#even manky vests

[jessieren]

Mr Evans looking fine in a tux whilst also managing to act and direct

Does this man ever sleep???

Bonus profile shot…

[jessieren]

Never too late for Sweaty Shaun in a white t shirt

I'm sorry, I've been falling behind lately, my trip to London is approaching and I still have many things to take care of before departure ...

I hope you'll be delighted by a few videos featuring a white t-shirt in the spotlight and a sweaty Shaun as a bonus ...

[onetoomanyfandomfixations]

SPIDERPEOPLE REACT TO YOU ASKING FOR A HUG

-

MILES MORALES (1610)

Bro is So awkward about it

Happy to give you a hug though!

Doesn’t quite know where to put his arms

Squeezes SO tight

Firm believer in Miles having cold-ass hands

Tbh he needs the hug just as much as you do

Does a Lot of talking

“Hey, hey, hey, you good? You don’t look good - NOT THAT I’M SAYING YOU’RE UGLY, S H I T”

He’s doing his best, okay 💕

GWEN STACY

Doesn’t really *do* hugs

(She has the most sensory issues, tell me I’m wrong)

Will only hug you if you’re genuinely distressed

Another really awkward hugger

Uses Really nice shampoo - probs like,, a sea salt scented one or something

Is more likely to give you less intense physical touch

Shoulder bumps, leaning against one another, etc.

HOBIE BROWN

Top love language is physical touch

Probably realises you need a hug before you do tbh

Very emotionally intelligent

Gives very comforting hugs

Smells like cigarette smoke

And his manky-ass leather vest (mf does not wash this, tell me otherwise)

“Ay, ay, you good luv?”

“E’rythin’s gon’ be ok, don’ stress it,”

PAVITR PRABHAKAR

Probably a bit upset you even had to ask

Just hugs you out of the blue, expects you to do the same

Unironically calls you ‘bestie’ and ‘bro’

“Bestie!! Hi!!”

Always close by

Will be flustered if anyone points out how much he thrives off of affection

Smells like coconut oil

Please point this out, he’s very proud of it

PETER B PARKER

Dad hug 100

Very warm

The most comforting hugs

“Hey, hey, whats wrong? C’mere,”

The most likely to focus on comforting you instead of fixing the problem

The best one to have a gossip with

Will make you have a mandatory movie night with ur fave takeout

MAYDAY PARKER

Concerned babbles

Notices that something is wrong before any of the others

Tugging at Peter and Hobie to get them to notice

A Very serious face as she babbles and pats your cheeks

Best pep talk you ever got

The only time she’ll actually stay still

Will probably fall asleep on you

MIGUEL O’HARA

No

Like Gwen, not happening unless you actually really need it

Surprisingly good hugs

Very Warm

Too busy to stop and hug you, so will pick you up and continue doing whatever

Starts muttering in Spanish

“Ven aqui bebe,”

“Estás bien, te tengo”

Will lowkey forget that you’re there

Gets upset when people don’t take him seriously until he remembers that you’re clinging to him

SPIDERNOIR

Unrelated; but so cut he didn’t appear in AtSV

Another awkward hugger

Will try, but doesn’t quite know what to do

Wayyy better with verbal affirmations

“Doll, everything okay?”

“Come tell me all about it sweetheart,”

Another bitch with cold hands

Will let you fall asleep on him

[rcreveal]

First Edition

First Edition

NanoMutt Prompt a day challenge Day 29: how you said I love you-slowly, like honey dripping from your lips

The bell to the bookshop rang and Crowley looked up from his Hubble Telescope book to see Aziraphale entering.

“Where have you been!?” asked Crowley, taking in the wind chapped cheeks, dripping nose, and overbright eyes.

“I got it!!!!!” cries Aziraphale brandishing a cellophane wrapped book.  “First edition, hardbound, illuminated, signed by the author!!” 

Crowley came over to look at the book.

 ��It only took me 36 hours!!!”

“Thirty six hours?  Where!?” replied Crowley, looking up to see a customer walking towards the door.  “Oh no, you don’t.  We are so closed,” and the blinds fell down and the ‘Very closed’ sign turned over in their face. “Don’t even!” Crowley snarled as he sensed their hand lifting to knock and sent them off on a long circuitous route to the other antique bookshop in Soho. 

 It was hovering around freezing and had been spitting rain for days, dead manky weather.

“I was in line on the pavement outside the bookshop, of course,” exclaims Aziraphale.  “I was standing next to a woman who wants to hike the Appalachian Trail in America!  It’s over 2100 miles long and everyone gets ‘Trail names’, so we were giving each other ‘Line names’!!” burbles the angel.

“Don't,” says Crowley.

“My line name is ‘Iron Bladder’!

“Please don’t. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know,” said Crowley.

