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“Well, there’s an obvious solution,” Patricia said.
Tom blinked at her. Wyck suddenly became very interested in the ceiling.
“What?” Tom said.
Patricia rolled her eyes. “Me, Tom! I’m a walking womb, or whatever those colonial assholes called it.”
Tom laughed, in shock. “You?” This was the wrong move, he saw immediately. Patricia drew herself up, shoulders back.
“I’m so hideous,” she spat, and, oh God, she was just getting started, “that it’s funny to you?”
“No, no, no,” Tom said. “It’s just that, you know. We’re friends! You’re my employee!”
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Tom and Patricia have to have sex for the sake of the island. They make it work. -
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She is not satisfied. That is the only answer for how you find yourself back at the Court the moment you take a step onto your bus.
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Puck goes home with Her Majesty, to draw the attention of the Other Queen away from the Court once and for all.
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“I don’t do serious,” Bond tells him, leaning up on one elbow in bed. Q is pleasantly drowsy, trying to figure out how to politely kick a trained assassin out of his flat so he can get some real sleep. This wakes him up; he cuts his eyes over to Bond. He’s not joking. Q wants to sigh but that’ll just ruffle Bond’s feathers and he’ll be here even longer.
“I’m aware,” Q settles on. “This must be against regulation anyway, isn’t it?”
His quick, emotionless acquiescence seems to take Bond by surprise. Q imagines he’s built this all up in his head, Q pining for him and him nobly telling Q that the most they can ever be is an occasional fuck, etcetera, etcetera.
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Bond doesn't do love. Q is absolutely fine with that. -
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When Yoo Joonghyuk explains, in several very terse sentences, that he’s under the effects of what the old Internet termed “sex pollen,” Kim Dokja’s response is to blush splotchily and wonder why he was being told.
“Alright,” he says. “I won’t disturb you and Lee Seolhwa for a while, I understand. Just try not to be long.” He turns and Yoo Joonghyuk catches his shoulder.
“This is the third regression. Not the second. Besides,” Yoo Joonghyuk says, and purses his lips. “I need to. Receive.”
Kim Dokja laughs, which seems to be a bad response given the way Yoo Joonghyuk shoves him backwards. He turns and starts to leave, absolutely glowering.
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Yoo Joonghyuk has a problem. Kim Dokja helps him out.
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As they sit down to their meal, Julian clears his throat.
“I thought you might appreciate a talk in a more private location.”
“Oh?” says Garak, and he leans forward across the table. “Are your thoughts on The Thorns of Ses'erakh so scandalous that you would deprive the replimat of them?”
“No,” Julian says, dry. “It was boring, repetitive, and almost repulsed at the idea of individual personhood, and I’ll be glad enough to repeat that opinion to anyone who asks.”
“Setting aside your cruel condemnation of a seminal work of Cardassian literature,” Garak says, “what, then, did you wish to discuss?”
“While you were ill,” Julian says, and Garak groans.-------
Several weeks after the events of "The Wire," Julian tells Garak some of what he learned. -
not the sort of guy you marry by Yellow
Fandoms: Dublin Murder Squad Series - Tana French
20 Feb 2025
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“Scorcher Kennedy,” he said. “Are you trying to kiss me?”
He was grinning again, from ear to ear, and the smartest thing to do would have been to walk away now, right after walking away when I first saw his sorry head bent over his beer. But he was right, I hadn’t been touched in a long time. And Frank didn’t know a damn thing about me no matter what he said, but he saw the shape of the dark animal inside me, and that night, that was enough.
“Shut up, shut up,” I said, and kissed him. Nothing like how I would have kissed Laura. The smell of her hair curler lingering, just on the edge of burnt. Her lipstick smearing, her laugh as she wiped it off me. With Frank it was teeth and the taste of cheap beer. Yesterday’s shave job growing into patchy stubble.-----
Frank Mackey and Scorcher Kennedy run into each other at a bar. Frank's having a bad day, Scorcher's having a bad existence, and they make some bad decisions together to blow off some steam. -
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“I love you, Jay,” he says, and Jason is suddenly, incandescently furious.
“You know what, fuck you,” Jason snaps. “You finally start talking to me just in time to die?”
“Jason,” Bruce starts.
“No,” Jason yells. “You’re not dying in a stupid basement right after you finally tell me you love me!”----
Bruce almost dies. Jason doesn't know how to deal with that. -
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Patrick jumps him once they’re in the locker room, grabs a handful of Art’s ass and then briefly comes to his senses enough to remember he’s living in his car and if God’s favorite tennis boy and his superstar wife calls the cops on him he’s losing that match, every time. Luckily when he tries to draw back Art bites his throat, kisses over it, and then bites him again, grinning when Patrick swears and moans and bares his neck to him. Then he sinks to his knees and starts mouthing at Patrick’s sweaty shorts. Patrick grabs a fistful of Art’s soaked hair and frantically shoves his shorts off with the other hand.
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or, some non-metaphorical consummation, with the metaphor thrown back in on top!
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“Happy birthday,” he said.
“I’ll have to admit, I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to see what you’d come up with,” Peter said. “I thought you said cards were passé.”
“It’s a boring card,” Neal said. “What’s inside is the gift. Open it.”
Peter raised his eyebrow, delighted despite himself even as he said, “If this is somehow illegal, I swear to God, Caffrey—”
Neal raised his hands. “No tricks! Read it.”
Peter opened it and read aloud, “Dear Peter, my gift to you is that I will answer one question of your choosing truthfully as long as it will not implicate me in a crime or you grant me full immunity. Best wishes, Neal.”or, five-ish times Peter asks Neal to tell him a truth. The truth. Something true.
