It’s hour thirty-six without sleep and while Phil knows he should be in bed, resting his eyes if nothing else, he can’t look away from his laptop screen.
He hadn’t actually meant to google naughty sign-language phrases, he honestly hadn’t, but he’s exhausted and his filters are down. Clint had used sign language during the op when their contact’s hearing aids had been damaged and Phil had found himself captivated by Clint’s fingers. He’d known his asset knew sign language - it’s there in his file and if there’s one thing Phil knows, it’s Clint’s file - but he hadn’t seen it before. It was a revelation to watch those well known and often fantasized fingers flying in a complicated pattern of a language without sound.
Phil had stumbled back to base, showered, and then flicked open his laptop intending to quiet his brain by learning a few simple phrases - ‘hello,’ maybe, or ‘how are you today?’ Just something he could whip out during a boring op somewhere. It’s because he likes languages, he’d told himself, not because he wants to prove to Clint that he’s more than just an asset to Phil. Clint knows that. At least, Phil thinks Clint knows that. He’s 95% certain.
It’s just that he’s never said it before. Words are complicated things. If he ever opened his mouth to say ‘you’re important to me’ he’d probably end up confessing how many times he’s dreamt of Clint at night and how often he thinks of him during the day. A simple ‘have coffee with me’ would become ‘move in and never leave,’ and ‘can I kiss you’ would transform into ‘let me suck your cock.’
Which is not something Phil’s adverse to, he just doesn’t want to come off as a guy whose only interested in sex. And somehow that thought had translated to his fingers and now Phil is staring at a website that is informing him how to sign ‘there’s a party in my pants and you’re invited’ with complete seriousness at 3am.
Phil blinks. Against his better judgement, he memorizes the instructions.
It should have ended there. Phil finally turns his laptop off and crawls into bed, closes his eyes and even manages to fall into an uneasy sleep. But the problem is that he’s woken up forty-five minutes later by the external alarm.
Goddamn mercenaries attacking a S.H.I.E.L.D. base in the middle of the night. Really, guys? Really?
Getting a fraction of sleep is worse than getting no sleep at all. By the time the last mercenary is dealt with and the base is locked down, Phil is swaying on his feet. Clint, who must have collapsed immediately after their last op instead of googling obscure phrases at 3am, is at least functional, if not cheerful, so he volunteers to escort Phil back to his quarters when it becomes clear that he won’t make it on his own.
"I’m okay," Phil tries to tell him. His eyesight is gritty and his mouth is dry and there’s a low, persistent ache echoing through every muscle in his body, but he’s on his feet and in one piece and honestly, that’s a good day.
"I know you are, sir," Clint says, and Phil can’t honestly tell if he’s humouring him or not, "but AD Hill told me to get you to your quarters and so that’s what I’m going to do."
"Because you’re a good agent," Phil says, while he wonders if his knees are about to buckle.
"That’s right," Clint agrees, and okay, now Phil knows he’s humouring him. That’s a devilish grin in his eye.
"You are,” Phil tries to insist. Clint has to know this. ”You - it - ” He waves a hand.
"Uh huh," Clint says. He’s not even listening, he’s reading the signs on the wall. "Almost there, sir."
"No, but - coffee." Phil says. He screws up his eyes. There’s a conversation he wanted to have. "Cock."
Clint starts. His grip loosens, and Phil almost slides out of it and down to the floor. He manages to stop himself by grabbing the wall.
"Jesus, warn a guy, Coulson," Clint says. He laughs, but it sounds strained.
"Right?" Phil says, then stops and shakes his head. That isn’t right. What was he saying again?
"Words," he tries. He gestures with both hands. "Hard."
"That they are," Clint agrees. He reaches for Phil again. "Come on, sir, let’s get you back to your quarters so you can lay down before you fall down."
"No, wait," Phil shakes him off. He points to his chest, then down to his pants and waves his hands the way google taught him, then indicates Clint and makes the ‘welcome’ sign. "Right?"
Clint blinks at him. Blinks again. ”Okay. Sleep now.”
That’s not what he meant at all. ”But - “
"Phil," Clint interrupts, catching him when he sways forward. "Let’s go to sleep, okay? If you even remember this in the morning, ask me again when we wake up."
Phil shakes his head. ”You’ll say no.”
Clint huffs. ”I promise you, boss, if you ask again, in any language, I’ll say yes.” They make it to a door Phil vaguely recognizes and Clint leads him in. ”Here you go.”
Phil hooks his fingers into Clint’s field gear. ”Stay?”
Clint looks down at him, naked want in his eyes, and then swallows. ”Okay,” he says, gently untangling Phil’s fingers. ”Okay.”
They toe their boots off and remove their outer gear, Phil’s hands shaking with exhaustion on the buckles and clips, before finally - finally - crawling into bed. Phil sighs as he lays down, pulling Clint into his arms. This isn’t what he had meant, exactly, but he’s not about to argue. Clint smells nice.
