Been offline cleaning so apologies if someone already asked. Do the OTP question list for Ten and The Girl in the Fireplace. :)
ily
who wakes the other one up with kisses
The Doctor wakes Reinette up in the early morning light, shadowed by the canopy of her bed and the uncertainty of what will happen if the king notices he's here. (Sometimes he thinks His Majesty is willfully ignorant, preserving their dignity at the cost of his own.) She laughs and complains of the hour, but she (almost) never fails to rise at his bidding, ready to greet the sunrise with chocolate and his rambles about the stars already fading behind a day-bright sky.
The few times she does refuse, she takes him back down with her.
who cooks for who
Neither of them can cook, but this turns out not to be a problem, because the Versaille staff is snooty but extremely talented, and once they figure out that the Doctor is more than willing to hop into the kitchen and start experimenting on his own whenever he takes a whim to whip up something they don't recognize, they become even more accommodating. The King asks no questions, and the guests of the Royal Court (almost) never mind.
who is the morning person/night person
Reinette loves midnight dancing and greeting the sunrise from the wrong end around. The Doctor can be called out any time, day or night, if a particularly interesting tome is found, or if there is a scientist traveling through the area, or ... well, there are many things that pique his excitement, but none of them lead themselves to a regular schedule. Tres eccentrique.
who is the romantic one
Neither of them trends particularly toward romance. Reinette loves dancing, and also long, quiet talks - but she is at heart a practical woman, more witty than tender, and though her devotion to the Doctor is real, it rarely leads her to make a spectacle of herself. And the Doctor, for his part, is distracted: varying from intensely, intimidatingly present, and somehow, without warning, distant. (Reinette knows then that he is missing his ship, his vessel of the quick path, and she leaves him alone with the grief he tries so hard to hide from her.) Grand gestures are not their mutual stock-in-trade; they love laughter and repartee, quick verbal exchanges and unexpectedly physical ones.
It's not a romance. Not exactly. It's something the Doctor never saw coming, something Reinette dreamed into being in her childhood bedroom before she was the Mistress of France.
It's charm and warmth and a meeting of minds: equality and companionship. Something worth having, anyway.
who is the top when it comes to sex
Reinette. She finds it very daring to shove the Doctor down in her scented sheets - he can smell the rose petals, the lavender of the washing, and something else, something that is always and only Reinette - and climb atop him, straddling him with long, slender, surprisingly athletic limbs. She takes him laughing, her eyes dancing like blue fire at his surprise.
It's almost worth the slow the path to see the look on her face when she arches her spine and bears down on him, there at the end.
who would lead in ballroom dancing
The Doctor has to lead in their dancing - Reinette demands it, no exceptions - but the truth is that they dance together only rarely, their public time taken up largely by other people. Once per ball, perhaps.
But that's all right. They have other things. And she will always boast that she taught that lonely little boy to dance.
who is the more cuddly one
The Doctor never admits that he seeks more touch, not lovemaking but the simple warmth of cradling another body, of being cradled himself, than Reinette does. Perhaps it's because she was right, and he is lonely - has been lonely.
He isn't lonely any more, or not in the same way.
But sometimes it wakes him up at night, and he needs the reminder again.
who is the one to most likely pick the movie they watch
They read books, long lovely books and hilariously bad ones, popular books and intellectual tomes, books of fiction and books on gardening, books of love and books on joy. And, on rare occasions, the Doctor's private notebooks - his journals, of a life well-lived and not yet finished. Something he is waiting to catch up to again.
who is the one who would pay for dates
Madame de Pompadour's allowance is more than substantial, but she hardly feels it is appropriate to use it for the upkeep of her other, unacknowledged, lover. So the Doctor has to find work for the times when they are not together; a trade to make his own way.
He takes, inevitably, to writing, and accidentally invents the genre of speculative fiction a little bit early.
who is the one who would initiate a quicky during classes
Reinette is (almost) always the sexually adventurous one; the Doctor is always so careful - of their positions, of his potential power over a human being, even though that's drastically reduced now that he is separated from the TARDIS. Of all that she could be enjoying without him. So it's no surprise that Reinette is the one who drags him into the conservatory, the orange bower, the grape arbor ... time and time again.
