#It’s just more sanitary and polite

[just-a-little-radish]

Trans male has risqué bulge/outline when wearing women’s jeans and shorts, refuses to tuck or even just wear decent fitted clothing

The top comment:

More comments:

The partner being trans doesn’t even have anything to do with the fact that it’s standard decency for males to keep their crotches under control in public, and that includes not wearing things that draw attention to (or perfectly outline) their dicks. Genitals are expected to be safely out sight behind clothing. Men’s clothing is made to accommodate a package down there and blend it in, whereas women’s clothes expect only the slightest curve to the crotch, if any, and therefore dicks have nowhere to hide.

I sincerely believe these commenters are a) too blinded by the partners’ gender id to apply their logic to any other non-trans-woman, and b) underestimating just how obvious the bulge must be and how often it happens, probably.

Also, I really doubt the partner’s statement that he “doesn’t notice” AND is “not bothered.” He has to have noticed at least a couple times if he wears women’s jeans and shorts semi-regularly, and if he isn’t self conscious about that it makes me wonder how it does make him feel to have people acknowledge his crotch in that way…

[yulin-pop]

⤷ ✧ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐌𝐞𝐬𝐬

order 85 | scenarios | Riddle, Leona, Azul | Gender Neutral

❀ NOTE: Can you guess what my inspo is? (In English class my nose randomly started dripping blood)

Small description of blood (nosebleeds specifically)

➺ Riddle Rosehearts

It happened at the worst time, during a small tea party with Riddle. With Trey serving tea and all these little pastries you felt like nothing could go wrong.

You felt something come out of your nose and you sniffle, just dismissing it until it doesn’t stop.

“MC…” Riddle gives you a harsh look.

It was sorta embarrassing when Riddle gives you that look. “Sorry sorry maybe something triggered my allergies!” You cover your nose and then you look down at your hand, you understand why he was staring.

Riddle rushes over to you with a hand towel and presses it against your nose while he leans you forward.

“Does it hurt? Are you okay? What did you do??” He continuously asked questions one after another.

Even after you insist you’re fine and nothing in particular caused it, he’s adamant on keeping an eye on you.

“I think you need first aid…” He says while staring at you from the other side of the table.

“Riddle I’m fine—“

“I can’t let you leave, maybe you need a check up.”

༻ Leona Kingscholar

You were talking to him, you weren’t there to talk to him because you wanted to but you just owed Ruggie a favor and he asked you to get Leona and bring him back at Savannaclaw.

He was laying on the floor looking the other way while you stared down at him. “Look, Ruggie really needs you.”

“He can wait.” He grumbled.

“He said right now. Seriously he sounded really concerned when he sent me.” You tried to reason with him.

You went from politely asking, getting angry, whining, then to just pleading. Throughout the entire time he didn’t look at you once.

In the middle of your sentence you sneezed, you felt something drip out of your nose and you quickly covered your nose with your hand.

“Bless you herbivor…” he trailed off and turned his body towards you.

“Sorry this is kinda gross.” You said while covering your nose more.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s alright this will go away.” But it just kept going, with his napkin you had no idea what to do.

He stared at you trying to clean your hand up and also your nose until he had enough. He mumbled under his breath before picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“I’m only doing this because I don’t like the smell of blood. Let’s go to the infirmary.” Though when he said that, you couldn’t see the look of concern on his face.

⊱ Azul Ashengrotto

He was locked up in his office as per usual but you had some business to deal with. You had a temporary deal where to work for Mostro Lounge for money just for a week. Despite being a temporary employee you had the same expectations.

“Azul, please…” You bowed deeply to him. “Just let me go home early.”

“I don’t see why. It’s only been 3 hours and you have 2 more. Why not just finish off your shift for today.” He replied back with a displeased look.

“Because I have homework! I need those hours for studying.” You argued. He simply rolled his eyes and returned back to his paperwork.

“Very well, if you leave though you are terminated and won’t receive any compensation for the hours you’ve worked this week.” He said calmly with a smug look on his face.

You were about to grab him and shake him around. Until you sneezed, you covered your sneeze with your arm and held it there, feeling something was wrong.

“Your sleeve, that’s not sanitary for customers. You should get changed.” He grabbed a tissue and held it out to you. You removed your arm away from your face and stayed silent.

He almost yelled, key word almost, and stood up rushing over to you. “I don’t think this is normal for humans?! There’s so much blood…”

“Sorry I didn’t mean to get the uniform dirty.”

“I don’t care about that.” He abruptly said, “You need first aid.”

Even when you protested and guided you into his seat and pulled out the first aid kit.

[astroyongie]

FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

Hello everyone

Usually I don’t do posts like those, because I do not like to take political sides but staying quiet about such matters is just inhumane. Since the community is big, I want to use this opportunity to speak out in this matter that has been heart shattering from the past months. Despite having already spoken about the matter when it first broke out, I really wanted to write something about what happened in Rafah and what is happening in Palestine overall.

Israel is guilty of everything they have done and have made Palestinians endure and the attack of today on tent housings was anything but an “accident”. It was a premeditated attack, a tragic event that claimed over 40 lives and left many more injured. An act that shouldn’t go unpunished as they have broken countless ONU rules.

Israel killed over 37,000 people so far, countless are dying of hunger, disease, infection and from poor health care and poor sanitary conditions. How many more need to suffer for this to end? This is a genocide. It’s cruel and although my values don’t allow me, I will still wish misery upon those that support Israel’s actions. Anyone who supports this crime can meet their doom and block me.

Let us stand in solidarity with Palestine, advocating for justice and an end to the violence that has been perpetuating. Spread awareness, support humanitarian efforts, and call for a peaceful resolution. I call upon the spiritual world for help. May these children live without fear, may these families not grieve more than they have. May Palestine find peace.

FREE PALESTINE 🇵🇸

[euno11a]

Tattooed Hearts II

Genre: No one to someone Tattoo artist! Jungkook X Reader

Summary: What happened to us? Why did we end up like this? It was only a one time thing. Now it’s ruined us both.

Warnings: fluff, angst, smut, mentions of hookups, insults, arguing, blood, mentions of period, insecurities

Pt I • Pt III • Pt IV • Pt V• Pt VI • Pt VII • Pt VIII

***

What a jackass! Months of not seeing you, and all he had to say was ‘glad you’re back?!’ Seriously? Watching him walk away so nonchalant made your blood boil, he was a player. What did you expect? He wasn’t gonna drop to his knees and start sobbing! It was dumb if you to even have hopes of him doing that. You glared at the closed office door, hoping he would trip over a stone and scrape his knees. Yes, it was childish, but scraping your knees hurts! You opened your juice, sipping it while cursing Jungkook out in your mind.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when you heard the buzzing of the tattoo gun again, “Is the juice good?” V asked with a small smile.

You nodded happily, drinking even more. The question stood in your mind, how did they know it was your favourite drink? You hadn’t told any of them apart from Jungkook…oh my god. OH MY GOD! Was he still thinking about you?! No, there’s no way, all he thinks about is getting his dick wet, he was not thinking about you. It was probably just a mix up with a flavour. V continued with the tattoo, mentioning that you’d have to come back for a second round to do the colouring and final touches. You agreed, wanting to finally have the tattoo finished. Time went by and a woman walked into the parlour, she was wearing a black latex looking skirt with a matching top, fishnets and some funky looking heels. She was his next client? Good god. Listen, you weren’t one for being insecure. You loved your body! It was amazing! But looking at the woman that just walked in, you couldn’t help but compare yourself just a little bit. She had the ‘perfect body,’ almost no body hair, an hour glass shape, perfect face (probably because of Botox), she was the ideal woman. So watching Jungkook step out of his office and lean on the doorway, smirking at her, made me know that it wasn’t just a touch up that was about to happen. I groaned and looked at V, “Am I almost done…?” “Yep! Just gonna wipe it down with an alcohol wipe and tape you up, then you’re free to go.” He smiled politely at you, which you returned. You luckily finished just before the moans echoed through the parlour, the woman from before, moaning and screaming for Jungkook. You made a small face of disgust, walking to the front desk to pay. RM gave you a sympathetic look, setting up the machine so you could pay. The worst part, was that you could hear his grunts. The grunts he used to make when he fucked you, when he touched you, when he ate you out, even when you bent over to pick something up. Now you’re realizing that you weren’t that special to him. You were a quick fuck and drop. After paying, you walked out of the parlour, a sense of rage present in your gut. Who the hell did he think he was? Honestly, he will never find someone to love forever. He'll always be a player. *** “Is that even sanitary?” Lindsay asked as you guys walked to the bar. You’d came home and told her about your adventures at the tattoo parlour. You weren’t sure if she was treating you to drinks because she felt bad for you, or if it was because she needed to wipe away the vivid picture you painted for her of Jungkoon fucking a woman in his office. You shrugged, stopping in front of the bar, pulling the door open. “I don’t think he’d care even if it wasn’t. Such an asshole…” You mumbled, getting seats at the bar top. You ordered your drinks, a gin and tonic and a dirty Shirley, waiting for the bartender to make them, Lindsay nudged you.

