#but it was some cheap knockoff 'gaming' box

[forgotn1]

I usually really look forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas, as it means my family getting together for big holiday meals. But this year feels different. Everyone's got their own families now and aren't getting together like they used to. My mom will likely be with her fiance, my nephew, and their friends. My sister will be with her husband, daughters, and in-laws. I don't feel like I have a place this year.

[screampied]

#RENT-A-DILF! t. fushiguro

ৎ୭ sum. sims 4? more like sims whore. out of procrastination and sheer boredom, you install this pretty new game titled ‘rent-a-dilf!’ the catch? he actually spawns in real life and wants more than just one day with you. girl…

wc. 8.1k (erm)

warnings. fem! reader, dilf! toji, loser girl reader, unprotected, size differences, size kinks, he’s reaaal nasty, brief toy usage, praise, dirty talk, fīngering, squīrting, face fúcking, me breaking the fourth wall, cunnīlingus, bjs, making him whine, implied marathons, breeding kink, impact play, petnames, toji being well … toji!

an. HUUGE thank u 2 kali @blkkizzat for beta'ing some !! <3 this came to me in a dream so… this is all over the place eheh.

“HEY, GIRL. WANNA GET DILFED? PLAY NOW!”

“huh..” you swipe a fat thumb down the dimly lit screen of your phone. ah, the things you do at the buttcrack of midnight. your eyes were glued to your device for about a good hour as you allowed curiosity to get the utter best of you.

RENT-A-DILF! ™ was a brand-spankin’ new romance simulation game. it was a cheap knockoff version of tinder and the sims combined but made up of purely dilf characters. it was easy, you’d list your desired preferences and the game would randomly choose the perfect matches for you. it’s a 50/50 chance that you’ll match with one of the higher-up characters—specifically, the newest one that recently got added to the roster of digital men. toji fushiguro, also known as his ridiculous alias of ‘GUTREARRANGER385.’

at first glance - he’s smokin’ hot.

the app allows you to spin toji around, swipe a thumb through his shaggy black bangs, and even dress him up. your eyes skimmed toward a few words near his bio that read, ‘thirty-three, single, verified dilf, full nelson / doggy enthusiast. . ,’ and an extra tag that read ‘oh, i’m also filthy rich.’

well…

toji was a top-rated character, and again, he was just added to the line-up about a few hours ago.

as you sink into the fat cushions of your pillows, you grip your phone.

it was almost eerie—it was as if the dark-haired character was looking straight at you. while you’re deep in thought, still taking in his displayed stats and filthy bio, your eyes trace back up toward his face. it reads that he’s about a staggering height of 6’2 and judging from his burly build alone, he was fuckin’ jacked.

such swole muscles . .

you couldn’t stop staring for a bit, and the black compression tank with loose-fitted shorts didn’t exactly help things either.

his stance was idle as he had an accessory of a priggish grin curling across both sides of his scarred lips.

his lips, you were so busy fawning over toji’s body that you didn’t even notice the scar that vertically ran down the right side of his mouth. it’s such a brief detail but it’s sexy.

you kind of wanted to know more about him. now that you thought about it, the game had dozens of ‘???’ symbols near the pink box where his lore was supposed to be. he’s new so you’d probably have to wait until you learn more about him.

with your eyes trailing back toward him, just so smug. you could tell from his demeanor despite him being just literal pixels on your glowy screen.

or so you thought..

“fuck it,” you sigh, lightly tapping the print of your thumb against the bright pink ‘marry me?’ button.

you did a lazy skim beforehand about the app’s so-called ‘pity system’ and how dim your chances were at actually snagging toji. like hell, you were gonna spend money on a game—you just had to hope that you were lucky.

it’s damn near close to one at night before you slouch back, sprawling your legs out in an attempt to get more comfortable.

staring at your screen and scratching your head, seconds . . minutes go by and nothing happens.

the game swallows up the last remnants of your free gems and you’re leering back at toji who you could’ve sworn just rolled his eyes at you.

what . . the . . fuuuck . .

okay, girl. sooo nothing happened. now what?

your brows start to contort together in frustration and now you are really bored.

all you wanted was to see what was the hype around this new popular dating-slash-romance-simulator game and now, you were disappointed.

then again, you’ve heard of how games like these were known to scam their players.

with an annoyed groan, you toss your phone near the edge of the bed before crawling over toward your burgundy-colored nightstand. there, you lightly pull on the wooden handle, opening your drawer.

your eyes land on your sparkly-colored rose toy. just about a few days ago, it came in the mail and you were oh-so ecstatic to try it out.

holding your thumb over the heart-shaped power button, you hear the loud ‘beeeep!’ indicating it’s turned on.

reclining back, you lift your nightgown before sighing deeply. hopefully, your cute ‘lil toy could help make you forget everything that just happened.

honestly, you didn’t really think the stupid game would work anyway. you’ll leave a one-star review later.

the entire game screamed a scam but hey, you only live once. it was worth a shot. actually, no it wasn’t.

but on the bright side,

you were starting to forget about the app the moment your pinched fingers slid your panties to the side. a soft moan leaves from your lips the moment the rubber edge of the vibrator smears against your bare clit. your back nearly arches forward, and as you’re gnawing on your bottom lip, you can feel your toes curling.

“f- fuck,” you swallow in an incoming breath, hearing the loud ‘bzzzz’-ing resounding through each of your paper-thin walls.

the stimulation had you forgetting about that shitty game within seconds. you lie back against your pillow, sweet harmonic whines purring out of your dry throat as you gradually succumb to your coarse thoughts.

then it hit you.

why don’t you just fantasize about . . him?

toji fushiguro.

dark-haired, smug grin, scarred sly lips, beefy build, and cold green eyes..

as you started to envision him in your clouded mind—you let off a soft whine. your thoughts were scrambled, but the first image that popped up in your brain was his arms. his muscles, the various veins that would pop through his biceps.

oh- you only imagined what it would feel like to have his arms wrapped around your throat.

the thoughts alone make your thighs squeeze together, and the buzzing from the toy shrieks even louder once you turn it up a single notch.

‘powering off. . !’

wait,

what?

snatched straight out of your lewd fantasm, your fingers pause as they lie against the rubber toy. your eyes widen once the vibrating stops— and then in your room, it’s dead quiet again.

“you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” you whine, the realization that your toy dying mid-fantasy making your mood turn even more sour.

first, you lose in the game and you lose at playing with yourself too? damn, girl you’re a failure!

oh uh, sorry.

“heh, need help, sugar?”

you freeze the minute your ears perk up, hearing a smoky raspy voice. its low, with a bit of huskiness underneath it too. coldness sets against your thighs, creeping at the skin that hides underneath your pulled-up nightgown before you gulp.

was that…

“yeah, it’s me. y���er wished uh- ‘dilf.’ whatever i’m supposed to say,” toji adds in a raspy tone, crossing his beefy arms with a puffed-out chest. it was as if he was reading your mind. you probably had the dumbest expression plastered across your face because toji then smirked. “what? y’er toy that failed to make you cum made you speechless too? awwwh.”

smug bastard.

a wave of embarrassment crept against your skin as you closed your dangling, open jaw. oh fuck.

he saw that- he saw you, little ‘ole you playing with yourself. just seconds ago, you were fantasizing about if he really was here, and now actually he is.

in the flesh . . . literally.

“i… uh,” you stammer, struggling to form a proper sentence. toji stands tall, a few inches away from the edge of your bed. hooded, green eyes stare at you and he’s just loving it - the way your eyes rove down his body, openly checking him out.

he wore the same outfit you picked out for him in the game.

a compression tank top with some shorts. (you added a tiny pink bow on his head just to be funny) the more you ogled at him with cute, enlarged eyes—the more you realized just how big he was. ‘big’ was an understatement, the guy was huge. toji towered over you even while you were lying in bed. “wow,” you softly utter, your eyes coincidently landing on his bulge.

toji was packed- and it was as if his bulge was having a staring contest right back at you.

“i know, darlin.’ he’s big ain’t he?” toji snickers.

you finally meet toji’s eyes before scoffing. his personality traits weren’t kidding about him at all. he’s cocky. “i’m just- you’re real?”

“pretty much.”

“but… how?”

“touch me ‘n find out, darlin.’”

you deadpan, but it was tempting.

you don’t even realize that you’re already sitting up from your bed—slowly inching yourself toward him.

toji eyes you with the same impish simper, puffed chest, and hefty arms crossed. he’s so brawny, and the moment you softly feel on his left bicep with a hand, he snickers.

“mhm,” he mumbled under his breath, and you could feel his muscles tense at your touch. multiple veins pulsed down his exposed arms and oh- the entire thing was so sensual.

you still felt embarrassed but now you started to feel something else. toji noticed you started to stare at his hands and he raised a dark brow. “this not enough for you, yeah?” your eyes widened once he then bent down, a few inches away from your face. he’s actually real, and sure, you were probably staring at literal pixels but you didn’t care. “want me ‘ta touch you, pretty girl?”

“please,” you whine, and that single word comes out of your mouth so quickly. it flew past your lips within and split a second and you didn’t even register how fuckin’ whiny you sounded in front of him.

your body was burning hot, and you were blazing up underneath your nightgown. “i- i mean, yeah,” you try to play it cool, only embarrassing yourself even further. toji’s so close thought that you could fully smell him.

he smelled manly, a citrusy mixture of wood sage and leather. it’s strong, so strong that it makes you blink thrice.

“yeah what?” toji gruffs, and god he’s just getting closer ‘n closer. by now, he’s just a few spaces away from kissing you.

you’re hoping - praying that he couldn’t hear the dramatic thumps of your heart’s weak pulse.

it’s pounding loudly, competing with drums with each ba-dump! it creates in your chest. toji softly cups your chin, and raises a thin brow once you lean into his touch right away.

“ ‘m gonna need to hear that pretty mouth tell me what to do.” and his smoky voice softens just a bit.

leafy eyes intently stare at you before they shift toward your quivering glossed lips. you’re needy and oh, could he tell.

you lock eyes with toji before letting off a cute sigh. it’s more of a frustrated one—and he’s gingerly rubbing a thumb down your pouty bottom lip. “touch- i want you to touch me, toji.”

“aht ahttt. manners, darlin’,” toji eggs on, guiding his thumb near the corner of your lips. the edge was killing you, and the haughtiness in his voice only made you more irritated. “ ‘pretty please?’ c’mon, talk to me nice.”

toji’s simper turns pompous as he watches you attempt to shoot daggers at him. your knees squeeze together and you’re just so impatient that you just sucked it up, complying. “p.. pretty please, touch me toji.”

“good girl,” he murmurs, and his voice pitched a bit lower this time. it’s almost dangerous, and you gasp once his big hand snakes around your neck.

you’re still trying to wrap your head around how this is even real - but fuck, you were never one to complain.

toji takes a glance at your snapped-shut thighs and he chuckles. “aw, poor thing. that cute rose toy didn’t seem to be much help, huh?”

“……”

ouch.

he just had to remind you of that. but his hand around your neck felt good. he’s gentle, slowly making his way down your chest. toji then starts to make you lie down on your back.

with a flop! the comfy queen-sized bed springs out and you sigh.

“toooji,” and it’s almost like you’re whining again. you hated how slow he was taking, and you knew it was on purpose. the stare he’s giving your body makes you almost moan. your room was slightly dim, but you could still make out his towering wide silhouette. “m- more.”

toji gets on your bed, the mattress dipping from the sudden weight before he grumbles. “bet you fuckin’ do,” and you gasp once he stares between your legs. you moan, watching as toji starts to smell your thighs. he doesn’t just smell though, he’s slowly rubbing his nose and entire face up and down your skin. he’s feral already, and you could tell just from the grunt that leaves his lips shortly after. “ ‘m guessin’ you don’t want me to just touch you anymore, huh sugar?”

“no,” you breathlessly reply, nearly writhing from his touch once his shaggy bangs ghost against your skin.

toji could already smell between your legs. so peachy, and he even made out the faint candied aroma of your body wash that lingered on your skin. your back was already creating an arch at the temptation alone. once his barred hands sprawl your legs apart, he stares straight at your dripping cunt.

oh - you were perfect..

toji huffs, taking a second to smear a thumb down your slit that’s dribbling with so much slit.

leisurely, it cascades down your folds and you watch with glassy eyes once he brings his same thumb up to his lips, getting a taste. “mmm, ain’t that a treat,” and you moan, a hand of yours clawing on his head. toji snickers, feeling your weak grip trying to push him further between your thighs. “my, aren’t you impatient,” toji rasps with a guffaw. “but heh- fine, spread these legs f’ me. ‘s been a while since i’ve eaten good anyway.”

and the moment toji feasts himself between your pretty plush thighs — you were fuckin’ screwed..

he was a literal animal. the second his tongue delves itself inside of your cunt - he’s insane.

toji grunts, pursing his carmine-colored lips as your feeble hips start to rock against his mouth.

“o- ohhh my god,” you’d whimper, tugging at his raven strands. his head movement was just ferocious, swerving from the left to right.

his tongue’s stupidly long too, and toji dips it inside of your pussy before fishing it right back out. he reels it out of your puffed folds before diving right back in.

he’s sluuuurping you as if his life depended on it, savoring your sweetened taste as his lips stuck against your clit. “ngh- fuck, toji,” and your lips couldn’t help but curl into a cute oval.

his tongue..

he’s bullying it between your folds, profusely circling the pointed tip around your pretty ‘lil clit. briefly, it gets trapped within his teeth and toji gives it a little nibble.

a soft yelp! rips out of your throat at the tender munch of his canines playfully munching on your sweetest spots. toji found it cute how you were so squirmy, so much so that his callused rough hands had to hold your hips down. with a cute shimmy, you’re wriggling your twitching sex against his mouth.

already, you watch the glittery stream of your slick starting to drip drip drip down his chin.

toji’s green eyes glance up at you and he snickers, popping in a single digit. slooowly, you feel his thumb sinking inside of your cunt before disappearing into the void of your entrance. you’re moaning, maintaining your firm grip on his head before whimpering. “mm, yank on it harder why don’tcha.”

toji grumps—his head pulling forward roughly at your adorable strength. he’s buried not six inches deep but nose deep, and you shiver once the tip of his button nose starts to rub up ‘n down your sobbing pussy.

he’s addicted- not only that but the epitome of pussy drunk.

“tojiiiii!” you slur out his name, a gasp shortly following out of your lips. the dexterous shapes and curves of his tongue make you whine out his name again . . and again . . and a-fuckin’-gain.

as he’s easing another thick finger inside of your cunt, you’re starting to fantasize.

why didn’t men like him exist in real life?!

he’s messy, giving each area of your cunt a multitude of sloppy kisses. bubbles of saliva trickle past the corners of his lips as he’s stuffed right between your legs.

toji’s damn near animalistic- his buds continuing to whine out for more of your divine taste.

he doesn’t think he’s tasted anything this good since.

you’re full, exhaling a sharp breath once you feel him plug in yet another digit.

“biiiig stretch, baby. three’s the fuckin’ charm,” toji huskily groans, staring straight at your pussy.

it’s so pretty, he’d never get over the shine that coats the entirety of your loving entrance. if he’d squint, he’d mistaken your clit for a blossoming flower. a more lewd one at least anyway.

it’s sloppy with the way he’s got three fat fingers barreling inside of you at once. toji watches as your stomach dips and you’re gasping, tightly pulling at his scalp. “hehhh, atta girl. get these fingers wet if you want toji sir later.”

toji sir….?

just as you were about to eye roll, you let off a moan once you hear the ridiculously wet sloshes of your cunt. he’s pumping all fingers in and out of you while flicking his tongue — multitasking.

with a ‘pop!’ he takes one out before sliding it back in, feeling you bare around each digit like a good girl. “oh- fuck, please don’t stop. pleaseplease,” and you grow even more hysterical as you’re just basically fucking against his face now.

as you’re jerking your hips against toji’s face, you feel a bit of stubble along with his slanted scar smearing against your cunt.

it tickled, but oh- you weren’t laughing.

your eyes were rolling at the enticing sways of his tongue every time. they reach deep- far deeper than the tips of his fingers if that was even possible. as toji’s still idly swirling his flat tongue inside of your gummy orifice, he hears you exhale a deep shriek. “ ‘m gonna cum!”

“awh,” toji slyly murmurs, and you coo out a surprised ‘oooh’ the moment he snatches out of his dewy-coated fingers.

they’re covered in translucent webs of your tangled slick when he gives your cunt a pat. “hear that, baby? said she’s gonna cum,” and he’s not even looking at you. verdant eyes gave your pussy his entire uninvited attention instead, and you feel him blowing his hot breath against your puffy slit. toji even presses his ear up to your wet folds before nodding. “mhm. ‘s exactly what i’m sayin.’”

“uh?? are you seriously talking to my pu—”

“quiet now, sugar. you’ll get y’er turn,” toji utters, making you moan with a spanking right against your fluttering clit. as you’re still laid back with your legs widely splayed out, you quietly bite back whimpers once his palm starts to maneuver a circle around your entrance.

a wet splash! ends up making you spurt out a few droplets of slick right onto the center of his hand. “nasty giiiirl,” he purrs, turning his palm around before licking it right up while staring dead at you.

your neck starts to feel a bit numb as it’s slightly raised just so you can keep staring at toji. he’s just toying with your pussy, casually flicking his tongue against your nub just to hear you whine.

“t- tojiiii.” you wail out, feeling your nerves practically scream at you.

you felt every bundle of axons in your body violently shake you to your very core. your thighs wrapped around toji’s broad neck, merely suffocating him—but he had to admit, going out like this wasn’t so bad..

“give it t’ me then,” he gruffly rasps against your pussy. his breath yet again fans against your folds, noticing that cute ‘lil pulse that would always occur whenever his lips were just a few inches apart.

toji even whistles against your slit, lolling out his tongue before lapping you up from top to bottom.

teasingly, he even goes down toward your neglected puckering hole to give it a loving lick. “all on my tongue, girl. hah- make a mess,” he continues, and you’re whimpering as he’s gruffly talking you through your incoming release.

all you’re seeing is nothing but white once it finally comes. bright, blinding splotches of white that blur your vision for a few seconds..

the moment you let go, you let off a sweet squalling orgasm that rings through your ears and toji’s.

more of a sobbing battle cry and it’s oh-so cute.

at least toji thought so, and he could feel the lessening hold of your fingers releasing from his ravened tresses.

toji’s slurping you clean, making sure his tongue doesn’t miss a drip of your syrupy mess. it coats down on his tongue perfectly, falling on his sizzling tastebuds and even pouring a stream down his chiseled chin.

“there we go girl, uh huhhh.” as he’s talking with his mouth full, you fall back against your bed.

you’re beat - stars clouding your vision and your current state was so cartoonish.

your legs felt like they stopped working, no batteries left in each limb and you’re still moaning whilst he’s lapping up the last few syrupy drops.

licking near the crevices of your inner thighs, toji hums. “heh. y’er cute. ‘s been a while since you’ve got eaten out, sugar?”

in a sluggish mumble, you stare at toji with metaphorical heart eyes. “i guess.”

“poor baby,” he clicks his tongue, sitting up. you’re panting heavily, watching as he gets up. toji’s broad body hovers over you and he runs a hand through his matted black strands. “y’know-” he pauses at the feeling of your hand reaching near his shorts. toji looks at you before snickering, raising a brow. “aw, don’t tell me you want a taste too. ‘s that what you want?”

“mhm,” you utter, and you don’t even realize you are drooling once you’re fondling your fingers with the hem of his briefs. they’re a viridescent green, matching his eye color. once you meet the strip of his boxers with bold black letters that read, ‘DADDY TOJI,’ you couldn’t help but roll your eyes.

of course he’d wear briefs that had his name on them.

“don’t be shy, girl,” toji murmurs, placing a wide palm on your head.

you crawl forward as he’s now lying down on the bed with you on your knees. toji’s tank top was wrinkly, and it was pulled up just a tad bit for you to peep at his snatched waistline. it’s sharp, you’d guess that if you tried to touch his hips you’d be left with a paper cut. “ ‘m alllll yours t’night. and he watches as you waste no time, speedily pulling down his boxers.

you’re met that same huge bulge you saw when he was in the game—

it’s big, so big that it almost looked painful.

the way it poked out the fabric, hardening from the tent that was concealing it from being sprung out.

once you pull down his briefs, his cock eventually does spring out, and your eyes cutely widen. “f- fuck.”

