#so he’d have time to you know. do his BJ things. throw a party do a gesture | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

slashingdisneypasta · 4 years ago

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Could you do a headcanon about the villain's SO that's Asexual(someone who is disgusted by sex/doesn't want to have sexual intimacy. However, some asexual individuals partake in sex for personal reasons, like for their partner while others don't at all). How would they react? Would they even care? And I was thinking for the villains that it could be Captain Hook, Dr. Facilier, Hades, Ratigan, Beetlejuice, and maybe Bill Cipher? Thank you! I love reading these!!! Your work is so good!! 💛💜

Course! Hope you likes these! ^^ Thank youuuuu, I’m so glad you’ve enjoyed some of this blog so far!

~~~

Beetlejuice:

· Well damn, that’s a bummer.

· I’m sorry for him! But BJ is one hypersexual little shit. Of course, he’s not going to leave you or anything because if he just wanted sex then he’d go back to that brothel- he also likes your reactions to his horrible jokes, and your horrible jokes, and your very presence.

· So, I mean, the ‘You’re not interested in sex’ thing is a bummer for him, but it’s not the end-all be-all of the relationship for him. Not for someone as old (And as acquainted with his right hand. Not to mention his powers) as he is.

· If you’re still willing to have sex with him, though, be prepared to see a very ecstatic ghost!

Bill Cipher: I... kind of headcanon him as ace also? I think? I mean, he’s a triangle. He’s not disgusted by it, and he can certainly use it to his advantage, but its like ‘Yeah nah no thanks. Colossal Cosmic Power though pls?’

Captain Hook:

· I mean, even in a relationship with someone who wants and likes sex, Hook isn’t that interested in sex. He’s spent so many years on Neverland, a place that’s run by children, that sex has been put on such a backburner for so long that fantasies and desires have sort of... become… unimportant? Well, far less important than, like, getting his revenge, keeping good form, and now, you. Sex hasn’t really been a thing for him, so it’s not a big deal at all for him at all that even now that he has a partner, he won’t be having relations like that (Unless you’re okay with it. But even then- he might not be).

· When you tell him that you’re asexual, its just like ah ‘Ah. Oh well.’ Kinda moment. He is curious about your sexual identity (Because of course he knows n o t h i n g apart from ‘Straight’, ‘Gay’, and those rare party animals’ that’ll hit ‘either’ gender. Good grief, please educate him) though so I hope you’re ready to talk about it! It might actually feel good to have someone just, genuinely curious about you. Not as a way to ‘debunk’ you identity at all- just because he’s he thinks it’s interesting.

· He accepts you wholeheartedly. You know, he would say, I thinks one of me pirates is like that too! Smee, maybe? Whatever, I don’t ask about the men’s personal lives.

· You will feel completely accepted and understood on the Jolly Roger!

Dr Facilier:

· I tend to headcanon Dr Facilier as having ‘been around’, you know? Like, he’s been to all sorts of underground clubs and casinos in the French Quarter that he’s met everyone. Gays, bisexuals, men who are women on the inside, women who are men on the inside, people who throw gender to the wind entirely, couples made of more than 2 people, etc. And you are certainly not the first soul he’s met that isn’t interested in carnal relations.

· Basically, with him, its like dating any gen z- he doesn’t care about losing out on sex! He accepts you and just wants you to feel safe and comfortable being yourself around him.

· As long as he still gets to cuddle you (LOTS) and give you all-over-the-face kisses, (Meaning: Worship you) he’s happy XD Just lots of non-sexual affection.

· Lots… and lots… of affection. He’s obsessed with it, really. Physical and verbal.

Hades:

· Hades is a God- the fact that asexual individuals exist is not a surprise to him in the slightest like it is with a lotta other Disney Villains. Its like ‘Righty then’ and you move on with your day.

· Hades is not as hypersexual as his flirting may sometimes imply (He is most c e r t a i n l y not at Beetlejuice’s level, anyway)- he’s far more invested in his desires to take over Olympus and that is more at risk of destroying your relationship then the lack of sex in it.

· If you are willing to do it with him, though, he’ll be careful and slow and will stop with ease the moment you decide you want it to stop where it is.

Professor Ratigan:

· Ratigan is a man of science- and that includes psychology, as well.

· He quickly realises that if you two want kids and you don’t want to have sex with him to do it (If you have a functioning female reproductive system), then there’s always adoption, or other a number of other choices. Or you might not want children at all.

· He also understands that different minds (And libidos) work differently and the fact that yours doesn’t want sex is neither a personal choice on your part, or a fault in any way. This is one of those times in Ratigans life that he realises how stupid the rest of the population is compared to his own genius criminal mind- how can anyone not understand this? Imbeciles.

· He didn’t fall in love with your ass anyway, so no worries.

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angryhausfrau-writes · 4 years ago

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Something Old and Something New: Chapter 11 - Pas de Deux

Peg comes down to breakfast – well it's more like brunch at this point - that next morning sans BJ. He'd stumbled in quite late last night. Or early this morning, if you want to split hairs. And even without a night of partying under his belt, he likes to sleep in.

So Peg has resigned herself to eating alone and then maybe reading the newspaper in the lovely little armchair next to the bay window in their hotel room. But then she spies Hawkeye and Trapper sitting at one of the little breakfast tables in the lobby.

Trapper takes the bite of French toast Hawkeye offers off his fork. “It's not as good as your dad's,” he says, after some consideration. “But it's still pretty good. Here, try my eggs Benedict.” Trapper holds out his own fork.

“Mmmm, that is good, Trap. I should have ordered something savory.”

“Here, you can have my sausage.” Trapper tips them onto Hawkeye's plate with a leer.

A leer Hawkeye returns.

“Am I interrupting if I join you gentlemen?” Peg asks. She'll butt out if they want, but she hopes they won't want her to. It's no fun to eat alone.

“Peg! Please, sit down.” Hawkeye's greeting is enthusiastic, and Trapper is getting up to pull out a chair for her.

“Are Margaret and Kat joining us? Or are they still sleeping in?”

Trapper and Hawkeye share a glance.

“The gals are off at some fancy spa deal with Honoria,” Trapper supplies. And Peg gets the feeling that that's only part of the story. But she won't pry into their private affairs.

“Speaking of plus ones, is BJ going to be joining us?”

“Oh, no,” Peg says with a laugh. “He's still recovering from last night – I don't expect to see him till at least one.”

“He always did like to sleep in on the weekends,” Hawkeye comments.

“And the week days too, I'm sure,” Peg chimes in.

“Yeah, those too. BJ used to read me the riot act every day for waking him up for morning rounds. Finally, Potter switched him to afternoon rounds just to get some peace around the place.”

Hawkeye pauses.

“Of course, that meant Charles had morning rounds, and he bellyached plenty for two people.”

“Charles? Complaining about something?” Trapper asks, pretending shock. “Never.”

Hawkeye laughs. “You're lucky you didn't know him back then, Trap. He's mellowed a surprising amount since Korea.”

“Yeah, I figure we all have.” Trapper sighs. “I know I wasn't at my best back then. And, God knows, neither were you.”

“Wow, thanks Trapper.”

“Oh, you know what I mean.”

Hawkeye looks at Trapper all soft and understanding. “Yeah, I do know what you mean.”

Peg clears her throat gently and both Hawkeye and Trapper's attention snaps back to her. “Was. Was BJ really so bad as all that, back in Korea? In terms of, I don't know, getting worked up about things?”

Hawkeye sighs. “I won't pretend that we didn't fight a whole bunch. But he never went off the deep end or anything.”

Not like Hawkeye himself had.

“Cuz of you and Erin, I think. He knew he'd get to come home to you both and I think that kept him from falling too far down, you know? Though there were days knowing the two of you were back stateside and he was stuck in Korea pushed him over the edge pretty good.”

Hawkeye knocks his shoulder into Trapper's.

“Remember when you got loaded and were going to run away back to Boston?”

Trapper shrugs. “Sure. And then you distracted me with old Ferret Face and stole my duffel bag. It was a dirty move, Hawk. I was so proud – once I'd sobered up.”

“Yeah, well BJ got a hare like that. He got real sloshed and mad as all hell that Radar got to go home.”

“You mean when his uncle Ed died and he went home on a bereavement ticket?” Trapper asks, scandalized. Sure they gave Radar a lot of shit, but he's family.

“Yeah. It, uh, it wasn't his proudest moment.”

Peg rejoins with, “No, that would be when he ran Major Burns's underwear up the flagpole.”

Hawkeye and Trapper raise their coffee cups in a silent salute.

“Anyway, he and Max were both pissed – in both senses of the word – and BJ was going to go AWOL. I tried to stop him, but with no ferretty distractions, I couldn't steal his bag. And he, uh, he really took it out on the still.”

And Peg has a feeling there's more to that story, too. But he'd apparently rather not get into the gritty details in public. Which, fair enough.

“Prolly the single greatest tragedy of the Korean war right there,” Trapper quips.

Hawkeye nods solemnly. “It truly was. I spent a whole twenty-four hours sober while we built a new one.”

He pauses.

“Though at least BJ stopped glaring over at it all the time. I was getting kind of sick of that, I'm not going to lie.”

Ah. Right. Because the still was something Hawkeye made with Trapper – a sign that Trapper had been there first.

“He's been working on that, lately,” Peg assures. “The jealousy of inanimate objects thing.”

“Sure,” says Trapper.

Hawkeye elbows him.

“Look, Peg. Regardless of BJ's newfound equanimity around glassware, I was planning on being out and about most of the day. Give him and Hawkeye a chance to catch up.”

She nods. “That's not a bad idea. I know BJ's been really looking forward to having a chance to talk, just the two of them.”

Hawkeye is now sporting a sort of deer in the headlights look. “What, is he breaking up with me?”

Trapper snorts. Kinda the opposite actually.

Peg gasps dramatically. “Never! Hawkeye, you're an absolute keeper.”

Hawkeye grins and blushes, a little shy suddenly. Peg's really nice. He can see why BJ's so fucking gone on her.

“Well, Peg, if you want someone to show you the sights, I'm more than willing. Assuming BJ don't mind us stepping out together.”

Peg laughs. “Depends where we're stepping, I'd imagine.”

“Don't worry. Cuz of having kids, the only places I know are museums and historical sites and other educational type stuff.”

“The botanical gardens are really nice,” Hawkeye supplies.

“I wouldn't know,” Trapper sniffs. “I never got to go.”

Hawkeye throws his hands up in exasperation. “Fine! Next time Charles gets married and asks us to help him find a suitable bride, you can go to the botanical gardens.”