“Look at Mr Hottie over there! God, I’d let him bend me over the bar and fuck me.” She said proudly, biting her bottom lip.

You almost choked on your spit, “I’m sorry, wHaT? Lindsay, you can’t just go around saying that!”

She leaned back and smiled at you, “Come on! I haven’t been fucked in a good while, my vibrators not cutting it anymore! I need a real dick.” Turning her head, she smiled at the guy, winking.

“I thought you were here to drink with me, not get fucked by some random guy.” The drinks came and you instantly drank some, you had a feeling this was gonna be a long night. Grabbing her drink, Lindsay smiled at you once again, walking in the direction of the guy. You groaned and leaned your head on your hand, mixing your drink. Maybe it was from the day, but the gin didn’t feel strong enough. After about 30 minutes, you turned to look at your friend, but not to your surprise, she was gone and so was the guy. “Hope you have a nice fuck.” You mumble to yourself. “Thank you, I will.” The voice caught you off guard, making you jump and turn your head. Jesus Howard Christ. Jungkook smirked down at you, leaning on the bar top. “It was nice seeing you again today. Still looking good.” You didn’t reply, don’t speak to the devil, he’ll hurt you. You sipped your drink in silence, trying not to pay attention to the muscular man beside you. “Come on, you could at least say hi.” “You can at least tell me when you decide to cheat.” You shot back, angrily. Damn it, where’s Lindsay when you need her? “Woah, woah, woah, I never cheated.” Jungkook replied, grabbing his scotch on the rocks. “We were never together, so technically I didn’t actually cheat on you.” Was he serious right now? “Oh, sorry, my bad. I was a fuck toy.” Your jaw clenched, hand gripping the glass of gin and tonic tightly. You could see him smirk from the corner of your eye, “You were a good fuck toy. Always let me use your pretty pussy…fuck you so good. Bet you haven’t had good dick since.” “I’ve had plenty of dick, many that've topped yours.” You snarked back, god, where was your buffer? What happened to ignoring him? And what was with all the lies? “Sure you have. Speaking of, where’s that friend of yours? Did she dump you for dick?” He was trying to get a ride out of you….it was working. “No, she escaped before you came. God blessed her today, but I unfortunately haven’t had his graces placed upon me yet.” You could hear him chuckle lowly, his laugh was deep and husky…fuck, it was hot. “Come on, Y/N, we both know you don’t worship god. You like to worship me when you’re on your hands and knees, waiting to be fucked like a good girl.” He whispered in your ear, using that soft but husky voice you liked. Why’d he have to say your name? Why couldn’t he have kept his stupid mouth shut? “That’s in the past. I’m never going to stoop to a level so low ever again.” Grabbing your bag, you placed a $20 bill on the bar top, paying for you and your friend’s drink. You pushed by Jungkook and made your way to the exit. The air outside was refreshing, something you craved after being stuck in there with Jungkook and his sweet smelling cologne. When you were walking away, your name was called, but you knew it was him. You weren’t gonna answer this time. Not now, not ever again.

Taglist: @talyaaas-blog

[fireinmoonshot]

resting your head on their shoulder with hangman please

“I can’t believe there’s still so many people here this late,” you say, sitting down on the couch beside Jake after coming back from the kitchen, a glass of water in your hand. “I would’ve thought it’d be a lot quieter by now.”

Jake looks between you and the party – a birthday party for Natasha, attended by everyone she knows, which is a lot of people, apparently, and then a few plus ones. It’s a different atmosphere to what you’re all used to at the Hard Deck or the other few bars you all frequent. Natasha’s apartment is much nicer than some of the bars, for example, and her couch is much more comfortable and probably more sanitary.

“If you’re considering sneaking out so she doesn’t notice, now’s the time,” Jake chuckles. He can’t even see Natasha from where the two of you are sat on the couch. He has a beer in his hand but it’s barely been touched and he’s not sure he has it in him to finish it.

You shake your head. “No, I told Nat I was gonna stay until it’s over to help clean up.”

Jake looks at you, trying not to smile. “Well, aren’t you an angel?”

You fix him with a look and take a sip of your water. 

Jake Seresin is, in your opinion, one of your closest friends, along with the rest of the dagger squadron. But there’s always been a little something between you and Jake, some added chemistry that made your friendship a tiny bit stronger. You’re more comfortable around him than you are around the others. You’re not entirely sure why.

“What about you? You thinking of heading off?” You ask. You don’t really want him to leave, especially since you’ve only really just sat down beside him and you haven’t seen him much all night.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m gonna stick around for a bit longer. Wanna sober up a bit before I make the trek home, y’know?” That’s not the entire reason. He’s also wanting to know that you get home safe, if you even decide to go home and not stay the night at Nat’s.

You offer him your glass of water and he laughs a little before politely declining. 

It’s silent between the two of you for a few minutes before Jake feels your head gently rest on his shoulder. The movement startles him, but not so much that it’s noticeable to you. Jake looks at you out of the corner of his eye and notices your eyes are closed.

“Did you fall asleep?” He asks, confused. His heart is beating faster. Weird.

“Shh,” you whisper, voice barely even audible over the music and noise of the people around you. “It’s past 1am, I’m tired.”

Jake chuckles. “Then go home and go to sleep.”

“Don’t say stupid things,”  you reply.

He sighs, feigning his irritation at you. “You’re annoying the heck outta me, Firefly.” He uses your call sign.

You roll your eyes, though he doesn’t see. “Don’t care. Not moving.”

Jake shakes his head. Since he was going to stay a while longer and sober up anyway, he figured he may as well stay sitting here and let you rest,  though how you can sleep with the noise of the party, he has no idea. But he feels better knowing you’ve chosen him to rest on and not some random stranger.

“Fine, but I’m pushing you off when I decide to go home,” he says. 

The following morning, Natasha comes downstairs, wiping her tired eyes, to see you and Jake fast asleep on the couch together. His head is resting on the top of your head, yours is still on his shoulder as you’re curled up beside him. She smiles to herself and shakes her head. The sooner the two of you stop being oblivious, the better.

[followthebluebell]

I think I've seen you talk about giving a cat a sanitary trim before, right? Doesn't that mean trimming the fur on their behind so that poop stops getting stuck in the fur? Cause I brought my elderly cat to the vet for her annual physical and while we were there I asked if she could get a sanitary trim because she's been struggling with keeping the fur back there clean and they said sure and brought her into the back with them to do it. But when they brought her back out she was not trimmed at all??? like there was the same length of fur as before they brought her back there. Her fur was wet so I guess they wiped her down but I told them I did that already and specifically wanted the fur shortened to make it easier. Obviously you weren't there so you can't tell me for sure but was there some miscommunication I'm missing? When they brought her back they said they trimmed her, despite clearly not doing that..... I'm just very confused. no pressure if you're not up for answering this though!

Yep, a sanitary trim generally involves trimming the hair around their butt and back legs to help prevent dingleberries and other messes. I'm not sure how that could be confused. It's possible that your cat didn't cooperate with the trim and, given her age, the vet didn't want to push things.

But they absolutely SHOULD have communicated this with you, especially if you've paid for a sani trim. It's possible that they misunderstood 'sanitary' as 'please wash my cat's bum', but I doubt that.

It's also possible that they just forgot to do it. It can get hectic behind the scenes and sometimes things slip through the cracks. I'd absolutely reach out to the staff and politely ask 'Hey, I'm grateful for your time and energy, but can you please trim her up a bit more? She's still getting bits stuck'.

[gothhabiba]

White people are allowed to use appeals to 'trauma' to defend and explain their (and other white people's) behaviour—including racist behaviour—in ways that people of colour are not. 'Trauma' in this formulation (that is, a mitigating circumstance that can be appealed to—not just to explain and excuse whatever behaviour—but to make that behaviour appear healthful and beneficial on an individual or societal level)—this kind of 'trauma' is something that only white people can possess.

People of colour—in a usamerican context we ought to be talking primarily about Indigenous & African americans—are not subjects or people who can be traumatised. True, they're not thought of as people whose trauma matters—but, more than this, they're not thought of as having the kind of mind that can be traumatised in the first place.

They don't have the kind of mind that can suffer and then 'heal' from 'trauma'—a mind at its core healthy and sanitary, but corruptible—a mind flexible enough to rejuvenate or regenerate itself. Regenerating potential, complex individual psychology, a 'clean' state prior to trauma that can be corrupted and ought to be protected from corruption—these things belong to whiteness alone.

These are the aspects of whiteness that make an appeal to corrupted white childhood especially powerful for reactionary and progressive people alike. The white child is in the ultimate state of innocent, fragile purity and simultaneous elastic rigour. The white child's purity must not be challenged or complicated (thus ideas such as 'white children ought to be shielded from the realities of racism which their peers of colour are presumably already dealing with')—but white people can, once corrupted, still become productive citizens of a healthy national body politic, given sufficient attention to the 'recovery' of that previous un-traumatised state.

