goodmanjacob

[goodmanjacob]

@onlyareflection

[goodmanjacob]

I saw it. I mean I saw you. Changing back from… you know. It was fucking beautiful.

[goodmanjacob]

How do I tell him I want to watch him jerk off and then lick him clean? Asking for a friend.

[goodmanjacob]

the perfect epitaph || playlist blood - marika hackmann darker days - caleb harris far away - josé gonzález low down - shayna zaid I'll keep coming - low roar the beginning of the end - klergy haunt my heart - johnny black deadweight on velveteen - josé gonzález dear god - lawless vitamins - marika hackman monster - jack in water warriors - arc the forest let it out - runes in the shadows - amy stroup soldier - tommee profitt, fleurie

[goodmanjacob]

“I don’t know what’s left of me, but you can fuck it if you want.”

— Angela Aberdeen

[goodmanjacob]

Sam Reid as Lestat de Lioncourt INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE 1.07: THE THING LAY STILL.

[goodmanjacob]

by mario leko

[goodmanjacob]

prompt number 1

17/02/25

imagine how jacob feels the first time he climbs to the mountaintop in dresden with bastian. what does he see? what does he feel like physically? what does he pay attention to once they reach their goal?

*

They could have taken the easy, the ordinary route. They could have visited the touristy places. The official climbing spots. But hard as they were already - all rules and prohibitions and  regulations - when had Sebastian ever been ordinary?

When had they ever chosen the easy way? Out or in or through didn’t even matter. They were both anything but easy. Not before they’d met, it seemed, and definitely not after, when life had almost gained a new lightness, a new softness, a new playfulness. And Jacob had become more reckless, too, hadn’t he? If only to show off and challenge Sebastian and laugh death in the face because for a few precious moments, Jacob had seen heaven, even though he was destined for hell. So much about trying to be a decent man, a good man. So much about leaving danger and bloodshed and that consuming fire behind. Sebastian had pushed him from day one. Where that would lead him, though, Jacob didn’t know.

They could have taken the easy way up.

But where was the fun in that?

“If this is your idea of a vacation, it fucking sucks.”

As if Jacob had ever been on vacation before.

As if he hadn’t planned this whole thing to make it perfect. Perfect for Sebastian, at least. The trip of his dreams. Because, frankly, it didn’t look as if that dickface had ever been on vacation before, either.

And neither Jacob nor three fucking apps could make out what the old man watching over the area had said. Whether he was a forester or ranger or whatever the fuck equivalent there was here, Jacob didn’t know. What Jacob did know was enough, though. Whatever the job description, he was the guy in charge. The man who could either cause trouble or turn a blind eye. And usually, Jacob’s German was just enough to find his way to the nearest hotel and order a coffee – which Sebastian had forced him to do, smug, unbearable smart-ass fucker he was, once he’d caught up on the fact that Jacob had understood more than he’d let on. The fuckwaffle had gotten a nickname in return. One that, to Jacob’s surprise, they both seemed to like. Bastian. That sounded soft and warm. Like home. It suited him, but Jacob wasn’t ready to admit that just yet. That would be fucking sentimental and pathetic.

No, Jacob’s German wasn’t the best - learnt not from books but from soldiers - definitely not like Sebastian’s, eternally showing off and definitely teasing about it - but neither was this fucking guy’s. And usually, Jacob’s German was enough, but whatever language this guy had spoken, it sure as hell wasn‘t anything Jacob had ever heard in his entire life. Nor had the apps.

The old man hadn’t understood a single word of English, either. A predicament, really, if not for a more universal language; one that Jacob had learnt early on. Because the old German had understood the meaning of a wad of cash. Colourful, bright fucking play money. But if that was all it took, Jacob would reach even deeper into his pockets to ensure that the stupid fucking dickface had the time of his life here. The stupid fucking dickface that was – what exactly? His lover? Fuckbuddy? Friend with benefits? It had become hard to tell lately.

