#because well shit the guy still has this axe with him

[arrimorr-otgw-spam-blog]

I'm so sorry

#otgw #over the garden wall #the beast #honestly I don't even think he is scary anymore #I can rant about how funny and absurd his plot is for hours #Like...remember how the fandom decided that he keeps finding and masterminding different lantern keepers? #the thing is - IT WAS NEVER THE CASE #the woodsman just swung his axe on the guy in the comics and this silly creature went ! and dropped the only thing keeping him alive #And then the Beast had to come up with this fairy tale about the Woodsman's daughter being in the thing so the crazy dude won't shattert it #BUT OH WAIT the woodsman decided that he is going to keep the lantern to himself if that's the case - good job brainiac #and the beast even tried to steal the lantern from him a few times in the series but he had to be sneaky about it #because well shit the guy still has this axe with him #AND THEN WHEN WIRT GOT THE LANTERN IN HIS HANDS WHAT DID THE BEAST DO? #he decided to trick him with the same freaking story that got him into this mess in the first place #He is a girlfailure

[wren-kitchens]

it was not your fault but mine

in which joel tries to kill scott and ends up having a panic attack. (3641 words)

content warnings: panic attacks, lots of mentions of death

i’m being so normal about traffic scott and joel rn guys

joel’s breath is coming too fast and too shallow for him to be able to convince himself that he’s fine, even as it tears at his throat. tears blur and warp his vision, welling up in his eyes faster than joel’s ability to wipe them away with his sleeve. his ribs threaten to crack against his heart, hammering against the inside of his chest like it’s trying to escape. joel can’t blame it.

it’s been hours- okay, it’s been four stupid hours, and he still can’t calm himself down from today’s events. everyone else has been able to sleep, to rest, to patch themselves up and recuperate with their team- or what’s left of it. everyone else is fine, they’re all fine, and they’re going to be fine until they die in whatever unjust, careless death they can’t escape anymore.

for the past four hours (four fucking hours- it’s so stupid-) joel has been failing to get a firm grip on the last remaining threads of his sanity. he thought he was fine- he thought he was safe from that bloodlust, that agony, that grief. but as always, the looming threat of his inevitable breakdown hangs over his head like an anvil-

(mumbo tried to turn on them, mumbo tried to send them to their graves with anvils, mumbo failed and then he died-)

not an anvil. just- anything but an anvil. dripstone- hangs over his head like dripstone-

(joel can see the spot where lizzie dropped dripstone on his head, lizzie dropped it on him because he was the last resort, lizzie was here and joel asked her to hurt scott, and she tried and was killed-)

scratch that metaphor entirely.

just- void, he’s so tired of waiting for that snap, of fearing what will inevitably make something inside of him break and lose himself in the grief-fuelled bloodlust. maybe dying first wouldn’t be so bad; you don’t have to watch as everyone else leaves you.

even through his yellow sanity, joel’s mind seems to be on its way out, and he finds himself wanting to give in. just give in- kill some people, lose a battle and die in a crushingly painful way. it’s easier, isn’t it, than trying to hold onto the threads that slice at his hands once he has a secure hold. besides, if he dies, he can be with them again.

before he even registers the action, joel finds himself gripping his axe with a kind of determination he hasn’t felt in a little while. sure, he’s yellow, but he can’t imagine the big winged fuckers getting too pissy if he went and killed someone. he’s just starting the party early, after all.

joel seems to be zoning in and out, as moments later, he finds himself treading the well-known path to scott’s, knowing that- well. if he’s going to kill anyone, it may as well be scott, right?

smug, crude, stupid scott; who stood by and watched as lizzie was flung into the void, who laughed as joel failed his tasks, who has either won or almost won three out of four of these stupid games. he deserves to be knocked down a peg or four, really. it’s only fair.

out of the corner of his eye, however, joel spots scott’s nametag behind the secret keeper’s statue. oh, of fucking course. scott ‘30-full-hearts’ smajor just couldn’t resist a chance to show off by walking around in the dead of night, huh? piece of shit- like he doesn’t even care that he just let lizzie die.

well, if scott wants to play with fire, he ought to know he’s going to get burned.

-

he’s making a fucking grotto.

scott smajor, winner of one of these stupid games, top three in all games but one, is out in the middle of the night after a wither and warden fight, building a goddamn magic grotto underneath the secret keeper statue. of fucking course he is- fucking show off.

joel watches with utter distain as he prances about with his stupid azalea bushes and his stupid moss and- where the hell did he even get moss in the first place?! honestly, does he not realise this is a death game? they don’t have time to be making places pretty.

finally- finally, scott backs up against one of the stone walls, surveying his stupid pond like it actually means anything. joel creeps along the shadows, the (surprisingly still alive) grass muffling his careful steps towards scott- towards where joel is going to put an axe through his stupid throat and kill him.

“is this really worth the time?” joel says, because he has to- he can’t let scott have all the stupid quips and one-liners, because he would just go insane.

joel might already be insane.

scott looks up, eyes widening in fear as they land on joel’s figure. his whole body lurches away, but joel is too quick—in an instant, joel is in front of scott, pinning him against the wall with the blade of his axe pressed against scott’s throat. joel grins; all manic eyes and sharp teeth and the sweet smell of blood on his breath.

“looks like someone wanted to push his luck, huh scott?” joel says—and even he can admit he sounds a little hysterical now—but scott is trembling, eyes darting all over to find a way out, and that’s all joel cares about right now. “got a little big for our boots on our midnight stroll?”

“joel-“ scott gasps, and even his voice is shaking. “please-“

and- okay, it’s not exactly what joel was expecting. don’t get him wrong- he loves the fear and the trembling and the pleading, but- it’s weird. scott doesn’t fear joel, and he especially doesn’t plead with him, and- now that he’s actually looking at scott, the guy seems kind of- well, pathetic seems too cruel a word. disheveled. weakened. whatever.

“what’s wrong with you?” joel spits, looking him up and down with a distinct sinking feeling in his chest.

the tips of scott’s fingers—currently grasping at the axe’s handle—are a poisonous black, tendrils spidering up his veins. he looks exhausted, as if he’s been up all night, but- scott isn’t that dumb to have not slept. as irritating as it is, scott is a survivor, a strategist. he wouldn’t be in this state if there wasn’t something wrong.

“wither.” scott manages, and joel can’t pretend to himself that he didn’t know- “what’s wrong with you.”

joel’s rage seizes him like a fist again, and he shoves the axe further into scott’s throat. “nothing’s wrong with me you piece of- who the fuck do you think you even are? coming here, middle of the night, flaunting your thirty goddamn hearts-“

“half a heart.” scott breathes, and joel’s mind goes searingly blank.

“what?” joel’s voice is infuriatingly quiet.

scott’s hands have stopped clawing at the hilt of the axe. when did that happen? “i’m- i’m on half a heart.”

“you’re- no you’re not.” joel half mutters because- he can’t be. scott was going to die a long and painful death by his hand, but if he’s going to fall the second blood is drawn- what’s the point? “no, you’re- you’re not.”

“why do you even care?” scott says. “you’re going to kill me anyway.”

“i don’t.” joel says, far less certain than he ought to be. “I don’t care, i’m- i’m happy.”

“tell your face that.” scott mutters.

joel slams his fist against the wall, inches from scott’s face, practically breathing smoke. “you can shut the fuck up, or i’ll kill you where you stand.”

“oh, so you came here and put an axe to my throat because you wanted to protect me?” scott sneers, and- this is all wrong- how has scott gotten the upper hand? joel is threatening to kill him, and scott has the goddamn upper hand.

and it’s so easy- it’s so easy. push the axe in, slide it across scott’s skin and slit his throat. he’d be dead in an instant—it’d barely take a second—it’s so easy. the axe is firm in his grip, there’s no danger of someone interrupting, scott is far too weak to push him off and get away- it’s all so fucking easy.

there’s something distantly satisfying about the way scott flinches as joel gives a scream of frustration, flinging the stupid axe across the goddamn secret grotto. it sticks in the muddy banks of the river at an odd angle, sinking ever so slightly as the earth gives way.

he can’t do it.

he can’t fucking do it.

joel’s breath is coming too shallow again, tearing at the inside of his lungs as he gasps against this invisible force that seems to be sucking the wind from every breath he takes. tears burn in his eyes and it’s only after joel notices how damp the knees of his trousers have become that he realises he’s dropped to the ground, hyperventilating.

is this what a panic attack is? joel is pretty sure this is a panic attack. he is having a panic attack. how does he stop having a panic attack?

he tries desperately to slow his breathing, to straighten up and pretend it never happened, but his thoughts clamour inside his mind far too loudly for him to even begin to calm down. lizzie dead, jimmy dead, mumbo dead- joel nearly killed scott. what if he had done it- what if he killed someone else? there’s too much death, joel can’t be the cause of another death. joel nearly killed scott. lizzie is dead because of scott-

no- lizzie is dead because of joel. he let her- he didn’t tell her he failed- she tried to kill scott and then she died and now she’s gone and joel killed her just like he was about to kill scott and he still can’t fucking breathe-

there’s a hand on his shoulder (he can’t breathe-), squeezing gently through the fabric of joel’s hoodie (lizzie is dead-). scott is saying something- scott is telling him to look at him, and joel thinks his hands are going numb.

“i’m sorry, i didn’t-” joel’s voice is nothing but a broken whisper. he can barely hear himself over the rush of blood in his ears, the taste of iron in his mouth. “I can’t-“

“it’s okay.” scott is saying and he’s wrong because it’s not okay- it’ll never be okay. “you’re okay. you’re gonna be okay.”

“they’re all-“ joel chokes on his words. he can’t even say it. fucking pathetic.

scott takes a trembling breath, which- void, it’s so strange to see him having any emotion at all. “yeah.” he glances down, and the uncertainty of it all is what brings joel back to the present.

joel’s hands are shaking uncontrollably, regardless of how much he tries to stop. scott holds his own out in an unspoken offer, and joel grabs them embarrassingly quickly. their eyes meet, and joel doesn’t look away.

“but they’ll be back.” scott says, quiet. “they’re not lost—they’re still here.”

“but they’re not here.” joel almost winces at how raw he sounds, but he can’t bring himself to. now is not the time for embarrassment, however deeply he is going to regret that later.

scott’s eyes seem somehow more sunken, the bags underneath more pronounced—the scars of nightmares. joel knows those scars well. “I know.”

and- despite it all, it just seems so strange for scott to share that sign of grief with joel. scott, who hides his feelings so well from the outside world, not even jimmy knows all of him; whom joel has contemplated on numerous occasions if he is a robot or not because of this fact; who won’t let himself die to anyone but his allies’ hands since double life.

so joel decides to do what he does probably the worst, and tries to lighten the mood.

“you- maybe he is here. jimmy, I mean.” he blurts. “he- y’know when you wake up after you die and he’s laughing at you for whatever dumb death you just had?”

something flickers in scott’s eyes—almost like candlelight. “usually he’s just annoyed I lasted so long.” he says, a note of amusement lacing his tone. joel jumps on it.

“I reckon he’s here- with lizzie maybe.” joel says, scrutinising every detail of scott’s expression for any signs of reassurance. when did he start caring about scott? “they’re both making fun of us for being so sappy about them- and they’re gonna go tell mumbo so he can join in.”

scott glances down at his hands—still holding joel’s. when he looks back up, there’s something warm in his eyes. “you don’t comfort a lot of people, do you?”

“I- what’s that supposed to mean?” joel says, but it’s too softly spoken to come across as a threat.

“nothing.” scott says, and he sounds like he means it, which is- fucking weird. “you’re doing a good job.”

“yeah, too right I am.” joel says haughtily. he can feel his hands again; his mind isn’t so loud anymore. “thanks.” he says, quieter.

“you’re- you’re welcome.” scott says, apparently taken aback by joel’s humility.

there’s a long pause, and a silence stretches out between the two. it’s not strictly an uncomfortable silence, but it’s extremely strange—silence in these games is a luxury that too often means trap to be trusted.

“this is- this is fucking weird, right?” joel says, barely managing a grin.

scott rolls his eyes, but a smile plays at his lips. “you always have to ruin the moment, don’t you?” he pauses. “but- yes, this is very strange.”

“I don’t like it.” joel says, and.. maybe that was a tiny lie. okay- a big lie, but. just- oh, whatever. shut up. “feels unnatural.”

“I can go back to killing you if that makes you feel better.” scott grins.

joel scoffs. “how about I kill you and we call it even.”

scott huffs a quiet laugh, and the two drift back into a comfortable silence. only- there’s something in scott’s eyes that makes joel think he hasn’t said everything he wants to say. how does he know this, you may ask? well, joel isn’t exactly the most.. open with his feelings; he’s seen that look in his own eyes too many times not to recognise it.

“what?” he asks, and scott practically startles.

“I- what do you mean?” scott says, that look still plastered all over his face. joel isn’t feeling anything at all about the fact scott has started to let his guard down around him. shut up.

“you have that look.” joel gestures vaguely. “like you want to say something but it sounds stupid in your head and you can’t decide if it’s worth it.”

scott blinks at him. “you- how did you-“

“I know everything, scott.” joel says, some of that swagger back in his voice as he half-grins. “but what is it?”

“it’s- I mean you hit the nail on the head.” scott chuckles. “it sounds stupid and I can’t decide if it’s worth saying.”

“well, in my expansive worldly knowledge,” joel says pompously, grinning as scott scoffs at him. there’s something very strange going on in his chest as he notes the fond undertone of it. is he having a heart attack or is he just happy? hard to tell. “it’s almost always worth it. and if it’s not- well, I just had a panic attack because I almost killed you, so.”

“okay, well- you’re not allowed to laugh.” scott preempts, as if joel even has any right to laugh after scott helped him through his breakdown. “but, um. can I hug you?”

joel’s brain seems to have gone entirely blank, and so it’s a surprise to even himself when he says, “yeah- yes. you can.”

scott seems to be genuinely scared of doing anything that might upset joel, which- okay, that’s a whole other thing to have a crisis over later, but it also is kind of funny. oddly enough, it makes it easier for joel to shuffle so he can lean against scott’s shoulder, grinning as scott practically freezes.

