#there's too much shit going on it all seems so fucking inconsequential

[blu3berrydraws]

I don't want to hear anything about the world anymore thanks

[cece693]

Calm Down Cowboy (Jasper Whitlock x M! Reader)

I never expected much love to come from my first Jasper fanfic, so as thanks, here's another one :)

Summary: You were a social butterfly, however, that doesn't excuse your husband's actions. However, was it really all bad if it led to him being possessive and taking charge.

tags: jealous Jasper, social butterfly male reader, petty cowboy, happy ending, smut, past mention of Tanya/reader

It was almost funny, looking back on it now, but in that moment, you were steaming like a kettle ready to burst. After all these centuries spent by Jasper’s side—dozens of weddings, countless anniversaries, and endless reassurances—how could he still get jealous just from you talking to someone? You were well aware of your own charm; a social butterfly whose charisma, suaveness, and good looks drew people to you like moths to a flame. But Jasper knew this too. He knew you never encouraged those who fawned over you, nor did you let any past lovers hold sway over you anymore.

Yet, Tanya Denali seemed to light a fire under your cowboy like no other. It didn’t matter how many times you’d promise it while fucking him that Tanya was nothing—just a brief fling in your long, immortal life, severed the moment he'd come into it—he still couldn't stand the sight of her.

It started innocently enough. The Denalis were visiting Forks, and you'd found yourself chatting with Tanya. The conversation was light, inconsequential—a quick catch-up on each other's lives. But then Tanya, ever the flirt, edged closer, her hand brushing against your arm, her laugh a little too soft, too familiar.

Jasper, who had been watching from a distance, stiffened immediately. You could feel his emotions boiling over, his usual calm demeanor cracking as Tanya leaned in, her fingers trailing down your sleeve. You glanced over your shoulder, trying to catch his eye and silently communicate that it was nothing, but Jasper was no longer standing in his spot.

Instead, he was striding toward you, his eyes dark and full of a possessiveness that made your stomach twist. "That’s enough." he said sharply, stepping between you and Tanya. His tone was harsher than you’d ever heard from him, a growl that had everyone around you suddenly going silent.

Tanya raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. “Oh, come on, Jasper. I’m just catching up with an old friend. No harm in that, is there?”

Jasper’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. "Funny how you always seem to forget what ‘no harm’ means. You don’t belong here, stirring up old shit.”

You quickly put a hand on his arm, but Tanya wasn’t done. “Oh, Jasper, I had no idea you were so insecure,” she cooed, her eyes flicking to you with a knowing glint. “I thought you’d trust your mate by now, especially after all these years. But I suppose some habits die hard.”

Jasper’s muscles tensed under your grip, his temper flaring hotter than before. “How would you know? You haven’t found your mate yet," he snapped back, his Southern accent thickening with every word. "Why don't you take your desperate ass back to Alaska and leave what's mine alone?"

“Jasper!” you hissed, pulling him back before things could spiral out of control. This was so unlike him—he was usually composed, especially around others. But Tanya had a way of needling under his skin, and she knew exactly how to make it worse. You tugged at his arm, dragging him away from the porch and out of earshot of the others, who had started murmuring in shocked whispers. Emmett’s booming laughter grated on your nerves, adding to the tension.

But Tanya wasn't finished. She threw a final parting shot over her shoulder, her voice laced with venom. “You know, maybe Jasper’s right to be worried. It must be exhausting, trying to keep up with someone like you. All that fire and passion—maybe he’s just not enough for you anymore.”

Jasper jerked against your hold, his eyes flaring with fury, and it took everything you had to keep him from lunging at her. "You listen here, you conniving bitch—" he started, but you cut him off, practically dragging him away from the scene before he could finish his sentence.

“Jasper, stop!” you pleaded, your voice tight as you struggled to keep him from breaking free. His anger was like a living thing, wild and uncontrollable, and you knew that if you didn’t get him away from Tanya, things would get ugly fast. “She’s just trying to rile you up! Don’t give her what she wants!”

He stopped struggling, but his whole body was tense, vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “I’m not letting her get away with that,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “She thinks she can just waltz in here and—”

“And she’s not worth it,” you interrupted, stepping in front of him and forcing him to meet your gaze. “You know she’s just trying to get under your skin. Don’t let her win.”

Jasper’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, his eyes still blazing with anger, but slowly, he began to calm under your steady gaze. “I can’t stand her,” he muttered, his voice still laced with venom. “She thinks she can just say whatever she wants, like she knows us.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” you assured him, your hands sliding up to cup his face, forcing him to focus on you and not the lingering venom in Tanya’s words. “And I don’t care what she says. You’re the only one I want, Jasper.”

For a moment, it seemed like your words would be enough to soothe him. But the tension was still there, simmering beneath the surface. His eyes darkened, his hands gripping your waist possessively. "Show me." he demanded, voice raw, an edge of desperation beneath his anger.

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift, but you saw the need in his eyes—the need to prove himself, to reclaim what was his. You nodded, giving him permission to take the lead, knowing this was a big step for both of you. Jasper didn’t waste a second. He backed you up against a nearby tree, his mouth crashing onto yours with an almost feral hunger. His hands roamed over your body, rough and urgent, as if he was staking his claim with every touch.

He was never like this, never so commanding, but you let him take what he needed. His lips moved down your neck, his sharp teeth grazing your skin before a burning fire settled on your collarbone. His venom would create a scar there, a mark that you were his and vice versa. "Mine." .

"Yours." you assured, threading your fingers through his honey-blonde hair. "Only yours."

He didn’t slow down. If anything, your words only spurred him on. The heat between you two built quickly, his need palpable. He pulled away, his eyes locking onto yours, searching, almost as if he was begging for you to understand. "I need to know." he whispered. "Need to feel it."

You nodded, letting out a soft sigh. “Then take it. Take what you need.”

And he did. His movements were intense, almost punishing, as if he was trying to erase any doubt Tanya had planted with each thrust. You met him with equal fervor, matching his intensity, your bodies colliding in a raw, unrestrained dance that left you both breathless. His hands were everywhere, gripping, claiming, reminding you of exactly who you belonged to.

As the tension between you two reached its peak, Jasper buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the bite. “I love you.” he murmured, his voice shaking with emotion. “Don’t ever doubt that. I’d burn the whole world down before I’d let anyone take you from me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close. “I love you, too, Jasper. And I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

For a moment, everything was still. Then, slowly, Jasper's grip on you loosened, his anger ebbing away as he relaxed into your embrace. You both stayed there, holding each other tightly, knowing that nothing could break you guys apart.

[vyzz-undercover]

im insane have a few kilos of:

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3)

(6,600ish words) (please fucking sedate me)

{i dont usually write in whatever perspective having a 'you' in this sort of context is, so forgive any oopsies besties!!!}

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink

•intercourse [M/F]

•degrading language

•mild possessive behaviour

•pisspoor cliche of 'oh no you're freezing haha body warmth eh?' trope

•mr. sicarius' insufferable ego

•tumblr's dogshit formatting from phone notes to the app

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super special thanks to all the writers im too much of a spineless coward to actually @ because i only ever lurked on anon asks on old main for, like: moodymisty, mothiir, lemon-russ, the-raven-lady, scriberye and many others. you're all the unknowing reasons why i made an alt to post this, cheers for your amazing works and ideas!!! :3

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It was doomed from the start, honestly.

Not to say he had any hope that an assignment would ever actually go easily for once.

It's supposed to be an apparently simple diplomatic procedure. Namely, you get to stand around, run your ambassadorial trap and bat your lashes and trollop about in front of pompous baseline fools. While he, Cato Sicarius, stands at attention in pissy formal wear; pretending like he's not a hair-breadth from an aneurysm watching it all take place.

Oh, and not to forget the brother who's a head taller than him, in full plate, and isn't being held to a standard of mock-humility.

He realises belatedly he's forgotten the Primaris' name. That shouldn't happen. He never used to forget things. Edict memory shouldn't let him. He shouldn't be able to—or, well—maybe his subconscious deigned it unimportant and emptied it out the proverbial airlock of his mind. It was admittedly largely inconsequential. He'd been told, surely. He remembers he was a Sergeant of some sort from his markings. He also remembers being gawked at by the Primaris, borderline felated by eyes alone. He's Cato Sicarius, afterall. Grand Duke of Talassar and High Suzerain of Ultramar—of course he'd been inspiring awe. But for some warp-damned reason, alongside all those great titles, his Father'd decided to add Master Babysitter of His Ambassador to the list. But Cato does doesn't let it bother him. He's always got better things to occupy his time. Like furiously glaring at you across the thunder-hawk, even if you'd been dead-set on counting the rivets in the floor plating.

You'd looked absolutely idiotic in an Astartes troop seat. Like a toddler in an adult-sized wheelchair, draped in furs that seemed a size too big; hiding a dress that looked a size too small.

Simply put, the entire assignment was to be an event in circle-jerking—until shit hit the fan with all the painful similarity of a Nurgling thrown headlong into a thruster engine.

To begin with, it was a trap—a trap where he's separated from brother-Sergeant 'whatever-the-fuck-riel' in the commotion and responding bolter fire. That'd left Cato pointedly responsible for evacuating you, the useless little chatterbox, by the scruff of your fuzzy coat through side halls.

On another note, of all the accursed biomes, he hates tundras the most.

Pointedly, it's exactly what seventy percent of this backwater, shit-hole planet is this time of year; whereas the other thirty percent is glacial mush.

He discovers firsthand just how much sloshy ice-water there is to be found as he kicks in a shutter door and gets doused for the first time of many to follow; only to vault from the eastern rampart. Sliding down a long, raised and sleet covered run-off canal that passed over the keep's lesser residential rooftops with you in his grasp.

Melt water soaks you both as he scrambles fights to a halt on the steep decline before the drop off. Wobbling balancing on the edge for a second before he manages to scud back up and down a side chute, worming through the raucous hellscape of filthy baselines and too-tight alleys into the scrappy frozen wilds.

There was little time to hesitate when he decides breaking into a dead-sprint with a soggy ambassador thrown over his shoulder's the modus operandi of the situation.

He didn't stop until he was at least fifteen clicks away, or rather—he only stops when he's able to recognise a spot to hide and await for emergency evacuation.

A half-standing shack. Probably some peasant's hunting hovel. Clearly in poor condition, and honestly, a cave would've been preferable—but he isn't about to pass up the opportunity.

The door doesn't even swing open when he nudges it with his elbow. No, it falls inward, because of course it does, and he grumbles belatedly when it thuds.

The inside of the structure is a damnable mess, but, at the very least, it's dry.

He moves to tug you off his shoulder and toss you onto a pile of rags in the far corner, but he hesitates periodically. Even through his own wet outer attire, he can tell very little body heat is coming off you. His hearing catches on the way your breathing labours below the incessant chatter of your teeth.

Some wretched part of him implores he let you down carefully next to the nested mess of dirty cloth; and for once, he acquiesces to granting mercy.

You curl up into a ball on the floorboards almost immediately.

In his eyes, you're the pict of some drowned rat. The fur coat you'd been wearing over your dress is just as soaked through as everything else. Your hair is full of small, frozen rivulets at the ends, mixed in with powder snow and ice; and all the while, you're whining softly and trying to coil tighter into a fetal position.

He's trying very hard not to just stand there and dumbly listen to your little noises of weakness like a salivating dog.

Instead, Cato turns and lifts the door back into place against the frame; then he activates the honing beacon on his belt.

No latency pings, no close contact.

He grumbles again, eyeing your shivering form over his shoulder begrudgingly.

He hates you.

He hates that he's the one who's responsible for you.

The fact he is also currently out of his power-armour because of this charade only makes him even more irate, impossibly.

Sure, he has his combat bodyglove on under the tacky regalia, but it's no real consolation. He'd feel a lot better if there was a couple extra hundred kilos of plasteel and ceramite on him.

He could've had his armour on, had someone else been the one to babysit you.

He would have preferred anything but sole custody of your wretched, annoying existence falling on him. But because he's the only competent Astartes around ninety percent of the time, and you're the root of all problems—it means he's the only one who's capable of handling your stupidity. He can't even imagine letting anyone else do it. You'd probably deafen Trajan with your yapping if he was in his stead. Or Prabian. And if Titus had watch of you, you two'd probably be—ugh, he won't even dignify the thought. He can't believe the man'd been Captain of Second Company before him, or how or why Agemman gave the captaincy to him. He understands why Titus'd been struck from most records aside from high clearance. To say nothing of the fact that one would think being a Blackshield for a century humble someone. But no, it seems crossing the Rubicon Primaris gave him his balls back.

Cato had almost flown into a blind rage when he'd heard him jokingly warning about rough weather to you on the embarkation deck the last time you'd been in each others general vicinity—because oh, of course Lieutenant Titus is suddenly a subsector-renowned fucking comedian as soon as you're there. Cato ought to subpoena the dribbling Inquisition like that little snake Leandros did. See how Titus'd like a real stage to perform on again. Maybe they'll have a new rendition of the cunted Rubicon Primaris to piece his sorry fat-arse back together once more by then. But he won't. He won't because Marneus would sulk, and Cato would feel bad. Plus, Cato's infinitely more likely to kill an Inquisitor than help one. But you—you little skank—you find Titus so funny. Hiding a giggle behind your hand, pretending to look demure and professional despite your wretched nature.

Why don't you smile at him like that?

You would be the death of him.

It was always all because of you. Every single time. Because you're so useless in any situation that can't be rambled out of. Which is all of them when you're involved, in Cato's opinion. His Father should leave the talking to professionals who wouldn't break a hip from a smack on the rear.

But now you are going to die of hypothermia, like a typical, pathetic little baseline—well, unless you start following his orders.

Cato tries not to think of how you were acting when rounds started going off earlier. Of course, like a spooked animal, you'd been all ears to his commands then. Hiding against him with your hands pawing at the side of his dress uniform as bullets careened across the dining hall, looking up at him with those big, terrified, caught-in-the-crosshair eyes—and, Throne, it had been so easy to pick you up. You were so soft flimsy, he could fling you around like a rag-doll if he really wanted. Manhandling you would be a singlehanded venture. He's liable to just hoist you up whenever you think yourself bold enough to bother him next. Grab you by your uniform's scruff and just pin you against a bulkhead, you'd be bent at the perfect height to—no—no, no.

Abruptly trying to distract himself, Cato draws his blade from it's ceremonial sheath and activates the disruption core, trying to stoke some sort of heated spark as he drove it into the fireplace.

He brutishly nudges it amidst the old wood and long dim coals. It isn't his finest moment of critical thinking, but it seems to be working; seeing as a few weak embers sputter to life.

Gratingly, he's aware that even a servitor would've known starting a fire in hostile territory was a fool's surest way at getting caught—but he has no other choice. Either he acts the moron and plays his poor hand, or you die from the shock of your chill; and if that happens, he'll have to face his Father's wrath.

And Guilliman would have his left testicle as a paperweight if you died under his watch.

In conclusion, if Cato is to choose between stupidity and complete failure, he's opting for stupidity. Which aggravatingly felt like an ongoing occurrence, ever since you started existing anywhere near him.

He reaches for your soggy swaddled form, and tugs.

Even practically hypothermic, you've still got enough of a two-faced-bitch's spirit hidden away in you to hiss and swat at him blindly. So much for his Father's claims you were of 'sweet, kind temperament.'

For a moment, he genuinely wants to throttle you for the outburst; but he swallows down the urge.

"You need to get out of those," he snaps, glowering down at you. "Or you are going to die."

Your response is a poignant little groan as you glance dizzily around the room.

Cato huffs, "There are blankets beside you, fool."

He holds up a dingy plaid throw, half fraying and stinking of stale mould. It was an assault on his vomeronasal organ, but he wasn't about to let you act the typical spoiled cunt routine of an Imperial ambassador. He would have you wrapped in it sooner rather than later, wether you liked it or not. You dying reflects poorly on him, afterall.

"T-T-Turn, p-p-please—" you say, but your stammering mangles the words into a juddering mess.

