#‘you did what you did I did what I did’ it’s so fucking puerile

[maryasmorevna]

why are you, as an adult in 2024, still hung up on reylo. why are you still mocking the shippers. why do you believe yourself to be superior only because you dislike a stupid ship from a fucking space fairytale. girl (gnc) get a grip

[gluttons-for-punishment]

MY LIFE WITH QUEEN

One day in 1974 I was reading the paper and it said that "the Queen" was going to be on Top Of The Pops. Obviously this was a bit of typical puerile stupidity on their part. The Queen wasn't appearing on Top Of The Pops.

Queen were.

And they did. Seven Seas Of Rhye was their first hit, and I quite liked it partly because of the fun outro. Music had joy in it, back in the day.

The likes of Slade and Wizzard and Gary Glitter didn't take it all too seriously. They were all regulars on TOTP and it was a lot of fun.

Queen were on again a little while later with their follow-up, Killer Queen. Everyone liked that. Their lead singer was weird, exotic, almost Oriental-looking with big white teeth. He fitted into the now jaded Glam Rock aesthetic but with an edge, and more class than all the others.

I was listening to the radio the following year and I heard this strange record going "Mama Mia! Mama Mia!" and I thought what the fuck? That ain't Abba!

Then I heard the whole thing, Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety, all five minutes and fifty-five seconds of it, and I was hooked for life. Queen were like a breath of fresh air, a sparkling gem amid all the Osmonds / Bay City Rollers / David Essex dross that was stinking up the airwaves. I set about investigating their back catalogue.

Someone taped their latest album A Night At The Opera for me. My mate Bernie had Sheer Heart Attack, so I got a copy of that too. Once I'd saved up enough pocket money I went out and bought Queen II. From this album, The March Of The Black Queen has consistently remained in my top three for nearly half a century.

That Christmas Eve, Queen's concert at Hammersmith Odeon was transmitted live on The Old Grey Whistle Test. I took an audio recording of the show on my little portable cassette recorder. The quality was pretty dismal but I played that tape to death and learned it all by heart. In the intervening years it's been repeated over and over again by the BBC, always in a savagely truncated form. It was finally given an official full-length deluxe box set release in 2015 under the title A Night At The Odeon, forty years after the initial live broadcast.

In the scorching endless summer of 1976 Queen announced that they were going to play a free concert in Hyde Park. I wasn't going to miss that. So I set off early in the morning of 18th September with a mate from school (whose name escapes me) after a fry-up made by my sister. We got to Hyde Park and sat on the grass with 150,000 other fans and stared at the empty stage. There was a middle-aged couple sitting behind us who may or may not have been Brian May's parents. A young hippy who looked like Jesus wandered through the crowd giving out cherries.

The first band of the day was Supercharge. Their lead singer was a big fat guy who came on stage wearing a leotard like the one Freddie wore. Next was Steve Hillage, whose endless noodling bored me to tears. Then it was Kiki Dee, who was in the charts at the time with her duet with Elton John, Don't Go Breaking My Heart. She performed the song with a cardboard cut-out of Elton, with the audience singing Elton's lines (Elton was actually present backstage at the time, but didn't appear on stage as he didn't want to steal Queen's thunder).

Then at dusk Queen finally came on with a blinding flash and blew me away. They opened with Procession and a clip from Bohemian Rhapsody and went straight into Ogre Battle.

"Welcome to our picnic by the Serpentine!"

By now, everyone had got to their feet and moved closer to the stage. I got separated from my mate. I didn't care. All my attention was focussed on the band.

The best bit was Freddie, solo at the piano, performing the as yet unreleased You Take My Breath Away. That was amazing. A flawless performance that's included for posterity on the 2011 re-release of A Day At The Races.

They finished with In The Lap Of The Gods... Revisited but didn't play an encore: apparently the show was running late and the band had been threatened with arrest if they went back on stage, due to the huge numbers of people out there in the dark.

My first ever concert experience was absolutely euphoric. It was like losing my virginity. I was still on a high as I drifted away in the dark to get the tube home.

Their next album, the first new one to come out after I became a fan, was A Day At The Races. I got the LP for Christmas, some two weeks after its release, but by some careful snooping I'd found it hidden in my mum's bedroom and played it a couple of times beforehand. When I finally got my hands on it, I played it to death.

By now I was a member of the fan club, and used to ring them now and again to see if there was any news about forthcoming releases (the music press were always a few days behind). I'd sometimes pop into their offices at South Audley Street if I happened to be in the West End, always hoping there'd be one or two band members present. There never were. One day I was up there with my mate Mark and we casually asked the fan club secretary if there were any plans to re-release I Can Hear Music, the pre-Queen single Freddie had recorded with the engineer Robin Cable and released under the name Larry Lurex in 1973. She said no, but she had a few copies for sale. Were we interested?

Hell, yeah! It was a one-sided white label seven-inch single, a test pressing as it later turned out. I was disappointed that the far superior B-side Going Back wasn't included, but it was the elusive and rare Larry Lurex so I had to have it. We got one for our mate Andy too. 75p each. Bargain!

My copy disappeared into the ether decades ago, but Andy still has his. And apparently it's one of the most collectible Queen items (second only to the 1977 Bo Rhap blue vinyl single) and sells for an absolute fortune.

[Whilst visiting and working in the West End in the late Seventies I went past Trident Studios in St Anne's Court, off Wardour Street, many times without really realising its significance. Standing opposite Dark They Were And Golden-Eyed, a fantastic science fiction bookshop (where I acquired loads of quirky unofficial Tolkien stuff when Tolkien fandom was an underground movement rather than a multi-million-dollar industry), this was where Queen recorded their first three albums. Elton, Bowie and The Beatles had recorded there, too. Further on from the studio, towards the Dean Street end, was a tenement brothel where the ladies would sit by the open windows and call out to you as you walked past.

Of course, it's all gone now. Dark They Were closed in 1981 and there are shops and offices where the ladies of the night used to ply their trade. Trident is now a post-production facility.]

My second experience of Queen live was at Earls Court with Mark and Andy, high up in the balcony, miles from the stage. I snuck my little Kodak 126 camera in with me and succeeded in getting a series of very muddy, very distant images of the massive crown-shaped lighting rig. At one point Freddie was performing You Take My Breath Away at the piano when, at a particularly quiet part of the song, someone knocked over the drum kit (at least, that was what it sounded like). Freddie looked startled for a moment then, like the total professional he was, continued as if nothing had happened. This was followed by a performance of White Man that was powerful enough to blow your bollocks off. Freddie: "This is a real bitch of a song that's really fucked up my voice."

For the encore, Freddie strutted on stage in a shimmering silver leotard that sparkled like a glitterball. A brief but brilliant segment of Saturday Night's All Right For Fighting was included in the rock'n'roll medley.

Later that year I went on holiday to Italy with my family. When I returned home on Saturday 8th October there was a postcard waiting for me from the fan club.

My postcard is long gone. This is someone else's that I found online.

I read the first couple of sentences and thought "oh! fantastic! I'm gonna be in a Queen video!" but then as I continued I realised that the event had come and gone and I'd missed it by two days.

Mark and Andy were there. They said the band ran through the new song - We Are The Champions - a few times so the audience would be familiar with it for the recording, and after three takes played a surprise fifty-minute concert. What a unique experience, that I missed out on by two fucking days.

Empire Pool, Wembley was a much nicer venue than Earls Court. I got to see Queen there three nights running in May 1978. On this tour they opened with the fast full band version of We Will Rock You and included the brilliant It's Late, which for many years was my all-time favourite Queen track, in the set. The low point was probably Get Down, Make Love, but the gigs were brilliant. Electrifying.

Following this tour they released the Jazz album, which was a bit disappointing. For the first time, there were more duds than gems on a Queen album. The only track I really liked was Jealousy.

I was in the HMV shop in Oxford Street one day in 1979 and there were three or four copies of Live Killers for sale, autographed in gold ink by all four members of Queen. I didn't buy one because I'd already got a copy of this (disappointing and lacklustre) album. I wish I had. They go for between five hundred quid and a grand these days.

Later that year they released Crazy Little Thing Called Love. I gave it a listen. "That's fucking crap," I spat. "The worst thing they've ever done. The final nail in their coffin."

You could say it grew on me after a while.

Queen went on tour at the end of the year. It was called the "Crazy Tour", as they were playing small venues. I got to see them three times that year, first at the Lyceum in central London on 13th December - fantastic, me and Kate were right at the front! The following day I was so hoarse from cheering and singing my lungs out that I was sent home from work by a manager who thought I was suffering from a bad throat infection.

The following evening it was the Rainbow in Finsbury Park. But the best was yet to come: their gig at the Tottenham Mayfair (formerly the Royal nightclub) five days later remains the best concert I've ever been to. A full account of this concert is elsewhere on this blog.

A year later, another tour, to promote the albums Flash Gordon and The Game. Two nights at Wembley Arena (formerly the Empire Pool) this time, 9th and 10th December. I woke up on the morning of the 9th to the devastating news that John Lennon had been murdered. That took the shine off the prospect of going to see Queen.

I still went. I was in the balcony, with a side view of the stage. At one point in the concert, with no announcement or fanfare, they played Imagine. Just Freddie and Brian. Freddie had the lyrics on a sheet of paper. It was the best moment of the whole evening.

My enthusiasm for Queen nosedived in the early Eighties after the release of Under Pressure. I didn't bother buying Hot Space until a few weeks after its release, and then only after I'd heard Back Chat. Bowie had replaced Queen as my favourite, and I just wasn't interested any more. Consequently I didn't bother to see them on the 1982 tour: the closest venue was Milton Keynes Bowl, and it just wasn't worth the effort.

Next time around, for the tour promoting The Works in 1984, they played Wembley Arena again so I grabbed a couple of tickets. Me and my friend Claire were in the balcony again for this show. At one point I mentioned how brilliant it would be if Bowie would appear with them to perform Under Pressure, but Claire pointed out that as the date was 4th September, it would more likely happen the following evening, on Freddie's birthday (it didn't).

Queen's "show-stopping" appearance at Live Aid (13th July 1985) has gone down in history as one of the greatest rock performances of all time, but at the time it was hard to figure out why: to an experienced fan like me, it wasn't really anything out of the ordinary. They were always that good. Usually they were better. But it was a revelation for the general public who'd seen them as some kind of novelty act or bunch of glam-rock throwbacks, and as a result they gained millions of new fans. I watched it live on the BBC that Saturday, recording it on VHS and - in stereo!!! - on cassette from Radio 1.

I missed the Magic tour, their final tour with Freddie as it happened. Following their Live Aid appearance, everyone wanted to experience them in concert so the shows got bigger and bigger. Wembley Stadium and ultimately, Knebworth Park. It was essentially a greatest hits show, with the band playing mostly their hit singles with little room for the deep cuts which were much more appealing for veteran fans like me.

I watched the Wembley Stadium concert on TV though, and they were on top form. The broadcast and subsequent home media release successfully capture the essence of the atmosphere you'd feel at a Queen concert.

As the Eighties faded away the AIDS crisis became more and more prevalent. The vindictive gutter press gleefully jumped on the bandwagon and harrassed any gay celebrity they could think of, including Freddie. Following his gaunt and frail-looking appearance at the Brit Awards in February 1990, they quite literally hounded him to the grave. For over a year these vultures were camped outside his home, hoping for a scoop and a hysterical headline, and every time he emerged into the outside world there were intrusive and sensationalised pictures of him all over the papers.

Not surprisingly, the vile S*n was the biggest culprit.

I thought: "you fucking wankers." - Roger Taylor on the British press

Like most fans, I was in denial. I didn't believe he was ill. I couldn't bear to believe it. There were repeated rebuffs from the Queen camp - "Freddie's fine, he's as fit as a fiddle" - that we latched on to. This became harder when the videos for I'm Going Slightly Mad and Headlong were released. Freddie did look ill.

Sunday, 24th November 1991, the headlines screamed: FREDDIE: "I'VE GOT AIDS". Just after 7:00 the following morning, Monday 25th, I was woken by my girlfriend rushing into the bedroom declaring "Gary! Freddie Mercury's died!"

They make his life a misery and hound him to his death, then pretend they care. Fucking wankers.

Monday morning. That was a very hard day to get through. At work, there was wall-to-wall Queen on the radio. The jokes started up already: rotten seamen, etc. I was so stunned that I could hardly concentrate on anything else. Queen had been a more or less constant presence in my life from adolescence through to my thirties, and now that was suddenly wrenched away.

That evening, the other half was out so I had the flat to myself. I got a few beers in to toast Freddie and settled down to watch the tribute shows on TV. I was able to keep it together until the premiere showing of Freddie's final video, These Are The Days Of Our Lives. He looked so ill, so thin and frail, so sad. What he must have been through, how he must have suffered. It was hard to believe that was actually the same man on the screen. I sat there and cried my eyes out.

Bohemian Rhapsody got a re-release and became Christmas number one again. John and Roger and Brian announced a tribute concert that would take place the following Easter. A plethora of cash-grab tribute books and magazines were rush-released; I bought them all.

The tribute concert took place at Wembley Stadium in April 1992. I went with a mate from work, Allan Harvey, but we got split up in the 72,000-strong crowd before the concert began (echoes of Hyde Park). The concert itself was a mixed bag: some genuinely emotional moments, and a hell of a lot of shite. Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant were just fucking terrible. Paul Young was OK. Bowie's performance wasn't exactly inspiring: he seemed to be making an appearance for the publicity, rather than to pay tribute to Freddie. And his "Lord's Prayer" moment made me (and the rest of the world) lose the will to live.

Elizabeth Taylor made an appearance, giving a speech about the AIDS crisis (man in crowd: "Get 'em off!" Liz: "I'll get off when I'm finished!"). Elton John gave a solid performance of The Show Must Go On and duetted with the notoriously homophobic Axl Rose on Bohemian Rhapsody. The climax of the show, featuring Liza Minelli (one of Freddie's favourite performers) trying to sing We Are The Champions was just plain embarassing.

The highlight of the show was, without a doubt, George Michael. He gave a fantastic performance of Somebody To Love, '39 and, with Lisa Stansfield, These Are The Days Of Our Lives; as live performers go (those that I've seen, anyway) he's second only to Freddie. I still think this was the only part of the concert that stands up to repeated viewing.

Three years later Made In Heaven, Queen's posthumous fifteenth and final album, was released. This was ingeniously cobbled together from bits and pieces Freddie had recorded before he got too ill, outtakes from previous albums, and a couple of re-worked Queen versions of Freddie solo tracks. Despite a couple of crappy fillers (My Life Has Been Saved, indeed) it was their best album for years. I bought it on the day of release and sat there that afternoon getting hammered on Tungsten lager and listening to these precious sounds.

