#alexei mashkov

[freebooter4ever]

slam your boyfriend the opposing player into the boards during his celly

#patater #doodles #kent parson #alexei mashkov #omgcp

[gothlesbianlardo]

thinking about ransom’s massive crush on tater

#ranskov #justin oluransi #alexei mashkov #adam birkholtz #jack zimmermann #check please #omgcp #omgcheckplease

[zimbits-my-love]

Congratulations on the followers! Could you please draw Tater and blueberries or a blueberry product ?

Thanks!! This man really needs his blueberries 🫐

(my inbox is still open for anyone who hasn’t requested yet, so ask away for my 200 follower celebration!)

#This was very fun to make!!! #I really love the jam jar and the pie :) #200 follower celebration #omgcp #omgcp fanart #omgcheckplease #alexei mashkov #tater #lol why’d i make his hands so big…

[montrealmadison]

Tater 27 please ?

i have never written tater before - ever! - so this was incredibly fun! thank you so much for the prompt and for helping me stretch my writing muscles a little bit ❤️ the only things i know about patater are inspired by a frankly shocking quantity of sidgeno rpf so make of that what you will

27. tater + i’m so tired by lauv & Troye Sivan for @shygryf

Strangers, killing my lonely nights with strangers And when they leave, I go back to our song, I hold on Hurts like heaven, lost in the sound Buzzcut season like you're still around Can't unmiss you, but I need you now

Tater’s letting some girl he doesn’t know shoot tequila out of his belly button when he gets the text.

Kent Parson: you awake? Kent Parson: sorry know it’s late

It is late, three or so, and the club’s fun but the idea of not being here is just as good. Maybe it’s rude, but he doesn’t care; he props his elbow on the table for better leverage and sends back, yes, and then ok?

Kent Parson: no Kent Parson: popped my achilles Kent Parson: we're out

Shit. That means the end of their playoff run, which in turn means about five hundred other things. He doesn’t even have the chance to formulate a response before Kent adds, will you come?

A cold thing settles in Tater’s chest, a weighty purpose that he doesn’t stop to examine. Maybe it's the shots making this seem like a good idea; of course he will, and that’s the end of it. There’s something about clambering up off the table, tequila soaking down into his open fly, and shouldering his way to the exit without a word that makes him feel about a thousand feet tall.

read more below or on ao3 | request a fic here

Kent lives in a nice building. Not nice enough for the security guy downstairs to make any real effort to stop Tater from getting in, but then, Tater is six foot seven and built like the desks that lesser men hide behind. He hits the button for the elevator and zips upward, chewing on his lip, watching the numbers tick higher.

This is stupid. This is an absurd way to spend a thousand dollars and God knows how many days, catching a frantic red-eye to Vegas like he’s going to be able to do anything the Aces’ trainers haven’t already tried. It’s more absurd that he stands in the hallway with his fist poised to knock on Kent’s front door for at least five minutes, wondering if he should have brought food. Does the kid even eat? He’s awfully tiny.

He finally gets over himself and knocks. There’s a voice from inside at once: “Open.”

Tater does.

The apartment is nice, modern. It’s also a complete fucking mess. There are ostentatiously dirty shoes scattered all over the entryway, possibly-related scuff marks up the bare white walls. Tater has to do this dainty hop through a minefield of Yeezys just to make it to solid ground, and is very glad that no one can see him. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Parson?”

“In the living room.”

Tater drops his bag in the kitchen and heads for the voice. The close little hallway seems much more inviting than it did in the dark last time he was here, and the living room is spacious and airy without a couple hundred bodies packing it. There’s a big TV on one wall, running something trashy. In the middle of the room is that ugly couch, brown suede and covered with cat hair, and in the middle of the couch is Kent.

