#i need a goddamn professional to sort this out. it sucks ass. and i hate that it fuels my self hate

[babbushka]

Beyond Reasonable Doubt (ch.2)

–      A Lawyer AU      –

You and Kylo Ren have hated one another for as long as you can remember. He, a criminal prosecutor, and you, a defense attorney should be natural-born enemies, and you are. But when Kylo comes to you seeking representation after being charged for a murder he didn’t commit, you both learn a thing or two about life, the law, and love…

[5.8k, cw: mentions of murder, NSFW: PIV, fingering, biting/marking, possessive hate-fucking]

Available on AO3

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It feels as though the world has stopped. Time and space have come to a standstill, as you stare at him. Slightly, ever so gently, you pinch the back of your thigh because surely this must be a dream. You must have slept through your alarm – he’s not really there behind that pane of glass.

He can’t be.

Kylo smiles at you, an exhausted sort of smile, like he hasn’t slept in days. He shrugs his shoulders, too broad for the jumpsuit they’ve put him in. You pinch yourself again, but the sting of pain doesn’t jolt you awake in your bedroom, and so before you can do anything at all, you calmly hang the phone up on the wall and turn to the guard that has escorted you to this room, demanding with as much professional conviction as you can muster:

“Get me a private room with my client.”

There were perks to being this high up on the food chain, as it were. Not only did everyone know you, but they mostly trusted you. Trusted you enough to lead you down a hallway and around a corner, nothing but bleak grey and off-white walls passing you by, linoleum under your feet. You recognize these rooms from your previous dealings with Rikers, but never in a million years – a billion years – did you ever fucking think you’d be in one of these with Kylo.

He’s wearing orange, neon and bright. A number is splashed across the back in black paint, and you hate it. You hate him so fucking much, hate how he could have been so stupid to get himself in here. The second the guard closes the door, you’re crossing the small room to get close to him.

Kylo misinterprets your meaning, and as he closes his eyes and puckers his lips, anger flares up through you and you can’t help yourself from doing what your first instinct had been – smacking him across the face.

“Hey!” Kylo scowls, eyes snapping open as he brings his cupped hands up to his cheek to soothe the stinging skin.

Immediately you are on the prowl, stalking him around and around the room.

“What the fuck did you do?” Your breath comes in harsh pants as your mind reels with the implications of why he’s here, “I ignore you for two fucking days and you wind up in jail? Are you insane?”

“Sweetheart – ” Kylo puts his hands up in front of his face, trying to deflect another irritated smack, but you only swat at his hands instead, before clenching your jaw and practically backing him into the corner of the room.

“No, fuck you! You don’t get to call me sweetheart. I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now getting a goddamned promotion and instead I’m sitting here with some dipshit who couldn’t handle his liquor?” Exasperated, you run a hand through your hair.

“Would you just listen to me -- ?”

“Let’s see, what did you in? Was it that big mouth of yours? I saw the photos in the paper, you looked like you were yelling at them. Kylo you know better than to provoke already pissed off cops!”

“They’re charging me with murder.”

Kylo’s voice cuts through the tension in the room, and the air rushes out of your lungs. You remain frozen exactly where you’re standing, your noses nearly touching, your hands fisted in his orange jumpsuit like you’re some schoolyard bully about to lift him off his feet to demand his lunch money.

Your hands only clench tighter in the scratchy rough fabric, but for the first time in a long time, it isn’t anger that spikes through you, it’s fear.

“Excuse me?” Is all you can manage, your eyes searching his, knowing that if he’s joking, you’ll knee him so hard in the balls that the Skywalker bloodline will end with him.

He holds your gaze steady, and your throat closes because he’s telling the truth.

“In the first degree.” Kylo replies, and only then do you release him, your mind spiraling.

You move to sit down at the table in the center of the room, missing the way his hands reach for you. Head pounding, you point at the chair opposite the table. Kylo sits without a word, his face drawn in a frown, his teeth grinding. You’ve always reminded him not to do that, to unclench his jaw and unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but you find that you’d be a hypocrite to say that now.

“Who?”

“My grandfather.”

“Did you do it?”

Kylo reacts to that question like you’ve slapped him again – he recoils physically from it, nose scrunching up as he bares his teeth at you like some wild thing, so very unlike the Prosecutor you knew. This must have really rattled him, and you’re almost sorry for asking, but it’s a question you have to ask nonetheless.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Kylo hisses, “Did you seriously just ask me that question?”

“Yeah, I did.” You reply, repeating yourself with a level, “Did you?”

“No I didn’t fucking kill my own grandfather.” He scoffs, “I’m being framed, obviously.”

You can’t help but let a small smile begin to creep up at the corner of your mouth, only Kylo could say something with that much gravity so flippantly. You look at him, and he looks at you, really looks at you. In all the years that you’ve known Kylo, you don’t think you’ve ever really looked him in the eye for very long, one of you always pulling away after a moment.

But now, in the quiet of this private room, there is nothing stopping you from staring at him for as long as you’d like. His eyes are brown, but they’re a strange sort of brown, the kind that looks light from within under the fluorescents. Even in the ugly color of the room and the jumpsuit, he’s handsome, something you positively abhor him for. It shouldn’t be fair, for a prisoner to be so handsome, you think.

You’re reminded briefly of that morning, when he brought you croissants with the jam that you like, when the two of you chuckled softly in the light of morning and kissed the fruity flavor of raspberries and the sweet snap of chocolate off one another’s lips.

God, how you fucking hate him.

“Can you prove that you’re being framed?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes.” He whispers back, looking too vulnerable for your liking as his eyes shine, as he clasps his hands in front of you and says something that you never thought would come out of his mouth, “Will you help me?”

Part of you wants to say no.

Part of you wants to pound your fist on the table and leave, because dammit you should be thrilled about this. Kylo is the man who has caused you more stress than anything in your life, more than the LSATs or the BAR, more than the first time you ever stepped foot in a courtroom, even more than that time you had been chosen to speak at your cousin’s wedding. He is the only person you have ever lost a case to, he is the only person who has ever broken your win streak and your resolve, and he gloats about it.

You should be gloating about this, you should shove this right in his face the way he shoves everything into yours. Instead, you sigh, try to calm your frazzled nerves, and in a halfway defeated voice ask, “When’s the preliminary hearing?”

“Already had it – plead not-guilty, it’s going to trial and bail is set at a million dollars.” Kylo shocks you by answering, and you frown at him.

“You already had the preliminary hearing?” You suddenly feel very small, almost offended by that. Having the hearing meant he technically already had representation, especially if he already got a trial motion and a bail, which means he asked someone before he asked you.

“Well someone wasn’t answering her fucking phone!” Kylo can sense your mood shift at once, and he rushes to say it before you can even get your mouth opened fully to scoff,

“If you already have a goddamned lawyer then why are you wasting my time – ”

“Do you think I want your help?” Kylo snaps, once again sucking all the air out of your lungs as his face gets red, as his teeth bare once again, the vein in his neck thick and pulsing. “You think I want you to see me like this? You think I want you to have enough to gloat about for the rest of your life? No, so I’d appreciate it if you’d not be such a bitch about everything for once.”

“Why am I here, Kylo?” You whisper, wondering who is representing him. It’s probably his cousin, Rey, or maybe his business associate, Hux.

You want to fight him on it, but at the end of the day he would be right. You didn’t answer his calls.

Kylo looks away, a deep crimson blush blooming angrily across his face. It splotches over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, as he lets out a pent up breath in a deep sigh that has his shoulders sagging.

“Because you’re the only person I trust to do this right.” He says truthfully, even though he hates himself for it, “You’re the only person who can. This is the rest of my life that’s at stake, I need the best attorney I can get, and that’s you. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Kylo wasn’t one to give out declarations like this, compliments like that. You decide not to push the issue, not now anyway, when you’re both clearly in such a bad mood.

It’s hard seeing him like this, hard thinking of him as anything other than the pain in your ass that he was. He wasn’t just Kylo now, he was a client, a high profile client with a murder charge sitting heavy on his shoulders. And you’re the only one he trusts to help him.

“Did you post bail?” You ask, knowing he has that kind of money.

“I’m working on it, it should be in sometime today.” He replies with a nod, and you nod back.

Getting up from the chair in the table, you bite at your lip. Kylo does the gentlemanly thing and stands out of respect for you, before taking a few measured steps over to you. He looks around, makes sure there’s no cameras hidden in the space, makes sure there’s no one watching.

Very carefully, ever so slowly, he leans forward and closes his eyes, his nose gently rubbing against yours. You want to kiss him, but you know you can’t, not here, not while he’s in custody like this.

“When you’re out, and whenever you’re ready, give me a call.” You whisper, and he smiles one of those cheshire cat grins of his that show off all his crooked teeth.

“Will you answer this time?” His lips ghost over yours, just barely, just a hint.

“I’ll answer.” You pull away, leaving him huffing and puffing and frustrated.

Good, you think. Let him be frustrated, if there was one thing you were certain of, it was that this case was going to age you nearly a decade from the looks of it – and you didn’t even know anything yet. Just knowing it was Kylo that the world is up against is enough.

You gather your things and brush past him to the door, knowing you’ll be seeing him again very soon, possibly even that evening, depending on how quickly the process his bail. Maybe you’d put in a good word with the office for him, get him a little higher on the priority list.

Giving the door a gentle knock to let the guard know you’re finished, the two of you wait as the locks shift and turn.

“And for the record,” You say, when the door swings open and they begin to usher Kylo back to his holding cell, you look him dead in the eye and swallow your pride to tell him, “I would’ve taken your case no matter what.”

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Neisha is waiting for you with a fresh cup of coffee in one of those disposable paper cups, and even though it tastes like shit, it’s still a calming balm on your nerves. You thank her for it and the two of you sign out through visitation, walking the way you had come to go back to the car.

“Who was it?” She can’t help but ask, curiosity in her voice.

“Who do you think?” You groan, downing another gulp of the watery caffeine, “Our favorite asshole.”

Neisha stops in her tracks at that, surprise written all over her face. Part of you wonders how she hadn’t recognized his voice over the phone, but then again, maybe you were the only one who cared enough about the deep baritone of his to notice it.

“No way!” Still, she’s shocked, and that shock turns to confusion almost at once, “He wound up in Rikers over a DUI?”

You sigh, and shake your head, chugging the rest of your coffee. You used to down two pots of the stuff a day in law school, and now nothing ever seemed strong enough. Even chain coffee didn’t hit right anymore, everywhere either burned their beans or under brewed, it was a mess. A million coffee shops in Manhattan and the only good cup of joe was the kind Kylo made for you. The bastard.

“If only it were that simple.” You chew on your lip, the two of you finally approaching the company car that’s been waiting for you the whole time. “Do you want to stop anywhere on the way back to work? Part of me is dreading facing Holdo.”

“She’s called you three times.” Neisha winces, holding out your phone for you to take. You had to leave it behind before going back to see your client, and so of course you left it with her.

“Voicemail?” You almost are too afraid to ask, but you bite the bullet anyway.

“One.” She confirms, and you groan.

“Great.”

“Are you going to listen to it?” Neisha raises a brow while she watches you slip the phone into your purse, decidedly choosing to ignore it in favor of finding a better cup of coffee somewhere.

“No.” You chuckle, explaining, “We’ll be back soon enough, if she’s going to bitch at me, I want it to be in person where I can bitch back.”

“Maybe we can pick up lunch for everyone.” She suggests cheerfully, “No one can be too mad when you’re bringing them food.”

At just that moment, your stomach growls, and you cast a glance up to the sky wondering how you ever got so lucky to have a mind-reader as an assistant. She only smiles at you, and you smile back, letting her know, “I love the way you think.”

In the end, you decide to skip out on the rest of the day of work entirely. By the time you and your assistant had ordered and picked up food for the office, it was almost three o’clock, and you knew that there was no point in trying to get anything done when you had already been scheduled to leave at five. Mondays were a waste of time as it were, you decided you’d just go in early and stay late tomorrow to make up for the time.

Giving your assistant the rest of the day off too, you retreated back to your apartment and tugged your clothing off. You had a strict rule about keeping outside clothes away from your bedroom, and it was a relief to change into something less professional and far more comfortable. Not quite pajamas, because it was early enough in the day still and you weren’t completely giving up on the evening just yet, but still comfortable.

You wondered what Kylo would change into when he got home, wondered if he’d take a long hot shower, or a deep soak in the tub to scrub prison off of him. He hadn’t been there long, but it didn’t take long to shake a man up, even a man as tough as Kylo. Guilt ate at you inside, if only you hadn’t been so stubborn, and adamant in your misery to ignore the world…maybe you could’ve sweet talked the judge into letting him stay on house arrest or something.

If you hadn’t been so stubborn, maybe Kylo never would have gotten himself drunk and angry, driving around town and getting himself arrested. Not that you could really blame yourself for that, you were perfectly in your rights to be pissed off with him for winning against you. And if he was framed like he says he was, then they would have had a warrant for him anyway.

But still, it eats at you.

You groan, smacking a hand to your forehead – the DUI isn’t going to look good to a jury, not at all. Especially if the police think the murder happened that day, that was going to cause him trouble, and by extension, you. He needed to have a rock solid alibi, and as much as you hated it, if he was so plastered as to get pulled over, he might not remember where he was or what he was doing. That was going to give him trouble too.

Speak of the Devil, you can’t help but think, as your phone rings. You pick it up right on the second buzz, recognizing the caller ID and smiling to yourself about it.

“Kylo?” You say stupidly, because you know who it is. You just like to make sure, want to know that it’s him.

“Hey sweetheart, go outside.” He answers, and you frown, your heart-rate spiking.

“You have a key, let yourself in.” You scoot over on the couch enough to peek out through the living room window, looking down the ten stories to see his shiny black car indeed parked on the curb, flashers on.

“No, it’s just my car, we’re going out to dinner.” Kylo chuckles, and you frown.

“Right now?” It was barely half past four o’clock, it wasn’t even time for the early bird dinner specials yet at most of the diners around the block.

“Right now, put on something nice.” He instructs, before hanging up.

You blink in surprise for a few seconds, before springing into action. Curse that insufferable man! If only he could think far enough in advance to warn a woman before sending the car, you bounce the thought around in your head. You quickly brush your teeth while you step out of your sweatpants, tug the t-shirt over your head.

Wondering what the world record is for getting dressed for a surprise dinner date, you throw on something elegant, really dressing to the nines. Not having much time to do anything with your hair, you put it up in a style that you hope looks purposefully messy as opposed to just sloppy, and you clasp on subtle yet expensive jewelry.

You almost wish you had timed yourself as you spray a few squirts of perfume, slip on some heels and dash out the door, grateful for the fact that you live in an upscale enough apartment that you don’t have to worry about getting your shoes caught in the grates of a stairwell, taking the shiny polished elevator for a ride.

Kylo’s driver is waiting for you next to the car, and when he sees you, he straightens up his posture, squares his slim shoulders. The kid wasn’t more than nineteen or twenty, but he was nice, and you knew he was family, and it was always a pleasure to see him.

“Hi Dopheld, it’s been a while.” You smile at him as he opens the back door for you, giving you a hand to balance yourself as you securely settle in.

“Hey (Y/N), how have you been?” Dopheld is soft spoken and kind, a very gentle soul. How he manages to deal with Kylo’s road rage, you’ll never know, but you’re glad that it’s him picking you up and not his boss.

“Better than you I bet.” You chuckle as he closes the door and rounds the car. When he’s back in his driver’s spot and pulls out onto the road, curiosity gets the better of you so you ask, “Where are we going?”

“Del Frisco’s, you know Kylo.” Dopheld’s eye meets yours in the rearview mirror, and you let out an exasperated sigh.

“That man and his steak, oy.” You mutter to yourself with a roll of your eyes, admiring your reflection in the glass of the window.

“Well you can’t blame him, he’s been eating prison food for the past four days.” Dopheld shudders at the mere thought of it, and you sigh.

“He really was in there all weekend, huh?” You feel that guilt again, it rises like acid up into your throat.

“I’m surprised you didn’t know, it was all over the news.” Dopheld’s eyebrows raise, and you sigh.

“I uh,” You clear your throat, trying to find some way to not tell this kid that you threw something of a temper tantrum over losing your case, “I didn’t really pay much attention to anything these past few days.”

Somehow, even though you didn’t say it, Dopheld seems to know anyway.

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Del Frisco’s is a real swanky place just shy of Times Square, and undoubtedly one of Kylo’s favorite places to eat. He’s got a host of restaurants he likes, but there’s something about a well-cooked steak that can’t be beat, he’s told you this too many times. Just about every time he’s had a steak at Del Frisco’s, anyway. It’s a three story tall building, and a dress code, and if there was one thing Kylo loved more than steak, it was an excuse to put on his expensive suits, his nice shoes.

He hasn’t said so, but you have a sneaking suspicion he likes an excuse to see you all dolled up too, which is just what you are, as you step out of his car at five o’clock on that Monday in January, bundled up in a coat that you can’t wait to dramatically remove in front of him.

“I’m meeting a Mr. Ren.” You say quietly to the host, who recognizes both you and the name you give her at once.

“Right this way.” She invites you further into the restaurant, up a flight of stairs to a secluded corner of the floor that overlooks the main level.

Kylo stands when he sees you, looks utterly mesmerized by you. Good, you can’t help but feel pleased, you like the attention, like the way he gives it to you. He’s pulled out all the stops himself as it would seem; a custom tailored Gucci suit in rich brown, with deep green and burgundy stripes running down the length of it that makes him look impossibly taller than he is.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wonder if all your teasing about his solid black suits day in and day out finally got through to him. He wears a beige turtleneck underneath for warmth, and his hair is smartly styled. You want to run your fingers through it, want to muss him up for all the trouble he puts you through.

“I like you better like this.” You say teasingly, playfully, “Orange isn’t your color.”

“I like you better like this too,” Kylo chuckles back, carefully slipping your fur coat off your shoulders, revealing the dress that hugs your body and shows off all the assets you’re proud of, “When you aren’t smacking me.”

“Don’t tempt me.” You smile, taking a seat opposite him at the small circular table.

“Thank you for coming.” Kylo says, and you roll your eyes.

“You didn’t give me much choice, did you?” You point out, he gave you no notice at all, no option to opt out, not that you would have.

Sitting across from you, you can feel the way his shiny polished dress shoe nudges up against your heel, a purposeful invitation that you pretend to ignore just to rile him up. You like getting him annoyed, just as much as he likes annoying you.

“No, but you do always have one.” Kylo pours you a glass of something bubbly, and hands it to you with a soft, “You look lovely.”

“I already agreed to take your case, Kylo, you don’t have to lay it on thick.” You shake your head, accepting the glass. He was so charming, too charming for his own good. This was how he wound up in situations like being charged for murder, that charm of his.

“Maybe I want to.” Kylo shrugs, “Maybe I missed complimenting you.”

“Go ahead then.” You lean back against the chair for a moment, your arms crossing over your chest, an eyebrow raised.

“I love when you wear this dress, your body is dynamite in it.” He settles on, “Makes my mouth water.”

���Are you sure that’s not just the steak talking?” You take a sip of the drink, and he groans in the back of his throat, ripping a piece of fresh bread off the loaf and dipping it into a small plate of oil.

“Remind me never to go to jail again.” He mutters, “Imagine spending the rest of your life there.”

“No thanks to you, too many of my clients don’t have to imagine, now do they?” That strikes a nerve in you, and you’re suddenly reminded of the way the last case really went down, the implications for that poor man, probably in Rikers himself for a crime he didn’t commit.

“Hey – ” Like lightning, Kylo reaches out and grabs your wrist, preventing you from getting up and leaving, afraid of you bolting away, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” You blink, stunned.

“I’m sorry, I mean it.” He rushes to say, “I’m sorry. But you have to know that I’m only doing my job, when I do that. Same way that you do yours when you let guilty men walk free.”

It’s the first time he’s ever apologized to you…about anything. You’ve known him for years and years, and this is the first time he’s ever uttered those words. Jail must have really fucked with him, if he’s apologizing to you.

“I know, but it still sucks.” You eventually say, not moving your hand at all.

“Stay with me? Have dinner, I already ordered.” Kylo licks his lips, eyes dark, glittering.

“Most women don’t like you assuming their order.” You find it important to mention.

“You’re not most women.” He counters, and well, you can’t deny him that.

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Hours later he’s stumbling with you through the hallway of his apartment, kicking his shoes off and unclasping your gown desperately, kissing you deeply, his nose bumping against yours as he hungrily sucks on your tongue, hands groping at you. You lead him to the bedroom, your eyes closed, going off intuition alone.

It’s dark in the apartment, the lux lavish thing, rent probably four times what you pay for your already expensive place. No, knowing Kylo he owns the fucking penthouse, that’s just like him, isn’t it. You smack into a wall accidentally, and he laughs, and you laugh too, before you’re both moaning, trying with all your might to get into his bed.

“I’m not doing any of the fucking work tonight.” You gasp and moan against his mouth as he shoves you down onto the mattress, wrenches your legs open with his warm broad palms.

There’s a fireplace in his bedroom that he turns on with the press of a button, filling the room with an ethereal quality that bathes you both in an orange glow.

“When do you ever do any of the work?” Kylo grunts against your throat as he kisses down down down the length of your body, his hands kneading in the flesh of your thighs. You’re too desperate to come to snap back at the remark, so you let it slide, especially as he begins to shove two fingers into your cunt, thick and hot, “Let me take care of you, just take it, I know you can take it sweetheart.”

You squirm under the intrusion, too tight. Trying to relax for him, you breathe deeply, your voice shaky shuddery on the exhale. Already your toes are curling as you let your head fall back against his pillow, your back arching as he stretches you open, determined and focused to bring you pleasure, to get you ready for him.

Kylo sucks on your hip, at the spot where your thigh joins it, that crease there that he loves to run his tongue over over over, his thumb rubbing rough circles on your swollen clit. He pulls back enough to spit on it, right on your pussy, not that you need any help, you’re practically dripping for him.

“Kylo, fuck, forget it just give me your cock.” You grow impatient, shifting your hips around, nudging the side of his jaw with your knee when he leans up to look at you.

“You sure?” He’s transfixed with the sight of his own fingers disappearing into your folds, but he’s already pulling out, his cock hard and heavy, aching and throbbing for the hot wet tightness of your cunt.

“Yes I’m sure, just fuck me, fuck me hard?” You pat at his shoulder, and he nods, scrambles up your body and covers you like a blanket, warm and wide and strong. If he weren’t such a fucking asshole, you think you might like him.

But that’s not what this was, this was something you both agreed on a long time ago – a no strings attached arrangement, fucking out frustration and pent up aggression that otherwise was exploding all over the courtroom. This wasn’t anything more than an excuse to relieve some tension, since you two were the only people in your caliber, the only two you could trust to do it right and not mess anything up.

“I fuckin’ missed this pussy, missed the way she stretches for me, god you look so good getting stuffed full.” Kylo moans as he presses the head of his cock through your folds, chasing the heat.

Your pussy sucks him in, swallows him down as it clenches around him, your body thrumming with pleasure as he bottoms out in one swift thrust. You egg him on, throw your arms around his neck and pull him down close close close, your mouth open for him to kiss.

“Oh!” You gasp when he starts to thrust in earnest, grabbing the headboard for leverage as he rails you hard, “Yes, right there! Come on give me more!”

His dick drags against your gspot perfectly, and your legs lift to wrap around his waist, holding on to him tightly, your hands scratching up his shoulders. He is relentless, dangerous, dark with his desire as he makes your mind white out, makes your vision go spotty as he shakes shakes shakes the bed, the frame creaking and groaning under your sweaty bodies.

“Greedy whore, that’s what you are isn’t it? My greedy girl. I bet you missed my cock, didn’t you?” Kylo grunts, grabs a hold of your jaw with one of his hands and sticks his fingers in your mouth, leans down to kiss your cheek. He bites at it, bites at your face like an animal and you lose yourself in the pleasure of being so consumed.

“No,” You lie, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of knowing you got yourself off angrily to the thought of him, not wanting his ego to get any fucking bigger than it already did.

Kylo doesn’t buy it for one second, he licks up your cheek, licks away the sweat that drips down your temple, suckles it off of the dip in your throat, the space between your tits. He bites and sucks at your breasts as he fucks you hard, as he pushes you up up up the mattress, until you have to throw your hands against the headboard and push back down so you don’t smack your head.

“Bet you thought about it every fucking day like I thought about your tight cunt, damn you’re wet.” Kylo groans, his voice muffled as he buries his face between your cleavage, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside your pussy, the pleasure making your shoulders pinch in, your knees and thighs shake, body starting to convulse.

“I did not!” You lie lie lie, “Believe it or not but you don’t consume my every waking fucking thought, you know.”

“Don’t I?” Kylo pushes, drops a hand back down to your clit and brings you to the edge, painfully hot white sparks dancing through your nerves.

“No!”

“No?” His voice is dangerously sweet, charming, handsome. You hate him, fuck he’s so handsome.

“Fuck you – yes, okay! Yes!” You glare at him with a deep frown, frowning while he grins with all of his teeth, until your eyes are rolling back into your head and your toes curl and your body snaps up with tension as you come and come and come, “Oh yes, Kylo, yes right there, right there…!”

You let out a strangled shout of his name as your orgasm hits full force, and Kylo grins like the cat that got the cream as he comes inside you, collapsing down onto your chest. He’s too heavy though, and he knows that, he knows because you tell him all the time, so he rolls over to a spot that isn’t sticky, pulls you with him so you’re both resting on your sides.

Kylo doesn’t dare pull out, and if he gets his way, he won’t until morning. You’re too tired, too well fucked to challenge him about it, even though you know you really should go to the bathroom, at the very least.

