#city slicker who gets it

[mysticalmusicwhispers]

i feel like yao is someone whose adaptability generally ranks very high on his list of traits... yes he's so fucking proud and it causes 20398492578 internet debacles between nichukor all the time, and yes he has a complex about being treated with the gravity and respect that he thinks he deserves, as a growing world power and person (subjectively objectively) full of age old, well distilled wisdom, but he's also not foolish enough to be wounded at the slightest insult. like his emotional tolerance and regulation has, imo gotten (slightly) better over the centuries, and certain things are just water off a duck's back now. he knows that sometimes he's just playing a part, and doesn't expect nor care for anyone to recognize him as an unfathomably important or vast nation; like he has to live his day-to-day too, and it gets bothersome if everyone was hanging off his every word because they see his age. if you want to see a scrappy post-90/90后 trying to make it in the city, sure; if you want to a see rich young businessman, sure; if you want to see an energetic government official (or a disillusioned one), sure. it doesn't matter to him because the opinions of ordinary citizens are ultimately inconsequential compared to those of the other nations/govts, and he can play whatever part he wants them to see. he'd probably find it somewhat fun to drop references or subtly hint at his age and observe people's reactions when they pick up on it. if someone really disrespects him (couldve been bc he's actually being a dick, but if it actually devolves to age-based insults) he could always just reveal that he's actually wang yao, the personification of your homeland and everything you know, as well as the guy who actually birthed your mom (didn't you know), etc. and he'd probably get a good laugh out of it too lol. what really matters to him is other nation's opinions, and they know enough to give him at least grudging respect. idk i feel like he's just gotten good at tuning out what he thinks doesn't matter in order to focus on playing his part well, to get what he wants from the people actually calling the shots. how or whether his citizens perceive everything that he is, doesn't really matter.

also again; mf definitely isn't the vainest out of all the nations but he sure loves his beauty standards. puts face masks on every weekend despite nations not aging like humans bc he's not risking it...

[hellaverse-critical-confessions]

(from this video)

[kenobihater]

there's currently a fucking squirrel in my wall (again. i think it's the spawn of scratchy the first) bc i live in an older house and it literally burrowed into the siding. i've been periodically knocking to get the little shit to stop burrowing bc i do NOT want a squirrel in my room. i've been laying here for abt five mins since last getting up to knock on the wall, and i swear to everything holy i just heard the fucker knock back

[gmos]

got to go on a walk tonight <3

[andersonfilms]

farmhand!abby who practically has you by the palm of her calloused hand, pressed against the back of your barn doors as if you’re not the one who owns the land it stands on. the flimsy white tank top shoved up to your chest as swollen, pink lips suck your nipple into her mouth, rolling her tongue over the sensitive area. she lets you get lost in the sensation, her soft hum vibrating against your body as she descends. appreciating every aspect you have to offer, on display, just for her. 

before you have time to catch up, abby makes swift work of your jeans, shoving the denim down to your ankles. “is this what you wanted all along, sweetheart?” you nod reverently, too choked up to form a coherent thought. she pushes your panties to the side, exposing your perfect pussy to her. “yeah, just need me to fuck you, huh? you should have just asked me when we met.”

she cowers to her knees free hand making home on your soft thigh, fingertips running aimlessly on the skin she would sink into, possibly forever. carefully, you sink into her golden waves, looking down as you admire sun-kissed skin and the freckles adorning her kissable cheeks.

"i was, um, nervous. just a little bit." you mutter, watching as her pearly white dips into her bottom lip. "pretty girl like you has nothing to be worried about. not with me." soft she kisses your inner thighs, neighboring where you crave her the most.

"well you did hire me, guess the boss didn't wanna fuck their employee, until now?" you nod, the corners of your mouth quirk up.

"but i can't say i haven't been jealous in the past you know? all those women never seemed like they could take care of you, certainly didn't sound like it." you blush at the intrusion, but you’re entrance by her bright blues looking up at you. 

“let me show you how you deserve to be fucked, hm? not those city slickers you like to bring around. now, be a good girl for me and take what i’m gonna give you. how does that sound, darling?” you nod again but it isn't enough for her.

"use you words, sweetheart. tell me what i need to hear." abby commands and you're eager to oblige.

"yes ma'am."

"good girl, baby. looks like someone deserves a reward. not stopping until you're coming all over my pretty face, alright?" all it takes is one light flick of her tongue and you're falling into her trance, sinfully and forever hers. 

[jadeite-art]

I think that all of those cracks we see throughout the show really boil down to one fundamental issue.

This may sound weird but Barb and Coop remind me of Mary-Sue and Daniel Pleasant from the Sims 2 in the sense that if they were sims they would have diverging aspirations. Barb would be a "career" sim and Coop would be a "family" sim.

When you start the game the Pleasants are still together but their marriage is strained - on the verge of breakup even - cause Mary is focused on her job (she's a "career" sim) and Daniel wants to bang the maid (he's a "romance" sim). You as the player, can make them work through their issues and stay married but at the end of the day, Mary will still want to make career and Daniel will still want to bang everyone in town and their mother.

Barb and Coop love each other, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that:

1. Barb is a city girl and a working girl, she may not condone everything Vault-Tec does but I feel she actually fits in that corporate environment. She thrives there. I mean, she is an exec.

2. Coop is a family man and a country man deep down. He's a simple, honest kind of guy who despises that corporate world with all of its scheming and butt-licking and all. What he values and desires most is to be with his family (pets included).

Barb could never relate to Coop's desire to step away from city life, in the same way Coop could never relate to Barb's honest desire to continue that life.

I find it somewat telling that when Coop suggests that they move to the countryside Barb's first response is "and what would I be doing there?" She later gives other arguments why that's not a viable option, but still, her very first response was pointing out that's no place for a woman like her. This has me wondering...

Barb fell in love and married Cooper Howard, the Hollywood actor, a man with money, status, connections etc. Would she have fallen in love and married Coop, a simple man from idk, Nebraska?

Barb the city slicker who goes on summer vacation to the country and falls for Cooper the local cowboy sounds like the plot of a hallmark rom-com. At the end of the movie, Barb would obviously stay with Coop but in real life, she'd have a steamy summer romance but would ultimately go back to the city and perhaps that's exactly what happened. Except Coop fell in love so hard that he left everything behind and followed her there.

It must have been all great at the beginning. He gets the job as a stuntman, then becomes an actor (I wonder if Barb might have pulled a string or two to make it happen), they marry, have a kid and a dog (not necessarily in that order). Life is good, even if he misses the countryside sometimes, but then Barb pushes him into the collab with Vault-Tec, molding him further into the kind of man she needs him to be. Problem is, that's not the kind of man Coop is or ever wants to be. He does everything Barb asks of him for the sake of their love but you can tell he gets more and more miserable in the process. If the opposite scenario was true and it was Barb who moved to the countryside to be with Coop and spent her days milking cows, raising chickens, and baking pies, she'd end up just as miserable if not more.

That said, I feel like regardless of the entire atomic issue, Barb and Coop's relationship would always be destined to fail, at least on some level. As much as I loved them on the show, the rationalist in me recognizes that they could never really work. Not without one of them changing to the point of unrecognition to fit the other's needs and expectations and ending up somewhat unhappy as a result.

They are just two sims with diverging aspirations.

i can’t help but notice how sincerely uncomfortable barb looks after the vault-tec commercial when cooper comes up from behind her and puts his arms around her. she’s clearly not a fan of pda while he clearly is, and it’s just an interesting moment showcasing how even at this point, they’re on two different pages.

the cracks are already showing.

[chaosister]

BMW : ellie williams.

ellie sent you a text inviting you to ride with her on her new bmw car but it seemed like ellie had a different kind of riding on her mind.

cw. fucking inside a car, riding, cow girl, ellie acts like her strap-on is an actual cock attached to her, you're cock drunk and the two of you are literally both fucked stupid, messy sex.

note. first time writing smut and word vomit so I'm sorry if this is all over the place... 17+ ONLY.

when ellie sent you a message saying that she wanted to take you out on a ride around the city in her BMW van you thought nothing of it but you should’ve honestly expected some horny shit was going to happen, it was ellie after all and something was bound to happen like the situation you were in now.

“uh! ha-!”  your moans echoed around the wide space of her luxury SUV that the two of you were in. you were currently on top of ellie who’s laying down on the backseats of her newly acquired BMW as she lets out small huffs of air “that’s it baby- hah- taking my cock so well, like a good girl.” Ellie’s raspy voice was making your pussy more slicker as you continued to bounce up and down on her strap. oh god, her strap always manages to hit all those sweet spots inside of you and it never fails to turn your brain into a puddle.