Relief spreads through Tater at once, numbing the tingle in his hands. Okay, so maybe he spent the whole five-hour trip picturing the worst-case scenario. Guys in their line of work are not, as a rule, great at handling their injuries, especially later in the season; Tater only has to look at Jack for proof of that one. But Kent’s eyes are clear, if tired and a little wet-looking, and he’s sprawled out comfortably with his hand in Kit’s fur and his wrapped ankle carefully supported by a pile of throw pillows. He’s wearing ratty old sweats, white socks gone gray on the bottoms, a couple days’ worth of scruff that marks his sorry excuse for a playoff beard. 

“Shit, man,” he says, seeing Tater in the doorway. “You came.”

“You call.” 

It’s not quite that simple, but somehow, faced with the fact of Kent’s obvious, boneless relief at having him here, it feels like the right sentiment.

“I did,” Kent says. He sounds croaky, exhausted. The deep shadows under his eyes make them look more green. Tater wonders if he’s slept, or how much. “Thanks.”

He has this weird impulse to poke the bear, which maybe isn’t fair to Kent, but it’s all he knows how to do. 

“You miss me?” he asks, slouching further into the room. Kit lifts her head imperiously to watch him settle a polite distance away on the couch. “That why you ask me, not teammate?”

This is the dynamic they built at the bar, in the darkness of Kent’s bedroom: push and pull, catch and release. Things are still too new, too fragile between them; they’ve never implied a sense of belonging to each other, or at least not the kind that prompts something like this. 

As it stands, Kent doesn’t play along with the teasing, and that’s what finally gives Tater a sense of how shitty he feels. 

“Let ‘em grieve, right?” he says listlessly, tipping his head into the back of the couch. “Shit game. Didn’t wanna bother them.”

You were okay with bothering me, Tater thinks but does not say. A guy you’ve hooked up with twice who lives across the country. What the fuck does that mean?

He knows what he wants, what he wants it to mean. It’s part of what caught his eye in the first place: this kid is so, so young to be a captain, to bear this weight. The Aces are out of the playoffs not because they played their hardest, but thanks to a non-call and an injury that’ll have Kent in PT all summer. Now he’s curled up on the couch in his disaster of an apartment with only the cat for company, his teammates pushed away or otherwise nowhere to be found. It’s incongruous with the spitfire who finds a reason to drop gloves every time they share the ice, who likes to have his wrists pinned down and kisses with too much teeth and, holy hell, called Tater in Providence when he got hurt.

“Bother me anytime,” Tater says before he can bite down on it. He scoots a little closer, clasping his hands briefly between his knees. “Poor Parson. Need friend when teammates being sad.”

Kent’s laugh turns into a cough and Kit scrambles off his chest, affronted. 

“Is that what you are?” he asks. “My friend?”

“Maybe,” Tater hums, pretending to consider. “Well. Maybe not yet.”

“Not yet,” Kent echoes. He sounds puzzled. “Okay?”

“We not really know each other,” Tater says. Maybe it’s mean, the way this is lighting him on fire. Kent likes to bottom, but never to lose control; even in bed he runs his mouth like everything that comes out of it is gospel truth. Opportunities to catch him on the back foot are few and far between, and—well. Tater likes to take care of his people, likes to show them love, and above all likes a challenge.

“We don’t—”

Tater decides to take pity on him. “Sex not knowing, Parson. Think maybe you think that way.”

Okay, yeah, this is definitely mean. Kent’s breath is coming faster, and the line of his jaw is set and trembling. But Tater wants to push him a little bit, get his money’s worth for the flight, the worry; Kent can pay him back in kind, and will. Tater just has to help him get there.

“So what if I do?” Kent asks. His laugh is tiny. “Man, I’m confused. Not like we’ve had much more time to figure each other out.”

And yet you asked me here, Tater thinks, and decides to play his trump card.

“It’s summer. You not play, I’m not play.” Tater spreads his hands wide, goes for broke and scoots in close to curl a hand slow and sinuous around Kent’s good ankle. “Need rest, someone to take care. Seem like good time to me.”