“Because I didn’t leave the line the whole time to use the facilities!” gushed Aziraphale.

Despite himself, Crowley had to ask, “How did you manage that?”

“Turned my kidneys off,” said the angel simply.

Both eyebrows raised and mouth open in gobsmacked amazement, Crowley just stared at the angel a moment, looking him up and down critically.

“Ri-ight,”  taking the angel firmly by the arm, “You’ve addled yourself with your own poisons,” while gently taking the book off him, “and half frozen yourself from exposure,”  Crowley started to steer him towards the warm bath he’d just miraculously drawn.

“Be very gentle with that!  It’s going to be a collector’s item, I’m sure!” Aziraphale looked tenderly at the book.

Crowley thought it certainly had a pretty cover, by someone called Neil Gaiman, whoever that was.  Crowley put it down gently on the angel’s desk, while Aziraphale tried to circle out of Crowley’s grasp to watch the book.

“There.  Your book is safe.  The shop is closed.  Let’s get you seen to,” and Crowley managed to get the angel headed all the way up the stairs on about the third try.

Taking off Aziraphale’s wet coat at the bathroom door, Crowley continued to divest him of his wet vest, wet bowtie, wet shirt, wet undershirt, sitting Aziraphale down on the bathroom bench, Crowley started on his wet leather boots, wet socks, wet trousers, and even his boxers were cold and damp.  The angel’s skin was cool and clammy and his toes were white.  

“Feel your toes much, angel?” Crowley asked as he gently lowered Aziraphale into the bath with the water circulating gently.

“No?” said Aziraphale.

“You will,” Crowley said grimly.  What to do first?  He cleared the poisons from the angel’s blood before suggesting, “How about you turn your kidneys back on now, angel.  And, I imagine you didn’t drink, eat, or sleep that whole time either.” Crowley said sarcasticly.

“No,” confirmed Aziraphale, completely missing it.

“Having so much fun with the crazy humans, you forgot you aren't a crazy human yourself, hmm, angel?”

Aziraphale just looked at him sleepily from the warm water.

“I’m going to nip downstairs to fix you something warm.  Be right back.  Stay. in. the. tub!” Crowley wanted to save his miracles for when Aziraphale’s frostbitten toes started to warm up.

When he came back up the stairs, a tray loaded with warm cider spiked with hydration salts, Aziraphale looked quite uncomfortable.

“Would you be so good as to look at my feet again, Crowley?  I’m having a little trouble with my miracles.” Aziraphale winced painfully, but he hadn’t been able to miraculously heal his feet. They were swelling now and a few little blisters were already forming on the toes.  

Handing him a warm drink, Crowley said, gently, “Certainly, angel, they’re mostly thawed now, that’s why they hurt. Put them back in the water, there’s a good chap.”

“They hurt a whole, very, lot, Crowley,”  Aziraphale said pitifully, starting to sip the cider.  When he didn’t complain about the slight salty flavor, Crowley knew he was still addled from hunger and lack of sleep, but the circulating bath was at least warming him up. 

Crowley miracled the frostbite away.  Aziraphale gasped in relief, “OH!” and the words dripping from his lips, still a little dazed, “I,” “Love,” “You!”

Crowley smiled as he helped the angel out of the bath, toweled him off, bundled him into his favorite pajamas, and tucked him into bed.  Where he started to snore.

“Love you, too, angel,” Crowley smiled as he settled into an armchair in the bedroom with his Hubble Telescope book and a mug at his elbow. 

Shaking his head, “Iron Bladder!”

[tf2hcs]

can i get uhhhhhhh.. trans merc head canons?? maybe found family?? thanks!

you can DEFINITELY get trans merc headcanons. comin up hot. i have so many headcanons pertaining to the mercs being trans that i can’t fit them into one post, so i’m just gonna do stuff related to transitioning here, and if you wanna hear about how i think they realized they’re trans or came out, ill do a post about that too

Soldier:

you know how cis people think that you have dysphoria ur whole life and then you get The Surgery (The Surgery) and it all goes away that very day? and that’s just. it? solider is the only person on earth for whom that holds true

he has rod-insert phalloplasty and double incision top surgery

Jane Doe is actually his real birth name, it doesn’t give him dysphoria so he just kept it

his phalloplasty used his arm as the donor site, so he’s got a patch of pinkish skin on his left arm

he transitioned pretty early on, maybe in his early twenties. he’s known he’s trans since he was a kid

shaving gives him INTENSE gender euphoria

Scout:

he just went on T and boy is he excited

he runs in his binder (dumb) and frequently binds with bandages (dumb), so he has at least one deformed rib. twinsies 

like as SOON as he finds out medic is trans he asks for top surgery & gets it. he gets periareolar top surgery

when medic explains to him that periareolar top surgery keeps nipple sensation intact but double incision doesn’t he immediately starts calling the other mercs “numb-nips”

