#yokel local

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[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"I don't think it's silly at all."

It was completely understandable to him, for her to be a touch nervous-even with how confident he felt in their ability to get away with it, there was no denying that it was an incredibly brazen plan. How many people would be so bold as to spend the evening in the company of their secret lovers, right under the nose of so many people, people who would absolutely lose their minds if they knew the truth...

"They do say that sometimes, the best place to hide is in plain sight," Dorian continued, rubbing his chin as he gave it some thought. "And I think that turn of phrase will prove to be very true tonight: As I said, I believe that everyone will mostly be so busy schmoozing and making nice that their eyes will hardly be on us. I'm sure we'll have to come over and shake hands with Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so who will be at the wedding tomorrow, accept the congrats of Mr. and Mrs. What's-the-name, kiss up to the Something-or-others, but I think we can manage that."

As he listened off these imaginary guests, Dorian flashed her a little smile, in the hopes that his playful names would make her laugh, help her relax a little-humor was oftentimes his way of alleviating stress, taking the edge off, and he hoped it would be the same for Emily as he finished confidently, "We'll go around, roll out the proverbial welcome wagon, perhaps answer a few questions here and there, but overall, I'm sure we'll be able to slip away and spend the evening with those we'd most enjoy it with."

[popsicle-stick]

people who give jonathan harker a devon accent in dracula. i owe you my life

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Today I spent 20 minutes explaining Polyamory to my physical therapist. He asked questions in a really kind and curious way and I wasn't about to let my local yokel boy live the rest of his life wondering about polyamory and not having the courage to Google it himself.

...now just wait until I explain fanfiction and smut to him. Dude's head's gonna EXPLODE.

[mikexx2]

"In a sea of blondes, be the disruptive redhead."

Introducing Brodie Ronceau for @moocha-muses Bachelorette Challenge!

Sure, on paper it looks like Brodie Ronceau is only into this reality tv gig for the exposure. While he's not above schmoozing on global tv to accelerate his fortunes, he didn't rebelliously break his mother's heart and give up a boring corporate career just to plug away for months in seedy local clubs performing his daring brand of stand up comedy to a bunch of inattentive drunk yokels.

Brodie's convinced that yes, as a natural performer he's the next undiscovered star, but also hello??? Lorelei is actually so damn hot? And perfectly creative and charismatic for his interests?? And he thought he was the irresistible one! His reputation as a great kisser has netted him many shallow admirers (also, hello cheekbones) but when Lorelei gets to know him, she'll see first hand that there's substance behind the attitude and pretty face.

She'll also see how hard he's been working on his glutes.

-

Brodie Ronceau

Aries 6 9 8 2 0

Fortune/Popularity

LTW: Have 6 pets reach the top career level (his secret wish is to live in a place full of kitties)

Turn ons: Charismatic, Creative

Turn off: Unemployed

[flieslikeamoron]

schitt’s creek au 👀🙏🏼

I need to just give myself permission to write the fun parts of this and let the rest sort itself out because I got kind of bogged down in things like I don't know how real estate and video store franchising work. And also how do I keep Robin from killing Steve when he first gets there. But here's the meet cute.

---

The party is exactly what Chrissy said it would be. Big bonfire. A couple kegs. A bunch of locals getting drunk, getting loud, hooking up. Steve looks around for Chrissy, making his way through the crowd. He doesn’t see her, and being around these yokels is depressing. He grabs a beer and does another pass through the crowd, looking for anyone who’d make a good picture. He doesn’t need to advertise that he’s at a shitty party, but a kiss with someone hot might make Stavros regret not taking Steve to Greece instead of that inferior twink.

Steve looks through the crowd around the fire to a guy standing a bit away from the rowdy center of the party. Long hair. Leather jacket. Shit-kicker boots. Steve can see a tantalizing bit of ink on his hand as he lights a cigarette. A bit more ink peeking out of the worn neckline of his tshirt. He looks like the kind of guy that'll sell you drugs or steal your wallet.

Perfect.