Kent’s breath catches in his throat. He smells sweaty and kinda gross, but his smile is soft, a fragile thing, and Tater knows he’s gotten it right. 

“Captive audience,” Kent says, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” Tater agrees, and leans in to meet his mouth.

#kent parson #alexei mashkov #patater #omgcp #omgcheckplease #my writing #efickegster 2024

[luminarai]

tater finds out that slav squatting and asian squatting is the same thing, and approximately 0.3 seconds later this image hits the extended smh group chat

lardo: 😎😎 chowder: oh wow matching tracksuits!! nursey: yooo chowder can we recreate this dex: absolutely NOT holster: lol are you guys hanging out at our place? rans is only kinda freaking out shitty: ayy jack I had no idea you guys were in town! jack: We’re not? We have a game in Vancouver in two hours jack: Tater jack: Tater pick up your phone tater: )))))))

ref // prints, stickers etc

#my art #omgcp #omgcheckplease #check please #alexei mashkov #tater #lardo #larissa duan #tater is the president of the Larissa Duran Fan Club #(kent parson is the vp and it’s the only thing tater admits to agreeing with him on) #100 percent holster still uses lol #I know it in my soul #q

[adam-bitcholtz]

Check Please slander

#part one I hope #omgcheckplease #omg check please #omgcp #check please! #jeff troy #alexei mashkov #justin oluransi #eric bittle #aunt judy #samwell men's hockey #GENUINELY SCARED OF RUBBING SOMEONE THE WRONG WAY WITH THIS POST

[skeletonzimms]

tater thinks he’s a twink in the same way that huge dogs like great danes and saint bernards think that they’re lap dogs

#he is blissfully unaware ♥️ #alexei mashkov

[zimmerdouche]

#using my newfound power of polls to tear us apart #omgcp #omg check please #check please #jack zimmermann #shitty knight #alexei mashkov #inserting my personal hc that shits gets ordained to marry jack and bitty and he can be in the middle #and then tater is his best man #but WHO #is bitty’s best man?

[slapshotsandscones]

I've always headcannoned Jack as autistic, but like, diagnosed later in life??

Because I can just imagine him getting diagnosed in his twenties in the off season and having some Big Feelings and Realizations. Like, realizing how he'd partially used alcohol to put a damper on overstimulation at parties when he was younger, and understanding why he had always had so much trouble figuring our how to interact with people (and therefore why he'd had so few friends growing up), so on and so forth.

And he'd tell a few trusted people, probably Bitty and Lardo and Shitty and Tater, because he understands himself better now, and he wants the people he loves to understand him better too. And they all start reading up on autism and accommodations, and Bitty talks to Jack about having ADHD and they grow even closer through their shared experiences with neurodivergency. In the end, though, it's Tater who goes above and beyond.

He's very careful not to out Jack to the team before Jack's ready, but Tater devises a plan. He convinced Georgia that the Falconers should do some outreach with a local Autistic Children Support Group, raising money and inviting the kids to practice. And then he not so subtly suggests to the rest of the team that they should get educated on Autism as well.

And the thing about accommodations is that they benefit everyone, so while the Falconers are researching they find accommodations to implement at the rink, to both help any potential autistic people on the staff or team, but also because they just generally sound nice. So they get permission from management, and they add light dimmers in the locker rooms so its not glaringly bright. They designate an unused office as a quiet room, filling it with pillows, blankets, and sensory toys to help with anxiety before games and cool down afterwards. Thirdy reads about info-dumping, and he thinks the idea of sharing information you love is super cool, so he sets up some optional team bonding power-point nights (some for serious power-points, some for silly ones).

And Jack comes back for training and hears Snowy talking about how they need to make sure that the merch they give the autistic kids in the upcoming event is sensory-sensitivity friendly. And he sees all the accommodations that have been built into the rink over the summer. And he feels so goddamn seen, even if the Falconers don't know that he's autistic as well. (He tells most of them pretty quickly after that. He knows he doesn't half to, but seeing how accepting they are makes him feel safe enough.)