“it’s my shot day someone come stab me in the așs”

he didn’t choose his own name, his mom chose it for him when he came out. if he chose it it would’ve CLEARLY been tommy, as a tribute to tom jones

Medic:

double incision top surgery

i know this is wildly unrealistic but it’s tf2 so i will claim it. medic gave himself top surgery and instead of giving himself nipple grafts he just like, carved a smiley face and star of david on there

he knows the most about trans health and history out of all the mercs (partially because he’s old, partially because he’s a doctor, partially because he’s more involved in the community than the others)

because of this the other mercs come to him for help with trans issues a lot

he wants to have a baby biologically SO bad. so so bad. i think i get this headcanon from how lovingly he holds that baboon baby in the comics

he works really hard to preserve his fertility throughout his transition and as he gets older. he doesn’t end up being able to have a baby until he’s in his 50s but he’s so happy when he does

i could go off about my dad medic headcanons for hours but ill save that for another post if u guys request

Demo:

double incision top surgery for this guy too

talks about being trans all the time (every time i watch meet the demo and he says “i got a manky eye, i’m a black scottish cyclops” i mentally add transgender to the list)

constantly jokes about how he “blew it off” (you know what “it” is)

he has relatively bad dysphoria his entire life, but being open about it really helps

he doesn’t even know soldier is trans until he asks about the skin graft on his arm. he sees him use his rod implant and he just accepts that that’s how penises work

you know how being skilled with explosives runs in the degroot family?? my personal headcanon is that transness is also genetic to the degroots. both of demo’s parents were trans. ill talk about this more in another post if u guys want

Heavy:

no top surgery, his chest is a little large compared to a cis guy’s but his overall size makes it look more normal

if he ever does get top surgery, though, he gets inverted T/anchor incision

he has PCOS. he got a hysterectomy when medic was rooting around in there for the first time and noticed the cysts (”there will be so much more room in here once we get rid of your uterus!!” “room for what?” “…oh, you know”)

i think he might get full meta?? (as in metoidioplasty) i cant decide if he’d want a vaginectomy though. help me decide

Spy:

double incision top surgery. he paid top dollar for it, it’s very nicely done

he refers to his top surgery as a “mastectomy” (which is the correct term but like, who says that)

he gave birth to scout. he was pregnant when he met scout’s mom, and after he gave birth to scout he ended up leaving him with her. i cant decide if it was more of a “can you please take my baby” situation or a “im going to the store to get milk” situation. either way though i don’t think scout’s mom would’ve objected to keeping him, he was an adorable baby

he owns so many packers. he gets them custom made. he has them displayed in his closet like designer wigs

Sniper:

no surgery at all! he never plans on getting it either. that’s why he has the vest

his chest is like, small and somewhat muscular. you guys have seen skinny trans men with muscle tîtty before i don’t have to explain this to you

actually i want you to take this discord screenshot. i said this last thursday

he’s one of the most obviously trans mercs because he just insists on dressing like he based his outfit off the wikihow article for how to pass as male

i can say a lot more about my trans hcs for sniper in another post but im trying to keep this one at a readable length (failed step one)

Engineer:

no top surgery!

i think he has simple meta or maybe full meta without a vaginectomy (*epic rap battles of history voice* you decide)

he transitioned much later in life than the other mercs, his transition only actually started like five years ago

Pyro:

they’re agender!!

AFAB with no surgery or HRT

they use they/them pronouns or alternating he/she (”he’s not here, is she?”)

there’s not much to say about pyro’s gender! they just don’t have one

OH HOLY SHIT DO THE MERCS THROW THEM A GENDER REVEAL PARTY

ASKFLDLJSDKFLJDSFLKSDJFDLSKFJLSK

BONUS

Miss Pauling:

you know how when some trans women start hrt, they get really bad cravings for pickles? miss p has that like hell

she eats a hot pickle in her car every single day. it gets to the point where the people who work the graveyard shift at mcdonalds remember her (she has a habit of ordering “a fry container full of pickle slices”)

she takes estrogen but she doesn’t have any surgery! i dont think she ever gets any

scout very nervously explains to her that he’s trans at one point and all she can do is blink and say “did you think i was cis”

thank you for taking this journey with me. now imagine how long this list would’ve been if i didn’t narrow it down

[tommyplum]

- the time before that and the other time after | eames/yusuf, eames/arthur for the eames’ stupid cupid 2020

It's not exactly a vacation; it's not exactly anything, other than a port in a temporary storm.

notes: content warning for amnesia. thank you to my dearest boy john for reading this over and preventing embarrassing mistakes with the british idiom <3 -maggie

"Don't be bloody ridiculous, Eames," Yusuf says, as Arthur links his fingers with Eames's, already turning to step out of the door's threshold into the pounding midday sun. Eames smiles, lips parting to say something, but Yusuf shuts the door.