These days "Queen" (minus John) are still touring with American Idol contestant Adam Lambert as their frontman. I'm not really interested. I'm not a fan of Lambert, I don't like the Broadway-style approach the band take these days, though a few people I've spoken to have said it's a good show. I'm content with the eleven Queen concerts I attended in the Seventies and Eighties with Freddie Mercury at the front of the stage (even though the last one was over forty years ago).

It's fairly safe to say Queen have stood the test of time. They're still immensely popular some fifty years after their first release, even though increasingly these days their fanbase weren't even born when Queen were in their heyday. Those of us who experienced Freddie Mercury on stage are beginning to die off now. But Queen still keep bringing joy to new ears, and I'm quite confident that their body of work will still be appreciated in another fifty years.

QUEEN

My experiences

Hyde Park: 18th September 1976

Earls Court: 1st July 1977

Empire Pool, Wembley: 11th / 12th / 13th May 1978

The Lyceum: 13th December 1979

Rainbow Theatre: 14th December 1979

Tottenham Mayfair: 19th December 1979

Wembley Arena: 9th / 10th December 1980

Wembley Arena: 4th September 1984

Freddie Mercury Tribute Concert, Wembley Stadium: 20th April 1992

[kaija-rayne-author]

9th review in series of Dragon Age Veilguard

70 hours in, 68 actual playtime.

I'm not an asshole disclaimer, if you've read it you can skip to the cut.

Something came to my attention. I need to make it crystal clear that I utterly love the diversity in DAV. It's fantastic. I'm also a heavily left leaning, non-binary, queer as fuck reviewer, editor, and author.

I'm on media blackout while I play this, so I'm only getting second-hand info on how awful it is right now in the DA Fandom. Please be safe and take care of yourselves. Arguing with incels and white supremacists is completely pointless. They sea lion worse than an actual sea lion. Your mental health is important.

Though, every single time the anti-queer brigade comes out for a new DA game, I sit there thinking 'have you bozos ever played any DA game, like, ever?' My guess is nope.

Spoilers for Dragon Age Veilguard

Section 8 here.

Did I say I didn't hate this game? I lied. I hate it so much it has become a vendetta just to finish it.

With three long games, 14 years of history, so much Lore there really never feels an end to it, 5 books. 6 comics, two or more coffee table books and probably stuff I don't know about to use for inspiration... this game is terrible.

They've stripped it down to the most banal, most puerile, most boring concepts they could possibly find in all of that to use in this travesty of a role playing game.

I'll finish it so I can see just how bad it is and how exactly they'll fuck over Solas some more. And here I was feeling comfy that since Weekes loves Solas that they wouldn't utterly fuck him over?

Whoooo boy, was I wrong. I wanted memories of his time before he woke up in Inquisition. I did not want memories of every cruel thing he'd ever been forced to do to protect tens of thousands of innocents. War is horrible. Those leading wars, regardless of the justified reasons (or not) get their hands bloody. They have to make hard decisions that cost pieces of their souls because no one else will.

I wanted memories of what Arlathan and Elvhen culture was like before everything went went to hell. What did we get? Memories painting Solas as the worst possible version of himself.

And the way they discuss and treat the topic of Mythal... I wonder if it's nice and cozy so far up Mythal's arsehole?

It's revolting when you know everything FleMythal has done, and if you read between the lines of all the lore about Arlathan era Mythal.

I've been told that the third act is the best. Though how anyone even gets to the third act is beyond me. Other than sheer cussedness and a desire to escape politics and the side effects of a pulmonary embolism. Cause that's the only way I've gotten this far.

Did I remember to say that they apparently forgot what aggro was and how that's supposed to work with a multi-player team? My rogue is not a tank. (Nor a rogue because rogues pick fucking locks.) Yet for some reason, he always has aggro. Especially the bigger and harder the enemy is to beat.

Aggro, in case you're reading my ramblings and don't know, stands for aggression/attention of whatever your team is fighting. Whoever did the most damage last is the one who should have aggro. In any decent video game, that's the tank, who is built to take it. They're supposed to keep the bad guys attention so the archers and mages can get it from behind/beside.

But since your side characters don't get skill points at the same rate your player characters do, (fantastic idea that, what utter dipshit came up with that?) Your character, whether they're a DPS or not, always has fucking Aggro.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to fight as a Legolas wannabe when you have several tons of dragon crashing into you because you do the most damage because of an outright shitty levelling system?

I now get to go fight another fucking dragon. That's gonna be fun. (It's my third today) and that'll have me into act 3.

Oh, and the much advertised 'dragon slayer' is a good character, but they're shit at actually killing dragons. I never, ever, thought I would miss Cassandra Inquisition. Because I utterly loathe her as a character, but I miss having competently designed dragon fighters in a game with so many fucking dragons to fight.

...

Make that two dragons.

Section 10.1 here.

[scaly-freaks]

cherry wine stains 7.0

all previous parts in pinned.

Alcoholism.

It's a heavy word, meaty, sticks like mango fibers between the teeth. By the time someone suggests it might be relevant to you, you're already a lost soul, wandering in a forest where the trees are broken liquor bottles, each label fancier than the next. Did you hear about so-and-so? Yeah, I hear they're an alcoholic now.

A stamp of disconfirmation on your validity as a well-functioning human being. There is no such thing as a functioning alcoholic. It's a bandage term, to disguise the inevitable slip-and-kick of the stool.

But Amara thinks she's functioning perfectly well.

It started with a glass of wine after dinner, as most things do. She hated the bitter taste as a teenager. Her tastebuds are still puerile, but the fuzziness she couldn't appreciate when she was younger is well-cherished now. Adults are more patient; they can get through the nasty bits for the soft, cushy marrow underneath.

If only she hadn't developed a hobby of painting the bottles once she was done with them.

Now the evidence is all over her home. It's like a serial killer removing the bones of her victims and painting them to hang as wind chimes (like that one episode of Criminal Minds that she kind of sort of remembers watching when she was too drunk to move).

At first she tells herself it's to cope with Rafael's threat. But when two months pass by and nothing happens, she can't say that it is. Besides, he was found in the river last week, chock fill of heroin that hadn't yet left his system. Amara knows for a fact he never touched drugs, not once he began to deal them.

It must have been Aegon.

She wonders when he graduated to murder, and if that means he sees people differently now. Knowing how easy it is to kill another person must transform the psyche irrevocably. She also wonders who told him Rafael was making threats towards her because it certainly wasn't Amara herself. Or if that was even the reason Rafael had died.

She'd gone home the night she saw Aegon at the club and drank until she couldn't see straight. Elizabeth and Gwen returned later to put her to bed, thinking she had simply had too much fun at the club and then somehow, rather responsibly, gotten herself home in a taxi.

Two months since that night.

She's learned to live happily in her forest of painted glass bottles and the day job she took on in between performances because nothing pays the bills these days except for crime. But she doesn't have the stomach for that.

It's how Aegon finds her.

An insistent bell press should have warned her who is on the other side. He's had the same way of assaulting doorbells since he was a child.

Her surprise at seeing him is dampened by the way he recoils at the stench of alcohol.

Shame washes over her, like the tide regurgitating garbage onto the beach. She doesn't look great either. Hair unwashed, dark circles, body doused in fabric that neither flatters nor enhances. Some days, she's swear she's put on weight. Others, her skin feels glued to her bones with nothing in between. She can't tell what she weighs anymore; her eyes skim over the reflection in every mirror she passes as if staring directly into it will bring a monster to her door.

But it hasn't. It's brought Aegon.

He snaps into action the way only an older brother can. With three younger siblings, he's never lived in any other state.

When she argues, he snaps at her, and they have a screaming match unprompted. It's as if no time has elapsed. Just last night, they were together, and now they're fighting again. She says something about it's my life blah-blah-blah and i'm fine and he tells her to shut up and take a fucking shower. That works better than kind words could have, because she goes upstairs just to get away from him.

And then once the shower is done, she realises she feels better, which of course annoys her all over again. But all the shouting has worn her out. She doesn't have the energy for more.

She stays up in her room - which is surprisingly neat - and hears him walking around downstairs tidying up. Elizabeth and Gwen haven't been home in a couple weeks, so it's been Amara alone, turning the place into a badger's den.

It isn't till she hears the clink of the glass bottles that she runs down in a panic. "Don't throw those away. I painted them."

"And I can paint a dope syringe and call it art," is his acrid response. "You've collected them like fucking trophies."

The brutality of his hand gathering them up leaves her feeling as substantial as a piece of crumpled paper teetering on the edge of a windy balcony.

She drops herself on the bottom step to watch as Aegon clears away months of her hard work. My liver struggled through all that for nothing.

He drops off the garbage bags by the bins and when he returns, Amara has her head between her knees. She is going through a list of things he might have wanted to tell her in person.

I'm leaving the country.

I'm going to jail.

I'm engaged.

I'm going to be a father.

She'll never know how she manages to force the words out. "Why are you here?"

Aegon stares at her with a hooded expression that either means run or are you fucking stupid? Neither makes her feel very good.

She wonders why he's being such a prick. Or if maybe he was a prick all along, and she just chose to ignore it because he was less of a prick to her than he was to everyone else. And don't we all just love to feel special to pricks like that?

"Why? Do you want me to leave?"

"If you're going to keep throwing away my stuff, yes."

"That wasn't stuff. You're an alcoholic and you're wearing it like a badge of honour. And don't you dare tell me you can do what you want."

"I wasn't going to."

"Yes you were."

She was.

"Still. Something brought you here. Or someone."

"You've been ignoring my calls for weeks."

Amara frowns. "No, I haven't. You never called."

He holds out his hand for her phone, and she doesn't think twice before handing it over. Most people would. Phones are such intimate objects. Giving them to someone unlocked is the animal equivalent of rolling over to expose your belly.

"Why do you have my number blocked?" he asks.

"I don't have your - that's not your number."

"It's my new number."

"...oh." Comprehension sinks in. "I was getting a lot of cold calls around that time. I started blocking numbers I didn't know. You probably should have texted first."

Aegon flares his eyes as if to say yeah, no shit. Maybe that would explain the negativity straight out of the door. She wasn't feeling too happy that he'd ghosted her, but he was going through the same thing. Knowing about Sara meant she hadn't bothered to follow up and ask why she was no longer on his contact list.

He comes to sit on the stairs, a couple steps beneath her, and they stew in the silence. The atmosphere feels loaded, like a gun about to go off. Or maybe that's all in her head. Aegon has both his hands shoved into his pockets, one leg carelessly tossed over the other as his eyes fill with light from the window.

"I'm sorry for the mess."

He snorts. "You call this a mess?"

"It kind of is." She bites a hangnail and looks around. "I think I like letting myself go just to see how bad it can get."

Aegon chuckles. "And this is your worst, is it?"

"I'd say so."

"Spoken like a ballerina."

"You don't think this is bad?"

"I think you're a functioning alcoholic who would have tidied up eventually and pretended nothing was wrong."

"There's no such thing as a functioning alcoholic. I looked it up."

"Newsflash: if you're looking it up, you are it, angel."

Her stomach does several somersaults at the familiar pet name. He doesn't seem to realise - or care - that he said it. Perhaps it's always been ordinary to him that Amara is something as hyperbolic as an angel. It's something he's never questioned. That both flatters and worries her, because the only way to go from high up in the heavens is down, down, down.

"Functioning alcoholic and an only child. Would explain the refusal to ask for help in order to fester," he continues.

"People with siblings fester too, you know."

"The ones with crappy siblings, yeah. You could have called Helaena. She clearly seems to think you two are closer than you do."

"That's not true. She's one of my oldest friends."

"Oldest doesn't mean closest. Do you want me to tell her how I found you?"

"No."

"Then you're not close."

"If you came here to lecture me, I'd rather you left."

"Unblock my number. Then, I'll leave."

She snatches up her phone and does exactly that, but before she can show it to him, Aegon grabs her wrist and forces the action himself. In the process, he pulls her nearer, and her damp hair falls over him like a scented curtain. She sees him visibly inhale, coupled with a slight tremor in his jaw.

Their eyes meet and she thinks of Rafael floating in that river.

Aegon's hands feel the same as they used to, not at all like they've killed someone.

But the soft blue edge to his eyes is gone. He has less patience. And now her wrist is caught in his hand, and he is staring at her like he wants to tear into the soft skin of her neck. Or she's imagining it all. Living inside a mind you don't trust is a hell all on its own.

"Next time I call you, pick up," he tells her.

Danger licks at the words like the flame of a lighter.

She's not imagining it.

Once he's gone, she lies back on the stairs, waiting for the fear to kick in.

Her childhood crush is gone, and in his place is someone that has learned to carve his place in the world with violence.

But the fear doesn't come. There is nothing of the sort.

Instead, it feels like a chain has wrapped itself around her neck and Aegon holds the other end.

She can't remember the last time she felt so secure.

[fatfables]

Abundance, Oklahoma

A short companion piece to my full length fat fable 'Camp Shawn'

1.

Mr Nimby’s palms were itching. He scratched and scratched at them until they were sore with red marks running down the middle. He held his left hand up to his nose and his right nostril flared as he took a big sniff. He grimaced and pulled his face away from his hand.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Mrs Catinhellschance asked him.

Being rather a short man he looked up at the old woman, and frowned. He had never liked the crazy old bat but this damn new settlement had made allies of them. After all, who in their right mind would want a fat cult moving in down the road? Those people were crazier than she was, and she stunk of urine and screamed at passing cars.

“I’m preparing for my speech. What do you think I’m doing?”

“Well, it better be a good one. They got that famous lawyer man coming. Ya know, the old Swedish one from the TV news.”

Who the fuck still watches the TV news, he thought. “Yes, I’m well aware of that, Irene, thank you.”

“He’s very good, ya know.”

“I know, Irene. He’s also very old. Quite frankly it’s amazing that he’s still alive given the damn size of him!”

“Human rights lawyer, he is.”

“Yes, Irene, I know!” He was on the verge of losing his temper.

“No need to shout at me, Mr Nimby, I’m only trying to help.”

“I know that as well, Mrs Catinahellschance. None of us want this. These people are batshit crazy.”

“Who’s batshit crazy?”

They both turned round to see Mr Bunterson, famed human rights lawyer from the TV news slowly making his way towards them. He was at least eighty years old, had a full head of wild, curly, grey hair, and a walking stick in each hand to help him keep his balance and take the stress off his spine, caused by the planet sized belly that he was rocking up front.

Mr Nimby and his neighbour tried their best not to stare at the old man’s waistline but it was very hard not to. How often does one see a 500 lb plus octogenarian? 

