#we’re talking about even if you (somehow) don’t know he’s scottish

[the-somwthing]

This isn’t something that like genuinely really bugs me so we don’t gotta get out of hand with it but as the person who calls Scott x Joel “scottishbeans” I don’t rlly like the name “swedishbeans” for Iskall x Joel

[intheshadowsbehindyou]

Hello! I was wondering if you could write about the Merc's with a gn! reader who loves baking?

Btw, I love your writing style! It all feels so accurate and it's helping to feed this new fixation of mine <3 <3

I see we have some food lovers in the askbox, chat. *crackles knuckles* you ask, and daddy delivers.

Mercs with somebody who gives them food

Scout:

- Depends on your current location. The gravel wars isn’t short of moving from place to place. If it’s somewhere like japan he’ll go full weeb mode and eat nothing but fish related dishes. You know speed racer? In the fucked up TF2 universe there’s a speed racer themed restaurant. Take him there. (On second thought maybe don’t go eating with him in Japan he might eat the Hiroshima rocks.)

- He swears he’s on a diet but it’s inconsistent as fuck. This is the same guy who canonically eats radiation we’re talking about here. You hand him some warm bread you baked and he’s ecstatic. You catch him sprinkling something on his slice. It’s grounded up like pepper. He’s like “This? This shit is fuckin’ perfect. The person who owns my gym back in boston recommended it for energy. Tastes great.” You read the label and you realize it’s grounded up uranium.

- If you make him homemade fried chicken he’ll nearly choke up. Seriously. nobody’s ever done that for him before. Giving him food in general is also his love language but chicken? He thinks you want to marry him forever and ever now.

—————————————————————

Soldier:

- You don’t really know what soldier likes.. He doesn’t make anything very evident and tries his hardest to make his one defining trait being that he’s a veteran. But you know that’s not true. You decide to make him some sandwiches and he’s confused. “Huh.. Well that’s some weird tasting MREs. Not complaining. It’s actually really good. Shame that civilians can’t get the same luxury right now.” He says. You have no idea how to explain that WW2 is virtually nonexistent anymore.

- Finally you settle with something. Honey with warm bread. Instead of eating slices like a normal person he just swallows the entire loaf like a snake. You are worried for this man’s intestines. He seems to be fine however.

- Gives you either a romantic or platonic kiss on the head. Your pick. His breath smells sugary and sweet and you nuzzle your head against his collarbone in response. This is his way of showing he appreciated the food.

———————————————————————

Demoman:

- I sure hope you’re capable of producing stew because that’s all he eats when he isn’t unhealthily suppressing his own hunger with scrumpy.

- You get him to eat a variety of food somehow. Although he’s picky, he isn’t impossible either. Due to growing up in an orphanage he was no stranger to having to cook for himself at times when the caretakers just really didn’t care. You exchange recipes. For some reason he has an entire Scottish cookbook under his bed. As well as a book on “Leonerdo Da Fuq’s Basic Guide To blowing Sentries Up. And making it look like an accident.”

- He’s very thankful. Demoman’s not much of a foodie. He eats to live rather than lives to eat. But your snacks hit different. They’re made with your love. That’s why they’re so much better than what he typically eats.

—————————————————————-

Engineer:

- WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU THATS HIS JOB. HE’S THE OVERBEARING GRANDMOTHER THAT WONT STOP SHOVING FOOD INTO HER KIDS MOUTH!!! NOT YOU!!!

- He eats everything you give him. Even if it doesn’t particularly tickle his fancy. His belly is big and swollen afterwards and you want to squish him so bad. That’s a pillow waiting to be laid on. He then tells you fond memories of thanksgiving and when his mother would cook his family an entire turkey dinner.

- He responds twofold by making you something as well. You wake up one day to find an entire breakfast platter laid on your end table. There’s a little sticky note there and although it doesn’t have a name on it — the dash alongside the expertly drawn symbol of his class is evident enough. Only somebody with expertise in blueprints would draw something like that. Hint hint.

——————————————————————

Heavy:

- Heavy isn’t a dumbass by any means but this is a certified Heavy L situation. He thinks you’re trying to offend him at first because people call him fat on a regular basis. Medic explains from afar that actually it’s a gesture meant to express hospitality, and upon realizing you were just being nice he looks embarrassed and rubs the back of his neck.

- Lets you spoon feed him your food. He likes it for some reason. He likes any kind of meat, and protein. He eats that shit everyday. Not just that but dark chocolate and other bitter tasting foods as well. Despite his massive size he doesn’t actually eat large portions at a time.

- He knows how to make mostly deserts. Takes on a sort of mentor role and tries to teach you how to bake cakes and stuff like that. You’ve never seen Heavy in such a domesticated setting. Watching him go about cooking without breaking somebody’s skull in for once was actually kind of surreal.

————————————————————————-

Pyro:

- Cook / get them nothing but sweets. They won’t eat anything else. You begin to wonder if Pyro is even remotely human because of how much unhealthy food they eat. (But then again you’ve seen soldier survive losing both his arms and Medic sowing them back on. It’s probably fine.)

- They are unbelievably excited to see you walk into the room with plates and/or boxes. You’ve unintentionally pavloved them into associating it with your food. They clap and make grabby hands. Wanting to see what sweets you’ve brought them.

- It’s actually quite odd.. You see them retreat into their quarters to eat their food. It’s clear they’ve eaten it because they always take the plates back but you’re never allowed to see them eat directly. They don’t attend dinner with the other mercs or even breakfast.

- DO NOT LET THEM NEAR THE FUCKING OVEN. DO NOT LET THEM COOK. THE ADMINISTRATOR MADE IT AGAINST THE RULES TO LET PYRO NEAR THE STOVE.

————————————————————————-

Sniper:

- “Bloody hell.. This for me?” His voice hiked up a little. A little shocked that somebody would even consider making or buying him food in the first place, Only his parents ever did that for him. He takes it hesitantly but his expression doesn’t seem negative. Just incredibly dumbfounded. You had got him some donuts from a market in tuefort. You figured it would go well with his coffee.

- Immediately starts eating them. Sniper is both a meats sort of guy and a sweets sort of guy. Looks from side to side to make sure nobody saw him take your offer. That would be a embarrassing. He grabs the entire box and retreats into his camper van like a rat.

- He then slowly opens the door.. “Oh, right. Bugger. This is typically the moment I comfortably invite you in.” He cringes at the thought. Leaving the door open for you, and moving aside to let you in. He begins telling you the basics about how to hunt your food. For some reason it’s all incredibly dangerous aussie animals though. Some of the stuff doesn’t sound edible but he’s apparently eaten. He’s especially passionate about how to properly cook crocodiles.

———————————————————————-

Medic:

- Pretentiously nitpicks the fact you brought him cupcakes. Citing his knowledge about how too much sugar consumption can kill you… whilst simultaneously eating the cupcakes.

- “Even worse yet —- they ruin your dental health. Hoo, i’d hate to be on the receiving end of a tooth filling by an angry dentist.” He says, shoving more of your sweets into his face. You wonder if he’s even self aware of what he’s doing to be honest. “Although I do envy their sadism! It’s much worse than mine, actually — Das schmeckt gut.” He adds.

- He frowns. You knew Medic had loved cupcakes in particular so you were confused at first. Well it wasn’t that. In fact it was something more stupid. “Well then again the consumption of sugar is important for our bodies, I must add. With the wrong diet we could die from low blood sugar. I wonder if it is possible to extract all the sugar from a human body using a sort of giant homebrewed syringe. It is in theory possible for me to—“ The man is at his chalkboard writing down mathematical equations again.

———————————————————————-

Spy:

- When you give him food for the first time he’s unbelievably pouty. Couldn’t you have asked him his tastes first? He hesitantly eats what you give him anyway. As long as it isn’t fried, fast food, candy or anything that wasn’t expensive as fuck.

- Incredibly good table manners. Incredibly good at cooking his native cuisine. For some reason he’s intent on insisting that french food is superior than any other food. When you’re eating with him he straightens your posture, politely puts your napkin in your lap and schools you on the fact you’re not using your salad fork or whatever. There’s way too much pointless shit on his table. Who the fuck created all these weirdly specific rules?

- Eventually he’s so tired from trying to teach you he loses his temper and crosses his arms like a discontent toddler while you eat nonchalantly. “What?” You say. Using the wrong fork again. He’s still staring at you. “What?!” You repeat yourself. “I love you, Spy.” You say. Shoving more food into your mouth. He keeps glaring at you.

[captain-mj]

Angels Of Digitalism

Part 1 Part 2

Soap sat on the couch for a bit, continuing to draw. Simon looked over his shoulder as he worked. 

He watched Johnny continue to draw. The little lines and different shades of grey. It didn’t really make sense to him until Johnny zoomed out to show everything. Simon followed each intricate detail, finding it all hypnotizing. 

Johnny was so focused, he had his tongue between his teeth as he worked. It was cute. Simon glanced at Alejandro who was still deep in his phone.

Ghost decided to ask a question. “Have you ever heard of Sacred Geometry? Your work reminds me of it.”                                    

“No.” Johnny answered as he continued to draw.

There was a moment of silence. Ghost was more than content to just let it be. 

Johnny stopped what he was doing to look up, all of his attention suddenly on Ghost. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

Ghost paused, not expecting the artist they were paying to care about that. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah. Sounds cool.” Johnny smiled at him and clearly waited for him to go on. 

Simon nodded. “Sacred geometry is the study of the spiritual meaning in shapes. You know the fibonacci sequence right?”

“Yeah, in one of my art classes, we talked about it. If you use it while making trees and spirals, it makes them look more natural. One of the golden rations I believe.”

Simon grinned and Johnny smiled back. For a moment, Ghost wondered if he forgot to put his mask on, before realizing Johnny was just looking at his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly. Most of the time it’s just dozens of interlocking circles and spheres to make patterns but the other shapes are included sometimes. Cells make those patterns, atoms make those patterns, the solar system, the galaxy potentially our universe. All just boiling down into patterns that we can decipher and find the meaning of it all somehow. Circles mean the never ending loop, I believe something to do with reincarnation. The numbers that go into making them.”

“You think we can find the meaning?” Johnny asked him, looking at him with a strange amount of surety. Like Simon might actually know something. 

Simon laughed a little and immediately wanted to take it back when Johnny looked embarrassed. ‘I don’t know. Don’t think there is much of a meaning to anything. I think we’re just here and then we’ll die.”

“How nihilistic.” Alejandro gave him a glare over Johnny’s head. A very clear ‘we’ve talked about this and have you talked to your therapist recently and are you taking your happy meds’ glare that made Simon roll his eyes at him. 

“But if you find meaning in it, that’s up to you. Your work just reminds me of it.”

Johnny thought about it before laughing. “I think I know why! I used religious art as a reference fur some things. Especially angels, ye ken, cause o` yer name.” 

Alejandro and Ghost made eye contact over his name again. Yeah, Soap was not subtle about being scottish, but his accent thickened so suddenly Ghost couldn’t really understand it. He did find he kinda liked it though. 

“English, Soap.” Ghost decided to try. 

Johnny slowly looked at him before hissing. “Awa' 'n' bile yer heid, ye british bas.” 

Ghost blinked. “Yeah, that didn’t help. I understood that even less somehow.” 

Johnny grumbled and went back to drawing. Ghost sipped his drink and decided maybe it was time to bow out. The harnesses were done. The rigging all done. Roach would hopefully be finishing up soon. 

Johnny leaned into him, just a little. It was so he could get a better angle with what he was working on, but they were pressed close together.

Simon swallowed and waited for the usual panic that came from being unexpectedly touched so much, but nothing came. 

Maybe therapy was working. 

Alex and Roach stepped out of the room, both looking tired. “Alejandro, thank you so much for coming and helping.”

Soap glanced at Alejandro, really confused as all he saw him do was sit on the couch and type, but alright. 

“No problem guys. I’ll come every day this week.” Alejandro stood up and he and Alex fistbumped and Alejandro squeezed Roach’s shoulder as he passed. “Oh, Simon?”

Ghost looked up.

“Continue being cute for me yeah?” He winked and Ghost blew him a kiss. 

“Disgusting.” Rodolfo deadpanned. “Get a room.”

Alejandro spoke in Spanish to him and Rodolfo just shook his head. 

“I forgot to get you yesterday Soap so I thought I should make sure you come with us this time.”

The lights went out through out the building.

“Why did they put them on timers? Doesn’t even make fucking sense.” Alex turned his phone on as he spoke, illuminating them all. Slowly, everyone else got their phones out and turned them on. “Didn’t realize how late it got.” 

Soap hummed. “I thought you guys just turned them off yesterday…”

“We wouldn’t leave you in here. On purpose.” Rodolfo promised. “It’s why we sent Roach in.”

“Wait, where did Roach go?” Ghost stood up and looked around. He didn’t have his light on, but it wasn’t really necessary with so many lights already. 

Roach gently brushed his hand and Ghost tensed for a moment, before calming when he saw it was just Roach. “There you are. Don’t wander off in the dark.” He grabbed his hand. 

Rodolfo rubbed his temples. “Alright, let’s try to find the exit.” 

They all fumbled around in the dark for a while. Soap awkwardly bumped into more people than he ever wanted to. He found the door though and everyone escaped the dark venue. 

Ghost put on his helmet but perched on his motorcycle for a few minutes. Soap didn’t know why, but he waited with him.

Rodolfo did a quick head count of everyone before nodding. “Alright, everyone’s good to go home. Alex, remember, thirty minutes between edibles.”

“No.”

“Kill yourself then. Roach, please be careful in that car. It looks evil.”

Roach saluted him. 

“Ghost, remember to take your meds.” 

Ghost visibly shrank and crossed his arms. “Yeah, I fucking will.”

“Soap. Keep up the good work.”

“Wait, does Alejandro not get berated for something?? And why does Soap just get a keep up the good work?” Alex immediately complained. 

Rodolfo shrugged. “Soap is my favorite coworker and Alejandro is a guest.”

Alejandro gasped. “Mi sol, a guest?? I am a guest??”

“Yes. You’re a guest star. But still a guest. You’re not on a contract right now.”

“Wow, are we not friends?” Ghost scoffed.

“We are friends. It’s how I knew you weren’t going to take your meds, Roach was going to speed, and Alex was going to get high. I don’t know what Soap does when he’s not here!”

Soap hummed. “Mostly just take online college classes and commissions.”

“Boring. I can’t say anything about that. Oh, make sure you get grades??” Rodolfo scoffed and motioned towards Soap. “Get a better haircut??”

“I like his mohawk.” Roach used an app on his phone so it sounded like the vocaloid he used. Soap thought that was pretty neat. “Plus, more importantly, I was not going to speed.”

“We have the Life360 app. Your top speed coming in was 95 miles. Ghost is a safer driver than you. And he doesn’t even have a license.”

“You don’t have a license?” Soap turned to him. 

Ghost threw his leg over his motorcycle so he could get on properly. “Goodnight. I totally have a license.”

“Let’s see it then.”

“It has my face.”

“You can cover it up!” 

Ghost revved his engine. “No.” He two finger saluted everyone and left quickly. 

Roach watched him go with this… almost soft look in his eyes. He looked at Soap and held out a piece of gum. 

Soap took it and popped it in his mouth, making Roach grin. “So, have any plans tonight?”

Roach texted him instead of using the voice app. “Not really. You?”

“Go home and relax I suppose.”

“Want to come back to my place?”

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

let us continue:

-oh henry is SMITTEN and he hasn’t even seen her yet

-suffolk: that wasn’t a sex joke by the way

henry: oh i didn’t think so why would i ever think that (baby)

-wait he’s already engaged?

-okay not technically

-“reignier is fuckin BROKE man”

-oh he’s on the ace spectrum for SURE

-gloucester continues to have Beef with this guy, who has been promoted congrats i guess

-henry continues to be shy and earnest and adorable as cinnamon rolls

-he’s just like “hey God thanks for giving me the Best Wife Ever and pls help me always be thankful for her” 🥺

-“she’s pretty but even better she’s full of grace and well-spoken and SMART” seriously love him

-okay i get why you guys love henry and margaret

-okay i may not really know how medieval latin pronunciation works bc i studied classical latin but pronouncing “primis” with a long i sound made me physically cringe

-gloucester: i suddenly can’t read

-warwick: really? WE have to pay for this wedding?

-gloucester continues to be disappointed in henry’s life choices

-oh THAT’S why warwick was mad

-i read a fic that had a line that was like “he married her for the promise of a smile” and i don’t remember what fic it was but honestly that was spot on

-“‘tis known to you, he is mine enemy” yeah we’ve spent the last 80 minutes watching y’all fight

-oh they are SCHEMING

-everyone is scheming against each other

-i have mixed feelings about this lady’s dress

-that dream was definitely not foreshadowing

-ooh she’s kinda like The Scottish Lady

-ooh we’ve even got witchcraft

-also why is this guy dressed like it’s the early 1800s instead of the early 1900s

-the boys continue to be fightingggggggggg

-gloucester stop being sexist

-margaret tell him off

-a woman’s place is in parliament <3

-gloucester: this wasn’t supposed to be a roasting session

-henry continues to sit there and *try* to follow. mood.

-margaret: are you fucking kidding me

-LET!!! HENRY!!! BE!!! A!!! RELIGIOUS!!! ACADEMIC!!!

-margaret KNOWS.

-and she’s heard all the gossip ☹️

-margaret NOOOOOOOO i know suffolk is horny for you but i’m not getting reciprocal feelings at ALL what is this

-ooh seance time!!! this is perfect, i know seances were really popular in like the 1920s and 30s

-i love the fortuneteller’s costume

-well i guess you gotta get the intel somehow

-how are they doing this voice effect it’s so cool

-oops

-nice shot of him snuffing out the candle

-awwwwww henry continues to try his best for peace

-okay i love margaret’s outfit. especially the beret

-a miracle???

-oh that’s wonderful!

-so your wife made you climb even though you were blind? that is an accident WAITING to happen

-wait so you’re just gonna beat this guy???

-oh it was a fraud

-henry: REALLY??? people pretend to be disabled for MONEY???

-the DRAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAA

-henry really has a prayer for every occasion. honestly good on him

-eleanor got DIVORCED

-and also BANISHÈD

-he really does not want to do ANY of this sentencing

-gloucester got FIRED

-gloucester is a saucy sassy man

-eleanor: we’re aaaaaaaaall in thiiiiiiiiiis togeeeeeether

-cute handholding is cute

-wait what

-gloucester is getting arrested???

-henry: *beep* this *beep* i’m out *skateboards away* (not actually but yeah)

-wait MARGARET is in on this plot???

-there’s an irish rebellion???

-margaret can make peace too

-york: lmao i’m not gonna stop the rebellion i’m gonna BE the rebellion

-okay who is this person you’re talking about

-this murderer is having a major Guilt Attack TM

-you okay henry?

-henry just straight up passed out

-oh no oh HENRY 😭

-his heart is just BREAKING and so is mine

-margaret at least you’re still ALIVE

-suffolk: me? 🥺😮 NEVER!

-the crowds are NOT happy

-henry: “Lord give me the strength to not smack a *beep*”

-you doing okay there cardinal?

-the nobles just keep trying to shut margaret up and she’s not having it 👏

-he (henry) is so full of quiet dignity

-suffolk got BANISHÈD

-okay y’all getting the vibe that margaret is in love with both henry and suffolk? or is it just me? what do y’all think?

-this is like the first draft of romeo’s “banishèd” speech, complete with the INTENSE self-pity

-oh she’s breaking up with him

-one last smooch before we go

-ope the cardinal is dying now

-henry’s trying

-“forbear to judge, for we are sinners all” is low key a killer line

-oh so this dude knows EVERYTHING about suffolk

-rest in pieces suffolk (he was fun to watch but i did not like him at all lol)

-henry is STRUGGLING

-how did margaret get suffolk’s head and why is she carrying it around everywhere

-poor margaret ☹️

-he really is trying

-the background music is right henry really is just waiting for divine help bc he is SO DONE

annnnnnnnnnnnnd that’s all for tonight, folks!

alright henry vi: house of lancaster (english shakespeare company) let’s go

thank you @shredsandpatches

[korasonata]

So, the original plan was to do these quotes until Joe and Cleo finished their models, which was half accomplished during this stream (yay Cleo!). Question is should I still continue these after Joe has finished his model, or have we had enough now? Favourite moments of Joe and Cleo model stream part 7! Link to the video is below and time stamps are above each set of quotes!

Link: https://m.twitch.tv/videos/1155955572

—

00:32:05

Joe: This is our weekly paper craft stream. I’m joined today by ZombieCleo, who you can find at—

Cleo: Hiiiiiiiiii!!!

Joe: — twitch.tv/zombiecleo. You don’t need to type the “hi” in the middle. Although it is adorable, and so I wouldn’t blame you.

—

00:56:25

Cleo (in response to someone saying they like Hershey’s chocolate): I mean you can like the chocolate. It’s ok to be wrong. It’s fine. You know, you can—

Joe: A certain amount of the other person being wrong is to be expected in any relationship.

Cleo: Yeah! Look at my relationship with you, Joe.

Joe: Yeah, I mean we’re— we’re off the charts for that.

—

01:01:15

Joe (changing into his chroma green tank top): We can’t have people seeing my torso.

Cleo: Oh you know, yeah you— you are a cryptid.

—

01:02:04

Joe (doing a face camera expansion): these chains I’ve forged in life are about to begin pulling me down to the deep below! Enter the Jhoooooooost!

Cleo: Can I just point out that “life” was very southern. At that point. (Heavy southern accent) Life.

Joe (heavy southern accent): Life.

Cleo: Laaaaaffe

Joe: Liiiiife *both laughing* These chains I’ve forged in—

Both: laaaaffe!!

Joe (heavy twang): Pullin’ me daaan to the deep behlooow!

—

01:07:16

Cleo (in response to Joe having a laughing fit): And that is one of the rare times where Joe has a complete, absolute giggle fit on stream

Joe (still laughing): Ok I’m sorry, but “puritans go home” is the best thing to put on anything worth— ok im gonna start making a— ok. (Serious) Im gonna start making an actual checklist cause, um, (actually writing down a checklist of things he’s taking to his parents for thanksgiving) ok thanks—giving twenty twenty—one. Ok so, salad cream.

Cleo: *wheezing*

Joe (reading list): “Puritans go Home” icing on pie…Um, you know let’s just throw iron brew in there. Why not! Irn-Bru and vodka!

Cleo (laughing): Sure! Why not!

Joe: Yeah. Well, so, my maternal grandmother was Scottish and—

Cleo: oh I’m sorry.

Joe: —so I think my mom would get a kick out of Irn-Bru. As like “oh! Here’s something from the old country!”

