#he takes the cheapshots

[4rost]

logan w/o powers will absolutely kick you while you're down and throw sand in ur eyes bc ultimately he's up against powered individuals and he would like to not get hurt :)

[zenmai--jikake--no--komoriuta]

on the final phase of the final fight of FF7 Rebirth and I keep getting cheapshot.......... James has to go to bed so I've had to give up for the night which is a real pain in the ass for killing the momentum of the ending, but I'm also getting tilted so it's probably a good thing I guess..... can't exit out and dunk the difficulty down/change materia setups without sitting through 2846292 phases again and can't leave to go do more training, blehhhh who okayed this from a dev standpoint :x

thoroughly enjoyable game that's really hampered by strange difficulty spikes out of nowhere and some really odd gameplay choices/limitations in places, I'm a little sad that-- so far at least-- we're hitting a back-to-back twofer for remakes of my favourite games (FF7 and P3) that completely scuffed the emotional impact of their most important cutscenes........ I'm just glad we even got remakes at all and they are great in their own way, but man they just have not hit the mark in that particular aspect and it's a real shame!

[zyafics]

PLAY FAKE | Rafe Cameron (part one)

MASTERLIST (series) | x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs. Reader is hyper-independent, a people-pleaser, a smart mouth, stands on business, and mysterious past. Rafe is insecure, possessive, asshole, and has mood swings.

Who knew Rafe Cameron is a blabbering drunk?

Working as a bartender on the docks, near Heyward's Seafood, you have your fair share of stories about the people who come in. Most of them are locals from The Cut, with the occasional tourists who wander the streets, settling for a clean place to eat.

But it's very rare to have a Kook.

It's been a visit for the past couple of weeks. You don't understand what caused him to come here. There's plenty of bars near Figure Eight—some of which you are sure caters specifically to the Camerons—but you don't question it. Lately, business has been slow, a couple of locals in and out, and with the majority of your income relying on tips, you take it.

Locals don't tip.

Rafe does, however. When he settled down and ordered the largest and most expensive liquor you had on hand, he slipped a fifty into your hands and asked for the bottle as a whole. You don't know if he doesn't have prior tipping etiquette—or because he tips extra for you to keep quiet about his presence—but you gladly take it. Sitting at the end of the counter, his hand cradles a half-empty glass he sips from.

Despite having the whole bottle set in front of him, he still makes you serve him.

Why?

Because he's an asshole.

"You know what he wants to do?" Rafe slurs from across the counter, his eyes flickering to find your presence behind the bar. "He wants to give the company to Sarah."

You hum in response, drying the washed glasses in your hands with a towel as you listen to his nondescript rambles. You knew most of the people he's referring to Sarah Cameron, Ward, and the occasional Pogue you don't know the name of. But, that's how Rafe sees the world: his family, the Kooks, and then everyone else.

"She's nineteen and going around OBX with her fucking Pogue boyfriend and he sees her as stable?" Rafe scoffs, shaking his head as he brings the edge of the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. "Fucking bitch."

Listening to drunk customers vent about their home lives is part of the job description. While it’s dark outside and Rafe is the only customer left, you are technically free to kick him out and make him go about his day elsewhere.

But, there's a rule in your family regarding business: don't go home until the last customer leaves. There's no such thing as kicking someone out at closing time; you were there to wait, serve, and hope they spend a couple more bucks on some more booze. It's a cheapshot of handling enterprise, but that's the way you need to do business and survive as a Pogue.

Rafe taps his empty cup in his hand, eyes pinned on you. "Refill," he mumbles, to which you resist the urge to roll your eyes, and walk over to do exactly as he asks. Lifting the bottle set in front of him to pour him another shot, he watches you as you watch.

"You think it's stupid, right?" He asks, his gaze lifting to study your face. "He thinks Sarah is more equipped to handle Cameron Development because of that Pogue. Because he ties her down. Is that some bullshit?"

His gaze is intense and you don't know whether to answer or not. While you don't know much of the story, of the background behind his persistent rambles, you pieced together enough that it's about Ward deciding to give Sarah the family company because of her stability as a person. Because she's reliable.

You shrug, "I don't know." Because you don't. You don't want to get involved in whatever problems Rafe is dealing with. You don't want to offer unsolicited opinions because who knows if it'll come back to bite you in the ass.

He scoffs, then releases a bitter laugh. "Of course you don't," he leans back against his seat, almost swaying against the backless stool, before shaking his head, disciplining himself. "You're a Pogue. I must be losing it if I'm talking to you."

You roll your eyes, turning away from the Kook and settling on the rest of your tasks. You're used to Kooks putting you down like that, seeing you as nothing more than the bottom of the chain because you don't have some fancy degree from UNC or because you aren't floating on a yacht somewhere.

Just as you're returning bottles back on the shelf, you hear Rafe mumbles to himself. "Does he want me to be tied down or something?"

You let out an abrupt laugh, before quickly stiffening the sound. However, it was too late. When you look back over, you see his blue eyes set on you, a hard expression on his face. "Sorry," you mumble, wishing you had better control over your tongue. "I thought I heard something funny."

You wished you could blame it on the TV, but unfortunately, you had turned that off a while ago.

"You laughing at me, sweetheart?"

"No," you clear your throat, but the look on Rafe's face makes it seem like he's in no mood to hear lies right now. You rectify the answer. "Yes."

"What's so funny?"

"The idea of you getting tied down," you answer slowly. You carefully study his expression to see if anything you say could trigger a bad reaction. "It just seems amusing to me."

Because it is. Rafe is known around Outer Banks as the reckless prince, the one who hosts parties, gets shit-faced drunk, and hooks up with every woman within his proximity. The idea of him losing all of that—the parties, the drinking, the women—was not something you could picture in your head.

"What about it?" He challenges, an edge to his tone. "You think I can't fucking do it?"

From your experience as a bartender, you know he's coming close to unraveling. What you say next could cause him to erupt or calm down, and while you would love to sell him some lies, to get him to back down and leave, something in you doesn't let it pass. All night, he's been nothing short of an asshole to you. To act like he's above you because you are nothing but a Pogue meant to serve him. Why would you pass up an opportunity to deliver some harsh reality?

"Look at yourself," you gesture to him, "you're here, drinking at my bar after an argument with your father. He's trying to tell you that you aren't dependable enough to rely on and the first thing you do is turn to your vices. What do you think?"

Even if you intended it to be harsh, you said it nicely.

He stares at you, hard. You don't like it. You heard the rumors of what happens when he gets pissed—where he throws chairs and smashed bottles. You don't want to be a recipient of that.

"Never mind," you shake your head, returning back to your task. "Just forget it. I'm misreading the situation."

"No," he says with a shake of his head. "You said it. Might as well own it with your chest. Dancing around it wouldn't make you anymore likable."

You clench your jaw. On top of being a blabbering drunk, Rafe is cruel.

Not answering him, you walk over to where he sits and take the glass from his hand, right as he's about to take another sip.

"What the fuck?"

"I think it's time for you to leave."

He scoffs, not moving from his position. "Just because I said I didn't like you?"

"No, because you're acting like an asshole and frankly, I don't want to put up with it anymore," you say, pouring the rest of the content down the sink. "You can take the bottle with you. But other than that, you need to leave."

Rafe stares at you for a few seconds, contemplating what to do, but he doesn't have any grounds here. He may be a Kook, but that means shit when he's in the south side of Outer Banks. When his opponent is a bartender. Instead of responding to you, he slides off the stool and grabs the booze by the handle.

Just as he's about to set out of the door, you shout behind him with a mock farewell, "'pleasure doing business with you!"

—

That day, you thought would be the last of your interactions with Rafe. After all, most people don't want to continue doing business with someone who calls them out on their bullshit and kicks them out of their shops.

But, a couple of days later, Rafe comes through the door of your family-owned pub.

You paid little attention to him. You were trying to log the tips into the cash register, not catering to some entitled prick who has no means being here. Plus, there's another bartender on hand who's more than willing to help Rafe with anything he needs.

You didn't care.

Your coworker can get his tips.

As you're filing in the last of the receipts, Miranda comes over to tap you on the shoulders.

"Rafe wants to talk to you."

You stare at her for a few seconds, as if she was speaking another language. You thought she did. Why in the world would he want to talk to you? You were unpleasant to him. You were nothing of the customer service attitude your parents drilled into you as a child. You thought it was clear grounds for him to look the other direction.

"I'm busy," you say to Miranda, who shifts uncomfortably in her stance, not leaving.

"He said he's willing to wait."

That means he was expecting you to say no.

You scoff. "Tell him I'm not going to be free until closing time."

"But..." Miranda starts again, and you are starting to lose your patience with her. "We don't have a closing time."

You smile at that. "Exactly."

Despite the harsh undertone, Miranda still relays the message back to Rafe. You watch as she does, his eyes briefly pans over to you as you offer him a forced smile with a wave of your fingers and his jaw visibly tense. You thought that would be the end of the conversation but, to be proven wrong again, he slides into the bar stool he previously occupied the other night and orders a drink.

Then another.

You did your best to avoid the area he occupied, but it was proven to be difficult as he spent his time right in front of you. You got busy, running around and assisting locals and tourists who came in to get a taste of the infamous and historical Sailor of Outer Banks. While you're running around, placing orders, making drinks, and trying to navigate the cramped space behind the bar—Rafe remains.

He remained until he was the very last customer.

You sigh as you glance at the clock. Miranda has since left and you're left carrying the shop ever since. All you want to do is go home and relax, but that will be proven impossible until Rafe leaves the establishment.

With a strong reluctance, you step forward to where Rafe sat, his eyes on the TV screen hung on the wall, while his hands occupied another glass.

"Fine," you sigh, causing Rafe to tear away from the screen. The corner of his lips lift into a self-satisfying smirk. "I'm here."

"You finally ready to talk to me?"

"You ready to stop being such a prick?" You quip back, just to see his expression broadens at your snark. You can't lie and say the movement didn't make him more attractive. "What do you want?"

For a moment, you thought he might be here to apologize for asking like an ass the other night.

But, you were too hopeful.

"I came up with a solution," he begins, his words a subtle slur that contrasts the intoxication of the other night.

"For what?" You entertain the conversation, crossing your arms over your chest.

"My dad." He answers. "He wants me to be stable."

"I remember."

"And from when he was talking about Sarah, one of the reasons he thinks he can rely on her is because she's with that Pogue." He explains, "that it somehow makes her dependable. I don't fucking know, the logic is flawed."

"And old-fashioned, but continue."

His blue eyes dart to your face, before he utters the next words. "That means I need a girlfriend."