“yeahh, toji sir’s gonna be inside you in a minute.”

“stop talking about your dick like it’s a person.”

“make me.”

he’s so annoying,

silence was your reply and toji snickers once he sees you deadpan. he liked getting on your nerves. he found it cute how you were trying to keep up your stubborn façade while wrapping a hand around his monstrous length at the same time.

but fuck.. he’s just so thick-

at first, toji could barely fit around your entire palm. his tip’s swollen, a ruddy crimson red with a pearly split tip.

it’s got veins running from not just one side but all, and you were frothing inside of the mouth just imagining that thing down your throat. you’re so close up to it, glancing at the tears of pre-cum that snivel from the meaty sides. you couldn’t help but give his rounded tip a few kitten kisses.

“m-mhm,” toji grunts, his core muscles underneath his tightly fitted shirt flexing.

seconds later, you softly swirl your tongue around his tip—getting a good enough taste before humming with a closed-eye smile. “go ‘head, get a taste.”

toji’s hand claws on the crown of your head once he ogles at the sight before him.

you - arched over, a hand slowly jerking up and down his hefty shaft. a vein on his dick prods against your finger the moment you cup your lips around his head. it’s massive, and it takes you a second to relax your jaw out.

“nnghm-” you blink twice, laying your wet tongue flat against his flushed crown. toji watches, and he’s oh-so smug. the hooking curve he had on his cock didn’t help either.

you could already start to feel the creases of your mouth numb as you tried to fit him inside. the bittersweet taste of his pre-cum lingers on your buds as your lashes suddenly close.

“niiiiiice ‘n slow, babygirl. you got it,” toji says in a smoky gruff.

the muscles in his burly thighs tense the more your mouth slams down on him. with his nostrils flaring up, toji lets off a loooong groan that puffs out of his chest. “fuuuckk-” he grunts, feeling your tongue circle its way around his sparkly tip.

it’s glimmering with excess dewdrops of cum and you couldn’t help but lap up every drop. toji then sits up on his knees, making you keep your current position.

his knees dig into the plush mattress as he stares at how you’re slowly taking him in your mouth.

with a hand still wrapped around his thick shaft, your lashes flutter once his bulbous cockhead kisses against your uvula. “ahn-” you gulp, a few strands of saliva pouring down the corners of your cracked lips. toji groans, feeling you already starting to lather his entire meaty length with spit as a substitute for lubricant.

it’s messy - and toji eyes you the entire time, his grip against the top of your head getting a bit stronger.

“good girl, mhm. no teeth, n- no fuckin’ teeth. wanna feel that pretty tongue ‘n that tight throat,” and you let off a muffled moan once his tip sloppily drubs against the back of your throat yet again.

you lie your tongue flat, making it wander everywhere—tasting the tasteless veins that were shaped akin to lightning strikes.

it’s all over his cock, and your eyes are closed as you try to savor every inch that eases its way down your right throat. “god- that’s it, that’s what this cute mouth is for, yeah? for dick, huh,” and some more drool seeps from your lips as toji holds up your chin, rubbing a thumb over your mouth. “p- put that mouth to good use, sugar.”

your plump lips wrap around toji’s cock as your head starts to bobble. wholly, you’re taking him in with the end of your conic-shaped tongue teasingly sliding down the midline of his shaft.

toji’s nostrils flare up as he starts to push you closer into his unsteady hips, sucking in a dramatic breath once he feels you starting to wetly fist his cock quicker with one hand.

again, it’s damn biiig, throbbing in the palm of your hand and you moan once you guide your other hand between your legs.

with quick reflexes though, toji reaches in and gives your wrist a slight swat.

“no touchin’, girl.” he grumbles, and you let off a pout as your puffed cheeks heat up. “don’t worry about her right now, she’s fine where she’s at, promise.”

if you didn’t have your mouth occupied you’d smack your lips to voice your frustration, but alas…

your head continues to bobble as you take various fat inches down your throat, occasionally taking a second to breathe for air.

toji’s abs flex as you continue, digging his thick stubby fingers down your scalp. “mmp-” you let off a muffled moan, feeling your thighs squeeze shut.

pathetically enough, you were still dripping and the conditioned air fanning against your exposed skin only made you ten times more sensitive. toji lets off a deep, heavy sigh once you start to fondle his balls.

they were all round ‘n swollen, and he nearly choked on his own words once feels your stringy saliva trickle down toward his heavy, neglected sack.

“nasty s- slut,” he huffs out, already starting to feel his cock tightening. your throat and its warmth were dangerous—and he can feel your jaw starting to slacken. “mmm, gettin’ handsy on me, yeah pretty girl?” and toji brings two fingers toward your face, plugging your nose.

it only lasts about two seconds and you moan, his dick sloppily popping out of your mouth and he hears you gasp. a lustrous stream of spit starts to dribble down your chin as you pant, cutely glaring at him.

“aw, such a messy baby. look at that wet jawww,” he smears a hand down your chin, watching you lean back in.

toji grunts, feeling you grip his base and he knew sooner rather than later, that he was getting close.

you’re opening your throat niiice and wide as if you were preparing to belt out a high note. he’s tapping back against the roof of your mouth and near your twitching uvula repeatedly, and that’s when toji starts to thrust his hips into your mouth.

“fuck, f- fuckk keep goin’,” his voice starts to pitch deeper with an even more husky rasp before he starts to pant. “ ‘m gonna cum, gonna fuckin’ cum right down this messy throat. ‘s that what ya want, pretty?”

“mhm,” your head nods, and you could feel your cunt twitching between your legs at the erotic imagery.

the mental image of toji splattering ropes and ropes of hot cum on your achy pink tongue. it makes you nearly drool just imagining it, and you start to moan again.

toji groans, never getting over the lewd sliminess of your saliva mixing. sloppy strands continue to fall past the edges of your quivering lips as your glassy eyes glance up at him.

toji’s puffing and huffing feverish heavy breaths that make you throb even more. his chest sinks in and out as he’s preparing to shoot a nice load right on your tongue. “hah- fine then, open wide baby girl. better take it all.” toji groans, shivering once your lips tickle down the slope of his frenulum.

with a loud spurt! toji ends up releasing, slimy creamy strings gradually painting near the inside of your mouth.

it comes out slow but it’s so hot- you let off a soft mewl at the bitterly somewhat sweet taste soaking on your highly anticipated tastebuds.

“mmmh.” you let off a satisfied hum, flapping your lashes as he dumps such rivulets of cum down your throat. frosty ribbons ooze down your throat one drop at a time and toji grunts.

“hah- good . . good fuckin’ girl, c’mere.” toji grunts.

as you’re trying to catch your breath yourself, he softly pulls you up by the neck, bringing you into a sultry hot kiss. you moan once his scarred lips harshly crash against yours at full speed.

toji swipes his tongue across the edge of your mouth, barely batting an eye that he’s tasting remnants of his cum on your lips.

as both tongues mercilessly fight for dominance, toji leans you to lie back down on the bed. he’s warm, and you can feel him shiver once you drag a palm down his beefy chest.

you taste a bit of mint on his tongue as he parts your legs with one hand blindly, giving your bare pussy a playful squeeze with his entire wrist.

“mmmpf-” you whimper against his lips, and toji’s big hands slowly trail their way toward your untouched tits. he squeezes them also.

you feel a curve of a smile from toji stretch against your lips as he hears you whine. still delving his greedy tongue in and out of your mouth, occasionally tilting his head, toji brushes his thumbs against the fleecy fabric of your nightgown that sheaths your perked nipples.

before you know it though—you now found yourself bent over and arched.

your lips were all hot and swollen, ridden entirely and you already missed his lips on yours as you laid chest flat down with a cute pout. you could feel toji’s eyes running down your back, shortly hearing a titter come from him once he stops to look at you.

“goddamn, sugar,” toji lets off a whistle as he enjoys the view from the back. your face was met between your fluffed pillows as you chewed on your lip in utter anticipation.

your slicked orifices were just weeping out with your syrupy arousal, clenching from the cold air aerating against it. toji wanders his eyes down the cute shape of your ass with his shaft in hand.

his stare - you could feel it, including the incoming chill that ran down your spine.

with a loud echoing spank, toji swats a hand against your ass, groaning at the jiggly flesh. “so pretty ‘n plump. ‘m gonna take my time with you.”

you moan as your ass instinctively wriggles. toji’s rough wide hands softly caress down your hips before he starts to align himself.

here it goes…

you were mentally preparing yourself, biting on the edge of your cottony pillow. the instant you feel his dewy tip smudge its head against your folds, you let off a deep sigh. shortly afterward, a sweet ‘oooh!’ departs from your lips from the fat size alone. your stomach was already seizing, and the wait was steadily killing you. “fu- fuck,” you croak out, hearing toji’s husky breathing from behind you.

all eyes were on you, and your sweet drooling cunt that just doesn’t know when to stop leaking.

it’s a gorgeous sight in his eyes—

the way how your pulsing inside your clit started to accelerate more ‘n more once he brings his flushed cockhead towards your entrance. “ahh, such a pretty pussy. let’s get the good girl a bit more loose,” toji heaves, and your mouth drops the second his hips sharply pierce inward. gradually, he’s starting to ease his way in..

he’s slow and gentle—

mainly because just a bit of pressure and he’d snap you in half like a twig.

he was that big, and once you were starting to feel the splitting stretch of his cock, you were hysterical. “ohmygoddd.” you blurb out, your hips already pathetically stuttering.

the stretch was so delicious, it’s so good that your eyes were starting to roll back toward the back of your skull yet again. toji groans, feeling your cunt trying to hug against him tightly, greeting him with a cute gummy flutter.

once his thick tip bullies its way inside with its sheer size instead of words alone… it’s game over.

a single thrust was enough to snap you right into reality, and you moan right as his hips punctuate its first hit.

that single hit soon turns into a combo, and toji’s cock started to maintain a decent pace before striking your cunt at all angles. he stares at the fat of your ass that bounces back against his sharp pelvis and he grunts.

“hah- that’s it, girl. fuck back into me, yeah.” and another rude palm smacks against your ass cheek. you whimper, feeling your toes curl at his weight pressing right up against you.

toji lifts his shirt which was practically gluing against his skin due to his masses of sweat. leaning in all the way close, he hovers his weight over you—making his abs rock against you as he starts to grind on your body.

“lemme hear ya,” he hoarsely whispers, feeling your cunt twitch the moment he wraps a hand around the back of your throat.

toji’s strokes were mean-

the epitome of ruthless once he’s just straight-up jackhammering into your walls.

your legs didn’t take long to become wobbly as you were whining his name constantly, choking on your crude inaudible syllables.

“toji—”

“again, not you little girl,” and you moan once his tip thrashes deep into your cervix. it’s nearly reaching there, attempting to drown it with sloppy vigorous kisses.

a palm goes over your mouth, muffling your sweet repetitive moans before he smirks.

“her,” and you whine, feeling him creep a free hand down between your parted thighs. toji rubs circles against your stuffed full cunt, hearing your whimpers pitch louder.

his rhythm was the definition of crazy, and as he was pounding into you continuously, you were slobbering all over the bare center of his palm. toji spanks between your legs, hearing your muffled yelp before lowly chuckling against your ear. a loud splash was heard from your cunt and he starts to smear it back against your throbbing entrance.

“mhm, see baby. she’s tryna talk to me again. ‘m more interested to see what she’s got to say,” and your eyes were practically crossed-eyed now. as toji’s deep voice talks your ear off, he playfully nibbles on your lobe. “wet pussy first, then the whiny wet girl, yeah?”

“mmph-” you moan, bawling your sheets into the open palms of your hand. toji gawks as your body starts to gradually lift.

it’s cute- your ass raises and you’re trying to match his pace. toji’s hitting you well and he’s hitting you deep.

each tilt of his hips sends you whiplash and you’re hacking on your own spit. “mmng.” as your muffled sounds resounded through your walls, you feel his hand go against your ass again.

toji’s favorite part always was to just see your skin bounce back against his.

the jiggle—it was the icing on the cake. the swerves of his hips have you getting dick-drunk within seconds.

bulging widely, your eyes enlarge the exact moment you feel something go against the back of your head.

it’s his foot- thankfully he’s wearing socks.

“fuuuck, such a nasty fuckin’ grip,” toji growls, bringing both hands toward your hips again. he’s holding you firmly, with his foot raising toward the back of your neck. you let off an even prettier moan this time, mutely gasping from the angle.

with toji’s foot near the back of your head, he’s in an even deeper position. “take it. take this dick, t- take it.” as you’re moaning, toji pushes you further into the follow.

oh- you were getting close again.

very, very close. so close that you could taste it in your tongue, it’s salty flavor never subsided.

it was coming quickly, and this time it felt a bit different.

your cunt’s glossing the entirety of toji’s cock that buries itself inside of your clingy walls before he groans. taking the pillow out of your mouth, your words and sounds aren’t so muffled anymore. “t- toji! somethin’s about to—”

“i know… iiiii know,” he cuts you off, and his thrusts against you start to slow. slow but still insanely deep.

you feel a bit of a bulge nudge against the lower pit of your tummy and you exhale. he’s in wholly, stretching out your pretty pussy and rearranging your insides—ironically enough just like his alias name.

“let go for me,” and you moan once he releases his foot from behind you, cupping your chin with a bare hand. you’re a mess, drooling from the sides of your swollen pursed lips before whining. “trust me, sugar. let go.”

at his words—you end up ‘letting go’ which fet like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

you’ve had orgasms but this felt like an entirely new world. you’re gushing out, sprinkling out a small clear stream on his cock before gasping.

your legs were on their last few hinges before collapsing and your eyes widened larger. “toji, toji s- shiiiit,” you ramble with furrowed brows and a dangling dropped jaw.

you’ve never felt more wet, and your entire body blissfully relaxes once your release comes.

toji’s still inside you before he sneers. your body gets limp and he squeezes your plump lips together. “woahhh,” he gruffs, pressing his chin onto your right shoulder. you shiver once you feel the clammy mess stick and soak between your thighs. “did you just squirt on me?”

“s- sorry, sorry,” you moan, feeling your left leg twitch. you’re still spurting out and it’s like a crashing wave that just keeps coming.

toji rubs a thumb against your lips, his hips coming to a sudden pause.

“ah. don’t apologize, silly girl,” toji coos against your neck, planting a kiss near your skin. he feels your body slumping but toji raises a brow once you make him pull out, lightly pushing him back on the bed. “oh? what’s this, sweetheart?” he lands on his chest before snickering. “atta girl. not scared ‘ta look me in the eye.”

“s.. shut up, toji.”

“hmph. how rude.”

toji ends up fucking you stupid, fucking the brain cells—whatever brain cells you had left in your brain by dumbing you down with fat inches of his cock.

round after round after round . .

you’re an entire drooling, babbling mess and despite your legs nearly giving out, you only wanted more..

he did countless positions with you, making you moan out his name constantly until it’s the only word that can slip past your glossed lips. until it’s the only word that can formulate in your brain.

you’re dumbfounded at his stamina - his speed.

you lost track of time and you were sure it was probably waaay past one am by now.

you were currently on top of toji, riding him with the loud creaks of your bed groaning in agony from both active bodies.

your hips were so sensual, rockin’ back and forth while he had a hand attached to your waist the entire time. that sly grin that painted across his lips never left. “yeahhh, girl. use those hip—ack,” and toji pauses mid-sentence once your hand wraps around his throat. “heh- the fuck?”

“you talk too much, toji.” you puff, watching his smug grin widen even more. he’s not even fazed?

oh- he’s turned on.

toji’s sat man-spread with his hand still gripping your hip. his cock’s puncturing inside of your cunt deeply, massaging thoroughly through your walls like its life depended on it.

the view of you swerving your body on his lap turned him on a lot more than he thought it would. it was just something about the way you moved your hips, going in circles and fuck- it drove him mad.

“funny comin’ from a pretty girl with a pussy who doesn’t know when to-”

you shut him up right away by placing your lips on his. toji grunts, leaning into your touch. you felt his hardened scar rub against the side of your lip before your hips quickened.

you’re slow - lustfully torturing toji with your hips. his cock’s pumping in and out of your cunt, feeling you freely writhe around him.

you taste sweet, and he tilts his head back as both crowns of teeth clash at full force. the constant stretch of his hooked cock never fails to leave you speechless as you whisper out soft moans against his thin lips.

“mmph-” toji gruffs, the bed’s creaking turning into mere wails.

you’re bouncing on him now, still having a hand wrapped around his throat before flicking your tongue against his. toji smacks your ass, then he does it again, and again.

hearing your shrilling whines makes him squeeze the fat of your flesh, eagle-spreading his legs even wider like the slut he was.

his body’s just overly glossed with sweat, it shines down his buff physique before you slowly pull away from him. slimy tangled strands of saliva tear away from each lip as toji stares at you.

it’s a mere pout on his lips before he huffs, tilting his head back. “ ‘m gonnaaa fuckin’ cummm,” he blurts in a thick tone, dragging out his elongated words due to your pussy making it hard for him to think straight. “hah- y’er hips are evil, sugar. fuck, gonna milk me.”

as he sucks in a honed sharp breath, feeling the weight of your hips swerve uncontrollably in hypnotizing arcs, toji slips out a whine.

it’s subtle, and you had to really listen to hear his husky tone pitch but you heard it. you watch as the veins in his neck pop, and as you’re still choking him, it turns him on even more.

his cock throbs fiercely inside of you, smacking against each gummy spot that’s located in your sloppy, spongy walls. you had a grip that he just couldn’t get enough of. it was cute how your hand could barely fit all the way around his thick neck anyway, but nonetheless—

toji ends up shooting blanks abruptly, a gruff groan leaving past his lips once he feels himself preparing to shoot inside of you. with your panties still glued to the sides of your thighs, you let off another bundle of exaggerated moans, slowing your pace down.

“f- fuck,” you inhale, feeling toji dig his nails into your left ass cheek. he’s clenching down his tense jaw tightly, emerald eyes flickering back for a moment as his mouth remains slightly agape.

once his milky knot’s pooling its way deep into the barrier of your womb, you let off a shuddering whine. “toji, fill me up, mhm- don’t stop.”

“ugh-” he groans, feeling the weight of his sack start to gradually shrivel up inside of you. the sight of you straddling him was enough to make him cum alone.

toji’s entire body felt hot - scorching, but compared to the dryness of his throat was an entirely different story..

he’s got so much, wads ‘n clods of creamy, gooey seed that plugs its way into your cunt.

you finally sit still, listening to the loud sloshes of all pounds of flesh grinding together. toji’s chest heaves in and out as he’s still got a hand glued to your ass, feeling his cock excessively droooool out such creamy lumps of cum.

“s- sugar,” and his sleazy smile returns on his lips again. toji’s fucked dumb just as much as you were, and you could tell because of how droopy and half-open his eyes were. “heh, got some nerve m- milkin’ me like that. some hah- nerve.”

“you don’t seem so cocky now, toji.” you hum, bringing a chaste kiss against his lips. a stocky arm wraps around your waist before his eyes close, locking lips with you for the final time, hungrily swallowing his low grunts whilst the two of you exchange saliva.

“girl whatever,” he grumbled with sass, and he was still cumming. you let off a soft moan, feeling a brief pudge from just how much he dumped into your pussy. you were leaking from the sides of your thighs, streams of frothy white tearing from each lip. toji licks against your lips before hearing your phone interrupt the two of you with a loud, screeching ‘beeeep!’ with a snarl, he huffs. “the fuck is that?”

you turn toward the side of the bed, reaching for your phone. “my phone, hold on-” and as he’s still plugged into you fully, keeping your walls tight ‘n snug with not only his shaft but his enormous sticky load, you squint. “huh..” and it’s a notification from the app ‘RENT-A-DILF!’

“what’s it say? hah- better be important,” toji mumbles, letting off a soft groan from the feeling of your hips shifting against him.

“ooh. it says . . i matched with a new character,” you reply, taking a moment to scroll your thumb down the brightly pink screen.

it displayed a new character that must’ve been added to the roster a few minutes ago.

as your eyes skim at the coral-pink description box, it mentions in bold how he’s not exactly a dilf like the other male leads….. buuuut the catch was that he was dashingly handsome.

and to be honest, the more you stared at the character with a lit cigarette sticking out of his lips and was draped in a jet-black tuxedo.. yeah, he was pretty hot.

“hm. says his name is shiu kong,” and you look back at toji who’s got a look of literal disgust. “what? do you know him?”

