#J.A.W.

[art-estrange]

Im glad tumblr exists because i posted this

“Jermey allen white needs to get PUNCHED IN THE FUCKIN FACE FOR LOOKING THAT GODDAMN HOT… punch him in the face… NOW!”

On threads and that shit got instantly taken down…

[queenoflaughter]

i ❤️ j

[wtfsteveharrington]

his little prada sunglasses and his nipple making eye contact with me oh i love that man

[gorillaz-girl]

J.A.W. Cooper

[artverso]

J.A.W. Cooper - Killadelphia

[entre-image-blog]

J.A.W. Cooper

[babadork]

Inside the club the music slows to a throb and the cheers grow louder, a crescendo that tells me that the last song is about to be played and soon dozens of bodies will spill out the door just a few feet away from Helene and me. We move faster, fingers fumbling over layers of shirts and belts and things that should be obedient beneath our touch. I get one more long, lingering taste of her, then I open up that part of myself deep inside my core, unclenching the tunnel that creates a direct route to my mouth, and I start to pull everything I can take from her up, up, up through her body and into mine.

Except I can't get much--it's like she keeps her energy locked behind a wall, as if she knows what I'm trying to do. All I can pull into my mouth is a flash of me dancing in front of the merch table, crystal-clear in an otherwise distorted droplet of her memory that sizzles to vapor when it hits my tongue. Her lips still pressed to mine, she takes a deep breath and suddenly the tunnel goes the other way, and I feel my whole body start to turn inside out, all of the strength anchored deep in my core rising up my stomach, my chest, my throat--

We break away from each other at the same time. Hands braced on thighs, we're both doubled-over, trembling, struggling to draw in air that's turned to ice somewhere between the water and the mountains. We stare at each other; she's smiling. Helene's eyes are wide and shiny, endless black pupils that reflect my own stunned expression.

She backs into the dumpster, hard enough to jostle the opposite end of it out from against the building's brick exterior. We both jump. A head and torso in a t-shirt from our last tour flops out from behind, a loose arm scattering gravel against my boots.

[fleuraimer]

but only so an hour.

J.A.W. MASTERLIST. NSFW. MATURE CONTENT. MINORS DNI. 17+.

* = smut, d = dark, f = fluff, a = angst.

MINI SERIES... tbd

ONE SHOTS... tbd

BLURBS, CONCEPTS, & HEADCANONS

breeding blurby.* another breeding blurby.*

COMPANY

CARMEN BERZATTO* THE BEAR. TELEVISION. | 17+.

The story of an award-winning chef who gets sucked back down to his hometown to run the family restaurant after his older brother kills himself.

main masterlist. navigation.

.·:*¨༺ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❆ ༉‧₊˚. ༻¨*:·.

[sins0fthefather]

Somethin’ Sweet Enough to Taste.

Entry I— J.A.W

The quiet thrill of the crisp autumn air was a luxury appreciated by few. It welcomed the change of pace the quiet town of Northfield held this time of year with open arms. Bound together by harvests, pumpkin patches, and the shrill of passing crows, very few found themselves wanting for much within the confines of their simplicity. It was a settlement that found comfort in the silence of the nights that passed.

Perhaps a bit too much comfort.

The hushed thump of boots traveled their way through the empty streets, noting the frost that had begun to layer the roads. It had never chilled so quickly there in the past. The thought brought a smirk to the lips of the body accompanying the sound, as if it were all too familiar to him. His eyes flickered towards the glazed panes of a nearby café, his gaze lingering on his own reflection for enough beats to satisfy himself. Only then did his attention bother to catch onto the silhouette of the waitress stationed inside, his brow furrowing at the way she swayed while wiping tables.

He had made up his mind long before the bell above the door chimed, clicking along in rhythm with the pace of his boots.

