Summary: The sun, if they could see it, dawns on another year.
Notes: Happy (belated) birthday to callowaycomputertechnologies / spadebabe!
"So, it's almost midnight."
Much worse, she thought with a smile, taking the proffered glass. She'd had one-too-many this evening already, but regret was for tomorrow morning. "That it is."
He was shy. She could tell by the way he glanced quickly away, his gaze flickering down from her eyes to linger on her rouged lips. Shy, or too polite to ask for something as simple as a kiss.
No matter. Sonja was nothing if not efficient at getting what she wanted, and a smile turned up the corners of her mouth as the seconds counted down to the inevitable. A few more moments, and—
"—Happy New Year!"
Her fingers in his short hair. His mouth, a surprised circle before he softened into the kiss. Her tongue, none-too-gently brushing against his lips. The sound of laughter and fireworks seemed quiet to her, his breath loud and all that she wanted to hear.
It was over far too soon.
"One more?" Not so shy now, this young man.
Sonja grinned roguishly in response. Regret, after all, was for tomorrow.
Summary: Five records, and five ways in which they are enjoyed. The good times, scarce as they are, still roll.
Notes: Happy birthday to shockedandrocked! Enjoy your btsrp main ship primer sampler. (◡‿◡✿)
fsquared (Faolan Crowe/Ferdinand Andres) [ X ]
It takes some wheedling, but Ferdinand consents to taking his hand at last. A few spins around the room and a song later, he lays his head against Faolan's chest, cheek pressed against the roughness of the taller man's coat.
Faolan sings softly, his voice cracking with disuse at first but warming up to a familiar smoothness. This—the broken tiles and darkened ceilings—is a poor stage for him, when he once performed in grander halls for bigger audiences. But none of that lasts, and none of it matters now. His fingers are shot, nerves dead and dying from months spent frozen. The audience is dead or crazy.
The only thing left is Ferdinand.
cajuncranium (Vestor Ashford/Alice Lamont) [ X ]
The record is not something Vestor would have chosen, an admittedly-catchy tune with a man crooning about ruling the world, but under Alice's insistence, he set the needle down on the player. And here they are, the office door thankfully locked and bolted—he made sure of that after last time—as they step around the room, a quick waltz to the lively piano.
"See? It's not so bad, mon cher." Alice grins mid-spin, and Vestor only rolls his eyes with something he'd never admit to being fondness, when the younger man spins back to press up close against him.
science lesbians (Vera Singh/Sonja Calloway) [ X ]
The speakers overhead are faintly crackling with the strains of music. Not her doing, Sonja thinks, but it could hardly be any more fitting given the circumstances. Arm in arm with Vera, their heels clicking smartly against the tile floor. All that's missing is most of the lighting in this section of Rapture, but it's sort of thematic, she supposes.
A kiss, pressed to her companion's cheek. "Isn't this wonderful?"
"It was better when one could take a walk without the added distraction of splicers." Vera's gaze grows softer for a moment. "But a moment to share with you is wonderful."
heartburn (Annabel Clarke/Jin Lee) [ X ]
She's motioning for him to come up and join her, and he has to look away to stop the heat from rising to his cheeks when her skirt kicks up. There's no persuading her when she's there and he's here, but that doesn't mean he should stop trying to appeal to reason.
Reason is something that her presence seems to leave him lacking, though. He's climbing up to join her even as he says, "Annie, I don't think this is safe."
"Jin, I think this is perfectly fine." She imitates him, and laughs from across the short distance that separates them. "I come here all the time. Have you ever noticed how pretty it looks from here?"
He glances down, the city at his feet and twinkling lights below, and looks back to her. "Yeah," he says softly, looking away when her fingertips touch against his bandaged hand, "It's pretty."
fire and brimstone (Allegany Beckett/Isaiah Hall) [ X ]
They've agreed, implicitly, not to discuss that which divides them. His radio transmissions from yesterday that she—and the rest of Rapture with a working shortwave radio—has no doubt heard him make, the way she refrains from sharing her point of view on the situation in the city. Allegiances are what separates them more than anything else.
