#and scruffy in his cap and flannel

[laracrofted]

if i speak!

[fox-guardian]

[ID: A two-page digital comic of original characters Lila and Gigi. Lila is a tall, skinny, white, goth trans woman with a long ponytail, bangs, and the sides of her head are shaved. She has pointy ears, fangs, long black nails, is wearing dark dramatic makeup, and she has two industrial piercings, massive ear gauges, angel bites, and a lip ring. She is wearing a poofy miniskirt, collared blouse, corset belt, and knee-high platform boots. Gigi is a small, scrawny, white person with short hair, light patchy facial hair, and body hair. They are wearing a baggy t-shirt, hoodie, shorts, and socks. The background is black and white while Lila is colored in lilac and Gigi is colored in a dark pink.

Gigi sits on their bed playing on their phone before Lila slams the door open with a "WHAM". Gigi is startled and asks "Lila?" with no response as she marches in. She stands in front of Gigi as they look up, confused, before she flops over onto their bed with a "FWUMP".

Lila: I need him to go missing Gigi: oh my god Lila, lifting her hands in frustration: (all caps) I need him GONE, he can't do this to me Gigi, amused: oh my GOD Lila, sitting up and grabbing Gigi's face, pulling out her phone: Look at him! Look at this BULLSHIT!

The next panel shows Lila's phone displaying a tiktok of Redd, a stout, scruffy trans man wearing a flannel shirt and a ball cap, holding up a set of belts over his arm, looking deeply anxious. The text over the video reads "we got BELTS" with sparkles around the word "belts".

Lila looks at the video with sparkling eyes as Gigi stares at it confused, face squished in Lila's hand.

Gigi, now looking at her: are you s- Lila, suddenly snarling: (bold text) I need to eat him alive. (the word "alive" has a dripping underline) Lila, now leaning over herself, hair falling onto the floor, making claw hands at the air: I need to SHRED HIIIIM!! Gigi, back to playing on their phone: you are down horrendous

end ID]

~~~~

hey remember that time i said i was gonna make a comic with my ocs. haha yeah <3 WELL I DID IT FINALLY. i present to you, lila being down horrendous for redd and her best friend gigi only somewhat judging her for her taste in men

[neonovember]

Lemon meringues

steve rogers mafia!au

summary: your escape to Brooklyn was harboured by secrets and a harrowed past, left abused and betrayed, you accepted your destiny of being swallowed by the crowd. Until the King of New York showed up in front of you and wanted a piece of you for himself.

a/n: this is the first instalment of a series, I honestly don't know how long it will be, but ill try to update every week!

Your hand reaches to grab the disregarded ceramic mugs perched at the middle of the wooden table, deep mahogany coffee stains the edges of the porcelain mugs and the crumbs of David’s famous croissant litter the table.

“All done here?” You smile, your arm balancing a plate of waffles and toast, you hope to god that they’ll just leave you be, your shift has just begun and the way your back ached had you wishing you’d crawled back under the covers, angry landlord and manager be damned.

The faces of the men that sat nodded, eyes not leaving each other as if you weren't even there. Each of them had the same scruffy 7-day stubble as if they had all collectively chosen to throw out their razors. Trucker caps fitted tightly and flannel shirts peeked through large navy jackets buttoned tight against the harsh July cold. The weather here could get brutal, you’d learned that your first winter with frozen pipes and a heater that spoke only puffs of grey smoke.

They show no action of gratitude, but they don't unnecessarily incapacitate you either, exactly how you like it. Nodding you make your rounds to the other tables, wiping down any remnants of spilt drinks and crumbs from the diner tables and booths. It labourers work, but it's still work. And you don't know what would happen if you lost that measly laughable income you earned from waitressing.

As long as you were far and between from him, you kept reminding yourself, every chime of the diner door opening had your hairs bristling and your stomach in twists, he’d never find you here, he couldn’t, you’d made sure of it. Hell, you’d erased your entire life, left it all behind, he couldn't hurt you now. At least that's what you told yourself.

The white-hot fear still slips down your spine whenever you see a familiar shirt he’d wear though, or a voice that sounded like him when he was mad, or the sound of boots behind you, or- god you’d be in therapy if it didn’t cost you a limb.

The soft downpour outside provided a melodic track to your routine, the sea of blue and navy umbrellas moving in unison to escape the rain. The sound of it put you at ease, you've always loved the rain, the way it slid down your face and washed away all the fears you carried. The smell of the earth after it rained, steam rising from the dirt and roads was something you've come to appreciate.

It was the only things you could, the small things, things that had been taken from you, berated and crushed within his iron grip.

“Why are you wasting time smelling the flowers?”

His voice soon followed your every thought, every move, every desire. As if your mind was asking permission- “Please?”.

You forgot what it felt like to live within a body that was fully yours, and not pinned up with strings that were in his grasp. Now you could stop and raise your face to the sky and let the droplets pepper your skin without fearing the downpour of his anger.

“You silly girl, you silly stupid girl” 

Well, at least the one that isn't in your head.

The snap of diner door opens abruptly, slamming against the wall, as an umbrella pops through, your neck bristles with fear, shoulders tense and eyebrows furrowed.

Please no

It's a man, donning a deep maroon velvet coat, the buttons fitted and the material stretched against his chest. His golden locs were smoothed back, a scruff that seemed purposeful lining his jaw, the water from his umbrella runs down its rooves and ridges, gathering at his feet and seeping into the laminate floor. It doesn't matter, it isn’t him.

You quickly dust off your apron, gathering your rags before popping them under the compartment behind the till, the man is perusing through the collection of pastries and breakfast sandwiches displayed in the clear case.

“The lemon meringue is to die for,” You say, smiling at his indecision, You had many like him come in, overwhelmed with the many selections and flavours, not knowing where to begin.

He looks up quickly, eyes racking over your face, his cerulean blues darken for a moment, before a smile cracks over his features.

“That obvious?” He jokes, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat.

“Don’t worry about it, everybody has a first time at something” You reply, fingers wringing as you smile. His gorgeous up close, the kind of features that were clean-cut and old-fashioned. Like he didn't need to try so hard to capture anyone's attention, soft lips curl up as he notices your intense stare, and you quickly shake off your borderline stalker-ish ways.

“Well, in that case, I’ll get the meringue and a club special,” He says, hands coming up to brush through his golden locks dirtied by the rain. 

You ring his order through the till, fingers almost missing the keys as you hurry to have him seated, he always hated being waited on, there were countless times when his lack of patience and your tardiness left you bruised and bloody.

The man reaches into his coat pocket to pull out a deep leather wallet, it reminds you of your father and it has you smiling softly. He hands you a hundred-dollar bill, and when you try to hand back his change he stops you with his hands quickly. 

The feeling of the rough pads of his fingers shoots an intensity up your arm like you've been shocked and you pull your hand away quickly. The man stares intently at your hands, eyes surveying your frame as he rests them on your face.

“Keep the change..I’m sure” He finally says, hands back in his pocket only this time in tight fists.

You thank him generously, tucking the rolls into your side, tips never seemed to cover enough of your pay, and you think this man may have saved you from sleeping outside.

He doesn't say much, just nods, the same darkened look covering his features as he slides into a corner booth, the downpour above sheathed the morning sky in a deep dark navy. Causing the diner to be cloaked in a shadowed darkness as if it were evening instead of noon. The only thing providing light was the soft yellow overhanging ceiling lamp. It gave it a romantic feel that covered his features in a soft glow, and for some strange reason, you had the urge to know what his beard would feel like between your fingers.

Walking urgently back to the counter, you hand up the man's order for David, indiscretidely asking him to give him extra helpings. You carefully slice a cut of the meringue onto one of the ceramic plates, cleaning the edges and keeping it chilled.

David calls your name, motioning towards the finished sandwich that looked like if you didn't walk carefully it would topple over and onto the floor.

David winks at you, his jet-black hair pulled into a tight bun, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he takes notice of your ulterior motive.

“When were ya gonna tell me about lover boy?” David teases, chin resting on his arms.

“Cmon David, he just gave me a good tip” You scoff humourselly, him? He wouldn't even look at you that way. You knew his type the moment you caught a glimpse of his goddamn cufflinks, besides, the rings adorning his fingers etched with the unmistakable A, told you he was in a business you wanted no part of. You weren't bout to jump into a relationship after just escaping your last, no, you definitely were not ready for that.

Yet a strange filling crept through your stomach, and it had you taking glances at his crouched figure in the booth, he was tall enough to the point where you could see the tussles of his golden locks, now dried and mused.

Snapping out of your stupor, you go to reach for his meal before another hand reaches for it, what is it today and people's hands? Chipped red nail polish and rubbery lips meet your gaze as Caroline smiles up at you.

“Mare’s asking if you could clean up the puddle in front of the diner door, says it’s quote on quote a cleaning hazard” Caroline rolls her eyes, tongue clicking as she shakes her head

“If she cared that much about following protocol she’d pay us a goddamn living wage” Caroline mutters loud enough for yout o hear, cautious of your domineering manager's watchful gaze.

You snicker, reaching for the mop at the corner of the diner, 

“Who that?” Caroline says, motioning towards the golden-haired man with her chin, curiosity filling her eyes.

“That, is your customer, who just ordered a meringue and sandwich because of yours truly” You reply, eyes finding their way back to him.

Caroline nods, reaching for the meringue in the fridge,

“He even tipped me like over eighty bucks” You whisper, the reality of it still shocking you

Caroline swiftly turns to you at that, her dark auburn plaits whipping across her chest at her movements

“No shit? Cute and a gentleman, if there is one person in this god-forsaken place who deserves it it’s you” Caroline retorts, a smile lifting her lips.

You shake your head, reaching for the notes tucked in your pocket, Caroline had been your one and only friend besides David, you could count a handful of time’s when she had let you crash at her place or borrow money to tide your landlord over the next month. 

It was your duty to give something back.