“already going dumb on my strap? you’re that much of a whore for my cock, aren’t you? ’s alright, I’ll take care of you princess.”  ellie’s other hand that wasn’t resting on your thigh took a hold of your hair and tugged you forward as you leaned in her face, ellie wasted no time and smashed her lips on yours immediately as the two of you lapped each other’s lips like starved beasts.

the two of you moaned in each other’s mouth, both of your tongues dancing with each other as saliva were swapped between the two of you.

“anhn-! el’s-!” the sudden buckling of ellie’s hips made you release a surprised gasp at the way you could feel the tip of her cock bullying your cervix and it was making your eyes roll back. “shiiit.. keep ridin’ me like that pretty girl.” ellie purred beside your ears as she released groans and small gasps from the feeling of the strap continuosly bumping on her clit and sending multiple shockwaves of pleasure thrumming through her veins.

“fuck-! ridin’ me like there’s no tomorrow, -ah- huh?” ellie’s calloused hands suddenly gripped your ass rather harshly as she helped bounce you up and down on her cock, occasionally leaving slaps and leaving harsh marks on your skin- you already knew that there’s going to be bruises present tomorrow.

“so desperate-haahh- fa’ me aren’t cha’ baby?” you buried your face on ellie’s neck as the non-stop bullying of her cock on your cunt never relented and her sharp thrusts only seemed to get more and more desperate and faster as if she was chasing after your cunt. 

you could tell that ellie was about to come due to her groans and desperate moans that mixed with your own and echoed around the vehicle. “feel ‘s good el’s..” your words slurred as you suckled on her neck rather messily due to the drool that escaped your mouth from how fucked out your brain was. “ughn! nevah wan’ to leave ya cunt princess- suckin’ me in ‘s good..”  

ellie’s thrusting was now much more harsher and the bumping on her clit was making her lose her mind, your back arched as your hands clinged on the armrest of her seat and desperately met her strong thrusts “hah-! el’s!” ellie’s hands that wrapped and fondled your breasts was bringing you closer and closer to the edge “yah- tha’s it baby, cum on this cock ya love s’ much” her encouraging words was enough to make your head tip back and stars explode in your vision as everything turned white as you squirt all over her cock messily. ellie thrusted a few times and soon followed after you, wetting the seat of her car as the two of you went limp on each other’s embrace.

[mummel-art]

cowboyverse dashboard simulator

dashboard simulator based on my cowboy ocs because yes

💣bpd-cowboy follow

bitches hate me for my undiagnosed bpd swag. and also the killings but that's less important

(1065 notes)

🦩 bluerpastures follow

i did not kill my husband of 10 years just for "tradwives" to become trendy again

👢 kiddthekid follow

why is my mother posting murder confessions on the hellsite?

#she does have several valid points but hellooo #girl #you are not immune to getting arrested in your old age of 57 mother #also is that what happened to my father?

(14k notes)

🚂 railroadontherun follow

living our best life in argentina with @veteran-outlaw! #travelblog #outlawblr

💣bpd-cowboy follow

@/doneanddusted is literally dead.

🚂 railroadontherun follow

this aint about her

(18 notes)

💣bpd-cowboy follow

was it casual when i took you with me on multiple robberies and showed you the freedom your husband never gave you? was it casual when we danced next to our bonfire and watched the stars? was it casual??

🦩 bluerpastures follow

well i dont know, was it casual when you looked for me even after i betrayed you? was it casual when i gave you a place to stay? was it casual when you were the closest thing to a father figure my son had?

🪶 veteran-outlaw follow

not the gatekeeping??

for your information there's many reasons someone doesn't have a wanted poster, whether they hide their face during robberies (smart if you have a family to care for!) or they just don't get seen as a serious enough threat no matter how hard they try. also some people on outlawblr are literally just starting out.

gatekeeping only separates us further

🦩 bluerpastures follow

exactly! thanks @veteran-outlaw!

i, for example, dont have a wanted poster anymore because my charges were dropped in exchange for information i gave to protect my family

🪶 veteran-outlaw follow

nevermind i take it back, didnt know i was defending a class traitor

💣bpd-cowboy follow

what the fuck happened to my post

#also for your information im the one blue betrayed and its fine imo #well. it did kinda cause my best friends death #but how was she supposed to know that

(24k notes)

👢 kiddthekid follow

anyone else think that growing up an hour away from any other kids their age and almost exclusively playing with ranch-hands when they were growing up might have fucked up their development a little or is that just me?

#might have also been the cheap ass smokes my moms boyfriend let me smoke when i was like 7 #who knows #city slickers dni #where are my fellow ranchkids at

(102 notes)

[celepom]

It’s Pride 2023! Time to put up some more comic recs!

This time I’ve put together some stories about discovering one’s own queer identity, outlining a family history of queerness, and several stories where being queer isn’t the focus - queer characters are simply allowed to be.

Belle of the Ball By Mari Costa

High-school senior and notorious wallflower Hawkins finally works up the courage to remove her mascot mask and ask out her longtime crush: Regina Moreno, head cheerleader, academic overachiever, and all-around popular girl. There’s only one teensy little problem: Regina is already dating Chloe Kitagawa, athletic all-star…and middling English student. Regina sees a perfectly self-serving opportunity here, and asks the smitten Hawkins to tutor Chloe free of charge, knowing Hawkins will do anything to get closer to her. And while Regina’s plan works at first, she doesn’t realize that Hawkins and Chloe knew each other as kids, when Hawkins went by Belle and wore princess dresses to school every single day. Before long, romance does start to blossom…but not between who you might expect. With Belle of the Ball, cartoonist Mariana Costa has reinvigorated satisfying, reliable tropes into your new favorite teen romantic comedy.

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The Moth Keeper By Kay O’Neill

Anya is finally a Moth Keeper, the protector of the lunar moths that allow the Night-Lily flower to bloom once a year. Her village needs the flower to continue thriving and Anya is excited to prove her worth and show her thanks to her friends with her actions, but what happens when being a Moth Keeper isn't exactly what Anya thought it would be? The nights are cold in the desert and the lunar moths live far from the village. Anya finds herself isolated and lonely. Despite Anya's dedication, she wonders what it would be like to live in the sun. Her thoughts turn into an obsession, and when Anya takes a chance to stay up during the day to feel the sun's warmth, her village and the lunar moths are left to deal with the consequences.

---

Hollow By Shannon Watters, Branden Boyer-White & Berenice Nelle

Isabel "Izzy" Crane and her family have just relocated to Sleepy Hollow, the town made famous by—and obsessed with—Washington Irving's legend of the Headless Horseman. But city slicker-skeptic Izzy has no time for superstition as she navigates life at a new address, a new school, and, with any luck, with new friends. Ghost stories aren't real, after all.... Then Izzy is pulled into the orbit of the town's teen royalty, Vicky Van Tassel (yes, that Van Tassel) and loveable varsity-level prankster Croc Byun. Vicky's weariness with her family connection to the legend turns to terror when the trio begins to be haunted by the Horseman himself, uncovering a curse set on destroying the Van Tassel line. Now, they have only until Halloween night to break it—meaning it's a totally inconvenient time for Izzy to develop a massive crush on the enigmatic Vicky. Can Izzy's practical nature help her face the unknown—or only trip her up? As the calendar runs down to the 31st, Izzy will have to use all of her wits and work with her new friends to save Vicky and uncover the mystery of the legendary Horseman of Sleepy Hollow—before it's too late. 

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Until I Meet my Husband By Ryousuke Nanasaki & Yoshi Tsukizuki

The memoir of gay activist Ryousuke Nanasaki and the first religiously recognized same-sex marriage in Japan. From school crushes to awkward dating sites to finding a community, this collection of stories recounts the author’s “firsts” as a young gay man searching for love. Dating is never ever easy, but that goes doubly so for Ryousuke, whose journey is full of unrequited loves and many speed bumps. But perseverance and time heals all wounds, even those of the heart.

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Is Love the Answer? By Uta Isaki

When it comes to love, high schooler Chika wonders if she might be an alien. She’s never fallen for or even had a crush on anyone, and she has no desire for physical intimacy. Her friends tell her that she just "hasn't met the one yet," but Chika has doubts... It's only when Chika enters college and meets peers like herself that she realizes there’s a word for what she feels inside--asexual--and she’s not the only one. After years of wondering if love was the answer, Chika realizes that the answer she long sought may not exist at all--and that that's perfectly normal.

