#mouth is definitely wrong and i think i messed up the proportions on his jaw.

[anantplayingdnd]

another day another sketch of @yarrow-leaf ‘s strahd

[perverse-idyll]

Snarry fic rec: Reconciling Lily’s Eyes by persepolis130

So, if my previous rec Rapture was too romantic for you, here’s something to wash the taste of romance out of your mouth. It still exists in what I’d call the muddy middle ground of Snape interpretation, but the mud is considerably greyer. For the record, middle-ground Snape is still Dark, sarcastic, suspicious, and above all Not Nice to Harry, but at the same time he's fascinating, amusing, skilled, and a source of reluctant erotic attraction. It's hard to rank the stories in the middle spectrum with exactitude, because Snape's most irresistible when he's being a fuckwad and a tragic hero, a stubborn bastard and a damaged soul, so judging degrees of obnoxiousness can get a little subjective. But this particular blend describes most of my favorite Snarry fics.

Example: Reconciling Lily’s Eyes by persepolis130

I will say upfront, Persepolis' fic has perhaps the most physically unattractive Snape I've ever encountered, and that includes canon. She's merciless about his appearance and his lack of evident sex appeal. He's the perfect antidote to all the Slytherin Sex God fics in fandom. What's more, he's a total basket case on every possible level. Harry, for his part, is a whack job obsessed with treating Snape as his own personal redemption project. They absolutely and repeatedly do not understand each other. Harry's a screwed-up and screamingly self-centered teenager who needs an instruction manual to find his way around an emotional clue, Snape is… well, about the most unsocialized, self-pitying and self-punishing excuse for a survivor ever set loose in a ship fic. Also decidedly pervy. Together, they're a train wreck of humongous proportions.

Yet this is, by God, one of the funniest, most sarcastic, most distinctive Snarry fics I've read in all my fandom years. As well as one of the most surprisingly tender. Persepolis has a gift for dry, deadpan, absurdist humor, for creating scenes of lunacy and emotional chaos. Through it all, Snape and Harry push each other from comedy to melodrama and back, with occasional jaw-dropping forays into extremely unglamorous but disturbingly hot sex. The only other fic I can think of offhand that treats sex with the same sort of impatient, unpretty directness, while at the same time persuading the reader of how perversely hot it is, is A Bittersweet Potion series. I mean to say, the encounters between Snape and Harry, with their mess and unpleasantness and emotional pathology, shouldn't be sexy, yet by some miracle they are. They shouldn't work, yet they do. This is the definition of Snarry in a nutshell. The whole saga's told from Harry's POV, and it may take a scene or two to catch on to the off-kilter voice of the fic. Once you do, it becomes scathingly funny and exasperating and touching all at the same time. The episodes in an American wizarding school swing between the hilarious and the neurotic. Eventually the reader comes around to believing that these two mental cases have earned the right to drive each other crazy, and it would be wrong to inflict them on anybody else. But even Harry's stubbornness has to break in the face of repeated slapdowns, and the relationship, such as it is, smashes on the rock of Snape's self-hatred. Yet even with a wedding to Ginny in the offing, Persepolis pulls off a virtuoso piece of comic writing, squeezing tension and farce together while setting up a reunion scene that made my heart ache. It's difficult to describe this fic accurately because it charges right through all the fanon clichés and stomps them flat. Set aside plenty of time for it, because it's addictive and once you're hooked it will be hard to stop reading. And after you've recovered from the experience, there's a sequel to look forward to, with Snape being his evil, pervy self and traumatizing the Weasleys for life.

As a fellow fic writer, I envy the way Persepolis mixes absurdity, goofiness, high comedy, heartbreak, sexual grunginess, personality disorders, and vows of true love into one totally unique and astonishing fic. I happily admit it’s OOC. But it works for me in the context of Persepolis' re-casting of the characters as flaming neurotics. Harry's endearing, but he's also totally wiggy. Snape’s ambiguity and the violence of his emotional landscape are crucial aspects of his personality for me, but he's so bonkers in this fic that if it had been a purely serious narrative I might have clicked away. The humor gives it a different, madhouse kind of spin that overcomes the dubiousness of the situation.

This isn’t for everyone (I’ve had some readers recoil, unable to persevere past the sex scenes), but for those of us who love it, we love it hard.

As a bonus, here are two pieces of art based on this fic:

Reconciling Lily’s Eyes by paranoiac-lo

Run Away with Me by AnastasiaMantihora

[dclsbaby]

mykonos-crossed lovers (part ii) 🦋

🎶 playlist for part ii

prologue

part i

part iii

part iv

Summary: When you drunkenly book a girls trip to a tropical Greek island to help mend your broken heart, you would never for a second think it will take you exactly to where he is. Him. A tale of the right person at the wrong time, an overused cliché made into plots of movies you never thought would live through in your reality. Two people, still madly in love with each other, hearts still broken, suppressed by the alcohol and distractions consumed on this trip. Will they let their egos get in the way, protect what’s left of their already broken hearts, or will let their hearts speak?

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: angst angst and more angst

Author’s Note: part 2 is finally out! thank you so much for the continued love on MCL, i can't accurately put into words how much it means to me seeing all the positive responses! i hope i haven't upset you too much on last chapter’s cliffhanger, and if so, i hope this one makes up for it a little bit 🤍 please let me know what you think! xx

Gif:

***

***

***

“It’s funny, I’ve flown out to this island to forget you, yet here you are. I can’t ever get away from you can I?” Dom asks, rather rhetorically. Shocked, you turn your head and see your ex standing in front of you, in Mykonos, of all places. You cringed at his honesty, but you can’t say you didn’t escape to the warmer climates for the same reason. “Hi, Dom,” you smile at him. “The boys are here?” you ignore his initial remark. “Yeah, Mase, Davo, and Ben are sat there,” he gestures to a table close by yours. “Luke’s flying out tomorrow”, he says. “So the full team,” you comment. “It seems you’re in for quite a holiday then,” you add.

He walks ahead to stand next to you, his toned arms resting on the white border, dangerously close to yours and he takes in the view you’ve been absorbing. Silence fills the space between you two. A little to quiet for both of your likings, you could’ve sworn you heard your heart beat out of your chest. You decide to break the silence.

“So, how’ve you been?” you asked, voice a little shaky, unsure if you even wanted to know. You looked up at Dom, and caught him sniggering at the question. “Never better,” he raises his eyebrows. “Got my call-up, ball finding the back of the net week in week out, all’s well. You?” he shifts his body to look at you. “Well,” you pause to face him. “I’m on a tropical island with my girls, away from work and grey British skies, so I’m enjoying it,” you replied.

“British Vogue is it?” he asks. You landed the job a couple of months after your breakup. It was the job you needed to make a life out of yourself, to have a career you loved. It was a job you left him for. So, to say that you were good at it was an understatement. If you had to endure the pain of a devastating heartbreak for your career, it had to mean everything to you. And it was. It had been your dream job for as long as you could remember, you have always loved fashion, and this love was complemented when you began dating your ex who has an eccentric fashion sense, always straying away from the mainstream mediocrity, which somehow, he always pulls off. It’s a gift.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”, you were curious. “Mum’s told me about it, she’s proud of you, by the way,” he stops to look at you. “Sounds like a big deal,” he says as he lets out a small smile. It’s the first time he’s ever shown some warmth since the conversation started. You smile back at him and nodded. “It’s been my dream since forever, if you remember,” you look up at him. “And that’s lovely from your mum, do let her know that I miss her,” your heart warms thought of his mum. “Of course you do, you two would gang up on me whenever she’s around,” Dom chuckles. “Only because we both know how obnoxious you could be,” you joke. “Obnoxious enough for you to break my heart I see,” he jokes as he smiles at you sadly. ���I d-didn’t mean it like that,” you feel terrible. “I know, I was messing with you,” he lied. A part of him wants you to know that his heart is still broken.

Two people, former lovers, with so much shared memories, once each other’s worlds, reunite in unexpected circumstances.

“I miss you, you know,” Dom says. Your head turns to face him as you try to catch a look of his eyes that are looking down on his fingers. Standing at 6’2, you had to crane your neck to properly look at him. A painfully gorgeous man, his green-hazel eyes still shine so bright despite the evening sky, lips so full waiting to be touched, his curly locks tied up in a bun only to accentuate his perfectly sculpted jaws. He is so beautiful, the pain so visceral, so intense.

***flashback***

“It’s not fair,” your best friend said. “You two would make the most gorgeous babies,” you and Dom chuckled at her comment. “When they’ve got a mother with a face like this I’d imagine it to be difficult to not produce beautiful babies,” Dom says as he cups your face and plants a kiss on your forehead. “You did not just say ‘produce’!” you move away from him, jokingly made a disgusted face and laughed at his choice of words.