“………………….”

hehe.

[darknesseddiem]

hi babe !

i hope your doing okay !! can i request n°10 and n°13 with roommate Eddie Munson, some angst and fluff pleaaaase ??

love u

nono 🫶🏻

𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥

"With the raven's wings retreating into the night, the cold air carries the faint whisper of your escape—a haunting reminder that, just this once, you’ve slipped through the shadows."

This blurb is part of the writing game created by me, join me and the raven in this maze of stories. 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚'𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐥.

Ever since you moved in with Eddie, your life turned into a complete circus, and not the fun kind.

I mean, this guy made it his personal mission to torment and annoy you in every possible way. It was like he had a sixth sense for when you were in a good mood, because that’s exactly when he'd show up with his unbearable attitude and ruin your day.

You’d be chilling on the couch, finally finding your zen after a long day, and boom, Eddie’s at your side with some ridiculous comment or a loud snack, crunching like a rock concert in your ear. It's like he had an alarm set to interrupt any hint of peace you managed to scrape together. He was the king of passive-aggressive vibes, and his superpower was turning your bliss into chaos.

But it wasn't like you had much of a choice. You'd just moved out of your parents' house, and your wallet was emptier than a ghost town on a Tuesday night. Plus, you had a lease binding you to this disaster zone of an apartment, and breaking it wasn't exactly in the budget.

So, there you were, stuck with Eddie the Terrible, who seemed to think that personal space was an urban legend and that common decency was for other people. Every time he walked into the room, it was like a dark cloud rolled in, and you couldn't help but wonder what cosmic force had brought the two of you together. If only you'd had a crystal ball before signing that lease.

Everything seemed totally fine at first. When Steve and Robin introduced him to you, he seemed chill, fun, even charming in that "he's probably got a ton of friends" kind of way. If only you'd known what you were signing up for...

The first few days living together in the apartment were bliss. He helped you with the move, carried all the heavy boxes, and went out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable. He was quiet when you needed silence, even respected your sacred moments on the couch while you binge-watched Modern Family. But, you know what they say, when the deal seems too good, it's time to raise an eyebrow.

It didn't take long for Eddie's true colors to start leaking out. Those same colors were about as subtle as a clown at a funeral. The same guy who had been so considerate and quiet suddenly turned into a one-man circus, complete with loud music and a never-ending collection of weird hobbies that made you wish you could build a soundproof bubble around yourself.

Silent nights turned into your own personal heavy metal concert, and your sacred couch time was constantly disrupted by the RPG campaigns he insisted on hosting at the apartment. Oh, and let's not forget about the marathon sessions he spent in the bathroom, perfectly timed to when you were running late. It was like the old Eddie had vanished into thin air, replaced by a cheap knockoff who didn't understand the concept of a volume knob—or basic courtesy, for that matter.

Gone were the days of quiet evenings, replaced by head-banging riffs that could wake the dead. Trying to watch your favorite show? Forget it—there was always a horde of his geeky friends crowded around the kitchen table, rolling dice and arguing about some wizard’s spell-casting ability. You'd go to grab a drink and feel like you'd wandered into the middle of a convention.

And those bathroom stunts? A whole new level of infuriating. You'd be in a rush, scrambling to get ready, and he'd be in there for what felt like an eternity, probably reading one of his comic books or watching cat videos. The guy had a sixth sense for the exact moment when you'd need the bathroom, and he used it to make your mornings an absolute nightmare.

Which brings us to the present moment: you pounding on the bathroom door like there's no tomorrow, hopping up and down like a kangaroo, and shouting for the thousandth time. "Eddie, I swear to God, if you don't come out of that bathroom right now, I will pee on your bed!"

The only response you got was a noise that could only be described as someone eating in the most grotesque, inappropriate way. "Wait, are you... are you watching ASMR while I'm about to explode into a puddle of pee? Oh no, you did not. You are going to hear from me!"

The sound from inside got louder, and then he replied, "Sorry, I can't hear you. I'm busy watching this guy stuff a whole chicken leg into his mouth."

It took every ounce of restraint not to break down that door and give him a piece of your mind. Eddie's antics had hit a new low, and your patience was hanging by a thread. This was the pinnacle of absurdity, the kind of moment that made you question every decision that led you here. You'd been through a lot with Eddie, but this? This was a whole new level of "what the hell." It was like living with a YouTube compilation of the most obnoxious trends, all crammed into one bathroom-occupying nightmare.

You might need a whole new strategy—or, at this point, just a new apartment. Because if this was a glimpse into the future, you weren't sure you wanted to stick around to see what else Eddie had in store.

“Please, for the love of God, let me pee…” you said, almost on the verge of tears. This was getting exhausting. Eddie must've sensed the shift in your tone, because the annoying sounds suddenly stopped, and the door swung open to reveal a metalhead with frizzy hair, wearing Looney Tunes pajama pants.

He had this sheepish grin on his face, like he knew he'd pushed you to your limit but didn't quite realize how close you were to snapping. He stood there in all his ridiculous glory, holding his phone with a paused video of some guy eating what looked like a plate of ribs, totally unbothered. "Hey, no need to be so dramatic, it's all yours," he said, stepping aside as if he wasn't the cause of your impending bladder explosion.

You shot him a look that could've melted steel, then dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. As you finally got your much-needed relief, you could hear Eddie outside, humming some awful heavy metal tune to himself. It was like he had zero clue—or zero care—about how his antics drove you up the wall. He was just Eddie, living his best life, while you were left to deal with the chaos he left in his wake.

After the morning incident, you grabbed your coffee and headed straight to work, determined to shake off the chaos that was life with Eddie. But you could only escape for so long, because lunchtime rolled around, and you returned to the apartment, only to find a scene that looked like something straight out of a sitcom—think The Office, but even more ridiculous.

Eddie was in the kitchen, wearing an apron that said "Kiss the Cook," with his hair pulled back in a makeshift ponytail. The whole place smelled like something was burning, and he was frantically waving a dish towel at the smoke detector, trying to get it to shut up. It kept beeping, and every time it did, Eddie flinched like it was personally attacking him.

On the stove, there was a pan with some kind of unidentifiable charred mess, which he was desperately trying to scrape off with a spatula.

Your smile vanished the moment you noticed that the charred thing in the skillet was none other than the octopus you'd bought just the day before.

"What the hell?" You were furious, and it didn't help that Eddie was grinning like he was some kind of innocent angel.

He shrugged, clearly oblivious to the level of your outrage. "Oh, that was yours? My bad, I thought it was just... some random squid or something." He scratched the back of his head, as if he'd just made a minor mistake and not destroyed a perfectly good piece of seafood. The sight of him smiling like that only made your blood boil even more.

Your plans for a delicious lunch were now literally ashes, and Eddie was standing there like he'd just successfully solved a Rubik's Cube. You had to take a deep breath to keep from shouting. You'd put a lot of effort into picking out that octopus, and now it was just a blackened lump that even the trash bin would reject.

"How do you not know the difference between an octopus and a random squid? And who just grabs something from the fridge without asking?" you shot back, trying to keep your voice from escalating into full-blown rage.

Eddie looked around as if hoping to find an excuse or an escape route, but there was nowhere to run. He was cornered, and he knew it.

That was the last straw. Tears welled up in your eyes, and Eddie's expression shifted from cheerful to guilty in an instant. Before he could say anything, you turned and bolted out of the apartment, exhausted by the whole ordeal.

You couldn't stay there another minute. The anger and frustration had been building for weeks, and now it had boiled over. You needed space, air, and most importantly, a break from Eddie and his chaos. You didn't know where you were going, but you knew you couldn't be in that apartment for another second.

You walked for what felt like hours, letting the cool breeze and the distant sounds of the city calm you down. The world outside was peaceful compared to the constant drama of living with Eddie. As you strolled through the park and sat on a bench to collect your thoughts, you realized just how much the situation had been draining you.

You didn't go back home for the rest of the day. Instead, you found solace in the simple things—grabbing a coffee, listening to music. Anything to clear your mind and remind yourself that there was a whole world out there, far removed from Eddie's antics. You needed this time to figure out your next move, to decide if you could keep living with him or if it was time to break the lease and find a new place.

The one thing you knew for sure was that you couldn't keep going like this. Living with Eddie had become too much, and you'd had enough. It was time to put yourself first and find a way out of the madness.

As soon as you returned, he tried to talk.

"H—"

"Don't talk to me," you snapped, cutting him off mid-sentence. No room for discussion, no excuses. Just the sharp edge of your words.

Eddie looked taken aback, his eyes widening as if he'd just been hit by a surprise splash of cold water. You'd never spoken to him like that before, but you weren't in the mood to hear whatever half-baked apology or lame excuse he was about to offer. After everything that had happened, you just needed space and silence.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and backed off, his usual bravado deflating like a punctured balloon. You could feel him watching you as you walked past, but you didn't turn around. The time for talking was over, and you didn't owe him anything. You'd already had more than enough of his antics for one day.

You went to your room and closed the door, thankful for the barrier it provided. It wasn't much, but at least it gave you some distance from Eddie and his chaotic energy.

After some time reflecting, you decided it was time to talk about your decision. You went to the living room, where Eddie was watching one of his nerdy movies. He was glued to the screen, engrossed in whatever epic battle or spaceship chase was playing out.

"We need to talk," you said, standing by the couch with your arms crossed. Eddie turned his head, startled, but didn't say anything. He paused the movie, knowing this wasn't just a casual chat. "This isn't working," you continued. "I think it's better if I look for another place to live."

Eddie blinked a few times, processing your words. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch, scratching the back of his head. It was clear he hadn't expected this conversation. "You're leaving?" he finally asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

You nodded. "Yeah, it's just... too much. The constant noise, the bathroom thing, and then the whole octopus incident," you said, laying out the reasons. "It's not healthy, and I can't keep dealing with this."

Eddie looked genuinely regretful. "Hey, I'm sorry about all that. I didn't mean to—"

"It's not about apologies," you interrupted. "It's about needing space, needing peace. We just don't work as roommates, and that's okay. But I can't keep living like this."

He nodded like he understood your reasons, but what he said next was not at all what you expected.

"Ever wonder why I always bug you?" he asked, looking at you with an expression that was hard to read.

You frowned and shook your head, genuinely puzzled. "No, not really. I just figured you were... I don't know, Eddie."

He took a breath and then, almost sheepishly, replied, "It's because I want to get your attention."

Okay, what the hell? Your heart suddenly raced, and your mouth opened in a shocked gasp. Was he serious? All those antics, the noise, the drama—it was all because he wanted you to notice him? It sounded like something out of a high school rom-com, and it left you reeling.

"Wait, are you kidding?" you asked, trying to process what he was saying. Was this some sort of joke? But the look on his face told you he wasn't messing around. This was real, and he was genuinely trying to explain himself.

Eddie seemed to sense your disbelief, and he shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. "I know, it's dumb, right? But I don't know how else to talk to you. You seem so... I don't know, together. And I'm... well, I'm me," he said, gesturing to himself like he was some kind of cosmic disaster.

This conversation had taken a turn you weren't expecting. You'd come here to tell him you were moving out, and now you were dealing with a confession that threw everything into a whole new light. What were you supposed to say to that? It was hard enough dealing with his shenanigans as a roommate; now he was confessing that there might be more to it.

He continued, "Ever since Steve and Robin introduced us, I’ve been interested in you. You’re so smart, beautiful, and funny that I found myself falling for you, little by little."

Oh my God, it felt like your heart was about to burst from the rollercoaster of emotions you'd experienced today.

"Was it a stupid way to get your attention? Yes. Was I a jerk? Absolutely," he said, rubbing his temples like he was trying to make sense of it himself. "But I got so lost in my own feelings that it was the only thing I could think of to make you notice me..."

This wasn't at all what you expected when you walked into the living room. You'd imagined a straightforward breakup with your roommate, but now here he was, confessing that he had a crush on you. And not just any crush—one that had apparently driven him to turn your life into an ongoing episode of Jackass.

It was a lot to take in, and you didn't even know where to start. Part of you was still annoyed at him for all the chaos he'd caused, but another part of you felt a twinge of sympathy. Maybe Eddie wasn’t just the relentless man-child you thought he was. Maybe he was just... confused and desperate for your attention.

"Eddie," you began, struggling to find the right words, "you can't go around making my life miserable just because you like me. That's not how this works." You shook your head, trying to ground yourself. "I'm glad you told me how you feel, but this isn't the way to handle things. It just makes everything more complicated."

Eddie looked genuinely regretful, as if he realized that his antics might have done more harm than good. "I know," he said, his shoulders slumping a bit. "I didn't think it through. I just... I don't know, I panicked."

The whole situation was like a scene from a cheesy romantic comedy, but it was happening in real life, and you weren't sure how to navigate it. You'd come to tell him you were moving out, and now you had to figure out how to deal with this unexpected confession without losing your sanity.

You sighed, feeling like you'd been caught in the world's most twisted emotional chess game. After a moment of gathering your thoughts, you confessed to him, "I can't say I don't feel anything for you either... From the first day, I liked you, but I'm just so mad about everything." It was time to set things straight. "We can try something more, if you promise to never pull those idiotic stunts again, or I swear I'll kill you." The two of you chuckled at the last part.

Eddie's eyes lit up, a smile spreading across his face like you'd just given him the best news in the world. He looked almost like a puppy that had been let back inside after getting caught in the rain. "I promise, no more of that stuff. I mean it. If I do anything dumb, you can smack me with a frying pan," he said, putting his hand over his heart in a mockingly solemn gesture.

You couldn't help but laugh at his exaggerated seriousness. It was hard to stay mad at him when he was being so goofy. "I'll hold you to that. I have a pretty big frying pan," you replied, raising an eyebrow.

Eddie chuckled, clearly relieved that you weren't storming out the door. "Deal. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't mean to make things so hard for you. I just... I guess I went about it in the worst way possible." He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "But I'll do better, I promise. If it means we can try something, then I'll be on my best behavior."

It felt like a weight had been lifted, and the tension in the room eased a bit. You knew there'd be a lot of work to do to make this living arrangement function without the constant drama, but at least now you had a new understanding between you. It wasn't exactly the romantic journey you'd pictured, but at least it wasn't a total train wreck.

"We'll see," you said, giving him a half-smile. "But one more thing, Eddie—if you ever lock me out of the bathroom again, I won't just threaten to pee on your bed. I'll do it." The laughter that followed was a sign that maybe, just maybe, things might work out after all.

“Okay, I’m starving,” you said, breaking the mood with a light touch. “Sushi?”

“Sushi?” He grinned and pitched his voice into a silly imitation, making you roll your eyes. “Eddie, I’m serious,” you said, trying to sound stern.

“Eddie, I’m serious,” he repeated with an even bigger grin.

“Stop mocking me,” you whined, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Stop mocking me,” he echoed in an exaggeratedly whiny voice.

“I’m getting the frying pan,” you threatened.

“Sushi sounds great to me,” he replied instantly, flashing you his best innocent smile, you rolled your eyes and went to order the food.

You wouldn’t lie—even his idiotic ways had managed to win your heart too, but you’d never admit that to him.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Breukelen

I was born and grew up on the cement sidewalks and playgrounds of Brooklyn in a multiethnic/multiracial blue-collar neighborhood but it was not to be my ultimate destination. Although there was so much to love about my surroundings, I knew it was not where I wanted to end up.  Watching my father and the other fathers trudge home from the subways and buses from jobs they despised, I wanted something poles apart for myself.  I knew education was my way out to achieve my goals of not being a slave to the weekly paycheck, to be able to travel, to be in nature, to experience beauty.  

The sweaty men coming home from their factory jobs appeared so beaten down. There was great honor in what they did.  Providing for their family, giving their children the opportunities for something more, knowing they themselves would never be able to have it. Their pride in their children was their joy and their blessings.  The mothers had dinner just about ready when the fathers walked through the door. Their lives were about home, children, and subjugating desires in the hopes for a better life for their children. From the mothers and fathers, I learned hard work and persistence were necessary to achieve goals even if the goals were discrepant.

In the summer, the pavement would heat up and you could feel the hot steam radiating off the sidewalk. There was the heat of the summer sun with limited tree canopy, and becoming quickly drenched with perspiration from the unbearable humidity. In the month of June, school was oppressive from the heat and little academic work was attempted. In the winter, little heat from the furnace was used at night, and I’d shiver in bed from the cold.  My views of Brooklyn run hot and cold as well.

In some ways it was a magical place full of freedom and reckless abandon. The corner candy store with penny candies such as dots, bazooka bubble gum and licorice. Baseball cards could be bought for a think a dime with 5 cards and the rock hardest piece of gum. The endless games on the street and in the cement playgrounds. With a simple rubber ball, you could play stickball, box ball, stoop ball, hit the penny, punch ball, handball, and likely others that I can’t recall. You could walk around the block to see friends, even if it was to just hang out on the stoop.

I learned teamwork from the ceaseless playground sports, a lifelong skill that came in handy no matter the setting.  Being such a diverse neighborhood, I learned to read people well, so one could get along. Being Brooklyn, you also learned how to playfully harass each other and accept being chided.  An important aptitude was knowing how far you could go and the boundaries. Certainly, no one would get away with being haughty and were quickly put in their place.

There was a time my father came home with a coat for me.  It was a cheap knockoff fake leather coat and I surely knew that my friends would give me hell for wearing it.  Despite knowing what would happen, to please my father I wore it once or twice, and sure enough my friends wasted no time making fun of me and the coat. I stopped wearing it and my father didn’t understand why I wouldn’t wear it while my friends would also question why I wasn’t wearing it but their interests were not so benevolent.

However, like the heat, the community could be stifling. There was not a lot in the way of beauty, art, nature and intellectual curiosity. The palette was bland in many ways. All were economically struggling families so in that way there was not much diversity in lifestyle.  You had to go into Manhattan (the city), to see folks leading a more varied cultural and economic journeys.

I loved the bohemia of Greenwich village.  The varied ways people dressed, acted, sexual orientations, and the freedoms it encouraged. The museums of the city allowed me to see art, beauty, culture, and have a greater anthropological understanding of the animal kingdom and humanity.  The talent at a Broadway play was astounding.   The music, dance, acting, singing, costumes, set designs are all awe-inspiring.  I’d walk down fifth avenue and watch wealthy people shop and wonder how did all those people get so much money as I personally didn’t know anyone like that. I’d go into Saks Fifth Avenue to use the bathroom but would wander the fur department and be transported into a different civilization.

Although as a teen and a young man, I thought I’d end up in Greenwich Village as my escape from Brooklyn, it was not to be. My friends foresaw my future better than I could. I guess they were good at reading people too.  My friends had a nickname for me, nature boy, as I would take girls to prospect park, the botanic gardens, and any green space I could find.  I guess it is no surprise I spent over 30 years living in the forest in Maine surrounded by greens turning to yellows, reds, oranges, browns in the autumn.

Although I made my break from Brooklyn at age 18, Brooklyn is deeply ingrained in my character, nature, soul. I can still be the fast talking, wise cracking guttersnipe who doesn’t let a friend or associate get away with being snooty. For nature boy also likes taking down myself or someone else a peg or two.  Brooklyn has never been politically correct but within its historical diversity you accept we are all alike, no better nor worse than each other. I’ve been told I can come across very self-assured and confident in my proclamations, but I too am just that guy in the fake leather vinyl coat. Go ahead, take a swipe at me, the kid from Brooklyn can take it.

[catsvrsdogscatswin]

Hellsing Commentary 2 Notes

This commentary is done by Taliesin Jaffe, the voice director and script adapter of Hellsing, Patrick Seitz, the voice of Luke Valentine, and Josh Phillips, the voice of Jan Valentine. Direct quotes may vary in accuracy, as these are written down from audio without transcripts. I also didn't write down every joke or piece of trivia because I feel like people who watch the commentaries should get to have some nice surprises for stuff that isn't covered here.

-Taliesin says that they take their cues from Dracula.

-According to Taliesin, on the day they recorded Alucard's flashback the VA that played Helsing "shows up to the door in a trench coat, bringing storm weather with him, and says 'Hello.' (Thick Dutch accent) and I was like 'Ah, Von Helsing!'"

-Someone sent Taliesin a box of cigars from Integra's brand at one point and he "went through them very fast, they're very nice."

-Like Crispin, Patrick would also listen to Integra's VA read the telephone book.

-Taliesin had to pull Mike McFarland to help him write "some truly vile things" for the Valentine brothers (mostly Jan.)