Caroline stops you gently, pushing the notes into your pocket before she grins gingerly

“Don’t you dare” Caroline begins, eyes darting across to the man in the booth,

“But, you can't possibly expect me not to pay you back” You begin, eyes burrowing as you try again, to hand her over a chunk of the money.

“You need it more than I do, besides you know the saying “reject the present to receive more in the future” Caroline sing songs, you shake your head laughing

“I don't think that’s quite how it goes, in fact, I'm pretty sure you made that up on the spot” You giggle, before pushing her out of the kitchen.

“You're too good for this rotten place sugar, you outta start taking things for yourself, before the world comes and swallows you whole” She replies, not sparing you a glance before navigating through the many red booths.

Her voice echoes in your mind as you clean up the murky water near the front door, watching as the brown liquid on against the laminated floor turns into a clean yellow that came with age and poor maintenance.

You serve half a dozen more customers before Caroline strolls towards you, a hidden smirk on her face with the man’s finished plates.

“What?” You reply, rolling your eyes, wiping down the counter, you always seemed to find yourself cleaning.

“Golden boy asked for you” She’s gone into a full toothy smile now, head lulling to the side as she teases you.

He asked for you? Why would he do that? Maybe he were asking for that tip back, reconciling that you weren't worth it. It wouldn’t be the first time

“Huh? What do you mean?” You cautiously answer Adi, aware of her ability to dramatise quite literally everything that happened between these walls.

“I mean, he asked why you didn’t come and give him his food. Said he was hoping that he could ask you something” She replies eyebrows wiggling playfully, knocking her hips to yours as she purred.

“I see how you play girl, just make him a regular customer why don’t you, I'm sure after the first taste he'll be coming back for more.” She laughed at you widened expression, you winced at her insinuations, you started to believe she wanted you to get laid more than you did yourself.

“Here, he left this” She replied, reaching into her pocket, and pulling out a ruffled tissue, you're expecting a message or a scribble of numbers, yet instead what meets your eye has your heart in your stomach and your fingers gripping your apron.

There written in black ink, is your husband's name, along with a number and one single word.

“I know what you did”.

Fuck.

[wildbornsiren]

Hangman x Bob Band AU 💖

Vee!!!! YES. Thank you so much lovely. The muses took this another way, I hope it's okay.

xo

Shells.

A smokey bar packed to the gills, the regulars elbow to elbow with the new crowd. Denim, flannel, a mix of cowboy hats and baseball caps the standard uniform. Scuffed boots, scuffed knuckles, cheap beer and good music. There was one in every town, and none were ever so electric as when he was there.

Tall and slender,perched on a three legged wobbly stool, hands wrapped around a microphone stand. He's in jeans, a faded blue t-shirt and a dirty ball cap pulled low on his brow.

There's a woman with a guitar next to him, and when she plays, it's bluesy and rich. Jake takes a sip of beer, his interest piqued.

The man starts to sing. All the surrounding noise fades away, a low honeyed voice singing an old country song. It's a love song, full of longing and want, and it stirs something in Jake's chest.

If they weren't in a bar he'd be in danger of drowning, lured to his demise by this scruffy being and his siren song.

Blue eyes meet his, and he's hooked. A shy smile, a nod of the head when Jake raises his hand in greeting.

He loses track of how many songs, he just knows that when the jukebox kicks back up, the spell shatters. He looks up when there's a tap to his shoulder.

"Bobby Floyd." That smile is soft, and gentle. Jake wants to roll himself in it.

"Jake." He takes the offered hand. "Can I get you a beer?"

[pascalpanic]

At Last (Frankie Morales x gn!Reader)

Summary: you, Frankie, and your fur baby go camping! Little does Frankie know what you have planned.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: flirting, innuendo, alcohol, food, language, otherwise, this is toothaching fluff!

A/N: SAMMY MY BELOVED @sanchosammy GAVE ME THIS IDEA! I hope it’s as cute as I think it is :) also, Charlie (Frankie’s pup) isn’t involved in this fic but she is still part of the fam :)

Pine trees surround you on either side, tall and majestic. You can see the blue-gray sky patching through the canopy; the clouds are leaving, but some linger a little longer to clog up the sky. The air is warm and slightly humid, but a wonderful breeze rustles through the trees and rushes across your bare arms. Your trail shoes squelch underfoot in the damp ground. You sigh, totally content with this moment. 

Frankie’s flannel is tied around his waist, leaving him in his khaki cargo pants and t-shirt. A couple of curls peek out from under his ball cap, turning into little ringlets at the nape of his neck. He walks in front of you on the trail, his boots pressing prints into the soft ground. His back profile is beautiful, even with the large camping pack, and you can’t help but grin. 

Foxtrot embodies her name- Frankie is holding her leash, and the auburn and white dog trots up ahead of him, sniffing along the mulched and muddied path. The air smells of humidity that’s just passed over and that wonderful accompanying petrichor. Fox’s white paws are surely getting dirtied, but that’s only to be expected. You don’t care, too excited to watch your boyfriend and dog walk ahead of you. 

Frowning at the bend of Frankie’s back, you catch up and take his free hand. “Let me carry something, baby.”

“No,” he shakes his head, lacing his fingers through yours. “You have important cargo,” he teases and pats your back lightly. 

Strapped to your back, in a backpack-style blue case, is your ukulele. One hand carries the cooler, slung over your shoulder, filled with food and drinks for tonight. Frankie carries the heavy-duty stuff- the tent, stakes, more essential supplies. “At least let me take Fox.”

Her red ears perk up at her name and she stops, turning and growing excited, as if she forgot you were there. “Yeah, hi Foxy!” You coo as she runs towards you, jumping with her front paws in the air in excitement. “Yeah, you love it out here, don’t you?” You ask her in a baby voice, scratching behind her ears as she circles around your legs and prevents you from moving. Frankie drops her leash in order to prevent your legs from being tourniqueted by it, and it drags behind her in the mud. 

When you pick up the leash, it’s sludgy and damp, but you don’t mind too much. You continue the hike forward and Frankie and Fox follow at your sides, both beaming ear to ear and enjoying the serenity of the woods. 

Frankie picked the campsite, so he’s technically leading the way, but the trail is fairly straightforward, meaning you don’t need to be led. Frankie points out wildlife here and there: chipmunks, rabbits, cardinals and chickadees flitting through the pine-needled canopy. He’s in his element, and you’re in yours: with him. 

The mud gives way to drier ground ahead, and luckily enough Frankie pulls off to the side. It’s the perfect spot, with a beautiful little field of wildflowers. “Welcome to your five-star hotel for the night, babe,” he assures you and kisses you softly, making you giggle and kiss him back with excitement and a pinch of nerves in your stomach.

There’s a routine the two of you have silently adopted. Frankie sets up the small tent, just big enough for the two of you and Fox. You gather kindling, set up a fire, arrange the chairs and all-around make the outdoor area of your campsite ideal.

Frankie is a man of patience, truly, but sometimes the little portable tent proves to be a challenge. You allow Fox off of her leash, knowing she’s well-trained enough to stick around the site, and find your way to the mess of fabric and stakes covering the man. “Baby. For the love of God, we do this all the time,” you tease.

“Well, something must’ve fucking changed,” he grumbles as he fiddles with the parts. You get on your knees on the soft bed of dried pine needles and help him out. With your help, the tent takes no time at all to put up, and you stand and brush off your hands. Frankie gives you a sheepish smile and you give him a kiss. 

The two of you don’t need to converse while you set things up. You enjoy the woods, the rustling of the wind and chirping of birds. Fox curls up on the blanket you set out for her, and when everything is done, you unzip the cooler and hand Frankie a beer. “Well, now we’re all set.”

“Let the fun begin,” he chuckles and twists the top open, clinking his glass bottle to yours. 

“So, Francisco,” you smile over at him. “What do you have planned for this trip? I know you have some sort of plan laid out up there,” you tease and rap on his head softly, through the trucker cap resting there.

He blushes a little and looks away. “I don’t always have a plan.”

“Hey.” You turn his face back to yours by the chin. “You do and I absolutely love it. Now tell me about it, please, baby.”

Frankie removes his hat and runs a hand through his curls. “Well, I figured we could start the fire soon, cook dinner over it. It’ll get dark pretty quick. Then hang around the campfire, maybe play some of the games I packed.”

“Is a quiet tumble in the tent on the cards?” You ask him with a teasing grin, nudging his side. 

He shrugs, jokingly, as if he’s considering it. “I don’t see why we couldn’t squeeze that in. We only have, oh… three hours of time in between these plans.”

“Then we’ll use all three of those hours,” you shrug and steal a kiss, smiling into his lips. “I love you. And I love it out here.” You were never a nature person before Frankie, usually preferring indoors adventures to hiking or camping. Frankie looks like he belongs out here, and he probably thinks he does. Even if you didn’t enjoy the fun of outdoors adventuring, you’d have at least one thing to enjoy: Frankie’s excitement and enthusiasm over it. “Thank you.”

Fox is curled at Frankie’s feet, and he bends over to scratch her ears, running his fingers through her scruffy fur. “Thank you, baby. For coming out here with me and putting up with all of this. I couldn’t ask for a better adventure partner.”

-

You do, indeed, cook dinner over the fire. You’d prepped all kinds of chopped vegetables to be grilled over an open flame, and had additionally packed pre-cooked hot dogs as well as s’mores ingredients. Frankie is a firm believer that it’s not camping if it doesn’t include graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows.

Luckily, your Frankie is a skilled griller. He always is, always has been. He takes care of the cooking part, since you prepared everything else, though he lets you hold the hot dogs over the fire to roast. “I feel like I’m at camp again,” you laugh as you slowly rotate the food over the fire.

Frankie is taking charge of the vegetables, expertly. They’re getting a beautiful char, you notice. “It’s much better, because you don’t have to sneak around to make out with your boyfriend at night, huh?” He teases and tosses you a grin. 

“But I get my boyfriend all to myself,” you nod and confirm. “And I have my baby girl with me,” you coo as you rub Foxtrot’s head, where she’s resting at your side.

