#james bond 2 piece suit

[fandomtrumpshate]

Listed fandom fun

A bit of random data before we jump into the rankings for listed fandoms …

Since the numbers post yesterday we've had signups for nearly 60 new auctions, bringing the current total to 779. That beats the number of signups for 2016/7, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021, and puts us withing spitting distance of our record last year of 819. Can we do it? Will we do it? Signal boost FTH posts and encourage others to participate. More money raised for good causes, more fanworks in the world — it's a win/win!

We posted yesterday about the state of our unlisted write-in fandoms (we've had nine new ones since then!). Time to check in with the rankings for the listed fandoms.

At the top of the pack we have:

87 K-Pop * 66 Good Omens 50 Sherlock Holmes * 44 Harry Potter * 37 Marvel * 32 DC * 31 Mo Dao Zu Shi / The Untamed 27 Red, White, & Royal Blue 25 Star Wars * 23 Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Our first tie is for 11th place -

22 Avatar The Last Airbender 22 Teen Wolf

And after that, nearly every other place is a tie. And which ones are ties for which places can be shifted slightly with just one signup. Or completely upended with two. Where will your fandom land?

Remember that if your fandom isn't here (or in the rest of the list below the cut), you can write it in. Signups are OPEN through Monday!

19 Supernatural 18 9-1-1 and 9-1-1 Lone Star 18 Locked Tomb Trilogy 18 Stranger Things 17 All for the Game 16 Our Flag Means Death 16 Tolkien * 16 The Witcher 15 Boku no Hiro Akademia (My Hero Academia) 15 Original Work 15 Percy Jackson and the Olympians 14 Baldur's Gate 3 14 Hockey RPF 12 The Old Guard 12 Tian Guan Ci Fu (Heaven Official's Blessing) 11 The Magnus Archives 11 Star Trek * 10 Check Please! 10 Dungeons & Dragons 10 Haikyuu!!! 10 Hazbin Hotel 10 Jujutsu Kaisen 9 A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon 9 One PIece 8 Doctor Who * 8 Hades (video game) 8 Heartstopper 8 James Bond 8 Kingsman 8 Merlin 8 Naruto 8 Suits 7 Dragon Age * 7 Justified 7 Raven Cycle 7 Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast 7 The Sandman 7 Shadowhunters 7 SK8 the Infinity 6 Captive Prince 6 Critical Role 6 Final Fantasy * 6 Fullmetal Alchemist 6 Hannibal 6 Kinnporsche 6 The Maze Runner 6 Queen's Thief 6 Stargate 6 Steven Universe 6 Top Gun Movies 6 Yuri!!! On Ice 5 Alex Rider 5 Grishaverse 5 Interview With The Vampire 5 Malevolent (Podcast) 5 The Murderbot Diaries 5 Nirvana in Fire 5 The Owl House 5 RWBY 4 Erha He Ta De Bai Mao Shizun (The Husky & His White Cat Shizun) 4 Genshin Impact 4 Les Misérables 4 The Magicians 4 Pokemon 4 Witch Hat Atelier 3 Arcane 3 Disney's Descendants 3 Elder Scrolls 3 Hetalia 3 Hunger Games 3 Legend of Zelda 3 Spy x Family 3 Tian Ya Ke / Word of Honor 3 Trigun 3 Welcome to Night Vale 3 Wheel of Time 3 Young Royals 2 Benoit Blanc Mysteries (Knives Out, Glass Onion) 2 Disco Elysium 2 Encanto 2 Gundam Wing 2 The Last of Us 2 Leverage 2 Miraculous Ladybug 2 Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries 2 Mysterious Lotus Casebook 2 Schitt's Creek 2 Super Mario Bros. 1 Assassin's Creed 1 Attack on Titan 1 Diamond no Ace 1 Fire Emblem Three Houses 1 Homestuck 1 Stellar Firma 1 Wednesday / The Addams Family

[geemyfirstluvstory]

hey boy, listen…

“my first love story…my angel…and my girls…my sunshine. hey, hey, lets go!”

fem reader. matching halloween costumes with bllk characters. bllk x reader. fluff. characters (separate): michael kaiser, oliver aiku, bachira meguru, hiori yo, chigiri hyoma, kunigami rensuke, itoshi sae+rin, isagi yoichi, shidou ryuusei, nagi seishiro, mikage reo

#

michael kaiser - joker x harley quinn

• this man is certified bonkers so of course he’s the joker and as his loyal worshipper you’re harley quinn

• perhaps a prophecy of the status of your relationship perhaps you just look stylish (ITS THE SECOND ONE PLEASE PICK THE SECOND ONE)

• such a softie for you but would never admit it, you chose the costume and he made sure to get the finest ones money could buy though the pictures you took…he’d rather not see himself dressed as a clown criminal mastermind.

#

oliver aiku - nick & judy (zootopia)

• this was his idea, y’know damn well this man is a party animal so you just have to trust he’s not cheating

• so he decides to make you feel better, he’ll bring you along and do matching costumes. • i just know this man likes putting on animal ears and kids movies thats why y’all are nick and judy

#

bachira meguru - thing 1 & 2

• remember how he got called a weirdo as a kid? he’s definitely a weirdo. eats toothpaste, drinks milk from the carton, milk before cereal. a total goof ball

• he loves children’s books and even as at his big age of 17 he still makes you read them to him and pretends he’s a kid going to bed (IN A WHOLESOME WAY)

• so when the halloween party came up he wanted to go as his favourite book characters, thing 1 & 2. and of course you agreed

#

hiori yo - kuromi and my melody

• of course he’s my melody and you’re kuromi. this was his idea so he gets first dibs

• being the gamer he is he enjoys playing with you, you two are always the cringe couple in the lobby with matching usernames and avatars and he does all the carrying but he also enjoys playing those silly little retro girls games like ‘hamham heartbreak’ and the old cardcaptor sakura games.

• in conclusion he’s a total nerd thats a total sucker for the female gaze

#

chigiri hyoma - team rocket

• this man is a total princess and every year you guys dress as a cartoon couple only to do the same costume the next year but switch the roles so one year he might be james and the next jesse

• this year he’s james, he even did a temporary dye on his hair for accuracy but of course no cutting.

• he loves doing hair with you and for this year’s costume you were the one washing and dyeing his hair

#

kunigami rensuke - raven and beast boy

• you like cartoons, he likes superheroes, you both need a cute matching costume, easy compromise. you both came up with this together while brainstorming

• this man is a lovesick loser so beast boy was very easy to pull off and the most perfect costume for the two of you. the only real inaccuracy is that he’s pretty big

• homemade costumes for the win, of course you’ll buy bits and pieces but overall a homely look because rensuke will do anything to bond with you

#

itoshi sae - light and misa

• sae canonically likes chibi maruko san, who’s to say he isn’t a big weeb? in fact this was his idea. he’s really convincing when it comes to halloween

• he’s a lot like light, cold, calculating, smart so it suited him and besides since light dresses similarly it only fit and since you’re so hopelessly in love with him, it was destiny

• sae isn’t the type to work with his hands but he also didn’t like the quality of pre made costumes. living in europe gave him refined taste so you two went on a designer shopping spree for individual pieces to make your costumes.

#

itoshi rin - coraline’s parents

• you’re probably a total wuss, even if you’re not, rin still can consume more horror, gore, and other gross things than anyone. accumulating in him wanting to do a matching costume with you only if it was some horror character.

• you agreed and settled on coraline since it’d be fun and easy, to match you dressed as coraline’s parents, specifically the other parents with the button eyes

• your favourite part was doing his hair and makeup, rin is like a cat taking a bath you really had to pin him to his office chair or on the bed to do his makeup properly, and yeah theres plenty of kisses

#

isagi yoichi - alice and the cheshire cat

• he’s so bland, (im kidding pls dont come for me) but he loves you so, so he’ll sacrifice the main character spot for you just this once. you’re alice and he’s the cat, of course this was completely your idea

• yoichi doesn’t care too much for this kind of thing, he originally intended to spend halloween cuddling and watching movies with you, perhaps invite some friends over or have some fun without them if you know what i mean….

• but he enjoyed being your cute kitty for a night, you dragged him out and about to take pictures and being blue lock’s hero there was no short of attention

#

shidou ryusei - cleo denile and deuce

• ryusei is very eccentric, kind of weird, in a hot way not in a cute way like meguru. and as you made him watch boo york with you he took one look at cleo and was like “yeah” so in away it was your idea but not really

• you’re his princess and he’s the douche looking boyfriend, i’m not sure about you but it most definitely suits him.

• as you guys went out and about this halloween you know he’s already thinking about next year, perhaps raven queen and derick charming. maybe barbie and ken?

#

nagi seishiro - veggie tales

• let me tell you i’ve actually done this costume irl, seishiro is a lazy fellow he doesn’t like putting in much effort but he’s a cutie patootie and he does adore his pookie

• matching costumes was your idea, to dress as the cucumbers from veggie tales however was his idea as all he had to do was buy the costumes and look cute

• fan reactions and his friends; they found it so stupid it was hilarious, compared to all the other celebrity couples costumes you two chose….children’s cartoons.

#

mikage reo - the adam’s parents

• he’s rich so it’s gotta be classy, you two were going to some gala held by his family company, the mikage corporation, cute and classy lets go

• reo really isn’t one for movies so this was your idea, he’s a total simp for you, absolutely floored all the time with no exception. kissing you up and grovelling at your feet like his morticia adams

• in the end your costume really did suit the occasion made for the best pictures. you guys are now pinterest king and queen every halloween

___

School’s been kicking my ass so i had to do this quickly, anyway what are you guys dressing up as this year?

[anonymousromanticpoet]

Even more Red, White, and Royal Blue Headcanons…

Henry x Alex

They’re all fall themed, I know, I’m jumping the gun…but, as a flannel wearing gay (MLM) September 1 felt like the right day for these.

1. Alex’s official opinion is that the Pumpkin Spice craze is “cliche” and “a butchery of real coffee,” but Henry convinces him anyway to buy them both Pumpkin Spice Lattes on the first day of Fall. It turns out, the small coffee shop they frequent every weekend makes them completely differently (with freshly ground cinnamon, nutmeg, and organic cream), and Alex is instantly in love. Not that he tells Henry, of course. He has a reputation to uphold.

2. In exchange for him buying the PSLs, Alex convinced Henry to try “your ghastly American Earl Grey” at Starbucks, in the form of a London Fog (which Henry does not “chug like a frat bro shotgunning tequila, Alex.”) Secretly though, the foam and vanilla extract are a nice touch.

3. One thing they both admit to, is being suckers for a good, deep red, fall leaf lying on the path, picking up nearly enough to fill their only decorative bowl during one of David’s walks.

4. On Halloween, Alex dresses up as Henry, waking him up in a blonde wig and a three piece suit, complete with royal sash and white gloves, saying, in a terrible British accent “Bloody hell! Who’s this imposter in my bed?” Henry (after the initial fright) is doubled over laughing, tears rolling down his face, as he snaps picture after picture to send to Pez.

5. Henry’s costume is much more serious, a sleek Arthur Fox style James Bond, complete with perfectly gelled hair, a real gun (unloaded) that his father used as a prop, and a suit of his own that makes Alex weak in the knees.

6. Before going out for the evening, they also dress David in a pumpkin costume complete with a small stem hat, and parade him through the park. The tabloids eat it up, and Alex’s “Henry,” Henry’s Bond, and David’s pumpkin end up on the front pages of People Magazine, US Weekly, and The Sun.

[dontcxckitup]

// We were at the annual huge af fleemarket yesterday and there was some dude selling James Bond stuff but it was just printed and laminated things and random plastic poker chips he claimed were screen used and sold really expensive like ????? Dude I have a Jaws' teeth replica with Richard Kiel's signature and pieces of Gareth Mallory's actual suit on my shelf do you srsly think I'll buy a printed picture you found on the internet and added some random shiny empty CD to for 100 quid??

However I did find 1960s coasters similar to the ones in Mallory's office in NTTD for 8 quid. And an Indiana Jones comic book for 2 quid 👌

[marleysfinest]

hey!!! I finally got my act together and posted chapter 2 of the helos x mmb fic over on ao3!!!! pls enjoy if u would be so kind!!!

The four of them had scrubbed up well, all donning suits custom made for them by the fashion house Louis Vuitton, and each with individual detailed touches to make the pieces their own. Zeke had opted for an all-black ensemble and low-cut shirt underneath, with his suit jacket bedazzled with hundreds of twinkling black Swarovski crystals so that, in the right light, he’d catch the eye of any guest, even those wearing masks. Onyankopon’s blood-red suit featured gold accents on the buttons and cufflinks, complete with a statement pocket watch chain across his breast, a look cementing his role as Helos’ resident smooth operator. Jean’s suit was (unfortunately for him) a luxe black velvet, a nod to the classic James Bond silhouette, cool and collected, if not a little warm in the end. Reiner was a mix of his bandmates, with his black suit featuring a swirl of deep golden florals and golden cufflinks.  

@pisspope @fromriches-tosin @lemmetreatya

[captainjimothycarter]

Once again I thank you SO SO much @avengersbingo for running this amazing, low-key event. Your bingos have brought me such joy. I hope to do another round :)

I feel like I've gotten nothing done this year but this bingo proves me wrong.

A Touch Of Home B1 - Mistaken As A Couple Steve/Peggy From the moment that they’d met, Peggy Carter had become that little touch of home.

What Makes Us Whole B2 - Taken Captive StevePeggy “You think vengeance is the missing piece of the puzzle, that it will make you whole again, but all it does is break you further." Steve's life drastically changes when his best friend dies in his arms and he learns that things may not be what they seem. And it seems he might not know his fiance as well as he thought. Set The Mood B3 - Soulmate AU Steve/Peggy After Peggy leaves him wanting at the bar, Steve thinks about what could’ve been. At least, until he forgets about the bond between them. Playing Hooky B4 - Cuddling Steve/Peggy What does a 10-year-old son who doesn’t want to go to school + a father who doesn’t want to work equal? Why, playing hooky, of course! Chapter 3: Buried Memories (Once Upon A Time) I1 - Kissed To Keep Quiet Steve/Peggy Prince Steve learns more about the world around him and some things he’s forgotten. Captain America Story Time I2 - Science Experiment Steve/Peggy The Captain America Reading Program was just supposed to be a pipe dream and nothing more. A daydream Steve entertained himself with as he watched bored kids try to listen to the same storytellers of the week. When he accepted the job, Steve never thought it would end up with him dressed in a red, white, and blue suit and carrying a handmade shield to read to kids. He never thought he’d come to love it so much. Or that it would lead him to the woman of his dreams and delicious coffee Chapter 1: A Child Gets His Wings (Learn To Soar) Square I3: “Keep Your Eyes Open.” Steve/Peggy In a reality where people who are born with wings are seen as abominations to society, Steve Rogers defies society and keeps his wings. He can't use them to fly and they might cause him to nearly black out anytime they start to flutter but Steve is proud of them. Chapter 2: Punishment Reeps Reward (The Queen and The Hammer) I4 - Size Difference Steve/Peggy Peggy joins Thor in making sure Steve knows the error of his ways. Chapter 6: The Heart Grows Fonder (The Best Things in Life Are Unpredictable) N1 - Rescue Mission Steve/Peggy After Steve is pulled from the rubble and placed in a medically-induced coma, Peggy learns more about the father of her children. Chapter 2: The Little Guy (Learn To Soar) N2 - Reunited Steve/Peggy Steve finally meets the mysterious woman with wings, but not in the manner he expects. The Most Bestest Birthday Ever N3 - Snuggling Steve/Peggy It's his mom's birthday and James Micheal Carter is determined to make it the most, bestest birthday ever. Chapter 1: It’s Just One Phone Call (A Promise Doesn’t Mean Forever) N4 - Soft Under Hard Exterior Steve/Peggy Steve swore that when he and Peggy broke up, he’d never contact her again. Her job at SHIELD was far too much for him to handle. The lies and the anxiety were too much baggage for him. He swore off ever seeing her again and wanting nothing more than to just forget Peggy Carter existed. That’s until her number called him a year later.

Chapter 5: Midnight Meeting (The Best Things in Life Are Unpredictable) G1 - Nose Kisses Steve/Peggy Steve just wanted one chance to make this right.

Chapter 1: Goodbye Sex (Risk = Reward) G2 - “Please don’t leave.” Steve/Peggy No one is happy about the situation. Steve isn’t pleased that Peggy is going undercover to work with Hydra in a long, complicated plan where the ending is uncertain. He’s not happy about losing one-third of his mates. Peggy isn’t happy she’s leaving Steve on a bad note but they all have a job to do and hers is to destroy Hydra from the inside out but first - she needs to knot her Omega and promise him she’ll return. Bucky is upset to have learned about all of this last minute and gets to watch one of his mates walk into Hydra with every intent of destroying them. Chapter 1: Carter vs Rogers (Head Of The Class) G3 - Rivalry Steve/Peggy The second he met her, Steve knew Peggy Carter was going to change his life. She was going to push him, challenge him, and rival every decision he made. Their rivalry would take them from simple college roommates to teaching at the same high school and trying to fight the flames for one another. Strawberry & Applesauce G4 - Childhood Sweetheart Steve/Peggy After a lifetime in the army, Chester Phillips spends his days bonding and looking after his godkids, Micheal and Peggy. He never bothered with the idea of love, far too busy for it during his military career and now that he’s retired, he has all the love he needs when he meets a little blonde boy who asks him for basket after basket of strawberries and his mother.

