#who did that?

[im-a-wizard-who-dont-crime]

There have been a lot of bad ads recently but I saw an ad which was just a gif of 9/11 (the first plane). And I was laughing at it for so long omg.

[jere-heere]

Rude

(GRWD)

[edupunkn00b]

Overruled, Ch. 5: Philosophy of Love Meets The Science of Attraction

Prev - The Philosophy of Love Meets the Science of Attraction - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

You got peanut butter Intrulogical in my chocolate Loceit. You got chocolate Dukeceit in my peanut butter Loceit. Oh, no wait, we've just discovered peanut butter cups Intruloceit. For Day 5 of @loceitweek, Philosophy/Science. Yes, this is still a Loceit story. :)

WC: 3237 - Rated T - cw: suggestive, alcohol, swearing, unhealthy coping mechanisms ---

“You have to check your calendar?” Janus blurted out, staring incredulously at him. “No, he’s free,” he said to Remus. “What time can he pick you up?”

“Janus, really, I—”

Janus cut him off with a look.

“You can pick me up at eight.” Remus’ voice wasn’t as confident as it had been a moment ago, and his eyes danced nervously between them even as he smiled. “My brother’ll be busy with some tech break down shit tomorrow night…” Warm fingers played at the edges of his hair, ostensibly clearing his vision. “We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

Logan tugged at the label on his water bottle and tried to catch Janus’ eye. He understood his reluctance, didn’t he? “I… I merely need to be certain I have not committed to anything else before I said yes,” he finally said to Remus.

“You haven’t,” Janus insisted and stood, offering a hand first to Remus and then to Logan. The finality of his answer echoed against the fitness room walls and suddenly Logan was a lot less warm.

Janus gripped his hand for a moment longer than necessary and Logan again tried to catch his gaze. Despite his smile, he steadfastly avoided his eyes. Finally, Logan nodded and turned to Remus, smiling. Bright green eyes stared back at his, their earlier nervousness burned away. “I’ll pick you up at eight, Remus,” he said. “Wear something casual.” Janus left with a little wave and Logan followed, calling back over his shoulder. “And warm.”

~

At eight o’clock sharp, Logan knocked at the door number Remus had text him, a picnic basket and plaid blanket tucked under one arm. 

“Hmm, don’t you look delectable,” Remus purred, looking him up and down. “Punctual, too.” He closer and trailed two fingers over the constellation pattern on his tie. “You smell tasty, too.”

“That is more than likely the fruit tray and sparkling cider,” he said, giving him a crooked grin.

“Sparkling cider? As in Martinelli’s or,” he made exaggerated air quotes.“‘Sparkling cider?’”

“It’s a berry apple blend, and yes,” Logan nodded. “It is nonalcoholic. You are under twenty-one, are you not?”

Remus waggled his eyebrows, hand resting on his chest. “Are you this exacting in bed?”

“That remains to be seen,” Logan said smoothly and offered his arm free arm. Remus was dressed in low-slung ripped jeans and newly polished combat boots, laces undone but not dragging on the floor. His sleeveless teelooked cropped, the edges curled and revealing his navel and a faint trail of auburn hair. “Do you have a jacket?” he asked, not at all convinced Remus had been listening when Logan had said to dress warmly .

“Got it,” he grinned, grabbing a heavy leather jacket from behind the door and draping it over one shoulder. He took Logan’s arm and followed him out to the hall and toward the elevators, letting his dorm door slam behind him. “So, where to, hot Daddy?”

“I am not a father,” he said, eyebrow raised. “‘Logan’ will suffice for tonight.”

“Yes, Sir,” Remus laughed, drawing closer as they stepped into the elevator.

Once outside, Logan set a brisk pace across the quad. “We are going there,” he pointed to the clock tower on top of the library.

“Oooo,” Remus cooed, tightening his grip on Logan’s arm with a little shiver. “Are we off for a ‘study’ session?” Head tilted to rest on his shoulder, they walked in tandem and he shivered again. “Care to study me?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Logan murmured. Dropping his arm, he unbuttoned his pea coat and threaded Remus’ hand between the back of it and his waist, his own arm draped around the sophomore’s. “You are cold. If you insist on not wearing your jacket, at least stay close.”

“Oh,” Remus began, voice sultry as he shimmied closer. With nothing but his linen shirt between them, Remus’ hand and arm felt cold. “Hmm…” Whatever he’d been about to say melted into a pleased hum. “You’re warm,” he finally said. “Thanks, Professor.”

Arm curled around his waist, Logan nodded as he felt the cold from Remus’ skin disipate with his body heat “You’re more than welcome, Remus.”

They approached the door and Remus frowned at the sign announcing the library closed at 7:30 on Sundays. “Are we breaking in?”

“Not quite,” Logan murmured, producing his school ID and tapping it against the reader. The door buzzed and popped right open. “The law library has extended hours. This will grant us… certain access.”

