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whorrorbellee · 3 months ago

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Cherry Waves : two and a half

Ghostface! Danny Johnson x f!reader

Danny just had to save you. He just had to save your poor sad life. Knocking your sad frail body against fake plastic tiles. Shoving his fingers down your throat like a kid fishing for pennies. What was it you wrote in your diary? Your shiny white masked knight in a black shroud? Well how cute. Maybe it was time he kept a pet around.Just to play or course.18+ : eventual smut, themes of suicide (reader attempts), selfharm, sexual content, murder, themes of violence

ao3 prolouge masterlist

11th August 1992

Roseville sure is something. Hot weather, Sunny skies. Rednecks. Everything I had wanted to avoid until now. Utah was great, born and raised. Left poor pa alone in the farmhouse at nineteen. Burnt to a crisp, the detective said. Goddamn alcoholic could never remember to see if the fire had gone dead before laying his head down on the pillow. Too damn bad.

Danny Johnson would become Martin Lee the small town photographer somewhere in Arizona, and then I was Jack Mayfield, the slightly deplorable stoner writer in california. But in Pennsylvania Jed Olson was born. Kind hearted, protective. Red blooded american that wanted to uphold traditional family values. The type of guy you'd see a pretty blonde next to with six kids. Jed Olson was perfect and fucking irritating. He was the type of guy you would ask to set up shelves in your apartment. And god i fucking hated it, i still do. At first Jed was sweet, he could lend a hand. Enjoyed a cold one. Then where's your girlfriend Jed? Or maybe you're gay? I've got a daughter you could take out some time? When are you gonna settle down?

So in New York Jed Became colder. But the problem with New york. Half of my work got lost to gang violence and hate crimes, by the time i had figured out who Jed really was, Ghostface had been lost in a lineup of violent Men and petty thefts. So I moved smaller. Florida. Small baptist town wedge between Jacksonville and St. Augustine. You could hardly call it a town, in reality it was a housing estate with ten shops lined up, a couple of offices and three different churches, two within the town and the third connected to a road that led you straight out of roseville and into St.Augustine. It was perfect. Enough crazies to not get caught, drive close enough that someone out of town could come in and kill. And small enough to cause a frenzine.

So while I was in New York, I took as many freelance photography jobs as I could. Let myself wake up with cheap instant coffee and gouged myself on instant ramen, until I had enough to buy a truck from a guy I knew and road-trip myself down to florida.

And here I was, a man with very little to say in the matter. Even though I had a way with words. It took me less than five minutes to wedge myself into the crew at roseville gazette. Mike had welcomed me with open arms after I had fooled him with my American values. White picket, 2.5 kids and a cute dog laid out on a plate for him to stuff his face with.

12 September 1992.

One month has passed and I'm settled in at last. Work is fine. Writing about lost dogs and people who've found rings along the shore. Work is boring. It's not really my work, well it is. But not the work I really want to do. In-fact , I'm craving it. I'm not sure how long I'm going to last. Sometimes I just want to take Adam's face and crush it between the wall and the door in the stairwell. And I won't! God I could never. Well I could. Just not Adam. Adam is great. He's really perfect. He's so anxious and erratic everytime a crime is committed. When I start and I mean really start (not drive to Georgia and kill some rando) he's just going to snap. Linda is great. She keeps to herself and writes pieces about Best places to take your family this (insert month) or should your kids be having sugar?.

There's a list in my head of who I want to take out. I haven't started watching just yet. Need to get adjusted to the town properly. I've been going on runs every night. Keep the stamina up and find out every slip road and street I can hide on. To the others I'm in a health kick. Waving past dog walkers and drunk teens. James told me he saw me running outside his house and that he'd wanted to get together for an early morning run the next sunday. And now there's a group of us at 6am. I drive to the closest diner after and order the biggest breakfast platter they have.

Case no: 289 D75 Date: 5th July 1984

Reporting officer: DC Smith

Prepared by: PC Stein

Incident: Fire at the Johnson’s farm house on 4th July 1984 at 11pm .

Event details: I was attending the 4th of July celebrations with my girlfriend. After the fireworks stopped at around 10:45. The family packed up and I asked if she wanted to head back to mine. We got to the farm house and the place was on fire. The house was practically black. We went to the nearest phone so I could call the emergency services.

I thought my dad might have gone out. But when the fire was put out, they recovered his body. When I left him he was on the sofa passed out. He usually drinks whiskey. I knew it was him because of the white gold wedding ring around his neck.

30th september 1992

So Mike's niece has officially started her job. Which has ruined all plans of me developing my own photos in the office. I'm sure she couldn't help it. Nepo babied her way into a job. Fresh out college and straight into the office. Didn't even have to have a shitty barista job first. She's shy and slightly skittish. Pays no attention to where she's going. Always tripping over her own feet. The good thing is now we have software to edit photos after mike bought a one year package to see how far it gets us.

She lives next to me. I passed her in the stairwell and walked behind her on the way home.

She doesn't crack a smile when I do. Hardly ever reactive. Emotionless. Faked a smile on her first day before curling inward on her desk to jot something down.

An enigma. Uncharmable .

16th October 1992

I didn't mean to do it. I was just a little rusty. I don't have time for mistakes. And I panicked. I dont panic. I never have. What little humanity I have left in me is reserved for good coffee and books. So I climbed into the wrong window that night. Mine was one over. A complete accident. Someone had swung a brick at my face and knocked me sideways. So I was a little puzzled when the bare apartment I lived in had a shitty two seater armchair and a pretty girl laid on it. And I had nearly turned away. But the pill bottle had glowed under the moonlight and headlights of late night drivers. When I had picked them up and the out of date pills rattled inside. I looked upon the pretty girl who I thought was asleep. Breathing erratic. Eyes rolling to the back of her head. Lying in a puddle of her own sweat.

Well I just panicked. Picking up her body and rushing to the toilet. Scraped along plastic tiles. My hands held her up by her neck and I shoved two thick fingers down her throat until I had felt her gag. Barely held up by her knees. Watching her puke into the toilet.

I should've left her there. Let the darkness swallow her up. Swelled in the bathroom. Let the police press a black body bag to her skin. Cracked tiled angel. Another lost to the hidden disease. And I gazed into her eyes, half shut. Her mouth opened as her head fell into the crook of my neck. Soft skin against the rough fabric of my shroud. I felt her heartbeat grow stronger. Poison exiting her body.

So instead I pressed her to the shower wall and washed her body, dressed her in the softest pyjamas I could find. Held her like my own. Held her like Piper wished I would.

I won't make this mistake again.

#dbd danny johnson #dbd x reader #dbd x you #dbd fanart #dbd art #dead by daylight #danny johnson #jed olson fan art #jed olsen x reader #danny jed olsen johnson

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wastemanjohn · 1 year ago

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qu'est-ce que c'est

i wanted to share a little something i've been working on... and by working on i mean dipping in and out of for months... here's a rough 4k-ish excerpt from the serial killer john AU i promised like last december lol. if you like it please let me know, i need all the motivation i can get to actually get this finished 😘

cw: see tags pls. johndean, accidental incest.

