oxfords. rolled sleeves

Calling in the bomb squad

@bookshop wanted a sleeves-rolled-up fic, so this is my attempt to oblige her.

The first few times it was the subject of much covert amusement and later mockery over drinks, but at this point it’s just getting old. Honestly, you’d think it was the Victorian era, the way they react.

“Here we go again,” Ariadne mutters to Yusuf as Arthur unbuttons his cuffs.

“So if we draw on Ms. Farrowman’s empathetic tendences toward orphans,” Eames is saying as he draws a diagram on the whiteboard, “we should be able to— um— to access, uh, the subconscious— that is to say—“ Eames is saved from finishing his sentence when he drops his marker on the floor. He drags his attention away from Arthur’s newly-revealed forearms and looks down at the marker with a puzzled expression, as though it were some sort of small meteorite that had randomly fallen at his feet. Meanwhile, Arthur, who has resumed scribbling in his Moleskine, is oblivious.

“If we use Ms. Farrowman’s empathy for orphans…?” Dom prompts, which seems to have the effect of restarting Eames’s brain. He retrieves the marker and turns back to the board.

“Right, yes, we should be able to trigger her subconscious to feed us the combination for the safe,” Eames says, and then he’s off again on his strategizing. Ariadne rolls her eyes at Yusuf, who responds with the kind of What can you do? shrug you give your spouse when the dog is scooting its butt across the living room rug.

It’s not like Arthur is any better; the last time Eames rolled his shirtsleeves up at work, Arthur spilled his coffee. Not on himself,  of course — god forbid he ruin one of his precious suits — but on Ariadne’s lap.

Okay, so he bought her a really nice pair of replacement jeans that make her ass look fantastic. But it’s the principle of the thing.

And the principle of the thing, or maybe the thing itself, is that Arthur and Eames each turn into blithering idiots whenever the other rolls up his sleeves. Drinks are spilled, sentences are abandoned mid-word, hard drives are abruptly disconnected without ejecting… on one memorable occasion, a ball-point pen was broken in half, leaving Eames looking like he tried to rob a bank. Thank god they’ve never both had their sleeves rolled up at the same time; Ariadne can only imagine the chaos that would ensue.

And the other thing is that everyone has noticed except for them.

As far as Arthur and Eames are concerned, they’ve simply become clumsier, more absent-minded. Eames blames it on Yusuf’s new Somnacin blend, despite Yusuf’s vociferous protests. Arthur blames it on a lack of sleep, and Ariadne hasn’t had the heart to point out that they spend half their waking lives asleep.

And she gets it. She does. She’s watched enough West Wing episodes to appreciate the look of a man in an oxford with rolled-up sleeves. But at a certain point you move on from dumbfounded gaping to fucking. (That’s what Yusuf did after Arthur got Ariadne those new jeans.) Sometimes Ariadne feels like she’s one ruined thumb drive away from locking the two of them in a closet and not letting them out until they’ve defused the sexual tension.

As if on cue, Eames sends a mug skittering off the edge of a desk and watches helplessly as it shatters into a hundred pieces.

You have got to be kidding me, Ariadne says to herself, Out loud, she says, “I think I saw a broom and dustpan in the utility room, Eames.”

He mutters something about Somnacin and heads off, leaving three of them shaking their heads and one of them still scribbling obliviously in his notebook.

“Arthur,” Ariadne says, causing him to snap his head up. “Maybe you should help Eames find the broom. I think it’s behind some boxes.”

“I’m pretty sure Eames is capable of moving boxes by himself.”

“You know how Eames is,” Ariadne says. She doesn’t know what that means, but she has a feeling it will work. And sure enough, Arthur huffs and unfolds himself from his chair, stalking toward the utility room.

Ariadne quickly looks around the room for something that could— there, that looks like it’s the right height for wedging under a doorknob. “Yusuf,” she hisses, “grab that chair and follow me.”


“Because,” Ariadne says with relish, “It’s time for a controlled detonation.”

