#“Let’s give him an award! The 'not as much of a jerk as you COULD HAVE BEEN' award!!!”

[eupheme]

— you’re the one that I want

worst!wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader

tags: soulmate au, roommate!wade & neighbor!f!reader, valentine’s day fic, blind dates, use of alcohol, flirting, light misunderstanding, semi-public makeout

rated m - 2.6k

a/n: my submission for the loveuary challenge hosted by the wonderful @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt! thank you so much, this was so fun 💘

“You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

“No fucking way.”

Wade’s groan stretches long, as his head lolls against the back of the sofa.

“Logan. Peanut. My sweet cheese, my good-time boyeh, please-” His voice strings out the syllables, “I need you to do this for me. I already set it all up, all you gotta to do is go.”

Logan’s scowl deepens, with a sharp jerk of his chin, “I’m not fucking going.”

A sigh then - Wade’s legs stretching wide, as he springs to his feet. Circling around to where Logan leans against the counter, looking every bit rooted to the apartment as the thing growing in the corner of their shared shower.

“I need this. I am finally back on track with Vanessa, and this is a real chance for me to knock it out of the park.” A finger raises, before poking him in the chest, “But I can’t have Mr. Grumpy Gus cramping our style. You feel me?”

An eyebrow arches up, but Wade barely pauses for a breath, “Besides, would you really stand a girl up on Valentine’s Day? Don’t you know what that could do to her psyche? What if that was her thirteenth reason? You really need that on your conscious?”

The filthy scowl Logan shoots him is like a three claw punch to the gut. Wade at least has the decency to look ashamed - fingers splaying wide in placation.

“Just give it a shot. If it all goes south you can just come right home. I won’t even be mad, even if it’s mid-coitus. Pinkie swear.”

The visual makes Logan’s lip curl. Arms crossing over his chest, as his head tilts, “You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

Wade misses the sharp look Logan shoots his way. His tone still teasing, missing just how deep his comment thrums through him.

How it meant something different in his world, rather than the shallow note of connection it seemed to mean here.

It didn’t matter, anyways. There’s only one person in the city he might not mind seeing, and surely you would have other plans.

Logan’s seen your recent date, stopping by the door down the hall in the evenings. Doesn’t much care for his goody-two-shoes vibe, the State University tone.

The memory sends his skin itching. An urge to move - and it’s enough that his arms are loosening.

Deep down, he really doesn’t want to stick around. Had been planning on hitting up a bar, anyways.

Can’t take much of this lovey-dovey shit, never been one of his favorite holidays.

And if his drinks are on Wade’s tab, then…

He’s sure he can let whoever the poor girl is down quick.

“Yes. Yes! Thank you, bestie.” The resignation must flick across his face, because Wade’s fist pumps with triumph, “This is gonna be great, I promise. Even better than the Tony Awards.”

Logan ignores another asinine reference - a final warning leveled his roommate’s way, as his hand curls around the doorframe.

“You got thirty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Wade grins.

“That’s twenty-nine too many.”

The heel of your boot bounces underneath the booth. Fingernails drumming on the surface of the sticky table, trying to keep your eyes from flicking to the door each and every time it opens.

This was stupid.

You don’t know how you let Wade talk you into this.

Sister Margaret’s was not your idea of a place to meet someone - romantically, at least. And therefore, the chances of this evening going well were historically low.

But it’d beat your second year of ordering in - the prices hiked up with the holiday. Of another movie marathon alone, picking apart the sordid end of your last relationship.

Anything was better than that, surely.

You’re double-checking your phone for the third time, confirming the text noting which booth to be in - the back left corner one next to the totally-not-a-bloodstain on the floor - when a shadow passes over the edge of your table.

Eyes catching on the flannel that creeps into your vision. Worn, in shades of brown and muted red - a slow drag upward across a broad chest, then higher. Your breath catching, as your mind whirrs - racing catching up.

You should tell your upstairs neighbor “hi”.

Something that resembles polite, normal conversation.

But you can’t seem to find the words.

Because as he slips into the booth, you’re quickly realizing he might just be here for you.

What you do find is -

“Is this a joke?”

Logan’s frown deepens.

A snarled out “what?” that sends a jolt though you, but you’re too confused to examine it. Left babbling, trying to make sense of this.

“Is this because I told Wade he’s a winter?” Your voice pitches higher, “Because his photo was really blurry, and I don’t even do that kind of color analysis-”

Logan scoffs, a hand braced on the table as if to push himself up. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, before he’s asking, “Why would this be a joke?”

Your lips part.

“Because-”

Because you’re here in the hopes of finding someone else. A distraction.

Unsure what to make of this magnetic feeling deep inside your chest when you see him. Having to hold yourself back from taking one step, and then another, when he lingers near the mail room.

You had hoped tonight would help you erase the man that surely does not even know you exist.

“…because I’m sure you have better things to do then uh, do this.”

“This?” He hedges, a brow arching.

“A blind date.”

Something in his eyes flicker, when you finally meet them. The little mark between his brows deepening with the rough rasp of his voice. ”You really didn’t know who you were meeting?”

“No,” Your head shakes, “No. Did you?”

His eyes drop for a beat, before they flick back up.

“No.”

Your tongue dips out to dampen your lip, and you miss the way his eyes track the movement. The question slipping from you without thought.

“Would you have come, if you did?”

The silence stretches out, tipping towards uncomfortable.

And yet, he does not leave. A leather jacket still slung across the back of the booth, as his fingers tap the table.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” He deflects. “You want another?”

Logan’s head dips towards your drink, only the glittery dregs of red remaining, a cherry nestled against the ice.

Your shoulder lifts, about to answer that you probably shouldn’t. That you’ve already made enough of a fool of yourself.

His lips curl at the edges, before you can voice your answer. ”Wade’s buying. Thought we could make a dent in his wallet.”

“Oh.” The word draws out, as your smile stretches.

So, not a rejection.

It might just be an invitation, actually.

“Definitely.”

It’s not how he thought his night would go.

Should have peeled himself away twenty minutes ago, somewhere between your second and third drink and the wind of conversation.

Slunk back home, or to another bar.

Had thought about it, in that moment when you confessed that you hadn’t known he was meeting you.

The thought of it being a disappointment turning his stomach, until you had voiced your question. The hope that wound its way between your words.

Unable to answer, even if he knows what it would have been.

The alcohol flickers inside him, a brief respite to the burn of sore muscles and a bone-deep ache that he’s carried since his world.

Should stop drinking this shit, but he’s been taking it a day at a time. Swapping rubbing alcohol for anything with a kick. That for vodka. Vodka for beer.

It’s not progress, but it’s something.

The feeling never sticks around, but something about you almost mirrors it. A wash of calm as his chin cups in his palm. Senses narrowing down, blocking out all the noise around him.

Eyes snagged on the curl of your lips around the white straw, the pink tinge of gloss left behind.

Helpless, to the tug at his arm as you loosened. The point of your finger to the empty dart board, how he had followed two steps behind.

You’ve missed a handful of your throws. Two darts stuck between the numbers running around the rim. His lips twitching at the frown that pulls down the corner of your lips, the hand that braces at your hip.

“So, did Wade guilt you into coming?”

Your fingers brush his, as you hand over the darts.

“You could say that.” He grunts, eyes slipping towards the board. Still catching the scrunch of your nose, as he amends, “But, like I said. Didn’t know.”

It’s not an answer to your question before, but it’s something that tip-toes close to one. It’s enough that your expression softens - an excited touch against his shoulder when his throw flies true.

“Same.” Your fingers curl against his shirt, transfixed. Hazy - those walls around you from before unstacking one brick at a time, “Almost didn’t go. But you know Wade, and his puppy-dog eyes.”

Logan didn’t.

“-and I uh, thought it would be nice. To not be alone, this year.”

He missed his next throw. A side-eye shot your way.

“Alone?” The word comes out close to a scoff.

Can’t pretend it hasn’t been eating at him. Wondering what the hell Wade had been playing at, inviting you.

“Figured you’d be out with your boyfriend.”

The last dart sinks into the green rim around the red center.

“Very funny.” You hum, stepping up to take his place. A glance over your shoulder, to find him still watching you.

That frown back, as your head tilts.

“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He wished he hadn’t asked. Should have just stayed silent, taken this night for what it was.

“Thought I’ve seen a guy around the last couple weeks.“ Logan hands shove into his back pockets, “Just figured…”

Your expression persists. His fingers tap his temple, “Grey streaks, suit.”

As if he doesn’t have some of his own.

“Oh!” Recognition flickers, as you spin back, “Definitely not boyfriend. He’s like, super married.”

Your shot flies wide, bouncing off the wooden walls behind the board - a little huff as you turn back, “They’re due to have their first in a couple months. Been helping them pick things out for the nursery.”

A finger pointed back towards yourself, in explanation, “Figured I could help. Interior designer, and all.”

Something like relief flickers in his chest. Another feeling - deeper, hungrier - almost drowns it out.

The words smooth, as they slip from his lips.

“No guy, then?”

The shake of your head is slow, and that sweet smell that clings to you curls around his senses. Thickens, even - betraying you.

It gives him the confidence to step into your space. Emboldened by the look you give him from beneath the thick fan of your lashes. Hope, burning once again in blown-dark pupils.

“Here.”

A hand touches at your hip, as he eases closer. Plucking the dart from limp fingers.

“You’re holding it too far back. Lemme show you.”

He never gave a damn about this game, but he’ll take any excuse to get closer. To feel the way you stiffen beneath his fingertips, the hitch of your breath.

The shot is lined up.

His wrist extends as he aims, chest brushing against your back, and suddenly - your palm curls around his forearm. Fingers splaying wide as a jolt arcs through his nervous system, shooting from his hand to his core.

Your words muted - it’s only his enhanced senses that have him catching the tail end.

“-like me.”

He makes a rough sound, and again you turn to face him. The prick of goosebumps as your finger trace the dots at his wrist.

“I said you have freckles like me.”

The knitted cuff of your sweater tugged back to show him how yours mirrors his, down to the very last mark.

Time stands still.

Logan’s dreamt about this moment for decades.

Using that little crisscross of dots like a compass.

Guiding him through life - thinking there had to be something about the mansion, its symbol, that tied it to him. Taking on the mantle that mirrored the shape, ink-like against his skin.

Thinking it would lead him somewhere.

Even if he’d been certain he had missed it, somewhere in those two-hundred years. Ships passing in the night, across a lifespan that has stretched far too long.

Always trying to push away those “what ifs”. Had stopped looking a long time ago. Never once, since he’d crossed over. Told himself he was luckier not to have a match.

Not to know love like that - because one day he’d have become acquainted with the loss of it, as well.

He’s had enough of that, in his lifetime.

And this - it’s not what he ever expected.

Finding you in a world that’s not his own. His match with a girl, living on the floor just below his.

It leaves him mute, as your eyes linger.

Not sure what to make of him, he’s certain. Of the part of his lips, his own heart hammering beneath his ribs.

Unsteady, for the first time in decades.

His name pulls him out of his thoughts. Cherry-sweet on your tongue, lilting into a question.

The dart is thrown by muscle memory.

Your fingers still pressed against his mark, as it hits dead center.

He takes his prize, back in the shadowed corner of the booth.

Your eyes already slipping shut, when his fingers tuck under your chin. Lips parting, and he finds himself grateful again for those animal-senses.

Permission in the galloping of your pulse beneath your skin. The held breath as you wait, balanced on the knife’s edge of anticipation.

The soft inhale of breath, when his mouth slants against yours. Fingers curling in his shirt once more, as you part for him.

Swallowing your moan, with the sweep of his tongue. Sweet - grenadine syrup blending with you, and it’s like he cannot get enough. The kiss drawing out, insistent and hungry - a shuddering breath when it finally breaks, as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Pliable, in the way he tugs your thigh over his, seating you in his lap. How you follow, so easily.

Fitting against him as if you were meant to.

And maybe you were - the thought sending his fingers tightening, where they grip at your hips.

As if he won’t let you go, now that he’s found you.

You’re right there with him. Just as affected - your palms smoothing over his chest. Tracing the chain biting into his neck, sinking into his hair when they loop around his shoulders.

Letting your hips rock - a tentative movements, paired with the softest sighs.

Growing bolder when you feel him beneath you - how he encourages it, with the press of his palms. The tips of his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, a pulse of pleasure at the way you shiver with his touch.

The second gift of his name, and it’s the one he’ll remember most. Drawn-out. Needy, and it only makes him want to hear it more.

Another breath huffed out, a heady throb against the too-tight confines of his jeans.

There’s the crack of a pool cue, a cheer rising at the table across the room.

The bubble bursts.

Bringing him back - even in this dim corner, it’s still far too public for everything he needs to do to you tonight.

A shared thought, your lips kiss-swollen as they press against his neck.

“Can we go home?” You husk, into the shell of his ear.

Something deep inside him purrs at the word. Possessive, wrenching a growl from deep in his chest as he carefully eases you off him.

Pushing himself up from the booth - a hand coming to wrap around your wrist.

Thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your skin once more.

Right against your mark.

He’ll tell you tomorrow.

He’ll have time - he’s always had that.

Never been grateful for it.

Not until now.

thank you again, lub and kiwi! I am so excited to check out the fics for your event, and happy I was able to contribute one! I’ve wanted to write a soulmate fic for some time, this has me 👀💖 about writing more!

[always-andromeda]

˚₊‧꒰ა 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 ໒꒱‧₊˚

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⟡ Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ⟡ 5064

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 ⟡ It's Emmy night. And your infamous ex-boyfriend is stirring up all kinds of trouble for you.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ⟡ Hi ho, everyone!! This piece is for Gin's ( @wannab-urs ) Dom That Middle Aged Man Campaign 2025!! I'm cutting it incredibly close but I actually ended up having a lot of fun with this one. It started as a smaller oneshot but quickly grew bigger and bigger until hey, whaddya know, Roman Roy is making a little cameo. Blame @strang3lov3 for that lol. Her writing for Roman has made that brain rot really settle in and I needed an asshole boyfriend for this one soooo uhhhh yeah. He is in there!! Anyhoo, here is the full masterlist for the event!! Hope y'all enjoy!!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⟡ smut (minors, do not interact), minimally edited lol, a tiny bit of angst, no reader description given aside from reader wearing makeup and being able-bodied, one minor suicide joke, toxic relationships, shaky descriptions of the goings on of award shows (sorry, I do not keep up with them well enough to know everything <3), mentions of addiction, infidelity (reader is in a PR relationship, shoutout to Roman Roy lmao), oral, heavy mommy kink lol, pegging, some fluffy aftercare, reader is a fucking mess, dieter is a fucking mess, it's all chaos, nothing else I can think of but feel free to let me know if anything else should be added!!

“Sure you’re going to be ready in time?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Roman pops his head into the hotel bathroom. “I dunno, isn’t that a woman thing?”

“It is if you’re a misogynist.” You say before blotting your lipstick.

“Or a realist. Veeeery fine line, babe.”

