Cat Detective's Complete History of Time

FeministTaylorSwift (feministtswift) on Twitter

atcdblu — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 19:50:00 -0700

FeministTaylorSwift (feministtswift) on Twitter:

The latest from FeministTaylorSwift (@feministtswift). Happy. Free. Confused. Oppressed by the patriarchy. At the same time

My sister directed me to this one. Knowing that I will be subjected to Taylor Swift in the not-too-distant future, I was glad to have read this.

Realized I never got out-of-the-box Pyro pics. Here Pyro is,...

atcdblu — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 12:26:07 -0700

Realized I never got out-of-the-box Pyro pics. Here Pyro is, skipping open-armed through a field of unicorns and rainbows… at least, I think that’s what’s going on in that tiny little gasmask.

A lot of points of articulation (I was disappointed that the elbows do not bend, but they swivel, and it’s ideal for open-armed skipping and for holding the flamethrower, which is important… and really, there are so many good points that not having bendy elbows is not a major deal to me, but I figured I’d put it out there), gorgeous paint job down to a couple of really, really small details.

One last anon Request Fill

atcdblu — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 03:08:34 -0700

Because the quickest way to my heart is through Spy/Spies… and also bluh thank you asdfghjkl; I would love to revisit my babies!

((just realized right now that you’re the only author so far whose works i’ve read that did spy/spy right (in my humble opinion). have you ever thought of any followups regarding Jean and Luc? Thanks!))

They build their dream future together out of words, in the stolen moments they get together. In a motel room that Luc has rented under an assumed name, on the far side of the nearest town to the bases, they lie together in a tangle of itchy acrylic blanket and rough sheets.

“A higher threadcount.” Luc begins. “Mandatory.”

Jean hums and rolls into him, resting against his chest. The hair tickles his nose, and he considers the minor inconvenience to be worth it.

“What else?” He asks, the corner of his mouth pulled against Luc’s skin, distorting his words.

“A balcony.” Luc smiles, building their house from the bedroom out. “A tree… an orange tree? Growing right alongside the house, so in the morning you could reach out over the railing and pick one?”

“A fireplace.”

“But of course. And you… the firelight on your right, the moonlight on your left, and… a silk robe. A big velvet throw down on the floor in front of the fireplace. A glass of wine.”

“You.” Jean grins and hooks a leg around Luc’s, nuzzles into his chest. “A library.”

“Of course, of course, across the hall.”

“Big armchairs to read in, and a big overstuffed ottoman in between… Not too big, though, for you to put your feet on from one side, and me at the other side, and we could meet in the middle, so…”

“All your books of poetry?” Luc strokes a hand down Jean’s back, loving the graceful arch that meets his touch, the little sigh, the body so like his own… as though they had once been a whole.

That was what it felt like, meeting Jean. As though the myth of soulmates being split in half was true, and he had finally found his own. So in tune in every way… and yet in spite of that, Jean tempered him, bettered him.

“All my books of poetry.” Jean lifts himself up on his elbows, drags himself up for a kiss. “And yours… I will buy you journals, nice ones, leatherbound, gilt-edged… you can write everything down nicely in them for me. Will you?”

“Caro mio, as if I could refuse.” Luc leans up as well, to chase down a second kiss. “A desk, then, so I can work in the library, committing my little verse to paper.”

He looks forward to it, in spite of his little hint of self-deprecation. He could brag about a thousand things, but talking about his poetry, alone with Jean, he feels a shyness he could never share with anyone else. If there was ever a poet on earth who could find mere words capable of describing Jean, Luc knew it was not he, but he did love to try— and he did love the way that Jean treasured his every effort, praised his work glowingly.

His gazelle… He holds the other man close and breathes him in a moment, and remembers one of their early discussions about symbolism, remembers Jean explaining gazelle poetry, and in particular the poems written by and for men, men like themselves who saw so much beauty worth celebrating in flat chests and slim hips and hard, angular lines.

Jean is graceful enough, his body long and lithe, his senses always on high alert… he makes the perfect deer, as far as Luc is concerned. Utterly beautiful, and such tempting prey, should he cast himself in the role of a big cat, aching to sink his teeth into something tender.

“I will read to you every night.” Jean promises. “Or recite for you. And you for me. In a bed twice as big as this one, just because we can afford it.”

“Well, not just because.” Luc grins and bobs his eyebrows. The motel bed is adequate for sleeping, and he likes to curl himself around Jean in bed anyway, but they could get creative with enough space… if nothing else, they could roll around without worrying about falling off the edge.

“Not just.” Jean agrees, and he softens all over as he begs another kiss. “I want a library… I had to get rid of so many books over the years…”

“It is a disposable lifestyle.” Luc nods. A sad fact… the jet-setting purely mercenary spy could never keep all that he wanted… not for very long. Lives had to be build to be discarded, and discarded often, deaths had to be faked, belongings had to be abandoned… “Not when we retire. You will have a library any man would envy. We will track down every book you had to lose. And new ones. And everything I write for you. And we will have a big record player in the corner, with a shelf just for reading music.”

