#freak out the squares

[freakingoutthesquares]

‘Freak Out...’ is laugh out loud funny, because, of course, pre-fame Pulp devised a stage set of toilet paper and tin foil only for it to crumble around them, of course they set fire to a prized palm tree in Toulouse with a misfired firework, and the highlight of their first ever Top Of The Pops performance was, of course, eating Mariah Carey’s biscuits.

Louder Than War Magazine, Issue 2, Winter 2015.

With the release of biography ‘Freak Out The Squares’, PULP man Russell Senior remains fiercely proud of the accomplishments of Sheffield’s finest. Louise Brown talks to a uniquely British man about a uniquely British band.

THE rock biography; that tome of scintillating scandal and sordid excess, where musicians can retire disgracefully airing all of their worst behaviours alongside shocking barbs against colleagues, rivals and the waifs and strays they met along their path of rock and roll hedonism. We, mere mortals, lap them up, each page depicting the charmed lives of music’s most notorious characters.

‘Freak Out The Squares: Life In A Band Called Pulp’, by Pulp guitarist, violinist and self-confessed “grownup of the group’, Russell Senior, is the latest in rock memoir overload, and we settle in for a wild ride of mis-shapes, mistakes and misfits. In fact, what we get is a lot of tea, games of chess and mild-mannered facts about minerals. Did you know that if you add iodine to an axolotl it turns into a newt?

But Pulp were a different class, weren’t they? They did not have the cockney cheek of Blur, not the brash Mancunian swagger of Oasis, they were the psychedelic avant garde art experiment, who had tried for a decade to claw themselves out of Sheffield’s agitprop pop scene, who found themselves in the right place, at the right time and stumbled upon the holy grail of indie gold with era defining anthems ‘Common People’ and ‘Disco 2000’.

Sardonic and as well-presented as Jarvis Cocker in one his jumble sale suits, ‘Freak Out...’ is ‘The Royle Family’ of rock biogs, in that nothing actually happens but it is in the ennui and the unglamorous truthfulness that the writer’s Midas touch is revealed.

‘Freak Out...’ is laugh out loud funny, because, of course, pre-fame Pulp devised a stage set of toilet paper and tin foil only for it to crumble around them, of course they set fire to a prized palm tree in Toulouse with a misfired firework, and the highlight of their first ever Top Of The Pops performance was, of course, eating Mariah Carey’s biscuits.

This is not sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, more atypical British fumbling of the bra-straps, white-outs after one toke of Black Grape’s joint and playing so out of tune it actually made the band the unique freaks we came to love.

But if it’s not going to a be a tell-all page-turner of bolshy Britpop bragging, then why write it at all? “I kind of felt I ought to write it,” says Russell, his Yorkshire twang ever-giving him a tone of sarcasm and weariness. Speaking shortly before his appearance at Manchester’s Louder Than Words festival (Louderthanwordsfest.com).

“Astronauts, they seem very inarticulate. They’ve been to the moon, but they can’t say anything about it, so I thought, well, I can be loquacious hopefully, and as an eye-witness, I thought I should do it, especially since there were some programmes on Britpop a few years back and they seemed really lame. They didn’t get to the heart of it. I want to try and put people in that dislocated world, the duty of the witness really.”

Britpop, what actually was it? From the turn of the 1990s until the chimes of the new Millennium were rung in, it seemed like the British pop music, and art, worlds, for that matter, were The Zeitgeist. Tracey Emin was making headlines with unmade beds, Damien Hirst was pickling bovine and bands like Blur, Oasis and Pulp, who couldn’t sound more unlike one other if they tried, were as iconic as Ginger Spice in a Union Jack frock.

“It’s not a genre, is it?” Russell ponders. “It’s not like reggae, it’s not a sound. Saint Etienne were deconstructing dance and yet they were Britpop. It was a group of outsiders from different angles, having a go at making pop music that was vaguely credible. It was a rejection of the world that was around us at the time, but the rejection took different forms. It’s not a musical form, really. You can’t teach it. It’s a funny one, isn’t it? You look back and think, well, what was it? Because it didn’t seem like anything coherent at the time, certainly not artistically.”

“Great guitarists like Bernard Butler and Richard Hawley don’t intimidate me because we all do a different thing. They may be able to play ‘All Along The Watchtower’ better than Hendrix but they can’t do spare and spiky and proddy as well as me.”

One of the motifs throughout the book is just how bad Pulp were as musicians. It starts with Russell reviewing Jarvis’ band for his fanzine and referring to the songs as “dirges” but “the appearance of the frontman is entertaining”, however the two became friends and Russell joined Pulp not to bring any musical splendour to the act, in fact, it led the group down an even more outré and unconventional rabbit hole. This self-deprecation almost does as a disservice to the group that ten years later would give the British musical canon pop gold like ‘Something Changed’.

“We learned,” Russell laughs when challenged. “But one of the good things about not having the musical theory, is that you do things that are, technically speaking, out of tune. I think it frees things up. I avoided learning, I was of that mindset. I wanted to find something around another corner, so there’s an almost wilful determination to retain a naivety in a way. We were anti-muso.

We had proper, in inverted commas, musicians audition for us and we just didn’t want them because we wanted somebody that was enfant savage. It sounds a bit ridiculous now, and yeah, we did get to learn about chords as time went on, so it’s strange in a way because, in the end, Pulp craft the perfect pop song, they don’t make a random extreme noise terror, but that was the roots of it. It ended up as pop music, almost by accident really.”

The band did set out to be a pop band though, Russell makes no claim to the other throughout the first half of the book, which shows a warts-and-all side to Pulp before the Britpop boom. They didn’t shy away from the spotlight, “Or want to be an underground, sell-no-records, indie purity thing,” Russell confirms.

“With the C86 movement, they seemed to take succour from how few records they’d sold, like that was a mark of integrity. We thought that was guff and saw not selling records as failure, so I think, in a way, we stood out from the crowd, in that ‘we are going to entertain and we are going to sell records’. It was not very cool at the time.”

“Outside the Cambridge Corn Exchange a young man approached me. There was something funny about him, then he attempted to pass me a wrap of drugs. I refused and then noticed a cameraman with a long lens taking photographs. This was a set-up, imagine the consequences if I’d taken the wrap. That bastard was prepared to ruin my life for a made-up story.”

The price of fame is high, though, and Russell is candid in his dissection of it. “It’s safe to say [that I hate fame]. It was a downer, there was a certain purity and innocence to the Britpop thing, despite all the excess. It seemed a bit of a charmed life really, and then you hit reality of things and you’re cynical. I had a happy view of it and I liked our fans, and it didn’t seem like this cynical rock world to me, it seemed like something light and fluffy.

I don’t know if I’ve stressed it enough in the book but we were very much ‘of’ our fans. We were jumble sale kids. People would look at you funny in the street, and then you were in the sanctity of the concert where there were other strange people, so there was this secret little club of outsiders, and it was a nice thing.”

Of all the Britpop bands, Pulp seemed the most approachable, the most down-to-earth, the most likely to invite you in for a cuppa if you were camped outside their house in December waiting for an autograph. “It’s true,” laughs Russell, as I tell him a story of a friend for whom that happened to.

“And on the whole, I have had my differences with the members of the band, but basically they’re all fairly decent. I wouldn’t say we were prudes but I suppose we were a bit, in that Yorkshire way. We were well-brought up and had decent manners, and no we didn’t hold with bad behaviour at all.”

Laughing about some of the unpretentious, no-nonsense Yorkshire-ness of ‘Freak Out The Squares’, we promise Russell that we won’t paint him completely as rock ‘n’ roll’s least likely, or as a thoroughly decent bloke too much, a real model of the common people. “If it’s true to say it,” he laughs.