“Thank you.”

Peg laughs at them. “I think the botanical gardens sound lovely.”

With that decided, they spend the rest of the morning chatting and drinking overpriced coffee and waiting for BJ to finally join them, the lazy bones.

Hawkeye is starting to feel like maybe Peg and Trapper know something he doesn't. He's had this suspicion since breakfast – and it's only grown as the day's gone on. And now he's home and he and Trapper are in their bedroom unpacking. And Trapper's pulling him close, kissing him deeper than is probably appropriate given that they have houseguests and Trapper's leaving with Peg in a few minutes.

But Hawkeye isn't particularly inclined to pull away, not when Trapper's got a big warm hand cupping the back of his head so gently. Not when he's broken the kiss but is still standing with his forehead pressed against Hawkeye's own, looking at him so warm and tender.

“Love you, Hawk.”

And now he knows something's up. Cuz it's not that Trapper never says it – it's just that he's an awful lot better at physical gestures. Tangible expressions of his love. Things like making Hawkeye food or holding him at night or any of the hundreds of other tiny moments every day that show how he feels.

But he also knows how important words are to Hawkeye.

So if he's saying this now, it's because he thinks Hawkeye needs to hear it. And that makes him nervous. Because, sure, things between Trapper and BJ have always been fraught. But with both Trapper and Peg clearing out to give the two of them some space, this feels like more than just Trapper not particularly wanting to be around the guy. It feels like there's something brewing on the horizon, and Hawkeye doesn't know what it is.

But Trapper isn't upset or scared or anything that actually warrants concern. In fact, he and Peg are treating this secret knowledge more like a surprise birthday party than a portent of impending doom. So he's probably fine.

“Love you too, Trap,” Hawkeye breathes into the space between them.

Trapper smiles softly, grips the back of his neck in a way that's firm, grounding, and pulls away a little. “Have a good time catching up with BJ this afternoon.” He presses a chaste kiss to Hawkeye's lips and then leaves the room, presumably to find Peg and head off to the botanical gardens.

So Hawkeye finishes unpacking his suitcase and then heads downstairs to find BJ. After all, they're supposed to be spending this afternoon alone together catching up. Trapper and Peg have both been very adamant about that.

Hawkeye comes downstairs to find BJ sitting on the sofa. He looks unsure. Nervous. So Hawkeye sits down next to him and picks up his knitting. He needs to do something to get rid of all of his own nervous energy.

The click of knitting needles is soothing.

Hawkeye knit so much in Korea that the sound was practically ingrained in BJ's mind, a constant soundtrack to his life. And hearing it again, now, takes BJ back to those long, boring afternoons in the Swamp when there was nothing worth doing around the MASH and he was pleasantly buzzed but not sloshed. When he and Hawkeye could just sit and be together

The mundanity of Hawkeye's chatter washing over him as he tells stories about work is another balm to BJ's nerves. Hawk's in the middle of some anecdote about a patient he and Letta had to deal with. And he looks so alight with joy, so warm and open and settled and happy. BJ can't stand it anymore, sitting next to Hawkeye when he's shining so brightly.

“I love you, Hawkeye.”

The confession just bursts out of him – totally beyond conscious thought. BJ claps a hand to his mouth but the damage has already been done. Hawkeye heard him. He can't take it back.

He's almost glad. It's over and done with - no more agonizing over how to tell him. But mostly, BJ just feels sick to his stomach.

“I love you too, BJ.”

Hawkeye sounds uncharacteristically small. Vulnerable.

He's looking at BJ with such wide-eyed surprise. And what may or may not be hopeless longing. BJ isn't sure that he isn't reading too much into that part of Hawkeye's expression. Because he can't feel the same way as BJ does, he just can't. BJ couldn't take it if he did.

“You're one of my best friends.”

And there it is. Proof that Hawkeye doesn't return his feelings. Proof that BJ is too late. But he needs Hawkeye to understand.

BJ reaches for Hawkeye's hand.

“No, Hawk. I love you. I'm in love with you.”

This is. This is a surprise.

Hawkeye is in genuine shock. After months and years of resigning himself to unrequited feelings, BJ loves him. Him.

And Trapper knew, the putz. Him and Peg both, given the way they've cleared out for the afternoon. Peg knows and is clearly ok with it, since BJ's here with him and she isn't.

That gives him the strength to reach out. To take BJ's offered hand and say, “I love you too, Beej,” with all the weight and warmth of three years of knowing it to be true.

BJ laughs. A tremulous little sound that doesn't do any kind of justice to the pure relieved joy he's feeling. And then he and Hawkeye are crashing together into a smothering embrace, Hawkeye practically crawling into BJ's lap and BJ holding him tight enough it feels like he's trying to pull them together into a single being, irrevocably joined.

And then they're kissing and BJ hasn't felt so joyously overwhelmed, so subsumed in another person since he and Peg got married.

“What do you think BJ and Hawkeye are up to right now?” Peg asks. They're alone in a small side room full of a sort of tropical ecosystem, but even so, she keeps her voice low and leans in towards Trapper from her perch on his gentlemanly arm.

He's really been a model date – considerate without crossing into too intimate. But there's something performative in it. Like he'd learned how to do this without attaching any real emotion to it. And maybe it's just because it's her – his lover's other lover's wife – and he doesn't have any feelings for her. But she does wonder what he'd be like a little less formal. Like he'd been this morning with her and Hawkeye.

He snorts. “Probably something disgustingly sentimental.” BJ seems like the kinda guy to get all soppy. And Hawkeye's been pining after him for a while.

“You don't think they're, um...”

“Having sex?”

“I was going to say screwing,” Peg says sheepishly.

Trapper laughs, apparently relaxing now that the elephant in the room has been acknowledged, so to speak.

“I dunno. Probably. It's not like either of them are blushing virgins.” Cuz while there is something very Normal Rockwell and apple pie about BJ, Trapper has it on good authority – read Sidney – that he's, quote, a raging volcano inside. Which bodes pretty well for Hawkeye getting railed this afternoon.

“BJ was, when we got married.” Peg smiles fondly. “He was so nervous on our wedding night. I had to do most of the, well, the directing.”

“No,” Trapper gasps in disbelief. “This the same guy practically eye-fucking Hawk across the table last night?”

“Oh, I corrupted him pretty quickly,” Peg says with a sly smile. “And I imagine Hawkeye will manage similarly, this side of things.”

“That doesn't bother you?”

Peg shrugs. “It did a little, at first. Mostly the idea that I wasn't enough for my husband – that there was someone else who knew parts of him that I can never know. But now that I've met Hawkeye... He's such a lovely man – funny and charming and kind. I can understand why BJ feels the way he does.”

Trapper laughs. “Yeah, he's definitely one of a kind. I think you either love him or he drives you nuts. Maybe both, some days.”

“You don't think he'd be interested in, well...” Peg trails off delicately.

Trapper understands what she's trying to say, fortunately.

“Probably not. Hawkeye made a rule not to get involved with married women.”

Which is probably a polite way of saying he isn't much interested in any woman. Because that rule obviously doesn't extend to married men.

Peg nods in understanding. “Just thought I'd ask.”

She looks around the room again.

“As lovely as this is, I think I'm done looking at vines.”

“Oh thank God.” Trapper sags in exaggerated relief. “I've seen enough jungle for a lifetime. I don't know what the hell Hawkeye was talking about, talking this place up.”

Peg laughs. “All right then, what else is there to do in this city?”

Trapper grins conspiratorially. “Wanna pretend to be posh, high society individuals for an afternoon? Cuz I know Honoria and the gals are doing afternoon tea at one of the fancy department stores. They'd prolly let us gatecrash.”

Peg grins back. “Lead on, then, Dr. McIntyre.”

They kill a couple enjoyable hours with the gals, pretending to be the cream of Boston high society. But Maggie and Kat start making noise about catching a train home. And Hawkeye and BJ oughtta have had plenty of time to bask in the afterglow by now. So Trapper figures he and Peg oughtta start making tracks towards home too. He's gotta get dinner finished up, anyway.

Peg watches as Hawkeye and Trapper move around the kitchen, orbiting each other with the ease of long familiarity. BJ was right about them acting married – although they're both much better in the kitchen than he is. The dinner they're putting together smells divine. And it's nice to be served and waited on for once – to be the one to sit at the dinner table while someone else cooks.

Peg takes BJ's hand and gives it a squeeze. She's so glad they've decided on this trip. And she hopes BJ's gotten as much out of the day as she has.

BJ sits next to Peg at the dinner table. He's still a little shaken from earlier. A little emotionally unbalanced.

And Peg is such a steady person. She's been such a rock through all of his agonizing and hoping and fearing of this moment. She's always kept a level head. And he knows she won't steer him wrong. He can trust her, even when he can't trust himself.

Holding her small, soft hand in his helps quiet the storm of emotions within him.

And so does the distraction of Hawkeye absolutely piling his plate with the ribs that have been slow cooking all afternoon. How is he going to eat all that? The Hawkeye he knows lived on gin and righteous fury.

“This is nothin,” Trapper tells him, obviously interpreting his bug-eyed incredulity. “Hawkeye once got thirty pounds of ribs sent from Chicago to Korea.”

“Yeah, but before I could enjoy any of them, we got called into a thirty-six hour OR shift.” Hawkeye shakes his head sadly. “War truly is hell.”

“Yeah, yeah. Quit griping. When we got outta surgery, I bribed Igor with some primo... reading material and a rack of ribs to heat 'em back up for us. And I got to eat maybe one rib outta the whole deal. For such a skinny guy, you sure can put it away”

“And I appreciated your sacrifice, Trap. That remains one of the best nights of my life.” Hawkeye's expression turns dreamy.

“Ouch,” Peg deadpans, looking sideways at Trapper.

“One of the best! I said one of the best.”

“Now that we're back stateside, maybe we oughtta visit Chicago sometime,” Trapper says, consideringly. “You can eat ribs and I could see if Ollie Jones wanted to go to a football game or something.”

“Who's Jones?” BJ asks. Presumably yet another doctor Hawkeye was friends with in Korea. But one who's name hadn't come up in any of the gossip he'd heard when he got to the 4077.

“A neurosurgeon who used to rotate through all the MASH units at the start of the war. Then the brass realized he was pretty useless at general surgery – and didn't have the tools at a field hospital to do anything more than drill burr holes and pray the kids survived the evac to Seoul or Tokyo, same as the rest of us. So he got transferred to Tokyo pretty quick, the lucky bastard.”

“Which was truly a shame,” Trapper adds. “Cuz he drove Frank nuts. And he was one hell of a football player.”