“y’know, you asked.” joel nudges him.

scott scoffs a little. “yeah- I know, I just- I assumed you weren’t very.. huggy.”

“why does everyone always say that?” joel huffs. “etho said it, grian and jimmy said it-“ joel is interrupted (very rudely) by scott snorting, and hurriedly covering his mouth. “what?”

“nothing, nothing, just-“ scott grins. “eefo.”

“wh- oi!” joel exclaims, digging an elbow into scott’s side. “i’ve heard enough about that from him, I don’t need you joining in.”

“you’re gonna end up killing me if you do that again.” scott says, exasperated. joel does notice him relaxing though.

“oh no, what a shame.” joel says sarcastically, cackling as scott elbows him back.

there’s a pause, and joel is beginning to notice that there are a lot of pauses with scott. he kind of appreciates it. before joel has time to unpack that, he takes the opportunity to shift into a more comfortable position, which apparently startles scott, if the momentary tense is anything to go by. joel doesn’t get a chance to apologise before scott relaxes and puts his arms around him.

“this whole.. murder thing,” scott starts. “it hasn’t been red bloodlust since- well, ever, has it?”

and- joel wasn’t expecting to be asked that by scott- probably ever in his life, in all honesty. but. he can’t lie and say he doesn’t have an answer.

“I don’t think so.” he admits, quiet. “how long ago did you figure that out?”

“limited life.” scott says, and- yeah. that makes a lot of sense. “I was surprised that you hadn’t gone- well. batshit. and then jimmy died, and you were losing time like there was no tomorrow.”

“yeah.” joel leans a little closer to scott, almost unconsciously. “jimmy is- he’s- well. you know what he’s like.”

“I do.” scott says, a little distantly.

“I don’t- it’s never really.. on purpose.” joel says. “I mean- suddenly someone’s gone, or i’m on my own, and then it’s kind of like- why does it just have to be me? and then that turns into, maybe I should just go. get it over with, y’know?”

“pick fights you know you’ll lose.” scott realises, and joel hums in agreement. “get someone to do it for you so you can pretend it’s accidental.”

“ding ding.” joel says, emotionless. maybe he should feel a little more.. anything about that. he doesn’t.

“fuck.” scott breathes. he squeezes joel a little, almost as if he wasn’t thinking about it- as if it was natural. “I didn’t- I never realised.”

“well, I only just realised.” joel says. “I never really.. clocked it, I guess.”

“and so now.. was that part of it?” scott asks, almost cautiously. oh. gently.

“might’ve been.” joel shrugs. “though, I might just not like you.” he manages a grin and scott rolls his eyes. “who’s to say it’s not both?”

“can I.. tell you something?” scott says, almost hesitantly.

joel gives a soft laugh. “somehow, I feel like you probably can. just a feeling.”

“you have a knack for making things so unserious.” scott tells him, but there’s a smile in his voice. “well, I was gonna say that.. winning is probably the worst thing you can do in this game.”

joel frowns, looking up to peer at scott’s face. to his surprise, he’s entirely serious. “what do you mean?”

“just- it’s all fine until it’s just you, and everyone you know is dead, and you killed half of them, and then- and then it’s all gone.” scott says, suddenly quiet. “you never.. you don’t recover from that. when you’re the only person alive in a sea of blood and bodies that used to be your friends.”

joel gives a long exhale. “fuck.”

“sorry, that’s probably- a bit much.” scott says suddenly, apparently realising the depth of what he just said.

“it’s- well, it’s a lot.” joel says. “but what I- I mean, are you okay?”

scott is silent for a moment. “can you ever be okay in these games?”

“true.” joel says, more to himself than to scott. there’s a long stretch of silence, and joel finds himself wondering whether he should have more silences in his life. he’d tried to avoid them, especially when he was on his own; if he kept making noise, he couldn’t be entirely alone, right? now though, he thinks he’s starting to like them. “i’m sorry i’m always such a dick to you.”

“you- that’s- I don’t mind.” scott says, sounding slightly taken aback. he does sound pleased though, and joel decides to take that as a win. “I mean, I keep killing you. it’s fair enough.”

joel snorts. “yeah, well. still.” he closes his eyes. “I am sorry.”

another stretch of silence fills the little cavern, but this time, it isn’t broken. as the quiet settles on them both like a flurry of snow, it dawns on joel just how tired he is. after all, he’s had a hell of a couple days with very little rest in between them, and- yeah, he definitely needs a nap at some point.

as joel’s eyes begin to close and he nudges closer to scott, ‘at some point’ is starting to look a whole lot more like ‘right this second’. he’s about to sit up again, but scott wraps an arm around him and leans against him as well, and he gets the impression that he’s allowed to sleep here.

it is kind of bizarre that, just earlier today, joel was trying to murder scott—only half because of his task—and now here they are. void, death games are so weird.

joel kind of loves it.

#the ending is weak don’t judge me this has been a wip for like two months now I wanted to finally post it HKFJDK #trafficblr #scott smajor #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #secret life smp #wren writes #watch this get like 5 notes GKFHD

[max1461]

Thought for a moment in the 2010s that we were entering a new serious era (e.g. 1920s, 30s, 40s), but it seems that we're instead in an increasingly tacky era (50s, 60s, 70s). Like look at the change in YouTube. Well you all are textheads you don't do video, I know that. But like. In 2017 there was ContraPoints. Agree or disagree with her opinions, what she was doing was conceptually and aesthetically serious. Even her early, low-production-value stuff. She was talking about incels and other internet shit, but the internet is part of the real world, that's fine. In fact that's what gave me hope for another serious era, people were finally talking about internet stuff the way 1920s German intellectuals or whatever talked about the cultural trends of their day. Maybe because Contra has half a philosophy PhD and was explicitly influenced by those German intellectuals.

Another example from a totally disjoint cultural niche was Digi a.k.a. Trixie a.k.a. Ygg Studios or whatever they go by now. Drunk, smelly, and unkempt—yes. Or at least so went the persona. Talking seriously about anime—also yes. When they claimed they were the only good anime reviewer on the internet it made a lot of people mad. But they were right!

There were thinkers, we had thinkers. My generation, or roughly my generation, had thinkers. To be clear, when I include Contra here I'm not including all of her ilk, I'm not including the leftist-theory-regurgitators and so on. But Contra herself was a thinker! Digi was a thinker! We had thinkers.

But that era is over now, on YouTube at least. I go on there and it's all algorithmic drivel. I look for anime content and as I've explained it's all about #hype and #epic and how the new season of whatever #hits different and other empty meaningless bullshit. No analysis, no thought, fundementally unserious bullshit. Tacky! It's tacky! The the YouTube thumbnail O-face is fucking 70s-ass fake wood paneling tacky bullshit!

MrBeast. I've never seen a MrBeast video but I hate him for what he represents. I used to watch this channel called Wranglerstar, he made videos about different types of axes and forest fire fighting equipment and various other stuff. "Modern homesteading" I believe was the tagline. And it was always evident that he was a far-right guy but who gives a shit, his videos where good. Serious videos about interesting topics, that a fucking normal guy might watch. Well around 2020 he basically started flooding his channel with covid conspiracy bullshit and "the Chinese are going to attack us any day!" bullshit and other unserious crap. And I had to stop watching. How could I find any of that compelling? It's vapid nonsense.

And I don't know if it's a shift in the algorithm or people becoming more savvy to the algorithm or what, but all of YouTube is like this now. Vapid clickbait empty meaningless bullshit for another tacky commercialized bullshit era.

And you know, I felt like it might just be localized to YouTube for a while, but I started to look around, and it just feels like everything is like this. Backsliding to the tacky times. God I hate tackiness. I hate unseriousness. I'm having a little meltdown. At least SMW kaizo hacks are having a renaissance. People are doing serious shit in that space, serious shit that is also not anachronistic, you know, it's kept up with the modern world. It addresses modern concerns (fun to play hard Mario). But it's serious. People are serious. One of the few serious things happening in my orbit.

Even in science it feels like people aren't serious anymore. You know, standard Sabine Hossenfelder complaint about particle physics. But I don't really know enough about that to say. Get the vibe that biology is still serious these days.

To be clear, everything I'm saying here is pure vibes. I'm just saying shit. I'm just saying shit that I feel. But I'll be deeply disappointed if I have to live my youth in another tacky era, god damn it. Even the 80s seem like they were better than this.

#navel gazing #insane-type complaining sorry

[canyourfavesurvivecastledracula]

Axe Cop, from Axe Cop.

He's basically just a guy with an axe, but he is absurdly good at athletic things; for example, he can jump fully into space. He doesn't shave (magic robot mustache). His body hair is canonically tiny swords, which might fuck up Drac's attempts to suck him.

With the crucifix, there are two options: 1. he doesn't take it, because he's arrogant 2. he does take it, because he gets power-ups from the most random of shit

GODDD I haven't thought about Axe Cop in YEARS.

Axe Cop is a reality warper. Doesn't he turn Flute Cop into a dinosaur just by fiat? Also he has an AXE.

Axe Cop tells it like it is. Which is to say he tells it. And then it is. I am leaning on the side of accepting every power up. The Inkeeper's wife gives him her crucifix. He gives her an avocado. She's Avocado Cop now. She's going to be throwing her avocadoes at the semi-vampire and her aged guide who ride through here in another couple of months and it's going to be EPIC. Because it's always epic.

(was there a thing with avocados? I feel like I said that for a reason.)

Can you imagine if the Girlies tried to eat Unibaby? Would they acquire his powers or would he just wreck them? Or both? But this ain't about him.

The thing about Axe Cop is that he is a COP with an AXE. He doesn't abide bad guys (though his own morality is ...dubious). He will cut off Dracula's head with his axe. It's what he does.

On the other hand, Axe Cop is built on his allies. It's not that he relies on them per se (his Axe and his Mustache are all he strictly needs to be Axe Cop), but he certainly does have them, and acquires them with great enthusiasm. It's the Power of Friendship! Or...something, because he's kind of a dick to them. Well, that's a type of Friendship perhaps. At least, it's the Power of Axe Cop. All this to say, if he doesn't chop off Dracula's head with his Axe, he may well recruit him. Dracula is Vampire Cop now. He still kills and eats people. Dinosaur Cop is not okay with this, but he has no room to talk, he's a Dinosaur.

Either way, Axe Cop can very much survive Castle Dracula.

#axe cop #cops #webcomics

[onboardsorasora]

Renovation AU

Ok I tried to stop but I couldn't stop thinking about Renovation AU (especially considering I was literally going to write it then got derailed by Enchated AU: Christmas). And then when I wrote this little snippet it was like floodgates. so here it is Renovation AU in all its outline glory all 2k words of it 🥴🥴🥴I'll just put it under the cut

Max is a handyman/contractor. I know I know. We know how his hammer skills are and how he looks holding it and an axe. But let's just pretend he actually learned this skill and he's fucking hot about it and it triggers every competency kink.

He's built, he was able to grow into his stockiness and he's strong (I'm thinking like that tree splitting tiktok guy but not as Thor thick)

Christian hires Nyck as an interior designer and Nyck hires on Max and his small team. They get shit done. Geri wants to redo the whole cottage and they have until the start of the riding season? to get it done. (Don't question me. I know nothing about riding)

So anyways– they’re behind and Christian doesn’t think Nyck can manage the scope of the job so he fires him and hires on Daniel. Daniel’s a little bit more eclectic than Nyck– but he came highly recommended by Lewis and Seb and Geri loved what he did with their house in Switzerland so she had no problems changing directions a bit.

The problem becomes clear because Max and Nyck work well together, they know each other. Max doesn’t like big change and Daniel is a big change. He’s also good looking but that doesn’t matter. He’s annoying and picky and refuses to go by Nyck’s old plans and his laugh is funny and endearing and his face is pretty and his tattoos are cool.

But none of that matters. None.

Daniel is excited to get working, but he thinks Christian could have been a bit more forthcoming about how far behind they were. Daniel was expecting that maybe he’d be starting on some walls or something, he came with with swatches and tiles and everything. But no….the house is still pretty husk-like. And he’s annoyed cause now he’s standing there in his shorts and sneakers looking like a dick on this construction site.

Anyway, it doesnt matter because he comes prepared! He has like overalls in his raptor. So he grabs that and changes right there in full view of god and everyone. Why yes he is wearing his hot pink hot pants, thanks for fucking noticing. The creative juices always flow when he’s wearing them!

So he goes to Max– who is fucking hot– and also very angry with him. And Daniel gets it, because he and Nyck were friends and there's nothing worse than seeing your friend get fired for things out of their control.

No matter, Daniel is profesh. He can work in almost any environment and he’s not going to embarrass Sewis like that. They’re long time clients and friends. And their recommendations are always highly regarded.

So Daniel gets to work, first he’s helping this guy named Simon update the bricking outside, Geri wanted a whitewash on the southern side so the garden doesn’t get too hot and it’ll match with the new patio going in. Then he’s helping a guy named Genty inside the bathroom– a couple of the pipes needed updating. There weren’t any leaks but no one uses lead pipes anymore for reasons. And then he helps GP lay some new tiles in the bedrooms so that the floors are heated in the winter.

So this is going on for a few days, Daniel helping members of the team, building a rapport– keeping a wide berth of Max. Because Daniel knows when to not ruffle feathers. But he can’t avoid him forever, so finally when all the walls are up and the electrical is done. Daniel goes to Max with the new plans– because his part of the show is about to start.

Max…isn’t happy. Sure the changes aren’t that major, and it's not like they’ll be undoing anything his team has already done. But how dare this guy with his hot accent and laugh come in and befriend his team?! If Max had to hear one more inside joke that he has no clue about or hear his crew talk about Daniel this and Daniel that, he was going to throw a hammer.