“All that Northern stuff, there’s two strands to Sheffield. One is the by-heck whimsy and they get terribly excited about cooling towers getting knocked down. I can’t be doing with that professional Northern-ness, but there’s always a form of Sheffieldness that’s this Dadaist intense thing and I guess I cleave to the latter persuasion really. I don’t really do Northern whimsy.

This is an unusual interview in a way because most people are trying to get me to dish more dirt and I’m like, ‘I haven’t got any more’.

It’s honest in that it does own up to the fact that there wasn’t much in the way of groupies.”

“When we got on the bus, the back room had a general air of a Western saloon – cigarettes, whiskey and wild, wild women. The tour manager interrupted the reverie with the unfortunate phrase: ‘Excuse me ladies, we’ve got to shoot off now’. Everyone was a winner. The girls could hold their heads up high, and no one had to shag in the toilet looking at the ‘No Solids’ sign and wake up feeling like yesterday’s fish and chips.”

“The chronicle of Pulp, the true and honest chronicle of Pulp would take up a shelf of books,” Russell sighs when we do ask him if he was perhaps too polite and left out some of the more outlandish tales from the road. “If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all.

There could’ve been lots of moaning about this, that and the other but it would all be rather trivial. There would be no major revelations, so even if I had the inclination to write a kiss-and-tell, put-the-boot-in book I’d have been really thin on material for it. I’m actually being quite frank, and in a way, brave, in admitting that it’s not always that exciting and if you win the ‘hang out with Pulp for the day’ prize you’d probably choose not to do it again."

“People want Pulp to live in the Monkees house and all be great mates and I don’t have to put the dagger, because people’s view of Pulp is quite a benign one. I can’t remember the last time anyone said anything unkind to me about it, it’s awfully fluffy all of this and I feel a little bit guilty that there’s not more bite but the truth is that people have a lot of affection for Pulp and I’ve no desire to change that.”

The book starts with Russell carefully considering Jarvis’ invitation to reunite the old gang for a one-off Glastonbury performance, flits back to when he first saw Jarvis “murder” (his words) ‘Wild Thing’ by The Troggs while his bass player fell off the stage, follows his acceptance into the Pulp fold and acts as a witty diary of the band’s 2011 comeback and mid-’90s highs.

It allows us a bird’s eye view of Britpop in ascendance – from its biggest stories (Pulp unwittingly to blame for pitting Blur and Oasis against each other with scurrilous gossip about who said what about Justine Frischmann) and wildest excesses (Russell lays claim to being responsible for Britpop folly Menswear, who signed to Island for a ludicrous fee and actually weren’t very good at all) but while he seemed, on the face of it all, to have had a jolly good time, the reunion was a one-off for him, despite protestation from both band and fans.

“Well, phone calls have come, quite a number of times, and things didn’t entirely wind down when it was supposed to, and so I can say that [I’m done] with reasonable degrees of certainty, because there were things that I’ve not done, like playing The Royal Albert Hall and so I’ve resisted those, but I’m very romantic about Pulp,” he admits, when pushed to see if he would tread the boards just one more time and had this book maybe triggered a little bit of wanderlust in him.

“Not everything in my life is as pure as that, but that’s one thing I like to keep it pure. I don’t wish to reduce it by cashing in on it, although you could say I’m doing that with this book. I could’ve tried to pump up the controversy, and I would have sold more copies but I’m quite romantic about it, and protective about the legacy.”

Now a full-time writer he admits that “I got my violin down so I could play it but I’ve not, it’s got dust on it. We weren’t musicians, I really don’t feel like I was. I don’t know how to play any other songs all the way through apart from Pulp songs, and I don’t sit around playing the guitar. What’s next? Writing! A geology-themed mystery romance, a book on the life of Edwin of Northumbria, and another one on foraging. Eclectic and uneconomic! Choose the things that are least likely to sell and do that, that’s what I’m doing.”

Of course he is, of course the foppish, besuited outsider from Britpop’s most bizarre and stubbornly contrary and peculiar band has swapped the riches and adulation of pop music for writing books about mushrooms and ancient kings. What else would he do? Like we said, Pulp and Russell Senior were of a different class, and we wouldn’t change them for the world.

‘Freak Out The Squares: Life In A Band Called Pulp’ is available now from Aurum Press Ltd

Transcription by me.

[karda]

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[tsubaki94]

Phantom Comic Ch.5

Page 31 <--> Page 33

Begining

Masterpost

[reineydraws]

Hi hi! For the spotify wrapped art game, can I suggest akataka with 56?

oh, i think i was doomed before i began

56 is special girl by dodie. a particular fave, so im glad u chose mishanks for it since they've been on my mind. :')

wrapped 2023 game

[5eraphim]

I have a request for a short little one✨ But only if you have the time and want to👍

So darling is like this smart, classy, intelligent woman spy meets and gets obsessed with and makes plans to manipulate her. But she ofcourse catches on and the next day she's gone, so spy has to hunt her down. When he does find her he has a completly new apperance due to his discuises and reader is genuinly interested in him. So one night they drink or something and darling gets drugs sliped in her drink so spy gets to fuck her un-discuised and she gets to have high, amazing sex with the person she dispises the most without even realizing it. Darling doesen't really know she's practicly been raped or find out it this man was spy all along! Yay!

Men will truly display some of the lowest depravity imaginable and then grab a shovel. (<- support class behavior)

Title: Unspoken Alliances

Character: Spy 🐍 (Team Fortress 2)

Rating: X (MINORS DNI, GO PLAY OUTSIDE)

Content Warnings: yandere, x reader, dubcon/deception, toxic relationship, drugging/forced intoxication (MDMA, ecstasy and alcohol), sensory deprivation, restraints, AFAB reader, mind games, revenge sex, marking/biting, teasing

Word Count: 7.2k

MASTER LIST

TIP JAR

"Love goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps." Much Ado About Nothing, Act 2 Scene 3, Shakespeare

"Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye." Plato's Republic Book VII

"So beautiful. What a tragedy you can't see it for yourself." His voice was low and breathy, almost purring. Close enough to feel his breath against your cheek as he stretched out beside you, but from your position, blindfolded and restrained by ropes laying on your back, just out of reach from the man in bed. 

Ever since you shared a cocktail with the mercenary you believed to be Medic earlier that evening, you felt something special spark between you both. The moment that last sip of alcohol passed your lips, something awakened, aroused, and unrestrained by former inhibitions; in a matter of a few hours, the two of you wound up in the same bed. A touching act of intimacy overshadowed by two factors unknown to you. Firstly, it wasn't just alcohol you consumed, and second, the one who gave you that drink wasn't Medic.

Blindfolded, your hands were bound over your head with a soft, stiff black rope, the same rope which wound around both your ankles, pinning them down flat and securing them to the bottom bed legs. Keeping them fully extended and spread, you didn't need the ropes to comply, but he insisted. Annoyingly, you were still clothed, incredibly turned on, and unable to do anything to solve that problem yourself, forced to wait with agonizing anticipation for your partner to make the next move.

But that was your own problem, as the man was in no rush now that the hard part of the evening was over. After a rough start, Spy lured you back to his place to spend the evening with him, of your own free will- with just a bit of incentivizing from him. Exactly how he wanted you.

Spy tried to play fair at first, planning to court you civilly. Far be it from him to fall fast for a stranger, but it had been too long since he shared his bed with a woman, making Spy act a bit impulsively, almost desperately. However, even with sex on his mind, Spy didn't want to come off too imposing too soon. Better to appear mysterious, magnanimous, and charming to attract you closer rather than risk scaring you away by making his real intentions known. 

He thought he was playing all his cards right. He'd been in this situation before more times than he bothered to remember. Spy invited you to an innocent cup of coffee with him during your lunch break to discuss work, his treat, of course. But despite Spy's best efforts to play things safe, after waiting fifteen minutes past the agreed time at the cafe, he understood with grim bitterness that you stood him up. 