“You guys played football a lot?”

At Trapper's nod, BJ looks wistful. “I wish there'd been more games when I was at the 4077. About the only thing going was Father Mulcahy's weekly Catholics versus Protestants matchup – and that wasn't what I'd call a real game.”

Hawkeye laughs. “Like David going up against Goliath, but without the slingshot.”

“That's strange,” Trapper interjects. “We used to have pick up games all the time. Even had an inter-MASH league at one point. And the 4077 was scheduled to play the unit Ollie was at – we had to bribe him so we didn't get slaughtered.”

“I still think we had a fighting chance, even without bribery and back room deals,” Hawkeye argues. “With you and me and that one guy from the motor pool, we would have cleaned up.”

“With you, huh?” Trapper grins at Hawkeye fondly. “What's your sports experience, exactly?”

Hawkeye affects affront. “I'm one and oh against you, Trap. How dare you!”

“There were extenuating circumstances and you know it!”

Peg looks back and forth between Hawkeye and Trapper as they bicker. It's funny, seeing just how much of a couple they are. Just how much shared history is there.

“Come on, tell the whole story. You can't just leave us to guess at what happened,” she says, mock stern. “That's just rude.”

“Sorry, Peg,” the two chorus contritely. And she waves regally in acceptance of the apology. And also as a signal for them to get on with actually telling the story.

“When I was in undergrad,” Trapper starts off, “I was on the Dartmouth football team -”

“You were captain of the Dartmouth football team, you mean. Don't sell yourself short, Trap.” Hawkeye's making exaggerated eyes at him.

But Trapper just throws his hands up in frustration. “All right, fine. You tell the story, then.”

“When he was in undergrad,” Hawkeye begins with a cheeky grin, “Trapper was captain of the Dartmouth football team. And one fine Maine October day, they were scheduled to play Androscoggin – my alma mater. Unfortunately, there were several Androscoggin players too injured to play – or even show up to the game – so they needed a bench warmer to round out the team. Entre moi. I knew a couple guys on the team and had a free weekend, so I got to sit there and watch the game from the sidelines.”

“Watch the cheerleaders, you mean,” Trapper interjects.

“Hush, I'm telling the story. Anyway, a big old snow storm starts up and you can't see three feet in front of your face. This leads to another injured player for Androscoggin – and myself entering the game. It's down to the wire and Dartmouth is down by three points. Trapper throws a Hail Mary pass – but, in a show of athletic greatness never seen before or since – I intercepted the pass and won the game for Androscoggin.”

“And he's never let me forget it,” Trapper grouses. “Or played a game since.”

“Hah! I knew you were lying about having two varsity letters and a sports scholarship!” BJ feels retroactively vindicated.

Trapper snorts. “The only way he'd have two varsity letters is if he got pinned.”

“I did say I knew a couple guys on the football team,” Hawkeye says, tone full of innuendo. “But fine, I admit I must have gotten myself confused with someone else.”

“Someone who's a surgeon and who had two varsity letters and a football scholarship. Wonder who that could be,” Trapper deadpans.

“What else did you letter in?” BJ asks, curious despite himself.

“Boxing. And you?” Cuz BJ's pretty obviously a jock. And he's actually having a civil conversation with Trapper, so he's gonna encourage that whatever way he can. Even if it means reliving the glory days of college athletics...

“Football and crew.”

“Well,” Hawkeye says with a bit of a leer, “that explains the shoulders.”

“I was in the sailing club and I always liked to take my boat out during the rowing team practices,” Peg says, looking a little dreamy. “That's actually how BJ and I met.”

BJ buries his head in his hands. “C'mon, Peg, don't tell this story. It's embarrassing.”

But she just waves away his protests. Because the unthinkable has happened while he was otherwise engaged. Peg has become friends with Hawkeye and Trapper.

Which means he won't be able to get out of this.

Peg smiles sweetly at BJ. He's so incredibly screwed.

“One day, the rowing team was out for practice, and I had my sailboat out for a spin. And somehow, the crew boat capsized. So I come over to see if I can help fish any of them out of the ocean – because they were having a hell of a time getting their boat flipped back over and they were all just clinging to it like this was the Titanic or something.

“Anyway, I get over there and start hauling people out of the water. And when it gets to be BJ's turn, well, lets just say that the laws of physics were not on our side. There he is, six foot four and two hundred pounds of muscle and I'm barely half that – just heaving on his arm with my foot braced against the railing. And I think, well, I've just about got it, and the next thing I know - I'm in the drink.”

Peg laughs.

“And you know what BJ's reaction was when we both got rescued by the rest of the crew – still dripping wet and me mad as all hell? To ask me out on a date!”

“Did you say yes?” Hawkeye asks, with mischief gleaming in his eyes. BJ knows he's going to get shit for this for years.

“I did,” Peg says with a laugh.

“Because when else was she going to find a catch like that?” BJ asks, to general groaning and calls to make better puns.

“However,” Peg continues, “I did refuse to go on any water adjacent dates for the whole first year we were together, just in case.”

Hawkeye's joyful laugh rings out in the dining room. And Trapper's clearing the dinner dishes to make way for dessert. And the whole thing is just really, really nice. Homey. Comfortable.

Peg had honestly been worried about how all of this was going to go. Worried that BJ would get jealous, or that she would, or that Hawkeye would. Worried that they'd all rub each other the wrong way – that they wouldn't be able to spend time all together and instead have to split off into whatever pairs were currently fucking each other.

But instead they get a continuation of how the whole MASH table had felt. Like they're a family.

#mash #Piercintyre #something old and something new #chapter 11

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talkingismylifewrites · 5 years ago

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18 19 and 22 ! love your work and hope you're doing ok!

18. what is a line/scene you’re really proud of? give us the dvd commentary for that scene.

Crouching down, he began to shove the photos back into the box, careful not to bend them or touch the glossy finish. But the moment he picked up the first handful, he stopped, staring in confusion down at his own face squished next to John's. He flipped it over to the next photo, this time just him grinning at the camera. The next, John, looking rather displeased, Roger's hand holding his cheeks tightly. Next. The two of them curled up on a couch, their heads bent together in sleep. Next. John from behind, but in Roger's fur coat. Roger hugging John. Roger and John drunk at a party, winking at the camera over glasses of beer. The two of them eating orange slices, showing off orange rind teeth. John asleep on the bus. Roger attempting to pour tea. John tuning his bass. Roger in John's lap. John laughing while Roger wrapped an arm around his waist. John and Roger. John and Roger. John and Roger.

John and Roger kissing. Roger was half on John, one hand threaded through John's hair, the other tight on his waist. It wasn't a kiss between friends, or even a kiss you'd give as a joke. It was a kiss. One between lovers.

Roger dropped the photos.

In the films, your memory comes back in some dramatic fashion full of tears and pain and a sequence of someone shaking apart while they clutch at their brain, agonized by the rush of memories. The amnesiac panics and flutters, weeping as it all comes back, hitting them over and over like a tsunami of pain and memory.

It was not like that for Roger. For Roger, they returned with a half sigh and the relief of finally coming home. It was like the missing piece that had been gone for so long finally snapped back into place, the key slipped into the lock, his compass finally pointed north. He picked up the photograph and his head broke through the surf, and finally, finally, he could breathe again. Out of the water and onto the shore. Between one second and the next, he felt whole after months and months of feeling empty and broken, searching for everything he had lost.

Roger rocked back onto his heels, collapsing on to the ground in muted shock as it all came back. Everything from their fights to their relationship to every damn dream he’d had and written off as a fantasy. John—his John—not Dominique. All of it, everything he had thought was true was wrong. It was all wrong, all of it. Dominique was wrong. Just being John's friend was wrong. Not loving John was wrong.

"Holy shit," he whispered, crouching down to trace the photo with shaking fingers. Freddie had taken it, in '79. They'd been over at Brian's for dinner and Scrabble, stretching it late into the night. Roger had been complaining about it being late and wanting to go home, but John had been winning and didn't want to forfeit. Roger had crawled into his lap and murmured all the dirty things he was going to do him when they got home. After one particularly filthy suggestion, John had given in and kissed him, licking deep into his mouth just long enough for Freddie to snap the pic, before throwing in his tiles and dragging a smug Roger home.

Because they still lived together. Not as friends, as partners. Boyfriends, lovers, paramours, as John's Kept Man. They were together, had been since January 21, 1978—Roger had missed their anniversary. He'd forgotten it, laid up in bed and sickly and John had never said anything.

"John," Roger murmured, dropping the picture again. "John!"

He had to call John, he had to see him. Scrambling to his feet, he practically flew out of the bedroom—their bedroom—and down the stairs, stumbling as he skipped steps in his haste to get to the phone, to get to John. What would he say? It's me; I remember; I love you; how could I ever forget you?

so i’ve definitely spoken about this being my favorite passage, but i can’t deny that its probably the section i’m most proud of. first of all, it was one of the first scenes ever written. for dyldyl; right off the bat i knew exactly how i wanted the reveal to go (although slightly different in some parts, instead of it being a photo of john and roger kissing, it was going to be a letter roger had written to john that discussed a morning bj in exchange for putting away the laundry). i wanted roger’s initial reaction to the revelation that he’d forgotten to be confusion that melted into sheer joy, and then for it to melt into horror and hurt.

i also wanted to show that the act of remembering itself is not traumatic, in fact, it’s welcomed and almost as though roger can finally relax. roger remembers and he’s fine, he can breathe again, he’ll find john and be reunited with the man that he loves.

i also very sneakily reference this particular scene many many times throughout john’s chapters as a kind of juxtaposition of who they are. john spends his nights sitting in the closet staring at their photos and remembering what they once had; so does roger. john also runs down the stairs the same way as roger in his haste to get to him, he skips steps, grabs the banister, spins himself around, he’s leaping down the steps to get to him.

and, there are some mirrored references to john’s hurt in the same way as roger’s hurt. john’s hurt by the fact that roger has forgotten, roger is hurt by the fact that john remembered. the two of them are two sides of the same coin, and roger regaining his memory puts them both on equal if shaky ground.

furthermore, the act of hiding the photographs is the kiss of death for both john and roger. for john, tucking away the photographs (which he has admitted are mostly his; john is the keeper of their relationship not just in pictures but in memories as well) is the sign that things are at their lowest, that the relationship he knew and cherished has ended. for roger, the hiding of the photographs is the very same, only for very different reasons. one was done purposefully, the other was done to them.

i like to think that i managed to get the right sort of mood and expression of emotions right for something like this, and that i did roger’s memories justice.

19. who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? why?