It had to be something though, because despite Jacob’s endless protests before their trip, he’d let Sebastian put a collar around his neck in front of everyone without complaint, right after they had gotten out of security check. Because despite his protests, he'd let Sebastian drag him through gallery after gallery, through botanical gardens and endless, ancient streets until his feet hurt. That meant something, didn’t it?

“You just wanna get a good look of my ass,” he yelled down, knuckles white and sore and aching. But this, at the very least, Jacob could appreciate. The burn. The challenge. The fucking risk. The exhilarating feeling of being first, of being champion, of being victorious, of leaving the world behind. Outgrowing an old self and pushing his limits, if only to impress himself. He could even agree, if he was honest, that the best climbing hall couldn’t provide the same kind of thrill.

“Bastian.”

But camping?

Why anyone would do this of their own volition and out of free fucking will was beyond Jacob. He’d spent almost two decades of his life eating gravel. He’d spent almost two decades with dust in his hair and sand between his teeth. First on the streets, before Faulkner had plucked him. Then, later, when he’d been supposed to become a man, whatever the fuck that had meant.

And a man he’d become. Whatever the fuck that meant.

The old man was long gone, taking over hell without a doubt, and waiting for him. The mansion was sold and the inherited fortune well invested in a business and life that was haunted by ghosts, but it was Jacob’s, at least.

“I really don’t get it.”

It wasn’t that Jacob couldn’t live without the amenities and luxuries Faulkner’s inherited wealth und his own company provided.

“You really not done eatin’ dirt? We have a perfectly nice hotel room.”

Jacob could live with very little, and he had. He‘d eaten abandoned half-finished meals on park benches. He‘d fished expired cans of chili out of garbage containers behind grocery stores.

He‘d known hunger. He’d known thirst. He’d known exhaustion and cold and rain and the elements.

He‘d slept on hard cots in the barracks, fucked open and bleeding, carrying shame like a comforting blanket. He‘d missed Faulkner and his deceiving smiles during those long nights. He‘d missed a decent bed and a proper hot shower, too, stuck at the other end of the world with only memories and regrets and horrible suspicions to keep him warm.

No, Jacob didn’t need much. He could survive with the bare minimum and less, for as long as he still had his teeth and fists.

But why would he, nowadays?

“You know that, right?”

Whether Bastian could hear him or not, Jacob didn’t even know. He was always close behind. But the words were grunted out between huffs and groans and pants, as Jacob pulled himself up.

“If you don’t like it, just tell me. I’ll get us another. I’ll buy the whole fucking hotel if I have to. But what I really don’t fucking understand is why you wanna stay up there and drink goddamn awful instant coffee and eat a can of nasty ravioli on top of a mountain.”

Especially when Jacob could nurse a bottle of booze while getting his brains sucked out.

Why settle for dust and grime and sweat, when they had that perfectly nice hotel room with a clean bed and a nice shower? Heated, private, comfortable.

This wasn’t a job. This wasn’t a necessity.

This was this stupid fucking idiot‘s idea of fun.

And the worst part was, as he continued to climb, with burning muscles and covered in sweat, letting Sebastian know exactly what he thought of this, he realised that he’d do it again.

This whole fucking trip. From the humiliation of the collar in public to the man who spoke as little German as he did, from the horrible food to Bastian teasing him until he’d ordered the goddamn coffee, receiving only a pitiful smile in return from their waiter.

He‘d do it all again. In an instant.

“We could be back in two hours. The hotel is just a ninety minutes ride away if we take the Autobahn. Seventy if you let me really push the rental. And we’d have a soft, warm bed to fuck. And a fucking minibar.”

They could have taken the easy routes.

They also could have stayed in the comfortable, luxurious, clean hotel room in that godforsaken giant museum of a city, too.