“I can only assume that you are referring to myself or my clients?” Steve said.

“Too right!” Mr Nimby said. “We don’t want your kind here. You’re a disgrace to this country!”

Steve Bunterson instinctively let out a massive burp that he had been saving up, “Buuuurrrrrppppppp!” He blew it in Mrs Catinahellschance’s direction.

“Sorry,” he said, “Too much Dr Pepper in the car.”

“Vile man,” she spat at him, “Puerile, like a spoiled child!”

“And what is wrong with spoiling children Mam? Aren’t children meant to be doted on? The twinkle in our eyes? Do you not believe that the children of America should have everything that they want?”

“No, we do not! Isn’t that right, Mr Nimby?”

“Yes, that’s right! You people represent everything that is wrong with this country!”

What a fucking idiot, Steve thought. He was about to speak when a fourth person entered the hallway. It was the chairman of the town council, Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks.

“Ah hello Mr Bunterson, so pleased to see you! It’s a real honour to have you here in our town. You must be looking forward to putting your plans forward” He reached out a large Indian hand and shook Steve’s soft wrinkled palm with genuine warmth.

“It’s very nice to be here. And yes I’m really excited about the Abundance proposal. I think that it will bring a lot of growth to the region.”

“Bollocks!” said Mr Nimby abruptly.

Steve Bunterson turned and looked down at the small man over the rim of his round glasses, individually designed at great expense to match his round face.

“Very strange turn of phrase for an Okie?” He said, “Have you spent a lot of time in the UK? Mr er..”

“Nimby! The names Nimby. And no I’ve not. Though I do like to watch a lot of their comedies online.”

“Hmmm, not surprising for a man who hates America. Did you know that Mr Nimby was a red coat-wearing self-hater?” He aimed the question at Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks.

“No I did not, but I can’t say that I’m at all surprised.”

Mr Nimby tried to protest this childish name-calling but he was spoken down by the much larger chairman.

“You must be very hungry Mr Bunterson. You’ve come a long way today. We have prepared a special buffet meal before the meeting.”

“I thought you’d never ask!” Steve smiled widely at Mrs Catinahellschance, purposefully pushed his belly out and made a loud noise out of not saying goodbye to either her or Mr Nimby.

Stupid people like that clearly weren’t worth bothering with. The two of them obviously thought that their protests might actually work. They were both far too stupid to know that they hadn’t just already lost but had in fact lost ten times over.

2.

Steve was sat at a large round table with Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks, four young members of the Surplus and three rotund local supporters. Eight of the party glutted themselves to the limits of human endurance while one of them spoke at great length.

Considering his advanced years, Steve still knew how to eat. He was now more than 200 lbs lighter than his heaviest ever weight, a consequence of the limited medical technology available to him, but he still more than enjoyed his food.

One day the youth of America would no longer need to be restricted by such basic things as the limits of evolution, but that day had not come yet. Steve filled his face with oysters, shrimp, crab legs, and lobster. He quaffed down the quail, and chugged down the champagne. He had developed a real taste for expensive cuisine in his older years. The younger Surplus stuck to pizza, fries, and burgers.

Plate after plate was delivered to the table in order to save the guest of honour from having to fetch his own food, and the empties started to pile up as the serving staff struggled to clear the table quickly enough. One Surplus boy, Kaden, 22 years old and just over 300 lbs, was keen to show his abilities off to his elder. He ate so many burgers and cocked back so much Coke that he burst the buttons off his best shirt as his belly bulged. To his delight Steve raised a toast to his achievement and demanded that they all have another round of three more plate fulls in celebration.

Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks didn’t care one way or the other about the behaviour of his gluttonous guests, he was already dreaming about his upcoming trip to Rio. As far as he was concerned if the white man wanted to eat himself to death then he was more than welcome to do so. He didn’t even raise a note of concern or dismay when the young Surplus and rotund locals started farting wildly at the table. He had done his homework and knew that this was an old Surplus tradition dating back to the camp, so didn’t want to offend his paying guests by commenting on it.

After two hours of eating it was time for the meeting to begin. Himself, Steve Bunterson, and Mr Nimby moved to a long table at the front of the room so that they could take it in turns to address the attendees.

Steve was very slow to stand and even slower to walk. His replacement knees were suffering from the strain of having to hold up his bulk. His 500 lb frame was now swollen to the max and his huge round low-hanging gut swayed as he shuffled forwards with small heavy steps. Two thousand miles away his twin brother, Henry, was sitting on his sofa eating four whole pavlovas while a servant boy tried to massage the pain away from his fat swollen legs.

Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks spoke first and at great length. He took ten minutes to go through the attendees, twenty minutes to go over the minutes of the last meeting and half an hour to introduce Steve and the topic of the night. Fortunately for the young Surplus and their local rotund friends there was still plenty of food left on offer to keep them entertained. Poor old Steve just had to sit and listen to it, wishing that he was younger and still sat at the table with the other fat boys.

Second to speak was Mr Nimby. This in itself irritated him and he spent fifteen minutes complaining about the fact that the anti-proposal speaker should really get to speak after the proposal in order to be able to rebut it. Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks interrupted him three times to state that the order of the speakers had been chosen at random. Mr Nimby finally got to his point.

“The Surplus are an unethical, immoral cult that threatens the basis of our country. This obsession with growing as fat as possible may now be very popular but that doesn’t make it right. As decent law-abiding people we should reject them and their principles. Allowing them to build a whole town dedicated to making its citizenry as obese as possible in our county would be not only an acceptance of their way of life but an approval of it…”

His speech was interrupted by a slice of strawberry cheesecake hitting him straight in the face. A loud cheer erupted from the table of fat boys.

He wiped the sweet sticky dessert from his cheeks and continued. 

“That, ladies and gentleman, that is the level of people that we are dealing with! These disgusting gluttonous pigs have no conscience! If we allow them to build on Peterson’s Farm then that is what we are welcoming into our community. And I for one want nothing to do with it!”

Mrs Catinhellschance, sat at the back of the room, attempted to applaud him but she was easily drowned out by the boo’s of seven severely obese young men, who jeered and pelted him with after dinner mints. He sat back down.

Steve Bunterson rose slowly to his feet. His distended belly bashed into the table in front of him as he stood, knocking over his drink and those of his fellow speakers. He waved a fat old hand up and down to beckon the boys to quieten. They did so immediately.

“Mr Nimby is a moron. He is an antiquated idiot. His outdated ideas of morality belong firmly in the last century. A century of untold wars and horrors. He dare not speak it but he clearly believes in the debunked ideals of public health. Of the type that have been rejected by the vast majority of Americans. He seeks only to curtail the liberty of us all. He wishes to deny all of us the right to enjoy our own bodies, to pursue happiness through eating. This is not only unconstitutional, it is downright un-American! This man hates America, he told me so himself earlier this evening. And beyond even this he is not only wrong in his beliefs but he is also wrong in his facts. We are no longer planning to build our new town on Peterson’s Farm but on the reservation. This sale of private land has been agreed with Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks and the rest of his tribe. A fair and legal agreement between the original inhabitants of this great land and a people who represent its great future.”

Fourteen young heavy hands banged on the large round table in pronounced agreement. Mr Nimby looked at the chairman next to him in total surprise.

“Is this true?” He asked him.

“Yes,” said Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks, “We signed the contract yesterday. The new town of Abundance will be built on twenty seven acres of reservation land. As such the consent of the town council is no longer required. I invited Mr Bunterson to tonight’s meeting as an act of courtesy to the town’s folk so that he himself could talk to you and explain the benefits.”

Mr Nimby slumped defeated in his chair. Steve Bunterson’s smile was as wide as his stomach. Fuck these ignorant inbred assholes, he thought. No one would stand in his way.

He rose once more to his feet, scratched at the top of his huge belly, straining under his designer 6XL shirt, and began to speak again.

“Every American youth has the option to choose our way of life. To choose a fulfilling life of abundance in Abundance. I want every boy in this great country to be able to grow into his full potential. To be the biggest and best that he can be. It is not only his right, it is his birthright! Gaining is the epitome of the American dream and I repudiate anyone who says otherwise. I was lucky as a child that my father cared deeply about me and my brother. He cared enough to not just let us be who we wanted to be but to help and encourage us every bite of the way. He understood human rights better than anyone. While so-called public health crusaders tried to deny us a right to life, liberty, and happiness, through intrusive social programmes that went against the spirit of the founding fathers, our father sent us to fat camp in order for us to indulge in our passion. Meanwhile the public health lunatics attempted to ban trans-fats, they attempted to limit the variety of food available in schools, attempted to limit portion sizes at fast food restaurants, attempted to limit the number of restaurants and food stalls through anti-business zoning laws, there was all sorts of government overreach going on, but we fought them all! And we were victorious! We grew as fat as we wanted in spite of them, and thanks to ever improving medical technology we will continue to grow to new unheard of sizes without any negative health effects! I was once over 700 lbs and lived a perfectly happy life. You my boys, you the future of the Surplus, the future of America, you will soon be able to grow to over 1000 lbs at least! That I have no doubt about. And you will be able to do it in a town called Abundance!”

There were loud cheers from the large round table as shouts of “Hip hip hooray” started up. Steve received a standing ovation from his corpulent young followers and a few more heavy set people in the room.

“And now my friends, we shall feast to celebrate!”

Steve sat back down at the large round table as Chief Likestotalkandtakespaybacks spoke again for another twenty five minutes in order to bring the meeting to an end. Mrs Catinhellschance and Mr Nimby tried to slink quietly out of the door but an extra-large apple pie hit him in the ass as he did so.

The elderly Steve Bunterson, attorney at law, four young Surplus, and three new recruits continued to stuff themselves stupid with desserts for the next three hours. They guzzled down gateaux, chomped their chubby chops on chocolate cheesecakes, and downed dozens of delicious dairy donuts each. They swallowed every item in sight until they all strained and heaved around the waist. Every one of them extended themselves to a delirious level. Eight tight stomach bags groaned with delight. More buttons popped and every one of them had to undo his belt and fly in order to let his delightfully overfull belly breath.

Steve was so impressed with his fat young charges that he let three of them come back to his hotel room so that they could fellate him and each other.

Click here to read the first of three parts of 'Camp Shawn'.

[eldifusor]

Get to know me- yes, it is a tag game!

I was tagged (with no obligations) by @pleiadianwitch and I am choosing to actually do it.

1. Were you named after anyone?

So my irl name's lore is: mother took it from the bible, father also chose the same but from a secular detective book so they surprised each other when they discussed how to name me. Bible name is confirmed. I have never been able to confirm name was actual read on a secular detective book: because father can't recall the title of said book. I do like this story a lot so I chose to believe that it is true.

2. When was the last time you cried?

I cry internally everyday more than once. Actual tears flowing from my eyes you ask? Well, like a week ago at time of writing this.

3. Do you have kids?

No.

And you did not ask but I will volunteer this:

I don't want kids "of my own" but I think "kids" don't belong to anyone and as a society we must take care of every single one of them.

4. What sports do you play/have you played?

Back in the day I used to play a lot of basketball. Loved it. And actually played enough to try out for a pro team in Puerto Rico but failed miserably because I was not that great. Also never disciplined which was the real problem.

I also coached some little league basketball on my barrio.

5. Do you use sarcasm?

Me?? NEVER.....

(yes, that "joke" is the most puerile and obvious way of trying to convey that I used it, love it etc.

BUT as I grow older, I am using it less and less because I think sometimes people don't know how to sarcasm properly or use sarcasm as an excuse to just being petty horrible people and I think that is fucking lame).

6. What is the first thing you notice about people?

Eyes. I am obsessed with looking at eyes discreetly when someone is talking. Love seeing someone smiling with their eyes: the most endearing human quality that makes me feel good about humanity and that we might still have a chance of being not as horrible as we are.

7. What is your eye color?

Boring but Trusty Brown

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

You know what? I appreciate a good scary movie but I don't seek them. Maybe I should do more.

And I do think well earned happy endings are cool and all BUT what I really like are sad tragic endings.

But for this questions I will say: a sad tragic ending disguised as a happy ending. That's the REAL THING!!!

9. Any talents?

Public speaking-- for better or worst. :-D

10. Where were you born?

Bayamón, Puerto Rico

11. What are your hobbies?

I have a myriad of obsessions that I do sometimes simultaneously or some other that are seasonal, others dies and come back...obsessing over the intersection of politics, media, pop culture, meta-narratives, writing, storytelling, games...I mishmash everything...in other words: what TUMBLR represents in the virtual spaces, is basically what I would call my "hobbies". Does that make sense? No? EXACTLY.

12. Pets?

No more. Had a lot in the past. Loved them dearly. Suffered too much when they parted. Decided to stop that. But love to see other's pets and respect a responsible pet owner forever.

13. How tall are you?

6'1 mostly...6'2 other times

14. Favorite subject in school?

Spanish, History, Science, Social Studies

15. Dream job?

I had it. It became a nightmare. I still get to do some dream like thing on jobs and just appreciate when that happens.

*** I will tag (with no obligation to do it of course!): *** @peligrosapop @lierdumoa @raynitamusic @lydighed @holdinghorizons @poetessinthepit @james3neal

[collymore]

USA elections - don't count your political chickens before they're hatched!

By Stanley Collymore

Donald Trump has no policies and what he and his ilk glibly, glaringly and very gloatingly pass off as such are firmly based on and deeply entrenched in hatred, arrogance and the clearly delusional myth of white supremacy! Evidently then obviously no wonder that he unquestionably attracts rather intellectually challenged, gullible, dimwitted and literally demented cunts generally, and, similarly so, pathetically self-professed celebrity ones, basically like the South African deeply ingrained apartheid moron Elon Musk and rather similarly as well, the distinctly Franco/ German pillock, discernibly and risibly   masquerading himself pathetically as the discernibly, quintessential "native" Britisher and clearly crucially national saviour, Nigel Farage: a vile charlatan extraordinaire; but very realistically in the cases of Elon Musk, Nigel Farage and very obviously the evilly rampant multiplicity of others rather distinctly like them, this simply irrefutably KKK and Nazi German aficionado Donald Drumpf, alias Trump, would crucially in my honest opinion, simply benefit the entire world enormously, actually by their literally permanent absence, attendant similarly with the removal of this malignantly egregious scum; as per the equally very undoubtedly toxically verminous ones, like Adolf Hitler, Josef Mengele, distinctly too Benito Mussolini; evidently Antonio de Oliveriera Salazar and Joseph R. McCarthy: reprobates of humanity!