Cleo: *physically wheezing* from the old country!

—

01:29:43

Joe: Oh, it’s really fun. Did you know that a bunch of people on Tumblr care a lot about how tall each of us are?

Cleo: Yeah. Yeah.

Joe: Yeah, oh man I’ve been spreading information and taking weird height pictures with people at conventions for years. It’s like— *Cleo laughing* I’ll intentionally like stand on things or like, uh, or like stand in such a way that you can’t tell I’m crouching, so people are like “Ok, so Joe’s like taller than Bdubs but shorter than, uh, like— Stress or something. It’s like how does that happen?!” *trying not to laugh* Because I’m screwing with you.

—

01:31:11

Joe: See that’s the thing is— is sometimes people think things are about power. I think they’re just about being obnoxious.

Cleo: I mean, you think most things are about being obnoxious which is why it’s a power move for you. Cause being obnoxious is your power move. It’s where you’ve got the most power, Joe.

Joe: Hm, that makes sense.

Cleo: Sometimes I do. I try not to when I’m with you, because— it’s easier.

Joe: Yeah. You don’t wanna give me any actual like workab— or usable intelligence.

—

01:42:47

Joe (reading chat): I’ve been on Hermitcraft since season one— yeah. That was only like 10 years ago though.

Cleo: I’ve been on Hermitcraft since season 2.

Joe: Yay Cleo!

Cleo: Which was only because Joe asked me to come on, or pu— vouched for me.

Joe (genuine): Well I am glad you joined.

Cleo: I mean I was— I was at the point where I was just like “is this what I wanna do for the rest of my life? Should I just go full ham into teaching?” And, uh, then you made that offer and I thought “well, I’ll see how it goes”. And it did quite well for me. So…you know.

Joe (quietly): I am so glad

Cleo: You are the reason why I’m still doing Minecraft content.

—

01:44:19

Joe (reading chat): Attasked says “Only you can judge whether you’re hot” no plenty of people can tell I’m hot, Graved. It’s— pretty blatantly obvious. You don’t— you don’t have to be good at judging to be able to tell. Like, that’s not an only me thing.

—

02:00:54

Cleo: You ever have those moments where you’re just questioning your choices in life?

Joe: *having a breakdown* Moments!

Cleo: *cackling*

Joe (through tears): I’m sorry, you’re just the best Cleo.

Cleo: *laughing, but genuine* Awe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to depress you today!

Joe: No it’s— *inaudible sobbing* Today—

Cleo: *dying*

Joe (quietly to himself): Is this is frame? Sorry, I was cutting this out of frame. My bad.

Cleo (still laughing): I like how everyone’s just sort of gone quiet and gone “…is Joe ok?”

Joe: nOO!!!

Cleo: We’ve established that Joe is not ok.

Joe: But I’m really good at it!

Cleo: *spitting out her drink*

—

01:49:52

Joe: Let’s go down the Mississippi, Cleo.

Cleo: I mean, that I think we could probably do. Let’s go down the Mississippi, Joe.

Joe: yay!

Cleo: On a flimsy raft.

Joe: Yeah, we can actually— there’s a lot nicer boats now though. Like—

Cleo: I mean— yeah, but do we— do— you know…it’s the Huckleberry Finn experience.

Joe: I mean, here’s the thing, is if you actually came here and I was like “Cleo, let’s go to the Mississippi River and go down the river a few miles”. I think you’d be more likely to actually say yes if I had an actual boat lined up than if I had a flimsy raft.

Cleo (excited): If it— if it— if it makes you feel better, I— I would do the flimsy raft. Like, hands down. It seems more fun.

Joe (realizing that she’s serious): I— you say that, but I don’t think you’ve seen the Mississippi River. Like, the problem is it’s full of these giant barges these days, the wakes of which would just throw your raft over.

Cleo (dead serious): I can swim.

Joe (attempting to compromise, completely lost as to how he has somehow managed to be the voice of reason): Ok…Alternatively we can go down a smaller river…In a raft…

—

02:04:43

Joe: Sorry, I’ll stop monologuing. Uh, but yeah sorry I was in the process of—

Cleo: I’LL STOP MONOLOGUING! Yeah, yeah that’s gonna happen.

Joe: yeah, I’ll- I’ll say I’m gonna stop monologuing and I’ll warn you that-

Cleo: And then he just continues

Joe: -that Cleo you should probably be ready to start talking sometime in the next 8-12 minutes.

—

02:15:26

Joe: Oh, I need to get a green screen suit jacket. Um, I realized. Cause I got the green screen, um, uh dress shirt. That I wear under existing suits, but I don’t have an actual like green screen suit.

Cleo: I— I am always amused by your definition of “need”

Joe: My definition of what?

Cleo: Need.

Joe: Need.

Cleo: I need a green suit.

Joe: Ok, I’m sorry Cleo, the people need me to get a green suit.

—

02:30:23

Cleo (reading chat): “Joe-Getters and Go-Getters” yeah, Joe’s not a Go-Getter, he’s a Joe-Getter. Which is infinitely worse.

Joe: You say being a Joe-Getter is infinitely worse, but you also frequently lament that you get me. So, maybe you’re a Joe-Getter. Have you considered that?

Cleo: I am a Joe-Getter. I do get you, Joe. Which is terrible. It’s— It’s a trauma, actually Joe, I’ll have you know.

Joe: Yeah, comprehend me and despair, Cleo.

Cleo: I looked too deep into the abyss. The Joe-byss, sorry.

Joe: Thank you, yeah we’ve got a brand. Always be branding.

Cleo: *giggling* A.B.B. - Always Be Branding.

Joe: That’s not an infinite void of despair. That’s an infinite void of—

Both: Joe’s despair.

—

02:34:31

Joe: Let’s just leave it at don’t push me off a roof. Like *laughing* I feel like anything I could add to that would undermine the overall theme of just encouraging people to not do that.

Cleo: Um, let me put it like this. I always had the capacity. Always. But! I never acted on it, Joe.

Joe: Mhm, yeah thank you.

Cleo: …yet…I’ll try not to.

Joe: Yeah. And— and also keep in mind Cleo, I mean, given, you know, how well we’ve managed to work together over the last decade. Even if you did push me or throw me off a roof. *grinning* What makes you think that you’re not coming with me?

Cleo (slightly proud): That felt like a threat. It felt like a threat. I’m not gonna lie.

Joe (through giggles): Yeah, that was the, like— I spent 90 seconds figuring out how to revise that so is it was not blatantly like a violent threat.

Cleo: I mean…yeah, I think— I think— I think between the tw— it— it’s a mutual aggression pact at this point.

—

02:51:53

Cleo (holding up seemingly two identical pictures of turret towers): Am I— am I going actually insane? Are they not…the same turret?

Joe (examining pages on screen): …y—you know there might be…subtle differences that, uh, a— you know, skilled crafts person would find unavoidably blatant. Um…I make no such claim Cleo.

Cleo: Good, because, you know…trauma…Yours, not mine.

Joe: *laughing* yeah I was gonna say. Trauma as a verb. I’m just gonna trauma you.

Cleo: *laughing* I’m gonna trauma you so hard right now.

Joe: Yeah, if you don’t calm down and agree with me.

Cleo: If you don’t agree with me, that’s— that’s your mistake.

—

03:38:48

Cleo (about authors): just be careful who you like and just recognize the faults in any media that you do like. Just don’t imagine that everything’s perfect, because it’s not. Just be open to the fact it’s not perfect.

Joe: The only perfect media is YouTube videos produced by ZombieCleo.

Cleo: Fact.

—

04:00:34

(Having finished her model)

Cleo (tiredly): No booshes. No booshes. I know it’s got places for booshes, but I don’t want to do booshes because…there’s a limit.

Joe (currently in the United States): Yeah. Well, now you can come over here and help me Cleo, is what chat’s saying.

Cleo: Ok.

Joe: Go help Joe hold this stuff he can’t glue.

Cleo (Currently in England): Hang on, hang on. *rummaging on desk* What do you need? I’ve got lots of things, what do you need?

[cellsshapedlikestars]

If you are accepting prompts--how about Sansa and Jon being on opposite sides of a political contest? Prime Minister Rhaegar Targaryen is forced to call a referendum for Northern independence, as demanded by the Northern Nationalists party. He is campaigning in the North for a United Westeros, taking his second wife Lyanna Stark and their son Jon along, toshow how hollow all talk if Northern independence is. However, this means that Jon keeps running into his Stark cousins, particularly Sansa Stark, who accompanies her parents to every debate and campaign rally...

I've been sitting on this for a while (and yes, I do see all the anon prompts, I promise!) and I've sort of been writing this on and off since I got it. The thing is, I have no point of reference for these politics, I'm assuming you wanted something like the Scottish independence movement, which I have almost no knowledge of as I am a dumb American who can barely handle American politics without spiraling into anxiety and depression. So, I've sort of talked around the specifics and hopefully I haven't gotten anything too crazy wrong.

Also, you mention his Stark cousins, but... well, I cannot do modern incest. I can handle them being cousins in olden times where it was acceptable & common (I can't even handle the sibling incest aspect in any time period), but I was writing this modern and that's a hard nope for me. I know it's a fairly predominant part of this fandom and if it's your thing, absolutely have at it! There is no kink shaming in this house. It's just not for me and I couldn't write it, sorry!

Also, as usual, this turned out longer than I intended since these are supposed to be drabbles mostly. But 'drabbles' for me always end up like 2k words

.

Jon sits in the window seat of the jet, headphones on and turned up. Somewhere behind him, he knows his parents are sitting, likely talking strategy. He knows dad wants him to join in, but Jon's in no mood to talk politics. It's what got him in this situation to begin with.

That stupid reporter. Jon's stupid response.

Jon! How do you feel about Northern Independence?

I say let them.

It's what he believes, honestly – if the North wants independence, why not? The rest of the SK treats them like shit anyway, why not let them break off, like Dorne did? It's not a naming issue – they're still called the Seven Kingdoms despite losing Dorne decades ago, so what if they're technically only six now? Jon knows it's about more than that – it's economics and politics and... well, pride. The SK can't lose another piece of their kingdom – nevermind that piece has been conquered and beaten down multiple times over hundreds of years. Northern Independence isn't a new concept – it's just been met with military resistance every time and stamped out. But they aren't in the middle ages anymore.

For a moment he turns his head to look behind him – to see mom with her head bowed in conversation with dad and something ugly twists in Jon's stomach.

He knows dad only married mom because she got pregnant – because his political career was just taking off and a mistress and bastard would have ruined him. And mom, she'd been so young, she's convinced herself he married her for love. Jon swears that mom used to be different. She used to argue with Rhaegar all the time about politics, he even remembers her bringing up Northern Independence when Jon was just a kid. But over the years she's had to play the perfect wife for him and somewhere along the way it just... stuck. Mom isn't his mom anymore. No, mom is what Rhaegar's political advisors want her to be.

So even though Jon had wanted to protest this trip, there's also a part of him desperately clinging to the hope that when they get North, mom will snap out of it. When she's home, maybe she'll be his mom again.

Especially since the leader of the opposition is an old friend of hers.

Ned Stark.

Dad doesn't react to much, he's a politician to his core, so seeing him get riled anytime Ned Stark is on TV is notable. In fact, there's a rebellious part of Jon that already likes Ned Stark simply for the fact that dad hates him so much. There's more to like than just that, Jon knows – Ned Stark seems like one of those politicians that's doing the job because they want to make a difference. They're rare, nowadays, but Jon's been surrounded by politicians his whole life and he can spot the do-gooders from a mile away.

He thinks it's partly why dad hates it – Ned Stark doesn't use the same underhanded tactics Rhaegar's used to, and from everything Jon's heard, there's nothing to use against Ned. The only skeleton dad's advisors had ever found tucked away in Ned Stark's closet had been that his wife, Catelyn, had originally dated his older brother Brandon, who died in a car accident. They'd begun dating and married shortly after - a minor scandal that hadn't gained any traction, considering they've been married for over twenty years with five children.

Dad was hoping to get somewhere with the youngest daughter, Arya, who always seemed more wild than the rest of her siblings (except maybe the youngest, Rickon). The problem is that she's never done anything really wrong and the North loves her. The oldest son Robb is as perfect a son as any politician could hope for and Jon sometimes wonders if dad would rather have Robb than Jon.

The other two sons are still fairly young and going after them would only make dad look like the bad guy. Then there's Sansa.

Jon remembers her from growing up – not that he'd ever met her, but they're both kids of prominent politicians and he's seen her in photos since she was old enough to walk. A proper lady, he remembers even the southern press naming her. Perfect, just like her older brother.

A hand on his shoulder jolts him out of his thoughts and he turns to see mom, who motions at him to take off his headphones.

“We're landing in a half hour and your father would like to go over your role,” she tells him with a perfect, bland smile. (She hasn't been his mother for a very long time.)

“I know my role,” he says and he can't help the bitter tone to his voice. “Stay quite, don't talk to the press. Pretty easy to remember.”

“And yet you still managed to nearly undermine my entire campaign with one flippant remark,” dad's voice calls over from his seat, low and smooth, though Jon absolutely hears the annoyance underneath it.

“Oh, he's just a child,” mom says, trying to play the peacekeeper like she always does.

“He's twenty, he's hardly a child,” dad starts, but Jon doesn't listen to the rest. He pulls his headphones back over his ears and looks back out the window and tries to pretend he's anywhere else.

…

By the time they reach Winterfell Castle, Jon is in a bad mood.

Not that he hadn't been before, but he's not allowed his headphones in the limo and so he'd had to listen to dad talk nonstop about his two favorite topics: Jon's failure as a son and how much he hates Ned Stark. And the way mom doesn't even try to defend Ned Stark like she used to infuriates Jon even more.

Jon hates his tuxedo and he hates that they barely had any time between landing and having to get ready for this dinner and he hates that he's going to have to smile and shake hands with a bunch of people who hate him on principle, simply for who his father is. For what his father represents.

When he does step out of the limo, he ignores every photographer and reporter that shouts his name, eager to get any sort of scandal out of him.

He doesn't blame them for this, he's given them enough over the years – not just his apparent support of Northern Independence, but everything else he's done to gain his notoriety. His reputation as a heartbreaker and a playboy that's mostly over-exaggerated, that time he punched a teacher (though to be fair, Thorne deserved it)... Teenage rebellion, they'd written it off as, but he's no longer a teenager and he knows he should grow up and stop doing things to piss off his father at some point.

(His favorite one had been sleeping with that investigative journalist when he was seventeen. She'd been older than him by a good few years and he'd known she was using him to write an article, but he was using her just as much to infuriate his father. His only true regret is that Ygritte's article hadn't done any real lasting damage to Rhaegar's reputation.)

Inside, there aren't any reporters but there are politicians everywhere and that's worse. He does the bare minimum to not cause an issue – he shakes hands and says hello, though he refuses to smile while doing it. They already hate him for being Rhaegar Targaryen's son. They already hate him for being Northern-traitor Lyanna Snow's son.

He keeps an eye on mom to see how she's doing and his heart twists painfully in his chest when he sees her. She has a bright smile on her face and anyone who didn't know her would think she's fine, but Jon can see how pale she is under her makeup. This is the first time she's been back in the North since she married dad and he has a sudden, sharp pang of hatred for Rhaegar – for getting her pregnant, for marrying her, for never letting her go back. For turning her into this.

He can tell the moment Ned Stark enters the room because mom freezes. And sure enough, there he is – beautiful wife at his side, the three adult children with him. Robb, Sansa, Arya. Jon's eyes scan over them – Robb with his perfect hair and smile, an easy way about him that's always come through even on camera. Sansa standing poised and almost too beautiful to believe – Jon's only ever seen her on film and somehow she's even more unreal in person. Arya, who by all accounts hates politics as much as Jon does, stands firmly by her family and Jon gets the sense she only hates the system, not her dad. Not like Jon.

As Jon scans the room, he can see other families here that he recognizes – the Greyjoys, including Robb Stark's best friend Theon. The Manderlys, the Karstarks, the Ryswells, the Boltons, the Mormonts. More families than Jon cares to remember.

There's a sense of someone behind him and he turns just enough to see that dad has come up to stand next to him. For a moment, dad just stands there before turning his head ever so slightly and bringing his mouth close to Jon's ear and he says so low Jon can barely even hear it - “if you do anything to embarrass me tonight, there will be consequences. If you do anything that makes it seem like you support this pathetic independence movement, there will be consequences. Do you understand me?”

Jon feels blind rage that winds so hot in his chest it makes him shake and his vision narrow. He has to close his eyes and take a deep breath before he can answer, and he grits out, “of course.” Dad nods and moves away, putting on his best politician smile as he goes to greet Howland Reed.

Mom shoots him a concerned look, but Jon ignores her. He can feel it building in him – that rebelliousness the press likes to talk about so much. He wants to hurt Rhaegar. For everything – for his mother, for all the people dad's stepped on and hurt. He wants to embarrass him, consequences be damned.

Just as he's thinking this, his eyes catch on copper hair and bright blue eyes.

Sansa Stark.

Darling of the press. Perfect Northern princess.

It takes root in his mind, against his better judgment. What would make Rhaegar more furious than an affair between his son and the daughter of Ned Stark?

Jon can't imagine Sansa would be amenable to the suggestion, not like Ygritte had been – there is no mutually beneficial agreement here. She would never agree to do something that might embarrass her father (and once again, Jon is reminded of the, pun intended, stark difference between his relationship with his father and the Stark children's relationship with Ned. Jon has never even met them in person and he knows this).

So he can't approach her with any sort of offer or plan. No, he'd have to pretend it was real.

He's going to have to seduce Sansa Stark.

[oceanmonsters]

I guess this is technically a callout post but none of this is new stuff, it’s stuff that’s already featured on my blog that I’m just collating together and explaining. I am not doing this to try and stir up drama or expose this person or bring them down or whatever. I’m just tired of myself and other poc getting told we’re overreacting or deluded or reaching when we call someone out on their shit and so I wanted to make an actual record of the reasons why I am against this person that I & others can can direct people to rather than having to repeatedly explain ourselves. If you read this and still decide that we’re wrong and overreacting then feel free to unfollow/block me.

@/ayeforscotland brands himself as a progressive left leaning “woke” person but fundamentally the thing he really cares about most is Scottish independence, and he weaponises progressive causes to support his own agenda. He has a long history of downplaying racism in Scotland and Scotland’s own imperialist history. He has somewhat changed after being called out for doing these things on several occasions but instead of recognising that he was wrong in the past and only changed his tune when people called him out, he lies and pretends that he never tried to whitewash Scotland at all even when there is obvious evidence to the contrary. (I don’t have more specific sources on his downplaying racism in Scotland/whitewashing it’s colonial history but poc on here have been talking about it for a while so if anyone has any links please lmk!)

While he reblogs antiracist posts and publicly denounces racism, he also seems to only care about racism when it furthers his own arguments. While I don’t have receipts for every single post, I’ve seen multiple occurrences of him trying to link racism to being pro-England/anti Scottish independence. As well as the previous post linked in which he he posted a video of white supremacists but made it all about how terrible the English are (while ignoring similar occurrences in Scotland) here is another example of the type of post I mean (warning for antiblackness) - making posts in the BLM tag literally trivialising racism and treating it as a joke to dunk on the unionists. It is really disgusting for a white person to be weaponising the racism of people who don’t agree with them to garner support for their own cause. While I think AFS may genuinely believe himself to be antiracist, he is clearly very performative and that he ultimately only truly cares about his main agenda of Scottish independence and is happy to use the experiences & suffering of English and Scottish POC as a tool to push his own agenda.

He is also incredibly disrespectful towards POC who call him out for the above. In this same thread linked earlier, he repeatedly tone polices after being called out (for purposefully inciting people to be racist on his posts/in his inbox so he can “expose them”, which is obviously disgusting in itself).

As well as the tone policing, in that thread he also gives a perfect example of being performative and not actually caring about racism: he basically expects that instead of calling him out when he does something wrong, we as poc should be expected to have a constructive chat with him and walk him through what he should and shouldn’t say. He says that he’s “happy to have a chat with [her] and learn about how [he] can improve in the future”. How gracious of him to be “happy to” have her to spend her time and energy walk-in him through how not to be racist in a perfectly friendly deferential way 🙄. He’s not willing to do any of the labour to actually learn or read about racism himself (if he was, he would know that inciting racists to spew hate speech and sharing it on his blog is not good allyship, and neither is expecting poc to personally educate you), he just expects poc to calmly educate him every time he messes up so he can learn not to do that same thing again, while never actually engaging with his own role in racism. My post here goes further into this topic. Furthermore, he has since blocked both me and @pakisstani for calling him out for his racism in all of the linked threads. Blocking the POC who repeatedly call you out for racism is really not a good look for a self-proclaimed ally.

AFS would no doubt profusely deny that he is a racist person. However, his actions and words in the threads linked WERE racist and until he takes responsibility for them and makes any effort to educate himself he has absolutely no business building up a platform marketing himself as progressive ally. If you’re a white person who still supports him after seeing all this then I don’t trust you any more than I trust him.

(+ bonus: this post isn’t racist but it is an ignorant and weird perspective, implying that people labelling themselves as from the UK/British because of the negative connotations are somehow shirking the blame of colonialism and responsible for enabling white supremacists to claim the label of English (completely ignoring the fact that there are plenty of poc living in England who do not want to claim the label for obvious reasons...). Maybe not particularly relevant to this post but I feel like it helps paint the picture as a whole.)

ETA: some things from others rbing this post, obviously I don’t have sources for these things but I have also seen similar occurrences and they fit into the attitude I’ve seen from AFS in the past (before he got called out and then pretended he never did those things).

Adding some screenshots for posterity in case links go down (all screenshots are from posts linked here)

[ombreblossom]

speaking words unspoken

This is my gift for @bluejayblueskies for the 2021 @tma-valentines-exchange! I hope you like it!

AO3 link is located in the source :)

Summary: They're a week and some change into their stay at Daisy's safe house, and Martin is still having some trouble with the Lonely. Jon picks up on this and tries to make things better. And he does! In his way, but not before some miscommunication and exhaustion waylay his efforts (about 6.5K words)

The grocery store is awfully busy for a small town nestled in the heart of the Scottish Highlands. Residents of the village wander among a haphazard collection of shelves ranging from middling height to impossibly tall. There seems to be little rhyme or reason for where items are placed from aisle to aisle, forcing Martin to have to search around in order to find anything, increasing the number of people he inadvertently bumps into.

If Martin gave it any more than a cursory thought, he'd come to the conclusion that it's not entirely unexpected, the nearest Tesco many tens of kilometers away and only a smattering of towns in between.