You roll your eyes. Part of you wishes Roman had never been nominated.

Outstanding Lead Actor In A Drama.

When you were younger, awards shows always seemed so exciting and glamorous. Sometimes they still are. But as you built up your career and were invited to more of them you had come to realize that they were little more than glorified circle jerks. Sadly, being Roman Roy’s costar and girlfriend obligated you to attend.

You wish your publicist had booked a separate room for you so Roman wouldn’t wind you up. At this point though, you were counting the days until you no longer had to be joined at the hip. Once awards season was over you could move on from this chapter of life. Maybe you’d hide away for a while. The thought keeps you from going completely insane.

The car ride to the theater is quiet. Roman scrolls through his mentions on Twitter the whole way. A few times you assure him that it’ll be alright, that he worked so hard that he’s sure to win. None of that reassurance matters.

He’s been glued to his phone since the nominations dropped. For almost two whole months it’s been a shitshow. One minute he’s stressing about what he should say for his acceptance speech and the next he doesn’t give a shit. A few times he floated the idea of skipping the event altogether. That usually only happened when the D word came into the conversation.

Dieter fucking Bravo as Roman liked to call him.

Roman hates a lot of things. But god, he really hates Dieter. Roman’s young. He’s talented. And Dieter is…well…Dieter.

“How the fuck did that washed up prick get a nom? Asshole finally managed to find someone in the academy desperate enough to fuck him.” Roman said when he first learned that he’d be competing with Dieter. You’d ignored the pointed insult in that outburst. It wasn’t the comparison of talent or rap sheets that heated Roman up so much as the fact that you and Dieter weren’t strangers. Before he turned it all to shit, you and Dieter had dated for one tumultuous year.

Roman cares for you about as much as you care for him, that much you’re sure of. It’s the optics that bother him. It’s the fact that for almost two months, almost every Twitter user talking about him makes the assumption that Roman Roy is just a stepping stone. That you’d soaked up every bit of clout dating Dieter Bravo could give you. And that now you’d jumped to the next big thing in line.

While some folks called you a slut and a number of other awful names, some raised you to the status of feminist icon.

“‘Sucking and fucking her way through the Emmy nominees.’” Roman read to you one night in disgust. “”What a girlboss.’ Are you seeing this shit? They’re saying you’re probably going after Jeff Bridges next. You better not fuck Jeff Bridges. If you fuck Jeff Bridges, I’ll fucking hang myself.”

You try not to care too much. If being with Dieter had taught you anything it was that the media thrived off of acknowledgement. If you responded to the accusations, every outlet would release an article about it. And then another one about the backlash. And then another one about the backlash to the backlash. Then they’d roll shitty banner ads over the whole thing and call it journalism.

Not even you, yourself, gave that much of a shit about your own sex life. You’d much rather mind your own business than feed into their interest, thank you very much. 

It’s why you couldn’t wait to get the carpet walk over and done with. It’s the closest thing to a goddamn parade and Roman’s desire to cut your prep time short has you feeling less than your best.

You’re in your own head, watching Roman get his picture taken by the paparazzi flash mob, and dreading your turn to join in when you’re rudely interrupted.

“He looks like he’s enjoying himself.”

You almost agree until you turn to look at who had just spoken to you.

Dieter fucking Bravo. And he looks fucking gorgeous.

You can hardly remember the last time he looked so put together. His wavy hair is gelled back, accentuating the stray silvers that he finally seems to be letting grow out. He wears a white shirt that’s buttoned up to the neck. The solid white collar is framed by a black sweater. And for once he’s not wearing pants that are too tight or too baggy; these ones are just right. The look is simple but graceful, perfect for a star settling into middle age. If things were different, you’d kiss his stylist with tongue and maybe give them a handjob for blessing you with such a glorious sight. Pressing your nails into the palms of your hands, there are a number of things you think to say.

What are you doing here? How dare you? What the fuck is wrong with you?

But none of them sound right. None are befitting of such a glamorous night either.

So you settle for replying coldly, “Are you not?”

Dieter snorts and you melt upon seeing the crinkles by his eyes in full force. “Are you kidding? I’m shocked they even invited me. Who’s dying to wheel out the washed up old guys for shit like this?”

“Thank god we’re in Hollywood; the mecca for washed up old men,” you scoff.

If Dieter acknowledges the joke, you don’t hear or see it. Your eyes are glued to Roman, afraid that if you look back at Dieter again they might just pop out of your head.

Roman 

Out of the blue he asks, “He isn’t even nice to you, is he?”

It’s a question that makes you scoff and roll your eyes. How dare he? He goes away for a few months and after two years of image fixing he thinks he has any right to ask that? The old urge to swing around and give him a piece of your mind strikes you again. As the cameras flash, you become very aware that even at your place at the periphery of the carpet, a snapshot of you arguing with your ex would make a great TMZ article.

You mumble, “What he is is none of your business.”

“I was nice to you,” Dieter says, then repeats to himself, “I was nice.”

You retort with a laugh, “When you weren’t high off your ass.”

“Don’t pretend you weren’t either.”

Like you need to be reminded of how hellish it was trying to be with him and subsequently get over him. You remember taking old gifts he’d given you to the secondhand store. You remember deleting almost every trace of him from your phone. You remember the nights you struggled to stop yourself from making contact again. It had been a long, uphill battle to wash away the single most chaotic year of your life and you weren’t sliding down it again.

“We’re not having this conversation again. I hated myself when I was with you. And I’m not going back to that place. I’ve worked too hard for you to come crashing in and ruining that.” You say it more to yourself than him. 

With that, you’re ushered over to Roman where you pose with him. And you almost manage to give a genuine smile to the masses.

When you’re finally seated in the theater, the night rolls on with the typical fanfare. You give your prescribed reactions; cheer when your show is called for an award and smile when you notice a camera near you. A few times Roman leans over to mumble some snotty joke about whoever’s on stage and that deep, cynical part of you manages to laugh at them.

At the very least, it makes him less nervous. That’s how you justify it to yourself.

He’s in the middle of another wisecrack when the woman at the microphone pulls Roman’s attention away. “I’m proud to announce the nominees for Lead Actor In A Drama Series.”

You don’t bother watching the giant screen as clips of the nominees play. You already know damn good and well who’s up on the platter for this one. Instead, much to your dismay, your gaze is trained on Dieter. 

He’s a row ahead of you and about a dozen seats to the right so you only get a sliver of his profile. From the bits and pieces you get of his bobbing head, his jaw looks tense. In the silence that precedes the announcement you notice just how age has settled upon Dieter. With his hair a little longer and head held high he looks just like the man you once saw within him. It suits him well.

“And the Emmy goes to…”

Some small piece of you peers out from the shadows of cynicism and your lips curl into a soft smile. As uncomfortable as he seemed to be amongst this crowd, Dieter finally looked well; he looked hopeful.

“Roman Roy!”

Turning back towards Roman you expect a kiss, a squeeze of your hand, some sort of acknowledgement that you’re right there beside him. Anything. But he’s standing and walking towards the stage before you can even say a word.

Normally you treasure your alone time. This time though, the empty air truly feels depressing.

Part of you wishes Roman had come back to the hotel with you. But another part of you is grateful you won’t have to listen to his gloating. Or his “celebration”, as he called it. 

You can’t stop replaying the moment over and over again. The way your breath seemed stuck in your throat as you watched him deliver his bullshit acceptance speech. He shed a genuine tear when thanking his mother; you’d known him long enough to recognize his shreds of sincerity.

For the most part, however, he’s performing. After all, that’s what got him the award to begin with.

Knowing that there’s a camera capturing your reaction you plaster on a toothy grin. While Roman plays the part of the humble award winner, you play the proud girlfriend though you feel more like a prop than his costar.

None of it matters either way. At the end of the night, you knew that Roman’s speech would be clipped and reposted thousands of times online. Maybe then he’d get the validation he seems to have been craving his entire life.

That’s why he decided to stay at the afterparty, you figured. Maybe it’s also why you were already seeing clips of him at said afterparty proclaiming with a smug grin, “Suck it, Bravo.” Validation from his peers. The why of it all didn’t matter either. You’d had enough of pathologizing the men around you for one night. 

Well. Almost enough.

The thought of Roman’s absence departs and Dieter’s presence worms its way back into your mind.

You’d never had a proper sendoff for your relationship with him. Instead you got stood up on a night he was supposed to meet you for dinner. That night you vowed you would no longer drag him out from a drug induced haze. You went nuclear; blocked him, stopped going to his house, revoked his access to your apartment building.

Through the grapevine you heard that he’d finally crashed out a few months afterwards and got shipped off to rehab. Then from there it was close to silence. The post-Dieter life was calm, if a bit predictable.

You pick up your phone from the nightstand and go through your blocked contacts until you find his name. And after nearly two years of being Dieter free you invite him right back into your life.

You half expect the message to go ignored. He might not even have the same number anymore anyways. Right as you’re about to block him again out of pure embarrassment, you see those three telltale dots pop up on the left side of the screen. They ripple for a few seconds before a reply appears.

If he were in front of you, you would’ve rolled your eyes. You quickly type out a response.

You can practically hear the shock Dieter must’ve experienced in how the message stays read for a solid two minutes before he answers again.

Of course, you wanted to scream. I missed you so bad that I binged the entire series and then looked up fanfiction of your character afterwards.

Just like before, the message stays read for a few minutes. But this time the typing dots on his end disappear and come back a few times. You end up laying your phone facedown on the bed so you wouldn’t throw it across the room. Eventually your ringtone chimes and you pick it up again.

Your stomach drops about a thousand miles down an awful pit of guilt until your memory slows it down. As much as his big brown eyes might suggest it, Dieter isn’t some helpless puppy dog. How many times had he fucked you over before? How many times did he force you to take care of his messes? And how many times did you grin and bear it because you loved him? Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the need for some sort of closure. Or maybe it was the fact that you weren’t going to go through another night ignored and alone. But you impulsively type and send another message.

And much to your surprise, Dieter replies immediately.

From the second you pull Dieter into your hotel room you feel alive again. His lips are against yours and your stomach soars at the way he lets you deprive him of oxygen. You missed him more than you had even fathomed. You missed his eagerness. You missed the way his hands went straight to your ass. You missed his tongue. God, you could suck on his tongue right then and there and die happy.

The muffled groan he lets out when you tug on his hair reminds you the hotel room door is still partially opened. It hits you for a split second that someone easily could’ve followed him here. By morning the media could be all over whatever happens in this room tonight.

Dieter pulls away for air. As he cups your cheek and gives you that classic mischievous smirk he says, “Hi there.”

And suddenly…you don’t give a shit. Not about Roman or the media or your publicist. You’ll deal with the consequences later. Probably. But for now, it’s all Dieter fucking Bravo. And for once, that was a good thing.

Breathlessly, you command, “Get on the bed. Now.”

Dieter hadn’t felt this antsy since his last stint in rehab. With the way he was practically crawling under his skin he was surprised he made it to your hotel in one piece.

It would’ve been quite a headline if he had. Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Dead at 45 After Losing Emmy. If only those leeches could see him now. The headline would probably read Oscar Winner, Dieter Bravo, Naked and Ass Up On Ex-Girlfriend’s Bed.

It hits him that he has no idea where your boyfriend is. For all he knows this is some sick joke you and him devised just so you could kick him while he’s down. Did you still despise him that much? Taking a mental inventory of everything he did when you were together…it was a possibility.

You didn’t even ask if he was busy. For all you know, he could’ve been out drowning his disappointment with as many prescription pills he could get his hands on. That’s what the old Dieter would’ve done. Old Dieter would have answered your texts between lines in the bathroom before speeding to your hotel room. New Dieter was watching reruns of X-Files in his bathrobe when you rang. Yet he still came running anyway.

He realizes that he probably always would.

Dieter’s swirling mind is soothed by your lips leaving kisses along his shoulder blades. Your fingers dance down his spine, creating waves of shivers in their wake. He stifles a contented hum. Can’t show his cards yet; can’t let you know that he’s just as pliable as he used to be for you.

He suspects you know it anyways when you purr, “You remember your place so well.”

Quiet. He stays so quiet he can hear a pin drop. Hell, he can practically hear your lips twitch as you observe him.

As he got older, Dieter found less and less joy in being watched all the time. Those greedy eyes only see him as prey. And tonight was another one of those reminders that no matter how much he tried he’d never again be the promising young actor the world had once adored.

But you liked him. You saw him for exactly what he was and you liked him. Even more, you rewarded him.

“Do you want to be good for me?” You ask tentatively.

He’s heard you say similar things more than a hundred times. Now they sound less like an invitation and more like a test. You’re testing the waters. As if him being naked on your bed wasn’t enough confirmation that he wanted you. Then again, you’ve always been that forgiving; always given him second, third, and fourth chances.

He lifts his head just enough so you can hear him clearly when he confirms, “Yes, please.”

With that, the weight of your body over his is gone. When you order him to flip over a minute later you stand before him with a familiar instrument. Judging by the size and color, he knows it isn’t the same strap you used to use on him, but it’s a welcome sight nonetheless. It’s a soft pink color with ridges that shine in the warm lamplight. He guesses that it’s likely between six and seven inches. But it’s the subtle curve of the cock that has his mouth practically watering just looking at it. Already he can’t help but imagine it inside him, reaching that spot only you were able to.

“You’re lucky I happened to pick this up the other day. Otherwise you would’ve been stuck with my fingers.” You say with a pout.

Dieter thinks for a second that you’ve got an odd idea of what qualifies as a souvenir but brushes the thought away. He blinks hard and swallows thickly. “I would’ve been fine with that,” he mumbles.

You climb back onto the bed and settle between his legs. Then you inch forward so close that he could kiss you again. Your breath is warm on his face when you whisper, “Bullshit.”

You plant a kiss on his cheek before continuing slowly, “Don’t think I forgot how much you love getting stuffed to the brim. You used to love sucking on my cock before I fucked that perfect ass of yours. Do you want that again, baby?”

He nods quickly.

“Then sit up a bit for me.”

Dieter does as he’s told and you straddle his chest. His hands find purchase around the soft flesh of your thighs. You shake your hips and the dick wobbles ever so slightly. The bulbous tip teases his lips.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“So fucking pretty…” he breathes.

Stifling the urge to take it all at once, he settles with some experimental licks. His tongue runs down the ridges along the underside. It’s firm but not rock solid; it feels almost like the real thing. A shudder runs through him imagining the thing inside him. He feels his own cock twitch.

“C’mon, you can do better than that. Get me all wet, baby,” you encourage.

Dieter’s lips part tentatively, allowing you to shift your hips forward and nudge your cock in. You moan as if you can feel the relief of his warm mouth around you. Something in his stomach fizzles at the thought of you getting off on watching him be like this.

“That’s it, take it…take it…” 

He looks up, wide-eyed, and sees you gazing back with similarly entranced eyes. Your chest heaves gently as you breathe, drinking in the picture of him beneath you with your cock almost halfway in his mouth.