So when Daniel comes to him one evening to go over plans, Max doesn’t really want to hear it. He’s come here in his shiny truck (untrue, the truck is dirty as fuck– they work in a construction site), in his tight fucking pants (ok true, Daniel’s work pants are a tad on the skinny side), and his fucking city boots (it was one day the first day. And Max will never let it go), and his gelled hair (ok fine, he makes sure to use his curl cream. Daniel is vain), and tries to take over Max’s job site.

So Max lays into him, letting out all his frustration and pent up sexual tension for this guy that he’s barely interacted with but hears all the time and sees his team– his friends enjoy his presence and maybe he also feels a little left out. And Daniel just stands there and takes it, doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t fight back. Even when Max is saying blatantly untrue things– but he got a good rant going and Daniel wasn’t stopping him so he was just gonna keep going.

“–and your fucking hot pink–” Max cuts himself off because there was no reason to finish that thought. And Daniel gets this smug fucking grin on his face that Max just wants to kiss off.

“My hot pink what now?” Daniel raises a brow in a challenge that Max is so not going to take. But Daniel is nothing, if not a little shit. “Were you checking me out when I was oh so privately changing that one time Maxy?”

“You stripped in the middle of the driveway while everyone was working. That was hardly private, I think Daniel.”

“But no one else has mentioned my hot pink underwear Maxy Max. Did you like what you saw?” Daniel is dragging a finger along Max’s shoulder at this point and Max is just..frozen in place because how did we get here????

“I– well–You are changing in the middle of a site Daniel. You, of course, cannot be crying modesty now!”

“You wanna know what other colours I wear?”

“Don’t be silly Daniel.”

“Of course not Maxy, yesterday when I was tiling the guest bedroom with GP, I wore my favourite bright green pair that has some smokey black watercolour pattern. And when I was outside doing the patio I was wearing this pretty yellow polka dot ones.”

“I think that's enough Daniel, maybe. I do not–” Max is trying to push him away because when did he even get cornered by this wall? Who put a wall here??

“Oh but I think you’ll like the pair for today, you’re Dutch right? Do all Dutchies like the colour orange?”

“That’s enough Daniel I think! We–we can do the plan your way! It should look great–Geri will love it! I–I think I should go. Have a good night Daniel!” And Max manhandles Daniel out of his way and gtfo’s. He does not think about how Daniel’s waist felt under his arms because why did he even grab there??? He does not think about the fucking hot smirk on Daniels stupid face and kissable mouth and he absolutely does not think about Daniel’s ass in orange hot pants. Nope. He doesn’t.

That changes everything of course. He’s way more aware of where Daniel is in the house now. And its not like Daniel is going anything different. They speak now, and Daniel teases him with tool puns and very bad jokes and Max laughs at every single one because he’s down so bad. And everyone knows it.

Daniel makes random comments when they're alone, pouring over the blueprints and notes, about how Max’s thighs look like they can crush things and the he’ll make a loud offhand comment to the guys about having thighs wrapped around his face when they’re all making increasingly lewd sex jokes at lunch.

Daniel tells Max that he likes his thigh holster and Max internalizes the implications. So what if he’s blushing while they install the kitchen– he’s exerting himself!

Anyway they’re getting closer to the deadline, they have furniture delivery coming soon and there's still so much to do. Daniel has the team painting and wallpapering and Genty is doing the crown moulding and GP is finishing up the fireplace in the den and Max and Daniel are arguing about a chandelier that Geri wanted last minute. 

“We can extend it a little lower by three maybe four inches, c’mon Max it’ll really change like the look of the room. If it's too high then it’ll look too small and throws everything off.”

They're standing in the middle of the formal dining room, surrounded by chaos. Everyone is tired and a bit cranky because they’ve truly been going non-stop to meet this deadline. 

“It’ll be too low Daniel and the weight distribution will be off." Max sighs because he’s tired of arguing about this.

"Well if your guys installed the fucking beams–" Max had enough, he was tired, he was annoyed and he would not have Daniel complain about his team and fucking beams so late in the build. He sees white and he pushes Daniel’s chest. He’s mad, you don’t talk about his guys. He’s mad and Daniel is annoying and fuck. Max presses Daniel up against the wall and kisses him hard. And Daniel grips his shoulder and kisses him back.

And literally no one bats an eyelash because fucking finally. They can get shit finished now.

So they compromise on 2.5 inches lower. And Max is now wired because now he knows what Daniel feels like under him, pressed against him. Now he knows how his lips and mouth taste and what Daniel’s stubble feels like against his jaw.

It's late another night, the guys have all gone home and Max is with Daniel in the finally finished kitchen, going over what’s left to be done. Daniel’s team would be coming with the furniture install in 2 days so they needed to have everything done for them to take over.

Their time together is coming to an end and Max can’t stop looking at Daniel’s focused face while he makes a list and tries to figure out the best way to make things work. He’s staring at Daniel’s lips, at his nose, at the furrow of his brows.

Daniel looks up at him like ‘what?’, eyes wide and owlish? They really haven’t spoken about the kiss– not about it or what it meant or anything.

And then Max is kissing Daniel again and Daniel is all in. And it’s a push and pull between them and it’s hot and messy and they fuck right there in the kitchen. Daniel sucks Max’s dick in the nook that the stove’s supposed to go in and Max bends Daniel over the countertop (which they had argued about whether it was the correct height–it was).

Anyway so the house is finished, Geri is in love. Christian is happy with it all and life goes on. Max and Daniel go on a few dates, they fuck a lot and when Daniel got hired for another big job, he hired on Max as his contractor. 

It kinda went that way for a little bit, them doing jobs together, their teams merging until they make the leap to start a business together. Which incidentally happened before they took the step to move in together. Which is funny because they technically already did. A lot of Daniel’s stuff– clothes, plans, swatches– are already strewn around Max’s place and the cats know to leave the tiles and swatches alone. But moving together is a big step. Starting a business together is just smart. Anyway, they love each other and are grossly in love and their guys tease them about it daily. And Daniel now starts every job in his hot pink hot pants.

#there! its finally out of my brain #Its beautiful I love it #I hope you guys like it #renovation au #max/daniel #maxiel #my fic

[cult-of-the-eye]

tma makeup headcanons:

Jonathan "serving cunt" Sims:

S1 Jon doesn't know what makeup is (he absolutely wore eyeliner every single day at uni but he's not letting everyone else know that)

He like spot conceals but that's about all he feels comfortable getting away with while maintaining his air of professionalism

He also despises the feeling of foundation on his face

S2 Jon is barefaced as the day he was born. My man's last priority is how he looks, he's too busy buying axes in central London and stalking his coworkers

S3 Jon has none of his makeup with him but he's got loads of spare time and Georgie has a whole drawer so he experiments a little bit, he goes for Kajal (black pencil eyeliner lining the inside of your eyes) instead of his previous winged eyeliner but he hesitates at the any colour because she managed to pull it off but he's never been one for drawing attention to himself like that but one day he goes for a burgundy or like dark purplish red colour and he's quite pleased with himself

I feel like Jon would go for a natural kind of look, with concealer and a skin tint at best, some dark brown eye shadow to deepen his hooded eyes and kajal

Martin Kslaying Blackwood:

Ugh I love this man so much

I'm literally such a fan of trans Martin it's pretty much canon to me so I'm headcanoning that he's very hesitant about makeup cause he was a late transitioner and had only just gotten used to passing recently so he doesn't want to do anything to risk that

But he's such a slut for a nice little blush or like a subtle lip tint

He goes for powder blushes cause liquid ones feel sticky on his face and also powder blushes just Look Nice

He also likes lip tints cause he's constantly rubbing off lip products, with the multiple mugs of tea a day and it's getting awkward handing Jon mugs of tea with faint lipstick stains on them

He keeps an emergency kit in his bag with like some eyeshadow if he needs to darken his facial hair and on a whim he puts a baby pink powder blush in there and a matching lip tint

So it's not like he decided to bring it to the safehouse, it was just sort of there

Jon finds it and he's like let's go, we're going down to the shops and buying some, we're gonna do some experimenting and Martin's like oh!!

When he was working for Peter Lukas, he was also barefaced, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he put effort in

Timothy "Take notes" Stoker:

This man is such a fun makeup guy

He's a random dots around his eyes, shimmery colourful inner corner, new colour every day, just drawing shit around his eyes kinda man

He's a no foundation no concealer kinda guy as well I think

ugh just can you imagine??? They have a little tally of what colours/patterns Tim's using today and somehow he never managed to repeat a look - it might be a repeated colour but the pattern or the way it's used it's always different

And then one day he just stops. He still wears makeup but the colours are more muted and they make his eyes look bruised in a very decisive way

It's almost as if he's spent ages on a look and then tried to scrub it all away

Sashay Away James

She's such a glamorous girly I feel like she really enjoys the process of makeup more than actually changing the way she looks

I'd love her to be doing the whole shebang, spending hours picking the right primer and stuff like that

She goes for the yeah I'm wearing makeup and I'm slaying look

I feel like she's so good at a little nose highlight

Can you imagine every day Tim greeting Sasha every morning with like a love the highlight girl and it makes her happy every single time

Oh she's such a fake freckles girly absolutely

Hated false eyelashes cause they feel weird

Not Sasha believes makeup is pushing feminism backwards

#ugh i love gender fuckery archives #ive made every single archival staff autistic in my head #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin k blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #tma headcanons #archival assistants #not sasha #brown jonathan sims #desi jonathan sims

[wishing-stones]

Small headcanon prompt for you!

How do you think things would have gone if ren was younger than canon (think like 17-19 years old) where ren was more of a platonic little sibling to everyone (the gang and stars)?

Well, they'd be very protective, that's for sure.

Killer would tease the shit out of them, but it wouldn't be any worse than hazing the other guys, and none of his little pranks would actually hurt them. He's fond of ruffling hair and noogies.

Dust would be their very devout protector. Woe betide anything that comes near them with harmful Intent. He doesn't tease as much but anyone they eventually grow romantically interested in best pray he's not in a bad mood when he finds out. It's also his obligation to beat their ass at any pvp video game.

Axe still has a younger sibling, so they just get lumped in with "protectively herding them towards what they need to do or where they need to go." He'll hound them to eat properly and in a timely manner because a growing human body needs that. He absolutely encourages participation in the kitchen, too.

Cross is similar to Dust in his protectiveness, but he's more likely to be an escort somewhere than to shadow them. He's the one who would get into the most bickering because he's easy to rile, but he also subscribes to "stop the argument with a noogie." Having a younger sibling again does him immeasurable good, though.

Baggs has kind of fallen off the 'take care of younger sibling' bandwagon because General is capable and competent on his own, and doesn't need guidance. A teenager, however, is kept in check in regards to their health, education, and physical activity. He's happy to help tutor if it's needed, and he's pretty good at it. He believes a hands-on approach is best for learning, so nothing ever done with him is boring.

Nightmare hasn't had a sibling in a long time. He hasn't had to take care of one anyway, but he's not unkind. He's just... firm. His rules will be followed, and they will continue their education on time and well. He's pretty good-humored about a teenage human, actually, although he will only tolerate so much pushback before he sets his foot down. Gentler, more humorous methods of correction come out; he has a few nerf guns and an entire drawer of darts. Don't make him use them.

Dream Is just happy to see everyone banding together to take care of someone. It's good for the gang to have a collective younger sibling, since they're all older brothers. (He lets Nightmare think he's older most of the time, but reminds him they're actually twins when it's most inconvenient.) He's pretty gentle with them; not a lot changes about their dynamic, actually.

Ink gleefully steals them for 'art classes' and makes sure to inspire their creativity wherever he can. He also encourages their mischief and will happily help them set up pranks and stuff against their older brothers. Ink is a fantastic friend to them and basically lets them do whatever they want. The 'cool uncle' kind of guy.

Blue Isn't quite sure what to do, honestly. He's happy to hang out with them, and he definitely encourages fitness, but.... He's used to being around Actual Adults, and he himself is in his 30's. He's a little awkward on his own, but he's better in a group.

#k answers #k headcanons #feat. r&r crew #feat. star sanses

[thatwasntverycashmoneyofme]

𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗄

❥𝗌𝗇𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗍 : 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝗎𝗀𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗁 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗄. (𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 + 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗁)

{ 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 — 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖻𝖺𝖽 𝗆𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗁/𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗄𝗎𝗀𝗈, 𝗉𝗉𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗋. }

imagine bakugo getting hit with something like a truth quirk by accident or on purpose, and yes he spews the most intolerable shit and no one can stop him at alll and everyone just blushes at what comes outta his mouth, and no one can make him leave the room cuz he simply will not lol.

you’re in the lecture room just chillin at your seat and there’s a bunch of commotion in the hallways and the familiar yelling of the class hothead. you rest your head on top of your fist as you face the door, watching the incoming foolishness of denki and kiri struggling to push an angry bakugo in the classroom.

“fuckin business extra hit me with some shit!” kiri pushes bakugo in his seat patting his shoulder as his sparky haired counterpart exhaled an exasperated sigh of relief. “chill bakubro it was just an accident. I’m sure they didn’t mean it.” “yea dude they were holding their stomach.. probably were sick or something.” bakugo tsked, eyebrows twitching. “I don’t give a fuck.”

a few minutes pass and aizawa’s teaching the class and bakugo starts coughing up a storm, everyone looks his way asking if he’s alright and someone hands him a water bottle and he blinks disoriented like. “ugh fuckin weird. ‘m fine mind your business.”

everyone does as he says ignoring his coughing fit but you continue to stare his way, not necessarily looking at him but he’s still in your field view. it takes exactly 10 minutes after the bell has rung— before bakugo came into the room, til the quirk started to work, and you and everyone else can tell because he randomly speaks as aizawa is paused on a slide, “this shit’s boring as fuck.”

everyone now looks at him some in slight shock other’s with light amusement (you and todoroki) bakugo himself was surprised even though everyone knew, even aizawa, that the lectures were boring, bakugo never spoke out, on terms of learning he would be writing stuff down or whatever but he wouldn’t interrupt aizawa.