-Josh and Taliesin were both "groggy" (tongue-in-cheek 'hungover') the first day they came in to do the series together.

-Hellsing was only the third or fourth thing Patrick had worked on, so while coming back for Ultimate he got nervous about matching his prior performance, during his first tenure he was inexperienced enough to be like "So I talk after the beeps? Is that what- huh?"

-Josh and Patrick were the first choices for their roles and there "wasn't even a question" to Taliesin as for who would play the Valentine brothers.

-Taliesin's favorite line of Jan's speech prior to entering the Hellsing estate was cut due to not having enough time. After stating "I mean, what the fuck?" he was supposed to add "What do you do for a living with that thing!?"

-When working with Luke Valentine/Patrick, Taliesin says that the main fight was "Making sure you sounded like a cheap imitation and knockoff of Crispin without actually sounding like a cheap imitation and knockoff of Crispin."

-Patrick says "When my friends find out I was in this, they're always like 'Oh, you're like, a Valentine brother? Are you the one that swears!?' No. 'Oh. Oh…well, that's still cool.' Without fail!"

-Taliesin jokes that "When you're in doubt and you need Englishmen, you go to the video game Medal of Honor and you start taking all of their actors, is the trick."

-There was a lot of talk about Jan's Konami joke, because according to Taliesin the Japanese thought it never quite came off for them. They had a long talk about "Are people gonna get this?" but eventually decided to leave it in.

-They rewrote Jan's loudspeaker speech the same day they recorded it.

-The one that took the most time for recording OVA 2 was Walter's VA.

-Josh plays guitar and sings in his own band. At least at the time of the commentary, he shows up in LA "every once in a while."

-In regard to how Luke massacred the Hellsing soldiers, Patrick was deeply excited about how in Ultimate "I'm not just showing up and talking the big talk and then getting my ass beat down, I get to have some coolness first." One of Luke's moves while killing the Hellsing soldiers is also a reference to Fist of the North Star.

-According to an offhand comment by Taliesin, Jan wears a Nike jumpsuit.

-Josh apparently has lip piercings and Taliesin disparagingly jokes about how "It's the thirty minutes we have to wait for you to take out your hardware." while doing voiceacting. Patrick gleefully adds "It’s like a damn windchime, Jesus!" Josh comments a few minutes later that "You could actually play Mary had a Little Lamb on these two."

-The going-around-the-table-with-exhale reactions are "one of the things that drive me a little crazy about this job" for Taliesin, "'cause it works in Japanese, but you look at it and go 'How on earth am I going to make this work in English?!'"

-Both Taliesin and Josh comment on how Seras does not match her VA at all, calling Katie Grey this "serene, quiet...sweetheart" and a "peaceful little flower girl." She also sings and records her own "folky, girl-with-a-guitar" music.

-Taliesin has gotten to play with a monocle before and "you don't have to squeeze your eyebrow down as hard as you think."

-Josh comments that Crispin "gets to be a lot more insane in this one. Like, when this fight really gets going he's like, freaky."

-Taliesin is an H.P. Lovecraft fan.

-They had a tough time casting Walter, but eventually settled on a "Roddy McDowall" voice, because Taliesin likes "the sound of an old person who never really got very good at it."

-According to Taliesin, there is a common misnomer in Japanese that English is a faster language, which has made him come to believe that the Japanese put extra lip flaps into the show to make it easier for the dubbers. He actually wrote to them at one point with "Please, stop! Less animation, for the love of god!"

-Taliesin is annoyed about Luke Valentine getting so many shots out of what seems to be a small flintlock gun, pointing out that there's nowhere to actually fit the bullets in the gun. Patrick jokingly replies "I've got mind bullets!" They continue ragging on this for several minutes.

Taliesin: "But seriously, I see a lock, I see a stock, I see a barrel, I don't know where the bullets go, because that's a musket."

Patrick: "They go into Alucard."

Taliesin: "So why don't you just come in there with a matchlock, why don't you, like a little piece of burnt rope in your hand going 'Wait wait wait, just have to light the match here, hold on.'"

-There were "like 19 different things" written for Jan's line after he busts into the Round Table Conference, including "Shit," and "Hi."

-Because Crispin/Alucard's starting point is "a lot more chilled-out now," Taliesin got to build his levels of crazy, "same as Anderson," who's no longer "just crazy." Patrick comments at this point that he enjoyed Anderson during the original TV series, but likes him even more in Ultimate.

-The sound(s) for Alucard's hellhounds are made with "a layer of Crispin going 'AGHBLAGRAHH,' Crispin doing Tasmanian Devil," and an underlying high-end of "crying awful babies" that were reversed, chopped up, etc.

-Taliesin jokingly likens the moment to where Alucard finds out Luke isn't on his level as "it’s like suddenly finding your date won't put out." Patrick adds "He seems so let down: 'I thought you were different, different than the others,'" and Taliesin agrees, saying that that was exactly what they were going for.

-Patrick comments that they got Luke's death scene "in less screams than I thought, I thought I was gonna be shrieking all the way."

-"AND THOSE LAST SEVEN BULLETS THAT YOU WERE KEEPING IN YOUR FLINTLOCK!"

-The snarling/berserk "batshit crazy" version of Seras is what got Katie Grey the part back when she was cast, before Taliesin got the scripts or had even seen the anime. OVA 2 also happens to be the "last place of safety, casting-wise" for Taliesin, since starting on OVA 3 he has to start casting again.

-According to Taliesin, the Darby Bible is the bible to use when quoting.

-At the time of recording the commentary on OVA 2, Taliesin was working on getting contacts in Germany to make sure the German/Austrian/Dutch accents are correct. When casting, he also runs his ideas by Japan and "-they'll either say 'That's- that's nice,' at which point I know I have to think more on that because they're not happy, or they go 'Ooh, that's really cool,' and then, you know, you've done it."

[piratewithvigor]

My first thought in regard to every band that gets played on my radio station

ACDC: Every dad’s favourite band

Adams, Bryan: Every mom’s favourite singer until Michael Buble came along

Aerosmith: haha they thought Vince Neil was a lady

Alice Cooper: he’s a Game Of Thrones fanboy and I have proof

Alice In Chains: my sister doesn’t like them because she decided AC were Alice Cooper’s initials ONLY

Allman Brothers Band: good music for dropping acid to

Allman, Gregg: That’s too many Gs for one name

Animals: House Of The Rising Sun, or who even cares

Argent: Sometimes Hold Your Head Up is really catchy

Asia: Tuesdays

Autograph: one of the members went on to be a pharmacist

Bachman-Turner Overdrive: There are just so many pop culture jokes about Taking Care Of Business that whatever I say won’t be as funny

Bad Company: with their song; Bad Company, off their album; Bad Company

Benatar, Pat: Always getting her confused with Patti Smith

Black Crowes: I like them for Lickin, but it doesn’t seem to exist outside of one shoddy video on youtube and my old CD

Blackfoot: this band name feels kind of racy

Black Sabbath: Dio was not better or worse than Ozzy; just different

Blondie: I like Call Me, but Blondie confuses me stylistically

Blue Oyster Cult: MORE COWBELL

Bon Jovi: Hello, childhood trauma, I missed you

Boston: ONE GUY. ONE GUY DID IT ALL AND NO ONE KNOWS

Bowie, David: Don’t let your children watch The Man Who Fell To Earth, or David Bowie’s will end up being the third penis they see in life

Browne, Jackson: Another musician ruined by Supernatural

Buffalo Springfield: Jack Nicholson was at the riot they sing about

Burdon, Eric: no ideas, brain empty

Bush: ditto

Candlebox: ditto once more. Who are these people?

Cars: This band feels so gay and so straight at the same time, I can only assume they’re the poster children of bisexual panic

Cheap Trick: I played Dream Police on Guitar Hero so fucking much because it was the only song anyone who played with me could keep up with

Chicago: Chicago 30 exists, but they do not have 30 albums. Fucking riddle me that

Clapton, Eric: 6 discs in one Greatest Hits is too many. That’s called “re releasing your discography”

Cochrane, Tom: For some reason, everyone thinks Rascal Flats did it better

Cocker, Joe: Belushi did it right

Collective Soul: who?

Collins, Phil: If his biggest hits were done by MCR, they would be emo anthems, but because he’s 5′6″ and from the 80s, they’re not

Cream: *Vietnam flashbacks on the hippie side*

CCR: *Vietnam flashbacks on the war side*

CSNY: David Crosby; meh

Deep Purple: THEY’RE SO MUCH MORE THAN SMOKE ON THE WATER

Def Leppard: the only music for when you’re a heartbroken bitch but also a sexy one

Derek And The Dominos: Clapton and ‘Layla’ broke up

Derringer, Rick: Tom Petty if he was from the midwest

Dio: You thought it was an anime reference, but it was me, Dio

Dire Straits: You can tell how bigoted a radio station is based on how much of Money For Nothing they censor

Doobie Brothers: I have yet to smoke weed, but I listen to the Doobies, and I think that’s pretty close

Dylan, Bob: I take back everything I said about him in my youth

Eagles: Hotel California isn’t their best song, but the memes that come from it are second to none

Edgar Winter Group: @the--blackdahlia

Electric Light Orchestra: Actually an orchestra and sound a fuckton like George Harrison

ELO: I really hesitate to ask what happens with the 7 virgins and a mule

Essex, David: no prominent memories of him

Fabulous Thunderbirds: cannot spell

Faces: Who on earth thought that was a good album name?

Faith No More: I got nothing

Fixx: One Thing Leads To Another is a damn bop

Fleetwood Mac: I ain’t straight, but I’m simply not enough of a witch to enjoy them to full potential

Fogerty, John: He got sued cause he sounded like himself

Foghat: Slow Ride slowly becoming less coherent feels like a drug trip

Foo Fighters: He was just excited to buy a grill

Ford, Lita: deserved better

Foreigner: dramatically overplayed

Frampton, Peter: a masterful user of the talk box

Free: dramatically underplayed

Gabriel, Peter: leaving Genesis changed him a lot

Genesis: if someone likes Genesis, clarify the era, because yes, it does matter

Georgia Satellites: sing like you have a cactus in your ass

Golden Earring: Twilight Zone slaps, but it doesn’t slap as hard as this station thinks it does

Grand Funk Railroad: Funk

Grateful Dead: I like their aesthetic more than their music

Great White: there are so many fucking shark jokes

Greenbaum, Norman: makes me think of Subway for some reason

Green Day: the first of the emo revolution

Greg Kihn Band: RocKihnRoll is literally the most clever album name I’ve ever seen

Guns N Roses: They have more than three good songs, but radio stations never recognize that

Hagar, Sammy: I’m still trying to figure out where he lived to take 16 hours to get to LA driving 55 and how fucking fast was he driving beforehand?

Harrison, George: He went from religious to rock, and if he had continued rocking, he would have gotten too cool 

Head East: I respect people who use breakfast foods as album names

Heart: Magic Man and Barracuda are played at least once every goddamn day. They’re not even the best songs!

Hendrix, Jimi: I have both a cousin and a sibling named after Hendrix references

Henley, Don: Dirty Laundry gives me too much inspiration

Hollies: Somehow sound like they’re both from the 60s and the 80s at the same time

Idol, Billy: he’s doing well for himself

INXS: Terminator vibes

Iris, Donnie: knockoff Roy Orbison

James Gang: too many funks

Jane’s Addiction: if TMNT had a grunge band representative

Jefferson Airplane: *assorted cheers*

Jefferson Starship: *assorted boos*

Jethro Tull: The only band to make you feel not cool enough to play the flute

Jett, Joan: icon

J. Geils Band: I requested them on the radio once and it got played

Joel, Billy: he really did just air everybody’s business like that

John Cafferty And The Beaver Brown Band: literally wtf is that name

John, Elton: yarn Elton sits in my basement, unstaring. Please someone take him from me

Joplin, Janis: Queen

Journey: Stop overplaying Don’t Stop Believing. It takes away from the rest of the repetoire

Judas Priest: literally started the gay leather aesthetic

Kansas: another fucking band Supernatural stole

Kenny Wayne Shepherd: the man confuses me to the point where he isn’t in the right place alphabetically

Kiss: Mick Mars and I will simply have to disagree on the subject

Kravitz, Lenny: runaway vibes

Led Zeppelin: Fucking fight me if you don’t think they’re the most talented band (maybe not the most talented individually, but collectively, no one comes close)

Lennon, John: My least favourite Beatle for reasons

Live: I got nothin

Living Colour: slap a decent amount

Loverboy: do you not get TURNT the fuck up to the big Loverboy hits? Who hurt you??

Lynyrd Skynyrd: Sweet Home Alabama is a Neil Young diss track

Marshall Tucker Band: no opinion

Manfred Mann’s Earth Band: VERY STRONG OPINIONS THAT THEY AREN’T GOOD

McCartney, Paul/Wings: Power couple

Meatloaf: I have nothing but respect for a man who willingly named himself Meatloaf

Mellencamp, John: voted cutest lesbian of 1987

Metallica: I liked their appearance on Jimmy Fallon

Midnight Oil: I get them confused for Talking Heads a lot

Modern English: who?

Molly Hatchet: Hollies vibes, but also Georgia Satellites vibes

Money, Eddie: DAN AVIDAN, IF YOU SEE THIS, COVER TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT

Motley Crue: Stan Mick Mars and John Corabi. They’re the only ones who deserve it

Mott The Hoople: no one loves them except for David Bowie

Mountain: props for naming an album ‘Climbing’

Nazareth: I want to make a John Mulaney joke here, but I can never come up with one

Nicks, Stevie: witch queen

Night Ranger: I get them confused with Urge Overkill

Nirvana: Kurt Cobain was the ally grunge needed

Nova, Aldo: he’s Canadian, at least

Nugent, Ted: *serves a ghost as jerky*

Offspring: nothing here

Osbourne, Ozzy: this bitch crazy

Outfield: Your Love is kind of a sketchy song, but it slaps hard

Palmer, Robert: low quality Eddie Money

Pearl Jam: *grunts in Eddie Vedder*

Petty, Tom: I have so many feelings about Tom Petty and they are all good

Pink Floyd: which one is Pink?

Plant, Robert: solo career is a crapshoot, but his voice is unparalleled

Poison: I want them to write a song called ‘Alice Cooper’

Pretenders: I want to say good things, but I have nothing to say

Queen: A doctor of astrophysics, a screaming girl, a disco queen and a diva walk into a bar. It’s Queen; they’re there to play a gig

Queensryche: neutral opinion

Quiet Riot: they got big because of a song they hated. I love that

Rafferty, Gerry: the second-sexiest sax opening in all of music

Rainbow: Ritchie Blackmore created something very magnificent

Ram Jam: one good song and they didn’t even write it

Ratt: I’m sure they have more than Round And Round, but I don’t know it

RHCP: funky, but if you have paid money to hear them, you’re going to The Bad Place (I don’t make the rules)

Red Rider: basically Golden Earring

Reed, Lou: Walk On The Wild Side would be such a cool song if it wasn’t so dull

REM: American Tragically Hip

REO Speedwagon: Props for having a dad joke as an album title

Rolling Stones: Never in my life could I imagine the drummer being named anything but Charlie

Rush: How to make being uncool the coolest fucking shit

Santana: The world needs more Santana

Scandal: There’s something really funny about The Warrior being my brother’s “song” with his girlfriend

Scorpions: Was Wind Of Change written by the CIA? Only the spotify podcast I got an ad for once could say

Seger, Bob: A different variety of Eric Clapton (frankly a better variety, but that’s just me)

Simple Minds: we ALL forgot about you

Skid Row: Sebastian Bach is prettier than all of us

Soundgarden: music that makes you feel like you dunked your head underwater

Springsteen, Bruce: my arch-nemesis. Maybe someday, he’ll find out about it

Squeeze: according to my friends, the stupidest band name ever, but they’re theatre kids, so you know

Squier, Billy: If he can make it through 1984 alive, you can make it through whatever bad day you’re having

Stealers Wheel: Yet another band who I always mistake for George Harrison

Steely Dan: my house’s nickname for the Robber in Settlers Of Catan

Steppenwolf: Either makes me think of Jay & Silent Bob, Jack Nicholson, or that time I had to cut 6lbs of onions

Steve Miller Band: when you’re in the right mood, they slap hard

Stewart, Rod: my soundtrack to summer 2015

Stills, Stephen: Love The One You’re With Is Catchy, but the lyrics are questionable

Stone Temple Pilots: the only band to write a song about goo you smear on yourself

Stray Cats: an obscene amount of merch is available for them

Styx: Supernatural would have ruined them for me too if I hadn’t been into them previously. 

Supertramp: I hunted for Breakfast In America for two years and it was worth every hunt

Sweet: I will never understand my two-month obsession with Ballroom Blitz when I was 15, but it was legit all I listened to

Talking Heads: you may find yourself in a pizza hut. And you may find yourself in a taco bell. And you may find yourself at the combination pizza hut and taco bell. And you may ask yourself; ‘how did I get here?’

Temple Of The Dog: I keep confusing them for Nazareth

Ten Years After: somehow still relevant

Tesla: not the car or the dude

The Beatles: Evokes a lot of opinions from people. Mine is that I love them

The Clash: I showed my sister the ‘Lock The Taskbar’ vine ONCE and it still kills her

The Doors: evokes teenage terror from deep within my soul

The Guess Who: Canada’s answer to confusing question-themed band names

The Kinks: kinky

The Police: wrote the theme of 2020 and everyone somehow forgot it was about a teacher resisting becoming a pedophile

The Ramones: playing all of their songs in a row wouldn’t take more than 2 hours

The Romantics: you don’t think you know them, but if you’ve seen Shrek 2, you have

The Who: If someone can explain Tommy to me, I’d be glad to hear it

The Zombies: I think they happened because of the 60s

Thin Lizzy: Could the boys maybe leave town?

Thorogood, George: blues, but make it modern

Toto: the most memed song behind All Star

Townshend, Pete: just makes me think of the end of Mr. Deeds

T-Rex: Mark Bolan is an icon

Triumph: The no-name brand of Rush

Tubes: like the yogurt

Twisted Sister: they did a christmas album and my mom does NOT hate it

U2: U2 Movers; we move in mysterious ways

Van Halen: RIP Eddie

Van Morrison: honestly, who’s named Van?

Vaughn, Stevie Ray: Steamy Ray Vaughn

Walsh, Joe: The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get

War: Foghat, but even groovier

Whitesnake: the most successful band to be named after a penis

Wright, Gary: the 90s thanks him for writing the song every movie used for the “guy sees cute girl and it’s love at first sight” scene

Yes: To Be Continued

Young, Neil: The best part of CSNY

Zevon, Warren: the album cover of Excitable Boy makes me deeply uncomfortable for reasons I don’t understand

ZZ Top: has been the same three guys since 1969. Lineup unchanged. 

3 Doors Down: They feel a little modern to be on a classic rock station, but whatever

38 Special: Why 38?

[nomanwalksalone]

OTHER PEOPLE’S GEAR

by Alexander Freeling

Borrowed branding has a strange appeal. The most egregious example might be Franklin & Marshall: not the small liberal arts college in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, but the Italian clothing brand of the same name, which for years produced athletic clothing with unlicensed Franklin & Marshall logos, before finally going straight and cutting a deal with the college. Their hoodies, sweatpants and tees sold well outside of the United States, and low-end fashion retailers in the UK are still trying to shift boxes of them. For the rest of the world, it was a believable heritage logo with a dash of New England money and collegiate athleticism. In the US—where business was decidedly less successful—it was just someone else’s gear.

This illustrates a more general point. If uniform is sufficiently obscure, borrowing becomes playful rather than posturing. My favorite piece of sportswear as a kid was a rugby shirt I found in a small (and now tragically closed) factory shop in a small English village. It was stuffed with seconds and new old stock for minor sports teams and school clubs, and for some reason, old replica kits for minor international competitors. This is how I ended up with a Romanian national team shirt in canary yellow. Not the kind of rugbies that fashion brands sell to preppy Anglophile poseurs, with hard plastic buttons (unlawful in the professional game), but a real, rip-stop, rubber-button, cotton jersey. Well, a real replica, let’s say.

My brother, meanwhile, developed a taste for the kind of fake soccer shirts that you might find in any southern European resort town during the summer. Not mere knockoffs, you understand, but the kind of fakes that are scarcely believable, because of either how obscure the team is or how ludicrous the printer’s errors are. It’s not far from the things that excite philatelists.

