Spider-Man: Homecoming’s Gag Reel

This video pisses me off because everything about it is perfect. It’s extremely well shot and composed. Every decision that went into it from the choreographed sunglasses throw to the bass boosted Nickelback seems deliberate and incapable of improvement. 

Nothing I ever make will be better than 12 second long shitpost.

Marzipan Boy part 1

Tim shot a quick message to Tam, letting her know that he would be busy for a while, and then he shoved his headphones on and pushed the button to darken the windows of his office.

Tam thought he was taking a nap, and encouraged his daily hour of “dark time”.

Tim was NOT taking a nap, he was watching the love of his life play video games (sue him, he might doze off once or twice during the stream, but it wasn’t on purpose.)

“Good afternoon, gamers. It’s NightenGames here, and I have not had enough coffee.”

Chuckling at the semi-regular intro, Tim took a sip of his dark roast and settled back into his desk chair.

“Today we’re playing Elder Ring- My friend PharaohTuck finally finished setting up my mods.”

Tim wasn’t entirely sure what exactly the mods NightenGames used did, but apparently they were necessary for him to play. The Yeddit threads were full of speculation- from control mods meant for metahumans/aliens, to cheats to make the games easier.

Very few fans believed that one- Nighten died too many times to be cheating with his mods.

“Ooooh, what a fancy character creator! Alright, folks- who should we mock this time? I’m seeing a lot of votes for Lex Luthor in the chat, a few for Bruce Wayne- which, let me remind you, I’ve already done both Wayne and Luthor in the last month, so they’re out.”

This was why Tim had originally followed NightenGames- the streamer would pick a rich person and then pretend to be them for the entire stream, as if they were playing the game. Yeddit had checked- most of the quotes Nighten used were straight from public videos of the target.

“Tim Drake, huh? CEO of Wayne Industries? Isn’t he, like, the same age as me? I dunno, guys- like, nepo baby for suresies, but…”

Tim startled at the sound of his own name, and swooned a little at the way it rang out in Nighten’s rich baritone.

“You’re right, BarleyWater32, I have not picked on Tim Drake yet. In my defense… I have no defense. He’s hot and I’d smash. Don’t want to spoil my minuscule chances, right? Right. Anyways. Oh! Oliver Queen, I can do him. Well, not DO him, but- make me shut up.”

Blinking at his computer, Tim couldn’t help but flush at the knowledge that his internet crush thought he was “hot and would smash”.

Tim would smash too, honestly. He’d done his research. Daniel ‘Danny’ Nightengale was VERY attractive behind the virtual avatars he used.

“Let me pull up Ollie-boy’s avatar- ah ha! Can’t miss that mustache anywhere.”

The avatar finally popped up in the video- Nighten didn’t usually have one up until the chat had chosen a victim, even if he did have a standard avatar for after he was done gaming.

If he had to pick, Tim liked the avatar for Queen the best. He wore a silly pair of green sunglasses, and his matching green mustache twirled far beyond his face- the real Oliver would never, but the mockery was funny.

“Ahem. Yes. Hello. My name is Ollie Queen and I’m richer than anyone else in this city. Let’s get this bread!”

Elder Ring went well- through some chance Nighten picked an archery build for his run through, which Tim thought was quite ironic- and the stream went on for a whole hour before Nighten switched to his standard avatar.

“Okay, folks, I’m going to shut down now- and Tim Drake? If you’re watching? DM me.”

Nighten chuckled a little, like he’d made an impossible request, but Tim was vibrating in his seat, reaching for his phone to DM the streamer.

The video ended abruptly, and Tim’s autotimer on the darkened windows ran out.

Tam was standing expectantly outside of the door, smiling serenely in- but her arms were full of folders that she undoubtedly need signatures on.