He growls, almost tempted to snarl something about 'the fucking audacity in thinking you can tell him what to do—' but acquiesces out of sheer force of will and pivots on his heel, settling into a martial line stance.

Cato can hear you struggling to wriggle free of your clothes. The whines of effort and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the almost comedic slop sound one miscellaneous article makes as it hits the rotted wooden floorboards.

Even if he's taking it to his grave, he's admittedly itching to look over his shoulder.

It's a completely degenerate urge.

But he's—he's wanted this. He's wanted this exact opportunity.

He's got it, now.

You're alone with him.

Nothing and nobody to distract or detract from your attention finally being all on him.

You make a fey little groan, and he takes that as a signal you're finished.

He rounds about-face, and, for lack of a better word, ogles the shape of your covered form.

You've dragged that pile of rags closer to the meagre fireplace, lying on it with the plaid blanket strewn over the top of you.

Even completely hidden beneath, he can see you are still shaking under the ratty thing. Even moreso than before, in all actuality. He supposes that's a good sign. It proves your feeble body is still well and keen on living.

But the suffocating concept you're bare weak, soft useless and needing pathetic underneath that scrap of fabric worms its way into his brain like a cancer.

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches.

Tearing his gaze away, he finds the embers his blade coaxed are a small flame eating away at the old timber now.

Looking back, your shivering's subsiding, but your rapid breathing is increasing; which is surely not good.

He has an idea, which definitely isn't influenced by depravity at all—shut up.

Cato tries for a moment to actually unbutton his attire. His fingers are too large, unsurprisingly. And with the body-suit, he's got no leverage of a nail or two to do away with the dainty fasteners. So, ultimately, he tears the regalia down the front, sending buttons flying—and continues to pry and rend the sopping garments off his arms and legs until they're a pile at his feet.

Then he sets about a more strenuous matter. He releases the locking mechanism at his clavicle, and promptly undoes the thick claps over his pectorals so he can pop free the catches beneath, peeling the layered material back and shucking his arms and hands loose of their constraints.

The top of his bodyglove hangs around his hips now, and he sighs. The chill is of no real annoyance to him. He's built to endure most conditions. Sure, it's cold—but Astartes run hot. And right now, he's boiling for so very many accursed reasons.

He settles on his side next to you and scuds himself to bracket the pile of fabric.

"Move closer," he bites out.

He tries not to groan when you actually do, and surprises himself when he manages to stifle the sound. Even through the blanket, he imagines his warmth is a welcome change to freezing.

"T-Thank you," you say softly, soaking in his body heat like a banal reptile under a sun's rays.

He likes hearing timidity on your lips.

He supposes it stems from his habit of humbling you. The opportunities are unsurprisingly plentiful. He often finds enjoyment hearing you back-pedal when he would cut you down for so much as genially inquiring on Astartesian discussions. Putting himself in the middle and shutting you out, even if you were welcomed in them prior to his arrival.

If you want to ask something of his Brothers, it'll be his answers.

All it ever took was a growl and a curt reminder to know your place. Then you'd fumble and take two steps back. Snipped down to size as you ought to be. Forced to suffer an ounce of the shame he feels. Oh, and then your big doe-eyes'd cast down at Cato's ceramite boots, fussing; trying to apologise to him.

In truth, it's adorable pathetic to watch.

You look so hurt.

It's an act, he's sure of it.

You play at being difficult to anger, and that makes you just that bit more grating. You've unknowingly caught him with an unfair advantage. One that his prowess as a statesman and a warrior cannot seem to scratch. He's always left feeling robbed in your presence. In a way that furiously giving in to the alien urge of palming himself afterwards doesn't ever fix. He's toey and irked to be excluded when you talk to other Astartes, but simultaneously darkly glad that you shy from such antics with him.

It's paradoxical, yes. But no, he's not a hypocrite. Though some part of him is scolding him for being one. No, he's aching to sink his proverbial claws into you—though he won't ever say it to a soul. He won't because he knows he's not supposed to have tastes such as this. A pit in his gut taunts that the stint he'd suffered in the Warp is to blame. But he's the commander of Roboute Guilliman's Victrix Guard. He is not aberrant. The sidelong, fraction-of-a-second glances Cato receives from his Primarch when you enter his office to give briefings surely mean nothing.

It's clear why you have his Father's favour, but he'll never admit that either. Aside from Guilliman's desperation to find baseline company for some strange reason. You're surely just a pet to him. Like a small rodent he pries off a little wheel and sets out in a clear sphere to roll about on the bridge, or something.

To say nothing of his brothers' behaviours.

They won't show it in a group, but he knows the Astartes beneath him preen at your every query.

It's complete lunacy.

It's heresy.

You must have somehow beguiled them all, just like you've done him.

But you're still right there—right where he wants you.

And damn it all, does he want you.

He wants—he wants you on your front, squirming underneath him. No, wait, he wants to see you—but then you'd need to be on top. He can watch, like that. Then afterwards he'll have you on your back, perhaps. Why not sideways? You're already like that, now. Or—or... who's he kidding, he'd take anything, and everything.

Throne, he's so hard he swears he is going to have a brain haemorrhage. He feels like he's already had one, honestly, for all his thoughts are hazing. It's a million leagues worse than the time you'd accidentally called him 'Lord Sicarius' by accident instead of your usual choice of 'Commander' and Throne, he'd rubbed himself raw after that.

Maybe if you weren't such a whorish little wretch, his fantasies wouldn't be running so rabid right now.

You wriggle and your half-covered back slides up against his front.

Cato's never held himself stiller in his life.

Your skin feels like fine silk to his spiralling mind; and even worse, your damnable wriggling doesn't stop. You start making little movements with your feet to try to get circulation back in them—and again, there's a fey similarity to your behaviours and some soaked rodent he recognises.

Decidedly, you've realised it's not enough and promptly jut your feet backwards between his quads. Still continuing the motions, but more furiously.

The touch is dangerously close to the cradle of his inner thighs.

He swears he actually feels the blood drain from his face in mortification. The touch is meagre, but it's real. It's more warming than any he's ever known. And of course, to add insult to injury, that blood drains straight to were he's already painfully hard—which is currently pushed against his navel, halfway jutting out of his bodyglove's zipper.

Thankfully, you withdraw yourself from between his legs and sigh again, snug.

Then, you shuffle closer.

Your rear scuds right up to the swell of his confined cock.

Cato's immediately beside himself in an instant, flying into a rainbow of emotion. First, he's disgusted. Then he's seething at the audacity—which makes him furious—and finally, he's... he's ecstatic.

He groans, raring like some rutting animal; but the sound ultimately leaves him as an angry, subvocal snarl of transhuman harmonics.

You flinch, and wriggle away sharply, and he repeats the sound again at the loss of contact. You're only a hair away from being there still, he can feel how close you are—but you remain just beyond him again.

"My—my apologies, Commander... I-I—" you blurt out, voice still a little chill stuttered, "I didn't... I didn't mean to overstep."

He inhales steadily. He notes you're doused in human stress hormones; but he's acutely aware of a honeyed smell just below the surface. It's so suffocatingly sugary it's actually hurting his nose to scent the air. It's addling his thoughts, turning his focus to mist.

He can smell you failing to juggle all the reactions and thankfully rottenly settling for the one that makes you reek of mollasses.

"Come back, shut up," he hisses. "And stay still."

Sweet-stink radiates again before you swallow sharply.

There's an eternal breath of time in which he's about to go mad with anticipation, and the instant you're slotted against him again.

Some base urgency sends him frotting forward, and the thick, leaking head of him that peaks out the top of his zip brushes against a warm cunt; all thanks to that blanket of yours having slipped loose slightly, and lo, the blessed horrid consequence.

He'd live off the way your surprised gasp makes his nerves thrill.

"Is—" you wheeze, "Is that...?"

He grimaces, unsurprised you're ever stupider than you look. Recklessly, instead of lying—instead of saying 'no, it's a combat knife,' his mouth decides he's to act the most pathologically honest town crier alive.

"It," he intones sharply, before the words "...is your fault," leave him as a rushed hiss.

A belated pause wins out for a moment, and he's mortified as he realises what he's just confessed. There's a leaden feeling at the back of his throat. One option to recover the situation is that he could just hit you on the head. What'd be a shiner of a punch to a brother would be a terminal concussion to a baseline. Then, he'd tell the Primarch, oh yes, you died. Very sad. How? To shreds. To shreds you say? Truthfully, he can't really bring any actual conviction to the plan. He wouldn't. The notion is merely a hypothetical, in a perfect world where violence solved everything. Because if you die, Guilliman will send him to an Agri-world to be some peasant's plough-puller or someshit for a few centuries—and Cato's going to kill himself before he has to suffer that indignity. Uriel would never let him live it down. He's bound to suffer the same consequences, ultimately. Even if he's got no idea what an Astartes with a sex drive would be liable to be punished for. Oh, right. Corruption. So now, there's a credible witness to his flaw and one that his Father'll believe, worst of all, and... abruptly, you reply instead of scream in revulsion, your voice a mumbled little squeak as you say, "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't think—"

"Believe me, I am well aware you lack the capacity to think," Cato cuts in, and swallows down a snort at his own mean spirited joke. He's fucked, and for some reason he's suddenly further struck by the hilarity of the bastard, warp-spawn wiles of fate and chance. May as well be hung for the sheep as for a lamb, he decides.

Your breathing gains a shallow edge, and he feels you make as if to inch away again.

"I said not to move," He growls, and keeps you flush against him—holding you there by way of folding an arm across you.

"I just... uh," you reply, "I'm just..."

Your ass grinds back against him.

There's contact, your skin against the flushed, drooling head of him that feels painfully tender—and then you ruin it by speaking again.

"Curious, I suppose...? I was of the belief the Adeptus Astartes didn't..." your voice is soft, at least; slow and distracted, "Have an appetite for... this sort of thing?"

Cato momentarily stays fixated on the breathiness of your tone, and has to remind himself he's supposed to be angry at being robbed of silence—so he grumbles, "I told you to shut your trap," and promptly smothers a palm over your mouth.

You make a noise that sounds vaguely like a mumbled curse and settle, breathing hard through your nose to compensate.

Still, your rear presses back against him.

Cato takes the gesture at face value and fusses, roughly wrenching his bodyglove down to his thighs with his free hand.

Unconfined, his cock slaps the small of your back, and he manhandles you to readjust so it glides between your thighs instead.

Everything in place, he skews his hips forward, and his eyes roll back at the smooth, sublime drag of skin against skin. It's genuine perfection, wet and soft and molten.

The little hitched breaths you steal through your nose with each roll of his hips make him grind faster. Pressing closer with each, until the abhorrent, sticky sound of him steadily fucking against you is nigh deafening.

"I go in or I stay out," he says, and he can feel his molars grate against each other as he adds, "...or I can stop."

You shake your head furiously, or at least as much as the huge mitt on your chin, maw and jaw allows.

"Then decide," he snaps. "In?"

Cato hears the cartilage in your gullet move as you swallow dryly and nod.

Chuffed with your allowance compliance, he hums—and then it's his turn to hesitate.

When he draws his hand from your mouth, he curtly says, "Stay silent," and starts as if to tell you to arrange one way, then decides against it; dithering uncharacteristically. Then, rarer yet, Cato stumbles his words as he adds, "Move on to y-your front, then."

He doesn't know why he asked for the least preferred option when he'd been deliberating over the hypothetical for so long previously but nonetheless you, miraculously, comply without complaint. And despite himself he frustrates as you roll, his cock slipping away from between your thighs.

Draped in covers, he can't see much of you aside from the shape of you slowly arranging onto your hands and knees; before your chest sinks, and your ass stays up.

Like a rabid dog, he scrambles onto his haunches and scuds over behind you.

He's not entirely sure what to do first, and harrumphs.

In answer, your back arches even further in a dangerously luring bow, a display of willingness whorishness that turns Cato's thoughts to mush. Ass up and still in the pile, covered in blankets and rags, it's painfully easy to tug you from them just enough so that a decent portion of your raised lower half is exposed to him.

All he's able to comprehend the very next instant in some hind-brain, primitive way is a shapely ass, and a pretty pink cunt.

He grabs your hip, and the size comparison is so stark his head swims. With the span of one hand, he could palm a whole globe of your rear.

He does just that, and spreads you to take a nice long look.

You've a glossy sheen of clear slick that's starting to string down where it's collecting between your labia, and Throne—it's that. That's the sweet smell. And it's all for him—you're everything he's wanted.

Inspecting, he finds the hole leaking lubricant and a much, much smaller one below it—the vagina and then the urethra, he reasons by way of thinking back on a baseline biologis graphics; and, eyeing lower to a hooded fold, he finds a swollen little nub.

Pointedly, he's got a suspicion of what it is and turns his curiosity to it.

It's an easy target for his large thumb, even as slippery as your lust has made you, and—

A shaky little keen, then your knees pull together; body curling.

"Keep your damn legs apart," he grunts, wrenching them wide, and splaying a big palm on your ass to lift you into an arch again.

He's tempted to just bask in the glory of it all, grope, smack, lick—make you beg for it until he's sure you know he's in charge. Until you're as high strung for him as he's ever been for you. But he's frenzied, and well beyond being able to linger on those broader wants; not when he's got an Ambassador to fill.

He's aware of what your clit's really for now, and keeps rolling the pad of his thumb over it until you're squirming. It doesn't take long until your hole is visibly twitching. Nothing but a sloppy, wet mess of your own whorish excitement for him, as you ought to be. Cato bites back a longing sigh as he gets the delight of watching a fresh rivulet of slick string down your thigh.

And when he works up the gall, he jams that same thumb to the hilt in your cunt.

Your insides squeeze around it, and you start shaking, then. But it's not from the cold. No, anything but that. You're warm now, and he's deliriously happy to find you're as soft inside as the rest of you looks and feels. Warp damn him, he's no better than some slavering genestealer wretch fiending for its pound of flesh.

Your smaller baseline frame makes every part of him look huge in comparison. Even his thumb is big. And you're so much less—and the fact the disparity is so glaringly obvious plays havoc with his brain; but he's got an idea. An idea that he refuses to acknowledge sounding painfully like a boarding action to him.

With little tact, he sidles up and positions himself so his tip slots right against you, while stretching your opening with his thumb.

Lining himself up with his other hand, he nudges your entrance, smearing precum in with your wetness while inching forward; sliding his thumb out in tandem with pushing his cock in—and his efforts succeed.

Cato's transfixed watching the head of himself fill the gap, sliding in—and you let out a muffled yelp, still half-buried in the blankets like some stuck animal; your thighs juddering as you suck in air.

Honestly, he's glad you've smothered yourself like that, because he can't imagine keeping it together if you were actively watching him. He thinks the stark reality of it would have him run right out of the shack. Even the idea of having your pretty damning eyes on him makes him swoon sick.

With an over-eager roll of his hips, a shiver races up his spine. But he earns a cry from you.

He takes a deep breath.

There's a twinge of pain-smell and the vaguest hint of blood in the air, but it's impermanent compared to the amount of lust.

He pushes a little more, and you ripple internally around him; making a racketing, breathless noise—twitching before slacking, and then twitching again. A few perfect little moans escaping you at last.

Abruptly, all he's able to give a fuck about is the sensation of wet and hot, and how you're finally all his—it's a strangling fit, but it's satisfying a craving bone-deep. Infinitely better than his war calloused hands.

He's so dazed by the new sensation he's massaging small circles with his fingers on your flank, humming lowly.

But the involuntary mercy didn't stop you from jackknifing when he bucks in more—each little motion seating him deeper and deeper.

He yanks you backward and you stop squirming for a moment.

When your wriggling starts up again, he holds you still with the sheer willpower only a neurotic control-freak could muster. He stops your motion, yes—but your insides also stop shivering around his cock and he's resentful of that.

Nonetheless, you make to move again then, keening and bothering him; but you're seemingly struck daft when he bottoms out at last, hitting your cervix. Your internal muscles tense on the intrusion, practically cramping on him, blinding him with ecstasy for a heartbeat as you clench down hard; and a squeak of surprise escapes you. Your legs lock stiff for a moment, air venting out your lungs in shock.