The camera is already open on Steve’s phone as he steps in close to the guy. Steve takes a fist full of his shirt in hand to keep him from stepping back as Steve plants one on him. The phone clicks and Steve's glancing over at it, about to take one more. The guy cups Steve's chin. Warm fingers insistent, turning Steve away from the phone. Turning the glancing, awkward mash of their lips together into something that catches. Steve opens up, unthinking, for the heat of his mouth. The hand tight on his waist urges him closer, into the brush of leather, the heat of a body up against his. There's a lazy confidence to the way the guy slips him a little tongue. Steve leans into it, into him.

And the guy steps back.

It takes Steve a second to let go of the grip he has on the guy's shirt. To remember why he came over here. His phone. Right. He never did get that second pic. He licks his lower lip. His eyes still on the guy. On his mouth. When he looks up enough to catch the guy's eye, the cocky quirk of his eyebrow, he can feel his face going hot.

Jesus.

Why is this guy even getting to him? Steve's flirted his way out a Saudi prince's compound. He made it through two countries without a passport. He got into KissKiss without a lock of human hair. He does not get flustered. Especially not by small town guys with hair like they've been in a bunker since the 80s, and tattoos, and rough fingers and that infuriatingly amused look on their face.

"Um," Steve says. The guy's smile gets wider. Fuck. 

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I have this weird recurring set piece in my dreams where there's this successful mechanic (you know, local commercial king) whose business is attached to his home and as like. part of the promotion? one of his teenage daughter has a bedroom that's somehow visible from the street and features a plush adult-size purple car bed. which is fun. but why on earth is your teenager sleeping in a street-facing bedroom with glass walls that leave her bed completely visible to every yokel driving by. why did anyone agree to that. what is my subconscious cooking here.

[tigertofu]

Heyyy! I’m very glad you’re doing requests cos your writing is AMMMAAZZZZINNNNGGGG

I’d love to see some headcanons of North Yankton Trevor with a fem!reader who does boxing🫣🫣 No worries if not! :)

TY GIRLIE <3333 and u got it! as i worked on this i discovered its difficult for me to just list off headcanons w/out some sorta story attached so i hope this like,, mini-story with headcanons interlaced throughout is ok !! ^^ ;;

pairing: fem reader/Trevor

summary: a barfight involving a stranger in a little north yankton tavern turns out to be the start of something much more.

cw's: mild, non-explicit smut

wordcount: 1,335

you'll meet him in a bar one night.

the place is a seedy little affair with concrete floors and weak lights that fill the smokey air with a buttery glow. it's the only tavern in the little podunk town you live in, and tonight, just like every night, it's filled with the usual slew of patrons. cattle farmers sleepily nurse at sweating beer bottles at the bar. railway workers sit slumped in chairs at the round tables taking up the rest of the cramped room. a lazy country song spills out of the jukebox in one corner of the room. johnny cash? bob dylan? something like that. you aren't really paying attention to the music. you're only interested in downing your beer and letting the booze warm you up a bit before you venture back out into the snowstorm and trudge the rest of your way home.

suddenly, the music stops. you look up from your seat in the corner of the bar. a man you've never seen before is fiddling with the jukebox, a cigarette drooping from his scowling mouth. you watch him, curious, because you could swear you've never seen him in town before. his dark brown hair is slicked back into a long, scraggly mullet; strands of it fall around his face. he's wearing a roadworn bomber jacket, dirty jeans, black rubber boots caked in mud. definitely not a local.

as you stare, you realize that the atmosphere of the entire bar has shifted. Mr. Mullet finally figures out how to work the jukebox. a punkish rock song begins to blare from its speakers, causing the other patrons' heads to swivel in his direction. he plants his hands on his hips and looks at it triumphantly.

a particularly burly farmer heaves himself out of his seat at the bar and trundles over to the stranger. he taps him on the shoulder. says something that you can't hear, but can tell isn't nice. Mr. Mullet snaps back at him loud enough for you to hear: something about how the previous music was about to put him to fucking sleep and that this is a "free country." the farmer doesn't back down from the stranger's posturing and, in the blink of an eye, their altercation turns physical.

for reasons you can't parse, you immediately jump to the stranger's aid. muscle memory pounded into you by years of boxing makes quick work of the drunk farmer, but not before he's able to get a few good hits in on the stranger, who fights with blind, wild passion. while the both of you reel back from him to catch your breaths, the bartender yells at you two to get the hell out of his bar. you both do, but not before the stranger calls everyone in the establishment "a bunch of braindead stick-in-the-mud yokels."