“Holy fuck, Logan!” he laughed, face blooming in a giddy grin. He bowed dramatically as Logan held the door for him and practically skipped inside the darkened library.

The warmth filling Logan’s chest had nothing to do with his wool pea coat or the blast from the library’s HVAC system. He gestured to a winding staircase to the left. “Ready for a bit of a climb?”

~

The library was glorious. It was near silent, none of that seemingly ever-present hum and buzz of machines and people doing their best to be quiet, no clacking keyboards or the random dropped book. Even the self-checkout machines near the door were powered down, only the red lasers flickering against empty tabletops.

Most of the lights were turned off, with only a strip of exit lights illuminating the aisles between the sections and stars and streetlights streaming in through the skylights over the reading room’s atrium. A series of lights lined the spiral stairs Logan led them up, and their legs cast long shadows across the main floor below.

Logan had let go of his hand as they walked, slowing his pace and waiting patiently while Remus peered over the railing at the darkened stacks below. “How do you not just come here all the time?” he whispered, his voice deafening in the silent space.

“Who says I don’t?” he smirked back, not in a whisper, but low and rumbly and delicious. Remus could listen to him talk all night. “It’s just a bit further, when you’re ready,” he murmured, gesturing to the top of the stairs and a bright green EXIT ONLY sign.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Remus followed him through the door, smiling at the bit of duct tape covering the latch. “Maybe you do come here often,” he said with a little shoulder dance.

“I like to be prepared,” he answered and let the door close slowly behind them. He gave it a tug to demonstrate to Remus they were not locked outside, then pointed to an open area just to the right of the clock tower. “Let’s spread the blanket there.”

He set down the basket and flipped open the blanket, one of those heavy flannel ones with the plastic cores to protect against the wet ground. Fuck, he really did like to be prepared. Remus eyed the picnic basket and wondered what else he’d prepared for.

“Please have a seat,” he murmured and they sat, looking out over the campus.

“Oh,” Remus breathed. They could see the entire campus from here, the bright yellow ginkgo trees lining the paths, the ornate street lamps dotting the edges and casting thin, warm light against the darkened buildings. To the West was the Sound, big barges looking magical in the dark, just floating lights reflecting off the water. To the South was Mount Rainier, her snowy top illuminated by the full moon.

His fingers itched, wishing he had brought his sketch pad and charcoals. He glanced at Logan, busily organizing two glasses and a platter of strawberries, grapes, and pineapple in front of them. He pulled out the promised bottle—chilled, no less—of Martinelli’s and—

“I noticed how you’d been drawing at the fitness center,” Logan said, passing him a blank sketchbook and a small box of charcoals. The exact fucking brand he’d used before their sexy little law school smack down. “I’ve always enjoyed the view here and I thought perhaps…”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Remus grinned, reaching for the sketchbook and pastels. They were brand new, still wrapped in the plastic film. “Thank… thank you, Logan. D—do you really not mind if I…” He gestured to the sketchbook and the water in front of them. He knew this was a date, right?