You garble out a sweet, hoarse curse that sounds more like a sob than anything.

Cato supposes the theatrics are what an orgasm on something his size does to a woman. And he finds he's appallingly keen to see and hear you do it again. Keen to feel it, too. He adjusts himself and grinds, making sure you're getting every bit he's got to give. It's no small feat of restraint from Cato to not simply drive into you with all his might like a hydraulic press.

Maybe that'll make your tight little hole cinch up again? He thinks you'd like that. No—no, you should be begging for him to keep fucking you. You should be thanking him while you're at it too, really. Thanking him for deigning to take you to begin with.

Your arch falls away to a prone slump with a muffled whine, thighs trembling, leaving him straining forward to stay in you.

He is irate at your antics, now; and his retaliation betrays it.

Cato seizes your hips and yanks you back up his cock, shimmying you a little so he's nice and sheathed and stuffing you full, nigh folded under him. Warm cunt stretched taut around the base of his thick cock, like a perfect scabbard.

He's suddenly absorbed in watching your covered form consciously trying to counter the overwhelming forward mass of him starting to drive into you like he was part battering-ram.

"Better than all those limp-dicked, bastard lordlings you've let empty in you to even chance a cushion near my Primarch's table, hm?" His tone is little more than a scathing drawl, pulling almost entirely out of you just to dip the head of himself in.

You moan into the fabric smothering you, and he holds you with a controlled desperation.

"Answer me, you little shit."

He watches you nodding desperately beneath the cover a second later, failing to get an actual reply out around your huffing and puffing.

Cato groans, "Far keener for Astartes cock, aren't you?"

You nod again, needy.

"Throne, you're pathetic," he chides harshly, delighting in the soft whine of protest you make when pulls out to the tip one last time. "All that haughty bullshit, just to turn out to be so—so easy," then he's sliding back to the hilt and starting his rutting anew, grinding into that perfect spot that has your insides shiver around him again and again. "Isn't that right? This is all you're really good for?"

Beneath him, you're too much of an insensible mess to even think about answering; and somewhere in that depraved miasma of sound, he swears you're trying to say his name.

So, understandably, he inches forward on his knees and boxes you under him. Pinning you under the span of his bulk, two big hands firmly planted either side of your blanketed head.

He can see a few strands of your hair sticking out from beneath it and he can see the fog of your breath and the tip of your nose through a tented section, and only one of your hands—clawing out at the scraps of fabric.

"Prick-dumb animal," he sneers, flagrantly showboating; trying to sound as if he's not feigning lucidity and completely at the mercy of his lust.

He drops from his hands to rest on his elbows, manoeuvring a forearm under your head to prop your chin up. He's so bent over you that your ass is practically glued to his massive pelvis.

You can't stifle yourself now.

The sounds you make when he starts ploughing into you again are unrestrained and absolutely debauched. Practically music to his ears. He can feel your saliva smearing across his arm, and he's absolutely stupefied at the mantra of 'Sicarius, S-Sicarius, Sica-ah—rius—' you start panting. To say nothing of the keening whimpers that escape when you're not crying out for him. Louder with each thrust, and warp damn it all—his edict memory is never going to let those gorgeous sounds go. He's going to fiend off you mewling his surname like a full dose of battle-chems until he fucking dies.

Cato groans and delights in the involuntary squeeze you make around his cock again; your hips skewing up into his own, meeting him.

He just wants one more thing—he wants—no, needs—he needs to hear you scream his name in that reedy voice. Telling him that you like him playing guard for you, and you're all his and you love hi—

Rather abruptly however, you're cinching down on his cock as you come again. Throne, your cunt may as well be Marneus' clenched powerfist the way you're wringing him for everything he's got. Crying out like you're inconsolable, and so painfully eager and—oh, fuck. He tries to hold off, but it's of little use. The dam cracks, and it's all too much for him far too quickly.

"You rotten w-whore—" the words leave him in between ragged, staggered pants, gritting his teeth even though it's achieving absolutely nothing. "Stop s-squeezing, I-I—"

He's finishing in you the next second and letting out a rough, unbecoming moan instead of the rest of his sentence; despite trying to muffle himself against your shoulder and save face. Emptying all his pent up spend as deep as he can inside you and rutting himself deliriously into oversensitivity. The simple feeling of it is a more profound experience than he can even begin to explain—and he's rendered daft. Fighting just to stay awake against the warm, coddling bliss running rife in his nerves as his muscles twitch.

Still trying to recuperate, he's drunk with afterglow for a few seconds. Head beside yours, sharing the same air and hurried breaths.

In his stupor, he notes that your hair smells nice even after everything. And he tuts softly, resting his eyes. Lulled by the soft sound of your hyperventilating evening out and the continuous, weak fluttering of your cunt around him, hot and tight, and still a perfect fit.

He almost understands why mortal men so frequently fought over baseline women, now.

Almost.

Because then you start squirming again.

Pointedly, he opens his eyes and begrudgingly lifts himself away, slipping free and leaving a big sloppy smear of combined fluids across your ass and thighs as he settles into a kneel.

You're still presenting yourself as Cato scrubs a palm across his face, and blinks slowly.

He glances down for a moment and swallows.

He's hard—still.

Just as ready to rut as he was to start with, despite the fact he's only just finished.

And, much like a beast in season, he genuinely contemplates another round—what would be the harm, anyways? He could be sliding himself back into you, right then, and he doubted you'd do anything but buck up to meet him. So much for some diplomatic prodigy. You're little more than a mewling wreck. And what better way to prove it than another wet layer of your mixed fluids on his cock?

A soft sound escapes you abruptly and he looks back to the place he's itching to slam back inside of.

A few fat rivulets of his cum drip out your abused entrance, but you're too well-screwed to even care, it seems.

He thumbs one of your folds aside and smiles smugly at the mess.

He's tempted to stuff his spend back into you and give you another load. Let it leak down your thighs as you pad past his men on the flagship, that'd make them well aware of who you really admire—

At that brilliant jarring thought, blazing post-clarity arrived; an abrupt and unsettling feeling. The fact he'd even—even dignified your almost Slaneeshi-tier temptation—the fact he's raring to go again—he must already reek of your lust, and you of his—and Emperor have mercy, one quick scenting betrays everything, his men would tell their Father, and—you—you groan and worm yourself back under the blanket, likely truly feeling the chill now without his body to warm you.

The urge to say something becomes almost suffocating all at once, and Cato opens his mouth—just to be interrupted by a beep.

Hesitation seizes him, and he eyes his pile of half-frozen attire in the far corner.

Eighteen and a half seconds pass and it beeps again, indicating a second for every minute of arrival estimation.

The tracker beacon has finally done it's job.

But the matter of hastily cleaning up what insanity just happened becomes the real concern now.

Suddenly stuffed to the brim with adrenaline, Cato gets to his feet with Astartesian speed. He tries to take a step but sways, almost toppling. Looking down, he realises himself; and gingerly stoically waddles marches away from you, his bodysuit stuck around his knees. There's a cupboard in the other corner, covered in a frosted cobweb that looks a little like gossamer. Rifling through it provides him little. Most of it's contents are iced through, but a bottle of what stinks like absinthe is good enough, and he doesn't think it matters what he cleans up with. He definitely does doesn't look like a servitor on broken wheels as he scuds on his heels back beside your pile. And if he suffers any more injuries to his ego, they definitely don't include him bungling a kneel and being forced to wobble down on to his haunches. It's not his fault he's mentally accommodating for power armour that, currently, isn't there.

Pausing, he pokes the mound of scraps you're under, trying to rouse you.

When your answer to his 'kinder' effort results in you whining and curling up tighter, he settles for tossing any mercy out the window with a petulant grunt; and identifies the shape of one of your legs and tugs you half-free by your ankle like a speared fish, earning a yelp as the cold assaults you.

Grabbing one of the loose rags in your pile, he saturates it with spirit and scoops you up under the hips, before starting to wipe away the evidence.

You begin thrashing almost immediately when the rag makes contact. Then you're practically yowling, "It hurts, it h-hurts—wait, wait—" and okay—yes, maybe using high proof alcohol to clean the smell and slime of his cum off your freshly fucked hole wasn't his best idea. In his defence, you're one of the most stubborn baselines he's ever met, and you should learn to handle a little pain. Secondly, booze is the only thing that stays liquid at freezing.

"Enough with the bloody caterwauling, woman," he barks, effortlessly holding you steady despite your struggling. "It's not that bad, toughen the fuck up."

When he's done with you, he's actually remorseful of the situation. Certainly not his finest choice. Because now you're sniffling weakly, fussing about the residual stinging; and then you promptly scramble back under the blanket.

"There was nothing else I could use, okay?" He says sourly, scowling at the bundle of fabric you disappear into; before tossing the soiled rag he'd used to clean you into the fireplace to ignite.

He grabs another from the pile and douses it, wiping himself off—and at last, he's finally able to start to pull his bodyglove up over his hips. Wiggling and straining to fit the thick, skin-tight material over his still very much erect cock.

From the edge of his vision he can see you've peaked your head out to watch as he fixes the sternum latch in place.

He gives you a cursory glance, but nothing more.

He ultimately expects you to look away like the mouse you are—but no, what actually happens is worse. You just keep silently raking him with an expression that makes him feel like he's made of glass and every secret he's ever had or ever known is laid bare.

He can't stand it.

It makes Cato want to sneer at you fiercely in the hopes it would scare you off, remind you he's an exemplar of the Adeptus Astartes and shouldn't be stared at—something, anything except that look.

"Get up," he turns sharply and snorts.

The beeping is once every two and a half seconds, now.

Two and a half minutes, then.

"You let me fuck you," he bites out.

You're sitting now. Covered in one of the larger articles of rags. A tartan, fraying thing crumpled atop you, frowning and looking dejected. Then you open your mouth to speak but promptly stop. He can tell you're trying to form a diplomatic reply, and he grumbles, fuming.

"Tell anyone of this—" Cato's well aware he's being cruel as he adds, "—and I'll wring your little neck, Father's favourite pet or not."

You finally look away.

And he finds he can't stand that either.

So, to souse his bruised ego, Cato decides he's going to burn the shack down as soon as the transport lands and you're onboard.

He also decides he's going to burn that tacky formal tunic of his too, simply because he can.

[magniloquent-raven]

What do you think of an AU where Billy lives post season 3 and gets adopted by Murray and Alexei?

They would probably have a dynamic very similar to the El and Hopper's one in season 2.

What do you think?

OOooo an anon blessing my inbox, hello 💜

I think it would be an absolute mess tbh. At least at first. Because Billy is difficult, and Murray is prickly at the best of times (and not above fighting with children lmao). Alexei might be the least confrontational of them, but he's more likely to get a kick out of all the arguing than try to stop it.

Mostly aimless rambling under the cut lol

I'm thinking no Hopper death fake-out in this AU? He never liked Billy much, despite how polite the kid always was when he got pulled over. Something about him always seemed off. But then he nearly died saving El. She pulls him aside while Billy's in the hospital, and with that serious crease between her eyebrows, tells him just enough to convince him Billy doesn't have a home to go back to. So he makes arrangements.

And like. Murray isn't exactly his first choice. But. He doesn't have a lot of options. He needs someone with the funds and the space to house an entire traumatized teenager, and it needs to be someone who knows what happened to him.

It's temporary, Hopper assures them. The kid's eighteen, he just needs somewhere to stay while he heals up and gets enough money together to get a place of his own. It won't be that much of an imposition. It's the right thing to do. Say yes, because he needs somewhere to go, I swear to god, Murray.

Billy treats Hopper doing him a favour like it's a punishment. He's sullen the whole way there. Silent in the passenger seat of the cruiser, a half-full duffel bag in his lap. He doesn't want to be back in Hawkins with Neil, but that doesn't mean he wants to stay with some creepy guy and his weird Russian roommate. He can take care of himself, and this charity bullshit is fucking insulting.

Thing is though, Billy doesn't outright say that. He doesn't talk that way to adults, as a rule. Neil's rule. He will say please and thank you, no matter how wooden it sounds. He takes his issues out on peers, not the people with power over him.

So he barely says two words to Murray and Alexei that first day. They're not exactly thrilled to have him around, so they're not getting in his business anyways. It's awkward. Billy holes up in the guest room Murray's been using for storage, and alternates between restless sleep and staring at the water-stained ceiling.

It takes three days for Murray to get annoyed at Billy's I'm On My Best Behaviour act. It's insincere as hell, and Murray's always hard pressed not to call people out for lying. So he prods. Under the guise of small talk, at first. He asks how Billy knows Hopper. Asks what he's planning to do once he's healed up more. Mentions that Max has called like four times and Billy has yet to even check the messages.

Which. Does not go over well. Billy knows what he's doing, Neil does it all the time. Asking pointed questions, hoping to get a rise out of him. If Billy reacts he has a reason to punish him. If Billy breaks, he's not strong enough, not good enough. He needs a firmer hand, more discipline. But just because Billy knows doesn't mean he can stop himself from snapping, lashing out, getting angry and defensive and sneering.

And then he braces himself for the fallout. A belt, a hand, an insult. Punishment for not keeping his mouth in check. It's instinct, getting keyed up, waiting, waiting...

For a hit that never comes. In fact, Murray seems relieved. Delighted. "Fucking finally," may have been his exact words.

So Billy's just wound up over nothing, without direction he's snapping at shadows, flinching and biting. But no one seems to mind the teeth.

They argue a lot after that. Billy and Murray. Over music being played too loud, and whether Billy's allowed to drink when he's still got hospital stink on him, and dumb, inconsequential shit like that. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it's Murray saying too much and Billy tasting blood. Sometimes it's Billy getting pushy and entitled, using his scars as an excuse to take up more space than he was invited to.

Meanwhile Alexei just seems to be along for the ride. Billy teaches him some English swear words (mostly by accident and then definitely on purpose) and Alexei returns the favour. They are both absolute menaces when Murray declares he's going grocery shopping, and they've taken to teaming up about it. Murray is this 🤏 close to kicking Billy out after Billy introduces Alexei to Metallica and discovers that he likes it.

And then there's the gay thing. Like. Murray and Alexei aren't hiding their relationship, they decided it would be too much work and if the kid had a problem with it he could find somewhere else to live. But they're not super obvious either, just. Naturally. So it takes Billy a minute to realize. In his defence, he's got a lot going on.

It's not a huge grand reveal, he just sort of. Notices some things. And then puts the pieces together. And then panics. He spends the entire day after his revelation hiding in the guest room. Panicking.

He doesn't know why exactly it terrifies him so much. He doesn't have to hide from Neil anymore, and barely anyone even knows he's alive, it's not like there's going to be rumours going around about Billy shacking up with some old gay dudes. But he feels exposed anyways. Self-conscious. He starts to wonder if Hopper knew somehow, and that's why he's here. Maybe the girl who was in his head has been going around telling people about him.

The next day, he manages to come out of his room, but he isn't over it. They notice him acting weird, despite how hard he tries to keep it under wraps. Alexei figures it's a PTSD thing, they all know Billy has nightmares. He's entitled to some off days.

But Murray clocks him. Because of course he does. He flinches when Alexei touches Murray's shoulder, briefly, innocently, but Billy has to look away and that's when Murray realizes.

Not the why of it, not at first, but he realizes that Billy's being weird about their relationship. And he doesn't handle it the best. He's started to like the kid, is the thing. Billy's a pain, and he's an awful little brat, but he's grown on him. Like a hissy little cat that never lets you pet it. It's not nice, but sometimes it does cute little cat things and you're endeared anyways. Billy can be funny, sometimes. He helps out around the house but pretends not to. And he's unexpectedly smart.

And now he's being. Like this. And maybe it sort of hurts. So maybe Murray says some things he shouldn't. Pointed comments, from what Murray knows about Neil he's sure that's where this came from, and he doesn't hesitate to let Billy know that. Billy might've moved states to get away from his father but it looks like he might've brought him along for the ride anyways.

Which obviously does not go over well. And it's the way Billy responds, his fear and the cadence of his anger. That has Murray saying "Oh, this is a self-hatred thing." Without thinking.

