#cancel the show already jesus christ

[sharkbath]

Duo nandermo pictures…I need to sit down

[odder-outlet]

Hey!

Did you guys know that Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is turning 5 years old tomorrow? I did.

[etherealily]

𝒮𝐻𝒜𝑅𝒟𝒮 // 🇳​​🇦​​🇹​​🇪​ ​🇯​​🇦​​🇨​​🇴​​🇧​​🇸​.

Nate Jacobs + Fem!reader. Warnings : Dark. SFW, but discretion advised. Slur used.

This one is loooong.

Part 1 : Whiplash

Part 2 : 9 Lives

Part 3 : Blessed

Part 5 : Eighteen

Part 6 : Sin

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Bender? Nah, bend...her (to your will).

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Nate didn't really seem the type to get anxious.

Okay, scratch that. He got anxious when you weren't there to high-five him before a game.

But even that didn't come close to whatever the fuck he was feeling when he called you that evening, yelling as if you'd killed his fucking cat, or something.

"Come faster, come faster!", he urged, ignoring you as you informed him you were only human, and you were on your way as fast as possible. The lewd joke was right there, and he didn't take it. Something was seriously wrong.

"Why the hell are you so jumpy?"

"I'll explain when you get here. Slight change of plans. You're wearing something... conservative, yeah?"

"What?"

"Like, jeans and a T-shirt is fine, I guess.", he muttered, on the other end of the line, as if he was mentally picturing exactly what he wanted you to be wearing.

"Did you think my original plan was to show up in lingerie?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, stop being so fucking defensive!"

That was a slur that you just heard in his voice. "Are you drunk?"

"You're scarily good at this."

"Why are you drunk already?" Wasn't even dark yet.

"Can you just fucking drive, please?"

You rolled your eyes, taking a small moment to sadistically picture his head caught in the wheel, before placing your phone down and speeding up the car that unfortunately had to relive the trauma of driving because Nate Jacobs told it to.

The Jacobs household was infuriatingly stereotypical. Of course he'd have a pretty spectacular front doorstep. It was almost designed to lure you in.

You weren't even allowed to ring the doorbell, he answered the door much before. That was a shame. You wanted to be the one forcing him to come somewhere reluctantly, for once.

"Don't speak unless spoken to." Well, hello to you, too.

"What?"

"It's not just us."

No, no, no, no.

"Nate, you fucking asshole.", you hissed.

"I didn't know! My brother found out you were coming over and told my parents, so they cancelled plans to meet you."

"Why?"

"'Cause our Dad's a jerk, and my Mom's probably going to judge you, and my brother's a coward who hates me."

That was way too much Jacobs drama for one single minute, and you were not even two steps into the house.

"Wait, just-"

"It's fine, just sit next to me, shut up, and don't like... make eye contact."

"Am I meeting your family or getting into the cage with a fucking tiger?"

"Also, don't cuss.", he warned, pointing a finger at you and guiding you by your shoulders further into the abyss he called a home. "Smile. A lot."

Was it really even a normal family dinner if you had to be prepped this much? No, probably not.

"Hey, look who finally showed up!", he chuckled, the fakest breeze in his voice as he steered your shoulders towards a chair.

The rest of the Jacobs family looked up at you.

And suddenly, you'd have been fine clinging to Nate, because he was evidently the mildest of them. Rich freaks.

"Oh, the project partner." His mother, laying plates down on the table before patting your head, was a sight to behold. "Bit late.", she remarked, sickening sweetness lacing her tone as she stared pointedly at Nate behind you as if you couldn't fucking see it.

"Yeah, well, she's just learning to drive, y'know? Goes really slow."

Oh, boo-fucking-hoo, mama's boy, just say you had no intention of having your family here tonight.

"Nate, you never told me she could legally drive."

That must be the brother - the coward. He looked like he'd fucking rip you apart with just a glare.

"I didn't tell you anything.', he mumbled, more for you than him, before making his voice louder. "Y/N, this is my brother, Aaron, Aaron, Y/N."

His eyes made your skin crawl. Like you were a weapon he'd just been able to use against Nate.

"And, uh, my dad. Dad, this is, uh-"

You had no idea when your name had become so hard for him to pronounce, the way he was unable to get it out.

"Y/N, yes, I heard. I'm Cal. Cal Jacobs."

You'd take Nate forcing a gun down your throat to the feel of Cal's hand shaking yours any day.

In comparison, Nate's gun was basically the gentlest thing you'd ever be able to feel. A caress, essentially.

"Sit, sit.", he instructed, gesturing at you to do as he said in his own house or else. "So."

He was so fucking drunk. You could see it in his eyes.

Both Cal and Nate Jacobs were shitfaced.

Nate, you understood, because after hearing his description, even you seemed to need liquid courage to get through a dinner with his drunk dad.

"So.", responded Nate, blankly, as he sat down next to you, as promised.

The chairs you were on were fancy but seemed tired, in a way. Like they were putting up a strong front.

"What, pray tell, is this famous project that you've apparently been sneaking out for, according to Aaron?"

Oh, that was the problem! The sneaking out! Oh, that was okay, that was in your jurisdiction, you could just fix it. Make it sound like there was no other time to meet up. Cool cool cool.

"It's just this thing for psychology. About athletes and superstitions."

"My Nate doesn't have any superstitions. He wins because he's the best.", interjected his mother, as if you'd been holding a gun to his face and she'd just jumped in front of him. You looked at the giant plate she'd just set down. Fucking steak.

With a knowing glance at Nate, you nodded. "Yes, but jocks don't really like admitting it. So I just ask him about his buddies who do have superstitions. Seeing as he has none of his own."

You didn't bother to look at the fuck-you-so-much glare he was sending your way.

"Oh, yes, Mom, Nate's just the best. Don't you think he's just the best, Y/N?", cooed Aaron, clearly hinting at something only he and Nate were in on.

"Yes, yes, he's very good at what he does."

"What he does?"

"I mean, you are talking about him as QB, right?"

He took a gulp of water, nodding as he searched into your eyes for some tell that he'd expected you to have. "Right."

Nate subtly shook his head after you frowned at him. Let it go.

"So, you've taken psychology."

His dad didn't really seem the jerk that Nate had made him out to be. Sure, he had the whole terrifying handshake thing going, but he wasn't all bad. He was the only one with his sanity intact, and the fact that he was plastered yet normal was both relieving and mildly concerning.

"Yeah."

"How come?"

"Always been interested in how it works."

"Can you read minds?"

"Essentially."

"Read mine."

"I... don't know you well enough."

"Later, then. When we know each other a bit better. Meanwhile, dig in."

Involuntarily, your gaze turned back to the asshole you'd had the misfortune of interacting with for the past three weeks, and he nodded, either telling you you did well, or giving you permission to eat.

Either way, your mouth was now shut and would continue to be unless someone forced it open. The awkward clinks of glasses and clangs of cutlery rang through the room, battling fruitlessly to dissolve the tension.

"How's the food?"

Why was Nate trying to get you to talk?

"Oh, great, I really like it."

Nate's mother smiled at that. "Well, thanks. It's actually a new recipe I found on some obscure old cooking show tape my mother had recorded, back in her day! God, I'm telling you, those were simpler times."

Oh. So Nate hadn't cooked. Couldn't say you were surprised.

"Well, it's lovely.", you replied, smiling down at the garbage you had to put into your system. It was nothing personal, really, steak was just gross.

"I must say, Y/N, you're so much more polite than that girl. She was a real-"

"Mom. Mom.", warned Nate, shaking his head and waving his hand in front of his throat in a cut it out motion."She's friends with Maddy."

The entire table suddenly went silent, as if he'd just confirmed your involvement in a pyramid scheme. "Oh.", said Aaron, and his fucking eyes showed you he was full of pure mirth. "That's interesting."

"You're friends with both Nate and Maddy?", questioned Mrs Jacobs, as if trying so desperately to figure out your intentions for her baby boy.

"I'm friends with Maddy, and have been for... basically my whole life. And, yeah, I guess now I'm friends with Nate for the project. I don't get why it's so-"

"She's pretending to be her friend, Mom, alright? It's a childhood loyalty thing, but no one likes Maddy, she's a fu- she's not likeable."

Oh, so now Nate could suddenly write out your entire story and replace it with a script of his own making?

Acting as if she'd just dodged a cancer scare, she placed her hand on her chest, sighing in relief. "Thank god. You could've said that, dear. I was worried for a moment there."

You looked back down at the food. You couldn't shake the feeling that your lack of response had been a form of betrayal, though it was rooted in fear.

"So you and Nate are friends?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

I don't know, Aaron, why do people befriend psychopaths? To save their own asses, of course.

"I mean... what do I even say to that?", you laughed, and it was supposed to mock him, but it just showed how nervous you really were. Fuck. Blood in shark-infested waters. "I guess he's... a nice guy, so, y'know."

Even you didn't believe that. Even NATE didn't believe that.

"That's a new one."

You nodded, clearing your throat as you continued to work on slicing up your steak. All three Jacobs men watched the piece go into your mouth and you wanted to throw it right back up.

"You think he's hot?"

"What?"

"Nate. My lil' bro. You think he's hot?"

"Aaron, honestly!", muttered his mother, shaking her head as if this was all just a playful banter session. "Stop it. Nate said they're friends, so they're friends."

Your phone buzzed.

'I really didn't know they'd be here.'

'Shut up.'

'Ur doing great.'

'I said shut up.'

'Lol.'

"Nate, didn't you tell her we've got a strict no-phones-at-the-table rule?"

You stuffed the phone back in your pocket, as well as any hope you'd get out of this house anytime soon.

"I mean, you're a total smokeshow. And he's..."

"Aaron."

Aaron smirked through his chewing, winking at you. "Well, he's attracted to smokeshows. Total match. But you're, what, a cheerleader? That's his real type."

"No, I'm not a cheerleader."

He sucked in breath, sharply, tutting as he shaked his head. "Tough luck."

"Aaron.", warned Nate, sucking his teeth. "Shut up."

"I'm just saying. It's not surprising he hasn't dicked you down yet."

THAT escalated fast.

"Aaron! No cussing at the table, and especially not in front of guests.", hissed Mrs. Jacobs, as if her youngest son's entire vocabulary didn't consist of the word 'fuck'. "I'm sorry, he gets like this when he teases his brother."

"Or maybe he... oh, wait, didn't he invite you here alone first?", mused Aaron, frowning in mock curiosity.

Nate's hand found your knee under the table, patting the side of it as if he could tell you were losing it. There was some kind of psychological warfare underfoot, and you weren't in on the joke, the origin or the punchline. You were being blindsided. Let it go. Fuck what his eyes told you, you'd fucking riot if you didn't get out of there right now.

Cal, who'd been perfectly silent for all this time, leaned back in his chair, his fork down and apparently, his booze-filled blood shooting up. "I'm curious, too. In more polite words than that. Why are you and Y/N just friends?"

Okay, this was clearly not your jurisdiction. This treatment was not because he'd, like, broken curfew or something.

"Dad, we're just partners. Project partners."

"Shame. She's a knockout."

Okay, Aaron saying that was creepy enough.

"No, seriously, Y/N, you're really beautiful. Nate couldn't do better if he tried." Sounded backhanded, and it probably was. "If you're not attracted to him, it's kind of an insult to me, isn't it?", he inquired, innocently, his eyes twinkling. "Aren't I good looking?"

"What the fuck are you guys doing?" It was weird seeing Nate playing the white knight in your story and not the dragon, but hey, you'd take it.

"I mean...", continued Cal, taking a bite of his food, all the while gazing at you. "Unless your issue is just with his personality. Because then..."

What. The. Fuck.

"Y'know.", said Cal, offhandedly, as if the entire fucking table didn't know what he was implying. "Just food for thought."

"What the fuck are you guys doing?", he repeated, his voice sounding more strained by the minute.

"Nate."

"No, Mom, I will fucking cuss, if they're sitting here being fucking assholes about it!"

"Don't you DARE talk to me like that, son!", yelled Cal, and suddenly, you felt like a voyeur zooming in on someone else's life, someone else's argument, someone else's issues.

