#none of this is in comprehensible order oh well

[fallen6253]

Could you imagine?

Finding out the theory is correct that the white star took the body of a Thames and that it was the son of Jour's brother. So it was Cale Henituse's maternal cousin, who was supposed to be Kim Rok Soo.

Both of their names being Cale boggles my mind because a lot of families have recurring first or middle names.

So imagine finding out both Thames siblings named their kids after their father only for them to try to kill each other.

[jopetkasi]

The alarm goes off at 4 a.m. As much as I want more sleep, I can’t. It’s Sunday—family day.

Lying in bed, I think about how fast the night went by. Just a moment ago, it felt like we were having dinner, and now here I am, naked in bed with another naked guy.

I nudge Chris. "Wake up. You have to bring me home."

He barely opens his eyes. "It’s too early. I paid for twelve hours in this room." He turns over, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.

"Can I go ahead? I’ll just take a Grab."

He sighs, exasperated. "Can’t we just enjoy this time alone? Don’t you ever take a break?"

"You can stay and get some more sleep," I offer.

He rubs his eyes, then sits up. "Fine. I’ll take you home."

The motel room wasn’t exactly cheap, but it came with the essentials. The bathroom dispenser was filled with body wash, but the stuff was so slippery it took forever to rinse off. And the shampoo? Way too floral.

As I dried off, I muttered to myself, "Tangina, amoy motel nga ako."

Driving through the quiet streets of Pasay, Chris breaks the silence. "Aren't we grabbing breakfast?"

"What for? We ordered room service last night."

He huffs. "You can be a jerk sometimes, Jopet. Starting to feel like you’re just here for the sex."

I gave a sigh. "You enjoyed yourself last night too, right? Besides, we’re not in a relationship."

Back home, my parents announced they were headed to Laguna to visit a relative. I politely bowed out, dreaming of a full day spent catching up on sleep. But, as luck (or a severe lack thereof) would have it, the manongs showed up, looking way too enthusiastic and insisting I join them for mass and lunch.

So here I am, reluctantly donning semi-decent clothes, assuming we’d hit up the church nearby. But nope, these guys had bigger plans. For reasons beyond comprehension, they decided to attend mass all the way in Ateneo—on the other side of town—when St. James, a perfectly good church, was a whole ten minutes away.

I resigned myself to the free ride (and the silver lining that I wouldn’t have to drive) as we piled into the car and headed off to Katipunan. If nothing else, I figured I could use the commute to catch up on the sleep I’d hoped to have.

It’s not that I hated my Jesuit education, but returning to campus stirs up a whole Pandora’s box of memories. You guys know what went down back in the day, right? Sure, it’s all ancient history and everyone’s probably moved on—but still, the past hits me like it just happened yesterday.

I tried my best to keep a low profile, but then, as luck would have it, familiar faces started popping up, which meant I’d have to endure the obligatory post-mass catch-ups.

“Is that you, Jopet? Wow, you still look young—but tumaba ka!” Mrs. Concio, the mom of an old friend, spotted me before I could make a run for it.

“Auntie! You look beautiful. Sino derma mo?” I replied with a forced smile, deflecting as best I could.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw Cherryl waving enthusiastically. Ah, yes, Cherryl—the picture-perfect lady everyone thought was Miss Prim and Proper, who in reality, well… let’s just say she got along very well and screwed the attractive guys back in school.

“How are you?” She air-kissed me. “Wow, you gained weight!”

“Love your shampoo, by the way,” she teased, sniffing as if she could detect it from miles away.

“Oh, yeah, it’s… motel shampoo,” I fired back.

She laughed and gave me a playful slap. “loko loko ka pa din” she giggled. “Vegan diet and pilates for me! look! Mother of four at thirty-four!”

I forced a smile and nodded, biting my tongue. Yeah… mother of four and none of them look related, I thought to myself, but hey, I was in church—gotta behave, right?

Then I spotted another familiar face. Too familiar, in fact. He looked up at me, a knowing smile crossing his face as he made his way over… along with his wife and kids. Just then, my cousin swooped in, rescuing me with a quick, “Hey, let’s go! there's an exhibit at the Arete!”

As I turned to leave, I threw the guy a polite nod and a quick wave. Thank God for family—they sure know when to save you from ghosts of the past...of hurried sex during vacant hours… or at least the ones that show up with their families.

We finally peeled out of Katipunan around two in the afternoon. I was starving, so I suggested we hit up the KFC right across from campus—classic, quick, and absolutely hitting the spot in my mind. But, of course, my cousins had other ideas. Instead, they decided we’d meet another cousin at Podium because they were suddenly all craving Thai food.

“Thai food?” I protested. “I barely know anything about that.”

One of my cousins rolled his eyes. “Stop being maarte. Wouldn’t hurt to try something new for once—like, something other than the penis of your ex-boyfriend.” Ouch. Shots fired.

And so, Thai food it was at Basil. Dennis, the family foodie, went all out and ordered what felt like half the menu. Surprisingly, everything was amazing, though the chilis were no joke. And just like any Filipino family gathering, our “quick lunch” turned into an hours-long storytelling marathon, the kind that stretched long enough to justify moving to another restaurant for dessert.

And there I was, quiet but amused, soaking up all the juicy family chismis from my rumor-peddling cousins.

So, that was my Sunday—nothing like a family feast, unexpected spice, and cousins who can roast you like no one else can.

s

[sibillascribbles08]

Okay ramble that will probably not get anywhere but I will put it here anyway because I saw yet another post about people struggling to get any writing done. And someone in the comments made a good point. You write/draw so much more as a kid because you're less practiced and ergo less worried about the imperfections that may arise from just gunning it.

And this is true! And this is why I want to tell you if you are struggling to write much, learn to write like a kid again.

You know how with a lot of art you see processes and it always starts with really shitty thumbnails that have silly faces or just blobs of color? Then you have an actual sketch (during which the artist likely moves a lot of shit around on a digital canvas) and then possibly the inking phase or just painting which is more blobs that slowly get sharper and sharper the more the images is rendered.

Yeah uh, do that with writing. Going under the cut because long

Writing as a process is something that is unique to an individual, just like there's 800 ways to slap paint on a canvas. If you look at guide books for writing and none of it is sticking it's not cause you're a failure that technique is just not gelling for you.

And as such I can only speak from MY experience with it but like, here's how I generally stay on top of projects

A) Sketch phase! It's outline time baby! "Ughh but outlines suck" listen I know school made the outline phase of an essay the worst fucking thing ever but hear me out on this. Sure some people CAN write by the seat of their pants but in terms of long projects this does not work out for me. I'm inevitably gonna hit a point where idk where to go from there and it's so hard to map all that out in long form

Listen, outlines are not there to be formal. They're not even there to be fancy. This is time to get down the bare bones and if you have to make it only a paragraph long and then extend that paragraph into multiple then DO it.

Like hell, NONE of my outlines are formatted the same! Some are a paragraph per chapter. Others are just endless bullet points that I split up later. I'm sure in one book due to all the plotlines I'm just going to have a storyline for each character laid out in columns so I can draw lines between them. Whatever works.

And again, do not have to be formal, like here is a legit line in one of my outlines

As for the ruined building… Hypno will cover the damages……….. Right? : )

Go crazy.

B) Now that you have your baselines start working on the actual story. Do you like writing shit out of order? Do it, because with an outline you still have your baselines to reference for any important details you don't wanna forget "Remember [character] is supposed to get a scar in chapter five!" Or write shit in order, and every time you hit a lull consult those baselines to say "oh yeah that's where this chapter was going"

And hey, keep writing it like a kid if that's what it takes to get this crap down. Hit a fight scene you don't wanna write? Slap down some brackets. [Insert a fight scene here where [character] gets his head smashed in so he ends up with this concussion later like a dumbass]. Boom, done, worry about it later.

Worried the dialogue isn't flowing well? Slap open another document or grab some paper and write it out in a play format to keep it moving. Add in all the beats, expressions, and details after.

Not sure if this detail you're putting in is historically accurate? Leave an easy to search symbol in the doc so you can go back to it to research later.

Write the sappy shit. Write with poor grammar (but still like, comprehensible you know what I mean). Slip in adverbs to swap out with strong verbs later. Use a run on sentence.

"But it's gonna sound bad" Who cares who tf cares that's what editing is for ! You go back and refine that shit and clean up sentences and add in all the extra research and pull out the repetitive words.

You gotta quit treating writing like you're supposed to just swing your brush on the canvas and suddenly you have some beautiful scenery. There's layers. There's blobs that turn into refined shapes. There's blending and shading. There's fine lines and thick lines. And sometimes there's mistakes that you have to wait until it dries to go back over it again.

It is a process! Let yourself have FUN with the process.

Okay rant over.

[ive-given-up-the-bug-diet]

This 9-syllable, 7-word long utterance - because it can NOT, according to what little I remember about what dictates one, be called a phrase - has been rolling around in my head since I first heard it-

A FUCKING WEEK AGO? IT'S BEEN THAT LONG? Shit well yeah it's been in my head for a week, jesus

Since I heard it from Brennan Lee Mulligan's mouth. And I'm warning you now it is not profound, it is not emotional, it is not especially important to the story, it doesn't have any sort of profound message or life-changing lesson. But still it persists at the forefront of my mind.

And this may just be a result of it being the only thing I've thought about for A WEEK, apparently, but I think it might be one of, if not the best, line I've ever heard and it is

"A face as tall as a cathedral..."

THATS IT

And let me tell anyone who gives a shit why I think it is, at least, one of the best lines I've ever heard:

I get envious of other writers and creators a lot. I envy worldbuilding ideas, and character concepts, cool lines of dialogue. "Oh I wish I'd thought of that!"

But I envy nothing more than GREAT description, and this line is perfect to me.

1. It is Novel. When common/frequently-used idioms or similes enter a person's mind it's sort of in-one-ear and out the other, right? 'Clear as crystal' or 'as blue as the sky' can feel like stock. So if you want description to stick it has to be novel. And I've never heard this line, or even this simile before.

2. But also, perhaps more importantly, the line is also Simple. Sometimes, in the pursuit of novelty, writers (cough aka me cough) will go too hard on a description and it can become convoluted and have the same effect as stock phrases. It's too much text, it's too purple-y and so your mind scans the wall of text, takes the important bits, and says 'ok this is the point they were trying to get to'. Simple + Novel is great for description, esp. Description that sticks in your head.

3. But it is still Beautiful. Now this point is flawed, personal, and pretty vain but I'm keeping it because 'Cathedral' is a beautiful word. Even just phonologically it is (imo) more beautiful than the words 'mountain', 'house', or any other tall thing you could slot in there. But also a cathedral IS beautiful and it HAS beautiful connotations to religion, divinity, and worship (which makes this description even better when you know what it's referring to, but I'm trying to say it stands on its own merit as a good description).

4. But of course none of this would work without the fact that it is Descriptive. Maybe this should've been the first point but I came up with them in this order so what are you gonna do. Obviously good description should be descriptive, and these points all help in that, but there are details that are just down to pure good description. This specific point is relative but I rarely see mountains, and combine that with how they are sorta unfathomably tall, I struggle to really conceive of their size. I see cathedrals all the time (again, this is relative, I live in a Catholic area in a Christian country), I can always see their tops from the ground, their size is fathomable and it is terrifying to imagine a FACE at that height. Speaking of which, IT'S JUST THE FACE. There is something perfect and so much more comprehensible than a "body the size of a skyscraper" in the idea of just one PORTION of a body being described as a similar height.

Anyway EXU: Calamity is fucking great and I'm going to be holding it in my mind forever

[itsjustsemantics]

Love, Javier - Chpt 2

Pairing: Javier Peña xF!Reader/OFC (no y/n, no physical description, established backstory)

Content and warnings: Alcohol consumption, Javier overhears a date, brief mention of past.

Series masterlist

Chapter 2: The Date

Javier had found a nice restaurant close to his hotel that didn’t serve an absolute dogshit excuse for a steak. It's just another two days he reminded himself as he dug into the piece of meat in front of him mercilessly. He tried to remember the last time he came to a nice restaurant and enjoyed a meal. With Lorraine? Back in Laredo at that nice Italian place. He dismissed his thoughts and actively made an effort to focus on something other than his past. 

“Can I get some water for the table?” Javier’s attention migrated to the other side of the opaque screen that parted his table from another a few feet away. Dropping eaves seemed to be another thing his conscience had chosen to skim over. 

“A bottle of flat water please.” A tired male voice spoke. 

“Oh, uhm, just one second. I’m sorry.” A  female voice piped in. “Did you know they’ve done studies that show that tap water and bottled water are basically the same thing. They recently passed a law where restaurants have to filter their tap water.” 

Javier eyebrows peaked, fork still halfway to his mouth. 

“So it’s not really tap water, it's filtered water, which is the same as bottled water except that you don’t have to pay seven dollars for it.” 

Javier looked over at the bottle of unopened water that stared back at him from the opposite end of the table. The more you know, huh. He thought as he finished chewing. 

“I like the way it tastes better, uhm, can I get a scotch on the rocks with that too please.” The male voice again, more tired than before. 

“Huh, I thought-I thought in your profile, it said you, uh, liked to drink red wine.” 

“You printed out my profile?” 