The woman instinctively raised her head at the noise, an agitated huff escaping her before she had even turned around. A late customer or two never bothered her much, but this was ridiculous timing. She struggled to hide the frustration behind her words as she began, “We’re closing—“

“Surely it doesn’t take that long to make one simple fuckin’ black coffee.” The figure interrupted, his sneer hidden behind the surgical mask that covered the lower half of his face. The amusement behind his eyes was evident however, lacking the decency to even pretend his gaze wasn’t dragging along her form. He almost looked disappointed at what was in front of him. He then invited himself to sit at one of the nearby booths, crossing a leg over the other as his fingers tapped against the smooth surface of the table in front of him. The frown that tugged at the waitress’s lips only seemed to earn a snicker out of him.

“Got a name for that order?” The woman reluctantly asked, turning on her heel towards the pot behind the counter. It was hardly fresh, but the mere prospect of drawing another batch made her scowl.

At her question, the figure’s smirk faltered. His gaze only seemed to harden at her tone. “There’s nobody else in here. Is one really necessary?” He leaned back into his seat, a singular hand snaking into one of his jacket pockets.

His question was enough to make her tilt her head back at him, her once sunny eyes only littered with aggravation. One bad review from a customer wouldn’t kill her, surely. A guileful grin played at her expression, “If you want your ‘fuckin’ coffee,’ yes.”

The waitress’s musings were met with a twitch of a brow, a curling of a fist as the man before her sucked back a breath filled with his own colorful insults. Instead, her question waited for a few beats. He seemed almost hesitant, as if considering the option of a fake name to suffice her wager. Soon after however, he seemed to come to his conclusion— one that allowed his solitary smirk to return. “It’s Jeff,” he began as his muscles relaxed, “Surely you can spell that, right dollface?”

His words made the woman’s own self amusement deflate, her grin thinning into a line within the matter of seconds. She was tempted to spell it incorrectly on purpose out of spite as she wrapped the now-full cup up in it’s sleeve. Instead she settled for a cat-scratched ‘Jeffrey,’ fastening a to-go lid up against it. She slid it onto the table between the booths, restraining herself back from letting it hit the wall. “Have a nice night,” She practically forced her words out through her teeth.

While he had planned on reacting with his previous snark, a certain coldness overtook his eyes as he glanced at the name inscribed on the cup’s sleeve. With a slow rise he stood from his seat, his gaze purposefully avoiding the waitress that stood before him. He turned his back towards her, pulling at his mouth’s masked constraints to take a ginger sip at the lukewarm coffee offered to him. As she peered over his shoulder, she squinted.

Was that… blood around his mouth?

Before she could voice her concerns, her previous formalities were met with a rasping response, “I’ll be sure to visit again soon. Don’t miss me too much.” His words ended with a slight snicker, pulling his mask back up around his face. His head turned back to steal one last glance at her, his pale blue eyes saving her face in their memory. Without waiting for a retort his boots thumped against the tile once more, slipping out of the café door much like the shadows that littered the streets.

His mind was too preoccupied on the feel of the blade within his pocket to dwell on anything other than the ‘shining review’ he’d leave his newest doting server.

[jawskellyman]

Spicy!

Art by J.A.W Skellyman (Me)

[cherienymphe]

Would you write for carmy or do you not find j.a.w cute/didn't watch the show?

From the cooking show? I never watched

[thedevilsrain]

j.a.w.'s profile is so funny. like hes about to give you a wittle kwiss. mwah

[goyaswitch]

Art by J.A.W. Cooper

[jechristine]

Lol y’all dislike things and can have an opinion but get mad at people who are actually in the industry talking negatively about marvel and rightfully so. I mean just look at Blade and how shitty it already is and it’s only in pre production. Mahershala Ali is an amazing well respected actor with the accolades and can’t even get a decent script and was going to walk away from Blade due that and a terrible budget. 100m for a marvel movie is nothing and hella disrespectful. And that’s what people like Scorsese and many others are saying they care about box office #s which will always be decent no matter who’s in them due to an existing fan base already rather then the quality of their movies and for whatever reason y’all get mad at actual film makers and actors speaking up about it and how they don’t want to be apart of that. And bringing up pap walks to try and invalidate J.A.W when literally every celeb has done one is funny.