Aaron lifted up his hands in defense, standing up as well. "Hey, man, I'm just saying. You're disappointing men everywhere if you don't hit that."

"Oh, you're one to talk, you bitchless waste of FUCKING space."

"One goddamn night! One goddamned night without this bullshit, please!"

"Oh, come on, Marsha, you know full fucking well you're no innocent here! You've raised these boys up so goddamn weak that they can't even fucking do their own laundry, and CLEARLY can't fucking learn RESPECT!"

Evidently the no-cuss-rule was out.

Nate's hand slammed down on the table next to you so hard your plate shook, and suddenly, you wished you had shown up in lingerie. At least the mother would've kicked you out as soon as you'd walked in.

Your eyes stayed on your fork, the shitty fucking steak, and you waited. For what, you didn't know. But eventually, Nate sat back down, and so did the other two Jacobs men.

Okay. Phew.

And then Nate muttered 'faggot', and suddenly, Aaron was ushering you into a room - Nate's room, he informed you, in a hurry - and you were locked in. Screams, the sound of things slamming on the floor, and a distinct crack ensued.

FUCKING CHRIST.

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The light from the living room beamed into the room with the monogrammed pillows -pathetic, you had to remember to mock him for it later- about twelve minutes later.

You knew that because you'd been keeping track.

The entire evening was surrounded by a lack of clarity, and after whatever had happened out there that you were not allowed to be privy to, thankfully , you were now completely in the dark as to what the whole stiff, insinuation during dinner was all about. What, they thought you guys were hooking up, was that it?

But all that just dissipated once you saw Nate standing in the doorway, looking at you as if he had just accidentally broken your favourite toy on the playground at five years old. And he was even drunker than he was before.

And once more, you allowed your heart to break for Nate Jacobs.

Wait, no, scratch that.

Your heart broke for him, with none of your own volition. It just fucking happened.

"Are you okay?" What you were really asking was 'did he hurt you?', but you didn't say it.

He didn't respond, and instead took cautious steps toward you, as though you were a bomb he'd never learnt to dismantle before.

But the caution wore off quite fast, because suddenly, your hands were stroking his hair and he was clinging onto you like a vine. Or a python with its prey. TBD.

He kept muttering things into the crook of your neck, things that vaguely resembled 'I'm sorry', but, I mean, it was Nate.

That was usually followed by some kind of blackmail, right?

Blackmail, not pained moments when his mind led him to thoughts that made him grip tighter onto you, like the hug was his lifeline. RIGHT?

"I'm so fucking sorry."

Evidently, you'd heard him right the first time.

"It's okay. Shh. It's okay." At this point there was nothing else you could do except lie to him.

"I fucking hate him, he's a fucking asshole!", he grunted, his words muffled but strong in your hair.

"It's fine, I wasn't offended." You understood. People are weird when drunk. Not usually asking a minor to fuck them kind of weird, but maybe that was just your lack of exposure.

He pushed you away, looking at you as if you'd just suggested cannibalism or something even more sickening. "It's fine? You weren't offended? Y/N, my dad literally asked to fuck you! What, do you want him to, is that why you were looking at him like that?"

'He's sloshed, he's sloshed, he's sloshed.' , you reminded yourself, lest you punch him again.

"Nate-"

"No. I have a question.", he said, closing his eyes and then opening them wide for a moment. This told you that the liquor had just pierced his skull. "You- You fuck Shane Crestin, the biggest fucking cunt in the world, you wanna fuck my DAD, but you won't fuck ME?", he asked, his voice increasing in decibel and his finger repeatedly slamming against his chest, like he apparently wanted to do to you.

SLOSHED, SLOSHED, SLOSHED. Remember.

"Nate, I didn't fuck Shane, I don't want to fuck your dad, and I- I don't wanna fuck anyone!"

"Why not ME? Do you not like me? You think I'm a prick? I'm not good enough for your whore ass?"

"Nate, I'm just-"

"HOW ARE YOU SO FINE WITH MY DAD WANTING TO FUCK YOU?!"

"I'm not! It makes me sick, but-"

"SO WHY WON'T YOU SAY HE'S AN ASSHOLE? SAY IT! SAY IT!"

"Nate-"

"FUCKING SAY IT!"

You almost cried at how fast you had to dodge the lamp that came whizzing your way before crashing and disintegrating against the wall behind you.

It amazed you how you knew that this boy's mother and brother were probably still lingering in the same house, hearing this bullshit, and yet not a peep came out of them. Fucking jerks.

"Nate."

"I swear to god, Y/N, if you don't say it right now-"

"Fine, he's an asshole!"

He looked up at you. He didn't believe it. It's fine, you didn't give a shit anymore. It went without saying, and if he needed you to say it, he was an idiot. "Bullshit."

"You're not apologizing?"

"For what? Yelling? No, I'm not."

Deliberately obtuse, just like always.

Speaking of which, you were a hundred percent sure you'd been grazed at your temple. Your fingers returned from the site with red all over them.

"I could've been hurt." You displayed those fingers to him, right in front of the eyes, so he could better view the same scarlet gore you had to see in his first ever text to you, but he looked at them like you'd showed him his own face in the mirror.

'That's normal', his look said.

"You could've fucked my dad, too, but neither of those things happened tonight." This was what he actually said.

It was like he'd forgotten what happened two seconds ago. Like the shards of glass lying in front of his wall had always been there, and were nothing out of the ordinary.

"Okay, that's fucking it.", you scoffed, shouldering past him on your way out. You'd hoped he wouldn't stop you, but you'd known he would.

"No."

Okay, you'd expected 'wait', or something nicer.

"Shut up, Nate, don't push me."

"You're bleeding. The corner store doesn't have first-aid. I do."

He said it like that was the answer to everything. That you should never have any more questions about his actions.

You let him lead you back to the bed, the silence gnawing at you both. He seemed more than happy to let it devour him whole, seeing as he was tight-lipped and disinterested, almost, when he turned on the light in his bathroom, foraging around for his first-aid kit, or whatever.

He looked like he was about to go batshit for a second time that night, the frantic manner in which he was throwing stuff off his counter to find it, yanking the drawers open so forcefully they'd scream if they could.

Luckily, though, he found the damn thing, tossing it to you from where he stood. Catching it, you opened the box, wordlessly rummaging through for cotton or band-aids or something to keep your hand and eyes - and most importantly, mind - busy.

The cotton sitting nervously in your hand, you took tentative steps into the bathroom, wisely keeping your distance from Nate, who stood still, ruminating on something with one hand still on the drawer's handle.

You stood in front of the mirror.

The mirror lied to you. It always has, always will. Your damage looked minimal, but that was excluding the emotional one.

You looked away from your reflection's eyes to focus on the side of your forehead, and sometimes to your left, at the occassional huff that escaped him.

Mirror-you grimaced just like real-you, as you harshly rubbed at the skin around your cut. So much red.

At this point, it was impossible to avoid your own eyes, those essentially vapid pools of numbness at this point. You didn't know what was going on, and lord knew if you'd understand it even if it was explained to you like a five year old.

Because it couldn't be real. You couldn't be standing right next to the guy who almost maybe blinded you, maybe even KILLED you, had the impact been angled differently.

Your pain only seemed to be getting exacerbated the more cotton you used up. The piece of glass you were trying to remove from your temple was stubborn, like the man who helped transform it from its shape to a shard.

When you finally did remove it, you were quick to try to put a stopper to the gushing blood coming out of it, but the way you did it had you wanting to scream in agony.

"What the hell are you doing? You're supposed to dab, not rub.", he muttered, sucking in his breath sharply as he slapped your hands away, seeming furious at you for not knowing what to do after you get impaled by a piece of broken glass. "The rubbing makes it worse."

His finger turned your jaw toward him, and he snatched the cotton from you before dabbing softly at and around the wound where the little refracting fragment of glass had sat before, and intact, unblemished skin had sat once before that.

Dutifully grabbing a bottle of antiseptic from the first aid box, he tilted it so that it would gently stain the cotton, before pressing it to your temple, shushing you softly as you winced.

Jovially traumatizing what you imagined to be every single cell in the wound, the antiseptic finally fizzled out, its effect no longer sharp and concentrated and debilitatingly painful.

"You're a mess." His voice was so cold, so unkind, so... detached.

You're one to talk.

"Are you going to say anything?" He sounded almost... bored.

You stayed silent. If he thought you were going to give him more things to throw shit at you over, he was sorely mistaken.

He sighed, his jaw ticking slightly. "Y/N."

Your eyes moved away from the mirror behind him and back to his.

He paused his lazy movements to look down at you, your eyes, specifically, before gently bending down so he was suddenly looking up at them.

What that was supposed to achieve was unclear, but what it did affect was your ability to look away.

"I want to hear your voice.", he informed, his eyes moving between yours.

Like a bull craves the muleta.

Glancing down at him, you realized his eyes didn't match his tone. There was something almost dead about them.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Cuss me out, maybe? I don't know. I don't like the quiet."

"Why, 'cause it makes you think?", you scoffed.

"Yes, actually.", he replied, looking at you deadpan. "It does, and that's not really what I wanna do right now, okay?"

He wasn't bored, you realized. He was numb.

"Okay."

"So say something, damn it."

"About what?"

"Y/N. Listen to me when I'm talking to you. I don't give a shit. ANYTHING." He shook your shoulders as if that would cause you to spit out a good conversation in the aftermath of this night.

"Okay, uh... you promised me you'd listen to Queen with me."

He stared at you for a good while before his face softened, just enough for you to wonder if you'd imagined it, and then he frowned. "I did?"

"Yes."

"Then I will."

You nodded. "'Kay."

"Tell me about Queen."

"Look, man, I don't know-"

"Y/N.", he warned, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he reached for a band-aid, eyes never leaving your wound.

"Jeez, fine. Uh, 'We Will Rock You'. 'Bohemian Rhapsody'. 'Another One Bites The Dust'."

"That was them?", he mused softly, the words dying out a little before they reached your ears, as he ripped the cover open with his teeth, then unwrapped the band-aid.

"Yes. Freddie Mercury's the lead singer."

"The one with the teeth?", he inquired, pressing slightly on the band-aid to ensure it stuck.

The sheer dichotomy of what he was doing - cleaning up a wound caused by him that might have killed you- and what he was saying - some quip about the lead singer of some '70's band he'd barely heard of - was astounding.

"Yup." You popped your p, hoping that would echo around the room and fill the silence for long enough that Nate wouldn't pester you to talk again, which was the last thing you felt like doing.

He gazed at your wound for a little while longer before nodding. "Done. Don't touch it for another week, maybe two."

"Okay."

"And I'll get you, like, a blanket or whatever, let me just put this shit back."

"A blanket?"

"Well, yeah. You don't get cold? What are you, superhuman?"

"I'm not staying here. I'm going home."

"Like hell you are.", he laughed dryly, opening his drawer and carefully placing the box back in before moving to the sink again. His hands moved quickly, squeezing paste onto his brush. "Not this late."

You looked down at your watch. "It's nine."

"It's late."

You snorted. "Thought you were the badass curfew-less one. Now you're freaking out about nine p.m?"

Why were you even still talking to this... thing in front of you? Why were you arguing with him? You could just fucking walk out.

He rolled his eyes, his toothbrush being as thorough as possible for a couple minutes before he spat it out, gargling and then turning to look at you. "It's late."

"I'm not spending the night, Nate."

"You a sleep-talker? 'Cause that's crazy shit.", he said, spitting out his mouthwash and wiping with the back of his hand, walking past you as he opened a cupboard, and tossed a heavy-looking duvet down at your feet.

"Nate, I'm not staying over!"

"But the really creepy ones are the sleep-walkers, I'm tellin' you.", he continued, shaking his head as he picked and chose two of his pillows and threw them at your feet, too. "My cousin, back when we were eight, I woke up and found him, like, banging his head on the door. Ouija board shit, bro, I'm tellin' you."

It was clear he was blatantly ignoring you, but what infuriated you the most was that he expected you to sleep on the same floor which was strewn with dangerous, nigh invisible shards of glass.

