#grocery getter

[allhell-brakeloose]

Some parts arrived today! Very happy that I decided to treat myself and buy the new brakes anyways because the old ones are... Not in good state. The new ones should hopefully be here next week and the pizza rack as well.

I replaced the pads on the old brakes and i also replaced the chainring bolts. I need to realign the fork drops, and then the bike will be almost usable.

I tried it only around the Block and it feels quit good! I think i nailed the gearing, might go a cog harder but the 36 tooth chainring works alright in the front.

[rockymtn-rockn-roll-redneck2]

Love these beast wagons, with a 413 wedge motor.

[delphi-shield]

kiss it better ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

Jill Valentine x Reader Smut / MDLG mdni wc: ~5.6k i don't have to explain myself, so i won't. 🙂‍↕️ dividers by @/adornedwithlight.

summary: Jill's got reservations about this whole 'mommy' thing. She's not the maternal type - but for you, she can try.

content: mommy dom!Jill, little!reader, afab!reader, boot riding, dumbification, extensive depiction of cgl dynamics/lifestyle, humiliation, finger-sucking, spit, fingering, titsucking, aftercare, use of sippy cups/coloring book/the word 'stuffies', ruined orgasm, orgasm denial, implied age gap (di era jill, mid-late 20s+ reader).

In hindsight, the sippy cup should have been the first red flag.

Jill didn’t even bat an eye when you bought it. You'd tucked it to the back of the belt during a grocery trip, hiding it amidst the other canned goods, tried your damnedest to distract her while the cashier rang it up. She didn't know how to break it to you that she had seen you pick it out. She'd watched you deliberate between pink or green - strawberries or watermelon - before settling on pink.

You'd said you were going to look at candles - probably the truth, because you'd put one in the cart, too. Jill had doubled back to pick up laundry detergent and had caught you lingering in the kids aisle. She had always been able to pick you out of a crowd, had a sixth sense for where you were, hand practically magnetized to the small of your back. You looked so focused alone in that aisle that she had swallowed the call of your name and marched back to the cart.

So yes, she’d glossed over the (rather obvious) way you had tried to hide the purchase from her. That was as far as she was letting it go, though. Once you got home, you tried to bury it behind all the coffee mugs. Weird, she thought. You just bought the goddamn thing. You'd been talking about wanting a water bottle with a straw for a full month. It would be out of sight out of mind if you put it way back there, eaten up by the cabinet. 

You shuffled away to put up the rest of the groceries and Jill plucked the cup from the back. She put the pink plastic front and center, right next to the rest of the glassware, as though it belonged there.

“That’ll cut down on our carpet cleaning,” she had even joked when she heard you traipsing back in.

A beat. She turns to look at you over her shoulder, brow raised. You look like a deer caught in floodlights, waiting to be gunned down. It took a moment for you to dig your voice up from the pit of your stomach.

“I know. All the regular ones didn't have the latching lid. Like, I need that anti-spill technology. I have to be baby-proofed.”

Yeah. It was a little out of place that you felt the need to justify the cup to her. Again - in hindsight, maybe it was a little odd. Surely there had been a water bottle that wasn’t pink and covered in cute little strawberries, but you were an adult. You made your own money. If you wanted the sippy cup with the strawberries on it, then you could have it. She wasn't about to police your tastes. After all, at a certain point of maturity you started to realize that the difference between kid stuff and adult stuff was just marketing. So many 'kid' versions of things were just the same as their adult counterparts. Covered in smiling bunnies and rainbows, maybe, but functionally the same item. 

Suffice it to say, Jill didn't give two shits what stuff you bought for yourself. You were prone to spilling drinks, so the latching lid excuse made sense. Her singular complaint was the size. As your designated drink-getter, her trips had doubled. (She'd found some online in a bigger size, all muted, muddy colors, no cartoon strawberries. “Anti-spill technology,” she'd pointed out. You had shrugged, sipping at your little drink. It was the perfect size for one bottle of your favorite apple juice. That, she couldn't deny.)

She'd been unintentionally feeding into your preferred lifestyle the whole time, buying you the cutesy set of stickers for your scrapbook, picking up glittery markers when she saw them on sale. 

The coloring books certainly weren't a bridge too far. You wanted to turn your brain off after a long week at work. That was all, really. Jill hadn’t asked for an explanation - she had asked which ones you liked, that she might pick one out for you. The first few she chosen had been branded 'adult coloring books' but again - what was the difference, other than subject matter and the complexity of some of them? You'd dutifully sat next to her during movie nights and colored regardless of difficulty. Your hand-eye coordination was developed, see? Made staying in the lines so much easier. And the colors you picked out - they don't (usually) clash. That all ties back to that developed eye for style.

‘Babydoll’ might not have been the best choice of pet names for you, but it had slipped out. It felt right, more sincere than ‘dear’ or ‘babe’. If she had known she was unintentionally enabling you, sending the little plastic gears in your head grinding to a halt, she might have picked something different. 

The first time she'd said it, you'd given her a blank look. Jill had sworn not to say it again, already marking that off the list of options, but your response had been quick.

“No–” you reeled yourself in, a little too forceful there. Like a kid stomping their feet. “No, it's okay. I like it.”

How was she supposed to know that you had dubbed her ‘mommy’ in your internal monologue? That ‘babydoll’ did nothing but feed into your perception of her? 

After it had all come out, after your first little slip-up that had sent both of you hurtling headlong into a series of changes in your lifestyle, you'd confessed that you had been thinking of her this way since you had moved in. Jill had been synonymous with ‘mommy’ since your possessions had spilled from the open mouth of the U-Haul and flooded her apartment. Her sparse, curated collection of decorations had been swallowed up in a wash of stuffed animals and plush blankets, and she had done nothing to stem the tide. Hell, she’d piled more on. Bought you stuffed animals from boutiques, airport giftshops, gas stations - anywhere, so long as it made her think of you.

Jill hadn’t thought twice about the stuffies. If most of her keepsakes hadn’t been obliterated via air strike, courtesy of the U.S.A. back in 1998, she’d probably have a collection of decor to contend with yours. Maybe less of the fuzzy variety, but she understood the appeal. She had never been one to get jealous of an inanimate object. If you wanted to lay your head on her lap, favorite stuffed animal coiled tight in your arms, then she had no objection. She’d willingly cocooned you in the fluffiest blanket within reach, her hand settling at the bend of your waist.

So, the stuffed animals? Totally normal. The sleepy, nonsensical babbles you’d catch from time to time during a night in, when it was just the two of you? She didn’t think twice. That had hardly been an adjustment.

Jill felt a little slow for not catching on before you let it slip. There had been so many signs. Piles of evidence all around her, some of which she had contributed to. She must be getting lax as the years wear on. Normally, she's sharp as can be. She'd know things about you before you did.

You’d been riding her boot the first time you said it. Jill had been busy - too busy to spend a couple hours folding you in half and fucking you to sleep, she told you. You'd dragged yourself into her office in your barely-there shorts, nipples pert and peaking the flimsy fabric of your tank top. Wait a minute - not your tank top. Hers. An old, faded Depeche Mode tank, white, damn near see-through.

She kept track of you in her peripheral as you dragged your bean bag chair (she'd offered to get you a real chair, something with back support, but you'd insisted; when you hit thirty, she’ll be able to gloat) right up next to hers, and dropped into it. Foosh. Makes your tits bounce when you plop down like that. That's probably why you did it.

She scooted forward in her chair, flipping the armrest up and kicking one leg out. Your eyes lit with glee. Horny little goblin. You moved to straddle her thigh, hands braced on her knee while you wobbled into position.

“Ah-ah.” Jill didn’t take her eyes from the screen. She kept hammering away at her report, the deadline looming. She stopped at a paragraph break to snap her fingers twice, pointing to the floor. “Down.”

You’d cratered to your knees without so much a second thought. See? Obedience wasn’t new to you. How was she supposed to know it was a different sort of devotion, different from the submission she was used to?

Something warm curls around her ankle - your hand, she realizes with a glance. Jill sighs. She hadn’t said not to touch. It’s difficult to be mad at the way your thumb circles her calf, especially for a command she hadn’t issued. Jill’s chair creaks backwards, her hands stilling on the keyboard. Your chin settles on her knee, eyes big and pleading for her touch.