With a sigh, Tim took off his headphones, dropped his cell on his desk, and waved her in. Work waited for no man.

~~~

“Danny, are you sure you don’t want me to make you an avatar for one Tim Drake?”

“Positive, Tuck.”

Tucker pouted and draped himself over the back of the couch, leaning his head into Danny’s space as he worked on his essay.

“It would give you an excuse to watch videos of your cruuuuush!”

Danny felt his face go hot, and he shoved Tucker’s face away from his ear.

“Get off, man. I have to finish this paper before midnight.”

His friend stood straight, presumably looking at the clock on the oven.

“Oof, bro.”

10:30PM wasn’t a great time to be writing an essay. Danny knew he should have done it earlier, but, well. He had to film and edit a video for his second channel. UTube wasn’t earning him money yet, but hopefully soon?

Who was he kidding? He would probably have to go back to Vlad for money soon, and he hated the thought of it.

It was hard enough to live in this ramshackle Gotham apartment with both Tucker and Sam, keep up with UTube and streaming, and get through school, without having to cater to Vlad’s whims on top of it.

Sam had only promised to help with his portion of rent for two years, and he was almost hitting that deadline. He hated taking advantage of her guilt for getting him killed in the first place, but she had insisted, even if she couldn’t sustain it for their whole college career.

Danny groaned and turned his attention back to his paper.

11:15 rolled around, and Danny finished checking his paper for mistakes before sending it in. He shut his laptop, planning to brush his teeth before crashing out on the couch.

Tucker had already gone to bed, and Sam was out on an internship trip for the week, so he didn’t have to worry too much about being disturbed after he fell asleep.

His phone chimed with a donation notification and he lazily opened the message.

Tucker came running out of his and Sam’s bedroom, wrapped in a bathrobe and wielding a Creep Stick at Danny’s resulting screech.

“TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS? FROM TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE?”

All of these books are queer, but they all have back blurbs that don’t say they’re queer. While this can be a pain if I’m scouting for queer SFF, it can come in handy for people in a situation where they don’t want to be reading queer books openly. 

Please do note that I don’t have hard copies of the books on hand so it’s possible that an author quote or something mentions one being queer (I feel like this isn’t super likely, but I don’t want to rule it out). Some might also have author biographies mentioning that the author is queer. Also, some may be shelved as LGBT on Goodreads or categorized as queer on Amazon. So if you’re planning on asking for any of these as holiday gifts, I would suggest going to the Amazon page or where ever your relative is likely to buy it from and double check that it’s something you’d be comfortable with sharing openly. 

I wish I had more pansexual books, but the ones I know of tend to mention queerness in the back description. 

With the exception of The Spy with the Red Balloon, these are all books I have read or are currently reading. If you want to recommend others, feel free to do so in the replies!

You can find my other queer book recommendations here.

Links to the queer books database (or Goodreads if the book hasn’t been added yet) are available below the cut. You can find information on content warnings there.

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Pictures you can hear

What if Harry Potter, the chosen one, had turned out to be a squib, how do you think history would have turned out differently?

It was Mrs. Figg who suspected first.

She noticed many things, sitting on her side of her fence with her cats chasing butterflies and nuzzling her ankles, Mundungus and the other watchers dropping by for tea now and then.

Mrs. Figg noticed that Petunia was a nosy bit of work with insecurities hanging from her every harsh angle. She noticed when Dudley learned the word MINE– the whole neighborhood noticed that one. She noticed that Vernon glared at owls.

She noticed that when Petunia gave Harry a truly horrendous haircut one year, it grew back in at a normal rate. Harry was uneven and weird-looking for ages, hiding under beanies when he could.

When Mrs. Figg had Harry over for carefully miserable afternoons of babysitting, she noticed nothing moved that shouldn’t. He didn’t accidentally make flowers out of fallen leaves, or levitate anything during tantrums, or turn toys funny colors.

Mrs. Figg called up her mother, interrupting the wizarding bridge game she was winning against the nursing home staff, and asked her how she had known, decades back, that her youngest daughter was a squib.

When Albus Dumbledore received Mrs. Figg’s letter he wrote back a polite thank you and then went to talk with Minerva McGonagall, who inhaled sharply in horror when he told her the news.

Finally, McGonagall gave a gathered sigh. “I suppose we can ask one of the wizarding families to homeschool him,” she said. “We can’t have the Boy Who Lived not knowing about his own world.”  

“No, he’ll come to Hogwarts,” said Dumbledore.

“Hogwarts is not a place for–” Her voice fell. “–squibs, Albus.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry must be taught.”

“Be taught what, Albus?”

But Dumbledore just sighed and offered her a lemon drop.

Years later, the owls and the letters came to 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys ran, dragging Harry with them, and the letters and one stubborn gamekeeper followed– none of this would change with a magicless Harry.

When Hagrid asked Harry in that little cabin on that little rock in the middle of the sea if weird things always happened around him, Harry couldn’t tell him about vanishing glass and setting captive snakes free, about ending up somehow on the school roof, or growing his hair out overnight.  

“Strange things always happen around you, don’ they?”

“Um,” said Harry, racking his brain. “Well… I live in a cupboard under the stairs…”

Harry could tell him about how snakes sometimes talked back, because that had never been Harry’s magic, but when he did Hagrid just blanched and changed the subject.

Hagrid held out hope, even against Dumbledore’s quiet warning explanations, until they made it to Ollivander’s Wands. Harry marveled at Diagon Alley, got his hands shaken in the Leaky, pressed his nose up against shop windows. Hagrid watched the scant boy– looked at James’s messy hair, Lily’s eyes, Harry’s own wandering gaze– and he wondered how this boy could be anything but magical.