Later that night as you two were tucked in bed, you drift off into a daydream which caught Dom’s attention. “What are you thinking of in that little head of yours babe?” he asked. You softly smile at him. “You really think we’d have babies?” you asked as you look at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, shifting his body so it’s resting on his side, with his knuckles supporting his head up. “I mean, is this where we are headed?”, you clarified. Dom runs his fingers through your hair. “I absolutely wouldn’t mind having babies with you,” he pauses as he moves closer to you. “I want no one else more than you, to be the mother of my children, my partner through it all,” he looks at you with loving eyes. “You mean it?” you asked, a little surprised at his honesty. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life,” he says as he pulls your body closer to his.

***

Dreams of starting a family with who you thought was the love of your life quickly shatter as you realise where you were; stood in front of him, both with hearts that need mending.

“Don’t do this,” you quietly say as you stare into his eyes. “What? It’s true,” he shrugs. “I miss you and I thought you should know. You should know how much you’re hurting me by not being with me,” Dom confesses. The alcohol has definitely kicked in, Dom thought to himself. Liquid courage got him pouring out the subconscious thoughts he’d never unlock without a little help. “Dom, please. You don’t mean it, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” you close your eyes for a second. “You’ve had a lot to drink, you should go be with the guys,” you say as you take your arms off the wall. “Come, I’ll take you back,” you say as you lightly push his elbow to lead the way.

“What more do I have to do to show you that I am still in love with you? Fuck’s sake,” he says as he mutters the last two words. He quickly turns around to face you, shocking you in the process as you drop your arm. “I don’t know, Dom, maybe not have tabloids put pictures of you and different girls on its covers I’d assume?” you sarcastically said, referencing to the covers you have seen of him from the week before.

Dom cringed at your comment and shakes his head. “You seriously can’t believe what those tabloids say-they blow things out of proportion!” he says as he flails his arm out of frustration. “And did you expect me not to see other people? What was I supposed to do, sit and mope around, waiting for you to come back to me? Please, do enlighten me!” he encourages. “Tell me how I can get over you because I am desperate to get you out of my fucking head,” he rants angrily, loud enough to get the attention of several guests.

He pauses to catch his breath. Before opening his mouth again to spill his suppressed thoughts.

“You were my heart, my soul, my whole fucking body—my entire life revolved around you!” he yelled, not as loud, but his frustration was emphasised as he stresses every syllable. Every bit of pride he held onto dissipates, showing his true feelings that still held onto you.

Offended, you retaliated. “You act as if I didn’t do the same for you! But I’m not stood here telling you how much I’ve missed you after I’ve fucked about with random guys!” you replied, matching his volume.

“I’ve never fucked anyone since you, so don’t ever fucking accuse me of that,” he says in disgust. “And you have no right to tell me how I should cope, when you left me! You were the one who left!”, he points at you repeatedly. “You left me with nothing,” he says nearly out of breath, and drops his arms to his sides.

“It surely didn’t seem like it when you go through girls like they’re some kind of pitstop!” you angrily responded. “I was fucking hurt! You fucking broke me! I was sad and desperate, give me a fucking break!” he says as he brings his hands to his forehead. “And don’t act so innocent,” he spits out. You give him a confused face, unsure as to what he meant. “I know you’ve been out with him,” he emphasises. “Yeah, our friends talk,” he states the obvious.

You knew who he was talking about. The friend he fell out with, another footballer friend. Things got too competitive, the words exchanged at the end of a match too harsh to redeem with a handshake. The same friend who could’ve sworn he chatted you up first, but you and Dom’s connection was too strong to deny. Of course, it was nothing like he insinuated. His friend, or, former friend, rather, had dipped his toes into the world of fashion, which caught the attention of your seniors. They assigned you to an interview with him, knowing your connections in the sporting industry and knowledge of it, as you dated a footballer after all. “Th-that was nothing,” you shake your head in disbelief, shocked at what you’re being accused of. “Bullshit,” he curses. He still remembers the day he saw you two on the news. Dominic Calvert-Lewin’s Ex Moves On with His England Teammate?, the headline says. Beneath it were pictures of his former friend sitting opposite you, as you two enjoy each other’s company at his favourite breakfast place in London. It is your favourite too. He recalls trying to ignore the jealousy, he tried to stop reading gossip sites that had the tendency to over-exaggerate, but he couldn’t. It made him angry, so angry, he threw his phone across the room and smashed it into a wall, its screen shattering. Sick and nauseous, he ran to the bathroom and dunk his head into a toilet bowl, dispensing the contents of that day’s breakfast. The effect you had on him was still potent and undying.

Your conversation was interrupted when you feel a hand wrap its fingers around the back of your arm, surprising you as you jump a little. “Hi, hun, everything okay?”, asked two of your friends, who spotted you as they were making their way to the bathroom. You nodded and gave them a smile, “I’m okay,” you whispered. They were beyond shocked to have seen Dom, but they knew better than to mention the obvious. “Give us a shout if you need anything,” your other friend says softly. You nodded. Your friends waved at Dom, then walked to where they were headed, which Dom did the same before you two returned to your conversation.

You take a deep breath before speaking. “You know I never meant to hurt you, Dom,” you look at him with sad eyes. “You know why I had to end things with you, I honestly thought you understood,” you say as you try your best to blink the tears away. “No, I never understood, and I still fucking don’t,” he says as his large hand grips the surface of the wall.

“None of this makes any sense to me! I understand that it is important for you to prioritise your career, be in control of your life or whatever it was you said,” he throws a hand up. “But I will never understand why you had to sacrifice me in the process, of all things,” he replies with absolute honesty. “So, what? You expect me to drop every possibility of starting a career instead, and invest all my time and energy in you?” you ask in disbelief. “That’s not fair, Dom!” you argue.

Dom throws his head back out of frustration as you cross your arms. “I would’ve fully supported you every step of the way, given you the space you needed, anything!” he responds. “But instead you left, and took my entire life with you,” he argues back, panting as he tried to catch his breath. “You didn’t have to leave,” he quietly says.

You two look at each other in silence, both feeling the pain the other endured. The pain heavy, overwhelming, a sinking feeling.

“I wasn’t trying to compromise you,” you say softly. “I had felt so detached from myself and made you the centre of my life and I was fucking terrified, Dom,” you try to justify yourself. “Had you left me at any point, I wouldn’t have survived it,” you sigh.

“Had I left you? How could you ever assume that? You think I am strong enough to be apart from you for even just a day? For fuck’s sake,” he curses as he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose out of frustration.

“I never said you would, I said if you did,” you clarify.

“So, you’re saying you left me purely due to a hypothetical scenario? Come fucking on. Don’t you fucking get it?,” he pauses. “You left me because you were afraid you couldn’t live without me, when that was never the case to begin with. If anything, it was the other way around,” he mutters the last sentence, just enough for you to hear.

“What?”, you asked, looking up at him.

“If one of us were to be too attached to the other person, it would be me. I’m not even fucking ashamed to admit that. I’m just pissed you assumed I could ever leave you. And that you broke my heart,” he reveals, a little too much for his liking but he didn’t care. You had to know.

“I-I never knew you were this upset,” you reply, still trying to process what he just said. “Clearly,” Dom says with sarcasm. “All you do is assume,” he comments. “That’s not fair,” you respond. “None of this is,” he quickly says. “I’m sorry I hurt you, I hope you know I would never intentionally do anything to make you feel that way,” you try to assure him. “Yeah okay,” he looks away.

Silence fills the room once again. What used to only be comfortable silence between you two turned into awkward, deafening silence. Silence between two people still in love with one another, both stubborn, both hotheaded, both their egos in the way.

You hated this. You wanted out. Your heart could no longer handle the different coexisting emotions, the sadness, anger, exasperation, confusion, equally intense, equally felt. It was all too much.

“I-I think I’m just going to go, it’s been lovely to see you, I'm sorry again Dom, truly. Have a great-“, “You’re fucking joking,” he cuts you off and shakes his head. You sigh, surprised at this interruption. “What now, Dom?” you asked, a little agitated.

“You’re leaving? After I’ve poured my heart out to you? Fucking pathetic that,” he said angrily. “What else was I supposed to say, Dom! I told you I was sorry, I told you I didn’t mean to hurt you! What more do you want?”, you responded with aggravation.

“YOU! I want you! How could you be so dense? Honestly, fuck this—you broke my fucking heart and I am not going to let you walk away from me again,” he gestures angrily. “This time I’m leaving you, have a great fucking night,” he says as he storms off, taking half of your heart with him.

At that moment, it felt as though every effort you had put into moving on, all your self-care nights, girls night outs, mental health days, music playlists of happy songs, immersing yourself in work, suddenly meant nothing. All your efforts were countered, destroyed after seeing him again for the first time in months. All you could do was stand there and watch him leave you standing alone, under the blue Mykonos sky with the most breathtaking view of the island, whilst heartbroken once again. The perfect irony.

You were left in shock. You could see Dom walking through the crowd where everybody was partying from your peripheral vision. It took him way too quickly for your liking to wrap his arms around a certain blonde-haired girl in a blue dress you recognised from tabloid pictures. You feel a sharp pain in your chest from a sight you never wanted to see. You knew you had no right to feel this way since you were the one who left, but it hurt you nonetheless.