“is there a problem bakugo?” “no problem old man didn’t even mean to say it out loud it just slipped.” aizawa ‘hmm’d’ continuing his slideshow for the next 15 minutes before he wrapped it up, taking a nap in his sleeping bag by the wall near his desk, not before giving the class the warnings; to leave him alone, keep the noise down and not wake him up until someone is dead.

leaving everybody to their own devices and cliques you banded together with mina, talking about getting y’all’s hair and nails done and planning when to go out together soon.

bakugo was lost in his own little world before kiri snuck up on him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “hey bakubro what’s up with that cough right?” the blonde slapped kirishima’s hand away with a scoff. “fuck off shitty hair you smell like a gallon of that shitty axe body spray. you only need about three pumps ya know that?!”

kiri mocks a pout. “aww come on that wasn’t very nice bro.” “well i don’t know what ta tell ya. you stink and it’s hurting my damn nostrils!” “i don’t know what it is bro but you seem more talkative today it’s weird.” bakugo tsked “you’re fuckin weir-“ he shuts his mouth as you approach with mina in tow.

“what’s up guys?” mina asks the two males as you wave back to kiri who waves at you both. “oh nothing ya know just bothering bakubro.” bakugo sits up folding his arms man spreading in his seat. “like fuckin always!” you chuckle at his little tidbit, making him stare at you, taking in your figure dawned in a cute light brown dress with black dragons that complimented your frame as you hop on top of the sturdy table, swinging your legs back and forth once you’ve settled yourself, giving him a chance to look at your legs, taking in your pretty feet clad in black sandals and white toe polish.

his eyes trailing back up to your face watching as you talked animatedly, the two twists that shape your face moving with you, the rest of your hair kept in a bun. “aye shortcake i don’t think i’ve said it before but you’re kinda thick aren’t ya?” the three of you stop talking after hearing that come from his mouth. mina who’s, sat like you on the side of bakugo, guffaws.

“wh- excuse me?” you try to think of something to say before kiri spoke up. “what’s with you bakubro? that’s not how you speak to a lady unless she consents.” denki and sero comes up just as bakugo exclaims a “fuck off!” to the false redhead. “what’s going on dudes and dudettes?” before the three of you can speak the vaguely shocked blond continues on his thoughts of you.

“just telling the shorty that i wouldn’t mind resting my face between her open thighs.” all five of y’all’s mouth drop, its silent for a literal minute as you try to wrap your mind around the words falling out of his mouth, before denki and sero start cackling like witches holding onto their stomachs. “what’s wrong with bakugo and why is he tryna spit game with y/n?” sero asks in between laughs.

“shut up tape face. how bout you and mina learn how to keep it down next time you wanna do it ina empty classroom… now back to us shorty.” your group looked at mina who covers her mouth as she side eyes bakugo, and sero who blushes looking away as denki shook on his shoulder. bakugo only stared at you as you gave mina a ‘we’ll talk about it later look’ before you looked at bakugo kiri snapped his fist in his hand gaining y’all’s attention.

“ooh i know what it is! the person that bumped into you probably activated their quirk! it must have to do with you just saying whatever comes to mind.” you hum at the correlation. “what’s with all this talk bakugo? if i didn’t know any better i’d think you’re tryna flirt with me.” you goaded playing into the quirk’s hand, he got up from his seat leaning on the desk close to your face a few inches apart.

“i don’t think i could be more clear shortcake i wanna fuck ya.” “is this the quirk talkin or you?” “that shitty bitch’s quirk only emphasizes what i’m thinking out loud. so lemme tell ya something right now before this shitty quirk wears off and while these idiots are finally quiet for once..” he pauses to grip your face making you look at him your doe eyes widening as a shiver runs through your spine.

“i don’t just wanna fuck ya, i wanna make love to ya, have you squirming under me, screamin’ my name, i wanna be your boyfriend then your husband and then i want a brat running around our backyard asking me for shit and i’ll spoil the hell out of ‘em too. now it doesn’t have to be in that order but it has to happen. i guess i’ll take your cute ass ona date first. be ready after school.”

you nodded your head all the while he was talking, cheesing inside cuz you’ve had a crush on the hot tempered blond for the longest, mina cheesed outwardly having known of your feelings. you grabbed his wrist pretty sure he could feel the heat waves coming off your face, fluttering your lashes up at him.

“one condition tho?” he looks at your lips back to your face. “anything shorty.“ “i want four kids.” he smirked squeezing your cheeks slightly shaking your face. “i can make that happen shortcake.” if you were in a cartoon your head would explode leaving steam and hearts behind.

mina squealed breaking you and bakugo out of y’all’s trance. “and imma be the fun auntie that teach them how to curse!” “i’m pretty sure bakugo will beat you to it.” denki snickers as mina hopped down from the table, pulling you along with her making herself oblivious to the vermilion eyes glaring into her skull that bakugo was doing.

as you left bakugo started yelling at his friends… as he does. “shut up sparky or would you like to explain that box under your dirty ass bed with all those fuckin magazines and that dollar lotion and tissue? had ta fuckin scrub up to my elbows with bleach after opening the damn box.”

denki nervously chuckled his face a pink hue as he let out a cough. “i have no idea what you’re talking about dude.” bakugo scoffs out an “of course you don’t.” kiri coughs rubbing the back of his neck. “hey umm bro it’s cool and all that you confessed to y/n, but how about you go home for the day?” bakugo’s lip curled into an ugly snarl. “didn’t you just hear me plan a date after school? why would I go home just to come back here? fuck off shit face”

・❥・

”girlll tell me why I was shaking in my fuckin boots he’s too fine.” you exclaimed to mina in the bathroom as you fan your face with your hand. “yea and I can’t believe you told him you want four kids and he agreed.“ she said applying gloss to her two tone lips fixing her pink afro.

“bitch you can’t believe it?! I can’t believe it. now what’s this about you and sero in an empty classroom?” you gave her a curious look.

“alright i couldn’t hide it from you! i was finna tell you anyways! okay so here’s what had happened—“

𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝖮𝖭𝖳 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. ©𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅

#city.writes #black writers #x black fem reader #black yn #bakugo x black!reader #bakugo was really on one #making me kick my feet n’ shit 🤭 #i like how it came out no cap kinda proud of myself for this one🥰 #poor aizawa i feel like he don’t be sleeping sometimes and just has an unnecessary amount of tea and blackmail 😭

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 43 - The Proposition

Astarion makes a proposition.

Warning: that shitty feeling when you're demisexual (with purity culture trauma) and someone you thought of as a friend propositions you with sex and you realize, in a survival situation, your choices are sex, or losing this friend and possible support. There's a happy ending eventually, but both of these people have serious issues.

On AO3.

“That went well,” Astarion says. He sits nearby on the unshattered stairs leading to the front door, hair dripping from the quick wash he’d given himself.

The air stinks of smoke and char and some nauseating, roast meat reek you refuse to think about. Everybody calmed down (Karlach) and most got their wounds treated. Shadowheart had conjured up a rain to put out a fire (with a fucking arrow in her hand), leaving the tollhouse a fire-gutted wreck. Fucker ain’t structurally sound in the slightest; you’ll ask Gale to thunderwave it before y’all leave to make sure no unsuspecting travelers try to take shelter and get crushed when the roof finally caves in.

Literally everybody got hurt except you. Lae’zel tore ligaments in her knee. Gale’s hands and half his face are mildly burned. Shadowheart actually got hit in the face with shrapnel in addition to the aforementioned arrow-through-the-hand. And Wyll is gashed down his side to his ribs.

Karlach is still burning too hot to be near anybody—she sits over in the road with her teddy bear.

And Astarion, who doesn’t need to breathe, inhaled smoke right after Harvey Dent gashed his head. You gave him a healing potion to help his lungs—he don’t need air to live, but he does need it to talk—because Shadowheart is triaging the magic she got left.

“They’re dead and we’re not, darling, and that is what matters,” Astarion says. He wipes his blades down again, having already inspected his bow (and found no damage).

He’s right. Y’all did what y’all had to. Karlach don’t got hunters on her tail no more, and none of the injuries are more than y’all’s resources can handle.

Except you are completely fine and none of the others are.

Astarion finishes up and slips his daggers back into the sheathes on his belt.

“We’re probably staying here for the night, huh?” you say.

“I can’t imagine the others will want to go far.” He looks to the rotting carcasses. “But I also don’t anticipate anyone, even the gith, wanting to linger amongst all this.”

You nod. You can help set up camp. That can be your contribution; you should really ask Gale for cooking lessons. Nobody fucks with the camp cook.

“Well, my dear,” Astarion says. “Shall we see what items might be left in that ruin? I’m rather sure I saw a basement.”

Bringing back presents also boosts morale.

“We probably shouldn’t go alone,” you say, and completely miss his smile turn sour. “Hey Karlach! You wanna see if they got shit in the basement?”

In the road, Karlach perks up. Woman has such golden retriever vibes.

***

Karlach ends up taking an ax to the charred hatch cover that does, indeed, lead to a basement. And then to the big doors Astarion can’t jimmy open—you let him search the ripe body y’all find down there. Must’ve been the toll collector. You got a sneaking feeling it wasn’t them dead gnolls outside that got him. Might be the way his gut is cleaved damn near in two, like some Harvey Dent motherfucker and his overcompensation sword nailed the guy.

Most of the boxes in that first room are empty, save some salvageable rags, which you stuff into your bag like there’s gonna be a shortage (you got maybe six or seven days until shark week, you suspect). Find a couple of broken weapons, a pair of frayed sandals, and not much else. But as you start into the second room, stepping over splintered wood, Astarion grabs your elbow.

“Careful darling,” he says. “There are traps about. Stay next to me, hmm?”

Circular grates dot the floor. A lot of them.

“Can you disarm these?” you say.

“Oh, I got it,” Karlach says, flexing her biceps unnecessarily (but not unappreciated). She skirts the first one, hefts up a heavy looking jar that comes up to your ribcage, and sets it over the grate. “There. Fucker can’t spew if it’s blocked, yeah?”

“Indeed,” Astarion says. “Why don’t you be a dear and go handle the others?”

“Aww, what’s a matter, Fangs?” she says, and if he were a cat, his ears would be plastered to his skull. “Can’t do a bit of heavy lifting?”

“I’d rather not dirty my hands, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, despite the fact that 1. he's wearing gloves and 2. he's still got dried blood crusted in the creases down the front of his armor.

Karlach looks at him for a second, and the both of them make weird facial expressions. Then she grins. And there’s something odd in that grin. And in the way she glances over to you.

“Gotcha,” she says. And saunters off to find more huge-ass pottery.

You start rummaging through the first box you see. Old clothes. Not moldy or covered in mildew or crusted bodily fluids, so into the pack they go. Move on to the next.

It’s quiet as you work. Karlach shuffles over to the corner, secures that vent, and starts rummaging herself.

Two boxes later and Astarion sighs. You look up, find him about where you left him, but leaning on a shelf with an arched brow.

He…hasn’t been looting?

“You alright?” you say. He don’t look injured. His arms are folded and you catch the barest flicker as he apparently resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Then he pastes on the smarm again. “I just wanted to take a moment to congratulate you. That was quite the plan, back there. Very effective.”

“Uh huh.”

He’s angling for something. And he seems to know that you know, and he leans into it. “Are all your plans going to be so vicious?”

“I’m not…it’s not on purpose. I’m not trying to cause…mayhem.”

“And yet you’re rather good at it.”

It’s still not a comfortable thought, that part of you. It’s keeping your ass alive, but if (when) you get home, you ain’t sure you’ll be able to cram it back into the box you took it out of.

“I don’t know how to fight and I can’t use magic,” you say. “If you don’t hit hard and hit first, you give them a chance to hit back and you get your ass handed to you. We cannot afford that.”

But no disgust wrinkles his face. No frown draws his brows together the way most people in this situation would.

“You know, my dear, some people might call that cowardice,” he says.

This time you get to roll your eyes. “Bet you those people die young.”

He barks out a laugh. Doesn’t seem to mean to, but his eyes are wide and sparkling in the dim torchlight. Karlach pauses her rummaging, and then begins again in earnest.

“I like you,” Astarion says. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone with a modicum of sense, for a change.”

Insulting the entire rest of the group. There’s a tactic that should work to do…whatever he’s trying to do here.

“Neat,” you drawl, using that extra second to try to get a fucking read on him.

“Honestly,” he says, and his voice drops. “I’m beginning to like the whole package. And you clearly like me, too, so…?”

You stare. After a moment, you realize he’s waiting for a response and you’re just standing there. You should probably put on a facial expression. You’re doing the blank face thing again and that tends to piss people off (you look like an idiot, you stupid girl, ohh I’m a stoic Indian hey-ya-huh-huh). You should really stop. You should stop right now.

You can’t stop.

“…so?” you finally manage.

“Come now,” Astarion says, expression dripping smarm. “Don’t be coy. Your body’s already given you away.”

What in the fuck is he talking about? What is this? The man flirts literally more than he breathes. He’s fucking with you, somehow, trying to get a reaction. You’re just not sure which one.

But his eyes widen in what really looks like a genuine smile. No malicious smirk, no smug, just…a man smiling at you.

“I could feel it, you know. As I was getting…” He steps towards you and you ain’t sure when he got that close. His gloved fingertips brush down your neck where he bit you, so featherlight, you ain’t even sure he actually touches you. “Getting lost in your neck. Your little shakes of excitement. You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”

He is entirely too close. You can smell iron on his breath. That strange, almost electric charge that hugs his skin crackles against yours.

“Um,” you say.

He was this close when he bit you. His soft lips on your neck. His fucking tongue. And the noises he made slurping on your wrist. You ain’t never heard those kinds of noises outta someone before.

It’s his spit. It’s that memory effected by his goddamn vampire spit. Of course you had a physical reaction. That was normal.

But you barely know the man and having a chemically induced reaction like that don’t mean you want what you think he’s alluding to.

“I…I was trying to help, is all,” you say.

Thank fuck he steps back. Only to throw out his arms to show himself off. “And look how well it’s worked. I’ve never felt better, all thanks to you. So let me repay you for your noble sacrifice.”

