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mixtape127 · 7 months ago

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worlds colliding ☆ pt.1

genre : non!idol mark lee x male reader, college au, ennemies to lovers ?

summary : what if you - kinda - had to save the world and Mark was your sidekick ? or — you need to give out fliers for a class, and Mark doesn't care about "global warming."

warnings : strong language, mark is kind of a douchebag but i swear he's sweet, not proofread yet

words : 1.6k

notes : i love this story sm, it's been in my drafts for so long and it was supposed to be about p1harmony, but i like it with mark too ! might make it in more than just 2 parts if you guys enjoy it as much as i do ! and btw, english isn't my native language, so i really do hope i actually wrote well and if i made dumb mistakes, i'm sorry :((

currently listening to :

"thank you, please look forward to it !" y/n says, bowing multiple times, a smile enlightening his face, watching the group of students walk away with fliers in his hands. "i hope to see you there tomorrow !"

it must have been around 9:40 a.m., a chilly morning for a spring day. the sun was shining, the clouds were absent. the green leaves were showing, some still falling on the grass of the campus park. the students in short sleeves were out again, and the jocks were taking advantage of the cooler weather to work out outside. y/n looked up, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. he felt cold, his bones shaking. his poor denim jacket did not cover his bare arms, and his jeans with holes in them did not provide any warmth either. he smiled to himself, seeing some birds migrating elsewhere, formed into a triangle.

he blinked a few times, returning to his emotionless face, before continuing to approach some of the students in groups to give them the rest of his fliers. but none of them seemed interested, and y/n began to lose hope. his business professor had made it clear that if he couldn't get at least 20 students to donate, his semester was over. this was his last chance, and he wasn't about to let it go. his displeasure gradually began to show, the creases in his face deepening. the more people walked around him, the more his hands tightened around his fliers. it's one thing for them not to be interested, but for them to ignore him like this is another.

for a moment there was a flutter, no one was coming out or going in. he took the opportunity to catch his breath, closing his eyes.

"one... two... three..." he whispered to himself, focusing on the soft whistle of the wind.

when he opened them again, he saw a figure facing him approaching the doors of the art building behind him. y/n thought to himself that this was fate, that this boy was almost arriving with a glittering halo of light behind him, signifying y/n's last chance. he took this opportunity and approached the guy, feeling confident.

"hey, how's it going? i'm handing out fliers about globa-..."

a brief gust of wind caressed the skin of his face. again, no response. the boy stalked his way, his headphones screwed to his ears, only giving y/n a small glance. he stood there, watching the boy's back as he walked away. he finally admitted to himself that this time, his pride had been shattered into a thousand pieces, and someone had come to trample it right after. he noted in a corner of his head that he didn't like the idea at all. but it was without realizing it that his legs responded alone, quickly approaching the young black-haired student. he patted him on the shoulder vigorously and handed him the previously crumpled paper in his hands when the latter turned around.

Mark, on his side, put on a bewildered face, one eyebrow raised. he was sure that he had deliberately ignored this boy just a few seconds ago. his day was not starting very well. his dog had chewed on his last pair of freshly bought shoes, his roommate — Donghyuck — had finished his favourite cereal and the hot water had been turned off on his floor. then finally his bus... never came, so he set out to walk to the university, realizing halfway there that his wireless headphones were out of battery. he'd wasted about ten minutes buying wired ones just to survive the rest of the day. and it was also at that very moment, coming out of the convenience store, that he promised himself he'd keep a spare pair of headphones in the bottom of his bag, just in case.

he took out one of his headphones, and uttered an extremely nonchalant "what? i'm late." he didn't mean to sound mean or disapproving, but the day was already taking its toll on him. he almost wondered what kind of people were picking on him so much, and for what reason? had he been too mean to the salesman last night, when he asked him to get out of the store because Mark was singing EXO's music at the top of his lungs? was he too dismissive of his singing teacher when she told him to stop doing 'too much'? and then, what do you mean 'too much'? Mark really didn't like that word, even less when it described his singing.

y/n, on the other hand, waved the paper in front of his nose. he was frustrated with his morning, especially with the way people responded to him. and especially the way Mark said 'what'. he wondered why people were in such a bad mood in the morning. he let out a breath to regain his composure before starting.

"before you cut me off, i think taking this won't hurt you. i'm really passionate about this cause, so i will give you this flier. and if i have to shove it down your throat, i'll do it." he pressed the piece of paper against the boy's chest in front of him. "thank you, and have a great day."

y/n bowed before rotating drastically, turning his back on Mark. he put his hand on his heart, which was now pounding in his chest. not because the black-haired boy was a living god, but because he felt he was getting carried away and tangled up in his words. how people see him matters a lot to him, even if he doesn't talk about it much. and he knew that this interaction was going to play over and over in his head tonight and keep him awake.

"what a fucking weirdo..." Mark muttered once y/n was far enough away.

he clutched the flier in his hands before resuming his journey to his class, which was really about to start. what do you mean 'i'll shove it down your throat'? he shook his head from left to right, pushed open the door and quickly dashed down the left corridor, hitting someone in the shoulder on his way.

Mark hardly turned around, just to give a weak look to the brown man who was bending while getting lost in excuses, and he took a quick walk to room 208. once in front of it, he opened the door and quickly sneaked to his place, at the back left of the room, managing to pass out of the radar of his teacher, who hadn't even noticed his absence until then.

once seated, he took out some of his things, not forgetting his bottle of fresh orange juice, something he bought every Tuesday morning to give himself luck during that long day. Tuesdays were never really his days, always bad and gloomy. he wasn't superstitious, but if Tuesdays could disappear completely, his world would be much better.

as he took his notebook out of his backpack, the flier given to him by y/n slid silently to the ground. Mark bent down to pick it up, not failing to roll his eyes as he placed it back on the table. but his eyes were drawn to a large headline.

"THE WORLD IS SLOWLY ENDING, BUT YOU'RE THE HERO, RIGHT?"

he chuckled silently, before turning the paper over to see the back, finding that there was nothing written on it, and crumpled it up in his hand before tossing it into his backpack. saving the world was not in his plans. not today.

maybe tomorrow... who knows? and he did. he saved y/n's world, in some sort of way the day right after.

"it will serve you better than me."

y/n blinked a few times, frowning in front of his phone, which was playing a summer song, although outside, it was raining damn heavily. he wondered if the voice came from someone talking to a friend behind him, or from his headphones. but the whistle sound in his right ear brought him back to reality. he let out a faint "i'm not a fucking dog-" before looking at the umbrella someone was holding upon his head, then at a guy with brown hair. it takes some time for y/n to connect the dots — maybe because of some sort of poor eyesight — but when he does, his mouth opens up wide.

"you're the guy from yesterday that said "what" so nonchalantly it made my day way worse than it was already !"

Mark rolled his eyes. "i'm trying to save the world, being a hero, i'm landing you my umbrella." with a devilish grin, he removes the umbrella from above y/n's head. "but if you want, i can leave too."

"i'm surprised you read that flier you hated so much." he mutters.

y/n did not know if he should accept, but after all, it won't kill him and it will keep him from getting sick. even though he loved hanging out in bed instead of going to class, getting sick was one of the things he hated the most.

"thanks a lot... um... what's your name?"

"Mark."

he took the umbrella and put it over his head while nodding, repeating Mark's name quietly like he was getting used to it. their eyes met again before Mark got swept away by Donghyuck's reminder that the bus was there and it wouldn't wait for them. he let himself be swept away, and a minute later, y/n's silhouette evaporated in the distance, through the mist on the bus windows.

Mark was lost in thought. and he noticed that his name sounded pretty coming out of y/n's mouth.

#Spotify #nct #kpop #kpop x reader #kpop x male reader #mark lee x reader #mark lee x male reader #nct 127 #nct dream #nct x male reader #mark lee #mark nct #mark is a bad boy #and we live for it #mark lee x y/n #haechan

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shadowoffandoms · 4 months ago

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-emerges bloodied and bruised-

hi gravity falls fans I spent three hours translating the code from the contract, I became literally almost fluent in cipher. This is from this btw!

heads up translation might not be totally accurate, especially in one section. I was up until 1 AM doing this lol. Translation below cut!

You are now twenty one grams lighter

This contract is legal and binding. We reserve the right to use your likeness, face. voice and smell town place in whatever nefarious manner is deemed necessary. sans soul, your soulmate will not recognize you and will walk right past you on a cold autumn day, never making eye contact not even processing that you have eyes at all. No amount of interaction will move them to a place where they can remember, in feeling, the thousands of lifetimes you have already spent together, each time choosing whatever form would keep you closest like otters holding hands in a tumultuous river. You were birds, you were trees with roots entangled, drinking in the sunlight together. Wherever we go next, wherever you choose, I will always be right there with you. Thats done, buddy. Congratulations . you have chosen Bill instead. McDonalds reserves the right to put a giant yellow m on your torso and forehead and send you walking through a crowded times square while you scream “the fries, the fries, they don’t degrade in nature!!! It’s an immortal food!!! They will be in the landfills long past our deaths!! Good god! The things we've seen”- me? Who am I? Oh I’m Bill’s previous lawyer. He put my soul into a quill pen so I can write dis legal documents until the sun snuffs out like a candle in this sick universe. I used to be so hot. I was so fine. Now I’m fine print. Speaking of which, Bill reserves the right to put your soul into an inanimate object, a strange creature, a concept, a sentence, a tasteful but rustic mason jar with wildflowers in it. If at any point you wish to have visitations rights with your soul, you will be swiftly denied. Unless you had a cool day planned for the both of you, Then Bill might want to come along. By signing this document you forfeit any rights to eating soul food. It will turn to ash in your mouth. A fitting punishment for a fool who squandered the only true gift life owes you. Bill reserves the right to dress your soul however he deems necessary. Especially if your soul was a nerd before acquisition. Soulmakeoverrr! Your soul may become fractured and placed into different objects. This has no purpose and will not resurrect you if you die. Signee cas forfeited all rights to any afterlife, including but not limited to, heaven, hell, purgatory, big corner, flow state, the dream house, the reincarnation processing center, axolotl’s tank and consequences hole. Signee can no longer board the soul train and is advised to discard all bellbuttons. Signee can no longer have a puppy as a best friend, they can sense what is gone, cats are indifferent. Signee may experience occasional demon possessions from Horculus the Red, Plabos the Merciless, Borbos son of Bortem, Plaga the Ooaing and other such common demons roaming Earth searching for weakened, empty vessels. Tips for ripping your soul out at home: watching youtube commentary channels, attending an extended family event with an open bar, using generative AI and asserting that you're the creative, turning a blind eye to human suffering, amassing more wealth than needed, purchasing a blue checkmark.