john is actually really hard for me, which is surprising because i’m literally writing four chapters from his pov that come in at 157k, plus however long chapter seven will be. i think it just takes me a while to get into his mindset? and sometimes i’ll write something that’s too ooc. john is so reserved in the sense that he holds himself really taught, and when he does break its an explosion of emotion and sort of overwhelming. he’s funny and witty and rude and so strong? but he’s also reserved. i tend to write to extremes, and that doesn’t commute with john. if it were roger dealing with john’s amnesia, it would be lots of anger and fury and tears and an overwhelming need to be supported, while john is kinda more ‘i’m going to hold it all right here in my chest until i die please excuse me while i go lick my wounds in private’. so it takes me a while and a couple of rewrites to get that tone exactly perfect. hence why john’s chapters have taken me so much longer (that, and the length).

i also really struggle with freddie’s motives and voice, which surprises me because i think i’m the most like freddie? (okay, if freddie and roger had a baby and it was tag team raised by crystal and john). i actually tried writing a fic from freddies pov completely and i’m not gonna lie i really struggled with it. i think its because freddie is such an oxymoron of a personality. outward he’s very bright and brash and very social, constantly in your face with who he is and how he behaves, but internally he’s very shy and also reserved. his public image is very different from that of his private, and it can be hard to juggle the two of them. if you make the mistake of making him that brash and loud person when the time calls for his quiet side, you can lose the character in the blink of an eye. in order for me to understand his character and the voice i want for him, i have to try a little harder and write a little slower.

it’s easy to make freddie just be like ‘darling’ and ‘oh how very dare you!’ and all other sorts of platitudes, but that wasn’t him. roger has said he was very shy and insecure, and that he put on an act, which is easily seen in certain interviews or when he’s been filmed without his knowledge. so finding that balance between devastatingly funny and extroverted freddie with his more introverted side can be hard. especially because the very last thing i’d ever want to do is make him a caricature of who he was.

the easiest pov for me is roger because i basically just think: is this how a gold retriever raised in a frat house with access to cocaine would behave?? and if the answer is yes then i know it’s roger. if no, then it’s john. if fuck yeah, where’s the booze? it’s crystal.

22. have you cried while writing a fic?

yes, but only because i was so frustrated over it. never because what i wrote was sad, because if i’m thinking it, i can compartmentalize it. i’ve cried reading fics, tho

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yoongisbbydoll · 7 years ago

Note

ooh omg the wolf of Wall Street au + yoongi? that movie was so chaotically good

kalopsia, (m.)

⇢ pairing ─ min yoongi, reader

⇢ genre ─ wolf of wall street

⇢ length ─ 2,290 words

⇢ warnings ─ witty and vile insults, prostitution, implications of sexual encounters, giving/receiving head

⇢ synopsis ─ Min Yoongi is crazy, the unreachable boss of your law firm who wears glasses for no reasons and pays prostitutes thousands of dollars to strip and fuck him. Everyone under him bows at his feet like a flock of sheep. But you are determined to not let him take advantage of you–even if he’d pay you thousands to do so.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and clears his throat. He doesn’t actually need the glasses, but he always says that theymake him look more sophisticated so he always adorns them during meetings andanything official. But now, you watch him with slight curiosity, because the glasses indicate this could be serious—which monthly reviews never were.

Of course, as Min Yoongi’s secretary, you should know whathe does and when and where, but he usually sings to his own tune and so you sit back and wait for him to need your help—you’re going to be paid a hefty amount at the end of the month either way.

The entire floor is silent, everyone sitting on the edge of their seats, or standing, leaning closer to catch a whisper of what the boss has to say. Everyone worships him like a god, and you would laugh or snort at that if he wasn’t paying you far more than you should be for doing absolutely nothing at your desk every day.

“At the end of a very long week,” Yoongi pauses, smirk lingering under his righteous façade, “that at the end of the month, we have made twenty one point seven million dollars in gross commissions all from pink sheet stock, motherfuckers.” As his courageous, daring side slips through, the whole room starts yelling and shouting, there are workers hugging and shaking hands, but he’s not done yet. “To celebrate, our dear friend Kim Taehyung is going to be shaving his head for thirty thousand dollars.”

Taehyung is standing nervously behind Yoongi, next to you. He pops a few pills quickly then steps up. Jeongguk, his idiotic friend comes up behind him, electric hair clippers in shaking hand. Jeongguk looks as if he’s tweaking and you can already see the blood you’re probably going to have to clean up.

The room is loud, ringing in your ears as people cheer Taehyung on. He grins and winks at Jeongguk who quickly grabs the back of his neck and swings the clippers down maniacally. You close your eyes as the clippers come down and the whole room, as if possible, gets even louder.

Yoongi is clapping in the mic and suddenly there’s the loud blare of music. “Send in the strippers.” Yoongi yells, turning to the entrance.

A variety of topless, and some bottomless, women flood the sales floor. Everything is a mess, papers are being shredded under feet, there’s women and men screaming, grinding, groping. You should be used to this Friday afternoon craziness but it never ceases to amaze you how crazy everything gets.

Yoongi stares at the beautiful disaster that he calls his company and smiles—that crazy bastard actually smiles. You want to cry from the smell of cigarettes, which is most likely a fire hazard around so much paper, and alcohol and somewhere mixed in between is probably the smell of sex and feces and vomit.

The strippers and a few of the newest interns have snuck off to one of the conference rooms but in their cocaine and Viagra high they’ve forgot the conference rooms are all glass and a group of the older brokers are watching and cheering them on as they fuck against the table. Do they not know they’re going to have to sit at that table later? Was everyone in the room born without consciousness?

You’re still standing at the front, watching as things simmer down but still remain a raucous mess. You can’t leave until the cleaning crew comes and they’re probably not going to be around for another two or three hours—they like to wait a long time so that everyone can clear out, too many run ins with people having after-party-half-drunk sex, you suppose.

Yoongi grabs your elbow and leans in, speaking obnoxiously over the yelling. “You’re only judging because you’re not a part of it, baby.”

“I’m not going to rip off my top and dance around naked, if that’s what you mean.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back, wondering when an appropriate time to go back to your desk would be. You kind of left a game of solitaire open and would like to get back to it before someone tries to hide under the front desk to fuck.

Yoongi chucked, gruff voice tingling in your ear. “I wouldn’t mind the sight.” His fingers skin the buttons of your blouse and you step back. You feel repulsed.

“I’ll be at my desk.”

Yoongi is the type to talk you up, just to fuck you for a few seconds then dip. You’d seen enough girls running from his office, half naked, high heels in their hands and smudged mascara on their cheeks to know to stay away from that whirlwind. That’s what he was, he would just take you in then spit you back out and you’d rather not risk your career because you’ll be the only one losing in the end.

He doesn’t chase you. Why would he when there’s a room full of women who are being paid to try to get into his pants?

The next Monday, just before the brokers on the floor pick up their phones and dial like hell, you call a meeting with Yoongi and his select few. You stand at the front of the table, feeling as if you’re in Yoongi’s place for a quick moment before Taehyung scratches the back of his bald, patchy head and raises his hand like a child. “What?”

“Can I pee?” He mumbles, looking down at the table.

“Oh my god, are you a fucking child? If you had to piss you should have gone before, you knew you had to come to this before you even woke up you imbecile. Hold it.” Taehyung groans and drops his head to the table with a thud. “Taehyung, this is fucking mahogany!” You screech, slapping your hand over your mouth.

Yoongi looks smug, hands folded under his chin as he sits on the opposite end of the table. He’s known these men for more than half of his life and their own, so he enjoys seeing others scramble to control them. He’s the only one they’ll really listen to.

He clears his throat and Taehyung shoots up. “Please, head off the mahogany. Also, please, put on a fucking hat, I can’t take you seriously like this, you dickhead.”

You clap your hands together. “Okay. So does anyone have anything to say before I go over the bank statement for the month?” Everyone turns to Yoongi who only stares at you contently. “Okay, fine. Then what in the fuck is this charge of forty thousand dollars to—god help me—BJ’s Entertainment?”

Hoseok is the first to break the silence, his loud cackle letting loose and then everyone is joining in, even Yoongi. “Entertainment.”

“This entertainment should be fucking bleaching, eating, and kissing my ass if it’s worth forty grand. Yoongi this is unacceptable.” You feel tired even though it’s the beginning of the week and you slept most of the weekend, but being in a room with seven douchebagguettes will do that to you.

Namjoon is covering his face to try and hold in his snickering but the rest are crying their eyes out, slapping the fucking mahogany as if the table isn’t worth half their paychecks.

“Can you ratbags shut up?” You yell, throwing the bank statement onto the table. As it slides across the table, they all silence and Yoongi catches the papers. “We need to set a limit on these things. No more fucking fifty thousand dollar dinners unless you’re meeting with the president and for God’s sake, use a fucking hooker company with a better name, and next time, no more than five thousand on entertainment or I will personally rip off your cock and shove it down your throat. Thank you.”

You sigh and fall into the chair, holding your head in your hands.

“Guys, leave.” Yoongi sighs and stacks the papers neatly.

You can hear a few more snickers as everyone leaves and then the door slams behind them and Yoongi’s hand is on your shoulder. “Do you need to take a break? The private jet isn’t booked at all this week so feel free to take it wherever you please.”

You know he means well—he always does—but you’re just so tiresome. It’s been weeks since you’ve gotten a good nights rest because most of the time you’re at the office late or have taken home numerous files that need to be reviewed. You always tell yourself sleep is for the weak as you drink your Red Bull through the straw and flip to the next bond, checking and double and triple checking everything. Any mistakes that the brokers or their assistants missed would not come down on them or even you, but instead Yoongi. It’s your job to make sure nothing bad comes back to Yoongi and everything is in the right place and looks legitimate, but it’s so time consuming and tedious do every single day of the week.

“Please, just give me a moment.” You sigh, shaking your head, keeping your eyes closed.

“I mean it, take the jet anywhere. I heard Paris is beautiful this time of year. You ever been?” Yoongi sinks down to a squat in front of you which you find odd but don’t want to question it.

You put your head on the mahogany, too annoyed and sleepy to care anymore. “I want to quit.” You admit. “Wait. That’s a lie. I want my job.”

“You’re the only secretary I’ve ever had, I think it’s going to take a lot more to get rid of you.”

“That’s reassuring,” you grumble, trying to will him away.

It’s too early to deal with his manipulative mind games. You’re going to need a shot and a can of Red Bull before you can tackle the rest of the day.

“You don’t seem to believe me.” Yoongi’s hand slips down to the arm of the chair, right next to where you rest your elbow. “Why don’t you let me convince you?”