Is it just you, or does his voice take on Wyll’s cadence over that last bit? (Yes, much better. Analyze that and not the situation unfolding here. So much better.)

But then he leans in again, lids all heavy.

“We could take an evening to ourselves,” he says, voice low and…and melty. “Get away from camp—get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere…intimate. Somewhere we can indulge in each other.”

He waits. You stare. Cause it sounds like he’s suggesting…?

He sighs. “And I do mean sex, to be clear.”

…no. No. He’s not. He can’t be. It ain’t the first time somebody joked like that with you (against you, using you as a prop to make their buddies laugh). But he don’t got no audience to play to. And he ain’t never took the joking this far. The others wouldn’t find that funny, would they? You want to look over to Karlach—suspiciously loud in her searching—but don’t think you can break his eye contact.

“You really don’t owe me for that,” you say. “I’d do it for anybody.”

He lets out that soft, high giggle. “But you didn’t do it for just anyone, darling. You did it for me. And that’s hardly the only reason. It’s more of an excuse, if anything. Assuming…you want that too, of course?”

Your chance to get the fuck out of this. But then he tilts his head down and what you suspect might be actual lust (might have been this whole time, oh god, you didn’t see, you never see until it’s too late, until it’s printed on a big, plastic sign some high school kid twirls over his head outside a roadside sandwich shop).

“But we both know you do,” he purrs.

Oh god. Oh sweet jesus.

You been friendly. You shoulda known better. People—men especially—always take it wrong. Why do they always take it wrong. Why is he targeting you for—

Oh.

Yes. That makes sense, don’t it.

A pile of lovers. That’s what he’d told Shadowheart he had. Man likes sex. Nothing wrong with that, but now he’s stuck out here with all y’all and who is the easiest target? Who has no backup? It’s the same reason he picked you to bite in the first place. You look as you do, so he probably pegged you from day one as the most desperate. The easiest prey. He wants a quick, no-strings lay, and who better than the fat girl with no connections to anybody?

You can say no. Logically, you know this. You don’t think he’s the type to hurt you for refusing (none of them ever seem like they would in all those crime stories, do they?). And Karlach stands right there. You’ve refused people before (it’s all you ever done).

But that was back home. You had a stable job and a couple of hundred bucks in a savings account and your own, one-bedroom apartment. You could stand on your own, two feet back then. Back there. If anybody tried to give you shit, you could call dad’s side or Sasha (who carried a baseball bat in the trunk of her car).

Here?

You’ll die without Gale’s blood potion—and it needs all of them to make. You can’t even ask for help without the dirt potion. You got a brainworm, and your best chance of not turning into a space monster is a band of people you keep leading into danger while you sit your fat ass in the background and take not a single fucking scratch.

What happens when you make a bad call? What happens when they get sick of covering for you? Coddling you? You are wholly dependent on their good will for food and a…and a fucking allowance.

You been trying not to think of that for a week. Of just how defenseless you are. How you worked so hard, and yet you are right back where you started, poor and helpless and vulnerable and staring down the barrel of fucking someone you don’t know.

Except you ain’t some twenty-year-old kid this time. Now you know what’s happening to you. Your body is on the market, and there’s no Sasha to swoop in with her pickup truck and whisk you away into the night.

“You’re…you’re not joking?” you rasp, throat drier than a salt flat.

Astarion blinks. “Darling, I would never about this.”

He wants to fuck you. Whatever reasoning (easiest prey, the lamed deer) he actually wants to fuck you.

You can’t feel your hands.

You’re not…possessive of your “virginity.” It ain’t some commodity (Mother). You know, intellectually, it’s an activity just like any other: riding in a hot air balloon, scuba diving, eating one of them lollipops with a bug inside (crickets actually don’t taste too bad, once you get over the leg barbs dragging on your tongue). You ain’t opposed to trying sex sometime.

It’s just…you barely know this man. You barely know any of them.

God, you’re being fucking precious. It’s just sex. People have sex all the time. They been having sex they weren’t enthusiastic about for thousands and thousands of years and they all survived just fine. This ain’t no different. And you can use this, right? Forge a…a…

(Relationship, and your stomach clenches.)

An alliance with him. That’s just good interpersonal insurance, right? He’s damn good with those knives. He’s even pretty—not that that part really matters to you; it’s the same category as “his shirt is white” and “his hair is white” and “his face is symmetrical and he’s got fangs.” Just an observation.

He watches you. Waiting. He expects an answer. He expects a yes. Possibly a gushing “oh me oh my, lowering yourself to offer me??”

It probably won’t be bad? Somebody with a pile of lovers in the city has to know what he’s doing? Orgasms feel great and other people really like sex. It’s just an activity. You were probably gonna do it at some point, anyway. This is just sooner than you anticipated. It probably won’t even last all that long, right?

It’s the smart move.

“I, um, yeah,” you say and now you can’t feel your face.

“Wonderful,” Astarion says, lighting up. “Once we have a chance, I promise you a night of passion you’ll never forget.”

You certainly won’t be forgetting your first time, you’re sure.

You can’t throw up on then man’s shoes. That would be the height of rudeness. God, you’re such a mess. Your body is wigging out for no reason. It’s not that big of a deal; there’s no reason you should be this light-headed.

“Oi! You two!” Karlach pops her head out of an aisle. “Think I found a secret door!”

Oh thank fuck. You want to hug Karlach. Swoon into her arms. Except she’s still on fire and you just told Astarion you’d have sex with him.

Astarion lifts his eyebrows and makes an intrigued noise. He starts past you, but pauses and leans in to whisper, “See you later, lover.”

Your heart lurches. It’s not a good feeling. The pit in your stomach only grows when Karlach—behind Astarion’s back—catches your eye and gives you a grin and two thumbs up.

She knows. Oh sweet christ.

You smile back and hope it doesn’t look as weak as it feels.

***

Notes:

Next chapter will contain trigger warnings. Saturday's update: Dance with the Devil in the Pale Moonlight

#feeding alligators fic #these two shitheads #astarion fic #bg3 fic #astarion x tav #tavstarion #purity culture trauma #demisexual trauma #demisezual tav #plus size tav #the sadness arc #angst with a happy ending

[jim-kirks-bubble-butt]

ok ok ok it’s time for my amok time thoughts-

first of all: s p i r k

spock what do you mean your omega heat was resolved by you rolling around in the dirt with your captain??? 🤨

but also just the way kirk was so respectful and understanding about spock’s pon farr and dodn’t make fun of him for it.

can’t believe the 1960’s scifi show had a fuck or die episode which did not result in heterosexuality. truly ahead of it’s time.

and also the way jim and spock were rolling around in the dirt was so gay. no one can convince me otherwise. the way spock slashed his axe thingy (forgot what it’s called) exactly so that it would give jim a tit window??? i know what you are spock.

and of course the biggest moment: JIM :D. seriously what the fuck was that. only time he smiles the wide the whole series (times when he’s under the influence of drugs excluded). homosexuality at it’s finest.

speaking of drugs i find it very funny that the only time spock likes women if either when he’s under the influence or when he’s being mind controlled.

the way spock grabs him and just gives him the biggest stupidest grin. i love spock and spock loves kirk. they are in love you can also see how wide kirk was smiling from the way his cheeks move.

spirk was just so soft with each other this episode, even on vulcan. the way spock was so hesitant to fight him and tried his hardest to convince t’pau even when under the pon farr influence.

the way jim clearly tried not to hurt him through the whole fight,

they make me fucking insane.

anyways

second thing i liked: BONES

i love bones mccoy

spock saying that he’s also one of his closest friends 😭 😭 😭

but he was so smart with the neural paralyzer and i love the way he clearly cares so much anout both of his dumbass friends under his grumpy doctor exterior.

third of all: women

t’pau and t’pring were so powerful and so wonderfully played.

obviously the whole thing with calling t’pring the property of whatever man wins her is very icky but as progressive as star trek was (and still is!), it is a product of it’s time unfortunately.

but besides that, they both just radiated power, and it was so nice to see a woman in a seat of major power.

on another note, stonn has a strikingly small forehead t’pribg i promise i could treat you better.

in my mind uhura wants t’pring (“she’s very lovely mister spock!” i know what you are ma’am.)

fourth: the episode was just. really good.

all of the tension build up before we find out about that spock is basically an omega is masterfully done, and even though i kinda new the plot, i was still sitting on the edge of my seat. incredible.

i also think tbe fight choreography during the gay sex fighting scene was actually really well done, especially when compared to other fight scenes in season 1 (the gorn fight comes to mind).

also the set design for vulcan felt like an actual planet. like usually when they go off the enterprise and onto a planet that’s not basically earth, you can tell that it’s just a bunch of foam blocks, but vulcan was very well made!

the conversation between spirk and kock kirk and spock about “vulcan biology” was very well written and acted in a way that was slightly awkward because of the nature of pon farr, but still felt natural and very in character.

side note: i see online that there’s a lot of people who think that shatner overacts. and i just don’t see it. idk i think he’s really good at playing kirk. i don’t really like the guy, but i like how expressive his acting is.

anyways this was very jumbled but i had a lot of thoughts and yeah.

i too would write the first slash fic in the 60’s if i saw this shit on my tv.

also does anyone know what tag i should use for kirk? i use like 4 different ones each time but is there one that’s more common? same for mccoy.

#star trek #star trek tos #spock #spirk #james kirk #jim kirk #leonard mccoy #first time watching #bones mccoy #james t kirk #amok time #star trek the original series #k/s

[hmslusitania]

If you build it…

another 5x18 spec because I am useless at all other thing s

Buck is not…a handy person. He’s good with power tools, obviously, has to be for work. Drills, chainsaws, axes, halligans, sledgehammers. Give Buck something to destroy and he can pull it apart in ten seconds and look good doing it.

Also, he’s never lived anywhere that he was allowed to change the basic structure of the place. So the caulk? Spackle? Drywall putty?? aisle of Lowe’s is a foreign land. Buck doesn’t know how to make things.

But fuck it, he’s gonna learn.

The lady at the paint counter is helpful when he doesn’t know the exact shade of off-white-taupe-beige, and lets him leave with some samples. Apparently looking helpless as shit and like he hasn’t slept in a week goes far.

His plan, his thought, is that if he fixes it, if he sets it all up pretty, then maybe — maybe Eddie will let him stay.

On his way back to Eddie’s, he stops at the grocery store to get beer. It feels like the thing to do, right? It’s guy stuff, fixing walls, having a beer, all that jazz.

Eddie hadn’t wanted Buck to come pick him up from the airport. They were getting in late, and it was just easier to take an Uber. So it means that when Eddie and Chris get home, Buck is still crouched on the floor of Eddie’s room with the …drywall putty and a spatula.

“Uh, hello?” Eddie calls from the living room.

Because Buck’s stuff is in neat piles by the couch.

“Its just me!” Buck calls back.

“Hi Buck!” Christopher shouts, and he sounds tired but happy and the next thing Buck hears is the clack of crutches down the hall and then Chris’s arms are around his shoulders.

“Hey buddy!” Buck says. “How was Texas?”

“Abuelita made tamales,” Christopher says which is apparently the thing that matters most. Buck appreciates that. He’s missed Isabel’s tamales since she moved back to El Paso too.

“I’m very jealous,” Buck says.

“We were gonna try to bring some back but we weren’t sure if they would get seized by airport security or not, so she’s gonna try and freeze some and mail them,” Christopher says.

“And someone here is about to crash from travelling,” Eddie says. Buck looks up and past Christopher’s shoulder to see Eddie leaning in the doorframe, looking down at Buck and Christopher with a warm, fond smile.

“I’m not tired,” Chris insists and betrays himself with a yawn. “Ugh, fine.”

He hugs Buck again and then heads off to brush his teeth. Once he’s in the bathroom with the door shut, Eddie’s expression turns to worry.

“Hen, Chim, I saw the news and—”

“They’re good,” Buck says. “Yeah, no, they’re okay.”

Eddie exhales and drops his suitcase on the foot of his bed. “Good. I mean, I figured if anything was — if they were — you’d have called me.”

“Yeah, of course,” Buck says. “But they’re good. Really. And Jonah’s in jail and he’s gonna go away for a long, long time.”

“Good,” Eddie says. He unzips his suitcase and Buck feels his eyes linger on the back of his head. “So, uh, what are you doing?”

“Making myself useful,” Buck says, holding up the putty spatula. The wall doesn’t look wildly better he has to admit. Lack of experience is ruining him. “Sort of.”

“And, uh, the bags out in the living room…”

“I broke up with Taylor,” Buck blurts.

“Oh,” Eddie says in the most neutral flat tone Buck’s ever heard him say. “You broke up with her. With bad feelings?”

The distant echo of shattering porcelain rings in Buck’s ears. He hadn’t taken Taylor for the type to smash all his shit — no, just in an ephemeral sense, in a fuck your family I’m going to publish everything sort of way — but, well, in the end, how well did they really know each other?

“Yeah,” Buck says. “With some real fucking bad feelings.”

“Oh thank god,” Eddie exhales.

For the first time since, Buck laughs.

“And you’re — I’m sure you’re not okay yet and apparently you’re sleeping on my couch but, you’re like….”

“I’m fine,” Buck promises. And he is, for now. Somewhat. Its like the moment after you get out of the water when you’ve been drowning. You feel like absolute two day old laundry and like the salt down your throat is going to pickle you from the inside out, but you’re not actively dying anymore. And so its better.

“And so you’re…here. Fixing my wall,” Eddie says.

“Trying to, anyway,” Buck says. “I’m not really great at making shit as it turns out. How was Texas? Besides the tamales.”

“It was…good,” Eddie says. He clears his throat and Buck looks up at him again. He’s taking a second to rub at his eyes. “Yeah, it was a good start, I think.”

“Good,” Buck says. “Good. I’m glad.”

Eddie’s hand drops to Buck’s shoulder and very gently, he squeezes. “Did you get a second spatula?”

“I wasn’t sure what kind to get, so, yes,” Buck says, fishing the second one out of the bag.