Dieter ventures further, pushing your hips towards him, allowing him to take another inch. You take that as a sign to slowly start thrusting.

“Good boy,” your voice is velvet as you fuck his mouth. You set a reverent, rolling rhythm, trying not to overwhelm him with the length. Despite the normally submissive position, he feels held, loved, though he tries not to get his hopes up.

He remembers this all too well; the sway of your hips and the small sighs you let out. Judging by those sounds, he guesses that you’re probably a mess yourself. His vivid imagination pictures the slick folds between your legs just begging to be squeezing him. God, how he used to make you whine and sob. But you could make him do the exact same.

“Think it’s as wet as it’ll get, huh?”

His agreement is muffled by the instrument itself and you giggle before removing it from him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies.

He folds and spreads his legs instinctively, though from a combination of age and lack of practice, the movement is a little strained. To ease his muscles he plants his feet on the mattress and grasps the sheets in his balled fists. In other words, he’s prepared to hold on for dear life if need be.

The seductive tone in your voice turns a bit more serious. “I’m gonna start slow. And if it hurts or you want to stop at all, you better let me know, okay?”

Dieter nods.

“Hey, I’m not playing around. I don’t want to hurt you. I need to hear you acknowledge that if this is too much you’ll tell me. Alright?”

This time he clears his throat, looks you dead in the eye, and responds, “I will. I promise. I trust you.”

You let out a shuddering breath. And it makes him realize that even with the confident demeanor, you’re likely nervous too. It strikes him that you probably haven’t done this in a while either. It makes sense that Roman wasn’t brave enough to take a cock like yours. Lucky for him, Dieter was all too willing to take the bullet in this instance. Suck it, Roy.

You prod at his hole with your tip, dipping it in and out about an inch to test the waters. As relaxed as Dieter is, he knows he’s out of practice. Fucking himself after you left had always felt a bit awkward. He desired the connection more than the feeling; your low voice coaxing him along the path to pleasure and cradling him in your arms when the journey was done. Doing it to himself always left him feeling a little emptier than before so he tended to avoid it.

Though it’s slimmer than the ones he was used to you using, it still takes a minute for him to become acquainted with the fullness of your cock again while you start to slide further in. There’s never really been anyone else he’s trusted without fear that they’d run to their social media with all the details.

You’re the only one who knows just how he likes it. With a few slow, deep thrusts you know exactly how to draw a few sharp gasps from him. You know it’ll make him whine when you dig your fingers into his hips and praise, “You take my cock so well, baby.” 

Once the stretch of you feels a bit more tolerable he gurgles something akin to encouragement.

“You’re just aching for my cock aren’t ya’, sweetheart?” you tease, your confidence slowly returning.

“Pleas– please fuck me,” he moans.

“What’s my name?”

That’s the easiest question of them all. “Mommy,” Dieter blurts, “Please, mommy.”

The name seems to activate you, 

“C’mon,” you pant, “I want the neighbors to hear how good you’re getting fucked. Let them hear you, baby.”

He has no trouble with that. If there is indeed someone in the room next door, he knows that they’re getting the performance of their fucking lives. Strings of his incoherent babble paired with the bang of the headboard against the wall. 

“You wanna touch yourself now? Can mommy see you touch that pretty cock of yours, huh?”

Without another word, Dieter’s hand flies to his neglected dick. Even the slightest bit of pressure from his fist around the base nearly makes him sob. He’s so desperate to relieve the throbbing need in his belly that he begins pumping at an almost brutal pace. Mere seconds before he feels like the cord is about to break, you lay your own hand over his and stop him abruptly.

He lets out a sharp breath through his nose in defiance and is about to protest when you chide,  “Ah, don’t get greedy, baby. Go nice and slow so mommy can really watch you.” You let go of him and continue, “It’s been so long since mommy has seen you come hard. And we’re going to make that happen, we have to be patient. Can you do that? Be patient for mommy?”

He nods feverishly.

“Say it.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Dieter tries his best to pace himself. He tries to time each drag of his fist with the drag of your cock inside of him. His body sways with the movement and if he didn’t feel so on edge, he thinks he could probably fall asleep like this; being fucked into oblivion by you.

He can’t even remember the last time he’d felt so warm and wet and safe. Probably since the last time you were on top of him.

His lidded eyes meet your expression. A few drops of sweat have formed on your forehead. You bite your bottom lip and you stare down at where your cock disappears inside of him. True to your word, you watch him slowly milk his own cock. And he swears that between small grunts he can hear you moan softly.

A bit of pride bubbles in Dieter’s chest knowing that you still crave this the same way he does. You’re just as fucked as he is; just as far gone. And he finds himself starting to slip farther and farther down the pit too.

“F-fu-u-ck– I’m so fucking…sofuckingclose–” he pants. That familiar rush of pleasure in his abdomen threatens to spill over. He knows he’s only got a few seconds until he lets go entirely. He doesn’t wait to be told to ask first. He begs, “Please, please, please, let me cum…holy fuck–”

You’re breathing so hard and so focused on hitting him just right that it takes a moment for you to gather yourself enough to respond. But you do. And Dieter is on the brink of sobbing when you whine, “Go ahead, baby. Make a fucking mess of yourself.”

Those words are the green light for him to fuck his fist a little faster, urging forward that long awaited release. Dieter’s back arches. And with your cock still sliding in and out of him, the slightly altered path makes him see the fucking heavens. God bless the Emmys. God bless the Television Academy. God bless Roman Roy. God bless whoever invented that beautiful, curved, pink cock. And God bless you, his favorite angel, for fucking him onto paradise’s doorstep with it.

Ropes of his thick spend shoot across his stomach. As your thrusts and his movements slow, each spurt begins to slowly spill over his fist. He milks every last drop of cum that he can from his softening cock; you wanted a mess, after all.

Dieter groans when you eventually pull out of him. Closing his heavy eyes, he allows himself to feel just how completely spent he is. Every one of his limbs are jelly. Exhausted but contented jelly.

Soon afterwards you pad away to the bathroom, likely going to retrieve a towel and straighten yourself up a little. When you return and begin to clean up the last hour’s work, he can’t help but notice your expression.

Your jaw is slackened and soft. You part your lips as if in pride at the result of this impulsive act. Though you’d been firm before, you were still so gentle with him. Your melodious hum fills the room with a comforting atmosphere. He missed this. He missed you.

When you both finally settled in bed, it felt as though little time had passed between this tryst and the last. There’s a comfortable silence as you brush a few strands of his hair away from his face and tuck it behind his ear. Your hand lingers for a moment on the side of his head. You hum and press your lips to his for a soft kiss.

Amongst the tangle of limbs, one of his legs is nestled between yours. For a second he wonders if you two hadn’t cleaned up as well as you thought until it hits him that the wetness on his thigh is from you.

He breaks away with urgency and you give him a confused expression. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to-? I think I can get hard again. Just give me a minute to-”

You sigh and hold him, keeping him still. “Dee, it’s okay. You don’t need to do anything.”

“Are you sure? I can go down on you if you want.”

“Hey, what did I say about being greedy, huh?” You laugh. “I’m too tired anyways.”

Dieter’s heart sinks until you continue, “We can do that tomorrow. Before breakfast? How’s that sound?”

He pulls you closer to his chest and chuckles, “I can do that.”

“You sure can pencil that into the schedule?” You tease.

“Oh, I’m not missing that appointment. Trust me.” With a hard swallow he admits, “Been waiting for that opening for a long time.”

Your voice reverberates against his ribcage when you reply, “Me too, Dee. Me too.”

Please consider commenting and/or reblogging if you enjoyed!! Love ya!! 💛

[marvelobsessed134]

R bumping into Thor somewhere and immediately getting on her knees and sucking his big Asgardian cock like a good girl should

A loyal servant

THIS MAN IS GENUINELY SO BEAUTIFUL

Pairings: King!Thor x Servant!Fem!Reader

It’s been awhile since I’ve watched any of the Thor movies (I know 😔) so bear with me on how Asgard works and stuff k?

Warnings: oral (m receiving), power imbalance, size kink (obviously, this man is fucking huge), praise, light degradation, mentions of getting caught (but it doesn’t actually happen).

You were a servant for King Odinson, or while he preferred you to call him, Thor. The blonde liked hearing you say his name so that’s what you would call him. Anything to please your king That included sex, as well. You grown to be Thor’s favorite servant. Beautiful, dainty, and the only one that was willing to give him whatever he wanted. You’d trot around in dresses shorter than what women in Asgard usually wear because that was what he expected of you. And you loved it.

On the way to the palace library to make sure all the books were in the correct order, you bumped into your king. His long blonde hair was flowing down past his shoulders, he was in his casual-as casual as a king can get-wear, and had a hungry look in his eyes you knew all too well.

“Oh, Thor! What can I do for you?” You asked with a peppy smile as you looked up at him.

“Lady Y/n, I was just on my way to your quarters.” You knew what that meant, you knew what he was implying.

Your panties dampened at that. You were always so wet and ready for Thor, another reason why he favored you so much. You bit your bottom lip and your eyes traveled down to his very large bulge. “You need me to take care of that?” All he did was nod in a stoic expression and you sunk down to your knees, undoing his belt and pulling down his pants and boxers, letting his cock spring free. You guys were still in the middle of the hallway, and there was a pretty high chance you guys could get caught. And that turned you on even more.

The king felt the same way because he lifted your chin in his large, calloused hand and said, “Anyone can walk down here and see you on your knees for me. Do you like that, dove? I like it too. Like everyone to see you belong to the King Of Asgard.”

You nodded enthusiastically with a smile before wrapping your hand around his cock and giving it a few pumps before spitting on it and taking it in your mouth. You’ve never been able to fit his whole length in your mouth so you jerked off any part that couldn’t fit down your throat.

The god moaned, tangling his hand in your hair and thrusting his hips towards your mouth. “Fuck, such a good girl. Sucking my cock like a good little whore.” His words made you even more turned on and you were determined to give him his finish.

“Such a tiny little mouth, your pussy is even tinier. Don’t even know how I’m able to get half of me inside.” He groaned, tugging on your hair making your moan onto his cock, sending vibrations throughout his body.

You pulled off of him to give your throat a rest but he wasn’t having that. Thor forced you back down on his shaft, fucking your face into oblivion. It wander long before you felt him twitch in your mouth before he spilled his seed down your throat. His moan came out more like a roar as he released his cum.

He pulled you off of him and jerked your head up so you could look at him, “Go ahead to the library. I will award you later.”

You nodded and stood up, glad your knees weren’t on the hard marbled floor anymore and watched him tuck himself back inside his pants before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips and walking off like nothing happened.

[the-black-bulls]

Finral, about Langris: I'm just saying, considering his messed-up childhood and the way he was raised, he could've turned out a lot worse.

Vanessa: You're right, Finral. Let's go find him and give him a medal. The "Not As Much Of A Jerk As You Could Have Been" award.

[callsign-daydream]

Coyote, about Hangman: I'm just saying, considering his messed-up childhood and the way he was raised, he could've turned out a lot worse. Rooster: You're right, Coyote. Let's go find him and give him a medal. The "Not As Much Of A Jerk As You Could Have Been" award.

[incorrect-ninokuni]

Oliver, about Swaine: I'm just saying, considering the way he was raised and how he ran away, he could've turned out a lot worse.

Esther: You're right, Oliver. Let's go find him and give him a medal. The "Not As Much Of A Jerk As You Could Have Been" award.

[whumperstorm]

Supressing Fire - Part 3.5

Content: vampire whumper, defiant whumpee, mild violence, begging, crying

Two scenes from Keegan's captivity that aren't quite long enough their own chapters. Featuring Keegan trying to rebel however she can, and Kane earning his "Not As Much of a Jerk as You Could Have Been" Award.

Part 1/Previous/Next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One evening, as Kane feeds, Keegan's eyes wander over his shoulder. She just barely suppresses a gasp when she sees it. Her little art project, taped to her punching bag and crumpled from numerous bouts of abuse by Keegan's fists. It was an excellent improvement to her self care routine, in her opinion. After Kane's generous donation of fresh bruises after she “sighed disrespectfully" last week. But one that should not have been left out after use.

Keegan rips her gaze away from it and stares a hole into the floor instead. Maybe he won't see it?

Of course he sees it.

"What is that?" he demands, stalking toward it and ripping the paper off--a crude portrait of what looks to be him. Scribbled in crayons.

"Um-" She says dumbly. "You weren't supposed to see that."

"It's not supposed to fucking be in my house!" Kane tears the paper in two, crumpling it and tossing it to the floor. "I thought this punching bag was supposed to make you better behaved, not a sneaky, disobedient little brat. Maybe I should take it away after all, if it's doing you no good!"

The best way Keegan knows to get out of this mess is to apologize. To show respect and beg Kane for forgiveness so he doesn't get angrier. That is not what she does.

"Oh come on, It's just a drawing!" She huffs. "I've been good haven't I? This wouldn't have bothered you at all if you hadn't seen it!"

Kane storms over and backhands her across the face.

"I will not tolerate disrespect!" he screams. "This is not what being good looks like! You will learn your place!"

The strike hurts. Keegan's head snaps to the side and she lets out a shout of pain, but she doesn’t back down. "My God, grow a fucking spine!!" She spits, standing up to tower over him. "I've been your perfect little pet for months! Since I can't knock your lights out, I used what I got. At least this Kane was nicer to look at!"

Kane shoves her, sending her toppling to the ground, then lands a hard kick in her side.

"You've improved. I'd hardly call you perfect," he spits. "This is exactly the problem with you. Nothing works. You know what? Say goodbye to the punching bag. Clearly, this isn't working." He goes to take it down.

For some reason, that sends a jolt of panic through Keegan's chest. More so than the abuse. She fights to get air back into her lungs and reaches out towards Kane.

"W-wait!"

It's not really about the bag. She has other amenities. But they're all generic. The bag is the only thing that's hers. A piece of her personality to light up her dreadful little prison.

She can't bear the thought of losing what little she has.

Keegan pulls herself up to kneel respectfully. "Don't take it, I-I'm sorry." It may not be enough now. Not after her outburst.

It's fake. So obviously fake, how she only deigns to respect Kane when she has something to lose. It only fans the fire inside him further. He needs to break her foolish pride.

He glares down at her. "Beg."

Keegan glares a hole into the floor. She hates him. She hates him with every cell in her body. But punching bag or not, she can't back out now. Any more rebellion and she'll be black and blue for days.

She hangs her head, face burning in shame. "Please... sir. I'm sorry. Please give me another chance... No more disrespect, whether you're present or not."

"Hmph. I'll believe it when I see it. Watch it, human. I'm the one in control here."

And with that, Kane leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Keegan lets out a breath when he leaves. Never has she felt more helpless and tiny. She can’t even exist in peace without the threat of Kane’s interference. Everything is a fight in this place. A fight she's bound to lose each and every time.

But, well... she glances up. At least she still has the punching bag.

