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She actually met Steve first, of the two of them. He was an illustrator for a comics company, she herself an editor for the title he headed. He wasn’t the biggest guy but his arms were covered with tattoos, even including his knuckles--they spelled out BROOKLYN, one letter for each finger. Sinthia wouldn’t have thought that she’d find the look appealing at all, with a slim hearing aid stuck in the blonde’s ear over the arm pieces of his glasses. (Which, upon discovering he actually needed, she found she liked more on him than off, the way he squinted at fine detailing in his drawings with them pushed up to his forehead.)

Sinthia met Bucky only later, when Steve wasn’t the one who showed up to her desk to collect the bunch of approved drawings and stories at the end of the week. He was far more of an outright flirt with the sort of crooked, triangular grin (pierced, like his ears, with snakebites) that made something flutter in her stomach. It was impossible not to flirt back--and Sinthia wouldn’t have been particularly interested in trying even if she thought it was feasible, and it wasn’t long before there was mention of coffee after work sometime, which left her smiling even as she enquired after Steve.

“Where’s Rogers?” she asked.

“Hospital,” he replied lightly, though there was something to the look on his face that told her in no uncertain terms he’d rather be there than here. She frowned, but left it at that; the date--though Bucky was primarily the one who called it that--went well for what it was, both of them discussing work and Steve, though from different angles. It was date two that really got interesting, because Bucky brought Steve along in half-laced work boots and a hospital bracelet still on his skinny wrist.

She blinked at them both when they appeared at her table, Bucky grinning and pushing a lock of hair behind his head to show his piercings, and Steve halfway blushing and leaving Sinthia a little confused with her hands still wrapped around her ceramic cup.

“See,” the charming brunet said, “We have this...arrangement, Stevie and me.”
repositorian: (gearheart)
Sinthia holds the little pudgy round robot cupped in her hands, casing cracked and one lens-eye missing and a stubby circular wing snapped off and broken into pieces in her pocket. She does this sometimes--where the boys, the newer generations of androids went out and tussled, got themselves banged up and bent so they needed to be hammered back out, Sinthia collected bits of other discarded droids, the useful ones Darcy could use to repair Steve and Bucky. The boys always needed it.

She’d never collected another whole thing before, though she thought nothing of it when she brought back in the little remote pokobot, still talking to it so it would learn her voice and command language, like a human would have brought in a puppy with the pleading look of but he followed me home can’t I keep him. It was broken, and so far removed from her android iteration that it might as well have been from the Stone Age. Her creased brows and the uncomprehending but worried look did the trick; Darcy repaired the damage as best she could. It’s once-gleaming white polymer casing was now scuffed and gray, one foot mismatched entirely, but it worked and the unsynched eyes would, eventually, follow her. Sinthia kept it on top of the control box for her recharging station and would talk to it, let it turn the lights on and off.

“You know that thing’s not real,” Bucky told her matter-of-factly after Sinthia had almost punched him for jostling the box enough that Poko--her name for the pet robot--had fallen off.

“Neither are we,” she answered, tucking her hair behind her ear as she plugged herself in to recharge for the night.



-----
So a pokobot is my made-up term for something like this, which is a universal remote robot called the apripoko, borrowed from the italian phrase for little by little. Also I have no idea what this is about or when it's set but it came to me. So. Uh. Yay?
repositorian: (my fandom is a total spaz)
So, yeah, I wrote--and finished!--a fic for Sanctuary. It's short and there's no real plot, but it came to me and begged to be written before I went back to sleep. Hence my being up at five in the morning. The fic, cut for sexual situations (not smut, though it's a minor miracle):

Clinical )



Lemme know what y'all think, hm?

Drabble

Oct. 11th, 2013 11:16 pm
repositorian: (Default)
Random and inspired by [livejournal.com profile] saphyria quoting bits from The Sorcerer's Apprentice' to me and [livejournal.com profile] ps_you_look_hot's userpic . One hundred words precisely.



“Don't be foolish, James. You'll never catch him--John is divided between two things, and neither one can ever win.” Tesla was arrogant as ever standing next to the bookshelf, glass in hand. But he was right; James merely huffed out a breath, watching the Serb very carefully. Watson knew he couldn't make an adequate argument against the claim.

“And what two things are those, Nikola? Good and evil?” It would have been so like the man to simplify John into those polar opposites.

“No. Power and control. The power he possesses, and the control he doesn't.”
repositorian: (my fandom is a total spaz)
The whisper through his fingertips leaves Ganymede half-expecting to have stains the color of unsweetened cocoa on his skin as he finger-combs Vlad’s hair. It’s long, much longer than his own has ever gotten, and much better looking at that length, too. It’s no secret the immortal can get high, and that’s precisely where he is right now as he’s playing with the vampire’s locks. Every so often he’ll wind one around a tapered finger and tug on it, watching it pull the man’s face to one side. It must make reading that book Vlad has quite interesting, but the immortal prince can’t quite find the motive to care.

He’s laying spread out in that artful way he has, limbs all akimbo around the cushions of the couch; Ganymede doesn’t ever not look beautiful that way. His shirt’s half-undone and the hookah beside him is warm--the hose is strewn across his lap and up his chest like a particularly inviting sort of snake. The metal bit rests on his bottom lip, and he’s clearly got no problem with producing the dozens of smoke rings he’s watching float up to the ceiling. In fact, the only real problem he can find is that such pretty hair, when loose, falls around Vlad’s face and blocks it from view.

This is a problem.

The solution to which is, clearly, plaiting and undoing it dozens of times over until he’s satisfied that it won’t come undone. He slides the ribbon his companion has been using as a bookmark off his thigh and ties the end of the braid with it, absently fluffing and smoothing the bound ends. Much better.



----
Yeah, it's short and it's silly, but the thread it came from lent itself to that. I like it.

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Alice Bluebonnet Seeks Johnnie Fedora

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