#gravity Falls #the book of bill #tbob spoilers #tbob #gravity falls spoilers #thisisnotawebsitedotcom #bill cipher #codes #long post

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lasalebete · 1 month ago

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I DIDNT . REALISE YOU HAVE OCS. GIVE

[crawls out of a hole wiht dirt caked up under my nails, covered in blood and coughing up violently] I'm a mentally ill queer on tumblr, of course I have OCs!

i also want to preface this by saying im writing it while watching a show and listening to a song on repeat. dunno how coherent this'll be

Okay, so! There are, like. An endless number of little guys is living in my brain. So. The one I'll present here is the 'verse I've been doodling obsessively for two days and which got beamed into my head during a six hours nap literally yesterday.

So, literally the base for this is that They Have Wings, but, um. Make it complicated.

The first recorded mutations have no really known date, but they've been around for long enough that we had centuries worth of data surrounding them, and so we can observe their evolution. The most common mutation is simply winged individuals, following the schemas of birds found in nature. Therefore, there are multiple categories of individuals based on which species they're the closest to, but they're also categorized by the type of mutations they're affected by, eg if they only have the usual wings, the size and function of said wings, the presence or absence of a tail, having more than one pair of wings, etc.

Mutations are visible since birth, except for some rare ones that develop later in life, although there has been a slight increase of those in the latest years.

Not all winged individuals are capable of flight. It greatly depends on the size, anatomy and placement of the wings. Some mutations also bring out disabilities, like when wings replace the individual's arms, or when a small pair of wings replace the ears and render the individual deaf (regarding this, a modified sign language is available to those people where then can use their wings for punctuation, intonation and such, for which people without this additional feature have to use their face only. This addition makes it easier for people who struggle with facial expressions to communicate).

Regarding wings' sizes, there are MANY existing possibilities. Some individuals have proportioned wings that allow them to fly just fine, those sort of common. Some have small wings that do not allow them to fly, and they are still a major part of the population. Some are subject to gigantoalastia, a pathology that causes a GREAT disproportion, making the wings gigantic. These individuals are capable of flight, which requires a lot of effort, but need to do a lot of stretching and back muscular reinforcement because it causes lots of back pain.

The fashion industry is hell, btw. Like if you have gigantoalastia or if wings replaced your arms, your clothing options are quite limited.

Non-winged humans still exist! Around 12-13% of world population is not affected by any kind of mutation. But! That number is actually decreasing, slowly. We might be looking at an all-winged population in a few days or centuries. Mutations are also starting to make individuals more and more birdlike, with characteristics like tails or bird feet. Some beaked individuals have also started to make their appearance, with characteristics developing after birth. Scientists are wondering what this means for the future of our species, and also begs the question of our ancestors!

Both these questions greatly distress people btw. Religious groups primarily. They're divided in different factions, some think at the beginning we were all non-winged humans and that we're evolving towards something holy, some think that at the beginning we were something Other and we lost our whatever-privileges along the way and are only able to reclaim them now. Ofc then there's also exclusion, thinking that non-winged individuals should all be killed, that certain mutations should be wiped out, yk. All that. Which is not even especially religious but can also just be bigotry/eugenics. YK.

OH YEAH ALSO MALFORMATIONS!!!! Disability has of course been Thought About. Some people are born with malformed wings and so fundamentally unable to fly. Other mobility aids are more or less equal to those we have today but flight ones are harder to come by and also hard to design.

Also also sometimes people like to customize their wings with piercings and such :3 dyes are also a thing but temporary because of. Well. Shedding.

(theres supposed to be like. two main guys but actually i thought about the whole entire world before even finding their names. so all you get to know is that they're gay and in a toxic relationship . because thats my brand)

#mine #rambling!!#a gets an ask???#additional information: ive got something drawn for most of those things :3 #idk this is still very rough. as i said. this got beamed into my brain during a six hours nap yesterday.

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dorayakimanjiro · 1 year ago

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BOTW Revali HCs

Here's some headcanons cuz I miss sassy bird man. WHO AM I KIDDING?! I LOVE THIS BIRD MAN MOM, I LOVE HIM- 😩😭😢🥺

He's an orphan.

Or maybe he had parents but something bad happened to them when he was a fledgling, bcuz I don't like the idea of them abandoning Revali :,(

(If that were the case, then it was a canon event 💀)

Has a real soft spot for kids.

(THIS IS CANON, DON'T @ ME, GO WATCH AOC CUTSCENES)

(THE GRIP THOSE CUTSCENES HAVE ON ME GURL I-)

(TEBA AND REVALI IN THE SAME FRAME 🥵😩💦🫦)

He literally made the Flight Range public for the kids, who looked up to him and wanted to train to be like him......GURL, I'M UGLY CRYING AND SCREAMING- (This is in his diary btw)

(HE'S A NICE MAN. PERIODT.)

HIGHKEY CRINGES when a kid does something cringe or stupid, but he's nice enough to not say a single word to them. (BESTIE SAME)

He learned how to use the bow on his own, no instructor nor teacher taugh him.

Sometimes he feels like there's an empty hole in his heart🥺🥺🥺 (Shh don't worry babygirl I gotchu 😔🙌🫶)

He tries to cover it with his sassy and mean actittude and for the same reason he proves himself to be the best and get recognition from anyone. (I think this one is pretty obvious)

Feels alone and empty when watching families and couples on the village and doesn't exteriories it. :,,,,,,(

When he was given Vah Medoh, he used it as a safe and comfort place.

(It's literal written in his diary, it said Revali flied to Vah Medoh for solace after his encounter with Link who didn't gave a single thought about Revali's skills, no hate intented for link tho)

I love the fact he doesn't care about titles, if you're strong you show it, referring to ones strenght doesn't come from a label but from their capabilities and prowess.

Idk if any of you guys knew it, cuz i didn't til recently, that in that one cutscene in BOTW, where we first "met" Revali, he used his Gale to impress link and did it despite knowing there was a great possibility of failure since it was brand new. This only tells me he would do ABSOLUTE ANYTHING to get a reaction out of someone how's have captive his interest.

That's it for the night, it's 1:30am and I should probably go to sleep. Maybe I'll do a part 2.

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trigger-happy-in-red · 6 months ago

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Name: Red Hood

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Unlabeled Queer. Pan is the closest label.

Age: 22

Meta: idk

Lives In: The Alley

Occupation: Alleged Crime Lord

Vices: Smokes if he’s extremely stressed

I work with @the-only-nightwing and @the-coolest-red-robin (they’re brothers your honor)

@the-second-boy-wonder is my little brother (ahem. His brother-son)

@cant-have-shit-in-gotham is one of my henchmen (the same ooc runs both accounts)

@shakespeares-favorite-goon is one of my goons

@stitches-stitches-stitches is my newest henchman. He lives with me.

@back-in-blood works for me (legally)

@flying-graysons-fan and @number1-red-robin-stan are squatting in my favorite safehouse

@super-duper-superboy is from metropolis. He got into my safehouse and won’t leave.

This is an RP Account!

[Interaction rules below the cut, at the very bottom, just above my various tags]

Appearance:

Under the helmet: (specific scars not shown here: small chunk missing in upper right ear, big-ass batarang scar across his throat, palm scar from brotherhood oath) He’s about 6’4.

I have no artistic skill. I did not draw those. Credit goes to the actual artists.

What’s Canon for This Jason?

-Orphaned at (barely) 8

-Taken in by B at (almost) 11

-Adopted by B at 13 (Name change to Todd-Wayne)

-Saved Wil from a gang at 14 (W is 12)

-Killed at (barely) 15

-Buried next to shelia (gravestone reads Jason Peter Todd)

-Revived 6mo later (kinda braindead)

-Talia found him a few weeks after that

-He was put in charge of protecting Damian, Talia tried to get him to heal naturally (D is 2)

-Ra’s got impatient

-Talia bargained for use of the Pits

-Damian and Jason swear an oath of brotherhood

-eventually Jason goes back to Gotham (J is 17)

-Takes over crime and drugs and shit (D is supposed to be sent over just as J gets control. He’s trying to make it safer for his brother)

-NO FUCKING TITANS TOWER INCIDENT

-well ok, he goes there and tries to scare Tim out of being Robin, but it’s 99% posturing and “warnings” and 1% punching a hole in a wall (Tim does not get hurt, and Jason does not try to hurt him. Because I said so)

-Meets and hires Wil at 18 (W is 16)

-The batarang-throat incident did happen. His goons had to peel him off the cement and take him to Doc Thompkins. Jason flatlined three times. (Wil was among them) (J is 19, W is 17)

-Goons are now super protective of him btw. Esp the ones that were there.