“Reading music?” Jean laughs.

“Some classical, perhaps some opera, or even a little bit of jazz, if they are soft enough. Something to enhance the experience, without drawing focus from our books. All the popular music can go on the shelves in the living room, where we will have a hi-fi system and a big, sleek leather couch… very swank, for entertaining.”

He likes that idea, a space for entertaining. They could live in the bedroom, in the library, in cozy spaces with traditional furniture… but it would be so nice to have a chic living room, done up in trendy shapes and trendy colours, remodeled whenever it grew stale, a place to have people over when they needed to play the part of swinging bachelor housemates…

He likes the idea of not having to pretend, of course… but it did not seem very likely. And either way, he likes to think they would have a highly enviable space to host parties in. Someday… somewhere. When they could have friends who didn’t know one or the other of them as an enemy, it would be so nice…

Jean begins to drift off in his arms, but he feels confident that, as with almost all things, they would be in agreement on this.

Request Fill

atcdblu — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 02:12:45 -0700

because it’s one of my favourite things to write about and I can’t sleep (even though I should be)…

((Hello, Anne! I really loved those requests you filled with Spy being on anti-depressents; if it’s not too much to ask, would you be willing to write something where Spy has an anxiety disorder and/or panic attacks?))

The Sniper has just parked, across the street from the bar, has just hopped down from the cab, his boots kicking up little clouds of dust in the empty lot that sits nestled between the hardware store and the druggist. His hand is still on the door when he sees the Spy turn into someone else.

There is no puff of smoke and no perfect illusion, no mask… He thinks that it is closer to the truth to say, not that the Spy becomes someone else, only that he ceases to be the Spy. The maddening confidence and the damnable grace vanish in an instant, as he sees the Spy hear something which, over the din of honky-tonk from the open door of the bar, he cannot. The Spy shakes his head, barely… back and forth, back and forth, but there is no one out on the street to see, save one man who elbows past without noticing to get into the bar. His lips move, but again, that movement is so small that the Sniper can’t make out any words, and even as his feet start moving him, even as he reaches the other side of the street, the Spy makes no sound.

He’d frozen up so completely, he does not even notice an enemy’s approach at first. They have seen each other in passing on the weekends before, and while there is no hostility then, the Spy has never ignored the presence of a member of RED before. Has never looked far away and haunted like this.

Once he reaches the Spy’s side, the Sniper hears it, faint and coming from the alley out back of the bar. The unmistakable meaty slap of fists meeting ribcage, a plea for mercy and a heavy thud, a scattering of garbage and a metal can being knocked over and then…

Compared to their day job, this is nothing, and the Spy’s reaction upsets the Sniper more than a couple of fighting drunks. He doesn’t think about his actions at all, as he grabs the man’s arm, slinging it over his own shoulders so that he can half-drag the Spy away from the scene. The Spy lets out a sound that all but turns his stomach, too high-pitched, too frightened, but by the time they reach the Sniper’s camper, the Spy is clinging to him instead of trying to flee.

He still mutters ‘no’ on repeat, hides his face against the Sniper’s shoulder a moment before looking up at him with stricken, red-rimmed eyes. They stand in the shadow of the camper, hidden by the scraggle of a vine-covered dead tree, between the front of the druggist’s and the street, safe enough for the Spy to begin to struggle against himself more than against the Sniper.

“Stop it, have to stop it, have to…”

“Have to stop what?”

“The boy…” He shakes his head, pulling at the Sniper.

“What boy?” The Sniper presses, and the Spy might mean the fight behind the bar, but he might mean something else, something old and distant and very unforgotten.

“I— I don’t… I don’t know.”

Suddenly, The Spy is very much back, the shutters coming down as he straightens up and pulls away. He lights a cigarette and looks somehow beyond merely human. He is The Spy, and The Spy is all he has ever been, all he ever will be. The panicked man who had clung to the Sniper only a moment before, who’s he?

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know.” He repeats, steel in it.

“Bullshit. C’mon, after as much as I saw, you’re gonna hand me ‘I don’t know’?”

“It is not really your business.”

“Fair enough.” The Sniper frowns. “But… Hell, you freaked me out back there a little, Spook.”

“Well, it is nothing.”

The Spy glides off, and the Sniper moves around to watch him, his frown deepening as the Spy does not enter the bar. He slips down the alleyway, and he doesn’t come out.

It feels like ages, before the Sniper can’t stand it anymore, and follows.