Smiling, Logan moved closer to him and draped his jacket over his shoulders, then handed him a glass. “I was rather hoping you would.”

~~~

As the evening wore on, the pair finished their drinks and most of the platter. Remus sketched quickly, filling page after page. He and Ro had made it out to Seattle just before the start of freshman year and he’d never… never seen the sky quite like this. Most nights were cloudy and even he hadn’t yet dared to climb up to the clock tower just for a look around.

He turned to a fresh page again and shifted, keeping the very southern tip of the Sound in his field of vision along with the mountains. Logan moved behind him and, as he drew, Remus leaned back, resting against his chest. A gust of wind whipped at his hair and Remus blew up sharply, hands busy with the pastels.

Humming quietly, more a rumble against his back than anything Remus could hear, Logan tucked his hair back behind his ear. The warmth from his hand sent a little shiver down his back and Remus tore his eyes away from Mt. Rainier and grinned up at him. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“My pleasure.” Logan smiled and Remus shivered again. Moonlight sparkled in his eyes and, before he really thought about it, Remus turned to a fresh page and started sketching him.  

“The mountain is back there,” he murmured, tilting his chin toward Rainier. Logan sat with one knee bent and Remus settled between his legs, leaning against him as he sketched a close-up of his face.

Remus grinned. “The view from here is even better.” He started with broad strokes, then tentatively reached for Logan’s jaw. “May I?” he asked, surprising even himself.

“Of course.”

He adjusted the angle of Logan’s chin and nodded rapidly. “Hold just there for a moment,” he muttered before returning to his work.

When he finished the sketch, he closed the book. “No peeking,” he laughed. “I’ll show you after I’ve colored it.”

Logan laughed back, a low chuckle that sent vibrations up and down Remus body. He was practically seated in his lap, with his own legs draped over one of Logan’s. Leaning in, he traced the edge of Logan’s jaw. It was just as smooth and firm under his fingertips as he’d imagined it. “I’ve got lots of things you can peek at in the meantime.”

“Is that so?” he asked, wrapping his arms around him and drawing closer. One more inch and their lips would touch.

“Please kiss me,” Remus blurted out.

“My pleasure,” he murmured and finally—fucking finally—pulled him into a kiss.

Logan’s kiss started gently, tasting his lips as one hand moved up to cradle the back of his head. Fingers gently curling through his hair, he slowly deepened their kiss. 

Remus hummed into his mouth, lips parted, and pushed against him, following him as he lay back onto the blanket. When he broke away for breath, Remus mouthed along his jaw and down his neck before sitting up, straddling his hips. 

“How do you like it?” he asked, dragging his hands down Logan’s chest and playing at the top of his belt buckle. 

“Remus,” Logan shook his head, just a little, then pulled Remus’ hands from his belt and brought them up to his lips. He kissed his knuckles and shook his head again. “Remus, I’m not going to fuck you on a rooftop.”

“Oh!” he said, climbing off. Logan sat up immediately. His face was tricky to read in the dark. But they way Remus had been sitting had made it easy to feel just how interested Logan was. “Why didn’t you just say so? There are…” He waggled his eyebrows and licked his lips. “Other things I can do or we could go back to your place…”

Logan knelt in front of him and cradled his face with both hands. Steel blue eyes stared right into him, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “It is quite late,” he said after a long moment. “Perhaps it’s time I walked you home.”

~

“I had a wonderful time with you tonight,” Logan murmured at his door. He brushed back the curls from his eyes and then his hand lingered, carding gently through his hair.

Remus turned and rubbed his cheek against Logan’s palm, then nipped lightly at the fleshy part of his thumb. “No need for our wonderful night to already end.” He looked over his shoulder at the empty dorm room. “My brother won’t be home tonight. He’s crashing with the rest of the tech crew. Stepping forward, he pressed close, close enough to know what Logan’s body wanted. He looped one arm around Logan’s back, then took a small step backwards. “We have the room all to ourselves.”

His cheeks and lips were flushed a deep pink and, even under the bright hallway lights, Logan’s pupils were big and black, a copy of the night sky they’d just seen. He swallowed hard, then pulled Remus’ hand away from his back and pressed a soft kiss against his knuckles. “I’d like to take you out again sometime,” he said and Remus’ stomach sank to the floor.

He opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. If he didn’t want him, then…

“May I call you tomorrow and we can make plans?” Logan continued in that same low, smooth voice.

“Yeah,” Remus finally managed, heart twisting in his chest. Everything had been going so well. What did he do wrong to get this whole ‘I’ll call you’ bullshit? “Yeah, of course,” he grinned, giving his shoulders a little shimmy. Ro wasn’t the only actor between them.

“Sleep well, Remus,” Logan said, cupping his cheek as he kissed him again, soft and sweet.

It felt like a send-off.

“Yeah, you, too, Logan,” he said and watched him head for the stairs, escaping his view as quickly as he could.

Remus closed the door behind him and sank down onto the beanbag chairs to figure out what the fuck had gone wrong.

An hour later, Remus was no closer to figuring out how he’d fucked everything up and he’d taken to pacing the tiny room in an effort to work it out. Why didn’t he want him? He’d made it really obvious he was ready, willing, and able, and Logan was clearly into it. Had he just revved him up to go be with someone he really wanted?