[tutuandscoot]

DREAM VIRTUEMOIR PROGRAMS

1. I Want You / Paint It Black

Music:

Paint It Black (The Rolling Stones) as the main song, but because it is so fast paced and quite lyric heavy, I feel it needs an instrumental section to add some contrast. I Want You (She’s So Heavy) (The Beatles) is the song I can think of that fits the vibe- if I were to find something else less well known that fits better I would of course use that. Ideally, I would prefer to use just Paint It Black because single-song programs are so rare now but I do think it needs some kind of transition- going gang busters to Paint It Black for 3 or 4 mins would kill them. If I Want You were to be used I would definitely use the end piece… the kinda discord guitar part.. since this is of course not a real scenario I’m just going to imagine there is some ideal way to piece the songs together.

Inspiration:

I already made an IG real using Paint It Black that I set to Farrucas because it has a very similar energy and the chore and the music fit kinda well. Even though Farrucas is Spanish guitar and Paint It Black is sitar (Indian guitar) it has that similar pace. That was really just a fun little video I’m not basing any of my dream program off of that. Where I’m really taking my inspiration from for this is my favourite TV show ‘The Americas’. I’m not going to go into detail of the story because it isn’t important, just the theme, character inspiration etc.. So this show is about two KGB spies undercover in DC in the 80’s (touchy subject rn I know but let’s not worry about that). The characters are a man and woman ‘fake’ married so there is a lot of complicated love and feelings so there is that underlying theme complementing VM but really the character inspiration for this dance is just the visual of these two badasses. This is essentially a spy thriller program but finally not using James Bond music. I guess also, and you’ll see in the costumes I’ve imagined there’s also a bit visual of inspiration from the Matrix. Lastly, the styling for Sweet Dreams from TTYCT- them, like that.. I need more of that (even if it’s just in my imagination).

Chore/dance style:

This is the one part of this dream program that I can’t give a lot visual reference for- like I’m not actually gonna go choreograph it and even then, I couldn’t do it on ice or actually have VM to choreograph it on, so I’m just gonna have to give vague descriptions. This would be a modern jazz program- think similar to their 08/09 Pink Floyd program. I imagine some super epic midline/non-touch chore, some butterflies some insane foot work (esp from S) lots of sharp, fosse-ess arms, voguing type upper body work. As for lifts some of their fast-rotational lifts with T in some kind of contorted position around S head. I imagine a traveling rotational version of their first stat. lift from Latch. Probably the Prince lift. I also remembered this group dance on SYTYCD S9 by Mia Michaels (who T really wanted to work with during their career) and this is both visually, stylistically close to what I’m going for.

Costuming:

The idea of VM skating in these costumes is so exciting to me and I try not to dwell on the fact that I’ll never get to see it but oh well.

- A couple of variations on this: I’ll describe the version I’ve settled on then some other options (also please bare with me I’m not a great drawer when it comes to people and I’m still learning to use procreate).

So: Matching, slick black cat suits. Long sleeves and turtle necks. Tessa’s with a diamond-shaped back cut out with red sparkles flaring out in a gradient from the edge (similar to MR dress). Both of them will have the same red rhinestone design around the wrists (similar to her SFTD dress). T will wear black skates (not boot covers coz I hate them). T with a slick black low bun and Scott with his MR hair but slicked down a bit more (sorry I’m not gonna try draw the hair).

- Now some other alternatives I toyed with- just in my head because it took about 2 hours just to draw these ones. I originally really wanted both their costumes to be identical- S with the diamond back cut out as well but when I drew it on the model it just didn’t look good- it would probably look better on S but I’ve settled on his being solid black- essentially what he wore for LTR just jazzed up. For both of them I toyed with sparkles in the same gradient pattern around the turtle neck- but I felt it would be too much.. maybe on Scott’s since he doesn’t have the back cut out.

- Another option they could go with- because I’m not totally sold on the cat suits once they are actual costumes. In my head it looks great and I want it to be as slick as possible, but for S I’m just not sure- not for any superficial reasons… just as a costume then adding movement it would depend. An alternate to the exact same look but tight black jeans/trousers with a black belt cause I still want that streamline look and with the top part being a leotard- yes for both of them. Scott’s costumes in the past- anything tight ie: MR is a leotard that undoes underneath, much like fashion leotards.

-Now here’s the fun part that I don’t know whether (if I was choreographing/styling.. in charge of everything).. somehow I want them to wear sunglasses.. either aviators (as in Sweet Dreams) but I would have to see it styled first to see if aviators would work and if not I would go with kinda, Matrix style glasses- like that more 80’s style. I can’t imagine these being used for the whole program, or at least down over their eyes for the whole program, I don’t really know it would have to be experimented with but I definitely like that as a visual and would make for some cool chore and partner work.

Short/Free/Exhibition:

So, in order to get some truly epic step sequences it would have to be a comp program. I feel I’m leaning towards a SD rather FD, just with the pace of Paint It Black that’s a lot for a 4 min program- imagining the split would be probably 2-3 mins PIB and the remaining IWY (or alternate instrumental) so with a SD having the split 2-1 (minutes) seems more manageable- not just for VM but choreographically filling 2-3 mins of chore to Paint In Black matching the pace is… a lot.. having said that, it feels wrong to only cut a 1 min section of the I Want You outro so I’m not sure, but I’m leaning towards SD. In this imaginary scenario of course, we are ignoring set rhythms and compulsory patterns (even though that’s not a thing anymore). I said in my IG reel using PIB (for the FS history buffs) that the 10/11 season OD theme was set to be 50/60/70 music- and of course there was no set pattern in the OD format so no need to worry about fitting time signatures/BPM. That of course did not happen and the CD + OD were scraped and they brought in the SD. I don’t feel or more I couldn’t see them skating this dream program I’ve imagined when they were just 21/23 anyway- I feel like it would require more maturity in movement-more sensuality, and just more exploration of dance styles since they hadn’t done a lot of ‘jazz’ at that point. I can just imagine it being a better program if performed in their comeback era. So I think it would be shame not to see a program this epic in competition, however it also really excites me the prospect of seeing it under lights and from a set design perspective we could do some really interesting things with spotlights/strobes/lighting design in general. This is all theoretical anyway so we don’t need to choose… maybe there can be a comp version and a show version.

Let me know your thoughts on this dream program. I have a whole list of others ready to dream up as well!

[anapologethicc]

I posted 18,028 times in 2022

That's 4,183 more posts than 2021!

162 posts created (1%)

17,866 posts reblogged (99%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@dailytomlinson

@harrysmaison

@thepeaceringx

@ladychlo

@decemburied

I tagged 1,602 of my posts in 2022

#fanart - 90 posts

#prev - 84 posts

#hs3 spoilers - 83 posts

#hs - 45 posts

#ananya's brain babies👶🏼 - 40 posts

#inbox - 39 posts

#daddy - 35 posts

#babygirll💖 - 35 posts

#ltwt - 34 posts

#lt - 25 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#and because im adhd and autistic the hyperawareness that both of those bring doesn't fucking help in social situations where ppl don't like

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

16 notes - Posted January 19, 2022

#4

me randomly remembering i played james bond in heels and then learned to change from those to tap shoes in 30 seconds and then performed in tap shoes as james bond and got a piece of wood kicked and broken by this dude who used to do taekwando and he once kicked me in the face during rehersals and how i looked so good in a black suit and red lip all while the handbell team played the 007 music

21 notes - Posted April 22, 2022

#3

(x)

listen. i have been trying to explain this to people for years. and even as a child. when my parents would tell me to like ‘thank people’ for like gifts or something. my brain would be like. ‘but why? i don’t like it.’ never understood the concept of not hurting someone else’s feeling until much later. and every single time i was invited to hang out with people or to go to a party. i would say ‘i don’t know those people, i can’t talk to them’ and everyone would say ‘but just try and get to know them’ and i could never explain that i just can’t. i don’t wanna go up to them say “omgg hiii long time no see!! last i saw you was xxxx”. like i know mannerisms. i’ve spent years copying them trying to look and act neurotypical. but like i cannot fake insincerity. and that’s why i ended up being ‘that one friend of those people who’s mean and rude’. and whenever people would do this, i would look at them like i was half amused and half just shocked/confused. because here i was standing next to some of my closest friends and suddenly they’re best friends with someone else. in a matter of seconds. and it used to give me such a whiplash. like how did that happen. how can you do that?? i can’t. it’s one of the reasons why i can’t form friendships that easily. because people go from insincerity to friends. they’ll be all ‘yeah yeah omg let’s make plans to hang out or party’ and then spend time and get closer. and for me. i literally cannot do that. i have to actually be interested in you as a person to be your friend. i can’t pretend to be your friend and then be friends with you. what kind of fucked up NT logic is that. but i’d always be the one standing in the corner or helping people with food or setting up the music. i can lie just as well as the next person, maybe even better. but i can’t be fake. i just. it’s so hard. how can you just switch characters like that. but nOoOOo. i’m the one who was a bitch. like actually i was hyperaware of all the fakeness that i was surrounded by. i can’t do insincerity just like i can’t do small talk. small talk is fucking weird man. with people my age it’s usually. ‘omg so what are you studying and where are you studying” and majority of the people i used to hang with would say they were studying business *insert eye roll*. and then you couldn’t stop me from telling them how their so-called business men idols could choke and die for all i care. and then from there i would go on about how systems are fucked up and minorities suffer from that and literally not a single person could keep up with me. because they would be like ‘whatever, ananya’ and just change the topic. and then after that they didn’t like me and i was mean and blunt and whatnot. so i mean. who’s really the mean person here. 

33 notes - Posted January 28, 2022

#2

me randomly remembering how in primary we had to ask if we could drink water and how when we entered secondary we were so surprised that we didn't have to ASK TO DRINK WATER anymore

115 notes - Posted January 5, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

i am matt. matt is me. (x)

897 notes - Posted March 31, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[mywhispersofink]

HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER?

Don’t judge a book by its cover; it is a phrase we have been using since the dawn of humanity or at least after we have mastered some elements of the English language. It is a metaphorical phrase. Don’t judge someone before you even know them, that is what it means.

What if, we took it literally? As in we do not judge a book by its cover? We do not judge the illustrations on it? The title of the book that the author spent days trying to pick? The designers cracking their heads to find the right font and colour? What a shame to not judge it? Just imagine the amount of time you’d be wasting trying to read all the plot summaries and reviews? You could be eating a cake instead. Or even go for a walk, whichever suits you.

So, bookies, let go of all those pesky details. Let’s judge those books based on their covers, successfully.

1. Eloquence of First Impressions: Visual Cues

First impressions matter a lot. It’s literally the first thing you see! It will be a lie to say the cover does not influence your decision-making. Let me explain it with the primacy effect. Basically, our tricky little human brain, tends to remember the first piece of information about someone or something better than other things that come after. Let me give you an example. If you walk into a store with the purpose of buying a book you have wanted for a long time, then the cover does not really matter because you know what is in there. But if you are just on a shopping spree to avoid depression, what is the first factor that attracts you to pick up a book? If you said the cover, you are right!

Look for eloquent details of the book that is impressive to you. Identify what elements attract you to a book. These details may often depict your personality traits, your likes and dislikes. I mean, why would you pick a book about the anatomy of a brain when you are an English major? Or pick a “James Bond 101” when you are a hopeless romantic? You have a chance to reconnect and understand yourself better all while you are shopping. Do you really wanna let go of such opportunities? Food for thought.

2. We Never Go Out of Style: Note the style!

Style; it’s a subjective matter. It depends on who you are as a person and what your favourite genre is. If you are interested in dark, grunge, Allen Poe ideas, you are obviously going to pick a book with such a cover. Why would someone camouflage a gory & gothy book with white flowers and pink ribbons? I mean, it is a good marketing strategy if you think of it but you are obviously going for a style that represents the plot.

Regardless, there are so many books out there with covers that do not represent the plot the slightest. Sometimes, no amount of justification allows you to see through their idea of doing so except making it look like false marketing. But why worry of the content when you have a super stylish book? A little deception doesn’t hurt and if does, you need a reality check.

3. Henry Matisse, Much?: Colour Palette

Okay, I know you googled who Henry Matisse is but I also know half of you did not. So, let me ease out the comprehension process for you. Matisse is a French artist who used abundance of colours in his artworks to express his emotions and views on nature. His art was flooded with variety of colours with bold brushworks that indicated the emotions and feelings he wanted to express. Basically, he told the world philosophies with colours. Fascinating, isn’t it?

You know how they say red shows love or anger. Blue indicated peace and stability. Designers and authors meticulously choose colours of the cover as it represents the overall theme of the book. For example, covers of horror and crime themed books often have a darker shade to them like black and grey with hints of red while romance opts for brighter or pastel colours. Believe it or not, colours directly affect your decision-making. To successfully judge a cover from this aspect, you will probably need some knowledge on colour psychology (it is not as boring as it sounds, I promise). So, learn some basics and go judge the colours.

4. Get your Holmes Glasses: Decipher Hidden Meanings

Ah, the joy of overanalysing! Every cover of a book is the sweat and tears of every graphic designer (blood is involved if they got a paper cut but they’re designing digitally, so fret not). These professionals spend hours trying to perfect the cover with details that makes the book visually aesthetic, represent crucial elements of the story and random symbols the writers and editors want. It is a pain in the neck trying to implement all these elements in a one-page design, isn’t it? So, how about you give them some credit? Think of why are there ribbons on the cover of a true crime book. Analyse all the minute details shown on the cover. Now is your chance to overthink, unless you have been doing it daily. While you are at it, jump on a fantasy train and build a story of your own.

Sometimes, it is just not the designs. The titles may have intriguing meanings hidden behind it too. Why do you think the author named a book This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store? Was it an actual piggy with drinking problems or is the author calling someone a pig? The latter is derogatory but the first idea will be a cool story, though. Just in case you thought I made that up, a book with that title exist and it is by A.K. Turner. Regardless, the point is to wonder why those elements, both verbal and visual, exist on the cover. It often has a relation to storyline of the book or an idea the author is trying convey. Go find it, my little Holmes!

5. Fine Art of Snap Decisions: Just Do It!

We live in a world where hasty decisions are frowned upon but I am here to tell you that it is okay, especially in judging a book by its cover. Let’s face reality for a second. Our minds are overloaded with many things from due dates (academical or financial; or both) to what is for dinner. Why should you burden yourself with more critical thinking just to pick a book when you have the luxury of making snap decisions? Just pick a book or a handful of them and run to the cashier. You thought I was gonna stop at run, didn’t you? The last time I checked, that was called stealing and it is a crime.

Besides, have you heard of gut instincts? You know that tiny little voice at the back of your head that says ‘DO IT’? Yeah, that voice is your gut instinct. Why bother thinking of it when your gut instinct is practically screaming at you to judge that book by its cover? Embrace the wisdom of your inner caveman and pick the book. Maybe try closing your eyes and pointing at a book. You can call it your destiny to buy that book, yay. All in all, hasty decisions are not that bad after all. Believe in yourself; free yourself and go judge those covers.

Note: Those voices asking you to jump off when you are standing at the edge of a balcony is not gut instincts; those are intrusive thoughts. Know the difference.

The bottom line is, just judge. It is just a book. The worst case scenario is you don’t enjoy the book but the best case scenario is you get to tell your grandchildren how life is simple and you don’t have to overanalyse everything. At that age, you should be able to make a philosophy out of anything, so why not use this? Hopefully this piece has honed your ability to make lightning-fast judgements with superficial observations. Life is short. Make those impulsive decisions. They might end up being the best decision you have made or the best book you’ve read.

[qu-film-history-to-1968]

Political Tug-of-War, the “Spy” Film and Art born out of Hardship – Week 4

By Jack Muscatello

The structure and intention of the “spy” film follows surprisingly traditional beats for a genre built on subversions, double agents and twisty plots. For one, the prevalence of a “double agent” in most spy media, as an example, creates a pattern of expectation where the audience anticipates a double agent exists somewhere in the story, thus undermining the shock of the reveal itself.

In many ways, the spy film was born out of a time of deep unease and back-and-forth tension, whereas political stability was a distant memory. Case in point – for Fritz Lang and countless other German artists in the post-WWI era, the home country they knew was one that had been broken, beaten down and left to fend for itself while reconciling with a war that was thought to be an unrepeatable travesty. Naturally, people respond differently to such a situation, especially in politics, and the push and pull in Berlin did no favors for crafting a proper recovery strategy. The best that could emerge from this period in the 1920s was a succession of “middle” approaches, aiming to stay neutral while simultaneously halting any social or economic progress. For a country “racked by economic problems, shaken by internal crises… reviled by the far left and far right, successive centrist governments struggled ahead for another 10 years” (Britannica). As stated, Germany was in a relative state of disrepair, and hope was dim. For Lang and others, though, it was an opportunity to craft an artistic means with which to make sense of all the noise, giving rise to the endlessly entertaining Spy genre.

One of the most intriguing developments of this new storytelling genre was the trickiness of its central subject matter. Instead of confronting the political upheaval with traditional drama, Lang decided to handle it through the means of tricking his characters, and thus the audience. “The spy genre it virtually inaugurates has remained a primary vehicle for transmuting the most unsettling of emotions--dread of entrapment, suspicion of appearances, universal mistrust--into an orderly, not to say mechanical, exhilaration. Chaos is repackaged as quadrille” (O’Brien, 2). The inherent traits of the central spies in each story, and the characters surrounding them, create a sort of dance around the plot, filled with mystery and conspiracy that stays entertaining even in its darkest moments. Much like it must have been to watch your home country fall to pieces while trying desperately to build itself back to former glory. Definitively entertaining to behold, yet still frightening and dreadful to live through. Which is what allows the political edge of most spy thrillers to creep effortlessly into their narratives. The enjoyment is the politics, in many ways. The spies and characters surrounding them are not acting on pure free will but at the hands of the system behind it all, which drives their decisions in part because they have no other direction to go – “The spy film is ideally suited for politics, since it is one of the few popular formats in which an individual's life is legitimately seen by an audience as dependent upon international events and wills beyond that of the protagonist” (Rubenstein, 7). As stated above, the spy is directly linked, emotionally and situationally, to the political underpinnings of the narrative. This is the heart of why spy thrillers are so tense yet fantastical, so real yet so blindly fun.