Martin isn’t really in a position to have that cursory thought, though, as freshly escaped from the Lonely as he was. Nervous energy thrums along his skin, speeding his movements and making him quick to avert his eyes in the infrequent event someone meets them. Most people still easily pass their gaze over him, as if he were merely a wisp of tepid air lazily making its way across the store room—a left-over effect of his association with the One Alone. Martin doesn't mind so much the lack of attention paid to him, but he can't help but feel an uncomfortable pressure against his skin when other people are near.

He can't even be near Jon sometimes, not without the pressure overwhelming him, and doesn’t that just smart.

Martin resolved to brave the thick, after-work crowd for this, though, “this” being gathering the supplies needed for a relaxing night in Daisy’s safehouse following a rushed and terrified flight from London and everything that had happened with Peter and Eli-Jonah, Not!Sasha, and the hunters. They weren’t on holiday, Martin had to keep reminding himself. They weren’t on holiday, but he was probably the happiest he’s been in years, and he wants to celebrate that. With Jon. 

With Jon. What a concept. He was elsewhere in the store, continuing an extended effort of picking up things they'd conceivably need for the long term. Just in case. Martin’s trying to not examine his shaky optimism too closely, but he is in love, and it's impossible to not consider his current position beside Jon as anything but a miracle.

Ah, there’s finally some room in the sweets aisle. Flanked on either side by various baking paraphernalia, Martin enters the aisle and heads straight for a small section of colorfully-wrapped bar chocolate. Not that Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London likes sweet chocolate—goodness, no. Or sweets at all for that matter. At least not things he classified as “obnoxiously sweet,” an ambiguous term if Martin had ever heard one. Over time, Martin has come to understand it to mean barely sweet, like an echo of sweetness that had once been present and is no longer. He's never said as much, but Jon likes his sweets like he likes his tea: oversteeped to the point of bitterness with the barest hint of sugar and the slightest bit of added color from milk. 

And Jon does this unbearably adorable thing where he breaks the bar up into smaller pieces, not even according to the pre-set perforations, mind you, and nibbles on the thing for hours at a time, either to savor the flavor (which Martin cannot possibly fathom) or because Jon is a lying liar who lies about liking bitterness to that degree, and this is the one thing he has managed to successfully lie to anybody about.

It’s probably the former, but Martin would be delighted to find out it’s the latter.

So, he gladly picks up a couple of ninety-percent dark chocolate bars for Jon and turns them over in his hand, feeling the rough texture of the plain, if colorful, wrapping paper surrounding them. Martin does his best to dodge around other shoppers who've entered the aisle, picking up some granulated sugar, flour, baking soda and powder, and cinnamon for banana bread (his personal favorite). It stirs feelings in his chest that Jon had bought bananas several days ago with the (if not explicit, then quite obvious in hindsight) intent to let them over-ripen. Martin starts to head toward the cashier with the rest of his items when he feels a cool hand slip into his, interlacing their fingers together.

“Hey,” Jon begins, a soft warmth in his voice, “Did you get everything we needed?” Jon rubs his thumb in light, rhythmic circles onto his own, and it takes everything Martin has in him to not instinctively pull his hand out of Jon’s gentle hold. It feels nice—Jon feels nice—but it's very nearly too much right now. He hates this, hates constantly putting Jon in a position where he has to somehow intuit Martin’s feelings because not even Martin himself quite understands what exactly sets off the chain reaction of fear and pressure and too many people and the roaring—

There’s suddenly nothing but air around his hand, and Martin misses Jon’s solid presence acutely as much as he found it altogether too much. He doesn’t want to look over at Jon to see his placating smile, the one Martin imagined Jon wore as he all but dragged the both of them through King’s Cross station to barely make it on time for the soonest train to Inverness. That same smile that Martin watched Jon affect as he took on the bulk of the dusting and washing that needed to be done upon arrival at Daisy’s safe house. The same smile that Martin woke up to every morning, knowing that Jon had very likely spent several hours just sitting in their bed waiting for Martin to wake up to make sure he didn’t do so alone. 

Martin looks anyway and isn’t surprised to see the smile in question.

If Martin had to describe it, he’d say it conveyed a sense of loss, of mourning, of wanting to protect what remained of a previous whole. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of the pieces of Martin that have been irreparably warped by the Lonely and an acknowledgement that Martin had already lost much to mundane loneliness long before Peter took advantage of his grief and recruited him in waylaying the Extinction.

He never wants to see that smile again, and so he looks away.

“Is there anything else we still need to get, Martin?” Jon rephrases and, after a long beat, continues, “Why don’t I finish up here and we can meet up in a few moments at the bookshop?” The bookshop that Martin knows that Jon knows is likely deserted at this time in the late afternoon, not too long before the elderly shopkeep, Fiona, closes her doors in anticipation of beginning her own nightly rituals. “I’m almost finished with the books we brought from London, and last time we were there—”

“Jon—” Martin sighs while Jon continues.

“—you mentioned Discworld, and it occurred to me that I have somehow managed to avoid reading any Pratchett, despite reading what I can only imagine was nearly every book left at all the second-hand bookshops in and around Bournemouth. Did you know—”

Jon keeps going with tidbits of what he knows of Terry Pratchett, which is an awful lot considering he just admitted to having not read anything by the man. Martin missed this, listening to Jon talk about anything and everything. He dare not interrupt him, even with everyone walking around them. He also refuses to throw Jon’s gift of distraction back at his face.

Color rises in Jon’s cheeks and his brows furrow when he presumably realizes he’s been talking for a while. “My point is I don’t mind finishing up here. Really, I don’t.” Jon’s trying to help. He’s trying to help, damn it, he repeats to himself. Lord knows that all Jon has ever done is try to help, in his way. Martin’s the one who can’t go five seconds without his fear around other people flaring out of control. Jon shouldn’t have to go it alone to preserve his comfort.

Martin takes some deep, steadying breaths. Jon waits patiently for him, his free hand fidgeting unobtrusively. 

“No, I'm good," he asserts, threading his words with as much certainty he can manage, and decides then and there that it is so. "I have everything we need for dinner tonight here and a couple extra things, too." He waggles his eyebrows a little at this. "I assume that you're over here because you've finished getting the essentials."

Every time Jon laughs is an exercise in appreciating opposing extremes. His eyes close as if he can’t bear to look at the object of his amusement any longer, and the corners of those eyes crinkle in the prettiest way, taking the breath right out of Martin’s body when it happens. And he holds his hand in front of his mouth like his laughter is something to be smothered, never to see the light of day, the reasons for which Martin can't be certain, but he suspects he wouldn't like them. "Indeed. And a few extra indulgences," Jon teases, winking. Winking! Does Jon wink? Clearly he does, but this is new information, a treasure trove hidden among stormy seas. “I picked up some sausage; sausage always adds an extra depth of flavor to this sort of thing.”

Laughing lightly, Martin says, "Let's get going, then. We have an extremely full evening of relaxation ahead of us."

"Since when do you find cooking relaxing, Mr. Microwave Meals?"

"Since it's a safe activity that we can do together now that we're away from the Institute of Terror, Mr. Will Subsist on Granola Bars and Spite For Days at a Time If Left to His Own Devices."

Jon looks thoughtful suddenly. "Safe. Now there’s a concept," Jon says with no small amount of incredulity.

Martin pauses. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Jon?” Martin goes cold at the thought that Jon might have seen something and not told him.

“What? Oh, no. It’s just…” He trails off, his gaze drifting upward toward the ceiling. “This, being here—with you—is probably the safest I’ve felt in a long time. It-it almost doesn’t feel real. Like any little thing I do or neglect to do could potentially burst this bubble of happiness I’ve all of the sudden found myself in.” 

It’s moments like these that Martin might actually be willing to believe that Jon is in his early 40s, the age he’d be now if the ridiculous lie he told about his age when they all started in the archives had been true. The pressing weights of repeated trauma, responsibility, and regret age his features considerably, and it hurts to look at. Martin wants so badly to smooth away the lines that seem to have taken up permanent residence between Jon’s brows however he can.

Martin ventures that he’s calm enough now to at least comfort Jon, if not enough to accept any for himself. He grabs the same hand that grasped his own minutes before and just. Holds it. Jon goes taught, like a newly-strung bow, words of reassurance waiting on Jon’s lips, that no, it’s okay, Martin, you don’t have to do this.

Well, too bad. Martin wants to do this, the Lonely’s lingering influence on him be damned. Martin draws Jon’s hand up to his lips and presses a kiss onto his knuckles. Jon gasps quietly, eyes wide. His grey-streaked dark hair is slipping out of its loose braid, whether from Jon playing with it in idle moments or from the wind that is altogether too often present in the Highlands, Martin couldn’t say, but the image endears him to Martin all the same.

“Well, take it from someone who’s spent a lot of the last year feeling not-quite-real: this is real, Jon. We’re here and safe, at least for now,” Martin assures him, grinning. “Let’s go pay for this stuff, yeah? And let’s go home.” Jon, momentarily speechless, simply nods his assent.

They’re able to leave the store with their purchases eventually and decide to make their way to Fiona’s bookshop anyway, picking up a few volumes while they’re there: a collection of Robin Robertson’s poetry for Martin and a geographical history of the Scottish Highlands and Terry Pratchett’s Guards, Guards for Jon to chew through. And neither of them would dare leave without giving Maggie, the resident feline guardian, some well-earned scritches. “It takes an awful lot of energy to mind an entire bookshop, after all,” Jon says every time they visit, all the while accumulating what could only amount to an unhealthy amount of cat hair—so much so that Martin’s started to find it laying about in the safe house. Jon doesn’t seem to mind it and says it reminds him of living with The Admiral.

It’s a decent walk back to the safe house. They started late enough in the day that the sun is already beginning to sink below the horizon, so they end up leaving after giving Maggie far fewer scritches than any of them would have preferred. Jon rebuffs Martin’s offer to carry all of their purchases, stubbornly hanging onto their books and his share of the groceries. This is becoming a familiar game to them, one that tends to escalate to silly, frantic grabbing for the others’ bags and eventually devolves into giggles and light shoulder bumping. Today, Martin manages to relieve Jon of his groceries, opening up one of Jon’s hands for holding, which Martin promptly attempts to take.

Jon turns his head to him and gives him a look that practically asks in his stead, “Are you sure this is okay?” The likewise unsaid “I don’t want to hurt you” bounces back and forth between them, and Martin answers by interlacing their hands and giving Jon’s a squeeze in hopes that it will quell the worry that’s carved into the lines of Jon’s face.

It does, and the contented sigh Jon makes is one of the loveliest sounds he’s heard. They continue their trek home, the route long and winding.

Not too much later, though, Martin notices something...off about Jon. He notices in increments almost minute winces when Jon steps on the leg Prentiss' worms ravaged, more frequent bumps into him that had nothing to do with showing affection but allowing Martin to take some of his weight for a moment, and some far-away looks.

Martin doesn’t quite have the shape of it until they’re talking about something or other, something simple, easy, meaningless in the grand, cosmic scheme of things, and Jon stumbles. He tries to laugh it off, but there's something not quite right about Jon's laughter this time. The way he bounces his shoulders in suppressed mirth is subdued—sluggish, even. An increasingly concerning picture paints itself in Martin’s mind.

A long, hard look at Jon forces him to confront the deep, dark circles under his eyes set against skin uncomfortably grey, nearly all traces of flush gone from his face, a stark contrast to earlier in the day.

How had he missed this? Maybe he’s been more absent than he thought. He’ll have to keep a close eye on Jon throughout the evening, maybe shepard him to bed if he seems to get any worse.

Only a sliver of the sun remains visible above the horizon when they arrive at the safe house, casting a soft orange glow over the vast grassy spread of the Highlands. Martin pays the sight little mind, though, all of his focus intent on the man in front of him currently unlocking their front door, and he can’t not notice how long it takes for Jon to insert the key into the locking mechanism.

As they’re putting away their groceries, visions of Jon doing the very same thing by himself play in his mind’s eye. He’s only able to summon disconnected images of the first several days of their....could he call it an elopement? Their not-so-great escape from the Archives? He recalls Jon preparing meals for them, bundling up to leave the safe house for groceries, washing their clothes in a small, foot-powered washing machine and later hanging them up on a clothesline outside to dry. Martin also recalls Jon bringing him overly-steeped tea and an old crocheted blanket when all he could do was sit on Daisy’s ancient green corduroy sofa and stare into the void in front of him, the sounds of lapping waves Coming ever closer.

All the while wearing that damnable smile. Shame pools within Martin, shame that Jon had had to take up so much responsibility recently and that Martin can’t say how well Jon’s been sleeping or taking care of his own needs in the meantime. If today is anything to go on, Martin supposes the answer to both of those questions is likely “no.”

“Martin, could you turn on the lights? We’re losing daylight fast.” Jon has a balancing hand on the countertop and is putting their dry and canned food items. Martin does as he’s asked, bathing the entire kitchen and living area in warm light. Martin walks back toward the kitchen area and is greeted with a “thank you” and a kiss. He could get used to this, used to feeling loved and appreciated.

“Is something bothering you, Martin?”

He looks at Jon, concern writ large on his still ashen face and eyes boring into him. Concern has no place being there right now. If anyone has any right to be concerned at the moment, it’s Martin.

“What? No. Why do you ask?”

“You’ve just been awfully quiet since we got home, and after what happened at the store, it’s not surprising that you might still be feeling...off.”

Projection, much? Martin wants to say but has the wherewithal to hold it back. “I’ve just been doing a lot of thinking. Jon. I’m all right.”

Jon eyes him up and down, and after seemingly not finding what he’s looking for, nods once and smiles (again with the smile...) once more. “All right. You’ll tell me if something’s bothering you, though, won’t you?” 

“Yeah, Jon, of course I will.” And he intends to mean it.

“Good,” Jon says and walks over to where Daisy keeps her cooking vessels, grabs her Dutch oven, and places it on the stovetop.

“Why don’t I be your line chef today, Jon, and you work the stovetop? You’re much better at the actual cooking part than I am.” 

“Mmm. There’s a lot of prep work that goes into this and not a whole lot of actual cooking, so let me help you,” he says, shakily opening a couple drawers in search of a suitable chef’s knife. 

“You sure? You’re looking a little peaky over there,” he replies without meaning to and curses his loose tongue.

Jon pauses midway through grabbing one of Daisy’s old wooden cutting boards and blinks slowly. “Oh…. Yes, I’m sure. What do you mean, looking ‘peaky’?”

“It’s just,” Martin starts, collecting the fennel seed, basil, rosemary, and the rest of the spices they needed for their meat sauce and a bowl to mix them in. Too late to not approach the subject now. “You’re exhausted, Jon. You spent most of our walk home either tripping over air or leaning on me for support.” He had wanted to be subtle, but subtlety is no longer on the cards.

Considering this for a moment, Jon’s eyebrows scrunch up in a way that Martin finds so endearing and opens a nearby cupboard to take out a couple onions and a bulb of garlic. “Sure, I’m a little tired,” he concedes, “but we have all evening to relax. I’d like nothing more than to cook with you, Martin.”

He should’ve known Jon was a sap. The signs were all there. “Well, how could I say ‘no’ to that?” He says and means it, though worry continues to percolate in the back of his mind.

“You can’t, and you know it.” Jon teases.

They go about preparing their meat sauce, Martin double- and triple-checking each measurement before pouring the appropriate amount of each spice into the mixing bowl and Jon dicing onions. 

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?” 

“Chop onions without tearing up and cursing your hubris that ‘this time will be different’?”

Chuckling softly, Jon apparently thinks better of sliding his hand down his face before answering, pivoting to the most level deadpan Martin thinks he’s ever heard from him, “It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say that I spent years perfecting my abilities. Training with the best of the best to strengthen my tears ducts to such a degree that they are, quite literally, incapable of passing tears from my lacrimal glands to my eyes.”

Martin raises a dark eyebrow, amusement in his voice as he replies, “You should probably see a doctor about that, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he draws out. “The real answer, of course, is my grandmother devoted a lot of her time to making sure I could at least cook according to a recipe along with providing some general rules of thumb. I chopped many an onion in search of culinary adequacy. Never progressed much past following recipes, though. Ask me to create something from scratch, and you’ll witness a horror the likes of which has never been seen before.”

“Just out of curiosity, which fear do you think takes credit for culinary disasters?”

“Probably depends on the nature of the disaster, honestly, but…. Hmm. Maybe Corruption? Or Flesh, maybe? Either way, it doesn’t bear thinking about, especially not while we’re preparing to eat ourselves.” 

While Martin is rummaging through the fridge in search of where Jon put the ground beef and sausage, he hears a hiss coming from Jon's direction. 

Martin whips his head over to where Jon's been dicing onions and his heart clenches at the sight of deep red blossoming over the wooden cutting board.

"Jon! What happened? You're bleeding," He says, stating the obvious, feeling like his throat is closing up behind his words. "Where are you bleeding from?" Martin crosses the room in record time, places a hand in Jon's shoulder and surveys the area in front of him.

Blood leaks sluggishly from a cut on Jon's middle finger. A splatter of crimson on the knife Jon has been using clues Martin in to what happened. "Jon, just stay right there, okay? I'll go grab the first-aid kit. I’m sure there’s some kind of antiseptic or disinfectant in there. I’ll be right back!”

Jon opens his mouth to say something, but Martin’s already gone, heading for the cabinet under the bathroom sink, head abuzz with worry and heart hammering in his chest.

When Martin returns, Jon’s running his hand beneath the running tap and blood trails down into the sink in pink rivulets. Jon glances at him, the same exhaustion that stared back at him when Jon and the rest left for Great Yarmouth on his face, a combination of physical exhaustion and the culmination of several months of emotional upheaval, of bitterly contemplating his own humanity and his role in Elias’ inscrutable plans.

“There’s no need to worry about the first-aid kit, Martin. Didn’t you hear? I heal, ah, preternaturally fast these days. See?” Jon holds up his hand to Martin, and, much to Martin’s surprise, the seeping cut on Jon’s finger is completely gone, no trace even of a faint scar. 

“I...I didn’t know, Jon,” he almost whispers. “How long has this been going on?”

“Since I—since I woke up. From the coma.”

Martin mouths an “oh” and considers what this means in the context of what knows about Jon’s actions while he’d been working for Peter. It’s almost sadder that Jon ventured into Ny Alesund knowing that he couldn’t be permanently harmed—or into the coffin, for that matter. Walking into extreme danger knowing that he’d likely bring pain on himself but he’d almost certainly live despite it—”self-destructive” was even more accurate than Martin had imagined at the time Daisy said it.

Martin heaves a tension-relieving breath and hopes it doesn’t sound like a sigh. Making Jon feel guilty about something he can’t exactly help isn’t something he wants to do tonight. Or ever. “Why don’t I go put this back, then, and let’s pick up where we left off. I’ll take over the solemn duty of chopping onions if you start preparing the beef and sausage.”

“Yeah, that might be for the best,” Jon concedes too easily. 

The room is quiet after that. Not much sound ever permeates the safe house’s walls, trees and hills absorbing much of the ambient noises of the surrounding area before they even get to their cottage. And they’ve both gone silent, the only sounds filling the room the sharp thuds of a knife hitting wood and the squelching of ground meat. 

By time Martin’s done dicing one onion to replace the one Jon bled on and an extra onion that the recipe didn’t call for because “onions are flavor vehicles, Martin,” or so Jon claims, Jon’s still mixing the beef and sausage together.

“H-hey, Jon, I think you’ve mixed those pretty thoroughly, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” He stills, hands still submerged in the mixture.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks slowly, head and gaze drawing downward, like he no longer has the will or strength to work against gravity.

Martin reaches out a hand to shake him out of his stupor but thinks better of it. Has he somehow lost more color in his cheeks? “Jon, I think you should maybe go lay down or at least sit down.” Nothing. “I’d love to hear you talk about Discworld if you’re not ready to lay down yet.”

This seems to break him out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. “Oh. Ah, yes. Right. I understand. I’ll, um, just go.”

What is there to understand, Martin wonders as Jon turns back to the sink and runs water and soap along his hands, movements almost comically slow if not for how worrying they are and the frenetic energy that usually accompanies Jon completely missing.

Martin reaches out a supporting hand, intending to grasp Jon’s upper arm. “The bedroom’s awfully far away; let’s get you to the sofa, and I’ll bring over some tea and blankets, yeah?” 

With energy summoned from the aether, Jon leaps out of the way of his hand, throwing himself boldly against the lip of the countertop with a cry. “No. No. That’s all-that’s all right. I can get there by myself,” he says, chest heaving and the trembling Martin noticed more pronounced than even a moment ago.

“Jon, love, you’re not in any condition to be doing anything by yourself. In the most affectionate way possible, you look like you feel awful right now. Please let me help.” Martin’s unable to keep the pleading out of his voice.

Jon looks—Looks?—looks at him, eyes wide, almost bulging, fear and a host of other emotions dancing wildly in them. “No, n-no. You don’t have to…. Please, don’t. I didn’t want this.”

“Don’t what, Jon? What didn’t you want?”

“This. I didn’t want this.”

“Um. I don’t really understand, Jon, but let’s talk about it over on the sofa. We’ll be more comfortable there.” Martin takes a small step forward, palms of his hands facing forward in a gesture of openness and safety. This time when Jon leaps backward, he slips. Martin’s not close enough to grab onto him, and a split second later, the deafening crack of Jon’s head hitting the wood floor fills the room and clamps a vice around Martin’s heart. 

Too shaken to yell his name, he bounds over to where Jon lies still and slides into a sitting position beside him. All Martin can see for a terrifying, desolate moment is Jon in that familiar adjustable hospital bed, crisp, undisturbed white sheets carefully arranged over top of him, attached to various monitors that have been silenced to not alert staff of his absent heartbeat and non-existent oxygenation levels.

“Jon. Jon. Come on. Don’t do this to me. Jon, do something—say something if you can. Please, don’t….” Should he move Jon at this point? Martin remembers from a rudimentary first-aid class he took when his mother’s worsening condition started to accelerate that you shouldn’t move people with suspected head or neck injuries without first stabilizing them, but they had nothing like that here. And there was still some question as to how far his healing ability really extended.

He has to be okay. Without giving the action any thought, Martin gently places a hand atop Jon’s chest to check for breathing. They’re shallow breaths, but his chest does rise and sink in a slow rhythm, and Martin lets out the breath he’d been unconsciously holding.

“Love?” He near whispers, as if Jon were merely asleep. “Come back to me.” He brushes away some of the fly-away hairs that have fallen onto his face. That is when Jon begins to stir.