You’re both breathing hard, heartbeats pounding together, until eventually, somehow, inevitably, your lungs and hearts sync up in a slow even rhythm, breathing in and out together in the quiet of the night. The fireplace flickers gently across from the bed, making shadows dance across Kylo’s face as he leans in to rub his nose against yours.

“Let me kiss you?” He whispers, a strange sort of vulnerability you don’t want to deny.

In the morning, you’ll grill him about everything that happened over the weekend, exactly what the charges against him are from, as much as he knows. In the morning, you’ll yell at him and hate yourself for taking on what is going to be probably one of the toughest cases of your career.

But for now, you shuffle as close to him as you possibly can and crane your head up to make up for the height difference from where your bodies are still joined, and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until you both fall asleep.

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Tagging some Kylo lovin' friends! If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this story, please feel free to leave a comment or send an ask! :)

@mochabucky @sacklerscumrag @artsymaddie @bitchydecisions @direnightshade @reyloaddict55 @kylorenswhxre @sunflowersinthesnow @safarigirlsp @rennasiance-mama @steeevienicks @mousemakingjam @the-unmanaged-mischief @materialisthicc @littleevilme13 @erys-targaryen @leillaa @hswritingrecs @han68000 @rosi3ba3z @chapterhappygirl @schopenhauerdeathsquad @groovetoob @glassbxttless @angel-bxby3 @smallgirlbigpersonality @cowgirl1234 @lovelyyy-luna @cornmousequeen @theinfinitenerd @themeanestlittlewitch

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren x you #kylo ren/you #kylo ren fanfic #adam driver fanfic #adcu #kylo ren smut #kylo ren angst #lawyer au #laywer!kylo ren #my writing #beyond reasonable doubt

[ciggylungz]

Rivals

Summary: Y/n and Harry are both CEO’s of their parent’s companies since they inherited the businesses from them, they’ve been rivals since they were kids- now that they’re professional adults how will their rivalry affect them?   2.2k

 -

It’s no secret that growing up with a workaholic parent is hard for a kid, but for Y/n it was amplified due to the fact both her parents owned one of the most famous fashion companies in the world. This meant during most of her childhood she relied on nannies, private drivers, maids and child minders to care for her in absence of her busy working parents.

Of course having absent parents gave her some perks during her teen years, the ability to throw ragers in the absurdly large mansion they’d bought for the three of them –(well, they were hardly in it so mainly just their daughter)- not having to worry about getting caught when she decided to bring people over to get a quick shag in and the plus of having no one to bother her during her angsty middle school years. Those things were nice, yet you really can’t replace the role of your parents with teenage hookups and parties.

If there’s one thing that she absolutely hated about her parents work, it would be their former business partners cunt of a son. Harry Styles. Y/n had been forced to be in the twats life since they were 10 and his father joined stocks in her parents company before investing fully and becoming business partners. For Y/n that meant being forced to be around their son whenever their parents were too busy crushing numbers or out on boozy business trips clogging their noses with high end coke and buying out their competitors.

Harry was always a good-looking boy, and that only made things worse because he was a total prick. He was arrogant, annoying and always got away with being the biggest pain in the ass y/n has ever experienced in her life. He was insanely competitive, cocky and always found a way to weasel into Y/n’s business just to push her buttons. One’s he knew how to push perfectly to make her want to pound his head off a blacktop.

It was almost as if when it came to Y/n he never matured past being a 12-year-old boy, and now he’s a 23 year old powerful business man who still can’t manage to leave her alone.

Y/n had inherited her parents’ company when they decided to retire, two years before the retirement her parents and Harrys father had severed their ties and he’d gone back to his independent company. And just y/n’s luck, the man passed his roll as CEO down to his son, making the two young adults’ owners of two of the most famous fashion and beauty companies to ever exist.

Make no mistake, Y/n was a strong, independent and ruthless business woman so Harry’s subsequent inheritance didn’t threaten her in a business sense it more so made her worried for her blood pressure since the man couldn’t help but come bother her every chance he got. It didn’t help his dad had a single remaining stock left in the shoe portion of their clothing company giving Harry the perfect excuse to come barging into Y/n’s office to get on her nerves. To Y/n Harrys like a cold sore that won’t go away, just keeps coming back every time you think you’ve gotten rid of it.

___

Today was a busy day for Y/n, she had a meeting with her team that worked closely with her managing profit, stock, inventory, sales and all that stuff. Her team was large, with a company with over two thousand distributors worldwide and thirty-five exclusive stores scattered around the globe that’s to be expected. All in all, Y/n was responsible for making sure all one hundred and fifty thousand employees were running a smooth ship and every participating party was doing what they needed to do. It was a stressful job no doubt, but she never backed down from the challenge.

The meetings were always her least favorite part of her job. All the paper work that had to be read, numbers calculated, sales charted and any complaints or incident reports all had to be verbalized and talked about in detail with documentation of all the important things said as well as much more. Today the meeting took a grueling four and a half hours and the day was far from over.

Once she got out of her meeting it was nearing noon, she had to push her lunch off to phone the companies attorneys because one worker was trying to do a fake insurance claim. The man faked a work accident failing to remember every warehouse and factory was littered with security cameras that caught him in the act, so she had to inform them of the situation so they could sort it out. After that she got sucked into looking at new designs her design team had come up with for the next season, explaining that Chanel and Gucci both wanted to work with them to carry a few exclusive items only for that season.

Finally, at half passed two she made it back to her office, sitting down in her desk chair while taking her hair out of the headache inducing ponytail it had been in since she got there at five that morning. She opened her laptop, planning to send off some emails while she put in her order for lunch to her assistant, getting as much done as she could in the little bit of private time she was able to snag.

A knock sounded at the door, she knew it was Morgan coming in with the food she ordered so she didn’t bother to look up from what she was doing very drawn in to the email she was currently formatting. Only her attention was quickly severed when his voice rang out instead of the one she expected.

“I believe you ordered the chop salad, diet coke and fruit for lunch misses Yln.”

That annoying, cocky voice. You can hear his shit eating grin and teasing eyes simply in his tone, you don’t even have to look up at the jerk.

A prolonged sigh blew out of her lips, a grunt of annoyance following as she looked up at him. He looked nice, as always, she added bitterly in her own mind. She hated the fact someone so goddamn irritating was so undeniably attractive. He wore a dark blue suit, white button up with a black tie and yellow accent pocket square. Yet his fashion and handsomeness seemed a bit overshadowed by his personality that had the same affect on the woman as nails on a chalkboard.

“Harry, to what do I owe the displeasure?” Y/n reached her arm across the desk to snatch the paper bag from his ring clad hands, a sarcastic disapproving finger was pointed at her yet she didn’t take his bait opting to give him the death stare instead.

“Sassy today are we?” The man rested himself on the small leather loveseat that was in her office, propping his head on a throw pillow and putting his feet on the armrest. “You act like you’re not happy to see me, I know yeh missed me.” Y/n rolled her eyes, digging her fork into the salad aggressively. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been happy to see you, and I’m certain no one has ever missed your presence either.”

Harry chuckled slightly, loving how easily he could annoy the girl. Over the past thirteen years he’s learned just how to get under her skin, and he enjoyed doing so.

“Bit feisty today aren’t yeh Y/n? playing hard to get I see.” The man folded his hands on top of his chest, completely relaxing into the comfortable furniture, making himself comfortable for the undetermined amount of time he’d be spending there irritating his childhood ‘friend’.

The difference between Harry and Y/n’s perspectives on their rather odd ‘relationship’, if you could really call it that is Harry never hated Y/n. In fact he was always quite fond of her, he enjoys her company even when he’s forcing it on her and using the shared time to annoy the ever loving shit out of her. He and the woman have always been competitive growing up. In sports, card games, classes, and now business and Y/n took things a lot more seriously then he did. she was always wound a bit tight, she gets it from her mother.

Harry and Y/n had an interesting past. They have a love-hate relationship, seeing as even through the perpetual animosity they’ve carried since they were kids they did have their good moments too. And though Y/n would never admit it, there’s a part of her that does actually care about him even if she loathes that part of her deeply. In their teens they were at each other throats a lot, but in between that they would occasionally have their good days where they would refrain from getting into screaming matches and instead would be able to tolerate being together. Y/n chooses to describe it as tolerating him since she’d never admit she sometimes enjoys his company.

Through their formative years whenever Y/n was throwing a party, she wouldn’t protest when her friends would invite Harry as well. Pretending like she didn’t know he was coming and didn’t want him there when she saw him in the crowd, yet he always had a feeling she was anticipating and secretly wanted him to make an appearance. When he’d plan some sort of adventure with their friends he’d do the same, always slightly relieved when she’d show up but he’d put on the irritating act as soon as he got the chance which ruined her mood, every time. and well, it would be a lie to say the two never found themselves hate fucking each other after one of their parties, drunk and pissed at each other only to pretend like it had never happened.

To Harry, the animosity mixed with a hidden sense of fondness and maybe even a hint of attraction.

The woman ignored his comment, chewing her food before taking a swig of the soda looking back at him with a rather unamused expression. “What do you want Harry? And who the hell even let you in here?” she continued eating and wrapping up her email while he formed his reply. “Told Morgan I’d bring it up to yeh, she’s got a bit of a crush on me so she handed it over without much convincing.” Yet another eyeroll from Y/n was delivered. “She’s like 19, don’t manipulate her into worming into my office just because she can’t see that you’re a much bigger prick then the one in your pants will ever be.”

“First of all, 19 is legal so if she wants to eye fuck me I’ll allow it. Second, don’t be rude. This is a professional setting, do you think it’s appropriate to talk about my genitals in the work place? Might have to report you.”

Y/n couldn’t help the small snort she let out at his antics. As much as he annoyed her, sometimes she did find him a bit humorous. “and for the record, I’m very happy with my package and I don’t appreciate that comment.” He pointed a finger at her, a fake angry look on his face. “Just as much as I don’t appreciate you intruding on what was supposed to be my down time to eat, we’re even shrimp dick.”

Harry gasped at the insult, squinting at her slightly. While Harry was skilled in pressing her buttons, she could do it the same. Making comments on his dick size, sex skills, business deals or things of that nature always got him riled up. That 12-year-old boy mentality rearing it’s ugly head any time she makes a comment about his dick being small. Childish he was, absolutely childish.

“Don’t get smart with me, I’ll whip it out right here to prove my point.” His eyebrow raised and she could see him chewing on his cheek in annoyance. She truly found it funny how peeved she could make a grown man by making fun of his penis. He was ridiculous.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, I didn’t bring my mental scrub brush to work with me today.” When she had finished speaking the woman tossed her now empty salad box into the trash, taking another sip of her drink and finally sending off the painfully long email.

Harry decided it was time for him to head back to his own office, which was right across the street much to Y/n’s displeasure but of course he couldn’t leave without a final childish jab at the woman.

“Just remember, I’ve had you bouncing on my dick more than once. Don’t hold yourself so high and mighty dear, because we both know I’ll have you like that again.”

And with that a Harry with a cheeky smirk on his face left the office, leaving a slightly stunned Y/n in his wake.

 (eek pt.1 lets see how this one goes.)

#harry styles angst #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles smut #harry styles series #CEO!harry #CEO!yn #harry styles concept #harry styles x yn #harry styles x reader

[silentstep]

orchestral AU: The Untamed

I am legally required to do one of these for every fandom I’m ever in.  HERE WE GO.

Wei Wuxian is a violinist.  this is the EASIEST of them all, hands down.  Wei Wuxian is the HERO and the PROTAGONIST and everything he does is done with maximum drama!!!! and never not once does it ever even occur to him for a single moment that he might not be the most important actor in the room.  Something must be done and it’s up to him to do it.  with FLAIR.

(I am a violinist.  I know my own.)

Lan Wangji is a pianist.  Lan Wangji is not actually a part of this orchestra.  oh, he gets brought in a lot, because there’s plenty of orchestral works with pianos, but truly he is most comfortable in a little dark practice room playing Chopin.  (And then of course he and his soulmate play Beethoven sonatas and it’s fucking incredible.)

Lan Xichen plays the cello!  Ah, supportive, calm, diplomatic Xichen.  Never the drama queen.  Hidden depths behind that smile.  Strong and beautiful, never aggressive or overbearing.  Deeply faithful.  (Why do I always associate cellos with fidelity?  IDK but I do.  They’re like the presence of a spaniel in old paintings.)

Jiang Cheng plays the clarinet.  Extremely important, but overlooked b/c it’s not exactly glamorous.  (“nobody respects clarinets,” I said confidently to Partner, who gave me the most appalled look: “you mean you don’t respect clarinets.”  “they’re woodwinds.”  “you’re such a violinist.”)  Jiang Cheng practices hard and he shows up early to every single rehearsal and he’s part of the goddamn backbone of the orchestra but do you think that matters to anyone?  No one’s looking at him!  Wei Wuxian is showing off again!

Nie Mingjue plays the trombone.  Powerful, bold, a nice range, not commonly a solo instrument (the Nie sect is all about that well-coordinated teamwork) but not one that’s relegated to oompahs of support either.

Wen Qing plays the oboe.  Also very important.  A little high-strung (“if anyone spends all their time carving reeds, it’s her,” said Partner, and I agree).  Jiang Cheng keeps spares of her preferred reed knives & cane & stuff on his person just in case she ever needs anything.  They’re part of the same orchestra!  He’s just being responsible!  Anyone would, probably!

Wen Ning’s not in the orchestra at all.  He played Suzuki violin as a kid but his family wanted him to focus more on his studies, so he let it fall by the wayside.  (Unbeknowest to them, he’s recently started getting into fiddle.)

Lan Qiren plays viola.  Wei Wuxian has probably told viola jokes in his hearing.  They’re probably the same ones his mother told in Lan Qiren’s hearing back in the day.

Lan Sizhui plays the bass.  Strong, reliable, genuinely content out of the spotlight and in a position of support, doesn’t make a big deal out of the fact that he is very important.  Laid-back and chill.

Lan Jingyi plays the french horn.  Sweet, a little wacky.  He cackles about it every time he gets to do the horn fifths to mean cuckoldry.

The Jins are all trumpeters.  everyone hates Jin Zixun (who sucks, and is an ass) and lumps Jin Zixuan in with him, which is unfair because Zixuan is actually really really good at trumpet.  like, yeah he sure knows it, but it’s completely justified!  And he’s really very nice, just extremely shy about everything that isn’t playing music.  Mianmian plays clarinet, but she hangs out with the trumpets most of time— well, with Zixuan, anyway, who’s her friend, and listen, Zixun is 100% an amoral ass but he genuinely does care about Zixuan, and even Mianmian in a way.

Jin Guangyao solely among the Jins does not play trumpet: he plays flute.  Delicate, beautiful, ambitious (potentially murderous); the violinists of the winds.  (listen to me.  I say this as a violinist and a soprano.  the highest voices of every ensemble are the same.  high pitches are piercing!  you know you’re gonna be heard.  one of the biggest reasons for someone to choose the soprano part is because you want to be the one people are listening to whether they like it or not.)

Partner says Jiang Yanli plays the flute, which I’m actually gonna disagree with because I don’t think Jiang Yanli’s part of the orchestra, I think she’s in some sort of background managerial/support role.  I’m making her the music librarian.  She and Jin Zixuan have a very, very quiet mutual pining thing going on, where they’d both desperately like to spend time together but oh god every time they see each other their minds blank of any possible conversation topics and their hearts race and their hands get clammy and they just????  look at each other???  oh god they’re still looking.  quick.  quick say something.  shit, no, that was the wrong thing to say—

it’s excruciating.  Wei Wuxian tries to keep them apart and Mianmian tries to throw them together and Jiang Cheng is just trying to gently encourage Jiang Yanli to not be down on herself, and otherwise stays the fuck out of it.

Jin Ling plays trumpet, just like his dad.  (don’t think about the timeline.  there is no timeline.)

Su She, of course, plays the piano but isn’t as good as ~Hanguang-jun~.  (Probably he’s genuinely better at other styles, but.  That doesn’t matter, does it?)

Xiao Xingchen is a percussionist.  Song Lan’s a cellist (quietly strong, devoted, precise, hardworking, serious, confident but not egotistical).  They’re both extremely good— the orchestra was lucky to get them— but then something happened and Xiao Xingchen left and Song Lan has been frantically researching every single percussionist of every single orchestra worldwide and finding no trace of Xiao Xingchen’s career— he must be somewhere, surely, surely he hasn’t given up playing professionally altogether—!

Nope, Xiao Xingchen has joined a jazz band.  He plays drumset now.  A-Qing plays the electric guitar and Xue Yang plays saxophone.  They’re called Coffin Town.

Nie Huaisang’s a violinist.  He’s just barely hanging on in the back of the seconds; Nie Mingjue is always always on his back to just practice for fuck’s sake, there are professional standards to be upheld, but Huaisang is very committed to only ever doing the bare minimum to keep the job at all.  (What almost zero people know is that his main passion is composition.  He writes under a pseudonym, and the orchestra actually programs his work quite regularly; it’s weird but really compelling stuff.)

Wen Chao plays harp.  He makes Wen Zhuliu do all the tuning, every single time, including setting the pedals.  Wen Zhuliu’s life is very hard.

Ouyang Zizhen plays tuba.  He’s happy back there.

#no good things for the poor sad cultivators #the untamed #orchestral AU CQL edition #ahahaha shit I just realised that the chief cultivator is probably the conductor #Wen Ruohan is a bad conductor you guys. Jin Guangshan ain't better #this has been rambling meta with silentstep

[mentalmimosa]

must have been magic

Prompt: Love spell

Everything’s fine until Steve starts taking off his clothes.

Ok, everything’s not fine, technically: Tony’s hoarse from yelling and Steve is the color of beets and anyone in the vicinity who didn’t know they were pissed at each other, have been since the Quinjet swept in and plucked them out of the Albanian wilderness, well--let’s just say there’s not anyone like that left.

They’re in the briefing room near the hanger because Tony was trying to act like a professional and not ream Steve the second they stepped off the plane. They’ve got new kids on the block now, Ant Man and Spidey and that take-no-shit Wasp, so it would be nice to, you know, pretend like they have their shit together as a team. As far as Tony’s concerned, screaming at Steve (and vice versa) is what keeps said shit in one piece; they’ve tried the not talking and not communicating thing and boy howdy, did that fuck them up. So they talk about their disagreements now, albeit in raised voices (Steve) and flailing arms (Tony), but they try not to do it in mixed company. Key word: try.

But sometimes Steve is just too puritanical for Tony to stomach all the way back to base, so today’s contretemps had started in furious whispers at the back of the plane and smouldered until they were wheels down and then and only then had Tony poked Captain Self-Righteous in the chest and hissed: “You, me, briefing room. Right the fuck now!”

Which had only made Steve madder, of course.

“I don’t appreciate being ordered around, Tony,” he barks the second the door to the briefing room closes.

“Yeah. Sucks, don’t it? Maybe you should have thought of that before you pulled an audible in the middle of an op, Cap!”

“What we were doing wasn’t working! A new strategy was called for!”

“I’m sorry, who was on point today?”

Steve flips off his helmet and chucks it on the table. “You were.”

“Yep. So instead of calling for the ball yourself, Namath, maybe you should have, oh, I don’t know, given me a heads up and made a recommendation?”

“Recommendation? Get real, Tony. When’s the last time you listened to one of those?” Steve snorts and unbuckles his harness, shrugged out of his shield. “Correction, when’s the last time you didn’t take great delight in ignoring one, huh?”

“I see, so you’re a mindreader now, is that it?”

“No, you’re just goddamn predictable, that’s all.”

“I’m predictable? You’re the one who’s always preaching teamwork and collaboration, and yet the second a thing doesn’t go the way you want it, you reach right over and grab the stick!”

Steve reaches for the catch in his armor. “Teamwork goes both ways, you know. Sometimes teamwork means recognizing that I know better.”

“That you--!”

There were more words coming, more that Tony had lined up to follow, but it’s hard to talk suddenly, what with the armor falling and Steve peeling and then him standing there not three feet from Tony no longer wearing a, uh. A shirt.

It’s not like Tony’s never seen the All-American six pack before, even once or twice in close quarters, but usually there were knives involved or evildoers of some sort, so he’d never had a chance to study Le Rogers without the fear of rapidly approaching death and holy god, he thought, goggled, that was probably good. Because for all his pig-headedness, for all of his incredible ability to rub Tony the wrong way, Steve’s gorgeous in the way that the sun is bright, you know? Fundamentally, thoroughly, blindingly. Throw in the helmet-mussed hair and the red cheeks of indignation and the whole package gets Tony thinking in the color of swoon.

And then the man starts futzing with his pants.

“Um,” Tony says weakly. “Cap? What the hell are you doing?”

Steve looks up at him, wide-eyed, and now that his pissiness had taken a backseat, Tony could see what he hadn’t before: there was a weird fire in Steve’s eyes, some shit that made the blue blue, and what had looked like pink cheeks was actually general aura of flush from Steve’s hairline over the hills and valleys of his chest down to the line of his--

“I’m hot,” Steve says petulantly as he--yep, oh god, yep--peels the suit from his legs and unfastens his boots. “Always get hot when we argue, Tony.”

Ok, that’s a sentence to unpack another day. A day when Tony’s not standing across from Steve Rogers wearing nothing but a very (very) tight pair of shorts. Shit.

“Sure,” he says, aiming for something blase, “but you don’t usually lose your kit because of it.”

“Oh, but I do. After it’s over, though. I go back to my quarters and strip off and get a hand on myself.” A long-lashed flutter. "Think about you.”

If Tony was a good man, a noble one like the blond stalwart in front of him, he’d leave right then. Splutter something, wave his arms a bit, and run off for the hills.

But he’s not noble and he’s not good, so far as Steve Rogers is concerned. He’s always wanted. Always, from day, nay hour one. He’s never let himself follow that particular thought any farther than his right hand and a very long, hot shower. They’re teammates, he and Cap. On a good day, they’re friends.

All the more reason he should be calling for a doc, a detox, something, but clearly Steve is straight up out of his mind: hoodoo’d or whammied or drunk or shellshocked or catastrophically high--but also hard, jesus fuck, is he. Hard and moving towards him, reaching for him, purring in this beautiful, uber un-Rogers way.

“I’m so hot,” he says again. This time the words fall over Tony’s face. “Feel like I’m burning up, Tone. Need your hands on me. See?”

And then he’s tugging at Tony’s wrists and planting Tony’s palms on his hip and his chest and Tony is weak, Tony is greedy, Tony suddenly wants him so bad .

If he was a good man, the kind they make star-spangled movies about, he wouldn’t turn his face to meet Steve’s. He wouldn’t open his mouth. He wouldn’t stroke every inch of skin he could reach and lap up Steve’s orchestra of needy sounds. He wouldn’t moan when Steve’s hands catch his ass and squeeze just this side of too hard.

“Yeah?” Steve whispers against his lips. “You’re hot too, aren’t you?”

The air feels like it’s imploding, each drop of oxygen its own pool of heat, and Tony’s drowning in each and every one. “Oh, fuck.”

“Mmmm. Please.”

Later, what happens next will be a flurry, a cross-cut set of Polaroids that if he thinks about, Tony can’t actually fathom:

His knees on the floor, the smell of Steve’s body, the sound he makes as Tony peels down those impossible briefs;

Steve’s back against the table, his breathing wet and ragged, his hands buried in Tony’s hair;

His palms slipping on slick wood, his forehead pressed to it, the feel of Steve’s tongue in his ass.

And the strongest of them all, the fiercest: Steve’s mouth on his shoulder, his chest ablaze at Tony’s back, the gorgeous, hungry hitch of his hips. His hand is on Tony’s cock and Tony’s clinging to the edge of the table and it feels so good to have Steve inside him he wants to fucking scream.

And then he does, because to hell with reason, and he’s coming all over Steve’s fingers, the table, pulse after pulse and he still feels incomplete and then Steve is grunting in his ear, fucking in hard and hard and deep and only when Steve whimpers and lets it all go does the sweet tension in Tony’s body finally release.

It feels like he comes again, another burst of white out on the table, but that can’t be, right? He can’t. It must be the hoodoo, whatever’s infecting Steve--he must have caught some of it, too. But hell, god bless the magic, because it feels so fucking good.

“Oh, god,” Steve moans in his ear, because the bastard’s still coming, apparently. “Oh, fuck, Tony, yes, yes.”

And maybe that does it for him a little, again, too.

The next thing he knows, they’re in a wet heap on the floor, half on top of Tony’s hastily-removed clothes. They’re clinging to each other. It’s a different kind of hot.

“So,” he says when he can speak again, when he wants to, “um, Cap. What the hell was that?”

Steve laughs in his ear, a noise like good whiskey. “If I have to tell you, I must have done something wrong.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a smart ass. You went all weird stripper Barbie on me!”

“Stripper Barbie--?”

“Were you whammied or something? Did you pick a funny-looking flower while we were out there? That’s some serious Fairy Tale country out that way, you know. Lots of the big myths and stuff got started out there.”

Steve’s arms go tighter. “You’re babbling.”

“I’m not babbling, Rogers, I’m deducting. Er, I’m trying to figure this out.”

“What is the this, again?”

“Steve, you threw yourself at me. I touch myself when I think about you? I mean, that was some pure Skinemax shit.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

God, he’s infuriating. But it’s a lot harder to be mad when he’s naked. “Um, I always get hot when we argue, Tony? That isn’t you.”

“Hmmm. So you thought I was under the influence of something?”

Yeah, like a love spell, you know. I thought maybe you ate an enchanted mushroom. Forgot to each lunch before the smashy smashy and so picked a vegan snack on the go, you know.”

Steve bites at his throat, very gently. Laps at it a little. Says: “You thought I was high on magic and/or a mushroom and you had sex with me anyway?”

Shit shit shit. “Um, yeah. Yeah, I did.” Tony’s head does a double take. “Wait. Does that mean you weren’t ?”