The best of these borrowings resemble a broken hyperlink: it points to something that no longer exists or was never there. Old political campaigns, long-gone bookstores, bankrupt and fraudulent financial firms and commemorations of victories that never came to pass.

OPG offers a kind of inverse nostalgia: it’s charming because it represents the lives you haven’t lived and those you have no intention of sampling. This is why I can find no joy in Zara’s “BRITISH COUNTRYSIDE” slogan sweater (thanks to the caprice of fast fashion, that link may already be dead). It’s also why there’s something missing from fake graphic tees advertising imaginary diners, sports clubs, and holiday destinations. I’d rather wear a cap repping an unknown but real agribusiness than an invented horticultural club.

Crucially, OPG should never be used to enhance status. For one thing, it never works. Using branding that you are entitled to is bad enough (because who wants to look entitled?) College cufflinks for Gen X and “clever” tote bags for millennials are common offenders here. The honorable exception might be school t-shirts at the gym, where educational paraphernalia impresses no one. The episode of The Office where Dwight proudly wears his Cornell sweater (as a prospective applicant, not alum) in order to enrage Andy, who’s convinced that his status as a Cornell man proves his superiority, is a study in the petulance of both the entitled gear wearer and illegitimate OPG. The most objectionable form might be militaria: if you’re patriotic, wearing a uniform you’ve not earned is an insult to the ideal of service; if you’re not, it’s the worst kind of hollow nationalism.

It’s true, there are many ways for the whole game to turn sour (caps with sportscar branding are like fragrances from fashion designers: they exist to sell a cheap taste of the real thing at ten times the margin). But at its best, OPG is a seductive cocktail of referential fun and obscure collecting. And in the unlikely event that you meet another fan of that Albanian spa or second-division Colombian soccer team, you’ll have an instant friend.

[delanyb]

Freddy Fazbear Headcanons

Fnaf 1

Is always tired due to having to deal with a bunch of kids during daytime and four more during the night shift

The others see him as bossy

Even though he doesn’t like to show his appreciation for his friends on the outside, deep down, he considers them the one thing that keeps him going everyday,

Looks up to Fredbear as a mentor of sorts and thinks that he’ll never be as good as a animatronic entertainer as him

He doesn’t think Golden Freddy and Fredbear are the same

Kids are always begging for his autograph during daytime

If kids are being rude or are fighting with others, he’ll take their toys and hide them inside his stomach cavity until they learn to behave

Like Circus Baby, he can take song requests for his music box

Unfortunately for him, kids usually request the same old nursery rhymes every day and it gets really ear grating for him

He’s the one who added the “Don’t Touch Freddy” rule. He really isn’t the best when it comes to social interactions and didn’t want something like Fredbear’s bite to happen again

Even though he’s the face of FFP, Fazbear Entertainment doesn’t do regular maintenance on him due to constant budget cuts

He’s always smelling like expired pizza and is usually covered with lollipops and spits from the younger customers who come to the Pizzera

Freddy likes to have a clean appearance so he tries cleaning himself up. He tries covering all those lollipop stains with official Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza licensed safety kit bandages

He plays the Toreador March whenever the power goes out to calm the night guard down, thinking that like him, Mike is just scared of the dark

His nose does indeed honk when you touch it. It’s a part of his comedy routine and seems to work on the kids everytime

Ultimate Custom Night

Freddy was extremely honoured to be a part of Fredbear’s Ultimate Custom Night.

Even though he was Fredbear’s number one fan, he tried to hide that part of him to not freak Fredbear out and ruin their friendship

Some of the other animatronics weren’t happy with what position and method of attack they were assigned to, but not Freddy

He was blinded with complete awe by Fredbear that he didn’t really care that he was essentially reduced to just another animatronic that could easily be avoided

He travels faster when the heat goes up due to his servos and crossbeams not being able to withstand the temperature

The extra heat also causes his eye vision to become less clear.

For instance sometimes he get confused on who is who between Nightmare and Nightmare Fredbear, or goes to Funtime Foxy’s pirate cove by accident when he was trying to go to Foxy and Bonnie’s

He does try to visit his original friends more frequently as the nights goes on.

As for the other Freddys he really doesn’t understand how Toy Freddy doesn’t get tired of the same old game formula

Feels pity for Phantom Freddy since long gone are the days of friendship for him. Freddy couldn’t imagine how he could live without his friends

Nightmare Freddy taught him about something he only thought were in fairytales. Parenthood...

Everyone sees Nedd Bear as a knockoff of Freddy except Freddy himself

He and Molten Freddy really don’t bond over anything. However Freddy helps him walk since Molten is still getting used to the new body Fredbear crafted for him

Sometimes Freddy plays his music box to help keep all the distracting noise at bay and to help Charlie to go back to sleep inside of Lefty

He thinks Rockstar Freddy needs a new hobby

This was actually the first time he met his “rival” in Animatronic Entertainment, Circus Baby

He thinks that it’s really cool that she can do a lot of things like being able to inflate balloons and make ice cream

It kinds of makes him wonder why Fazbear Entertainment didn’t make him as advanced as any of the animatronics made by Afton Robotics

Help Wanted

The core four animatronics are the one with their personalities most intact with their coding once they were scanned into the vr game

The shoe and watch hidden inside of Freddy were included becuase back at his Pizzera it was common to see Freddy with certain human sized accessories especially after hours

Freddy is very protective over his personal possessions such as his music box, which is why he makes a scene when you are caught mishandling it

In the Fazbear Virtual Experience, Freddy isn’t really the same after you successfully complete his part and service level

As he sees the new music box you inserted inside of him as a cheap replacement

He’s the only one who knows the recipe of a Freddy Fudgebar

He can’t stand the smell of Exotic Butters much to Ennard’s surprise

Thinks that the minifigure of himself that you can earn at the Prize Counter looks silly

Doesn’t trust Glitchtrap, usually does things his way and doesn’t follow the rabbit’s orders at all

When he first saw Dreadbear, he thought he was done for. After all how could a little brown bear compare to this monstrous bolt electrifying bear who’s triple his size

However soon he came to realize that Dreadbear couldn’t hurt a fly, even if he tried

He tries to get him to stop playing by Glitchtrap’s rules

Dreadbear has no idea what Freddy’s talking about though. He was just happy he found one of his many “dads”

[27dragons]

Joy to the Tower

(for the @tonystarkbingo Flash Bingo Card 8 - Joy)

Rating: Gen Pairing: None Warnings: None Summary: What do you get for a genius billionaire superhero philanthropist for Christmas?

“What’s this?” Tony asked, shuffling into the common room with a mug of coffee clutched in both hands. There was a pile of packages piled on the couch cushion he usually claimed.

Sam snorted. “Clint, it turns out, is actually eight years old and couldn’t wait on the grownups to get started on presents.”

“I didn’t open any,” Clint pointed out indignantly. “I think I should get some credit for that. I just sorted them.”

“Okay,” Tony said, interrupting whatever Sam was going to say, “but why did you have to make a pile on my spot?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Because they’re yours? I thought you were a genius, man. Keep up.”

Tony looked down at the pile again. Sure enough, the tags on them all said Tony in varying scripts. “Did you guys miss the part where I’m am actual billionaire and can buy whatever I want for myself?”

“That’s just sad, Stark,” Natasha said. She was wearing fleece footie pyjamas in an eye-searing design of purple and green snowflakes on a yellow background. “It’s not about who has more money. It’s about who your friends are.”

“Come sit down,” Steve urged. “We were just about to send someone to get you so we could get started.”

(the rest is under the cut!)

Gamely, Tony shuffled his coffee and the pile of gifts until he had enough space to sit down. By the time he’d managed it, Clint was already ripping the paper off what turned out to be the most hideously ugly sweater Tony had ever seen, in an eye-searing shade of purple. “Thanks, I hate it!” Clint said cheerfully. He pulled the sweater on over his pyjama top and then it was Natasha’s turn to unwrap an assortment of gourmet teas.

When it came around to Tony’s turn, he somewhat dubiously pulled the paper off of a... 

“Is this a cheap knockoff Captain America action figure?” He turned the box over in his hands, but the writing was all in Chinese.

“Excuse you,” Clint said indignantly, “it’s a lovingly crafted General Patriotism action figure. No copyright infringement here!”

Tony laughed. The thing ever looked kind of like Steve. Well, if you’d caught Steve’s face in an industrial press and squashed it a little lopsided. 

The next gift he opened was a kid’s diary, complete with a tiny single-toothed key. On the cover was Thor. Or was trying to be Thor, except whoever had done the painting had apparently only ever seen Thor through some kind of funhouse mirror.

“Did... Did you all get me terrible Avengers-adjacent unlicensed merch?” Tony wondered, another bubble of laughter rising in his chest.

“Pretty much,” Bucky said, smirking.

By the time they’d finished, Tony was in possession of a thin, scratchy beach towel with someone who was definitely not Natasha in a bikini (while inexplicably wearing Natasha’s trademark bracers); a t-shirt with a Hulk on it that was more blue than green; a Christmas ornament that might have been Sam except that whoever had designed it had apparently forgotten to mention that Sam was black; and an oven mitt, of all things, that read HAWKKEY in bright red on top of a purple background, with an arrow shooting across the wrist. Tony’s sides and chest ached with laughing, and the others seemed to be enjoying it almost as much, trading stories about where they’d found the awful things.

Bucky brought out a final present. “Had to save the best for last,” he said, placing it on Tony’s lap.

Tony opened it with a show of false trepidation. “Is it a ‘Winter Fighter’ throw rug with the arms switched?” he guessed.

“Nah, better than that.”

Tony opened the box to reveal... an Iron Man nutcracker. “Oh my god,” he gasped, all but collapsing into helpless giggles.

“You guy, this is... this is amazing.”

Steve reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. “We wanted to bring a little joy into your life,” he explained.

“Well, mission accomplished.”

[colourful-void]

the mystery of the knockoff ace attorney book my mom bought on amazon

this book is like one of those uncanny pictures where there’s more wrong with it the more you look. So it’s an unofficial transcript of the first game, alright, what could be wrong?

- all lines appear to be ripped from textbox formatting, with no indication of who’s speaking and what is/is not internal monologue.

- despite having the English logo on the cover, the names inside are Japanese, as well as using honorifics, using yen instead of dollars, and generally taking place in Japan

- speaking of the cover: its got a bunch of Apollo Justice characters (one of which i don’t even recognize but i think im just not far enough in) on the front cover, and the back is what appears to be older phoenix (blue eyes) running in an airport with a suitcase. the picture is squished to fit the book’s size.

- there are large chunks of plot missing. the steel samurai case never happens it just goes larry’s trial, maya’s trial, edgeworth’s trial.

- certain parts have formatting errors, or empty boxes that happen when the font won’t display correctly.

- there is no seperation between cases, it just goes into one long paragraph, through out the whole book.

- at the end before what appears to be a teaser for the next game is a list of the cast. the live action cast from the 2012 movie. none of the writers or anyone else is credited.

at around this point i realize this is probably a rough translation of the 2012 movie script. I can’t be sure since I haven’t seen it. I compared the wiki summary and the book, and I’m 90% sure I’m correct.

I investigated the amazon listing: turns out the author has done this for dozens of movies, all with the same description. however, I have a mystery i want to solve. where did this transcript come from?

Obviously i don't think the guy who put this for sale on amazon wrote it, since he’s just a scammer. I think he found a translated transcript and stole it. but who translated the original script?

At one point, when going over Phoenix’s backstory, they mention the stolen money, putting it at 3800 yen. underneath is a translation note that reads “3800 Yen is approximately 50 Dollars”

Here’s the thing though... no it isn’t. At least not american dollars. American dollars is roughly 38$. It’s closer to Canadian (47$), Australian (48$) or New Zealand ($51) dollars from what I can find, though I haven’t checked every type of dollar.

The mystery of why the book exists has been solved, from what I can tell some guy finds movie scripts, chucks the first image he can find on google on the cover, and puts em on amazon for cheap.

The mystery of who wrote the translation remains unsolved.

[slushyseals]

THANK U FOR THE WARNING WTF how could ppl be so mean to wanna scam us seal lovers...

No prob bob…er… mergoth!

General info on bootlegs under the cut!

Amazon has a pretty bad problem with bootleggers, and to make it worse there’s a ton of other places the scammers are posting the knockoffs. Honestly there are a TON of bootleg products out there, this one just hit my niche so it was easy for me to recognize it, and I have a fairly decent number of followers with a similar interest (seals) so hopefully I can warn most people before they’re tricked. At this point I think most people that will be tricked will be people who aren’t super into seals and see one of the random ads. I’ve tried getting things taken down from Amazon before and it is near impossible (someone was selling my artwork on a product), I imagine Facebook is the same case.

I think a lot of people get enough good products from Amazon that they just trust their purchases are the same as going to a legitimate store- Amazon is flooded with bootlegs, many that aren’t just fan art shirts and merch but products (like figma action figures) that the bootleggers disassemble a legit sculpt and make their own molds to cast lower quality figures. Most popular products have a bootleg version, some under a parody name but some that look so identical you can’t tell them apart unless you know the product line really well and have an authentic one to compare with side by side.

(The one on the left is the fake)

The one good thing about shopping on Amazon is you can return products and their customer service is really good, so if you or someone you know got a bootleg off amazon and it’s within the first 30 days, file a dispute. There’s a good chance that not only will you get your money back but you can probably keep the bootleg as well, which will hit the scammers in the pocket book, where it hurts. If enough of us do that Amazon will take notice.

And yeah, I get that some of us like the cheaper option- they shouldn’t be marketing it under photos of the original item; they should make their own design. Looking at all the pictures, I think they bought a real one, cut it apart at the seams to make a pattern, and then did some method of photo copying (that didn’t get all the details and somehow messed up the sizes???) to fabric print on the new pieces. It’s a complicated form of art theft, and bait and switch scamming.Here’s some tips I got from https://goboiano.com/33-bootlegged-figures-will-make-cringe/ about action figure bootlegs

If any part of the figure is shiny, it’s most likely fake. The face of the figure is usually a dead giveaway.

Real figures are very detailed and have little to no imperfections. Bootlegs usually have messy paint jobs and bright coloring.

Order from official websites or official partners ONLY. It’s best to avoid eBay unless you are sure that it sells official figures/merchandise. Stores from Japan are most likely to sell legitimate goods, but this is not always the case.

“Chinese versions” listed as CHN ver. on any marketplace are usually fakes.

Look for an official seal or sticker on a box.

Nendoroids usually run about a base price of $30-$70 dollars depending on the model/ demand for the character. Figmas usually start around $50-$70. Large scale/PVC figures (depending on the scale) usually start at $70 and go into the hundreds. Anything that is significantly less than these prices is more than likely a bootleg. Bootlegs are usually listed at half of these costs.

Prize figures, gashapons, and keychains are cheap and are harder to differentiate the real and fake versions, since they cost less anyways. Be more cautious when ordering these.

Make sure to search the figure before buying to see the overall price. Anything $10 lower is fishy.

The more popular a fandom, the more likely it will have bootlegs. Anything’s game though.

Don’t trust every single anime store, con vendor, or online shop. There are popular conventions that have vendors who sell bootlegs. Sometimes, they will even be the same price as real merchandise! Look up an official partnership list to make sure. For example, Good Smile’s partnership list can be located here.

Not all differences between figures are that apparent. Some may have a really convincing look and paint job. What happens if you buy it, however? Sometimes parts will not fit or it will break almost immediately. Plus, it supports an illegal business and hurts the company.

[adabassist]

NOT EXACTLY THE SUMMER OF ‘69, BUT I WAS NEVER AS COOL AS BRYAN ADAMS ANYWAY

Recently someone asked me how I ended up a bass player. I forget what I told them, but it was short, sweet, and long on understatement. The real answer is a lot more complicated.

My earliest memory is from before I was 2 (yep, 2 - believe it or don’t), sitting at the 70-year-old upright piano we got for free from a garage sale down the street, pounding on the low keys, because they made this GLORIOUSLY ENORMOUS SOUND… To this day, I cannot recall ever hearing an upright piano where the notes were as big sounding, although I’m sure my small ears had a skewed sensory experience compared to later years.

We (I have an older sister and brother) would play a musical piano game called “Thunderstorm”, where we would try to recreate the thunder (lower 1/3 of the keyboard), lightning (middle 1/3), and rain (higher 1/3) associated with a big storm (our parents were thrilled). I remember trying to pound on the higher keys in desperation, wondering why they lacked a powerful sound no matter how hard I hit them. I began to see the notes played in terms of size, with the lowest notes “appearing” to be largest in my mind’s eye.

Before long, I could hear how certain notes sounded good together - just octaves and fifths at first, then other “hip” intervals like a minor 7th (though I had no name for that interval in my head - I just liked the sound). I even wrote a song called “Dun” somewhere along the line, played with the index finger on each hand; left hand stayed on G (same pitch as a G string on a bass), and right hand moved between D, E, and F. “Dun” got its name because I played it so often that my siblings would mock me by singing that song back to me: “DUN DUN DU-DUN DUN DU-DU-DU-DUN DUN….”

You could say that my fate was sealed.

I would regularly sit down at the piano and play whatever my heart desired. Back then I had never taken piano lessons, and had no idea how to read or even what was “proper” to be played on a piano. I just figured stuff out when I felt like it, and otherwise just had fun learning the sonic relationships between the keys. But I thought I was pretty good anyway. I even used to make “tickets” for the family (markers, scissors, and construction paper) and make them “attend my concerts” from time to time. Let’s just say I wasn’t a big hit.

I auditioned for the school talent show in 1st grade, figuring I was a shoo-in, regardless of what my family thought (lousy philistines). I got through to the 2nd audition, and upon completion, the music teacher said, “That’s not what you played for the first audition. Can you play that song?” I said no, because everything I play is all off the top of my head. I didn’t make the talent show, and I remember thinking how “rinky-dink” the songs were by the people who did get to perform…

Somewhere along the line, I learned the names of the notes, and even found out that I could do a neat trick: if my sister played a note on the piano, I could name it - every time. I was so good at it that she was sure I was cheating or peeking, so I was marched into the next room to continue the game. This of course changed nothing; I had discovered that I could simply name the notes upon hearing them. I didn’t know what perfect pitch was, but I had it. When my cousin - well-recognized at his school for being a talented violinist - came to visit, and couldn’t do the same trick as I could, he got more than a little annoyed. But that’s the nature of perfect pitch; you can develop it to a degree, but largely, you either got it or you don’t.

I was about nine when I found a harmonica in a box in our garage, brand-new, no idea what it was doing there. I began to play with it and discovered that the same scale I played on the piano was also recognizable on a harmonica! I had never played another instrument before, and I was enthralled. After a while I got the idea that I could play the harmonica and the piano at the same time, so I went into the living room with the harmonica and sat down at the piano. Blew a C chord on the harp, and played a C note on the piano.

YUCK. That sounded AWFUL.

I couldn’t understand it - the harmonica was clearly marked “C” (this might be what gave me the idea to try them together). But the “C” on the harmonica didn’t sound good at ALL with the “C” on the piano.

Turns out the piano was tuned exactly one half-step flat. Possibly because it had spent most of its life in the salty air near the San Francisco Bay, and the soundboard had rotted just enough that it couldn’t keep strings at tension or pitch anymore. Tuning it so it at least played in tune with itself was a logical decision.

But it forever skewed my sense of what a “C” actually sounded like in my head. To this day, I refer to my condition as “IMPERFECT pitch”.

I did figure out that if I played a Db scale on the piano, it worked well with the harmonica, but it was too difficult to wrap my brain and hands around all of that when the piano was ten feet from the front door, and comings and goings were a constant distraction. So the harmonica went the way of the bread machine you got as a gift sometime around the turn of the 21st century: stashed away in a box, likely never again to see the light of day.

Not long after that, my mother asked me if I’d like to take piano lessons. Just out of the blue. I don’t even remember why she asked, or how she knew the person I was to take lessons from, but I thought it was a brilliant idea! A little structure, a little edification, learning to read and play actual songs instead of the meandering stuff I already knew how to do. Great! I’m sure I was one of the very few kids in my town who was excited about piano lessons. But I enjoyed them, and there’s no doubt they helped me many years down the road, as any professional musician who took piano lessons as a kid can attest to.