Two things could’ve come out of this scenario. You could a) suck it up, take three straight tequila shots and party the night away with your girls, who are increasingly growing concerned about your whereabouts, or b) you could call it a night and figure your heart out.

After moments of deliberation, you chose the latter option. The intense conversation you had with Dom was too emotionally draining for you to continue on. Seeing your ex on the exact trip you booked with your girls to remedy your heartache, listening to him tell you how much you’ve broken his heart, how he wants you, but proceed to wrap his arms around another girl minutes after, all in one night... you could not bear it all. You quietly made a swift exit and made sure to text your girls’ group chat as you’re walking.

Babes, I’m heading back to the villa. Rough night. Details tomorrow. Will leave some paracetamol on the counter. Be safe and have a blast! Love you. X

You took the furthest route towards the exit door away from the party scene, not giving your friends a chance to even stop you. You wrap your arms around your body, holding yourself together as your heart crumbles. The only affection you could seek from is yourself. The pain of growth slowly paying off, as you manage to at least leave the scene in one piece.

However, despite extra efforts to not get noticed, Dom caught you slipping out of the club.

You stood outside the breezy Mykonos night and waited for your taxi to come. What just happened? You thought to yourself. You were a bit tipsy from the drinks, your tired body making you feel a little delirious. It seemed like it was all a dream, a nightmare perhaps, but it isn’t. That actually happened. You inhale the fresh air, and pace your breathing to calm your nerves. The background music spilling from the narrow gaps of the doors slowly fade as you close your eyes and focus on your peace.

Peaceful silence suddenly interrupted by a loud sound of doors bursting open.

What the fuck was that? you thought to yourself as you turn your head towards the loud noise. Your heart nearly stopped when you saw Dom clumsily stumble through the door. “What are you doing?” you asked, completely taken aback.  “I saw you walk out,” he says out of breath. “And I know you like to go on walks to clear your head. I was making sure you weren’t, this isn’t the place where you could do that safely,” he continued.  “I know, I’m waiting for a taxi,” you say quietly.  Dom nodded. “Okay,” he looks away. “Be safe,” he says as he looks at you one last time. You look at him with a sad smile and nod.

As Dom retreats back into the club, he had to hold his chest, clutching where his heart is to contain the pain of seeing you force a smile at him, it was too intense, he couldn’t bear it. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and tell you again how in love with you he is, but he knows his heart can’t take another heartache.

So Dom does what he does best, fake a smile, join his friends, and power through the night despite the building anxiety of being away from you. He feels sick to his stomach and would love nothing more than to call it a night. He goes on to reject every girl who threw themselves at him left and right, which Mason took notice of.

“Mate you okay? You don’t seem like yourself,” asks Mason. “(Y/N). She’s here. Well, she was,” Dom says. “Here? In Mykonos?”, Mason asks in disbelief. Dom nods his head. “Shit. What happened?” asked his concerned friend. “Told her she broke my heart. I lost my head. Told her I want her, then walked away,” muttered Dom as he looks down to play with his fingers. “Mate, I mean, do you still want her? Even after everything you went through?” Mason asks carefully, cautious to push any buttons.

Dom takes a deep breath.

“There is nothing in this life I want more than her,” he spills, looking at his friend dead in the eye.

“You know what you have to do, Dom.” Mason says.

[jamaisjoons]

so kimline has biggest dick from your professional (and thirsty) opinion: im curious as to your rankings of them after that? if that makes any sense lol

lmao welcome to:

･ﾟ✧*Sol’s Headcanons *✧･ﾟ:

Disclaimer: I know nothing about BTS’s cocks and I’m not saying this is true, these are just MY personal headcanons and how I think their cocks are.

Namjoon: Big Dick Line™ 1. In terms of all aroundness, Namjoon is perfectly proportioned. He’s long enough to hit your cervix when he grinds your cock into you, and thick enough that when he enters it stretches you out to your absolute limits and then some more - but it feels good.. Nonetheless, the thickness to length ratio is probably GODLY because my man is BLESSED just like all his other PROPORTIONS. All in all, he’s just fucking big. Also, he’s probably got a really pretty cock that makes your mouth water just looking at it. Most likely on the darker side cause boy TAN at and with a pretty mauve cockhead that’s hella bulbous. I also see him just having a straight shaft, no curve or anything to it - just one huge fucking rod that fucks you deep and long.

Seokjin: Big Dick Line™ 2. Not as long as Namjoon, but on god definitely thicker. Monstrous. Absolutely fucking monstrous. In fact, when he takes it out, your jaw just drops because how the fuck has he been hiding that shit this entire time? Like it’s got to be a third leg - and boy when he slides into you, you have to bite down on something because he opens up your pussy in a way no one else can. Like, he’s also thick enough to drag against every single inch of your pussy as he fucks you, and leave your toes curling and spine tingling. Model dick. Deadass, his cock is probably as beautiful as his face and Aphrodite and Eros themselves want even a peek at his handsome cock. He’s most likely veiny, with a dusky pink cockhead. Also straight, with maybe just a slight curve.

Yoongi: I don’t see Yoongi packing like Kim Line, but I also don’t see him being small either. He’s not thick in any sense, but god he’s long. The thinnest of them all, Yoongi’s cock shines the best when you ride him. He’s long enough that you struggle to take him all before he’s hitting your back walls. Also like, it’s curved. Definitely curved. And that, paired with the length, means that riding him is the most pleasurable thing you’ve ever felt. He doesn’t even need to try to hit those sweet spots by angling his cock or anything - it comes naturally. Why? Cause he’s long and fucking curved. God bless Min Yoongi and his ridable cock. Also, not to be that person, but... prettiest cock of them all. He’s nice and tan, with a light pink cockhead and just seeing it makes you want to wrap your lips around it. Also veiny. Hella. Fucking. Veiny. Another plus point to riding.

Hoseok: Hoseok seems like he has a small cock, but lmao, y’all wrong. My boy is a grower, not a shower. When he whips it out, it’s nothing majorly impressive - but the more aroused he gets, the longer he grows and eventually you’re like jfc where have you hidden this? Another long but thin™ crew. Like he’s shorter than Yoongi, but definitely thicker - just not as thick as Namjoon, Seokjin or Jimin - or even Jungkook tbh. Also another one of pretty dick line™. Like he takes it out, and strokes it to erectness and then you’re just salivating and drooling because you want him to fuck your throat - because it just looks so fucking appetising. Also probably like, a cute dusky mauve cockhead - slightly more on the pink side - and veiny. Not like Yoon veiny, but veiny for sure.

Jimin: now... Jimin has the shortest dick of them all - but before you get angry - it’s short but thick. Like rivals Kim Seokjin’s thickness type of girth, and probably also beats him to be honest. It’s velvet smooth and yes, he doesn’t have length, but honestly? He doesn’t fucking need it. Length isn’t everything and Jimin knows that. He may not be able to hit it deep, but he can hit it good and make you cum over and over until you’re a crying mess - and that’s good enough for him. Also like, this boy is hella flexible??? He doesn’t need length, he just pushes every single, thick, inch into you while doing the split on top of you as if it’s an everyday occurrence. His cockhead is probably a cute pink mushroom-like head. His actual cock is like,,, tapered at the top and gets thicker towards the base. Meaning that the hilt of his shaft is fucking lethal but you bet your ass he’s going to push it into you.

Taehyung: Big Dick Line™ 3. He’s thick yes, not like Joon, Jin or Jiminie, but still thick. However - he’s the longest out of Big Dick Line™. In fact, he’s another one of those ‘where have you been hiding’ but also ‘are you even going to fit inside me’ types. But you bet your god damn ass he’s going to make it fit. Long enough that even when he hits your cervix, there’s still a couple inches left over - not that it stops him from grinding his hips into you and trying to push more of it in. Which only means he’s hitting the back of your cervix. Except, that’s exactly where he wants to be so he can fill you with his cum and breed his babies into you. The actual cock? Straight with a slight curve, and thicker at the bottom - even though his cockhead is flared. ALSO, another mauve-pinkish tip that weeps precum like he’s a leaky faucet. IN ADDITION, his shaft is ridged, I don’t make the rules.

Jungkook: heir to Big Dick Line™, Jungkook is next in line. In fact, he’s also a grower, not showing off immediately - but when he does grow, it can easily rival Kim Line and their monster cocks. He’s long, and thick and kind of proportioned, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s just slightly longer than he needs to be. Except, that length is a fucking godsend. He’s also like, incredibly veiny and curved - aka a lethal combination - meaning that no matter how he hits it, you’re going to be crying and cumming around him. He doesn’t even need to try - cocky fucking dom. Also like, he doesn’t have a mushroom/bulbous tip, and it’s all one girth - from tip to base. HOWEVER, it also means it’s easy to take - you know, once he’s actually inside - BUT, it’s also unrelenting as he enters you, both in terms of length and girth.

Thank you for coming to this installation of Sol’s Headcanons™, I hope you enjoyed yourself. Good fucking yard.

[finduilasclln]

Stony prompt for number 39 ;)

Prompt : “Hey! I was gonna eat that!” 