Eddie inspects the second spatula and the project on the wall.

“Why don’t we put this away for the night,” Eddie suggests. “And tomorrow maybe we can try making something together.”

#you don’t find it son you #9-1-1 #911 spoilers #911fic #buddie #anti bucktaylor #the ghost ship scribbles

[traincat]

I know you haven't been following Zeb Wells run because you love yourself and you are a beautiful human being, but I know you saw that leak.

And sis, fuck it, just let Miles be Amazing Spider-Man. This whole Peter Parker thing? Tank that shit. Years ago, you suggested this and I, an avid Miles Morales fan, disagreed, but now...Norman Osborn is the good guy and genius now, Ned Leeds is happily married to the woman he abused with a kid, and apparently someone cloned Gwen Stacy to sleep with her best friend's father in a some twisted bed trick and I AM SO FUCKING DONE!

No, I am sick of the misogyny of these past three writers. I was sick when you had "Superior" Spock beat down Felicia Hardy and it being touted as "cool" and how awesome Otto was while he objectified and leered at Mary Jane in Peter's body or used Peter's memories with Mary Jane as his own porn take. I was sick of Cindy Moon being used as a glorified Axe Commercial power fantasy of Peter being oh so irresistible that she can't keep her hands off of him and some twisted Asian fetish! I am sick of a writer stating MJ has no real value as a love interest to Peter because she doesn't care about real things! I am sick of the background routine violence of different variances of sexual assault such as Michelle Rodriguez getting assaulted by Chameleon because she thought it was Peter, Anna Marie getting assaulted by SpOck because she thought it was Peter and after the fact still fancying the guy who tricked her, Betty Brant getting impregnated by the clone of her abusive husband because what is the point of being a woman in Spider-Man if you aren't sleeping with Peter and not married?

You kill Kamala Khan? Sure, it's to bring her back as a mutant but you do it in Peter's book? Yes, Kamala Khan, famously known as Spider-Man character, dies in a plotline that had nothing to do with her. Peter has no connection to her. And you fridged her? For Peter's angst?! While you have MJ and FUCKING Paul eloping in the background!? I am over this shit. Bring on Miles.

I was actually going to wait until "the most shocking issue ever" was released to catch up on Wells' run and then I saw the leaked spoilers and then Marvel confirmed the leaked spoilers and then there was no avoiding the leaked spoilers. And like to be completely fair I did not see this ending coming. I don't think even the most out there comic bookies had "Kamala Khan dies in a Spider-Man book" on the odds. It's just a completely ludicrous choice on every level, unless your only marketing strategy is to cause outrage.

It's sort of weird because up until this point I think my biggest complaint about this run wasn't unique to it specifically -- my complaints were things that the Spencer and Slott runs had also done, and to a lesser extent, mostly because of time restraints, the various short-lived Spider-Man tie-ins and events. (Beyond was a mess, and while Wells was leading it, there's multiple people to blame there.) It's all well and good that people are saying it took too long to reveal the bad guy of this storyline, because it did, but compared to the seventy issues it took them to reveal Kindred's identity, this has been fast-paced for modern Peter Spider-Man comics (which is a problem in and of itself). Like if I had to pick one Wells-specific complaint before this point, I'd have to say that the way he withholds information doesn't actually serve his storytelling -- it makes readers frustrated, not intrigued, to be confronted by things like Paul and MJ's mystery kids. It's similar to how there was obviously something wrong with Ben Reilly in Beyond, but the story took far too long to reveal what it was. I think the flash forward in Amazing Spider-Man and questions like "what did Peter do" hurt it far more than it helped to build up any sort of reader curiosity. It doesn't help that those storylines ultimately don't lead anywhere, it's just red herrings and desperate scrambling all the way down, but this time with Wells bringing up a storyline I best remember as "pretty boring" that he wrote in 2008. I genuinely don't believe anyone out there was asking for a The Last Nameless Day sequel. (Does anyone even remember The Last Nameless Day.)

And the "shocking ending" they've been teasing this entire time is killing Kamala Khan in a totally unrelated superhero's book with no catharsis and no meaning for the actual character, and framing Peter front and center on the cover of her announced memorial issue. It's deeply tasteless, stupid, and offensive, even more so because we know she'll almost definitely be brought back in a few months in time for the release of The Marvels movie. I had been kind of side-eyeing this run having Kamala intern for Norman Osborn, because she's a top ten character I want Norman to stay away from, and that they did that with the intent most likely of killing her off all along is just so tasteless. And you're right, the misogyny in the recent years has gotten really out of control, even as they try to spackle over it with girl powers moments you can crop down to a single panel, recirculate around social media, and feel good about devoid of context. There's been a lot of fridgings (Mattie Franklin, Ashley Kafka, Marla Jameson) but they were all of Spider-Man characters. If Marvel has a headlinining, incredibly popular, marginalized teen girl character, and they're going to kill her off for shock value or to reset her powers in keeping with the movies or whatever, they should at least have the grace to do it in her own book and not in a highly criticized Spider-Man run. It's clear these problems are going way higher on the Marvel ladder.

I would rather they kill Peter 100%! And this has nothing to do with the "twist ending" because it definitely wouldn't fix that, but I really do think at this point that the only way to fix a lot of the damage that's been done to Peter Spider-Man on such a deep level is to kill him for a few years. Like at least five. It'll give some purpose to the endless amounts of spinoff books (who was asking for a Red Goblin Normie Osborn spinoff) and provide enough time for things to settle enough for a soft reset.

#*replies #traincat talks comics #wednesday spoilers/ #i'm tagging just in case even though it's very hard to miss them at this point #since marvel's strategy seems to be plaster it everywhere

[sarahowritesostucky]

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: Fresh AU, dark rom-com, dark!Bucky, pre-serum Steve, cannibalism, kidnapping, yandere/basement wife, meet cute-ish, gay sex n' stuff, dub-con

Summary: Just when he's given up on ever finding Mr. Right, Steve meets the - seemingly - perfect guy at the grocery store.

A dark, cute, funny, fucked up, and very tasty love story.

It's a Fresh AU. "If you can't handle the cannibalism, get out of the kitchen"--or something like that

3. Hors D'oeuvre

Wait! I haven't read the previous chapter(s)

James winds up apologizing profusely for the insanely bad bite.

Steve’s a little disturbed that the guy would do something that rough on their first time together, but he chalks it up to the heat of the moment and forgives him,` telling James that: it's okay, he’s always been a freaky-fast healer anyway.

“S’my superpower,” he quips, making light of it when it's obvious James feels terrible.

“I’m still sorry,” he insists, thumbing carefully over the mostly-healed skin two days later. He stares at it like he stares at everything else—intensely. “I got carried away. Won’t do it again.”

Steve believes him.

Within a week, it’s pretty obvious that they’re dating. Steve kind of feels like the other shoe has got to drop at any moment, but that just keeps not happening. James is like, the perfect guy.

“He’s a doctor?” Clint says, on the third day after Bite Night. It’s movie night and he and Steve are rewatching Midsommar, because Clint’s a movie nerd and is convinced there are still hidden themes he can pick apart in the freaky-ass film. Right now the screen is paused at the exact second where they hammer the old guy’s head into paste. Clint really is a savant with a remote control.

Steve looks the gore over critically and stuffs more chips in his mouth, crunching. “Um, yeah,” he says distractedly.

He wonders how movie people make it look so real. How would they even know what to make it look like? Did one of the movie people see somebody’s head collapse in real life?”

“Earth to STEVE,” Clint waves a hand in front of his face and Steve blinks.

“What?”

“I said: what kind of doctor is he?”

“A surgeon,” Steve says, feeling warm and tingly even as he remembers it. He’s not only met a smart, sexy and funny older guy— he’s met a surgeon. Which automatically means he’s rich, too. Nobody is that fucking lucky in love, certainly not Steve.

“Of what?” Clint prods. “Like, hearts and brains? or boob jobs?”

Steve pauses with another handful of chips. Hm. That’s a good question. “I don’t know,” he says. “What’s it matter?”

“It matters because it’ll determine how much I esteem the guy,” Clint insists.

Steve snorts. “What? If he's a plastic surgeon he doesn’t deserve your respect?”

“Are you kidding? I’d respect him more if that’s what he was.” Clint grimaces. “I respect the hell out of anybody who can pull people’s skin off and rearrange it and unnatural shit like that. S’way more horrible than operating on a regular old heart or whatever.”

Steve makes a face as he considers that. “Yeah, I guess so. I heard once that when they do a nose job they literally like, pull the nose up off the face first.”

Clint gags. “Dude! No. My brain can’t unknow this now!”

“And yet you can watch shit like this.”

Clint presses play and the film resumes, the frame shifting from pasted-guy's head, to Florence Pugh's horrified face. “That's different," he says. "It’s movie magic, dumbass.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re a dumbass.”

James tasks Steve with picking an actual date activity for them to do next. “No pressure,” he teases him over the phone, “but I hate stereotypes.”

Well. So much for mini golfing or the movies.

The place is called Bad Axes, their logo is a butt with an ax lodged in it, and the only two things to do there are drink beer and throw axes. Steve doesn’t reveal what they’re headed for when they meet at the subway, so James doesn’t know what's in store until they’re standing right outside the business' doors with the logo on them.

He stares for a long, long moment, and then busts out with the loudest, most sudden laugh. He looks over at Steve with a pained, almost hysterical expression.

Steve laughs. “What?”

“Nothing!” James squeaks. “This’ll be fun!”

Steve spends the rest of the date preening over the fact that he’s impressed his boyfriend.

(He only calls him that in his head, so far. He knows they’re not ‘boyfriends’ yet. They’re still feeling each other out, trying on the idea of being boyfriends. It’s just hard for Steve to remember that, when everything feels so natural between them.)

They grab drinks and get the safety and throwing tutorial from the unimpressed girl whose job it is to supervise drunk businessmen throwing sharp objects after work. It’s an over-the-head kind of deal, and Steve is prepared to nurture his manly pride and leave feeling a little bit like a Viking.

“Want to bet on who wins?” James asks, where he stands beside Steve in their little throwing area, a devilish gleam in his eye.

Steve considers it. The Axe Girl had told them it’s not so much a strength thing as a technique thing, so he’s not worried about being at a disadvantage. “Sure," he decides. "What are we betting on?”

“Hmm, how about … loser has to tell a secret about themselves,” James says. “First to stick the target twenty times wins.”

Steve’s stomach jumps at the look in James' eye. He grins. “You’re on.” Steve doesn’t have any good secrets anyway, so losing won't be a big deal (even though he fully intends to win).

They throw.

There’s a certain amount of body memory to it, Steve discovers after about fifteen minutes of fruitless throwing, his axe cracking off the plywood and thunking pathetically to the ground each time. He winds up getting the hang of it, but not in time to win the bet. James’ axe sticks on the first throw, and the second, and most of the times after.

Steve sulks about it as they take a break at one of the high-top tables, drinking their second round. “You’ve done this before,” he pouts, accusing. “Admit it.. You're a secret lumberjack.”

James looks at him fondly, like he thinks Steve’s reaction is cute. “Not exactly. But I've chopped enough to know my way around an axe.”

Steve grumps playfully at him. “Fine, cheater. I’ll think of a secret to tell you.” Bucky chuckles while Steve sips his beer and tries to come up with something juicy enough to be a ‘secret’ but not so juicy that it reflects badly on him. “I used to get in fights a lot."

James rolls his eyes. “Like as a kid? That doesn’t count.” He shoots him a sly look. “Adult secrets, Steven.”

Steve flushes at the use of his given name. There’s something oddly domineering about it that he likes. “Um, well … I've been arrested?”

James’ eyes light up. “Oh, do tell.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course not.”

“It wasn’t!” Steve laughs, shoving James’ shoulder. “It was a bar fight, basically. Some asshole bothering this woman he didn’t know, not taking no for an answer.”

James’ smile softens to something fond. “Aw, Steve. I should'a known. That's you then? Always trying to be a white knight?”

Steve scowls at the term but doesn’t try to deny it. “Well somebody had to do something,” he mutters. “I wasn’t the one who threw the first punch.”

“Why the arrest, then?”

“The charges were dropped. But I guess the jerk had some friends backing him up when the cops came, so I got rounded up too.”

James hums in understanding. “Well, I suppose that’s sort of a secret. But I have to say, I was really hoping for something a little more intriguing from you, Steve. A little more naughty.”

Steve snorts. “Why? You planning to blackmail me?”

“No.”

“You just like bad boys, then,” he jokes. He’s about the farthest thing there is from a bad boy. “Sorry. You’re outta luck with that one.”

“I’m not,” James says quietly, looking him in the eyes. “I actually like the sweet ones.”

Steve colors, he knows he does. “Oh.” He’s a sweet one. He chuckles and looks down at his beer bottle, turning it in little circles. “Thanks. I guess.”

James hums. “Hey, why don’t I apologize for my non-disclosure of my axing abilities, huh? I’ll tell you one of my secrets, too.”

“I’m all ears. What’s your secret?” In his head, Steve sarcastically imagines James saying something like, “I’m actually married and have two point five kids,” or, “I’m addicted to piss and shit porn.”

That’s not what he says.

“I’ve eaten human flesh.”

Steve blinks. “What.” He waits for the punchline, the second part of that confession that’ll make it funny, but there isn’t one. James just sits there and nods somberly. Steve laughs. “No, you haven’t. You have not.”

“I was just out of med school and interning at a center for pediatric reconstructive surgery in Shanghai.”

The smile drops right off Steve’s face. So he is a plastic surgeon, he thinks. He'll have to tell Clint. "The fuck?" he breathes.

James' mouth twists. “Yeah. That's what I said, when I realized."

"You're making this up," Steve says weakly, even though he can tell he's not, because James is sitting there looking completely serious and nodding grimly.

"We'd gone out to a rural village, to assess a few kids for cleft palate correction. There was a mud slide on the only road out of the valley, and we wound up stuck there for a few days."