You nod, glad to see that he came to his conclusion. You thought this was another one of his ramblings, a need to vent to someone he doesn't think matters in the long-run, just to get it off his chest. Now that it is, you're about to step back and turn around to start your night tasks before he holds out a hand.

"Wait," he commands, causing you to stop on your tracks. You raise a brow at him. "I want you to be my girlfriend."

You laugh. It truly is a bad habit of yours but the idea came out as total lunacy and shock. You thought he would join. But, when you look back to his face and have the striking realization that he is serious, you start to sober up. "You're serious."

"Yeah," he says, clenching his jaw, like the moment of wonderful ideas was truly something he was proud of and you struck it down like lightning.

"I'm sorry but," you shake your head, not having the ability to wrap your head around the suggestion. "You barely know me. Isn't there a line of other people who would love to become the next Mrs. Cameron?"

You know that's true. You also know if he had told Miranda this, she would've jumped to the idea before he concluded his brilliant plan. So, you can't, for the life of you, figure out why he's choosing you out of everyone else.

"Yes, but I don't want them." He answers with a shake of his head, leaning closer to the counter. You don't know why but something about that makes your chest warm. "I don't want a real girlfriend. I just need you to pretend to be."

Just like that, the feeling in your stomach dies.

"Pretend?" You repeat.

"Yes," he nods. "It's just like you said. I still have my vices. I don't want to give them up. I just want my dad to think I did."

"I still don't understand how this has anything to do with me," you furrow your brows together.

He sighs, out of frustration or impatience, you don't know. But, he goes to explain, "my dad once told me that John B was a reliable person. That he was a Pogue who was hard-working and determined. That's why he likes him for Sarah—because he hopes it would rub off on her too."

You nod slowly, connecting the dots as he continues. "You're a Pogue," he says with a huff, the title left his tongue with an ounce of disgust you were ready to throw him out of the bar again. "He likes to go on his good samaritan bullshit and employs people from The Cut for certain events. You were one of them."

It takes a second to remember what he was talking about. He's right. A couple of years ago, when you were eighteen, you got a catering job from the Camerons for some big business event. It was the most you made in your lifetime, from all the tips and drunk Kooks who wanted to give back to the poor.

But, he never employed you again.

"Do you see where I'm going now?"

You do, but you hate the attitude he's giving you. Like you were a Pogue who couldn't string together simple facts. Like you should've known what he's talking about.

"I do, but why the fuck you acting like I would've known the whole thing with John B?" You snap, and this surprises him for a moment. Taking a breath to cool the anger in your chest, you calm. "This doesn't explain why it has to be me."

His next statement comes off more nice. "My dad wants someone like that. I doubt he would approve of anyone else, and plus, I don't have to worry about you wanting something more. You clearly despise me."

That isn't true, but you do understand where he's coming from.

"So, let me get this straight." You start. "I'm basically an arm candy for you to parade around in front of your father while the rest of the time, you are free to drink and fuck whoever you want."

"I'm glad that Pogue brain of yours is catching up."

You glare at him, but say nothing else. Picking up the dirty rag off the counter, where you were planning on using to clean, you turn back to Rafe, "as much as I would love to play house with you, I don't have time. Unlike you, I have bills to pay and a job to do."

You turn your back to him but he stops you.

"I'll pay you."

You scoff. "It's not that," you say, because truly, it isn't. A few short-term payments for a couple of missed shifts isn't going to help you in the long-run. You're trying to revive Sailor, to make it a place where it can stand on its own. What is a couple of bucks going to do for that? "I'm sorry, but I don't have the time for it. You're going to have to find someone else."

"I don't want someone else."

He looks at you desperate, as if you would give in, and for a moment, you might. Perhaps it's because you're so used to helping others, or because you were raised to cater to people—to people like him—that your stomach cower at the thought of saying no. But, you have to stand firm on this. You don't have time to go out and party, much less spend your free-time parading around in his arms as some sort of trophy.

You were serious.

"I'm sorry, I truly am."

Your voice is filled with sympathy, and it softens him for a moment. But, that quickly passes as Rafe Cameron has to recoil with the idea that he didn't get what he wanted. Probably for the first time in his life.

With an annoyed huff, he slams the cash for the drinks he's been nursing and leaves.

You thought it would be the end of it.

Not knowing, by the end of this week, you will be known as Rafe's girlfriend.

★ part two ★

IMPORTANT: if you want to follow my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

taglists: @k00k-princess / @ditzyzombiesblog / @itshellie / @realcolewrld / @grace-sully / @loveyouok / @tayrcse / @mysteris-things / @zzhhvgbhuuh / @ella131989 / @whore4fictionalman / @starrkissezz / @sanriobuny / @user123453226780536 / @onlinemold / @alyssax25 / @chopshopcheesecake / @bobo-bush

[dukeoftheblackstar]

Somewhere Only We Know

Summary: Plo Koon has an old book called ‘The Galactic Family; A Collection of Beautiful Faces’ that features numerous species blessed with physicalities. Reader/OC is born of the planet called Celestia which is inhabited by ethereal sight for sore-eyes. While they feature and exalt you as an upper echelon of beauty and grace, you vehemently plot against the author who Plo had once confided in you as someone who seems to have captivated his heart — a bully who had taunted him and riled others to make fun of Kel Dors and Plo as a youngling. You kept your friendship with Plo and though your heart bleeds for him, as it beats only for him, you decide to yet again express your desire to act in spite and avenge your most favorite Kel Dor in the galaxy. Only to be reminded of something else.

Pairing: Plo Koon / OC/Reader (idk how this works — sorry!)

Word Count: 3.6k

Rating: (no smut) Maybe sad-turned-happy vibes? Idk

Notes: - Peaching (headcanon) is a form of encouraged relations by the people and law of Celestia that allows you to be in a consensual 'exchange' with no attachment. Essentially, a gatepass to fuck, be intimate with, be flirty with, be touchy with, or be with someone bound or unbound given that all parties are in agreement and consents. (will get detailed on this if I ever decide to dish out wips from ancient time) - Chrysanthemums are my most favorite flower ♥ A yellow chrysanthemum blossom signifies neglected love or sorrow. A white chrysanthemum is a symbol of loyalty and devoted love. - OC/Reader is a bounty hunter with natborn silver irises and is an unhinged bitch who is overprotective of Plo Koon and will fight everyone for him. (It's me, really. I'm just wildin') - OC/Reader Reference Image https://www.instagram.com/p/CfJ891cJVpG/

Color thingies because I'm deranged to not use them: Orange: Plo Koon Pink: You/OC/Reader Blue: Memory Purple: Me, because I have no self-control to self-insert myself whenever Plo and Kel Dors are mentioned. I'm sorry >:

Perfect divider by @idontgetanysleep with itty, bitty, cutie-patootie Plo Koon face ♥

“Just say the word, P. It’s on the house.”

You didn’t really need his permission let alone reveal any involvement should you decide to act on ‘it’. You’ve had her as a client before and the transaction wasn’t as pretty as her face — it was vile, filthy, and a cheapshot at an innocent target who happens to share attention from a prospective boyfriend. Yes, a prospective boyfriend who clearly has no intention of breaking off an engagement with the poor, unfortunate soul, you have removed from a certain narrative.

A sickening chronicle in ‘her’ life as if her claim takes precedence over anything factual. Hadn’t you been in such a rut with bounties, you would’ve never taken the job. But you did and it kept food on the table, a nice roof on your head for a short while, and got a beaut of a decent ship to cruise around in. 

It’s never honest work, the killing part; but it's honest enough to be on paper and get you lined up with a few more bounties to get by. A couple of tracking fobs in turn of a good night’s sleep, a proper soak, and a treat to buy essentials and non-essentials. Essentials being food, fuel, repair and maintenance, pieces to fortify the little armor you have on because clearly, you need to flaunt to flex — that, and the fact that Celestians are vain by nature. Considering you age similar to Kel Dors, if you ain’t keeping that pretty face and body on point, you might as well off yourself for being a disgraced child of Celestia.

As for non-essentials that border the essentials category, an assortment of powdered fruit tea from your recent trip to Dorin. 

Plo would chuckle, always that — never to confirm, never to deny, always enigmatic over the idea of vengeance. Though it may be an obvious answer with him being a Master Jedi and a Baran Do Sage, valuing life and shit, you couldn’t help but wonder if it’s because he truly still admires her and the memory of feeling ‘it’ for the first time is so strong that it has indeed withstood the test of time. It was either that or he’s in one of those moods where he’s psycho-bullshitting you to reflect and turn to the light — what an absolute devout to the force Plo Koon is, aka force-dweeb ; i.e whore only to the force.

Awestruck if that was the case but also a very disheartening concept. Then again, who were you talk? Wasn’t it your own volition to always tag along and linger in sparring fields and dojos while father met with the Jedis, handing vital information privy only to the Republic? Wasn’t it in your own accord to walk up to this rust-toned sentient because you had that undying need to pull on his mask and kiss him? Maybe not kiss him yet at time, but you’re quite the unhinged individual who would happily die to quelch the inquisitions in your head and kissing was a Celestian tradition to mark. All’s fair, right?

You just wanted to touch him, his face — eyes that had those black ‘thingies’ that made you wonder what color his irises were while the burgeoning need to unmask the lower chamber of his face grew with each passing second; more so when he started to speak.

Not much has actually changed apart from him — now a towering old man with more grace, reverence, importance, patience, strength, and other things that you’d like to unravel. Dirty as that sounds, who can blame you? 

Have you seen the build on his chest and shoulders? Have you not heard the thunderous rumble of his godly voice that makes you want to drop on your knees and worship that impeccable form of his? — That makes you want to shamelessly surrender to the domineering, magnetic, regal of an enchantment that has imprisoned your heart, mind, and soul to be his devout little bitch? 

Have you not, even for a second, want to burn through the fiery embers of his soul and lose yourself into the intoxicating dream of sifting through the intricacies of his intelligence and wisdom? To drown in answers and queries that would have you begging like a desperate whore to tell you more? More of that three-hundred year-old archive of knowledge that just swims in his head so invitingly like the cold lakes of home on a hot summer day? Have you not, even for a second, thirsted to the enigma that is Plo Koon and his privacy? Have you not sinfully starved for someone’s coc—-

“Tea?”

He could read your mind and throw you out; dismiss or reprimand you for being such an obvious simp for him, but he doesn’t — doesn’t always at least. Doesn’t invade your thoughts unless it’s one of those days when you were so rattled from a hunt that you didn’t even know how you ended up at his place; why you, a clean-freak, has yet to wash the blood over skin so smooth you whine over the tiniest of scratches and smudge.