"Cock," he says again, and then, because that wasn’t exactly what he had meant to say, "Move in with me."
Clint chuckles in his arms. ”Let’s start with coffee,” he says, the kisses the hands Phil has wrapped around him. ”Now go to sleep.”
Phil nuzzles at Clint’s hair. It’s just as soft as he always imagined it would be. ”Okay.”
Broidery on a medieval page
Holes in the pages of medieval books are common. They were easily made (by the parchment maker’s knife), as in this wonderful case. Fixing it by stitching the hole together with strings of parchment is also common: parchment makers did it all the time, leaving behind “scars” on the page. What is totally unusual, however, is the repairs seen in this 14th-century book in Uppsala, Sweden. The damage is repaired, or at least masked, by good old broidery. It was done by the nuns who purchased the book in 1417. It is delightful to think that they took the effort to make a medieval hole disappear by replacing it with patterns like this, made up from pieces of silk in the most vivid of colors.
Pics: website of University Library Uppsala. More information about the preservation of this manuscript here. Note 2 August, 2014: the website has been removed but can still be seen via the Web Archive (here).
so in LOTR’s appendices it says that legolas eventually builds a boat and takes gimli across the seas and into the west, the gray havens. you know, the place arwen isn’t allowed to go because she’s in love with a human dude bUT LEGOLAS (AKA ‘YOU LITTLE SHIT’) JUST SAYS “FUCK IT” AND SNEAKS GIMLI INTO THE GODDAMN UNDYING LANDS LIKE CONTRABAND TWIZZLERS INTO A MOVIE THEATER
best literary analysis ever
"I’m not going to fit!"
"Yes, you will."
Seriously, please, for the love of all that is holy and profane, USE A COMMA WHEN A PERSON IS BEING ADDRESSED.
Please note the following:
1) “I know Stiles,” Derek huffed in annoyance.
2) “I know, Stiles,” Derek huffed in annoyance.
THESE ARE TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT LINES, ALL BECAUSE OF A COMMA.
In 1, Derek is telling someone he knows who Stiles is, he knows Stiles. He is probably annoyed because, “Duh, that’s the guy I bang; of course I know him.”
In 2, Derek is telling STILES that he knows something already. Stiles was probably all: “Derek, those dudes do NOT look friendly. I think we’re in deep shit.” To which Derek would likely roll his eyes and reply, “I know, Stiles.”
But anyway, do you see the difference?
If a person is being directly addressed, regardless of where it happens in the sentence, YOU ALWAYS SEPARATE THE NAME WITH AT LEAST ONE COMMA.
I will give you more examples! All of the following speech quotes contain examples:
"C’mon, Scott, just tell me if he smells aroused in my presence."
"Stiles, that’s disgusting."
"It’s totally reasonable! Back me up here, Lydia."
"Don’t drag me into this, boys."
"Lydia, baby, darling, light of my life, how could you betray me like this in my hour of need?"
"Hey, losers, what’s up?"
"Nothing, Cora! Nothing at all! Totally not creeping on your hot older—heeeeeeey, Derek. Didn’t see ya there."
LOOK AT ALL THESE EXAMPLES. Look how EASY it is!
So easy, anyone can do it! Even YOU! Why not GIVE IT A TRY!
PS: AND A NEW PARAGRAPH EACH TIME A DIFFERENT CHARACTER TALKS! You should NOT have more than one character speaking in the same paragraph.
There’s some ships you ship… that have massive amounts of shippers right along with you. Then there’s the ships… those ships you have that are near and dear to your heart where you’re in a fucking canoe with like… four other people.
Tumblr and Puns
Awww, it’s okay, ilttle bun! You don’t have to be shy! But if you need to, you can hide in my hand…
Well then, let me show you, because that’s what I do for a living.
Right now, it’s this time of the year, and the little ones have just freshly hatched:
You’ll notice they’re still blind and naked when they hatch. So I make them little coats to keep them warm during their first winter:
See how they happily line up to put them on:
See? Better. Now they’re ready to go and explore the world.
And if they make it through the winter and we take good care of them, they will grow up to be strong and wise like their older fellows:
So, in case you were ever wondering, now you know.
You know, Thranduil is actually the only Third Age Elven ruler who isn’t using a Ring of Power to protect his lands. Elrond has Vilya, Galadriel has Nenya, and even Cirdan (ruler of the Grey Havens) had Narya until he gave it to Gandalf.
So for thousands of years Thranduil has been defending his lands on his own against Orcs, Goblins, and Giant Spiders, plus Sauron setting up a summer home in his forest. And yet his hair STILL looks perfect.
Granted, in the PJ films, he’s an isolationist, and it looks like he’s focusing on maintaining a hold on the lands immediately around his seat of power, rather than the whole forest.
Then again, maybe it takes a lot of effort to keep his hair that pretty…
When artists say they suck at arting
For some reason, this reminds me of Calmage Wolfatee.