Javier’s eyebrows furrowed, amused but curious. He cut another piece of his steak, not as invested in the piece of meat as before. 

“Actually, my friend did. She knows I don't like being unprepared-Not that I’m ever not prepared.” The female voice laughed surely.

Javier’s heart clenched, another thing to be grateful for; he wasn’t stuck opposite miss ‘bottled water’. 

“Kudos, by the way, on your comprehensive car insurance plan.” 

Javier slowed his chewing. What. 

“That wasn’t in my profile.” The male voice didn’t sound so tired anymore. 

“No, but it's in your background check.” 

Jesus christ. Javier shook his head. This was serving as another subtle reminder as to why he doesn't do dates.

“So, tell me about yourself.” The female voice finally concluded. 

“What’s left to talk about that you don’t already know, right?” The male voice laughed awkwardly. 

“Good point.” The female voice sighed. 

“Here are your drinks, and bottled water.” The waiter cut in at the right moment. “Can I take your order while you enjoy them?” 

“I’ll have the steak with sauteed asparagus, uhm, and your thrice-cooked dirty fries please.” 

“Just the house salad and the garlic bread basket for me. But hold on; the dressing that comes with the salad, I want it on the side, and for the bread basket, I would like the butter melted and on the side, but if the butter can’t be melted then none at all and I’ll have the regular bread basket instead.”

Of all the questionable characters Javier had come across, she was by far the most notable. After years of mastering the craft of wooing a woman, he had learned to read them. He deduced that this one was nothing but a bright red stop sign steering men away left, right and centre. 

The waiter smiled as he approached him with a tiny clipboard, a bill fluttering up and down against it. Javier momentarily peeled his attention away from the individuals next door and to his wallet. As he got up to leave he caught the last  remnants of the rather sad conversation he had been eavesdropping on. 

“Well, not to worry. I took the liberty of printing out some talking points, in case we ever ran into a situation like this.” 

“I take it this has happened before?” 

“No…no, but you have nine out ten of the necessary attributes on my checklist.” 

“Oh dear god.” The male voice exhaled and Javier couldn't help but let out a long held chuckle.

he shook his head one last time before ducking out of the restaurant, back to his drab hotel room. You’re a lucky man Javier, lucky man.  

[tryan-a-bex]

Secrets

Read on AO3 

“Hello, Anya,” Dream gazed softly down at the little girl who’d just entered The New Inn with her parents. “What are we working on today?”

“Anya has to write a story!” she exclaimed, settling into the booth where Dream usually tutored her in language arts.

“Ah. And do you know what the story will be about?” he asked, sliding in across from her.

“Penguins!”

“Of course. How will your story start?”

“One day, Anya and Papa went to the aquarium,” she dictated slowly, clumsily printing the words in her notebook. “A…”

“Q… U… A…” Dream continued prompting, as she laboriously spelled the long word.

Hob slid into the next booth over, bringing the drinks Loid and Yor had ordered. 

“You wanted to talk to me?” he smiled.

“Yes,” Loid began. “We want to apologize for taking advantage of your babysitting services. We’re usually not such irresponsible parents. That first time, when she ran away from Franky…”

“Not to worry,” Hob winked, “you were obviously otherwise occupied.” He enjoyed the lovely blush that spread across Yor’s face, and was that a matching one on Loid’s?

“Then the next time, we were in the park together, and there was a car accident. I’m a doctor, so I went to assist, but I asked Anya to wait for me on a nearby bench. When I came to look for her, she had already headed over here to find you.”

“It was no problem!” Hob insisted. “Better here than watching a car accident being cleaned up! That could have been traumatizing!” It was a better excuse than Anya’s “Papa had to work” or Loid’s vague “Something came up,” at the time, Hob thought, but it still didn’t explain why Bond left Anya’s side, nor did it really cover the cut on Loid’s arm.

“Yes,” Yor picked up the conversation, “and last time, when I brought Anya so early on a Saturday, my coworker had an emergency and they called me at the last minute. I’m sorry, I was so tired I didn’t really notice how tired you were as well.”

“Anya had a lovely visit with Dream and his sister, who was visiting that day!” Hob brushed off all their apologies. Even though he’d been 85% asleep at the time, he still remembered Yor’s sharp alertness, the way she was watching behind herself as if for danger even as she thrust Anya at him. He was pretty sure the only true part about that excuse was that work had called her in at the last minute, and he wasn’t interested in speculating about her work—not since that first day they met, when she vaulted over a table and he saw his life flash before his eyes. He abruptly decided he was going to call them out, just a little.

“After all, all families have secrets.”

“Oh, no, no, we’re just a normal family!” Yor protested, thereby confirming Hob’s suspicions. There was nothing like a protestation of innocence to confirm guilt. Loid, meanwhile, wondered why Hob had just as much as admitted to them that he and Dream had secrets as well.

“Yes, of course,” Hob agreed. Their secrets were none of his concern, and he wasn’t even sure why he’d brought it up.

At that moment, Dream and Anya joined them from the other booth, Anya tucking herself under Loid’s arm and Dream taking Hob’s hand under the table.

“We were just talking about secrets,” Dream disclosed, “and we heard Hob mention them as well. Anya has decided that there’s something she would like to tell her parents.” Hob smiled warmly at Anya, glad that she’d finally decided to share the secret he and Dream had discovered by accident. 

Anya leaned forward to look at both parents and said solemnly, “Anya can hear your thoughts.” Loid and Yor reared back, identical looks of horror on their faces. Then Hob watched as comprehension began to sink in and they started nodding as pieces fell into place.

“So that’s why you watch Bondman all the time!” Loid exclaimed.

“And why you are never upset when I come home with blood on my clothes!” Yor added. 

“And why you kept trying to get us to kiss!” Loid continued.

“And why you always seem to know what Bond wants!” Yor declared.

“Anya also knows about Operation Strix,” Anya said, and Hob watched Loid and Yor exchange a worried glance. Oops, they probably didn’t want him and Dream hearing about that one.

“Now, Anya,” he reminded her, “your parents have secrets that aren’t yours to share.”

“Dream can help!” Anya protested. Hob looked curiously at Dream. It wasn’t like him to get involved in another family’s affairs. Dream nodded.

“This is one that aligns with my realm, Hob.” Now it was Loid’s turn to look questioningly at Dream. 

“Well, if we’re going to share secrets, maybe we should go somewhere more private,” Hob suggested.

The two families adjourned upstairs to the kitchen in Hob’s flat, where he nervously made them all tea, coffee, or hot chocolate. He put a tin of biscuits on the table and took the chair beside Dream. Loid began.

“I’m not sure why I should trust you, but Anya does, and well, I guess if she’s a telepath that does explain why she’s such a good judge of character. Will you exchange secrets with us, as a pledge of trust?” Hob glanced at Dream, who nodded solemnly. Apparently this was very important to him. Hob nodded back and took a deep breath.

“I’m immortal,” he said, “I don’t age, and I can’t die.” Loid and Yor looked shocked again. Then Loid looked at Anya.

“I begin to understand why she started this sharing of secrets.”

Dream let his eyes grow dark and starry, a hint of his robe fluttering around his chair.

“I am Dream of the Endless, Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares. I am the Prince of Stories and Master of the Dreaming.” Loid and Yor looked truly stunned this time, Hob thought. That would stroke Dream’s vanity. Not that he didn’t deserve a little awe, he was rather impressive even with just a touch of his less human form peeking through. Loid cleared his throat and smoothed back his hair. 

“Yes, well. I can see why Anya thought you might be able to help! I’m afraid I can’t compete with that! Dreams… if you know our dreams, you probably know our secrets already too.”

“Yes,” Dream confirmed, “but Hob does not. I would ask you to speak them aloud, for his sake.” Loid nodded.

“I am a French spy. The French government does not desire war with the English at this time, so I was sent here to ingratiate myself with a powerful politician who is using his influence to promote war between our countries. Operation Strix is our plan to enter his inner circle though our children—his son Damian is in Anya’s class.” He shook his head wonderingly at Anya. 

“You knew all that, didn’t you? So much weight for such a small child to bear.” Anya nodded at him, took a bite of her biscuit, and leaned comfortably against his arm. Yor leaned forward and picked the story up.

“I am an assassin for England, and our goal is also to prevent a war. When Loid asked me to marry him and become Anya’s mother, neither of us knew the truth about each other. 

“It actually came out fairly recently, shortly before we met you, in fact. I received a dossier from my boss directing me to find and kill the spy, Twilight.” Yor and Loid exchanged a very warm glance, and Hob suddenly realized that Loid must be Twilight.

“It took some time for me to find Twilight. He is the best spy of our age. Imagine my surprise when I finally tracked him down, and he was my very own husband!” Loid chuckled and took over the narrative.

“Imagine my surprise, after we finished tucking Anya in bed, when my wife came into the living room and put a knife to my throat!” He took Yor’s hand as she blushed furiously again.

“Well, then Loid and I had a long talk, and we decided that we are both on the same side—no war. I explained to my boss about Twilight, not revealing who he is, of course.”

“Anya doesn’t like war,” Anya added. “War is scary.” Hob thought sadly about all the second hand memories she’d probably seen of war, never mind whatever it was that had brought her to Loid and Yor’s family. Surely, “no war” was a good goal.  But how did all this relate to Dream’s realm? He turned to Dream, who was already preparing to speak.

“One of the scientists under this warmonger you speak of is dreaming of experimenting with changing people’s sleep. He wants to prevent his enemies from sleeping, or torture them with nightmares, or brainwash his own lackeys in their sleep. This line of research cannot be allowed to continue. If he loses the support of your politician, his work will be discontinued.”

Anya jumped down from her chair and walked around to take Hob’s hand as Loid, Yor and Dream leaned in to start making plans. Hob led her into the living room and settled on the couch with her to read The Little Endless Storybook together again (after meeting Del and Joe, it was her current favourite).

“Will they stop the war and keep the children safe, Hob?” Anya asked, when the story was done.

“I hope so, Anya. They are all very good at what they do, so I think they have a good chance. I really hope they do.” She settled against his arm with a sigh.

“Good. Anya is happy.”

Next chapter

Notes: Part one of A world where children won’t have to cry

I’m not 100% sure I stuck to Spy x Family canon, or Sandman either for that matter. But that’s okay. 

“There are secrets in all families” is attributed to Jane Austen in Emma. I’m familiar with it from the Liaden Universe series by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. 

The Sandman x Spy x Family: First: Space Buns; Previous: Halloween

[littlebigmouse]

TMA MAG 63

Man, there's too many bloody cults in here and I cannot keep them all straight. Anyway, that sounds like the darkness cult, right? They hung out in empty churches as well, no?

More importantly: Who is Georgie and was Jon genuinely friends with someone who runs a spook youtube channel and please tell me he helped out in an episode. I'm HERE for this backstory.

Also a distracting amount of new characters! There seems to be a new girl working - in the archives? Or maybe with Rose(?) at the front desk? Also Whoever Diana is. Yes, she runs the library, but now I do wonder of the set up of the whole Institute. They have an archive, with a head archivist and several archival assistants. They also have a research department that collaborates with universities, which I assume also features the library. Artefact storage could be a seperate organisational department or could be just run by the archivists too. But where is the research department and the library? I never thought to ask, but how many people were traumatized by the worms in S1? I know the building was evacuated early on, but I am suddenly deeply amused by the archives simply being located in the basement of an otherwise regular, lively building.

Imagine one of the library workers comes into the archives to make a statement about "you archivist creeps. I have no idea what's going on but since the worms it's been clear you've been getting up to real spooky shit by yourselves. Here's a few things we've noticed and also a bunch of restraining orders we want put up because honestly, the assistant with the scissorhands is pushing it." - "Michael?!" - "Yeah, that's what he said his name was. Anyway, real usefull during Marion's retirement party, way less useful when you're trying to hand him a stack of books to help you reshelf" - "Listen to me very carefully. We do not have an assistant named Michael. He's a supernatural entity that haunted Sascha and stabbed me" - "Not like you don't deserve it" - "What was that?" - "Nothing! So you're saying Michael is evil?" - "I'm saying I saw him make a woman disappear with my own two eyes and I am frankly freaked out by the fact that none of you librarians and researchers are dead yet. When did you see him, exactly?" - "Every tuesday and friday for library wide coffee breaks." - "You've got to be kidding me" - "I thought he was strange but like I said, you archive people are strange anyway! Next you'll tell me Mary from accounting is a serial killer or something" - "..." - "Oh fuck off Jon. I knew I shouldn't have come to the basement people" - "Is that really what everyone has been calling us" - "Tim's face used to be so pretty. Now you can fit fingers into the circles under his eyes. Y'all suck the joy out of everything." - "This place is literally haunted with horrors beyond our comprehension." - "I know Jon, I work in a library and my Latin is passable at best."

(that got away from me).

Wait, is Elias head of the Institute, or just head of the department? I thought he's just the head of the department, but if he's the head of the institute... UHM. What.

That doesn't actually change anything, I don't think. Only something about my perceived sense of responsibility for this guy? Ugh. Idk.

Oh right!

I'd originally meant to point out how Melanie reacted kind of weird to Sascha's name? If she didn't know her (which I don't think she would, given she's been there once), then why not just say so? Or why bring it up at all?