Jill folds her arms under her chest. Your eyes track the way her chest moves. It's almost cartoonish - she half expects your tongue to loll out of your mouth.

“Get on.” Jill wiggles her boot back and forth. Your head tips to the side, confusion drawing your brows up. “On my boot, babydoll.”

She sees it - the brief flash where you’re drawn out of play time. The quickest twist of annoyance in your pout. How many times did you have to tell her to stop wearing her shoes inside? Especially her work boots, crusted with mud and shit and god knows what else. But if you’re worried about that then you’re too horny to protest. Her babydoll comes back in another blink, pressing your cunt down onto her steel toe.

There you go. Jill starts typing again and you get the hint. You're independent enough that you don't need her direction at every turn. Thank god - she'd never get anything done if you couldn't find a rhythm on your own, if you couldn't use whatever part of her body she dictated to get yourself off.

It doesn't take long for you to start whimpering. Your arms wind around her leg, chest pressed tight to her while you grind your drippy pussy against her. You use her body as leverage to drag yourself back and forth. Poor baby. Reduced to humping her leg like a damn dog.

Your pretty little whimpers come quicker, louder. Jill's fingers scrape against your scalp, urging your head upwards. She pools spit at the tip of her tongue, considers dripping it into you. Your mouth is popped open for her already, moans punctuating every push of your hips.

Any thought of tormenting you with the anticipation disappears when she sees you pinch your nipple, hips circling against the toe of her boot frantically. Your eyes flutter, thighs pulsing, so close–

“Stop.”

Jill rips her boot away for you. You plop against the floor, whining at the loss. Your hand flies to your pussy, rubbing your clit desperately through your shorts.

“I said stop,” Jill grinds out. 

Her hand grips your jaw, fingers curling. You pull your hands away from yourself, fingers glistening when you lay them flat against the tops of your thighs. A whine squeaks out of you. Jill’s eyes narrow.

“Open,” she demands. Your mouth pops open obediently. When Jill gives you a directive, you follow it. Jump— how high? Cum— how hard?

Look at you - perfect little slut, tongue plopped out for her. She spits a fat glob of spit dead center and drops your jaw.

“Swallow.” It’s said carelessly. She looks away from you as if uninterested in you display. Her clit throbs in time with her heartbeat. Perfect girl, perfect, trained little–

You swallow. From the edges of her vision, she sees you stick your tongue back out as proof. “Thank you, mommy.”

The air in the room shifts, suddenly colder. Her skin feels as though it’s been pulled taut. Confusion swirls with her arousal. You said ma’am. Surely you said ma’am.

“What?” She blurts out, hands at a full rest on her keyboard.

You’ve still got that floaty, airy look about you. Jill wonders if it’s even possible to get a straight answer out of you right now.

“Thank you?” You repeat, unsure yourself. You blink quickly. She can pinpoint the moment you come back into your body, shoulders tensing, eyes widening, skirting away from her. “Uh– ma’am?”

Nice try. Not buying it.

“Did you call me mommy?”

Jill will probably regret the way she had spat that out until the day she died. It hadn’t been worth seeing the crushed look on your face, the shame flushed through you in a full-body shudder. In the moment, though, she can’t deny the pulse of disgust.

That night had ended on unsteady footing. She’d asked you not to call her that. You’d apologized again and again throughout the conversation, set her teeth on edge with how small you’d made yourself. It felt worse, seeing you slink out of her office, knowing you were going to curl up in bed - knowing you’d pretend to be asleep when she came in to check on you a few minutes later.

She had already been doing this for you, she realized. The new context was uncomfortable. She had sat in that feeling for a few days, tried to fall back into the patterns of your relationship without thinking of them these new, strained terms. Despite reassurances, she’d watched you shove away the things that had made you so comfortable.

No more coloring books - not in front of her at least. You’d left a stray marker lying out when you scrambled to hide the evidence of your coloring from her. Your sippy cup had been pushed to the back of the cabinet again, no matter how many times she’d moved it back to the front.

The final straw was when you’d started packing your stuffed animals away.

She could have been gentler about the whole thing, admittedly, but it had made her so goddamn angry to see you shove away things that made you happy. You had misunderstood her - or she hadn’t communicated clearly, or – or something.

“Quit,” she demands, pulling the stuffies from their cardboard prison. She set them firmly back on your side of the bed (never tossing - you’d told her before, tossing them was mean). “Stop doing this shit, babe. You don’t have to quit doing stuff you like.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“I never said that.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“No, I–” Jill pinches the bridge of her nose. This is going nowhere, round and round in circles. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.

“I don’t want it in the bedroom.”

“Then where do you want them?”

“Not the– the stuffed animals can stay. Okay? I just don’t like it when we’re having sex. The ‘mommy’ stuff. But you– I want you to be how you want to be with me. We were already doing the little stuff before. Right?” Jill’s hand cups your cheek, urges you to keep looking at her. There’s no hiding from this, not from her.

You still struggle to meet her eyes. She can tell you’ve picked a spot over her shoulder, staring past her. She ducks her head, puts herself into your vision.

“...Kinda. Yeah.”

“Then we can keep doing that.” Her answer is firm. She’s spent hours thinking about this, analyzing where her discomfort came from, why it hit her so goddamn hard – how to ensure you never felt so rejected by her again. The discomfort lingers, smaller than before. Dwarfed by how greatly she misses having you next to her and comfortable. There had been an openness that she had stolen from you. “...Just don’t call me mommy when you’re getting off on my boot anymore, okay? I’m not ready for that.”

In time, the discomfort faded. Having you next to her at the end of a hard week, eyes wide and vulnerable, trusting her completely to take care of her - it became a little intoxicating. Her boundaries expanded, pushed farther and farther from where they had started as she slipped back into routine.

It surprises her how well she takes to it. Jill hasn't got much in the way of maternal instincts. She's good with dogs, though, and kids and dogs both need discipline. It's the same thing, right?

No. Not at all. But you're not really a kid. Your real mom did all the hard work, and now Jill gets to sweep in and have all the fun. Sit. Roll over. Speak. You're good at those. 

Stay, not so much. She knows she’s got you in the right headspace when you won't stop wiggling. Jill's grown accustomed to slinging an arm across your stomach when she buries her face in your pussy. The squirming never ends, and pressing your hips into the mattress had only ever made you curl upwards, arms bracketing her head, shoving her face into your cunt.

The real danger is letting you sit on her face while you're like this. You squirm and buck, squeal out your pleasure while she laps at you. She rocks her head from side to side, her nose bumping against your pudgy clit. The way you thrust down into her - christ, you’re going to send her to the hospital one day.

That was how it had been the first time Jill had opened up the floodgates, the first time she’d let these little games back into your bedroom.

Her hands palm the globes of your ass, spreading you open for her tongue. She keeps you nice and tight against her face, her neck craned at an angle that would hurt later. A problem for tomorrow. Today’s problem is that you keep biting your knuckle, tucking those pretty little sounds away from her.

Jill swats your ass, quick, sharp. She pulled away only far enough to reprimand you – “Don’t hide from mommy” – before she wrapped her lips around your clit and churned her tongue against you, again and again.

You let out a surprised squeak, garbled behind your fist. Your hips shot forward, pressing her face into the mattress, suffocating her with your cunt. Jill moaned, gripped you tighter, held you to her face and tongue-fucked you through an orgasm that made your spine twist, your thighs clamp tight around her head.

Jesus Christ - that’s what she’d been missing out on? All because she’d been too squeamish about a title?

That was all it took to convince herself that she was fine with it, really. Jill helped you roll off of her. She lowered you back to the mattress as if you were a priceless, fragile little thing. The urge to care for you, to pamper you, had never been stronger. You’d nearly had to force her to quit flitting around you. It took insisting that you needed to cuddle for her to stop, for her to let you settle against her.

“I think you broke my nose,” Jill teases.

“Stop.” You hide your face in the top sheet, but she hears you bite off a giggle. Her hands float to your sides, long digits brushing along the curve of your ribs, snaking up your stomach to cup your breasts. She rolls them in her palms - together, then apart, thumbs flicking over your nipples. Languid, no heat behind it. No need for another round, not yet, but she wants to appreciate the art before her.