This 'recovery' employs discourses of medicine and psychology as sanitation and the (white) mind both as originally pure and robust, and as recoverable and regenerative enough to re-attain that original state. These discourses also posit that white psychological recovery serves a national function. The converse is also true; marginalised white people's attempts to address their marginalisation frequently invoke nationalist imagery and nationalist myth-making (in shoring up a sense of personal identity as a white member of the nation; in claiming the 'right' as a white member of the nation not to be marginalised or oppressed).

So Indigenous & African americans cannot be traumatised. they can be foreign (yeah, foreign, however counterintuitive it sounds) antagonists and villains, collective hoards, drains on resources, sources of labour, the tragic dead, or tragic victims, but even in the more apparently sympathetic of these formulations they are not psychologically individual or complex enough to be traumatised as people. They especially cannot be thought of as traumatisable or regenerative as populations, since that would entail an acknowledgement of usamerican colonial wrongdoing and the admission of a possible future not predicated on white hegemony.

If they are 'traumatised' populations it is a kind of trauma that is tragic but irrecoverable, or else self-imposed and self-perpetuated; they don't have a mind, an individual, psychologically complex mind, the kind of mind whose individual experiences matter and ought all to be taken into account and sympathised with in understanding behaviour, the kind of mind that justifies and necessitates any action taken in order to maintain its hygiene. Their minds are neither originally 'pure' (such that they must be protected from trauma) nor robust and elastic enough to recover (such that they can ever really be healthy members of the us national / political body).

An appeal to white trauma, and especially to white childhood trauma, is just sort of a sympathy magic bullet that the stars rarely align enough to allow a person of colour to discursively counter ime. "Colonialism, slavery, and encountering racism traumatise people" is not admissible evidence to these people. The white person engaging in racist behaviour can be excused and pitied—even have their behaviour be thought of as healthful and beneficial—on the basis of their trauma. To the extent that people of colour are harmed by this behaviour, it simply doesn't matter.

[imagine-silk]

Fallout 4; Companions w/ a Sole who's messy

Piper has a controlled mess. Everything is littered everywhere but she knows where everything is. Ask her for a pen she'll reach into a box on her desk. Ask for a jacket she'll grab one from her chair with other clothes she hasn't folded yet.

Hancock has a mess. Just a mess. If the two of you ever live together your messes will collide in the worst way and you will only find things you don't need at that moment.

X6 will clean his area whenever it's dirty so if you live together your mess is his mess. He never tells you to do it but he will tell you it's disgusting. He expected more from someone pre-war.

Danse will tell you to clean it no matter if it's before or after BB. The only difference is how nice he says it. First it's a command, then it's an ask.

Cait is a pretty clean person all things considering. She has no problem with gunk and grime so the process of cleaning doesn't bother her. If she has the means she'll clean.

Curie will reprimand you like a child because she can't believe an adult could be so messy. People need to live in a clean and sanitary conditions, so do her patients. You are not allowed in the clinic.

Codsworth is used to it and automatically cleans up after you. The second you throw your shirt on the floor he picks it up and suggests you take a bath so he can wash the clothes. Leave plates on the table and he does them on the spot.

Deacon is very aware of all of his things so if anything is missing he knows. So when it gets mixed in your stuff he will go through your things without permission. He might even bring it up later.

Preston will politely mention the idea of cleaning in the beginning but as time goes on he starts telling you to clean, even going so far as to force you.

[rippersz]

𝐖𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋

⟡···········⟡···········⟡ ⟡···········⟡···········⟡

⟡···········⟡···········⟡ ⟡···········⟡···········⟡

(A Fem!Reader x Jan Stevens ~3.6K Worded Oneshot) (Angsty; Romantic; Ambiguous Ending) (TW: Smoking; self-deprecating thoughts)

⟡···········⟡···········⟡ ⟡···········⟡···········⟡

For so long, the words trickled off of the length of your tongue like wine from Dionysus’s cup. The rich crushed grapes of your diction, your flow, your enchantments poured into the goblet of your legacy. The only defining feature of your existence, aside from the mortal body gifted to you by a creator you cursed. And stuck under a pseudonym of your own choosing, the reality of your government name known only by the blue-eyed tormentor in the shadows. Penned and shackled beneath her own goblet and her own hold and her own money. Funds you so desperately needed, despite being as good as you were.

No.

As good as you are.

Forced to wake every day, stuck in the same room as four other souls. All of them beautiful, in their own ways, and strange, in their own ways.

Violet, Luca, Peterson, and Juliet.

Some of the most disturbed people to ever walk the Earth, you think.

Happily bathing in their weird sounds. And their foods. And their cooking. And a bunch of other things you know you’ll never really understand. Turning knobs and plugging things in and having fucking orgies? Right in front of you? For you to document?

It all feels like a fever dream. One you were never really prepared for. One you know you could wake up from but one you begrudgingly want to stay in. One you want to live through and experience, even though you know you’ll come out if it more scarred than you did when you went in. Entirely sure that you’ll need therapy. But doing it anyway. Boiling it all down to a single factor. A single chink in the chain’s creation. A single discrepancy. A single line missed. A single, accidental, happening.

Infatuation.

Intrigue.

Desire.

And not for Violet. Or Luca. Or Peterson. Or Juliet. And not for the fucking doctor or the tech assistant guy. Or even the gardeners or the rich bastards that stop by to admire the ‘art’.

No no. None of them. Never one of them.

No, your heart just has to shoot for the moon, doesn’t it? Yup. Just has to fly straight past the planets of Reason and Reality and rocket itself into the stratosphere of Utter Delusion.

Occupied by your heart and just one other person.

Jan fucking Stevens.

Jan fucking Stevens with her stupidly beautiful fucking outfits and her shiny golden fucking hair and her dumb rich and low idiotic fucking voice and every other terrible fucking thing about her.

Your employer. The temptress. The blue-eyed tormentor. The She-Devil. The control and the power. The lonely figure on the hill. The watcher in the shadows.

Seeing and seeing and seeing.

And while she watches them,

You watch her.

It’s not your job, of course. You’re not supposed to watch her. You’re only there to document the four idiots and their weird avant-garde bullshit.

But you can’t help yourself.

You physically cannot help yourself.

A writer must write about the tiniest little changes in their soul; about the things that pass through it and the things that stay and you… well how could you disgrace yourself like that? Given this talent but depriving yourself of a muse? Tricking yourself into caring about whatever the fuck goes on at the Institute - when really all you want is to catch Jan Stevens alone and talk to her yourself? One on one? You have so many questions. You have so many desires.

Who are you? You wonder as you watch her talk to them. Slow movements and measured tone and placating words.

Where did you come from? You wonder as she eats, polite and sanitary and quick to wash things down with a glass of red.

How did you get yourself here? You wonder as she watches from the back of the crowd, all keen eyes and sharp ears and towering height.

Have you ever fallen in love? You wonder as she makes eyes at Juliet and promptly causes an evil vile amount of envy in your body, taken in the form of heartburn.

Do you want to? You wonder as the moans and groans of the writhing bodies continue around you, but your gaze is trained on the way she watches them from the other corner of the room.

Never able to become distracted. Never able to find the sex erotic. Simply staring at it and writing down what they must be feeling, the tension and the heaviness it all creates in the air, while knowing that you rather be outside. On the lawn. Falling asleep by yourself, forgetting all about Jan Stevens and Juliet and every other thing that happens at the Institute. Wishing not for death but for slumber. Finding with growing restlessness that it only evades you when you’re not thinking about her.

But to think about her is even greater punishment.

So maybe that’s why you find yourself abandoning your post - and running off into the night; leaving the sinners to their sermons while you crash out onto the grass. The tall hedges hide half of the world from the other half, and that’s where you take your moment of comfort. Your first free breath. Crisp and delicious with the autumn air. Reveling in the way it fills every corner of each lung. Clearing the stuffiness of your head and the beginning poundings of a migraine. They come along often during “backstage time” - as you like to call it. The room is simply too small and too hot and when the bastards are in a particularly gracious mood, they pull at the rickety wooden legs of the stool you sit on. And grasp at the edges of your baby blue dress. And try to entice you with their undulating and panting and weird background noise. It never works of course - and instead just leaves you with itchy sweaty skin and a lurking desire to run far far away.

But no matter how much you desire, dream, wish, pray, repent, repent, repent, you know you won’t go. You know the one reason to stay has you in such a strong chokehold that even while you crouch upon damp grass and bask in solitude, you think of her. Dark eyes and red lips and gazes so intense they set off bombs within your bones. Aching to tear you apart and make you explode into a human Jackson Pollock of a creation. Granted, she never looks at you, but good lord you wish she would. Even if it’s just once. A glance or a glare. Anything to be noticed as we-

“Not interested in matters of the human flesh?”

Speak of the fucking Devil.

Your world cracks. Like a baby’s skeleton dropped onto concrete. The peaceful silence stolen right out of the clammy dips of your palms. Wrenched away from you. Tugged into her court like a petulant child ripping the ball used for play out of the hands of a classmate. And you, the other child (scorned and bewildered), can do nothing but watch as the treasure is taken. Held in the pale, slender, playful, beautiful fingers of

“Jan Stevens.”