His tone is alluring and you don’t want to give in. You’re not trying to play hard-to-get, you just don’t want to get wrapped up too tightly in his lifestyle, you like having your own space away from this job. But you can feel heat rising in your stomach up to your throat and your eyes sting even though they’re closed.

“No, I think you’re giving me an allergic reaction.” You nudge his hand with your elbow, “Get out.”

Yoongi grabs the arm of the chair and spins you towards him, your knees hit his chest. “I think I can make a pretty strong case.”

You don’t want to feel like this, you don’t want to feel like this, you don’t want to feel like this. But there’s just something about Yoongi—possibly his untouchable aura or his cologne that assaults all of your senses or the way his hair is perfectly messy—that makes your toes curl and your legs numb. He’s like the pretty boy at school everyone fawns over and wants to be friends with, but he just brushes them off so casually that it keeps them coming back for more. He’s like the sweet scent a Venus Fly Trap gives off to attract insects, attacking only when he knows he’s caught a live one.

And now he’s got you.

You surrender under him as his hands slide up your thigh, pushing your pencil skirt higher and higher until his finger tips are skimming your panties. His eyes don’t look away from yours as he pushes your skirt all the way up over your hips. You spread your legs and Yoongi dips his head down between your thighs and bites down on the bared flesh.

His hands sneakily dipped into your panties and he roughly pulled you to the edge of the chair. His hair tickles your skin and you hold back a squeal, leaning your head back and biting on your bottom lip. “Can I eat you out?”

“Yes, please, God.” You tangle your fingers in his hair and nod vigorously.

Yoongi hums and rips your panties swiftly, the torn silk makes its way to the floor. You barely have time to be enraged that your undergarments are not ruined before Yoongi flattens his tongue against your cunt. His hand slips between your legs and his knuckle circles your clit, mixing beautifully with his tongue slipping in and out of your heat.

His switches within seconds and one of his slim fingers is curling inside of you as his lips wrap around the sensitive skin of your clit. Yoongi moves with a practiced skill, eliciting moans from each insinuation of his fingers and tongue against you. You let out soft, dulcet breathes as Yoongi continues his assault. Your hips instinctively rut against his face, begging for more, more pressure against all of your sweet spots.

Yoongi is more than eager to give it all to you, putting every effort into getting you off. He adds a second finger and starts scissoring and twisting them in your heat. His tongue works faster and presses harder against your clit.

You kick off your shoes and hitch one of them up on the mahogany desk and your toes curl as your climax peaks. The muscles in your thighs tense and you arch your back, digging your fingers into Yoongi’s hair and trapping him between your legs as you unravel beneath him.

When your breath returns, Yoongi pulls back and stands, holding his hand out and grinning mischievously, “Did I convince you?”

note : Thank you for reading! Find more from me, July, here.

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saintbalor-blog · 7 years ago

Text

“ SLASHERS AND BONERS AKA A PERFECT MIX ! ”

REQUEST: lmao i feel like patrick’s the type to watch a horror movie while his s/o gives him a hand job

AUTHORS NOTE: oooops sorry for adding a mini bj in there + i realized i really do love ending on cliff hangers 🤷🏻‍♀️

The fifth desperate glance in the last half hour was thrown at the clock perched up on the wall above the television, a defeated sigh escaping her when the hands on the clock tauntingly reminded her that he was still an hour late from the time he promised her. Pushing herself off of the corner she was curled up in, the scarlet blanket tossed around her shoulders following in suit with her movements, she sat with her legs crossed and her back flat against the sofa, continuing to watch the slasher film of his choice as the annoyance radiated off of her.

Typical, she sourly thought and winced as the blonde girl on the television received a knife to the torso, typical of him to expect me to just wait up on him after I’m missing a party for this.

Scooping up a handful of popcorn from the bowl in her lap and tossing it in her mouth, she attempted to focus her energy on being pissed at Patrick Hockstetter’s lack of skill on being on time instead of the eerie feeling of being home alone on Halloween; the horror flick not soothing her paranoia one bit. Unaware that the boy taking over her thoughts was just outside her front door with not so great intentions in mind, Y/N allowed herself to become too engrossed in the film in hopes that it would make the time pass by faster, not anticipating that it would only make her an easier target in his newest ploy against her.

Excitement engulfed him as he reached for the house key she had lovingly left for him in the mail box, the adrenaline from his ‘fun’ with the gang still present in his body even after they dropped him off and Henry had thrown a crude joke to use protection so they wouldn’t have a mini Hockstetter running around — a small percent of Henry’s tone bordering on the serious side, sincerely not wanting to wish that unfortunate event on the town of Derry.

Tossing the brass key along the damp grass by her front door and inviting himself into the quite of her home, only the muffled sound of the television serving as background noise, he opted on mimicking the quietness of her home as he tiptoed over to her kitchen in search for the prop main eventing his idea of entertainment. Patrick grabbed a glimpse of her watching the movie intently as he sneaked over to the dimly lit kitchen, her annoyance evident with the forced expression residing on her soft facial features and the familiar frown curled into lips that he was ready to take advantage of once he got his first round of fun out of the way.

Grinning in approval at his find, the large kitchen knife splayed across the marble counter for him from her mother’s cooking fest earlier, he closed his hand around the plastic black handle and felt the extra shot of adrenaline pump up inside of him at the touch of the utensil. The familiar, exciting, feeling at the pit of his stomach filled him when he held the knife in his hand and began tip-toeing over to the living room area, the placement of the sofa providing him with a view of the back of her head — piecing together the perfect scenario for his scheme.

Patrick was aware of the fact that he was late, he knew she was probably going to throw a hissy fit even if it was only an hour, so what was the harm in making her a little more angrier? None, right?

Taking in a deep breath of glee once he was standing behind her, Patrick’s ringless hand clasped itself around her mouth and the knife-wielding one found itself at her throat, the flat side of the blade firmly pressing against her windpipe just as the killer in the movie killed off its second victim. Patrick took in the sight of popcorn kernels flying onto the carpet as the bowl fell out of her lap, her shaking body hastily straightening up and her heavy, flustered, breaths dancing across the bloodied knuckles of his large hand — the blood courtesy of the killer punch he delivered to the Stan half an hour ago.

If her body quivering under his hold as he dragged the knife across her throat mixed with the screams laced with fear of his favorite film wasn’t enough, the warmth of her fat tears dropping against the clammy skin of his palm were the icing on the cake. Patrick’s fingertips pressed harder against the side of her face as he leaned in to her; making her feel as though if she cut open her skin she would be able to see his fingertips ingrained into her jawbones from the pressure he was applying. Y/N winced in pain at the tight grip on her jaw while the tears kept rolling down, the helplessness she felt infuriating her when she felt his hair brush up against her face, blocking her the look of the culprit’s face from her peripheral view.

It was only when Patrick couldn’t keep it together anymore, his lips pressing up against her ear as he tauntingly whispered ‘guess who’ and dropped the knife on the space next to her, that Y/N’s rage towards him overshadowed her fear at the previous situation.

Dropping his threatening hold on her and plopping himself at the opposite end of the couch she had saved for him an hour prior, his long arms pulled her frightened body into his relaxed one before she could utter her string of insults his way for what she called ‘annoyingly dangerous behavior’. Her back rested against the side of the arm rest, her body sitting on one his thighs while her legs were splayed out across his, providing him a favorite view of his due to the shorts she was wearing.

Sliding a rough hand up her neck, stopping at the base of her jaw, Patrick adjusted her view away from the beige colored wall ahead of her and forced her to face the boy who put her through hell a few minutes ago for his own amusement. Face splotched with tears, the white of her eyes tainted red due to the crying he caused, Y/N’s attempt at an intimidating glare fell when she realized she wasn’t fooling anyone and instead opted for a simple annoyed expression; not realizing that it didn’t hinder Patrick’s entertainment one bit instead it added to it.

“Look at you, all made up to get fucked on Halloween like a slut.” Patrick cooed, a lanky arm holding onto her waist under her shirt and his mouth propping up into a smile when a stray tear escaped the rim of her eye.

Sloppily running his tongue along the side of her face, following the trail of the single tear, he felt Y/N shiver in disgust and want at the feeling as his finger’s slowly trailed up and down the slope of her hip, a light film of saliva layered across the skin.

“You’re such an asshole.” Y/N shook her head in disbelief at what happened and how calm he was acting, her sore eyes’ rims still littered with tears of frustration — all she wanted was a simple hookup but Patrick didn’t do simple. “Are you seriously hard over this?” She spat when she felt something poking the side of her thigh, not understanding what could possibly turn him on about her being pissed at him with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, come on, don’t act stupid. You should know me by now, baby.” Patrick shook his head at her in disappointment, stripping her of his touch on her face and laying his arm across the back of the sofa before glancing down at the middle of his jeans and back up at her. “Are you gonna fix it? You did cause it.”

Patrick’s tone was sickly condescending, making the answer seem as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and her eyes widening in disbelief at his request, a squeeze at her side when she took too long to respond finally bringing her back to him. Rolling her eyes at him, an action he would make her pay for later when the movie was over, Y/N moved her body so she was straddling him, her face working itself in the crook of his neck to not block his view of the gory movie playing on the television.

A hesitant hand falling on his jean clad boner and cupping him, her mouth began working on sucking on the delicate skin of his neck, pausing for a moment to see if he’d stop her and continuing bruising him when he replied by wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer. Palming his hard dick through his jeans, her teeth staining with blood from the broken skin on his neck, she felt him shiver in pleasure under her when he felt her run of her tongue against his neck and lap up the blood dirtying his skin.

Breaking free from his possessive hold on her body, she crawled off of his lap and unbuttoned his jeans, her fingernails leaving subtle crimson lines against his lower abdomen when she pulled his plaid boxers down. Wrapping her fingers around his dick, innocently looking up at him through her lengthy lashes, she slid her hand up and down his shaft while keeping her gaze fixed on him — indulging in the idea of having someone like him in such a vulnerable position.

Teeth grazing his bottom lip at the sight of her obliging to his every want, he grabbed a handful of her messy hair and pushed her face up against his dick, her lips brushing up against the tip and the pre-cum licked up by her. Hiding her grimace at the salty taste of him, she wrapped her lips around his dick and filled her mouth, her hand continuing to work at the base of his dick while her tongue danced over his tip. The hold he had on her by her hair grew tighter with each flick her tongue worked on, praises of how much of a good girl she was being thrown at her as he happily took in the sight of her back arched and her pretty little mouth filled with his dick.

His breathing grew heavier, his chest moving up and down with each breath he heavily took, Y/N preparing herself for what was about to come. Flushed lips paused around the lower half of his dick, the feeling of it poking the back of her throat quickly replaced by the warmth of his load being swallowed. Not even giving her a second to relax after swallowing his cum, he pulled her head back by the hair and brought it up so he could get a good look at her flushed face, a grin that she’d grown to love and hate meeting her.