Pairing: Steve/Tony

Characters: Steve Rogers, Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff

~~~Tony’s been out of the room for a good half hour when he walks back in to find Bucky finishing up what was left of Tony’s dessert. 

“Hey!” Tony calls out, pocketing his phone as he strides up to Bucky. “I was gonna eat that!” 

“Sorry man,” Bucky says around the last mouthful of leftover chocolate cake and Steve can’t help but snigger until he notices that Tony’s face is far from amused. “I thought you weren’t coming back.” Bucky adds bewildered, clearly noticing Tony’s demeanor as well. 

“That was a business call,” Tony snaps, glaring down at Bucky who’s still seated at the table and is staring up at Tony with wide eyes. “I had to take it,” Tony goes on, curt. “That doesn’t mean you can just…” He scoffs.  “Some of us have to work for a living, to afford all this for all of you. We can’t just all mooch off of - ” 

“Whoa, Tony,” Steve says hurriedly, interrupting him, his chair scraping back over the dining room floor as he stands. “That’s a bit unfair.” 

“Unfair?” Tony asks, his voice sharp and not at all like Steve is used to. “I step away for two minutes and I forfait all rights to my food?” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, his shoulders now stiff and his jaw clenched. He’s avoiding Tony’s eyes, and Steve can’t help but feel sorry for his friend, because he knows how much he tries to avoid conflict nowadays. And how much he’s tried to befriend Tony ever since he moved into the compound, despite how hard it’s been given the history between them. “I thought you’d finished your call and gone to your workshop or something. I didn’t think you were coming back.” 

“Come on, Tony,” Steve says softly, searching out Tony’s gaze. “We weren’t expecting you back. It wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Tony lets out a humorless snort. There’s a certain anguish over his face that Steve isn’t used to seeing, and that he definitely doesn’t like on Tony’s face. 

“Bucky asked,” Natasha pipes in, giving Tony a look. “We all told him to go for it.” 

“Right,” Tony says, nodding. As well as he knows Tony, Steve can’t quite figure out why on earth he is acting this way all of a sudden. The entire blow-up seems completely out of proportion, and while Tony is prone to heated arguments, this one seems unreasonable at best. 

“Hey, I can go down to the mess,” Bucky says as he gets up off his chair, a hopeful look on his face. “Maybe there’s something good left in the fridges that I can go and steal for you.” 

“Right,” Tony says, but he’s already turning towards the door. His voice has a bite to it as he says, before leaving the room, “‘cause you’re good at stealing things from under people’s noses, aren’t you?” 

***

Steve and Tony have had their fair share of arguments, but Steve has always been able to see Tony’s point of view on things. He doesn’t always agree, but Tony has never been unreasonable like he’s been today. It’s taken Steve by surprise, the little outburst in the kitchen, the snide comments at Bucky… 

Steve knows that Tony and Bucky don’t exactly have the easiest past. But after the initial tough start, Tony really went above and beyond to make things right between him and Bucky, much to Bucky’s surprise. Bucky didn’t feel like he deserved Tony’s forgiveness at first, but Steve had told him that that was just the kind of guy Tony was. The kind of guy Steve had grown to know and love. He had a good heart, and it had been such a relief to Steve when Tony and Bucky started getting along. Tony even invited Bucky to come live at the compound. Well, he didn’t do the inviting himself, but he urged Steve to, saying he knew how much it would mean to Steve to have his best friend move in, and reassuring Steve that he was okay with it. 

The last few months, since Bucky moved in, have been great. Steve feels like he’s got the best of his both worlds combined, his new family in the Avengers and his lifelong best friend all in the same place, getting along. Especially now that Bucky is on the mend and settling in nicely with everyone. 

Until Tony went and freaked out about Bucky eating the rest of his dessert, that is… 

Which is why Steve is currently knocking on Tony’s workshop door, and getting no answer. 

“FRIDAY,” Steve sighs, even though he already knows the answer. “He’s in there, isn’t it?” 

“He is, Captain,” FRIDAY answers, “But he has asked not to be disturbed.” 

“Seriously?” Steve mutters, then calls out loud enough that he knows Tony will hear it - and otherwise FRIDAY will relay the message for him. “Are you actually going to hide from me in there?!” 

When there’s no answer, Steve shouts, “I can break down this door and you know it!” 

“Boss says he’d like to see you try,” FRIDAY informs him dryly. 

“Fine,” Steve huffs, and takes a few steps back to be able to get some momentum to burst through the door. Tony leaves him no choice. 

He’s about to put his shoulder in it when the door opens up automatically to reveal a put upon Tony. 

“I don’t have time to fix what you break when you’re being a caveman,” Tony mutters as he walks back to his working station, turning his back on Steve. 

“What is wrong with you?” Steve asks, frowning as he follows Tony into the room. 

“Jury’s still out on that,” Tony says matter-of-factly, “But I believe the words narcissistic and daddy-issues have been floating around.” 

Tony’s shoulders are hunched as he sits back down and his fingers tap quickly over the hologram keyboard. 

“Tony…” Steve says softly, because there’s clearly something going on here - something that isn’t chocolate cake - and it’s putting Tony in a mood. “What’s wrong?” 

“Forget about it,” Tony shakes his head, deliberately not looking at Steve as he throws up some complicated looking plans in the air. “It’s nothing.” 

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Steve says, rounding the table so he can face Tony. “If you’re snapping at Bucky like this - ” 

“God, fine!” Tony calls out, put upon. “I’ll apologize to your precious bo- Bucky. Just… leave me alone.” 

The words feel like a punch to the gut to Steve. The clear dismissal, the comments that feel almost deliberately cruel… It reminds Steve of the time in the Helicarrier, all those years ago, when they were under the influence of Loki’s scepter. 

“What on earth has gotten into you, Tony?” Steve asks, and he’s trying very hard not to let his annoyance show too much, because the last thing he wants is to get into a shouting match with Tony, but Tony sure as hell isn’t making it easy on him. 

“Nothing!” Tony repeats, once again, flicking his fingers rapidly at the holograms to make images appear and disappear. “I just wanted a quiet dinner with you guys and not have to fucking think about…” He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face as he trails off. 

“Think about what?” Steve asks, almost desperate, because this is starting to feel like pulling teeth. “I thought you and Bucky were getting along? I thought you were… you know, in a good place. I know a lot has happened, and it’s been hard on you, but…”

“It’s not - ” Tony shakes his head, clearly frustrated. “Bucky’s a good guy. I know he is.” 

“He went out to go find an all night bakery for you,” Steve says, trying hard to get a hint of a smile on Tony’s face. “I’m pretty sure he’s gonna come back with enough desserts to put you in a sugar coma.” 

“Oh,” Tony’s face falls, a trace of guilt visible on it. “He didn’t have to do that…” 

“I know, I told him.” Steve shrugs. But Bucky wanted to make it right any way he could, so he went out anyway. Natasha accompanied him, telling Steve to ‘go take care of Tony’. “Because this really isn’t about the chocolate cake, is it?” Steve asks. 

“You… I’m happy for you,” Tony says, deflated, and happy is about the last thing Steve would use to describe Tony right now. “That he’s back. That, that you have him back.” 

“Bucky?” Steve frowns, because he’s not entirely sure he’s following what Tony is talking about. 

Tony nods, deliberately not meeting Steve’s eyes. 

“Thanks,” Steve says, hesitantly. He is, of course, ridiculously happy that he’s got Bucky back. They’ve been best friends since forever, and losing him was one of the hardest things Steve has had to deal with in his life. What he doesn’t understand is why it seems like it makes Tony sad.  Or why Tony had his little outburst in the first place. 

“If I apologize, do you, uh… do you think he’ll stay mad at me?” Tony asks, swiping away the holograms before he starts tinkering aimlessly at some metal pieces that are on his work bench. 

“He’s not mad now,” Steve says, sympathetically. “It’s Bucky, he… he just thinks he’s to blame.” 

The words make Tony cringe, and that’s not what Steve was aiming for either, of course. 

“Fuck,” Tony breathes out, knocking the metal pieces off the bench with his hand, “I’m such a jealous piece of shit.” He buries his face in his hands, turning away from Steve again. 

“Tony…” Steve starts, because as much as he doesn’t want Bucky to blame himself for all the troubles of the world - which he already does so often - he certainly doesn’t want Tony to do so either. In a sense Tony is a lot like Bucky in that respect, because he also - 

Wait. 

“Jealous?” Steve blurts out, because his mind gets stuck on the word and can’t seem to process it. Why does Tony have to be jealous? Who is he jealous of? It doesn’t make any sense. Tony just groans and sighs like he was hoping Steve would glance over what he said, or maybe wouldn’t have heard him, which is ridiculous because Steve has super serum hearing and he definitely heard Tony call himself jealous. 

And then something clicks in Steve’s head, and he feels like the air is being sucked out of his chest, because he’s replaying the conversation in his head… Because Tony said that he was happy for Steve and Bucky, as if… as if they were… a thing. And because Tony said he’s jealous and oh God… 

