#also what a cool fuckin stone

[macfrog]

call me

idea came to me in a dream. enjoy also! i made a notifs blog! taglist life is NOT for me, babies. feel free to head on over, follow and turn notifs on to be updated anytime i post! 👉 @macfroglets 👈 you’re gonna wanna do it before this sunday…😉🤠

inspired by @bageldaddy who is the author of the dreamiest series on this site, my biggest crush, and also told me not to tag her but i respect my elders so.

pairing: joel miller x call girl!reader

summary: you moonlight as a call girl, receiving mediocre call after mediocre call. one night, one joel miller dials in, and grants you the most exciting ten minutes of your career

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) this fic is pro-sex work. reader is a phone sex operator, mentions of anal and oral, dirty talk, couple mentions of daddy, praise kink, mutual masturbation, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 3k

main masterlist

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb. “You’re gonna touch yourself.” “That what you want?” “’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

It started out as a joke, if you’re being honest.

A wine-drunk night with Liv, sat at opposite ends of the couch, legs intertwined somewhere in the middle of the cushions. Her blouse was stained pink – your fault, apparently, for making her laugh too hard. Her glass tilted a fraction too far and before you knew it, you owed her a new shirt.

“Say it again, say it how he said it,” she snorted, patting her chest down with the damp towel you’d handed her.

“…quite frankly, disappointed with your performance,” your head tilted back and forth, mocking the nasally voice of your fifty-one-year-old, receding-hairline-equipped boss. Ex-boss. Asshole.

“Oh, fuck,” she heaved, still catching her breath. “That’s so fucking funny.”

You sighed in agreement.

“So…what are you actually gonna do now?”

You shrugged. “Sell my body.”

“Dare you.”

“I would.”

“I know you would. And you’d be good at it, too. ‘s why I’m telling you to do it.”

You kicked her ankle. “I got bills to pay, dude.”

“What about one of those call girls?”

And, well. That was that.

You’d googled it after seeing her off to her own apartment, watching her wobbly form stagger across the hall and stab her key a few times into the wood before it landed in the lock. The door closed with an accidental slam which echoed up the stone stairwell, and you crept back to your own place.

Palms either side of your laptop on the counter, face lit in a blue glow, dripdripdrip of your busted tap echoing around your dark kitchen. They asked for an email address – you used the one you’d made up before you realized email addresses were permanent – and a phone number. Said someone would call you to discuss it. You shrugged, hit Sign up and went to bed.

Within hours, you’d spoken to some sharp-accented woman who asked quick, snappy questions and uhuhed her way through your answers. Her name was Erica. She told you she’d look after you, told you to call her with any questions or concerns you had.

All she wanted from you were the basics: you liked sex, you masturbated, you knew how to dirty talk. You sorta knew your way around things like anal, and could manage a convincing pitch for things of a more…exploratory nature.

And then she asked when you wanted to start. You told her that night.

Your first caller – like, ever – was some guy with a midwestern accent who asked you to narrate fucking him. Like, spanking him with a paddle, calling him a bad, bad boy. You threw your nerves to the wind and went along with it, and honestly, had a pretty rad time. He was cool.

But one was enough for your first night. You logged out and went to bed. You told Liv the next morning, and she punched your arm a little too hard and yelled, That’s my fuckin’ girl! Was it hot? Did you…y’know?

No. You never get that lucky. Some calls you can lie idly on your couch and let your limp hand surf beneath the hem of your underwear, push lazy circles against your clit as the dude moans in your ear or gasps when you whine.

Sometimes their mics can pick up the faint sound of them jacking off, and your brain slips you an image that makes your stomach flutter. Sometimes you’ll hang up and take yourself the whole nine yards with your laptop sitting on your mattress, porn on the screen, and your vibrator between your open legs.

It’s pretty intense work. Sometimes.

But all in all: no. You never…y’know.

One week in, you were cooking dinner whilst telling Trevor – thirty-nine, Buffalo, New York – how you’d take his huge, throbbing dick in your throat and let him fuck it. He asked to hear how turned on you were, just talking about it. You lowered your phone down to the pot of macaroni and gave it a stir.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned down the line, “you’re so fuckin’ wet right now, huh?”

Huh.

Tonight, you had pizza rolls. Less sexy.

You just got off another call. Thirty minutes of describing how good you’d take him up your ass. You’re bored, turned off by this point, and tired. It’s almost 3AM.

You pace around your apartment, flicking switches off and tossing cushions back into place. Spilling small sips of wine from your glass onto your tongue as you’re plunged into darkness, one click at a time.

You don’t get much while the sun’s up. Most days, nothing at all. That works for you, though. You can run errands, grab groceries, do sweet-fucking-nothing whilst waiting for the influx of calls that will inevitably come your way by nightfall. When the streetlights come on, the rush hour traffic dies out front, the shuffling of tired feet up the concrete staircase outside your front door slows down – you just log in, and your cell will eventually start to ring.

Your cell, which now lies wedged between the couch cushions. You notice the sound of it vibrating as you’re pulling your curtains closed. Half-way shut, you desert them and wander over. Intrigued.

No Caller ID. The usual. You swipe right. The robotic voice tells you there’s a request on your account for a ten-minute call. Tells you to dial 1 to accept, or hang up.

Ten minutes? At three in the morning?

Usually, at this time of night, they’re longer. They’re drunk, or their partner finally fell asleep, or they just want your attention for a bit. See them through the uncomfortably quiet night.

But ten fucking minutes?

Ten minutes would make you somewhere around thirty-five dollars. They had the option as the timer ran out to extend the call, if they wanted. Most of them did. And that worked fine for you.

You’re unemployed. Who knows what money you’ll have in a week’s time? An extra thirty bucks – probably more – right before bed? A little nightcap?

You dial in and answer the call.

He doesn’t say anything when it connects. You hear the ruffling of clothes.

Your voice naturally dips a couple octaves, coats in something smooth and husky. Glistening, gleaming, sex-driven. “Hello?”

He clears his throat. His voice is deep, rich. More vibration than speech. He speaks with a Southern drawl, like bare skin running over silken sheets. It’s smooth, and sensual, and sexy. “Evenin’.”

You knock the last light switch off with your hip and doddle through to your bedroom. Mornin’, actually. “Hi. What’re you after, baby?”

He takes a beat to reply. More ruffling. He chuckles a little before he says it. “Baby? That what you wanna call me?”

Your glass scrapes softly across your nightstand. You bounce down on your mattress, springs moaning as you roll onto your stomach. Knees bent, your ankles link in the air. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Guess we can figure that one out together.”

“Alright. I like a challenge. You wanna start with your name?”

Another pause. He sucks in a deep breath. “Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat, thumb picking at your nailbeds. “That’s a sexy name.”

He doesn’t respond. Just gives a non-committal grunt, and a smile pulls across your lips.

“What are you into, Joel?”

He sniffs. “Thought we could figure that out, too.”

Something in the way he says it, the curve in the words, maybe, tells you he knows damn well what he’s into. What he means is: you can figure that out by yourself.

Like you said: you like a fucking challenge.

“You like nicknames? Daddy? That kinda thing?”

A low growl passes his lips. “Not this early on, I don’t.”

You know from the hitch in his voice that he likes it. That little catch at the bottom of his throat, the way the words stumble on their way up. Know you’ve plucked a string deep inside.

“Well, you know you only got ten minutes, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“’kay,” you sing, flipping your hair over your shoulder. You exhale, drawing shapes on the pattern of your bedsheets. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinkin’ about, then? What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Cowboy. It’s the accent. He sounds Texan, or something. His words float through the receiver all wound, coiled up and tight.

Joel doesn’t seem to care. He answers your question truthfully.

“Thinkin’ about what you’re doin’ right now.”

You smirk. Sometimes you like the attention, too. You turn your head, check the clock by your bed. Two minutes have passed.

“I’m…lying in bed, in the dark. Had a couple wines, feelin’ pretty good. But this is all about you, so.”

He chuckles softly. “’m lyin’ in bed, too. In the dark.”

“You feelin’ lonely?”

He takes another deep breath. You figure he does this before he gives most answers. He sounds the contemplative type. Always double, triple checking his sentences before he lets them go.

“Just need somethin’ to take the edge off.”

“Okay,” you breathe, “let me. What do you need?”

There’s a long break between the end of your question and the sound he makes before he answers. You pull the phone from your ear and glance at the screen to make sure it’s still connected. Time says another two minutes have passed.

Joel grumbles. It echoes around your ear like thunder in the distance. “You touchin’ yourself?” he eventually asks.

“Uhuh,” you reply, nails picking at a loose thread on your comforter.

“Yeah? How’s it feel?”

“Good,” you mewl, tugging at the seam. Your teeth grit as you yank at it. “So – fucking – good.”

There’s another growl from the other end. It vibrates through your speaker, purrs in your ear.

“You ain’t fuckin’ touchin’ yourself.”

Your hand stops. Your eyes stick on the thread. “I am.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how.”

You roll your eyes, turning onto your back. Your fingers play with the buttons of your shirt. Fuckin’ – tell me how. “I’m…” you sigh, “…I’m laying in bed, on my back. My hands are –”

“What you wearin’?”

“Isn’t that the sorta stuff you oughta ask when I first pick up?”

He speaks calmer. Clearer. You can hear the smile on his lips. “’m askin’ you now. What you wearin’, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. So he’s that type. Whatever. He’s kind of pissing you off.

“A shirt. And socks. And panties. No bra.”

“’n where you touchin’ yourself?”

You huff. “Between my –”

“Watch the attitude.”

You almost fucking laugh. Your breath escapes your chest in a silent burst. “Between my legs,” you tell him, flat and annoyed.

“Mhm. Above or beneath the panties?”

“Beneath, daddy.”

A tiny groan passes his lips. He doesn’t mean for it to, and a second, angry grumble follows, like he’s pissed at himself for letting it slip.

You take a lock of hair and twirl it around your finger, pulling tight until the tip whitens. “You touching yourself?” you ask, voice sickly sweet.

Joel ignores you. “Take it off. The shirt,” he clarifies, when you don’t answer.

You shuffle around a little, making sure he can hear the movement. You unbutton the shirt until it’s lying loose over your breasts, then tug it down over one shoulder.

“Alright,” you tell him with a heavy breath, laying back on the mattress, “it’s off.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and your eyes flutter closed.

“Mhm.”

Joel chuckles under his breath. “Know when you’re lyin’, angel. Take – it – off. Don’t be a brat about it.”

This is half the game for him, you realize. This is his thing. He gives commands, you disobey them, and he kicks you into line. Tells you to behave.

You figure you like it almost as much, going by the heat pooling between your legs.

Your shoulders lift and you tug the shirt over them, tossing it to the floor. You lie back, bare against the sheets, and your hand instantly cups over your breast.

“Better,” Joel breathes.

“What now, baby?” you whisper, laughing to yourself. You’re palming at your breast, your fingers pulling in around your nipple. Your core begins to throb.

“You’re gonna touch yourself.”

“That what you want?”

“’s what I want, angel. Do it for me.”

You don’t take much more convincing. Your hand slips down your front, cups over your mound. You gasp when your fingertips brush against your clit.

Joel hears. “Yeah,” he hums, “’s a good girl. Take those panties off ‘n rub that pretty little clit for me.”

Your fingertips give one last kiss to the fabric of your panties. Your mouth tips open a fraction. You suck in a quiet breath, and push your hips up off the bed. The lace slips down your thighs in one motion.

Joel’s grunting steadily now, small noises slipping past his lips and into your ear. You spread your legs and push against your bud again, massaging the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, Joel,” you whine, and he groans in response.

“I know, I know,” he’s saying, and you hear the metal tinkle of his belt buckle. The fraying sound of denim being shifted. One slow, relief-filled groan.

His hands are on his cock.

You’d put more effort into caring that he’s been fully clothed this entire time, if you could think straight. You’re applying more pressure to your clit, rubbing faster, harder, then letting your fingers drift downward, move between your gleaming folds.

“Wish I was there with you so bad,” Joel purrs, and your eyes flutter open.

“Yeah?” you choke.

“Yeah.”

“What would you – do to me?”

He shudders. “Would fuck you real good, sweetheart.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, fingers circling faster.

There’s a gentle tugging; a rhythmic breathing. The odd break in his voice when his hand tightens, or you make a sweet little sound, or he catches himself giving too much away.

“Fuckin’ – be all over you. Nice ‘n hard. You want that?”

“Mhm,” you mewl, panting. “Want it so bad.”

“Yeah, you do,” Joel says. You can hear the sticky sound of his precum, leaking from his tip and running between his fingers, being pumped down his shaft by his fist. “Feels good, angel, don’t it? When you do what you’re told?”

“Y-eah,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and you picture a tight fist choking a thick cock. Picture that same fist unwinding, curving around your mound, fingers pushing deep inside you.

“Joel,” you whimper, and your fingers move down again, dipping nearer your tight, wet hole.

He grunts in response. “Don’t – not yet,” he tells you.

You whine.

“You got somethin’ else to use?” he asks, then interrupts before you can answer. “Yeah, you do. Go get it, sweetheart. Tell me what you got.”

“V-vibrator,” you mumble, hoisting yourself up and lunging across the bed to your nightstand. You haul the drawer open and sift between balled-up socks until you’re clutching the long, thick shape, fingers tight around the dips and curves.

“Let me hear it, angel.”

You click the button and the toy whirrs to life, vibrating strongly in your hand.

Joel hisses. “Alright, sweetheart, lie back. Gonna put it on that pretty little pussy, alright? Gonna make yourself cum for me.”

“Uhuh,” you murmur, one hand lowering the vibrator between your legs, the other holding the phone to your ear in a vice grip.

You push the round tip down to your clit and your head falls back with a loud moan. Joel sends one straight back at the sound of yours. It fades into a whimper, a desperate cry as you massage yourself with your toy.

Your legs clench as you dip it lower, letting the head nudge against your entrance, sending flutters of pleasure across your dripping cunt.

“Don’t fuck yourself,” Joel instructs, and your hand quickly pulls back. “Save it.”

This mystery man, who you’ve known for – if your clock is right – eight minutes, now; whose name is the most information you’ve gotten out of him; and whose face you couldn’t pick in a lineup…has such a hold on you, that your body instinctively reacts to his every word. An automatic reaction to do exactly as he says, when, five minutes ago, you couldn’t wait to get him off the phone.

You fucking listen to him. Save it for what? your head asks, and you ignore it. You don’t push the toy any closer to your center.

It drives hard against your clit, fast vibrations rippling down on the hot, swollen skin. It sends floods of warmth between your legs, drawing your arousal slick and wet from between your folds.