It hurt to be blown off like that, but Spy refused to allow this to be the end of it. He returned to work later and discovered you left hours before. He heard you complained about some kind of illness, but Spy knew you were likely just trying to avoid him or any confrontation. Fortunately, Spy was tipped off that you were planning on heading to another coffee house on the other end of town to finish your work, the kind open late into the night and was accustomed to customers occupying space for hours while chain-drinking caffeinated beverages.

It was naive to assume you could just run off to some cafe for a few hours while hiding from him. 

It was all too easy for Spy to find you under the disguise of another, offer you a spiked drink, and watch you fall into his arms. Spy spared no precaution. Even with the MDMA pumping through your system, scrambling your sensory information and reasoning, he was too close now to risk you waking up. You were so needy and cute when you were drugged out of your mind. It made bringing you home and back to bed with him so easy. Letting him walk you upstairs to his bedroom while hanging off his arm, giggling, wearing the intoxication on your sleeve. If he wanted, Spy bet he could push you up against the wall and take you in the hallway, and you'd let him; you'd love him for it. But he had better things in mind for tonight.

During the drive home, Spy shed his disguise, carefully ensuring he had the cover of the darkness on his side before doing so, but when he checked on you using his peripheral vision, you were too out of it to notice a thing. Quiet jazz hummed through the static-softened radio, the scrape of windshield wipers against soft rain, and the quiet ambient sounds of traffic, all softening and melting together in your mind, making you feel like you were in a cozy dream.

If you were beautiful when Spy first met you, where you were focused, headstrong, and in "work mode," seeing you all tuckered out and woozy sprawled out in his passenger seat made you all the more desirable. So innocent and at peace, at this point in your drug-induced haze, you were beginning to detach from reality, your mind unraveling as a pleasurable brain fog began to roll in. But it was only a matter of time before the alcohol and MDMA really hit your system and, subsequently, your libido.

In a haze, you were brought from the front door to the one in his bedroom. To his surprise, you were somehow aware you were in his bedroom, and using a wall to support yourself, managed to peel away from Spy enough to wobble your way over to the bed, not bothering to turn on a bedroom light to find the bed. He felt a throb, watching the smile on your face as you sat on the edge before going boneless as your limp shoulders and spine made contact with the luxurious sheets. Conflicted, Spy wondered if you were so desperate to get into bed because of drowsiness or lust, but judging by the kisses shared before the ride over, Spy refused to believe you wanted this any less than he did.

Using his own body to support yours, and his shoulder to rest your head on, Spy lead you inside. It was a miracle he didn't accidentally uncloak himself before getting you home. You were so trusting to accept his drink and even allow him to goad you into drinking it so fast. Ever the sadist, Spy felt quite a stir watching you begin to nod off. Rubbing in the cruelty a little harder by skimming over the top secret documents you were working on before he showed up, the ones you were in charge of protecting, knowing he could use this as blackmail later. 

As you slid into a comfortable spot in the center of the bed, making sure to slip off your shoes before entering, lying comfortably on your back, taking a moment to appreciate having somewhere so comfortable to stretch out. A sound halfway between a yawn and a sigh passed your lips as you lethargically made yourself comfortable. The bottom hem of your top just barely pulled upward as you stretched out, exposing the skin beneath to the comfortably chill bedroom air. Without thinking, you were about to pull your shirt off from over your head when Spy spoke from a few paces to your side. He stalked closer to the bed, his hands finding yours, thin fingers firmly wrapped around your hands, keeping them still. If you were clear-headed, you would've instantly detected how small the hands holding your own were, far smaller than Medic's ought to have been.

But logic and suspicion didn't matter now. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears. Your entire body felt like an overextended tendon, full of anticipation just seconds away from snapping. 

The excitement made you giddy. And childishly, you tried to fidget your hands out from his grasp while he kept you pinned in place without budging. 

"C'mon- it's too hot in here, I wanna take everything off." The voice you heard hardly sounded like your own, so slurred and pouty.

In a far more measured voice, Spy responded, "Whining will get you nowhere. You're in my house now. You follow my rules here."

He sounded so cold and detached that you couldn't help but mope, trying to focus your gaze up at the smear of non-descript shadow where his face ought to be.

Spy felt a twinge of regret for being so harsh, "I promised I'd bring you here for a good time, didn't I? Be patient, and I will make it worth your time."

From your spot in bed, you stared up at Spy with wide, unfocused eyes and nodded once. Crouching down much closer to the bed, Spy's face was close enough now that you could feel his breath as it fanned against your own face. "Allow me to be the one to undress you tonight."

It wasn't a request. It was a definitive statement. Your eyes drift shut, as the mere thought of him undressing you made you throb. You wanted it so damn bad, but the best you could do to communicate such a want was a timid little nod and a vague noise of understanding. 

"Tonight, we're doing this my way. Now lay nice and still for me." Without Warning, you felt his hand make contact with the side of your face, holding something soft and sleek in his hands.

Spy, holding a long, thin cloth with both hands, made an effort to secure the fabric over your eyes, but for just a moment, the trance was broken as you pulled away a bit confused and slurring, "Blindfold?" You tried to focus on the mass of shadows where his face was, trying to formulate a complete sentence was too hard, but you hoped he understood what you meant and would explain himself. 

Rather than an explanation, Spy remained absolutely still but responded in a voice far less soft than before, practically growling, "As I said before, you're in my bed now. Now lay back and obey. I will not warn you again."

Without another word, you clenched your jaw shut and held your head as still as possible while he worked swiftly. Spy pulled away to sit upright in bed, "Give me your wrist." he ordered.

You knew better than to question him again and compiled without a word. Feeling a sick thrill for being ordered around like this. If you were sober, you might find such unquestioning obedience shameful, but if logic was already forgotten, shame followed soon after. You couldn't be bothered. It felt too good to allow someone else to take control after so much stress at work. There was no need to think; your body knew how to respond to his touch, obey commands, and submit.

It wasn't long until Spy managed to restrain both wrists together at the headboard and ankles to the bottom corners of the bed before you felt the bed dip beside you as he returned to his seat beside you. 

Blindfolded and spread, you were a vision he'd never forget, even while fully clothed. And he couldn't help but smile as he crawled into place on all fours about you, hearing your breath deepen and how you couldn't stop fidgeting beneath him, feeling too hot under the layers of fabric that separated your body from his.

The feeling of his body so close to where you needed him the most, you tried to buck your hips upward where you thought he would be, only to come up too short below to get any friction, unaware of the pathetic little sounds you made tring to get any kind of stimulation from the man in bed.

Spy whispered, his voice dripping with faux sympathy, "Poor thing, you're looking so flustered. Is something wrong?"

You nodded and tried to speak but couldn't get any actual words out to urge him on. Spy snickered to himself as he rebalanced his weight onto one arm while he used his other to skim his hand over your shirt, just above your belly, stopping over your belt buckle as you stiffened up, expecting him to undo it for you, but he kept his hand irritatingly still, making you shutter almost panting, under the strain of forcing the muscles in your core to keep from grinding against his hand.

"I'll undo the belt for you, but only if you ask properly." The smug bastard.

Not a full second later you murmured out a needy "C'mon, please! Please just do it already!" To which Spy responded by pulling his hand further away, much to your frustration.

"You can do better than that. You're a smart woman. Use your words." He sounded almost bored, but you could feel him smirking down at you without needing to see his face. If there was one thing you could count on from men of the support classes, it was ceaseless sadism. You should've known he was going to draw this out.

"Please, please undo my belt, I'm too hot- F-feels like I'm dying down here!" It was hard to speak due to the vague numbness of the face and how your tongue felt too heavy in your mouth. You knew the words were garbled; you wouldn't be surprised if you were drooling and your voice hardly coherent over the sound of your own labored breathing, but worse of all, he still didn't seem convinced.

"Hm. Not bad. But you're rather amusing when you're begging for me. Too amusing for your own good. Perhaps I should keep you here a little longer."

