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officialspec · 1 month

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can you pleeeeease post your dm sexuality/gender hcs on here.... 🥺 i don't have a twitter but i wanna know. it's like a pandora's box to me now i'm like scratching at the door. let me in

heres the link 2 the thread (mild spoilers btw) ill post a transcript under the cut for ppl who dont have twitter

first off i think laios relationship to sex is super removed for like 50 reasons without even getting into his actual sexuality

he grew up in a place with very repressed ideas about sex and has a lot of fear about asserting his presence in situations

his special interest takes precedent over any social interactions he has and the level of closeness he feels towards people

he has a hard time figuring out his feelings towards other people both bc hes autistic and bc he has freaky deviantart fetishes that make sex in his mind a very abstract concept <- this one is me projecting mostly

that aside, i feel like gender-wise hes attracted to ppl so infrequently it may as well be entirely case-by-case

the idea of him being gay appeals to me from the 'raised with traditional values he Does Not fit into/hasnt begun to question it yet' perspective, i lauve characters who put a lot of stock into performing a role thats expected of them and fail miserably for unknown (gay) reasons

from his perspective tho i dont think he would ever really label himself anything. hes going to pride parades in the shirt+shorts Ally Fit to clap for his friends

hes also 'cis by indifference' imo... i love tmasc laios hcs it just doesnt mesh w his personal history to me. i do think hes got some kind of therian gender thing going on (not trans or nb but a secret third thing) but i cant see him changing anything abt his appearance/pronouns to accommodate that post-canon. hes just doin his thang

falin is in a similar boat for gender. i LOOVE tfem falin but the village repression thing has been bugging at me so i dont think i subscribe to it anymore (canon purist sorry) BUT if u hold that hc i am clapping and cheering regardless

instead i was propagandised to a while back and i LOVEEE the idea that being fused w a male dragon and the residual traits she has after being revived have given her a type of gender euphoria she didnt realise she was missing. a little boygirl swagger if u will

sexuality-wise i also dont think she would care to label herself, shes a lesbian by virtue of only being interested in One woman and zero other people. without marcille i do think shes still exclusively attracted to women, and i like to imagine she might experiment around a bit during her travels post-canon (pre-relationship). hearing abt it might put marcille on the news though

marcille is very simple That is a transfem lesbian. she cant get pregnant, shes obsessed w being femme and all that combined w her half-tallman struggles to be seen as 'properly feminine' by elf standards reads very transfeminine to Me. also her bookboy crush REEKS of comphet its not subtle

i think a more comfortable marcy might have the space to experiment w being elf butch like her manga boys but thats mainly self indulgence for me. utena could have saved her

senshi is gay his whole thing is abt not being able to perform dwarven masculinity to a proper standard (soft hearted, not as strong or rugged as his peers) which is like gaycoding 101. also hes a bear. homosexuality be damned by boy can work a grill

adding onto this i rly think senshi got some type of euphoria from being an elf in the changeling chapters. he was feeling himself so much i think he was using it as an outlet to have fun being a little fem and fruity without needing to justify it. do u understand

i dont have any particular opinions abt him gender-wise beyond that. his bulge is an essential part of his character design but i also saw a transmasc senshi a couple days ago that made me nod my head thoughtfully so i could go either way

chilchuck is cis and bisexual this is just canon. not even just his old man crush on senshi altho i do think thats very funny but they put his ass on a cover themed like hes in a dating sim with all the men and women in the cast and then slapped it in front of a chapter called "bicorn". i simply cant pass up that kind of overt signaling. its so fucking funny what else is there to say truly

izu to ME is a transmasc aroace lesbian (this one has the least basis in canon i just know it to be true) shes a little genderfluid with it nd uses he/she i think. i like to imagine she consistently uses masculine personal pronouns to refer to herself either way tho (boku, ore)

i think izutsumis gender/sexuality is entirely secondary in priorities to her body dysphoria. she has a lot of learning and acceptance 2 do before that kind of self discovery is on the docket and in my mind eschewing gender on some level is part of that. get sillay

shuro is cishet but at least he feels bad about it. next

kabru is a transmasc bisexual this is also practically text. his whole thing of being treated like a doll by milsiril to put in pretty dresses, plus i think it would be pretty easy for him to stealth in the west since tallmen are seen as inherently more masculine than elves

(i also think changing genders is just more common for elves. theyre androgynous enough that it wouldnt be hard and like who in their right miiiiind would be the same gender for 500 years. dwarves too)

i think he started presenting as male socially in the west but didnt need to consider medical transition until he moved to a more mixed culture where other races might see him as a woman

i dont have to explain the bisexual part. have u seen him

namari is a butch bisexual this is just canon straight up. shes not transmasc but i think the default settings for dwarven women is like 4 years of T regardless. shes a hit at all the local cruising spots despite her renfaire nerdisms i know this

and just bc im thinking abt em kiki and kaka are identical and kiki is tfem :} theyre both attracted to women but kaka is a sub so i forgive him

THATS ALL 4 NOW theres a lot of characters so i cant have thoughts abt all of them at once but i hope this was good. im right about everything forever as per usual

#ask #headcanons #passes out. my Mind #dunmesh

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spacelazarwolf · 9 months

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109 years ago today, leo frank, an innocent american jewish man, was lynched.

in 1913, leo frank was arrested for the murder of mary phagan. despite evidence that he was at home at the time of the murder, the jury decided in just four hours that he was guilty and the judge sentenced him to death. all of frank's appeals were rejected. protests erupted outside the governor's mansion when the governor decided to commute frank's sentence from death to life imprisonment, and on august 17th, 1915, a group of 25 men kidnapped frank from the prison hospital where he was recovering from an attempt on his life, drove him 100 miles to mary phagan's hometown, and lynched him. there are several photos of the lynching.

though frank is the only known jewish victim of lynching in america, antisemitism was baked into the nation's history in numerous other ways. during the trial, the prosecuting attorney framed him as a sexual pervert who was both a homosexual and preyed on young girls. this is not the first time a jewish man has been framed as a sexual predatory because of his jewishness. it was simply the culmination of centuries of antisemitism that still persists to this day. (content warning for antisemitic caricatures and one graphic photo of the lynching of leo frank)

leo frank was proven innocent after his death, though many people still insist he was guilty, particularly white supremacists.

a musical called parade about the trial and tragic death of leo frank was written by jewish composer jason robert brown and jewish playwright alfred uhry. it premiered in 1988 and was revived in 2023 on broadway, starring jewish actors ben platt and micaela diamond, where neo nazis protested outside the theatre, claiming the show was "glorifying a pedophile."

as of writing this, tomorrow is the first day of elul, the last month in the jewish calendar culminating in the high holy days, the holiest days of the jewish year. every year, synagogues see an increase in negative attention and antisemitism from their wider communities. we start to receive more hostile phone calls and emails, threats of violence, and this year there was a swatting campaign targeting at least 26 jewish institutions. we are supposed to be using this time to reflect and make amends with the people we've hurt, and instead so much of our time and energy had to go toward ensuring we can even safely walk into our communal spaces.

i don't have the answer for how to fix this or what you as a gentile should do. antisemitism is thousands of years old, and it's not going to stop because some well meaning people on tumblr read all the articles linked in this post. all i know is that jews all over the world are terrified and so, so tired.

#jewish #jumblr #antisemitism

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itsnothingofinterest · 8 months

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I actually find it funny when people will say the heroes need to kill more villains instead of arresting them when, from where I'm looking, every instance of the heroes killing a villain(s) has led to some consequence that would've been avoided had they just been taken in alive. (Which evidence has often shown them quite capable of doing.)

Lady Nagant was made to kill loads of people, driving her crazy and leading her to kill her boss and deprive the hero side of one of it's best. Her case feels like a big reason why killing on the regular would be incompatible with the rest of the hero shtick; 'cause it turns out people with lots of blood on their hands have trouble using them to then shake the hands of children.

People say All Might should've killed AFO; but you can tell both from All Might's dialogue in Kamino & from how AFO regrew his head that that's exactly how their first fight ~7 years ago ended. AFO's brains met the pavement that day. And I can only assume this allowed his body to be easily recovered & revived, letting him lay low for the next 6 years to mould Tomura into a successor and orchestrate a good portion of the conflicts we've seen in this series. Just saying, that sounds much harder to do from Tartarus. And at least the heroes knew when he broke out of jail way faster then when he broke out of the grip of death. Heck, it could easily be argued he only broke out of jail thanks to that 6 years of set-up.

Oh and where to start with Hawks killing Twice? Maybe how it enraged Toga & Dabi to make them more crazy & dangerous, maybe how it affected people's trust in heroes? Oh but the big one has to be how leaving Twice as a corpse let his blood be collected for Toga to get a parade off anyway; one the heroes were unprepared for too, which distracted a lot of the pros meant to keep AFO in Gunga. All of which could've been avoided if Hawks had just taken Twice in alive. (Which I must reiterate he easily could have done; I mean his quirk was shown pretty easily countering a Parade.) The heroes wouldn't have had to deal with a Parade in this war at all if Twice was sitting pretty in a jail cell next to Compress & Geten.

I can't help but think those last two cases could be a surprisingly common occurrence too if heroes killed as much as some readers say they should. Like, could you imagine if every dangerous villain in Japan's history was killed and then just dumped somewhere for a guy like Dr. Garaki to get his hands on them the same way he got Shirakumo?

So anyway, between the mental health issues it causes, combined with how villains keep finding ways to perform necromancy; I'm just not seeing a lot of evidence that things go well for the heroes when they kill villains, or that they'd go much better if the heroes were kill-happy soldiers of the war on villainy all the time.

#bnha #lady nagant #hero public safety commission #all for one #all might #shigaraki tomura #twice #jin bubaigawara #anti hawks #dabi #toga himiko #pro heroes #kyudai garaki #shirakumo oboro #hero society #Hell if I wanna be petty; even Endeavor roasting Hood might’ve made him harder to study than the USJ Nomu or Kurogiri were.

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nananarc · 7 months

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The Death Of Me . 2023

After being revived successfully by Arasaka, Vân spend their time working as a special agent under Takemura's care. During this time, they met Lương - a high ranking officer of SovOil - and continues to frequently work together on collaborative missions of Arasaka and SovOil, especially around the East Asia and South East Asia countries.