Your chest is damp, gleaming with sweat. Your breath cuts short in your throat, guttural noises replacing it as they reverberate through your mouth, across your tongue and into your dark bedroom.

Your walls start to clamp around nothing. You angle the vibrator so that it sends deep pulses across your pussy, shutting your eyes to picture Joel’s thick cock burying deep inside you as you climax with a loud, broken cry.

“Yeah, good girl. That’s it. Sound so pretty, angel. ‘s a good girl.”

You’re whimpering his name as you come down, holding the toy to your clit and letting your high wash over you. Your chest jumps, breaths heavy and staggered, gasping for air and then letting it rush out of your lungs in desperate pants.

“You know how good you are at that?” he asks, when your breath steadies again.

You giggle softly. “’s why I do it, baby.”

“Worth every fuckin’ penny.”

You sit in the post-orgasm haze for a few seconds, waiting for the room to stop spinning and your body to feel like yours again. You pull the phone from your sweat-stuck cheek and glance at the time. You have less than thirty seconds left. Joel seems to do the same, for his voice returns to your ear in a gentle, low whisper.

“Alright. Speak soon, angel. Be good.”

The call cuts.

----------

taglist: @slvbl @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @casa-boiardi @msjarvis @acornacreacure @totallynotastanacc @alejaa-a @aphterthoughtt @pedroluver @earthtogrogu @sexygaypalpatine @cool-iguana @serenaxpedro @lizzyervs @bitchwitch1981 @brittmb115 @stormseyer @scarletthefierce @patti7dc @pattwtf @atticrissfinch @pascalpvnk @lizzyervs @jediknightjana @jessie8605 @iknowisoundcrazy @caitispunk @vickie5446 @mrsquill @uncassettodiricordi @gracieispunk @hellishjoel

(psst! after this weekend my taglist is no more! follow @macfroglets + turn on notifs if you wanna be in the know when i post!)

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | Three

TWO | MASTERLIST | FOUR

SYNOPSIS: Jake and Bradley start to settle into their new home — you’re back.

WARNINGS : smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff; nudity; making out. word count: 6k

…

Orange tinged, the sunlight streams in through the window of his trailer, baking his bedsheets in the perfect kind of warm right before it gets to be too hot. That means it’s still early. Too early.

Hair tousled, shoulders relaxed, Jake sighs a little, his breath fanning out against his checkered pillow case as he shifts to stick a hand between his hips and the sheets, adjusting himself. His dick hasn’t even gotten the memo that it’s morning yet

And still, Rooster’s singing the whole camp awake. That’s what they call their little pitched set-up on borrowed land. ‘Camp’ comes across better after Manson tainted the word commune. Commune would also imply that they’re here for free.

Either way, it’s Sunday fucking morning. That time used to be sacred. As it turns out, no day is safe from Rooster, and there ain’t much left around here that’s sacred either.

It’s a far-away memory, the days that Jake would wake up to the smell of cooking bacon and magnolias. It feels much closer than it was. He was smaller then, he’d been tucked in the nights before, he had matching pyjamas with footballs on them.

Now, his feet push past the edge of the bed as he stretches, nuzzling his cheek into his pillow and remembering what it was like to savour those last moments before his mother called him to start getting ready for church.

His mother isn’t coming for him now; just the mother-hen that has been up since the crack of dawn. Here he comes, singing some Buddy-fucking-Holly.

Jeans clinging to almost-dry thighs, his shirt slung over his shoulder, his feet bare in the grass. He’s coming straight from the showers, before that he had been up by the farmhouse. He trails between trailers and tents and caravans, making a beeline for the one person he knows damn well doesn’t want to be disturbed.

The grass bristles underfoot, the Redbirds join Rooster in his morning fanfare and Jake’s day is already headed south.

“Day of rest my fuckin’ ass…” He mutters out, shifting on his stomach and planting his face into the cloud-like softness of his slept-in bed. It’s only a couple of hours since he tumbled into it, last night’s clothes discarded on the floor with the crisp bills tucked neatly into his wallet.

Rooster cocks his head. With confirmation of Jake’s consciousness, the handle twists and even more sunlight streams in. Rooster ducks to dodge the short, curved doorway and peers around as he steps in.

It’s clean in here. Aside from Jake’s clothes, stepped out of and discarded in place, the place is spotless. Jake’s trailer smells of pine and sugar, the curtains all drawn back and capturing the morning glow.

At the far end, Jake’s laying on his front. Tangled in sheets, naked as the day he was born, now holding his pillow over his ears. Rooster considers finishing his song, making Jake really squirm. Jake’s not much of a morning person. He’s not much of a Rooster person, either.

Rooster only comes knocking this early in the morning when he wants something.

“Hey, Hangman,” Rooster says, his tone mighty calm for someone who just uttered a cuss word like that. Jake lifts his head and turns to look over his shoulder, stone-faced and arming his sharp tongue for an early-morning argument. Rooster’s face slips into something friendly, a cool smile tugging at his lips. “Feel like makin’ some money?”

Disarmed, Jake doesn’t say what he was thinking. He doesn’t stoop to Rooster’s level. Instead, he huffs out a full-chested sigh and rolls onto his back.

The covers spill back and twist with his body, freeing his legs and catching a bit on his hips. The sun smothers his naked form eagerly, bathing him in morning light.

Rooster looks swiftly away, at the chunk missing in the ceiling, shaped around the spray of buckshot that had hit it years before.

Jake rubs childishly at his sleep-weighted eyes. Then, he tucks one taughtly-muscled arm behind his head and studies Rooster with pursed lips. The morning tobacco craving starts to itch at him, before he even thinks of breakfast. That’s something new too. “Doin’ what?”

“Mending fences.”

The farm-boy Jake once was shrinks away from the idea. He’s got vivid, wide-stretching, muscle-aching memories of spending summers in sprawling fields, wrapping barbed wire around raw planks of hardwood.

He wets his lips with his tongue and sighs, scratching at his bare chest. It’s his turn to take a shot at Rooster now.

“Little early for you to be shacking up with the farmer’s wife, isn’t it?” He teases, peering at Rooster through heavy-lidded eyes.

Spring green gaze, there’s always something taunting in the way Jake watches people. Doesn’t matter what comes out of his mouth when he looks at people the way he does. Usually, it’s just that what comes out of his mouth makes that look a whole lot more grating.

Rooster spoke with the wife for a short time yesterday. Leaning up against the green pickup, she’d been practically drooling on him. Rooster doesn’t play around much these days, but when he does it’s with women with more to risk than he has.

Rooster digs a hand into the pocket of his jeans and retrieves a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes, then checks to see if it’s empty. He rolls his eyes at the insinuation that he’d go for Mrs. O’Malley, but doesn’t shy from it. He lights up and sets his lighter down on the workbench. Silver, engraved with his initials.

He braces a palm beside it and finally looks back to Jake, keeping his eyes strictly above Jake’s shoulders. “Y’think I’d ask you along if that’s what this was?”

No, Rooster doesn’t like to share.

Jake shifts his hips and half pulls the sheets across his waist, the temptation to slip back into the dream he’d just been broken out of starting to gnaw at him. “How much?”

“Two-fifty an hour, bonus if we get it done before lunch.”

Jake groans. Extra couple of bucks would get him out of here for a night — even in the middle of nowhere, there’s got to be somewhere with live music and beer.

“Alright,” He rubs his palms along his face, scratching at the growing stubble on his jaw. Finally, he pushes himself up and nods his head. “Fuck it, fine. Let’s go.”

Rooster could have taken on the trouble for himself. Taken the payout for himself, too. Would’ve been quieter, but as much as he begrudges the work, Jake knows a thing or two about cattle. He steps outside to finish his cigarette while Jake gets dressed.

Jake’s front stoop faces the hill that the farmhouse sits on. Rooster watches Maggie O’Malley stroll through the grass in nothing but her robe, taking note of the fact that Gus’ truck is still missing. Must get pretty lonely sitting on all these acres with a husband who spends more time at the bar than at home.

Their lease stretches into September. Jake’s right, it is a little soon to get tangled up in something like this.

Still, Rooster greets her with a nod as she gets close enough.

“So? — You boys up to the job or do I need to call my nephew?” She hugs the robe closer to her body, chilled by the breeze, regretting her decision. Rooster takes the shirt from over his shoulder and holds his cigarette in one hand as he slips it on.

There’s a stumbling sound and a thud from behind him as Jake struggles into his jeans.

“Jake’s just getting himself decent,” Rooster explains, stretching his shirt down over his stomach, tucking it neatly into his jeans. She looks him over, already thinking to herself that there’s not one thing halfway decent about these boys. “We’ll have it done by this afternoon.”

“The deal was noon.” She reminds him.

He squints one eye at her through the morning sun, his lips tugging at a soft smile. “Was it?”

She looks him over, playing unimpressed while she studies the trail of hair from his bellybutton to the leather of his belt. “Don’t go helping yourself to nothin’ in the shed, alright? — You take what’s on that list and nothin’ else.”

Rooster smoothes his shirt down and she looks him in the eye again.

“Sure thing, Mrs. O’Malley.” Like I’ve been itching to dig through your rusty saw blades and prehistoric shotgun shells anyways. He says it with a cool smile, polite in a way that’s reminiscent of who he was before. She’s not buying it for one minute; she knows troublesome boys when she sees them. Her problem is that she likes them, too.

The door to the trailer swings open and Jake steps down. Maggie catches the way he does a double-take at her spilling out of her robe, and tightens the belt a smidge. He looks across at Rooster and raises his eyebrows. Rooster’s cooler about it.

They watch her as she dips her red, manicured nails into the pocket of the silk robe, daring the clumsily tied belt to break free. Rooster stubs his cigarette out on the tin shell of Jake’s trailer and rests the butt of it on the flower box by the window. He’s polite enough not to flick the butt into her grass in front of her.

She holds her hand out towards him — it would seem that Jake is suddenly invisible. “Here’s the key.”

The fences in the West pasture are in a sorry state, almost as neglected as Mrs. O’Malley herself. Still, for two guys with nothing better to do and a stretching scheme of experience, it’s not hard work. It’s a mild morning, blue-skied and clear. It’d be nicer if they were further out from the cow shit, and if Rooster didn’t keep catching himself on the barbs, but beggars can’t be choosers and such.

Doesn’t help that the O’Malley tool collection is rust-littered and worn smooth from years of use.

Conversation stunted, they work on opposite sides of the barbed wire divide, faces etched with determination, ticking down the time until noon hits. A stretch of old, sagging fence sits to their left — shoddy looking in comparison to their new work.

With all the time they spend together, there isn’t much left to gossip about. Jake has heard all the stories that Rooster has been willing to tell already. The rhythmic thud of the hammer fills the sound just fine, better than listening to Rooster’s sighs of exertion as he rips the nails from the old fence posts, anyway.

Just as Jake is starting to think about spending today’s extra funds on a transistor radio, he glances up. Something tells him that Maggie will have himself and Rooster doing plenty of odd jobs around here this summer. She watches them from her porch, sipping on a mug of coffee. It’s a perfect view from where that house on the hill sits, she can keep an eye on them from all angles.

Rooster’s nose wrinkles at the echoing sound as he hammers a nail into the post they had just replaced. Thud, thud, thud. It’s sadistic, to be making such a racket this early in the morning. Jake’s head turns, twisting towards the main road over his right shoulder.

“Stop,” Jake breathes out, sitting back on his ankles, loosening his hold on the fence post. The thudding slows to a stop. “You hear that?”

Cruel joke, Rooster thinks to himself. He hears it. Worn down wheels on hastily patched up country road. Dusty Springfield warbling through old radio speakers.

His gaze flickers up to Jake’s face with a beat. Jake looks back at him with that taunting, spring-green gaze and raises his eyebrows.

With the windows on the old station wagon rolled all the way down, he can smell you too. Skin salted but not yet dampened with sweat like theirs is, a fresh soap smell tinged with girly daisy-like perfume. The wind catches at your neck and bristles your hair back, and he can really smell every drop.

It sits just above your pulse points, the spray fanned out and dusting your surrounding skin.

Your fingers support Dusty through the bridge of the song, drumming into the faded leather of the steering wheel. Rooster curls his hands around the wood post and looks past Jake, down the hill and toward the driveway.

Camp is slow to rise on Sundays. Other people get the luxury of sleeping in when Rooster doesn’t need them for something. Or when Maverick lets them. You’ll probably struggle to find someone awake. They have the thought at the same time, and drop their positions.

Jake shakes his gloves off and leaves them in the dirt. He wipes the sweat from his palms onto his jeans, and the sweat from his forehead onto the back of his forearm.

“The hell does she want?”

“You.” Jake answers with a chuckle, leaving his shirt strewn against the fence as he turns away, heading right for you. “For now.”

If there’s one way to ruffle that guy’s feathers, it’s to challenge him. Jake knows it well. Like the gloves, he leaves Rooster there in the dirt and heads for the sound of Dusty Springfield spilling into a Cass Elliott track.

Call it a moral compass; call it having a stick in your ass. Jake finds little distinction between the two when it comes to the way Rooster thinks. Jake plays the hand he’s dealt — and Rooster, well, Rooster doesn’t play anymore.

Rooster grabs onto the wooden support beam and hauls his legs over, landing steadily on Jake’s side. He’s not just going to let Jake smooth-talk you, and he’s not going to run the risk of someone else around here finding you first.

The grounds are practically unrecognizable in the daytime. It’s stark, dry grass and dirt ground, stiffened and still fairground rides and deserted posts. This is the closest you’ve ever gotten to wandering through a ghost town.

The station wagon’s still cooling off in the same place you had parked it the night before, while you’re wandering cautiously through the dead-empty open space. It’s almost polite, the way you’re so reluctant to just walk right in and take what you’re here for. Jake thinks so anyway.

Your fingers brush at the weathered canvas of the big tent, glancing around you before you take the dive and peer toward the darkness inside.

“You look lost.” His voice carries. As intended, it spooks you. You jump in your boots and whip around to face him, eyes wide and stricken with fear.

Jake. He looks different in the daylight too.

Jake’s coming from the West, around the abandoned Hall of Mirrors and smiling at you. You have yet to see him wearing a shirt, as he strolls towards you in stiff denim and brown leather Wrangler boots.

The fear dissipates, you become glad to see him. Practically pinching yourself at your luck, like that’s got anything to do with you seeing him on three occasions now.

“Oh. Hi!” Your heartbeat picks up, kicking like a snare drum as you turn and hit him with that megawatt smile he’d seen back on the road. It tugs at your lips and spreads across your face like fever — your nerves do too. “Sorry, I was just looking—“

“Mornin’,” Jake leans his shoulders back and juts his hips out when he walks, sauntering over there like he’s John Wayne. Rooster rolls his eyes as he walks behind. “What brings you all the way out here?”