“I'm serious.” Jill turns her head to the side. Her profile silhouettes in the lamplight.

She's the kind of woman they make statues of. Her nose cuts a proud shape from the light, the slope of her brow relaxed only here in your bedroom. It occurs to you to trail a finger along contour of her face and, uninhibited, you do. Jill holds still for you, let’s you marvel at the work before your eyes. Her nose has been broken before - not by your weight, but by fists. Her throat bobs as you trail a knuckle down her chin, against the delicate skin of her neck, childish in your wonder. 

Jill still had her boundaries, the same as you had yours.

Your appreciation is every bit grown. You tuck yourself against her side, kiss along her jaw until you reach her lips. You mutter your ‘I love you’ against her there. She can be ‘mommy’, she realizes. Just for you, just within your home.

No disciplinarian stuff, not while you're acting all little. It makes her feel grimy. You don't get in trouble for little stuff, not for leaving your coloring book out or for flooding the living room with stuffies while she's away. You do get in trouble being an absolute brat and pawing at her leg while she's in the middle of a meeting.

That had been fun. You'd been all curled up in your beanbag chair, tucked out of frame while Jill listened in on the eastern European division’s quarterly report. Evidently, reduction in bioterrorism incidents weren't thrilling enough for you. She’d popped her leg out to the side, wiggled her boot at you - a command you knew well enough by then. 

What kind of mommy makes her baby girl ride her boot? A strict one. It had always been a favorite punishment, denying you her touch and making you get yourself off however she dictated. But when you were all soft and malleable? Desperate for her attention, for her touch? Now it has her soaking herself. An added, unexpected side effect? You'd stopped nagging her to take her boots off as much.

On the other hand, you staunchly refused for this to be a 24/7 arrangement. You were an adult. You contributed to the house, had goals and ambitions just as much as she did. As happy as Jill was to pamper you, to be your mommy when you needed it, she wasn't ever to hold that over your head. 

Once, she'd dared to tease you in the middle of a discussion about utilities - gas bill's so high 'cause my babydoll like the house too warm - and the look you'd given her had been enough to make her backtrack immediately. You hadn't even been willing to entertain the notion that she might treat you as less capable, less of an equal partner just because you enjoyed her care.

That had been a rocky discussion.

“I don't want to do this with you if you're just going to think less of me for it.”

Christ, she wants to pull her hair out, stuff her words back into her mouth and just pay the goddamn gas bill. It wasn't like you couldn't afford it.

“I don't think less of you.”

“Then don't say stuff like that.”

“Babe, you're kind of overreacting.”

Your eyes harden. Obviously, that hadn't been the right thing to say either.

She'd nearly lost you in that conversation. Not entirely, not your whole relationship - just this soft, needy part that craves a softer touch, a nurturing hand. Maybe a better, more experienced mommy would have stepped it back better, assured you that wasn't what she meant. But Jill's not built for this, not naturally.

It's your thing. She's just indulging you.

She gathers up your coloring books, piling them neatly on the coffee table. She takes a minute to thumb through them, to admire the work you'd done that evening. Spooky Cutie, Gummy Bear World, the more complicated dinosaur coloring book from the Smithsonian. You'd been rotating - proudly showing her your work from page to page, polling her on what color you should use from time to time. One moment it was a bear and a cat cooking stew together in a simplified, cutesy kitchen. The broth was dark brown because mommy had decided they were having beef stew, not chicken and dumplings.

The next, you were asking for her favorite dinosaur, then her second favorite, then her third, and flipping through your book to find any one of them. She'd never seen a more elaborate backdrop for a triceratops. You'd dutifully laid out every shade of green you had and set to work on the foliage. Halfway through the movie she realized she'd missed a plot point, too busy checking in on your coloring.

It's not her thing. She just ended up at a craft store one day for something completely different. It was a good deal on markers, honest. Yeah. The deal had been on the ones that were high-end, that had the shades of green you needed to really make that cretaceous-era flora pop.

Jill is so fucked.

Right. Definitely just your thing.

She's above this. Keeps her personal life and her professional life neatly separated, despite the Redfield's best efforts. Claire knows she has a serious girlfriend. She'd done the detective work on Jill's limited social media, pored over new friends and comments like it was her job. 

(“I had in-flight wi-fi.” Never a sentence you want to hear Claire Redfield say.

“So you wasted your time stalking me online?”

Claire shrugs. “Your girlfriend posts a lot and she likes everything you post. It wasn't hard to figure it out. She seems nice. Not subtle, but, you know – nice.”)

If Claire knows, then Chris knows. For years he's maintained that he hates gossip, but he's always suspiciously well-informed.  

So when Chris sets a big hand on her shoulder and asks how the detective work is going, the appropriate answer should be ‘fine’ or ‘I'm going to blow my brains out if I have to dig through another financial record’. It should not be:

“Mommy's tired.”

Silence. God, she can't have said that. That wasn't what came out of her mouth, surely. She just said ‘I'm tired’, right?

Jill looks up at Chris. His eyebrows are in the fucking stratosphere. Before she can tell him not to say a goddamn word, his face splits into a grin.

“Does mommy want a coffee?”

“I'm reporting you to HR.”

Chris laughs, full-bodied, the sound bursting from his chest. He looks years younger in that moment, and when she huffs a laugh she wonders if she does too. All of that gets wiped away when she remembers how utterly fucked she is. Her cover is blown, her personal life finally hemorrhaged into the office.

“I'm reporting you to HR,” he counters. He swings himself into the chair opposite her desk. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not if I have to call you mommy.”

Jill’s more than a little pent up when she kicks the door closed that evening. You turn your head, hands plunged in the basin of the sink. Domestic, homey - not quite her babydoll, but her girlfriend.

As you can imagine, the rest of the day was a nightmare. Chris didn’t know how to let a joke die, but at least he had the sense to keep it between the two of them.

She can change that.

“How was work?” You greet.

“You got me in trouble today.”

Confusion clouds your eyes. You try to turn from the sink, but Jill's arms cage you in. She's not a tall woman, but it's never stopped her from being imposing. She wedges her knee between your legs and lifts, pressing against your cunt. The heat pouring through you short circuits your brain, leaves all your intelligible thoughts fizzling out of your mouth in a confused heap.

“Huh?” Is what you finally manage to muster.

Jill snorts. Very intelligent. Her hands grip your hips. She turns you to face her, presses you down against her thigh, rocks your hips back and forth for you until you get the picture. Your movements are slower, uncertain. She has to battle the urge to force your movements quicker. Patience. She can rip the pleasure from you later.

Her mouth latches onto your neck, open-mouthed kisses pressed against your skin again and again, your pulse quick and unsteady under her lips. Your hands hover inches over her sides, water dripping from your fingertips, iridescent suds drying against your skin. You're not going back to the dishes, not if she can help it; leave them to soak in the sink.

Jill shifts a hand under your waistband, fingers ghosting just above your panties. A shudder rattles down your spine, stomach rolling against her hand. She slips her other hand up your front, ghosting between your breasts. Her knuckles catch under your chin.

“Everyone knows, babydoll.”

It's cute, watching you try to put the pieces together. Your poor little brain is frying and she still turns up the temperature on you. She shifts her leg away to palm your cunt through your panties. Goddamn, you may as well be molten heat at this point. Won't be much longer before she has you dripping into her palm.

It takes all her restraint not to shove your panties to the side and plunge her fingers into your needy little pussy then and there. Patience will make it sweeter, wetter, make you cling to her shoulders, clamp around her so tightly she loses circulation.

Her hand moves from your chin the moment you start forming a question. She presses her middle and ring finger to the seam of your lips and you open before she can so much as muster the first syllable. She chuckles, derisive. Your tongue swirls around her, laving against the pads of her fingers. Dutiful, obedient, her perfect little babydoll lapping at her skin.

You suckle, sloppy wet noise spilling from your mouth. A rush of love hits Jill square in the chest. It drops, settles in her gut right next to the need to claim.