“Mmmmm.” Tony can practically feel the smug. “No. Believe it or not, that was all me.”

“Well, all you is very cheesy, Rogers. Also not fucking subtle at all.”

Steve’s hips rock against his ass. “I wasn’t feeling subtle,” he growls. “Sometimes I hate subtle. Sometimes I think the only thing you understand is a shield upside the head--and believe me, I’ve been tempted.”

“So you thought you’d whip your dick out in the middle of an argument and I’d just, what, fall to my knees?”

“Isn’t that what happened?” Steve chuckles. “Except, as I recall, you’re the one who actually whipped it out.”

“But--” Tony’s brain is still not in full gear; not helping that blood’s rushing back merrily towards his dick. “But I--I don’t know if you noticed, Ron Jeremy, but there were some things happening with me that haven’t happened since I was 15.”

Steve sighs, a full on-luxury sound that Tony would like to sink into, thanks. “Oh, hell. Did I make you come more than once, Tone? It felt like it, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Apparently.”

“Uh huh. So let me get this straight: you came so hard on my cock that it must have been magic, is that it?”

“I hate you.”

“You want me.” Long fingers tumble over his hip, tease. “You’d take me again right now, if I wanted.”

Not even a question. “Hell yes.”

“Here, on the floor. Desperate, like a couple of kids whose parents aren't home."

“You like the idea of sneaking around, Cap? And here I took you for the candlelight and silk sheets type.”

“I like that too. But you have no idea how many times I’ve been stuck in one of your damn briefings and spent the whole time daydreaming about what it would be like to shut you up with my tongue.”

“Or your cock.”

A growl, a fist around Tony’s dick. “Yeah. That, too.”

Tony’s head falls back. “So next time you’re in here, tired of listening to me talk, you can think about this instead. About dirting me up and then tossing me on the carpet and having your way with me again.”

“My way with you? Now who’s cheesy?”

“Steve.”

“Yes, Tony?”

“Shut up and fuck me again."

#stony #love spell #mildest dub con #sort of

[thepartyresponsible]

after a somewhat prolonged absence (moving is a goddamn nightmare), here’s the second soundtrack fill! this one is for an anon who asked for jason todd + "why you gotta kick me when i'm down" by bring me the horizon.

so here’s what happens when superheroes/vigilantes are (vaguely) legitimized and organized into authorized teams, but jason still manages to ruin his life.

no real warnings for this one, except it’s not overly kind to bruce wayne.

Jason gets traded to SHIELD after he shoots the Penguin in the face. He’s probably supposed to be grateful that he gets traded at all. Unnecessary kills are frowned upon all over, and Bruce especially takes a pretty grim stance on them.

Hell, Bruce is so pissed about this kill that two of Jason’s molars are still sitting a little loose in his jaw when his plane touches down in D.C.

The media’s been brutal about it, especially in Gotham. It’s nothing new. They’ve hated Jason since he crawled out of Crime Alley. They hate Jason, and they hate the Outlaws, and they’ve been gleefully running grainy videos of Bruce backhanding Jason’s mask to pieces all Goddamn week.

There were reporters camped outside Titans Tower from the moment Roy Harper brought him in, and Dick, because he’s Dick, never sent them away.  

“It’s public property. They’ve got a right to be there,” he’d said, while he packed Jason’s mouth with gauze and cleaned up cuts and clucked over bruises. “They can’t get inside.”

And Roy would’ve chased them off, probably, except Roy got dragged into trade negotiations immediately and left before Jason even woke up the morning after Bruce kicked his ass.

Jason wasn’t part of any negotiations. Dick ran what interference he could, but half the country, including Bruce, wanted Jason in prison. In the end, SHIELD is better than he could have hoped for. It’s better than he deserves. He’s got no right to be angry about it, even if D.C. is not his city. Even if he worked damn hard, for years, to stay out of SHIELD and its reach.

But the collateral damage is pissing him off. Roy, pulled from the Titans, stepping in to run the Outlaws. Kate Bishop, loaned to the Titans to fill their archer slot. And Peter Parker, graduated early from SHIELD, sent to round out the West Coast Avengers.

Parker, who’d been angling for a spot on the Avengers. Who earned that spot. Who’s everybody’s Goddamn darling.

Jesus Christ, people barely tolerate Jason in Gotham. He’s not going to be able to set foot in New York for years.

When he steps off the plane, he expects to be met by agents. He’s not technically in anybody’s custody; he’s been traded, not incarcerated. But Dick and Wally escorted him to his gate, possibly to keep any riled-up civilians from spitting in his face, and he feels rootless and exposed, navigating the airport alone.

It’s fine. He’s not armed, but, in a place like this, he doesn’t need to be. There’s no threat here.

He nudges his teeth with his tongue, feels them give more than they should. The stitches dissolved two days ago, and the swelling’s mostly gone, but the bruises on his face have settled in to linger.

He gets a few wide-eyed stares, but it’s hard to tell if anyone actually recognizes him or if it’s just the bruising turning heads. Most people only associate Red Hood with the mask. He’s lucky that way. He’s been careful to keep his face out of the press.

SHIELD, of course, does all its work with its Aux agents bare-faced and uniformed, all their stats and headshots available for public perusal. So that’s probably the end of whatever anonymity Jason had managed to preserve.

Which is fine. He wouldn’t’ve had any anonymity in prison, either. So it’s not like he’s losing something he ever had a chance to keep.

He’s standing in baggage claim, waiting for the duffle bag of clothes Artemis brought over, when a man wearing a decent suit and a blandly pleasant expression approaches from his left. “Phil Coulson,” he says, hand extended. “From SHIELD.”

Phil Coulson is a name that sounds vaguely familiar, like something Dick said to him a couple dozen times while Jason was busy trying to pretend none of this was going to happen. Jason sizes him up and then reaches out, shakes his hand. “Hey. Jason Todd, from--” He cuts himself off, flounders.

Jason Todd, from the Outlaws.

But he isn’t. He built that team. He was the cornerstone of that team. The Outlaws have never existed without him. And now, for nothing, for a father that maybe at some point cared about him, he’s ruined the whole Goddamn thing.

“From SHIELD,” Phil supplies, patiently.

“Yeah,” Jason says. He turns away, grabs his bag. “From SHIELD.”

Phil gives him a long, evaluating look. His eyes linger on the bruising around Jason’s jawline, and Jason doesn’t fidget, doesn’t drop his eyes. After a tense, drawn-out moment, Phil nods. “Alright, Jason,” he says, “let’s go.”

  He doesn’t expect a warm welcome. He escaped SHIELD training by virtue of Bruce’s dogged resistance to oversight and the fact that, technically, Jason put on his first costume before the Auxiliary Justice Department was established. He was grandfathered in, had to register but never needed to be licensed, and, for the past seven years, he’s just been one of the many now-authorized vigilantes who refused any kind of PR-pleasing government training.

Now here he is, showing up at SHIELD’s doorstep like a puppy no one wanted. And he’s taking Parker’s place, which sure as hell isn’t going to endear him to anybody.

He’s heard about trades like this. People being traded into teams that don’t want them. It was never like that on the Outlaws, because the Outlaws were, technically, under Bruce’s watch, and Bruce’s theory on teamwork has always been less is more.  And it’s not like that on the Titans or the Teen Titans or any of the teams directly below the Justice League, either, because they’ve got enough draw to only get the best.

But some of the government teams. Some of the military teams. Not so often with the higher-ranking SHIELD teams, but everybody heard about the mess on Rumlow’s team a few years ago. Everyone knows what they were doing to Barnes before Rogers found out.

Hell, Xaiver’s school is full of former government recruits who dropped out and need to be reconditioned – whatever the hell that means – to civilian life.

“Regulations require that you stay on base through the weekend,” Coulson tells him.

“Sure,” Jason says. He’d been under the impression that he’d be staying on base through the rest of his natural life, so weekend, in comparison, sounds mercifully reasonable.

“Pending clearance from Medical, you’ll be moved into the team’s building on Monday.”

Jason stares out the window, watches the cars. “Medical?” he asks, because it seems like the least treacherous part of that sentence.

“I was told,” Coulson says, with a sudden sharp edge to all that quiet patience, “that you were cleared for fieldwork.”

Jason’s tongue goes to his teeth, works at the swollen line of his gums. “Jesus,” he says, “it’s just cosmetic. And I probably shouldn’t blow anyone for a week, so maybe swap someone else in for the time-sensitive dick-sucking jobs.”

The look Coulson gives him is dangerously, infinitely bland, and Jason’s heart double-skips in his chest as it occurs to him that maybe that kind of shit is supposed to be on the table now. What the hell would he know? He’s worked with Bruce his whole career.

Jason, for the record, would happily take a mask-shattering, teeth-loosening backhand over being sent out to suck some scummy government dick. Jesus, he’d take the hit every day of his life.

“Is that a common work requirement in Gotham?” Coulson’s tone is light and even, professionally curious.

“It absolutely is not,” Jason says.

“That’s good,” Phil says, as he expertly navigates a u-turn through four separate lanes of traffic with all the nonchalance of someone turning right on red. “So you’ll have Medical, and then sexual harassment training, and then you can move into the team building on Monday.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jason says, forehead thunking into glass hard enough to make his bruised temple ache. “You fucking Feds.”

  They don’t go to the SHIELD base. They go to a small Italian restaurant in a strip mall. “We’re a little behind schedule,” Coulson says, as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “They already have a table. Let’s go.”

Jason follows because he’s got no right to stay behind. He keeps his mouth shut because he’s got no reason to need more information. He’s not running anything; he’s nobody’s captain. He traded all of that for a bullet in the Penguin’s head, and maybe it was worth it, maybe it wasn’t, but it’s already done.

Coulson gives him another look as Jason falls in step beside and a little behind him. It’s a thoughtful, calculating look, eyes unreadable, mouth a flat line. It’s the kind of look Bruce used to give him, before he gave up and kicked Jason out of the cave. It’s the way someone looks at an investment they’re starting to reconsider.

Well, it’s not Jason’s fucking fault if SHIELD made a bad trade. The whole world was running headlines saying the best thing to do with him was lock him up in isolation, keep him confined for the next ten, fifteen years. It’s not like SHIELD wasn’t warned what a shitshow Jason is.

As they step into the restaurant, make their way toward the back, Jason wonders if SHIELD did this as a favor to the Titans and Outlaws or as a way to get some kind of leverage on Bruce. He hopes they had the sense to angle for a favorable relationship with the Titans. If they think Bruce Wayne is going to give a damn what SHIELD does to him now, Jason has two loose teeth, three bruised ribs, and an impressive array of week-old bruises that would argue to the contrary.

“Here,” Coulson says and nods towards a table with two occupants.

Jason knows, in a glance, that it’s Hawkeye and the Widow.

They’re both watching him. Barton’s subtler about it. He’s got a sort of hapless, heedless air about him that makes his awareness seem accidental. It’s hard to take him seriously with that line of butterfly bandages above his eyebrow, the half-healed scab over his badly split lip. He reminds Jason of Roy, a little, and Jason almost smiles at him, because it’s good to see anything that looks like home.

And Romanoff could be Artemis, with the catlike stare she levels his way. Not aggressive, necessarily, but patient, intent. Assessing. Her body language lacks the casual, lived-in ease of Barton’s mannerisms. But that could be because she’s sipping elegantly from a glass of red wine while Barton is wrestling a plate of spaghetti into submission with a fork held awkwardly between bandage-wrapped fingers.

“Clint, Natasha,” Coulson says, as he slides into one of the open seats across from them. “This is Jason Todd.”

“Hey,” Clint says, around a mouthful of spaghetti. “I ate your breadsticks.”

“And he’s very sorry,” Natasha adds. “And he’s buying you more.”

Jason stares at them. And then he stares at Coulson. And then, because he’s got fuck-all else to do, he settles into the seat across from Clint and narrows his eyes. “You’d fucking better,” he says.

Sometimes, when he can’t find the fight he knows he’s losing, he starts a new one. It saves time.

But Clint just grimaces, looking good-natured and abashed. “Sorry. Got hungry.”

Jason furrows his brow, keeps staring. Clint blinks and shrugs, ducks his head so he can funnel more spaghetti into his mouth, and Jason wonders if he’s actually supposed to think that Clint Barton – Hawkeye, World’s Greatest Marksman, Avenger – is as friendly and harmless as your average Golden Retriever.

“Let’s see you,” Natasha says, leaning forward, and Jason goes completely still as the Black Widow’s fingers curl around his chin.

Jesus Christ, he thinks. Jesus Christ.

The Avengers are the reason their work was ever legitimized. The Avengers are the reason the Accords were reworked toward mercy. Without the Avengers, there would’ve been a war, and Jason knows exactly how that would’ve ended up for groups like the Outlaws, who were always a special target, even back when all vigilantes were criminals.

The Widow’s fingers are cold against his skin. She lifts his face toward the light, runs her thumb so lightly over the bruising along his jaw that he barely feels it.

“Get fussy with the flight attendants?” Clint asks. “I got locked in the lavatory once.”

And he is like Roy, because, when Jason glances over, he’s got a big dopey smile on his face and a look in his eyes like someone, somewhere, is going to lose blood over this.

“You guys don’t watch TV?” Jason should pull away from the Widow. Her fingers are still on his face, and he has to speak soft and careful to keep from dislodging her. It’s making him sound young and unsure, almost shy. “Batman doesn’t keep killers on his teams.”

“If you’d been a shade less study,” Natasha says, tone strangely controlled, nearly singsong, “Bruce Wayne would be a killer.”

Jason blinks. He remembers the hit that shattered his mask, the starlight sickness of heat-pressure-pain that broke his brain to pieces, left him too Goddamn dizzy to remember to get his hands up to block the next punch.

He remembers, also, the hot splatter of his own blood when Bruce opened his fucking throat with a batarang years ago.

“Bruce, you know.” He tips his head out of the Widow’s grasp and steals her wine, just to give his hands something to do. “Sometimes, when people don’t listen, he gets loud about things.”

“Sometimes,” Clint says, lifting the wine right out of Jason’s hand, “when I don’t listen, Coulson pulls me from the field, makes me go to therapy.”

“Wow,” Jason says, “I think I’ll take the punch to the face.”

Clint grins at him. His grin is sharp enough to cut someone. Beside him, Natasha mirrors it. “Yeah,” he says. “Devil you know, huh?”

“Okay,” Jason says, because this whole week has been a stretch of nightmare after nightmare, waking up to realize it’s getting worse every time he opens his eyes. He was ready for a bleak SHIELD room that locked from the outside. He was ready for revenge. He was ready to be made into a point, a cautionary tale for all the other Auxers who refused licensing. “What the fuck is this? Why am I at dinner with two Avengers? The fuck is going on?”

Natasha swipes her wine out of Clint’s unresisting fingers, brings the nearly-empty glass up to her mouth. “Coulson believes in team bonding rituals,” she says.

“I’m not on your team,” Jason says. He’s not. He’s here because nobody wanted him. He’s here because SHIELD was better than prison. He’s here because he fucks up every single thing he touches.

“Well,” Clint says, “not until I get you those breadsticks.”

Jason gives up on the pair of them and turns to stare at Agent Coulson, who’s been casually perusing the menu throughout the entire conversation. “What,” Jason says, as clearly as he can, “the fuck.”

Phil Coulson smiles at him, calm and unconcerned and vaguely benign. He looks like someone who’s used to dealing with people like Jason, which is a hell of a change from the way Bruce always looks at him. For years now, Bruce has been staring at Jason like he’s got no idea what species he is.

“Jason,” he says, “what do you know about Strike Team Delta?”

#writing #fic #fill #soundtrack fills

[antiquecompass]

Things I Forgot I Wrote But Found In My Files While Looking For Something Else:

This samstevebucky OT3 Urban Fantasy au that @lavenders-bi asked for during, what I’m guessing, was a prompt meme thing:

The 107th Precinct usually got its fair share of odd calls during the first truly hot nights of the year—something about summer in the city making magic go fucking haywire—but this was getting ridiculous.

"All I wanted was a nice night out with my vowed-partners," Bucky Barnes said as he pulled off his jacket and threw it in the back of Jim Morita’s squad car. “There was going to be cake, damn it. It’s supposed to be my night off.”  He waved to Sam and Steve from the street and tried not to count just how many date nights had been interrupted by his job.

 “Gabe’s grandkid is in a school play so he’s unreachable. Monty had to use the Middle Way to pop back to England for some family curse business. Jacques is upstate translating for a loup-garrou, and you’re the one who forbade me and Dugan from working together. It’s on you, oh illustrious leader,” Morita said.

  Bucky knew he shouldn’t have taken that promotion. Pros outweighing the cons bullshit. He was burning the list the next time Sam suggested one. He spared one last look to the restaurant before slipping into the passenger seat.

  <i>Be careful</i>, Steve sent down their communication link.

  <i>Or I’ll tell Natasha to kick your ass and stand back and laugh</i>, Sam added.

  <i>Love you too</i>, Bucky sent before muting the link. He worked better in the field when it was just a background hum.

  "Just one goddamned night of peace, quiet, and decent food," he said as he pressed his metal fist into the dashboard. "But do I get that? Biggest fucking nope ever. I’ve now got to politely encourage a friggin’ swamp monster away from a fire hydrant before the sprites descend like a swarm of mosquitoes to devour it and the power lines for half the city."

  "You seem a little wound-up there, Barnes," Morita said. “Let me cool you down.” He sent a quick shot of ice-cold flame at Bucky’s exposed arms.

  Bucky gave him the finger, ignoring the fact that it just made Morita laugh harder.

  "It’s not like Sam or Steve are going to leave you for missing another dinner,” he said. “Steve’s known how you operate for the better part of a century now, and Wilson’s caught on quicker than anyone else I’ve seen. If they wanted someone with decent hours, they should’ve dated a banker. It’s what they get for being stupid enough to vow themselves to you. I was pushing for Gabe to complete their triumvirate."

  "You’re getting close to being kicked off the Christmas Card list, buddy, and you know how much Steve’s artwork goes for.” He gave the siren on the dash a quick electric jumpstart. “Drive, Morita. We got to pick up the rookies before Cthulhu comes looking for one of its babies.”

  "Didn’t the messenger update you? Swamp monster slid back down the sewer grate towards home," Morita said.

  Bucky rolled his eyes. “Fuck. What’s really wrong then?”

  Morita howled.

  Fucking wolves. Bucky clenched his metal fist. It’s not like he’d already given an actual limb to this job or anything because of the fucking wolves. He hated wolves.

  “I’ll promise not to let you lose the other arm this time,” Morita teased.

  “Just drive,” Bucky ordered.

  <center>**********</center>

  "Really?" Kate Bishop asked as she sorted through her quiver of enchanted arrows. "You could’ve told me I needed the Deterrent Spell arrows before we got out here, Barnes."

  "I’m sorry, I thought your mentor would’ve told you to be prepared for everything," Bucky said as he ducked behind a dumpster. The only good thing about urban warfare was the hiding places.

  "He’s obsessed with Boomerang Spells," Kate said.

  "What?" Bucky asked. He laid his flesh hand on the ground and pulled from the electricity running through the streets below. He sent it out towards the crowd as a warning shot. Fucking bystanders were still trying to get too damn close to wolf fight. He knew technically a Conduit such as himself wasn’t supposed to aim for the non-magical human targets, but fuck ‘em all if they weren’t smart enough to run in the other goddamned direction.

  "Boomerang," Kate said. She hopped up on the dumpster and prepared to take shot.

  “Is that a boomerang one?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Kate said.

  "Then what are you throwing at ‘em?" he asked.

  "I call this one <i>Sleepytime Tea</i>," she said.

  “Hold,” a familiar voice yelled at them.

  Bucky turned to find his other lost little rookie running up to them.

  "I thought we only had winter wolves here," Eli Bradley said as he slid to a stop beside them. He had his grandfather’s shield strapped to his back. It was probably the most powerful weapon among the three of them due to its age and legacy.

  Bucky was only a little jealous he still had to make do with borrowed shield spells and he was a fucking sergeant.

  "You’re late," Bucky said.

  Eli shrugged. “You were the one who told me take those nighttime classes. There was traffic, Sarge. Some pegasus decided the freeway was a good place to take a nap. Agent Carter gave me a note if you want to see it.”

  Bucky waved him off. He’d let it go. <i>This time</i>.

  "So what’s going on?" Eli asked.

  "Turf war," Kate guessed. She took a breath and let loose her arrows. They hit their targets and both wolves went down without any more of a fight.

  "Huh, well how about that," Eli said. “Didn’t even need me here.”

  Bucky held up his hand. “If either one of you make a comment on how not difficult that was, I will send you both to the Itemization Squad for a month.”

  He liked to think their salutes were genuine and not the least bit sarcastic, but he’d trained them both so he knew better.

  <center>**********</center>

  Six in the morning was the time for waking up, not coming home after a supposed night off, and Bucky Barnes was monumentally pissed off. Not quite as bad as I-Lost-My-Arm-For-Your-Cause-And-All-I-Got-Was-An-Enchanted-Metal-Limb pissed off, but pretty damn frustrated.

  He smelled like shit. Actual shit. Northeastern Troll excrement to be exact for the discerning. He just <i>had</i> to help a group of fauns cross the one bridge left in the area that still had a troll under it. That was at midnight. After a small battle requiring Eli’s shield, Kate, her personal mentor Clint, and both of their Boomerang Arrows, and Morita’s ability to make the earth actually move, he was finally home. Still ready to slam an inanimate object down to the lowest depths of hell via an electrical charge, but home at least and at last.

  He was supposed to have the more settled life now. That’s <i>why</i> he took the promotion and the leadership position. The most dangerous thing that he was supposed to battle these days was paperwork. He’d taken all those steps for the quiet life: house in the ‘burbs, officially a year-and-a-day’ed signed-sealed-and-delivered to a schoolteacher (who was really a retired Winged Guardian, but Sam liked to keep that knowledge quiet. Never knew when he’d need to fly again and surprise was the most important part to those with hidden wings) and an artist (who was actually a wizard, but Steve liked to keep that quiet because there were only so many times someone could ask him for a love potion before he’d lose his temper and get into the sort of epic ranting that actually turned molehills into mountains. He was so much happier making his weird-ass wizard dreams into artwork). He had a flock of birds (Sam’s), a dog (Steve’s), a mortgage, and a car payment. He should not have to stand outside at six in the morning and hose himself down after stripping and setting his own trash can on fire because there was no saving his clothes.

  And those where his <i>nice</i> slacks too. They were the expensive khakis Mrs. Rogers bought him for his birthday. They were as classy as Bucky got outside of uniform, and he loved those fucking things. The last time he wore those were for their anniversary dinner, and he quite liked just what wearing those pants had gotten him.

  "Wow. You actually smell like shit," Sam said from the garage. He was dressed for work and Bucky wanted to maybe cry because he’d missed his chance already to mess up that pressed shirt and tie. He loved when his guys were halfway between professional-looking and artfully rumpled courtesy of Bucky’s ministrations.

  The day officially sucked and he hadn’t even slept yet.

  "Please tell me there’s coffee," he said as he turned the hose off himself and on to the small fire.

  "There is, but I don’t know if Steve’s going to let you near his precious coffee pot when you smell like actual shit. Jesus fuck, Bucky, what happened last night?"

  "Everything," Bucky said. He was not pouting because he did <i>not</i> pout, even when Sam damn near ran past him.

  "Weakling!" Bucky yelled at him.

  Sam blew him a kiss from his car before backing out of the driveway.

  <center>**********</center>

  A century ago Bucky fell in love with little Steve Rogers because he was noble and fearless and selfless. They’d had a lot of asshole instructors at their training school, many who only thought strength meant brawn and not spirit; that somehow innate power could be measured by height and muscles and not be sheer potential. They were the type of teachers who had should have never been allowed to help form the minds or opinions of the young, poor, and vulnerable. The kids who attended the school went there because they had no choice; they either lacked parents, guardians, mentors, sponsors, or their families were too poor to afford anything else.

   Bucky and Steve fell in that last group. Steve’s mother refused to charge for her healing spells outside of her official hospital job, refusing to make their family rich off the suffering of people who couldn’t afford traditional medical care. She’d instilled her son with that same set of values and a backbone of steel, even if no one really knew just how gifted Steve was back then.

  Bucky went to the institute because he was he eldest and figured his younger siblings deserved better. They all showed signs of telekinesis and manipulating matter. Bucky just knew how to talk himself into and out of everything. Sure, he had started a few accidental fires with his mind, but that was country wizarding stuff. Everyone could basically do that. The institute seemed a good place to hone his less than honorable skills though. He had dirt gathered on all the instructors just in case. He learned to walk in the paths of the shadows, and didn’t realize until years later that sometimes the shadows were following <i>him</i>.

  Back then though, he was just a smart kid with a smarter mouth and little patience for authoritative bullshit who fell in love when he saw a scrawny twelve-year-old throw himself in front of an instructor’s punishment spell to protect an even younger kid. The kid’s only crime was not performing in a way the instructor wanted, but fucking seriously that’s what you got when you tried to make someone who’s power existed in <i>creation</i> try to bring down a wall.

  The move to protect someone else was enough to earn Bucky’s respect and admiration. The fact that the spell bounced off both of the kids, hit the instructor back by a power of threefold, and brought down the wall? That was pretty much it for James Buchanan Barnes.

  Steve was honest-to-god noble. Bucky decided it then and only had it reaffirmed in the subsequent years. Fuck the royal magical and wizarding blood lines; Steve was as good as it got. Sam was probably the second-to-best person Bucky knew, and certainly was the actual voice of reason between the three of them. The fact that they both still stayed with Bucky, and his ability to court trouble in places where no trouble should exist, was kind of a miracle.

  The Steve standing before him now though looked constipated by his own guilt.

  “You’re going to shit an actual brickhouse if you don’t unclench,” Bucky said.