“You’re in love with Bucky?” Steve calls out, strangled. It feels like a punch to the gut, because Lord, he loves these two people so much - in very different ways - and he wants them to be happy but in all honesty he can’t say if he’d be able to cope with seeing them together. It would feel like his best friends ripping his heart right out of his chest with their bare hands and oh God, his breathing is heavy and his chest is pounding, and then Tony looks at him with an indecipherable expression on his face. 

“What?” Tony says, incredulous. “God, Steve, no!”  

“But, you said…” Steve stammers, completely and utterly confused. 

“Please, can you just…” Tony asks, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of the door, shoulders slouched and eyes faintly red. 

“Tony…?” Steve asks, because there is no way he can just step away now. 

“I’m in love with you, you idiot!” Tony yells out, almost desperately. 

There’s a ringing in Steve’s ears as the phrase replays on a loop in his brain and all he can do is stare at Tony incredulously. Tony looks about as miserable as Steve has ever seen him, and all Steve wants to do is step up to him and throw his arms around him and hold him close, but it seems like he’s frozen in place. 

I’m in love with you, you idiot! 

with you

It’s only when Steve suddenly inhales sharply that he realizes he’s been holding his breath. The ringing is still present in his ears and he tries to say something but he doesn’t know what. His brain is having a difficult time processing what Tony said, even though it’s everything Steve has been longing to hear. But everything Steve simply can’t believe is true. 

“Please leave,” Tony says, almost inaudible, like something broke inside of him, and Steve can see him turning away. Then all of a sudden Steve’s body is acting on its own, taking two long strides towards Tony and his hand is on Tony’s upper arm, preventing him from turning away from him. 

Tony’s eyes are wide and bewildered as Steve grips him, like he’s afraid of what Steve is going to do next, but then Steve’s eyes are closing by themselves and his mouth is crushing against Tony’s and the ringing in Steve’s ears stops abruptly to make place for Tony’s heartbeat. Or is it his own that he can hear? Either way it’s pounding, but Tony’s lips are soft and warm and are pressing back against his own. 

Steve slips his hands up Tony’s neck, fingers cupping underneath his jawline, thumbs resting on Tony’s cheeks, and there’s a soft noise that escapes Tony’s throat - a whimper - and it erupts a fire within Steve’s body. He parts his lips, tongue swiping out and immediately finding access in Tony’s mouth. Tony’s hands are gripping at the back of Steve’s shirt, and his entire body is pressed in against Steve’s, and Steve forgets how to think, how to fonction, how to breathe… 

He doesn’t know how long they’re standing there, time irrelevant in the warmth of Tony’s kiss, when they finally do break away - a need for oxygen becoming dire - but Steve rests his forehead against Tony’s, and one hand is cupping the back of his neck, and Tony’s chest is solid and reassuring against Steve’s. 

“I’m an idiot,” Steve whispers, his voice sounding rough. 

“ ‘s what I told you…” Tony mutters, tilting his face a bit, nuzzling his nose against Steve’s cheek. 

“I thought…” Steve trails off.

“I know,” Tony says, his breathing still heavy. “I thought..” 

“Me and Bucky?” Steve asks softly. His eyes are closed but he can feel Tony nodding against his face. 

“It made sense,” Tony says like a confession. 

“I don’t know,” Steve says, an arm slipping around Tony’s shoulder, desperate not to let go, “Maybe. But no.” 

“I’m an asshole,” Tony says, and Steve immediately silences him with a quick kiss, because no. 

“What you said about him stealing things from under your nose…” Steve says, pulling away just far enough to be able to look Tony in the eyes. 

“I thought…” Tony says, a slight blush on his cheeks which could be the result of the kiss or embarrassment, Steve can’t tell. “We were getting closer. I was… I thought we were… heading somewhere. But then you and him… there’s this history, and…” 

“He’s my brother,” Steve says honestly, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of Tony’s neck, “We’re close, yes, but… there’s nothing…” Steve shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain, because as much as he loves Bucky with all his heart, he’s never had those kinds of thoughts or feelings about him, ever. “It’s you, Tony,” Steve says, “You and only you.” 

And the way Tony kisses him makes Steve think that maybe he didn’t explain it so badly after all. 

***

They get to the kitchen just as Bucky and Natasha are unpacking boxes of treats and Tony groans as he takes in the sight, subconsciously moving to stand behind Steve a bit, as if he’s trying to hide. 

“Bucky…” Tony whispers, guilt audible in his voice. 

Bucky’s head snaps up, and he immediately holds out one of the boxes in Tony’s direction. “Do you like lobster tails?” he asks, a bit unsure. “I’m not sure what it is, but it looks really good.” 

“Buck…” Tony tries, but Bucky just sets the box down on the table and grabs another one. 

“We’ve got lots,” he says, looking around at the assortment in front of him. “I wasn’t sure what you liked best. I’ve got a couple of different kinds of chocolate cake, but there’s cupcakes and cream puffs and cannoli’s - ” 

“Oh my God, Bucky, stop,” Tony says as he steps towards the table. “You didn’t have to - I’m an asshole.” 

“Yeah, y’are,” Natasha mutters as she grabs one of the sugar cookies and takes a bite into it. 

“Alright,” Steve says, looking at Natasha. “Why don’t we give these two some privacy so this one can apologize properly.” He puts his palm playfully over the back of Tony’s head and nudges him a little bit. 

“Thanks,” Tony says, shooting Steve a small smile, before looking back at Bucky. 

“We’ll go get the others afterwards,” Steve says, looking at the assortment of desserts displayed on the table. “We’ll have a late night dessert party or something, ‘cause there’s no way the two of you are eating all of this alone.” 

He shoots Bucky a reassuring wink, because he knows Tony will make things right again. Natasha grabs another cookie before Steve nudges her out of the room. 

“He’s gonna apologize?” Natasha asks, raising an eyebrow at Steve once they’re out of the kitchen. 

“Yeah, he was just…” Steve trails off, shrugging. 

“Jealous?” Natasha supplies for him with a knowing smile. 

Steve just stares at her. “How did you…?” he frowns. 

Natasha’s only answer is a cocky smirk. 

“You know, you’re seriously scary sometimes,” Steve says, shaking his head. 

“Don’t hurt him,” Natasha warns, but her voice is surprisingly soft. “He’s an ass but he’s our ass and we love him.” 

“Yeah…” Steve says, glancing back at the kitchen. “We do.” 

***

Fin  

[ljandersen]

Kaidan Joins the Normandy

Pairing:  Kaidan/FemShep (Mass Effect 3)

Summary:  Kaidan’s first day aboard the SR-2.  It’s not so easy going from stalemate to shipmate.  

The toothbrush foamed in her mouth, forgotten.  The bristles were chewed and torn from her vigorous brushing session the night before.  The crack in the bathroom mirror made her knuckles ache remembering it.  Mordin and Thane dead, Earth and the Citadel torn apart, and then this.  After getting that news from the turians, it was lucky she’d made it back to her room before striking something.  The hand towel she’d ripped off the bathroom wall was still bunched on the desk behind her.  The computer screen flickered above it.  ANN. The failed Cerberus coup dominated the news, but the reporter had finally moved on to smaller items.

Shepard frowned, toothbrush dropping to her side, and turned to the terminal’s flashing news story.  The reporter repeated herself.  Shepard stalked to the screen and mashed the volume button.  Heat rose in her blood as she hung on every word.

“Captain Ferris said today at his release hearing that he plans to aid war efforts.  The former Alliance officer will assume his previous rank and has been invited to join the fifth fleet.  This is reminiscent of Commander Shepard, who was also reinstated in the face of crisis.”

“Hell no!”  Shepard pounded the desk with her fist.  A stack of datapads toppled over in the corner.

“Admiral Hackett yesterday said he was surprised at Ferris’s pardoning.  Usually level one intelligence crimes like Ferris’s do not earn parole consideration.  Spectre immunity on this level is unprecedented in Alliance military history.  This will mark the first time a Council-level pardon has been issued in concert with an Alliance Criminal Review Tribunal.”

Shepard hurled her toothbrush against the wall.  “EDI, get me Admiral Hackett ASAP.”

“Would you like to receive him in the comm room, Commander?”

“Yes.  Do it now.”

Shepard tore down the steps to her closet.  She threw the door open so hard it bounced against the wall.  A mistake of this level was unbelievable.  Reading a Spectre pardon request was not the same as approving it.  Shepard ripped a shirt out of the closet in a spray of hangers.  How the hell could this have happened?  Her Spectre account may have been hacked.  Possible.  Maybe someone had her codes.  Or … or …  Shepard froze.  Her back straightened.

“EDI?”

“Yes, Commander?”

“Cancel my call to Admiral Hackett.  Where’s Major Alenko?”

“Major Alenko is in the starboard observation lounge.  Would you like me to connect you to his comm?”

“No,” Shepard said sharply.  She yanked her pants on one leg at a time.  “I’ll call on him myself.”

Kaidan shuffled datapads on the lounge’s table.  It helped seeing the reports side by side.  His biotics team was on Earth.  Had to be.  The last Alliance reports showed that his biotic teams had been mobilized after the reapers hit.  They accompanied the third fleet to Earth’s defense.  From there communication cut off.  Silence.  If Kaidan hadn’t been laid up by a robot-rattling, maybe he would have joined with them.  They had known he was testifying in Vancouver.  They probably didn’t even know he’d survived.  If he could locate them on Earth and connect them with Anderson, a biotic ops unit could be invaluable to defense efforts.  Commander Uptograph was capable of leading the squads.  If he was alive.  Kaidan could give direction remotely.  Not in real time, of course, but if he—  

