#nutinamask

[districtattorneydent]

“ I am ALMOST convinced Foggy is the ONLY other person in this town that isn’t insane. DO you know how SUICIDAL that sounds? ”

@nutinamask hit the HEART. 

[weaknessforgallantry-blog]

@nutinamask

He doesn’t smoke anymore. Mostly. Except in the middle of the night, alone, in the alley behind his building. He scales down the side of the building, this time in just sweatpants. In retrospect, when it begins to snow, this was a bad idea. It was a bad idea because Remy’s only awake because – because –

Remy lights the cigarette with just the tip of one of his fingers, a slight pink glow and then the end of his cigarette is burning away. It’s been months since he last smoked a cigarette. Even this one, he only takes a drag off every once in awhile. It’s something to do with his hands, a reminder of a time when he was someone slightly different.

It’s something to keep him warm.

Evelyn’s promised to have a handy-man come by tomorrow evening to fix the dripping faucet in his bathroom. Remy’s promised (multiple times) to not just take repairs into his own hands… but he’s going to have to do something, as soon as possible. As soon as his hands have lost the slight tremor they’ve picked up. He hates to disappoint his landlady, but he’s going to do it.

In the first floor of the building across the alleyway from his building is a bodega. Their dumpster sits in the alleyway, but it’s late fall, and not particularly fragrant because of the cooler weather. Remy can still pick out the sweet smell of rotting fruit, less like something that’s happening to him now and more like a memory.

These days everything feels far away like that; like seeing it through thick syrup. Even food. Things sit like ash on his tongue. The first drag he takes of his cigarette is the first thing he’s tasted in months. The smell of the dumpster and the cigarette smoke is more real than the new-carpet smell of his apartment was when he moved in, or the soup he had for dinner.

What the dumpster smell reminds him of is childhood. Sitting in an alley trying to count money to see if he’s met his quota for Louis and Mary when no one’s taught him to read yet. Recognizing bills by the faces of the serious men on them (he doesn’t know their names) and stomach grumbling, but not enough money in hand to skim off the top and buy something – and it’s not worth the risk to shoplift something or steal more money, either, not yet, maybe the next day.

Until then, other resources: Mary might feed him, but probably not; the nuns, but not until they next day, Wednesdays only for that; and that leaves the dumpster he’s leaning against, the heavy scent of rotten fruit but there’s usually a couple that are still good in there, just a little bruised. He digs through fruit that’s warm and squishy, that half-falls apart at the lightest touch, that gets under his fingernails. He promises himself that he’ll take care of himself some day. That he’ll learn to fend for himself. That he won’t need anyone, that he’ll never hide next to a dumpster again just to feel safe, smelling rotting peaches but here he is again, barefoot on cement, secure in his little pool of light and the ambient light from the city.

It’s a different city, cold. The first snowflake he notices makes him give a disproportionate shiver. It lands on his shoulder and turns into a nearly imperceptible dot of water. It didn’t even snow in Antarctica, really, it was dry but the reminder that winter will be here soon is unwelcome.

The cigarette doesn’t do enough for him once it starts snowing, so he paces the alleyway. He wants to move, but not stray too far from his apartment. Even with the dripping faucet, it still feels safe. And like it’s his responsibility. Remy doesn’t remember the dream that drove him out of bed (though of course it was about the massacre, it always is) but he knows he doesn’t want to leave his neighbors undefended tonight. This neighborhood needs all the help it can get, anyway.

When the cigarette is half-done Remy tires of it, of the way the smell of the smoke tugs hat his memory just as much as the rotting garbage. Just as much as the cold. He drops the rest of it to the ground and goes to stomp it out, the callouses on the bottom of his foot more than up to the challenge of one cigarette. He brings his foot down on the butt and the edge of his foot catches something soft and wet. Remy looks more closely and it’s – it’s a rotten peach, clearly rolled free from the dumpster when the rest of the produce was being discarded.

He’s half way back up the side of the building, no recollection of beginning the climb, when he realizes that he’s crying. Fluffy snowflakes are being whipped around the corner by the wind, melting the instant they touch anything, and the peach is so far below him and it’s so dark out that he can’t see it anymore, but he’s crying. Fat tears. He has to rest his forehead against the wall for a moment before he can begin climbing again.

There’s not even anything to cry about. It’s just a peach.

[dapperfvck-arc]

[ text ]: you are like the bill nye of illicit activities.

[ text @ Matt ]: Who the hell is Bill bloody Nye?

[ofcrimsonenchantresses-archive]

nutinamask replied to your photoset “oh. oH. OH. OH. The penny just dropped for me. Tony just said that he...”

doing it to prevent 'another public incident' that would tear her apart with guilt and drag her through the media (both things that Tony is hella familiar with, having experienced them) the way the last one did is absolutely protecting her, to be fair.

except tony didn’t say he was protecting her from media backlash and vision didn’t say stark didn’t want a public incident to protect her from consequences, in fact he said he wasn’t concerned with wanda’s safety. not to mention, this lines up with when he refers to her as a weapon of mass destruction. that implies he sees her as something people need to be protected from not someone who needs to be protected and is a okay with dehumanising her and stripping away her personhood. also its extremely patronising to assume wanda can’t walk to the store and back without causing a public incident. 

edit: plus he never spoke to her about this? it’s almost like he thinks she isn’t a human being with feelings and opinions who can make her own decision. 

[brckencastle-blog]

❤ ❤

nice stuff ‖ accepting

Well, let’s see-- I think I’m going to go with a couple of people here that kind of go together like peanut butter and jelly. (at least in my mind) 

@ofconstantine -- okay you’re fantastic. i love having you on my dash in general and just love our threads. i don’t exactly know how or why these two tolerate each other but they do and that is so damn amazing. you get your character and that is wonderful to see. (nothing pleases me more) 

@nutinamask -- same. all of the above applies to you and i cannot even begin to express how awesome i think you are. 

Last but not least I don’t know why you two put up with me. I’m a doofus and you are both amazing.

[dapperfvck-arc]

@nutinamask

con’t from { x }

    “As it happens the thirty-first marks the New Year on the witch’s calendar,” John drawled as he offered a glass to Matt. “However, given how much a clusterfuck yesterday was, I’ve decided to celebrate today -- Not that I honestly give a toss. Seemed like a good as any reason t’have a private party, jus’ ye an’ me.”

[dapperfvck-arc]

♔

Send in ♔ for my muse’s reaction to yours pushing mine up against the wall

     ⦿;; -- Magic was, quite literally in the air, and maybe Matt could sense that, but more than likely it was something else, something far more carnal judging from the way he pressed against John. Matt’s mouth attached to the side of his neck, along with a deep, heady inhalation of his skin. This was definitely not the first time he’d gotten so aggressive this month. Along with all the strangeness that went with October for the both of them, came a spike in John’s personal power. Apparently it changed him in ways beyond the esoteric; apparently it made him smell fantastic, which was an interesting bonus on top of this shit storm of a month. 

    Pinned to the wall, being madly groped, a groan parted his lips, whatever lingering exhaustion from sorting a situation with a spell gone haywire (a rather tragic plot to raise a recently deceased loved one, enacted by a desperately mourning young woman recently indoctrinated into the occult) was being replaced by the addictive intensity inspired by mutual lust. It had been a rough night and he needed this, was oddly gratified by it. Despite the overriding theme of despair that had plagued the night’s crisis, John had don some quite decent work, and having Matt’s hands all over him, mouth open, eager, devouring over his felt like a far better reward than any he could have ever invented. He tasted better than any of his vices, felt better under his palms, in his arms than any lover he’d had in some time.