outside, you both share a cigarette, shivering in the snowfall. he tells you his name is Trevor. he asks where you learned to fight like that, and you tell him in the ring. he smiles, and despite the bruise blooming around his busted lip, you can tell it's a handsome smile. he says he likes a girl who knows how to scrap. you smile back and tell him you like his music taste. he asks what you're up to that night, and you tell him that you just want to get back to the warmth of your home at this point. he offers to walk with you, and you accept.

once you reach your place, he tries to invite himself in so he can show his "appreciation" for helping him beat the shit out of the farmer at the bar. you laugh and tell him maybe some other time. he huffs, but relents, so long as you give him your phone number. you do.

"some other time" comes around quick, because in the few days following your night in the bar you realize that you can't stop thinking about him for some reason. you invite him over; he shows up with a six pack and a grin plastered over his face. you spend an evening talking and listening to music on your old cassette player. you're delighted to find out that he likes all the same bands you do. the six pack is quickly emptied, and the both of you get a bit tipsy. at some point, he brings up the barfight again. he asks to wrestle so he can see what you're "really capable of," slurring his words, giving you a sly look. you laugh and try to tell him that wrestling is hugely different from boxing, but he insists, and you give in.

he lets you win almost immediately. the way he lets you playfully sock him in the arms without fighting back tells you that maybe he has no intention of fighting back. afterwards, as you both lay on the floor of your bedroom, catching your breaths from the little tussle as he's pinned beneath your muscular form, you notice a hungry sort of glow in his dark brown eyes. before you can ask why he's looking at you like that, he leans up and smashes his mouth against yours.

you fuck him there on the floor and it feels almost like a fight; the most satisfying fight ever, that ends with the both of you winning.

one hookup turns into two, then three, then four. soon enough, you're meeting up with Trevor regularly. he never spends the night, always slinking off sometime after you've fallen asleep. you try to learn more about him, and he freely unloads his personal history on you. he's from the "Canadian border region of America." he likes flying planes; used to be in the air force before getting discharged. when you one day ask him what he does for work, he suddenly gets cagey. tells you not to ask questions you don't want the answers to. you guess he doesn't make his money in entirely legal ways, and don't bring it up again.

a few weeks after meeting him, you invite him to the local boxing club to watch a match you've been training for. he shows up, of course, and cheers you on from the sidelines with embarrassing yet oddly adorable enthusiasm the entire time. it's a hard fight that winds on and on. by the end of it you feel like you've been thrown into a box and rolled down a hill, but still, you pull a win out of thin air. and as the ref announces you the winner, you see Trevor standing in the crowd, yelling triumphantly while others awkwardly stare at him: "That's my girl!"

you rush home with him afterwards. the entire short car ride, he can't keep his hands off of you, almost crashing the car into a snowbank on the way. the second you reach your home, he pounces on you. he rips the boxing garb off of you; passes hungry kisses over your figure before your sweat has even had a chance to dry. in bed, he worships you as you straddle him, his hands unable to stay still as they grab and rub over your muscles. he whines that he loves you, that you're amazing, that he's so lucky, over and over, and at the peak of your climax, you pant out that you love him, too.

as you both lay in a sticky heap afterwards, he kisses all the sore spots on your body: the places your opponent had gotten hits in on you. the kisses turn into unskilled but eager massages. you fall asleep, soothed by his jittery hands.

the next morning, you wake to find him still with you. in the morning glow seeping in through your bedroom window, you pass a hand over his forehead, brushing back his hair so you can see his sleeping face.

and in that moment, you decide that throwing yourself into that now-long-ago barfight was one of the best decisions you've ever made.

[slippinmickeys]

Three Part Harmony (18/?)

Twelve hours alone in a cell, and then back into the interview room, this time shackled to the floor. When Skinner walked in, Mulder had a distinct sense of Déjà vu.

“When I asked for a lawyer, I wasn’t expecting you,” Mulder said. “We tried that once. Didn’t go so well.”

“I remember,” Skinner said, dropping heavily into the chair across from him.

The room didn’t have a window, just a bluish fluorescent light that hummed at a frequency that made Mulder want to hitch his shoulders up over his ears. Skinner’s countenance was grave.