The meal is delicious, of course, when the two of you work together and each used your strong skills. Frankie slips bites to Fox when he thinks you’re not looking, of course, but it’s endearing, the way the dog’s big brown eyes mirror those looking down at her.

There’s not much conversation while you eat, mouths occupied with food rather than speaking. That’s alright. There’s plenty of time for that tonight and tomorrow.

The sun starts sinking lower when Frankie brings the marshmallows from the tent. “Guess what time it is!” He exclaims as he rips open the bag, skewering two marshmallows and holding them over the fire.

Like he’s a skilled griller, he’s also a wonderful marshmallow-toaster. Frankie toasts yours to perfection, just the way you like it, and you do your part as the s’more-sandwicher, shoving the marshmallow between the graham crackers and chocolate.

There’s no signal out here, and you agreed neither of you would use your phones unless an emergency happened. Frankie frowns as he sees your phone. “Hey. Put that away. Don’t use that.”

“There’s an emergency, Frankie,” you whine, opening the camera app with one hand and eating the sugary dessert with the other.

“And what’s that?” He asks, taking a bite of his s’more. 

Strings of gooey marshmallow connect the sandwich to his lips, making him laugh, and you snap a picture at the perfect moment: Frankie’s closed-lipped smile as his s’more falls apart on him. “You’re too damn cute, that’s the emergency,” you laugh and set the photo as your lock screen, tossing it away.

Frankie’s schedule actually worked itself naturally. After the s’mores and a wet-wipe hand-washing to remove the endless marshmallow from Frankie’s hands, you find yourself sitting around the fire, no light left in the sky. When you look up, all you can see is inky blue and pine trees, the stars yet to make their nightly rise. 

“I have a song request,” Frankie asks and raises his hand like a child in a classroom.

“Yes, Francisco?” You tease as you walk to the tent, grabbing your ukulele and returning with it, sitting back in your lawn chair with it. “Hit me.”

“Only The Good Die Young by Billy Joel. No, wait- Country Roads.”

Laughing, you noodle around with the strings for a moment. You knew this moment would come, and here’s the opportunity. “I can play all of those and more, Frankie. We’ll do the Billy Joel first,” you nod decisively.

Frankie sounds like the forest wolves at night when he sings along. He absolutely howls, taken away by the song, taken to a place where his voice isn’t just a little on the rougher end of good. He belts the words and dances along in his seat, like you do.

Then Country Roads. You thought the last one was bad before you hear Frankie’s booming voice echoing the ballad of West Virginia through seemingly the entire preserve. But you don’t care in the slightest. You sing along proudly, strumming your ukulele harder and harder until you’re sure you can’t add any more volume before snapping a string. 

After the song, you pause and rest your ukulele flat on your lap. “Frankie, baby. Can I ask you something?”

He nods, smiling over at you. “Any time. What’s up, buttercup?” He asks, taking one of your hands and kissing the knuckles.

“Will you marry me?” You ask. The question is straight and to the point, blunt and honest. Your face conveys your hope, and the grandiose speech follows. “I love you beyond belief, Frankie. I love you almost as much as you love these woods. I know you love me too. I just… think it’s time. We’ll be perfect for it. What do you say?”

You can feel Frankie’s slightly-chapped lips curve into a smile against your hand. He’s grinning and then he’s crying, soft water droplets forming in the corners of his eyes. “Of course I’ll marry you,” he grins, grabbing your ukulele and setting it aside.

Once the ukulele is on the ground, Frankie stands in front of your chair and lifts you to your feet, kissing you with such fervor you can’t help but gasp. When he breaks away, you smile, eyes watering too. “I know it wasn’t the most elegant of proposals, but-”

“It was the most us,” Frankie cuts you off with a teary grin. “I would be honored to be your husband, my love. You really want me enough to do that?”

“Frankie,” you coo, cupping his face in your hand. “You are the best husband I could ever want, could ever dream for,” you assure him and kiss his nose gently.

The man laughs, wiping his tears away. “Then let’s get married,” he whoops excitedly, then lets out an excited shout to the woods. “We’re getting married!”

You laugh at his loud and booming declaration, but nothing can detract you for the love and joy in your heart.

When you and Frankie settle down in your chairs again, you pick up the ukulele and finish off with one last beautiful song that you and Frankie have always adored, with a title that truly fits: At Last.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain @tacticalsparkles

[squid-ichorous]

the first scene of SNAPPER, a body horror t4t love story about a guy struggling to make ends meet, maintain personal relationships, and weigh the moral consequences of having a flesh-hungry parasite living in his uterus

He’s here again, sitting in a shitty little hotel bar nursing a cheap well special. The ice melts under the moody lights above the bartop, its shifting silent under the din of bro country. He idly swings a sneaker-clad foot against the leg of his stool, shaking peachy-pink bangs out of his face. There’s a shape moving towards him, a shape that turns into a decent enough looking guy with a red flannel and a camo cap with a swooshy emblem of lines vaguely resembling a deer. The man’s eyes trace the silhouette of his body. The man extends his hand with a smile.

“Hey. I’m Greg.” He smiles back, letting his voice lilt upwards in register.

“Ty,” he says, lightly gripping and shaking the hand. Greg’s touch is gentle, like the way his mama taught him to treat a lady.

Poor fucker.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Greg asks. Ty nods and turns a little as Greg perches next to him.

They make small talk and Ty goes through the motions like he’s checking them off of a list: bat your lashes, lean in, mirror whatever he does without being too masc. He’s not a bad looking guy - scruffy dark brown hair poking out from under his cap, the stubble around his lips and along his jaw darker in shade. The sun’s baked some premature lines into his face, making the platonic ideal of a working man. 

Greg compliments his bobbed hair; he doesn’t need to know that it was ten bucks at the party store. The unnatural shine disappears in the dimness of the room.

Ty coyly glances into a compact mirror and he can see what no one else can. Lingering dark circles under his eyes, hidden under what feels like an inch of cakey under-eye concealer. Gauntness in his cheeks, blended out with bronzer and contour. Cracked dry lips scoured with his fingernail and smothered in balm. The mask is still in place though, and Greg’s just enough beers deep to stay blind to it all. Greg leans in, cheap fermentation on his breath.

“How ‘bout you n’ me get out of here,” he says, aiming for a sexy purr and landing somewhere around buddy-you’re-lucky-you’re-so-hot. Ty smiles, looking Greg over through his lashes.

“‘Kay. Wanna come ‘round to mine?” Greg slides off of his stool and offers Ty his arm. Just like mama taught him.

Ty tries not to think of the families. The mothers, the fathers, the siblings. The children and spouses, in some cases. Carrie Underwood, eat your heart out.

He drives, Greg’s enthusiasm having gotten the better of him. He takes a back-assward kinda way, winding in back alleys with Greg’s hand on his thigh, Ty’s skirt shifted up a little and Greg’s thumb stroking the bare skin. He parks and flashes a look at Greg, eyes half-lidded with his lip in his teeth.

The apartment is down a short flight of stairs, behind a door, down a hall, behind another door. One room plus bath, hastily painted slum-lord white, linoleum floor. Furnished in some decent pieces nabbed from campus when the students were moving out. Sure, it’s a shithole, but for six hundred a month it’s Ty’s shithole. He makes it work.

As soon as Ty’s door shuts behind them Greg is on him, pulling Ty close and his lips landing everywhere. Hunger outweighs revulsion.

Checking boxes again. Pulling each other’s clothes off, Ty letting Greg take the lead because he doesn’t want it. So much for gentlemanliness. Greg says some dirty shit about Ty not wearing a bra; Ty can barely parse the words. He hasn’t owned a bra in years anyways.

Greg’s got a tight body, well-muscled and tan. The smell of sun lingers on his skin and for a moment Ty wants to slow down, to feel human warmth. To ask Greg to be gentle and let real threads of connection pull them closer together. He imagines what Greg could look like in the daylight - maybe he has coppery tones in his hair, maybe his eyes shine honey-gold. Maybe he really is a gentleman and had they met anywhere else he’d be a better man.

He’s probably wrong.

Hunger outweighs yearning.

They’re both naked and Ty drops backward onto the bed, landing in an almost cartoonishly coquette pose. Through the miracle of glue his wig is still on. Greg lies next to him and they kiss and kiss, the malt and hops fading like a bad smell you’ve lived with for too long. This has gone on for too long.

Ty hooks a leg around Greg’s hip and rolls, moving Greg onto his back and slowly grinding wet against Greg’s dick. He looks down at Greg, the pity on his face hiding in the shadows of the dark room. I’m sorry, he whispers, before his mind shuts off and something else awakens. Now Greg is meat. Just a big hunk of Okie beef.

It’s not the kind of sickening crunch you’d expect, it’s more like your cousin’s bully mix absolutely fucking up a turkey leg stolen from the fold-up table at meemaw’s birthday party. Unlike most mammals, there’s no bone in there. It’s just veins, cartilage, soft spongy flesh. When the jaws close around it, Ty lets out a soft, shuddering moan.

Then the screaming starts.

Another vital virtue of the apartment is how little sound travels, especially with all the hippie-ass tapestries on the walls hiding the layers of sponge and foam. Greg is screaming and thrashing under him, scared and bleeding and hurling every slur he can think of in Ty’s direction. Even the ones that don’t apply. Nobody upstairs is any the wiser. Something raises his hands and presses them over Greg’s mouth.

Red pools between his legs, splattering when Greg starts bucking his hips to shake Ty off. He tries to grab at Ty and tear him away, beat him, do anything to break free, but the jaws are like a fuckin’ hyena’s and he’s losing a lot of blood very fast.

When Greg stops moving there’s a nudge at the back of Ty’s brain. Hey, kid. Time to move on to the main course.

He puts his earpods in and starts up a multiparter podcast about mail fraud, turning it up as loud as he can. It’s not that he’s interested in the subject, it’s just better than the noises. Ty hooks his arms under Greg’s and drags him to the tub, a trail of blood following them. Great, now he has to clean up all this God-damned blood.