---

eighteen days before that

"I wouldn't do this if there was any other way," Arthur said, and his mouth was tight at the corners, already flat eyes going flatter in the way that he did when he was hiding his distress. Arthur's eyes reminded Yusuf sometimes of an ancient nanny goat that his aunt Karima had, at her home in Arusha when he'd visited as a boy. She was a pretty goat, but she'd look at you with those strange flattened eyes and you'd wonder if she was thinking about her hooves meeting your chin.

Eames chose that moment to say, "It's enchanting how you talk about me as if I'm a potted plant. Should I go stand in a suitable decorative nook?" and Arthur buttoned his lips tighter, smoothing uncharacteristic rumples from his suit vest, embroidered with tiny fleur-de-lis. 

"I'm doing what's best for you," he told Eames, but looked at Yusuf. "We're going on a job and it'll be hard enough with Cobb forging in your place. We can't lose this contract. Or this client, for that matter, and once you're … yourself again, you'll agree with me."

"Can't imagine there's altogether much we agree on in any version of reality," Eames murmured, fixing his shirt-cuffs. Yusuf, always a potted plant, cleared his throat a little and said, "I don't mind, honestly. These things happen when you use compounds that haven't been rigorously tested. I've seen it before and I know what to do." He smiled at Eames, and that, at least, felt natural in this entire unnatural situation. "You're in good hands."

Arthur raised his eyebrows slightly, the way a faintly exasperated but mostly worried child-minder would at their recalcitrant charges, and Eames nodded, looking down for a moment before raising his head with a bright, cheerful, entirely artificial smile. "I never did have many sleepovers as a boy. We'll make up for lost time, eh?" and his hand clapped down on Yusuf's shoulder.

"A fortnight," Arthur said to Yusuf, and even as he was saying it his face shifted from concentrating on The Situation With Mr. Eames to The Inception Job At Hand. "Maybe a few days more, but under a month. We'll contact you as soon as we get back."

"Yes, of course," Yusuf said courteously, and heard himself make the banal rote addition, "--no rush, take your time."

Arthur gave a smile flatter than a nanny goat's eyes. "Time, Yusuf, is the one thing I never own enough of to take."

---

seven days once that happened

"If you won't let me dream." Eames said, "at least take me out. I'm going mental cooped up in here all day, and it wouldn't even need to be anything special! It's all new to me! That's the good part of temporary Somnesia, mate -- everything old is new again."

Yusuf grimaced at the term that Eames had come up with for his dodgy-Somnacin-induced amnesia, although secretly he loved it, adored the puckishness of how Eames played around with everything -- words, clothes, food, names, bodies. "You do dream," Yusuf pointed out pedantically, "you'd be in much worse shape right now if you couldn't dream under your own steam. But you can't go under, not until your condition clears."

"Yessss." Eames got off the settee, coming over to where Yusuf was sitting at the dining table in his glasses, going through notes on a test formulation of clomipramine with an adjusted active metabolite (terribly engaging stuff, Yusuf thought, at least if a person -- such as himself -- was smart enough to understand it, unlike whoever'd been employed to run the PASIV that had put Eames in this state). Eames folded his arms on the table, glancing over the notes before nudging himself, full-body, like an enormous dog, against Yusuf. "I know all that, and I accept it, and I am grateful for your conscientious nursemaiding. Now take me out and let's get a proper meal, and a few drinks, and think about something other than sodding tricyclic compounds for a change."

"But I know so much about tricyclic binding profiles!" Yusuf protested, even as he let Eames drag him up from his chair, chivvy him into the bedroom, choose out clothes and get him dressed and aim them out the door and down the street. 

"Yessss!" Eames said again, only this time with much more bounding cheer as he beamed and took in the busy streets, the colours of the clothes and the sky and the trees, the smell of hot pitch and motor exhaust gusted away periodically by salt breezes. "If you tell me that you spend most of your days in your musty little house with your manky little cat poring over lists of molecule chains instead of coming out here, Yusuf, I'll weep, I really will."

Yusuf stuffed his hands in his pockets and angled past a stray yellow dog lying panting happily on the sidewalk. "I do work there," he pointed out, faintly miffed at this summation of the home he'd so generously shared with Eames the past few days. "My mother decorated it."

Eames made a face of contrition, although it was there and gone in the space of a pretty girl passing by riding a bike with a pretty boy behind her, both of them returning the smile that Eames sent along with them. "Past time then for you to get your own tastes in, don't you think?" Eames murmured, and nodded at the outdoor tables of a small restaurant. Fifteen minutes later they were washing down crispy fried packed potatoes and beef samosas with icy cold Tuskers, watching more attractive people go by, and Yusuf was starting to get a little self-conscious about the somewhat camphor-ball smell that clung to his clothes. 