---

M Is for Monster By Talia Dutton

When Doctor Frances Ai's younger sister Maura died in a tragic accident six months ago, Frances swore she would bring her back to life. However, the creature that rises from the slab is clearly not Maura. This girl, who chooses the name "M," doesn't remember anything about Maura's life and just wants to be her own person. However, Frances expects M to pursue the same path that Maura had been on—applying to college to become a scientist—and continue the plans she and Maura shared. Hoping to trigger Maura's memories, Frances surrounds M with the trappings of Maura's past, but M wants nothing to do with Frances' attempts to change her into something she's not. In order to face the future, both Frances and M need to learn to listen and let go of Maura once and for all. Talia Dutton's debut graphic novel, M Is for Monster, takes a hard look at what it means to live up to other people's expectations—as well as our own.

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Golden Sparkle By Minta Suzumaru

Himaru Uehara’s first year of high school is off to a good start, minus one problem—he keeps having wet dreams. With only his mom and sister at home—and having skipped health class in middle school—he thinks it means there’s something wrong with him. Thankfully, a new friend has just the remedy and teaches Himaru exactly how to deal with those pesky dreams! But his solution only leads to more confusion, and the two find themselves navigating feelings they’ve never felt before.

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Thieves By Lucie Bryon

Ella can’t seem to remember a single thing from the party the night before at a mysterious stranger’s mansion, and she sure as heck doesn’t know why she’s woken up in her bed surrounded by a magpie’s nest of objects that aren’t her own. And she can’t stop thinking about her huge crush on Madeleine, who she definitely can’t tell about her sudden penchant for kleptomania… But does Maddy have secrets of her own? Can they piece together that night between them and fix the mess of their chaotic personal lives in time to form a normal, teenage relationship? That would be nice.

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Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic By Alison Bechdel

Meet Alison's father, a historic preservation expert and obsessive restorer of the family's Victorian home, a third-generation funeral home director, a high school English teacher, an icily distant parent, and a closeted homosexual who, as it turns out, is involved with his male students and a family babysitter. Through narrative that is alternately heartbreaking and fiercely funny, we are drawn into a daughter's complex yearning for her father. And yet, apart from assigned stints dusting caskets at the family-owned "fun home," as Alison and her brothers call it, the relationship achieves its most intimate expression through the shared code of books. When Alison comes out as homosexual herself in late adolescense, the denouement is swift, graphic -- and redemptive.

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She Loves to Cook, and She Loves to Eat By Sakaomi Yuzaki

Cooking is how Nomoto de-stresses, but one day, she finds herself making way more than she can eat by herself. And so, she invites her neighbor Kasuga, who also lives alone. What will come out of this impromptu dinner invitation...?

Kasuga and Nomoto promised to spend their Christmas and New Year’s together. Now, they find themselves learning more about each other’s families through the food sent by Nomoto’s mother. Cute character bento, salmon and rice, stollen, fruit sandwiches, roast beef…Nomoto and Kasuga warm up to each other over a cheerful holiday season.  

[delicatebarness]

wildflower ridge ranch | chapter one

Summary: An encounter at a bar leads to confrontation, and old feelings between you and JB resurface.

Warning: Violence | Sexual Objectification | Controlling Family Dynamics | Tension

Word Count: 2043

Spotify Playlist | Support: Ko-FI

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

A/N: This was meant to be the prologue but I decided to change the order last night, so I thought I might as well post this chapter since it's already written.- Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

A cacophony of music, laughter, and a distant clinking of glasses was exactly what you needed. You’d been looking forward to this Friday night all week– getting out of that house, away from the ranch, and the constant watchful eye of your daddy and brothers. It wasn’t often you got to come out; when you did, you tried to make the most of it.

Of course, your daddy wouldn’t have let you come if it weren’t for the fact that Curtis and Johnny were out tonight too. It took some convincing, but when Curtis promised to keep an eye on you, Daddy finally gave in.

“She’s with her brothers, she’ll be fine,” your mama muttered to him as they watched you close the door behind you. And now there you were, surrounded by a noisy crowd, and dim lighting. 

Off with their friends, you weren’t too worried about Curtis and Johnny watching you too closely– busy talking about who knows what, and probably ranch business. There was nothing you cared about at that moment, you just wanted to dance. 

The wooden boards creaked under your boots as you moved, the fast, upbeat music pulling you onto the dance floor. You couldn’t help but smile as you found your friends among the crowd, and the thick air filled with the smell of beer, and sweat. Letting the music take over, you lose yourself in the rhythm, laughing and spinning around. 

Somewhere in the background was JB, you didn’t know his eyes were watching you the entire night. Or, see how they followed you across the room as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and an unreadable expression etched across his face as he watched.

His jaw tightened every time another man got too close to you on the dance floor, and he gripped his beer a little harder whenever you shot a smile toward someone who wasn’t him.

“My god, what I would give to ride that piece of ass,” a slurred voice behind him sneered. 

JB turned stiffly, his eyes darkening a deep shade of blue as he caught sight of the moron responsible for the comment– a city slicker, all polo shirt buttoned-up and filled with arrogance. Hearing the guy continue to talk, louder this time, it was clear he was speaking about you, and didn’t know what kind of trouble he’d just started.

Without hesitation or thought, JB made his way across the bar, boots thudding heavily with each step. Curtis called his name, but he didn’t stop. Grabbing the guy by the collar, he saw red as he yanked him to his feet. 

There was a tense silence as the confrontation escalated. By then, you watched with alarm as JB’s grip on the man’s collar tightened.

“You talk about her like that again, and I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body,” JB growled, low and dangerous. Fury burned within his eyes. The city slicker’s arrogance was palpable, and a grin spread across his lips.

“You think you scare me, cowboy?” The man sneered, disdain dripping from his voice.

JB clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, trust fund.” 

A punch landed hard, knocking JB off balance– the city slicker’s friend, who had been observing from the bar, swung into JB’s side. Rushing towards the chaos, Curtis and Johnny were by JB’s side. From there, everything spiraled out of control. 

Now grinning with twisted satisfaction, the city slicker’s friend had made the mistake of thinking he had the upper hand. But, the whole bar knew, JB and the Rogers boys were far from intimidated. 

“You wanna go, too?” Johnny growled, his fists clenching as he stared down another one of their friends. “Come on, then. Let’s get this started.” 

Patrons scattered, and the laughter was replaced with the clattering of furniture. A barstool came flying through the air, narrowly missing you as you ducked behind a table. Fists flew, and bodies crashed into each other. 

Curtis embodied calm fury, casually grabbing a nearby chair and swinging it at one of the city slicker’s friends. The man was sent sprawling into a group of onlookers. Johnny, however, was in the thick of it, trading blows with anyone who flew one, movements fluid and precise as he knocked the opponents backward.

Meanwhile, JB was locked in a brutal exchange with the city slicker– surprisingly who was resilient. They grappled and traded punches, yet as JB’s fury took over the city slicker’s smirk faded.

Just as the fight seemed to reach its peak, Bucked landed another solid blow to the guy, sending him sprawling. He was outmatched and tried to scramble to his feet, but Johnny quickly restrained him. Curtis and a few others started pushing the remainder of the city slicker’s friends toward the exit. 

Seeing an opportunity, you ran toward JB, who was now catching his breath, eyes scanning the bar and surveying the damage.

“James,” you softly urged his name, your eyes widened and pleaded as you looked up at him.

He understood immediately, and without needing any further words, he nodded. Making his way toward the door, his hand absentmindedly brushed your arm lightly, leading you toward your brothers.

As you all stepped outside, the night air hit you like a cool wave. The distant sound of sirens reminded you that the sheriff would likely be arriving soon. 

Parked just outside, Curtis’ Cadillac Escalade felt like a haven of normalcy, and you settled into the back seat, with JB following close behind.

Johnny, still catching his breath, chuckled as he turned around from the passenger seat, a hint of a grin on his face. “Well, that was one for the books.” 

The beams of the headlights swept across the familiar silhouette of the house as Curtis pulled into the long driveway of the ranch. As the engine clicked softly in the silence, you tried to calm your racing heart. There was still the faint smell of beer and sweat in the air, mingling with the scent of the earthy ranch as Curtis turned off the headlights. 

JB hadn’t said much since the fight, his arm rested on the back of the seat, not close enough to touch but you could feel the warmth of his body. The tension between you was undeniable.

Curtis stretched with a groan, leather creaking underneath him as he shifted in his seat. “Ari’s not gonna be happy about this,” he muttered, pushing open the door. 

Johnny shot you a quick glance, your twin's brow furrowed. “You alright? That was… a lot.”

You nodded, offering him a small smile. “I’m fine. Just glad it’s over.” Johnny didn’t look entirely convinced, but nevertheless, he shrugged before stepping out of the car, following Curtis’ lead.

As your brothers made their way toward the house, you and JB lingered by the car, enveloped in a stillness. Neither one of you spoke for a moment, stretching out the quiet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whispered finally, glancing up at him. The faint glow of the moonlight caught on the scruff of his jaw. 

Turning his head slightly, he met your gaze. “Didn’t like the way he was talkin’ about you.” 