#long post #fandom: marvel #samstevebucky #buckysamsteve #ot3 #my ridic writing

[writerpyre]

Fulcrum, C9: The Dark Between The Light

Hey, hey look, it’s a goddamned miracle. A Fulcrum update! Language warnings and distressing themes herein.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937683/chapters/42956831

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9246859/9/Bound-Part-III-Fulcrum

Yes, hello readers, it's been a long while... nearly three and a half years for this fic, if my math is right. Figured out yet again that Boundverse helps me to cope, so this finally got done as a fixation-distraction thing. I'm happy with how it's turned out, so one step more and all that. :)

There are notes on my various sites saying why I'm not actively posting as much, but I am ticking along with things as life permits. Hope this update is enjoyable and starts moving the plot along some. Please feel free to drop a comment etc, as usual. I can't promise when the next will come, but as always, rest assured I will not abandon my babies.

The Boundverse turned seven at the start of March, and heaven knows it's nice to get back to where it began, even if SEVEN years have passed since I first posted, and I'm still attempting to get this first arc completed. Many thanks to LexietFive for her support and beta-ing services, you're amazing.

Anyway, love to you all, and welcome to Chapter Nine of Fulcrum.

The thing about families? They're manipulative, and bossy, and overbearing. Sometimes, you can't fathom how it is that they can be so motivated.

Scott's words - likely intended to mollify and distract me (because he's the epitome of that manipulation; learned at our father's knee, and co-opted for his own purposes) - causes my mouth to drop open. Far from being the thing that calms me down, all I can say I'm feeling is downright anger, surging hot and sick in my gut.

"I- you - What?" I manage. Words are probably taken as me not hearing; not quite understanding in my exhaustion; not that I'm incredulous. I've got to try and calm my temper, because yeah, I'm mad, but it's not entirely their fault...

"We brought the wedding to you." Scott repeats, his expression uncharacteristically smug and yet, wary. "Dad and I sorted it, and the happy couple agreed. Sherry wants you to be there as much as you do John."

"It's the least we could do for her. And you," Virgil adds, his arms still crossed, but his gaze softening from his death-glare. His mouth twitches in amusement. Ass. "She's been there to listen when you've needed someone else, other than family. And we know how much you were looking forward to it. Dad's been doing arrangements for a while. He and Scott let us in on it today, he was confirming details while we were out just now. She and you both need this." He shrugs, and his deep hazel eyes - the green hardly noticeable the majority of the time - crinkle at the edges. "I wish you hadn't bitten our heads off first though, we wanted it to be special."

My lips tighten, and I can actually feel the dry skin on my face cracking as I shake my head. "You… You had no right to do that!" I snap, and the looks on their faces are almost comic in their surprise. Pfft. "You didn't ask me, you didn't consult me… How… How dare you!"

I'm being irrational, and approaching hysterics to boot, but to freaking hell with it. I am so done with all this bullshit.

"John wh-" Gordon tries, but I shake my head furiously, even though it makes my ears ring. "Shut up, Gordon." My second-youngest brother subsides, his lips compressing. Great, that's the second time I've cut him off today.

I don't dare look at Alan.

None of this is his fault, but I know that if I see him and all his innocence and naivety, I'll lose my temper altogether. It's a fuse waiting to be lit as it is, what with everything else that's going on. My inability to control my temper when I feel as sick as I do now is not my best trait.

My hands come up to rake through my hair, and I growl low in my throat as I look between my siblings. I find myself avoiding Dad's gaze. I can't deal with his expression at the moment, even if I'm sure he'll understand my feelings. Closing my eyes momentarily, I pinch the bridge of my nose. I feel nauseous and tired, and suddenly, I just want to cry, in that dry way that never really gets anyone anywhere. I know I'm probably confusing a hell of a lot of things, and I hate making excuses for myself, but I know that in this case, I have a perfectly good one.

"No." I say, opening my eyes again. As if repeating the word is going to sort anything whatsoever. "That was out of line." I croak. "You don't get to decide for me, none of you get to make that sort of choice."

"But…" Scott cuts in. If not for the anger coursing through me at the sheer arrogance of them, I would feel sorry for him as his mouth moves. Unmasked shock is painted across his face, and my chest aches. "Just... listen, John. We thought it would-"

"You thought it would help me." I both cut him off and finish the sentence for him, wincing as the words snag down my throat with the bitter deadpan of it. "You assumed it would help me. You didn't ask me. You didn't even consider my thoughts on the matter, you jumped in, and stamped all over what I actually want."

Scott makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat; neither he nor Virg look well. Gordon raises an eyebrow. Well, it seems he's unamused. Alan and Dad are silent. My attention is brought back to Virgil as he just shakes his head.

"What do you want then, John?" he asks in exasperation. "We're not mind-readers, no matter how much you might think we are." Well that freaking stings. "You don't tell us much of anything that's going on in that big brain of yours. And you're not listening to a single thing we're trying to say either, you know. It makes it really hard to work you out."

I feel myself tremble for a moment as I try - unsuccessfully - to rein in my frustration; not only with what I'm dealing with existentially, but that it's so hard to make myself clear to people when I'm not within the easy realm of professionalism. Even my family. Always. Goddammit.

"Do you know how damn tenuous everything is for me right now?" I demand. "None of you are stupid. None of you. You know me, you know what goes on with all this." I sweep my arm in an all-encompassing approximation of urgh. "We've all been through this before. Everything is just so fucking uncertain; I am well within my rights to not know what the hell I want if I need to." My breath hitches and I hug my legs tighter; addressing my kneecaps rather than see the expressions on my brothers' faces.

"I… I want desperately to see Sherry get married." I whisper. "But do you know how much it hurts just to see my reflection in the mirror right now?" I swallow harshly, plucking at my pyjama shirt. "This… trainwreck I'm living, I'm in no shape to be dressing in a suit of any description. Everything hurts, my hair's falling out, my skin is so dry that just sitting here in bed makes me want to claw it off. I'm a skinny, walking scarecrow, and I'll…"

I cough, trying to dislodge the globby ball residing beneath my tonsils, sucking in a deep breath. I let the words run free. I can't bear to see their faces. I've kept so much of this to myself, it feels horrible and anxiety-inducing to realise that I'm speaking any of my stupid, petty-sounding fears. But they're so real it makes my soul hurt.

"I… I'll be the centre of attention… Sherry should be the star of the show, herself and Sky." I shake my head. "It's… overwhelmingly kind that you've all helped them do that for me... Arrogant," I smile wryly, a spasm. "Though kind all the same. But… Cancer… It's visible now, there's no fucking denying it, and I'm not…" I bite my lip, relishing the sting. "I'm not ruining my best friend's wedding, turning up looking like a walking corpse because of this. I'm just so unwell right now, anything could happen, and it'll make everything memorable in the wrong damn way." I manage, forcing the words out. "I can't do that to her… I won't."

"But John," Alan says, as my voice trails off. I feel nothing but tired. Always so fucking tired... "We didn't say anything about you actually going. Just that we were bringing it to you… you're jumping to conclusions!"

I rub my face, and just shudder, because I realise it's true; I've jumped the gun and not listened. I've gone haring off on my own little train-track of doom and not read between the lines. Not even metaphors are going to help you now. Moron.

I know immediately, exactly what my family have done to help. Even with their own pressures and me and my issues, and everything else that's going on… I snort in frustration and amusement, and a cough tears through me. I shake it off forcibly, even though it hurts. I cover my face, tears pricking at my eyes. For the umpteenth freaking time since this hellride began, I can feel my insides shrivelling as my lungs constrict even further atop them.

"I've missed out on so much…" I choke, wincing at the pressure on my aching ribs. I press my left hand against my side as my chest constricts against my volatile emotions. "Scott's birthday, a proper Easter - for all we know that could've been my last - and I was stuck in fucking hospital, coughing my lungs out for it. Now this… It's too much. This… this isn't fair. It's just not fair!" I hate the way my voice cracks. None of them can think of anything to say. I don't blame them, really. I still can't look at them.

"Can you guys go?" I wipe my eyes with my pyjama sleeve, clearing my throat abruptly as I address my knees again. "Please? I need to think and… and process, and I just… I just need to rest. I'm sorry." I manage.

"Alright, John." I can hear from Dad's tone that he's using his Look to ensure that no-one argues. My father's good at that.

None of them say a word, but I hear their footsteps; keeping my head down to stave off the waves of anxiety until I hear my bedroom door close. Blessed silence.

I let out a sharp breath, coughing slightly past the burst of discomfort that flares in that damned right side. I scrub my eyes with one hand, clutching my sore stomach with the other. I feel like crap, but I also want to get dressed; ignore this trash cycling in my brain and feel as much of an approximation of normal that I'm ever going to get in the current circumstances.

Take a breath, Tracy. In and out.

In the everlasting, wise words of Nike: Just do it.

##

Getting up and trying to get organised for the shower is more of an exercise in patience and sheer stupidity than I'm willing to admit to. Especially when I can barely stand upright, and my body is determined to drop me on my ass if I don't keep one palm planted on the wall or some other close-to-hand surface. Ooooh, the determined, not-particularly-helpful internal monologue proclaims. Punning!

Thoroughly and grimly amused by my brain interjecting random statements on said internal monologue - both of which are instrumental in actually making the damn thing happen, coincidentally - I do my level best to convince my wobbly knees to take my weight as I survey my room, wondering if it's worth trying to cross from one side to the other to get to my case of clothing, or head straight to the bathroom with my toiletries bag, put these things back on - damp as they are from sweat, and gritty: gross - and then come back to change into the fresh things.

Oh, the choices you gotta make when you've got limited reserves of energy.

I decide on the take-the-clothes option, and wobble over to my bag to fetch the sweatpants I had on yesterday, plus a fresh cotton shirt and boxers. My hoodie can wait 'til I come back, as I know I'll only find myself overheating in the steamed-up bathroom, but I do grab my pump-bottle of Aqueous Cream, knowing I'll regret it heartily if I forget. Because of the erythema that comes hand in hand with the radiation treatment - unchanged in more than seventy years, despite scientists (like Brains') best efforts to the contrary - my skin is irritated, sore, and easily aggravated by the friction of my clothes. Due to this, it is therefore further exacerbated by the use of something even as normal as your generically-sold, yet good-quality bath soap, even those designed specifically for sensitive skin. Sucks to be me, but there it is.

My feet are cold as I stumble across the hardwood, my twisted ankle stubbornly protesting the pressure with little flinches of pain aimed up the outside of my leg. Biting my lip anxiously, trying to shove the previous conversation from my mind, I pray that Dad won't decide to come back and try to talk to me, because he will protest this absolutely. He'll probably argue that I'm not strong enough.

After last night's escapades, and the one before, I'm not positive I could voice my disagreement without lying through my teeth. I don't blame him in the slightest for wanting to keep me within whatever precarious state of wellbeing we can call this - but I need to do something for me that doesn't involve someone ordering me around and telling me what to do to achieve it; helping me do something that I've managed to do without any help, for most of the past fifteen-and-a-half years. Might be stupid, but us humans can be so very, very stupid. Just ask me and my brothers, for example.

Tracys. We're all very particular brands of danger-magnet asshole when it comes down to it.

##

It takes me the better part of an hour, and I'm a shaking, sore and miserable mess by the time I stagger back into my bedroom, but I'm finally clean and ready for a goddamned nap.

My stupid, stupid mind won't let me though, it never really does when there's too much stuck in it, and my really super-old fallback of recalling complex mathematical algorithms from memory does absolutely nothing when I'm in this state. I've managed to successfully drown out the previous conversation with my family through application of the amount of effort I exerted in order to get myself through my washing and shaving routine unhindered (yes I made the decision to shave; my skin didn't really thank me for it, but who cares?), but I know that once I stop moving again, it's probably not going to stay stuck in the corner of my mind for much longer.

Using a drone for me to see my best friend get married isn't the worst thing they could've come up with, but it's the principle of the thing, and it being them telling me, not Sherry having the choice or option even, of telling me herself that's the problem!

Some might say I'm jumping the gun, but honestly, the fallback to earlier technologies, especially something as robust and as generally unobtrusive of one of the now-outdated, later-model Syntax drones from the 20s isn't going to cause much of a hassle. A camera hooked up to my laptop, a comfy spot for me, and the ability to see my friend get married to her soulmate and the future father of the many, many children she'd assured me they'll be having… not the worst state of affairs I've ever been involved in. It was just the way my family had gone about it: not even giving either of us the choice in the matter, taking that ability to anticipate and execute it ourselves, was in my opinion, quite rude when it came down to it.

I groan as I sink down onto my mattress, feeling damp and sticky and gross despite the shower and change of clothes. Who am I kidding? I'm being a baby, and I need to suck it up and admit it, at least to an extent. But honestly, they know better than to spring things like that on me, especially at the moment! For crying out loud, I could be dead by the end of the year for all we know, and they're keeping stupid things from me that they'll know I'll obsess about! It comes from the kindness of their hearts, but at the same time, it really freaking pisses me off when they go and do things like this on me, however well-intentioned.

The injustice of the entire thing rankles every single freaking day. It's the 2050s, and they've not found a reliable cure for cancer, any cancer. Not just mine. There's still always the chance that it's going to return, no matter what you do, how well the treatment works, and in my case, even being past the supposed five-year-guarantee mark makes no difference on whether or not it'll come back. And with my history of heart weakness due to my previous rounds of chemotherapy, and the subsequently obviously-heightened risk when it comes to treatment of any kind, plus the lungs and the current renal and gastrointestinal challenges, well… Let's just say that in my case - which is obviously the only one that matters to me right now - nothing is guaranteed, even with this possibility-for-success-with-a-clinical-trial carrot dangling in front of my face. There's always something, lurking around every corner; unable to anticipate anything, all but expecting the reality that anything even with the smallest margin of succeeding always runs the risk that it's just going to fail anyway.

Conversely, nastily; the unpredictability of it all tends to come back and bite you in the ass at the most inconvenient times, much like my irritating idiot siblings, after I've told them to go the hell away.

"What do you want, Virgil?" My eyes roll reflexively towards the ceiling as I catch him suddenly lurking outside the now-open door; his sandy hair in a sad attempt at his usual spikes. It's too long to try styling it right now, I note absently, but try telling him that. "I don't want to argue about it." Nevermind he or someone has opened that door, ignoring the hard-and-fast rule that has always existed since forever, wherever we've lived. "Freaking knock next time would you?" I grip the edge of the bed as the sarcasm bites in my chest, and I swallow convulsively against the rising nausea as I stare at my knees again. Fucking Radiation. That shower was a bad idea. I huff out a breath, trying not to actively tremble.

'Wasn't me, for starters," Virgil ducks his head around the doorframe, locking his gaze with mine warily. Eye contact. Not a bad sign... "Was Dad; he came back up while you were showering, but he wants to know if you feel like lunch?" He raises his hands, eyes wide in his suspiciously-pale face. "Don't shoot the messenger." Ok… so that's some possible approximation of a white flag. Apparently. So it seems that pretending nothing has gone down is the game right now, for Virg at least. I can work with that. He's probably like me and feels too shitty for this crap to go on with the intensity it started with. Nevermind he's like me and has always been the figurative, if not literal peacemaker out of the five of us boys.

It beats having another fucking meltdown, sure, but I'm under no illusions that Virgil's apparent willingness to let the argument go for now will force the rest of them to let me hold off on the 'discussion' that I know I'll be subjected to later; resultant sulking aside.

Brilliant. I've got more pressing matters right now though; namely that it's expected that I eat and put forth no arguments into the bargain. I make a face even as my stomach protests in direct opposition. Logically, I need to eat as the freaking dietician sheet and the doctors demand; practically, it's a much harder concept to swallow. Pun not intended.

"Does anyone care if I say no?" I give in and glance at my brother properly. Virgil looks at me as though I'm going to explode again at any minute, but then his inner mediator suddenly emerges and he tips his head with a quirk of his lip. Whoop; under the rug the debris goes... "I'm really not hungry."

"I think they care," He says carefully, "But much as I know you'd prefer not to, it's not going to work." Despite the lightness of his tone, the affirmation of my previous thoughts still feels like an internal gut-punch. Virgil shrugs helplessly.

I feel myself deflate, even as I close my eyes; feeling worse than I had before the altercation, worse than the argument I overheard this morning. It wasn't even Virgil's fault, the argument I woke to; he'd defended me when it came down to it, and that wariness in him… I put that there before, despite him sitting up with me last night. My temper got the best of me, the humiliation overrode it all, and I don't like it. I've apologies to make when I see the others, and I want them to apologise to me and fuck, I just want to go back to bed and hide.

Perhaps it's childish, but I can't take much more of this.

Feeling my gut roll ominously, I take a breath, shuddering as the mess in my chest shifts, making my side spasm. Oh yeah, I forgot; every emotional reaction garners an equal and even more frustrating physical one… Yeah, I need a nap. But food first, apparently, and hopefully not another argument on top of it. I should go downstairs, if I can manage it. I should, but most of me just wants to hide. Fuck. That's not even an excuse, because I should move around if I feel I can, even if I feel as though my legs are jello incarnate.

"Ok…" I say wearily. "What is it, so I can try and convince myself it's worth it? I assume Dad wants to know if I'm coming down or not?" In opposition to my wants of before, I don't want to be isolated up here all day, even if it's half my fault, but neither do I want to deal with the aftermath of my bomb-drop either.

"He does, yeah." Virg seems uncomfortable, probably itching to help me, I assume. Idiot medics-in-training develop that trait super quick. I roll my eyes a little. "Mashed spuds for you, sausage if you think you can stomach it. He says he'll bring it up to you though, if you want."

God, this conversation is getting frustrating again. I don't mind potato; that and sausage I can stand, as long as there's nothing like pepper or salt to irritate my stomach. Crap, do I, don't I? Spit it out, Idiot.

"Yeah, I'll come." The words come easily, even as my resolve forms, and Virgil seems to realise that as he meets my gaze; his arms wrapping unconsciously over his chest. "If the others are down there I don't care, I'm not talking about before." I warn him. "Later, maybe, when I've calmed more. If they push, I won't be responsible for my actions."

Virgil seems to deflate himself this time, in obvious relief that now the objective of his mission up here has been at least half-reached - that I've not blown up at him - and he looks up with an even more exhausted expression to look me in the eye again, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he considers his reply.

"Well, Scott and Gords won't like that, but we've all got issues."

I nod shortly, rubbing my aching forehead. "Yeah; they're just going to have to deal for the moment. I know that it's… obvious and all, but I'm exhausted."

"FAB." Virg's grin is full-blown now, even through the exhaustion on him. Yeah, we all need fucking therapy. He looks awful, and I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that Scott and I still haven't finished our conversation from the other night. I'll have to get Dad in on that somehow, both before I research moving out; if I can go through with it in the end of it all… That's if I don't try and deck my moron of an older brother first. Back to Virgil though. Be present Tracy, I tell myself. Goddammit.

"I'll follow you down." I promise, wiping my suddenly-damp face as I suck in a breath of my own, ignoring my throbbing head. "Just, give me a few minutes."

"Sure," Virgil nods and leaves, and I cover my face with my hands, shaking even more as I realise I've gotten through one conversation today without taking someone's head off.

At least I've made up with one of them. Sort of anyway.

#pyre writes #fulcrum #fulcrum: c9 #thunderbirds #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2004 #thunderbirds '04 #scott tracy #john tracy #virgil tracy #gordon tracy #alan tracy #jeff tracy #fanfiction #the bound universe #the bound series #bound universe #boundverse

[ofprcngs]

BRANDON ARREAGA — Well, if it isn’t JAMES POTTER, the GRYFFINDOR superstar. For those of you who don’t know HIM, you can spot them sitting with the other SEVENTH years. Most people think that they’re CHARMING and INCISIVE, but they can also seem pretty DEPENDENT and INEXORABLE. Sometimes people call them the SHEPHERD. Sure, they’re a PUREBLOOD, but that doesn’t define them. 

i literally have 0 explanation for why i did this other than i’m in love with him. but also, he’s a mess, so jot that down. if you wanna know more about him ( protip: don’t ) then i recommend checking out his pinterest and then i dunno.... contemplate why i’m a punk ass bitch, i guess. enjoy this mess. plot with me. ily.

james henry potter ( named for two his two grandfathers, maternal and paternal respectively ) was born on april 4th, 1960 to two of the most loving parents a child could have.

fleamont and euphemia had been trying for a child for years. they’d been together for basically all of time, having been that typical good-looking, well liked couple in hogwarts that everyone always just assumes will get married ( spoiler alert: they did ), however had had to postpone kids due to fleamont’s brief stint as a professional quidditch player for eight years following their graduation. after that, they would try every month for a child, and after many years of disappointment, eventually gave up. it was during this time that fleamont developed the sleekeazy hair potion which only added to their immense wealth. 

finally at age forty-one, they were surprised with the arrival of james. obviously, they saw him as their miracle child, and as such he was pampered and completely spoiled from the moment he was born.

i cannot stress enough how much this spoiled upbringing shaped james into the person he is today. if you’re wondering why he was ever an arrogant prick, it’s because he was always used to getting absolutely everything he ever wanted. he grew up with money, he grew up with fame and with every bit of attention he could garner, and so it was really no wonder he was a bit of an asshole by the time he started at hogwarts.

obviously, james had a pretty cushy childhood, and as such, shit didn’t start getting real until he started at hogwarts. 

it took all of three seconds for the hat to sort him into gryffindor, and i guess you could say he pretty much considered himself to be the gem of the house. he was the absolute epitome of a gryffindor, basically considered him the poster boy and all but expected everyone to love him.

really did not help his ego to know that everyone did.

in typical sterotype-gryffindor fashion, james hated slytherin. he had always been taught growing up that purists were basically the root of all evil, and his father had had no qualms in lumping all these people in with the house of the snakes. james and his friends took a particular disliking to severus snape almost immediately for the poncy way in which he seemed to believe he was superior to all for his intelligence and his house status, and this dislike only grew when lily evans was tossed into the mix, too.

for basically the first four or five years of hogwarts, james really was that stereotypical arrogant asshole that he’s often made out to be. he always got everything he asked for, he was incredibly popular and incredibly intelligent, he had the most amazing friends and his eyes on the most amazing girl. he was set!! shit was good!!

shit was not good, though. definitely was not. 

despite having known of remus’ furry little problem since second year, things didn’t really start to settle in james how awful it was until third or fourth year. he hated seeing his friend in pain, he hated that he couldn’t help, and so he rallied the boys to put into action their worst plan yet!!!!

becoming animagi!!!!!!

it took fucking forever, obviously, but by the end of fourth year they did it!! we stan icons

except then in fifth year shit hit the fan again in just, like... so many ways

first, it was the whole severus ‘mudblood’ situation. honestly, james was absolutely furious. he’d always hated snape but this just made everything 1000 times worse. even if it had happened to anyone else, he would have been fuming. but for it to have happened to lily like... yikes. 

this was also a horrible time for james though because lily rejected him for the thousandth time. like, look, what a yikes thing to think when she was just called a mudblood, but frankly he was sick of being rejected and he was sick of being the asshole who kept pressuring her so that was the breaking point --- he gave up on her. 

and tbh, he changed a lot from here on out. grew up!! became a better person bc he saw how horrible snap was and decided he was sick of horrible people!! saw, recognised and acknowledged that just bc he was hot and intelligent and rich he wasn’t always going to get everything he wanted ( see: miss evans ) and just generally learned that oh shit the world doesn’t revolve around him!!!

oh and then there was that whole thing with sirius and snape and Remus the Werewolf and ohhhh boyyyy.... that infuriated him. 

he loves his bros so much and y’all know he would die for them, but to see his friend abuse remus’ pain and suffering for his own gain was heart wrenching. it just pushed him further to pull him in line, to realise that not everything was about games, or petty rivalry, or ‘ getting the girl ’ --- life  heartache and mistakes and it was never going to go the way he wanted it to.

now look, this isn’t all to say that james is now a Super Strict, Super Intense, Brooding Weirdo. he’s still a bit of a child, and he’s still a bit of an arrogant prick, but ultimately what wins out is his morals --- every time. he wants to lead the world to a better place, without war and without hate, he wants everyone to have the same opportunities he had as a kid and he wants nothing more than for blood purity to be eradicated.

get that shit outta my house!!! gross!!!!!!

now in his final year, james is always flipping between taking his role as head boy deadly serious and turning it into one big game of mischief. he’s still a marauder at heart, after all, and has definitely abused his power sometimes for the benefit of fun and games, but when it comes down to it, he can be very strict and lowkey paternal. the leader really just.... popped right outta him, it came to play and it came hard, and really you’d think he’s minister for magic with how serious he treats it sometimes.

i hate him.

he’s a lot less intense with his hatred for slytherin’s. he has come to recognise that not everyone from that lifestyle is going to be the same, not everyone who grew up a certain way or was sorted into a certain house is going to think with a deadly mind, and while he’s still a bit wary, he’s a lot more relaxed about it, especially as head boy ( gotta at least pretend shit’s fair !!! )

ok i’m so tired this is abt to turn into a rambling mess 

uHhhHHh he’s very dependent as in like... boi cannot go a week without his friends. he is used to having people to bounce off, that’s always the type of leader he has been, and as much as he would probably be amazing at anything on his own, he’s never really tried. too scared!! i hate him!!!!!

super unforgiving. like, if you have gotten on his bad side.... i’m sorry. it is going to be very difficult to return from there. his moral compass is pretty black and white, you’re either good or your bad, and if you’ve done something he considers bad wELL sucks to be you, i guess. sorry not sorry.

takes his quidditch very seriously tbh. so many people have told him he needs to be a pro like his dad, but he’s like haha fuck you i know what i wanna do ( hint hint: he wants to rule that goddamn auror office, make that shit far more efficient then he thinks it is now ). but srsly, he’s so intense abt the game and it really like... idk gets him in the zone, keeps him level-headed in amongst all this chaos. 

i don’t know what im saying anymore pls send help

uhhhhh he’s smart. i guess. straight a’s and shit idk. just very naturally intelligent, finds everything he does easy, like.. really is that asshole who is just good at everything he does.

i’ve run out of things to say, pls just love him

WANTED CONNECTIONS

girlfriend: i hate to expose myself as a whole ass jily stan but... here i am i guess. but also, listen: he really thinks he’s over her right now. like, he truly believes his days of pestering lily evans are behind him. it was just a crush! it’s gone! ( spoiler alert: it’s not ) BUT he is so convinced that he has got himself into this relationship which is really just... a mess. like highkey it’s obvious he could never fully love her bc his Heart Belongs to Lily or whatever but he does care for her deeply and has tricked himself into believing it’s love. it’s hard, man. he’s confused. send help.

ex-girlfriend(s): more of above but like... less intense? or more intense! who knows, frankly.

childhood friend(s): i’d die for childhood friends. jake/gina dynamic? iconic. just anything, really.

odd friend: ok like... as i mentioned, he’s still kinda wary of slytherins and ppl who grew up in purist culture, but i would love love love to see someone who was one of the first to show him that not all those people are so bad. like someone from a purist family or the like who was just chill and friendly and actually befriended this asshole even when he was... well, an asshole. it’d be fun, ig. also if they eventually do end up recruited for the de’s bc of family stuff or whatever... bonus points.

rivals: i’m tired. you understand.