"I do come out, you know," he said suddenly, and Eames looked at him, sweat making little droplets along his temples and marching down the straight bridge of his nose. "Eh?" Eames said, and Yusuf repeated louder, "--it's not as if I don't know my way around here, I'm from here. Originally, I mean. It's not a novelty."

Eames squeezed the juice from a quarter of lemon into the bitten end of a samosa and nodded, nipping his fingertips around his tongue to lick off the tart juice. "All right, then, love," he said easily, and something in Yusuf uncoiled.

---

three days prior, though

"I'm capable of cooking my own meals," Eames yawned, standing bare-footed in Yusuf's kitchen and stooping to fondle the cat behind the ears before it mrrped and strode on its way. "You're already putting me up and safeguarding my mental state, surely that counts as above and beyond."

"I was making food anyhow," Yusuf said, gesturing with his slotted spoon and dripping hot oil on the stove. "You'll like these -- there's chai in the pot, have some -- I loved them when I was a boy, we call them mitha bhajias, my sister would have to race to get her share before I ate them all." He peered into the bubbling cauldron of the iron pot, watching the little cardamom doughnut balls turn and jitter, before wondering why Eames had nothing to say about Yusuf's childhood greed and turning to look over his shoulder. "What, no comments about my--"

The joke slumped into a huff of confusion; Eames was shaking, shaking as if somebody had him by the shoulders and was jerking him back and forth, his eyes tightly shut, one hand clasping and unclasping against his thigh while the heel of the other pressed into the side of his head. Cursing under his breath, Yusuf dropped the spoon in the pot and went over to Eames, calling his name a few times until there was some spark of recognition, and only then did he reach out. Wrapping his hands around the man's thick shoulders, feeling the straps of his ribbed white vest damp beneath his palms as he guided Eames to a chair and sat him down. Eames went without protest, which was a relief, and Yusuf checked his eyes, his mouth, made him count fingers, and then Eames reached up and grabbed Yusuf's hand (three fingers, he hadn't had any trouble counting them, nothing neurological then thank God--) to clench in both his own.

"Freddy," he burbled, eyes greyer than blue, watery, his face shocked pale beneath the tan. "Freddy Simmonds, yes? That's who I am? That's my name." 

Yusuf blinked. He didn't, actually, know.

---

once, four years and two and a half months ago

Yusuf had thought about what kissing Eames would be like, but it wasn't anything like this, and that was because Eames was kissing him . An entirely separate equation, because Yusuf then had the luxurious headspace come available like a mughal's suite that he was the desirable one, to this man, that he hadn't even needed to initiate with the humiliating possibility of being sweetly and firmly turned down. Yusuf wasn't lacking in self-esteem, he'd had lovers when he'd liked to, but Eames was something again altogether. An interloper who'd made himself comfortable, like the cat, like the pots and jars of condiments that sat on the kitchen table, like the things that you never thought about once they'd become a part of your life.

"You don't mind, do you?" Eames murmured, pressing a fat-mouthed little buss to the corner of Yusuf's chin and chuckling, "--I must say, darling, I'm accustomed to a bit more of a fuss when I'm snogging somebody handsome," and Yusuf shook himself fully into what was happening.

"Oh," he said, and then laughed, setting his hands against Eames' hips and starting to rub and knead and massage the flesh there as Eames purred encouragingly and Yusuf continued, "oh, I was … I'm sorry, I'm being rude, you're right. I'll make up for it."

The chenille spread on his bed was nubby under the exposed parts of their skin, crushing soft into the dampness as their bodies warmed each other up, and Yusuf thought that it wasn't too often unexpected things happened to him. He lived an ordered, orderly life and he liked things comfortable, and that was why he'd begun dabbling in this line of work, just enough excitement in subverting big pharmaceutical companies without being important enough for them to bother with him. Eames hadn't figured into that life. Until he very suddenly had , and now here they were, and Eames' voice was scrubby and urgent in Yusuf's ear, and the weight of him was heavy and intimate and good and Yusuf thought, yes, yes this is what i've maybe been missing, this

---

almost three years following that

"--is called Arthur." Eames' voice dived into a throaty crackle on the r, pulling it out, and Yusuf could tell from that alone. 

"All right," Yusuf said, and, "goodbye," and hung up.

---

fifteen days into being somnesiac

Eames yawned and Yusuf marvelled at how much it sounded like that time in the kitchen, whenever-it-was-ago. He could almost smell the sweet fritters in oil; but then again, that was how Eames smelled these days, of green-spice cardamom behind the creases of his ears, and a slight mothball camphor because he was still just wearing Yusuf's clothes. "You should get a bigger bed," Eames mumbled, and then turned a little, the bed creaking, to say, "--and don't tell me mummy bought this one so you've never thought of changing it."