-Talia decides not to send D to B when she hears.

-Yk that time when Batman drugged Jason with something so that every time his adrenaline got going he’d get pumped full of fear? that ALMOST happened here. The needle was to his neck when the other birds interrupted.

Also canon are

-Jason is some kind of mixed heritage of vaguely Spanish-speaking descent. Passes for white in Gotham (where there’s no sun) but if he tans at all he doesn’t anymore.

-Jason speaks. So Many languages.

-Jason Al Ghul

-GoodMom!Talia who couldn’t do enough to help her sons

-BadParent!Bruce who gets better with each kid (so, bad for dick, barely better for jason, slightly better for tim, decent for cass and duke) but the previous kids don’t reap the rewards (so still bad for dick and jason, slightly better for tim, etc)

-GoodBrother!Dick

-Jason loves Wonder Woman

He has PTSD! Woooo! (Btw shamelessly stealing “Proper Gotham Parent” (making it proper family tho) and the “PTSD-attack-make-him-think-he’s-bleeding-out(from batarang)-again” from Alley Business by thetiniestteapot on Ao3

The trigger list may change over time

He’s also got claustrophobia (worsened if it’s dark)

main triggers are: the feel of silk (esp purple/red), manic laughter, batarangs/similar weapons flying towards him, the joker, being called a monster and doing/saying/someone thinks he did ‘monstrous’ things

minor triggers are: the smell of mahogany, constant beeping/ticking, Batman’s disappointed-pleading-angry voice, the smell of stale-wet dirt (esp mixed with blood)

(Also- I don’t have ptsd, so if I fuck something up, tell me and I’ll fix it)

Who Does he Consider Family?

Alfred- Grandfather. will admit it, has admit it.

Talia- Mom. likes to reference her vaguely as his Mom or T

Catherine- she may be dead, but she was his Ma.

Dick- older brother, but only admits it to Dick or other family. Has admit it to Dick.

Cass- sort-of-twin sister, also wouldn’t outright admit it, but she Knows.

Tim- little brother. will only admit it to people who are very close to Jason or very close to Tim. has admit it.

Damian- little brother. will admit it, hasl admit it to. calls him habibi and ahki.

Jay Todd, Robin- his son. will admit it, has admit it. calls him Little Red

Morel- his kid.

To a lesser extent:

Steph, Duke, and Babs, as family-of-my-family

His goons, in a distant sort of way

The Alley kids, in a distant sort of way

Not even remotely:

Shelia, Bruce, Ra’s

(I don’t speak any language other than English. I’m using Google translate and fanfics. Please correct me.)

Rules for Interacting:

1) Please talk to me. I am cripplingly lonely.

2) Cussing, NSFW, etc. is fine

3) Dont ship this Jason with anyone. I’ve got plot to do. (Jokes are fine, just not incestual/psudo iscestual, r@pe/non con, or outside of his age group)

4) My brain can be a little funky sometimes—dm me before you send me an (unprompted) rp ask. This is to give me an idea of what’s going on. (N & Z are exempt) I have the right to not rp with you if my brain isn’t vibing with it.

Plot tags:

Welcome to Gotham Arlo - back-in-blood centered

Part X of my Tragic Backstory - cant-have-shitin-gotham centered

batfam without the bat - centered around Hood’s family (or not-family)

red hood’s goons - centered around or includes Jason's goons.

Character interaction tags:

fuck you b - chain includes the original (bad) Bruce/Batman, directly or as a major theme

batdad ftw - chain includes the new (good) Bruce/Batman, directly or as a major theme

pushing my mobwife Wil propaganda - chain includes my oc Wilbur “Wil” “Greenie” Jacobs, directly or as a major theme. This is also mostly under “#600000k word slowburn” until I fix it.

big wing and little wing - chain includes Dick/N, directly or as a major theme

gotham’s bookclub - chain includes E, directly or as a major theme

stitching together a family - chain includes Stitches, directly or as a major theme

daddy issues (billionaire edition) - chain includes Kon/Superboy, directly or as a major theme

one r two r red r blue r - chain includes Tim/RR, directly or as a major theme

they can cook! - chain includes Bernard, directly or as a major theme

robin hood? in dc? - chain includes Damian/R5, directly or as a major theme

little red and big red - chain includes Jay/R2, directly or as a major theme

dad the squeakquel - chain includes Morel, directly or as a major theme

#Welcome to Gotham Arlo #Part X of my tragic backstory #batfam without the bat #red hood’s goons #fuck you b #batdad ftw #pushing my mobwife wil propaganda #big wing and little wing #gotham’s bookclub #stitching together a family #daddy issues (billionaire edition)#one r two r red r blue r #they can cook!#robin hood? in dc?#little red and big red #dad the squeakquel

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tumbleringismycopingmechanism · 2 months ago

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(Question comes from this post by @pancake-breakfast . My other answers are linked in my pinned post.)

3. Discuss the various elements of modern culture and/or society, both good and bad, as reflected by least one of the following centaur groups: Bird-taurs, Centaurs ™, Mole-taurs, Cat-taurs, Cold-taurs.

Birdtaurs:

The Birdtaurs reflect both social media and fandom culture. In their introduction episode there’s a heavier focus on the fandom culture aspect. They kidnap the herd out of their normal life because they think they’re entitled to an „update“ on their „show“. It is worth noting that they could have gotten that update from one of the birdtaurs, but they instead go to the effort of kidnapping the herd and basically forcing them to reenact what happened in the rift. They also have to do HerdCon for „brand recognition“ and a mendatory Q and A after the reenactment. Meanwhile they won’t even listen to what the herd really thinks of this or thought that maybe forcing them to relive that and to turn it into a spectacle might be traumatic for them.

The Birdtaurs seem so engrossed in their obsession with the herd’s adventures that the lines of fiction and reality get blurred. Despite Horse repeatedly telling them they do not realize that none of the stuff they saw is acted but actually happened. They demand the finale of the first season to be redone, which seems very entitled even if it were just a show. They don’t understand that there’s an actual war coming and that all of them could (or if Horse can’t succeed in raising an army, will) be killed. It seems a similar (if much more higher stakes) portrayal of fans in the real world getting actors and characters mixed up, becoming obsessed with the actors (or author, or band members or whatever, depending on the medium) and acting like they actually know them.

They also represent all the positive sides of fandoms. They have fan clubs for certain characters, write fanfiction, create fanart and merchandise, binge-watch the show, ship characters and even organize a HerdCon. The herd is flattered by all this effort, similarly to how the creators of a show, book, movie etc. irl would be glad that their hard work touched so many people to the point that they would devote this much free time to it. However (just like some people irl) they cross a line by dragging the herd into it against their will. (It reminds me a bit of people sending fanfiction or spinoff-ideas to their favourite authors. Or worse, „love“ letters to celebrities.)

Some other negative sides of fandom culture that are also touched upon are discourses within the fandom. We get introduced to all the different favourite-character-based sub-groups within the fandom – the Horse Force, Ched Heads, Hot Gosslings, Team Durp, Glendale’s Pregnancy Hole Children (insane name btw) and the Dougligans – and it’s said that the only thing they can agree upon is that „Wammawink’s the worst“. That not only implies that they probably constantly fight over everything else in the „show“, but also that they can’t agree on even one positive thing. Their only common ground is hate for one character (which is also once again taken out of the „show“ and onto the real Wammawink).

Now let’s get to the social media aspect of Birdtaur culture. For one, social media is pretty important in the fandom context too. The Birdtaurs admit that their favourite thing to do is watching each other watching the „show“, not watching the „show“ itself. It begs the question of whether they even really like the show or just watch it because everyone else does and they don’t wanna feel excluded on social media.

The main influencer we get to see in the introduction scene is Crandy. She is obsessed with being watched, so much so that she doesn’t even really take the time to enjoy talking to the herd (whom she supposedly loves). Instead she runs off almost immediatly to tell her subscribers that she met the herd and even afterwise she does not listen to them at all as they tell her about the war, instead posting on social media. It reflects our tendencies in the real world to not live in the moment and instead document everything and anything for social media. This even goes so far that in the hootenanny episode Crandy claims that the important thing about hootenannies is to share the message of kindess and love on social media, not the message itself.

The other major influencer we see is Bayden. He takes this critique even further, bringing himself in mortal danger for likes (kinda reminds me of all these stupid dangerous tiktok challenges) and then instead of saving himself just keeping his followers updated. His need for validation on social media is so big that it’s even (as far as we know) the only part of his personality that survives being turned into a minotaur.

Another interesting thing is how social media works in Centaurworld. Instead of introducing some kind of technology or magical social media system, the Birdtaurs talk to their eggs and have their newborn babies deliver the message. This reflects on one hand how social media obsessed parents often tend to ignore their children’s needs and exploit them for content and likes. On the other hand it can be seen as symbolic, this new generation being confronted with social media from (even before) birth. (We don’t know if the grown-up Birdtaurs also once were used as messages when they were born or if social media is a newer development in Centaurworld, just like it is irl.)

Centaurs™️:

The Centaurs™️ are the social elite of Centaurworld. They can afford to live in a fortress, where they do nothing all day but eat cake, drink tea and watch the tulip steppers. Their castle is decorated pompously even from the outside with gold and gems and inside there are many decorations and portraits. The Centaurs™️ themselves are pretty much the only society in Centaurworld that wears clothes, and ballgowns witch giant wigs at that. This can be seen as a standin for the rich and powerful in our world. Combined with their bad security and the dirt in all the places that are not meant for the public eye (according to the herd once they return from the luggage room) it’s very much giving Versaille vibes. At the same time it shows us that the Centaurs™️ only care about their public image and not about actually being amazing people.