Candidly, and honestly, what Donald Trump and also his equally thick aficionados describe as policies are basically puerile and discernibly calamitous non-existent realities that vilely embody his and their racist hatred of others, compounded by their actually, contemptuous arrogance and obviously, phenomenal intolerance of everything, that doesn't aptly comply with their distinctly intransigent narrow mindedness, and actual stupidity! And, were Donald Trump, literally effectively to be really elected he will surely again tank the economy, basically as he truly did first time around. And as a British/ Barbadian, and Afro-Caribbean citizen with several generational and multiple authentically USA born, literally raised and significantly, consistently actually crucially, gainfully employed and also positively contributory citizens - aptly so the very phenomenally late Shirley Chisholm actually constitutes one of them - very obviously, unlike many of these distinctively, evidently odiously and very vitriolically chattering white European, racist, glaringly immigrant scum - I quite distinctively hope, that you toxically mother fucking pillocks voting for Trump get burnt, far worst this time around so I can essentially evidently gleefully say, "told you so"!

(C) Stanley V. Collymore 29 October 2024.

Author's Remarks: Honest elections reveal the true polling views and intentions of the actual voters. So-called polls on the other hand as well as ludicrously hyped purported pundits discernibly reveal in actuality what the minions of those with their own specific vested interests want to aptly think and likewise hope you go along with it!

And were it not for my several American family members, friends and the genuinely discernibly decent Americans that live in the USA, my clear response to the discernibly toxically verminous swamp of those infesting that country, would be quite simply take the plethora of nukes that you have, and would rather you were the only ones to do so, congregate solely in Florida, Texas and the other so-called red states, quite assiduously play Russian roulette amongst yourselves with these same nukes and blow yourselves fucking well to Kingdom come. As no intelligent person would miss you purblind cunts! Are you hearing me loud and clear Donald, apartheid immigrant Elon Musk and snake oil charlatan Nigel Farage?

[readjthompson]

Well, since my novelette Cancel Toby Chalmers! (copyright me, now) has been sitting around, completed, for nearly 16 months, I’ve decided to share it for free, until it’s later released as part of a Toby Chalmers collection.

Here’s Chapter 6.

Chapter 6

Awakening in his bed, fully dressed, yet again, Toby Chalmers groaned and vowed to cut down on his drinking. He made that vow often in the a.m., though it always evaporated hours later. Days encompassed too many hours. The tedium of modern existence demanded a tonic to fuzz his thoughts and make him grin.

His kidneys ached most mightily. He was lying on his cellphone, he realized. Retrieving it, he discovered that its battery had died. I must’ve started an ASMR playlist and passed out while watching it, he thought.

After plugging the phone into its charger, he set off for his bathroom, for the usual morning routine.

* * *

Damn, that hits the spot, Toby thought to himself, polishing off the last of his breakfast burrito—leftover steak sliced into morsels, plus eggs and mozzarella cheese, enwrapped in a flour tortilla. He’d been making himself breakfast burritos nearly every day lately. Beef, chicken, bacon, potatoes, bell peppers—their contents might’ve varied, but the satisfaction they provided remained constant. He liked to wash them down with the same customized beverage: half chocolate oat milk, half organic cow milk, stirred until perfectly blended.

He'd worked out already. Time to brush his teeth. Then, to keep himself occupied for a while, he’d return to the story he was writing.

Why bother? he wondered. After all, he hardly needed the scant income that his efforts earned him. With Toby’s austere lifestyle, the trust fund he’d drained years prior would last him until death. Moreover, the days where he’d felt a pressing need to contribute to the artform he so cherished were long gone. He didn’t even write horror anymore, just puerile, perverted bizarro fiction that he could barely stand to put his name to. That was the only writing he could sell.

Well, at least I have fans, he’d told himself until recently. Eventually, my horror stuff’ll catch on and I can craft stories that I’m proud of again. But was that even the case? In his early days as an aspiring horror author, when it seemed as if he’d jump out of his own flesh if he didn’t churn out prose and sleep came irregularly and far too meagerly, he’d been inundated with ideas—morning, noon and night. He’d jotted notes down onto every paper scrap available or texted them to himself when out on the town. He’d felt as if he was but a channel for greatness to flow through, as if he’d embraced a higher calling and would soon be banging celebrities. He'd worked on four separate narratives daily, shifting perspectives with ease, researching on the fly. Now, he could hardly stand to craft a single novella, only wrote because he couldn’t think of anything better to do.

Truthfully, he didn’t even like the scant fans that he did have. Most were middle-aged Caucasian men who seemed far too interested in fucking him. They sent him flirty direct messages, even after he assured them that he’s straight. A few had even sent cock photos and ended up being blocked. One proposed marriage. Another rolled a paperback copy of The Indelible Adventures of Sergeant Thundershorts into a tube and deepthroated it. Toby had met plenty of cool homosexuals back when he’d had more of a social life, who’d sold him great MDMA, respected his sexual boundaries, and even introduced him to pretty women, but a significant percentage of his readers now seemed quite rape-hungry.

Oh well, better get to work, he thought.

* * *

Later, resting his hands, Toby read back what he’d written: “‘Keep perfectly still,’ the man said to his wife, as he stuffed her vagina with grass ’til it overflowed. ‘Once our sexy little sheep slut is eating you out with much gusto, I’ll take her from behind, rough and fast. It’ll be our first threesome. You’ll love it, I say. No, don’t look at me like that. This is all for you, baby.’”

I can’t finish writing this, can I? Toby thought. I always assured myself that I’d never write about bestiality, yet I’m just a page or two away from doing just that. That was the line I’d never cross, I’d assumed. What’s the fuck’s wrong with me?

I’m going crazy in here, cooped up all by myself. What if writing about sheep sex turns me on? I should go out to dinner somewhere, maybe flirt with a waitress. I’ll write my phone number on the check and tip exorbitantly…see if I hear back from her. Oh, that reminds me, I left my phone charging.

Retrieving his now fully-charged celly from his bedroom, he thought, Wow, I haven’t gone on social media once today. That’s gotta be some kind of record for me.

And of course, having mentally invoked social media’s specter, Toby found himself with no choice but to activate an app. Whoa, what the hell? he thought, inundated by notifications. 2,842 replies. 584 quote reposts. Most of the time, I’m lucky to have a few notifications. What did I post again, anyway?

IPA fog had swallowed all recollection of the previous night’s writing. Vaguely, he recalled the disgust he’d felt upon seeing black-on-black police brutality on TV, and how he’d decided to address it. I must’ve achieved some real drunken eloquence, he thought, just like Ernest Hemingway. Good for me.

Then he started reading the replies.

“Kill yourself, you racist pig fucker!” wrote 2Woke2Die.

“Whitey gon’ white,” wrote YUGumpin.

“Get right with Jesus!” wrote getrightwithJESUS.

PatriotiCali wrote, “Finally, somebody understands that niggers should only be allowed out at night. You’re my hero, Toby Chalmers!”

Oh my fuckin’ God, thought Toby. No! No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Did I accidentally write something racist? Please tell me I didn’t.

His dinner plans now forgotten, he checked out a few quote reposts.

“Look at this bitch ass Toby Chalmers, outin’ himself as a racist,” wrote SWOLLHYPHY.

“Cancel and cancel again for good measure!” wrote QuitStaringAtMyTits.

“More trash writing from a trash writer,” wrote 66picklesandchange.

Toby could put it off no longer. Guess I’d better bite the bullet, he thought. I’ll see what’s gotten everyone so worked up and attempt to explain myself. I didn’t go full edgelord last night, did I? He found his post and thought, Holy shit, it’s a long one. With an extended sigh, he began reading:

Race memory has long ascribed a stigma to darkness. Indeed, from the dawn of humanity, nighttime has provided predators with cover to skulk, stalk, and assault, then disappear back into gloom. Hazards unknown in the day manifest to purloin, rape, and murder. Sometimes those hazards arise in one’s own psyche.

By and large, as a species, we prefer to see our surroundings, to read faces and postures to discern dark intentions. We prefer the warmth of the sun to the moon’s cold indifference. Candles, lightbulbs, flashlights, phones, computers, and TV screens keep darkness at bay. When in total tenebrosity, we strive to sleep, to regain vibrancy in our dreams.

Our distaste for the darkness has even shaped our language. White magic will heal you. Black magic will hurt. A white knight will help you. A black knight will harm. Blackouts hide drunken misdeeds from your memory. You blacklist, blackball, and blackguard those you want excluded, and blackmail those whose money you covet. If you’re believed to be truly evil, some will label you a blackheart. But what of those individuals of African descent known as blacks?

Is it so much of a stretch to assume that humanity’s collective unconscious, which has long associated blackness with wrongdoing, has prejudiced each and every human, blacks included, against people of African descent? Look at the arrest statistics. Look at the black-on-black violence statistics. Look at the slave trade that shaped the United States as we know it: Africans selling other Africans to Caucasians, to treat as beasts of burden. The reasonably intelligent transcend their innate bigotry and give blacks a chance to prove themselves great, but many people are dumber than shit.

Spade, darky, spook, shadow skin, and tar baby—just a handful of the racial epithets crafted to call attention to their skin coloring. Stereotypes about blacks abound even now, perpetrated by the media and black celebrities all too happy to portray themselves as drug dealing criminals for paychecks. Do those rappers and actors feel ashamed, knowing that their actions continue to negatively shape society’s assumptions, leading to more violence and deaths? Or are they blinded by millions of dollar signs?

It's time for humanity to finally embrace the darkness, to cherish the shadows with just as much gusto as we cherish the light. It’s time to stop focusing on black crime and see their race as it truly is, multifaceted and fascinating, just like all of the others are. I don’t want to see another black man begging policemen for mercy as they stomp the life out of him.

Limit horror to horror fiction, now and always.

Toby closed his eyes for a second, as if that could erase his past actions. What the fuck was I thinking? he thought. Suggesting that even blacks are secretly prejudiced against blacks…I mean, Drunk Me could be right, but holy fuck.

He checked on his follower count. Just under 10,000 the last time that he’d looked, it was now less than half that, and still plummeting. He was following less people now, too, indicating that hundreds of those unfollowers had blocked him for good measure.

He had gained a few dozen new followers, though, most of whom used Donald Trump as their avatars. Caucasian incels, the lot of ’em, Toby assumed, shaking his head. Should I block them or ignore them? Are they gonna purchase my books or attempt to recruit me for the Ku Klux Klan?

He checked a few more of his replies. “By ignoring the plight of the trans community, this post is advocating for violence against it,” wrote GenderOmega.

“Cisgender, straight, white men aren’t allowed to talk about race. We must take notes and nod when others tell us what to think, for the good of humanity,” wrote TheTrillestYT.

“Non-Caucasians can’t be racist. Racism belongs only to the devil race, our oppressors,” wrote HorrorHunkSteve.

Should I post a phony apology, see if that appeases these assholes? Toby wondered. Can I blame it all on the beer, maybe donate to a black charity, and be forgiven? Oh, what am I thinking? Most of these morbidly obese shut-ins have never sipped alcohol in their lives. They’re still cuddling up to their mothers, attempting to suck milk from their withered tits. If I so much as imply contrition, they’ll attack me all the harder.

Toby had seen it happen before. Two months prior, horror hack Oswald Mortenson had joked that a world without straight, cisgender, white, male authors was worse than a world without books and begged for forgiveness when the vox populi turned against him. He’d never been heard from again. Even his children disappeared from social media. Then, when Beauregard Liddell, owner of Burning Ladle Books, posted, “I’m sorry, but whites are the best horror writers,” then attempted to pass it off as a week-early April Fools’ Day prank, the publisher’s every author demanded that he cancel their contracts, and he’d retired in shame.

Damn, Toby thought, these whinging crybabies are probably leaving my books phony reviews now, to drive down their average Amazon and Goodreads ratings. He visited his Amazon Author Page and his mouth fell open in shock. There was only one title left: his self-published short fiction collection, Mementoes of Madness.

Fleshless Fingers, his every bizarro title, and every magazine issue and anthology that he’d contributed fiction to were gone. Revisiting social media, he found that all of their publishers had blocked him. Logging out of his account, so as to view theirs, he found that each had posted a press release decrying Toby’s racism, and vowing that he’d never work in the small press scene again. Those posts had gotten more likes and reposts than all of those publishers’ previous posts added together had.

On Goodreads, he found all of his best reviews and ratings absent, and his friends and followers lists drastically depleted. Is this how it all ends? he wondered. All these years of polishing my prose and working to gain a fanbase erased because I posted a single controversial theory? That doesn’t seem fair in the slightest.

He thought about it for a while. While his initial instinct was to crawl into a bottle of hard liquor, then score maximal quantities of whatever hard drugs he could get his hands on, that was quickly eclipsed by a blazing, crimson rage. No fuckin’ way, he thought. These weeping vaginas aren’t gonna make me a junkie. They’re not erasing my prose as if it never existed. I’ll self-publish all of my out-of-print stuff, then start writing horror again. I’ll search out freethinking readers and be more popular than ever.

If only it were that easy.

[thewadapan]

Waterworld - Kevin Costner's Weird Fish Guy Mad Max Rip-Off

"They don't make films like this any more" is obviously a cliché, but when the production company spends three months and $22 million scratchbuilding a full-size floating village, plus god knows what else on dozens of custom watercraft, shooting most of the picture out at sea, I think I'm allowed to say, they don't fucking make films like this any more.

But what did I actually think of it? Ride your post-apocalyptic jetski over that "Keep reading" break to find out!

Taking the one-of-a-kind practical stunts into account, the script on this bad boy would have to be truly unforgivably bad for this to be anything other than a monumental artistic achievement. And… it's definitely kind of bad. But it's narratively self-consistent, thematically coherent, and manages to present a vision of its farcical setting which feels like it's had at least some genuine thought put into it.

On paper, it's something of a vanity project for Kevin Costner—but from the very opening scene, which shows a very complicated filtering apparatus the Mariner uses to drink his own piss, it's clear that he at least has a sense of humour about the whole thing. It's surprising just how much of the film he spends being so much of an irredeemable asshole, this absolute beast of a man who cares for no-one but himself. In particular, during the film's biggest action setpiece—where they wreck that aforementioned scratchbuilt atoll, at the end of the first act—he spends the whole thing spluttering in a cage, slowly submerging into a pool of composting gunge. There's a really wicked sense of irony to it.