“I left my bag.” You tell him, jutting a thumb towards the tent behind you. He cocks his head. You don’t dare take a second look into the empty, dark space over your shoulder. Maybe it isn’t just Georgie who is a little afraid. “Think it ought to be in there.”

Jake’s grin stretches wide and dimples. There’s that look Rooster hates so much too, that bright green glint in his eyes. He shakes his head, still headed right for you.

“Can’t have that, can we?” He’s close enough now that he doesn’t have to talk loud, and close enough that you finally notice who is trailing him. Your smile falters a bit as you spot Rooster, frowning at you as he follows behind. “Sit tight, I’ll get the lights.”

Even with the early morning sun, the canvas is thick and the space inside just seems all consuming — like it swallows the sunlight right up.

Jake pulls back the canvas and ducks inside, headed right for the back. Wearing a ringer tee and looser jeans than Jake, Rooster keeps walking towards you.

“Good morning,” You try, cocking your head and crossing your ankles, shifting sheepishly on your weight. “Sorry if I woke you, or… whatever.”

“You didn’t,” His voice is softer than it was last night. Maybe he’s not in such a bad mood today. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans, pausing by the entrance. Thirty yards between the two of you, Mrs. O’Malley watching from her perch on the hill. “Long way to come for a purse, isn’t it?”

You purse your lips and shrug, that feverish smile spreading across your cheeks once again. “My mom’s. Didn’t want her to know I’d lost it.”

His brows draw together, offering you a sympathetic nod. The generators kick in, whirring to life. The lights come with soft thuds, illuminating the tent. Rooster listens for the sounds of stirring. Hushed conversations and doors starting to open, showers beginning or radio playing. Camp starts to come to life, too.

“I don’t see any bag in here,” Jake’s voice snaps him out of it and he finally stops looking through you. Rooster blinks a few times and reminds himself to move, his shoes kicking through the dirt as he walks into the tent. You assume that you’re supposed to follow. “You were sitting around here, right?”

If you thought outside was unrecognizable in the daylight, the Big Top really takes the cake. Dirt dusting the floor, the arena looks smaller when it’s not circled by a packed out crowd. The stalls look smaller when they’re all empty.

Sure enough, Jake’s facing the right section, bent at the knees to peer under the benches.

“Fuck me.” You groan, walking ahead to join Jake in his search. Rooster hangs back and finds a spot to rest up against one of the support beams. As he watches you lean forwards and bend at the waist in your Daisy Dukes — he considers checking if that was a legitimate offer.

The second that the thought crosses his mind, Jake’s looking at him again. Green eyes flicker between Rooster and your ass, a grin stretching across his pink lips.

“Man alive, she’s going to serve me for dinner.”

Wouldn’t that be something. Jake turns his head and smiles at you, then peers back over his shoulder at Rooster.

“Well, hang on. We’ve kinda got a lost n’ found.” Kinda, because it’s all stuff that just hasn’t been claimed yet. If you hadn’t come by so early, it would’ve been someone else’s pretty fast.

Jake straightens up and turns around, slow, jutting his hips out as he reaches into his pocket for the bait tin he keeps his roll ups in. “Rooster, you don’t mind, do you?”

Rooster. It’s the first time you’re hearing any kind of name for him. Mr. Movie Star. Peace-Sign guy. Smart-mouth who completely blew you off the night before. Rooster. Like the bird?

Whoever he is, he smiles like he knows what Jake’s up to. You’re privy to that much too. Jake’s trying to get you alone, and he’s not exactly shy about the way he’s drawing your attention to the big ol’ belt buckle sitting low on his hips.

Rooster turns dutifully, and heads back out into the open. Jake’s got you all alone.

“So, were you ever gonna tell me your name?” Jake asks, popping open the tin. He takes out one of the carefully rolled tobacco mixes and sets it between his lips. You narrowly miss out on being caught checking him out, covering yourself with a shrug.

“You didn’t ask me.”

“Bossy thing like you, didn’t think I’d have to.”

“You don’t know if I’m bossy.” You tell him. Hands sitting on your hips, face creased into a soft frown. Jake’s far more shameless in the way he looks you over.

“Just a hunch I’ve got.” Jake answers. He cocks a brow. “So, you have a name?”

His lighter clicks and ignites, he puffs at the cigarette. Even with your hands on your hips like you’re about to tell him where to shove it, all you tell him is the truth. He hums around it.

“Cute,” Jake approves. “You smoke?”

Sometimes. Menthols, though. Greener things, too. Not whatever’s wrapped up in those papers. Olive would say yes. She’d stand here and smoke with him — and maybe blow him behind the bleachers.

“Menthols, now and again.”

His lips stretch around it, dimpling slightly. “Cute.” He repeats.

“This is what we’ve got from last night.” Rooster is back, holding a wooden apple crate. His arms flex against the t-shirt as he hoists it up and leans down to set it at your feet.

There’s a jacket on top, a rogue shoe in there, couple of bracelets and an earring. You crouch down to peel the jacket back. Rooster watches your eyes go round as your fingers curl around the leather strap, and you spring back up like a little rabbit.

“Yes! This is it!”

Rooster smiles. Exactly like he had back on the road, a just-can’t-help-it kind of grin that makes you start to think he might actually like you. You look up at him, glowing with eyes full of mischief. You lick your lips and look between the two of them.

“Thanks, guys,” you huff out a breathless giggle, so calm in these foreign surroundings. Like a little bunny, for sure. Couldn’t spot trouble for the life of you. “You just really saved my skin.”

“No sweat.” Rooster answers coolly. “We’ve got some work to get back to -- you get home safe, kid.”

Your mouth flattens. There’s a sizeable difference in the years you were born, you’d guess. Rooster’s bigger, and wiser if you ask him, with crinkles around his mouth and a tan-line between his perpetually furrowed brows. But you’re all grown, and you have been for a while now. ‘Kid’ isn’t exactly what you had in mind when it came to what you had wanted him to call you.

“Hey, honey,” That tracks better. Your full attention is Jake’s, and Rooster doesn’t like that. Jake flicks ash from his cigarette onto the dirt floor, cocking his head at you. “Don’t suppose you’d know of a good place to get a drink around here?”

There we go. That’s what you’ve been waiting for. It’s as close as you’re going to get to an invitation, and it’s good enough for now. Your excitement is palpable, it buzzes around you like the morning breeze.

“There’s a bar by the firehouse that’s okay,” you tell him. Jake nods with you, quirking an eyebrow, leaving you to fill the silence with more information. “Music and pool. Cheap beer.”

Jake looks at Rooster. He isn’t asking for permission, there’s something more daring in his look. He puffs at his cigarette, then looks at you. It’s unspoken between them — Jake’s only finishing those fences if they go to this bar.

“And you’ll be there, right?” He prompts you.

Rooster looks at Jake. The camp is really starting to move now. He shifts on his feet as tin trailer doors rattle and creak. You should really get going.

You look between them. “Tonight?”

You’re due back at the Pines first thing in the morning, but it wouldn’t be the first time that you’ve turned up a little ‘under the weather’. Conrad tends to take pity on you if you look really sad.

Though, if tonight goes the way you’re planning, it’s going to be pretty hard to keep that smile off of your face tomorrow morning.

“Sure. I could stop by.”

And just like that, it’s settled. Jake gets what he wants in the form of you, him and some cheap beer. Rooster gets what he wants in the form of your car finally pulling off of the grounds and back onto the main road.

Jake heads back up to the West pasture to get Rooster his bonus. Rooster watches until that station wagon is back on the road before he turns to join him. Camp livens, the bustle growing, almost everyone awake. The smell of burning pancakes fills his nose as he crosses the fields. That means Natasha’s up.

Olive doesn’t believe you. One minute you’re grinning as you’re telling her, twisting the phone cord around your finger from your perch on the window in your room, and the next she’s picking you up in her white ‘71 Firebird. Her eighteenth birthday present was a hell of a lot cooler than yours.

“So, which one is yours?” She asks, smacking her lips in the rearview mirror as you zip up your boots in the passenger seat. Warm-skinned and dark-haired, Olive knows that yellow is her colour and she glows in it.

“Haven’t decided yet,” you tell her. It’s your secret that one of them has barely shot a nice look in your direction since you first saw him on the road — she’s like a shark in the water when it comes to screwing guys you could have liked. It’s a small pond; half the fish didn’t come back from the wrong side of the Pacific.

“Roger that,” she answers, her headlights illuminating the dark stretch behind Church Street. No streetlights this way, even this close to town. “Both it is.”

Your mouth stretches, silent appreciation coating your face as she turns right and Dutch’s — Atwood’s answer to dive bars — comes in to view. Olive’s the one who introduced you to this place. She’s well-known here.

They’re here. The faded green pick-up that Jake had rolled into town in the bed of is parked at the far end of the lot. It could be just Jake, he could’ve come alone, but you know he didn’t. There’s just a feeling you have that both of them are here, together.

It’s something between triumph and turned-on, buzzing and fluttery in your stomach. This feels kinda like a date. That feeling is kind of like butterflies in your tummy, but better.

Dutch’s is always filled with a cloud of smoke and gas station men’s cologne, bathed in the glow of the neon signs. It’s gritty, and fun — certainly no place for two young ladies, which is why the patrons like it so much when you two show up. Cheap beer and old wood, raucous sounds of laughter and pool balls clacking into one another. That’s where you find them.

Jake, for once, is dressed. He’s wearing a pale blue button-up and a less faded pair of jeans, leaning against his pool cue, watching the door close behind the two of you.

Your heeled boots are lost in the sound, tapping across the sticky, scuffed-wood floor. Olive is welcomed loudly from all angles, guys calling her name and reaching for her hand. She squeezes your fingers and keeps with you, her giggle music to your ears. The weathered regulars aren’t what she’s here for tonight.

The ivory balls clack together and rattle, one goes flying into the far right stomach that now sits right in front of your thighs. Rooster admires his successful shot, his gaze darting up to meet yours before he stands up straight again.

There’s no point in pretending you aren’t nice to look at. His eyes trail your middle. Real slow, taking his time. Dimly lit, smoke-hazed, neon-flushed room, his cheeks are reddish and tanned, his eyes are dark. He has shaved since this morning, so he can’t pretend he didn’t make the effort for you. His jaw is bare, and above his lip is a neatly-trimmed brown ‘stache. Shoulders wide and squared, his worn hands wrapped around the cue.

He examines you like you’re a centrefold — except one that he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be looking at in public — searching your skin, from where those tight jeans sit just below your navel to where the blouse is tied between your tits. He finds freckles, and gold rings on your fingers, smooth skin on your stomach. The softest curve to your breasts, sitting free under the cover of that thin red fabric.

Then, Rooster smiles, almost polite, as he finally finds your face, knowing damn well you saw him looking. More than looking. Studying.

He reaches wordlessly for his Coors, and takes a drink. Shameless.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jake catches your attention. His broad shoulders stretch at the blue of that shirt as he rounds the table towards you. “Must be my lucky day, huh?”

“Sure looks like it.” With Olive here, your confidence surges. She always knows what to say and when she’s around, you do too. “Almost didn’t recognise you with your clothes on, you know.”

His gaze lingers, smirk toying at his lips. Just watching. Then, he looks towards Olive. Passing his cue into his other hand, he extends his right towards her. “Jake, that’s Rooster.”

“Rooster?” She challenges, her hand shaking limply at Jake’s as she turns to stare at the quiet guy behind the table. “Like the bird?”

“Uh-huh. Government official, and everything.” He answers her, sarcasm dripping from his tone as he gulps back another mouthful and sets the empty bottle down against the wood. Olive doesn’t like that. They aren’t going to get along.

“This is Olive.” You try to leave the bird comment behind.

“Like the fruit?” Rooster intercepts.

She quirks an eyebrow at him, that was a point in his favour.

You don’t even realise she isn’t shaking Jake’s hand anymore until his thumb strokes at your knuckles. He’s up close, and he smells like a man. He raises his eyebrows at your, linking his index finger around yours.

“What are you girls drinking?”

“Beer’s fine.” Olive answers for you. In a place like Dutch’s, you don’t really sip on Cosmos or Martinis.

As she reaches for it, Jake passes his pool cue compliantly into her hand without once taking his eyes off of your face. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he tracks you.

You glance downward at his finger linked against yours, resting against the denim of his thigh.

“Beer it is. Lead the way, Bunny.” His thumb trails the bumps in your knuckles once again, he lifts his arm and turns you the other way like you’re dancing. With him following close behind, you happily lead him to the bar with the barely-there grip you’ve got on him.

Your front presses to the bar, Jake presses against your backside. He smells like pine, but sweeter. His hand comes to rest on your middle, halfway curved around your hip.

“So, you’re local?” Jake asks.

“Mhm, my parents have a place just a little ways past the laundromat.”

Jake leans past you and flashes four of his fingers to Jimmy, the bartender that you made out with last New Years’. You wince a bit, then shake it off. Jimmy sleeps with almost every girl that enters this place, and you had narrowly dodged that bullet. That’s a feat in itself.

“And you’re what— in college?” He asks.

“Oh, no. I work at the old folks’ home. We both do.” You gesture back across the bar to Olive. Both of you catch the moment she glares at the back of Rooster’s head as he sinks another ball.

Old folks. That’s new.

“… On purpose?” He asks.

Your mouth gapes dramatically, elbow pushing back into his ribs as Jimmy sets down four cold beers in front of you. No, not on purpose. It’s not like the Pines had ever been in your plan.

“Says the Carnie?”

“Oh, ouch,” Jake chuckles, grabbing three of the bottles in one hand. He holds a hand over his heart with the one that he’s got free. “Brutal, baby.”

So, neither of you are here by choice. Jake finds that less funny than his casual grin would have you believe.

Once reunited, Olive takes her beer from your hand and leans in to tell you exactly what she thinks of Jake’s friend. Leaning against his pool cue, Rooster listens as the expletives roll off of her tongue, unfazed. He doesn’t like her much either. He’s not as good at making friends as he used to be.

You get familiar with the worn felt and chipped edges of the table, giggling beer after beer with your newfound friend. Jake, not Rooster, who seems to prefer to just look.

Occasionally, the conversation will be broken by the thunderous clap of Rooster splitting the balls in a fresh game. His competitive streak is not a hit with Olive; you seem to have already made up your mind about fucking Jake.

Now, it’s out of his hands.

Amidst not-so-good-natured taunts and jibes, Olive introduces a round of tequila shots.