"Nate!"

"No, seriously, I don't care if it's like, a medical condition or whatever, they're like the fucking Conjuring movie, bro!", he declared, throwing his hands up as he distractedly moved to the other side of his bed, now, checking his phone. "You're not one of 'em, right?"

"You're such a fucking asshole, I'm leaving."

"If you step out that door, I will fucking kill you."

What unnerved you was that his eyes never moved from his phone. This was as casual as his reply to his Mom asking what he wanted for breakfast or something.

Saying he'd kill you was like saying 'pancakes with butter' to him.

"What?"

"I'm going to kill you if you leave." , he huffed, tiredly. And this time, it was clear he really was bored. Bored of the conversation, bored of your resistance, bored.

"You're fucked up."

"Look, sweetie, we've both had a long day-"

"Don't fucking call me that."

He let out a breathy snicker, nodding. Almost like he'd been wondering when you'd call him out on it.

"Fair. Look, bitch, we've both had a long day...", he corrected himself, with a self-satisfied grin, before continuing, "... and I'm not letting you drive home alone with a bleeding forehead."

"I thought you fixed it."

"With the way you're yelling right now, the blood vessel you're about to pop could rip the bandage from the inside out. Look- I- I can't deal with this shit, Y/N, okay? Not tonight. So shut up and close the fucking door."

"My family's expecting me home."

He raised a brow, as if you'd just said something so pathetic he almost felt sorry for you - like you'd just said you still fucking watched Disney Channel, or something. "They know you're here?"

"No." As if.

"Where do they think you are?"

Oh, he'd expected you to have told them you were with another friend. Sorry to disappoint, asshole, but some people aren't as prepared to stay over because their friend had a psycho family.

"I'd rather not talk about it - I don't like to recall my lies."

His eyes widened, and it looked like, for the first time that entire, painful night, he was actually amused, and fuck you for being so pathetic, but you were actually glad you'd mitigated the agony, at least a little bit. "They still think you're at your internship? You didn't tell them?"

"Tell them what? That some jock thinks touching me is his good luck charm, so he stalked me, found out where I worked, and cost me my entire internship by barging in?"

"Or you could've just said your boss was a perv, and you quit."

"He wasn't a perv."

"I'm a guy. I can tell."

Wow, way to dig at an entire gender's ability to perceive danger.

You shook your head, rubbing your forehead. "What is your problem, Nate?"

"I care too much."

You laughed loudly at that, and he looked too tired to even be mad. "I just don't like the thought of you driving home alone at night, okay? Simple as that."

"Then don't think the thought."

"You're staying."

"Like hell I am."

He groaned, putting his phone back down and rubbing his face as he walked towards the front of the bed - towards you. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want to. Because my family-"

He rolled his eyes, reaching into your pocket and grabbing both your wrists to keep you from stopping him as he scrolled through your contacts - god, you had to get a fucking passcode.

"Maddy- no fucking way.", he mumbled, his thumb racing across the screen. "Cassie- one of Maddy's minions, so no- oh. Who's Lex?"

"Alexis."

"Oh, Alexis Howard? Lexi? She'll cover for you, right?"

"Not without telling Cassie. Now give me back my phone!"

"She won't tell Cassie. How's this? 'Lex, tell my family I'm sleeping over at yours, ok? Love you, xoxo!'", he read out, his voice attempting to mimic yours.

"Is that what you think girls talk like?"

"Yeah, with a scary amount of emojis."

"Misogynist."

"Badge of honour, baby. I'm sure Lexi, one of your best gal pals will cover for you."

Yes, of course, but that was besides the point.

"That's not the point-"

"The point is that you don't feel safe enough to fall asleep around me."

"What?"

"That hurts, sweetie."

"You know what else hurts?", you spat, pointing at the band-aid at your temple.

"It'll heal." He was still refusing to apologize.

════════════════════ ⋆ ♟️ ⋆ ══════════════════

"Smash or pass, uh... McKay."

You almost laughed right then and there. "Smash."

"Really?"

You looked up at his ceiling, imagining him up on the bed, judging your smashability-scale.

"Yeah, why not?"

"You could never do it, you know? Realistically. You're not his type."

"Shut up. Smash or pass... Kat."

"Pass. Hard. Pass."

"Why?"

"I should say it's because she's close to Maddy, but you and I both know the real reason is 'cause she's so fucking ugly that-"

"Alright, shut up."

"See, this is the problem with you girls. Just agree. She's ugly."

"I don't think anyone's ugly. I think it's all action-based."

"God, then you must think I'm hideous."

He scoffed at the silence that followed. "Ouch."

"I don't think you're hideous, Nate. Just extremely unattractive."

"Superlatives, really? Y'know, whatever, I deserve it. Uh... smash or pass, Shane."

"Uh... pass."

"Why?" The glee in his voice was evident and mildly amusing.

"He cussed me out after I said the date wasn't going well."

The laughter that escaped Nate seemed to go on for hours on end. "In the middle of the restaurant?!"

"We weren't in a restaurant."

"Where were you guys?"

"He took me to a club or something."

Nate's face came into your peripheral view as he peered over the edge of the bed to face you. "On a first date."

You nodded. "Yup."

"The guy's both a fucking tool and a miserable little cunt. Anything other than a restaurant is fucking unacceptable for a first date."

"I know, even a bowling alley's fine, but a club is stupid, right? I mean, like, at the very least a café."

He nodded, his mouth curling down slightly. "Yeah, at least. Bare minimum."

It was uncomfortable, him looking down at you with pity the same night that his father had embarrassed him and cussed him out. Wasn't right. "Well, whatever. Smash or pass, uh... Rue."

"Rue Bennett? We got history, so, uh, I dunno."

"History?"

"A miscommunication during prom.", he told you, shrugging, but it was clearly something much more serious. "She's hot when she's off the drugs, I guess."

You rolled your eyes and he smiled.

"Hey, Y/N?" He didn't move back to his pillow, instead letting his arms dangle off the edge of the bed as he reached and toyed with a strand of your hair, glancing down at you. "I'll leave you alone after tonight, okay?"

"What?"

"Like, I- tonight? It was... bad. And I'm... I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm, I'm sorry. If you just, y'know, fist-bump me before every game, we'll be good. Okay? I won't bother you outside of that."

See, he said this, but his thumb kept returning to your lower lip every two seconds. You'd be a fool not to take this deal. But you'd be a liar if you said you remembered anything about life before Nate.

"Okay."

"You should get to sleep. It's two."

"What will you do?"

"Try to sleep.", he mumbled, his eyes moving away from you and towards the glass, which lay several feet away from you, on your left - almost like it was trying to reach your heart.

Your eyes followed his, and you sighed. "For the record, I don't want to fuck your dad."

"Yeah. I got that now."

"You gotta stop drinking, man."

He chuckled, nodding. "No. But thanks for the concern." Rolling back over, he left you staring at the ceiling once more, as if there were clues there as to the enigma that was Nate Jacobs.

════════════════════ ⋆ ♟️ ⋆ ══════════════════

When you'd pulled up to your driveway the next morning - Sunday - it hit you that you were free of Nate forever. Last night, you'd have probably not known how to feel about that. This morning? Fucking elated.

You didn't even have to draw out a map, or take a single moment to think it over - every single problem in your life over the last month could be traced to him.

So fucking yay. Good riddance.

And the next day, Monday, you realized something.

School had never been so fucking fun.

Your classes started making more sense, seeing as you no longer had to look over your shoulder for some motherfucker who'd slit his own throat if you didn't go where he wanted. Fucking yay.

No, seriously. That's it. We're done here. No more Nate. End of story.

...

Ha.

So gullible.

----

Nights after Nate had always been the hardest.

Because you always found yourself losing your sanity and you knew that the only person who could even remotely get your mind off it was Nate himself.

Maybe that was his allure.

Hurting you then comforting you.

Making you cry then wiping the tears away.

But that night, he wasn't there with a blunt or tequila. Hell, you'd have even taken the gun. And you should've been ecstatic that he'd finally left you the hell alone, but at this point you had no clue what you were supposed to be feeling.

The only thing you could do was block him. Show him how mad you were. In your past experience, that didn't really matter to him, but you were running out of options.

And you probably shouldn't have done that, because you might have gotten a heads up about Tuesday.

════════════════════ ⋆ ♟️ ⋆ ══════════════════

You should've had your guard up as soon as you saw Nate walk into the school library that Tuesday afternoon, his eyes somehow darker than when he'd asked you to your face, no less, if you wanted to bang his father. You had no clue whether you had to hide or just keep doing what you did.

Flight or flight was fucking useless.

But your guard wasn't up, at least not immediately, because it was Nate. Because he may terrify you and almost kill you, but he'd never hurt you, because he just... worked differently. Things that may make someone psychopathic, he thought were normal. No biggie.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't secretly hoping he'd come back to further provoke you, because not-being-mad at him was kind of a grey area for you. It wasn't your usual state of being.

The moment your guard went up, though, was when Aaron walked in behind him. Hands in his pockets. Did he have a knife in there? Money? Or would he just flip you off?

You didn't want to find out, but it also didn't seem like you had much of a choice.

[strawberryyyenthusiast]

Diabetic Steve who is at a Dairy Queen with Robin after he went with her to an all girl punk band that’s she’s been wanting to see for years. Steve had been feeling weird all day but he didn’t want to bail at the last second because he knew that Robin would just cancel everything to take care of Steve.

(Steve would do the same for her).

Steve plops down into a booth while Robin goes to order them food. He pulls out his pod and winces when he sees his glucose level.

64 and going down. Not a good sign.

Just to be sure he pricks his finger and holy shit, he’s actually at 43. It’s at that moment, when Steve is wiping his finger with the alcohol wipe, that his phone decides to loudly beep to alert him that, “hey you’re crashing pretty hard and fast— take care of it soon!!”

Steve is rifling through his bag while Robin is already trying to rush their orders.

“Shit,” Steve mumbles to himself. “I’m out of fucking juice.”

His hands start to shake and Robin begins to freak out. Steve is always so in control of his diabetes, she’s never seen him like this. So, Robin does what any other person would do and grabs the largest blizzard she has ever seen on the online orders tray and runs over to her best friend.

“Here! Have this, I’m going to try to get you some apple juice!”

Steve just nods his head and slowly spoons some of it into his mouth.

“This tastes like shit, by the way.”

“You’re welcome, dingus. Now shut up and eat.”

The worker behind the counter comes over and starts talking to Robin after she sits in front of Steve. Steve can’t really make anything out right now since he’s trying to focus on making his hands work. But, he thinks he hears the mention of calling 911 and an ambulance.

Time passes a little slower after that. Steve somehow manages to get down enough of the ice cream that he is slowly rising again.

57 after he pricked. Thank god.

It’s at that moment that Eddie Munson, lead singer of Corroded Coffin, walks in. He went to his best friend’s, Chrissy’s, show and needed a pick-me-up after helping her lug all of her equipment back into their vehicle.

He goes over to the online orders tray and it’s empty. He doesn’t really mind waiting. He walks over to the counter and sees that the worker is extremely frantic as she sorts some shit out.

“Hey,” he starts, his fingers tapping the fake granite counter top. “Just checking, I’m here to pick up an order for Edmundo and it’s not on the tray. Do you know when it will be ready?” He flashes an awkward smile and the worker just points to the table behind him.

“We’re working on it. Your nightmare of a blizzard was needed for something else. Give us five minutes.”

Eddie nods and slowly turned around, where he sees the most gorgeous man eating his blizzard. Reluctantly, he might add. The man has on a light pink t-shirt and brown corduroy pants, thick lensed glasses sliding down his nose. The woman across from him was clad in funky colors and had a dirty blonde bob. She was talking extremely fast and gesturing with her hands a bunch.

Chrissy would love her.

He walked over and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“How’s my blizzard?”

He slowly looks up and Eddie is met with honey brown eyes and beauty marks for days. A straight nose and an angular jawline. Jesus Christ.