It was a favorite sight of her: her on her knees, cheeks tainted pink from her previous action, and doe eyes looking up at him with the word obedience basically written on them.

Roughly pressing his lips against hers, a small cut forming on her lip from the forceful manner he pressed himself up with, he smirked against her when he could still taste the remains of him on her. Pressing a hand up on her shoulder when he felt her wanting to deepen the kiss, he pushed her away and began zipping up his pants and putting his junk away, hurt flashing across her face from the sudden rejection.

“We’re going up to your room.” Patrick explained, liking the way she happily obliged and raced to her room, giving him a moment of privacy to watch the final moments of the movie before following in suit — ready to remind her why the wait was worth it.

#patrick hockstetter one shot #patrick hockstetter imagine #this title is honestly true af #this title is also my halloween plans lmaooo

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bunnys-beetlejuice-blog · 4 years ago

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honks my shitty little clown horn

FIC UPDATE THIS TIME WITH 100% MORE ADAM

(you should read the first parts of this au, posted in completion on AO3. or just let your hair down, throw caution to the wind, and try desperately to understand things through context clues. follow your heart.)

Juno feels the message coming before she sees it. She’s hunched over her desk, and in front of her is spread eons of paperwork. Hundreds of years worth of things to be signed in triplicate, stamped, approved, and filed alphabetically. Work she’ll never have the time to do, ever, because a new idiot dies every single solitary moment.

She’s very much looking forward to that Deetz woman coming down here and having some actual help. Doesn’t matter that she’s bending the rules to get it. She knows the point of the paperwork is to keep her busy, but if she can just get a handle on it, get through enough of it, she knows that there’s got to be some kind of reward from the higher ups, whatever mysterious beings those actually are. No one, not even her, is quite sure.

She suddenly feels her son’s arua, which causes her to pause in her scribbling, and look up. The room goes still, completely, without the sound of her pen on paper. There is no atmospheric noise from outside her window, because there is nothing outside her window. On the wall across from her desk, blazing letters tear themselves into reality.

FUCK YOU JUNO

She smiles. Good to see she’s managing to keep him on his toes. He’s growing soft, up there, literally, because when she’d spied him through some cursed book, she’d seen his chubby cheeks and fat stomach. He needed a little toughening up, and she needed a little distraction.

She stares at the writing on her wall as it smolders and simmers, and remembers the skinny little annoyance that was always underfoot. He’d been the biggest distraction she’d ever had, with his constant crying and questions and need for her attention. She was convinced he’d been a curse from someone above her, a petty problem sent to keep her so busy with him that her work would pile up, and she’d grow further and further from her goals of promotion. How else could she account for one random night leading to creating some form of life? Or unlife, as it were.

So she’d dumped her little problem on someone else, and then had managed to wrangle a future assistant out of the situation, to boot.

There is, she feels, a part of her that misses him. It’s the last part of whatever she has left in her from her time as a mortal, a time so long ago that she can hardly remember, some barely understandable biological impulse that forces her to care. He is her son, after all. Her only child. And he’d been so small when she’d thrown him out. She can almost recall the pain of a similar circumstance, of being small and alone and left somewhere, intentionally or not, and never seeing her mother again. But then she takes another drink of the bourbon on her desk, numbs all that, pushes it back down, and forces her eyes from his message to her, back to her paperwork. The sound of pen on paper fills the room.

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There are, annoyingly enough, consequences for his actions.

It’s two days after Halloween, and he’s seated in the vice principal's office. Mr. Honeywell is a big, intimidating tree of a man, maybe as big and wide as Charles. Mrs. Birch, the guidance counselor, is also there. She’s a soft, slim woman, a little older than Emily, with great cans. That’s as much about her as he cares to note.

She’s giving him a soft, kind look, like she gets it, like she totally understands, being a teen is so hard, yada yada, and it’s pissing him off, because this is the first time he’s ever met her. What the fuck does she know?” He feels uncomfortable. His black and white hoodie had been ruined by bloodstains and the slashing cuts Sam had delivered, even though he’d shoved it in the washing machine nearly as soon as he and Lydia got home from the party. Instead he’s wearing an oversized green army coat, and a brightly patterned button up, something Charles had bought him to try and spice up his wardrobe. He feels weird without his stripes, or maybe it’s just the hoodie itself. There’s no hood to retreat into, which makes him feel vulnerable. Maybe it’s a snake thing. Small warm dark spaces. Who knows.

“Lawrence,” the vice principal rouses him out of his thoughts by using his first name. It’s almost enough to make him snarl. “BJ,” he corrects, voice like gravel. The older man does seem to pause at his voice, but continues. “Lawrence,” he says again, clearly trying to look stern and commanding, and clearly trying way too hard. “This is serious. People saw you by the punch bowls, and that was the last anyone saw of you. Do you care to explain that?” He grits his human looking teeth and shrugs. “I have a deep, hidden affinity for drinking punch and then mysteriously vanishing,” He says. “It’s absolutely a fetish. Really got me off, doin’ it in public, my nipples were hard enough to cut glass,” he snarks. Neither adult looks impressed. “And the second floor science lab?” Mr. Honeywell presses, and Betelgeuse throws his hands up. “You can’t seriously be tryin’ ta blame that on me!” He protests. “So what, it’s my fault th’ buildin’ apparently isn’t up to code? What the fuck do you think I did to that room, took a fuckin’ jackhammer to it?”

He’s not about to get blamed for the mess Kevin left behind.

“Language,” Mrs. Birch reminds him, and he barely keeps from snapping his jaws at her. “Do your parents let you talk like this at home? This is an important meeting, Lawrence. We’re not trying to attack you. We just want you to tell us the truth.” He grips the arm rests of the chair he’s sat in, hard enough he can hear the wood cracking.

“You call me that one more time-”

He doesn't finish the threat, because the door behind him opens, and he closes his eyes. Please be Emily, please be Emily, please be Emily- His father’s aftershave hits his sensitive nose, and he slumps in his seat. “Hiya, pop,” he grunts, as Charles takes the empty chair beside him. He doesn’t look at his son. Betelgeuse can feel the disappointment rolling off his father in waives. It makes him cringe. Charles conducts himself like the businessman he is. Betelgeuse is talked over, the few times he does try to speak, and it becomes clear the adults are not interested in his side of the story. That’s fair, it's a bullshit lie, but he’s still irritated by the treatment. Charles, at least, is on his side when it comes to the science room. “Unless you can prove BJ was there,” his father says, voice grave, “Then I don’t want to hear it. Spiking the punch, I can believe, but excessive property damage? What could he have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” And that matter is settled.

He echoes the question as Betelgeuse buckles into Charles’ car, twenty minutes later. “What could you have possibly done to make the floor collapse?” His father waits expectantly, eyes hard. “Wasn’t me,” he grunts out, crossing his arms, and then a third one, for emphasis. “I’m not in the mood for your jokes, Beetlejuice. You were obviously involved. What happened?” The third arm disappears. “It was… Kevin.” Another lie, but hopefully it’ll keep his dad from banning Sam from visiting. Not that Charles has any control over what the other demon does, but he knows his dad can work himself into a fit, given the time and stress. “Kevin,” Charles says. “He made part of a floor collapse.” “S’what I said.” “Don’t get smart with me.” “Trust me, no chance of that happenin’!” Betelgeuse cracks open his skull, showing the empty cavity inside to his father. Charles doesn’t laugh. Fuck, that would have gotten Emily. He shakes his head hard, and his skull snaps closed. “Kevin was messin’ with ritual bullshit,” He finally says, because the air in the car tastes tense on his tongue. “He’s the one who broke th’ floor, an’ I’m gettin’ blamed for it. S’not fair.” “Kevin isn’t my son. I can’t ask him questions, or ground him. All I know is that something supernatural happened in that room, and it’s tied back to my hellspawn.” At least Charles finally starts the car. The drive home is a silent one.

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His punishment at home is apparently boredom. His TV, his CD player, and worst of all, his ukelele are all removed from his room, and Charles doesn’t react to his impassioned plea for his instrument. “One week,” Charles says, “And you can have these back.” They’re stored in the attic, and he watches as Charles pours a circle of salt around his possessions. He hates both that the salt trick works, and that Charles knows about it. Emily is softer, but even she doesn’t give in. “Spiking the punch bowl is a good old fashioned prank, but not when there’s kids Lydia’s age there. Some of those kids might have driven home drunk, with their little siblings in tow. You’re lucky no one got in an accident.”

He doesn’t have the nerve to look her in the eye and say he doesn’t care, even though that’s the truth. Emily and her whole belief in the “inherent sanctity of life.” Whatever.

His punishment at school was almost no school, which he had been very for, but Charles had managed to ruin that, insisting him being physically present was more of a punishment than getting a few days out. He’s been assured there is an actual punishment coming, though. Hooray. On Thursday, he’s called via loudspeaker to come to Mrs. Birch’s office. He’s sitting in math class, in his usual spot in the back, and when the grainy voice over the ancient system calls for a “Mr. Deetz to come see Mrs. Birch,” the entire class turns to look at him. He stands, and a few kids even let out an “Oooo!” as he quietly leaves the classroom.

Mrs. Birch’s office is all sunshine and sweetness in a way that makes him sick. Motivational cat posters, wood art of rainbows, a light catcher in the window that refracts colors all around her otherwise sad little space. He’s getting very quickly tired of going to offices and being talked at, but he sits dutifully in the chair in front of her desk. She smiles across it to him, and he reaches a finger out and taps one of her desk toys, a drinky bird. It bobs pleasantly, and she smiles from it to him.

“Now, BJ,” she begins. If his voice is all gravel and blades and sandpaper her’s is honey and bubbles and puppies, or something. It’s an artificial sweetness that he thinks must hurt her throat, in the same way people assume his speaking must hurt him. “I’ve talked to a few of your teachers, and I think the biggest take away from all of this is that you’re a very isolated young man.” “Oh, my, do go on,” He puts on a faux southern drawl and acts bashful. The smile he receives is a very patient one. He wonders exactly what her threshold is for no longer smiling. He really, really wants to find it. “You eat lunch by yourself, most days,” She continues. Well, that’s not exactly fair. “I been sittin’ with Kevin,” he tells her, and she nods. “But Mr. Loh is no longer attending. So I think it’s fair to assume,” she gives him a look he thinks she thinks may be meaningful. “That you’ll be back to sitting alone.” “S’not by choice.” He’s wearing the green army coat again, and he can’t shrink into it like he can his hoodie. Damn it, Sam. “I know you have a hard time making friends,” she gives him that sympathetic look again, and it just makes him angry.