“Everyone knows you need mommy to take care of you,” she coos, mocking. You squirm, something between fear and arousal sparking in your eyes. You suck harder. Definitely arousal.

It’s easy to walk you over to the counter, hips pressed tight to yours. She lets you suck at her fingers as long as she can before she needs that hand to pick you up and drop you on the countertop. Jill shoves your shorts down, tugs your panties to the side. Her spit-slick fingers trail along your slit. You shuffle down, greedy for more of her touch. Her poor baby, alone all day - and already so wet for her.

You suck her fingers in greedily. Her hand presses at your hip, a silent urge for you to stay still, to let her prep you. You can get so ahead of yourself, she knows - but she’ll take care of you. Jill’s mouth latches onto your neck. She only detaches to shuck your t-shirt up and off.

Your legs latch over her hips, trapping her hand between your bodies. Greedy little girl, taking more than she wanted to give. Jill can’t be angry about it, not now. She pumps her fingers into you steadily. Her mouth trails down to your chest, lips latching onto your nipple.

“Take it, babydoll, there you go – take it for me.” Her breath fans against your breast. She buries her face between them, moans against your sternum. Your back arches, tits pressing into her. Your arms press your tits together around her head, smothering her, and her pussy clenches around nothing.

Jill's fingers drill into you, grind right up against that spot that makes you squirm. She could find it blindfolded. No more long, slow-strokes with her thick fingers. Hard, deep, just how you need, thumb rubbing your clit.

Fuck - you must need this as badly as she does. You snap after a few more strokes, moan strangled and high. Your chest arches, your hands flying into her hair, holding her tight to your tits.

“Good girl, perfect girl for mommy– gonna have you cumming all night.” Promises seared into your skin just before her mouth latches above your breast, sucks a bruise into your skin.

Your hand pushes at her wrist, babbling about too much. Jill nearly goddamn growls, as if you’re trying to take her favorite toy away. Her thumb slows against your clit, fingers drawing languidly out of you. One last pump for good measure, just to watch your legs twitch.

Her cheek rests against your chest, rising and falling with your breaths.. She watches you recover with half-lidded eyes.

“Do– do people really know?” You ask once you’ve managed to regain the ability for language processing.

Jill pouts. Clearly she hasn’t fucked you good enough if you’re still worried about that. She shifts to grip your hips, tugging you the the edge of the counter. She cants her hips up, trying to fit them flush with yours. Promises for later.

“Just Chris.” You groan. Honestly, it could be way worse. You’re overreacting. She knows better than to say that out loud now. “He’s not gonna tell anyone.”

“Not even his sister?”

Jill hesitates. She steps back from the counter, helps your newborn deer legs find their foot on the floor. She thumbs the button of her jeans open, stumbling out of them while she helps you over to the couch. You’re easy to position like this, malleable to her wants. Just how you both like it. Jill swats your ass - playful, not punishing.

“You worry too much. They’re not gonna care.”

“What if I care?”

Jill sinks to the floor in front of you, guiding your legs up to her shoulders. She kisses her way up your sweat-slick skin, savoring the taste on her tongue on her way to your core.

“Just let mommy kiss it all better.”

[rockymtn-rockn-roll-redneck2]

Yes make grocery getters great again.

[turnipoddity]

Am I the only one who's hoping saw 11 is about Amanda and Daniel? Like him being her friend n them having a silly friendship after the safe? Maybe even him becoming an apprentice, but like just a supplies getter? Idk it's unlikely but I'd love to see Amanda having friends! Like them going grocery shopping or something

Oh when they say saw xi is gonna have familiar faces… (hope to GOD it’s about lawrence but also hoping it’s daniel… so we can have more daniel and amanda interactions 😭❤️)

[florianniss]

Dungeons and Drag Queens

RatedE, Identityporn, Drag Queen Eddie

“Gah!”

Steve has a tight-knuckled grip on his ‘Oh shit’ bar and his brake pedal is pressed all the way to the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut and waits for the crunch of metal, the crushing of glass, the impact that throws him into the windshield and puts him in the hospital in a full-body cast.

It never comes.

“Jeezus, Steve. Lighten up, will you?”

Somehow, miraculously, Dustin has managed to swerve and miss the parked delivery van and is tooling proudly down the street like he didn’t almost send Steve’s life flashing before his eyes.

“You’re not my Dad, you know.”

Dustin turns the wheel back and forth, like he’s in one of those grocery store ride-ons that you put quarters in to make it move. He comes up on a stop sign way too fast and slams on the brakes at the very last second. Steve has to throw his hands on the dash to stay in his seat. 

“That’s right,” Steve says, pulse rapid and thready, and he’s sure his veins are popping out all over the place. “I’m your Mom. And you’re a menace.”

Dustin rolls his head dramatically and steps on the gas. The old fake-wood-grocery-getter he’s borrowed from his folks spits up gravel from its back tires. Steve wishes he’d ridden separately, taken his bike instead.

“Why are you such a chicken lately, anyway?” Dustin whines. “You used to be fun.”

Steve bristles. “I’m still fun.” It comes out as a growl, like a cantankerous old bear woken way too early from slumber.

Dustin laughs and lays down another screeching halt. Steve swears he can smell the brake pads burned and disintegrated into dust. He grins like he’s done it on purpose, takes a corner and heads out of town, and Steve forces himself to relax. 

He would never admit it, but he has become rather — conservative — these past few weeks. Like, his body is still twenty-two but his brain is thirty years older.

“Do I need to run through any rules with you before we get there?”

Steve gives a long-suffering sigh. It’s Saturday, and it’s the first day he’s had off in two weeks. And, like the soft-serve (coward) he is, he’s agreed to stand in for Dustin’s girlfriend, Suzie, at their little gang’s weekly board game. 

“I got it.”

It’s not true, of course. He has no idea what the hell he’s getting into. What he does know is the second he found out Dustin and Mike and Max and Lucas and Will were secretly meeting in some random guy’s garage, his Mother Hen transformed into Mother Lion.

“OK.” Dustin doesn’t sound convinced.

He picks up the other kids and they pile into the back two rows, punching the back of Steve’s seat playfully as they pass. They pair off naturally, Mike with Will and Lucas with Max. Steve’s chest twinges a bit when he thinks about how Suzie rounds out their little group nicely.

Meanwhile, he’s the third wheel. (Or rather, the sixth? Seventh?)

Dustin and the others have been trying to get Steve to come for weeks. He explains nicely that he’s an adult and he has responsibilities: job, rent, groceries. Recuperating from life. The kids try to make him feel guilty by telling him everyone they invite always says ‘no.’ So, of course, he’s got to prove them wrong.

He also wants to meet this guy whose garage they meet in. What if he’s a creep or a kidnapper? Or a killer. The kids don’t even know how old he is.

Steve intends to find out.

Dustin pulls into the trailer park and Steve definitely gets Texas Chainsaw Massacre vibes from the place. He kinda wishes he’d brought his Leatherman. Or his bat.

The kids spill out of the car and hurry down the dirt driveway toward the mandoor on a faded puke-green metal building. Behind it, there’s a trailer in the same color and condition. A rusted van is parked crooked near the garage, an old Chevy truck has been pulled right up to the front porch. Steve notes the plate numbers in case he needs to report a crime.

He opens the station wagon’s back door and lifts the cooler. He’s packed healthy stuff like string cheese and peanuts, a bag of grapes and a few apples. It’s not just for his wards; it’s for him too. Ain’t no way he’s eating some serial killer’s pork rinds. No sir.

Steve follows the rest into the garage and isn’t half surprised to find it smells exactly like a garage. Rubber and oil and musty rust and something sweet — radiator fluid? He takes in the large open space, scanning the boxes and tools and spare parts before settling on a large, heavy, claw-footed dining table that looks like it belonged to somebody’s dead grandmother.

The boys pull out folding chairs and begin to set them up around the table, all talking as loud as they possibly can to make sure they’re heard over the others. Max smiles and hangs her gray tote bag with the rainbow straps over the back of her chair. Steve is pretty sure she’s wearing a Care Bear shirt, and he loves her for it.

Steve sets the cooler on the floor next to the table and realizes he’s forgotten something.

“Oh, shit, guys! I forgot the pop!”