“What—” Steve realizes he’s nearly whispering. He firms up his voice. “What happened?”

“I was served a meal from a local family, already cooked.”

“Oh." Steve exhales in relief. "So then, you didn’t actually see—”

“No.” James cants his head. “But it wasn’t any meat I’d ever had before. It was …” He trails off, eyes going distant as he thinks about it. “It was so different.”

Steve stares at him, shocked. “But … but that's a big leap. I mean it could’ve been anything. Dog or ... or tiger. Don’t they have tigers in China?”

“Not in that part of the country.” James watches Steve closely for a moment, gauging his reaction. Eventually he looks away, frowning. “And you could tell there was something going on. There was ... At the time, I didn't understand, but it was the way the villagers acted. There was something off about them, something about the way they skulked around, the way they looked at us. How gaunt they all were ..." He shakes his head, deep in thought. "I did some research once I got back. There are some recorded accounts; those soccer players that crashed in the Andes, the Donner party. An anthropologist in the thirties who ate with a tribe in Africa. He wrote a very detailed account of how the different cuts of the meat tasted, what it looked like, what it smelled like.” He inhales deeply, as though pulling himself out of the memory. When his gaze lands back on Steve, it's dead serious and shockingly nonchalant. “It all matched up to what I’d eaten.”

Steve gapes, horrified. He can’t believe that it was a … a human that James had been served. It was too awful. People wouldn’t do that. ... Would they? “It wasn’t,” he says, as if he can make it so by saying it. “They wouldn’t have.”

James still doesn’t seem bothered, though he has pity in his eyes for Steve, apparently able to see how shaken he is by it. “You gotta understand, it was a bad situation. A dead, closed off valley where nothing ever grew. The Chinese government had banished these people out there for some slight, blocked off their access to food. It was like a gulag. These people were living in extreme poverty: cold, sick, and halfway starving. Animals'll do anything when they’re starving."

"Animals ..."

He shrugs and sits back in his chair. "At the end of the day, that’s all we really are. Some very big, overly-clever animals.”

Steve swallows thickly, his throat suddenly dry. He reaches for his beer and takes a hasty swig. “How do you, um, how do you deal with it, then?” he asks. “If you really think that’s what it was?” He’s a little bit stunned by how calm James has remained through telling the whole story.

“It doesn’t bother me,” James says easily. “There’s no way I can know for sure that’s what I ate that day, and I didn’t do it on purpose.” He shrugs and waves it off. “It was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Wow,” Steve says, stunned. “I mean, just … no. And wow.”

“Pretty big secret, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, trying to lighten up. James isn’t dwelling on it and he probably doesn’t want Steve to, either. “Yeah, you have, um. Much juicier secrets than me.”

James tips his bottle back for the last dregs of his beer, then clacks it firmly down onto the table. “So,” he says, eyes regaining their challenging, sly glint. “Now that you know my deepest, darkest secret; want to throw another round?”

A few days later, at precisely 11:30 am, Steve receives a text:

Weird Meat Guy: Hey you. I’m starving. Want to grab lunch with me?”

Steve looks down at his dirty work clothes. Yikes. Knowing himself, he figures there's a good chance he also has paint in his hair or on his face, or both.

Steve: yeah sounds good. In 30 or so? Gotta wash up.

Weird Meat Guy: see you soon, handsome.

James texts him an address that's in Park Slope, followed by a cartoon ‘nom-nom’ eating GIF. Steve holds his phone with gesso-crusted fingers and beams at the screen. James must like Steve just as much as Steve likes him, because he’s thinking about him during the week. He’s texting him and sending stupid GIFs and asking him out on lunch dates.

This is going incredibly well.

It's nothing fancy, which Steve appreciates. They meet inside a Panera by Prospect Park. They order drinks and find chairs to sit in by the windows while their sandwiches are made. “Don't you work in Midtown though?” Steve asks, confused. “This is a bit of a hike for a lunch break.”

James stares at him for a long few seconds, blinking repeatedly. “... Oh! Well … I had a big gap between clients today.” He smiles winningly and covers Steve’s hand with his own on the tabletop, giving it a squeeze. “There’s nobody I’d rather make the hike for.”

Steve tries not to let his smile overtake his face, but it’s hard.

Their food arrives, and they eat while trading stories about themselves. Steve tells James how he lives and works alone, but doesn’t mind it one bit. He tells him about his family, or at least, what family he used to have.

“So, nobody?” James asks. “You’re all alone?”

“It’s okay,” Steve says, thinking that James might be feeling pity for him. “I miss my mom, but it’s been a long time. And I’ve made a couple friends. They help.”

“Oh yeah? Who're your friends?”

“Oh. Well there's Clint. We met back in college. And Natalie. She’s the one I told you about.”

“Your patron.” James nods. “I remember.” He leans forward. “So do they know about me?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell them about me?”

Steve smirks. “Oh I dunno. Just that I met a really good looking weirdo at the grocery store. Haven’t called the police on him yet.”

James laughs. “That’s all?”

“Pretty much.” Steve shrugs and takes another bite of his sandwich, unconcerned with it. “Clint says he respects you for being able to—and I quote—‘pull people’s skin off and rearrange their outsides’.”

James’ lips quirk. “Well, it is a skill.”

Steve shivers theatrically. “Uck. Power to you. I guess somebody’s gotta do it."

"Alas, yes. The meat market. Demand is only ever growing."

Steve snorts. "Well hey, at least it means you’re, ah … intimately familiar with anatomy.” He winces before he's even finished saying it. Ew, what a lame joke.

But James’s eyes crinkle in amusement anyway. “Yes," he says, reaching for his sandwich again. "I certainly am.”

Steve has James over to Netflix and Chill. He’s not sure if this counts as their sixth date or seventh, but they’ve been seeing each other steadily for the past three weeks, calling and texting daily, so it’s definitely not too soon to start thinking about the “R” word. That’s where it feels like this is headed, but Steve is too chickenshit to speak up and ask if they’re officially in a relationship.

He researches how to make eggplant parmesan and mostly doesn’t screw it up, and James seems touched that he went through the trouble of cooking something vegetarian for him.

“It’s delicious,” he reassures Steve. “I even like the crusty black bits.”

He asks Steve what he does for fun, and Steve is once again left feeling like a boring dolt when he can only answer, “I mean, I really just paint or draw, or watch tv. Clint tries to drag me out for bowling or karaoke once in a while.” He fights not to wince at himself. Jesus god is he boring. He thinks again about joining a gym, maybe getting into boxing or Krav Maga or something. “What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not carving people up?”

“Hardy har.” James thinks about it. “Well, I do love to do stuff outdoors. I work out ...”

“Yeah you do,” Steve teases, leering a little. James laughs him off.

“I read some, usually have two books going concurrently.”

Steve imagines James having a big, expensive library, complete with those nifty rolling ladders.

“And I’m a pretty good cook,” he adds. “I enjoy it. Working on being an amateur cuisinier, as I said.”

Steve pointedly looks at both of their plates of semi-burnt eggplant slop. “Then why am I the one making us dinner?”

James chuckles, leans across the table to kiss him on the cheek, and promises he’ll cook for Steve sometime soon.

After dinner, Steve pulls up his Netflix queue and scrolls through for something that looks good but not too good, since they’ll probably start fooling around partway through and miss half of it.

They watch a documentary about Richard Ramirez, which Steve apologizes for. (“I know, I know. Me and every other basic white girl likes the true crime stuff.”)

Halfway into Ramirez’s fucked up childhood, Steve says, “Man, what would you do if your kid turned out like that, huh?”

“Question my parenting choices, that’s for sure.”

“I know, right?" Steve shudders. "I feel so bad for Jeffry Dahmer’s mom.”

“Why? She’s alive and kicking. Feel bad for Ed Gein’s mom: pretty sure she’s a lampshade now.”

“Christ.”

James looks over at Steve. “Do you want kids?”

Steve freezes, the unexpected change in topic throwing him for a loop. “Um …” Not ones that'll turn me into a lampshade, he doesn't say.

This is something they haven’t done yet; asked each other what they want for their lives long-term. Because such questions naturally infer that they might be considering each other for a starring role in said life.

Steve swallows heavily and works up the courage to softly admit, “Yeah, one day I do.” He dares to meet James’ eyes, and is relieved when he doesn’t see any rejection there. “I want what most people do, I guess. Get married, have kids.” He shrugs. “The American dream, right?”

“What? No white picket fence and a dog named Fido?”

Steve deflates a little. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wasn’t.” James scoots closer and puts his arm around him. “Hey. No, Honey. I wasn’t making fun of you. I want that stuff too.”

“You do?”

“Mmhm.” He kisses Steve's cheek. “I’m glad you told me,” he says. “Makes you even more of the perfect catch.”

Steve snorts. "Yeah. Sure."

James is the perfect catch, Steve is just incredibly lucky.

James has to go on a sudden work trip, and it's a solid week that they're apart.

The next time he comes over to Steve's place, he’s barely in the door before Steve is slamming it shut and pushing him up against the wall. He sinks to his knees and looks up at James, whose eyes have gone from widened to heavy-lidded in seconds. "Hey."

James smiles lazily and cups his cheek. “Hey there.”

Steve touches him over his jeans, starts rubbing slow and purposeful. After a moment or two, James gets hard enough that he can feel it through the denim. He knees in closer, pushes his face into his groin and rubs his cheek along the bulge of his dick.

James’ hands migrate to his head, running through his hair, over his scalp. “Mm,” he hums, amused. “Did you miss me, Sweetheart?”

It’s been little more than a week apart, but Steve has missed him embarrassingly much. He makes a plaintive noise against James’ crotch and nods. “Yeah.” He’s barely heard from the other man. He doesn’t want to complain though, because it’s still early for them and he doesn’t want to seem too needy.

James had warned him he’d be very busy working and mostly unreachable. He'd had to take a flight out for a surgery consult somewhere—Steve can’t remember where. It doesn’t matter. He’s just glad James is back. He looks up from his spot on the floor, batting his eyelashes and reaching for the front of James’ pants. “Can I?”

James grins and relaxes back against the wall. “All yours,” he says, watching Steve like he’s ready for a show. Steve flushes in a heady mix of arousal and shyness. He tucks his lips in as his fingers find the button at James’ fly, pop it open and pull down the zipper. He curls his fingers over the waistband at James’ hips and pulls, until the jeans are halfway down his thighs. He stops.

James is wearing briefs today—white, and with a waistband that has black lettering: Calvin Klein. Steve grins as arousal hits him harder, his own dick stirring in his sweats. “Tighty-whities, huh?” he teases, and when he looks up, he sees James looking down at him, amused.

“What? You don’t approve?”

“Oh, I approve.” He presses his face against the front, against the hardening line of James’ dick beneath the fabric. What he really likes is to see it get hard from the very start, and he's already making a plan to have James naked for this from the get-go, next time. He palms the soft weight of James’ balls through the fabric while placing kisses along the length of his stirring dick. “Been wanting to do this since that first night,” he murmurs. He rubs his other hand over him, circling the wet spot just by the head. “You've got such a nice cock.”

James makes a pleased noise. “Why don’t you get it out, then?” he says softly, one hand cupping Steve’s chin. His thumb pulls down on Steve’s bottom lip. “I want to see your pretty mouth stretchin' around it.”

Steve moans quietly and nods, fingers hurrying to pull his underwear down. James’ cock bobs obscenely in the air once it’s released, still angled downward from the weight of it and from only being half hard. Steve licks his lips, excited at finally getting to really appreciate it up close. He hasn’t had much chance yet, but he’s seen it, knows that it's beautiful.

James is big—as big a top can get before it becomes counterproductive, in Steve's opinion. A respectable length, with a truly mouth watering girth. His balls are soft and warm in Steve’s palm where he holds them. James is shaved there, while everything else is trimmed down short. "Sir," Steve teases, fondling the smooth weight of his balls. "I may just have to wind up sucking on these."

Above him, James chuckles lowly. "Gotta do what you gotta do, Steven. I won't hold it against ya."

Fuck. What is it about James saying his given name like that? It's so hot, feels almost dirty. Steve can't hold back anymore. He takes his cock in hand and explores it with the gentlest of touches, tracing a prominent vein that runs underneath and up along the side, circling his finger on the wet head that’s peeking out, just barely pressing the tip of his thumb into the slit. He bites his lip as it twitches and jerks. Fuck. It’s fucking beautiful.

Above, James makes a sound in his throat, and when Steve looks up he sees him looking darkly amused. “You sure are taking your sweet time with that, Princess.”

Ooh, Princess. That’s a new one. Steve smirks. “I can take all the time I want.”

He says that, but in the next few seconds he’s already lost his patience, too eager for more. He wants to feel it on his tongue, wants to taste it. He sucks the head into his mouth and is rewarded by James’ quiet groan.

“That’s it,” he praises. “Mm.”

Steve sucks him, swirling his tongue over the head and pulling gently with his hand, jerking him off a little while he sucks. He keeps it up, feeling James twitch and grow in his mouth, until he’s fully erect, and Steve just has to pop off to see. His own hand looks tiny and pale on James' dick. He jerks him softly and groans at the sight of the foreskin sliding over the weeping, fat tip. God, Steve loves uncut guys.

James is watching him with heavy eyes, his lips slightly parted, enthralled at the sight of Steve exploring down between his legs. Steve smirks up at him and looks him in the eye as he kisses along his thigh, hipbone, pelvis; all the way up to his stomach and belly button and back down. He rubs his cheek on the hot juncture of his groin and returns to stroking his cock at a languorous pace. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs. “Could do this all day.”

“Oh yeah?” James cards a hand through Steve’s hair—a hand that Steve is very smug to note is trembling the tiniest bit—and leaves it there, caressing his scalp. “Can you go deeper?” he asks quietly, offering it up rather than demanding it.

Steve appreciates the concern, but he’s eager to show off. “‘Can I go deeper’,” he mutters, scoffing. “Hold onto your dick, Honey. This is gonna feel really good.” He sucks James’ cock back into his mouth, only this time he keeps going, taking it all the way until it's in his throat and his nose is buried in the short hair at the base.