That's the reason for this. This, being the walks down the hallways while they trip through memory lane, and the shared recollection of songs that remind them of better times. Of times, far away from here.
"You remember songs of heaven which you sang with childish voice," she sings, mezzo-soprano voice clear and sweet. She looks to him, eyebrow raised in a question as she continues, "Do you love the hymns they taught you?"
He joins in, the tenor to her higher range and his hand curling warmly around hers, "Or are songs of earth your choice?"
Summary: His office is his sanctuary, and he, its keeper.
Notes: HAPPY RAPTURE DADENTINES DAY—I mean, happy birthday to parietalcognition! This is a companion piece, of sorts, to this image.
But as they’re not, so he’s won’t.
He smirks, his lips curving against Alice’s, as his lover’s manicured finger slips under his collar, tugging loose the finely-woven fabric from his neck. So that’s where it’s going to go tonight, and he reciprocates the move by deepening the kiss.
Alice responds eagerly, pressing closer against him and the evidence of attraction is immediately apparently. It’s a good thing there’s nobody around to hear through the office’s walls, dampened by bookshelves as they are, when they move from the middle of the room to against something a little more solid.
My head's under water
But I'm breathing fine
You're crazy and I'm out of my mind
'Cause all of me loves all of you
Love your curves and all your edges
All your perfect imperfections
“Why are you doin’ this?”
“This,” Isaiah gestured out into the dark expanse with one hand, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette to float down into the once-roaring machinery below, “All ‘o it. Everythin’. Anythin’.”
“That,” he said, matching vagueness with generality, “Is an existential question best discussed over tea and crumpets.”
Isaiah snorted, but leaned closer to put his arm around his shoulders regardless. High up as they were, the warmth of another human was more than welcome. “Don’t change the subject by pokin’ fun at my heritage,” he said wrly to Andre, “You’re just goin’ to make me hungry.”
“Whiskey and cigars?”
“You’ll have to settle for gin and cigarettes,” was the reply, as Isaiah passed him a metal flask from one of his pockets, “The low-grade sort that’s all ‘round. Passable, unless you top it off with ADAM—“
“—Isaiah.” He cut off the other sharply, turning slightly to make eye contact. “You’re not giving in, are you?” There, in a flicker of blue by the other’s jaw, something under the skin that wasn’t supposed to be there. He noted the way Isaiah kept his shirtsleeves folded down, normal to almost everyone but those who were familiar with his habits.
A sigh, the sound of avoidance as Isaiah insisted, “Andrew, it’s fine. I’ll be fine, and see, this is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout. This whole carin’ thing that you do.”
“Someone has to look after you, since you’re so determined not to.”
By means of protest, Isaiah cut in, “I have Dee and Lawrence—“
“—You know exactly what I mean,” Andrew said, and judging by the pointed refusal of the other to meet his gaze, he did. Sometimes it was an uphill battle both ways to make it past Isaiah’s stubborn nature and blatant disregard for his own well-being. And now with the first signs of splicing damage showing in him, it was more worrying than ever. “Don’t think I don’t know about whatever you have going on with that splicer. You’re set on looking after everyone else so you don’t have to care about yourself.”
“That’s…” Isaiah’s expression shifted from guarded neutrality to one of flat anger, and the same blue-white spark arced under the skin of his jawline. Too many wordless moments later, he sighed softly. “I just want us all safe, and the only way that’ll happen is when Rapture’s free ‘o the parasites festerin’ in her core.”
Andrew nodded, “And for that, you need me.” He knew the frankness was what Isaiah needed, and his hunch was correct when the other nodded silently a few heartbeats later. “Just as I need you if we’re going to make this city whole again.”
Isaiah sighed again, the exhalation of breath trailing off into a low laugh that Andrew could feel. “You’re a fool, Andrew Duncan, but I’m glad it’s you.”
30 days of BTSRP NSFW fics, Day 3: Annabel Clarke / Jin Lee, post big-daddy takeout sex.
Apologies to angryannabel and reversaltechnician.
“Is it dead?” he asks, regarding the still mountain of the guardian’s form warily. The Little Sister fled ages ago but her protector just wouldn’t let them be; they’d been left with no choice but to fight or die, and now that it’s over, there’s no point in pursuing a false lead.