She groans, flopping miserably back down into bed.

------

Things continue as normal from there. Kane still needs to violently discipline his human on a regular basis, but the frequency has gone down a bit. He wonders if it's really the punching bag, or just a coincidence. The fact that it seems to be making her behave better is the only reason he doesn't go through with taking it away.

Many months pass and they fall into a routine. Some days are bad, with a defiant human he needs to correct, and some days are good, with the human coming out and playing chess or watching movies with him, countering his debilitating loneliness. 

One such good day, while they're watching a movie, the protagonist goes to celebrate his birthday. Kane usually skips this part, hating the sour reminder, but he doesn't want to raise questions from the human. He lets it play without comment.

In all honesty, Keegan hasn't thought about her birthday at all. She's had too much on her mind and no one around to remind her that it's coming up. But the movie scene has her realizing what month they're in. Her birthday is in three days. She’s hit with a wave of depressed bitterness. 

It was nowhere near her birthday when she was kidnapped, so it's yet another reminder of how long she's been here. Not only that, but she's turning twenty-one. That's a pretty big milestone and she gets to what, sit in an empty room and sing happy birthday to herself? She won't even get a hug from her sister. She knows her hunting guild enjoys throwing surprise parties. She wonders if they'd have planned one for her. 

Her thoughts spiral, and to her horror, she starts to cry. She hardly ever cries. She hates crying in front of others, and here she is sobbing in front of Kane of all people. She tries to hold it back, silent tears falling down her cheeks. She can't even excuse herself. She has to ask to do anything around here and he'll obviously notice her tears if she asks to leave. She sits there rigidly, until eventually a tiny, involuntary sob escapes.

Kane is so wrapped up in his own birthday-adjacent pity party that he doesn't notice the human crying until he hears her sob. He turns to her, caught off-guard. "What's wrong?" he asks. He hasn't been disciplining her, so he's not sure why she's upset.

Keegan is mortified. She hastily scrubs at her face to wipe away the tears, like that'll somehow make it less obvious. God he's actually asking what's wrong? Like he'd care about a human's birthday of all things. He'd probably get mad that she's even making a fuss about it. She can already hear his cruel comment. ‘You’re not a person. You’re food. You don’t have a birthday.’ 

"It’s- it’s fine." She dismisses. "Can I go back to my room?"

Kane turns off the movie. Something isn't right here. The human's never acted like this before.

"Tell me what's wrong and then you can go," he compromises. Maybe he's feeling soft because of the feelings thinking about his birthday dredged up, or maybe it's the disappointment at a nice night spent not on his lonesome being cut short. "You won't be in trouble."

Keegan puts her head in her hands for a moment, sighing. Even her own sadness doesn't belong to her. But, at least he said she won't be in trouble, and Kane has yet to lie to her. "It's not important. I just... realized my birthday is in three days." Her voice grows quieter as she speaks, mumbling by the end and looking away as fresh tears bubble up. "Can I go now?" She wants nothing more than to get away from this humiliating situation.

For the first time, Kane feels some sort of connection with his human, some sort of guilt for his actions. Here she is, unable to celebrate her birthday- because of him.

"You may go," he concedes, trying to process the unfamiliar emotions.

Keegan wastes no time, scurrying back to her room. She spends a while in the bathroom, calming down and washing her face. She doesn't even feel like using the punching bag, instead lying in bed wallowing in self pity the rest of the night. The conversation isn't brought back up in the following days, so Keegan hopes that's the end of it. The evening of her birthday however, she wakes up in an awful mood.

Kane, for the life of him, decides to do research. It's embarrassing, going to the library and asking for books on human celebrations, but he does it anyway. Most of what he finds is anthropological research on human religious practices, but he does eventually find something on birthdays. Human birthday celebrations seem to be similar to vampire ones in many ways, except for the cake. The cake is apparently a very big part of it, a large, sweet human food. Other than that, the customs of parties and presents are similar. 

On the night of Keegan's birthday, Kane comes in and feeds from her as normal. Just because it's her birthday doesn't mean he doesn't need to eat. But after that... "I have something for you. Come on out." He turns to exit the human quarters, gesturing for her to follow him out.

Keegan endures the bite. Same bullshit as always. When Kane invites her out, she follows, curiously. She'd rather stay holed up in her room today, but Kane doesn't usually get her things she hasn’t asked for.

Waiting on the mug table is a large, elaborate birthday cake, the kind that must have cost hundreds of dollars. Next to it is a medium-sized gift wrapped in shiny paper.

"Happy birthday," Kane says awkwardly.

Keegan stares in utter shock. "You- what?" She looks at Kane, then back at the table. Is he serious? It can't be a prank. She can tell from here that the cake is real. But this is a man who has stolen her life away, and her blood, and abused her countless times over the past months. And who's now celebrating her birthday?

"...Why?" She asks quietly.

Kane glances briefly at her, then realizes he's far too embarrassed of his own sincerity to make eye contact, and stares forward at the table instead. "It's your birthday. It deserves to be celebrated."

"oh..." Keegan is tearing up again, but controls it better this time. It feels like a piece of her humanity has returned. She might be nothing but food here, and constantly referred to as "human" instead of by name, but she's still deserving of a birthday? That's a better gift than anything that could be in that box. She still doesn't understand why he cares, he’s the one who put her in this situation after all, but it’s something.

“Thank you…” She steps hesitantly towards it, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when he doesn't stop her she kneels down next to the table. "Can I open it?" She asks, reaching for the gift.

"You're welcome. Go ahead," Kane encourages. This is weird. Vampires aren't supposed to celebrate their humans' birthdays. She's food. But... he can't deny her this. He just can't.

When Keegan opens the gift, she finds some very fancy hard cider inside.

"I wasn't sure... um. This was one thing I knew you liked that you didn't already have," Kane explains. "Just for your birthday. No refills."

She's not sure why, maybe the way he awkwardly explains himself, or how ridiculous the whole situation is, but it has Keegan bursting out into laughter.

She doesn't want Kane to think she's mocking him so she quickly sputters out, "This is great, thanks." She takes a breath to get control over herself then adds, "You gonna be able to survive my nasty alcohol blood?"

"I'll manage," Kane says, unoffended. In his eyes, she's only insulting herself.

The rest of the night is a peaceful one, spent doing whatever activities the human wants. Though Kane grimaces at the taste of her blood on occasion as she makes her way through the cider in the coming weeks, he makes no comment on it. It was her birthday gift.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @whumpsday @not-a-space-alien @anomalys-taxonomy @what-if-i-just-did @dragonqueenslayer6 @jumpywhumpywriter @writereleaserepeat

[sharksarewaterdogs]

My Episode 8 Guesses

I'm a believer in both the "the supervisor is Tak Rennod" & "the supervisor is a droid". We've yet to see Rennod's body, and Jod sneered that speaking to the Supervisor was "better than dealing with a droid" in a moment that felt like dramatic irony

I don't think we'll get a Jod redemption, but I do think he'll have a moment to give him a "not as much of jerk as you could have been award" (I mean, he didn't squish the little rat creature, so one could say that in a lifetime of evil, at least he didn't add animal cruelty to the list...)

No explicit Jod backstory sigh (still convinced he was a Youngling or Padawan who ran away/was captured/was failed out)

Jod (or something??) manages to crash the barrier, letting the pirates invade

Parent-child team-up to boost a signal out to Kh'ymm; the parents are reluctant bc they're not ready to be part of the wider galaxy

New republic forces arrive to stop the pirates, and At Attin can no longer stay hidden & will never be the same (dun dun)

The Supervisor is the Biggest Baddie, desiring simply to continue amassing At Attin's wealth and keep things running smoothly with droidlike unity and precision

He does something evil that perhaps briefly unites Jod & the kids against him (Jod being motivated by self-interest rather than a selfless redemption). They defeat the Supervisor,... but at what cost? Bye-bye vague dystopian Service for the Great Work under droid control, hello hell that is the wider galaxy

Ambiguous death for Jod? (Darth Maul, Boba Fett, & Palpatine have all proved pretty much No Death is Certain Death)

Thirty-Three gets fixed & lives on At Attin with the kids (sorry his survival is simply Fact I will accept nothing less)

Happy ending but in the sense that a historical fiction ends happily in the year before a major disaster (you know a storm's coming & this is no happily ever after)

Watch me be utterly wrong lol. I can't wait to see how!

[bigtreefest]

Essie, saw that you reblogged this prompt post and was curious about how MountainRanger!Ari x Reader are doin', maybe considering prompt #3 or #4? or if we are to stir the pot real saucy and to the extreme -- prompt #7? 👀 (cause jealous ari kinda does something to me 🫣)

Mel! Oh, thank you so much for asking about Ari and Duchess, my beloved. I’d love to answer these for you.

#3 if they're happy? who will they want to share it with?

If Ari were happy, I think the first one he would go to tell is Duchess, he wants to share a life with her! I feel like it would be something that happens at work. Maybe he gets an award for his service. I would say that he’d call her right away, but the ranger station isn’t known for great reception on cell phones, just landlines and the radios. And he wouldn’t want to block the line with a personal call just in case. So as soon as he walks through the front door, he’s beaming at her, throws his bag down, and spills all about his day.

Duchess is pretty close with her mom, so I think that’s the first person she calls. And that’s on the drive on the way to the ranger station. As soon as she gets close and the connection starts to crackle, she’s ready to see Ari. No matter what the news, or who’s present, he’s picking her up and spinning her around, giving her kisses and telling her how proud he is.

Overall, I think the two of them just spend a lot of happy time together and with their friends, which I haven’t gotten into much. It’s smiles all around, really.

#4 if they're sad? will they go to anyone for comfort? if yes, who?

Ari has some hard days. It’s when the doubt seeps in again, no matter how much he knows he’s loved or how good his life is. Because the thing is, he’s afraid that could be taken away from him. Nothing in his life has ever been this good. There are some moments when he’s sad and heads to the bar in town. Sammy is there to listen, and to give a pep talk and some direction. That all really ends up leading him back to Duchess. Sometimes he’ll talk it out, sometimes it’s just silence. He doesn’t always want held, but he does want her presence, even if it’s just silence in opposite sides of the same room.

Duchess really likes to go for a drive when she’s sad. The cold mountain air feels nice on her face when she puts the windows down. She’ll take Ari along and he’ll hold her hand sometimes. And when they stop, she climbs between his legs and he just holds her close against his chest with his chin resting on her head. Again, there’s no need to talk, just silently comfort each other.

#7 if they're kissed by their ex?

Oooofffff. So here’s the thing, if Duchess is getting kissed by an ex, Ari isn’t blaming her at all because he knows she would never cross him like that. He’s pissed, though, at that guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer, the guy who he knows thrust himself on her. He’s pissed at himself for not being around to stop it. Say Ari was in the bathroom at his hometown bar and somehow Duchess got cornered, once he gets back and sees the sad and uncomfortable look on her face, he’s ready to fight. One punch and that jerk is down, end of story. Cops and other patrons aren’t gonna do anything because they know Ari was justified. Then, he’s leading her out by an arm around her shoulder and taking her home.

Duchess knows the same thing. If Ari’s ex is around, it’s because she came back to stir the pot and cause problems. She left him without a second thought, so why is she back? Who cares if she’s from around here? Doesn’t she have a new fiancé? Oh…it didn’t work out? Wonder why. I don’t think she’d go in for direct confrontation, unless she actively saw the ex lean up for a kiss, but she’s telling Sammy to get that lady out of here and never let her come back. I also think she’s taking Ari home, but it’s a little different. Duchess is going to remind him how good he has it just to drive the point home. We’re talking possible road head, and then riding him in some slightly possessive sex in their shared bed in her cabin.

Again, thank you so much for sending this. I’m trying to get back in the zone to finish up their main storyline!! They’re just so in love and need their happy ending! Fall weather should be good to give me the inspo for that.

Taglist: @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly

[highwaytothedangerzone502]

Foxtrot Alpha Alpha - Chapter 33

Pairing: Hangman x Female OC

Word Count: 1973

Warnings: Talk of suicide, swearing

Summary: Hangman learned his lesson a long time ago to never show his true feelings when someone's words or actions hurt him. To do so showed weakness that could be exploited, and Seresin men couldn't show weakness. Of course, there was an exception to every rule, and Jake's always came in the form of women, three in particular: his mom, Juliette Kazansky, and the girl whose name he could no longer bring himself to speak. She was the girl that got away; she was his biggest 'what if' and his biggest regret; she would forever be the ghost that haunted his dreams. Jake believed that's where she'd stay, for he would surely never see her again after what he did.

Or so he thought.

Notes: This is the sequel to India Lima Yankee; I'm using the same callsign for the Female OC as in Ghost Story because I just really like it, but they are different characters; chapters in italics are flashbacks.

Chapter Songs: Tequila Right Now

****

Hangman

A consistent pounding in his ears roused Hangman from his deep sleep. He tried to sit up, but that only worsened it. He swiftly pieced together that it was the blood in his head making the incessant noise, not someone knocking on the door. God, death would be less painful than this. How hadn't he died last night with all the alcohol he'd had? It's not like Hangman intended to drink that much, but he kept making friends at the bar who kept paying for his drinks until they could drink no longer and left. But he had stayed. Stayed until-

Fuck. Although barely memorable, faces belonging to Rooster, Juliette, and Ghost flickered in his mind, along with the drunken ramblings he'd tried so hard to keep to himself, to keep quiet, even if they ate him alive because no one deserved to know his pain, but not because of his lack in trust in them. In fact, three of the four people he trusted most with that pain had rescued him from the bar that night. No. They didn't deserve it because they all had pains and worries of their own, none of which needed the added burden of his own problems that were far darker than anyone should ever know.

Hangman forced his eyes open and, through his blurry vision, recognized the white coffee table with aviator magazines neatly spread out on the surface, the built-in bookshelves with a myriad of pictures, books, and awards dotting the shelves, the navy blue recliner with the curled-up figure of Ghost-

At the sight of her, Hangman rocketed upward. The movement caused his world to spin, and it took all of his willpower to not throw up again. He remembered that from last night, too. So much hurling before they'd lugged him to the couch...

When his world stabilized, he tried to stand, but Hangman had hardly taken two steps before ramming his shin into the coffee table. "Fuck!"

Ghost jerked awake, staring wildly and dazed at him. When she comprehended the situation before her, she jumped up to help him.

Push her away. You're only hurt her more. It doesn't matter how much it hurts. Push her away. "Leave me alone," Hangman snapped when Ghost tried to rest her hand on his shoulder. He stepped out of reach, ignoring the pain wracking his body, both from the hangover and the run-in with the coffee table. 

"Jake-"

"Don't," he hissed. "I'm fine." 

A lie given away by his stumbling, and Ghost knew it, but she listened to him. To his amazement, she listened, staying perfectly still, eyes staring at him with nothing but concern. Why? The last time they'd been in the same room together, she'd rightfully stormed out on him, giving him what had been a final goodbye. Why change her mind so suddenly?

