#American measurements because he's an all american boy
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WAKE UP SNOOPY, IT'S SPRING TIME (2024, acrylic on canvas, 20x27 inch)
#Had not uploaded an official representable photo before so wanted to professionally store this here#Feel free to share!#it's not perfect and still pre-varnish but it's cute as h*ck so good to go#American measurements because he's an all american boy#Snoopy#Charlie Brown#Schultz#springtime#art#painting#mine#personal#acrylic
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HONEYTRAP !
ft. leon s. kennedy x reader x ashley graham
tags. p in v, threesome, president leon, daddy-daughter incest (ashley/leon not reader), voyeurism, oral
note. haiii :3 sorry for mistakes it’s unedited! not the proudest of this! got messy and clunky 😭 but rbs and feedback always so appreciated :3
tumblr has started to remove fics that for example use tw non-con and any nsfw tags in general from the tags. for this reason, as i’d like my fic to appear in the tags, please understand that this fic contains dark content under the cut. reading this comes at your own risk.
“No, babe, it’s online, you can watch it, and can you tell Chris to watch it? I’m excited, I know he’s not happy about it, but, I am,” Claire’s voice is obfuscated by the chatter in the background, “This is a big deal for me, I mean—“ She cuts herself off, voice distant, “Oh, yes— No, not at all, it’s lovely to meet you—“
Beep!
You blink at your phone. She hung up on you. Granted, she’s been one busy bee so you let her off. For now. You shoot a message to Chris, tell him that as Claire said, this means a lot to her, and as tight as he is with the Kennedys, that she’s his sister, she should come first. You’re well aware that he knows that, that he wouldn’t dare put anyone above his sister, she’s at the centre of his world - it’s just for good measure.
The interview is lengthy, you suppress a groan because really you should very much be interested in the state of current affairs. And this is Claire’s line of work, and Claire is your girlfriend, and you should support her in her endeavours. Clicking on the link she’s forwarded opens up a grayscale website. The first video is President Kennedy in all his glory, which is not a lot of glory to be quite frank. He’s an eyesore to you. Like, that chin? Seriously? He should consider some sort of medical procedure, you don’t know if that’s a thing, but you know a girl who got her cleft lip fixed, so why not the chin?
Most of the video is full to the brim with political jargon that you fail to understand. Completely different language. Could understand Morse code better than this.
Skip, skip, skip.
“The issue with Penamstan? I hate to be rude, Mr. Kennedy,” No, she does not, Claire loves to be rude, “But do you know where that is on a map?” Claire, always straight to the point.
“I know all the stans,” President Kennedy smiles, charming and stupidly stupid all at once. He’s kind of cute when he smiles. It’s really just that chin. Very American though, you’ll give it to him. Named Kennedy too? America loves a Kennedy, he had it easy.
“What?” Not even an excuse me.
“Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Penamstan… The, uh, more forgettable stans,” He trails off, taken off guard by a woman in a pantsuit leaning down to talk to him, a hand cupped over her mouth, he blinks up at her slowly, “Uz-beki-stan,” President Kennedy sounds out as if the word is foreign on his tongue, and it is, so incredibly foreign, “Turk… Turkmenistan, and Penamstan, of course.”
That’s all you needed to know he has the brain density of a wafer. Was the most interesting part though. He would’ve made a good stripper or a boy-toy, you think. Instead, he’s being marketed as this all-encompassing package of a man, which he is not.
Skip, skip, skip.
Penamstan— Foreign Policy— Penamstan— Voting— Penamstan— Radicalisation— Terrorism— Your predecessor, Graham— Sexual relations— Gaffe—
You pause, rewind a minute or so back. Sexual relations. This is what you’re into. No idea who Monica Lewinsky is, know all about the dress though.
“You’ve heard of the accusations, yes?” Claire frowns so much like Chris you have to turn away.
President Kennedy’s lack of jaw tightens, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him behave so offstandish in the fourteen minutes you’ve ever seen of him. “Yes.”
“You didn’t like that,” Claire notes, her lip twitching upwards.
“Didn’t know we had a psychologist with us today,” His lips are stretched thin into a smile that resembles a grimace more than anything. There’s scattered laughter, and the lady beside him, poised as ever, taps him on the shoulder. “My apologies,” He straightens up immediately, “Ask away.”
“Thank you,” She responds coolly when she is anything but, “You- I mean you have to admit that it’s strange to behave that way with your daughter of all people, otherwise there wouldn’t be accusations in the first place,” Claire challenges him with a tilt of her head, he mirrors it.
The lady taps his shoulder once more, leans down once more, whispers conspicuously, they nod to each other. A gesture to someone behind the camera is made, and then, much to Claire’s clear dismay: “We’re sorry to cut this short—“
The video ends, and the opening frame pops up once more. Huh. So President Kennedy is tonguing his daughter on the side. Maybe you need to pay more attention to things that are actually important, or you need to listen to Claire more often unless she’s failed to mention the most interesting part of whatever case she’s building. As far as you’re concerned, if voting doesn’t go in the red, you’re fine. Claire says being a centrist is the worst thing you can be, it’s just that you’ve got your own shit to worry about. Work, college, Claire, family. It takes up your life. You pitch in to vote for whoever’s democratic, watch the descent into chaos and forget about it in a week as most do, an attempt to forget the state of the country.
You wonder what she looks like. His daughter. If it’s worth risking the presidency over incest she must be a cutie. And she is indeed, cute like a teacup terrier, you can see why he’d be balls deep— but that is purely because you’re a bit of a horndog. Harvard Law School, a privilege you’re sure, girl looks like a total ditz. Barbie doll legs, the palest of blondes, and her smile is adorable. Not like her father’s smarmy one in the slightest, sweet and genuine for a girl whose teeth look done. Braces? Veneers? Not a single gap between them, not a single one out of place, not a single one is coffee stained.
The headlines pretty much say the thing. Kennedy fucks his daughter. Kennedy said she reminds him of Marilyn, so what does that make him if he’s a Kennedy? Truly, they harp on about it with no proof, apart from that photo of them too close for comfort— And the other one where they’re too close for comfort— And the last one where they’re too close for comfort.
Claire returns in the early hours of the morning, her jacket squeaks when she takes it off, hanging it the back of the vanity chair. She gets into bed, touches your hand to check if you're awake, her eyes sparkle even in the dark when she asks, “Did you see it?”
“Mhm,” You pinch her doughy cheek when she grins, “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” Claire says, head dipping to rest in the hollow of your neck, “I got cut off at the last minute.”
“I saw… He got touchy about the daughter-fucker thing.”
“He always does,” She huffs out air through her nose, “Only people who fuck their daughters get defensive when people accuse them of fucking their daughters. Oh, and his wife, she doesn’t go to a single event, it’s always Ashley, Ashley, Ashley— it’s so fucking strange.”
“True,” Your fingers slip beneath the loops of her hair tie, loosening her ponytail, sometimes you fear it’ll come off clean with how tight she makes it. It’s like Claire’s intention is to recede her hairline on purpose. “What can you do though, right?”
Her lack of response is eerie, you pass it off as her falling asleep. She’s had a long day, an exciting one at that, Claire’s likely just crashing. So you kiss her head, let her nestle into your chest, the spot where she’s most comfortable.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Giving your girlfriend the benefit of the doubt when she’s putting you up to the most outrageous scheme quite possibly ever is hard. “I have work, Claire.”
“Work can wait, babe, this is seriously important, it means a lot for America’s future,” Ugh, you don’t like when she talks like that. Sounds like a propaganda poster come to life.
“I don’t care about America’s future, I care about mine, babe, I care about ours, I don’t think Kennedy fucking his kid has anything to do with America’s future.”
“Babe, America’s future is our future,” She insists, “I won’t ask of you ever again,” Claire clasps her hands together, kneels in front of you as if you’re in fresco on the ceiling of a half-painted chapel, as if Claire Redfield, famous and outspoken atheist activist is the most pious woman to set foot in the USA.
“I have work, I have to get ready, I don’t have time for this.”
“See, this is what I mean, you’re so—“ Before her frustration reaches its boiling point, you watch Claire mouth the words one, two, three and onwards to fifteen. “Baby, darling,” She cups your cheeks, “This would mean the world to me when I say I would never bother you again with my shit, I promise. Pinky swear.”
“Don’t call me darling,” You wriggle out of her grip, “I can’t risk another day off, Claire.”
“There’s an opening in the office,” She offers, “It’s not much, but it’s better than what you’re doing now.”
“How so?” Your interest is piqued.
“Desk job,” Claire shrugs, “It’s easy, babe, you’re smart, too smart for retail.”
“I am too smart for retail,” You agree with a sigh, it keeps you on your feet all day, then you end up blowing your paycheck on pedicures.
“You are,” She coos, kissing the back of your hand as if you’re the most delicate thing since butterflies, “And you’ll do so well, that’s why I want you to do it, babe, ‘cause I just know you’re the only one who could do it,” Flattery does get Claire somewhere, it gets her in your good books, “The, uh, you don’t mind the, uh, y’know, incest part.”
“He’s not my dad, she’s not my sister.” Detaching yourself from the incestuous element would be best, you don’t know if you have a strong enough stomach to handle it in any other way.
“You can’t kiss me,” Claire frowns, her professional face on, “From now on, we can’t be seen with each other, okay?”
“Babe,” You pout, she scowls, “You look so good tonight, I don’t want to leave you.” The notched lapels of her suit make her shoulders look broader, you want to drag your nails over the cashmere, over her tender skin.
“Your name is on the guest list,” Your alias, she means, you don’t know how she did it, but Claire manages to manage, “Please…” Don’t fuck this up for me, you assume, “Good luck, okay?”
The security process is tedious, they drone on and on about a topic in which you have no knowledge, they pat you down— Should they be doing this to someone who might be an esteemed guest?
You pass through, the crowd is full of beautiful girls with made-up faces and dark ringlets and dresses like wedding cakes. There’s less than savoury men. She doesn’t stand out in a crowd like this, but you spot her anyway. Nobody in their right mind would wear that shade of orange. Ashley Kennedy, according to your girlfriend, is fucking her father, and so she is clinically and mentally and psychically and biologically and any other ally insane. So, yes, she would wear rust orange proudly, she would go out of her way to purchase a floor-length evening gown in that exact colour. Just to prove that, yes, she is indeed fucking her dad. Would calling it quits at this very moment be justifiable to Claire? Would your reasoning be enough to accuse a girl of fucking her father?
To your utter astonishment, both Mrs and Miss Kennedy approach you first, both as in Ashley. As she is both his wife and daughter if Claire’s deduction is correct.
“Hi,” Ashley’s smile is as perfect as it was in the tabloids, her skin is dewy, and her lashes light with no attempt to darken them. It would look unnatural.
“Hi,” You grin back at her, focus on the pendant that swings low, a silver eagle that sits cushdy between her perky tits.
“Daddy told me I had to—“ Her face drops for a split second, “Oops,” She covers her mouth, swallows back a nervous giggle, “Dad told me I had to socialise, make connections,” She imitates his formalities, “Oh, gosh, I am totally being so rude right now!” Ashley waves her hands at you, “My daddy- Dad is the president, sorry to come onto you like that like you were supposed to know, gosh, I’m Ashley by the way.”
“I know,” You take her hand in yours when she offers it, squeeze it warmly, “Don’t sweat it, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know you.”
“Right, right, I guess that’s true,” She hiccups, “Sorry, god, champagne, I’m so new to drinking, I really don’t think it’s for me.” This girl is making it too easy for you.
“You just haven’t tried the right one, I love your dress by the way, colour brings out your eyes.” Like how grass brings out the pumpkins on a pumpkin patch.
“Oh my goodness, thank you!” Ashley follows after you, lost and clinging to the person she has deemed friendliest.
“Have you ever had a French martini?”
“Oh, no, what’s that? It sounds exotic.” She’s bubbly, excitable, so sweet you almost feel bad setting her up like this.
“Do you like pineapple?”
Ashley ponders, “Only juice, eating pineapple eats at my tongue, I totally know that’s what it does, but still it feels so weird.”
“You’ll like this then.” You assure her, and she bobs her head up and down in agreement, her trust for you is unconditional within five minutes flat. Claire deserved that spot at Harvard.
“There’s vodka in it,” She hums, “Daddy,” Her third slip-up of the night, “Dad doesn’t even let me near vodka.”
“Really?” You raise a brow, then your glass and she does the same.
“Never, he sucks when it comes to me doing, like, adult things,” Her nose twitches at the first sip, she reminds you of a bunny, an energiser bunny.
“Like what?”
“Drinking, driving, partying,” Ashley lists off, “He’s okay, but he’s protective, I know it comes with, like, president’s daughter territory, it just totally sucks!”
Drinking, driving, partying— Dad doesn’t mind when she’s doing adult things like sucking his dick though. That’s not a problem!
“I like you,” Ashley says, two French martinis and one cosmopolitan in, “You’re so fun, I don’t really get to meet people other than, like, the one daddy introduces me to. Don’t get me wrong, I get it, I’m privileged so I talk to privileged people, but they’re so…”
“Stuck up,” You finish for her, “I didn’t expect you to be so sweet.”
“Oh, I can see why, I get it, I’m not offended or anything,” She sighs softly, gazes at the chandelier as if she longs for more than ball gowns and Havard and spending her days shifting idly through the clothing racks at Dolce & Gabbana while her daddy lounges on the chaise chairs. “I just think you’re so down to earth,” Poor thing, it’s a shame she’s fucking her dad, you hope to uncover an entirely different truth, that they’re close and it’s nothing more, “Who did you come with by the way?”