It's the first time Billy cries in front of them.

It's not for long. A moment of shock, and tears slipping down his cheeks, he's there just long enough for them to see his face before he bolts, and locks himself in the guest room.

They don't ever really talk about that whole conversation. Not outright. It takes weeks for things to go back to normal. Billy's back to not saying much of anything, and Murray feels guilty enough not to push about it. Alexei's trying to mediate, for once, but it doesn't help. Everyone involved is too stubborn to take advice.

Months later, when Billy's a little bit drunk and a little bit sleep deprived, he finally admits out loud that Murray was right. Entirely out of the blue.

They still don't discuss the fight, not directly. They just. Talk. About growing up queer. About parents. It's a little stilted. A little awkward. But it's a turning point. And it's good.

misc. thoughts:

Alexei helped open the new gate and is therefore a little bit responsible for what happened to Billy? When Alexei realizes this he starts coddling Billy to make up for it. It's little things at first, buying him sweets and letting him choose what they watch on TV, but Billy starts to notice him walking on eggshells and gets irritated, pushing to see where this sudden grace will end. He kind of just assumes he's being treated this way because of his injuries, but when he eventually finds out who Alexei actually is and what he did shit kind of blows up. Billy straight up leaves the house for the first time since he moved in. Just walks out. Alexei tells Murray what happened and Murray gets angry at Billy, only realizing later (after Billy comes back, at like 3am) that he was so pissed because he was worried

Hopper has no idea that Murray and Alexei are together, and part of the reason Murray was so annoyed about taking in another stray is because babysitting would cut into the time he can spend with his boyfriend

Everyone in Hawkins (except the main characters) thinks Billy is dead, and this has been really hard for Max. Neil left, and she's glad he's gone, she's glad Billy's away from him and that her mother doesn't have to deal with him anymore. But it's also extremely difficult to watch her mother grieve both Billy and her marriage.

Briefly considered making that thought Billy had about Hopper putting him up with Murray and Alexei because of the gay thing actually true

[captainpoopweinersoldier]

An Acquired Taste | Jake x FReader

Synopsis: You bring Jake to Long Island's Oyster Fest

Tags: Voyeurism if you squint, with a light dash of angst; Alcohol consumption; Smoking

Words: 9.3K

And thank you to @ursulaismymiddlename who deals with my Jake fixation with nothing but grace.

Link to AO3

There’s not much of a fully formed memory left over from the previous night, except for the little inconsequential detail that it was meant to be an early one. 

It had been a typical Saturday evening shift. Fast-paced, stressful, and with the forever presence of snobby clientele. Though, in the restaurant's defense, most of the work week flowed with a similar rotation. But last night was the first Saturday in years you wouldn’t dare keep track of where the Sunday that followed was a day off, and apparently that translated to being amenable to the notion of getting fucked up.

That wasn’t the plan originally. Originally, you were meant to call it immediately after closing. You didn’t even dare to attempt partaking in shift drinks, simply vanished to the lockers to stuff any dirty laundry in a bag because dammit you’d get an early start to said day off and be able to freely partake in a chore and the event you had taken the day off for in the first place. 

That was until a certain bartender asked if you’d be going to Home Bar, and fuck if he didn’t have a face you could say no to. 

You’re sat next to him now, feeling like a teenager as the pair of you among a crowd of strangers get crammed onto a school bus headed for downtown Oyster Bay. 

“Is someone a little too hungover?” he murmurs into your ear. And maybe it’s not just the bus that makes you feel like an adolescent girl. The seats are too narrow, meant for literal children. And Jake is practically on top of you in the small space.

When you glance up at him, the rim of your sunglasses brush the sharp-edged jut of his cheek and, in your stupor, you try desperately not to stare at his lips. 

You grin reassuringly, even if the chatter surrounding you seems a little too loud at the moment. It’ll get better once you’re let outside and don’t have the odor of pervasive burning rubber and oil combined with the heady scent of him flooding your senses, you’re certain. “I’m fine, came and got you didn’t I?” 

He tilts his head back in appraisal, lips slightly parted as he considers his response. Unlike you, sunglasses don’t cover his eyes, so the striking blue hue of them is a perfect sea struck by sunlight anyone could drown in. 

“Good,” he settles on. Then somewhat reluctantly adds - “Because I uh -” there’s a huffing noise akin to a chuckle that hones your attention more than anything thus far. It’s sheepish, almost. “I’m actually. I’ve been looking. Forward -”

“Holy shit.”

“Don’t fuckin’ say anything.”

You bite your lip to temper the expression growing on your face. “Is - is Jake excited about something?” 

“No,” he says quickly. But his voice is soft, so soft in fact that you can barely hear it over the sliding doors of the bus slamming to a close and the engine revs, beginning its departure from the local train station. Jake shifts in the seat; consequentially pressing you closer to the window and his eyes dart around and he can deny all he wants but it’s weak and you don’t believe him in the slightest. You can’t help but wonder when was the last time he’d gotten out of the city. Away from the restaurant, or had maybe done something he truly enjoyed that goes against the fucking thick facade he dons daily.

But when his gaze seeks out yours once more, it’s almost like he can read your thoughts. Get the gist of your own excitement for him, the hangover actively taking a steady backseat to the fact that you’re treating him to something with such good effect. He visibly relaxes, eyes flitting about your face. 

“Don’t talk.” 

You’ll take that. Perfectly content with spending the ride watching the town pass by through the window with him comfortably pressed against you. A win’s a win.

~

It’s right in the middle of October, and as much as you love living in the city, one of the few things you actually miss about Long Island is witnessing the more flush change in season. Summer weather is a thing of the past, bleeding into the picturesque full bloom of autumn. What was green is now vibrant yellows and luscious reds. When it’s bright and sunny like today, the temperature is just warm enough that one doesn’t need a coat, and then fades into cozy crisp air under the blanket of night. 

IIt’s your favorite time of the year, and just so happens to coincide with Oyster Fest. 

The annual festival practically shuts down the entire town while thousands of people flock in attendance. Traffic is barely more than a halted complete stop, there isn’t a lick of parking for miles, and sidewalks brim with activity as bars, restaurants and shops all remain open for business, and the swarm only thickens once the bus deposits its passengers between a clearing of town parks and baseball fields located directly beside the Bay. 

To the immediate right are typical fair attractions; cheap fried foods and beer, a Ferris Wheel among other classic yet suspiciously rickety rides, including a Funhouse and the Zipper. Scattered snugly among them are grids of carnival game stations and - at this early hour of the afternoon - it is entirely overrun with families and groups of teenagers. 

But straight ahead lies the main attraction. Metal barricades form a path that leads the crowd, and you with Jake in tow, to the cleared out lots ahead. Except it’s not so clear now, quite the opposite. The heads of dozens of booths stick out atop the throngs of people. Each one ran, you know, by various vendors from all over the tri-state area, and each one selling anything from varieties of food, to homemade goods and trinkets. 

The layout is roughly the same as you remember and the medley of aromas make you salivate. Being hungover is a bygone thing and instead, your stomach growls with a not so subtle rumble thanks to opting against breakfast that morning. You pass a knowing look over your shoulder, eyeing Jake with interest, only to find delight in the way he surveys the landscape of food, drink, and the sparkling view of the Long Island Sound posing as a charming backdrop to it all.

“Oysters for days, but I’m assuming you want to hit that first?” 

The hint of a rare, genuine smile is nothing short of chuffed before he’s even looked at you, and when he does, it’s as he draws on a pair of shades.

“Desperately.” 

Maneuvering through the herd of people is no easy feat. It’s all high energy and excitement; even at a distance from across the lot, the voice of a miked up emcee booms from the main stage and an audience roars over an oyster eating or shucking competition. Queues are nearly indistinguishable as you pass through a section dedicated to gumbo and jambalaya, clam chowder and lobster bisque. You almost trip over a leashed dog and instinct makes you reach a hand out behind you, not wanting to get separated, and Jake takes it without question, letting you steer him ahead. 

The soft weight of it feels so natural tucked around yours that it barely becomes a distraction like it might’ve in any other circumstance. Not until you reach the tented area closest to the pier. There’s a swirling assembly line of people waiting to approach it like they would a ride in a theme park and you sidle in once a gap reveals itself. Only then do you fret over having to let his hand go because - well - you don’t particularly want to.

"Uh, hello?"

And just like that, the moment is over. Both of your heads simultaneously turn toward the sound of the annoyed voice and find a group of boys behind you. The one in front gestures vaguely, eyebrows raised as he huffs impatiently.

"There's like, a line going on here? You have to wait in line."

The snappy intrusion was annoying on its own, but now you're fucking hungry and mere moments away from delicious relief; you stiffen at the accusation with a flood of irritation.

"The fuck's it look like we're doing?" you snap back without hesitation. 

Jake snorts at your outburst, but otherwise it appears to be effective as the guy's body language seems to relax.

"Shit, alright. My bad."

You scoff and turn back around to catch up to the pace of the line ahead, and when you stop, Jake presses close enough to your backside that he can lean down to speak subtly along the rim of your ear. 

"You're either very confident, or you just totally cut the line without realizing."

"Hm?" His deep voice makes your skin tingle, a sensation you’ve well practiced to endure over time. "Wait. What?"

"I mean, I don't fuckin' mind. That was kind'a cute. I think you scared him."

"Are you serious-?" 

You chance a glance back, grateful for wearing sunglasses so that you can look around inconspicuously. And sure enough, the line continues much farther back than where you started. Significantly farther.

"Oh my god, I swear I had no idea-"

"Shhh.. Just keep walking," Jake's hands are on your shoulders with a gentle nudge forward, not remotely trying to contain his amusement while you flush with mortification. "We're committing now."

Indeed you are, but quite frankly - and yes, cutting is bad, it's rude, you'd tell anyone off for doing the same - it ultimately works out for the best and with very little regret because a moment later, you're blanketed by the shade of the expansive tent.

Beneath it lie rows of picnic tables, one after the other, and dozens of volunteers flit around in a blur of quick movements as oysters come piling in on trays by the (literal) boatful. They work in practiced motions, cleaning and shucking and plating the morsels, while others working the counters tend to visitors and shuffle around whole wads of cash. 

It's a five for five deal, and the operation is so speedy that before you know it, you've handed over a ten dollar bill and come away with two plates and a lemon slice each. There’s a condiment station just outside the tent’s perimeter, and while Jake walks past it - you know he prefers his oysters straight up - you stop for hot sauce and a dollop of horseradish, some napkins and a fork just in case. 

He meanwhile moseys over to a space out of the way of foot traffic over by the pier, making for quite the sight. And by it, you definitely don’t mean the water. Jake is dressed in his usual attire, a leather jacket and jeans combination. But today he surprised you with a button up-shirt printed with a variety of colors woven into wild patterns that somehow manages to actually work, and it’s up for debate if it’s because of the shirt itself or because it’s him. When you’d arrived at his apartment earlier, you’d done a triple take, unable to recall ever seeing him wear color at all - which of course was received with a smartass remark. 

But the sunlight reflected off the surface of the water casts Jake in a perfect halo as if he’s being showcased. Skin opalescent in its brightness, throat bare to the mild air as he tilts his head back and raises an oyster to his rosy-pink lips. 

You were fucked, but you save face as you approach, content to be happy with how he appears to be enjoying himself while he too balances two plates on one hand.

“They meet your exceptional standards?” you sass.

“Yes,” he states, simple and firm, and you finally take the pleasure of digging into your own. 

With the slice of lemon, you squeeze a healthy trickle of juice over the shells, poke a morsel with a fork to be sure it’s properly shucked, then pick the first one up. Your mouth is already watering by the time it reaches your lips and you knock it back with a gentle slurp. It greets you at once with a flavor both briny and sweet, mingling with the spicy tang of the hot sauce, lemon and horseradish, all wrapped up with a pleasantly refreshing chill that resonates deep within your gullet. 

“Better than the restaurant,” he continues; your mumbled agreement is unintelligible as you rush for seconds. “Better than the Cape, though?” You peer up at him suspiciously, slowly chewing around your next mouthful. He’s starting to reek of mischief and tilts his head in mocking consideration. “I don’t know, can’t make up my mind.” 

“Is someone sounding a little competitive?” 

Jake grins and you’re relieved his eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. “Of course not.”

“This is because of the clam chowder, isn’t it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lies, bound to have seen the booth.

You mull over a response and suck down another oyster. “I suppose a lobster roll is out of the question?” 

“I didn’t say that.” He suddenly steps closer; you need to crane your neck a little higher to look up at him, and then his hand closes the distance between you. His thumb grazes somewhere below the curve of your lip, swiping at some wayward remnant of lemon juice or briny moisture or who cares what, only to draw it back to his mouth where he flicks at it with the tip of his tongue. “I’m still hungry.”

~

Not a single coherent thought graces your mind with its presence, and if possible he seems further delighted by this. He lights up with a smile before grabbing your hand, and it’s a struggle to find your footing and keep the rest of your oysters upright when he drags you along. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Once some proper food is in your stomachs, it’s decided that splitting up is the best option to cover more ground. Oysters may flow constantly throughout the weekend, but historically it’s not unheard of for other vendors to sell out of supply before the day is over. And as the crowd only peaks as the afternoon goes on, Jake is surprisingly up to task and it is.. Nice.

When it comes to the restaurant, there is no doubt that with the long hours, post-shift late night outings, and occasionally the spaces in between, that those you work with consume the majority of your life. But Jake is.. Different. Admittedly, he’s an asshole, with a wickedly dry sense of humor and a passing dislike for the general public. Things you aren’t necessarily opposed to. Things that, admittedly, you have in common. You like him. He’s an actual friend. It just so happens that sometimes you want him a little bit more than that. 

It is a fact that you are more than content to deal with, even if today makes it more of a challenge. Today is more than the shared cigarette breaks and the moments of hiding out in the walk-in, and it feels a far cry still beyond those late night outings with the rest of the crew. This is proper fucking bonding and perhaps it would be less daunting if Jake didn’t appear to be enjoying it so fucking much.

You take turns holding a place in line while the other will wander off in search of something else, only to reconnect immediately after to split the reward, sharing quite literally, whether it be off the others’ plate or via an outstretched hand. The strategy sees you through to the aforementioned clam chowder (a satisfying win as Jake - who adamantly refused to approve of the creamy soup - wound up stealing the last ounce of it by snatching your wrist to guide the final spoonful toward his greedy mouth), grilled scallops and octopus, steamed mussels, and eventually a lobster roll.

At other times you merely stand aside and watch as Jake schmoozes with vendors. He asks questions with an uncharacteristic interest, oozing enough charm that they inevitably offer up a small sample of something to taste for free. 

The oyster tent remains a frequented spot. The queue has grown; has more than doubled in size since your initial stop, even as it manages to maintain the assembly line pace. Two pints of locally brewed beers are cradled close to your chest as you depart what’s considered the designated alcohol tent. It’s separated from the rest of the festival, an enormous setup that requires a stamp on the wrist to gain entry. Inside is cold beer on tap, a limited selection of Long Island wines, and a projector screen that will air this week’s Sunday night football. The crowd packed inside is far from small.

You bob and weave your way back to where Jake waits, ready to purchase another ten or so oysters (you both lost count after thirty), slipping through a thicket of people so dense that you focus on keeping the drinks upright, and don’t so much as notice the two young women chatting him up - until you’re just a few arms lengths away and come to an abrupt halt.

Well, fuck.

It’s being too used to seeing this type of scene play out that makes you check the time, a part of you wondering if Jake’s about to bail and disappear with the both of them. In your defense, it wouldn’t be the first time; his reputation precedes him and it certainly isn’t unearned. His ability to attract may sometimes seem beyond the point of his own control - you’ve often wondered if it comes with the territory of being a bartender - but he has never been above easily taking what’s thrown his way either.

Their appearances likely mean little to Jake, he’s nondiscriminating that way. But upon second glance, you are all too familiar with their type. One of them is a tall brunette, the other a softball-built-yet-petite blond. Both clad head to toe in yacht club gear: pleated shorts and polo shirts, brown leather boat shoes. Even their headbands practically match in bright elastic shades of pastel. 