There is a boy, and whoever he was, he is barely recognizable now, clinging to one of the Spy’s boots and laboring to breathe, bruised and bleeding. If the Sniper was willing to guess, he would guess the boy is younger than the Scout— he’s never known the bars in Teufort to care about drinking ages, has seen teenagers come and go before.

There are men as well, three of them, and they do not labor to breathe. The Sniper wonders if even the third one realized the Spy was ever there…

The Spy is frozen again, far away again, blood dripping from his knife, and the Sniper panics. This is as bad for RED as it is for BLU, no matter who killed the men, and he grabs the knife from the Spy’s hand and cleans it on his own shirt before carefully folding it and putting it in the Spy’s pocket, and it is too damn eerie how unresisting the man is.

“What the hell, mate?” He hisses.

The Spy is looking down, eyes wet. The Sniper can read regret there, and wishes he couldn’t.

“Come on.” He shakes his head, bending to lift the boy. The Spy snaps out of it then, helping the Sniper to carry him out of the alley, and the Sniper is grateful that they both know a thing or two about moving silent and unseen.

He leaves the Spy to support the boy’s weight as he unlocks the camper, resigned to letting the Spy actually come inside.

The Spy is compliant, but only that, more like a robot than like his old self as he helps, as he holds the boy while the Sniper makes up a bed on the floor and gets out his first aid kit and a canteen.

The Spy’s shoulders shake as he helps clean and bandage this absolute stranger— the Spy, who the Sniper has seen kill men before, who the Sniper has been killed by, and who has died in so many awful ways himself. The Spy who has gleefully destroyed the Scout, who this boy cannot be so much younger than. The Sniper hopes he is not so much younger…

“Stay here on the floor and keep him still, yeah? I’ll drive to the hospital.”

The Spy nods, and his breath catches and his chest heaves and the Sniper squeezes his shoulder.

“Do you know this kid?” He asks, letting a little of his own concern show.

The Spy shakes his head, shrinks in on himself. “I am this kid. I… I’ve been… I could have ended that fight differently, and I froze. He would have been better, and… Did—”

“Did you kill three civilians? Yeah.”

The Spy’s nostrils flare, and he takes several hard breaths. “I am not sorry.”

“No. Reckon not.” The Sniper agrees. Three grown men beating on a skinny boy maybe not out of high school, or only just… he couldn’t ask the Spy to be sorry. He was only surprised the Spy cared.

He drives, but when he parks in front of the hospital and goes around to the back, the Spy is a mess again, and it falls to him to take the boy inside, to lie about what had happened.

Once he’s slunk back out, he moves the Spy to sit in the passenger’s seat, up in the cab.

“I don’t get you.” He says gently.

“Good.”

He drives back towards the bases. No sense having a Friday night on the town now… Instead of dropping the Spy off on his own side, however, he just lets him back into the camper, and starts up a pot of coffee. The Spy still doesn’t look himself, entirely, but the blind panic and the awful blankness are both gone. It’s a start.

“I think I might actually like to. Get you, I mean.” He says, as he pours the Spy a cup.

“You do not mean that.”

“No, really. After tonight, you seem…”

“Crazy?”

“Interesting.”

“Impossible.”

“Human.”

The Spy sniffs and looks up at him, wary. “I do not… completely understand, myself. But it is not the first time. It would be foolish of me to think it will be the last. It is not the worst.”

“Yeah?” The Sniper’s eyes widen.

“Well… killing three civilians is perhaps… I prefer that to catatonia, though. At least I was able to protect myself. And that boy. I— Whether or not I act, it is… it is like watching myself, and being unable to control what I say or what I do. Sometimes that means that I can say and do nothing. Sometimes…” He shrugs uncomfortably. “It takes over, that is all. If I could only remain in control of myself…”

“Hey, we got the kid to the hospital.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Yeah. He will be.” The Sniper promises, though he has no way of knowing. Even if the boy makes a full recovery, he could get connected to the murdered men in the alley, and then what?

“I feel sick.” The Spy groans, laying his head down on the Sniper’s table.

The Sniper reaches over and rubs his shoulder.

“You did good, Spook.”

“No. I did nothing, only panic… luck. If I did not have the training I do, I could not have acted under it. If— if you didn’t snap me out of it just enough… not all the way, but enough…”

“Well, fuck, it got results. What more do you want?”

“I want to not be this way.” He admits, looking up.

The Sniper moves around to the Spy’s side of the table and pulls him into a rough half-hug, at a loss for words. Barely more than strangers themselves, this is the most they’ve ever spoken, but after a night like this one, the Sniper thinks that’s bound to change.

“Drink your coffee.” He says gruffly, moving back to his own seat.

The Spy manages a very small smile, nods, sips.