The woman looks like she’s about to say something, but the guy beats her to it. “It tastes like if a unicorn threw up in my mouth, but it prevented me from passing out. So… thanks.” He smiles. “I’m Steve.”

Eddie needs to become Steve’s husband immediately.

“And I’m in love.” He pauses and then sees the look of glee on Steve’s face. “EDDIE. My name is Eddie.”

“It’s nice to meet you Eddie. Are you free tomorrow?”

[midnightfictionlibrary]

I Take Whatever I Want, I Want You - Jamie Tartt x Fem!Reader, Roy Kent x Fem!Reader

Jamie Tartt x Fem!Reader, Roy Kent xFem!Reader

Part One || Part Two

Content : jealousy, dickish behavior, slight argument, kissing

Word Count : 2.7k

Summary : Roy is jealous of the relationship that you and Jamie share. You don’t think you could be any more attracted to Jamie, until the Man City match. 

A/N : finally able to get through that writer’s block and get this part out! I’m very excited and can’t wait to hear what you all think. As always, pls like and reblog if you enjoy! thank you to @oneeyedvisenya for giving me the request of reader lovingggggg Jamie being a dick

You walk through the doors of Richmond, hand in hand with Jamie Tartt, your boyfriend. You smiled to yourself. You liked the way that sounded, and you can tell Jamie does too, by the way he proudly struts down the hallway. As you reach the locker room door, Jamie makes a ginormous show out of tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, giving you a sweet but subtly sexy kiss. 

When he turns to his teammates and coaches as you disappear into the office adjoining Ted’s, he points at Roy and smirks. “Have you met my girlfriend?” Roy flares his nostrils but doesn’t say anything as Jamie takes his seat in front of his locker. Just the knowledge that he has gotten inside Roy’s head was enough for him. 

Meanwhile, Roy was slightly panicking. Yes, he was jealous, but he didn’t think you would tell Jamie about the kiss the two of you shared. At least, not so soon. His mind was racing all through practice, and when he finally settled into his desk chair, you were fully immersed in the emails you were writing and responding to, headphones in. 

You checked off another item on your to-do list, and when you turned around, you jumped slightly. “Jesus Christ, Roy, I didn’t hear you come in.” He grunts in response. 

“That’s why you shouldn’t wear those fuckin’ noise cancelling headphones. Leaves you exposed.” 

“Oh? Were you gonna come in here and get me with silly string or pop a balloon full of shaving cream above my head?” You tease, and you get a smirk from Roy. 

“Fuck off. I’m already on your boyfriend’s shit list. Don’t make me smile at you and shit.” You mime zipping your lips and turn back to your computer. 

You type in silence for a few minutes until Roy clears his throat. “I..um.” He falters and then tries again. “I like you, you know.” 

You stop typing, your fingers hovering above the keys of your laptop, wondering what on earth you could say in response to this. 

You settle on “Thank you, you’re not too bad to be around yourself.” 

This earns another snort from Roy. “Not what I fuckin’ meant and you know it. I mean, I like you. I want to be with you.” 

At this confession, you turn around, your nails digging crescents into the palms of your hands. “You barely know me.” 

“I know enough to know you kiss like a fuckin’ goddess, yeah?” 

You blush crimson against your own free will and shake your head, turning away from him again. “That was lust and nothing more.” 

You can feel the silence in the air. It’s heavy. It’s palpable. Maybe you hurt Roy’s feelings. Good, you thought, maybe then he would stop his odd pursuit of you. Not able to stand the awkward silence, you stand up abruptly and grab your purse. “I’m going to get lunch. Have a good afternoon.” Roy stands up as well, his dark eyes landing on yours. 

“Please, wait.” 

You stop, looking at him with your head tilted. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything between us. I mean, fuck’s sake, I almost had you right here in this office writhing beneath me.” 

You open your mouth and then close it again. While you definitely did feel the lust he was talking about, you felt all of that towards Jamie and more. You take a deep breath, breathing out slowly through your nose. 

“I don’t feel anything between us.” You say, meeting his eyes with a hard gaze. You brush past him, out of the office, leaving him standing there. It didn’t make him want you any less. 

—

You plunk your lunch down in Rebecca’s office, angrily stabbing a large chunk of lettuce with your fork. Rebecca chews slowly, watching you. 

“You seem like you’re having a good day.” 

You glance up at her, and your face must have given a deadly look, because Rebecca presses her lips together and silently slides you a biscuit. 

“It’s Roy.” 

Rebecca nearly chokes. “What about Kent?” 

“Last week he kissed me. Hard. Very sensually.” 

“And Jamie?”

“That’s the worst part, Bec. Jamie was so understanding. But now Roy is saying he wants to be with me, he felt something, blah blah blah.” 

Rebecca has stopped chewing entirely, her eyes wide. You look up at her and groan, pushing your lunch away and letting your forehead fall to the table with a soft thunk. 

“Do you have feelings for Roy?” Rebecca asks, reaching out and petting your hair softly. 

Muffled, you respond. “Am I attracted to him? Sure. But I have all that and more with Jamie. Roy is just making things more complicated and it feels like he’s using me as some pawn in some silent competition against Jamie.” You lift your head, rolling your eyes. “And I am not a pawn. I’m a fucking grown woman in a relationship with Jamie fucking Tartt.” 

Rebecca whoops. “That’s right!” She pats your hand. “You’re absolutely stunning, love. Jamie is lucky to have you and Roy is lucky he even got to kiss you once.” 

You smile at her, feeling much better than you had when you initially sat down in her office. “Thanks Bec.”

“Anytime. Now, can you schedule me in with Ted?” 

—

When you arrive home to Jamie’s place that evening, you fall onto the couch, flexing your fingers. “I swear, tomorrow’s upcoming match had me typing ten times the emails I usually do!” You complain, stretching your hands again and massaging your palms. You see Jamie’s handsome face pop over the top of the couch and you grin instinctively.

“Well, sweetheart, good thing you’ve got me here to comfort ya.” And the next thing you know he’s over the couch and lying on top of you. You giggle as he puts his weight on you, and you kiss his hair, sighing contentedly. “Babe?” You hear him ask. 

“Hm?” You reply, a little sleepy now that he was in your arms. 

He looks up to meet your eyes, his blue eyes hesitating. He’s chewing his bottom lip, a sure sign that you had come to know as one of his nervous tics. “Um. I know it’ll be a bit early, but will ya board the team bus with me?” 

You smile at him. “Of course I will. Riding to the match with you sounds like a good excuse to snuggle you while I take a nap.” 

Jamie shimmies his body up slightly so he can catch your lips in a sweet kiss, and you feel him smile into it. He pushes himself up, and pulls you with him. “C’mon. Got to feed ya before ya start actin’ like a gremlin.” You giggle, hugging him from behind and following him to the kitchen, letting him guide you. 

—

Boarding the bus the next morning, you shiver slightly, and Jamie hands you his sweatshirt. You pull it on gratefully. You’re waiting for the rest of the team to shuffle into their seats when you feel Jamie protectively rest a hand on your waist. You look over your shoulder at him slightly but he’s looking straight ahead, his jaw clenched. You glance around and realize that Roy is watching the two of you carefully. When he sees you glance his way, he sends you a wink. 

You know Jamie saw it, because his fingers dig into your hip, never leaving your person until you’re both sitting side by side in the comfortable athletic bus seats. 

“Fuckin’ prick.” Jamie mutters, and you reach out and play with his hair, your fingers grazing the nape of his neck. He hums in acceptance, settling into his seat, and you lean in, kissing his jawline softly. 

“Focus that angry energy on the match, babe. No need to be cross now. You’ve got me, don’t you?” 

Jamie turns to you, his eyes considerably softer as he gazes at you. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Pretty lucky, yeah?” He says, scrunching his nose and nudging your shoulder. You laugh, resting your head on his shoulder, smiling to yourself when you feel him kiss the top of your head. 

You were lucky to have him. He was kind, sweet, and understanding. You were also surprised that Jamie hadn’t punched Roy in the face, but you were sure another player on Man City would be on the receiving end of whatever anger he was still harboring. Towards Roy, towards his own father, it didn’t matter. You snuggle into Jamie, hoping that the match went well this afternoon. 

—

Ted had asked you to stand with him on the sidelines, taking notes on everything he was saying and wanted to remember later. He did this sometimes, especially when he wanted to remember any strategies the other team might be using, or remember a sub lineup that he might not have thought of before. 

Either way, you stood next to Ted with your small notebook, your pen over your ear, watching the game intently. Everytime Jamie ran by, he would point at you or give you a wink. 

Ted looks over at you after Jamie’s most recent show of gratitude towards you. “Y’all two really enjoy each other huh?” You nodded enthusiastically, and Roy rolls his eyes, prompting Coach Beard to elbow him in the side. 

You were secretly waiting for the moment the coaching team gave Jamie the signal. 

You didn’t have to wait long, and you watched Jamie become the cockiest prick you’ve ever seen. Taunting, jeering, cutting in front of people and maneuvering the ball like a pro. 

And then, he winks at you, strutting around while he hits his chest, tongue out. You swear to god that you go absolutely feral. You bite your lip subconsciously, not at all aware that Roy was stealing glances your way. Even if you had noticed, you wouldn’t care. You only had eyes for Jamie, and Jamie alone. He didn’t know this, but any time he did his cocky shit and stuck his tongue out…you had to restrain yourself from rushing the pitch like a madwoman, even before the two of you were together. 

When Richmond clinches the win, the team celebrates like mad, and before you know it, Jamie has rushed towards you, picking you up. You wrap your legs around him, kissing him fiercely. He smiles up at you, squeezing his arms a bit tighter around you. 

You trace his bottom lip with your pointer finger, and his eyes roam your face, a look of wonder behind his blue eyes. You lean in close enough for him to hear with the ruckus around you. “You are so fucking hot, Jamie Tartt.” 

 There’s that cocky grin again, his tongue poking through his teeth, and all you can do is crash your lips to his hungrily. Jamie seems slightly taken aback, but he melts into you all the same. There was no way you would ever admit to him that his prickish behavior turned you on. But you think he might know, anyway. 

“Just wait until I get you home after we go out and celebrate.” Jamie mutters, nipping at your ear and then your neck playfully. You laugh, kissing him multiple times, feeling like you couldn’t get enough of him. It almost felt like you weren’t standing on the pitch in front of everyone.

Roy watched the two of you, a strange feeling bubbling in his gut. Not just jealousy, or anger, but…longing? It felt like his mind halted. That was exactly how he felt about you. He was pining for you, and you didn’t even know the extent of it. He lets out a low growl and turns away from the pitch, seeking the solitude of the boot room. 

You notice him walk away and frown slightly, wondering why Roy wasn’t partaking in the same victory as the rest of the team. You wonder briefly if it had anything to do with you, but you shake the feeling off. 

“Love, I’m going to go and greet some fans, yeah? Will you be alright?” Jamie’s voice breaks through your wonder and you turn to him, touched by his need to assure that you’re okay. 

“You sweet boy, Jamie. Yes, go. I need to speak to Ted, Beard and Roy about the notes I took during the game anyhow.” You noticed Jamie’s grimace and kiss the look off of his face. “I’ll be fine.” You promise, smiling at him. 

Jamie walks away, an uneasy feeling churning in his stomach. He knew you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, but Roy could be one charming bastard. 

—

“Ted?” You called, assuming all three of the coaches had receded inside to talk strategy and about what could be done for the rest of the season. “Ted?” You called again. 

You see dark hair pop out of the boot room and into the guest locker room. “He’s not here.” Roy says, bluntly, with an impolite air about him. 

“Well, shit. I need to give him these notes.” You mutter, looking around. You spot Ted’s bag sitting on the chair he had occupied hours before, and plop the notes on top. “There. He’ll figure it out.” You say to yourself. 

“Why are you really back here?” Roy asks suddenly, leaning against the door frame. 

Against your better judgment, you let your guard down and sigh. “You looked angry when you walked off the pitch and I wanted to see if you were alright.” 

“I’ve just realized that I absolutely long for you, so no. I’m not alright.”

Your mouth goes dry. “You what?” You say stupidly, blinking at the ex-footballer. 