They’re North Shore girls. And a guy like Jake tempts in the form of parental rebellion and a potential connect for drugs. Whatever reservations you briefly experience are brushed aside, and now there’s little hesitation as you sidle up beside him, interrupting their conversation with a light nudge against his elbow. 

“Your beer,” you announce, with eyes only for him. 

Jake looks down at you, head cocked with a knowing grin. There’s something soft there too, difficult to see through the sunglasses, but you can sense it nonetheless. 

“Thanks, babe,” he says, voice a gentle rumble. He takes the beer and before you know it, his arm is wound across your shoulders and he leans in, ducking down until those rosy lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. 

There are few times you find yourself grateful for drunken mishaps of the past, and this split second happens to be one of them. For if you hadn’t kissed Jake prior to this, hadn’t felt the silk of his lips caught in a suspended moment of pleasure, perhaps the effect could melt you to your knees. As it stands, your lashes flutter across the tips of his cheeks. Without bidding, your mouth responds, drifting along the seam of his, and it’s lucky he moves with it even if it’s smugness you sense that drives him. 

For a second you almost manage to forget what’s brought this on, but then there’s that prickling sensation of being watched. By a pair of ogling stares, specifically. You force yourself apart from Jake and clear your throat, grateful your voice is stronger than you could’ve guessed as you survey his current company. “Making friends?”

The girls emit enough dismay at your arrival to stroke an ego, but not without a glare and a roll of their eyes. The brunette crosses her arms under her chest with a drawl of - “We were just talking,” while the blonde ignores you completely, focusing on Jake with an accusatory - “You didn’t mention -”

“My girlfriend,” Jake finishes smoothly, and you resist the urge to balk at him. “She’s showing me around her hometown.” 

“Close enough,” you retort dryly. Your actual hometown is out farther east, a little detail that matters to precisely no one at the moment. Apart from your arrival, your presence is barely acknowledged. The twin glares stay trained on Jake, put out and bitter as they half turn to catch up with the rest of the line. “Maybe we’ll see you around.” 

“That was salty,” you snark once they’re out of earshot. Though not quite out of sight, as you both trail slowly behind them. “I’m your girlfriend now?”

He doesn’t outright laugh, but from being nestled against him (his arm has stubbornly stayed in place), you can feel something close to it as he mulls it over.

 “Consider us even.”

You scoff and sputter immediately. “That was one time!” The time in question being at a disco, of all places. A creep had been harping on getting your number and then some. Everyone was too busy dancing to notice except for Jake who - thanks to his antisocial tendencies - was reliably stationed at the bar. He was more than welcoming to your advances, and the strange man left you alone after that. 

“Works pretty fuckin’ well though, huh?”

He’s not wrong, you admit, and relent a little at that. “Fine. I’ll allow it.” And if you feel emboldened by both the title of endearment and the public display of affection, well, you will simply refuse to look at it much more deeply than that… Even if, admittedly, your voice comes out a little flirty when you go on to add - “But if I’m your girlfriend, then that makes this a date and -”

Jake’s pained groan echoes inside his cup as he takes a long pull of beer. 

“And we’re at a festival which means you have to win me a prize at one of those shitty carnival games.” 

He stops short, forcing you to stop with him, and fixes you with a glare. It lasts a breath too long, but you stand your ground, refusing to give under the weight of it, when eventually -

“I fuckin’ rock at shitty carnival games.”

Your face splits with a grin, and a smirk tugs at his. 

“Guess you’re gonna have to prove it.”

~

But before any games, there is one last stop that can’t be missed: a lobster dinner for a measly twenty bucks. No such deal would exist anywhere either on Long Island or back in the city, and anyone who deemed themselves a lobster lover would be foolish to pass up on the offer. One that likely wouldn’t last much longer this late in the day.

So when you manage to anxiously outlast the line, you’re grateful once you both walk away with a plate each in hand, and for the last iota of room in your belly that still has an appetite. 

The both of you assume a spot at a picnic table - few and far between, and shared with a trio of friends who occupy the opposite half - with Jake perched on top of it, and you sat on the bench beside his legs. In near silence now as you chow down as if eating hasn’t been the sole productivity of the day. The lobster is perfectly steamed, not dry, an error all too easy to make, and with a half-ear of corn and quarter-pound cup of melted butter as accompaniments.

There is a nagging thought, though. One you’ve been mulling over since parting ways with the two obvious up-to-no-good snobs. You peer up at Jake while you finish chewing, already moving on to cracking open a claw, having an inner debate on whether it’s worth it or not to bother mentioning. Jake is.. Well, private isn’t exactly the correct term. In the time you’ve known him, he can be almost too open with certain topics once you get him talking. But it’s rarely too personal, the deep down nitty gritty. And depending on what mood he’s in, he’ll either shut down completely, or bite your head off.

But the day so far has turned in a direction you hadn’t predicted. It’s gone better, much better than you could’ve hoped for when you first took the plunge in inviting him to come with. And in any case, his mood is as good as you’ve ever seen it. His fingers work the lobster tail apart, lips pursed in concentration, an oily sheen to them from the butter and eventually he pauses to take a few gulps of beer. 

He looks fucking gorgeous and you can’t stand it and fuck it -

“So,” you start, noncommittally at first. And you can only tell he’s listening by the raise of his brows. “I.. can’t help but notice that. Y’know.. You didn’t run off with those girls.” 

There’s little reaction to that. The upraised brows drop, he lets out a small huff before forking a couple of bites into his mouth. “You thought I was what - that I was gonna leave you here? Have a fuckin’ coke bender with them? Get laid?” 

“Oh, I knew it!” you snap a tad overzealous. “Sorry. I fucking knew they wanted drugs. Anyway.”

Jake snorts, unbothered by the outburst. “Yeah, I’ve seen the type. They fuck you for drugs, and then their frat sized boyfriends just happen to show up. Conveniently in time to kick the shit out’a you. Rob you, obviously. I like my asshole where it is, thanks.”

You hum around a mouthful of lobster. “Sounds like you’re talking from experience.”

“Or maybe I just know a thing or two about a thing or two,” he sasses back. He takes a bite of his corn on the cob, an act that has no business being attractive and yet -

“People like that over there too, huh?” you ask out of curiosity, and he nods slowly.

“Starting to think this place isn’t too different from the Cape.” 

“Aw, I can see why you miss it so much...” Another thing you have in common; you both happen to share a resounding hatred for where you’re from. The sarcastic remark draws his attention, fixing you with a stare so amused you actually wish he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, simply to see the sharpness of his blue eyes. 

“And I, uh.. I wouldn’t leave you like that.” He speaks slower now, enunciating his words as if it might almost pain him to admit, and eventually he looks away. “I’m actually - enjoying myself. With you. Today. And I don’t feel like pretending.” 

His phrasing sprouts about a dozen or so other questions at once, spurring sudden whiplash in your mind. Interest piques to the point you have to forcibly temper the urge to press him for more, likely to ruin the moment altogether. And in any case, more importantly, lies the admitted sentiment. It's, dare you say, heartwarming. Surprising. 

But you also know that if you acknowledge it aloud, he’ll tell you to fuck off. 

You smile at your plate instead. There’s just the one claw left now. It’s your favorite part, one you would normally savor, except you realize you’ve been slowly picking it apart with your fingers into little tiny unrecognizable pieces, distracted. 

“I wasn’t gonna let you wander off with them anyway. So.”

“Is that right,” Jake asks, and you glance up at him again just to find he casts down an unnaturally bright smile. He’s teasing you. “Feeling jealous?”

“Terribly,” you drawl, but the feigned glare hardly sticks once you can hear him chuckling. “No, I just - I guess I fucking hope that’s not your type, but either way I could tell exactly what they wanted from you. And I didn’t. Want that, I mean.”

“You were protecting me.” Jake muses, and a retort is ready at your teeth that he requires no such protection. But then the fleeting image of a certain tall blond floats to mind like an old bad dream, and you have to stomp it down before it can rise to the surface. Focus instead on quelling the angst that worries at your food. At the more pleasant low timbre of Jake’s voice, not quite done talking. You realize he’s in the middle of a thought you’ve missed the first half of only to catch the tail end. “So why haven’t we?”

“Haven’t what?” you ask cluelessly, in the midst of losing said stress to several healthy swigs of some Long Island pale ale. 

“Why haven’t we had sex?” 

It’s asked so casually, so passive and without hesitation that you choke mid-gulp. There’s a split second of panic, a flashing image of splattering beer all over yourself, and somehow you force yourself to swallow. Nothing more than a few dribbles pass the corners of your lips, and you smear them away with the back of a shaky hand. 

“Fuck, Jake,” you wheeze.

Jake doesn’t laugh at you, not out loud anyway. But there is a noticeable bounce to his shoulders. “Cool. If that’s the term you prefer. Why haven’t we fucked?” 

The glare you send him this time is real, even if it’s less impactful over the rim of your cup. You chug the rest of its contents to ease away the scratchy rasp in your throat. It’s not like you’ve never discussed sexual things with him before, being friends for a time and well - him being him, it’s sort of inevitable. It’s just never been directed toward you, or rather, the two of you together. To the point where on more than one occasion, you’ve been referred to as the girl he ‘skipped’. Equally frustrating and weirdly resonating inadequacy when you feel -

Nope. Not doing that. You slam the empty cup on the table and take the first normal, deep breath you’ve had in recent minutes.

“You’re not available,” you finally tell him.

“I’m not,” he says, clearly disagreeing. 

“Not in the way I need.”

He hums in consideration. “The way you need… That’s what - emotions? Romantic shit? How stimulating.” 

Also exactly the opposite of how he maneuvers through his own entanglements, and so begs the question how it could possibly pertain to you - if that really is something he’s contemplated before. You cock your head at him, absolutely mystified while he’s predictably nonplussed. He drops his plate next to your empty cup, bare to the bones, before gathering the collective trash, and climbs off the picnic table to toss it away. And when he returns, it’s with an outstretched hand, beckoning.

“Let’s go. We can’t leave until I win you something.”

The irony of the situation is not lost on you as you take it, and once again let him pull you along.

~

As it happens, Jake was not kidding when it came to being good at carnival games. 

It starts at the bottle toss booth, a simple enough concept that when he wins the first round on a single throw, you assume it’s a fluke. But then there’s the second round, and the third, and a fourth for (showing off) good measure - and each time without fail, Jake knocks out every bottle on the first throw. He moves on to balloon darts after that and to your (and the booth operator’s) astonishment, Jake is an image of poise, sipping his beer while popping any balloon he aims at. 

“What.. the fuck?” is all you can say as you watch in awe. Of course, you’ve done miserably; haven’t landed any darts, and you could barely even keep up with the bottle toss. But Jake simply looks pleased with himself, providing no explanation to this hidden corner of his personality. Instead, he peruses over the strung up stuffed animals that make up his winnings.

“Which one do you want?” he asks. When you have a hard time finding your voice to answer, he picks out an oversized teddy bear and shoves it into your arms. And for a moment, he doesn’t quite let go. He blinks down at you and you curse the removal of his sunglasses, something about concentration. The icy blue practically glitters beneath the multicolored flashing lights of festival attractions, and all you can do is stand there, dumbly transfixed. 

A slow smile overtakes him. “Next loser buys the drinks.” 

Another series of wins follow in quick succession. You take turns at a variety of shooter games which, lucky for you, requires slightly less skill. Jake may still get first place, but it’s you who shouts in triumph when you don’t come dead last in a water gun race. 

The classic ring toss is the only obstacle that gives him a challenge. A few dollars spent gets a large bucket of little discs that have technically been made to fit around the mouth of a liter sized bottle, but they never quite stick the landing. Jake insists the strategy is all in how it’s thrown, and though he has his own handful of misfires, eventually he smoothly tosses the rings like he would skipping rocks and lands several back to back. 

It’s impressive enough to warrant some cheers from onlookers; other players who are about as successful as you in their attempts. All the while, Jake’s gloating is a quiet kind; he tilts his head and bats his eyelashes at you, and frankly you’re too astonished to mind.

“You’re like, amazing,” you tell him. 

He straightens immediately like he’s been pinched, and the rosy blemish that suddenly warms his cheeks is all the smug victory you need.

What started simply with just a teddy bear turns into a giraffe with cartoonishly wide plastic eyes. Then a big blue shark with felt teeth, and finally largest of all, a neon green snake with a frilly pink tongue. It's so long, it curls over Jake’s shoulders and still almost brushes the ground while he waits for you to return from the bathroom. 

It’s a sight you have to pause and photograph to memory; notoriously moody, scowling Jake wrangling cute stuffed animals in a chokehold while he smokes a cigarette. You try to keep from laughing but the alcohol in your system does nothing to help. You’re not completely toasted, no, but the buzz in your veins keeps your face flushed, and you cannot stop smiling as you make your way back to him.

The pair of you had lost complete track of time while the afternoon lost itself to twilight, and the Sound now reflects the glowing blues and purples of the sky. Nearby, the school buses are still on their rotation. Families climb on board with their children to depart for things like dinner. Most of the food vendors have closed out for the day, save for the typical carnival fare - soft pretzels, popcorn, corn dogs and such - but the Bay stays thrumming as the crowd shifts into the rowdiness of nightlife activities. 

Jake rolls his eyes when he catches you staring. “Having fun?” 

“Oh, yes,” you emphasize. “Not as much as you, though, huh?” The next bout of laughter becomes an oof! in a gust of air as he thrusts the stuffed animals at you so fast you have to keep from dropping them. Lastly is the snake, even though it suits him. He thoughtfully pulls your hair aside before tucking it around your neck. “S’that some sort’a Cape boy persona you keep locked up in hiding?” Hands full, you pucker your lips at him expectantly. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he admits. He holds the lit cigarette to your mouth and you gratefully pull a drag or two off of it. The tips of his fingers graze your lips, and his eyes flit toward the light touch. “I was.. Kind of a shithead kid back then. In a pack of other shitheads. We’d steal beer, get drunk off a forty. There was the county fair, or the harbor. Turns out I liked throwing things.” 

It’s a rare detail of his adolescence you’ve never heard before, and you’re cradling a stack of stuffed animals. 

“What about you?”

“I sucked.”

“Wasn’t gonna hold that against you. Makes me look better.”

“I, uh, I would try to find out how much funnel cake I could eat before riding the Zipper without throwing up.”

Jake hums with delight, brows almost disappearing into his hairline. “We could go try that right now.” 

“I did actually. Get thrown up on. By my friend. People could see it from the outside, it was - we don’t have to.” 

For the first time today, Jake laughs. It’s boisterous and at a higher pitch than one could expect, and you love it even if it’s caused by the image of you covered in vomit. It makes a small part of you not want the day to end; this pocket of time where it’s just you, and not the stifled air and bull shit drama of the restaurant. But there’s still the trek back to the city, a bus and a train to catch, and at the thought of it small ounce of dread fills your stomach because fuck -

The LIRR is packed. 

You should’ve predicted as much; it’s not only the Long Island residents that need to get home,  but it’s been a minute since you made such a commute, after an event no less, to have considered its capacity. The train has already left the station, streaks through the county with a steady rock and the occasional flicker of the overhead lights, by the time you manage to find a seat after an off-balance weave through train cars - a lone three seater among a sea of loud passengers.

There’s a large group of rowdy boys, college kids from the looks of it, clearly drunk and a fraction of whom are dressed in matching football jerseys. They shout back and forth at each other across the aisles and over the heads of the girls who sit among them. They make a show of snapping at them to quiet down to no avail; ultimately as uninhibited and shrill as the boys are. And music plays from an unknown source, overpowering the volume of the overhead speakers. There’s only one other quiet pair; two women who share a set of earbuds to watch a cellphone streaming from their laps.

Jake props his boot atop the armrest in front of him the moment you both sit down, a force of habit to prevent anyone else from sitting with you. He receives the odd dirty look from stragglers passing by looking for a seat, only to slouch and nestle into your side in petty retaliation. It’s oddly satisfying, like you can hold onto the illusion of being alone with him just a little longer. 