“I can sense the evident thirst “be” at peak today, dearest.”

Did I mention that though he does not invade your thoughts without necessity, he’s also a little shit Kel Dor prick? That he’s the humblest of all humbles but has a side to him that makes you want to strangle him in his sleep and ride his brains back to when he’s an itty, bitty, egg and make omelet for breakfast? 

“Yes, babylove. The thirst ‘be’ insanely high today. I mean, did I ever tell you how kriffin’ hot you look in those Jedi robes? I mean the browns and the beige just screams BDE!!! I could just.. Unf.”

You bit your lip to taunt, whether it was to set the familiar banter at play from a mere satirical retort or a guise because ‘he really do be looking fine in them robes’, it’ll be one of the many unspoken understanding and mystery that the two of you seem to dodge.

“BDE? I’m not certain I’ve heard of that before.”

“Big Dorin Energy.” Came your reply — one as abrupt as you had brought the cup to drink so painstakingly slow in hopes of boring him enough to move on.

“Mm.”

“What?” 

Did I also tell you how oppressive Plo Koon’s silent treatment can be? No, well okay. It is.

“Whaaaat?”

“...”

Not a crease on his brow area, neither a shift from his demeanor came about apart from him attaching a metallic, contractible straw to his mask with a soft click before taking a sip from his cup. 

“Ugh. Fine. It’s Big Dick Energy, okay? Are you happy? You’re such an old man, Plo.” 

You always say this and without fail, it drives you so far up the wall you’d be at the same level as Plo — or taller. And as much as it elicits illicit thoughts, seeing yourself more drawn to finely seasoned men, Plo always gave the same response. The same ‘Indeed I am” that teeters between melancholy, amusement and pride. 

Stars, he’s so kriffin’ cute.

“Very much so, my dear. The quest for knowledge never ceases.”

Cute and a disgustingly adorable dweeb. I love him so much and I’m sure you do too.

After a couple more exchange of pleasantries, you’ve found yourself rambling on about the strife of a recent hunt where you’ve procured a bad sprain that had somewhat permanently altered your balance. How you nearly fell off after a grapple-pull mishap because of a calculated step that failed due to said injury. 

You went on about how it cut the payment since you weren’t able to deliver the target on time. He’d have asked a million questions too that riled you up to the point of completely forgetting your purpose of visit — your constant ‘let it be me’ visit that never seems to progress because of that stupid book tucked under his stupid bed that this stupid bitch gave him some stupid centuries ago. 

“All you have to say is leave her alone, Plo. And I will.” 

You cut the story short and as much as you’d expect him to be surprised that you had caught on, he wasn’t. He knew you would break free from the trance of having someone so keenly interested in your non-Jedi approved activities; namely bounty hunting and escapades — you do this thing where you commit theft for a hot minute and leave payment with a little extra at the most  obvious place they wouldn’t look until they’ve simmered down to notice a note you’ve left. Funny that he doesn’t scold you for this but tells tales of how Dorin will treat this behavior differently. You can tell he loves a bit of mischief as long as you return to the proper action — then again, this petty theft of a mischievous act is punishable by death in Kel Dor standards; so maybe, no?

“Celestians are on page 9.” 

Vanity betrays you by blood and nature. You wanted to smack him for saying that but you also want to smack (smooch) him for saying that. It’s not like you didn’t have a copy of the infamous book, but it’s so badly worn from testing a plethora of melee weapons on it, the numerous holes and soot makes any of the text unreadable and the photos indiscernible. You had copies of it too, memorized the entire book looking for any praise for Kel Dors and found not a single word of mention even. 

The Galactic Family; A Collection of Beautiful Faces — in which enumerates and highlights a selection of upper echelon species that included yours in the most exalted tier. Your kind were the most ethereal species on the planet; silver irises, short fangs that elongate during ‘peaching and mating seasons’, skin deathly pale, smooth, and soft; blood translucent and voices a potent concoction of sweet, sultry, and heavenly with that right dabble of filth.

[ Art / Comic by @exosorcery ♥ ]

You hated that book. Abhorred it to an unhealthy extent that you were but a push away from writing your own book and raining hell on her specifically, but you know within yourself that Celestians are not allowed to interfere — which is essentially why, though you do not need his permission and can actually act upon it deny involvement with a help of the top bounty hunter in the galaxy who you’d happen to be in the good graces of, it just didn’t seem right. You know in your hearts of hearts that Plo will be very disappointed and quiet about it.

[ Art / Comic by @exosorcery ♥ ]

“I know. My brother and I are in it. He had said yes before consulting me and it was too late for me to back out when I knew who wrote it. Did you ask because you know I’d never dare "read" that shit?”

[ Art / Comic by @exosorcery ♥ ]

“I asked because you have something of mine.” 

“Of yours?”

And it was indeed some Jedi mind trick because of the centuries and numerous copies you’ve annihilated "without ever once reading" the contents of that book, there you sat frivolously sifting through pages and scanning the photo of yourself with a crystalized necklace of a white moth.

Your hand instinctively went to your chest, cupping the pendant that had kept your heart steady and your mind clear since the day you decided to hunt that stupid moth that landed on his stupid face while he was meditating.

I walked across an empty land I knew the pathway like the back of my hand

A sense of warmth engulfs you in that moment of recollection; how he had blamed you for scaring the moth away after his master did the same prior. How his little balled up fists were on his side and the creases of his face were so drawn down that you laughed so hard you fell back clutching your stomach. How you saw him ‘frown’ behind his masked face and turned quietly to walk away.

I felt the earth beneath my feet

[ Art by @veny-many ♥ ]

How in that moment you swore nothing would ever matter more than for his stupid face to never ever crease into that stupid frown. How in that moment, his little ‘Please don’t do that — it really hurts,” made you need nothing or no one else than this beautiful sentient before you who chose to meditate alone because the other shit-pricks were making fun of how he looks.

I came across a fallen tree

You recall how you didn’t even apologize. How you ran up to him and put on that equally stupid face you do with father when you didn’t want him to leave so you could play with him or have him take you to some off-world planet to pick and study flowers to tend to your insatiable need need to adorn your room with so many flower crowns it’s become hazardous in itself. 

And before you could say anything, before you could rip off that stupid page in that stupid book that has your stupid face and that stupid pendant that you’ve worn for centuries as you both kept by each other’s side and comfort, something heavy weighs on the page.

I felt the branches of it looking at me

A chrysanthemum pair — entwined of one yellow and one white; withered, but you know it to be so. You know not only by heart and by the memory of you breaking the knots of your self-made flower crown that adorned your pretty little presence on that fateful day, having to vehemently rummage and pull from the assortment to find the ‘perfect’ one for the stupid frown on his stupid face.

Is this the place we used to love?

You know not only by the nostalgic drop of flowers between your silver irises that pooled at the thought of hurting the stupid-faced sad boy meditating by his lonesome and the young Kel Dor that had his fists balled ready to push or strike — to alleviate himself of any pain and hurt that deeply wounded him that day but chose not to. 

Your brothers did that — pushed and yelled out of irritation, shoved you a little too hard sometimes but eventually came around. But Plo didn’t — he didn’t yell or push you, didn’t run off or threaten you, didn’t even do anything but ask so politely; asked so kindly as if he would break into as many as the stars above and it frightened you. 

To be young and alone, to be so far from home, to be so far from mother and father and even your siblings; to having to go back inside a place you could hardly call ‘home’. To do nothing but train, clean, meditate, and study; to not be able to play with people of your kind, to not be able to run to father or mother when you’ve tripped and get tight hugs and forehead kisses; to not be able to snuggle up and build forts with silly brothers, steal snacks from the kitchen and tell tales of horrific stories and gossip until you all fall asleep, only to wake up between mother and father.

It frightened you so much that you felt ‘it’. Whatever ‘it’ was, you felt it. You felt ‘it’ radiate from him in such an alarming wave that it had rendered you speechless with hands quivering between two stupid chrysanthemum flowers pulled from your crown of glory. It frightened you that something had made you frantically drop to your knees and fuss about which color, which flower to give him as if the thread of the galaxy’s hold would break if you didn’t do ‘it’ right — whatever ‘it’ was.

The grip on the pendant tightens and you could feel your jaw clench only before you were made aware of the tears that had betrayed you for quite a while now. The taste of horrid saline that had taken a detour from your cheeks and down to your lips; a grim reminder that you have yet again bore yourself to Plo when you've promised countless times never to do so. 

Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?

Jedi kriffing mindtrick. 

And if you have a minute, why don't we go Talk about it somewhere only we know?

Part of you wanted him to look, maybe lean over and brush the tears off your cheeks; to take that stupid mask off for a brief second and kiss you just as how you had hoped for when you first saw him. But you know he couldn’t —for so many goddamn reasons. And it’s okay, it really is. He could press his mask on your cheek though, right? Right? Right, Plo?

“Big dick energy indeed, you prick.”

Your voice broke and so did you face as you shamelessly sobbed onto palms that only did very little to hide everything; the sniffles, the whimpers, the brewing gasps of air as you tried your best to stifle it all at once. But of course you fail massively, it was not even an option to begin with. He carried so much power and reverence that if he had decided to open that hidden script between just the two of you, you’ll crumble so far into the depths of all these repressed dreams and emotions that you'd drag him with you. 

This could be the end of everything

And so it remains just that; a hidden script in the narrative that is you and Plo Koon. The same script that loomed when drinks were shared, stories laughed over, and tears shed over just about anything. The same hidden script that will always thicken the air with the purest form of love — if he would allow ‘it’ to be called just that. 

But even that would remain as enigmatic as Plo Koon — and so it shall be as it always has been; a hidden script that is you and Plo Koon; the narrative that has spanned centuries and will weave more.

He would only turn his back to you, remorsefully. Give you privacy and company at the same time like the stupid conundrum that he is; leave if you want me to cry in peace, you’d think to yourself — but stay so I can.

So, why don't we go somewhere only we know?

Tears drip past the barrier of your palms and onto the page that kept the withered pair as if it would somehow unearth the once vibrant colors that bridged the paleness of your small hand with his rust-toned talons many centuries ago. That somehow it would caress your bleeding heart with the memory of his stupid smile plastered on his stupid face when he said “It’s okay. There’s more moths here, come on.”

[ Art by @veny-many ♥ ] {any excuse to use these baby Kel Dors kids}

Sat by the river and it made me complete Oh, simple thing, where have you gone? I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on So, tell me when you're gonna let me in

That somehow these insignificant droplets would relive the careful touch of his clawed hand over your soft, small palm as he dragged you past the bushes he hid behind and into this expanse of a lake full of fireflies and moths and flowers and fishes and him, and his smile, and his touch, and his face, and his warmth, and his presence, and his —.