One day I was visiting a friend, who had been gifted an old nylon string guitar. He didn’t play it, keep it in tune, or want much of anything to do with it, really. I started messing around with it, and I realized that the frets were the same 1/2 steps I played on the piano! As long as I accounted for the “black keys” by jumping 2 frets instead of 1, I could play a major scale on any single string, no matter how it was tuned or not-tuned. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know how to tune a guitar; just seeing the relationship between frets and 1/2 steps was enough to make me see notes in a whole new light.

When I was trusted enough to ride my bike downtown (about 3.5 miles from home on roads with sketchy bike lanes), I began renting instruments for a month at a time to see if I could make them sound good. Woodwinds, mostly - clarinet, flute, alto sax. There was that same major scale, easy to play in one key, difficult to figure out in others, plus the weird keys weren’t logical - if I wanted a note to be sharp or flat, I had to press some random key that seemingly had nothing to do with the order of notes. It made no sense to me, I had no idea what I was doing, and at the end of the month, I traded it in for another instrument. This cycle of “lather, rinse, repeat” went on for several months until one day when my brother arrived home with a bass, a guitar, and a big amp.

The sound coming out of his bedroom was INCREDIBLE. Warm yet exciting, like a smoldering fire with a little bit more residual energy than is safe. I was totally enthralled - here was an instrument that I could see made sense already, sounded fabulous, and vaguely reminded me of the lowest notes on the upright piano. I said, “THAT’S what I wanna play!” But my mom said NO - she was not going to have her sons fighting over the same instrument, especially because we already fought over everything else. My brother chose bass first; I got to play the guitar instead.

Playing guitar was pretty cool, actually - it was a cheap japanese red Flying V knockoff, difficult to wield, barely stayed in tune, but it was COOL. A little distortion, a little reverb (only used sparingly because I hated hearing my mistakes echo), and I had a good time. I had my little practice area in the basement next to my brother’s bedroom, and I played an awful lot. But to be honest, it always felt a little… weak. Like trying to throw a cotton ball. Yes, you could get angry and loud, but there was something missing. And every so often, I’d get the urge to sneak into my brother’s room and play his new bass (the first was apparently just a rental) when he wasn’t around. And every so often, I’d get caught, and I’d get “scared straight” for a month or two (my brother was built like a Sherman tank, and I looked more like Chunk with long hair). But the urge would always return, and the cycle would repeat itself. Until one fateful day…

I was in 8th grade, and I took the bus to school. My brother went to the high school half a mile away, so he was always home first. So when I walked in the front door, I could hear his bass booming through the ductwork like always, and like always, that made me want to play my guitar. So, like always, I dumped my school bag, full of assignments that would be ignored until morning like always, by the door and headed for the basement.

I never noticed that the bass notes stopped at some point; all I remember is descending the short staircase that led to the lower level, making a sharp U-turn as I prepared to go down into the basement, and jumping back out of the way because A BASS was flying through the air, up the stairs, right at me. I was fast enough to avoid it, and it hit the floor HARD in front of me. I immediately peeked around the door jamb down the stairs, and saw my brother stomping towards his bedroom door.

So I called down: “Hey - do you want this bass anymore?”

My brother hollered “NOOOOOOO!” and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

I looked back at the bass, and thought, Great!  So I grabbed it and ran downstairs, plugged it into my guitar amp (quietly, I knew better), and for the first time in recorded history, played a bass in my house with something tantamount to permission.

And it was GLORIOUS. Bottom end! Like the piano upstairs, but BIGGER! Notes made sense, I could find my way around because I’d played guitar, and the stuff I’d been trying to play on those other instruments - piano, guitar, clarinet, sax, flute, recorder, even the harmonica - was much better suited for the electric bass, and I finally GOT that. Here was the sound I’d heard in my head for 10 years married to the notes I wanted to play for 10 years, and my fingers were causing it to happen.

And somewhere in that 23-minute span, I remember feeling - not hearing, feeling - a Voice in my head, and it spoke to me with absolute clarity: you remember this moment, because this is what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.

I say 23 minutes because I always got home at 3:20, it took about 2 minutes to shed my coat and bag and head downstairs, and my practice area clock said 3:45 when my brother tore open his door and came around the corner, snarling, “GIMME MY BASS BACK.” And so I did. But the wheels had been set in motion; 23 minutes of bass playing versus years of piano, guitar, and everything else… there was no contest.

So I talked things over with my mom (and mentioned in passing what my brother had done with his beautiful new bass), and that Christmas there was a wonderful new Ibanez Roadstar II bass and a Fender Bassman 20 amp. Within a week I had nickel-sized blisters on 7 different fingertips, and that wasn’t enough to get me to slow down. They started calling me Froggy Fingers when I went back to school after Christmas break. I didn’t care. I finally had to take a scissors to my blisters because callouses were forming over the top of them, the swelling wouldn’t go down, they didn’t hurt at all, and I could barely pick things up because my fingertips were so deformed. But away I went on the bass, spending 6-7 hours every night playing in my corner of the basement (and watching my already piss-poor grades get even worse - I graduated with an academic GPA of 1.6).

This was my solace; this was my everything. All the other things that had gone wrong or were currently going wrong in my life mattered a lot less once I had a bass to play. Maybe that’s why I played so much. There wasn’t much else going on for me to be excited about at that time in my life, and playing music - playing a BASS - gave me an outlet for my passion, my frustration, my energy, my creativity, and created a drive to improve and be really good at something for a change. And I knew it was going to happen because It Made Sense. It still does. Nearly 4 decades later, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[chiseler]

Smoke

In 1935, a then-thirteen year-old high school dropout named Frank Cuthbert was arrested in Los Angeles after stealing a revolver. He was sentenced to three years in a notorious reform school in Ione, California.

Shortly after being placed in the reformatory’s version of solitary confinement, Cuthbert ran away, and immediately undertook a bit of a one-man crime spree, robbing several jewelry stores before making the mistake of driving a stolen car across state lines. When he was taken into custody this time, he was sentenced to three years in the federal penitentiary in Springfield, Missouri. Once his sentence at the federal pen was up, he was then transferred to San Quentin on other charges, and was eventually released shortly before turning twenty-one.

After being sprung from Quentin, Cuthbert played it more or less straight, taking on a number of odd jobs around Los Angeles. He at turns worked as a ranch hand, a lumberjack, and a truck driver, along with trying his hand at boxing.  

As the story goes, in 1943 Alan Ladd spied a tall and strikingly handsome young man riding a horse through the Los Angeles hills. The two chatted a bit, and Ladd mentioned the encounter to his wife at the time, agent Sue Carol. Carol in turn recommended Cuthbert take a screen test at 20th Century Fox. The test went well enough, and shortly afterward he began appearing in small, uncredited roles in a smattering of forgettable films, usually playing soldiers.

His first on-screen line came in the 1945 Laurel and Hardy vehicle The Bullfighters, in which, thanks to his dark features, he played a Spanish matador. In that same year’s The Great John L. he received his first screen credit as “Frank McCown,” the stage name handed him by some studio executive.

Around that same time McCown, who would never be mistaken for a real actor like John Garfield or James Cagney, signed on with agent Henry Willson. Willson had a reputation in the business for maintaining a stable of outrageously beautiful young men for whom acting ability was often an unnecessary afterthought. Willson also had a thing for catchy, memorable and manly names. So to better fit in with his other clients, like Tab Hunter and Rock Hudson, he re-dubbed his new acquisition “Troy Donahue.”

Then he changed his mind, deciding to save “Troy Donahue” for later. That might work better for a blonde. Instead he went with “Rory Calhoun.” Westerns were all the rage, after all, and it sounded more like a cowboy name.

That one stuck.

In short order, at six-foot-four, ruggedly handsome, and already comfortable on horseback, Calhoun became an inescapable presence in Westerns, usually playing tough guys (often of the bad variety) and almost always in his trademark black cowboy hat. Better still, with his dark hair, swarthy complexion and sharp eyebrows, he could easily play a Mexican if need be, which he often did. Over time, he earned the nickname “Smoke.”

There were a few brief detours for more lighthearted fare like How to Marry a Millionaire and With a Song in My Heart, but then it was always back to Westerns again.

In 1955, a year after co-starring with Robert Mitchum and (for the second time) Marilyn Monroe in River of No Return, and as he was fast becoming a familiar face to American television audiences, Calhoun was targeted by blackmailers. Although their precise demands remain a little fuzzy, the upshot was that if Calhoun didn’t pay up, his  criminal record would be leaked to the press, and once that happened he could kiss his career goodbye.

Sometimes, well, blackmailers don’t stop and think things all the way through before issuing a threat. In this case, for instance, they neglected to consider that  Calhoun was never exactly averse to playing villains. In response to the threats, he grabbed up his arrest records and handed them over to Henry Willson, who in turn (and with Calhoun’s blessing) handed them over to Confidential magazine for publication at their earliest convenience.

It was a win-win for everyone except the blackmailers. Confidential got a big scoop. Willson had cut a deal with the magazine, and by handing them that Calhoun exclusive, the editors agreed to kill a planned story about the secret gay lifestyle of another Willson client, Rock Hudson. And Calhoun’s career got a boost, as the Romantic tales of his misspent youth only bolstered his offscreen reputation as a tough guy.

As westerns began dying off in the early Sixties, Calhoun expanded his repertoire, taking roles in adventure films, detective shows, spy thrillers, historical dramas, soap operas and comedies, including a memorable turn as Jonathan Kincaid in a 1967 episode of Gilligan’s Island spoofing The Most Dangerous Game.

Then came the Seventies and Eighties.

Thanks to a variety of economic and cultural forces, once venerable stars found themselves forced to take roles in low-rent genre films. So, for reasons they’d rather not talk about, we found Joan Crawford starring in the apeman-on-the-loose picture Trog, Ida Lupino in The Devil’s Rain and Food of the Gods, Kirk Douglas smirking his way through The Final Countdown and Saturn 3, an understandably  drunk Ralph Meeker in The Alpha Incident, and John Huston, Shelley Winters and Henry Fonda co-starring in Tentacles, the Italian-produced Jaws knockoff about a giant octopus.

As embarrassed as the above must have been for taking those roles, few actors in their waning years can lay claim to a sub-B filmography quite as extensive as Calhoun’s.

The first sign of things to come came in 1972, when Calhoun co-starred with Stuart Whitman and Janet Leigh in the marauding giant bunny rabbit movie Night of the Lepus. Seven years later he starred in The Revenge of Bigfoot, which was admittedly one of the better entries in the sub-genre of Bigfoot movies. It’s worth noting that in both cases Calhoun, never a great actor, played it straight-faced, bringing an unusual gravity to the ridiculous goings-on.

In 1980 Calhoun was officially introduced to the slasher film generation, starring in the hit black comedy Motel Hell, in which he played a kindly but demented farmer who, with his sister, ensnared passing teens before butchering them and turning them into fritters which they sold to the locals. He followed that up with a charming and charismatic turn as Kit Carson, an aging Hollywood Boulevard performer and storyteller who befriends the local hookers in Angel, a teen exploitation film that wasn’t nearly as prurient as it claimed. After reprising his role in the following year’s sequel, Avenging Angel, it was on to the low-brow dystopian comedy, Hell Comes to Frogtown, with wrestler-turned-actor Rowdy Roddy Piper. He then ended his B film career in 1989 with a supporting role in a something-or-other called Roller Blade Warriors: Taken by Force.

I never saw that last one.

A seventy-year-old Calhoun ended his career on a high and respectable note with a well-received turn in Pure Country before dying in 1999. Funny thing is, looking back over a fascinating and storied life, and a fifty-year acting career in which he appeared in some eighty films and Every TV Show Ever Made, I can’t help but think he was a hell of a lot better in the cheap exploitation films than he was in the Westerns.

by Jim Knipfel

[savrenim]

I gotta say I think my favorite part of Jeremy as a DM is that he takes the stupid half-jokes that I make offscreen and just. turns them into things for me. that also fit perfectly into the plot and the story seamlessly but feel special 

like I was making goddamn jokes about “okay but. but I want a bloodsword. we do blood magic. please. Jeremy. Jeremy what if I could make my blood into a sword. b l o o d s w o r d. I could go to parties and never be unarmed because mY BLOOD IS A SWORD. YOU CAN’T DISARM ME YOU WOULDN’T PART AN OLD ELF FROM HER BLOOD WOULD YOU, SO LONG AS I HAVE BLOOD I HAVE SWORD.” and then, like. because it was only half a joke and I got attached to the aesthetic I actively started planning on how to make one of my own, which was pretty much going to be that there are some shadow weapon spells either on the cleric/oracle or witch lists and I was just going to take one of those as I was leveling up in Caedic magic and request that because it’s blood magic can we please flavor it descriptively as being made of my blood and not of shadows like, just as a cool aesthetic piece, and I’d have my bloodsword. 

and then halfway through Book 4 Galen fucking Torus out of nowhere makes a really fucking rad bloodsword from his own blood and hands it to me and I kill a bunch of enemies of the Empire and feel hella cool and I go “c a n  y o u  t e a c h  m e” with starry eyes the next day and he goes “okay sure” and starts teaching me how to make a bloodsword and there are cool bloodsword mechanics and just. Iria Strell got a bloodsword. after I spent six months joking about it. this is an actual legitimate bloodsword not a cheap knockoff made from a flavored shadow spell, real genuine Caedic blood magic here.

and, like, there are a couple of other obvious things (I spent a while being excited about a Feat tree that I’ve now totally forgotten because I think I was looking for some weird way to add Int to attacks and there was something similar to feinting you used bluff for a round and I’ve forgotten about it because it became irrelevant because Iria has developed mechanical combat spurs that give her a pretty similar option, not a “sooo then in five levels I’ll be able to do this!”) I guess another one was joking for months okay not joking about how much in love I was with Arcadia Dominus and holy shit she liked me back and the “gay murder elf bachelorette” bit actually becoming a part of the campaign, this campaign got literally infinitely more gay because I made a dumb joke and then Jeremy went “okay” and followed up on it, we went from no gay to one of the longest running and at least emotionally important plotlines is “oh no Iria is so gay you utter disaster fire of a lesbian how are you going to mess everything up now because Pretty Girl”

but, like

the one that is hitting me really really strongly now-now is that I have been half-jokingly complaining for months and months that I regret So Much Iria Strell’s background as a minor noble because it limits the fanciness and quantity of dresses that I can get for her and goddamnit I want to put her in all the shiny things all of them and how Painful it is to pass all these cool costumes that I Want To Pull just in fashion posts and stuff but uuurgh I can’t because Iria Strell isn’t the sort of noble who would wear all those and she kind of isn’t allowed and that just goddamnit I need to make a character next game who whatever the context wears Cool Clothes so that I would get to actually do a shit-ton of character design and costume design 

and I am 1000% sure that this didn’t change from the original plans, like, the outlines have been in place for months well before I got obsessed with noble costuming, but the big objective of this book is Iria is investigating a maybe heresy/conspiracy that maybe involves nobles, and to do so, she has to go to a bunch of noble parties, and Galen Torus gave her an unlimited credit card and went “material resources are no worry go ham request whatever you want” and what her wardrobe is actively affects all the interactions she has with people and how well she can gather the information she needs to

which means that OOC I get the chance to design a full and changing wardrobe for Iria Strell to look cool as it is now her job as the secret leader of an investigation to actually do noble business and look pretty sometimes and talk to a bunch of nobles and go to parties but just. I’m limited in interesting ways by what is tasteful, but I have been given the full resources and an active in-character reason to utterly go ham on costuming, which makes me so excited as a person

and it’s just. super tiny details like this that idk make the games feel....more than just special? or maybe it’s that I’m not used to being listened to? like. the game is so good. I’m having so much fun. we have gotten to book 5 and it is once again the coolest fucking thing I could imagine. and so was book 4, and book 3, and book 2, and book 1. it is completely unnecessary to throw in tiny things like the bloodsword in order to make me happy and it is all done so....seamlessly? like. if one of my hunches is correct. the bloodsword and a ritual that Galen Torus performed telling Iria it would make her better at the bloodsword wHICH IT DID BUT THAT WAS NOT THE MAIN POINT OF THE RITUAL, THE MAIN POINT OF THE GODDAMN RITUAL WAS TO CONSECRATE PRIESTS AND PRIESTS HAVE MORE ACCESS TO BLOOD MAGIC SO A SIDE EFFECT IS BETTER THAN A BLOODSWORD BUT A CONSECRATED PRIEST IS A SUPER HIGH RANK AND THIS MAKES HER A CONSECRATED PRIEST AT AGE EIGHTEEN WHICH IS VERY VERY VERY UPSETTING TO HER AND POSSIBLY UNPRECEDENTED EARLY 30S IS CONSIDERED RIDICULOUSLY EARLY TO BE A CONSECRATED PRIEST FOR INCREDIBLY TALENTED AND FAST-CLIMBING CAREER-FOCUED NOBLES NOT A MINOR DISGRACED KIND OF EXILED LESBIAN DUMPSTER FIRE LIKE SHE IS

but consecrated priest thing aside and that being one way or another a major plot point and that coming so seamlessly and so perfectly a surprise from the fact that she asked an Exarch if he’d teach her how to make a bloodsword

again I’m pretty sure “Book 5 is noble politics book” was always going to be a thing so it’s not “oh Jeremy wrote it into the plot that I get to be ridiculous and pick out every single dress and everyday wear and hair and makeup for my character all the time multiple times a session and have that matter” because it was always abstractly going to matter as that matters as a part of being a Caedic noble but just 

here and is everything I wanted and was everything that I was totally joking about for months except no joke I just. get to do it. which I’m just actively so excited about. I guess it just...feels weird to me because I’m... sometimes used to making my own fun? or just, like, making things happen in my own life? there have been way too many “well if you want to survive it’s only you that you can rely on” situations not even in a bad sense of my life is horrible like. I could go on a rant about how I....not don’t trust people as people but don’t trust people to be 100% reliable and so always make a backup plan so that if a person falls through I can still get what I need done to be done and it’s just more pleasant for everyone involved if I don’t pin pressure on people or things? but in a different way I do the same thing for the games that I’m involved in, I will find things to make me have Feelings and will make my own fun and write letters and befriend NPCs and insist on staying in touch and, like...I dunno I guess I’m not used to trusting any world, be it fantasy or real, to give me what I want, if I want a thing I have to carefully plan and invest time and energy to earn and take it and be prepared to fail and just because Jeremy’s my friend and I goddamn narrate everything jokes or not of how I/my characters feel and “okay but here is the 1000th picture of a cool dress that I’m sending you and because Iria Strell doesn’t get to wear cool dresses we’ll say it’s the Gothicus Maximus Spring 2019 collection” and just

I guess I’m really not used to a world that cares about what I want

and, like, is sometimes fucking brutal Iria is dealing with slowly losing her mobility and ability to fight to an injury that was her fault and she is descending into a lot of really fun mental health places that push fun buttons and Marian is spelljammer and is Marian don’t even get me started on Marian’s family suddenly reappearing or just. characters from the thousands upon thousands of words of backstory showing up but just idk it feels like even when things are really brutal to the characters......the world is still kind to me? it’s aware of what I care about and it cares about me?

and I’m just so not used to the world being kind

I don’t need the world to be kind to love it. I love this world even with how fucked up and hard it is, and I love the games that I play and the stories that I get to be a part of without them caring about me at all, I don’t need them to care about me, that’s not why I’m playing

maybe I’m just hella tired and the move has been awful my old housemate gave me a deadline less than 12 hours before when there was never a deadline in our original conversations and then she and her mother were also going through my room and my stuff I guess to try to determine how quickly I’d get out of there but, like, I do not like it when people go through my stuff and there was a scare about the landlord selling the new place and the new landlord would have to honor the lease for a year but then maybe not wanting me to have my cats so suddenly for two days even my new living place was up in the air and I was already jet lagged and stressed and barely slept to try to finish a week’s worth of work that I was under the full impression I had a week to do in a day and a half and definitely sprained my ankle but got to keep walking on it and internet took forever to set up and trying to fix my furniture and all my stuff is in boxes and I’m still walking around on a twisted ankle because it’s just me there’s no one here to help me, if I want things to be okay and to get done I have to make them be done myself and these boxes need to be unpacked by Saturday morning because the landlord wants to fix the floor and just. I’m stressed and emotional so maybe I’m hella overreacting to “oh you like costumes? well an aspect of this book is noble interactions and parties so sure I’ll let you pick out literally every dress that you’re wearing” but it just

it matters so much to me

Jeremy is really really good at the DnD thing

[ckret2]

Rats Look out for Rats

Prompt: this was originally for @tfspeedwriting 12/1, Prompt 3: Hired assassin. But considering it took me a month and a half to write, I don’t think it counts anymore. Continuity: IDW, prewar Characters: Prowl & Rattrap. Guest appearance from Lockdown. Wordcount: 5300 Summary: When the Decepticons ask Rattrap to do one job too many, he runs to Autobot law enforcement to offer information in exchange for protection from the ‘Cons. At least, that’s the story the Decepticons tell Rattrap to tell Prowl. One last job—one last job, and one dead cop—and Rattrap’s outta this game for good.