“You know, we really have to stop meeting like this. Cornering each other in rooms that feel much too cramped.” 

You roll your eyes and back up, not wanting to get caught in his intoxicating gaze again. “I guess that happens when you share an office with someone.” You retort, smiling tiredly. 

Roy licks his lips and clears his throat. “I know you feel something too. And it’s fine if you don’t want to say it. But I’m going to fuckin’ say it.” He stays where he is, figuring that he didn’t want to come off as intimidating. “I take whatever I want. And I want you. You are everything that I’ve ever wanted in a woman and I’m sorry it took me until now to voice it out loud.” 

Your ears feel like they might pop, and you suddenly feel lightheaded. “Roy…” You quietly warn. 

“That’s all I needed to say. Just know that I can be better for you than fuckin’ Jamie Tartt.” 

You shake your head. How do you even respond to a confession like that? “Fine. I did feel something the day you kissed me. But I feel that with Jamie too, and nothing can change the way I feel about him. I’ve loved that boy since I first met him and I don’t think any amount of lust can change that. I know you think I’m some perfect woman, but I’m not, Roy. I’m just me.” You shrug. “I’m flattered, really. But this…whatever it is…it’ll pass.” 

“I don’t think it will.”

“Please, Roy. Don’t say that.” You look away from him at this point, closing your eyes when you feel him come closer.  

“It’s the truth, babe.” He says softly. Softer than you’ve ever heard him speak, frankly. You open your eyes again and settle them on him, the look of pining on his face too much for you to handle. 

As you open your mouth to respond again, Ted walks in, and you quickly grab your notes and blend in with the rest of the team as they chatter and settle in. You quickly locate Jamie, who pulls you into his lap. Immediately you are at ease and you melt into him, feeling as if you fit together like two puzzle pieces.He presses soft kisses into your shoulder blades, unknowing of the conversation that had been taking place before. All Jamie can think about is you, and how happy he is that you’ve given him a chance. 

Meanwhile, all Roy can think about is you, and how miserable it is to watch you be loved by someone else. 

You purposefully ignore Roy Kent for the rest of the evening.

[stuffforme2]

Okay listen I lvoe the pjo books and series with all ym heart but.. everyone talks about them like they're perfect WHICH THEYRE NOT any problems are kinda brushed under the rug and I find thst kinda werid? Like you'll see other books and TV shows get dragged and canceled for the stuff in Riordan books and yet pjo doesn't?? So.. uhhHHHH yeah that's jsut something I noticed.

The weird relationshipd ynamics. Rick is like allergic to someone bring okay with being single or jsut aromantic like you can say Reyna but her having a crush kn Jason?? Yes she rejected Apollo but her relationship with Jason deterioted brcuz she had a 'crush' on the guy and that doesn't really amke sense to me (I can go into so much detail kn this)

AND LEO AND CALYPSO OMFG that is a toxic relationship. The age gap. The way calypso treats Leo. The fact Leo SHOULD NOT be with someone like this man hasn't dealt with his attachment and Abandonment issues like st all?!

The literal only black character in the pjo books being beckendorf.. then he dies. Then the Korean/Asian (I'm not sure sorry) character dies, Ethan. And like I understand Percy is hinted st being Hispanic (have seen many ppl talk about this dont mnow if it's common knowldhe) but it's never confirmed or added??? I know Rick fixes it later but it's still weird to me lmaoo

Rick unable to keep consistent personality. Woobigying Nico OH MY GOD NICO HE BECOMES GAY AND THSTS WHDT EVERYONE FUCKING FOCUSES ON AND HE SHOULD'VE NEVER GOTTEN WITH WILL ATLWAST NOT THAT QUICK it's not healthy. Their relationship was rushed and didn't make sense I felt like people only like ot becuz it's a gay relationship??

And oh mygods— Samirah. I am not Muslim and I am not an expert on the Nuslim religion but there is so much shitbthatbeas wrong in thst book that I even knew was incorrect and jsut weird to happen?! The AMOUNT OF TIMES HER HIJAB CAME OFF and I'm also like "yaayyyy representation" but it could've been as easy as one Google search. one.

Jason. Jason as a whole. He had the most potential out of ANYONE and personally I think he had more potential then Percy like his story is so INTERESTING and then.. Rick knocked him iut with a brick multiple times, didn't work kn his sotry or trauma at all, then KILLED HIM. Same with Ethan. I am so Vitter about these two.. HELL EVEN LEO AND FRANK.

Also the way he made Annabeth first quest (first quest SHE IS LEADING AND IS HER PROHECY) all about Percy. I was reading it and I was like "bitxh— this is Annabeth Quest?!" LIKE he it pissed me off that Annabeth was swept to rhe side as Percy's lvoe interest giving her knly enough personality and stary to make her jnteredting enough to eb loved but never delving jntk it into Mark kf Athena and even at Mark of Athena it all rounded back tk her and Percy's relationship LIKE JESUS CHRIST DO THESE MFERS PASS THE BELLDAN TEST?!

The low key incest at the beginning ricj writing that all the demigods had the same impish features at rhe start and then.. jsut.. CHSNGING IT?!

Not letting a virgin goddess who has no history of having children have.. children.. NOW you may be wondering 'but then how would we get Annabeth?'— JUST GiVE ATHENA HER FAVOURITE CHOSEN PPL LIKE SHE DID WITH ODYSSEUS let her stay childless. Jsut let her choose some children she'd like as hers wonce they're Bron and she then blesses them as her heroes, that's how she treats them any way and it also gets rid of the incest?!

Also the fact it's implied that Annabeth is only smart becuz she's a child of Athena.. Rick made a virgin goddess technically have children so he can have a smart women character and that's just.. EuGGHHhHHh JUST LET HER BE SMART IT NOT THAT HARD "Oh, no, I'm not smart because Athena chose me.. Athena chose me because I was already smart" Smacks you with common fucking sense.

Also Annabeth ALWAYS needing to eb saves and its always done by a man. OMFG AND GROVES GF DHE HAS NO PERSONALITY OUTSIDE OF BEING SOEM GUSY GF EVEN THOUGH HES GONE FOR MKNTHS AND BAREKY CONTAXTS HER?!

The whole apheodite cabin. The whole aphrodite cabin. The whole aphrodite cabin.

The fact it's clear Rick doesn't think girly girls cant be strong or into fighting or able to wield a fuckign weapon. The way he makes nearly every girly girl into a total mean bitch or ruins their characters.

[fbfh]

Hi! Do you still write for Logan Huntzberger? If so could you please write about how he would be when his girlfriend gets a migraine? Thank you so much!

HELL YES.

Logan is such a supportive motherfucker. Logan is a moves heaven and earth to ensure that you're content and happy and comfortable and have all your needs fulfilled. In the words of dolly levi, Logan really will insist you just leave everything to him. You don't even need to ask twice, he gets wind that you need or want something, that you need help or a ride or literally anything else, and it's done. He's like a fucking genie or something.

So when you call him one day to cancel your date bc you have a horrible migrane, he doesn't let you feel bad about it for a moment. Before you have a chance to over explain or apologize, he's already on it.

"No, none of that, Ace. I'll cancel our reservations and call you in sick tomorrow, all you need to do is feel better."

You thank him for being so great, and he's overcome with this sense of jesus christ you are so amazing and I hate that you haven't been treated like literal royalty for your entire life, which really just makes him more determined to take perfect care of you.

A while later he shows up at your place with whatever your craving, any medication you need, hot and cold packs, and some light blocking curtains. He speaks in a soft, gentle voice to keep things nice and quiet for you, gets you set up with some tea or a caffeinated drink, and gets you all comfortable. You hear the door to your apartment open again, and he tells you he brought in housekeeping to catch up on any chores that are stressing you out.

"We can't have anything stressing you out and making your pretty head feel worse, can we Ace?" He smiles softly. He lays you down in his lap or against his chest, and rubs your back while you rest until you feel better. By the time your migraine is gone he has several leads on the top treatment and prevention of migraines, the ones your insurance wouldn't cover. Nothing and no one is going to upset you or hurt you, not if Logan has anything to say about it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Firefighter! Steve

Or

Personal Trainer! Clark

🤭

Looks like I deserved this one.

Work It Out

Warnings: allusions to non/dubcon, slow creep, fitness ineptitude.

Trainer!Clark Kent x short!chubby!reader

To those who read, I'd love a thot or two of what you think!

You feel ridiculous. Any regular could likely tell that your leggings were fresh off the rack, that you're chafing in your sports bra, and that the mesh top isn't exactly typical of your wardrobe. The sharp squeak of your sneakers on the mats betray their newness as you cross your arms and look around, trying to shield yourself from judgement.

You untuck your phone from the top of your leggings and see the notification you left undisposed. 'Your trainer will meet you in Area 2B.' You look up and reread the large white letters stenciled onto the painted cement. Yeah, where the hell is she? You want to get this done and over with.

You keep one arm over your middle as you scratch your neck, already sweating. The anxiety alone has your heart pumping. You could just stay home and find some Youtube video to follow along with. Or maybe you should just invest in a Peleton.

You turn listlessly as you grip your phone, eyeing the racks of weight from baby-sized to shoulder-dislocating. What kind of masochist lifts those blocky atrocities? You'll stick to the small ones. Maybe they have something less than a pound.

A pert blonde grips the rails of a step machine as she climbs, her pony tail wagging back and forth with her efforts. Her cheeks are flushed but she's not slowing down. You can't imagine you could do it for more than a minute. Exactly why you wanted a trainer to act as a safety net between you and your own ignorance.

You shift on your heel as you sense movement but disappointment once more has you looking away. It's not your trainer. The guy could probably show you a thing or two, given his bulging arms and the weight belt around his stomach, but no, Melody is late and you're starting to get annoyed. You paid extra just so you didn't die in a treadmill accident and now you're here, eyes popping like a deranged bird as you quork at every noise.

"Excuse me," the deep voice startles you as you consider hitting cancel on the app and fleeing for your life.

You turn and face the man. He's even bigger closer up. His dark hair curls are swiped away from his forehead, and his bright eyes beam down at you as he holds a large reuseable water bottle from a single finger. The cleft in his chin makes it seem that even his face is padded with muscle.

"Oh, am I in your way?" You realise you're hanging out in front of the dumb bells.

"No, uh, you don't happen to be..." he says your name and you frown.

"Yeah, that's me," you answer dumbly, "do I know you?"

"Didn't you get the notification? Melody's got an emergency so we were paired up," he says, "beginner, right?"

"That easy to guess?" You scoff, "uh, no I didn't see the message," you drop your shoulders.

"Ah, not what you expected," he gives a light chuckle, "sorry, I know I'm not as pretty as Mel--"

"Look, I don't want to make this awkward, but I requested a female trainer," you wet your lips with your tongue as the heat gathers in your face, "not that I don't think you know what you're doing but it's more a... comfort thing, you know?"

"Sure, I get it," He looks down at you with an easy smile. Jesus Christ, you didn't think they built people this big. "No hard feelings. You can reschedule on the app with Mel and I won't even charge the cancel fee."

You nod and lift your phone. A pang of guilt tickles your stomach and you sigh as you drop your hand. You tilt your chin up to look at him, "I'm here, alright? If I don't start today, I don't think I'll come back and I spent too much on this get-up."

"So you're up for it?" He arches a brow.

"I can try," you shrug, "but no promises."

"Alright, uh," he glances around then his eyes crawl up and down your body. You take a step back and try to hide your stomach behind your arms, "you got any water handy? You gotta stay hydrated."

"Oh, shit," you cringe as you let out the profanity, "I left it in the change room, can I--" You nod past him.

"Sure thing, I'll wait here," he says.

You quickly brush by him and hurry past the weight racks and treadmills. It feels like it takes forever to get to the locker room and by the time you return with your neon yellow bottle, you're already out of breath. Clark waits patiently as stands on the mats, his bottle a few feet away from his treads.

You set yours down and move stiffly to stand across from him, "okay, ready."

"Right, stretches," he claps his large hand and you can't help but watch his large fingers. It's like a joke, they replaced Melody with this behemoth, as if to remind you of how pathetic you are, "arms."