Are all the other new character mentions a distraction? Is Sascha a distraction? I'm sitting in front of a puzzle in the shape of a whole bunch of pretty women and can't make sense of it or even tell which one's real and which one's I'm supposed to know.

This is the tumblr porn bots all over again.

[mysticaltora8276]

I’m fine with things being critical, but like this post has indicated I do not like a religious minority pretty much being targeted as “evil” because it does not follow what a few people consider to be “normal”. it just seems very narrow minded and very rude to religious people and POC who find meaning and comfort in the Jedi. Look, I know that religion can cause a lot of pain in trauma, but bashing on a fictional religion that brings a lot of people comfort just doesn’t seem like the flex that you seem to think it is. It just seems petty and just stupid. Not to mention the fact that you were completely within the wrong in the narrative of the galaxy and George Lucas would like to smack you over the head and go “by the way the Empire are the bad guys and the Sith are not people who “make a good point “and the Mandalorian culture in Republic Commando novels were made by a raging misogynistic xenophobic, ableist fool who didn’t even bother to do research.” Thank you for coming to my TED talk. I am fine with things being flawed. But basically bashing on an entire order who are incidentally the good guys and shown to be right and correct in the galaxy just comes across this not the flex that you seem to think it is. It just sounds like that you have no reading comprehension and don’t realize the implications, considering that they were taken out by people that are called storm troopers. May just look to reading comprehension and history.

Oh, and by the way, for all the people defending Anakin, let me remind you that the narrative in the show and the movie that was made by the creator himself the character constantly points out that he is in the wrong. And the kid knows what he is doing is not what he is supposed to be doing, but because of his arrogance, he ignores it. It’s a combination of gaslighting from Palpatine a.k.a. he’s being groomed. I would think that some people would find that deeply disturbing and his own flaws are being used against him. But at the end of the day, he chose to go to the Darkside and he makes it abundantly clear that he is well aware that what he did was wrong, but he feels trapped in the situation and no way out. When Luke came around, it made him realize that there was a way out and oh boy did he take it with two hands and just ran with it.

 And while I’m on that tangent, I would just like to say this. Gray Jedi are not a thing in past present or future. You either serve one side and reject the other. None of this nonsense about “dabbling in both sides.“ That’s like as someone put it cleaning your vegetarian and then settling down and eating a steak. Or as I like to call it “I want all the cool dark side powers, but none of the actual moral consequences of using them.” Or “I want to have Jedi powers but I don’t wanna take the responsibility and the work because I’m lazy.”

“ Why do people hate things being Jedi critical? It’s okay if they’re flawed.”

There’s flawed and then there’s presenting the idea the in universe religious minority who essentially have to fucking do everything as narratively ‘flawed’ bc they don’t appease everybody essentially. Be it Anakin, be it their philosophy, etc and correlate to the idea of how that leads to their fall. Most ‘Jedi critical’ points just assigns a unusual level of onus on them for simply existing. Jedi are human/human-like so we know they’re flawed to a point but when they’re accessory to slavery, accuse them of child taking, or whatever points and ignore context, it’s not being critical. Y’all just wanna slander.

Whats actually annoying is how this fandom & this franchise can look at this religious minority group (composing a lot of PoCs & allusions to other cultures) who get literally persecuted by a politician who created a entire army called Stormtroopers, which is right on the nose for Nazi allegories, and go “lets craft ideas & stories that suggest they’re at fault for really existing & not being perfect paragons of good.” This is the same fandom to say the Sith made some good “points” despite being a part of the problem, ignore the Msndalorian’s weird ass system of government, and find ways to sympathize with characters who participate in murder & genocide because they’re hot (Anakin, Kallus, Maul).

And to top it all off, the story had them killed via mine control to shoot them in the back by people they bonded with for maximum hurt & efficiency after fabricating a war using OTHERS.

[medicalmarihuanacard]

[Lists] Local Marijuana Dispensaries Readying Recreational Sales

As of Tuesday, the Ohio Division of Cannabis Control has issued provisional licenses to 80 cannabis dispensaries aiming to sell both medical and adult-use marijuana, including 26 in Northeast Ohio.

However, these dual-use licenses are merely placeholder and actually does not permit immediate sales. Additionally regulatory steps are required before they can officially open for business, and the timeline for when local shops can start selling to non-medical consumers still remains uncertain.

When can you buy recreational marijuana in Ohio? New rules aim to expedite legal sales. Before issuing the certificate of operation that allows dispensaries to begin selling recreational marijuana, Ohio's newly formed Division of Cannabis Control is ensuring inspection requirement are met and that dispensaries point-of-sale system can differentiate between medical as well as non-medical cannabis sales and also apply the state's 10% excise tax.

These certificates will be issues to dispensaries in 'roughly the order' their application were received, according to division spokesperson James Crawford. So far, none have been issued.

"It's important to keep in mind that, based on the criteria above, there will be no one singular day when sales begin. We will state issuing licenses and it will be up to retailer based on staffing, stock, and other considerations as to which day they will begin sales," he said. "Give the foundation already laid through the Medical Marijuana Control Program, current medical permit holders positioned to apply for dual-use status, who have already undergone many of the comprehensive checks, are anticipated to have a much quicker turnaround for issuance of licenses over the summer".

Under the rules outlines in the state's new legal cannabis structure, the state must start issuing certificates to qualified shops by Sep 7.

Voter in November approved Issue 2, making it legal in Ohio for those aged 21 and older to possess up to 2 1/2 ounces of cannabis flower and up to 15 grams of extract. It allows Ohioans to grow up to six cannabis plants household, or up to 12 plants if there are two or more adults in the home.

The law also permits local communities to simply and easily opt out of allowing new adult-use cannabis businesses within their limits. Despite the growing number of new dispensaries in the state, at least 56 Ohio communities have enacted moratorium or permanent bans.

Here’s where the Northeast Ohio dispensaries are located:

Ashtabula County

Italian Herbs, 2712 W. Prospect Road, Ashtabula

Columbiana County

FRX Health, 1865 Dresden Ave., East Liverpool

Cuyahoga County

Amplify, 22803 Rockside Road, Bedford

Green Power OH, 13429 Lakewood Heights Blvd., Cleveland

Rise, 1222 Prospect Ave. E, Cleveland

Amplify, 1782 Coventry Road, Cleveland Heights

Rise, 11818 Madison Ave., Lakewood

Erie County

The Forest Dispensary, 5020 Milan Road, Sandusky

Ascend Dispensary Outlet, 6019 Milan Road, Sandusky

Lake County

Good Day Dispensary, 34480 Vine St., Eastlake

Insa, 27751 Chardon Road, Willoughby Hills

Lorain County

Nirvana Ohio, 914 Cleveland St., Elyria

Rise, 1920 Cooper Foster Park Road W, Lorain

The Citizen by Klutch, 5152 Grove Ave., Lorain

Body and Mind Dispensary, 709 Sugar Lane, Elyria

Mahoning County

Leaf Relief, 4323 Market St., Youngstown

Portage County

Bliss Ohio, 331 E. Main St., Kent

Supergood, 554 N. Chestnut St., Ravenna

Stark County

The Citizen by Klutch, 401 Cherry Ave. NE, Canton

ZenLeaf Canton, 3224 Cleveland Ave. NW, Canton

Ohio Cannabis Company, 4016 Greentree Ave. SW, Canton

Summit County

The Botanist, 46 S. Summit St., Akron

FRX Health, 1682 State Road, Cuyahoga Falls

Trumbull County

ACA Dispensary, 437 E. Liberty St., Hubbard

gLeaf Medical Cannabis, 2932 Youngstown Road SE, Warren

Tuscarawas County

Ratio, 1145 W. High Ave., New Philadelphia

See the full list of active Ohio dispensaries on the Medical Marijuana Control Program website.

[ultraericthered]

So, I came across this Pokemon post on here earlier today....

It's interesting how the quality of Pokemon's villains is in inverse proportion to the amount of dialogue they have.

Oh really now? 

Giovanni was a compelling villain because he was simple. He's a crime boss. He wants to treat Pokemon badly for financial gain. Simple, straightforward, and your conflict with him is primarily because he is directly in your way at different points of your journey.

Giovanni's Dialogue in Pokemon Red/Blue/Yellow? 250 Words

Uh, Giovanni was not a very compelling character in the original Red/Blue/Yellow, and he gets a lot more dialogue in the remakes (FR/LG and Let’s Go Pikachu and Eevee) as his character has gotten more fleshed out, so I’m not really sure this really holds up.

Maxie and Archie started the trend of ham-fisted philosophy and are almost charmingly stupid in how they don't understand the danger they're about to unleash until it's too late and you get to feel smug about it.

Maxie and Archie's dialogue in their respective games? About 800 words.

Again, Emerald and OR/AS are a thing to be factored in here as well.

Lusamine is about as "middle ground" as you can get, at least having a mostly personal story without any ham-fisted pretenses to idealism. She's just a controlling mother with empty nest syndrome, and that works. She'd be more interesting if the player was playing AS Lillie or Gladion, but whatever.

Lusamine's Dialogue in Sun/Moon? 1,300 words.

And what about Ultra Sun/Ultra Moon?

Lysandre is where shit gets obnoxious. He doesn't even know what he's trying to do. Nobody in Team Flare knows. Their motivations shift constantly almost trying to emulate Team Rocket and Team Magma simultaneously.

Lysandre's Dialogue in Pokemon X/Y? 1600 Words

I actually agree completely about Team Flare, but Lysandre knew exactly what he wanted to achieve - use the Ultimate Weapon to decrease the amount of human and Pokemon life in Kalos and possibly beyond so that all the “filthy parasites” who take, waste resources, and make the world uglier are erradicated and only the chosen true elite are spared so that they can set up the new order over an “eternally beautiful” world. It’s insane but pretty clear.

Ghetsis is arguably one of the worst, because most of what he says ends up being a complete and total lie and he's just a Saturday Morning Cartoon villain because Game Freak was afraid players might actually start questioning the ethics of Pokemon battling.

Ghetsis' Dialogue in Pokemon Black/White? 1800 Words

But...that was the whole point? That Ghetsis was a narcissistic megalomaniac and a charlatan who used a seemingly just cause such as examining the ethics of Pokemon battling and making corrections if need be in order to consolidate power for himself and disarm the masses so that none would stand in the way of him propping up a new regime over the world? Other members of Team Plasma weren’t lying when they claimed to be championing the freedom and well-being of Pokemon and standing against the whole Pokemon trainer system, but Ghetsis was knowingly using, decieving and exploiting those people and their beliefs through a ruse of believing in the same ideals as them. And that is scarily realistic, as so many instances of similar evil in modern politics has shown us.

Cyrus is the single most Black and White, evil for evil's sake villain in the entire series. He's the kind of character people imagine Giovanni to be because the mafia's pursuit of money and riches apparently isn't noble and obtuse enough to be considered a motivation. Cyrus waxes poetic about the world being terrible, but everything he says just flat out isn't true and not even in the misguided way like Maxie or Archie. He's just out of his mind being cruel for cruelty's sake.

Cyrus' Dialogue in Pokemon Platinum? 1900 Words

OK, this person has got ZERO reading comprehension if they came out with this blatantly false take. Cyrus waxes poetic about the world being in a state of decay and being made terrible because of human nature, or “incomplete spirit” of “the weak, faulty human heart” as he calls it. He seeks to destroy the existing world in order to do a total purge and reset button/system restore on all of reality, envisioning his new world to be a superior version of the old one he tore down in order to bring it into being - a world without spirit holding back any living being of living and functioning to their fullest potential. Yes, the man is out of his mind, but he thinks that by breaking the universe as is, he can fix it. And he is far from the cruelest of Pokemon villains, nor is any cruelty in his actions the point. In Platinum, US/UM, and especially in Pokemon Masters, Cyrus is a deep, properly motivated character far beyond what Giovanni in the original Gen 1 games was.

N is even worse because he waxes poetic about his ideals regarding ethics in Pokemon Battling, but it's an ideological dead end because the game never once challenges the player to consider what he's saying and contrives a reason for all his goals to fail, and his ideals are built off a faulty premise that Game Freak only entertains out of the illusion of a deeper story that ultimately reassures the player that they're already doing the right thing. Pulling the same con they did with Ghetsis but with even more dialogue and more interruptions and more wasting the player's time on a premise that you were never expected to take seriously. Game only wrote N's story because they were salty about PETA trolling for attention.

N's Dialogue in Pokemon Black and White? 2700 Words, oh my god somebody get a ballgag for this kid!

And here’s the final coup d’grace of bullshit. N dislikes Pokemon Battling and seeing his friends get hurt, but also understands that it’s in a Pokemon’s nature to want to fight, so he allows it when he feels it necessary or unavoidable. What he truly hates is the system of Pokemon training and how humans exploit Pokemon for research, sport, entertainment, menial labor, keeping them as pets or in Safari Zone zoos, etc. He hates Poke’ Balls, which is why he never uses them to catch any Pokemon himself - his team is different each time he’s battled. And the thing is? In B2W2, he has not changed this view. He and the remnants of Team Plasma who follow him now are still striving to make a world where Poke’ Balls and such things are not needed, and Pokemon can co-exist alongside humans without any exploitation or abuse from humans. What he’s learned is that he shouldn’t instinctively reject views and ideas about Pokemon that differ from his own, and should not try to force everyone else into accepting his views and ideals as the One And Only Truth. Gen 5 did have a deeper story that gave players plenty to think about, but this yahoo is among the whingy, pretentious lot who just didn’t get it.