“Jon? Jon!” Martin exclaims. For whatever mysterious reason, Jon is trying to wriggle away from him. “Don’t try to move yet. You hit your head pretty hard, and your healing isn’t immediate, Jon. Just stay put!” Jon wasn’t listening to him, still scrambling to move out of Martin’s reach.

That’s enough of that. Martin lays himself over Jon’s chest and holds him while he waits for him to calm down.

It takes some seconds, maybe a minute or two, but Jon does calm down eventually, becoming boneless in Martin’s arms.

“Hey,” Martin starts, “you with me, Jon?” 

Jon lifts a hand slowly, making a so-so gesture.

“Okay. How’s your head?”

He winces. “Hurts.”

Martin hmms. “Do you feel dizzy?”

Jon gives a minute shake of his head.

“Okay. I’m moving us to the sofa, then. And don’t try to protest,” Martin warns.

Martin gets half-way to his feet, slips his arms until Jon’s legs and back, and proceeds to pick them both up off the floor. In the short time it takes to cross the room, Jon nuzzles his head into Martin’s chest. The frustration and concern and worry Martin’s feeling subsides somewhat in the face of overwhelming affection for this man, and he hugs him just a little bit closer.

“Stay here; I’ll be right back,” Martin says as he lays Jon down gingerly onto the sofa. He puts their dinner ingredients back into the fridge for the time being and puts some water on for chamomile tea. His thoughts drift as he waits for the water to come to a boil and some more as he waits for the tea to steep. He glances at Jon every so often, who has rolled over onto his side while Martin’s been gone.

“Hey, you,” Martin says as he sits in front of Jon at the edge of the sofa, the mug of chamomile making a soft thunk on the table.

“Why are you doing all this, Martin?” Jon murmurs into the worn fabric underneath him, and Martin can’t tell if he was supposed to hear it or not.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Jon.”

“Why are you staying so close to me, touching me? Taking care of me?”

“I would have thought the answers to those questions were pretty obvious,” Martin says mildly, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair.

Jon’s silence says everything.

Martin exhales and then steels himself for a delicate conversation. “I love you, Jon. Have done for quite a while now. If there’s anything I can do to lessen your pain and discomfort, I want to do it.”

Jon clenches a fist and refuses to look at him. “I know that, Martin, in every way possible. But...” he stops, apparently to think. He sounds wrecked. Tabling this conversation for when Jon is feeling better might be a better idea, but it’s rare that Jon gets the gumption to speak openly about the things really bothering him, so Martin’s remains quiet. “Things haven’t been easy for you since…. Christ, for a long time, I think. Since Prentiss, at least. But since leaving the Lonely, you’ve been…. You go away for long periods of time, and it seems like you can’t handle people being around you, too.”

It occurs to Martin that they’ve never actually addressed any of this together, not their individual traumas, not their shared traumas, not this thing, these feelings, between them. They’ve been testing the waters, so to speak, bit by bit. Touches and soft barbs and sweet words pass between them unacknowledged but nevertheless heartfelt. But so much else has also remained unsaid in the interim, he now realizes. 

“And I get it. No one escapes one of the fears without being marked, and you’ve been marked thoroughly by the Lonely, Martin. It’s...it makes perfect sense that these things are happening, that you feel overwhelmed when people are near.”

He stops again, and Martin gives him ample time to gather his thoughts. Martin is still running his hand through silky salt and pepper strands when Jon lifts his head and looks up at him. His complexion still carries that worrying gray tint and his eyes are and cheeks shine with moisture.

It’s the darker green spot on the sofa where Jon had had his face pressed that really does Martin in, that causes him to throw caution to the wind

“Move back a little, Jon. Just a little, okay?” He says, low and soft. Jon mutters a “yeah” and does as he’s told. “Thanks, love. Now, hold still.”

Daisy’s sofa is by no means a large sofa, and Martin is by no means a small man, but he’ll make this work. He lays himself down beside Jon and works his arms around him, tucking himself into any space he can against him, the lines of their bodies almost completely flush with one another. His back is close enough to the edge that Martin constantly feels like he’s about to fall, but it’s worth it to have Jon in his arms like this. “I’m listening, whenever you’re ready to continue.”

Jon buries himself in Martin’s chest before picking up where he left off, prompting Martin to cup the back of his head and pull him in closer.

“You’ve borne the brunt of maintaining our relationship for so long, Martin, and now it’s my turn. I can take care of you when you’re far away, when you can’t be around people. I can do the shopping, I can cook. I can do all these things.

“And I can stay away when it’s too much for you to be around me.” He clenches the fist caught between them even harder. “I don’t want to be the cause of your pain, Martin. That’s the last thing I want.”

Martin considers all this for...several moments, really, and comes to an ugly conclusion.

“Jon...is this why you didn’t let me touch you earlier?”

A muffled “yes” reaches Martin’s ears, and his heart just breaks.

“We really should have a long conversation about this in the near future—preferably when you’re feeling better—but I want to say a couple things right now, if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course, Martin. I want to hear everything you have to say.”

Martin gives a little squeeze of gratitude and then continues, “For one, you’re right. There’s leftover stuff from the Lonely I’m dealing with right now, and sometimes it’s hard to be around anyone. And I hate it so much that ‘anyone’ sometimes includes you. From here on out, I’m going to try to tell you when I’m feeling this way, so you don’t have to try to guess. And if I’m reaching out to you, please trust me that I’m okay in that moment.”

“I do trust you, Martin. I trusted you to handle Peter. I trusted you to handle the Extinction. I’ll...do my best to trust you in this, too. I...I’m just deeply afraid of ruining this, ruining us.”

“Thank you. And I understand. I worry about that, too, but please also trust me when I say there’s not much that you could do that would ruin this.”

Nodding into Martin’s chest, Jon whispers, “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask. And second, I want you to know that, as far as I’m concerned, you don’t need to feel like you need to make up for anything.” Jon is tensing up, preparing to protest—he can feel it. “No, I mean it. Our relationship isn’t transactional. You don’t have to meet every comfort I offer you with one of your own just for the sake of reciprocation. That’s not how it works. You’ve done so much for me Jon, just by being you. That’s not even including the Lonely and everything that’s happened after, though I’m grateful for all that, too. You’re already here for me in every way that matters. You don’t need to do anything more.”

Martin places a kiss on the crown of Jon’s head, and they just lie there, soaking in each other’s presence, previous evening plans all but forgotten. Martin thinks Jon dozes a little bit, the stress of the evening finally taking consciousness away from him, but he’s proven wrong when Jon speaks up once more, muffled slightly by Martin’s jumper.

“For the record, I love you, too. In case that needed to be said.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘need,’ necessarily, but I won’t lie and say I don’t like hearing it!”

“I see,” Jon croaks. The man needs to rest. “Well, I guess if you don’t need it, then I won’t bother saying it.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” He laughs and feels the smile on his face widen.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Good. Now, drink your tea.”

Martin pushes himself away from Jon to give him some room to sit up and to get a good look at this face. His face isn’t covered in tears anymore (now probably absorbed by the fibers in his knitted jumper), but he looks positively exhausted, eyes lidded and face otherwise lax in an easy smile, not at all like the one he wears with the intent to soothe. Martin places the still warm cup of chamomile in Jon’s hand.

“Still feeling up for a little dinner?” He asks.

Jon hmms and replies, “Yeah, I could eat a little. Just give me a few minutes to—”

“Absolutely not, Jon. I’m going to make dinner while you take a nap here. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. A nap sounds wonderful.”

“Good. I’ll wake you up when everything’s finished.”

Martin starts to dislodge himself from Jon when Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek.

“Love you. And good luck.” Jon gives him possibly the most self-satisfied wink he’s seen before taking a sip of his tea.

It’s not terribly cold in the safe house with a fire going, but Martin lays Daisy’s crocheted blanket over Jon anyway, and starts taking everything back out for dinner.

It’s meat sauce—how hard could it be?

[isitgintimeyet]

Just a Friend

Hope you enjoy the next chapter of this story. Thanks to you all for reading this. You comments are lovely to read.

Thanks to @wickedgoodbooks for the beta

Previous

AO3

Chapter 5: From Facebook to Friends

When I was a little girl, Uncle Lamb would sometimes take me into university with him. I would creep into the lecture theatre and sit at the back watching him as he enthused about Phoenician trade routes, or long gone military strategies. I didn’t really understand what he was talking about, but I loved it anyway. The passion he had for his subject matter thrilled me.

And once the lecture was over, I would join him in his office and we would squeeze together in an old armchair, drinking hot, sweet tea while he tried to explain the principles of a three thousand year old civilisation in words a seven year old would understand.

The armchair is now in my office at the hospital. It looks more than a bit incongruous amongst the standard NHS furniture. The rich green velvet fabric has faded to a shabby eau de nil colour and years of shuffling bottoms have left a large depression in the seat cushion. But I won’t have it reupholstered. I love it as it is. It’s a great reminder of my wonderful uncle. I sit in it and somehow it comforts me, like a soothing hug.

**********************

I glance at the clock as I walk into my office, paper cup of hot, sweet tea in hand, and head straight for Lamb’s chair. Gratefully, I sink into its depths and take a tentative sip of the steaming liquid before closing my eyes for a moment. The surgery was long; much longer than anticipated—having taken all morning and most of the afternoon, in fact. It had also been far more complicated—my original plans for keyhole surgery had to be changed, but, eventually, we completed the operation successfully. I’m always proud of my theatre team, but never more so than in situations like this.

And now, after hours of concentration, I feel in need of some light relief. I can go home, have a wonderfully reviving shower and then what? I know that Dougal is taking Geillis out for a meal tonight, so she’s not available. Mary and Anna are both working nights this week, so no joy there. Other friends live too far away for an impromptu midweek activity.  I could go to the gym. I should go to the gym. Or… more likely, I’ll go home, have cheese on toast, a glass of wine and watch ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ for the fifteenth time instead.

I reach for my phone to check for messages.  A notification for a Facebook friend request appears on my screen. I very rarely get new friend requests—other than the odd random gentleman hoping, I presume, to make some sort of connection. I always delete immediately.

And, yes, the request is from a gentleman—one Jamie Fraser. The profile picture is definitely Samsonite Jamie, even wearing the Scotland rugby shirt I fingered whilst foraging through his suitcase. I click accept. Why not? I don’t think I have anything too embarrassing on my posts. In fact, I don’t use it very often at all.

Neither, it seems, does Mr. Fraser. His cover photo shows a very youthful bunch of Scottish rugby supporters and his recent timeline seems to comprise mostly of being tagged in photos by Laoghaire Mackenzie. Is it my imagination, or does he have a resigned look on his face on each of their ‘selfies’?

My tea is cool enough to drink now without scalding my tongue. I put my phone down and take a large gulp whilst considering tomorrow’s workload. My job is a series of highs and lows. Today, for example, started as routine, slumped to a worrying low, before peaking at a very relieved high. Tomorrow appears to be an easier day, certainly—a review of patients’ case notes in the morning followed by an outpatient clinic in the afternoon. All follow up patients, and all doing well as far as I know, so tomorrow is shaping up to be a very good day.

I open up my phone again. Facebook messenger is encouraging me to ‘say hi to your new Facebook friend.’  Without thinking, I send a little waving hand emoji to Samsonite Jamie.

I have no sooner put the phone down than it pings. Waving hand returned. I smile. What are we… thirteen years old? Next I’ll be asking him out for an Irn Bru and a bag of chips.

Ping again.  

You owe me…

Shit! The stain on his t-shirt, no doubt. I watch the dots on the screen. Perhaps he’s calculating the cost of a dry cleaner, or a new t-shirt.

You promised me an ice cream.

You up for buying one for me tonight?

I hesitate for a moment. I hope Jamie doesn’t think I’m after him or anything like that. I mean, he’s not really my type. As I’ve said before, I’ve always been attracted to academic, cerebral kind of men like Uncle Lamb, rather than Viking marauders.

And I’ve never subscribed to the idea that men and women can’t be friends. One of my closest friends at university was a man—Joe Abernathy.  If it wasn't for the fact that he is currently three thousand miles away, working in Boston, I would be arranging platonic ice cream outings with him.

So, deciding I have nothing to lose, I type my response.

If you can get to the kiosk by 6:30, it should still be open

A brief pause, then the response.

Great. See you there?

****************

Even at a distance, I recognise him sitting at a table next to the kiosk. No white t-shirt today, it looks like some sort of check lumberjack shirt. I breathe a sigh of relief. Not what I would call ‘first date’ clothing. Which is handy, seeing as I’m wearing ripped jeans and an oversized Aran jumper. I’m clean, presentable and fresh-smelling but definitely not dressed to impress.

He stands up when he sees me and greets me formally with a handshake. His hands are warm and dry—no nervous, sweaty palms here, which is another good sign. His shirt is blue, red and cream flannel and actually quite hideous.

“I hope this ice cream lives up tae ma expectations,” he says with the merest hint of challenge.

I crane my neck and look him straight in the eye. “No doubt at all. Cherry bakewell, is it? Double cone?”

“Aye. With a flake too. Compensation, ye ken.”

He stands aside to allow me to make the purchases. Before accepting the cone, he picks up half a dozen or so paper napkins and stuffs them in the pocket of his jeans.

“I’m prepared fer ye now. Do yer worst, Ms Beauchamp.”

I ignore his clear inference and follow him to a nearby bench.

“I can manage to eat and walk at the same time, you know,” I say in mock indignation.

“Hm,” he replies. “All the evidence sae far suggests the contrary. I need proof afore I believe it.”

There’s a moment of silence as we both focus on our ice creams. I lick neatly all the way around, trying to prevent any rogue drips trickling down the cone. Jamie pulls the flake from his cone and consumes it in two mouthfuls. He looks at me and laughs.

“Caught me. I’m a bit of a bugger fer chocolate,” he mumbles before swallowing.

“Right,” he continues, much more clearly now. “I suggest we get all the boring stuff out of the way. Ye ken, name, age, family, job, blah, blah blah. I’ll go first, if ye like.”

I nod my agreement.

“Sae, I’m James or Jamie Fraser. I’m thirty years old. Since our last conversation I am most definitely single. I live in Glasgow, obviously, but grew up on a farm near Inverness. My parents still run the farm. I have one sister, Jenny, who’s married tae Ian, my childhood friend. I have one nephew—a grand little lad known as Wee Jamie and a wee baby niece, Maggie . And I dinna think it’ll be long afore they’re joined by others. They all live here in Glasgow. My job, weel, I have a business—FraserFood—recipe boxes delivered tae yer door.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that. ‘From farm to fork.” That’s you, is it?”

He smiles proudly. “Aye, it’s me and ma family. Looks like ma marketing manager is doing a fine job, then.”

“Oh, forgot tae say, after the blah blah, ye have tae tell one confession. Only a wee one, mind.” He takes a large mouthful of his ice cream.

I purse my lips. “Really, and what if I’ve nothing to confess?”

Jamie snorts with laughter and does a funny sort of blink, screwing up his face and closing both eyes. Is he trying to wink? If so, he’s failing miserably. I try to look angelic and sin free. Judging by the look of scepticism on his face, It doesn’t seem to be working.

“Sae, my confession is, dah-dah-daaaah,” he does a fake fanfare, trying to build suspense. “I wanted tae be yer friend on Facebook because I wanted tae see if there were any photos of ye in Barcelona, with all yer...er… accessories.”

I feel myself redden. I��ve just remembered catching Geillis on Facebook the other day at work and I’m pretty sure I know what’s coming next.

“Verra interesting… in particular, the one with ye and six penis shot glasses. How d’ye manage tae get two of them in yer mouth at the same time?”

I inwardly curse Geillis and her desire to live her life through social media.

“Excuse me,” I reply somewhat primly. “I don’t think we’re at the Q and A stage yet.”

“So,” I continue in a lighter tone. “Me. Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp. I’m thirty two and I’m a paediatric  orthopaedic surgeon, here at the children’s hospital. I love my job so much, I can’t begin to tell you. As of two weeks ago, I am thankfully single. I was born in Oxford and moved up here when I was twelve, when my Uncle Lamb became a professor at the university. He brought me up, you know. Raised me when my parents died in a car accident... I… er...I was four at the time.”

I can feel Jamie looking at me, but I can’t raise my eyes. Telling people about my parents never gets any easier, no matter how many times I say those words. I concentrate on picking bits of wafer off my cone and throwing them to the ducks loitering nearby, waiting for some sort of treat.

“So it always was just my uncle and me.” I carry on talking. “Then he died… seven...seven years ago…” I can hear my voice start to crack as I fight back tears. A hand creeps into my vision and I gratefully accept the proffered paper napkin and wipe my face.

“Och, lass.” He says softly.

I clear my throat. “I'm sorry. We were having a nice conversation and then there I go, getting all teary. It’s just, well, we were a team, Uncle Lamb and I… the two musketeers. He was my hero.”

Blowing my nose in a most unladylike way, I toss the napkin into the neighbouring bin.

“And that’s pretty much me. As for a confession, well… I suppose it’s kind of one.”

He raises one eyebrow quizzically, making a better job of that than the whole winking lark, I think.

"Ok, well,  when I had your case, I tried to ring before I emailed you. I called the number in your case… twice. A woman answered and told me I had the wrong number—"

"Laoghaire."

"I know that now. But she obviously knew how to get onto your phone."

"Why did ye no' tell me?" He smiles as he says this. It's not a reprimand.

"I would have but you seemed to be coming to a conclusion anyway. No need to add more fuel to the fire."

"Happen ye're right."

He notices me shivering and gets to his feet. “Aye, there’s a bit of a chill. Fancy a wee walk tae warm up and we can carry on wi’ round two. It’s a quick fire round.”

I stand up and we move away from the pond. The ducks have already lost interest in us since they realise that we’ve nothing more to offer them. It’s pretty quiet in the park now, the cooler evening air seems to have kept people at home. The gravel crunching loudly under the soles of our shoes, I glance down and notice Jamie’s doing a sort of awkward stuttering movement with his feet. He’s clearly trying to match his stride pattern to mine. Which isn’t easy when his must be a good few inches longer than mine. Nice, considerate gesture, though.

“Sae, quick fire questions and answers. Ye can go first,” he says generously.

It only takes me a moment to think of a question that I have been wondering about ever since I explored the contents of his suitcase.

“What were you doing in Barcelona? I mean the contents of your case weren’t really fun-weekend-away stuff.”

“Nah, ye’re right. It wasna a holiday—flying visit only. I was there on business—talking tae a food wholesale company. Serrano ham, chorizo, saffron, that kind of thing,” he explains, a look of excitement on his face. “We’re expanding our range, starting with Spanish influenced recipes. A full three courses ready tae prepare, plus wine delivered straight tae yer door. Dinner party FraserFood style.”

He can’t stop smiling as he talks about these plans. And his hands move animatedly as he continues to elaborate on his new venture. His business is obviously his passion. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t got the desire for a relationship with a girlfriend—FraserFood seems to be his one love. No girl could compete.

He stops talking for a moment. “And here I am, boring ye.”

I shake my head. “Not at all, it’s really interesting.” I don’t have to lie. It’s the truth. My mouth is watering at his description of albondigas and flavoursome chicken and chorizo with cannellini beans. I’m ready to sign up for this delivery service any time.

“Sae, ma turn tae ask a question. Tell me, d’ye like this shirt?”

I try to stifle a laugh. The question is so unexpected and the shirt so awful. Trying to be diplomatic, I search for the right words, evading the actual question. “I’ve only seen you in white tops before, no colours.”

He sighs. “Ye’ve only seen me twice afore... anyway I dinna think ye need tae say any more. I ken ye’re being polite, but ye’re a terrible liar. I can tell by yer face ye dinna like this shirt. Laoghaire hated it, always made me change it. I did wonder if that was jes’ her being difficult. But apparently no’.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Ye dinna need tae apologise, Claire. Being honest is a good thing, is it no’? And friends should always tell each other the truth. And that’s what I think we’re going tae be, Claire— friends. D’ye no’ agree?”

I crane my neck  and look Jamie straight in the eye. “Yes, I do… friends.”

[seblaine-rph]

While you're looking into rps can we talk about Devereux Academy for a minute? A basic look at their main and rules reveals Kristin Stewart as an FC but she's asked repeatedly not to be used in rp, people getting originally tested for being Dom Switch or sub at 17, the rp wording is almost an exact replica of another rp that ran for a while, and they are allowing the Motta family to be whitewashed with a white Robert Pattinson FC. I'm sure theres more i was just too disgusted to keep looking.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been told to take a look at @devereuxacademy or heard about it being problematic. I can’t tell you about the dash and I’m not going to troll through everyone’s blogs, so if there is something on the dash that anyone would like to share with me (problematic plots, not tagging triggers, admin behavior,etc) then feel free to send another ask. 

More than one person came to me when this rp first hit the tags, asking if I thought they had stolen parts of their rp. I reported this by answering multiple different asks about it and they never responded, which is very telling. Honestly, I think they did. Intentionally or not, they do have a lot of parts of other, existing roleplays in their plot and there are so many copy and pasted things that it looks to be done on purpose. You can say, “but it’s a D/s academy rp and there’s only so many ways to rp in a school, so of course it looks similar to other rps of the same genre” except for the part where even academy rps have their own unique plot points, including the history of the world, social economics, and the school as well as the history of the administration. And that wasn’t the last time it was brought to my attention, or the only reason. I do see it, if we’re looking for my opinion on the matter of stolen plot content. I can see at least three different roleplays that were already in the tags for a long time, weaved together to make this group. I don’t really see anything that is original in the plot or worldview info, aside from maybe the intense details on IVF as the reason for there being so many triplets. Don’t quote me on that, though, it may have been used before. I just haven’t seen it. 

It weirds me out that they have all of their characters being thrust into nsfw situations before 18, with what should be an 18+ concept like BDSM, and at the same time they’re a discord rp as well as a tumblr rp. It says on their application that the characters are tested to find out which mark they are at 17. That’s a minor, being tested in a nsfw way because however you slice it BDSM and D/s are nsfw and nobody under the age of 18 can legally or morally be allowed to even dip a single toe in and that includes taking a test to find out what kinks they like and whether they’re going to want to be catching or receiving when it comes to sex. It just makes me wonder what’s being hidden in the discord. I’d also like to mention that they do have the option to play teachers as well as students, which is just weird and gross to me in this instance. The content is nsfw, clearly some students are going to get with teachers. It’s weird enough when it’s a sfw college rp and students do not smut with teachers, but being a teacher is a respectable character choice so I can see why you’d want to do it. If you were going to focus on talking to other teachers and developing plots with other teachers. In this instance though... the power dynamic between teachers and students are way different and there is a sexual overtone automatically because this is a kinky smut rp. You can also play a character as young as 21, which just makes me hope there are no relationships being written out by naive 21 year olds with their 30-40-50+, way more mature, could be their parent teacher. That might sound like I’m making up something that would never happen, but I have seen someone try to play a 62 year old lesbian that was predatory towards 19 year olds and even claimed one in a D/s rp like this. We all know how Glee rps work, we all know this line has already been crossed. We all also know why that’s gross- it’s an abuse of power and there is no way that a teacher/student dynamic could be cute because there will always be a sense of one person being way more mature than the other and being in a seat of power. Another reason to wonder what’s being hidden on this discord.

