#lamberts a dick

[somefanficrecomendations]

2023 BEST READS

A few days late but hey, better late than never! This is a non-comprehensive list of my favorite fics that I’ve read in 2023! Criteria for a fic to be included on this list are:

I read the fic in 2023

I reread the fic at least once

I can rate 5/5 stars without hesitation

The fics are organized by fandom but otherwise are in no particular order.

BATMAN

New Wave by yellow_caballero Batman (gen), 103k, Reverse Robins, Stephanie Brown is Robin Some lunatic in a bat costume is running around Gotham clowning on fools, but local delinquent Stephanie Brown has way bigger problems. When her father and friends start joining mob wars Steph knows she has to do something about it before Gotham collapses. If that means joining up with rich dudes playing dress up, pasty nerds with hacking and photography habits, and throwing on a costume herself, then that’s just what she’ll have to do. Even if Batman works alone. She’s convincing. In which Stephanie Brown rocks the radical nineties and becomes the first Robin, ruining Batman’s life and giving Tim Drake a hobby.

birdsong by ScarlettSwordMoon Nightwing (gen), 22k, Dick Grayson-Centric After getting a face full of Scarecrow’s newest toxin, Dick isn’t haunted by his typical nightmares. No. This one has little green pixie boots. AKA Batman: Ego but make it Robin. Nightwing 60th Anniversary Bingo: Drugs & Toxins

Keep Your Head, Your Backbone, and Your Heart by MrMich Batman (gen) 54k, Dimension Travel, Duke Thomas-centric The last thing that Duke expected on what was supposed to be just a regular patrol was being suddenly thrown five years into the past, coming face to face with a darker, more violent Batman than the one he knew, a broken family, and a Tim who was a foot shorter than Duke, and not even Robin yet.

Loading and Aspect Ratio by JUBE514 Batman (Superbat), 45k, Wings AU A world where nobody has wings, but people think they do, and that changes everything.

Our Bodies & Other Fine Machines by SilverSkiesAtMidnight Batman (gen), 13k, Starvation He has never argued with a punishment, not since he was a toddler, if then. Surely she’ll listen, surely she’ll see this is too harsh, that he wouldn’t be disrespecting her like this if he was simply sulking over not getting his way. He needs that food, needs to be able to eat enough if he wants to be Robin. He’s been hungry before, but back then, it never mattered if he was a little weak or dizzy. It never risked his life or the life of his partner when he was a kid. She turns, sighing softly and pursing her lips. She reaches out to pat his cheek, and for a moment his heart soars hopefully, and he barely restrains himself from leaning into the rare bit of contact and soaking up his mother’s touch. “Oh, Timothy,” she tuts. “This is for the best. And honestly, I think it’s wise for you to cut down a bit on the snacks. I’d hate to have to listen to anyone tittering at the next gala that you’re getting chubby.” And without another backwards glance, she turns and heads upstairs, leaving Tim alone and frozen at the bottom of the steps.

You, Me, and the Humanity in Between by JUBE514 Batman (gen), 65k, Non-Human Robins Bruce is trying his best to protect the city that he loves. He doesn't know how exactly his Robins came to be- they're not fully human, not even at all. All he knows is that he wants to keep them safe.

Little Red by destiny919 Batman: Under the Red Hood (gen), 39k, Series, Jason is Tim’s Parent AU where Tim is younger and has been illegally adopted by his hero, the Red Hood.

A Different Game by Hinn_Raven Batman (multi), 62k, Red Hood!Stephanie Brown, Role Reversal Stephanie Brown died with a mouth full of blood and her eyes wide open, staring at the locked door, hoping still for a miracle, for a rescue. She died in a hidden place, still hanging from the ceiling by her wrists, bleeding out from a wound in her stomach, and no one was with her when her heart gave its last beat. AU where Stephanie Brown dies as Robin and becomes the Red Hood.

bad news, this place is magic as fuck by mikkal Batman (gen), 28k, All-Caste Jason Todd, Magic Jason Jason's on the trail of a killer who's targeting kids in Crime Alley for an unknown magical ritual. Between that and his family who insists on butting in, he's got his work cut out for him. But, as they say, nothing is as it seems.

Wings over Gotham by icarus_chained Batman, DC (gen), 190k, No Man’s Land, Independent Gotham An AU where an altered version of No Man’s Land happened while Bruce was in his late teens/early twenties, and Batman was born in the hellish crucible of a trapped city that was left for dead and then violently retaken. Gotham may pretend to run by mainlander rules for the sake of those who would have died otherwise, but under the surface, Bruce, Jim, Leslie, Ivy and Oswald and their pack keep their own council, and look with jaundiced eyes on the mainland.

A Meditation on Railroading by eggmacguffin Batman (gen), 24k, Hurt/Comfort When he ends up ditched in Atlanta after a fight with his dad, Tim decides to do the only sensible thing: Tell no one and make the 800 mile journey back to Gotham on his own. Because the "call Batman when you're in trouble" rule only applies when he's Robin, right?

THE BATMAN (2022)

I’m a Good Pretender by shipNslash The Batman (2022) (gen), 40k, Dick Grayson-Centric Dick’s mother raised her son to be a star. Dick’s father raised his son to be an athlete. Bruce's new ward is charming (manipulative), dedicated (obsessive), and way, way too smart for either of their own good.

In This or Any Other Universe by wildsofmarch The Batman (2022) (gen), 33k, Dimension Travel There was a new vigilante in his city: a man who smiled too much and talked too loud and knew his way around a fight a little too well. Bruce wasn't bothered by his antics. Except the man also seemed to know a little too much about him. Who was this Nightwing, anyway? OR: Dick Grayson (DCU) accidentally lands himself in Battinson’s Gotham.

DC LEGENDS OF TOMORRW

Countless Roads by nirejseki Arrowverse, DC Legends of Tomorrow (Mick Rory/Leonard Snart), 231k, Medium Leonard Snart, AU-Ghosts Due to a family curse (which some call a gift), Leonard Snart has more life than he knows what to do with – and that gives him the ability to see, speak to, and even share with the various ghosts that are always surrounding him. Sure, said curse also means he’s going to die sooner rather than later, just like his mother, but in the meantime Len has no intention of letting superheroes, time travelers, a surprisingly charming pyromaniac, and a lot of ghosts get in the way of him having a nice, successful career as a professional thief.

Straight On Till Morning by nirejeski Arrowverse, DC Legends of Tomorrow (Sara Lance/Mick Rory/Leonard Snart), 17k, Time Pirates Left alone in the Refuge, Mick and Sara decide they're going to be proactive about their fate. They end up becoming time pirates. Because of course they do.

THE WITCHER

A Beginners Guide to Exploiting the Kaedweni Tax Code For Fun and Profit by Heronfem The Witcher (Aiden/Lambert), 190k, WIP, AU-Modern Setting, AU-College/University Aiden Kett and Lambert Wilkson accidentally get married, and this is honestly probably the least of their problems.

By the Broken Lock That Freed Me by inexplicifics The Witcher, (muti), 46k, AU-Daemons, Accidental Warlord Series Aiden takes a contract on the Duke of Velen. He's not expecting the most interesting part of the whole affair to be meeting the duke's betrothed. His daemon thinks they should keep her. Aiden's not sure how that will work, given that he's already got a Wolf and doesn't know how Lambert and his daemon might feel about adding someone else to their little pack, but it's awfully tempting. And Cats aren't very good at resisting temptation.

Intent by tnico The Witcher (Aiden/Lambert), 18k, Non-Traditional A/B/O, 5+1 "You think I don't know what you're after?" Lambert accuses. "Well, I'd certainly hope you do, by this point in the evening," Aiden (so he says) agrees in a convincingly genial tone. It'd probably be enough to fool someone else on the matter of genuine interest.

SPIDERVERSE

gonna crack a rib (when i get home) by eneliii Spiderverse (gen), 40k, Cannon Divergence Miles Morales, recently landed in Earth 42, has had enough of everyone’s shit and he’s going to save his dad or so help him he’ll lose his mind. Miles Morales 42, just wants to know what the /hell/ is up with his doppelgänger.

MCU

The Hero's Journey; or: What Jasper Sitwell Did Last Summer by pagination MCU, Welcome to Night Vale (multi), 23k, Crossover The thing is, when an agent reaches clearance level five, it’s because they’re valuable, capable of something an exponentially diminishing few can offer in the ranks of SHIELD. Clint Barton, his personal issues notwithstanding, is unstoppable behind a scope. Jim Woo is an analyst and extractor par excellence. Melinda May has infiltrated half the presidential offices of Asia, and Phil Coulson has an instinct for the unusual that could be the basis of an entire TV show. Jasper’s less certain what he brings to the party.