Jake complies, so you comply. Rooster has decided by this point to pick his battles, and doesn’t argue as Jake passes him and overfilled shot glass. Without salt or a lime, Rooster sinks the liquid and picks up the chalk to dust off his pool cue.

Salt on your tongue, perched on the edge of the pool table, Jake’s green eyes glisten with oppportunity as you swallow back the warm drink, your nose wrinkling at the taste. Jake lifts the lime wedge, pleased as you open your mouth. You meet his gaze and suddenly all the patrons start to fall quiet at once.

It’s headache-inducing for Rooster, listening to all those butterflies in your stomach. You sink your teeth into the fruit and the burning sensation from the shot starts to subside, leaving you just with the same feeling but this time from Jake.

It isn’t really quiet. Really, Olive swears at Rooster again, a glass smashes somewhere to your left and the band starts to play an original song.

But it all feels quiet.

It feels all-encompassing, and intimate, and hot.

Jake takes the lime away from your mouth, the corner of his mouth twitching. Rooster was right about you. His eyes glint in the neon as your tongue swipes a droplet of stray lime juice from your bottom lip.

“You wanna get some fresh air?” he whispers, dropping the lime onto the window ledge beside him so that he can grab two handfuls of your hips.

Rooster watches you nod giddily at Jake. A pang of jealousy plucks at him; he feels green all over, sick with envy as the two of you slip out of the side exit.

If he’d smiled at you the night before or even if he had just been half as friendly as Jake had, he knows it would be him. He would happily take Jake’s spot, in another life. Not this one.

Instead, he pockets the final ball of the game and stands up straight. Sinking the shot that Rooster had declined, she takes one look at the guy she has now been left alone with and shakes her head.

The premise of fresh air was gone as soon as it was promised. The two of you had knowingly beelined it for his truck before the back door to Dutch’s had even closed behind you.

It’s no surprise to either one of you when you’re huddling into the cab of Jake’s truck at the far end of the lot. He’s kissing you. He has been kissing you the entire time he was backing you over, his hands in your hair and on your waist and squeezing at your ass— everywhere. You gasp as he falls forwards, both of you spilling across the leather seats.

He’s between your legs, pawing at your ass and grinding his belt buckle into your stomach, his hips spreading your thighs wide.

There’s nothing new about this — about a quick fuck in a truck, or about not really knowing the guy you’re kissing all too well, but this isn’t a guy you kind of know. It’s a stranger. A complete stranger, with no last name and no home and no real job. You don’t even know enough about him to ward off the questions your parents would ask.

But you moan against his mouth when he kisses you. You welcome him hungrily, twisting your fingers in his soft, sandy hair and reveling in the feeling of his rough hands exploring your skin.

You’re warm all over, hugged by this new tequila-fuelled confidence. His mouth is a welcome heat, all over and feeling so good. Somewhere between rushed, panting kisses, your shirt goes flying and his goes falling and your bare chest is smushed flat against his. His hips roll languidly into yours, denim on denim and excitement pooling in your panties.

His cool breath makes you squirm against the brown leather of the seat, lips parted and panting. Jake licks a hot stripe along the column of your neck, the tip of his nose bristling against the gold of your hoop earring. He inhales slowly, savouring the daisies and the sweat, the humanity of this closeness. Your heart thuds in your chest. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, hard.

Rooster grimaces from inside, and not just because by this point Olive has ditched him to joke around with some guys beside the bar.

Jake sits back for a moment. Heat flushed through your skin, your teeth pressed into the pillow of your bottom lip, your legs spread for him to fit between. Your shirt sits in the footwell and Jake, for the first time, gets unadulterated access to the beauty of your naked chest.

He blinks, feeling you reach for him. Your fingers follow the trail of soft, blond hair, all the way down the taut planes of his stomach. Your touch is gentle, slowly headed right for his belt buckle. Your eyes catch on a glint of gold.

His cross necklace sparkles under the glow of the streetlight behind the truck. You study the tattoo under it, the crucifix shape hidden by the necklace, right between his collarbones. There’s something off about it. Not just the morals of it. You know plenty of god-fearing boys that would be pretty willing to fuck you in this truck without knowing so much as your last name.

The skin is raised and unsteady. At first you think that maybe it’s a war tat; tons of guys got bad ink while they were overseas. But you haven’t seen it like this.

It’s jagged and scarred, the ink bleeds out over where the tissue is raised. Your first-aid knowledge is limited despite the nurses uniform you spend most of your days in, but you recognise this. The crucifix is a scar, it’s burned into his skin, like a brand.

Your gaze shifts back up to his with a beat, he’s already watching your face. The look on his face is different, suddenly calm and eerily still. He tips his head just slightly to the right, the movement jerky and stiff.

His palms weigh your hips down into the worn leather, feeling heavier than they had before. The back lot of Dutch’s feels darker than it ever has before. You feel a lot further from the safety of its smoky embrace, and a lot further from the one person who knows where you are tonight.

Rooster sinks his beer and watches Olive giggling, obliviously, by the bar.

He can hear you panicking. The sudden spike in your heartbeat and the shallow sound of your soft breaths. Maybe you’re smarter than he gave you credit for.

He thinks that Jake’s going to give you the same line he gives all the girls he fucks who are smart enough to notice the scar. Lost a bet, baby, don’t you worry about it.

Jake, instead, studies the look on your face. He looks down at your fingers still resting on his belt buckle, frozen stiff. His lips quirk at the corners. Your move.

NEXT CHAPTER

TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT

tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer-blog1 @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @hersuitisbanana @one-sweet-gubler @atarmychick007 @ximehs @nnatel @topherwrites @seitmai @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser

[steddieas-shegoes]

from garage to library

for @corrodedcoffinfest prompt 'in the garage'

rated t | 601 words | cw: mild language | tags: they're really just trying to make it, they're all idiots

🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩🟩

Jeff's tired of being the only one with a garage, and he's tired of hearing the neighbors complain, and he's tired of his parents making them rehearse at 3:30 in the afternoon.

It's the least metal time of day.

It's also the hottest time of day, and the fan blowing hot air at them may actually be more detrimental than if they didn't have anything at all.

Eddie is laying down on the concrete, shirt up to his chest and hair spread out above his head. Gareth is leaning over his drum kit, groaning every few seconds as if he's in pain. Frankie went inside ten minutes ago, face flush and shiny with sweat.

"We can't survive like this," Eddie grumbles. "It's too fuckin' hot."

"I'm not sure what other options we have." Jeff sighs as he rolls his sleeves up. He should've just worn a tank top for practice. "I'm the only one with a garage."

"If we practice right after school, we can do it at my house," Gareth offered. "There's not that much room, but it's better than dying in this garage."

"We aren't gonna die."

"Speak for yourself!" Eddie yelled from the ground, sitting up and glaring at Jeff. "I can barely feel my fingers. Do you know what guitarists need to be able to play?"

"Let's just go get some lemonade and then finish up," Jeff ignored Eddie's question.

"Fingers! They need fingers, Jeff!"

"Are you guys still out here?" Frankie said from the doorway, sipping on an ice cold Coke, looking much better than when he'd left them there to suffer.

"Yes, we're trying to have band practice. You remember our band?" Jeff was done. The heat was too much, this was too much. "But I'm calling it. We can't practice like this. Let's try again next month."

"Next month?" Eddie gasped. "We can't wait until next month to practice."

"What else do you suggest?" Jeff threw his hands up. "We have nowhere else to practice and we can't do it out here in this heat. We aren't even practicing anyway!"

"What about the library?" Gareth asked.

"The library. The place you have to be quiet. Right. Brilliant." Jeff shook his head. "Any other great ideas or is that the winner?"

"Don't be an asshole," Gareth rolled his eyes. "They close early every weekday for different clubs to meet. Their Tuesdays are open and my mom knows for a fact they've been having trouble filling it. If they can't fill it, they have to stay open later and none of them want to work the later hours. So. We'd actually be doing them a favor."

"And you think they'd just give a key to a group of teenagers in a metal band?" Eddie asks.

"I think that if it means they don't have to work past dinner time, yeah, they would."

They all stare at each other, then around at the garage, air so thick they can almost see it.

"Fine. But only until it cools down. Acoustics will be weird in there," Jeff finally says.

"Rehearsing at a fuckin' library. That'll be fun to tell Rolling Stone someday," Eddie says as he joins Frankie inside.

"Better than nothing at all," Frankie shrugs as he closes the door.

"Hopefully, they don't kick us out after one time," Jeff says as he closes the garage door and turns off the fan. They're definitely done for the day.

"If they do, we'll find somewhere else." Gareth pocketed his drum sticks. "Gotta have some bumps in the road to make our story more interesting, right?"

[leonardalphachurch]

this is the main cast of kids:

Theodore Theta Dakota - child of Leonard L. Church and Oliver “North” Dakota [seperated]

Junior Tucker - child of Lavernius Tucker and CB (dead)

Charles Palomo - child of— haha what does that matter? he’s living it up at the tucker’s place he’s fiiiiine

James Biff Jr. - child of Georgina Biff and James Biff (dead), nephew of Mark Temple

these are supporting/characters im less sure of:

Lopez Brown II - child of Sheila Brown and Lopez Brown (i might give them a better last name later lol i just needed a placeholder for now)

Katie Jensen - niece of Dick Simmons (who is the parents? maaaaybe she’s just his way younger sister? why would she have a different last name… actually nonsense question simmons dad definitely walked out on him and he was raised by a step father what am i talking about. theoretically simmons is so trans to me i could have him also just be her father but uh. uhh. simmons is not being pregnant lmao. the idea of church lasting a full pregnancy is already a fuckin stretch here okay. WAIT OKAY. jensen is his half sibling but it’s not with his mother and step dad it’s with his father and step mother. sorry he got a new family he like a better than youuuu. so is his fathers name simmons or jensen……. i don’t know lol)

Antoine Bitters - child of Kaikaina Grif, nephew of Dexter Grif (theoretically i could give grif some random woman that he knocked up but that feels. icky idk why. kai going through on her decision not to get an abortion and grif having to step into help raise sometimes makes sense to me… idk why he has his fathers last name tho. i guess his father is chill and in the picture? i guess he could also be their younger brother. i feel like i can only do that with one of them tho lol)

Eta and Iota Church - child of Carolina Church and York Church [divorced] (those wouldn’t be their final names obviously lol. i think york takes her last name tho)

Matthews - i don’t care about his parents but he’s dating bitters maybe kimball? i guess? or she can be volleyballs mom. actually.

Valerie “Volley” Grey-Kimball - child of Dr. Emily Grey and Vanessa Kimball (why not. let’s go crazy let’s go stupid. i don’t actually have any opinions about this ship i just think she should get cool lesbian moms.)

do doc and donut get children. i don’t think so i think they’re like. the cool gay uncles. caboose also doesn’t have a child but he does have a dog. i guess smith can be his nephew also. he has a lot of sisters

the main four are set in stone and basically but if you’ve got ideas for any other characters or better ideas for the ones i have here i’m all ears

[fwitolei]

The Dragon Prince Thoughts 6x05 - Moonless Night

Previous Episode // Masterlist // Next Episode

Join the Taglist

Spoilers under the cut

“Oh, don’t worry about Viren, everything will be fine.”

Did you notice the way Soren hesitated when addressing Viren by his name? gahhh this poor man deserves happiness why can’t he get a breakkkk—

I wonder if they’re gonna pull some “Father-Lord” shit like Zuko and reference atla

THE WAY HIS FACE FALLS THE MOMENT HE LEAVES THE ROOM 😭😭😭😭

*crying noises*

“Oh, Soren, my son. Is that you?”

Woah Viren’s been in that cell for a while

There’s gonna be so much to unpack here watch

The way Soren absolutely refuses to look at Viren speaks volumes he’s so done taking Viren’s shit

And it’s the one time Viren isn’t giving Soren shit but he’s burned their bridge so badly Soren’s lost all faith and respect

Not to mention Viren took Claudia away from him too in a way

Lmao why was stella trying to steal callum’s book—

I wonder if Rayla learned that lullaby she’s singing from her parents

OOH or even runaan or Ethari—

Nah my bet is her parents

“Maybe I just want to see you suffering.”

Okay the repetition of the scene is totally intentional what are they trying to convey

Why does Soren keep going down there to see Viren when he knows all Viren has done is hurt him? What does he want?

“But with my eyes open, I also see… you.”

NO CUZ it’s the way Soren IMMEDIATELY starts crying when Viren says “you”

Like all he ever wanted was some form of acknowledgement from Viren his WHOLE LIFE but now that he’s got it it’s too late

Soren desperately wants to believe Viren but he’s been hurt so many times he doesn’t allow himself to

“Everything you’re telling me is… is some kind of lie!”

SEE THIS IS WHAT I MEAN

Viren has given Soren some serious trauma and self-worth issues, and even after two years of virtual peace, he’s still keeping it in

Everyone he trusted either didn’t care or isn’t even present in his life (lissa), so he always kept it in, using his “class clown himbo” facade as a coping mechanism

But now that his entire childhood trauma is literally sitting there staring at him he can’t take the idea of working through it all and that’s why he blew up

SEE NOW HE DOESN’T WANNA TALK ANYMORE

I wanna say he’s just not ready to face Viren but at the same time I don’t think he’s ever gonna be ready he just has to take the plunge

Wait is that Fen—

I thought he was with amaya in xadia

Did he get demoted lmao—

Wait does the standing battalion outrank the crownguard or the other way around

“On moonless nights you miss her the most.”

That is so sad omg—

Luna Tenebris disappeared centuries ago too so Esmeray’s been hurting for a really long time

Imagine that i could never 😭

“It’s the Corona of the Heavens.”

WAIT I THOUGHT VIREN’S STAFF HAD A QUASAR DIAMOND—

If all 3 are in the crown wtf is the stone in his staff

OH THE BLINDFOLD DESIGNS ARE LITTLE EYES I SEE IT NOW

OH WOW KOSMO’S CONNECTING TO THE STARS

Just like that huh

WOAH KOSMO PREDICTING FUTURES HERE

“But your path is… darkness.”

Does that mean callum is still on the dark path aaravos was talking about in s4? Or is kosmo just reflecting callum’s soul from his past usage of dark magic like how sol regem sensed it

Oh? Soren’s back

I wonder why he went back

“If you do not accept my words now, Soren, I want you to have them in the future… when you might need them.”