Above him, James finally loses his composure, his breath stuttering out in a stifled, “Oh, fuck.”

Steve hums eagerly. He grabs onto the back of James’ thighs and squeezes, uses the grip to yank him even closer. He slides his hands up and grabs at his ass, able to feel the muscles tensing and relaxing as James tries so hard not to thrust into his mouth. Steve pulls off and meets his eyes. “You want to fuck my face?” he asks, eager to give James whatever he wants. “You can.”

James looks utterly smitten. He hooks his thumb in at the corner of Steve’s mouth and pulls gently. “Sweet boy,” he murmurs. Steve’s about to take that as a ‘yes’, but then James tells him otherwise. “Another time,” he says. “Right now I just want to watch you work for it.”

Steve’s belly flips in arousal. Fucking hell. He reaches down to squeeze his own dick, which is painfully constricted in his sweatpants by now. He mostly ignores it though, wanting to put all his focus into pleasing James and pulling more wrecked sounds of pleasure from him. This is a relationship Steve really wants to go the distance in, okay? So he shoots James his best sultry look while wettings his lips, and then sinks right back down with eye contact, prepared to give this man the best head of his life.

They shower together, after coming from each other’s hands and mouths. It’s an intimate experience, standing naked and sated together under the spray of the water, touching each other’s bodies without intent. It’s almost more intimate than the sex they’ve just had.

Steve shivers and luxuriates in it as James stands behind him and runs water-slicked hands over his body, not speaking, just enjoying what he’s touching. He kneads the meat of Steve’s ass, his thighs, draws soapy-slick circles down his ribs and across his belly. He kisses and mouths at his neck as he touches him all over. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and that’s the only word uttered between them for the entirety of the shower.

Later, when they’re sitting together on the couch, drinking wine and talking lazily with nothing but towels wrapped around their waists, James describes his apartment in Manhattan. It’s centrally located but small, because “real estate in the city is sickening.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve murmurs, giving his own shoebox of an apartment a onceover.

James insists that he spends as little time in the city as possible. His preferred residence (because of course he has multiple) is “in the wilderness.”

“Jersey?” Steve asks, lip curled in a sneer.

“Oh no! A little more wild than that,” James laughs, pouring more wine into the glass Steve’s holding out. “It’s out in the Catskills," he confides. "My secret cabin."

"The Catskills?" Steve frowns, trying to think of how long of a drive that must be. “I’ve never been."

“Oh you’d love it,” James insists. “It’s gorgeous out there. Miles and miles of trees. Peace and quiet, no neighbors to bother you.” He smiles wistfully. “It’s the one place I can really let go and relax, be myself. It’s my retreat.”

“It sounds wonderful,” Steve says. James looks so happy when he talks about it, it makes Steve want to go there with him. “Will you take me there someday?” he asks. He’s very aware that the question implies that they’ll still be together down the line. That this thing they have, whatever it is, will continue.

James considers him thoughtfully, though, eyes soft and mysterious, not seeming to mind that Steve is envisioning them in the future. He peers at him in that intense, evaluating way that he has. “Well,” he says. "I mean why not? That'd be fun. Let’s do it.”

“Wait, what? Do it?” Steve repeats, surprised. “You mean like a trip? Like, now?"

“Yeah!" James laughs. “We can go for a few days. I’ll drive us out there and we can just relax together. Cook, watch movies. There’s hiking around the area. And I have a hot tub.”

Steve gasps. “I love hot tubs!”

James laughs and holds out his arms for Steve to climb into his lap. He wraps his arms around him and kisses him. “Okay then, it’s settled. When do you want to go?”

Steve tries to remember his work schedule for that next week, but his thoughts are a little slowed by the warm and gooey feelings he’s got filling him up. James wants to spend a weekend with him. He wants to take him away, show him his favorite place. Steve squirms happily in the other man's lap and tucks his face into his neck, inhaling the rich, clean scent of him and pleased as punch, because this means that James really likes him, and maybe even wants to make him a part of his life.

Jesus Christ, maybe Steve's actually, finally done it. Maybe he really has managed to scoop up the last remaining, non-married, high-value homosexual who actually wants to be in a serious relationship.

It's too good to be true!

Story Masterlist

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[soapified]

weirdly specific soap mactavish headcanons!! for sfw for funsies

fem!reader

hehe my first (and probably last post) sorryy if the format is confusing im still learning 💔💔. mb if things don’t make sense or i didn’t say the correct name/spelling im bad at english lol

IM SORRYRYRYRY 😭😭

ugh i want him so bad

——————————————————————————

sfw (wrote too much sorry)

words are his love language so if you play them correctly he WILL melt

loves giving and receiving compliments no matter how big or small

sliding him a few compliments at first will flabbergast this poor guy especially ones about his physique 🤭

his nose would twitch instead of him blushing

uses nicknames like “schnookums” “shmoopy” ironically especially to embarrass you in front of everybody else

sneaks in actual little nicknames for you and tries to be sneaky, ex. “love” “lassie/lass” “sweetheart” “sweet girl”

he thought he was being slick, he wasn’t and doesn’t know that

has earned a few snorts and furrowed eyebrows from the rest of them because of his antics lol

wants you to touch his hair but doesn’t wanna admit it (i am not sure if he has any tbh)

doesn’t have time to go to a barber anymore so he shaves and cuts his own hair

talks about his petite little mohawk and chews your ear off about it

“would you still love me if i shaved it off? not so beautiful anymore? arent i?!” he says, jokingly threatening to shave off the feeble strip of “mohawk” standing up in the middle of his scalp

wears Spider-Man pajamas every time he gets a chance

bought the shirt a smaller size so it’s tighter

enjoys it when you stare at his cute little Spider-Man shirt

listens to old white dad metal music and grossly adores radiohead

doesn’t admit he likes soft voices and black box recorder (our lana del rey coded sad girl king!!1!1)

“actually- i have sort of a kinship to the song creep 🤓” and his voice would thicken saying this

genuinely teared up to ‘high and dry’

his hands are very rough, his palms are slightly softer but it sometimes hurts holding them

has scars inside both of his palms

was weary of holding your hands at first because he knows how rough his hands are

does the thing where he strokes your hand with his thumb

is a bath man

has those bath trays that connect from end to end on the bathtub rim

has an arsenal of axe body spray on the tray

loves the brand philosophy because of the smell of the shower gels so he treats himself with a bottle after a long task

his one and only alternative is the dove cucumber soap bars

despises loofahs

tries to start with a cold bath but it’s too scared and then immediately starts to crank the faucet to the hot one

sings in the shower (..when he actually showers)

starts out quiet and hums but the longer it takes, the more it becomes a mini concert

sounds terrible when he sings radiohead

once tried to sing the last part of creep, his voice cracked, he knocked over a shampoo bottle on his foot, and started coughing and almost punched a hole in the shower because of the pain

tries to take cold showers and endures it unlike the bath

uses head and shoulders because he thinks his oily scalp is dandruff

doesn’t know that’s what makes his tiny mohawk flat

refuses to admit he has a skin care routine

“a what? well i barely use anything. very little.. yous gotta believe me!!1!1!1”

aftershave, retinol serum, tatcha moisturizer (he somehow accidentally bought it and was fuming because his military pension isn’t built for that)

uses the same bar of soap he uses for his body as a cleanser

also secretly has an amethyst roller (it constantly falls apart and cracked)

he has a king size bed all for himself

has a shit ton of pillows like a cocoon

bed smells like his own like scent but also a sickening amount of sauvage

never let go of his paw patrol blanket that he bought as a joke in like 2019 because it’s very warm and fluffy

surprisingly let’s you take up most of the space if you want and gives you the paw patrol blanket

used to be a mouth breather and snores so loud

throat used to be so dry and he was afraid of drinking orange juice because it stung

he thought his hoarse morning voice was hot (probably is)

doesn’t snore anymore because he got those sony headphones

he swears they’re magical (they’re really just expensive

he cherishes them and is very attached to them

once fell asleep to his usual playlist, woke up to lana del rey’s “cola”

has this one fluffy white persian cat plush toy that he named ‘goyangi’ but pronounces it horribly, also doesn’t know that it means ‘cat’

“go-YANG-gEE 🤓” and pronounced the actual G twice

“my cat is a SHE. 🙄🙄 she’s pretty little creature isnt she?”

when he’s too embarrassed to say it out loud his second name for it is “Hubert”

has had that thing since like 2014

okay that’s it byee 🫶🫶

might make a 2nd one with both sfw and nsfw

#mw2 headcanons #soap call of duty #soap x reader #mw2022 #cod mwii #soap mw2 #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #soap x you #soap imagine #soap cod #soap fluff #headcanon #soap headcanons #soap fanfic

[afunfunkytime]

sorry my beloveds i was doing my homework smh those poetry essays do not be slaying

BUT

i got yall some juice<3

pennsylvania: eats sleeps and breathes football. reluctantly protects his idiot little brother gov. total history nerd. always has snacks. acts like his car radio isn't blasting all too well on his way too school. total swiftie. gov is paid to not tell anyone. watches the chocolate guy on tiktok religiously.

rhode island: frequently gets mistaken for a lost third grader. his friends put a booster seat in his car. claims hes not gay. liar. weirdly dramatic. gossip king. he knows everyone and everything. can be bribed. bites. still gets put on the child leash sometimes.

south carolina: brought a grill to school several times and set off the fire alarm making brisket. nobody knows how he got a whole grill in. pretends he's not related to north but will beat up people for his liddol brother. football player. acts like he's straight. somehow always plays his best when alabama is cheering for him. peculiar.

south dakota: sad. is the problem child. suspended most days. failing a lot of classes. passion for history and geography, but not school geography. mixed in with the bad kids. does sketchy shit in the school bathroom. this man cannot count. smells like blue raspberry and axe body spray in potentially lethal amounts. shower? who? not him.

tennessee: annoying guitar guy at parties. wears white cowboy boots everywhere he goes. band kid. listens to 9 to 5 religiously every morning as he drives to school. his water bottle is definitely not filled with water. got kicked out of religious studies for claiming dolly parton is god and writing a research paper about why he is correct. may or may not have a mullet. carries a guitar on his back everywhere. what do you mean he needs a backpack. music is life man, if dolly dont say it, he dont need it. fuck you calculus.

texas: wears a cowboy hat and boots every day. loud as fuck. pretends he isn't a nerd. dude is a math genius, he loves it, but he doesnt wanna look soft. how dare tough men be smart. big on the football team. dramatic enough to be a theatre kid. too in denial to actually do it. protects his liddol brother austin from anyone who looks at him wrong. has nightmares about cali and austin being friends.

utah: actually goes to bible study. wears a dress shirt, slacks, and a tie to school. nerd. actually has a girlfriend that goes to another school, the girls school across town that idc and hawai'i go to. utah is giving tryhard vibes. total teachers pet. snitch. ridiculously polite. gets very stressed about trivial things.

S C R E A M in solidarity with soup because these poetry essays got me screaming too

tomorrow is yalls last cup of juice ): what should i do next for yall <3

#wttt #wttsh #ben brainard #welcome to the statehouse #welcome to the table

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

"I actually still have more to say lmao but don’t know If I Should " Please go off. It's so refreshing to see someone exercise a healthy dose of caution and scepticism in considering The 'evidence'. Also, wanted to say, I completely get your annoyance about every single song John or Paul has written made to somehow be about the other. I know people are just here to have fun and all but it's such a myopic way of analysing their great body of work.

Like… Here's The Thing:

If John and Paul had sex, it wouldn't be like… that hard for them to hide this fact lol. So the fact we don't have hard proof of it isn't in of itself evidence that it never happened (a thing Mark Lewisohn doesn't seem to quite understand). But finding proof for it outside of Paul himself coming forward and admitting to it (or the executor of his estate, or Sean, or some insanely petty person with an axe to grind who's been… waiting for Paul to die for decades?) is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Honestly, it kind of reads as copium to me when people who are highly invested in Being Right About McLennon cling to these unverifiable sources that vehemently insist "everyone in the industry knows!" It's as if they need to affirm to themselves that they're ~not crazy~. (for the record: I don't think believing John and Paul were in love/had sex in of itself is crazy) It's just concerning when nobody is asking themselves why these sources who have all this "industry knowledge" are apparently never sharing that knowledge with the people who are actually publishing Beatles books; not even with the authors of the super trashy books; not even as a "source who asked not to be named". No, they only appear to be talking to random frequenters of various internet forums. Like. It just makes me go HMMMMM yknow?

And the other thing is like………… Are we forgetting why we here on tumblr generally agree that John was bi?

The idea that everyone knew about John and Paul being a couple, but they didn't tattle about this to the press because That Would Be Rude! ––– but also they felt going off about John's sexuality in general was actually totally fair game???? How does that make any sense?? It's also like, even if a lot of people still look the other way with regard to John's sexuality (though, less and less, in my observation), that doesn't mean the information hasn't been freely accessible for decades. It begs the question why this isn't a thing for all the McLennon Proof That Totally Exists This One Guy Told Me!!! And authors like Albert Goldman prove that disrupting the Lennon Estate's narrative, the macho image of John, is a lucrative business, specifically talking about his sexuality sells. (sort of off-topic: NGL, I'm always a bit mystified when people on this site seem to… Forget that John/Brian is a MUCH more substantiated theory than John/Paul.)

And this can't possibly all be down to John being dead while Paul is alive. As I said: it's also not like Paul hasn't caught an insane amount of shit over the decades. Guys like Giuliano wrote about him as well.

It's almost like, if Paul is bi, probably very few people know this fact for certain! Wow!

Also re: the song thing. It's just that……… I really like music? For it's own sake y'know. I get sad when 90% of the posts I see about the songs are trying to prove a theory that's much better substantiated by like… quotes than (for the most part, pretty vague) lyrics anyways. And I wouldn't mind all the fun tinhatting (some of which I engage in too!) if there was just more unabashed song loving.

#ask #anon #jp speculation #discourse #fiona.docx