If I Knew You Were Coming I'd've Baked a Cake by OddityBoddity MCU, Hawkeye (gen), 27k, Baking They’re the broken ones. That’s what Clint figures the rest think about him and Barnes. Clint with his eardrums trashed, Barnes with a regiment’s worth of trauma and a psychotic cybernetic arm, put in the same room and told to make nice while the others get to go on missions and do important things and save the world. Well they're not broken. So of course they got bored and tired of being sidelined and decided to entertain themselves. And of course they ended up wanted, running through the streets of Paris with bananas down their pants and gendarmes in pursuit. Of course they did.

[twopoppies]

Would you have a rolling stone subscription or any of your followers please? https://www.rollingstone.com/tv-movies/tv-movie-features/american-idol-lgbtq-contestants-1235027350/

It doesn't seem to be behind any sort of paywall for me, but I tend tp be cautious when reposting entire articles because blogs have been taken down for it before. Here's most of the worst of it, though. DM me if you want more and can't access it.

Travis wasn’t aware that he couldn’t carry a tune until his audition aired on TV a year later, in January 2006. Seated in the living room of the same halfway-house counselor who had driven him to the audition, he thought to himself, “God, I do suck.” But the realization was too late. His phone was already being blitzed with calls, first check-ins from friends and family members and then requests for interviews with People and Us Weekly. Soon after, Travis says the LGBTQ+ advocacy group GLAAD (which did not respond to a request for comment on this story) telephoned with the offer of taking action against Idol on his behalf. He thought to himself, “What the fuck did I just do?”

The public reaction to Travis’ off-key rendition of Whitney Houston’s 1993 single “Queen of the Night” is perhaps most succinctly summed up by the title of a YouTube video of the tryout: “American Idol Audition Boy or Girl.” Travis wore bell-bottom jeans in a feminine cut and a white tank top to his audition, pulling his wavy blonde hair behind his ears. Simon Cowell, infamously the harshest critic among the show’s original trio of judges, appeared horrified by the sight of Travis, his mouth agape. After Randy Jackson, the panel’s swing vote, kicked things off by asking the contestant to say “something interesting” about himself, Cowell asked, “That’s necessary, is it?” Cowell proceeded to stop Travis in the middle of his performance, which he called “confused.”

Travis has come a long way since Idol. After pivoting to a successful career in gay porn under the name Kirk Cummings, he retired from the adult entertainment industry and now works as a dog groomer, a profession he finds peaceful. But even 19 years later, he finds the footage of his audition tough to watch. As he left the studio in tears, editors added the theme music to The Crying Game, the 1992 film that uses the sight of a trans woman’s body to shock viewers. Today, Travis presents as male and uses masculine pronouns, but at the time of his audition, he had hoped to someday transition. He even had his new name picked out: Kelly. When he was incarcerated, others would try to dissuade him from pursuing a future as a trans person by telling him that it’s a “really hard life,” and Idol seemed to prove them all right. 

“I thought, ‘Wow, if this is how my life’s going to be, then I don’t want any part of it,’��� he says. “My experience is not the normal experience of a trans person, but because I had chosen to be on a television show, I saw the worst of it.”

Open cruelty is no longer part of the Idol brand, now that the show is in its second run on ABC after Fox canceled the long-running program in 2015. The series, like much of contemporary reality TV, now trades on positivity, and the annual tradition of airing bad auditions has long been discontinued. But during the height of its popularity in the 2000s, schadenfreude was a major part of the show’s appeal. While launching the careers of instant household names like Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood, Idol was also the show where tens of millions of viewers watched Cowell tell Season Three contestant Heather Piccinini that she’s “ugly” when she sings and belittle Season Five’s Crystal Parizanski for overtanning; he even pulled Parizanski’s mother into the room to humiliate the contestant further. The show’s June 2002 premiere, in which Cowell advised a young woman to sue her vocal coach, made it clear what Idol would be selling.

That feed-them-to-the-lions approach made Idol the number-one program on TV six years running, the longest stretch at the top in broadcast history — but the show tended to prey on its most vulnerable contestants, perhaps unwittingly. Idol producers were forced to issue an apology after Cowell compared Season Six hopeful Kenneth Briggs, who has facial malformations due to Aarskog Syndrome, to a “bush baby.” Season Five’s Paula Goodspeed took her own life outside judge Paula Abdul’s home in 2008 after Cowell criticized the contestant’s metal braces following a performance of the Creedence Clearwater Revival/Ike and Tina Turner standard “Proud Mary.” Goodspeed was reportedly an obsessive stalker who changed her given name in tribute to Abdul, and the contest judge publicly criticized Idol’s producers for not doing more to protect her, saying she alerted them to Goodspeed’s behavior prior to the audition. (A spokesperson for the show did not comment on Abdul’s accusation at the time.)

Among those most targeted by Idol’s alleged abuses were anyone who was outside of the norm, as defined by the extremely narrow standards of Bush-era popular culture. This often included contestants who were experiencing mental health issues, individuals with disabilities, people of color, and plus-size singers like the late Mandisa Huntley, the Season Five contestant of whom Cowell infamously asked: “Do we have a bigger stage this year?” But Idol enjoyed a particularly contentious relationship with the queer contestants who hoped that the series would offer their big break into an unforgiving industry, many of whom had only started to come to an understanding of their LGBTQ+ identities. In another exchange condemned by GLAAD, Cowell told Travis’ fellow Season Five hopeful Charles Berry, who now is an out gay man, to shave off his beard and “wear a dress,” saying that he would make a “great female impersonator.”

Keith Beukelaer, whom Cowell famously called “the worst singer in the world,” knew immediately after his Season Two audition that it would end up being broadcast. “It’s something that I don’t know if I ever fully recovered from,” he says. “I remember it as if it was yesterday.” A devoted Madonna fan, he performed “Like a Virgin” in a green mock-turtleneck sweater, gyrating his body in sync with the song’s suggestive lyrics. Beukelaer has come to understand himself as having Asperger’s Syndrome, although he didn’t have the language for it at the time, and he came out as gay a few years after appearing on the program. He still struggles with the notoriety that his brief appearance on Idol brought, the decades of mockery that followed six minutes of air time.

Cowell did not return multiple requests for comment for this story. Neither did Jackson, longtime host Ryan Seacrest, or Idol creator Simon Fuller — who based the show off his own U.K. series Pop Idol, which aired from 2001 to 2003. But a source close to the production, who requested not to be named in this story, defended the show by affirming that “every single person who came on Idol, whatever their race, color, creed, or sexual preferences, was placed squarely in the firing line for Simon’s barbed critiques.”

[...]

What was a queer paradise for some, however, was a nightmare for others. Of those who spoke on the record, many say that Idol effectively forced them into the closet, and they believe it’s because the show was fearful that an openly queer contestant would alienate the show’s largely conservative viewership.

[...]

There was no rule saying that queer contestants couldn’t discuss their personal lives, but some singers say that Idol made it clear that some things were best kept secret. R.J. Helton, who uses they/them pronouns, went back into the closet and started dating a woman before they auditioned for Idol’s first season, hoping to make their family happy. Helton’s parents always envisioned that they would become a pastor or a Christian music artist, and when Helton’s boy band, the Soul Focus, went their separate ways, competing on Idol felt like a logical next step. Having recently broken things off with their fiancée, not wanting to live a lie, Helton began seeing their Idol stand-in during the season. Although they kept the romance a secret from producers, Helton says the other contestants knew. “None of them cared,” they say. “It was the first time that I felt accepted by a group of people.”

Idol producers never found out about the relationship, but the stakes were nonetheless made clear when executive producer Nigel Lythgoe, the show’s most influential creative voice, pulled Helton aside after seeing them exchange a friendly peck on the cheek with a male member of the crew. “Listen, we love you,” Helton says the producer told them. “We think you’re great, but let’s continue on the sweet side, with the Christian boy thing.” In their on-camera interviews and stage performances, Helton says they tried to tone down their natural ebullience, “butching it up” and staying as quiet as possible. A team of publicists, they recall, followed Helton everywhere “because they didn’t want me to break character.” 

In an email to Rolling Stone, Lythgoe asserts that he “never stopped any contestant from coming out” and says he “never would have done so.” “I did work with a number of individuals who, sadly, were struggling with issues around coming out, and I provided feedback that was very common at the time: that they should let their talent do the talking and not allow others to denigrate them based on their personal lives,” he says. “If anyone was hurt by my advice on those issues, I can only apologize, but I only ever wanted to help and support the wonderful young people who competed on the first seasons of Idol, several of whom, tragically, were torn between a desire to live their truth openly and a great fear about how they would be treated on returning home by their families, by their communities, and even by God.”