The weight behind his words was something more than anger, you could see it as his blue eyes softened. He had never been the type to let anyone disrespect you, but this was different. This fight wasn’t because of what the guy said– he jumped into it because he needed it.

Your throat felt tight as you swallowed hard. “I can handle myself, James.” 

“I know, darlin’” he replied, his voice low. “That doesn’t mean I’m gonna stand around and let anyone treat you like that.” 

The words hung in the air, with a heavy intensity. That same protectiveness that once made your heart race, back when things were different between you two. Back when you were more than just the boss’s daughter and another ranch hand. But, that had been around six years ago, and a lot had happened since then.

Shifting on your feet, you suddenly felt exposed under his gaze. It was as if he could still see the parts of you no one else could– the parts you only shared with him.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore, James.” you softly said, the words filled with all the history between you.

His jaw tightened as he looked at you. “Old habits, I guess,” he muttered under his breath, but there was something that made you think tonight wasn’t just about old habits. 

This tension wasn’t new to either of you– it had always been there, it even stayed after things ended. Yet, tonight felt different. There was a rawness, a pull that neither of you could ever ignore, no matter how much, or hard you tried. 

During that summer it felt like nothing could touch you, between sneaking around, stolen kisses behind the stables, and whispered promises under the stars. You both had been so careful, and it was as if you had carved out a little piece of happiness just for yourselves. However, the reality of your life, your daddy’s expectations, ranch pressure, it had all been too much. And whatever it was that you and JB thought you could have all fallen apart that night when the truth almost came out. 

After that, before anyone found out, you ended things. You both decided it was better to break your own hearts than let your family do it for you. But the feelings never disappeared, they were still buried deep, simmering beneath the surface. 

Resting his hand on the roof of the car, he turned to face you fully before leaning in just a little. He was close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough for the memories of the times you had once shared this proximity to come rushing back. 

“You should go inside before they start askin’ questions,” he said firmly.

As your heart pounded in your chest, you bit your lip. You wanted to stay and ask him what this all meant, if maybe after everything, you could try again. But, the rationale Rogers’ part of you knew better. It knew that, whatever this was between you two, it couldn’t happen. Not at the ranch, not with your daddy and brothers watching your every move. 

“Goodnight, James,” you whispered, making no move to leave.

His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, he reached up as if to cup your cheek or brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. But, the connection never came, instead, he dropped his hand and straightened up. Stepping back, he added a distance between you, but not so much that you couldn’t feel the pull between you. 

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbed as if he wanted to say more but he was holding back. Unspoken words always hung between you both, a wall of restraint. 

“I’ll see you around, darlin’” he muttered, his voice almost hollow.

As you walked away from him and toward the house, you could feel his eyes on you. You glanced back one last time as you reached the porch, your breathing catching as you saw him standing watching by the car, still.

There was no wave or call out after you. He just stood as a silent figure in the moonlight, waiting until you were safely inside. 

A flicker of movement inside caught JB’s eye. Up in one of the upstairs windows, hidden by the curtains partially was your Daddy– Mr Steve Rogers. He was watching the whole exchange, the silent conversation between you two, with his arms crossed, and his usual stern face now etched with a knowing look. 

JB could tell by the way the man stood, that he wasn’t pleased. This was not the first time he had caught you and JB sharing moments, especially like this one.

When he spotted your daddy, JB’s entire body stiffened, clenching his jaw for a second. And, at that moment, he stepped away from the window, leaving a clear message as he disappeared into the shadows of the house: whatever this was, it had to stop.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[octuscle]

Fewer wheels, more balls

Stephen cursed everything. His parents, because they hadn't paid for him to study medicine and he had only become a nurse. St. Peter because he sent a shower of rain at the exact moment he rolled out onto the road on his new motorcycle. The mechanic, because he had offered him the motorcycle as a replacement for his car, which had finally died of old age. And himself, because he hadn't had the backbone to insist on having the car repaired and had this bike sold to him instead. Yes, he had taken his driver's license back then. But he hadn't ridden a motorcycle since driving school. And this beast, a twenty-year-old Triumph Rocket III, was far too big for his frail body. And with the silly rain overalls that the mechanic had given him, he looked more than silly.

Especially in this weather, Stephen hadn't expected to get home on his bike without breaking down. But even he was surprised that it should be so far after just four miles. With the last of his strength, the bike rolled under the highway bridge. At least it was dry there. And now? Stephen had no idea about engines. He was an ambulance driver. He knew all about cars. At least a little. But with motorcycles?

If you're at a loss, ask ChatGPT. Stephen pulled out his cell phone and described the problem. He was advised to remove the spark plugs and dry them out. Shit, yes, he'd heard about that. It was a common problem with that model year. He had an oily rag in his upperall. He dried and cleaned the spark plugs. And the machine started. Perfectly! Nevertheless, Stephen sent up a prayer to heaven. And it was answered. The rain subsided and he made it home without any further problems.

Stephen dried his bike and hung his wet leather suit on a hanger. His garage, which was also his own little improvised workshop, was kept tidy. That was important to him. Otherwise, he wasn't the tidy type… As he stood in front of the toilet in his wet underwear and pissed, it occurred to him that he could clean again. Shit, this was a man's household. And he worked in the Red Cross workshop on engines and car bodies. He didn't need a sterile environment. He still had some pizza left in the fridge. He didn't have to leave for work for another hour. That was enough for food, drink and a wank. Then he put on a dry leather suit, sat on his 140 hp baby and set off for work with the engine roaring.

Stephen liked the late shift. He could wait for the vehicles in peace and didn't have to constantly watch out for vehicles coming in and out. The bad weather also meant that there were fewer people on the road. There were fewer motorcycle accidents in particular. Stephen didn't care about the weather. He had once had a car. But he needed the wind around his nose. He drove in all weathers. Nevertheless, he preferred it when no bikers had to be taken to hospital after an accident. Here in the neighborhood you can. Most of them were at least distant acquaintances. I mean, Stephen was an authority in the biker scene. When it came to engines, nobody could fool him. And whether it was his Triumph, his BMW or his Ducati, he had every bike under control.

It was almost 05:00 in the morning. The replacement would be coming soon. Stephen was standing in the coffee kitchen with a couple of paramedics, smoking a cigarette. His parents had always wanted him to become a doctor. He was sure that he could do a much greater service to the health service with his job. And tomorrow it would continue, tomorrow he would give it his all again. But not today, today he was happy when his baby was in the garage and he was in bed.

It was 08:00 when Steve was woken by a honking horn. Shit, he had slept in his clothes again. It had been a long evening with the boys. And yes, he'd probably had one too many beers to drive home. But his machine knew the way. Another honk. Bloody hell, couldn't anyone wait these days? "I'm coming" boomed Steve's bass over the service station. Some fucking city slicker who was too stupid to fill up the tank himself. Steve had a hard time hiding his morning wood when he went to the gas pump to fill up the show-off Porsche. Steve positioned himself so that the driver had no other chance than to stare at the bulge in his pants. "That'll be 80 bucks, buddy," Steve grunted. "Anything else I can do for you?"

Steve had once seen a drawing of a gas station where the attendants not only refueled and repaired cars, but also served hot customers in other ways. It was some guy from Denmark, Sweden or something… Tim? Tom? It didn't matter. Steve turned around, his hand on his bulge. Three, two, one... He would have bet the 80 dollars that the Porsche driver would come up behind him. The first coffee of the day would have to wait. He had an ass to fill for now.

Interested in your own TF story? DM me, there's a community on Tumblr for that!

[cuubism]

last year I saw this 1989 Dreamling art by @webonchin, became extremely obsessed with it, pondered and mulled over it for much time, and now ten whole months later I have a fic

--

my kingdom for a kiss upon your shoulder

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Human, 1989 Hob Gadling and Dream of the Endless | Morpheus Meeting, Musician Dream of the Endless, Stockbroker Hob Gadling, Love at First Sight, Getting Together, New York City, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Queer Themes, Disillusionment, Explicit Sexual Content, Blow Jobs, Anal Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Depression, tfw you meet someone who makes you want to change up your whole life Summary:

Despite Hob's success on Wall Street, life is starting to feel meaningless. Limitless sex, drugs, and money should be endlessly entertaining but instead he's bored, he feels empty, like something's missing.

Something, maybe, like the beautiful, tragic musician he meets at a party, who opens more than one new door in Hob's life--and reawakens the buried longing in his heart.

--

Hob lies on the couch of the crowded apartment he’s found himself in for the evening, head tipped back over the arm. Pounding music thumps distantly around him. Dim lights. Warm bodies moving in blurs. He ignores it all. Picks up his vodka soda from the coffee table and takes a swig. Half of it runs over the side of his mouth instead of into it.