Fic: Tell Me that the Lights Won't Change | Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake (nu52) | pg-13
Title: Tell Me that the Lights Won’t Change
Fandom: DCnu52; Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne, (Jason Todd)
Rating: pg-13; Teenagers swear, okay? It’s a thing. But otherwise, you know it’s meta!fic, more then anything. Also, underage drinking.
Length: ~3.6k
AN: Pro’s been gone for a week and all she got you was this shitty fic.
But yeah, seriously, this is some nu52 Tim + Bruce meta!fic for you (and me, to be honest). Basically we still know next to nothing about Tim, so read this before canon blows it out of the water, next week, yeah?
Also, is it hard for anyone else to write about Early!Tim and not have Jason’s ghost be a huge part of it? I’d argue Jason is more important than Dick is in his development as (not)Robin.
Teaser:
“I’m an adult – I don’t need to hide alcohol.” Is what Bruce counters with. But he’s already up out of his seat and moving his first edition copy of The Old Man and the Sea.
Tim’s back and spine, right at the lumbar, is propped up by two pillows and in one hand he has a pint of holiday eggnog and in the other, the remote to the flat screen that is hung on the wall. The drink is the kind that comes in a paper carton and he knows for a fact that Alfred doesn’t allow in the house.
But Tim takes a swig from the carton, not concerned with the major domo, and Bruce can see the whites on the corners, the start of a thin milk mustache. And he thinks that he would be charmed… Bruce should be charmed at this enigma of a kid, but the fact is that he can’t feel anything. He doesn’t feel anything.
The boy is not exactly shy or a quiet kid, but he’s fairly noiseless inside of the house. Too much space that eats up the noise before it can resonate anywhere. And Tim actually lives in the coach house, just outside the Manor in the back, but Bruce knows that Tim has spaces in the home he likes, he prefers, spaces that Alfred has designated Tim-friendly zones. Books and sweaters and lean deli meats and dark rye bread in the fridge that the boy favors most.
Pickled olives.
Cucumber and cream cheese.
Though, Tim is quick to eat whatever Alfred puts in front of him without any complaint.
Bruce notices as Tim makes half sandwiches out of whatever meat Alfred cooks that day, with relish. He has to shake his head free of memories – remind himself that it’s not Jason in the kitchen. Reminds himself that Jason hated Dijon mustard, preferred Miracle Whip and white bread. Not mustard and swirly rye.
Bruce noted the differences, like how Tim is most fond of the study he’s currently residing in now. It’s not the one off of the cave, but the one with more books and wood and windows. It’s the one his mother liked the best. It’s where Alfred schools Tim once a week, to make sure the boy is up to date on his lessons and grades. He’s up to date with the accurate curriculum.
Alfred leaves updates on Bruce’s desk. Grades and papers and comments that all say pretty much the same thing week after week. He skims them, for thirty seconds, and then quickly, roughly files them away inside a cabinet in his office desk. Or he lets them pile up, like junk mail. It’s just not important. Not a priority.
And there are some absolute truths when it comes to Tim – the new partner -- that scare him – jolt his insides like he’s being electrocuted.
Because Bruce just doesn’t care about Tim’s schooling. Not like he did with Dick or with Jason. He demanded nothing but the best from both of them. It was important and necessary and Jason was so proud when he brought home straight A’s.
But with Tim he just can’t bring himself to care. The boy is clever enough to get away with putting in minimal effort, a few hours a week and maintaining average grades that Alfred then files with the education board of Gotham.
As far as Bruce is concerned, the less time Tim puts into school, the more time Tim has to train. Tim’s an athlete through and through, so the sacrifice to his education is something that’s never seems to be a bother to him. Which works out well, because Tim may be an athlete, but Bruce is horrifically worried about the boy’s self-defense and preservation skills.
He’s worried about the way Tim has no idea how violent it is out there. How this isn’t about a perfect score, mastering a move, it’s about staying alive. Which is why Bruce gives Tim more bruises, more lacerations then he ever did with Jason or Dick. Why he throws Tim around like a rag doll during their morning sessions and never apologizes for it.
Bruce is keeping this one alive even if Tim resents him for it. And Bruce thinks he should be worried about himself. Because he doesn’t feel like a good person when he’s around Tim.