"I bought this bed," Yusuf confirmed, shifting as Eames rolled back onto his side and cuddled back into his pillow, the movement dragging their linked hands further onto Eames' stomach and Yusuf's arm more snugly against Eames' body. "And most of the time I've no need for a bigger one. The cat doesn't take up much space."

"I do," Eames said. "I'm short but significant, you could say."

"Would anybody say that?" Yusuf wondered aloud, and Eames chortled, pushing his hips back so they were curved into steeper spoons. Yusuf went still for a moment before letting himself relax again. They'd been doing this most of the time Eames had been here, after the semi-seizure in the kitchen; it ostensibly began so that Yusuf could keep an eye on his charge, but then they'd given up on propriety (if, indeed, Eames ever possessed any to begin with) and began sleeping draped on each other, cuddled up, curled and sprawled and every other way to get comfortable that they could find. Most of the time, it was just that -- comfort, easy friendly warmth and the press of familiar flesh, companionship to help ease them into slumber. Most of the time.

This time, though.

Eames pulled their hands up higher on his front, his fingers opening and closing, and cocked one hip. "I know who I am, you know that," he said quietly. A kiskadee announced itself outside the window, startling Yusuf, making him snap back more brusquely than he intended, "Yes, you're self-aware, congratulations," before Eames snorted.

"That's not what I'm saying." Eames pushed a foot back, a rough patch at the heel barking against the inside of Yusuf's ankle. "I remember who I am . It's not as though I've completely lost the plot, Yusuf, I know me, I know you--"

"You know where you are and what day it is?"

"--I know what I'm doing." Eames turned his head, and there was his face, all straight-tipped nose soft with the oil of his warm sleepy skin, lips plump and pink, softly wet, falling open, eyes dark and watchful, calm, unworried. "It's hardly taking advantage."

Yusuf breathed in, and he breathed out. "I don't think anybody could possibly take advantage of you," he said, and Eames gave a bit of a chuckle until Yusuf continued, "...I don't think you'd ever let yourself admit to it, that anything's happened to you like that, nothing that you haven't been to bla--"

The phone rang.

---

the day of

Arthur keeps ducking his head slightly, like if he can just catch a glimpse beneath Eames' chin, he'll be able to see the memory flooding back. It's not going to work like that. Eames has been remembering, and the fact that he knows who he is, that's a positive sign, one that Yusuf has nurtured for this fortnight-plus. But the rest of it will sift back like lumpy flour, some of it needing to be pushed through that sieve of drug-haze with the fingertips, a little extra pressure applied.

Yusuf's not one for applying pressure. He likes his life, comfortable. He likes the size of his bed.

"I can't -- we can't thank you enough," Arthur starts, and Yusuf waves his hand.

"It's nothing, " he says, with a smile. "We're old friends, after all. I'd be happy to have Mr. Eames stay with me again."

"Next time let's do it without the damned Somnesia, eh, Yusuf?" Eames says, his fingers twirling patterns against the inside of Arthur's wrist, the light illuminating the blue of his grey eyes as he steps into the front doorway. "And this time I'll cook the breakfasts, and the teas, while I'm at it, and you can recite chemical formulas to me like sutras while I stand over the pots."

"Don't be bloody ridiculous, Eames," Yusuf says, as Eames links his fingers with Arthur's, already stepping down the two stairs from the front door into the beating early afternoon sun. Eames is saying something, lips curving around the words, but Yusuf shuts the door.

/end

[isitgintimeyet]

The Ties That Bind

AO3

Previous

Thanks again for all the likes and comments and reblogs and for reading it, of course!

Happy Valentine’s Day... and in that spirit, some more J & C time coming up.  NSFW warning!

Thanks to @mo-nighean-rouge for the beta

Chapter 9: A Morning Intervention

Then I examined my own heart. And there you were. Never, I fear, to be removed. -  Jane Austen Emma

Sunlight through a chink in the curtains woke Jamie up. Initially disorientated in these unfamiliar surroundings, he reached for his watch and squinted, 5:50. Lying on his back, he looked round the bedroom as best as he could, trying not to move, not wanting to disturb Claire sleeping next to him, her round arse rammed tight against his hip, her feet resting against his calves. He gently ran a finger down her spine. A brief moan sounded from Claire before she resumed the regular breathing of deep sleep.

Like the living room, the bedroom was decorated in neutral tones with light oak furniture. Although last night Jamie’s mind was otherwise engaged, he could now appreciate that the bed linen, a simple coffee and cream design, was very luxurious cotton. The aroma of essential oils permeated the room, mingling with the musky scent of sex.

