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rhysdubois · 6 years

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RHYS DUBOIS is a 32 year old PROFESSOR that teaches in CONSTITUTIONAL LAW & CONSTITUTIONAL CRIMINAL PROCEDURE. It has been stated that they are +WELL-SPOKEN && +CHARISMATIC, but they can also be -A WORKAHOLIC && -PESSIMISTIC. HE happens to be into MUTUAL MASTURBATION && VOYEURISM, but won’t do CG/L && MEDICAL PLAY. It just so happens that they look like PENN BADGLEY && are HETEROFLEXIBLE!!

Ohai! I’m Ruby, and here is one of my trash children, Rhys. Here’s the down and dirty you’ll need to know when approaching.

Rhys is a New Orleans boy, born and bred. He bleeds purple, green, and gold. Carnival Season is sacred. He wants a second line at his funeral. Jambalaya is a basic food group. He will fight you about the best snoball stand in the city. And it’s spelled “snoball,” not “snowball.” Words are better with -eaux instead of -o. Geaux Saints (who dat!). He’s a Saints fan until he dies.

His father was a pretty wealthy and well-known Louisiana Supreme Court justice. Rhys and his little sister, Rosalie, grew up not wanting for anything, living in the ultra expensive Audubon Park area.

But they had expectations on them. Rosalie was not into them. The little rebel. Rhys was.

Consequently, if someone would like to pick up Rosalie as a character, HMU. Dunno yet if I’ll put up a formal request for her, but yanno.

Rhys mainly has Daddy and Mommy issues. Daddy was never there, but Mommy wasn’t either. Hello nannies. And Rhys had this whole thing about being the man of the house, so it was important to him to protect Rosalie. Rosalie kept running away, getting into trouble, and he would be the one to bail her ass out.

Rhys went to Tulane for undregrad, double majoring in Political Science (general) and Sociology. He graduated with honors.

Rosalie, by the way, went to a year of college and dropped out to live with her shitty boyfriend, who Rhys hated. Rhys couldn’t prove it, but he was pretty sure those bruises on her wrists were not from too-heavy bangles.

Rhys continued on at Tulane for law school. He graduated in the top 10%, basically because he wanted to prove to his professors (substitutes for Mommy and Daddy, no doubt) that he could do it.

Oh. And there was that whole thing where he fell madly in love with his Obligations, and later Successions, professor.

She was pretty adamant about not acting on their mutual attraction, but he couldn’t help it. She was older (only slightly) and all too fucking gorgeous, smart as hell, and he wanted her.

So when Rhys graduated and passed the Louisiana bar shortly after, he returned to school and asked her out. They basically boned for twelve hours straight. After that, they were inseparable. Yay.

Rhys got a job with a well-known criminal defense firm and he was ultra-successful. He believed in the justice system: in order to defend the innocent, you had to defend everyone. Everyone is owed equal protection under the law. Be a fucking decent person and give people a fucking chance. All of that.

He was 27 when he proposed and they got married that year in a small courthouse ceremony.

I am going to put in a formal request for his ex-wife, but HMU if you’d like details. She’s older than him, but doesn’t have to be by much. He��s 32, I’d say she’d need to be 40-45 at the youngest.

Shortly thereafter came the biggest case of his career. He was defending an accused serial rapist and murderer. Only thing was... the guy was innocent. But the Prosecution was fierce (Rhys knew she would be... he went to law school with her after all), and evidently met her burden of proof. Rhys lost the case and his guy was put on death row.

Rhys appealed, but while it was in the process of going through the system, his client was killed by another inmate.

Rhys blamed himself and shit went downhill for him.

Believing that he could have done something, argued something differently, he punished himself by pulling away from everyone he cared about. That included Rosalie. It included his wife, who he’d loved for years. She finally asked him if he wanted a divorce. He said that he did, but even now, he doesn’t know if he meant it, or if he was just in pain.