Helton, now with the clarity of hindsight, wishes they’d had the confidence to present their full self to America. After being dropped from their record label following a 2006 interview in which they came out as gay, Helton recently came to the realization of their nonbinary identity. “I know it was a different generation, but there are parts of me that think: ‘If I could have worn a gorgeous evening gown with a full beard, I could have won,’” Helton says. When producers would tap them on the shoulder to remind them, “Hey, we don’t talk about this,” it made Helton scared of losing the only affirmation they’d ever had. “As a young person, that really plays with your psyche, especially when you’re not used to the spotlight, loads of fans, or the money. You just do what you’re told. I don’t know if that’s selling your soul to the devil, but it did feel like that. They lifted me up, put me on a pedestal, and told me that the pedestal will only be there as long as I play this part.”

Helton’s fellow Season One cast member Jim Verraros has spent years in therapy working to unlearn many of the unfortunate lessons he says Idol taught him, namely that it wasn’t OK to be himself. That education began with the Pygmalion-esque makeover given to the show’s aspiring superstars: Idol immediately traded in his nerdy aesthetic — wiry glasses and jean jackets with the collar popped — for a generic rock look, sleeveless vests with leather cuff bracelets. He got contacts, lowered his voice half an octave, and put away what he calls the “theatrical and stage part of me that comes also from having deaf parents and being expressive.” “It comes at a cost,” he says. “When you’re told that you aren’t enough — or that this version of you doesn’t work — you spend a big part of your life taking parts away from you so that you can achieve those dreams.”

Although Verraros made the Top 10 of his season, he struggled with the role created for him, and the miscasting of a nebbishy gay Midwestern boy as a conservative-friendly heartthrob led to friction with the show’s creative team. Former co-host Brian Dunkleman, who emceed Idol’s first season alongside Ryan Seacrest, says he overheard Cowell and Randy Jackson discussing plans to directly target Verraros, hoping to get a strong reaction out of him that they could film. “We’re gonna nail Jim,” he recalls the judges saying as they were having coffee in an Idol break room. Cowell tended to reserve his harshest critiques of the show’s inaugural cast for Verraros, and following that discussion, he told the contestant live on air, “I think if you win this competition, we would have failed.”

Idol did get the emotional reaction it sought from Verraros in a scene that ultimately landed on the cutting-room floor. Prior to the announcement of the season’s Top 10 finalists, Dunkleman says that Cowell informed the contestants they would be using the “judges’ veto” to oust one of them from the show. “Jim, you’re out of the competition,” Cowell told Verraros, prompting the young singer to burst into tears. (That’s when Dunkleman recalls that Lythgoe came over and instructed everyone to sing a modified version of the Monkees’ “Daydream Believer” to brighten Verraros’ spirits. “Cheer up, sleepy Jim,” fellow contestants sang together in unison.) For reasons that are unclear, Lythgoe opted to backtrack on the judges’ decision, Dunkleman says, allowing Verraros to move forward to the next round after all. “Later that night, I was at dinner and I got a pretty frantic message from Nigel saying, ‘Look, there’s been a change. Jim is back in the competition. Just please don’t tell anybody about anything that happened today,’” Dunkleman remembers. “And then the next night he made the Top 10.”

Those incidents, Dunkleman adds, played a major role in his decision to part ways with Idol, calling the program “evil.” He also recalls that a judging panel needed to be refilmed so Cowell could call Helton a “loser” instead of a “monkey.” “That’s what it was,” he says of Idol. “It was about how mean they were. It was about how shocking this was and how much they were making fun of these singers.” He isn’t sure, though, why the show singled Helton and Verraros out in particular. “Is it conscious targeting or is it subconscious? That kind of undertone, maybe they weren’t even aware of it.”

[...]

AMERICAN IDOL often strained to fit queer contestants into an instantly recognizable mold that producers could market for the widest possible audience. Simon Cowell declared that he would quit the program if Sanjaya Malakar, an affable Season Six hopeful with a perpetual smile, won the competition. Malakar, who is half Bengali and performed with the Hawaii Children’s Theater during his time living in Kauai, was unlike any singer the show had ever seen. He was earnest and goofy, striding up to the judges’ table to dance with Paula Abdul during a performance of Irving Berlin’s “Cheek to Cheek.” He also straddled the lines of gender, flat-ironing his chameleonic locks for a winsome cover of John Mayer’s “Waiting on the World To Change.” After weeks of all but begging viewers to vote Malakar off the show, Cowell commented regarding the latter song: “Maybe it’s your hair that’s keeping you in. I don’t know.”

Malakar came out as bisexual many years after Idol was over, finding himself after taking a job at a karaoke bar in New York where he found freedom in anonymity. What was hardest for Malakar to navigate, he says, was not the constant scrutiny from Idol’s judges but the vitriolic reaction from fans. A MySpace blogger vowed to stop eating until Malakar was sent home, although the contestant outlasted the hunger strike, which ceased after 16 days. The website Vote for the Worst, which urged fans to subvert the Idol system by keeping on its quirkiest and most divisive contestants, took up Malakar as a personal cause.

Looking back, Malakar believes that it’s the ambiguity of how he presented that bothered people so much. The judges and viewers just couldn’t figure him out because, as a 17-year-old kid who hadn’t graduated high school yet, he hadn’t figured himself out. “There was no way to really understand how to define me,” he says. “They didn’t know what culture I was. They didn’t know what sexuality I was. They didn’t know what genre I was. I was this anomaly that made people uncomfortable.”

The queer singers who had the most painful time being reshaped by the Idol system were those who stood out the most, whether they were flamboyant and over-the-top in their performance style, like Malakar, or their gender presentation skewed toward the effeminate. Season Eight runner-up Adam Lambert — who declined to speak for this story, citing his shooting schedule for The Voice Australia, on which he is a judge — has said that queer contestants who didn’t have the ability to hide were used by Idol as “comic relief.” “Anytime someone came on the show that was perceived to be gay or it was obvious enough that they were gay, they were a joke,” he remarked to the British music magazine NME in a 2018 interview. He added: “To be fair, some of them weren’t great singers, but there were a couple of really good singers that came on. And they weren’t taken seriously.”

To illustrate his point, Lambert noted the example of Adore Delano from Seasons Six and Seven, who would later contend on the reality competition show RuPaul’s Drag Race. Delano declined to participate in this story, but in a 2023 Instagram video publicly announcing her transition, she said that she went back into the closet to compete on Idol. Appearing on the show led her to suppress her transness in order to present herself as “something that was so uncomfortable,” she recalled. And yet her effervescent femininity couldn’t be contained: During her second appearance on Idol, she performed a sassy rendition of “Jailhouse Rock” by Elvis Presley that Cowell deemed “hideous” and “verging on the grotesque.” Delano was ultimately eliminated from the Top 16 after a performance of Soft Cell’s queer anthem “Tainted Love” that Cowell declared “absolutely useless.” She dyed her silky hair purple for the number.

Like Delano, Atlas Marshall auditioned for Idol twice, making it to the Top 36 in Season Eight and then trying out again for Season 16. Both experiences were extremely fraught. Following a performance of Meat Loaf’s “I’d Do Anything For Love (But I Won’t Do That)” during her first appearance on the show, Cowell looked at Marshall and remarked, “I think you probably would.” Even as a guileless 18-year-old with frosted emo bangs and angel-bite piercings, Marshall realized it was a “loaded comment.” “The joke around that song is that it’s about anal sex,” she says. After the audience booed Cowell’s remark, Ryan Seacrest, then the show’s sole emcee, invited Marshall to come sit on the judge’s lap, but Paula Abdul intervened and beckoned the contestant to rest on hers instead. Marshall was voted off Idol the next day.

[...] Marshall’s mother, who recently passed away, was a lesbian, and she raised her child in a queer household where it was OK to be “open, flamboyant, and fabulous,” as Marshall recalls. Being taught by Idol that the outside world might mock the parts of herself she was taught to embrace was a rude awakening. “For so long, there was a lot of shame around it,” she says of her first Idol experience. “I felt gross. I didn’t like myself.”

[...]

While the team behind Idol’s current iteration did not offer a comment on the record, the source close to the Fox production contests the idea that the show stopped contestants from expressing their most authentic selves, while adding that “coming out might have damaged certain contestants’ chances for success.” “No one ever prevented anyone from doing so, but there was often a sense — right or wrong — that it would be better if the American public’s vote was based more on their judgment about the performers’ talent rather than their sexual orientations,” the source says.

[...]