He’s… bored. What’s wrong with him that he’s bored surrounded by as much drugs, sex, and general debauchery as he could possibly want?

But he is. All that climbing for so long and now… he doesn’t know where he is. Why he’s doing any of it. The climb, the growth, was fun for a while. Chasing hunger, chasing more, that was fun. But now he has all of it. Supposedly.

He sighs. Pours the rest of his drink inelegantly into his mouth. If he wants another one he’s going to have to get up. He doesn’t really feel like getting up. He feels like merging himself with the couch instead.

The party spins on around him, as it always does. Not everyone’s feeling as burnt out on sex, drugs, and debauchery as Hob is.

He could go track down some coke, he thinks hazily. Someone here’ll have some. Maybe it would kick his energy back up.

He just feels kind of tired at the thought.

It says something bad about the point he’s reached in life that even cocaine isn’t doing it for him anymore.

“This is very dull,” says a low voice, and a man slumps down beside him, sitting on the floor and leaning back against the couch. He tilts his head back, looking up at Hob. “Do you think so?”

“Yeah,” Hob says, and then does a double take as he catches a proper look at the man.

Christ but he’s gorgeous. Nothing like the men Hob would normally see at a thing like this—nothing like Hob himself—with their fashionable suits, slick hair, slicker smiles. This man is lithe and sprawling, like a wild predator, stark black and white lines, spiky hair, dark makeup, studs flowing down his ears like raindrops. Clever eyes. Long fingers clutching a cocktail that he doesn’t seem particularly interested in.

Hob is instantly fucked.

“I was promised good drugs and better sex and I’m bored on both counts,” the man continues. He takes a sip of his drink, and grimaces.

“That why you’ve come over here?” Hob asks. “Because I looked equally bored?”

“Exactly.” He offers the drink to Hob. “You should try this.”

Hob takes it. It’s… very blue. “What the hell is this?”

“There was a girl working the bar… very drunk. She said she would make me her ‘special potion.’”

That sounds… questionable. Hob takes a sip, and chokes. “Christ.”

“I witnessed her pour in vodka, Prosecco, and tequila. Blue Curaçao—for color, of course. And maraschino cherries.” He plucks one out of the glass by the stem—there are about seven of them total—and eats it.

“What the fuck.” The stuff’s revolting. Hob takes another sip. “That’s alcohol poisoning in a glass.”

“It’s been one of the better parts of the night,” the man says.

Hob returns the glass, and the man tosses more of the drink back, his throat working. Hob’s just drunk enough to not attempt to stop staring like a creep. He wants to ask him if he wants to get out of here, or even just to steal away into one of the many spare bedrooms—it wouldn’t be out of place at a party like this, hell, Hob could drag him into his lap on the fucking couch, everyone’s far too drunk to care—but propositioning this creature for a mere hookup feels like wearing an Italian suit to mud wrestle. What a waste of a perfectly-made thing.

How did something like this wind up at this party?

“Who’d you come in with?” he asks, as the man plucks another cherry from the glass and delicately bites it off the stem.

“Someone who gave me a rather mediocre blowjob after a show,” he says. “I suppose I thought I would find better here, but I was mistaken.”

“Fifty-fifty shot on that, I’d say,” Hob says. Based on personal experience. Sometimes mediocre is good enough. Sometimes sex, regardless of quality, is good enough. For a while it has been. He’s not so sure anymore.

“I dislike betting,” says the man. Then stretches up a limp hand to shake Hob’s. “If we are to commiserate, perhaps names are in order. I am Morpheus.”

Morpheus. What kind of name. Though he had said at a show. A performer of some kind? “Hob,” says Hob, shaking his hand despite the awkward angle.

“Greetings,” says Morpheus solemnly. “You are the first man I’ve met tonight who has not tried to impress me with inanities. I am indebted to you.”

Hob tips his head back against the arm of the couch again with a sigh. “Too tired for bullshit. What’ve people been saying to you, then?”

“I have been taught much,” Morpheus says seriously. “Thrice I have been ‘educated’ on the great promise of ‘mortgage-backed securities.’ The reactions to my disinterest ranged from offense to outright concern for my sanity.”

“I think they were just trying to get in your pants,” Hob tells him.

Morpheus frowns. “The finance lecture was not helping their case. In fact, with each passing minute, I became more aggressively repelled.”

Hob laughs. “You’re on Wall Street, baby,” he says. It comes out kind of slurred. “Only thing more important than the size of a man’s dick is the size of his portfolio.”

Morpheus hums in consideration. “Neither of those has a direct correlation to talent.”

“Try telling them that,” Hob says.

Morpheus sits up straighter against the couch, leaning his head on his arm to study Hob. “I suppose I should ask about yours.”

“You’re too pretty for me to be tacky like that,” Hob says honestly. Maybe he’s a bit more drunk than he thought.

“Am I?” Morpheus seems pleased.

“So pretty.”

“Hmm.” Morpheus rests his cheek on the couch cushion. The tips of his hair brush Hob’s hip. His eyes are so liquid in this light. Hob wonders if he’s hallucinating his existence.

He reaches out, mesmerized, to touch Morpheus’s hair. Morpheus doesn’t stop him. He lets Hob pet him, eyes falling shut. His hair is tacky on the ends with hair spray, but soft underneath.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Hob says, and Morpheus hums. “All those self-important stockbrokers trying to impress you with their convoluted financial instruments… they just want to hide that it’s all really a scam.”

“Is it now?” says Morpheus. “I was under the assumption it was legal.”

“Something can be a scam and technically legal. Oh, it’s all very clever. But it’s just building money on top of money with nothing real to support it. Kick out the base of the tower and it’ll all go into free fall.” He makes a whistling, falling sound, and Morpheus smirks.

“And I suppose you are better than all this.”

Hob chuckles. “Oh, no. I’m a money-grubbing little vermin, too. Just letting you in on the game. How it’s not so serious.”

“Hmm. I am a musician,” says Morpheus. As Hob figured, then. “I’m afraid it’s as serious as death.”

“Hence the all-black ensemble and the makeup,” Hob says.

“Indeed.”

Hob wants to hear Morpheus play. Or sing, or whatever it is he does. He bets he’d be exquisite. Divine. Hob can imagine those lips pressed to a microphone. Or those long fingers on guitar strings.

“Do you want something more interesting than alcohol?” says Morpheus.

“Why, you still bored?”

“Less and less so.” He pulls from his pocket a small bag of pills and hands it to Hob.

“You brought your own drugs to a party where you were promised drugs?”

“Promises cannot be counted on,” says Morpheus seriously.

“What is it?” Hob asks, then decides he doesn’t care, and takes a pill, chasing it with the watery last drops of his drink, which is a terrible idea, but then, he’s full of them.

“Ketamine,” says Morpheus. Oh, great, Hob thinks. Morpheus takes it back from him and takes a pill himself. “It occasionally makes me feel less like I am going to hurl myself from the balcony.”

He doesn’t seem to be joking. “Good for something, then,” Hob says. “Why do you want to jump off the balcony?” He still has his hand in Morpheus’s hair. He honestly can’t believe he hasn’t propositioned him yet. That’s not like him. These parties are usually only good for quick, casual sex. He even thinks Morpheus would probably agree, and yet.

“The state of things,” says Morpheus. He has such a deep, solemn voice. Hob wants to touch his mouth, or throat maybe. Okay, this is already not going so well. “And the state of my heart.”

Hob pets his hair again. Morpheus leans into the touch. “Writing songs about yearning and angst and stuff isn’t fixing it?” He can well enough guess what Morpheus’s music is probably like.

“No,” says Morpheus. He seems to really think about it. “I think it is making things worse. Perhaps I will try manipulating the financial markets instead. Is that giving you existential fulfillment?”

“There’s only so much money you can make before it starts feeling stupid,” Hob says. Maybe he should just throw all his cash out the window and go live in the woods or something. Carve figurines out of fallen trees. Probably do more good for the world, not that that’s ever been a focus of his. “Maybe it was always stupid.”

“No solution has been found for us yet, then,” says Morpheus. “Would you care to go outside? I find that if you are high enough, the city lights look like stars.”

“You’re not going to jump off the balcony, are you?” Hob asks, suspicious.

“This is not the right locale for my dramatic end.”

Somehow, Hob actually believes him. Morpheus wouldn’t truly kill himself unless it could have the right effect.

Hob levers himself up from the couch. Oh Jesus, now the room is spinning. The pounding music is starting to feel louder, starting to thud through him. Feels good, though. Everything being bright and hazy.

He helps Morpheus to his feet. Leads him, hand in hand, out to the balcony. They lean against the stone wall, looking down at the street, dizzyingly far below, cars poking along like lines of luminescent ants, distant horns crying. Then up, out at the collision of skyscrapers.