This makes for an interesting connection between the works of Fritz Lang – mainly the pair of Dr. Mabuse classics and Spione – with those of modern spy franchises, such as Mission Impossible and James Bond. In the former, Lang and his crew developed a deeply visual approach to the spy’s story, allowing the conspiracy to creep in around the protagonist (Haghi, for instance), building in each scene slowly. All the while, emotional interest mounts between the protagonist and a new acquaintance or lover (again, Haghi) which complicates the now expanding political mystery around them. By this point, the conspiracy and emotional core of the story are one, which makes for a perfect third-act showdown. Every time. Compare this to the structure of Ethan Hunts latest adventures and the many more travels of James Bond, and the relationship becomes clear and striking. In both franchises, the central hero finds himself in the midst of political conspiracy beyond the scope of his personal life and team. He gets to work, building a crew and getting to the bottom of why everything is happening – while a certain love interest interjects, blindsiding the hero and distracting them from the now rapidly accelerating central plot. The conjoining forces build almost effortlessly to the final showdown, which invites any director to go crazy and experiment with new stunts, visual tricks and plot twists. It’s a storytelling structure that’s just about perfect for the theater experience, much like it was when Lang discovered the genre as a means of making sense of the political nightmare that preceded the rise of the Third Reich. And, conspiratorial drama and political meltdowns still happen today, allowing James Bond’s showdown with nuclear armed psychopaths to hit just as hard as Haghi’s mission to stop a massive spy ring almost one hundred years ago.

[fandomtrumpshate]

Listed fandom rankings ...

We've just hours to go before signups close for the 2024 FTH auction. In the history of FTH we've only had one fandom ever break 100 signups in a single auction — MCU had 100+ signups in 2020. Right this minute, however, we're only 3 signups away from having a second fandom crack that number. K-pop is RIGHT ON THE EDGE. Will you help it make it across that line? Or sign up for another fandom and bump them up the list? There's still time. Do the thing!

At the top of our listed fandom leaderboard, we have the top ten:

97 K-Pop * 83 Good Omens 55 Sherlock Holmes * 47 Harry Potter * 46 Marvel * 39 Mo Dao Zu Shi / The Untamed 37 DC * 35 Avatar The Last Airbender 30 Star Wars * 29 Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

And falling out of the top ten (by just one signup) -

28 Red, White, & Royal Blue

Beyond that, we have several ties for various places -

[# of signups][fandoms]

23 Teen Wolf

21 Baldur's Gate 3, Locked Tomb Trilogy, Stranger Things, Supernatural

20 All for the Game, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, The Witcher

19 Boku no Hiro Akademia (My Hero Academia), Original Work, Our Flag Means Death, Tolkien *

18 Haikyuu!!!

16 9-1-1 and 9-1-1 Lone Star, Hockey RPF, Star Trek *

15 Tian Guan Ci Fu (Heaven Official's Blessing)

14 Jujutsu Kaisen

13 Hazbin Hotel, Naruto, The Old Guard, One Piece

12 The Magnus Archives

11 A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon, Check Please!, The Maze Runner, Raven Cycle

10 Final Fantasy *, Merlin, Shadowhunters

9 Doctor Who *, Dungeons & Dragons, Fullmetal Alchemist, The Sandman, Yuri!!! On Ice

8 Dragon Age *, Hades (video game), Hannibal, Heartstopper, James Bond, Justified, Kingsman, The Murderbot Diaries, SK8 the Infinity, Suits

7 Captive Prince, Critical Role, Genshin Impact, Grishaverse, Queen's Thief, Rusty Quill Gaming Podcast, Steven Universe, Top Gun Movies

6 Kinnporsche, Malevolent (Podcast), RWBY, Stargate,

5 Alex Rider, Arcane, Interview With The Vampire, Legend of Zelda, Nirvana in Fire, The Owl House, Pokemon, Witch Hat Atelier

4 Erha He Ta De Bai Mao Shizun (The Husky & His White Cat Shizun), Hunger Games, Les Misérables, The Magicians, Miraculous Ladybug, Trigun, Welcome to Night Vale

3 Disney's Descendants, Elder Scrolls, Fire Emblem Three Houses, Gundam Wing, Hetalia, Leverage, Mysterious Lotus Casebook, Spy x Family, Super Mario Bros., Tian Ya Ke / Word of Honor, Wheel of Time, Young Royals

2 Benoit Blanc Mysteries (Knives Out, Glass Onion), Bleach, Disco Elysium, Encanto, Homestuck, The Last of Us, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Schitt's Creek

1 Assassin's Creed, Attack on Titan, Chainsaw Man, Diamond no Ace, Goncharov (1973), Stellar Firma, Wednesday / The Addams Family

Signups are STILL open. There are just hours to go. Wanna help set records? Do the thing!

[smartmoneywoman]

Nailed It! How to Crush Your Job Interview with Killer Preparation

Are you about to go for a job interview? Preparing well is essential if you want to make a great impression. The key to acing a job interview is to be prepared. With the right preparation, you can feel confident and relaxed during your job interview. In this blog post, we'll give you the best tips and tricks for killer preparation and how to make sure your job interview goes as smoothly as possible. Read on to learn more about how to crush your job interview with proper preparation.

1. "Don't Wing It": Why Preparation is Key

So, you've got a job interview coming up. Congrats! But let me ask you this: are you planning to just wing it? If your answer is yes, I've got news for you: that's a terrible idea. Seriously, don't do it! Preparation is key, my friend. And I don't mean just a little bit of preparation. I'm talking about putting in the time and effort to really ace that interview. Because let's be honest, no one wants to be caught off guard and stumble through their answers like a deer in headlights. By taking the time to research the company and position, dress for success, craft a killer elevator pitch, and practice answering those tricky behavioral questions, you'll be setting yourself up for success. And let's not forget about the practical test, body language, and the importance of asking thoughtful inquiries. But wait, there's more! The follow-up is just as important as the interview itself. Nailing that post-interview thank you note will show your potential employer that you're professional and appreciative. So, don't be a wing-it wonder. Put in the time and effort to prepare, and you'll be well on your way to acing that interview and landing your dream job.

2. Mastering the Art of Researching the Company and Position

So, you've landed a job interview. Good for you! But here's the thing: you can't just walk into that interview room blind. You need to do your research. And I don't mean a quick Google search and a scroll through their website. No, no, no. I'm talking about mastering the art of stalking, I mean researching, the company and the position. Now, I'm not suggesting you go all FBI on them, but a little bit of detective work won't hurt. Check out their social media profiles, read up on their latest projects, and dive into their company culture. Show up to that interview armed with knowledge and impress them with your insider information. And let's not forget about the position itself. Familiarize yourself with the key responsibilities, required skills, and any recent developments in the industry. Trust me, when you casually drop some company trivia or mention how their latest innovation aligns perfectly with your skillset, they'll be blown away. So, follow-up on your stalking skills and become a master researcher. It's time to ace that interview!

3. Look the Part: Dressing for Success

Alright, it's time to address the elephant in the room (or rather, in the blog post). We're talking about dressing for success. Look, we get it. You're a talented individual with a killer resume and the skills to back it up. But here's the thing: first impressions matter, especially when it comes to job interviews. So, put on your best outfit, iron that shirt, and shine those shoes (unless you're going for a job at a shoe factory, in which case, wear those scuffed up kicks with pride). Now, I'm not saying you need to show up in a three-piece suit or a ball gown (unless you're applying to be the next James Bond or attending a royal gala). Just dress appropriately for the position and company culture. If it's a more formal setting, go for a classic, professional look. If it's a creative or casual environment, show off your personal style while still looking polished. And please, for the love of all things professional, avoid wearing a t-shirt with a questionable slogan or your favorite superhero cape (unless the job involves saving the world, in which case, go for it). Remember, dressing for success isn't about being someone you're not. It's about showing respect for the opportunity and demonstrating that you take this job interview seriously. So, choose your outfit wisely, my friend. You got this!

4. Selling Yourself: Crafting Your Elevator Pitch and Highlighting Your Experience

Now, here's the thing. When it comes to selling yourself in a job interview, you need to be memorable. And what better way to do that than with a killer elevator pitch? This is your chance to sum up your experience, skills, and what makes you the perfect fit for the job in a concise and impactful way. But here's a tip: don't bore them with a robotic recitation of your resume. Instead, inject some personality and pizzazz into your pitch. Think of it as a mini sales pitch, but instead of selling a product, you're selling yourself. Highlight your unique qualities, showcase your achievements, and make them believe that hiring you would be the best decision they've ever made. And remember, humor is your secret weapon. A well-timed joke or clever anecdote can make you stand out from the sea of other candidates. So, craft your elevator pitch with care and let your awesomeness shine through. Trust me, they won't be able to resist hiring you.

5. The Dreaded Behavioral Interview: How to Answer Those Tricky Questions

Ah, the dreaded behavioral interview. Just hearing those words can send shivers down your spine. But fear not, my friend, because I'm here to help you conquer those tricky questions with wit and charm. First things first, don't panic. Remember, they're not trying to trick you or see you squirm. They just want to know how you handle certain situations. So take a deep breath and channel your inner superhero (or at least your favorite fictional character). When faced with a question like "Tell me about a time you faced a difficult coworker," don't be tempted to throw your former colleague under the bus. Instead, show off your problem-solving skills and ability to navigate challenging situations. Paint yourself as the calm and collected hero who resolved the conflict with finesse. And when they ask for an example of a time you made a mistake, don't panic. We're all human, after all. Show them that you're willing to admit your faults, but emphasize what you learned from the experience and how you've grown. So remember, the key to acing the behavioral interview is to stay calm, be yourself, and showcase your ability to handle tough situations with grace and a sprinkle of humor. You got this, my friend!

6. Acing the Practical Test: Preparing for Skills-Based Assessments

Alright, it's time to tackle the practical test portion of your job interview. Cue the intense music and dramatic slow-motion shots! Skills-based assessments can be nerve-wracking, but fear not, for I have some tricks up my sleeve to help you ace this challenge. First things first, familiarize yourself with the specific skills that will be assessed. Do your research and brush up on any areas where you might be a little rusty. Practice, practice, practice! Whether it's coding, problem-solving, or customer service scenarios, the more you practice, the more comfortable you'll feel. But remember, this is not the time to showcase your party tricks or break out into interpretive dance (unless it's a dance-related job, in which case, go for it!). Stay focused, calm, and collected. And here's a pro tip: don't be afraid to ask questions during the assessment. Clarify any instructions or requirements to ensure you're on the right track. It shows that you're proactive and committed to delivering your best performance. So, get ready to conquer that practical test like a true hero. You've got this in the bag! Now go show 'em what you're made of!

7. Making a Good Impression: Body Language and Professionalism

It's time to talk about making a good impression with your body language and professionalism. You might think this section sounds boring, but trust me, it's crucial if you want to nail that job interview. First things first, stand tall and confident. No slouching allowed! Show them you mean business with a firm handshake and a smile that says, "I'm the perfect fit for this job." And let's not forget about eye contact. Don't be creepy and stare them down, but a good amount of eye contact shows that you're engaged and attentive. Now, here's where it gets fun. Time to practice your active listening skills. Nod your head, give them the occasional "mmhmm," and show genuine interest in what they're saying. Remember, you're not just a good fit for the job, you're also an excellent listener. And lastly, let your personality shine through. Be professional, but don't be afraid to show a little bit of your unique self. Crack a joke, tell a funny anecdote, or break out some killer dance moves (maybe not the last one). Let them see that you're not just a robot in a suit, but someone they would genuinely enjoy working with. So, remember to strike a pose, be an active listener, and let your true colors shine. They'll be so impressed they won't know what hit them. Go get 'em!

8. "Any Questions?": The Importance of Asking Thoughtful Inquiries

You've made it to the end of your job interview, and now comes the part where they ask, "Do you have any questions for us?" This is your chance to show that you've done your research, are genuinely interested in the company, and have a brain that's as sharp as a ninja's katana. But let's be real. This is not the time to ask about the free snacks in the break room or if you can bring your pet unicorn to work. No, no, no. This is your opportunity to ask thoughtful inquiries that demonstrate your intelligence and passion for the job. Ask about the company's future goals and how this position fits into their grand plan. Inquire about the company culture and how they support employee growth and development. Show your enthusiasm by asking about upcoming projects or how your potential team collaborates. So, don't be shy. Ask those questions that make them sit up straight and say, "Wow, this person really knows their stuff!" Be bold, be curious, and leave them impressed with your inquisitive mind. Your questions could be the final touch that seals the deal. Good luck!

9. Follow-Up Like a Pro: Nailing the Post-Interview Thank You Note

Now that you've aced your job interview, it's time to master the art of the post-interview thank you note. This is your chance to show your potential employer that you're professional, appreciative, and a total rockstar. But here's the thing, don't just send a generic thank you email that's as exciting as a stale sandwich. Put some effort into it and let your personality shine through. Show them that you're not just another cookie-cutter candidate. Start by expressing your gratitude for the opportunity and mention something specific that you enjoyed or learned during the interview. This shows that you were genuinely engaged and paying attention. Then, throw in a little humor or a clever anecdote to make them smile. After all, who doesn't love a good laugh? Wrap it up by reiterating your interest in the position and expressing your excitement about the possibility of joining their team. So, remember to send that post-interview thank you note like a pro. It's your chance to leave a lasting impression and make them think, "Wow, we need this person on our team!" Go nail it! Related Topics Maximizing Your Earnings: The Art of Salary Negotiation Read the full article

[scottwbeattie]

Review: Master of Kung Fu Epic Collection 2: Fight Without Pity

This feels like it was written specifically for me.

I love James Bond. No, seriously, I love James Bond. My dad introduced me to Bond movies when I was 8 or 9, so I especially love the ridiculous, campy Roger Moore films. Classic Kung Fu films and contemporary Hong Kong films are also a passion of mine. In this volume, there's a 3 part arc where Shang Chi (a Bruce Lee stand-in) and his MI-6 colleagues have to infiltrate the island base of a mad assassin who has built an evil playground of killer robots and talking trains and who has a device that can selectively cut holes in the ozone layer. These comics may have been written 10 years before I was born, but they speak to my soul.

That's not to say that all of the issues in this volume are campy. In fact, writer Doug Moench (one of my favorite writers of the 70's and 80's) takes what could have been a very cliche concept and makes it something amazingly weird and compelling by constantly experimenting with different storytelling techniques and by splicing genres. There are much more serious stories, but, as David noted, the final issue of the collection is basically a 1930s comedy with Groucho Marx and W.C. Fields stand-ins. You also get the sense that Moench was drawing inspiration from Kurosawa films. He plays with perspective, and there will be 9-panel pages where two events are occurring simultaneously and the panels will switch back and forth between the two.

Even though these experiments are not always successful, I respect Moench's ambition to try to do something different. There's also a good mix of stories in this volume, so even if you don't like the weirder issues, there are several straightforward (but very good!) issues like the Annual, which teams up Shang-Chi and Iron Fist.

A big draw for me was also Paul Gulacy's art. There are times when it looks rough, but it's always dynamic and perfectly suited to the material.

I don't know if I'm in a fair position to judge this, because it's so perfectly tailored to my interests. It is worth noting that because Fight Without Pity is so heavily genre-based, it comes with some of the baggage of those genres (and the Sax Rohmer material which Marvel licensed). Black Jack Tarr insists on calling Shang-Chi "Chinaman" even though Shang-Chi asks him to call him by his name. From what I gather, Fu Manchu is true to the source material, but it's a very cliched stereotype. To be fair, Moench was very aware of the problems with the source material (I believe he called the Sax Rohmer novels "racist pieces of trash" during his interview with the Epic Marvel Podcast) and does his best to mitigate a lot of the issues. I don't think any of it would be enough to put someone off, but parts of it can be occasionally uncomfortable. Personally, I find this volume to be incredibly compelling, and Master of Kung Fu is, in my opinion, one of the gems of Marvel Comics in the 1970's.

Here's to hoping that Master of Kung Fu Epic Collection 3 finally sees the light of day!

[loversandantiheroes]

Hotel Hobbies - Part 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!Reader Author’s Note: This was not going to be a multi-chapter thing, but then people liked it and Whiskey wouldn’t shut the hell up so here we are, folks.  I no longer know where this is going so strap the fuck in I guess.  This is so long and I am so sorry. Edited for a cleanup 10/5/2020 Summary:  A co-worker gives the Reader a little nudge, which backfires just a bit when Whiskey runs unexpectedly late. Warnings: Public sex, exhibitionism, angry sex, mild choking/breath play, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, spitting, spanking, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (do as I say not as I fictionalize), creampies, come eating, vague allusions to Whiskey’s job and all the dangers contained therein, Whiskey is a service top and I do not take criticism, very brief mention of Whiskey’s past, exactly one (1) use of Spanish that I hope I didn’t fuck up too badly. Rating: Explicit / NSFW / 18+ / How much clearer can I make this? Word Count: 12k+ (oh GOD do not look at me I have no idea what happened) Previous: Prelude / Part 1 / Interlude Taglist: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @oloreaa @the-feckless-wonder @sarcasmisakindofmagic

The conference drags on into its fourth day in a parade of excessively bored people in suits and pencil skirts toting stale danishes and overpriced coffee; the only comforts provided to distract you from the mobius circle-jerk of tedious corporate bullshit. Most of the assembly hall does little more than nod blandly as yet another guest speaker goes through their presentation, the topic of which you forget at least six times throughout the course of it. Half of the attendees aren't even bothering to take notes anymore. The company could've filled the room with potted plants in cheap suits and gotten a better result.  At least the plants would provide a little oxygen to the atmosphere.