Groans circle the table and Steve feels horrible. He’s about to volunteer to take the wagon to the 7-11 and pick up Slushies to make up for it, when a voice behind him offers another solution.

“I got drinks in the trailer.”

Dustin cheers and Steve spins around, hair prickling on his arms because this guy sounds much older than seventeen. And when he lays eyes on a very adult face, his stomach does a very convincing leap off a highrise. It’s nothing like he expected.

Apparently, neither is Steve, because the guy drops the opened box of dice he’s carrying in the crook of one arm and they clatter onto the floor like hailstones and roll under the table. A stunned set of dark eyes pop out of a narrow, handsome face, and his mouth falls open. For a second, Steve feels embarrassed for the guy.

Dustin, however, flies in from the side and hugs him. “Thanks, Eddie! We’ll just run in and —“

This Eddie shakes himself like a wet dog, and a stern frown creases his forehead as he narrows his eyes “Not you, Henderson. Or you two.” He points at Will and Mike. “Max. You and Lucas grab some and haul them out.”

Lucas grins at Max, who returns the smile with something mischievous. Eddie catches it and shakes his head. “And no beer. I ain’t serving minors, here.”

Steve watches the whole exchange with a little jealousy. He’s supposed to be the only one who gets to boss these kids around. But he can’t possibly say anything; the guy’s logic is sound, and even if he’s just covering because Steve is here, it’s one less thing to worry about.

Because there’s definitely something about this Eddie that has sent Steve’s pulse racing.

He realizes he’s staring and quickly crouches to help the others collect the escaped dice. Down on hands and knees, he notes how sweaty his palms are, the nervous shimmy behind his navel.

What the hell is wrong with him lately?

When everything’s been collected and he crawls back from under the table, Eddie and Dustin are standing in the same spot. Except Dustin has a shit-eating grin on his face. And Eddie is looking like he’s been hit with a baseball bat.

His eyes are – well, they’re captivating.

“Uh,” Eddie says, and he folds both arms over his chest, hugs himself tightly. “I’ll go check on Max.”

He spins on his heel and high-tails it outside, like he’s seen a ghost or something.

Dustin continues to smile as he approaches the table and chooses a chair. He carefully spills out his little figurines and bag of matching dice, and Steve wants to throttle him for how smug he’s being.

The conversation returns to the volume levels from inside the car. Everyone is going on about what happened last time, all of them trying to fill Steve in. He tries to listen to each of them in turn, catches phrases like, ‘That demon was so sick, man!’ And ‘I can’t believe you tried to open the chest with a shovel!’ They were really getting into it, saying, ‘OK, then, next time you open the damn thing!’ and, ‘But nobody’s got lockpicking!’ when the door opens, and Eddie and Max and Lucas walk in.

Steve’s eyes flit over the Mountain Dew piled in both kids’ arms (they’re gonna be a handful on the ride home) and settle on the fact that Eddie has changed his shirt.

It’s long-sleeved, less wrinkled, and newer-looking. It’s like his hair has been combed; all the tight curls have separated and they seem softer somehow. He swaggers, yes, swaggers, across the floor right up to Steve and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. Jeans that hug his frame a little too well.

“I’m Eddie Munson. Hey.” It’s cocky.

Steve stands so quickly that he almost knocks his chair back. Someone at the table snickers.

He slips his hands in his own pockets. “Steve Harrington. Hey.”

They exchange hard-focused glares and brief nods, and then Eddie moves away to take a chair at what’s clearly the head of the table. It’s directly across from Steve.

Eddie sits, and Steve sits, and he tries not to think anything at all. Tries to clear his brain and make it an empty space. Because, if he doesn’t, he’s bound to think this guy is threatening him in some way. There are some pretty territorial vibes coming off him.

Chaos ensues. Everyone scrambles to spread things out on the table. They lean over it, sometimes standing on their chairs to reach. And they argue, of course, because they always argue.

“That’s not where the garden was! It was over there! Next to the rowboat!”

“No. That’s where the temple statue was, remember?”

Steve tears his gaze away from their host’s and finds the tablecloth he thought was a honeycomb-themed covering, is actually the mat they’re playing their game on.

He checks to see if Eddie is still watching him, and, he is. Looking over the top of a large manilla envelope as he slides white sheets of paper out, one at a time. It’s eerie, really. The way his eyes seem so deep. As if he’s some sort of —

Well, Steve doesn’t know.

Eddie passes out character sheets and Steve’s instructed to read his. He scans through it, reading about a man who’s a noble who worships some kind of dragon god. He doesn’t understand all the stuff on the front; it’s a lot of reading. More than he’s done since college. Even then, he needed a quiet room with no distractions to understand what he was reading.

Eddie’s garage is far from that.

Dustin leans over and hands him a velvet pouch. “You can use some of my dice.”

Steve leans into him. “You’re gonna have to help me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

Dustin laughs, but he does help. All of them do, actually. More than enough. At one point, when his character “Rodrick” is standing on a half-sunken pirate ship, and it’s his turn to decide whether he should investigate a dark, dank, waterlogged room, even though apparently he can’t see into it, Max pats him reassuringly on the back and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll cover you.”

Steve isn’t worried about some fictional character in some fantasy game, who can’t die anyway because he’s got a biblical laying hands spell. He’s worried about making a fool of himself in front of –

Yeah.

Eddie’s murder stare eases eventually. He lords over the board, hunkered down behind a makeshift barrier he’s set up on his end. Steve catches on that he’s not playing, he’s leading the game. He’s sarcastic and loud, swears like a sailor, and it’s clear he knows his shit. It’s like he knows how everything is supposed to play out ahead of time, and he lures the other players into his trap.

It doesn’t go as he expects either, because Dustin challenges him on everything. He argues that in real play some character wouldn’t really do that. He corrects Eddie on how many hits someone gets, or whether spells can be used in certain instances. They bicker like a couple of old, long-married people, while the rest of the kids dive into notes they’ve taken, share each other’s sheets and basically work together to overcome and defeat monsters. And if Steve hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, hadn’t been there to watch the playful back and forth that was actually whimsical and light-hearted, he wouldn’t have believed it.

After Dustin throws a fit when an undead monster stays dead by Max a second time, when it should have resurrected once more to be killed a third, Eddie loses his cool. He picks up the suspect monster and hurls it across the garage, where it slides over the concrete floor and ends up in a pile of junk.

“He’s dead because I say so, got it?”

Steve watches fire dance in the guy’s eyes, but he’s not fooled. He understands, just like the kids do, that he’s not really angry. He’s enjoying this.

They’re a few hours in when Steve dies. And it’s not the fact that he’s dead, really. No. It’s the humiliating way it happens.

“Why the hell did you do it that way, you idiot?” Dustin shouts at Mike, who has made the decision to take a fancy bow-and-arrow shot between his legs, aiming for the space under Steve’s character’s arm where it sits on his hip. Unfortunately, it hits Roderick directly in the ass, and the following roll of the dice lands on the ‘twenty’ side. And the table erupts into shrieks and complaints in every direction. 

“You killed him!”

Steve sits back in his chair, shocked and not quite understanding what happened, when Eddie begins to laugh.

It’s not your typical everyday ha-ha funny thing. This is a full-bodied, chair tipped on two legs, clutching your stomach because you’re about to piss your pants, raucously mirthful and fucking joyful laugh.

And it goes on. And on. And on. It continues for so long, in fact, that Steve finds himself grinning. Dustin has his head in his hands, Will is defending Mike, and Max and Lucas are looking over Steve’s shoulder at his sheet to see how they can bring him back to life (because apparently, nobody else has healing spells).

Eventually, Eddie sets his chair back on four legs and gets out of it. He steps away from the table and motions for Steve. He walks right out of the garage.

Steve follows, because how can he not?

The trailer house is filled to the gills with old-people stuff, trinkets and wall hangings and lots of Catholic mementos. It smells like cigarette smoke, but it’s basically clean. Small and cramped, well-lived in, but not the kidnapper’s lair Steve imagined.

Eddie is in the kitchen with the refrigerator door open, just his backside showing. He slams it closed and comes out with two PBRs. Eyebrows raised in question, he waits for Steve to open receptive hands before he tosses it over.

