#Being american is a fever dream

[sweetpumpkinmouse]

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔖𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔮𝔲𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔰

Summary: Your relationship with Farleigh Start has always precariously walked the line between friends and enemies for years.

But maybe there's something else there, too.

Warnings: 18+ content; MDI. AFAB, Oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex (this is fiction, please use protection in rl), hints at s and d dynamics; brief, barely there choking, outdoor/technically public sex. Sex while under the influence (takes place during Oliver's party, so drugs for Farleigh and alcohol for the reader). Farleigh being an a*s, but what's new. Reader is American. Heavy denial of feelings in the beginning.

Notes: 14.6 k words. There is an abhorrent lack of Farleigh content on this site, so I thought I'd contribute. Not proofread, divider by @saradika-graphics

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎 - 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔦𝔦

Honestly, it's a wonder how you always manage to forget the sheer opulence of the Saltburn Estate - even when it wasn't in the throes of a celebration that costs more than your yearly salary. It's like some sort of dream almost. While you're in it the details are all startingly intense. Overbearingly so. Flaunting in front of you with all of its details and sights; like a kaleidoscope. The memories never do the estate any true justice. The soft, rolling lush fields; the crystal blue skies that loom over the tall gray spires. It's all painted behind your eyelids with a haunting clarity. But as soon as you leave - as soon as you wake up - the entire experience never truly feels real. Bits and pieces slip through your fingers. It loses its tangibility somehow and you can't help but wonder if you had imaged the whole thing, even with Felix's number programed into your phone; a physical reminder that Saltburn is indeed a real, tactile place. 

But even here tonight, while walking the halls and strolling through the courtyard, it doesn't feel like reality. It seems as though you've stepped into a fever dream, crossed some imaginary threshold and entered some mirroring realm. The air is charged. Electrifying. And you swear you could feel the magnetic net of adrenaline and excitement prickling at your fingertips. A cocktail of emotions amplified by alcohol and drugs and endorphins. 

Everywhere you looked there were jovial, writhing bodies. People dancing and laughing. Some full on making out - and others dangerously close to toeing the line of having public sex - and others were having a less enjoyable time by collapsing in exhaustion or blacking out in an inebriated haze. One unfortunate soul had thrown up all over the floor boards of the foyer, and you had just narrowly missed being sprayed by the projectile vomit as you had passed. It was like the Exorcist. 

Thank God it hadn't been on one of the Persian rugs. 

It was someone's birthday, it seemed. A little impromptu. Not initially planned. Oliver's - at least that's what you believed it was. The same Oliver that Felix had mentioned during one of your phone calls. He had spoken of him fondly, but when Felix had rushed outside this evening to greet you from your taxi and help you gather up your bags, he had seemed less interested and even a little irritated in the mention of his newest companion - or as harsh as it sounds, charity case (he seems to have a new one each summer). And he had been quick to divert your line of questioning, stopping you with a somewhat curt, "he's just a friend from Oxford. That's all." And that was that. You knew not to press him over it. 

But your time with Felix was cut short when he was pulled aside by an excited Elspeth, who had spared you a quick glance and a "hello, darling," before eagerly trying to get his advice on the party preparations. Which he didn't seem particularly enthused about being dragged into. And it left you to stand awkwardly on your on in the middle of the foyer, trying to force your bleary eyes open. Jet lagged with your will to live paper thin from only having a rough five hours of sleep to back it up. And for a moment you had feared that you might actually pass out on your feet but luckily Venetia had sought you out and saved you from feeling too awkward amongst the others. Occupying the time by gossiping and interrogating you about your time back in the States. All of which, you had confessed have been rather boring. Filled with exams and dead-end dates and careless flings. And even though the initial arrival always leaves you feeling like a fish out of water, you were thankful to have been invited back over to Saltburn. The sprawling, golden fields and fresh crisp air always a welcome reprieve from the loud, chaotic clamoring and the smog blanketed horizon of Los Angeles. 

Even though the wild, scattered throng of sweating bodies that were bumping into you honestly weren't all that different from the clubs you frequent back home. Of course, the sheer show of wealth and splendor that had been rolled out for Oliver was nothing that you had ever seen before with the only thing to rival it (and surpass it, probably) being Felix's very own birthday party that you had been able to take part of a few years back. One that had been themed after a strange but no less entertaining amalgamation of cowboys, space and disco, and the costumes and decorations then had left you in a state of awe, much like tonight. 

Everywhere you looked there was something else to gawk at. Glittering lights, a hired contortionist and at one point you had even seen a swan rush past you out on the courtyard - which you had only felt sad and a little angry for. 

It was pure, unbridled pandemonium. Noisy and cloying with the scent of perfumes and marijuana and alcohol; and you couldn't escape it. Not even when you had gone outside to take advantage of the dark, balmy summer breeze to cleanse your lungs. And everything had been going well until a drunk man had lunged out of the crowd towards you. Wobbling on his feet with a loud wail akin to a war cry as he aimed a narrow tube directly at you. And you only had a fleeting second to wish that it was one of those party canisters full of tensile when he had set it off with a loud pop! And a large, shimmering cloud of glitter had burst over you like a mist, layering across your hair, and costume and skin like a sheen of sweat. You didn't even have time to yell at him before he was scurrying off into the crowd with a demented cackle, probably on his way to find some other unfortunate person to glitter bomb. 

And even worse a quick glance downward had revealed that the drink in your champagne glass had been tainted by a thin coat of sparkling silver. Even if you wanted to be lazy and drink around the floaters, the amount drifting around in the champagne was too much. You probably would have ended up choking on all of it. It was with a defeated sigh that you tossed out the remainder of your drink onto the trampled lawn. 

For the first time tonight you're actually thankful that Venetia had chosen to leave you for some tall, dark, and handsome stranger that she had met near the beginning of the party. You hadn't seen her since, but maybe it's a blessing in disguise. You would hate for her to see the state of her dress. It is just glitter, easy to wash off in the grand scheme of things, and too be fair she had said that she didn't even like the garment. It was just some random piece from another one of the Catton's wild parties - themed after Renaissance art and fables, you think. And she had sifted it out from the depths of her closet with little fanfare.  "It's just some old thing, " she had told you plainly, even though the dress probably cost more than your monthly rent. Clearly, she wouldn't be distressed over some glitter, but you were still having a hard time fighting the sinking feeling in your gut. It was borrowed. She was letting you wear it. And now it was covered in a dust of silver because some guy decided to be a dick. 

It could be worse though. It could have been a glass full of wine that he had dunked on you instead. You suppose you should take your wins where you could get them. 

A part of you thinks about returning inside the manor and calling it a night. Taking a much-needed bath to clean off the layer of glitter from your skin and just going to bed. But really, you aren't sure if you'll even be able to manage falling asleep with the sheer volume of the music playing throughout various sections of the house, and the sound of the raucous cheering and laughter. And you could imagine what Venetia or Felix would tell you, to quit being so reclusive and to get out and socialize. 

You did fly all the way over here. Planned this trip for a few weeks and made preparations with your job and roommate when Felix had called to invite you over for the summer. It would be a complete waste to turn in for the night and huddle yourself up in your quarters. 

And with the fog of alcohol draping over your body you know you should probably put a pause on it for a bit but fuck it, it's a party and you need another drink. 

 You glance around the courtyard, hoping to spy one of that servants that have been forced to parade platers of alcohol around for the many guests but all you see are the scattered throngs of people dressed in fairy wings, strange animal masks, and plastic swords. Honestly, it never amazes you how many people get invited to these events. Even with all of the family members combined, there's no way they all know every individual here directly. There's probably enough to fill a damn stadium. 

In your search your gaze sweeps over the steady bonfires, the temporary lovers grinding against each other and a pair talking amongst themselves - wait. That catches your attention. You feel heat prickling at your chest; irritation rising in some subconscious sort of reaction and as if they have a mind of their own your eyes skitter back over to them to confirm if what you thought you saw was true. And lo and behold, there he is. The bane of your existence. Farleigh Start. 

Your eyes flicker across him from his head to his old-fashioned boots. He's holding some sort of mask in one of his hands. A big bulky thing with long protruding ears and an equine shaped face and you have to squint to come to the concussion that it appears to be a donkey.

 He seems to be talking to someone. A person that you don't recognize but they both seemed to be engaged in some sort of heated stare off from near a rotating pig on a stick. It looks like he's found another unfortunate victim to prod at and humiliate. Not that it was difficult for Farleigh. He was always eager to find someone to harass and belittle. And the more that someone fought back, the more interested he seems to become. He's been a personal thorn in your side for longer than you'd like to admit. 

Of course, you knew he would be here, but that didn't necessarily mean that actually seeing him made it any easier. It had to have close to a year since you've last interacted with him, which had to have been during that awful Christmas party back in the States. Why Graham had invited both of you when he knew that neither of you get along is a mystery. It could have been some lame attempt to get two of his closest friends to finally clear up whatever animosity was between them, but in all actuality it had just made worse. All of the passive aggressive barbs and thinly veiled sneers had nearly reached a boiling point that night when Farleigh wouldn't just leave you alone. Seeming to make it his mission to antagonize you at every turn with childish insults. But as childish as they might have been, they added up over time until you were giving him what he wanted, lashing out in response to his nasty little comments. 

And to think at one point you had actually been excited to meet him. As Graham's close friend and roommate, you were interested in getting to know the guy that he couldn't stop gushing about. The one who he had praised nearly nonstop. Farleigh had been nice enough in the beginning. And you even enjoyed his company for a time. His humor had always been a bit snarky, and the jokes he told were usually at another's expense. But he had been - as much as you hate to admit it, fun. And at one point, you had even considered him a friend of sorts. Or at the very least an acquaintance whose company you enjoyed while you both rambled on about nothing and everything, often gossiping about others. 

It had all been fine between you. That was until Felix had come down to L.A. to visit. He had gone out with Farleigh and Graham to go and sightseeing, which eventually steered into hopping from club to club as the day wanned into night. And when the invitation had extended to you, your relationship with Farleigh had taken a turn. For whatever reason talking to Felix was easy. But that was just Felix you suppose; always able to make friends with just about anyone in the room. And the closer that the two of you had become, the more strained your association with Farleigh had grown until it was filled with nothing but sardonic remarks and passive hostility. And instead of being a sort of surface level confidant, he gradually became a presence that you detested. And your relationship had gone from a mutual respect and cordial conversations to some sort of strange cat and mouse game. The both of you exchanging snarky jabs in an attempt to see if the other would crack. 

You would be lying if you didn't admit that some part of you enjoyed your little spats. And maybe you had hoped that he would be here tonight. Not that you'd ever tell him that. You'd rather trip onto the sharp end of a knife. 

Suddenly Farleigh is stepping towards the stranger, shoulders rigid and body pulled taught, seeping with irritation. And he takes ahold of their face, forcing the shorter man to look into his eyes in some sort of intimidation tactic.  Farleigh's nearly seething. And his expression is firm with an apparent frustration. You don't think you've seen him so visibly aggravated before. You can't help but wonder what the mystery guy may have done to warrant such a response from him. 

And then Farleigh is pulling away, releasing the stranger from his grip with a smug smile. But on him it looks more like a sneer with the way his lips are stretched and showing off his teeth. He's moving towards your direction now, probably intending to head back to the house, and he's yet to notice you. You contemplate leaving. Of slipping back under the cover of the scattered crowd and disappearing before he sees you, but your body doesn't move. Instead, you're stock still.  There's some awful feeling in your gut that seems horrendously akin to anticipation; fluttering and soft and nauseating. 

You should just leave. You could leave if you'd just move. But it's too late. You swear there's some awful full body reaction that occurs when Farleigh's gaze meets yours and he stops in place to assess you. For a moment it's like you've been sucked into a black hole. It's like time has dilated and shrunk down around you until it's frozen solid and suddenly the lively chaos around you falls quiet, muffling down into an insignificant hum in the background. Recognition flickers in his eyes and something else crosses his face too. Something that you don't quite recognize but regardless, it feels as though the both of you are engaged in some sort of wordless exchange. There's another smile growing on his face. It's mischievous but still much more relaxed and familiar than the previous one that he had worn, and you can't help but return one of your own. 

It's then that you're finally able to gain control of your own body, walking backward a few steps before you twist around to slip amongst a gaggle of passing girls with something that is suspiciously close to excitement bubbling in your gut. You briefly use them as cover to get you closer to the house entrance, and they're all too occupied with giggling and gossiping to notice your presence. But you're able to remove yourself from the cluster when one of them drunkenly trips on her skirt, and she saves herself by latching onto the shoulder of one of her friends with a wild laugh. The others all gather around her to jokingly reprimand her as they assist her in righting herself but you're already stepping through the back threshold of the manor, and you're thrown headfirst into the alcohol infused, neon casted mayhem. Party streamers, glow sticks and blaring upbeat music. It's complete madness. You can hardly hear yourself think and trying to work yourself through the tight gaps between people's swaying bodies proves to be a challenge of its own and it's a heavy reminder as to why you had even gone outside in the first place. 

The atmosphere is cloying and thick; you feel as though you might actually be able to choke on it like it's a physical thing. As otherworldly and exciting as this party is, it's another experience entirely when you're being elbowed in the ribs by an oblivious drunk girl who isn't aware of her windmilling arms and all the intoxicated men who think that you're trying to feel them up and flirt with them when in reality you're just trying to get by. And for a split second you feel as though you may never make it out of the tumultuous sea of bodies. That you'll be cursed to wander around aimlessly in the wild, dancing masses for eternity. Subjected to the ear shattering music and scent of spilt wine and bourbon and sweat. 

But then you hear something that sounds suspiciously like your name. It's distant and damp as though your ears are plugged and for a second you had thought that you imagined it before you hear it again. This time louder and there's no mistake that someone is calling you. It has you pausing for a moment to analyze your surroundings and then you catch sight of someone familiar at the far end of the room and for a moment you think that your eyes might be lying to you with the aid of the dim lighting. The deep, saturated, shifting hues of purple and blue and red tinting the chaotic space doing very little to aid you. But someone is waving their arm up the air for you to spot them better and a long glance confirms that you were right in your assumption. The relief that sweeps across your bones is insurmountable and the glimpse of a hand raised up in the air to beckon over you is even more incentive to press forward. And you have to shoulder past people until you enter a small break in the crowd. 

"There you are!" Venetia shouts triumphantly, swaying to the rhythm of the song playing at full blast. "I've been looking all over for you!" 

You don't bother refuting her. Of countering that she was the one who had wondered off without any plans to meet up afterwards. Instead, you just move up closer to her, doing your best to match her movements and energy but you're entirely too self-conscious to actually meet her. And you feel the fleeting sense of relief that she has yet to notice all of the glitter covering her dress or doesn't care. 

"I had to go outside and get some fresh air, " you confess and even underneath the low lighting you can see the way that she nearly rolls her eyes at you, but even then, there's a well-meaning smile on her face. 

"You're at a once in a lifetime party, and you were spending it outside?" 

"Just for a minute." But she looks completely unamused by your apparently flimsy defense and suddenly she's grabbing you by the shoulders and leaning towards you like it might seal in her words better. 

"Well, you're supposed to be inside. Dancing and partying and getting drunk." She squeezes her hands against your skin. "Seriously, it's like you're allergic to fun." 

Okay, a little bit rude. And you try to remind yourself that she's just saying it because she's probably drunk. For the most part, all of the younger Catton's (Farleigh included) have a tendency to be social butterflies and party animals. It was something that you had struggled to keep up with when you had officially become friends with Felix. Luckily, he was typically the most understanding out of all of them, and he was aware enough to take notice when you were burning out. It was something that you had thought that Venetia had come to terms with as well, but every now and again she always makes sure to voice her objections. 

And you open your mouth to protest but you hardly get anything out. "That's not tru-" 

"And as your friend it's my duty to ensure that you do exactly all of the above!" She pulls away with a smirk that is entirely all too satisfied, and it immediately has the alarm bells inside your head blaring. "And maybe even a bit more." 

You don't like that last bit. 

"There's someone who I think you'd love to meet!" And you swear you can feel your stomach drop at those words but exasperation bleeds through the discomfort until you're holding back an irritated sigh as she practically gushes some stranger's name. "Reuben!" 

And at the call of his name, the guy seems to appear from the darkness and shifting bodies like some sort of spirit. It takes you completely off guard how closely and quickly he moves, and you have to physically keep yourself from flinching back. The entire situation is jarring, and you feel like an insect pinned to a corkboard with how both Venetia and this stranger - Reuben are watching you expectantly. And it takes everything to muster up a smile that you know must look strained and unnatural. "Hi," you greet lamely, but he doesn't seem to be the least bit deterred or put off. 

And he is cute, you'll admit. Kind, joyful eyes that you think are hazel but it's honestly impossible to tell in this lighting and there's a dusting of freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. He seems inviting enough if first impressions are anything to go by, but for whatever reason you don't find yourself gravitating towards him or longing for any sort of conversation with him. 

"It's nice to meet you!" He returns, loudly projecting to be heard over the stereo system. "Venetia's told me a bit about you." 

"Uh-huh, " you nod for him to continue or maybe divulge, but he doesn't. He just stands there silently without removing his gaze and you can't tell if it's because he's just oblivious or if maybe he's just socially awkward, but it has you shuffling on your feet all the same, desperate to move or do anything to make this less weird. And you glance over at Venetia who still has that hopeful expression on her face, doing your best to telegraph your discomfort without tipping Reuben off. And she does seem to notice but she doesn't tell him to leave or direct him somewhere else like you had wanted. 

"Reuben said that he's been to America before," she reveals. Apparently trying to salvage this little interaction and cultivate it into something more. 

"Oh, really?" You perk up a bit, or at least try to. "Where did you visit?" 

"Uh, New York. City, " he clarifies at the end before his demeanor shifts into something a bit sheepish and playful and the gold plastic crown perched atop his head glints in the lights. "It was a bit of a bore, I won't lie. But that was probably because I was there on a business trip and not on holiday, so feel free to put the blame on me." 