A Day in the Park

Pairing: Twelve/Rose
Rating: T
Summary: The Doctor and Rose spend some downtime in the park, and decide to have a little fun in the meantime.

A/N: Happy tumblrversary to an amazing co-author and all around brilliant person, gallifreyslostson! Beta by bluedawn0123. Thanks dear <3

“Doctor, we have a problem,” Rose announced as she walked into the console room. He grunted in acknowledgement, more concerned with the equation on the chalkboard, but when Rose cleared her throat impatiently he sighed and turned to see what she wanted.

He was momentarily distracted by her attire. She was wearing black jeans and one of his discarded oxfords, the sleeves rolled up and the bottom tied around her waist, leaving a tantalizing strip of skin. Her feet were bare with her hair tied in a ponytail, and she only had on mascara. She looked stunning, and he immediately dropped the chalk to walk over to her.

“Wipe your hands off first,” she grinned, dancing out of his reach when he grabbed for her. “I just changed, and everything shows on black.”

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I mean honestly the University AU would literally be 100K of this bullshit

It wasn’t that Luke had forgotten that the office he’d barged into no longer belonged to Leia, exactly — or rather, he did forget, in an exact sense of the word. But Leia’s absence had been a constant nag at his shoulder for almost a month now, pauses in every conversation he had with his fellow faculty members where he missed her biting remarks and blithe cruelty toward everyone in the Classics department. He missed her like he missed his right hand. The fact that she planned to be gone for only a year hardly helped; the fact that she most definitely did not miss him (if her texts were anything to go by), strangely, did.

But it was more muscle memory than anything else, walking through the quad and cutting through the Ackbar Building to get a cup of coffee from the only cart brave enough to be selling anything in mid-February. Leia had long been entitled to the Dean’s office and all the pomp and circumstance that allowed, but she had dumped her forty-seven TAs and assistants into the suite instead and stayed stubborn in her airless cupboard of an office on the ground floor of the history department’s ugliest building. Luke would admire her commitment to democracy amongst colleagues if he didn’t know she did it to discourage the more amorous-minded of her students from trying to woo her during office hours. It was hard to set a mood in a seven-by-eight room with one tiny window looking directly out at the garbage bins.

Still, it was convenient to Luke’s purposes, which was swinging past every morning and dragging her out into some actual sunshine for a few minutes under the pretext of helping him carry back his standard coffee and donut, usually while she complained that just because he had a conveniently conspicuous war wound didn’t mean she had to be nice to him. To which he would reply that she had never been nice to him, ever, but being seen helping an amputee would probably, or at least possibly, quell the rumors going around campus that she was a practicing sorceress.

His step had staggered each day so far this semester as he’d walked past her office, but he’d remembered before reaching for the doorknob and had kept walking.

This Monday, however, he was still sleep-deprived from a three-day writing binge. His publisher had started making threatening noises about making him attend Comic Con this summer if he didn’t produce the next novel; thus chastened, he had finally gotten to work outlining the next trilogy. He was only half on this planet and thus, when he turned right into the Ackbar building, he made straight for Leia’s office and opened the door before his brain caught up with him.

He realized his mistake at once — instead of the tidy yet intimidatingly dark office that Leia had so cherished for frightening her students half to death, it was now a well-lit disaster area, lamps in every corner, some stacked on top of books or file boxes. Bookshelves had been brought in from who knew where and were already filled to capacity with books and papers and a toy X-wing, of all things. The desk, which Leia had always kept facing the door (Luke assumed that it was because she had a gun hidden underneath and was in constant expectation of Hux, coming up from Washington to try and convince her to run for office again) was instead jammed in the far corner underneath the window.

At the desk sat a man, one hand fisted in his hair while the other scrawled something on a paper; judging by the defeated (yet oddly appealing) slump of his spine, he was grading first-year work. Luke blinked for a few moments at the tumble of black curls above a light blue oxford, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, the idle tapping of a shoe against the floor in time with the music — Tom Waits, it sounded like.