“Do you understand now?”

Somewhere only we know

Drenched palms erratically ran through evenly drenched cheeks to dry them off. Eyes puffed and nose a shy tone of red as you continued to sniffle and curse inwardly as to why he still hasn’t offered you a box of tissues. But it’s there though, the box of tissues — so very close to your side of the table when it usually is at the center. 

What a babe, right? Inconspicuous babe and his inconspicuous gentlemanly ways.

You took a few pulls and gently dabbed your face. Took another few more pulls and before you could dab them onto the page that held the embodiment of your love, loyalty, friendship, and promise of forever, you heard him cut you before you were even half-way down.

“Don’t.” 

I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on

You turn to look at him, watching him ease back into a reclined manner — his face still in the direction of the empty space before him; but you know. You know that at the corners of those black ‘thingies’ over his eyes are those beautiful silver irises that matched yours. You know that in the tenderness of his voice would be the same yearning that not a single word would ever be enough to describe. That in the manner of which his shoulder would sag and his head would meet the rest of his couch that ‘it’ is here; that ‘it’ is here with you. That ‘it’ is neither about the book or anything else; that ‘it’ is but here, anywhere, everywhere with you.

That ‘it’ is the fact that you have something of his and he has something of yours. That ‘it’ has always been the same ‘it’ from the day that you broke his tiny, young heart and mended it so swiftly and gently that ‘it’ has stayed with him over centuries as so did ‘it’ with you.

That ‘it’ is indeed what you think it is if you’ve gotten this far. That ‘it’ is indeed ‘home’ — a place that only you and him knows. 

“You’re such a sappy old man, Plo. I’ll see you again soon, okay?” 

You say, closing the book and carefully resting it on the caf table. You grunt and sniffle, groaning as you stretched and tapped your ankles together as if to activate the thrusters and wait for command. By the window, your usual preference of entry, you took a deep breath and ran fingers delicate over your bare crown down to the length of your hair. 

This could be the end of everything

“In the meantime, please allow me to use this as a reason to extract you from your duties, my sweet. Your company is always appreciated.” 

Plo collects the book almost protectively and sets it on his lap, palming the cover as he finally turns to address your departure. 

So, why don't we go somewhere only we know?

“Kriffin’ dweeb. Just say I love you next time. Easier on the tongue.”

And as you take your flight, you hear him among the blanketed skies, just when you’re far enough and too lazy to turn, you hear him, 

Somewhere only we know

“Only if you say it first.”

Somewhere only we know

~ Fin.

If you made it this far, thank you and I love you. I hope reading this isn't time wasted. Also, drink some water and remember how valued you are and how nothing will be as magnificent as they are if you weren't here. ♥

~ Duch ♥

[ladylooch]

https://www.tumblr.com/ladylooch/731916751374368768/to-be-honest-i-have-really-missed-angry-sex-with

Looking at this, imagine Timo waking up early the next morning while Emma is asleep and notices that she has a new ig dm from Trouba, so he goes on her phone and reads through her dms that Trouba had sent her and turns out that he had been sending her a bunch of thirst trap pics, like sexy pics of his abs, nudes and even dick pics, which makes him upset, but says nothing to Emma and later that night when he plays against the Rangers, he and Nico drops the gloves on Trouba after he mentions how he can easily steal Emma from him and sexualizes her, to which Timo takes him down and does a cheapshot out of anger to his nose and Nico knocked out his tooth with a punch and Emma watched the whole thing and Timo eventually confessed to Emma what happened

A/N: I know you sent this in before the game this weekend, but I feel like the hate for Trouba like… tripled after yesterdays game… kinda glad T didn’t play. But yeah, I think it’s safe to say, T would go ballistic 😧

Emma’s face is hidden in her hands, fingers spread a bit as she watches her husband beat the shit out of Jacob Trouba on the ice below. She squirms in her seat as another punch of Timo’s lands on Trouba’s helmet. Timo harshly tugs on the captain’s jersey, then rips the white helmet off. Jacob tosses a punch, Timo throws another back as Emma whimpers.

“Wow.” Lexi stutters, holding Lio close to her chest. Lucie is asleep in her carrier on the floor. Lio is close behind, despite the chaos on the ice. “T, holy moly.” 

Timo rails two more quick jabs against Trouba’s head. Emma rubs at her forehead as they finally fall to the ice. Both of them are bloodied and head down their respective tunnels. 

“Timo.” Emma growls under her breath. She rolls her shoulders back, then swallows the thick knot in her throat. Only two minutes remain in the rivalry game. New Jersey is ahead by a goal and closes out the game with the same score. 

Emma can barely hold a conversation with Lexi as they head downstairs to wait for the boys. Timo has two cuts on his face as he walks towards her with her brother. Nico and Timo are laughing. Emma thinks nothing about what she witnessed was funny.

She tells her husband so in the car.

“That was ridiculous.” Emma shakes her head, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Timo puts his hand on her thigh. Emma pushes it off, noting his cut and scabbing knuckles. “No.” 

“Babe.” Timo sighs.

“Timo, our son is at your games now. It’s like you don’t even understand that.”

“In the heat of the moment like that? No. I am not thinking about Lio being asleep in the suite.”

The rest of the drive home is tense. Neither Timo or Emma speak again. Emma goes to grab Lio out of his car seat. Timo puts his hands on her hips, pulling her away so he can do it. His wife heads into the house and right upstairs to their bedroom. Her nightly routine is done distractedly, remembering the vividness of the blows Timo took to the face. 

Once she is out of her game day outfit and make up free, she joins Timo in Lio’s room for goodnight kisses. Watching the delicateness that Timo uses in putting Lio in his pajamas softens Emma’s scrunched face. Lio whines as Timo lifts his left arm to put it through the sleeve of his footies. 

“Almost done bubba.” Timo whispers, leaning down to kiss his cheek. “Come here.” He murmurs, putting his hands under their son’s armpits and pulling him back up. Lio collapses into Timo’s frame, little hands clutching his dress shirt. 

“What did he say?” Emma murmurs as she come over to her boys. She is asking her husband of Trouba.

“It’s not just what he said. It’s what he did too.” Timo responds, rubbing a hand over Lio’s back. “I saw what he sent to you on Instagram. I’m not okay with that. I told him so. He told me you were a needy slut who asked for it.” Emma’s mouth drops open in surprise. She is going to be blocking him immediately when she gets back to her phone. She thought ignoring him was enough. Clearly not.  “And I don’t care if you’re upset with me or if people in that arena tonight thing I’m fucking crazy. I will protect you from everything. No matter what happens to me because of it.” 

“Can you put our son down so we can make out?” Emma murmurs, stepping closer to him. He chuckles, then tilts down to kiss her. Their tongues connect gently. Emma is careful to not press into their son and wake him.

“I beat someone up for you and all you wanna do is make out?” Timo quips as he settles Lio onto his back in his crib. 

“Timo Meier’s needy, slutty wife always wants more than that from him.” Timo smirks, then turns to Emma. 

“Better get you to bed too, mama.” He chuckles, tossing her over his shoulder and hauling ass back to their room.

[terriluvss]

The treatment of Lucy’s character really disappoints me.

Every Arc, Lucy is always forced into the role of beaten down, damsel or never given the spotlight to really shine. The only time we ever see her at full potential is tartaros arc and alvarez arc (in the main series i havent read 100yq so im not gonna be talking about it here). However even in tartaros there was bs moves made against her to stop her from fighting.

Like up against jackal, how she chased after him to battle him yet we never got Lucy vs Jackal. Why? Because mashima pulled this bs move of restricting lucy yet again. Holding her back by causing Jackal to hold two people hostage. We NEVER see Natsu put in the same situations as her, its ALWAYS Lucy.

Or with the pheonix priestess movie where I not ONCE saw Lucy fight. She’s always running away, she can’t even catch the gees guy because he magically slips into this random crack in an alleyway because pLoT. I just wanna see her be able to win, like that whole movie I don’t remember a single time she was actually given a moment to just ACTUALLY contribute to the action.

Same with the grand magic games, where she was about to perform urano metria and win (as she should) yet mashima did the same thing of pulling a bs cheapshot with some lamo canceling her spell out of nowhere. It just makes no sense. And we NEVER see this happen to any other characters. We don’t see Natsu’s flames get abolished trying to fight sting and rogue, we don’t see Gray’s ice suddenly melting when he tries to fight, we don’t see wendy having her wind suddenly not work.

It’s ALWAYS Lucy. The shows official punching bag. Fanservice? Just throw Lucy in front of the camera. Characters need a reason to fight? Just have Lucy get beaten up. Need a villian to have a motive? Just have Lucy get kidnapped or her keys stolen. Like literally when do any of the other characters get inconvenienced? I can only think of one time the other characters get the Lucy treatment of being kidnapped and it’s tartaros arc (my fave arc as a lucy stan) but pretty much it’s always only Lucy getting inconvenienced.

AND SIDE NOTE Aquarius just randomly deciding to dip during the tournament MID FIGHT (the water tournament in GMG). I know this is in character for her, BUT LIKE this was just mashima’s excuse to be able to torture Lucy yet again. I mean come on, I get it’s for comedy and all but I’m tired of Lucy being the butt of the joke. Why can’t we just have a moment for her to actually be able to win. And I’m pretty sure Aquarius actually tries to do her job so why would she just dip during the middle of it? I don’t know it just irks me how mashima always finds a way to disarm Lucy (even having villians take her keys too.)

Even in the FIRST EPISODE her keys get tossed aside for plot reasoons! So natsu can come and save the day11!2? It would’ve been so cool if Lucy could’ve fought alongside him and he recognised her as someone with potential to join fairytail. Rather than just having her stand idly by. And in mt hakobe how natsu just magically kicks taurus away whilst Lucy was trying to fight, because we cant have lucy being a character whos actually taken seriously now can we? Nope! She just always has to be the butt of the joke. And in Galuna, where that pink haired girl magically had lucys spirits work against her for just so we can have the obligatory lucy torture yet again. In the lullaby arc what does lucy even do i dont even remember? It’s happy whos the one who suggests for her to use virgo, might as well just give happy the keys at this point. Maybe mashima would actually let them be used for once if happy had them

It’s the same garbage every arc, and it sucks because I love Lucy her magic has such potential to be a powerhouse. We’ve seen her really flourish but the only time she ever gets the chance to flourish is when Mashima realises he’s written himself into a corner and actually HAS to use Lucy’s character. The only times are when he realises no one else can come save her so he actually has to try to use her magic narratively. Like in tartaros (my fave lucy moment) where she FINALLY gets to have her own moment to shine. And against brandish because Natsu is dying of dragon seed cancer!?1?2 oh noes! Looks like Lucy actually has to fight! (W fight by the way one of my fave lucy moments, I was so giddy when I saw her fighting like that for the first time.)