Who does this person think they are, anyway? What do they call themsel...

[somnambulants]

omg i think it’s considered a little bit of a pride mont hate crime that you don’t have MORE nat fics 🥺 so hehehe how about i request some pouty jealous!nat?

Notes: omg thank u! happy pride 💛 this went super off topic BUT i hope you still like it! jealous!nat is my new favorite thing. 

Summary: Natasha may have a little bit of jealous streak. You discover you don’t mind. Word count: 3.8K

You are not a jealous person.

That’s not to say that you aren’t prone to bouts of insecurity, you definitely are, and especially at the beginning of your relationship with Natasha. For the first few months after you’d begun dating, you’d been on edge the entire time; in a constant state of wondering, agonising, for the day she’d finally realise you weren’t good enough for her and up and leave.

Through all of that, you’d never given a lot of thought to whether your girlfriend is the jealous type. Mostly because Natasha is the most beautiful person you’d ever seen but also because it’s not like she would ever have a reason to be jealous; the minute you’d met, you had never so much as wanted to look at another person.

The thought never crossed your mind. It was laughable to you.

As unbelievable of an idea as it is, you’ve been together for just a few months when it slowly begins to dawn on you that you may not be the jealous type, but Natasha most definitely is.

--

In all – although admittedly, there weren’t a lot – of her relationships, Natasha has never cared enough to worry about being jealous over a significant other. 

This is why the visceral reaction she has to watching people flirt with you comes as such a surprise to her.

The first time it happens, you’d only just begun dating and were at one of the many events the avengers were required to attend. Still wanting to stay as low-key as possible, you’d both privately agreed to not spend the night attached to one another. 

Something Natasha is now beginning to regret. Immensely.

Currently, you’re across the room, talking to a woman Natasha vaguely recognises as a reporter and all she can focus on is the way the woman is looking at you. 

It makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up because Natasha knows that look; has given you that look many times over the course of your relationship – a hungry, I want you right now, kind of look.

“Nat!”

Steve suddenly materialises beside her and the fact that she didn’t see him coming is evidence of how distracted she is. It makes her scowl even harder. Taking in her expression, he all of a sudden looks like he’s trying not to laugh as he follows her gaze to where you were standing. “You feeling okay? You’re looking a little…green.”

She resists the urge to kick him in the stomach. “Bite me, Rogers.”

He snickers and starts to say something else, but whatever it is, it’s lost on her as the sound of your voice across the room acts as a honing beacon and regains her attention immediately.

She watches, grip tightening around her drink, as you throw your head back, laughing at some joke the woman must’ve made. Seeing this as a green light, the woman leans in, brushing a lone piece of hair over your shoulder. 

It doesn’t matter that Natasha can see how your spine immediately straightens up, or how you step back to widen the gap between you and your admirer.It doesn’t matter that you very clearly don’t return the attention being given to you. 

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters because all Natasha can see and feel is red. If she had the ability to burn people with her eyes, that woman would have been incinerated on the spot. There wouldn’t even be tiny little dust particles left behind.

In the midst of her rage, she doesn’t even register the glass in her hand shattering until she’s covered in glass and red wine and there’s blood running down her wrist.

The sound of the glass breaking makes a good portion of the room’s occupants turn around to stare, you included. Instantly, you’re at her side, cradling her hand between your own.

“What happened?”

In its current state, Natasha’s brain seems to be lacking its usual quick thinking, and she just stares at you dumbly for a second until she spots the reporter you’d been talking to skulking in the background, watching with a petulant look on her face, evidently irritated by the interruption and the white-hot rage comes flooding back even more ferocious than before.

God, that insipid woman is lucky this event was specified no weapons allowed because if Natasha had a gun right now, she --

“--Natasha?”

You’re looking at her with worry in your eyes and as much as she’d love to go ‘accidentally’ push that woman off the edge of this very tall building’s balcony to a very certain death, she feels her insides soften into mush as they often do when you’re around.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Accident.”

It’s a flimsy excuse and one that wouldn’t fly on a normal day, especially not with you. She watches you purse your lips, giving her a doubtful look but you seem to make the decision to let it go as you lead her out of the room with the intent to find something to clean her up with.

--

You may not be a trained spy or even the most perceptive person on your best day, but you can still sense it when something is up – especially with Natasha. After the party, you’d had an inkling that maybe your girlfriend wasn’t telling you the whole truth and that something else was actually going on but after seeing the look in her eye, you hadn’t pushed her.

In spite of her unwillingness to share, a few weeks later your inkling is confirmed.

“I’ll order this time,” you yell over the loud music at the bar you were currently at. It was not your scene at all – or Natasha’s but Carol had recommended it on her last trip back to this earth and after a long, long week, you’d both agreed you deserved a night out, away from avengers’ duties and this is where you’d ended up.

Natasha gives you a nod and you stand, only having to wait at the bar for a few seconds before the bartender makes a b-line for you, ignoring the grumbles from the patrons that had been clearly waiting a lot longer than you.

“What can I get you?”

You recite Natasha’s drink, then your own and the bartender makes them with record speed. When you try to hand her the bill to pay, she waves her hand dismissively and gives you a grin. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t –“

The bartender, who you now realise is quite pretty, runs a finger along the back of your hand and gives you a wink that is definitely more flirty than friendly. “Believe me, it’s my pleasure.”

You sigh in defeat, giving her a smile in thanks and turn back around, making your way back to your table in the corner of the room where your girlfriend is still sitting but now with a face like thunder. 

To anyone else, Natasha would probably look neutral but to you – well, you can see the irritated look in her eye and the slight crease between her brows and you know she’s pissed.

In the future, you’d look back and want to slap yourself for not seeing it straight away but in the present it just makes you a little worried.

“Everything okay?” you ask, setting the drinks down on the table. You think about all the possibilities of what could’ve happened in the short time you’d been gone and try not to panic. “Did something –"

“No,” Natasha says and then seems to realise the sharpness in her voice because her face softens in apology. She leans over to give you a quick kiss and it makes you relax slightly. “Everything’s fine.”

Comprehension starts to trickle in when she scoots over so she can wrap an arm around your shoulder to pull you closer, and when you follow her line of sight, you realise she’s glaring over your head at the bartender, who pales immediately and doesn’t so much as look in your direction again.

Oh, you feel your eyes widen as it finally hits you: oH.

You look down into your drink and try to hide your disbelieving smile as you finally understand: she’s jealous. 

If it were anyone else, you think you probably wouldn’t feel like this – would likely be outright irritated and a little offended at the behaviour -- but with Natasha you can’t help but find it kind of … cute.

A little giddily, you lean over to press a kiss to her jaw and feel her relax a little against you. “Wanna go after this one?”

Natasha’s face doesn’t change but you see a little shift in her eyes as she nods and pulls you in for another kiss, this one a little more heated – for your benefit or the bartenders, you don’t know, and don’t particularly mind either way as you let yourself get lost in it.

--

After that night, it becomes so apparent to you and you don’t know how you’d missed it all this time. It happens all the time. All. The. Time.

On the street, if someone so much as glances your way, she’s already staring back at them with an expression that would be terrifying even to you if she directed it your way.

At work one day one of the new recruits, a kid, really, comes up to you and asks you, voice trembling if you’d let him take you out someday and the next day Natasha knocks him on his ass so hard and so many times that you’re kind of surprised – and a little impressed—that the poor kid doesn’t quit right on the spot.

Even in your apartment building, one of your maybe-slightly too friendly neighbours gets similar treatment in the elevator one night when you and Natasha are returning to the building at the same time as her. 

Just as you enter the elevator, you hear the voice of your neighbour calling out.

“Hold the door!”

Panting, your neighbour enters the small space. “Thank you so much, I have had the worst, oh –” her eyes land on Natasha beside you and she looks at her with something you can’t quite place in her eyes. “Who’s your …friend?”

“Oh!” you exclaim and you know you must sound surprised. Was it not obvious from how Natasha was always here that you were dating? “This is Natasha. My girlfriend. Nat, this is Charlotte, my neighbour.”

You can see Natasha in the reflection of the elevator walls, so you see the smug self-satisfied look she gives your neighbour as she wraps an arm around you possessively.

So, yes while you notice it all now, you still don’t say anything because a small – and by small, you mean large, massive actually – part of you kind of likes it; likes the fact that the Natasha Romanoff, the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen in your life is somehow yours and even more unbelievably, somehow she thinks you’re worth getting worked up like that over.

--

At this point, you’ve been dating for over a year and somehow it must’ve slipped the memo to let all of the avengers know because somehow every time you’re at the office, it seems like a new person is finding out about your relationship. 

It’s really hard to keep up with everyone and their individual missions, which is how you find yourself in your current predicament.

“--ah, well-well,” a familiar voice calls out and you look up from the report you’d been studying. “If it isn’t the most attractive and coincidentally my favourite honorary avenger.”

In the doorway of your office, Sam is grinning at you in that playful, flirty but also joking kind of way that’s distinctly Sam Wilson. You grin back and stand to let him pull you into a hug.

“Did you just get back?” you ask, vaguely remembering him telling you he was going on a mission at least six months ago. You think it was in Istanbul, but you can’t quite remember the specifics. 

Sam pulls back and goes to open his mouth but doesn’t get the chance to speak as Natasha appears in the doorway.

“Samuel,” she drawls his name, eyeing his arm around you. She visibly brightens up when she looks at you, though. “Y/N”

You can’t see yourself, but you know your face must light up as your eyes land on her by the sudden realisation that crosses Sam’s face. The casual kiss she drops on your cheek comes as confirmation.

His mouth drops open as he looks between you both. “Oh damn, you two?” he asks, smiling genuinely. “Damn!”

To the naked eye, Natasha doesn’t seem amused by his revelation, but you know her well enough by now to be able to spot the glimmer of humour in her eyes. 

Sam, however, doesn’t seem to be adept at reading her as you are and so when she advances a little closer, his eyes widen and he immediately backs away.

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” he exclaims, hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry!”

The expression on Natasha’s face turns sinister in nature. You watch and try not to laugh at her theatrics, attempting to adopt a sympathetic expression when he desperately looks to you for help.

“Well,” Natasha says, faux-friendly. As she passes by him, she gives him what looks like a bone-shatteringly hard arm squeeze – if the pained expression on Sam’s face is any indication -- and comes to stand beside your desk. “Now you know, buddy.”

“That I do,” he says, backing up until he reaches the door. “Anyways, I gotta, uh –"

Not even finishing his sentence, he high-tails it out of the room so fast you barely see him leave. You turn to Natasha with a frown. She looks back at you innocently, but you catch the way her lip twitches a little bit before she breaks into a full blown smirk.

“You’re going to give someone have a heart attack one day, you know,” you say, half-serious. “I’m kind of surprised you haven’t already.”

Unbothered, Natasha shrugs and reaches out to tug you closer to her in order to kiss you, a little more intensely than you would normally allow at work. You melt into it with a sigh, smiling a little. 

Eventually, you have to pull away when you start to struggle to breathe and your head starts spinning. Natasha makes an unhappy sound, trying to follow, but you stand firm.

“Nope, you’ve got to go before I’m the one that has the heart attack.”

With a pout, she gives you one more kiss before she gives into your request.

--

You’ve never seen Natasha drunk before – hadn’t even thought she could get drunk but tonight she’s definitely wasted -- all thanks to Thor and whatever is in the mead he’d bought with him.

One thing you quickly realise about drunk Natasha is drunk Natasha also means confrontational Natasha.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about –”

Her and Tony are almost nose to nose at this point, about ten minutes into what was now a heated conversation, and you’re kind of wondering if either of them even knows what they’re arguing about. You don’t think so and by the looks on the other avengers faces, they seem to have as much of an idea as you do.

As Natasha and Tony continue to argue, you look to your left and the young waiter who’d been hovering by your table a little too attentively all night is immediately by your side. 

So Natasha can’t see you, you quickly mouth the word water to him and thankfully he seems to understand because he gives you a quick nod and then disappears, reappearing just as swiftly with a glass in his hand.

“Here, Miss –"

“No!” Ending her argument with Tony as abruptly as it began, Natasha jabs a finger at the waiter, who looks to you for help while she glares up at him balefully. 

The poor guy looks terrified, so you quickly intervene, touching Natasha’s knee to bring her attention back to you. It does the trick, but she seems to underestimate how close in proximity you already are and she ends up half in your lap to the delight of the other avengers in attendance, who all let out various different whistles.

“Mine,” she says childishly into the crook of your arm. You only just manage to pick it up so you know you must be the only person who heard her. With your help, she sits up a little and makes eye contact with you as she repeats herself, more seriously, as if you hadn’t understood the first time: “mine.”

“I – oh --okay,” you say, grabbing her hand as it starts to creep a little too low to be polite in your current company. “How about we get you home?”

After hurriedly saying your goodbyes, twenty minutes later you park in your driveway and begin the not-so-small feat of getting her inside.

“Damn,” you grunt a little under her weight as you help her up the stairs to your apartment. “What do they put into that Asgardian mead?”