The lounge door slid open.  Boots thwomped through the widening crack not even waiting for the door to fully open.  Kaidan spine straightened.  He pushed back his chair and stood.

“Alenko.”  Shepard tore across the room to him.  “Guess what I heard on the news?”

Kaidan’s mind spun.  Being aboard had him off balance.  He hadn’t toured the ship yet, only slept in his bunk a few hours, and had yet to find an appetite for a real meal in the mess.  He was still reeling from the coup fiasco.  Hell, he’d aimed a gun at Shepard.  He’d stared into the barrel of her pistol aimed at him.  Face to face with the hard decision, the time for gray was gone.  He had to make a decision on Shepard, black or white. 

The Citadel attack was an inside job.  Kaidan could see that from the beginning.  He had rolled it around his head while he guided the Councilors to safety.  Cerberus couldn’t hope to capture the whole Citadel and keep it.  The target had to be information or something physical, like the councilors themselves.  Cerberus had backdoor security codes and access to the Citadel’s surveillance system.  Nothing else explained the uncanny way they tracked the councilors.  Troopers poured through embassy doorways not even feigning to hack the control panels.  They had Spectre override codes or higher.  Then Shepard appeared with a gun pointed at the councilors.  Kaidan chose his side.  Now, here they were aboard her ship together.  Shepard wasn’t pointing a gun in his face this time, but it didn’t feel much different.

“Are you angry?” Kaidan hedged.

“Guess what I heard on the news?”  Shepard enunciated and stepped toe-to-toe with him.

Kaidan’s mouth went dry.  He itched to take a step back.  He was taller than her, but damn, it had been a while since she breathed fire in his face.  She was a reckoning force.  But he wasn’t her staff lieutenant anymore.  Instead, he stared down at her hoping the height difference would balance her glare.  It didn’t.

“I’ll just tell you then,” she snapped.

“Thought you might.”

Her eyes slit into lines.  “I heard a Spectre pardon was granted to Alexi Ferris.”

Kaidan licked his lips.  “You disapprove, I take it?”

“Disapprove!”  Shepard rose on her toes, breath hot, but not at all unpleasant.  “Disapprove, Alenko?  Huh.  Well, let’s see.  Ferris gave intel to the Hegemony that resulted in five settlements – five! – being dismantled into a slavery livestock sale on Illium.”

“Four years ago, Shepard.”

“Oh, four years ago.  Oh well.  Forty thousand lives destroyed.  But four years doing crossword puzzles and sharing a bunk with Big Tony?  Sure, a year of that’s worth ten thousand colonists’ lives.”

“Shepard …” Kaidan said slowly.

“You undermined me, Kaidan.”  Shepard’s eyes flashed.  “I did not approve that pardon.  You went behind my back.  Now, it can’t be undone without a big to-do.”

Kaidan’s stomach twisted.  “Shepard, I didn’t—”

“He’s back in the fifth fleet!” Shepard snapped and spun away.  She paced.  “I suppose now I get a taste of how it felt to see me get off?  Alliance criminal back at the helm.”

“What?” Kaidan sputtered.  He reached for her elbow to stop the caged pacing, but she turned on him with bared teeth.  He drew his hand back before he got burned. 

“You didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself.”  She glared at his hand then resumed her pacing.  “I had to hear it on ANN, Kaidan.  ANN.”

Kaidan chewed his lip and watched her jerky pacing.  This seemed out of proportion.

“You really mad at me, Shepard?  Or is this about the war.” 

“I’m mad at you.”  Shepard drove a finger his direction.

“I didn’t undermine you, Shepard.  Or, at least, not intentionally.  If you saw the Spectre request, you didn’t dismiss it in the Spectre inbox.”

“I was still thinking about it.  It was marked ‘read.’”

“If it was, I didn’t realize it.  I’m sorry.”

Shepard’s pacing quickened.  “Ferris should be in prison.”

“It was four years ago.  Unintentional.  Negligence, not malice.”

“And you want negligence that extinguished forty thousand lives making decisions with a full company of Alliance warships?” Shepard waited then bit back at him.  “Well?”

“You really want an answer to that?  It’s clearly rhetorical.”

“Ha.  You would think that, wouldn’t you?  Clearly not though.” 

Kaidan clenched his jaw.  She was so blasé about their confrontation after the coup.  She welcomed him aboard, conciliatory, downplaying, even a touch warm, which had surprised him.  Horizon, Mars, the coup, everything in between, he expected it to cause some lingering distrust, distance, resentment.  This though?  It seemed a bit much.  It was a definite whiplash from her handshake and smile twenty-four hours ago.  He pulled out a chair and sat.

“That’s it?”  Shepard fisted her hands on her hips.  “Nothing else to say?”

“I have more to say.  Just waiting for you to finish what you had to say.”

“Say it.”  Shepard loomed over him.

“Okay.”  Kaidan leaned an elbow on the armrest and rubbed a hand down his jaw.  “Look, Commander, I’m sorry I didn’t check to see if the request had already been opened.  You’re not used to sharing humanity’s Spectre inbox.  I’m not used to having one.  In the future, I think it would be wise for you to dismiss a request you’ve already opened.  If you’re still considering a request, alert me with a message.  And I’ll do the same.”

“I do not like the decision you made with Ferris.”

“I understand that, and I see your side.  But see my side, too, Commander.  We’re at war, trillions dead, our forces weakened.  Captain Ferris made a bad decision.  Intel got passed to the wrong places.  He’s still a good leader with decades of experience.  He can help more wearing an Alliance uniform than a prison jumpsuit.  I only pardoned him, allowed his release.  Admiral Hackett decided to reenlist him to the rank of captain, give him a crew and ship.  Hackett knows the galaxy’s situation better than anyone.  He worked with Ferris in the past.  I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

Shepard’s nostrils flared.  She glared down at him but didn’t speak.

“Shepard,” Kaidan said, “you must have realized this too.  You were still considering the request and could have dismissed it outright.”

“I was going to research the matter further before I clicked anything.”  She gripped her elbows and stepped back. “Fine.  I suppose we’re both Spectres.  We’ll support each other’s decisions.  If there are requests under consideration, I’m moving them to a separate folder.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Shepard eyed him a second then turned on her heels.  “Glad we hashed it out.  Later, Major.”

“Shepard,” Kaidan said.

She stopped, hand hovering on the door’s button.

Kaidan stood.  “You all right?  Something wrong?”

“We fixed the something wrong.  Now, the something wrong is an empty stomach.  I have an energy bar in a drawer with my name on it.  I’ll see you at—”  She caught his throw reflexively.  She looked down at what she’d caught.

“Doesn’t have your name on it,” Kaidan shrugged, “unless you want to go by Blueberry.  But, I figure you were being figurative, not literal.”

Shepard turned the energy bar over in her fingers.  “Saving me twenty steps to the mess?  Thanks, I guess.  Maybe I wanted strawberry.”

“Hope you did.  That and cherry are all you’re gonna find in the mess.  Wartime supplies and utility trump variety I guess.”  He stopped in front of her.

Shepard narrowed her eyes and curled her fingers around the energy bar.  “This been traveling around in your pocket all week?”

“Crammed in with my spare bandages and a pocket knife?  Like famishment first aid or something?  No.”  Kaidan grinned.  “An energy bar doesn’t last long in my pocket, especially blueberry.  It’s the best kind.  We both know it.”

“You’re bribing your CO with caviar-grade Alliance-issued energy bars, Alenko?”

Kaidan rested a shoulder against the wall and folded his arms.  “Are you requesting more blueberry energy bars, Commander?  Your accusation was plural.  Bars.”

Shepard’s eyes shifted away from Kaidan.  He followed her eyes to the table in the corner, datapads lighting the surface. 

“You got a whole box of these?” Shepard asked.

“Not over there.  You’ll have to dig through all the stuff stashed under my bunk.”  Kaidan turned and rested his back against the wall.  He studied the window.  “I have kiwi too.”

“What?”  The energy bar dropped from Shepard’s fingertips.  She fumbled for it and scooped it off the floor.  “You’re lying.”

“You’re right.”  Kaidan shrugged.  “Made it up.  The wrappers in the bunk room garbage are all misprints.”

“Must not be Alliance-stocked.”

“Citadel grocery store and a credit chip.  Secret recipe for kiwi energy bars.”

Shepard smirked.  “Better than Alliance-issued blueberry?”

“Better than Alliance-issued strawberry and cherry.  I’ll give you some.  You decide.”

Shepard grinned lopsidedly and studied the energy bar in her open hand.  “Thanks.”

Kaidan let the silence stretch.  Her downturned face still had a slight smile.

“How’s the war effort?” Kaidan said lightly.  “This next mission lining up?”

Shepard curled a fist around her energy bar.  She tore the end of the wrapper off with her teeth.  “Damned turians.”

Kaidan frowned.  “What?”

“Damned turians,” Shepard pronounced louder.  “You think things are working out.  Both sides are finally happy and onboard, then you find out—” She paused.  Their eyes connected, and she looked away sharply.  She tore off another bite.  “Anyway, amazing what secrets come to light in a time like this.”

“Hmm.”  Kaidan agreed.