Unless...

He vaguely remembered he'd told her some of his reasoning for not seeing her in the hospital after the crash, but how much else had he divulged to Ghost?

She held her hands up placatingly. "If you want to leave, that's fine, but let me help-"

"I don't need your help," Hangman snapped. "I-"

"What's going on?" Juliette's calm, concerned voice floated from behind him. Hangman turned slowly to avoid toppling over. On Princess's heels was Rooster, eyeing the situation warily. They landed on Hangman, who braced himself for a snarky comment, but none came. That scared Hangman.

"I was just leaving," Jake managed to say, hoping they could avoid any more awkwardness if he ignored the truths he surely divulged last night. "Thanks for letting me crash here, and sorry for dragging y'all out in the middle of the night."

"Don't mention it," Rooster replied evenly. "You want breakfast?"

Hangman shook his head. "I should be getting back to my place."

"Why don't I give you a ride?" Juliette offered, moving toward the garage.

"No." It came out more sharply than he intended, his tone a knife in the tense atmosphere, but he kept it that way. He had to if he had any hope of leaving unescorted. "I'll walk. Sober me up."

"Hell of a walk," Rooster commented, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning against the door frame. Hangman refused to dignify him with a response, only rolling his eyes and moving to the front door.

"You either let one of us take you, or we call someone, but you shouldn't walk alone," Ghost said kindly. "I know my motorcycle might-"

"I don't want you trying to help me because of some stupid, drunken shit I might've said last night. You made it perfectly clear how you feel about me after that fight, so why don't you call Wolfie up about that wine and chocolate he promised you?" The color drained from Ghost's face, and Hangman knew he'd hit his mark. She posted her videos anonymously, possibly only a handful of people knowing about the account. Having not told him about it, Hangman assumed it'd rattle Ghost for her to know he had knowledge about the account she sang her heart out for. But it still wasn't enough to stop her from coming after him if he left. He had to strike lower, harder. Had to rub salt in the wound. Hangman had to keep her away from him. "You want to know what brought that drinking binge on? It wasn't my father's death. It was you. It was 'Forever and Always' after our fight the other night. It was 'Mr. Perfectly Fine' when I was here for the training detachment when I started having a thing for Juliette. It was 'Haunted' on the anniversary of Ghoul's death. It was 'My Tears Richochet' after your lunch with Jackie. It was 'All Too Well' and 'The Story of Us' after running into each other at the Hard Deck the night of Juliette's promotion celebration. It was 'I Forgot That You Existed' after you slept with Rooster. It was every fucking cover song directed at me. It was hearing the anger and hurt in your voice and realizing you not only never moved on from what I did to you but that you thought I stopped caring about you, that I forgot about you altogether, when that couldn't have been further from the God damn truth. It was realizing how low of an opinion you had of me. That's what sent me over the edge. Because I learned how to stop giving a shit a long time ago about what people thought of me, but you mattered. You always have and always will."

"You were never supposed to see those," Ghost breathed, voice barely audible.

Hangman's heart shattered. He might've gone too far, but he'd had to. They weren't good together. No. He wasn't good for her. Hangman did nothing but drag her down, did nothing but hurt her. Ghost gave him chance after chance, and he blew them every single time. She was too good to stop trying to provide him more opportunities to fix what he had broken, so Hangman had to end it for her. Ghost would move on from him, and that's all that mattered to him, whether he found the strength to move on from her or not. 

"Yeah, well, I did." Hangman tore himself away from her and yanked the door open. Stepping into the bright sunshine, he called over his shoulder. "Leave me alone. That goes for all of you."

Slamming the door behind him, Jake strode onto the sidewalk with his head held high until the Bradshaw house could no longer see him. Only then did he sag against a stranger's white fence, letting the emotions and turmoil of what occurred just now and last night wash over him. Hangman had always been good at destroying things: flight records, enemy targets... now he could add 'relationships' to the list, too.

With an effort and lead feet, Hangman shuffled to his apartment, the long trek his personal punishment for treating his three friends the way he had. None of them had done anything wrong except see him at the second lowest point in his life, save Hangman from drinking himself into oblivion last night, and learn his deepest, darkest secrets.

It took him a good hour to walk the short trip to his apartment, but rather than heading to bed like his body screamed at him to do, Hangman forced himself to work out. Stripping off his shirt, he put on the boxing gloves and went to the punching bag, taking all his frustration and embarrassment out on the leather and sand, trying to punch away all his emotions. It'd take him until the end of his life to succeed with that endeavor.

"Dude, you've really got to start locking your doors," Coyote said. Hangman whirled around, wondering how long his friend had been there. As if sensing his question, Javy added, "I just got here, but judging by the sweat, you've been at it for a while."

Feigning casualness and masking the dark thoughts that might've been showing on his face, Hangman said, "I thought you would've been with your date still."

"No, we're taking it slow." Coyote looked him up and down. "You look like shit."

Hangman scoffed. If his friend only knew. "Nice to see you, too."

"Ghost texted me."

Shit. "About what?" Jake replied, dropping his gaze to his hands as he took off the boxing gloves.

"All she said is, and I quote: I fucked up. Hangman needs you. No other explanation, so I figured I should get here quickly."

Ghost's words were an exact echo of the ones Hangman had sent Juliette after their fight. God, why couldn't she stop caring about him? Why couldn't Ghost let his words ruin their relationship like he had wanted them to?

"What happened?" Javy prodded, moving aside when Jake stalked to the kitchen.

"I got drunk, said things I shouldn't have, and told her off."

"What exactly did you tell her?"

Hangman sighed, realizing his friend would only drop this once he told the truth. Again. So he did. Almost every nitty gritty detail, with the exception of the near-suicide jump into the ocean that Coyote had unknowingly saved him from. At the end of the story, Javy sat on the bar stool and sighed. "Wow, you really did tell everything. Even the letters?"

"No, not those." Miraculously, it had been the one secret he kept to himself. How that- over everything else revealed last night- ended up being the one piece he hadn't blurted out, Hangman couldn't figure out, but he wasn't complaining.

"Do you still have them?"

"No," Hangman lied, thinking of the stack of envelopes tucked away in a box on the top shelf of the coat closet, forgotten for most of the year except on the few days he found himself tempted to send them. "Even if I did, they wouldn't change anything."

"Why did you never give them to Ghost in the first place?"

Hangman shrugged, unwilling to admit he'd been too scared, too cowardly, to give the sheets of paper that contained every piece of his love to her, afraid she would read them and then wrench his heart right out of his chest out of pure spite for the pain he'd put her through. "Don't know. Didn't feel like it'd make a difference. I've never been good with words or actions anyway, so probably best I didn't give them to her. Most likely would've made it worse."

Coyote nodded but dropped the subject. "Whatever you need, I'm here for you, starting with telling you- and I mean this in the nicest way possible- you need a shower. You reek of alcohol."

And probably other shitty things. Hangman thought grimly. Nodding in agreement, he shuffled off to the bathroom.

****

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[gabessquishytum]

i love imagining hob and dream as actors cause if you squint and don’t think about it too much dream can still be famous for playing a character named The Sandman. but anyway the two of them worked together on some film, they became friends but nothing more even though they obviously have some kind of tension going on. there’s an event (premier, award show, something) that they have to go to together and hob finally corners dream in the bathroom. dream tells him he can’t, he’s married, he’s straight (wrong), but even though he’s giving hob 100 reasons why he shouldn’t hook up with him right then, hob still sinks to his knees and sucks dream off anyway. and dream lets him.

afterwards they’d continue to have an affair, and they’d try their best to get casted together in future projects to have an excuse to be around each other more often (especially since dream is in denial and needs a plausible excuse for all this). it’s only when they’re in a romance together and they’re “playing up the chemistry” for the press that calliope catches on and there’s a big messy divorce with tabloids and paparazzi

Omg yes. I love that Hob is the seductress here!!!

Hob is less well known than Dream, but he's got a good little fanbase all the same. He could have anyone in the world, more or less. But he doesn't want just anyone, he wants Dream. Dream who is famous and rich and a huge star. For a while, Hob thinks that Dream might resist him... but eventually he gives in. He might be "straight" but he sure does cum hard down Hob’s throat that night in the bathroom.

It's difficult with Dream being so famous, but Hob is determined to have his man. They sneak around and fuck like rabbits when they can, go on subtle dates which could be seen as just friends hanging out. When they go for coffee, Hob will secretly be rubbing Dream’s cock through his jeans or jerking him off in the bathroom. He totally gets off on it, the secrets and the sneaking around.

They finally get to kiss in public when they do a romance movie together... unfortunately people start catching on that it's definitely more than acting. Dream makes all kinds of denials to the press but it's not exactly convincing when a picture of Hob happens to drop out of his wallet...

5 years later, Hob gets to marry the man of his dreams. All because of a blowjob in a bathroom. It didn't do either of their careers any favours, but Dream is happy to retire out of the limelight and Hob is happy to live his life as the notorious "other woman" who got to have his cake and eat it too.

[helldustedstories]

@madefate asked: ❝ Just breathe, Moon Pie. Breathe. ❞ Bee demonstrates for Stolas with an exaggerated flourish, as one would an athlete on the ropes. Is that mischief in her eyes? Of course not. ❝ First of all, I still hold the award for best babysitter, so take note. And where's safer to have some fun than with me? Nothing's gonna happen to her. Sin's honor. ❞ Bee even goes so far as to make a pentagram over her heart. ❝ If the first party wasn't a rite of passage for any teen girl, I'd even invite you out, that's how safe it is. ❞

unprompted // always accepting!

Stolas hadn't been sure how to feel, when Beelzebub approached him about the idea of Octavia attending one of her parties. He'd wanted to go himself, when he was younger, when he'd still believed that the world could be fun, before he'd been so worn down by his own existence. Which was ultimately likely why he would agree, in the long run. He didn't want Octavia to have to deal with the same sense of crushing loneliness that he had, and with Bee looking out for her…, maybe she could make some more friends.

The prince takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, the way Bee had demonstrated just a moment ago. He knew his knee-jerk reaction was overprotective, wouldn't do anything good for Octavia in the long run; he just had to work through that initial feeling. It was just hard sometimes, coming to terms with how much she'd grown up, realizing that she was almost the same age that he had been when she'd hatched. He knew he needed to give her more freedom, needed to let her experience things for herself, that he would be there if she needed him…, but the idea of her getting hurt terrifies him.

Which is why it is a good idea to let her attend her first party with Bee. She'll look out for her, keep her safe. And hopefully Octavia will be able to have some fun. Satan knows she didn't get enough of that right now, which he knows is his fault.

He offers Bee soft little smile, and a nod. "As long as you're looking out for her…., I know she'll be okay," he finally responds. "But if anything happens, I will be there immediately," Stolas adds, squaring his shoulders. She was one of the Sins; she could get hold of him if she needed to, and there was nothing that would keep him from Octavia if she needed him.

[vvatchword]

Reading BioShock: Rapture (Part 4: Going Down)

<- Part 3: The Prologue's Prologue || Back to the Beginning || Part 5: Three Old Men Jerking Their Milk Sticks ->

This section covers the end of the prologue and part of Chapter 1, the introduction of Bill McDonagh.

I created a tag called “vv reading” if you want to block it. I had a nightmare of cluttering up the BioShock tag with nitpicky grouchy bullshit. Let’s not pull a BioShock: Infinite hatewank, right? If you like this book, blessings upon thee—but begone. I don’t want to rain on your parade.

I think I’ve gotten past the foundational part, so hopefully only like… five more of these. (Note from Future Me: you stupid asshole.) Again, I’m not doing this solely to be an ass, I’m doing this for my own personal research, and the only way I can get through it is by complaining. I’m also doing this because I have a friend who hates this book as much as I do and wants to see me rip its spine out through its throat.

For I hate BioShock: Rapture. I hate it so much. Every time I think it’s about to settle into a comfortable rhythm, it flips over and does something no one but an alien from another planet would think to do.

That said, it’s not boring-bad, it’s just insulting. Sometimes it grows so uniquely fucked that I find it fascinating—in the same way you’d find roadkill fascinating. What was it supposed to be? What did it do? How did it get here? Where was this part supposed to go? Everything is just so wrong. Let’s poke it with a stick.

How was author John Shirley giving confident interview after confident interview with people who loved his work? I mean, with interviewers who called him a Renaissance Man? Who are these people? How much and what do they actually read?

I’m telling you what: I am clearly not half as confident as I need to be. I could write circles around this man. I have written roughly 22 novels that looked very like this one, and I kicked each and every one of them into an endless pit. Maybe I should have been beating down publisher doors with that shit. Here, take my deranged Twilight rewrite. The plot is broken, the protag pisses herself, and a werewolf gets eaten alive. I described fucking a vampire as riding an ice pop. Maybe I could have won a fucking Bram Stoker Award.

I am no longer rolling eggs. I am lobbing them. Inshallah they are hard-boiled.

Prologue’s End

To sum up the rest of the prologue: Andrew Ryan thinks about how cool it would be to build Rapture and then flashbacks to his childhood during/after the Russian Civil War.

That’s right: 1945 Andrew Ryan has already thought of Rapture. He knows exactly what he wants to do. The blueprints are literally on his desk with the photos of nuclear holocaust. This is stated in the Prologue and it’s over in a handful of pages.

Can anyone say “anticlimactic”?

I wanted to hear about how he got the idea. The idea of building an entire city underneath the ocean is weird, okay? I want to know how Ryan decided on a city of likeminded individuals instead of fucking off to an island by himself. I want to see who he mingles with and how they impact him, I want to see what he interprets as a friendship, and I want to peer in on his enemies.

All we’ve seen are the signs of what hurts Ryan, and we can’t confirm whether or not his fears are warranted.

What exactly inspired Ryan to take this dramatic act of self-harm? For it is self-harm: it is the destruction of all he has ever worked for. He is a canonical cheapskate, and it’s for very good psychological reasons.

What makes a PTSD-ravaged cheapskate spend? What makes a libertarian offer his labor and dreams up for other people to touch? It’s got to be insane and dramatic. And, my siblings in hell, if I’m about anything, it’s drama.

Instead, we start in media res. And it’s the worst kind: it’s a summary of all the things we should have read about, but didn’t.

Here’s a list of undisclosed events that produced Rapture according to the prologue alone:

Andrew Ryan’s philosophy and how it evolved over time

The birth of Rapture’s concept

Choosing Rapture’s name

Why build Rapture under the ocean?

Why a city?

Why invite other people?

Meeting the architects of Wales & Wales

Choosing Wales & Wales

Trusting Wales & Wales to draft the blueprints, and all the creative, financial, and logistical decisions that entails

Government bad (specifically, how it is bad). Experience with the Soviets is not enough—Ryan spent a long time in the United States. How was he failed by the USA specifically? “Taxes bad” are also not enough. I mean very specifically. I mean the events and major players, not “vaguely referenced Titans lurking somewhere on another plane of existence.”