Okay nah this has got to be foreshadowing or something wtf is going to happen to soren—

Omg this was essentially a soren character study sorry lmaooo. I’m not too learned in trauma and all that stuff this is just my take on what’s going on with him I’m just really invested cuz he’s my bbg princess and i need him to be okay 💀

ANYWAYS considering that Rayla really connected with Esmeray in this season i wonder if she’s gonna have some plot relevance later on (i hope so esmeray is fuckin cool) especially cuz even kosmo commented on it and he can see the future. Soren BETTER BE OKAY by the end of this season i can’t take his pain 😭. And also i am SO EXCITED for rayla to see her parents again and for runaan to FINALLY go back to ethari like he DESERVES GAHH— 

But yeah good episode good episode 👍

[hansleftbuttcheek]

Sold To The Mafia - Pt. 1

Mafia Straykids x Fem Reader

Warnings- squirting, rape, chocking, a bit of blood, shock collar, torture, use of pet names, nude, blow job and any other stuff you can think off in smut idk

Gente - Smut, some angst and some fluff

Summary - you were kidnapped at the age of 17 and when you had just turned 18, you were sold on a bidding for a lot of money to a famous mafia group. What happens next?

Bad grammar so don’t make fun do me 😭

Very short because it’s like 11 in the morning so-

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

“ZIP YOUR FUCKING MOUTH OR I’LL BLOW YA FUCKIN HEAD OFF!” He said as he cuffed your hands to the bed and his other men stripping your clothes off with ease leaving you nude.

~ before whatever this happened ~

You had just gotten a new job at a caffe. You had a good life, a good family, good school, good friend and etc. Until-

“Oi, baby girl, be quiet for me and so what I tell you okay?”

A random dude pulls you aside and out the caffe, ragging you into a hallway. You were knocked out quickly and thrown into a truck, no where to be seen after that. After a good hour or so you woke up in the van, tired and sore. The guys in-front of you were observing your body and one of them slapped your ass making you whine in pain.

“Your a cutie. What’s your name?”

One of the guys said as he grabbed your chin and pulled you close to his face making you flinch. You decided to spit in his face making him drop you and slam your back against the hard metal floor as you winced in the stoning feeling.

“Why you little shit!”

The guy said as he swung his arm up to punch you right across the face, knocking out a few drops of blood and tears from your face.

You then passed out

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

~ back to the future ~

So here you were, blind folded, limbs tied to the bed, stripped naked and a chick collar around your neck 24/7.

“I-I’m begging you, please do-“

BZZZZZZZ! ⚡️

You screamed in pain and your knuckles went white from the way you gripped the bed sheet tightly.

“Shut the fuck up. Now we’re gonna fuck you dumb until our boss comes back okay princess?”

Before you knew it, a thick veiny and long shaft entered your tight cunt making you squeal and shimmy at the pleasure and pain. The men smiled as he suddenly pounded into you making you jolt and moan loudly, screaming and begging too.

“S-STOP I-“

BZZZZZZ! ⚡️

“I- I CANT HANDLE I-“

BZZZZZZ! ⚡️

“…”

The men were taking turn on fucking you endlessly, pounding into you like horny animals. They never realised you had fainted due to the intense orgasm you had at the beginning. They un blind folded you and saw you weak and helpless. They were furious that you had just fainted throughout all that. However, they had a brilliant idea.

When you started to wake up, you felt your leg numb and your throat sore align with your lungs and your stomach. You heard nothing but mumbles but why started to clear.

“We should make a bet for her.”

“What? Why? She’s such a good little bitch to us all. We have our own stress toy or whatever.”

“Yeah but how about this! We can say that she’s a good little assistant and loves to be fucked and since like mostly mafia people, who also have a-lot of money, need a stress reliever, they would believe it and spend thousands on her and then we can be rich.”

“…holy shit…that’s pretty shit but also pretty cool. Sure, let’s do it.”

“I have invited all of you mafia groups for a special occasion because of this wonder slut. She is an absolute beauty! She loves being fucked and played over. Sounds like a good stress reliever for all you mafias! She is great in bed and loves being teased. So, let’s start the bidding shall we?”

“…2 thousand.”

“No! 10 thousand!”

“No! 40 thousand!”

“Fuck- a million!”

“A million sir?! Okay! Going once-“

A million won for…me? Over me. They just set me up for this just to get money didn’t they. I’m not even good in bed I dont even know how to cuddle with a man! I-

You start to realise that they just want money and your worthless. You start to tear up but before a tear rolled down your face, a man shot up and stood on the table making you lift your face up.

“100 MILLION!!!TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT!”

“100 MILLION?!?! SOLD TO MR BANGCHAN AND STRAYKIDS THEMSELVES!!!”

…who?

Pt. 2 later 🤭

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

[thedeafprophet]

OC Smash or Pass!!

Rules: pretty self explanatory. include physical descriptions or pics, and propaganda. the “other” label can be used for “sexuality misalignment” (ie: oc is femme and you’re gay, vice versa or you aren’t into smashing but a specific thing you wanna do with them like perhaps hug or study them under a microscope idc).

got tagged by @viric-dreams this time fuck it lets go again

Name: Alexander 'Alex' Hastings

Age: 30

Gender: What are you, a cop? (Transmasc, he/him)

Sexuality: No

🔥 Propoganda For:

Buff, strong arms, and a bit of tummy, cool scars, what's not to like

(Dad Bod in progress check back in a couple years)

A really good cook, and will bring food and treats to you. Makes a good cup of tea

Extremely loyal and devoted, will do anything for those he cares about

He's kitty

Will fight your nightmares for you

Will fight your enemies for you

An extremely talented and sneaky thief, the man could break in and steal anything for you

A silverer who would happily take on trips and guide through parabola

Hates the constables

A really good dad, kind and patient with kids

Extremely caring and sweet underneath his grouchy exterior

Autism Rizz

Bondage 👍

🔥 Neutral:

Alex is, in modern terms, aro/ace and while he does engage within dynamics, attraction in the typical sense is just not a thing for him

You will need to be completely explicit and direct with the fact that you're flirting with him, he is dense af

This man does not care enough about sex to top

Arson

🧍‍♂️

🔥 Propoganda Against:

Extremely stubborn and blunt, will not be swayed on his opinions

Alex comes off as very rude even when he isnt intending to

A major fuckin hypocrite like oh my god

Bitter and cynical, they dont call him Vitriolic for nothing

This man has never processed a single bit of his trauma

Does not know how to talk about emotions

Will uintentionally disapear for weeks at a time

Is in a situationship with Mr Fires

Sort of married to his stalker also????

also dont worry about the constable thats also trying to hunt him down

Oh Mr Stones also has a problem with him and you may end up in the middle of that

You know, for a man who doesnt get out much he sure does have a lot of enemies

He will always fight first ask questions later

His shitty apartment

[meldy-arts]

Sonic 3 Spoilers Below!!!

Just a few notes:

SHADOW BETTER HAVE SAVED EGGMAN FROM THAT EXPLOSION SO HE CAN GO ON BE HAPPY WITH HIS GOAT MILKER BOYFRIEND.

WHY IS AMY THERE? WHY IS METAL SONIC THERE? WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!!???? EVERYONE ELSE HAS HAD THIS INTRO, BUT AMY'S JUST... THERE. WITH METAL?? LIKE HELLO????

As much as I love these movies I'm sad to see less and less of Tom and Maddy lrejghrejkhgkjehrgkre. I love their little family and wish we could see more of them :((

Sonic just casually kicking Shadow's ass. My boy is so powerful. The fact most of the fandom immediately assumed Tom was going to be hurt for Sonic to lose his shit the moment we watched the trailer and owp, we were correct.

I want to see more of Agent Stone!! But not if he's going to be the villain, I think he'd make a pretty good ally to Sonic and Co. Like, friends but not friends??? Stone doesn't give me the vibes of an evil villain. I think it'd be cool to see him have a sort of team up with Tails in the future idk. I just don't want him to be done! I ADOOOre him.

I. HIGHKEY. NEED TO SEE SONIC CONTINUALLY TRY AND IMPRESS AND WIN OVER AMY IN THE NEXT FILM. LIKE, THE OPPOSITE OF THE GAMES. HE'S JUST FLUSTERED AND TRYING TO BE THIS LIL GENTLEMAN IMPRESSING THIS GIRL HE JUST MET BUT CONTINUALLY FAILS MISERABLY. PLEASE I NEED TO SEE IT. ALSO TOM BEING HIS WINGMAN. GIVE ME THIS PARAMOUNT. GIVE ME THIS FUCKIN CONTENT.

Desperately need to see more Mum Maddy and Dad Tom in the future. As we're getting less and less of them it's harder to squeeze in. BUT I WANT TO SEE IT. I LOVE THEMMM. GIVE ME.

But fr who MADE Metal Sonic?!?!? Someone that CLEARLY has met Sonic?????? BUT WHOMST????? I NEED THE DETAILS. I CANT WAIT 2 MORE YEARS.

That's all for now

[sapphire-heart-tippy]

Ooooohh my Dio, okay while listening to that mashup "Invincible Riot" song, and working on two drawings of PixieKars... I think I found the plot for Sapphire Heartverse 3.

Idea under the cut:

So I was imagining, since my weapon of choice is a spear, I was somehow an honorary pillarman, swiftly fighting with a spear. Doing tricks, flips, faster than lighting strikes with my weapon as if it was part of my body. A look of pure determination to defeat my opponent on my face.... but... how did we get here? Who is my opponent? Why am I part of the pillarmen crew?

So.... you know in Sugar Crash Void Bash, when my son Ramón stopped Divine Puppet! Bel from continuing to fast forward time? And their abiities clashed thus making a second ripple in the universe?

Well... that brought the pillarmen back.

No, I mean....

It brought all of them back. The entire superior humanoid life form species that previously lived underground is back. Yes, Kars, Esidisi, Wamuu, and Santana are back too! However, everyone's memory is very faded. Esi and his and Kars's sons have faded memories, but Kars was affected heavily.

For some reason, maybe it's the repressed trauma of being isolated in space and now he's suddenly back on earth, maybe it's the fact he can barely remember anything at all... and he doesn't even recognize his own family. He hardly knows who he is.

Esi tells Wamuu and Santana that it's probably for the best they just try to help Kars relax and try not to stress him out. They have to explain things to him and try to help him remember things, especially them.

Meanwhile, all is going well in the Muscadine-Ice house.

Uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh somethin happens here uuuuhhhhaaaANYWAY-

Evil stand user somehow gets the power to nullify everyone's stand. Everyone loses the ability to call upon their stands and the entire world is under the control of this asshole stand user.

Everything is all messed up blah blah blaaaaah something happens here uuuuuhhhhh-

Somehow Tippy loses zeir memory too and ze's found by Wamuu. Tippy is unconscious, and since Wamuu is the more merciful of the three, he's worried whether or not he should do anything about this random human gentleman.

Wamuu lightly kicks him, he knows the human is still alive but doesn't know what to do... especially with everything going on (pillarmen tournament to determine who is worthy of... something idk, maybe an evil pillarman oc or something happens- we-we'll see.... you know I'm not even sure what these dudes are genuinely called. They just call them "The Pillarmen". They probably have an actual name for their species and they call themselves something. One sec, let me look it up)

(Okay so it looks like they're just called "The Tribe of Darkness" which is so fucking cool. I think the threequel might have something to do with that.... maybe I might just call it "Sapphire Heartverse 3: The Tribe of Darkness"- also I just realized I said "evil pillarman oc" as if like- these dudes were not evil to begin with- well.... it is the sapphire heartverse, fuckin Dio is a good guy now and made up with Jonathan. So anyway sorry, let's continue)

Wamuu takes Tippy to the underground stone palace where his family is staying. Kars is still frazzled and having trouble coping, still breaking down every now and then and not really knowing why. For comfort, Kars has been reading some fairytale novels about elves, pixies, merfolk, and other mystical beings. Esi keeps trying to console his husband, and suddenly Wamuu is carrying an unconscious human.

Esi: aaaand your son has an unconscious human in his arms.

Wamuu explains that he doesn't mean any harm and the little human is lost, hurt, dehydrated, etc

Esi tells Wamuu to toss the human outside because he might upset Kars with his presence.

Kars realizes something.... in one of the fantasy novels he was reading, a pixie of blue hair blessed the knights with his power. Kars explains that maybe they could train the pixie or something uuuh... insert some more stuff here-

Tippy wakes up not knowing who or where he is or who these freaking superbeings are. He doesn't even remember having a stand or a family or anything. All he knows is the basics about being human, and a little bit of the English and Spanish language.

They communicate with him and realize that he doesn't remember anything or where he came from.

Long story short, Tippy is called Pixie by the pillarmen, and they train him. Since he's very lean and lacks any muscle mass, of course they overpower and hurt him during sparring and training at first.

Over time, he gets a little more toned while still remaining lean and limber. They try a bunch of different weapons, but Pixie is very skilled with a spear due to muscle memory from Sapphire Heart. He doesn't know why... but a spear is like his best friend. He even carves a place to put a heart shaped sapphire in the middle of the top.

He ends up being able to spar on an even level with Wamuu and Santana. Not only is he skilled with that spear of his, but he's very cunning and quick on his feet. Being limber, light, and flexible like a snake helps when it comes to making large men fall to their knees. Pixie uses his sharp wit and spear to his advantage.

That night, they give him a circlet that will give him his very own "horns". He wears it with pride.

Kars realizes that he might have feelings for Pixie (in my headcanon, the tribe of darkness are all polyamorous)... but he's a filthy human.

Meanwhile, Vanilla and Bel are devastated that Tippy was taken (or something, I haven't decided yet), and the world is under attack and everyone's stands are gone. Emmanuel flies over and stays for a while so they can try to solve the mystery of Tippy's disappearance... and try to defeat the evil stand user

Some stuff happens heeeeerrreee-

HEAVY SPOILERS!!! PROCEED WITH CAUTION!!!!

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

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

Anyway, Vanilla, Bel, Ramón, and Emmanuel definitely find Tippy.... but he's not Tippy anymore. He's Pixie and he's ruthless. Kars is extremely angry that these humans are trespassing and claiming that Pixie is theirs. Esidisi realizes that.... they might be telling the truth.

Kars puts his hand up to his husband's face, then smirks,

"We'll have a battle. If you win, you get to keep Pixie and leave quietly... but that won't happen, because you will be dead before you even get that opportunity."

The four have to defeat each pillarman. Including Pixie.

So some classic Jojo shenanigans happen, and the Muscadine-Ice family has to find a way to outsmart these people without using their stands.

Vanilla has to fight Esidisi

Ramón has to fight Wamuu

Emmanuel has to fight Santana

Bel has to fight Kars

Meanwhile Pixie/Tippy is watching.

Once the pillarmen have been outsmarted somehow and defeated by being pushed out of the ring one way or another,

Kars smirks,

"It's not over with yet. You still have one more of us you need to defeat."

Pixie leaps down and points his spear at all four of the family members.

"Which one does he fight?" Vanilla asks, "Me?"