Request Fill for Raideo

atcdblu — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 02:38:05 -0700

((I know you’re kinda busy right now and probably have a lot of requests built up but I thought I’d throw one at you because I’d love to see it. Feel free to ignore it if you’re too busy! no pressure! One day on a road trip with the sniper, spy gets a little frisky and tries to convince sniper to let him give road head (I imagine spy getting off on risky situations like this). Sniper is extremely hesitant at first, but you know spies and their gift for persuasion… especially with snipers :>))

“This is incredibly boring.” The Spy blows out a sigh, leaning his elbow against the door.

It slips as he goes to put his chin in his hand and they hit a bump in the road— road being a heavily subjective term in the mountains west of Teufort— and he glares at the Sniper as if the jostling had been purposeful.

“I told you we’d be on the road all day and you said you wanted to come.” The Sniper shrugs, chuckling.

“You did not tell me the radio was broken.”

“It’s not. No signal up here.”

They drive on in silence a little further, with the Sniper intermittently whistling a few bars or giving a tuneless hum, only for it to fade out. The Spy’s sulking is a comfortable background event— until it isn’t. That’s when the Sniper starts to worry.

That smile he catches out of the corner of his eye has been aimed his way before, and never without something following. Granted, usually something fun, but driving through the mountains hoping to hit his destination before nightfall, he isn’t sure the Spy’s idea of fun is going to be a good one.

“Sniper…” The Spy leans back to regard him with an even slicker, wickeder version of that smile, and the Sniper keeps his eyes locked carefully on the road.

“No.”

“I haven’t even asked you for anything yet…”

“Yeah, and I know that tone of voice. You’ll have me pull over to ‘entertain’ you, and then we’ll be driving after dark and I’ll hit something.”

“Oh… you don’t have to pull over.” The Spy purrs, leaning across the divide between them.

One hand lands on the Sniper’s thigh, and there’s a jolt of heat, something almost electric. The truck gives a little swerve before the Sniper can correct himself, and he shoots the Spy a quick glare.

“You want me to run us off the road?”

“No. I want you to be very, very careful…” He grins. “While I have my fun.”

“F-fuck, Spook…” For a moment he wavers, for a moment his legs itch to spread wider. “Bloody hell, no. I said no.”

“You don’t want me to suck your cock? Last time you said—”

“Don’t remind me.” The Sniper huffs. “I don’t wanna think about it.”

The Spy pulls back, but only long enough for the Sniper to take them past a white-knuckle turn with a sheer drop to one side. When they’re back in safer environs, he leans in once more.

“How about now?”

“I said no.”

“You are no fun.”

“What part of running off the road and dying sounds fun to you?”

“The part where I am just choking on a nice, hard cock.” The Spy says, and he manages to emphasize each word, manages to sound a little Frencher than usual, and the Sniper can hear him lick his lips.

“Fuck…”

“May I?”

“Spy…”

“There are worse ways to go.” He laughs. At the Sniper’s frown, he gives a pleading pout and leans over, butting his head into the other man’s arm. “Oh, please, bushman, you are not going to run us off the road. I trust you.”

The Sniper isn’t sure he shares the Spy’s optimism, there are so many trees, old thick ones, and running into any of those could mean the end of the truck if not the end of them. The state they would be discovered in if they did survive… not that he thought they would, the Spy’s head would probably be crushed, and then he would bleed out after having something very delicate bitten in the crash, and…

And the Spy’s hand was inching up his leg, and he really, really wanted to just say yes.

“If I say stop—”

“Immediately.” The Spy promises, and there is a seriousness to his voice, none of his earlier wheedling present.

“All right.” The Sniper leans back, opens himself up as much as he can without compromising his hold on the wheel or the readiness of his feet over the pedals.

He’s already half-hard, anyway, he might as well give in… and he thinks maybe he can trust his own self-control.

“You should let me do this while you work.” The Spy chuckles, as he unzips the Sniper’s jeans. “More fun than stabbing you in the back to keep you from getting those perfect headshots.”

“I heard ‘getting perfect head’.” He aims for levity, but the words come out strangled, and his grip on the steering wheel keeps tightening as the Spy’s head moves into his lap.

“That too.” The Spy’s last words, before his tongue swirls around the Sniper’s cock. He eases it from its confines and brings it to his lips, pushing the foreskin back and relishing the breathy cursing he hears in return.

The Spy’s mouth is perfect, always is, and the Sniper tries to force himself to focus, in spite of the pleasure. He slows down, so that if he does run them off the road, he at least won’t be doing it at speed, and he wishes he could slip one hand down to protect the Spy’s bobbing head from hitting the underside of the dash, but he knows if he takes one hand off the wheel, he’ll lose it.

The Spy enjoys himself without reserve, confident in the Sniper’s ability to maneuver the truck safely through the pass. It definitely makes the trip more fun, after the dull stretch up from the desert into the foothills, and he likes the excitement of feeling the road move beneath them. He doesn’t tease as much as he normally would, and he keeps his teeth carefully covered— again, something he rarely bothers with, too practiced to worry about accidents, except that with the road moving beneath him and the underside of the dash perilously close to the back of his head, he wants no mistakes.