The scars on his arm itched like a motherfucker and Remus knew if he spent another minute in here alone, he was not going to be able to keep his promise to Ro. He needed some air. While he'd paced, he’d thrown his jacket on the floor. He tooped to pick it up on his way to the door, but then straightened, hand empty.

Fuck it. It’s not that cold out.

He’d thrown out all his clove cigarettes after that fucking party, part of another promise to Ro to try harder. But he didn’t toss his gum, so he shoved his last two pieces in his mouth and chomped hard, then opened the door and fled from his thoughts. 

~

Janus sat in his armchair, half-empty glass of scotch on the table next to him. The room was dark, the diffuse light spilling in from the streetlamp across the road doing little to illuminate the space. The sun had still been shining when Janus had come home from the grocery store and he’d taken out the bottle Glenlivet and shoved the rest of the bag into the fridge to deal with later. He sat down in the living room and poured his first glass.

That was a half a bottle ago.

‘I merely need to be certain I have not committed to anything else before I said yes…’

Logan’s eyes had pleaded with him, explaining with a look what he couldn’t—wouldn’t—with words in front of Remus. Janus knew what he’d been trying to say.

‘You have not.’

What else could he say? What else should he have said? He’d literally told Logan to find someone else to pursue. He’d told him he wasn’t interested in a relationship, he’d told him he didn’t love people. He’d told him he didn’t want to love anyone, that he didn’t want more of that soft warm touch, of those kind eyes looking back at him. That he didn’t want to know more, to learn if his kisses tasted as good as he smelled and to discover what it meant for his heart to leap out of its chest each time Logan smiled.

He’d lied.

Janus tipped back his glass and discovered it was, in fact, completely empty. Fumbling with the bottle cap, he set down the glass and tried again. Just before he got it, the bottle leapt from his hands and hit the hardwood floor, shattering and soaking the area rug with the last of his scotch. Fuck.

It took him far too long to clean it all up and by the time he was done, Janus was more than ready for another glass. He looked up at the microwave clock. If he left now, he could make it to Safeway before they closed.

The only open grocery story was only a block from campus, but the fresh air made the hike shorter than it usually felt. Before long, he was sauntering inside, walking carefully to ensure they wouldn’t turn him away. The cashier hadn’t even looked up to ring him out.

Moments later he strode through the doors, bottle in hand—and right into Remus.

“Oh, fuck, Janus, sorry,” he muttered, grabbing him with those strong, callused hands before he could stumble. Remus had been drawing, charcoal dust under his fingernails and a bit by his jaw.

“No ‘pologies needed,” Janus said slowly, annoyed at the slight slurring in his words. Remus didn’t release him and Janus stared back. He was dressed in a sleeveless shirt and jeans, no jacket. Before Janus could form the words to ask if he was cold, he shivered.

“What are you doing out?” He clutched his bottle to his chest, head tilted to the side. “I thought you’d still be with Logan by now.”

Drunk, standing in the middle of a poorly lit street, Janus couldn’t miss the hurt in Remus’ eyes. He shrugged but didn’t explain.

Janus couldn’t believe what he was seeing. How could Logan have possibly rejected him? He reached out and tapped the edge of Remus’ jaw. “You know what?”

“What?” he huffed out a little laugh, leaning in to his touch like a lost puppy. 

“You look like you could use a drink. And I know I sure as hell could use one,” Janus nodded, holding up the bagged bottle. “I live twenty blocks that way,” he said, pointing with one end and offering his arm. “Would you like to join me tonight?”

Remus stared down at the bottle, then lifted his eyes and met Janus’. A shaky smile pulled up one corner of his mouth and hooked his hand into the crook of Janus’ elbow. “Lead the way.”

[nyaningthroughlife]

Holy shit, holy shit! I know he lied to you Dean but punching him multiple times after admitting he needs help? Okay, okay, too much.

Also, thank you Lisa, they are crazily tangled up with each other

I don't know how to feel anymore...

[averagejoesolomon]

Oh. Oh no. Oh, gang. None of us were ready for this one. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3.

Chapter Nine

Spies are supposed to notice things. Matt knows this for the same reason he knows anything worthwhile—because Joe Solomon told him so. 

And with the way Joe says it, spies are supposed to notice everything. Every twitch of a finger, every lilt in a voice. Every noise, every movement, every silence. As far as Joe’s concerned, the world is alive, and those who fail to notice its every breath are destined to end up dead. 

But it’s Matt’s privately held belief that some things just ain’t all that noticeable. Sometimes the biggest changes are the slow, steady sorta things that happen when no one’s looking. After all, an autumn chill always starts as a summer breeze. Acquaintances always seem to stumble sideways into friendship, rather than sprint toward it dead on. A fella can stare out across the same cornfield, day after day, dawn after dawn, and still be shocked when the stalks finally spring up to his knee. Sometimes, the world avoids the notice of even the most perceptive people.

This is all an awfully long-winded way of saying he’s lost eyes on Michael.

And it’d be nice if he could peg this as one of those less-than-noticeable things, but the truth of the matter is that he ought to be able to tail someone like Michael. The bigger truth is that Matt ain’t thinking straight, and he hasn’t been thinking straight since he got here, and maybe that’s the biggest change of them all. Maybe he’s finally starting to notice it.