Although it would feel convenient to point the finger solely at Idol, the show at its peak reflected America’s culture as much as it defined it. When the series premiered in 2002, polling from Gallup showed that 43 percent of the U.S. populace still thought homosexuality should be illegal; Lawrence v. Texas, the Supreme Court ruling that struck down sodomy laws in the 14 states where gay sex was still illegal, wouldn’t be issued for another year. A majority of Americans wouldn’t support the right of same-sex couples to marry until 2011, during Idol’s tenth season on the air. That was also, coincidentally, the first season not to feature either Paula Abdul or Simon Cowell on the judges panel. Abdul, hailed by sources as a major supporter of queer contestants behind the scenes, parted ways with the program after Season Eight. Cowell left the following year to launch the U.S. spinoff of The X Factor, the British singing competition he created in 2004.

[...]

For all the troubles that some queer contestants say they had on the show, many argue that Idol’s missteps paled in comparison to how cruelly they were treated by the rest of the media, the music industry, and even America at large. Idol voters eliminated Season Seven’s David Hernandez the week after an Associated Press story revealed that he had previously worked as a dancer at a Arizona strip club that catered to a “mostly male” clientele. By that time, photos that allegedly showed Hernandez bartending at a gay nightclub had already been published on Vote for the Worst, although Hernandez says the pictures weren’t even of him. He says that Idol was already well aware of his work history by the time the reports surfaced, as he disclosed the information in the extensive questionnaire the show required contestants to complete; spanning over 100 pages in length, it also asked singers to name their past sexual and romantic partners.

[...]

The media persecution of queer Idol contestants was so de rigueur during the show’s imperial era that few even questioned it. Jim Verraros’ coming out in 2002 prompted a two-page spread in the Globe, a U.S. supermarket tabloid, asking: “Who’s Next?” Chatter surrounding Adam Lambert’s sexuality made the New York Times after photos circulated of the singer, eyes covered in makeup and glitter all over his face, locking lips with another man. Following the Season Two finale, Clay Aiken says that the first question that he was ever asked by a reporter was: “Are you gay?” He wouldn’t formally come out until a 2008 People magazine cover story coinciding with the birth of his son, and for years, he says, confirmation of his sexual orientation “was the only thing that anybody in the press wanted” from him. “I never did an interview where somebody was not trying to ask me if I was gay,” he says, later adding: “Everybody wanted to be the one who got it.”

Aiken says that speculation regarding his sexuality reached such a fever pitch that, for a time, he stopped leaving his house. Even then, there was no hiding from it: “If I heard anybody setting up a gay joke on a sitcom or a late-night show, I held my breath because I knew my name was coming. Eighty percent of the time I was right.” The topic was a frequent punchline of late-night host Jimmy Kimmel, who frequently booked Aiken to appear on his show, and comedian Kathy Griffin spent a full 15 minutes discussing Aiken’s sexuality in a 2005 stand-up special on Bravo. “I do find him to allegedly be the gayest man in the free world,” she said in the routine, calling him “Gayken” to hearty applause from the crowd. Even two years after he had actually come out, a Season Eight episode of Family Guy saw Stewie, during a parody of Family Feud, being asked to name a “popular fruit” and responding: “Clay Aiken.” “I laugh at them now,” he says of the jokes, noting that he calls Griffin a friend. “I find them hilarious now, but at the time, it hurt a lot.”

Full article here

[0dde11eth]

Ok, but witchers in grey sweatpants

jaskier faints on a daily basis in kaer morhen. the blood keeps rushing to his lower head

[proheromidoriyashouto]

its giving lambden energy

[willofhounds]

Curiosity filled Dick as he grabbed the phone and the amulet. As soon as he held the amulet he felt a flicker of power rush through him. The powers that lay dormant but not forgotten surged to life. His blue eyes practically glowed in the darkness as he relished the feeling. Sometimes he wondered why he left that life.

Flipping open the phone he pressed talk and greeted, "Eathon what did I do to earn a phone call?"

As excitable as ever Eathon answered, "Dick we've got a mission!"

Dick could practically see the boy bouncing around. So full of energy. Dick hoped that the other's light never went out. The world would be so much worse off without it.

Chuckling slightly said, "Good on you, Eathon. I know you and Simon have been looking for work. What guild is it through?"

Eathon interjected before he could ask any other questions on his mind, "You don't get it, Dick. We," here he stressed the word causing Dick to stiffen, "Have a mission. It's a four person mission and Alec has already agreed to be our third. We just need you."

Metz too huh? The entire gang was getting back together if Eathon had his way. It had been awhile since the four were even on the same continent. The Titans kept Robin busy while the others went about being seekers. Chasing history and the secrets hidden in the past.

[lambert2269]

Should leave a note? Nah.

[superdegenerates]

Adam Lambert is Dick Grayson-core to a T

Pretty angsty boy pulling up in his expensive ass car blaring If I Had You. Screaming Whataya Want From Me at the top of his lungs at a red light. You see it, right?

[gutsby]

Cowboy Killers

Pairing: Cowboy!Joel x Reader

Summary: On a mission to find—and fight—your best friend’s lying, cheating boyfriend at the bar, you end up throwing your drink in the wrong face and landing in a sticky situation with Joel Miller, who never plays fair.

Warnings: 18+. Drunk-Assholes-to-Enemies-to-Lovers. Oral (m!receiving). Road head. Age gap. Daddy kink.

Note: My favorite sub-genre of country music is ‘I’m Gonna Fucking Kill My Husband,’ and I think Miranda Lambert’s ‘Gunpowder & Lead’ is a perfect representation of that.

Word count: 4.1k

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and forget.

Forgive and—

“I’m about to lay this motherfucker out,” you announced.

Across the line, your friend laughed.

“Yeah? You see him?”

Of course you saw him. Who else would be wearing a Carhartt flannel and jeans in ninety-four degree heat? Not a soul in this world but your friend’s own lying, piece of shit, hopefully-soon-to-be-ex boyfriend, you guessed.

The game that Old Fuckstick Miller had decided to play tonight was a dangerous one—he was dumb as shit, and you were drunker than a skunk. He was dating your best friend, and she was not present at the Tipsy Bison to see the barefaced clusterfuck taking place before you now.

She was home, over thirty minutes away. He had told her that morning he would be working late, and not to wait up. You were here, at the bar, approaching one A.M. with a Redbull Vodka clenched in either fist and a Texas-sized frown on your face, seeing the very same man with his hands all over a woman that wasn’t your friend. You’d wanted to puke as soon as you saw them. You knew you could never trust a man who claimed to be an Austin native and couldn’t name a single George Strait song.

Your friend had only been dating the guy for a month, and you’d just seen his face in pictures up until now, but from what you could see less than twenty feet in front of you—slightly blurred from all the drinks you’d had—this guy was him. A dick. There, cheating on your best friend.

And no man would get to do that and walk out unscathed if you had anything to say about it.

Your grip tightened on either one of your fizzy drinks and, barely managing to cradle the phone between your head and your shoulder, you gestured over to another friend.

“Dave. Take it,” you said, words slurring a little.

Dave York cocked an eyebrow but said nothing as you passed him one of your RBVs and shimmied off the barstool. By the time he was able to pose his question, your ass, your phone, and your one remaining drink were already wobbling the other way. Vaguely, you heard him:

“Where ya headed, hon?”

You turned and raised your drink, then seriously doubted he would be able to hear you over the blare of the music, but yelled back anyway, ‘I’M GONNA KILL SOMEONE!’

The age-old pro-forgiveness aphorism continued to thump in your brain as you made your way over and began to contemplate every feasible method of murder.

A gun in the face would’ve been too simple—and besides, you’d never owned or shot a firearm in your life.

Poison could be fun, but from the way you were approaching the man now, you seriously doubted he’d ever let you get within a mile of his drink. You nudged the phone closer to your ear and took a sip from your own.

“Closing in,” you told your friend simply.

She’d already given you the go-ahead to execute the confrontation and beat his ass any way you pleased after the fact. Now it wasn’t so much a matter of ‘if’ but ‘when’ you’d finally get to encroach on this little loved up scene at the other end of the bar. The man had had his back turned to you, and the stunning redhead hanging off his neck, likewise, had no idea what was coming. You smiled.

“Promise you won’t go to jail this time?” your friend said.

“Will you bail me out again if I do?” Your grin got bigger.

“Well, duh.”

“Good deal. I’ll be the shitfaced inmate with ‘Fuck Men’ tattooed on her forehead. Wait for Travis County to call.”

“I love you, psycho.”

“Love you more.”

You ended the call.

And you were fully ready to end this man’s life when you saw him lean in to kiss the woman’s neck—that was sick.

You weren’t thinking straight. You weren’t seeing straight

You yelled out, ‘He-e-e-ey, honey!’ without blinking.

The couple turned.

As soon as the man had done a full 180, you flung your drink in his face and made sure the cup struck his nose.

“You cheatin’ FUCK!”

He flinched, sprayed by your vodka-infused energy juice.