You make a mental note to ask Thor about it and then promptly forget as you reach your front door and fumble around, looking for your keys. 

Even in her inebriated state, Natasha somehow pulls herself together enough to reach into your bag and pull them put for you so you can unlock the door.

Which she promptly falls through. You just manage to catch her before she hits the floor, and she leans against you, burying her face into your neck.

“Come on,” you order gently, softening as she groans into your skin. “Bed.”

“No.”

As if to emphasise the word, Natasha shakes her head, but to your surprise, she starts to make her way to your bedroom anyway. She’s still a little unsteady on her feet but nothing like you’d be if you’d drank as much as she had. If it were you, you would definitely have been comatose about seven shots and multiple hours ago.

“Alright, you get into bed,” you say. “And I’ll get you some water, okay?”

Natasha scowls. “No,” she says. You bite your lip to hold in your laugh at the petulance you hear in her voice, shadowing her to the bed, where she immediately sits down and attempts multiple times to take off her heels with little success.

“No?”

Finally having enough of watching her struggle, you lean down and undo the straps of her heels, gently pulling them off her feet. You watch as she flops back on the bed and then covers her face dramatically with a groan. “You don’t get it,” she says unsteadily.

“I don’t get what?”

“You’re mine,” she repeats her earlier words, uncovering her eyes to look at you.

You raise an eyebrow. “Am I now?”

You thought you’d managed to cover your amusement pretty well until you see the glare she shoots you that says she can see it loud and clear. After a beat of silence it becomes clear she’s not going to say anything else.

With difficulty, you slowly manage to get her into a sitting position and help her out of her dress, pulling the covers up around her and retrieving a glass of water that you place on her nightstand so she can drink it in the morning.

You then change yourself and go the bathroom to remove what makeup you’d had on. To your surprise, she’s still awake when you emerge, half-propped up against the headboard and looking at you with bleary, unfocused eyes. It makes your heart turn to mush immediately and you get into bed beside her as quickly as your feet allow.

She immediately curls up into you and you wrap an arm around her, pulling her as close to you as humanly possible. 

“I am yours, just so you know.”

There’s a second of silence where you start to think that maybe she’s fallen asleep, until she shifts against you to meet your gaze, looking a little more alert and coherent but still out of it.

“Good,” she says softly.

The next morning, you wake before Natasha and slip out of bed to make her coffee and to find some pain killers, having a gut feeling she’ll probably need them. Your feeling turns out to be right. When you re-enter the bedroom, she’s laying face-down but clearly awake by the muffled groaning you can hear coming from her.

“Whys’it so bright,” she mumbles into the mattress as you approach the bed, turning her head ever so slightly so she can meet your eyes. You grin down at her.

“Ah, it awakens.”

She scowls up at you and you laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek as you slide back into bed, careful not to jostle her too much. She leans her head against your leg, slowly sipping the glass of water you’d left for her last night before reaching for the coffee on the nightstand.

You fall into a comfortable silence; you running your hand through her hair as she drinks her coffee, humming contentedly.

“How are you feeling –"

“I don’t like it when people look at you,” she interrupts suddenly, staring down into her coffee mug and sounding uncharacteristically nervous. You freeze but since she’s not looking at you, she doesn’t seem to notice. “But it’s not because of anything you do. I just don’t … like it.”

“Okay?” you hedge cautiously, not really understanding.

“I’m sorry if it bothers you,” she says. “Me. Being like that. I didn’t know I was even the type to –"

“It doesn’t bother me.”

At your quick interjection, she looks at you for the first time and whatever she sees on your face makes her smile faintly. “It doesn’t?”

You bite your lip. “Not at all.”

She mirrors you, now smirking. “Oh.”

After this, it starts to become a game: one you feel like you win every time.

[therealvinelle]

Could we have a reading order list of all the fics in the Vinelle-and-Muffin-Twilightverse ?

Oh hu hum.

There's no reading order list.

There is... well, the best way to describe the mess we've ended up with is that all these fics are AUs of each other.

Blue Moon happens if For the Love of a Woman doesn't, but if Blue Moon doesn't happen there's a chance that Two Men and a Baby will. If Two Men and a Baby doesn't happen, Violent Delights Have Violent Ends does. The Less Than Immaculate Conception happens if Bella chooses the wrong door in Painting Red Madonnas, which in turn happens if the Cullens never come to Forks in the first place, Bleach on the Brain happens if Renesmee finds about Aro/Carlisie, otherwise we're getting Nebuchadnezzar's Dream. If Carlisle is a woman we get Kingdom of Heaven, if Bella is possessed by an alien we get A Girl's Best Friend, Love and Lobsters, if Bella travels back in time in New Moon we get Carlisle and Bella's Bogus Journey. If Edward never followed Carlisle's diet we get Between Scylla and Charybdis

@theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin and I have a very firm understanding of canon and its characters, so you have the same characters placed to a variety of situations and voilà fics.

In terms of reading order, there's none.

These fics do interact, things will be referenced in fic A that readers remember from fic B (such as Aro speculating Carlisle has a gift in Immaculate and the upcoming chapter of Bleach, in Nebuchadnezzar he explains exactly what he suspects and Carlisle tests it out) and so on, but we go out of our way to keep things comprehensible all the same. No cork boards with strings required.

Still, if you insist then I think I'll divide this in tiers:

Requires no prior familiarity with our fics:

Between Scylla and Charybdis; Kingdom of Heaven; Blue Moon; Nebuchadnezzar's Dream; Painting Red Madonnas

There will be a few refernces:

For the Love of a Woman; A Girl's Best Friend, Love and Lobsters; Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

Fics with a lot of references:

The Less Than Immaculate Conception; Bleach on the Brain; Two Men and a Baby

[yourtoradorasextendedwarranty]

Ok so a comprehensive list of why you're wrong. Even though I've done this 1000 other times to every other gun control post.

I never said ban all guns, im saying gun control laws are necessary. there are other gun control laws besides banning all guns.

There are. Except we already have dozens on the books. None of which criminals follow.

There would still be ways to obtain guns illegally, but it would be significantly harder.

Ok but why? Again you're missing the point because most guns used in gun crimes are obtained, or owned illegally. Also, you'd be telling weaker people or older people or more vulnerable people to F themselves. Like the woman with a restraining order who's ex BF got out of jail, and she tried to get a fire arm, but because of "Common sense gun laws" was told she had to wait several months before she could even try to get a fire arm for self defense. He killed her. And cops said, don't worry about it you have a restraining order. YES because CRIMINALS ARE KNOWN TO FOLLOW THE LAW! Apparently.

You can believe acab and still be pro gun control. fuck the system but we still need to work in the system while we live in it. in a perfect world we wouldn't need gun control laws or police, but right now, I'd prefer to live in a world where I don't have to worry about getting shot for existing in public.

Actual no you can't be ACAB and be Pro Gun Control. Because gun control always starts with, "Oh well these are just common sense reforms. And then we end up as one of the dozens of other countries that just ops to disarm it's populace. Leaving the only people WITH firearms being criminals. (Many of whom get their shit from the black market a lot of which guns come from Mexico. Who is supplied weapons from China. (This is a known issue, and since people like you are often anti borders, well.....You see where I'm going with this.

But the second part to this is, Who tf protects you if you "Can't trust the cops". Especially if you live in a dangerous neighborhood. CLEARLY if you are ACAB you don't ever want to call the cops. So what do you do? Run away and let people have free reign? Show those criminals that you will run from confrontation so your house is ripe for picking every time they opt to rob you. And that's assuming they ONLY intend to rob you. That's the "If you are lucky" scenario.

Only America has this problem. so many other countries have successfully introduced gun control laws and have had success from it.

Actually no. Our legal system is slanted in a way that puts all shootings even shootouts with gangs and cops as part of gun shooting stats. MOST COUNTRIES wanting you to believe that their laws actually work, do not in fact share that information. Even in cases of terror attacks they STILL don't list it. Because at their heart, most countries want to look good to other countries around them. As they are on a world stage. I've listened to cops and special forces from several countries with strict gun laws and pretty much they have just as much, if not more gun crime than the US. And we also manage to include suicides, in the stats regarding gun crime as well. Which is extremely dishonest.

But even then if you say we have more of it despite that you are functionally wrong. Several reasons why.

Population density.

Amount of guns that exist in the US.

The fact that each state has it's own laws in regards to guns.

The fact that we have a different culture per state and in general in the US over all.

The fact that you demand control while also not understanding what is already on the books. Like every other anti gun advocate in general.

Stores require back ground checks. You can't just walk into a store and out in 20 min with a fire arm unless it's a shotgun and even then there is a check that takes some time to do. As well as the fact that the gun itself more or less has your name on it. Via records of seller. And even if you bring up "the gun show loop hole" you'd still be wrong because despite the fact that YES in some states you can, no sane gun seller would ever do that. Why? Because if a gun was used in a crime and they opted to not file and FFL for transfer of ownership they could be held responsible for the crime. 95% of gun owners in the US understand this stuff. 90% of anti gun activists don't know any of this.

Also there is already a ban (technically) on "Assault Rifles". And by ban what I mean is, you can BUY them, but you have to have a PERFECTLY clean record. You get added to a LIST where they know you have it. You also have to wait for an obscene amount of time before you can ever lay hands on it. And even then the amount to which it's regulated is beyond stupid because by the time you get it, and see it, the way you have to treat it is that of a show piece because the laws around using it are unconstitutional. By a long shot.

More over, almost all gun related "Mass shootings" are committed with pistols. But rather than seeing for a call from anti gun activists for a ban on pistols, they want to ban AR's because they look scary. They are no more or no less lethal than a pistol. However, Pistols are easier to hide. I'm more shocked you all don't demand a ban on pistols. Because AR15's are fundamentally one trigger pull, one bullet. That's it. But because it's a rifle, and it's "Suuuupa scawwwy", That's the one most people want regulations on.

Fact is, the states with the most gun crime, are states with the strictest regulations on guns. And by making it harder for people to get guns, you actually give the middle finger to the working class and to poor communities that might want to protect themselves or their families. Which is why every time I see an argument about levying more fees and taxes as a was to make getting guns harder, I laugh my ass off.

Because they are saying in no unclear terms, "F*ck the poor. Only well off people should be able to own guns. In their HOA's and their gated communities that already has a first line of defense." What's more, you claimed that it's uniquely a US problem it's not. Britain has issue with a lot of gun crime and it might as well be illegal to own a gun there. IT'S NOT technically, but in practice it is. Hell if you look at Mexico or South America or some other nations in the world, even first world they do have a bit of gun crime. They just don't make a habit of putting all the crimes under the same banner. That is also to say we don't know if all of their gun crimes even GET reported at all. Especially if they have strict gun laws. And why would they hide that information? Because if they showed gun crime stats and it was decently bad, but their gun laws were strict, it would show that MAYBE the laws aren't doing much on that front. Which would cause issues internally and also be an Image issue on the world stage in regards to other nations perceptions of that country. WHICH incidentally could also hinder tourism.

So. You need to look more broadly at things before talking out of your ass. Because that's what you are doing.

"hurr durr gun control bad what about freedom" there have been 400+ mass shootings this year alone.

[porphyriosao3]

#22 Spooky

"Oin?" Bilbo called softly.  Oin had wandered off to check on something nearby, leaving Bilbo with the lantern since - like all dwarves, the hobbit had discovered to his disgust - he didn't need the light to see, just to see colors.  Bilbo knew calling was probably a waste of time as the old physician's hearing wasn't great even before the battle, but for some reason he was hesitant to make much noise down here.  They had come into the ruins (stop saying that, he told himself firmly) of Erebor to see if anything could be salvaged.  This area was practically untouched but there was a thick layer of dust on everything, and the dark shopfronts and home entrances were... unnerving.  There was a stillness here like walking among the tombs in a graveyard; it resisted disruption.  Predictably, there was no reply.  Cursing, Bilbo left the wrecked market stall he had been half-heartedly examining to go find his companion.  A voice startled him.

"Can you help me?"  The hobbit turned and saw a dwarf he didn't recognize, though he noted that even in the gloom the poor fellow looked half frantic.  His hair and beard were braided nicely, though the braids were fraying a bit, and his beads were rich as were his clothes, though his garments were heavily-mended on a second glance.  His voice was high-pitched for a dwarf and had a carrying quality, though his accent was strange and unlike any of the dwarves Bilbo had met.

"I... will certainly try," Bilbo said, "if I can.  Are you here with Dain's forces?"  The dwarf was looking around himself, barely glancing at Bilbo at all.

"My daughter," the stranger said, "she's barely a pebble, and she's gotten lost," he said, nasal tones and odd inflections at odds with the panic in his voice.  "She's never done this before."

"Oh that's... I'm so sorry, of course I'll help you find her," Bilbo said, though the strangeness of this was sinking in now that the shock was gone.  None of Dain's army were traveling with their children, surely!  Even for dwarves that seemed quite unheard of; the hobbit had found that dwarves were even more protective of their children than hobbits, if such a thing were possible, so... "What's her name?"

The dwarf smiled for the first time, staring directly at Bilbo.  "She's my little Kulli-bird.  Kulli daughter of Khirûsh."  Bilbo smiled back.