There’s a boy John has been watching for a few nights now. A boy who must be new in town, or at least to the more offensive parts of it; a boy of about 25, give or take, although it's hard to tell under all those neon lights. They don't do much to obscure his delicate, fawn-like prettiness; a boy with a face like that would be hard pressed not to stand out anywhere. A face that would suit both the cover of a teen magazine and a career in extreme pornography, a face that's a recipe all in itself for wet panties and sexuality crises - but good looks alone have never been enough to hold John's interest for that long. Luckily for him, there seems to be a lot more to this boy than that.

There would need to be, for such a boy to seek out the kind of bar no regular kid his age would go to; the kind of bar where the rotten keg smell can make you delirious and the jukebox is a relic from 1972, the kind of bar where you leave at the end of the night with your lungs tarred from all the smoke and a hangover already forming from whatever cheap crap is actually served out of all those brand name optics, the kind of bar where the true dregs of society drink their welfare money and at least keep the breath they waste to a confined space.

And such a boy sits up at such a bar, all alone in worn layered shirts and jeans degraded at the knees, the soles of his scuffed up boots held in place by duct tape. A closer look reveals scar tissue on his knuckles, a slight but palpable crookedness to his nose, like it's been broken more than once. There are these deep lines on his face even at rest, at odds with his obvious youth, and the skin around his eyes cracks like broken porcelain when he licks the residue of his whisky on ice off of cherry plump lips that pout and quirk in flirtatious grins to the chubby leather-skirted bartender, to the double-denimed smooth-brained admirers who orbit him all night like fruit flies, buying his drinks and putting their dirty hands on the small of his back, getting so close to his face that he must be able to smell their stale tobacco tooth decaying breath; but this boy, he doesn't seem to mind that at all. He minds it so little that around midnight, four free drinks down and keen to get what he so clearly came for, he'll let one lucky redneck take him to the boudoir of the bathroom stall, the romantic open air setting of the alleyway behind the building, or maybe a fast food-crusted backseat, if he's really lucky. Not that the boy seems particularly fussy; which might just be the thing that completes the entire sorry picture.

Yeah - beauty really isn't that interesting at all, without damage. It's an irresistible combination; it's fascinated people since time began. John's not immune to that fascination. Curiosity, about this boy, and what the hell happened to him to fuck him up so badly. John likes to get close to things like that, a little closer than most people. He likes to study it; break it down. See what he can make out of it. And with the right opportunity - the perfect opportunity - John's sure this boy, with his scars and his cracks and his indiscriminate promiscuity, could be something really, really special.

By the fifth night, John has everything ready for the boy. All that's left is to create that perfect opportunity.

He leaves his usual booth abandoned. He stands up at the bar, nursing an increasingly warm beer, and waits.

The boy comes in on the cusp of eleven, hands in his jacket pockets, all hard rock swagger and high shoulders. He walks past John and settles into his usual stool. He coyly compliments that trashy pig of a bartender on something or other, the way he always does, and she turns away from him with this flattered smirk as she goes to get his drink, the way she always does.

John sees his window. His heart starts to hammer in his chest. Hand on his wallet, he sidles over.

"I got this." He makes a point of not looking directly at the boy; instead, he offers a tight-lipped smile to the bartender, who looks a little startled, but John's used to that. She always seems a little uncomfortable around him, the way people often do, but John doesn't really think that's his problem.

This boy doesn't seem to think so either. In John's periphery, he's grinning. "Well. I’d been wonderin’ when you were gonna crawl out of the shadows."

John feigns a slight tremor in his hand as he passes over his change; notes how the bartender is a little tense in taking it, but again, he's used to that sort of thing. “Excuse me?" he says.

The boy blinks at him through long, dramatic eyelashes. “Come on, man. You really think I haven't noticed you staring at me like a fucking creep all this time?"

The boy props his chin up on his hands and looks at John like he’s pleased, or maybe a little smug. That’s the thing about damaged boys like him. Attention that would unsettle most people flatters them.

"So what's up with you?" the boy adds. "You don't like making the first move, or -"

Rhetorical or, drags on. He has a deeper voice than expected. It doesn't match that face of his at all.

John confesses, “I guess I am a little shy."

That grin hasn’t left the boy’s mouth. "Well, I don't bite. Unless you want me to, of course."

The boy holds John's gaze; sips his drink, puffy pink lips melding around his glass in a way that seems very practised. That kind of thing doesn't work on John. But he humors the boy anyway. Gives him the admiring, up-down glance he's perfected from watching other people flirt.

The boy notices. In return he treats John to the same glittering "use-me" eyes he's been dishing out like cookies the last few nights. Doesn't John feel special.

"So," the boy says. "Are you a regular at this dump, Shy Guy?"

"I come in and out." It's true. Truck stops and street corners sometimes keep John away. "But hey, sometimes even a craphole like this is better than being stuck at home alone, right?" He shrugs.

"I feel that," says the boy, with this ironic smile. "So you're not married or nothing?"

"Not anymore."

The kid snickers. "Well, that's refreshing. Most guys who hit on me don't even bother taking off their wedding bands."

"Not me." John shrugs again, slow, heavy. "My - my wife died last year."

The boy starts to look uncomfortable. "Wow. That's, uh, rough, man. I'm sorry."

He really is. John can hear it in his voice, see it in those twinkly doe eyes. "Yeah," John sighs. "It was… it’s been pretty hard, you know."

The boy nods into his glass, swirling his ice. "I get it. My mom - I was four. Leaves a hole, doesn't it?"

How interesting. "Yeah," John replies. "It really does."

Neither of them says anything after that. Drinks are sipped; optics are idly glanced at. John watches the boy's face; and just for a moment, this split second thing, he can see that loss there, as raw as when it first happened. The hole this loving mother who baked cookies and gave the best goodnight kisses left behind, idolized and martyred, the memory of her smile lost to time. And if the boy's penchant for men twice his age is anything to go by - which it usually is - John's willing to bet the father never stuck around afterwards. There's quite often the ghost of a cruel or neglectful one hanging around his boys, stinking of booze, acrid rage.

Despite it, John can see the boy's posture softening just a little; a sign that he's starting to relax. His kind usually do, when they're led to believe that John is a kindred spirit. Someone with more pain than love in his life, just like them.

"Anyway," says the boy, after a moment. That cocky grin comes back. "Now we're done with the little therapy session, maybe you wanna tell me your name?"

John forces a chuckle. "My name's Henry." Yeah, fathers linger. "And yours?"

“Dean,” says the boy. He looks a little confused, like he's not used to being asked.

John slaps on a sitcom-warm smile. "It’s nice to meet you, Dean."

"Likewise,” Dean says. He leans against the bar, elbow cocked, those pretty green eyes sparkling. "So. What does Henry do when he's not staring at the back of boy's heads in bars?"

I'm usually staring into the back of their mouths while I wrench out their teeth. "Nothing right now. I used to be a mechanic." He hasn't worked in years, actually, but Dean doesn't need to know that.

Dean's eyes light up. "Me too." He pauses for a moment, like he's embarrassed by his enthusiasm. "Uh - I mean, not like a professional one, or anything. But I know my way around an engine, you know."