You were ready to sob from the frustration of it all. "C'monn, it's not fair, I wanna touch you too! I wanna feel your body with mine- I wanna make you feel good too!" 

Apparently, you said exactly what he wanted to hear as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your face, whispering, "You already are."

Shifting back to sit on his knees, Spy could now use both hands to take off your belt before pulling the zipper down. You sigh with relief at the cool air against the exposed and overheated skin. 

For a moment, you were able to take a deep breath to enjoy this before saying, "Please, take the rest off- you're killing me down here!"

Spy wasn't done yet. Rising from the mattress, he walked to the side of the bed, cupping your cheek, making you nuzzle against the stiff leather glove; you'd never felt so starved for the contact of another. Using his free hand to draw his knife, kissing the side of your face with the flat of the blade. The cold steel against your cheek made you shiver, "You want your clothes off so bad; you don't mind if I use this little thing, do you?. You aren't afraid, are you?"

If he had any lingering reservations, you would break out of your ecstasy-fueled trance; they were entirely gone. Not even with his signature butterfly knife pressed directly against your face did you realize who you were dealing with. 

The slight sting of the knife felt like heaven, and you sighed, knowing relief was so close you could taste it. "Cut them off, I don't need them anymore- just you. You're everything I need." Aside from the spike in libido, your emotions were significantly heightened, and you could feel your heart swell as the words left your mouth, and you felt in that moment, you truly loved the man beside you- whoever the hell he was anyway.

Spy too felt distracted for just a moment at the sincerity in your voice. He expected you'd gone entirely cum-brained by now and didn't expect you to say something surprisingly touching. Starting at the bottom of your pants, he pinched the fabric taught with one hand and used the other to start cutting with the knife with surgeon-like precision, then making likewise work to your shirt, leaving you almost entirely bare. Thankfully, he knew what he was doing because you refused to make this easy for him, constantly wriggling in place, distracting him by sighing as the clothes were practically peeled away.  

Feeling a few layers of clothing peeled away felt like a massive weight off your chest. It wasn't long before you were left in nothing but undergarments, which were promptly cut away like the rest of your clothes. 

You hardly realized the fabric was gone or that Spy was back between your legs until you felt an ungloved hand tracing up your inner thigh lightly, taking his sweet time before his hand eventually found your sex. Spy applied almost no pressure to his fingers, but the contact alone made you go giddy, unable to stop squirming as Spy's fingers began to move slowly and without much pressure.

Feeling the slick coating his fingertips as his eyes drifted shut, he grinned with satisfaction, feeling how fast you were coming undone. Allow his fingers to move on their own, and his thumb placed firmly against the skin over your clit. You tried to buck upwards and angle your hips to feel his thumb where you needed it, but he knew exactly what he was doing and didn't budge until you settled down. You knew without having to say anything or even look at him to understand the message he was trying to send you, be good, and he'll give you what you want, but not until he's ready. In other words, "Sit, stay, and beg."

Using his other hand, still gloved, he pushed your thighs open a bit wider, massaging the soft, sensitive flesh of your upper thigh. With his help keeping your thighs spread and pressed down against the mattress, you found it much easier to remain stable, keeping your motion limited to your back arching up from the bed, your knees buckling with such tension, you swore you could feel the nervous tremors making your legs shake and head pull back and forth in rhythm with your heavy, labored breathing. Spy was pleased to see how well you managed to hold steady, content enough to use two fingers to stroke up against your slit, just hard enough for his fingertips to slip in before slipping back out as he traced upwards. Gaging your reaction, he dropped his thumb to connect with your clit as he slipped a finger inside, watching you jolt a little in surprise. 

Spy didn't need to move too long to find where he was looking for, his single finger curling up, feeling every inch of warm, slick softness he could while you struggled to stay still. Spy could feel your struggle, and with a tone of slight mockery, Spy hummed, "It's alright if you want to grind against me since you've been so good at being docile. I'll give you permission."

It was perfect timing, too; as he slid a second finger in, you felt yourself tense up, your own body overjoyed at the stimulation, before you began to roll your hips in rhythm with his hand as his fingers curled inside, trying to find that spot he found earlier. Before long, you were trying to choke back a moan- slightly nervous Spy would decide to punish you if you got too loud while he pumped his fingers inside. You tried your hardest to keep up with his pace, but as he moved faster and harder inside, you were too tense to move much on your own and let him play with your body as he wanted. All of the tension and heat building at your core felt like it was getting too much to handle, you could feel the oncoming climax, and you were ready for it.

Spy planned on making you wait longer for your first orgasm of the night, but now that he was here sitting in the moment, he felt almost as excited as you were to let it happen. And with one more roll of his thumb, timed perfectly with the fingers inside, it happened.

Despite the heavy restraints, you felt like you were flying. When you felt yourself coming against Spy's hand, your mind was lost in a drug and pleasure-induced euphoria that made you whimper and groan as you rode out the high as long as you could. You could hear Spy saying something but couldn't really understand. You weren't entirely back to your senses, but when he swiped his thumb against your forehead to wipe some of the sweat away before planting a loving kiss, you beamed, knowing whatever he was saying, it must've been good! 

After such an intense experience, you clenched and unclenched your hands into fists, curling your toes, trying to gently work the feeling back into them. The past few hours were a blur, the past few days were painful, but now nothing mattered to you but this moment. As you stewed a bit longer in a soothing afterglow, comfortably recalling the events of the evening before, which brought you here.

You should've finished your work before heading out for the night. But when your intuition told you to avoid men, you found it best not to question it. Spy wasn't the type to offer anyone kindness without wanting something in return, and you had a bad feeling about exactly what he wanted. You hardly knew Spy but weren't surprised to learn he was the type to think a few charismatic advances entitled him to easy access to you whenever he pleased. And as soon as you got the chance, you packed up your work for the day and left base. The distance from base gave you the comfort to believe you'd escaped Spy for the evening, but for someone like Spy, who made a living of hiding and stalking, you could only do so much to remain undetected, and if he wanted to find you, there wasn't much you could do to protect yourself. It was hard to keep from watching the other patrons of the coffeehouse closely, and you couldn't help looking over your shoulder, expecting to see someone else watching you. But no one was there waiting, and hardly anyone noticed your staring. You were beginning to think you wouldn't feel safe again until you were back in your own bed.

It was mid-afternoon when you arrived at the small, decently secluded cafe lounge to get work done. Still, you were so distracted thinking about Spy, and the general noise and bustle of a public location kept you from much productivity. By now, the sun already set, the work day technically ended hours ago, and you had little to show for it, and your frustration only made it harder to focus. 

Your eyes wandered from your screen to the empty mug beside you, and you considered if another drink would inspire some more progress or at least justify occupying your space in the cafe for so long. Before you could decide your next move, a hand on your shoulder brought you back to reality. 

"Good evening!" You stiffened visibly upright in your seat at the sound of someone close behind speaking, gently squeezing your shoulder to get your attention. Your head whipped over your shoulder to see Medic, chipper as ever, standing less than a breath away behind you, still in his work attire, though thankfully clean of any bloodstains or crusted bits of entrails or bone that might've clung to him during combat.

"Hey, Medic, I didn't see you there!"

He grinned, "Did I frighten you?"

Relaxing at the sight of a friendly face, you mirrored his grin, "Not at all, old man." 

Without waiting for an invitation, Medic turned to the largely blank Word doc on your screen and the pile of documents beside the laptop, "Still at work?"

You weren't supposed to let any of the mercenaries get a peek at confidential documents, but if you were honest, there was almost no information for him to steal. Shutting the laptop, you gathered the papers, organizing them back into their folder while he watched. 

"I was on my way out, actually. Though a change of scenery would make me more productive, I think I better call it a night." You realized it seemed rude to pack up as soon as he showed up, but you were far from home, and if you wanted to catch the bus back to town, you needed to head out. 