Idk, just. Radically inclusive Falconers crushing hockey stereotypes one at a time. That is all :D

#jack zimmermann #autistic jack zimmerman #tater #alexei mashkov #autistic author #actually autistic #omgcp #lancerambles

[silencedfalcon]

i am still in omgcp brainrot and this fandom has too little aus.

WHERE IS MY PACIFIC RIM CONTENT. Kent and Jack as the rising stars, two drift-compatible pilots who are partnered together, famous for reaching the previously thought impossible drift sync rate of 100%. Slaying kaiju together under the command of Jack’s father and mother, Marshall Bad Bob Zimmermann and Commander Alicia Zimmermann, until the stress of being the world’s best Jaeger piloters and defense agains the kaiju gets to Jack. They desync in the midst of a battle against the first-ever Cat 4 Kaiju, with the stress and arguments leading up to it unbeknownst to everyone, Jack comatose in the cockpit while Kent has to take on the strain of piloting the Jaeger alone and slay the kaiju. And afterwards, while Kent is recuperating from the mental strain of piloting a Jaeger alone - another first - and being hailed as the world’s golden ray of hope, Jack…. disappears.

Two years later Kent hunts down Jack, only to find that Jack’s now the Marshall of his own little Shatterdome out in Providence after ghosting him for two whole years, with the only evidence of him being alive a few prods and sensations from a rapidly-fading Ghost Drift. And when Kent requests a transfer to Providence, he quickly realises a few things -

- one, that Jack is in no way fit to pilot ever again, thanks to the mental and physical damage he suffered in the battle,

- two, he refuses to see Kent even though his transfer has been approved,

- and three, that Jack has moved on and is in love with one of the LOCCENT mission controllers, a guy named Eric “Bitty” Bittle.

(Bittle bakes REALLY good pies. Kent can’t even hate him for that.)

Worst of all, his empty partner spot is going to be reassigned, because even though he’s been defending himself against the recruits in the Kwoon Room with all his might, one of the Ranger pairs in Providence is being dissolved. Snowy is retiring with full honors after wanting to focus on raising his niece, her mother killed in a recent Kaiju attack, which leaves Kent free to be assigned to Snowy’s old partner - Alexei ‘Tater’ Mashkov.

And judging from the way the Russian Ranger slammed him into the mats in the training room, picked him up and called him a “little rat”, Mashkov doesn’t like him, either…

i just have a lot of thoughts about omgcp in the pacrim universe.

#omgcp #omg check please #kent parson #alexei mashkov #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #omgcp aus #noc talks #patater #zimbits

[dunewormz]

scruffing the brat cat

#kent parson #omgcp #alexei mashkov #parsepositive #patater #omgcheckplease #omgcp fanart #omgcp art #kent parson fanart #artists on tumblr

[freebooter4ever]

ransom has this blown up poster sized on the haus attic wall

#alexei mashkov #doodles #omgcp

[sweatersinthesummer]

Now that authors have been revealed, I can post about my fic for the AU Please! fest.

A little bit of a misunderstanding (G, 10,050 words)

Bitty met his best friend Tater at Samwell. Now he has a crush on his friend's teammate, a certain blue-eyed Canadian.

Now go check out all of the works in this fest!

#check please fic #omgauplease #alexei mashkov #eric bittle #jack zimmermann #omgcheckplease #sits fics

[punmasterkentparson]

Playoffs

Notes: I’m cleaning out my WIP folder, we’ll see where it takes us.

Read on AO3

Alexei fancies himself a romantic—the sort of man who wines and dines his lovers before falling into bed with them.

Which is why the thing with Parson is such a disaster.