The music overhead was loud, but not so deafening as to prevent the bar from hearing your shriek. From the front of the room, a band was playing ‘Gunpowder & Lead,’ and you couldn’t help but feel the song had been fate.

“What the f—” the adulterer started, evidently stunned.

You knocked the Shiner Bock out of his hand and spat:

“Working late, are we?!”

And spilled another patron’s beer reeling back.

“Got a little caught up on the way home?”

Gesturing toward the green-eyed beauty to his left. At first, the girl fixed her stare on you as if you’d sprouted another head, but then, by turns, she was tilting it to him.

“You have a girlfriend?” she hissed.

Cheater McFuckstick was wiping his beard with his hand

Shaking his head.

“Hell no, I ain’t never—”

“LIAR!”

Channeling your inner Representative Wilson circa 2009, you let your mouth fall open and stared at the big, burly man like the Congressman had once done to President Obama all those years ago. The semi-stranger in front of you was far less composed than his political counterpart.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” he snapped.

You felt your cheeks heat up.

“Is she your girlfriend?” would-be mistress said, shrill.

“NO!” you and been-knew asshole yelled together.

You saw the man’s nostrils flare, and at the same time, the woman beside him departed. Quickly. A few people around you cleared the way, while others still stared, gawked, and murmured amongst themselves. The Miranda Lambert cover band continued on without a hitch, though you could tell there had been a stir in the crowd. They probably thought the worst of it was over.

They thought wrong.

“You’re a dick,” you seethed, unrelenting.

You almost expected the man to turn and leave.

You thought wrong.

“You’re a cunt.”

And the man chucked a stray whiskey sour in your face.

The $15 spirits splattered on your skin like the meanest insult of all. His aim was better. Though he didn’t let go of the cup, as you had with him, he did make sure to coat the whole of your twisted look with the liquor, and once it landed, he had had the nerve to do something else, too.

He brought the glass to his lips then drank what was left.

“How’s it feel?” he sneered.

You stood in wet, sticky silence for half a second; arguably, you’d earned that cocktail to the face.

On the other hand, who the fuck did he think he was?

You grabbed a random can of Keystone Light and flung it at his chest to give him a hint—and catch him off-guard.

“You’re a bitch, Tommy Miller!”

“Wh—”

“Maria’s my best friend, you absolute f—”

“What—”

“—and you cheated on her for what? All so she—”

“What did you just call me?!”

“A BITCH!”

“No, the NAME!”

“TOMMY MILLER!”

“I’M JOEL!”

Oh.

Oh.

You and Joel were shortly escorted out of the bar.

Joel’s name, and a trace of bourbon, were still fresh on your tongue when you found yourself stranded in the middle of the Tipsy Bison parking lot two minutes later. You leaned into a car beside you and held your stomach.

“Someone drop you on the head as a baby?” Joel barked.

Presently, for you, the world was tilting sideways, and your head was throbbing at a nauseating tempo.

“Go around slingin’ drinks at any old man you—”

Green. Green must’ve been the color of your face as you braced your hands on your knees and assumed a stance as if to scream at the ground. Rather than expecting any noise to ring out, though, you had only to squeeze your eyes shut and hold onto a hunch for something much less pleasant. And viscous.

Reeking mostly of Red Bull and regret, if you had to guess.

Joel took a big step back, and then he took another.

“Da-a-adgummit, girl, what the—”

He turned away just in time to miss the sight of you emptying your guts on the ground, but not quite fast enough to be spared the sounds of you retching. They were loud. Joel Miller was known to be a largely imperturbable force around these parts, but even he was made to feel queasy hearing that. Out of habit, he clapped his hand to his own gut and stumbled off. He stared at the bar, then at his car, then at the gravel crushed under his feet for what felt like the longest time. Then his gaze lingered to his lower half, and he thought:

‘Please, please don’t gimme no daughters. Please.’

He was forty-five. The time for making babies and raising daughters to be anything like a woman of your ilk was probably long past him. All the same, he kept his gaze on his crotch and sighed. Balls, you better not betray me.

When he heard the crunch of rocks, he turned around.

“HEY!”

Oh, no. No. Not tonight.

You were staggering to your car, keys in hand.

“Hey!” Joel called again, jogging after you.

It seemed the second shout had done him no more favors than the first. You were fumbling to get the key inside the door, and you looked as determined as ever.

Over your shoulder, you tossed back, careless:

“You ain’t the boss of me, Tommy Miller.”

You got the key to turn. You opened the door. You were just about to climb inside what looked to Joel to be the ugliest Dodge Ram pickup he’d seen in his life, when he grabbed your arm.

“It’s Joel,” he growled. Pinching your elbow tight as he tugged it back, “And you ain’t driving anywhere tonight.”

Somewhere in front of him, tilted away from his line of vision, you must’ve been grinning, because the next thing he heard from you was the scoff of a laugh.

“Oh yeah?”

Joel flipped you around to face him.

“Yeah,” he snapped.

Feeling a bit like a kid for mimicking your tone.

What were you, twenty-two? Twenty-three? You couldn’t have been a patron of a place like Tipsy Bison for very long, or else he would’ve recognized you tonight.

Then again, you struck him as the type to have had a fake ID since you were fifteen, so he really couldn’t know.

“I’m twenny-wuh-un,” you slurred up at him, exaggerated, once he’d made you step down from the running board and onto the ground. Answering his last unspoken question with the same, sleepy grin as before. Then lifting one of your hands to wag a finger in his face, “I can drink legal anywhere I want to in this country.”

“Not there,” Joel nodded to the interstate.

You looked to where he’d gestured and whistled. Standing and staring, like he had done to his crotch.

“Well fuck me-e!” you said next, dragging out the sound a childish amount, “You the law or somethin’, Mr. Joel?”

“Ain’t no cop.” Joel rolled his eyes.

You kept smiling. Then you turned on your heels.

And instead of trying to climb back into your truck, you sauntered off—in what direction, Joel couldn’t tell. You were more so bumbling about, turning in circles like the world’s most scantily-clad, semi-intoxicated ballerina. And then you stopped. You put your hands on your hips.

“‘Cause I’m the law,” you resumed in a slow, deliberate drawl. The twang you used was mostly feigned, “And you cain’t beat the law. Don’t nobody get away with that, not even a bunch’a Alabama smart alecks, believe you me.”

Joel didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. The man was Texas born and bred, and you knew it.

He communicated as much by pinning you with a wide, bewildered stare, and something in that seemed to amuse. You stared back, making your eyes bug out too.

“It’s a quote from a movie,” you said, after a beat, “You’ve never seen Fried Green Tomatoes before?”

Joel couldn’t say that he had.

Joel reckoned there was a lot more than just movies he didn’t share in common with you. Miss Twenty-One. Barely a year past the age he’d been when he’d moved out of the house and tried to make a living on his own.

This woman, this girl he saw twirling out in front of him now probably couldn’t pour piss out of a boot with the instructions written on the heel if he’d asked you to. Joel shook his head and moved his feet, frown etching deep.

“Alright, princess. Up.”

You didn’t seem to understand, until he’d lifted you. Up.

You were thrown over his shoulder and carried to a truck much nicer than yours in less than fifteen seconds or so.

“Stinks in here,” you said as soon as he’d set you down.

Then, sniffing the air—and grinning:

“Aw, hell, Miller…you smoke?”

Joel wished he’d said no.

Wished he’d rolled his eyes and told you to pipe down, stop asking him questions. It would’ve made the drive a whole lot easier, and more peaceful. Nowhere near as painful, either, if he were being perfectly honest—the strain in his jeans had already gotten to be more than he could bear, and all you’d asked for was a pack of smokes.

“They call ‘em Cowboy Killers,” you said, matter-of-fact.

“I know what they’re called,” Joel grumbled in reply. Flicking the radio on and hoping to find a tune that would drown out the too-lovely, cloying voice you’d assumed as soon as you thought you might win a cigarette off of him. More chatty now than ever.

And for one, blissful moment, Toby Keith had you beat. The calm was fleeting. As soon as ‘Who’s Your Daddy’ started to drift through the car’s old speakers, you reached across and turned the knob to the left.

“Gross,” you muttered.

“What?”

“Got a light?”

“Blow me.”

Joel’s harsh, clipped tone was deliberate. The way he’d made himself mean—meaner than he’d been around a woman in a long, long time—was a choice. He couldn’t let your faux sweetness win him now. Not after you’d thrown two drinks in his face, mocked his truck, and foreclosed any possibility of getting laid by way of all your publicized infidelity philippics and shit-talking. Giving in to your charms from where you sat in the passenger seat now would only sink him further in his own esteem. Simply put, Joel’s ego couldn’t take it.

“Okie doke,” you said presently. Shrugging.