Morpheus was right. The lights are spinning and twinkling, just like stars. It reminds Hob of the first time he’d come to New York, when he was looking for adventure, and to get a little rich—or a lot rich—and everything had seemed like it was glowing and buzzing and flying.

The air is clearer up here than down on street level, and Morpheus tips his head up, breathing it in. His throat is so long, his shoulders and collarbone so angular. He looks like he’s been starving. But the stud in his ear at least looks from afar like a real ruby. Intentional, then, to be skin and bones.

“I think I am tired,” he admits, still looking up at the sky. “Do you know that… all I had ever wanted was for someone to like my music. And now I have that and it has not fixed anything.”

Hob takes his arm and pulls him close. He’s feeling very touchy-feely now, which could be the drugs but could also just be Morpheus. He’s so pretty and he looks so sad, and his sadness is beautiful and all the more terrible for that.

“I could kiss it better,” he offers. It’s still not a real proposition. Hob’d just kiss his hand if that’s what he wanted. Or the sharp bone of his sternum under those hanging necklaces. Or kneel at his feet and kiss his thigh—

Christ. Hob’ll be lucky if he survives the night, at this rate.

Morpheus looks at him, eyebrow raised. But Hob must look serious about it, because he says, “Okay.”

So Hob leans in and kisses his cheek. And Morpheus smiles, a bright, truly happy smile, just for a moment.

“Do you wish to dance?” he says. “I do not usually, but I feel I may fall over if I move from this wall without something to hold onto.”

Yeah, the floor is kind of moving. And Hob will certainly not turn down having Morpheus in his arms. “You wanna dance to this shit?”

They’re playing some godawful thumping grating song over the speakers now, and Hob doesn’t think either of them is up to the kind of bouncing thrashing dance that would call for.

“I will sing something different in your ear,” Morpheus says.

So Hob draws him in, wraps his arms around his waist. Morpheus plasters himself to Hob’s body, mouth to the shell of Hob’s ear. He starts humming a low, melancholic song. Hob shivers at the brush of his voice.

They sway together with very little coordination. Eventually Morpheus starts singing, though Hob’s brain isn’t capable at the moment of taking in many of the lyrics. It’s something about longing, and losing things in a terrible fire. Hob presumes it’s one of his songs. Morpheus’s voice is gorgeous, low and hypnotic, and Hob closes his eyes as it rumbles straight through him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs eventually, filled with a sudden tragic pain about it. “Please don’t throw yourself off the balcony.”

Morpheus chuckles. “Another time, perhaps.”

“Never,” Hob says vehemently, and clutches his warm body close. He might cry about it. Fucking drugs. “We should go get food. You’re so fucking bony I think might you die of an overdose if we don’t sop it up. You had that wretched drink, too. Christ.”

“You are worried for me?” says Morpheus, sounding touched.

“Incredibly. Come on.” Hob finally pulls away from him, with chagrin, and takes his hand. “This party’s shit. I’ll take you to get pizza.”

“Pizza,” Morpheus repeats, with a tiny smile. It’s gorgeous on his face. “Very well.”

--

One dollar pizza is one of New York’s greatest inventions, in Hob’s opinion. They find some hole-in-the-wall place barely a block from the apartment building, and stand outside the door, eating incredibly greasy pizza off of paper plates, and it’s fucking heaven. It might be the best pizza Hob’s ever had in his life—granted he’s still very high.

Morpheus is scarfing his down like all pizza on earth is about to be chucked into space. Poor bony thing. Hob just wants to feed him up until he stops looking like a skeletal waif that’s about to drop dead at a cold breeze.

And wants to fuck him, too. Yeah, that’s still there, even with Morpheus licking grease off his fingertips. It’s actually getting worse because of that.

“Told you,” Hob says. “Needed some bread to soak up the fifteen shots in that drink.”

“I think I may throw up,” Morpheus says, with the careful articulation of someone who very well might. “But I am enjoying it nonetheless.”

“Let me know and I’ll find you a bin,” Hob says. He’s had worse nights than puking on the street corner.

“Now I owe you sexual favors in return for this generous meal,” says Morpheus, folding the empty paper plate with surprising precision, considering his enduring level of intoxication, and sliding it into a nearby trash bin.

It says something about Hob’s own level of intoxication that he barely responds to this statement. “Oh, yeah, the whole four dollars of it. What does that get me?”

Morpheus scrunches his nose in thought. “Two kisses,” he decides.

“We’ll save it for after you’ve decided if you’re going to throw up.”

Morpheus giggles. He’s so cute.

Hob tosses his own plate, and takes Morpheus by the arm. “Come on. You can come back with me. I don’t live that far.”

“Ah, now the proposition,” says Morpheus, but doesn’t sound unhappy about it.

“The ‘make sure my new friend doesn’t get hit by a cab effort’, more like, but sure.” He feels kind of responsible for Morpheus now. If Morpheus actually threw himself off a balcony Hob would never forgive himself.

“Friend,” repeats Morpheus, sounding pleased.

“See, isn’t this better?” Hob says.

“Better?”

“You got to eat pizza and didn’t even puke yet, isn’t that better than killing yourself?”

Morpheus huffs. “Quite a dichotomy. If you recall you too stated that you felt your efforts becoming meaningless.”

“Yeah, but I’m not gonna jump out a window about it.”

“Fortitude,” Morpheus says, and it sounds mocking but Hob doesn’t really mind. Maybe it is fortitude, he doesn’t know. Maybe to Morpheus fortitude is gullibility, continuing to play the game when it’s long lost its spark and its reward. Hob likes the game, though.

“What will you do about it, then?” Morpheus asks.

“Dunno.” It’s the first time Hob’s really thought about it. Up until now, it’s been about chasing. Always wanting more. But now— now he’s basically at the top. Where he wanted to be. And... there’s really nothing there at all. “Leave New York, maybe.”

The words surprise him, even as he says them. Midtown is so bright, even at four a.m. It’s something Hob once loved about the area. About the city. But now he’s staring into Morpheus’s darkness. Into the ink stain of his hair against the glowing storefront lights, the sway of his body, graceful even while swimming in dissociation. And everything feels different.

“To go where?” says Morpheus.

“Back to London, maybe.” He has enough money to go anywhere. And yet, it’s hard to feel a particular point to anywhere. Where’d his sense of adventure go? His ambition? Somewhere it all slipped, in the glut of the present.

“I grew up in London,” Morpheus says. “It is too personal there, now.”

So he’s chasing something too. Or running away.

“Tokyo, then,” Hob says, as if Morpheus coming with him is a key part of the decision. “Is’at the furthest city from New York? Gotta be close.”

“It’s Perth,” says Morpheus.

“You’ve looked it up?”

Morpheus nods solemnly. “And from London: Wellington.”

“It’s settled, then,” says Hob.

“I am coming with you?” says Morpheus.

“Course.” Hob’s not going across the world by himself. Not anymore. He bumps his shoulder with Morpheus’s, squeezes his arm where they’re leaning together. “You’re coming with me.”

“We should go further, then,” says Morpheus.

“Antarctica?”

“Mars.”

Hob finds himself giggling, mirth rising in him like champagne bubbles. Morpheus giggles, too. It’s truly a ridiculous sound in his deep voice.

“They don’t have cool jackets on Mars,” Hob says, poking at Morpheus’s studded blazer.

“Ah.” Morpheus frowns. “Maybe not, then.”

That only makes Hob laugh louder, leaning on Morpheus’s arm, and Morpheus sighs, irritated to be made fun of, but doesn’t push him away.

“Come on, I’m here,” Hob says, steering Morpheus into his apartment building as it comes up. They make their way across the lobby and to the elevator bank, only a little unsteady, and then slump against the wall once the elevator doors close.

“I think I am very sleepy,” Morpheus says, tipping his head back against the mirrored wall as they go up, up, up the insanely tall skyscraper Hob’s for some reason chosen to live in.

“You think you are?”

Morpheus squints at the infinite tunnel being created by the opposing mirrors on the walls. It’s dizzying, more so now, when they aren’t exactly sober. He shudders and closes his eyes. “I would have to be connected to my physical form to know for sure.”

Yeah, Hob’s feeling that too. The walls are kind of tipping in at him, which is particularly uncomfortable when they’re mirrored. “I’ll put you to bed, sweetie.” He still really, really wants to bed him, more specifically, but he might also be about to fall over. He’ll rue the missed opportunity in the morning, but it can’t be helped.

“Sweetie,” Morpheus echoes, with vague distaste, and tips his head against Hob’s shoulder.

The doors slide open, and they stumble out into the hall. Hob somehow manages to get his keys in the door and get them inside without dropping Morpheus, who’s now using him to support almost his entire weight, and then gets them into the bedroom.