“I’m a plus one,” You knock back your drink, grip tightening on the glass, “No one important, just lucky, I guess.”
“Huh,” Ashley takes in your words, she nods, another drink slips down easily, and by the end of it, she is clinging to your arm like you mean the world to her, “You should sooo come back to my room!” Her words slur until her sentence is more of a single word, “We could have fun,” Whether she’s soliciting sex or she wants your company, you don’t mind, “Me and daddy are staying here tonight.”
“Really?” You ask, as if Claire hadn’t briefed you on the room number prior to this, “Then I guess I wouldn’t mind coming.”
“Yay!” Her security detail emerge from the crowd, and you’re dumb for not having noticed them beforehand, but what Ashley says goes. “Gosh, you don’t have to tell, daddy, he’s busy right now. No, we’ll be fine, you can leave us to it, when daddy’s done then he’ll come up.”
An elevator ride up and up and up to the top floor, through the stretch of hall to the finest suite. Ashley is high energy, for a lack of better words, she is tiring. She kicks off her heels, still stands tall, modelesque in shape. Boyish hips jutting out of her square torso. The key card is left on the side when she’s not paying attention, which luckily for you is most of the time, you slide it beneath the door frame and shoot a text to Claire who is hovering nearby. A minute later, she confirms her success.
“Ugh, I was so over it,” Ashley groans, “Do you mind helping me out of this?”
“Of course not,” You say smoothly, wondering if this is an invitation to something more. The silk of her dress is made by the wealthiest of silkworms, just as you get your hands on her, the door unlocks.
“Ashley,” President Kennedy is panting like he ran up all twenty-nine flights of stairs at the Fairmont, “Princess, you worried me.”
“Daddy, you scared me, you scared us,” She gasps, he’s swift in his steps, tips her chin upwards as if he’s checking for damage on her angel face, he thumbs her smeared lipstick.
“Did you kiss… Did you?” Kennedy’s eyes flit from your lips to Ashley’s, you wonder why he’s so wound up about a kiss, must be the incest. Her lipstick is smeared on the rim of her martini glass, not your lips.
“What? Daddy, no, don’t be silly, not yet at least,” She makes her intentions clear, “I thought you were busy, daddy.”
“Ashley, I’m not too busy for you, I have things to oversee, but…”
As your father, I have to oversee your sex life, Ashley! I demand to watch!
“But, what?” Ashley cocks her head to the side, her hands running along the shape of his shoulders, then downwards over his chest.
“You’re more important, you know that.” Kennedy strokes her head, she bats her lashes at him, they’re barely visible so it’s more a flurry of blinks.
“Oh, daddy, you’re so sweet,” She giggles, puckers her lips and the sentiment is shared between them— They kiss like lovers do, dirtier than you and Claire. Unaffected, Ashley looks over his shoulder at you, “We can still have fun,” She promises, “Daddy can just watch, won’t you?”
Jesus Christ. Now that you’re actually faced with it. Incest in the flesh. It’s nerve-wracking. How is one meant to digest incest?
“Ashley, I don’t watch you catching anything nasty,” He tries to be discreet, you hear him loud and clear.
“Daddy,” She scolds, hitting his chest. He shucks off his suit jacket, laying it out on the back of the chair adjacent to the Alaskan king bed that could fit a family of five let alone the three of you. He sits, stares at you with his glassy eyes. President Kennedy is handsome in real life, you kind of get the appeal now, the camera does add ten pounds, ages him by ten years too apparently. There is something about him that is effortlessly masculine yet soft, sweet almost.
Ashley’s dress comes off next, she cares little for the way it is left wrinkled on the ground, her hand finds its way between your thighs. She’s not inexperienced. She knows her way around your body like she would her father’s. Her fingers are long and slim, nimble when the pads come to ghost your clit, lifting back the hood to press her thumb into it.
Instinctively, your hips buck into her hand, she kisses you, smiling into your mouth. Claire is at the forefront of your mind, she’d given you the permission to do this, but it feels wrong still. The incest feels even worse. You’ve been trying to ignore it so far, pretend it’s just Ashley here. Ashley’s lips on yours, her fingers in your cunt, her tits pressed flush to your chest— His eyes are so blue.
Ashley scissors you open with two fingers, you suck on her tit, both of you tangled up within each other. Pulling off with a pop, she takes out her fingers and you’re left empty. You taste yourself on her tongue, on her fingers and grow sick of it.
“C’mere,” You take the pillow that’s propped up against the headboard and slot it underneath her hips to keep ‘em raised. Ashley’s cunt is perfect like the rest of her. You wonder if there are procedures to get it this pink, her labia pokes out past her parted pussy lips as does her swollen clit, you give a tentative lick to her cunt, unsure of how she likes it. Claire likes it messy, but Ashley’s rich, she might like it classy. You could eat pussy classy if you tried hard enough.
She lies back, her head sunken into the mass of pillows - the one you had taken barely left a dent in the pile, her tits are small but round and her nipples are pointed and as pink as her pussy. Ashley takes initiative, daddy’s been giving it to her real sloppy it seems, ‘cause she pushes your face into it. Your nose bumps her clit and she sighs sweetly when your tongue works its merry way up her slit, from her slick hole to her twitching bud that you pay extra special attention to. It deserves it, pretty like a pearl, wrap your lips around it and suck till her thighs close around your head.
“Outta the way,” Mr. President, fully clothed, cock hard straining in his slacks, takes Ashley’s leg and spreads her further, “Keep it there for daddy, princess.”
When you lift your head out of pure curiosity, he kisses you, jams his tongue into your mouth to taste you like your tongue wasn’t just jammed in his daughter’s cunt. His daughter who is spread-eagle on the bed for The United States of America. Though, from the way they’re behaving, Ashley is a renowned patriot, this isn’t her first time confessing her love for all things red, white, and blue. And rust orange.
Dumbfounded by his takeover of the pussy you were having so much fun eating, you crawl back over to Ashley while daddy blows raspberries on her clit, spits on the First Daughter’s, his first daughter’s, cunt like she’s a corner whore.
“Daddy,” Ashley moans, she’s unabashed, grabs his hair and forces him deeper, she tells you to suck on her tits, she’s bossy when it comes to sex. Mastered the art of fucking.
“I’ve got you, princess,” Her daddy says, he can talk while he’s eating it, impressive if you do say so yourself. The most you can do is go down on Claire till you get lightheaded, breathing is out of the question.
She cums sweetly because there is no other way in which Ashley can behave. The blood that runs through her is inherently sweet unlike her father’s. Mr. Kennedy slurps away even as she jolts due to aftershocks, he’s intent on drying her out.
When he does decide to join the two of you above, it’s to press kisses into Ashley’s neck, to sniff her perfume, “Good girl,” He praises, “Daddy’s good girl.” Those lines sound like something out of a cheap porno. Hard to believe that it’s real. That you seriously just sat there and got cucked by Ashley’s father.
“Thank you, daddy,” Ashley giggles, stroking through his dark hair as he suckles on her nipple, spit stringy on his lips and her breast when he pulls back. “No, not me,” She refuses when he, with his slacks mid-thigh, presses his cock to her inner thigh, “I want to watch you, daddy.”
See, you’ve taken dick, you take Claire’s silicone dick often. Taking presidential dick, it’s new to you. Presidential dick that could’ve possibly at any time today been lodged inside his little girl, meaning you’re being double dicked not only by a presidential cock, but an incestuous one. It’s fat, browner than it is pink, uncut, the tip is leaky like nobody’s business.
“Aw, oh my gosh,” Ashley coos, “Don’t be scared, you’ve got this!” Your nerves don’t stem from taking his mediocre, prized dick, but from everything else about this situation. “Daddy’s good at it, it never hurts.” She holds your hand, brings it to her lips to kiss, fluffs the pillows and peppers kisses all over your face as President Kennedy, a man of assumed integrity pushes your legs to your chest.
His cock rubs up and down your cunt, catches on your clit, the fat tip is sucked into your stretched hole and inch by inch he forces his way into your hole. With each inch, not that there’s many, it gets thicker, till the base is engulfed into your greedy pussy. Ashley wipes the sweat from your brow, “Isn’t it good?” She gushes, “Daddy’s just the best, I don’t think I could ever be with anyone else, he’s just so good at it, isn’t he?” In response to her blabbing, you can only whimper, giving a quick bob of your head to satisfy her.
Inside of you, each vein embeds itself into your walls, the head jabs at your cervix painfully, and most of all it feels stupidly good. His cock is thick and sturdy like all good dicks should be. And he’s fucking you like he hates you. Which he does. Deep, hard, slow and nasty.
“Is it good, daddy?” Ashley asks innocently enough, her hand rests on your tummy, grows bored and trails lower to flick at your clit.
“Not as good as you, princess, never,” Comes his instant answer. You take offence to this and clench around him so tight he groans and his head drops to your neck, lips on your collarbone. There’s a sticky sound each time he draws his hips back and pushes in, you’re dripping for Ashley, for him— You don’t know anymore, head so clouded you’ve let the incest slip.
“Aw, daddy!” She places a hand over her heart, then she’s back to pinching your clit between her fingers, forcing you to unravel.
His thrusts are deliberate, mean, and he fucks you like it’s all your fault. As if he doesn’t get to hump Ashley at all times of the day. The squelch of your cunt is embarrassing enough for you to be over and done with, each stroke is a hit on your ego and on your cervix, the latter being a more delicious hit, but a hit nonetheless. When he cums, he does it on your stomach in white, watery ropes, and it pools in your belly button as you writhe with the immense pleasure he and his disgusting cock have bought you. Ashley’s bony fingers helped to some degree.
“Is it my turn now?” Ashley perks up when her dad kisses her all sloppy on the mouth, spit and drool included.
“Give daddy a minute, princess, I can’t keep up with you,” He chuckles, pats her head, they’ve started their incestuously affectionate display, so you cover yourself up and shoot Claire a second message while they begin to act lovey-dovey in bed. Let their guard down, and you hate to do this to such a lovely girl, but your girlfriend is an even lovelier girl.
Soon enough, she and the gaggle of reporters burst through the doors, flashing cameras in hand. Ashley was foolish for letting off her security detail for the night, President Kennedy is the bigger fool, and Claire, well, you’ve never seen her smile so big.
#leon s kennedy x you#leon s kennedy x reader#leon s kennedy smut#leon kennedy smut#leon kennedy x you#leon kennedy x reader#resident evil x reader#resident evil smut
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Being good at your job is praxis
You know the joke.
Office manager: "$75 just to kick the photocopier?"
Photocopier technician: "No, it's $5 to kick the photocopier and $70 to know where to kick it."
The trustbusters in the Biden administration know precisely where to kick the photocopier, and they're kicking the shit out of it. You love to see it.
Last July, the Biden admin published an Executive Order enumerating 72 actions that administrative agencies could take without any further action from Congress - dormant powers that the administration already had, but wasn't using:
https://www.thenation.com/article/economy/biden-monopoly-executive-order/
This memo was full of deep cuts, like the Competition in Contracting Act of 1984, Northern Pac. Ry Co v US (1958), the Bank Merger Act and the Bank Holding Company Act of 1956, and the Packers and Stockyards Act of 1921:
https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/presidential-actions/2021/07/09/executive-order-on-promoting-competition-in-the-american-economy/
The memo opened with the kind of soaring rhetoric that I absolutely dote on, a declaration of the end of Reagonomics and its embrace of monopoly:
https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2021/08/party-its-1979-og-antitrust-back-baby
But the memo didn't just offer red meat to tube-feeding activist cranks like me: it also set out 72 specific, technical activities that would make profound, material changes in the economy and improvements to the lives of every person in America, and then the administration executed every one of those actions:
https://www.davispolk.com/insights/client-update/president-bidens-executive-order-competition-one-year-later
They knew where to kick the photocopier and boy did they kick it - hard.
The White House action has Tim Wu's fingerprints all over it. He's the brilliant, driven law professor who's gone to work as Biden's tech antitrust czar. But Wu isn't alone: he's part of a trio of appointees who are all expert photocopier kickers. There's Jonathan Kanter at the DoJ and Lina Khan at the FTC.
Khan is a model of administrative competence and ideological coherence. Her tenure has included lots of soaring rhetoric to buoy the spirits of people like me:
https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/09/rest-in-piss-robert-bork/#harmful-dominance
But it's also included lots of extremely skillful ju-jitsu against the system, using long-neglected leverage points to Get Shit Done, rather than just grandstanding or demanding that Congress take action. Here's the FTC's latest expert kick at the photocopier: action on Right to Repair that exercises existing authority:
https://www.vice.com/en/article/k7bxaa/ftc-energy-rules-right-to-repair
The Right to Repair fight is a glaring example of democratic dysfunction. Americans broadly and strongly support the right to fix their own stuff, or to take their stuff to the repair depot of their choice. How broadly? Well, both times that the question has been on the Massachusetts ballot, there was massive participation and the measures passed with ~80% majorities:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/26/nixing-the-fix/#r2r
But despite this, state-level attempts to pass R2R bills have been almost entirely crushed by a coalition of monopolists, led by Apple, including John Deere, GM, Wahl Shavers, Microsoft, Google, and many other giant corporations who want the power to tell you your property is beyond repair and must be condemned to an e-waste dump:
https://doctorow.medium.com/apples-cement-overshoes-329856288d13
Right to Repair is a case study for the proposition that "ordinary citizens… get the policies they favor, but only because those policies happen also to be preferred by the economically-elite citizens who wield the actual influence."
https://scholar.princeton.edu/sites/default/files/mgilens/files/gilens_and_page_2014_-testing_theories_of_american_politics.doc.pdf
Enter the photocopier kickers, wearing boots. The same month that the White House dropped is massive antitrust executive order, it also published an executive order on Right to Repair, including electronics repair:
https://pluralistic.net/2021/07/10/unnixing-the-fix/#r2r-plus-plus
The EO built on the evidence compiled through the FTC's "Nixing the Fix" report:
https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/documents/reports/nixing-fix-ftc-report-congress-repair-restrictions/nixing_the_fix_report_final_5521_630pm-508_002.pdf
But it also identified that the FTC already had the power to do Right to Repair, in its existing Congressional authorization:
https://www.whitehouse.gov/briefing-room/statements-releases/2021/07/09/fact-sheet-executive-order-on-promoting-competition-in-the-american-economy/
The Biden antitrust strategy is powerful because it recognizes that every administrative agency has powers that can be brought to bear to slow down the anticompetitive flywheel that has allowed giant corporations to extract monopoly profits and then launder them into pro-monopoly policies.
