#lcgistics

@effronterous/ @lcgisticsSend 💕 for what my muse would say when accepting a proposal from yours. 

Understand: it’s not like anyone deliberately let them go to Vegas unsupervised. But it’s late, and they’re drunk, and even Frank has been pulled away to other matters.

( it’s fine, will be fine. they handled Reno alright, and Rod only confessed his feelings in the awful Serbian-Russian-German slurry that hardly anyone understands. How bad can Vegas be?

famous last words, haha )

Danny has been glaring, maybe, at the people Rod talks to. ( it’s fine, it doesn’t matter. no one wants him these days, haha ) Rod has been acting out, maybe, to get Danny to look at him instead. There’s-- a little bit of a problem, a little bit of a scuffle, some split lips before Danny grabs him by the wrist and hauls him away.

They end up-- somewhere. Still within the neon lights and the musical bleed-over from at least three different clubs, leaning against each other. Daniel Liu is not, objectively, that much taller than Roderick S. Kasun, is more Present than Rod has ever seen him; has not let go of his wrist. 

Danny says ‘You should marry me.’ and Rod says “Yeah, okay.” like it’s that simple, like there is a world where there are not consequences for leaning in and tasting the blood and liquor of Danny’s lips.

@effronterous/ @lcgisticsdetective starters

Of all the hotels in all the towns in all the world, he is in this one; listening to the rain pour down and watching the neon-half-light stream in though the cracked Venetian blinds.

Liu is not much taller than Sweetheart is, and drunk, which is only surprising in the sense that he wasn’t drunk sooner. ( Liu is-- pretty, in the way that good honest detectives get themselves into trouble over. Sweetheart is neither good nor honest, objectively, but it doesn’t seem to be keeping him out of trouble here )

Sweetheart is here because his intended hotel is closed on account of arson, and Sweetheart is here because he makes poor choices when pretty faces are involved; like lying to criminals about people they ask you to find because you’re curious. It’ll end predictably one day, but for now he can lean on the wall next to the window and admire the way the rain softens the harsh edges of city light on high cheekbones.

“You know, I get that a lot. Doesn’t seem to have stuck yet.”

The last time he saw Daniel, there were eight tallies around the tattoo on his left forearm. When he reaches for the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray for atmosphere, there are twelve.

@thcpure/ @lcgisticssend a 🔪 for some AU nonsense

“So they do let you out of the archives! Delightful.”

Roderick’s voice is warm and friendly when he calls out to Louise as she passes. There’s nothing technically wrong with a Seelie being out after dark, even if he’s usually in his club; and nothing wrong with talking to a Shadowhunter, even if most don’t. 

( there might be something wrong with the way the alley entrance he’s leaning against is twined with climbing flowers, or the way the world warps just behind him; but what’s a stolen chunk of Brooklyn between friends? he’ll put it back before dawn, probably, maybe, if he feels like it. )

@effronterous/ @lcgisticsRichard Siken Starters

“Sure.” 

Roderick can do that, isn’t really all noise and flash and aggression, doesn’t have to talk, honest.

He isn’t holding Danny’s hand, really, just his arm. There’s a cut, a bandage, low enough light in the room to see the way Danny’s blood shines through. ( he’d offered iratze, once, had his stele half-way out of his pocket before he remembered. no runes for downworlders, haha ). He drags his thumb over the bandage, watches the way the light changes, does not think about blood and blood and what it means for the both of them.

Roderick understands this ends in heartbreak, he does. 

It’s just– nice to sit with Danny’s arm in his lap, their shoulders touching. Even in the silence, even in the dark, even knowing it can only last a little while.

There’s a little sideways breath of laughter, a line he read somewhere in the archives, another drink. “Dionysus has ruined us.”

That’s the reason, surely, surely, why he’s like this; why his chest hurts so much when he shuts up and barely leans into Danny.

@mutav & @lcgistics // send ' ● ' for my muses reaction to yours sucking/licking their finger. // accepting. 

he’s not expecting it. 

his right hand is occupied with a pencil, etching shadows into a drawing of francis curled up on his bed - an image that’s been burned into his memory. his left is free until hers curl slowly around it and lift it. he ignores it right up until the moment he feels her lips slide around his index finger. 

immediately, without thought and only base instinct, he gasps. his eyes dart over to her, slide down to her lips wrapped around his finger, and fuck.

fuck. 

the pencil slips from his fingers as his own lips part, his vision blurring out everything but her, his senses focused only on this sensation. a moan slips past his lips as her lips move down further, her tongue sliding across the skin, but he can’t bring himself to give a shit. 