#novum:intro #you guys this is... such a mess #im gunna regret posting this in the morning #oh well!! #here we are ig!!!!!!

[storytaeme]

kitten & bunny – day 11

spoopy kinktober drabbles – NC17

➵ Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Kim Seokjin x Jeon Jeongguk

➵ Prompt: Hybrids  ↪ content: threesome, fingering, blowjobs, facial

➵ Word Count: 3,638 words

Owning a hybrid was never part of Seokjin’s agenda, let alone two. Two very loud, rumbuctious hybrids who couldn’t settle for even two minutes to listen to Seokjin’s scolding. Taehyung’s orange kitty ears twitched while Jeongguk’s fluffy white ones drooped with his owner’s words. After living alone for too many years, Namjoon had cleverly suggested that Seokjin adopt a hybrid.

So adopt a hybrid he did.

He had gone to the adoption center to meet all the possible candidates for his future household companion. Taehyung had approached him rather cautiously at first, eyes curiously wide as he tiptoed closer towards Seokjin with Jeongguk in tow. The caretaker of the center had given Seokjin a rather disapproving look when Seokjin regarded him with interest.

“They’re rather… grown,” the woman had advised rather bitterly, “and yet still so immature. They are lovely and active though if you’re looking for the sort.”

Seokjin couldn’t bear to handle to hear the judgment in her voice, immediately putting his foot down and demanding the papers. He still wasn’t sure if he regretted his impulse decision then. “Taehyung,” he sighed, exhausted. Work had been long and all he wanted to do when he got home was to sit back and relax in a bubble bath. Instead, he was greeted with a broken flower vase and ripped slippers. “I told you so many times not to bite these.”

“Sorry, hyung,” the feline grinned, far from apologetic about his mistake.

The elder had no energy for this, letting the ruined pair drop into the trash, before wandering down the hallway and into his bedroom. Of course, Seokjin’s glumness didn’t go by unnoticed by the two hybrids who looked at each other in confusion.

Jeongguk was the first to crack and smack Taehyung. “This is your fault, why do you keep ruining his stuff?”

“I can’t help it, my old toy is broken,” Taehyung pouted, “hyung hasn’t gotten around to buying me a new one.”

"Well, you can't just bite his things. Go apologize," Jeongguk grumbled, pushing the boy forward and muttering something about hating it when Seokjinnie-hyung was pissed. The two tottered along the hall, following after Seokjin.

Taehyung softly knocked on the door. "Hyung?"

"Do you need food? Give me a few minutes, Tae, just need to rest." Even in his voice, Taehyung could tell that Seokjin was exhausted. He knew how hard his owner worked to keep their bellies full and their bodies warm, and he did feel guilty about the slippers.

The elder of the two pried open the door and popped his head inside, an evidently remorseful expression on his face. Seokjin propped up on his bed, sighing when the two tiptoed shyly inside and kneeled submissively by his bedside. The elder smiled weakly at them and Taehyung was quick to jump on the head rubs, loving it when Seokjin petted his hair. "'M sorry about shoes, hyung," he mumbled.

"It's alright, Tae, I've been meaning to get new ones anyway." Seokjin smiled softly and stroked the kitten's ears. The hybrid seemed to curl, the gentleness of Seokjin's touch comforting him in a way no one else could. He crawled up onto the bed and cuddled into the elder's body, letting himself sink into the mattress. "You're such a needy kitty," he chuckled.

Jeongguk, who had been the good one of the two, sulked with the lack of attention, huffing by his bedside. He reached out his arms to Seokjin like a child, poking at his stomach. "Me too, hyung, want cuddles."

Seokjin's lips twitched. He really did have his hands full with these two, but he loved them nonetheless. "Okay, come here, baby."

The youngest of them seemed to delight in the nickname as he bounced onto the bed and nestled close to Seokjin. The elder reached up both his hands to stroke his companions' heads and ears, watching as they curled even deeper into him with little, desperate whines in seek of more attention. Seokjin smoothed his hands down the boys' backs, touching their tails this time because he knew that they enjoyed being caressed there too. Perhaps he had been too distracted by the soft textures to fully comprehend his actions, but by the time he realized, the boys were panting lightly, their hips moving to hump against his legs.

He yelped and quickly pulled away, a blush on his face. "S-sorry, didn't mean to—"

"Hyung," Taehyung whined, "you have to take responsibility now." He was about to climb atop the elder, but Jeongguk beat him to it, already straddling Seokjin's skinner thighs and face leaning down to kiss him.

Jeongguk, like the bunny that he was, liked soft things. He liked soft kisses, soft touches. He especially liked Seokjin's soft lips. Seokjin was quick to reciprocate the boy's movements as he pressed down on his owner, his mouth moving in sync with Seokjin's. His desire was evident by the bulge that was quickly expanding in his pants, making it all too obvious what he wanted.

"P-please," Jeongguk whined, cheeks tainted red as his lips parted in desperate gasps. "I want you in me, hyung, want you to take me."

Goddamn. Seokjin loved how Jeongguk always held onto that contradiction and fine line between innocence and filth. With his ivory ears and cute short tail, he held onto that projected image of purity, but the monstrous member hidden underneath his pants seemed to say otherwise about his character. The youngest was already scrambling to loosen up Seokjin's pants.

As he was busying himself with the task, Taehyung took this opportunity to tilt Seokjin's face so he could kiss him. Taehyung was a little different, his tongue a little wilder, his kisses a lot sloppier. Not that Seokjin was complaining because the boy was doing wonders, sliding his tongue in between Seokjin's full lips, stroking the insides and twisting against Seokjin's own muscle.

"Fuck, hyung," Taehyung groaned, "you're so pretty. W-wanna fuck you so badly, wanna shove my thick cock in your ass."

Seokjin released an involuntary whimper at the thought, his asshole clenching around thin air to seek some form of friction. "O-okay, Tae, we can do that."

By then, Jeongguk had successfully tugged down his owner's pants, leaving him in crinkled work shirt, loosened tie, and a pair of white briefs. The front of it was already stained dark with what Jeongguk assumed was precum. The sight only stirred Jeongguk's length as he moaned and crawled downwards. He sniffed the bump through the fabric at first, releasing a small whimper at the scent of lust emanating from the cotton. Jeongguk tentatively closed his lips around the bulge, sucking it in and tracing the outline of it with his tongue. His gaze slid upwards to see Seokjin watching him with hooded eyes and parted lips, clearly relishing in the show Jeongguk was providing. He focused on Seokjin again, mouth and tongue moving in response to all of his twitches and little moans.

Taehyung captured Seokjin's lips again as his deft fingers swiftly unbuttoned the elder boy's shirt and tugged off the silk around his neck. He pulled the shirt open, revealing Seokjin's soft chest, devoid of any marks or stains. Pure. Taehyung absolutely loved that. He ghosted his lips along Seokjin's jaw and down his neck, pausing to bite and nibble on the sensitive skin there. Seokjin liked to say that he hated being mark, mainly because his work required him to be professional, but it was difficult to say no when Taehyung's tongue stuck against his skin and traveled south to his nipples.

"You're so pretty, hyung," Taehyung murmured, one arm sliding underneath Seokjin and around him to reach his nipple. "Look at your pretty tits, all pink and perky. You're so cute." His hot breath skimmed over his bud for a brief second before his lips closed in around it. His mouth suckled and his tongue swirled around the stiff bud, drawing it in hungrily. He licked and licked until Seokjin couldn't feel his nipple, and then moved on to the other one, giving it an equal amount of attention.

Seokjin couldn't breathe. Every part of him was on fire, burning a flame inside of him and scorching his skin like the sun would. With Taehyung focusing his ministrations on his tender nipples and Jeongguk still mouthing hungrily at his cock through his boxers, Seokjin felt overwhelmed by the amount of stimulation he was receiving.

It got even worse when Jeongguk marveled at the hardness and length of his cock when the boy pulled it out. Jeongguk whimpered, looking up at Seokjin, "You've got such a nice cock, hyung."

"Yeah?" he panted, swallowing the lump in his throat as Taehyung continued to work on his nipples, his chest feeling raw. "Like my cock, baby bun?" Jeongguk seemed to preen with his words, his toes curling and his eyes lighting up like fireworks. He loved the nickname, loved it when Seokjin called him pet names and made him feel small. "Why don't you give it a taste, baby? Be a good bunny and take hyung's cock."

Jeongguk nodded obediently and hesitantly gave it a lick, an action that had Seokjin lifting his hips for more. The bunny looked too cute doing it, too innocent for Seokjin to resist. But he let out an aggravated grunt and pinned his hips down again. "Like this?" he asked sweetly, knowing full well that his act was worsening Seokjin's libido. He gave yet another small lick, tongue sticking out ever so slightly.

"Y-yes, bunny, just like that, but more," Seokjin urged, "put it in your mouth, baby."

The youngest grinned, his big teeth in full view, rendering Seokjin completely immobile with how adorable he was. "Okay," he nodded cheerfully and finally began to slurp at the tip, licking up the drop of precome that had escaped. He let out a small giggle, "You taste good, hyung, want more of your milk."

Milk. Christ, Seokjin was going to combust if the boy didn't let him live.

Taehyung wasn't quite happy with the turn of events. Seokjin was giving Jeongguk too much of his attention, leaving Taehyung with nothing. So he pouted and instead pulled Seokjin up to settle between his thighs. He yanked off the shirt and tossed it aside, leaving Seokjin completely naked. "T-Tae, what are you doing?" Seokjin asked. The movement had Jeongguk releasing his length with a pop and a following pout.

"I want to rub my cock in your ass, hyung," Taehyung grinned, his teeth baring a little too dangerously as he slid his mouth along Seokjin's neck. His hand pushed down his own pants aside so he could pull his length free. He positioned Seokjin to kneel so Jeongguk could get his cock fix while Taehyung could run the head of his dick along the crack of Seokjin's ass. The skin was so clean and unblemished, adorably pert and creamy enough to have Taehyung's mouth watering.

Seokjin released small gasps as Taehyung's arm circled him and his fingers began toying with his nipple again. His other hand rubbed up his cock between the plump cheeks of his butt. Taehyung spread his ass open and groaned every time he rubbed the slit of his cock along the elder's rim. The hole would pucker even tighter with every touch, a mechanism that indicated Seokjin begging for more.

Jeongguk was eagerly taking in Seokjin's dick into his mouth, licking along the length and fingers fondling his balls. He took him so deep, gag reflex practically nonexistent as he buried his nose into the curls at the base of Seokjin's cock.

"H-hyung," he whimpered wantonly, staring up at the elder with a desperate look. His pupils were dilated as he turned around and pressed his face into the sheets. The elder stared at the boy in awe, his ass up in the air as his fingers danced along the curve of his perfect bubble butt. "Watch me okay," he pleaded as he slipped two fingers into his ass. Seokjin moaned at the magnificent sight. When Jeongguk pulled his fingers out, Seokjin could see that they were slick and glistening. He whined and stuck them back in, fingers buried to his knuckles as he continued to fuck his ass back to meet his hand. "S-so wet for you," he garbled, voice muffled by the bed, "want you to fuck my ass, hyung. Want you to fill me up with all of your come."

"Oh, Jeonggukie," Seokjin breathed. Taehyung released him long enough, his cock dripping wet onto the pale sheets, for Seokjin to shift forward and run his hand along the bunny's ass. "You've got the prettiest hole, you know?" Seokjin smiled softly, pushing his fingers in and observing the way the rim closed in around his digits. His fingers, like Jeongguk's, came out soaked. He bit back a moaned as the stretched the boy open while gesturing for Taehyung to get a condom from his drawer.

He continued to finger the bunny who whimpered, tail shaking with pleasure and his ears pinned down against his ears. He looked so cute Seokjin wished he could take a picture of this. When the boy was opened up enough, Seokjin expertly rolled on the elastic and positioned himself behind the boy. Slowly, gently, he slid in until Jeongguk was whimpering and shaking, ass tightening around the thickness filling him up.

"Feels so good, so full," the hybrid mumbled incoherently. Seokjin began slow, agonizingly slow that Jeongguk's toes curled in desperation. "M-more, hyung, want your cock to fuck me open. Please."

"Okay, baby bun," he cooed before moving his hips faster. He jerked his hips forward, propelling the younger deeper into the sheets with his every thrust. Jeongguk felt so tight and snug, warm enveloping his cock nicely every time he slid into the bunny. Jeongguk let out little squeaks of pleasure and pain every time Seokjin's cock hit a sensitive part inside of him.

Seokjin could feel Jeongguk shaking with excitement, feel his blood warm beneath the surface of his skin. He reached up and began to rub his white, bushy tail, earning a yelp from the bunny. Both hybrids were sensitive there, loved being touched there before anything else. He rubbed it again and again, until Jeongguk was writhing underneath him.

"Such a good baby," he crooned sweetly, "you look so good like this, Jeonggukie, my sweet bunny. You like having my cock inside you, hm?" Jeongguk could only manage a nod, breath hiccuping in his throat. "Such a pretty baby, you should always be stuffed with cock, bunny."

"I love your cock, only your cock," he whimpered. That was probably a lie considering how many times Taehyung and Jeongguk messed around whenever he was out of town. They would call him into their 'playdates' and made him watch as they fucked each other stupid while Seokjin was left to entertain himself with a bottle of lube and his right hand.

Seokjin almost forgot about Taehyung until he could feel the rage radiating from behind him. Taehyung was quick to dart close, his movements as elegant as the feline he was a part of. "I'm not done with you yet, hyung," he hummed and he was true to his word when Seokjin could feel a sudden chill in his opening. Taehyung nudged the hole open, pushing past the tight ring until he could bury his fingers inside his owner. Seokjin let out a moan, his hips stuttering as he nearly slipped. "Keep pounding Jeonggukie, hyung, I'll make you feel good."

The kitten didn't need to do much. He stepped back a little to allow Seokjin room to pound into the bunny who was then crying out for attention, for more friction. However, every time he pulled back, Taehyung's fingers slid back in and filled up his tunnel. They never quiet left and Seokjin was left to squirm uncomfortably, alternating between getting his ass spread open and spreading Jeongguk's open. The double stimulation did feel so good and he couldn't help himself from moaning and picking up the pace of his thrusts to satisfy both of his erogenous zones.

Taehyung was incredibly smart, Seokjin had to give him that. Not that he had any doubt in the first place considering the cat knew exactly how to drive him to the edge, crying. The motion was repeated over and over until Taehyung could fit four fingers inside of the elder, ensuring that he was prepped and ready.

"Such a pretty open hole, hyungie, it was made to take big cocks like mine," he grinned, nipping the man's earlobe playfully. Taehyung hovered at Seokjin's entrance before slowly easing the thick head of his dick in, inch by inch. Taehyung was big, could easily fill Seokjin up without even being fully hard. "Gonna fuck you so good, fill you up with my come and get you pregnant."

Seokjin swallowed the lump in his throat, freezing for a second at Taehyung's words. Seeing as he was human, it was impossible of course, but the thought still had his mouth drying as Taehyung took his tense body as a good response.

"Make you so full, hyung," Taehyung moaned, his velvety voice vibrating through Seokjin's veins. "Wanna breed you so bad, fuck you until you have all my milk inside you."

"Y-yes," Seokjin muttered, chest heaving at the thought. God, he wanted it so badly. He wanted Taehyung to coat him with his come, wanted him to fuck his petite hole open until he couldn't walk the next day. Work be damned. "Fuck me, Tae, please fuck me."

"Good boy," Taehyung purred before he pushed himself all the way into the elder. He had to slide in and out a few times until Seokjin adjusted, until he could feel his stomach pressing up against the man's ass. He could hear Seokjin choke when he hit that deep spot inside of him. Considering how long Taehyung's cock was, it was a miracle he could even squeeze it past the rim. "Now, be a good boy and fuck Jeongguk for me okay and I promise I'll fuck you just as well."

Seokjin nodded, sweat beading his temple as he started a slower pace again to fuck into Jeongguk. He had to ensure that Taehyung wasn't going to fuck a hole into his ass while also guaranteeing that Jeongguk wasn't going to suffer from any hip jerks or dick aneurysms on his side. They began slow, which didn't bode well with Jeongguk who "want to be fucked raw and hard, fuck me open, hyung." Taehyung slid into him from behind, hands holding onto Seokjin's hips, as the eldest man pushed into the bunny to match Taehyung's movements.

It took them a little while, but once they got the hang of a suitable tempo, Taehyung began to move faster, wanting more friction with every grunt and moan, every “fuck, hyung, your ass is so nice and tight, I could screw it all night.” Seokjin shivered a little with Taehyung's words that proved to fuel his drive as he pounded into the bunny before him. The bunny was whimpering, his fingers twisting into the sheets as he moaned each time Seokjin slid all the way in and hit his sensitive spots. Taehyung was a master at hitting the prostate, angling his hips just right so he could hammer into Seokjin with great efficiency each time.

After a few minutes of fucking back and forth, taking the dick and and giving the dick, Seokjin could feel the tension building inside his stomach, crawling up his chest and squeezing his lungs as he started to feel the orgasm coming. Taehyung was moving faster and faster, filthy words leaving his lips to urge Seokjin to come, to have his babies and take his milk.

Jeongguk was the first to cave, white spilling onto the bed with his cock untouched. His hole felt so raw and sensitive but Seokjin wasn't done, kept moving into the boy until he could feel that ugly, delicious feeling curling inside of him. But he didn't want to come… not yet. Not until Taehyung did.

The two of them seem intent on being the last to reach that peak, slowing down and dragging it on for as long as possible. Taehyung fucked Seokjin harder and deeper while Seokjin clenched his ass around Taehyung tighter. But Seokjin knew he had won this round when he could feel Taehyung faltering behind him, hear his hitched moans and broken gasps. Soon enough, he felt warmth filling his insides, layering every inch of his hole. There was so much milk that it began slipping out of his hole and onto the bed. Seokjin stroked his own cock then, panting as he thrust into his hand to reach that climax so he so desperately craved.

Jeongguk crawled in front of him again, waiting anxiously as he took Seokjin's cock and stroked it himself. There were stars of wonder in his eyes as he watched the throbbing red of Seokjin's cock, the head pulsing with need, before it shot out strings of white across the bunny's pretty face. Jeongguk looked surprised at first, lips forming an 'o' before he opened his mouth wider, sticking his tongue out to get as much of it as possible. Seokjin groaned at how beautiful he looked as come continued to pour out of his cock.

"Mmm, you taste good," Jeongguk giggled cutely.

Seokjin smiled, patting his head and rubbing his ears again. "You did well, Jeongguk-ah."

"Me! How about me, hyung?" Taehyung insisted, coming around him to hook his chin on Seokjin's shoulder.

"You too, kitten," Seokjin chuckled, offering as much affection to Taehyung as well. Taehyung nuzzled his nose into the elder's neck shyly.

Seokjin really couldn't have been luckier.

#bts #taehyung #jungkook #seokjin #taejinkook #bts smut #kinktober17 #bts scenarios #bts fanfic #i legit didnt read this one over cause no time but falkwerjawelkrj #ill fix it before ao3

[riotriot5x5]

2017 can die in a fire

I literally never make text posts, but I just need to put this out there somewhere in the universe because I don’t have any friends in Iowa and I’ve already called my mom a bunch, so here goes:

Yesterday I found out that my 4 month old kitten probably has literally one of the most RARE diseases a fucking cat can get - osteo something imperfecta, which means she has super thin, brittle bones and will probably only live for mayyyybe 2 years and will constantly break bones. We will have to put her to sleep out of pure mercy once she is too much pain or maybe even before we think it might get bad. We are still trying to rule it out but the writing is pretty much on the wall. I wanted to get this kitten to help make this garbage apartment I moved into in Iowa more of a home and for my GF to feel happier and like there is more to live for than just struggling to get by out here. And, of fucking course, the universe/god/probably trump himself decided to literally rip my heart out of my chest through my asshole.

FUCKING WHY UNIVERSE WHY?!?! This cat is the fucking coolest and sweetest and she is so happy with us and loves us and yes, she is just a cat, but I don’t give a fuck. My relationship has taken a turn for the worst since we’ve ben in Iowa because my GF is having an enormously hard time adjusting here and to be honest, I’m fucking shocked she’s still here. I honestly think that a big reason why she hasn’t left is because she feels stuck here and at this point, separating our shit and getting out of our lease would be a huge fucking nightmare. I have an engagement ring (that I had custom made over like 4 months of secretly designing) sitting in the back of a drawer in my office that I have done nothing with since I got it a couple weeks ago because I keep waiting for things to get better (and working my ass off to make it happen, I’m not a dipshit) but the universe continues to take a literal dump on my soul. 

I fucking LOVE school and I’m fucking GREAT at it. I’m a fantastic TA and I’m getting fantastic grades (aside from a fucking B- in statistics but to be honest that’s also a huge accomplishment because I am so horrendous at math). I’m handling my stress and professionalism light years better than the 22-year-olds in my cohort (they are brilliant and I couldn’t have done what they are doing at 22 but they are still 22 and fresh out of undergrad with no break or perspective) and I’m already on track to get my MA by year 3 and not spend forever getting my PhD. This is what I am clearly meant to do and now that I know that, there is no way I can just quit. I would literally actually rip my heart out of my own asshole as mentioned before than to go back to wearing a fucking apron and stocking shelves at Vitamin Cottage. I almost wish that I never accepted my offer and never got a taste of what it could be like being back in school. 

I never in my life thought I could “have it all” and that is not what this is about. I knew there was a HUGE chance my life outside of school would fall the fuck apart, relationship included. I knew it was a fucking long shot, but when we took this perfect angel of a cat Maggie home like a fucking MONTH ago, a part of me was over the goddamn moon because it felt like I was starting a weird little family out here and it was the start of something really special. We would have this cat for a long time and we would always remember how we got her right when we moved to Iowa - it felt like we were meant to find her. And it feels like it’s all just evaporating in front of my eyes. If we have to put this cat to sleep, I don’t know if either of us will bounce back from it. Yes, its a cat, but it’s also the world’s most gigantic metaphor screaming “nice try, assholes!” right in our faces.

Everything that can go wrong HAS gone wrong since we moved here. The apartment was a nightmare, it took forever for my GF to find a job and she hates the one she found anyway, Iowa City sort of sucks - it’s not fucking Kansas but it’s small and boring and impossible for my GF to find anything to eat when we go out and even the beer is super mediocre here and the water is AWFUL here, so hard you could chip your fucking tooth on it - and literally anything that could get fucked up has. I’ve had such a good attitude about everything and tried so so so hard to put a positive spin on everything that’s happened, but this is just my limit. Sick kitten is my limit. 

I had literally no other outlet for this and just needed to scream into the cyber void about it. I’m going to be fine because I always am but fucking Christ, let up Universe, please. 

#SATURN RETURN

[smokeandjollyranchers]

Don’t you hate it when your friend makes a dumb choice you had already talked them out of?

He’s waiting for her outside of her trailer. Soul gets his ass up early, so he knows he won’t miss her. He’s not sure what he’s hoping to achieve with this, but he’s pretty sure that the last thing Maka wants to do is another movie.

She pushes her door open softly, and she meets his gaze. Her eyes are red, and a little swollen, and she shakes her head before he can even take a step towards her. “Please don’t.”

“Well, do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” She walks away from him, clearly not interested enough to defend herself. Soul is annoyed, but he isn’t sure he has any right to be. After all, they share one conversation between them, while also being high at the time. But he’s also fairly certain she’s more miserable than she’s ever been before.

He wonders how long a dam can hold when the water beats against it mercilessly.

She keeps mostly to herself for day. She eats inside her trailer, and she only speaks him him through the lines on their page. It’s a big scene today, where Maka’s character finally admits that as much as she’s fought it, she loves his character. Soul walks around in circles, waiting for them to start filming. He’s trying to bring his character to the front of his mind, but it’s harder today.

When Maka finally gets to the scene, Kid’s finishing up his placements. He glances at her, and then once more. “Wow, make up did good work. You look emotionally slaughtered.”

“I mean this professionally, but go fuck yourself.” She snaps at him, coming to stand on her mark. Soul takes his, and offers her a smile.

“Hey.”

“Not yet.” She answers, eyes on the ground. They stay there, until Kid’s team hollers for “Quiet”. Maka takes a deep breath, and looks up at Soul.

“Action!”

“I realized something,” Maka whispers, eyes dull as she recites her lines. Soul swallows hard, running his hand through his hair.