However, it comes as no surprise that Vân's life as the walking advertisement of Arasaka's technological superiority is not breezy. Time and time again, she becomes the target of Arasaka's own inhumane experiments and their competitors' attempted sabotaging and kidnapping. She harbors her own escape, with the help of their powerful ally, Lương.

After one especially deadly mission, Vân ends up with a critical injury which has caused Lương to rush the plan forward for fear of her life. This incident is a wake up call for both Lương and Goro of the corporat shackle, albeit much more so for her fellow Vietnamese colleague who comes from a rich dynasty than her Japanese lover who was a Chiba-11 slum kid that is still under the debt of Arasaka.

Lương and Vân ran away together as soon as they are back on their feet, leaving the still hesitating Takemura behind. He has had his doubts ever since 2077 when he first met Vân, and they only grow stronger as he witness her sufferings in Mikoshi and during the years they work together afterwards. But it is still not enough for him to abandon his so-called duty and convictions, something about "cannot teach an old dog new tricks".

That is, until Arasaka decided to "revive" another Vân-borg but very altered this time to better suit their needs. They have the same smile, same posture. They calls him exactly they way Vân likes to coos into his ears on the rare mornings when Vân wakes up earlier than him. But something is wrong behind those eyes. Goro watches as a ghost occupying the shell of whom his heart belongs to being paraded around by Arasaka like a twisted puppet. He finally decided that this old dog needs to teach himself new tricks.

But, is it too late?

Stay tune on "Na's midnight random incoherent brainrot" to find out!

Note1 : Did I just retconed my own hc of my characters? Yes. Have I ever introduced publicly those hc? Nope. Do I actually have an idea on how things are gonna turn out after thing? I dont. Bite me lmao.

Note2: I wanna play with the idea of Death, Life, and Love. Which one is Death in this comic? Goro or Lương? As well as when is Death ends and Life begins, because after the beginning a new life post-Mikoshi, she is on the verge of death many times other than this incident.

Goro and Vân are the love of each other's lives, but she loves Lương as well in her own ways. Lương loves her too despite him not really recognizing it and it not being the same thing as hers. Are these loves romantic, sexual, platonic, or whatever else?

Sorry haha the brainrot is just INTENSE today so i scribbled all of this down in just a few hours, idk if everything makes sense.

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anlian-aishang · 5 months

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For the practice drabble thingie, Sweat/Scent kink? 👁️ 👁️

I just. k n o w. I have this headcanon that Levi always uses baby/scented powder to avoid sweating so much on expeditions/missions, but maybe one day he just runs out of it or rushes out of his room, so Levi gets flustered or self-conscious for the rest of the day or smth, idk I don’t think he would smell **that much**, but… still, he smells pretty masculine, yknow?👁️👁️

Tags: levi x reader [mutual pining], sfw [but fetish-based material], sweat & scent stuff, canonverse, gn!reader Word count: 2700 A/N: Holy hell, thank you, this is exactly what I wanted. nsfw sequel is in the works <3

It was his fucking day off.

Levi was the most cautious when it came to anticipation. Sights no one should have to see had scarred him to the point of learning: if you never got your hopes up, nothing could let you down. That thought rained on most of his parades, but he supposed there was little letdown to be had when it came to the likewise little things. On returns from expeditions, he allowed himself to look forward to the removal of his heavy gear and tight belts. When the smell of fresh-baked bread wafted through the barracks, he let his tongue salivate and his stomach sing. Today would have been his first day off in - he couldn’t even remember - god knows how long. Last night, his stagnant stoicism seemed to float away, head in clouded daydream of how to make this day perfect.

But some days weren’t meant to be perfect.

Instead of birds chirping and the first rays of sunlight that Levi anticipated, it was a series of harsh knocks at the hour of indigo sky that woke him up. Levi startled out of sleep, snapping up with a breathless gasp.

In hindsight, maybe he should’ve said nothing, maybe then they would’ve left him alone. However, being woken suddenly, though a common occurrence, almost always meant disaster in the Scouts. His voice cracked a barely audible “W’What?” No response. Levi coughed and cleared his throat, the return of his scathing tone, “What?”

The knob swiveled. His door creaked. In the shadows of dawn stood a domineering, a commanding, six-foot figure. The leisurely pace with which he entered the room conveyed that there was no life-or-death emergency, and thus no good reason, for having barged in here on his day off. Levi rolled his eyes and scowled, “I didn’t say ‘come in.’”

Erwin ignored his remark and instead cut to the chase. “Supply transports were raided in Trost.”

His mind already set in vacation mode, it was remarkable how quickly his knowledge of the restock had left him, “What?”

“Tug-of-war with the Garrisons and MPs, scouring over the leftover scraps of the materials that were supposed to be.”

“The hell do the MPs need anything for?”

“I’m headed to the capital to find out.”

Too tired to think - let alone attempt - to disguise his confusion. Levi’s brows arced, lips parted as he tried to piece together what the hell this had to do with him. When it dawned, his trademark pout revived.

“...No.”

“So you’ll take my stand, running morning drills in -” Erwin checked his pocket watch - “twenty minutes.”

“I’m off today.” Levi refuted. “Get Miche or Hange to do it.”

“They’re coming with me.” Erwin’s eyes were dead set, nearly offended, don’t you know I’ve thought of this already? “Unless, of course, you want to make the trip.”

To yak with the higher-ups? He would sooner crawl through mud.

Though he was given a choice, he took pity at his situation: “Bullshit…” Levi cursed beneath his breath, his version of whining.

Impatient, Erwin tapped his foot, “Are you going to get up or would you like to sit here and talk about our feelings?” The commander’s voice was starkly monotone, despite the sarcasm dripping in his statement.

Levi could play that card, too. “Are you going to leave or are you just here to watch my bare ass roll out of bed?”

Right. Erwin turned on his heel, door slammed in his wake.

His impulse was to throw his head back on his pillow and an arm over his face, but twenty minutes - he didn’t even have the time for that. Levi bunched his sheets in his hands, so angry that his fists trembled, and swiveled his legs over the edge of his bed. A pang of nausea and a sharp headache, his body was pissed at him for the violent disruption of his sleep cycle. Levi held his forehead in hand and shook, blame eyebrows, not me.

Levi’s limbs felt heavy, like he had just come indoors from a rainstorm. Clouds of colorful swears and harsh grunts propelled him through his morning routine. A three-minute shower, trimming his bangs, toothpaste and mouthwash followed by tea. One of many identical uniforms was laid out on his dresser, but before that…

From head to toe - undercut nape, under the arms, the shelf of his pecs, between his thighs, and finally his feet - Levi always applied a handful of drying agent. At this time of year, headquarters could seriously reek, and Levi refused to contribute to that filth. Pressing his lips together and stifling a yawn, he turned the container upside down. Lips parted, though, when nothing fell out.

Shake. Shake shake.

A blockage, a clump, maybe? But there was no sound. The slightest of twitches in his fingers as Levi delicately, anxiously, twisted off the cap and peered inside.

That’s right. He had made a mental note yesterday, that part of his day off would be dedicated to visiting the market, buying tea leaves, some new briefs, and his astringent powder - all items he was too mortified to order through the Corps. Given the thieving that had just happened, it was not like those supplies would’ve arrived anyway, but now, he would not have the freedom to go out and get them.

With the jar completely open, he considered a few shakes in vain, but the bottle was so empty that he could see the reflection of his dark-circled eyes in the bottom of it. Levi allowed himself a heavy, exasperated sigh as he set the empty vessel back on his bathroom countertop just to loudly smack it into the trash can. Fucking shit.

At least he had showered, but peering out the window and onto the training grounds, he could already see waves of heat radiating off the pavement. Come noon, it would be far worse. Clock ticking, for now, his only solution was to cut down on layers. It was then that he realized how little leniency the uniform lent. Gritting his teeth, Levi reluctantly left his top drawer shut, forgoing his undershirt and underwear. Walking past his mirror, his reflection caught his own eyes: his ivory skin barely yet noticeably peeking through the buttons of his grey shirt. Goddammit, he ripped the brown, canvas coat off its hanger and crossed it tight across his chest. To the harmony of his soles on wooden floor, his inner voice melodized: Could an outfit be both breathable and modest?

Levi could not bring himself to abandon his cravat, so instead of tying it beneath his collar, he let it sling out his back pocket, at the ready to grasp for when he needed to wipe his sweat away. That moment was inevitable, but he preferred not to think about it. He ran his fingers through his hair, base of his hand lingered on his widow’s peak, grinding pressure away like a mortar and pestle. Whatever, he tried to assure himself, as long as no one was around…

At first, he thought he might manage. If they got close enough, they would surely notice the glimmer shining upon his skin. However, by terse orders and points of his fingers, he had maintained a perpetual distance from the hoard of trainees. He was more of a hands-on kind of teacher, opting to join them as they ran laps or learned to grapple through trees. Today, though, he was standing in the shade several yards from the action. If anyone gave him shit for lazying aside, he had an excuse in that he wasn’t even supposed to be on-call today anyways. However, perhaps because he looked particularly irritable and scary, no one dared question his bystanding.

Then came you.

“Levi?”

It was the first time you had ever seen startle on the captain. A simultaneous, steep flinch in each of his shoulders. Hairs stood on end, he whipped his gaze around, “What? What’re you doing here?”

The sight of panic on someone so fearless, it caused you to fret by proxy. “I - I uh…” You had never second-guessed him before, you had never had to. “I’m covering for -”

“Erwin?”

You knit your hands behind your back, a sheepish grin, “He said you’d need help. You know, given the heat…”

Levi crossed his arms and bit the inside of his cheek. How shitty could that oaf be? The truth was that this heat was getting to everyone, yet in his fluster, Levi was sure that not only Erwin knew about his secret susceptibility, but that he had spilled it to the last person Levi wanted to know. No words seemed adequate for response, so instead, he kicked his foot against the barrack wall, leaned back, and deferred to silence.

Something was off, your eyes darted in search for it. His cheeks had been tainted a light red. Luckily, you chalked it up to the temperature, though Levi knew that was not the sole factor. His hair was slicker than its usual light-and-airy allure, you figured he had just gotten out of the shower. That was true, but this damp was sweat, not soap. Your gaze started to descend down his body, and on the way, you noticed it: no cravat.