Which brings me to today's news: the FTC has carefully reviewed the powers it has under its existing Energy Labeling Rule (you know, the rule that produces those Energystar stickers on appliances) and concluded that it can also force companies to publish repair manuals under this rule:
https://www.ftc.gov/news-events/news/press-releases/2022/10/federal-trade-commission-seeks-public-comment-initiative-reduce-energy-costs-strengthen-right-repair
As USPIRG's Nathan Proctor told Motherboard’s Matthew Gault, "When Congress passed energy conservation policies decades ago, it included the ability to require Right to Repair access. While that provision has gone unnoticed for too long, it’s not surprising it was written that way."
https://www.vice.com/en/article/k7bxaa/ftc-energy-rules-right-to-repair
The FTC is now planning to exercise that long dormant authority in a game-changing way - to kick the photocopier really, really well. It is seeking public comment on "whether lack of access to repair instructions for covered products is an existing problem for consumers; whether providing such information would assist consumers in their purchasing decisions or product use; whether providing such information would be unduly burdensome to manufacturers; and any other relevant issues"
https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/R611004EnergyLabelingANPR.pdf
The Trump years were brutal. Every time we turned around, some Trumpy archvillain was twirling his mustache and announcing an evil plot. Yet so many of these turned out to be nothingburgers - not because they were sincere in their intentions, but because they lacked administrative competence.
Trump embodied administrative incompetence. He was very good at commanding the news cycle, and very good at riling up his base, but he had no idea where to kick the photocopier, and every expert photocopier kicker that Trump hired got immediately fired, because they would insist that Getting Shit Done required patience and precision, not a deluge of chaotic governance-by-tweeting.
To the extent that Trumpland Got Shit Done - packing the courts, handing out trillions in tax gifts to the ultra-rich - it was in spite of Trump and his trumpies, and because of the administratively competent wing of the party: McConnell, Romney, et al. In the GOP, "establishment" is a slur meaning "competent."
This isn't to say that Trump wasn't dangerous - he absolutely was. But it does militate for an understanding of politics that pays close attention to competence as well as virtue or wickedness.
It's one of the things that was very exciting about the Elizabeth Warren campaign - those long-ass policy documents she dropped were eye-wateringly detailed photocopier-kicking manuals for the US government.
Biden himself isn't much of a photocopier kicker. He's good at gladhanding, but the photocopier kickers in his administration represent a triumph of the party's progressive wing. And therein lies a key difference between the parties: in the GOP, the competent are the establishment; in the Democrats, the establishment are the ones who can't or won't act, and the progressives have got their boots on and are ready to kick.
Image:
Temple University Libraries (modified)
https://www.flickr.com/photos/tulpics/4882641645/
CC BY 2.0:
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/
[Image ID: A photocopier in an office copy room; a silhouetted figure is dealing a flying kick to it.]
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forget your perfect offering*
summary: Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken.
a/n: Hi hi!! Guess who's back on the Nomad Steve angst/smut train after 5 months??? 3k words. Please stop reading if you're not 18+ This is very Clumsy adjacent.
--
Captain America hasn’t been home in years and it’s turned him into something a little lost, a little broken. Going dark on the United States government when it’s put a price on your head will do that, he supposes. He’s even picked up a new habit of flinching at shadows despite maneuvering in them for eternity.
Not eternity, but he’s dramatic and full throttle. Never once learned that some things can be half-measures, can be compromised on. He’s got his handful of soldiers—friends— and he can’t forget that they’re friends because soldiers are pawns and friends are crucial.
Back then, he was just a newly reanimated statuette, a votive figurine to justice rendered flesh and bone and so damn brittle. And how could he believe it would last? The entire thing fell apart within a few years—a team scattered to pieces; an entire nation’s vision discarded on the side of the road.
A lot of Americans are angry with him for that, and most days he tries not to be angry at himself, which is stupid according to you and Sam and Nat. But being angry at propaganda and history and circumstances is too intangible to do much with, so at least being angry with himself means he can kneel into a fight, leave too little in the tank for the trip back, find a way to be punished for his transgressions.
He’d always been reckless, but it’s becoming a flag much to red to ignore.
You tell him he’s got a death wish. Plain and simple: keep it up and you’ll die, and nothing more, leaving the jet ride in silence, everyone averting their eyes. But he just wipes the blood out of his mouth and says, “Hasn’t seemed to work out for me yet.”
Back at the house—the house, not his house, or anybody’s house, certainly not a home in its unremarkable exterior, interior, living spaces cobbled together with rickety, mismatched furniture and chipped ceramic kitchenware—he returns to his book. Sinks himself into the reading nook and opens it up to a page he’s been pretending to pay attention to.
Natasha showers first, Sam crashes into his bed face-down, and you linger by the old T.V., poking at the adjacent radio.
“Hey, death boy.”
He looks up, startled. “Death boy?”
“Yeah,” you grin, glancing over your shoulder. “Death boy. Your new superhero name.”
You say it breezily, eyes half-mast because it’s been a real dog-shit kind of day and even Steve can hardly focus.
Sam’s dead to the world and Nat’s going on 30 minutes under water, so it’s a fair estimate to say that it’s to the point where he can feel how powered-down his brain is, and that if he tries to speak more than three phrases at a time, it’ll hardly make any damn sense. Or, inevitably, make matters worse.
He tries for controlled, comes out not so much. “It’s a little morbid, don’t you think?”
You gasp, scandalized. “Silly me, you haven’t been morbid at all recently. Gosh, it’s not like you were trying to get gutted—he was swinging so wide and slow, how could I think you’d manage dodging in time?” You clasp your hands over your mouth dramatically, “How could I suggest—”
“That’s enough.” Steve pinches his nose-bridge with one hand and closes the book with the other. He’s going to drown himself in the bathtub when Natasha’s finished—go drama—but he’s grinning a little bit, not dumb enough to hide when he’s been caught out.
You punch a button on the radio, tune it to a station that’s only slightly screeching with interference. There’s a discernible piano melody but he doesn’t know the song. You tap along, feeling out the rhythm, and then you cast your eyes to the reading nook he’s crushed into before pointing at the middle of the floor.
For all his miserable ruminating he always forgets to account for you at the end of the day, standing there and waiting for him like he’s got any choice. He declares all sorts of bullshit about how making the right decision can feel like no decision at all when it’s inherently justified; reason should feel like reflex, ethics an extension. But lately, the only reflex he’s felt is closer to vanishing.
He’s disappearing from view a little more each night, reduced to a crumbling idol of an endangered faith because humanity’s stopped believing in him and part of him is following the same course. He’s become an old relic chipped away in the flow of time, and some days he’d rather just be good and gone.
Keep it up and you’ll die.
Part of him already has. Part of him’s already in the ground.
“Come on,” you say with a surprising amount of patience, eyes soft and hand extended. “Are you gonna get up or am I gonna have to drag your ass again?”
The song is plunking away, cutting in and out intermittently, notes quivering on scratches of static. Nat’s started to dry her hair, the sound like a tornado alarm trapped in a bathroom but it’s persistent, fighting the wailing blow-dryer for an audience. She’s probably freezing cold because the house’s water heater is shoddy at best and Sam can fix that but he’s been exhausted lately and no one’s going to complain because they’ve never complained about their situation-- not once.
He bites down, frowns a little deeper, but then he’s on his feet, giving chase like you could take him somewhere whole and unbroken. Somewhere he’s been craving for. His hands around your waist are careful, resting his chin on top of your head as you nuzzle in.
He asks through gritted teeth, “Listening for a heartbeat?”
“I know where your heart is.”
He’s so goddamn maudlin, can’t stop the bitterness from lashing out. “Where’s that?”
“With us, death boy. With me.”
He makes a noncommittal sound, dismissive and very, very rude of him, but he’s on a roll and won’t be appeased. You lazily read the lines of his face with stunned eyes, then touch your nose to his bearded chin as you lean up.
You stroke his scalp, spinning the feathery ends of his long hair. “You want to be hurt so bad, don’t you?” Your nails rake down the length of his strong neck. “Is that what you’re used to? Is it more comfortable that way?”
“Enough,” he murmurs faintly, but makes no move to push you away, only stepping in time, rocking along. When your hand tightens into a fist to pull at him, he bites down, shuts his eyes. You do it again, harder, and then let go, letting your fingers spread at the base of his skull, cradling it like a child.
“You want to be beaten within an inch of your life, want to be pried open so you can check if you’re still capable of dying.” Cold words, but your breath is hot, and he’s starting to feel it—that telltale shiver at the base of his spine at the way you won’t break eye contact.
“I know, I know,” you coo, “it hasn’t happened yet.” You move away, smiling big and dark and glistening with promise. “But listen, Steve, all you have to do is ask.”
He can’t tell what expression he’s making, only that your pupils open to swallow him. You’re staring at him, not through him. Taking in his flesh and the warm blood cascading down his face.
The night is taking its toll, it seems. Collecting on long, hard hours, making the both of you reckless.
He thinks about months ago, and the complication of ethics in the way.
Not sleeping with teammates, not losing the fucking plot no matter how much he craved losing it for a couple of hours. There were several weeks before it went sideways, before Bucharest and the Accords, where he spent doing nothing but dedicating himself to daydreaming. He sank into the quiver of his own body as he imagined you and everything he wanted to know by touch.
There were dances, like this. Swaying back and forth in Sam’s backyard and gala celebrations, onlookers getting a few ideas about what his eyes were communicating when he’d trace the curve of your shoulders or the delicate insides of your wrists. How everyone else might follow Captain America into the jaws of death but he’d follow only you, headlong, beyond, and into the goddamn afterlife if you asked him.
But there was a line he couldn’t cross. A soft, tangerine horizon much too far out of his reach when the dark was at his back, beating him to the ground. Making him flinch from warmth because entanglement was too complicated and love was too kind.
Tony asked him what it felt like to fuck up so astronomically. Nat only clucked her tongue, more disappointment in a single sound than Steve had heard from many grand lectures.
Because you would have been vibrant and glorious, damn it. You would have giggled— giggled— when you made love, crooned his name like a songbird and touched him everywhere, all at once. You would have kissed fire back into him, licked your way into the center of that votive figurine and traced his broken heart. You would have excavated him, clawed him out clean, led him into the light.
So, he knows. He knew then, knows now, knows for the rest of his days when he’s let a beautiful thing slip through his fingers.
But sometimes, this happens and his hands feel like they’ve still held on despite his attempts. Sometimes you brush his knuckles, smile at him small and sweet and come into his makeshift room, sit on the side of his bed and exist side by side. Sometimes there wouldn’t even be conversation.
But when you linger by the door, gaze slowly raking down the length of his body and his throat, his mouth, all ten of his fingertips—god, what he wouldn’t give then, to take you to the floor and declare fuck it.
Fuck ethics and fuck his entire life, if needed, because there was only you, only what he’d been needing for ages, only that brilliant and terrifying afterlife awaiting him.
The reflex, then, is not to disappear anymore, but to kneel in.
You say, both hands come to rest around his throat— because you’ve seen him now, seen him the entire time, “If you want it that much, Steve, I can give it to you. A hundred tiny deaths, so sweet and good, until it hurts so bad you really do feel like you’re dying.”
He gulps, Adam’s apple catching each of your fingers on the way up and back down. Says, “Yeah,” before he even registers it. He blurts, going cold and hot and shell-shocked, “I’d let you do anything you want.”
Just then, the bathroom door clatters open and Natasha steps out, towel wrapped around her as she pads across the living space toward her room.
She looks from you to Steve, briefly studying the single foot of distance between your faces, the forgotten music, the way he can’t seem to keep his breathing in order.
The way you’ve got his throat in your hands.
She doesn’t even stop as she passes by, carding her fingers through her hair for a final act of detangling. “Wilson sleeps heavy,” she yawns, which implies, I don’t, so keep whatever the hell it is you two are doing down.
Then she’s gone with only pressure left in her wake. Only his breath fighting with his lungs, his belly tight and hot and his flavorless mouth so fucking starved for yours.
You raise a judgmental eyebrow after he does nothing for a beat too long, too lost in potential backpedaling to advance the plot. “That’s not asking, Steve.”
He’s stupid, dizzy, like he’s been dropped on his head, but not that stupid. He can’t keep his eyes off your mouth. Doesn’t even know if he says it, but tries anyway, “Will you please,” and the rest goes out the window. You lean in. You kiss him better than he could ever have imagined.