“Last time you told me that. You went running off into a death sentence and I had to save you.”

“I know.” Her voice cracks a little, and she has to look away. “You’re always trying to save me. How come?”

“Because I promised I would.”

“Cut!” Kid sighs, rubbing his eye. “Goddamn it, all movie I can’t get you two to stop eye fucking and now when I need it, you can’t?! Oh you’re killing me. One more time.”

Soul shakes it off, ready to run the scene again. Maka still stares at the ground, blank look on her face. “Maka. Hey.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll get it.” She promises, pulling her line of sight back up.

“Alright, action!”

“I realized something,” she whispers again. And Soul tilts his head, waiting for an answer.

“Last time you told me that, you went running off into a death sentence and I had to save you.”

“I-I know.” She tries to meet his eyes and he watches hers fill with tears. “You’re always trying to save me. How come?”

“Because I promised I would.” He whispers, a little unsure of where she was headed with his. Maka sucks in a breath, but he can see the break as it rushes toward her.

“You can’t promise to save me.” She manages to get those words out, and then she breaks. Tears spill from her eyes and she’s sobbing. Maka passes crying immediately, and full body wracking sobs that threaten to overtake her small frame. Soul reaches for her, and she falls into him, breakdown in full swing now.

Soul looks at Kid, and he motions for the cameras to stop rolling. Carefully, the crew removes themselves, and Kid motions them to a different set, to try and get a different scene done. Soul slowly sinks down to his knees, Maka following as her sobs shake her body.

They lay there for a while, until Maka’s sobs fad to cries, and those even fade into slow breathing and hiccups. Soul sighs, running his hand through her hair. “All done?”

“Mhmm.”

“Hiding cuz you’re embarrassed?”

“Yup.”

“It’s just you and me now. You can come up.” He offers, and she repositions herself so that her head was in his lap, and she was looking up. “So, wanna tell me what happened last night?”

“My mom came by.”

“And?”

“And she told me what I always sort of knew. That it doesn’t matter what I do, because I’ll still hate myself. And I think she’s right! Why would that change anything–”

“Jesus Christ your mother sounds like a nightmare.” He rolls his eyes, holding her head in place so she would look at him. “You ever heard of mental illness, kid? It’s pretty common, most of the population comes into contact with it.”

“Of course I know.”

“And you know that you can treat it, get on some meds? Like your life a little more? Enjoy something? You don’t have to be sad like this, and I wish someone had told you that before today.”

“….I don’t wanna be like this.” She whispers, tears leaking out from the corner of her eyes onto his thumbs. He leans over and kisses her forehead.

“You aren’t.”

“…I don’t even know where to start to get help.”

“Oh I do. I’ll help you, Maka.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

#soul eater #soul/Maka #soma week 2017 #promises #actor au #ouch

[spicynbachili1]

Dark Souls characters, ranked

The misplaced souls of Lordran

To play Darkish Souls is to hunt victory in a land outlined by failure. Lordran, the sport’s fictional kingdom, is dying. The once-great gods have deserted their bastions, fleeing a world in determined want of a savior. Each crumbling metropolis stands as a tragic reminder of what may have been; echoes of progress all however forgotten. A plague of undeath curses those that stay, lowering their existence to a cycle of dying, rebirth, and slowly hollowing souls. Everybody who travels to Lordran is doomed to fulfill a merciless destiny, however that does not cease individuals from making an attempt.

Darkish Souls has a surprisingly deep forged. They seem to be a unhappy lot. Every character gamers encounter is dying, damaged, or within the midst of a disaster. However regardless of the dire circumstances of their existence, these wayward adventurers are brimming with character. They’re warriors, healers, and students — individuals who can be destined for greatness in another kingdom. In Lordran, nonetheless, they’re doomed. Via a mixture of indirect storytelling and nihilistic inevitability, Darkish Souls‘ characters are among the many most fascinating NPCs in latest reminiscence.

It is excessive time somebody ranked them.

61. Petrus of Thorolund: 

Petrus ruins what’s in any other case one of the crucial memorable moments in Darkish Souls. After escaping the Undead Asylum and arriving at Firelink Shrine within the claws of an enormous crow, the Chosen Undead’s first steps on Lordran soil are tentative and stuffed with thriller. This can be a land of unknowns, a spot that the gods have forgotten. However all that magic and momentum is ruined when gamers inevitably stumble upon Petrus of Thorolund, a dopey cleric with what is sort of probably essentially the most punchable face in online game historical past. Something appears doable in Lordran, however Petrus’ pageboy haircut is just too terrible to imagine. 

60. Kingseeker Frampt:

This serpentine noodle is essential to Darkish Souls‘ story. He is additionally an abomination. Destructoid’s Co-Editor-in-Chief Jordan Devore summed up Frampt’s existence eloquently: 

Some monstrosities are higher left loud night breathing for all eternity.

59. Pinwheel:

Pinwheel capabilities extra as a cautionary story than the rest. Pinwheel is arguably the best boss in Darkish Souls, greatest seen as a hollowed husk extra desirous about researching necromancy than fight. The masks that adorn its face — a Father, Mom, and Youngster — indicate a merciless destiny involves those that search energy. 

58. Vince of Thorolund: 

One other cleric, one other ugly mug. It’s protected to imagine that there are not any respectable barbers in Thorolund. 

57. Nico of Thorolund: 

Nico’s solely redeeming high quality is that his helmet obscures what’s undoubtedly one other atrocious hairdo. He and Vince appear to be shut; perhaps they discovered love in Lordran. 

56. Rhea of Thorolund: 

There’s tragedy on the coronary heart of Rhea’s story, however her best crime is associating with the Thorolund goof troop.

55. Rickert of Vinheim:

Most of Lordran’s blacksmiths are nice. Rickert, nonetheless, sucks. He’s content material to be locked up for an eternity, and that’s effective as a result of he is totally ineffective.

54. Griggs of Vinheim: 

Griggs is boring. He’s outclassed by his mentor in each conceivable manner, from spell choice to hat dimension.

53. Paladin Leeroy:

This man is so near greatness. His huge hammer, Grant, is an intimidating weapon and his Sanctus protect appears to be like rad. However the truth that he’s a strolling Leeroy Jenkins reference kills his placement on the record.

52. Darkstalker Kaathe:

Darkstalker Kaathe is the inverse of Kingseeker Frampt, which is superb. However the truth that Kaathe and Frampt are probably two serpents sharing the identical physique means this slippery dude sort of sucks too. 

51. Eingyi:

Eingyi is an egg-bearing chump who’s blissful to serve one in every of Darkish Souls‘ most beloved characters. He’d place greater if he weren’t so gross trying.

50. Prince Ricard:

There are a handful of Darkish Souls characters outlined solely by their mediocrity. Ricard is one in every of them, an undead noble whose deft rapier stabs are finally forgettable.

49. Seath the Scaleless:

Controversial opinion: Seath sucks, appears to be like dumb, and is an entire and utter nerd.

48. The 4 Kings:

The 4 Kings have a twisted, vaguely metallic look they usually hand around in the endless darkness of The Abyss. That is cool. However it’s laborious to disregard the truth that greater than 4 kings spawn throughout their boss struggle. What’s with that? 

47. Nightfall of Oolacile:

Nightfall’s presence in Lordran alerts the beginning of Darkish Souls’ glorious Artorias of the Abyss enlargement. Previous that, she’s a confused time traveler who is comparatively bland in comparison with most characters. 

46. Knight Kirk: 

Kirk, Knight of Thorns, is sort of a center faculty bully. He comes out of nowhere and assaults you with obvious glee. And like coping with a bully, the one factor worse than probably getting your ass kicked is understanding that beneath his prickly exterior is a tragic child who simply needs consideration.

45. Maneater Mildred:

There’s one thing to be mentioned about an individual who’s keen to strip off their garments, put a bag on their head, and run by means of a toxic swamp simply to hack individuals aside with a machete. Mildred scares me, however I am impressed along with her dedication.

44. Elizabeth the Mushroom: 

Elizabeth will get factors for being an enormous speaking mushroom, however she pales compared to the lovable — and surprisingly lethal — enjoyable guys in Darkroot Backyard. 

43. Quelana of Izalith:

So far as pyromancers go, Quelana’s a professional. In actual fact, she’s thought of the mom of the fiery artwork. Regardless of her spectacular resume, Quelana is the black sheep of her household. It’s not as a result of she’s into beginning fires, although. Quelana’s an outcast particularly as a result of she’s the one member of her clan that isn’t fucked up in some horrible manner. Solution to kill the curve, firestarter.

42. Undead Poison Service provider:

Right here’s some lore hypothesis: This poison-slinging service provider is crushing on her male counterpart huge time, however he’s in love with another person. And so, she waits for an eternity, promoting knives and sewer moss as a intelligent manner of keeping track of her unrequited love with out seeming too apparent.

41. Undead Burg Service provider: 

This dude’s a nutter. He has some weapons to promote, positive, however his singular obsession with Yulia — who or no matter that truly is — dominates his ideas. Possibly it is his uchigatana. Maybe it is his favourite bucket. Or perhaps, simply perhaps, it is the long-forgotten title of a lovely woman from close by he as soon as knew…

40. Princess Gwynevere:

Gwynevere is not actually within the recreation. The larger-than-life lady gamers encounter is definitely an phantasm. However even nonetheless, Gwynevere’s remembered by gamers as one in every of Darkish Souls‘ greatest, uh, belongings.

39. Blacksmith Vamos:

After trudging by means of the Catacombs, it is good to fulfill a skeleton that is not hell-bent on murdering you. Vamos is a group of bones who is aware of his manner round a forge. His defining trait is his skeletal beard, which appears to be like as if it is assembled from finger bones. That is as spectacular as it’s macabre. 

38. Sieglinde of Catarina:

One of many hardest components of rising up is watching your dad and mom begin to lose a step or two. Sieglinde spends all of her time in Lordran chasing down her father in an effort to get him to simply, like, decelerate for a minute. She’s an incredible daughter, however an in any other case one-note character.

37. Witch Beatrice:

Though she will get little display screen time, Witch Beatrice is rad as hell. She absolutely commits to her namesake, carrying a haunting gown awash in deep purples with a gnarled wood catalyst in hand. Beatrice is a summonable character who can hurl spells on the Moonlight Butterfly and 4 Kings bosses, and whereas her presence is welcome, it additionally leaves you wanting extra.

36. Ceaseless Discharge:

Ceaseless Discharge locations this excessive particularly as a result of his title is without doubt one of the grossest doable combos of phrases within the English language.

35. King Jeremiah:

At a sure level, Darkish Souls gamers understand style is extra necessary than kind. Jeremiah understands this, and his bulbous crown works as each an homage to Demon’s Souls and an absurd look that’d slot in on the Met Gala.

34. Alvina:

A fats cat with the present of gab. What’s to not love?

33. Anastacia of Astora:

Anastacia is maimed, tongueless, and trapped. Her existence is a merciless reminder that retaining the age of fireside going comes at a really steep price. Regardless of by no means uttering a single phrase, her presence is sorely missed ought to gamers enable sure occasions to transpire.

32. Knight Lautrec of Carim:

Lautrec is a dick. An absolute madman. A terror in gold-plated armor. However for as annoying as his actions over the course of Darkish Souls are, it’s laborious to fully despise him as a result of he appears to be like so rattling cool. 

31. Marvelous Chester:

This man is a grinning hunter ripped from one other world. He is mainly a Bloodborne cosplayer, and since Bloodborne is so good, Chester locations greater than he has any actual proper to. 

30. Patches:

I hate Patches. I hate him so goddamn a lot. However I’m additionally frightened of him. Spending numerous hours in his signature squatting pose will need to have toned his physique to Adonis-like proportions. 

29. Crestfallen Service provider: 

Take a look at this stoic motherfucker. Simply have a look at him and inform me you’re not impressed.

28. Crossbreed Priscilla: 

As her title implies, Priscilla the offspring of a dragon and a god. She’s one other character with an unlucky backstory. Gwyn feared her energy a lot that he locked her inside a portray to maintain his realm protected from Priscilla’s harmful potential. Priscilla, nonetheless, is not outwardly hostile. In actual fact, she’s relatively candy. She’s trapped, however totally nice, content material to be left alone with the opposite castaways within the Painted World. 

27. Ingward:

Ingward’s spooky as hell, and whereas not a specter himself, he spends all of his time with ghosts. He is notable not just for his wraith-like masks and placing purple robes but additionally for his position in flooding New Londo. Flooding a complete metropolis is harmful work, however what’s much more spectacular is how rapidly Ingward provides away the important thing to the floodgates he spent untold years watching when you ask him properly. 

26. Lord’s Blade Ciaran: 

Ciaran’s a talented murderer with a watch for style. She seems in Oolacile to pay respects at her former companion’s remaining resting place and is so upset at dropping a companion that she’s keen to depart her weapons behind in alternate for a fleeting reminiscence. Ciaran’s one in every of many Darkish Souls characters who deserve extra direct consideration; she’s a mysterious lady who lets her blades do the speaking when push involves stab.

25. Chaos Witch Quelaag: 

One other youngster of Izalith, Quelaag’s present kind is that of a bare-chested lady rising out of a horrifying spider’s sternum. She’s imposing, quick, and doubtless chargeable for awakening a brand new kink amongst Darkish Souls gamers.

24. Darkish Solar Gwyndolin:

Gywndolin is the chief of the Darkmoon Blades and the final remaining god in Anor Londo. He’s the youngest youngster of Gwyn and spends his time lording over his father’s ceremonial tomb. Though his kin’s affiliation with gentle and hearth is effectively documented, Gwyndolin’s penchant for magic and moon-based powers make him one of many recreation’s most complicated and memorable characters.

23. Quelaan:

This daughter of Izalith is the saddest member of a cursed household. The Honest Girl, or Quelaan as many want to name her, is an element spider, identical to Quelaag. However in contrast to her sister, who appears to thrive in her newfound kind, Quelaan is in a state of fixed struggling. When the Chosen Undead first encounters this Fireplace Keeper, she’s dying a gradual and painful dying, blind and motionless. Gamers can converse along with her by carrying a particular ring and help her restoration by sacrificing hard-earned humanity. It’s price it largely for the satisfaction of understanding that you simply helped save one of many recreation’s purest souls. 

22. Oswald of Carim:

Oswald appears to be like like he solely smokes clove cigarettes. He’s a grown-up goth who prefers to maintain monitor of Lordran’s sinners from a darkish nook of the Undead Parish’s bell tower whereas listening to Siouxsie and the Banshees.

21. Large Blacksmith:

This towering tradesman spends all of his time hammering away at tools he may by no means hope to make use of. His nice character and mellow demeanor are a welcome salve to the cruelties of life in Lordran.

20. Shiva of the East:

Shiva may get by on fashion alone. His armor echoes his Japanese origins, equal components sensible and stylish. When push involves shove, Shiva’s no slouch with a blade both. Because the chief of the Forest Hunters, Shiva prides himself on his potential to topple intruders with exact strikes and lethal effectivity.

19. Gravelord Nito: 

Out of all of Darkish Souls‘ bosses, nobody conveys the sport’s “put together to die” mantra higher than Nito. The lord of the lifeless is an enormous, shifting assortment of skeletal stays which have mixed because the personification of Demise itself. Nito’s able to inflicting dying and sickness from his cozy sarcophagus within the Tomb of the Giants, which is a real testomony to his energy.

18. Laurentius of the Nice Swamp: 

Of all of the characters that come to inhabit Firelink Shrine, Laurentius is well essentially the most endearing. Positive, he attire like a hobo and considers a nasty swamp his splendid atmosphere, however in contrast to Shrek, Laurentius is the sort of individual you’d need to get a beer with. 

17. Crestfallen Warrior:

The Crestfallen Warrior is the primary individual the Chosen Undead encounters after fleeing from the Undead Asylum. He’s melodramatic and dour however nonetheless manages to share details about the world with some darkish, witty humor.  

16. Darkmoon Knightess: 

All through the Darkish Souls video games, Fireplace Keepers are typically damaged, often-disfigured characters. Whereas the Darkmoon Knightess isn’t any completely different, she’s extra proactive than her friends. Lined in brass armor to cover her “ghastly” kind, the Knightess watches over Anor Londo’s predominant bonfire with a blade at her facet.

15. Executioner Smough: 

This impossibly-large man as soon as served as Anor Londo’s heavy-hitting executioner. He’s huge, imposing, and identified for his yucky little tendency to cannibalize his victims. Smough is one-half of Darkish Souls’ dream crew, and whereas he performs second fiddle to Gwyn’s knights, defeating his companion earlier than tackling the executioner provides Smough a chance for a twisted little bit of revenge.

14. Dragon Slayer Ornstein:

If Smough’s hulking determine is his defining trait, Ornstein’s high-energy acrobatics are a obligatory counterweight. He zips round Anor Londo like a gymnast with undiagnosed ADHD, thrusting his lightning-infused spear with stunning precision. The opposite half of the Darkish Souls‘ dynamic duo, Ornstein is what occurs when your hyperactive good friend begins weapons coaching. 

13. Gwyn, Lord of Cinder:

Gwyn’s legacy is a world completely marred by tragedy. His tireless pursuit of a continued age of fireside is the direct reason for a lot ache. By the point gamers attain him on the Kiln of the First Flame, the Lord of Cinder stands over a smoldering flame, the results of his life’s work actually dying earlier than his eyes. The struggle in opposition to Gwyn is a poignant end result to the Chosen Undead’s journey. It lacks the bombast of different boss fights, as an alternative reveling in a haunting melancholy that’s made all of the extra memorable by the sport’s greatest piece of music.

*Creator’s Be aware: I can’t hearken to his theme with out immediately tearing up.

12. Hawkeye Gough:

Hawkeye Gough cannot see. In some unspecified time in the future, a thick resin coated the archer’s helmet, which leads the enormous to suppose that he is blind. Gough’s a retired knight who chooses to spend his remaining days whittling wooden carvings infused together with his booming voice. Whereas that is extraordinarily chill in its personal proper, Gough’s legacy is elevated to new heights by his potential to shoot a dragon out of the sky with out even seeing it in flight. That’s legendary.

11. Andre of Astora:

This strapping chap is the primary motive millennials are selecting to enroll in commerce faculties relatively than formal training. He’s a barrel-chested blacksmith with a bitchin’ ponytail who’s as even-tempered because the merchandise he produces.

10. Sif, the Nice Gray Wolf:

Sif is loyal to a fault. She’s an previous wolf who has survived numerous battles and performed an element in among the most important moments in Lordran’s historical past. Regardless of all that she’s seen and completed, Sif stays loyal to her former grasp and spends each waking second guarding over his gravesite. Sif does not need to struggle the Chosen Undead. She solely needs to ensure her grasp’s remaining resting place is left in peace. Squaring off in opposition to her is totally heartbreaking.

9. Massive Hat Logan:

Massive Hat Logan is the patron saint of social nervousness. He’s a strong sorcerer so consumed by a thirst for arcane data that he, Logan, selected to put on a huge ole’ hat to keep away from the lingering stares of random passersby. Like so many sensible minds, Logan appears to lack frequent sense, as evidenced by his uncanny potential to be captured a number of occasions.

eight. Domhnall of Zema:

In a world the place everyone seems to be cursed, dying, and going insane, Domhnall stays chipper. He’s a service provider who at all times manages to get his fingers on unique armors with out making an attempt too laborious. His signature greeting, “Aye, siwmae,” is as iconic as his eclectic getup, and Lordran’s a greater place with him in it.

7. Oscar of Astora: 

Though Oscar makes all of it of three minutes into Darkish Souls earlier than he meets his finish, he’s arguably essentially the most useful character in the complete recreation. The noble knight manages to free the Chosen Undead, inform the participant’s journey, and go on his Estus Flask earlier than taking his remaining breath. Oscar does a lot with so little display screen time that preventing his hollowed husk later within the recreation virtually seems like a criminal offense. 

6. Knight Artorias: 

The parable of Artorias is simply as spectacular as Artorias the online game boss, and that is saying one thing. Artorias is the sort of warrior that is spoken about in hushed, reverent tones. The Abyss’s name addles Artorias’s thoughts, and a latest battle has shattered his arm by the point gamers encounter him in Oolacile. However regardless of his situation, he is nonetheless ready to struggle the Chosen Undead together with his nondominant hand, a contact that’s efficient for conveying his fight prowess and hammering residence simply how a lot his trustworthy companion, Sif, means to him. That’s the signal of a superb pet proprietor.

5. Havel the Rock: 

Havel’s an plain badass. His armor is constituted of large items of rock, and his most well-liked weapon is a tooth ripped from the maw of a dragon. Whereas Havel is greatest referred to as Lordran’s most completed — and lethal — doorman, uncovering his gear in Anor Londo reveals his extra secretive facet. Alongside together with his armor, weapon, and greatshield, Havel additionally as soon as possessed a wood membership infused with Occult energy, a component able to harming even the gods. Havel was so assured that he was ready to kill Lordran’s gods with a wood stick. Respect.

four. Siegmeyer of Catarina:

The large boy. The absentminded adventurer. The Onion Knight. Siegmeyer is the Darkish Souls’ beating coronary heart. Upon first assembly Siegmeyer, he is perched exterior of Sen’s Fortress, defeated by its locked gate. He comes throughout like a plump model of Eeyore at first however following him by means of Lordran reveals a warrior pushed by a reckless streak. Fast to throw himself into hazard and nice to have a chat with, Seigmeyer is sort of a cool uncle that exhibits up each few months when his spouse “unintentionally” modifications the locks once more. 

three. Solaire of Astora: 

No online game has a extra entertaining mascot character than Solaire. He’s the Billy Hatcher of Darkish Souls, a plucky hero who’s as charming as he’s environment friendly. Every thing out of Solaire’s mouth is pure gold; his persistent need to assist, his “Reward the Solar” catchphrase, and his honest want to be as “grossly incandescent” because the solar are brilliant moments in a depressing recreation. He’s an excellent bastard who understands the significance of serving to a good friend in want. We may all study a lesson from Solaire. 

2. Iron Knight Tarkus:

Tarkus is the definition of an Absolute Unit. He’s bulk personified, an indomitable mass of black metal and grit. Tarkus will be summoned precisely as soon as in Darkish Souls, however he understands a robust first impression is all that you simply want. If summoned, it’s solely doable Iron Knight Tarkus will tackle the boss of Sen’s Fortress solo. He is a tank. A fixer. The sort of man you’ll be able to depend on to get shit completed. Simply do not ask him to wash your rafters, he is sort of clumsy.

1. The Chill Hole in New Londo:

This Hole is the only greatest a part of Darkish Souls. He’s undead and completely loving it. He’s content material to spend an eternity laying languidly above the ruins of New Londo, blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounds him. He does not struggle. He does not even acknowledge your presence. As an alternative, he simply stares off into the space, dreamily pondering something and nothing unexpectedly.

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Home is Where the Monster is || Molly & Ricky (POTW)

Molly and Ricky travel up the mountain to investigate a rumor and find what they believe is causing the storm in Ashkent Creek.

The weather had only gotten slightly better since Molly was snowed into the Scribe Headquarters only a couple of days ago. The excuse to stay in and work longer was great for working purposes, but the sudden appearance of the terrible weather had raised more than a few eyebrows. Considering the place she worked specialized in supernatural occurrences of every kind, it wasn't exactly hard to believe that people started discussing and looking into the possibility of this being caused by more than just Mother Nature. The theories were all but confirmed when news started spreading of snowmen coming to life and attacking people in the town. Molly had stayed at the Scribe headquarters for a couple days in a row and heard every rumor and crazy story imaginable, but there had been one in particular that stuck with her. While the snowmen seemed to appear anytime one was built, afterwards they seemed to all head towards the same spot, up the mountain. She suited up later that day, clad in about four layers topped with boots and a winter coat. But she wasn't going in alone, she wasn't that stupid. She texted Ricky about an adventure and told him to meet her at the foot of the mountain by one of the hiking trails. She hitched a ride with a Scribe who dropped her off once Ricky pulled up in his jeep. "What's up? Ready to go for a hike?" 

With the snow, and the dreariness, and the killer snowmen with razor sharp teeth Ricky was really excited to get Molly's text asking him if he wanted to go for a hike. He knew it was partially a trap... there had to be a reason that Molly wanted to climb a snowy mountain in the middle of a supernatural snowstorm and it wasn't future roommate bonding, but at the same time he really didn't care. Any time spent with Molly was time well spent. He hopped out of his Jeep, locking it behind him, trudging through snow in his jeans and tanktop before pulling Molly into a tight hug, "So. What's the plan? What're we looking for? I know you... this isn't just a hike."

Molly scratched at her beanie, wishing that she had more information to give her than what she actually had. "I don't know yet. Just a lot of rumors." But the two would know soon enough once they started to make their way up the mountain. If they ran into a group of living snowmen all marching or sledding (was there really a word to describe snowmen moving? Probably not) towards one direction then the two could probably assume that they were at the right place. "I think that maybe whatever caused this might be up here. Maybe."

"So this is a hunting mission." Ricky looked up at the mountain peak in front of him, knowing that if what they were looking for was truly up towards the top of it, the way towards whatever it was was going to be littered with snowmen out for blood, "Really wish I had a flamethrower to bring with me. It's gonna be some shit going up there if that's the case." He however did not have a flamethrower in his truck but as he walked back to the car and returned to his spot next to Molly with his skateboard slung over his shoulder. "not a flamethrower. But you hit a fucker with this bitch and they stay down. At least that's been my experience." He scratched at the bottom absentmindedly, "I really thought I got all the blood off of this."