It certainly doesn't help your case that half of your brain is circling endlessly around Whiskey. You scribble down a set of shorthand bullet points in your notes and try to blink away the image of his arms straining against taut ropes.  You sip your coffee and remember the heat of his tongue chasing the taste of his namesake in your mouth. When you cross your legs and feel the deep, pleasant twinge between them, for a split second all you can think about is the way he felt sinking down into you with his teeth against your neck.

The time absolutely crawls by. There's moments when you half expect to look up at the old analog clock on the wall and see the hands start running backward. Of course this would be the day the presentations run long, wouldn't it?  Restless and fidgety, you eventually give up on your notes completely and just resign your attention to the clock and whatever obscenity your brain wants to conjure up from the night before.

Claudia, one of your only work friends that actually opted to attend this fiasco, gives you increasingly amused looks throughout the morning, glancing up at you over her phone (on which, you can't help but notice, she has been playing Bejeweled for the past hour with the brightness turned down). After you check the clock for the fifth time in twenty minutes, unable to really keep yourself from sighing angrily through your nose, she shakes her head at you, laughing quietly.

"So what's his name?" she whispers, leaning over conspiratorially.

You give her a glare, but she only raises her eyebrows expectantly. Goddamn it, why does the entire universe find it so funny when you're irritated?

"Whiskey," you mutter back, glowering.

She has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stop a snorting giggle from being loud enough to cause a disruption. "Oh my god," she sputters. "Are you fucking a biker?"

And okay, maybe that is a little funny. You shake your head, mutter back, "Cowboy."

Claudia grins so wide her shoulders pull up with it. "Save a horse," she whispers, trying to dodge out of the way when you elbow her to cut off the rest of the joke. Three people behind you simultaneously shush the two of you, and you toss a dirty look over your shoulder, settling back into your seat.

A few seconds go by before Claudia's leaning back over to quietly add, "The dick must be good to get you this distracted."

"Shut up," you shoot back, but you're already smiling.

When the presentation ends, the entire auditorium raising up on creaking knees to shuffle out to break for lunch, Claudia's hand clamps down on your arm.

"I'm buying lunch and you're going to tell me everything."

So you do.  Parked in her conservative little hybrid over styrofoam boxes of take out, you tell her. Damn near everything, too. She listens with rapt attention, this not being the first time she's poked you for details of your love life, such as it is, but judging by the look on her face it's possibly taken the top spot as the most memorable.

"So you're gonna see him again," she says finally as you tell her about Whiskey's invitation before slipping out the door this morning.

You settle back, trying to make yourself look suitably apathetic before answering in the hopes of not being completely transparent. "I dunno. Maybe."

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You're gonna see him again. You've been spaced out with dickbrain all day, there's no way you're turning down that invitation."

You wave the end of your plastic fork threateningly. "I will stab you, I swear."

"Not with this many witnesses," she says with a wave at the horde of pedestrians outside on the sidewalk, blatantly ignoring the shanking motions you make in warning.  

When she doesn't drop that annoying, knowing look, you start jabbing at your food, rolling a piece of cucumber around the styrofoam. "I mean...ok yeah I thought about it."

"All morning," Claudia provides.

"Fuck you," you counter lightly, and resist the urge to fling the chunk of cucumber at her. "I just...I don't know. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Oh my god, why not?" she cries, head thrown back in exasperation.

"Well it's not exactly fucking sensible, is it?"

"Honey if you were worried about being sensible you wouldn't have fucked a cowboy you picked up at a hotel bar," she says with a shake of her head.

"Did you miss the part where he tried to convince me he was James fucking Bond?  I mean c'mon Claudia.  That's gotta be...I dunno, some kinda red flag."

She scoffs, flapping a dismissive hand. "Oh please, when the bullshit's that obvious I don't even think it counts. It’s not like you bought it anyway.  Besides, honesty is the backbone of a solid relationship, if you're just poking fun it's more like a bonus.  As long as he's not married and not a serial killer, who gives a shit?  You’re overthinking the shit outta this, hon.”

That’s...well that’s not wrong.  It’s honestly irritating how not wrong that is.

When you don’t give a response save for the idle sounds of plastic scratching on your takeout box, Claudia groans. “God are you really gonna make me talk you into getting yourself laid? Okay, if you wanna be rational about it, fine, here's some rational thought for you." She pops out her thumb, ticking off digits as she lists. "He's hot. He likes to eat pussy. He's a fuckin' sub, which - holy shit, girl. Holy actual fucking shit. Plus he's packing and he actually knows what to do with it.  Oh, and he bought you fuckin' breakfast!" She wiggles her fingers as she thrusts her hands out towards you. "Seven outta ten, babe! My god, if you don't fuck him I'll do it for you just so I don't have to eat another shitty continental breakfast."

You laugh, but there's a hot flush creeping up your face, and you have to stare out the window for a minute until it starts to wind back. It's almost successful, until you think of Whiskey again. This time, though, all you think of is him outlined in the door, looking back at you with his face too shaded to see.  And then your cheeks flare hot again, not with that lingering sense of want, but with a flighty kind of panic.

And just like that you pin it down, your stomach twisting on itself as you finally put words to that moment of apprehension.  Whiskey doesn't scare you.  His lines don't scare you.  The way he fucks you doesn't even scare you.  But that moment that he lingered does. It scares you because you think maybe what was going through his head is the same thing that's been going through yours, a fine little thread looped around every remembered pleasure: the worry that you're about to develop a taste for something that you'll never have the chance to get again.  

Maybe it's better to leave it.  To chalk it up as a fluke and not risk finding out that he'd feel just as good the second time as he did the first.  Cut it off now before that lingering taste turns into a full-blown craving.

Claudia sighs, closing her takeaway box.  "Look, hon.  I'm not trying to tell you what to do. It just sounds to me like you're overthinking this. You don't need to be fucking sensible all the goddamn time. So what if you're thinking with your pussy right now? You had fun. He was fun. You have the option to have more fun. You are entitled to have some fun. So, hey: fuck sensibility and have some fucking fun."

You nod. It's reflex at first, but slowly becomes more deliberate. More sure.  "Okay. Yeah. You're probably right."

"I am always right, thank-you-very-much," she corrects, and then promptly shrieks as you launch a slice of cucumber into her hair.

                                                           ⁂

The trick of it all, you remind yourself that evening as you cross the hotel lobby for the elevator, is not to think about it.  Because if you think about it, really think about it, you will find a way to talk yourself out it. Sensibility is as much of a hindrance as a help at times.  But you've decided now: the absolute last thing you want to be tonight is sensible. You've been bored out of your mind all week, and as much as you're loathe to admit it, Whiskey has been the only bright spot in the whole affair.  At least he's given you something to look forward to, even if it is just the prospect of getting railed until you forget your own name.  

You take the time to change when you make it to your room.  Grab yourself a short, but blisteringly hot shower, and conveniently forget your panties when you redress.  Eventually you make your way down to the bar with your heart almost strangling you with the way it's seemingly lodged itself in your throat.   Whiskey's nowhere to be seen, which isn't a complete surprise.  He always seemed to turn up a little late in the evening before.  Not wanting to deviate too far from your own habits, if only to make yourself a little easier to spot, you take your familiar place at the far end where you've been set up for so many nights in a row. You order your drink, make friends with the closest basket of pretzels, and you wait.

And wait...and wait.

Your eyes are half on the clock and half on the door, flicking back to that last at every sign of movement.  Despite the fact that you're practically nursing your drink, the bartender refills your glass twice over the course of the night. When he offers a third, you shake your head.  Your face feels like it's burning. The bartender nods and wanders away, either oblivious to the growing anger on your face or determined not to end up the recipient of it.

It's nearly midnight when you finally push yourself off the bar stool, throwing down enough bills to cover your tab and storming off.  He stood you up.  You cannot fucking believe it.  What's worse is you feel like you should believe it.  Should've expected it.  As if a man that strutted around like a preening rooster and fed you a bullshit James Bond story would have a streak of honesty.

You punch the elevator button hard enough to make your hand tingle, pushing your way through the doors as they open and hitting the button for your floor. The walls of the elevator are mirrored, and you duck your head, not wanting to know what your face looks like just now, twisted up in anger and more than a little shame. The doors hang for a moment before sliding closed.  At the last possible second a hand darts in, stopping them. Broad. Tanned. Tattooed. The man of the hour leans through the doors as they retreat, and gives you a grin.

"Room for one more?"

Your stomach does a back flip, blood rushing in so many directions you're not sure if you've got enough left to power a response. If this little scenario had played out even half an hour earlier, you might've laughed. Might've fallen back into that easy bitchy banter the two of you seemed so good at. Might've even kissed him. But not now.  Now you've built up too much steam, and every little ounce of anger – earned or not – that you'd had percolating for this man since you first laid eyes on him bursts out of your mouth in two words, laced with as much venom as you can muster.

"Fuck you."

You can practically hear the record scratch in his head.  The smile falls, eyebrows ratchet up so high you can't see them for the brim of his hat.  It's satisfying in an awful sort of way.  Like scratching an itch hard enough to draw blood.  Too late to take it back now, though.  You lash out at the elevator panel, punching the button marked CLOSE DOORS, and Whiskey side-steps neatly inside.

"All right," he says slowly.  "That is not exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

"Yeah, well tough shit, cowboy," you all but spit, raking a hand through your hair. You keep your eyes down.  Forward.  Anywhere but on him.  It's hard, too many reflections.  Even the distorted shape of his  silhouette in the door makes your blood boil.

"I know I'm late," he starts, hands raised, and the low and placating tone of his voice hits you like lighter fluid on a match.

"You don't fucking say?"

His hands drop. "Can I at least explain myself?"

Laughing too loud and too sharp, you shrug, shoulders pulling up hard.  "Yeah, sure, why not? Let me guess, rough day at Spy HQ? Assassination appointment run over? Or were you just hiding behind the fucking dieffenbachia to see how long I'd stick around before I came to my fucking senses?" 

The shrill sound of your own voice almost makes you wince.  You're overreacting. It's not like you're unaware of it. But you're pissed off, and worse now, you've committed to being pissed off. Backing down now is damn near impossible, never mind actually apologizing.

Whiskey takes a step forward, his eyes gone all puppy dog again; wide and imploring under twisted brows. "Look, I don't blame you for thinkin' the worst. I know I left you waitin', and I apologize for that -"

You roll your eyes, mouth twisting into a smile that shows too much teeth to be kind. "Christ, y'know what, don't flatter yourself.  I like that bar.  The pretzels are nice and they don't water down the liquor.  I didn't show up for you."

"Oh horseshit," he snaps. He doesn't raise his voice, but there is a whip crack of impatience in it. "If you didn't want to see me tonight you wouldn't have turned up at all. You and I both know that."

Fuming, you jam your hand into your purse, fishing out his flask and tossing it at him hard enough that it hits him square in the chest. He catches it on the rebound.

"Here. You forgot this."

Whiskey turns it over in his hands, thumping the metal against his palm. "Right.  I see," he says slowly, slipping the flask into his pocket. Under that thick drawl, there's a twinge of something that might be disappointment. "Just came to do the decent thing and return a man's property."

"Yes." Part of you sinks, screaming in frustration.  But it's like you're a spectator now, just watching yourself sabotage the only thing that'd brought you a shred of joy all week just because your pride and temper won't allow any other option.

One hand falls to his hip, the other rubs idly across his mouth. He's scowling now, quite spectacularly at that, and for a second you think you've finally dealt enough of a blow to his pride to piss him off. Then he steps in close, jaw set. The way his eyes travel up and down you sends a flush through your body, and you're not sure if you want to slap him hard enough to knock the mustache off his face or kiss him until his lips bleed. His gaze lingers at your hip, your curves quite plainly displayed under the tight skirt. He reaches out. The back of his fingernails barely brush the fabric.

"Do you always make returns without any panties on?"

You try to swallow, but find your mouth has gone suddenly bone dry, your throat sticking with a sharp and painful click.  "Fuck off," you try to tell him, but it comes out a croak.

"You know what I think?" Whiskey continues, and the tone would nearly be conversational if it weren't for the way he's looking at you, eyes perfectly black and hungry under the shade of his hat.  "I don't think you're just mad because I'm late.  I think you're mad because I can get a rise outta you. Part of you kinda likes it. Enough to wanna come back for a little more of it. And you don't know what to do about that.  Bet you can't even decide if you wanna throttle me or ride me 'til you can't come anymore. Bit of both, maybe, huh?"

Oh fuck you very much, Mister Perceptive.  "Christ, you and your fucking ego-"

"Oh to hell with my fucking ego, and yours too." He leans in close enough that you can smell aftershave and a fainter, acrid smell that, if you weren't so fucking preoccupied, you might recognize as spent gunpowder. "If you want me to go, just fuckin' say it. But don't bullshit a bullshitter.  If you wanted rid of me that bad you would've tossed me out on my ass last night before I'd even finished coming."

Your jaw works, and you push yourself a little harder against the handrail just to keep from slapping him. How dare he-

How dare he what, exactly? Be right?  Again?

You clench your jaw, gripping the handrail on the wall tight enough that the corners dig into your fingers. Glare at him like you're trying to light him on fire. He doesn't flinch.

"What you did last night...that made for a hell of a first impression," he says slowly, and the low rasp of his voice almost curls your toes.  "One I don't expect I'm liable to forget this side of fuckin' doomsday. Shit, I don't even know your fucking name and I ain't been able to shake the thought of you all damn day.  Now you can believe that or not, and I wouldn't blame you if you didn't.  But the only thing I'm asking from you right now is to be fucking straight with me.  If you want me to go, you fucking tell me, and I'm gone.  But if you want me to stay, honeybee I swear I will make up for every second you had to wait."

"Fuck you, Whiskey," you breathe.  It's all you've got left, all you can even think to say, but it's too soft. It's too hard not to believe him when he's looking at you like that.  Even if he's still got your teeth on edge, ready to bite, the fire in your belly is sinking lower every second. And there's no way to mistake the low rasp of your voice for anger.

He leans in, hovering barely an inch away from you, and tips your chin up with his knuckle. "That ain't an answer, honeybee."

His lip curls into a smirk and for a second all you can think about is running your tongue out to follow the curve of it.

"You can punish me if you like," he offers in a low, darkly sweet voice. The fingers on your chin trace a path along your jaw, up to your ear, and down the side of your neck as he talks; a three-point constellation drawn in goosebumps. "Lord knows I deserve it. Tie me up again. Ride my tongue until you've had your fill and never lay a finger on me.  I don't mind a bit.  I'll probably come in my fucking jeans like a goddamn high school virgin while you do it, too."

Oh god. It's too hot. It's too hot and he's too close and it feels like there's no air left.  Those words took the last of it and left you with nothing. And then your lungs finally unlock, hitching in air so pitifully loud that for a second his eyes drop first to your mouth and then lower to watch the buttons strain on your blouse.

His tongue brushes up against the back of his bottom lip, a strange gesture, but one you can't drag your eyes away from.  And the bastard just keeps talking.  

"Then again, maybe the way you've been acting up you'd be more inclined for a little punishment yourself. I could take you upstairs. Turn you over my knee and put my hand to that pretty little ass until it blushes like a ripe summer peach. I'd bet you'd drip just as much and twice as sweet, too. I'd kill for a taste of you right now. Fuck, if you really want I could just hike that skirt up and fuck you right here and now.  I am a flexible man and I am willing to take you any way you'd see fit to let me. But only if you let me.  I ain't here to play bullshit games, and I will not take anything you don't want to give.  So I need you to tell me, honeybee.  Do you want this? Yes or no?"

Everything inside you burns and twists.  Fuck, you want that.  All of that.  And all you have to do to get it is unstick your stubborn, too-sharp tongue and admit that you want it. That even without the excuse of three shots of tequila on top of a few too many cocktails, you still want it.

You're burning up.  There's sweat on your palms.  It squeaks as you twist your hands over the railing.  He hasn't just turned the tables on you, he's flipped the whole fucking room and cornered you with it. And God help you, it's infuriating how much you like it.

"Hate you. So much."

"Hm." His hand falls away, and you miss the touch instantly. "So you keep sayin'. Decision time, honeybee. You pick or I'm picking for you and we're both gonna be disappointed in that result."

There is a long long beat where that threat hangs between you.  Any hope that he might just push forward and take you anyway – push you into the wall and fuck you ragged right here and now without another word – bleeds away as you stare him down, your wordless challenge going unanswered. His gaze is iron; hard and unyielding, and you know if you wait even one more second, this...whatever the hell this is, will be over. Permanently.

Swallowing the last of your pride like so much cheap liquor, you seize the front of his shirt, dragging him forward even as he starts to back away.

"Yes. Fucking goddamn it.  Yes, I want this."

"Yeah?" He leans in, nose brushing your cheek.  Somehow it's that little gesture that sets off a bomb's worth of butterflies in your stomach.

"Yes."

The heat of his hand is almost shocking as it glides up your thigh and underneath your skirt, his thumb stroking up and finding only bare skin. Whiskey grins. "Knew it."

You choke back a sigh.  "Smug bastard."

"Yes ma'am."  His thumb brushes up and down your slit idly, slow and considering.  He glances around, quirks an eyebrow, and offers: "Here?"

Following his glance, you spot the hunk of plastic mounted in the top corner of the elevator.  "Camera. Fuck."

"Sure enough," he drawls, still grinning.  "You want to give the boys 'n' girls in the security booth a show, or d'you want to go someplace a little more sensible?"

Sensible. God, If he'd chosen any other word, you might've agreed. Private. Safe. Anything but fucking sensible.  

"Fuck sensibility. Fuck security, too. Just shut up and fuck me."

