open post - 2025

[quixotiques]

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barty

[themysciras]

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[gadabouts]

[ as a general rule, barty tries to ditch as many galas as possible. he’s not wholly against the notion of rubbing elbows with politicians and millionaires and kissing the asses of donors, but it’s not really how he prefers to spend his evenings. free champagne and a square meal only goes so far to make up for gritting his teeth while some baby-handed investment banker whines and moans about how his yacht’s been in for repairs for months, his life is so hard, bluh bluh.

but still, he’s not stupid; he knows that he has to do a proverbial tap-dance at least sometimes. generally speaking, anything at boston university he attends - it helps that it’s his home, and he’s able to have silent can you believe this shit? conversations with his colleagues and coworkers. and if the offer or invitation is particularly good, how can he say no?

the louvre. paris. hotel included. of course he’d attend that.

and he’s enjoying himself. the parisian night is chilly enough to offset the massive throng of donors, archaeologists, scholars, and trust fund socialites milling through the museum after dark. there’s a few people he knows he’s been able to catch up with: talk about a new pottery exhibit with cal harrington, ask the rivers about the new scholarship they’re starting, lend an ear as abigail chase bitched about unionization efforts.

and then, out of the corner of his eye - a familiar mane of curly hair. a designer dress. even without heels, towering over the man (unsuccessfully) trying to flirt with her. ]

Diana!

[ barty’s never liked percy delacroix; he feels absolutely nothing about interrupting him. ] Sorry, old chap, I’m going to have to cut in - Diana, I’ve been looking everywhere for you - I can’t find that new display you were telling me about, can you show me?

[sophielicious]

(Sleeping at Peter's is not uncomfortable, perse, but to say it takes some getting used to should be a fair assumption and fact. Sophie's apartment, shared with the other Stepford Cuckoos, is so high in the sky that one can barely hear the commotion and noise from the streets. The cars passing by, ambulances, chatter — although the latter is not something a telepath can escape. His bed is not a smidge as soft as hers, nor does he have the same luxury-level items to regard in his spare time.

Still, his apartment has one thing hers doesn't. Him. It's why she doesn't bitch about the little sore knot on her back, or how the lights of the cars disturbed her sleep a few times. Instead, Sophie nuzzles against Peter's neck, a kiss gently pressed on his skin.)

[combfooted]

[ peter’s apartment is humble, which is a nice way of saying a fixer-upper, which is just a nice way of saying a bit of a dump. he’s patched up some of the creaking floorboards and there’s no mold in the walls, so it’s not as much of a shithole as it could be. but still, his salary from the bugle’s only enough that he can live in one of the historic buildings - so the furniture’s a little mismatched, the corners need vacuuming, the bookshelves are stuffed fill with science textbooks and magazines and dime novels.

sophie, to her credit, didn’t turn her nose up too much the first time she saw it. (maybe she read his mind, knew what was coming). she grumbles sometimes about the flickering light in the kitchen and the sound of the traffic, but she takes the rest with good grace. “it’s like camping,” she says.

but it might help that while they’re in the apartment, they don’t necessarily need to stay in the apartment. case in point: physically, peter parker is stretched out in his bed in some slightly frayed pajamas, lanky limbs every which way, with his girl curled up in the crook of his arm.

mentally? they're at a pool – some sort of lavish rooftop thing, with a cabana bar and big umbrellas. the smell of the ocean, the distant sound of waves. a realm that is clay in sophie's hands. distantly, he can make out four identical girls – though whether the actual cuckoos are here or if it's just background constructs is anyone's guess. he's in one of the pool chair, a pair of trunks nicer than anything he'd buy. ]

You know -

[ he's trying to not stare too openly at her, even as she pads towards his seat with a hollowed-out pineapple with something pink and bubbly in each hand. peter leans over – still making perfect eye contact, thanks - to take one of them. (it's the nice thing about alcohol in the psychic realm – no hangovers. ]

This is nice. Real nice.