Society bad (and how it is bad). Specific events. Specific people. Specifically.

Each of these questions should be answered explicitly. Many of them require more than one chapter. Some of them require the entire book. Show your answers. Through writing. Through chapters. Chapters and chapters and chapters and chapters and

Manprose

The flashback to Babby Ryan is fine. The prose is awkward—its flow is shitty, almost emotionless, and lurches from sentence to sentence like a Frankenstein—but on the whole: fine. There are some nice images in here of people waiting for a train and a great image of the train itself.

His father’s breath steams in the air… the train steams as it approaches, a big dark shape hulking toward them through the grayness, a single lantern above the cow-catcher projecting a rain-scratched cone into the mist.

This is pretty great! It draws a comparison between father and train and it is a distinct picture of a place and time—you can feel and see this scene perfectly.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t continue. It’s a little island of relief in a sea of clunky manprose.

“Manprose” is a word I use for literature written by men—usually Silent Generation and Boomers. It is typified by dry, almost journalistic phrasing—spare, clean, only as many words as you need and no more. Geometric and literal similes, metaphors, and adjectives are used, and only as necessary—no flowery prose or flights of fancy or appeals to an ideal. Emotional vulnerability and interpersonal intimacy are subdued or completely absent. Emotional excess is often a signal that a character is untrustworthy, weak, gay, a child, or a woman. Lauded qualities are stoicism, silence, sacrifice, suffering, physical strength, traditional values, and technical capability.

Themes revolve around war and/or struggling against nature, societal ills, broken systems (often new ones), and “untamed” alien cultures. Most characters are men—specifically white, heterosexual, cissexual men; almost none are women (or otherwise). This contrast grows especially obvious when crowds and strangers are discussed—because all bit characters tend to be the author’s idea of The Standard Man in different costumes. When women are written, they are usually by stereotype and for utility’s sake, often as tools of the plot or objects of romantic or sexual desire. Male characters will have every role under the sun; female characters will fall into a strict hierarchy of acceptable female pastimes and traits. Women are sometimes so sidelined that there might be accidental homoerotic undertones.

Yeah, being a woman in manprose is generally not great. Femininity is there to be derided and fucked. If you’re fuckable and pretty, you’re a grade-A woman. On the other end of the spectrum, wives often don’t understand their husbands—often to such a point that you’re not even sure why the characters are in a relationship to begin with.

I haven’t mentioned the nonbinary part of the spectrum because that shit never comes up. I can only think of one example, and it’s for symbolism’s sake (A Voyage to Arcturus by David Lindsay, 1920). The gender binary was overwhelmingly the only way that Western culture saw anything for hundreds of years. Thus, for the purposes of this essay, I’m going to talk about women in an outdated, limited sense, because that’s the way manprose refers to them.

I’d call the works of Ernest Hemingway, Orson Scott Card, Isaac Asimov, Philip K. Dick, Ray Bradbury, and Frank Herbert “manprose.” Ayn Rand writes something close to manprose. (Her women are too equal to men to qualify.) I don’t count HP Lovecraft because he talks too damn much. He’s too invested and passionate and obvious about what impassions him. That said, a lot of Lovecraft’s friends write manprose.

My theory is this: men from the Silent and Boomer generations—and men from similar backgrounds, usually conservative and poverty-stricken ones—were often punished for exhibiting emotion at young ages. “Boys don’t cry” was used even during my childhood (the 80s and 90s). Men from these cultures mock each other for showing feelings or preferences with too much vivacity. Friendships with other men appear careful and surface-level from a female perspective, while relationships with women (usually in maternal or romantic roles) often take care of their emotional needs. These men might have entirely different “gendered” worlds—those of their wives and those of their male cohorts.

Such men often strike me as myopic and socially stunted, for something about their upbringing has made them incapable of empathizing with other people’s needs and wants—perhaps because being emotionally vulnerable means revealing oneself, and in a masculine social setting, any vulnerability is an invitation to attack. In other words, what you don’t practice, you don’t understand.

The fear of “cringe” is male-coded to me for this reason. Don’t show what you love, whatever you do. Don’t show what you feel, or someone will use it against you. Become a white wall, for to give someone what you love is to give them a weapon. Toxic masculinity is a power-play dynamic that nobody signed up for. It’s a product of traumatized societies and traumatized people. It’s the product of children under attack by those they love and trust.

This particular behavior is not as prevalent anymore—thank god, we are finally allowing men to safely experience their feelings, and I think that men are becoming more cognizant of how being all clammed up and hypervigilant isn’t psychologically healthy.

Look here, friend. If someone’s making fun of you for enjoying your life, you kick that motherfucker to the curb. Literally fight them if you have to. I don’t care if you like Thomas the Fucking Tank Engine at the age of 58 or write the world’s most unhinged fanfiction about My Little Pony. Protect your goddamn happy place. It’s the place that keeps you sane, and in the end, when you are alone, can be the difference between life and death.

All of this considered, manprose is not always a bad thing. Like any style, it can work quite well, and it’s an interesting view into the writer’s psyche and culture. Its treatment of women is not always great, but it’s also not always bad. The fairest thing you can say is that it’s a gradient.

TL;DR

Shirley reads like manprose to me. There’s not much emotion. Descriptions are usually spare. Most of his scenes are just images and don’t have a lot of emotional oomph—they’re moving images outside of static human beings, and when human beings exhibit emotion, it tends to be matter-of-fact. Most characters are stereotypes of the flattest and most embarrassing sort. Female background characters are rare and the three speaking parts I’ve seen (up to Chapter 3) occupy stereotypical roles and behave stereotypically. They fell into the Wife/Mother and Whore dichotomy, which is typical of manprose.

I’m a little nervous about what I’m about to see, but it’s early yet, and two of the characters were small ones. Most of the bit characters we see—such as sailors—would have been solely male at this time.

At this point, I’m holding my breath, because this story could go any kind of way.

I’m Just a Poor Boy (1918-1923)

Oddly, there is no year or place given for this flashback sequence.

Oh why am I saying “oddly” we all know why

I can’t give you much in the way of historical perspective. It’s been a minute since I’ve read about the Russian Civil War. All I can tell you for sure is this:

The Bolshevik Revolution was a huge fucking mess. The entire Russian Civil War was a huge fucking mess. Any attempt of mine to condense it into a paragraph would be criminal. However, I think it’s pretty safe to say that this section would occur anywhere from 1918-1923. I’d have to do some extra research about the revolution and Minsk to be very sure, because the Reds took power in a chaotic, fragmentary way.

Coincidentally, if you want to see a first-hand experience of the years following the Russian Civil War, read Ayn Rand’s We the Living. It’s a dramatized version of her experience and it is fascinating. You don’t have to be terribly wary; Rand became a worse writer as she aged, and We the Living is her best offering. It’s from before she stuck her whole head up her ass.

A little off-topic, but I hate how Shirley’s Ryan calls the Bolsheviks “Bolshies.” Andrew Ryan is proper as hell. He calls them “Bolsheviks” and every time he does he rolls the word out with so much tangible hatred that a bird explodes.

In any case.

Young Andrew Ryan, his father, and his aunt and uncle are running from the Reds. The aunt and uncle beg for help. Ryan and his father only have enough to save themselves. In the end, Ryan and his father board the train to safety while soldiers kill the aunt and uncle just outside. It's a reminder that you don’t have to outrun the bear if you shove your friend down first.

Since I smelled manprose, I paid special attention to any mention of women. Ryan’s aunt is painted as pathetic—her standout trait is that she flails around like Kermit the frog—but she has more color than her husband, who just kind of exists. I’m pretty sure this was an accident—the side effect of paying attention to the woman’s emotional state while ignoring the man’s. The only other female character is a bit part in the background—a woman trying to lift someone’s spirits. All male characters are typified by their work (a man selling tea, for example).

This is also where I realized Shirley was trying to write prose that is reflective of its POV characters. Andrew Ryan is a child, so Shirley doesn’t use large words and the prose is simplistic. This is fine. At least Shirley tried. I suspect this sequence was written first. I can’t tell you why. Maybe because I felt something.

I became more aware of Shirley’s style as I went, noting his constant ugly run-ons and hatred of commas. Run-ons aren’t always wrong. Many competent writers use them for various reasons, often for stylistic flair. But that’s not what’s going on here. There’s no art or rhythm. These are just lists.

I suspect that Shirley writes like me (she said through gritted teeth). I have this quirk where I will write an entire paragraph without verbs or subjects because I’m so busy describing something. Unfortunately, this usually doesn’t work long-term; the end result is awkward and ugly and excessive, and the flow and rhythm is all wonky, and I’ve lost the point somewhere in the second prepositional phrase. I always have to come back and fix it.

He never went back to fix it.

This is because he won the Bram Stoker Award. Once you win the Bram Stoker Award you become perfect. That’s why everyone longs for one of their own. That’s why there are legends of the travails of writers struggling to be seen by its legendary panel.

Is that award even still a thing or

Chapter 1

There’s a quote shared right before Chapter 1.

The parasite hates three things: free markets, free will, and free men. —Andrew Ryan

This is very nice, but… why is this here? Isn’t writing Andrew Ryan your job now? Why not work this into the prose somehow?

Back in 2011, every time I tried to get into this story, the quotes would knock me out of it because I would remember how powerful Andrew Ryan was in-game. Then the prose would kick in and I would suffer a violent physical rejection, like: “’Tis not HE. This be but crude conjecture!” (Because I’m a time traveler. from hell)

On the first page of the prologue, the year is explicitly given. Context clues make it unequivocally clear the prologue occurs in 1945. Unless Western history is utterly alien to you, you have an idea of when the USA flattened Nagasaki and Hiroshima. (This is when I sullenly recall that this was probably written for the lowest-common denominator, aka people who failed their history classes.)

And this is what Shirley does on Chapter 1.

Almost a year later…

Like it’s a TV show and there’s a title card.

I hate everything about this. This is a book! It is literature! The time could be worked into the narrative itself. Even if you didn’t, the year is literally already up there! Under the setting! Do you think I cannot add, sir? Do you think my memory is garbage? Well you’re right but it’s not THAT bad.

The black ballpoint pen is me from 2011. No, I don’t remember why I drew a >:3. Yes, that's part of why the page is embarrassing. The “p11” refers to the first page of the prologue. (Chapter 1 is on page 25.) For reference, I have the first-edition paperback. (Wait. Are there more printings than this? Tell me they didn’t print this more than once.)

The number in the margin is where I started numbering the shoehorned British slang. I would call it “cockney” but I have absolutely no faith in Shirley’s capabilities. I choose to believe this opinion by UK reviewer Joe Martin, who noted: “Bill McDonagh, Ryan's lead engineer and the sympathetic underdog of the novel, has so many unbelievable English archaisms shoved into his mouth that he ends up looking like a parody of himself.”

And why stop there? Almost every single character speaks like this. Dialogue has been funneled through stereotypes and dim memories of film noirs. Nobody feels real. Nothing feels grounded.

I think if there’s anything a writer should take from reading BioShock: Rapture, it’s to go find videos of someone speaking a regional dialect and note, when written out, how much English just… sounds exactly as you expect it to. Regional affectations are far more subtle than a bunch of oddball words. There are mannerisms, colloquialisms, unique phrasings, social and cultural expectations, and word meanings and pronunciations that are only slightly different. In addition to this, there are differences between individuals, and everyone speaks English differently depending on who they’re talking to.

Long story short, I’d expect for McDonagh to speak to Andrew Ryan cleanly. He might insert more particles and fewer contractions. It might be easy to miss that he’s a low-class Brit from text alone.

Of course, you can go too far in the other direction and create a different kind of inaccuracy. In UK author David Mitchell’s The Bone Clocks, there is a section set during the second Iraq War with an Oklahoman Marine as an antagonist. The words Mitchell put in that kid’s mouth were unbelievable—not only because they were so proper and intelligent, but because he got the culture completely wrong.

You can’t win is what I’m saying.

Should you not try? Well… also no. Nobody will like you either way but they’ll like you less if you just didn’t give a fuck. Just try. At least you might make someone laugh, and that’s pretty special, too. Now they feel better about themselves at your expense. That’s something. You don’t know about it so nobody’s hurt on the whole. Entertainment’s only sin is being a boring son of a bitch.

RIP My Brain

We begin Chapter 1 from the perspective of Bill McDonagh, who is heading up an elevator to the ritzy Manhattan apartment of one Andrew Ryan.

Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms—but he felt like he was sinking under the sea.

.

.

.

?

?

???????????????????????????

This is as much a non-sequitur as it looks. This is the first sentence. There is no description before or after it to suggest how going up in an elevator feels like going down in an elevator… into the sea…?

This is where my brain locked up and I had to leave for an entire week because I don’t have the capacity to understand a) how this got past any kind of editing process, b) why Shirley wrote it this way, and c) what this is attempting to communicate. I came back to the book twice and both times was hit by this deep revulsion that said: Go. Go and touch grass. Swear at that live oak. Outside in the sunlight. Swear at god and feel pain while aphids jizz all over your car.

I mean. I get that Shirley wanted symbolism and foreshadowing. By meeting Andrew Ryan you sink under the weight of the ocean, sure. Problem being, nothing in the prose suggests the sea. Other problem being, that direction shit is giving me an aneurysm.

Are we going to talk about how symbolism works now. Am I really going to try and

We Are Going to Talk about How Symbolism Works Now

Symbolism in English literature is a huge subject and I am not that well-versed in it. Like tension, this is not something I have often put words to. Lord knows there is an entire world of literary criticism out there I have neglected by simply running into books face-first while screaming. In other words, we can think of this as a mutual learning experience.

Here goes. Pour one out for me. In my eye. In my fucking face

A symbol stands for something else. That’s it.

This is vague out of necessity: almost anything in-story can be a symbol, and a symbol can represent anything you want. A symbol can be a word, a phrase, a chapter, a character, an item, a setting, a plot point—yes, an entire event! You name it, it can be turned into shorthand for something else. Usually that “something else” is a larger theme or an invisible quality.

You can, in effect, tell multiple stories simultaneously, one layered on top of the other.

BioShock does this very successfully. On top of the story of a sleeper agent being used as an assassin is the spiritual gnostic journey of ascension. This spiritual journey is simultaneously one for Jack Wynand and for the player. The physical world of Rapture represents Andrew Ryan’s body, Objectivism, the Earth as a whole, and the physical realm (as juxtaposed against a spiritual or unattainable ideal). On top of the spiritual gnostic journey is meta commentary on how FPS’ narratives are limited by their natures: all you can do is kill, and all you have control over is how you kill. The game’s infrastructure and narrative is unalterable by the player.

Additional elements symbolize BioShock’s larger theme: how trauma causes toxic feedback loops. The Little Sisters and Jack symbolize the traumatized-of-the-future, while Dr. Yi Suchong and Dr. Brigid Tenenbaum symbolize the traumatized-of-the-past. The message—the theme of BioShock as a whole—is that trauma does not necessarily make you a better person. Sometimes trauma just hurts you. Worst of all, trauma can turn you into a monster. All of these characters have been severed from their pasts, their families, and their cultures, and because they cannot remember, they are destined to visit their agonies on future generations. In Jack’s case, he’s already started.