He starts swallowing in anticipation once he thinks the Sniper should be close— the signs are there, down to the way the Sniper breathes and the little filthy whimpered half-words.

The Sniper finally pulls off the road, and he’s grateful for the foresight once he finally lets go. His vision whites out for a moment as he goes lightheaded, and the Spy comes up with a smug, come-smeared grin and leaves him no room to catch his breath before it’s gone again.

“You look good.” He grins weakly, slumping in his seat as the Spy tucks him back in.

“You taste good.” The Spy purrs, leaning back into his own seat and resting a hand alongside his obvious erection. “No, no, I remember… you said if you pulled over to entertain me, we would not make good time… you go ahead and get back on the road, I will take care of myself.”

“You sure?”

The Spy’s grin is absolutely as wicked as it’s ever been, and he nods.

“Please.”

It’ll be a whole different kind of torture to ignore the Spy through a show like that… but the Sniper thinks he’s up for a challenge. They survived the blowjob, after all.

First thing's first, West Side Story!

atcdblu — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 01:22:23 -0700

I’ll blather about my evening at the theatre under the cut

Last show of the season! My mom and I went to the playhouse to see West Side Story, which we’d been looking forward to terribly. It was wonderful, which we expect by now… it’s a really great theatre community for such a… well, cow town, to be honest. Such great theatre.

First of all, the cast was brilliant. The Jets were almost all super babyfaced (which is really effective, because these are supposed to be gangs of kids, really… some of the cast is made up of local high schoolers, a few are college age, some are just really youthful young adults… Riff had previously been Bilbo Baggins this season, so very different part.). PS, you know you’re in central California when you’re at a production of West Side Story and three of the JETS have Hispanic last names. Anyway, great singing and dancing and acting all around, we got chills, we laughed, we cried, we snapped.

The set design is always great, ditto the lighting. This time, there were two buildings to either side— Doc’s storefront SR and Maria’s balcony SL, with the bulk of the stage either remaining the alleyways (and under the highway) or becoming the school gym, and with additions of props/furniture, the bridal shop, Doc’s, and Maria’s sitting room. Across the back was a screen, and for the most part it was just coloured lights (red for fight scenes and for one Anita solo bit, bright colours for dance-y numbers, soft colours for ‘Something’s Coming’ and for Maria… but whenever Tony and Maria are together having a song or just a major scene, a big starry backdrop would be rear-projected onto it, so whenever they had a duet it was like they were floating in space, it was really neat. And as for costuming, ugh, so many crinolines I could just die! I loved the costumes, I kept wishing I could just raid the ladies’ costume rack for this show. (and the dance at the gym had all the boys in awful ill-fitting fifties sports coats, so cute… and Anybodys sulking in a dress with a big bow at the neck…)

So, overall, just a really, really great show. Now, I enjoy the film a whole lot, but whenever I watch it, when it gets to ‘One Hand, One Heart’, I admit I cringe, I groan, and I start thinking about anything else while the whole dang film just draaaaags on forever. So I was prepared to feel the same way while watching the play. I. Loved. It. I loved it. It’s still not my favourite song by a longshot, but I wasn’t bored for a moment.

I would say I walked out ‘shipping A-Rab and Baby John, but… I might have walked in ‘shipping them. I am definitely more OTP about them now than I was when I read the script years ago, because back then I don’t think I had any particular strong feelings… I know I’ve generally ‘shipped ‘background’ Jets in the past. I mean, it was bound to happen. You read ‘The Outsiders’ when you’re young and then any time you see gangs of teenage boys you try to figure out which ones you want to see kiss.

… Right?

what is context?

atcdblu — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 01:07:30 -0700

what is context?

Do you post your stories anywhere else? Also what is 'Masculinity' about?

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 21:40:05 -0700

Some go up on the ‘chan. And of course they OUGHT to all wind up on AO3 but I am really, really bad at updating it…

‘Masculinity’ would be ‘Chesterfield Cigarettes, The Saturday Evening Post, and Masculinity’, here:

http://tf2chan.net/afanfic/res/13062.html

It started as a request/prompt fill, asking for a fic about Sniper as a transman coming to confide in Spy.

But… can we program them to LOVE?

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 19:30:08 -0700

But… can we program them to LOVE?

Reblog if you DARE someone to write a fic about you and the character of their choosing and send it in an ask/submit.

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 19:06:06 -0700

foreverunbound99:

This should be interesting.

pensieridiresa: me always This is people I know for...