Breathed into the ether before you can catch the words and shove them back into your stupid idiot whorish runaway mouth.

It’s an accident, yes, but when you see the way her lips twitch with delight, something in you stirs with pleasure.

“The appreciation of the artists makes you quite uncomfortable… doesn’t it?” Her voice is liquid satin poured over your body, and you can’t do anything but lap it up from your own skin. Like a woman drained dry who’s just been gifted a capful of water.

“The orgies, you mean.” It slips out just like the last time you spoke and suddenly you feel like the stupidest morherfucker on the planet.

Control yourself.

But when she’s looking at you like that, not at all shocked by your sharp tone and rude scoff and blatant disregard for what she calls ‘art’; in fact kind of a bit smug, like she knows the effect she has on you, then how can you control yourself?

How does Juliet control herself? Does she even notice Jan’s gaze at all? Does she even care?

“Yes,” your attention is drawn back to her - and your vision sharpens at her lips, “I mean the orgies.”

And the grass shuffles out of the way as she picks up the tulle of her skirt and strolls closer, taking herself out of the hedge’s shadows. Revealing the gorgeous length of her body to the moon. To the moon, who smiles down at you both and grins behind her cloudy veil. Like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s just waiting for the climax of her favorite book. The fated moment in which the characters die or confess or kiss or cum or betray or lose or win or realize there’s really no hope in trying at all. As Jan Stevens stops so close to you her skirt brushes against your thigh, you start to wonder if denying yourself is really worth it - or if it’s just a defense mechanism that kills and cures at the same time.

“What about them makes you so uncomfortable?” Jan Stevens speaks slowly, her low tone adding a harmony to the universe’s distant buzz.

Your voice is nowhere near as melodious, but you’ve already fucked up twice - so this time you think about your words.

Oh I dunno, maybe because normal people typically don’t indulge in orgies every other day? Because they get really close and get way too bold and far too loud? Because the lights and the music and the stupid fucking smoke machine makes my head pound? Because public sex isn’t really my thing? Because you watch them instead of me and once or twice I’ve debated taking my clothes off and joining them just so you can finally look at me too? Because watching you leer at Juliet makes me want to sacrifice myself and kill myself and dedicate my body to the group all in the name of envy and art? Because you’re so beautiful and also just so happen to be the only one I want to have sex with?

Something hard kicks the bottom of your thigh and you look up to find electric blue eyes peering down at you expectantly. The harsh quip ‘Did you just kick me?’ rests on the cliff of your tongue, but you exchange it at the last minute with a proper answer.

“I’m just not used to that kind of… intimacy. It’s too extravagant for me,” and then you scoff and fix Jan Stevens with a look more serious. “Plus I don’t want to do any of them.”

Her eyebrows, which you can barely see in the dim light, twitch. Maybe caught off guard, maybe amused, maybe none of the above. Either way, she smiles. It’s not real though. It’s something sympathetic but something fake. Something you can’t quite put your finger on but you can see right through her anyway.

What’s your game, Jan Stevens?

“Well I’m sorry to hear that,” she hums.

‘Yeah, me too.’ You wanna say. ‘Yeah I also wish I liked orgies so I could at least fit in.’ But you keep your mouth shut and look down at your legs, going to pat at your dress pockets for a pack of smokes. While you fumble, she stares. A long, razor-sharp stare. And suddenly you’re yearning for the times where you had all the freedom in the world to admire her from afar. Because up close, you feel the atoms in your body splitting - utterly overwhelmed by the closeness of your employer. The scent of something sweet and cloying and strong fills your lungs, mixing gently with the brisk autumn air, and you realize that her perfume is to die for. You hope the deep breath you take is lost on Jan Stevens while you whip out the cigarettes and a lighter.

“Do you smoke?” Your voice is deceptively steady, though your speech is blurred by the white stick in your mouth.

And there’s no response. Only silence follows.

And follows.

And continues to follow as the seconds drag on into minutes.

Perhaps she didn’t hear you? Perhaps she’s not interested in answering? Perhaps she’s walked off? No, no. You would’ve heard her. And out of the corner of your eye, you can still see the line where her white skirt marries the newly manicured grass. Her perfume still lingers, too.

Aromatics. By Clinique, you think to yourself. Of course. I’d recognize it anywhere. You used to wear it in high school. When you were unpopular and had one small group of friends and still, even then, never found the wavelength needed to properly fit in. Always the odd one out. And now it follows you like the plague, resting on the designer coat-tails of Jan Stevens’s clothing.

After another minute of absolutely fuck all, you finally put the pack back into your dress pocket and flick on the lighter. There’s a flame for five seconds as you light the cigarette, shielding the catch from the wind, before it fizzles into nothing and joins the pack in your pocket.

The smoking is an evil habit, but you only started indulging again once you were accepted as a documenter for the Institute. Honestly, you’re sure that no one can spend even less than a day in the company of Jane Stevens before either reaching for a cigarette or a gun.

…Though maybe that’s just you. The others get along with her quite well. Listening to her marvelous ideas and indulging her whenever she wishes for more. At her fucking beck and call, they are. Like puppies with their master. Like bitches with their owner. Like whores with their best customer. And then you. The runt. The runt - who smokes only outside and who cringes during the orgies and who sometimes feel the distant almost animalistic urge to fall to her knees and kiss Jan Stevens’s heels. As though she could give the silly little runt anything more than a heart attack. Which she proceeds to do anyway as you draw in a good breathful of toxic air and let it out a few seconds later - only to feel it leave your hand, from between your two fingers, with a quick devilish slide as it goes.

Shock is splashed across your face. Disbelief stutters into your heart. You look up so quickly your back cracks, lips already open to tell her you did offer! But something stops your outrage. It could have been the moon - who still watches on with hopeful eyes and a deep air of anticipation. Or the stars, with their judging whispers and peering gazes and evil smirks. Or even the clouds, floating across the sky, who all sing a different lullabye to the rest of the universe at night. Or it was the truth of things. The reality of things. The sight of Jan Stevens standing tall, in the grass; with her pale skin outlined in a silver gloom, with her head tipped back and her chest dipping into a fall, while thick strings of smoke leave the tantalizing curve of her open lips. Like a goddess providing the world with the air it so desperately needs to live. Spilling her gospel and writing her scripture and carving her tales and spelling out your death with the tiniest flick of her tongue over her teeth.

You want to taste it. You want to drown in it.

When the cigarette is handed back to you, wordlessly and without even a spared glance, you frown. She takes your smoke and can’t bother to thank you. Or smile at you. Or look at you at all? An annoyed scoff shakes your body - and while her eyes turn to you at the sound, you wrap your lips around the red print on one side of the cigarette and inhale as deeply as you can manage. Unfortunately, whatever edge smoking is supposed to alleviate in the human body simply doesn’t exist when in the honored company of Jan Stevens. The discomfort from before has only worsened, and when she keeps staring holes into the side of your face, part of you begs to get up and return to the godforsaken orgy; if only it meant escaping the bloody tension.

“You have a habit of staring,” you mutter a moment later, throwing caution to the autumn wind in the face of her unabashed interest. Whatever she’s hoping to find, she won’t find it here.

“I think you like it.”

Okay. Nope. Can’t do this.

You stand up so quickly you nearly fall back on your ass. The cigarette spills its smoke and you take one last breath before dropping it onto the grass and stomping the heel of your boot into it.

I think you like it.

I think you like it.

You think I like it? You think it doesn’t hurt? You think you can just win me over like you’re winning over Juliet? Please. Don’t fuck around with me Jan Stevens. There’s only so much bullshit a woman can take.

You turn to look at her - to glare at her and maybe tell her to fuck off. Or maybe to tell her that you’re really tired and want to go back inside. Or anything, anything at all, to distract you from the fact that she is entirely completely 100% right. You do like it. And that feels like a sin. But when your eyes bear witness to the side of her face, with its gentle curve and porcelain complexion, you find that she’s even closer than she was before. Towering as per usual, only about a head or so taller, looking at you with a pleasant smile on her red lips. The same mask she puts on everyday. Trying to goad the artistic bastards into agreeing with her decisions and her plans and all of the other small little creative critiques she has to input. You kind of want to tell her to wipe that smile off of her face- to fix her expression and just be real with you- but pissing her off isn’t a good idea. And being ungrateful isn’t practical. You still need the money she’s already given you half of. The rest comes once the session is over. And the session isn’t over. And she’s still right there, her hands clasped in front of her like she’s about to give a speech. You look down at them, and at the sliver of space between your bodies, and shiver instantly when the wind draws itself in and sweeps across the lawn - ruffling your clothes, ruffling her clothes, making the waves of her hair sway only the tiniest bit. You want to pat down the runaway strays, but you choose to stare instead.

“What?” It’s a whisper, not one you planned but one that needed to be said. It draws her eyes down to your lips. She’s so close you can smell the smoke and mint on her breath.