In fact, the Centaurs™️ treat all the other species in Centaurworld as lesser. Ched is used as a ball by Malandrew and the herd is treated as luggage when Horse tries to recruit the Centaurs™️ for the war. They are viewed as objects, not as equals to the Centaurs™️. The first thing we learn about the Centaurs™️ is that they sued everyone in Centaurworld so they would own the „title“ of Centaurs, despite the fact that Centaur is also the generic term for any creature that’s half-human and half-animal, effectively stripping all the other groups in Centaurworld of their equality.

With their privileged position in society, the Centaurs™️ can afford to focus all of their attention on the arts. As I said, they have tons of paintings and they love the art of tulip stepping. Even their baking can be viewed as an art form. Unfortunately, the Centaurs™️ are also very snobby about art. They won’t allow non-Centaur™️ tulip steppers to compete and (at least in Ched’s case) laugh at them instead. Similarly in our world, high society and the price tag on the art piece usually determine whether something is viewed as „real“ art or not.

Furthermore, the Centaurs™️ also don’t share their ressources. As long as they think their privileges will keep them safe, they don’t care about the war or the fact that their muscled up tulip dancers might be the only ones strong enough to fight. At the same time, they’re being wasteful with their ressources. A lot of their cake ends up smashed one way or another instead of eaten, and despite obviously having the means to train people, the Centaurs™️ (according to the herd) have very poor security, instead only training tulip dancers.

I think in a way that is best shown through Malangela, the Centaurs™️ have totally lost all relation to reality. She can’t focus on a normal conversation for even two minutes and has convinced herself that privilege is a burden without even being able to say why it would be (seeing as they don’t take the responsibility that should come with their power, it actually isn’t one). She can’t take the threat of the Nowhere King seriously, despite the fact that their poor security could neither keep the herd out nor keep them from sneaking out of the luggage room or keep Glandale from stealing.

The Centaurs™️ reflect the First World and its supperiority complex. It seems to live under the impression that its status will keep it from any war that it doesn’t want to be in, that suffering is something that only happens to other people and (like in any princess vs normal people movie) being in power is actually a burden because it comes with following stupid social rules that we put upon ourselves. By even calling itself the first world it does what the Centaurs™️ did by trademarking their name and strips the rest of the world of it’s dignity and makes it lesser.

(Another thing that the trademarking of the name Centaur reminded me of was how Disney tried to trademark Dia de los Muertos after publishing Coco. No, it doesn’t belong just to you, it’s part of a larger culture, wtf.)

Unfortunately I’m not sure this commentary is done in a way that will get a lot of people to reflect on their behaviour, their position in society or western politics. The Versaille-esk setting makes it really hard to recognize our modern society in the Centaurs™️.

Moletaurs:

Moletaur society reflects both unneccessary bureaucracy and police states. Outsiders (like the herd) will be found guilty of something just so they can be locked away, which is stated multiple times during S1E6. When the herd states that they have committed no crime, the judge immediatly assumes they’re spies, just so she has another reason to sentence them to jail.

As the Moletaurs sing, „law is fixed and the world needs rules“. This is true to a degree. Law and rules prevent for example that people just take what they want or spiral into endless circles of revenge after one initial crime. However, law is (ideally) supposed to be just and not punish people for existing, which is essentially the point that Moletaur law has reached. E.g.: Despite magic being perfectly normal in Centaurworld, the Moletaurs punish it with three consecutive life sentences (which is also Gary’s fate btw). It reflects how laws in the real world don’t always make sense and can be biased and unjust.

We see that their conviction that they just love following rules to the T is also bullshit when they discharge the herd. Because if it were just about blindly following the law, then Horse at the least would have to go to prison for using magic. However, because it was a kind of magic the judge liked she decided to pardon the herd and even give Horse her keypiece. Similarly, judges in real life are biased and can let their personal opinion influence their verdict.

Cattaurs:

Cattaur culture is based around Johnny Teatime’s Be Best Competition (in the following shortened to JTBBC). The idea is that they use this beauty pageant to distract themselves from the real problems, like their trauma from the Great War. This is reflecting of our culture’s tendency to also ignore real problems (like war, climate change, discrimination etc.) in favour of more fun (but superficial) stuff like celebrities, fashion, TV shows and movies, stars or social media. On a surface level this seems effective, at least to a certain degree: If you only ever focus on everything that’s wrong in the world you’ll probably get depressed sooner rather than later. However, it obviously solves absolutely nothing, because those problems won’t magically go away just because you don’t focus on them. It can even lead to you not noticing new problems arising, because you become to focused on those superficial distractios. Similarly, the Cattaurs claim that pageantry and zeal help them to heal from their losses and trauma from the Great War, but I doubt that such deep scars actually get any better by them just ignoring what happened.

The Cattaur society reflects our society‘s obsession with meeting (nearly) unobtainable beauty standards that are set by only a select few (in the Cattaurs‘ case Johnny Teatime and maybe Splendib). What counts as beautiful can change on a whim as we see at the end of S1E7, when Comfortable Doug is declared the winner, despite him meeting none of the standards that are set the entire 20 minutes before that. None of the cats have an own sense of what beauty means to them, as they now blindly applaud for Comfortable Doug because Johnny Teatime / Splendib announced him as the new ideal. And the contest is held every day, so hypothetically the ideal could change every day. You would never be able to reach it, constantly running in a new direction for the slim chance of getting Johnny Teatime’s (and therefore society’s) approval, just for one night (as the next day it starts all over again). Meanwhile you lose yourself, your identity, never figure out what you like best or enjoy the most because if it’s not what Johnny says you wouldn’t even consider it.

As Zulius points out, efforts don’t count in Cattaur society. Even great efforts for JTBBC go ignored if they don’t win you the sash by the end, so I doubt any efforts outside of it (let’s say for example, to help with the emotional aftermath of the Great War) are valued.

To a degree I think the Cattaurs might be too aware of what their culture does and why it does it. In real life, a lot of people don’t realize (or don’t want to realize) that the beauty industry and the diet industry as well as celebrity culture try to turn your focus away from real problems and instead get you invested in chasing after unobtainable goals. The Cattaurs however all know that this is just to distract from the aftermath of the Great War, they even sing about it. They seem to have no problem with investing all their time and energy into this practically meaningless beauty contest. On the other hand they seem unaware that this makes it impossible for them to ever be loved for being their authentic selfes, and that it leaves them vulnerable in case of a new catastrophy because they never took the time to reflect on the last one and learn from it.

Coldtaurs:

The Coldtaurs are representative of the people who fight for something (a party, an organization etc.) despite this thing advocating against said people. (For example, LGBTQ+ people defending homo- or transphobes, immigrants voting for right wing parties etc.) We see this as the Coldtaurs decide to fight for the Nowhere King, who wants to bring suffering, pain and death over any living being he meets. The Coldtaurs have convinced themselves that he would treat them kindly and help with the cold as long as they support him, that he would make an exception for them as long as they’re useful.

The herd, or actually mostly Glendale, deal with this by asking the Coldtaurs to look within themselves. She recognizes her own anxiety in them and thus can help them with their actual problem. The Coldtaurs might on some level have been aware that their discomfort did not come from the cold, but from their anxiety. Until Glendale confronted them with this, they did however not admit to it. It was the easy solution to blame the cold and then avoid any obvious solutions to that problem. Because if you managed that (for example, like Horse suggests, by moving to a place that’s warmer), you would have to face that your discomfort does not stem from the cold. You would either need to confront the real problem (which the Coldtaurs were already not comfortable doing) or make up a new scapegoat, so you might as well stay with the first one.

You could of course also interpret it as complaining about the minor inconveniences in your life while avoiding the major problems. Logically the cold should be a minor problem for a Coldtaur, if it is one at all. But it’s easy to complain about and maybe more importantly, it’s an outside factor. You can’t control the weather, so you have all the right in the world to complain about it. Meanwhile your anxiety is a reaction of your brain to outside factors. You would have to put the work in if you wanted to manage it, and that’s way more exhausting than complaining about factors outside of your control.

Glendale solves this extremely well by telling the Coldtaurs it’s natural, that she can relate to them and that she knows it’s hard to deal with it. She then gives them tools for handling their anxiety, which is not something they had access to before. They admit that they were „projecting [their] inability to control the unpredictable brutality of nature by answering the violence perpetrated on [their] psyches by externalizing violence onto other centaurs around [them]“. Here I think the showrunners idealized reality a bit. If you try to tell some gun-crazy, confrontation-seeking assholes who think everyone who doesn’t threaten other people within 10 seconds is „weak“ and complain about wokeness all the time that they just internalized hate speach about groups that they are a part of and should therefore know better than to hate, I doubt you would get them to actually reflect on their behaviour. However, at least trying to empathize with them, taking away their fears and showing them how to be better is probably the only approach that might get to them (after all, most people just wanna feel heared).

Bonus – Trashtaurs:

So I’m not sure if they were intentionally left out of this list or just forgotten, but I figured with this question they should be included. Trashtaurs are outsiders from any of the societies in Centaurworld. Everyone forgets they exist to the point that Horse doesn’t even think to recruit them, they just heared about the war and came forth to volunteer for the fight. And though they’re the first ones to join, Horse isn’t even happy about it, despite not knowing anything about them. (She comments „At least there’s a lot of you“, but it’s not like she��d know whether they can fight or not.)