“Thanks,” Steve says. 

Eddie cracks his open and leans sideways against the counter, crossing one long leg over the other. He lifts his beer as acknowledgement and tips it back, watching Steve as he pops his open too. A grin lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“How do you know Dustin?” he asks once Steve has had a chance for a swallow. “Believe it or not, he hasn’t told me that yet.”

Steve imagines the breakneck speed at which Dustin talks, especially with someone he’s just met. And he hadn’t even considered that Dustin would have told Eddie about him.

“His mom knows mine. We went to the same school.”

Eddie tips his head slightly, like he needs a different angle to be able to understand. “How old are you?”

Steve considers the beer the guy tossed him and figures he must have an idea. “Twenty-two.”

Eddie smirks, eyes glinting. “Seems kinda suspicious for two guys to live together. Especially when you’re so much older than him.”

And Steve gets it. Eddie is making sure Steve isn’t hurting Dustin, just like Steve’s been trying to do with Eddie.

He counters with, “Well, how old are you? People might get the wrong idea, seeing as you’re an adult, and all, and these kids keep coming over to your house.”

Eddie’s smile widens and he takes another sip instead of answering. Steve decides to push the envelope a little.

“How do I know you’re not giving them drugs?”

Eddie chokes on his beer, but catches himself before it spews all over the kitchen. He coughs as he’s smiling, wipes his mouth off with a towel that’s threaded through the oven door handle. And when he looks at Steve, there’s some self-preservation bleeding through.

“Why do you think I invite them to play DnD here, huh? All sorts of shit goes down in this community that no one even knows about. They’re good kids, Steve. I just wanna keep ‘em safe.”

It’s the first time he’s said Steve’s name, and it feels – well, it feels, strangely intimate.

“I just didn’t realize they already had a babysitter,” Eddie teases, and the tense atmosphere lifts.

They share a look and a smile and it goes on for far too long.

That’s when Lucas slams the screen door open and leaps into the hallway. “We figured out how to save you!”

Steve catches Eddie’s eye before giving in to Lucas’ incessant tugging on his elbow.

“I’ll be there in a sec. Gotta take a piss,” Eddie says, burping into the back of his hand and crushing the can against his thigh. It’s something that shouldn’t make Steve’s brain fizz out. But it does.

Steve is bombarded when he enters the garage with a plan the group of them worked out together. It seems Will is still mad at Dustin, scowling over Mike’s shoulder, but the rest of them are enthusiastically escorting Steve to the table while explaining their plot to resurrect him.

Eddie strolls in, not five minutes later, with more beer. This time, instead of tossing it, he sets it on the table at Steve’s elbow and smiles down at him. Steve smiles back because he’s honestly over his head here.

They continue on, successfully completing that quest and jumping headlong into another, until Steve’s ass is sore and he has to pee, and he steps out into the now-night air to piss behind the garage.

Two beers in and his thoughts are making connections he really doesn’t need at the moment. Like how twice now he’s become completely enamored with someone the first time they meet. Like how he’s a sucker for a big, wet, expressive pair of eyes and an intelligent mind. Like how it doesn’t matter that Eddie’s a guy, because he’s not picky. And he’s suddenly sinking into the horrifying feeling that he’s cheating on –

But that’s ridiculous. He’s not going steady with anyone to be feeling that way.

When he returns, Eddie is telling a gory story about some chick in space who’s encountered alien things with acid blood. The kids are ‘ewing’ and ‘grossing’ and Dustin is on the edge of his seat listening to the tale. Eddie eyes Steve and winks, then dives into a graphic description of something called a ‘chestburster.’

Eddie laughs at their disgusted groans. “Ellen Ripley is fucking badass, and I love her.”

Steve feels a strange swoop in his gut. He doesn’t know who this Ellen Ripley is, but he’s suddenly jealous of her.

“I have an idea!” Max shouts over the din, waving her hands to get everyone’s attention. “We should go see the movie. All of us. Together. Suzie too”

“What movie?” Steve asks, and everyone answers in unison.

“Aliens!”

Steve makes eye contact with Eddie, who is watching him with amusement. He’s heard of the movie, but isn’t sure it’s the type of thing the kids would enjoy. He doesn’t even know what it’s rated, and if they can even get in to see it.

But the kids are already making plans for the following weekend. Dustin rounds on Steve and says he absolutely has to go with them.

“Yeah, Steve,” Eddie says, teasing from across the table. “You just have to go.”

Steve knows a challenge when he sees one. “Fine. I’ll do it. But you have to go, too.”

And that’s how Steve Harrington drives a carload of kids home, hopped up on caffeine and sugar, wondering how he’s gotten himself a group date with a bunch of teenagers and Eddie, of all things.

Read on AO3

[colubrina]

The unerring road to compliments from both adult women and teen girls is blue hair.

I've been coloring my hair blue for years, and when it started to come in grey all it did was make it easier since I don't have to strip the brown out first. I don't think I go a week without someone telling me they like my hair. In the grocery store. On the street. Outside the porta-potty at a youth baseball game. 100% effective compliment-getter.

Note: straight men will never ever compliment this.

[inkameswetrust]

Big Time Audition (A Kames Analysis)

Contents:

Introduction

Individual Characterization

Audition Analysis

Conclusion

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Introduction:

As most Rushers know, Big Time Audition is the first-ever episode of Big Time Rush. It spends the hour showing the audience how our four favorite hockey players from Minnesota started to become Big Time Superstars! As a lifelong Rusher, I've adopted a plethora of theories and ideas while even creating my own content regarding the series because of the sentimental value I hold for it.

My favorite Big Time Aspect of the show is the dynamic between Kendall Knight and James Diamond. We know Kendall and James to be one-half of our favorite blossoming boy band and likely two of the most popular characters in Big Time Rush. Fans are not only fond of their strong personalities and dashing good looks, but we have also come to love the relationship they have with one another.

In this post, I'd like to explain and explore the roots of the Kames dynamic. I believe Big Time Audition has planted the theoretical seeds the plot has nurtured into the pairing we know as Kames. There is plenty of potential to be experimented with that leads viewers to believe their relationship has what it takes to flourish past mere friendship. As a Kames truther myself, not a day goes by when I don't light up at the chance to dissect Kendall and James at their core.

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Individual Characterization:

Kendall Knight

A leader, a peace broker, a voice of reason—these are words that can be used to describe Kendall's role in Big Time Rush. He's known to take charge during most plot conflicts and use his stubbornness to his advantage. Judging from the fact that Kendall seldom asks for help and is the person his friends look to for a sure-fire plan of attack, we can surmise that independence makes up a great deal of his character.

But perhaps he wasn't always like this. We know that Mr. Knight, be it for divorce, estrangement, or even death, is not in the picture. Viewers may infer that Kendall's sense of independence may stem from the loss of a father figure. We may also infer his independence may stem from a hardworking mother struggling to make ends meet.

As we know, Kendall works part-time at a grocery store and is the only one out of all four members of Big Time Rush to maintain a steady job for more than one episode. Can we theorize that Kendall started working to help his mother pay for necessities? Or perhaps he just needed somewhere to go after school when no one was home. His intentions are left up to interpretation.

I don't intend to badmouth Kendall in any way, nor do I intend to throw a pity party for him. I feel that dissecting these aspects of his character can help create an understanding of why he says and does certain things. Many questions are still unanswered, and we can only surmise so much. It's important to understand that beneath the surface of a stubborn go-getter with a plan can be anxiety and reluctant independence. I pray that one day Kendall won't feel the need to run away when faced with his own problems.

TALK TO YOUR LOVED ONES ABOUT YOUR PROBLEMS. PLEASE. I'M BEGGING YOU. DO NOT KEEP IT ALL BOTTLED UP LIKE YOU DO.

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James Diamond

He's flashy, self-centered, moisturized, and in his own lane. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for James Diamond! I think it's safe to say James is the pretty boy of the group. Why else would he constantly be combing his hair or changing outfits? Not only that, but he makes it his life's mission to pursue as many pretty women as he can. Every day is a new crush and a new heart to hold in the palm of his hand. Why is that, you may ask? Let's explore!