“Y-yeah,” Annabel hops over cautiously, a shimmer of heat and flame wreathing up her wrist. It doesn’t hurt to be too careful. She kicks the metal helmet with a scuffed shoe, the sound resonating briefly. “I think so.”
“Better check for a pulse.” Jin steps over to the helmeted figure, and puts all of his strength into giving it a solid whack with his spanner. There is no movement from it, and he grins back at her. “Yeah, it’s dead.”
Their nerves are strung tightrope-taught over the glass-shard edge of adrenaline, and he doesn’t realize that they’re both taking steps towards each other. Not until his hands are at the small of her back, her fists balled up in the lapels of his coat, and mouths are hot against each other’s. She tastes of blood from her bitten cheek and the salt of sweat from the fight, of sweetness and sorrow, and he can’t believe he’s actually kissing the only woman he knows will have his back for sure when they’re burning down the walls around Rapture.
Annabel breaks away first, a huff of a laugh warm against his lips. “We did it. We actually did it.”
“We definitely did.” He draws his hand down the curve of her hip, and she presses closer to him with a shiver. There’s a shared look that passes between them before they’re running hand in bandaged hand, whooping as the wind cools their flushed faces.
No one makes their presence known immediately when they stumble into the rebel hideout, hearts still hammering in their ribcages. Shoulders heaving with giddy, breathless laughter, Annabel half-drags him, and Jin half-tumbles with her into his bunk.
“Annie,” he groans as she pushes up his sweater, moving to straddle him. It’s not that he doesn’t want this—far from it—but she is hot and ever-so-tempting against him, and he needs to know. “Do you—”
“—I’m not a kid, Jin,” Annabel cuts him off, her small hands curling into his short hair. She smiles mischievously before grinding her hips against him teasingly. “I can decide what I want for myself, you know.”
He moves his hands lower, creeping up under the hem of her skirt, testing the waters so to say, as his fingers work their way down. “Do you want this?”
“Of fucking course I do, you idiot.” She wrinkles her nose in that way of hers, the particular expression that Jin’s grown to recognize as Annie determined to get what she wants. He shudders as she guides him into her, and says between her own gasps, “You’d have waited until the sea dried up before asking me out.”
Her blonde hair curls softly over her shoulders, and the scratch of his sweater against his back is rhythmic. “I would not.” Jin smiles up at her, touching her cheek with a finger, and there isn’t much talking to be done after that.
Summary: They don't need music to dance, not when they've harmony of their own.
“I can hum something, kitten,” Faolan says quite simply, and he catches the momentary quirk of the man’s lip upwards into a smile.
He’s circling Faolan even as he pipes up with another complaint, an ever-decreasing spiral inwards to the gravity of his dearest companion. “I can’t dance.”
“Could’ve fooled me the last time we did.”
“The floor is broken.”
“So is the rest of Rapture.”
He’s almost forgotten how tall the other man is. Hands touching now, Ferdinand looks away. “You’ll laugh.”
“Mo chuisle,” Faolan sighs close to his ear, lips a breath away from his cheek, “Ferdinand. Please.”
Ferdinand nods just once, bumping his head against Faolan’s chest wordlessly. Nothing more needs to be said, understanding of each other’s unspoken language.
With Faolan’s hand in the small of his back, they move in a one-two-three step, slowly but surely moving across the debris-strewn floor in some semblance of a waltz to the tune hummed under Faolan’s breath. If Faolan notices Ferdinand stepping all over his feet, he makes no sign of it.
Ferdinand leans his head against Faolan’s chest, and it’s almost as if it’s 1958 again, and they’re cautiously pacing circles around each other until they meet somewhere in the middle. On a deserted stage, twirling the quiet hours of the morning away to a stolen record player, when life was right and things were going his way.
A misstep and they’re back in 1959 again. He hazards a glance up to Faolan’s face, and in spite of himself, Ferdinand smiles. No matter what they’ve lost, they still have this. Maybe it’s enough, and when Faolan stops humming, they still dance on.