He guides you in the motions, one you recognise from gym class all those years ago. You didn't like it then and you definitely don't like it now as you put on a show for the whole gym. As you touch your toes you groan and your leg shakes as the burning zap pings through your hip. You hiss and make yourself stand straight, bracing your lower back.

"You okay?" He asks, moving easily as you hunch slightly.

"Yeah, my hip--" You gasp as your leg buckles and you nearly collapse, "fuck."

"Hey, take a seat," he grabs your elbow gently and leads you over to an empty weight bench. You sit before you can wilt entirely and he steps back to look down at you with hands at the top of his shorts. "You got hip problems?"

"Yeah, sort of," you sigh, "I put it on my profile. Locks up and all that."

"Gee, I must have missed that," he says as he turns and marches over to retrieve your bottle, then his. He squats down as he offers you yours, meeting your eye level as you accept it, "last minute change and all."

"It's fine, I know my limits and they're not very far," you untwist the cap of your bottle as his cheek dimples, "what?"

"Nothing," he shakes his head and stands, turning to sit beside you. "I tend to push limits, you know, so you lucked out."

"Great," you grumble, "well, I think the term is 'throw in the towel', the towel's tossed. It's on the floor."

"Come on," he nudges you and mindlessly rubs the top of his tank, his fingers grazing the tuft of hair peeking out above his broad pecks, "we'll take it easy, work up to it. But your hip, that looks like a therapy issue."

"Oh?"

"Oh," he counters, "lucky again," he smirks, "I do therapeutic work. If you don't mind, I can do some proper exercises and see if that helps out. No extra charge."

"I don't know, that's... too nice."

"We'll make a deal of it," he says, "I'll do the therapy and you show up every week."

"Hmm, well..."

"Unless you prefer Melody," he shows his palm, "your choice but I know she's only really does cardio and yoga and with your hip, you won't keep up."

"I can't keep up with standing," you mutter and he laughs. "For how long?"

"Well, you should make it a permanent thing," he advises gently, "but I'll settle for six months. For now."

You look up at him and lean back, rubbing your hip as you grimace, "I don't think I have a choice."

🏋‍♂️

The weeks go by but not easily. As much as your body needs to adjust to your new regimen, you need to adjust to your trainer. Clark is exactly as he promised, relentless. Your weekly sessions have become two or three a week. He made 'no' the only impossibility.

The persistent pain in your hips is mostly subsided, though new aches form in your muscles after each session. If this is what it costs to be healthy, you're not sure it's worth it. Still, he uses the app to its complete potential, sending you reminders to stretch and get in your steps, even going so far as to have you track your meals. Yeah, he wasn't impressed with your late night kitkats.

That day, you puff out as you finish your last rep and fall back on the mat, catching yourself on the hell of your hands. You try to catch your breath as Clark pulls up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow, exposing the muscles above the vee of his pelvis, his shorts low on his hips. You can't help a glance at your own pudgy tummy and the extra jiggle on your thighs. After all this and you're still a troll.

"Well," you sit forward and reach for your water, "this was hell. Thank you."

"You're doing good," he offers his hand and lifts you to your feet, so easily you nearly leave the mat entirely, "lookin' better by the day."

"You don't have to lie," you fan yourself.

"And you don't have to shoot down every compliment," he chides, "go on, cool down. You earned it… and you can treat yourself to a carb."

"Thanks," you shake your head and begin your usual routine. He steps away and takes his phone from his arm band, "you got someone else after this?"

"No," he furrows his brows at his phone, "just canceled."

"Damn," you bend forward into a fan and grunt.

"Be careful," he's near you in a flash, "go slow." He frames your hips with his hands and you flinch, holding back a gasp. "You're gonna ruin all my hard work."

He squeezes before he lets go and you mumble an apology before pushing yourself up. You go into a lunge and peek over at him as he walks a circle around you, taking measure of your form.

"You sure your hip's okay?" He asks.

"Yeah, I feel fine," you squint at him, "what's up? Am I doing something wrong?"

"I mean, I think there's something off," he taps his chin and stops, looking around your butt with crooked grin, "a tear maybe."

"What are you?" You reach back as you feel along your hip and you notice how the fabric feels slacker along your ass. You reach further and follow the rip in the seam at the center of your cheeks, exposing the white cotton panties with tiny pink hearts beneath, "oh my god."

You cover yourself with both hands and blanch, "how long–"

He tilts his head and looks to the ceiling, "they're cute, I didn't wanna say anything. Besides, you were in the zone."

"Jeez, okay, well I'm done for the day, I'll be sore," you snip, "oh my goddddd."

You grab your water bottle and hold it behind you as you rush away.

"Alright, well, have a good one," he calls behind you wistfully, "I think Lululemons having a sale right now."

"Quiet," you stomp away and scurry down the hall as you hear his rumbling laughter.

You get to the locker room and only realise then how empty the gym is. Clark noticed how often you got distracted by other, fitter gym goers and recommended the less busy times for your sessions. You were thankful but now it's kind of eerie.

You put your bottle on the bench and pull out your bag. You take your street clothes and resign yourself to stinking them up and showering at home. You pull of your damp shirt and peel away your split leggings, morning the seam as you look to see how big it is.

The door opens suddenly and you look up as Clark appears around the bricked divider. You cry out and try to cover yourself as his shoes squeak to a halt. He hides his eyes behind his hand as he raises your phone in the other.

"I'm sorry, I didn't want you to leave before I got here–"

"Maybe knock?" You scramble to pull your shirt back on, "call through the door or something."

"Sorry, I…" he parts his fingers and you snarl, "take it."

"Stop looking!" You storm towards him and snatch your phone. "Jesus, as if it's not hard enough being here…"

You grumble as you go back around the bench and drop the phone on your gym bag. He doesn't move, your anger peaking at his lingering, and you look up at him as you open the denim. He stares blatantly as you steam and fumble to get dressed.

"Clark!" You bark, "go."

He doesn't move. His eyes cling to you, falling down to your thighs as he lets out a shuddering breath and runs his hand up the front of his shirt. His lips part as he steps closer, his silence prickling along your neck.

"Clark," you utter in confusion, his blue eyes dilated and dark, "what–"

"You shouldn't hide," his voice grits dangerously as he stops at the other side of the bench. You’re frozen as you clutch the jeans tightly, too afraid to move, his gaze like a predator's; unbreakable.

"Please, just go," you whisper.

"I can't," he shifts to the side as you try to go towards the door, moving the other way as you attempt that.

You sway back and forth as he mirrors you. In that moment, his size is more obvious than ever. You gulp and step back against the lockers.

"Clark, you're scaring me," you hug your jeans and bat your lashes.

His hand spreads across his chest as he inhales, tasting the air as his nostrils flare, and slowly he descends his touch. You squeak as you see the twitch in his shorts right before he grips it. He lets out a quaking growl and tilts his head, cracking it as he bares his teeth.

"I know," he sneers as he rubs himself through his shorts, "come get it before I come get you."

[crinkle-eyed-boo]

I'm looking at this logically and if the anon who had info about Asian leg being canceled also says there's SOME US shows being canceled because of low sales, wouldn't that make it true? I mean Louis really needs to give a reason to the fans who lost money on flights and hotels for this. And some of his US shows that aren't near major cities aren't half sold so logically it makes sense to cancel those. I looked at the first 3 US shows and they're not even close to being sold out with lots of empty seats.

Why are we taking the word of someone hiding behind the anonymous circle with the sunglasses on tumblr dot com who probably just took the discussion on Twitter, where apparently rumors had been swirling for several days, and brought it here? Were they right that the Asia leg got pulled? Sure. Are they the authority on the WHY? Not in the slightest. Everyone is fucking guessing.

As someone who is GOING to the first US show, all the tickets available there are RESALE tickets, with a couple of random standard tickets thrown in. Given now that it's the first show of the entire tour, I would imagine the resale sales will pick up there. (Also with resale tickets...they ALREADY HAVE THE MONEY. The seat may be empty if the reseller can't sell it, but uh, the venue counts it as sold, y'all.)

The New Hampshire venue tackles a good portion of the Northeast where there aren't major cosmopolitan cities. Everyone up there would be used to driving a distance for a show. Dave Matthews Band, Matchbox 20, Charlie Puth, and Third Eye Blind are all playing there over the summer. None of those shows are sold out. Is anyone saying they should cancel those? No. The venue in Quebec? 85% full I'd say, looking at the map, and the only tickets left are the highest and furthest back seats. Toronto? Mainly resale seats. Blossom Music Center? Services Cleveland and Akron, it's two months away, and the seats available there are all the back section. Is it a lot of empty seats? Yes. Did I go see The Chicks at Jones Beach last summer and the venue was MAYBE 55% full and the show still went on? YES.

Shows are undersold all the time. I went to Stars on Ice right after the Olympics last year, and the arena was like 40% sold. Did the show go on? Yes. Now, is it coming to New York this year? No. Underselling could affect his ability to book bigger venues on the next go around (something I am going to be interested to see with Niall, because his 2020 pre-pandemic sales weren't great) but as far as the current tour? As many seasoned concert fans keep SAYING an undersold show is still far more valuable than a canceled one.

Jesus Christ, it's like some of y'all are wanting him to flop and it's INFURIATING and EXHAUSTING.

[to-dance-beneath-the-diamond-sky]

I’m so fucking sick of all my friends and all the non-organizer people in my life not fucking showing up for Palestine. Like Jesus Christ it’s like pulling teeth trying to get them to do anything. Sure a few of them will send the email and call tools but they almost never do anything more than that. It’s always “I already have plans” “I’m feeling drained today” “I needed to stop at McDonald’s because it was convenient” and I’m just so fucking sick of it. Like it’s one thing if it’s one time. But it’s such a fucking pattern. Sometimes you actually can cancel or change your plans to go to something more important. You can go to an action or an event even though you’re tired and drained and not feeling great. You can actually choose to be hungry for 30 minutes longer because you don’t want to support an actual BDS target. Stop fucking prioritizing your own comfort over fighting to end a genocide we're all complicit in whether we want to be or not every single fucking day.

Im so fucking sick of all the excuses from everyone all the time as to why they can’t or don’t show up for Palestine. I go to shit all the fucking time even when I’m exhausted even when I feel like shit and when I’m tired and burned out and in pain. Because that’s what it means to be in solidarity. I cancel my other plans and I prioritize working to help stop a genocide. I'm so fucking sick of people in my life barely even doing the bare fucking minimum. And I’m so fucking sick of not calling them out on it. Especially the people that I’m not that close with because I don’t want to burn the bridge purely because I know they might at some point do something useful to the fight. If it weren’t for the potential that they might sometimes occasionally do something small to contribute to the fight, I would just cut them out completely because it’s not like they’re even good friends to me (some of them are actually pretty shitty) and I don’t respect people who don’t want to fight against injustice and oppression and a fucking genocide.

I’m so fucking sick of having to extensively thank everyone every time they actually fo show up to something or bother to do something for Palestine. Like I have to fucking praise them and thank them for being an ally and actually taking action for once. Because I feel like if I don’t then they won’t ever do anything ever again.

I’m so fucking sick of people not showing up for Palestine. I’m so fucking sick of all the constant excuses. At some point excuses add up to a pattern, and the pattern is people don’t care enough about Palestine to endure any kind of discomfort or make any kind of sacrifice

[chuthulhu-reads]

[ID: a double-page spread from Trigun. In the fore-right, cast in shadow, Vash the Stampede has his back to the reader, so only his startled eyes can be seen. To the left, Legato Bluesummers is walking past Vash, facing the reader, so close that their left arms appear to be brushing past. Legato's face is mostly shadowed by his hair, so all that can be seen of his expression is his frowning mouth. Both men are almost comically broad-shouldered but that might just bea wonky result of the double-page spread. A juddering sound effect is splashed across the pair to represent the tonal whiplash from the previous cheerful page. End ID.]