But they keep shuffling through, and a dirty look evolves into an ahem and an eyeroll, and someone even pauses a second too long, and Jake takes it a step further. You were content to feign ignorance, staring out the window while the exchanges played out, but suddenly he’s dragging your arm over his shoulders. He angles toward you, a warm hand slipping around the curve of your thigh, and then his mouth finds the crook of your neck. Your breath hitches as it tucks itself there, trailing feather light kisses along your skin. 

There’s an audible “Oh, whatever,” and receding footsteps and you can feel him smile into your pulse point.  

“Is that totally necessary?” 

“Mhm.” He withdraws but doesn’t go far. Merely tilts his head back, shifting within the circle of your arm until you’re perfectly level with each other. It’s intoxicatingly close; the tip of his straight nose a hair’s breadth away, his eyelashes a dark blur over his cheeks. You can smell him this close. The smokiness of cologne or body wash, and a hint perhaps of something sweet like shampoo. “I don’t wanna share. And your furry little friends weren’t doing the trick.”

“And kissing me was your call to action, huh?” 

He shrugs noncommittally. “Proved effective. Unless they happened to be into watching random strangers fool around. Not that I mind, but -”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing?” you ask dryly.

“I could be. Open to that.” He licks his lips and you gaze steadily back, trying (with futile effort) not to fluster as he smirks. Acutely aware of the hand on your thigh, how his thumb strokes absentmindedly along the inseam of your jeans, stoking something inside that’s growing harder to ignore. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” 

You scoff, momentarily relieved with the urge to laugh. “If this is about the damn disco again -”

“Actually I was thinking of that time in the walk-in.” 

“.. Ah, yeah. That.” As it turns out, mishaps of the past don’t exclusively refer to isolated incidents. You just refuse to dwell on those moments, knowing they’ll never amount to more than just having fun for Jake. Not that there’s anything wrong with that - your heart skips a beat from simply recalling the memory. But feelings.. Complicate things. 

You’re not going to dwell on that now, either, though. Not when there is little subtlety in the way you both inch closer together. Not when you can feel his breath on your lips. Jake’s head tilts, the bridge of his nose brushes along yours. Attraction thuds in your veins to the point that it’s a chore to find your own voice. “So, what you’re saying is, you’ve become one of my bad habits.”

He makes a noise of amusement, closing what minute space is left between you. “It doesn’t have to be bad.” 

“I said - tickets, please.” 

The conductor’s voice jolts you like being snapped out of a trance. It’s a rude awakening - both the intrusion itself, and the jarring transition back into reality. It’s no wonder neither of you heard the first request. Now an actual football is being lobbed around the train car. A chorus of voices sing along to the music blasting, competing with the echoes of multiple conversations occurring at once. Has it been this loud the whole time?

You disentangle from Jake who appears mostly unbothered but for the slightest of sulks as he reorients himself. He pats around his pockets until fishing out two train tickets from his jacket, then hands them over to the conductor. You watch the scene unfold, baffled. It’s quite possibly the most mundane fucking thing that could be happening right now. 

Once the conductor moves on to the next row, you coo sweetly at Jake. “Aw, hon, thanks again for the ticket.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles, then reassumes the position as if the moment had been merely paused. He reaches for you, slipping a hand around the back of your neck, his thumb teasing along your earlobe, and even if it weren’t for the way his mouth seals seamlessly over yours, you’d still be melting instantly. 

You release a trembling sigh, eyelids fluttering closed at the feel of him yielding as the kiss deepens. Jake’s lips part over yours and you open for him immediately, groaning helplessly when he licks into your mouth. The remnants of cheap beer and cigarettes evaporate into something entirely, pleasantly him. The headiness of his spit, the furl of his tongue. It’s dizzying, and arousing. Your surroundings fade back into white noise yet adrenaline surges through your limbs, leaving you to clutch at him desperately. Seeking purchase in the fabric of his shirt, a sleeve of his jacket, anything you can reach, and one can only assume he warms to the notion from the way his body gives.

He surges even further into you, pressing you as far back as you can go without meeting resistance, and just as you worry the twist of your spine to accommodate might grow tiresome, a series of long dragged out squeaks wheezes from the nondescript pile at your backside.

“Not quite the response I was looking for,” Jake murmurs between kisses.  “Gonna make me regret winning those for you, huh?”

“Not on your life,” you retort, voice a breathless thing. You gaze up at him, swallowing hard at the sight of him like this; pupils dilated, darkening the shade of his eyes with dramatic effect when the lights flicker again. You graze your fingertips over his lips, spit-slick and swollen, then smile and try to tease with - “Think I might just name one after you-”

The thought is abruptly cut short when his mouth descends upon yours once more. His thumb presses into the hinge of your jaw, tongue slipping greedily along yours the moment you part for him. Hungrier this time, as if each interruption only makes him more impatient. His hands quickly trade places; one cups the back of your head, keeping you stubbornly in place as he steals the air from your lungs. While the other threads down the scope of your torso, breezes over your hip and maneuvers beneath your legs and - the comfort is an instant relief when he pulls them over his lap. 

It gives him freer reign this way. You arch into his touch as his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and he breaks the kiss with gasping breaths. Seeks reprieve in the curve of your jaw. Not remotely dwelling on the wanton display that anyone could simply look over the edge of their seat only to witness him finding the sensitive spot of your throat where his lips pucker and suck, the noises he makes shooting sparks of pleasure deep in your belly. 

“Jake,” you warn through clenched teeth. It’s not so much that you want him to stop - quite the opposite while you try to resist writhing over his lap. It just might make for a small problem while you’re on a fucking train. 

But he makes a disapproving sound, something like a huff in your ear, then sharply nips something fierce around your skin. You lurch despite your efforts, let slip a strangled moan. Then he soothes the mark with the heated drag of his tongue, and you’re melting all over again, whimpering as his breath raises goosebumps along the trail of saliva.

“Just like that.” His voice is breathy, muffled as he kisses his way back up the line of your jaw. “Is that what you like?” 

Fuck, you want him. Little thought is spared on anything but him as his hands never quite stop moving, from grazing your bare rib cage to grabbing your ass. Your needy fingertips card through the black mess of his hair, tearing him back to your mouth, and Jake fulfills. Kissing you hard and slow. Growing bolder as he feels you squirm for any semblance of relief. His touch slips down your belly, curls along the zipper of your jeans. And when his hand sinks between your thighs, the last fleeting, coherent thought you do have is that at least no one will be able to hear a single sound you make. 

~

A transfer at Jamaica and a subway ride later finally sees you back to familiar streets. It's well into the evening now, the cityscape lit up with its typical bright neon glow. It floods the sidewalks while you walk, milling through an altogether different type of crowd as you make way for the restaurant. 

It’s almost inevitable, winding up there every night. Regardless of the complaining, the more-often-than-not haughty guests, Howard managing with his quirks, the restaurant remains a single constant for most of the staff, and even on a rare day off, you still come crawling back to its doorstep. 

The sight of its stoop on the street corner, well lit beneath its overpriced lanterns, makes it almost seem like a typical Sunday. The main difference being that your arrival isn’t usually accompanied by an armful of stuffed animals. Nor do you make a habit of reporting to work while painfully horny. The walk has done you some good in that respect; it feels like you’ve been properly, thoroughly edged. 

The ride on the train took a turn you.. weren’t expecting - though it certainly made for a way to pass the time. It’s as if you can still feel Jake’s lips on yours, still taste a remnant of him. Like the very scent of him has buried itself somewhere deep inside your lungs. The aforementioned makeout sessions do not hold a candle to what has just occurred, as mostly over the clothes as it was. Voyeurism isn’t really your thing, and though you wouldn’t hold it past Jake to be up to task, it was the closest you’ve toed a line in that territory, and you feel - you feel. That cliche spark, that flutter in your chest as powerful as the ache of arousal in your belly.

It wasn’t just the kissing, either. It was the heavy petting, it was the talking in between. Telling Jake about your first broken bone, learning how he split his chin open skateboarding when he was a teenager - still has the scar that’s hidden by the usual scruff of his facial hair. You wonder if he feels it, too. Felt anything at all or if it was just having fun, which, to reaffirm to your current overthinking state of mind, is still okay. 

You chance a glance at him walking beside you, his own expression unreadable as ever as he smokes another cigarette. Just moments ago, his lips were kissed swollen. His pale skin heated with a flush that ran low beneath the collar of his shirt. And now, the only remnant left behind is the muss of his hair.

But the restaurant inches closer. Service is over by now. The both of you could walk inside, join those partaking in shift drinks, wind up at a bar later, then go your separate ways. Or you could.. ask for more. See if there is an ounce of weight to what he brought up earlier. His pace slows short of making it to the entrance, intent to finish his cigarette, and now is as good a time as any. 

“Hey, so -” you suddenly remember the stuffed animals cradled in your arm, and for the second time tonight feel a little foolish. But there’s still some liquid courage left in you yet. Some bolstered confidence from the days’ events. 

“So, I know we’ll probably go for drinks and whatnot, but later…” You’re stood between him and the building and Jake steps closer; whether to shield you both from passerby or impose with his body some more is unclear as his gazes sharpens, pinned on you while a plume of smoke cascades from his nostrils, and he raises a questioning brow. God, you are so fucking fucked but you’re smiling and shaking your head as you finish your thought. “Later, maybe you’d wanna come back to my place?” 

There’s the slightest lift to the corner of his lips. His head tilts back in appraisal.

“Okay.” 

You blink rapidly. “Okay?”

“Yes,” he enunciates with a little more gumption, appearing amused. Definitely imposing now as he moves even closer until you are nose to chest. “I’d like that. But, uh.. You should know.” He dips his head as if to kiss you again, and quite honestly, you’re not sure if you can remain standing if he does. “I’m unavailable.” 

A snort of laughter erupts from your throat, and even as he leans in, you can’t resist a roll of your eyes before they flutter closed and -

The front door of the restaurant bursts open and the moment is quickly lost to a series of recognizable voices: Ari, Sasha, Heather and Will. Scott with a few guys from the kitchen. All talking a mile a minute as they file down the stairs and swarm over the sidewalk. 

It’s Scott that notices you first. “Hey, look who finally decided to show up. Lookin’ like a bunch’a fuckin’ dorks.” He purposely knocks his shoulder into Jake’s as he strides past, tossing a vague gesture behind him. “C’mon, shitheads, I’m fuckin’ hungry!” 

“Ooh, what’s this?” Sasha tugs at the snake and drapes it around himself like a feathered boa before striking a pose. “I’m keeping this one.”

“No fuckin’ way!” you snap, just as Ari plucks the shark from your grasp.

“I thought you were going to an oyster festival,” she drawls, inspecting the toy. “Didn’t think that meant a carnival, too. I’m working my ass off all day..”

“Okay, just don’t drop them please? Jake won them for me.” You immediately regret your choice of words as they come to a complete halt. 

“Jake did what now?” Ari asks, her eyes - along with Sasha’s and Heather’s - flicker up at him in genuine shock. Will merely chuckles as he passes, trailing after Scott and the crew. 

Jake’s face stretches with a dry smile. “Fuck off, Ari.”

“Y’know for someone who doesn’t date, you’re awfully fucking good at it.” 

“Jake? Good at dating? Now that’s one I’ve never heard before.”

So occupied by the current company, you had taken no notice of Simone’s approach. She’s out of her stripes, donned in her well maintained image of class. An expensive knit sweater, pressed pants. Her signature red lipstick is freshly applied, and her long blond locks are left to cascade softly across her shoulders.

She looks you up and down as she draws near, taking in your appearance but not quite meeting your eye before looking coolly at Jake. “You didn’t tell me this was a date.” 

Her tone is coy enough, but not a single one of you is under the false impression that there isn’t more underlying to what she says. Sasha makes a comment under his breath and Heather quickly jabs an elbow into his side to quiet him.

“They’re just teasing, Simone.” You snatch the shark back from Ari, feeling annoyed. Like you’re being scolded by a school teacher when you haven’t done anything wrong. “It wasn’t a date, we just had -”

“I’m glad you two had a good time,” she finishes for you, and when her gaze finally meets yours, it’s like this conversation has somehow escalated into a standoff, and each bystander lights up a cigarette during the tense pause. 

Eventually, Simone flicks her hair. “Impeccable timing, Jake... Walk me home?”

Fuck. You hate the way your stomach plummets at that.

You look up at him, clinging to some notion that he’ll deny her just this once, that he has felt something, that he wants to see the rest of the night through. That he wants - you.

But at the very moment you see his face, you know that’s not happening. For a second, he looks back at you, mouth hanging open around unspoken words. And when Simone calls his name again, you watch him shut down completely. 

“Sure,” he intones.

“Alright, c’mon babygirl.” Sasha grasps you by the arm in effort to tug you away. Follow after Will and Scott who’ve likely made it a couple of blocks down the road by now. 

You falter on the first step as if you’d been glued to the spot, stubbornly staring at Jake, trying desperately to swallow around the sting of disappointment and rejection so it’s not plain for him - or anyone else - to see.

You think you manage to tell Jake ‘goodnight’, but then your back is turned on him and you let Sasha steer you away with the girls.

The three of them link arms with you tucked somewhere in between. It’s apparent you’ve done well steeling yourself; there’s a bounce to their steps as they carry on as before, talking one over the other with no regard to whatever the fuck it was that just occurred. Onward to what you can only hope is a repeat of last night, with little left over to remember come morning.

[goodshipskypirate]

Noooooo, don't leave! Why do all my favorite characters go? ;_;

Seriously though, I am fascinated that the game, again, acknowledges Resh'an's biggest flaws: he thinks in a much wider picture. This world is inconsequential if it means he can't do anything about it here. So off he goes, right to the next one so he can try and stop Aephorul.

To him, this is a necessary evil. He's so much more than the regular folks living in their respective worlds, minding their own business. Resh'an has seen too much and traveled many, many times over the course of his endless life that it just does not matter; he is not their friend and they're just people for him to step on for the greater good.

To them, he's a callous jackass who didn't learn shit and didn't seem to have any care for the people in his lives. Were they not friends? Did he not enjoy their company? No nakama?

But perhaps it wasn't completely for naught. Resh'an said their journey together was "refreshing", indicating a being who can still learn and maybe become a better person than he knows he's not (but tries and justifies it anyway.)

I'm sad as fuck that he's gone and we're stuck with a puppet, but I guess this means whatever Game #3 is for Sabotage Studios means we'll likely see more of him and I'm jazzed.

...But man, it still stings he leaves the party. Christ, I did it again. I get attached to a fictional character and they're time is short-lived. Dang it!

[frostyreturns]

Frosty Reviews Idiocracy

This is one of those movies that people kept telling me I needed to watch because it seemed like a movie I’d like. Now that I have seen it I have no idea how this movie escaped me before now. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I even knew it existed and I just never saw it available anywhere. It must have been pretty low budget and didn’t have the marketing power behind it but even still it seems to have a cult following. I like most everything Mike Judge does so it should have been a no brainer.

It’s a dumb comedy but if a dumb comedy was a fairly accurate speculative dystopia. The idea is people are just going to keep getting dumber and dumber until one day a know nothing dumbass from our time would be considered the smartest man in the world. Part of the reason for the speculation is the idea that stupid people reproduce a lot while smart people reproduce very little. I have a bit of an issue with this reasoning…I think not reproducing is more of a midwit thing than a smart people thing. People smart enough to use protection when they are not ready…but not smart enough to figure out the benefits of a larger family and to be able to create the wealth to provide for it. The dumbing down of the world thanks to the fact that dumb people breed more is just part of the picture and the movie never really tackled the fact that we’re being dumbed down on purpose with drugs, porn, shitty education, lies, constant mindless media distractions, fluoridated water etc.

I bet if the movie was made or remade today social media especially stuff like tik tok would be prominantly featured, it’s kind of a real shame it’s not there because it would have been so perfect. I can so easily picture scenes where there’s some serious problem they need to address and the characters are just in the background doing tik tok dances instead.