-
He’s living the teenage years he never had.
You kiss him like you’ve got all the time in the world—like it isn’t past four in the morning and the both of you are one silent minute away from slipping into unconsciousness. You kiss lazy and slow and sublime. You press a thumb at the corner of his mouth, touch inside of him, and he wants to do it back. But he wants it right.
“This,” he starts, almost whimpering when you run your teeth beneath his ear, molding your body to his, the two of you staggering into the wall and the end table and poor Natasha across the house must be digging up her earplugs. “I’m not good with—casual—”
“Yeah, you don’t think I know that?” You only pause for enough air to hassle him before taking his hands, your own so small over them, so much power over him, and place them on your waist. “You don’t think I know you’re an all-in kind of guy?”
Of course, you know. Of course, anyone who’s ever heard of Steven Grant Rogers can figure it out. It’s always going to be full throttle for him. Casual isn’t a word that exists in his dictionary, and he won’t compromise on that. He couldn’t do this any other way because now he wants to do it all—to feel you, inside out, across time and the universe and infinity.
He shucks off your clothes, doesn’t mind the grit of the day on your skin, wants it even, to know what you’re like every hour of every day. He tears off his own tac gear, can’t keep his mouth off yours for even a second as he stumbles across the floor.
When he reaches the bed, you climb on top, warm between your legs and so perfect over his thigh. He’s rocking his hips against yours, mouthing at your breasts, grabbing your ass and waist and snarling into your neck like an animal. Lazy and slow twists into frantic and desperate, him throbbing and throbbing against your skin.
He leans back, takes you down with him, bra strap limp at your elbows, panties to the side and he wedges back between the space of his thigh and your sex. He wants—wants.
“You’re warm,” he breathes.
When he pulls out, there’s a sloppy noise following your moan and he rubs his fingers together, awed at the glistening web slipping down to his palm.
One finger becomes two, the coat of slick up to his knuckles and he’s using too much tongue when he kisses you but you don’t mind that at all.
He’s not any kind of virgin but he really feels like one. In the sense that he’s turned on by everything. Too much stimulation. On his skin, in his brain, he’s immersed in one second while predicting the next, seeing the possible ways it could go. Too much pent-up desire swells up the length of his cock as he palms and presses it against the underside of your thigh for contact. His chest is heaving, breath stuttery, eyes wild and unfocused.
You grab his face, pull him away from your collar. You’re only a slight mess, but Christ, what a sight. He must be about fifty times worse because you’re grinning wide, looking him up and down as he arches forward to get you back.
You tut, “If I really wanted to kill you,” you say, “I’d leave you right now.”
“Please don’t,” he manages hoarsely, the fire in his belly lashing out.
“Because I’m so nice.”
“Yes.” And suddenly, his sunny face turns overcast, all the joyful cacophony from before muting. “Yes, you are.”
“Steve,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead with your hands for something to do with them.
He hauls himself up on his elbows, starting to feel upset.
You lean back on your palms, head lolling between your shoulder blades, aggrieved.
“Sorry,” he recants.
“Steve.”
He can’t make eye contact, but you don’t ask him to again, only touching his jaw with a finger and erasing the last few minutes with a nuzzle of your nose to his, like saying don’t worry about it, it’s okay.
Then, more kissing, more of that touch he dreamed about and he wants to kick his past self for missing it, for even daring to fantasize when the real thing is so much more.
The night melts away, each hour lasting a blink or an eternity—he can’t be bothered by it now. He figures the sun’s coming up, though, because there’s that haze of early morning past the gauzy, frayed curtain.
Your palms are on his chest, pawing at him for leverage each time you grind down, each time you swallow him back inside of you. You push, like an act of resuscitation— one, two, one, two— a rhythmic, electric, life-giving staccato beat that has him gasping for air, has him keening and groaning without any thought to how loud he might be.
And, fuck it, fuck it all. He is, admittedly, loud.
Sorry, Nat, he winces mentally before his brain’s wiped clear of all thought.
There’s nothing but you, and you, and you.
And that poor, broken heart inside of him, crushed to fine powder, being reworked into brilliance.
He lies there afterwards, gazing into the ceiling as he breathes back down to calm. There’s the thrall of exhaustion behind his eyes but it’s being overridden by a terrible, traitorous voice that’s telling him how he can’t seem to stop fucking up.
He can’t breathe suddenly, the room collapsing into a pinhole, darkness threatening the edges of his sight.
And then you say, because you always know what to say, “It’s okay to be a little broken,” you stroke his chest. “Baby, that’s how the light gets in.”
And the morning is breaking through fully now, streaks of it clearing up his eyes, cutting him to pieces beneath you.
“Yes,” he agrees and meets you for another lengthy kiss, every shrapnel inch of him raw and searing hot. All his exposed parts—the grief and agony and self-hatred—turned to gold. You touch his dark edges with your fingertips. You trace a new dawn’s light in his hair.
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“It does not actually articulate or force the articulation of a strategy for how to end the conflict to begin with. So you basically have a blank check — or a near blank check — for a strategy that’s completely gone off the rails.”
Lee called out his Republican colleagues for sending aid to Ukraine at the expense of America’s own interests.
“By voting yes and passing this bill now, it empowers drug cartels, it dissolves our borders, it spends insane amounts of money that we don’t have on the priorities of foreign countries all at the same time,” he said.
Lee also slammed the bills’ proponents for defeating an effort led by Sen. Rand Paul (R-KY) to increase accountability and oversight of the aid to the notoriously corrupt Ukrainian government through appointment of an inspector general.
“These are not choir boys,” Lee said. “These are not Boy Scouts. These are not Girl Scouts. These are people who have really set world records for corruption. It’s an art form over there.”
Vance laid out the arguments from Sens. Chuck Schumer (D-NY) and Mitch McConnell (R-KY) for rushing the aid through without further accountability measures.
“The basic argument is that we have to rush resources to Ukraine immediately, or they’re liable to fall to Russian aggression,” he said. “And it’s all basically an argument made under the gun that unless you approve this appropriation of resources and weapons, then you will allow Russia to win. So it’s a kind of moral blackmail.”
Supporters of yet more aid to Ukraine can not admit the reality that the war is not winnable for Ukraine, Vance continued. “They can’t admit that this isn’t going well because if they admitted that, it would cause too much psychological harm, and they’d have to cut bait.”
Johnson added that proponents argue that it is in politicians’ naked political interests to support the aid because “it’s helping build our industrial base, and so it’s creating jobs in your state. And I call that a depraved justification.”
Musk, who noted his contributions to Ukraine’s war efforts, echoed the assessment of the trio of senators that the war is ultimately not winnable and that a peace deal is in their best interests.
Ukraine is “losing people every day,” he said. “And if you’re going to spend lives, it must be for a purpose.”
Musk continued:
There is no way in hell that Putin is going to lose. If he would back off, he would be assassinated. And for those who want regime change in Russia, they should think about: Who is the person that could take out Putin? And is that person likely to be a peacenik? Probably not. They’re probably gonna be even harder, even more hardcore than Putin if they took him out.
Ramaswamy detailed additional “unacceptable” risks to American and global interests from continued “endless funding” of the fighting in Ukraine, arguing that Americans see “daily strengthening of the military alliance between Russia and China, which, when combined, is the single greatest increase for the risk of World War III that we’ve seen in the post-World War II era.”
If the foreign aid passes the Senate, as is expected, the House must still act. Speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) would likely face a rebellion from members of the Republican conference if he brought the bill to the floor.
Monday night, after the conclusion of the X Space, Johnson seemed to throw cold water on the Senate’s package, echoing earlier statements that Congress must address American border security first.
“In the absence of having received any single border policy change from the Senate, the House will have to continue to work its own will on these important matters,” a Johnson statement read. “America deserves better than the Senate’s status quo.”
The timing before Monday night’s vote is important, sending the message to any on-the-fence Republican senators that a vote on the unpopular aid package would imperil their political standing for legislation that will not become law.
Some Democrats have insisted they will use all the parliamentary tools at their disposal to bring the bill to the floor, although a path forward for the legislation in the House is unclear.
Bradley Jaye is a Capitol Hill Correspondent for Breitbart News. Follow him on X/Twitter at @BradleyAJaye.
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Assorted FrUK/FACE Fam Headcanons
These are silly little thoughts I've had while drafting Migraines in Margaritaville, so these apply to the world of that AU (modern, human; FrUK parents raising NA bros in Massachusetts, US). Most of these involve food because I seem to think about them when I'm hungry???
• Francis and Arthur practice "one-parent-one-language" with the boys. Matthew took to French much easier than Alfred did, but both brothers managed to pick it up without much of a fuss. In elementary school the twins would use French to cheat on tests (they weren't allowed to sit next to each other after their schemes were discovered).
• Arthur set the grill on fire three times in one summer. Francis clearly doesn't learn from his mistakes and Arthur is too stubborn to let Francis do all of the work when it comes to preparing dinner.
• Follow up on the point above -- Arthur can prep vegetables and throw together food that doesn't require too much measuring or too many steps on the stovetop. He doesn't have the patience for most dishes and doesn't have a sense of what spices go well together/what is enough vs too much. Francis lets him help by chopping up vegetables and Arthur was usually the one to pack the boys' lunches. Sometimes they'd get leftover portions of whatever they had for dinner last night, but Arthur often defaulted to some sort of wrap with deli meat and assorted veggies/crackers for snack.
• Francis gives me similar vibes to those youtube moms who try to make homemade versions of popular American snacks. He may spend the weekdays at work in a kitchen, but on the weekends he's at home, still in the kitchen, trying to make homemade fruit leather and homemade cheese crackers for his sons.
• Arthur's the one more willing to let the boys get snacks from the store or take out. Francis is very much "we have McDonald's at home."
• Both Francis and Arthur would've been so excited to decorate the twins' nursery. They're both artistically inclined, be it in different ways. Arthur made blankets for both of them; Matthew is red and Alfred is blue. Francis paints floral designs on the furniture, in particular purple irises and both red and white roses.
• Because the twins were identical and because babies are kinda just blobs, they definitely accidentally mixed the twins up. The color coding might've come after the swap. They had a crisis about it. Francis "sacre bleu, we just gave two people permanent identity crises" Bonnefoy and Arthur "if we compare them to every picture we have of them we can figure it out" Kirkland. I'm imagining this happening before the twins have enough hair for their cowlicks to really form.
• It's tradition in the Kirkland-Bonnefoy household to have a box of Whitman's chocolates at every family party and Alfred is the reason why. One Christmas each twin got to pick out something special for the party and Alfred picked out the 22 piece Whitman sampler in the yellow box. They're not the best chocolates, but it became a tradition. Thankfully there's two layers in the box so Mattie and Al can have their own messenger boy pieces (the shaped chocolate that's the centerpiece of each layer).
• Neither Arthur or Francis have favor for one twin over the other. They both have their own activities they can do with Alfred and Matthew separately. Francis will cook and bake with Alfred and draw with Matthew. Arthur teaches Matthew to garden and watches old (by his son's standards) movies with Alfred.
• Francis is the parent the boys can come to no questions asked. Arthur isn't apathetic, but Francis is more inclined to give more thoughtful advice for relationships and general fuck-ups. He won't press on why or how something happened, but will help his sons figure out the best way to solve a problem.
• When Alfred and Mattie turned 10, Arthur wanted to teach them the importance of personal finance. He would give the boys $5 each week to spend on snacks at the grocery store (Arthur does the couponing and the shopping for the house). They were allowed to hold onto the money to use for later and could help with the couponing.
• Arthur drags the family out to Salem every Autumn. Sure, they live in Massachusetts and are well aware of how bad tourist season is, but he's fascinated with the city. Alfred initially went because he really liked this one New York style pizza shop in the Witch City Mall (how they got Francis to step foot in there, I don't know), but eventually grew interested in the witchy stuff Salem has to offer. Francis only puts up with it because the city has an art museum and weekly art fairs in the Fall. Matthew dreads their yearly trip. He loathes it. He'd rather tag along with Francis to the museum.
• Until the boys were old enough to start protesting, they had family Halloween costumes. Francis thought it was tacky, but saw the appeal when Arthur got the twins (still babies) all dressed up in lobster costumes.
#that second to last one is really self indulgent#hetalia#ヘタリア#hws#hetalia headcanons#migraines in margaritaville#fruk#na bros#face family#hws face family#hws france#francis bonnefoy#hws england#arthur kirkland#hws canada#matthew williams#hws america#alfred f jones#floralcrematorium writes
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Okay, ever since the concept art of the Mario Brothers movie got leaked on Reddit, I've been wanting to make this post. And I think now is the time. Gird your loins friends. I am about to overanalyze the hell out of thirty seconds and one concept art of a movie.
A Room of Their Own: An (Over)Analysis
To start with, I want to justify this whole treatise by comparing the concept art of Mario and Luigi's room with what we get in the movie.
Concept Art
Movie
These match up incredibly well. There are a few poster swaps on Mario's wall, the generic baseball team versus an obvious reference to the Mets (a point I'll talk about in a moment); Beastie Boys for the fish person poster (and it's bugging the hell out of me, because the green guy is wildly jogging my memory and I can't quite place it). Luigi's side of the room also gets slightly rearranged, although the objects are mostly the same, minus the swap of the anime mecha figure for an art mannequin.
Now that we've established continuity, let's talk about why we're exploring this in the first place.