His attempt at joking does thaw at some of the unpleasant tension that had burdened the air, but even with the initial ice broken there's still just a simple, straightforward uninterest underneath it all. You aren't stupid. It's obvious why Venetia had pressed to introduce him to you, it's obvious why he had agreed. And you don't fault him for trying to get lucky at what might just be the party of the decade (for you at least) but keeping him here and stringing him along is a complete waste of everyone's time. You aren't going to sleep with him. Not tonight or any other night. And then you go to tell him as much, parting your lips to just get to the point and lay all of your cards out on the table but then Venetia is tapping on your shoulder, making you pause to look over at her. 

She has this strange, delighted smile on her lips that's even worse than the one she was wearing when she had invited Reuben over. She nods her chin over to your right, watching eyes trained on something or someone. "Your shadow's here." 

You nearly break your neck to follow her line of sight and your heart skips a beat when you see Farleigh standing several feet away from a gap in the crowd and you have to wonder just how long he's been standing there for. And you don't know why you suddenly feel as though you've been caught doing something wrong. Why your body flushes and prickles with shame and you feel like cringing. Maybe it's because of the way that he's looking at you. How his eyes dart from you to Reuben like he's assessing something. Most of the emotions flickering across his face are unreadable. But for second you think that you catch glimpses or what might be anger or irritation and worst of all betrayal before it leans into something neutral and flat. And then just as you had, he's turning on his heels and vanishing. But unlike you, he doesn't smile as he leaves. He doesn't walk away with a silent invitation to follow. 

And then Venetia is turning to Reuben with a sweet smile and tilting her head. "Alright, you can go now." 

He looks just as confused as you do, and he turns to look at you like he's expecting you to jump in to defend him or at the very least offer an explanation, but you don't have one to give.  You're just as lost as he is and when you don't speak and tell him to stay, he backs away, spreading his arms out in a sort of silent 'what the fuck?' gesture and vanishes back into the throng of bodies. 

"What . . . was that?" You ask, tense with a mutated type of bewilderment and anger. 

"I just wanted to see it." She says cryptically and irritatingly, begins to dance in place before finally disclosing on that little comment. "The look on his face." 

"What?" You snap. 

"Please, the way you two dance around each other is getting dreadfully old. It's boring and tired. I just did something to get the ball rolling." 

This in particular isn't new by any means. You had heard it all before from the two Catton siblings. Their vehement insistence that you and Farleigh had some unspoken attraction for the other that you both refused to act or speak on. It had nearly become a joke for the both of them. To prod and poke at you and Farleigh with to their hearts content. It was something that the both of you had learned to accept over time - somewhat - and ignore. But this. This new and entirely strange. 

"So, what? You were trying to make him jealous?" Your forehead crinkles as you watch her; incredulous and perplexed. 

"Trying?" She echoes amusedly." I succeeded. Did you see the way that he was looking at you? He was practically seething." 

You almost scoff. He wouldn't be jealous; he had no reason to be. And you don't know why Venetia's little ruse has pissed you off, or why that strange look on Farleigh's face had made your heart drop, but it did. 

"The two of you are so dense that it's honestly as frustrating as it is entertaining," she says with pure exasperation. "I mean, whenever you're here, you're practically fused at the hip. Bickering like cats and dogs like we can't all see the truth." She laughs but it's more of a scoff really. "He speaks about you. All the time. Always whining and complaining about something you've done. But it's different. He practically has hearts in his eyes while does it. And it's exhausting." And then she's backing away from you, leaving you to settle and drown in the disarray of your own thoughts and come to terms with that. Does he really speak about you like that? Surely, there's no way. 

 "So can the two of you, for all of our sake's, sort whatever mess you've got going on between you and just fuck already? " 

And then she's spinning away her heels, sending you a wink over her shoulder and the silver chains wrapping around her body in a delicate draped halter glint and twinkle underneath the lights; showcasing that elaborate weblike shape that they've been constructed in. And she just leaves you. Abandoning you in the middle of the temporary dancefloor while you fight with an upstream of odd emotions. You just standing there while you tussle with the urge to find Farleigh and apologize (apologize for what?) and tell him that it was just some weird joke from Venetia (why does that matter?). You don't know why you feel the need to go and try to repair whatever damage Venetia may have just done. What that said 'damage' may even be, you don't know. And you also don't know why you're suddenly heading off in the direction that Farleigh had disappeared in, scanning the crowd for him with some ugly sense of desperation that you don't want to unpack and analyze. Not even as you yield to it.  

You aren't even sure how long you search for; your gaze jumping over every face and person that you see in the hopes that you find him. But the room is packed to say the least, and the odds of you actually stumbling across him must be low. He might not even be in this specific room anymore. And if that's case then you might as well as give up now. The estate is sprawling; if he doesn't want to be found, then he won't be. And you think about giving up. Of turning in for the night and trying to talk to him in the morning when you inevitably see him at the breakfast table. 

But then you see him. Only this time there's no double take or reason to reconfirm that it is him, this time you spot him immediately.

He seemed to have shed his doublet at some point, leaving him in his pale undershirt. His mask is gone as well. And it takes your mind a second to realize that he's not alone. That he's pressed against some girl like he might kiss her. There's a smile on his face; inviting and flirtatious and the tips of their noses brush together as they lean in close. 

You're an unintended observer. You shouldn't be here watching them in a moment that clearly isn't meant for you but it's as though your feet are glued to the floor. It's like watching a car crash. You don't want to look; you don't want to be here but some awful part of you is making you stay. Your muscles have gone still from something prickling and cold and disarming. You can feel it in your chest too. It's making your lungs seize and for one long, paralyzing moment it's almost like you can't breathe. But you don't have a right to be bothered by this. Farleigh's entitled to have one-night stands or flings or to go on dates with people if he wants to. There's no reason why he can't. And there's no reason why you should be feeling shame and betrayal and hurt right now. Absolutely no reason. You wonder if this is what he had felt just a few moments before while you were standing with Reuben and that odd little side of you hopes that he had. 

God, what if Venetia had been right? What if - 

Their lips brush together. 

They're going to kiss, some hideous part of your brain whispers and even worse your body tenses and coils like it's bracing for some sort of dreadfully anticipated impact. This is it. The moment the car crashes and erupts into burning flames. 

But then Farleigh goes still. Pausing as though someone had called his name or he's remembered something. The girl that he's pressed up against leans back with a confused furrow pinched between her eyebrows when he turns his head and his eyes land on you. 

Your mouth goes dry, and your tongue seems thick and useless, and you try to swallow around it. Now that you're here you don't even know what to do with yourself. You aren't even sure what you had gone after Farleigh for. You didn't have a plan to begin with; you didn't know what to say. You have to internally curse yourself for following after him and putting yourself in this situation. It's strange and awkward and it takes everything for you to even manage a smile. To try and look casual and pretend that maybe you had just stumbled across them and hadn't intentionally tracked him down. And you lift a hand up in a lax wave while your mind ceaselessly chants for you to leave. To just go. 

You can feel Farleigh's gaze searing into you, drilling holes into your head even as the girl that he's with leans towards him and you can't hear over the distance or the music, but she appears to be saying something if the way that her mouth is moving is any indication. 

You're quick to turn on your heels and all but nearly speed walk away from the both of them, eager to create as much distance between you and them as possible. You don't feel like you're apart from your body. It's like you're disconnected from it, uncomfortably aware of your limbs and movements as you rush away. And it's like your emotions are stuffing your body full and threatening to tear it at the seams. Emotions that you don't recognize; that you don't want to recognize. 

A warmth and pressure suddenly encircles around your wrist, much like a hand would and for a moment you think that you've imaged it. But then you're being pulled back gently by the strength of someone's grip, and it forces you to stop. You know who it is before you turn to look at them. You can smell the burn of tobacco from his cigarette habit on his clothes, and it blended with the delicate musk of his cologne. The woody notes of amber joining along with vanilla and bergamot and cardamom made your mouth water in some horrid Pavlovian response. It was humiliating. 

Then your eyes are meeting his; dark and glimmering underneath the flashing, sweeping lights dancing about the room. And for one agonizing moment neither of you say anything. It's like you're both simultaneously drifting away and stuck in place. The energy looming over the both of you is foreign and strange, and Farleigh can feel it too if the blank, unsure expression on his face gives away as much. 

And then he's releasing your wrist and you let your arm drop down at your side. He shifts on his feet and the weird tension in his shoulders drop as easily as if it were a piece of clothing and a smirk takes shape on his face. This is the Farleigh that you're more familiar with, with the condescending look in his eyes and a prideful tilt to his head. It puts you at ease. Dulling the nervous butterflies in your gut and allowing you to settle underneath his presence. 

"Well, if it isn't Felix's favorite little pet." It's meant to be an insult. Most would read it as such, but for you it brings nothing but relief. It feels like a consolation almost. That whatever these strange little interactions have been they haven't damaged your relationship with Farleigh (what relationship?) and made things odd. He glances around the room and all of the festivities, the swaying crowd and streamers and flowing alcohol. He wrinkles his nose in a way that comes off as falsely apologetic. "Or I guess I should say second favorite now." 

"Then it's a good thing that I didn't come here for him," you respond easily enough. Internally thankful that the last remaining remnants of tension in your throat hasn't prohibited your ability to speak. "I just know how thrilled you always are to see me, and so I couldn't possibly bring myself to skip out on the trip."  

"Thrilled," he echoes with a scoff. "Is that what you think? Because personally I feel like drowning myself in the pond right about now." 

"No one's stopping you, " you quip back easily, finally slipping back into your old dynamic. 

His forehead scrunches as he pins you with an incredulous look, tilting his head as he moves in closer towards you. "And leave you here all alone? What would you do without me?" 

"Thrive. Live. Experience peace." 

"Sounds boring." 

But you don't have time to respond. He's leaning back on his feet and stepping away from you while he digs one of his hands into the pocket of his costume's pants. And when he removes his hand, it comes out clutching a packet of cigarettes, which he's quick to ruffle around in. "Come on, I wanna smoke." 

You don't ask any questions as he moves, leading you out from the dancefloor and throughout the house. Every so often he glances back over his shoulder like he's reconfirming that you haven't wandered off and left. He guides you up a set of staircases, past the couple planted by the first step who are openly making out and grinding on each other and up into the twisting, changing hallways. 

"Where are we going?" You ask, nearly getting shoulder checked by a pair of girls who rush down the corridor in a fit of giggles. 

"I told you, " he replies and hardly looks back. " I want to smoke." 

You want to press him about. About how suddenly he's unable to smoke inside when you've seen him do at least a thousand times. Even at the breakfast table. He probably does it on the toilet too. It wouldn't be a surprise. You aren't sure how long the two of you walk for, higher up into the highest floors of the house until he's finally stopping and opening a door at the end of the hall. He pauses in the threshold, dipping his head in and looking in like he's checking to see if it's occupied. He could have just knocked. It would have been an unpleasant surprise for the people inside if it actually had been unavailable. But the coast must be clear because he's slipping inside and nodding his head for you to follow after. He shuts the door behind you, closing it with a click and gives you a passing smirk when you shoot him a curious glance. 

You follow him into the room, vacant apart from some paintings and a few pieces of furniture - an old office maybe, and he leads you across the floors towards a pair of large glass double doors.

He tugs on one of the handles, swinging it open, revealing what appears to be one of the balconies. He's outside before you. And by the time you slide up beside him he's already leaning against the chiseled stone railing on his elbows and the cigarette perched between his lips is lit and smoldering. 

The air outside is still warm, sweet and earthy with the scent of moister in the air, like some distant, unseeable storm is brewing. And you can see so much of the estate from this high up. The frolicking people down below in their costumes and those massive, glowing lotus lamps drifting in the pond. But even with all of the guests down on the courtyard engaging in various kinds of trouble; drinking and shouting and singing amongst themselves, up here their voices can harldy reach you. It sounds like a faint murmur on the soft summer wind. And for maybe the first time tonight you actually feel a sense of calm. 

"He's a selfish lover, " Farleigh says randomly, flicking the butt of his cigarette to sprinkle the dead ash onto the far grounds beneath. "And a notoriously fast one too. Eliana Merrick said he busted as soon as he put it in." 

He notices the lost look on your face and sighs, twisting around on his feet to lean his back against the railing instead. "Your little boytoy from earlier. Reuben Amory." He spits his name out with something that sounds suspiciously like contempt. Venomous and irritated and he lifts the cigarette up to take another drag. "His father's a friend of the family. To James specifically. That's how he always manages to weasel his way into our parties." 

"I guess I dodged a bullet then." You joke, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the elaborate pearl earrings dangling from your ear. 

"What? He didn't scratch your itch?" 

"No," you shake your head with a light shrug. "He was fine. It's just . . . I don't know, I wasn't interested." 

Farleigh snorts, making you glare at him, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"Nothing." But his tone is a little sarcastic, and unconvincing and the nasty smile on his lips reveals as much. "He just seemed to fit the bill of your type pretty well. Well-meaning, polite and a little pathetic." 

You nearly laugh but it comes out as more of a scoff. "That is not my type." 

"Oh, really?" He challenges, moving closer towards you and you can smell his cologne again. The vanilla sticks out the most this time. Delicate and sweet. "What about that guy you used to flirt with at IHop? " 

"He was a server. It's literally his job to be nice-" 

"And then there was your neighbor back at the apartment. The one across the hall with the abysmal amout of plants. And then who could possibly forget, what was his name? Adrian? Who you dated for all of four weeks." 

It has you falling silent, unable to counter his argument even though you have a remark waiting on the tip of your tongue. You've never realized that Farleigh had ever paid that much attention to you and your affairs. It has that syrupy, fuzzy feeling pooling in the center of your chest despite that fact that you're actively telling yourself that it doesn't actually mean anything. It's normal for people to notice things about people that they're forced into proximity with. 

"Wow, I never knew you were so interested in my love life, " you say, gripping onto the rough texture of the railing. Stroking your fingers over the soft groves and bumps. "Maybe you should get one of your own." 

"But yours is always so entertaining," he snuffs out the cigarette and carelessly drops the butt onto the ground near his feet. "You know, with the way that it always seems to crash and burn." 

It probably would have stung to hear if you weren't able to say that you were the one to end all of the relationships that you had been in. That you were always the one to take the first step in severing ties. Even with Adrian you had been the one to sit him down and explain that you just hadn't been able to see it progressing anywhere. The both of you were too different. Your goals and wants in life were polarizing and the only things that had brought you together were superficial at best. You just weren't built to last. 

"Please, like yours has ever been any better." But he doesn't look the least bit offended. Instead, there's a satisfied quality to his expression. Your lips purse and something akin to defeat weighs down your shoulders. "Besides, they were all too sweet anyway. A little too nice. They could never keep up. I'd always end up saying something to hurt their feelings on accident and they would think that I meant it and then I'd get the silent treatment." 

"Not like us, huh?" Farleigh responds a little softly. And he was right. There was always something about your dynamic with Farleigh that you had never been able to achieve in your relationships. The constant push and pull. The competition of your endless banter and insults. The way that you could be completely bare and unrestrained with your words without putting your standing with him at risk. There was . . . an intimacy in it that couldn't compare with anyone else. You had seen the worst of Farleigh. The sneers and jabs and heated sarcasm. And in turn he had gotten the brunt of your own ire and jokes, but it still didn't change a thing. Neither of you ran from it. Instead, you both seemed to revel in it. To seek it out even. It was a type of security that you had never found with any other friend or lover. 

And you don't know what it is, but some invisible element shifts and rises between the both of you. Something that's always been there. Simmering and quiet, building up underneath your every interaction like water boiling on a hot stove. 

"No. Not like us," you admit in a near whisper like if you spoke to loudly that it might disrupt whatever magnetic thrum has fallen over you both. So low that he might not have heard you. But then you see something flash in his eyes. Something hungry and eager and he's moving closer until you can feel his body heat pouring over your skin, seeping underneath the delicate fabric of your dress and into your bones. 

"I hated all of them," he says it like a confession. Hushed and passionate. And you suppose that it is one. Told in total confidence, with a certain fervor like a sinner tucked away in a confessional booth. "I hated them because they should have been me." 

It makes you gasp lowly. And your fingers squeeze around the banister like it might ground you and keep you from floating away. And suddenly Venetia's previous statements are echoing around in your skull; mocking and satisfied. You feel slightly stupid now. Blind. But never in a million years would you have guessed that Farleigh had actually ever been jealous of the men that you had dated. It seems like such a silly concept. Or else it would have in the past, but now here he is confirming the very thing that the two Catton sibling's have been vehemently trying to drill into your head for years. And you like it. God, you actually like it. Some nasty little side of you is completely satisfied and even elated that he's been seething over all of your old flings and exes. It feels good because you've been doing the same thing you suddenly realize. Every time that stinging burn had caught up in your chest at the sight of him curled up with some other person - it hadn't been irritation for Farleigh. It was jealousy. You had actually been jealous. 

"Can I tell you something?" You ask. 

He just hums, low and soft. You can't even glance away from him. Not even if you wanted to. Not with the way that he's looking at you. His stare is heavy and intense, and it feels like you're being held by the throat, forced to maintain eye contact with your breath steadily being stolen from your lungs. "I wished they were you, too." 

It's like something breaks free from you when you say it. It was heavy, oppressive and suffocating and in its absence, it's replaced by a sense of ease and a freedom that makes you want to laugh and maybe even cry. And maybe if you weren't preoccupied with the entirety of your attention zoned in on Farleigh you might would have.

Now he's stepping even closer than before, and now you can actually feel the press of his body against yours. The pressure of it has your lips parting, and you have to angle your head to maintain your shared gaze without breaking it. Then his hand is tucking underneath your chin; the pad of his thumb lifts to brush over you, tracing the shape of your bottom lip with something that feels close to reverence. 

"Can I kiss you?" 

Something inside of you breaks apart at the question, crumbling and washing away like sand underneath the crashing power of a wave. You nod before you even fully register it, and your body is buzzing with a honeyed heat. And you understand that if you do this then whatever relationship you have with Farleigh is going to fundamentally altered. It will be the point of no return and the consequences, positive or negative, will be unavoidable. Maybe tomorrow things will go sour. Maybe by then you'll be back to hating each other, even worse than before. But you want this. Consequences and all. 

"God, yes. Please." 