"That so? I could probably get you some work around here, if you want a real shot at it." John promises his boys this often, regardless of what field they express interest in.

Dean shakes his head. "Thanks, but it's cool. I'm just passing through town for work. My day job keeps me pretty busy anyways."

"Which is?" John probes.

"Oh." Dean's forehead creases. "Like, extermination. Pest control. That sort of thing."

John nods. "Oh." A miserable job for a miserable boy.

Silence lands again; John doesn't break it. Some awkwardness is natural in these sorts of situations, after all. He watches as Dean touches this pendant hanging off a raggedy black chain around his neck, twiddle it between his fingers. It's some weird occult looking thing; probably some mass produced crap he thought was cool. John logs this information quietly, as he watches Dean watching the optics again; looks over Dean's side profile. There's this dusting of stubble over his jaw, a jaw romance novels would describe as "chiselled," a desperate statement of toughness on a man who’s too pretty for his own good. Despite his relaxation, those shoulders are still kind of rounded, see: toughness.

“You have a really pretty neck,” John tells him.

"You like my neck?" Dean throws him a glance, then smirks. “Weird fucking compliment, but I’ll take it.”

He raises his hand to his neck all the same, looking a little giddy. John thinks about all the little tendons and bones in that neck, ripe and tender beneath Dean's fingers. He represses a shudder.

“Was just listening out,” Dean says. “I like this song.”

The music’s a little low under all the chatter, but John can vaguely make it out. “Aren’t you a little young to know Jefferson Starship?”

“I’m a little young to know most of what I listen to.” Dean smirks, like this is impressive. “More of an Airplane man myself. But Red Octopus is a damn good album.”

“I guess you know your music.” That album came out the year he and Mary got married.

“You’d be surprised,” Dean says. “Besides, Grace Slick is a babe. What’s not to like?”

“I don’t think she’s a babe anymore.”

Dean shrugs. “Don’t care. For badassery alone I’d still hit it.”

John pauses, considers this, as Dean downs the last of his drink. “You like women too, then.”

The boy shrugs again. "I like anyone who's willing, you know? It's all the same to me."

For a moment, he almost looks sheepish. Loneliness, John thinks, does have a very specific stench. Up close, this boy fucking reeks.

Dean moves a little closer to John on his stool. John feels the whisper-light brush of Dean's knees against his own. “Alright," he says, "I'm done with the small talk. We getting down to business or what?"

John does his best to make sure his gulp is visible. "Business," he echoes. "Uh - okay."

Dean laughs a little. It's not unkind. "You ever been with a man before, Shy Guy?”

Shy Guy shakes his head. Avoids the boy’s eyes slightly, in a further show of patheticness.

“Just wanna know what it’s like, huh?" Dean says, kinda softly. "You're curious?"

“I - yeah. I guess - I think so."

Shy Guy stumbles over his words. Hopes he's getting the boy to pity him a bit.

“You’re nervous," Dean says.

Shy Guy nods.

“It’s new.”

Another nod.

“I can help you out."

Dean’s hand comes down on John’s wrist. Gentle fingertips walk up his forearm, press against the leather of his jacket. John’s skin feels too tight, fuck, he hates being touched. Makes him want to rip off the kid's face.

He forces himself to lean into Dean's hand, regardless. To look nervous and wanting all at once, as he glances at Dean's lips again. He comforts himself with thinking just how beautiful they're going to look stretched around silicone, pressed against steel, smeared with blood, come, puke. How pretty those girlish lashes are going to come up all dewy with tears, how that deep voice is going to crack and squeal as he begs for his life, sobbing out pleas to gods that have never so much glanced his way before. John's getting all tingly just thinking about it.

“It’s hot as hell, Henry,” the boy promises. Palm on the crook of John’s elbow now. “Fucking another guy. You’ll never want to go back.”

John makes a show of sucking in a breath. He meets Dean’s eyes, finally. They’ve gone a little dark. John’s willing to bet the little slut is already leaking in his dollar store briefs.

"Tell me, Dean," he says, matching the boy's quiet register, "What on earth could a pretty young thing like you want with an old man like me?”

Dean bites his lip. “I like 'em older.”

Well, no shit.

“Besides,” Dean glances him up and down, with this gaze that makes him feel stripped, “You really got that whole Daddy thing going on.”

The cliches keep on dropping. John does his best to look a little startled; he's practised that one. “Daddy thing?” he splutters.

“Yeah.” Dean winks, making it worse. "I can show you, Henry. Show you what a good little boy I can be."

Those finger presses get a little more insistent, up John's bicep, like acid; John sees the amusement in Dean’s eyes as he feigns another little gulp. Pulls at the collar of his shirt.

Dean pouts those pretty lips, looking John up and down. “Honestly? I want you to fuck me until I can't walk."

John moves past gulping; this time, he chokes on his own spit. Dean laughs, loud, raw mirth. Something a little sadistic in it now, like he's enjoying pursuing this innocent, naive prey. Maybe he and Dean have more in common that John thought.

“O-okay," John stutters out, eventually, again.

“Okay,” Dean repeats. That cocky, irrepressible grin comes back, as he nods to John’s now-warm beer. “So, why don’t you get yourself something a little stronger for those nerves? Then we’ll see about making those sad eyes roll all the way to the back of your head.”

“You’re - forward, huh?” John thinks he does a good job of keeping the disgust out of his voice.

Dean shrugs. "Well, life is short.”

It feels like an ironic comment.

John holds Dean’s gaze. “And you’re not married yourself?" he asks, carefully. "You got no one to take care of you?”

Dean laughs. Genuine amusement. “Sounds like someone’s life, man. Doesn’t sound like mine.”

John was 99.9% certain on that. Because beauty and damage, for most people, is a combination, a concept, to be enjoyed from afar. The simple minded might think Dean is oblivious to his good looks, with the way he'll apparently fuck anybody; they'll bleat on about low self-esteem or some shit like that. They'll say that Dean must think he can't do any better. John, though; John's a little more enlightened than that. John knows that this boy really can't do any better. Your average person would run a mile from someone like Dean, someone with that desperate stench, that damage so clear in his face if you squint just the slightest bit. And this boy - bless his heart - he knows it too. He won't be missed.

“Someone as beautiful as you shouldn’t be alone," John tells him.

“Yeah, well.” Dean snorts, like he's heard this a thousand times befoer. “Looks ain’t everything.”

John feigns a quiver in his hand as he reaches out to touch Dean’s stubbled cheek. Dean’s teeth graze his lower lip, he gives this gentle sigh; John catches it on his lips as he leans in for a chaste, gentle kiss. John's never seen Dean get a kiss off of any of his nightly lays; isn't surprised, because men like that aren't smart enough to understand that gentle attentions make boys like Dean so putty they’re almost liquid. And the boy shivers, full body, as John pulls away.

“You’re sweet.” John tells him, in the softest register he can. "Thank you, Dean. For - you know. For being so nice to me."

The boy snorts. “Oh, come on. Don’t make it weird.” But John can see the joy that only praise can bring lighting up the back of his eyes. Yep. Putty, alright.