"That's a lovely name.  We'll find her, I've got a friend with me who can help us look.  Oin!"  This time he shouted properly.  "Kulli!" followed, just in case the girl was nearby.

The old dwarf came around the corner, puffing along and carrying a box of oddments.  "Here I am, here I am," he said jovially.  "Found the lot right where I thought it'd be!"

Bilbo smiled and turned.  "Oin, meet..." but there was nobody there.  The dwarf was gone.  Glancing down, he saw that the dust was undisturbed where there should have been footprints.  "Where... Oin, there was another dwarf here just a moment ago!"

Oin looked... well, Bilbo was determined to call it 'skeptical', because looking at him as though he had lost his mind was simply not on.  "Eh?" The old physician brandished his ear trumpet.  "Say again?"  His expression showed that he was perfectly aware what the hobbit had said, he was just giving Bilbo the out.

"I said," Bilbo continued loudly, and damn the determined silence of the area anyway!  "There was another dwarf here, he said his daughter was missing and he was trying to find her!  Kulli daughter of Khirûsh, he said her name was."

Oin's sudden look of comprehension made the hobbit doubt himself.  Maybe the old dwarf hadn't heard him properly after all, he supposed.  Suddenly Oin nodded briskly, resettling the box in his arms. 

"Well, he'll find her on his own I'm sure.  Come along, Master Baggins, back to camp we go," he said determinedly.  With that, he set off, ignoring Bilbo's protestations about the dwarf, the girl, and the speed at which they were moving in that order.  By the time they arrived back at the barracks area at the gate the group had settled in, Bilbo was both out of breath and out of sorts, huffing in annoyance as best he could while trying to catch his breath.  When he told the story to Balin, though, the old dwarf's face was sad.

"Well, that's interesting that he's still around after all this time," the advisor said, "but Bilbo... you'd never have found the girl.  He certainly never did.  Khirûsh is a ghost; he's been looking for the girl since Khazad-Dûm's refugees came here.  Get Thorin to tell you the story."  Bilbo's face was a mask of shock.  "Seriously," Balin continued, "ask him.  It will distract him from his wounds, and," he sighed heavily, "hopefully keep him from trying to get out of bed every five minutes and eviscerating himself in the bargain."  Worry for Thorin drove all thought of the strange dwarf from the hobbit's mind and he practically flew into the sickroom where (as predicted) Thorin was trying to bargain his way out of bed with the dubious looking attendant.

By the time Bilbo had settled Thorin determinedly back into bed and talked him out of the latest specious claims of the mountain falling down if Thorin wasn't there to keep an eye on it, he fetched out his pipe to share with the king as he told him the story of his encounter.  Thorin looked surprised, then nodded grimly.

"Ah," he said heavily, "the poor fellow is still there, eh?  Surprised the dragon didn't drive him away as he did so many of the other things that lived here."

"Thorin!" Bilbo exclaimed, pipe drooping forgotten in one hand, "are you saying he... good heavens!  That was a ghost? He looked as real as you or me!"  He puffed distractedly on the pipe.  "Though come to think of it, he was dressed in heavily mended clothes.  His voice was odd, too; strange accent, I'd say."  Thorin was nodding.

"There is some history there," the king said, accepting the pipe gratefully and puffing once on it.  "The first time Erebor was settled was directly after the fall of Khazad-Dûm.  The Three Clans settled here for a century or so before my ancestor Thrain for whom my father was named led most of them to build a city in the Grey Mountains to the west.  Khirûsh was one of the few to escape of the Deep Five, five families who almost had their own kingdom within the kingdom of Khazad-Dûm.  They lived far down, in the tenth deep and below, and they acknowledged the rights to rule of the line of Durin, but..." he shrugged, "they essentially ruled their own halls, with their own families, only trading with the upper levels for food and offering their sons and daughters for military service when needed.  Did you hear how he spoke?"  Bilbo nodded.  "That's the mine-speak.  We don't do that any more, but the nasal voice carries, makes it easier to hear in the down-below.  Most of the Deep Five were the first to fall when Durin's Bane came up from the depths, for obvious reasons.  Khirûsh got away with his wife and daughter somehow and came here with the refugees.  His wife died along the way, nobody knows how, so when they came to dig the first halls here, it was just him and the wee one.  Things were much rougher then; it was all just raw caves for the most part.  The story always was that the girl must have fallen in a pit or crevasse but no body was ever recovered.  Khirûsh went mad.  After he died, well... you see how he ended up."  Thorin puffed again, handing the pipe back.  "Tragic."

Bilbo was almost in tears imagining the situation. "That's... horrible," he murmured softly.  "The poor dwarf.  I wonder if Gandalf could do something to help him, if it is him."  Thorin looked astonished for a moment before smiling.

"That's kind of you, azyungel ," the king said, rubbing at one of his bandages before subsiding at Bilbo's glare.  He reached out and ran his fingers down the thin braid beside Bilbo's face, fingers tracing the bead at the end.  "I suppose in a way I understand Khirûsh better now than I ever did before."

"Soppy old thing," Bilbo said softly, eyes glowing.  "Why do you say that?" "Because there are some things that, if lost, would drive you mad."  Thorin smiled, his whole heart in his eyes.  "I know that now.  We should ask the wizard indeed.  Everyone deserves a chance at peace."

[wheelsup]

the taming of the shrew | one

he is more a shrew than she

penelope reveals her plan to get you and spencer together. unfortunately, her plan has a few hitches. 

A/N: again, big thanks to @homoose for being my helpful beta reader, and to YOU for reading it now. 

category: fluff, spencer reid x fem!reader, series

wc: 4.1k

<- prev | next ->

Penelope came back to your place the following night, bearing a new bottle of wine and a collection of materials she mentioned were integral to executing the plan.

Very quickly into Penelope’s explanation of this Genius Plan –– her words, not yours –– you remembered what it was she did for work. Officially, she was some sort of technical computer-y person for the Federal Bureau. As you knew her, she’s a danger to society and anyone with a traceable digital presence.

She managed to construct a comprehensive list of every place in D.C. and Virginia that her friend liked going to, along with the approximate times in which you were most likely to find him there. Approximate meaning, exactly which days he visits and the roughly time of day, down to a mere one hour margin of error.

You scanned the list over, shocked at its detail. Where he cut his hair, got his coffee, bought his books. His favorite restaurants, the chess clubs he’s a member of, his local hospital.

His local hospital?!

“I’m not going to need to know that, am I?” you paused.

“Probably not, but it comes in handy with this job,” she shrugged with a nonchalance that was rather alarming.

There had to be a dozen more places on the sheet –– ranked, in order of his (assumed) preference for them. Penelope calculated it based on the frequency of his visits, their average duration per session, and how often he’d mentioned about the place.

“What?” she tossed her palms up, taking offense when you asked her if she had evil plans to take over the tristate area. “Hang out with him long enough, you tell me if you pick up a knack for researching or not.”

Researching. Mining private data through questionable methods. It’s a small difference to Penelope.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side, Penelope,” you muttered under your breath, flipping the sheet back and forth. “You could ruin my whole life with ten minutes on a computer.”

“I wanted to be thorough,” she defended, shrugging. “And I’d only need five.”

You laughed through your nose, giving the paper one last scan. “You left out one important thing, though.”

“No, I put his home address on there,” her brows wrinkled together as she pointed it out on the sheet with one hot pink polished finger.

“His name,” you berated. “Jesus, you think I’m going to show up at his home?!”

“Again! I’m thorough,” she cried at your accusatory tone. “His name’s Spencer. You’ll like him when you meet him.” 

_

You didn’t doubt that Penelope’s friend was a likeable guy, but you weren’t exactly dying to go out of your way to meet him. You told her that you’d get around to it when you had a chance and left it at that.

And two weeks later, you found yourself in need of a caffeine fix that your tea kettle wasn’t strong enough to satisfy. You started on a new piece late the previous night, and midnight rolled into four in the morning, which pushed you into the arms of seven o’clock. Reinforcements were needed.

Throwing on a large sweater to cover up your messy clothes and grabbing the closest pair of shoes you could find, you originally planned on heading to your usual spot just around your street corner. Just as you were leaving, the list, still sitting untouched in the exact spot that Penelope left it in, caught your eye.

It’d been a while since you told Penelope you’d help her out. Enough time had passed that you now felt like there was an invisible deadline over your head.

Maybe it won’t hurt to try something new?

Besides, meeting someone at a coffee shop seemed like an easy, foolproof way to go about this. From all the movies and romance novels, you knew that cafes are the pinnacle of meet-cute situations. Or, in your case, a meet-forced.

Regardless, it should’ve been simple enough, and it would’ve gotten the favor off your shoulder.

You scanned the sheet for the cafe Spencer would be at on a Thursday at 8 a.m., and got there with barely five minutes to spare before he was expected to show.

It was just your luck that he had to pick a cafe practically as far from your home as he could get, and the transfer train had to have a delay that made you walk the last three-quarters of a mile there. Call it crazy, but you didn’t expect to actually have to put in work for this. You expected it better be worth the hassle.

You took a seat in the back of the cafe to catch your breath as you waited for him to show up. Sitting in the booth, with your head down so you coudn’t be seen, the plan started to feel stupid all over again. You were running around the city, spying on this stranger, and for what?

The silver bell hung over the door frame interrupted before your thoughts could travel down that path of questioning. It rang each time a new patron enters, and within the next twenty minutes it rang only eight or nine times. None of them appeared to be Spencer.

You were prepared to call this one a failure and leave, when you realized your colossal mistake. You only had his name, and no idea what he looks like. So unless he happened to wear a name tag around you could’ve already missed him. You realized then that there were more than a few flaws in this plan.

Keeping an eye on the door, you dialed Penelope’s contact as a swarm of new patrons flooded in.

“How am I supposed to know what he looks like?” you whispered into the phone, failing to cover it with a hand cupped over the speaker. Penelope was confused for only a second by the apparent lack of context.

“Oh! He’s tall, has mousy brown hair but he cut it recently. It’s like… missing on the sides, but it’s all there in the front!” she explained.

What the hell does she mean missing?

“Pen, brunette? That’s like all the guys in here…” You took a look around the full cafe; various men typing on computers, taking calls. All of them looked the same, from their brown hair to their khakis and puffer coats. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than brown hair.”

Penelope struggled to explain and with each new feature she gave you, your mental picture of him got more clouded. “He’s skinny! Dresses like a vintage teddy bear!”

“Does he have kind of like… a hot English teacher vibe?” you quirked your head, spying a man approaching from the sidewalk and drinking him in with your eyes. Tall, brunette, clad in corduroy head to toe with a plaid sweater vest underneath. Vintage Teddy Bear F/W 1978 collection.

“Yes! He teaches sometimes! And you think he’s hot?”

Your mouth gaped even though she couldn’t see you. “No, I - I didn’t say that. I said he had the vibes of a hot teacher.”

“And how different is that from saying he’s––”

“Pen, I gotta go. Your guy’s walking in.” You put the phone away before she could pick apart what you said.

The bell on the front door rang as he came in and you stared intently at his face. If this was like the movies, he’d turn his head right then, at the perfect time, and make eye contact. He’d fall madly in love from the first look, and your work would be done. You sat at the edge of your seat, burning holes into his skull, waiting for that moment.

But alas, he never looked up from the linoleum flooring as he walked up to the counter. With a groan, you slid out of your booth and quickly hopped into the line before anyone else could claim the spot behind him.

New plan: eavesdrop, order the same coffee as him, and pretend to go for the cup at the same time. Laugh about the coincidence, how if you share the same coffee order you must certainly have a lot in common, and have him fall in love with you.

But you overheard him rattle off his order and were absolutely horrified. Black coffee, extra sugar. Like, extra, extra sugar.

You were going to need a second change of plans.

You eyed him up and down, searching for something you could approach him about. He was donning black converse under a fitted pair of dark brown corduroy trousers, with a blazer to match, and a deep green plaid vest underneath. On paper, this outfit shouldn’t work. In practice, it… really did.

A little too well, given how good he looks in it. More fashionable than a federal agent ought to be as required by dress codes, right?

“Can I help you?” you heard, and it poked the bubble of your thoughts. Your head shot up to meet his for the first time, eyes wide as heat crawled up your face.

“Uh. No ––” Shit. You didn’t even realize how long you were staring at his legs. Long, long legs. And shit, why did you say no? That was your opening to talk to him.

The man –– Spencer –– nodded his head slowly, uncomfortably, and turned away with a forced grin. He grabbed the coffee cup placed on the counter and you thought now was the time to say something. But by the time you thought of it, he’d already picked up his cup and made his way to the door.

The stupid silver bell mocked you as he left.

__

The first attempt left you slightly jilted, but a few days later you found yourself in need of a few grocery items. You just happened to be in his neighborhood that day, and though it was very much out of the way of your own, you didn’t plan on it being a problem. He’d never see where you lived anyways, and he’d never need to know how unlikely this chance encounter really was.

You had Penelope text you the address of his regular grocery store, and upon arrival, felt immediate concern. It was not a grocery store. It was a convenience mart slash liquor store at the corner of the street, below a building of worn apartments.

As you walked through the aisles, the only things you found were a large assortment of wines that took up half the small store space, an aisle of candy packets and chips, a section for household supplies, and one measly aisle for canned and boxed foods.