"Not a hunting mission" Molly corrected him before starting to walk up the path. Molly had told herself not to dive head first into any stupid dangerous situations anymore. She had already gotten herself and her friends hurt one too many times because of it. "This is purely stealth and reconnaissance. No more action for me. I am not a field agent." She wasn't sure why doing this stuff made her feel like some badass FBI agent or something, but she wasn't a fan of the rush that it gave her. Or rather, she wasn't a fan that she was a fan of it. "You're not making me feel any better." Molly called out in response to Ricky mentioning the blood on his skateboard. But the talk of a weapon made her reach back and pat against her backpack, feeling for her own weapon. She didn't have a flamethrower either, the things weren't exactly just lying around the Scribe headquarters. But she improvised.

Ricky slung an arm around Molly's shoulder and kissed the top of her head, "Scouting... hunting... stealth... reconnaissance... whatever you say sweetpea but you're a Scribe and I'm a seal. We're not really cut out for whatever the fuck we're doing. But we're gonna do the best we goddamn can." He started to walk up the snowy path, only pausing to look behind him as Molly reached behind her to pull out her weapon, "And what the hell is that? You know if you'd warned me I would have actually brought something effective. And my nice jeans. If I'm going to die I wanna die in my nice jeans. Snowmen should have a stellar ass to look at."

Molly rolled her eyes, annoyed by how much she loved Ricky at the moment. Even when she was trying to be serious and professional she couldn't help that smile that curved her lips whenever Ricky spoke. "It's a lighter. And hairspray. I did what I could okay?" Molly defended her weapon of choice thinking of the pocket knife that Forest gave her also stashed in her backpack. But even if the thing was made of pure iron, it still probably wouldn't help against these snowmen she had heard so much about. "But I'm not using it. And you're not using your skateboard. And neither of us are dying." Molly stated, still walking as quickly as she could up the mountain. She just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible and get back to the Scribe headquarters. "The two of us are going to sneak up the mountain and hide if we see anything. Then we are going to figure whatever is going on out and go back into town. Easy as pie." Saying out loud made her feel just a tiny bit better, it was always better to go in with a plan, even if that planned sort of sucked and lacked no real evidence or preparation. "And your ass looks great in any jeans you'll be fine."

Ricky could hardly keep the laughter down as Molly explained her weapon to him "no no no that's fucking stellar. You're MacGyvering the shit outta this excusrion and I'm totally here for it. That's an amazing idea." He tagged along behind her, careful to keep an eye out for snowy fangs as they walked "I mean say what you will babe but we all know I'm the muscle here. Imma use the skateboard if I gotta use the skateboard to protect the brains of this whole operation." They kept walking and Ricky kept looking, sure that at any moment a mob of snowmen was going to overtake them "solid plan. Anything to get this mess of a snow week behind us." He smiled a little at the compliment before looping his arm through hers "flatterer. You're gonna make me blush. How's Forest?" 

Molly was hoping that at any moment that would magically stumble upon some kind of cave that had a feint light and a glowing mystical artifact at the end of the tunnel. Or maybe a cabin in the woods that the snowmen were swarming and worshiping for some reason that would be an obvious indicator that something magic and evil was going down inside of it. But as they made their way up the path the two had yet to see a killer snowman yet, and the hunt for the cause of this seemed just as absent. "Good. We're good. I mean I haven't really seen him recently. Since all the drama with my family and I've been working and whatever. But he's taking my on a date on my birthday so that's nice. I'm very nervous. I've never actually had a Valentine's date before." 

"Family drama is always a fucking bitch. But, on the bright side, it meant we got to move in together so I don't hate it too terribly much." He trudged through the snow, keeping one eye out for monsters and another out for Molly as they walked "it if makes you feel better, I've never been on any kind of date. So. But you'll have fun. Just be yourself and don't stress out too much about it." A flash of movement to his left made him throw an arm across Molly to stop her "over there. Saw some snowfuckers." 

Molly still couldn't wrap her head around the idea that Ricky had never been on a date or had a boyfriend before. He was such a fun, outgoing person that Molly just thought all people like that magically found relationships and love early on in life. Molly was cute, but she was a social shut in. She spent her entire life behind closed doors hunched over a computer screen which didn't make for an ideal platform for meeting men. "Stressing is kind of a natural state of being for me, I-" Molly cut herself off when Ricky stuck his arm out and stopped her. She glanced over where Ricky was pointing but saw nothing, the things must have already passed by. "We need to follow them. But stay out of view."

Ricky tugged them behind a tree and waited for a minute, practically holding his breath as he checked carefully to see if anymore snowmen were coming up the mountain behind their comrades. When he didn't see anymore coming up he tugged Molly back up and set up the trail on the mountain after the creatures. "Can't you see them up ahead?" He squinted through the snow but tracking snow on snow through snow was difficult. He focused on the stick arms as they moved as silently as they could. ''I was watching Stranger Things in my underwear, by the way. I was comfortable. I was drinking a bloody mary. You know what that was better then? Bloodthirsty snowmen and a snowy mountain. I do this for you. I do this for you because I love you. Big brother little sister love."

As soon as Ricky gave the okay, Molly began hightailing it further up the mountain. Way up ahead she could make out the snowmen. From this distance she couldn't make out any distinguishing features , but it was enough to send a chill down her spine. Why did she do this to herself? "In my defense, you knew about the snowmen. You could have said no." He was right at her side, as Ricky always was, and the two crept their way through the tree lines, trying to keep themselves out of sight. She knew next to nothing about these snowmen, and she hated the idea that she was going in so blind. This was why she was a Scribe and not some kind of law enforcement. "Besides you know you have fun with this stuff. A heck of a lot more fun than I am."

Molly charged up the mountain with a surprising amount of speed for such a small girl in such a deep amount of snow and Ricky charged right after her. "I knew about the snowmen. I didn't know we were going on a mission! I have a playlist for this shit, Molly. I would have listened to it while I got ready... and I probably wouldn't have worn a tanktop." He was only joking. There was never a situation he could imagine in which he'd let Molly do something like this on her own. "I have fun with a lot of stuff, recently I've been having a scary amount of fun killing things. But, don't lie. I saw your face at the beach house. You have plenty of fun with shit like this. Especially if I'm here with you."

"Of course you would have a playlist." Molly laughed, thankful that even with the situation at hand, Molly was still able to. Ricky seemed to bring out that lighthearted, easy side that was buried deep, deep down under all of Molly's obsessive anxiety. As she trudged through the snow she was acutely aware of how soaked her boots were becoming and how it was slowing her pace down. She forced herself to speed back up again, not letting anything slow her down. Get up the mountain, find the source, get down. That was it. "I do not have fun with this." That was a lie. As much as she hated to admit it, she really enjoyed stuff like this. "Or well, I do now. Every time I try to play hero someone gets hurt and I'm done.”

"I have a playlist for everything. There's a laundry playlist, there's a sex playlist, there's an after sex playlist, there's a post-sex shower playlist, there's a going through my mail playlist mostly because the mail is sad and full of bills." Molly sped up again and Ricky matched her as they followed the snowmen up the hill towards whatever dark thing apparently controlled them. "You have fun with this. I saw you driving my jeep up to that beach house. You're totally all about being the secret agent who kicks ass." Ricky shrugged, for a moment remembering the metal in his arm, "Hurts happen when you're dealing with the supernatural. We all survived. We're all good." Up ahead he saw the yawning mouth of a cave and slowed down, crouching low to the ground and bringing Molly with him, "Home sweet death trap."

Molly couldn't talk about it anymore, and was ecstatic at the idea of being distracted from the topic at hand. But a cave? Molly bit her lip nervously. A cave would be a great way to keep something concealed like a mystical object or something that could be causing this. But it set them up for a long list of disadvantages and uncertainties. There could be a bear or something else dangerous hibernating in the cave that they could piss off. Also, it didn't give a lot of places to hide if their were snowmen in the cave. She sighed, unhappy with the idea of going in, but unwilling to go back the mountain and into town without the information she came for. "Okay. Well we aren't going to find anything out here. Let's go then."

Ricky tugged them to the side so they weren't approaching the cave head on. He'd played enough video games with an emphasis on stealth to know that was a truly terrible idea. Pulling them to a halt he held up a hand and inhaled deeply through his nose, screwing his eyes shut and focusing. He smelled cold. A lot of cold... the downside of fighting things made of snow. But beyond that something else. Something animalistic. He smelled wet fur. "There's an animal of some sort in that cave. I can smell their wet fur." he readied his skateboard and started scooting through the snow super slowly, "This is a bad idea I know but I'm just gonna peek my head around the corner. See what I can see."

Molly pressed her back against the freezing rock and took a heavy breath. She smacked the back of her against the rock, cursing herself for actually being convinced that something like this could go without any danger. "Okay, okay. Just be careful." And please just be a lovable family of rabbits.

Ricky crept forward as slowly as he could, taking care to look out for any roving snowmen as he approached the cave's entrance. If this was really where they were all heading it was practically guaranteed that one was going to come rolling in his direction sooner or later, so while he focused on stealthy he also understood that this particular mission had a time limit, one he wasn't really interested in pushing. He poked his head around the lip of the cave to see what was inside and found himself baffled by a humongous block of ice with something frozen in the center, and a ring of snowmen just watching it like they were waiting for something. Beckoning Molly over he tried hard to make out what was in the ice. He saw a lot of long limbs, very very long limbs, but that was about all he could see "Guess that's where the smell of fur came from."

Molly only moved from her spot once Ricky waved her over. She had felt glued to that rock, unwilling to move, more in fear that once she did move she wouldn't be able to stop herself. The rush of adrenaline coursing through her made her terrified of any stupid decisions it might force her to make. Once she moved to Ricky she saw what he was talking about. Completely encase in a thick block of ice was... something. "Is that bigfoot?" Molly whispered, more of a joke despite the similar appearance. But what it was didn't matter at the moment, what did was the sight of snowmen just surrounding it. Whatever this thing was, it was what they were looking for. She grabbed Ricky's arm and started pulling him away, leading out of the cave. "That's it. I don't know what it is yet, but that's it." Now Molly could finally get back to town and start on something she was actually good at, research. "You can find your way back up here right?" She asked, knowing that he would be able to. Once she figured out how to fix this she was going to pass the information off and be done. She wasn't coming back up. But they might need a tour guide. "Now we need to get back to town. Can you drop me off at Scribe Headquarters?"

"You're the one who's supposed to know everything about supernatural shit!" Ricky hissed under his breath from his spot near the cave entrance when Molly reached his side. "It's something and they love it. Which is enough for me to hate it with every sexy fiber of my being." molly started tugging him away from the strange apocryphal scene in front of them, jabbering about Ricky knowing where the cave's location what and asking if he could give her a ride back to the Headquarters of her strange organization. Unfortunately for them however, before they could exit the cave entirely a snowman turned around and took notice of them, baring its fangs as it barreled towards them. Ricky teed up and took a swing with his skateboard, demolishing its head, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck" He muttered as he not-so-gently herded Molly towards the outer world and safety. "Run run run run. There is a spare key in the back passenger wheel well if I die on the way down." More snowmen headed toward them and Ricky took out another one with his board before running after her.

Molly finally got her close up look of what the supernatural snowmen looked like, and it wasn't anything she ever wanted to see again. The sharp, icicle teeth would probably give the girl nightmares for months. Then Ricky was yelling at Molly to run ahead of him and where she could find a key to get away if he didn't make it. The whole thing was too familiar. It was the beach house all over again, the sound of Ricky throwing her out the window as those Nix closed in ringing in her ears. She froze mid-run looking back to make sure that he was indeed running behind her before she kept going. She wasn't going to leave him, she refused to. She took a misstep while glancing back to make sure Ricky was still following her and slipped on a patch of ice, tripping forward and turning into a roll as she started tumbling down the hill. She practically bounced against the snow, picking up speed until her body smacked against a tree. All of the air left her body in a single grunt and Molly could do nothing but lie there gasping for breath for a long moment before she could finally get herself back onto her feet again. She began moving again, but she was slowed down by her attempts at breathing and the pain shooting through her back and legs.

Ricky had really had just about enough of things trying to consume him. He knew he looked delicious but damn; enough was e-fucking-nough. He looked behind him long enough to see if every snowman was following them(spoiler alert: they were) before turning to the front long enough to see Molly take a truly awful looking fall. When she finally rolled to a stop he kept charging forward, pausing only long enough to sling her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, "Sorry about this honey, but we got hella monsters on our tail. Just scream louder if they're getting dangerously close. He sped down the mountain as safely as he could before the finally found themselves in the parking lot, entirely out of breath. Setting Molly down he unlocked the car and got in, making sure she was buckled in before slamming his foot down on the gas, "hey look! Nobody got seriously maimed that time. We're doing better."

Realizing that Molly was obviously moving too slowly to survive the onslaught of evil snowmen, Ricky slung Molly over his shoulder, her side screaming in protest as it bounced against his body. She definitely bruised something, she might have even broken a rib or two from when she collided with the tree. Not that she really had any idea what broken ribs felt like. As Ricky buckled her up and then drove off, Molly pressed back against the seat and tried to slowly re-position herself in the seat without crying out in pain and alerting Ricky. Ricky was tough and could get passed a lot of pain, but she knew that if he found out she was hurt he would force her to go to the hospital. She had neither the time nor the money for that. Plus, he seemed pretty pumped about them getting out of a dangerous situation without getting seriously hurt. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just get me to the Scribe Headquarters please."

@rickycorderbro 

#touchofpotw #touchofchatzy #potw #home is where the monster is #c: ricky #chatzy: ricky #chatzy

[smokeybrand]

High-concept Hack

I don't like Michael Bay as a film creator. I think the movies he makes are lowest common denominator and do not understand how or why he's so popular. Don't misunderstand, this isn't coming from a place of hate. I'm not a “hater” as Bay would say. I have seen almost his entire catalog, most of them in theaters where they are meant to be seen. Admittedly, I even enjoyed his first few outings. Bad Boys and The Rock hold a special place in my heart but then you have sh*t like Armageddon and Pearl Harbor. F*cking, why? I don't understand how these movies can make billions or how he can just point to that gross as proof he's “good” at his job. Being a great film maker and a successful one are two different things. It's dope to be both but, more often than not, you're one or the other. Look at Edgar Wright. None of his movies do gangbusters but I can say, without reservation, every movie he's ever made is better than anything Michael Bay has crapped out. Another great director that comes to mind is Wes Anderson. A lot of his films bomb by profit standards but they are all excellent, beautiful, pieces of art. F*cking Luc Besson is the poster child for that sh*t. His entire catalog is full of eccentric, heady, character driven films that make absolutely no money. Leon the Professional is a f*cking classic. Compare that to anything Bay has ever made and my point is clear. So why is Michael Bay such a bad filmmaker. Why does he consistently make so much money with his sh*tty films? Before I get into all of that, credit is given where it's do.

Michael Bay is very good at creating a visually dynamic scene.

Bayhem is fun to watch. I just want to put that out there. Michael Bay is very, very, good at blocking out dynamic set pieces. He makes action far more grandiose than it ever has any right to me. You can watch any of the Transformers films to see that sh*t. Those things are gorgeous. Lifeless, mindless, flaccid, gorgeous.

Michael Bay is very good at the technical aspect of film.

There's a scene in Transformers, toward the end of the movie, where a certain shot was needed that no one really knew how to do. Bay built a camera on a go-cart specifically to get this shot. That's James Cameron levels of ingenuity. He also built a rig for something in Dark of the Moon, I think, for another very specific shot. It takes an acute awareness of how a scene is framed, how to build a scene, in order to know exactly what tools are needed to capture that vision. I commend Bay for sh*t like that. You'll never hear me say his movies lack flair.

His films do make a lot of money.

Bayhem makes a ton of money. Dude is very good a staying on budget and delivering a marketable film, even is it's devoid of anything that makes a movie, a movie. Dude gets that product placement, even is it's mad heavy handed, and his corporate benefactors are always pleased. I can't be mad a t a guy that checks all of the boxes that the front office throws his way.

Okay. That's me being nice. That's me getting the things Michael Bay does well out of the way. Now, here's all the reason why I hate his movies so goddamn much.

Michael Bay is a terrible f*cking storyteller.

At it's core, film is a visual representation of storytelling. There is a world you want to create or a character you want to bring to life. That's why books are great for adaptions. That's why comic films are so popular. That's why people gravitate toward lore heavy games and literature. Final Fantasy VII Remake just dropped and it's doing gangbusters. No one bought that game because of the gameplay. Everyone bought that game because of it's place in the cultural zeitgeist. Everyone knows who Tifa, Cloud, and Sephiroth are. Everyone knows the story of Midgar, The Ancients, and Meteor. Everyone wants to experience Gaia with the current gen tech. It's gorgeous, sue, but that's a bonus. We all want to experience the story in a far more cinematic way. Every story Michael Bay has ever told, takes a backseat to the shiny baubles and ludicrous explosions that he peppers within his films. He can't tell a story for sh*t. He thinks racist and lazy stereotypes are the same thing as characterization. He thinks special effects is the same thing as plot. Dutch angles nd camera pans are replacement for witty dialogue and emotional pathos. F*ck, dude, even when he's making a movie that is already based on actual events, the narrative STILL sucks! How is that possible? Pain and Gain happened. That sh*t is documented. Why is it still bad??

Michael Bay is a sexist prick.

You see the way Megan Fox is shot in all of her Transformers appearances? That sh*t is gross, moreso, when you take into account that she is supposed to be sixteen f*cking years old in the first one. It's wild because, if you pay attention, she's the only one that has a character arc. She's actually the most capable character in that entire film and she's relegated to being sexualized eye-candy for the throngs to teenage boys to salivate over. You know how I know that's a thing? Because, in Dark of the moon, the character of Carly was supposed to be Mikaela before Fox got fired. When you frame everything Carly did in the movie through that lens, it makes sense. Sticking Rosie Huntington-Whitely in there, and shooting her like a porn star, seems like maybe Fox was right to quit over her perceived disrespect. I mean, the first shot of Carly a POV, following her throughout her apartment, right up against her pants-less ass. Why?? and don't get me started on that chick from Age of Extinction. That whole situation is the grossest sh*t ever.

Dude is mad lazy with product integration.

When By first started making films, it was hard to see all the product placement riddled throughout. I was watching The Rock a few days ago and completely zoned out with all of the brands onscreen. Fast forward to Age of Extinction and we have entire shots of Bud Lite all over the ground for minutes at a time. F*cking why? What is the point of that other than to sell beer? The only reason that truck exploded was specifically to have that dope shot of Bud Light all over the ground. Again, Bay is great at framing scenes. That beer commercial in the middle of my Transformers movie was shot dope. Why the f*ck is it so haphazardly pasted in the middle of an action set piece during my giant space robot war movie??

All of his plots are paper thin framing devices for explosions.

One of my favorite mangakas is Tite Kubo. He's the creator and principal artist of BLEACH. He's gone on record saying he just like to draw cool sh*t. When he can't, his creativity is stifled and he phones stuff in. The end of BLEACH is a perfect example of that. I suspect Michael Bay feels the same because he create dope looking sh*t but has no respect for the script around that dope sh*t. He doesn't care is nothing makes sense. He doesn't care is there are glaring plotholes that even his principal actors pint out. As long as it looks dope, he's doing it. That's f*cking stupid. On the set of Armageddon, a movie about drilling a whole in a KT event level meteor still in space, in order to blow it up so it splits in half and flies by earth on either side, Ben Affleck asked Bay why they didn't just train Astronauts to drill instead of drillers to be astronauts because that seems to be both easier and quicker. Michael Bay's reply? Shut the f*ck up. That's on the commentary for Armageddon. Ben Affleck literally recorded that and put it on the special features of the f*cking movie! Guess how Armageddon ends? With a big ass f*cking explosion. Also, the meteor screams. A meteor. Screams. In space.

There is no subtlety in any of his movies.

There's a terribly haunting scene in Jojo Rabbit where jojo returns home and is standing next to his mother's hanged corpse. The shot is frames about waist high on Jojo, his mother's shoes literally at eye level. He turns, sees her shoes, and breaks down. He recovers long enough to tied the one with loose strings and the scene ends. I think it cuts to him returning home but it's been a while since I saw the film so i'm a little hazy on what happened next. That entire scene has no music. It's still. It's a medium shot with no weir dutch angles or anything. It's quiet. It's haunting. It's f*cking heartbreaking. Michael Bay never made a scene as emotional, thematically impactful, or quietly powerful in any of his goddamn movies, ever. It is impossible for Michael Bay to create a scene without some sort of dynamic nonsense or kinetic shenanigan. He doesn't do subtle intent or quiet zeal. He's not interested in letting the quiet speak loud. He needs everything to be in your face and yelling at all times because he's bad at movies.

Michael Bay lacks vision.

Someone said that bay is an auteur director like Hitchcock or Kubrick. In the strictest sense of that definition, sure. I can see that. In reality, in actual execution, f*ck no. Look, auteur directors have a vision. They are saturated in every ounce of production. They have a vision and a plan to execute in order to achieve that vision. Michael Bay has a good eye for action. He can frame the hell out of a scene. Of course he can. dude got his start in music videos and commercials. You have to make sh*t look good in that field. What commercials and music videos don't have is plot, narrative, storytelling, and stakes. Someone give you  list of shots and you got and gt them. That's it. Bay is good at that. Bay is not good at creating worlds. Look at Christopher Nolan. His entire catalog is filled with that sh*t. Inception, Dunkirk, Intersetellar, Memento; These are films that entail a clear understanding of what and how a story needs to be told. The draw isn't the explosions, it's the actual characters and journey they go on. Look at the Dark Knight trilogy. Every one of those movies is better than anything Michael Bay has ever made. Each one has a very specific theme and direction. Michael Bay makes the same goddamn movie over and over again. He ignores sh*t from movie to movie, even if it contradicts the rules of his own goddamn universe. Transformers is a great example of that sh*t. In the first movie, Megatron was the first transformer to fall to earth. That happened maybe a century ago. In The Last Knight, these motherf*ckers had been since f*cking King Arthur times. They literally fought along side King Arthur! Stanley Tucci was f*cking Merlin! In Dark of the Moon, Sentinel Prime summoned a piece of Cybertron into the earth's orbit. Where the f*ck did it go in Age of Extinction?? Michael Bay created and entire cinematic franchise and just gave up on telling coherent stories true to the rules he set, immediately after setting them. What?? How the f*ck do you not plan out your franchise? How do you not have an exit strategy? How the f*ck can you not connect your own films, one to another? I have thirteen novels based around certain, recurring, characters and themes. There is a plethora of material I have written out just to keep all of that sh*t straight. I'm not a multi-million dollar director charged with building an entertaining and competent movie franchise. Why the f*ck aren't you doing the same sh*t i'm doing when you're supposed to be the professional???

His movies are boring and lazy.

Look, I can forgive a lot of this sh*t. I hate the Fast franchise for a lot of the same reasons I hate Michael Bay films but I adore 2Fast 2Furious and that is unanimously the worst of the bunch. I can totally turn my brain off and enjoy popcorn nonsense. Independence Day is one of my favorite movies. I rather liked Hobbs and Shaw. The Mask is f*cking hilarious but an extremely simple and flawed film. That sh*t is made by Carrey's performance and the visual effects. Con Air is my sh*t. I adore Euro Trip and Old School and Road Trip. I get it. I'm not so high brow that I can't appreciate a good, superficial, puddle deep, facsimile of a film. Again, I like The Rock. I like Bad Boys. I like the first Transformers. The thing is, those three films are the only films Michael Bay makes. Everything he's ever created, is the derivative of those three films. He's even reused shots from his films in other ones. The Island was terrible but had a dope freeway scene. He threw that sh*t in the middle of Dark of the Moon, added some CG Redshirt Decepticons, called it a day. Armageddon has the same pace as Pearl Harbor. Revenge of the Fallen is the same f*cking movie as The Rock. Every Transformers movie starts and ends with some stupid mcguffin. Pain and Gain is Bad Boys but the leads are actually bad boys. Dude recycles themes, cannibalizes his own films, and never creates outside of his comfort zone. He has no idea how to build a creative narrative. He only knows how to film-by-numbers and that makes a lot of his movies boring as sh*t to watch. They are entertaining, it's hard not to be awed by some of the sh*t he pulls off, but that explosion or cool camera pan is all there is in his movies. That's all there is in his film making because he's bad at the fundamentals of movies. It's f*cking ridiculous.

I don't like Michael Bay's way of making movies.

They're not movies. They're set pieces with bare-bones framing devices. They're commercials with three-hour runtimes. He distracts from his utter lack of substance with crazy stunts, technically astute effects, roaming shots, the most brilliant of star power, and uncomfortably overt sexism. None of his films have a plot deeper than a puddle. Not one of his films have characters who you ever really care about. Maybe Lowrey and Burnett but that's mostly because we've been with them for so long and Will Smith is real hard not to love. He got that Tom Cruise charisma but with everyone and not just Karens. Michael Bay has never written anything in his entire f*cking life. I am thoroughly convinced he has no understanding of even the basest aspects of literary storytelling which means he doesn't know how to tell a story. How can you be a visual story teller, if you do not understand the fundamental structure of story telling?? they say bay is a high-concept film director. That's a cop out. It's a nice way of saying he likes making dope looking sh*t with no f*cking plot. It's a nice way of saying he's a quack storyteller but will construct real good looking bullsh*t to watch.