“My place?” Parson asks, after an accidental meeting in a Vegas bar and a thirty-minute conversation has Alexei still unsure whether Parson is flirting with him or trying to start a fight. They’ve got a game against each other tomorrow morning and Alexei already hates Parson’s guts. Sleeping with him is a terrible idea. But Alexei is coming down off a really bad breakup, one that he hadn’t seen coming, one that has left him so heartbroken and at a loss for the reason that he has caught himself getting short with his teammates when they so much as mention their significant others.

Alexei had thought she was the one. He’d expected to marry her. Clearly, they hadn’t been on the same page.

Parson is as far from a romantic encounter as Alexei will get. As Taylor Swift would say, he’s a nightmare dressed as a daydream.

“Sure,” Alexei says, and does one last shot before following Parson into a taxi and then into his apartment.

The sex isn’t friendly, but it is damn good.

(And so is the next day’s game: a nice, tidy win for the Falconers that leaves Alexei smirking at Parson as he watches him leave the ice.)

Which is why Alexei lets Parson into his apartment the next time the Aces are in Providence. There’s no alcohol this time, which means Alexei has the wherewithal to peel Parson out of his clothes while steering him into the bedroom. He’s still got both socks, an undershirt, and Parson’s button-up left to go when he pushes him to sit on the bed and sinks to his knees.

“Oh,” Parson says. “Fuck, yes.”

“Underwear. Off,” Alexei grunts while digging a condom out of his bedside table.

Parson shimmies out of his boxers and kicks them away. “Take your shirt off?”

“Why?”

Parson snorts, amused. “Because we’re having sex? I wanna see you.”

Alexei strips his shirt off. Then he rolls the condom on and goes to work.

Parson moans and arches and shudders while Alexei works his dick. His hands fist the bedsheets, and then one finds Alexei’s shoulder. “Stop, stop.”

Confused, Alexei pulls off and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Parson scoots up the bed, tugging Alexei’s arm. “Nothing’s wrong. I just changed my mind. I want you on top of me. Come on, get your pants off and get up here.”

Alexei gets his pants off and follows. He presses Parson into the sheets and rolls them together until they’re both gasping. But it takes a turn from sensual to frustrating; they can’t quite sync up their respective rhythms, and no matter how much Alexei tries to guide their hips with his hands, Parson refuses to follow.

“Hey,” Parson complains. “Stop manhandling me.”

“Because you move wrong!”

“Christ, roll over, I’ll do it myself.”

Alexei growls but he rolls over. Parson straddles him and gathers their dicks in his hand, not bothering to remove the condom. “Move with me.”

Alexei thinks its rich of Parson to demand what he wouldn’t do himself, but with Parson in control now, at least Alexei can literally lie back and enjoy the ride. Parson’s grip is firm and his body blushes gorgeously as he moves. Alexei grips Parson’s thighs and enjoys how they tense and shake when he comes.

He lets the thing with Parson continue because he’s got nothing better. He tells himself he’ll break it off when a real partner comes along—someone fun, smart, stacked. Someone he can see himself marrying and kissing at center ice when the Falconers win the Stanley. (God, he wants to win the fucking Stanley.) Parson’s good in bed and he keeps Alexei on his toes everywhere else—on the ice, on the phone, in the press—but he’s not marriage material. He’s just a good distraction.

Alexei wakes up one day and realizes he’s gotten distracted with Parson for almost two years. He thinks he should download a dating app; find someone new. And he means to, but the season is picking up, with the Falconers careening towards a real playoffs slot this year, and he hasn’t got the time. The only reason the thing with Parson has worked for as long as it has is because Parson is in the same professional sports machine as Alexei. They both get how it works. Alexei has always had to explain to his dates and his girlfriends (and boyfriends, if he’d ever allowed himself to openly have one) the infinite ways his job comes first. Parson doesn’t need to hear it.

The thing with Parson is working so far, and Alexei doesn’t have the time to find something better.