Either she didn’t trust him with the information or just didn’t want to engage him enough to share it.  The latter seemed more likely.  He was a Spectre and Alliance major.  He hoped to be part of her ground team at some point.  He’d find out whatever it was eventually.  She just didn’t want to confide in him that a mission was bothering her.

“I went dark and joined a Terminus merc band for a week,” Kaidan said.

Shepard’s eyes snapped to his face like he knew they would. 

“What?” she said.  “The Alliance sent you undercover with mercs?”

“Alliance?  Well, uh, no.  Not exactly.”  Kaidan scuffed the floor with his boots.  “Anyway, I was going to say—”

“Wait.  What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“I mean, that’s not relevant to what I’m trying to say.”

“Classified, you mean?”  Shepard’s mouth twisted into a frown.  She folded her arms.

“Hey, I’m not lording something classified over you.”  Kaidan held her gaze then sighed.  “Look.  I was on leave.  Went on my own.”

“What, like a second job?  Saving up for something?”

Kaidan chuckled.  “Yeah, no.  I wanted to get information on – well … Anyway, what I found was something else.”

“You wanted information on Cerberus?” Shepard filled in.

“Uh, yeah.”  Kaidan flashed her a weak smile and pushed his hands into his pocket.  “Anyway, I came back with information on a piracy organization called Dobson.”

“Weird name.”

“Right?”  Kaidan settled his back more comfortably against the wall.  “They had Alliance-patented weapon mods, crates of standard issue Lance IV’s.  The ladar system on their groundcrawlers had Lazer-10 and 7’s installed.  Little high end and standardized for your average pirates.”

“Alliance secret pet project, ala Cerberus or Turstein?”

“Ran right into, Shepard.  I thought Dobson was targeting Alliance warehouses or our carriers.  I didn’t realize …”

“And the Alliance wasn’t happy you came back ringing alarm bells about it?”

“The Council was pissed too.  I saw some Spectre-grade armor and weaponry.  Turns out Dobson was a Council-Alliance collaboration, a Terminus system black ops project.  Anderson about leapt over the conference table to slap a hand over my mouth.  There I was spilling everything about Dobson to a room of senior Alliance officers who knew nothing about it.”

“You’re telling me this for a reason?”  Shepard finished her energy bar and stuffed the wrapper in her pocket.

“I’m not you, Shepard.  I know the stakes are different here.  But I understand trying hard and not making anyone happy.  Not achieving what you thought you already had in the box.  I thought I’d stumbled onto something big.  I had names and base locations ready, thought I’d get a pat on the back.  Instead I got slapped with a gag order.”

Shepard cocked her head at him.  “This an ‘I opened up, now you open up’ arrangement?  That how this works?”

“What?”  Kaidan jerked away from the wall.  “I’m not trying to manipulate you.  Trust me, that’s the last thing I want.”

Shepard held his eyes with a steady stare.  He shifted his weight from foot to foot but didn’t break her gaze.

“Why were you running with mercs on your shore leave?” Shepard asked pointedly.

Kaidan dropped his eyes and shrugged.  “I did a lot of that in my free time.”

“Adrenaline junkie?”

His heart drummed.  “Guess I was chasing something I couldn’t find outside of work.”  He looked her in the eye.  “Or maybe it was just running away from what would happen if I stood still.”

Shepard’s gaze wavered, a line pinched between her eyebrows.  She looked away and cleared her throat.  “Tuchanka has a bomb.  Turians planted it for security years ago.  The genophage is cured, the krogan have rallied to Palavan’s rescue, we’ve saved the primarch, and it’s still not settled.  All because there’s a damn explosive no one wanted to own up to.  Now the reapers know about it.  We’re left scrambling to prevent losing everything that we just sacrificed to gain.”

“Damn turians.”  Kaidan gave a quick smile, his blood still rushing.  “You know, humanity may have done the same thing given the chance.  We all want assurances.  Hard to admit past mistakes.  To make up for them before it’s too late.”

Shepard searched his eyes.  “Perhaps.”  She glanced back at the door with a lingering look.  She turned back to him and took a step closer.  “My friend died, Kaidan.  If Tuchanka is destroyed, his death counts for nothing.”

“You know that’s not true,” Kaidan said.  “Ash’s death didn’t count for nothing just because Saren escaped that day.  Your friend’s death won’t count for nothing just because Tuchanka has a bomb.  When we beat the reapers, every sacrifice will count.”

“I guess.”  She shrugged dismissively, but a smile played on her lips.  “Kaidan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get me one of those kiwi energy bars, I’ll show you around the ship.”

Kaidan’s chest expanded with a light, fluttery feeling.  “Really?”

“Only if you’re not lying about the kiwi flavor.”

“You can trust me.”  Kaidan walked to the table and gathered his datapads.

“I want paid upfront.  Just so you know.”  Shepard pushed the button for the door.

“Of course.” Kaidan brushed past her into the hall.  “First one’s always free anyway.”

AO3 (from “About Mars”)”: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21369139/chapters/50901124

FFN:  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13428855/1/About-Mars-Mass-Effect

[kasprsg]

REVOLUTIONS PER MINUTE

Published in Studija Magazine 87 (2012 December) following exhibition H at KKC, Riga. 2012

Two threes are rotating around an axis. The longer they are spinning, the less they look like figures, twisting and dissolving as they move. Two threes spin around the axis thirty three times per minute, and along with them there wobbles and ripples one more third and three small letters – RPM (Revolutions per minute). For a Latvian mind like the one I have, the letters standing for revolutions per minute make me first of all think of fundamental changes in power per minute. How many revolutions are there really per minute? To be more exact, how many fundamental changes are supported by a thought or action per minute? Maybe somewhere someone is drawing three lines on squared paper, lines that are later to become an international event, while elsewhere one more breakfast fortifies a personal commitment to do away with cheese with holes in it, once and forever.

Long-playing vinyl records are still played at 33.33 RPM, but their manufacturers will certainly remember the time when a cassette player was part of the stockpile of sound gear in people’s bedrooms, lounge rooms and kitchens. People were able to record music from the radio, copy and share recordings with friends, acquaintances and strangers. With the help of a pencil, you could wind up the time captured in the tape.

In 1980, Annabella Lwin, dressed up as a pop-music pirate, repeated in a strident voice the words written by the godfather of punk music, Malcolm McLaren: “C30, C60, C90, go!” The song in Burundi beat eulogized the most popular cassette formats of the day and at the same time, and to a certain extent, marked a flagging of the initial rapture in the punk revolution, but let us return to that later. C90 meant that a cassette could hold approximately two longplaying records (2x45 minutes), and all of a sudden time was slightly easier to take hold of. Thirty years later it is so difficult to imagine any limits to data carriers that even the Guinness Book of Records no longer thinks it worth maintaining the category of “The World’s Longest Album”. And Nam June Paik, possibly, would be forced to admit that books have ceased to be “the most advanced technology”.

The punk coup in the UK was launched by the word “shit!”, scornfully spat out live on TV. Upon Malcolm McLaren’s solicitous advice, the boutique of his girlfriend, Vivienne Westwood, acquired a new name – ‘SEX’, and a timeless accessory: the band Sex Pistols. The punk revolution had already started, but the expletives the Sex Pistols members uttered on Bill Grundy’s afternoon TV show in 1976 echoed the next day from the front pages of British papers (“The Filth and the Fury!”), and straight away also in the minds of anxious parents, lunch-time conversations and scratchiti on public transport seats.

The word “punk” was, and still is, protected and cared for with pride by its keepers. It was in angry slogans that they found their identity, to be enhanced by squeaky guitars and the rebellion manifested in their clothing. Multicoloured mohawks cut through the crowds like festive banners in the streets of London, Liverpool and Manchester, soon to spread from Paris to Moscow and further on.

When, in the late 1970s, Derek Jarman’s film Jubilee appeared on the screen, Vivienne Westwood offered her customers an open letter of denunciation to the director: “I had been to see it once and thought it the most boring and therefore disgusting film I had ever seen” said the wobbly handwriting of the letter printed on a T-shirt.

It seemed to Westwood that in this work, promoted as the first punk film, the street subculture had been used as stage design, giving the wrong impression about punks. A culture invoking anarchy and freedom was suddenly threatened by a homosexual film director from “artistic circles”, offering his version about a certain time in a certain place. Shortly before his death, Jarman wrote that the film had later turned out to be prophetic. Many of the original anarchists were soon basking on TV in Top of the Pops, while Adam Ant, one of the lead actors in Jubilee, entertained soldiers at a ball celebrating the victory of the British (and Margaret Thatcher) in the Falklands War.

In 1853, Édouard Manet’s painting Le Déjeuner sur l’herbe (‘The Luncheon on the Grass’) sparked the displeasure of the Parisian public. The picture features two respectably clad gentlemen who have sat down in rather roughly daubed woods, together with a nude lady gazing serenely at the viewer. The men, lost in conversation, scarcely notice her, just like they ignore the woman clad in a nightdress who is bathing in a nearby river or lake. Manet’s uneven strokes were re-echoed ten years later in the newspaper Le Charivari, with Louis Leroy sarcastically satirising a bunch of – in his opinion – inept Parisian painters. And thus the mocked-at impressionists were drawn into the modernist whirlpool.