What follows is a dreamlike whirlwind of undressing, where the floor keeps tipping under him, where he tries to hold Morpheus up as he slips out of his boots and his bloody complicated jacket, his skintight jeans and even tighter shirt, helps take each ring off his slim fingers to leave carefully on the nightstand, and the pendants too, and gives him a t-shirt to sleep in, and Morpheus says, “Wait— I must—” and flees to Hob’s adjoining bathroom to strip off his makeup with some makeup wipes scavenged from Hob’s cabinet, undoubtedly left behind by a prior hookup. The silly thing talks about killing himself but still puts effort into skincare. Hob just shakes his head, then regrets it as it makes the room spin.

He strips down to boxers and undershirt and climbs into bed, because he is actually about to fall over, and soon enough Morpheus stumbles back out and collapses into the sheets beside him. For a moment they just gaze at each other in the dark. Hob means to do something, to kiss him, maybe, claim one of the ones that was promised. But exhaustion claims him first. 

[writing-until-i-drop]

What's In A Name? Chapter One

Meg Harding and Kate Carter were inseparable until their friends died five ago, then she ran to New Orleans to save lives as a paramedic. But when Javi calls on his two oldest friends to help him collect data, counting on their matching natural instincts for tornadoes, Meg goes home for the first time in years. That's where she meets Tyler and the rest of the Wranglers, the YouTube storm chasers her dad likes to watch, and finds herself fitting in more with them than with Storm PAR. Meg only plans to stay for the week but will it be easy to leave when the dust settles?

If a certain cowboy has a say in it, nothing about leaving is going to be easy.

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Masterlist

“Well don’t you two look like a couple of city slickers,” Meg teased two of her oldest friends. Javi, who always preferred to be half dressed was in khakis and a wrinkle-free polo, and Kate, who had never been much of a fashionista, was in a turtleneck and a button-down despite the heat of an Oklahoma summer. Meg was dressed in comfortable jeans and an old New Orleans EMS shirt with the sleeves cut off, her style being the only one that apparently hadn’t changed since college. The only thing new about her were the tattoos covering both her arms and her back.

“You’ve spent too much time in Louisiana, your accent’s startin’ to go sour,” Kate teased, pulling her in for a tight hug. “I missed you Mud Bug.” 

“Bite me, Katie my Lady.” Addy had always called them two shades of the same color, a dynamic duo, who had been inseparable from the first day of freshman orientation until their friend’s funerals. It felt like slotting two puzzle pieces together standing side by side again.

“Don’t I get any love?” Javi asked, mock offense filling his voice. Kate and Meg shared a look before each pinching one of Javi’s cheeks, making him wince. “Okay, okay,”

“We missed you too, Jav.” 

“A little bit,” Kate patted him on the cheek. Javi pulled both of the women in for a quick hug before pushing them towards the truck.

“Are you two ready to work your weather magic for me? If I’ve only got you two for a week, I don’t want to waste a second of it.” 

“We’re going to need two sweet teas before we work any magic, Kate’s been in the city far too long.”

“Two sweet teas, coming up. Now get in, get in, we’ve got two cells forming and my team’s waiting for us.” Kate took the passenger seat and Meg climbed into the back, relaxing into the leather upholstery. Javi and Kate kept casual conversation but the tension between the three of them was palpable. Meg sighed, pain in her wrist sparking up, it never used to get this quiet. 

Meg wasn’t paying attention at all when Javi introduced her and Kate to the Storm PAR team, getting weird vibes off of them. They reminded her of how her parents described Jonas’ Nightcrawler team from back in the day. What brought her attention back was the sounds of cheering, loud country music, and honking. Kate looked confused but Meg couldn’t help but smile, it was the Tornado Wranglers. Her dad was obsessed with the channel, watching all of their live streams. Sometimes the old crew would gather at the house and watch the live streams together, cheering and booing like it was a football game.

“Hey, Storm PAR, we’re live on YouTube, say something.” Meg waved at the camera, grinning as she felt her phone buzz, probably her dad having caught sight of her. 

“Blow me,” One of the Storm PAR guys shouted and Scott admonished him. Meg rolled her eyes at their antics, were they grown men or schoolchildren?

“Come on now, guys, science is fun,” Boone shouted as they drove off. Kate’s brows were scrunched in confusion,

“Who are they?”

“Chasers out of Arkansas,” Javi answered at the same time as Scott, who with a lot more venom denounced the group as hillbillies with a YouTube Channel. Meg glanced over at where the red truck was now swarmed with chasers, smiling at the whole situation. Tyler Owens was leaning out of the truck, shouting his silly little catchphrase to get the crowd riled up. Meg glanced at her phone,

Dad: You’re in Oklahoma?!?

Meg: Only for a week

Dad: With Kate and Javi???

Meg: I’ll call you later and explain

Dad: Get me a mug!!

Meg rolled her eyes, she would most certainly not be buying her dad a Tornado Wrangler mug, especially not in front of the entire Storm PAR team that seemed to hate them. Tyler looked over, catching Meg’s eye and tipping his hat. Meg stuck her tongue out, laughing and hoping she got picked up on Boone’s wide shot so that her dad would see her.

“That’s Tyler Owens, he calls himself a tornado wrangler.” 

“What does that even mean?” Kate scoffed like she didn’t used to call herself a tornado tamer on a regular basis. 

“Mean’s our world is going to shit,” Javi sighed. “Alright, let’s figure out which storm we’re going after. Kate, Meg?” He passed them Scott’s tablet. “What do y’all think?” Kate took it, studying it while Meg left her side, going to the open grass where she could stare up at the sky. It didn’t take long for Kate to join her, abandoning the tablet in favor of a dandelion. Meg leaned down, scooping up a handful of dirt. Different shades, same color, doing the same thing in different ways.

“Old school, I like it,” A southern drawl filled with humor called out behind them. Kate turned to look but Meg couldn’t take her blue eyes off of the sky, feeling the instability of the atmosphere in her bones. The storms brewing were pulling her mind in different directions but they couldn’t chase both. She took one last look towards the east and it didn’t feel right, there was no tingling in her fingertips or twist in her gut. It wasn’t the right cell. “Where did you ladies come from?”

“New York,” Kate answered. Meg brushed the dirt off her hands, glancing to the west, the familiar sensations of her undeniable instinct confirming her decision on which way to go. “Mud Mug, mind your manners,” Kate chided, pulling her out of her head. The cowboy was giving both of them an appraising look at Meg and had to admit, he was handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, obviously strong with the way his muscles filled out his flannel shirt. Maybe she would have to become a subscriber to his channel alongside her dad.

“Sorry, Sweetie Pie. Jav dragged me out here from New Orleans,” After five years, Meg spoke like a local, pronouncing the city with only one syllable. Kate chuckled, “Nice to meet you.” 

“Good to meet you ma’am. So, how are you liking working for Storm PAR?” There was something about the way he asked it that made Meg’s skin crawl like he was asking how she liked working for a sweatshop.

“Tyler!” A clean-cut British man with glasses came jogging up before Meg could question him. “Have you figured out which storm we’re going after?”

“Why don’t we ask-” He pointed between the women.

“Kate,”

“Meg.” Tyler grinned, eager for attention like a golden retriever. Meg smiled back, liking the feeling of his attention.

“I’m Tyler,” 

“And I’m Ben,” The man shook both their hands. “It’s nice to meet you both. I’m a reporter here to do a piece on American storm chasing. Tyler here has been kind enough to let me tag along.” Tyler patted Ben on the chest, still grinning like an idiot. Meg wondered if his cheeks ever hurt from smiling so much.

“All Ben here had to do was promise to write nothing but good things.” Kate caught Meg’s eyes, looking towards the sky. Meg nodded curtly, letting her know she was on the same page.

“Well, good luck with that,” Kate sassed, pulling Meg away. “West?” Kate whispered,

“100%,” Meg confirmed.

“Now hold on,” Tyler called out, stopping them in their tracks. He had his hands on his hips, playing the role of the unserious cowboy to a T, but his green eyes were studying them like precipitation charts. “Y’all didn’t say which storm we should be going after. The way I see it, west we double our chances, to the east it’s high-risk, high reward.” Was he testing them? Or was he really that bad at chasing?

“You best go for the reward, Sweetie Pie,” Meg kind of hoped he knew she was trying to play him. Kate caught onto her game quickly, 

“Don’t want Ben here to think you’re boring,” Kate traced a W onto Meg’s back, confirming her gut feeling. Tyler licked his lips, looking between the two of them with a pensive expression.

“Being boring is never an issue with me, Kate.” Kate huffed with laughter, mumbling I bet under her breath.