John smiles. Tender, like he's seen in movies. “Same again?”

"Sure," Dean says, with all the entitled air of someone who never pays for his own drinks; and John flags down the bartender, while Dean sits there beside him, quiet, relaxed. So sweet, so trusting. Oh, he's asking for this. He's fucking begging for it.

The music cranks up suddenly, like it always does around this time. Dean jumps, the way boys like Dean always jump at sudden noises; disco and drivel, go on now go, walk out the door, the exact kind of vacuous crap that passes for great art in places like these.

Dean, to his credit, looks genuinely angry. “What kind of terrorist put this on the jukebox?” he shouts above the noise.

John reaches for his wallet again. There’s window number two.

He fishes out a quarter, reaches for Dean's hand; prises open Dean's dry-skinned fingers and deliberately presses the coin into his palm. John touches his face too; holds his jaw, tilts up his head.

"You're gonna look so fucking pretty screaming for that dead Mommy of yours to come and save you,” he tells Dean.

Dean squints, because he can’t hear a thing above the music.

John raises his voice. “I said, go put on something you like."

“With pleasure,” Dean shouts back, but looks at the quarter in his hand like it’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. How cute. He even lets John ruffle his hair before he slides off the stool and goes on his way.

On his way, leaving John alone with his drink, and with the other essential item he keeps in his wallet. The pill bubbles and fizzes in Dean’s whisky as it dissolves, while around John, the majority of the bar’s unwashed patrons are in various states of emotion, bleating along to I Will Survive with hands on chests, arms around the same friends they’ve had since they were fifteen. They’ll wake up tomorrow with no memory of the event and go back to their lives, lives so boring and worthless that this is their definition of euphoria. It’s sad, John thinks. It’s really, really sad.

He watches Dean at the jukebox. Dean, the beauty in all of this, shining so bright and special. The light in all of the pollution. It moves John to see it, the way nothing else ever moves him; stirs up the gentle beginnings of all those emotions that have always been just out of his reach, excitement, joy, fulfilment. Soon. He'll have all of them, everything he needs, soon.

Sure, the drugs aren't ideal - but John’s long since learned his lesson about taking his boys out to his car fully conscious. They always lose their nerve when it dawns on them they've been driving for way too long, and it's an unnecessary hazard when they start panicking and crying as the trees get thicker, as the roads narrow out until they’re nothing more than dirt trails; just plain dangerous, when they grab for the steering wheel, and annoying as hell when they leave marks all over the interior of John's Impala with their frantic, kicking feet. There have been times when John has had to stop the fun before it’s even started because of that shit. He makes sure the last thing those boys see before the light goes out of their eyes is the disappointment in John's face.

Anyway; that shouldn't be the case for Dean. It's so much easier this way. So much easier to haul Dean out of the bar on liquid legs, to laugh with the group of middle-aged women smoking outside about “my wasted son," how he just can’t hold his liquor; and “have a good night,” says the one with the shortest skirt, and “you too, sweetheart,” John replies, even though it repulses him to interact with a stain like that; no, so much more fun to enjoy Dean’s dazed, confused face, to dodge the clumsy, off-kilter swings that come from fists that can’t even clench right as John eases him into the backseat of his Impala, fresh and newly cleaned for the occasion.

"You're alright," he tells his agitated boy, in lieu of returning those swings; that wouldn't do with witnesses around. "Just relax, Dean, okay? You're gonna need your rest."

Dean's eyes are everywhere, lashes fluttering like he’s seizing. "Th'fuck you doin'?"

The confusion in Dean's face is delicious. Not to mention the way his limbs are starting to falter, the way his body is failing him. Falling into that seat without resistance.

“Don’t worry about it.” John takes Dean's ankles, tucks his legs into the car. They jerk, but only a little his last attempt at fighting as his eyes start to close. “Just doing a little pest control of my own.”

When John is sure Dean is out cold, he takes the opportunity to reach into the boy's pocket. The kid has two phones, which doesn’t surprise him much - implies shady shit, and his boys are usually into some kind of shady shit - he can dump them both on the way.

It doesn't surprise John how cute Dean looks like this, either. He strokes his boy’s unresponsive face, as his own, equally unresponsive face, quivers into a genuine smile. What a find Dean is. What a find.

#my writing #johndean #fic #serial killer john #cw accidental incest #cw violence #cw gore #cw nonconsensual drug use #psycho john's horrible opinions are his own

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mieczyhale · 2 years ago

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people who complain about "rainbow capitalism" have good points but they're also some of the most obnoxious people to crawl out of the woodwork during pride

because there was a time, really not all that long ago, where you wouldn't see a single goddamn thing with a rainbow (gay) on it. there was no pride merch at the store, companies didn't put up pride flags, there sure as fuck wasn't clothing with pronouns on them or fun (cringey to you) accessories and shoes and all manner of wearable items & collectable items. flags, drinks, signs. there was nothing at big stores, you weren't going to see makeup brands or any brand supporting gays, there wasn't going to be even empty support from alcohol companies - ESPECIALLY not ones beloved by stereotypical rednecks.

these companies might not mean any of the things they say during pride, but i personally don't care all that much. we haven't had this shit long enough for me to be tired of it, to be over the joy of seeing these sections and items for my community just.. out there in the world. loud and easily accessible.

for one month we are EVERYWHERE. we have visibility and we have gay power because the threat of losing hateful dollars apparently does not stand up to the threat of losing gay dollars. these places could roll back their pride stuff, could stop and bow to angry conservatives. and sometimes they do. but a lot of the time they don't. and i'm sorry but that means something to me. this outcome wasn't something i ever imagined as a small-town midwestern kid in a conservative family.

progress is being made. whether you're happy with the pace of it or not it IS happening and i myself am thrilled by every little win we get

#this isnt a debate btw so if you're one of those complaining girlies don't bother <3 #YOU can be whiny and angry and miserable and I will put on a rainbow dress and drink a gay beer and enjoy this month. our. month.#maison speaks

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liveleaker · 22 days ago

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at least i was a trailblazer for kids at my school because in 7th grade i was the first kid my lunch ladys ever encountered that didnt eat meat in my small redneck town and the only thing they ever had to give me was cheese sandwiches but after 8th grade they started doing vegetarian options by default

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sllowshow · 10 months ago

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aaron and bristol!

how did they meet? i think they’d been aware of each other through mutual friends/both being kind of like big personalities in a small town. i think their relationship started with him trying to pick her up at a dive bar though. i’m talking classic rp starter material, saddling up next to her and laying down that redneck romeo charm. and maybe that worked or maybe she called him on it and he had to get serious. either way, he’s persistent (in a not creepy way) and like really and truly i think aaron’s greatest skill is his ability to make a first impression. like this guy can fucking talk like no man’s business. like unfortunately i have no choice but to godmod that he’s leaving with her number. like ultimately i guess i just feel like their meeting was business as usual on all accounts. no one could have known where it was going…..

who is the bigger romantic openly? secretly? frankly i obviously have to go on my spiel here about how their upbringings put them in a very similar space like. regarding this. because they both grew up watching their moms and the ways their dads did a fucking number on her. like i think from a practical standpoint neither would really openly claim being a Romantic in the way i usually interpret this question because they know it’s all a lot more complicated than that. like i think they have the capacity to be romantic but neither are really romantics. if that makes sense.