But no. Bastian wanted the outside, wanted to see fucking nature, wanted adventure and fresh air and a view. I could give you a fucking view, he’d teased, but of course that had been pointless. Sebastian had already been hooked, had already been restless, and not even Jacob’s dick could keep him from climbing that goddamn mountain range. And staying there for the night.

Bastian had wanted a view.

And a view they had, once they reached the top, with aching muscles, sweaty and out of breath. Bastian was obviously lost in the scenery, the clearest, bluest sky and the tree tops far beneath, inhaling the cool spring air as if he’d never taken a single breath before in his entire life.

And Jacob, at the very least, had a different view to admire. More fascinating than the sky and the trees and the fucking mountain range. Something infinitely more precious. Something rare and beautiful. Something he’d never seen before. Something that made it all worthwhile, the dust and the thirst and the blisters on his hand. Spending the night on top of a giant rock while likely being eaten alive by local insects.

It was Bastian’s smile.

[goodmanjacob]

can we all agree that pressing foreheads together is an underrated act of affection??

[goodmanjacob]

prompt number 2

18/02/25

write something about the first time faulkner fucks emmett. it can be just before - or during - or after; and it can be from either faulkner's perspective or jacob's. ROBOT VERSE

*

Faulkner had never been one to let things escalate.

For as long as Jacob remembered, even before he’d been chosen and remade, the Mayor had ruled with a firm hand and a professional smile. A smile like a knife, sharp as his mind and tongue and eyes. An iron fist, hard and unforgiving as his gaze. And for as long as Jacob remembered, Faulkner had always been measured. Always in control. Suave and smart and likeable. Until one got in his way. Admirable, really, if not for the bodies he made Jacob leave in his wake.

Faulkner always watched and always listened, and the riots in the slums of the outer rim aside, he acted before things could ever *escalate*.

The Mayor wasn’t afraid of getting his own hands dirty, and Jacob had *seen* it, time and time again. Had felt it, too, all too often, in his own body and soul. But ever since Jacob had taken his place at Faulkner’s side - undisputed heir and prince royal, lapdog and bloodhound, bodyguard and son - he didn’t have to anymore. Jacob was the man for the dirty work now. And soon, it seemed, he wouldn’t be alone. Whether that was comfort or threat, he didn’t know.

No, Faulkner had never been one to let things escalate.

So whatever was happening with Reid – but who the fuck was he fucking kidding? it was *recruitment*, and even if none of them had said it aloud, it was clear as day – whatever was happening with Reid, it wasn’t *escalation*.

But there were signs. And Jacob had been around for long enough to see them.

A buildup.

Of orders. Of tension. Of anticipation.

By now, there was no hesitation anymore when Faulkner told the other machine to strip and kneel and bow and lick his fucking shoes. *The eradication of ego, the elimination of self and pride and defiance to do what was necessary. A sacrifice for a greater good.* A lesson in itself, Faulkner had called it, a long time ago.

By now, Jacob knew every inch of his body, watching from the sidelines, observant and silent, as if he hadn’t explored it all before, as if he hadn’t already tasted it, felt it, crushed it.

And even that, this gruesome act of brutality and violence, had been meticulous and calculated, before the Mayor had changed his mind and found a different approach. Not even the vicious frenzy he’d found himself in, heightened by treats and praise and drugs, had been an escalation.

Neither was this. The buildup. Silent, but obvious.

No, Faulkner wasn’t subtle. He didn’t try to be. He didn’t *have* to be.

Reid had been fatally wrong about that.

And maybe that had always been the worst part. To *know* what was happening while it was happening. And to be once again powerless, choiceless, and made accomplice in his own destruction, his own rebirth, his own enslavement.

Yes, by now, Jacob could read the signs.

Because he, too, was always watching, always listening. One of Faulkner’s lessons, and ironically, that meant he’d learnt to read the Mayor in return. Trusted right hand. Dog on a leash. It didn’t really matter anymore, when Jacob returned home with blood on his hands, detached from remorse or shame or guilt.

And today was the day.