Kars cackles,

"No, you ignorant human... he's going to kill all of you at once."

So the battle commences!! Pixie is extremely fast and ends up injuring each one of his family members. He leaps off of them and uses tactics he did with the pillarmen to make them trip over one another or fall over themselves. Emmanuel comments on how fast he is, but he and Vanilla could probably hold him down.

Bel scoffs and angrily points at the pillarmen,

"UM, if he couldn't be held down by those four brutes, do you really think any of us could?!"

They all try to get his memory back by saying things he should remember, but hardly anything works.

Vanilla does end up kissing Pixie, which causes him to freeze up and remember everything... flashbacks to their first kiss, how they met in the mansion, bickering occasionally, their wedding, when they found Ramón, how they raised him from baby to now, how they found out parallel universes exist, meeting Emmanuel, Divine Puppet! Beleza Muscadine, falling in love with Bel after he was released, and the life he lived after that......... Tears well up in his eyes as he kisses Vanilla back,

"What am I doing here?" Tippy says that, not because he forgot again or anything, but questioning what he's doing in the first place, "I want to go home."

Kars is enraged. He fell in love with Pixie, he was ashamed to be in love with a human but this little human meant so much to him. Now other humans are taking him away. His fists are clenched as he stands up, but Wamuu touches his father's shoulder,

"He... found his way home, Lord Kars... and a deal is a deal... they defeated him."

Kars doesn't want to believe it... but it's true. These little humans have used technicalities and loopholes to defeat each and every one of them, and since Pixie isn't "Pixie" anymore... therefore he is defeated... Kars grits his teeth and hates seeing somebody he had a connection with get taken away.

Vanilla and Bel kiss him on both cheeks, and Ramón hugs all three of them... that's when Kars's face softens a little bit... he looks over at his sons, then at his own husband, who's sniffling and crying a little bit while looking at the human family.

Kars has no other choice or say in the matter, he has to accept losing Pixie.

As they say their strange goodbyes, Emmanuel asks something that interests the pillarmen...

They need help defeating an evil human who stole people's powers. Bel is like, "Dude why are you asking?" and Emi goes, "Hey, it's worth a shot. The more the merrier, yeah?"

Kars and Esi converse for a while... soon they both end up agreeing to put an end to the evil human who's tormenting the world.

So pretty much, the pillarmen and the Muscadine-Ice family join forces to take on the evil stand user and get the other stand user's their powers back!

Later on Kars asks Tippy if ze remembers being together with him, Tippy says that ze does... Kars tries to touch Tippy's hand, but ze hesitantly takes it away. (the pillarmen also learn that Tippy and Bel have secondary pronouns, and their only reaction is, "oh okay cool, I guess that makes it easier than just saying 'he he he' all the time haha.")

Bel keeps giggling and talking about how attractive the pillarmen are, and jokes to Esi, "Do you work out?" and Esi laughs and jokes back, "No, I was born like this."

stuff happens heeeereee aaaaaaauuuugghh

Kars and Tippy can be together on one condition: Bel and Vanilla are also his boyfriends. Kars reluctantly agreed and the rest is history. so uh... it's BelNillaKarTip! or uh....TipVanKarBel! or... somethin like that... please for the love of the stone of Aja no more people in the polycule hrrrrghh- (BelTipVans is still the main main though)

Anyway, somehow the evil stand user is defeated by the pillarmen and the humans!

Some things are subject to change, some things may be edited, added, taken out, etc but yeah, this is the basics of what I have down for the threequel!

[ginsengkitten]

༺Beautiful Dangerous༻

༺☆༻

Chapter Ten: To The Museum

The band lay strung throughout the backstage of the Roxy. The stage manager trotting over "on in 5 guys, you ready? I heard there's some ritzy label heads out there tonight!" He announced. Axl his his excitement behind a cool stone cold look, the others trying to also keep their cool at the news. The opportunity of being noticed by a label. Intensity flowed in echoes around the venue between Roxy employees, band members, stage crew skipping back and forth. Smoke hung around in its usual thickness. Excited chatter bellowed from all corners of the building inside and out. But between the layers of excitement, lay a deeply anxious Slash, pacing back and forth.

"Dude she'll show, maybe she's just stuck in traffic." Izzy said.

Slash muttered on to himself almost at no awareness to anyone's comments of consolation.

"I called her usual line like 3 times, nothing." Slash muttered in clear concern for your absence.

Consolation from anyone was futile. Slash grew more and more concerned of your missing in action. You never missed his shows and you were never late without at least calling. His anxiety bordering a festering anger. He had gone through about a pack of cigarettes today alone. This wasn't like you to be missing like this.

The backstage door cracked open with its loud casual clank that brought the attention of anyone nearby. Slash snapping his head only to find disappointment every time it wasn't you. Another loud clank rung out. "I'm looking here for a young man named Slash?" A gravelly old voice called out. Security blocks the man from further approaching Slash. "Can't be on this stage sir-"

Dave almost laughs at the young scrawny security bouncer trying to size up to one of LA's best hidden secrets. "Son I built this fuckin' stage." He chuckles and pushes past the bouncer with no contest. Slash pauses at the scruffy old man wandering back. "That would be me." Slash approaches him curiously. Dave sizes him up. "Thought so." He said. "I got this here..this damn uh-" Dave shuffled through his pockets in old man delirium. Slash watching him fiddle like a vulture looking for a corpse. Dave finally locates a small folded up piece of stationary from his shirt pocket and hands it to Slash. "For you man, I reckon you know Y/N?"

Slash swipes the letter from Dave and leaves no time to blink. Unfolding the small fragrant lined notebook paper.

"I don't have a lot of time to write this, but my parents have come early to take me back home. I don't know when I will see you next and I'm sorry. Please Please write me. We can coordinate phone calls soon and I'll explain everything.

I'm really sorry and I love you."

(Your home PO Box scribbled in at the bottom.)

Scribbled out in your nervous handwriting was a note you had managed to sneak to Dave before being whisked away. You begged Dave to deliver it as soon as possible, and like the pal Dave had always been, and the young lover he used to be himself, brought it down to the Roxy immediately where you had told him Slash would be tonight. Dave hung his head lowly as well. A fountain of confusion, hurt, anger and sadness blew through Slash like a bullet, shattering his entire body into millions of separate pieces.

"On in 2!" The stage coordinator called out once more.

"Come on man get your shit let's get going!" Axl called to Slash in annoyance. Slash stay frozen for a moment, clutching your note in his hands before stuffing it into his jacket pocket and running straight out the back door. "Slash!?" The band called out. "What the fuck man?!" But slash didn't stick around to give answer to their calls.

No Slash booked it outside and Dave- the good pal he is- didn't budge when he watched Slash steal his truck and peel out of the parking lot almost striking every pedestrian in sight. Slash drove like a bat out of hell all the way up to Daisy's house. Running red lights, over curbs, and ignoring angry bystanders almost killed by his reckless pursuit. But his movie like chase reaped no reward or happy ending. Parking very blatantly on the curb before jumping out and running to the window of what was your room. The many times he had thrown rocks at it, knocked in the middle of the night and stole you away like Peter Pan. But his knocks went unanswered to a now vacant guest bedroom. He tried to peer inside through slits in the curtains. Your usual artifacts nowhere to be seen. His attempts to retrieve your ghost, meanwhile, you had been long gone by now.

-

Uncle Rob had bought you flights from LA to South Bend Airport in Indiana. You assumed it was just cheaper than to the closer airport in Kentland considering you lived in closer to Kent land but the trip and experience had you exhausted and nauseated to no end. You leaned your head against the window in the back of the rental car. The entire trip had been silence. A thick tension stuck in the air. Your mother glanced back to you front the passenger seat.

“Cheer up baby sweet. You know we did this because we love you.”

You say nothing.

“You know- maybe one day- you can go back.”

You lift your head in confusion.

“Really?”

“Well of course. I mean, family is important. We just need you home for a little while is all..”

“How soon? Like fall? Christmas?” You grasp at these small strings of hope.

“Well we’ll have to discuss that more later. Right now all we want is for you to get better sweetie. We only want what’s best for you.” She continues on her typical empty ramble. It’s between this particular empty ramble and you’re now realizing your father has been driving in the opposite direction since the airport.

“Daddy, is this a new way home?” You sit up confused at the surroundings blurring past the car. He glances at your mother but says nothing.

“We have, well we have just a couple detour stops since we’re already traveling. We thought we might just take the long route- as a family!” She nervously proceeds.

You are unconvinced by the statement but you’re not sure why they would lie about something like that. The nausea, the exhaustion, the now confusion, by the time you had even a semblance of a constructed thought on any of this, the car had slowed to a stop into a parking lot of a large building.

“A museum?” You ask bewildered.

“Yes, that’s right, a museum!” You mother agrees stepping out of the car.

“Dads going to go find a better parking spot. Let’s go on inside and start looking around.” She ushers you out of the car. You reluctantly follow her as your dad pulls away.

This was literally the last thing on earth you wanted to do right now. A fucking museum? This is so typical of your parents to just drag you along with their boring bullshit. You’re quite literally hours in the opposite direction from home. And if you can’t be in LA, then you only want to just go home and wait for Slash to write. No where else in the world mattered. Especially not this weird shitty roadside museum up in the mountains.

As you approach the front doors an older woman in a strange get up greets you on the lawn. She’s tall and lanky and weathered. She’s- a nun? What the hell?

You turn to your mom confused, expecting her to be equally confused but she approaches the woman warmly with a handshake. “You must be Sister Agatha!” She greets. You look at them both confused. “You know eachother…?” Now everything is fucking confusing. You’re tired, hungry, depressed and now this random bullshit. “Y/N, this is Sister Agatha.” She says in her sweet fake voice that she did. Your dad finally catches up to you guys, your suitcase in his tow. Okay what the fuck?

“Mom..? Dad…?” You look at them both for the ‘haha it’s a prank!’ Gesture but nothing comes of that. Instead it’s a carefully calculated coup that you’ve now found yourself to be the target of. Everything starts making sense. This isn’t a museum, this is a monastery.

“I think I’m ready to leave now.” You say. You start backing away but your mother snatches your hand into hers and continues her polite conversation with an ironed grip on you to the point you cry out in pain. “MOM! What the fuck?!”

“ENOUGH.” She snaps at you and says nothing more than that alone. You knew she was serious. Dead fucking serious. “You guys can’t do this, I’m 18! I’m an adult!” You exclaim in a panic. Nobody answers you, it’s like you’re invisible here. Your dad handing your bag to the Sister. “Daddy..?” You plead but he hardly looks at you and returns to the car. The earth is crumbling underneath you. You feel frozen in shock and betrayal once more. Another obstructing blow to your heart. All feeling drains from you. Feeling like a ghost. How could they do this?

“You’re right- you are 18, and in the eyes of the Indiana government, children up to the age of 21 can be committed by their parents if they are deemed a harm to themselves.” Sister Agatha breaks your ears with that grueling fact and takes your arm gently passing you from your mothers grasp to hers. “I’m not a harm to myself! You fuckers are the harm!!” You scream, growing faint. It’s at this point that you realize you are - in fact experiencing withdrawals. The nausea, the exhaustion, the dizzying confusion. Your palms are sweating and you feel worse by the second. If only you had the strength or energy, you’d run, you’d run right now. But the grip that the smack had taken of you wasn’t totally apparent until it had been a full 48 hours without it. The empty goodbyes faded away in a blur as you allowed yourself to become reliant on Sister Agatha to help you to your room.

You lie over the covers, shivering violently, sweat beaded on your brow. You felt too weak to crawl under the covers. Staring at the ceiling. Alone. Trapped. All your remaining consciousness, drifted in and out of a haze, and all you could think of was Slash.

Slash. Please don’t forget me.

[miasmaghoul]

putting thoughts of rain/dew trans dew fingering into your brain

like i dont think about this ENOUGH ALREADY

(also i put Dew in a skirt i hope thats cool)

"Keep your mouth shut," Dew snaps, arms crossed and face flushed.

Rain's trying to hold it together, he really is, but -

"How the fuck -" he breaks into tight giggles while Dew stares daggers at him from across the common room. "Dew, what -"

"I lost a fuckin' bet," he grumbles, staring at the floor. "That's what." Rain bites his lips shut to keep from grinning, but it's a losing battle.

Dew stands before him in the usual black t-shirt and heavy boots, but his standard black jeans have been replaced by a short, flouncy, baby pink skirt. It doesn't even reach mid-thigh, soft fabric resting against softer skin.

"That's a good look for you," Rain teases, dabbing moisture from the corners of his eyes. Dew scowls at him, stalking over to hide behind the kitchen island. Rain tilts his head, watching the rather distracting way the fabric swirls around Dew's skinny thighs.

"Fuck off," he gripes, stretching his arms out and resting his forehead on the stone countertop. "This is humiliating."

"What bet did you lose, anyway?" Rain sets his book aside and unfolds himself from his chair, striding over to the kitchenette. He leans on it with both elbows, chin resting on his fists. Dew huffs out a defeated sigh.

"Does it matter?"

"No," Rain chirps, "tell me anyway."

"Asshole," Dew mutters. After a minute he heaves a very dramatic sigh, raising his head just enough to glare across the island. "I bet Swiss -"

"Ah, say no more," Rain cuts in with a smirk. Dew raises an eyebrow at him. "Dew, you have never won a single bet against Swiss the whole time he's been topside." Dewdrop drops his head back onto the counter with a thud.

"I know," he complains, "I swear that fucker cheats, there's no way he's good at everything I give him."

"Or maybe you just enjoy losing," Rain says with a shrug, "why else would you keep trying?" He stands and rounds the end of the island while Dew gives a discontented grunt. "If it helps, it really does suit you."

"Fuck off," Dew spits again, still face first against the counter while Rain moves to stand behind him.

"No, I mean it," he insists, taking in the way the skirt hangs over Dew's slim hips. The way it hugs the slight curve of his ass and sits high on the creamy thighs he so loves to live between. Rain reaches out to finger the fabric, imagining how easy it would be to flip up and get Dewdrop all exposed for his viewing pleasure. "Actually, I think this is an improvement. I think you were made to be in cute little skirts like this."

It's meant to be a joke, at least mostly, but the very distinct way Dew's shoulders tighten is a dead giveaway as to how he's feeling. Rain feels a cruel little smile curl at the corners of his lips.

"You agree, don't you?" He drops the fabric, callused fingertips drifting featherlight just under the hem of the garment instead. Goosebumps raise in the wake of his touch, and despite the way Dew shakes his head Rain can feel the truth. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart, I can tell you're loving this."