But yeah, I guess I’m just salty that Lucy is constantly thrown aside in favor of Natsu or Erza or sometimes Gray. Lucy deserved better. Sorry for this rant being all over the place, it just saddens me to see Lucy being treated like a joke the entire series. We were robbed.

[cephalopod-celabrator]

(Some, but not major, spoilers for Swords and Fire, Kings of The Wyld, and the Gentleman Bastard series)

So, I was thinking about my favorite protagonists, and I came up with these three: Amalia Cornaro, Clay Cooper, and Locke Lamora. What I like about all of them is that they're unique, particularly in their tactics and the fact that they are all without real power but go up against villains with loads of the stuff. First, we've got Amalia Cornaro, a nerdy noblewoman who doesn't enjoy the world of political intrigue but learns to be really good at it. She may be a sweetie and a genuinely kind person, but if you think you're getting away with the "You're a good guy, you won't kill me no matter what" excuse, you're dead wrong, emphasis on the dead. Amalia will murder a motherfucker if she has to, and is not above collateral damage when absolutely necessary. She's terrifyingly intelligent, and that is the right adverb to use. She lives in a world with mages who can wipe out cities and mind control small countries, yet still manages to haunt the nightmares of rulers both immortal and mortal alike. She also likes hot chocolate. Then there's Clay Cooper, Amalia's opposite in all the best ways. Clay is a tank. He wields a shield and knows how to take a hit. He works alongside legendary warriors and fights gods and dragons, yet he's just Clay. He's not clever, he has no magic, he's not even an amazingly good fighter. But Clay knows how to wield a shield and hammer, he has a big heart, and you'd have an easier time convincing a landslide to give up than him. It's frankly a miracle that he's still alive, but anyone trying to kill him will find the experience somewhat akin to trying to rub away a stain that ignores literally everything, then having an aneurysm out of sheer frustration. And last, also opposite Clay but somehow not the same as Amalia, is Locke Lamora. A with audacity infused into every fiber of his being. He's a good strategist and schemer, true, but his real strength is his unrelenting confidence and adaptability. About half of all Locke's books are just him dancing around spouting the most absolutely wild bullshit in every direction he can while dodging the murder attempts of pirate captains, crime lords, political dictators, and overpowered wizards. Locke isn't a bad guy, but he is absolutely willing to fight dirty in every way possible. He will lie and cheapshot his way out of any situation, and will commit crimes against the state out of pettiness. There is no power too dangerous for him to piss off if they hurt his friends, and no solution he cannot find that is not either staggeringly convoluted or hilariously simple, or quite often both at once.

[lev4579]

James exits his car, checking around the area before continuing the rest of the way on foot. Whilst he was thankful the threat was eliminated, this was still a less than ideal situation to be in. He tightens one hand around his blaster and the other around his medical supplies. This encounter could go either way.

Nearing the base, he takes one final look around to ensure nobody is lurking, before entering. If Grace had failed to eliminate everyone, he would make sure both parties would regret it.

"Hello? Anybody home?" His voice is almost sing-songy in nature as he takes purposeful steps further in. The first thing he notices is the smell of blood, which he does his best to ignore as he listens out for any signs of life.

@cheapshots-kjrp

Grace crouches against the wall, four bodies around her. White uniform stained beyond recognition as she holds some absorbent material around the object stuck in her side. Of course one went for the surprise stab in the side, but at least it didn't fall out when she shot them. Grace can't help but kick the body despite each one already being dead, which stings her side.

Getting hurt on the job wasn't unheard of, more a pain in the ass at this point. It doesn't shock her that the four fought back. She really should have seen the blade coming.

She tries not to scowl when she hears the voice, and it turns into a wince when she adjusts herself. She recognizes the voice but she knows not to risk it, grabbing her gun yet again and aiming it in the direction. "You better be who I think you are."

[samrieimg]

would love to hear anything you’re willing to say about the fnc concubine au :)

(also hope you’re recovering well man ♥️)

So, the Concubine AU is going to be a hard one to finish and to pace in a way that makes it "redeemable" but also engagingly dark/worth its AU.

That makes me sound like I'm killing puppies, but really when you add non-consent and want something to end happy and also want characters to both be seen as ultimately morally good, you have to lay foundation to get readers to buy that.

to sum up plot summary: events occur pre-canon, Ch!p has a no good very bad day and ends up a prisoner of the human-hating Undersea who don't disguise how little they wish ill will, and he's assigned to the reluctant champion who looks like he'd rather skewer Ch!p. Ch!p finds either he plays into his role or he's going to end up dead.

When I first went into it, I thought "okay, well obviously canon Undersea isn't super dark so I can't go super harsh" and tritons according to DND lore usually spare people based on how good of heart they are.

Then, JR/WI lore said otherwise. Ok. Re-write. Fish people gonna be assholes.

As usual, I love my Ch!p POV, and so that helps balance the dark tone, because you have room for comedy with him.

So from the get go it's going to emphasize Ch!p does not matter to the Undersea. His life is literally seen as less than the life of a fish. He is nothing, and if they spare him, it's not out of regard for him. They can and will revoke and kill him if need be. Ch!p very much faces the "You don't matter :)" severe trauma.

The challenge becomes how to present Gil. It took a few reworks, but with a lot of canon filtering in about his backstory, I settled on selling the narrative he's just as much a prisoner as Ch!p. But still, can't give him too much sympathy right out the gate and Ch!p isn't about to be treated to Gil devolving his entire life story to a human, so it's about non-subtly emphasizing how much of Gil's life is decided for him and how little freedom he has.

And how his human pet he's given is basically the only companionship he gets and how even if he loathes humans, Gil can't pretend forever he's not lonely.

Theres also the fun thing of an impending stack of cards falling as Ch!p does what he does best, and thinks he can lie and bluff and cheat his way out of this situation.

As we know, Gil hates liars :).

Ultimately, story gets to end very happy.

And depending on how much I want to push the bill on the E material, I may go "lets go poetic" or "lets go raunchy." Def E material, but also I don't want to cheapshot out and have forced-concubine AU that's "oh, but the captor is nice so its okay!" trope. My co-writer and I do disagree a little I've noticed. My tastes always lean a little darker.

I think honestly unless I plan for shorter stories I'm never getting any of my ideas done X_x. I always want to take 100k words, but the commit 10k only.

[badluckdicecity]

What is Bad Luck: Dice City's general story and chapter flow? Here's a rough outline of the story i have so far. I will edit and update as I go, nothing is final! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

BLDC is a story of an infamous outlaw, Felix "Casino" Luck, being dragged into saving Dice City and Payroll Town from a corrupt government. (The first chapter) Casino's story starts when they take the train down to wherever it goes, being a wanderer, not really focused on the destination. SnakeEyes, their rival, bounty hunter chasing them down for- you guessed it, Casino's bounty. After a scuffle happens and bullets fly, Casino gets off the train early, not at Dice City, but a small rural mining town past its hay-day, called Payroll Town. After getting situated at the bar, not excused from terrified eyes, SnakeEyes moseys in and sits next to Casino, offering to pay for their drink, to which Casino agrees. While stuff is oddly peaceful and the townsfolk put their guard down, a large BANG echoes outside. The sheriff, who is also the mayor, runs in screaming about how The Conductor's gang knocked over their water tower and kidnapped his son, only to scream in terror as Casino, infamous all across the county, is in the building. After chaos ensues from only him, SnakeEyes proposes that he, and Casino, will go take care of this so called Conductor and his gang, to which Casino silently obliges. The Conductor is a large, train sized bipedal automaton who runs a gang of goons who help him live and thrive in the scrapyards in the outskirts. He had a wife and daughter, but they were killed. In the outskirts of the town, SnakeEyes and Casino stand around, unsure where this Conductor would be. SnakeEye remarks on how it shouldn't be too hard to find him, and Casino shrugs. And within seconds of this exchange, both are bodyslammed by the force of a train by the Conductor, both knocked out cold. Casino awakens surrounded by his goons, and missing their gatling gun arm. Meanwhile, SnakeEyes, and Dallas, the Sheriff's kidnapped son, are both tied to some train tracks and are expecting to die any moment now. Casino appears rather unscathed, as if destroying the goons unarmed. The Conductor flexes that he has Casino's gimmick, and reveals that he kidnapped Dallas for ransom money, but he'll gladly be avenging his wife and daughter, both victims of Casino's villainy. He boasts about Casino being unarmed, but Casino replies by revealing their flintlock on their hip and getting a cheapshot at The Conductor as he laughs. A fight ensues, but Casino focuses on expertly shooting the rope holding SnakeEyes bound (so he can save Dallas) and shooting the belt off the Conductor, to get their Gatling Gun arm back. Dodging and tricks go on and on, until The Conductor is standing on the tracks. Casino utters the first word they say all chapter, being simply "See you." with a salute. The Conductor then gets hit by the train and is simply gone with the wind. SnakeEyes, Dallas and Casino all walk back to town, as Dallas hypes Casino up, regarding them as a hero, which ends quickly when they get back to the bar and he discovers that they're a wanted criminal, outright verbally abusing them, before saying they're going back to Dice City. After that, the sheriff cries about how the town will literally die with no water, which they get from Dice City directly. SnakeEyes suggests that in the morning, he and Casino will go out to the City and ask the Governor for a new water tower. They rest for the night, sharing a bed, and are off to the station the next day. That's pretty much the barebone basics i have for chapter 1.

[proditoreques]

Hey mord its the year of the dragon what do you think of that?

"I feel like you're taking a cheapshot cause my Father's surname is PenDRAGON. ...Also-"

"I bought Dragon themed hats, shorts and shirts down at the festival square and I'm totally giving one to my Father! I even got Dragons themed gift wrapping for it AAAAAAH he's going to love it! ~"

[heartsoulrocknroll]

AEW Dynamite 10/18/22

Death Triangle (c) vs. Best Friends and Orange Cassidy for the AEW World Trios Tag Team Championship -- Death Triangle rocks so hard. This was another great match from them. More animosity between Pac and Cassidy here. Pac once again tries to use the hammer, but Fénix stops him. Beautiful offense from Pac. Nasty release German suplex on Cassidy. Cassidy immediately responds with an Orange Punch, but neither man can follow up. They tag out to Penta and Trent. Strong Zero by Best Friends on Penta, but Fénix breaks up the pin! Double cutter to Trent and Chuck, followed by a beautiful spinning heel kick and piledriver to Trent by Fénix!! This gives Fénix the three count!!! Death Triangle retains!!!!