Cereal, instant noodles, soup cans, pancake mix… nothing very fresh.

Spencer seemed like a pretty scrawny guy. You now believed it might’ve been from the fact that his food choices were so off-putting that he simply didn’t eat. It wasn’t your place to be concerned, but you decided that if you ever ended up taking him out, a farmer’s market might be good for him.

You loitered around for perhaps longer than necessary. The inquisitive shop attendant asked if you need help –– as in, why are you still here, get out of my store –– and you told her you were just really conflicted on which detergent brand you needed. Finally, the man you were after arrived at the scene.

“Hi, Dolores,” he greete with a small wave. The attendant, Dolores, greets back with a positivity that she sorely lacked when talking to you. Dolores has favorites, apparently.

An unexpected panic settled in your stomach and you quickly turned back to your selection of fabric softeners. You weren’t hiding, you just didn’t want him to catch you staring again. You picked up your two props, pretending to read the labels on the back and compare the chemical formulas on each of them, when you saw him out of the corner of your eyes.

He went into the aisle in front of yours, and over the short shelves you saw the back of his head sweeping over the modest food section. He turned around to inspect the other side of the aisle, and you ducked your head even lower. It was in vain. He spotted you anyway.

You fixed your eyes even harder onto the bottles, afraid to look anywhere else. He shuffled out of his aisle and turned the corner into yours. You started sweating a little.

“Uhm. Excuse me,” he said.

“Yeah?” You looked up from your bottles, putting on your best caught-off-guard face. Like you were a girl in a movie, reading a book on the beach (not detergent labels in a liquor store) and your romantic interest just noticed how beautiful you looked doing it, deciding he had to introduce himself.

“Can you… can you move…” he asked, gesturing to the section of cleaners that you’re blocking.

Never mind.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” You burned up, moving out of his way. He reached for what he needed and you peeked down to inspect the contents of his basket. Organic whole wheat bread, cream of mushroom soup, and somehow, he’d managed to find the only two apples this place must carry. At least there was light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel.

He tossed a bottle of Snuggle fabric softener and you raised your brows. Given that he was “grocery shopping’’ in a three-piece suit –– a good one, too, black trousers, vest and blazer with an eggplant purple shirt and lavender tie –– you would’ve expected him to simply send his clothes out for dry cleaning.

“Snuggle, huh?” you said. He gave you a confused look. “Oh, uh. I was looking at these. Couldn’t pick between the two.” You raised your two bottles of softener; Snuggle and Tide.

You needed him to know you weren’t just saying Snuggle to insinuate that you would like to do that to him. You remembered Penelope telling you he had a degree in chemistry or some sort of science field, and asked, “Is… is that one like, more organic? I was trying to read the formulas but I don’t… I don’t recognize the chemicals,” you trailed off. You could see yourself losing his interest the more you spoke. He barely looked at you as he grabbed whatever else he needed.

“I don’t know… I just like it,” he bristled. You looked down at the bottle and flipped it over to the front. It had a drawing of a teddy bear on it. How fitting.

You go to comment on it but yet again he’d made an escape, already at the checkout counter and unloading his basket by the time you looked up again. You rolled your eyes, wondering if it’s even worth it to follow him into line and see if he sparks up a conversation this time.

You could tell that he wouldn’t. So you gave him the space to buy his items and leave.

You didn’t really need the detergent, but Dolores gave you a pointed look before you could even think about putting it back on the shelf. You ended up buying the detergent, a loaf of bread, and two packets of sweets out of guilt.

As you took the train home, digging into your packet of sour peach rings, you began to doubt if you can carry out Penelope’s request.

_

After two failed attempts, you were prepared to tell Penelope that this just wasn’t going to work out. You didn’t expect it to be this difficult to talk to Spencer nor did you see yourself getting closer to him anytime soon. It would be best if she just found someone else to do it.

You caught her in the hallway, leaving her apartment just as you came home from the store. It seemed like as good of a time as any to let her know how unsuccessful your escapades were going. With your tail between your legs, you approached her with the intention of breaking the plan off.

But the second she saw you, it was like she could read through you. She clocked what you were about to say and before you could, she gave you a warm hug. It was the first one you’d ever received from her, actually. And she thanked you for trying.

It didn’t make you feel guilty, per se, but it definitely made you feel weird about telling her the news. So you bit back on telling her what you were really going to say. She didn’t need to know the details of your failure, or the fact that you were seconds away from giving up on her friend.

Maybe you didn’t need to give up right away.

After all, you did only talk to the guy twice. Don’t they always say the third time’s the charm?

You left the conversation at just that –– letting her know that you’re happy to do this for her, even if you aren’t really –– and slinked back into your apartment. The list, buried under the magazines and paint tubes and half-full cups of cold coffee on your table, called for you.

If by any stroke of luck you happened to share one interest with this guy, you promised yourself to give it one more try.

According to the list, that overlapping interest was the wonderful world of Gatsby Books –– a small, locally owned bookstore residing in the heart of D.C. ’s arts district. That neighborhood was smack in the middle of your’s and Spencer’s, and it was where the gallery you showcase at was.

You’d been meaning to get down there for a while now, anyways. It really was the cutest bookstore in the world; inside it lived a white, bushy-furred cat named Gatsby, and he was always there. After all, it was his bookstore.

It wasn’t such a burden to make your visit fit Spencer’s schedule, really. And it would make Penelope happy if you did. So on Saturday afternoon, you took a lovely walk through the sunny arts district of D.C., a smile on your face and a tote in hand for all the books you were planning on hauling back.

The smell of paper and coffee greeted your nose at the door, and you practically fell into a trance, letting it lead you through the aisles of the store without much thought of where you wandered. Not that it mattered, you could’ve roamed the shelves aimlessly all day long.

In the mystery and thrillers section, you found Gatsby. He jumped down from his perch on a step stool and weaved between your legs, greeting one of his long-time regulars. He was such a good shop owner.

“Hi, Mr. Gatsby.” You smiled and bent down to give him a little head scratch when he started running off in the other direction, taunting you into following him.

He rounded the corner and came to a stop at a pair of boot-clad feet; your eyes moved up to find your favorite employee (after Gatsby, of course) restocking the shelves.

“Miles!” you whispered, but he still jumped out of his skin. He turned around, hand still over his chest, and sighed when he realized it was just you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” you laughed.

“Hey, long time, no see. Back for some more recommendations?” You ‘ooh’ed at his offer.

“I was just gonna say, the ones you gave me last time were so good. I finished them in, like, a week.”

“Really?” He smiled, brows happily up his forehead. You nodded in assent. “Okay, well I’ll give you more this time, see if the list’ll last you a little longer than that.”

You grinned eagerly, following him to the shop counter where he pulled out a stack of bright green post-its and a pen.

“I’ve actually been waiting for you to come in, I already had these in mind for you,” he mumbled, scrawling across the paper quickly. He handed the note over, and it took a moment to decipher the chicken scratches.

“Okay, first you gave me Al-Shayk and Bradbury. Now you’re giving me Chaucer, Dickens, and Doyle,” you recited the note, giving him a teasing look. “Are we just going through the alphabet, Miles?” you joked.

“Honest mistake. But I’d be happy to give you all the other twenty-two letters of the alphabet if needed.”

“I might hold you to that.” You nodded, folding the post-it in your palm to prevent the sticky backing from gunking up. It’d make quite the good bookmark for later. “Thanks for these!”

“No problem, just a part of the job.”

Nonetheless, you thanked him again before disappearing back into the aisles. You found Miles’ books as well as a few of your own and nearly lost yourself in the rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, until you made a turn. Standing in the middle of the next aisle was Spencer.

A week ago, he was the whole point of coming to the store. That day, you completely forgot about it, and it stopped you in your tracks to see him there. He was just standing in the middle of the walkway, staring blankly at the shelf in front of him.

“Excuse me,” you grinned, “Could you move?”

You thought it was a cute reference back to the laundry detergent fiasco, a chance for you to turn the tables, but he had no reaction to it whatsoever. His face was straight as he merely pivoted his shoulder out of your way as you reached for the book you needed; The Narrative of John Smith.

His eyes narrowed at you and his nostrils flared, and you wondered if it was called for because you grabbed the last copy they had in stock.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want this?” you asked, waving the book in his face. He was just standing there for so long, you didn’t think he actually wanted anything since he never picked it up.

“No,” he said coldly.

Contrary to Penelope’s review, he didn’t actually seem that warm of a person. But you smiled tightly at him, letting a forced laugh fill the stale air.

“I… I swear I’m not stalking you,” you laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. Technically it was a bit of a lie, but he didn’t need to know. It’s just something people say when they have the happy coincidence of running into a stranger so often.

“What did you say to me?” he bit. His tone was sharper than you felt like this conversation deserves.

“I mean, I’ve just been seeing you around a lot… it was, like, a joke? Like, ‘ahh watch out, I’m stalking you!’ you know?” With each second he stared you down, you felt your throat dry out, getting more flustered as you felt the need to over explain yourself.

“Maybe you should work on your comedy routine,” he barked, his voice just faintly cracking. He shoulder-checked you as he rushed out of the store in long strides and a brisk pace.

What in the absolute fuck.

You couldn’t stay in the shop for another minute. You dropped your stack of books at the counter with Miles, giving him a rushed apology for leaving them behind as you stormed out of the shop and headed in the opposite direction of where Spencer ran off to.

The air outside was now frosty as the sun disappeared behind the horizon; the wind nipped at your hot cheeks as you charged home. There weren’t enough words to quantify the anger you felt. Your mind ran rampant with how much you now hated this man.

Not only did he bite your head off for no good reason, but he publicly embarrassed you at your favorite place and had gone so far as to bruise your shoulder to make a point. And you know what? If he really wanted you out of his way, you were more than happy to leave him the hell alone for the rest of your life.

You reached into your jacket pocket for your phone and dialed Penelope.

“Hey! How are––” she cheered.

“It’s off.”

“What?”

“It’s off. I’m not dating your fucking friend.”

“What happened? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding––” she started in a panic. She pleaded that you overlook whatever went wrong and promised that she’d have a talk with Spencer about it. She’d try to encourage him into the direction that you need.

None of that registered in your brain, hot blood filling your ears instead of her words.

“He’s a fucking ass,” you spat. “The more I see of him, the less I like him, and… I’m pretty sure we’d rather kill each other than date at this point. So yeah, I’m done.”

☆

☆

☆

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[bluejayblueskies]

Hello! I love your writing, the hand holding over the table was so much feelings <3 can I prompt 29. tickling the other one? No pressure :-)

touches prompt list

thank you for your patience with this anon! i offer you some scottish safehouse jonmartin fluff <3

.

It starts when Martin wraps his arms around Jon’s midsection while Jon is cooking, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of Jon’s sides, and Jon flinches so hard he drops the wooden spoon in the pot of red sauce.

“Oh, shit. S-sorry,” Martin says. He pulls his hands back quickly, but they touch Jon’s sides again as he retracts them. Jon can’t help the high, reedy sound that escapes him, and he feels his cheeks grow warm.

“It’s—fine.” Jon fishes the spoon out of the pot, wrinkling his nose at it before depositing it unceremoniously in the sink. “Just, um.” He debates the pros and cons of being honest before mumbling, “I’m rather … ticklish.”

“Oh.” Martin’s forehead creases, like he can’t quite decide what he’s supposed to do with that information. “On your sides?”

“Y-yes. And, um.” Jon looks down at the ground, then at a random point over Martin’s shoulder. “A-and … everywhere?”

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Everywhere?” he echoes.

“Well.” Jon frowns. “N-not everywhere, I suppose. My nose is, er, relatively safe, a-and my fingers.” He taps his fingers on his thighs a few times. “I just … have really sensitive skin. A-and I don’t…”

He trails off. It feels too vulnerable, suddenly, to say that he’s really not touched often by gentle hands, so every feather-light brush of skin against his is like a shock to his system. “I don’t usually have to worry about it,” he says instead, which seems vague enough. He thinks Martin understands what he’s really saying, though, because a moment later, a hand is on his (touching, Jon notes, only the fingers) and a kiss is pressed gently to the tip of his nose.

“Well,” Martin says softly. “I can be more careful from now on if you’d like.”

Jon flushes. “Ah. It’s not…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then settles for candor over subtlety. “It’s not a bad feeling.”

“Oh?”

Jon’s flush deepens, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “I … I like it when you touch me. A-and I don’t … want you to stop.”

Martin sounds amused—and slightly flustered—when he says, “I can touch you without tickling you, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon says, a bit petulantly. He takes a breath. “But I … I want you to.”

Martin lets out a small huff of laughter. “You want me to tickle you? Just … whenever?”

“If you don’t want to,” Jon says sullenly, “we don’t have to do it.”

“No, I—I do want to, I just…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand once. “I want to make sure that I’m understanding you correctly.” Then, he brushes a finger gently along the inside of Jon’s wrist, and a small shudder runs through Jon’s body.

“Yes, that’s…” Jon trails off and simply nods. He hesitates, then reaches forward and takes Martin’s other hand in his so they’re clasped together, palm to palm. “I … I trust you, Martin. I—I know that you’d stop, if I asked, and … it’s nice. To be vulnerable like this.” Jon pinches his lips together for a moment. “Does—does that make any sense at all?”