I love analyzing people's living spaces in media. They tell such an intimate story about who a person is, what they value, what they're hiding, and so on. And the snippets we get of Mario and Luigi's room, both through the movie and the concept art, say so much about them and (arguably) connect in some measure back to the games and even the cartoons of my youth. So, let's dive in, shall we?
Mario
In both the concept art and the movie, a couple of themes emerge from Mario's side of the room.
Plumbing
It's obvious that Mario's passion is plumbing. There are pipes sticking out from under his bed, pipes stacked in the corner, books on plumbing stacked on his desk, along with all kinds of other related paraphernalia. Regardless of Spike or his father, Mario seems genuinely into plumbing as his vocation (remember, he was the one who was the driving force behind that commercial). Keep this in mind for when we talk about Luigi, because there's a divergence there.
Sports
We know from the movie and general lore that Mario is quite athletic, and seems to enjoys sports. Here, we see posters for baseball and what is presumably the New York City marathon (at least in the movie still); we see a football helmet and some small trophies that one might assume are related to his own sports activities. Is he the absolute, number one winner in all of Brooklyn? Unlikely, given his insecurities about always being "small," about wanting to amount to something. This being said, it's obvious he has some prowess and accomplishment in the world of sporting, perhaps on a high school level. And the whole parkour scene shows that he trains, keeps himself in shape for this type of thing. (As an aside, can you blame Luigi for not being able to keep up? Forget the knees, he's hauling a 15-20 pound bag of plumbing equipment with him! Give the guy a break).
Anyway, this is all unsurprising for our hero archetype. The marathon poster - grit and determination. Baseball and football - all-American sports. Central casting, call one wannabe hero. (Remember, what people showcase in their rooms is generally what is important to them, what they value).
There is a small wrench thrown in here, however (ha! a pun!) And that would be the foam finger featured in the concept art which is a very familiar orange and blue. And that along with the baseball figurine and posters - which have similar coloring and iconography of the intersecting "NY" - lead me to believe that Mario is a Mets fan.
Now, I need make a small digression here to explain why this is important to his character.
The Mets are the long-suffering little brother to the perennially-successful New York Yankees (booooooo). They still hold the modern era record for most losses in a season (their inaugural year, 1962, where they went 40-120). Over the decades, they have been plagued by inept ownership, catastrophic end-of-season collapses, and bizarre events that can only be categorized as "LOLMets." (This Reddit thread is a particularly entertaining history of the franchise's tragi-comic moments).
And aside from being a lifelong masochist fan of this team, I think it's important to bring this up in terms of Mario's character because he sees himself as the underdog while in Brooklyn; as little, as constantly underachieving. It's extremely fitting for Mario's movie depiction that he roots for the eternal underperformer, for a team that has historically been supported by the more blue-collar areas of New York, a fanbase which suffers year after year and yet always comes back for more.
Mess
This is actually my favorite part of Mario's section. Canonically, Mario is a kind of a slob. In both the concept art and movie stills, we see plumbing bits and parts strewn all over the place, pipes shoved underneath the bed, pipes stacked in the corner, half-finished projects and tools running amok his desk. (Note, he's not dirty, just disorganized).
And the thing, this isn't the first time we've seen evidence of this. Luigi, on two separate occasions, either complains about or encounters his brother's habits in the Luigi's Mansion series. (Although the first quote below could be more of a commentary on Luigi's persnickety-ness rather than Mario's laundry habits).
(seriously, Mario. Just how many pizzas did you need?)
There's something...I don't know, endearing or somehow fitting that the titular hero of the Mushroom Kingdom is a domestic disaster. Almost as if whatever energies he can muster are focused solely on hero-ing and plumbing and anything else just...falls by the wayside. (Understandable. There's only so much all of us in our lives have energy for. You have to prioritize). Still, it sets up this contrast between the front Mario puts up and how he's received by the Mushroom Kingdom and who he really is, which he definitely reserves for a select few closest to him, the prime candidate being his brother.
And speaking of that brother...
Luigi
It's unfortunate that we don't get as many quality shots of Luigi's side of the room in the movie, but from what can see, the concept art is pretty consistent with the film.
And I'm being adamant about the consistency of the concept art and the movie, due to the fact we get so little Luigi screen time and yet his room tells us so much about him.
Science
We've got a tech-mech boy here, my friends. Note the somewhat advanced microscope perched on the headboard, the calendar of the motorcycle, the schematic of the racing car, the little jet-rocket ship. Note, in the concept art, the mecha sat prominently on top shelf.
Now, what does this tell us? (Aside from the fact Luigi is a total nerd, which we knew already).
Firstly, Luigi is very into motor vehicles, science (fiction), and possibly robots. That he possibly has some interest in engineering and robotics. This may sound familiar.
Yes, the Super Mario Brothers movie, by intent or not, kept Luigi's mechanical engineering interests intact. (There's a whole other post in here where I could provide further proof of this outside of SPM. I suggest watching the SMB 3 cartoon episode, "Mind Your Mummy" which not only wildly showcases Luigi's engineering skills, but is pretty hilarious).
But I digress.
Here's the interesting contrast. Mario is obvious about his passion for plumbing. Luigi, although canonically more reserved, does take the effort to highlight what is important to him in his room - namely his interest in science and engineering (and photography, which we'll talk about in a minute).
It makes you wonder...Luigi is not a confrontational sort. He goes along with what Mario does because he loves his brother and perhaps he either doesn't know what he wants or is afraid to express it. I personally doubt Luigi's true passion lies in plumbing, from what we see here. It's a means to end.
Now, whether Luigi disavowed engineering due to finances, low self-esteem, family pressures, or if he just wasn't ready to declare who he was...we don't know (I would posit it's some tasty combination of all of the above). But I do feel like it's fair to say Luigi is along for the ride at this point. He loves his brother, is possibly a little too dependent on him. It's not like he's bitter about it (well, on the surface. The Mr. L persona raises some interesting questions) - he's just doing what Mario does because...that's what he's always done. Luigi hasn't found his true footing yet. (You can even look at the fact he carries the toolbag throughout the movie as a kind of metaphorical weight of Mario's interests and goals over his - which, I realize, for a Mario property, is a reeeeeaaaaal stretch. But since I'm overanalyzing three stills from an animated movie about video game plumbers, I might as well go for the gold).
The other aspect of Luigi's interest in fast cars, fast bikes, and fast rockets is how that contrasts with his reserved nature. Luigi is, supposedly, the scaredy cat, the one who won't take risks. And yet what we see fascinating him the most are chunks of metal being hurled through time and space at ridiculous speeds. Wish fulfillment? Or maybe another side of Luigi that even Mario doesn't always get to see.
We also see two ribbons pinned to the wall near the sciency/tech items. Most likely, this had to do with academic achievement I would bet good coins that these achievements were in STEM. Again, Luigi is showcasing this, meaning it's important to him.
In this context, him gravitating towards E. Gadd and his experiments is wholly in-character, despite Luigi's (understandable) anxiety about dealing with undead (but does he say no? Much like his rocket cars, there's a kind hidden recklessness to his character). Mr. L and his robot obsession (and skill) make perfect sense. Luigi's probably been looking for that kind of outlet for quite some time. I can pretty firmly state that the engineering aspect of Mr. L was not brainwashing and it makes you wonder if the other facets of Luigi's personality that rise to surface during that whole episode were planted or there already, just suppressed.
Cleanliness is Next to Godliness
Luigi is just a bit of a neat freak. We see this in the hat-cleaning episode referenced above, in the way his side of the room is somewhat meticulous in its organization (in contrast to his brother). He also has a few hilarious quotes in the original Luigi's Mansion that are worth including here that really highlight this side of his personality:
Now that I look at it-- it's full of moth holes! Yecch!"
"So much dust! This will never pass the white-glove test!"
"Well, they sure did pile odds and ends everywhere… Filthy."
"I should probably give that a quick vacuuming…"
"Oh, what's this?! Just how I like it… Nice and clean!"
"Do Boos wash their faces?"
And what I find interesting about this tendency toward order is how it relates to Luigi's anxiety. I would argue that part of his clean streak is an attempt at controlling his environment, a way to counter that ever-present anxiety. It also seems fitting for the engineer to be far more fastidious about things being just so. Yes, it's a bit of a stereotype - a trope, if you will - but one that might have some teeth in this situation. After all, if you're building race cars that go ridiculous miles per hour, there's no room for error. I think the contrast between the two brothers - Mario's outside world is consistently on the edge of chaos while Luigi's inside world is the one on the precipice - is fascinating.
Sports
Now, it's not like Luigi has zero athletic ability (despite his complaints). We see a tennis racket in his room and a dartboard. He helped Mario beat up Bowser with zero training montage. It's just that Luigi seems to gravitate towards athletic endeavors that require more pinpoint accuracy (not that baseball and football don't, but it's a little different in my mind) and that avoid almost all risk of physical collision. Again, those interests are not what we think of as "stereotypical" of the big hero. And Luigi is a hero, but in a very different way than his brother.
Camera
I don't have too much to say about this one, but I think it's delightful that Luigi owns and uses an old-school camera. We can actually see two black-and-white photos pinned to his wall in the concept art, showing us Luigi's more artistic side, which is kind of neat (and let's not forget the movie subs in an art mannequin for the mecha, which only strengthens this notion of art interest. Maybe he's into the notion cybernetics? It's possible). I suppose I could read into camera thing as an observer vs. participant dynamic (Luigi behind the lens observing while Mario is always in the action), but I wouldn't make an argument any more in-depth, and even that statement is a bit of a leap in a document chock-full of leaps.
Conclusion
If you're expecting a thesis out of this, I'm sorry to disappoint - I don't really have one. I suppose this whole rundown is more of a literature review than anything else, but what I do want to stress is what can be read from the objects in the room and their placement. I can't and won't pretend to know the intentions of the artists here. It's very possible there was far less thought put into the design and layout of these rooms than the long treatise I have just given over to it. This being said, because there is a fair amount of consistency between the concept art and the movie and because there is a fair amount of subtle character moments throughout the film (which have been broken down by other intrepid Tumblr friends), I might lean towards the notion that these design choices do have some degree of intent in subconsciously shaping how we, the viewer, read the brothers.
(And yeah, maybe I just wanted an excuse to pin more evidence onto my "Luigi wanted to be a mechanical engineer and is actually really skilled at robotics and other science" conspiracy thread bulletin board :D
#hello there#luigi#mario#meta#in which i overanalyze the hell out of a piece of media#and give myself an excuse to not only promote my luigi-engineer agenda#but also talk about baseball for a paragraph#hahahaha#self indulgent nonsense#smb movie#you guys asked for it
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how would having buck/eddie be more powerful?? yeah i get that having a queer latino man would be awesome (and i support whatever direction they want to go in w eddie’s sexuality bc i think there’s a lot of options there) but it’s kind of embarrassing that people are making buck’s entire coming out about a ship. a bisexual man coming out in later life has his queer realisation with someone who also came out in later life, they’re both in a line of work that’s pretty “boys club”-esque (as shown by hen and chimney begins episodes, and it’s a shame that hen’s queer identity isn’t recognised enough in the fandom). Buck’s storyline is just as meaningful with or without an endgame of buddie. Tbh I hope they make eddie queer as well but don’t put buddie together because the only way they get together without violating workplace relationship rules is if one of them leaves, which is arguably less meaningful because we lose a main character. Sorry if this comes off as rude but y’all have had your shipping brains on for too long because you can’t recognise how much this means to bisexual fans and it’s honestly exhausting.
Okay gonna address that bottom part first just to clarify real quick that I am in fact a bisexual fan 🫡 so that assumption was 😐
As for the rest:
If you look on my page or my previous asks or anything you’d see that I’m over the moon ecstatic over finally getting bi buck
At no point did I make buck being bi just about his ships, in almost every ask about bucktommy or buddie me and most of the anons are constantly reiterating how much we value canon bi buck even if it wasn’t EXACTLY how we wanted it
At no point in any of my previous posts nor in the ask response that I’m assuming you sent this ask about did I imply that bucks coming out arc is of more value when connected to buddie
The post/ask was about bucktommy as endgame or buddie as endgame and my opinion on it and my opinion is that it would be more powerful and meaningful to have buddie
To answer your question on why- buddie yes have a lot of in common with bucktommy but the thing that makes it for me is that
1. Queer slowburns done right are practically unheard of in the media
2. As you’ve touched on yeah Eddie is a Latino man but also we got to see Eddie grow as a person get into therapy, deal with his issues with his father and being a man of the house, be a widow and raise a son
Can you name a single character who we see on screen go from this all American soldier perfect boy to seeing him breakdown, get therapy understand comp het, fall in love with his best friend and navigate how he balances coming out in his 30s while having very mixed and complicated feelings about his dead wife who I genuinely believe he loved in some way but also having to come out to his son who is bound to have his own complicated feelings about it?