who is more likely to plan something big for valentine’s day? i think aaron. even when like its just him and hadley, crazy kids running the streets, i think he tries to do something for valentine’s day. like is he cheating on her? maybe. but the least he can do is take her out to a nice dinner and bring flowers you know. like ultimately his mom did raise him right and especially as they got older and had the girls he’d want to make sure they were doing something special because that’s a way he reminds her how special she is to him. even if she’s fully satisfied just having beers out on the patio after dinner.

who initiates most physical contact? aaron. like sorry that’s just who he is and you can’t keep a good man down.

who is more likely to send cutesy texts to the other? they are not sending cutesy texts. if they ever did it was aaron trying something but i just do not feel like Cutesy is bristol’s mo unless she’s doing it like. to be funny.

who is more protective? bristol. i think aaron is superficially protective with her, but ultimately he knows his lady and feels like very secure in their relationship. and i don’t think bristol is like actively insecure or anything but i do think like. even when it’s fully platonic and he’s got no other intentions he just talks to people in a way that can be easily misunderstood as flirting. especially when like it’s early in their relationship and he’s young and hot and insisting on taking her out all the time. i think they’d grow through it but it was definitely an early bump in the road for them that put bristol more on the defense.

who believes in soulmates? neither really. again it's too fairy tale cut-and-dry for them to ever buy into it. and maybe like soulmate as a term of endearment wouldn’t be shot down but at the end of the day, they’d only consider themselves soulmates in a sense that they wake up and know, love, and commit to each other every day, not because of an invisible string or great big hand of fate shoving them together.

who cooks the dinner, and who washes the dishes? bristol cooks and aaron washes the dishes (until the girls are old enough to join the chore wheel, at least). bristol’s got the domestic background more so from the way she grew up and years nannying, so it just makes more sense than letting aaron burn hamburger helper. he definitely keeps his honeydo list though aaron becomes something of a weekend warrior at a point in his life. lots of little home improvement projects. and i'll tell you what he'd be caught dead before he'd let any of them mow their lawn, wash their cars, or do anything that involves a gutter.

who does the majority of the driving? aaron insists most of the time because he’s a man with a truck from north carolina. like unless it just really logistically doesn’t make sense, he’s usually trying to make sure it’s him.

whose family do they celebrate more holidays with? when they’re younger, probably bristol’s, just because aaron doesn’t have much family to speak of beyond his parents, they aren’t like a big holiday type. and his mom is more than happy to take seeing them like a few days before/after christmas if the rhodes are doing something. his dad stopped fighting to claim holidays when aaron was like in middle school, they just kind of see him when they see him (random saturday in late july he decides he will have a son). i think once the girls are born though, they take over hosting for some holidays at least, and kind of have it be a hodge podge. like it’s just not hard to just loop aaron’s mom in on what could otherwise be a rhodes clan event.

if they get married, what was the wedding vibe? i went back and forth on this a lot and please correct me if you don’t vibe with this for bristol. but i think they got married in a courthouse sometime in the months before sienna was born. very spur of the moment. tatum was their witness and the only person that knew they did it til after sienna was born, because literally it would not be fair to have a party celebrating their marriage that bristol wasn’t allowed to drink at. they probably had like one good party at their house after a couple of months where they debuted their gorgeous daughter and dropped the bomb all in one fell swoop. aaron accidentally mentioned it to austin at least once he just didn't put it together.

how did they decide what to name their child(ren)? yeah aaron’s ass did not come up with either of those names. but he was very much trying to be part of that conversation. i think ultimately they were both making suggestions, but it would be extremely easy for bristol to steer him in her direction.

#i gotta say. theyre a little fun to think about.#and fyi. he can marry her mom but tatum will NEVER call him her real dad...

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evermorethecrow · 1 year ago

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can we get a list/short description of your chuuya AUs?? Bc I always see them everywhere on your page but idk what half of them are about 😅

Sorry it took me a good 7 years to answer

A COMPILED LIST OF EVERY EVERMORE AU

1) Yuuko au- I spent 8 years in suribachi and all i got was this lousy child

2) Cryptid au- Guy looks so much like his mother he ends up being murdered but comes back (spoiler alert it went badly)

3) High school au- Guy looks so much like his mother he ends up being murdered

4) Vampire au- Redhead born with rednecks gets red drawn from his neck and now works full time reddening peoples necks

5) God au- Evermore builds an entire world and story to make chuuya as naked as possible at every given moment and cover it up with "being for the plot"

6) Plant shop au-

7) Collage(idol) au- Chuuya wont end his contract properly because he likes going out with a bang, alternatively: dazai spends way too long wondering why his roomate kinda looks like that one idol who died on stage

8) Sky casino chuuya au- someone gave an 8 year old vodka and a card deck

9) DOA au- someone gave a 15 year old vodka and a cool mask

10) Scene kid au- Everyone is a whore

11) God+Vampire slayer au- Isekai plotline

12) Ability swap au- someon gave 15 year old chuuya vodka (In molotov cocktail format)

13) No Yuuko au- I spent 8 years in suribachi and all i got was this lousy partner

14) collage au 2 eletric boogaloo- Chuuya nakahara is 5 miles away

15) Nun Au- its just a cult

16) Pokemon au Red- I just wanted to give chuuya a lucario

17) Pokemon au Blue- i just wanted to send chuuya and lucario into a lab

18) Demon ability au- name explains it

19) Mermaid au- chuuya gets wet

20) Circus au- Lippmann turns chuuya into the worlds best actor (he runs away to the circus)

21) Elise au- Mori croaks and now its chuuya's issue

22) Chuuya stays with the sheep au- Nothing happy happens but at least verlaine is smiling

23) Ada au- chuuya becomes a medic

24) Demon/Coffee shop au- chuuya is a slut who makes potions and ruins lives

25) Chuuya is inside my laptop au- Lain

26) Dragon au- I spent 80000 years on earth and all i got was this lousy collar

27) Nyan bungou stray nekos au- only real story here

29) Botw au- MIWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

Co-created au's

28) Small town au - @zombiemackerel

29) Hospital au- @zombiemackerel

30) Office loser dazai (x hot n sexy mafia exec chuuya) - @evilkaeya

Honarable mentions

Danganrompa au (Only existed so i could execute chuuya)

Vocaloid/Utauloid au (canon except they have vocasynth voices)

Evermore's chuuyai farm and factory

#i will properly explain if you ask nicely #bsd #bungo stray dogs #bungou stray dogs #chuuyabsd #bungo stray dogs manga #chuuya #i love him #evermore answers #au asks #chuuya au #chuuya bsd

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startseeingstars · 2 months ago

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Fireflies - Possum (Welcome to Willits)

CH17

T/W - drug use

The drive to the nearest town was short—only about twenty minutes—but I found myself surprised by how easily he navigated, his eyes scanning the road and offering directions with confidence. I had always assumed Possum was a little disconnected, too lost in his own world to really pay attention to his surroundings. But here, now, he was sharp, certain, and it caught me off guard.

