#sid speaks

[tenderhooked]

having a favorite character from a piece of media you haven’t seen but one of your mutuals is unwell about is like. that’s my nepo blorbo from the gifsets,

[posting-for-the-void]

my parents read to me before bedtime when i was a kid and it was supposed to make me smart but instead it made me a whole ass adult who reads fanfic before i go to bed every night as a little routine

[sapphodera]

Going to make this for dinner (but with strawberry jam and pre cooked bacon from the fridge). Will let you know how it goes.

[arttheclown]

john de lancie’s characters whenever they see a stoic nerd

[sapphohod]

I’m bored of sidmare I need new username suggestions

[tenderhooked]

don’t mind me i’m just irradiating river with my aroace beam. yeah it’ll be forever.

[tenderhooked]

percy and grover swapping sandwich toppings without having to ask each other is actually something that can be so personal

[tenderhooked]

more than anything this show is making me achieve new heights of grover sympathy. imagine being 24 and forced to herd two feral cat 12 year olds on a cross country road trip for an entire week.

[tenderhooked]

i am now so fully invested in river and lamb’s awkward slow burn journey to being father and son it’s concerning… i just. clenches fist. i love mentor/mentee dynamics that blur the line into You’re My Dad Now, Actually.

[tenderhooked]

some sentences sunday!

from the camcorder kidnapping fic >:)

It happens in what, later, Catherine will remember as fragments: The first: The door swings open. This fragment always stays the same; the door has to open, or nothing else goes wrong.  The second: River offers her a vaguely panicked smile, as though he’s trying to convince her that he truly is fine, and pivots on his heel. Depending on when Catherine thinks back to it, this one warps and shifts; sometimes, she’s near enough to grab his wrist and wrench him backwards, out of harm’s way. Most times, she’s too far and too much of a coward to reach for him. She just lets him go. The third: The butt of a rifle comes down out of nowhere and smashes into River’s face with such force there’s—well, this changes day by day, minute by minute. At night, the sharp cracking snap of bone rattles so loud in Catherine’s mind it might well be a bullet loosed in a canister. In the morning, she might be able to quiet the sound, until a plate slips from her shaking hands and shatters against tile the same way River’s nose did; bright and nauseating and never quite the same again.

[tenderhooked]

... a number of sentences sunday!

from the touch-starved river dissertation i've been working on, ft. him and lamb slowly and painfully realizing they're Literally father and son:

“But—” The absolute jackass that decided to take a bullet meant for our boss. River’s ribs constrict, closing hard around his lungs. He keeps staring out through the windscreen. The pale smudge of blue sky. The sun already half-gone. He can’t look at Lamb. If he looks at Lamb, that’s it, it’s over, he’s done and finished and never coming back. Because if he looks at Lamb, he won’t be able to stop himself from breaking into a sob, and that’s the one thing he knows with absolute certainty that he mustn’t do. “Sir, I don’t understand—” “Don’t fucking sir me,” Lamb spits, and River stiffens. Spine straight. Eyes forward. Perfect little soldier. “Before you turned up on the doorstep, do you know how many agents I had to carpool from hospital, or—or, or, here’s a tricky one, how many of them bled out in the street alone because their colleague couldn’t get it through his thick skull that unless he’s behind a desk the rest of his days he’ll keep getting them killed? Zero, Cartwright. Fucking zero.”

[tenderhooked]

🌹🌹🌹🌹

to the surprise of ABSOLUTELY NO ONE i am once again yapping on about camcorder kidnapping :)

Carefully, she eases her wrist from River’s grasp and inches closer, moving with a snail’s slowness. “River,” she says, and then, choosing not to overthink it: “Darling, it’s me. It’s Catherine. Can I… can I touch your face?” She waits for his nod, which comes after an agonizing pause, before cupping her palm to the gentle curve of his face, the feverishly-bruised quality of it. Her thumb traces his cheek once, twice. “I’m sorry for shouting. I shouldn’t have. But you scared me, River. Your shoulder’s been dislocated. You can’t move it until I set it.” River’s jaw tenses beneath her palm, but gentles almost immediately. There’s a docile sweetness to the way he leans into her hold, a flower seeking the light of the sun, a cat sprawled under the amber-drenched sky. “Sorry,” he murmurs again, but this time she knows he means that he’s sorry for scaring her. His next ragged exhale whispers against the heel of her palm. “Didn’t mean to.”

[tenderhooked]

writing friendship is so much fun actually more people should write friendship. u get to do all sorts of insane exciting things like have characters tell other characters that they love each other and want to be in their lives forever and it’s all platonic and everything is beautiful. let’s get more people on this stat.

[tenderhooked]

augusnippets day 8 -- reunion/found family!

“Do you think I have gotten too tall?” Sam asks Jamie abruptly, rounding on him with such intensity that Jamie, unwittingly, takes a half-step backwards, eyes blown wide. “Please tell me that you brought a measuring tape.”