3. We’ve had so much history and so many powerful scenes between these two that to me and many of the fandom nothing can measure up to, like if they do become canon like it would mean a lot because their story and scenes over the years have been so amazing and powerful
4. Theyd be listening to what the fans want/have wanted for years!! That’s huge because so many shows never make characters queer because the fans saw them as it or shipped them and when on those rare occasions they do they take the easy way out and make one half of them queer to get fans to shut up (cough cough a certain cw show)
Also I never trashed on bucktommy because I don’t ick someones yum all I said is i agree and I don’t get those who want them to be endgame and I do make jokes about my own shipping goggles but seriously I am self aware and I do keep being VERY conscious that some may misunderstand me as not valuing bi buck just because we didn’t get buddie when that couldn’t be further from the truth
#911#buddie#evan buckley#eddie diaz#911 abc#911 fox#evan buck buckley#911onfox#911 spoilers#buckley diaz family#asks open#send asks#answered asks#asks
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out of curiosity, do you have any preferred headcanons for how tall the members of the Batfam are? who's the tallest to shortest?
listen I don't have exact measurements but I do have vibes. I'm going to say right out of the gate that I simply do not hold with DC artists and their habit of Russian nesting dolling the Robins so they're each a little bit shorter with age, it's a useful visual shorthand but it's also not my truth even if I sometimes agree with portions.
for instance: I do have to concede that Bruce needs to be the tallest of the Batboys in order to enable a lot of his whole schtick, especially your modern era Batmans who are built to be tanks as opposed to the sleeker, more acrobatically-oriented Batman of earlier ages. Batfleck honestly had a great build for it, 6'4 and built to loom.
on the other hand, I Know what male gymnasts look like and Dick came from a whole family of them; he doesn't need to be SHORT short but brother he is not the tallest Robin by any stretch. he's 5'8 if he's Lucky, likely shorter. and he's fine with it! he isn't insecure about being a compact king!
I strongly dislike the recent development towards drawing adult Jason as a brute, but I have long enjoyed the headcanon that he would have had a hard growth spurt after Bruce took him in and he didn't have to worry about food insecurity. he is absolutely taller than Dick but, HOT TAKE, I don't think he's a Lot taller. as Red Hood he's definitely exaggerating the difference with chunky boots + his stupid full-face mask for extra height, + his jacket and all his gear make him look taller and broader than Nightwing in his little skintight getup. out of costume they physically look much more similar.
I also super hate when Tim is drawn as a skinny short little waif, genuinely there's no reason for that. that's a little American rich boy who grew up on milk and white bread, there's no reason for him to look like he has Victorian urchin wasting disease. fuck this, Tim is taller than both Dick and Jason. same energy as the improv kid I went to high school with who was 5'11 but cool about it.
completing the circle and fully reversing the Robins, I know that other fans have pointed out that Damian's Asian heritage conspires against him being hugelarge as an adult, but genetics are a grab bag and I think he deserves to be Bruce-sized. adult Damian can pick Dick up and put him in the fridge if he wants. at present though his growth spurt is really taking its sweet time and he's hovering around Cass-height (see below).
Duke is hovering in a zone right between Jason and Tim but everyone forgets that and imagines him being taller because the little bat ears on his helmet give him a couple extra inches.
a lot of older comics, especially the Dixon run, frequently have Selina drawn like she's tall as all hell, and I honestly love that for her. 5'11, Megan Thee Stallion kind of build for her.
Cass is frequently drawn as tiny to an extent that is, frankly, implausible and borderline upsetting (if memory serves she literally got folded up and carried in a backpack once?) but listen: she's certainly not tall. I'm willing to offer her 5'3 as an absolute maximum. also literally no one asked but Michelle Yeoh is the Lady Shiva of my heart and shes 5'4, so that's canon To Me.
however tall Dick is in your head I want you to add one (1) inch and that's Barbara. this is so crucial to me.
Steph is like a deeply average 5'4 and a half, and I realize this Does mean that I've Russian nesting dolled the Batgirls (at least in order of appearance in comics, not the actual order they Batgirls) and I am Fine with that. throw Harper Row in here too, she and Steph are just chilling being average height gal pals.
Helena is freakishly tall by Italian woman standards, by which I mean like 5'7.
this is vile and I'm sorry to the Robins but unfortunately Jean Paul is a genetically engineered freak bred to kill so he's probably taller than all of them save for an adult Damian. 6'2 to my miserable boy. beginning to think I was lying when I said I didn't have exact numbers.
so I think in descending order the lineup I've created is Bruce, JP, Selina and Tim, Duke, Jason and Babs, Dick, Helena, Steph and Harper, Damian, Cass.
did I skip anyone vital you want to know about?
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Any story that shows Buck actually angry like in episode 3 when the co-pilot wanted to bail. The reaction from everyone since he is usually so even keel.
I've been staring at this prompt with absolute glee since it landed because I am all for Angry!Buck. But it's all just little thoughts on it, not a story idea, so let's go to the bullets:
It is a very rare occurrence, obviously. So rare, in fact, that the first time Bubbles sees Buck get actually!angry, he thinks it's a joke. Buck has a dry sense of humor. Buck getting mad about how a fellow pilot is trying to insult Bubbles for being a navigator must be a joke. Bubbles is used to good-natured ribbing about being a navigator, and no, this guy isn't being good-natured, but who cares.
But Buck cares. Buck cares a lot. It's about respecting your fellow soldier and respecting the fact that you can't do shit without a navigator, and no, it's not fun or a goof to make them think they're not important.
Yes, this is all based on things Buck felt as a child. No, he does not know that. He is a man in the 1940s. He doesn't have feelings. He has a place in his chest that hurts sometimes, and one day he will die.
Other people who make Buck ACTUAL MAD: Fuckos who don't do their goddamn jobs.
You know when Crosby slams that guy's head on the table for leaving before giving out all the chutes?
Buck wouldn't have been that physical, but he'd have been seething with the same rage. And just walked in very measured and standing tall and staring until that fucko peed a little.
But when Buck finds out Crosby got physical, he's like, "Yes. Good. You've learned well."
The thing to understand is that no one believes Buck gets MAD like that. Even if they're getting it from the person who saw it. He's too even-keeled. No way.
But once you see it, you fear causing it because the effort it takes to CAUSE it is massive.
Like, the safeties Buck has built to never, ever lose his temper (like his father) are so intricate and massive that it truly is remarkable to get around all of them.
Hell, the only reason he even got MAD at the co-pilot was because he was trying to concentrate on a plan to get them to safety, and the dude would NOT stop cutting into his thoughts.
Not that Buck wasn't upset at the guy for trying to bail. He was. But it's not what made him ANGRY. He is very understanding of being scared. But be scared quietly, would you. He is trying to make a plan over here.
One night, a set of RAF pilots decide their goal is to absolutely start shit with the Americans. And they make the very wrong choice of choosing Buck and Bucky to aim at.
If Curt were there, it'd be a lot harder. But he's not. He's gone. They lost him.
And that's the thing: Buck's anger only shows itself in the extremes, and the loss of Curt is an EXTREME. It's not that Buck didn't know it could happen. It's that it DID happen. And it HURTS. And neither he nor Bucky really know how to process that. Not that night.
So these RAF pilots start needling, and Bucky says, "Hey, fellas, not tonight, huh? Maybe we do this some other time? We're having a rough go right now."
And the RAF pilots KEEP GOING. Just talking shit. Nothing personal. They don't know Buck and Bucky. Just general "Americans took their fucking time, huh? Sure waited awhile."
In the calmest, most even voice you've ever heard, Buck just obliterates them from head to toe. How it was their prime minister who saw a politician and not a rabid dog in Hitler. How it was their prime minister who kept arguing to give Hitler just a little more land. Just one more country. How it's their fucking channel islands under occupation.
"We may have been late, boys, but at least we showed up when the threat hit our shores the first fucking time. You sat here for, what, six or seven years? Letting the wolf eat a little more and a little more of the garden? And now you can't go out there, can you? Can't go to the garden and check on your fucking potatoes for your fucking crisps? Because now the wolf thinks that garden is his. He showed his teeth over and over, and you kept thinking he was smiling. No, we didn't join you in '39, but when the Japanese bombed us in '41, we didn't fucking let them convince us they were only gonna try that once."
#buck cleven#masters of the air#he won't be angry if he can help it#but once you flip that switch#he will ruin your entire fucking life#prompt#headcanon
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hey guys want to help me write?
i started writing this awhile back and now i'm revisiting and i cannot recall Where i was going with this. SO!! it could be fun if you guys let me know what you would like to happen/where you see this going!!
Steve Harrington’s been different ever since he came back.
No shit, idiot, Eddie berates himself, pretending not to stare at Harrington from across the library. Not that Harrington would notice. It’s other people he’s worried about. Staring at Steve Harrington is a popular pastime at Hawkins High now, popular enough that Eddie can’t allow himself to be caught partaking.
The story goes like this:
Julia Davis was sitting in the emergency room at Hawkins Memorial waiting for her brother to get a cast on his arm after he fell off his bike. It was taking a long time, and she hates hospitals, so she decided to take a walk outside around the parking lot just for something to do. Here’s where Eddie knows the story’s at least a little bit bullshit; Julia Davis buys from him every week, and he’d bet anything that she was smoking in the parking lot for a bit of stress relief.
The rest is as follows: She heard sirens right as she was about to go back inside. It wasn’t an ambulance, it was a cop car, so she decided to watch what was going on. Eddie personally suspects that she was keeping an eye out because she smelled like pot. Either way, she watched as a cop pulled Will Byers’ limp form out of the backseat. Will’s mom climbed out from the passenger seat, and instead of immediately following after her son, she opened the other back door to the car, and the whole world shifted.
What she saw has changed a little bit over time. It’s different depending on who you ask, whether anybody on the basketball team is within earshot, or if Tommy Hagan is anywhere near you. If Tommy Hagan’s around, she didn’t see shit.
If Hagan’s fucked off, though, if you aren’t around the basketball team? Harrington’s hands were caked in dried blood. Maybe it was mud, Julia always hedged, but it just… looked like something else. Whatever it was, it ran down his chin, too, stains dripping from his lips all the way to his bare chest. She could see some awful scrapes and bruises down each arm, angry red slashes criss-crossing his back and his pecs, and his sweatpants seemed to be drenched in mud or blood or something awful that stained his bare feet as well.
Joyce Byers guided him out of the car at arm’s length, like he was a wild animal that could lash out at any moment. His eyes were wide and unfocused. Julia swears he never shivered, despite his state of undress and the freezing wind that had swept through Hawkins that night. He shuffled to the ER like a zombie taking its first brainless steps.
The next day, it was on the morning news. Missing boys found wandering through the woods, escaped from their captor and fleeing for their lives. The news didn’t say much about the kidnapper. A few days later, it was reported that the creep had died from injuries sustained during the boys’ escape.
Translation: Steve Harrington killed a man. With his bare hands and teeth, if Julia Davis isn’t bullshitting them.
Eddie’s been watching the scars fade. All of the scrapes on Steve’s arms are either gone now or covered by the sleeve of his striped polo. He buttons them all the way up now, but the guys in his gym class say that his chest is back to normal. His nails aren’t ragged and torn anymore. Technically, he looks fine. Perfect. All-American.
But then there are the eyes.
There’s something about his gaze that draws Eddie in. His eyes are beautiful, of course, the kind of brown that brings to mind mossy logs and golden sunsets in equal measure, just depending on how they catch the light. Eddie didn’t make a habit of gazing into Steve Harrington’s eyes before the change, but he still remembers seeing life behind them. How could he not? Steve used to draw attention everywhere he went. No wonder he got snatched. It’s always those types, isn’t it?
Eddie might be a bad person. Just a little bit.
The point is that those eyes don’t have life behind them now. They’re just empty. Dull and sad, like Steve’s soul has floated off, or else been so weighed down that it can no longer move. Drained, like Frodo after delivering the ring to Mount Doom.
It’s obvious that Steve doesn’t belong in the Shire anymore.
Whenever Eddie isn’t occupying himself with D&D or homework or the band or his business, his mind drifts back to Steve Harrington. What did he see? What did he do? How did that blood look dripping down his chin, was it like a movie vampire or like a Carrie situation, and did Steve lick it from his lips in the back of the cop car? Maybe Eddie really is as sick in the head as people say. He needs to know. Did Steve kill that man with his teeth?
It isn’t any of his business, except that people don’t seem to be as afraid of Eddie as they used to be. More girls are coming straight to him instead of sending their boyfriends to buy their shit for them. Maybe they aren’t any less afraid of Eddie. Maybe they’re just more afraid of their boyfriends. When you skulk around high school parties for a living, you hear stories. According to several sources, Steve Harrington keeps a knife in his pocket and an extra in his backpack. According to Eddie’s own eyes in addition to his sources, Steve Harrington’s girlfriend showed up to school with a bandage on her hand the day after he came back.
Eddie doesn’t personally think that those two things are related. Harrington was definitely in the hospital for at least a few days, and they only give you the shitty plastic knives in there. She was probably just cooking or curling her hair or something when she found out that her disappeared boyfriend had come back.
Steve doesn’t seem to be reading his book. Eddie can’t tell what it is from this distance, but it looks more like a textbook than a novel. The cover is red. Which of Eddie’s textbooks are red? That one for Lit was red, right?
The book snaps shut. Eddie looks up.
Empty eyes stare back.
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Heyyyyy :) I've got an idea for a one-shot that you could write~ (you don't have to write it if you don't want to, no pressure😅) I'd just love to see the moon boys be worried and bring food to the London Sanctum while the reader is too busy to go out, and the boys get entirely fascinated by the magical artifacts in there (maybe steven is geeking out 🤣) and they secretly love watching the reader do their magic spells.🤭
Delivery
relationships: moon boys x avenger!witch!reader [gn]
word count: 0.7k
warnings: reader skips meals because they're busy, protective moon boys, nerd steven, using food as a love language, nsfw joke (reader moans when eating lmao)
a/n: introducing a new character ;) i focused mostly on the food part and less on the magic so i hope you still like it, conejito = bunny, cariño = dear
chaos in us masterlist
Marc wonders if this is a good idea.
You guys aren’t even dating but here he is at your door. He hasn’t even known you for that long but fuck it, he misses you but he doesn’t know how to say that so he hopes your favorite meal will get the message across.