I parked the car in front of the grocery store and noticed that Possum’s demeanor shifted. He was scanning the area, looking at people with a quiet intensity. “You alright?” I asked, my voice laced with concern, my eyes narrowing as I studied his face.

He waved me off, almost absentmindedly. “Yeah, yeah. Just meeting someone. I’ll meet you in the store.” His voice trailed off as his eyes darted from person to person, as if he were searching for a ghost.

A stocky, redneck man, whose beer belly was as prominent as his unkempt beard, caught my attention. The man was jittering, scratching at scabs on his skin, his eyes darting nervously around. I knew instantly—this was who Possum was meeting. I felt a cold knot of unease twist in my stomach, but I shoved it down, trying to ignore the feeling.

“Be safe,” I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. A prickle of discomfort crawled up my spine as he leaned over and pressed a quick, almost careless kiss to my cheek.

I wandered around the store, gathering the items on my list but unable to shake the nagging feeling in my gut. I tried to focus on the mundane task at hand—scanning shelves, picking out cans, adding items to the cart—but my mind kept drifting back to Possum, to the tension I felt in my chest. I was distracted, lost in my thoughts, until I checked out and headed back to the car.

And there he was. Possum had returned, but not alone. A young man, no older than me, stood with him. His anxious, jittery energy mirrored Possum’s in a way, but this kid had a softness to him, an air of nervousness that made him seem younger than his years. Possum seemed to be in a good mood, his usual guarded expression replaced by something more relaxed, more genuine.

The kid, or whoever he was, nodded politely as I packed the car, his fidgeting making him look out of place in the parking lot. But it wasn’t long before Possum was back at my side, grinning with a hunger that was palpable.

“Anything cold in there?” he asked, his voice eager. I shook my head.

“Good, let’s grab some food—I’m starved.” His hand found mine easily, fingers wrapping around mine with a familiar warmth, and before I could protest, he was already pulling me toward the small diner across the street.

Inside, the waitress greeted him with the kind of familiarity that made me smile. She’d clearly seen him around before—maybe even more than once. Just like the last time, Possum ordered his ‘usual,’ and I followed suit.

But when the food arrived, I blinked in surprise. Instead of the pancakes I’d expected, there was a plate of crispy chicken wings, a side of waffle fries, and a banana split sundae.

“I figured you’d wanna split the sundae,” the waitress winked at us, and my face flushed as I noticed the two spoons already buried deep into the fudge-covered ice cream.

“No pancakes?” I laughed, raising an eyebrow as I looked at him.

He paused, looking confused for a second before it clicked. “The chicken wings are better here,” he said matter-of-factly, and I giggled again, still surprised by how well he remembered things.

As we dug into the wings, Possum leaned in closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. “So, Chuck was telling me about this party tonight,” he started, glancing around as if to make sure no one was listening.

I raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “Who’s Chuck, exactly?” I asked, suddenly feeling a little suspicious.

He shifted, avoiding my gaze. “A, uh, friend,” he said, the word hanging in the air with a strange weight. I took the hint and nodded, not pressing further.

“So there’ll be lots of ‘friends’ at this party for you, yeah?” I teased, my lips curling into a playful smile.

Possum’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he nodded, a wink accompanying the movement. “Was thinking we could make a quick appearance?” he suggested, his voice practically dripping with excitement.

I leaned back in my seat, feigning indifference. “I mean, I’ll have to check my schedule,” I said, teasing. “I’ve been pretty busy lately.” I sighed dramatically, but he wasn’t fooled.

He leaned in even closer, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach flip. “I’ll bet you’ll be real busy a little later, too,” he murmured, his voice thick with promise as he licked his fingers with a sly smirk.

And I couldn’t help but smile, knowing that the night ahead was bound to be anything but ordinary.

xxx

We drove to a cabin on the outskirts of town, parking next to a handful of beat-up cars that had clearly lived through more than their fair share of adventures. Music thumped from inside, a bass-heavy rhythm that you could feel in your bones, and a few figures lounged on the porch, drinking beers and chatting as the sun dipped lower in the sky.

Possum turned to me with a grin, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Shouldn’t be too long here. Hoping to sell out pretty quick,” he said, tapping the pockets of his vest, as if double-checking the stash. I forced a smile in return. Honestly, I wasn’t thrilled to be around a crowd, but I could always handle it—especially when I had the perfect excuse to keep my distance and people-watch.

Not even halfway to the front door, the pungent smell of weed hit us like a thick, smoky wall—stronger than Possum’s usual scent, which was a unique mix of dirt, leather, and something earthy. But this? This was pure, unfiltered weed smoke.

The moment we stepped inside, it hit us again, even more intense—thick, almost choking, swirling in the air like a fog. I blinked and took it in. The place was practically a greenhouse, everyone smoking up in the haze, clearly in the middle of a serious hot-box session. I couldn’t help but laugh a little, the scent now almost comforting as I adjusted to it.

Possum didn’t seem phased in the slightest. In fact, he grinned and stopped in front of me, shutting his eyes with dramatic flair, inhaling deeply like it was the finest thing he’d ever breathed in. His arms stretched wide as if he were taking in the entire atmosphere. A few people chuckled, and I joined in, a soft laugh escaping me. What else could I do? The guy was in his element, and his goofy, laid-back vibe was hard to resist.

The cabin itself was tiny, sparsely decorated, like it barely got any use unless it was for one of these impromptu hangouts. I glanced around, wondering whose place this was. It had that feel, like it wasn’t anyone’s real home—just a pit stop between wherever people were coming from and where they were headed next.

Possum, true to form, had already made himself comfortable. He was chatting it up with the nerdy kid he’d sold to earlier—getting cozy with his crowd. Meanwhile, I sat cross-legged on the floor, the stillness of my own space a quiet contrast to the hazy buzz around me. Almost immediately, someone thrust a joint into my hands.

I hesitated for a second, eyeing it like it might bite me, but then I took it, giving a polite nod. I didn’t need to be a social butterfly to enjoy this moment. I took a deep drag, the smoke thick and warm in my lungs, before exhaling a cloud that floated up and dissolved into the haze around me. Handing it back, I offered a grateful smile.

“Cheers,” I muttered softly, my gaze catching Possum across the room, who was already lounging with a beer in hand, eyes half-closed and a smirk tugging at his lips. That was Possum—he didn’t need to do much to fit in, and yet somehow, he made everything feel like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

#rory culkin #culkin brothers #culkin cult #fanfic #possum welcome to willits #euronymous #lords of chaos #charlie walker #clyde electrick children #kappa #mike 5lbs of pressure

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justinspoliticalcorner · 9 months ago

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Jess Piper at The View From Rural Missouri:

When I first moved to Missouri, I taught at a school in Kansas City. I introduced myself for the first time to a co-worker, and she asked where I was from; I told her Arkansas. I didn’t specify a town because no one has heard of Altus, AR. She said, “What’s it like moving to a big city?” She assumed I was from a small town because I was from Arkansas. I laughed and asked her if she’d ever heard of Little Rock or any town in Northwest Arkansas? They are pretty big cities and all are in Arkansas.