“Why the fuck would I bring a measuring tape to the airport,” says Jamie. “And what’re you on about, you’ve gotten too tall?”

“What if he doesn’t recognize me?” Sam says, bringing the corner of his thumb to his mouth only for Jamie to tap it away before he can gnaw. “If I’ve gotten too tall, what if he doesn’t recognize me and he leaves without us and he’s lost out in the city for weeks—”

Oh. Oh. “Mate,” Jamie says, fond, “that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Sam bristles, so Jamie clasps him by the shoulders; presses his thumbs to the hollows of his friend’s collarbone hard enough that he hopes the warmth of his body, the steadiness of it, will seep into Sam’s and allow him to settle. “Your dad would still recognize you if you grew ten eyes and dyed your hair bleach blond. Swear down, he’d probably love you even more.”

“I just don’t think that can possibly be true,” says Sam.

“No, no, ’cause he’d have to love you more to make up for all the self-esteem issues you gained on account of having ten eyes.”

Sam searches Jamie’s face as though he can’t quite believe that was an actual sentence spoken into being, and Jamie takes it as a massive win because if Sam is stuck on the whole ‘ten-eyes-bleach-blond-hair’ of it all, then he’s not stuck on the whole ‘it’s-been-a-year-since-I-saw-my-dad-and-I’m-scared-I’ve-changed-more-than-either-of-us-are-ready-for’ of it all. Finally, Sam’s expression softens, the mountain-peak crease between his brows eases into a vague hill, and he smiles, tremulous and then brighter, brighter, brighter.

“That,” he says, “might now be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” He returns Jamie’s hold, hands to shoulders, and then draws them together for an embrace that Jamie melts into, every fiber of his being aching for the simple press of Sam’s brow to his neck, for the soft scratchiness of his palm to the crown of Sam’s head. “Thank you. I know I’m being—”

“Shut up,” Jamie whispers. “You ain’t being stupid.”

Sam shifts; huffs a little laugh that tickles at Jamie’s skin. “I was going to say that I’m being silly, actually, thank you very much.”

“Oh. But you were being a bit stupid, to be fair.”

“Excuse me—!”

“I must say, I am incredibly glad to see my boys getting along, but I am feeling rather left out of all this hugging.”

The voice that interrupts Sam is deep, and rumbling, and spilling over with the sort of hearth-warmth that makes Jamie think of thick, hand-knit sweaters in the winter, a proper nice pair of socks resting in front of the fireplace, hot chocolate steaming in painted mugs. He nearly cries from it, which really is stupid, and he lifts his head from where it’s buried against Sam to find Mr. Obisanya standing there with his suitcases and a blistering smile splitting across his face like it could crack him in two from the sheer force of it.

“Daddy!” Sam cries, joyful, and lunges into Mr. Obisanya’s chest. Mr. Obisanya catches him and holds him tight, cradles him close as though life never happened and Sam is still a baby. “Daddy, I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you,” says Mr. Obisanya fiercely, and presses a kiss to his son’s forehead. Then, before Jamie can bolt or bury a hole in the ground to die in or hide, he glances up and says, “Jamie! Do you not wish to say hello?”

“Oh, no, I—hello, Mr. Obisanya,” Jamie says, awkward. “I just—”

“Come here,” says Mr. Obisanya. “Join us. And, please, call me Ola. You have more than earned it.”

And when Mr. Obisanya—Ola—catches Jamie by the wrist and drags him to the hug, Jamie doesn’t resist; he brings his arms up and allows himself to melt, slow and sure as sunlight through the window, into this family that—maybe, possibly, yes—he can call his own.

[tenderhooked]

anyways i believe with the entirety of my body and soul that niko and charles should have been allowed to interact at least ONCE in a significant way. water my crops clear my skin heal the earth of all ills etc etc. they would have been so POWERFUL together.

[tenderhooked]

🌹 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

ILUUUUU ASH MWAH MWAH <3 <3 we are ignoring what time it is......

from camcorder kidnapping (of course) (im so sorry i keep yapping about this fic while making absolutely zero moves to post it AJKDLJFS)

“Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t—that’s not what I meant,” says River. He’s nipping along at her heels as she ascends the stairs to the kitchen, and she can hear the desperation in his voice, that tender ache that surfaces when he’s convinced he’s done something wrong and is about to get in serious trouble. It surfaces more often than it should, and over things that certainly aren’t worth fretting about. If Catherine were another person, she would clasp his face between her hands whenever she noticed it and shake him gently, back and forth, until he was assured that he is good, he is good, he is good. As it is, all she can do is indulge his strange attentiveness and wait for it to fade. “I just thought, if you wanted help, then I could—” “You’re very sweet,” says Catherine, “but it’s all right. Would you like a cuppa?” She crosses the threshold into the kitchen and turns over her shoulder in time to catch the mildly disgusted expression that scrunches up his nose. “Of milk?” “Of tea,” she says patiently. “Oh. No, that’s okay. But I could make you a cup—” “River.”