In the same way poor and homeless people are usually dismissed on a glance in our world. People assume they’re not capable of anything, even though it’s usually a result of bad circumstances that leaves people homeless (had to flee from their homes, have a medical condition that prevents them from holding on to a job but that they can’t afford to get treated, got into debt because of things out of their control, …).

The Trashtaurs probably join the army because they know they have little choice. They know noone will defend them once the war comes (since they’re alread ostracized) and they’re likely to be the first ones to die if the Nowhere King attacks. This way they’ll stand at least a small chance. Similarly homeless people irl are often forced to do jobs they don’t want or that are even dangerous for them just to survive.

At the hootenanny the Trashtaurs sing that the others shouldn’t let their trash laying around if they don’t want Trashtaurs. Similarly you could say that people shouldn’t be forced to live on the streets if you don’t want to see people living on the streets.

#centaurworld #centaurworld essay #birdtaurs #centaursTM #centaurs™️#moletaurs #cattaurs #coldtaurs #trashtaurs

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bigusbossus · 2 months ago

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mmhmmgmhmgmh bbkaz sometime before sauna fight so they by some miracle havent seen eachothers cocks. they mostly just dry hump and make out but when they wanna finally fuck for the first time kaz makes a joke like "hehehaha whoever has the smallest penis has to bottom lol!!!" bc kaz actually has a decent sized cock and he feels like he might actually be bigger but then bb whips out his giant thick bitch breaker cock and its already bigger than kaz's and hes not even fully hard yet. kaz is like fuckfuckfuckfuck bc he doesnt even think its gonna fit inside himmm. bb finds it super amusing .. grabs kazs cock and starts comparing their sizes.. his cock makes kazs look sooo fucking small and its making kaz so embarrassed.. he compares the girths and the lengths and kaz is covering his super red face like "i-i get it boss..." and then bb pushes kaz down on the bed and asks him if hes ready to get fucked by a real man's cock 🤤🤤

Kaz has always thought that BB would be small. He cant wrap his head around a man being so disinterested in sex for any other reason than he has a tiny cock. When theyre making out and grinding he thinks its BB's crotch guard rubbing against his thigh. He never would've thought that man to be packing a monster in there. He'd look at it, eyes wide like hes witnessing a murder, swallowing the saliva he hasn't realized he's been collecting. Now he understands why BB dosnt fuck around so much, that thing could kill a guy and he's not about to be the next casualty.

He'd try to op out, "Haha.. Boss..um.. I dont think i can do this..." he'd be honest. But BB isnt taking that, " What? Intimidated? Come on Kaz, it wont bite :)" Kaz almost considers running out naked, he'll leave with his pride in ruins but atleast he'd have his life intact.

BB pushes their dicks together and the difference is comical, Kaz is unimpressive next to Bb, even at full hardness. BB would stroke their cocks together, And Kaz gets t witness with his very own two eyes how much bigger it can get, he feels his throat going dry, his cock leaking despite the circumstances. He'd truly be speechless. He dosnt stand a chance in the dick competition, he shouldnt have entered in the first place. BB would keep rubbing their dicks together, Its fun to see Kaz be so torn between melting into the pleasure and being terrified about whats to come (which is him btw, he cums prematurely and BB laughs at him for it, Kaz is just embarrassing himself even more)

Knowing he cant leave, theres only one way forward and thats to keep by his word. With sweat beading on his forehead, veins protruding like theyre about to pop, Kaz opens his legs up for BB and presents his criminally unprepared hole.

All the birds resting on mother base go flying that day, and everyone present thinks Miller is being tortured. His screams are so loud they reach the neighboring platforms. BB isnt a very patient man so of course he barely preps Kaz, He's strong enough to just force it in. Kaz is lucky he dosnt need stitches.

BB is so big that his dick pokes through from inside Kaz's belly and this is very hot to both of them :3 even though Kaz faints from the pain and also the "what the frick theres a huge thing inside me!?!?!?! " thing , he still ends up enjoying it alot.... even with the rectal bleeding (the price to pay for having sex with bb tbh)

also bb's cock is huge become one he was born that way and 2 the radiation made it bigger... like canonically

#asks #bb #kaz #nsft

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loveofbots · 2 years ago

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Can you write about Rodimus, Swerve, and Whirl sneaking on their human s/o computer because they’re curious. and they accidentally install a bunch of viruses and other stuff?

I’m in a silly mood so I shall!!

Whirl:

- Where is his human >:((

- Charges into your hab suite as if he is coming to kill you, but in reality that’s just how he says hello

- Human isn’t here?? Puter!!!!

- Ok fr whirl is the WORST person to ever have open access to your personal stuff. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact he was on your computer. That bird is opening every file, clicking on pop ups to try and go down a rabbit hole.

- He wants to see if you’re secretly as fucked up as he is, if you are, congrats! Whirl feels terrible that you went through a similar experience to him.

You return, head pounding from the droning of Ultra Magnus and his list of highly specific rules that you promise to yourself you will never memorize. Honestly you just wanted a warm drink, your cozy pajamas, and your big bird to cuddle with. Hopefully he wasn’t feeling too chaotic today. Upon opening your bedroom door you found that wasn’t going to be the case. There was whirl, hunched over your tiny laptop that was blue screened, one golden optic staring back at you.

“Hey, ‘puter broke.”

“Goddamnit Whirl.”

Swerve:

- Actually the only person on this list allowed to use your laptop, specifically for watching human shows/YouTube.

- One day however, after watching one too many hacker shows and a couple computer tech tutorials, curiosity gets the better of swerve and he opens up the files on your laptop.

- He types in a few commands, hoping to discover the hidden secrets of the human internet. Totally not looking for anything dirty you may have saved. All goes well at first, he does end up finding some dirt on you. Good luck keeping that a secret now btw.

- Until he goes into your settings and completely messes up your computer. He’s freaking out, what did he just do!? Swerve is frantically trying to fix everything and just making it worse. The poor minibot starts panicking when he imagines your angry face seeing how he messed up your computer.

Seeing Swerve crying in front of your laptop was... surprisingly not uncommon. Usually the answer was a very sad earth movie, or perhaps even ultra cute earth animals. So when you went to comfort your mech you were taken aback when he tried to push you away.

“Swerve, what’s wrong?”

“I-I-I messed up! I really, really messed up! I’m so sorry Y/N.” The bot burst into tears when you saw the state of your computer and gasped. Babbling about how it was his fault and an accident and he would do anything to make it up to you. Your sweet kiss shuts him up effectively. “You’re not... Mad?”

“No, we can work this out together.” Your computer was fine.

Rodimus:

- Him? With unrestricted internet access? That’s the set up to a bad joke.

- Roddy got bored and like the devious totally innocent captain he is, decided to look at what you’ve been up to online. Please please imagine him laying on his stomach with his feet kicking in the air on this tiny ass laptop this is so funny to me.

- Definitely checks ALL your socials. Dating all the way back to when you were still on earth. His spark warms a bit seeing you so happy on a planet he’s been to before. Maybe makes a few embarrassing posts as you on your social media.

- Checks your search history to see if there’s anything raunchy. Rodimus ends up on some really sketchy websites. And yeah, he does try to download a car.

- Freaks out when suddenly a thousand pop ups start clouding the screen of your laptop. OH- Oh he’s in big trouble now.

“What are you doing?”

The prime lets out an indignant shriek as he slams your laptop shut. Your accusing tone mocking his very existence. Wide blue optics meet your eyes, and he tries to give you a smile. A very, guilty looking smile.

“NOTHING! Nothing, I mean. Just being your captain and making sure you aren’t hiding some super secret earth information or anything.” Primus, that sounded bad even by his standards. Your crossed expression was what broke him however, and with a pout handed you back your laptop.

Needless to say he was definitely grounded from the internet the next month or so, child locks and all.

#transformers #mtmte #tf #maccadam #idw #lost light #sfw #g1 #rodimus #whirl #x reader #swerve #my babies!!#asks #swerve my bbg istg

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astxrwar · 1 year ago

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ties that bind [5/x]

SUMMARY: Quentin Beck– your old college biology professor– is still a bastard. Apparently, you’re kind of in to that.

RATING: M

WORD COUNT: 7k+

CONTENT + WARNINGS: Emotional manipulation (a given,,,). The general vibes associated with that. Sex scene will be chapter 6 because it got too long, this one is just plot and developing the AU + character. I take liberties with RC because you kinda have to in long-form works; if you're an experienced cook no you're not and if you're allergic to sesame seeds no you're not.

If you're still reading this series we're married now btw. love u babes, mwah.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | [PART 5]

Beck says nothing else between the car and the elevator, nothing as he presses the only slightly-tarnished silver button for the third floor, still nothing as the doors glide open and nothing when they close, either. The silence begins to coalesce like its own entity, something that pulses and breathes, alive, expanding to fill the rest of the too-small space of the elevator car; something he is, of course, unaffected by. Whatever tension is building inside of you feels precarious, uncontrolled, like a shaken-up can of coke in the seconds before an unsuspecting hand cracks the tab open, an unchecked ignition system with the fuse dwindled all the way down to nothing but a fine powder of ash, the silence before something explodes, because it has to, pressure building too high for too long, until there’s no other recourse or hope for respite. It’s nerves, and you know that, the feeling, but it’s not like anything you’ve ever felt before, better and worse and more, now, in ways that you still can’t fully comprehend or explain.