There are incorrectly casted families. In particular, I’m seeing POC families with fcs that should not belong because they do not match. I’d really like to know how it is that two Filipino girls and a black girl are twins. As a general note to the admins, you can’t erase half of someone’s ethnicity either. There are other families where one or more character is half right but also half wrong in an offensive way. And some families that are just wrong. I do give them props on some of this being right, but that doesn’t erase the other problems. You can’t whitewash people. Not all Asians are the same. Not all Latinx people are the same. Brown people aren’t interchangeable. Let me just list these so they’re easier to fix:

In the Adams family, Alex Newell is African-American but the fc has a sister that’s  British, Polish and Caribbean. That might be picking at straws but I always find it offensive when people pick and choose how to group ethnicities- like deciding all Asians are the same so they can be related. Either way, she’s over half white which doesn’t match up. 

Laura Harrier is Rachel Berry, she is half black and half white with Jewish background so that’s a really nice choice but then she’s twins with two Haliee Steinfeld fcs? Hailee who is Filipino... She’s also been accused of using the N word and being racist so she’s on a lot of people’s banned lists for the same reasons as Lea Michele. 

Brianna Tju is in a Chinese family but she’s half Indonesian. She’s also a Disney Channel star, so some people find that problematic from the start, because most of her resources are from kid’s shows at an age that is too young to be roleplaying. She’s only 22 now, which is old enough to rp, however the only real resources she has are from something that aired in 2015 and was likely filmed in 2014 or earlier. When she was definitely a minor. 

Kaya Scoldelario is Brazilian. She’s whitewashed by being placed in the Clarington family.

Zoe Deutch is Jewish. Her siblings are Matthew Daddario (Slovak, Italian, Irish, Hungarian, and English) and Haley Lu Richardson, who has a white background that doesn’t include Jewish. This is the Corcoran family as well, which should be Jewish, since they’re all related to Idina Menzel.

Victoria Pedretti is Jewish and she’s in the very white Evans family.

None of the older Fabrays are Jewish, and Ashley Johnson is Native American but also somehow a twin of the white Frannie Fabray.

Principal Figgins is played by someone that is Pakistani but the Figgins on the masterlist is played by Dev Patel, who is Gujarati Indian. 

Tyler Hoechlin is also partially Native American, but he is placed in the Flangan (Irish, like straight out of Ireland) family that has Rory recast as Thomas Dogherty (Scottish) with an Ariana Grande (Italian) twin as well. 

Kristen Stewart is on the masterlist but she has asked numerous times not to be used in roleplay because it makes her uncomfortable. I just covered this for another roleplay, and I’ve seen other people mention it, so it’s common knowledge at this point. She has been saying this for a long time. She’s also placed as the twin of Danielle Campbell, who is Mexican and Cajun French while Kristen is just white and the canon family member (Gilbert, so Adam Lambert) is Jewish.

Zendaya is also placed as a twin to Samantha Ware. Zendaya is mixed race, half black and half white, while Samantha is black. 

Yvette Monreal is the twin to Demi Lovato. Yvette is Chilean. Demi is Mexican and Portuguese. 

Avan Jogia is a Hart, but he is Gujarati Indian and white. He would be a better family relation to Dev Patel than anyone else on the masterlist and vice versa. As a refresher, Samuel Larsen (the canon fc for the Hart family) is Mexican, Danish, Spanish and Persian.

Maddison Jaizani is Iranian, but she’s listed as a Holliday which makes her related to Gwyneth Paltrow... a blonde, white woman.

Jacob Elordia is Basque and his sibling on the masterlist is Marie Avgeropoulos, a Greek actress. 

Rafael Silva is Brazilian, but he is a Lopez triplet, related to a Mexican-Irish sister (Lindsay Morgan) and a Mexican-Jewish sister (Alexa Demie).

Sugar Motta is played by Vanessa Lengies on Glee, an Egyptian actress. Her family is whitewashed with two white fcs, Kelli Berglung and Robert Pattinson. 

Kaylee Byrant is Japanese but she is twin to Madison Beer (Jewish) and Daisy Ridley (white).

The Puckerman family has lost its Jewish heritage. The only two on Noah’s side are Adelaide Kane (white) and Luke Pasqualino (Italian). Jake Puckerman has been recast as Justice Smith, who is half black and half white but is not Jewish. His sister is Samantha Logan who is half Trinidadian and half white and Pauline Singer, who is full Fijian.

Antonia Gentry is cast as a Weston. She is Jamaican, her listed twin is half white and half African-American. The newest acceptance for a Weston is for an African American fc. 

Lili Reinhart is on the masterlist, but she’s problematic. She’s defended the abusive behavior of her cast mate, Cole Sprouse, who was very publicly accused of sexual assault and abuse. She’s also been accused of blackface annnnnnnd she’s used queer baiting to get people to watch the show. (She teased a girl on girl relationship publicly, telling people to watch the show because they might finally get to see something between Betty and Veronica, knowing that the fans wanted it, but then when she was asked about it in a later interview she scoffed and acted like it was absolutely impossible and would never happen, some would say she even sounded offended by the thought-- which is what everyone got mad at Melissa Benoist for doing with Supergirl.)

David Corenswet is Jewish, cast with Emily Browning as a sister, who is not.

I applaud the Brazilian change for Lauren Zizes, but Ashley Fink was a welcome representation of plus size actresses and the new fc is less than half her size. She’s still plus size technically, but she’s “model plus size,” which is not at all the same as Lauren’s body type. I ran this by someone that this change would affect and they were not pleased. They were the one that pointed this out to me, because it bothered them as a plus size person to see one of the few plus size characters recasted with a skinnier fc. 

Dove Cameron is also on the masterlist, but she’s on a bunch of people’s banned lists. She replied to a fan that said they wanted her to notice them that they were stupid and had no life if that was one of their goals. She’s been rude to cast and crew on set. Dove has also been accused of throwing a fit and making the writers change the Descendants script to take the relationship that was written out for a black actress. She’s being accused of yellow fishing, which I believe is the term for trying to look Asian. She wore a Native American headdress in a cultural appropriation type of way. She’s been accused of being fatphobic and hiding behind photoshop on her social media while saying she doesn’t photoshop, so she’s giving off a false sense of reality to her fans. She’s been talking badly about someone that is trying to get their sexual assault story out there. The latest thing that’s come out about her is a rant about how mental health isn’t real and that people just need to logic their way out of depression? Which would be coming from a seat of high privilege. She wrote a series of tweets on the topic, calling negative mental health and the feelings they cause “a choice.” There’s a whole hashtag on Tumblr for her. 

I’m not at all surprised to see that all of the diverse characters are open. No Artie, no Unique- who could definitely be recast as an actual trans woman, now that we’re living in the age of recasting for reasons of problematic natures- if we can have a new Puck, new Finn, new Rachel, and new Santana why not an appropriate Unique? She is literally the only canon trans woman, why not treat her with respect? They recasted Cooper to better fit the proper ethnicity, so... 

[littlemessyjessi]

How They’d Be As Mukbangers:  Harry Potter Characters

How They'd Be As YouTube Mukbangers

James: Every video has a theme.   Like, I'm not even playing.   Holidays?  All kinda of holiday themed food.  Quidditch World Cup coming up?   Things inspired by the country of his favorite team.   Just a random day?  Everything is blue.   He's that type of way.

Sirius:  If a mukbanger was a thirst trap.  I could easily see him really getting into.  Dark background, black gloves, aesthetic as fuck and like, he doesn't even talk.  He just sits there, looks hot and somehow makes eating looking incredibly sexy.  And he fucking knows it.   Bitch also one hundred percent rolls his eyes back when it hits his taste buds.  Licks his lips and his fingers.  Takes way too big of bites.   Most people would say it's cringy how sexual his videos are...but everyone is secret subscribed anyway.  With notifications on.

Remus:  This goes one of two ways.  If he's in a good mood and things are chill, he'll find a recipe, make it to the mother fucking 't' and then have a little mukbang slash review on said recipe.  Nice lil chat.  Sweet tol bean.   Precious. If it's near the full moon there ain't none of that.  Ya boy, brings in his monstrous plate of food, sits it down and just tears into like a fucking beast, no talking.  Just nom nom nom.  Unintentionally thirst traps and people opening talk about when Remus goes beast mode.  

Peter:  Candy and sweets channel! Small mukbangs with reviews from different candies from Honeydukes!

Lily: ��Lol, Lilypad.  She ain't playing around.  Her videos are planned out, edited and just generally finessed to perfection.  Even had music added to it with tiny vlog segments as it's set up.  It's a little pretentious but she does have a good following.

Marlene:   This bitch.  Fucking competitive eating queen.  Tiny ass lil ho can eat you under the table, bro.   Think RainaIsCrazy on YouTube.  She can fucking smash.  Usually does eating challenges from different resteraunts and competitions.  Often, challenges Remus on his wild days.   He's a beast but she still wipes the floor with him.  

Dorcas:  The collab.  Dorcas always has good food and good company.  She's all about sharing a meal with someone and talking about random things.

Alice and Frank:  The couple channel.  It's generally filled with so much fucking cute and the food is always tasty.  It's sickening they feed each other but you also can't help but awww.

Molly Prewett/Weasley:   Family recipes.   Molly's channel are tried and true recipes from the Prewett family.  Cook with me and tons of kitchen life hacks.  Also, that woman can turn a ham sandwhich into a full course meal. Bet.   Always taste tested by Daddy Weasley.  Yes, I said Daddy Weasley.  

Lucius Malfoy:  The most pretentious fucking channel to ever exist.  It's a whole fucking production that admittedly he does put a lot of work into.   Somewhat thirst trappy like Sirius' but instead of just having a plain black background he goes out of his way to shove as much of his manor into.   Only eats the most expensive food fucking on the planet and of course, it's prepared by House elves cause he's a twit.  (Yes, I know this is Thranduil but honestly wouldn’t put it past Lucius to be this fucking pretentious.) 

Severus Snape:  Actually pretty solid content.  His exquisite skills in potions actually made him a rather good chef.   Tasteful shots, edited well with music over everything and subtitles.   Simply audio for the eat portion at the end.  Nothing too fancy for the background.  Often just a very clean kitchen. Solid content though.

The Black Sisters: Mass chaos.  Part vlog, part drama channel, half the time the food never even gets finished because of fights.  

Bill Weasley:  The Traveler.   A lot of egyptian food.  Some made by hand.  Some vlogs from street food while he's out just generally doing his job.   Short videos but solid.  He's hot and he picks good food.  It works for him.

Charlie Weasley:  This extra ass bitch.  He's the bitch that does all that outdoor cooking.  You know what I mean.   Shots in the woods, roaring fire.  Lit by a precious dragon child no doubt.  Dragons lounging in the background like those bitches who always have their dogs there.  Yes, I'm jealous.  Close up shots of him cutting things on a custom wood cutting board. Everything he makes causes your mouth to water.  God damn, scarred, freckle faced bastard just gobbles it up and ends every fucking video with a wink.   Charlie Weasley is the ultimate thirst trap and he fucking knows it.

Percy:  Percy's channel could be epic but instead is boring as fuck.  Why?  Because he insist on having the most snooze worthy meals that are 'sensible' and THEN he proceeds to talk about politics.   He actually had a pretty decent following of other like minded individuals but my god- politics and porridge, Percy?  Really?

However, once he chills the fuck out, leaves the ministry to do something else - it’s a game changer.  Brings the family on for mukbangs.  Does videos with mummy weasley.  Percy grows his hair out and Bill teases him for being a copy cat.  Much better.  Still talks politics but it’s fucking hiliarous and now the food is poppin. 

Fred and George:  Alright, this shit right here.   Every fucking bit of it is a self promo for the shop.  Meals inspired by and that would go well paired with 'this product'.  Like, that's the whole thing.  And then they run an add for their shop at the end featuring the product.  It works for them because they're smart, they're hot and they're also wildly entertaining with their constantly sibling squabbling. But yeah.  Big promo for the shop.

Ron Weasley: Honestly, out of everyone.   Ron probably has the most followers and it's because he doesn't say shit while he's eating. He sits down with a massive fucking turkey.  Nods at the camera and just tears it up.   It's literally so satisfying.  All the food is prepared by his mother.  So it's obviously fantastic. ( I just had to use this gif.) 

Ginny:   Gin's channel is usually team building videos with the Harpies.  'Cheat Day: Vlog and Mukbang w/the Harpies' type of vibes.  It's cool though and since it's a famous quidditch team the fans enjoy the behind the scenes action and actually drop all kinds of recipes for them to try in the future.

Hermione:  Hermione could easily veer off into Percy's channel of misery when she gets started on her rants but mostly they're really chill videos.  Mukbang and Book Review type of vibe.  Or sometimes even the playing of an audio book while she does her thing.  All in all, wholesome.

Harry:  Lol, I swear.  Fucking awkward bean.   Harry's videos are literally of him making the simplest of things and being so fucking awkward. "Er, well, hi guys.  So I'm about to head out for work.  Running a bit late.  But we're having a bit of toast and jam."  Like it's literally just little videos of him eating whatever throughout the day.  But of course, since he's Harry Fucking Potter- his follower count is astronomical.  

Neville:  Now, this boy.  This boy is a goblincore gobbo's wet dream.  Gardening videos with homegrown veg.  Recipes from Grandmother.   Have a nice Veggie Pot Pie with Professor Longbottom in the Hogwarts Greenhouse.  There is a fanbase and it is huge.  

Luna: Honestly, the weirdest fucking channel in the world.  Like she finds the weirdest things to eat and goes from there.  But Luna is bae so it's cool.  Also, a thousand percent does Smoke Sesh + Mukbang videos.  You know it's true.

Dean and Seamus:  Literally, eating in the most crowded pubs as they visit football games around the country.  Seamus will definitely pull the Irish card from time to time to have a drinking competition.  He wins everytime.  He may be a little dude but shit- homie can hold his own.

Cedric:  Honestly, it's so fucking pure.   Straight up did videos during his time at Hogwarts in the Hogwarts kitchen.  Such kind little conversations with the house elves.  "Hey, guys.  Thanks for coming back to another video.  Today we're making some really tasty biscuits.  Whispy, one of the talented bakers here in the kitchens, is here to help us today so please say hello to her in the comments."  He'll also always make extra and leave them in the Hufflepuff common room for everyone to enjoy.  Like, it's honestly so pure and he's such a soft boi and oh my fucking geeeeeeerrrrrrdddd!!!!!

Draco: Actually takes it really seriously and put a lot of hard work into it.   Nothing like his father's ego-tistical recipes.   Surprisingly, every. single. recipe. is a muggle recipe.  How would he know?  Because he cross referenced with Granger of course.  Cooks it himself.   No magic.  Lots of random talks.  Just like a monologue of things and it gets kinda deep sometimes.   Like, it's the channel to go to when you need advice that you didn't even know that you needed.   Still eats incredibly proper.   It's that pureblood raising of his.  Old habits die hard.

Tonks:  Pure chaos.  "Hey, today we're having Mum's homemade lasagna and I'm also getting a new tattoo.  Might dye my hair.  Don't really need to since I can do this  but whatever. So yeah, there's that.  Like it's just all over the place and you'd think it would take but the chaos is too good not to watch.  Literally gives herself beaks and snouts while she eats.  It's iconic.

Dumbledore: Mother fucker just sits at his desk, stares straight into the camera and eats a lemon drop.  Like a weirdo.  The video usually no more than a minute and each video is just some variation of that.  Meme lord.

Hagrid:  Tea With Hagrid.  Also, so the recipes suck, they too, but Hagrid is a peach and it's relaxing to see his gentle half giant there in his hut, pumpkin patch out the window and Fang laying by the fire.  It's a mood and he's just like the comforting Dad figure. 

McGonagall:  Honestly the best one in the entire world.  She makes a full course traditional Scottish breakfast... and then transforms into her animagus the cat...and promptly knocks it off the table.   A fucking legend.

------------------------------

Please attack the ask box!

Love, Kenny

@frankie2902

@pleasantdreamqueen   @becrazy–beyou

@littledeadrottinghood @blackirisposts

@therealmrshale @woodworthti666@thegreatirene@fanfictionandjunk

@angelus320

@alanlizzingtonshore@buriednurbckyrd@disneymarina@tubbypeachwriting

@sullybot @georgiagrl1990 @whenallsaidanddone

@mischiefnevermanaged94 @inumorph

@congurl

@centerhabit

@bubblymusiclover13

@qtmeryr

@thisismysecrethappyplace

@tnupsweetpie

@alisoncdariel

@hannahloveslife

@wormyboi

@blackirisposts

@maggyme13

@amethyst09

@ibenkastberg

@fanfics1717 @mrscasnovak

@thickemadame @babygirl-barnes

@theladyofmasks @aengsty

@kalliravenne​

@witchygagirl​

@gruffle1​

@writtenbywolfie​

@kribbydahhufflepuff

@leah-halliwell92​

@thelastwildangel​

@silent-browser​

@simplymagical​@simplymagicalwritings​

@lilac​flicker

@malulucifer

@minxyvixen​

@moncheriemoony

@queenlexusloverofbts​

@criminalyetminimal​

Love, Kenny

[mayfriend-archive]

Totally understand if you're not up for it and fully recognize the ronald mcdonald dom/sub anon vibes which is an AMAZING post btw but like...now i'm curious, what the hell did Lord of the Flies anon DO that got him blocked for the discourse? like...i just can't wrap my head around high school lit being...uh...that inflammatory i guess?

Okay so, I'll start by saying I've had a new anon from apparently the same anon saying they are NOT the person I blocked, just a rando making the same points, but I'll answer your question anyway just to set out why this person in particular got blocked, out of the several thousand who reblogged/commented on that very successful addition to the LoTF post I made.

First off, I added the 'real life Lord of the Flies' story because I thought it was a good story. I had read about it only a couple days beforehand in Humankind and, after reading out the entire chapter to my parents who weren't very interested, I was excited that there was not only a post where it would be relevant to post, but that I wouldn't be hijacking it, as it was already rejecting the widespread interpretation taught in many schools, that humanity is inherently savage.

When making the addition, I a) did not think it would get more than a couple reblogs, because the post was already at 50k notes and I figured anyone that might be interested would already have seen it, and b) I did not know the very specific context that prompted William Golding to write the book; all I knew was that he had been a teacher at a public school (basically, the poshest schools in the country - think Eton, Harrow, very 'old money' places that pump out Conservative politicians by the bucket-load 🤢) who hated his job and the boys he taught (which, valid), and new information I'd been given in Humankind - that Golding had said to his wife one day, "Wouldn't it be a good idea to write a story about some boys on an island, showing how they would really behave?" - which had no mention of The Coral Island by R. M. Ballantyne, which I have since learned was the text that Golding loathed enough to write an entire novel in refutation of - and included what I considered a very telling letter from Golding to his publisher, in which Golding wrote of his belief that 'even if we start with a clean slate, our nature compels us to make a muck of it.' Another Golding quote that I believe portrays his belief in humanity's 'innate savagery' is that "man produces evil as a bee produces honey."

Obviously, the author of a book putting forward the case for humanity's inherent goodness was going to oppose Golding's hypothesis; Bregman not only noted Golding's literary accomplishments and beliefs, but his personal life.

When I began delving into the author's life, I learned what an unhappy individual he'd been. An alcoholic. Prone to depression. A man who, as a teacher, once divided his pupils into gangs and encouraged them to attack each other. "I have always understood the Nazis," Golding confessed, "because I am of that sort by nature." (Humankind by Rutger Bregman, p. 24-25)

I have bolded the part about him as a teacher, because it is incredibly relevant to the original post that I commented on, which begins with a comic of a teacher locking her class in to see them 'recreate' Lord of the Flies, something which the follow up comments before mine staunchly reject as both misunderstanding the point of the book, and the fact that it took the kids in Lord of the Flies a significant amount of time without adult supervision to go 'savage'. This misreading of the text is widespread enough that when Golding won the Nobel Prize for Lord of the Flies, the Swedish Nobel committee wrote that his book 'illuminate[s] the human condition in the world of today'. Whether or not they misread it is beyond my expertise - they do at least mention the factors of the outside world neglected by many when analysing the book, but still seem to believe it says something about human nature as a whole rather than just, to quote thedarkbutbeige 'British kids being rat bastards' - but Golding quite happily took his Nobel prize on this basis. Which, in fairness, I would too. It's a fucking Nobel prize.

It was with this knowledge, and this knowledge alone, that I stated in my now very, very widely read comment that Golding 'wrote the book to be a dick', in response to the tags of the person I reblogged from. As I said, I now know that Golding did not write the book (solely) because he hated the kids he taught, but as a response to The Coral Island and the general idea that clearly the British were inherently civilsed, whilst the people they colonised and enslaved were inherently savage. So. That's the background.

The anon - or rather, the person I thought was anon - was the sole exception out of dozens of replies, who instead of telling me about The Coral Island politely decided it was time to go ALL CAPS and regurgitate points already made by thespaceshipoftheseus, and implied that the only reason that the real life Tongan castaways didn't go all Lord of the Flies was because they weren't British. Not because they weren't surrounded by violence like the boys in Lord of the Flies, or there wasn't a World War ongoing, or that they weren't the upper, upper, upper crust of a class-obsessed society like Britain - but because they weren't British. A complete inversion of the concept that Golding was trying to get across - now, instead of all of humanity being equally prone to savagery in the right conditions, it was solely nationality that determined it. As in, the British were inherently savage, but nobody else was.

I, trying for humour, made the terrible mistake of replying to them.

I won't lie, I was absolutely blown away that this was real life. What I think they were trying to do was be that Cool Tumblr Person who, after somebody's been shitty on a post, goes to their blog and sees something Damning in their about/description. In an ideal world, I imagine I'd have gone nuts or done something Unforgiveable. In what I can only call the rant that followed, they stated several times that I needed to go back to high school to get some 'proper literary analysis' skills and that the story of the Tongan castaways was completely unrelated to the point at hand which. I mean, I disagree, considering that I made the addition, but I couldn't get my head around how commenting on a post that was already rejecting the thesis that the 'point' of Lord of the Flies was that humanity was inherently savage and was, in fact, about how kids - British or otherwise - learn how to function from the adults around them, and that traumatised, terrified children aren't going to create a mini-Utopia, and put forward a real life example of how without the key additions of an ongoing world war, a colonial Empire and the subsequent mindset of thinking you are 'inherently civilised' and therefore can't do anything wrong, actually, people just want to take care of each other.