In contrast to the classic simplicity of this room, the wall opposite the bed was dominated by a huge print of a single scarlet poppy, painted as if under a microscope, one flower filling the entire frame. To him, it was a very powerful and somehow sensual image. This room was the embodiment of Claire, outwardly very calm and ordered but with an undercurrent of passion and sensuality. Jamie found it a very arousing combination.

He rolled over to spoon Claire. Instinctively, she moved her hips, snuggling her bottom in closer to Jamie. He reached round and cupped her breast, feeling the nipple harden. Claire sighed contentedly as Jamie drifted back to sleep.

******

Claire woke to find herself enveloped by a giant Scot, one breast cupped in a large hand, with an insistent stiffness prodding her bottom. She reached behind to touch him.  

“Turn around. Hold me properly.” Jamie’s voice rumbled into the back of her neck.

“Don’t want to breathe on you… garlic breath.”

“Dinna be daft, Sassenach.” The rumbling continued, the breath on her neck sending little spasms of pleasure through her body. “We both have garlic breath. That means we canna smell it. So, like I said, turn around and hold me properly.”

Claire turned to face Jamie. “Good morning.” She smiled.

“Aye, ’tis...’tis a good morning.”

Claire’s hands roamed over Jamie’s chest, enjoying the feel of the wiry ginger hairs. Her mind couldn’t help but think about the differences between Jamie and Frank - a warrior's body and an academic’s body. Even though Jamie had obvious intelligence and emotional sensitivity, he still exuded strength and controlled power, a throwback to his grandsires that founded the distillery and even earlier. With Frank, on the other hand, it had all been cerebral, with an artist’s physique, yet somehow missing that emotional sensitivity. She cast the thought of Frank and his inadequacies aside and focused on the man that was in her bed, her mind and, dare she say, her heart?

Jamie took her hand and guided it lower to caress him fully. “Aye, that’s it. Like that.” He moaned.  

Licking his chest, she slowly trailed her tongue down his body, swirling in his belly button before reaching her goal.

As she took him in her mouth, he spoke hoarsely. “If ye dinna want tae do this, that’s fine, I understand.” The longing and hunger in his voice made a lie of his statement.

She put her finger to his lips to hush him as she set about her business.

******

“Five more minutes lying here, then I’m going to have a shower.”

“Ye said that ten minutes ago, Sassenach.”

“I know, but I’m so comfy… and sweaty. It’s like sleeping next to a radiator. Are you always so warm?”

“Aye, I must jes’ be a hot blooded creature.”

Jamie blew gently in her ear. Looking up, he added. “That picture on the wall…it’s very powerful.”

“Oh yes, it’s a print of a Georgia O’Keeffe painting. I love it, there’s something about her work. Definitely a power to it. You know, despite her denying it, art critics have argued that her flower pictures actually depict female genitalia. Can’t really see it with that picture, but I get what they mean with other paintings. Intentional or not, there is a certain eroticism to them. Perhaps it’s because we’re just not used to seeing art created from a female perspective? Or because female power is erotic? I don’t know… I just love it.”

Claire slipped from his grasp and climbed out of bed. Jamie watched as she headed for the bathroom, an idea forming in his head.

In the shower, Claire closed her eyes and let the water rush over her. She wasn’t sure how long she had been in there and was about to get out, when she heard the shower door open and Jamie stepped in behind her. Claire didn’t turn around or say a word. Jamie lifted her damp curls and kissed the back of her neck, running his fingers down her spine, all the way from neck to the cleft of her cheeks – his touch so light. He did this again and Claire felt her insides melt. Still not turning round, she put her hands against the wall for support. Jamie came closer to her, pressing his body against her back, putting his arms around her, all the while kissing and nibbling her shoulders and neck. Claire could feel how aroused he was, his hardness rubbing against her back. His hands moved to Claire’s breasts – his fingers played with the already hard nipples, pinching and teasing, then gently massaging them with a barely there touch as he ground his erection into her back. One hand slowly travelled down her body. Claire set her legs apart slightly, and allowed his hand to move between them and start rhythmically rubbing and caressing. She could feel her climax start to build in her core, sending sparks shooting all over her body, now feeling very sensitive.  She moaned involuntarily, causing Jamie to increase the rhythm of his strong fingers. With a huge great explosion of pleasure, Claire reached her peak and collapsed on to Jamie.  She turned to face him, her legs feeling very unsteady. He smiled and kissed her tenderly on the lips.  She pushed him out of the shower and reached for two towels. Taking his hand, she led him back into the bedroom and onto the bed.

******

The angry grumbling of Jamie’s stomach finally forced the pair to get out of bed. Jamie wrapped a towel around his middle as Claire quickly donned a thin strapped vest top and pair of running shorts. He grabbed her round her waist and held her close.  

“How can ye be jes’ as sexy in clothes as naked, Sassenach? I would throw ye tae the bed and ravish ye again, if it wasna for ma belly complaining.” His stomach groaned in agreement. “Have ye any bacon?”