If he has any remaining sensibility rattling through his head, it comes in the form of Joe’s voice, threaded through an earpiece. “What do you mean, you lost him?”

“Can we save the lecture for later?” says Matt. “Just get your ass down here and help me find him.”

Matt rounds a corner where black and white tile transitions to hardwood. The mansion’s floor plan is nearly complete in his mind, constructed from patches of barely-there recognition, but some pieces are still missing. There are rooms he hasn’t yet entered, hallways he hasn’t yet ventured down, and way too many goddamn corners. He hasn’t had enough time to do this right. He never has enough time, these days.

It doesn’t help that this stretch of mansion looks exactly like the rest, made up of the same brown-on-brown woods, the same exhaustively detailed molding, and the same towering windows. Gold frames line the walls and the drapery is sewn from silk. Each godforsaken hallway stretches farther than Matt’s entire childhood home and he doesn’t know what he’s doing here.

He skids to an aimless stop at the junction of one identical hall and another, a realization fast on his heels. With a stark and sudden sense of blind foolishness, recognition hits him and he knows, too late, that this is the place he should have started. It’s just how these things tend to work—he’s noticed that much.

Matt can think of nothing more damning than the sight of Michael standing just outside of Henry’s office door, one hand on the gold-plated knob and the other wrapped around a crystal clear bottle of scotch. A blue-ribbon cigar still hangs from the corner of this mouth as he pulls the door shut behind him, humming down an otherwise empty hallway. The latch clicks shut at exactly the same time Matt’s shiny new shoes scuff against walnut herringbone and Micheal glances up. Meet’s his gaze. Smiles a crooked, satisfied sort of grin. 

“Well, hey there, Georgetown,” says Michael, words caught behind the clench of his teeth. He pulls the cigar from his lips before he goes on. “Finally figured out where Henry keeps all the good whiskey, I see.”

Matt’s out of time, and he doesn’t have the patience to spare on pleasantries. “Party’s back that way, Harvard,” he says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Not much to see back here.”

Static cracks through Matt’s earpiece, with Joe just on the other side. “Do you have him?” he asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t engage.”

Matt can feel the lack of backup in his bones. There’s an empty space at his side where Joe ought to be, but he’s just too close to back down. For the first time since they started tracking the Circle of Cavan, Matt has all the proof he needs to lock his lead into a corner. He’s been run ragged by the year it’s taken to reach this point, and he won’t let this one slip away.

Smoke twirls from the end of Michael’s cigar and scotch spirals around the edges of the decanter. He’s grinning wide, like he knows something Matt doesn’t, and suddenly Matt’s got Abby’s voice in his head all over again. I can think of at least one reason. “That’s where you and I disagree,” Michael says. “Y’see, the Jack Daniels Henry’s serving up at the bar is all well and good, but nothing can beat the Macallan the old man keeps in his office drawer.”

And there’s Joe’s voice again, talking sense where Matt’s lost all of his own. “I’m coming to you,” he says. “Do not get yourself killed before I get there.”

“He says this one is a personal gift from Scotland Yard—so you know it’s the good stuff,” Michael goes on. “You wanna sip? You won’t regret it.”

Matt’s not in the habit of taking drinks from strangers. And he’s certainly not in the habit of taking drinks from international terrorists. “I’ll settle for the Jack, thanks.”

Michael shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

As if claiming the lost opportunity for himself, Micheal brings the crystal straight to his lips and takes a generous swig. If Matt were thinking straight, he might have noticed it sooner—the lilt in Michael’s words, the sway in his shoulders, the subtle tint of red in his cheeks. Things being as they are, it takes Matt longer than it should to realize that Michael is drunk. And longer still to realize that he is very good at hiding it.

Matt’s teeth grind against a stale bruise, sending a sore pulse through his battered jaw. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

In this line of work, there are right questions and there are wrong questions. The right questions are tricky and elusive, but if a guy can pin down just the right ones, they’ll lead him toward the kind of information that saves counties, preserves democracies, and keeps all the right people alive. The wrong questions, on the other hand, usually just end in a brawl. Judging by Michael’s white-knuckled grip around the neck of the whisky, it looks like Matt’s fixing for the latter.

Michael closes the distance between them, and even though they’re the same height, he seems to loom larger than Matt. They’re on his home turf—he’s had years to learn every expansive inch of these halls and it shows in the way he walks. Familiarity forms to his gait, with nothing but comfort stitched into the shoulders of a perfectly tailored suit. When he does finally reach Matt, his gaze lingers on the crooked tie and taught buttons, as though remembering that this outfit was bought straight off the rack. “Question is,” Michael says, amber smoke tucked into his breath, “how many have you had?”

Only then does Matt realize Abby must’ve done a real number on his heart, because it seems to have shattered into a dozen different pieces. The jagged remains are scattered all across his body, taking up space in his ears, his jaw, his shoulders, his fists, his lungs, his stomach—a pulse, pounding in rampant rhythm against the rolling boil of his blood. It burns him from the inside out until every part of him is flushed and furious.

But Michael carries on. “Because, y’see,” he says, cigar embers flitting toward the floor as he pokes at Matt’s chest. “It’s a party, Georgetown. And at these parties, people usually have a drink or two—but you haven’t had anything to drink all night, have you?”