He gets Greg into the tub, although it’s a hell of a task. Greg might as well be a real side of beef with his dead weight; Ty almost wishes he was frozen and could just slide around. That would take far too long though. His freezer isn’t that big. He sits in the tub with the body and props his ankles up on the edges, legs spread wide, and leans back with his head on an inflatable shell-shaped pillow.

Some noise leaks in, like when you’re eating chips and it can be hard to hear anything else because it’s literally inside your head, you know? He can feel the works moving inside him, the teeth chewing slowly, some kind of fucked up peristalsis rippling the wrong way through his bowels. It’ll take all night, but it’ll shut the damn thing up for a while. He pulls out a blanket from behind the toilet bowl and covers himself before closing his eyes. A drowsy food coma to end the day.

[hyphyphurray]

Are You Sure?

The best part about my boy is the part of him that peeks out, whatever I change him into. He's always just so eager to play, to learn the rules of whatever role I've just shifted him into.

It's almost a challenge for me at this point, to see if there's some kind of guy that I can turn him into, where I would actually have a hard time finding him within.

I was astonished how much he just went with it when I first changed him.

“How would you describe yourself, Matt?” I asked him, lying in bed as he poked through out closet, picking out a shirt.

“Um...” he said, not really turning. “To who?”

“What kind of vibe do you give off, if someone were to see you on the street,” I said, staring at his back.

He gave a light laugh and slight shrug.

“I dunno, probably your average Brooklyn hipster, early 30's, tall, skinny, boy next door in flannel,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I said, and he stopped. “Are you sure they wouldn't see you as some scruffy jock on his way to the gym?”

And suddenly, he stood all the way up, his arms swelling, his floofy hair shrinking down into a buzzcut. A short beard crept along his face as his chest broadened, stretching out a Nike tee across his meaty pecs. He shrank down a few inches, his loss of height offset by his sudden broadness.

He turned to me. I froze, waiting to see his reaction.

And then, without missing a beat, he popped his arms behind his head and flashed me a grin.

“I can't help it if people stare at my guns,” he said in his now lower voice, flexing his biceps, and taking a step toward me. He looked down at himself, and then back at me.

“Like what you see, babe?” he said.

I did.

He took a step closer.

“Want a whiff of these pits before I hit the gym then?”

I did.

I kept him as a jockboy for a week. And then, one morning, as he was pulling out a pair of gym shorts, I asked him, “How would you describe yourself?”

He gave a low, gruff chuckle.

“Probably some dumb, scruffy jock,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, and he froze. “Are you sure people wouldn't see you as some just turned 19, smooth faced skater boy?”

He looked at me the whole time he shrank, as his frame got leaner and leaner. Years melted off him as his beard and body hair disappeared, and a golden glow ran over his face and skinnier body. His lips got puffier, his eyes softer. I caught a glimpse of his slightly longer, spiky hair as a blue skater cap appeared on his head. The former gym rat, now 5'7'', maybe 130 pound skater seemed less cocky, more boyish.

“I mean, the skateboard kinda gives it away,” he laughed, light and bubbly, still not breaking eye contact.

I stood up. He came up to my chest now. I wrapped my arms around his now lithe frame and kissed him. He melted into my embrace, leaning into my grip.

Our kiss finally broke and I looked down at him. And there he was, eyes alight. My same boy.

And so it went, for weeks. We would never talk about the change. I never asked him if he liked being one man over another. He had the same eager grin, no matter the man, no matter the role. An older dom daddy: my boy. A twinky porn star go-go dancer: my boy. A chubby chain smoking bear: my boy. A clean cut sailor on leave: my boy.

It’s Friday night. He’s about to cook us dinner when I call out,

“How do you think people see you?”

“I'm sure the glasses and patched elbows on my blazer give away that I'm some kind of academic,” he says, gently.

“Are you sure?” I grin. “Are you sure you're not a kinky, gear addict slut?”

He adjusts the harness as it wraps around his chest and stares at me, on the bed.

“Dinner can wait, boy,” he growls.

And as he steps toward me, massive dildo in hand, I see it flash in his face.

My boy. I’m sure of it.

[yespolkadotkitty]

When you arrive home, achy, tired, the strains of the radio can be heard winding through the house. “Frankie?” you call, toeing off your shoes, and going to search for him.

You pass by the kitchen - empty. Something smells fantastic in a pot on the stove, but you put off investigating it until you find Catfish.

He’s sitting in a chair in the yard, his ballcap pulled down low, hair sticking out of it at all angles. His legs are stretched out in front of him, arms folded over his chest, and your heart just turns over at the sight of his dear face, relaxed in sleep.

Chuckling, you slip the ball cap off his head, dropping it into his lap, and he jerks awake, mumbling something incoherent before his sleepy eyes open.

“Just resting my eyes, babe,” he mutters, and his mouth turns up at one corner in that adorable, habitual half smile of his.

“Sure you were.”

The radio by the leg of his chair starts to play the familiar, dulcet tones of Springsteen’s Secret Garden, and you sigh. It’s one of your favourite songs.

Frankie stands up and stretches, rounding the chair and pulling you in for a hug. He smells of grillsmoke and paprika and something uniquely Frankie,  and you melt into him.

“You love this song,” he murmurs, and then encourages your arms to loop around his neck. “You wanna dance with me, sweet girl?”

“I..” You should check on whatever he’s put on the stove, really. Would it be burned? And you need to call the doctor to check what time your appointment is tomorrow-

Then Frankie dips his head and brushes his lips over yours, and he tastes warm and sweet, and his scruffy face tickles you in just the right way, and you think: fuck it.

Springsteen croons from the ancient radio as Frankie sways with you, and you slip one hand over his t-shirt, beneath his battered flannel shirt, rest your palm on his lower back.

“She’ll lead you down the path…” Frankie sings lowly against your hair, off-key and in reality, pretty fucking awful, but he’s so soft and sweet that you don’t care. He’s yours, and you remember when you first met, when you watched him shyly take his cap off and ran a hand through his tumble of thick hair, when you heard him laugh, saw the corners of his eyes crinkle, and ached to be his.

“What did you cook?” you ask against his collarbone. 

“The famous Morales five-alarm chilli.”

You wince, and he laughs. 

“I’ve toned it down to three alarms for you. And the stove’s on a low heat; it won’t burn.”

You snuggle in, breathing in the scent of his skin. He’s your home, and just breathing him in fills you with a rush of oxytocin. 

Bruce continues to sing softly from the old radio speakers, and the sun is just setting, birds serenading the arrival of dusk, and a gentle breeze sways the oak tree in your yard as Frankie rocks you in his arms. 

Your hand wanders down his back and you tuck your fingers in the pocket of his jeans. They are so old that one of the knees has a big hole in, and the crotch is almost indecent, but he never wears them outside - they’re his home jeans. He murmurs approval as you cup his ass, and you wiggle in closer and you can feel his interest stirring against your belly. “Sweet girl,” he mumbles again, but his voice has dropped half an octave. “Need you.”

“Let’s dance a little longer.” 

The radio has segued into Tom Petty’s It’ll All Work Out, and the neighbourhood is quiet. From a few houses away, the enticing smell of barbecue drifts in, but here in Frankie’s arms, you’re safe, and loved, and the world beyond is a million miles away.

You stretch up to kiss him and Catfish obliges, taking your offering and parting your lips with his, licking into your mouth, and it’s sweet and hot and oh, you missed him, and you thrust your fingers into his hair, loving the texture.

“Yo, Catfish! You back there?”

You laugh against your husband’s mouth. “You didn’t say we were having company…?”

“Fuck. Sorry, baby. Forgot.” He curses again in Spanish, dropping his forehead to yours as Pope and Ironhead appear around the side of the house. “Sure hope I’ve made enough chilli,” he grumbles, as you move to greet the boys - friends of yours as much as Franke’s. They’ve all helped each other through some truly serious shit, and you love them like brothers.

Even so, you would have liked just one more dance in the garden with Frankie.

But, you think, as you watch him hug his friends and joke around with Pope in Spanish, there’s always tomorrow.

----

Tagging people who might like this: @abuttoncalledsmalls @paniclana @secretpajamas @keeper0fthestars @spacegayofficial @the-real-xhorse @alldatalost @agentpike @hopelessromanticspoonie @just-the-hiddles @littlemissthistle @restingnurseface @pedropascalito @pedropasscals @palaiasaurus64 @adorkabeezle @wolvesandhoundshowltogether @engineeredfiction @queenofheavenandhell @lannister-slings-and-arrows @poenariuniverse @mostly-megan 

Please do ask to be added to released from the taglist! 

[gumnut-logic]

The Servo

This is Sotto Voce AU. Timeline after The One with the Talking Cow. The Sotto Voce Universe is gen with lots of whump and angst.

I don’t know whether this is going anywhere. I just pulled over to the side of the road and wrote. This is what came out. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

-o-o-o-

He drew attention from the moment he pulled up at our servo. Now I know those people over in Cairns might be used to that kind of car, but we certainly aren’t. It was metallic green and it shimmered in the afternoon sun. For a bit I thought he might be lost, but he jumped out of the car looking happy enough.

He stood there for a moment, apparently staring at his car, but the laugh that burst from him led me to realise that there was someone else with him.

That someone else turned out to be a shorter man, sun bleached and smiling just as much as his darker haired companion. It was at that point I realised that the Lamborghini, because, yes, it was a green Lamborghini and very nicely decked out one at that, was left hand drive and had obviously been imported from somewhere far from here.

The shorter man jumped out of the driver’s seat and waved the first man into our little one stop shop. He then proceeded to pump petrol into the car.

He was a good looking man, I can tell you that. Hair a little scruffy and stubble that read style more than neglect. He wore a pair of sunnies that spoke cool, calm and certainly not short of cash. He was simply dressed, but he walked with poise and I had no doubt that he sported some nice eye candy under that flannel shirt.