“You don’t know anythin��,” he bites, mouth moving faster than his brain. “Until yesterday, you didn’t know who I was.” “That’s where you’re wrong, BJ. I’ve been watching you for a while.” “Creepy.” “It’s not creepy, it’s my job.” “It’s someone’s job to clean up blood at crime scenes, too. Doesn’t make that less creepy.”

“The point is,” she desperately tries to drag the conversation back to her corner. “I have noticed that you’re a loner. You don’t interact with children your age, you don’t engage in any after school activities or clubs, you’ve never shown up for any football games or pep rallies. You’re sullen, you’re angry, you’re not a team player, you sit in the back in every class you take, and until Mr. Loh, you did not even try to speak to the other kids.” He focuses on the still bobbing drinky bird on her desk, because otherwise, he’s worried he’s going to throw Mrs. Birch through the window. “So maybe I like to be alone.” “But do you?” she presses, like a thumb into a bullet wound. He squirms uncomfortably. Of course not. He hates being alone. He hates that no one his age wants to talk to him, he hates feeling weird. But it’s not something she can fix.

“I think what you need is a fresh perspective,” Mrs. Birch says, standing up, and coming around to sit on the front of her desk. She hands him a folder. He takes it from her, flipping through it. It’s information on different after school stuff. He looks up at her. “My punishment is participation?” He groans, because her smile is growing wider. “We are going to find a social activity that you enjoy doing, BJ. It’s going to be good for you. It’ll be a chance to make friends, and develop new interests and hobbies. This is hardly a punishment at all! You can take that folder, and decide tonight what club you’d like to join. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” Oh, good. He’s going to be locked in a room with breathers who inherently dislike him after school every day for the foreseeable future. “Also, Mr. Honeywell has decided you’ll be helping out in the library on your lunch break. Indefinitely.” Fuck these people.

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Library duty starts that same day. Mr. Honeywell leads him into the school library, a place he’s literally never been and wasn’t even 100% sure existed, and he’s given a task by the librarian working there. He has to go around, collecting books that are left out, put them on the cart, bring them back, catalogue the books, and then put them back onto the shelves in the proper order. It’s mind numbing. He thinks back to the waiting room, and all the people behind the window there, stuck in the bullpen because of one stupid choice made in their lowest moments, all doing this kind of boring bullshit forever, and he especially remembers the tired looking Miss Argentina. She was so nice to him, even when she was busy. He never got the sense she was annoyed with him for bothering her, like he felt from some of the other office drones. Mostly, she was sad, and it seemed that him coming around and talking to her perked her up, if just a bit.

He wonders suddenly, standing there in the middle of the shelves, how she’s doing. It’s been a long time since he thought about that kind older woman. She’d let him hide under her desk, sometimes, when Juno was in a mood and was tearing through the office looking for him. No one could save him from Juno, but she would at least pat his head, and offer a little bit of shelter. It wasn’t fair, a nice former breather like that being stuck there for the rest of however long it took to work off her sentence, but neither life nor death were fair.

He’s zoning out, thinking about all of that, and intentionally doing a bad job reshelving books, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He doesn’t move.

The throat is cleared again, and again, he doesn’t react. Just shoves another book into the wrong place. “Excuse me!” An exasperated voice whispers, and he turns to see a boy his age with short brown hair and thick glasses staring at him. He’s wearing a green polo, which is tucked into his tan pants. Betelgeuse, not exactly a paragon of fashion himself, has never seen a more plain looking kid. At least his outfits clash in a fun, weird, loud way. This guy looks like a mannequin at JCPenney. “What?” He grouses. “I’m workin’!” “I can see that,” the boy blinks. “But you’re.. You’re putting these books in the wrong section.” “Yeah,” Betelgeuse agrees, shelving another book. “I sure am.” “Well, how is anyone supposed to find anything if you put them back wrong?” “Guess they won’t. They might have to leave th’ library, and, gasp, do somethin’ more interestin’ than read all day.”

The boy looks offended. It’s a cute look. He’s still a little too sore about the last cute boy he talked to, though, and he’s not in the mood to be nice. “You spiked the punch at the Halloween party,” the stranger accuses. “Yeah, an’ I bet it was your first time drinkin’. You’re welcome.”

“I nearly got in trouble because of you,” the boy huffs, and adjusts his slipping glasses, pushing them further up the bridge of his nose. “Spare me. You could nearly get eaten by a lion cause of me and I wouldn’t care.” “You have an attitude problem.” “You’re about to have a physical problem,” Betelgeuse slams one of the books down on the cart and turns to face the boy, who takes a startled step back. There’s a tense beat. The boy is silent. “S’what I thought.” The other teen doesn’t leave, though, just stands there. “The library is my space,” he says, defensively. “I don’t like you coming in here and messing things up.” “Then I guess you better go behind me and fix everything, you anal nerd.”

He wheels the cart down, and to the next row of shelves. The boy doesn’t follow, and Betelgeuse assumes the matter is settled, as he goes back to shoving books wherever he wants, but then the other teen rounds the corner, arms full of the misplaced books, and he sets them back on the cart. “I’m going to make sure you do this right,” he says, defiantly, and Betelgeuse regards him for a long moment, before shrugging. “Do whatever you want, man. Either way, books are goin’ back on shelves.”

That’s how he spends his lunch that period, reshelving poorly, with the other boy scrambling behind him and finding the proper place for the books. They don’t talk, except he can make out the teen muttering to himself as they both leave. “Jerk.” Whatever.

Tumblr does not like the length of this, so please find the rest over HERE every comment i get, here or on ao3, makes me more powerful. i am teeming with negative psychic energy, you should all be afraid.

#adam maitland #barbara maitland #beetlejuice #beetlejuice musical #beetlejuice fanfiction #beetlejuice fic #emily deetz #charles deetz #lydia deetz #beetlejuice broadway #i can finally add adam to the tags cause he's here now. he has arrived. in khakis

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angryhausfrau-writes · 4 years ago

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Something Old and Something New - Chapter 1: Prologue

Marjory is bored out of her fucking mind.

Which is an unseemly sentiment, she knows – particularly when she's meant to be engaged in planning her own wedding. A wedding which she is actually looking forward to, despite her current aggravation. But it's true nonetheless.

Because honestly, there's only so many hours one can spend selecting table linens. At some point, the minute differences between ecru linen napkins and cream linen napkins just don't fucking matter anymore. And that point has come and gone. But Mother and Charles's grandmother are still arguing about it.

At least she can bitch about it to Honoria later. Preferably over a glass of wine. Or a raging bonfire made of the reams and reams of notes Marjory's required to take on every minute, insignificant detail. Details which Honoria, as a lowly bridesmaid, is not made to sit through – lucky girl.

Family politics being what they are, Honoria would be part of the wedding party regardless of how either of them felt about it. But fortunately, they've become quite close friends since that first slightly awkward meeting. And Honoria has remained a staunch ally throughout the many battles of wills that have occurred over the course of planning the wedding of the decade. Because of course the union between the Emerson Winchesters and the Oakes will be the wedding of the decade. And it's Marjory's job to get them there, even if she must wear a wig to the ceremony after pulling all her hair out in frustration over her various relatives' and soon-to-be relatives' conflicting tastes in flower arrangements.

Charles doesn't know how lucky he is getting to stick his hands in people's chest cavities all day. Particularly as the people are unconscious and therefore cannot express opinions on wedding dress style or candlestick height. But they all make sacrifices for the good of the family. And this is her particular cross to bear.

Still, there must me some way to ensure that the actual wedding is more than just a political showpiece.

“Hey, we got invited to the Winchester wedding.”

Trapper looks up from the bills he's paying. “Singly or collectively?”

“Well, it's addressed to both of us. But I imagine they assume we'll each bring someone else as a plus one.”

The question is, who to bring? Sure Hawkeye and Trapper each have a few girls they're friendly with down at the bar. But taking someone to a wedding seems like a pretty big step relationshipwise, and Hawkeye doesn't want to lead any of them on.

“Oh wait, Trapper, there's a note – Dear Hawkeye and Trapper... hope you can come, blah blah, also wanted to let you know we've invited Major Margaret Houlihan so you may wish to get in touch with her about attending before you RSVP blah blah Love, Marjory. So that's that problem solved – one of us takes Margaret and the other takes Kat. All nice and neat and heterosexual.”

“Beats going stag - this way we have someone to dance with. And Kat gets to go. That Marjory's one hell of a smart cookie.”

“And tactful,” Hawkeye adds. “What she's doing with Charles “Oblivious” Winchester, I'll never understand.”

They grin conspiratorially – Charles has interrupted date night several times now and he still hasn't bought a clue.

“Well, there's no accounting for taste. But I'm glad she's on our side.” And Trapper goes back to balancing the check book.

“Only problem now is, what're we gonna do for a wedding present?” Trapper asks after he finishes and looks at the final balance. “It ain't like we can afford something they'd want. Or that they'd want to admit to owning.”

It's true. Even with two doctor's salaries, they don't make anything close to enough to buy a present for the man who has gold-plated toilet paper holders in his bathroom. And they don't want to get something cheap that they'll just throw away – because then they may as well just not buy a present.

“Well,” Hawkeye says consideringly, “if money's an object, we should probably try and pull at the old heart strings. Get them something sentimental that they'll want to cherish forever for all the good memories it evokes or whatever.”

Trapper nods. “That makes good sense, Hawkeye. Who knew you had it in you.”

“Oh fuck off. If you're going to insult me like this, then you can think up the gift idea.”

Trapper always was the idea man of their little duo anyway. Better to leave him to it.

Trapper ponders for a bit. Then says, “What about making them a quilt – and we each do a square. Cuz they've already invited us and Margaret, who knows how many other former 4077 inmates made the guest list. Probably at least BJ and Sidney. And they're all gonna be in the same boat, presentwise.”

“I like it. Killing multiple birds with one gift. And we all know how to sew at least a little – so that shouldn't be outside of anyone's ability.” Hawkeye pauses “Only question now is, who else is on the guest list?”

“Honoria's helping with the planning, ain't she? She might be able to find out.”

“Aha!” Hawkeye exclaims triumphantly. He loves it when a plan comes together. “Honoria and I are meeting up this afternoon – since someone-” he looks pointedly at Trapper “-doesn't appreciate musical theater. I'll squeeze her for information then. You call Margaret and Kat and see which of them is willing to put up with you for an entire evening.”

Trapper flips him off playfully. “You're just jealous Margaret had the hots for me and not you.”

“As if!” Hawkeye exclaims, affronted. “I'm irresistible!”