I don't have the words to say how much I loved the promo segment with MJF and Regal. MJF tells a story about trying out for an extra position with WWE. He says Regal was impressed by him and wanted to give him a job until Regal found out how young he was. He says Regal told him to go out and work and send Regal a match and a promo every month, implying that Regal would endorse him for a job with WWE when he was older. MJF says he did this for a while, but by the third month, Regal responded with an email stating, "I'm a very busy man. I have talent from all over the world to watch. The game has changed. WWE exclusively hires the best talent in the world, top world class athletes. When you're one of them, then maybe send me your stuff." MJF says Regal's email made him want to quit wrestling and even kill himself, but he didn't want to let Regal and the naysayers win. "Here we are, and my god, have the tables turned. You are nothing more than a sad, withered old man who got fired. You have snuck into my company like a flea-ridden rat, sticking to talents far better than you ever were." MJF says he's the 26 year old kid who is on top of this business and that WWE would now kill to have him put pen to paper in the bidding war of 2024. MJF says he reads Regal's email every day, not to put a chip on his shoulder, but to give him a good, hearty laugh. He says he is about to become AEW world champion because he's MJF and he's better than you and you know it!!!!!!!!! HELL YEAH!!!! Regal says MJF called himself a child at 19, but Regal was fighting grown men at 16 and bleeding from every hole in his body to get into this business. Regal said he sent that email to MJF to light a fire under him. "If a bloody email is what it took to get you to this place, and you've held onto that for 7 years, then you've had it easy, sunshine." Regal calls himself an ordinary decent villain. He says anyone inside the ring is fair game, but condemns MJF for putting his hands on Schiavone and taking shortcuts to get to where he is. Regal says just because MJF is making lots of money, that doesn't prove anything to him. He mentions MJF's constant use of cheapshots with the Dynamite Diamond Ring to get victories. "When I used these (brass knuckles), it was because I just liked hitting people with them." Regal finishes by saying, "If you want to be the devil, make a name for yourself by doing it right." Regal turns his back, seemingly giving MJF an opportunity to hit him. MJF seems to consider it, before deciding against it. Regal tells MJF he still has a lot to prove, then leaves the ring.

This was so, so good. Truly something special. Both MJF and Regal were excellent here. So hyped to see where it goes from here.

Chris Jericho (c) vs. Dalton Castle for the ROH World Championship -- I wasn't really into this at all. There were some good things. Some nice gut wrench suplexes from Castle. But also a lot of nonsense with the boys and Hager on the outside. Jericho kicks out of Bang-a-rang and wins with a Judas Effect.

Jon Moxley (c) vs. Adam Page for the AEW World Championship -- Great action here to start. Page rushes Moxley in the crowd before the bell and lands a moonsault off the balcony. Mox is bleeding before the match even starts. They finally get in the ring. Huge stunner out of nowhere by Mox!! Moxley lands a superplex, then covers Page but pulls Page's shoulder up before the three count and lays in some stomps to the head. Moxley locks in an armbar, but Page gets to the ropes. Page hits Deadeye on the apron!!!! Moxley attempts a German suplex, but Page lands on his feet and responds with a huge lariat!!! Moxley comes back with a lariat of his own!!! Just as I'm thinking how much better Page's lariat looked and just as I'm getting into the match, it becomes clear something is legitimately wrong with Page and the match is stopped. Dang. (Thankfully, he was okay.)

After the match, Moxley calls out MJF. Moxley says wtf is his name? Max Jacob Friedman?? Lol. Moxley says he usually just lets MJF talk because he's not worth breaking a knuckle on. MJF comes out with the chip and a ref, seeming like he is going to cash in. But he then leaves the ring, gives Regal the chip, grabs a mic, and goes off!!!!! "You want to talk about me cutting corners? You want to talk about me being a man? I'm going to cash that chip in, but when I do, I don't want you at 50%, I don't want you right after a match. I want you at 110%. I don't want any excuses. I want to make sure that when I beat you clean, smack dab in the middle of the ring, that there's not a goddamn question that I'm better than you know it." MJF SAYS HE'S CASHING IN AT FULL GEAR!!!!! "Look at me when I say this, Regal, you piece of shit. For the first time in my miserable life, I'm gonna earn it." AAAAAHHHHHHH I AM GOING NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOVE IT!!!!!!!!! LOOOOVE IT!!!!

I'm not always a fan of Moxley promos, but his response here was great. "I'll tell you exactly what you're going to earn. You're going to earn the heel of my boot in your mouth. You're going to earn your teeth rolling around inside your mouth, going down your throat, settling in your stomach, and you're going to shit them out. You have earned my fist going directly up your ass. You have earned your esophagus, your throat, your larynx getting squeezed until your head turns purple and pops off like a Pez dispenser... I'm going to show the world that getting in the ring with me is dangerous as all hell."

WHAT A SHOW!!!!!!!! WHAT A STAR, THAT MJF!!!!!!

[goddamnwebcomics]

Suddenly this turns into commentary about how men control women or something. What does Chel taking after her mother have anything to do with Lexx supposedly manipulating Chel? It’s like Lexx is digging up cheapshots just to piss Victor off even further. Also quite ironic of Victor to accuse Lexx of manipulation when he’s telling Chel can’t be with her alien boyfriend because he carries a grudge towards aliens for no good reason.

[out-of-context-batfam]

Teen Titans (2003) #47

[everafterkeiji]

Can you do requests about Ran, Draken and Hanma when their s/o try to pick a play fight with them and when they stand up Reader is like 'oh nvm im about to go'

Thank you 😊

hello!! thank u so much for requesting! I'd really like to hit ran with somthing then dip before he catches me😌 have an amazing day babe!

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐒/𝐎

PAIRINGS: Draken, Hanma, & Ran x gn! reader

GENRE: fluff, humor

♡ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 knows of your behavior to taunt him in such moments but he never takes them seriously because who'd want a real match with this hunk anyway? Your headstone could be given to you at any moment if you weren't his lover.

He always hears how your stubbornness led to a few words where you state how you could ease for a punch just to relieve stress but when he puts you up to the test, you assure him some food would do the job better.

"We could always go out to a rage room if you're that tense, babe." He suggests while you shake your head. “That’s quite pricey for hitting things.” You argued.

"So, you'd rather beat me up?" He challenges, leaning on the bed frame while you scoffed. “That sounds like an invitation.” You quickly responded as your boyfriend clicks his tongue at your willingness.

“Are you sure, babe?” He asks one more time just to make sure. To be honest, he has been waiting for this moment since he first tickled you and you were ready to trap his head between his arms for a headlock as revenge. He can see a deep temptation in your eyes back then. Until now, he can’t forget it to the point it still makes him chuckle at the memory.

"I have enough permission to smack you." You reminded him to which you were pertaining to his head and ass but he thought you meant it like a boxer.

Draken starts to remove his jacket, exposing him off his sleeveless top, slinging it to a rack to keep it organized. Good for you because you didn’t see this motion of his since you were stared at the wall, readying your hair. You turned around to see your boyfriend extending his arms out, stretching his shoulders, his legs—his entire body and you're left to wonder why he was so extra with it too.

You got the message when he started cracking his knuckles, a smirk painted on his lips as he lets out a scoff.

"One on one, sweets. No cheapshots." Draken suddenly duels you, standing up to tower over your sitting figure at the edge of his bed while your eyes widen at how he looked like he planned for you to be his next victim. Chuckling nervously, you scoot over to stand up too, still fazed by his presence.

"One on one... Like mouth to mouth! Yeah!" You bribed to escape, hands on either side of his face to place a kiss to his lips and he stares at you dumbfounded. "Hehe, I win! Okay, let's not fight now. I'm fine—absolutely fine."

"Loser." He mutters when he got to the idea of what you were trying to do as he watches you swing your legs over his table with an innocent smile. "No way you're gonna get out of this."

"WAIT KEN, I WAS JOKING!" You defended when he threw you over his shoulder.

♡ 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐌𝐀 is one annoying opponent—he's a rock, who people avoid to brawl on, but you? You're facing this man head on... regardless of your lack of fighting.

"Shuji, get off. You're so fucking heavy!" You shouted while he hums out of sarcasm, body stuck to your back as he adjusts his position to sit on your butt. "Shuji." You called out again but he ended up plotting down on you again, wrapping arms to your waist while he tackles you to the rug.

"Ha! Just stay here, angel! Quit playing you know you love me." Hanma argues, hugging you tight while you try to wiggle away. "Babe, seriously, I'm gonna punch you. You're squishing me too hard!"

"Oh I see, you wanna punch me? Beat my ass?" He asks and the only response he gets is a yes and a few stabs to his back for him to move away. "Oi oi, I'm gonna make bets on who wins then." He adds, pinning you down with legs to your sides as your eyes widen.

"I'll win." You lied even if you came off too confident and he lets out a cackle. "You're getting serious with me, Y/N. Alright, say less, love."

"You suck." You dissed with a subtle pout and a sigh now that he backed off. You sat up from your place, panting from the tickles that you got from earlier while Hanma smirks.

He was rolling up his sleeves, even fixing his sweats as you stood up. Turning your back to him, he tapped your shoulder while you faced him—which in return you were terrified when he lifted you off your feet, holding your horizontally, letting his body to the most out of the spins he's doing until he drops you to the couch.

"No, okay, handsome? Let's think this through." You bargained while he's ontop of you with a pillow in hand, ready to strike. "Woi, I thought you'd win?"

"Yes, in a game of lying so please let's not do this." You smiled through your teeth just to watch him shake his head. He spots how flustered you were from your actions and it makes him chuckle. You were left with no other option so you insisted to embrace him, more in the words that you tackled him, holding him down so he can't protest. "I'M JUST HUGGING YOU. I BACK OUT."

"No, no—the game just started."

♡ 𝐑𝐀𝐍 is the king of fighting, surely the reality is that he's really good at attacking people but he thinks play fighting was his forte too. Don't be so comfortable though—he's still a Haitani.

"Stop flicking your long hair to my mouth." You said, pushing his braid away as he laughs. This was such a frustrating habit of his. He doesn't even need to flip it but if it was to grab a reaction from you, he'd do it for a long time so you two can go at each other.

"No." He simply answers you, smiling softly and he does it again. Grabbing a hold of his hair, you glared at him. "I'm gonna chop this off." You threatened while he cocks an eyebrow, too amused to let this go.

"Oh yeah? Go ahead. I'd love a new look, darling." Grabbing a pillow from your right, you threw it right to his head and he sits to recollect what you just did. A hand to his jaw, he looks at you.