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 18:59:04 -0700

pensieridiresa:

me

always

This is people I know for sure…

all-reptiles: Spectacled Cobra precious bab

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 18:58:10 -0700

all-reptiles:

Spectacled Cobra

precious bab

Photo

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 18:56:06 -0700

oh man

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 18:32:11 -0700

If my family ever wants to not talk to me for long stretches of time, they can just buy me Civ V…

I never should have played the trial weekend on Steam… now I’m addicted…

You're procrastonating.: Okay, so I just finished The Price of the Phoenix (an official Star...

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 17:57:52 -0700

You're procrastonating.: Okay, so I just finished The Price of the Phoenix (an official Star...:

vulcantimelord:

Okay, so I just finished The Price of the Phoenix (an official Star Trek novel). And I have read less homoerotic fanfiction than this book. Seriously. Here are some gems.

But Spock had lost the only man he had ever really permitted to reach into his self-imposed prison of Vulcan restraint and…

So I need this book.

Request Fill for Anon

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 01:52:25 -0700

I have a little time while my phone (which is also my alarm clock) charges before I can shut down my computer (which it is charging from) and go to bed, but everyone else is asleep so I have more writing freedom… so here goes! (and then Sniper wound up taking things all the way into porn territory)

((Can I request an awkward and insecure spy? Like, he is wiling to try to flirt the Sniper, but knows he can get in a lot of trouble for being gay, so he is very reluctant and tense all the while.))

The Sniper is a guilty pleasure, and the more pleasurable he gets, the guiltier the Spy feels. That crossed line between enjoying his job and developing an attachment to his favourite victim, one that doesn’t merely involve stabbing him in the back…

He wishes they had met in Paris. He would have been guarded in Paris, but not to the degree that he is in Teufort, not with this… As long as he is wishing, he wishes for all of it. Wishes the dive filled with farmers and cowboys and long haul truckers was a little queer nightspot— Oh, then, then he would not have to be guarded, he could walk right up to the lean, rough man at the bar, slide in close to him and offer to buy a round…

He only realizes he is already a little too close when the Sniper coughs, looking at him with a reserved curiosity.

“You looking for something?”

“Desperately.” The Spy groans. “Euh— Do you know the secret to getting the barman’s attention in this place? I seem to be invisible.”

“No kidding.” The Sniper smirks, and all he has to do is lift a hand. “What are you drinking?”

Unexpected, but he doesn’t let himself freeze. “A gin and tonic— but heavy on the tonic, sadly I am not here to let myself go.”

“Gin and tonic.” The Sniper repeats, holding up his own beer bottle. “And it wouldn’t hurt this bastard to loosen up, so don’t water it down too much, yeah? And another one of these, just put ‘em both on my tab.”

The Spy settles into a perch on the stool by the Sniper’s, feeling a rush of excitement and cautioning himself against acting too boldly. One drink too many, one line over the line, and the Sniper would throw him to the wolves… the men around them who would gladly kick him into a weekend spent hovering in respawn, and while with respawn being what it was the Spy felt he could survive being kicked to death, the indignity of being kicked to death in manure-crusted cowboy boots was too much.

Beyond that, he would never be able to show his face in town again, not as a known homophile, in a place where he was safer being a known killer, a known thief… A known any-kind-of-scum-but-that-one, and he was all too aware of the danger, but the Sniper winks at him, as the bartender brought their drinks, and he could almost let himself believe…

“Monsieur, how kind.” He smiles, raising his glass.

“Well, it’s the weekend, yeah? No hard feelings, gotta… set a good example, reckon. There was a big brawl last week when a few of yours and a few of ours had a few too many in the same bar. And I’ve got a tab here that I can afford to put a few extra on. Doesn’t hurt me to be civil.”

“Then here is to being civil. Who would have guessed?”

The Sniper takes a long pull off his beer, and the Spy’s eyes are drawn to the seal his lips form around the neck, to the bob of his adam’s apple, to the grip of his hand on the bottle and the trickle of condensation that rolls down to his thumb.

“Do you come here often? I do not get into town much… I wouldn’t know the good spots.”

“Well, this one suits me fine, but there’s others. I’ll warn you, none of ‘em get any classier.”

“Mm. Quaint, then. The town, I mean.”

“It’s not bad.” The Sniper shrugs. “I’ve been through smaller. I’d say Teufort’s maybe ‘bout as big as Coober Pedy.”

The Spy has no real frame of reference there, can only imagine that the town the Sniper mentions is in Australia. His mental image of it is merely Teufort with kangaroos and moustaches, which he is sure the Sniper would laugh at if he mentioned.

“Well, quaint or not, it is better than moping around at home.” The Spy says, and the Sniper nods.

“Sure. Nice to hit a local watering hole every now and then. Tap Room’s no Gold Coin— you want to pick up a lady, you’re better off at the Gold Coin. Not classier, mind, but it’s got a better dance floor and it’s on the main drag. I prefer quieter, myself. Other bar I know of’s the Forty-Niner, and that place is just bloody depressing, that one’s for serious drinkers. Demo walked in with me and he thought it was a sad dump. But then, he’s got something tying up his weekends now, so… Well, I don’t mind holding up my end of the bar, but I don’t mind coming out alone, either.”