Regardless, he needed to escape New Orleans. And he needed to escape practice. He found a job opening at a University in Florida. It was close enough to Louisiana that he could be home within a day’s drive if Rosalie needed anything, but it was away from everything else.

Even though he didn’t need to pass the bar to teach, he did take and pass the Florida bar. You know. Just in case.

And now, he’s here.

In private, Rhys is quiet. A little broody. He’s still working through some shit, yanno? When he’s teaching, however, or if out in public, he’s charming. Enthusiastic. He doesn’t want the next generation of attorneys to make the same mistakes that he made, so he was hella excited to bring these classes to the fray.

He’s not much into physical connection anymore, which is why he’s a total voyeur instead. He gets off on watching other people. He doesn’t really make eye contact when he fucks. Doesn’t really kiss people, unless kissed first. He’s the “wham bam thank you ma’am” sort.

He’s heteroflexible in the way that he’d have a threesome and be fine with it. He can watch other men fucking people and find it erotic. Rhys, also, has only been attracted to women and considers himself straight, but... he’s open. Anything is possible.

So HMU for plots or thoughts, or if you just want to screech about how hot Penn Badgley actually is. I’m here for it!

#sunshinc:intro #abuse tw #murder tw #i guess?#anyway #have at him

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 6 years

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Molly please grace us with a philly super bowl gothic. I need your input on the state of our city rn because I'm trying to explain it to people and I can't adequately convey the palpable emotion and tension in the air

You need to get into city hall for business, but all the streets are backed up for over a mile. Everyone appears to be just laying in the streets for as far as the eye can see. You shove your way through the masses, determined to get to city hall, but to your horror, you realize that is the epicenter of this madness. People are bowing down in worship to the William Penn statue atop the building. You see Jim Kenney lean out of his office window and smile- he believes this praise is for him.

You’ve had to go to three separate eye doctors, certain something is wrong, something is deteriorating. Why can you only see in the color green? The doctors all assure you nothing is wrong, but you haven’t seen a normal color in over two weeks. All these buildings should not be green, it doesn’t make sense.

You are new in town, and your neighbor comes over to chat with a friendly, welcoming smile.“How ‘bout our Iggles, huh?”. You ask her what she’s talking about, but she merely laughs. “Our crazy Iggles! Youse know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Our undadawgs! They’re gonna be champions! Big ole’ Billy’s gonna make it happen furus, I can tell. Love them Iggles! Yo, jeet yet taday?” You are left blinking in oncoming horror, trying to piece these incoherent soundbites together. “Yiz want any cawfee?” You are visibly shaking at this point. What is this woman trying to communicate to you. She sees your tremors and laughs again. “Maybe not cawfee, huh? Well, hey, let’s just head over to the MAC machine by the ac-a-me and then I’ll treat youse to some good ole’ wooder-ice? Yo, maybe we can even grab some hoagies!” She has your arm and is dragging you along with her, her smile still plastered on, somehow friendly and threatening all at once. “C’mon! If we hurry, we might be able to catch the Iggles party down by the furry! GOW BURDS!” You cannot escape her grip and you feel sobs beginning to wrack your body. What is she saying.

Your dog got loose in the park and you are trying to locate him. But every where you turn, a person is wearing a german shepherd mask. They are standing there, motionless, seemingly lifeless. Unnerved, you carefully maneuver yourself through the crowd, looking for harmless little Chris. You can’t spot him in the horrifying sea of masked men. You need to get out of here. ‘Chris!’ you yell, hoping to attract his attention. Instead, to your terror, every single masked face turns in your direction. It is still terrifyingly quiet. ‘CHRIS!’ you call again, the desperation clear in your voice. The crowd all moves closer to you, the eye holes seemingly empty. Suddenly your little dog bursts through the crowd and happily leaps into your arms. You sigh in relief. ‘Let’s get out of here’ you mumble under your breath, but little Chris puts his paw up on your shoulder, looks you in the eye, and to your immense fear says, clear as day, ‘We can’t leave. We belong here.’ Trying to pull yourself together, you ask the puppy what he means. ‘We Are The Underdogs’. The masked crowd around you begins to chant ‘Underdogs’ over and over as they move in. Your screams cannot be heard over them. Six hours later, you awake in your home, and when you look in the mirror, you discover you are wearing the german shepherd mask. It will not come off no matter how hard you pull at it. You weep, for now you too are an underdog.