To be fair though, the boy takes it all in stride. Never gripes or balks about the early hours or the brutality – it’s the opposite really. Each bruise make him hiss and narrow his eyes. Every loud slap of body on practice mats is met with a calculated twitch and a renewed determine expression. Alfred frowns more, tells Bruce that he’s teaching Tim poor lessons and lack of care. But Bruce disagrees. He has a feeling Tim does too.
Alfred doesn’t understand that this is care he showing Tim. He’s keeping Tim alive. The first two months and the kid couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. There has been progress made, but it’s slow growth and Tim weighs a buck thirty soaking wet, so they’re working with what they have. And what they have is a good work ethic, and sheer hard-headedness, and blatant disregard for self-preservation – but it’s all working to their favor. Because no matter how many times Tim is thrown or kicked down, no matter how often he gets it wrong, Tim has the lack of sense to not stay down. There’s a curl of a muscle, of a spine, a good shake out, his back or head, and the boy rolls up and does it again.
And again and again.
But something to note with Tim, is that he knows what sports injuries do to careers. He knows when to ice and heat and stop if the pain is right. Bruce and Tim studied Tim’s body scan together. Tim went over his ACL surgery with Bruce in as much detail as possible. Tim tells him about the two concussions when he brained himself on the beam when he was twelve. And the time he broke his left tibia practicing a standing back tuck when he was thirteen. It’s a dangerous sport and Tim was not immune to injury.
Tim tells him flat out that their training is actually quite a bit safer than his bars routine. The bars can’t catch him, or pull a punch.
Bruce hasn’t started him in firearms training yet – he’s ready to revisit that sentence after, though.
So, while Bruce would be hesitant to say that Tim had even half the defensive mind of Jason or Dick, it had been immediately apparent that Tim could take care of his own body. He counts his own calories, makes his own meal plan, he knows what time to set his pace at. And it’s common occurrence to see him like he is right now, somewhere in the manor, with a bag of frozen peas and an ancient looking heating pad.
Tim raises his eyebrows and the corner of one side of his mouth when Bruce enters and leans against the wooden doorframe. Presses his shoulder into the cool wood and crosses his legs at his ankles as he studies the boy in front of him.
“You okay?” Bruce nods to the ankle, propped up and perfectly wrapped.
He watches as Tim’s wrong-blue eyes meet his and then chase a path towards his own appendage. Tim’s face is free of any pain, free of pretty much anything other then wide eyes and a-half smile that looks about as real as the news anchor’s hair. “Oh, yeah. I tweaked it and fell funny on my last jump. It’s fine though,” he takes another swig from the carton, jiggles it a little to mix up the contents, “I just wanted to be proactive about it. I’ll switch to ice in twenty.”
The Bat nods again.
“I’ll be okay to go out tonight – Are we going out tonight?” Tim asks.
Bruce had thought about it, he really had. Christmas Eve was relatively low on crime. Everyone was tucked in their homes, or pathetically, sadly drunk at the few open bars. Bruce knew it was a good night to take Tim out, let him migrate where he wanted, let him take the lead –
But it was also Christmas Eve. And it wasn’t like last year with Jason. An early two-hour patrol, then back to the cave, up to the manor and they’d open gifts at midnight. There was flights of hot cocoa – one with peppermint, another with chili, the last one so dark and thick is coated the insides of Bruce’s mouth.
Last year there had been crazy, gaudy decorations on the front lawn. Mismatched reindeer that blinked red and gold and a giant inflatable Santa that Jason joked they should rig to flip everyone the bird. Dick came over with mistletoe and reindeer antlers on headbands.
It was a hodgepodge of good tidings and fun and it was nothing like his holidays with his parents, or with Alfred. It was familiar and warm and perfect.
It was family.
He doesn’t want to do any of that with Tim. The thought of celebrating any holiday without Jason – with Jason’s body six feet underground – it makes him feel nauseas- something curdling in his belly. It made him clench his fists so tightly that nails dug into callouses in his palms.
It makes him want to curl up in his bed and sleep through the 48 hours so he doesn’t have to think about it for another 364 days.