“Now keep your—HEY!”

Joel nearly swerved his truck off the road and into a ditch. Your deft little hands had slipped into his lap—and started palming his crotch through the denim.

He’d just managed to right the vehicle before jerking a look your way, staring at your hand, then your face:

“What the fuck was that?!”

“You said ‘blow me,’ Joel!” you huffed, and you seriously appeared as distraught as he was, “Sorry for listening!”

Joel grit his teeth with all the force of a cold steel trap.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts.” He gripped the wheel even tighter.

“I’m aware.”

“Where the hell do you live, anyway?”

You told him.

Your hand slipped down to the seat beside him.

And just as Joel let out what felt like the tiniest sigh of relief—he knew where that was, and the address sounded vaguely familiar—he yelped again. This time, he managed to keep control of his truck, but it was hard.

Your fingers had returned, and they were kneading the bulge under his jeans. Joel flushed from head to toe.

He didn’t have so much as half a mind to make you stop. He didn’t want to see you slink back over to your side of the car. But you were twenty-one, and he was forty-five. And you were both under the influence to some degree. And he was driving, for fuck’s sake. Shit like that only worked in dreams—not on a highway in a town like this.

He turned the radio dial to 75. At length, he heard it loud:

‘WHO’S YOUR DADDY? WHO’S YOUR BA-A-A-ABY?’

He saw you cringe.

“C’mon, Joel,” you groaned, “That’s…yuck.”

The fingers of the one hand kept digging, rubbing, but the other reached out and turned the music down again.

Joel shifted in his seat, feeling the pleasure start to bloom from the pit of his stomach, but not wanting to let you off that easy. Briefly, he looked from the road to you.

“What? You got a problem with Toby Keith?”

“I got a problem with anyone sayin’ ‘daddy’ like that.”

You unzipped his fly. Popped the button of his jeans from underneath the soft shelf of belly hanging over it, and held him, finally. You could only cup his erection through his boxers at that point, but the friction was enough to send a shiver through the whole of the old man’s body. He hadn’t been touched like that by a hand that wasn’t his own in…he couldn’t remember how long. He sighed.

“That why you’ve got your hand down the pants of a man old enough to be your father?” Joel quipped.

He couldn’t help it.

Your hand only gripped him tighter. From the passenger seat, you’d leaned over and started crawling. Scowling.

Your knees swiftly planted themselves on the old, upholstered cushion of the bucket seat, and you slipped a touch beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a hand that was smooth and soft and eager to please, you wrapped your fingers around that base and leaned in.

“You sound like you want me to say it,” you whispered.

Under your hand, he pulsed. His gaze stayed on the road.

“Don’t make no difference to me, sweet pea,” he said, and was amazed how even he was able to keep his tone:

“But those ‘Cowboy Killers’ you wanted…”

Your fingers curled tighter. Your head sank lower.

“…they don’t come cheap, y’know.”

Oh, you knew. He saw a smile snag at the corners of your lips as you brought them to his lap, and he had to force himself to look at the road again. It was empty and dark.

The tarmac stretched out for days. The fields rolling past warned sternly, ‘Don’t let her win,’ and something more in between each tree seemed to invite deliberation—remembrance, maybe. Joel was far too focused on the feel of your mouth to give the woods a second thought.

You’d worked the first inch between your lips in a slick, obscene sort of kiss; you made room for just the head and then toyed with a bead of precum leaking out of his slit. You licked it, squeezed the shaft in your hand, and hummed while the first real moan rumbled through him.

Joel turned to putty with just that flick of your tongue. He didn’t have to see your face to know he was losing.

On the wheel, his grip grew tighter, and he choked out:

“Ain’t your fuckin’ lollypop, kid.”

Then, dropping one hand to push down on your head—make you take him to the back of your throat in one go.

“Daddy wants you to suck him like a big girl, hear?”

At the base of his cock, he felt you gag. From the bottom of his heart, Joel knew there was no sound sweeter than that. He ran his fingers over your skull and tapped gently.

“If you want those smokes,” he told you—and really, with all the warmth and moisture of your mouth enveloping him now, he’d had to try to sound rougher than he was, “You’re gonna do what daddy says and suck him right.”

You gagged again, then squeezed his denim-clad leg with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around his member.

Joel yanked you by your hair and made you look up.

Your cheeks were already smeared with spit and tears. Much to his surprise, he found your eyes alight and soft.

Suffused with desire, too, from what he could see.

“Yes, daddy.” You grinned up at him.

Joel knew if he let your gaze stay on his a second longer now he’d either crash his car, blow his load, or fall in love—and he simply refused to let you succeed on any of those fronts, so he shoved your face back down.

You sucked him obediently. Greedily. Mouth growing more pliant and wet by the second, as if your jaw and salivary glands had contrived to get him as close to release as possible, as quickly as they were able.

Joel took a left onto a road he had only a dim recognition as being connected to yours, and he got that feeling again. You were bobbing your head, taking him further, flattening your tongue along the bottom of his member when his pleasure swelled inside him. At the same time, he felt a sense of dread. His hands were shaking on the wheel. He didn’t dare steal a look down to the sweet, soaked, perfect little mouth sucking him dry, because he knew that feeling would only strike twice as hard. He had to cum, or make you stop, or bring his truck to a halt.

As it was, he felt five tiny crescents sink into his thigh as you gripped him tighter, and a noise bubbled up in your mouth. Your breathing went shallow, and your lips stretched wide—you were trying, and succeeding, in deep-throating his thick, throbbing, much-too-old-for-a-girl-her-age member down close to your windpipe, and Joel could feel it. He hit his blinker, not thinking, and saw a sign that marked your street. Trepidation hit him again.

Fully, this time, in a feeling that was more like terror.

He didn’t have another second to question it, either. By the time he had the old, lone farmhouse in his sights and his heart nearly halfway up his throat with fear, your own throat pulsed, and opened the last two inches to him in. Your nose found their home in the rough, grey, wiry hairs at the base of his belly, having swallowed him whole, and Joel quickly sensed the start of what he knew too well.

He came down your throat in one, two, three, four, five long spurts, and didn’t let his foot off the gas even once.

He saw your house, approaching closer now, and paled.

No fucking way.

You’d wanted to skip the whole way up your drive.

Spit still drying on your cheeks, cum resting comfortably in your belly, and a smile as bright as the sun on your face as you waved to the F-150 pulling off toward the road, you’d never felt more alive—or smug—in your life.

“Is your dad…Lucien Flores?” Joel had asked no more than a second after his dick slipped out of your mouth.

“The one and only.”

Somehow, his face got even paler. His jaw visibly clenched, and his palm hit the top of the wheel. Hard.

It was then that you’d learned your father had hired Joel Miller on as a full-time ranch hand sometime last week.

He’d remembered the address, vaguely, but didn’t connect the dots until he’d pulled up in front of your house and damn near punctured your windpipe with his pulsing dick from how fast he’d jumped up—and cum.

His spend had almost shot through your nose with the force of it, but you didn’t mind. Once he’d revealed the wild, gory, and admittedly hilarious details of his newfound employment, you were too busy laughing your ass off to care if he’d torn your throat in two with his dick.

“So you really are a cowboy, then,” you’d said, giggling.

Joel had scowled. Rolled his eyes. Practically turned the color of a tomato when you leaned in and kissed him.

Now you were waving to him from your front door.

Joel’s truck was slow to go. The taste of him was fresh.

And there, weighing light in your back pocket while you said goodbye was a brand new pack of Marlboro Reds.

2:21 AM

You were safely in bed. You checked your phone.

Aside from fourteen missed calls, you saw:

1:09 AM – Maria

DUDE

1:09 AM

TOMMY JUST CAME HOME

1:09 AM

THAT’S NOT HIM AT THE BAR

1:13 AM

IT’S JUST JOEL!! HIS BROTHER!!!

1:13 AM

ABORT ABORT ABORT

1:42 AM

DAVE SAID YOU BEAT JOEL UP???? CALL ME

1:54 AM – Dave York

Ur gonna fuck that old dude aren’t u

[thequeeninyellowlace]

Omg, I love this. Every Witcher in the world hears that The Pretty Bard is up for grabs because Stupid Geralt was stupid. They come flooding to Oxenfurt to make their case.

Letho, flexing his enormous biceps as Jaskier watches, entranced: “Yeah, I murdered the king. But he deserved it. Also, I have an enormous cock.”

Geralt, sobbing: “It’s true! He’s got a huge dick! I’ve seen it!”