His lips are soft and warm, and they taste sugary and faintly floral with what might have been the flavors of some beverage that he had drank earlier. There's the bite of tobacco on his skin too, sharp and smoky. It's usually something that you had never enjoyed when kissing people in the past, but right now it hardly even registers. You're too busy getting lost in the feel of him. The warmth of his hands framing your face, the way that he shifts you on your feet and nudges you back against the railing of the balcony. Your hands are everywhere that they can reach, stroking down his chest and dipping down to grip his hips, pulling them flush against you like any amount of space left between you might kill you. 

He groans into your mouth at the gesture, nipping at you lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. It has heat, liquid and thick building between the cradle of your thighs. And you know that it's just kissing, but you can't help but internally berate yourself, because if the both of you hadn't been so horribly bullheaded you could have been doing this the entire time. 

And he pulls away from you all too soon, making an embarrassing whimper bubble up from your throat, but he's hushing you with a soft coo, snickering lightly under his breath when he ducks his head beneath your chin to suck at the skin there. Taking it between his teeth and lips and you can't help to soft, breathless pants that start to leave your chest in response. It's purely possessive and you're sure that he's trying to leave marks there, and you can't find it in yourself to tell him not to. It's like your muscles are melting, going boneless at the sensation of his tongue tasting your skin, licking up the salt from it. You can feel the shape of his smug smile against your throat, and it makes you want to slap him. But instead, you're reaching a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, keeping him close to you. 

You're wet already, soaking through your underwear. It's something that you would have been awfully conscious of in the past with another partner, but here and now you can hardly think around the red fog that's beginning to cloud your brain. And then he's shifting, sweeping a hand underneath the silk skirt of your dress to clasp around your thigh so that he could pull it to the side, allowing him to nudge his leg between the both of yours. 

"Farleigh," you gasp, and he cruelly grinds his thigh against the heat of you, steadily feeding the pressure thrumming there but not letting it build towards anything more. It's frustrating. Mean. And it has you clawing at his shoulders impatiently. 

"Yeah? What is it?" He asks, nipping at the sensitive skin on your ear, making sure to be mindful of your earring. You don't respond at first, unable to with the way that he's still steadily moving his thigh against you. It's simple, but with the way that you're already so pathetically worked up, it feels like agony. "Come on, you can tell me." 

And to make it worse, that hand that had been gripped around your leg is now moving further underneath your dress, slipping between the press of your bodies to settle above where you want him. His fingers play with the elastic band of your panties, teasing, implying more. But then he hooks it in the crook of his fingers and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. The sting is dull, but it has you gasping regardless. You mindlessly reach for his hand that's still underneath your skirt, taking it into your own. And you briefly fear that he'll pull it from your grip. But he allows you to guide him. He removes his head from your neck to look into your eyes, watching your expression when you finally slip his hand underneath your underwear, and you can feel the shocking chill of his signet ring trailing across your heated skin. He takes over from there and you can't help the way that you arch into him when his fingers finally move down to where you need him the most. His face pinches when he spreads you open, and he nearly groans at the feel of you. "Jesus, baby, you're fucking soaking already." 

Your eyes flutter from the drag of one of his knuckles brushing over your clit and it's like it's directly connected to every individual nerve in your body, making you squirm and moan raggedly. 

"Is this all for me?" He asks, dipping one of his fingers lower, teasingly circling the entrance of your cunt but he doesn't go any further. 

"Yes." Your lungs feel tight and your nipples brush against his chest with each breath that you take, doing little to help ease the tension and desire threatening to tear you apart. "Yes, it's 'cause of you. Please, Farleigh. C'mon." 

"What's the rush?" He taunts, angling his head to take your bottom lip between his teeth and biting. "The night's still young. " 

He rocks his thumb against your clit, smirking at you with pure arrogant satisfaction from the way that you shudder underneath his touch. You know that he's absolutely delighting in the way that you've been practically turned into mush by what is essentially some heavy petting. Especially after all of the years of trying one up each other, you're sure that this is doing wonders for his ego. Like it needs to get any bigger. That little prickle of irritation peeks out from underneath the saccharine haze shrouded over you, and you can't keep it down. "I fucking swear, Farleigh, " you nearly hiss, nudging your hips in the hopes that it'll drag the pressure of his fingers closer. "If you don't do something, I swear I'll-" 

"You'll what?" Comes his immediate reply, the low rasp of his voice sounds completely unbothered. 

"I'll leave, " you say firmly. Or as firmly as you possibly can with the way that the knuckle of his thumb has begun to rotate around your clit in tight, but soft sweeping brushes. But he doesn't appear to be worried in the slightest. He just grins at you. And shakes his head as he lowers it to nudge his nose against yours. 

"No, you won't." He says it so certainly. Like he's omnipresent and has already seen the decided future. Like your fate is already sealed. And he's right as much as it pisses you off to admit it. You won't leave. But you don't want to tell him that and give him the satisfaction. " 'Cause you need me don't you, baby? Need me to make you cum." 

You're nodding in agreement before you even realize it, throwing whatever semblance of control that you had right out of the window. 

"Yeah? Gonna let me taste you?" Just the words alone nearly makes you keen aloud like some desperate slut, and you just barely swallow the sound down. But he must see it in your eyes. The sheer want and desperation that you feel coursing through your body like a drug. The need possessing you might actually be debilitating and you're back to clawing at his shoulders and arms in an attempt to just do something. To pin your focus on something other than the heavy ache between your legs. And you can just distantly hear yourself chanting a string of 'yes' like a broken record. 

He tugs his hand from your underwear, and you can't help but mourn the loss, even when he's lowering himself down on his knees and planting kisses down across the expanse of your body as he goes. But then he's rucking the skirt of your dress up over your hips and tucking his fingers back into your underwear like he's getting ready to pull them down. Instead, he's just staring, and his eyebrows are pinched together almost like he's pained. 

"You really are soaked," he says with a sort of awe. A thrum of embarrassment rings through you when you realize that he's probably admiring the noticeable wet spot that has dampened the crotch of your underwear from your arousal. You try to close your legs, mostly out of reflex but the sharp, reprimanding smack on the outside of your thigh that you get in response makes you freeze in place. He glares up at you and you have to reach behind you to grip the railing to keep from collapsing from underneath the intensity smoldering in his gaze. 

"Keep them open," is his only warning before he all but rips your panties down your hips. Guiding one of your legs up with a hand for you to step out of them, but he leaves your lace underwear to hang from the high heel on your opposite foot; apparently too impatient to fully remove them. And he barely gives you time to think or breathe before he's taking ahold of you by your waist and swinging both of your thighs over his shoulders. 

The feel of his tongue laving over the heat of your pussy in a long, greedy swipe makes you scream, completely uncaring for all of the guests down below. And all some distant, buried part of you can do is hope that you're up too high for anyone to hear you. That no one happens to glance up and see you clutching onto the railing for dear life. There's no build up to it. He's completely unrestrained, apparently having the goal to make you cum as quickly as possible with the way that he's working his mouth on you. Swirling his tongue over the swollen, sensitive nerves of your clit and lapping at the dripping entrance of your cunt like a man possessed. 

You mouth drops open with heavy pants, and your hands scramble across the cool chiseled stone for something to ground you and keep you pinned to reality. You can see the glint of your arousal smearing across his lips and cheeks and the look in his eyes is a blend of determination and a dazed kind of contentment, and you can feel him groaning against your pussy, amplifying your pleasure. And if it wasn't for the way that you could barely stop whimpering and crying out, you'd nearly think that he was enjoying this more than you with his pleased hums thrumming throughout your body. 

He takes your clit into the cradle of his mouth and sucks, and you think that you actually sob but you feel miles away from your body and also helplessly, deliciously trapped inside of it. "Farleigh, " you keen, humping against his face in a debauched display of hedonism. One of your hands reaches down, gripping onto his hair when your eyes roll back from the hot suction of his mouth. 

"You taste so good, baby, " he huffs, lapping at the entrance of your cunt with firm, maddening strokes. "So fucking good." 

It's too much. You feel like you're on fire. Like he's pulling you apart with each swipe of his tongue and putting you back together again one agonizing piece at a time. It feels cruel but it's also utter bliss. Your thighs are shaking from how tightly they're seized, clamped around his head in a tight squeeze. But he doesn't seem to be bothered about it, because when you try to be mindful and spread them open, he just takes them into his hold and presses them back up against his ears again like he wants to be suffocated. And the thought of that alone has something sharp and electric zipping through you. You file that little theory away for later. 

And that familiar ache is rising up like a high, simmering tide. Building and rushing towards you with a quickness that takes you by surprise and you can feel your entire body winding up and coiling tight in anticipation. He drags you closer to his mouth, scooting you down lower against the railing. You're pretty sure that your back is going to be covered in scratches from the rough texture digging across your skin, but as of right now you couldn't give less of a shit. You let your head loll back on the stone, unable to find the concentration or strength to keep it up yourself. You stare up at the sky sightlessly, just barely taking in the winking glow of the scattered stars above while pure, liquid heaven seeps across your limbs. 

That overwhelming looming pleasure is right over you now, just a few good strokes off. And with the way that he's licking and sucking at you with his mouth it won't be long before you're breaking apart for him. 

"Farleigh," you whimper, choking around a wanton moan, trying to warn him. 

He doesn't give you any verbal indication that he hears you. But the grip on your thigh's tense in response, and he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue before dipping it down inside of you; fucking you with it. You can't help the way you're grinding against him, crying out breathlessly when the point of his nose nudges against that swollen bundle of nerves, urging your orgasm to rush towards you at a breakneck speed that you can't brace for. 

"Farleigh!" You nearly shriek this time while that wild, rush of pleasure crashes down on you with the intensity of torrential downpour. It tears through your body in a way that's almost violent, making you twist under the heat of his mouth and the iron grip that he still has secured around your legs like you've been jabbed with an electrical current. You sob through the brunt of it, probably alarming the entirety of the Saltburn Estate of your current position. And even after the most of it has made its way across your body, he doesn't stop lapping at you, determined to make sure that he wrings every ounce of your pleasure out of you. It isn't until you're weakly nudging his head away from your sensitive cunt that he pulls his mouth away, but he occupies it by kissing at the inner stretch of your thighs. He massages your hips gently and the sensation works to help guide you back into your own body and return a sense of coherence to you. 

All you can do is just sit there and catch your breath, panting raggedly into the night air. You stare up at the stars with complete disbelief while your brain tries to catch up with the fact that Farleigh had just casually sucked your soul out of your body. Sure, you had heard stories of his sexual prowess from some of his past flings before. Heard all of the people gushing and praising his technique in the bedroom, and you had never not believed them per se, you had just never imagined that he was actually this good. 

"You doing alright up there?" He asks and his voice is ragged and a little raspy like he was the one screaming and not you. 

"Yeah," you confirm after a brief pause. "Just give me a minute and I'm gonna suck your dick." 

You can feel him chuckle against you, playful and more than a little cocky but he's more than earned the right to be. "Take your time." 

Thankfully, the strength has begun to come back to your body. And even though your limbs are still a little bit shaky you're more than determined and able to ignore it and push through. You raise your head up look at him, using your arms to shift and lift yourself up. He looks up at you expectedly, eyebrows raising with amusement while he aids you in removing your wobbling legs from his shoulders. 

He must notice something in your gaze; desperation, want, determination, because he just moves to lean back on his elbows with a relaxed smirk. 

"Right here?" He asks. You just nod wordlessly as you lower yourself down on your knees. You could go inside. You probably should. There wasn't a bed in the room that you had entered the balcony from, but there was a couch. Hell, even the floor in there would probably be more comfortable for the both of you than the harsh rock underneath you right now, but you don't want to wait. Not even with the room being so close. Your knees are going to absolutely hate you tomorrow but as of right now, you can't find it in yourself to care.  

He parts his legs for you to settle between them and you're fast to crawl over him while he lifts himself up to kiss you. Your lips connect with teeth and tongue, and you moan into each other's mouths when you reach down to cup the length of him from over his pants. He's hot and heavy, even with the layer of fabric covering him. You're still sensitive from your recent orgasm but when you feel the weight of him against your palm, your pussy flutters and tinge of heat settles in the base of your abdomen. 

"Baby please, just take it out, " he whines. His voice is petulant and quivering. On any other night you would have used it as an excuse to tease him, but as of right now, you don't have the heart (or patience) to. The urgency in his tone has you thumbing at the buttons closing his pants, but it doesn't help that they're so small and that its dark. You have to squint underneath the dim moonlight to find them and your fingers slip more than once. But luckily you manage to pop all of them through their opening in the fabric; even with the way that Farleigh impatiently grinds into the air, trying to use your hand and forearm as something to grind his cock against. 

It's so desperate and dirty but it's also so fucking hot. Seeing him all laid out and begging has a heavy anticipation fizzling underneath your skin, prompting you to grip at the edge of his pants. He's eagerly lifting his hips up, aiding you as you tug the fabric down, working it around the swell of his ass and his hips. And he audibly groans in relief when his cock springs free from the restraint of his clothes. It's so hard that it looks like must be uncomfortable, and there's a steady stream of precum pouring from the tip and trailing down along a thick, throbbing vein in a pearlescent sheen.  

Your mouth waters at the sight, and you have to swallow it in the fear that you might actually drool if you don't. He catches the way you're admiring him, and something smug bleeds into his dazed expression. A reversal from the way that he had outright begged for you earlier. You really want to wipe that look off of his face. 

Then you're giving into your basest desires and leaning forward to lick at the head of his cock with long, steady sweeps, scooping up the salt of him into your mouth. He's rewarding you as soon as you touch him, breathing out a strained, "fuck," while his fingers come up to grip your hair, already knocking a few of the fake flowers clipped along your updo free; honeysuckles and pink camellias. He doesn't force your head down, but he doesn't remove his hold either, gently urging you to keep going and you can't help but concede. Stretching your jaw open further to slip him inside your mouth before slowly pulling off of him with a firm suck, lapping at the slit of his cock when you do. 

He isn't the biggest you've taken, but he's still thick enough for you to feel a slight strain at the hinges of your jaw, but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. You nod your head down to take him in your throat, making sure to be mindful of your teeth as you go and luckily, you're aided by the lubrication of your saliva. You don't stop until you feel the faintest hint of your gag reflex and even then, you have to push off the thought to just keep going, to let yourself gag on him. You'll save that for some other time. As of right now, you want to be able to savor every little movement and twitch and whimper. 

You've just started and it's already so sloppy, wet with the way that your drool smears around your lips and chin, and Farleigh seems to be struggling to keep his hips still, resisting the urge to fuck your mouth. His thighs are tense underneath the palms of your hands, muscles flexing and twitching with frayed restraint and each jerky hitch of his hips is punctuated by airy sighs and moans. 

A glance up from your place between his legs has you appreciating the way that his back is already arching. He looks gorgeous like this, all splayed out with the thick of his eyelashes fluttering against the jut of his cheek bones. You've always had the sneaking suspicion that Farleigh would lean a bit on the submissive side in bed. Always overcompensating with his arrogant attitude and sarcasm, but you didn't think that he'd be this sensitive. You aren't sure if it's just because he might have already been so worked up from eating you out, or if he's naturally just responsive, but either way the way that he's acting is doing wonders for your ego. The power that you're getting from seeing him already so pleased and dazed is filling your head full of a syrupy sort of satisfaction. 

You pull off of his cock with a pop, delighting in the way that he whimpers in protest. You just hum in response, smirking at him while you nuzzle your nose down the line of his shaft and all of his complaints die out once you take one of his balls into the warm cradle of your tongue, reaching up to grip him in your hand while your mouth is occupied. 

He moans raggedly, a string of whispered, "so good, don't stop - please, don't stop." Like you'd ever do that now that you've got him underneath you. And not to sound dramatic, but the sky could split open with brimstone and hellfire and the apocalypse could reign down on Saltburn and you still wouldn't pull away from him. Not when he sounds so sweet. Not while he tastes so good. Salty and earthy across your pallet. And the way that he pants into the balmy night air, already breathless has the heat between the apex of your thighs back with a vengence; burning and wet, and you have to rub them together in an attempt to ease the tension there. 

You can't help the way that you moan around him, lightly sucking at the sensitive point between his balls and the base of his cock while you smear your thumb over his slit. You the use the fluid to aid in few more pumps from your hand before you're licking back up his shaft again, swallowing him back down while your hand switches places to fondle his sack and the cry that he lets out in response is heavenly. Urging you to bob you head down on him in a steady rhythm. You try to remember to breathe through your nose but in your fervor, you often find yourself neglecting to take in lungfulls of air and as a result an oxygen deprived haze has begun to fizzle over your head. But you can't bring yourself to be worried over it. It feels good. The fuzzy, drunken buzz stuffing your skull full while you work his cock is stupidly addictive. 

He must notice the glazed over look in your eyes because he's smiling at you from around the way that his lips have dropped open to release a bout of heavy pants. He drops the hand that had been clutching your hair to sweep his fingers across your face in a gesture that's way too sweet for a guy who's getting head. And it has something soft and sweet blossoming in your chest when he strokes your cheek with his thumb; it makes you feel delicate and adored even while your chin is smeared with spit and cum and your jaw is starting to ache. 

"You're already a little fucked out aren't you?" It's rhetorical, you know, but you find yourself moaning in response regardless. "You look so georgous like this." 

Liar. There's absolutely you look even remotely attractive right now. You can feel the prickle of tears threatening to slip past your water line and down your face, and you're sure that your lashes have begun to clamp together from the damp. Your lips are swollen and there's a sheen of sweat glittering on your forehead. You probably look like a wreck but it still has you melting, and you begin to lick and suck at him with even more passion than before. 

And it must have felt good for him because his head is rolling back on his shoulders and his elbows nearly collapse, leaving him to drop onto his back with a gutted groan. His eyes roll back, and his thighs seize. His white undershirt has ridden up around his ribs, showing off the stretch of his abdomen and you can see the way that his muscles flex and tense with the same pulse of his hips. He's close and it only has you doubling your efforts with even more vigor, desperate to taste him on your tongue, to feel the heat of him in your mouth and throat. The sound of his gasping has changed in pitch, rising into something that sounds close to a sob. 