In Season 2 Episode 18 (Big Time Moms), we learn that James' mother Brooke Diamond is a successful businesswoman running her own cosmetics company. Due to the success of her business, Brooke doesn't spend much time at home with James, and when she does, she tends to dictate his decisions without explanation. In James' own words, when Gustavo suggested he decline Brooke's offer to bring him back home to help run the family business, "No? You don't tell my Mom no!"

We can surmise that growing up in the cosmetics industry has inflated the importance of appearance, causing James to adopt unhealthy or unorthodox habits. Such habits include but are not limited to triggering a severe allergic reaction to Barracuda Man Spray, overusing Mangerine Spray, talking to himself in the mirror, the inability to put away his handheld mirror, overattachment to his lucky comb, and contacting the authorities when running out of hairspray because his hair was 'limp and lifeless'. Someone get this boy a shrink!

Additionally, being a child of divorce affects the way one views and pursues relationships. We only see James' father for mere seconds to inform the boys that James has returned to LA under a contract with Hawke Records. One could only assume his father is involved in little to none of his life based on such little mention or screentime. Seeing his parents split up must've made James feel like he was losing control over the things and people he loved. To combat such an inability to cope, I theorize that James pursues women because he feels that is one of the few aspects of his life that he has control over. He may also be unknowingly exhibiting poor relationship habits he learned from his parents, which is why his flings wouldn't last more than one episode. Poor guy... he's so bad at being straight. Let's unpack those repressed feelings about your sexuality, buddy!

And let's not forget about those Mommy issues! *COUGH* I mean, what? Who said that?

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Audition Analysis:

Before:

What would Big Time Rush be had Kendall not figuratively and literally given James a push in the right direction? We can always count on Kendall for good old-fashioned speech, but it was this very speech that solidified his belief in James and began planting the roots of our Big Time Culture.

When reaching the audition site, James' evident anxiety caused him to switch number tags with his friends at the sound of each number being called. It wasn't until he got to Kendall that he mustered up the courage to walk onstage and give it his all. As Kendall explained, he was never really interested in performing. Hockey was his passion, but supporting James in his pursuit of stardom was his end goal.

Whether it be for a hockey game or a performance, Kendall was Big Time Rush's designated motivational speaker. But what was it about Kendall that drew his friends in whenever he spoke? What was it that convinced James to take that leap of faith? These are questions most viewers would never think twice about, but I'm left to wonder how the character relationships built up to their current status before the story began.

Logan and Carlos, while being complex characters in their own right, don't seem particularly interested in stardom either. They didn't have any encouraging words to say or gestures of motivation to exhibit. I'd like to think that out of everyone, Kendall understood just how much this dream meant to James and gave him his brutal honesty because of how much he cared. He couldn't achieve James' dream for him. All Kendall could do was point (or, in this case, shove) James in the right direction.

During:

Upon entering the auditorium, James sheepishly walks up to the microphone and proceeds to sing Smokey Robinson's Tracks of My Tears. The praise of his audience was no match for Gustavo Rocque's cold, indifferent stare, which led James to crack and stop his performance. After being berated and belittled, Kendall emerges from the audience and reprimands Gustavo for insulting James' ability to sing.

Although Kendall is known for his impulsive scheming and emotional outbursts when coming to the defense of those he loves, this felt oddly personal. Part of the reason may be that Kendall was never in a position to defend other people. He disgusted Jo as a means of convincing her to break up with him and accept her movie deal. He'd even gotten his friends to impersonate news reporters to convince Lucy not to besmirch his name. But going as far as to mock Gustavo Rocque's success, jump onto a table and attack him with his own dated hit song, and even fight off the security to defend James' honor has got to be Kendall's craziest outburst yet.

This was his only plan of attack that didn't have any sense of coherence or planning. Based on this information, we can infer Kendall's only motivation was pure emotion. One could argue this was, in one way or another, an act of love. Kendall wasn't worried about the consequences or the aftermath. Could one think that this was him in his most genuine form? Signs point to yes!

After:  

The day after the audition was plagued with awkward silence and disappointment. The boys joined Kendall while he was on the clock to discuss the fruit of his decision. After expressing how stupid Kendall's decision was, he and James have their first-ever argument. James was clearly upset his dream hadn't come true but even more upset when Kendall didn't seize the opportunity in his stead. He was just as confident in Kendall's abilities as Kendall was in his, and because of the anger he felt toward Kendall's decision, James remained silent.

That look in James' eyes after Kendall mentions Gustavo saying he has no talent always gets me. It's a look of acknowledgment, realization, and acceptance. For a brief moment, James didn't have an argument. He couldn't combat or disagree with that statement because he truly felt how upset Kendall was on his behalf. Perhaps he regretted his earlier statement about hating all of Kendall. That couldn't possibly be true. After all, James only hated Kendall's decision to stay in Minnesota and give up the 'once in a lifetime' opportunity to reach stardom.

This line portrays James' evident anger and disapproval toward Kendall. I'd like to explore the bigger picture and theorize about how he'd feel if Kendall did accept Gustavo's offer and left for LA by himself. No doubt, James would feel deserted and lonely without the company of his greatest support system. Furthermore, there'd be no Big Time Rush. There'd be no talk of 'this is our someday,' and the overall character progression would plummet.

I'd like to think Kendall would keep in touch, but without his friends there to ground him, anything could happen. Perhaps a small part of James believed that was a possible outcome, and, while being upset the opportunity is gone, he may have believed such a future could've made Kendall happy in the long run.

I find it fascinating how James incorporated the most influential line of Kendall's speech before the audition into his own dialogue. This shows he was not only receiving the message, but he took that to heart and truly resonated with Kendall's words. "Opportunities like this come once in a lifetime." I'd never think twice about this statement on it's own, but given the context of this show, it influenced the very decision that created Big Time Rush.

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Conclusion:

Yeah, that's pretty much it. I'm very tired, and I've been working on this quite literally all day, and now it's past midnight on the NEXT FREAKING DAY. I have not had a break, and I am delirious with Kames. Long story short, Kendall's and James' characters would be sooooooo much better if they were gay for each other. I don't think it takes a genius to come to that conclusion.

If you're ever interested in reading a fanfiction that explores a scenario where Big Time Audition never happened, or at least a scenario that acted as a prologue to Big Time Audition, consider reading mine. I started writing it almost a year ago, and although I've poured my blood, sweat, and tears into writing it, I haven't released another chapter since April. I swear I'll update it one of these days. I just need some Taco Bell and a nap.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/353354530-𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐥-a-kames-fanfic Just copy this URL into your search bar, Tumblr says it's an incomplete link. Have a stellar rest of the day/night, you little freaky deakies!

[seat-safety-switch]

Ask any racer, any real racer – they want to drive a really shitty car. There’s an undeniable thrill in operating a purebred, fire-snorting monster of a race car, and competing at the upper echelons of motorsport. And then, there’s the entirely more appetizing thrill of kicking some Boxster owner’s teeth in using a 1989 Mazda 323 that is best described as “weathered.”

One of the truisms of motorsport is that you can’t buy a victory, although it certainly helps to have been born rich enough that you can hire good instructors and spend a lot of your life at the track, practicing. All the advantages are on your side, then, and it just comes down to the big day. If you can whomp those folks with a grocery getter, it adds some spice to life.

There’s a real appeal to a piece-of-crap commuter car, even without the class ranking (which is never good enough to offset the crap-ness.) You don’t have to worry too much about prepping it, unless you’re the kind of person who wants to. Slap some half-decent tires on there, take out the fast food garbage from the back seat. Strip the chassis, acid-dip the metal to shave milligrams off of it, and add additional spot welds for extra bracing. Design and fabricate elaborate but factory-appearing suspension components using your engineering job’s resources when the boss isn’t looking. Take a nail file to the backside of your hubcaps, the scrutineers surely won’t look at that.

I don’t want to make this a whole class discussion, although class features prominently in autocross, which like all motorsports features a prominent and nigh-impenetrable rulebook. Understand that rulebook, navigate through it, they promise, and somewhere in there is a combination of mistakes and oversights that the Dark Gods of the SCCA have put into your hands that will allow you to brutalize your enemies by wielding a totally demoralizing piece of automotive garbage. With some tactical know-how, you can protest your opponent’s stock vehicle well into the realms of “experimental prototype” and a class multiplier that is only slightly lower than a giraffe’s asshole. And you can shave a second or two off your own time by knowing exactly which parts were not featured on the Mexican-market version of your car so you can cut those off while remaining whole-ass stock.