“Yeah,” Martin says gently. “It does.” Then, quieter: “Thank you, Jon.”

Jon nods. The back of his throat is tight with unnamed emotions, and he swallows a few times in an attempt to clear them away. “A-and besides, I … I think this could be fun.”

Martin’s smile is gently teasing. “Fun? In this cottage? Surely not.”

“Ha ha.”

Martin’s smile widens, and he presses another quick kiss to Jon’s nose. “Okay, then. Let’s do it.” He rocks back and forth on his heels a few times, as if considering, before adding, “And you can try to tickle me back if you’d like.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Try to?”

Martin’s smile turns devious at the edges, and he doesn’t clarify. Instead, he squeezes Jon’s hands once more before releasing them. “This’ll be fun! I’m going to go start the laundry—let me know if you need any help with dinner?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jon watches Martin depart from the kitchen with a frown before returning to the pot and retrieving a new spoon from the drawer.

Try to? What did he mean by that?

Jon finds his answer a few days later when he casually brushes his fingers against Martin’s sides, just above his waist, and Martin doesn’t even twitch. A light touch to the soles of his feet elicits the same response, and a kiss on his neck results in only a smile and a kiss in return.

Martin is apparently, frustratingly, not ticklish.

This, naturally, escalates the game to outlandish proportions.

Jon will admit—albeit with some reluctance—that he is, in fact, a very competitive person. Board game nights and trivia always took on much higher stakes than strictly necessary, his research always had to be more thorough and comprehensive than that of his coworkers in the research department, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction every time he figured out the answer to a problem before anyone else. He just … doesn’t like to lose.

And Jon is currently losing against Martin. Quite badly, in fact. It only takes a few days of indignity and injustice for Jon to decide that enough is enough, and he is going to find Martin’s weakness and finally get ahead.

Every light kiss is accompanied by Jon’s fingers brushing against Martin’s stomach or sides. Every time Jon curls around Martin in bed, he’s sure to let his breath tickle the back of Martin’s neck and to trail his fingers up Martin’s spine. And every time Martin stubbornly refuses to react to Jon’s touch, Jon tries a new tactic, because something has to work. Martin can’t just be … immune. That would be cosmically unfair.

Because Martin takes every opportunity to tickle Jon in return. And the number of times that Jon has shrieked and dissolved into helpless giggles when Martin finds another spot on him that is, apparently, very ticklish is getting to be truly embarrassing.

Not that Jon is … complaining, necessarily. He likes the game—likes being touched by Martin in ways that continue to surprise him, without any expectation of something more. Martin stays clear of areas that make Jon uncomfortable, takes his hands away the moment Jon tells him to stop (usually in a fit of breathless giggles), and always entertains Jon’s attempts to tickle him in return, fruitless as they may be. He would just like it more if he weren’t losing quite so badly at it.

Not that he thinks Martin minds, judging by the fond smile that seems to be permanently etched onto his face lately. That same smile turns teasing, and a little bit smug, every time Jon fails to elicit the same breathless giggles out of Martin. Jon wishes the sight didn’t inspire such affection within him because he wants to be irritated by it.

His scowl never has any heat behind it.

A few days later, Jon finds himself ignoring the documentary they’ve put on the television in favor of skimming his fingers up and down Martin’s outer thigh. When Martin doesn’t move an inch, he grows bolder, then bolder still, until he finds himself on Martin’s lap, hands pressed firmly against his chest and lips trailing kisses down his jaw. He places a kiss on a spot that he knows is particularly ticklish on him, and when Martin still remains impassive, a noise of frustration escapes his throat.

Martin makes an amused sound. “Sorry,” he says in a distinctly unapologetic tone of voice. “I can see that you’re trying very hard.”

He sounds a bit breathless, Jon thinks with a hint of pride, even as he recognizes that that’s probably less a product of the tickling than it is of the fact that Jon is currently straddling him and kissing him quite thoroughly. Which is just ridiculous, in Jon’s opinion. Everyone is ticklish on their neck. It’s just human nature.

“I am,” Jon says primly, lips brushing against the underside of Martin’s jaw. Martin doesn’t so much as flinch. Bastard. “It’s rather rude that my efforts are going unappreciated.”

“Oh, I’m appreciating them. Very much. Feel free to continue, please.”

Jon pulls back and affixes Martin with the driest look he can muster. “I see you’re not sympathetic to my cause.”

Martin’s mouth falls into that same frustratingly smug smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” His hands, resting on Jon’s waist, skim upward suddenly and send a violent shudder through Jon’s body.

“This,” Jon says breathlessly, “is unfair. Cruel and unusual punishment. Torture of the highest order.”

“So you’re giving up, then?” Martin says sweetly. He punctuates his words with a quick pinch just above Jon’s waist that has him squeaking.

Jon scowls and pinches Martin’s waist in return, to no avail. “Don’t be absurd.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Martin shrugs. “All right.” Then, he lifts Jon from his lap like he’s made of papier-mâché, settles him back down on the couch next to him, and proceeds to attack his sides and stomach and arms until Jon is wriggling and tears are budding at the corners of his eyes and his stomach is sore from laughing.

It's wonderful.

(And maybe Jon’s just a little bit afraid that, if he finally finds a way to make Martin jump beneath his fingers, the game will end and Martin will cease trying to find new and wonderful ways to touch him gently, to handle him like he’s something tender, to take him apart and hold him close in the same breath.

Not afraid enough to stop trying to find Martin’s weak spot. But the thought is there all the same.)

In the end, none of Jon’s agonizing and strategizing and consideration of variables makes much of a difference. Because when he finally manages to tickle Martin, it happens quite by accident.

They’ve been in the safehouse for nearly a month now, and the tickling has become part of the daily routine. Jon thinks, therefore, that he should have come to expect it by now, but Martin never quite does the same thing day-to-day. Sometimes, his hands on Jon’s waist in the morning as Jon cooks breakfast are firm and comforting, eliciting nothing from Jon but a pleased little hum and a soft good morning. Other times, his fingers drum a light staccato rhythm against the small rolls of fat that have begun to accumulate on Jon’s hips, and Jon wriggles, making Martin laugh and insist that I’m hardly even doing anything, Jon.

Jon had never really considered touch as something that could contain so much love and affection within it. He’s never been more glad to be proven wrong.

The morning it happens is quiet and cloudy. The sunlight through the window is tinged with gray, bringing with it a cold that cuts through the downy duvet they have. Jon rolls over in bed with a groan. He presses himself firmly against Martin’s back, draping one arm across Martin’s chest and shifting so his legs are flush with Martin’s in an effort to combine their body heat and stave off the chill. His foot, socked and a good deal colder than the rest of his body, brushes against the back of Martin’s knee.

Martin twitches, his leg jerking away from Jon’s involuntarily. With sleep still clinging tightly to him, it takes Jon a moment to realize what’s happened and a few moments more to identify what, exactly, he had done to warrant the reaction.

Experimentally, he shifts and touches his foot to the back of Martin’s knee again, feather-light and fleeting. And when Martin makes a small sound in the back of his throat, froggy with sleep, and twitches away again, Jon grins. He buries his face in the back of Martin’s neck to hide it. Then—because he’s a bit giddy and just can’t help himself—he rests his foot against the back of Martin’s knee and wiggles his toes.

Martin’s leg curls up against his chest, effectively locking away his figurative Achille’s heel, and he mumbles something incoherent in his sleep that sounds equal parts groggy and irritated.

Jon’s smile turns soft, and he presses a kiss to Martin’s shoulder before wrapping his arms securely around him. The warmth radiating from Martin is enough to lull him back to sleep—but not before he tucks this new, incredibly valuable piece of information away in the back of his mind for safekeeping.

Jon has, in his memory, never been described as a particularly patient person. He always skips the boring parts of books and movies, preferring something that can actually capture his attention and hold it firm. He used to send daily emails to colleagues until they sent him the research or information or supplies he needed. He never lets soups simmer as long as the recipes tell him to, and he firmly believes that it’s all right to set the oven temperature higher than recommended in order to cut down the cooking or baking time required.

Therefore, he thinks it’s rather impressive that he manages to avoid showing his hand until a full day later, when he walks into the kitchen in the morning to see Martin standing by the counter, his back to him as he fiddles with the teabags and mugs. The weather is still brisk, but there’s a fire going in the fireplace that makes the temperature in the safehouse tolerable. As such, Martin is clad in a (rather adorable) mixture of bright purple fuzzy socks, a thick woolen jumper, and boxer shorts with little dachshunds on them.

And, well. His knees are right there.

It has a certain kind of symmetry to it—Jon wrapping his arms around Martin’s waist, earning himself a hum and a gentle good morning, and nuzzling into the space between Martin’s shoulder blades. He stays there for a moment, relaxing into the warmth and softness of the jumper, before slowly and deliberately lifting his foot and brushing it against the back of Martin’s left knee. Except, instead of dropping a wooden spoon into a pot of red sauce, Martin startles so badly that the mug slips from his hand, shattering rather spectacularly on the floor beside them.

Jon freezes, staring down at the puddle of half-steeped tea as it slowly creeps toward his feet. “… Ah.”

Martin mutters a curse under his breath and extracts himself from Jon’s now-loose embrace, bending down to begin picking up the largest of the shards. Jon stands there for a moment, feeling a strange mix of sheepishness and pride bloom in his chest, before going to retrieve the broom.

The mess is gone in a matter of minutes. Martin throws the last shard into the bin, dusts his hands off to ensure that they’re free of ceramic, then turns to face Jon with a sigh that straddles the border between exasperated and affectionate. “While I was holding tea?” he says, clearly trying to fight back a smile.

“I didn’t know you’d drop it!” Jon says defensively, gesturing widely with the broom he’s still holding.

“Well—I didn’t mean to. You just … caught me off guard.”

Jon can’t help the smile that spreads across his face at that. “Did I? How terribly rude of me.”

“Yes, yes, congratulations. You’ve found my weakness.” Martin’s smile is dripping with fondness. “I’m still winning, you know.”

“For now.” Jon adjusts his grip on the broom, the plastic bristles at the perfect height for his purposes.

“There’s not a chance that—hey!”

Martin backs up against the counter as Jon lunges forward with the broom, trying to angle it so it reaches behind Martin’s legs. It’s deceptively difficult. Martin gives Jon a comically exaggerated look of betrayal. “I expose my weaknesses to you, and this is what I get. Treachery and deceit.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

Jon adjusts his grip on the broom, but before he can make another move, Martin leans forward and presses a quick, lingering kiss to his lips. Jon makes a noise of surprise, then one of contentment. He finds his eyes fluttering shut despite himself, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, and he thinks he’d rather like to keep kissing Martin for the rest of the morning, and perhaps the early afternoon as well.

Which is why it’s rather unfair that when Martin pulls away, Jon opens his eyes to find that Martin’s sidestepped him and Jon has lost all tactical advantage.

“That’s cheating!” Jon says indignantly.

“That’s taking advantage of all the resources at my disposal,” Martin counters. It’s infuriating, and Jon loves him so very, very much.

What commences after that is a rather short, altogether too lively game of cat and mouse that mostly involves Jon running after Martin with a broom and Martin somehow managing to stay frustratingly out of reach. Martin’s laughter is lighter and more joyful than Jon thinks he’s ever heard it before, and Jon feels a childlike happiness blossoming in his chest as he nearly trips over the corner of a rug and just manages to catch himself on the back of the couch. Therefore, he can’t bring himself to feel too disappointed when Martin somehow manages to extract the broom from his hands and corner him on the couch. His fingers find the sensitive spots on Jon’s body as Jon giggles breathlessly and swats half-heartedly at Martin’s hands.

“All right, all right,” he manages to say between laughs. “You’ve made your point. I give up.”

Martin stills his hands, letting them rest gently on Jon’s shoulders with his thumbs brushing against Jon’s collarbones. He’s hovering over Jon, knees bracketing Jon’s thighs as the arm of the couch digs into the middle of Jon’s back. It’s a position that makes Jon feel small and enclosed, but also warm and happy and safe, because … it’s Martin. Martin, who only touches Jon as much as he wants him to and stops the moment it becomes too much. Martin, who apologized profusely the first time he accidentally rolled on top of Jon at night but who, upon Jon’s insistence that it was actually quite nice, has now taken to acting like Jon’s own very warm and very lovely weighted blanket. Martin, who looks at a body that has seen so many unkind hands and unspeakable horrors and presses kisses to the scars that lie upon it and reminds Jon with every touch what it is like to feel comfortable in his own skin.

“I love you,” Jon whispers, because he feels it so acutely in this moment that he thinks he might burst.

“I love you too,” Martin murmurs, rubbing his thumbs in careful circles on Jon’s collarbones so as to soothe rather than to tickle. The care behind that touch—the difference in intent from just a few moments prior—probably shouldn’t make Jon’s chest tighten and his stomach grow hollow and fluttering, but it does.

Martin presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead, soft and lingering and gentle, before pulling back and saying, “Tea?”

Jon can’t help leaning in to give Martin a chaste kiss on the nose, then another one quickly on the lips. The small noise that Martin makes with each touch is something that Jon boxes away and treasures forever. “Yes,” he says with a quiet smile. “That would be lovely.”