He looks at Tim and feels nothing. There’s no anger or resentment. There’s only nothing. Bruce notices he’s mostly out of the anger phase of grief. He wonders if that’s because of Tim. If nothing else, Tim is a good distraction.
“Not tonight, Tim. Rest your ankle.”
Tim’s face blanks out, the little wrinkle that Bruce is getting all too familiar with grows between narrowed blue eyes. White teeth chew on his bottom lip, before he blows out a breath and the abused flesh pops out. Tim nods, “Okay. You have things to do right? Like. You’re Bruce Wayne, so… parties and stuff?”
“Not on Christmas Eve, usually.”
“Do you – are you one of those church people?” Tim makes a face and peers inside his eggnog carton like maybe there are answers on the bottom.
Bruce snorts before he can help it, “No – decidedly not religious. No church – you should know that by now.”
Tim’s eyebrows rise up to his hairline, “But that’s a thing – people like… they only do church on major holidays. Like showing up for Easter and Christmas mass and leaving after communion will get you into heaven. Like going to church twice a year will make up for you being a shitty person.”
Bruce levels Tim with a look. If it were Jason, Bruce would call him on the swear. But Bruce doesn’t have the energy to parent Tim, so he lets all of Tim’s swear words slide. “Well. You’ve just insulted my dead parents-“
“God. Sorry,” Tim smacks himself in the face, “I’m fairly positive your parents weren’t shitty people, Bruce, I just mean that,” And Tim pauses, holds out the carton of eggnog to him and nods, “-I just… my parents did it too. The church on major holidays thing. I just think it’s weird how people can rationalize that to themselves. Worship on some arbitrary dates that aren’t even *biblically* accurate and you’ll find yourself another step further into heaven? Come on.”
Tim blinks a few times to rewet his eyes. Tim forgets to blink a lot. Bruce has noticed.
The carton rattles in front of him, “--Want some?” The boy offers with raised eyebrows.
Two steps further into the room and his fingers are on the paper carton, not as cold as it was due to the latent heat of Tim’s own hands.
Bruce hates eggnog, actually, but he finds himself peering into the container, just like Tim did. It’s half empty already and it’s fragrant and sweet smelling. A light cream-color viscose liquid that coats the walls of the carton.
“You—“ Bruce starts, pauses and considers the beverage in his hand, “Why are you so angry about other people’s beliefs?” He raises his eyes in time to see Tim’s light features pull back, like he’d been slapped with that sentence.
The skin on Tim’s lightly freckled nose wrinkles.
“Why should you care what anyone else does with their time or their faith as long as they aren’t hurting anyone?”
Tim’s narrow shoulder shrugs, the blanket around his arms slides off to the side a little, “People do really shitty things all the time in the name of religion, Bruce. Maybe I just think it’s sucky that people are so cavalier with faith.”
Bruce can’t argue with the logic, he even agrees with it to a certain extent. But there’s something that doesn’t sit right with him – to so easily write off something that brings other people peace of mind. That gives him one night a year that he knows is more or less quiet of crime, full of peace and joy.
Bruce isn’t sure that he wants to ruin the ideals – the memories behind Christmas and this holiday. He wants to remember how wide Jason’s eyes got when they got back from patrol and he saw the mountain of gifts arranged artfully from under the tree.
He can’t be concerned with Tim and his pessimism. Bruce dutifully ignores the fact that this is Tim’s first Christmas holiday away from his parents. It’s possible that Bruce should be more concerned about it. About Tim’s ambivalence and avoidance of the issue, but Tim doesn’t really talk about his parents. Never mentions them. Not like Dick did, and not even like Jason.
Alfred is worried, but Bruce? Bruce is just thankful, because talking about Tim’s parents brings up a mess of things he honestly just doesn’t have time for. Tim chose to do this – Tim did it to himself. There isn’t any room for regrets or misgivings.
If Bruce has to learn the lesson of what sort of consequences your actions have, then so does Tim. Better for the boy to learn them early and without the penalty of death.
Tim’s parents are off on the coast of North Carolina. They live in a house that is so close to the sea you can smell the salt in the air.
One of the only things Tim had ever mentioned about his parents was that his mom had wanted to have more children, but it had never been financially feasible.