Matt swats Michael’s hand away. “Not much of a drinker.”

“By choice?” Michael asks, talking another swig. “Or by trade?”

“I reckon you already know the answer to that,” says Matt, “because a guy like you wouldn’t ask a question he doesn’t already know the answer to.”

Michael smiles again. Always smiling. “I reckon I do,” he says. “Because you and I aren’t so different, are we? So maybe we stop pretending otherwise.”

Spies are supposed to notice things, but it takes an awfully keen eye to notice Matt. He folds seamlessly into the crease of every crowd, and blends thoughtlessly into the background. He’s the sort of person who can cross the boarder from East Berlin to West Berlin without a second glance—who can walk the streets of Moscow just as naturally as he can walk the streets of DC. A fella has to look, and look hard, to spot Matt when he doesn’t want to be spotted.

He doesn’t want to linger too long on what Michael’s motivations might be. He’s been hunting the Circle long enough to know that they probably involve torture, and sacrifice, and all of the information Matt doesn’t want to give. But anyone willing to put in enough effort to tail him all evening is probably willing to put in the effort to hurt him, too.

The sound of approaching footsteps signal the backup Matt desperately needs. Bits of his shredded heart pile up in his throat until his breath gets caught in his chest, waiting for Joe to round the corner and start a fight that Matt desperately wants to finish. 

Except it ain’t Joe who stands at the other end of the hall. Of course not. Because, of course, Matt heard the sound of heels, not loafers. And he didn’t just hear one set of footsteps—he heard two.

Abby is the first to arrive, because Abby is always the first. Beautiful, agonizing Abby, who turns the entire world toward her favor with nothing more than a wink. Who barrels down the length of a hallway at the very first sign of trouble. “C’mon, boys,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re having all the fun without us.”

Rachel isn’t far behind, but she holds her place in the shadows, watching on without a word. She’s a well-placed punch waiting in the wrist, and she always times her swings to land at the most impactful moment.

At the sound of Abby’s voice, Michael takes one step back from Matt. Then two, and three. He swipes at his nose with the same hand that holds the bottle, his gestures easy and electric, like a boxer on the edge of the ring. “Just having a conversation, one man to another,” he says.

Abby lands between the two of them with the kind of graceful speed that shouldn’t be possible. “Ah, I see. Boys only. Well in that case, I’ll be on my way,” she deadpans. “Unless one of you wants to tell me what’s really going on.”

Righteous and certain, Matt offers up the facts. “He was in your father’s office,” he says. “Alone.”

The sisters are smart—smarter than Matt, and certainly smart enough to put the pieces together. Smart enough to know that Michael’s presence is evidence enough of his involvement with the break-in. Smart enough to know that this is bigger than them, and that Matt really ought to take it all from here. Matt is met with a lone moment of clarity as realization dawns across Abby’s face, and the parts of his heart still caught in his chest burst with the possibility of watching her tear straight into Michael.

But Abby turns on Matt, instead. Her voice is low and stern as she says, “I told you he wasn’t our guy.” Her eyes bounce back and forth between his own, trying to get a read, but there’s nothing there for her to latch onto. “Did I not tell you, straight to your face?”

Just like that, the night is on it’s head again. “You did, but—”

“So, what,” she says. “You didn’t believe me?”

“Of course I believe you—”

“So you just think I’m clueless?”

“I would never—”

“Those are your options, Matt,” she says. “I told you Micheal wasn’t our guy, so either you don’t trust me to be right, or you don’t trust me to tell you about it when I am.”

Matt is ten days into an eight-day trip.  He’s on leg three of a one-stop operation. He’s a full year into a mission that was supposed to be wrapped up months ago. Everything about the Circle of Cavan demands more, more, more from everyone who touches it, and there’s no way Abby can know that. Abby doesn’t even think the Circle exists. “Abby,” he says, struggling to express a sentiment that's stashed behind a bright red classified stamp. “Just—trust me when I say you’re out of your element here. I know you think you’re right, but—”

She holds up a hand, straight in his face, and the last remaining sections of his heart stretch into thin little threads that wrap tension into every muscle he has. “You’ve had a hard night,” she says, “so I’m going to forget that you said that. As far as you’re concerned, I’m right, and I’m always going to be right.”

Maybe that was the case before their dance, but it’s not going to be the case anymore. And Abby is going to have to get used to that. “And just what makes you so certain, huh?” he snaps. “What piece of infinite wisdom do you possess that makes me the fool and you the all-mighty goddess of all things covert?”

Matt’s never seen Abby’s eyes so wide. “How about the fact that I was with Michael that night,” she says. “Or is that not a tight enough alibi for you, Nebraska—?”

“Hey—hey.” Matt’s so used to hearing Joe in his ear that he doesn’t realize he’s hearing the words in person until Joe psychically shoves his way between Matt and Abby. “What the hell is going on?”

But Matt can’t help himself. The words are out now, and not even Joe can slow him down in this moment. “What were you doing with him?”

Michael, helpfully, decides that it’s his turn to jump back into the action. “Hey, control your boy, Pinstripes.”

Matt doesn’t need to see the look Joe sends over his shoulder to know it’s scary. “Now’s a good time to shut your mouth, man,” he says. “Otherwise I’m going to shut it for you.”