“You’re a peculiar thing,” Jan Stevens responds, lifting one slow hand to drag the tip of a polished finger down the side of your face. A slim line that cuts gently into your skin, leaving a small mark before it’s gone a second later; from your temple to your chin. Her knuckles, cool as they are, brush lightly against your cheek.

And then her hand is gone.

You want to grab it and bring it back. You want to burn in front of her. You want to tell her you’re not really peculiar at all and that should she want to get to know you, she’ll find that out herself. You’re just another human being. Another soul that fills a space on Earth that could probably be better suited for someone else. A loser. A writer- who spends nearly all of her time trying to figure out her thoughts about her boss. You want to tell her that and more. You want to keep looking into her eyes and admit that you’re not sure you’re in love with her, but that the infatuation only grows. And now that you know she sees you, you’re not sure what to do. What to do. What to do. What do you do? What can you do? What can you say?

“Juliet is more peculiar than me.”

Okay you can’t say that, you fucking moron.

Too late, though.

Too late.

She’s already tilting her head, and her red lips are already curling up. The very beginnings of a real smile. Of genuine amusement. You’re the canary and she’s the cat.

“Is she?” Jan Stevens breathes, her blue eyes roaming over the trails of your face. “I haven’t noticed.”

Her tone is light. Airy. Carrying the clouds and the moon and the stars with it. Like a waterfall dripping from her mouth. Cool and relieving. You hate it. You love it.

“Don’t lie.” Your eyes harden. Your brows furrow. How dare she? “You look at her all the time. Of course you’ve noticed.”

And just like, you’ve found the answer.

‘What’s your game, Jan Stevens?’

This, of course. It was this all along. Silly runt. Can’t you see?

She gets so close, the warmth of her body kisses your own. Pressed to your stomach and your chest and the very tops of your thighs. Face hovering above yours. Kiss me, you want to say. You know my truth now kiss me.

But you don’t.

You don’t. Because she grins - and her eyes are shining with success.

“I knew you were watching me.”

⟡···········⟡···········⟡ ⟡···········⟡···········⟡

;P Lemme know what you think? Thank you darlings. - Rip x

⟡···········⟡···········⟡ ⟡···········⟡···········⟡

Tags: @littledollll @1-800-milfdilf

⟡···········⟡···········⟡

[atlafan]

No Complaints - Part One

a/n: hellloooooooo the fic you’ve all been waiting for is finally here. Based off these posts, you all wanted a full fic, so as per usual, first part on here, the rest on patreon. I don’t think I’ve ever written this much smut in one fic, so buckle up. I honest wasn’t sure what I wanted to name this fic. I kept calling it ‘happy himbo’ but that didn’t work. He’s sort of just like a polite dirtbag, but with an endearing twist! You’ll see the theme with “no complaints” throughout the fic. I spent way too long on this banner. I photoshopped that bottom half onto that woman and I also created that entire wall because I’m insane. ANYWAYS PLEASE REBLOG AND LEAVE NOTES AND COME TO MY ASK BOX AND JUST PLEASE GIVE ACTUAL INTERACTIONS WITH THIS PLEASE I’M SO TIRED also there are some strong sex and the city inspired vibes

Warnings: just...a ton of filthy smut, anal, public sex, dominant and submissive vibez...just...yeah

Words: 11.6K

Tumblr Masterlist I Patreon Masterlist I Ask

With the way Layna’s cheeks went bright red when she glanced at the text that just came in on her smart watch, each of her friends put down their forks and stopped paying attention to their delicious brunch food to ask her what just got sent to her, and by who.

“Who just made you make that face?” Christine asks with a smirk.

“Hm? Oh, no one.” Layna waves her off. “Anyone want another mimosa?”

“Don’t change the subject.” Serene says. “Is it a guy?”

“It is, but it’s no one special.”

“Then you can tell us what it said.” Michelle says.

“Please don’t make me show you, it’s embarrassing.” Layna groans.

“Wait, is it the himbo from your gym?” Christine asks excitedly.

“What himbo from your gym? You’ve never mentioned a himbo from your gym.” Serene says.

“Okay, okay. There’s this really hot guy that works at my gym. He’s sort of like a trainer, but he does other maintenance stuff too. We’ve hooked up a couple times. It’s not a big deal.”

“What makes him a himbo?” Michelle asks.

“Um, well…” She looks down at her phone and flips it over. She unlocks it so her friends can see the text he sent her. “He is a big fan of emojis, types with the worst grammar, and well…he’s basically just a polite dirtbag.”

Her friends all look disgusted as they look up from Layna’s phone.

“I’m sorry, but why are you bothering with this idiot?” Serene asks.

“Because the sex is incredible. I don’t think a guy has ever made me orgasm as often as this guy has, and he’s so attentive. He’d go down on me for hours if I let him.”

“When and how did this all start?” Christine asks. “Because the last you told me about the dude was that you just thought he was cute, but you hadn’t even spoken.”

“Alright, I’ll start from the beginning. But I need more alcohol.”

**

A few weeks ago…

Layna started going to a new gym. She could afford to go to a better one with more space that is closer to work so it’s easier for her to go after a long day. It helps to clear her head. The life of an art dealer seems glamorous, but it’s a lot of work. You are constantly schmoozing with artists to get them to have a show at your gallery, and then you have to market that show to all the right people to make sure the art is actually bought. Not to mention working with a catering crew, lighting experts, and having to smile the entire time because you need the commission from the sales. It’s a lot of long hours and working on the weekends. So having a good gym close by that Layna can go to on her way home is super helpful.

The locker room is extremely clean and sanitary. There’s even a steam room! Not that Layna has a huge desire to sit naked in a pool of her own sweat with a ton of other naked women around her, but a good steam after a particularly grueling workout is nice. The lockers are spacious enough for all her things. She changes, wipes her makeup off, throws her hair up into a high pony and makes her way out to the main area.

Layna likes to warm up on the treadmill. She doesn’t run, but she works her way up to walking at a faster pace and at an incline. She only does about a mile, it’s enough to get her muscles warm and ready for the strength training portion of her workout. She doesn’t love using machines. She never feels like she knows what she’s doing, but it can be boring to do the same things with the same weights. She keeps looking over at the leg extension machine. It seems simple enough, but she’s honestly a little too scared to use it. So she doesn’t.

She sticks to her normal routine, goes for a relaxing steam, and then takes a quick shower before getting ready to go home. As she’s leaving, she notices a very cute guy going around wiping down machines and collecting rags and towels people have left behind. He’s wearing a shirt with the gym’s logo on it, so she assumes he works there. He looks up and over at her, making eye contact for only a moment, but the way he grins at her makes her blush and smile nervously back at him before leaving.

She goes most days after work, and it’s the same thing. She does her usual routine, but looks off at the machines she’s too afraid to use. It takes about a week of stolen glances, but by Saturday morning, when there are less people around, the very cute guy approaches Layna before she can take any weights off the racks.

“Hi.” He says. “You’re a new member here, right?”

“Yeah.” She nods, smiling. “Is it that obvious?”

“No.” He chuckles. “I work a lot of hours here and I hadn’t seen you before this week, so I just assumed. I hope this doesn’t come off as creepy, but I see you looking around a lot. Is there something you want to try that you might feel too nervous about?”

“Oh, gosh.” She slides a hand down her face. “Yeah, I want to try some of those leg machines, but I hate being the person that takes up time learning how to use it when other people are waiting. They’re sort of intimidating.”

“You’re allowed to take up space, so don’t worry about that. It’s less busy today, I could show you how a few things work if you want.”

“Are you a professional trainer?”

“You mean do I have a college degree in athletic training with a ton of certifications? No, but I am a personal trainer, and I do have the certifications to train others. We all learn how each machine works so we can teach you all.”

“Alright, then, yes I would appreciate some help. Um, what’s your name? You’re not wearing a tag or anything.”

“M’Harry.” He extends his hand, and she takes it to shake.

“I’m Layna.”

“That’s a really pretty name.” He smiles. “Come on, I’ll show you the leg extension machine first.”

Harry has Layna sit down, and he goes over what a good amount of weight to start is his, and how many reps she should do how many times to see improvements. She’s a little embarrassed using it since he’s watching her, but she calms down a little when he gives her shoulder a squeeze and tells her she’s doing it perfectly.

“Is it alright that I just touched you? I should have asked first, I’m sorry.” He tells her after taking his hand away from her quickly.

“It’s fine! I don’t mind if you touch me.” She says with a flirtatious glint to her eyes that he picks up on right away.

She does fifteen reps, three times, then Harry takes her to the leg curl machine. She’s in a much more compromising position now because she’s laying on her stomach with her ass in the air and the backs of her legs have to lift up the weight. Harry watched her form, but wasn’t shy about checking out her ass either. The third and final machine he shows her is the hip abduction/adduction machine. He explains that there are different muscle groups worked depending on if your thighs are on the inside of the pads or on the outside.

Opening and closing her legs like this in front of him really shouldn’t have been such a turn on for either of them, but it was. The eye contact was strong, and Layna could feel herself getting worked up. When she’s done, she wipes off the machine, but makes no move to walk away from him.