"They said it would be easy money," Rattrap said miserably. He was mumbling directly into the surface of the enforcer's desk, both hands clasped over the top of his head. "Followin' a few guys, a hint of petty theft, a coupla deliveries where I wasn't s'posed to look in the boxes—nothin' worse! I knew what they were probably up to, but—but it wasn't my problem, you know? I wasn't the one shooting people. I was just tryin' to make an honest livin'!"

"'Honest.'"

"Tch—fine, a decent livin'. Decent as it gets when ya had to replace your hind legs with cheap wheels and still can't hide your tail in 'bot mode. How do you sound so monotone and so judgmental at the same time? Do you practice that? Is that a—a skill ya practice, here? You got your good cops, your bad cops, and your completely-neutral-but-vaguely-condescendin' cops?"

The officer that Rattrap was talking to, one Prowl of Petrex—and oh, boy, did he exemplify everything Rattrap had ever heard about Petrex—didn't even acknowledge the jab. "So. Stalking, robbery, smuggling—"

"Whoa whoa whoa, don't make it sound that bad! It's nothin' worse than petty misdemeanors, you've got my word." Rattrap lifted his head enough to give Prowl an earnest look. "But, hey, you wanna fine me, throw me in the slammer a couple weeks to pay off my debt to society? Be my guest, pal. Anythin' it'll take to get away from the 'Cons. I ain't even a 'Con, myself! Think they're crazy!"

"I'm not charging you with anything yet—"

"'Yet.'"

"—I'm just repeating what you told me," Prowl said, just as dryly and droningly as always. He wasn't even looking at Rattrap—his gaze was fixed on his datapad, fingers tap tap tapping away, no doubt taking copious notes on everything Rattrap said. No wonder the Senate had this guy on statistical analysis up until Orion dragged him into his crack team of hero cops (pfeh to that); based on the one comm call and fifteen minutes of conversation Rattrap had had with him so far, he had the personality of a calculator. He'd actually said, out loud, with his mouth, like he'd really done the math, that there was only a 2% chance anybody would walk into Prowl's office while Rattrap was talking to him. He should have a numpad instead of a light bar. "And you were okay with doing all that."

"Sure. Like I said: easy money. That ex-senator they got in their ranks's got a pile of shanix the size of Luna Two, and he don't care about givin' it away almost exactly as much as I do care about gettin' it."

"I take it you're talking about Shockwave and not Ratbat."

"Heh! Yeah, you got it. Shockwave's been bankrollin' me. Ratbat? Pffft." He shifted, laying his head flat down on Prowl's desk, staring at the wall behind Prowl's elbow. "All Ratbat does is sigh wistfully 'bout all the moolah he don't have anymore and wishes he did. You'd think him 'n' me would get along better—bein' a couple greedy beastformer Rats like we are—but nah, he's still all high-n-mighty. Hehn! Like he still thinks he's the king of Kaon and everyone around him is wallowin' knee-deep in the gutter."

Rattrap had to give Prowl this: he endured Rattrap's tangents with good grace and greater patience than most people Rattrap had met. The twitching of his elbow, however, suggested that he was still typing. "... You uh... you think that's relevant to your case, here?"

"Everything is relevant."

"Yeesh. Little intense—but okay, whatever you say. You're the cop."

"So what changed? There's an enormous change from 'rolling in easy money' to 'not only backing out, but also calling up a cop frequently seen in the company of Orion Pax, Decepticon hunter, to confess to petty misdemeanors and gossip about ex-senators.'"

"You think I offered to be your stool pigeon because you hang out with Orion Pax? I woulda called him up if I wanted to catch his audial."

"It's certainly not because I have a reputation for being open and approachable."

Rattrap let out a genuine laugh. He finally lifted his head off Prowl's desk, sitting upright. "You're self-aware, neutral cop. I like that."

And a little too savvy. Prowl was right: Rattrap had sought to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

Or rather, he'd been sent to speak with him because he was associated with Orion Pax.

"But—do me a favor and keep the big 'bot outta this, would ya? It's not that I don't respect what he's doing, takin' down as many 'Cons as possible, and all—like I said, I ain't one of them, I just take their money—but word on the street is he ain't too careful about how many pieces they're in when he gets them in to the station, you know what I mean? And I might not be wearin' their badge, but, considerin' what I've been doing for them..."

Without glancing up, Prowl cut Rattrap off with a swift, small hand gesture. It was the most expressive gesture Rattrap had seen him make so far. "I understand completely. He won't be involved in this at all. If things progress to the point where I need backup, I'll ask," he paused for a couple of seconds—even his typing paused—and finished, "Bumblebee, most likely."

Rattrap perked up. That was a new name. "You got a bugformer on the force?"

"No, that's just his name."

Disappointed, Rattrap said, "Ah."

"He's a car. About your size."

Rattrap scoffed. "We don't want the new senate to be too progressive, I s'pose."

"Sarcasm?"

Rattrap gave him a startled look. Did he really just—? "Nah, not at all."

Prowl said, "Hm," in a vaguely uncertain way that made Rattrap think he wasn't sure if that was sarcasm either. He really was a calculator in a cop car's body, wasn't he? No wonder Shockwave was wary of him. He probably thought Prowl was gonna horn in on his schtick.

"Back to my question. What changed? What made you come to me and offer to tell me everything you know about the Decepticons?"

Rattrap hesitated. "Okay. Lemme emphasize first that—that—I had no idea things were gonna get this bad. If I'd ever expected things were gonna end up like this, I'd never have agreed."

Prowl nodded once, stiffly, like a ratcheting joint clicking down and back up. "No doubt." Somehow, he sounded even more monotone.

"Pfeh. I bet all your informants say that, don't they."

"You're self-aware, too."

"Okay, okay." Rattrap slouched back in his seat and laced his hands behind his head. "Tell you what, neutral cop—if you promise to make a note in your unnervingly thorough report you've got goin' there that says I defended my honor fiercely, I'll do us both a favor and skip past all the excuse-makin' and face-savin'."

Prowl looked directly at Rattrap, for what Rattrap was sure was the very first time since Prowl had met him in a shadowy back alley and hustled him in through the back door. "I appreciate that," he said; and if he'd had slightly more emotional expressivity than the average text-to-speech program, Rattrap might have even believed he meant it. "So what's your story?"

Here was Rattrap's story:

The last and biggest job he'd done for Shockwave had been to sneak into a secure energon refinery, steal the access codes, and take them to the 'Cons. He'd thought that the Decepticons wanted to jack a few free cubes. That's what he'd been lead to believe—although they'd never told him that was what they wanted, they were always talking about how hungry they were, how worried they were about running out of fuel. Instead, the results...

Well, Prowl no doubt knew the results. He might've been one of the enforcers sent out to what was left of the refinery to try to pick forensic evidence off of the smelted workers.

And that was it for Rattrap. Forget the easy jobs for easy money. He'd been willing to go along with it as long as the Decepticons had him doing small jobs with small consequences, but now people were dying and energon refineries were exploding, and he was getting out.

So he'd done some snooping, found Prowl's frequency, and called him up. He could help—he could tell the 'Bots all sorts of things about the 'Cons—and in exchange, all he asked for was protection in case the 'Cons found out and retaliated.

That was the story Rattrap told Prowl.

It was true.

But here was the part of the story Rattrap didn't tell Prowl:

Between deciding he wanted out and contacting Prowl—which originally, he'd never intended to do—he'd gone down to Nyon to chew out Swindle for getting him into this fragged up game in the first place. Swindle had told him not to do anything hasty, not to walk away just yet—he'd get Rattrap one last job, just wait and see, with a very lucrative payout. Think of it as generous severance pay. And while Swindle had steered a great many people very, very wrong, he'd never steered Rattrap wrong—rats had to stick together, after all, and Swindle was certainly one in spark if not in body—so, begrudgingly, he'd let Swindle talk him into taking one last job.

A week later, Shockwave had called him in for his final assignment: take out Orion Pax's top supporter, the stiff white-and-black knockoff with the army-builder frame that seemed to be scowling just a step behind Orion every time he was on the news. Orion might have been the face of the new senate's war on Decepticons, but, Shockwave assured Rattrap, the vast majority of what passed as Orion's brain power was actually located inside Prowl's head. Without Prowl reeling him in, he'd be just another dumb jock cop who liked beating up suspects in dark alleys and then saying they resisted arrest in his reports.

Now. Rattrap was no moron. He wasn't overcome with misty-opticked patriotism at the sight of the enforcers' recently-adopted "Autobot" symbol. He'd been telling the truth when he said he was no Decepticon; but he was no Autobot, either. And he sure didn't think Cybertron would suffer with one less enforcer on the streets.

But if the enforcer that was being taken off the streets was, as Shockwave had suggested, a good ninety percent of Orion Pax Hero Cop's impulse control? Rattrap wasn't so sure he wanted to see that one, in particular, get the ax.

And that aside—Rattrap was no murderer. He was torqued off—no, more than that, he was horrified—that his info had been used to kill so many innocent refinery workers. He didn't want someone else's life on his hands, especially knowingly. Even a cop. Hell, especially a cop—if he was caught...

... But...

But...

But.

But.

But then Shockwave showed Rattrap what he'd pay him to do it.

And, well—Primus below—that changed everything, didn't it?

Rattrap and Ratbat didn't like each other, but they both liked the Decepticons even less. And rats had to stick together. If this was fishy—if Shockwave was gonna go back on this deal, or arrange for Rattrap to be found out later—Ratbat would know, and Ratbat would tell him. What Ratbat said, though, was that Shockwave was playing on the expectation that if Rattrap was greedy enough to take this job, he'd be greedy enough to take just one more, and just one more, and just one more, until he'd just-one-mored himself straight into the Decepticon army.

Shockwave didn't know Rattrap. Unlike Ratbat or Swindle, he didn't do what he did for the love of money; he was doing it to get his legs back.

He'd lost them a few millennia back—workplace accident. The medic who'd repaired him had fixed him down to his hips, then slapped a couple wheels on and called it a day. When Rattrap had protested—said he was supposed to have legs, said he wanted his legs, said he was a rat, it was even in the name—the hospital had told him that, in their professional medical opinion, wheels were an improvement on a rodent's haunches, and he oughta be grateful for them. And what did it matter if he wasn't mobile enough to do his old job anymore? Planting explosives for building demolition wasn't what one would call specialized labor. Anyone could fill his position. Just a dirty job for dirty 'bots.

Ever since, Rattrap hadn't considered his relationship with Cybertron to be what one might call cordial.

This last job wouldn't just push him over what he needed to get some back-alley surgeon to reconstruct and reattach his legs; it'd also give him the means to get off this stupid planet and find one where he wasn't gonna be judged for having as many limbs in one mode as in the other. At least in the GC he could be judged for something different for a change.

So he took the job. Okay. Just one more.

Here was the plan: Rattrap was to contact Prowl like he wanted to be an informant ratting on the Decepticons. He had permission to say whatever he had to in order to make it believable. Shockwave had long since reaped the benefits of all the old jobs Rattrap had done for the Decepticons, and he and his cadre of terrorists had only ever met Rattrap at neutral locations, so Rattrap didn't have any info Prowl could honestly use against the 'Cons. As long as Rattrap achieved these two things:

One, make sure that Orion Pax didn't get involved.

Two, make sure that Prowl agreed to protect Rattrap.

At the start, Prowl might keep a couple officers stationed around Rattrap's place at all times. Probably no more than that; he didn't have much pull without Orion to back it, and he wouldn't be able to turn to Orion for this case. Eventually it would be down to one officer. Shockwave was convinced—although Rattrap had doubts—that Prowl would put himself in the rotation of officers protecting Rattrap.

When Prowl was watching him, and only Prowl was watching him, a hired killer—nominally sent to dispose of Rattrap—would show up. Prowl would fight him. He would retreat, and Prowl, like a good little enforcer, would pursue. And the hired killer would lure him into a trap.

Now, Rattrap wasn't too keen on the whole "hired killer pretending to try to kill Rattrap" part. That sounded a little too likely to end in tears—specifically, Rattrap's tears, as he lay dying. Shockwave offered to let Rattrap meet the guy who'd be doing the job ahead of time.

They had dinner. He was a decent thug. Good lookin', too, in a patchwork kinda way. They'd lamented together over the costs of getting good bodymod work done outside of the official healthcare system; Lockdown even recommended a guy who did medical work for gladiators that might be able to handle Rattrap's repairs—don't let the constructibot alt mislead you; he's the best doc on Cybertron who's never been to medical school. Lockdown said he was saving up for his own ship to get work as an interstellar bounty hunter; Rattrap was planning to head to Hedonia when he was fixed up and all this was over. He invited Lockdown to look him up on Hedonia sometime down the line.

So, Rattrap was in.

And when Prowl said, "We're stretched thin right now; if I get Orion to pull some strings, I might be able to get two officers posted around your apartment at all times, but if you don't want to get him involved I can probably only manage to get one officer to look in on your place"?

Rattrap said, "Hey, that's fine. I don't need my place swarming with law enforcement anyway, you know what I mean? I think I can trust ya to make sure nobody's gonna get to me."

Waiting to be attacked was nerve wracking.

Even if he knew the guy that was gonna do it—well. What if Lockdown's hook slipped? What if he was a bad shot? Rattrap had no idea what kind of a shot he was.

What if Prowl decided he didn't need Rattrap's info as much as he'd originally thought, and decided to just... not worry too hard about keeping him safe? What if he didn't even have someone stationed outside anymore?

Rattrap had fallen into the habit of pacing in the evenings after dark fell—the time he thought it was most likely Lockdown would come for him. Rolling back and forth in a long figure eight through his filthy apartment, crumbs of dirt breaking up and discarded foil wrappers crinkling under his wheels. He cast green and orange shadows across the walls, illuminated by strings of light and a couple of lamps buried so thoroughly in his collection of things that he hadn't been able to scramble up to them to turn them off since he'd lost his legs. He figured nervously pacing was an appropriately in-character action for a 'bot who supposedly thought he was gonna get hunted down while only a single plucky enforcer stood between him and certain doom.

Whenever Rattrap glanced out the window, he never saw anybody standing guard. He told himself that meant that whatever officers Prowl had assigned him were good at their job, not standing out and all—but it still made him nervous.

Surely, though, Lockdown wasn't gonna attack until he was absolutely sure that Prowl, and only Prowl, was outside—right? Right. Right?

It was eleven nights in before his window shattered. Someone barreled Rattrap over; he crashed to the ground screaming. Please be Lockdown. "What're ya—hey!" Rattrap reflexively swung a fist at Lockdown's face. Lockdown held Rattrap down with his hook pressed to Rattrap's throat and leaned back. Rattrap's fist couldn't even reach his face. "That ain't fair."

Lockdown grinned crookedly. "Half my job is about making things as unfair for my target as possible."

"Okay—point." He tried, unsuccessfully, to wiggle out from underneath Lockdown. His wheels squealed against the floor as he spun them uselessly. That probably had to look good to any officers watching from outside. "So how're we gonna do this? You pretend I actually managed to slip free and chase me around the room a couple times 'til siren-butt shows up?"

"Naaah, I'm not letting you up."

Well, that was disappointing news. "Yeah? What if it takes him a while to get in here? He's gonna be suspicious if you've got me pinned for a while and don't take the opportunity to kill me."

"Oh, I don't need to worry about that." In his hand, he raised— That was a gun. Why was he pointing a gun at Rattrap's head. "See ya."

"See ya?!" Rattrap crossed his arms over his face. Lockdown snagged his hook around a wrist and tried to tug Rattrap's arms back down. "Whaddaya mean, see ya?! What's the gun for! I thought we was on the same page!"

"Yeah, we were," Lockdown said. "But when Shockwave heard you were planning to make a run for Hedonia—"

"You told him?!"

"—he decided there's no point in paying out if you're not gonna eventually come back to the 'Cons for more jobs." Lockdown successfully tugged one arm away from Rattrap's face. Rattrap wrapped his other arm more tightly over his forehead. "Prowl's my target, but I get a nice bonus if I take you out too."

"H-hold on! What's Shockwave payin'?! I can beat it! Or, or pretend I'm dead, and we'll both pay ya—"

"He's paying me with your bank account info."

Rattrap's jaw dropped. "... I hate how clever that is."

The gun jammed into his mouth. "Sorry about Hedonia." Rattrap squeezed his optics shut.

Lockdown's weight suddenly disappeared. Rattrap's optics flew open again, and all he saw above him was the ceiling. He turned toward a noise just in time to see Lockdown and Prowl tumbling back his direction. He scrambled out of the way, crabwalking/rolling backwards.

Watching Prowl grappling with Lockdown was somehow one of the most terrifying things Rattrap had ever seen. Not because of his fighting—Rattrap was actually pretty confident that Lockdown could take him—but something about his face. His eyes were wide and his jaw was set tight, and he should've looked angry but he didn't, and somehow that was more disconcerting than having a furious cop twice Rattrap's height in his apartment would've been.

Lockdown got a hook in one of Prowl's doors; Prowl pulled his knee to his chest and kicked Lockdown's shoulder, and Lockdown's hook snapped off in Prowl's door. He drew back, hesitated as he glanced at Rattrap, and retreated out the window. Prowl rushed to the window and leaned out, watching which way Lockdown went.

Lockdown had dropped his gun.

Rattrap picked it up.

Maybe it wasn't too late. If he killed Prowl himself, threw himself on Shockwave's mercy, and gave some bunk about seeing how awful the Autobots' noble enforcers were up close and wanting to get rid of them, maybe Shockwave would let him sign up as a full fledged Decepticon. He didn't want to be a Decepticon, hell no, but it was better than being dead. He could empty out his bank account in a couple of minutes—buy a bunch of scrap he didn't need, maybe a mountain of lottery tickets—an empty bank account would buy him some time if Lockdown came back and Rattrap told him there was no longer a bonus for him to claim—plus Shockwave might believe Rattrap’s professions of allegiance if he could check and see Rattrap no longer had any funds to get himself off-world. It was a long shot, it was a gamble, it'd mean several more millennia before he could get his legs back; but Primus what was the alternative? If Rattrap warned Prowl that this was a trap, admitted he'd been in on the setup, and begged for some real protection, he'd get hauled to some Autobot secret prison and beaten to death. The only other option was running for his life. Once Prowl took off after Lockdown, Rattrap would only have until Lockdown had lured Prowl into the trap and killed him to pack his things and run, and Rattrap might've been more familiar than most with Cybertron's underworld—both the figurative one and the literal one—but there were more Decepticons in dark corners and subterranean tunnels by the day, and it wouldn't be long before one saw him and reported back to Shockwave.

Running wouldn't work. This was his only chance. He had to kill Prowl—now, right now, before he jumped out the window and ran off and Lockdown killed him instead—

Prowl did not jump out the window. He turned around.

Rattrap froze, gun pointed at Prowl's chest. Prowl looked at the gun, then Rattrap's face—his expression was ice cold, his gaze so sharp it seemed to pierce straight through Rattrap’s head.

Then Prowl pointed at the floor and snapped, crossly, "Gun safety."

Rattrap almost dropped the gun. "What?"

"Gun safety," Prowl repeated. He reached forward and pushed the gun barrel down, so it was aimed between their feet. "Never point your gun at something you aren't interested in shooting. There's no point in trying to cover the window if there's someone between you and it."

And then, to Rattrap's further disbelief, Prowl walked away from the window, and turned to survey the mess of crates and packing materials that had been recycled into Rattrap's shabby—but very thrifty—furniture. "Does any of this serve as a chair?"

Rattrap gestured at his lower body. "Do I look like I need chairs? My butt's two inches off the floor."

"Hm." And then Prowl sat, on the floor, and turned to face the window. Like he planned on staying there.

"... Okay. All right," Rattrap said. "I give. What's going on, here?"

"You said you don't have chairs. Did you want me to sit on a table?" Prowl glanced at a stack of flat boxes. "This is a table, right?"