Actually, come to think of it, the flannel was odd. We do live in the semi-arid tropics. It wasn’t like he would need to keep warm.

When he reached the door, though, all that fell away from him. He hesitated. His hand reached for the door, but pulled back, almost as if he was afraid.

Now I know our one horse town, shanty servo wasn’t much to look at, and is certainly far from those swish On The Go outlets you get in the larger towns, but I like to think we are friendly to local, tourist and truckie alike.

He took a step back and his shoulders dropped.

I was about to walk around the counter and go and speak to him, ask him if he needed help, but then he started talking to himself.

I could just hear him. His voice was soft and a little worried. It sounded like he was attempting to talk himself into opening the door. He blinked and flinched at least twice and he went from confident to almost frail in seconds.

I hurried out to the door and opened it slowly. “Sir, can I help you?”

He startled, but seemed to get a hold of himself. “Uh, um, we’re just getting gas. Do you have any soda for sale?”

Definitely American. We get a few of those around here from time to time, mostly tourists, but occasionally business people travelling between cities.

“Sure, luv, come in. We’ve got the usual Coke, Fanta, juices, water, all up the back there.” I pointed in the direction of the fridges. “Do you have a preference?”

“Coffee?”

“No coffee!” The shout came from the car where the other man was finishing up with the petrol cap in one hand. “Virgil, I told you, no coffee!”

‘Virgil’ rolled his eyes. “Coke it is then.”

I smiled at him. “I’ll grab you a couple.”

I hurried up the back and pulled out two 600ml bottles and brought them around to the cash register.

Virgil was still standing in the door.

“Sir?”

Again, he startled as if he had been miles away. “Oh, I’m sorry. Um, Gordon is just finishing up with the car, he’ll be in with the card in a moment.” And he turned to look at the shelves, apparently browsing, but he obviously wasn’t.

It was so odd. He was definitely a rich man, healthy looking, though admittedly, I couldn’t see behind his sunglasses. One minute happy and confident, the next frightened and vulnerable.

And talking to himself.

He was at it again.

But then it occurred to me that maybe he wasn’t talking to himself, maybe he had a pair of earbuds in and he was talking on his phone. I couldn’t see any, but there were always new fangled things coming out.

“Eos, that’s not funny!”

It was my turn to jump. He wasn’t angry, more frustrated, but he was shouting it at, well, no one.

Phone, he has a phone in his pocket, Ella, calm down.

“Well, you’re the one bugging me.” His frown was enough to split his face in two.

‘Gordon’ chose that moment to bounce in through the doors and clap a hand on Virgil’s shoulder. “You’re talking to yourself again.”

“What?” Virgil blinked, stared at me for a second and looked away. “Shit.”

“I should never have bought you that phone.” Gordon smiled at him and I admit, I felt some relief.

Virgil darted another glance at me and to my surprise that vulnerability and fear was back. It was horrible to see a confident man so stricken over something so simple.

Gordon squeezed his shoulder and stepped away, pulling a very fancy credit card out of his wallet.

Perhaps they would have paid their bill and driven off and I would have been none the wiser to who they were, but at that moment a semi pulled into the driveway.

This was nothing unusual. Semi-trailers are a mainstay of our custom. Except this one didn’t slow down.

It didn’t stop.

It ploughed right through our front door.

-o-o-o-

TBC?

[iwritestuffsometimes]

Cockroaches (Roughest draft) part 3

The blackness left me and I was in a corn field. For a few precious seconds, I thought I had just passed out during my morning chores and had a very real, very long, horrific nightmare. I thought everything would be perfect and normal again and I could forget about shiny beings and horrible men who control them. Glancing up, my heart sank as I realized this wasn’t my family owned garden. I sat up and saw a house that was collapsed on one side, smoke was rising from a hole cut into the ceiling.

“G’mornin sunshine!” a voice said behind me.

“NO!” I screeched, forming my hands into tight fists. I spun around, thoroughly expecting to see The Traitor coming to take me back.

“Woah. Kay. So, not a good morning then. I was just being polite. Don’t birth a cow.” He held his hands up defensively. I squinted my eyes at him. I could very well be imagining him. “What? Do I have food on my face?” He frowned and ran one hand across his mouth; the other held two dead rabbits. He looked like a completely average twenty-year- old. He wasn’t buff but wasn’t skinny either. He wore a ratty Star Wars baseball cap, a flannel shirt, jeans, and dirty canvas tennis shoes. His eyebrows were blond.

“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? How did I get here?” I needed answers.

“Calm down, there, Red.” He nodded at the dilapidated house. “I’m hungry. I aint about to stand out here and explain the ways of the world to you on an empty stomach,” he started toward the shelter. I followed. “Name’s East by the way.” He tossed over his shoulder. I could see little red curls contrasting with the black of his cap. “Watch your step.” He said as he pulled the screen door off its hinges and leaned it against the wall. I frowned in question but he never explained. “Hey Toby! I brought fresh meat.” He yelled into the house. “And something to eat too.” He winked at me and smiled at his joke. “Well hello there.” A scruffy looking man appeared from around a corner. “You’re just in time for lunch.” He had a strong southern drawl. His teeth were slightly yellowed, his eyes were the brightest green I’d ever seen, and he too, wore a cap with red hair peeking from the bottom. “Made ham and corn.” He nodded towards the fire made in the middle of what used to be a living room and handed my companion and I plates as we sat down around it. “So, who are you?” He asked between bites of meat.

“Uh. My names Dustin.” I swallowed a chunk of slightly rotted corn. Compared to the slop I was forced to eat before, this was heaven.

“Dustin?” James snorted. “That’s a stupid name for a lady.” I frowned at him like I hadn’t heard it a million times before. “So, Dustin, how’d you end up inside the Raid Can?”

“Raid Can?” I asked around a mouthful of ham.

“Ya know. Raid. Poison.” He took the rabbits from East and began cutting the skin open. “Get it?” I frowned and shook my head. He jerked on the fur of one of the rabbits and it ripped away from the meat with a wet sound. “Roaches are the only critters who can build up a tolerance of that junk, see?” They tried to use their Raid Can to exterminate ev’ry body. ‘Cept it didn’t work as well as it was supposed to- just like Raid never really worked the way it was supposed to. It didn’t work on us.”

“Us?” I was hoping he wasn’t being too literal; that we weren’t the last three people on Earth.

“Fire crotches.” He nodded. “My theory is there’s something in our DNA that makes us impervious to their little apocalypse. Like roaches.” He smiled at his brilliant metaphor.

“My Gosh.” My head spun. “Youre telling me the only people who weren’t killed are redheads? That my whole family is gone and I’m not because I have a gene mutation that makes my hair a cool color? That I’m a cockroach? I call bull.” I spat. No way this dude is serious. No.

“Well, its not Red.” East cut in. “Theres a camp just a few miles from here- the only other people we know for sure survived- every single one is a GRITS.”

“GRITS?” I shook my head in confusion. This is too much, this is crazy. I Just want my family back.

“Gingers Raised In The South.” East smirked. “Came up with that one myself before they fell outta the sky.” He waved his hands like a conductor at a symphony. “Freaking aliens man. No one ever really expects aliens. Everybody was all ‘nah that only happens in holos.’” He scoffed. “Yeah, well, a little off dontcha think?”

I shook my head to clear it. “Whatever. How did I get here? Where the heck is here anyway?”

“Well I think this is Andover, Tennessee.” Toby frowned. “We haven’t exactly kept up with names of places. Its not exactly priority number one these days.” He started skinning the second rabbit. “Now you’re here cause Easton here, isn’t too good at takin’ orders from his older brother. I told him not to go lookin’ for trouble but he just aint a listener.” East rolled his eyes. “I was just looking to poke a few holes in that Raid Can, ya know? Just wanted to cause as much damage as possible inside that hunk of plastic. You were a happy accident. I was gonna try and vaporize as many of those shiny suckers as I could. You were there. I didn’t know they still had prisoners.”

“That was you? How did you make the Unvers disappear?”

“Unvers? That’s what you call them?” He looked at me like I was crazy. I didn’t answer. Instead, I raised eyebrow in annoyance. He sighed. “I got a hold of an old 2010 version of a stungun. Modified it. It’s a bit more lethal now.” He smirked. “I can’t believe you didn’t see me. I mean, I guess that explains why you ran the wrong way when I pulled the whole ‘come with me if you wanna live’ line. … I just figured you really hated vintage movie quotes… Or had a death wish or something.” He shrugged.

I frowned. Wait a second… “You hit me! What the heck dude?!” I screamed. “You bust into an alien base and decide to knock out the prisoner? Genius! Spectacular!” I stood up to leave. If this guy has no problem knocking me out, maybe being here isn’t exactly the greatest idea. “Thanks for the food. I’m gonna go now. Find somebody who wont hit a defenseless and scared captive of an alien race.”

“You really don’t have a clue do you?” Toby pulled me back down roughly. “You don’t know a thing. You’ve been living with them for God knows how long and you still dont know what goes on.” I clenched my jaw. “That scar on your shoulder; do you have an inklin of an idea what that’s for?” I blinked at him. “Yeah, I thought as much.” He nodded to his brother.

Easton pulled open his shirt, showing a scar that matched my own, running the base of his neck to his left shoulder blade. “They use the torture as a smoke screen; theres a tracker under that scar. I broke it. You’re welcome.” I reddened and chewed my lip. We finished our food in silence and then “We’re heading to the camp after dinner, we heard theyre thinking about a plot to get at that human leader, you comin?” East asked.

“Absolutely.” I handed my plate to Toby who dumped the bones out the window. “Do you think we could stop somewhere first?” I asked quietly, the men frowned. “Just to Heffron Drive. I have something I wanna see.” I said to the dirty carpet to hide the tears forming.

[noditchablepromdate]

A consideration of the muse via TV Tropes

//Mun comments: these are based on my interpretation of and headcanons for the muse, not just canon events.