“I don’t usually advertise this, but one of the perks of working here is that we get a private bathroom that you need a key to get into.” He tells her lowly so no one else around will hear. “If you grab your stuff to shower and meet me by the employee door on the inside of the locker room, I can let you in.”

“Yeah, that sounds good.” She nods.

“Yeah?” He asks for confirmation. “You want to fuck me?”

“Jesus!” She shushes him, making him laugh. “Yes, you didn’t have to ask.”

“I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page and that you didn’t think I was just going to let you have a more private shower.”

“I understood from your tone. Give me five minutes to grab my things.”

Mid-morning delight isn’t something Layna takes part in very often, but this guy is fucking hot, and he wants to fuck her, so she’s going to let him. She gathers her things and discreetly makes her way to the employees only door at the back of the locker room. Harry cracks it open just enough to see her, then opens it fully to let her in. She follows him down the hall past a large laundry room, and to the right. He scans his keycard on the lock and opens the door for her. When he closes it, he flips the lock so others will know the bathroom is otherwise occupied.

There is a stall to one side with a toilet, and a large sink counter across from that. Harry goes to turn the water on in the large shower on the other end of the room. Layna sets her gym bag down on the counter. Harry comes up from behind her, wrapping his arms around her torso as he starts to kiss on her neck. Normally, she would care that she was sweaty, but she made sure to wipe her neck down and pat it dry before meeting him at the door. He sucks a bruise into the space behind her ear, causing her to gasp and hook her around his head to tug on his hair. He presses himself against her ass, and she feels how hard he is.

Harry parts from her and turns her around. They launch at each other, teeth clanking as they kiss, each wanting to get their tongue in the other’s mouth. Harry’s hands are all over Layna. He grips the hem of her shirt and pulls it off of her. They clumsily make their way over to the shower as they continue to strip each other of their clothes.

“Wait!” She says just as he’s about to rid her of her leggings. “Shower shoes.”

“Oh! This bathroom gets cleaned like five times a day, it’s all good.”

“Okay.” She nods and lets him proceed.

Once they’re both naked, Harry all but throws Layna against the tile wall of the shower. They’re both under the water, which makes her feel better about his mouth exploring her chest. She nearly loses her balance when he starts sucking on one of her nipples.

“What’s okay and what’s not okay?” He asks her after leaving a nasty bruise on the top of her breast. “Where can I touch?”

“You can…you can do whatever.”

“Layna, I wanna know what makes you feel good or this won’t be any fun.”

“I want you to use me however you like. You can touch wherever you want.”

His lips slot over hers as his hand makes its way between her thighs. His fingers rub through her folds before slowly inserting his middle finger up inside of her. Her head falls back against the tile, and Harry takes the opportunity to kiss on her exposed throat, working his way to the crook of her neck to bite and suck on. She reaches between them to start fisting at his cock, swiping over the tip to spread his precome. He groans into her hot, wet skin, and bucks into her hand. He slips his ring finger inside her, and lifts one of her legs up to rest on the hinge of the arm he’s not using to thrust.

“We need to be sort of quick, so I’m sorry if this gives you whiplash.” He warns her.

At first, Layna is very confused. If he has to fuck her quick and hard, then that’s totally fine. This doesn’t need to be a whole two-act production. She figured since he lifted her leg that he was getting ready to stick his dick in her, but that’s not what he did. Once his fingers were sunk deep inside her, he took a deep breath and started pumping into her at lightning speed. Which, usually that would not feel good, but his fingers pet and drag against her front wall as he’s thrusting in and out, so it feels incredible. He’s not even doing anything to her clit and she feels like she could come from this alone.

“Jesus, fuck!” She nails sink into his shoulders as she holds onto him.

His mouth crashes to hers, probably to help keep her quiet. He swallows every moan, every whimper, every muffled grunt of his name. She’s not sure how his arm isn’t getting tired, but she’s not complaining. No, she feels good, so fucking good, better than she’s ever really felt, and there’s the most perfect amount of pressure in her lower stomach.

You would think with the sound of running water and the fan in the bathroom going that you wouldn’t be able to hear much else. But Layna can hear how wet she is. There’s a squelching sound with each thrust of Harry’s fingers. It’s making her dizzy. She moves to bury her face in his neck so she can breathe a little easier. Her nails are now digging into his back.

“Doing so well being quiet for me.” He says into her ear. “Next time we can go somewhere less public so you can let out all those pretty noises.”

“I’m getting close.” She warns him.

“I know, I can tell.” Normally something so arrogant wouldn’t turn Layna on, but for whatever reason, Harry’s cockiness is doing it for her. “You’re dripping down my wrist, you know that, right? You’ve squirted like two times already.”

“Please, I...Harry, I need to come.”

“So come.” He nips at her earlobe. “Come for me.”

That was all the encouragement she needed. Her back arches, and it feels so good that the noise that falls from her is silent. Everything goes white. She can tell that she’s gushing around him. He takes his fingers out to watch the rest of it drip out. He slips them back in, almost in a tender way, just cupping her pussy and rubbing it to soothe her and help her calm down. He sets the leg of hers he was holding up down and kisses her.

“That felt amazing.” She breathes. “Want me to do you now?”

“Please. Just jerk it, you don’t have to put your mouth on me this time.”

Layna nods, happy to not be blowing him. She usually prefers to kneel on a pillow, not hard, solid tiles. They continue kissing and licking and nipping at each other while she pumps him. She ends up using both of her hands, and she swears she could have come again from the way Harry moaned in her ear. She lets him come on her tummy, and even scoops some up on her finger to suck on, just so he would have no doubt that she’s a good girl.

They clean each other up and get out of the shower. Harry watches as Layna pulls herself together, and slings her gym bag over her shoulder.

“So, can I get your number?” Harry asks her as he opens the bathroom door to lead her out.

“Um, sure.” She blinks. “Just for sex though, right? I’m not really looking for anything serious right now.” They walk out to the main area of the gym. It’s gotten busier.

“Yeah, just for sex. I’m not looking for anything serious right now either.” He runs a hand through his slightly damp curls. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you since you started coming in. You’re so sexy.”

“The…the feeling is mutual.” She tells him, feeling her cheeks heating up. “Here’s my phone, you can put your contact in.”

Harry takes her phone and creates his contact. “I just put ‘H’ as the contact name. That’s what most people call me.”

“Cool.” She smiles. “So…I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, see you around.” He smiles back.

He seemed nice enough, and he turns her on, so Layna felt good about her new fuck buddy. There’s no harm in it. They’re both adults, if they want to stop, they’ll stop.

**

“I’m sorry, you let a strange man finger fuck you in a completely secluded area?” Serene asks.

“Yes.” Layna confirms. “It was like something out of a sex novel, you know? I wanted him, and he wanted me, so I figured what the hell?”

“Have you hooked up since?” Michelle asks eagerly.

“She sure has.” Christine grins.

“Why does Chris get all the juicy gossip?” Serene asks.

“Because she’s the least judgmental out of the three of you. Besides, I haven’t actually told her anything, she just has a sixth sense for this stuff.” Layna answers bluntly. “I knew you wouldn’t approve of me being so reckless, and I knew that Michelle wouldn’t approve of what he does for work.”

“Well, if you’re just fucking him, then it doesn’t matter. Just don’t catch feelings and continue seeing men with good jobs on the side.” Michelle shrugs.

“Why is being a personal trainer not a good job?” Christine asks. “He knows everything about the body, that’s hot.”

“He doesn’t know everything. He just knows how to train people. He never went to college or anything like that.” Layna explains. “Which is fine. That’s all I really know about him. We don’t talk unless we’re fucking.”

“Do you fuck at the gym a lot?” Serene asks.

“No, that was the only time. He didn’t want to risk getting in trouble, which I totally understood.”

“I’m dying to know more, so please continue.” Michelle says.

“Okay, so the second time it happened was about a week later…”

**

Hey, u up?

It was Friday, now technically Saturday since it was two in the morning. Layna would normally be asleep, but she was at work late for a show at the gallery, and she was still feeling riled up from that. So she texted him back.

Hey, yeah I am

Wut r u up 2?

Layna furrowed her brows at the text. Is he drunk? Who over the age of sixteen texts like this? She panics for a moment. What if he’s only college aged. She’s twenty-nine.

That depends…how old are you?

29 how old r u?

Twenty-nine

So r u dtf or nah?

Yeah, wanna come to my place?

Send me the addy

Layna can’t believe she’s about to let a guy who texts like this come over and fuck her. But he made her come so hard last week without even touching her clit! And she gushed and gushed. She wants to see what he can do without a time constraint.

Twenty minutes later, Layna is unlocking the door to her apartment. She lives in a four-story walk up, and she’s on the fourth floor. It’s a pain going up and down the stairs all the time, but she gets the rooftop all to herself, so she can’t complain too much.

“Hey.” Harry gives her a ‘sup’ nod as he comes in. He’s wearing an orange hoodie and black basketball shorts. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Hi, um, it’s right over there – oh!”