A dog without a collar. A missing puzzle piece. Mildly irksome yet disproportionately intriguing. It was like he had read your mind, the mocking timing with which he reached back into his pocket and lifted the cloth to his forehead, sighing and swiping. After a couple wringing flicks of his wrist, he folded it and shoved it inside the lining of his tan jacket. His left hand tucked it away, hidden, while his right hand lifted the coat away from his chest, granting him the space to do so. Again, his own state snagged his attention - the dark, drenched patch of fabric at his underarm jumped out like a bug on a wall. Fiercely, he snatched his jacket shut again, praying to whatever was out there that you had not seen.

And though you had not seen the soak of his shirt, his odd behavior was garnering more and more of your attention. Cruelly, that made him sweat even more: not only the sun’s rays, but the blaze of your stare burning onto his skin. He cursed the thickness of his leather boots, the ODM gear that strapped his clothing tight to his skin, the turn of events that had brought you to this moment, his stupid genetics, and his even stupider feelings for you. Thoughts spiraling, humidity could mess with him in ways that titans could not.

If you thought hard about it, you may have realized that his humidity induced the same haze in you. Bangs glued to his forehead. Chest rose high and fell deep - combined with his light panting - made your brain boggle. Now and then, a clear bead of sweat would fall from his temple, down his jawline and neck, before disappearing down his collar - where you noticed that his top button was uncharacteristically undone.

The loud pop! as he uncorked his canteen broke both of your thirsts. Head tilted far back, Adam’s apple deliciously bobbed as he gulped down his water. Lips absentmindedly fallen, your eyes drank as he did.

Levi recognized, pretending that he hadn’t noticed your stare had thus far failed to shake it. He scoffed internally: someone could use some self-awareness, he was literally dripping with it. With a straight-on side-eye, he maintained eye contact as he gradually lowered the canteen from his lips, only to thrash it and splash it upwards into his own face. Still, you gaped like an idiot. Finally, Levi decided: if you were going to be this indulgent, he would be, too. Maybe then, you’d realize. Levi thumbed a leaking drop from the corner of his mouth. After briefly sucking the digit dry, his tongue snuck between his lips to slowly lick them clean.

Stone-cold steel eyes and his soft pink tongue - that was what it took to break your concentration. Immediately, you snapped your gaze down to your toes and silently mouthed sorry.

Despite the heat, shivers somehow managed to seize his figure. With your gaze averted, you thankfully missed them. However, when you no longer had your sight to rely on, other senses instinctively took over. Particularly, scent: aged sandalwood, burnt charcoal, bitter tea. On the training grounds, these smells did not come naturally. And if it were anyone else, you may have cringed at the combination of scents, but upon realization of the one and only source of this musk, you felt your middle warm with inexplicable satisfaction.

Meanwhile, he was squirming: fuck, how badly he wanted to hit the showers. If Erwin had left this assignment to him, he had every right to leave it to the next person. The thing was, that next person was you, the blinking, doe-eyed, fresh promotion who hardly knew their blades from their gas. If you were anyone else, he could see himself saying: take this cash, head to the square and stop at this stand, buy the tallest bottle they have and bring it back to me. Say a word, you’re dead.

But you were the entire reason he strove to keep this secret under wraps. To give you such orders would essentially be a confession, erasing the whole point. Between a rock and a hard place, Levi stood frozen in fever.

The air was thick with moisture and silence. With each breath, the memory of that canteen escapade and his intensifying aura seemed to suffocate you. Internally, he was simmering over how to shoo you away from his disgusting sorry state. On the other hand, you were parsing over how to excuse yourself without being rude.

The 10:00 bell rang, you used it to craft a feigned excuse, “If you’ve got things under control -”

“I do.” In some ways, he did. In others, absolutely not.

“- I’m supposed to help mess out with lunch.”

Levi knit his brows, seemed unlikely, but he would not object. With a slight flick of his head, his gesture released you from post and encouraged you inside.

At the door frame and with his back turned, you could not help but take one last look. At his last end and assuming you had departed already, he finally shouldered that Scouts jacket off, revealing his light-grey button up having turned dark with his sweat. His fist clutched his collar and fanned ferociously, allowing his skin to breathe. Inaudible to the other, you both simultaneously reprieved, “Fuck me…”

At 11 on the dot, Levi and the platoon of morning athletes were in the cafeteria line. So what if it meant they called it quits prematurely? Inside, no one was complaining. Levi was relieved that he did not find you there, hopeful that you were in your room avoiding heat stroke, and oddly satisfied to have correctly suspected your “cafeteria-duties” bluff earlier.

Levi looked like he had been rained on then dunk-tanked. At least, that was how his squad put it, jeering and elbowing, “What happened to you out there?”

They didn’t want to know. He didn’t want them to know. Most of all, he would rather forget this day ever happened. He took his steel tray and made for his room to eat in private - but more importantly, to shower again.

The venture back to his quarters seemed to drag - maybe it was because the dampness of his clothes had weighed him down, or maybe it was because the empty, lone quiet of the halls allowed his consciousness to echo loud and clear: humiliating, huh?

He could not deny that it was fucking humiliating, but for as scathing as the memory of that embarrassment was, the recollection of your rose-colored stare was just as impactful. All along, he had feared that if you witnessed his weakness to heat - more so the sweat and stench that came with it, it would have sent you running the other direction. Self-doubt suggested: they did end up running, though. That mess-hall excuse, them being them, they were probably trying not to offend you as they took cover from your reek. Self-confidence objected, but remember the way they looked at you? Don’t play dumb. You know that look anywhere. They like you - and hell - maybe they liked it.

On his doormat, a tall white bottle and a handwritten note confirmed the latter.

Seemed like you were missing something… …not that I think you need it. - (Y/N)

// masterlist //

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi #levi ackerman #levi x you #levi ackerman x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #oneshot #request #weeeeeeeeeeeee #2023 #anlian writes #my writing #alias's #fluff

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the-knucklesverse · 3 months

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tell us more about little Z!

Z is one of our favourites to play with, he's the mischievous kid that gets everyone to go along with his shenanigans haha. He loves playing pranks and getting on people's nerves, but no one can ever truly get upset because he's equally sweet as well. He also has plant powers (that we forgot about for while 😅)

Here's a messy little doodle of him!! - aaphant

The backstory of a lot of these Knuckleses tends to fluctuate a little, but we've consistently agreed that Z was born thousands of years ago while the Knuckles clan were still around and thriving. He was chosen at a young age to be infused with great amounts of the Master Emerald's energy, and was taken from his parents and raised just to take part in the power transferring ceremony.

It went wrong. Disastrously wrong. His body could not contain the power that the Echidna Priests tried to infuse him with, leading to his death. His body was buried and forgotten about as thousands of years went by and the echidnas eventually faced extinction. But no one knew that under the earth, Z's body was kept intact by the power that still saturated his bones. The Master Emerald protected him for all those years.

One day, he woke up. Alone.

There's a lot more to this of course, but we can't reveal everything all at once ahah!

The initial idea for Z in the Echidna's Parade Discord came from an au idea ramble from aphantimes. Just the vague idea of a Knuckles that was killed centuries ago and kept intact and eventually revived by the Master Emerald. At first he was characterised as being around the same age as Game Knuckles, and had a strangely detached personality, barely reacting to finding out he's a walking corpse. A very far cry from our current mischievous little kid!! The story evolved a LOT with many different contributors from the server and we eventually got the Z we have now!

#knucklesverse #zombie knuckles #knucklesverse infodump #zombie knuckles info #knucklesverse ask #aaphant art #knucklesverse art #knuckles the echidna

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wakeupthemembersofbylernation · 11 months

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A maladaptive daydreaming endgame would be the most boring, dry, anticlimactic, and nonsensical endgame possible. There’s no arc. There’s no stakes. There’s nothing to look forward to. There’s no pizzaz. There’s no mystery. They have no goals. They aren’t building towards anything. Plus, there’s a giant, unanswered, blue and yellow coded, bowlcut-shaped elephant standing in the middle of their storyline.

Like, push aside the minutiae of the shipping war for a second. Push aside the debate over Mike’s sexuality. Macy's Day Parade staying together and finally being a happy couple in Season 5 is a genuinely absurd concept because they have no momentum. And that in and of itself is so incriminating. Yes, on a surface level (boy protagonist makes grand confession love monologue to girl protagonist, wooo, romance go brr) level, I suppose one could think they do. But they do not. Where are they going, narratively? What do Mike and El like doing together for fun? Brodie made a whole monologue and that answer is still a giant question mark. What are their shared hopes for the future?

They have none. Even without being in the same state, it’s clear why Duzie is into each other. Lumax, Jancy, Jopper, and Rockie all are building towards something. Even a hypothetical STANCY revival has more of a raison d’être. Love them or hate them, they do fall into tropes of rekindling old sparks, and Steve’s pitch was rooted in how much he’s changed and what his hopes are for his future- which he sees Nancy in (even if Nancy’s future goals don’t actually align). And for El, it’s clear that saving Max is her priority. So even Elmax has more momentum than Mlvn.

For Migration Pattern, it’s like Mike finally did the thing, finally said ILY, finally confessed his apparently undying love for his superpowered girlfriend (in the penultimate season, I might add, which is never a good sign), only for there to be crickets. It’s like okay… and now what?

No one knows. It doesn’t feel right. Mike finally did everything El asked of him, finally (allegedly) explained why he couldn’t say it before, and it’s narratively unsatisfying in every possible way. Not only this, but this is not your imagination playing tricks on you. These aren’t Byler shipping goggles. The show goes out of its way to emphasize that Mike and El aren’t on speaking terms, which is an odd choice for a couple entering their endgame era. And everyone has lost. Nothing is in a good place. It’s all a mess. Max is in a coma. It’s a nightmare. Yeah, it’s not looking good for Minotaur Endgame.

“But you don’t get it, Bitcoin! They're saving her response to Mike’s monologue for Season 5. They do have something to look forward to. You just don’t like it.” Okay… and what do they expect her response to be? “Oh Mike, my darling loverboy, I love you so. l'm glad you see me as a superhero. And I’m so glad you fell in love with me in the woods. I love you too. Let’s make out and eat eggo waffles forever.” And then what?

They also expect Mike to just start saying I Love You a lot more often? They expect them to finally be on the same page and have meaningful heart-to-hearts? They expect him to suddenly show interest in what she likes instead of gritting his teeth and acting awkward?

They expect Mlvn to glide off into the sunset as if any of their structural problems have been resolved? Despite the fact that Will’s thinly veiled love confession/ the painting lie was the whole catalyst for the monologue in the first place? That just doesn’t make sense? Like, objectively.