Above all else, go out there and have fun. If you’re the kind of person who has more fun winning, though, by all means. If you’re like me, and just want to have fun day out beating the brains out of a car that shouldn’t be on the road, much less open motorsport competition, I hope you also have fun walking home. I’ll help you push.

[myheroeswriting]

Simple thoughts of my ADHD brain 2.1

Another bottle I'm gonna wanna

Fluffy was our four-foot iguana

Hearing a great song, getting a buzz

Also need a drink, why? Just cuz

Jd is the drink of choice, only from the bottle

Had “323” years ago, speedy after mashing the throttle

Adhd is a real disorder, it is not contagious

To be normal, oh what a blessing, hope it's not infectious.

Now I was doing……. Um, ok now not again!

I am hungry, oh my, I need a piece of bacon

This was not a good day for me and my tummy

Got paid, paid bills and groceries, and now out of money

Black Licorice is an acquired taste, my favourite

If you crash, face plant on the pavement

The day of your life you live without paying attention to it is like an unopened gift you throw away.

Care is needed when managing your attention

I work hard but with no recognition

We are intelligent but distracted, don't call us dumb

Hard work and determination, help you overcome

Paying full attention is the best way to enjoy life

When you fall in love I hope she becomes your wife

Being held up and suffering from PTSD in isolation

Every underdog who succeeds is an inspiration

Going to the gym exercises more than your muscles

Working hard every day to build a side hustle

If you want to win the game, gotta play hard

With a poker face, you play the winning card

In the game of life, sometimes you trip

You get back on the horse doing a flip

During your teen years, you wanted to play in a band

Def Leppard has a drummer with one hand

My buddy got in the head when he was ten

At my wedding, he was also my best man

While on a bike tour of the island with my cousin

We ate fresh oysters right from the ocean

Writing this poem while cooking breakfast for the family

Thank you to the veterans, for your bravery

With 15 grandkids, sometimes I feel old

Staying healthy for the family is the goal

Nana and Papa are there to rescue, and uplift

When I get confused, I am just miffed

Downstairs is where my gym is, move lots of weight

Protein, carbs, a bit of fat, all needed to lift the plate

Same poem, this is next day writing now

Some poems take days to write, please don't have a cow

If you would like more of these please stay tuned

Gilligan and crew went for a three-hour tour, got marooned

I have more and I hope I am getting better

Please leave comments and likes, for this go-getter

[rbtreflyd]

In one hour everything turnee for the worst. I haven't lost my keys or wallet in a while in one night i lose both and no one is there to help.

Ppl say I am crazy for everythi g i need. But to me it makes sense. I have been isolating myself bc ppl use all my enery and then i have nothing left. Or they rub me ragged but when I ask for something in return i cant get it.or i just rub ppl wrong so i domt go to things bc i dont have the energy to spend figuring out what ppl need me to be and then pretendkng to be it.

The other big thing is i need pants . Not jeans, not stretch pants, not joggers, not tight. Good old cargo woork pants that arent relaxed fit. My keys and wallet need to go in a pocket I can zipmup.. yes i so walk around with a back pack but when I leave stuff innthere i lock it in the car or house or someone else's property. Plus yarn, a jumpboxm and keyboard or necessary for my work every day. And baggy stuff makes it so I can squeeze between car or I get yanked by everything or ahut it in the door and the world just tears it apart. And I dont have $180 to buy what i used to buy.

And life is just expensive I like helping and not have to spend every moment paying bills or cleaning (cause thats as close to God and a sanctuary as i can ge5). I miss taking ppl kids out for adventures.imiss volunteering in nursing homes. I miss teaching ppl crafts and to stop and smell the roses. I iss stocking shelves at the library and going in apecial needs classrooms to helptgem blv they can do forbthemseves even if its not the same way everyone else does it I miss riding on my bike for 18 hours i missbhelping strangers put groceries in their car or jupstart it. I miss standing on stage breaking pieces of myself to be used in someone else finding their greatness. I miss being the first ladies go getter and praise partner I miss my house being cleaned so regularly tered be nothing in the vacuum when i vacced and only enough dust to wipe with a papertowel when I swept and no blood spots on any bathroom surfaces ordirt ring in the tub. I miss being able to pic up a stranger and drive them to a whole nother state out of kindnesss and aee the gas needle not move.

Like im just sadthat i cant fill the gap anymore so that when i fuck up its not a thing bc all ppl will see if the good I put out tere and not my million moments of weakness

[ghoulangerlee]

feeling upset and sad and just ugh all rolled into one big emotion. under the read more is a tangle of mess u don't gotta read it but I need to get it out before I cry more

sometimes I feel like people would be better off if I didn't exist like even as a kid y'know my mom could have focused on herself and doing her treatments instead of taking care of sick teen me and having to deal with truancy and my doctors and all that shit

my sister and bro in law wouldnt have had to deal with me and my weird dietary habits, wouldn't have to deal with me having to take more days off work (thus less paycheck for bills and groceries) wouldnt have had to deal with my turbulent emotions and the constant stomach pains

even now I'm like. useless in a way. can't even fully mop the floor at work without having to sit down often or lean down too much or walk too far or exist in a way that doesn't just inconvenience someone bc of the chronic illnesses I have. trying not to let it rule my life, trying to be that same go getter teen I was dealing with this shit but I'm so tired. I can't walk up the stairs most of the time without feeling darkness at the edges of my vision. I walk slow and uneven because of my bad knees. even sitting down my heart beats too fast and it causes problems. I had to be put on a medication for that bc my doctor's thought I was having a heart attack last month.

anything I eat hurts my stomach 99% of the time. I deal with it, it's whatever. but it's at the expense of those around me. I feel useless and like the people around me would be better off without me here.

it's like me having all these things causing this inconvenience is what makes me unlovable. I joke and laugh about how my body tries to kill me. Or I joke about how a medicine I take is hurting my body etc etc etc

but in my mind it feels like everyone around me secretly hates me and resents me and thinks I'm saying these things and seeing all these doctors and doing all these things to avoid stuff when I'm not. I'm trying and trying and trying. I've been trying to work myself back up to what I used to be able to do but it's taking so long, it's taking so much time.

I just. Want to not be an inconvenience to anyone.

[cinamun]

Just randomly thought about it but...I don't want Dira with Rah. Like I get he is a great guy who pays attention to detail for someone he likes, but I feel Dira would just be settling because he is a "nice guy". I feel this should show her that she wants someone who pays those details to her and Rah shouldn't have to fight for someone's attention with extravagant thought. I don't know it's a running thought that could use more thought to it but it was something that ran across my kind about the kiddos

Aiight friend, you know I'm *ALWAYS* down to get into it!

I know y'all have paid enough attention to know that when a male is introduced *AND* has lines, he might stay around awhile. In Dira's case, one just got his ass beat to the Bay and back and the other imports rare mint leaves from Glimmerbrook...

So, Rahul...

Stability = Grocery Delivery, makes his own money, probably saves it.

Detail Oriented = Who the hell orders rare leaves from a mystical world? Rahul Chopra, that's who.

Go Getter = Started the A/V club at Copperdale, gave no fucks if anyone else joined.

Self Aware = Calls himself "a lame" in comparison to the jocks. He knows.

Anyway, its still early in the game for these teenagers and Dira may not choose the high school good guy, just like Hope didn't choose her elementary school boo. Who knows who else is slithering towards the Drake universe...

[misforgotten2]

Sure, why not. While I’m at it I’ll pick up a Picasso, an another pet panda, and a solid gold bidet. Who do they--- Wait! She’s drives the convertible and he drives grocery-getter? In 1956? This isn’t the ‘50s I vaguely remember.

Collier's   March 16th 1956

[girlcowboy1]

Can some autistic go getter please open a Grocery store that doesn't have horrible toxic illness inducing vibes that make u want to kill yourself and everyone around u