Beck studies you wordlessly from the opposite side of the elevator car as it moves upwards, the motion so fluid that if it weren’t for a small digital panel above the door, the floor numbers ticking by in glowing fluorescent red, you wouldn’t be able to tell it was even moving at all.

“Have you eaten?” He asks, cutting clean through that silence. It calms whatever tumultuous thing is coiling in your belly, even if only temporarily, the mundanity of the question striking and strange enough to draw your attention away from it for the moment.

“No,” you answer, quieter than you’d meant to, eyes flitting up to meet his and then glancing away again of their own accord, skittering back to the panel with the glowing red two now displayed and then to the doors, gleaming and reflective, the carpet, brand-new, only faintly discolored along the common path into and out of the car, a dappled pattern of overlapping shoe prints beginning to wear into it there. “I have my wallet, we can order something, if you want—“

Beck makes a sound; not a laugh, more just a particularly harsh exhale, dismissive and uninterested. “I’m making dinner, you can get yourself whatever you’d like if you won’t eat real food.”

The display panel ticks over to three and the doors slide open, a pleasant, bell-like chime announcing the stop; you follow him out into a carpeted hallway that’s painted a bland shade of steel blue and lined with wall-mounted lamps, like a hotel. There are windows on one side, spaced evenly down the length of the wall, and from this height you can see past the lines of barren, skeletal trees, the lights of cars as they trawl like beetles along the winding length of the road in the distance.

“What do you think I usually eat, then, if I don’t eat ‘real food’ ,” you say, instead of any of the other things that you’re thinking about— your nerves, still, trembling like the wings of a bird in the hollow of your throat, or the strangeness of him offering you dinner, or the entirely predictable way he can make that, even, sound like it’s a dig at your expense.

“Takeout,” Beck answers pointedly, mouth twitching up at the corners; you’ve arrived at his door, the numbers 34 pasted in neat silver leaf below the rounded inset glass of the peek-hole, reflective and glinting in the light from the hallway, and as he rummages in the pockets of his coat for his key and slots it into the lock you can hear your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears. “Frozen pizza, boxed mac and cheese, microwave ramen, anything they sell at the dollar store,” it clicks, and the door handle turns, and he looks at you, grinning in earnest now,�� “Hot pockets, probably.”

“Oh my god,” is all you can really say to that— because, yeah, he’s described to a T the off-campus-student-with-no-meal-plan diet, and you’re not even really any good at lying to him even when you’re not feeling some dubious combination of off-balance and dangerously out of your depth, so you decide that you’re better off not even trying. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

“I’m actually not trying to be, this time,” he replies, amused, as he pushes the door open and moves into the darkened foyer, hand sliding along the wall until he finds the switch and the hall is illuminated by the artificially-white glow of the ceiling light. “I was also a grad student once; I do still remember it.”

As you pass the threshold and press the door closed behind you, he follows with, “Take off your shoes.”

You do, stepping on the heels of your well-worn sneakers to slide them off, one foot, and then the next, stacking them in the tray by the door next to his impeccably-clean and perfectly-polished black oxfords. There’s another set of sneakers there, too, much nicer and much newer than yours, and a pair of thick-treaded black winter boots, the laces wound up together in a neat little ring, tied off to keep them from unraveling, tucked in behind the tongues of the shoes.

Ahead of you, Beck has moved further into the apartment; he sheds his coat and hangs it in a small closet at the end of the hallway, his laptop bag, too, and gestures for you to do the same with your backpack. There are other doors, one on each side of the hall, and you wonder briefly what might lay beyond them as you trail behind him, your footsteps muted and the hardwood floor cool through the relatively thin barrier of your socks.

He flicks on another set of lights, brightening the kitchen enough for you to see the whole of it; a high ceiling and low-hanging light fixtures and clean granite countertops, the two-section sink and drying rack both empty of dishes, a keurig machine and a toaster and a blender and other assorted appliances all pushed back against the wall, spotless and free of dust. His apartment looks like a showroom, like some sort of facsimile edition of a place where real breathing people live, and you mean to say that to him in a way that you intend to be insulting, but you find when you go to speak that your mouth is dry and your tongue is uncooperative and the words don’t even arrange themselves correctly inside your head, anyways. All of this feels suddenly very real, the cool stone countertop when you press your fingers against it, the faint draft of air moving through his apartment, drawn from the windows lining one side of the wall– and his eyes on you, something you can feel without even having to look at him, like a warm, solid weight on your shoulders.

Behind you, you hear the sound of some door pulling open, the rush of colder air against your back; the fridge, probably.

“What are you making?” you say without turning, suppressing that nervous tension, forcing it down inside of you as deep as it will go.

“Nothing complicated,” he replies. “Stir fry. Probably one of the easiest things, actually, if you ever decide to stop eating garbage.”

“Didn’t we just establish you also ate like shit during grad school?” You do turn, at that, so that he can see your face when you pointedly roll your eyes. “Besides, I just– I don’t really have time to cook. Or the energy, honestly.”

“Cooking doesn’t take much time or energy, that’s a poor excuse,” he replies, and you’re halfway through formulating a more-than-slightly-defensive response when he continues, “Learning to cook takes time and energy. You don’t have time or energy to learn , right now.”

The abrupt transition from what you’d assumed would be another insult to a gentle and even understanding correction– it makes something inside of you lurch like the feeling you get when you miss a step walking down a staircase, your balance thrown off and your center of gravity ending up somewhere unexpected.

“Really unnecessary amount of semantic nitpicking,” you say, the words tumbling out uncertain and unsteady, not sure if the warmth you feel is irritation or something else entirely.

He grins, one of those calculating ones that makes you feel like he knows something you don’t. “It’s necessary if one statement is true and the other isn’t.”

You don’t respond to that, and in the silence you move further into the kitchen, taking residence on a bar stool on the side closest to the living room. You hadn’t seen, before, what Beck had taken from the freezer, but you can see it now; a block of tofu, semi-defrosted, dripping beads of condensation onto the countertop.

“You’re vegetarian?” You can’t keep the note of incredulity out of your voice, and you don’t try, either, knowing by now that he’d notice regardless.

Beck moves to the counter space by the sink, pulls a shining silver knife from the block on the counter and a cutting board from one of the cabinets below. “No,” he says, “But I don’t eat meat frequently. I assume you know enough about epidemiology to figure that out for yourself.”

He doesn’t say it like a compliment, more like a basic and trivial fact, but it still kind of– registers as one. That he just expects you to know things. You’d thought his general opinion of you to be markedly worse than that. “Lifestyle disease?”

He hums in affirmative—that, too, sounding expectant and unsurprised— unfolding the block of tofu from the plastic wrap which he discards, and placing it on the cutting board. “Bodies aren’t miracles, they’re machines. Machines need to be treated well if we want them to last.”

“Nice rendition on the much simpler ‘you should eat healthy because it’s good for you’,” you say, through something that you are deciding to call a snicker instead of a giggle, for– reasons. “You are so not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations.”

Beck finally looks up at that, and his face does the same thing it did in the car– the mask, or whatever annoyingly impenetrable facade he maintains, it slips, for second, his face relaxes and his mouth twitches up and his eyebrow raises a little, maybe unintentionally, the sum of his features far more expressive than you’re accustomed to, surprise and amusement and something else you don’t recognize flickering across them in quick succession. “Allegations,” he repeats, nonplussed, almost a question, and then, with an undercurrent of humor, “You’ve seen American Psycho ? That movie is almost as old as you are.”

“Not beating the allegations- it’s just a saying. It means, like, you’re living up to a stereotype.” You register what might have been a jab at your age a few moments too late to even really react to it, and you think that it should probably make you feel uncomfortable or uneasy or anything, really, but it doesn’t– which does make you uncomfortable. Because you should care. Presumably. “And, yeah, I had a computer. I think I pirated it when I was like, fifteen.”

“I had it on VHS, for a while, when I was in high school; I was too young to see it in theaters when it came out.” Beck has already turned back to the task at hand, moved to another set of cabinets under the counters further from you to pull out a large, high-walled pan. You can see, though, from the light in the kitchen, the way that his mouth tugs up at the corners still, like he can’t quite suppress it completely. “You think I could be a serial killer, and you still willingly came to my house?”

“Do I need to explain the concept of a joke to you?” you reply, intending for it to be sardonic and scathing but finding that it really just sounds like you’re teasing him. The way a friend might. And god, that’s–

(Weird. Bad. Maybe neither— is that worse?)

(You’re not going to think about it.)

He doesn’t say anything back, just hums under his breath, low and amused and barely audible, and takes out a set of bowls from a cabinet above his head that he places on the counter.

“Go in the pantry and grab me the soy sauce and sesame oil,” he says after a moment, fixing you with a look in the seconds before it registers, “I’m not your personal chef, you’re going to help.”

It still takes a moment, after that, for the request to click. Even when you do get up to do as he’d asked, you take a moment to stretch out, first, before moving anywhere, reaching your arms up to the ceiling– he looks sidelong at you and you think his eyes might linger on the revealed expanse of your stomach where your sweater had risen up, and something low and warm inside of you is fucking satisfied by that.

“You say that like you wouldn’t still be doing this if I weren’t here,” you say when he looks away.

“I would,” he acknowledges as you approach him, and tips his head towards the closed door to his right. “But since you went and lost your keys and are now intruding on my weekend, the least you can do is make yourself useful.”

The remark is so at odds with the series of events that had brought you here in the first place and in such direct contrast with his own behavior that the slight doesn’t even really register; rolls right off, like water. “Right, because this is such an inconvenience to you.”

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and there’s that new strange feeling again, like somebody’s filled your whole body with buzzing TV static.