"Well well, are you asking for a match?" Ran asks, eyes shining at the idea. "Maybe." You responded, readying another stuff toy to hit him with it. He proceeds to roll his eyes, not believing how you're so determined but he realizes it was going to be fun anyway. "I'll take that as a yes!" He proudly said, slinging an arm to your shoulder.

"I didn't even fully agree." You pointed out while he hushes your lips with his fingers. You noticed how he was unraveling his tied hair and your hands rake through it, removing it from the braid as it unfolds in a fit of curls. Ran takes one band, tying his locks in a dash, letting it a bun updo and that's where he's holding your head.

"First rule when it comes to fighting people, don't be so distracted." He oddly states but your eyes widen when he brought your head to his chest, the other arm on your waist to steady you there while you tapped his shoulder.

"Babe! No-I was kidding!"

"Kidding my ass!" He laughs, holding your hips so he can cling his long legs to your waist and when you had the chance to stand up, you began to give Ran a piggyback ride in the midst of trying to escape.

"Ran, I'm sorry! Let go already!"

"Up and away we go, Y/N! Quick, move, my steed!"

"I hate you so damn much."

TOKYO REV : @strawberrieas @kwrg @raya-sano @kimrena-stuff @heavensbeloved @rosewood1999 @beezebub @l-luci @bekky06 @keiisukebaji @manjiroarchiviste @smileysmileysmiley @tendo-shairdye @toshiswifey @thispenguinrocks @kleesboom

OVERALL: @stesphy @itsmeaudrieee @crapimahuman @meguroshi @floydenai @dai-tsukki-desu

[heffrondriving]

۪͙۪˚┊❛ ride on, ride on now to the other side of yesterday ❜ : ̗̀❥ james × jett ┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌

: ̗̀❥ RATING: T+ // WORD COUNT: 3,910 // CHARACTERS: jett stetson, james diamond, kendall knight, jo taylor, logan mitchell, carlos garcia // TAGS: one shot, angst, mild hurt/comfort, pov second person, songfic, nightclub, alcohol, partying, drunken shenanigans, references to drugs, mature language & themes, internal monologue, love at first sight or tripped-out delirium, mildly dubious consent?, alternate universe: different first meeting // AO3

: ̗̀❥ Song inspiration + lyrics from: Boy by Reol (translation)

: ̗̀❥ [Part 4 of Cupid Got Us F♡cked Up]

Hey boy, it stings My heart just can’t get used to this Strange feeling of you not being around But I know I have to go

The way the boy’s hips sway under the burning glow of the cramped room, extraordinarily gossamer and mesmerising against the hundreds of other sweat-infused bodies strobing and gyrating and writhing to the strident beat, it’s almost enough to make you forget the week-stale perfume and cosmopolitan rejection permeating every inch of your arctic-slippery skin.

The screaming is unbearable. You choke down the last drops of your Whiskey Manhattan without biting on the cherry and invite him to dance. He laughs and pulls you in to take a clumsy seat by the bar instead.

I messed up so many times But I’ll redo it however many times And everything you denied I’ll prove however many times

In the middle of wry introductions and exchanging double-edged banter about who’s better-looking (it’s obviously you, but you modestly pass up an occasional cheapshot or two as not to turn him off to pompous egotism; the truth isn’t really welcome in these hotspots anyway) and a rather passionate dad joke about his cheesy boyband career that you’re endlessly hair-riffling and fake-laughing in dangerous schoolgirl levels to, someone comes up to slap the boy in the shoulder—some lanky unattractive blond with enough eyebrows to knit ten sweaters and is definitely a thousand hitchhiking miles away from the both of your supreme leagues (though you reign more supreme, no big duh).

We’re on top of a scale, seesawing And what’s being measured is our amount of good luck I hear the sound of the end approaching

You figure the boy will easily shrug the poor opportunistic fool away, but then suddenly he’s grinning and woolly odd-face is sticking his tongue out derisively and they’re laughing together to the tune of decades-long familiarity and you feel a burst of something like inexplicable jealous rage—how dare he—and your fists clench but before you can gear them back to take a smash hit, a froofy pink drink with fancy sliced fruits in it (exactly your guilty pleasure type but you pretend to be all huffy and insulted anyway) slides between your tetchy hands and the boy’s hooded gaze slyly flits back to you.

“On me,” he says, and smiles that perfect smile, but it’s the assuring squeeze on your skinny-jeaned thigh that makes your chest explode with something like curious obsessive desire. You won’t dare.

“Having fun, my man? is this the hottest club ‘round this side of the Hollywood hills or what?!” Far from it, babe—this isn’t even an anthill worthy enough to stomp my Balenciaga Slides on, you’d retort, but you pop a complimentary peanut or two to keep your rain from their pathetic parades. You’re roasting here too, and hypocrites can’t be choosers. “Oh, and B-T-dubs, you so owe me for actually convincing the huge scary Freight Train-looking bouncer dude to squeeze us up a good couple spots on the list, even after all that bullshit chaos you just had to cause with mister line cutter outside.”

The pounding of my heart is a teasing reminder Of what’s long overdue, let’s dance In front of this intersection of our different paths Yeah, I came here just because I thought to!

“Hey, not as much as you owe me for throwing hands with the big G-man and Kellsters to let us get off band rehearsals early for the night—I swear, I’ll be digging out gnashed teeth shrapnel outta my eardrums for weeks to come!”

“Yeah, at least that’ll give you some excuse to actually clean them, huh?”

“Fuck off.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

“I know you do, idiot...hey, wait a sec. You never even introduced me to your pop-collared buddy there, ya sly dog! Ah—‘scuse me—sorry about that—how’s it going, man? I’m Ken...wait, you uh, you look kinda familiar...have I seen you somewhere before?”

For you, I always wanted to be just right for you If I just thought about how you could do anything I didn’t need any aspirations

No shit Sherlock, you’re capital Fab Fit Fucking Famous, but you’re gonna let fugly (for fuzzy-ugly) duckling figure that kiddie brain-buster out for himself. You simply turn up your chin to an elegant degree and take a snide-coded sip while he tries to make a glib comeback, but he’s thankfully cut short and dragged back by another gormless giggling blondzo, though she’s certainly a significantly prettier sight than her companion...wait, a prettier sight you’ve seen and kissed before...and once relentlessly chased for the sake of the candid cameras and paparazzi posers, even when the game was already over and she respectfully cut the first-place ribbon from your neck. This is genuinely the last place you’d expect to see a vanilla-blue valley girlie like her, and recognising her down to the bouncing Mary Sue curls and the sweet sixteen smirk sends a painful surge of Chambord up your spluttering nose.

So much for being the white swan.

And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I even would’ve wanted to be a clown

But she thankfully doesn’t notice you, and you don’t care enough outside of the momentary culture shock to chase her down and catch up with her, either. Not when you’ve already been spared having to put up with awkward pleasantries with some passé costar. Not when she never really liked you much anyway. And especially not when you finally have your darling nightingale boy all to yourself.

Ah, has my time come already? Tomorrow is calling me I smile and wave my hand goodbye

Though, not quite; never quite yet. More flirty no-names and unfriendly faces stay in the woozy rotation, vices and vultures, drawn to the boy’s centripetal gravity just as much as you are. Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy like that, even with your blinding bravado and obnoxiously bedazzled confidence, you can’t help but wonder how in the wasted world you’re still managing to keep close attention to him and when his slipping inching fleeting touch is gonna drift away into a parallel reality (please, not sooner, not later), and why you’re suddenly burning up so much.

It’s the bright lights. It’s the copious alcohol. It’s the spinning too much and too close to the sun.

Top speed in the direction of love Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday Towards the direction of love

“Can we go home now?” someone puppy-whines from behind you and the boy, a klaxon siren intensity that makes you cover your top-hits tinnitused ears and wonder if the cops are closing in to bust in and declare the party as over (as if it wasn’t dead on arrival already when killjoy over here cried wolf). “I think I’m starting to get a serious breakout of hives from this abrasive glowstick plastic. Or it might be the toxic fluorescent dye leaking out and I’m about to have a major anaphylactic shock and seize out and die on the dancefloor to friggin’ Ke$ha telling me to lose my mind and lose my clothes in the crowd and I’m sure as Begly’s bike toast am not gonna take it off!”

“Oooh yeah nah, I wouldn’t recommend that, dude.” Tsk, tsk. You totally would, though. Might liven things up a little better, and you’ve honestly seen worse. Way, waaaay worse. Maybe even done worse if you remember right—but that’s not a fun scandal scoop saved for tonight if everyone’s out here making new one for tomorrow’s headlines. “Not the stripping part, and deffo not the dying part, either—most bigwig party animals are worse revivers than they are kissers.”

“Oh, ‘cause you’d know, huh?”

“Hey, I’m just saying. Take my advice—or don’t, whatever, it’s your body glitter-glazed funeral and we’re not gonna drag your rotting naked ass back home unless Los finds a nice dumpster to bury you in—if you think the overuse of spit and sheer sloppiness is unbearable on the second one, well...”

The saliva I’ve spit out The fallen leaves won’t return to their branches I’ve cut off any way to back down from this Farewell, my beloved days

This lukewarm quip is enough to make mister hypochondriac barker run with his tail between his hobble-hocked legs, knocking some preppy Erewhon-Organic-looking Crosby (who’s clearly trespassing on a group of Daisy Duke girls’ private plush lounge territory) over and ass-up—serves the hedge fund creepo motherfucker right!—as the perp takes his frantic tarantella to the graffitied graveyard they generously call a bathroom. Probably to seek out a steel wool pad and some hospital-grade antibacterial soap (in some depraver’s shady hovel in downtown LA, yeah, as friggin’ if—he’s more likely to find another rigor mortised body slumped a-la avant-garde exhibit in one of the stalls).

A ne’er-do-well who would Make all the noise in the world And never be satisfied

Cute as the nervous dimples and unmatched rabid geek energy were, your jaded eyes don’t follow him for very long. The boy’s stark enraptured face, thrown back to the suffocated skylights and shimmering with pure glee, wouldn’t let you. Slowing down into an astonishing descent with the taste of margarita salt on his sweetsoft lips sipping away the straight chlorine on yours—and you’re stuck waiting, watching forever, a bystander feeling smaller and smaller under the sinking settling shrieking realisation that the sky is bigger than they ever dreamed to cosmically imagine and one daring yesterday it’s all going to go dark, empty space and darkening vision.

This is the afterlife A masochist hurting themselves in longing And in the end, I lost it all without a trace What was “for you” was really always for me As soon as I made sure of it, the fading sky grew cold

This shooting star moment doesn’t last you very long, either.

