[ Tim isn’t sure why he gets the special honor of being designated “royalty”, or given a collar with his name on it with a suggestion that he give it to someone, but it’s uncomfortable. The attention, his toga, which he fusses with incessantly to try to make it cover more skin than it does, the implication of it, the ownership. It’s a loaded subject for him, having been fighting about it on and off with Hawk since he got here. ]
You don’t need to fan me, I’m fine.
[ It is quite hot. But really, this is ridiculous. Tim stands from the lounging couch he’s been perched on and steps across to the table with his birthday cake on it. A month late, but nice. ]
You should have some cake instead. It’s completely normal this time.
[ He thinks. ]
b. bath house; (nsfw possibly, m/m only please)
[ The concept isn’t new, even if Tim’s never actually been to one. Gay men meet in places like these to hook up, allegedly. That’s what he’s heard. Not that he’s looking for a hookup really, but he’s been reading a lot here. A lot of history, filling in the gaps from 1954 to whatever ‘now’ is. Political history, demographic shifts, wars, art, various civil rights movements. There’s books about gay people as a culture, instead of a cautionary tale. It makes him feel hopeful, inspired, even.
He ought to at least have a look.
It’s hotter in here than it is outside, even with his toga left in a cubby by the door. Tim exchanges it for a pair of shorts and wanders in, already flustered by the sounds he hears, both in the bath and out of it, on the stage, on the tile. Moans and wet slapping of skin, rhythmic splashes. The bath is big enough that Tim doesn’t have to be right in the thick of it though, and finds an unoccupied corner to step in, let the warmth relax him. At least, that’s what he thinks, because as soon as he steps in, someone emerges from under the water’s surface, startling him into a high-pitched yelp. ]
Sorry! I didn’t see you. I can, um. [ He can stare at the drops of water dripping from the other’s lip, or down his neck. ] I can move.
c. claws and teeth;
[ If he’s not dead already, he’s going to die now. Tim falls on his ass, skidding across the grass and into a table, where he groans with discomfort and tries to scramble to his feet as the beast approaches. It’s quicker than him, of course, and gets right up in his face. His arms fly in front of him in a last-ditch effort not to die, but to his surprise, they don’t catch gnashing fangs or sharp claws. He only feels its breath, hot and metallic-smelling, from the blood of its last victim still sifting between its teeth.
Tim makes eye contact with the thing. And then it gets up and walks away. He ought to do the same. It takes him a moment, and a handful of long, deep breaths, but adrenaline carries him to his feet and to the next person, in hiding or already hurt, and he offers them his hand. ]
Stay with me, and you’ll be alright.
[ He can’t fight the thing, but he’s been spared by it. It means something. There’s too much noise and panic to know what, right now, but that doesn’t matter. Avoiding more splashes of blood across the sand is what matters. ]
Tim Laughlin | Fellow Travelers | in-game, safety tag available
[ Tim isn’t sure why he gets the special honor of being designated “royalty”, or given a collar with his name on it with a suggestion that he give it to someone, but it’s uncomfortable. The attention, his toga, which he fusses with incessantly to try to make it cover more skin than it does, the implication of it, the ownership. It’s a loaded subject for him, having been fighting about it on and off with Hawk since he got here. ]
You don’t need to fan me, I’m fine.
[ It is quite hot. But really, this is ridiculous. Tim stands from the lounging couch he’s been perched on and steps across to the table with his birthday cake on it. A month late, but nice. ]
You should have some cake instead. It’s completely normal this time.
[ He thinks. ]
b. bath house; (nsfw possibly, m/m only please)
[ The concept isn’t new, even if Tim’s never actually been to one. Gay men meet in places like these to hook up, allegedly. That’s what he’s heard. Not that he’s looking for a hookup really, but he’s been reading a lot here. A lot of history, filling in the gaps from 1954 to whatever ‘now’ is. Political history, demographic shifts, wars, art, various civil rights movements. There’s books about gay people as a culture, instead of a cautionary tale. It makes him feel hopeful, inspired, even.
He ought to at least have a look.
It’s hotter in here than it is outside, even with his toga left in a cubby by the door. Tim exchanges it for a pair of shorts and wanders in, already flustered by the sounds he hears, both in the bath and out of it, on the stage, on the tile. Moans and wet slapping of skin, rhythmic splashes. The bath is big enough that Tim doesn’t have to be right in the thick of it though, and finds an unoccupied corner to step in, let the warmth relax him. At least, that’s what he thinks, because as soon as he steps in, someone emerges from under the water’s surface, startling him into a high-pitched yelp. ]
Sorry! I didn’t see you. I can, um. [ He can stare at the drops of water dripping from the other’s lip, or down his neck. ] I can move.
c. claws and teeth;
[ If he’s not dead already, he’s going to die now. Tim falls on his ass, skidding across the grass and into a table, where he groans with discomfort and tries to scramble to his feet as the beast approaches. It’s quicker than him, of course, and gets right up in his face. His arms fly in front of him in a last-ditch effort not to die, but to his surprise, they don’t catch gnashing fangs or sharp claws. He only feels its breath, hot and metallic-smelling, from the blood of its last victim still sifting between its teeth.
Tim makes eye contact with the thing. And then it gets up and walks away. He ought to do the same. It takes him a moment, and a handful of long, deep breaths, but adrenaline carries him to his feet and to the next person, in hiding or already hurt, and he offers them his hand. ]
Stay with me, and you’ll be alright.
[ He can’t fight the thing, but he’s been spared by it. It means something. There’s too much noise and panic to know what, right now, but that doesn’t matter. Avoiding more splashes of blood across the sand is what matters. ]
d. wildcard;
[