More than a hundred years later, The Luncheon on the Grass shocked society once again. This time Annabella Lwin, at the time a 15-year-old girl, joined in the meal, with her mates from the band Bow Wow Wow posing in the roles of the city dandies. The not-too-precise photographic interpretation of Manet’s painting was to be used for the cover of their album See Jungle! See Jungle! Go Join Your Gang, Yeah. City All Over! Go Ape Crazy. The young singer’s mother, meanwhile, sued Malcolm McLaren for the exploitation of a minor.

Bow Wow Wow was Malcolm McLaren’s next “project” after the punk revolution, a weird attempt to destroy the music industry from the inside, using to this end the underage Annabella, lewd lyrics and a whole load of erotic photographs. Managing the Sex Pistols had finished in massive disagreement, the breakup of the group and – finally – the death of the notorious bassist Sid Vicious. But McLaren’s plan to stir up a nationwide paedophilia scandal by publishing, with financial assistance from the music giant EMI, a kids porn magazine called Chicken, again featuring Annabella Lwin, failed. Punk rock had become too slow.

Lydia Lunch, “the official face” of the New York No Wave movement, was to sneer some time later: “I thought punk was lousy Chuck Berry music amped up to play triple fast. (..) I thought it was really too much orientated towards fashion.” Lunch’s howls, clusters of booming noises and screaming wails of saxophone that tore the air in New York artists’ dives had finally decimated rock music, leaving behind a mutilated carcass.

Although the No Wave overthrow took place mostly on the cover of the No New York vinyl record while its participants maintained obstinate silence, foregoing slogans and grandiose future plans, it rumbled on like a thunderstorm in summer, making many sit up. While Jean-Michel Basquiat was rubbing shoulders with crowds at the concerts of Lydia Lunch and her group, Teenage Jesus and the Jerks, in the west, east, south, north and centre of America the hollow rumble reverberated in furious incitements and piercing vibrations of guitar strings. Young and angry, keepers of the punk legacy offered a new version of mutiny and anarchy – hardcore punk, alluding to the term used by the porn industry to denote heavy porn. The hardcore version of punk rock was uncontrollable, like a vein throbbing on one’s neck, with music crashing through clapped-out loudspeakers as fast as the drummer’s extremities would allow.

In the mid-1980s, mutant monsters, named after bebop and rocksteady genres of music, scared the kids from TV screens. Loaded with chains, wearing military style clothes and brightly coloured mohawks, mutant punks fought ninja turtles in the New York City underground. For the most part unsuccessfully. The ninjas, in turn, were being cheered on by one of the 80s mainstream rappers, Vanilla Ice, with a spirited Go ninja, go ninja, go!. The clashes of subcultures had entered into popular culture, thus obtaining many of the stereotypes we know today. In the city slums, aggressive punks wallowed in garbage, the hip-hop culture left behind it defaced walls, while antisocial Goths pined away in basements, messing around with the occult. “A brain, a beauty, a jock, a rebel and a recluse. Before the day was over, they broke the rules (...)”

While Soviet children were being scared by a hippie wolf with a cigarette in its mouth, American television screens were lit up by Ronald Reagan’s smile, but the punk rock in stale cellars and beer-soaked bars had become much faster and more violent. People’s bodies rolled over the edge of the stage and band members sometimes mingled with the crowd in order to have a punch up. Hardcore music embodied young people’s protest against the existing division of roles and became the soundtrack for the mood of a certain strata of society. Amidst the flailing feet, hands and hair, Jello Biafra yelled, with a TV evangelist’s tremor in his voice: I’m your hope dope pusher!”

I remember, round about the time when conductors had just appeared on public transport in Riga, an elderly bus conductor expressed her horror about my friends’ pierced ears, lips, eyebrows and noses. To which somebody replied, with a snigger, that their god was a magnet – the more metal in your body, the closer you are to the almighty.

The number of bands and small independent music publishers grew in proportion to the number of broken jaws. Information travelled from town to town via records, cassettes and home-edited issues, slowly building a definite community where information circulates like well-lubricated conversation. During a longer communication, the words accumulated meaning, to an outside observer they seemed like sentences dropped in a hurry. A commonplace word or simply the geometry of eyebrows allowed a person conversant with the language to continue with a communication in which pieces of clothing, graphic signs and tattoo lines have their place. As in similar subcultures, the language of communication in hardcore communities remained, for as long as possible, as opaque as any ‘insider joke’ that is funny only for those in the know.

Like before, the punks of the 1970s inevitably felt weary – from the shards of glass under their feet, from the incessant brawls, the conflicts with the law, an abstract enemy and the monotonous beat of the music. A community that still nurtured a vision of independence from the state system tried to absorb bloody fists and the owners thereof, fierce individuals for whom a comrade’s shoulder served as a catalyst for violence. Hardcore subculture slowly went through change, with many of its original adherents growing up and getting tired of destruction and roaming around (Seek & Destroy). As they fought unsuccessfully to avert the imminent capitulation through indelible individual promises of their flesh, time inevitably pointed towards new uprisings.

Sitting alone with the rumble of Riga trains, nothing can be stated with any certainty, however, doubt and revelations began to creep into the recordings emerging from the punk community in the mid-1980s. Collectors of music stories will later credit this time with being the starting point for a number of genres, but they too will hardly be able to say that for certain. New events unfolded at every moment. Possibly at some point the punk community had very little left in common with those drunkards who a decade earlier had styled their hair with beer and burnt the flag of their country. The ecstasy of negation is followed by a stage when slogans should be put into practice, and perhaps doing things had left a bitter aftertaste. And all at once the punks were so sad as to tell you everything.

The name emo, from the very first day detested by the ones who were called this, slipped out of somebody’s mouth as inadvertently as that which was once uttered by Louis Leroy. In twenty years’ time, emo was already a global movement with its own language and rules. As a quiet reply to the increasing dominance of hooligans at concerts and the predictable musical algorithms, emo (from the word emotional) punk rock began to drown in longing and visions. Somewhere, the still existent authority sneered menacingly, and emo seemed to say: “It is difficult for me to fight all that on my own.”

After 1991, when the Western world was shaken by Nevermind, a record by Nirvana, the movers and shakers of the music industry seemed to suddenly realise that hysterical yelling and a hatred of yourself and those around you can be sold. The next year saw the screening of the film Wayne’s World, which features two unlucky metalheads unexpectedly ensnared by a greedy media corporation. Although this flirtation turns out to be a failure, and the characters learn the meaning of “selling yourself”, the movie has a happy end: the scruffy rebels come under the care of a “good” corporation and live happily ever after. Wayne, the one whose world is depicted in the film, finally gets his Filipino dream girl, whose looks and musical career in the film strangely resemble the case of Annabella Lwin.

You would have thought that with the weapon lent to Cobain by Dylan Carlson everything should have come to an end, but still that was not the case. By the time those who fought against music piracy had become alarmed by developments in computer technology which allowed time to be grasped even more firmly than on cassette, alternative rock had blown up. Grunge had ceased to be something that young people played somewhere in Seattle – even in the little houses of godforsaken Limbaži, decrepit guitars were being tuned to repeat the magical chords of Come as you are.

The cries of sad losers were burnt into thousands of CDs. It turned out that everybody was having a hard time – both the hooligans and their pretty girlfriends as well as the geeks and the loners. Punk rock had become the soundtrack for a high school get together, where all of the above have gathered to smoke marihuana on the school football grounds, trying to forget about the decade into which they had landed against their will.

In 1895, Swedish writer and painter August Strindberg refused Gauguin’s request that he write a preface to the exhibition catalogue, saying in his letter, among other things: “I cannot understand your art and I cannot like it. I have no grasp of your art, which is now exclusively Tahitian. But I know that this confession will neither astonish nor wound you, for you always seem to me fortified especially by the hatred of others (..) For moment you were approved and ad-mired and had supporters, they would classify you, put in your place and give your art a name which, five years later, the younger generation would be using as a tag for designating a superannuated art, and art they would do everything to render still more out of date.”