But know who does have momentum? Miwi. Byler arguably has the strongest momentum going into Season 5 of any couple or would-be couple. They have romantic momentum, friendship momentum, individual character arc momentum, and narrative momentum. The cinematography makes that crystal-clear.

#byler #mike wheeler #will byers #el hopper #stranger things #Byler endgame

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quietblueriver · 10 months

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Please find below 4k of quickly written and mostly unedited pride fluff inspired by the revival news.

Happy Pride, and happy Warrior Nun, y'all. <3 <3

Ava’s first pride was with her mother. She remembers being outside, her mom’s laugh loud and generous, her joyous friends lifting Ava on their shoulders and spinning her around to take it all in, everything bathed in color. There was so much to see and hear, and she felt small but not scared surrounded by so many people, delighted when someone dancing in the parade wrapped a feather boa around her neck gently and with a wink. Her mom had taken her home before the parade was over, Ava fighting sleep and swaying against her side in the afternoon sun.

She’d felt no shame as she got older and realized that she found a wide spectrum of people and genders to be attractive. She hadn’t been raised to believe in God and her life at St. Michael’s definitely didn’t change her mind. She’d figured out real fucking quick that the nuns at St. Michael’s were full of shit. There was absolutely no way Sister Frances, fountain of hate, knew what she was talking about when it came to literally anything beyond being a fucking bitch. She sure as shit didn’t know anything about love. Ava was more likely to listen to an avocado’s directions about how to live her best life. Anyway. The nuns spouted bullshit but she knew better. She had been taught better. Like her mom’s laugh and the soft fur of her favorite tabby under her fingers, Ava clung to the memory of her mother surrounded by men and women and people dressed in bright colors and dancing, together and happy and beautifully themselves.

“Bea?”

She’s standing in front of her dresser, staring into the open drawer where she keeps her t-shirts, all neatly folded and organized vertically so that she can see each one. It’s exactly where she was when Ava left her two minutes ago, pretending she wanted a glass of water to give Bea a minute that she would deny she needed if Ava actually asked.

“Hmm?” Her eyes remain focused on the drawer, one hand fiddling absently with the thin gold chain around her neck, taking up residence where her cross used to be. She’s in one of her favorite sports bras, tight enough to have a compressive effect, and black boxer briefs, her hair still wet from the shower and in a loose braid to keep it out of her way. It’s something precious for Ava to see her this disarmed, this at home, something she thought about when she was trapped and waiting, waiting, waiting until she could come back to this world, to a real life, to Bea, in whatever capacity she would have her. The fact that Bea wants her like this, in all the ways Ava had ever hoped and in the home they’re building together, is sometimes enough to leave her breathless.

She steps into the room but leaves several feet of space between them. It’s a dance, figuring out how to love Bea best, and Ava still sometimes misses a step. As always, her instinct is to wrap herself around Bea like a koala, but she knows that Bea has to be the one to make the move right now. She would welcome Ava; she always does, but it’s different when she thinks Ava wants something. Because she was raised by shitheads, her default, when Ava wraps her up in moments like this, is to feel it like a threat: Make the right choice because this is what you have, yes, but this is also what you can lose. She had nearly had a panic attack even admitting this to Ava, stilted and red-faced and ashamed one night after a therapy session. “It’s not about you, I swear. I know you love me. I’m just not used to love like yours.” There is no part of Ava that doesn’t want to throw down with Bea’s parents.

She focuses, instead, on what she can do. It is Ava’s privilege to learn how to love Bea in the ways that let her feel it most, and right now that means standing close but not too close, a physical signal that she’s there if Bea wants her but that she has no expectations.

“You sure you want to go? It’s really, really okay if you don’t. We could just go to Rosa’s later, if something smaller would be better. Or we can stay home! No pressure, is what I mean.”

Beatrice looks at her then, eyes soft and with a small but genuine smile. The halo gives a little hum with Ava’s exhale. They’re in agreement about Bea, as always: beautiful.

“I want to go.” She turns her body to face Ava, one hand still on her chain. “I want to go with you.” Ava grins big, lets every fucking bit of affection show on her face, in her body, in the halo’s light, kept dim enough not to be outrageous in the space of their bedroom but still obvious, and Bea’s own smile grows just a little, her cheeks coloring. It’s strange in the very best way to see her be bashful. She looks down at her body and adopts the contemplative face that Ava fell in love with, all strong, sharp, serious lines and pursed lips. “I just don’t know what to wear. Is that,” she turns back to the drawer and shakes her head, “Is that silly? I feel…I feel a bit silly.”

Ava steps closer then, an offer of help, and stops just behind Beatrice at the dresser. The way she immediately leans back into Ava’s space, drops the chain to pull one of Ava’s arms around her almost absently, lets Ava know she made the right decision. Ava presses onto her toes and hooks her chin over Bea’s shoulder so that she can look into the drawer. Not that she doesn’t already know exactly what’s in there—she wears Bea’s clothes as often as her own.

“It’s not silly at all. Do you want…how, um, how on theme do you want to be?” There is nothing in Bea’s drawer that Ava would describe as loud or showy—she tends toward muted colors and conservative cuts even now that her vows are barely visible in the rearview. Still, there are options.

“I don’t think I have anything particularly appropriate? I suppose…” she reaches for a lavender t-shirt, the same one Ava had been eyeing for her, thick cotton with a front pocket and a slightly faded neckline. Ava wraps her other arm around Bea’s waist and squeezes, presses a kiss to her cheek before dropping back down. “That’s perfect, baby.”

“Really?” It’s tentative in a way that Bea rarely is, and Ava’s heart aches.

“Yes, absolutely.” She thumbs at the waistband of Bea’s underwear and bites her lip before adding, “I mean, you’re rocking this look but I figured you didn’t want to wear it out.” She feels Bea’s gentle laughter. Mission accomplished.

“No, I’m not quite there yet. Maybe next year.” She’s feeling good enough to banter, even if only a little, which loosens something in Ava’s chest. A deep breath and exhale and then she feels more than sees the shift in Bea’s demeanor, her shoulders squaring up and feet spreading evenly. There is no leather tunic, no bo, no stash of knives (well, there’s always at least one, in a boot or a waistband or a subtle sheath under her shirt and across her back but like, of course). This is a different kind of armor—the control in her body, the appearance of confidence and competence. There’s more than a little fake it til you make it happening right now, but that’s fucking great, and nobody but Ava is going to know anyway. All they’re going to see is a very hot, very self-assured human, and Ava’s going to enjoy watching Bea get flustered by the women who will absolutely be looking in a totally unsubtle way.

She presses a last kiss to Bea’s shoulder blade and then pulls away, stepping over to their closet and pulling out a pair of black jeans that are a go-to for Bea, comfortable and neat and tapered but not too tight. She lays them carefully on the bed and then steps back toward the door as Bea slips into the clothes.

She looks incredibly handsome, as always, and Ava tells her so, whispering into her ear and then kissing her soundly. Impressively, she only lets her hands wander a teeny tiny amount. Bea looks down at herself and then says, “It’s not very colorful.”

Ava bounces on her toes and claps her hands once, brings them to together to a point under her chin. “Well! I have some ideas, if you want to add a little color.” She pulls Bea into the living room and presses gently on her shoulders, sitting her on the sofa and then walking to pull a tote from one of the hooks by the door. She’d been out this morning to get them coffee and also grabbed some supplies.

“Okay, so.” She rummages through and sits her bounty one by one on the coffee table. “We have face paint, nail polish, markers, body glitter. Oh! And!” She drops the bag and bounds into their bedroom, returning with a small box that she’d nearly forgotten about. “I got you these. Pinkwashing is bullshit but like all of the proceeds go to a shelter for queer youth and also it’s Pride and these are great and you’ll look amazing in them.” She hands Bea the box and then adds hastily, “If you want to wear them! No pressure. I will obviously also look amazing in them.”

She doesn’t say the rest—that she knew Bea wouldn’t have the same kind of options as Ava, whose closet is as full of color and energy as she is. Today, she landed on high rise denim shorts and a blue cropped tank with a short-sleeve button-down, pink and purple gradient, knotted overtop. There is a streak of pink at the front of her hair, and she’d traded shoes with Rosa, who lives two doors down, for the weekend, so she’s got one pink high top and one purple. She’s a walking bi flag and she feels great about it.

Beatrice is smiling down at the box, and she pulls out the rainbow sunglasses with a grin, situating them on her face and yes, she looks very, very good and also relaxed, which is the point. Ava has no real option but to kiss her, sliding into her lap and pushing the glasses to rest in her hair.

“You’re so hot.”

She blushes, as always, and rolls her eyes a little, but she doesn’t protest, is learning through therapy and a lot of positive reinforcement from Ava to let the compliments stand even if she doesn’t quite believe them. “I love you, too.” Ava grins and kisses her nose, doesn’t move from her lap but angles her torso slightly back toward the table.

“Now. Want me to do a lesbian pride flag on your cheek? Or your arm? Or some glitter? It rolls on.” She eyes the clock. They’re going to find a spot near the end of the route, closer to their apartment, so there’s not a rush. “We still have time for nail polish, even, if you want.”

Bea situates her hands on Ava’s hips, which is excellent, and looks at the pile on the table. “Maybe a flag on my cheek?” Ava nods decisively and reaches to pick up the face paint markers. “Yes, ma’am.” She pulls the top from the orange and moves to get the best angle.

Beatrice grew up in London, so she’d seen Pride, but only from a distance. “It was the first time I heard my father use a slur,” she told Ava the afternoon that they’d seen the pride flag go up in their favorite coffee shop, head in her lap on their sofa, Ava’s fingers carding through her hair. “It was the summer after Year Two, I think. We hadn’t started summering at the house in France yet.” Ava had not, for once, teased her for using the word summer as a verb. “We were out for…something. I don’t remember, but there were people walking to the parade and we could hear the music. They looked so happy, and I couldn’t stop watching them, even though I knew I shouldn’t let my father see me. When he noticed me staring, he grabbed my arm so hard it bruised.” Ava’s fingers stopped only briefly, reaching down to rub Beatrice’s bicep, soothing a phantom pain. Beatrice took her hand and kissed her palm, soft, before putting it back in her hair. Taking the request for what it was, Ava resumed her previous motion.

“He said…he said terrible things for the rest of the walk back to the car, loud enough that I knew some of the people must have heard. I started crying, and it made him mad at me. He never…I didn’t cry often, as a child. I don’t think he knew what to do with me most of the time, but he certainly didn’t know what to do with tears. It took me a long time to stop. I didn’t know exactly why, then, but I already felt wrong.”