“What is it?” Mulder asked, his first thought: Scully, Scully, Scully.

Skinner sighed. “They’re sending me back to DC. My task force as well.”

Mulder unclenched a little. “We got a whole task force? The girls at the salon will never believe this.”

Skinner ignored him. “I assembled it myself,” he said. “Level heads. Uncompromised .”

The man was warning him, Mulder realized.

“You worried about the local yokels?”

Again, Skinner breezed past his glib comments. “You’re to be transferred to a federal facility in Utah,” he went on. “Transportation by US Marshals, the whole nine yards.”

“They’re really rolling out the red carpet. I’m humbled.”

“Once I leave, I can’t help you, Mulder,” Skinner said plainly. “The agent taking over was sent from on high. The providence of which stinks to high heaven. You’ll need to be extremely careful. And you are going to need a shit-hot lawyer.”

“Think the mesothelioma guy I saw on TV is available? I’ve heard good things about class action.”

Skinner leveled a crestfallen look at him. “You’re being awfully flippant.”

“That’s because I remember how this goes,” Mulder said, suddenly weary, thinking of a baton ringing off the bars of his military cell. Wrong answer!

Skinner sighed. “Your fate may well be decided, Mulder,” he said sadly. “But hers isn’t. His isn’t. If they’re nearby, they should go. And they should not stop moving.”

Everything inside Mulder went flat. It felt like Mount Weather all over again. He sighed. “Can you tell her?” he said quietly. “Can you let her know what’s happening?”

Skinner licked his lips, nodded solemnly.

“Before you leave town, you really ought to try the pie at this one diner on route 80. Coffee’s good, too.” Mulder gave him a significant look.

“I know the place,” Skinner said, his eyes soft. “I’ll be sure to stop in.”

XxXxXxXxXxX

When she was a girl, just up from Georgia, the stink of burning crosses still sharp in her nose, Rhonda Fitzsimmons befriended a wild doe with black-tipped ears.

The deer had a noticeable limp in her right foreleg, and would frequently bed down under the trees behind Rhonda’s uncle’s cabin with her small matriarchal herd. But when the other deer would wander off in the morning to search for food, Rhonda’s doe would stay put, sometimes lolling for the entirety of the day in the soft, fragrant needles of pine.

Rhonda would watch her from the back bedroom, thinking at first that the deer was just comfortable and lazy, but realizing, when the poor thing tried to stand, that she was in fact hurt, and wasn’t moving on with the other deer because she couldn’t .

The girl recognized in the animal a familiar, as wounded as Rhonda was, equally as unable to move on. She named the doe Peaches, and imagined her fur was as soft as the stone fruit from the fields Rhonda had so recently and regretfully left.

She began sneaking carrots and apples from the crisper drawer, wilting celery, various vegetable odds and ends that she quietly plucked from her uncle’s composting pile, and took them all out behind the house, walking softly and quietly, and throwing them as best she could through the stands of trees toward the injured deer.

The other deer, if they were around, would leap from their beds as Rhonda approached, their tails flung up to reveal the white danger! signal intrinsic to the species. But Peaches, unable to leap like her sisters, would remain prone, her ears swiveling, following Rhonda’s every move, her glistening black muzzle bobbing, sipping the air for information hidden from less sensitive noses.

Rhonda would then back away respectfully and turn to go back inside, watching from her window as the deer would slowly and shakily rise to her feet and limp to whatever Rhonda had left for her, chewing lazily with her right leg pulled awkwardly up, the smooth cloven hoof an arrow pointed at her underbelly.

Peaches and her herd would sometimes disappear for days or weeks at a time, and Rhonda would wake in the night, squinting into the dark, trying to see through the inky black night, convinced the deer had finally succumbed to her injuries. And then, at times she would least expect it, like a soft, rare apracity after long gray winter days, there Peaches would be; thin but whole, her liquid eyes seeming to search out Rhonda’s.

The deer, her leg injury never quite mending, would go on to visit Rhonda for two more improbable years before finally disappearing from the mountain and Rhonda’s life, as though she had waited for the girl to heal where she could not. As though she was a quiet answer to a silent prayer.