Despite its often puerile sensibilities, however, this is far from a mindless film. Instead, the post-apocalyptic dystopia is intended to let us reflect on the climate crisis—in particular, the horrific ecological abuse deliberately perpetuated by the oil industry out of pure greed. The villains are a huge gang of "Smokers" who drive boats (and a seaplane) running on diesel—in contrast to the Mariner's sailboat. Their leader, the affably unhinged Deacon, is a chainsmoker who seeks dry land purely as a means of recreating the sins of the past: most specifically, he dreams of an endless golf course. At the end of the film, their massive oil tanker home sinks, and we see on its stern the words EXXON VALDEZ—the name of the tanker responsible for the second-worst oil spill of all time. This disaster occurred in 1989, only a couple of years before Waterworld would have entered production, and I really think you can feel that fresh fury at the people responsible: in particular, the Deacon is seen paying respects to "Saint Joe", Captain Joe Hazelwood, who was almost certainly drunk when his crew crashed the 53.1 million gallon oil tanker into Bligh Reef off the coast of Alaska (of course, Joe's justifiable blame was also a form of scapegoating to shift focus from Exxon's own criminal negligence). It's an incident that feels almost beyond parody, and yet somehow, Waterworld finds a way.

The ecological themes are also reflected in the blinkered attitudes of the atoll community, who seem in denial of the long-term issues of resource-scarcity and inbreeding. In particular, incest is deliberately contrasted against these people's xenophobia and concerns over genetic purity: it turns out that the Mariner is not quite human, but rather has gills. Their rejection of him is ironic when their own genes are being perverted to a greater extent by those very fears. Of course, it does not seem like that much time has passed since the world flooded, which I think suggests the possibility that the Mariner's mutation was in fact caused by ecological contaminants. Much of his arc centres on his own self-hatred, ultimately bringing him to a place of self-actualisation, self-acceptance, and redemption.

One of my favourite ideas the film has is the character of Enola, who acts as a literal McGuffin via the map to "Dryland" tattooed on her back, and who compulsively draws scenes from the old world, which surely she can't have seen… right? I'm not sure the film ever actually makes any of this make sense, but it's just so evocative, so well-used to fuel the narrative and communicate the themes. The way her drawings spread like rust over the cold steel of the Mariner's boat is such a simple way of showing her effect on his psyche.

Similarly, the relationship between the Mariner and Helen is presented with a remarkably complex dynamic—albeit with much of that complexity stemming from some of the film's most collar-tuggingly uncomfortable beats. Early in the film's second act, Helen offers herself to the Mariner in exchange for him sparing their lives; he refuses, but you get the sense that this is mostly because Helen is clearly revulsed by him, rather than out of any particular moral compunction. Later on, he seemingly prostitutes Helen to another drifter in exchange for some paper. The paper has writing on it similar to the tattoo on Enola's back, so obviously he doesn't want the paper itself, he just wants to look at it—but from Helen's perspective, and from the audience's to a certain extent, he really is just abandoning her to this drifter. This recurring threat of sexual violence—beginning as early as the atoll scene, before they figure out he's a fish guy, when the villagers ask that he gives his "seed" to a teenage girl—is something you see in a lot of post-apocalyptic media as a signifier of societal decay and depravity; it's in Mad Max, this film's most direct inspiration, which is a much more vicious film by comparison. Still, the theme of trust between the Mariner and Helen—who is clearly herself an outsider at the atoll—is strengthened by his inability or unwillingness to communicate. Often, the Mariner seems to want her to see him as a monster.

Through this lens—of a man who is independent both by his own choice, and by the deliberate alienation of others—the film's ending is not nearly so neat as one might assume at a glance. The shot where Enola kisses him, then runs away from him, is heartbreaking. During these scenes on Dryland, we see the Mariner reckoning with a choice of whether or not to stay in this Garden of Eden, or to return to the ocean. It's in one deleted scene, restored as part of "The Ulysses Cut" I watched, that Helen gives him the name "Ulysses", and the film explicitly remarks that this is one of the few nontransactional acts of kindness we see in the whole story. But aside from this name forever tying him to these people, there's this beautiful tragedy to it, as the sea calls to him, and he denies himself (or is denied by his nature) a peaceful future.

Watching this extended cut, years after I caught a TV broadcast as a teen, I honestly could not identify any scenes which struck me as superfluous or overlong. So much happens in this film, it covers pretty much everything you'd expect of its premise and more, and all of it is in service of the characters and world. I love the bit with the mutant shark, it's exciting and hilarious at the same time. The oft-remarked-upon cut twist of Dryland being the summit of Mount Everest is something the entire film builds towards, and its omission from the movie as originally released is unjustifiable.

Really, the only section of the film that I felt was genuinely mediocre was the third act confrontation aboard the Deez. It's this huge setpiece, this massive oil tanker swarming with rabid freaks, but it fails to remotely compete with any of the other action scenes in the film. I can see why, on a production of this scale, they'd choose to frontload their budget with the atoll material—but by this climax, it just feels like there's not enough gas in the tank.

Rating: 8/10

If you’ve enjoyed this review, you can find dozens of similar essays over on my Letterboxd account.

[conkniving]

legs shook like the last leaf threatening a stem snap from the branch. yes, because the body was coursing with more emotion than she anticipated for a boring shift at the motel where so many rushed through encounters with the suspect of a gruesome murder. but also, the fear she looked ridiculous. puerile. but it wasn't enough to subdue her. they spoke beside her ear, studded with silver, and suddenly, she felt the bracelet adorning her wrist beneath the cuff of leather searing into her skin. vindication. all these years she wore the gaudy article that often stood stark against the rest of her aesthetic, but never did she part with it for longer than a shower. it was lynx's, many many nights ago, when they both felt lost at sea. exiled from their school and their peers, adrift from any sense of the future, and fallon broiling in insecurity borne of what would become the bastards. perhaps it had been too long, but who was fallon to ever care about manners? after another pause, she was back on her own two feet, not moving more than a pace away with hands stationed on the other's shoulders. it was hard to meet their eyes, and so she focused on the collar of their top, adjusting it brusquely. a sound strangled from her throat. just as the lone tear fell, she brushed it swiftly with a shoulder, smoothening a hand on their chest and letting it fall regretfully. "i missed you, you fuck." if 'you fuck' could be spoken fondly. "are you staying? because if you leave me again, i might just have to kill you myself before you do." the dark chuckle was stuttered with what would have been a sob if she didn't choke it back. eyes drifting up to lock with theirs, no small measure of effort placed in the gesture. why was it so hard? it was proven they were no mere apparition. fury welled in misplaced instinct, a defense mechanism, as was most of her interactions. but the bile at the back of her tongue was swallowed, and she would not allow this moment — this first moment in a long fucking time — to be ruined.

There was a gang in town; Cy's gang according to the updates whenever the kingpin visited them in prison. "Is Fallon part of it too?", Lynx remembered themself asking. The response made them wonder if they'd be part of it had he been in Anchorage, hadn't he been accused of everything he didn't do. It was too late to find out. The sound of a grieving motorbike brought back those memories, they should visit old friends; if this encounter went well, they would certainly visit old friends.

With a desolated parking lot, it was purely instinct that made them look the way of the stranger, catching them stepping out of the vehicle, recoil their body and seemingly prep themselves for something. It wasn't until the person turned their head that his lungs were squeezed out of air.

It was an exchange of stares, simply that and Lynx was already tightening the fists in his pockets in anxious anticipation. Their expression imitated hers, the mirroring still active and updated even after 7 years without seeing each other's faces. Still beautiful. But there were more layers to the face they had known from long ago; she seemed quite troubled — not strange after all the ordeal she had been going through. Her eyes still sparking a black fire, but the harshness had intensified.

She was faster, because as he was trying to gather his thoughts, Fallon was already heading their way. The contact, the warmth, the easiness in which their bodies fit together like a two pieces of a puzzle made Lynx drop a broken sigh. Both body and mind screaming from the overwhelm of emotions and sensations they had been deprived from years ago. God, he was so touch-starved. The ex-con fought against the survival instinct and held her tightly, one arm around her shoulders and the other circling her lower back. They stumbled a little because of the unexpected weight, but was quick to gain stability and then fall entirely into the embrace, squeezing her against his body as if trying to recover all the lost years.

"Fal..."

They weren't even able to fully pronounce her name, their head betraying him and sending tears to the eyes and a knot to his throat. Talking to her like this was something Lynx considered long gone, but right in this moment they thought that maybe the universe was giving them one last chance. "I'm here. I'm back", they stated the obvious and most likely it was more for himself than for her; it was to ground their emotions and realize that yes, they were allowed a respite. "I missed you so fucking much", they whispered with eyes now closed.

[kelliealtogether]

17! 🧪 🥼 🧫

[30 incredibly specific aus.]

17. i can excuse unethical science but I draw the line at skirting lab safety. you cannot be eating rn

Emma, I'm sorry this took so long! Also, this isn't exactly eating in the lab, but it does involve food, and it's more hysterical science, not unethical, but this is where my imagination took me. It's 100% dialogue, something I've wanted to play with for a while, and I very much hope you like it. Love you. 😘

"No."

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean no. You're not coming in with all that."

"Sorry to break the news to you, Parrish, but it's my lab, too. You can't–Oh. Real mature. Block the door."

"You're not coming in, Lynch."

"I can move you."

"Didn't work so well for you last time."

"That was your fault."

"Was it?"

"Parrish."

"You're not–Did your bag just croak?"

"You're half deaf. You're hearing things that aren't there."

"Lynch. Ronan. No. You are not bringing her in here."

"She needs to be fed every two hours. I have to."

"That means you have her food, too. No, Ronan. You're not bringing a raven and a bag of macerated crickets and worms into the lab."

"Only you would call them macerated. Just say mashed like everyone else."

"I'll call them macerated when I'm the one doing the macerating."

"Such a goddamn pedant. What's that face for? Don't make that face. You are."

"You can make fun of me all you want, Lynch. You're not getting in the lab."

"Oh, come on. You need my help, Parrish."

"Yeah, I do. But not enough to let you in with a bird and mashed–God, you're so smug–bugs that will potentially jeopardize testing."

"You need me, though. I know the ICP-MS a hell of a lot better than you do."

"Because you jerry rigged it with a carrier gas of indeterminate origin so you could test your piss after you drank Goldschläger because–I think this is your exact wording–nothing gold can stay."

"My stance is that it was a successful experiment. Nothing gold did stay."

"It's a seventy thousand dollar instrument–"

"Used instrument."

"It's a seventy thousand dollar refurbished instrument that periodically doesn't work because of your successful experiment."

"Yeah, you like to periodically remind me of that. I told you I’d pay for service and IQ/OQ."

"Take her home, Lynch."

"Adam."

"Take her home, Ronan. I'm not risking sample or test contamination with mashed bugs or fecal–” 

“Just say poop like everyone else.”  

“You’re puerile.” 

“You laughed, didn’t you?” 

“Doesn’t negate that you’re puerile. Look, I know you want to get in here, but right now you’ll help more by taking her home. We want to get these assholes that dumped mining waste near her nest and gave every other living thing in the area lead poisoning. It’s not going to help if our analysis is brought into question because there was a corvid and her macerated crickets hanging out in the lab.” 

“Jesus shit. Fine. But you tell her she can’t come in.” 

“Ronan, I’m not–Hi. Hi, Chainsaw. It’s nice to see you, too. Ronan shouldn’t have brought you–” 

“Maligning me to the bird. Nice, Parrish.” 

“Go to hell. See if I appease you again.” 

“You said that last time and then you put your mouth–” 

“Take her home, Ronan.” 

“Fine. Text–No, email me the results. Graphs and raw data.” 

“I will.” 

“If the nebulizer fucks around again–” 

“I’ll FaceTime you.” 

“Okay. Tamquam.” 

“Alter idem.” 

[pleasantanathema]

Santa Daddy | Jean Kirstein x Reader

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Reader

Rating: Explicit 

Warnings: Daddy kink, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, friends to lovers (or, rather, idiots to lovers), lots of holiday fluff

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This is my Secret Santa gift to @whats-her-quirk​ 🎄💕 June, thank you so much for being a wonderful friend; I was truly lucky and privileged to get you as my Elf for Secret Santa! I hope this fluffy (and dirty) little fic with our best boi Jean brings you some holiday cheer! 

           There were only a few things in the world that made you happier than watching Jean Kirstein smile. Like most of your friends, you’d met him through work, but there was always something so special, almost magical, about seeing his darling smile and hearing his boisterous laugh. And you rarely passed up on a chance to see delight spread across his handsome face, which is why you couldn’t say no when he asked you to join him on a get-a-away with your friends for the holidays.

           The inquiry came after you mentioned how you wouldn’t be able to make it home for the holidays due to a winter storm blowing in. It would be the second season in a row that the weather kept you from visiting home.

           You could still hear his voice in your head, “alone? For Christmas?”

           He’d then insisted you join him and his friends at Sasha’s family cabin. It was tradition for them, a gathering of misfits finding communion together out in the wilderness for a few days before the new year. You had taken trips with your friends before to amusement parks, festivals, even to the beach at Armin’s request, but something about being invited to an intimate setting to celebrate holiday traditions had you anxious.

           So, there you were, swaddled in blankets, listening to Eren bicker with Mikasa while Sasha and Connie bustled in the kitchen to make eggnog and treats. Armin had declined to join, citing that he’d seen too many horror movies about young adults alone in cabins to feel comfortable making the trip.

           And, true to form, Jean was running late. He was always late, his mind constantly moving a mile a minute unless he consigned himself to much needed rest and relaxation. Though, this time, you felt a little lonely while waiting for him on the couch, like there was a small part of you missing as you watched the snow fall outside.

           “So, none of you guys go home for the holidays?” You looked over toward the modest, plastic tree that Sasha had thrown down from her attic to bring a little holiday cheer to the living room, a few poorly wrapped presents and bags nestled under the branches.

           “Well,” Eren cleared his throat, “we are orphans.” He pulled at Mikasa’s scarf for emphasis.

           “Oh fuck, yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

           “Don’t worry about, he just always brings it up to get sympathy gifts.” Mikasa sighed, jerking the red cloth from his hands and scowling. Eren only laughed, brushing a stray hair from his face that had come loose from the bun at his nape.

           You sunk a little deeper into the cushions, eyes glancing out the window in hopes you’d see headlights flash in the driveway.

           “Do you think Jean’s okay? He should’ve been here a while ago and the storm is getting closer.”

           “Jean, Jean, Jean,” Sasha trotted into the room, balancing a mountain of sweet-smelling cookies on a plate, “you’re always worried about him.”

           “Someone should be, guy’s an idiot.” Eren chimed in, green eyes shining from the low flames rolling in the fireplace. He and Mikasa were sitting in the floor, a game of checkers spread out before them, with more stolen pieces resting near the cunning Ackerman’s side of the board.