He had picked her up and thrown her over his shoulder. He finds her bedroom and tosses her onto her bed. She had put on a cute set of pj’s, a silk spaghetti string top and shorts to match. But she realizes she could have been in a paper sack and Harry still would’ve fucked her. He peels his sweatshirt off before climbing onto the bed. His lips are on hers only seconds after that.

Layna likes the way Harry kisses. He’s needy and aggressive without it being too gross and sloppy. His tongue is soft and precise, and his lips are smooth and easy to bite at. He definitely uses chapstick regularly. He tastes like mint, like he had just chewed a fresh piece of gum, and he smells woodsy with a hint of cinnamon. It’s all doing wonders for her.

His hands slide up under her shirt and he gropes at her breasts. He tweaks her nipples and grinds himself into her, making her gasp. He’s already so hard. He must be sensitive. That’s hot. He pushes her shirt up over her breasts and wraps his lips around one of her nipples. Her fingers card through his hair as she arches into him. He kisses down her stomach and drags her shorts down her legs.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave your panties on. Next time just open the door naked.” He smirks as he pushes her legs open. “You good if I eat you out?”

“Mhm, yeah. I want you to use me, remember?”

The lights in the room are dim, but still bright enough so Harry can see what he’s doing. He licks up her slit with a long drag of his tongue, then he spits on her before doing it again. Over and over, he kitten licks at her, getting her wet with his spit and her own slick. Even though it feels good, Layna is about to tell him her clit is a little higher up, but she doesn’t get the chance. He found it on his own. He looped his around her thighs, and yanked her to him before he started sucking on her clit.

“Oh, fuck that feels good.” She fists at her blankets and throws her head back.

His tongue flicks back and forth on her clit, then he goes back to sucking on it, welling up his spit every so often to keep her clit wet and comfortable. One of his hands smooths up her stomach, landing on her chest. Layna takes the hint and sucks on his middle and ring fingers. When she’s done, Harry brings them down to her center and sinks them inside. He moans against her when he feels how wet and warm and tight she is.

“Are…will you…shit.” She can’t even speak.

“Tell me what you need, baby.” He says lowly, giving her clit a breather while he continues to fuck her with his fingers.

“Will you make me squirt again?” She whimpers. “It felt so good the last time.”

“Yeah? You like getting pounded into hard?”

“Mhm.” She nods. “It feels so good when it hurts a little.”

Harry grins wickedly at her, then brings his mouth back down to her clit while he gives her fast, shallow thrusts with his fingers, finding her g-spot easily. Her hands find his hair again and she tugs hard on his roots. Her hips roll up towards his face, but his free hand pushes down on her lower stomach to keep her in place.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come!” She cries out as she makes a mess around his fingers. He moans as he licks her clean and sucks on her pussy. “Fucking hell.” She breathes, wiping the sweat from her forehead. Harry kisses up her body, then licks into her mouth while he takes his shorts and underwear off.

“Sit up.” He tells her and she does so, so he can take her shirt off. He slips his thumb into her mouth and Layna closes her lips around it. “You’re so good. You want my cock?”

She nods as she continues sucking on his thumb. He pulls it from her and gives himself a few pumps before lining up with her. Normally she’d ask a random guy to wear a condom, but she’s on the pill and right now she doesn’t particularly care. She would hope a twenty-nine year old guy would be honest about not being clean. He slowly pushes inside of her, and both of their mouths fall open.

“Jesus Christ.” Layna gasps out as her nails rake down his chest. “Please tell me it’s in all the way.”

“It’s in all the way.” He chuckles.

“Good, I don’t think I could handle much more. Can feel you in my guts.” She half jokes.

“It doesn’t hurt in a bad way, does it?”

“No! No, just give me another second to adjust and then you can move.”

“Layna?”

“Yeah?”

He brings a hand up to cup her jaw, letting his fingers sift through her hair before getting a good grip on her and yanking her head back. “I’m gonna blow your fucking back out.”

**

“Oh my god, he actually said that to you?!” Christine squeals.

“Mhm.” Layna nods.

“And did he?” Michelle asks.

“Yeah, don’t stop there.” Serene says.

“Okay, okay. So, yes, he actually said that to me…”

**

Layna tightened around him after he said that to her, which Harry takes note of. He starts to move, rocking and rolling his hips as he thrusts in and out of her. She wraps her legs around his waist, leaving her feet to rest on the base of his spine. Harry comes down chest to chest with her so he can grope her breasts and kiss on her neck.

“Okay so far?” He asks her.

“Yeah, you feel so good, you’re so big.” She musters out.

He pecks her lips before sitting up and throwing her legs over his shoulders. She grips at his thighs as he fucks into her hard and deep. Her back arches and she reaches for her clit. He drops one of her legs to swat her hand away from herself. She looks up at him with a pout.

“Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?” He says. “I decide when you come, understand?”

“Yes, yeah, I’m sorry.” She says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I won’t do it again, I’ll wait for you to do it. I just felt so good I wanted to feel-“

“Shut up.”

Layna closes her mouth and lays back into her pillows. In her every day life, she would never let someone get away with speaking to her like that. But Harry? He can say and do whatever the fuck he wants to her.

He leans forward and drives his cock in deeper. He grips the top of her headboard and beats into her. He licks his fingers and starts rubbing her clit. Layna isn’t sure what to do with her hands, so she just scratches at his chest. He seems to like it because he’s moaning pretty loudly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She pants.

“Beg me for it.” He tells her. “Beg me to come.”

“Please, please let me.” She whimpers. “Please, I’m so close Harry, please.”

He smirks down at her. “Go ahead.”

She smiles at him and lets herself go. Moaning out and grinding up against him. When she’s done, he comes back down to her to kiss her and give her slow rolls of his hips.

“Say ‘thank you Harry’.”

“Thank you Harry.” She says weakly.

“God, you’re so fucking good.” He groans. “Can I fuck you from behind?”

“Yes, please.” She nods rapidly. “That’s my favorite.”

He nods and pulls out so she can get into position for him. He slides back in and reaches up to grip the top of the headboard with one hand, and the back of her neck with the other. And then he’s off. He pounds into her. Layna presses her hands flat to the headboard to brace herself and to stop her head from knocking into it. She moves her hips in circles and fucks herself back on his cock to meet his thrusts.

“Fuck, Layna.” Harry moans.

“Shit, please don’t stop, you’re hitting it.” She grunts. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” She has a few stray tears rolling down her cheeks as she whimpers and whines.

“Are you gonna come for me again?”

“Only if you’ll let me, but I don’t know how long I can hold it.”

The bed is shaking and the headboard is knocking against the wall from the force of Harry’s thrusts. Harry’s hand slides from the back of Layna’s neck to the front, and he yanks her up and back until her back is pressed to his chest. He moves his hips in circles along with hers. One arm wraps around her chest, and the other around her waist so he can rub her clit. She slides his hand from her chest back to her throat and presses down on it.

“You’re so fucking perfect, Jesus.” He growls into her ear. “You like being choked?”

She nods and whines as she starts to feel herself getting close again. He stopped right before she could get there a moment ago. She hopes he won’t stop this time. Her head rolls back to his shoulder and her eyes flutter closed. His cock feels so good, it’s sliding in and out of her perfectly. And his fingers on her clit are like magic.

“I want you to come.” He tells her, nipping at her earlobe. “Give it to me, now.”

Layna doesn’t need much more encouragement than that before she loses it. He continues rubbing her clit, making it last as long as possible. When he feels her start to loosen around him, he pushes her to lay on her stomach. He pulls out of her and comes all over her ass and back, not holding back his moans and grunts and groans. When he finishes, he lays on his back next to her to catch his breath. She turns her head to look at him, and he looks at her.

“That was all okay?” He asks softly.

“I liked it, I really liked it.” She breathes. “I like being good. I…I like being called a…a good girl. You’ve almost said it a couple of times, but you just say I’m good. You can call me a good girl.”

“Yeah?” He turns onto his side, smiling at her. “Do you prefer praise or degradation?”

“A mix of both. I really liked the way you spoke to me. It was hot.”

He smirks before leaning in to kiss her forehead. “You’re a good girl Layna.” And with that, he gets off the bed and grabs his clothes.

He doesn’t put them on though. Layna can barely move, but she knows she should get up to go to the bathroom and rinse herself off. Only, when she props herself up on her elbows, she hears the distinct sound of water running. Is he taking a fucking shower? He’s in and out in five minutes. She listens closely and hears him go into her fridge, and then he leaves.

**

“So, he made good on blowing your back out, showered, and then rifled through your fridge before leaving your apartment?” Michelle asks.

“Yup.”

“What did he even take?” Serene asks.

“My last black cherry Bubbly!”

“He took a seltzer water from your fridge and dipped?!” Christine can’t help but laugh. “Why did he think he had the right to just do what he wanted in your apartment.”

“I don’t know…but as weird as it was, it kind of turned me on.” Layna giggles.

“So, have you seen him since last week?” Serene asks.

“At the gym during normal work hours, but we haven’t hooked up again. We’ve just been sort of…sexting.”