He's on record saying that he makes movies for thirteen-year-olds. That's fine. You know what else is a film for thirteen-year-olds? All of the goddamn MCU! F*cking Infinity War is made for thirteen-year-olds and it's a cinematic masterpiece! How is that an excuse?? How is making movies for thirteen-year-olds somehow a panacea for Bay's sh*t storytelling and pedestrian plotting? How is that a sale for being a terrible f*cking storyteller? Iron Man is made for teenagers. The Dark Knight. Winter Soldier. Skyfall. Mission Impossible: Fallout. The goddamn Hunger Games. Harry f*cking Potter! You can't say your movies suck because they're for kids, when there are films made for kids that sh*t on your entire filmography. Avengers: Endgame has made more money than any movie in history and it's the most superficial film in all of the MCU. Do you know why it made that much money and is beloved even with it's very blatant cinematic flaws? Because it tells a f*cking story! Endgame is a whole ass film. It's a  resolution to an entire narrative arc. The characters are well written and we learned to care for them over the course of that MCU ride. People f*cking hate Sam Witwicky. They hate him! The POV character in you multi-billion dollar franchise, is hated throughout the entire fandom, from the begging to the end. Same is never redeemed. He's never given anything more to do than screaming “Optimus”, running around a battlefield, or getting exploded. This is a kid who finds out his car is a giant, alien, robot and that his great grandpa found space Satan while on an expedition in the antarctic, a hundred years ago or some sh*t. How do you not make that character interesting? How is Sam, after seeing all the sh*t he's seen in his life after meeting the Autobots, the same motherf*cker at he end of Dark of the Moon,as he was in the beginning of Transformers? How do you f*ck that up so bad?

Hell, the Fast franchise does the exact same thing Michael Bay does, only much, much, better. Those things have characters and pathos and emotion and subtlety and resolution. There's a narrative and a theme that runs through the entire nine film franchise. Those movies are high-concept, superficial fluff, but there is a heart to them all. There is an emotional anchor that ties each of those movies together. Vin Diesel does Bayhem better than Michael Bay and that sh*t is ridiculous to me. Michel Bay is an objectively bad film maker. He's great at framing a shot or building a set piece, but there is so much more to films than that and I don't think Bay cares. I think he knows he can get away with nonsense if he fills the screen with explosions and titties. Maybe not though. His last Transformers movie severely under performed, getting shredded by everyone, audience and critics, alike. He bailed on the franchise and we got Travis Knight's Bumblebee; Easily the best Transformers film since the old cartoon movie. If 6Underground is any kind of barometer for Bay's career trajectory, going straight to Netflix might be problematic. That means major studios have lost faith in is ability to put butts in seats. Maybe people are wising up to the fact he's a hack. Maybe people are voting with their wallets and voting down his cookie-cutter schlock. Maybe this will make Bay grow as a director and actually direct a story. Or maybe we'll get The Island II, now with more push-ins on barely legal girl-butt and explosions we can see from the f*cking moon. Because Michael Bay makes movies for thirteen-year-olds.

[samanthasroberts]

How Knowing A Few Key Phrases Completely Changes Wrestling

The following collection of words will sound like total goddamn gibberish to most of you, but hardcore wrestling fans will know exactly what I’m saying: “Can you believe the canned heat they just piped in for that jobber? It was supposed to be a basic promo, but he worked himself into a shoot, and now smarks are going to be crying about how he needs a mouthpiece.”

This is one of the greatest parts of wrestling to me: the behind-the-scenes terminology. It says so much about the industry, once you know what it all means. Most of it was started in a time when wrestling was presented as a legitimate competitive fighting sport. They were code words that were only known to the people who were in the business. For instance, “jobber” is code for a sort of no-name wrestler whose sole purpose is to lose to bigger stars. But if it’s 1970, and you’re telling the world that the sport is “real,” you can’t exactly give away the fact that this guy’s job is “professional loser.”

But it gets better …

5

Mark/Smark

“Mark” is a straight-up conman term. It was used by carnival workers back in the ancient times when people went to carnivals on purpose. A “mark” was the victim of rigged games or the target of a con. So let’s say you were a worker who was running a game booth where the object was to knock down a stack of milk cans with a baseball, but one of them was filled with concrete … when someone walked by, showing interest, you’d think, “Here’s the mark who’s about to make me some sweet milk-can money.”

Outside of the “con” aspect, it was a carnival term that was used literally. If you were paying for your ticket, and the person in the booth spotted that you had a lot of money, someone would grab a bit of dirt or chalk and discretely mark your clothes, so the game-booth workers would know who had money to spend and who didn’t. That way, they didn’t waste their time on broke-ass punks who were just there to look at the shiny prizes.

A mark in wrestling is someone who gets really into certain performers or heavily buys into the story lines. You’re falling for their performance in the same way that you’re falling for the milk-can trick. In the most basic sense. In the world of wrestling fans, “mark” is often used as an insult. So if someone’s a fan of John Cena, and I often picture John Cena on fire, I’d insult that fan by saying, “Oh, so you’re another Cena mark, huh? What are you, twelve?”

At the same time, it’s a term of endearment. “Holy shit, I totally marked out when the Dudley Boyz returned!” Wrestlers typically love marks because it means they’re enjoying the show for what it is. Well, that and marks are pretty easy people to sell t-shirts to.

“Smarks” are a different story. It means “smart marks,” and they are typically people who keep up on the behind-the-scenes aspects of wrestling. They know when a performer has been legitimately injured, versus a story-based fake injury. They know which performers are dating. They know that the reason Chad Wrestleman has not been on TV for a month is because he got busted for snorting oven cleaner. Wrestlers. Fucking. Hate. Smarks.

You see, smarks are the ones who can get an entire crowd chanting about real-life controversies, right on the air. Recently, John “Bradshaw” Layfield has been in wrestling news for allegedly bullying one of the announcers right out of the industry. He’s been known as a piece of shit for years, but the newest story is what got smarks to lead the audience in a chant of, “FIRE BRADSHAW!” Smarks are the ones who got Nikki Bella to respond to them with this:

Via Twitter

That looks like a spilled Scrabble board to regular readers. A regular fan knows that when John Cena comes out, there is a long standing tradition of half the crowd chanting, “Let’s go, Cena!” The other half chants, “Cena sucks!” Smarks knew that Nikki Bella and John Cena had started dating in real life … so they modified that chant to, “You suck Cena!” Smarks aren’t exactly known for their wit and charm, but that shit made it on the air.

4

Work Yourself Into A Shoot

This is probably my favorite wrestling phrase, because it says so much about the psychology of performing. In general, when a wrestler picks up a microphone and goes into his or her spiel, that’s called “cutting a promo.” Everything they’re saying is adding to the promotion of a match, a story, a pay per view, a movie … whatever project needs pushed. All of the stuff they’re saying — in character and adhering to the story — is called a “work.” It’s scripted. It’s planned out in advance. I mean, obviously, they’re not going to let them grab a mic and start going off about how Hitler did nothing wrong. Unless the story demands it, in which case, it’s fair game. The point is, their words and actions are controlled. They’re worked.

A “shoot” can mean either 1) really fighting in the ring, like when Perry Saturn legitimately beat the fuck out of Mike Bell for botching a move, or 2) when a wrestler drops the character and starts talking about real shit. You mostly see this happening in interviews, outside of the WWE. Here’s Jim Cornette shooting about “accidental” nudity that happened in WWE matches in the past:

And here he is, shooting on the idea of shoot interviews:

“Working yourself into a shoot” can happen verbally or physically. It happens when you start off talking or wrestling as planned (a work), but as you go on, something legitimately pisses you off, and you start “throwing live rounds,” as Blue Meanie so eloquently put it (a shoot). The part that fascinates me is that the trigger that pisses you off doesn’t have to come from an outside source. Simply acting and getting too into the role can do it.

The best example of it happening, verbally, is on an episode of Talking Smack. That’s a scripted show (or at least partially scripted) by the WWE. On one episode, Smackdown general manager Daniel Bryan called “The Miz’s” wrestling style cowardly. He wasn’t talking about his in-story fights. He was talking about him as a performer, playing things too safely. Though Miz tried to bring things back around to a character-driven response in the end, everything else is him legitimately losing his shit. Note: That is just my opinion, based on knowing how he sounds when he acts mad. If this is all acting, he deserves an Oscar:

The thing about a shoot is that it’s a double-edged sword. Say too much and badmouth the wrong person, and they’ll fire your ass. But do it in just the right way — which means getting lucky, because you’re in no position for self control when you’re that pissed off — and the critics will praise you forever. That video above is considered to be The Miz’s best work of his entire career.

3

Canned Heat Vs. Legit Heat

You’d think that “canned heat” and “legit heat” would be opposite terms, but they’re fairly unrelated. Both are important, though, in understanding the psychology of the business.

Sometimes, an audience simply isn’t into a character. Maybe he’s just a boring turd. Maybe the crowd is exhausted after a couple hours, and they’ve lost the energy to cheer and boo at every little thing that happens in the ring. When an on-air wrestling promotion wants the people at home to buy into the illusion of excitement, they’ll “pipe in” boos or cheers. I don’t know if wrestlers call it “canned heat,” but fans do.

This is especially useful if the promotion wants a certain character viewed in a specific way. If the crowd suddenly starts liking and cheering a heel (bad guy), they might replace those cheers with pretaped boos and even new commentary. Personally, I couldn’t give less of a shit whether they do it or not. I just find it interesting that crowds are unpredictable, and sometimes for the benefit of the overall product, you have to steer the at-home viewers in a specific direction. If I had the time to rig it up, I’d pipe in canned heat every time I entered or exited my house.

“Legit heat” is what gives smarks their gossip boners. It can sometimes be used to describe a crowd that legitimately hates a character, but it’s more frequently used among fans to talk about performers who are in real-life, behind-the-scenes tiffs. Here are a bunch of wrestlers talking about legitimate backstage heat in the form of beating the urine out of each other:

But “legit heat” can also mean getting in trouble with the big dogs. Vince McMahon is fairly notorious for losing his shit on wrestlers who screw up or say the wrong thing on the mic … or, hell, just don’t look the way he wants them to look. Put “Vince McMahon heat” into YouTube, and you’ll get 127,000 results.

YouTube

But that says a lot about the business to me. In a testosterone-fueled industry where your main job is doing physically demanding stunts and pretending to punch each other, sometimes arguments are settled backstage by actually punching each other. It doesn’t seem to happen as often in the modern era of wrestling, but “legit heat” absolutely still exists because humans are humans. It just means, now, that someone is mad at you because you’re a big ol’ stupidhead.

2

Working Stiff

Hehehehe. “Working stiff.”

OK, that’s enough of that. Working stiff is a real thing, and it has nothing to do with their big ol’ hogs. When you’re timing a punch, it’s not all about stopping your fist just short of hitting the guy straight in the suckhole. Some wrestlers do that. Some use punches that actually land — they’re just done in a way that isn’t as painful or face-destroying as a full-on, “real” hit. They keep their fist loose, and the impact lands in a very specific spot. There are many ways to make a punch look real if you have the talent (and your opponent has the talent) to pull it off.

Others will actually clock you and demand that you clock them back. Not full-on, mind you … but enough contact that you’re definitely going to fucking feel it. Sometimes, that’s done to make the match look more realistic. Sometimes, it’s done to test new members of your roster. When The Dudley Boyz entered the WWE, they were put into a match with The APA, and … well, the Dudleys can tell you about it:

It basically boils down to, “We hit them about as hard as we could hit them. And they hit us about as hard as they could hit us. Then we went backstage and hugged, and it was awesome.” You know, like one does.

One of the stiffest wrestlers on the current roster is “Sheamus.” He’s known for laying into forearms, punches, and kicks to the point that at last week’s pay per view he kicked Jeff Hardy’s tooth right out of his goddamn skull.

These days, it’s not so much about punishing a new wrestler. It’s mostly about making the matches look real, because if you’re making actual contact, that’s about as real as it gets. The only way you can mess that one up is … well, if you knock a dude’s tooth out of his facehole. But it’s still pretty amazing that the recipients of those shots take it and keep on performing, because they know that the more they sell it, the more they’re worth as performers. Personally, I’d just start crying until I puked if they did that to me.

1

Mouthpiece

One thing casual fans take for granted is a wrestler’s ability to work a microphone. It’s not enough that he’s huge, athletic, and able to pull off the match without hurting anyone. If he can’t speak in front of a crowd, he’s just a meat prop. And if he’s boring, people will simply make a concerted effort to not give a fuck. That’s where a mouthpiece comes in.

A “mouthpiece” is someone who speaks for the wrestler, while he just stands in the background, looking like he’s about to rip your entire fucking head off. It sounds stupid, but when you put two people like Brock Lesnar and Paul Heyman together, it’s pure magic:

When Jack Swagger picked up a microphone, he caused tens of thousands of people to fall into a mass coma. He couldn’t even get them to boo, and that’s what we as fans like to do the most. So what do you do? Do you turn him into a jobber and then fire him? Well, they actually did that, eventually … but at the time, the obvious solution was to create a militant, racist character named Zeb Colter and let him do his thing:

The only words spoken by Jack Swagger in that entire promo is, “We the people.” That’s it. His entire job was to stand there like an indoctrinated soldier, while Zeb preached his racist message. The crowd hated them, which was exactly what the WWE wanted. Sure, eventually people turned the other way and started cheering them because the world is an ever-growing ball of crazy, but the point is that the mouthpiece was the savior of that character.

All of these terms boil down to psychology. Manipulating people’s emotions and perspectives to get them to react the way you want. It’s why I love wrestling so much. It’s not just “two oiled-up dudes, violently hugging each other.” It’s an emotional magic show. “We’re going to get you excited. Now, we’re going to piss you off. Now, we’re going to make you laugh. Now, we’re going to make you think you run the show.” It’s brilliant, but the thing you see on TV is only the curtain. The real tricks are being done behind it.

At the very least, you should know what that ridiculous quote from the beginning of this article means, now.

John Cheese is the head of columns for Cracked. You can also find him on Twitter.

The proliferation of beer pong and craft beer may have you think that we’re living in one of the peak times to get drunk, but humans have been getting famously hammered for millennia. Like a frat house’s lawn after a kegger, history is littered with world-changing events that were secretly powered by booze. The inaugural games of the Roman Coliseum, the drafting of the U.S. Constitution, and the Russian Revolution were all capped off by major parties that most attendees probably regretted in the morning.

Join Jack O’Brien and Cracked staffers Carmen Angelica, Alex Schmidt, Michael Swaim, plus comedian Blake Wexler for a retelling of history’s biggest moments you didn’t realize everyone was drunk for.

Get your tickets here:

Source: http://allofbeer.com/how-knowing-a-few-key-phrases-completely-changes-wrestling/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2018/01/09/how-knowing-a-few-key-phrases-completely-changes-wrestling/

[allofbeercom]

How Knowing A Few Key Phrases Completely Changes Wrestling

The following collection of words will sound like total goddamn gibberish to most of you, but hardcore wrestling fans will know exactly what I’m saying: “Can you believe the canned heat they just piped in for that jobber? It was supposed to be a basic promo, but he worked himself into a shoot, and now smarks are going to be crying about how he needs a mouthpiece.”

This is one of the greatest parts of wrestling to me: the behind-the-scenes terminology. It says so much about the industry, once you know what it all means. Most of it was started in a time when wrestling was presented as a legitimate competitive fighting sport. They were code words that were only known to the people who were in the business. For instance, “jobber” is code for a sort of no-name wrestler whose sole purpose is to lose to bigger stars. But if it’s 1970, and you’re telling the world that the sport is “real,” you can’t exactly give away the fact that this guy’s job is “professional loser.”

But it gets better …

5

Mark/Smark

“Mark” is a straight-up conman term. It was used by carnival workers back in the ancient times when people went to carnivals on purpose. A “mark” was the victim of rigged games or the target of a con. So let’s say you were a worker who was running a game booth where the object was to knock down a stack of milk cans with a baseball, but one of them was filled with concrete … when someone walked by, showing interest, you’d think, “Here’s the mark who’s about to make me some sweet milk-can money.”

Outside of the “con” aspect, it was a carnival term that was used literally. If you were paying for your ticket, and the person in the booth spotted that you had a lot of money, someone would grab a bit of dirt or chalk and discretely mark your clothes, so the game-booth workers would know who had money to spend and who didn’t. That way, they didn’t waste their time on broke-ass punks who were just there to look at the shiny prizes.

A mark in wrestling is someone who gets really into certain performers or heavily buys into the story lines. You’re falling for their performance in the same way that you’re falling for the milk-can trick. In the most basic sense. In the world of wrestling fans, “mark” is often used as an insult. So if someone’s a fan of John Cena, and I often picture John Cena on fire, I’d insult that fan by saying, “Oh, so you’re another Cena mark, huh? What are you, twelve?”

At the same time, it’s a term of endearment. “Holy shit, I totally marked out when the Dudley Boyz returned!” Wrestlers typically love marks because it means they’re enjoying the show for what it is. Well, that and marks are pretty easy people to sell t-shirts to.

“Smarks” are a different story. It means “smart marks,” and they are typically people who keep up on the behind-the-scenes aspects of wrestling. They know when a performer has been legitimately injured, versus a story-based fake injury. They know which performers are dating. They know that the reason Chad Wrestleman has not been on TV for a month is because he got busted for snorting oven cleaner. Wrestlers. Fucking. Hate. Smarks.

You see, smarks are the ones who can get an entire crowd chanting about real-life controversies, right on the air. Recently, John “Bradshaw” Layfield has been in wrestling news for allegedly bullying one of the announcers right out of the industry. He’s been known as a piece of shit for years, but the newest story is what got smarks to lead the audience in a chant of, “FIRE BRADSHAW!” Smarks are the ones who got Nikki Bella to respond to them with this:

Via Twitter

That looks like a spilled Scrabble board to regular readers. A regular fan knows that when John Cena comes out, there is a long standing tradition of half the crowd chanting, “Let’s go, Cena!” The other half chants, “Cena sucks!” Smarks knew that Nikki Bella and John Cena had started dating in real life … so they modified that chant to, “You suck Cena!” Smarks aren’t exactly known for their wit and charm, but that shit made it on the air.

4

Work Yourself Into A Shoot

This is probably my favorite wrestling phrase, because it says so much about the psychology of performing. In general, when a wrestler picks up a microphone and goes into his or her spiel, that’s called “cutting a promo.” Everything they’re saying is adding to the promotion of a match, a story, a pay per view, a movie … whatever project needs pushed. All of the stuff they’re saying — in character and adhering to the story — is called a “work.” It’s scripted. It’s planned out in advance. I mean, obviously, they’re not going to let them grab a mic and start going off about how Hitler did nothing wrong. Unless the story demands it, in which case, it’s fair game. The point is, their words and actions are controlled. They’re worked.

A “shoot” can mean either 1) really fighting in the ring, like when Perry Saturn legitimately beat the fuck out of Mike Bell for botching a move, or 2) when a wrestler drops the character and starts talking about real shit. You mostly see this happening in interviews, outside of the WWE. Here’s Jim Cornette shooting about “accidental” nudity that happened in WWE matches in the past:

And here he is, shooting on the idea of shoot interviews:

“Working yourself into a shoot” can happen verbally or physically. It happens when you start off talking or wrestling as planned (a work), but as you go on, something legitimately pisses you off, and you start “throwing live rounds,” as Blue Meanie so eloquently put it (a shoot). The part that fascinates me is that the trigger that pisses you off doesn’t have to come from an outside source. Simply acting and getting too into the role can do it.

The best example of it happening, verbally, is on an episode of Talking Smack. That’s a scripted show (or at least partially scripted) by the WWE. On one episode, Smackdown general manager Daniel Bryan called “The Miz’s” wrestling style cowardly. He wasn’t talking about his in-story fights. He was talking about him as a performer, playing things too safely. Though Miz tried to bring things back around to a character-driven response in the end, everything else is him legitimately losing his shit. Note: That is just my opinion, based on knowing how he sounds when he acts mad. If this is all acting, he deserves an Oscar:

The thing about a shoot is that it’s a double-edged sword. Say too much and badmouth the wrong person, and they’ll fire your ass. But do it in just the right way — which means getting lucky, because you’re in no position for self control when you’re that pissed off — and the critics will praise you forever. That video above is considered to be The Miz’s best work of his entire career.

3

Canned Heat Vs. Legit Heat

You’d think that “canned heat” and “legit heat” would be opposite terms, but they’re fairly unrelated. Both are important, though, in understanding the psychology of the business.

Sometimes, an audience simply isn’t into a character. Maybe he’s just a boring turd. Maybe the crowd is exhausted after a couple hours, and they’ve lost the energy to cheer and boo at every little thing that happens in the ring. When an on-air wrestling promotion wants the people at home to buy into the illusion of excitement, they’ll “pipe in” boos or cheers. I don’t know if wrestlers call it “canned heat,” but fans do.

This is especially useful if the promotion wants a certain character viewed in a specific way. If the crowd suddenly starts liking and cheering a heel (bad guy), they might replace those cheers with pretaped boos and even new commentary. Personally, I couldn’t give less of a shit whether they do it or not. I just find it interesting that crowds are unpredictable, and sometimes for the benefit of the overall product, you have to steer the at-home viewers in a specific direction. If I had the time to rig it up, I’d pipe in canned heat every time I entered or exited my house.

“Legit heat” is what gives smarks their gossip boners. It can sometimes be used to describe a crowd that legitimately hates a character, but it’s more frequently used among fans to talk about performers who are in real-life, behind-the-scenes tiffs. Here are a bunch of wrestlers talking about legitimate backstage heat in the form of beating the urine out of each other:

But “legit heat” can also mean getting in trouble with the big dogs. Vince McMahon is fairly notorious for losing his shit on wrestlers who screw up or say the wrong thing on the mic … or, hell, just don’t look the way he wants them to look. Put “Vince McMahon heat” into YouTube, and you’ll get 127,000 results.

YouTube

But that says a lot about the business to me. In a testosterone-fueled industry where your main job is doing physically demanding stunts and pretending to punch each other, sometimes arguments are settled backstage by actually punching each other. It doesn’t seem to happen as often in the modern era of wrestling, but “legit heat” absolutely still exists because humans are humans. It just means, now, that someone is mad at you because you’re a big ol’ stupidhead.

2

Working Stiff

Hehehehe. “Working stiff.”

OK, that’s enough of that. Working stiff is a real thing, and it has nothing to do with their big ol’ hogs. When you’re timing a punch, it’s not all about stopping your fist just short of hitting the guy straight in the suckhole. Some wrestlers do that. Some use punches that actually land — they’re just done in a way that isn’t as painful or face-destroying as a full-on, “real” hit. They keep their fist loose, and the impact lands in a very specific spot. There are many ways to make a punch look real if you have the talent (and your opponent has the talent) to pull it off.

Others will actually clock you and demand that you clock them back. Not full-on, mind you … but enough contact that you’re definitely going to fucking feel it. Sometimes, that’s done to make the match look more realistic. Sometimes, it’s done to test new members of your roster. When The Dudley Boyz entered the WWE, they were put into a match with The APA, and … well, the Dudleys can tell you about it:

It basically boils down to, “We hit them about as hard as we could hit them. And they hit us about as hard as they could hit us. Then we went backstage and hugged, and it was awesome.” You know, like one does.

One of the stiffest wrestlers on the current roster is “Sheamus.” He’s known for laying into forearms, punches, and kicks to the point that at last week’s pay per view he kicked Jeff Hardy’s tooth right out of his goddamn skull.

These days, it’s not so much about punishing a new wrestler. It’s mostly about making the matches look real, because if you’re making actual contact, that’s about as real as it gets. The only way you can mess that one up is … well, if you knock a dude’s tooth out of his facehole. But it’s still pretty amazing that the recipients of those shots take it and keep on performing, because they know that the more they sell it, the more they’re worth as performers. Personally, I’d just start crying until I puked if they did that to me.

1

Mouthpiece

One thing casual fans take for granted is a wrestler’s ability to work a microphone. It’s not enough that he’s huge, athletic, and able to pull off the match without hurting anyone. If he can’t speak in front of a crowd, he’s just a meat prop. And if he’s boring, people will simply make a concerted effort to not give a fuck. That’s where a mouthpiece comes in.

A “mouthpiece” is someone who speaks for the wrestler, while he just stands in the background, looking like he’s about to rip your entire fucking head off. It sounds stupid, but when you put two people like Brock Lesnar and Paul Heyman together, it’s pure magic:

When Jack Swagger picked up a microphone, he caused tens of thousands of people to fall into a mass coma. He couldn’t even get them to boo, and that’s what we as fans like to do the most. So what do you do? Do you turn him into a jobber and then fire him? Well, they actually did that, eventually … but at the time, the obvious solution was to create a militant, racist character named Zeb Colter and let him do his thing:

The only words spoken by Jack Swagger in that entire promo is, “We the people.” That’s it. His entire job was to stand there like an indoctrinated soldier, while Zeb preached his racist message. The crowd hated them, which was exactly what the WWE wanted. Sure, eventually people turned the other way and started cheering them because the world is an ever-growing ball of crazy, but the point is that the mouthpiece was the savior of that character.

All of these terms boil down to psychology. Manipulating people’s emotions and perspectives to get them to react the way you want. It’s why I love wrestling so much. It’s not just “two oiled-up dudes, violently hugging each other.” It’s an emotional magic show. “We’re going to get you excited. Now, we’re going to piss you off. Now, we’re going to make you laugh. Now, we’re going to make you think you run the show.” It’s brilliant, but the thing you see on TV is only the curtain. The real tricks are being done behind it.

At the very least, you should know what that ridiculous quote from the beginning of this article means, now.

John Cheese is the head of columns for Cracked. You can also find him on Twitter.

The proliferation of beer pong and craft beer may have you think that we’re living in one of the peak times to get drunk, but humans have been getting famously hammered for millennia. Like a frat house’s lawn after a kegger, history is littered with world-changing events that were secretly powered by booze. The inaugural games of the Roman Coliseum, the drafting of the U.S. Constitution, and the Russian Revolution were all capped off by major parties that most attendees probably regretted in the morning.

Join Jack O’Brien and Cracked staffers Carmen Angelica, Alex Schmidt, Michael Swaim, plus comedian Blake Wexler for a retelling of history’s biggest moments you didn’t realize everyone was drunk for.

Get your tickets here:

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/how-knowing-a-few-key-phrases-completely-changes-wrestling/