           Eren wasn’t wrong, but over the years you’d known your group of friends, you’d noticed just how much the man in question had grown. In his early twenties, Jean had been quite the bumbling fool, having literally met you by bumping into your shoulder while leaving work, only to look at you and mumble “god you’re beautiful,” before issuing a quick apology as he rubbed at his neck sheepishly. You’d never mentioned the moment again, though your stomach still churned with a slight thrill every time you thought about it.

           But over the years he’d managed to turn that puerility into something much more charming. He was more refined, almost infuriatingly suave, easily gaining attention from anyone and everyone. And though you sometimes hated to admit it, he’d captured your thoughts as well.

           You kept your budding crush on Jean Kirstein close to your chest, not admitting it to any of your close friends. You always figured he was out of your league, seeing that he had a new, more beautiful girlfriend just about every other month. But, despite your simmering feelings, you still allowed yourself to get closer and closer to him over the years—some might say he’s your best friend, but you might call him your most treasured vexation.

           Another hour or so went by, your time spent nibbling at cookies and reminiscing with everyone about another year passed.

           Then the door finally opened, cold air gusting into the small living room as Jean stomped his damp boots on the entry mat.

           “Have you guys opened presents yet?”

           You glanced over the back of the couch, heart tugging in your chest as you noticed snow dusted in his long hair and a sizeable red and white polka dot package in his hands.

           “No because Christmas is tomorrow, or did you forget that too?” Connie said it with crumbs in his mouth, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

           Jean laughed, running a hand through his hair before wrapping the gift in his arms like it was something valuable.

           “I know, I know, and sorry I’m late, had something important to go get.” He smiled, bright and cheery, hazel eyes bouncing between his friends and the carefully guarded box, “I ask because…uh, this needs to be opened kind of soon.”

           “Is it perishable?” Sasha perked up, already ready to go make room in the fridge if something delectable was waiting as a gift.

           “I mean…you could say that? It may or may not be alive.” He was laughing, that kind of infectious laughter that had everyone in the room grinning whether they wanted to or not.

           Jean didn’t set the present down to even take off his shoes, instead tracking snow in with him and plopping onto the couch with flurries still on shoulders. He nudged your knee with his, pushing the present toward you. You pressed your lips together, hands getting sweaty as you pieced the puzzle together.

           “Is that…?”

           “Yeah,” his grin was pulling at his cheeks, eyes so sincere and happy and it almost startled you, “it’s for you.”

           The top of the box moved, the green bow popping on top of the polka dots.

           You moved the gift into your lap, pulling off the top to find perky ears and green eyes peering up at you—a kitten, grey and striped, with long, white whiskers and a pink bow around its neck greeted you with muted curiosity. You just stared at it for a moment, and it stared back, like you were both wondering just how it got into your lap.

           “I just,” Jean was getting nervous, carding his fingers through his hair again as he waited for your reaction, “I wanted to make sure you’d never spend another holiday alone, you know?”

           You carefully picked up the little cat, watching how it stretched and yawned as you pulled it from the carefully lain blanket inside its temporary home.

           You smiled, pulling the warm little bundle to your chest.

           “Um, Jean, this cat has six toes on her paws,” you said, pressing your thumb gently against one of the extra appendages in question.

           “Six toes?!” Sasha was jumping up from her seat, bounding over to kneel in front of you and pluck one of the kitten’s paws into her fingers. The cat quickly pulled its paw back, little black toe beans curling to its chest.

           “Yeah, it’s what drew me to her. She’s extra special…” you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter something under his breath, a little musing of “just like you,” but any hushed murmur was overshadowed by the ohs and ahs of your friends gathering around to look at the adorable little creature.

           The kitten had been lulled to sleep by the car ride from the shelter to the cabin, content to just curl up in your arms as inquisitive fingers prodded at her little kitten mittens and the silky, white tufts in her ears. Even Mikasa was enraptured by the tiny animal, taking the time to retie the little pink ribbon around her neck to make a bigger, prettier bow.

           You noticed how your friends were whispering, cheeky grins pressed against eager ears as they looked between you, the precious kitten, and Jean on the couch. You were starting to feel like you were missing something, or maybe that you were at the end of a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet.

           “Thank you,” you whispered to Jean after the fuss died down, everyone returning to their seats and back to their previous fixations.

          You’d mentioned perhaps wanting a cat a few weeks ago; it was just a silly, off-hand comment you made over coffee about how you’d once read that people with cats live longer because they pick up on the nine-lives of their feline partner. You didn’t believe it to be true, but you’d mused about the idea of having a cute kitten of your own to snuggle up with on lonely nights.

           “I know it’s sudden and a lot of responsibility, so if you don’t want her—”

           “No,” you cut Jean off, bundling the kitten a little closer in your arms, your heart singing as you felt her start to purr, “no, I want her, she’s perfect.”

           Jean finally started to get settled himself, standing up and shrugging off his jacket. He was in a tight turtleneck, coal black threads stretched to their limit across his broad chest and shoulders, hugging his trim waist. You were careful not to stare for too long as he stretched his arms above his head to shake off the weariness of his drive through the snow.

           He always looked like he stepped out of a fashion catalogue, fresh and so put together that sometimes you were tempted to snap his photo when he wasn’t looking; he just looked that good all the time. He loved to wear designer clothes and keep up with the latest menswear trends, and tonight was no different, that beautiful black turtleneck (that was covered in grey fur) undoubtedly belonging to a designer whose name you probably couldn’t pronounce.

           “What are you gonna name her?”

           He sat a little closer this time on the couch, a brawny arm outstretched behind you as he leaned over to scratch at the kitten’s chin.

           “I don’t know,” you admitted, gazing down at the serene, sleepy face in your arms, “I’ll have to get to know her first.”

           “Well, I’ve been calling her Frankie.”

           “Frankie?” You smiled through your confusion, the name sounding oddly right.

           “She was pretty wild in the car and kept meowing when Frank Sinatra was on the radio.”

           “I see,” you laid the kitten down into your lap, sweeping your fingers through her fur and watching as she curled up into a tighter little circle, “well, I’ll consider it.”

           You felt warm, heavy fingers brush against the back of your neck, Jean absentmindedly painting figure eights into your prickling skin. Heat flushed to your face as you realized just how close your bodies had become—his thigh was pressed against your own, dark jeans tight and hot, the scruff of his cheeks brushing against your own as he toyed with the sleeping cat’s tail.

           There were voices all around you, the muffled sounds of your friends relaxing together falling almost on deaf ears. Your whole world felt like it just revolved around this couch, like nothing else mattered beyond the simple touches to your skin and the drowsy kitten beneath your hands. He never wanted you to spend another holiday alone, you replayed his words, the sweet sentiment finally settling into your spirit.

_______________

           You could tell everyone was starting to get a bit sleepy, a few hours spent drinking spiked eggnog and chasing the new kitten around with a feather toy having left you especially exhausted. Your head was a little swimmy as you bid everyone goodnight, the grey tabby cat following closely on your heels to your bedroom where Jean had already brought in a litter box and a bed for her to sleep in. Jean, underneath all the designer bravado and smiles, was perhaps the most thoughtful person you knew.

           But despite the heaviness in your head, you couldn’t seem to sleep. You tossed and turned in the bed, occasionally picking up your phone to scroll through it or just watch the time tick by. You had a lot of thoughts mulling around in your mind, most of them revolving around the man sleeping just right across the hall.

           Never in a million years did you expect Jean to walk in with a beautiful, perfect kitten as a gift. The little thing was back to sleeping again, this time curled around one of your feet, each exhale a little purr against your toes.

           You’d carried the weight of this crush around for too many years. You rubbed your palms against your eyes, sighing as you came to terms with your feelings for Jean for what felt like the thousandth time. Your pining was starting to take its toll, too, what with the sleeping giant so close yet so far away.

           And you still felt like you were missing something.

           Throughout the night, your friends had seemingly been playing coy, teasing Jean about getting you such a big, sentimental gift. Maybe they had all caught wind of your suppressed feelings and were poking at Jean for even daring to indulge you. Now you were just getting frustrated with your thoughts, sighing as you tried to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep.

           But then you heard a little sound, the soft buzz of your phone against the wood of the night stand.

           Jean: You awake?

           Your heart skipped a little in your chest as you saw his name flash upon your screen. You texted him nearly every day, yet he never failed to send a little jolt of adrenaline down your spine.

           You: Yeah. Can’t sleep.

           Jean: Me either. Cabin is too fucking cold.

           You: I have a kitty asleep on my feet, definitely helps beat the chill.

           Jean: A warm kitty sounds nice right now.

           Only a few seconds passed before the next message appeared.

           Jean: Wanna come keep me company?

           Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, your mind not even thinking about the words in front of you. Instead, you were picturing Jean in his bed, hair tussled with his own phone in his hand as he texted you, light spilling over his bare chest in the dark. You wondered what he was thinking—maybe he just wanted you to bring the cat over to see him for a bit, or maybe his mind was wandering in the same place yours was, which was picturing him naked beneath his sheets.

           You set the phone down, momentarily starting to panic.

           You hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Jean might be asking you to come get in his fucking bed with him. Thank god you took a leisurely shower earlier—and you still smelled good, you checked.

           You stood up from the bed, watching the kitten stretch and quickly fall back asleep on top of the blankets. You bent down to slip on your pajama pants, but then found yourself debating if you should just leave the flimsy material behind.

           If this was what you were hoping it was, walking in without pants would send the “I got the hint, I’m here to fuck,” message loud and clear.

           But if this was just “hey pal come keep me company, I’m bored,” walking into his room in nothing but a shirt and panties could be quite awkward.

           You decided to hedge your bets, stuffing your pajama bottoms back into your bag as that lingering liquid courage from the eggnog set in. If worse came to worse, you could always say you forgot to pack them.

           You carefully closed the door behind you, making sure the cat didn’t follow.

           Then, it was literally just a few steps to Jean’s room. Conveniently, his door was cracked. Did he get up and leave it open for you? Did he always sleep with his door cracked? Or had he planned all along to ask you to come over?

           You shook your head, taking a deep breath. Those inessential thoughts needed to be quieted.

           The door creaked as you slid past it, the old hinges signaling your arrival and making Jean’s attention whip towards you. His phone was still in his hand, like was watching your messages and too-eagerly anticipating your reply.

           “Hey,” you whispered into the darkness, wincing as the door kept groaning as you pushed it shut behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, too nervous to just waltz up to his bed and fall in. You chewed at the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to break the silence.

           “Aren’t you cold?” He whispered back, shifting in the bed.

           His figure was illuminated by the pale, grey light from window, the snow clouds still keeping the moon suppressed in the sky. Like you’d imagined, he was shirtless, all those hard-earned muscles on display from where he was propped up on his elbows, sheets low against his waist.

           “I thought you were cold, Mr. No Shirt.”

           “You’re not wearing pants.”

           “I’m not wearing pants,” you parroted back.

           You watched the smile spread across his face, that darling, infuriatingly pretty smile that made you a little too happy in this moment.

           He pulled his sheets back in invitation, revealing that he, too, was not wearing pants, only clad in blue boxer briefs that were sinfully tight around his upper thighs, etchings of Calvin Klein pressed against his lower stomach.

           His hands were on you before you even settled onto the mattress, warm and greedy and pulling you flush against his body. All those worried thoughts you had before vanished under his touch, the message you had been missing suddenly loud and clear: you weren’t the only one hiding your feelings. All those veiled emotions came alive beneath wandering hands, your fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as his found the flesh of your thighs.

           “Was this what you were thinking about when you invited me here?”

           You breathed in the smell of his warm skin as you settled against him, notes of his cologne still lingering against his body.

           “This is what I think about all the time,” he confessed, nudging his thigh between your legs.

           You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your mouth as the muscles of his thigh pressed against your aching core.

           “Me too,” you were pulling his face down to yours, thumbs against his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his.

           A satisfied sound rang from both of your throats, lips melding and slanting against one another hungrily.

           “Why didn’t you say anything?” His words were lost within the kiss, being swallowed down as you kept drinking him in.

           “Why didn’t you say anything?” You echoed back, gasping as his hands slid underneath your shirt and began to wander across your belly, reaching up toward your ribcage.

           You both knew the answer to that: you were idiots, too scared to admit feelings even though they were clearly on display for everyone around you. But now the question didn’t matter, all the answers you wanted about to be shared between your anxious bodies with starved kisses and touches.

           You shamelessly pressed yourself a little harder against his thigh, sighing as your pussy found relief against his leg. He groaned at your action, moving his thigh back and forth a little bit to see how you would react. When you whimpered, your own thighs squeezing around his, he smirked, repeating the motion of sweeping his thick, sturdy thigh back and forth between your legs.

           “You like that?” His head was tilting down, teeth nipping at your jaw and down your neck as your head fell back against the pillow.

           “Y-yes, feels so good.”

           His hands were still traveling, wandering across your heated skin like he wanted to map your curves into his memory. He groaned against your throat when he discovered you’d also forgotten to wear anything under your t-shirt, his thumbs lazily brushing the undersides of your breasts.

           You felt like you were burning beneath his sheets, like he was painting fire against your skin with every touch. His large hands engulfed your breasts, carefully kneading and rolling your soft flesh in his palms. He was eager to kiss you again, to slip his tongue past your parted lips and get addicted to your taste.

           Jean pinched and pulled at your hardening nipples, greedily taking your little mewls into his mouth. He touched you like he already knew you, pulling at your body like you were the perfect little sex doll on strings for him to play with; rocking you on his thigh, tugging at your nipples, tongue dancing in your mouth, his hair tickling your cheeks, his cock hard and hot against his stomach.

           Your panties were getting more and more wet by the second, the soaked material sinking into your folds as you rubbed yourself against the downy hairs and rounded, solid muscle of his upper thigh. His boxer briefs were bunching closer to his hips, pre-cum already staining against the fabric where his cock was imprinted into the threads. You slipped your hand down his impressive chest, fingers dipping into the elastic of his briefs.

           “Oh fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling back to suck in a breath as your fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, “fuck you’re so hot riding my thigh like that, so fucking wet.”

           “You did say you wanted a warm kitty.”

           Your words had him pinching harder at your nipples, making you gasp as he chuckled.

           “Mhm I can’t wait to play with your kitty, make you mine,” he punctuated his sentence by bouncing his leg up, sending electric pulses of pleasure racing over your nerves.

           You responded by pulling his cock from its confines, wrapping your fingers around it and tugging at the silken skin. God he was thick, barely fitting in your palm as you moved your wrist up and down. You suddenly felt so small against him, realizing that he was dwarfing you just by lying next to you in the bed. His long, thick fingers could spread across the entirety of your chest, the thigh sliding against your pussy was enormous, but it felt like it belonged there; you could get used to riding him like this.