In the wand shop, Ollivander said, “James Potter, yes… mahogany, eleven inches. Pliable. A powerful wand for Transfiguration.” He said, “And your mother, Lily…  strong in Charms work, ten and… yes, ten and a quarter, willow, swishy.”

Harry picked up stick after wooden stick. They remained just that– wood with bits of feather or scale or hair. Harry wondered if the creatures who gave these offerings were still alive– if they were given or taken. What did it do to your wand when they died? He waved a maplewood wand (unicorn hair, eleven inches) and a gust from the door opening blew some receipts off the counter.

“Well, said Ollivander. “I think that’s as close as we’re likely to get.”

He sent them out with the maplewood. Hagrid bought Harry a snowy owl and a fudge sundae and tried not make it too obvious that these were condolence gifts. The next day the Prophet’s headlines read: The Boy Who Lived– A Squib? Various magical medical experts weighed in on how it might have happened. Fingers were pointed at childhood trauma, at his upbringing, at his family lineage.

Harry still met Ron on the train– Ron was still smudge-nosed and Harry still bought enough candy to share. When Molly had helped him through the platform entrance, her voice had been a little softer, a little more pitying– but it was still better than the laughter that had been in his aunt and uncle’s voices when they dropped him here to find a platform they didn’t think existed.

Hermione Granger dropped by their compartment, looking for Neville’s toad, but got distracted when she spotted Harry. “I’ve read about you! In my books, and in the paper,” she said. “You’re the Boy Who Lived, and you’re a squib.”

Harry sank down in his seat. Ron hid Scabbers under a candy wrapper.

“Squibs have never been allowed in Hogwarts,” Hermione announced. “According to Hogwarts, A History, squibs try to sneak in now and then– the furthest anyone’s ever gotten is to the Sorting Hat before they got found out.” At eleven, Hermione still believed in expulsion being worse than death. Her voice was thrumming with sympathetic horror.

“But they already found out about me,” Harry said, alarmed.

“It’s alright, mate,” said Ron. “You’re Harry Potter. Oy, Granger,” he added. “What’s this Hat? Fred and George were trying to sell me some story about having to fight a mountain troll to get your House…”

Harry sat back and watched the countryside rush by. Yes, he was Harry Potter– his aunt’s useless sister’s useless child, the boy in the lumpy hand-me-down sweaters who named the spiders who lived in his cupboard. And here, in new world, he was apparently useless too.

When they got to Hogwarts, Harry clenched his fists and stood in line with the other first years. He barely twitched at the ghosts or Peeves, just stared ahead and thought about how far he would get before they turned him around and sent him back to Vernon and Petunia.

They opened the Great Hall doors. They called the first years one by one. Harry clenched his teeth and walked up to the Hat when they called his name.

As he turned to sit down on the stool, he really caught sight of the Hall for the first time– the hovering candles, the big wooden tables, the black robes that swallowed the light. Translucent ghosts gossiped with the students beside them. The paintings on the far walls– were they moving?

Harry’s jaw had unclenched, falling open. His fists curled open, curving around the stool’s seat as he leaned forward to stare. If this was it, if this was as far as he’d get in this world, then he wanted to drink it all in. The candles were floating, in mid-air.

The Hat dropped down over his eyes and blocked out the light.

Well, said the dry voice that had been hollering House placements all night. What do we have here?

Ron had been begging for not-Slytherin. Draco from the robes shop had been scornful of Hufflepuff, desperate in his disdain. Neville had begged for Hufflepuff, sure he was not brave enough for Gryffindor.

Please, thought Harry. Don’t send me back.

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Fairest of Them All (Six)

SNOW WHITE MASTERLIST HERE

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“He was heading for the coast.” Steve rasped through a split lip and a quickly bruising eye, held in place by chains and a collar wrapped round his neck and secured to the wall, head forced up by Obadiah’s grip at his chin. “When we ran into each other he was– he was heading the same way I’d come from. Towards the coast.” 

Sunset stared at him for several minutes, searching the Alpha’s face for any sign of deceit, any hint he might be lying to try and protect his mate but Steve was too exhausted to try that sort of thing. The mate sickness had set in hard now that he didn’t even have blankets scenting like the Omega Prince to keep it at bay, and his body was beaten down, worn from four days in the dark dungeons with little food or water. 

“If you’re lying, I’ll kill you.” she finally said and Obadiah let go of the other Alpha with a frustrated snarl, shoving him back against the rough wall. “Do you hear me, Alpha Prince? I have no qualms about ending your life, I don’t care what it will do to the Omega.” 

“I’m not lying.” Steve hung his head, chains clanking as he wrapped his arms around his midsection. “We didn’t talk much when we were together–” Obadiah snorted something no doubt vulgar and Steve cringed away from the sound. “–but he talked about the water and flowers and having a responsibility to his Kingdom. Then in the morning he headed towards the coast.” 

Apparently satisfied that Steve was speaking truth enough, Sunset sniffed and turned away, skirts whirling about her ankles and jewelry clinking at her wrists as she snapped her fingers at the guard. “Do not increase his rations until I say so. And not a word to anyone else about who he is, do you understand?” 

“Yes ma’am.” the guard averted his gaze from Sunset, uncomfortable with the burnt scent of her magic that follower her through the air. “No increase in rations, not a word to anyone else.” 

“Obadiah!” Sunset called for him over her shoulder on her way out of the dungeons, but the Regent King ignored her, his eyes firmly trained on the Alpha in the cell. 

“When you were with my nephew–” he began, not missing the way Steve tensed in his chains. “–did you notice anything odd about him?” 

“He’s perfect.” Steve said warily. “Why?” 

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