“fuck, frank.” his voice is already breathy. if there’s one weakness of his that gets him the most it very well might be this one. “you little tease.” he leans back against the couch, still watching, the sketch forgotten. everything else forgotten. he groans again, then reaches for her. a hand bunching up the fabric of her shirt to pull her into his lap. 

@mutav & @lcgistics // ask my muse about a relationship of their’s with another muse. no questions are off limits. they will answer anything. // accepting. 

he tries not to think about it, but when he does he can’t ignore that small pang of something that feels like jealousy swell in his chest. maybe it’s not jealousy. it could be nostalgia, but he can’t say.

it’s similar to how he could never say who they were when they were together, when they weren’t together. who they are now, who they will be five years from now. 

( sometimes he knows when she’s with rod. he doesn’t know why, but he can just ... he can feel it, and that irritation, that something like jealousy, that nostalgia, burns a hole right through his chest. ) 

but he keeps his face a neutral mask as best he can. he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, then reaches for a cigarette like the question just rolls off of him. it’s nothing. it’s no big deal.

( what a lying sack of shit. ) 

@mutav & @lcgistics // twin peaks ask meme // accepting 

the anger, the jealousy, the hurt - it all rolls off him like a crackling lightning storm. ( naturally. how else do his emotions operate? ) he can’t help but stand there in stunned silence, leaving the aftermath of his, their, yelling to settle heavily on his shoulders, and he feels like slumping down to the floor, but somehow he manages to stay on his feet. 

her words echo around in his head, bouncing around painfully from one point of his skull to the next. it feels like a migraine is building, the air smells like ozone. one fist clenches at his side as if it’d be enough to stop the small spark of lightning from emitting from his fingers.

( it isn’t. it cracks louder than even he was expecting. ) 

they’ve never spoken deeply about their relationship. it’s never really been anything more than a good fuck and someone to spill your deepest, most intimate secrets to. that should be a sign that he needs her, and that small angry voice in his head knows it.

that small angry voice is in full control..

sam wright needs francis bauer. he hates it. he hates needing anyone, but he needs her, and, fuck, she doesn’t need him apparently. oh, fuck you, frank, he wants to say. 

there’s an unfamiliar pang in his heart and the pain flickers across his eyes. when he’s this emotional it’s difficult to hide behind the carefully crafted mask that he’s built for himself. 

“well, fuck okay.” he tries to level out his voice. impassive. neutral. it’s all in contrast to his body language, the look on his face, the connection they share that they know nothing about. ( the connection that lets them know everything about each other, lets them feel everything about each other. ) “then call me when you fucking want me, or don’t call me at all. maybe that’s for the fucking best.” 

his feet feel like lead as he turns away from her, the muscles of his back coiled tight with anger and hurt and frustration and hurt, hurt, hurt. he grabs his jacket from her couch and drags his lead feet to her door. 

“bye frank.” 

@mutav/ @lcgisticsnot technically this proposal meme but you get the idea

“In general, or…” He is… a little distracted by Ivan’s weight in his arms, the rise and fall of his deer chest. Roderick had not– expected, really, to ever live long enough that someone would trust him to hold a child. ( should have been dead by twenty or twenty-two or five or thirty, at the latest, haha. should have been chased off when Bauers first laid eyes on him, or shot when he wouldn’t leave Danny be. but he wasn’t, and they didn’t, and now there is a perfect breathing weight in his arms )

He wouldn’t mind marrying Frank, certainly. He loves her in the half-terrified way that he loves Danny, sleeps better when she tucks herself into bed behind him with her lips on the back of his neck. His mouth aches, sometimes, when he thinks of the way she kissed him when he told her he wasn’t okay. He could be happy with her.

( he sleeps best between Frank and Danny, all tangled up in each other and insulated from the world; has kissed both of them, slept in both their beds. he is not supposed to want things, really, besides what he has been given; but if he is wanting he might as well be a Problem and hold on with both hands )

“I don’t think what I’d like to do is technically legal.” Not in the states, anyway.