Ava held her tongue, scratched at Bea’s scalp in a way that sometimes made her arch her back in a distinctly cat-like movement, graceful and pleased. Beatrice hummed and after a few moments, she titled her head back and reached up to skim her fingers along Ava’s jaw.

“I’d like to go, I think. To Pride. I’d like to go with you.” Bea’s skin was warm under her lips as Ava moved from her forehead to her nose to her chin. “I’d love that, baby.”

-- They’re able to walk, which is nice because it’s beautiful out today and because it gives Bea a way to get rid of some nervous energy. She’d already been on a run that morning, but she’s always a little on edge, Ava’s sister warrior, and today is going to be amazing, Ava knows it, but it’s also going to be a lot.

Fifteen minutes into the walk, Beatrice squeezes Ava’s hand so hard she thinks maybe she’s missed some kind of danger or protestor or something. When she follows Bea’s gaze, though, she squeezes back just as tightly. A loud, brightly colored group has emerged from the subway and congregated around someone looking at their phone. While the younger members of the group wear bright colors—bow ties and skirts and dyed hair scattered throughout—the adults wear matching t-shirts, white with gigantic rainbow hearts and bold black letters:

Proud of My Queer Child

Proud of My Queer Grandchild

A little distance from the malformed semi-circle, an elderly man entertains a very excited kiddo who can’t be more than 8, blue tutu flying as they spin and spin. The man, Papa written in pink, white, and blue paint on his arm, is in a variation of the same shirt: Proud of my Trans Grandchild.

As Ava and Beatrice approach the little one stops twirling and says, exuberant and maybe a little dizzy, based on their wobbly stance, “Happy Pride!”

“Happy Pride!” Ava’s response is enthusiastic but hasty. She’s ready to move quickly, give Bea a pass on interaction, but Bea stops and smiles at them, so handsome in the sunlight, a tiny dash of sunscreen that Ava hadn’t noticed as they left the house covering some of the freckles on the right side of her nose. “Happy Pride,” she says, voice gentle as it always is with children.

“I like your glasses! But you’ve got, uh,” little fingers swipe to indicate the spot where the sunscreen is. Bea says, polite as ever, “Thank you. I have been admiring your tutu.” She turns to Ava, who lifts her fingers and blends. Beatrice cups her jaw. “Thank you, love.” Familiar and easy and unashamed.

“Dad! Micah! You ready?” A conclusion has apparently been reached by those congregated around the phone. Micah waves and then skips toward the woman who called for them, grandfather shepherding closely.

The motorcycles are loud enough that Ava feels them in her chest, and she can’t help but laugh.

Bea is transfixed, eyes glued to the group of women in front of them—colorful flags and bandanas, leather and love and butch women revving engines. The woman closest to them, in a leather vest with a Dykes on Bikes patch prominently displayed, throws her head back and laughs at something her partner, clutching her from behind, whispers into her ear.

“Dyke,” Bea whispered into the dark of their bedroom at Cat’s Cradle a few weeks after Ava’s return. They were learning each other in new ways in a new world, this life and the next all in one, and Bea was trusting Ava with another piece of herself. She explained with a pained voice and silent tears the way her father had nearly spat at her when her parents found her kissing another girl, innocent and exploring, in the kitchen. “My mother slapped me and he called me a dyke. They sent me to Switzerland the next day.”

Now, Bea wraps an arm around Ava’s waist and pulls her closer with a confidence that makes Ava and the halo want to burst. Ava wraps her own arms around Bea, squeezing, and leans up to kiss her cheek. Strong fingers catch her chin as she turns away and then Bea’s lips are on hers, sure and solid and tasting of coconut sunscreen chapstick. Ava smiles into it and leans her forehead against Bea’s as they break apart, happy and so fucking proud.

The crowd roars when the bikes start moving, the parade on its way again, and Ava joins them, yelling and unlocking her hands from Bea’s waist so that she can wave. Beatrice is quiet, but she’s smiling, really smiling, and she startles a laugh when a dyke revs at an impressively loud and coordinated wolf-whistle from a nearby section of the crowd.

They’ve been here for almost two hours—sound systems blasting Kylie and Beyonce and Janelle Monae, queer people dancing in leather and coordinated outfits and tiny, tiny swimsuits. More than one marcher has winked at one or the other of them, Ava delighted and Bea, as predicted, flustered and precious.

There are corporate-sponsored floats fucking everywhere and it’s very, very white, and Ava knows that Beatrice, who is as thoughtful in her queerness as she is in everything, will want to talk about it later. (She bravely asked Rosa and Cleo, her partner, older London natives who have been active in the queer scene since before she and Bea were born, about how to get more involved in community. And a growing stack of queer reading material—poetry and fiction and theory and memoir— sits in a neat stack on her bedside table and on two designated shelves in their living room. Ava is partial to fiction and the queer internet, but she’s happy to listen to anything Bea wants to read her, steady heartbeat in one ear and measured voice in the other.) For the moment, though, she watches and watches and watches as it all passes by.

At one point, a drag troupe dressed in habits with incredible makeup traipses by as the Sister Act soundtrack plays. Ava’s nervous for a minute, but Bea only bites her lip, expression amused rather than offended. One of the queens opens a fan with a flourish, and it’s covered in a shockingly detailed copy of The Last Supper, the disciples all in drag. A snort, ungraceful and unguarded, and then Bea is laughing so hard she’s shaking. Ava can’t look away.

By the time they enter hour three, they’re both flagging a little, and Ava wants to go home for a bit and nap because she absolutely wants to take Bea dancing tonight, so she tugs at Bea’s bicep and says loudly enough to be heard over the music (an Elton John remix?), “I’m happy to stay as long as you want, but I’m also happy to go home. I will need a nap before we go out tonight.” She does not phrase it as a question and she can’t see Bea’s eyes but she knows that they’re rolling fondly as Bea’s lips purse in amusement. “Oh, are you going out tonight?”

Ava pouts shamelessly because she knows what she wants and she knows how to get it. “We are going to a drag show and then dancing.” It’s an easier ask than Pride. They’ve done it before, even within the last month. The clubs are dark and anonymous and Bea genuinely loves dancing, and dancing with Ava especially.

Ava notices the banner of the next group before Bea can respond and nudges her quickly. “Bea. Look.” She does, immediate and reflexive, and then she keeps looking.

Christians at Pride

The groups is big, and there are colorful banners everywhere, some professionally printed and some very obviously handmade:

You are Made in God’s Image

You are loved.

Oh Happy Gay!

Thank God for Queer People

There are denominational shirts, a solid Catholic coalition packed into the middle, and at the end, a group of people whose shirts say simply: I’m Sorry. Ava has kept a close eye on Bea because, y’know, trauma, but it’s not until the end, until the I’m Sorry, that she reacts noticeably, sucking in a breath and curling one of her hands into a fist. Ava steps behind her, places a hand at the small of her back in question, and Bea reaches back for her arms.

They stand like that, Ava wrapped around her very favorite person, and watch a few more floats pass by, bass thumping up through their feet and confetti falling over them. Across the street, someone lifts a small child in a rainbow bucket hat onto their shoulders, and they sit waving and clapping happily at the queer cyclist club. The couple who have been camped next to them—Matt and Andy, about their age and into gardening and incredibly fucking cute in their tiny matching rainbow shorts and mesh tops—dips, giving them quick hugs. As they turn to leave, Andy says to Beatrice, teasing and without waiting for an answer, “See you tonight, yeah?” Ava, having resumed her previous position already, feels Bea’s laughter in her own chest.

Eventually, Beatrice turns into her and says, acting put upon but pressing even closer to Ava to be sure she knows it’s only an act, “Let’s go home and nap before we go out.”

Ava grins, victorious.

Look, Ava loves being queer. She doesn’t believe in blessings but she sure as shit believes it’s a gift to be bisexual, and she feels that deeply as she watches Bea at the bar in her slightly tighter black jeans and a fitted white tee. Her hair is down, over one shoulder, and she’s leaned forward to catch the bartender’s attention and Ava can’t believe she gets to go home with her.

She’s coming back from the bathroom, but she stops as someone slides into Bea’s space, beautifully tattooed arm reaching over to touch Bea’s elbow like it’s nothing. They’re gorgeous, newly touched-up undercut and jeans that do great things for their ass and Ava smiles as they shoot their shot.

The more they do it, the more she loves bringing Bea into queer spaces like this, because it’s where she gets the attention she quite frankly deserves and because it’s very fun to watch her navigate these interactions. Only the very smallest part of Ava wants to halo-blast this human across the room and even that is only on principle—she has absolutely nothing to worry about. More than anything, she’s happy that her partner gets some outside reinforcement for what Ava tells her all the fucking time: she’s hot.

Bea backs away immediately, says something that Ava is sure is polite but absolutely clear, and then she’s alone again. Ava makes her way over, sliding and arm around her waist and pressing a kiss to her cheek and Beatrice smiles at her and hands her a shot glass.

“Lemon drop?”

The club is full of people celebrating, evidence of the parade everywhere: sunburns and smeared paint and so much glitter. Her own arms are covered in it now, but she doesn’t mind. Ava always loves going dancing with Bea but she loves it especially tonight. They’re warm and happy and just a little bit drunk, swaying comfortably in the press of the revelry.

The music changes, an eruption as the Beyonce remix sounds through the speakers, and Bea shifts somehow closer to her, hands confidently blazing a path to the exposed skin of Ava’s waist. Ava lets her own hands roam, landing on Bea’s shoulder blades, fingers digging in as Bea breathes out against her ear, “Come home with me?”

Ava kisses her, a little filthy, and Beatrice pulls her closer. She draws back with a bite to Bea’s bottom lip and kisses a path up her jaw, lets her tongue graze skin as she answers Bea’s question the way she always does, the way she always will: “Yes.” They press out of the crowd, and Beatrice apologizes as she bumps into a crew coming into the club. “No worries, baby!” The queen is beautiful, makeup fucking impeccable, and she blows a kiss as she heads toward the bar. “Happy Pride!”

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #warrior nun fic

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nezumidou · 2 years

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There's a little contrast that I've been thinking about since last night, but hadn't been able to fully articulate until I had time to watch the fight with Otohan again.