Faulkner had become more purposeful with his commands ever since that day he’d told Reid to strip, leading to one ultimate goal. He’d been working up Jacob, as well. And ever since Reid’s unfortunate arrival, he’d been more generous. With rewards. With touches. Praise.

Until it had stopped, two days ago.

A disruption of routine.

The quiet before the storm.

None of this came as a surprise.

To see the Mayor swallow his own set of pills just as he’d entered this morning’s briefing, though, *did*. A rare glimpse of the old man behind the tailored suits and tailored smiles, of the human being behind the impenetrable façade. A glimpse of age and something like weakness behind still youthful eyes. All of this serving a certain purpose, all of this deliberate, without a doubt, because this was still Faulkner.

But that was something to contemplate another day, something to maybe even ask the Mayor about once the smoke would clear after today. In the end, it would turn out to be another fucking lesson or moment  of grand symbolism. At least *that*, Jacob was sure of.

It was, at least, remarkable. Maybe a sign of trust. Maybe yet another fucked up initiation rite. Maybe a reminder. Either way, Faulkner would tell him.

Right now, the question at hand was what to do with that knowledge, with this strange, heavy feeling deep inside Jacob’s gut. Familiar, but disturbing and uncomfortable.

Right now, the question at hand was whether he should warn the prisoner who would soon become his responsibility, his equal or, worse, his replacement?

Of course there was nothing to straighten about Reid‘s fucking tie. It was infuriatingly perfect, like the rest of this pretentious asshole. There was nothing to correct, nothing to adjust, nothing to fix.

Jacob did it anyway, simply a quick touch to the knot that was entirely in order, resting the flat of his hand over Reid‘s chest for just a second before letting go.

A small gesture of comfort, in a place that knew none.

No, Reid wasn’t what Jacob had been. He was no virgin, *and Jacob would know*, was no inexperienced, easily impressed kid robbed from his life and world and transplanted into another, struggling with overwhelming new feelings, hormones and excruciating phantom pain as his tongue and heart and soul were cut out bit by bit with every day passing with terrifying precision.

No, Reid wasn’t a scared teenage boy bent over a desk. But he was just as powerless here. Just as choiceless. Just as imprisoned and castrated.

And *that*, Jacob understood.

Maybe he pitied himself more than Reid. Despite the glory and power and the world at his feet. Despite the rewards and riches, and his role as Faulkner’s successor. Undisputed heir to the throne. Prince and advisor and bloodhound.

And yet, sometimes he mourned the boy he’d buried. And the man he would never become. Without the metal and wires, without the circuits and circumstances.

Maybe it wasn’t Reid he pitied.

Because that fucking man definitely didn’t need pity. He’d bend over without any damage to his body or ego. He’d take it like a man, like Jacob, but with overwhelming control and dignity.

Reid didn’t need Jacob to *feel* for him.

And yet.

With a sigh, he reached into the pocket of his jacket. Black, like Faulkner preferred it. Because in the end, he was just as powerless, just as choiceless, wasn’t he? Despite the power. Despite the glory. He took out the flask with the infuriatingly bland engravement, warm from body heat, but not as warm as it should be. Not as warm as it would be, if he were still human.

And before they entered the office again, this place of dreams and nightmares, he took a sip, small as it was, and handed the flask over before straightening out his own suit. A suit that needed as much straightening as Reid’s tie needed fixing. Faulkner was meticulous, after all.

„Word of advice.”

But who was he kidding? This wasn’t advice. It was a warning.

And Reid already knew what was coming. It had only ever been a question of *when*.

“Today’s not the day for experiments.“

[goodmanjacob]

- Kneel -

[goodmanjacob]

[goodmanjacob]

[goodmanjacob]

Poetry, Richard Siken

[goodmanjacob]

Techno Torso by Richard Symons 

[goodmanjacob]

"You're losing blood" no I know exactly where it is. The floor. Don't ever underestimate me.

[goodmanjacob]