I thought the movie was pretty funny but the funniest thing to me was the backstory behind the footwear. The movie was obviously super low budget which is a shame because otherwise I think this could have been a much better and more widely known and loved movie. At times the shitty backgrounds took me out of it a little. It was so low budget Mike Judge was dealing with some wardrobe stuff himself and when he was looking for footwear he asked for ugly shoes that they might wear in a future where everyone is retarded. He specifically asked that they be sure not to use anything that might become popular…the shoes they used for the movie were crocs and the wardrobe woman assured him they were so ugly there was no way they would ever become popular.

At times the joke felt like it was stretched a little thin, the premise was funny and many of the jokes were funny but there was times it felt like…maybe a whole movie wasn’t needed for this joke. The specifics of the plot were kind of inconsequential and I never felt really invested in any of the characters enough to care what happened to anyone. Particularly Dax Sheppard…I can’t stand the fucking guy but I do have to say he was cast perfectly for the role I totally believed him as a brain dead dipshit.

Most of the jokes were running gags one of my favourites was the way that the Fuddruckers restaurant slowly changed its name to buttfuckers. The whole movie isn’t just dumbasses laughing at people getting hit in the balls 24/7 there’s a subtle genius to the humour. The way the fat uninterested Costco employee greets them all by saying “welcome to costco I love you” says so much about the future he’s painting a picture of. A dehumanizing mega corporation that doesn’t even bother trying to appear like it cares and just pays an employee to just lie directly to you…stripped of all nuance and subtletey. It says they have to try less because people are too stupid to see it for what it is. There’s just something about a faceless corporation pretending to give a shit about you that feels so offputting and dystopian. I once got a birthday email from my bank and it kinda made me want to find out who was in charge of that decision and go take a shit on their desk. You’re not a fucking person don’t talk to me like you’re a person.

Some of his predictions are right on although he was wrong about Costco being the main megastore that eats up everything else and tries to be the one and only store, this was made before Amazon became basically what he was predicting costco would be. And he also rightfully predicts an oversexualization of society…his examples are silly like starbucks becoming a place where you get handjobs but it does seem like as things get shittier more and more people are resorting to some kind of sex work. I’ve never been on twitch because the idea of watching people play video games makes me a rage, but im told it’s basically impossible to use it without seeing half naked women turn it into some kind of erotic content.

I also thought the movie displayed the dunning krueger effect pretty well. Initially the main character who is from the past and is thus the smartest person alive is treated like the dumbest person they’ve ever seen…becuase they were too stupid to recognize how stupid they are so even basic common sense looked and sounded retarded to them.

In many ways we already live in the idiocracy, we’re getting dumber and we reward shitty dumb behaviour. The movie was essentially a reduction to absurdity of a real phenomena that’s only gotten a lot worse since it was written. The political pageantry was especially prescient because we’re currently watching a shit show involving a former and probably future president that’s actually been on WWE before.

Idiocracy was a good blend of dumb nonsense movie and intelligent satire. Definitely worth at least one watch despite the sometimes horrible cgi and somewhat lagging lackluster plot. It’s funny and it definitely holds up.

[jacksoldsideblog]

can you talk a bit more about the self destruction aspect of fight club?

Yeah sure!

Fight club hits this interesting destructive nexus of nihilism, anarchy, marxist alienation, anti consumerism, and male sociology.

Starting with the marxist alienation bit; the fundamental underpinning of the novel is essentially that the narrator's job and society has driven him insane. He is part of a machine that trades human lives for inconsequential profit. His job is supposed to be about protecting people but instead it's about damning them. All his coworkers seem fine with this. He is getting away with it. His company is getting away with it. He is firmly aware of just how much his job and other jobs like his are accepted and accomadated for. He has no control over himself as a cog in the system. He knows he cannot actually stop what's occuring. He would just be replaced. The company would get away with it in the end. Ford Pinto. Etc.

This is inherently distressing. People don't naturally wish to do that. He sees no fruit of his labor beyond enabling death.

This alienation is common, and consumerism is given as a balm for all the post-industrial foie gras in the making in industrialized countries. Don't worry, all that angst and discomfort can be solved by buying things. Buy things. It will make you feel better. Buy things. It'll make you a better person. Buy things. It's a measure of success.

Nevermind that you're a feedlot for corporate profit.

This, too, chafes at the end of the day. Frankly, it develops this hate for the world that is like this, and for him, being a part of it. He finds everything including himself repulsive.

He, quite literally, can't sleep at night because of how fucked all of it is.

So what do you do? Honestly. How can you change it? Can you change it? Is it worth trying to fix?

It all feels meaningless. It feels pointless. It feels cruel.

In the 90s especially, there was a huge nihilistic push. I think it's important to consider ideological shifts like these in the framework of "how does this benefit the ruling class?"

nihilism has two thoughts on it, rejection and acceptance of nietzschian affirmation of life. do you reject and turn away from the world for its atrocities? do you embrace its horrors?

Fight Club, like most things, has a bit of both. Reject the world. Embrace the ugliness. Stew in your own shit.

But still, you still know it's all going on. You want to kill that corpse you're all rotting under.

Your reaction to this omnipresent pain of society is in very large part influenced by society itself. And society says, I'm indestructable. The shadow of history leans too large. You can't escape me.

And society teaches men, embrace destruction. Violence, war. Your ability to hurt is what makes you strong, full people. Your ability to destroy outweighs your ability to create — if you create, it's so you have absolute power to destroy.

So with abject hopelessness and a profound lack of creation instilled by society, he turns to destruction. Of himself, of society, of the burden of history.

He finds himself prone to anarchism, because his rebellion is based in the destruction of now and before, not the creation of a better future.

Even though, at heart, this is all a protest of the cruelty of this society against people, he finds himself unable to hate. Misanthropy, the easy drug, the one you are led to because it makes you far less effective at enacting change in society.

And misanthropy says hating people and especially yourself is good. Great even. And the rest of your burgeoning philosophy says, destroy. Destroy the past. Destroy now. Destroy your future.

So he goes and goes, until Tyler isn't real and he's about to blow up a building to destroy the burden of history, or blow up building to destroy credit scores, and he's kinda doing that martyr thing. Because he doesn't really have anything to live for, his idea of a future is vague and unrealistic. Because he's doing this to destroy.

But he stops it all.

And with the book, he realizes that we arent all simmering sacks of shit, not snowflakes either. We just are.

Misanthropy was useless. Destruction was useless.

Anyway, in my opinion it's just a very good ride of how these thought processes can interlock and feed each other to render your rebellion and anguish useless. Most of us won't try to bomb buildings of course, but this sort of mentality is actually extremely common. You see it a lot in environmentalism and climate change talk, which makes it so interesting to me that it's in the book too a bit. Again, that burden of history, that longing for destruction of unwanted responsibility.

It's a cautionary tale of sorts. Honestly I consider one of the biggest 'morals' of fight club to be; reject misanthropy. Don't hate thy neighbor. Try to build something.

The narrator isn't a cautionary tale against feeling that alienation and anger at society. It's just about, don't let it push you into making it worse. Don't lose sight of wanting something better.

[pearwaldorf]

oh my god this fucking show.

*slaps roof of coffin* We can fit so many kinds of emotional ruin in this baby! I do not think I have seen a show tear down everything it built like this since Hannibal's S2 finale. But it's not tragic in the same way. This is the gleeful destruction of a kid building elaborate structures out of blocks so they can knock them over.

God, Jacob's acting has been so fucking good this season but this episode was just. Armand sitting there in the crypt listening to Louis go mad with grief and starvation. The absolute mindless ferity when he's planning his revenge, and how much vicarious satisfaction you get from hearing the screaming as the flames ignite.

(I watched a little bit of the bts after the episode and Ben Daniels is so fucking delighted to get his prop head chopped off. The glee in his voice when Jacob sends him that pic is the cutest shit.)

Daniel is such an interesting homewrecker. That bit in ep 5 where he has to go back to his own book to retrieve his previous words. I think he would have fucked up his life even without Louis's admonition/command/whatever. But there's always that little bit of doubt and I think it would have haunted him if he'd remained mortal.

And it's fascinating to see him poke and prod even after he's gotten the story from both Louis and Armand. All those inconsistencies that seemed inconsequential but then lead to something significant. I wouldn't even call it misdirection, just using new information to interrogate the text from the correct perspective (har har). And you can see the trepidation when he pulls out the script, knowing what's going to happen, but it's not just his job to excavate the truth, it's his calling. All characters have a bit of a writer (or writing team) in them, but Daniel feels invested with a lot of affection from people who understand his line of work.

Armand. Oh god, Armand. This show is neo-puritan kryptonite in the best way. The narrative never excuses Armand's actions, heinous as they are, but it also makes it difficult to villainize him for it. He is so, so fucked up and broken it's more sad than anything else. (I don't think it even gets to the level of tragic, because tragedy is too dignified for his motivations. I mean this descriptively, not pejoratively.)

Louis and Lestat making up in a rickety-ass old house in New Orleans during a hurricane is not exactly light symbolism, but it is extra af in a way that is very them.

Random things:

How long has Lestat been plunking at that wooden "keyboard"? Those finger marks are deep.

"Did you hurt yourself?" 😭😭😭

Louis's goofy-ass tourist outfit with the Saints ballcap lmao

I want to know the circumstances of Daniel's vamping. He just blew up Armand's entire life. Was it retaliatory? Armand has never made a fledgling until now. I am so curious to see why now. (Also he's gonna fuck that old man and I'm so happy for them both.)

Absolutely the first thing I would do if I became a vampire is change my eye color, just because.

[goodluckclove]

I'm writing a new thing!! I don't really need advice I'm just excited about starting it. They're gay and one of them's a shapeshifter the other has a culturally engrained fear of shapeshifters given that as defenders of the wilderness/ basically very local gods they tend to fuck up anyone who's in their space. I also dong know how to start books which is an issue my beginnings are always weak. How do I start a book. Do I describe the sheep? He's a shepherd btw which I think is fun because the shapeshifter often takes the form of a wolf or coyote. It's also set in a relatively high fantasy setting (no elves and shit just weird magic and a different landscape) that vaguely corresponds to the late 17 or 1800s (they've got some guns i think, they ride horses and trains might exist). How do I start a book. What do I start with. Where do I start. There's no real solid beginning I've got in mind, just a dude trying to take his sheep over a large area on his own. Help please I do actually need advice

Well you see, Ghostie, everyone knows that the first sentence of a novel is the most important part of the entire story. It has to contain the main character's name - in fact, it has to contain the names of every character in your cast - and it has to provoke intrigue and resolve it in a satisfying way without being a too long and jesus christ i can no longer keep up this bit.

I'm annoyed by people who say you need to have a super profound first line. I mean, they're good when they happen. If you can think of one that's great. But if you can't you aren't fucked right off the gate. If your first line isn't something people will get calligraphed onto canvases to hang on the walls of their boring houses (Is this a thing? Did I just make up a type of person to hate?), it doesn't mean your beginning won't be good.

You want to hook the reader. That's what all the guides say, right? They describe a person picking your book off the proverbial shelf and leafing through the first page to see if it's something they'd be interested in. That's solid, but then some go on to make it seem like you have maybe ten words before they either buy the book or toss it across the room in disgust. I'm not saying this is never true. I'm just saying that, personally, that type of person is probably not someone who'd be interested in me or my stories to begin with.

Usually when I'm considering a new book I'll skim the first few pages and then a bit throughout the middle, just to see if I like the prose. I do not put that much weight in the beginning, but it's always a good sign when the general scene feels purposeful. It doesn't have to be a car chase/diamond heist/sex scene/murder. I read someone somewhere saying that you have to start with something exciting and it took like an hour off my life I was so angry.

Here's one out of a billion angles to tackle this puzzle from - where does the story start for you? What is the inciting incident to the inciting incident? This feels like something easy to answer, but oftentimes what you come up with might feel a little inconsequential.

A beginning scene - like, for instance, a prologue centered around only sheep and coyotes - does not necessarily sound interesting on its own. But in a world where shapeshifters usually take on those forms it both sets up the world and establishes a mood. You can play with how much information you give people in the world.

Using my book as an example because I've been watching my editor @hoard-sweet-hoard react to it in real time, at one point he commented that he didn't know if the Eddie in my initial prologue is the same guy as the Edgar in Chapter One. And I was like yeah man that's the whole goddamned point of the book you tiny little king of fools. I wasn't at all that mean. I made a really good sandwich for dinner so I'm feeling extra rowdy. But the point is that I focused less on the action and more on the feeling it would create in the reader.

With that mindset the action doesn't really matter. If it's mundane it can be comforting, or tiring, or numbing, or eerie, or unnerving. If it's far removed from the world we know it can be fantastical and whimsical and sexy, maybe? I don't know. God that sandwich was good. I'm getting really into bagels lately.

Also, from purely the perspective of a writer, you might think of a better beginning midway into the draft. So you can also go back and make a weak start much stronger. You can skip the beginning entirely if it's really fucking with your life. Come back to it later. Who will stop you? Me? I don't even know how to find you. And if I did, you could easily kill me. You have that vibe and I am very clumsy.

Also also start posting excerpts when you get going because that shit sounds rad as fuck.

My bagel had egg and bacon and a hash brown patty and caramelized onion. Man has done a lot of sin, but it is almost neutralized by the insight we once had to caramelize onions. They have a unique flavor that I can only describe as eating the house of a beloved grandmother? Or maybe just the way that house makes you feel?

Yum.

[darsynia]

Sneak Peek: Shipping and Handling Ch 2

SERIES MASTERLIST

Summary: There’s a chance you and Steve aren’t the only people dealing with the strange chemical bond from Mistress, so you agree to submit to daily tests that should help Dr. Banner figure out what’s happening, and maybe how to stop it. The problem? Seeing each other every day brings a new set of side-effects that both of you hide from each other and Banner until things come to a head– not just for the two of you, but also for the man who has to deal with you: Bucky Barnes. Length/Warnings: 451 words for the snippet / Mentions of sex acts Minors DNI

Chapter posted either tomorrow or Monday. Finally some Bucky PoV!

“You practically knelt down in front of him. Take pity, will you Doll?” 

Bucky only realizes the endearment after he’s said it aloud, and to minimize the damage, he clenches his jaw and twists his lips into an inconsequential smile.

It doesn’t work.

“You’ve never called me that before,” you say, your lovely eyes lit with surprise and something else, something he shouldn’t be looking for. 

Gruffly, he says, “Really?” It’s a shut-down tactic, because people are much less likely to elaborate on something they’re uncertain over. He maximizes its effect by leaning down to examine the oven door, which is indeed fucked. 

“Really. I liked it, don’t worry.” Your voice is soft. “Looks like you’ll be needing these menus, I doubt the stove is kitchen rated with the door off! Come on, I’m sure Steve is going to be hungry when he shows back up.”

Are… you joking about what Steve’s doing in his room right now? Bucky lunges over to block your way out of the kitchen. The shirt you’re wearing smells like the detergent he and Steve use, and something about smelling Steve on you sends heat straight to his groin.

He really should’ve punched Banner, too.

“What?” 

“Are you sure you want everything out in the open?” You look at him, uncomprehending, and Bucky’s a hypocrite, because there’s no way any of what he’s been thinking about lately can be in the open.

You’re shaking your head at him. “I don’t--”

Bucky grips the doorframe so tightly it gives a little under his metal hand. “He’s jerking off in there. He’d only do that while we’re waiting out here because he has to. If he comes out here and you make a comment like that, he’ll feel guilty for--”

“--weeks. Maybe forever. Shit.” you interrupt. He pushes off from the door to let you pass, and you continue; “Banner seemed certain that the… intensity was because we’d spent those two weeks apart, but this is--” You break off and drop the pile of menus on the dining room table with a long-suffering sigh. “I’m really worried it’s going to be untenable, but then I remember all the people out there this could happen to, you know?”

Bucky nods toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, where Steve is probably touching himself right now. “Is that the 'untenable' you’re talking about?”

Your face wrenches in embarrassment, eyes closed, and you nod. Because he doesn’t want to go through this whole ordeal without some amusement at his own expense, he says, “There are two bedrooms, if you need to borrow mine? You know where it is.”