          You both fell into a frenzied, delirious rhythm, your bodies bucking and panting as you found bliss against each other.

          His hands slid down your body, leaving your tender breasts and searching for a new home. He found your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he rocked you back and forth against his thigh himself, using the strength in his forearms to have your pussy pressed down against him in the most perfect way to have you seeing stars and whining his name.

          “Gonna cum, baby? Gonna cum just from riding me?”

          “Fuck, yeah, yes, please, make me cum like this.”

          Your hand had gone slack against his cock, your mind almost unable to concentrate under the waves of pleasure building and coiling inside you.

          It felt too good to have his rapacious hands on your hips, grip mean and tight as he basically fucked you against his thigh. You wanted to scream, your other hand clawing at the back of his neck for stability.

          “Baby,” he breathed, peppering a few kisses along your cheek, “could…could you call me daddy when you cum?”

          There was a hesitancy in his voice, like he was ashamed to ask such a thing.

          Your lower belly clenched, heat racing across all your nerve endings like he’d just poured sin straight out of his mouth.

          You nodded your head for him, uncontrollable moans and gasps getting in the way of your own words. The thought of calling him daddy, that sent something wicked down to your pussy, had your fingers squeezing and tugging at his cock again and your eyes falling shut.

          It felt like your sanity was breaking, like reality was splintering and this wasn’t real—you were dreaming again, weren’t you? But then you felt his cock twitch in your hand, felt your swollen clit brush against your panties and his thigh, and you were thrusted back into the actuality of your situation. You were with Jean, he was groaning in your ear, and you were about to cum all over him.

          “D—da…,” you were choking, so overwhelmed with a final cresting of bliss that you almost felt like sobbing.

          But he just clutched you more tightly, pressed you harder against him, whispering your name in encouragement to let yourself go for him.

          Then, you lost all of your sensibilities, euphoria washing over your body as you snapped and came undone with a little whine of, “daddy,” against his lips. You slowed the rocking of your hips, your heart beating out of your chest, your pussy pulsing and clenching as you rode out the last remnants of your orgasm.

          “Holy fucking shit that’s so hot, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, one of his hands smoothing against your cheek.

          “Wha—,” you smiled, shaking your head as you caught your breath, “what are you doing with a daddy kink, Jean?”

          He mimicked your smile, hands moving to slide your ruined panties down your legs and removed the rest of your clothing as he repositioned your bodies. You let him move you around like a ragdoll, so delirious in your afterglow that you barely even registered how he was hooking your legs onto his shoulders.

          “Do you not like calling me daddy?” There was a seriousness laced into his tone that told you he’d drop it if it made you uncomfortable.

          “I like it,” you fisted one of your hands in his hair, bringing his lips to yours for a slow, messy kiss, “just didn’t expect it.”

          “I’m full of surprises, baby.”

          You felt the head of his cock nudge between your wet folds, his hands back on your hips where they belonged. Your head fell back against the pillow as he started to push inside of you, stretching your walls and making your toes go almost numb from the pleasure. You felt like you were splitting apart, like a fissure was forming down the middle of your body, stemming from where he was spearing into you.

          With your legs on his broad shoulders, he was pushing you into the mattress, his hands urging your hips to relax and let him sink into your warm heat.

          “Ohhhh fuckkkk daddy,” you couldn’t help but to whine, all your senses suddenly overwhelmed again. You were drowning in him, falling deeper and deeper into the throes of heaven with every inch of his fat cock slipping inside of you.

          “God you’re so tight,” he presses his forehead to yours, keen eyes watching how your lips were falling apart and your eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure, “that’s right, daddy’s going to take such good care of you.”

          It felt like all your history with him was being wiped away, like this moment wasn’t about two friends fulfilling all their years of mutual pining, but instead about a new relationship blooming between two bodies full of lust and desire. This was about Jean fucking you senseless, about him taking control and finally having what’s belonged to him for longer than he probably even realized. You wanted to lose yourself to him, lose yourself to his appetite and just let him devour you.

          All the air left your lungs when bottomed out inside of you, your walls clenching and sucking him in. He stayed still for a moment, nearly lost himself at the feeling of your cunt wrapped so tightly around his cock.

          “So fucking perfect,” he groaned, dragging his cock out of you slowly before pressing in again, your cunt greedily sucking him back in.

          “I always have been,” you teased, one hand lost in his hair while the other slid down the expanse of his back. You bucked your hips in his hands, coaxing him to keep moving.

          “Oh fuck. Good girl.”

          His praise made you feel drunk, liquid heat rushing to your ears and between your legs.

          He began to snap his hips, repeatedly burying his cock into your depths, the angle of your body making him hit that fleshy patch inside of you. You cried out at the feeling of being so stuffed, your walls burning from the intrusion but that coil inside your belly tightening again, hotter and more intense than before.

          “Mhmmm, such a good girl, I promise,” you pressed your lips to his in reassurance, letting your breathy moans fall into his mouth as he started to get a little rougher. His pace was steady, solid, a hard motion of his cock thrusting in and out of you, each push and pull full of purpose and passion. Every plunge was making your lower stomach spasm, making pleasure burst across your body so forcefully that you felt that urge to cry again.

          “Wanted to fuck you for so long,” his face was tucked underneath your chin, mouth trailing across your throat between his words. A particularly hard suck against your neck had your back arching, breasts flattening against his chest and your nails clinging to him.

          Jean sat back on his knees, big hands smoothing down your thighs as he looked to where your bodies were conjoined, watching how your pussy enveloped his cock with every thrust of his hips, sweet skin encasing all of his length. He looked enraptured by the sight, groaning and hissing every time he pressed inside of you.

          Then his eyes were flashing up to your face, softening as he took note of your blissed-out state, your face flushed and your lip between your teeth.

          “So pretty,” he mused, a palm ghosting up to your chest to toy with one of your tits as he found a new rhythm.

          You were ensnared by the scene before you as well, eyes wide with delight as you admired the man before you. Jean felt unhinged, electric between your legs, like he’d finally let go and was pouring all his clandestine secrets into your willing body. His chestnut hair was swept over his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and across his body rolling, rounded and thick like he was marble come to life. And his face was smooth, pretty, concentrated, cheeks dusky with a dark blush as he found euphoria from within your body.

          Your hips began to match his thrusts, bucking up into him in order to feel his thick cock fall deeper into you. His strong hands encouraged you, gripping into the supple flesh of your thighs as he pressed himself into your wetness, faster and faster with every thrust.

          “Daddy,” you called out to him, having to bite back a grin as you observed how quickly you earned his attention, “you feel s-so good,” your hand was traveling down your chest, trailing over his fingers on your breast before snaking down to your clit, “p-please let me cum again.”

          You had an inkling that he would take over for you.

          His thick, long fingers hovered over your own, carefully aiding in swirling over your aching clit. You hissed, recognizing the buildup to orgasm pooling within your belly.

          Jean’s other hand slid higher upon your body, fingers lacing around your ribcage, framing the underside of your breast. He began to forcefully pull your body into his, sliding you upon and down the sheets and upon his cock. You cried out, legs tightening at his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to devour you and take what he wanted. His thumb was almost impatient on your clit, now circling so quickly that your body was shaking, lower stomach clenching and unclenching repeatedly like you were lost in a reckless tide.

          “Shit, I’m not gonna last with you squeezing me like that, baby.”

          Your mouth watered at the thought of him finding that ultimate pleasure inside of you. Your ears became tuned to the chorus of resonances between your legs, the sweet, wet sounds of skin against skin, of slick at the base of a fat cock, of Jean grunting your name like a lost prayer.

          The final chord of your sanity was threatening to snap, you could feel it again, like he was pulling the strings of your body too tightly and you were going to splinter and break with just the right swipe of his thumb.

          “I-inside,” you mewled, unable to keep your eyes open any longer as your thighs began to quake, “daddy—oh fuck, fuck—cum inside me, please,”

          God you were so fucking close to falling off the edge, and he could feel it, using his grip to bring you even harder and faster down onto your cock to get you careening and falling again.

          Your push into oblivion came when you heard him pleading, almost whining, above you, sweat dripping down his skin as his syllables flowed together, “please, please, please, fuck, cum for daddy, cum for me, please.”

          You could both feel it, how you creamed around his cock, pussy sucking him in so deliciously tight that it caused him to lose all control. His fingers dug a little too deep, his cock throbbing and pumping deep inside of you with his release. It was like the world went quiet, like a blanket of snow fell onto your bodies and hushed your sounds and cooled your skin. You could feel the heavy weight of him inside of you, like he was meant to be there. Your body relaxed, feeling like you were sinking into the mattress and he was the only thing keeping you from being lost.

          When he finally pulled his spent cock from inside you, he wasn’t gone long. His hands were back on you again, pulling you in for simple, affectionate kisses and rubbing tenderly at the places he’d perhaps explored too roughly.

          “Jean…” you cut yourself off with a yawn, fatigued limbs winding into his own.

          His thigh found its home between your legs again, both of you groaning with a mixture of lust and disgust as you felt his cum drip into a mess between your thighs.

          “Whatever it is can wait until morning, we need to sleep.”

          “Oh fuck, it’s Christmas.”

          He nuzzled your cheek, lips searching for yours.

          “Mhmm, Merry Christmas, baby.”

          You laughed, laying your head against his chest.

_______________

          You weren’t sure how long you slept, but it felt like you spent a small eternity in Jean’s bed before your eyes opened again. When you awoke, he was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with the kitten in his arms. She was ready to play, striped tail swishing as he dangled a toy mouse just out of her reach.

          “What time is it?” You stretched, suddenly all too aware that you were still very naked beneath the sheets.

          “It’s only eight, everyone else is still asleep aside from Mikasa who actually went for a run in the fucking snow.”

          Jean smiled, hair tucked behind his ears, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you realized just how madly in love with him you were. You always aimed to make him smile, to hear him laugh, but to see him gazing at you in the morning sun with pure adoration shining in his hazel eyes had you practically melting into the bed.

          “I meant what I said last night, you know,” he said, turning the kitten loose to run across the bed.

          “You said a lot of things last night, daddy,” you teased, watching his cheeks turn a pretty pink at the mention of that name.

          “I meant about you never spending another holiday alone. Because, you know, I’d like to…” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was genuinely nervous.

          You sat up, running a hand down his arm before kissing at his shoulder, momentarily getting lost in the smell and feel of him.

          “Yeah, I’d like that.”

          No one was surprised that the two of you, and the kitten, spent every single holiday together thereafter, mostly naked, and always smiling.

[hyenafan]

Nny dies by chip and then Jimmy waterboards him

Rating: G

Pairing: Mmy/Nny

The Señor Salsa chip crunched satisfyingly in Johnny’s mouth as he sat on his couch in front of the tv. He reached his hand back into the chip bag, but all he could feel was grease and the smoothness of the inside of the bag.

It couldn’t be empty. Johnny could have sworn he’d only eaten about four chips! With a frown, he turned away from the tv and lifted up the chip bag to get a better look inside.

The crumbs tumbled down and fell right into his eye, immediately burning it with the power of a thousand suns.

Johnny screeched, dropping the bag. The injured eye watered up first in a futile attempt to flush out the irritant, but the other one started to tear up from the pain. Soon he was rubbing furiously both of his eyes. It did nothing to stop the pain, if anything he thought maybe it was burning more. But doing something seemed better than nothing. Tears streamed down his face and soaked his hands as the burning consuming his eyeball continued.

“Shit! What happened?”

Johnny didn’t need his eyes to see the owner of that annoying voice.

Jimmy had been living with him for several weeks now and Johnny still wasn’t sure why he’d allowed it. He was loud and annoying, talking to Johnny about his different ideas for killing people. The jokes were even worse, either puerile puns or jokes that Johnny worried weren’t even jokes at all. But that would make even less sense. And then Johnny’s things would end up in different places. He’d be sure he left his pencil on his desk only to find it somewhere completely different. Johnny thought maybe the doughboys had come back, until Jimmy admitted to using his things. Somehow, having another person move his things around was more irritating than his figments doing the same thing.

“The fucking chips!” Johnny hissed out in pain as he waved a hand at where he assumed the bag fell on the floor. Maybe now that he answered he’d leave Johnny alone to his misery.

“Okay, okay. I can help! Don’t panic!” Jimmy sounded more panicked than Johnny did.

Arms wrapped around his middle from behind, dragging him back and up off of the couch. His legs flailed underneath him for a moment before he got to his feet. He really should have cut Jimmy to ribbons for manhandling him like that, but gathering the energy for that seemed like too much trouble when his eyeball was on fire.

“Here.” Hands wrapped around his wrists and pulled them away from Johnny’s face. “You shouldn’t rub them so hard or you’ll make it worse,” Jimmy said as he started to pull him forward. Johnny didn’t see how it could get much worse. He already wanted to slam his head through a wall just to distract himself from the pain. But he supposed tearing off his eyelids from rubbing wouldn’t help either.

“But don’t worry, babe. I know just what to do!”

Johnny tried to open the eye that wasn’t throbbing to glare at him, but it was far too watery and blurry to see anything or keep it open. He settled for grumbling irritatedly as he tried to ignore the heat coming up to his face. Last thing he needed was getting sick on top of this. Still, he was pretty sure he saw Jimmy grinning at him in that one moment he got his eye open.

He blindly followed Jimmy’s lead, groaning miserably from the pain.

“I’ve got ya. I’ll fix it in no time.”

They stopped in what Johnny thought was his kitchen. As soon as Jimmy let go of his hands they went straight to his face. He pressed the heels against his eyebrows, just barely keeping himself from rubbing his eyes into his skull.

He could hear Jimmy turn the faucet on and start running around the kitchen, opening different cabinets as he rambled on, saying things Johnny assumed he thought were reassuring. Johnny ignored him.

His eye continued to throb horribly. He could feel the fiery pain going all the way back to the nerve at the back of his eye. The crumbs felt like huge pieces of glass carving through his cornea like a knife through someone’s skin.

All Johnny could think to do was carve his eye out with a spoon. That would make this pain stop! Of course then there’d be new pain, but it couldn’t be as bad as this.

That must be why Jimmy brought him to the kitchen, he pain-addled mind decided. Oh well. He didn’t want to lose his eye, but anything would be better than what he was feeling right now.

“Okay! It’s all set up.” The sound of the running water had stopped and Johnny hadn’t even noticed when it happened. Jimmy grabbed his wrists and pulled him forward again. “Here’s the counter.” This trip was shorter and when he let go Johnny managed to keep his hands away from his face with great effort, grabbing the edge of the counter instead. Now they couldn’t get in the way. The quicker this was done, the better.