But then you're being torn off of him without warning and you can't contain your mournful whimper when the weight of him leaves your mouth. Irritation and betrayal flares and you can't keep yourself from glaring at him even while he looks close to wrecked, rambling underneath his breath something that sounds like, "I'm sorry baby, I need to feel you, " as he hauls you onto his lap. 

And your scattered brain is still able to grab onto what he wants. You gather up your skirt to settle your knees on either side of his hips and you're quick to grab ahold of his cock to line it up with your entrance. Neither of you have the mental capacity to tease or draw the process out longer than it needs to be, and you're thankful that he had already ate you out earlier, giving you some semblance of prep. And without any fanfare you're sinking down onto his cock, and your pussy flutters around his girth, stretching until he's buried in at the hilt. 

The shared groans that you let out are ones of relief and pure bliss. Your body shudders at the fullness nestled within the apex of your thighs and Farleigh impatiently grinds his hips up into yours, rocking his pelvis into your clit with a petulant huff. "Come on baby, ride me, " he urges. "Fucking take it." 

You can't find it in yourself to deny him. Or yourself. And he lets you plant your hands onto his chest for support when you lift yourself up with your thighs to begin wildly bouncing on his cock, grinding and swiveling your hips with each downstroke. That thick, heated pleasure is already building up near the base of your spine, and you already know that you aren't going to last long. Not with how worked up you are. And you don't think that he's going to be able to hold off either. 

He's watching you with something akin to wonder in his eyes and his lips are snagged between his teeth like he might be trying to quiet himself. Like he's trying to selfishly hide those punched out little moans. And you don't know why he tried to be hushed now after he's been groaning and whimpering this entire time but that petulant expression on his face tells you all you need to know. He's doing it on purpose, the brat. It has you leaning over him to pepper soft kisses over his cheeks, nipping at his chin and jaw sweetly, before you squeeze your pussy around his cock like a vice and you place your hand around the base of his throat. You don't tighten your fingers around it, but let him feel the pressure of your grip, testing the waters to see if your earlier theory had been right. 

And his body goes taut underneath you while his hips thrust into you with a harsh twitch. A gutted moan follows closely behind, and he grips onto your thighs like he needs it to ground himself and keep himself present. 

"Feel good?" It's admittedly a little condescending but even then, you can't help the softness that bleeds through your tone. He nods his head drunkenly, tilting his head back to bare his throat to you. The way that he's melting underneath the ceaseless roll of your hips and mindlessly fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts is already driving you towards that tide of heat and ecstasy, and they way that you openly keen reveals as much. 

Your knees are already stinging from the harsh stone floor digging into them and your thighs are already burning with exertion from the ruthless pace that you had set. But you have no desire to stop yet. To switch positions or ask him to take over, not with how beautiful and fucked out he looks beneath you.  

You're both already messy and incoherent, chasing after your pleasure desperately. The noises coming from the place where your bodies are joined is filthy with the repetitive smack of skin on skin and the crude squelching of your cum echoing off of the rock walls around you. And maybe if your brain wasn't practically mush you might would have had the capacity to care, but you just can't find it within yourself while you watch every minute, rapturous expression flit across Farleigh's face. Not while his plush lips are parted for him to gasp, and his eyes have nearly gone cross. 

"Baby, " he whines brokenly. A warning for the way that he's quickly hurdling towards his release from the constant rock of your hips. Yours isn't far off either, simmering and curling within the pit of your abdomen and you can already tell that your orgasm is going to destroy you. It's so close. So, so, so close and you find yourself nodding shakily in response to him. 

"I know, I know, " your jaw goes lax at a partially hard thrust from his hips, muscles spasming around the drag of his cock. 

"Where - where can I- " 

"Inside," you answer, choking on your breath." I'm on the pill - it's safe, you can- " 

He cuts you off with a gutted, shredded groan of your name and his entire body seizes up from the power of his orgasm. The warmth of his release spreads throughout your lower stomach and another choppy, wild thrust from Farleigh grinds his pelvis into the tender nerves of your clit. It just sneaks up on you. Sweeping you up and dragging you down before you can even register that it's ravaging your body and making you scream. For a second you completely forget what it means to have a physical body. You don't have hands, or feet, or a mind. You don't have a favorite song and there aren't any bills to pay, or an apartment back home in America, and the chaotic party downstairs doesn't exist. The cold stone floor beneath your knees isn't there. You're just floating. Suspended in a state of bliss and pleasure. 

For a moment you just are. 

And then your lungs are gasping, filling up with oxygen. Clarity comes back to you in pulses and the feeling in your limbs follows behind. Sensation returns to your toes and fingertips and then your eyes are fluttering open. The first thing you hear is the rapid pulse of a heartbeat and when you breathe the scent of something like vanilla and cigarette smoke nestles within your lungs. It has you rubbing your cheek against the heat of their chest - Farleigh's chest, your brain supplies sluggishly. You don't remember collapsing on top of him but apparently you had. 

"God damn," he slurs, prompting an amused, tired laugh from you. For a moment the two of you just lay there, taking the time to return to yourselves and grasp your senses. And with it, reality rises up too. That you're laying here with Farleigh on an open balcony with his cum dripping from between your thighs. And apart from his confession earlier there's some small insecure part of you that's worried that he hadn't fully meant it. That this was just a simple fling. Something to ease the tension that's been brewing between the both of you for the past few years. But you don't get to wallow in your fears for long before he's tapping on your thigh and shuffling up onto his elbows. 

You just hum at him questioningly, not yet trusting your voice. 

"Need a cigarette," he answers. 

That has you moving, lifting yourself from his hips and you both hiss, sensitive and raw when he slips from you. Your knees are tender too, aching and you inelegantly plop yourself on your rump beside Farleigh to give them some relief. And you briefly occupy yourself with your underwear, slipping it back underneath your dress and smoothing out your skirt as best as you can. 

He works on slipping his pants and tights back over his hips, digging into his pocket as soon they've been righted for a cigarette and his lighter. You watch him with something nervous in your gut. And you tell yourself that you're being stupid and overdramatic. So, what if this was just a one-time thing? It was an amazing time. And if this turned out to be some random fling then that would just make it even more special, right? And he said that he was jealous of your past exes but that didn't necessarily mean that he had feelings for you. You had been the one to jump to conclusions and assume. 

And even if by tomorrow he pretends that this never happened then that would be fine. You'd make do. You'd survive. It won't be the end of the world. 

"Do you want to spend the night with me?" 

The question tears you from your thoughts. Saves you from them really and pulls your attention onto Farleigh. His eyes are glimmering from the burning embers at the end of his cigarette, laying some strange quality in his gaze bare. But whatever it is looks uncertain and hesitant. And it serves as reminder that this is new territory for him as well. That he's just as unsure as you are. It gives you a little boost of confidence that you aren't alone in your self-induced doubts. It makes you smile; soft and relaxed and you hope that it helps whatever thoughts he may have running around in his own head. 

"Sure," you say. "But I want to rewatch House of Wax. " 

His face scrunches up in response, but he's already rising up to his feet and holding a hand out for you to take, helping to pull you up on your wobbling feet. "That movie is shit." 

"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell with the way that you wouldn't stop talking the last time that we all watched it." You grip onto his forearms while you find your balance, lowly cursing your heels and unsteady ankles. The energy has shifted into place, as easily as breathing; thawing all of the worries and insecurities that had initially clattered around in your brain as though they hadn't been there at all. 

"That's because the characters were nothing but cliches and one note, " he scoffs and promptly drops his cigarette on the balcony, snuffing it out by grinding it with his shoe. 

"I also need a bath." 

A smile curls on his lips, a little teasing. " Want to share?" 

You stare at him, a little disbelieving. There's absolutely no way that you could do that again tonight. At least not so soon. You're exhausted, barley holding yourself up as it is and you're still clinging to one of Farleigh's arms for support. 

"Really? After that?" You question, eyebrows raising, but you can't keep yourself from trying to joke despite your surprise. "You're terrible." 

Farleigh chuckles, guiding you towards the double doors gently, "Oh, don't look at me like that," he says, purely amused. "I wasn't suggesting another round, you're the one with your head in the gutter." 

You don't reply. Too caught up in the fuzzy way that it makes you feel; his request to share a bath with you. A small gesture maybe, but it also feels wonderfully domestic and intimate. It has you leaning into his side as you step into the adjacent room, breathing in the scent of his cologne, soaking up the body heat that radiates from his skin. Whatever new chapter between the both of you has opened has still left you two with a lot of unsaid questions and answers. You still don't know what you two are. If there's a label to apply to you both of it was just a one-night stand, but you don't have to get those answers right this second. For now, you can just bask in his company and come morning, once you've both had time to think and adjust you can sit him down and have a conversation. And maybe (hopefully) your relationship will finally become something more. 

But as for now, you don't mind spending the night in his room. Of cuddling up underneath the covers of his bed after a nice bath and watching a movie together, even though you know that the duration of it is going to be spent with him criticizing every line of bad dialogue and griping over plot holes, no matter how insignificant they may be. 

It sounds like the perfect night, honestly. 

But still there is still one burning question that's searing at your brain like a hot coal, and you can't keep yourself from voicing it. 

"Do you think anybody heard us?" 

And his answer is blunt and honest. 

"Oh, yeah, there's no way they didn't." 

[agendabymooner]

SOMETHING HAZY !!! CARLOS S. X FEM!READER (18+)

summary: carlos wanted his wife to let it all out. that’s all.

content warning: smut under the cut (minors dni!), not proofread, use of explicit language, established relationship (married), soft dom!carlos, unprotected sex (pls use protection), creampie, sex as emotional outlet, dacryphilia, reader being in subspace, ion know what i wrote it’s just smut, consider this my fever dream (i have a fever)

recommended song: american by lana del rey (i kinda based it off the vibes of the song)

note: y’all should check out something devoured bc there’s not much jenson button love out there 🤭 this was also an idea i brought up to a moot (@daaiissyyyyy) because we had too much fun recommending songs back and forth enjoy xx

something sinful (smut) masterlist

a - n masterlist

o - z masterlist

the spaniard didn’t usually come home earlier than his wife. his flights back to madrid were usually longer and she worked nearby. so it wasn’t everyday he got to go home and relax in front of the television while he patiently waited for her to get back from her office shift. 

what he didn’t expect, however, was the expression on her face when her eyes lit up for a brief moment at the sight of carlos.

it was as if she felt numbness in her system, telling him about her work and how much her boss frustrated her after working for hours on a project she’s dedicated herself to. 

it was one of those things that carlos had heard through the nightly facetime call with her. she spoke enthusiastically about her project while she cooked dinner for herself, to which she’d ask about his media duties and how it went for him after.

it wasn’t anything that carlos didn’t welcome; he loved her so much that her enthusiasm and cheeriness were nothing but a part of his everyday life. 

so to see her like this— less than optimistic and happy without the verge of crying (which she usually did over the little things), it didn’t sit right with him. 

“cariño,” he murmured, stopping her from moving around the kitchen as he pulled her closer to him. pinning her against the counter, she took a deep breath as he asked, “i’m here now. what do you want?” 

“i- i-“ she stammered, “i’m okay, carlos.”

“no, you’re not, bebe,” carlos mumbled, kissing her neck before his head moved up and his mouth nibbled at her ear. “i’ve been married to you for years. i know when you’re not okay.” 

his breath fanned her skin as he said, “tell me what you want, mi vida. ‘m here for you.” 

“i-“ she took a deep breath and murmured, “i just want to let it all out and cry, carlos and i can’t do it.” 

out of desperation, she turned around and faced him with a wobbling smile. “i want you to fuck me ‘til i’m crying and- make it all go away, carlos. please.” 

with a sweet smile, he tipped her head back and softly kissed her. 

“anything to help you out, cariño. let’s get you out of these clothes, hm?” 

it was like she was being split into half. 

his cock, its girth and length, was no contest to her cunt. carlos could still remember the first time her eyes landed on it as if she was wondering how it would fit into her. 

carlos loved the way her eyes would roll back when he managed to fit in snugly, fucking her while being pleased by the way her legs trembled and shook as he continued pounding into her. 

but right now, it was all about her. all she wanted was to have an outlet for her emotions. that’s what she was getting. 

he watched the way tears fell down her temple as he smiled gently. his smile differed from his actions, thrusting until he completely bottomed out of her and rolling her nipples between his thumbs and index fingers, eliciting a whiny moan from her as she incoherently spoke. 

she felt like she was being split into half, yet she wanted him to break her fully. 

“‘los, wan’ more,” she whimpered, her eyes shut tight as she whined.

“i know you do, mi vida,” carlos murmured, pounding hard as her toes curled and her heels dug into his hips. “so eager for me.”

“fuck, carlos, please~” she opened her eyes for a moment. carlos saw nothing but haze in her eyes, her thoughts were already driven away from the insanity of her reality at work. 

good, carlos thought. all he wanted was to distract her from the stress. 

“you look so pretty, mi corazon,” he mumbled, his fingers pulling away from her tits to wipe her tears away. “so, so pretty.” 

“te mereces algo mejor, mi esposa,” you deserve better, my wife. carlos continued. “so much more than those people, bebe.”

she was already too fucked out to even consider what he was saying, sobbing as she begged him for more. “carlos, please fuck me harder. i wanna cu- hah~ fuck— please—“

“shh,” he tutted quietly, his fingers now trailing down to rub her clit as she let out a sharp cry. now thrusting harder and faster, carlos moaned at the way her walls clenched around his cock as he mumbled, “so fucking good for me, mi amor. cum for me, bebe.” 

her legs twitched and heels dug into his hips as she whined, “gonna cum, ‘los! i’m cumming— ah- hah~” 

she felt nothing but euphoria, her vision turning white as she let out a quiet scream. “oh, oh~” she whimpered, feeling him paint her walls white with his pleasure as they both let out choked moans. 

carlos’ breath fanned her neck as he gathered his breathing. then, he gently pulled himself out of her. she let out a whine, telling him to continue stuffing her and that she felt empty without his cock inside her. 

he stood for a brief moment, watching as her body limped and a mix of her and his pleasure oozing out of her cunt. 

with her mind still hazy she murmured, “carlos, want you.”

“i know, mi vida,” he said softly. “i’m just gonna clean you up then we’ll go to sleep.”

“but—“ she sobbed, tears falling down again. 

“no more thinking,” he told her gently, yet his words demanded her to listen. he leaned over to press a kiss on her forehead as he mumbled, “not tonight. we’re gonna go to sleep and you’re gonna listen like a good girl, hm?”

she relented, wanting to please him as she nodded. a pout still played on her lips, not happy with his words but regardless she said, “mmm…okay.” 

carlos smiled lightly. it was nice to know that she got her emotions out already— she clearly needed that more than anything. 

[black-rose-writings]

Things I have gathered about Danny Phanton without having ever watched the show (from posts and fanfics):

There's ghosts and they're kind of assholes, but they're also all friends and have christmas parties. Their presence is treated as a mild annoyance by everyone except the ghost hunters.

The main character is a dead 14yo. Sometimes. He's also trans.

There are adult professional ghost hunters around. Literally all of them seem like they are just taking out their serial killer urges on ghosts. "Man is the real monster" trope in action. At least some of the ghost hunters are a Men In Black parody.

The dead 14yo actually the most competent at removing ghosts from the mortal plane.

There is another 14yo who is not dead and also hunting ghosts. She's somehow also more competent at it than the adults.

The MC's parents are ghost hunters and want to torture him into perma-death. That is somehow not the biggest problem with their parenting.

(Like, I get that adults in kids' media need to be kinda dumb and immature for the premise of the show/book/movie/whatever to work, but I'm getting the feeling the adults in this show cross the line of 'plot necessary dumbass' into 'fucked up and abusive' territorry.)

One of the ghosts is tiny, piloting a giant mecha suit and dedicated to skinning the MC and hanging his skin on his wall. He somehow also has a cool rocker girlfriend and thinks this will impress her. Jury's out on whether or not that's a good strategy.

There is a ghost called the Box Ghost, who demands to be taken seriously. Nobody takes him seriously.

The MC's nemesis is another dude who is sometimes dead. He looks like a vampire and swears in food. He also wants to kill the MC's dad (for mostly valid reasons) and bang his mom (for no good reason at all) and adopt the MC as his son(mostly because of his hangups around the parents, not because said parents suck at being parents). In a villainous and fucked up way, because he's the main antagonists. He's also a billionaire, has a cat, and is weirdly obsessed with american football (IDK jack shit about american football, but the level of obsession is treated as not normal by the characters so I will assume it is weird and just how americans be like).

There were 3 seasons, but half of the fandom is convinced the third one may have been a fever dream because it's so bad.

There was a finale that everyone pretends didn't happen because it sucked.

There is at least one time travel fix it episode and the time travel ghost wears way too many watches.

The MC has two living friends - Wade from Kim Possible, but thinner and leaves his house, and a jewish goth vegan.

The MC has a clone and she's a baby and a gremlin.

The ships all have the weirdest fucking names.

Somehow half the named characters being dead is not the angstiest part of the show.

I kinda want to know how someone came up with it and what drugs they were taking. IDK if I want to try some or avoid them, but it would be good to know either way.

[artyandink]

Five-Star

Summary: You’ve been dating Dean Winchester, which is nothing short of a fever dream. A brilliant fever dream. But when you decide to test him on how much he wants you, you don’t get the answer you expected to have.

A/N - Welcome to the Karak Chaii-verse! I had an idea to write Dean with an Indian POC, since I’m one myself. Creds to @zepskies and her brilliant Midnight Espresso-verse, and you should definitely check that out. This is a small drabble that I thought up.

Your family had moved to the US around a year after you were born. That’s because the monsters in India were far more dangerous than in America due to the origination of them from the depths of Indian mythology, such as a rakshasa or arunasura, but you found that here was far more escalated.

At least, you’d found out when you met the Winchesters.

You came from a long line of crazy good Indian hunters, so you were already a great one yourself. Back in India, your parents would pose as part of the CBI, but you had to resort to finding someone who could make you a believable FBI badge once you turned eighteen and got into hunting solo, which was around 1997. There you met Bobby Singer, who hooked you up with what he called the ‘All-American Hunting Kit’, which consisted of an array of fake IDs and a lore book. You were glad your training, done by your dad, was done by the intensity of monsters in India rather than here, otherwise it’d be harder to get by.