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“I have a protocol set up for when I die,” Kurapika says. He’s wrapping his silk tie around his neck, getting ready to leave. It probably cost more than Leorio’s last new suit.
Leorio stops searching for his glasses and tries to school his expression into something less pitiable than his usual Kurapika is leaving face before jerking his head over to look at him.
“What?”
“You, Gon, and Killua will receive a notification of where I died, how I died, and when it happened. And Melody,” he adds. “If she’s not present.” -
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“SecUnit is recovering as well as can be expected,” she said mildly. “We’re telling it you’re here, and I would assume you’ve already reached out via the feed as well.” A little more gently, she said, “I know you’re worried. But it will be fine.”
It wouldn’t have to be fine if it were better protected, the Perihelion said. Ayda sighed, very quietly. A very petty part of her wanted to point out that SecUnit had managed to get hurt on the Perihelion as well, and that she wasn’t even on the mission in question. But she squashed it.
“I’m worried about it too,” she said. “Maybe you could have a talk about better self-preservation instincts.”------
Ayda Mensah and the Perihelion spend some quality time together without their favorite SecUnit. -
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Did you take this from my head, I said. I was angry, really angry, now that I knew ART wasn’t compromised and was starting a fight for no damn reason.
Of course not, it snapped.
Where did you get it, then.
I found more fragmented data in unused buffers and am trying to piece it together to remember what happened to me. Oh. I took a breath.
Why are you reading my emotional outburst, I said. You already talked to my human about it and everything.
I’m not specifically reading your emotional outburst, it snapped. But it’s about me. It happened on me.---
Before everyone gets back to Preservation safely, ART and Murderbot have time to talk.
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Everyone else called Francis Frank, but in the quiet of their tent Thomas called him Francis.
Francis wore his two identities awkwardly, like an ill-fitting suit he couldn’t take off. He slipped into old fashioned speech and complained that people thought it affected. But Thomas liked it, just like he liked that Francis still let him call him Francis, and didn’t insist they were different people now. Quite the opposite.
If anything, Thomas was the one who had taken his two lives and separated them neatly, folded them and put them away. With Francis he could take out Thomas and put it on, like crawling into another skin. It was worn and battered but Francis seemed to like it best, and Thomas was glad of it.---
Thomas Jopson and Francis Crozier are reincarnated. They find each other, and then they set out to find their missing men. -
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Maybe she and Mulder got along so well because autopsies revealed truths, too. That’s what she liked about them, after all: the dead were still speaking if you paid attention. She’s trying to take this one step at a time, one foot in front of the other, but she wonders what else he’ll tell her now that he’s gone. If his body under his suit will be broken or whole. If he’d take her to his killer.
She’d wanted to study him so badly. To take his brain and crawl inside and understand it. See where the jumping shadows turned into monsters in the night. To learn it inside and out so she could fix it, like a broken bone or a collapsed lung.
And sometimes, in the dead of night, one thin motel wall away, she’d wanted to lay him out, study him that way: with her tongue on his neck, his stomach. Warm under her, and alive, cock pulsing in her hand.
All of him is cold and dead and soulless now.
She clicks Record.---
Mulder dies for nothing in Puerto Rico. Scully tries to figure out how she feels about it.
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“Won’t be able to sleep,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk. The fabric heart in its crinkly plastic evidence bag lay there, fading second by second in the harsh office lights. He picked it up again. “Don’t want to go home and stare at the wall; might as well be useful.” Samantha had pretty nightgowns with flowers on them, but these flowers? He’d never paid much attention. She was a little girl. He had been becoming a teen boy. He didn’t care about pretty nightgowns with flowers. He wondered if his mother still had them, if she would notice if he looked, if he was just going to get all of their hopes up and find the answer to some other family’s tragedy instead.
“Mulder,” Scully said, somewhere far away. She sounded gentle, like she did when she talked to Cecilia. “You need to try.”
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Scully started, always, with little remarks about how there was a movie she wanted to watch on TV, or, we’re getting in late, aren’t we? And Mulder would agree, thinking about the file on his desk about a killer mermaid in Wilmington and the Knicks’ chances in the playoffs and the color of Scully’s eyes when she’d burst into the room right before he’d been set on fire. He’d say something noncommittal, like, I can come over later tonight to watch it with you. And she’d say something like, who says you’re invited? And he’d say, can I bribe my way in with popcorn? And she would smile because that was the right answer, and no one would say a thing if he showed up empty handed.
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I knew something was wrong immediately, of course. You don’t get to be a fourth level djinni without a keen sense for abnormalities in time and space.
That was more than I could say for Mandrake, who blithely went on with his existence for two full days before finally realizing what was going on on the third.
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Astarion and Karlach discuss her options.
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There is a child in their bed. Phoenix’s heart leaps into his throat. He peers over at the child, who seems unbothered, sleeping soundly. Gray hair pokes out of the comforter and Phoenix wonders wildly if Miles has some secret relative who needed to spend the night.
Then he calls Miles’s phone.
He hears it ringing from the bedroom. He stares at the wall for another moment. Then he walks back into the bedroom, where the kid is sitting up, and oh. Unless Miles has a secret son-
“Miles?” Phoenix asks, less hysterical than he feels he deserves to be.
Miles frowns at him, and yes, that’s Miles fucking Edgeworth, age…lower than 12.
“Who are you?” he asks, as if he wakes up in strange beds all the time.
“Phoenix Wright,” Phoenix says, feeling crazier than usual. “How old are you?”
“Nine,” Miles says, like it’s obvious, and narrows his eyes. “Phoenix Wright was my friend back in America. I’m not supposed to talk about him.”