Rhonda remembered Peaches now, as she watched the mother and her young son, reminding herself that the chances for a miracle, though infinitesimally small, were not exactly zero.

XxXxXxXxXxX

When Agent Bryson walked in, Mulder pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried to recall if he’d ever seen an episode of Law & Order that took place entirely in an interrogation room. He would have turned it off.

He wondered if the Sheriff department’s door had even shut on Skinner and the rest of his team before Bryson barged into the interview room carrying a thick Manila file folder and the acrid scent of stale cigarette smoke.

The man looked Mulder over eagerly, which irritated him to the point that he casually looked down at his wrist, as if the booking officer hadn’t taken his watch.

“Mr. Mulder, my name is Special Agent Bryson with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I believe we were once eligible to share the same credit union.”

Mulder ignored him, again looked at his wrist, then rubbed the strip of pale skin.

“You have somewhere else to be?” Bryson asked, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice.

Mulder shrugged. “Miss Otis regrets she’s unable to lunch today.”

“I’ll say. You’re in some trouble.”

Again, Mulder shrugged, sensing that his blasé attitude was getting under the other agent’s skin, and drawing a small amount of satisfaction from the offense.

Bryson narrowed his eyes and lowered himself into the chair Skinner had vacated.

“You no longer have the assistant director to protect you.”

“That much is obvious,” Mulder finally spoke. “I’m going to exercise my right to remain silent if it’s all the same to you.”

It was Bryson’s turn to shrug. The other man studied him for a long minute and then opened the file in front of him, scanning the contents for far longer than he needed to. Mulder was willing to bet the guy knew that file inside and out.

Finally the other man flipped the folder closed and sighed, looking at Mulder frankly.

“How about we both stop pretending that we don’t know exactly what each other wants.”

The buzzing from the overhead lights seemed to get louder, and Mulder cracked his neck before speaking. “You’re willing to admit that you have no interest whatsoever in justice? That you’re merely a tool in the machinations of more powerful men? That’s unexpected, but refreshing.”

“I’m talking about what we both want, Mulder,” Bryson said. “And only some of those wants are at cross purposes.” The man looked at him as if willing him to get on his page. Finally he asked, “How’s Scully?”

At the mention of her name, his stomach rocked in upheaval, but Mulder remained stonily silent.

“Dry climate, high altitude,” Bryson went on. “Either of you ever get vertigo? Short of breath?…Nosebleeds?”

His inflection on the last word made Mulder’s blood run cold.

“We don’t really care about you, Mulder,” the man went on, not knowing what kind of storm he’d ignited in Mulder’s heart. “And though Scully has proved useful in the past, her contributions… Well, we have what we need from her. In fact, I could probably be talked into dropping the charges against you. Letting the two of you walk free.”

Wants, Bryson had said. The bastard wasn’t off the mark.

“In exchange for what?” Mulder asked, already knowing the answer.

“I have two…colleagues…with a very interesting story about something that happened to them in a little boy’s bedroom across the state line in Montana.”

With the birth of William, Mulder’s wants had shifted. Seismically. With the same kind of tumult currently running roughshod through his heart. In a flash of rage, Mulder pulled on the chains that secured his handcuffs to the floor in impotent fury. Bryson had the temerity to laugh.

“William’s number had been called, but his priority stature has gone through the roof, Mulder. The next time we come for your boy, we’ll be sending a lot more than just four mercenaries.” All pretense that Bryson was an upstanding federal officer whose sole aspiration was the interest of justice was gone.

Mulder tried to stand, but the chains held his hands at knee-level, forcing him to stoop. He wanted to throw himself at the agent, could understand why chained dogs still hurled themselves against their restraints. He wanted to bark, growl, slaver, rip the man’s throat out with his teeth. If Bryson noticed, he didn’t care.

“The forces coming to take William will be like the very hand of God. People will get hurt.” ‘People,’ Bryson said. Scully , Mulder heard.

Mulder dropped heavily back into the metal chair, beads of sweat on his upper lip.

“Bring the child to me, and nothing will happen to Scully. You’ll both be free to go, to get back to your lives in DC, if you want. See your families. Reacquire your assets. No more running.”

Mulder’s mind reeled, but Bryson continued to sit there casually.