To be clear, I was not offended. I am rural, but I have noticed over the years that folks confuse GOP-dominated states with rural spaces. They aren’t the same. Even the reddest states have blue cities. Even the most regressive of states will have progressive voters. And, rural communities always have Democratic voters. Ask me how I know. I know there has been much written on the vote-against-our-their-self-interest, redneck voter. Something about red hats and diners. Something about guns and racism. A lot of it isn’t nice or even true. I have some thoughts…

Reaching rural voters.

Rural folks aren’t props. You don’t have to pander to us with pickups or jeans or boots, although if you showed up in a pair of Mucks, I’d know you were the real deal. You don’t have to wear a plaid shirt, or drive a flat bed— looking at you, Josh Hawley. You don’t have to use the word “y’all” unless it’s natural. You don’t have to talk down to us like we aren’t educated. You don’t have to ask about crop prices unless you know enough to not embarrass yourself. You don’t have to act any differently with rural people than you would with any other bloc of voters.

[...]

It’s not that difficult to understand rural people. Many of us have been rural all of our lives and we want the same things every other American wants. We are like you in most respects, but we might value physical privacy and a hands-off approach to government a little more — and we don’t mind a long drive to town. Here are a few misconceptions about rural Americans:

We all live on farms. In fact, most of us don’t. Many of us work in ag, but we don’t own big farms. You need generational wealth to buy a farm that you can make a living off of. There is a listing just down the highway from me for 220 acres of tillable ground. No house, no out buildings, no barns. It’s listed at 1.5 million. That’s just the land. Now, go price a combine. You’ll need generational wealth.

We all vote against our self-interest. We often vote for progressive ballot initiatives (hello, legalized weed) so you know that’s not true. However, I will not be able to vote for a State Representative in November. My current Rep has no Democratic opposition. Last cycle, it was me running against him, but I couldn’t afford to run again this cycle. When tallying up Dem voters, it will be easy to write my district off, but we will have no one to vote for. I couldn’t vote in my self-interest if I wanted to.

We are all gun nuts. I mean, a lot of us own guns, but we also use them. They are tools in my house, not accessories to wear to town and never used to intimidate. My kids hunt (we eat what we harvest) and we also use them to protect livestock. It’s also handy if you’re in FFA and enjoy competing in shooting events. P.S. Not all of our kids are in FFA or 4H, but those programs are awesome…especially for young women.

We are all racists. I’m absolutely positive rural America has its share of racists, but guess what? So do the cities. There are Black folks who have lived in rural spaces for generations (shocking!) There are people of all backgrounds who call rural America home, just like every other corner of the US. We have racists, but racism isn’t just contained in rural spaces. It’s an American epidemic, not a rural one.

We are all angry. I recently read a book title about the “angry white rural voter” written by a couple of progressives and my first though was, well, this will help the cause. Yes, there is anger, and if you visit places like my town, you’d see why. We aren’t building, we are razing. We aren’t growing, we are diminishing. The anger isn’t from some pissed off redneck. It’s local folks seeing their way of life dying. Their children moving away and never coming back. It’s not anger…it’s sadness. Yes, many of us could vote better, but back to not having a Democratic nominee…

Here’s what I truly think; the way back to sanity is through rural America and red states. Wyoming has the same amount of Senators as California — why not send money and resources to Wyoming? Or Montana. Or Arkansas. Or Iowa. Or Missouri. Contest every seat on every ballot — even in rural spaces. Especially in rural spaces.

Jess Piper writes yet another home-run piece on rural voters and Democrats: they are in rural areas, even if they are outnumbered and oftentimes don't have a candidate running for such offices.

Hopefully the trend reverses.

#Rural #Jess Piper #Democratic Party #Substack

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that-texas-boy · 4 months ago

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your truck looks like shit. barely even qualifies as a working vehicle. you're probably one of those guys who thinks that just because you have a pickup truck and grew up in texas you think you know what it means to be "country" and a "redneck" while you ignore the generations of working class people who built up the areas you lived in as a kid. also, real rednecks don't care what people identify as, as long as they get to work.

Lmaooo I’m from a small ass town in Texas with barely any money I grew up poor, hunting and fishing with my dad I think i am pretty country. I’m also renovating my house with only help from a few friends. Dont talk shit if you don’t know me

Also my truck is sexy asl

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identifying-cars-in-posts · 2 years ago

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what's your stance on the "lifted dodge ram truck" phenomenon? personally i am absolutely vitriolic towards most instances of lifted pickup trucks. usually it's some "redneck" compensating and spending his life savings on a kitted out car that in raising becomes even harder to control and takes up even more space on the road. i especially hate when they extend the axles so the car is way wider. your pickup doesn't need child birthing hips 😭

however, any number of these modifications are great for farms and other off-road type deals, as well as hauling large machinery or logs, which is fine! the problem is 99% of these cars i see are pristine shiny no dent metal with 0 signs of actually being used as intended. AND there are 5843759273548495783 of them on the road at any given time.

thoughts? sorry for the rant i'm just fed up at these huge ass pickups taking up the entire small town road that is already so thin that my small car is struggling. please correct me if i made any mistakes here, i'm no expert.

no worries about the rant, i definitely have thoughts haha. i grew up in a rural area, moved to a big city, and then moved back to a rural area, and have encountered every kind of big truck out there.

i think that in a majority of the cases, like you said, the ones i see have clearly never seen a speck of mud and likely never will if the owners have any say. the ones with the shiny intricate suspension, giant rims with tiny tire profiles, perfectly clean and waxed paint and not a scratch or dent to be found. the jeep community calls them mallcrawlers. i really really don’t care for those either, i think everyone is entitled to do what they want to make their car their own, but it’s really hard to see anything other than pure posturing when i see those trucks rolling coal down a sparkling urban street or a peaceful rural or suburban road.

big trucks in general are a problem. i love my old mid century full sized suvs, but the current generation of pickup trucks where the hood is above eye level for many full grown adults let alone kids, those are at best unnecessary and at worst dangerous. when people then jack those up on giant wide suspension, that should be fuckin criminalized with how dangerous that makes them on the road.

now, if it’s lifted but it’s actual practical stuff, with signs that they actually take their car off-road? i have no issue with that at all. got a big tall jeep but it’s got a tent and a legit winch and stuff like that? or it’s clearly a diy off-roader build that’s being used? you’re okay in my book, you clearly actually need it to do that. but mallcrawlers who are just doing it for clout are genuinely driving death traps

#asks #not a car id #anon

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nysocboy · 1 year ago

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My Life with the Walter Boys: Lots of hunks in small-town Colorado, plus an "are they or aren't they?" gay couple

I dislike tv series about how small towns are so much better than big cities, with good old fashioned down-home values -- which means gender-polarization, mom baking pies and dad watching football, plus heterosexism, every boy gazing wistfully at a girl. But My Life with the Walter Boys, on Netflix, is about a big-city girl who moves to a ranch in Colorado, for some reason, where the family has five boys! Including Cole, played by 25 yer old Noah LaLonde! I'm going to review Episode 3, which has the Homecoming Huddle -- a dance, I guess -- to check for gay characters.