One of my favorite tropes is when Eskel and Lambert are like ah yes it’s time to appreciate and steal Jaskier Here’s my late Witcher Wednesday post, finally completed :P

Tag List: (let me know if you want to be removed/added to the list!) @trickstermoose67, @round–robin, @rawrkinjd, @eya-trying-to-function

[the-one-who-lambs]

As I near 1,500 followers here at @the-one-who-lambs I just wanted to to say Cock is one of Lambert's favorite tastes. Not only that, but Narinder's balls smell amazing. It makes them go a little crazy on it to be honest. Like, they cannot get it far enough down their throat to be satisfied. They're only satisfied when they feel those intense, powerful, salty hot pumps of cum down their throat. When Lambert sit backs on their heels, looks up at Narinder with cum all over their mouth and slobber running down their neck, wool all fucked up and wipe their mouth with the back of their arm and asks their husband if they did a good job and he cannot even speak because they’ve drained all of his energy out the tip of his dick….. that’s when I’m satisfied.

[companion-showdown]

Anniversary Tournament

Last year for Doctor Who's anniversary I ran a tournament between Doctor Who stories, and I wanted to so something different again this year. A tournament between real people important to the history of Doctor Who, actors, writers, producers, directors, composers, production designers. Technically it'll be a tournament for the most infuential person to Doctor Who and its development over the years, but really I want it to be a celebration of all of these people, and not just the winner.

To that end, the nomination form, you can also submit nominations normally, ie sending me an ask or replying to this post, however I won't be accepting propaganda through those methods.

I'm thinking I'll close nominations on the 18th of November, that might change but probably not by much

Current Nominations:

if green then at least one person has submitted propaganda for them

Actors

Arthur Darvil

Billie Piper

Carole Ann Ford

Christopher Eccleston

Colin Baker

David Graham and Peter Hawkins

David Tennant

Frazer Hines

Freema Agyeman

India Fisher

Jacqueline Hill

Jodie Whittaker

John Simm

Jon Pertwee

Lisa Bowerman

Liz Sladen

Matt Smith

Ncuti Gatwa

Nicholas Courtney

Pat Gorman

Patrick Troughton

Paul McGann

Peter Capaldi

Peter Davison

Rodger Delgado

Sean Carlsen

Sophie Aldred

Stuart Fell

Sylvester McCoy

Tom Baker

William Hartnell

William Russell

Composer

Delia Derbyshire

Dudley Simpson

Murray Gold

Paddy Kingsland

Peter Howell

Rob Harvey

Ron Grainer

Segun Akinola

The BBC Radiophonic Workshop

Designers

June Hudson

Peter Brachacki

Raymond Cusic

Directors

Christopher Barry

Graeme Harper

Paddy Russell

Rachel Talalay

Richard Martin

Waris Hussein

Fandom

Marnal Gate

TARDIS wiki creator

The Audience

Craig Ferguson

Producers

Barry Letts

Graham Williams

John Nathan Turner

Philip Hinchcliffe

Verity Lambert

Julie Gardner

Writers (including script editors and showrunners)

Alan Moore

Anthony Coburn

Chris Chibnall

David Whittaker

Donald Wilson

Douglas Adams

Eric Saward

Gerry Davis

Grant Morrison

John Lucarotti

Johnathan Blum

Justine Richards

Kate Orman

Kit Pedler

Lance Parkin

Lawrence Miles

Marc Platt

Paul Cornell

Robert Holmes

Robert Shearman

Rona Munro

Russell T Davies

Steven Moffatt

Terrance Dicks

Terry Nation

Other/impossible to categorise

all the thousands of people who've worked behind the scenes

Michael Grade (BBC higherup who hated doctor who so so much)

Peter Cregeen (actually cancelled Doctor Who)

Sydney Newman

Nicholas Briggs

Gary Russell

John F Kennedy

Sue from Catering

The real historical figures who've appeared in the show

Shakespeare

[torchflies]

Okay guys, I'm still drowning at work but here’s something good that's been keeping my head above water 🤣: retired rockstar Tom “Iceman” Kazansky. 

Ice is born to a pair of early hippies in VW Kombi bus painted with all the colors of the rainbow. He gets his first modeling gig after he's scouted at a Janis Joplin show on his Daddy’s shoulders, before or after Big Brother and the Holding Company. 

Anyway, fact is that baby Ice ends up with his face plastered all over everything from Camels ads to diapers. He eventually ends up doing commercials and then bit parts on TV shows and movies. He does Disney for a good long while, with Bobby Driscoll levels of success. But by the time the mid-70s roll around — teenage Ice is the frontman of a heavier crossed with glam rock sorta band: think Def Leppard, Kiss or even Mötley Crüe (way before their time on the Sunset Strip). 

Ice can sing just about anything the band needs him to — think Adam Lambert's levels of range, just straight-up incredible. He's tatted up from dick to tits and has tried just about every drug known to man by the time he's nineteen, starved himself for years, and spends every hour of his life pandering to people who don't give a shit about him.

At twenty-two he realizes that he doesn't even like himself anymore. He doesn't know who he is without being Kairo Jett (his stage name). 

Then, his friends start dying. 

It’s 1981, and sure they were occasionally dying before — booze, drugs or taking their own lives — but now they're all dying of something that doesn't have a name and he's terrified. 

So, he quits and runs away to a life of structure that he's never had. He runs to the USNA, dyes his hair bleach blond, stops wearing heavy makeup, starts eating again and just becomes Thomas Kazansky — then the Iceman, a new kind of stage name.

The Iceman, who has shared the stage with all the greats of rock music, watches Maverick serenade their instructor in the O Club with one of his old songs and has never been more enamored with anyone in his whole life. 

He falls ass over tea kettle the minute Maverick asks him if he's ever heard of the band Tommy Eats the Drum Kit.

Ice doesn't stop laughing for hours. 

[on-a-lucky-tide]

A young, horny Lambert sets his sights on an older hunk of Witcher beef. CW: age gap, flirtation.

"I'm going for it."

"Lambert, don't be a fucking idiot. They'll laugh at you."

"They might, but he won't. You miss all the chances you don't take, right?"

"Your funeral."

Lambert licked his lips and smoothed his hair back as he stood. He hadn't torn his eyes away from his mark for a single second since said man had swaggered into the hall a few hours before. This was the winter he'd do it. He was a man himself now, which meant he had every chance of bagging himself the hunk of good-lookin' he'd been coveting from the moment his dick had started getting hard at night and hair had appeared on his jaw.

Eskel.

It wasn't just that Eskel had two decades on Lambert or that he was becoming a seasoned witcher. No other Witcher in the keep compared. Sure, some tried. They might step toe to toe during drills or try to outflame Eskel's igni, but they never could. The only one that outmatched Eskel was his pale shadow, Geralt. They even looked a little similar. But cream puff was a fucking bean pole of a man, and that shitty headband...

N'aw, Lambert wanted big. He wanted heat, and honey eyes, and that thatch of dark hair he'd seen on Eskel's barrelled chest in the baths, and that huge fucking d--

"You lost, Lambert?"

Lambert blinked. Gweld, the ginger prick, was frowning at him, ale tankard halfway up to his mouth. The others had paused their card game; Clovis looked drunk, Geralt was slouched back trying to see Clovis' hand and Eskel was watching Lambert speculatively.

Watching, with those honey-coloured eyes that turned Lambert inside out. The words caught in Lambert's throat; shit, fuck, why was he so fuckin' stupid the moment Eskel looked at him?

He took a breath, conscious of Clovis elbowing Gweld with a chuckle, while Geralt looked over with a smirk.

Lambert found his words. He folded his arms, thrust his chest out, widened his stance and put on his best cocky smirk. "Was just wonderin' whether Eskel wanted some better company. You losers can't handle your beer at the best of times."

They laughed. Gweld elbowed Eskel who cocked a half smile, eyes rolling not at Lambert, but his friends, proving Lambert's point. Obviously.

"Is that right?" Geralt asked, amusement turning his narrow face bright with a toothy grin. Lambert had been told that as witchers matured they honed their sense of smell, could identify a man's emotions from his body language, the flush in his skin. Lambert knew Geralt had him sussed. "And what kinda company are you offering?"

"Geralt..." Eskel growled in warning, and it went straight to Lambert's groin. Fucking hells.

"Whatever he wants. I'm a man of many talents."

More laughter--"little man has game, shit; fuck, I'm chokin, too funny"--but Lambert wasn't put off. Eskel's eyes were on him, warming him like the sun. The lines around those eyes were wrinkled with mirth, and damn if that smile wasn't snatching the breath right out of Lambert's chest.

"Does your master know you're out?" Eskel asked, placing his cards face down. He leaned back in his chair and slung his elbow onto the back of it, knee turned out while a hand tapped at his drink.

Lambert tried to keep his eyes level and resist the urge to... look. Eskel's codpiece put on an absolutely fucking heroic effort, but it could only hide so much and that was when Eskel was soft. "What he don't know can't hurt him. No business of his who else is in my bed as long as I am."