Bruce Wayne wrote them a very large check before they left, handed it to Jack after the last time he would ever hug his son.
They could send five kids to college with that kind of money. Tim probably won’t go to college.
He doesn’t ask, but Bruce can make inferences about Tim’s childhood. Inferences based on the brief meeting Batman had with them. Casual observations, Tim’s education profile, bank statements and financial records all told a fairly rich history.
It was entirely possible that Tim never had much of a Christmas. Over 60% of the “Drake’s” income went to Tim’s training and schooling. Jack worked two jobs and his mother another. Three salaries, two mortgages and a kid with an Olympic dream didn’t leave a lot of spare funds.
It becomes more and more telling the longer he knows Tim, how Tim felt guilty. Guilty for being a time, money, and energy money pit for his parents. There’s a reason Tim trained so hard, for so long. There’s a reason why Tim thought it was a good idea to steal the Penguin’s money.
There’s a reason why Tim brushed his parents off to work on school work, or fit in another practice.
Tim isn’t a bad kid.
But he was exactly aware of just how much of a drain he was on his parents. Even if his parents in question never minded. Never even thought of their son’s dream as anything but a worthy goal.
Tim is like any other kid – he just wanted to make his parents proud.
One good showing on the world stage – endorsements would follow and everything would level out, but Tim couldn’t give back the time and energy to his parents.
Bruce watches as Tim clicks through the channels – stops when he hears the piano introduction to the Peanut’s: A Charlie Brown Christmas. Bruce watches as Tim’s shoulders curl down, he wiggles into his seat and leans his head back, exposing the a lean pale neck.
“So, we’re not going out?” Tim asks.
Bruce studies the container of holiday beverage in his hands, shakes his head no.
“Do you need me… to do anything?” Tim asks the innocuous question while Charlie Brown comes out of his house talking about Christmas time. Somewhere in that question, Bruce knows that Tim is asking him if he should leave. Because Bruce never tells him just to leave – he doesn’t tell him anything at all.
Bruce takes a quick sniff of the eggnog, speed-reads the outside carton again, before he asks, “Is there alcohol in this?”
Tim has the shame to look guilty, his cheeks flush pink and his eyes widen until they overtake half his face with grey irises. “Not like… a lot.” He admits.
And Bruce wants to ask him where he got it, who bought it for him, or worse, who sold it to the 14 year old. It’s an instinct that he hasn’t had in a while. It shocks his system. Squeezes his heart and throat and before he knows it, he’s taking quick gulps of the sweet liquid.
Tim’s right – there isn’t very much alcohol in there. Not enough to even warm his insides.
He watches as the tip of Tim’s pink tongue sweeps the corners of his mouth, wiping away the dried milk like a cat. And Bruce falls into the soft cushion of the sofa – on the other side of Tim, just to the side of Tim’s ankle wrapped in the heating pad.
The audible sigh is unintentional, Bruce can’t call it back until it’s too late. He hands the carton over to Tim and rests his face in his hands.
The novelty beverage isn’t enough to get him drunk, probably not enough to get Tim anything over a buzz. He needs something more, and he tells himself that he doesn’t care what Tim does on his own time. It works for a few minutes. Before he remembers how pleased Jason looked when he snuck sips of champagne at parties Bruce took him too. Like he got away with something big.
On the other side of the couch, Tim drums his fingers along the carton. Takes another sip.
“You know,” He offers after he clears his throat, “We could always just put a buttload of whiskey in this and really kill this evening.”
Bruce can’t not turn his head to look at the boy, he knows his face is one of barely guarded shock –
“What? Oh come on. I went to boarding school.” He says that like it explains everything, which, in a way that Bruce remembers distinctly, does. “And I already found the fifth of Irish whiskey behind your anthology of Hemmingway.” Tim snorts to himself, “Hemmingway? Really? That was your master hiding place, or did you do it for the symbolism?”
“I’m an adult – I don’t need to hide alcohol.” Is what Bruce counters with. But he’s already up out of his seat and moving his first edition copy of “The Old Man and the Sea”.
The green glass bottle is in his hand and he thinks that he’s allowed one night of weakness. One night and that’s all.