Claire pulled away laughing. “Yes, you go and sit yourself down, I’ll make some coffee and a bacon sandwich. You definitely deserve it.”

Jamie moved into the living room and sat on the sofa, contentedly listening to Claire pottering in the kitchen, brewing coffee and grilling bacon. He moved a cushion to settle himself more comfortably. Down the side of the sofa cushion, he noticed a bit of tissue. Pulling it out, he saw it was an old napkin, with writing on. He read:

Standard Operating Procedure for a Fling

1. Looks good in a kilt and out of one too

2. No complications

3. Enjoys a drink, likes to let hair down

4. Loves the X Files, watches repeats 

5. Fancies you as you are

Jamie suddenly remembered where he’d seen that nurse before. She was in the pub when he was with Geneva, she came back to retrieve this manky old napkin for ‘scientific research’. Was that what Claire thought this was, just a fling? That he was just some man who happened to fit these criteria? For a bit of fun and then move on? Jamie’s stomach lurched. Surely not, Claire wouldn’t share those stories of her childhood if this were a fling? Would she?

Claire came in carrying two mugs of coffee to see Jamie sitting ashen faced holding… Oh God no, not that blasted list. He handed it to her, not quite making eye contact.

“Is that what this is… a fling, then? Did ye and yer wee friend just look fer any suitable man tae meet yer needs?”

Claire shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No, not at all… Geillis and I did that list as a joke. I told her that I didn’t think I was ready for a new relationship just yet. And she reckoned that a fling would be the best way to move on. But, believe me, I’m not cut out for a fling. And I saw you before this damn list. You were at a wedding last month, talking to a petite lady, pregnant. I wondered then… but I never saw you again. And I hoped that I would the next day at the pool, but no.”

Jamie finally looked at her. “I saw ye at the wedding too… well mainly yer arse and yer curls. I wanted tae see ye again. Then I saw ye in the pub wi’ yer nurse friend. I couldna believe it when ye walked intae the cubicle to fix Wee Jamie’s arm. But, much as I want ye, I dinna think I could stand it if what it is between us is only casual. So, tell me now, please, do ye want me… and no’ fer jes’ a bit o’ fun?”

Claire reached over and held his face in her hands. “James Fraser, I want you… and not for just a bit of fun. This is different, and I want, I want...”

“A real relationship.” Jamie finished the sentence, moving closer.

“Aye,” breathed Claire as their lips met.

[bowlsister75-blog]

So What The Beverly Hills, 90210 Visual Aids Are Saying Is Get The Hell Out Of Here, Right?

The accompanying Again With This podcast doesn't forgive you.

At least it has Sophie's picture on it instead of a drawing, Donna.

Aren't these her pajamas?

Bedhead might explain this elaborately Spanish-mossy tonsorial situation. It does not excuse it, however.

Remind us why Val thinks David is a good person. He even pulls a pissface during a short con, for God's sake.

Yeah, try watching your boring ass.

Another fake TV snapshot. Do they think we won't know she's being photographed otherwise?

"Give me the David Cassidy, but so tight my skin makes a humming noise" -- this adult-film director.

In debtor's prison trying to pay off this dumb billboard, is our guess.

Who knew he could do horror face? ...Wait, he can't. That's "this milk's gone bad" face.

"Look at me." Why? We haven't been this bored by a C plot since Dylan's SATs.

Mmm, Nogro Modolo.

Phew, everything's resolved with a bro hug! Except our caring, which remains elusive.

We are legit into this dress.

Unless "escrow" is code for "Kennebunkport": no.

We hope she's actually pouting about that stupid manky hair, which barely even makes the medal podium in this episode.

"This episode sponsored by: the French Tourism Board!"

Him hate book! Him skip book like rock into flame house!

One last cock-walk.

Giant baby...besides Donna, that is.

MAN does the crew hate Jennie Garth.

Guys, guys: you're BOTH weenies.

Please let his first Chronical exposé be on the criminal who sold him this vest.

Putting the "no" in "Now Wear This."

Insecurity/false-modesty STUFF.

Us looking at the store's stupid sign.

He's just a straight-up serial killer rn.

He can take this ultra-'90s platform-slide/slip-dress combo out anytime.

Maybe a shot where the camera operator didn't trip? Or where someone, anyone cared enough to ask for a retake?

What's the butt version of a cock sock -- a crack sack?

Allllmost achieves an emotion on the way out the door...but not quite.

JFC, just go already.

Source: http://previously.tv/beverly-hills-90210/so-what-the-beverly-hills-90210-visual-aids-are-saying-is-get-the-hell-out-of-here-right/

[jessieren]

A couple of new to me moustache shots - definite soft-stache™️ adorableness

Photo credit: Paul Cripps