People keep screaming ‘Dilly Dilly’. No one really knows why. It’s just kinda happening.

You are in the library alone, late at night, trying to cram for an exam, when you are suddenly approached by the ghost of Benjamin Franklin. He leans against the desk, splashing bud light all over your textbooks, and one glance at him confirms he’s been recently snorting cocaine. ‘Hey,’ he says, ‘If you suck my dick I’ll pull some strings on the other side so the Eagles will kick Boston’s ass’. You groan. “Ben, please, I’m not in the mood”. He raises an eyebrow, ‘Fine, fine, but if they loose, it’s gonna be on you. Don’t you love your family?’. You know he’s right. Papa’s heart couldn’t possibly take another crushing blow. You take a deep breathe to steady yourself before following him into the backroom.

Alien visitations have increased in tenfold since the city learned the Eagles were going to the super bowl. But hardly anyone has noticed, because everyone is painted green themselves. The aliens have been loving all the cheesesteaks.

‘Say Mama’ you beg your child. He should have started talking months ago. ‘Mama’. He puts his chubby little hands on your cheeks and presses his precious face to yours. ‘Are you gonna say Mama?’ you try again. The child blinks, before clearing his throat and saying “In Nick Foles We Trust”. You cry yourself to sleep that night as your husband high fives all his friends.

Every person knows a person who was personally punched by acclaimed actor Bradley Cooper after voicing distaste for the Eagles.

New Jersey, continuing their act of Just Wanting To Be Philly, lights up everything green as well and makes a big show of prosecuting Boston fans. No one finds it cute. They try harder and harder each time they don’t get a reaction. CBS News tries to give them a shoutout to just get the madness to end, but Ukee is interrupted by the ghost of Betsy Ross yelling ‘she doesn’t even go here!’. Adam Joseph writes a think-piece on the whole situation.

Theater-loving fans everywhere scream out as Leslie Odom Jr. appears to be wearing Patriots colors while singing America the Beautiful despite the fact he’s from Philly. Betrayal is in the air.

You have an accident and cut your arm, when you realize to your horror that instead of blood, something green is oozing out of the wound. You scream, scream so much you start up a hacking cough, and are further terrified to find a green haze coming out of your mouth. Someone runs to your aid, and wordlessly, panicked, you show them your injury. They laugh and shrug, sounding relieved. “Oh, that’s nothing, your fine! You know we all bleed green around here!”

“What the fuck is Minnesota?” is a question you grow used to hearing. You aren’t even quite sure you know the answer yourself. It’s irrelevant, anyway, because we all know there’s not really a world outside of Philly.

Every report you see on the super bowl mentions ‘The Philadelphia Eagles’. Every article online, every late night show host, it’s all about the Philadelphia Eagles. You feel your breaths quicken pace, your heart pound, your palms sweat as you press them to your forehead, trying to contain your oncoming panic. Philadelphia Eagles? Philadelphia Eagles? What the fuck is the Philadelphia Eagles? You know only of the Philly Iggles. You were told your favorite team of the Philly Iggles were going to the super bowl. You choke back a sob. Had you bought all this merchandise for nothing, then? Why would someone lie to you like this?

Fireworks have been shot off in every part of the city for the past week, so much so that you can no longer hear properly anymore. You are irrationally ashamed of this, and try your best to keep it a secret. Every time someone tries to talk to you, you just respond ‘Go birds!’. It works flawlessly.