“The two of you can make other babies, Mulder,” he then went on. “You’ve certainly had a lot of practice lately.”

Blood was rushing through his head in such a roar, he barely heard the viscous words coming out of his own mouth.

“Fuck you.”

Bryson shrugged. “Suit yourself. Juries don’t take kindly to kidnappers. Though it will take months to bring you to trial. Lot can happen. Life has a way of…metastasizing.”

Mulder had to breathe through his nose to calm down. He had to remind himself; they had sent the chip to Agent Doggett when they’d removed it from Scully’s neck. Should anything turn sideways with her health, she would go to him and they could reimplant it if necessary.

William would need to separate from her until they could figure out a solution, but, Mulder hoped, Bryson’s threats were more empty than he realized. Mulder could withstand anything so long as he knew Scully and William were out there somewhere safe. He could withstand separation. He could withstand death itself.

He’d done it before.

“Tell me where they are.”

Mulder breathed deeply, regained his composure. “Over my dead body,” he said.

Bryson sucked on his teeth, nodded.

“You’re far more useful to me alive.”

When Mulder didn’t respond, the smile that crawled up Bryson’s face was serpent-like, revealing wide, brilliantly white teeth.

“Wherever you are, Dana Scully is never far away,” he explained. “And I know your son is with her. She gave him up once. She won’t make that mistake again. She’s terribly predictable.”

Dana Scully was many things, Mulder thought. ‘Predictable’ didn’t make his top twenty.

“So what does that make me?” he wanted to know.

“Bait,” Bryson said, flashing an incisor.

[theheadlessgroom]

@beatingheart-bride

"Don't worry," Dorian assured her with a smile. "I've, uh...I've already taken the liberty of...filling him in on the plan."

Honestly, even if he hadn't, Beau-clever, observant Beau-would have figured it out in no time, he was sure. The head butler of the Gracey family, in many ways, knew Dorian better than he knew himself (and considering how long he'd known Dorian, how much time they'd spent together as the young master grew up, he should), and so when Dorian's attitude went from somber and quiet to bright and excited, he immediately knew something was afoot.

"Granted, he doesn't know all the details," he admitted with a small shrug. "He doesn't know about your time travel, or our afterlives as ghosts, haunting the manor, for instance...but he does know about our plan to escape with Lizzie and Randall, and he was very keen to help in any way he can, as well as come along when I asked. Lizzie's going to talk to her mother this afternoon, and hopefully, she'll be joining us."

It thrilled him to know that Beau would be coming with them-honestly, he couldn't imagine starting a new life in California without the man he considered more of a father figure than his own father, nor could he imagine the lives of his and Elizabeth's future children being without Beau, who wouldn't be a butler in their new home, but instead a part of the family, as he always was in Dorian's eyes (even if his parents thought otherwise).

[hunkledunk]

Rabbitposting hours!

I've barely had any time to spend with Peter since I started a new job about a month ago, I was going to get him a treat today to apologise but I *just now* found out our local pet shop has shut down?

Guys I live in a rinky dink commuter town an hour's bus ride away from the big shitty what's a country yokel to do

[johnnycrass]

its ok to think everyone in a small town is a dumb local yokel embedded in facebook drama bc everyone in large cities is also that

[luulapants]

Destiel | Rated E | WIP

“From the fact that you’ve deigned to make an appearance in flyover country, can I assume I’ve kicked a hornets’ nest?”

His smile twitched. He sipped his tea. In the years since Bela first met Crowley as a child, his face had gotten older, his belly wider, hair thinner, but his manner never changed. All at once, he came across as a dear friend and a deadly threat. “From the fact that you contacted me at all, can I assume you stuck your head in it before kicking?”

All these years later, he still spoke to her like a misbehaving child. Bela cast her eyes down. If he wanted to play the doting uncle, let him. “Nothing I can’t get out of, but I’d like to know how badly it needs getting out of.” She sipped her coffee. It was uncommonly good. For the price of membership at this place, she presumed it was sourced from all the finest child labor some third-world hovel could offer. Crowley’s type loved that sort of flavor.

Fond amusement settled on his face, but she didn’t dare mistake it for affection. “This is for your new thoroughbred? Cowboy yokel, the second coming?”