On a hunt for a vampire and wraith hybrid in Grant Pass, Oregon, you came across the Winchesters, the shorter of the two having dubbed the hybrid ‘Jefferson Starships’. That man was Dean, and you were taken by his charming, goofy attitude that switched to an attractive sort of intensity when faced with imminent danger. You just didn’t expect ‘imminent danger’ to be the mother of all monsters.

Once your parents had found out that you were hanging out with the Winchesters, who were at the centre of any and all supernatural trouble in America, they sent you a thousand calls telling you to get your ass out of there before you got killed. You being you, you didn’t listen. Not when you knew that you’d get withdrawal symptoms from not seeing the million dollar smile of Dean Winchester, which quickly won you over (and his lips too, which knew damn well what they were doing).

As for Sam, you quickly saw him as your little brother figure, who also helped you manage your unruly hair by recommending the right hair products that you now had stocked up. You’d both nerd over monsters, you’d tell him about all the ones you’d encountered in India while Sam told you stories about all that he and his brother had gone through.

Which was no less than a lot. And you thought India was a harder place to live, by what your parents told you. Here there’s the friggin’ Apocalypse.

Dean was obviously your favourite Winchester. He’d told you he really liked you about two years and a half after you met amid averting eyes and stammered words as he spewed compliment after compliment, standing there in the Bunker’s kitchen like a nervous melon in his grey robe, black shorts with hot dogs on them and black undershirt with fuzzy hair.

You’d cut his nervous ramblings off by pulling him in by the lapel of his robe, lips puckered in surprise as they met yours as the tangy taste of cherry and sweet, buttery pie crust flooded your taste buds and even more so when Dean quickly took control of the kiss, hands tangling in your hair and grabbing at soft curves like his life depended on it.

One thing Dean loved about you was your cooking. Your mom had taught you a wide array of Indian dishes that you could cook, and the moment the first bite of your rajma and rice graced Dean’s mouth, it was hook, line and sinker. You’d taught him how to eat chole bhature, roti and sabzi and which masala was which so he could know what the hell did you put to make him fall for you over and over again.

You were scrolling on your YouTube shorts one day when you came across a video of a woman asking her husband what his favourite snack was to see if he’d say her or not. You didn’t look like the definition of a snack right now, with your unwashed hair tied up in a bun that your mom taught you to do with no hair tie whatsoever in grey sweatpants, Dean’s undershirt and fuzzy mismatched socks, but you decided to try it out anyway as Dean came into the bunker’s living room, approaching you from behind with a delicate yet possessive cup of your chin and a kiss to your temple.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He greeted in that low voice of his that was effortlessly seductive even when he wasn’t trying, his hand sliding down to comfortingly rub over your chest and shoulder as he passed by. “Doin’ ok?” He sat down beside you, arm around your shoulder as his fingers began to play with your hair, warm green eyes trained on you.

You nodded, setting your phone aside. “Doing alright, yeah.” Then you decided to try out the question. “Dil, what’s your favourite snack?” You called Dean dil sometimes because it meant heart in Hindi, and he had yours.

The question got a chuckle out of him as he jerked his head to the right in amusement. “Awh, sweet girl, that’s hardly fair. I’d say beef jerky, but that new thing you, uh, introduced me to really raised the bar.” His brow furrowed in thought for a moment in contrast to the large grin on his face. “The aloo whatzitsname.”

“Aloo lachha.” You corrected with a giggle, barely holding back the urge to say what the answer was.

“Yeah, that. Or, uh, pie, but that’s a dessert and not a snack. Maybe that rajma stuff, but that’s a meal.” He continued rambling on any and all snacks he’d added to his palette since meeting you, until a bout of laughter from you slowed his roll. “What? What’s so funny, huh?”

“So… your favourite snack isn’t me.” You teased with a smirk, which got the cogs in his head turning. “You failed, sorry, honey.”

The words got a raise of his eyebrow and a slow and subtle roving of his eyes down your body and a bite of his lip. To him, you looked absolutely delicious. Like the best thing at a five star restaurant.

He stood up with a low grunt, facing you before grabbing you by your hips, hoisting you up so fast that you had to wrap your sweatpant-clad legs around his waist with a small shriek. “See, baby, that’s where you’re wrong.”

He leaned forward, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss that bordered on reverence and somehow the intention to devour at the same time, which had you moaning already. His tongue slipped into your mouth, briefly getting a taste and giving you the distinct flavour of the aloo chaat you had made for lunch mixed with beer before he pulled back and nipped your bottom lip, groaning at the feeling of your fingers now tugging at his hair.

“You…” Dean paused for a breath and a low chuckle, staring at you hungrily. “You are the whole damn buffet.”

TAGLIST:

@k-slla @hobby27 @supernatural-jackles

[lovelytsunoda]

purple haze // charles leclerc

summary: writing a novel is a long an arduous process. luckily for y/n, she has a very supportive partner in crime, and when it all works out, he's the only person she would want by her side.

pairing: charles leclerc x author reader

warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of deadlines, book referenced is a good girls guide to murder by holly jackson. gets a lil steamy towards the middle but nothing comes of it. still not sure how i feel about this one, but i havent written for charles in forever and i got an idea i really liked but i don't know if it worked out when i put it on paper.

by the time y/n closed her laptop, she felt like her fingers were going to fall off. she leaned back in her desk chair, gutted to find that the monaco cityscape outside her living room window was now pitch black, as might had fallen on the city.

her first book had been a red-wine and oasis fuelled fever dream, the last three chapters being written to ‘don’t look back in anger’. and now, the final edits were done.

“I’m so proud of you, mon tresor.” charles gushed, bringing her another glass of wine.

“the last three years are finally paying off. a good girls guide to murder is done, and the world is ready to meet pippa and ravi.” she grinned, clinking her glass against her boyfriends.

she had poured three years of her life into that book, and Charles had been by her side for all of it. through numerous rejections, edits and late night idea-vomit, nobody was prouder than charles was so see it work out for her.

and now he knew she needed a break.

taking her hand in his, he gently dragged her out of the desk chair and towards the couch, placing their wineglasses on the coffee table as he urged y/n to sit on the ground between his legs.

his hands were warm as he began to massage her shoulders, attempting to release the tension caused by the last round of edits, which she had worked on almost from sunup to sundown.

“there’s still so much to do.” she whined, tilting her head back to look up at her lover. “now there’s arcs and extra promotions and finding advance reviewers and-“

charles cut her off with a kiss. “none of that right now. right now, you and me are going to finish this bottle of wine and watch something pointless on tv.”

smiling to herself, y/n got up from the floor and moved to the leather couch, slipping seamlessly into charles' lap and nestling against his chest. his body was warm, and his sweater soft. even if his cologne was a little bit too strong, he made her feel safe. treasured.

"that sounds perfect." she hummed, gently turning his face so she could kiss him. "thank you for supporting me."

"always, my love." charles smiled before kissing her again.

SIX MONTHS LATER

it was half past five in the morning when the phone rang. charles could sleep through just about anything, but it was the vibrations of the phone against her side table that woke y/n.

she looked over at her sleeping lover, pressing a gentle kiss to the smooth skin on his shoulder blades before slipping out of bed and creeping into the hallway to answer a call from her agent, cecelia.

"cece, its five in the morning. couldn't this have waited?"

ceclia cleared her throat. "i've just heard from the american office. the preliminary numbers for the new york times list are in."

"fuck. how did we do?" she closed her eyes, holding up her crossed fingers and praying to every god she wasn't sure she believed in.

and when cecelia spoke again, she almost dropped her phone.

"okay. thank you for letting me know, cece."

she slipped back into the bedroom, bare, dry feet sinking into the plush carpet at the end of the bed before she sat down at the end of the bed, gripping the phone so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.

"mon amour." charles rasped, exhaustion in his voice as he rolled over onto his back. "what's wrong?"

"i just got a call from cecelia." she started, trying not to let her emotions show through. "she's just been on the phone with our american agent with the new york times numbers."

charles sat up, one of his warm hands going to rest on her thigh. "and?' he asked hesitantly, his piercing eyes meeting her uncertain ones in the dark.

"i made the top ten." she shouted, grin spreading all across her features.

making the new york times list had made everything worth it. all the sleepless nights when she had woken up with an idea she was scared to lose, all the rewrites, the weeks of writers block. the rejections, the aggravation, the insecurity.

this was it.

she had done it.

"i'm so proud of you." charles beamed, folding her into a hug. "i knew you could do it, my brilliant girl."

she dropped her phone on the bed, red-faced and giggly as she kissed him, allowing her hands to wander across his toned chest. "wanna show me just how much?"

THREE YEARS LATER

the theater was almost silent when the lights came up, the end credits of the final episode fading out on the screen. she held her breath, fingers gripping charles' hand so tightly that she thought she might break the fragile bones in her husband's fingers.

oh, yeah. they had gotten married about a year after her book had come out, while she was in the middle of writing as good as dead, the conclusion to the series.

since a good girls guide to murder had come out, her life had changed for the better. she felt more secure in herself and her talent, and the words had never come easier when she started writing the sequel, eager ton continue the story. she had since written two more books to complete the trilogy, as well as two standalone novels: five survive and the reappearance of rachel price. around the time that rachel price was announced, she had gotten another call from cecelia, asking if she and charles could come to london and meet with representatives from the bbc.

they wanted to turn her first book into a tv series.

she had been hands on from the beginning, throwing herself into her work and doing her best to make sure that the version of the story the readers saw on screen was the version that she had visualized when she'd first explained the storyboard to charles, the driver helping her connect everything on their living room wall with red yarn.

and now was the time. the time to see if it had all paid off. the theater was filled with minor celebrities, influencers, and the tiktokers who had made her book blow up in popularity.

it all came down this night.

"it's okay. whatever happens, you know you did your best." charles whispered in her ear, running one hand up and down her bare back. underneath the flimsy straps of her red dress.

she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath when the roar off applause began to drown her.

she rode the rush of emotions, allowing the tears of gratification and relief to ruin her mascara as she let her body go slack, resting against charles as she watched the room rise in a standing ovation for pippa and ravi.

"we did it. we made it, charles." she laughed, tilting her head up to kiss him.

"no, cherie. you did this. they're all here for you."

she watched as the event's host, a former spice girl that charles knew through his paddock connections, stepped out into the middle of the small stage set up at the front of the theater.

"and now, the moment i'm sure you've all been waiting for, a few words from y/n /y/l/n-leclerc!"

she wiped her eyes and fixed her hair, taking a deep breath before she walked across the stage, taking the microphone from geri halliwell, and turning to face the crowd.

in the front row, there was charles. her one true love. her biggest supporter.

and in that moment, she truly allowed herself to believe that she had made it.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Rita Moreno (Singin' in the Rain, West Side Story)—She’s an EGOT, an absolute legend for how she navigated her career as a woman of color in the fifties and sixties. Her performance as Anita in West Side Story is why I go back to that movie so many times. She is an icon and she is the moment.

Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof)—iconic actress with purple eyes and a double row of eyelashes, the real ebony dementia ravenway of old hollywood. known for her stunning tastes when it comes to jewelry and her incredible, incredible advocacy during the AIDS crisis.

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Rita Moreno propaganda:

"Amazing showstopping actress in her one big memorable role as Anita in West Side Story. She sings and dances with unmatched joy and energy, and then breaks your heart with her acting. Rita took a role that felt as a stereotype to latina women and made it compelling and multifaceted. Her subsequent career was filled with mostly side roles, but she still managed to excel in whatever Hollywood threw at her."

"It’s Rita!! The EGOT herself! She can act, she can sing, she can dance, a triple threat. Obviously absolutely iconic as Anita in West Side Story (her part of the Tonight Quintet is the sexiest part of the film, fight me). But before that she was the amazing Zelda in Singin’ In the Rain!?! Thanks Zelda, you’re a real pal."

"She continues to be amazing but also she's got legs for days."

"THEE iconic rita moreno, EGOT winner, civil rights activist, theatre legend. watch her documentary "Rita Moreno: Just a Girl Who Decided to Go for It". also her rendition of "fever" on the muppet show"

Elizabeth Taylor:

I've been trying to steer clear of the absurdly-big names, but damnit, those violet eyes got me. The *talent*, the *presence*, the string of marriages and (temporally out-of-bounds) work in combating AIDS and pioneering in the concept of the celebrity fragrance line.

Not only did she have gorgeous violet eyes and lashes for days and one of the hottest voices ever, she was also a big supporter of the gay community

Child actress turned starlet, Liz dominated films as one of the greatest screen legends of classic hollywood. If your protagonist has violet eyes, they're imitating hers.

A Legend. She was serving milf rage in Whos Afraid Of Virginia Woolf. A Star in every sense of the word.

She was renowned for the beauty of her eyes; they were a dark blue but could look violet in certain lighting, something that photographers would actually touch up to look even more so in pictures. But even more striking was a genetic mutation that gave her a double row of eyelashes. She was also famed for her string of husbands -- 8 marriages to 7 men. Two-time hubby Richard Burton once said she was “a wildly exciting love-mistress… beautiful beyond the dreams of pornography.”

Her EYES. Early and loud support for gay rights and AIDS victims. Married a bunch of hot dudes, Burton twice!

just look at her. she's gorgeous. there's a video somewhere of her applying her eyeliner in the mirror and I think about it all the time

THE Hollywood actress of all time. Not only was she known for her long dark locks and blue-violet eyes, she also had one of the wildest life stories ever….. She’s Carrie Fisher’s stepmother because her father Eddie Fisher cheated on Debbie Reynolds with Liz. She was knighted as a dame of England. She was married to seven different men, one of them twice. She was also very kindhearted and did a lot of charity activism.

Asides from being an iconic actor, she did a lot of philanthropy and co founded the American Foundation for AIDS research. She’s sometimes considered one of the last great stars of old hollywood

[disney-is-mylife]

Now that we've covered most 80s and 90s "nostalgic" faves....

Don't @ me if your personal fave is not on here. This is MY list of films from MY childhood that I watched over and over, alongside Disney movies. Unlike my previous "nostalgia" polls (80s and 90s, if you want to see the results), the only "rules" here are: non-Disney and fully animated theatrical films. Hence why I included films outside the 90s and Dreamworks as well lol

Happy voting! ❤

A few honorable mentions that I couldn't squeeze into the poll:

An American Tail & Fievel Goes West (I just didn't watch them often enough in my childhood to have them Stick With Me, even though I definitely enjoyed them. But my older brother loved them dearly and talked about them a lot, and I appreciate them a lot more now!)

The Land Before Time (yes, I did watch those absurd sequels - up until 7 ish? - and enjoyed the original, but was never Obsessed like my other peers. Perhaps Jurassic Park traumatized me too much to be fond of dinosaurs lol)

The Brave Little Toaster to the Rescue (speaking of sequels, I remember the pet one?? pretty well? but not enough to call it a Childhood Fave)

The King & I (absolutely ATROCIOUS adaptation/film, btw, but my siblings and I delighted in quoting the stupid comic relief's lines because Kid Humor is broken lmao the amount of times our poor mother must have heard us go "I never want to see another mango in life" before dissolving into a fit of giggles.....)

Pippi Longstocking (idk I read the book and just was happy to see a beloved book character come to life)

Annabelle's Wish (definitely a STRONG honorable mention cuz I was oddly OBSESSED with the soundtrack for some reason??? but unlike other Obsessed With the Soundtrack movies, this one kinda.... disappeared into the ether of my memories, with only that One Song playing on loop when I think about it)

And finally: shout-out to We're Back, FernGully, Pebble and the Penguin, and Quest for Camelot for being weird-ass fever dream memories until I properly watched them after high school

Cats Don't Dance and Thumbelina are probably the closest things to "honorable mentions" on the poll, but I chose to keep them because I remember DISTINCTLY getting VERY upset over Darla Dimple's scheming in Cats Don't Dance, and feeling whimsically swept up in Thumbelina's fairytale romance. Whereas poor American Tail and Land Before Time didn't "latch onto" me the same way. Who can say why? Memories are a funny thing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[zahri-melitor]

Batman v Ra's Al Ghul, by Neal Adams: A Bronze Age fever dream of a comic, written in 2019-2021.

Neal Adams caps off his over 50 year career with DC comics by...them letting him write a book for the first time in a decade.

Now, Adams is famous for his Bronze Age artwork, not his writing, and it's deservedly so: this is not the comic you would pick up if you were interested in award winning writing. But I have to say, it's actually something far more fun than 'good writing'.

I think the easiest way to describe the incredibly wild vibes of this title are 'Adams writes a multiverse Bronze Age time travel AU fic', where the cast technically consists of a modern set of characters (Dick is Nightwing and both Tim and Damian are Robin), but all of the characters are drawn, talking and acting like they just walked off a page in 1974 or so.

For assistance, that's: Dick in the yellow with the very 70s black vest; Tim in the blue t-shirt; Damian in the red t-shirt; and Bruce in the suit. You end up keeping track of them in this title by their haircuts.

Bruce and Damian here cannot remember anything about being Batman and Robin; Dick and Tim appear to have shown up with a fantastical story that cannot be proven (as I said, this has INCREDIBLE reality hopping AU vibes).

Some of the characters have been mindwiped. Some of the characters are robot duplicates. A whole list of characters Adams helped create show up largely because he created them (seriously Kirk and Francine Langstrom show up for a couple of pages mostly to give Dick and Tim an airlift into a difficult to reach entrance to the Cave). Nobody sounds particularly in character at any point, but that's not really a problem in this comic, because what it really is is a giant jolt of Bronze Age style writing nostalgia direct to the brainstem.

They don't make comics like this anymore and reading one written in the 2020s like this reinforces why.

Deadman's brother Aaron and sister Zeea show up; his brother is busy pretending to be an alternate Australian version of Batman called Marvin O'Hearn, and his sister is a psychic running around in the most 70s outfit imaginable controlling things and mindwiping Bruce on Ra's orders.