[dibschair]

𝕂𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕥𝕠𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟚: Day 12

ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕞𝕥: Angry sex W/ Leslie Vernon

CW: Unprotected sex, Roughish sex, Leslie is mad at you, Swearing.

Minors DNI.

Well shit.

It wasn't often that Leslie got grouchy twoards you, let alone full blown angry. But here you were, pinned between him and the cool plaster wall behind you.

The fight had been going on for a few days now. Initially sparked by something stupid and woefully inconsequential. However, both of you are far too proud to back down.

And so the damn argument had carried on and on. All cold stares and even colder nights spent in separate rooms.

You had approached him tonight with the intention of squashing everything. Cruel things had been said on both fronts, you were both wrong. Or as your therapist would put it 'There was a failure to communicate'

You had expected the conversation to be uncomfortable, not that it would end in him slamming you against the nearest wall. His mouth on your neck as his hands raked over your body.

His actions were rough to say the least, much rougher than you're used to from your Leslie.

Yours.

The though sent a twinge of possessiveness through your core, and before you knew it you were gripping his blonde hair and crashing you mouth against his.

Leslie let out something akin to a low growl as he kissed you back, all tongues and teeth. His hands grip your hips and hoist you up to wrap your legs around his trim waist.

This new angel invites you to feel his hard dick pressing against your core through your clothes.

You moan into his mouth, fingers gripping even tighter at his short hair.

Leslie pulls away from your kiss a moment later, his pink lips glossy and swollen.

"I am so fucking angry with you."

His voice is low and breathless, not an ounce of malice to his words- harsh as they may be.

"You're the ones whoes been an asshole." You respond coyly, knowing very well it's just gonna rile him up even more.

Your body is tossed unceremoniously onto the sofa besides you, you barely have time to let out a shriek of suprise before Leslie's body is over yours.

The two of you undress eachother in a frenzy, clothes piling up on the floor of the living room. Leslie rips your panties off of you, leaving them in pieces somewhere besides your bodies.

You want to be angry about it, maybe even tell him off a bit. But the feeling of his cock head swiping along your wet folds knocks the breath out of you. It had been a long few nights without him fucking you to sleep.

And so your neediness wins out. And instead of a witty or coy taunt, The only word that slips from you is a despreat whine of your lovers name.

His cock buries itself inside you almost as soon as you speak his name, and your eyes widen at the ache of the intrusion.

Leslie is grinning down at you wickedly. His strong arms cage you in as he sets a down right brutal pace, taking his frustrations of the past few days out on your body.

He moans your name and all fight drains from your body. You don't wanna argue anymore, all you want now is to cum on his cock.

Which is something Leslie seems rather keen of as well, as he lifts on of your legs to press it down twoards you torsos. Giving him a new and much deeper depth to stroke into you.

Your moans fill the room, and soon you can do little more than cling to him desperately. Painted nails racking down his back as he fucks you into the sofa.

A/N: Well that was certainly something I wrote. I just had to do Leslie for angry sex, that scene where he slams Taylor against the van does things to me 🤤

[thetreetopinn]

I've been considering learning how to sew recently--not by hand, I can do a little of that already. I'm not great at it. My hands shake too much to be good at it--essential tremors fucking suck. But using a sewing machine seems like something that could be useful or even dare I say it... fun.

My mom has an old Bernina machine from like... 1970. It's a workhorse. All metal internal parts, heavy duty construction. The thing would probably be worth $1000 if it was sold new today. She has a second machine from around the same time that belonged to my grandmother and she's suggested that I could have it if I wanted it.

I'm intimidated by my mom's sewing machine, and by extension, my grandmother's.

So, I thought I'd follow Adam Savage's advice for folks just getting into a new hobby/skill. Buy the cheapest equipment you can find so you can practice and learn on that before you sink any real money into better gear. I've been looking around online and you can found sewing machines for like $100. Sure they probably don't last too long and they probably get bogged down a lot. I guarantee you they're not as good as my mom's Bernina. But it's good for practice, right? Develop some basic skills before you move on to the big toys?

This is why you buy a kid who's just learning to drive an old beater that doesn't matter if it hits a fence or gets dinged or whatever, so long as the kid is safe and is learning to drive. You don't give a 16 year old a brand new luxury SUV as their first car. They have to learn the basics first.

I went to a fabric store today to look at what machines were available, maybe ask someone who knows more about this stuff than me what their opinion was. They were super busy and I didn't want to waste anyone's time, so I just stood there staring at the sewing machines. They didn't have any on display like they used to. Just the boxed up units ready for sale.

I would rather learn on a cheap $100 machine and break something THERE rather than learn on a seriously piece of equipment and break THAT... because I know I will. It's what I do. I ruin things. I break things. I make things worse.

I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't buy anything. I talked myself out of the whole idea. Because I know myself. I have a habit of trying something new and then giving it up very quickly after starting because I lose interest or I feel like I'm not good enough at it to keep going.

I left the store feeling like a fucking failure and I've been in a sour funk every since.

I fucking hate my brain. I hate that I get this way. I hate that it's so fucking easy to push me into depression. Virtually no effort required.

Can someone please tell me that I'm not the only one who ends up feeling like this about stupid, inconsequential shit like this?

I feel like I'm insane or broken or something... like I'm un-fucking-fixable.

[cocogrrrl]

rendezvous

Chapter 1: Tale of Two—The Black Stones

an introduction to one of our two leads, yn.

wc: 716 no cws kindly read the things to note about this series first here in the masterlist if you haven't yet!

an: the first two chapters are pretty rough but it gets better i think

To Opial, for being my best beta reader and sudden motivation. To Cadence and Muffy, for putting up with my shenanigans. This is by no means a sort of masterpiece at all, but you three know how much this means to me. <3

You lived, breathed, and wanted him. He’s everything you were sure you hated, and yet, here he is, lying in your bed. Fuck, were you rethinking your life choices.

Whoops! We started a tad bit too deep in the story. Let’s start off with introductions first, alright? It’s the more formal thing to do anyway.

“So, I was totally, like, ‘Fuck off. I’m going to castrate you if you come two steps closer to me.’ Cool, right?” You said to your best friends—Bebe Stevens and Red McArthur, absolutely wasted. You were recounting the events of the other day, a regular Tuesday.

Okay, not quite the most formal introduction, but yes. This is you, YN LN.

“So let me get this straight,” Red stopped you. “You were mugging this guy, and then he seemed like he was about to jump you, so you pulled a knife out and threatened to castrate this guy…?”

“Mhm!” You nodded.

“That seems like bullshit, YN.” Bebe rolled her eyes. “You’d pull out a gun, not a knife.”

“Okay, okay,” you sighed. “Maybe I am bedazzling my story a little, but I totally got that guy. Promise.”

“Totally.” Red clicked her tongue as she replied sarcastically.

Okay, who exactly were you three? You and your small gang are the Black Stones—probably the most notorious crew in the town of South Park.

How long have you been doing crime? A few years. What crimes were you known for? A lot, but you guys were most known for your shark loaning business with incredibly high interest and incredibly harsh punishments if the money wasn’t returned. Besides that, you and your friends also committed robberies, vandalism, and possession of copious amounts of illegal substances. Nothing too out of the blue, but definitely serious enough to get the attention of the police here. 

How did you get away? You three are just skilled enough to get away with everything, of course.

Also, because the police force here is honestly fucking shit. They work inconsequentially—not caring if justice is served or not. Innocent until proven guilty? More like innocent regardless of the situation. 

Whatever, at least you were pretty much always off the hook—even within their line of sight, right? You had free reign to do whatever you pleased, and nothing and no one was going to stop you.

Currently, a few months later after the first memory shown earlier, you’re in your usual hangout spot with the girls—The Zones, a local bar that was tasteful enough for your styles yet dingy enough for your comfort. Look, despite the fact you three made big bucks off of peoples’ debts, it did not change the fact that you guys would rather take the cheaper drinks. They weren’t as good as the more pricey stuff, but at the end of the day, you’re just finding a way to loosen up. 

“Oh, my gosh, Bebe.” You leaned into her, reaching to whisper in her ear. “I’m sooooo bored. We should get out of here.”

“That’s like the eighth time you’ve said that tonight, YN,” Red spoke up. Perhaps you weren’t too quiet at all. “We still got that person we need tending to in a bit. We’re just killing some time.”

“Can’t we kill time somewhere else?” You groaned, smacking your head against the counter.

“Honestly, YN’s right.” Bebe nodded, holding your body up since you seemed so restless that you didn’t even want to move from your hunched-over position. “I don’t wanna get bored of this place.”

Red sighed, looking over the two of you. “I guess you two do make a point.” She said, collecting her things as she got up for her seat. “Let’s go?” 

You and Bebe followed suit, grabbing your bags and other items as you tidied yourselves up.

You were about to leave, your body was ready to do so, and your mind was set on the task. You would’ve made your way out already if it weren’t for one thing: a loud ‘bang!’ by the entrance that caught your attention.

next chapter.

[monty-glasses-roxy]

Honestly, Roxy and Vanessa friendship, especially when Vanny and Glitchtrap are a thing, is really interesting to play around with. Roxy has no reason to talk to her and no reason to ever trust her, especially when she knows about Vanny. Vanessa has every reason to tell her to fuck off, to go away and never come back to keep her from getting attached and inevitably caught and virus'd, but can't bring herself to force her away.

Mixing things from my old horse girl Roxy fic with my current setups, Glitchtrap/Vanny and new ideas for their friendship, makes this even more interesting. It puts Roxy in a very vulnerable position, the prime target for manipulation and being taking advantage of, but it also puts her in prime position to give Vanessa hope.

Roxy can tell who's talking to her, she knows when it's Vanessa and she knows when it's Vanny. She's honestly probably the only person that would believe whatever Vanessa says about what she's going through. The illusion disks don't work on her and she can always see them so long as they're in the building. If she figures out the Princess Quest connection? If she starts working on freeing her? Well, Roxy's the first hope she's had in fuck knows how long.

And the thing is, because Roxy can see it all, she has the power to recognise that what's happening to the other animatronics, is what has already happened with Vanessa. Not only that, but Vanessa is an outsider going through it. She knows she can't say anything too important around her, but she's such a lifeline as an outside perspective to her. She can tell her things that Roxy wouldn't otherwise be able to find out about, and has offered suggestions and advice to 'get rid of her' that's actually helped a lot. With how everything is, Vanessa has become one of the few people Roxy can still talk to, even if she has to be careful about what she says with her.

What else is interesting, is the absolute fascination Vanny can have with her. Neither Vanny nor Glitchtrap know what Roxy's deal is. They don't know how she knows who's talking to her. The first time Vanny switched in to try and manipulate her as Vanessa, Roxy asked for her name and it threw them so fucking hard. Roxy vanishes all the time, she mentions things she has no business knowing, she asks about things that have confusing implications, she has higher security clearance than them, she can kill the cameras in an instant, she can't be tracked like the others and weirdly enough, she seems to actually like talking to them. Maybe not Vanny specifically, but Vanessa? Why does she like her so much? Why does she keep coming back? How does she always know where they are? How is she always there to stop them getting up to shit? What's her game and how the hell is she playing it?

She's just different, and Vanny finds it intriguing. She hasn't had many openings to catch Roxy off guard and infect her yet, but she's also never been able to be in control of Vanessa without her knowing. She's clearly been isolated from the majority of the other animatronics for things that Vanny didn't even have a hand in. She keeps sharing little, inconsequential things with Vanessa, and giving her random shit she finds that she thinks she'll like, despite Vanessa trying to push her away. She's openly admitted that she knows what Vanny is trying to do to her and it's somehow still not stopped her. Honestly, she's starting to think she's playing the 'power of friendship' game to try and friendship her way through all of this...

And it would be really funny if she thought it was working. Like Vanny would normally get rid of things Vanessa likes but because Roxy is throwing them both for a fucking loop, she's found herself unable to do it. Vanny fucking hates this horse plushie Roxy very enthusiastically gave Vanessa, but she can't rip it up like she ordinarily would because what the fuck okay?? Why is she like this??? And it's the first time Vanessa has smiled since this all started.

Vanessa is rooting for her. She thinks this is part of her plan. After all, Roxy couldn't possibly actually see her as a friend, right? Vanny's right, it must be part of some master plan to deal with all of this!

And then it's over. The next time Vanessa sees her, Roxy hugs her in tears, thinking the worst had happened after that night. Or if it was Roxy that freed her, she returns to the office, a new horse plushie she found in hand, and is there waiting for her when she clocks in for her shift after a long break away. Turns out, it wasn't part of her plan. She just needed a friend.

[commando-rogers]

thoughts on the first two episodes and by thoughts I mean screaming

EVERYTHING ABOUT THE EPISODE ONE COLD OPEN WAS ABSOLUTELY FUCKING OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

LIKE HOW MANY TIMES HAVE WE SEEN AND WRITTEN AND READ FIC ABOUT ANGEL CROWLEY CREATING THE STARS

oh my fucking god David Tennant’s performance there was incredible, he was just so open and happy and excited and giddy, and still undeniably crowley (though who knows what his name was then) and just the brilliant little seeds planted of his personality and his questions and god his enthusiasm and his facial expressions were absolutely incredible

and the fact that AZIRAPHALE IS THE ONE WHO FELL IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT BEFORE TIME EVEN FUCKING EXISTED YET

AND CROWLEY SHIELDING AZIRAPHALE UNDER HIS WING FOR THE METEOR SHOWER JUST LIKE AZIRAPHALE THEN DOES FOR HIM AT THE WALL IN THE FIRST RAIN

AND NOW CROWLEY IS LIKE YEAH HUMANS FALL IN LOVE WHEN THEY GET CAUGHT IN THE RAIN AND STARE INTO EACH OTHERS EYES REALLY CROWLEY??? REALLY????

and now ok oh my god the fact that we’re gonna have the trope of two characters trying to orchestrate a romance while then falling in love themselves ???????????? like the parallels of Maggie and Nina to aziraphale and crowley are so clear personality-wise dynamic-wise etc (though tbh it’s not cut and dry how we’d have thought it’d be) and just knowing crowley and aziraphale are gonna spend so much time talking about love and trying to create love is gonna fucking murder me

I mean it when I say I don’t need or even necessarily WANT crowley and aziraphale to say I love you or kiss or something I feel like that’s just too small that’s too inconsequential for supernatural beings who’ve known each other for eternity. but the love is just so clear. it’s so much.

Jon hamm oh my god he’s incredible

ugh aziraphale’s fear after lying during the Job storyline was honestly so heartbreaking and both actors did a great job conveying what the stakes were for each of them

I’ve been screaming forever and we all have been screaming forever about the parallels between crowley and aziraphale and lizzy and mr Darcy in pride and prejudice so the fact that’s gonna be a thing omg

the I was wrong dance

oh my god

fic writers are probably already going feral over it

it was incredible

the way it was so perfectly flourished and bouncy while crowley hated every second

and just. the way they’ve so clearly had this little inside thing for centuries. I just. oh my god. oh my god. oh my god

curious about Nina’s controlling partner - interesting her name starts with an L, interesting that she’s kind of like aziraphale in that she always feels surveilled by her partner and “we’re just friends, we barely know each other” that is STRAIGHT FROM THE GLOBE SEASON ONE EPISODE THREE

and so it is interesting then if Nina reflects aziraphale and Maggie reflects crowley- we’ve always felt that crowley, though he hides them, has such strong emotions and feelings, so if they’re parallels it’s interesting how Maggie is almost like Crowley’s id of maybe this is how he feels having spent forever (months) working up the courage to get close (bring the LP)

idk man

and oh my god just the way that crowley is the one who got aziraphale to lie and to realize maybe heaven and hell and good and evil aren’t as black and white as he thought

interesting their discussion of how aziraphale seemed to be the one saying there was an “our side”

ugh I’m just so. I’m so. oh my god. it’s so beautiful I love it omg and I also love that I can’t tell where it’s going

if we see aziraphale trying to drive I’m gonna lose my shit

I have so many other thoughts I can’t remember right now but omg