was Genji.

"Hey," you said.

"Hello," he replied.

You smiled a little. The way he said 'hello' always agreed with you. He said it at a perfectly low pitch with just a hint of his accent.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I like the way you say 'hello'," you admitted.

"I see. May I join you?"

"Go ahead."

He walked forward and leaned against the railing to admire the view of the ocean. Now, you could stay back leaning against the wall and admire his figure, or you could seem more friendly by joining him at the railing. You chose the latter.

"It is beautiful here," he told you, "I could never appreciate it before."

You grinned this time.

"What?"

"Same reason. This time it was the word 'appreciate'," you said, making sure to keep looking forward.

"Why do you like how I talk so much?"

You continued to grin, pretending not to hear his question, but it was fruitless, you knew.

"Hello? I do not appreciate you ignoring my question."

You smiled even harder. You couldn't handle it. You tried to cover your face with your hands.

"Genji, stop. Please."

Zenyatta:

You wanted to spend more time with Genji, so you got up really damned early to sit near him and his master during their morning meditation. The Sun was out, and it had already warmed the grass that you all were sitting on. Still, it was damned early.

"Master, please give her an orb," Genji said to Zenyatta, "Look at her; she is grumpy."

Zenyatta sent a glowing, golden orb over to you. It hung harmlessly in the air next to your head.

You experimentally pawed at the orb. It returned to its original position every time you batted at it. Feeling more bold, you grabbed it out of the air. It resisted your grip, just barely. You turned it over in your hands, admiring the pattern and colours. It had many tiny scratches on it, but you could only see them up close. It looked as if it had seen battle often in the past. You wondered how many times Zenyatta had defended the helpless.

The thought made you feel all the more safe and comfortable in Zenyatta's presence. So you brought the orb down and clutched it against your stomach like a stuffed animal. Suddenly, another glowing orb appeared in front of your face. You snatched it out of the air and hugged that one, too.

"You have never given me two Orbs of Harmony before, Master. Not even when I was at my worst."

"Oh, I didn't? I don't recall," Zenyatta said. He sounded distant, as if he was considering something.

You threw one of the orbs weakly at Genji's head. It hit his helmet and bounced off. He flinched.

"You're supposed to be meditating! You, too!"

You waved the second orb in the air in Zenyatta's direction, threatening to throw that one, too. Instead, the first orb appeared before you again.

"Have a nap, my dear. You seem tired," Zenyatta told you evenly.

What a good idea. Why didn't you consider this before? You clutched the orbs to your chest and leaned down to lay on your side. You closed your eyes and immediately drifted off to sleep.

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