He laughs through your kiss, the touch of his lips too gentle by miles.  The last thing you want right now is gentle. You don't fucking deserve gentleness after all that.  And so you rake your teeth across his bottom lip, roll your tongue against his. When you nip at his tongue, Whiskey breaks off, cupping your sex with a warm, calloused hand.

"You're gonna eat me alive, honeybee," he growls.  He parts you with a thick finger, drawing the pad of it from your entrance to your clit and back again. "Mm, I have been thinkin' about this all day," he murmurs before his finger sinks into you.

Sighing, you curl your arms around his neck, knocking his hat off to run your fingers through his hair and muss up that razor-clean side part. His hand works unhurried between your legs.  You rock against it, listening to the obscene smacking sound as he works you open.

"All that fuss and you're wet for me already, darlin'," Whiskey says wonderingly.

All you can do is groan, chasing the sensation of the heel of his hand pressing against your clit.  "Shut up and kiss me."

You tug at his hair, try to urge him forward, but he doesn't budge.  He sinks down to his knees instead, right hand never leaving the wet heat of your cunt.

"I'll kiss you, baby," he says, pushing up your skirt and lifting your right leg over his shoulder.  "Don't you worry."

And he kisses you: a warm, wet slide of lips and tongue where he's got you spread. Gasping, you grab the back of his head. He looks up at you, only the crinkles at the corner of his eyes proof of his smile, and his eyes slip closed like a man savoring his favorite meal.

"Jesus." The word comes out in a squeak as his mouth works on you, your throat tightening in an effort to keep quiet.  A second finger joins the first and you whimper, tightening reflexively against the stretch.  Christ those fingers are thick. Shuddering, you work your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, your eyes wandering up to the reflection in the far wall.  The view is mesmerizing: your back arched, skirt hiked up to your waist, with Whiskey's head buried in between your legs like a man trying to slake an ungodly thirst. The view on the left is even better.  From there you can watch his mouth work against you, catching a glimpse of his tongue, wet and shining as it slips between your folds. He sways forward on his knees like a charmed snake, a growing bulge straining against the dark blue denim of his jeans.

There's a gentle ding, and for a moment you're so scrambled you think maybe your phone's going off.  And then the elevator doors slide open. An older looking gent with a battered briefcase stands frozen on the other side, eyes wide as dinner plates as he takes in the same view you've been admiring in the mirrored walls of the elevator.  

For a single spaced-out second the only thing you can think is, Going down?, which makes you erupt into a fit of breathless, senseless giggles.

The newcomer's mouth hangs, flapping uselessly over words he can't quite formulate.  He might be trying to apologize for the intrusion or insist you repent and turn to Jesus.  You don't know and you don't care.

Whiskey looks up at him over the line of your thigh, lips glistening.  "Get the next one," he snarls, and punches the CLOSE DOORS button.

He plants a rough, sucking kiss at the top of your cleft as the doors close again, utterly unperturbed.  "Penthouse, darlin', if you please."

Oh he would be in the fucking penthouse, wouldn't he?  Panting, you fumble a hand out trying to find the button just as Whiskey slides in a third finger and you cry out, almost swiping every button in the center row by accident.

The elevator hums to life and begins to move.  The red light on the security camera flashes benignly and you stare at it for a long beat while Whiskey gets right back to work, moaning hungrily between your legs.  Someone's watching this.  The thought excites you more than it should, adding fuel to the already roaring fire Whiskey is so eagerly stoking with his tongue.  You roll your hips, swearing roundly.  It's not enough.  It's fucking glorious, but it's not enough.  You know what you need.

"Fuck me," you gasp.  "Goddamn it, Whiskey, gimme your cock."

He glances up at you through thick lashes, eyebrows raised.  "Is that what you want, honeybee?" he asks.

You bear down on his fingers hard as if to answer and he clenches right back, thumb and pinky giving him leverage against your pubic bone as he grips you tight, fingers stroking along your walls. It's only by virtue of the handrail and the support of his shoulder that you don't sink straight to the floor.  Christ that backfired.

You nod fervently, head spinning.

A roll of his shoulder unseats your leg, and he stands.  His left hand wraps around your throat, thumb against your jawline, and that's so fucking perfect you can't stop yourself from whimpering. In a flare of desperation you grasp his wrist, urging him to grip your neck just a little tighter. Chuckling, he brushes his lips against yours – soft and strangely tender – while he fucks you steadily with his fingers.

"Shoulda known you'd like that.  Well?  Cat got your tongue?  Come on, darlin', lemme hear it."

"Yes."

"Louder. Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"Oh god-d-d-damn it!"

He chuckles darkly, fingers coaxing inside you.  "You can do it, honeybee.  I know you want it. I just need hear you say it."

You bare your teeth.  "I want you to fuck me."

"Good girl."  He grins down at you, wide and wolfish.  "Now: ask me nicely."

Oh he would, wouldn't he?

"B-bastard," you snarl, then begin to laugh.

"Oh come on now," he croons, eyes darting between your lips and your own heavy-lidded stare. "I'm sure you can get along without your pride for an hour or two. It ain't so bad.  And I promise I'll make it worth your while. C'mon."

You groan, grit your teeth, and hiss out: "Please."

He crooks his fingers and you gasp like you've been burned.  "'Please' what?"

"Please fuck me.  Please fuck me."

He slots your trembling thigh between his legs, pressing the clothed, solid length of his cock against you.  "With this?  Hm?"

"Fuck, yes."  You writhe, feel it twitch, and he rolls against you in response.  

"Come for me first, honeybee.  Then I'll fill you up good and proper. Cross my heart."

His fingers press into you harder, spreading gently as he draws them back. Your legs begin to shake so badly that he has to pin you to the wall to hold you up.  The rail digs into your back.  You'll bruise tomorrow, but you're not sure you've ever cared less in your life.  

"You gonna come, for me?" he asks, rutting a little more enthusiastically against you when he feels you begin to tense and flutter around his fingers.

Squeezing your eyes shut tight, you nod, feeling the drag of his lips on your cheek.  

"Uh-uh. Talk to me, darlin', I wanna hear it. I want you to tell me every single time you're gonna come, you understand me? Count them out.  Let's see just how many you got in you tonight."

"Oh you ass!"  You moan and laugh all in the same breath.  

"You like it," he says simply.  

He kisses you, warm and deep, and you bite his lip for the audacity.  "Don't stop.  Fuck, I'm close."

He turns your head, slides his hand around to cup the back of your neck. "Open your eyes, honeybee.  Watch yourself."

You try.  Everything's a blur; inside and out.  Fuzzy and disconnected and hot. Blinking to clear the fog, you can see your reflection caught between the wall and Whiskey's body. Your eyes are dazed, unfocused. His cheek is against yours, a look of utterly indecent hunger on his face, lips red and swollen where you've bitten him. He's pressed up against you too tightly to get a good view, but you can see his arm pinned between your bodies, and the flex of muscles working underneath his jacket.

There is, you note with a fuzzy sort of disconnect, a small, ragged hole in the arm of his jacket.

But before you can put any more thought to this discovery he presses his thumb down against your clit – no friction, only a firm, rolling pressure – and that's all you need. If it wasn't for the his body against yours, you'd buckle.  As it is, trapped between him and the wall, all you can do is quake and cry out, arms tightening around his shoulders as you come.

He hums indulgently, kissing your cheek.  "Count it out."

Panting, you pull hard on his hair until he groans.  "One."

"Good girl," he murmurs.  Slowly his hand withdraws, giving one last slow swirl over your folds before he sucks you greedily off his fingers.

There's the muffled sound of a zipper and you could almost laugh – finally! But then the elevator slows and stops, doors sliding open with a soft ding.  Whiskey glances sidelong at the open door, corner of his mouth pulling up in a half-cocked grin.  The disappointed whine you give as you hear him zip himself right back up is wholly involuntary.

"Well wouldn't you know it," he says, pulling away from you and stooping for his hat. It's all you can do not to whack him on the back of the head – or on the ass – as he turns away, wiggling your skirt back down over your hips instead.

He gives a ridiculous wink towards the security camera with his hat held to his chest. Your stomach gives a neat little flip as you look up at that blinking red light – god, you'd forgotten it was even there.  

"Sorry to blue-ball ya and run, fellas." He gets an arm around your waist, tugging you into the hall at an easy, languid pace, as if nothing had happened. As if your legs weren't still quivering, with the evidence of your orgasm running in sticky trails down the inside of your thighs.

"Betcha money, marbles, or chalk they'll be jerkin' off over that for weeks," he says jovially, pulling you to his hip when he feels you start to wobble. "C'mon. Let me get you in a bed before I say to hell with it all and fuck you out here on the goddamn floor."

Your knees tremble again; at least one part of you has full support of that particular idea. As the door opens you pull him back to your mouth, kissing him hard even as he steers you by the hips through the suite.  You barely see any of it. Recessed halogen lights.  The sparkle of painstakingly cleaned glass and marble.  Little else. A grunt escapes you as you fetch up hard against the wall and Whiskey crashes into you.  The sudden pressure against his groin leaves him winded, rocking forward against you with a shuddering groan.

"Tell me how you want it," he says, words mangled against your mouth. The salt-musk taste of you still clings to his tongue, sharp against some faint remnant of sweet mint.

One hand slips down, squeezing your breast through the material of your blouse.  The room spins giddily like a tilt-a-whirl, still riding the coattails of your last orgasm. "Hard," you breathe.  The skirt you chose is too fucking tight, and you have to reach down to drag it back up your thigh just to hook a leg around him.  "Don't you dare be gentle."

He chuckles as you press into him. "How hard is hard? I can be a little rough if you let me off the leash."

Frustrated, you slip your hands under his sports coat, nails biting into his shoulders through his dress shirt.  "Fuck, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yeah," he says, and his voice has reached that breathy, sonorous pitch that sends a hot-cold shiver rocketing down your spine.  "Yeah you do.  A little honesty would be appreciated tonight."

One good shove and his jacket slips to the floor.  "That's funny coming from Double-O-Cowpoke."

"Not my fault you don't believe me."  It's pitched like a joke, light and breezy, but there's something in his eyes.  Sharp and peculiar and gone almost before you can be sure it was really there, but makes your stomach clench with a sudden surety that the next words out of his mouth are completely genuine.  "I ain't lied to you yet, honeybee."

And that almost brings you to a halt.  Your hands splay out on his shoulders, pushing back to look at him more clearly.  If that's true. If that's true...oh god, why would he have told you?

The question is halfway to your lips before he surges his way forward again, his mouth crashing into yours and kissing you hard and urgent and bruising. A faint sound of protest rises in your throat and you push back a little, not wanting him to stop but wanting him to wait because...because....

And the rest of that thought flutters away. He doesn't stop kissing you.  He just doesn't stop.  And he's moaning as his tongue licks into your mouth and his teeth scrape over your lips like it's the most decadent thing in the world.  You grasp at his face, wrists caging in his neck, feeling his pulse race along next to your at such a frantic speed it's almost alarming.  Your last little shred of rational thought all but begs you to push him back a little harder, to make him look at you and ask him what's wrong...and then it just flutters away because God this is what you want.  This.  This, this, this.

"You want it hard?" he rasps into your mouth, rutting up against you hard enough to drive you back into the wall.

Breathless, you nod.  Work your fingers through the mess you've made of his hair. "Ruined you last night, didn't I?"  You tighten your grip, use your knuckles for leverage and pull.

Whiskey groans, slipping his hands under the bunched hem of your skirt to grip your ass and grind you down against him.  "Goddamn right you did, honeybee."

"So ruin me back."  The thick denim that covers his fly is rough, but you rub against it all the same, shuddering at the coarseness against your tender skin.  "Fair is fair.  Right?"

His eyes slip closed and he buries his face against your neck for a moment, breathing unsteady.  "Jesus, girl, you're gonna soak straight through my jeans," he mutters. "All right, honeybee.  All right.  I only got one rule.  If I do anything you don't want, you tell me. 'Cause I ain't stopping unless you do. Not tonight. Got it?"

"Whiskey-"

He gets a grip on your chin, levels your eyes on his.  "You tell me 'no' or you tell me 'stop.'  Got it?"

"Yes." Patience exhausted, you wrench his belt open. "Now come on."

Buttons patter to the floor as he tears open your blouse.  And that's good. That's fair. And what's even better is the rough way he puts his hands on you, yanking your bra down to knead and squeeze your bare breasts.  When you finally free his cock there's only a brief moment to savor the warm, solid length in your grip before his fingers clamp down on your nipples.  The sensation is so sharp and bright and sudden that you yelp, arching up on your tip-toes.

"Hands off, honeybee," he warns.

Whimpering, you flatten your hands against the wall.

"Too much?" he asks softly, that funny little furrow deepening between his eyebrows.

A groaning laugh slips out of you, and you arch your back, pushing your breasts against his hands.  "Not enough."

"Fuck, ain't you just the sweetest, dirtiest thing." He twists and you cry out, hips bucking forward.  His cock drags against your hip and you chase it, trying to pin it between you.

"Oh, c'mon.  You promised," you whine.

"Oh I'm gonna keep my promise, baby, don't you fret. I want you just as fucked-out as you had me. Wanna see you so goddamn cock dumb your eyes roll back. Bet you've been thinking about this all day, too, haven't you?"

The wall warms under your hands as you fight not to push back more.  And maybe that's what does it.  A little mental-short circuit.  Because God knows you haven't been able to think of a single fucking thing other than this.  But the denial is on your lips so fast it must be involuntary, a reflexive need to find his buttons and push: "You wish."  

Whiskey raises an eyebrow, lip curling.  For a second he's amused, seeing the game you want to play. And then it's like a switch flips. Suddenly this isn't the man who'd begged for the privilege of fucking you last night. This isn't even the man who'd put his grateful mouth to your cunt in the elevator. This is the man he'd pretended to be right up until you got his hands tied. The cowboy get up wasn't the costume – this is. This smile. This infuriating swagger.  

"Oh, really?" he says, and for the first time you realize just how much that drawl had begun to soften around you, because now that dial's ramped right back up to 11.  "You turn up tonight without any goddamn panties on, ride my fingers like a coin-op pony, beggin' to get fucked all the while, and then you try and tell me you ain't been thinkin' about me?  I felt how hard you came. How fucking wet you were."  His hand darts between your legs as quick a snake-strike, fingers carding through your folds. "Are.  Ain't no face left to save, darlin'."

He's in your space, radiating heat, his fingers stroking against your swollen sex, stoking your own fire all over again. But the fire those words kindle burns a little quicker and a little hotter. Without a second thought you strike out, palm tingling as it finds its target against his cheek.

For a moment Whiskey doesn't even seem to breathe. He just stands there leaning heavy against you with his eyes closed and his nostrils flaring. Redness blooms against his cheek.  When his eyes open again, the way they bore into you, glittering and eager takes your own breath away.

He hums, that low, pleased sound.  But now it slips lower and lower into a breathy rumble that lances straight through you.  "Do it again."

Swallowing hard, you slap him again.  Harder this time.  For a moment the only reaction he gives is the way his cock bobs sharply, slapping against your thigh.

Then he growls, seizing the back of your neck and crushing you to him.  You crane up, half expecting a kiss, but his thumb snags the corner of your mouth.  He drags it open until your jaw hangs, tilting your head back.  A choked sound that's a little too plaintive to be a protest slips from your open mouth a second before Whiskey spits into it.

"Swallow."

You do, sucking hard on his thumb for good measure.

"You nasty little thing," Whiskey says, his voice slow and dark as molasses. His eyes glaze over a little as he works the ball of his thumb against your tongue, watching the way your lips purse around it. "Maybe you are the one that needs the punishin'."

He leans against you, breathing hard as he considers this thought. You frown a little, catching his thumb with your teeth, hoping he'll get the hint and give you something better to put in your mouth. But then his grip loosens, one hand disappearing behind you. Hints, it appears, are completely off the table tonight.

"In," he growls, throwing open the bedroom door. "Now."

Whiskey leads you inside, hitting the lights with his elbow.  The room is furnished in that same drab but sparkling minimal style, an impressively large bed swallowing up the majority of the space.  One wall is nothing but windows behind drawn shades, a sliding door leading out to a small, isolated balcony.

He steers you directly to the bed, sitting on the edge and pulling you across his lap to straddle his knee.  You let out an indignant little yelp at the treatment, but then he shifts his leg under you and the indignance crumbles. It presses against your mound just right, urging you open, and you grind down with a gasp, trying to find a little relief.

Whiskey tuts.  "Oh now look at that. Try to tell me you ain't been thinkin' about takin' my dick and then rub on me like a goddamn cat in heat."  

There's the sound of a zipper – not his this time, but your own – and then a little tickle at your hip as he undoes the skirt and wrestles it down your legs. He pushes your blouse up, bunching the material up around your shoulder blades.  For a second you think he means to pull it off, but then he twists the fabric around his hand.  The garment draws up tight, leaving your arms, still in the sleeves, pinned to your sides.  

You moan a little when you feel his hand slide across your ass. He bends over you, and you feel the wet heat of his mouth against your ass cheek.  A sweet, languid swirl of his tongue before he bites down.  You jerk hard enough that your clit drags against the rough weave of his jeans and you cry out, the sound muted by the bedspread.

The pressure of his knee aches beautifully against your cunt, your breathing so shallow and quick it makes you lightheaded.  You know what's coming, and you know what you asked for.  The last thing you wanted was to be sensible.  And this – well this might be the least sensible thing you've ever done.  

You buck your hips up sharply. Searching for his hand.  "Do it."

The first strikes are quick and brisk.  They tingle, warming your skin, but don't hurt. Not yet.  This is just a tease of the real thing.  A warm up. The tips of his fingers trace the first reddening outline of his hand against your skin, a match for the not-yet faded print against his cheek.  Crooning, he kneads your buttocks, spreading them apart, making the slick folds of your pussy slide against each other.