Scene 1: In the rustic barn, Sensitive Alex (22-year old Ashby Gentry, far right) is telling focus character Jackie the colorful history of the family's cider wagon and explaining how important homecoming is.

Cut to Brooding Cole, practicing football with his little sister, who is playing her first junior football game. He'll be in the stands cheering her on. At least no one is uptight about breaking gender stereotypes. As he bends over, he winces -- uh-uh, injury.

Scene 2: Two boys at the kitchen table, while Dad (Marc Blucas) talks to someone about the pests eating their crops. Hopefully the new pesticide will kill the lot. Mom comes in -- wait I thought it was a single dad -- and drinks coffee while they discuss farm stuff.

Scene 3: At school, Jackie's friend thanks her for not telling Brooding Cole's girlfriend that they're cheating on her (Horndog Cole apparently cheats on everybody with everybody).

On to a meeting of the fundraising committee for the auditorium renovation. They expect kids to take care of that? Jackie suggests a silent auction.

Meanwhile, Cole's teammate Skylar (Jaylan Evans) consoles him over not being able to play football anymore. At least he can still go to the Homecoming after-part. "There will be booze there!" I thought he was going to say "girls." Nice to see a teenage boy on tv who isn't obsessing over "girls! girls! girls!"

Scene 4: Jackie invited the group to her house to work on the silent auction. They take a break to play "Fuck, marry, kill." Whoops, sorry, I mean "Kiss, go steady with, be mean to." Jackie insists that she doesn't want to date Sensitive Alex (the brother she will be staffing the cider truck with). Suddenly a kid rushes by and splashes paint all over Skyler's shirt!

Cut to Skyler in the bathroom -- with the door open! -- trying to clean his paint-splashed shirt. Nathan (Corey Fogelmanis) sees him and -- wait, is that erotic attraction? Are there gay people in this small town in Colorado? He turns to run away, but Skyler sees him and says "Hello, there." Dorky greeting, Dude.

"I can throw that in the wash, and lend you one of my shirts." I think some paint splashed on his pants, too.

Nathan goes through his closet -- very slowly, so he can gawk at Skyler's bod. Then take a break from looking for shirts so Skyler can listen to Nathan's new song.

I'll just go through on fast forward, to check on Skyler-Nate. No more flirtation in this episode, but fan boards were lit up with "Is Skyler gay?" "Nate and Skyler are just good buddies, right?" "Can't straight guys love other without everyone accusing them of being gay?" But the guys end the speculations (except for the inevitable few that refuse to get it, regardless) by holding hands in Episode 8, and kissing in Episode 9 (at a redneck rodeo, of all places).

My Grade: Having a gay couple in the mix is nice, and seeing Cole's chest is nice, but it's still a small-town soap opera, with several heterosexual couples falling in love.B-.

The full review, with other plotlines and photos (some nude), is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

#Kelvin x Keefe #My Life with the Walter Boys #Marc Blucas #Noah LaLonde #gay couple #Corey Fogelmanis

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ambiguouspuzuma · 1 year ago

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Redneck

"I mean, sure, slurping is frowned upon - but I can't well let the good stuff go to waste, right? Y'all got all them nice juices down at the bottom of the body, and it'd be a crying shame to leave them for the coyotes like the rest of the carcass. Waste not, want not, as my ma always said, back when we was coming up. You know, I never really got what she meant, until I came to be raising a boy of my own."

Princess Ekara guzzled from their victim between mangled sentences, letting the blood flow freely down her throat. They were amongst friends, secluded here between the trees. Just the three of them, and each of them cursed. She and Count Kajal went back a long way, all the way to the Old Country, and this was nothing that he hadn't seen before - and besides, he'd taken the best bits for himself.

"Well, not my own, grant you, but near close enough. I found him in these here woods, can y'all believe it? Feeding off them slow moving possoms and Lord knows what else, and I'm learning him how to live proper. Taken him under my wings, as they say. Are y'all sure y'all don't want no more?"

"I'm good, thank you," Count Kajal said. He'd brought their quarry down, and that had meant the first glut of fresh blood had filled him up in minutes. It came gushing out if you hit the artery right, and you didn't need to slurp at all.

"That means helping him with his eating, too, of course - he's only a few months undead, you see, and not yet made the switch from solids to liquids. His teeth are still coming in, if y'all can remember what that feels like. Bless his cold unbeating heart. But he's just the most precious thing, the way he tries to chew the gristle down."

Turning, as the elders had termed it, was by no means a one-off thing. A newly formed vampire had to be constantly suckled with some sort of blood - or formula, for those who preferred - to keep the grip of death from taking hold. Before their bodies adjusted, that meant red meat, and lots of it. A balanced diet, with all of the major blood groups.

Princess remembered how it had felt to turn for herself: starting to like her meat rare, and her meals often. She didn't remember much before - the mortal memories often became hazy, lost to the trauma of death. That was why new vampires needed raising: even after learning to feed themselves, they'd forgotten how to do everything else. They were basically kids, even at a century old.

"And he's teaching you the accent?" The boy sat to the right as they caught up, quietly chewing the fat. He would have been a teenager, in human years. Or a corpse. "The dialect?"

"We'll that's the long and short of it, sure," Princess replied. "To help me blend in, best I can, whilst I help him to blend his food. That's the deal we got in place. I teach him to be a vampire, he teaches me to be a regular Joe."

"A regular Joe called Princess," the Count noted, with no small amount of scepticism.

"Oh, that's no problem at all," she said. "We got an Earl or two in the town, a Duke, a Queenie, a Barron. Ain't nobody pays no mind to little old me. Even the surnames really ain't the problem, settling here - y'all get plenty of migrant labourers, Old Country families and the like. We fit in like gecko on a rock. No, the accent's the rub. I can't be talking in that high-falutin, fancy-pants European vernacular. They'll think me awful uppity, and it'll be sore thumbs and pitchforks time."

"So this is all about camouflage." He seemed somewhat relieved. "You haven't just gone entirely native."

"Well, I'm sure fixing to. The boy reckons I still sound like a bad impression, but Lord I'm trying. He says it's like I'm mocking them. Mortal folk can get real snooty like that. But I sure as Hell know they'd mock me if I was talking like we used to."

Princess paused, hearing his own scant lines on replay in her mind. Haven't, not have not. Starting a sentence with So. The old Count wouldn't have ever talked like that. But it had been a long journey here, and it had clearly rubbed off on him too.

"Oh look now, even y'all have softened it a touch, Mister 'I'm good, thank you'. This ain't the land of castles no more, and you ditch the crenellations from your speech to adjust, right? You always got to adapt to survive."

"It seems easier than the cities, at least. More space to hide. More places like this."

She nodded. "We're at home around country folk, y'all got that right. Vampires have always known that rhythm of reap and sow; the milking of the herd, the harvest of the crops. I figure the mob can't come with pitchforks if you're holding onto one yourself."

"American Gothic indeed."

"If you like," Princess said, pushing the finished corpse aside, its remnants now drying on her cheeks and throat. She'd have to show the boy how to get the stains out of their clothes. "I'm just trying to be an ordinary redneck."

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