“Then this is probably my speed as well, thank you.” The Spy nods, heart pounding as he considers how much he can safely say. “I… have very little interest in picking up women in bars, just at the moment.”

“Amen to that.” The Sniper nods.

“I— Not to say I am not amenable to… pleasant company, of course. But there are different kinds of pleasant company…”

The Sniper licks his lips, glancing around. “Oh, sure. I mean, even I could be pleasant company, to someone.”

“You seem pleasant enough to me right now.” The Spy smiles, sipping at his own drink. Not nearly enough to affect him, he can’t blame the small amount of alcohol for this lack of caution.

“You, uh… you really never get into town?”

“No, not really…” He shakes his head.

“I ought to show you around some, then. You eat yet? Bar’ll still be standing if we walk down to the diner for a bite. Can’t booze it up on an empty stomach, yeah?”

“All right.” The Spy nods, lets the Sniper lead him outside.

They walk, not to the diner, but to the Sniper’s camper, parked out in an empty dirt lot on the other side of the filling station, where the Sniper wipes a nervous hand on his jeans before opening the back door for the Spy.

“You wanna come in a minute?” He asks, smile faltering, and the Spy feels his own smile grow a little surer.

“I would like that, Monsieur Sniper, very much.” He nods, gliding past. The space is small, but more cozy than cramped— and bright, once the Sniper has the lights on. “It’s… nice. I mean— I didn’t expect it to be so much like a real home…”

“Well, course it’s a real home, I’ve got to live in it.” The Sniper shrugs. It cuts through his nervousness, and with a somewhat less shaky smile, he reaches out to touch the Spy’s arm. “So… you— I wasn’t wrong, y’know, picking up on— You don’t go for the ladies?”

“I do not.” He admits, doesn’t think he ever would have if the Sniper hadn’t taken that step and brought him home, reached out first.

“You go for anything else?”

“I go for… pleasant company.”

“Oh. Now that’s a coincidence. I love pleasant company. What is your idea of pleasant company?”

“Oh, you know…” He waves a hand, nerves seizing at him yet again, and the Sniper smiles, hand sliding up to the Spy’s shoulder.

“Well, my idea of pleasant company is… I like the European sophisticate type, myself, but… you know, not wishy-washy or nothing like that. Figure a good indicator of pleasant company is how someone handles himself in a fight, see…”

“That… that is a very good point. Though, myself, I think there is something to the rugged outdoors type, for pleasant company. Laid back, but not without a little potential for ferocity.”

“I want you to fuck me.” The Sniper blurts out.

“Oh thank God.” The Spy wraps his arms around the other man, kisses him hard as the last of his worries evaporate. “I was… I was so afraid to ask…”

“I thought you were looking at me…” The Sniper grins, nips at the Spy when he pulls away and nuzzles into his neck. “Was really hoping you were flirting back there…”

“Trying not to.” He fumbles with the Sniper’s belt.

“Respawned with the worst bloody hard-on end of last round, what were you whispering in my ear?” The Sniper grins and does his best to get through all the Spy’s layers, buttons impeding his progress. “French, no idea, but damn was that sexy…”

“Until we meet again… there might have been some term of endearment, I do not remember.” The Spy lies, knowing most of his insults had long since become endearments.

They are clearheaded, aside from the all-consuming lust, too early in the evening for real drinking to have dimmed their senses, and neither fumbles for too long before clothes are no longer an issue, and the Sniper pulls away long enough to dig up a jar of Vaseline, face reddening.

“Look, sometimes it just…” He shifts nervously. “It gets me off, couple fingers in the right spot. I don’t exactly bring a lot of ‘company’ home, but…”

“No, I do not imagine there is a lot of company in these parts, for… well—”

“Men like us?”

The Spy nods, kissing the Sniper gently and dipping a finger into the tub. “So… a couple of fingers in the right spot, hm?”

“Yeah, I mean, when I’m wanking already…”

“I will be sure to give you a hand with that, then.” He smiles, touching the Sniper’s hip. “Turn for me, let me get you started…”

He drops to his knees, while the Sniper stands, leaning his folded forearms against his bunk. The Spy kisses the small of his back as he kneads at his backside, single finger teasing and then sliding in, lips trailing across warm skin, and he can feel the Sniper relax, feel as he starts to give in, to want more.

When the Spy finally gets to his feet, finally thrusts home into the tight, waiting hole, he keeps his promise, one hand reaching around to slide down over the Sniper’s cock, stroking in time with his own thrusts.