"Leaving so soon?" Medic questioned.

You picked up your dirty mug, keeping your eyes on it as you drummed your fingers against the ceramic, "Sorry, I wanted to make it home before dark. I really should head before it gets too late."

He nodded, "You came pretty far out of your way to get a little work done. Is something troubling you?"

Your first instinct was to play it off as nothing, to lie and give some lame excuse about always wanting to visit this longue, but why bother? Odds were, if you couldn't focus here, rushing home wouldn't do your productivity any favors. Checking the time, you confirmed it wasn't all that late and decided to go ahead and tell him the truth.

Sitting back in your seat, you set the mug back onto the table, staring out the window at the streetlights piercing the winter night fog. "It was another mercenary on your team. He was acting weird, and I didn't want to run into him again today, so I came here."

Not a full second later, Medic replied, "It was Scout, wasn't it."

You smiled, "Surprisingly, no." 

He looked at you expectantly. Despite the nearly empty coffee house, you quickly scanned to see if anyone was listening in on this conversation, which obviously none were, before replying in a quieter voice, "It was Spy. I can't explain it, but he was being so nice to me. I don't trust that, not from him anyway." 

Medic nodded, "You think he wanted something from you?"

"I think I know exactly what he wanted." You grumbled.

He put a hand on your knee, trying to express sympathy. "You're smart to get away so fast."

"I want to think so, but I just know he's going to be all bitter the next time I see him! And I can't even relax now because I know he could be anywhere!"

Medic settled back in his chair a little, folding his arms across his chest with an odd, amused look on his face. "You must really hate him, don't you? You can tell me, I won't say anything to him, I promise."

You sighed through your nose, unsure how to reply, "That's just it. I'm really not so sure if I do or not."

Medic looked at you skeptically, not anticipating that response, "Pardon?"

You laced your hands together in your lap, fidgeting slightly in your seat as you kept your gaze focused out the window beside you, "Well, to be fair, it's never fun to care about someone more than they care about you. Yeah, Spy can be a real creep, but it's not easy to feel unloved like that, who wouldn't feel sorry for someone in that situation. Or, like, you need to love someone enough for the both of you, I guess? I'm sorry, I'm not sure this is making much sense, is it?"

An odd look crossed Medic's face, almost one of disbelief. "Do you really feel sorry for him?"

Shrugging but maintaining eye contact, you nodded, continuing, "I mean, it's a lot of pressure to try and love someone enough to make the other person reciprocate the affection. I understand how it makes someone feel so trapped. I know it's hard, but I believe it's for the best to keep my distance. For both our sakes." As you rambled, you shifted a little in your seat. "I mean, even if it is just sex or whatever, no one likes feeling turned down or unwanted like that, you know? Maybe I don't like him personally, but I really can't help but feel for him here, you know what I mean?"

Clearing your throat and sitting up straighter in your chair, you felt a bit awkward after your little tangent, "Anyhow, all that to say, I feel bad about skipping out on him like that. I guess I'll owe him one next time I see him."

Medic's easygoing smile returned, nodding to you in understanding, "True, but you'd better be careful next time you meet him. Wait and see where all that sympathy gets you next time, whether you meet his love or hate."

"I didn't think about that. God, this sucks." You had no idea if you felt any better after getting this off your chest, but you were just about certain any chance of finishing your work tonight was out of the question. No way you could focus on all that now.

Just as you were about to get ready to depart for the evening, make some lame excuse about needing to get home urgently or something when you heard Medic's voice again, "You look tense. How about something to drink?"

You couldn't help but chuckle a little, "Is that advisable? Mixing stress and alcohol?"

Medic shrugged, not appearing to see any issue, "All in moderation."

A drink did sound like just the thing, but you had a bad feeling if you didn't leave now, you'd regret it by morning. "I'm not so sure. I have to catch the bus soon."

He brushed off your words as soon as they left your mouth, "Let me drive. I insist."

Hell, if he was so intent on something to take the edge off, you weren't about to stop him, "If you really want to…"

Needing no further incentive, he was off while you busied yourself to ensure your confidential documents were tucked away and back in your work bag. Medic returned shortly after with some kind of cocktail in a highball glass, slightly rose-colored in one hand, and a cup of black tea in the other. He handed you the one that looked like a cocktail. You accepted, raising your glass a little thanks, "To good company."

Medic tapped his cup against your glass before taking a small sip of his drink, watching you do the same. The drink was much sweeter than you were expecting; it wasn't precisely a luxury-tier location, but the flavor of your cocktail tasted particularly artificial and syrupy. Still, a free drink was a free drink, and you made sure to give thanks before trying another sip. It tasted much better on the second try, now that the sweetness didn't take you so off guard.

You closed your eyes a little, trying to decipher the taste. "What kind of flavor is in this?"

He stared at you over the rim of his teacup, "Try and guess."

Forcing another sip down your throat, you answered, "Mango?"

Medic shook his head, his eyes never once leaving you as you enjoyed the cocktail, "Not quite. Try a little more."

The more you drank, the faster it went down. It was intense; you could already tell that much, but it didn't taste like strong liquor. It was like some kind of miracle potion! "Is it grenadine?"

Medic wasn't even drinking anymore. His teacup was abandoned on the saucer while his full attention was on you. "Not that either. Take a big sip and see if that helps."

You tried to take as big of a sip as you could manage but ran out of drink before you could do so. Still, you were curious to know what was in the drink and how the flavor seemed to change and warp the longer it stayed on your tongue. "Guava?"

Medic clapped a hand on your back, pulling you into a tight hug, making your head spin slightly from the sudden movement, "You got it! How do you feel now?"

"Drink was amazing! And I, uh, I do feel a little better, thanks!"

Keeping one arm wrapped around you, he took the glass from you with his other hand, "Almost done!" He poured the last concoction you didn't even realize was left into your mouth while you swallowed obediently, feeling warm and giddy with Medic's arm wrapped around your shoulders, keeping you upright."

"There you are, good job!" His praise sounded eerily like what a doctor would give a 5-year-old after enduring their first shot, and weirdly, it didn't embarrass you. You were too warm and full of levity from the alcohol to care about feeling patronized.

Helping you back down to your seat, "Wait right here, I'll return the glass for you."

While he was gone, you stared blankly ahead at your screen, watching the line blink on a predominantly white Word document until Medic returned, leaning down with one hand on the back of your chair to shut the laptop. "Didn't I shut that already?" You thought before he spoke, "Ready to go?"

You knew you weren't done, but for some reason, you couldn't exactly remember what you started in the first place and didn't complain as Medic helped gather your notes and put away your device. While it was impossible to stay focused, you were still largely coherent, feeling somewhat affected by the alcohol, though not in a way familiar to you. Heavy eyelids made the world around you dark and blurry. The spinning in your head made you bob forward in your seat, unable to find your posture. The taste of sweet artificial fruit clung like a thick syrup to your tongue and in the corners of your mouth no matter how many times you swallowed. 

A fuzzy, warm feeling deep in the pit of your gut made you shift in your seat as you found it more and more difficult to mask this sudden drowsiness. Fortunately, Medic was more than happy to help you pack up the work bag you thought you already tucked away and hold the door open for you, leading you by hand to his car through the dark, hopefully not unsafe roads. 

Medic led the way effortlessly. For a split second, you were too timid to lean on him for support; you were a grown woman and had no right acting so sloppily after a single drink. But whether or not you wanted his help, by God, did you need it. And he could sense it, too. Leading you with one arm wrapped around your waist to help keep you upright while leading you to his car before helping you inside.

You sat back, your eyes drifting shut, feeling Medic leaning over you to help fasten the seat belt, and with his shoulder so close, your head tipped forward to rest against it. If Medic wanted you to stop acting so clingy, he wasn't about to say so, allowing you to keep your head resting against his shoulder as he patted the top of your head. "There you are, nice and safe." 