Appearance/Physical

American Accents - though Bobby himself is from South Dakota, his accent definitely hints towards a more typically southern redneck. Badass Beard - one of his most distinctive features.  Blue Eyes - sometimes Icy Blue Eyes. Generally when he’s getting particularly enraged. Nice Hat - Bobby is almost never seen without one of his beloved trucker caps.  Older Than They Look - Bobby is in his late fifties when the Winchester boys show up asking for help, and by the Apocalypse he’s sixty. He’s grizzled and clearly not in his prime any more, but is still younger-looking, tougher and much more physically capable than a guy his age would usually be. Seriously Scruffy - Bobby’s usual outfit is heavily worn and frayed clothes - usually jeans, t-shirts and flannel - that he’s owned for a very long time.

Personality Traits

A Friend In Need / The Reliable One - One of Bobby’s defining traits is that no matter what, if someone calls on him for help, he will do whatever it takes to give that help. Even if he’s freaking DEAD. Badass Grandpa - Bobby’s out there fighting evil well into his sixties. Brutal Honesty - He doesn’t really do sugar-coating very well, so if he’s presented with something and asked his opinion he will often be very blunt about what he thinks of it. Catch Phrase - His go-to swearword is “Balls!” and he often expresses his annoyance (or affection) by calling someone an “idjit”.  Character Alignment - Chaotic Good. Bobby gives absolutely zero fucks about legal or illegal, but he’s absolutely committed to helping the fight against evil and is basically a decent and kind person. Combat Pragmatist - He doesn’t fight in a bid to impress anybody, he just aims to take his opponent down and make them stop fighting back as fast as possible, and has no qualms about fighting dirty to get the result. Crazy-Prepared / Properly Paranoid - Bobby regularly doses visitors with holy water, keeps guns to fire several different types of monster-slaying ammunition, and has built a panic room in his basement, made of solid iron coated with salt, that is demon- and spirit-proof. He has also made several copies of all his priceless books and stashed them in safehouses around the country, just in case something happens to the collection in his house. And he does it all because he knows it could happen. He’s even described himself as a “paranoid bastard”. Deadpan Snarker - A fundamental aspect of his personality. No matter what situation, he usually manages to come up with a sarcastic or snarky quip. This can lead to Snark-To-Snark Combat breaking out, especially if it’s Crowley he’s talking to. Determinator - He just will not lie down and die. Even when a bullet to the head puts him in a coma, he spends the entire time evading and holding off the Reaper coming after him so he can warn Sam and Dean about the Leviathans’ plans. Encyclopaedic Knowledge - He’s done so much studying that he’s able to reel off facts about rare monsters, cast spells and recite exorcisms, and draw a number of sigils from memory.  Forgets To Eat / Must Have Caffeine - Bobby regularly stays up pulling all-nighters in order to do research for a fellow hunter, and in such cases will often subsist on strong coffee and/or caffeine pills. This has left him with a reliance on coffee that’s almost as bad as his drinking problem. Genius Bruiser - He looks and often acts like a typical dumb redneck, but spends most of his time at home with his books, doing research for others; when called on to join the fight directly, Bobby proves himself as capable of kicking ass as hunters half his age. Good Is Not Dumb - He might be on the side of the good guys, but Bobby sure as hell is not stupid. Good Is Not Soft / Good Is Not Nice - While he has dedicated his life to helping others and saving lives, and is gentle and caring to those in need, Bobby is also a cranky, short-tempered alcoholic who lives on his own and gives everyone, including the law, angels, and Satan himself an attitude. He’s also not likely to spare enemies out of the goodness of his heart, either - the few antagonists who manage to escape his retribution are usually the ones who talk the quickest and convince him they’re worth sparing. Otherwise he’ll finish them off without blinking. Grumpy Old Man - Has definite shades of this, though often as not he’s just playing it up, for the sake of a cover or to amuse people. Gut Feeling - Bobby’s instincts are usually spot on and he’s learned to rely on them reasonably heavily, to the point where he can usually guess within seconds if someone he knows is possessed by a demon or otherwise not actually themself. Of course, being paranoid, he’ll generally follow his guess up with a test to see how right he is. Handicapped Badass - During the year he spends wheelchair-bound; although he’s no longer able to actively hunt, his mind is as quick as ever and he’s still a crack shot. Jerk with a Heart of Gold - Famously bad-tempered, antisocial, yells at people who ask him for help and calls them stupid, regularly gets arrested and has no respect for... pretty much anyone. Also one of the key players in the attempt to head off the Apocalypse, who loves the weird little family he’s got with all his heart and will do anything for them. Knight In Sour Armor - Yeah, the world sucks and pretty much everything is horrible apart from a few little warm spots... but he’ll step up to fight for its right to exist time and time again, because that’s the right thing to do. Mr. Fixit - As well as earning his living as a mechanic and salvage yard owner, Bobby is able to turn his hand to a number of other practical skills; he’s successfully modified several guns to fire specialised ammunition, and built the panic room in his basement himself, during “a weekend off”. He’s also proven to be very capable when it comes to installing booby traps and surprises around his house, including a trapdoor outside the hall closet that drops straight into the basement and a specially strengthened basement door to keep whoever got dropped in from getting back out.  Nerves Of Steel - He’s faced down dozens, maybe hundreds, of monsters over the years, armed with a few weapons and his wits and, if he was really lucky, someone competent running backup. He’s even intervened in a showdown between the archangels Michael and Lucifer, though that didn’t go terribly well for him. Not much fazes him now. Old Master - Bobby has likely fought, researched and warded off more monsters than Sam and Dean put together, and is known to be THE person to go to if you need help tackling something you don’t recognise. Omniglot - He speaks several languages, including Japanese and Latin, and is able to decipher and translate a huge number of written languages. Only Sane Man - He often feels like this, especially after dealing with hunters who have managed to completely fail at displaying common sense. Physical Scars, Psychological Scars - Bobby has picked up scars from all sorts of monster encounters over the years, many of them reminders of what went wrong on the hunt. He also still has some old scars from his childhood, as his father used to beat him with a belt. Self-Surgery - Given he prefers to avoid the authorities unless it’s really serious, Bobby will generally patch himself up with needle, thread and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Street Smart - Studious as he can be, Bobby is also a capable survivalist and very savvy at bluffing his way into situations - or out of them. Taught By Experience / Seen It All - Bobby’s one of the best in the hunting community simply because he’s made it his business to be. He’s encountered monsters very few others have, he’s studied countless texts to find weaknesses nobody else knew about... and he’s closely linked to the Winchesters, who seem to get targeted by all the weirdest things out there. Which he takes as a learning opportunity. It’s not often he actually gets startled by something. Talented But Trained - He’s a very smart man, that’s absolutely certain, but many of his skills are what he’s picked up over a long, rough life, and he’s honed them till they’re sharp as a razor. The Alcoholic / Drowning My Sorrows - He’s turned to alcohol to cope with the horrific things he’s dealt with, from an abusive childhood to killing his possessed wife to the deaths caused because he wasn’t quite quick enough to take down the monster he was hunting. The Kirk - Usually plays this role between cool, logical Sam and hot-headed emotional Dean. Undying Loyalty - Literally, in his case; he takes lethal injuries several times, at least one of which was deliberately self-inflicted, and still keeps trying to help his boys in any way he can. Workaholic - He doesn’t often take a break from working, at least not for very long. Wouldn’t Hurt A Child / Friend To All Children - One of his more likeable traits - after the horrendous upbringing he had, Bobby will go above and beyond to make sure any kids he spends time around feel as safe as possible. He’s gentle, affectionate, and respectful of their thoughts and feelings, especially if their own parents are harsh.

Personal History

Abusive Parents / Alcoholic Parent - Bobby’s father Ed was a drunk who thought nothing of being verbally and physically abusive, punching his wife and regularly taking his belt to his son. By the time Bobby hit his teens, his mother was also blaming him for his dad’s violence. Back From The Dead - Bobby was killed by Lucifer while trying to help buy time for Sam to regain control of his own body. Castiel, newly resurrected himself, brought him back minutes later after the crisis was over. Bobby will occasionally refer to it as “that time I died” or something along those lines. Calling The Old Man Out - He finally snaps and intervenes with a rifle when his father begins beating his mother, demanding Ed leave her alone. When Ed taunts him and threatens to deal with him, Bobby pulls the trigger. Later in life, trapped in a coma, Bobby sees his father again in the memory and confronts him, fiercely claiming to be far better than Ed told him he was. Dead Partner - This applies to a number of Bobby’s old hunting friends who have died over the years, most notably John Winchester, Ellen Harvelle and Rufus Turner, all of whom he had a particular bond with. Deal With The Devil - Technicaly a deal with a demon, but the same principle. When Lucifer is on the verge of triumphing in the bid to start the Apocalypse, Bobby sells - or, technically, pawns - his soul to Crowley for the final key piece of information that gives them a fighting chance. He also regains the ability to walk, though that was more of a generous freebie on Crowley’s part. (Naturally, Crowley does not keep his side of the agreement, and later has to be threatened about it.) Fighting From The Inside - When possessed by a demon trying to kill Dean, Bobby manages to put up enough of a fight to turn the blade on himself. Hero Secret Service - Technically the hunting community could count as this. Although they are not organised and have no authority figures, Bobby is a major persona within the ranks. Only Child Syndrome - With no siblings around, Bobby took the full brunt of his parents’ abuse; he never really understood why, but his mother once hinted that he was too much hard work on his own for them to handle having another kid on top. Survivor Guilt - Regarding pretty much everyone he knows who gets killed. His attitude is always I should have done better.