Eskel pressed his lips together to smother his smile while the others guffawed. More was said but Lambert didn't really hear; he was too focused on keeping his heart from beating out his chest and appearing suave.

Eskel hummed. "Aren't you a little young to be lookin' for that kinda fun?"

"Worried you won't be able to keep up, old man?" Lambert felt momentum. He could do snark, he could meet Eskel on this well worn ground, toe to toe, and the way Eskel's head tilted to the side and his eyebrow rose. It wasn't a no, right? He looked interested. Amused, but he didn't dismiss Lambert outright.

Gweld slapped Eskel on the shoulder with a bark. "Eskel here's got stories that'd make your balls shrivel up into yer belly, lad. I don't think he's a good choice for yer first ride, best drop your ambitions."

"Fuck off, Gweld," Eskel said, but there was no heat to his words. Just wry amusement.

Geralt snorted into his drink and Clovis made a vulgar gesture with his hand, but before Lambert could respond a familiar voice barked through the hall and sucked all the building sexual tension into a vacuum. "Lambert, get your arse to bed, you missed roll call!"

Lambert clenched his teeth, shoulders lifting towards his ears. For fuck's sake...

Three of the witchers in front of him groaned in mock empathy. "Oof, tough break, Lambino. Cock blocked by Vesemir," Gweld said, shaking his head while Geralt and Clovis snickered. "Don't worry, we've all been there. Ain't that right, Gerbear?"

Geralt guffawed in protest and smacked Gweld on the shoulder. It quickly devolved into a wrestling match on the floor, one which Gweld was definitely going to lose. Eskel watched them briefly before he looked back at Lambert. "Another time perhaps," he said, toasting Lambert with his ale. "G'wan, before he decides the target dummies are a little light on straw."

Lambert grunted, frustrated, but stalked away. He'd made inroads, and the way Eskel's eyes had shone, and that crooked grin. Eskel hadn't outright rejected him, hells, he'd--well, that smile... Eskel didn't smile at everyone like that.

Lambert laid in bed with that smile behind his eyes and a hand under the sheets, determined that it would be Eskel's instead of his own by winter's end.

[tangerinesgirl]

Can I request Frank fingering reader for the first time?

Time is Money

Fem!Reader x Adam "Frank" Barrett (Abigail)

Rating: 18+, NSFW, explicit

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: You and Frank hate each other, you'll do anything to prove him wrong.

Warnings: virgin reader, AFAB reader, asphyxiation, money for sex, enemies to lovers-ish?, humiliation kink, public sex

Notes: use of Y/N as well as specific female body parts mentioned. You can kind of tell I started with the action and panic built/got bored with the conversation before, so don't focus too much on the plot! Enjoy!

🦇

The crew are getting rowdy in the main living room. You decide to go to the bar area in the next room for some peace and quiet. Unfortunately for you, Frank already had the same idea, sat in the corner nursing his whiskey. Although a good leader, his personality rubs you the wrong way. You've clashed the whole evening. Frank is so full of himself and you hate it. You decide to confront him, maybe the night will go smoother with everything off your chest.

You sit on the stool next to Frank, he rolls his eyes. "Look, I've seen the way you've been looking at me, but we can't get personal and I'm not interested".

"Don't flatter yourself, I couldn't be less attracted to you right now."

"Sure kid."

"You walk around with a strut in your step like you own the fucking world, but in reality there's nothing there. Humility asshole, look it up."

"Nothing there, huh?"

"You're all talk and no action. Your Lambert's little bitch and daren't break his precious rules."

"Ah so you do want me? ...You couldn't handle me."

"There we go again, big dick energy, but no action."

Frank pauses a moment to look at you, like he's debating whether he's into you or not, weighing up his next options. You both have to admit, the arguing is hot, maybe you both have pent up sexual energy from the evening and need to get it out of your system. You both clearly have energy, even if you hate each other's guts. Frank loves an opportunity to be proven right, and you love an opportunity to prove him wrong.

"Alright", Frank pulls out his wallet and slides a note across the table, "crisp one hundred says I can make you cum in two minutes".

"Why not make it interesting", you dip into your bra, pulling out two notes, "two hundred says you can't do it in one".

Frank chuckles slightly, "I could probably make you cum with just the sound of my voice, since you've never actually felt the touch of a man".

You freeze, how did he know? Your stomach flips and you turn pale. Frank notices, "Joey's not the only one who can read people".

"Stay the fuck out of my head. Bet's off", you reach to grab the money but Frank grabs your wrist.

He pulls the chain around his neck and drops it on the table, "nine karat, solid gold, worth at least a grand".

You hesitate, weighing up your options. Frank has an advantage, you can't help but find his boldness very attractive, as well as him physically. But you know exactly what gets you off, Frank doesn't. You've definitely lasted longer than a minute on your own before.

"One minute?", you want to reiterate, to make things clear.

"One minute", Frank confirms.

You chew the inside of your mouth, debating. That's a lot of money... It'll only cost you your dignity. Frank raises an eyebrow, waiting for your answer.

"I guess we have a deal", you sit back down. Frank removes his glasses and his watch, placing them on the table.

"Wait, we doing this here? The crew are literally in the other room", you look over your shoulder. You can see Sammy and Peter playing drinking games through the serving hatch, albeit loudly.

Frank follows your gaze, "Well, we'll just have to be quiet then. When the second hand reaches twelve, we'll start."

You look at the watch, this all feels so weird, a knot forms in your stomach. You can't believe you've given away your virginity for $1k. You feel dirty, but you're determined to wipe the smirk of Frank's face.

Frank notices your unease, "You can always back out".

"Aw, what's the matter? Not as confident now, Frank?"

Frank gets up from his bar stool and slowly walks behind you. Your gaze follows him briefly, and then back to the watch. Frank's lips ghost around your left ear, notes of whiskey playing on his breath, "3...2...1..."

The second hand strikes the hour and Frank's hands are immediately on your inner thigh, trailing upwards towards your underwear. "Already so wet for me and I've barely touched you". Your heart sinks knowing your body has betrayed you and given Frank leverage. He moves your underwear to one side and starts playing with your clit.

Meanwhile, his other hand is tracing over your jawline, trailing down your chest, into your bra. He rolls your nipple between his fingers while he plays with your clit. You try not to moan to give him the satisfaction. Frank notices your eyes rolling to the back of your head in pleasure. He looks you up and down, admiring his handiwork. He breathes heavily in your ear, whispering, "That's it. Good girl. You're taking me so well". You can feel his erection growing through his pants on your back. He starts to rub himself on you, moaning into your ear, "Look what you do to me".

He studies your face, looking for a reaction. You look over to the watch. 20 seconds gone. Frank inserts two of his fingers into your pussy, stretching you out. "Fuck. You're so tight." His head buries into the crook of your neck as he fingers deep inside of you. He kisses and playfully nibbles at your neck, trying to find a soft spot he can abuse. He notices your eyebrows furrow in concentration as he bites on your neck. "Don't fight me, Y/N. Let it happen. I want you to come undone for me. I want to watch you cum".

He continues to push his fingers into you, playing with your clit, the bar stool covered in your wetness. 40 seconds. Frank's other hand grabs your neck roughly. Your breath hitches in your throat from surprise. Frank's head touching the side of your cheek, his stubble prickling your supple skin. He kisses the side of your lips.

"That's it, Y/N. Cum for me". He squeezes the sides of your neck. He tilts your head down so you can see his fingers spreading you open. Your fists clench trying to hold back your orgasm. You look at the watch. 50 seconds.

"Yes...look at you, so desperate for me you don't care who's next door and could walk in, giving me your virginity... Dirty whore", he moans as he continues to grind into you from behind, his last attempt to send you over the edge.

"Shit", you mumble under your breath, how did Frank know you have a humiliation kink? Your hand grips the table, your fingers digging into the solid wood as you cum, hard, to Frank's words. You cum so violently that you squirt all over Frank's fingers and your underwear. Frank notices, you can feel the smirk forming on his face.

As you come back to reality, Frank removes his fingers and wipes them on your dress. He walks back over to his seat, grabbing the money off the table and putting his watch back on. He downs the dregs of his whiskey and leaves the room.

[moonkidphrase]

Lambert really said “well Vesemir said not to stick my dick in crazy but he didn’t say anything about letting crazy stick the dick in me so I think we’re good Aiden”

[cook-boss-88]

Here is my cannon interaction between Lambert and the Goat:

Lambert: (Singing) Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens!

Goat: STICKING MY DICK IN ROTISSERIE CHICKENS!!!

Lamb: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Goat: A "Good Morning" Would suffice.

Lamb: Good Morning! *OwO* WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!