During the final minutes of the confrontation at Bassuras, and particularly when Otohan identifies Laudna as someone especially precious to Imogen; there is a moment that keeps capturing my attention. If we interpret Marisha's reaction to Imogen's sudden change in attitude when Otohan asks her if Laudna is her favorite (“I'll go with you! I give in. Don't hurt her.”) as how Laudna would react to that —jaw clenched, looking away from the action and lowering her head, understanding in an instant what that meant—, it's almost like a physical representation that she has failed. Laudna has always put Imogen's safety above her own; in every instance they have found themselves in danger, and has proven it to the rest of the group, and to Imogen, whenever she has had the chance. This is a sum of both the love that Laudna has for Imogen, and the low value she has for her own person: Imogen is the most important thing in her current existence, both because of the love that she openly professes for her (romantic, platonic, take your pick), as for the fact, indisputable in Laudna's eyes, that her existence after being revived, being "dead", and being a "puppet" of the woman who lives inside her head, has a much less inherent value than that of any of her peers, but especially Imogen. So, when Laudna witnesses Imogen being able to offer to drop her resistance against Rudius' influence, letting herself give in to something she's admitted gives her the feeling of walking directly towards death, in exchange for Otohan not hurting her. That is something that produces a physical rejection in Laudna.

Imogen is the most important thing for her, especially more important than a reanimated corpse; a shadow of a life that never had a chance to flourish, one more piece in the machinations of the executioner who has accompanied her for almost 30 years. The very idea of Imogen sacrificing herself for her is abhorrent to Laudna.

This is in addition to several previous instances where Laudna has expressed this same concern to the rest of the Bells: protect Imogen, do not expose her to unnecessary danger, be aware of your decisions if they may affect the well-being of Imogen.

Laudna would never put Imogen in harm's way if she could help it.

And for all that, I can't help but think of the vulnerability and rawness shown by Laudna in the brief conversation that she manages to have with Imogen, while she is imprisoned in the branches of the Sun Tree.

Whitestone, its dark streets, its ghost inhabitants, and that tree that rises above all the roofs, and whose image is displayed in every corner of the city, does nothing but relive both past and current traumas for Laudna. It's a cage, it always has been, both metaphorical and literal, from which she has never been able to completely free herself, to which she always returns, irremediably. A parade of pain and horrors. So when Imogen's voice reappears in her mind, she can't help but cling to it. Laudna doesn't ask her to turn around and go back the way she came; she doesn't tell Imogen about the dangers that place and Delilah represent; she simply tells her that she has been fighting that woman for 30 years and has never been able to win at all. She doesn't tell Imogen to run.

Laudna doesn't have the strength to lift that old facade anymore, the one she's so used to showing the rest of the world. Whitestone strips her bare: her fears, her hopes. If it were any other circumstance, perhaps Laudna would tell Imogen not to worry about her, to run away from danger while she can, that her welfare trumps that of this non-living being.

But instead, amid the branches of the tree she woke up hanging from decades ago, Laudna asks Imogen to take her home, in one of her first explicit requests for help.

"Imogen? I forgot how much I hate it here."

"I think that depends on you, darling."

#critical role #laudna #imogen temult #bells hells #imodna #southerngothic

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broadwaydivastournament · 27 days

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Broadway Divas Tournament: 2A

Donna Murphy (1959) “DONNA MURPHY (Anna) received the 1996 Tony Award, as well as Drama Desk and Outer Critics Circle nominations for her performance in The King and I. She also received the 1994 Tony and Drama Desk Awards for her portrayal of Fosca in Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine’s Passion. Last summer she was featured as Dorothy Trowbridge in Mr. Lapine’s Twelve Dreams at Lincoln Center (Drama Desk nomination). Other Broadway Credits include: Edwin Drood in The Mystery of Edwin Drood, The Human Comedy, and They’re Playing Our Song. Off-B’way: The Whore in Michael John LaChuisa’s Hello Again (Drama Desk nom.), Rose in Song of Singapore (Drama Desk, Outer Critics Circle noms.), Hey Love; The Songs of Mary Rodgers, Privates on Parade, Showing Off, Birds of Paradise, A…My Name is Alice, Little Shop of Horrors. Regional work includes Miss Julie (McCarter), Pal Joey (Huntington), Williamstown, Portland Shage Co. and Goodspeed. She made her feature film debut in Jade, and co-stared (sp) in “Someone Had to Be Benny” for HBO. Other TV includes: Francesa Cross on Stephen Bocho’s “Murder One,” “Law & Order,” “A Table at Ciro’s” (PBS Great Performances), “Another World” and the American Playhouse Production of Passion. Ms. Murphy can be heard on the original cast recordings of Passion (Grammy Award), and Hello Again, and is featured on Leonard Bernstein’s New York on Electra/Noneshuch.” – Playbill bio from The King and I, December 1996.

Mary Beth Peil (1940) "MARY BETH PEIL (Anna Leonowens), before joining the 1982 Los Angeles production of The King and I, received national acclaim for her television portrayal of Alma Winemiller in Lee Hoiby's opera Summer and Smoke (based on the Tennessee Williams play), produced by PBS and the Chicago Opera Theatre. As a member of New York's Theatre for a New Audience she has apperaed in many productions of Shakespeare. A Graduate of Northwestern University and a First Prize winner of the Metropolitian Opera Auditions, Mary Beth has been featured in opera and musical theatre with such companies as The Metropolitan Opera National Company, the New York City Opera, the Lake George Opera and the Minnesota Opera. She has appeared as soloist with the New York Philharmonic, Honolulu Symphony, Buffalo Philharmonic, the New York Young Concert Artists and the Cincinnati Area Artists Series. Favorite musical theatre roles that she has performed include Rosabella in Most Happy Fella, Magnolia in Show Boat and Kate in Kiss Me, Kate." - Playbill bio from The King and I, March, 1985.

NEW PROPAGANDA AND MEDIA UNDER CUT: ALL POLLS HERE

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"We have Donna Murphy as Dolly. We have Donna Murphy as Aurelia. What are we doing to get Donna Murphy in a Mame revival so she can hit the Jerry Herman trifecta? I need this woman back on a stage immediately and genuinely, I cannot tell you how much money I'd be realistically willing to shell out. And on a more personal note? What do I have to do to get Donna Murphy to look at me like she wants to devour me whole? The things I want to do to this woman... She has chemistry with every single person she crosses paths with. I need her carnally."

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"Mary Beth Peil's hair deserves a Tony Award of its own. She started going grey almost twenty years ago and never looked back. A grey-haired octogenarian who's actively out here being hot and sexy and showing skin is quite possible one of the hottest things in the world. Let me reiterate: I want to fuck this old woman."

#broadwaydivastournament #broadway #broadway divas #tournament poll #musical theatre #donna murphy #mary beth peil #round 2a

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b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 2 months

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HEYY girl 💗 could I req a bam x fem reader where they’re enemies to lovers becuase y/n is just as reckless as he is?? Thank you 🫶

The Stuntgirl Rule

Bam breaks the one rule the crew all agreed on when they first added a girl to the group, which wouldn’t be as big of a deal if they didn’t hate each other. All this animosity builds and builds until Y/N finally figures out how to knock Bam down a peg.

Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Fluff, Angst)

3.8k Words

Warnings: Extremely suggestive content, enemies to lovers, crude language, blood, snakes, misogyny, Madonna-Whore complex, injuries, hospitals, flirting, slut shaming, situationships

An: Thank you so much for the request!! I’ve come to find out I really do love writing for enemies to lovers pairings :) More than that, I got to do a lot of research for this fic with psychological complexes, especially (as the tags indicate) the Madonna-Whore complex!! If you can’t tell by now, I’m a bit of a nerd when it comes to writing XD I also experimented with making Bam a bit of an unreliable narrator in this one to wort of show his thought process better. I’ve been told my writing takes the asshole out of him but I’m pretty sure this fic put it right back in, so be warned! If you want an idea of the dynamic I was going for, the dynamic betwen Bam and Y/N reminded me a lot of this clip from the 2016 revival of the musical, Falsettos! Ah, my theater kid past…But thank you for the request and please keep sending more!!

Kneeling on the grass, you sat eye to eye with the King Cobra you somehow got a permit to film with. The whole “Kiss of Death” stunt got shuffled around to a couple of the other guys before it landed on you but hell, you couldn’t complain- dangerous shit was kinda your thing, and otherwise the next person in line would’ve been Bam and you knew exactly how that would turn out- the yelling, the laughing, the storming off set. All the guys stood around, looming over you with bated breaths as you slowly leaned over the snake, the hot Florida sun beating down on your skin as the air swam with anticipation. But as you were creeping in, right before your lips made contact with the Cobra’s forehead, the thing lunged at your neck. Everybody hooted and hollered as you grabbed the snake and lurched back in an act of quick reflexes, chuckling in surprise, but before you could crack some wise ass joke, your cockiness betrayed you and that smug grin on your face was wiped right off your face when you felt a pair of fangs sink into your wrist. “Agh! Fuck…” Yanking your hand back, you shook out the sting as you stumbled to your feet. Steve, who was serving as impromptu cameraman after Rick ‘refused any part in your dangerous bullshit’, focused the lense in on the blood that was tricking from your arm, “Shit…that’s gnarly, dude.” Though you probably should have been concerned for yourself, you couldn’t stop thinking about how awesome it looked as Johnny patted you on the back appreciatively, “That was great, Y/N!”

As you were getting walked to the medic tent, the only one who didn’t want any part in your little victory parade was Bam, still sitting half slumped back on set, glaring at you as you walked away. Big whoop, girl gets bit by snake. Last week he got on a teeter totter in the bullpen and you don’t see that on any headlines. Maybe he hated the way the guys talked and joked with you like you were one of them even though you joined the Jackass cast less than a month ago. On the other hand, maybe he was still pissed off by the very real but entirely unspoken ‘Don’t Fuck the Stuntgirl’ rule. Of course Bam brought that sorta thing up when you first joined because he’ll there’s a lot you can do once you’ve got a chick in your group, but Johnny quickly shut the idea now by saying since they wouldn’t screw any of the other guys in the crew, they’d be keeping their hands off of you. Keeps things from getting awkward when you gotta see eachother on Monday, you know? But since Bam’s running theory of you only having gotten on set after getting into Knoxville’s pants hadn’t been disproven, he wrote it off as him making the whole thing up to keep the pretty girl all to himself. Greedy asshole. Who was he to say what he could and couldn’t stick his dick into? God, he bet the whole crew was passing you around- behind trailers, in empty hotel rooms, or what about those porta-potties on set…Bam decided to stop thinking about that once some things got stirred in his mind he didn’t really want to think about too long.