(And yes, if you too just asked 'Boston Brand has siblings???' the answer is 'kinda sorta but definitely not these two', however given Adams was writing Boston in 1968 at one point he's got as much right as anyone else to claim there are additional siblings)

There's a group who PRETEND to be the Court of Owls but secretly are a group of industrialists called The Money who want to control the world via paying for legislators, judges and industry (and yes I realise that sounds exactly like the Court's thing, but Adams was almost 80 when he wrote this, he can have an expy Court if he wants one).

Bruce pretends to be Matches for a good chunk of the back end of this comic and it actually acknowledges that Matches Malone was a real gangster before he died and Bruce stole his identity (something other writers and the fandom often forget), because Adams wants one more spin with the character he designed.

There's also a moment in the sixth issue where one of Ra's pet scientists tries to sell a panel of Gotham execs on a perpetual motion machine based on electrolysis as his replacement for the current Gotham power generators and at this point I lost it giggling at the portrayal of Ra's as a cheap charlatan.

(There is also a sneaky joke that only works if you know what British salad cream is; there's this sequence of the kids talking about Alfred making sandwiches with 'crappy salad dressing' instead of mayonnaise, only this tray has been made with mayo...and it's a hint that Alfred has been replaced by a robot. I laughed; I suspect it might be non-obvious to American audiences)

This is not a comic to read if you are interested in 'main continuity' or 'coherence' or even 'good writing'. However if you want some wild antics that feel like someone's 3am fanfic AU written in pure Bronze Age vibes and to see the last work of one of Ra's Al Ghul's creators? Give it a chance. You'll never be able to predict what's on the next page.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Analysis: Cannery Row (Cultural References)

John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row (1945) opens with the following declaration:

“Cannery Row in Monterey California is a poem, a stink, a grating noise, a quality of light, a tone, a habit, a nostalgia, a dream” (1).

Set in a fictionalized version of Cannery Row in Monterey, California, Steinbeck uses his cast of homeless people, drunks and prostitutes to express profound truths about humanity. 

Abacus (6): A counting device that was used before the creation of calculators.

Belles-lettres (64): A type of literary work, one that is usually expressed in essays, poetry and deals with intellectual subject matter.

Beret (123): A soft hat that has no bill and no brim. Often worn in the military.

Billings, Josh (61): The pen name for Henry Wheeler Shaw, a respected humorist of the 20th century.

Black Marigolds (171): A poem written by E. Powys Mathers.

Bloomer League (140): A baseball league that was comprised primarily of women that started during the early 1900’s.

Carborundum (90): Another name for silicon carbide, which is the sole chemical compound of carbon and silicon.

Chalmers (154): A type of car that was created and sold during the early 1900’s.

Chorea (144): An illness that causes involuntary movement in various parts of the body.

Collier’s (magazine) (139): Founded by Peter Collier, Collier’s Once a Week debuted in 1888 and went on to become one of America’s most popular magazines.

Count Basie (114): A prominent figure during the swing period of jazz, as well as a good example of big band style.

Dadaist (122): An artist or a writer who practiced Dada, a movement that rejected traditional art and contemporary culture.

Daisy Air Rifle (104): A brand of rifle created by the historic Daisy company.

Distemper (134): An infection in dogs that can be diagnosed through symptoms of a runny nose, poor appetite, and coughing.

“Fighting Bob” (111): A reference to Robert M. La Follette Sr. fight against Washington and other politicians who choose to enter WWI.

Ford Model T (61, 106): A truck built by Ford Motor Company.

The Great Depression (16): A result of the 1929 stock market crash, which left many Americans without money or jobs.

Great Fugue (163): A musical work by Beethoven.

Goiter (97): The enlargement of the thyroid gland.

Influenza (89): An infection more commonly known as the “flu.” It was responsible for claiming the lives of millions worldwide before effective vaccines were created to treat and prevent it.

Knights of Columbus (130): A Catholic organization that seeks to aid family members within the organization who are in financial need.

Knights Templar (130): A group of knights who originated in Jerusalem during the year of 1119. Though shrouded in mystery, the Knights Templar are believed to have protected the Holy Grail.

Laudanum (107): A mixture of opium and derivatives of alcohol.

Masonic Lodge (104): A meeting place for Freemasons or former Freemasons.

Mastoids (89): The skull bones that house the ear.

Mastoiditis (90): Mastoiditis occurs when an infection in the middle ear spreads to the mastoids and then causes an infection that produces fevers and headaches.

Monteverdi’s Hor ch’ el Ciel e la Terra (119): A song by the Italian musician Claudio Monteverdi, who lived in the 16th and 17th century.

Novena (88): A prayer that is said over a nine-day period that requests a special favor from God.

“Panama Pacific International Exposition of 1915” (111): The 1915 Worlds Fair that was held in San Francisco, California.

Petrarch (119): A famous writer of the 14th century who is credited with being the founding father of Humanism.

Point Lobos (64): A state reserve on the central coast of California in Monterey County.

Prohibition (72): A move by the United States government to reduce the amount of alcohol consumed in the United States through limiting individuals and businesses who sold alcohol.

Purse Seiners (67): Fishing boats equipped to fish with a purse seine, a kind of fishing net.

“Remember the Maine” (111): The sinking of the U.S.S. Maine, which was the catalyst for the Spanish-American War.

Rimbaud (124): A 19th century French writer who is most remembered for his contribution to the symbolist movement.

Robert Louis Stevenson (61): A Scottish author who is most famous for works such as Treasure Island and The Black Arrow.

Saturnalia (112): The week of December 17th-23rd during which a feast was held by the Romans to celebrate their dedication Saturn’s temple.

Scarlatti (129): Last name of Giuseppe Domenico Scarlatti, an Italian harpsichordist born during the 17th century who later moved to Spain and continued to practice music there.

Sculpin (135): A kind of small fish.

St. Francis (of Assisi) (144): A saint in the Catholic church who is known for his great love for God, animals, and the sick.

Treasure Island (64): A book written by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Vaudeville (109): A form of American variety entertainment that marked the beginning of popular entertainment as a lucrative business.

“White Sale” (103): A sale either of household goods, or when a store drastically reduces their prices for a short period of time.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[hozierandco]

The Match-maker - Part 3 of Callum Turner x Reader // FLUFF

AN: First of all, I apologise part 3 has taken longer than expected. I think I'll stop promising to publish at a certain date when I can't meet expectations. Anyway, this is part 3 which is still kinda fluffy but we're going towards SMUT (which will be part 4 so you will have to wait a bit more for this, sorryyyy). Hope you like it xx

“Would you like to see the pictures I took back to my place?”, Y/N questioned, feeling like the end of the night could well go somewhere unplanned but nice.

“I’d love that”

The night was well advanced and the Park was oddly quiet, perturbed only by the sound of rare sirens afar and some perched daring crows. The conversation went on about upcoming projects, recently watched Netflix shows and family dramas.

Though they had met just a few hours prior, the conversation flowed so smoothly. It was as though Callum, an English 30-ish actor had been through all the throes an American photographer had known. It felt good not only to be heard but to be understood as well, Y/N thought.

Callum could not help but think back on what in his life had led to this. What if he had never flown to New York and had decided to stay in Chelsea instead? What if he had never met Austin, and therefore had never met Y/N? Just to imagine never grazing Central Park in such pleasant company caused him to overthink all the many terrible ways this could end.

He had been heartbroken so many times, getting attached too soon and too quickly or to the wrong person. Over and over again. But he could sense that Y/N was different. Was it because she too had open wounds? Or was it that she was as detail-oriented as he was recounting all the love stories gone bad?

He did not wish to repeat the same mistakes that had led to him being hurt but he knew it was inevitable. He was going to fall for her. It was something about her bonhomie and vision of life that was so goddamn irresistible. 

“There, that’s where I’m living for a couple more days”, Y/N announced as they got to a stop in front of a door made of brick. Queens is not the first neighbourhood of the Big Apple you’re thinking of when you think of all the glam and romantic appeal the city has to offer but here it was. 

Though she had taken the subway already earlier in the evening to set her gear before attending the party, Y/N was still amazed at the non-stop functioning engine. She liked to imagine everyone’s life, now she had the occasion to imagine hers either choice she was about to make: to trust or not to trust that smiling actor who seemed unable to hurt a fly.

“Let me show you the camera obscura I set up in here”, Y/N declared with pride tinting her voice as she hinted that Callum could enter. At that moment, it felt the most natural thing to do, as though Callum was a familiar, as though Y/N had invited him over multiple times. 

In the small room she had tidied neat to exhibit her photographs of the city and those she was about to develop from the Gala, the two stood next to one another, feeling comfortable with each other’s presence. Because it was required by the device she had carried with her from one coast to the other, Y/N had placed some towel she had found in the bathroom and had arranged it over the lightbulb. The whole installation made the light flip crimson anytime she was turning on the switch. 

With this new shade of red covering his face, Callum could be admired the way he was created to be. He was a handsome man with this charm of a man who has no idea how ridiculously daunting and comely he was. It seemed as though his smile was wider than it had been through the evening. Y/N could not let go of the chance she had to kiss him just a little more, crossing her fingers that he would not disappear and that all of this was not just a fever dream. 

Though it was close to 2 am, though the two of them had not closed their eyes to rest for the past 19 hours or something like that, there was no way their lack of sleep was getting in the way of the chemistry they shared at that moment. 

Y/N was still in her black dress that Callum had made swirl just a couple hours prior with his dance moves. She was even more beautiful now that no one was around and that she had no performative socialisation to make. It was as though she was hers only, her precious treasure chest after a long journey to a remote island.

“So, can I help you with tonight’s pictures?” Callum offered with a heavenly grin on his face, just seconds after parting from her embrace and kisses.

And like that, Y/N was talking about the invention of the camera obscura and teaching him about the techniques to develop pictures from a film camera. Callum, being an actor, was a pro in front of the cameras but had no clue as to how they worked and was more than happy his teacher was both nerdy when it came to the subject and drop dead beautiful.

After having taught the basis, Y/N trusted Callum to develop pictures on his own. Seeing him being enthusiastic and caring with the films made him even more irresistible.

“I think this one has to be my favourite photograph so far”, Callum stated after letting a bunch of pictures taking a bath and allowing them to dry out. The photograph in question was a selfie of Y/N had taken right before the Gala started as a souvenir of this ethereal occasion. The only photograph from the selection that had her face on it. 

“Now, since you’ve been an excellent photographer, will you allow me to take some pictures of you?” Y/N asked, brushing off the compliment. 

Callum sat on the leather couch that seemed straight out from an Ikea catalogue and posed for Y/N. He could feel her eyes going from the camera to him and back to the camera, making sure she had the right angle to capture his beauty as a whole. It was a losing battle as Callum could not be as handsome as the version she had in front of her. She thought that if he was to vanish when the day would come, she would at least have the pictures to rely on.

As Callum was somehow obliged to look at the camera - and the person holding it -, the tension got to him. She was way too gorgeous not to be the one posing. As she fixed her zoom lens, he approached her and gave her another round of kisses. This time around, Y/N and Callum could feel there were more than kisses to get from this and touches on the thighs and torso succeeded.

“Is that okay if I’m touching you like that?” Callum asked Y/N as she grew desperate for the touch. 

“Yes, it’s more than okay. It’s just perfect”

The two of them carried on, competing as to who would be the most passionate. Callum brought Y/N’s mouth closer to his and after a few more kisses placed on her lips, got to her neck. Still on the sofa, Callum lay his weight on Y/N as he found new spots to soak with his affection.

[musicforastylesrestaurant]

S A C C H A R I N E.

one phone call can change your whole perspective on life. it can change everything you know in a matter of seconds, and most of the time, the phone call is regarding bad news.

that’s what happened to harry. after picking his son up, alfie up from school, his phone rang and that’s when his heart fell into the pit of his stomach, it was the hospital.

they didn’t tell him much over the phone, just that he needed to get to the hospital as soon as possible to talk, so that’s what he did and that’s when he was told the news, news he never expected to hear.

you, his darling wife, the women he adored with his whole heart, the mother of your angle boy was in a road traffic accident and had life threatening injuries, and was placed in a medically induced coma, the doctors deciding that you needed to heal on your own time.

harry never left your side, every morning, every afternoon and every night he was there, holding your hand and hoping and praying that you’d wake up, that he’d wake up and that this whole thing was just a fever dream.

authors note - this was originally a one shot, but everyone was asking for a part two, so guess what? i decided to be everyone’s guardian angel and make this into a mini series, the chapters are already planned out and just need to be edited.

if you’d like to be on the taglist, let me know and i’ll add you to the list!

mentions of a car crash,

mentions of miscarriage,

hospitals,

mentions of epilepsy,

mentions of comatose,

mentions of death.

If you find anymore triggers, please let me know and i’ll add them to the list!

saccharine expressions

[published 26.08.2023]

in which, your husband postpones his american leg of tour because you get involved in a road traffic accident, resulting in you ending up in a medically induced coma, your husband and four year old comes to visit you everyday and they always have something new to tell you. this is everything that Harry experiences whilst you asleep, speaking to you whilst holding your hand, getting forced to eat because he doesn’t want to move and reassuring your son that mummy’s going to be fine.

word count - 8k.

saccharine recoveries

[published 05.09.2023]

in which, after being in a medically induced coma for the past four days, your eyes are finally open, just when your husband thinks that everything is rosie, trials and tribulations occur once again making the processes of your recovery ten times harder, but he’s optimistic and always looks on the bright side, even when that all comes crashing down.

word count - 7.9k

[jakes3resin]

gosh!! magic au!! theseus! chaos of having at the base and it’s like two bucky. gale would definitely be shocked!

That au really hit me like a fever dream, my dear anon. I was thinking about the Twin Cleven AU and the Blond Bucky bit I added when I remembered I tacked on a tiny Theseus Easter egg. 30 minutes later I had Magic AU in my drafts with no memory of writing it.

But I've sketched out some thoughts for you and for those who are interested (please keep in mind the last time I watched Fantastic Beasts was a few years ago so I don't remember much):

Bucky's a Scamander by his father (Theseus and Newt's uncle) but goes by his mother's maiden name as he was taken in by her brother and his wife.

Both his parents were magic, but they died near the end of the First World War. Bucky stayed with the Scamanders for a little while before eventually going to America before he turned 4. Theseus was very close with him, and they were occasionally mistaken as father and son due to the age difference (Theseus was a war hero during the First World War if I remember correctly?) (Also that could be an AU now that I think about it but not rn)

He has a bit of a British accent, comes out more when he's using magic. Or when he's around his cousins. First time Buck hears it, he just about faints.

Went to Hogwarts solely because his parents went there, and he wanted to feel close to them. Not sure what House but leaning Hufflepuff. He seems like he'd be happy there.

Enjoyed the school somewhat, but he dealt with some bullying due to his American upbringing as well as some of the students still remembered Newt and bullied him for that connection.

His favorite animal is still the unicorn. It's just not extinct like he said to Buck. What can I say? Every Scamander is good with magical animals.

Had an accidental falling out with the Scamander family who wanted him to move permanently to England and stay with them during his schooling, but he prefered spending his summers in America and winter holidays in the castle.

Came home before he turned 18 (I guess started Hogwarts young for his grade? Idk.) And decided to blend in to Muggle/No-Maj society by going to college and later joining the Air Force.

After Bucky's revelation to the RAF pilots, one of them writes home saying he met Theseus Scamander's cousin! This gets passed through Wizarding society until it lands in the ears of Theseus who didn't have a clue his cousin was in England, let alone serving in a Muggle unit. And after hearing about the death toll, he gets scared.

Theseus resolves to pop down there and check in on his cousin. And unknowingly reeks havoc upon Thorpes Abbotts.

Looks like this:

(This is in a nebulous point before Curtis' death because he deserves to be alive my baby boy)

Literally everyone that sees him is flabbergasted because 1) Major Egan is handsome but he never dresses like That and 2) Major Egan is supposed to be flying back from a mission right now. Word travels through base, and it's alight with rumors.

Theseus gets dragged to Kidd's office because literally everyone is freaking out, and he's quite confused why everyone keeps calling him Bucky. He tries to explain that he's Theseus and that he's here to see his cousin John, but every time he speaks the people around him all jump (its cause his accent spooks them. That accent should not be coming from someone who looks so much like Bucky in their mind. Boy are they in for a rude awakening.)

Bucky flies back in, and after interrogation, he doesn't even get a chance to change clothes before he's being dragged to Kidd's office. Buck and a few of the boys follow utterly confused. If Bucky's in trouble, Buck's not just gonna stand by.

Theseus happily greets Bucky when he walks into the office, and the pair have an okay reunion before Theseus states that he's here to check on his younger cousin, heavily implying that he's here to transfer Bucky to a British outfit as he's a British citizen and their family connections want to keep him safe (really a Wizard one but among Muggles he's better at speaking around the issue)

Thus an argument breaks out. Bucky's accent also comes out, and nearly everyone around him loses their minds.

Buck really, really does not want to talk about what that accent does to him. It's confusing and concerning. (Clegan are together, but when your partner busts out the London Accent, well that's a gamechanger)

Anyways idk where it goes after that, but now everyone has to deal with the fallout that Bucky is British and has a nearly identical cousin who pops in to check on him.

[hell-is-a-teenage-girll]

HEALTH UPDATE

Well.. Guess who finally got Corona.

On top of everything this was exactly what I needed. I joke that I'm just always late for the trends 💅.

But seriously, I'm in so much agony. Before ending up at ER last night, my heart had been going 130bpm + whole day. (my watch literally congratulated me on my fitness) it went up to 161bpm. When I went to the doctor my blood pressure also was way to low. My fever was climbing close to 40°. (sorry for all my Americans on here, I'm European so I'm not converting it haha)

So they send me there.

I never felt in so much agony. I think mixed with my already existing illnesses and disabilities it's just a mixture for disaster.

I've cried from pain, and I don't do that normally. Or atleast not infront of someone, not even my partner, now I been crying with her. She's also positive btw.

I'm also already dealing with the disappointment of most likely not being eligible to be helped by the state for paying for an implant in my brain.