A friend has since asked me why I even have 'england' in my description. To be honest, it's a timezone thing - I talk to a lot of people online who don't share my timezone, and it generally makes me feel like if I don't reply immediately because it's 3am, they have the tools to see that I'm not in their timezone and not just ignoring them. I did consider changing it to 'british' or 'uk' after it was... 'used against me', I guess, simply because I didn't want to deal with it, but you know what. No. Not gonna do that. I am from England, and I have never hid that fact. I have a tag called 'uk politics', during Eurovision I refer to the UK's act as 'us' (even if I really, really don't want to. Because James Newman slaughtered that song and it was downright embarrassing), I regularly post stuff in my personal tag about where I live (and mostly complain about this piece of shit government). If people really think my nationality makes every point I make null and void, then they don't have to follow me or interact with my posts; tumblr is big, and I am one medium-small blog very easily passed over.

I did reply to them, trying to explain the above, but their next response really just doubled down. Because I used the word British instead of English - foolishly because the posts above mine focused on Britishness, and also because although Golding was English and taught English kids, the pro-Imperialism author of The Coral Island, R. M. Bannatyne was actually Scottish so, ding ding ding, falls into the 'British' category - they then decided that I was somehow trying to pretend I wasn't English and made all the same points, before ending with this doozy:

At this point, I knew there was nothing to be gained from replying, because if we're whipping out conditions like they're pokemon cards then there's no actual conversation anymore, and I'm not going to start mudslinging like an identity politician. They made up their mind, and I figured there could be no harm in letting them think that they 'won' by blocking them instead of replying.

Until the ask. INNATE ENGLISH SAVAGERY did, I'll admit, make me think it was them, back again. I even thought up a really good response approximately 12 hours after I replied, I was that sure. Until the second message came in, and said they were just someone who came from the post and made the same point by chance. So the saga draws to a close... for now.

It may have been them, it may not have been - the anon feature makes it impossible to be sure, but as the second message I got said, we're in a heatwave. It's too hot to argue. And I've just written a goddamn essay about a book I dislike anyway.

My pasty English ass is going to go melt. If there's Disk Horse, do not tell me. I am Done™

[ieattaperecorders]

Trapdoor

Inb4 we get a good description of the post-apocalyptic world, wrote a little monster encounter for these boys. It’s also here on Ao3.

- - -

“Where are you going?”

Martin turned to Jon who stood a few paces back, looking quizzical. “Towards the hills? You just said it would be safer there.”

“I absolutely did not say that.” Jon replied. “I said we ought to go this way,” he gestured in the direction he’d been turning. “Stick to the lower places, where there’s less room for things to sneak up.”

The rolling, rocky countryside had been suspiciously innocuous lately. Unsettlingly normal. For the last few kilometers, nothing had leaped out at them or tried to lure them towards apparent safety. No part of the world had suddenly twisted or inverted around them. In fact, for some time the terrain they’d been walking across had done an impressive job of resembling ordinary Scottish land on a gray and drizzly morning. It was leaving both of them tense, anxious, waiting for the hammer to fall.

“. . .I’m pretty sure I heard you.” Martin looked back at the hills. “And it feels safer to go that way? I dunno, higher ground? Doesn’t that seem right?”

“Martin.” Jon put his hands on Martin’s arms, speaking slowly and carefully. “You might want to consider the possibility that something is making you feel that way.”

“That doesn’t sound ri - - ah.” Martin caught himself. “Maybe. Er,” he lifted his arms. “Have I got any spiders on me?”

Jon peered over him nervously. “I mean. I don’t see any, but it’s not likely going to be that simple.”

“How do we know which way is safe, then?” Martin asked. “If we’re possibly dealing with mind control, it could be tricking you as well.”

“It’s wise to be skeptical where these things are concerned.” Jon said, “But I was able to see in the Unknowing, and I think this may be similar. Besides that, you seem a little . . . dazed, to me?”

“Yeah. . .” Now that he was focusing on it, he had to admit that his head felt off somehow. “I guess I am feeling a little . . . dazed.”

“I think that my connection to the Eye is the only thing keeping keep me safe. We ought to move as quickly as we can.” Jon looked at him intently. “If this place is affecting your mind, you might not be able to trust everything you see and hear. So stay close to me, try to ignore anything strange. I’ll guide you.”

There was something moving in Martin’s peripheral vision. Tiny ripples formed in the dirt, as if something was shifting underground. He swore he could hear a muffled noise, like a shuffling or hissing, coming from nearby.

“Don’t focus on it.” Jon’s hand came up to tilt Martin’s face towards his own. “Whatever you’re seeing, I’m pretty sure looking at it is a mistake. Just look at me. Focus on my voice. You can trust me.”

“Right.” That noise was getting louder, and Martin tried to ignore it. “Looking is probably a mistake. . . .”

Even out of the corner of his eye, though, Martin could tell that thing was moving closer. He was relieved when Jon turned, hand clasping his, and started leading him away from it.

“This way,” Jon said, pulling gently but quickly at him. “Try to keep your eyes on me.”

But it was really hard not to look down when the mud started to swirl around at their heels. The sound coming from below was just loud enough for Martin to make out a word.

Stop--

And he was pretty sure he did not want to listen to the ground telling him to stop moving, so he decided to quicken his pace a little. But he hadn't gotten far before the soil opened up behind him and a hand, black with mud, reached out and gripped his ankle.

Martin yelped and pulled away, but the hand’s grip was tight, and he only succeeded in yanking half an arm out of the ground with it.

“Don’t look down!” Jon’s voice came from behind him, hand still gripping his. “That’s how it pulls you in. Just keep moving!”

And Martin would have done as he said, except at that moment the soil shifted and a pair of shoulders joined the arm, as did the rough shape of a human head. There were more arms surrounding it, bent and twisted ones with joints like the legs of an insect and long, grasping hands. They reached out and wrapped around the muddy figure to pull it back down, but it was quickly struggling free. Choking, gasping and spitting mud, Jon’s face emerged from below.

“S-stop--” he gasped, looking wild-eyed at Martin “Stop listening to it!”

“Oh my God . . . Jon!?” Martin stared at the half-buried figure.

“Let him go!” Jon’s voice growled from behind him, directed at the muddy silhouette. “He’s not for you!”

The Jon that was covered in mud coughed and spat out a gobbet of earth, its hand still gripping Martin’s leg . He was pulling him towards the mud, he realized, and the grasping hands. Or, no, was he pulling himself out? Or was he just pulling Martin towards himself, away from the one who was holding him?

The one who was - - there was still a hand gripping his hand. Whose...whose hand was on him . . . .?

“Martin. Look at it.” The Jon clinging to his ankle fixed a penetrating gaze on him. Martin felt something . . . a painful moment of light piercing the haze in his mind. “Look at what you’ve been talking to.”

Martin looked back at the thing holding his hand. It was definitely not Jon. It had too many limbs, and not enough eyes, and when it smiled there was a hissing sound like that of a chittering insect.

He screamed, pulling his hand back and trying back away. Unfortunately the real Jon still held his ankle, so he didn’t back away so much as stumble and fall flat onto the ground. The monster loomed. It no longer looked like Jon, but it retained just enough detail - his scarred right hand, the color of his shirt, the lower half of his face now split with a too wide grin - to make everything else seem worse.

“Get away - -” Jon’s voice was hoarse, rough with the soil he’d been trapped in, but there was fire in it. “Get - - away from him.”

The creature froze in place as Jon pulled himself up beside Martin. Martin assumed that Jon’s gaze was keeping it still, but he wasn’t going to rely on the Watcher if he could help it. He took the moment of distraction as a chance to sweep the creature’s legs. Having a dozen, spindly, twisting limbs might be good for frightening people who wander into your terrible pit trap. But they didn’t provide much in terms of stability. The creature went down, landing half on top of Martin.

In a panic, he kicked it towards the hole that Jon had crawled out of. A new arm shot out of the ground just as the monster began to rise. A hand wrapped around one if its gangly legs, and was joined by another. Then another, and another, and many more, until it was looked more like a tangle of chitinous wire than anything remotely humanoid.

Martin and Jon scrabbled back from the pits’ edge as the thing was dragged down and swallowed, screaming inhumanly. The ground went quiet again, and the two of them stopped and breathed.

“Are you all right?” Jon asked.

Martin nodded. “I think so. What about you?”

“I think so.” Jon cleared his throat, voice still raw. “I wasn’t down there long. If, ah, if suffocation were lethal here I’d probably be in more trouble.”

“Here, hang on. . . .” Martin shrugged off his backpack. He was glad he’d had the foresight to bring some bottles of water, despite neither of them feeling thirst anymore. He’d known they’d have some practical use -- or, if he was being honest with himself, tea-related use. But this seemed the more immediate concern.

Jon took the water gratefully, swishing his mouth out and spitting a few times, then attempted to clean himself off. His clothes weren’t going to be pristine again, that was for certain, but he managed to get from ‘dirt monster’ to ‘man who’s been tramping through the muddy woods.’ Which wasn't far from where they’d both been to begin with, and would have to do.

“Stepped in the wrong spot.” Jon muttered as he scrubbed at his hair. “I was underground in an instant.”

“I didn’t even see. I’m sorry.” Martin said.

“It’s not your fault.” Jon replied. “That thing was toying with your mind. I could see it even from down there, but I couldn’t reach you. . . .”

“We should get moving again.” Martin said, getting to his feet. “That thing might be able to crawl out too.”

“Yes. You’re right.” Jon pulled himself up, brushing off what remaining soil he could, and took Martin’s hand. “Towards the hills?”

Martin nodded, slinging the bag back over his shoulder.

“Jon. . .” a startlingly familiar voice came from behind them. “What’s going on?”

Martin turned and found himself facing a figure that looked only vaguely like him. Actually, it would be more right to say it looked exactly like he would look if a number of long, twisted monster arms burst from his back and wrapped themselves around his head and body. It was covered in black mud and one of those long hands obscured the top corner of its face. It stood a few meters away, but Martin could still make out its expression, which was a mocking mimicry of concern.

The Martin-thing held out a hand. “Jon, listen, that’s not me,” it said. Its voice sounded off, though that much might just be because Martin was used to hearing his own voice resonate in his head. “I don’t know what it is, but that isn’t me.”

If the image hadn’t been so unsettling, Martin might have laughed at it. “Nice try? But I don't think he's going to buy it.”

Martin looked over at Jon, who was staring in shock at the Martin-thing. He turned back to Martin and his eyes narrowed with suspicion and concern. Martin groaned inwardly.

“Seriously?” He said. “You’re not really fooled by that thing, are you? It’s covered in weird spider-arms and dripping with mud.”

“Is that what you see?” Jon asked, brow knit.

“I mean, yes?”

“Because he looks entirely normal to me. And--” Jon tensed and Martin felt static at the edges of his perception. A quiet, pained grunt came from between Jon’s teeth. “He looks. . .authentic. Real,” he glanced back at Martin, looking intently at him. “So do you, incidentally.”

“Well thanks very much.” Martin said.

“I, ah.” Jon frowned. “I’m not sure. . .what to do with this?”

There was silence for a while as the three of them stared at each other, not moving. Jon was still holding Martin’s arm, but his grip had tightened a little. Martin suddenly wasn’t sure if Jon was clinging to him, or keeping him in place.

“Okaaay.” The Other Martin said. “So, uh. . . Jon, when you were still working in research, I picked your name for the yearly White Elephant. I barely knew you at that point, so I made the mistake of asking Tim what he thought you’d want. I probably should have realized the ‘it’s wine o’clock somewhere’ t-shirt wasn’t actually your style, but I thought maybe you and Tim had a similar sense of humor and you dressed differently when you weren’t at work.”

“Oh, we’re doing that, are we?” Martin said, annoyed. “Fine. I didn’t let you eat lunch alone for two weeks after you were stabbed. You didn’t want to talk about any of the things you were obsessed with at the time, so I started chatting about anything I could think of to fill the silence. Somehow I got onto cartoons we grew up with and that’s how I found out you’ve never played a Pokemon game but you know a really suspicious amount about the anime.”

The Martin-Thing? Other Martin? Martin was just going to think of it as the other one. It frowned through the tangle of its limbs at Martin’s response.

“The first time you told me that you loved me was on the train to Scotland,” it said, and hearing it talk about that made Martin’s teeth clench. “I was so startled to hear it that I froze and didn’t respond at all, and you started apologizing, worrying you’d made a mistake.”

“Our first night in the safehouse--” Martin said. “You were stroking my hair because you thought I was asleep. I thought you might stop if I opened my eyes, so I just kept pretending. I didn’t tell you about it for a week.”

“Two weeks after we met--” the other one began.

“Stop, stop!” Jon shouted, waved his free hand in the air. “None of that proves anything. There are creatures in this world quite capable of stealing memories, of replacing or re-writing them. You should both know that,” he added with a glare, “regardless of whether you’re real or not.”

The other one frowned. “Jon, it’s me . . . .”

The thing took a step closer and Martin started to back away. Jon kept his grip on him, though that only meant he was pulled along a step or two before he dug his heels into the soft earth.

“Don’t!” he snapped, and Martin stopped moving. Jon released his arm, pose tense, his gaze shooting wildly between them. “Don’t move. Just- - both of you stay where I can see you.”

“Okay. Okay . . .” Martin held up his hands. He could see Jon was starting to panic, and tried to sound calm. “I’m not moving.”

The other one mirrored Martin's pose and Jon nodded, frowning. He backed a step or two away, positioning himself more evenly between the two Martins. His arms were a little out from his sides, as if making ready to grab or push away either one.

“Maybe don’t get too close to it, though?” Martin said, an edge of worry in his voice. “Just in case? Okay?”

“Yeah,” the other one shot back, audibly offended. “Don’t get too close to it, Jon.”

Jon pressed a hand to his forehead, sighing. “Just - just let me think, all right?”

“Right. Take all the time you need.” the other one said, its tone unpleasantly familiar.

Jon paced back and forth with agitation, always keeping his eyes on one of them. Martin watched the other one, in case it made a move for Jon or for him. He couldn’t help but notice It was looking back at him with what he assumed was an identical, watchful expression. Mimics were absolutely the worst.

“Either somehow both of you are really Martin,” Jon muttered, still pacing “or my perception’s being altered in a way I can’t break through. But if it’s the latter I don’t know how we’d proceed. If they both look real, maybe it means neither of them is? But if that’s the case the real Martin could be anywhere, and how am I supposed to find him if I can’t trust what I see. . . .”

“I mean - -” Martin couldn’t help but feel a little hurt hearing Jon talk about him as if he was both not there and in fact, not real. It wasn’t his fault, but it did sting a bit. “How could we both be real?”

“Does that seem impossible at this point?” Jon threw his arms in the air. “That something could split a person in two? Or double them? That would feed into something, surely. The -- the existential fear of it all. Not to mention the fear of being deceived, of unreality, paranoia. . . .”

Martin considered this. “Well. . . that’s fair. But we both saw that other Jon. After that, it seems more likely that one of us is a trick,” he sighed, glaring at the other one. “And I mean. I know which one’s real, but I don’t know how I can prove it to you.”

“You didn’t say you were real.” The other one said triumphantly. “You said ‘I know which one,’ that’s probably a tell, Jon.”

“I meant me, I’m real, I was just trying not to be rude.”

“All right, all right. If nothing else either one of you could be a . . . a replacement.” Jon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But unless I know, I can’t take the risk of leaving the real Martin behind. So I think we’re all just going to have to stick together until one of you tries to, I don’t know, enslave my will or turn me inside out or something.”

“That’s a bad plan, Jon.” The other one said.

“Yeah, I kind of have to agree with the other one?” Martin said. “I mean, you’re talking about definitely letting an evil doppleganger tag along, I can’t see that ending well.”

“Well unless one of you wants to tear off a Martin skin and get this over with, I don’t see any other options!” Jon snapped, frustrated.

There was a pause, then the other one spoke up.

“What if you asked us who we are?” it suggested. “I mean. . .nothing’s been able to lie to you so far, right?”

Jon considered. He looked at Martin for permission, and he nodded.

“Yeah, all right.” he said. “Do it.”

“Who are you?” Jon’s voice reverberated, reaching into him. The words came out with no resistance.

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” he said.

Jon looked guarded but a measure of relief showed in him, and Martin smiled at that.

“And who are you?” Jon asked the other.

“I’m Martin Blackwood,” it said, “I'm someone who loves you.”

“I mean, I love you too.” Martin said, frowning. Hearing that thing say those words in particular made his stomach twist a little. “I just didn’t think that was what you were asking.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, considering, then he looked at the other one. “Who were you an hour ago?”

“I was Martin Blackwood,” it said. “I’ve always been.”

“And you?” Jon turned back to Martin. “Who were you an hour ago?”

“I was mud.” Martin said. “Eternally grasping, flowing ever downwards. I was hands, many and needful, aching to grip and wrench and pull. I was the thought of hands, hands that grip the mind. Ones you cannot pull away from without ripping out the most vulnerable parts of yourself. And now, I am Martin Blackwood.”

Martin blinked, hand halfway to his throat. The words had poured out of him, he hadn’t even needed to think. Where had they come from?

“I. . .I don’t. I don’t know why I said that?” He laughed nervously. “Why would I say that?”

Jon’s eyes were wide with fear and he backed towards the other one, arm out as if to separate Martin from it. And that wasn’t fair. Why was he trusting that thing over him? It didn’t even look like him.

“Keep away from it.” Jon said.

“Yeah, I got that.” The thing behind him replied.

“Wait- I, I know how this must sound,” Martin tried to explain, “but it’s got to be some kind of trick. I don’t know where those words came from. It’s me. It’s the real me, I promise.”

“I very much doubt that.” Jon said, his voice cold. He was looking at Martin with such hatred, and it stirred something raw and panicky in him.

“Ask me again!” Martin pleaded, voice trembling. “I’ll get it right this time, just ask again!”

“The answer will be the same.” Jon said firmly.

“Jon.” The thing standing behind him put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, speaking softly. “We should probably run. It feels like this is going to get worse really, really soon.”

“Don’t!” Martin resisted the urge to step closer, afraid that if he did Jon would just do as the other one said and start running. “I’m me. I’m Martin Blackwood. You heard me say it, you know it’s true. I’m Martin.”

“But you’re also a trap.” Jon said. When he opened his mouth again, his voice pierced through Martin’s entire being. “Aren’t you?”

This time he did resist, tried to close his mouth as he the words welled up in him. But it was no use.

“Yes,” tears gathered in Martin’s eyes as the truth forced its way through his lips. “A trap for you.”

“No different than the other half of it.” Jon nodded solemnly. “Just a little bit crueler.”

Martin was dizzy. Everything felt like it was falling away. His own words reverberated in his head, taunting him, and he wanted to scream. Then Jon turned and began to walk away, and Martin did panic.

“Wait! Please, just let me come with you,” he begged. “I’m not - I won’t cause trouble. I won’t even complain about the other one, I promise. I - -” he swallowed. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He saw Jon hesitate, gripping the other one a little more tightly, and it held him tightly back. It hurt. That thing didn’t look or feel remotely right, but it was holding Jon. Holding and being held by him while Martin was left outside. Only a few meters away, but it may as well have been the full length of the earth.

“I feel like myself. I feel like . . .like him,” admitting to being something other than Martin was almost physically painful, but he pressed on. “Like Martin. Maybe I didn’t used to be, but I am now.”

“A hand that can conceive of itself,” Jon said darkly. “Clenched by an unseen mind.”

Fairchild’s words now echoed by Jon rang in his memory. The old man had been right. It was horrid. Martin didn’t want to think about any of it. He just wanted to run to Jon, pull him into his arms, hold him close and be held. Couldn’t he just have that? Couldn’t it be that simple?

“I love you.” Martin said. “You can ask me, I’ll say it a thousand times, because it’s true.”

“. . . But you’ll still hurt him,” the other one said. Its voice was as gentle as its words were cruel. “Even if you don’t want to, it’s what you were made to do. The trap is going to close eventually.”

Martin shook his head violently. It wasn’t true. Whatever he might be, he wouldn’t hurt Jon. He just wanted to stay with him. He wanted to wrap his arms around Jon and never let go. He wanted to bury Jon’s face in his chest and hold him close and promise he was safe with him and be believed. Even if they weren’t his, he had memories of a thousand loving embraces. A thousand more gentle touches, kisses, tender looks. They felt no less real than this moment did.

At the same time, he knew Jon would never hold him again. Not willingly. Not anymore.

Something was moving under the earth, snaking closer to the three of them. Something that also wanted to hold them very, very close. Based on the uneasy way they were starting to look at the ground, Martin suspected they felt it rumbling.

“If you love him,” the other one spoke quickly, his voice wavering as the soil shook. “If you’re really me enough to love him, then I think you want him to be safe. And I’m sorry, but he’s not going to be safe with you.”

The heaviness of his words settled on Martin like the weight of all creation. He felt a thousand grasping hands reach out, fingers just breaking the surface of the soil. The two men holding tightly to one another jumped as the earth shifted around them. Then all at once the hands lost their will, and dissolved back into mud.

Martin sat on the ground. He held himself and looked down at the dirt, which was where he truly belonged. He’d keep his gaze fixed there until he heard them leave, then he’d look up and he’d be alone. A hand that could conceive of itself, with nothing to hold.

“. . . Martin?”

Jon’s voice was soft, and Martin assumed he was talking to the other one, the real one, the one who deserved him. But he repeated the name closer this time, and Martin looked up.

Jon stood just a little more than an arm’s length away. The other one was behind him, a hand held protectively on his shoulder. Jon leaned forward, face soft and sad, and Martin took a shallow breath.

“Maybe. . .” Jon said, gently “you should go back to being mud. I think it would be easier than being human. It wouldn’t . . . hurt as much.”

Slowly, Martin nodded. He didn’t remember being mud, but he was pretty damn sure it hurt a lot less than this.

“I don’t know if I can, though,” he said, an ache in his voice. “I don’t. . . I don’t know how to stop being Martin.”

“I can help you, I think.” Jon said. “If you’d let me.”

“But what if. . .” Martin frowned. “If- if I’m mud again. I won’t . . . I mean. . .what if I try to--”

“Then we’ll run.” Jon sounded confident, calm. “We’ve gotten away from worse before. You remember, don’t you?”