It’s perfect, as close to perfect as any encounter the Spy has ever had, and he rubs his cheek against the Sniper’s shoulder, presses his forehead to the back of the Sniper’s neck, wants to feel as much of the Sniper as he can.

After he comes, he kisses the Sniper’s shoulder and pulls out carefully, finding a box of tissues and cleaning them up before offering a cigarette.

The Sniper meets him with a light.

“We should do this more often, then.” The Sniper says, with only a slight tremor of hesitation, and the Spy nods emphatically before he can worry.

“We should.” He smiles. “I never thought I would get so lucky… now that I have, I intend to be lucky as often as you will allow it.”

“All for getting lucky, mate.” The Sniper grins. “All for it, any time.”

raaawrbin: “Mission begins in 10 minutes.” ~*~ Shy!Spy pins his...

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 00:38:11 -0700

raaawrbin:

“Mission begins in 10 minutes.”

~*~

Shy!Spy pins his hair up coz it gets all warm and icky under that mask.

Shy Spy is a precious babbu and the fact that he is a redhead makes me make embarrassing noises.

sirenofblood: Tentaspy Pendant—I am sorry, my followers this is...

atcdblu — Fri, 14 Jun 2013 00:35:34 -0700

Chalk pastel cheeks :3

Size comparison.

Me wearing the finished product.

sirenofblood:

Tentaspy Pendant
—
I am sorry, my followers this is the last Tentaspy-related thing I am going to make I swear.
—
Took me about three hours to make this little guy :) And, as I’ve said in previous posts, I made him out of polymer clay. I put wire in the tentacles to make them more durable. My goal was to make six, but I only had enough room for five. Details painted with acrylic paint. And his widdle pink cheeks are dusted on with chalk pastels.
—
Pictures edited with PicsArt, because some of them had Spy’s face turn yellow… >__<

ugh how is it legal for something to be SO CUTE?!

Request Fill for Anon

atcdblu — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 23:58:06 -0700

Something nice and fluffy and pornless (sorry about the pornlessness, can’t write porn with people hanging out near me… but I just got such a sweet non-porn request, yay!)

I have, and HEADCANON ACCEPTED, Anon!

((Have you seen the new knitted balaclava for Spy? Would you write something about Sniper knitting it for him? :3))

It is the last thing in the world he would ever willingly wear… and the Sniper is presenting it so proudly.

He’d worked on it alone in his camper, in his spare time. He’d requested the yarn some time ago, from his mother, who’d sent it in his most recent care package, and with the teams moving to Viaduct, he was so pleased to have finished it in time…

The Spy forces a smile, pulling his balaclava off and slipping the bulky knit mask on in its place. He doesn’t want to see his reflection, knows he looks ridiculous, but…

The Sniper beams at him, and it is so warm, where his old one had been built to let him survive the heat, and even if he looks like a total idiot…

“Thank you. It is… cozy.” He says, his smile more genuine.

“Made with love.” The Sniper says, toying with the bobble on the top— the bobble, the Spy is sure, is completely unnecessary, but the Sniper is so happy… “You like it?”

“I will wear it with love.” He promises, leaning in for a kiss.

The next day, there is some mockery, as he gears up for the first round and the team gets an eyeful of the thing, but he shuts down the teasing comments with a firm glare.

“It was a gift.” He says, voice dripping with venom, and the Medic gives him a knowing look.

“A man who wears unflattering knitwear because it was a gift, that sounds like a man whose relationship is serious.” He says in passing, and it is teasing, but not mean.

And… far too accurate, even if he is picturing a very different pair of hands doing the knitting.

“It is practical.” The Spy sniffs. Still, it is a little bit of acceptance that isn’t borne merely out of the fear of the Spy’s reprisal, and that is nice.

It is a little nicer still, when he slips into the Sniper’s nest during the break between rounds to see a scarf in the works, out of the same yarn.

tinkersmod: Opening commissions, through inbox, or...

atcdblu — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 23:41:33 -0700

tinkersmod:

Opening commissions, through inbox, or gaijinda@yahoo.com. Send a description of what You want and Your email, and I’ll send a sketch thumbnail like the first image. If You like it I’ll send a paypal invoice, and finish the piece, I will send a high quality file to Your provided email, and may post a smaller version to My mod blog, unless specified, when payment is received.

slot 1 {open}

slot 2 {open}

slot 3 {open}

slot 4 {open}

slot 5 {open}

Hey, anyone looking for artists to commission on the cheap… (I don’t know if his commission slots are for just pones or for everything… I know he does really awesome robots, but cannot promise that they could be priced on the same scale as ponies. However, if you want robot ponies, you can just buy those from the etsy:

http://www.etsy.com/listing/151105824/robo6?ref=shop_home_active

So anyway signal boosting for my bro, who will draw you ponies and will make sure you are happy with the finished product because he is just that kind of swell guy)