"Not that! How come you ain't going after the guy that just tried to kill me? Isn't that your job?"

"Ah," Prowl said, like he finally got it. "No."

"No?!" Rattrap gestured emphatically at Prowl.  "You, a law enforcer, your job ain't to enforce the law! Is that what you’re telling me? Because I'm pretty sure he just tried to kill a bot! Last I checked, that was a crime!"

"As I understand the parameters of my job, my duty is not to prevent criminals from killing bots." Rattrap's jaw dropped, but Prowl immediately went on: "It's to prevent bots from being killed by criminals."

Rattrap almost said there was absolutely no difference; but paused, uncertain, as he started to realize maybe there might be.

"Sometimes, yes, the best way to prevent murders is to chase after the murderer. In this case? I think the best way to prevent a murder is to stick close to the potential murder victim, in case the original assailant doubles back or an accomplice arrives."

"... Yeah," Rattrap said. "Sure. Makes sense." It made perfect sense, for anyone whose priority was protection instead of punishment. Except Rattrap had never once considered the possibility that that would be Prowl's priority. Nor, apparently, had Shockwave; nor had Ratbat, nor had Lockdown; nor had any of the other 'Cons.

But here Prowl was, blithely avoiding a fatal trap just by not being interested in it.

Rattrap attempted one last time to fit this information into what he already expected out of Prowl. "You uh— You think the info I've got is that valuable, then, huh? On Shockwave?"

Prowl looked—not at Rattrap, but near him—with an expression that, while basically emotionless, Rattrap was pretty sure was meant to convey cluelessness.

"That you'd rather guard me than chase after one of Shockwave's goons?" Rattrap prompted.

"Oh. No, I don't think so. We checked out the info you gave us so far; it all appears to be about projects that the Decepticons have concluded or bases that they've burned. From our past experience with the Decepticons, we've determined that they only have outside agents like you doing jobs that they could wrap up almost immediately after their involvement, just in case those agents decide to do exactly what you've done. You've probably got nothing useful to us," Prowl said. "I'm guarding you anyway. You're a living person and therefore automatically worthy of being protected. That's true even if you're not a vector for strategically valuable information."

"A vect—?!" Rattrap laughed. "You know, that's the first time anyone's ever called me a vector for something and meant it as a compliment?"

Prowl looked around at the piles of empty cubes and broken-down equipment scattered around Rattrap's apartment. "I wonder why."

Rattrap swatted at Prowl's shoulder. Prowl visibly flinched. "You know what?" Rattrap asked. "I think that maybe—just maybe—you're one of the good ones." He didn't need to specify that he was talking about enforcers.

"I'm the only good one."

Rattrap snorted.  "You includin' the famous Orion Pax in that statement, neutral cop?"

"I didn't include any qualifiers when I said 'only.'"

Rattrap didn't know whether Prowl's declaration was a statement of supreme egotism, or a sweeping indictment of every other enforcer on the planet.

Whichever one it was, in that moment, he decided he liked Prowl. Cop he might've been, but there was a little bit of rat in him—and Rattrap meant that as a compliment. You had to be a rat to openly distrust the cops from inside the cops. And only fellow rats had ever looked out for Rattrap.

That's what rats do. Look out for each other.

Rattrap looked at the window—somewhere out there was Lockdown, sitting in the center of a trap that was never going to be sprung—and then at the gun in his hand.

He tossed it on a makeshift table, rolled up next to Prowl, and sat. Okay. He was taking a chance. Maybe he was still gonna end up dead in an Autobot prison, but he wasn't going to end up anywhere better any time soon if he didn't take the chance.

"Well, as long as you and me are all cozy in here," Rattrap said, "I figure I might as well tell you I am, in fact, a vector for strategically valuable information. Somethin' you might find personally interesting."

Rattrap couldn't even tell whether or not Prowl was surprised at the revelation. "And that would be?"

"First, you gotta promise you're not gonna hold it against me."

"Hold what against you? Holding out on me?"

"No. Conspirin' to lead you into a fatal trap."

And Rattrap still couldn't tell whether Prowl looked surprised. But he did notice how Prowl glanced at the gun on the table.

"I switched sides," Rattrap said quickly. "For real, this time."

"Glad to hear it. Tell me about this trap."

"First," Rattrap said, "before Shockwave realizes I've sold out, you've gotta let me transfer my whole bank account into yours."

For a long moment, Prowl was silent. "... What?"

"Yeah, Starscream's let me into everything," Rattrap whispered into the comm to Earth. Every once in a while he threw glances over at the entrances to his hidden quarters, double-, triple-, and quadruple-checking that they were still blocked. "He's havin' me pass around his orders, he's tellin' me which guys he wants to have trailed—he's even tellin' me who he expects to backstab him, in what order, and his plans for backstabbing 'em first. And I'm on the list. Can you believe that? And he's still trusting me with all this?"

"Starscream takes 'keep your friends close and your enemies closer' to excessive new heights." Even through the many alterations to the comm signal—from distance, from a dozen layers of encryption, and from the deliberate distortion of the pitch to disguise the voice—Prowl's old, familiar monotone was unmistakable. Rattrap didn't know why he even bothered to disguise his voice. "Is he up to anything that calls for an immediate response?"

"Nah. Just dealin' with infrastructural issues and doing some ego-stroking projects—you know, things that'll make him look good to the populace." Another check to the door, and Rattrap lowered his voice again: "He's made some worrying talk about plans to contact Caminus, though. I wouldn't say he's up to anything bad—yet—but I don't like the way he's talking about Caminus, you know? Like he's already viewing them as future citizens."

"If Starscream starts expanding his empire, he's never going to stop. Keep me updated on his plans. We need to be ready to stop them as soon as he puts them into action."

Prowl was already talking about empires, was he? Rattrap didn't think Starscream was anywhere near that yet—but he also didn't think Starscream would pass up the opportunity if it came to him. And Prowl always did think far ahead. "You got it, boss. I'll call you when I've got more."

Over the course of the war, Prowl had become something of a rat king: the point at which a hundred little rats tangled together. Spies, saboteurs, and assassins—every dirty 'bot that did every dirty job the Autobots had. And as long as Rattrap had known him, Prowl had always looked out for his rats. He'd kept Rattrap out of the 'Cons, he'd connected Rattrap with the medic that gave him his legs back, and he'd kept Rattrap at one of the safest (and, admittedly, most boring) stations in the war when he didn't have more practical ways to make use of Rattrap's skills. And Rattrap was proud for Prowl to make use of them.

Because no matter what nasty accusations were flung at Prowl (some of which, Rattrap happened to know quite intimately, were true) and no matter how many people declared that Prowl was cold and sparkless, and no matter how many people said that Prowl was nothing but a manipulator—Rattrap would always know that he was the one cop on Cybertron who'd sneered at the idea of arresting a murderer when instead he could protect a useless rat. And Rattrap didn't believe for a second that was manipulation. That was Prowl's core.

Four million years later and Rattrap was still willing to trust Prowl with his life. After all, Prowl had never steered Rattrap wrong.

Rattrap hung up the call, transformed to beast mode, and scampered out into Metroplex's tunnels. Back to work.

Also posted on AO3, see link in my sidebar.

[builder051]

The sound of snowfall

Jonestown (Natasha Romanov/Jessica Jones Avengers-JJ crossover ‘verse).  Contains alcohol, emeto, a bit of angst, a bit of romance.  

_____

Picking up Jess for work is Nat’s first task each day.  Sometimes it’s as simple as rolling over in bed and pressing a kiss to Jess’s pink lips, parted slightly and always inviting.  Nat wishes that was the case every morning.  It feels natural, Nat rising with the sun.  Gently pulling her lover back into the land of the living.  Coaxing out a smile from the haze of drink and sleep.

It would never work, though.  They’re probably only so happy together because they aren’t always together.  Neither of them is cut out for domesticity, and the schedules of spy rings and overnight stakeouts are hardly accommodating.  But Nat can’t complain.  She has the low-slung black sports car for a reason.  It’s almost as sensual to watch Jess leave lipstick marks on the lid of her Starbucks cup.  Almost.

It’s snowy today.  A heap of the white powder falls from a ledge somewhere up above as she steers out of the tower’s basement garage, the door whirring up and letting her out onto the street.  There are a few shallow tire marks in the snow on the street, but not enough to churn it into dirty grey slush.  Nat feels ice crunch beneath her tires.  She takes it easy, letting the car roll forward with gravity before chancing a tap on the accelerator.  

It’s the kind of weather that closes schools and gives way to red-nosed newscasters bundled in knockoff Burberry, imploring the public not to leave their high-rises.  Nat laughs to herself, pushing the car up past 30 as she plays chicken with a yellow light.  She’s the only vehicle out and about this morning, so it’s not like there’s utility in slamming on the brakes.  And she’s not even speeding.

With the absence of traffic and slickness of the ice, it doesn’t take Nat long to navigate to Hell’s Kitchen.  She only slows when she turns, snow spraying in arcs around the wheels.  A thrill of excitement flutters in her stomach when she starts to fishtail.  Nat grins, then catches the eye of her reflection in the rearview mirror.  She could stand to cool her jets.  

Nobody in Jess’s building seems to have left for work, so there’s no place to park.  She doubts any brave souls will venture out anytime soon, so she doesn’t feel too bad about pulling up parallel to a yellow mustang with a 10-inch cap of snow.  It looks like an over-frosted sugar cookie, delectable and absolutely ridiculous.  There are so few cars in the city that it makes sense for parking options to be limited, but this one’s owner must be nuts.  Who leaves such a flashy vehicle parked curbside for any length of time?  Well, Nat does, but her sanity’s so far gone that she doesn’t count.

She locks up and picks her way across the sidewalk, making pointy tracks with her high-heeled boots.  She sinks up to her ankles, and she shivers when some of the powder falls into her shoes.  Years of ballet and aikido and cheap, unbalanced treadmills have loosened the neural connections in her feet, but she still wishes she’d worn socks.

Jess’s building is hot and wet-smelling, like the collective population of inhabitants have all thrown their damp mittens over the radiator to dry.  Nat heads for the stairwell, where the draftiness and mist of cigarette smoke provide cold comfort.  She jogs in tight circles up the switchbacks to Jess’s floor, glad she’d had the boots re-soled in rubber.  It’s better for both the grip and the quietness.  It’s a little disappointing to stride across a hard floor without the purposeful clicking to announce her arrival.  But save an aura of sexiness, there’s no good reason for her to have loud shoes.  And besides, she doesn’t need to put on airs for Jess.  Jess tells her she’s beautiful in a hoodie and sweats.

Nat isn’t the one in a hoodie and sweats today, though.  The frosted glass panel in the door is meant to discourage prying eyes, but Nat knows how to interpret the fuzzy shapes behind the lettering for Alias Investigation.  The greyish, rounded silhouette of Jess’s head and shoulders rise past the line demarking the surface of her desk.  She’s already working.

“Hey,” Nat taps on the glass with one knuckle.  “Open up.”

Papers shuffle, and Jess gets up to let her in.  “Hey,” she says, raising her eyebrows at Nat through the crack as she releases the chain.  

“You gonna wear that to the office?” Nat asks, giving a meaningful look to Jess’s baggy sweatshirt before shaking the last bit of snow off the top of her shoe.  “Not that you shouldn’t.  But, you know…”

Jess shrugs.  “Did you watch the news?  Government stuff is closed today.”

Nat didn’t, but she’s not interested in sharing that.  “What, for this?”  She gestures vaguely toward the window behind Jess’s desk.  “It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, well, the transit authority has apparently never been to Minnesota.  Or Moscow.”  She flashes Nat a smile.  “That’s what they’re worried about.  Car crashes.  It ‘s not like New Yorkers know how to drive anyway, in, like, regular conditions.”  Her grin falters.

���Seriously, though,” Nat says, stepping into Jess’s kitchen and taking a mug from the drainer basket.  “A snow day?  Aren’t we too old for that?”

“Oh, I’m with you there,” Jess replies, trailing a few steps behind.  “If you wanna build a snowman, go ask somebody else.”

“Aw, you’re no fun.”  Nat reaches toward the cabinet that sometimes contains instant coffee.  But not today.  There’s only Jack Daniels and Smirnoff.  

“No, I’m totally fun,” Jess deadpans, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and tearing at the lid’s plastic coating.  “Want some breakfast?  I’ve got case files, too, but this is better.”

“You sure SHIELD’s closed?” Nat asks suspiciously.  “I’m not getting a DUI when we get called in for a mission or something.”

“It’s a snow day for evil geniuses too.”  Jess swigs straight from the bottle, then breaks the seal on the vodka and holds it over Nat’s mug.  A drop of clear liquor shivers at the lip and falls like a loose diamond.  “All plots to take over the world are delayed till tomorrow.”

Nat laughs.  It’s stupid to let her guard down so much, but Jess is right.  Statistically speaking, at least.  More crimes are committed in the summer, regardless of scale.  Even terrorists don’t like going out in the cold.  “Ok,” she acquiesces.  “Sure.  But you owe me if I get a parking ticket.”

“You won’t,” Jess says.  She fills the mug almost to the brim.  

Nat takes a sip and looks at her questioningly.

“Government’s closed, doofus.”  Jess bumps Nat’s shoulder with hers, and Nat has to quickly gulp her drink to keep it from spilling.  “That means fewer cops, and they’re all gonna be responding to fender benders.”

“You owe me if I get in a fender bender, then.”  Nat nudges her back.

Jess rolls her eyes.  “I don’t think you’re drunk enough.  You’ve really got the dumb today.”

Of course Nat doesn’t think she’ll actually crash.  She drives like a stuntwoman when she’s sober, and still better than the average soccer mom when she’s intoxicated.  She tosses her hair back even though it’s not in her eyes.  “Then maybe it’s a good thing you’re keeping me home.”

Jess laughs and kisses her.  She tastes like whiskey and sleep, and she rises on her tiptoes so she can give tongue.  After a moment, her forehead starts to slide down Nat’s nose.  “Take off your fucking tall shoes and come’ere.”  

The overexcited thermostat makes it comfortable to strip to underwear.  They lie on the couch, squashed together at one end, kissing and blushing and not quite watching Good Morning America.  They decide to start a new game, drinking every time someone on TV mentions the snow.  Quick sips for regular programming.  Long ones for special reporting interruptions.  

They play until they start to forget the rules.  The animated map of swirling rainbow weather systems seems to jump up and down, vibrating the sofa like a deck chair on a cruise ship.  Nat plants her hand to ground herself and finds the culprit is Jess’s rib cage, shuddering with silent giggles beneath her.  

“You have to keep going,” Jess says breathlessly, reaching clumsily for her bottle.  “This is the lonest fucking snow report I’ve ever seen.”

Nat starts giggling too, even though the situation is tilting decidedly towards not funny.  Her gut feels watery and heavy.  Or maybe that’s her mouth.  She’s an overfilled mug, ready to spill, but still sipping anyway.  It had helped last time.  

Nat’s hand goes clammy against the warm glass.  The bottle is half-empty and unwieldy.  The liquor splashes back and forth, toward the neck, then toward the bottom.  Jess’s face distorts as Nat looks at her, going huge and then tiny as the tide rises and falls.  Her mouth moves, and Nat knows she’s speaking, but it takes several seconds to disentangle her voice from what’s coming out of the TV.

“…ok?”

“Huh?” Nat asks into the vodka bottle.  A sick hiccup sticks in her throat like a cork about to pop.  She doesn’t trust herself to move.

“Nat?  You ok?”

“Uh-huh.”  But as she says it, she feels the bottom drop out of her stomach, a springboard compressed and ready to launch.  If the TV wasn’t humming, she thinks she’d be able to hear the blood draining from her face, like the sinister trickle from vein to vial in the overly-quiet doctor’s office.  

“No, you’re not.”  Jess sits up, jostling Nat and sending vodka all down the front of her camisole, both from the bottle and rushing up from her throat.  

“Oh, geez.  Sorry,” Jess says, yanking the bottle out of Nat’s hand and cupping her palm beneath her chin.

Nat wants to tell her it won’t do any good, though when she opens her mouth, Jess finds out anyway.  The sick is clear, but it smells like stomach acid.  The kind it’s easy to forget needs to be cleaned up until it dries and becomes a permanent odor.  It spills between Jess’s fingers and pools in Nat’s lap until she gains the wherewithal to lean forward over the floor.  

“Ok.  Alright,” Jess mumbles.  It’s half comforting and half drunkenly confused, like a stumbling coed looking for the pizza box that turns out to be in her hand.

Nat wants to tell her it’s not her fault, that it would’ve happened anyway.  She wants to tell her that she hardly ever pukes when she drinks, that this is weird, that she’ll clean it up.   But she’s still too nauseated to move her jaw.  Her breath comes in a wet rattle when she inhales.  And Jess already knows.

“Come on.”  Jess hauls Nat off the couch, supporting her easily with one hand while keeping the other, vomit-coated one under Nat’s face.  Nat thinks she’s going to be deposited in front of the toilet, and her stomach prepares to heave, but Jess pushes her into the shower instead.  She lets go for a second to close the glass door, and Nat retches.  Her shoulders fly toward her knees as her legs give way.  A weak stream of alcohol comes up and runs between Jess’s feet.

“Ok, easy.”  She props Nat against the tile wall.  Nat expects it to be cold against her spine, but it’s not.  It’s warm like the wall of a sauna.  Jess keeps her fingers wrapped around Nat’s arm as she reaches to turn on the spray.  

“’M fine,” Nat chokes.  She drags her shaking hand across her mouth and chin.  A blur of red and yellow stains the back of her wrist.  Nat hopes it’s a hallucination, carryover from the technicolor radar picture embossed on her retinas.  But she feels Jess’s eyes boring into her, burning the marks of mucous and blood.  

Nat wipes it on her thigh.  “It’s nothing,” she slurs.  Nothing good will come from a lie, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to come up with something believable, anyway.  She does her best to downplay the truth.  “Just… a thing that…happens sometimes…”

“Ulcer?” Jess guesses, taking down the showerhead and aiming it at Nat’s leg until the smear disappears in a pinkish swirl down the drain.  

“How’d you—”  Nat swallows hard and tries to convince herself the heat in her throat is just from the steam.

Jess shrugs.  “It’s a thing that happens sometimes.  More common than you might think.”  Her voice is steady, but her smile wavers.  “But I think I owe you for this one.”

“But… it isn’t a…?”  Nat can’t remember the stipulations of recompense she’d set earlier.  Something about cars.

“This is worse, isn’t it?”  Jess holds the showerhead over Nat’s hair, moving it over the crown of her head so the limp auburn strands fall out of her eyes.  

Nat considers.  “I mean…”  She thinks about forcing a laugh, but she doesn’t quite have the breath for it.  “It’s not ideal, but… I can think of worse ways to spend a snow day.”

Jess’s cheeks are as pink as her lips, and a halo of frizz decorated with tiny water droplets rings her head.  “You poor, deprived girl.”  She lets the showerhead fall, the spray keeping it from bouncing off the tile.  Jess grabs the shampoo, and the scent of flowers overtakes the notes of vodka and bile.  “If you’re lying to make me feel better…”  She trails off, shaking her head.

“I’m not,” Nat says.

“I know.”  Jess works a lather into Nat’s hair, her touch extra gentle on Nat’s scalp.

“Then why’d you say it?”  Nat says, trying to look up without straining her eyes.

“I wanted to know if you actually would.”  Jess’s voice goes up at the end, even though it’s not a question.  “Be honest, I mean.”

“I was.”

“Yeah,” Jess sighs.  “I probably shouldn’t’ve questioned it.”  She slips into a mumble.  Nat isn’t sure if it’s from alcohol or emotion.

“If you didn’t, you’d be stupid,” Nat says.  A line of foam drips down her temple.  She watches it leave a white trail in her peripheral vision.  Nat catches it with her thumb and smears it across Jess’s cheek, right under her eye.

“What are you doing?”  Jess looks at her in a pitying way, her eyebrows raised and her forehead crossed with worry lines.

“Giving you an excuse.  You keep saying I’m dumb, but you’re the one crying because you got soap in your eyes.”  Nat gives a dramatic eye roll that makes her head pound, but an ember of satisfaction glows in her chest as she sees a tear cut the streak of sudsy war paint.

“It’s shampoo.”  Jess begins to carefully rinse Nat’s hair.  The corner of her mouth twitches.  “Shut your eyes.”

“Well, excuse me.”  

“I always will, Nat.  You know me.”