He did remember, in fact. Dozens of panicked escapes since the day they left the cabin. Memories of fear, of adrenaline, and of the fierce, mad victory of knowing you’ve reached the other side. They had dealt with worse. He looked questioningly at the other one, who nodded.

“Y-yes.” Martin said softly. “Yes. I’d . . . I’d like to be mud again. Please.”

He felt a vast and painful awareness reach into him, and it pulled out the story of a kind, nervous man who was always underestimated.

The mud slid away from the curves and angles of Martin Blackwood. Details fell back one by one - a quiet night working late, a hand gripping desperately at another, a sweater worn threadbare. For a moment, the mud felt the softest sensation of loss. Then a comfortable hunger returned to it and that feeling dissolved. Filled with relief and clarity once more it reached eagerly, gratefully, to grasp its nearby prey.

The two men staggered back, making the sounds that creatures make when they’re afraid, and their short clumsy limbs scrabbled around them. More of the mud came to join it. Dozens upon dozens of limbs, eternally grasping with an ache to wrench and pull, slid up from the ground to encircle the pair.

But this prey was quick. It was armed, and though the simple weapons could not do the mud any real damage, they were enough to knock limbs aside and open gaps in the tangle, clearing a path for escape. The mud stretched so many limbs to their limit, but its prey reached higher ground and soon it could not follow. Instead it watched eyelessly as they ran towards the hills where the ground would be too dry and too solid for mud to form.

There were countless dangers ahead of them, but this one, they’d escaped. They would not be wrapped in a thousand clutching arms, would not feel the grasping fingers twist in their hearts, would not be pulled into the endless down.

As the tangle of its limbs swirled in frustrated hunger, the mud laughed. It laughed, and laughed, in joy and in relief, as the two figures vanished into the distance.

[scrapyardclub]

Holland, the Kitson-Still Steam-Diesel hybrid

Holland was created as an experiment of sorts, in attempts to combine the starting power of a steam engine with the fuel efficiency of a diesel engine. While he did function, he was underperforming compared to contemporary steam engines, plus the fact that he needed 2 different types of fuel made his maintenance costs too high. Eventually, the company that owned him went bust, and he was scheduled for scrap. However, his driver and fireman, seeing him as a genuine piece of railroad history, helped him escape the scrapyard and smuggled him into Sodor, where he would be able to find some sort of refuge. 

When he reached Sodor, he hid himself amongst the rolling stock, hoping to be found by a fellow engine that would sympathize with him. Fortunately, James and Edward were both shunting trucks in the yard, where they stumbled upon him hiding between some tar barrel trucks. Edward pitied him of course, while James’ first reaction was horror, looking upon the sorry excuse for a tank engine with disgust, as if Holland’s rust would somehow infect him

Sir Topham Hatt’s first reaction was to send Holland to Crewe, where they would do work on him to try and make him look more presentable at least. When he got there, however, they didn’t know what they were looking at. They had never heard of such a thing as a steam-diesel hybrid, and they didn’t know where to start with him. They offered to fully convert him to either be a steam or diesel engine, however Holland wholeheartedly refused the idea. In his mind, if he can’t live as what he is, he’d rather die than be forcefully changed. Unfortunately, Holland wouldn’t compromise, and he even refused to let any workers near him, in fear that they’d try and convert him while he wasn’t paying attention. Currently, he resides in a shed near the shunting yard he was found hiding in, where he helps keep trucks in line.

 Appearance-wise, Holland is a rather ragged-looking lad, wearing a tattered shearling coat, work pants, and a gatsby cap. Some parts of his skin are replaced with wooden patches, and a few pipes can be seen jutting out from the back of his neck. He’s got a gap in his front teeth, as well as a missing tooth or so. His hair is curly and bouncy, but it transitions and slicks downwards at the back of his head.

Personality-wise, Holland is incredibly cheerful. He’s just happy to be alive, really, and so rarely will you find him in a bad mood. Even then, he never really gets angry, at most he’ll be annoyed, but he’s strangely good at keeping his cool, even when others understandably wouldn’t. He’s often known to crack very self-deprecating jokes and insult humor at others, to mixed responses. His motto about life is “We’re all experiments, in the end. Some work, and some just don’t.”

Being both steam and diesel, he often takes the job of mediator between the two sides, especially when it comes to gang fights or anything of the sort. He can’t seem to comprehend the superiority complex diesels seem to hold over steam engines, as such he usually just smiles and nods when Diesel goes on his tirades about how inferior steam engines are.

He’s incredibly close with Edward and James, who were the first two people he met on the island. He has a soft spot regarding Trevor, Oliver, the Scottish Twins, and anyone else who he meets that’s been rescued from scrap. He’s somewhat attached to the rest of the steam team, and holds no animosity or anything of the sort towards any other engines, save for Diesel, who often gets on his nerves with his talk about Steam engines being inferior.

My god, I didn’t plan on making this, but something in me drove me to do it. Props to @asktrio516 for being quite the inspiration! Your blog is a whole lot of fun to go through, and your posts bring me great amounts of joy every time I see them. I drew Holland based on how you design your human trains. The metal headband that steam engines usually have is somewhere under his hat and hair. Keep being badass, and tell the Scottish Twins I say hi!

[artificialqueens]

Me and You Together, 3/10 (Taywhora) - Ortega

fic summary: The cardinal rule of having flatmates is that you Do Not Catch Feelings For Your Flatmates, because everything inevitably goes to shit and gets made horrifically awkward. A’whora and Tayce both know this, but being in first year of uni and making good decisions have never really gone hand in hand.

a/n: again, fucking bowled over by the love and support this has had so far. i cannot thank any of u enough, ur all absolute wee diamonds in the sky. hope u enjoy this one- we’re in January for this one, where the girls have to deal with the consequences of December…and Tayce is tasked with keeping a secret for Lawrence.

last chapter: September- On a damp, bright Saturday in September, six flatmates move into their student flat and meet for the first time.

this chapter: January- Tayce and A’whora still have unfinished business from a night out and a hungover morning in December. But it’s only awkward if they make it awkward…right?

***

Tayce is pretty sure she’s going to combust if something doesn’t happen soon.

It’s been a month and a week since A’whora kissed her, and twenty-four hours shorter than that since Tayce kissed her in return. Or thereabouts, it’s not like she’s counting. It’s not like it’s been consuming her every thought every waking moment of the day or anything.

In all fairness, Tayce seems like it’s an achievement to think about a kiss for that length of time. Especially through her first semester essay deadlines, Ellie’s raucous eighteenth, her first Christmas back home, her first New Year seeing all her old school friends after uni and updating Cheryl and Cara on everything. She’d drunkenly come out to Cheryl too after being gently encouraged and supported by Cara, and they’d both cried as Cheryl held her and confessed that since uni had started she’d also begun seeing a girl she really liked too.

It’s funny how at uni everybody seems so much more free. Away from a stifling hometown, Tayce and her friends can properly spread their wings and be who they’ve always been but have either not realised it or been afraid to show it. Tayce is the happiest she’s ever been when she’s at the flat with the others in her little bubble of a home away from home, with Bimini’s intelligent insights and Tia’s funny quips, Lawrence’s chaos and Ellie’s kindness and A’whora being…well, her best friend.

Except she’s not really sure that best friends kiss each other like that.

But maybe they do, because since they’ve all come back from home after Christmas A’whora hasn’t mentioned the kisses, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened between them. Hasn’t even joked about it with her or in front of the others (which is fair enough, as if Lawrence knew she’d probably tease them about it until they graduated). Tayce is pretty sure that none of the others even know, or at least if they do they’ve not spoken about it.

And the worst part is that A’whora has been absolutely…normal. Fine.

See, Tayce could’ve dealt with any awkwardness- she’d be upfront, bluntly ask A’whora if she wants to forget about it or what she wants the plan for them to be. Even better would’ve been if A’whora had rugby-tackled her the moment she’d got back from Wales and smothered her with kisses, told her how much she’d been thinking about her while they’d both been away. Tayce supposes it’s kind of her fault they never properly talked about it since she’d practically bolted out of A’whora’s room when she’d kissed her that morning, but she’d been nervous in case she’d made everything too weird. A’whora hadn’t seemed to be complaining at the time, though.

In fact that night, A’whora had been up for plenty more than just a drunk kiss. If Tayce thinks about everything she’d said when they were walking home her face still gets hot and she has to squeeze her thighs together. She’s definitely glad they never crossed any of those particular lines when they’d both been drinking, but sometimes when she’s lying in bed at night Tayce lets her hands drift between her legs as she thinks about A’whora telling her how much and for how long she’d wanted her.

Best friends definitely don’t do that.

So Tayce feels guilty spending time with just A’whora these days, the fact that things haven’t been awkward between them somehow being worse than if they were. She’s not been avoiding her per sé, she’s just been finding ways to make sure it’s very rarely the two of them alone together: hanging out in the kitchen with everyone instead of in her room, going to bed when the others do instead of staying up with A’whora, inviting the others to anything A’whora suggests the two of them do together. It’s silly, and Tayce does miss spending time alone with her, but A’whora acting like nothing’s happened while conversely Tayce wants everything to happen hurts her embarrassingly more than she’d care to admit.

Such a time is a lazy Sunday afternoon halfway through the shittiest month of the year, when the weather outside is full of misty rain that’s a recipe for frizzy hair, puddles, and misery. Just to add to the rubbish day Tayce is holed up in her room, watching the grey clouds drift and overlap over each other to create a paint colour chart in the sky as she begins an essay that’s due in a mere five days. It’s been hard to focus on anything when her head is full of her best friend and imaginary scenarios but the prospect of an all-nighter isn’t one that’s particularly desirable either, so she and the ninety-five words she’s written so far are engaged in a stand-off as Tayce waits for the essay to write itself and the word document waits for her brain cells to conjure up any more opinions on “Is art a conveyor of emotion?” (4000 words).  

And then there’s a knock on the door that doesn’t wait for permission to enter and A’whora bounces in. She’s in a pair of grey joggers and a baggy navy pyjama top that she’s tucked in at the waist and rolled up the sleeves of, and her hair is up in a bun that’s had approximately 5% effort put into it apart from the little diamante hair clasp she’s slid through it at the top.

In spite of herself, Tayce can’t help but snort when she sees her. “Only you could make your shitty potato loungewear fashion.”

“Shut up! This is haute couture. This is actually my final project for the semester,” A’whora jokes in return, moves to sit at the foot of her bed and pout at her. “Tayyyce. I’m boreddd.”

Tayce raises an eyebrow at A’whora’s whining from over her laptop screen. “And I’m doing this essay. Find someone else to bug.”

“Don’t be such a hound,” A’whora frowns, falling sideways and landing onto the bed so she’s hugging Tayce’s legs through the duvet, her head resting on her shins. “I’d annoy Ellie but she’s in town with one of her friends from home. C’mon, let’s do a movie day. We’ve not had one in ages. I feel like we’ve barely had any time together since you got back.”

“Just been trying to catch up on all my coursework. It’s not personal,” she lies, her heart sinking only the tiniest bit at the realisation that her attempts at staying out of A’whora’s way have obviously been louder than they’ve been subtle.

“Please?” A’whora bats her lashes, and if it was impossible to say no to her before it’s surely illegal to do so now.

Tayce sighs and closes her laptop, eliciting a smile from the other girl. “Fine. Fine! But you better ask the others, I don’t want them feeling left out.”

It’s a good spur-of-the-moment excuse to make sure Tayce doesn’t have to spend two hours cuddled up next to A’whora while her heart hurts, but she’s confused by the way a small look of something passes over A’whora’s expression. She can’t put her finger on what it is, but A’whora’s agreeing and bounding down to the living room before Tayce can figure it out.

Tayce throws on her dressing gown over her clothes before leaving her room to join her, the blue fluffy one with the narwhal hood that’s complete with a horn on the top. She doesn’t own many embarrassing items of clothing, but this is definitely one of them. It doesn’t matter too much, though. A’whora’s seen her in it before, when she’s been hungover or sad or hangry and on her period.

It’s so funny how she can only have known her five months and still feel closer to her than half of the friends she spent six years with at high school.

In the kitchen, A’whora’s already cheerfully getting organised as Bimini and Lawrence lounge on the sofa lazily. Tia’s not in either- it emerges she’s gone round to Veronica’s, which nobody’s surprised about.

“Main question is, what’re we watching?” Bimini asks. “It’s a lazy Sunday so it can’t be anything that’s too good. I want something I can rip the piss out of while I watch it, y’know?”

There’s some squabbling about film choices as A’whora makes popcorn in the microwave, burns it, then subsequently has to make another packet. It’s eventually decided that they’re going to watch Love Actually despite the fact it’s January, because they all either hate it or like it because of how bad it is and the film will simply be a vehicle for them to yell jokes over.

“Have we got anything to drink? We could make this into like…a day drinking situation,” Lawrence suggests casually.

“You’re not helping the stereotype that all Scottish people are alcoholics at all,” A’whora quips, causing Tayce to let out a too-loud laugh.

“Listen, if you’ve not figured out that I’m a walking talking stereotype by now, A’whora, are we even friends?” Lawrence shoots back, and A’whora shrugs in an unspoken fair enough.

Tayce tilts her head then remembers something. “I actually still have loads of canned cocktails in my suitcase that my Mum got me for Christmas. Haven’t unpacked them yet. Think there’s about…twelve?”

“Ooh, three each? That’s alright!” Bimini smiles, clearly buoyed by the prospect of being slightly tipsy in the middle of the afternoon.

“Right, that’s settled then. I’ll go get them,” Tayce decides. A’whora’s crossing the kitchen before she knows it.

“I’ll help you with them.”

Before Tayce can speak, Bimini gives a snort. “ ‘Ow much do you think canned cocktails weigh, exactly?”

As Lawrence bursts into peals of laughter, Tayce watches as A’whora rolls her eyes at them, then turns on her heel to follow her to her room. Tayce can’t help but be a little wary, though. It does kind of seem like A’whora’s trying to get her on her own, which Tayce wouldn’t mind if she knew where she was coming from. But she doesn’t.

Tayce kneels down onto the floor as she rolls her suitcase out from under the bed, chatting mindlessly as she does so because if she’s talking it means A’whora doesn’t have a chance to bring up whatever she clearly wants to bring up. “I think there’s actually eleven here, you know. Because, uh…I think I drank one of them while I was at home, so we’re gonna need to fight over who gets one less. I don’t fancy my chances in a fight against Lawrence, she’d probably give me…what’s that expression? A Glasgow kiss? She’d give me one of those. Although Bimini, what do you think they’d be like in a fight? You know I think they’ve secretly got a set of knuckledusters, they seem the type. Although when I think about it-”

“Tayce,” A’whora cuts in, forcing her to snap her head up. Her expression is troubled, and a little frown dips on her forehead as she looks at her. “What���s wrong? Why are you being so…I don’t know, weird? Like you want to get rid of me?”

Tayce feels ashamed for being called out on her behaviour, and she can feel her stomach drop as she looks back at the cans in her otherwise empty suitcase. She wants to tell her there’s a reason for the way she’s been acting but A’whora beats her to the punch, murmuring with her head down and not meeting Tayce’s eyes.

“Is this because we kissed?”

“A’whora…” Tayce immediately groans in exasperation, the heat rushing to her cheeks as if she’s been slapped. She’s embarrassed, because she knows she’s got the capacity to talk about this like a grown-up but there’s a part of her that’s cringing, because if A’whora’s about to tell her she regrets it then she’s not sure she’ll ever live it down.

There’s a small silence where neither of them seem to move, let alone speak. A’whora is yet again the one to break it. “I just feel like you hate me all of a sudden.”

Fuck. If there was one thing Tayce had wanted to avoid, it’s this. Even though she herself is hurting she can’t bear the thought of having hurt A’whora’s feelings too, so she frowns, reaches up and squeezes A’whora’s hand which prompts her to look at Tayce. “I don’t hate you, Rory, of course I don’t hate you. I just…”

Tayce looks up to the ceiling as she searches for the right words, even though she’s not really sure what they are. She wants to tell A’whora she’s yearning for something to happen again between them and that even the fact she’s holding her hand is setting her pulse off all too quickly, but now’s not the right time. Besides, she doesn’t even know if A’whora feels the same way. Either way, Tayce can hear A’whora holding her breath, can feel the way her body’s tense beside her, so Tayce finally formulates something that doesn’t sound too hot or too cold.

“…I just don’t know where we go from here, that’s all.”

A’whora visibly relaxes, then shrugs. Her voice is quiet as she speaks. “Well, it’s only awkward if we make it awkward. And I feel like I’ve been okay at not making it awkward?”

Tayce narrows her eyes at her, laughs. “So what you’re saying is it’s all my fault.”

“Yes.”

The pair of the giggle softly and things already seem to have shifted back into comfortable territory. The green of a spring bulb popping up through the snow.

Tayce swallows her not-inconsiderable pride and smiles up at A’whora. She supposes going back to being friends and not ever talking about the fact that they kissed again is better than existing in a tense purgatory for the rest of their time in the flat together, even if it does make her feel a little sinking feeling of disappointment and a sense of mourning what could’ve been. “I’m sorry for being such a…mingebag.”

A’whora cracks up, repeats “mingebag!” incredulously, before her laughter dies down and she gives Tayce’s hand a squeeze in return. “That’s okay. Just good to know you still like me.”

They share a soft smile before piling the cocktails high in their arms, cradling them as if they’re babies as they rush back through to the living room where Bimini and Lawrence are hanging up a huge white sheet on the wall opposite the sofa for the projector. The projector had been Tia’s addition to the flat, an AliExpress purchase that had turned out to not be broken, or unusable, or made for a doll’s house.

“Tia won’t mind us borrowing that, will she?” A’whora asks with concern. Lawrence scoffs, bats a hand in her direction dismissively.

“She’ll be too mouth-deep in Veronica to care when she realises we’ve used it, let’s not lie!”

There’s a cry of disgust at Lawrence’s turn of phrase from the others, and as Tayce sets up the cocktails on the little coffee table A’whora brings the bowl of popcorn through.

“It’s fun to be able to make jokes about Tia and her girl, in’t it?” Bimini chuckles good-naturedly. “Always feel like we can’t properly tease her when Ellie’s there ‘cause she always looks like she’s about to jump out the window any time we mention Veronica’s name.”

The revelation that Ellie has feelings for Tia had come via a drunken, tearful confession to the others the night of her eighteenth birthday, when Tia had left the party with Veronica instead of staying overnight at the flat. Poor Ellie had been so devastatingly upset that the others had seemed to forge an unspoken agreement that the situation wasn’t going to be fodder for flat jokes. Instead they make sure to ask Tia how her budding relationship is going when Ellie isn’t around.

As she and A’whora laugh in agreement at Bimini’s joke, Tayce doesn’t miss the way Lawrence grows uncharacteristically quiet.

“When d’you think Ellie will get over Tia? I mean it’s a shame she doesn’t like her back, but she’ll ‘ave to at some point.”

“She won’t. She’ll just pine after her every day until we graduate,” Lawrence says. It’s meant to be a joke but her delivery is somewhat flat, and Tayce wonders if she’s the only one that picks up on it. From the way A’whora and Bimini are laughing, it appears she has been.  

Bimini and Lawrence step back from the sheet, satisfied with the job they’ve done. A’whora’s busy plugging in the fairy lights Ellie strung up where the wall meets the ceiling a few months ago, and Tayce can’t help but think to herself that sacking off her essay was a good idea as she glances at their setup. Never let it be said that their flat does things by halves.

“Oh! We should bring duvets through. And blankets,” A’whora suggests, and Tayce’s heart is both warmed and hurt by how adorably enthusiastic she is about the whole endeavour. She wishes she could shake the lingering feeling of disappointment she’s got in her gut at the knowledge that they’ll probably never talk about their kiss again; they’ve moved on from it, it was a one-time thing, and it’s only awkward if they make it awkward so Tayce bringing it up would be awkward, right?

So she settles on the sofa with Lawrence while Bimini helps A’whora gather up all their pillows, cushions, blankets and duvets from their respective rooms. Tayce is about to become lost in her own head when Lawrence turns to her with a look in her eyes that Tayce has never seen before. It’s almost conspiratorial and definitely suspicious, and for one horrific moment Tayce is convinced that Lawrence knows everything that happened in December.

“What is it?” Tayce asks her, before her flatmate can even open her mouth. Lawrence sighs, tips her head back to the head of the sofa and squeezes her eyes shut.

“I need to tell you a secret.”

Tayce’s heart drops as if she’s on a rollercoaster. Her mind immediately jumps to A’whora. What’s she told her? What does Lawrence know? It would make sense to wait until A’whora was out of the room before telling her anything. Tayce tries to keep her face impassive as she turns to Lawrence, nods quietly. “Okay, spill.”

“You can’t tell anyone, Tayce,” Lawrence insists, looking at her pleadingly. Tayce promises she won’t, although in retrospect she probably should’ve asked what it was first. The way Lawrence is acting is intriguing, though. It makes Tayce think it’s something about herself if it’s something she doesn’t want the others to know so badly.

“Christ, this is so cringe,” Lawrence groans, dropping her head forward and resting it in her hands. Tayce can still see the pink flush that’s started to dust her face, and by now she’s convinced that this has nothing to do with A’whora and everything to do with Lawrence herself.

Lawrence mutters out something incoherent into her hands. Tayce frowns, humoured. “What?”

A huge huff comes from the girl on the sofa beside her, and as she removes her hands from the front of her face she sticks them to the side of it like blinkers on a horse. It’s the quietest Tayce has ever heard Lawrence speak as she says the secret again. “I’ve got a crush on Ellie.”

Tayce’s face lights up at her friend’s confession. “Do you actually?”

“Christ, don’t make me say it twice. I’ll get struck down.”

Tayce leans into Lawrence, uses both her hands to lightly poke her in the arm. “Look at you! Being cute and having feelings!”

“It’s not, though! It’s not cute at all! It’s just sad!” Lawrence rolls her eyes, shaking her head at the same time. “Because she doesn’t…she’ll never see me like that, and she’s too busy making cow-eyes at Tia all the time anyway, so. It’s pointless, I don’t even know why I’m even hoping for something to happen.”

“Hey, listen! How long do you think Ellie’s gonna be able to keep moaning about Tia when she’s still seeing Veronica? I mean there’s only one way that relationship is going, the only ‘end’ there is in ‘girlfriend’. So Ellie’s gonna have to get over it eventually!” Tayce says supportively, shaking Lawrence’s arm to gee her up. Lawrence bats her away, though, giving another sigh.