Your father has been barricading the house for three days now, a panicked, mad look in his eyes. You ask him what’s wrong. “This city is going to burn, baby! We have to stay safe!”. You remind him that no one knows who’s going to win the super bowl yet. He looks to you with a broken stare, tears running down his face. “It doesn’t matter, honey, it doesn’t matter- WE ARE ALL GOING TO BURN.”

You smile at the girl wearing an Eagles jersey on the bus, and ask her where in the city she’s from. “Oh, Willow Grove, but-”. Your stare grows cold and uncaring. That’s not Philly. That’s the suburbs. “It’s like, 20 minutes outside it though, it counts. I‘m in the city all the tim-”. You cut her off. She doesn’t belong here. That jersey is not meant for her to wear. “But we’re all really excited for the Eagles in the suburbs, too! It’s all we-”. She falls silent at your glare. The rest of the bus has tuned into the conversation and turn to her with matching looks. She does not deserve that jersey.

Pope Francis glances at his small tv blasting the CBS3 News cast, and sighs wistfully into his bite of cheesesteak. “They used to talk about me nonstop,”. His aids acknowledge his mood. His Holiness sighs again, “If only they knew….that I put in that good word for them. That I made this happen.“ He sighed once more. This truly was a thankless job.

Philly Jesus can be found in a green robe, dancing with passerby near the LOVE statue and taking pictures. The cops can’t even bring themselves to arrest him this time, everyone is relishing in the good mood. The news breaks that the Eagles are in the lead. In celebration, Philly Jesus claps his hands and everyone’s drinks turn to wine. Holy shit, he’s actual Jesus. Unfortunately now the cops have to arrest him for distributing alcohol to minors and for carrying it open in public. This is somehow on brand for the city.

You light an alter in your dark room. On it sits a photo of the entire Eagles team, a box of Quaker Oats with William Penn smiling benevolently at you, a nude of Bradley Cooper, and a picture of Ben Franklin with double blunts in his mouth and gold chains around his neck. You make your promises, and then place your offerings of tastykakes and soft pretzels. Almost as if on cue, green fire works explode outside your window and you here the people in the next room scream ‘TOUCHDOWN!’. You smile. You knew your boys would never let you down.

Your mother is a bad luck charm. You know this, and she knows this, and she is somehow stronger than you in this moment. You are still fighting back tears as she hands you the blade. “It needs to be done. Make it quick, love.” You don’t dare open your eyes as you dispose of the bad luck. You will miss your mother, but the city needs this win more than you needed her.

A terrifying green fog has rolled in over the city, completely engulfing it, it would be near impossible to see through if not for all the fires popping up. No one even bothers to question it. We all know what it means. We all know how this night is going to end.

A lone, majestic, bald eagle will soar over the torn remains of the city one day. It will let out a broken caw, horrified at the sight, blaming itself for all this madness. A single tear will fall from it’s beautiful eyes, and land onto the fallen statue of William Penn. Upon impact, a light will flash through the ruins, and Wawa’s will spring back into the world, the magical tear of the eagle will return people to their sane minds, fixing what it can of the war torn city. Philadelphia will rise from the ashes because of this Eagle Tear. The cycle will begin again.

#philly #Philadelphia eagles #Philadelphia #super bowl #football #asks #molly mumbles

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willpowerbutch · 7 years

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Gay Oil: Chapter 1

A fan fiction by Tom Rob Smith

It was another frigid morning in Soviet America. Outside Eli’s front door, grey evergreens stood stark against the white pall of clouds, and the winter sun rose behind them like the communists had risen to power when he was only a boy: red, large, and full of nuclear threat. Being one of the denizens of New Trotskyville, it was Eli’s life-long habit to take this route to work at the silver mines – past the jutting cliffs, on threadbare government-issue slippers, clutching his coat to his chest while quietly whistling along to the morning broadcast. In the distance, there was the rustling of canvas as the breeze sent ripples through a mining encampment; and, there was the sun, mounted high now above the oil wells, the only part of the picture that wasn’t drab and lifeless. It sparkled in the sky in a way that reminded Eli of his phenomenal gayness.