You have been very busy lately, spending all your time at the sanctum. Normally you were free to leave during the day, relying on multiple security measures and your powers to alert you if anything were to go wrong, but an evil sorcerer on the loose means you have to be extra cautious. You’ve been going to New York a lot lately to discuss the issue with other Avengers.
He cautiously knocks on the large door, eyes widening when it opens by itself. ��So, you’re the boyfriends?” A feminine voice, that definitely isn’t yours, asks. He almost drops your food. He doesn’t see anyone inside.
“Hello? Are you one of Y/N’s friends?” He asks hesitantly.
“Kind of. I’m Cheeky Home Assistant Reliable Multipurpose, or Charm. I’m an AI that helps run the sanctum and assists Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you, Marc.”
He freezes, not knowing how to respond to that. Meanwhile Steven is geeking out in the headspace. “Oh, uh, that’s nice.”
“Y/N is in the library, although they have some gifts for you in the kitchen.”
Marc is about to ask for directions when you’re suddenly materializing in front of him. You look adorably domestic in a cheesy ‘I heart NY’ tee shirt and sweatpants. “Isn’t this a nice surprise?” You smile tiredly.
Marc fiddles with the takeaway bag. “Sorry for just dropping by. I tried calling but I know you’ve been busy.” He shrugs dismissively, like this isn’t incredibly thoughtful. “I don’t know if you’ve had dinner yet but I was on my way home and I was going past that place you like so I decided to get you something.”
You cross the distance between you two, pressing a sweet kiss against his mouth. “Thank you honey. I’m starving.” You stroke his cheekbones fondly as Steven fronts. “Hi love. How come you never told me about Charm?”
You smile at his excitement. “I’m sorry darling. I’m so used to her, sometimes I forget that most people don’t have an AI. She was a gift from Tony.”
You start pulling him through the Sanctum. He doesn’t even ask where you’re going, too entranced by his surroundings. The fact that you didn’t teleport where you wanted to go tells him how drained you really are. “Don’t touch anything,” you warn without turning around.
“I wasn’t-”
“You were thinking about it.”
He shuts his mouth. You come to a stop in a large, modern kitchen. “I think food might be our love language,” you joke. That’s when he notices the pile of American snacks not available in the UK.
“Goldfish!” He gasps, putting your food on the counter to grab the crackers. “And snack cakes!” You smile at his reaction. You take a seat, using your powers to pull your dinner towards you. “Marc and Jake have some drinks in the fridge.”
“Ooh, I’ve never tried these,” Steven observes, looking at the unfamiliar sodas. He doesn’t even react as a beverage flies over his shoulder to rest in your hand. He’s becoming pretty accustomed to your magic by now. “Hey, these are mine,” Jake warns his alter, grabbing one of the cans of Dr. Pepper.
“Play nice, boys,” you advise, only half joking. You dig into your takeaway with an almost pornographic moan. Jake’s face reddens but you’re too busy eating to notice. “Are you sure you aren’t the telepath in this relationship? I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
He looks at you in concern. “Have you eaten anything today?”
“I conjured some protein shakes.”
“Aren’t you the one who told me conjured food barely has any nutritional value because it’s made with magic.”
“That, uh, must’ve been another witch who told you that.”
He looks at you unimpressed. “You need to take care of yourself, conejito. How are you gonna save the world with no energy?”
“I know, I know. It won’t happen again. Promise.”
“Good. If it does I’ll have to withhold kisses.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Try me, cariño.”
#moon knight#moon knight x reader#steven grant#steven grant x reader#marc spector#marc spector x reader#jake lockley#jake lockley x reader#chaos in us#moon boys
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Bsd characters cooking/baking for you(HCS)
Characters:Ranpo,Atsushi,Chuuya, Nikolai
Warning:Mention of cursing,panic, cutting,blood,
Ranpo Edogawa
Has read in a book that people do this to express their love and decided to do it for you
First time cooking something for him
Follows a tutorial on YouTube
Does not know how to use American measurements
Makes a mess in the whole kitchen
Cooks pancakes but ends up burning them
They taste really sweet
You end up lying and saying that you love them as you didn't want to disappoint him
Ranpo decides he will cook more for you
Atsushi Nakamura
Asked Dazai for advice and he told him to bake something
Tries baking you a cake
Gets flour all over his clothes
Asks himself 'How would Dazai bake it?' when he panics
Bakes the cake but struggles with the whipping cream and fruits
Loses control of the mixer ending up with whipping cream on the walls
Changed clothes 3 times already
Tries to write your name with fruits but he misspelled your name a few times before finally getting it right
'For the best person ever,your name'
Chuuya Nakahara
"Stupid,your name! I am not doing anything for them!"
Tries baking you a pie
Asks Akutagawa for helps,but the two boys start arguing about measurements screaming and cursing in the whole kitchen
Akutagawa and Chuuya are now forbidden from the Port Mafia's kitchen
Chuuya doesn't give up so he uses Dazai's kitchen when he isn't home
Ends up burning the pie and having to redo it all over again
The second time,the pie is actually tasty
He served you the pie with a glass of wine
Nikolai Gogol
Decides to cook you fried chicken
Almost burns it because he started fantasizing about your sweet reaction already
Gets carried away cutting the chicken
"If it tastes like blood it's not mine!" Says giggling
"Doesn't taste as good as you" He says winking.
Cooks it spicy because everyone loves a challenge
Gets all pouty if you don't like it and the next second he tries to kill you
"Ungrateful brat! I love youuu!"
#anime#bsd chuuya#bsd dazai#bsd fyodor#bungo stray dogs#bungo stray dogs manga#bungou stray dogs dazai#dazai x chuuya#dazai x fyodor#dazai x reader#atushi nakajima#bsd atsushi#bsd nikolai
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What are some nicknames that Terry would give to his baby girl? Or to his baby boy? 💙🩷
God, why do I imagine Terry Silver having a son called John so he can have someone he can affectionately call Johnny irregardless if him and Kreese (the original Johnny, if you will) are currently on good terms or not?
During the best of days and the very worst, Terry's vulnerable, complicated, undying soft spot for John Kreese is still there to the degree he attaches his friend's nickname to his own son even if not much else knows the context behind all of this --- just who John was. I'd take it one step further and it leaves me pondering if Johnny-boy is a possibility where endearments are concerned? Could be, yeah. A teasing possibility, when Terry is in a fun-loving, mischievous, impish mood. Maybe when he wants to dish out some discipline and authority and he gives his kid that unblinking look of his all while reminding his son that he's still, in fact, a boy. Then again, we can just as likely attach the -boy suffix to any name under the sun. Imagine Terry with a son named after himself who he also nicknamed Terry-boy is an equally hilarious prospect. Is Junior far-fetched for someone so hellbent on legacy?
In equal measure, I imagine nicknames like Champ being very prominent for a boy.
Oh, because everything needs to associate Terry with victory and being number one.
Or for example, Terry calling his son Kiddo no matter if he's a toddler or a middle aged man in his own right; a nickname that is just as likely for a girl. Unisex and universal, that one. Totally independent of one's age too.
And speaking of daughters in particular, for some reason, I can very vividly envision Terry calling his daughter, on the other hand, something like Bubi which can be closest in translation to 'little one' or 'beloved child' in Americanized Yiddish and doing so very openly and prominently to the degree it might just be more utilized than her actual name. Just like with -boy suffix for sons on the other hand, when sassing his daughter or being in the mood to dish out some authority, it somehow feels right that Terry's eyebrows would shoot up as his lips purse and coil into a quirky, sarcastic smile while he refers to his daughter as Missy / Little Missy and the older she gets, the funnier and more gleeful it becomes for him. Pure cliche, but that's why it's so hilarious in his eyes. Darling and sweetheart are just as likely to be used for scolding, affection and very serious, poignant conversations alike.
(It is also possible, on a less fluffier final note, that Terry utilizes some good, old mirroring and flat out referring to his daughter as any variation of Doll, Dollie or Dollface because decades ago, John Kreese just so happened to call, his girlfriend, Betsy like that; so, food for thought.)
#terry silver#endearments#nicknames#fluff#terry silver as a dad#terry silver as a father#parenthood#fatherhood#cobra kai#kk3#cute
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Tomorrow Nevermore | Damon Albarn
SUMMARY: "You coming?" Lila's voice carried well, and at that moment, Damon realized he had to follow her as he had nowhere to be but beside her.
PAIRING: Damon Albarn x f!reader
WORD COUNT: 3.4K
A/N: OK. First part!! Thank you so much, @lundenloves , for always, Always helping and listening to me. This story has zero to little plot and will mostly be nonsense interactions.
An inspiration for this story is the senses. Squint, and you'll find it. This part was inspired by hearing, and the song Lila hums is just a little nod at I Got Law (Demo)/Tomorrow Comes Today.
Damon heard her first.
Lila's hum carried and cut through the forgotten game on the television. It drifted with the mist from the bathroom. Beside him, Jamie mumbled a curse about the loss of hot water, but Damon was far too focused on the tune. Three notes were repeated, a slow sequence, but stopped when she entered the door frame. Damon stared boldly but hadn't realized her eyes were on him.
"You alright?" The words tumbled from his lips in greeting. It was a mediocre cover, but it hadn't mattered. It was like she hadn't seen him at all, the way she moved throughout Jamie's apartment like it were her own.
"She's the American 'cross the hall—" Jamie spoke through muffled lips. The cigarette bobbed as he explained her presence. The pipes of the building were old, bursting when inconvenient and requiring half the building to go without usable water. "—Offered the shower, didn't think she'd actually take me up on that."
"A fucking saint, you are..." Damon lit his own cigarette with a sigh of a laugh. "You even know her name?"
"Layla, Lila, something like that..." He answered, hand waving with indifference. "Just moved here for school, work...don't know... she doesn't say much."
Damon hummed an acknowledgment; attention seemingly turned back to the match on the television. Yet, when he heard the patterned hum again, he almost forgot who he was routing for. Jamie groaned as the ball was in possession of the rival team, but Damon stayed fixated on the notes, memorizing them in case she stopped.
Forgetting the mirror, Lila eyed the master bedroom. It felt larger than her own despite the floor plans being identical measurements. It was decorated cleverly, posters from various decades adorning the walls, and the space so subtly played with that it felt staged. But there was obvious life—forgotten bottles on the windowsill, bed haphazardly made due to unexpected company, and laundry in desperate need of folding.
The windows were open, bringing in the soft humid air and honking horns. The view from Jamie's room was better than hers, but just by a margin. Maybe it was because of how her apartment reflected every penny she owned. In moments, she'd return to the handful of boxes that had scribblings of their content. Lila could hear her mother's voice, reprimanding her for not only relying on strangers but letting the boxes sit there for as long as they had.
"Love–" Jamie avoided her name with charm as she reemerged. "This is my mate Damon; came over to watch Chelsea lose." Jamie returned to the game, his job as host over while Damon's eyes remained on her figure, missing the jab.
Lila paused for a moment, holding onto her name for the moment. "Pleasure."
She moved with a confident air, one unbothered by anything around it, and reflected an intense understanding of how she inhabited her own space. Instead of bypassing Damon's stare, she held it unwaveringly.
"You staying for the game?" Damon's voice hadn't even sounded like this own. Jamie even noticed as his eyes went between his friend and his neighbor.
Lila had promised herself that from the moment she understood men–no– boys, that she wouldn't entertain them. Boys were different than men, but men were always boys. The idea made sense in her head, and if she had to explain it at a family dinner, she could, but just to play into the game, she'd refuse.
The enigmatic nature of it was purposeful. If men were destined to be difficult, then so was she. It only seemed fair in a life that she was forced to endure. It wasn't a form of protest—her decision to terribly unpleasant—it was only a bit of fun in such a dull society.
With a curl of a smile, she commented, "I'd rather die."
------
"Oh—" Damon stumbled on his words as if caught breaking into the building. He offered a hello but trailed off almost immediately.
"Lila." Only this once she'd give her name. It was his responsibility now to remember it.
"—Lila." He repeated her name with a bemused smile. He searched the tattered paper plaques of the apartment bells for hers. L. Elliot. He thought to press it first, before Jamie's. He thought of the excuses he would spew—my finger had slipped, Jamie said to ring you, there's takeaway—but he failed to justify any of them. But as fate typically played things out, she was leaving just as he became discouraged.
The rain had caught on his eyelashes in a poetic way that made Lila frown. It reminded her that she was on her way out, only stopping to let Damon into the building. She nodded her head to the door she continued to hold open, "Go on."
"Oh—thanks, Jamie hadn't answered..." There was a pause as Damon shuffled past her awkwardly. There was no point in entering as Jamie wasn't the type to leave a key under a mat. Damon hadn't understood why he explained himself, poorly at that. "I left something the other day..."
"Ok." Lila nodded, lips tight with feigned politeness. The air was awkward, Damon's doing, but she carried an envious relaxation. She moved on from it, leaving Damon to catch the door with nothing close to a goodbye.
The rain had come in patterns of harshness, and Lila wanted nothing more than to stay shielded in her apartment. She had only just unpacked her final box, and she thought that laying in bed would make her feel more welcome in the new city. Lila debated on turning around. Instead, she scrutinized how the rain became heavier and blocked the sun entirely.
The cigarette was on Damon's lips as he dismissed the no-smoking sign of the building. His fingertips felt for the possibility of a key on the door frame but was met with years worth of dust. Patting his pockets, he brushed off the dirt and sought solace in his lighter.