“Tayce, it’s not exactly like she’s gonnae suddenly realise that I’ve been here all along! Like some fuckin’ chick flick. I’ve fancied her for years,” Lawrence explains. The information knocks Tayce for six, but when she thinks about it it makes sense- the way Lawrence gently bullies her so much, the way she gravitates towards her all the time, the way she gets quiet if Ellie starts moping about Tia. Tayce had never thought about it in that light before.

Lawrence hugs her knees to her chest as she continues. “Realised I liked her the last time we were at the caravan. And obviously we were at opposite sides of the country but like…I’d still meet up with her in Summer, get the train to Dundee and have sleepovers and all that shite. And when she came into the kitchen on that first day I was so happy she was gonnae be living with us, and I am still happy, because obviously she’s my friend? But like…it’s just shite to know that she’ll never like me back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Ellie’s type is obviously tall, dark and skinny. Which…” Lawrence gestures at herself with a deprecative laugh. “…how can I be any of that?”

“Right, for a start! Stop thinking about what you’re not and start thinking about what you are,” Tayce says firmly, gripping her hand tightly.

Lawrence rolls her eyes and fixes her with a pointed stare. “Oh, like what? I’m beautiful on the inside! I know I’m the fat funny friend, Tayce, you can spare me the bullshit.”

“Well…you’re fat, and so fucking what of it? Doesn’t mean you aren’t drop-dead-fuckin’ gorgeous. Being fat and being beautiful aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Very easy for you to say, sat there wearing size eights. Tell that to literally any piece of media we consume. Or any of my brain cells. Even if there are only about ten of them,” Lawrence sighs, then pauses. “I do like the way I look, and I don’t want to change anything about myself. It’s just…several things make that very hard almost all of the time, and it’s tiring to feel like you’re constantly fighting a losing battle. And it’s not like I’m pinning all my self-worth on a girl liking me back, but just…it would be nice to be the one that someone has a crush on for a change, if that makes sense?”

Before Tayce can say anything to affirm how Lawrence is feeling, a movement from down the hall makes her flinch and point at Tayce accusingly. “Not a fucking word, right? Least of all to A’whora, if she knows then I might as well just tell Ellie myself and like fuck is that happening.”

Tayce nods rapidly in a promise as A’whora and Bimini emerge from the hall comedically draped in materials, like a child’s attempt at a dress made out of knitting and featherdown quilts. They all set about arranging everything to make their setup as comfy as possible, and as the film gets loaded up they get comfortable in their respective positions. Lawrence is at one end of the sofa, with Tayce in the middle and A’whora at her side, while Bimini sits on the floor with their back to the sofa because they’re quite happy sitting there with enough cushions and pillows. The big lights are turned off, the film begins, and the room is filled with the soft glow of the fairy lights and the hazy light from the movie and all Tayce can think about is A’whora, warm and soft and squashed up beside her sharing the blanket.  

Tayce feels silly for being so disappointed. This was what she’d wanted- they’d talked about it. They’d addressed the fact that the kiss had happened, and now they were just…moving forward. Not making things awkward. Because obviously to A’whora, the fact it’s happened has made things awkward.

And that shouldn’t hurt Tayce as much as it does.

It’s hard to dwell on things for long, though, when she has block four flat ten’s very own Ant and Dec in her living room. Lawrence and Bimini keep her and A’whora giggling pretty much from the film’s first scene, and they all fall about screech-laughing when Bimini forces them to pause it on a shot of Liam Neeson’s hall in which there’s a horrific blob of a child’s painting on the wall that looks so cursed they just had to point it out.

It’s probably because Lawrence and Bimini are distracting her that Tayce doesn’t initially notice A’whora leaning into her at first until she’s pressed up against Tayce’s side. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary. They’ve always sat close before, but this time things feel different. This time it feels as if there’s little sparks of electricity between them, metaphorical manifestations of the anticipation Tayce feels of something she’s yearning to happen.    

So when A’whora bumps her knuckles against Tayce’s, brings her hand over hers and laces their fingers together, Tayce feels as if she’s suddenly evolved into some ridiculous cartoon character; she can practically feel her eyes bulge out of their sockets in shock and she has to stop her jaw from dropping onto the floor. If her heart could comedically fly out of its chest it would. Tayce keeps her gaze steady and focused on the film, blocking out her peripheral vision and not even turning to see if A’whora’s looking at her too. Because if she is it would make everything ten times worse (better?) than it currently is, and Tayce’s head is already in a spin. They’ve held hands before. It’s not like this is different.

But it is. Before they hadn’t kissed. Before A’whora hadn’t told Tayce she wanted to sleep with her. Before all of Tayce’s feelings for her friend were cooped up into neat little boxes in her mind that were so full they were close to bursting, but now they have and now it’s After and so holding A’whora’s hand has gone from usual to extraordinary, routine to electric.  

Tayce hopes A’whora can’t feel the way her pulse is racing because that’ll definitely let her know something is up.

She’s suddenly startled out of her overthinking by a tut of disapproval from Lawrence. “How many fuckin’ couples are in this film and there’s not one single lesbian?”  

“Lesbians didn’t exist in 2003, remember?” Bimini deadpans, causing A’whora to giggle.

“Yeah, lesbians were invented in 2013 when Orange is the New Black aired.”

“Nah! When did Sugar Rush come out? Mind that programme on Channel 4? I remember watching that through a crack in the living room door when my parents thought I’d gone to bed,” Lawrence recounds excitedly, her enthusiasm at remembering her lesbian awakening making Tayce laugh and relate at the same time.

“For me it was Sophie and Sian. Remember on Coronation Street? They were my first lesbians.”

“At least you all got representation at some stage. If I wanted to see another pan I’d have to watch fuckin’…Kitchen Nightmares,” Bimini rolls their eyes, their joke making the girls howl with laughter and let out cries of consolation.

And then A’whora squeezes Tayce’s hand under the blanket.

Tayce thinks only for a second before squeezing it back, and subsequently doesn’t think before turning and looking at her friend beside her. A’whora shoots her a little smile that if Tayce didn’t know better she’d say was innocent, but the twinkle in her eye and the way she shuffles herself to lean closer against her and tuck her other hand into the crook of Tayce’s elbow makes her heart give a judder like she’s been crashed into from behind.

She supposes it’s only awkward if she makes things awkward, just like A’whora said. So when Tayce gently strokes A’whora’s hand with her thumb, it’s only to illustrate to A’whora that things aren’t weird between them. It’s not to see how the other girl is going to react to that at all. It’s not because being affectionate with A’whora just feels correct and perfect, the easiest thing in the world.

Tayce is holding her breath waiting for A’whora to do something else. Something to raise her hopes, something to show her that maybe she does want something to happen between them again. She wants the film to go on forever and give them infinite time in this no-man’s-land of comfortable tension, because when it ends she knows A’whora will probably just get up from under the blanket and slip away as if everything is back to normal.

When A’whora lets go of her hand, Tayce feels her hopes drop into the pit of her stomach, a rollercoaster coming to a dead stop. The ride is over.

But a second later she wraps her arm around Tayce’s waist, squeezes her close in a hug, and the ride begins all over again. Tayce’s heart rate spikes as she shifts a little, getting comfortable before bringing her arm around A’whora’s middle too and holding her right back.

It’s then that Lawrence’s voice makes Tayce snap her head away from the film, her glazed-over eyes having to focus on her friend who’s regarding her with a raised eyebrow. “Fuck’s going on under that blanket? You two fingering each other?”  

Bimini snaps their head up and yells as Tayce tries to conceal the wave of panic that hits her, rolls her eyes and shakes her head and tells Lawrence that she needs to get her mind out the gutter. She’s sure that being called out will make A’whora flinch away, a woodland animal startled by a twig breaking, but she just giggles and buries her face into Tayce’s side all bashful.

God, Tayce wants to kiss her so much.

The film reaches the scene where Emma Thompson cries in her bedroom to Joni Mitchell, and the sniffing from the floor indicates she’s not the only one.

“Bimini! You said you hated this film!” Tayce laughs, nudging her friend with her foot.

“Yeah, but anyone who doesn’t cry at this scene is a hard-hearted bastard,” they reply, voice thick with emotion.

“Aww, BonBon. It’s okay, I’ve got a little tear as well,” A’whora murmurs from Tayce’s side. She huffs a sigh. “I can’t even believe anyone would fall for that pencil-skirt-wearing cow. I mean, she fucking manspreads and that’s supposed to be some sort of sexy come-on?”

“Aw, and like you could do any better?! We’ve all seen you trying to flirt, it’s embarrassing!” Lawrence cries in outrage.

Tayce is reminded of nights out earlier in the year when A’whora would talk to girls at bars and Tayce would always feel this inexplicable burn in her chest in response. She remembers the unfounded relief when A’whora would come back home to the flat with the rest of them, one-night-stand missions failed, and the churn in her stomach the times when she’d leave with a girl she didn’t know and sneak back into the flat at nine in the morning, ready to tell the others about her exploits from the night before which Tayce never wanted to hear.

She’s really fancied A’whora for a long time, now she thinks about it.

“I could so do better!” A’whora complains, and Tayce isn’t looking at her but she just knows she’s pouting.

Lawrence chuckles, tilting her head in amusement. “Go on then! What would your plan of action be, Miss fuckin’ Womaniser?”

There’s a pause before A’whora says, “Well I’d probably wait until we were both drunk on a night out, do tequila shots with them, drape myself over them, kiss them, then get them to take me back home.”

Tayce thinks she deserves an Oscar for the way she refuses to outwardly react to the way A’whora has essentially just described their kiss from that night out. Inside, however, it’s a different story. She’s not sure it’s possible for her heart to go any faster, and every cell of her body seems to buzz. She can barely hear Lawrence and Bimini laughing in response to A’whora’s comment for the way her blood’s roaring in her ears. Once the others stop paying attention and go back to watching the film, it’s only then that Tayce turns her head, raises one unimpressed eyebrow at A’whora who’s looking up at her with a scheming smirk on her face and a glint in her eye.

And right as she’s looking at her, A’whora closes her eyes and plants a kiss against Tayce’s arm then goes back to watching the movie as if nothing ever happened.

It’s at that point that Tayce feels her mouth dry up, feels something coil tight inside her and a throb between her legs. Something is going to happen the moment the pair of them are alone, she can feel it. There’s no way it can’t. In stark contrast to earlier, Tayce now wills the film to end sooner rather than later.

And it does. Finally. The credits roll, the Beach Boys are playing, and Lawrence slaps her thighs. “Well, that was a heap of shite!”

“I’ve still not forgiven Alan Rickman. God love the dead old bastard,” Bimini shrugs, heaves themself up off the floor and slides their phone out of their back pocket, scrolling busily. “Oh, Ellie’s asking if we wanna come join her an’ Anne for drinks. Apparently they’re in some boujie cocktail bar in town spending all their student loan and need responsible adults to stop them.”

“Why the hell are they asking us then?” Tayce quips, the giggle it elicits from A’whora sending a shockwave down her spine.

“I’m down to go meet them both. I’m already tipsy, might as well go the whole hog and get rat-arsed,” Lawrence says decisively, leaping up from the sofa and fixing Tayce and A’whora with an inquisitive glance. “You two coming?”

Tayce lets go of A’whora’s waist and stretches to make a point. “Nah, babe, I can’t. Got this essay due on Wednesday I’ve not started.”

Bimini snorts. “Yeah, I forgot. You’re dead on it and organised, in’t ya?”

Tayce pulls a face at them while Lawrence asks A’whora.

“Mmph. Think I need a nap before I even think about drinking any more, hun.”

Lawrence eyes them both suspiciously and appears to be about to say something else before Bimini tugs on her arm and distracts her. “C’mon then, let’s leave these two to be boring. Have fun, losers!”

Goodbyes are exchanged between them and Lawrence and Bimini finally leave, the fire door to the kitchen swinging shut and leaving the warm glow of the fairy lights, the blanket, the sofa, and A’whora gazing at her with that shit-eating smirk on her face again.

So Tayce wastes no time in bringing a hand up to her jaw, leaning down and kissing her, and judging by the way that A’whora melts into her and lets out a little happy sigh of satisfaction she’s been waiting for it just as much as Tayce has. They fall together like it’s easy, as if both of the times they’ve done this before have been all the practise they need. A’whora brings her hand to rest against Tayce’s cheek as if she’s trying to somehow pull her closer than she already is, and her neediness makes Tayce giggle against her lips. In turn it sets A’whora off, and when she pulls away their faces are still close and there’s little smiles on each of them.

“What’s so funny, you little bitch?” A’whora smirks, her barbed words cushioned by the way she’s wriggling onto Tayce’s lap and bringing her arms up to circle around her neck just like she did the first time in the club.

“Just you’re kind of giving me mixed signals here, baby. Saying you don’t want things to be awkward and then moving to me the entire film,” Tayce mutters, keeping a playful smile on her face despite the fact her words hold entirely too much truth.

It clearly takes the wind out of A’whora’s sails because she casts her gaze down, pauses before speaking and looking at Tayce from under her lashes. “I didn’t mean that, I just meant…I want us to be able to do stuff and not have it be awkward afterwards.”

Oh.

This is a game changer. So A’whora doesn’t regret anything. She doesn’t want them to go back to the way things were- well no, she does, just with an extra little bit of something more added in. She wants the friendship they have but she also clearly wants Tayce like she wants her back, and the realisation makes Tayce squeeze her thighs together, anticipation now so high she feels scared for her blood pressure.

Tayce tries not to let her realisation show on her face. Instead she looks at A’whora with interest, raises an eyebrow at her in amusement. “What’s ‘stuff’, then?”

“Well, just like…if we’re both horny and in the same flat then it saves us having to swipe Tinder for hours on end only to find a girl with a boyfriend who’s looking to ‘experiment’ and never found another girl’s clit in her life, doesn’t it?” A’whora shrugs blithely despite the blush that’s hit her cheeks, her turn of phrase making Tayce bite back a smile. “Whereas I’ve been told I’m quite good at that.”

The twinkle is back in A’whora’s eye again and the combination of that, her smirk and her words make Tayce’s stomach do a somersault. She can’t let it show, though, can’t let A’whora see her crack so she blinks to maintain her composure, tilts her head with mock-curiosity. “Have you now.”

“Yeah. Could show you if you wanted,” A’whora grins brazenly back at her, shifting a little in Tayce’s lap and sending her into orbit. “Plus I can’t remember if I put on matching underwear this morning, so…you should come help me check.”

Tayce breaks the stalemate to throw her head back in a laugh. “Jesus Christ, Lawrence was right. You actually can’t flirt to save yourself.”

She watches A’whora’s face drop into a pout and instantly feels as if she’s kicked a puppy, so Tayce brings one of her hands up to rest on top of her thigh and gives it a squeeze. “Says a lot for how fit you are that it’s still working though, doesn’t it?”

The pout cracks into a scheming smile, and Tayce matches it before A’whora leans in and kisses it off her face. It’s more heated this time, that little undercurrent of intensity as Tayce runs her tongue over A’whora’s and hears her whimper against her lips. As A’whora pushes her fingers into Tayce’s hair Tayce lets her hands drift around to the small of her back, and the way A’whora keeps shifting needily in her lap only makes Tayce want her more, which she didn’t think was even possible.

“We’ve got a free flat, you know,” A’whora mutters in between little kisses, her voice low as she whispers against her lips.

“Probably a good thing. You couldn’t be quiet if your life depended on it,” Tayce teases, running her fingers over the waistband of A’whora’s sweatpants in an attempt to try and convey how much she needs her.

“Oh, you have no idea, babe,” A’whora smirks before pulling away, ripping her top out from where it’s tucked into her waistband and tugging it off, barely even giving Tayce a chance to react. She’s left in a little black bralet with Playboy logos along a white band at the hem, and Tayce feels her mouth go dry.

She’s really, really hoping A’whora put on matching underwear this morning.

But she’s still taken aback because after all- they’re in the middle of their living room, and any of the others could walk in at any given moment- so she can’t help the way her mouth drops open and the way she lets out a little shocked giggle. “A’whora!”

“What?!” A’whora smiles smugly back at her, clearly glad she’s got the reaction she wanted.

“We’re not shagging on this couch, are you insane?! It’s rotten! Kim Woodburn would have a fit if she saw it!”

“Oh, so we are going to shag?” A’whora regards her with one cocked eyebrow, and Tayce can’t help but mirror it. There’s a pause before she gives a small huff of mock-resignation, sealing their fate.

“God. We’re really doing the whole friends with benefits cliché, then?”

A’whora smirks affectionately at her. “Only awkward if we make it awkward.”

She holds out her pinkie between them and Tayce takes it with a resigned laugh, the childish nature of their promise contrasting deeply with the whole situation.

“C’mon then, bestie, lead the way.”

And as A’whora scrambles excitedly off her lap and Tayce takes the opportunity to smack her ass playfully, she feels her heart soar and her head grow light at the thought of being able to do everything she’s been thinking about doing for over a month with one of her best friends in the world.

She wonders why everyone seems to say that a friends with benefits situation isn’t a good idea. This is already the best decision she’s made in years.

[hellsfirekeepsyouwarm]

Oooof. A Jax Teller imagine about him being very protective of you would be bomb. Make it angsty and smutty please😍

“Just in time”

Hey love, here you go. I made it onyl angsty, it didn’t fel right to include smut. Maybve i went too far with this, but i was so excited about thuis write i had to keep it. If you want another one, just hit me up with a dm or ask. thanks for requesting,

Jax hates this place. Every inch of his body despises the people who comes here. He never even wanted to come here in the first place. It was a simple and quick job. He needed something from the owner, so him and his brothers came one day, barging into the bar, filled with horny losers, alcoholic old men, and scumbags. But the moment his eyes landed on the bar, he saw you, with those big Y/E/C Bambi eyes, and he was lost. Suddenly he wanted to stop, and not cause a scene. Anything to wipe that look on your face. The look of fear. Fear of him and the people he loves. So he changed his mind. No trouble, no guns involved, without any punch.  After that, he was there almost every night. Looking for your pretty face. Ohhh, and how curious he was. Everybody said to him, he has no chance. She turns down every men who ever talked to her. Young, old, poor, rich, black or white. Doesn’t matter. They said.

But he was stubborn, so he dug his way into your heart somehow. Slowly, but surely.

Jax watched you from a fair distance, not disturbing you while you worked. You asked him dozen times, to stop the security carnival, and don’t send anybody to look after you, but he never listens. Deep down you know, he means good, but sometimes you just want a simple day at work.

It’s a crowded Saturday night. Hot summer evening, cold beers, whiskey and vodka, drunken dancing in the middle of the room.

You sigh as you feel the exhaustion weighting your shoulders down. You need a long and hot bath after this. The bar is filled, but had to have a quick break. Say hi to Jax and the boys, maybe having a drink yourself. You deserve it.

As his name crosses your mind, you immediately feel the intense gaze on your body.  You smile to yourself. Damn you love this feeling. Fireworks, and butterflies and all. It’s nothing like them.

You grab a beer for yourself, gladly welcoming the coldness going down in your throat. Jax’s table is not far from the bar, you can hear Tig’s telling a story about Happy not understanding morbid jokes. You chuckle to yourself, catching a glimpse of the group. Your family.

“Y/N!” You hear a familiar voice next to you.

It’s the son of your boss. A little bit younger than you, but a handsome guy. Too bad he’s a complete asshole.

“You got a minute. Something is wrong with yesterday’s wine shipments.” He says, pointing to the back where the office and the storage has been placed.

“Yeah, sure.” You huff, not really hiding the fact, that this is the last thing you need tonight. Him and his problems.

You pass the office, to storage, following his steps. He’s talking about something, but you are too annoyed to listen to his stupid voice.

He’s guiding you to the wines, all in the same place as a couple of hours ago, the same amount you ordered last week. You don’t really know the problem here.

“Sooo… what’s wrong with the shipments. There was no problem with them…”

You stare at the paper in front of you, and the wines, trying to figure out what he means. Before you could speak up again, you feel him dangerously close. His breath is playing on your face and neck. You freeze in your place, praying for a different outcome than this whole thing feels to you.

You take a step away from him, but you pressed against the big piles of vodka boxes behind you.

“You know how many times I wished to be here with you?” He growls in a low voice, his last word muffled, because his lips crushes into yours. Now you are trapped between him, and a brick wall of booze. His mouth tastes like sweat and cigarette, his body fully pressing on yours, almost crushing you down and down. You feel yourself closer and closer to the ground, your panic retrained in your body as his rough hands grabs yours, twisting them to your back. You cry out in pain, slightly shifting under his weight.

His tongue tries to find a way into your mouth, almost succeeding when you open your mouth, to bite on his lips in full force. You feel the warm liquid flow in your mouth, tasting like iron.

“You little slut…” He lets go of you, but he knows better to distance himself from you. You see his bloody fingers leaving his mouth, lifting up and back, his fist ready to strike at your face.

Your eyes shut, waiting for the collision, but it never comes. Instead a big crash rings through the room, the echo of glass breaking comes back from the walls.

When you open your eyes, you see Jax on top of him, punching his face with full force, not letting him take a break. Alcohol fills the air, as it spills around the man on the ground.

You feel an arm pulling you out from the corner you were sucked in, calming down from the soothing Scottish accent.

“C’mon baby girl, let him take care of this” Chibs is taking you to the car, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, calming your trembling body.

Half-sack is in the car next to you in no time, listening to Chibs instructions, you couldn’t make out, because of the terrible noise in your ear. Blood is rushing so loud in your head you can’t focus on the outside world anymore.

You can’t feel time. At one moment you think it’s just second, the next time, you feel you have aged years. You are so caught up in your own world that Half-sack needs to shake your shoulder a little, to gain your attention.

“We’re here, Y/N.” He says, and you recognize the familiar driveway, and the lights on the house. HE he does everything, and you feel bad that he has to drag you through the house, taking care of you. He steps away from you when you are sound and safe on the couch.

“Thanks” You whisper, pulling the blanket on you from the side of the sofa.

When he disappears from you sight, you know he’ll stay in the house. You want Jax. You want him beside you, having his skin on yours.

The next thing you see is two blue eyes searching for yours, blonde strands flying around his face.

“Hey” You croak, instantly cupping his face, pulling him close, and connecting your lips with his. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay? Shit Y/N, am I okay? He tried to..” Anger creeps up onto his check, flushing red, eyes dark as the night. “Are you hurt?”

“Nah, nothing series other than a death scare.” You smile sadly.

“I’m sorry darling, I should have done that a long time ago. I wanted to give space to you, to handle him, but this..”

“No more Jax. I’m just glad I got out.”

“He won’t ever do that again.”

You want to ask, but you have learned, it’s better not to.

“I love you” You breath into his mouth, crashing you lips onto his.