Then he realized that a) he was staring and b) he had just barged into a stranger’s office and c) the poor man hadn’t even noticed.

He was just about to quietly shut the door and make a valiant attempt to pretend none of this had happened when the man dropped the pen and stretched, arching his back in one long, graceful curve, his arms lifting and fingers extending toward the ceiling, releasing a low, satisfied groan that made Luke’s mouth go dry. The man sighed and relaxed, then seemed to realize he wasn’t alone; he turned to the door and Luke regretted, very much, that he hadn’t shut the door when he had the chance.

“Professor Amidala,” said the man, a bright smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, “I’ve been meaning to look you up.”

matt's adorable prompt: 5 + 1: 5 candid pictures taken of Bones smiling with Jim, 1 picture taken of them smiling at their wedding

Matthew, darling, I have not forgotten you, I promise.


Jim’s favourite picture of them was Bones’ absolute most hated one, as his tastes seemed to run that way. It had been taken on Jim’s personal PADD on the shuttle to California, Jim smiling like a particularly violent looking maniac with his bloodied lip and bruised cheek and Bones having plastered on a fake smile to shut up the damn kid who hadn’t stopped regaling him with tales of his heroics for hours on end, his eyes slightly deranged and his cheeks pale with terror.

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anonymous asked:

University AU

I know way too many actual academics to ever write a story where Poe is Luke’s TA. But I think it would go - Luke teaches comparative religion and Leia teaches criminology at a major university. Poe has grown up reading Luke’s novel series, which I imagine as kind of a Discworldean take on scifi, and partially picked his college based on the idea that he might get to take a class with him. But he instead falls in love with criminology and engineering as double-majors (Chewie is obv. the engineering prof; Han is a groundskeeper) and never actually has time to take one of Luke’s classes. But Leia takes a shine to Poe and starts lying to him extensively about how awesome academia is and how he should teach and all that shit. Which results in them becoming very close and Poe getting to meet Luke at the occasional Organa/Skywalker family dinner.

And it’s HORRIFYING, because Poe knows every single detail of Luke’s books - not just the novels but now that he’s in college he’s read the comp religion books, too, he’s got really strong opinions about the history of atheism and Luke is just mega charmed by this kid but, you know, he’s a kid. And Poe is head over heels and kind of embarrassing about it - there’s a regrettable Christmas Eve mistletoe incident during his junior year that he wants to forget - but Luke has Rules and Lines and all that jazz.

So Poe goes off to a different school for his master’s and PhD program, and Leia teases him endlessly about it but Luke is just like, he was a very nice kid! But I am an old man and that’s just not going to happen.

And then five years later Leia takes a sabbatical to try to deal with her asshole kid and the university hires some associate professor to replace her. Luke misses her for the first few weeks, keeps noticing how his feet wander past her office on the way to the one good coffee stand on campus almost every day. One day as he’s wandering past and mulling over his next book – he’s not even really thinking about it – he sticks his head into her office, because he’s honestly forgotten that she isn’t there, that she’s off in California, of all places.

He realizes his mistake almost immediately, because instead of Leia’s tidy closet of an office, there’s a half-dozen stacks of books and binders and what look like crime scene photos strewn around the floor and instead of facing the door, the desk is jammed in the corner next to the one and only window. There’s a man sitting at it, writing something; Luke blinks in surprise at the tumble of black curls above a light blue oxford, the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, the back curved but appealing, somehow. The man holds up a hand at the sound of the door. “Kala, I swear to god if that’s you again, I’m going to stuff your first edition of In Cold Blood down the faculty toilet.” And the voice is terribly, terribly familiar.

“Oh,” says Luke, because that’s all he can think of to say.

The man turns around in his chair, dark brown eyes with faint laugh lines around them, a blush of five-o’clock shadow on his cheek even though it’s only noon. He blinks at Luke, then smiles, wide and brilliant and breathtaking. “Professor Skywalker,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to look you up.”

And Luke thinks, goddamn Leia.