Just as he was about to pull away, you leaned a little harder against him, shaking your head, trying to keep him close despite your absence of communication skills. "Not home… Scared to go back-" 

Thankfully, he was close enough to understand the mumble that was your voice. Using one hand to ruffle your head playfully, "You don't have to be alone; come home with me." 

He didn't need to assure you, nor was he scared he might have to; by now, your mind was entirely overtaken by fuzzy neediness. Any concerns about trusting another person to get you home while you were already so out of it were gone. All you knew was you wanted Medic to stay, to keep you feeling safe and comfortable. As long as he was there with you, none of the potential dangers of the world outside mattered. 

Childishly, you clung to his coat with clumsy, weak fingers, keeping him close as you buried your face in his chest, "Need you- Need to be safe." It was too hard to bother with complete sentences. Not only was your mind spinning, but your tongue felt too big for your mouth, and though you could hear and understand Medic well enough, communication on your end felt impossible.

For a while, he didn't pull away; instead, he used both arms to support you in a secure hug as you remained nestled into his chest. "I've got you." 

Eventually, you managed to pull away enough to look up at him, blinking, unable to entirely focus or see him clearly with dilated eyes. "Let's go home."

But before he could pull away further, you planted a gentle, open-mouthed kiss against his lips. Instantly, you felt him returning the kiss, and he cupped your cheek with one hand to help keep your head table and deepen the kiss, giving you butterflies. His tongue slid against yours so smoothly it helped soothe your agitation and confusion over how you managed to become so sloppy over a single drink. Medic's mouth against your own made you feel like nothing but he mattered, a feeling which never once went away the drive over; even as your eyes drifted shut, that comfortable smile never went away as you replayed the kiss over and over in your head.

Never before had a ride home at night felt so intense and relaxing. Fluorescent lights passed in dull flashes, and the windshield wipers clicked to clear the rain with a soothing rhythm. No doubt if you tried to take the bus home, you'd catch more than a little unwarned attention with your loopy behavior. But none of that mattered because you weren't in a crowded bus, and you weren't going home alone; you were with Medic. Even if you couldn't see him in the dark car, the presence of another nearby soothed your worries, and made your heart throb.

Thinking about the car ride over was enough to remind you- and bring you back to the present moment, especially when the blindfold was pulled from your eyes. It didn't make much difference; the lighting was so low, and you doubted you could see your hand in front of your face. You had no idea if he could see your face either, but you smiled up at him regardless, the least you could do to thank him for all he'd done for you tonight.

But you didn't need to see an entire face when you felt your lips against yours, and you didn't need to see who the lips belonged to kiss back. One kiss on the lips became one on the neck, and you could feel hands all over your body, getting greedier, wanting to feel all of you against him. You didn't even realize he was already naked until you felt his head probing against your clit.

The sensation of hot skin grazing between your legs, preparing to align with your core, made you flinch, unable to suppress your own whining. Feeling so needy and overwhelmed was agony. Fortunately, Spy was completely sober and ready to give you precisely what you needed. As if you even deserved it after leaving him high and dry earlier- but for you alone, Spy was willing to show some mercy. 

His own raging hard-on, throbbing as his head connected with your sex made Spy sigh, watching you with half-lid eyes as he prepared himself to thrust forward. You were feeling far less coordinated, haphazardly trying to roll your hips against him, all while he remained still as a statue above, waiting for you to tire yourself out enough to let him take control. 

It's incredible how Spy didn't need to see your face or speak with you to communicate; he knew exactly what you needed. When you finally settled down enough to let him move again, Spy lowered his head to the crook of your neck, nipping at the thin skin as he fully entered your body. 

The ropes creaked lightly as your body strained to accommodate his anatomy while inundated by so many other sensations.

You were just coherent enough to say, "Feels… Feels so fucking good."

After those words left your mouth, you were uncommunicative for the rest of the night. Present, aware, and even responsive to Spy, but unable to speak. One round of sex stretched into two, or maybe more? One of your last memories of the night was the feeling of something running down your thigh and a needy kiss against your neck, which morphed into a harsh bite- but even that wasn't enough to fully awaken you. It wasn't long until your body couldn't take anymore and passed out, still fully restrained in the bed of another.

By the time Spy fully unwound the restraints from around your wrists and ankles, you were too sleepy to realize Spy was directly in front of you. Spy could feel himself swelling with pride, staring down at your helpless body curled up comfortably in his own bed, naked and spent. The effects of the MDMA and alcohol were beginning to subside; you were past your climax, and now it was time to rest. 

It was dangerous to mix drugs and alcohol. Initially, Spy told himself he was alright with doing this because, if you accidentally had a bad trip or unforeseen adverse reaction, you brought it on yourself for rejecting him. Watching you suffer was an outcome he prepared for, but seeing you unravel and completely give in to pleasure was far more rewarding.

Spy watched your breathing become heavy and slow, curling into the fetal position on your side, to drift off into a deep rest. He was pretty drained from all the excitement as well, but forced himself from the bed, switching on a lamplight as he made his way down the hall to fix himself some black tea.

Perhaps he'd regret staying awake all night in the morning, but for now he was more than happy to ride out the sweet triumph of conquest a little longer. The situation wasn't new to him. Spy was blessed with great fortune with the opposite sex, and even those who initially tried to brush him off, it was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted. Usually, not even the satisfaction of victory lasted long after the lay, but as Spy sipped his tea, watching you naked and deep asleep, he knew it'd be a shame to move on so soon. Whether it was affection or sadism that made him want to keep you to himself, Spy wasn't sure, but he knew it had been ages since he'd felt such a fondness.

It was so cute how you thought you could run away fast enough for him not to suspect you would try to brush him off earlier. Trying so hard to plan a way out from behind his back, entirely ignorant of the way his eyes followed you, reading you from a distance. You had no idea who you were dealing with, and the idea of keeping you here, showing you the extent of his depravity and an entirely new meaning of the word held Spy with wrapt interest. And he realized what a shame it would be to end all the fun tonight because you weren't awake to feel it yourself.

[blushedfemmes]

… hm

[mistress-light]

Forspoken • The fall of Junoon

[ratatatastic]

on the robe saga, fors told viaplay "it was our captain's idea actually" so he was team sasha btw. which could mean nothing

(they also said "smells fresh, so you've not sauna'd in this one?" and he laughed and said he didn't he saved this one for that day)

its so personally funny to me that literally everyone is team sasha (ie. maffhew, roddy) except sasha himself its "today? barky" "barky hes the best" "matthew tkachuk and you guys know why..." "id wanna be barky in tappara!" "its gotta be barky" "probably go cap!" "id say barky!" all over again like sasha youre bias is showing here please 😭😭😭

oh! now that you bring up forsy saying he saved the robes for gameday! (can we also talk about how cute his smile is as he says it because he looks so proud of himself that he listened to his captain when he told him to save the virginity of his bathrobes for the game)

it does makes sense why forsy was missing from the pic lundy posted on his stories (not that particularly means much considering ekky aj driedges spence adam jesper swaggy gadjo and kuli are missing) but in the sense that all the boys in the pic have their robes on or have them bundled in their laps sans lundy who takes tourguide duties very seriously! but even then forsy couldn't help but join in because he has them on as an extra layer during lunchtime so the cold mustve gotten to him somehow but to know even then he didn't go into the sauna with it... mmm... your restraint is admirable...

so really knowing all this the timeline gets so funny because this idea has been bouncing around probably since bzito gave them the robes in helsinki (whether that was when they landed oct 29 or the day after oct 30 when lundy played tourguide for them) and maffhew mustve quipped "man it would be so funny if we walked in with em huh?" to sasha and promptly forgot about it because he yaps unconsciously and anything out of his mouth comes out in a fugue state and also in a very "i say shit and i dont really expect to be taken seriously" kind of way, sasha made a personal note of it in the maffhew index he keeps in his head, told the team in a very sasha esque way aka "don't dirty robes too much we're gonna wear them for the game :]" and no one took him particularly seriously because its sasha he always jokes like this haha hes not really gonna- (reminds them day of probably via text) and go oh well i guess its a prank but i'll still wear them because it's sasha (shrugs) i don't mind being the butt of the joke if it's for sasha to which they're delightfully surprised when everyone shows up in robes and it slowly starts to dawn on them none of it was a joke at all

sans forsy who takes everything his captain says very seriously and diligently follows his every word and saved the sanctity of the robes for gameday merely because sasha told him to... which could mean nothing... of course...

dear god help us all...