"I promise you I'm not," Dew mutters, tensing further at Rain's words. But he makes no effort to move, to get away, and that's all Rain needs to prod further.

"Sure you are," he murmurs, pressing himself against the little ghoul and resting both hands on his hips. "You like looking all sweet and pretty, don't you?" Rain leans over his back as Dew lets out a small sound of protest. "I can smell it on you." Dew whimpers, soft but obvious, as Rain licks the shell of his ear.

"Shut up, would you?" There's no venom in the words, despite their tight delivery. Rain grinds against him and Dew lets out a quiet groan at the feeling.

"Why? I like it too, can't you tell?" He's only half-hard, but the thin fabric of the skirt offers little in the way of a barrier. "Don't you want me to get underneath it?" Rain skates him fingers beneath the hem again, higher this time. "Get my head between those thighs and make them shake?" Rain's fingers drift higher still. "Flip it up while you're bent over and -"

Rain pauses, listening to the way Dewdrop's breathing has picked up as his fingers trail over the milky skin of his inner thighs. It's damp already, and Rain comes to a realization that has him leaking into his boxers.

"Dew, are you not wearing underwear?" He breathes it into the little ghoul's ear, and Dew makes the most beautifully pained sound as he shakes his head.

"Part of the bet," he sighs, pressing back against Rain's hips. His hands are balled into tight fists, hair hiding his face. Rain growls low in his throat.

"How long do you have to be like this?" Rain drags a finger through slick folds and Dew lets out a low groan, shivering at the teasing touch.

"A fuckin' week," he whispers, gasping when a wet finger circles his rapidly stiffening clit. Rain huffs out a pleased chuckle.

"Good," he nips at the smaller ghoul's ear, relishing the broken moan Dew lets out when he sinks two fingers into his tight heat, "then I can take my time with you."

Rain stands, pushing away just enough to see the way his hand disappears beneath the skirt. The ruffles at the hem sway as he pumps in and out, fabric clinging to Rain's long sleeve. It's entrancing, and when he crooks those fingers the sound Dew makes is positively feminine.

"It you can be a good girl and cum on my fingers, maybe I'll let you ride me later." Dew clenches tighter around him, moaning as he shoves himself back against Rain's hand. "You can even keep the skirt on while you do."

Dew shouts into the countertop as his legs start to shake.

"Maybe I'll invite Swiss too," Rain croons, "let him see what a pretty little princess you can be."

Dew sounds like he could cry.

Rain plans to make him.

[tobyislame]

WHATS TOBYS FAV MUSIC???? LIKE WHATS HIS MUSIC TASTE?

someone asked what bands he likes so im grouping these together but IM SO GLAD U ASKED IVE BEENWAITIGN FOR SOMOENE TO ASK ok so . he likes every genre of music ever but lets narrow it down a lil

if it has cool guitar/bass parts hes fuckin with it cus thats mostly what hes listening for in music as a guitar player, so stuff like the strokes, interpol, franz ferdinand, modest mouse, pavement

also maaajorly fucks with 80s stuff, mostly new wave (the stone roses, echo & the bunnymen, tears for fears, pet shop boys, when in rome, duran duran, new order, peter schilling, billy idol, gary numan, wham!)

likes rap but only if its from the 90s, so yk 2pac, ice cube, the notorious b.i.g., snoop dogg, wu-tang, eminem, (sighs really hard) beastie boys

hes a country boy at heart so he likes old country but it has to be OLD, before the toby keiths and blake sheltons . think johnny cash, hank williams, marty robbins, oh hell throw elvis in there too

folk rock as well, stuff like jeff buckley, crosby stills and nash, simon and garfunkel, not sure if willie nelson would be in this category but him too

anddd also loser music cus hes just the biggest loser that ever losered . weezer, blink-182, sum 41, limp bizkit, ben kweller, the front bottoms, car seat headrest, radiohead, etc etc

also heres my toby playlist that ive been building on for 2 years, feel free to peruse the almost 400 songs on it

[justagalwhowrites]

Prompt 91 babyyyyy

OMG Hi Bestie

Thank you so much for sending in this suggestion! I LOVED this prompt and @1soff also shared it.

This is starring Joel and a new FMC who you'll likely be meeting soon (probably this fall?) who Joel calls Goldie. This is going to be a no-outbreak modern AU Joel romantic dramady fic. They were best friends in high school but had a falling out at the end of their senior year and went their separate ways until Goldie moves back to Austin when they're in their early 30s. This scene isn't going to be canon for their story BUT you'll at least get a taste for Joel and Goldie!

Thank you for being here! I hope you like Joel and Goldie! Love you so much!

Pick Me

You and your high school best friend, Joel Miller, reconnect after years apart.

Based on Prompt 91: “Don’t go on that date.” “Why?” “You know why.” “Say it.”

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (nicknamed Goldie)

Warnings: None :) No use of Y/N.

Length: 1.8K

“You’re not going to make me like this damn town,” you said, taking a drink off the flask and passing it back to Joel. Your legs were dangling over the rock toward the river below, the stars bright overhead. “Doesn’t matter how many times we try to act like teenagers breaking into the state park, it’s not going to work.” 

“I’ll wear ya down,” he said, taking a drink himself. “If you’re stuck here, may as well try to enjoy it.” 

You sighed, looking out at the Austin skyline as Joel handed the flask back to you. You took another drink. 

This stupid fucking city held what seemed like everything bad that had ever happened to you. Your father, how your mother died, Anna’s descent into addiction that you knew was at least partially your fault. 

But it also had Joel. 

The one, incredibly determined bright spot that had been here even as you tried as hard as you could to run from it. Liking Austin was dangerous. Liking JOEL was dangerous.

“How’s the school treatin’ ya?” He asked after a minute. 

“Pretty good, actually,” you nodded. “Better than Ohio did when I started there.” 

“Fuckin’ Ohio,” Joel said, glancing at you with a sly smile on his lips. You snorted. He held out his hand. “You’re bogarting the booze, Goldie.” 

“What, you think it’s yours or something?” You teased, handing the flask back. 

“Unless your last name is suddenly Miller,” he teased back, tapping the engraved side of it. He took a swig. “But they got you teachin’… fuck, whatever the interesting shit is English professors get to teach?” 

You laughed a little. 

“Yeah,” you said. “I have 18th century British Literature which is a good one for me, anyway. Literature for writers is another one I’m liking so far. Plus some workshops. It’s mostly upperclassmen so they’re all kids who are there because they care about the subject, not just to fulfill some requirements to graduate.

“I think the school is sucking up to me a bit, though,” you said. “I picked a good time to have my life completely implode and need to job hunt. I had some good name recognition from my book. They want to try to keep me around so they’re letting me teach the cool shit instead of needing to work my way up.” 

He nodded slowly and handed you the flask back. You ran your thumb over the engraving, watching his name catch the light of the moon. You took another drink. 

“You’re still too smart to be hangin’ out with me,” he smiled a little. “Not arguin’, just pointin’ out some truths for you.” 

“You’re still too cool to be hanging out with me,” you smiled back. “Think we’re even.” 

“I was never that cool,” he replied. 

“Oh I know,” you laughed. “I was just a huge fucking loser.” 

He laughed at that. You handed him the flask. 

Joel was sitting close to you, so close that your leg sometimes brushed his when it swung out over the water below. His hand brushed yours as he leaned back on the rock, his fingertips slipping into the gaps between your own. You took your hand back and lay down on the stone, looking up at the sky overhead. 

The whiskey had set in, a pleasant buzz running over you as you watched the lights from distant planes flying overhead. You wondered idly where they were going, if the people aboard were excited for vacation or traveling for business or on their way to a funeral. You always wanted to know things like that. It was your curse, that’s what your mother had called it. That you had all these questions about how the people around you moved through the world, like you wanted to crawl inside their skin and live as them for a day, just to see what it was like to occupy the same space as another person, have their heartbeat, feel the creases in their flesh as it existed to them. 

“You ever wonder what would have happened if you’d stayed here after high school?” Joel asked. You looked over at him. He took another drink. “Gone to UT and shit instead of runnin’ off to Columbia?” 

“All the time,” you replied. “But I think about a lot of different versions of myself. In some alternate universe there’s a me who went to Iowa for undergrad and never met fucking Brad…” 

“Fuckin’ Brad,” Joel echoed. You looked up at him and caught a glimpse of his smile. 

“There’s another one who moved to London and never went to college,” you said. “She’s just waiting tables and writing shitty poems in an apartment she shares with three other people. But she’s pretty happy there, so good on her I guess.” 

Joel paused before looking down at you. 

“The version who stayed?” He asked. 

You sighed. 

“I’m really not sure,” you said. “I’m sure we would have stayed friends the whole time instead of falling out of touch…” 

“We weren’t talkin’ when you left,” he said. 

“I know,” you sighed. “But I think we’d have moved past that pretty quick if we were in the same damn city.” 

“Makes sense,” he agreed after a moment. 

“I’m not sure about her beyond that, though,” you said after a moment of quiet.

He was quiet but lay down next to you on the rock, looking up at the stars. His body was warm, even from a few inches away. 

“Missed you, you know,” he said, turning his head to look at you. 

“Missed you, too,” you said, smiling a little back at him before looking back at the stars again. “You know, more than I think about staying here, I wonder what would have happened if we’d never… you know. If we’d just stayed friends.” 

“Yeah?” He said. His eyes were still on you, you could feel him watching you. “What do you think would’ve happened?” 

“I wouldn’t have married fuckin’ Brad,” you laughed. “You’d have seen right through his shit and talked me out of that one real quick.” 

He snorted. 

“I only met the guy once but he was a fuckin’ dick,” he said. 

“See?” You smiled. “I needed someone to point that out to me, I couldn’t see him for what he was. I needed someone who could.” 

“I probably wouldn’t have Sarah,” you heard him frown then. “Shit, that’s weird to think about… I doubt I’d have gone to the bar and hooked up with her mom that night if we’d still been friends.” 

“That whole ripple effect thing,” you sighed. “Change one thing and the whole world shifts. But assuming you would still have Sarah - that girl is inevitable, you cannot deny her. She’d will herself into existence if you weren’t there to help her along - what would be different for you?” 

He laughed a little and then sighed. 

“Might have actually done the community college thing,” he shrugged. “You would have been on my ass about it until I fuckin’ enrolled…” 

“Damn right I would’ve,” you replied. 

“I’d probably have just flunked out though,” he said. “Then I’d have a bunch of loans and nothin’ to show for it.” 

“Damn,” you sighed but smiled slightly, turning your head to look at him. “Who knew I’d be such a bad influence on you.” 

“Nah,” he smiled. “My mom’s never wrong about that shit and she liked you. It’d be good.” 

“Oh, well, if I had Mrs. Miller’s blessing…” you teased. 

You just lay there, looking at each other for a bit, the rock cool below you, the river drowning out the sounds of the city that lay just out of reach on the horizon. There was a knot in your stomach when you looked at Joel for too long, something that seemed to want to dig into you, something that had lingered whenever he came to mind for years. 

“Oh hey,” you said, desperate to have something else to talk about. “How did your date go the other night? The one girl you were doubling with Tommy and Maria with?” 

“Oh,” Joel paused for a moment. “It was fine, I guess, but we didn’t really… I dunno, click or whatever the fuck you wanna call it. We’re not goin’ out again.” 

“She was that bad in bed, eh?” You teased. Even in the dark you caught his frown. 

“Wouldn’t know,” he said. “Didn’t fuck her.” 

“Really?” You frowned a bit, surprised. “Well, good for you.” 

“Feel like you’re implyin’ somethin’ about my dating history, Goldie,” he smiled a little. 

“Just that you’re good at charming the pants off your dates,” you smiled back. “Which I’d think most men would take as a compliment.” 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, going quiet again. 

He was so close to you, so close it felt dangerous.

“Still talkin’ to that one guy?” Joel asked. “What’s his name?” 

“Eric?” You asked. “The guy whose texts I showed you to see if you thought he was a whack job?” 

“That’s the one,” Joel laughed a little. 

“Yeah, actually,” you smiled a bit. “We’re going out this weekend, some concert he wants to see. Who cares as long as it gets me out of my damn apartment…” 

“Don’t go on that date,” Joel cut you off. 

“Why?” You breathed, your heart pounding against your ribs. The sad, homesick longing you’d had for him for what felt like your entire life was sharp and hot inside your stomach. 

“You know why.” 

“Say it.”

“I love you, Goldie,” he said, looking at you so intently that you could feel it in your blood. “I’ve loved you since were fuckin’ 16 years old and…” 

“Don’t do this to me, Joel,” your voice broke as you said it. “Don’t treat me like one of the girls you date where you say whatever it is you say to them to get them into bed…” 

“You think that’s what this is?” He rolled onto his side so he was looking down at you, his body just inches from your own. “That any of that shit wasn’t to make up for not havin’ you when you left?” 

“That’s not…” you began but he cut you off. 

“You’re it for me,” he said. “Knew it when we were 16 years old, knew it on prom night, knew it the day you left town. 

“Don’t go out with that fuckin’ guy. He seems… fine. He does, Goldie. He seems better than fuckin’ Brad but Jesus, you deserve so much better than fine. Let me try to be somethin’ close to what you deserve. Don’t go on that date.” 

“Joel,” you breathed. 

“Don’t go on that date.”

“I won’t,” you said softly. “I’ll…” 

And, for the first time in 14 years, your best friend kissed you, his hand slipping around to the back of your head, pulling your face closer to his own as his lips met yours all soft and sweet. It left you breathless when he pulled away. 

“Good,” he said. “That’s… good."

"Yeah," you said. "I think it is."

[bugslaststraw]

Oh yeah. I'm tired and feel a bit out of body from morning to night dance moves pat and immfeelingalright right now but I had an idea about why Murdoc got like that with 2-D to begin with. Like yes okay I understand that once the stone is kicked down the road there's no way of stopping it; I always accepted that Murdoc was just never gonna be normal about him, but I also can't... Recall any one moment when we were ever told why, like. Why.

Why what? Why everything, why the core question at the centerpoint of everything, why is Murdoc so fucking angry with him all the time. Cos it sure as Hell isn't because he hates him; we're way beyond that now, and we know that that's a lie and most likely always has been. But Murdoc really likes Noodle too, she's his kid after all, his little girl, and he's never treated her the same way even remotely. If the reasons why he's always bullying 2-D is simply "well he's a control freak and gets affection mixed up with beating people half to death because that's what his dad did so he does this to everyone" then why doesn't he ever act this way with anybody else?