The framing of Legato's introduction, with him sending chills through Vash just by walking by him, kinda has me wondering if, at the time this was drawn, the plan was for Legato to have Vash's left arm. This is Trigun, before the original magazine got cancelled and Nightow started using the anime to tell the story he wouldn't get to draw now, before the manga was picked up again as Trigun Maximum. Legato having Vash's left arm grafted onto him is 98-only; in the manga, he's had his powers since childhood, with an implication that he might have been experimented on by the slavers who owned him, but it's never made clear. I always find it interesting to tweak at threads in episodic storytelling that show you how the writer's headspace/plans changed as the story started to come to life under them, and I am really curious if Legato's powers coming from misuse of Vash's severed arm was something entirely created for the 98 anime, or if it was the original plan and Nightow dropped it when he got to do Maximum and developed new ideas for how to tell the story--or maybe he always had a few options in mind for Legato's backstory and figured that, since he got to tell one in the anime already, he wanted to try a different one in Maximum (one that he could only really have told in a seinen magazine, because jesus fucking christ it's dark). IDK I love storytelling in all its forms and poking at creative minds, if Nightow's talked about this anywhere I'd DESPERATELY like to know

(Also just the biggest props to @trigun-manga-overhaul for producing such a beautiful, clean edition of the manga; the omnibus volumes I have have always formatted these kinds of double-page spreads in a really wonky way, so in reading this I'm seeing some of the art properly for the very first time and it's glorious <3)

[astroprompts]

✧ — 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐆𝐄𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒

“It’s not that bad, I can explain.”

“It’s not what it looks like... But it might be worse.”

“What you need to understand is that moose aren’t afraid of anything.”

“To be fair, when you can walk on water like moose christ and cripple cars, there’s not gonna be a lot of things that put fear in your heart.”

“When a moose decides to choose violence, only two things can save you; Jesus Christ and the Moosiah himself.”

“First of all, why would you ever put yourself in a position where you need to know any of this?”

“If you’re dumb enough to do that, you might as well just let natural selection do it’s thing.”

“Gorillas don’t usually attack anything that seems weaker than they are, which gives them more of a moral compass than high school bullies.”

“Are you serious? Did you really think I was gonna have actual advice here?”

“If it’s black, fight back. If it’s brown, get on the ground. If it’s white... You’re gonna die.”

“One uppercut, and he/she/they’re sending your jaw to Jerusalem with no return trip.”

“Evolution made humans smart enough to put a man on the moon, but it also made chimps swole enough to put a man on the news.”

“Be sure to save me a seat at heaven’s dining hall.”

"What makes you think they’ll go easy on you?”

“You think I’m exaggerating?”

“They’re built like a Toyota with the personality of Jeffery Dahmer.”

“Cocaine hippos are something the world doesn’t need to deal with.”

“Cougars are not to be taken lightly.”

“Humans are an evolutionary failure, because we can’t seem to run away from anything.”

“Unless you’re a gay hillbilly redneck with a Netflix series, I don’t see how you could ever possibly need this.”

“Disrespecting a tiger is really bad for your health.”

“Do not turn your back on a grizzly bear.”

“Unless your last name is De Caprio, there is no award for getting assaulted by a grizzly.”

“Not only are you gonna feel real stupid, you’re also gonna die.”

“If an elephant decides it wants to hurt you, there isn’t a force in nature that can save you.”

“Basically we’re dealing with a coked-up weasel with really bad roid rage.”

“They have no moral compass, no conscience, and no remorse.”

“If I have to be cursed with this knowledge, so do you.”

“Ducks are cancelled.”

“Ducks answer to no god.”

“How do you want to die?”

“I’d honestly rather get insta-killed by a tiger than dissected by a polar bear.”

“He’ll destroy my way of life, but at least I’ll have a life to live.”

“Can we please acknowledge the fact that the platypus makes no sense as an animal?”

“I should probably explain what the hell that was.”

“They’re found in South Africa and Australia, but they also own a good amount of real estate in my nightmares.”

“Can’t call it simping if it works.”

“The more you look at it, the worse it gets.”

“If someone handed you $100,000, no strings attached, what would be your first move?”

“Unconditional love might sound cute, but in nature, it is very much conditional.”

“I already don’t trust pelicans off principle.”

“It’s survival of the fittest, and there is no award for participation.”

“Somewhere a middle child just shed a single, silent tear.”

“Imagine having an older sister whose primary purpose in life is making sure you don’t have one.”

“If ‘men ain’t shit’ was an animal, it would be the hyena.”

“When you’re that good for that long, eventually time is gonna catch up to you.”

“Life is a brutal reality show where life is all about getting renewed to the next season.”

“Few animals have a worse PR team than hyenas.”

“I pay way too much for contacts for you to lie to me about what’s in front of my face.”

“Time for 50 shades of fuck around and find out.”

[noel-fielding-web-page]

Noel Fielding On The Last Days Of The Mighty Boosh, The End Of His Youth, And His Camden Camel

He worked 'incredibly hard' to elevate the Mighty Boosh to arena-filling world tours. Then they imploded, 'Luxury Comedy' got cancelled and so did 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks'. Noel Fielding frets to Alice Jones about being 'in limbo', the possibility of children and being the next Spike Milligan

Noel Fielding: Cult comedy status (Dan Burn-Forti)

“I'm not Mr Weird,” says Noel Fielding. “I don't go home and live in a psychedelic castle made out of bubbles, you know.” So what is his house like? “It is quite psychedelic, actually. It's like Yellow Submarine in there.” He guffaws and throws himself back on the sofa, kicking his silver pixie boots into the air.

The boots are the least outlandish element of the comedy star's look today, comprising as it does tight jeans, a shaggy black fur coat with a Chanel logo spray-painted on the back, a giant patent handbag in the shape of a watermelon and, painted across his face, some bright Bowie zig-zags. Does he ever have a dress-down day, slob out a bit? “What, when I put big shorts on? Don't do my hair?” He looks a bit baffled. “I don't go out like that.” When he was younger, he saw Jarvis Cocker in the street, looking cool in top-to-toe corduroy, “and I remember thinking, if you ever become famous, you have to maintain your image. If you saw Nick Cave in the supermarket in tracksuit bottoms, you'd kill yourself. I'm not particularly a slippers and dressing gown type. I don't have that wiring. I don't have a weird tracksuit I put on when I get in… That's not my zone.”

Noel Fielding's zone, as most people know by now, is surreal, funny, psychedelic and a little bit rock'n'roll. (The day after we meet, he interviews Ronnie Wood in Waterstone's about his new book and posts a picture online; they look like father and son – all angles and bouffant hair.) He attained cult comedy status as one half of the Mighty Boosh and mainstream fame on Never Mind the Buzzcocks. His rival team captain on the show, Phill Jupitus, dubbed him a “gothic George Best”; his best friend, Serge Pizzorno of Kasabian, called him a “modern-day Dali”. He is a playful polymath, hopping about in his pointy boots from sitcoms to animations to stand-up, acting to art exhibitions. “Just say I'm a genius,” he drawls.

With Julian Barratt in 'The Mighty Boosh', 2008 (BBC)

He is about to go on tour for a second UK leg of his solo show, An Evening With Noel Fielding, having already taken it around the UK, Australia and New Zealand. “I start getting bored and misbehaving if I don't work hard. It's fine when you're younger, you go out a lot and muck around with your mates and drink and stuff, but I'm a bit over that now.” When the Boosh was at its height – the final arena tour in 2009 played to more than a quarter-of-a-million fans – Fielding would party all night with his younger brother Mike (aka Naboo from the Boosh), then get up at 6pm in time for the next show's soundcheck. His current tour, still featuring Mike in a variety of daft roles, including Fielding's fictional wife, has, by contrast, been the “peppermint tea tour”. “We're too old. I'm too old,” he says.

There is more than one moment in the show when he wonders why he's still prancing around pretending to be a chicken boy, or a herbal teabag, or the moon (which he plays, memorably, by covering his face with half a can of shaving foam). Is he worried about getting older? “Forty-two, Jesus Christ. Peter Pan… When you're young, people say, 'Yeah, he's young, he's daft, he does all this weird stuff,' and then you have success and people say, 'Oh right, he's good.' And maybe in 10 years, I'll be seen as eccentric, like Vic Reeves or Spike Milligan, which would be amazing. But I suppose I'm in this weird transitional period between having some success doing weird stuff and not being eccentric yet. I'm in limbo!”

He cackles, but limbo is on the nail. Earlier this year, Never Mind the Buzzcocks was axed. Fielding, who had been on the show since 2009, found out when the press did. “If a show has lasted that long and people like it, why would you get rid of it? It wasn't losing ratings. People liked it, it wasn't an aggressive male panel show. I liked it before I was on it.” Would he have carried on? “Yeah! I loved doing it – it was very easy… I never know the thinking behind television.”

He is still smarting, too, from his last solo foray on E4, Luxury Comedy. In fact, it is all he wants to talk about, though the second series was broadcast more than 18 months ago and there won't be a third. “No! It was too harrowingly stressful. Someone called the show the second 9/11,” he says with a sad little grin. “We live in strange times.”

He had “absolute freedom” to do what he liked on the show. So there were cartoons and characters such as Roy Circles, a chocolate finger with shellshock; Secret Peter, who is made out of melted Jelly Tots; and Fantasy Man, who rides a porcelain unicorn called Arnold 5. Why didn't it work? “Maybe there were just way too many characters and not enough time to digest them all. What I liked was that it didn't adhere to any rules. It was like, 'Well, we're doing this and then this and then this and then this and then it's over. Bye!'” he sighs. “We shouldn't have called it Luxury Comedy, we should have called it something weird. The problem with calling it a comedy is that it's got to be funny, first and foremost. And we paid as much attention to the visual side of it. I would maintain, regardless of what people thought of it, that there were more ideas in one episode than in most things. It was brave.”

In 2009, his first year as a captain on 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks', with singer Aston Merrygold of JLS and the comedian David O'Doherty (Rex)

Where do his ideas come from? “I don't know what's wrong with me. There is something wrong with me,” he says. “I don't know if it's just because my mum and dad were into a lot of psychedelic stuff in the 1960s and 1970s. You know in Asterix when Obelix fell into the magic potion? I think I fell into a pot of LSD. I've always had a good imagination. If I saw a sitcom and everything was made out of cheese, I wouldn't go 'WHAT?!' I wouldn't get angry. I'd think, 'Right, OK, all cheese? Amazing…'”

Born in London to young, liberal parents, Fielding grew up a “painfully shy” child who loved drawing. No one ever thought the young Noel would become a comedian, but he adored Vic and Bob, and while he was at art college in Buckinghamshire in the mid-1990s, he started writing odd little stories. One night he decided to perform them, at his first gig, in Cambridge; as it happened, his future colleague Jupitus was on the bill. “I was going to run away because I couldn't handle it but he gave me a big hug and said, 'They're just people, it's fine. Just do it.' And it went really well.”

He met Julian Barratt soon after, and the Boosh was born. They won the Perrier Award for Best Newcomer at the Edinburgh Fringe in 1998, landed a Radio 4 series, and their TV show began on BBC3 in 2004. Would it still be commissioned now, in these risk-averse, online-BBC3 times? “Yeah. I thought we were good. We were one of the best live acts around. We worked so incredibly hard. There was no option of not getting on. I was so driven.”

At the height of the Boosh's popularity, Mike Myers wanted to write a film with them, and, Fielding tells me, Jack Black and Ben Stiller were desperate to work with them. Robin Williams came to their show. They had offers to go to America. “Maybe we should have gone – that would have been a way of sustaining it. [But] we needed a break. We'd worked together for 15 years, every day. We were sick of each other.”

Did they argue? “No, that's the problem, slightly. It was just a lot of tension. Like a marriage. All of a sudden it was just POWWWW and everyone was sick of each other. It was mental. We didn't have a day off in 10 years. It was like being in The Beatles.”

The end came in 2009, after a 100-date tour. They were making a lot of money and there were a lot of people with a vested interest in keeping it going. “So we tried to write a film, and it all sort of imploded.”