Bruce takes a sip right form the bottle, lips around the neck. It burns and stirs the fire down his throat and into his belly. He takes another sip before he sinks down into the sofa again.
Tim’s eyes are on him – watching his every move with a critical, learning eye, ignoring Snoopy dancing around on the screen.
When Bruce catches Tim’s eye, raises his eyebrow back at Tim, challenging him to say one word. Tim just grins a crooked grin, his nose wrinkles a little in the process and he holds out the carton to Bruce again.
Bruce knows he shouldn’t. He wouldn’t with anyone else under the age of 18, really. He’s not in the habit of getting under-aged teens drunk. Especially not under-aged teens under his care.
But, for tonight, he doesn’t want any responsibility. He doesn’t want to think of Tim – think of anything at all.
So he leans over and pours a careful amount of the amber liquid into the carton, maybe three-quarters of an actual shot. “For the love of God, don’t tell Alfred.”
Tim smiles at him again, agrees by sticking three fingers in the air, “Scout’s honor.”
Tim was never a boy scout, he’s absolutely 95% positive.
Bruce settles back and watches the Holiday cartoon playing on the screen. He takes another lazy sip from the bottle a minute later.
Without thinking he turns, carefully unrolls the heating pad from Tim’s ankle and inspects it. No bruising, very minimal swelling and –
“Go grab an icepack from the freezer.” He steals the carton of eggnog when Tim sets it down on the table and uses the creamy drink to chase and sooth the burn of whiskey. “And… Alfred made cookies.” He adds just as Tim carefully hobbles out of the room, shaking out his ankle.
-This fic is genius on so many levels, starting with the storytelling and ending with the epic, epic formatting. It is a work of coding brilliance in that the entire thing actually looks & reads like comments on an LJ post, or a scrolling g-chat, or a series of texts. Fabulous. It’s also a hilarious fic about a fic writer and his artist falling in love, and dealing with fandom_wank. Given the format, it’s difficult to post a quote, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. If you read fic at all, regardless of the fandom, give this one a shot.
-Arthur is a BNF in the Camelot fandom, and in a Series of Surprising Events, Merlin ends up as his beta. They fall into the most adorable of crushy crushes, but the fact that they’ve never met and, in fact, have no idea of each others gender makes it just the teensiest bit awkward.
And then he opened the comment box on Pendragon’s comment and stared at it. Maybe if he stared like a crazy man, then some words would come up, starting off all blobby like a captcha and then magically forming themselves into exactly the right thing to say that wouldn’t come off like a squealing fanboy. Merlin typed into the box, and then deleted. And then again. And then again. It was like a list.
THINGS NOT TO WRITE TO SOMEONE YOU’VE ONLY TALKED TO TWICE, AND WHEN I SAY TALKED I MEAN A BRIEF ONLINE COMMENT OF ~200 WORDS:
- Your comment made me happy in my pants.
- Did you want to maybe talk about collaborating on something?
- If I was a girl (which I’m not, are you gay? I hope you are) then I would seriously like to have your baby.
- Did you want to friend me? I’m friended to you. You can see all my private entries. ALL OF THEM. Just saying.
- I notice you live in London. I also live in London. Want to get a drink?
Merlin thought about just mashing the keypad for a little while.
Merlin’s weight was low in his hips, crushing their cocks together, and he brought his forehead to Arthur’s, his lips so close that Arthur could feel them exchange breaths as Merlin spoke.
“This is powerful magic,” he said. “It will bind us in ways you cannot possibly imagine. You will be mine, and I will be yours. Guinevere—“
“Is not your concern,” said Arthur, leaning up to press his lips to Merlin’s. “And since she has left me for my first knight, she is not my concern either.”
“Liar,” Merlin replied, his voice only a low rumble in his chest. “Know this, Arthur; if you allow me to mark you in this way, you may stray, but a piece of you will be mine, always mine.”
Merlin pulled back to study Arthur’s face, and pushed up against the tension in his arms, getting his back off the bed and arching up against Merlin’s strength. He wasn’t used to men being stronger than him; he’d never thought that Merlin might be.
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shit! it can't get more meta, it's a fic sex scene roleplaying a fic sex scene.. where can i find one to do this with me?