It would cost me 20.000 and after 5 years to replace the battery again 15.000. I don't know how to place this. As this implant was for me always my safety plan, my dream plan, and the one with the most succesrate to reduce the pain.

Now I don't know anymore how to live like this.

I also went to England recently with my gf and a friend, and I have never realised more that I'm disabled. And that things are getting worse and God. It feels terrible and the reality is hitting me HARD.

I must say they were so helpful to people with accessibility at the airports and all. I had never experienced that ❤️

[sharonisthebettercarter]

billy butcher and addiction--

felt there's a need for a good and proper analysis for this fucker (as well as i can manage, maybe throw in a bit of a rant on poor fandom etiquette, 'three laws of fandom' are an oldie but a goodie lol) so here we go i guess--

i wanna start by saying this is a full scope character deep dive (sortaish?? best i can do take it or leave it--lol i might go further in depth on specific scenes or whatnot later, i'm longwinded but i'm tryin' to condense as best i can for this, aaaaaaaaaaand long long post ahead--) that def includes elements solidly confirmed in dear becky and probably leans more on comics billy overall, but def does intertwine and interlock with show billy (as they are essentially the same, garth ennis' own words went something like 'he's a perfect billy butcher' lol)

i'll try to avoid spoilers (??) for the most part like dear becky, but there are some things that may need more context (there is quite a bit of in the show that works well enough to represent anyway but i guess we'll see how this goes, i may end up talking more about the show elements and how they parallel with comics billy anyway)

i also think it's worth mentioning that there's a lot to billy (especially in the comic) i feel fandom either ignores, dismisses or doesn't want to acknowledge, or just doesn't notice.

whether from personal bias/prejudice, desire (fitting billy into that 'alpha's alpha' toxic masculinity 'dom top' fever dream 'mold' so to speak, probably--no, definitely the *worst* way to interpret and easiest way bungle up his character, it completely misses the fact that billy has built *that* 'daddy approved' version of himself as a *facade* to *hide* his own shame and insecurity, and he is *so* much more complex than that nonsense (and genuinely uncomfortable and unhappy being that way-beyond the subtle guilt of a constant high). can we talk about the ways in which fandoms promote and perpetuate toxic masculinity--what, no time we'll be here all week?? oh, okay. jesus fucking christ that is exactly as bad if not worse than the maga chud interpretation and unironic worship of homelander--), lack of personal experience/familiarity, understanding--fuck it, even lack of education in media analysis or reading comprehension (if not both), and *especially* being pro-censorship/americentric/*stuck* with purity culture blinders (or even some part of them lingering)

all of those can def make media (and characters like billy) that isn't 'cookie cutter america-approved' fairly difficult to understand or accept (i guess??)

i've seen so much listed to hell and back in attempts to describe comics billy. 'he's a piece of shit' *YES*. 'he's just wish fulfillment for the author's hatred of superheroes' *no*??? let me not get into the complete hypocrisy of someone who writes or enjoys fanfic--the epitome of *wish fulfilment*--unironically complaining about other authors doing this and thinking it's a legit complaint. how does *anyone* read the entire story and come to *that* conclusion???

did you even bother reading the comic? no, i don't mean glossing over it with a completely closed mind while actively ignoring and dismissing everything important put in front of you and designed to make you think because the blood and guts or other is too distracting apparently, i mean *actually* reading it thoroughly and making an effort to think about what's being presented and why, waiting for the drop *instead* of jumping to judge (as is the american way)

and to some degree, i get it. i wouldn't say this comic is the easiest to digest (especially if completely unfamiliar with many of the themes presented, even the show has sparked some ass takes and interpretations) there's also plenty of common misconceptions, one in particular about garth ennis 'hating' superheroes. this is actually not true, what he hates is how the superhero *genre* has bottlenecked the comics industry and what is more likely to see success in it (and as a fellow creative, i completely understand how frustrating that would be, his main interest is actually war stories)

it's def one thing to say, 'nah, i don't vibe with the style' or 'it's not really for me/my taste but it's fine if others like it', i get that, satire and horror aren't for everyone. honest critique is fair even.

but it is a whole 'nother thing entirely to pretend your own personal tastes are *the only 'correct' creative law* and then *vehemently* oppose or hate something an artist created and denounce, harass, or fuck--dehumanize the people who enjoy it, if not the artists who work(ed) on it.

i'm sorry, this is a tangent cause it's def not limited to the hate the boys comics or ennis gets *at all*, it's especially prevalent in *literal* kids media like teen titans go where the thing in question is simply put--*NOT MADE FOR THE SHITHEADS NONSTOP COMPLAINING ABOUT IT* when they can literally, *LITERALLY* just *accept* that they weren't the *target audience* and move the fuck on with their day, happy as can be. *instead* of shitting on something *or the people who like it* to make literal *children* or other people feel bad about liking it.

it's one thing to try and educate people or have discourse and discussion, it is another entirely to *bully* them over something so *stupid* as *fiction*.

i especially have a problem with this shit when i have *several* artists tell me that they don't feel *safe* or *welcome* being themselves, liking or creating what *they* want to make in a fandom *because* of the fandom attitude and normalization of *hate* within that fandom.

i *thought* fandoms were supposed to be about *love* so what the fuck is this human tribalist false dichotomy bullshit??

and of course, that's not always the case. there is also an unbelievable level of respect that is given to fanartists and fanfiction writers, and that is *beautiful*. 'don't like, don't read'. *PERFECT*. curate your own content, complain or rant in your own spaces--you're entitled to an opinion, but *accept* that it still has a right to exist and other people still have a right to love it (and aren't wrong for that, opinions cannot be objective), *even if you don't like it*. just don't engage then, it's that simple.

now extend that level of courtesy to the people, artists and writers in the industry.

no, i'm not trying to shut down criticism of media, proper critique is how we learn and grow and understand better and in turn *create* better. yes, they can fumble the fucking bag too, especially when adapting something from a source material and--like *some* fanfic writers out there--think they can do it 'way better'.

but the people in the industry? who bend over backwards, going on strike in some cases, breaking their necks to work on and create the things that we *love* and latch onto?

they're people too. and whether the thing they make goes *exactly* how we want or not, however you feel about the money in the entertainment industry (which they see barely a dime of if those fucking strikes and constant mistreatment are any indication), they don't deserve to be treated like scabs.

that mentality of 'not my personal taste = universally bad' and 'anyone who disagrees with my opinion is wrong' is fucking gross and *extremely elitist*, just straight up announcing how pretentious, obtuse, willfully arrogant and ignorant, and *lacking in self awareness*--the number one easiest way to be the *shittiest* kind of artist/writer/critic--you are. it is *exactly* like cishet white men complaining about something being 'bad' because it's 'woke' or has anything *besides* a cishet white man for the protagonist.

*god forbid something isn't tailor made specifically for them.*

swear to gawd, i got a list of different bullshit and circle jerking i've seen all across different fandoms for different reasons. no i'm not mad at any one person in particular, just a little salty from recurring problems and gatekeeping (ghoulfucking-GHOULFUCKING OF ALL THINGS I--I CANNOT) if not straight up bullying (does it really make a bitch feel *so* much better to try and hurt other people for liking what they, and let's be honest, are not willing to give the time of day?) in fandoms. (the complete audacity of people to complain about a media being 'childish' or 'bad' because 'insert nonsensical trivial bullshit here that holds no weight because it's personal taste if not flat out wrong and not actual critique' and then turn around and throw the biggest fucking tantrums about it--let me not get into the whole sharon carter debacle jesus christ--)

same shit. different pile.

also, fuck me. i keep *forgetting* that genuinely valid critique (*not* personal taste/opinion, proper critique pertains to things like techniques used, composition, narrative consistency and plot holes, goals of the artist/writer, accomplishments of those goals, etc.) is something that needs proper education and understanding all on its own which not a whole ton of people get or even know, which just goes to show--i'm a dumbass too. (but i won't deny that plenty of 'critics' are full of shit and *know* this but use their 'personal taste' as 'critique' *anyway* because... they enjoy being complete assholes and discouraging other artists i guess.)

y'all, take a class or two in art critique and literature analysis. you'll learn all the cool lingo (to later forget if you're like me~), and maybe (hopefully) walk out with a bit more of an open mind wanting to encourage more art in the world, even if you don't personally like it. take a moment to *listen* to differing opinions in their *entirety* and you might even gain a new perspective.

*no one* should be ashamed to ask questions or admit they don't know or understand something and fuck the people that would make you feel that way. *we can and should help each other.*

but stagnant or hostile fandoms with no self awareness and perpetuated elitism circle jerks? *really* fucking shameful, regardless of the form or where they are.

ANYWHO--

ugh, fuck. okay. i think i'm done with that tangent, back on topic--

BILLY BEAN~<3

and i want to reiterate that *again*, dear becky *does* confirm pretty much everything i'm going to discuss here tho technically speaking, nothing is spoiled here as it's just reiterating what is implicit (if not stated outright) throughout the series.

as far as dear becky goes, it's a good final gut-wrenching piece to the series and i loved it, but it definitely leaned on more of 'tell' instead of 'show, don't tell' (no duh in context, but probably because the rest of the comic did the 'show'--very well imo but it still flew over peoples' heads and made them misplace their brains--i'm sorry, i've just lost so much patience for the lack of reading comprehension and media literacy, but honestly? ennis is genuinely too good at knowing how to spark a strong emotional reaction in readers. and can we talk about the dense mofos that *make* authors have to 'tell' just to confirm something that is heavily implied--what, no time? oh, fuck, fine.)

OKAY--

addiction.

what about it, and why am i mentioning it. well. because if it's not clear by now, william butcher is an addict.

and it is one of, if not the core element that drives him to do what he does.

not becky or becca. not justice.

addiction.

and i don't mean traditional substance abuse (though he admits there has been as much in his life, especially with alcohol, his drug of choice is a bit more complex and maybe not so easy to spot on the surface for those unfamiliar with addiction).

in the show, we even see him mention that he's 'done 'em all' and there's *nothing* like temp v--and it's because temp v *amplifies* his *addiction* to the highest level it could exist on.

something else to note, there's a ton of stigma and widespread (ableist) misconception surrounding addiction still (which may be part of why people may not want to recognize it in billy), but it is absolutely a clinical mental disorder and people who suffer from it should be treated as *medical patients*, not reduced to violent criminals and scumbags. (fuck you drug war and prohibition, you are the root of organized crime and you're racist as shit.) it's also possible to become addicted to *anything*. and i mean *anything*.

if you can repeat a behavior and your brain no longer cares whether or not that behavior is causing you harm because there is a *compulsive* urge for that *repetition* or a specific result from it? that is addiction. money, anger, pain, violence, self harm, attention, love...

you'd think the last one might be okay, but it's not. it's an easy way to get caught in the infinite loop of an abusive relationship, just with promise of it. no delivery necessary.

but it doesn't have to be drugs that cause addiction. hell, gambling addiction is a thing all it's own that can get *incredibly* severe.

and listen, too much of *anything* can be horrible for you. fucking coconut will give you the runs if you eat too much that shit is *not* fun pun intended--

i digress.

in billy's case? he's actually addicted to two i just listed.

violence. and self harm.

i mentioned before that what drives billy has next to nothing to do with what happened to becky or becca.

there's a common misconception that, at the end of the day, billy does have some level of good intent behind his actions, and to a degree this is true in the *complete reverse* of what people often assume, and this is proven repeatedly in both the show (with just what we have seen) and comic (where its laid out too heavily to ignore).

setting aside the fact that there's *never* a good 'rEaSoN' to commit or even attempt *genocide* (EVER. i have ZERO patience for the constant apologism of this bullshit, SWEAR TO GAWD FANDUMB--) and billy's genocidal tendencies on their own, the idea that 'he goes after homelander for becca' or 'justice' has been completely debunked.

'justice is not vengeance'

something to always keep in mind.

but... in the first season? hughie called him out on this.

butcher calls him a 'disgrace to robin's memory', and hughie--bless his little heart, responds with 'i think i'm doing this *for* her.'

it's an interesting response, because hughie is essentially saying--

'you'll *die* for this woman, but that's not what she would have wanted. i'm going to *live* for robin, and for *annie*, because *that's* what she would have wanted.'

and he's absolutely right. billy loved becca, would have died for her. but he refuses to listen and *live* for her.

the group therapist too even before hughie. she literally laid it all out, front and center in the clearest way possible, 'it's a defense mechanism', and then butcher had his little meltdown just before telling hughie about becca, everything he can, including *using* other peoples tragedies and his own *specifically* to manipulate hughie and try and make sure *starlight* can't *save* him from what butcher is trying to turn him into.

*so that hughie stays stuck on his reason to die, instead of finding one to live.*

in the second season, *becca* herself calls him out on this, multiple times.

'you put me on this pedestal but i never knew how to save you'.

'--i didn't come to you, i went to vought--.'

and that's just it, becca (and becky in the comic) is *intimately* familiar with billy's *addiction* and the underlying mental health issues he *wouldn't address*. she didn't tell him what happened even after the shock of it because she *knew* that it would just become a reason for billy to *give in* and be his worst self to a degree where she would *lose him* regardless of what she felt or asked for from him.

she felt she had to *suffer in silence* to *protect him* from *himself*, something that ends up *destroying* her.

becca wanted to *save* billy, but more importantly, she wanted *him* to *save himself* because she *believed in him*, *so much*.

'i never wanted that for you.'

she doesn't want billy to drown and suffer or cause harm in his own hatred and addictions. she *loved* him so much so, that she was willing to *drown herself* if it meant she could save *him*. she loved him *too much*.

billy's mum too, even tries to help in her own way. (she is much less aware of billy's activity in the comic, but we'll come back to her. for the show, this was likely in response to seeing the news about *stillwell*, something his dad fucking *praised* him for)

'--that he wouldn't have this hold on you--'

billy's actions are almost entirely driven by the *addiction* his father forced on him. on doing the things that would make his 'daddy' *proud*. and the thing is, he's *fully aware* of this.

he constantly *says* that *becca* is his 'reason', that she was his *cure*, but she's the *excuse*. his *new addiction* and *self medication* (also billy, you fucking cunt you *know* what you do and have no leg to stand on when it comes to self medicating--)

both in the worst of what he does and his rejection of addressing his own traumas, and she is *unwilling* in this endeavor. she never wanted this hate to consume him, she never wanted all of this death with her name as the signature, *she never wanted billy to be his father*, much less be something much worse.

he even admits as much in the third season when he hallucinates lenny who tells him his actions would 'break becca's heart'

billy responds something along the lines of 'becca's dead, it doesn't matter what she thinks'. (a line presented in the comic even more harshly, but it drives the point home perfectly.)

when he sees lenny again in his nightmare--

'i'm not that bastard--.'

'come off it billy, you always have been. cause anyone who's ever loved you, you end up gettin' 'em killed, don't ya--.'

'--the last person on god's green earth tryin' to stop you from bein' a monster, and what do you do? drag him down to your level... when he dies... and he will... then no can stop you.'

OOF OUCH OWIE--. the lenny stuff hits so damn hard but it represents *perfectly* what butcher's own *internalized beliefs* are.

mallory calls him out on it literally every season.

'--but billy! not the others!'

'it's like asking a cockroach to not be a cockroach--'

'--because it wouldn't stop with just homelander--'

'this was never about ryan or becca, it was always selfish. the hate inside that you want to let loose on the world.'

'--i was wrong... you are your father, always have been...'

and then there's billy's subsequent impulsive reaction to push ryan away, and *be his father*.

but hell, even in gen v when mallory is speaking to shetty.

and truthfully, billy was even showing *withdrawal* symptoms at the beginning of the third season.

billy himself, even *self punishes*, picking fights he knows he *won't* win as a way to counterbalance *and* satisfy his own addiction, infinite loop. vicious cycle.. (ooh i will def be coming back to the big one here--), and we see this in one *HUGE* way, and in many many smaller ways, but even in the more literal sense of going to bars, starting trouble, and laughing or smiling when he's getting beat the fuck up or *losing*.

it's even highlighted in the show, billy *seeking out violence* and conflict whether he should or not, *especially* when unnecessary. getting his own face busted up and smiling because of it is something that happens multiple times in the comic (even on accident in one instance), and is def given a place in the show. it's easy to pass off as billy simply being a masochist (which is def true lmao he does admit as much), but there's also more to it than that and it goes hand in hand with his *addiction* and--

what he thinks he deserves.

billy *hates himself* so *severely* that he actually *does not believe* that he is capable of the *good* that others, such as lenny, becca, his mum, and hughie are willing to *see* in him. he *completely* believes it when others say that 'he is his father' (internalizes it, struggles with it, and frequently acts on it).

he puts on a show. bravado, posture, and 'confidence'. and he's so good at putting on that front, that he can fool himself, even for a moment. and those that believe it will even *enable* him. and the people he feels *nothing* for? again, he maintains the front. he lives his life *masking*, *faking it*--so fucking hard. homelander could never--

and it's not even necessarily the result of toxic masculinity. don't get me wrong, he def has some issues with that lingering (y'all, if you have *say* you're an 'alpha' and posture out your sweet little ass off 24/7, you're def *not* an 'alpha' lmfao), but it's more so his own *trauma* that forces him to *cling* to that.

but when he *loves*, and he loves *deeply*, he completely rolls over and shows his belly like a kitten<3... when he was with becky, he was happy and comfortable, and all of that *ridiculousness* just melted away completely... he didn't feel any need for it because he felt *safe*, because this constant *insecurity* and feeling of being *threatened* all the damn time looming overhead had suddenly cleared up with becky there.

it's not even so much that billy doesn't feel fear. he might not traditionally (at all if his amygdala is damaged), but considering the fight or flight response, billy's *default* setting literally *is* that *fight* response. he's the way he is because he is *always* afraid and he's been conditioned for it to manifest itself as *rage*.

we see bits of his love come through in a few moments he has with people he has genuine care for. (the way he loves his mum and she instantly calms him down is genuinely so sweet.)

but it's always gonna come back down to 'daddy dearest'.

because of him, *billy is afraid of living*.

and--

his father. *is proud of him*.

billy is *just like him* or *everything he wanted to be* as a *man*, or at least is compelled to *project* this on the surface. and everything in *billy* that *is* his father, *just like him*, is *everything* that billy *hates*. so it manifests into an *intense* self loathing and spiraled addiction that magnifies the worst of what his father *forced* on him.

he *doesn't want* to be *his father*, but he feels, and fully believes that *he already is*. his self hatred is another form of *hating his father*, because *he is that man's legacy*.

so *billy* doesn't *believe* that he deserves love or goodness or care from other people (a parallel we see in homelander, presented a bit differently.) so he 'doesn't care'. makes excuses to not care (about people in general, if not just the very *prominent* antisocial tendencies), or leave, or push them away, lashing out to give *them* the excuse to leave him, because he is *afraid* and in his own mind, *unworthy*.

he's *afraid* of being loved, of *losing* that love, of *hurting* those he loves. he is *afraid* of being his own father.

but it's all he's ever known, all he's ever been *conditioned* to be. intoxicated, ever present, it's this terrible thing that destroys him but he *can't* stop. *addiction*.

and what better way to protect those he loves than to keep himself as *far* away from them as possible? than to *make* them hate him. than to do the *wrong* thing, to *disappoint* them. self sabotage. self punishment.

he can't stop himself. he deserves it.

lather, rinse, repeat.

so what does that mean for homelander, or even the reason he goes after homelander? the *real* reason.