Let’s try something a little simpler, because that’s pretty heavy, and BioShock becomes a maze of alternate meanings so fast and so intricately that it can be mind-boggling.

A common symbol for “truth” is “light”—the “Eureka” moment, if you will. So a character might step into the sun, or light a fire, or switch on a lamp, but they aren’t just experiencing light—they are also comprehending the truth. Plato’s allegory of the cave uses this symbol: individuals stuck in the cave do not understand the true nature of reality, while someone who has stepped into the sun can. All of this said, not every element in a story is a symbol. Half of the art of reading symbolism is knowing what is and isn’t symbolic. This involves looking for commonalities and patterns and is too large a subject to discuss here. (Authorial intent not required. That’s right: symbolism can be accidental. Enjoy.)

Symbolism in BioShock: Rapture

So far, there have been a handful of awkward, artless attempts at foreshadowing through symbolism. One is from the prologue. Here, Andrew Ryan throws the photos of nuclear destruction across his desk:

The city lights were caught on [the photos’] glossy surface, as if somehow the thrusting boldness of the New York skyline had itself destroyed Hiroshima.

This one is awkward, but at least it makes sense. It’s also literal—Shirley tells you exactly what he means.

Of course, there’s an artistic reading here that is also pretty cool: the New York skyline is evocative of Rapture’s. Rapture’s fate is told in Hiroshima’s ruins; even in its fetal state, Rapture has already failed, and will perish because it is built on faulty logic; Rapture exists in an eternal state, both built and decayed; the seeds that will cause World War III are already planted in Andrew Ryan, and he will take them down himself.

Builder and Built. Destroyer and Destroyed. A circle’s points meet.

I have no idea how much Shirley may have meant, but I suspect it’s a happy little accident.

This one didn’t get my hackles up. This one made sense. It’s graceless and obvious, but it belongs here. First, there’s the close association between Rapture and the city of New York. They look similar; they’re built on similar foundations; they’re extremely American, with all of the flaws America has, and were born from similar urges. New York was a famous harbor for immigrants, as Rapture itself will be.

Similarly, there is blood on both their hands—some the natural outcomes of human society (all societies sacrifice someone), some from their rapacious roots, some because capitalism.

Secondly, New York is one of the most important cities in the United States, if not the world. It’s more an economic and cultural powerhouse than a military one, but there’s a certain delectable edge in using an economic and cultural setting here. It is largely for economic and cultural reasons that Rapture is founded. It is for economic and cultural reasons that it descends into anarchy.

With all of this in mind, let’s revisit that fucking sentence that I wish I could shoot 300 times with a gun. For context, I will include the sentence that follows it. It’s the first sentence of the chapter, so nothing precedes it.

Vivisecting a Shitty Simile

Bill McDonagh was riding an elevator up to the top of the Andrew Ryan Arms—but he felt like he was sinking under the sea. He was toting a box of pipe fittings in one hand, tool kit in the other.

First of all, what’s the purpose of this simile?

There are several possibilities. The first is foreshadowing Bill McDonagh’s entrance into Rapture.

The second is the foreshadowing of an unstoppable tragedy: Bill McDonagh falls into Andrew Ryan’s sway and, in effect, his grave.

The third is to conflate Andrew Ryan and Rapture—Rapture as an extension of Andrew Ryan’s body.

Finally, there’s a larger concept at play. I told you that Rapture lingers in an eternal state. I am not just saying that because it’s artsy (although it is). I’m telling you that because it’s based on a spiritual and philosophical premise—that the physical world exists alongside the spiritual one, and that the physical world is an imperfect copy of that spiritual ideal. According to the narrative, Rapture was born broken because it was fabricated from half-truths. It could never attain perfection; it fell for the lies of the worm. Now it exists in a state of undeath, as it were—a punishment for attempting a physical perfection instead of a spiritual one.

So it’s obvious from context clues what Shirley meant to say. Unfortunately, it fails completely.

There are two senseless parts here.

What about any of this makes you think of the sea?

What about going up made McDonagh feel like he was going down?

We Saw No Sea

Symbols need to be set up. You can’t just trust that readers will make the connection. There are multiple ways to do this.

You might imply qualities that the deep ocean specifically possesses: depth, darkness, sea creatures, water, pressure, coldness, extremes. You might display the sea’s qualities literally in some way—perhaps the elevator opens up and there’s a grille with fish on it or the walls are aquariums or there are dark windows that don’t look out onto anything. You might use words and figurative speech that invoke the ocean, such as “dive” or “drown.” For example, Ryan’s cold mien or the pressure of working for one of the most powerful people in the country.

Whatever you do, you should include several elements of the deep sea to drive home what you’re trying to invoke. There are ways to do this subtly—perhaps stretch them throughout a chapter or scene, or imply similarities through whole sentences or paragraphs as opposed to singular words—but if you want to make it stand out, you can be artless as balls. Who’s going to stop you?

Shirley follows that sentence with a description of McDonagh’s tools. So the answer to that question is “yourself.”

A Is Not B

Ask any schoolchild what the opposite of “up” is. They will say “Down!” So how did a sentence that says “going up is like going down” pop into existence?

I suspect that Shirley is referring to a peculiar sensation where you lose sense of which direction your elevator car is moving. However, you can’t trust that the reader understands that right away—this is far from a universal experience. For this concept to work, it has to be explicitly described.

I also don’t know if that’s what Shirley meant. Maybe he thought he was being artsy—that he was inverting the meanings so that right-side up is wrong-side down, or that McDonagh was passing into some kind of unreality (BioShock qualifies as magical realism). If so, Shirley didn’t set up for this meaning. This sentence is flat, technical, describes a physical action being taken in a physical world, and does not imply that “up” and “down” mean anything other than “up” and “down.”

Moreover, as this is a simile, it doesn’t imply an exact or specific experience. It implies a similar experience. It literally implies that “up” is similar to “down.” In what way? That both imply movement?

I assure you that nobody in the whole world has read this sentence with this kind of depth because they are sane and have meaningful things to do with their lives, and the fact I am attempting to make sense of it at all is to imply that I accept this work in good faith (I do not).

Which leads to the following paragraph that I actually typed with my own two hands:

How the actual hell is going up like going down? I can’t believe I’m saying this, but “up” and “down” are not relative except in space and bizarro-land.

The real question is: How did this happen? How did anyone think this was okay? Did John Shirley fight for this stupid line? Does this imply that there wasn’t an editor? I’ve noticed a ton of typos—mostly incorrect capitalization—and I’m only in Chapter 4. Take a little pride in your work, jesus christ.

The only major theme I’ve noticed in this whole stupid story is traits canceling each other out and the strangulation of any kind of meaningful tension at every possible moment. So this nonsense sentence is fitting and follows a pattern, but it’s also the kind of pattern that makes me go insane. This is like… non-Euclidean geometry. Non-Euclidean English? Oh god. Just typing that phrase made me 20 times dumber than I already am.

This book represents an eternal and unchanging present where things just exist and nothing means anything and everything simultaneously. I hate it and I am fascinated to an equal extent. This book was born in the deepest voids of extrastellar space to amuse Azathoth.

Shut Up Shut Up

I don’t care about that sentence anymore. Let’s move on.

They had looked at him with only the faintest interest when he’d walked into the Feeben, Leiber, and Quiffe Engineering Firm.

Oh. Oh I’m not laughing at that.

It’s funny how sometimes I see a nasty joke and I’m like huhu, u guys and me will get along great, but in this case the chapter started with “Almost a year later…” and a sentence that is so bad that I inaugurated a folder in my Writing Chest called “Worst Writing.”

See

My friend Salty, who also hates this book, told me that this kind of writing is typical, so I decided to turn it into a text file of its very own. This is where I will go for schadenfreude.

Bill heard them say it, through the door, after they’d dismissed him. “Another limey grease monkey…”

“Limey” is ancient-ass British slang for “Englishman.” Just one problem: the people who said it are explicitly New Yorkers and turned McDonagh down for an engineering job because of his accent. So is the speaker a judgmental American using slang from another continent (nani?), a British person being classist (while committing the same verbal sins lol), or McDonagh casually recounting the memory to the reader with a personal twist, the way he might to strangers at a bar?

All of these are wrong. I’m not sure I have the energy to tackle them.

Just kidding! Snobby indignation gives me superpowers!

The first two choices’ failures are self-explanatory. That last one is probably what Shirley intended. Remember, he’s writing prose that sounds like what his characters would say. He probably thinks putting quotation marks around the sentence implies that it is said and thus an opinion. This is correct. What is incorrect is the outcome: it’s unclear who has said it. The reader’s first thought, as they whip through sentences with the speed of a furious marmot, is that the interviewers explicitly stated this.

Shirley is writing third-person limited. In other words, he’s writing like a journalistic godlet from just outside Bill McDonagh. We’re limited to McDonagh’s viewpoint—we can see inside McDonagh, but we can’t see what the New Yorkers are really thinking or feeling. All we can see is how they act and speak.

Moreover, there are two levels here: Bill McDonagh’s opinions and observations, which may or may not be accurate, and the prose, which serves as a more neutral touchstone. The prose is more neutral in practice because the reader has to have some sense of what bedrock reality is. I say “more” because there’s always a bias toward the POV character in third-person limited.

I think of the bedrock reality as a faint thread running through a narrative. There’s what happened—this real, tactile event—and there’s how it is interpreted, and multiple viewpoints with multiple readings all fractaling out.

What I’m saying here is that I expect for the prose to tell me the truth about what certain characters actually said. I should not have to ask if an event actually happened or not… unless, of course, that’s the intent. And I don’t think it is, given the prose’s general style.

For clarification, you can have questionable realities in fiction. First-person is this way by default. But this is third-person limited, and it’s not particularly clever. Therefore, this is a fuck-up.

Also: “Another limey grease monkey”? They’re being inundated with British engineers? That’s a problem you can have?

I hate this book.

In Conclusion

I had to stop here. I’m not done telling you how I hate Chapter 1. I thought I could cover Chapters 1 and 2 here. That’s how goddamn optimistic I was. But I keep finding weird shit, and I have to ask myself over and over: “Wait, why does this annoy me? Is there a reason or am I mistaking my preferences for rules?”

This project is enlightening for me in a way I never expected. I keep having to ask what I think quality prose looks like. That’s a valuable exercise in itself. See, I’m terribly limited: I don’t know all the proper lit crit terms, I don’t study theory—I picked all of this up in the wild, and it’s to my detriment. How the hell do I research any of this? I feel like there’s a vast ocean of knowledge and I am stuck on dry land, examining a pipette. I have passed a certain threshold where most advice for creative writers is useless to me. I don’t really know where to start.

But just having to put my ideals and experiences into words, and being able to identify why certain elements bother me, is an extremely valuable exercise. So… this isn’t useless, and getting sassy has a purpose.

Long story short: if you know anything about more advanced writing advice, or books on literary criticism that might be good starting points, send me a line lol

Next time I’m gonna talk shit about Frank Fontaine because hoo boy it is embarrassing

<- Part 3: The Prologue's Prologue || Back to the Beginning || Part 5: Three Old Men Jerking Their Milk Sticks ->

[giggly-squiggily]

Bruuh when I saw that you read/re-read Chronicles of Vladimir Tod, I was like 'yaaaas'. I started re-reading it again (literally bought all 5 books), and I am literally dying for a ticklish!Vlad and tickler!Otis fic!

It has been 89 years...but finally, on this day...I have done it! I have written this fic! :D @nutzgunray-lvt I believe this was you? If not well- here you are anyway! :D I haven't read Vladmir Tod in so long, so this was a blast to write. I hope you like it!

“Vladimir.”

“What-hey!” The mentioned boy yelped when Otis’ hand came around him, snagging a cookie off his plate. “What the hell, that was mine!”

“Uncle Tax.” Otis grinned around a mouthful of chocolate goodness, shooting a wink as his nephew pouted. 

This was a running gag for them- the notorious “Uncle Tax.” Well- it wasn’t THAT notorious. All of Otis’ antics were fairly minor, ranging from stealing a sip of Vlad’s drink (“It’s O-negative!”O) or borrowing one of his many t-shirts (“Were the same size, Vladimir, and besides- how often do you see a vampire walking around with a ‘I went to Slayer School’ T-shirt?”). Really- Vlad didn’t mind them all that much.

But when it came to Aunt Nelly’s famous cookies though…

That’s where the line is drawn.

Watching his uncle with the grand stink eye of all the Tod bloodline, Vlad turned back to his plate and carried on his way, one cookie unburdened. He’d get his revenge in time. For now- let it seem he’s just being a bratty teenager over sweets.