Playoffs are a nightmare. It’s the thing Alexei works towards for six months straight, and when it comes, it eats him and everyone else on the team alive. Time ceases to exist; he lives in a world of eat, sleep, hockey, repeat. His awareness boils down to his stick in his hands, the ice under his feet, and the puck on his tape. Every game is a marathon, and this year is particularly tough. Boston fights tooth and nail for five games in the first round, and Pittsburgh drags the second round out to six. 

“Good game,” he says to each of the guys in line. “Good game.”

The Conference Finals are against Carolina and are shitshow. Alexei feels like punching at least three guys in the face rather than shake their hands after the Falconers beat them, but he grits his teeth and repeats, “Good game. Good game,” even though he’s got a black eye to attest to the fact that it damn well wasn’t.

By the time Alexei is flying out to Seattle for a shot at ripping the Stanley from the Schooners’ greedy hands, he’s been bounced around so many generic Midwestern hotel rooms that he’s about to lose his mind.

Kent flies up from Nevada to simultaneously keep him company and keep out of his way. Alexei eats, sleeps, plays hockey, and has sex on autopilot.

“Sorry,” he grunts into Kent’s shoulder blades after yet another desperate, rutting, decisively unromantic performance on his part, during which he completely forgot to give Kent a reach-around. “Sorry is bad sex.”

“You’ll make it up to me,” Kent replies, unbothered, and wiggles out from under Alexei to find a towel and clean himself up. Alexei would feel worse about it if he wasn’t so damn tired, and if Kent hadn’t shut him out last year when the Aces were in their own playoffs hell. Everyone deals with the pressure differently.

Alexei buries his face in his pillow and passes out before Kent returns.

Seattle puts up a fight. To their fans they’re affable and chill, but on the ice they fight dirty. The finals go all the way to the seventh game, a vicious tug-of-war over points and shots and goals and several scrums over goalie interference.  Alexei drops his gloves twice in the fifth game and gets a talking-to from their coach before the sixth. He keeps his cool but it doesn’t matter, they’re back in Seattle for game seven, and Kent holds him like an octopus the whole night before.

Final score: 5-4 in OT. Poots scores the game-winner, and is promptly buried under his teammates. The next eight hours are a dizzying, euphoric whirlwind of yelling, hugging, drinking, dancing, butt-slapping, and then partying at two different restaurants and a bar.

Alexei stumbles back to his hotel room and into Kent’s waiting arms at 3am. Kent couldn’t come to the celebrations; he didn’t even risk attending the game. They’re both each other’s dirty little secret, and Alexei has been fine with that, right up until this moment.

He’s drunk on champagne and he kisses Kent stupid the second he gets in the door. And when Kent pulls away gasping for air, Alexei declares, “Next time, I kiss you at center ice.”

Kent’s breath hitches. He looks gobsmacked.

Alexei clumsily grabs Kent’s face in both hands and kisses him gently—or as gently as a drunk man who nearly fell out of his own Uber getting here possibly can. “Wish you there with me,” he murmurs. “Next time, yeah?” It occurs to him that he’s asking a lot, that Kent might not want this thing of theirs badly enough to risk going public, and abruptly he feels so scared he could throw up. (Although that could be the champagne.)

But Kent lets out a sigh that might be a sob and presses their foreheads together. “Yeah,” he whispers, like he can’t trust his voice any louder than that. “Fuck. Yeah. Next time.”

“Sorry not this time,” Alexei says. “Sorry is all bad sex and hiding in hotel.”

Kent groans and thumps his fist on Alexei’s pectoral. “You said you’d make it up to me.” He undulates his entire body up the length of Alexei’s, making Alexei gasp and moan and shudder. “So, make it up to me.”

Alexei does.

#patater #Check Please! #check please #kent parson #alexei mashkov #fanfic #yes hi i'm still writing

[vitaliskravtsov]

For Spotify wrapped - #88 and nurseydex or patater! :)

okay ngl this is a bit of a toughie bc this one is instrumental but i did my best!!!!!!!