Barratt now has eight-year old twin boys with his partner, the comedian Julia Davis. Fielding and he are still friends; they live on the same street in north London and play tennis together. “The possibility of us doing something together is always still there,” says Fielding. Ideally, a Boosh film. “The combination of us two was a once-in-a-lifetime thing. You meet someone and you just work, you have chemistry on stage, and writing. That will never happen again for me, I don't think. Which is a real shame. I work with a lot of good people in a good way, like Russell [Brand] and Richard Ayoade, but I don't think I'll ever have that again.”

He is just back from a month in France where he was writing a family film – “a Time Bandits/Labyrinth thing” – and two TV shows (one for America). He'd like to write a children's book, and to act. “But not a part that someone would give me; something people wouldn't imagine.” He struggles to focus on one thing at a time. “If I was rich, it would be fine...” He must be quite rich. “I'm all right. But it goes pretty quickly.”

He lives with his long-term girlfriend, the XFM DJ Lliana Bird, and is at once intrigued and horrified by the idea of having children: “My friends who have kids look like they haven't been to bed for a year. They all look like they've been shot in the legs, or have typhoid or something,” he says. “Because of the Boosh, I got trapped. It takes 10 years to get where you want to get and then you have 10 years there and you think, fuck, I'm this age, all my friends have 10-year old kids… I suppose if it happens, I'll concentrate on that. It's a selfish life being a comedian, isn't it? Bit self-obsessed, really.”

Does he find real life a little boring? “Yeah. Painfully dull. I guess I've carved out a style and once you have some success with that, then there's an expectation that you will do something slightly different. You can't just abandon it, it's part of what you do. It's hard to change. I'd like to do something more real, I've never tried that. That's what I'm trying to write next – something simple.” How's that going? He hoots. “Well, it's a story about a camel. Who lives in Camden.”

Alice Jones is deputy arts editor of The Independent. 'An Evening with Noel Fielding' tours the UK from 12 November to 13 December; a DVD of the live show is out on 16 November

Beyond Boosh: How the mighty have moved on

Julian Barratt

Barratt, who played Howard, has continued to act on TV (Little Crackers, Being Human) and on stage (The Government Inspector at the Young Vic, NSFW at the Royal Court) while also directing, and narrating several BBC documentaries.

Mike Fielding

The Boosh took its name from a Spanish friend's description of the childhood hairstyle (“mighty bush”) worn by Noel's brother, who played Naboo. He moved to Australia after the Boosh toured there. He will appear in the film Zombie Women of Satan 2 in 2016.

Dave Brown

In addition to being a comedian and actor, Brown (Bollo the ape) is an art director who designs books and DVD covers – including those for the Boosh's live tour and boxset – and has mounted photography exhibitions of fellow comedians.

Rich Fulcher

The American comedian, who played Bob Fossil, co-wrote and starred in BBC3 sketch show Snuff Box, with Matt Berry. He also adapted his 2009 book Tiny Acts of Rebellion into a sell-out stage show at the Edinburgh Fringe.

Saturday 17 October 2015 [x]

[circusgoth-dotcom]

In This Still Life, Heart Beats Up Love

Ship: Charles Lee Ray x Ash Englund (Rockstar AU)

Word Count: 898

Summary: An edgier piece depicting a typical scene out of the band's life. CWs for implied intercourse and general suggestiveness, smoking and drug mentions, questionable relationships (specifically Chucky and Tiffany's).

Tag List: @canongf

Ash’s breath came hard as he trembled against the bathroom wall, only being able to half focus on drying himself off as Charles examined himself in the foggy mirror.

“Chucky, you gotta stop being so rough with me before a show, I’m not gonna be able to remember any of the lyrics,” he half-heartedly complained as he groped the floor for his clothes.

“Eh, they won’t care. To them you’re just a pretty face, right?” Charles responded, smirking at the bite mark on his shoulder. “Besides, you know I only go zero to sixty in three seconds and there isn’t any in between.” He chuckled somewhat sadistically as he turned and picked up his husband’s clothes for him, shoving them into his hands and kissing his puffy lips roughly.

“Yeah, you fuck like a Corvette. Real classy.”

“I love it when you snark at me, makes me wanna go again,” Charles snarled lustfully and attacked Ash’s already tender neck, making him squeal and shy away, putting a hand on his chest.

“Chucky, stop, we’re already late to sound check,” he reminded with a breathy laugh before pulling on his clothes.

“Jesus, you’re right, what am I thinking.” Charles shook his head and picked up his own clothes, grumbling slightly to himself before leaning against the sink counter. “Why don’t we just cancel and lock Tiffany and Eddie out of the room tonight?”

“Absolutely not, our fans paid good money to see us tonight! Put your pants on and let’s go.” Ash pushed out of the bathroom, walking into the main hotel room and onto a scene of Tiffany and Eddie making out on the couch. “Oops.” Speaking with no remorse, he kept the door open long enough for Charles to see.

“HEY!”

The two sprang apart as if touched with hot pokers. Charles made himself decent in the blink of an eye, though his pants and shirt remained unbuttoned and dishevelled as he entered the room, grabbing his switchblade from the TV stand and pointing it angrily at his “best friend.”

“Caputo, get the fuck out of here. So help me Christ if you don’t get your ass down to the lobby and tell our chauffer that we’ll be down in five minutes, if you don’t get up off that goddamn couch--”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Eddie shot off like a rocket, terrified, and let the door bang shut behind him.

“And you,” the knife was directed at Tiffany, quivering slightly in Charles’ hand. “We’ll get to you later... holy shit, this is a new low, ain’t it?”

The knife flashed as the blade flipped back into the handle and was pocketed. Tiffany shifted on the couch, shrugging.

“We were bored, you know I’m not really into him. What took you two so long, anyway, I thought you were just going to...?” She trailed off as she eyed the fresh hickeys on Ash’s neck and folded her arms. “You’re a real hypocrite, you know that, Chuck?”

Charles made an uncaring sound as he buttoned his pants and shirt. “I am a rockstar, a key part of that is fucking like you’ll die tomorrow.” He shoved a pair of sunglasses on his face and grabbed a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and sticking it in his mouth before handing the box to Ash. “Try it sometime. Ash, lighter.”

Tiffany rolled her eyes as she stood from the couch while Ash fished in his pocket for his lighter, taking a cigarette for himself from the box before sharing the lighter with his husband. They both knew Tiffany would only sleep with the one she loved- Charles, for better or for worse.

“Alright, I’m getting sick of looking at you and our manager’s going to be pissed if we wait any longer,” as Tiffany went to open the door, Charles sped ahead and opened it for her.

“After you, toots.”

“Thanks for nothing, asshole.”

The grins they flashed at each other emanated something far beyond devotion or mutual hatred. Charles continued to grin at her long after she had passed him by and entered the hall, soon followed by Ash.

“So, are we doing coke in the bathroom before or after the show?” Charles muttered to Ash as they followed Tiffany down to the lobby.

“Definitely before, I want to get this shit show over with as soon as possible.”

“Fucking agreed, babydoll.”

“Can’t we go to a fun city next? Like Vegas,” Ash blew smoke into the air, grinning, “or Miami.”

“You think it’s fun, risking getting shot at?” Charles turned and grabbed their forearm, making them stop as he caressed their temple with his opposite hand, his cigarette dangling precariously between his knuckles. “You really are fucked in the head, aren’t you, sweetheart?~” To the sane, Charles’ words would’ve sounded harsh, but for Ash, he was speaking in the sweetest, most honeyed tone he could muster.

“Well, it beats being sober.”

The two cracked up as Tiffany turned ahead and made an exasperated sound.

“Hurry up!!” She yelled. “I’m not holding the elevator doors for you!”

“You heard the lady,” Charles sighed and lightly swatted at his partner’s rear, “get a move on. We’re coming!”

Ash laughed again and they quickly joined Tiffany in the elevator. Neither of them would remember that night- which wasn’t an uncommon occurrence -once they reached the venue, but the fond feelings lingered.

[beardedmrbean]

“1916 showed us the way!” didn’t it lead to multiple Eastern Europeans leaving their home countries to escape communism? And iirc in the 80’s ussr had to ban a American movie because Russians were surprised that even the poorest Americans could have their own car.

Hmm what happened to the Romanovs? Oh yeah after their murders they are heavily romanticize (heh) and later became saints. That usually happens when the next leaders are worse than the last.

I can say more but Jesus Christ commies are dumb, can someone make Liberty Prime already?

Ya some of the most hokey jerry rigged contraptions in history were made by smart people who were trying to escape their communist utopia.

Also you're thinking of "The Grapes Of Wrath (1940)" staring Henry Fonda, only thing good that ever came from a John Steinbeck novel imho. The Grapes of Wrath (film) - Wikipedia

Although Steinbeck avoided a call from the House of Un-American Activities Committee, the film based on his book, which subtly (many would say openly) criticizes capitalism during the Great Depression by following a family of sharecroppers, received significant backlash from the public.

In the times of the so-called “Red Scare”, such criticism was perceived as “socialist”, “Marxist” and above all ― un-American.

John Carradine and Henry Fonda In ‘The Grapes Of Wrath’

Therefore, when the film was given the “Red Label”, the USSR felt that it was time to step on the stage.

Stalin himself considered that if The Grapes of Wrath managed to annoy the U.S. government so much, perhaps it could be used as a propaganda tool in the country which he governed with an iron fist.

He approved the film to be released in the USSR in 1948, at the time when the Cold War was just “heating” up. This wasn’t a common sight at the time, as cinemas only promoted domestic productions.

Stalin, who had the final say on pretty much everything that was going on in the country, was highly suspicious of foreign movies, which he considered to be “subversive”.

However, in this case, Uncle Joe thought that a film which the Americans label as “socialist” must be heaven-sent in the largest and most influential socialist state of the time.

This was a sound conclusion given that the main subjects of the story ― the Joad family ― are suffering from poverty after losing their farm due to the recession which forces them to become migrant workers.

However, after the film was released, Stalin’s idea completely backfired. In the film, it appeared as though even the poorest owned an automobile ― a luxury that was off limits to an ordinary Soviet citizen at the time. Instead of evoking anti-capitalist sentiment among the common folk, it was as though the only thing the viewers could see was the difference between being poor in the USA, compared to their own experience in the USSR.

While the USSR boasted itself as the country that belongs to the peasants and the workers, Stalin had, in fact, canceled many of the privileges that were gained during the country’s first years. ___________________

Romanov's suffered from blue blood, but yes they were absolutely slaughtered, SOP for royalty generally speaking.

Last Czar of Bulgaria, Simeon Borisov von Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (you may recognize some of those names at the end, they're all related to each other) is still alive and served as Prime Minister there for 4 years so don't always get murdered.

Another fun bit with the commies is they blame capitalism for their own failures too, 'US didn't trade with them so they didn't have enough food' kind of thing.

hunger makes you dumb, we should have a give a snickers to a commie day, might help

[kotaboda]

everyone being upset at watcher is just. its annoying tbh. people cant make up their minds about wanting less ads and having creators not having their creations and income be controlled by whoever is hosting their creations, and they cant differentiate between small group merely changing where they host their content and how it's paid for and a big media corporation trying to make more money than they already do, etc

this is literally no different than if they had locked all their videos behind a patreon tier of 5 bucks. but at least this way, they don't have to give a cut of that 5 dollars to fucking patreon. "well they should've moved instead to an existing popular streaming service" yea so they can be subjected to whatever control and extortion those streaming services do as well? none of them are good fucking options. Dropout is clearly doing well enough on their own why cant Watcher do this to keep making shows they want and give people an option to directly support them instead without some corporation taking a cut?

this isnt some major media corporation making its own streaming service to charge you $15 bucks a month to make an extra buck. this is a small group of people trying to take control of their own creations and make it sustainable so everyone gets paid what they should. subscriptions are just a reliable source of income. merch is not.

i can understand the desire for maybe at least some of the content to be free and the rest under a subscription to directly support them. but jesus fucking christ stop treating them like they made some big media corporation that made an evil capitalist decision my god

just cancel your subscription to a major streaming service and pirate whatever the hell you want from them and then actually pay small creators. its 5 fucking dollars.