It was as Uncle Otis taught him; diversion is the best sneak attack.

~~~3 weeks later~~~

“Oo, are those what I think they are?” Otis’ breathed in the warm smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, all but floating into the kitchen. Nelly had already gone to work, it seemed, a note on the counter letting the boys know she’s doing a double shift and how to heat up the dinner she left.

Also, on the back of the note- a clear instruction: “No cookies before dinner, Vladimir.”

“Good thing I’m not Vladimir, then.” Otis snickered in delight, carefully picking at the plastic wrap around the plate of sugary treats. He was pretty sure his mentioned nephew was over at Henry’s tonight, meaning he’d have the house- and these delectable treats- all to himself. For a brief moment, he considered leaving a few for Vladmir to find in the morning.

And then he thought about the sass the younger vampire had been giving him the past couple of days and decided against it. Can’t award bad behavior afterall. Giddy in mischief, he brought the cookie to his lips, taking a bite.

And immediately spit it out into the sink.

“Pfft- Oh god! Oh my word!” Otis grabbed the sink hose, rinsing his mouth out in a desperate attempt to rid the salty catacomb he bit into. What happened? Nelly’s baked treats were never this salty! It was as if she went mad and forgot sugar exists! How could-

“Well well, look what we have here.” Otis froze, eyes widening at the sound. Turning slowly, he found Vlad leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and brow raised. Something smug was in his eyes despite his expression being flat. “Uncle Otis- to spit out Aunt Nelly’s hard work like that- and into the sink. How shameful.”

“V-Vladmir! I thought- it’s not- why aren’t you-” The blonde sputtered, looking at the front door and back to the young man watching him.

“Henry’s out visiting his cousin this weekend.” Vlad jerked his chin towards the plate. “And I lied. Aunt Nelly didn’t make those cookies. I did.”

“What?” Otis reeled back in shock, betrayal cutting into him like a stake.

“Yep. I used her recipe, but I accidentally mixed up the sugar and salt.” There was nothing accidental in that tone. “Maybe I dropped an additional cup in there too for good measure- I’ve never been much of a baker.”

“You poisoned me!” Otis declared in horror, backing away into the stove. “Why, Vladimir?”

“It’s like you’ve taught us in class, Uncle Otis. If you unfairly tax the people of a country, they’re gonna fight back.” Vlad let his lips quirk up in a small victorious smirk. “Your Uncle Tax has reached a high point it shouldn’t have crossed.”

“Oh…so this is how I die…” Otis sank to the floor, a hand grasping his chest. “Betrayed by my own blood, at the mercy of my greed.” He closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. “Eu tu, Brute?”

“Liberty, freedom. Tyranny is dead.” Vlad replied, fighting down a grin as he watched his uncle fake-twitch in death. “You weren’t even gonna share, either. I could hear your thoughts without even having to read your mind!”

“So it seems…I’ve been bested.” Otis peeked up at him through blonde locks, a smirk of his own starting to form on his lips. “But alas, I am no mere mortal Vladmir. For I…am a god!” He was across the room in seconds-

The space Vlad once held was empty. Looking up, Otis turned to the living room, finding the younger boy on the defense.

“What kind of death scene was that?” He cried, yelping when Otis sped towards him again, just evading an outstretched hand. “What are you, a zombie?”

“No, but I am a vampire! A vampire who feeds off the betrayal of his own!” Otis darted again and again, each time just missing Vlad but getting closer. “And you’ve proven to be quite the feast I’m looking for, Vladimir!”

“You’re so freaking- AH!” Vlad yelped when the back of his hoodie was snatched, stopping him from bolting around the couch a third time. There was a tussle, limbs flailing and the world spinning. Finally, Vlad found himself pinned to the couch, eyes wide as Otis loomed over with long, wiggling fingers. “U-Uncle Otis! You don’t need to dohohoho this!” He giggled out, trying to squirm away.

“What’s so funny? I never thought you’d be the type to laugh in the face of death, Vladimir.” Otis smirked, all teeth before he attacked, hands flying over his Nephew’s torso. Vlad arched before letting out an honest to god scream, the sound dissolving into relentless laughter as he flailed and kicked beneath his uncle’s cruel clutches.

“GEhahahahahahhahahha! Whahahhahit! Whahahhaait Uncle Ohoohohohotis I’m shahahhhahahrry!” He cried out, cheeks already flushing a pretty shade of pink as he laughed. “Coohohoohohme on, quuhuhuhuhuhuit ihihihiihihihiht!”

“What? You’re sorry? After all that planning? My you give up too easily, Vladimir!” Otis chuckled alongside him, his fingers finding that awful spot along his lower ribs just to hear those adorable bird chirps. “Then again, this could just be your way of sneaking away for your next line of attack!”

“Maahahahhahybe it is, mahahahhaybe it ihihihihihisn’t!” Vlad wheezed around a snort, his hands shooting down when Otis prodded at his belly. “Nahhahahaha doohohoohohon’t!”

“Ah, so a non-answer eh? I know how to handle these!” Otis shot his hands up and under Vlad’s hoodie, further driving his nephew into hysterics as his fingers danced across his belly. “Now, are you ready to give up, Vladimir?”

“GHEHAHHAHAHAHAHA! OHOOHOHOHOHOHTIS PLEHEHEHEHAHAHHASE!” Vlad squealed, his laugh going near silent from just how ticklish everything was.

“I’m waiting, Vladimir.”

“FIHIHIHIIHNE FIHIIHIHIHINE YOU WIHIHIHIIHN! I GIHIHIHIIHVE UP!” Vlad cried out, gasping for air when Otis retracted his hands, ending his tickling. The smaller vampire curled into himself, rolling onto his side and falling off the cushions. “Gahhaha…ahahaha…mehehehean!”

“So is tampering with goldy relics.” Otis reminded, making his nephew giggle. “Did you really do that because of the Uncle Tax thing?”

“Hehe…heh…y-yeah?” Vlad rolled onto his back, pushing his bangs back with a tired hand. “And I’d do it again too.”

“Pfft- a true rebel in the making.” Otis laughed, poking Vlad in the belly before standing up, offering a hand. “Really though, I am sorry if I pushed it too far, Vladimir.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry for eh…poisoning you.” Vlad snorted sheepishly, smoothing out his clothes. “Though it was kinda funny watching you rinse your mouth out with the sink hose.”

“It’s quite- hey!” Otis mock glared as Vlad cackled, shaking his head. “Fine fine, all is forgiven. Now, come help me put in dinner. We’ll make a proper batch of cookies after all our hard work.”

“Sounds good! I’ll add the sugar!” Vlad grinned, doubling over in mirth when Otis gave him a stink eye. “I’m kidding!”

The second batch turned out much sweeter.

Thanks for reading!

[reefer-reelz-n-reviews]

Scream 3 (2000)

Smoking: Splatter

This is the 3rd movie in the franchise and they are making the 3rd movie “Stab” during it.

Something that I guess I wouldn’t have thought of. The Voice is the same (at least in the first 3 movies) played by Roger Jackson.

I will say unlike the first 2 movies this movie doesn’t have as famous of a person dying. I’ve never seen Kelly Rutherford in anything else. At least that I know of. Maybe to others she is, I just looked at her list and she was on a show called Melrose Place. I’ve heard of it, but never seen it. She was also in the original Gossip Girl. Which I’ve seen but I don’t recognize her 🤣

I wanna know what Neve Campbell does to afford a house that nice in the middle of no where with all the security that she has. I don’t see how a Women’s Crisis Center would pay for that. I guess in the 2000’s it was a bit cheaper because it totally isn’t now. Especially in California.

Courtney Cox’s bangs… she let a 4-year-old do her hair? Looks awful, just like that meme about it 😂

We’ve got Kenny from the Cosby Show! Welcome Deon Richmond to your death 🤣 well I’m pretty sure he does lol. We will find out for sure in a little bit.

Tell me how I forgot that Jay and Silent Bob are in this!?! My favorite stoners! “Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts!” 🎶🎶

Why is the ghost face make that is huge and hanging a lime green color? It’s supposed to be white…

Jenny McCarthy-Wahlberg drops an award on the floor and breaks the head off. I laughed so hard 😂 foreshadowing? You’re literally on a movie lot and she’s trying to use knives to attack the killer, then she is surprised they’re fake. Like come on JMW.

Hmmm David Arquette’s bad arm switched… In the second movie it was his right arm… now it’s his left.

Love that Patrick Warburton is in this! Kronk is THE BEST! He’s a bit of a jerk, but I mean he’s a security guard for famous people, so I’m sure he’s a bit jaded. Hehehehe he steals the larger change from DA. Takes a frying pan to the head and a knife to the back. Still walks around and then dies in front of everyone.

Tells you how old this movie is, Parker Posey has a fax machine in her house 🤣

The eternally beautiful Carrier Fisher, even in the movie she talks about Princess Leia. Though she is stating that she didn’t get the part, but you know she did 😂 made a joke about sleeping with George Lucas, wonder how much basis there is for that? I know that he convinced her that in space there wouldn’t be a need for bras. So, who knows, maybe it is true 🤔

If this is about Stab 3, then why is the set up almost like exactly as the deaths in the first one? You had blood on the doggy door in the garage door for Rose McGowan’s death…

NC is carrying around pepper spray… if the killer is wearing a mask then how would it penetrate? Though I guess if it is some kind of soft cloth with holes it would make sense it would go through. But IDK seems suspicious to me.

Patrick Dempsey is really good at playing creepy and suspicious. I’ve heard that really, he’s a dickhead. Which I could totally see that. He kind of gives off dickhead vibes.

Snack time! Apple Pie, with whip cream and chocolate sauce 🤤

DR gets stabbed in the stomach and tires to run away. Nice little flip on the rug. Then over the balcony to die when he hits the ground. At least his wasn’t like a super easy death, right? He had a semi fighting chance.

So out of all the times through out the series that the killer gets knocked out this movie is my favorite. He is laying at the bottom of the stairs and as he’s, I guess dreaming, he goes, stab stab around him 🤣

Don’t understand why when PD opens the door, he has the gun come out first. Like what are you going to do? Shoot blindly? Risk hitting RC instead?

Just realized I haven’t even mentioned who the killer is in this. Maybe I will just leave it a “secret” even though I said what I did about the first one 😝 oh well.

🤣 She mentions Stab 3 and then stabs the killer a 3rd time.

Alright, that’s all for this review!

Toke on! 😶‍🌫️

-RRR

[humanoidalien27]

Content warning: Sebastian being Sebastian

.....

Chapter 4

Sebastian's Wand

      You were prepared for Draken to show up and even ask for you and Ominis to produce your wands, a fact which you were grateful for Sebastian's wand and that Draken hadn't seen yours before.

"What is this about?" Ominis asked politely once Draken said you could put your wands away.

"We had a prison break at Azkaban. A Sebastian Sallow and Mr. Williams escaped. I came here first because you have ties to both of them."

You screwed up your face at the accusation. "I'm trying to become an auror. That's to put dark wizards away. Not let them out."

You made sure your tone voiced disapproval, getting him to nod. "As you two still have your wands, I can see I was wrong. Good day."

You glanced at Ominis as his brows pinched and Draken disapparated. "A wand? How'd Sebastian get a wand?" His head moved your way when you didn't reply. "You didn't-"

"I know, but it was impulsive. Something he always brought out."

Hearing you sigh, he lightly patted your shoulder. "I understand, if he was telling the truth, I hope he finds out what he needs. If he's lying, you're going to get into a lot of trouble if they find your wand. Speaking of which, how do you have an extra wand?"

"I actually had four. I have Fig's, Miriam's, mine and... Sebastian's."

"You actually have his wand?"

"I picked it up that night. I never got the chance to give it back," I answered softly, looking at it.

"So, Sebastian's now on the loose. We have no idea where he is or what he's doing," he said, pausing for a second. "No, that was pretty much normal."

You laughed, knowing he did that to lighten the mood.

"Just do me a favor and don't get involved with whatever he's doing. I don't want to lose another friend."

"I can't promise that, but I promise to try."

"Alright, you said you were taking a trip to Hogsmeade today?"

Glad to get off the subject of Sebastian, you nodded. "Yes, I'm meeting Natty and Poppy today. They've been excited about this the whole week. Christmas break only comes once a year, so I decided to indulge them."

He smirked. "You have too many presents you bought for them, don't you?"

"That too, but you're not allowed to complain, you knew I was like this before moving in," I teased, earning a laugh.

"Pack rat of the year award goes to you, every year. Does your dormitory look as bad?"

You let out a scoff. "No, that would set a bad example and ruin my reputation."

"What?" He snickered, shaking his head. "You're not afraid to ruin your reputation when it comes to me?"

"No? You're family, I don't have to. You know pretty much every bad habit of mine and you stayed-"

"Coerced," he clarified.

You narrowed your eyes his way, not that he could see it. "Jerk."

He smirked. "Just be careful, alright?"

"Yes, dad. I'll look both ways before crossing the street. Check my surroundings to make sure I'm not followed."

Giving a deadpan expression for calling him "dad", he nodded, thanked you and then waved you to leave.

If only you knew how those words should have been guidelines for the day.

     Natsai and Poppy almost scolded you for buying them too many Christmas presents, but it was hardly that much, maybe six each.

It was nothing compared to the presents you bought for Sebastian that you knew you'd never be able to give him and you still got them anyway.

You couldn't help yourself, everything that reminded you of him or you'd think he'd like, you'd buy.

Ominis scolded you the first time he found them, but then calmly explained that you were only hurting yourself, so you got creative and used an extending charm, to hide them in the bag you kept in your pocket alongside your wand.

Ominis was a smart man, he'd put it together, if he hadn't already.

You knew why you were annoyed at the manipulation Sebastian put you through, why you took a chance and gave him your wand in Azkaban. You loved him, a feeling that hadn't gone away in the months he'd been locked up.

You didn't know if that was naivety on your part for falling for someone who played you so often or just hoped he'd been serious at least once. But, in the end, the silence was your answer.

Something poked you hard in the shoulder, making you jump, before you saw Imelda smirking at you.

"Weren't you doing a race today?" Poppy asked, barely drawing her gaze.

"Had to come back," she answered simply and held out her hand. "You dropped your wand."

Instantly understanding this was Sebastian, you quickly grabbed it from him.

"Oh, thank you."

"No problem," he said slipping into the booth beside you. "So, I feel like we haven't spoken in a while. How are things?"

Poppy laughed. "We spoke this morning. You told us you were going flying, remember?"

"It was cancelled, my opponent didn't show up."

Surprised by how nonchalantly he said that, Natty and Poppy side glanced.

"So, anyway. How're things going between you and Ominis?"

Confused, you looked at him. "Ominis?"

"You're living together, right?"

Poppy laughed softly. "If I didn't know Imelda, I'd think you were jealous."

You sent him a warning glare.

"Not at all, I'm just curious, you know."

Rolling your eyes you stood. "Well, I'm going to head back home."

"Yes, got to make it back home before Ominis gets there first."

Ignoring that, you walked outside after saying goodbye to Sirona.

It's like nothing changed in those months. Of course he'd go right back to fighting with you.

Shaking your head, you moved to head out of town, barely making it half way before you were grabbed and pushed into an alley.

When you spun, you saw Imelda behind you, taking a few steps back.

"Sorry, I needed to get you outside."

Casting a glance around, seeing nothing suspicious, you narrowed your eyes at him.

"Why? And why attack the friendship between Ominis and I?"

"Well, a man and a woman living together usually ends in one thing happening-"

"Oh, grow up Sebastian. Ominis is like a brother to me."

He raised his hands and sighed softly. "Alright, alright. But I need your help."

Crossing your arms, you sighed. "For what? I thought you were looking into the whole innocents in Azkaban thing. Why come to me?"

"You're an auror in training, you can grab the things we need to prove it."

Wondering who "we" meant, a familiar man moved out from under a cloak, making you jump.

"My apologies," he whispered, though amused.

Pressing a hand to your chest, you looked to Sebastian as he changed back to his original form.

"Look, I'm already under suspicion for just having ties to both of you."

Startled, Sebastian looked to Felix. "Both of us?"

"Yeah, he killed my mother."

Felix's eyes flickered closed as he sighed and moved to try explaining.

"I'm not broken up about it."

Their eyes widened in shock, before Sebastian babbled out random noises, before shaking his head. "Why would you-"

"Not the time Sebastian. Anyone could be around and recognize you," you said quickly, knowing he'd be curious about it being you never spoke of your past before.

Felix held out a piece of parchment. "This is the location of the documents and the password to the safe. Once you're safely away, read them and you'll know we're telling the truth."

Staring at Sebastian for a moment to gauge how serious he was about this, you took the parchment.

"Fine."

He visibly deflated and smiled. "Thank you."

Nodding, you reached into your pocket and took Sebastian's wand out.

"You did keep it," he whispered taking it carefully.

"You should go before you're seen."

You jumped when Sebastian rested his hand on your shoulder. "Thank you, I'll be around."

You nodded as Felix let him climb under the cloak. 

.....

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