Romance & Family

Badass Family - Adoptive version; anyone who spends a while around Bobby will absorb some of his personal badassness, even if they are already damn awesome themselves. First Love - Karen, the first woman he ever really loved, and whom he holds a torch for long after her death. Happily Married - With Karen. Until she finds out he doesn’t want to be a father... at which point they have a fight that never gets resolved, because she’s dead three days later. Honorary Uncle - To Sam and Dean as kids, and to most other hunters’ kids he spends any real time around, he was always “Uncle Bobby”. Ho Yay / Foe Yay - He and Crowley clash repeatedly, but all that snark-laden verbal fencing, long looks, moments of real vulnerability around each other... yeah, there’s definitely something going on there. Incompatible Orientation - One of Bobby’s main attempted defences against the attentions of a certain king of Hell. Like A Son To Me / Happily Adopted - Sam and Dean, who he played a large part in raising until their teens. Also counts for any of the other younger people he takes in and becomes a father figure to. Papa Wolf - Don’t mess with his kids. Just don’t. He will hurt you. Parental Substitute - To many of the young people he takes in or keeps an eye out for, particularly those who have had poor experiences with their childhood. He absolutely relishes being able to be a positive figure for a kid who needs it. Stalker With A Crush - This is how he tends to treat Crowley a lot of the time, especially when the demon’s being particularly flirtatious or overly attentive. Team Dad - To... well, pretty much everyone with the age or life experience to be considered a kid in his eyes. This includes the Winchesters, Jo Harvelle, several other hunters around their age, a freaking Vampire Slayer, and Castiel, an actual angel with the social savvy of a very sheltered gerbil.

[pascalpanic]

Seriously though, I followed you due to a growing interest in several of Pedro's characters and now one (1) scruffy man in a cap lives in my head rent free. It's a problem. Speaking of scruffy, I appreciate how we've all collectively ignored that end bit where he shaved, as much as we collectively ignore Marcus Pike saying his beard was just for an undercover thing. It's very sexy of us 😂❤️ -🪐

hhdnfhrheheh yeah he doesn’t look great in the end imma say it. flip flops and jeans? shaved? a Hawaiian shirt?? Frankie baby....

okay as much as I love Frankie in flannels. Frankie in Hawaiian shirts is canonical. all summer you’re gonna find him wearing one with cargo shorts

[skimmonsie-blog]

sinner like me | daisybucky

READ ON AO3

Words: 6,459

Rating: Teen

Type: Oneshot

Fic Tags: Friendship, Mild Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Reunions

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture, depression, PTSD

Pairing: Daisy Johnson x Bucky Barnes

Fandom: Captain America, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.

She shows up one night. Knocks three times. Stands out in the snow until he answers.

He opens the door. Is surprised for a moment. Then he sighs and says, “I knew you’d find me.”

She smirks. Arches an eyebrow. “You don’t cover your tracks very well, Sergeant.”

A tight, dry smile. “I’m not as good at it as I used to be,” he tells her, a bit wearily.

Silence falls like the flurrying snowflakes. Their eyes meet, mahogany brown and ocean blue. Hers are unreadable. His speak a thousand words.

He swallows hard, realizing he can’t get out of this. “Would you like to come in?” he asks. Ever so politely.

He steps aside to allow her to cross the threshold into the tiny wooden cottage. He locks the door behind her.

A year and a half ago, they met at a bar in Bucharest.

Two ghosts converged in the same spot. Both running away from something. Both inexplicably drawn to that place for an evening.

She walked in, raccoon eyes flicking from person to person, automatically searching for hostiles or just SHIELD agents sent to bring her home. She looked to her left and her gaze landed on the man seated in a corner booth by the window, alone, sober unlike everybody else.

She took in his mildly disheveled appearance. His dark hair reached his shoulders, face shadowed by the rim of his grey cap. A brawny torso under a flannel shirt with a worn beige jacket draped beside him. Distracted, he was scribbling in a battered journal marked with red and blue stickers.

She knew it was him without having to check the file. You chase someone long enough you stop needing to.

She went up to him cautiously, curling her fist, subconsciously prepared for a fight. Apparently he was, too, because she noticed his gloved left hand twitch.

He raised his eyes from his journal to her face, impassive before fear stole the faint color from his scruffy cheeks.

“You’re a hard man to find,” she told him, trying not to sound accusatory.

His square jaw clenched. Eyes dilated. “Maybe I don’t want to be found.”

Her heart was thumping, a rhythmic pounding in her ears. But she pressed on, courageous. “I can relate to that.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Then why are you looking for me?” His deep voice had a rasp to it, like he hadn’t done much talking prior to this.

Truthfully, she didn’t truly know why she went after him. It wasn’t to do him harm or expose his identity to the public. She’d been researching him prior to her departure and now she simply had a reason to track him down. Just because she could. Just because she wanted to.

She answered honestly: with a shrug. “Dunno, actually. But I’m running away, too.”

His wary eyes swept over her, taking in her borderline gothic ensemble. “From what?”

“Myself.” Again, she shrugged. Like the implications of that didn’t carry the weight of too many deaths and too many people left to lose.

He leaned back in his booth, chewing his tongue, scrutinizing her. “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

She knew who he was talking about. “Well, you don’t,” she acknowledged bluntly. “But I can make you trust me.”

CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[nofomoartworld]

Hyperallergic: A Comic Artist Draws on Emotional Isolation and Domestic Strife

From Roughneck by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Gallery 13)

The post-career road for brawny ex-pro hockey player Derek Ouelette is crushing him, but the years that came before were absolutely pulverizing. In award-winning comics artist and writer Jeff Lemire’s ink and watercolor graphic novel Roughneck, a pugnacious former defenseman can’t steer through a weekday without a drink. It’s a crippling habit for the emotionally isolated loner that leads to altercations at his corner bar as well as a stream of memories of the abusive alcoholic father who terrorized him. The weight is only lifted when his sister returns to their hometown to ask for his help. In two new comics from Lemire — Royal City from Image, and Roughneck, the first work from Simon and Schuster’s graphic books imprint Gallery 13 — the artist portrays a pair of families’ difficult pasts as well the obstacles that crowd their paths ahead.

From Roughneck by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Gallery 13)

The Ouelettes’ story unfurls beneath a small Canadian province’s smoking chimneys and ash-toned winter skies. Roughneck’s broken, broad-nosed protagonist beats a bar patron senseless in the snowy present-day fictional town of Pimitamon during a violent first act. Physical attacks here viscerally call attention to a past that Ouelette spent in the penalty box or enduring the wrath of his family’s drunken patriarch. When Lemire breaks from the comic’s subdued blue gradients and deep blacks for full-color flashbacks, we see middle-aged Ouelette’s glory days as an “enforcer,” an unofficial hockey label for a player who racks up penalties when responding to an opponent’s violence. The hockey minutia conjures Lemire’s popular Essex County, but I was also reminded of deceased Saskatchewan-born player Derek Boogaard, and not just for his given name. Like Roughneck’s similarly burly character, Boogaard was raised up north, and his time in the NHL ended while playing for the New York Rangers. The New York Times reported that he traversed Western Canada’s “dark and icy landscapes” as a kid for scrimmages before he went pro. Things aren’t nearly as tragic for Ouelette as they were for Boogaard, who died at 28 from an accidental overdose and was discovered to have had a brain disease. But just as an injury halted the pro’s career, the beating that Roughneck’s enforcer delivered on the ice ended his own.

“I was never a hockey player, Al,” says Ouelette to a family friend, mulling the dirty play that got him expelled. “I was just a thug.”

Cover of Roughneck by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Gallery 13)

Lemire’s balding “thug” has slitted eyes and lumpy cheekbones. His boxy shoulders swallow up a full-width panel’s real estate when he’s maneuvering in and out of the book’s many small spaces. After line-cook shifts at a diner, Ouelette sleeps in a local hockey rink’s janitorial closet. His job is depicted in maddening panels that bounce the reader from a wall clock’s face to a frying pan — a nod to Lemire’s work in downtown Toronto kitchens that’s reminiscent of Mimi Pond’s Over Easy. Ouelette’s contact with others is limited to Al or Sheriff Ray, who is often tasked with arresting him for assault (or trying to — for all of Lemire’s realist endeavors, his character breaks the law and walks with ludicrous frequency). Outdoors, widescreen naturalist scenery envelopes Ouelette. He’s suddenly slight and vulnerable amid a range of black-silhouetted pines or snow-capped water towers on Roughneck’s splash pages. Al, a father figure who grew up with Derek’s beloved mother, teaches him to hunt in the still Canadian bush. Otherwise Ouelette just lingers, gazing skyward and fishing whiskey from his parka to quiet memories of his ferocious father.

When his sister Beth shows up, Ouelette pulls back on the drinking. It’s been years since they talked — after Derek shipped off to the NHL, Beth was left to fend for herself on a path that led her to homelessness, opioid abuse, and into the arms of a scruffy criminal named Wade whose red-checked flannel pops from Lemire’s primary-color palette. He differs little from their father.

“You left me,” Beth tells Ouelette. “I was thirteen and you left me alone here, Derek!”

Difficult circumstances force the siblings to hide away — out of Wade’s reach — at Al’s remote hunting cabin. There’s trouble ahead for Beth, and its related tension is paired with a reopening of fresh childhood wounds. But when she seeks out her father at his blue-collar job near Pimitamon, it feels extraneous and inauthentic. The confrontation has all the limpness of an afternoon soap opera compared to the artist’s portrayal of the decades-old trauma that Derek and Beth finally sort out at the cabin. The siblings’ austere temporary quarters are darkened with robust ink strokes and sapphire paint washes, and Lemire revisits the type of familial responsibility that bubbled to the surface in his magnificent graphic novel The Underwater Welder three years before he finished Roughneck. Tucked deep into richly visualized woods, Derek commits to shielding Beth from the kind of danger that characterized their past. But he’ll need to do it without so much as throwing a single punch.

From Royal City by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Image Comics)

Royal City, one of Lemire’s several monthly comics, abounds with sentimental overtones and supernatural flourishes that mirror those in The Underwater Welder. Here, the artist chronicles domestic strife and a reckoning with the past à la Roughneck. When a stroke lands their father in the hospital, the three adult Pike children and their mother grapple with a fracturing present and the traumatic years behind them. The full-color first arc of Royal City isn’t without problems, but this is only part of an already evocative drama that takes shape just within the muted facades of a small factory town’s ranch houses and riverside smokestacks.