“The two to the west are fighting over the same inflow, they’ll choke each other out. The one to the east has the sky all to herself. Precipitation, wind shear, instability, she’s got everything you need to give Ben here a good show.” Damn, she was laying it on thick. 

“Don’t you feel it in your bones, Tyler?” Meg teased, turning on her heel. After a few steps she looked over her shoulder to see him watching them with a small smile, “And if you feel it, well, you know.” 

Meg’s dad would be fangirling knowing that she had just had a full conversation with Tyler Owens and she knew that if Tyler found out whose daughter she was, he’d be doing some fangirling of his own. Kate excitedly got Javi into the truck, telling him which storm to chase and he didn’t even hesitate to throw all Scott’s data aside to listen to her. 

Meg’s heart was pounding with excitement, it felt a little bit like old times as she slid into the back seat of the truck. Out of the window she caught sight of Ben and Tyler watching them, Ben looked confused but Tyler on the other hand was smiling. He must have known they had been playing him, which made Meg all the more excited, he was fun and hopefully could take a joke. When he caught her eye as they drove past, Meg made the tornado motion with her fingers and blew a kiss, grinning from ear to ear when Tyler doubled over with laughter. 

“What’s so funny, Mud Bug?” 

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

Next Chapter

A/N: All three of the original tornado tamers needs a really long hug and a cup of hot cocoa. Meg's got her dad's instincts, her mom's need for adrenaline, and has probably made more progress on processing her emotions than Javi and Kate combined. Probably.

I don't plan on taking this story anywhere above a T rating but if there's interest, I might make a collection of post-canon one shots later on that include some smut. Who knows.

Taglist: @writtingrose

Let me know if you want to join the taglist!

[penroseparticle]

Extremely stupid D&D Cleric concept I might use for my next game:

Cleric to the highest bidder.

This cleric was a cleric for a God who in concept supports this style of play- say a God/Goddess of Fate or Chaos, Trickery or Wealth. Essentially on most days you are a cleric of that faith and have the domain and class features associated with it Every day after a long rest (or by session, I'd talk to the DM for this), roll a D100. on a 90 or higher, your god has sold your divine clerical goodness to the highest bidder behind the scenes, and you are now a cleric of X God. You have their domain slots, class features, etc. until you complete a task given to you by that god that, by your proximity, connections, power, or current undertakings, you have the most power to complete at this juncture.

Very much if you don't have a homegrown cleric, storebought is fine.

Your god brokers the contract with this other god for use of their divine powers for X amount of days, and your job is to try and complete the assigned task in that time- the spells and powers given will typically be useful in completing it, but if you go over your contract time, you have your regular domain and powers but still have a contract to fulfill. Maybe you get cool one time use of spells or a tip on a rare item or favor with the local church or something as payment for completion too.

It's got great potential for like, punch clock heroics. Cleric working in retail the customer is always right energy. Your city slicker cleric spends 3 days having to extoll the virtues of the forest while being an ecoterrorist and blowing up a sawmill type vibes.

The best bit is that obviously your DM can have LOADS of fun with this- sure it can be random but also your DM can just say hey you wake up with a new contract for plot reasons too. You can suddenly make a challenge easier or harder for the party based on gameplay needs, loop players in to knowledge via divine intervention (literally), tons of dramatic twists availble, etc.

[seat-safety-switch]

There's been a lot of talk about small towns in the news lately. If you believe the cultural hive mind, small towns have a unique and distinct way of life that just can't be found in big cities. Friends, I am here to tell you that the only thing you can find more of in small towns is parking, followed shortly by inexplicable multi-generational feuds. The latter idea bores me, so we're gonna talk about all the places you can cram a car when you live in the boonies.

Where I live, in a part of town that used to be called a suburb, back when the cops could drive through it without locking their doors and changing their hats, there's only a few places to park. Driveway. Street. Alley. Back yard, if you're frisky. Out in the Great Unknown, you can park right on your front yard if you so please. You can build a simulated junkyard on your back forty. Maybe shove your cars in something called an "out-building," which despite the name is not where you poop (it is, however, where mice poop.) This bounty of parking space means that you can acquire many, many cars and spend the majority of your life not having to move them for the street sweeper every alternating Tuesday.

So what does this mean? It means that rurals are hoarding all the cars. Without space pressure forcing you to get rid of, say, your 17th Dodge Omni, then it stands to reason that they will just stay there, slowly rotting into the ground. For this reason, I recommend that new car hunters visit the sticks in order to ask farmers to sell them their never-gonna-get-around-to-it hoopties.

Of course, there are some problems. If you roll around out there in a new electric car, or even a moderately clean pickup truck, you'll probably get shot at. They can smell the city slicker on you, and they know that cities are a hotbed of crimes, such as illegally parking, or turning right on a stop sign without coming to a complete stop first. You might be coming there to steal their precious shitboxes!

There is a solution, though. I've gotten ahold of one really shitty 1953 GMC pickup truck. There's no floors, there's not much of a bed, its tires are made out of rubber sourced from floor mats people forgot at the car wash, and the three-speed manual transmission is about as synchronized as the last time I tried to do karaoke. What it does have is honesty, though. You can drive right onto a farmer's property, park it amongst their shitty old pickup trucks, and wait until nightfall without anyone being the wiser. Have your pick! They won't even notice they're gone.

Just bring back the pickup truck. I need it back so I can sell it for way too much money to an authentic, hard-working rural politician who spends all his time in the city.

[twosides--samecoin]

Plz I’m begging, can you give me an enlightenment of what a modern Maccready would wear. I’m dying to style him modernly and have no clue what he’d wear 🙂‍↕️

Hey gamer, thanks for the ask!

RJ grew up in Little Lamplight. The real life version is Luray Caverns, nestled 75 miles away from DC and protected by Shenandoah State Park and George Washington National Forest. I grew up in a town with a teen pregnancy problem where people wore RealTree Camo to prom. I now live a couple hours from Luray, so I feel Modern RJ is someone who I could have gone to high school with.

He grew up country as fuck - there's not an ounce of city slicker in RJ. All the street smarts he has is because he was observant enough to earn them. When he says he's from DC, it's because he knows it's the closest city he grew up near that anyone in Boston's gonna recognize. His fashion can't be bought in Georgetown or the Prudential Center, unless the trend of the day is blue collar chic being sold to the rich.

Modern RJ was the kind of country kid who's teenage uniform was a green flannel and a Master of Puppets Metallica shirt. He was the kind of scrawny where he was 130 pounds soaking wet and 2% body fat and wore the same blue jeans from ages 14 through 17. His second fave shirt featured Iron Maiden's Live After Death.

He cherished them; like many country kids who feel a bit different from their peers, he clung to his band shirts. You wouldn't catch him dead in Carhartt and RealTree unless he literally died while hunting. Not that he wasn't proud of his friends, or ashamed of where he was from - he just dreamed of getting out. Band shirts represented something bigger, a Great Beyond; a world he wanted to travel, a life he was priced out of living as an orphan from Virginia.

Buying clothes is not something RJ enjoys - he's a single dad and feels a level of guilt attached with spending money on himself, knowing how much grocery money would be wasted on a leather jacket and pair of jeans (speaking of groceries, RJ has a family of three to feed - Duncan insisted they keep that damn German Shepherd who followed RJ home from his mechanic shift at the Red Rocket). He's still driving the same red rusted-to-fuck '96 Chevy Silverado that he kissed Lucy in for the first time, the same one that drove them out of Virginia. Maintains it himself since he can get the parts at cost.

Though he's frugal, Modern RJ is picky about his fashion. His closet isn't one that features abundance. His clothing is utilitarian; earth tones in a range of faded browns and greens, duck canvas, twill denims with no stretch. A heavy mechanic jumpsuit for work. The coolest colours he wears are grey thermal shirts and a blue shearling jacket when in colder weather. There's an olive green jacket he likes in the springtime. He prefers a tough, protective pair of leather boots for everyday footwear. For casual shoes; given the choice between Chuck Taylors and Vans, he'd wear whichever was on sale, but preferably the Chucks.

He has a few long sleeve button-downs out of an eye-rolling necessity for job interviews. He hates wearing ties and has never owned a suit. Before she died, Lucy gifted him a brown shearling leather jacket to wear on his motorcycle.

He's most comfortable wearing his old green flannel and band shirts. Otherwise, he can be found wearing a white t-shirt and blue Levi's every now and then - Lucy always liked Bruce Springsteen.

When you grow up can't-rub-two-pennies-together poor, it means you appreciate the material things in a different kind of way. RJ's clothing is all about emotional comfort and memories; he's afraid to let go.

I loved writing this! Thanks for sending me the ask, anon! The people demand my RJ brainrot and I aim to please <3 Thanks again & have a great day :)

BONUS: An outfit mod I am working on for RJ!