It bears discussing for a moment just how gay, for Eli was not merely homosexed, but fruitilicious in a fragrant and radically soft way. Often, in his teenage years, he lounged on a garbage heap outside his house, smooth chest shining in the afternoon light as an electric fan blew photographs of Christopher Reeve between his thighs. Like this he languished for hours but to rise at the sight of an approaching straight man, whereupon he would hoola hoop nakedly into the center of the yard. “Why don’t you come have a sip of my water, baby boy?” he would call to them, only to be greeted by righteous beard frowns. Of course, homosexuality was subsequently outlawed, and Eli had to learn how to walk with his legs spread apart. He couldn’t count on his free hand how many times he had narrowly evaded the police at abandoned country restaurants; other times, he spotted them at the market among the cucumber-melon-scented bath soaps, just waiting to snap a pair of handcuffs over the carefully exfoliated wrists of a gay. Thus, he had been impelled to smell like peppermint social alcoholism for years.

He approached the silver mines, dropping his bag in the dust as he noticed the silhouette of a muscle daddy struggling on the ground. That’s my job, he thought, taking offense at the sight of a real man sprawled in the mud like a health spa happy ending. Pam Grier didn’t die for this amateur bottoming bullshit. He approached the homo-queer daintily, his oral sex nose sniffing fast, and admonished him. “Brother, you’re ruining your facial. This is not Arkansas.”

“I’m going to murder you,” said the daddy raising his head, his left eye twitching. “I’m going to drain you dry like a vanilla milkshake. Now bend over and adjust me.”

It being in Eli’s nature to follow grunted instructions, he spread his legs far apart and lowered his generous package to the ground. “Daddy,” he murmured, butterfly-kissing the man’s belt loop, “I’m this town’s least arrested psychic, and I think it would reassure the community if you visited my jiu-jitsu sex clinic. I do readings for the modest price of a second-hand butterscotch latte. Will you come?”

“Readings?” The daddy appraised him with extraordinary spectacularness. “I can make you give me one for the cost of Ben Whishaw’s box office value: I pay you nothing, and you gratify me in the privacy of an empty movie theater. Hmm? What do you think of that?”

But before Eli could stop licking his fingers long enough to reply, an eerily British Sylvester background dancer trundled toward them, weighted down by his ‘70s streetwalker mustache and lack of current television exposure. “Daniel!” exclaimed the girl, “I am your brother, Danny! I accept cash!” He fell weeping to the man’s feet, smearing mud along his naked inner thighs while all the studio executives in the world showered him with discontinued LSD gumdrops from a canon the shape of Ben Hur’s nipples. Then, his slim frame quivering with exertion from pretending to be a top, he vanished into the newly-risen, Rami Malek-esque sun.

“What are you running from, my boy? You, too, could get paid for shitting on Andre Bazin,” Daddy Daniel laughed after him with undeniable method acting. He then turned his attention back to Eli, who was busy braiding his leg hair. “Speaking of Will Smith, have you seen my sympathy son, Alex? He was here a moment ago, but he must have left to turn into a dick cowboy.”

“I have not, Daddy. We should check for him in a BBC nepotist’s syphilis dreams,” concluded Eli, lighting his crack pipe on a parking ticket.

Thus, the pair set out, Eli retaining his coral purse and Daniel genuinely bleeding out of his ears as the scent of Marxist documentarianism drifted to them on a wind of discrete builder farts. Eli’s excitement throbbed at the smell of flatulence, and as they sashayed across the rugged, biceptual terrain, he began to dream of one day gay-marrying a former child. Pulling his mink tighter, he led Daniel into the midnight grocery store where he had hosted his first erotic bathtub monologue, stopping in the entryway to reapply his favorite lipstick, Autocannibalism Red. As he sifted through the contents of his bag, Eli felt the daddy’s screwed, twitchy eyes turn on him once more, undressing every last stitch of his fishnet tights from him, and he froze. “Was there something else you wanted to ask me, Daniel?”