Bela hummed. “He’s less wary of hornets than I am.”

“Take my advice, leave him to them. Come back to DC. You’ve been out of the water, but you’ll remember how to swim before long.”

She nearly took him at his word. Crowley was a crooked bastard, out for himself, but he had no reason to sabotage her. At least, he hadn’t yet. Then her eyes drifted to the decorative cow’s skull, adorned in dried flowers, which hung on the wall behind him. It clashed spectacularly with his sharp, all-black suit. ‘City slicker,’ the locals would call him. Crowley hated Kansas more than she did, and he’d gone and sullied the wheels of his private jet with it. If he only meant to tell her to quit her job and come home, he could do that on the bloody phone.

Bela set her coffee down and spread her arms across the back of the chair. “You once told me: campaigning isn’t an art; it’s math. Fixing isn’t an art; it’s engineering. And finding a candidate, a real candidate, the kind that will take you somewhere… well, that’s not art either. It’s magic.”

He puffed up, pleased to be quoted like a sage.

“Dean Winchester isn’t a thoroughbred,” she told him. “He is the thoroughbred. I’ve felt the magic, Crowley. Now tell me who’s trying to buy it.”

Read the rest on AO3

[lasudio]

VeronaHills, Round Nine: Wan (City)

Mid-spontaneous dance in the kitchen, Sean performed a twirl for his partner.

Patricia was pleasantly surprised and jokingly requested a pirouette. Champagne put him in the mood to comply, especially given his lady love's condition: sticking to orange juice and awaiting a delivery of maternity blouses. She giggled at his clumpy whirling, then frowned, then ran to the bathroom.

Good thing Sean was an old hand at cleaning toilets. It wasn't his main gig anymore - as far as Patricia knew, he didn't have one, and she was the breadwinning vlogger with a handful of modest sponsors (working vlog title I MAKE MY BOYFRIEND CLEAN THE TOILET EVERYDAY). No, his secret night job wasn't so marketable, or even legal. It was just so gosh darn easy to be hired muscle, and he'd basically done it for free in the village when he got into drunken scraps with the yokel locals! Under the cold street lights downtown, every bare knuckle could be monetised - and good thing, too.

Baby showers and nursery renovations simply couldn't be financed on influencer income alone.

[thetruearchmagos]

👀 - Share a quote!

💛 - What is your favorite trope to write? Is it also your favorite to read?

(yes I removed the u from favorite)

Well then, looks like I'm getting a busy day today!

👀 - Share a quote!

Well, seeing as you've been fairly interested in that Star Wars fic so far, here's the beginning to a scene from it I've been looking forwards to writing!

Moonrise's favourite hole in the wall had neither a name nor a registration, a fact which made finding the damn place a tricky business. Of course, none of them ever did, and Redar got the sense that that was the point. “Getting antsy already, Gilly? Tsk, fleet work’s gone to your head, I think.” Colonel Ecken was still leaning back in his chair, a slender glass of something purplish red in one hand and taking in the view with a lazy gaze. The two senior security men had taken their places on a hotel balcony overlooking the dingy streets below, though Redar had no intention of partaking in his old friend's merriment. "And this dump has gone to yours. You seriously think your local yokels are up to the job? "Now, now," Ecken replied, drinking from and gesturing with his glass. "They aren't stormtroopers, but they know these streets as well as the streets know them. If we'd put your boys down here, it'd be a ghost town in ten minutes- hold it!" He shot straight up, and Redar whirled around. The road was still a packed mass of moving bodies in the half light, but through the gloom and distance Redar saw an unmistakable figure stepping into the throng. Face out of sight, but he felt a chill run through his spine, and that was enough "Well then, time to see it for real."

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💛 - What is your favorite trope to write? Is it also your favorite to read?

Ooo... tough question, if I'm honest? I'm not really all to familiar with most of the 'Tropes' that exist in the world, and the ones I do know fall solidly in either my 'original' techno-thriller camp, or fanfic.

Going with the former, I guess, the 'Macross Missile Massacre' as TVTropes calls it. Seeing it play out in the 'good stuff' like Dance of the Vampires in Red Storm Rising is personally just an absolute delight to read, and of course you can expect it to appear a lot in the 12 Worlds.