[freakingoutthesquares]

A snippet from this 2015 Radio 6 interview where Russell talks a little about a piece of glassware. Alas I do not have an image of the piece in question, as it is no longer on the website.

[natjennie]

name a line more iconic than "nigel, darling- oh hello- there's been a bit of a spillage" you cant.

[sciderman]

You have the astounding ability to make me consider liking things that I previously did not. Cable and Wade. Shiklah and Wade. Johnny and Peter. I’m a stubborn Spideypool obsessor, I’m sure I’ve mentioned, so pat yourself on the head for being SUCH a stan that you’ve broken through my OTP walls and gotten me to glance at other ways for Wade and Peter to he happy and loved.

i think if you truly love a character then you want them to get some no matter where it comes from

[jelliebeanbitch]

the human nervous system was not built to handle attraction actually

[kipaia]

My PC did *not* handle the 13 hour uhaul trip well and she's been plugging along but I have no idea what's wrong with it (narrowed down to either motherboard or graphics card) and can't afford to get it looked at for probably another month at minimum (if not like . . . January 😭). Got all of my research stuff onto my external hard drive, now my nerdy ass is trying to copy over all of my screenshots and my mods folders so I don't have to start from scratch

[autisticrosewilson]

In Trouble

Um. This is a joke that's not a joke that spawned from a conversation with @perseus-jackass about Nurse! Jason and Red X! Grant, that spiraled into a Miraculous Ladybug style love square situation lmao. OG's will remember when this was an ML blog, you could say I'm going back to my roots. Also this story is omegaverse! It's not really mentioned till Jason's pov but I don't want to blindside anyone

"Scream if you have to." Robin says gently, before wrenching his shoulder back into place. Grant does scream, he jerks and writhes but gloved hands hold him in place while his bones shift under the skin. There's a white hot pain that spreads through his arm, an aching relief as everything is realigned, and then everything goes prickly and numb.

Grant lays there panting, staring up at the smoggy night sky. Gotham doesn't even give him the courtesy of stars after subjecting them all to her madness. Robin had at least been kind enough to lay down his cape before his impromptu field med session, but goosebumps are spreading up his arms the longer his bare torso is in contact with the New Jersey air. At least Robin had helped him remove his shirt instead of cutting it off, as he'd threatened to.

"Good job," Robin praises, "you took that so well!" He grins, a certified Robin smile. Suddenly, Grant knows where all the stars went.

"Uh, thanks." Grant says absently, eyes tracing over the glint of too-sharp canines peaking out from cracked lips. Robin's a lip biter, he notes, the flesh has been scraped off. They'd probably bleed with little to no effort.

Grant wants to try, wants to taste it.

Slade clears his throat, and Grant remembers that his family is in the room, among several other hostages, and about twelve previously armed men who are now very unconscious. Robin himself has moved onto taking stock of everyone in the room, likely doing a head count and checking for any other injuries, but he signals for Slade to wait. He tilts his head slightly, finger coming to rest on the communicator in his ear.

"Okay folks, police are en route and the parameter has been cleared. I'm going to lead you all to the nearest exit, keep your head low and try not to make any noise. Listen carefully and stay behind me." Robin pops out of his crouch, helping Grant up as he gives the group orders.

"Look, kid-" Slade starts, and is promptly cut off by multiple snorts from the other hostages. The Gothamites, Grant realizes when he notices how calm they are. The collective reaction seems to throw his father off for a moment, but he continues. Grant feels a flash of second hand embarrassment. "Shouldn't you let the professionals take care of this?"

Robin smiles placatingly, it's got customer service written all over it. "I understand this is an upsetting situation, especially for a tourist, but we have everything handled." He assures.

Slade goes to say something else but Robin doesn't spare him a second glance, pulling out a handful of zip ties from one of the pouches of his belt. He gets to work ridding the men of weapons before tying their hands behind their backs, and then looping more zip ties through those to fix them all firmly together. None of them would be going anywhere anytime soon. He kicks all their guns to a far off corner anyway for good measure, but pockets a hunting knife one of them had been carrying.

"Secured," Robin chirps to whoever is on the other side of his comm, "Where to next?" He rolls his shoulders, resting his hands on his hips. After a moment Robin nods to himself. "Got it, meet you outside."

Grant watches as he heads towards the door, most of the hostages easily following his orders, they stay close together and seem to default to herding the omegas and pups in the middle. He almost gets swept up in it, shielded by the crowd, but then Slade's big hand is on his back bringing him and Joey to the front of the group just behind Robin.

He's shorter than he seemed earlier, when he was looming above Grant, backlit by flashing red lights like a blood soaked angel. He's slimmer without the cape wrapped around him, but with his gaze stuck to the muscle flexing in Robin's thighs he can tell the dark haired boy is stronger than he looks.

Robin leads the way, crouched low and keeping to the wall. The crowd does the same, unusually calm as they gently shush the children and tourists who aren't quiet enough. The implicit trust is breathtaking, the easy way that Robin commands the crowd with a cocksure smile and easy confidence. They only run into trouble once on the way to the exit and Grant barely has time to flinch before him and Joey are both shoved behind dad. Grant strains to see how Robin reacts to the two guards rushing at them but all he can make out is a flurry of movement and flailing limbs. There's the cracking of bone and then Robin's ringing laughter and then the hallway is still and quiet again. Slade's grip on his shoulder is still tight, Joey still pressed to Slades back. Grant nudges forward in time to see Robin securing the unconscious bodies.

He turns back to the crowd, hair a little messy and cheeks a little red but hardly even out of breath, and motions for them to keep going. They do, the group easily parting around the crooks before clustering back together. Like fish, Grant thinks, absently reminded of a trip to the aquarium not long ago.

They all file out in a straight line when they reach the exit, Robin holding the door open and checking behind for any stragglers before breaking away from the group to stand beside Batman. He looks even smaller next to the imposing figure of the Bat, but the cops seem to take his orders seriously.

Grant is pulled away by Slade and he barely realizes where they're going until he hears his mom's voice. She pulls him into a hug, all warm tobacco and vanilla but it almost doesn't register. She pulls Joey in next, peppering his face with kisses and surely staining it with her dark lipstick in the process. Her and Slade are talking about something over his head, but everything sounds like it's underwater. His attention is pulled back to Robin, sitting with some of the younger pups who are having their statements taken, someone's chubby toddler being bounced on his knee. He assumes the man in the nearby ambulance is the child's mother if his intent gaze and round belly are anything to go by.

Without thinking he clutches the fabric around his shoulders tighter. It's heavier than it looks, soft but tough. The outside is plastic-y, like a raincoat, but the inside is silky fabric slips pleasantly over his skin. He feels a tug on it from behind him, tuning back into the immediate conversation.

"Now what is this?" His mother frets.

His mouth opens but he doesn't say anything at first. "Robin gave it to me." He manages, the first thing he's said all night. He clutches the cape tighter, unwilling to let it go. It's a comforting weight, it feels like all that's keeping him on the ground, like if he lets go he'll simply float away.

His mother reaches for his face, tilting towards her. Her eyes are sharp but not angry, studying his expression and the look in his eyes carefully. Whatever she sees makes him purse her lips and glance towards the ambulance. "Oh my baby, you're in shock." She tells him, but the meaning behind the words doesn't register.