88) the thrombey estate - knives out soundtrack

patater!!

Alexei is kind of absolutely bone-tired from the drive and he’s even more tired from camp, and more than anything, he wants to just pass out on his sofa. 

Unfortunately, it’s like 3pm and any passing out will just mean that he’ll wake up at about 2am, starving and unable to go back to sleep, so he has to tough it out.

That’s what he uses to explain why he’s seeing another person in his house, his brand-new house (okay, it’s an apartment), and doesn’t question it. 

The realtor had told him the house had history in the community, whatever that meant, but the plumbing was good and there was no water damage, so he’d taken it without interrogating that statement too deeply.

Now, though, he’s staring down a five-foot-seven blonde kid who looks like he’s straight out of an eighties sports mag.

“Mmh,” he grunts, and throws his stuff at the floor. 

The boy stares at him.

“That’ll dent,” he says, vowels lilting just a little. Weird accent.

“Mmh,” Alexei says again.

“Eat,” the boy says, and then stalks off.

Eventually, Alexei does get up and get a protein shake going. He pours it over a bowl of pasta, immediately regrets the decision, and eats the whole thing anyway.

He’s not as concerned as he should be, but by the time he goes to bed, the boy is gone, so it’s probably fine.

Over the next couple of weeks, he keeps appearing in Alexei’s house, staring at Alexei’s Russian books or petting Alexei’s sticks or leaving little notes about the decor (or the dishes, or the cooking situation, which is maybe a little more abysmal than it should be after two and a half years on his own).

He’s pretty, in an ethereal, incomprehensible, untouchable way.

He’s kind of horribly, awfully, exactly, Alexei’s type.

As the season progresses, he starts leaving hockey-related notes, but also commentary on Alexei’s music selection and on Alexei’s nutrition -- notably different from the cooking-based notes in that these have to do with macronutrients and vitamins and some things Alexei’s not entirely sure how to pronounce, at least in English -- and Alexei discovers that the boy likes Ziggy Stardust and Metallica and Aretha Franklin and Queen, and he stars putting that on more when he knows they’re both around the house.

The hockey notes are good, too, if focused on kind of old-school stuff, but Alexei doesn’t mind; he’s always down to try new stuff in his play, and he does start producing more, so. It’s a win in his book.

He learns, eventually, that the boy is called Kent and that he’s from the hellhole of a city that Alexei cannot begin to imagine why anyone would choose to live in if they weren’t here for hockey.

He starts watching movies with Alexei, too, and in that, their tastes are more similar. Kent is kind of game for anything, including Disney movies, and Alexei’s desire for Russian subtitles or dubs at the end of a long day is very on board with that.

It’s -- it’s nice, to cohabitate with someone who never generates any dishes (or if he does, meticulously puts them away totally clean) and never makes a mess, and who seems to instinctively understand when Alexei needs to be alone.

It’s really fucking nice.

Alexei blames that on the wire-crossing that happens one night when he gets home from a game and sees Kent on the couch, sprawled out all warm and inviting, and his brain, the little part of his brain that still misses the piece of shit who dumped him when he realised Alexei would never be a millionaire, says kiss your boyfriend, and Alexei does, no hesitation.

Or, well, he tries to, because his lips go straight through Kent’s forehead and he lands face first in the arm of the couch, confused and hurt, lips and nose smarting.

When he lifts his head, Kent is gone.

#patater #kent parson #alexei mashkov #*mine #ask #ask answered #stardew-allie #omgcp #ghostfic kinda

[songsnstars]

here have a potato man

i legitimately have a whole folder on my phone with screenshots of all the times tater shows up in the comic

#kent is still number one beloved but tater is quickly becoming number 2 #hes my little big man #alexei mashkov #my art #traditional art #omgcp