Getting bandaged up in the medic tent, you hardly noticed when Bam walked in after everybody left, watching quietly and scanning you up and down from where he stood. He looked from the bruises on your knees Bam was sure he knew the source of, to your baggy clothes that always made you look like a guy with the way they sat on your body, to your hair that was unkempt and showed just how little you cared about your appearance in his eyes. You were the exact opposite of Bam’s type in women- that dark lipstick tight bootcut fantasy goth chick with a great ass that also wasn’t a bitch. Looking up from where you were bleeding through your gauze, you made eye contact with him nonchalantly, “What is it?” Bam’s eye twitched at the disinterested tone in your voice but he kept up the whole smug thing, “You cryin’?” The medic had to scoot out of the way as you leaned in towards him and squinted at the realization that Bam was getting that whole ‘hating you’ stick up his ass again. “Does it look like I’m crying?” Part of him wanted to see you cry. Bam’s eyes drifted back to your hair, thinking about how satisfying it would be to grab a handful of it and yank you to your feet with his lips pressed tight against your ear as he said every awful word he was too nice to say to your face- that he knew everything about nasty hoes like you worked, and while it was cute how quickly the guys took to you, he was getting pretty damn sick of it so it was time for you to get the hint and hit the road. But he didn’t.

The medic passed you a container of pills that you palmed and that’s when Bam got an idea, “That snake oughta be on antibiotics instead’a you.” Scoffing at his unoriginal joke, you cocked your head to the side, “Really? You think a little blood’s that nasty? Y’damn baby…” Outside the tent, there was no doubt amongst the guys that another one of your petty fights were starting and nobody was looking forward to it. Well, except you. You found the little bickering thing you had with him fun, especially with all the weak ass insults Bam threw at you. “I mean, anything that comes outta you’s nastier than whatever Steve-O’s got goin’ on in him- that guy’s a disease nest.” This was too easy. “Yeah, says the guy who let him tongue his ass wound...” Wait, you were at that party too- the one where Steve popped ecstasy and went around kissing everyone cause he ‘felt good’? Bam’s jaw clenched at the way you always had an answer to him- how dare you one up him. He jabbed a finger at your chest, “Oh, don’t talk that shit. You wouldn’t even have the balls to get branded in the first place!” Unable to help yourself from cracking a smile, your giddiness was apparent in your voice, “I got more balls than you do.” As much as you hated how much of a little bitch he could be, you always thought the back and forth thing you had between him wasn't ever that serious (a contrast to the way Bam viewed it). Delight filled you as he stormed out of the flap of the white medical tent, blushing and emasculated and- while he would never admit this, kind of turned on by the angry banter like it was some kinda foreplay.

You needed soap. That’s how it started- after shooting one day, you went back to the hotel and noticed halfway through your shower that the room service lady forgot to leave any of those tiny complimentary soaps. Groaning, you got out of the comfortable, warm, sorely needed shower and put on a towel, thinking you could go next door and get some from the guys. It’s not like you hadn’t seen them naked before, so them seeing you in a towel was no big deal. Water dripped off of your legs as you walked out into the hallway, pushing open the door to their room which was left unlocked. From what you could tell, they had gone to the hotel bar promptly after filming, so you didn’t bother to announce your presence as you walked in. However, you had one major oversight in this- Bam, who you didn’t notice from where he was sitting on one of the beds on the near side of the room. Now, you and him could have gone on just hating and fucking with each other and everything would’ve been fine, but this one incident would change it.

From where he sat on the bed, Bam silently watched as you walked around like you owned the place, softly humming to yourself as you rummaged through their shower- through his shower, the towel you wore riding up dangerously high on the backs of your thighs, skin still glistening wet as you bent over, nabbing a few little bottles of shampoo and conditioner. He glared at you with contempt through your reflection in the mirror. You’d probably do this even if the whole crew was here, wouldn’t you? Just stroll on in, nearly naked, parading yourself around in front of all those dudes like it was nothing. Shameless. He knew better than anything what that kinda porno logic setup would devolve into. Wait- christ, was he…? Oh, oh yeah. Yep. Bam couldn’t believe himself- he was actually getting hard. More than that, you had no clue he was there in the first place even as you turned to leave, and you wouldn’t have noticed him at all if he didn’t stand up to catch your attention. “What’re you doin’?” Turning around, you met Bam’s gaze, maybe six inches away from his body as you held up your towel with one hand and presented him your spoils in the other, “I’m getting soap…?” Unceremoniously plucking one of the bottles from your hands, he squinted at you like he was accusing you of something, “So you think y’can just waltz on in here and take my shit whenever you feel like it?”

Looking around at the empty room, you got an idea to really get under his skin. You know how Bam uses his little rich boy MTV paycheck to get whatever he wants? Well your pockets may not be lined as generously but you still found a way. Taking a step forward, you pressed your body right up against his, the same way you saw all those flirty girls do to him at the bar, letting your towel slip down a little as your voice dropped into a teasing coo, trying to provoke him, “Aww, what’s the matter? You don’t like sharing?” While you were referring to the soap, Bam took it as a double entendre and thought there was no way you didn’t mean it in the way he was thinking- what with the way your chest was squished tight against his torso or how you were practically straddling his thigh in, and this is important here, only a towel. In your eyes, this was the same as any other day you were going back and forth on set, but Bam, oh. He could feel the surge of hormones in his bloodstream as his breath caught in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. The way your body was curving against his nearly made him forget about why he hated you so much. Snapping back to reality, he couldn't tell if this was anger or lust that made him speechless, but it was probably a mix of the two. Leaning in closer, you pressed your lips close to your ear, his very obvious state of arousal only fueling your teasing as you words fell slow, melodically from your lips as you enunciated, trying to keep yourself from laughing and fucking it all up. “I’m gonna take this soap back to my room, and I am going to rub it over every inch of my wet. Naked. Body- and you are gonna do nothing about it. So, uh…” Reaching out with a grin, you grabbed the bottle back from Bam’s frozen hand. Now, logic would dictate that this is right about when the two of you would say fuck it and start going at eachother, but that’s not what you had in mind. “Thanks!” Slipping out the door and shutting it loudly, you left him standing there- unable to respond, entirely conflicted, and hard. Fuck.

Why was this happening? He was Bam Margera- Bam fucking Margera- he could have hordes of playboy bunnies folowing him arround wherever he want and fawning over him like their lives depended on it, but noooo. He had to fall for the gross chick he worked with. Perfectly fine, well-adjusted (debatable) women literally threw themselves at his feet on a day to day basis, and the one he’s got his eye set on? Yeah, last week she was doing lines of Tabasco sauce with Steve-O off the table at Denny’s cause they got bored waiting for their food. What a catch. He didn’t even want to meet up with the guys to go pick up chicks at the bar anymore- you know, the civilized kind that wore makeup and shoes you couldn’t skateboard in. And you didn’t even want him the way those girls wanted him- you were messing with his head like some succubus. Very quietly, he sat back down in the bed and thought about some things.

Bam was having a hard time letting everything that was happening with you go- that’s not the kind of guy he is, you know? Too many big feelings in a small package gotta go somewhere. So when he showed up on set the next day, hyped up to do that stunt where he was set to get shot by a riot control shotgun wearing nothing but a leather jacket for protection, his emotions were not in any way subdued when he caught word that Knoxville gave the stunt to you. “Dude!” Storming up to confront him, Bam pulled the asshole away from whatever conversation he was having with Jeff, “I mean, seriously? You got Y/N to do the stunt and not me?” Sticking his hands up in a mercy gesture, Johnny stammered but managed to explain himself, “I’m just sayin, man- It’d work better for her! You know- you have your skating stuff, she’s got the dangerous stuff! You could always watch from the sidelines…” Yeah, real nice save there, Knoxville. Bam hated whenever you did stunts- not because he didn’t like that you were equally as reckless as him, no way- it’s just that he thought chicks shouldn’t be doing dangerous shit, and you were always there to throw yourself in harm's way, and that annoyed him. You were standing off to the side, joking around with Chris and Steve when you felt someone suddenly grab your shoulder from behind and roughly spin you around to face him, “You know, I had some fuckin’ ideas about you, Y/N, but this really takes the cake.” Grimacing, you stood eye to eye with Bam, a little too close to his body to be comfortable. “What the hell are you talking about?” Bam took a step back, eyeing you up and down as he got ready to say what had been eating away at him for weeks. His voice was tense as he nearly growled, “You’re fuckin’ Knoxville.” What?

“Wait, I’m fucking Knoxville?” You certainly were not, but your mind put two and two together lightning fast, tracing his train of thought. It was like a switch flipped in you as rage curled up in your stomach, springing out of your mouth in words that dripped with venom, “Oh, please! You’re probably takin’ it up the ass from all of ‘em!” It was only natural that you would deny it- I mean, it’s kinda taboo for people to admit that they’re sleeping with their boss. But Bam couldn’t summon the words he needed to use to defend himself from what you claimed, so he said the only words his anger-fried brain could come up with, “Fuck you!” Flashing a grin, you got all in his personal space as your voice went from anger to condescension, “Oh, you wish.” Back to the snarky shit with this woman. Okay, maybe he did, but that was none of your business. Bam pressed his lips together as he could feel the tips of his ears heating up, and he couldn’t tell if he was getting flustered from the way you were challenging him or how correct what you were insinuating was. The fact that your lips were nearly touching his wasn't helping either. Taking advantage of your close proximity, Bam quickly reached out and snatched the shotgun from where you were gripping it and dashed off.

Oh, you said Bam had no balls? Yeah, he’s got more balls than the tri-state lottery, bitch. Shoving the gun into Ryan’s hands, he didn’t even notice when Rick started filming from where he was setting up the camera for the stunt you were supposed to do. Stepping back, Bam smacked his own chest twice in a challenging gesture, looking at his best friend but saying words he wanted to say to you, “C’mon, man. Hit me. Do it!” Knowing better than anyone the way he could get into these kinds of moods, Ryan knew the only way to talk him down was to go along with whatever stupid plan he had in mind. Groaning, he steadied the sight on where Bam was standing, aiming for his stomach where it would result in the least damage, and pressed his finger against the trigger. This loud, sickening whip cracking sound made everyone on set jump. The man on the other end of the barrel doubled over with this noise you only hear out of dying animals, falling to the ground with a thump as every ounce of air wooshed out of his lungs in a second. It was the way Bam looked like roadkill with how he curled up on the ground, not making a sound or movement, that made you feel a shred bad for him for the very first time. Looking around, you were the first person to call out, “…Medic?”