A hand came to the back of his head and pushed it down. Right into cool water. He nearly breathed it in in shock. It went up his nose and flooded his mouth. His eyes opened as he flailed and sputtered, but he couldn’t get his face out of the water

After what seemed like an eternity, Jimmy finally let his head up. Johnny coughed up the water that managed to make it into his lungs. He opened one eye to see the big bowl full of water on the counter. The water dripped all around the bowl, making a puddle underneath.

“That’s better, right?”

Johnny turned to glare at him. It should have dropped him dead right there if he didn’t have one eye squinted shut and the front of his hair plastered to his drenched face as water dripped down, soaking the front of his shirt. He looked like a half-drowned cat. 

What would be better would be if Jimmy had all his insides on the outside. Maybe then he’d stop talking, though Johnny doubted it.

Then he paused. Actually, his eye was burning a lot less. But he could still feel the artificial spicy powder there.

“A little bit,” he grumbled, knowing where this was going.

“Alright then let’s keep going!” Jimmy gave him another grin.

—-----------

A few minutes later Jimmy handed him a kitchen towel. Johnny took it and shoved his face in it, drying himself off. His hair and shirt were still damp, but that was a huge improvement.

He watched as Jimmy emptied the bowl of water down the sink.

Maybe he wasn’t as annoying as Johnny thought. He was useful here at least. And really, he’d been helpful cleaning blood off of things the whole time he’d been here. Occasionally some of his jokes could be funny. Maybe him living here could work out. “Thanks.”

Jimmy put the bowl down and looked him over with a grin. “You know, you look pretty hot all wet like that.”

Johnny’s eye twitched at another one of Jimmy’s dumb jokes. Nevermind, he was going to rip out his spleen through the smallest hole possible by the end of the day.

[cookingwithroxy]

"Neither gay nor lesbian have been used as slurs within recent memory" There was a whole campaign in the 2000s to get puerile to stop using gay as a slur. There were commercials about it. Hillary Duff was in one.

Also Katy Perry put out a song cakes Ur So Gay in 2008 like none of this is ancient history what are you talking about.

You know? That at least is something I've entirely forgotten! I will own up to that, GAY has been used as a slur! Shit, how did I forget that?

That is entirely on me, and I accept that error. Christ I've lived life a bit too good these past twenty years for it to have escaped me. WOW. Last time I remember someone using gay as a slur was fucking high school, and that's a part of my past I intentionally do not dwell on. People were shit.

But to be fair I have never listened to Katy Perry or Hillary Duff so anything they did would never have reached me.

Still, that's a mistake on my part and I own it. Thank you for correcting me!

[axvoter]

Blatantly Partisan Party Review XIII (Victoria 2022): Restore Democracy Sack Dan Andrews

Prior reviews: None, this is a new party.

Hoo boy here we go!

It is very funny to me that a party with “restore democracy” in its name is right in the thick of manipulating the utterly anti-democratic Group Ticket Voting system to distort the will of voters—and, now, it is right in the thick of just one of the many controversies this election has unleashed.. Basically, the Animal Justice Party pulled a hilarious and righteous sting on “preference whisperer” Glenn Druery and his cabal of parties that exploit Group Ticket Voting system to distort the will of voters. They strung along Druery and will receive preferences from his cabal, but lodged their own group ticket with preferences that align with party ideology and they are now calling for the system to be reformed. In doing so, they spilt some tea, claiming that Druery and Adem Somyurek (DLP, ex-Labor) set up Restore Democracy Sack Dan Andrews (RDSDA).

The Angry Victorians Party then leaked a video in which Druery claimed that RDSDA is “one of mine”. He goes on: “Every other party was (saying) sack Dan Andrews, sack Dan Andrews, sack Dan Andrews and I was like, ‘Ah ha. We are going to call them the Sack Dan Andrews Party’. And we did. We, me and my allies.”

So, if we accept Druery’s leaked account, this party is simply on the ballot to grab the attention of cookers (notoriously low-info voters at the best of times) and then funnel their preferences to the cabal’s preferred parties. It’s noteworthy that the actual cooker parties seem to have very little to do with RDSDA, giving some credence to Druery. I can’t say I’m too sad about cookers being hoodwinked, but it’s the principle of the matter here.

It gets even more interesting, though. The leader of RDSDA, Tosh-Jake Finnigan, rejects Druery’s claims utterly and says that Druery had “fuck-all involvement”. Who to believe? Welcome to the messy world of micro-party shenanigans!

It doesn’t really matter too much, because this is not a party you want to support. It’s either a Druery front or a revenge party—indeed, it’s probably both. Why do I say it’s a revenge party? Because Finnigan was the whistleblower for the “Red Shirts” scandal. The upshot is that Labor paid $388,000 of public funds during the 2014 election to casual electorate staff who were actually doing party campaign work, but earlier this year the Victorian ombudsman determined that Dan Andrews had not “designed, propagated, or facilitated” the scheme. Now, say what you will about the scandal—and frankly I felt like it had very little cut-through, with almost the only people who cared about it being Labor opponents who wanted something to shout about—but the whole experience appears to have left Finnigan extremely angry and their chosen path for revenge is this micro-party.

Guess where you’ll find RDSDA’s website. No, go on, guess.

It’s not Restore Democracy dot com dot au, no, RDSDA snaffled up viclabor dot org. You can just about feel the grudge.

And what sort of policies do RDSDA offer, anyway? I dunno if policies for a chip-on-the-shoulder preference-harvesting-front are worth the site they’re posted on, but RDSDA promises they will “drain Dan’s swamp” (spot the Trumpian language!) by… uhh… a few lazy bullet points posing as policy. They want a royal commission into and greater oversight of IBAC and the ombudsman (i.e. “they ruled against me therefore they will suffer”). And most of the rest of the bullet points are childish rants about “Ending Dan’s Inner City Woke Agenda”, whatever that is, “Ending Dan’s Dictatorship”, which is tied to anti-lockdown cooker rhetoric, and “Stop[ping] Dan lecturing, screaming at, and bullying working-class Victorians”. It’s puerile stuff—but you expected that from a party with a personal attack for a name, didn’t you?

My recommendation: Give Restore Democracy Sack Dan Andrews a weak or no preference. Remember to vote below the line on the large ballot for the Legislative Council so that your preference goes where you want it to go; all ballots with 5 or more preferences marked below the line are valid votes.

Website: https://viclabor.org/

[i-did-not-mean-to]

Boys and sticks - Chapter 39

Fandom: Hobbit (College AU)

Characters: @linasofia x Thorin, @laurfilijames x Fíli, me x Ori

Words: 1,7 k

Warnings: Embarrassment and cringe

Previous chapters

“I am so sorry!” I heard the words, muffled by my shoulder and the roaring of the blood in my ears, but I couldn’t make any sense of them at the moment as my fingers were busy tracing the curve of Ori’s shoulder blades and exploring the resplendent silk of his hair.

“Hmmm?” I hummed lazily, my thoughts a whirl of sensations and memories, my body feeling as heavy and indecently indolent as warm clay under his.

“This is probably not what you had hoped for; I told you I’d disappoint you, but you wouldn’t believe me,” he muttered, lifting that face I had stared at behind closed lids for nights upon nights until frustration rocked me to sleep.

“Oh, darling boy, don’t be silly. When you tell the story, make sure to stress that you managed to make a woman climax so hard she forgot her mother’s name before getting her to beg you to fuck her,” I purred, vulgar by design, while I sucked a perfectly round hickey high onto the side of his throat. It was puerile, I knew, but I wanted to mark him as mine.

“Is that what happened?” he asked, sighing as my voracious mouth let go of his paper skin and I grinned in approbation of my own gloriously depraved work.

“Oh, yes, and I would be lying if I said that this had not stoked my hunger for more,” I replied gently, pulling him closer again and revelling in the smell of his skin and the feeling of his flesh – weighing hot and solid – on mine.

“Are you…do you mean that?”

Oh, the light of his eyes…had he asked me in this moment, I would have torn my own chest apart to offer him that crippled, mangled piece of beef jerky that was my heart, quite literally.

I grabbed the – suspiciously handy – pack of cheap paper handkerchiefs and watched him make a mess of things.

“Do not…” but it was too late, and his most private parts now looked like the aborted papier-mâché project of a pre-schooler, “apply cheap paper onto wet surfaces,” I finished my sentence weakly.

“And back to the shower you go,” I laughed, bundling him up in his discarded towel and leading him back to the deserted stalls.

“By the way, I’d love to be your partner for English Lit,” I informed him as I rinsed myself as well as I could, his eyes glued to my body, ever eager to learn how to behave appropriately in every situation.

“Oh, nice…for English Lit…?” His eyebrows rose questioningly, and I nodded – what else could I do?

As I lay, ready to go to sleep, pressed against his freshly showered body though, I berated and begrudged myself for being an awful liar and a terrible coward; his charging station was still gleaming softly under the table and his hand was in mine.

Another day, I told myself, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after, it had time, we had time.

When I woke up, I did take the time to leave a note this time, informing Ori that I would come find him in the library after my last class. Tova had sent me a message in the middle of the night and another one this morning – sounding very ominous – and I wanted him to be there.

He looked exhausted and I couldn’t keep myself from pressing a light kiss onto his warm, slightly sticky brow before leaving the room in my rumpled sundress to run across campus to change and make it in time to my first duty of the morning.

“Good morning beautiful,” Thorin was holding a cup of tea as he woke Tova, unsure when her first class would start. It was shockingly natural and familiar to just sit down on the bed and caress her cheek as if he had the right to wake her with a kiss and a cuppa.

She rolled around slowly, leaning into the touch of his hand eagerly and without false shame or period of alienation, and Thorin was amazed at how quickly she had accepted his presence around her.

“Hi,” she replied, rubbing her eyes; she hated Monday mornings. An idea came to her as he asked when she had to go to class.

“Do you want to see Jia the way she really is?” she asked, jumping into her clothes and pulling him out the room with his cup before he could either say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.

Waking up to seeing his guarded, sad eyes was more than she could take; she needed him to feel the love people didn’t dare express freely, starting with Jia and her sewn-shut mouth.

“What are we doing?” Thorin asked when they slipped into the auditorium and hid behind a stack of boxes.

“Jia has choir practice, I often come and listen to her,” Tova admitted, leaning against the gym equipment, and closing her eyes, “she is more honest when she thinks that no-one who knows her is there to hear.”

They overheard a man asking what was going on and then, Jia singing ‘Let you love me’ by Rita Ora a capella with so much deep-felt, raw emotion that Thorin’s eyes grew round.

“No progress with that bookworm of yours? Maybe, you should let it go, maybe he’s just not that into you,” the man suggested and Tova had to hold Thorin back before he could jump over the boxes and tackle the man to the ground.

“Do you want to sing the slow for the Halloween party then?”

“Sure, not as if I was going to dance it,” they heard Jia reply, tears in her voice, and Tova gritted her teeth; this didn’t sound good.

“Jiji, let it go. He’s not for you,” the male voice said gently and Tova gripped Thorin’s hand vehemently.

“I cannot because, even if he’s not for me, I certainly am for him,” Jia sighed, “I am for him.”

“I’ve heard your roommate is seeing that Floorboll brute?” someone played discordant notes on a piano in the ensuing silence.

“I do not know who you mean,” Jia replied coldly, “Tova is not seeing any kind of brute behind Thorin’s back.”

“Right, that’s his name,” the man said and – this time – it was Thorin who had to restrain Tova to keep her from plunging into a vicious attack.

This was not what she had expected to overhear; she had been hopeful that Jia would be singing happy love songs rather than being engaged in a rather uncomfortable discussion about their choice in partners. Why did everyone care all of a sudden?

Discomfited, she waved Thorin out of the room again, but he was still waiting on Jia’s answer.

“He’s a good kind; he makes her smile and if you want to speak like that about…someone who thinks he could be my friend, you can sing your ballad yourself, you asshat!” Jia hissed and – Thorin recognised her angry step – stomped out of the room.

“Oh, hey, do I have to climb out the window?” Fíli leant against the door of the bathroom already as Lo sat up in bed.

“You’d better, but…” she grinned and got dressed, her first class was lost either way, and opened the door.

“Lo,” he growled warningly, but she kissed him passionately as some other girls walked past her room, gasping upon seeing her snogging a half-naked dude.

“Your shirt, honey,” she purred, taking up her bookbag and following him out the door.

“We have a meeting with the two queens of chaos themselves this afternoon apparently,” she called after him as he strode along the corridor as if he owned the whole building.

“Hmm, come, I’ll walk you to class,” he chuckled, slinging his arm around her as they made their way out of the dorm slowly.

“See, I am skipping my first class and I’ve wondered if you would show me that forge of yours instead?” she smiled up at him, much to his surprise. Lo would rather spend time with him at his apprenticeship than to be a good girl and go to class? He could be down with that!

“Are you serious?” his voice was slightly squeaky, which made her giggle under her breath in an adorably cute way that dispelled his nervousness immediately; this was Lo after all, a person who loved adventures and trying new things.

“Sure, baby, come,” he invited, swooping her up and lifting her onto his back, and so, Lo had a piggy-back ride across campus – whooping and laughing into the cold morning air – and it was the least serious and dignified she had ever been in her life.

People shook their head at them and their querulous disapproval somehow only fuelled Lo’s elation.

Unlocking the door, Fíli explained that he’d be alone for the next minutes or so before the Master came in. He showed her around, encouraged by her genuine interest in what the different parts of his job and his routine here were.

“So you see, it’s rather a dirty business,” Fíli shrugged apologetically as he turned on the small coffee machine sitting neatly in one corner of a messy workbench where all kinds of papers and tools were piled up chaotically.

“You know me to be a rather dirty girl, or did you forget that?” Lo teased and yelped when he caught her around the waist and kissed her tempestuously.

“And I am actually invited to that meeting?” Fíli cocked an eyebrow, bewildered at how much his life had changed within the last 24 hours. He usually saw Thorin, Dwalin, and Ori around on campus, but only spent time with them on weekends or at the occasional video game night; it was a novel idea for him to meet them just to talk.

A discreet clearing of the throat interrupted his thoughts and he whirled around to see his smithing teacher stand in the open door, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Impressing the ladies with your talents?” he asked cheerfully.

“No, not really,” Fíli gave back – slightly embarrassed – and pressed another warm kiss onto Lo’s lips.

“See you later, my love,” he breathed, and he would have lied if he had said that the slight blush creeping into her cheeks did not lighten his mood considerably.

“See you,” she sighed and pressed his hand shortly before rushing out in a flurry of cold air and a trail of beauty.