You find the pantry at his earlier direction, open the door and scan the rows of shelves, as spotless and impeccably organized as everything else in his apartment. The sesame oil and soy sauce are just below eye height and next to each other among a neat line of various other ingredients– cooking wine and white vinegar and molasses and more that you don’t take notice of in the time it takes to grab what he’d asked for and close the door again.

“Fridge,” he says when you place the bottles on the counter beside him, having finished cutting the tofu into neat squares that he sweeps off the cutting board and into a bowl with the flat of his knife. “Broccoli and green peppers, they’ll be in the bottom drawer on the left.”

His fridge is one of those massive gleaming silver ones with the double-doors and built-in water and ice dispenser, and it, like everything else, is pristine and neatly kept; you find both items where he’d directed you, still wrapped in those paper-thin plastic bags from the grocery store.

“There’s beer in the door, by the way, if you want any.”

True to word there are bottles lined in the trays on the left inside shelf— wheat and fruit varieties, mostly, light and tolerable and kind of surprising; you’d have pegged him as a snobby IPA type— though you decide that, despite his often incomprehensible devotion to being an asshole at all times, you still can’t abandon the weird sort of obligations that come with being a guest in someone else’s home. Namely, the feeling that it was somehow improper to accept an offer not also indulged in by the host. “Do you?”

He considers it for a second. “Yeah, I’ll take one.”

“Anything specific?”

“No,” There’s that edge, again, more teasing than anything else, and you ignore that, too— the difference, the lack of overt malice— with an ease that should probably be concerning, “I like all of them, that’s why they’re there. Pick one and come here, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be.”

The words come here, because you’re pathetic, they drag that winding coil of tension in the pit of your stomach back to the surface, but then the fridge begins to beep at you–you’ve kept it open for too long, presumably– and so you push the thoughts back down and blindly pick two from the bottom rack, allowing the doors to fall closed again.

At the counter he’s already portioned out snap peas he must have pulled from the freezer earlier, and mixed what you assume to be a sauce together in another bowl.

“Start cutting them up,” he says as he takes one of the bottles from your outstretched hands, nodding towards the vegetables you’d grabbed from the fridge, and then the cutting board, moved further down the counter to a spot where you’d have the space to stand alongside him. Beck doesn’t wait for your response; he turns and flicks on the stove and pours sesame oil down the sides of the pan, not bothering with measurements, just eyeing it with a practiced and familiar ease. He’s rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, cuffs neatly folded and edges creased, probably while you were in the fridge, and the tanned and solid expanse of his forearms— you’re not staring, not exactly, but you’re aware of it as you rinse the peppers and the head of broccoli in the sink, the sight of him in your periphery. The oil crackles in the pan, browns and aromatizes, fills the kitchen with the smell, fragrant and rich like salt and nuts and caramel; your eyes keep getting drawn back to him, the muscles and the tendons flexing in his hands as he moves to add the already-prepared ingredients, sprinkles salt and red pepper, lifts and shakes the pan to toss the contents of it—

“If you want to be of any use to me, that needs to be done before this is,” he says, tone deceptively mild. You’re barely halfway through cutting the broccoli up into approximately bite-sized pieces, and at his comment your eyes flicker away from where they’d drifted to him again.

You don’t say anything in response, just try to focus more intently on the task, slower and more clumsy and comparatively unskilled as you are at it; it’s not like it’s difficult, really, it’s just one of those things that’s borne out of practice, of which you had little, considering your circumstances. Begrudgingly, you acknowledge to yourself that he’d been right, before, about the challenge being less the actual cooking than the learning of it, something you had next to no energy for– much less the desire to do– as a seemingly perpetually-busy grad student.

Some time during your finishing dividing up the broccoli and setting a pepper on the wooden surface of the cutting board he must have turned the stove down, set the pan aside; you feel him behind you before you really even know that he’s there, the air changing, growing warmer with his presence.

“You’re going too slow.”

You hum, in response, before you try to speak, making sure your voice isn’t going to betray you and crumble the second you say anything in return, “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, unconcerned, and for whatever reason that, too, feels like– something. Something weird. “You’re learning.”

When he moves closer, his head above your shoulder, his arms bracketing yours and his hands lingering somewhere near your wrists, your breathing catches and your pulse picks up and that thing inside of you— the thing that had never really gone away in the first place, hadn’t ever faded or lessened at all since you first got out of his car, that ever-widening chasm of your own want like a fucking fault in the earth that you’d just somehow been managing to ignore this whole time— it rears its head again, dizzying, requisitions the bulk of your attention span to the point where you nearly nick your fingers.

“Wow, actually, maybe you’re not learning,” he murmurs, gently mocking, low in your ear as his hands move down to overlay your own, steadying your grip on the knife. “So much for making yourself useful.”

“I’m not great at tuning out distractions,” you tell him, and in your head you imagine you say it with enough bite to imply that he’s being annoying, but in reality it just comes out soft, plaintive– a confession rather than an accusation.

“Oh, really? Couldn’t tell.” You can hear the smile, bleeding into the tone of his voice.

With him directing you, it goes much faster, turning with one hand and cutting with the other, the movements methodical and clean; rationally, you know it must have been no more than a minute or two, but it feels like so much longer and so much shorter, somehow, your perception defying all sense of logic, your entire body thrumming with the awareness of him, the broad span of his chest and the places it’s almost touching your shoulders, his hands, steady and warm and rough, his breathing, too, the rhythm of it against the shell of your ear, the goosebumps it sends prickling across your neck—

“There,” he says when it’s done, when he steps back and the air goes cold and that stupid thing inside of you twinges with an embarrassing amount of disappointment, “Not so hard.”

Beck returns to the stove, cranks the heat back up; you swallow and steady your breathing and reach for your beer on the counter, the top already having been cracked open for you; when he’d even had time to do that, you have no idea, but you murmur a quiet thanks as you reach for it and drain a long sip, if only to have something to do.

“Garbage is the drawer on the left by the wall,” he says over his shoulder, “Just throw out what’s left over and put the dishes in the sink. The bottles away, too,” he jerks his head towards the sesame oil and the soy sauce, “And then you’re good.”

“And then I’ll have made up for ‘ intruding on your weekend’ ?” you reply, still far softer than you’d intended it to be as you move through the tasks, tossing the seeded pepper cores and the stump of broccoli in the garbage alongside the scraps from the cutting board, placing that and a stack of bowls in the sink.

His answering chuckle is soft and low, the particulars of his expression blocked from view by the pantry door as you replace the items you’d pulled from there. “No, honey, then you’ll have helped with dinner. Making up for intruding on my weekend–” When he laughs again, the sound is a lot less kind than before; and maybe he’s amused by the reference, or maybe the circumstance, or maybe something else entirely, some other thing that only he knows about, a punchline to a joke that you’re not in on. “You will.”

It’s the way that he says it, probably, or the particulars of the words– the difference between you will and you can that seems impossibly large and unfathomably significant in this context– but it makes your breath catch and your pulse tremble and that warmth– the heat– it rages back before he’s even really finished speaking, searing and unavoidable like somebody had turned the gas on a stove up to the very top or just gone and broken the dial off completely. You could blame what happens next on the effect of all of a half a beer on an otherwise-empty stomach or the terrible realization of both being so far beyond outside of your depth and having lost control of whatever tenuous hold you ever really had on your own desire, but–

The last bottle– does not even matter which one it is and you don’t fucking care anyway– slips from your fingers a centimeter from the edge of the shelf, and though you catch it before it hits the ground and return it, more carefully, this time, to its’ place, you know— you just do, even though you can’t see him, even though he can’t see you, even though he’s ostensibly busy, preoccupied, not paying attention — that he still somehow notices it, too.

You don’t eat at the table, because he does not, strictly speaking, have one. What he has instead is just one of those chest-high dividing walls that acts to partially separate the kitchen from the currently unlit living room, outfitted with enough counter space to hold dishes for maybe a grand total of four guests. The food cools in the pan until the sound of crackling oil fades and then goes silent completely, leaving just the steam to rise from it and spiral up towards the ceiling in wavering lines; Beck brings it over to the bar, then, uses a fork to fill both plates, and sets the pan in the sink.

You mumble a thanks, to which he responds with a noncommittal, wordless hum; you eat mostly in silence, perched on the stool you’d sat in before, on the end of the bar outside the kitchen. He sits across from you and you try not to look at him too often, but you’re certain you don’t succeed, as much as you’re certain that he must know, somehow, must be keenly aware of each and every time that you glance up at him— at his forearms, his sleeves still rolled to his elbows, his chest, too, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, the heat of the stove having softened the crisp, pressed lines of it, his tie gone, discarded at some point. He looks more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him, more at ease, and you are affected by that, apparently.

He finishes eating before you, and you watch him then, too, as he moves around the kitchen, slotting his plate and the silverware and the used bowls into the dishwasher, scrubbing clean the cutting board, setting it to dry, washing the knife by hand with a sponge in the sink and returning it to the block on the counter.

“You’re so organized,” you blurt out, without meaning to, suddenly aware that your beer is less than half full, probably less than a quarter, and you’d drank most of it well before you’d eaten anything.

“I take it I’m still not beating the Patrick Bateman allegations, then,” he replies, with a grin you could only really describe as conspiratorial. For a second you don’t realize he’s actually made a joke that wasn’t at your expense– one that was, actually, weirdly, at his own– and when it registers you’ll blame being halfway drunk for the involuntary and genuine and utterly helpless burst of laughter that escapes you before you can even so much as think to stop it.