"Sweet Jesus will you look at that.  Open that up, baby.  Lemme see just how fuckin' wet that gorgeous little pussy is."

You gasp, grinding down again, and then first real slap lands across your ass, unexpected and jarring.  The sting is enough to make your eyes water, but the impact drives you forward, almost encouraging your hips to grind into him.  A second strike lands on the other cheek, then back to the first, alternating each time.  You rock with it, caught between the hot stinging slap of skin on skin and the building heat between your legs.

"This what you wanted?"  Crack.

"Fuck!"

"Is it?" he demands.  His hand descends again.  Crack.

"Yes!" You kick out, struggling not because you want to, but because you have to. And it only makes it worse. Or better, or – God, you don't even know now. It's more. It's just more. His knee digs in harder and your poor neglected cunt throbs with a misplaced ache and you swear you have never needed to feel yourself filled up more than you do right now.

"You gonna behave?" Crack. "You gonna stop lyin' to me now?"  CRACK.

"Yes!" The word leaves you in a shuddering sob, thighs clamping down around Whiskey's leg.  One more, God help you, one more and you'll tip over, you'll come all over his knee, you're so close.

And then he stops, rubbing and kneading the hot flushed skin, and you whine in desperate frustration as your orgasm begins to retreat.

"Goddamn. Prettier than a Georgia peach," Whiskey says thickly. His hand strays, slips down between your cheeks and presses against the splayed lips of your pussy. You writhe under the sudden attention, feeling the tips of his fingers slide around your clit. "And damned if you don't drip twice as sweet."

"Please." Warmth trickles from the corner of your eyes, blooming against the bedspread.

The swirl of his hand is lazy, almost soothing but for the way it keeps you so frighteningly close to the edge. "Truth first, honeybee. C'mon. You know what I wanna hear."

"Ye-yes," you mutter.  "Goddamn it yes.  I've been thinking about fucking you all day.  All goddamned day...God, Jesus, fuck, and then you didn't show. Thought you'd ditched me.  Made me want - want it and then ditch me."

You bury your face in the quilt. It's a fucking cop out and you know it. You don't just want it.  You want him.  Fuck, what is happening?

Again you feel his mouth against your ass cheek, open and wet, but this time his tongue is almost cool by comparison. "There now. I didn't ditch you, baby. Wouldn't fuckin' dream of it."  His voice is low now, placating, nearly apologetic. And then his fingers are slipping inside you again, stroking and curling. "I'm right here here, baby. Right here. Just a little late, is all."

You whine, trying to wriggle back to drive him in deeper. Those thick fingers are like fucking magic but you need more than they can provide. Desperate now, you clutch your fingers back towards him, find his shirttail and tug at it. "Jack. Please."

It doesn't even register to you that you've called him by his name – God, you didn't even think you remembered his name – until the fingers inside you still. If it wasn't for the hammering of your heart in your ears you might've heard his breath catch.

Slowly he twists his fingers inside you, pressing down until you shudder. "What is it, honeybee?" he mutters. The hoarseness in his voice is familiar. You wish you could see his face. "Tell me what you want."

"Please fuck me.  Please.  I waited all fucking night."

He rolls you off his lap, leaving you dangling half off the bed and folds over you, cock nestled against the heat of your reddened ass. There's a sticky slide to it; you're not the only one that's wet.

"Hand to God, baby, I'll make it worth every minute. On my fuckin' life." The pained edge in his voice sets the room spinning, and for one mad moment you find yourself trying to grab onto the bedspread to keep from rolling away. Whiskey leaves a kiss against the back of your neck before he draws back, the hand fisted in your shirt tugging you along just a bit.

There's a long, wavering moment when his touch leaves you entirely and you almost protest before you hear him frantically shedding his clothes behind you. Then his hands return, his left winding back into your shirt, his right warm and strong against your back. The blunt, weeping head of his cock nudges between the swollen lips of your pussy. He stays there for an infuriatingly long moment, enough that you cry out your frustration into the bedclothes.  

And then he finally makes good on his promise.

You go up on your toes, legs straining as he breaches you. After all the hours you spent thinking about it, all the hours you waited, it's bliss. But the pure, unadulterated stretch of it laces that bliss with a white-hot line of fire that only serves to make it all the more urgent. Maybe it's the angle, bent in half with your ass up and your legs closed. Maybe it's just how overwrought you are already. Maybe...fuck, you don't know, maybe somehow he's even harder than the night before.  All you do know is that he feels so big you can't hardly stand it. It's so much, bridging the gap between pleasure and pain until it's just an overwhelming sense of pressure and fullness that has you clenching and fluttering around him. As if your body can't make up its mind if it wants to expel the intrusion or welcome it deeper.

He has no right to feel this good. None. But goddamn it you're so glad he does.

"Fuck," he mutters shakily, fingers biting into your hip. "This what you wanted, honeybee? Huh? This what you been waiting for?"

You can't find the air to give him an answer.  Whiskey's still moving forward, you're not even sure how. Christ how much more of him is there? He leans forward, pushing you into the mattress, pushing down into you until you start to shake, until he hits that buried junction inside you that sends a flare of heat rocketing clear down to your toes and your stalled orgasm rears up again so sudden and so close that it's startling.

Every muscle in your body tenses, straining. The whine that breaks out of your gaping mouth is pitiful. "Shit, oh shit, Jesus fuck, Jesus fuck-fuck-fuck-"

He feels it. He must. There's no way he can't. "Oh fuck, that's it honeybee," he croons, working his free hand under you to circle your clit as he sinks that last broad inch into you. "Come on. Come all fuckin' over me."

For a second everything shorts out, all senses lost in a white-out. The only tenuous connection you have to your body lies in the grounding pressure of his cock inside you and the faint but rapid fluttering of his pulse in it. And then you're slamming back to yourself with a ragged cry, blood roaring in your ears and coming so hard that you nearly buck off of him entirely. Your arms flex, bend, bunched cloth digging deeply into your skin until you feel rather than hear the seams rip. And then the tightness is gone, Whiskey's hand unwinding immediately from your shirt to stroke up and down your back.

There's a lump in your throat when you finally find enough air to speak: "T-t-two."

Whiskey groans. "Beautiful.  Fuck, you shake so pretty when you come for me. I could watch you do that all night. Might just, at that."  He drags the torn wreck of your blouse off you, popping the clasp on your bra and bending to place an open, humid kiss in the valley along your spine.

He rocks forward and back, one hand clamped into soft flesh at your hip, humming tunelessly. "Been wantin' to bury myself back in this sweet pussy from the minute I woke up.  Ain't been able to think of nothin' else. Just this," he says, drawing back slowly before burying himself to the hilt and rolling his hips against you.

You clamp your teeth down on your lip, fighting the haze. It's hard to swallow. Hard to breathe. But he's rolling into you slow, far too fucking slow.  And that isn't what you need. You try to push yourself up on your elbows, but he thrusts forward, a little more force in it this time, and your arms give out.  

"Ha-harder," you pant, voice thick and muffled by the quilt. You turn your head, claw the hair out of your face. "F-fuck me harder, god-d-d-damn it. Make me fuckin' feel it tomorrow. Big-dicked b-bastard, oh my God, don't you stop."

He breathes out a laugh, folding over your back. The pressure against your tender ass stings like hell, and you hitch in a hissing gasp as Whiskey's mouth finds your cheek. He kisses you, or does his best to. The angle is strange and your face is half-smashed against the bed, but his mouth slants over the side of yours, tongue dragging against your lips until you open for him, letting him lick against the sharp points of your teeth.  

"Careful what you wish for, honeybee," he whispers, grinding forward in a maddening circle. "Words like that will get you in a whole mess of trouble."

The air leaves you in a whooping rush as he stands, dragging you up against his chest, your back bowing to try and keep the searing length of him pressed where you need it. And then – ah god – his hand is around your throat and his teeth are sinking into your shoulder, and you're suddenly glad he can't see the way your eyes flutter and roll back.  

Not that he even needs to see it, because just then Whiskey groans into your skin as a rush of wetness courses down his cock.

"Fuck, is it that good, baby? Hm?" His voice quavers as his body impacts yours like a sledgehammer. "My dick finding all the sweet spots in that pretty little pussy for you?"

You grapple at him, find where he clings to you and grip his hands, inadvertently encouraging him to press his hand just a little harder against your throat. And there goes the room again, looping and floating as he starts to move, really move, driving forward harder and harder. You stumble, going up on your toes, some choked and desperate noise caught in your throat somewhere under his hand. Sparks pop behind your eyes, faint and wavering like fireworks reflected on choppy waters. And then the pressure eases, air rushing into your lungs once again. The fire in your belly flares up at it like a backdraft.  

"M-more," you grate out. "Oh f-fucking God please more.  D-don't...d-d-don't-"

"Don't you worry, baby.  Ain't gonna stop," he mutters harshly against your ear.  "I'll give you all you want. Ain't stopping 'til you tell me to stop."

You shake your head, or at least try to, the movement restricted by his hand. "N-no. Never. Fuck, never-never stop. Right there f-fuck-"

Whiskey growls out something low and broken and unintelligible as you clamp down on him, your body chasing that bright, blazing heat whether you want it to or not.

"Oh fuck, are you comin' again for me already, angel? Shit, you are, aren't you? Got yourself all riled up today and now you just can't stop. C'mon then, baby. Come on my dick. You feel like fuckin' heaven when you come. Pussy's so good it oughtta be fuckin' blasphemy. C'mon, honeybee, do it for me, come like you fuckin' mean it-"

Before you can breathe a word it hits you and it hits you hard, muscles seizing up so tight it's like they're trying to wring the pleasure out of you. You ride through maybe three or four near-blinding shocks of it and then your knees, traitorous things, finally give out underneath you. The only thing that keeps you up is Whiskey's arms wrapped tight around you, clutching you to him, suspending you on his dick as it grinds up brutally against your g-spot.

"Got you, honeybee," he grunts, rhythm never faltering. "I got you.  Keep comin' for me, baby, keep comin'."

And god help you, you are. You're still quivering, still coming, and then his hand falls away from your neck to cup against your sex, palm flat against the rigid little knot of your clit. He doesn't even rub, it's just a heat and a pressure and it's like your whole body stutters upward, launching towards a second, higher peak. Whiskey lets out a broken groan against your neck as you bear down on him so hard it nearly hurts and you wail at the unexpected, overwhelming force of it.

Everything spins off and away in the aftermath, senses blown out like a bad circuit. Sounds are swallowed up in a high, persistent ringing. You haven't got the strength to force your eyes back open. There's a shift and a feeling of soft cloth beneath you and when the haze starts to lift you find you're on your knees on the bed, shoulders down and ass up with Whiskey draped over your back. He murmurs things against your cheek, your ear, your neck.  You can't hear a word of it over the ringing in your ears.

You turn your head, knocking your forehead against his by accident. "Thr- I- f-four?"  Your voice jumps in your throat, but you can't quite make it steadier. "I...I don't-"

"Honeybee," he drawls, his cock giving a hard, desperate twitch inside you. He grins at you indulgently, gathering your hair up in one broad hand and pulling. "Good girl."

A shudder goes through you as you realize he's still fucking you. Deep, swift strokes that send tingles sparking through you. He drags his cock out of you and drives it back in, pulling it over your blazingly sensitive nerve endings like a bow over violin strings. Like it's a privilege to do it. Like it'd be a fucking crime to stop.

He drags two more orgasms out of you like this. Shuddering, slow-building things that overtake you like flood waters, rising up with an aching, consuming crawl unmindful of the pounding pace Whiskey holds to like a clockwork battering ram. It's only when you gasp out a broken cry of "S-sih-s-six!" that Whiskey's hips finally begin to falter, stuttering and slowing at the feeling of your overworked pussy milking his cock again. His grip on you tightens as he tries to steady himself, tries to hold on, groaning his own restrained pleasure through gritted teeth.

"Tight - fuck!  Goddamn it girl you get so fucking tight when you come. So fuckin' wet. Sweet Jesus. I don't know how m-much more of that I can fuckin' take."

"God, fuck, do it, just do it," you whine, reaching back for him with hands that can't stop shaking. "C'mon Jack."

He laughs at that, but it's a little frayed and frantic at the edges. He brushes the hair out of your face, working his fingers into it and giving it a tug. "I – ungh! Oh s-shit – I got... your p-permission this time, honeybee?"

You hum, nodding, and hitch in a breath as he grinds in particularly deep. "Please."

His rhythm falters again, hips canting suddenly at a hard angle. "W-where? Fuck, fuck, where do you want me, baby? Hurry."

"In-inside. Inside me. 'S what you wanted last night?  Right?"

Whiskey makes a broken sound, lurching against you. "Y-yeah. Oh shit, yes. Jesus fucking Christ, honeybee."

Growling, he flips you over and slides in deep, pushing your knees up almost to your shoulders and staring raptly down at your face even as his own contorts. The length of him inside you stiffens even more, pushing in so deep his hipbones grind painfully against your own.

And then he breaks with a cry, his whole body locking up with the force of his climax.  His head drops between your breasts and his back arches high, fists punching deep divots into the mattress on either side of you. He rocks through it, jerking at every pulse and spasm, and you can't help but shiver at the warmth that pools inside you as he comes.

"Fuck, fuck. Nngh, ho-holy shit." He almost says more, but another tremor wracks his body and it chokes off into a broken mess of Spanish - "¿Que chingas me estás haciendo a mi mujer?"

Winded and boneless, you scratch your nails weakly across his scalp, working your fingers down his neck to his shoulders.  "Better be a compliment."

"You have no idea," he pants open-mouthed against your skin.  Instead of elaborating he just eases himself out of you and crawls his way down, trailing his mouth over your skin until he's settled between your legs, staring at whatever disaster he's made of you and groaning softly in appreciation.

Take a picture, you almost say, it'll last longer. But before you can work up the air and energy to put breath to the quip he's drawing his tongue against you, cleaning up the mess he's made with a desperate, greedy reverence that sets your knees trembling on either side of his head.

Whimpering, you clamp your lower lip in your teeth, shuddering up against the warm heat of Whiskey's mouth.  "Careful," you warn.  "Oh, G-God, careful."

The only answer you get is a low moan and the feeling of his fingers sinking diligently back into your cunt, coaxing out the trickling remnants of his orgasm.

A high, lazy heat begins to build again, over-sensitivity easing back into something warm and sweet and giddily aching.  Your hands cradle the back of Whiskey's head, carding through his sweat-soaked hair as he licks his own come out of you. It's not a thing you've ever really given much thought before – bodily fluids were always more an incidental part of sex for you than anything else – and you're not sure if he's enjoying the act itself or just the strange submissive edge of it.  Curiosity gets the better of you and you glance down at him, expecting to see him staring intently up at you over the rise of your mons, gloating over the state he's put you in.  Fuck, he's made you come so many times you're sure he'll never let you forget it.

Only he isn't.  His eyes are closed, face lax with a blissful intoxication as he tastes himself inside you, holding your thighs up and apart to let him work his tongue and fingers in deeper.  The sight of him so clearly lost in the moment, not goading or gloating, just rapturously gone is maybe the single most erotic thing you've seen in your whole life. And that sweet, lazy heat suddenly licks up to a blaze.

The sudden clench you give is impossible to miss from Whiskey's vantage point, and he groans against you.  "One more, honeybee," he almost pleads, breaking away from you with a sucking pop just long enough to gasp air.  "You can gimme one more, can't you? I know you can. C'mon baby. Lucky seven."

He lowers his head once more with a decadent hum and you throw yours back as he sets to more deliberate work, hooking his arms around your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.  

"God, you greedy b-bastard," you rasp out.  The stimulation to your worn nerves leaves you quaking, wriggling underneath him.  You're not sure you can stand another one, but a deep, hungry part of you is desperate to find out.  

He growls at that, more in agreement than in offense, and when your hands scrabble at his he parries them without even glancing up, seizing your wrists and yanking you down even tighter against his mouth.

You nearly kick him in the ribs when you come.  It's not your fault. Honestly it's his for working you up to this point.  To this high, nervous overload that's barely left you any control over your body.  It doesn't seem to faze him, though.  Your heel glances off his side as your shaking legs lock around his back and he just keeps going, like he hasn't even noticed, like he isn't even here.  Like the world has spun down smaller and smaller and the only thing left is his mouth and your cunt and leaving that would mean the end of everything.

But it's too much.  Goddamn it, it's too much.

You sob, wrench your hands out of his grip and push at his head. "S-s-seven.  Sev-seven.  F-f-fuck, Jack.  No more, n-no more, please, stop, I can't, I can't– "

He's pulling away before you even finish, pressing one last biting kiss against your thigh before crawling shakily over you to put his mouth to yours with a surprising gentleness. The taste on his lips is heady, musky and sharp. His arms tremble at the strain of keeping himself from slumping over on top of you, gasping raggedly between each kiss like they’re just as necessary as air.

For the longest time you can’t even move, you’re far too wrung out and exhausted to even try.  All you can do is lie underneath him and do your best to remember how to breathe between slow, lazy kisses.  Eventually you work up enough breath to speak. "'M sorry," you whisper hoarsely.

Whiskey shakes his head, trying to focus his eyes.  "What for?"

"'Two minutes and a cigarette.'" You bring up a hand, patting his cheek with an awkward bonk. "I stand corrected"

A look of comical confusion takes over his face, brows knitting together, until he finally remembers the jab you'd made after you'd tied him up the night before. "Shit," is all he says before he dissolves into giddy laughter.  His arms finally give out on him and he rolls to keep from toppling onto you.  