Are you the same person again? I tend to agree with all Rthe Marvel critiques, and I’m probably the biggest Scorsese shooter around here, don’t worry. But JAW jumping in the fray 2+ years later (why are interviewers asking the same basic question?) is pretty cringey.

Love Mahershala.

[sablearadia]

Bailey's Books: Halloween! 2023

[iframe style=”border:none” src=”//html5-player.libsyn.com/embed/episode/id/28216406/height/100/width//thumbnail/no/render-playlist/no/theme/custom/tdest_id/1901414/custom-color/87a93a” height=”100″ width=”100%” scrolling=”no” allowfullscreen webkitallowfullscreen mozallowfullscreen oallowfullscreen msallowfullscreen] In this episode, Alan reviews:  Split Scream Volume 3 by Patrick Barb & J.A.W.…

[wrongpublishing]

BOOK REVIEW: Dreadstone Press's Split Scream Volume Three

by Elizabeth Broadbent, Staff Writer.

Dreadstone Press’s Split Scream series has a simple mission: put two thematically similar novellas together, like an old-school double feature. Th first two volumes were great—Volume Two, with M. Lopez da Silva’s What Ate the Angels might be my personal favorite. Volume Three, with novelettes by indie standouts Patrick Barb and J.A.W. McCarthy,  rocks as hard as its predecessors.

Admittedly, I’m an easy mark for these books. As the world wakes up the hard-punching power of a good novella or shorter novelette, I’m cheering it on, though they’ve always been more accepted in the horror genre—probably thanks to the triune forces of magazines, serializations, and Stephen King. These bite-size books make a perfect afternoon read. I beach-read Volume Three.

Though indie horror novellas tend toward the literary side, they don’t demand the hard braining and intellectual will I often need to summon when I sit down with a full-length work. Call me lazy, but I like it. That lessened investment, I think, gives the reader more incentive to work with concepts like narrative disorientation (a key point in Barb’s So Quiet, So White) and shifting timelines (part of McCarthy’s Image Expulsio: The Red Animal of Our Blood). With less space, we know the answer’s coming soon; we don’t have to spend sixty to a hundred pages wondering what the hell’s going on before we settle into the story. There’s a time and place for that, and I love those works, too. But sometimes, I want to nestle into world more quickly.

Another reason I’m a sucker for Split Scream Volume Three is that its theme is art and artists, specifically how we use it in community (check out Collage Macabre as well if the theme holds specific appeal). Barb’s atmospheric novella is a disorienting, creepy-vibed delight, with its dreary-dark-woods setting playing a major role. In my opinion, he’s a master at building tension and picking apart family dynamics; this novella lets those talents shine. McCarthy’s dual timelines build to a stunning conclusion. You won’t see either of the endings coming, but you’ll shut the book (Kindle) satisfied. Yes. That’s what had to happen. It’s the only thing that could possibly happen. There’s a little glow that comes with that.

Both works ask what we’ll do for love and what we’re willing to give to others. Answer: probably more than we should, but we’ll give it willingly. While Barb shows it in a familial context, McCarthy delves into relationships. Despite their thematic similarities, the works are very different, not only in point of view (Barb’s is third person, McCarthy’s a terrifyingly immediate first), but also in gender and tone. Both serve up some fantastic dread—you know they won’t end well—and while Barb’s slow atmospheric dread draws the reader along, Image Expulsio’s dual timeline will keep you going with its sheer otherness. Both get weirder as they go along, and that’s a very, very good thing. 

Novellas are good. Weird novellas are even better. Pick this one up from Dreadstone so you don’t give bucks to to ‘Zon. Read it on the beach for a serious horror power move.