Whatever emotion passes briefly across his face in response to that seems almost pleased. But it’s late and you’re tipsy and unthinking and it’s easy to just not worry about it, any of it, to just let yourself react like you would in any other interaction with anyone else, for once unconcerned with the machinations of whatever game he’s always playing.

“I was actually– ” you start, the words stumbling to a halt when you find yourself laughing again, and when they start back up they come spilling from you faster than your brain can comprehend, a precarious situation that results in far more honesty than you intended. “That was— it was kind of a compliment.”

“A compliment,” he repeats, the tone of his voice mocking and sly; his expression has shifted to one of those pointed and intentional looks, the corners of his mouth curled up, not a smile and not even really a nice thing at all, but the rush of warmth that floods your face in response is still immediate and abjectly fucking damning. “And here I thought you would sooner drop dead than ever entertain so much as a positive thought about me.”

Part of the flush in your cheeks, you reason, is probably the alcohol, another part the way it’s gotten warmer in the kitchen with the stovetop on, but there’s still some that’s just due to whatever thing that’s been simmering inside of you this whole time– the way it’s buzzing, right now, nervous and flighty and alive as you watch him move back towards you. He’s grabbed two more beers from the fridge, with his empty, and yours nearly there; the thought occurs to you to decline, in the interest of preserving whatever remains of your ability for clear-headed and rational thought, but–

You realize, with far less shame than you figure you should be feeling, you don’t actually want to preserve that at all.

“I don’t have to like someone to recognize they can have good qualities,” you say, flippant, more relaxed than you feel, “Everyone does. You’re still a human being, even if you do get on my nerves.”

Beck goes quiet and still for a second, takes a long, slow sip from his beer, and then fixes you with this look that’s so intense it’s unsettling. “So, what, you don’t like me, then?”

Something in your subconscious prickles at the question or maybe just at the fact that he’d even asked it; he doesn’t sound offended, or upset, or even like he cares much at all either way, which doesn’t surprise you. But you can’t figure out exactly why he would be asking, otherwise. You take another sip of your beer, finishing the bottle; wordlessly, Beck reaches across the table for the second one, and cracks the top open on the edge of the counter; you murmur a quiet thanks as he sets it beside you.

“I mean– you definitely don't like me, so I don’t see how that would be unexpected,” you say after a while, not really answering outright, unsure you would even be able to. Not knowing for certain what the answer even is, anymore.

Beck blinks, expressionless for a second, before he breaks out into another smile, this one markedly unkind, suspended somewhere between derision and incredulity. “Of course I like you,” he says, in a tone like he’s talking to a particularly stubborn or particularly stupid child, and if he were saying anything else right then maybe you would have remembered to be irritated at him for that. “You’re— god, sometimes you’re so obtuse. I mean, you’re smart as a whip, really, but you’re just– clueless.”

And–

None of that makes sense to you, and you get the feeling that the alcohol isn’t to blame, that even stone-cold sober you would still be left parsing this same inexplicable and fundamentally contradictory amalgam of facts and secondary emotions– one, he thinks you’re smart, really smart, even, and there’s a part of you that does something awful and pathetic like fucking preens at that, and two, he also apparently and simultaneously thinks you’re stupid, which isn’t that much of a surprise, and three, perhaps most confusing of them all–

“What the fuck do you mean, you— you like me?”

Beck exhales, this long-suffering sound as if you’ve proved his point by even asking, and says, “Really, just– it’s not complicated. Exactly what it sounds like.” He drains probably a quarter of his second beer, leans forwards on his elbows, and shrugs. “You said that I dislike you, and I’m saying that you’re wrong.”

“Okay, I don’t–” you tear your eyes from him, stare hard at your plate, pushing a browned piece of broccoli around the mostly-empty edges of it with the tines of your fork, certain you can feel the actual cogs inside of your head as they turn, uselessly, stuck in place and uncomprehending. “That doesn’t make any sense. You– I mean, you’ve basically had a vendetta against me since I was in undergrad.”

“No,” he says, that patient, vaguely annoyed quality still lingering in the word, and when you look up again his eyes are fixed on you, dark and unreadable, “I had an interest in you.”

“An interest in, what– bothering me?”

“Something like that.” The barest traces of humor infiltrate his otherwise still indecipherable expression. “You’re easily bothered, honey.”

“So, what, you—“ you stop to take another sip of your beer, head spinning, “You bother me on purpose, for years, and then you’re confused that I actually might not have liked you very much? At all, even?”

“I knew full well you didn’t like me. It didn't matter and it still doesn’t,” he says, with a level of disregard that you know, objectively, should concern you, “I’m not asking about then. I’m asking about now.”

Whatever your immediate response to that dries up as soon as you open your mouth, like your thoughts are flying by so quickly you can’t hold onto them long enough to figure out how to say them. You know, somewhere, deep down, that you should be angrier than you are about this. That you should be a lot of other things, too, things that are stronger and more important than anger– you should feel victimized, probably, violated , even, uncomfortable and uneasy and unsafe , knowing that he’d had some sort of fixation with you and with garnering your frustration for what amounts to numerous actual years. A subconscious part of you, though, might have already known a lot of that– or at the very least suspected it– since the very beginning of whatever the fuck this whole thing has even become, and there was that to contend with, too. But right now he’s admitting to it, all of it, explicitly; the intentional provocation and the unabashed harassment and the fact that he hadn’t cared at all about your feelings or your opinions or anything you thought that whole time– because it didn’t matter to him, not when what you felt had no direct impact on his ability to get what he wanted from you. He’s admitting that, presumably, the reason he feels some approximation of care– no, not even, just interest, cold and objective and impersonal– regarding those things now is because now it actually can impact things. What you feel about him now could absolutely stop him from getting whatever it is that he wants from you– sex, presumably, though he clearly still enjoys getting under your skin, too-- because now you have no contractual obligation to even so much as exchange pleasantries with him anymore, much less be here, in his house. You could leave, easily, never see him again if that’s what you wanted, if you really disliked him that much.

He doesn’t want that, you realize, with a dawning understanding. He does not want you to dislike him, at least not enough to drive you away. Not now, because now– now it runs counter to his own interests.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, looking up at him and feeling unsteady just in doing it, not sure whether your instincts should be telling you to do now– because they aren't telling you to do anything more than what they’ve pretty much always done every time you’ve so much as seen him in the last four months. You still want him, the maddening and terrible way that you feel like you always do just at the sight of him alone, that desire simmering right under your skin, and maybe in the moment you could blame the one-and-a-half beers or the time or the circumstance, but none of that would really even be true. Your survival instincts, what little of them you even possess to begin with, have always, always been next to nonexistent when it comes to this.

Him.

Whatever.

God, none of this would be an issue if the sex was worse. If it was even just average. Or even–

“So you don’t, then,” he replies, and as soon as he speaks it’s like your awareness snaps to him, narrows and refines like adjusting a microscope, everything falling outside the edges of the lens drifting out of focus. Your thoughts; your ability to reason, too, probably. This was a terrible, terrible idea, you had thought that in the hallway in the biology building what feels like actual lifetimes ago, and you’d been right, then; you should not be here.

It’s alarming, the way that you can’t even seem to summon up the will to care.

“I said I don’t know.” That horrible iniquitous thing in your belly coils itself tighter, twisting in on itself like a snake, hollow and starving, like it wants to sink teeth into him, and would do it, too, if he were closer.

“Right. And maybe you don’t,” Beck replies, as if to say, I do , a hard gleam of satisfaction in his eyes that betrays the otherwise light, conversational cadence of his voice.

You don’t respond to that. In your belly, that heat pulses and burns brighter.

There’s a silence, then, drawn out and excruciatingly unbearable, and during it you drain the rest of your beer, maybe just to do something with your hands, relieve that nervous itch in your fingers. Maybe to chase the feeling of being somewhere beyond your own control– because that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Because– well, presumably because there is something fucking wrong with you.

“Thank you,” you say, after a long while, “For dinner.”

Whatever you see in his expression then; it seems like enjoyment. Like he’s pleased. And while you could almost understand all the rest of the things you’d just seen from him–

You don’t understand that.

“It’s late,” he says, with a casual nonchalance, taking your plate from you to the dishwasher and waving a dismissive hand at your protests, you being an adult who is perfectly capable of putting your own dishes away, and all.

When he turns back, you rise from the bar stool and meet him halfway, in the middle of the kitchen. Like this, you have to tip your head back to look at him, just a little, and whatever shameless thing inside of you that you try so hard to repress when you’re not tipsy and unthinking is way too into that, but seeing as you are both of those things at the moment, you don’t care. That feeling, the climbing, steady warmth; it just spreads further, sweeps through your limbs and fills every part of you, until you think it must overtake every cell in your body. Until it’s all you can think about.

He looks at you, for a second, and one of those slow, sharp smiles curves across his face. When he moves past you and towards the living room,he steps into your space to do it– on purpose, you know it’s on purpose, if there’s ever anything you’re absolutely sure about when it comes to him it’s that everything is always on fucking purpose– and you can’t stop any of the things that you know must happen; the way your body must go tense and strung taut with anticipation or how your breathing must catch somewhere in your throat or how your pupils must dilate, the breadth of your irises reduced to just a tiny sliver of color–

“Come on,” he says, without looking back, voice unbearably even. “I’ll put something on the TV.”

And–

That feeling inside of you– it pulses and trembles and wants, and then it doesn’t really matter what you do or don’t understand or what little sense you could ever make of his behavior or motivations, because–

You understand this, at least.

#ties that bind #quentin beck x reader #mysterio x reader #ohhh this was a fun scene. this dynamic is deeply enjoyable to write he's such a weird fucked up guy

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