You roll with him, tucking your head into his shoulder and giggling. It aches. The muscles in your abdomen so overworked that even laughing hurts, but somehow that just makes it funnier.

You’ve nearly composed yourselves when Whiskey tries to prop himself up on an elbow that immediately slides out from under him and almost smacks you in the head, and that just sets you both off all over again.  Giving up entirely, you just lay there, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing like a couple of punch-drunk loons.

"You hungry, honeybee?” Whiskey asks breathlessly when he’s got himself back under some semblance of control. “I could eat a goddamn horse."

Now that he mentions it you realize just how long ago lunch was, and your appetite, which had so far taken a backseat to both your temper and libido, roars back to life. "God yeah, actually.  'M fuckin' starving."

So for the second time today, you get room service on Whiskey's dime. Or his employer’s dime, he insists.  You're not sure if that's better or worse.  It's a little ridiculous.  Even more so when you think to look for a clock and realize just how late it is, but you're absolutely famished and the second he's on the phone asking in a pleasantly fuck-drunk voice for a couple hamburgers and french fries you're stomach's growling so insistently you're almost certain the staff on the other end of the line heard it.

He's chuckling as he hangs up the phone, draping over you to nuzzle into your neck.  For the first time you notice just how much his mustache tickles, and you squirm under him, giggling all over again.

"Love me a woman with an appetite," he mumbles, nipping playfully at you.

"God, what the fuck are we doing?" you stutter out through your giggles.  It's not meant to be a real question. You’re practically a space cadet right now, and you can’t remember the last time you were this giddy after sex. But Whiskey shifts a little, pulling back to look down at you, and you can't quite parse the look on his face. "Never had a one-night-stand like this before.”

"Hm." He drops his head a bit, tapping an idle finger against your collarbone. "Think the repeat offense kinda cancels out the one-night-stand idea, honeybee."

"You didn't strike me as the repeating kind."

"Mm. Didn't strike you as the kind who could hold his dick up for longer'n a minute, either.  So I'll try not to take offense at your continued misjudgment of my character."  His eyes wander away from yours, pulling up his well-worn crooked smile with some degree of effort. "But if you're looking for a polite way to tell this old man you've had your fill, there ain't no need to beat around the bush about it."

You might've appreciated the easy out once.  After tonight, though, you're almost offended at it. You're not in the habit of begging for things you only have a mind to dispose of. A little of that flighty panic starts to take hold, and you tamp it down. Fun. This is just for fun. Even if you do want a little more. Fuck, don’t start overthinking it now.

"Is that what you want?" you ask, and it's only the curiosity in your voice that keeps it from sharpening into an accusation.

Whiskey shakes his head, a bit of incredulity in his eyes. "What I want...shit, what I want is to get me somethin' nice an' artery-clogging to eat and then get some fuckin' sleep. Preferably next to the woman who has fucked me ragged two nights running, if she happens to be amenable to that kind of thing. That's as far as my wants go right this second."

The deflection is so clumsy it’s almost funny. “Chickenshit,” you mutter.

Whiskey blinks down at you, shocked for a moment before you give him a teasing smile. “Fuckin’ comedian,” Whiskey says, snorting laughter.  “Ain’t no softening that tongue of yours, is there?”

“You never know.” You shift a little, heart hammering as you consider your next words. "How much longer are you going to be here?"

The crooked smile slips, becoming softer.  "Well.  That sorta depends on you, honeybee.  My work's all wrapped up.  But if you're gonna be around a bit longer and are lookin' for a bit of company I might be convinced to stay a bit longer."

You feel the smile creep up on your face before you can stop it.  "I wouldn’t mind a little continued reprieve from corporate hell. Under one condition," you insist, waving a finger at him.

Schooling his face into a parody of gravitas, he nods expectantly. Proceed.

"I need to know something first.  Some things. Plural."

He cocks an eyebrow.  "How many is plural?"

You consider for a second, squinting.  "Three."

"All right," he says, resting his chin against your shoulder.  "Fire away."

You pop out your thumb.  "Are you a serial killer?"

He stares at you for a long, silent beat before his eyes slip closed and he shakes his head, his chest hitching with stifled laughter. "No, honeybee, I am not now nor have I ever been a serial killer."

You nod, grinning. "Okay, one down.” You pop out your pointer finger. “Are you married?"

The levity bleeds out of his face with a swiftness that makes you regret the question instantly, sure he's about to drop a bombshell directly on your head that's going to leave you hating him and yourself.  But he shakes his head, holds up his ringless left hand as if in proof, as though nobody having an affair would've ever thought to slip a ring off beforehand.  But then, very quietly, he adds: "Was. But not for a long time."

You nod dumbly, mutter, "Okay.”

For a second you wonder if you should apologize – you’ve clearly tripped on something raw by accident – but then he's poking you in the ribs and drawing in a sharp breath.  "And number three?"

A little grateful, you pop out your middle finger ask your last question: "What do you do?  What do you really do?"

The corner of his mouth gives a twitch.  "Shit, is that all?  Well.  Officially, I'm a businessman.  I own a sizable amount of shares in the Statesman distillery company. Which, incidentally, is where that fine stock of bourbon whiskey came from," he adds.

You lean back, eyeing him carefully.  You don't think he's lying.  And yet....

Your fingers find the catch of a scar against his ribs.  "You're scarred to shit for a liquor tycoon, cowboy."

The twitch turns into a grin.  "I have been known to get a little rough-and-tumble once in a while."

"I don't know if I believe that story any more than I did the James Bond bullshit."

Whiskey huffs a laugh.  His jeans are in a puddle at the end of the bed and he drags them up, pulling out a thick leather wallet out of the back pocket.  From one of the compartments he pulls a business card embossed in gold and black and hands it to you.  

Jack "Whiskey" Daniels, Statesman Distillery, Kentucky.

You blink at it, giggling a little.  "Jesus Christ that is actually your name?"

"More or less.  Been Anglicized for flavor, among other things."

"What was it before?"

There's an odd sharpness in his eyes when he looks at you, a shrewdness you'd never have expected from the costume cowboy you'd met down in the bar.  For a moment you're sure that not only is he not going to answer, but that you've overstepped a line you weren't even aware existed.

"That's four questions," he says, "not three."

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," you add with a tilt of your head.

The corner of his mouth curls slightly, and the sharpness fades.  "Well now, how can I resist that a bargain like that?" He pauses a moment, as if reconsidering, then adds: "It was Joaquin."

"Joaquin?"

"Mm." He nods. There's only a moment of quiet before he tilts his hips to the side, jostling you. "C'mon, darlin. A deal's a deal."

You roll your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. And you tell him your name.  He repeats it back, and you don't need to see his face to know he's smiling.

"Pleasure to meet you," he says.  "Literally."

"Jackass."

[milstrim]

Comfort in My Shadow

Chapter 1: Hand in My Pocket

By @iwritedumbshit for @iron-mum

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Pepper Potts, Ned Leeds, James “Rhodey” Rhodes

Summary: Soulmates are definite in the universe. Nobody knows exactly why they exist, or what dictates who is bonded to who, the only thing known is that they are never wrong. But Peter's not so sure about that.

Living at the group home had taught Peter a lot about laying low and how to stay alive when nobody cares. But he'd always clung to the hope of the shadow at his feet reflecting his soulmate that had watched over him for years.

Typical that his soulmate is actually a superhero that Peter is convinced shouldn't want anything to do with him. Maybe, just this once, the Universe was wrong.

But Tony Stark is desperate to prove that it is right.

Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

—-

The red glare of the setting sun set the City That Never Sleeps in a persistent glow as the last of the golden rays disappeared behind the pillars of the city, outlining every shadow. There was the silhouette of buildings, of cars racing along the road, of people stalking down the street in the usual New York bustle, and there was the shadow of Spider-Man as he swung overhead. Not that it was really his shadow.

Where there should have been a perfect replica of the boy clinging to a web as he dipped low (one that outlined his lumpy goggles and rumpled suit) there was instead the poofiness of fluffed up hair and sharp slacks. The movements of the shadow replicated the boy, like they were supposed to, but nothing else indicated that this shadow belonged to the vigilante swinging through the street.

And Peter liked it that way.

Observing the difference between people's shadow had always been a game to the boy, to watch a thin woman walk around while a curvy figure followed her, or too see a little boy being tracked by the silhouette of a tutu and puffy hair. Until very recently, the teenager had loved to stare at his Aunt and Uncle's shadows whenever he could, always fascinated by the way they reflected each other with a broad smile on his face.

Now, though, neither of them had shadows, and Peter didn't smile as often. He didn't feel like there was much reason to. It had been his fault, after all. His fault they'd never get to see flashes of each other when their shadows disappeared in the dark, his fault they'd never walk under the sun with their shadows in line with the other. It was his fault they'd bled out in an alley so dark their shadows hadn't even been there to comfort them as they left.

Spider-Man rattled an anxious, forced breath through his tight lungs as he propelled himself upwards on his webs. He instinctively looked for the taped together watch he kept on his webshooter to catch the time, though he knew he had plenty. Still, after his last time missing curfew at Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys, he wasn't anxious to repeat the experience. And he did have to swing across the bridge to make his way back to Queens since he'd branched out to Manhattan for the night.

The cracked watch read that it was barely seven, though, so Peter still had a few hours before he had to be back. Mr. Fowler didn't care much what they did as long as they were back before ten, unless it was one of his "days," which really just meant he was as drunk as a skunk and completely willing to smack a few boys upside their head and be unreasonably dickish about the rules. But other than that, Peter was usually left to his own devices to patrol around the streets of his city and try everything in his power to make up for what had happened barely six months ago.

But it would never be enough.

Peter stopped on top of a billboard that clung to the side of a building, landing clumsily and only barely managing to slip his fingers around the poster for a new movie. His world swam--just a little bit--as he regained his bearings. He shook his head at the dizziness that had become a constant ever since moving to live at the Queens Pinehill Group Home for Boys, but it wasn't like it was their fault. All the boys were reasonably well-cared for, with regular mealtimes, a generous curfew, and easy access to schools, but they weren't really equipped to deal with Peter.

The teenager held back a sigh as his stomach grumbled painfully. He'd eaten the last of his stash of granola bars that he'd bought after a tourist he'd helped had forced a few bills on him. He didn't like taking money, but he couldn't deny that those bars had helped for the two weeks that he'd made them stretch.

Forcing down a hungry grumble of annoyance, Peter turned to survey his shadow instead, the one that had always been the same. Ever since he could remember. Even when he'd been in kindergarten, there'd been the tall and protective shadow of his soulmate behind him. Despite everything, and despite how selfish it felt, it was comforting to look down and see that familiar crop of hair. He reached a hand up to touch his head, never quite used to the way his fingers brushed up against cloth but the shadow underneath him swept through fluffed up tufts.

His soulmate's hair today was messy, not as poofed up as it usually was. Today must be a casual day for him or something, which weren't very often, but when they did occur they often lasted for days. Other days he could make out the outline of glasses and the sharp angles of clothing that made him think of a business suit, though he couldn't be sure. They were only a shadow after all. Peter wondered what his soulmate thought about his own shadow, if he'd noticed anything odd, but, then again, Peter's shadow probably just looked like he was wearing a hoodie all the time, and maybe what could pass as some pretty obnoxious glasses. He'd used to have those anyway.

Peter tilted his head, enjoying the way the hair on the sidewalk underneath him flopped with him. For some reason, Peter found it very amusing when one had hair showing and the other didn't. It just looked a little ridiculous. Recently, it had been the teenager who had been donning the hoodie over his head, but Peter assumed that his soulmate was usually wearing something too. More often than not, he'd look down to see the hair gone, covered by a sharp outline that really had him questioning his soulmate's fashion sense.

The thought brought a snicker to his lips. He nestled more comfortably atop the billboard. There hadn't been any good action in a while anyway.

"Where do you think we should go next?" he asked aloud, and he didn't know if he was asking himself or the shadow of his soulmate underneath. He didn't know why, but he'd always felt like they'd give really good advice. "There hasn't really been much going on, and I haven't seen any of those alien-weapon guys since the knock-off Avengers robbed that bank. Maybe we could try and find out whoever you are again. That'd be kind of fun."

'Kind of fun.' Yeah, right. It was the only thing Peter looked forward to anymore.

Before, he'd always been excited to graduate, to go through college and apply to Stark Industries, his Aunt and Uncle's smiles egging him on the entire way. He'd looked forward to band and robotics and, while he'd stayed, decathlon too. It wasn't as fun as it had been before, but Ned was still there. Liz too. They were nice, and it was good to see their smiles and hear their occasional pitying encouragement that usually only pissed him off (not that he'd ever let them know, they were just trying to help after all), but they weren't what Peter was looking for.

Then again, Peter wasn't 100% he knew what he was looking for either.

He was pretty sure his soulmate was something to look forward to. Ben and May had always described what it felt like to find your soulmate, to be able to stare at shadows your entire life until you found who you were looking for. You would touch their hand and your shadows would switch, and when you let go, the shadow remained to your universe approved bond again. The satisfaction of finally piecing together the flashes you got whenever both shadows disappeared into the darkness. It was something Aunt May and Uncle Ben had always enticed him about, always encouraged.

Maybe if he could find his soulmate, everything would be better. Everything would be perfect, like May and Ben had always proclaimed.

But that was childish, and Peter knew it. Soulmates didn't fix everything, and meeting his soulmate certainly wouldn't improve his situation. They were a regular person with a regular life. He was a second-rate vigilante that had been orphaned twice. Besides, nothing could really help Peter. Not that he needed help. He just needed to grow out of the system so he could make something that actually felt like life rather than the scraping by that it had become.

By the time Peter moved from his spot, it was because his shadow had dimmed with the entrance of New York darkness. He stood up, barely able to make out the faintness of his soulmate, and flicked his wrist out. He still had a little bit before he had to be back at the group home, so he reckoned he'd be fine. He'd be back in time that Mr. Fowler wouldn't give him another strike and he could still eat dinner. He'd do his homework, go to bed, and the next day would be the same horrible numbness of before.

"Any ideas on where the best crime is, Matey?" he asked his shadow, "Maybe superpowers can leech over to soulmates. That'd be really cool actually. Soulologists haven't been able to prove anything other than memory flashes. We could break that entire field of study if that were true."

His soulmate, of course, didn't answer. But the scuffle of a fight and a warped sound unlike anything the teenager had ever heard, did.

 ---

 Tony glanced around his emptying lab, a tired glint in his eyes as he did. Large portions of the tower had been emptied and organized into large crates as they anticipated the move from the tower to the compound. Most of his lab had stayed the same throughout the process, as staff weren't allowed up here, leaving it mostly up to the billionaire himself to pack up his things. Glancing around at the piles of disheveled work and unfinished projects, he might have to get some help anyway. Or, if he started packing now, he'd have plenty of time to do it by himself.

He turned back to the suit he was working on.

The horribly challenging nanoparticles as part of his newest suit were barely coming together. It was incredibly difficult, which made it the most fun thing he'd worked on in a while, which also meant he'd been working on it for two days straight. It was a good thing Pepper was working in another country at the moment and wasn't there to make him go to bed or take a break or anything worthless like that. Then again, he guessed Pepper wasn't the only one with the power to do that.

"Sir," Friday started, "You are approaching your extent of working without a break. I suggest you go to sleep."

"I'm almost done, girl," he replied at the same moment the gauntlet he was working on sparked. He hissed in pain as he withdrew his newly burnt fingers, his vision swimming slightly. He blinked furiously to clear the dark spots from his sight. "Okay, maybe a break isn't such a bad idea."

"Great choice, sir."

"Don't patronize me," he scolded, grabbing a nearby jacket to throw over his stained shirt and a pair of sunglasses despite the late hour, "I'm taking a break, not going to sleep. Keep the lab running for me, I'm gonna go grab a coffee."

"Might I suggest a calming tea instead?"

"You most certainly may not."

Tony stepped into the brightly lit elevator, staring down at his shadow as he usually did when he was alone. The sight of the usual hoodie brought a smile to his face. His soulmate must have a hoodie addiction as strong as his coffee one, though he usually preferred whenever he could see the kid's curly hair before it was eventually tamed down by what he guessed was a godly amount of hair gel.

His soulmate had turned fifteen recently, he knew. August tenth was the first day he'd had a shadow, one of a tiny baby curled up at his feet. He remembered fondly what it had felt like to look down one random morning and see the dark blob at his feet, the confusion and the joy as he'd realized it moved with him. After thirty-one years, a soulmate of his very own.

He'd loved to watch them grow through their shadows, though his favorite was the little snippets he'd get of their life. Like for everyone else, they were very rare, especially in the bright cities he was accustomed to living in. There was always just a little bit of light somewhere in New York, but he remembered vividly the little snatches he'd managed to get from his soulmate's life when both of their shadows faded into a shade of the dark completely.

A deeply nerdy room with Star Wars posters. The bustling streets of a city. And, more recently, dark alleyways that had made him more than a little nervous. His soulmate was only a kid after all, but it was a bit hypocritical for him to be any kind of judgmental after his own teenage years, and it wasn't like he could do anything.

Other than what he was doing now.

The flashes of the streets he'd seen in his soulmate visions had reminded him deeply of New York (though they could just as easily have been from another city in the States), so Tony had made the effort to go out more whenever he could. Usually he couldn't stay for long, he was pretty busy after all. Still, local coffee shops and street vendors had become frequented by Tony Stark as he'd searched. He knew it was a little ridiculous to parade around the streets of New York City in the hopes that he would stumble upon his soulmate, but after everything that had happened with the team, he could at least try to throw in a little optimism.

The mechanic blinked out thoughts of the broken team as the elevator opened on the empty bottom floor, making his way through the darkly lit lobby and out the door into the streets. Street lamps were lit brightly, and, coupled by the headlight of cars and the alternating colors of traffic light, his soulmate was able to walk alongside Tony as he crossed the road and began down the sidewalk.