Well, the reason I accepted up until now is because Noodle and Russel can't be pushed around as easily. You try to hit either of them and they hit you back way harder and you crumple to the floor like a sack of wet rags. Obviously the logical next move after that is to try to suck up to them instead so you can get them to at least tolerate you, and maybe decide to stay and not set off the ole' abandonment issues as bad. Russel states at one point that 2-D is the only person Murdoc can reliably win a fight against, presumably because he'd never have the idea to swing back. It's not that he's that weak or whatever. He's just, well. Not a fighter.

I had another idea though. A real devious one, this one. Evil shit cooking. I'm an angst wizard where was I going with this

Ever notice how when Murdoc opens up to someone emotionally it's somehow always 2-D? Like, without fail? Okay, sometimes he has full scale mental breakdowns and opens up to Literally Everybody (see; Pirate Radio) because lord knows he isn't very good at keeping secrets, or at pretending to be cool. But also remember that comment he makes about making 2-D dictate his autobiography during, like... YouTube comment section impromptu QnA, space between Song Machine and Cracker Island, I believe. We never got that autobiography. We probably never will get it to be honest. All I remember is 2-D broke his fuckin hands writing it all down.

And, okay, time to beat the same dead horse again, I'm about to bring up arguably some of the most infamous 2-D Moments™ in GZ history but behold;

the other two times. I'm not sure how to put this objectively. Whenever Murdoc ends up crying and spilling his whole tragic backstory in someone's arms it's, like, 2-D 90% of the time. Coincidence? Gods no 2-D is just the person who's around him the most. Because he can't leave. He's also just more... Compassionate and forgiving. At the risk of making him sound like a dumb little baby again #let2dsayfuck he's been shown to be very empathetic and quick to forgive and all. If someone's having a mental breakdown, you try to comfort them. Isn't that how it works? But Noodle is too practical (and doesn't deserve to deal with her own shit father's mental breakdowns, trust me, speaking from experience, it sucks ten times more when it's your parent, especially if they do it often, you do NOT wanna parent your parent it's the most unfun experience I've had period, and I think or at least hope and headcanon that she's resilient enough to go no I am not dealing with this why are you crying get the fuck off the floor) and Russel possibly too mad at Murdoc to even get himself into this situation, so if there's any one person in the band you *want* to be crying in the arms of, it's probably 2-D, right? At least if you're Murdoc.

But. That's a bit annoying, isn't it. You slip up one time and suddenly you wake up the next morning and realise that this... This little fucking twerp has suddenly got immense power over you. Last night you took a Floor Pill off the dance boards of a shady nightclub and it made you think you were legitimately dying, and he was the only person technically in the band at the time, and you'd only first met him a couple weeks ago, but he was the person to go looking for you. Nobody's ever really done that before. And then he tries to help you, shit, he even gets on his knees on the pavement to help peel you off it, and you can't recall anybody ever being that kind to you in your life, and you break down completely, and you cry and hold onto him so hard he complains you're gonna break his spine and you make him promise to never ever ever leave you et-cetera. And instead of going "fuck off man" and disappearing into the night like everyone else you've done this with he actually does promise. Which has also never happened before. And then you wake up the next morning and have to deal with the fact that, on pure god damn accident, you gave that skinny little fucker your whole heart, and you can't take it back.

What's worse, 2-D doesn't understand the weight of what's just happened. Nor does he understand it the next time, or the next time, or the time after that. He doesn't think he's special, he doesn't understand what he's got and that you can't take it back. He's not malicious. He's not laughing at you. He's just confused, confused and very, very open. He's practically parading around your biggest secret like it means nothing.

And don't get me wrong: Murdoc is fine telling people about his past, in fact he seems to like it; he tells Cass Browne about his childhood so he can put it into Rise of The Ogre. He slips in that bit about the lunch lady iykyk as a joke, mid-interview. It's not about the backstory itself. It's about the emotional distance he has from it. And when you're fresh off an acid flashback I don't think you've got any emotional distance from it at all.

2-D doesn't connect the dots at least not until specifically Song Machine If Murdoc thought he was special he wouldn't be hitting him, right? He probably isn't even in the top ten of his favourite people. That's why the times where he's suddenly so familiar, and on top of that so vulnerable, just confuses him. He tells the story about the strawberries as a "weird thing that happened on tour," and the subtext (which we can quite easily spot from an outside perspective, like, come on,) flies completely over his head.

Can you imagine being Murdoc, and reading that interview after it was posted? Skimming through 2-D's synth article in the G-mag while editing because it's probably just stupid anyway, missing the bit about the acid flashbacks, and only noticing it two months later and everybody acts surprised you even care in the first place?

I think if I was Murdoc and I accidentally laid bare the depths of my soul (got a normal amount of vulnerable) and the mother fucker I did it to just started telling random people about it I would become the Joker immediately.

[player1064]

Sir Alex finding out and confronting Jamie would be hilarious. SAF showing up to what he thinks is just Jamie's home (we all know nobody denies SAF info when he's asking about the partner of one of his beloved players) but while he's giving the shovel talk, Gary wanders over since he's living with his partner. Would love to see SAF call Gary son and act like a slightly overprotective Scottish father to his not so wee lad 😉

(+ there was another anonymous request for sir alex finding out/giving a shovel talk... two birds one stone babeeeyy!)

ALSO bonus Mickey bc we were talking about him in the carraville discord earlier so he's on my mind today

---

“Fuck. Jamie, fuck,” is the first thing Jamie hears when he picks up the phone. “Jamie, are you home right now?”

Jamie frowns, pulls his phone away from his face to double check the caller ID, then quickly says “Michael? What’s wrong, what do you need?”

There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach; besides exchanging polite small talk at the couple of fixtures they face each other each season, Jamie’s not spoken to Mickey in years. So to get a call from him – obviously, his mind is going to jump to the worst conclusions.

“What?” Mickey says, still slightly breathless. “No, I’m fine. It’s, fuck, it’s the boss. He knows about you and Neville.”

He wants to ask Mickey how the fuck he knows about ‘him and Neville’, when he can count on one hand the only people who should know about them, but that seems like something to be dealt with after –

“Wha’d’you mean, the boss knows?” he says, looking around the room, panicked. Because he knows exactly what Mickey means, and it’s not something he needs his idiot boyfriend to overhear. “Your boss, Michael? That boss? The one who Ga – the one who Neville’s had lording over him since he were fuckin’ eleven? That boss?”

“Yes, that boss, Jamie, obviously that boss. Look, he got your address off someone at Liverpool and then I think someone saw him drive off, but – it’s a fair drive, over to Liverpool, you’ve probably got time to –”

To flee the country? It sounds tempting, Jamie has no desire to have a conversation with Sir Alex fucking Ferguson, but there’s one teeny tiny flaw in the plan. “—Mickey,” he says, trying to sound gentle because he can acknowledge that it’s a little bit fucked that someone he used to call his best friend doesn’t know this, “I don’t live in Liverpool.”

The doorbell rings.

*

Alex Ferguson isn’t actually that tall, but he has this sort of presence that makes you feel like you’re shrinking under his gaze. He stands in the hallway of Jamie’s house and he looks around, unimpressed.

“Carragher,” he greets.

“Fergie,” Jamie replies, taking a tiny bit of pleasure in the way his lips press together at the nickname. “Not sure Rafa’s gonna be too happy when he hears you’re showin’ up on my doorstep in the middle of season.”

“This is purely a social call, not anything he need concern himself with.”

Of course, he’s gonna be hearing about it, social call or no. Jamie can’t risk him hearing through the rumour mill that he’s been entertaining Alex Ferguson at his house.

“I’d hope so,” he snaps, “’cause I only do business stuff through me agents. And they know to respond to anything from Manchester United with a ‘fuck off’.”

 “How about you make us a cup of tea, Carragher?”

Jamie reluctantly leads him through to the kitchen and turns the kettle on. “Look,” he tries, “we both know why you’re here, so go on then. Tell me to leave your precious captain alone ‘n’ I’ll tell you to go fuck yerself, and we can call it a day.”

“I don’t know what stories you’ve been hearing, boy, but I’m not some imperious dictator. I have no interest in controlling my players’ private lives.”

Jamie snorts, because really? He’s heard plenty of ‘stories’ first hand that would suggest the contrary.

Sir Alex gives him a level stare, cool and detached. “I don’t, but you need to think of your career. You both do. This cannot get out.”

“This is the first you’re hearin’ of it in three years, so.”

They have been so careful. Not like they’ve got any other choice, is it? Three years, and the only person he’s told is Stevie. Same for Gary, only his parents and Scholes know. Not even fucking Philip does.

The question remains of how the fuck anyone at United found out, but he can’t even think about that right now.

He hears footsteps coming down the stairs, and just barely manages not to drop his head to the counter in frustration.

Gary shuffles into the kitchen in his pyjamas, sleep-ruffled and squinting at Jamie.

“Jamie?” he croaks. “Thought I heard doorbell, what –” he must suddenly gain some awareness of his surroundings, because his eyes go wide and he cuts himself off with a hum.

“Jamie,” he starts again, slowly, “please tell me I’m out me mind from the painkillers.”

“Sorry, lad,” Jamie says gently, ushering Gary into a seat before he realises that his meds aren’t miracle workers and his ankle gives up on him, “think this’d be my nightmare, not yours.”

“Fuck,” Gary mutters. He turns to Ferguson, eyebrows drawn together, and says “Boss, I’m so sorry I didn’t – I thought, if we were careful we – but I know, I know it’ll be bad for the club if it – so I can –“ he gulps, darts his eyes to Jamie for just a second, “I can call it. Obviously, I can – I can call it.”

The last part comes out more as a sob, and Jamie wonders if maybe this could’ve waited a week or so for when Gary’s sprained ankle is healed and he’s not high on painkillers. He’d wrap his arms around him, but he can’t, not in front of fucking Ferguson.

Maybe it hurts, just a bit, that Gary’s so willing to drop him at Sir Alex’s command. But he does get it. And again, he knows (hopes) that if Gary weren’t high as a kite this whole conversation would be going a lot differently.

“Like fuck you’re callin’ it,” he bites out.

“Nobody’s calling anything,” says Ferguson. “Gary. Son. Nobody’s calling anything, okay? It’s fine. This is fine. I trust you. And we can talk to people at the club, work out a strategy for if it ever does get out.”

Jamie clears his throat, looks pointedly at Gary’s ankle.

“When you’re well,” Ferguson adds, shooting a look at Jamie like stay out of this. “Obviously. Focus on getting well, first.”

Gary sniffs. “’course, boss.”

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Here's just a little one-shot for my werewolf Peter au, with Aro and Peter still in Vegas, cause at some point they'll be heading to Italy.

Summary: Aro is snooping about Peter's collection, and has opinions. Peter does not want those opinions.

Warning: Aro being his usual asshole self

On with the fic!

--

"You do know that these are not real, yes?" Aro commented, staring into a glass case.

Peter glared deeply from where he was leaning, knowing exactly what Aro was looking at. "I know that, but it's still a collector's item anyway."

"It is..." Aro chuckled, clearly finding this whole thing humorous, as he had been through much of his browsing of Peter's home museum. "But it's so silly what you humans, well, former in your case,"

"Oi!"

"thought would be perfect for killing vampires. Granted, yes, some items can do damage and even kill, but not everything here could work on all species."

"True, but a stake through the heart is still a stake through the heart."

Aro gave him a toothy smile, smug bastard. He didn't have to say anything, Peter was very aware that he was of that weird, bizarre kind that had stone-like bodies. Peter considered ordering a hammer and chisel, that might do the job.

"Yeah, yeah," Peter rolled his eyes, "the vampire huntin' kits were a gimmick to make money off of people during the satanic panic shit. It's still fuckin' cool to have on display."

"Is this also why you have a silver gun with silver bullets on display as well?"

Peter looked at the case, bristling on instinct. That stupid, wolfy part of him hated knowing it was here, but it was still something he kept around, some vampires were harmed by silver. So was Peter, but that's what gloves were for when he handled it! If he ever needed to handle it again, that is.

"Shut up." Peter replied and moved among the cases. "Are you going to critic everythin' I have in my collection?"

"No, some of it is impressive, I will admit." Aro spoke as he moved about as well, before coming across a bookshelf. "You read?"

"Course I do!"

"I just figured you were... above such things, what with your face always looking at your phone. Or a mirror."

"Har har." Peter sneered, watching as Aro looked at the collection. It was one of several bookshelves in the penthouse, this one was centered on vampires, figured it would be good to have those books near the tools and weapons.

Aro dragged a finger over the spines, muttering to himself as he read over the titles on display. He paused on one, and slipped it out. Peter recognized the cover and winced, glancing away.

The vampire stared at the book in silence, then flipped through it. "Is this... research material?"

"Look, dude, it's about vampires, and there are other vampire novels on the shelf. You can clearly see my several editions of Dracula there. The first edition is a case over there." Peter rambled, but Aro seemed to be ignoring him.

"This is a romance novel."

The werewolf groaned and bonked his head on a glass case. "Don't say that..."

"But it is. The human boy in this clearly seems interested in the vampire girl, who seems to be a stalker. Even going so far as to oil the windows so as to not wake this Beau human." Aro frowned and closed the book shut with a loud thump. "This is terrible."

"People love it." Peter grunted. "The vampires remind me of your species. How well known are your kind?"

"A little too well known if some woman with questionable tastes thinks it's appropriate to put them in there." Aro said with a growl in his voice. Peter ignored how it made something flare in his stomach, best to not look into that for now.

He just shrugged. "Maybe she did some research. I dunno. I mean, her research skills are... not great, considerin' what she did with the wolf characters, pretty terrible shit she did with the real tribe in it."

Aro's frown deepened, and he muttered something to himself, Peter only just catching something about Washington, huh? "Do romance novels help you with research at all, or are they just trash you read to justify some monster-related kink that you have? Because some of the other books you have here are pulp fiction romances."

He snatched another book off the shelf and Peter snarled, trying to snatch it away. "Shut up! It's research material!"

Aro smiled as he looked at the cover, easily dodging Peter. "Oh, is this a vampire and werewolf story? How curious! I wonder what thoughts it provokes in you!"

"Oh my fuckin'- give me that shit!" Peter shouted, trying to get it back, but Aro was suddenly across the room, looking at the contents.

He had the damn nerve to giggle as he read something. "Ah, the receipt in this that you are using as a bookmark is from last week! You must be doing some very serious research right now!"

Peter whined and considered if he should break one of the cases to grab for a dagger or something, anything to get that stupid fang face to stop talking- oh god, is he reading some of it aloud now!?

--

That shitty genderbent version of Twilight exists in this universe, even though Edward and Bella are real people. Aro is curious how this writer around about them, he might have to make some calls...

Also, Peter has a collection of werewolf books too, but most of those are not really research materials. A lot of them are pulpy. :)