“Uh huh, whatever helps you sleep at night.” And Trapper heads toward the phone. “Have fun at your interrogation, honey. I'll feel out Margaret to see if she thinks the quilt thing's a good idea or not.”

Margaret had liked the quilt idea – and she and Kat agreed to a double date with him and Trapper. So that's that problem solved. And fortunately, Honoria's willing to snitch for a good cause so Hawkeye gets the guest list pretty quickly. Now it's just down to coordinating everyone else.

Trapper takes one of the pages of the list Honoria'd slipped surreptitiously into Hawkeye's coat at their last little get together. “Looks like Steve and Letta and Sidney all got invited. They're close enough we can just call them up and ask if they wanna go in on the gift, so that's convenient.”

Hawkeye looks at his own page. “More good news, Trapper. Max is on the guest list, too.”

“Oh, thank God - someone who knows what she's doing. Think we can get her to take charge of this whole deal?”

Cuz it turns out that making a quilt involves significantly more work than Trapper had anticipated. And as Max is a professional seamstress, she probably has things like a sewing machine, or batting, or even just a big old piece of cloth to use for the back part.

“C'mon, Trap, let's write her now and ask. And we should write everyone else, to let them in on the plan.”

“I'll write Radar and the Padre. You better be the one to write BJ, otherwise he'll never agree to anything,” Trapper says, a little bitter.

It ain't his fault BJ still hasn't warmed up to him. And it ain't like they've gotta be best friends or nothing, but it'd be nice to all be able to be in the same room together without it feeling like sides are being drawn. With Hawkeye's favor some kinda token to be fought over.

“Right,” Hawkeye says tightly. Hawk's made it clear he ain't much more happy about the situation than Trapper is. But also that BJ's his friend and he ain't about to give that up. “I'll write Colonel Potter, and Donna Parker too since you never met them. Boy, Marjory sure has a sense of humor inviting Charles's former “wife” to his wedding.”

“I'm surprised Father Mulcahy made the cut – given how much Winchester hates the Irish, Catholics, and Irish Catholics.”

Though in fairness, Winchester has mellowed somewhat on that front since Trapper's known him. And the Padre's a pretty unobjectionable guy. But it kinda seems like Marjory – who'd been the one to draw up the list, according to Honoria – had just listened to Winchester's yearly drunken diatribe against all the MASH personnel and invited everyone he'd only pretended to hate outta obligation. Still, Trapper don't mind seeing some old faces – and meeting some new ones – at this shindig, so no skin off his teeth.

Even if it does mean more people to rope into their scheme.

Max gets a letter from Trapper – and it's not unexpected, exactly. They've been writing back and forth since she got back stateside.

First a Christmas card from both Trapper and Hawkeye – who are shacked up together now, surprise surprise.

Then Max wrote Trapper asking about Seong – making sure the kid didn't have anything wrong with him since he still wasn't talking for months and months of being home in Toledo and settled and safe.

And maybe Max knew Hawkeye better at that point. Been closer friends with him than Trapper cuz of going through all the real bad shit at the end of the war together. After all, they had almost two years of keeping each other the right kinda crazy – up till no one could do that for Hawkeye cuz what he'd seen was just too fucked up. And that kinda thing tends to bring folks together.

But Hawkeye wasn't the guy to go to with anything kid related on account of said fucked up shit. And sure, Max could've written to BJ – he's got kids too, and a toddler not kids in grade school already. But BJ'd been normal - the most normal outta all them 4077 folks. And he'd gone back home to his family, back to living his abnormally normal life, like some shining golden monument to God Bless America and apple pie. And she didn't wanna interrupt that.

So she'd written Trapper. Who kept insisting that he wasn't a pediatrician or a psychiatrist – and he'd tried to recommend both, but Trapper knows Max, knows Korea, knows what the kid's been through better than any so-called expert and she felt a lot more comfortable going to him than anyone she didn't know.

Plus, his parenting advice had been sound – the kid's gone from starvation skinny to plump and healthy and he's now babbling away at a mile a minute in three different languages.

And since Trapper's a family man, through and through – just absolutely loves kids, his own and other people's – that asking for advice had turned into writing more generally about family life, swapped kid photos, that kind of thing. Which is nice too, cuz Max don't have a ton of friends in Toledo who got kids she can ask for advice from. And sometimes asking family nets a whole bunch of conflicting advice that ignoring any part of would cause grave insult – so it's just easier asking someone who's hundreds of miles away and not related to her.

So they get to be friends – closer friends than they ever were in Korea. And so, when Max was figuring some stuff out about herself, they'd written about that too. Carefully, of course, and with enough misdirection and double talk to get past any of the army sensors from back in the day - Max still paranoid about other people reading her mail, and both of them knowing what could happen if the wrong eyes got the wrong impression. But they'd written. Cuz again, there ain't that many people out there who'd understand her – all the parts of her – from growing up a poor immigrant kid in the kinda neighborhood where being weak got you dead, to Korea, to being queer.

Hawkeye's really the only other one who maybe comes close. And Max ain't kidding herself that he don't know – that Trapper hadn't mentioned anything – since all Hawkeye's own letters refer to her right. But there's parts of Max's growing up that Hawkeye don't understand as well, so she'd gone to Trapper about it.

And maybe it ain't quite the same thing, the way the two of them are – though Max is married to a woman, so they're more alike that way than she'd though. And what a woman. Soon Li is a diamond – strong and bright and with an edge to her that was forged in war. But she's kind and sweat and gentle, too, when she's with Max and Seong and all the rest of her family.

And when Max realized that she felt most herself as herself – sharp and cunning and with teeth bared for a fight, but also pretty and fashionable and a woman – Soon Li'd just looked at Max like she was an idiot for thinking she'd have to remake herself into something smaller and softer and less just cuz she's a woman. Loved and understood Max for all the parts of her – even the parts that made her a little rough around the edges. Helped Max realize that she could be all the parts of her – even if everyone else said you had to choose.

Trapper'd understood that too, in his own way. Cuz, see, they'd slept together a couple times back in Korea. Just a fun little fling that didn't really mean anything to either of them. But Trapper'd looked at Max like she was beautiful. Treated her like she was pretty and feminine when she'd responded to that – without really knowing why at the time. And then he'd ribbed her good-naturedly at the next night's poker game, like she was still the same person she'd always been – tough and crass and crafty. Like those two things didn't have to cancel each other out.

So Max had trusted Trapper with the truth of herself as she learned just what the fuck that actually was. And they'd grown close on account of it.

So it's not a surprise that Max gets a letter from Trapper – but the subject of it kinda is.

Dear Max, A little birdy told me that you got invited to the Winchester wedding. Well, so did me and Hawkeye and a bunch of other MASH vets. There's a whole list of 'em with addresses included in this letter if you end up agreeing to the proposition I got – and not like that! You're a married woman now. Not that that stopped either of you before, you rogues. (Just kidding, Soon Li. Promise.)

Apparently the letter is from Hawkeye as well.

The proposition is this. See, I figure you and me and all the rest of us wedding guests ain't exactly in a position to buy Winchester anything he wants or needs cuz he's a rich bastard and we're all just culturally defficient plebeians (his words.) So Hawkeye figures that we oughtta get him something sentimental. Something that makes him feel guilty for even considering throwing out. Just really hit him where it hurts emotionally. And I had the idea of making up a quilt. Each of us doing a square of it and then sewing it all together. And Margaret and Steve and Sidney and Letta all think it's a pretty good idea – we're polling the others on it, but it's via letter so we ain't got answers back yet. But it seems like the plan's a go. And I ain't exactly a professional seamstress – not like you are. (I'm buttering you up a little, at Hawkeye's request. Is it working? You're also nice and kind and helpful and did I mention nice? Ugh, this is making me sick. You're a conniving bastard and we both know it – please help regardless.) I maintain it's a solid plan. You just weren't flattering enough, Trap. You've got to really lay it on with a shovel. What happened to the guy who could get nurses to go out with him just with a look? Maybe that's the problem – no eye contact in a letter. Anyway, I got no idea how to put everything together once all the pieces are done and make it look nice. So I was wondering if you maybe wanted to take charge of this little project. Lemme know either way – Hawkeye thinks he can sweet talk Mrs. Potter into doing it if you ain't got time. There's no “think” about it - I absolutely can. I'm a master of convincing people to do stupid things they really shouldn't. And Mrs. Potter apparently has a soft spot for incorrigible pranksters - which explains her decades of marriage to Sherm, I guess. But between those two facts, it's a sure bet. So stop maligning me, Trapper! So no pressure, Max. I know you're busy with running a business and having a family and all. Speaking of, I hope Soon Li and Seong are well – from your last letter, it sounds like the kid's gonna take after you in the smooth-talking department. And in three languages, yet. You must be real proud. Hope to hear from you soon. Your friends, Trapper John And Hawkeye

Max laughs as she reads the letter. The back and forth almost like having a real conversation. She's missed that – missed her friends. So she writes back right away.

Dear Trapper and Hawkeye (who is definitely not reading this over his shoulder), Of course I'll help, what kinda friend do you take me for? Don't answer that. Anyhow, I think the quilt's a real good idea. A little piece of all us 4077 folks together in one place. That's real sappy. Even Dr. Winchester ain't gonna be able to pretend to turn his nose up at it. And you were right to come to me about it – seeing as you don't know a back stitch from a blanket stitch. I'll write all the folks on your list letting 'em know I'm taking over the project and to send their squares to me. And the dozens and dozens of questions I'm sure I'll get. So thanks a lot for that, guys. It's late and I don't got much more to say other than Soon Li and Seong are doing good – I'll send a more detailed report in another letter, don't worry. I've been saving up some real cute pictures of the kid for your refrigerator. So keep an eye out for another letter soon. And I guess I'll be seeing you in person pretty soon too. It'll be nice to catch up face-to-face, you know? Till then, I hope you're both well. Your friend, Max

To be perfectly honest, Max has never made a quilt before either – which in hindsight is pretty stupid, given how cold Korea got in winter. But she does know how to do more than mend holes and darn socks. And she has made a quilted housecoat before and it ain't that different. So.

“Fear not, friends! Maxine Q. Klinger is on the case.” Cuz despite her status as a conniving bastard, Max ain't one to leave friends in a lurch. And it does solve the problem of what to get for Charles “Snobbery is my Middle Name” Winchester.

Soon Li laughs at her, but she'd gotten Max's sketch book as soon as she'd finished reading the letter herself. And all she says is, “Don't stay up too late plotting, jagiya.”

Allah, but Max loves her.

By the time Max comes to bed, she's got a rough sketch of a couple ideas and a whole bunch of scrawled notes. And of course, the final design'll depend on who all's participating in this little venture. But it's a start.

#mash #piercintyre #something old and something new #chapter 1

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