"Any recommendations for a good coffee shop, my little shadow?" Tony asked his soulmate. The people on the street paid him no mind, not that it was unusual for people to talk to their shadows. "If you do live around here, you must have at least a few recommendations. Well, I guess you are a kid, but I drank plenty of caffeine when I was your age, so."

He shrugged to himself, stopping at a street corner and pursing his lips as he thought. He'd really only explored Manhattan when looking for his soulmate, but walking across the bridge into Brooklyn and Queens would take much too long. He did want to get back to his project after all.

Tony made a turn, resolving to just find whatever new café he could. Maybe he'd explore Brooklyn or Harlem after the move. Or maybe Queens, he had been wanting to try and meet that Spider-Kid for a while anyway. He'd thought he'd had an opportunity when Rogers and his merry band had taken Barnes and left in Germany, but everything had gone by just too quick and he didn't even know the guy's identity. Not for lack of trying. The guy was pretty good at avoiding cameras, it almost made Tony jealous.

The billionaire walked for about fifteen minutes, passing by every coffee shop he'd already been to in search of a new one. There were plenty in Manhattan, but Tony had been to so many at this point it was a little ridiculous. He stopped, ready to pull out his phone and see where the nearest one he could find was, when he caught sight of a man out of the corner of his eye.

He frowned. How long had that man been following him? A few blocks at least, he recognized that green jacket from when he'd passed by Beany Business.

The light turned from an orange hand to a white silhouette, and Tony hurried across the street. He hadn't brought any kind of weapons with him, and he really wasn't in the mood to cause some kind of scene. If he was quick, he could probably lose this guy and still get to his coffee shop without some kind of annoying disturbance.

Tony allowed himself to be swept up in the crowd of late-goers, moving with them quickly. He let that crowd trickle by and joined another, and then joined one more of a drunk afterparty before finally slipping down an alleyway when he could no longer see the green jacket. He blinked in surprise as he caught sight of a coffee shop just across the street, bright red letters reading 'The Coffee Club.'

He smiled. Perfect.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he strolled down the alleyway towards the cheap looking café. And then a figure stepped in the entrance, blocking the view from across the street and slapping Tony's easygoing smile off of his face.

The billionaire immediately tensed as his eyes roamed over the green jacket, the covered face, and finally the gun pointed towards him. His eyebrow raised as his gaze rested on the weapon that wasn't really a gun. It was splayed out like a robotic arm, shiny and just a little bit clunky but clearly dangerous.

"Hands in the air, Stark," the man ordered. Slowly, he followed the man's orders. "Phone and glasses on the floor. Now."

"I'm gonna have to move my hands for that," Tony snarked. The man gave him a slight snarl.

"Just do it. Slowly. And throw them over here."

"Sure," he agreed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and taking his glasses off of his face before letting them clatter to the ground. The man kept the robotic gun trained on him as he grabbed the devices, placing them in a pocket in the thick of his jacket. Tony frowned. "So, what is this? A kidnapping? Taking my wallet? Genuinely interested."

"I've been watching you for a while, Stark," the man said, "You go out at night a lot. I knew it'd only be a matter of time before I could get what I want from you."

"And I would love to know what that is. As well as where you got that neat little arm-gun there. Is that Sokovian?"

"Shut up, Stark. I don't need your snark, just some information, and I'll take your wallet too."

"Mind leaving me enough cash for a coffee?"

The gun cocked. "What did I just say?"

"Hmm, I forgot."

"Very funny."

"Thanks, I thought so too," Tony joked. "Anyway, back on topic of what this is all about."

The gun whined and then quickly shot, whizzing past Tony to burn the wall just behind him. Tony turned his head to glance at the large ring of smoke before facing the man in the green jacket again.

"Shut up," he ordered again. "No more words from you unless they're the password into the DODC."

"There's more than just one password. You got a pen? This could take a while."

"No, you're coming with me."

"Oh, so this is a kidnapping."

"I can't have you changing the passwords and alerting anyone of this," the man answered like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Tony could already count five thousand ways this could go wrong for Green Jacket Guy. One being that Tony wasn't up for being kidnapped at this moment in particular, and he definitely wasn't going to let this schmuck take him while he was just trying to get a decent coffee. "Keep your hands in the air and don't move, or else I'm hitting you with this."

When he gestured to the gun, Tony just gave him a bored look. "You know you're not getting any passwords or anything if you kill me, right?"

The man flicked a switch on the gun. "It's set to stun. It won't kill you, but it will definitely knock you out for a few hours."

"Good to know."

Green Jacket Guy approached, a pair of cuffs poised to slip around his outstretched hands. The man's steps were jauntily hesitant, but clear apprehension didn't stop the man from grabbing his hand and forcing the first cuff around him. He moved to click it around the billionaire's other wrist, but was met with a snapping punch to the face.

Green Jacket Guy stumbled back, a hand pressed against his newly bloody nose in a grunt of clear pain. Tony dove when the man quickly gathered himself and raised his gun, forcing himself behind a trash can as it whined and then fired. The trashcan forced itself against Tony, slapping the mechanic against the wall with a shouted groan, his shoulder barely breaking his fall. That was going to bruise in the morning.

Forced to his knees, Tony scrambled back up only to be faced with the robot-arm-gun pointed directly in his face. It charged up in its now annoyingly familiar warped whine, and there was nowhere to go. He was trapped and he was not excited to be blasted by this thing and if he got kidnapped again Happy was going to have a heart attack, he might as well--

"Hey! Watch where you're pointing that thing!" called a squeaky voice. Tony and Green Jacket Guy both turned as a red blur shot into the alleyway, a thwip! knocking the gun from the man's hand and the red blur knocking into him. The man was barreled to the ground with a pained groan before he was covered in a flurry of webs, the Spider Guy standing over him. "Pointing guns at people is illegal y'know! Sorry to be a party pooper, but I will be calling the police."

Tony blinked, forcing himself to his feet fully as the vigilante turned around, the lenses of his goofy goggles widening in comical shock.

"Oh, whoa."

 ---

 "Oh, whoa," Peter breathed as he caught sight of literally Tony-freaking-Stark dusting off his pants as he stood up. His eyes instinctively fluttered to the man's shadow, expecting the long hair and slim figure of Pepper Potts but catching sight of a short and rumpled man instead. Huh.

"Whoa yourself, kid," Mr. Stark responded, stepping over to where the man was knocked out cold and webbed to the ground. He dug through the man's exposed green jacket and pulled out a pair of glasses and a sleek phone, but Peter's eyes were locked onto the strange gun on the ground. His eyes narrowed at how similar it looked to the ones at the bank. "What're you doing out here? You're a Queens guy aren't you?"

"Oh, uh, yes-yes, sir. Usually, but I was just, uhh, I was just around and I heard the fight and, and yeah..."

Mr. Stark turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised in suspicion as he glanced over Peter's ratty superhero suit. He shuffled on his feet nervously, trying desperately to keep himself still and untense his shoulders, not that it had much affect. The teenager choked down agitation, trying his best to not glance at his watch. It was getting late and, while Iron Man was his second favorite Avenger, the last thing he needed was Tony Stark finding out his secret identity.

"What's your name?" Mr. Stark asked.

"Spider-Man."

"And your real name?"

Peter paused. "Spider-Man. On my birth certificate and everything."

Mr. Stark frowned, and Peter thought he was going to demand a legitimate answer, when he shrugged and stepped away from the guy on the ground. "Fine. You helped me out, I won't bother you about it. For now."

Peter let out a low sigh, muttering, "Thank you, Mr. Stark."

"I am going to bother you about other things though," Mr. Stark said, "I've been meaning to talk to you, and no time like the present."

"Oh, uhh, I kinda have to--"

Peter was interrupted by the painful rumble of his stomach. His face turned as red as his mask, and he was thankful the man couldn't see his embarrassment, not that that stopped the superhero's teasing smirk. With a wave, the man stepped out of the alleyway. "C'mon, let's go."

"Go--go where?"

"Coffee. I came to get a good black coffee and I refuse to leave without one."

Peter glanced down at the guy he'd webbed. "What about him?"

"My AI already called the police. They'll be here soon. Now, c'mon. I'm not gonna ask you twice."

"Yeah, yeah. Ah, okay, Mr. Stark."

 ---

 Peter shuffled his feet nervously, his arms crossed and constantly turning so that he could peer at the time on his watch. Twenty minutes. Not looking great, but it wasn't like Peter could really leave while Mr. Stark ordered his coffee. That would be rude, and plus it was Iron Man, so, overall a bad idea.

He glanced over from where he was leaning against the brick wall of the coffee shop to stare at the clear door. Like a final answer to his prayers, the billionaire stepped out, a drink carrier in one hand and a small brown bag in the other. The man didn't look exactly like he'd thought he would. Tony Stark had always been almost hilariously imposing in his mind, with a sharp suit and a sharper goatee, but this man was softer. Rougher.

His clothes were stained, his leather jacket rumpled, his hair messy and his face worn with the lines of memories. He seemed almost familiar somehow, and it unnerved Peter just as much as it comforted him.

"Here ya go, kid. Black coffee for me, hot chocolate and a snickerdoodle for you," Mr. Stark said once he'd walked over. Peter blinked in surprise, but managed to accept the drink and the bag with stumbling fingers.

"Oh, wow. Thank you, Mr. Stark, but you really didn't have to."

"Billionaire here, Spider-Kid. I can afford a cookie and a drink."

Peter thanked him again and, after a moment of hesitation, pulled his mask up to just above his nose, starting on the cookie. It was almost impossible to not fork it down immediately with how starved he felt. Mr. Stark waited patiently until he was finished with his snickerdoodle to start speaking, and Peter's ears burned.

"So," Mr. Stark started, "New York's benevolent vigilante that directs tourists and saves kittens from trees. Doesn't seem like a very exciting gig."

Peter narrowed his eyes, shuffling on his feet again nervously. What was his game?

He shrugged, taking a sip of his hot chocolate before answering, "It doesn't have to be exciting. I'm just trying to help out."

"Why?"

"Why--why help?"

"Exactly," Mr. Stark pointed, and suddenly he wasn't strangely familiar, he filled up the whole street. "Very few people help just to help, and even fewer dress themselves up in something that embarrassing just to help a few old ladies across the street. Why are you doing this? I gotta know. What's your MO? What gets you out of your apartment and into that onesie in the morning?"

"It's not a onesie," he muttered. Peter forced his fingers not to grip around the cup as images of a bloody street and dying shadows filled his head, instead redirecting the agitation into the scrunch of his face. He imagined he had his usual and embarrassing puppy scowl right now. He tried to release it with a sigh, but he didn't feel much better as he answered. "Because...because I've been me my whole life, and I've had these powers six months..."

Mr. Stark hummed in confirmation, goading Peter on. He swallowed down sick at the image of his aunt's brown hair drenched in blood before he continued. "I...I tried to move on at first. Just, hey! I have powers and I'm just gonna ignore it and showboat it. But...when you can do the things that I can, but you don't...and then the bad things happen..." He took a deep breath as Mr. Stark leaned in closer. "They happen because of you."

"So you wanna look out for the little guy? You wanna do your part? Make the world a better place, all that, right?"

Peter nodded fervently. "Yeah, yeah just looking out for the little guy. That's--that's what it is."

Mr. Stark nodded, his eyes glanced Peter up and down quickly before he asked softly, "And what about looking out for you?"

Peter startled, glaring at the man defensively. Did he just look like shit that much?

"What are you talking about? I'm doing fine."

"You reek of someone who hasn't been taking care of themselves, kid."

"I'm not a kid," he muttered, "And I'm fine."

"Yeah? Your arm's shaking."

Peter glanced down to see that, yes, his arm clutched around the hot chocolate was indeed shaking. Peter switched the drink to his other hand before shoving his arm in the pocket of his hoodie. "Just tired."

"It's barely ten."

"And I've been patrolling for--did you say ten?"

Mr. Stark seemed perturbed by his sudden shift, but Peter couldn't be bothered at the way his voice had lowered and shaken with slight fear or the way his entire self had tensed. Peter tore his hand out of his pocket to glare at the watch on his wrist. 9:57. Shit.

"Shit--fuck!" Peter exclaimed, pulling his mask back down. "Oh, shit. Sorry, Mr. Stark, I gotta go. Thank you so much for the hot chocolate, sir!"

"Kid, wait--"

He flicked out a wrist onto a nearby building, bending to leap when Mr. Stark's hand wrapped around his wrist.

Peter blinked at the odd sensation, holding back a flinch at the unexpected touch and tensing as his vision seemed to leap just a foot to the left before fizzing back to what it had been before. It left him dizzy and disoriented, but he only had a minute to get all the way from Manhattan to Queens. Maybe if he made it home within ten minutes he could get away with it or--

"Oh, my God..."

Peter turned at Mr. Stark's voice, realizing the man's hand was still gripping his wrist. He followed the billionaire's horribly stricken gaze to stare at whatever had left him dumb. Peter's jaw dropped as he caught sight of his shadow. It was his shadow.

The fluffy hair of his soulmate was suddenly gone and, instead, Peter's masked silhouette stood in its place. He glanced down at Mr. Stark's shadow, actions slow and jerky as he caught sight of it perfectly reflecting his own perked up jacket collar and outline of glasses. Carefully, Mr. Stark let go of his hand in a motion that felt like he was testing the waters. The shadows switched. The hooded figure shadowed Mr. Stark while the fluffy hair stood where Peter's shadow once had.

"What the..." Peter trailed off. His breaths felt lighter all the sudden. Fast. Too fast. The street was closing in, the cars passing nearby too loud and too bright and oh God his soulmate was Tony Stark. He swallowed painfully, tears biting at his eyes as he struggled for a breath.

His soulmate wasn't supposed to be Tony Stark. Peter couldn't--Peter couldn't live up to that! Mr. Stark had saved the world and he was an Avenger and he was the smartest man in the world and Peter was just some useless kid who got bullied and had a curfew and Jesus Christ he was going to be so late Mr. Fowler was going to be so mad and--

"Kid?" Mr. Stark asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Peter flinched and ducked away, the cup he'd been holding clattering from his hands as he stood opposite the man. Defensive. A shadow flashed against the man's face.

Peter read it as disappointment.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. He shot a web and leaped away, but he could never escape his shadow.

Ch 2 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8

[tessandscottforever18]

Mar 27

Shawn Mendes Wears First-Ever Classic Tuxedo Red-Carpet Look at His First Oscars

"We’ve never really done the tuxedo thing," says his stylist, Tiffany Briseno of the singer's style departure, a Dolce & Gabbana double-breasted look

Stylist Tiffany Briseno has been working with Shawn Mendes for roughly six years, through music videos, press tours and album drops, but the 2022 Oscars represent a watershed moment in style for the singer-songwriter. “Except for a brief moment in the ‘Lost in Japan’ video, his fans and the rest of the world have never really seen Shawn in a look like this,” she tells The Hollywood Reporter.

At Sunday’s Oscars ceremony, Mendes is making his first-ever appearance on a red carpet in a classic tuxedo with bow-tie, a custom head-to-toe look designed by Dolce & Gabbana. The double-breasted black tuxedo is paired with a white tuxedo shirt finished with contrasting black buttons.

“We wanted a look that felt really classic and iconic and respectful of the event,” Briseno explains. “And because of Shawn’s [6-foot, 2-inch] height, he really looks great in double-breasted suits. We also thought a lot about the details, including a larger lapel with a single notch and patent-leather shoes. Overall it looks very luxe and classic; there’s definitely a 007 James Bond aesthetic.”

Briseno only had about two weeks to put together a look, from the moment it was confirmed Mendes would join Sunday’s Oscars as a presenter. “As soon as we found out, we hit the ground running to make a custom collaboration happen,” she says. “This is Shawn’s first Oscars, so we knew it had to be something that felt special. It was super tight, but brands like Dolce & Gabbana are used to that. We knew they could pull it off.”

Several brands were enlisted to submit sketches for consideration based on Briseno’s early thoughts, then she and Mendes huddled together to edit the looks down to their favorites. “We both sat down with my phone in front of him, looking through everything and talking about different references,” she says. “He really fell in love with the idea of a double-breasted suit, so we ran with that. We’ve also worked with Dolce & Gabbana before; it’s a label that works well on him. As soon as Shawn put this suit on, we knew we didn’t need to try anything else. Those Italians really know how to cut a tuxedo.”

Indeed, Dolce & Gabbana sent a tailor from their Milan headquarters for Mendes’ fitting on Thursday in Malibu. “He spoke no English, and I don’t speak any Italian, so we had to have a translator,” Briseno remembers with a laugh. “But he was a genius tailor who definitely knew what he was doing. I watched him like a hawk for fitting tips.”

Mendes finished the look with several rings from his own collection, as well as a timepiece that had not yet been finalized by Saturday afternoon. “A tuxedo needs a watch to feel complete,” she adds.

Ultimately the tuxedo is the latest in Mendes’ style evolution, Briseno notes. “When we first started working together, Shawn sort of lived in classic leather jackets, T-shirts and skinny jeans,” she says, adding that her nickname for Mendes is “Dean,” as in James Dean, because of his penchant for pieces that feel classic and iconic. “Shawn has gone through everything from a rock ‘n’ roll stage to a 1940s dapper stage. But we’ve always focused on authenticity and incrementally growing into a style. And let’s face it, the man is a natural rock star, everything looks amazing on him.”

And make no mistake, tonight is special for Briseno as well. “Honestly, Shawn is like my brother, and I’m so proud of him,” she says. “The work we’ve done together has led to this moment, and I am really excited for him. Because we’ve never really done the tuxedo thing, to do it in this context feels pretty incredible. You never forget your first Oscars.”