Damon had left early intentionally, hoping to catch Jamie on his way to the studio, but clearly, he hadn't made it home the night prior. So now, rather than picking up his casio, he pushed his way out the door of the apartment building with anxiety-driven frustration.
"Not there?"
The voice beside him startled him. But the fear dissipated into a more welcomed anticipation. The tip of Damon's cigarette became damp against the humid air the longer he waited to respond.
"Either that, or he's ignoring me." Damon teased his absent friend. Sucking a last breath harshly through the cigarette, he flicked the remnants into a puddle. He watched Lila's nose scrunch, either from the smoke, the littering, or the way the sky rumbled with thunder. "It will get worse the longer you wait."
Her eyes remained on the clouds, but Damon finally felt like she spoke to him directly, "What do you do when it rains?"
"What do you mean?"
"You rode that in, didn't you?" Lila nodded toward the bike next to hers. If she squinted, she could already see the rust forming against the used bike. "The yellow one, that's mine."
"There's a tube station a few roads over." Damon offered, nodding to the left, where the rain seemed heaviest.
There was a moment of hesitation on Lila's part. But she pulled at her collar, twisting the thin jacket around her body as best she could, transforming the reluctance into courage. She took a deep breath as though holding it would protect her from the pelting water enveloping her. Damon's breath caught in his throat, watching how she entered the storm rounding the stoop of the building to the left just as he unintentionally instructed. She moved quickly, legs only stopping when she hit a crossroad a block down and looked over her shoulder for him.
"You coming?" Lila's voice carried well, and at that moment, Damon realized he had to follow her as he had nowhere to be but beside her.
The earlier morning consisted of deprived businessmen on their way to work and others who were finally released from working overtime. Damon and Lila seemed to stick out beautifully, drenched to the bone with amused smiles to match. There was hardly room to breathe, the way the people jammed into the car, not bothering to wait two minutes for the next.
The sway of the train encouraged their chest to bump into one another. Around them, everyone's eyes were focused on something other than each other—newspapers, phones, books, or even closed for a stop's worth of reprieve, whereas Lila's gaze was comfortably on Damon. Instinctually, he avoided it, willing away the warmth that would expose him once it hit the tips of his ears.
However, when he glanced at her, Lila used the car's momentum to get closer. "Are you following me?"
"I'm not a stalker." A smile broke out at the question. Damon was learning quickly how compelling each exchange became with her. It was as if she had already seen the end and only guided the conversation to her advantage.
"That wasn't the question." Lila hummed.
"I–well—where are you going?" Damon should have denied his intentions; anyone in their right mind would have. But he was following her. There was no reason for him to go east but to follow her as she encouraged him to. He realized far too late after his question that Lila was teasing him.
"Class." She answered. Then, she gave him a knowing smile. "Let me guess, you too?"
Class. Damon had prodded Jamie again, but he was clever, waiting a few days to raise the question that took seconds to produce. Jamie was convinced she was here for work and mumbled something along the lines of a complaint— Probably just another work permit. She'll be gone before anything good.
"There are always new things to learn..." Damon shrugged with warmth. His voice came out soft since everyone suffocating them could be privy to their conversation. "...and you, what do you study?"
Lila used a rhythmic sway to her advantage, moving away from Damon. The thrill clouded her briefly, but there was her mother's voice again, another chastising comment for disclosing so much of herself so simply. Her imagined response felt teenage-like in comparison—that was the point of uprooting everything, wasn't it? That was an essential part of the draw; to unabashedly determine how to move through life. It was easier said than done as Lila's throat felt dry, trying to call upon the simplest answer.
"If you are following me, I have to warn you, the seminar I'm off to is very boring..." She began, artfully avoiding a sore spot. Thankfully, the announcement above was muffled, the words barely intelligible, cutting Lila off statically.
She moved like she'd lived in London her entire life, never glancing at the map. The only thing that stood out from the rest was the softness of her accent. Damon held onto every word, listening intently. He had so many questions for her since he'd had time to formulate them between meeting her and now. But walking beside Lila, trailing up the stairs, and attempting to fight off misty rain, the questions were the least of his worries.
"Thanks for the lift." She spoke, using the awning of the university's building as protection. "What do I owe you?"
Damon meant to move closer to be protected from the weather. But just as Lila had moments ago, he teetered away. The only difference was that he felt shy, nervous to answer the jokingly rhetorical question.
"That song..." He started, eyebrows cinching to work through the thought. "What was that song?"
"What?" Lila's laugh was breathy with confusion and curiosity. It was as if Damon had finally stumped her—someone who could seemingly find control in every interaction.
"...The other day, at Jamie's, when you were coming out of the shower..." Damon stopped to rephrase, attempting modesty on her behalf, "When you came out of his room, it was like..." He stumbled for a moment with reluctance but then hummed the three notes that had haunted him.
She shrugged, eyes still batting with genuine confusion. She hadn't remembered so clearly the way he had. Lila laughed again. She had a detached sense about her like Damon could do whatever he wanted and wouldn't get under her skin. She was untouchable in that way.
------
Lila's handwriting became more unintelligible by the hour. She worked hard to subdue her subconscious cry of boredom, but the battle was hopeless. At first, in her apartment, she shifted from room to room, hoping the minor change of pace would aid her, but nothing came to her.
There came de aesthetics when continuing education; the idea of touching original documents, reading overly verbose work from centuries before, and even writing about how the notions found within still persist. Yet, Lila struggled to find the motivation to feel like she made the right decision to enroll.
Everything was a distraction. The clock on her wall reminded her of the seconds wasted, and the birds chirping cheerfully felt deliberate, telling her that the happiness they found wouldn't be shared. Then, there was a sharp whistle, one that begged for her undivided attention.
"Hiya..." Damon squinted up with a soft wave. The sun was uncharacteristically out, but he refused to question the luck that it had provided him with it.
"Following me again?" Lila teased once she found the greeting's source. Damon was getting used to not expecting a hello; the past few weeks of running into Lila intermittently had proved so. "You need a buzz in?"
He shook his head, "S'alright, Jamie should be down sooner or later."
From his position, Damon missed her inner turmoil, how Lila held back her question of what he was doing. She was thoroughly bored, and by just the looks of who was below, she knew he could offer he something better.
"Studying?"
"Trying to." Her tone seemed vindictive, but she hadn't meant to push her frustrations onto Damon's simple question. "It's impossible to sympathize with racists from the 16th century." Lila cringed, feeling as though she had only dug the hole for herself further by rambling. She was smart but refused to be arrogant, so to recover, she asked her originally intended question, "What are you doing?"
He smiled, happy she asked exactly what he was going to. "We're headed over to—
"You're late—" Jamie interrupted, gusting out the stoop's door, ready to chide his friend. But he followed Damon's eye-line before continuing, "—Love—up there brooding?" Damon cringed, hoping his friend's humor wouldn't divert Lila from the conversation altogether. "...enough of that, you're coming."
Lila needed fresh air; it was the reason the window was open in the first place. The project wasn't due for another few days, and she knew she needed to stave off the boredom to regain productivity.
"I'll only be borrowing you for an hour or two." Jamie had settled her fate.
The time had stretched into numerous hours. Damon knew Lila felt preoccupied with the work she left behind, but she hadn't made it known. She was pragmatic in that way, seeing ten steps ahead but never letting on what she was thinking.
"I didn't know he was an artist." A good one at that. Plenty claimed to be talented and claimed that their work was original and interesting. Yet more often than not, their work hadn't lived up to the promises. But Jamie had surpassed any rumor Lila could think of.
The work wasn't demanding, but it needed to be precise. Jamie was set to present a growing collection he'd been working on. Too many friends had canceled with excuses not to come and help as if he asked them to help him move. So there the three were, walking across the parchment paper and painter's tape, doing work professionals should have been.
"He calls these doodles." Damon scoffed in agreement, his comment furthering how Jamie underestimated his own art. "This is what makes the people happy." It was an odd sort of compliment, but Lila understood. "Look at some of his notebooks—that's the real work."
The figures held expertise and clear talent. Yet, there was an aesthetic to it that was distinctly Jamie's. The progression of the collection showed how Jamie cared less about the audience and more about the original characters he created. Lila rarely admitted it and wouldn't now, but she was impressed. Her mind gravitated, though, to Damon working beside her. He hadn't seemed overly quiet, but he seemed more reserved than what he typically put forth.
Therefore, Lila encouraged more, "I need to know—you're not hiding any hidden talents, are you?"
"None worthwhile."
Lila made a note to prod further later, not believing Damon in the slightest. Everyone had a party trick. Lila's needs working on, wiggling her ears wasn't as impressive as opening a bottle with your eye. Even the thought of a crowd became overwhelming; just the thought of a party caused apprehension.
It was like clockwork, Jamie's social hours. Every week, ranging the days of the weekend, there was music pouring under his door and into hers. It was a good reminder of sorts that the night had become late, and Lila would be better off sleeping. But the music only got louder the more tired Lila got.
Before she could dwell on the thought further, Jamie called her away to hold a frame steady to screw into the wall. It was slightly crooked, but Damon hadn't commented, too eager to hear the conversation shared between the pair a piece over.
"You get the letter?" Jamie filled the newfound silence, screw placed between his lips in concentration.
Damon's mind ran. Jamie had his own charm, less boyish than Damon's— more direct and creative. With drawers full of different textured papers and pens that would glide over them spectacularly, Damon could only imagine the letter Jamie wrote to Lila.
Knowing Jamie, it wouldn't quite be a love letter, but something close. It would be witty, full of inside jokes that Damon could never be in on due to his position—the neighbor's friend. He was far too detached to have done something of the sort.
"Unfortunately..." It was another thing on Lila's growing list to tactfully avoid. The letter that was slid under her down made her lose sleep—nothing like an eviction notice to rattle someone.
"This look alright?" Jamie called over his shoulder to Damon. "It needs to be bloody straight." He cursed, drawing Damon closer. "They're kicking us out in two months, told us in a fucking letter. This goes well, people buy the lousy art, and then I can get a better place, better building, better neighbors."
"Oh?" Lila smiled, welcoming the humor. The fresh air and environment were doing wonders. She'd leave soon, not accept their offer to stick around, but she finally felt contented for now.
"Yeah, you." Jamie nudged Damon forward, taking his place to eye the portrait properly. "Don't hear the end of it with this one asking if you're around and whatnot."
"No, I don't—" Damon fell into the obvious trap, stopping abruptly when he saw Jamie's chesire-like smile. "We done here? I've got things of my own to do."
"Yeah, like what?" Despite Jamie's concentration ahead of him on the next thing, he always held attention to taunt. "Playing that song over and over again doesn't exactly count as something." He then nodded to Lila, setting up a deceiving trap for both of them. "That's your fault, you know. The pair of you—doing my head in."
"That your secret talent, then?" Lila got it; Damon's literal party trick. Those memories of sleepless nights due to Jamie's parties sounded again in her mind. It clicked. The music seemed live at times, others like a sequence consciously put together. It was Damon, putting on a show of sorts with the song she had hummed just once that had stuck with him so firmly she'd forgotten. It was the reason Lila smiled, "I expect royalties."
#q#damon albarn#damon albarn x reader#damon albarn fluff#damon albarn angst#damon albarn imagine#Damon albarn x oc#damon albarn fic#damon albarn x f!reader#damon#albarn
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hey!! I've read a few of your Motorcity fics and I love them, but I have no idea if I'd be interested in the source material! would you be kind enough to give an overview of the things you like (and dislike, maybe!) about the show, so I can give it a try? :O
Ahaha ohhhh boy XD
This is a very reasonable and canny request! In response I will do my best to be... measured and rational... about this show, instead of ranting about all my pet peeves.
tldr: it's a fun show with some excellent highlights, so long as you don't expect too much.
Motorcity has a ton of really fun characters that you can get your teeth into, the hero and villains are EXCELLENT, and the implied worldbuilding is very cool (from the flying buildings in Deluxe to the spore/mushroom-based weapons of the Terras). It's got a great art style, very dynamic and colorful with gorgeous backgrounds. The shots of the darkness of Motorcity with the little blue stars scattered across the ceiling, holes in the Deluxe dome, are atmospheric and stunning. The music is good and so is the humor - most episodes have several moments that make me snicker aloud.
As far as the show's problems, well... the racism and ableism is (or at least was in 2012), I think, fairly standard kid's cartoon stuff. It's also mainly contained in the Terras, who are American Indian ripoffs with (spoilers) facial mutations (which get revealed at the exact point where they stop hiding their villainy. REAL classy, writers). The part I have most trouble with is the writing, which is spotty in quality. Some episodes are great! But others have bad pacing, or a disjunction between the setup and the payoff of an episode, the problem and the solution, which I find grating.
But! Watch any episode with the Duke of Detroit and tell me he's not the most delightful villain, oh my god. He's voiced by the lead singer of Twisted Sister, I believe, and flamboyant, dramatic, and hilarious to watch. Mike's backstory is extremely tasty, Julie's double life and relationship with (and similarities to) Kane is juicy, and there are way more excellent female characters than I would've expected in a show intended for boys! Claire has a lot more to her than initially shows, and her relationship with Julie actually gets an episode of its own! And Tennie is great, I adore her.
If you want to test the show out, consider watching the first episode and the last two, (if that won't keep you from watching the rest of the show, that is!) because the finale is quite good!
And if for some reason you want more detailed opinions from me on various episodes, check my tag "episode rewatch"! XD
Thanks for the ask! I enjoyed attempting to answer it, haha.
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