Michael scoffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Joe ain’t one to leave a promise unfulfilled, even more so when that promise is actually a threat. With a challenge sparking in the air, his attention makes a quick shift from Matt to Michael, but Abby’s quicker. She steps right into his path and blocks him, her impeccable form against his scrappy swing. “I’d really rather you didn’t.”

Joe practically growls against her. “Get out of my way.”

“Mmmm…no,” she says. “Don’t think I will.”

The whole ordeal is one great big mess of Matt, Michael, Abby, and Joe. They dissolve into the sort of bickering that exists primarily in schoolyards and sandboxes, but beyond it all, Matt still has a question that’s been left unanswered. “Why were you with him that night, Abby?”

“For me.”

A new voice joins the fighting—although join is a generous word. When Rachel speaks, there is no fighting left to join. Her voice is the kind of quiet meant to bring others down to her level, rather than rise to theirs. It’s the soft, certain tone of someone with something important to say, and it ignites a deep, instinctual need to listen. “She was with him that night for me,” she goes on. “To tell him that I was in town. To tell him not to come by, because I’d rather not see him. To tell him to stay away.” She looks at Abby. “Isn’t that right?”

Abby, wordless, only manages a nod.

With this, Rachel turns to Michael. “And you thought you’d just come by anyway?”

Michael blinks, and it clearly takes him a moment to realize Rachel addresses him, now. “Oh, please,” he says, spit flying with the pop of his p. “Don’t flatter yourself, Rach. All of Baltimore is at this party—you think I came to see you?”

Slowly, with all of the poise that can fit atop certainly uncertain shoulders, Rachel steps out of the shadows and straight into the flame. As she walks, her eyes flit to the bottle in Michael’s hand, then back to him. “How much have you had to drink, today?”

Right questions, and wrong questions, and wrong questions again. “You aren’t my fiancé anymore,” he snarls. “And you don’t get to care about how much I drink.”

The words roll over her, easy. “Michael, my love.” She wraps her hand around his—around the neck of the decanter, ready to relieve him of it. “It’s time for you to go home.”

There is a moment, single and fleeting, when it looks as though everything could go right. Rachel could take the whiskey and lock it back up. Abby and Joe could stand down—Abby no longer fighting for Michael and Joe no longer fighting for Matt. They could all go back to the party, and they could dance, and eat dessert, and debrief in the morning. 

But the moment Rachel tries to pull the whiskey away, Micheal decides to shove. 

What happens next, happens quickly. Maybe that’s to be expected, in a room with five intelligence agents, but it still catches Matt in a moment of unpreparedness. Rachel stumble, stumble, stumbles back. Abby holds out a hand to catch her. The decanter falls from both grips and plummets toward the hardwood.

But Joe is faster than all of them. Joe is faster than anyone Matt knows, which is how Michael gets pinned to the wall, even before the crystal shatters at their feet. 

Joe’s got the kind of grip that’s impossible to squirm out of—which is mighty handy, because Michael’s a squirmy sort of guy. He twists and thrashes on the tips of his toes as Joe steals the ground from under him. He tries to peel Joe’s hands away from the collar of his shirt, but it just ain’t worth the effort. “What the fuck?”

With a single, sideways nod toward Rachel, Joe says, “Apologize to the lady.”

If Michael wasn’t scared before, he sure as Hell is now. “Fuck you!”

Joe lifts him higher off the ground.

“Put me down. Put me down, you fucker.”

Joe shakes his head. “Not until you say the magic words.”

Something familiar finds its way to Matt, born out of a habit he wasn’t aware he’d forged. He and Joe have operated without mercy for long enough that Matt’s forgotten what it feels like. A part of him has come to enjoy watching Joe work—come to enjoy the way he makes things quick, and efficient, even if it means sacrificing decency. Maybe he’s even come to admire that part of Joe, because Matt would never have the guts to be so brash. But something about the moment feels raw and wrong now, with the sisters as their witness, and for the first time in a long time, Matt reaches a hand out to Joe. “Leave it,” he says. “He’s not worth it.”

Joe must not hear him. Or he must not care. Either way, he holds Michael steady in his bruised and blotched knuckles.

“Joe,” Matt tries again. “Drop him.”

With a bored back-and-forth of his head, Joe debates his next move. He settles on a sigh as he lets Michael fall to the floor. There’s something satisfying about the way he can’t catch himself on his own two feet. Instead, he falls to his knees—tie crooked, coat wrinkled.

Matt escorts Joe away, and the whole thing could be over, if Micheal weren’t trying to get the last word in. “You’re over, you got that, asshole?” he tells Joe, catching his breath. “I’ll find your fucking name, and I’ll find out every detail about you, and I’ll tell the goddamn world. There’s not a soul on either side of the Iron Curtain who won’t be able to spot you. You better damn well hope you don’t have any secrets worth keeping.”

There have been a few instances in his career when Matt has blacked out during a fight. Sometimes, the adrenaline gets the best of his memory. Sometimes, the exhaustion bleeds into his sight with little black spots. Sometimes he blinks, and when he opens his eyes, he finds someone unconscious at his feet.

This is not one of those times. This time, Matt knows exactly what he’s doing.

If there’s anything Matt’s learned in the past year, it’s that plenty of people feel the need to threaten Joe Solomon. This is the sort of thing that comes included with the kind of past Joe has, filled with unpaid debts, a sordid history with underground terrorist cells, and more than a few women scorned. The fact of the matter is that Joe is talented, and he’s used that talent against the wrong people for too many years. 