“You know what I want, Eli,” said the older man, flush and barely able to control his rage erection.

Being a dignified girl, Eli smirked. “I’ve already told you my price, Daddy Daniel.”

“Not that, you residual muck of one of my delicious milkshakes. Your bath oils, Eli,” he growled, indicating into Eli’s purse. “I want to buy them. Name your price for those.” Daniel withdrew his checkbook, but Eli merely wagged his finger.

“I’ll give them to you for free when Eddie Redmayne stops winning Oscars for whispering,” he replied. “You can keep your glorified chocolate milk. My fluids are my sheep, and I am their shepherd.”

At this, like a volcano of passionate incredibleness, Daniel Plainview burst into a groundbreakingly American display of angry sniveling which put to shame every dramatic performance ever. “ELI!” he screamed, and the bristles on his face stood up as high as the ones in his trousers, “If you do not, in accordance with your victimhood fetish, act like a murdered soap opera heiress and sell me your bath oils for this very reasonable 100 rubles, in the name of my sexually innocent math bitch, Alex, THERE WILL BE BLOOD!” Daniel reached out to strike Eli with his art conniption when, inexplicably, his hand was stayed. “Whitney,” he breathed.

The public radio had changed songs, and it was now Whitney Houston that played in Orwellian warehouses throughout New Trotskyville. Eli’s ears became a cesspool of optimism and ‘90s drumkits. He stared on in fabulous judgment as Daddy Daniel took her photo out of his breast pocket and licked it. “Her eyeshadow looks like Sean Penn’s divorce,” he told the daddy in disdain.

“Which ‘era’ of Whitney do you like, Eli?” asked Daniel, cracking his knuckles.

Eli was aghast. “The one where she hasn’t been relevant since Beyoncé happened, Brother. You really listen to this abstinence charity music?” The older man’s eyes bore into him, filling him with frightful, kaleidoscopic visions of leotards. Eli shifted uncomfortably. A cold silence stretched between them. “I suppose… I can see why you like her voice, Daddy Daniel,” he acknowledged at length, bowing his head, “since you, too, sound as if dental surgery turned you into a radio pervert.”

The man’s entire body shook with incredible extremeness. “Beyoncé is nothing but a post-apocalyptic Kate Bush. A lottery hoax,” growled Daniel. “The Dark Ages are over, Eli, and the power bottoms lost. I own the factory where you pedal your sex calendars now. And if you don’t sell me your bath oils right here, in this renounced nacho bar, I will break all your pussy power bracelets and feed them to my sad Abercrombie virgin, Alex.”

Eli was stunned silent. The house lights began to flicker out, slithering across his face like an ill-fitting condom. Finding no apology from Daniel, he made the sign of the Z and vanished into the club’s back room, where he screamed and flailed around like the girl from The Exorcist if she was sick on chocolate wine. When at last Eli regained his composure, he changed into his racist Dalai Lama costume, preparing for another afternoon of preaching to children about the importance of politically-gay movie extras.

TO BE CONTINUED

***

About the Author

Tom Rob Smith, screenwriter for the acclaimed television documentary London Gay and author of such novels as Vintage Suicide Communists and Momentary HIV, is a rampant fabulant whose gay suffering hard-on has inflamed the manfully heterosexual attention of the editorial staff of Manly Men! Magazine. This fan fiction is the first part of an ongoing media promotion of Paragon Shag’s new political action dinner group, Feel Dirty When You’re Seduced By Rentable Firemen Into Performing Celery Porn Again (FDWYSBRFIPCPA), the aim of which is to discredit the evil teachings of gay transgenders such as Paul Dano, Ben Whishaw, and Rick Perry.

#attempted satire #obviously #willpower butch #tom rob smith #there will be blood #fan fiction #daniel x eli #eventual danny x alex #london spy #parody #paul dano #ben whishaw #daniel day-lewis #edward holcroft #gay oil #manly men magazine #paragon shag

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