"First time getting his shoulder reset, he'll be fine." Slades voice, an attempt to be reassuring. Grant tenses before the words fully compute.

"WHAT!" His mom's voice is loud and shrill enough to make his ears ring and he knows they're going to start a fight.

He's shaking, he realizes, gaze dropping down to the trembling of his good hand where it's resting on her elbow. He doesn't remember moving it. Her skin is warm under his hands, he can feel the way her muscles are tensing as the voices around him raise.

He turns back to Robin, but the boy is already staring at him. At least Grant thinks so, hard to tell where he's looking with the white lenses, but he's facing Grant's direction. His lips are twisted, displeasure or concern maybe, and Grant wants to soothe him but he doesn't know how. Then his head tilts, just slightly, and Grant realizes that Robin had been looking at his parents. He can feel Robin's attention on him fully now, settling over him like sunlight. It's warm and grounding and he can feel his body again. Robin smiles, small and proud and encouraging. A secret just for Grant, to keep and cherish and own. And then Robin is turning, attention maddeningly taken by the others that Grant has just remembered. He feels cold, the kind of cold you feel in the early morning when you've just slipped from your warm blankets, the kind that settles on your skin and then sinks into your bones.

Grant's eyes don't leave Robin until the car pulls away, and as he's craning his neck to catch one last glimpse he sees Robin standing on his tip toes to wave Grant goodbye. He waves back, but the windows are tinted and they're already too far away.

Jason has a secret, and an embarrassing one at that. He knows if anyone ever found out he'd never be able to live it down. Jason doesn't even know how it started really, it's not like he's ever been interested in the latest trends or celebrity gossip.

Jason will blame Rena, because it's easier than analyzing the alternative. Technically it started with a routine hostage situation, but for deflection purposes, it starts with a link to an app that's trying too hard to be Vine. He'd squinted at it, toothbrush still in his mouth, half convinced it was a rickroll.

Jay: Why are you up?

Ren: Why are YOU up?

Jay: I asked you first.

Ren: I messaged you first

Jay: Not how that works.

He had rolled his eyes at the time, finishing up his nightly routine, reluctantly chewing on the multivitamins he's supposed to take every night before bed. The gummies only, never the pills.

Ren: did you watch the video

Jay: I'm not clicking an unknown link, Rena.

Ren: wow full name

Jay is typing...

Ren: Not an excuse for you to use my real full name

Ren: seriously watch the video!!

Jason remembers huffing, he probably put it off till the last second, until he was curled up in bed and on the cusp of finally getting some rest. It's all secondary to the video though, the familiar face split into a wolfish grin, those pretty eyes catching the flash of cameras and sending a wink towards the viewer. It's obviously some kind of rich person event, paparazzi lined up and a carpet laid out on the damn ground, but you wouldn't know it from how the boy is dressed. The orange and blue jacket over the button up would probably make him snort usually, but all he can think about is broad shoulders and warm skin under his hands. Unwarded he remembers what Grant's bare chest looked like, and then the image of strong shoulders wrapped in Jason's cape. He doesn't know how many times he watches the video before the next message comes through.

Ren: isn't he hot?

Jay: Who is he?

Jason already knows of course, but Rena doesn't know that, and he's not keen on informing her. She might start getting ideas.

Ren: Grant Kane, he's some old money CEOs son from New York or something

Jay: And?

Kentucky, Jason corrects mentally, Adeline Kane is from New York but the Wilson family lives in Kentucky.

Ren: I heard his mom is coming to your charity gala next week

Jason's heart skips a beat, teeth sinking into his lip to bite back the giddy grin trying to break through.

Jay: Once again, and?

Ren: And? C'mon when do we get to see new faces at these things? Especially ones as pretty as his!

Jealousy twinges in his chest, churning hotly in his stomach for a moment before he's hit with a flash of guilt.

Jay: oh? You interested

Ren: Pft nah

Ren: this is for you

Ren: my ducks are in a row

Jay: Hurtful, but whatever. I don't even know him. Maybe I don't want that duck in my row.

Ren: Start being real with yourself rn

Ren: I'm coming over tomorrow so we can decide on what you're wearing<333

Usually he matches with Bruce, or Dick if he shows up. He can only imagine what Rena is going to try to talk him into. Technically, Jason is unpresented, even though everyone else his age has already. Most pups present around thirteen, Jason is turning sixteen soon. Leslie says it'll be any day now, that with time, and love, and a steady three meals a day Jason will come into his own in no time. Jason isn't so sure.

Rena herself is a beta, but she's always been a bit of a rule breaker. More so than Jason anyway. She always goes above and beyond with her outfits for these things, with the kind of passion obviously bred from living with the biggest fashion mogul in Gotham. He can only imagine what her plans to play matchmaker are going to entail.

Ren: I've enlisted Eddie to help me

Jason stops, fingers hovering over the keyboard, jaw slack. The indignity! He doesn't need a- an intervention to help him get a date!

Jay: When did you guys even start talking?

Ren: YOU gave me his number

Jay: That was a courtesy! You weren't actually supposed to use it!

Ren: 😜

Jason scowls at his phone. He switches over to his chat with Eddie, certain the omega is still awake watching a terrible obscure movie he's going to tell Jason all about when they see each other again.

Jaybin: I've been betrayed, forsaken, abandoned.

KD: Ok edgelord lmao

Jaybin: STOP laughing I've been the victim of a conspiracy!

KD: Are people on Twitter calling you guys vampires again or do they have something more interesting?

Jaybin: Not that kind of conspiracy.

KD: ???

There's a pause as Eddie stops typing, Jason assumes to go Google it, before his speech bubble pops up again.

KD: Is this about me and Rena wingmanning for you

Jaybin: SO YOU ADMIT TO IT! FIEND! SCOUNDREL!

KD: Weird way to say thank you but okay

Jaybin: I don't need help.

KD: ok well we would LIKE to help

KD: please let us

Jason purses his lips. He hates when Eddie does this. Like he's the one being difficult here. Sometimes he feels like everyone treats him even younger than he is. Just because he hasn't presented doesn't mean he's a baby. He can't wait to be sixteen, hopefully by then he'll know his designation too.

Jaybin: Fine, but I retain full rights to veto anything you pick or any plan you make.

Eddie's response is a gif of a cat doing a happy dance, and though he rolls his eyes he likes the message. He's added to a new chat immediately, one with the three of them in it. Rena sends the video to this new chat, apparently named Operation: HONEYPOT. Jason finds quickly that his lack of admin rights means he can't change it.

He huffs, watching the two messages back and forth. Sending photos he's already seen and telling him information he already knows about Grant. The screen slowly goes dark as his eyes flutter closed, burying his face in the milky hazelnut scent just barely managing to cling to the shirt he's been using as a pillowcase, the MCTC logo pressed against his cheek.

It's a guilty pleasure, he supposes, Grant's smell in his nose as he imagines what his voice sounds like, of Grant pressing into his touch instead of flinching away. He switches to an app easily passing as a calculator, inputting the password without thought to pull up the tracking grid.

He skims over everyone else's - Bruce and Alfred are in the manor, Natalia is in her manor on the boundary of Little Italy and Summerset, Dick's phone is at least in his BludHaven apartment, Barbie is still staying at her dad's house until she gets used to her wheelchair - the one he's looking for is marked with the Robin symbol, blinking steadily, somewhere in Kentucky. The sky is probably clear for him, a star filled sky unobstructed by the pollution of the city. He imagines Grant staring out at the sky, red lip caught between his teeth, thinking about Jason. What he might be doing as he does.

Jason nods off, eyes fluttering shut, matching his breath to the gentle pulse on the screen.

[monzabee]

I DON’T EVEN CARE, I’M STAYING UP ALL NIGHT IF I NEED TO SEE DANIEL, EXCUSE ME. SINCE UH WHEN?