Truthfully, Matt’s had just about enough of it. Michael’s threat is one too many, so when Matt rears back and takes a clean shot across Michael’s jaw, he hopes word gets out about it. And when he kicks Michael flat on his back, he hopes the world hears his message—Joe Solomon is under his protection now. Anyone who wants to get to him, will have to go through Matt first.

“Matthew.”

Matt lowers himself down to Michael’s level, on his own knees now as he grips the collar where Joe’s hands were last. The hall smells like whiskey turned sour. “Let me make this absolutely clear,” he says, voice coated in rust. “We’re going to walk away, and then you are going to forget you ever met us.”

Michael mops up crystal shards with his back. There are red-rimmed tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

“Matthew.”

Matt’s knees ache like a prayer. “Because if you don’t—listen to me—if I find out that even one of our covers is even the slightest bit compromised, I’m flying straight back here, and I’ll make you wish you forgot about us. Understand—?”

“Matt.”

Rachel calls him Matthew, like his mama, which is another one of those things he didn’t notice until it changed without warning. She used to carry the name with so much tender regard, as though nothing, nowhere, and no one could be as sweetly obvious as him. He’s not sure when she started saying it with this desperate, pleading edge.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears of her own, welling up against her will. “Leave.”

Matt loosens his grip on Michael. His heartstrings creep back to the center of his chest and form a halfway functional knot, all beating in mismatched rhythms. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay. I’ll pick up surveillance—”

“No.” She’s sharp. She’s cold. She’s every bit as cruel as she was when he first met her. “I want you to leave. I want both of you to take your bags and leave this house.”

And there, on his knees, Matt begins to beg. “Rachel, I—”

“Go,” she says. “I don’t want to see you again.”

[realasslesbian]

This whole situation is just screaming 'an Australian police force has once again fucked up because they don't take women seriously and now that people are raising questions about what is obviously shoddy police work the cops are going to do what they always do when the victim is a woman, which is deny any responsibility, accuse the female victim of 'mental health problems', insist there's nothing suspicious it was all this woman's fault, and ultimately let the man probably responsible for this extremely suspicious situation off the hook'

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

Love it when Rolling Stone puts out an article about the 25 most influential internet creators and I've only heard of 7 of them

[cartoonsinthemorning]

Since you guys liked Marcille as Kermit that much, it seems fitting to thank you for my 12k milestone with MORE Kercille. And this time, Miss Falin is also here.

Thank you so much again everybody! MWAH 💗

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[sidhewrites]

Being kink positive makes it really hard to be a hater of media rip. I used to love watching “the WORST book I’ve read this year” booktube videos but now its like I hear them ask, “Who is this werewolf smut even for?” Omegaverse fans, next question. “Why would you write this?” Because they find it sexy, can we stop focusing on the ewie yucky kink part and focus on the fact that the author used the word knot five times in a single scene? It’s bad werewolf erotica, but it’s not bad because it’s werewolf erotica like come on

[nothazellevesque]

a man self immolated in front of the israeli embassy in washington dc yesterday. not just any man. an active member of the us air force. he live streamed his death, and said that he refused to be complicit in a genocide any longer. he said that compared to what palestinians were facing every day, setting himself alight was nothing.

let me reiterate. an active duty air force member burned himself alive because he was so disgusted by what the us government was openly supporting. he live-streamed his own suicide, so the whole world could bear witness as a man in his military uniform set himself on fire to protest his government’s complicity in the horrors that we have all been forced to watch happen in real time. he became a new horror. footage of the immolation blurs him out the moment the fire catches, but you can hear him. it is over in seconds, really, but you can hear him screaming. he shouts “free palestine” until his body physically cannot make any sounds other than guttural screams of agony. and then he falls silent. a police officer arrives and points a gun at his still burning body, shouting at him to get down on the ground. and it is over.

his name was Aaron Bushnell. he was twenty five years old. and he isn’t here anymore because the political ruling class has decided that genocide is perfectly fine as long as it preserves imperialism. in the coming days, people will try to discredit him. to say that he was mentally unstable. they will try to bury his actions to save face and defend israel’s propaganda. do not let them. aaron knew what he was doing. he knew what he was doing when he put on his military uniform, set up his twitch stream, and made his final walk up to the embassy. he knew what would happen to him when he flicked that lighter. do not let them forget. aaron’s blood is on the hands of the political ruling class.

[maggotnursery]

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

License to Kitty.

[lastparty]

[trudlejack]

(+part 2)

[nat-20s]

name a more iconic thing to happen for the fictional qpr community than Donna Noble quite literally meeting her soulmate and being like hmm. there's no one I've ever wanted to fuck less