“And how’s our wonder loverboy doi—woaaaaah nelly. What the hell happened to you? Jeez, I trust you to behave and leave you alone for five minutes...”

“I was just talking to this really cool-looking girl over there—she was with her kinda-scary friends but she’s got all these crazy piercings and rainbow hair and she said she liked Helmetie and thought I was kinda cute and I said I thought so too! And she asked if I thought I was cute, but then I said I meant I thought she was cute, not me. And Helmetie also thought she supertastic-cute, and she laughed and it was seriously the cutest thing ever! So we were like, really starting off on the right foot—and I swear, she was gonna be the one, dude!—but then I asked her what size her finger is and she wouldn’t even let me get to the buying a wedding ring part before, well. This whole mess.”

A pint-sized Latino soaked in what smells like Strawberry Sangria and stale hotdog water steadily trudges towards you and the boy, mopey mouth running a mile a minute with no room to spare for a shut the fuck up. You’d honestly sneer at his sorry sloshed-up sight if he didn’t just embrace the sticky spilled drink all over the both of you without a second boundary’s worth of thought nor hesitation.

Oh, broken mirror Is there anything you can salvage of me? I don’t know, sorry

His caramel cheeks are flushed Cosmo-pinker and his face is a miserable smear of nosebleeds and sobriety, but being teetotal wouldn’t explain why he’s wearing that godawful vomit-brown paisley top and a clunky sports helmet in the middle of a goddamned nightclub. Although, thinking back on all the times you almost got concussed in between getting stampeded by staggering strangers and oversensual half-lovers and snorting bullheads spoiling for a fight, he may just have the right idea. Especially if he’s gonna keep up that honest-to-badness garish haunted sofa ‘fit and trashy pick-up line streak. No matter how adorably, hopelessly, idiotically innocent it was clearly intended to be.

Hollywood don’t do subtle, and this kid was anything and everything under god’s wilted green earth and piss-yellow sunshine but.

And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I just wanted to match everything you did

Strawberry shortcake wedges himself in between you two (practically plopped right on the boy’s lap and that venomous rage resurges but you’re all out of froofy drinks and you’re honestly feeling a bit sick and sluggish from the syrupy sweetness and that unfading acrid taste from three free shots and an accidental alcoholic waterboarding ago, so down, bitch!) and laments some more to his apparent wingman over a glucose-elevating order of Virgin Mudslide about his voodooed lacklustre lady luck.

Halfway through the hurricane glass, he gets so impossibly giddy over the thought of never finding true love tonight that his splayed limbs start to have a life of their own and his whirling seat’s rivets fly off like teeny artillery, prompting a serrated scowl from the shaved-head bartender and a rub on the back from the sympathetically exasperated boy as he mumbles something about “first Hortense, now this—why can’t we just have a nice boys out for once without it getting all screwed-up and messy, I swear to god...” and even you actually start to feel a bit sorry for him and his little project reject.

It’s so frustrating But I can’t even bring myself to cry I can’t even shed a tear

With this, boybestie’s promptly encouraged with a crumpled wadful of cocktail napkins, one Helmetie less, and a mollifying bro pat on the back to take it easy and breathe it out, loosen...er, tighten up and get himself back out there on the raucous runaway, and try again (and again and again and again by the looks of it, you’d willingly bet your overcharged tab). They’re the Hollywood super party kings of Hollywood, for crying out loud (whatever the hell that even meant—and Hollywood twice cancels the whole equation out...okay, you really need to lay down on the chasers before you become the next new-age enlightener. And also just lay down, in general), so he better stop the pervy twenty questions game and the shady cool cat act and just try to be himself this time. But maybe just not too much himself.

Hey, so I gave you the notice But the after-effects are getting to me I can’t just be calm and collected about this all And so now we’re both getting a taste of this irony

Nerve-twisting numbers or not, the boy makes a really good point. You’re never really yourself when you’re hanging out in these kinda jank joints, of infamous druggies and has-been thuggies and mostly junkied now-next-to-nobodies—when you’re there overdressed to unimpress for the free drinks and the easy-A lust and the wishy-washy escapism of being no one or everyone or anyone else at all, there isn’t any need to be yourself, after all. That’s the last thing any try-hard outsider would ever want in this silver-lined city, to be known for being yourself since there’s no riches in radical reality...but despite that, the boy himself strangely seems to feel right at home here, no fragile façade nor pity-love fable to peddle save that salvaged heart bleeding bubblegum songs and unsaid stories all over his hundred-dollar sleeve.

Well, don’t say you didn’t want to know I’m feeling on edge, give me something to spur me on

You can see lost scars peeking shyly from behind his apropos Tom Ford bomber jacket that does nothing to hide the soiled clothes of a wayward child stumbling skinning his knees in dirty wonderland, you can see the branching scars that cross his tempered face like fortune lines and coat his sweetest words with an aftertaste of berry-baby-bitter that makes him swallow his guilt a lot harder just so his perfect smile could be a little softer, if you step back and look closer to dim down the glaring migraine lights reflecting rainbows and district red lights all over his flawless skin, you can see he’s really built of nothing else but smouldering diamond bones and vicious tooth and nail ambitions and the prettiest little scars. He hides it well; but there’s no place left to hide in this cramped hellhole but upfront.

Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, who hurt you?

Give me more of that conviction Give me more reasons to stand up again Give me however many and however many times

You don’t ask anymore. It might just be from one-too-many slips and slurries and shots of flaming sambuca, but choosers can’t be hypocrites and you hardly even recall if you exchanged names. Saying hi all the time and staying high all the time, some nitty-gritty details are bound to drop off into asterisks—like how long ago did you meet, and why can’t your hands stop blurring in front of you when the boy’s holding them so tightly it’s cutting off the blood circulation and keeping you numb to every sinking gripping aching touch, and why do you need to care about all these pointless questions? What was your name again...?

Well, whatever. It doesn’t really matter at all. You don’t need names to dance. You don’t need names to fuck. You don’t need names to remember for longer than a nascent after-hours, turning blood-red against yellowed eyes and evergreen veins. But you’re not so sure you want to forget, either.

If you can love someone More than the number of your regrets Then that love is something you should sing out loud Forget about what I promised you on that day

The silence speaks volumes. He spills half his vodka tonic on the jacket while grimacing from the lime and invites you to dance. You laugh and clumsily pull him into the floor, and that terrible twist of time leaves a lot of space for bad intentions as it slows the both of you into a phantasmic non-apropos waltz.

Wishing you well as I send you off Just one last thing to bother you with— I’m sorry. Well, then...see you again

Tired forehead to piercing clavicle. Phantom hands anchored and tracing gently-swaying hips, arching closer, grinding teeth. Broad blustered chests exploding in hazardous friction, challenging each other to thump a little faster, a little louder, a lot more painful, catching breaths catching up to the reverberating electrified drop before the raving crowd goes wild and they all fall down and you would too—god, why does everything burn so fucking much?—if only the boy isn’t holding every part of you together. You and the boy and you’re his boy but is he your boy? You’re not sure you’re not sure of anything anymore and you’re almost afraid to feel afraid to ask and it’s stupid and you’re stupid—stop acting so stupid, where’s your heavy hurting head, up there, up where, where did all your clever lies go off to, to throw up the poison and feel okay again or to curl up and die all alone in some other hypothetical hellhole where it wouldn’t be caught dead—as if you haven’t done this before.

For you, I always wanted to be just right for you If I just thought about how you could do anything I didn’t need any aspirations And if it made you happy, I would’ve done anything I even would’ve wanted to be a clown

You’ve been here before, danced a million ankle-breaking steps before, fucked a hundred wasted no-names before, remembered a thousand hangover ways to wake up on the wrong side of Viva La Holy Hollywood before, but you’re one-hundred percent sure plus one that you’ve never ever done this before. Never felt anything like this before. What is this, you may ask? Why ask at all? Maybe you shouldn’t. The boy’s not looking for answers he knows he couldn’t give back. But you’re still going to ask. God, you have to ask. Even if it’s just this time. Damn whatever the hell your dizzy dirty deadly cocksure fucking ego is screaming at you in every available profane language but right now, but there’s no other time to waste than now.

Ah, I’m out of time now Turn around, turn it all around, for me now

“Are you still gonna want me tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, but I like the idea of you. And I want you, right here, right now.”

What’s for what and what’s for who? I guess I’ll know when it’s all over, huh?

No promises. Nothing different. You’ve seen this shit before, a bajillion times over. He’s good at this. He’s done this before. You’ve believed it before. But you believe in him anyway.

You don’t know what else to do. You don’t know how else to think. You can’t feel anything but the boy.

Pretty boy, popular boy, perfect boy, why do you hurt?

I love this good-for-nothing lifeform with all my heart And even if this isn’t the best solution I just want to be myself...ah, it’s time now

Now you’re dancing, you’re dancing, and the cramped room crashes down around you and the lasting memory of the boy falters and the stringent beat has fallen away into a senseless static rush and you’re still somehow strobing and gyrating and writhing fucking mechanical as you hold onto him for dear life and delight and dear lies and the constellated kisses on your broken neck are stinging and numbed fingers bruising hips and grinding teeth breaking hollows and everyone and their chemical friends are watching, are watching but the glitter in your bleached-blue eyes shine like salty stars reflected against ocean indigo and something slips inside your tongue sinking the unsinkable and it’s not a pastel pill or a blotter or the sun but you gag once and get swallowed whole as everything melts down into a bad trip and he’s desperately asking for your name—what was it again, tell me tell me tell me—and you’re screaming something maybe like his name beneath his slippery scarred skin spreading with cracks and heady perfume and you’re hot and cold all over and over it’s over and going under underwater and all that’s left to think about is the all-consuming idea of him, and him, and him, and maybe, and maybe you—don’t know don’t know don’t want—you want it. Right here, right now. Maybe just enough to forget nothing, everything, anything at all. Maybe you like the idea of us.

No matter how it turns out, I’m going to go now To the starting line, top speed in the direction of love

Maybe you even love the boy, in some other dying cosmic yesterday you never dreamed to imagine before and never will again, even if you escape this pretty greenyellowredblack hole and fucking crawl out of that infinite stampede and make it out alive, alive, are you alive somehow. But you’re feeling smaller and smaller and your headspace is empty and your bloodshot vision is darkening and you’re not gonna ruin it like that. You’re not gonna ruin him like that. Not tonight.

I T ’  S    O   N      Y      O        U         N        O           W        —

Ride on, ride on now, to the other side of yesterday And I’ll overtake even longing itself.