Internal bleeding they said. Three broken ribs on account of Dunn’s stellar marksmanship and a gnarly bruise, or so you heard from when the guys gathered around his bedside and were all gasps and oohs after Bam pulled down the sheets in when Steve asked to take a look at it. But after everyone was done grimacing and telling him how awesome the footage would turn out, they flooded out the door and the only person who remained was you, smugly sitting in one of those stiff hospital chairs as Bam lay across from you in his bed, hooked up to electrodes and shit like they do in movies. But there was something different in your eyes as you got up to his bedside- not so much your usual loathing towards him, but more so fascination. Bam got knocked down a peg, and you were satisfied knowing his ego was bruised alongside those abs of his he so loved to flaunt.

Bam’s words came out in a weak mumble as he looked up at you, “What d’you want?” As much as he tried to appear all tough and be a big angry man, you couldn’t help but find the sight of him laying back with his hair a little messy and that glossy look in his eyes from the epidural kinda cute with how vulnerable he was. He couldn’t make fun of you when he was at your mercy like this, what with not being able to even sit up on his own, much less fight or come up with any worthwhile insults. With one finger, you pointed down to the swollen, dark purple mark on Bam’s pale skin, lit up from the light flooding in the window. You nearly snickered, “I wanna touch it.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Bam scoffed at your suggestion, “Fine, whatever….It doesn’t even hurt- oh, fuck!“ Recoiling when you poked the tender bruise, Bam nearly let out a whimper as he winced, pain shooting through his chest. Letting out a breathy groan, he muttered, his head falling back against the pillow, “Don’t- don’t do that…” Part of you wanted to laugh at him, call him a pussy, and go find out wherever the other guys were headed, but another part of you, maybe one you went too eager to own up to, couldn’t deny that he looked kind of pretty when he got fucked up, all fragile and defeated. Like it activated something primal in you, this unconscious attraction towards broken things. You came to the realization that, when that mouth and that attitude of his wasn’t fucking it up, he was pretty hot.

The thing is, both of you liked each other, but neither were too eager to jump at that whole romcom style ‘confessing your feelings’ thing, so for the next few weeks, you tried to keep up the whole hating each other charade. Like when you and him were on the mini-ramp Chris hauled to set with his truck to give you something to do in between filming, and Bam just kept messing up whatever trick he was intent on doing that day. Up he’d go, then down to the plywood with a slam that left him a shiny new bruise- back and forth. “Y’know, it’s a lot easier to do tricks once you’ve learned to stay on your board.” You taunted, kicking up your board to stand on the one side of the ramp. But as he was about to reply with some smart ass response, Bam nailed whatever stupidly over complicated thing he was attempting. “Hahaha! Yes!” Popping his board up with one foot and, turning to you with a triumphant grin, he did one of those victory crotch grabs. “Suck it!” Ignoring the fact that, given the right circumstances, you probably would’ve taken him up on that offer, you rolled your eyes, looking him up and down in a way you hoped looked sarcastic as you spat, “Yeah, in your dreams.” Still, while the venom in your words was still there, it was dulled in a way, like a swallowing a spoonful of sugar after bitter medicine. “Oh, I’d rather rip my dick off and shove it up my ass before I let you suck it!” Bam had the same shitty comebacks as ever.

And the fact that you two were phoning it in wasn’t lost in the slightest on the rest of the guys. They’d try to drop hints to Bam and say that if he’s got the hots for you that it’d be a good idea to try not being an asshole for once, but he’d just laugh them off and tell them that that’s what chicks like nowadays- assholes. But they had no clue. All anyone else knew was that the seemingly boiling hatred you had for each other had melted into a mere simmer, practically friendly banter. Maybe Bam didn’t hit the mark when he said you were fucking the whole crew, but was right about you being shameless, as he would come to find out a few weeks into whatver the two of you had going on. But now, he wasn't one to complain when you pulled him behind a trailer on set, or into an empty hotel room- hell, even into one of those porta-potties on set. Honestly, it was just like how he imagined.

#jackass #bam margera #johnny knoxville #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #fluff #angst #jackass x reader #bam margera x reader

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rootless-cosmopolitan · 11 months

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My assorted thoughts on the Tony Awards:

1. I kind of preferred the script-less format! It cut down on cringey jokes and highlighted more dance and music, which works better for the Tonys than for other award shows

2. Terrible that Jason Robert Brown was cut off by music just as he mentioned Mary Phagan. You could tell that the cast/prod team stayed onstage longer to see if the music would stop. I just know the neo-nazis who protested the first preview of Parade are going to blame this on a Jewish conspiracy

3. Shucked had such a great medley for what is, I’m sorry, a very underwhelming show! I think a lot of people going to see the show based on this performance are gonna come out disappointed when they realize its like 95% boring balads, 1% Alex Newell and 4% fun energetic songs

4. Parade and Kimberly Akimbo felt like they won best revival/original music less for the actual production strength and more for the poignancy of their stories, which is fine tbh

5. Everyone should go see Some Like It Hot!!

Addendum: Lea Michele randomly popping out to do her contractually obligated Funny Girl performance was peak Bway drama

#tony awards #broadway #musical #kimberly akimbo #some like it hot #parade #i have some not nice takes about the whole beanie funny girl drama which im gonna keep 2 myself

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deadboyfriendd · 7 months

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Suspended

Summary: A blurb about shock-rock and body suspension.

Warnings: BODY SUSPENSION, Eddie x Fem!Reader though, I don't think I really specified the reader a lot in this, Rockstar!Eddie, Girlfriend!Reader, there's a big fat nod to H E A D L I N E R S. in this.

Alice Cooper once said that, in order to shock a crowd at this point in time, you would need to chop your arm off and eat it– and you could realistically only do that twice.

The shock value had long worn off now, nearly everything had been done. The thrill and taboo of androgyny was a give-in. The boundaries of gross and unthinkable had been pushed to the point of desensitization. Ozzy had already chewed the head off of an unsuspecting bat, Jello Biafra had already run for the Mayor of San Francisco and lost by a significant margin. There were no stunts left to pull, no shock remaining for the masses, and nothing left to the imagination.

Sex still sold tickets, sure, but now, it was an expectation. What the crowds wanted– craved— was a show. Something new and shiny and never-before-seen. A rare, untouched delicatessen that took form in an obscure corner of the earth.

That obscure corner happened to be a garage in Hawkins, Indiana, where four friends shredded their fingers on out-of-tune guitars and racketed noise off of second-hand drum sets. And that’s just what it had been for a long time– noise. Until there was a boom in Indiana’s underground metal scene, a spark caught flame, and the crowds pissed gasoline straight into the fire.

Corroded Coffin burned hot and blue on the stages now. Boys-turned-men thrashing violently on stages to hit niche singles and screamed to crowds of endearing freak-show enthusiasts on their first full-length tour.

If Eddie could have eaten his arms for fame, he already would have.

He was the harum scarum, devil-may-care type, though his days of parading around soap-box lunch tables and invading personal space had graduated into larger soap box stages and women and men alike who would pay money for him to invade their personal space in more ways than one. No one could blame him, he fought his whole life for this– and now the fighting was over, though, the rush of being liked– no craved– was addictive in all of its gilded glory.

There was nothing of him left to the imagination, he had crammed microphones down his pants, writhed violently across stage floors, stripped bare in front of the world. He’d been crucified, he’d lit himself on fire, he’d done it all. He was glistening in glittery fool’s gold glory, though, who really cared for gold anyways? This was way prettier.

In this industry, you did it or you didn’t, and there wasn’t anything Eddie wouldn’t do. You’d remembered this conversation from the tour propositions:

“Dude, these are meat hooks we’re talking about!” Gareth said with palms splayed, exasperated eyes turned tired from nights of recording and mornings of logistical nightmare meetings– one of which being this one.

Eddie shrugged back at him, arms splayed cooly over the low back of the couch and legs spread wide, “I’m gonna go out there and do the best I can. If it hurts too bad and I pass out, then I pass out. They’ll revive me and I’ll get back out there and finish the set.”

“And if they don’t?”

“It’ll just add to the show.”

He remembered that now, remembered the way it felt during the other pre-show practices, and the four other times he had done this in preparation. Every one of his nerve endings was buzzing, and he tried to convince himself that he was so pumped full of adrenaline that he couldn’t feel the four hooks stretching the skin even more taught across his back.

“Are you ready?” You asked him, trailing a hand down his chest to plant the ritual, sweet, kiss. You thought it was comical, meat hooks through his back and he was asking if you were ready.

The mechanical lever system whirred as it pulled taught against the hooks, and his jaw clenched in place of a wince before his feet left the ground. He rocked steadily, though, your hands against his abdomen stopped him from swinging further.

He held his hands out, neck outstretched in amazement with himself for being able to do this again. You nodded, containing your smile to one without teeth as you ducked out of the way when the cameras started flashing and film started rolling.

“Wait!” He called out to you, his reaching hands causing him to swing more. You didn’t think it hurt him much, though, you stuck your hands out to stop him again anyway.

“What?” You asked, hands staying braced against his warm tummy. His palms already gripping you around your upper arms in a loving embrace.

A grin, hellish and charming in the same swell motion overtook his entire face, “Do you want t’get lifted up?”

He didn’t give you time to answer before he was guiding your arms upward around his waist by the elbows, setting them snugly around his middle. You could feel where his skin rippled from the tautness of the pull of the hooks.

“Tippy-toes, babe.” He whispered to you, his own arms locking firmly around your back and giving a gentle tug to signify the motion.

You could hear the mechanical whir of the pulley system again, and feel your feet leave the ground.

“This is sick.” You whispered, lifting your face from his chest to meet his. His own face plastered with a deep-set grin as you swung.

“Eddie, you crazy motherfucker.” You whispered again through your own grin this time, his hair casting a shroud of a curtain around you and blocking your face.

You felt the cameras clicking around you, and stopped yourself from rolling your eyes. You tended to keep yourself out of the public eye, lest a certain RayGun magazine were to pick up a story.

You could see the headlines tomorrow, “The Suspense is Killing Me! An Inside Scoop to Shock-Rock’s Newest Stunts with Eddie Munson”

#eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things s4 #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson smut

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