Graying husband and father Peter Pike collapses in his workshop overnight while repairing one of the scores of antique tabletop wood-cased radios that line its organized shelves. Static, which Lemire relates as swirling smoke trails, filters out of the radio’s dusty speaker grill. It’s punctuated by the voice of a child.

“Daddy?”

The voice belongs to Peter’s son Tommy, who died when he was just 14. His ghost is integral to Lemire’s script. Tommy is drawn like a flesh-and-blood character, and for reasons that connect directly to their own struggles, each family member experiences visits from differently aged versions of his restless spirit.

From Royal City by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Image Comics)

Blocked author and oldest adult son Patrick Pike returns to his hometown, Royal City — and to its accompanying baggage — when he hears about his dad. He visits with a lanky version of Tommy at the age of his death and looks to him for his next novel’s source material. His sister Tara, an ambitious land developer, meets regularly with a young, pajama-clad version of their dead brother, who has a spiky crop of yellow hair. The alcoholic screw-up Pike son, Richie, is gaunt and unshaven, with perpetual troubles and lines under his eyes that lend him a look of fatigue not entirely unlike Derek Ouelette’s. Richie drinks with an older version of Tommy who never came to pass. Owing to a recent blunder, their mother Patti’s considerable guilt yields a version of Tommy as the priest she hoped he’d become, a wholesome figure to whom she looks for absolution and forgiveness.

“Priest” Tommy and his mother clutch a rosary in Peter’s dismal gray-and-algae-green hospital room. The scene follows a lush, dreamlike interlude in which the unconscious father stands on a two-page-length street corner, surrounded by building-sized replicas of the Philco vintage radios he resuscitates in his workshop. Three inset panels layered atop the big ornate consoles reveal antennas that are broadcasting Peter’s own pre-teen version of Tommy.

No family member knows of the others’ encounters with Tommy, and he’s never in the room with more than one relative. The first issue’s narration borrows from his 1993-era journal, which Patrick carries with him and mines for book ideas. Its wide-ruled pages suggest that the youngest Pike took his own life.

“Would anybody notice if I wasn’t even here at all?” Tommy writes.

From Royal City by Jeff Lemire (image courtesy of Image Comics)

Royal City’s characters feel familiar to me, and their pining for days gone by is a relatable notion, even while some of their present-day hurdles feel forced. Pat’s battles with his literary agent are well-worn clichés, and Tara’s marital discord owes mostly to her land-development proposal — one that you’d never risk a relationship over. But these conflicts accentuate the story’s notes of nostalgia and reverence for adolescence. Pat’s novel will keep Tommy’s story alive, and a reckless real estate deal would surely disrupt the unassuming suburb’s quaint aesthetic — the way they know it, the way it’s always looked. This is borne out in precise architectural details of the row homes and factory mills that spill over into the comic’s inside front and back covers.

Clad in a Nirvana shirt, Patrick “wanders the house [he] grew up in like a museum” in the fourth issue. He ponders his family’s inability to fully move on since their loss, and in impressive, abstract illustrations that open the comic, he embodies their state of limbo and his own, locked between his adult self and the “person [he] worked so hard to leave behind.” Like Derek and Beth Ouelette, Pat’s family make a go at unshackling themselves from the past, but it isn’t easy. There’s comfort for the Pikes in the years gone by — before the walls of adulthood closed in, back when they still had their baby brother.

“How old is too old to start over?” asks Pat at the water’s edge. Lemire breaks up the river’s temperate wash of purple and navy blue hues with inked squiggly ripples. “At what point does all the shit I’ve done weigh me down so much I can’t move forward anymore?”

Roughneck is now available from Gallery 13. Issues 1 through 5 of Royal City are now available from Image Comics and will be collected in trade paperback in September.

The post A Comic Artist Draws on Emotional Isolation and Domestic Strife appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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[noditchablepromdate]

Character Development

01 / BASICS

Full Name: Robert Steven Singer Nickname: Bobby Sex/Gender: Male Birthday: August 12th, 1950 Age: Around 60 (officially deceased aged 62) Astrological Sign: Leo Occupation: Mechanic, hunter Spoken Languages: English, Japanese, French Sexual Orientation: Straight Birthplace: Sioux Falls, South Dakota Relationship status: Widower

02/ PHYSICAL TRAITS

Race: Human Ethnicity: Whilte European Hair Color/Style: Brown, cut fairly short, balding; short beard and moustache Eye Color: Blue Accent: Mid-Western American, mostly Texas Height: 5′11″ Tattoos: One on his back of his wife’s name and dates of birth/death Piercings: None

03 / PERSONALITY TRAITS

Pet Peeves: Dumbass hunters, people fussing over him Hobbies/Interests: Building useful items, daytime TV Special Skills/Abilities: Very capable with magic, breaking and entering, research Likes: Rotgut whisky, a peaceful day Dislikes: Demons, hellhounds, being interrupted Insecurities: Afraid of becoming like his own father Quirks/Eccentricities: Says “Balls” or “Idjits” when annoyed or angry Strengths: Very clever, experienced researcher, good with most weapons and magic Weaknesses: Will do anything to protect his boys. Speaking Style: Blunt and to the point, though he can get very eloquent when fired up. Temperament: Cranky, short-tempered and irritable, but there’s a gruff kind of gentleness underneath.

04 / FAMILY & HOME

Family: Karen Singer (wife, deceased), Dean Winchester (adopted son), Sam Winchester (adopted son) How does he feel about his family?: Karen is the only woman he’ll ever love so deeply, and he misses her terribly. Sam and Dean are as good as his own sons, and he’d move the world for them. How does his family feel about him?: Karen loved him back just as much, and doesn’t blame him for her death. His boys consider him as good as their own father, and although they sometimes take him for granted, they’ll do anything they can to help him. Pets: He had a dog called Rumsfeld, who was killed by the demon Meg Masters. Where does he live?: At Singer Salvage Yard, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. What is it like there?: The surrounding area has a large number of old cars piled up for use in salvage, and is otherwise generally pretty quiet, as he lives on the outskirts of a small town. Description of his home: From the outside it looks like an average kind of house for the location, a bit scruffy but reasonably maintained. On the inside, however, it’s much more interesting. The living room has piles of assorted lore books everywhere, a desk with a computer and lamp, and a sofa under the window. The kitchen looks mostly ordinary, but has a bank of labelled phones by the table and a false bottom in the knife drawer which holds assorted illegal or dangerous herbs. The ground floor also has a bathroom and a hall closet which is equipped with a lever for a trapdoor just outside. Upstairs are several rooms, mainly bedrooms, and at least one bathroom. The basement is mostly storage space, with a panic room Bobby built that is secure against ghosts and demons. Description of his bedroom: It is sparsely furnished, with a double bed, bedside drawers and a couple of wardrobes. He doesn’t spend much time here unless he’s asleep.

05/ THIS OR THAT

Introvert or Extrovert?: Bobby definitely leans towards the introvert. He’s not keen on socialising much of the time and is quite comfortable on his own. Optimist or Pessimist?: Pessimist. He’s dealt with way too much crap to look on the bright side. Leader or Follower?: He’s more likely to take the lead than to follow instructions unless he has to. Confident or Self-Conscious?: It wavers; when it comes to hunting he’s generally very confident, but in more personal matters he’s definitely less sure of himself. Cautious or Careless?: Very cautious. He doesn’t like to leap into a situation without scoping it out thoroughly first. Religious or Secular?: Secular; although he knows demons, angels and gods exist, he doesn’t profess any kind of actual faith in them and instead devotes his time to learning how to counter them. Passionate or Apathetic?: He is very passionate about things, but is extremely good at faking apathy as both a coping mechanism and a shield from others. Book Smarts or Street Smarts?: Both. Bobby is a highly educated scholar with a quick mind, but is also a survivalist from decades of hunting various creatures, from deer to demons. Compliments or Insults?: Insults. Even his most affectionate form of address is usually a gruff “Idjit” rather than anything actually nice. Pajamas or Underwear?: Pajamas if he can take the time; if he’s too tired he’ll sleep in his underwear or fully dressed.

06 / FAVORITES

Favorite Color: Blue, though he tends to wear dull colours most of the time. Favorite Clothing Style/Outfit: His usual outfit is jeans, a t-shirt or tank top, and a plaid flannel shirt, with solid work boots and a trucker’s cap. Favorite Bands/Songs/Type of Music: His favourite singer is Joni Mitchell. Favorite Movies: He hasn’t got any specific movie, but he does enjoy action films. Favorite TV Shows: Tori & Dean, the reality show. Favorite Books: He’ll read anything that contains useful lore. Favorite Foods/Drinks: He drinks whisky - cheap rotgut for the most part, but he’ll happily take something of better quality if it’s available - and has a bit of a sweet tooth, particularly for baked desserts like pies and cobbler. Favorite Sports/Sports Teams: He’s not much into sports but was quite happy to throw a ball around with Dean as a kid. Favorite Actors/Actresses: Tori from Tori & Dean. Favorite Time of Day: Morning. it’s usually the quietest and most peaceful time of day, when hunters don’t usually get themselves into trouble. Favorite Weather/Season: Autumn. Favorite Animal: He’s kinda fond of dogs. Normal dogs.

07 / MISCELLANEOUS

Fears/Superstitions: Not much scares him, though his worst fears are Hell and losing his boys. As for superstitions, he generally just pays attention to the ones he knows will actually be of use. Political Views: He pretty much ignores regular politics; they don’t mean much to him. Religion/Philosophy of Life: He’s not religious, and frankly believes all the different faiths just cause more trouble for him to have to stamp out. Allergies: None. Addictions: He’s a barely functioning alcoholic. Best/Worst School Subject: He wasn’t much of a student and didn’t really stand out or do terribly in anything. How does he get money?: His auto salvage business keeps him going, and he does occasionally get windfalls from other hunters. How is he with technology?: He can handle most things, though he struggles sometimes with the more cutting-edge stuff.