'there must be *some* good in him because homelander 'must be' this 'ultimate evil that *must* be stopped', right?

not really. he's a symptom of a much greater evil, but he was never the root of it. if billy really wanted to solve the problems at hand and get *justice*, he'd go after *vought*, NOT homelander.

homelander is not even the real villain in *billy's* mind, in all actuality.

what homelander *is*?

temptation.

he is... the *ultimate* final high for billy. in terms of addiction to both *violence* and *self punishment*.

he doesn't actually go after homelander because he wants to 'stop him' or even kill him. not really. there are times billy starts a fight *expecting* to *lose*, *wanting* it. homelander *is* one of those times to the most intense degree that billy could find. and he even senses this when they first meet--unnecessarily, privately insulting the man because why?

because he feels *threatened*. because he feels *insecure*. because if homelander is *truly good*, even with *all that power*--

then billy has no fucking excuse--

it is, in essence, the same exact reaction that lex luthor has to superman. forcing himself to *challenge* him because of a *constant* sense of *fear*. (except lex *is* afraid of dying, so 1000% a huge coward lmao--)

but~, when he finds out homelander is *bad*?

homelander is billy's *failsafe*

to stop the person he feels is the most terrible evil of all *and* to set the world on fire in the process. a way for billy to kill two birds with one stone. compelled by his addiction to *chase* this ideation relentlessly.

homelander is to billy--his ultimate end, self punishment, a death wish, a *suicide attempt*.

and a way to *unleash his hatred onto the rest of the world*, *to make it burn*, even after his death. (this would be why despite many many MANY warnings to *not* push homelander *because of the catastrophe this will ultimately instigate and the loss of life this is bound to result in*--billy does not give a shit about the potential consequences. he welcomes them--)

if homelander were a *nuke*, billy would want to *launch* him. right now, homie is more like the *demon core*, incredibly dangerous and in some instances lethal, but not *yet* explosive.

billy *wants* the *warhead*.

it was why he got *so excited* at the *chance* of homelander offering him 'scorched earth'.

the man read billy like an open fucking book, and set the bait--

y'all, in other words, homie straight up went to billy's house and offered *crack* to the *crack addict*--fuck yeah he's gonna take that offer!

homelander never actually perceives billy as a real threat *at all* (safe to say, this is the main reason he doesn't kill him. there's a bit of personal complex combined with the deals/blackmail/request involved, but this would also be why he doesn't *hesitate* to 'kill' billy at herogasm. he genuinely gives no fucks about this poor man or his many anal complexes and daddy issues beyond the mild entertainment he gets from him and just how *easy* it is to read billy or rile him up. maybe a *dash* of novelty being found in billy's obsession with him. i'll go into the homie side of things in depth maybe someday soon lol but for now--)

and here's the thing, homelander isn't the *only* failsafe. he is simply the *ultimate failsafe*

included in all the possible bad habits billy has is pawning off his *responsibility* and personal accountability, even his *will to do good* onto others.

i mentioned before that becca (becky) was like a new addiction for him. and she was. in a sense, billy was using her to self medicate. she loved him, gave him love and made him feel good, no pain, no shame--but also no pause to think about that pain, self hatred and self doubt and actively address it. she was a way to not worry about his own *goodness* because she was an *easy* reason for him to *want* to be good.

and something important to note?

billy feels that he has *cheated* on becca/becky *since* the day she left/died. (there's a whole ass deliciously intricate story there but i'm trying to avoid the spoilers lmao. kind of a freebie hint i guess.)

lenny and hughie similarly make an effort to *hold butcher back* and reach out to him. (everyone does honestly, but not everyone is so successful with it). and butcher lets them, but *also* removes the agency of his own choice in the matter.

he doesn't just *let them* make him *good*, he doesn't believe he's capable of stopping himself on his own--but he believes in *them* because they *are* good, *truly good*.

hughie all on his own is *another kind of failsafe* and lo and behold, even calls butcher out on this by the end of the third season (theme is prevalent in the comic a lil different but again spoilers lol):

'i don't think you want to do this. i think you want me to stop you.'

*ding*ding*ding*!

nail on the head, hughie... butcher does not believe he can stop himself. so he sets up *failsafes* to do as much.

and let me just say, it is *unbelievably* shitty of him to do that, to pawn off the responsibility of his own behavior, whether good or pure evil onto other people. but i get it. and it fucking breaks my heart for him.

because *that* is addiction. it feels like mind control. aggressive compulsion. you feel ashamed, and hate yourself, and don't care if you hurt yourself or even others. but you keep *hoping*, *wishing*, *leaving a breadcrumb trail* so that *someone*, *anyone*, will come along and--

*save you. from you.*

and when you stop believing in yourself, in your own willpower to fight against this *thing* that just completely *destroys* you from the inside out... without *anyone* on your side, what else is left to do but to numb the pain?

i was able to recognize billy's addiction right off the bat because i've *been* to a lot of the places he has been. including the addiction. and he makes me so *fucking* mad because it's like seeing a version of myself *still stuck*, *still lost*, *still trapped* by my own issues and self loathing, and all of the abuse i've gone through--

and the biggest fuck up, the biggest *abuser* is me.

i can't *escape* me. *no one* can escape *themself*.

that fucker breaks my heart to pieces because *i have been there*, and i know just how fucking hard it is to *be* there, just how much harder it is to *get out* and start to *learn*--*who is it you really wanna be? who are you without this drug?*

and something he even says in the comics on a few occasions is--

'i'm not really here, i'm somewhere else watching this happen'

asserting that he *truly* believes that he has *no control* over *what* he is. (in contrast with homelander, who feels the weight of something similar but more literally in some regard, and in relation to so many other aspects in his life with the world around him.)

billy butcher *is* the *true villain* of *his own story*

of his own making.

he's not after homelander or even vought. he doesn't blame society or even his father at this point. he blames himself. and he's *given up* entirely on fighting himself. he's looking for his *overdose*.

*that's homelander*

ain't that a kick in the head...

it's part of what makes their relationship and dynamic so incredibly electric and titillating. it's got nothing to do with becca or becky.

butcher sees homelander as an easy way out. as a way to control the narrative, *maintain his own*, and *stop the bad guy* without bringing someone *good*, like *hughie*, down to his level.

he *sees* the parallels, a kindred spirit. he *knows* the potential. and he wants to be the *spark* to light all that *gasoline*.

because then it won't be his fault anymore. his *guilt*. he'll have passed on his *curse*.

likewise, he actually goes after supes in general for a similar enough reason, and it ties in with why he *doesn't* go after vought directly.

billy actually *likes* the status quo. to a degree, *needs* it, *needs vought*

because *vought* is the *creator* of his *supply*, feeding this addiction. and we hear billy say this in both the comic and show--

'with great power comes the absolute certainty that you'll turn into a right cunt.'

and billy actually believes this--about himself.

when he says it about other supes and even his intense hatred of them, it is a *projection* of his own issues and what he believes to be true for himself (that he would do the absolute worst thing imaginable given the opportunity). and in a way, going after them is in some ways a metaphor for stopping and destroying himself, hating himself, as much as it is a way to maintain his addiction.

and--

maintain the narrative he has built--that he is the true villain.

and if that's the case, well... it takes a *hero* to stop a *villain*, right?

but also--y'all remember that scene in the suicide squad where polkadot man imagines everyone as his mum? how he imagines starro as his mum?

yeah, that.

that's basically billy. every fucking supe, including starlight, and kimiko, and let's *really* not talk about what this means about him sleeping with maeve in context with his 'supe=daddy' issues, but even the person he sees in the mirror. *all of them* are *his father*.

listen, i'm not kidding. billy's daddy issues are seriously severe, so fucking bad, i--

his actions aren't for becca or becky or ryan or justice. even he *knows* that's bullshit and admits as much (which just makes fandom denying it that much more fucked). but they're not even *just because* or because he's genocidal, antisocial, or anything else. he *does* want someone to stop him. he's sane enough to recognize his actions for what they truly are *behind* the mask.

billy's actions are a volatile and violent *cry for help*, because he never learned how to *ask*, or even how to *believe in himself*.

he never truly learned that *he never had to be his father*, and he didn't *need* becky or becca, lenny or hughie to *be good*.

i actually think billy's greatest magic trick is convincing even the audience and readers that he is a *total*, complete piece of shit. and don't get me wrong, he is *def* a huge, massive, incredibly rank and ripe piece of shit--.

and y'all, i'm sorry if you believed him and got played like a damn fiddle, him and homie def throwin' in some hard balls--

but he's also still human. he also still needs just as much if, honestly? maybe even more, fucking *help* than homelander. which kind of draws back into their parallels. the tomfoolery of fandom might have you believe that billy is less complex or more put together than homelander, but their situations go hand in hand and the evidence suggests (if not confirms) something quite different.

billy's plight and even goal in some sense is *convincing the rest of his world that he is a monster*. driven by the addiction his father gave him. enabled by the world around him.

homelander's? it's actually the complete opposite. his struggle is with *his world convincing him that he is a monster*, and in turn, against his own instincts, *growing* into that role. when in reality, he never got the chance to decide for himself, it was decided *for* him a long long time ago.

'i think, therefore i am.'

'i can, therefore i must.'

however, *our actions cannot define who we are, because we can choose our actions*. good or bad are not something you inherently *are*, they are something you *choose to do*.

it paints what in turn becomes quite the brutal and tragic picture when these two forces meet. homelander and billy are both of the mindset that they *don't have a choice*.

and this bit is a bit more of a personal thought, but regarding billy's mum, she was *becky*. she was sweet, and kind, and cared for her family more than anything. *it didn't matter what she suffered, she was willing to drown if it meant saving the people she loved*.

as much as i adore how cute becca and billy were, i don't think she would have saved him.

i think the implication is that she would have either 'drowned' trying and become his mum, history repeating itself in a vicious cycle as billy spread his disease to any child they could have.

or that she would have lost her mind. and in turn *become* the person billy spread his disease to, if not another enabler for him. if not billy's choice of drug, maybe she would have taken up something else and eventually overdosed. i would even say the show implies this outcome with both becca and hughie, as the more butcher pushes--the more worn down they get.

if you put enough pressure on someone--they break.

becca was *good* for him. but billy was so, so fucking *bad* for her.

it begs the question of whether or not billy *is* right, if he really is this monster, *fated* to become his father in the worse of ways. of whether or not it's too late for him.

he's certainly not 'normal' or 'right' or 'good' or even an 'anti-hero'. at best, you could maybe call him an 'anti-villain', he is meant to be the deuterantagonist.

it def doesn't help that every time he has the *chance* to do the right thing, *someone* goes and enables him, gives him a reason to do the *wrong* thing.

fucking maeve in that last episode of the third season. but she's def not the only one, and def not the only time. (and yes, if it wasn't clear enough, being completely fucking indifferent to killing *thousands* of people to go after *one* fucking guy is in fact, the *wrong* thing to do.)

butt.

rewatching the scenes with lenny and billy's reaction, and even the final fight, showed something of a *possible* silver lining.

billy *enjoys* rejecting his father. actually pretty fucking greatly if we're being honest. generally speaking, it's when he *rejects* his father and everything that man represents that billy is at his *happiest* (lmao the epitome of an unfulfilled submissive sweetheart and bratty bossy bottom~<3<3<3)

there's a moment, where soldier boy says something along the lines of--

'--fuck you. you're weaker than he is.'

in regards to homelander. it's sort of glossed over, but this is billy's reaction to essentially being called a 'disgrace' so to speak by a toxic 'alpha male'.

y'all see that? it's a smile. lmao a smirk.

this is a moment where billy is protecting *ryan* and keeping his promise to becca. it's a moment where billy is *doing the right thing*, all on *his own* (mostly lol i'm sure there's a roundabout way to justify it in his head). and i think that's key.

it's not just a moment he's proud of himself and has a legitimate fucking reason to be proud of himself, (oh btw, we shoulda *all* been proud of billy in this moment), it's a moment he's *breaking through what his father made him* and his own *addiction*.

and he's doing it *selflessly* and--*without setting that responsibility on another person*.

so we *know* he has it in him, he always has. even becky *in the comic* kept trying to convince billy that *he is capable of good without her*. and again, we actually saw this in the second season when becca and ryan were reunited and billy *changed* his plans, *for becca*, instead of doing the selfish thing and selling ryan back to vought.

but if billy doesn't believe it himself...

i don't think billy is right about himself. but it is very *very* difficult for someone to *correct course* so to speak, once they have their *core beliefs*, lay out their own destiny and start along a *self fulfilling prophecy*, something him and homelander *both* do.

enter ryan.

and suddenly (lol probably in part due to reading dear becky lol), there was a bit of... not so much new, as *confirmed* perspective in play after that rewatch, something to *look* for and ponder in regards to *why* ryan may have been added for this story, a question in mind--

'would it be wrong of *ryan* to want to save his father?'

was it wrong of becca or becky, hughie or lenny, even his mum, to want to save billy?

how would *billy* even begin to answer such questions?

a different answer for the two would be a clear hypocritical bias (which lol i would not put past billy, but i also wouldn't be surprised if he maintained consistent thinking by answering *yes* to both)

. . .

y'all...

i still can't say i'm particularly optimistic about things turning out alright for either gent or ryan, butt~<3

garth ennis literally made the saddest, most pathetic, deliciously sweet, perfectly precious, extra emo tsun tsun baby boi ever, and put him right under our noses.

some a y'all fucking sneezing all over him, straight up sleepin' on all his *best* bits. how are we not utilizing billy butcher *properly~<3<3<3*????

;)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

[bestanimatedmovie]

Revenge of the Underrated

15. Help! I'm a Fish vs Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs

Vote in the other polls!

Propaganda:

Help! I'm a Fish

"It's a Danish movie from the early 2000s, so it already has that uncanny valley feel of being unfamiliar to the average American viewer, and is almost entirely 2D animated with 3D only used to help instead of being the main medium. It's about 3 kids that stumble upon this scientist's lair and the youngest of them, Stella, accidentally drinks a potion that turns her into an aquatic animal (a starfish for her) thinking it was Kool-Aid (or lemonade, depending on the dub). Her brother, Fly, throws her into the ocean not realizing that the starfish was his transformed sister and he and his cousin, Chuck, drink the potion (a flyfish and a jellyfish respectively) so they can search for her in the ocean. Along the way, they accidentally drop the potion into the sea which gives sentience to a pilot fish and shark, the main villains. They then start to administer the potion to any fish they find.

I heard about the movie from a Youtube review and then watched it for myself that night. It was super fun and I could totally see this being a fever dream movie from some unsuspecting 8 yo. Part of the reason I say that is because the movie isn't afraid to have its dark moments. Fly gets slashed by a crab and almost DIES. Chuck has to do a risky mission in order to get Fly and Stella back to the scientist's lair so he can turn them back. Stella admittedly didn't do much, but she's 4, she gets a pass. She makes a seahorse friend, so that's good. The parents of the kids track down the scientist in his lair and confront and are ready to beat him up before he manages to show them the video of Stella turning into a starfish (the scientist planned to drink the potion on camera to prove it works, but forgot he had to get the antidote, leaving the potion alone and getting Stella's transformation on camera). There's even a moment where you think Chuck's mom straight up (accidentally) stomped on Fly's fish body before you find out it was just a stuffed fish and Fly is a human again.

As for the villain, he was a fun little sleezy villain, immediately creating a dictatorship with his newfound intelligence (he had a whole song about it). And Fly uses that against him by tricking him into drinking more of the potion to become smarter. Unfortunately, the potion doesn't just give fish human intelligence, it MAKES them human, and the last you see of the villain is him drowning and floating away as a half-fish, half-man igor. Horrifying but so, so awesome.

The animation is spectacular, the voice acting is great in both English and Danish (plus Chuck is voiced by one of the dudes from Breaking Bad), and with actual peril for the main characters (I forgot to mention that they would be stuck fish if they didn't take the antidote in the next 24 hours). I'm definitely going to find a CD of this movie to show/traumatize my future kids + niblings. "

Really cool animation, really interesting storyline and fun songs that stick to your brain like a fever dream

Red Shoes and the Seven Dwarfs

Red Shoes is a Snow White retelling that features a plus size princess and teaches that it's who a person is on the inside that matters. It contrasts Merlin, the male lead, who is normally conventionally handsome but cursed to be a "hideous" (actually quite cute) dwarf, a form he's desperate to escape, with Snow White/Red Shoes who is normally an adorable plus sized princess (ie not the traditional beauty) who is trapped by necessity in the form of a thin traditional princess, a form that she's incredibly uncomfortable with. It's ultimately about being your true self, loving who you are, and looking past appearances to find the beauty that lies within. Also, Patrick Warburton is the magic mirror.

It's an adorable, sweet movie that deserves more people to know about it! It was so fun and funny that after I watched it the first time, I turned around and immediately rewatched it with my husband (like he came in during the last 5 minutes, and we immediately started it over).