“Honey, this isn’t sexting, it’s hieroglyphics.” Christine says, and everyone laughs.

“I know, it’s totally not sexy to use eggplants and finger emojis, but at night it works for me. He doesn’t usually text me this early in the day. He must want to get together, right?”

“This is a cryptic ass message, so who knows.” Serene says.

The girls finish their brunch and part ways. Serene is going in the same direction as Layna, so they walk together.

“I can feel your judgement, it’s radiating off you.” Layna says to her friend.

“I’m all for having a fuck buddy, but some guy that works at your gym? He sounds like a loser.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s a loser or not, he’s fucked me better than anyone I’ve ever slept with, and it’s only been two times. We’re on the same page about not wanting anything serious. This could work for a bit.”

“And what happens when you inevitably catch feelings? Are you going to have a guy that lives in hoodies and basketball shorts to one of your showings?”

“I’m not going to catch feelings for him. I barely know anything about him, and I intend to keep it that way. We don’t speak about anything other than working out or sex. It’s perfect.”

**

Hey, u up?

It’s 2:30 in the morning on Thursday, now technically Friday. The buzz of Layna’s phone wakes her up. She must have forgotten to put it on do not disturb before she went to bed. She doesn’t have to be at the gallery until 1PM tomorrow, so it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to get her shit rocked at this hour.

Just barely…did you want to come over?

Yeah, I want to 👅🍑

Jesus fucking Christ.

I’ll unlock my door so you can just come in. How long will you be?

10 min

Okay, see you soon!

👍🏻

Layna gets up to use the bathroom and freshen up quickly. She spritzes some perfume into her hair and dabs some on her wrists. The last time Harry came over, he told her she should just wait for him naked, so that’s what she’s going to do. She gets the lighting just right, then lays on her tummy with her back arched and her head resting on her hands. She hears her down open and close and butterflies soar through her stomach.

“Layna?!”

“In the bedroom!”

He comes in wearing a black hoodie and black joggers. He smiles when he notices that she’s completely naked.

“You’re in the perfect position for what I want to do to you.” He tells her as he takes his hoodie off, revealing a white undershirt.

“And what exactly might that be?” She bats her eyelashes at him sweetly.

“Couldn’t you tell from my text? I’m gonna spend some time on your ass tonight.”

“Oh, right.”

“You good with that?”

“I’m good with whatever you want to do. You know that already.”

“I don’t want to do anything that you’re not into.” He sits on the edge of the bed and feather lightly strokes her back with the tips of his fingers.

“I’m into it. I would say if I wasn’t.”

“Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Great, then stay just like that.”

“Wait. Could you kiss me first?”

He smiles and bends down to pecks her lips, lingering for a moment to let her deepen it. He kicks his sneakers off and gets himself behind her on the bed.

“How do you feel about spanking?” He asks as he kneads her asscheeks with his large hands. “I’d love to see my handprint on you.”

“Do it.” She tells him, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Do it hard.”

Harry lifts his hand and brings it down hard to her skin, causing her to jolt forward. He pulls her hips back so she’s up on her knees, and he spreads her apart. He spits down onto her other hole, and watches as it drips down over her slit. He starts by just rubbing his thumb around the rim, getting her used to him being there. He repositions so his body is more so next to hers with his top half leaning over her ass. He starts tonguing at her hole while he works his middle finger into her pussy.

There aren’t a lot of guys that Layna has let lick her like this. Only a few. And it never felt this good. Harry’s heart is in it. The way he grunts and moans and laughs lowly against her as she squeaks and bucks and grinds backward against him is so wonderful. It’s sending her into a state of pure bliss.

He slips a second finger inside of her, and starts thrusting them in a little faster and deeper. Layna’s mouth hangs open as she grips at the blankets and just enjoys the way everything feels. He pulls his fingers from her, licks up from her pussy to her other hole over and over before fucking her with his tongue.

“Oh, shit.” She groans. “Harry, I’m getting close.”

Harry’s large hands keep her cheeks spread so he continue doing as he pleases to her. The noises he’s making are encouraging her to come, so she does. Her eyes roll back and she smiles at the feeling. Harry turns her over with no warning, and crawls up her body, licking into her mouth. She toes his joggers off, getting them down just enough to get his cock out. Neither of them bothers with taking his shirt off, it doesn’t matter. He paints his cock along her wet slit before pushing inside of her.

Her heels rest at the base of his spine as he fucks into her with ease. His lips sponge along her neck and chest. He pulls out of her abruptly and sits up. Layna whines and juts her bottom lip out in a pout.

“Relax.” He takes his shirt off and rids himself of the rest of his clothes. “Come here, ride it.” He says as he sits back on his hands with his legs spread. Layna scrambles to get up, but she’s soon straddling him and sinking down on his cock. She feels like she can barely breathe. “There we go, just relax baby.” His hands smooth over her breasts, around her back, and down to her hips.

“You’re s-so big.” She presses her forehead to his.

“I know I am.” He coos. “Probably won’t ever be able to get it down your throat.”

“That’s not true.” She pouts as she starts to move up and down slowly.

“No? So if I stuffed my fingers down your throat you wouldn’t choke right away?”

“I guess…I guess you’ll have to do just that and we’ll see.”

Harry grins as Layna opens her mouth. He sticks two fingers into her mouth and down her throat until she’s choking and gagging and spitting up. He wipes the spit from her chin and brings his fingers down to her clit to rub while she moves herself up and down on his cock.

“You’re such a good girl, Layna.”

“Do you like it better when I’m messy?”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “Sex is more fun when it’s messy, don’t you think?”

She nods and slots her mouth over his. She wraps her arms around him, letting her fingers tangle in his curls. She starts bouncing up and down on him while his fingers continue to pay attention to her clit. He rubs it hard and fast.

“God, that feels so good.” She slams down on him harder, making him moan out loudly.

“Fuck, Layna.”

“Please come, I wanna come with you, please, Harry, please, please, please.” She’s rambling and and totally lost in her lust. But he loves hearing her beg.

The bed creaks from the force of their bouncing, and it all suddenly stills as they come in unison. Layna goes slack against Harry, kissing on his neck and shoulder lazily as she basks in the warmth of his come filling her up.

Layna lifts herself off of him, and goes to use the bathroom. When she comes back to her bedroom, Harry is laying on his stomach, bare ass out for all to see, and he’s snoring. She was only gone for five minutes, how the hell is he already snoring? She’s too tired to care at this point. So, she grabs a bed shirt to throw on and gets back into bed. She wasn’t expecting him to stay since he didn’t the last time, but it’s not a big deal. She turns over to face away from him to use her phone. Just as her eyes start to droop from reading a Wikipedia article on the invention of the aglet, she feels a strong arm wrap around her stomach. Harry pulls her to his chest and shoves his leg between hers.

**

Later that morning, at a more reasonable hour, Layna’s alarm goes off. She blindly reaches for it on her bedside table, almost knocking it over, but she’s able to turn it off. She knuckles at her eyes and sits up. The space next to her is empty and cold. How long ago did he leave? She grabs her phone and her eyebrows raise when she reads a message from Harry at around 5AM.

Had 2 head out. I used ur shower, and helped myself 2 a cliff bar. Left u some $$ on ur dresser for a plan b. Lmk when u get ur 🩸

She looks to her right and sees three, twenty-dollar-bills on her bureau. She blinks a few times and then gets out of bed to start her day.

**

“He used your shower again?” Christine laughs over a late lunch with Layna later that day.

“Yeah! I don’t really care since water is included in my rent, but still! There’s a shower at the gym, use that if you can’t wait until you get home.”

“At least he told you what he took from your kitchen this time.”

“True.”

“Do you feel like a hooker since he left you cash?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Why would he even leave you money for a Plan B if you’re on the pill?”

“I never told him I was on the pill, and the last two times we’ve fucked he hasn’t worn a condom. The first time he pulled out, but last night he came inside me.”

“Not to pull a Serene, but could you not make him use a condom?”

“I don’t know. I wanted to feel him, and I just get the vibe that he’s the type of guy who would say if he was clean or not. And he’s obviously covering his tracks. So, I’m gonna pocket the money and I’ll tell him when I get my period like he asked. Funny enough, I started my placebo week two days ago, so I should be getting my period either today or tomorrow.”

“I kind of like a man that carries cash. It’s like an emergency fund, you know? Maybe he’s keeping it on him for an unexpected cover charge, or needs to leave a generous tip.”

“Right? Nothing wrong with being proactive.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun with him. I feel like you never just hook up anymore. Not since Mark, anyways.”

“I was feeling like I was too old to just be hooking up with random guys. And when I was with Mark I liked having the consistency. I’m not sleeping with anyone else, so I don’t see the harm of having a consistent fuck buddy.”

“I’m never one to rain on someone’s parade, but do you at least know if he’s sleeping with anyone else? It might be good to ask so you’ll know if you should really be using condoms or not.”

“No, that’s a good point. I don’t want to catch anything.”

“I’m always up front with the guys I sleep with that they’re not the only one.”

“You don’t always use condoms though.”

“No, but nine times out of ten I do.” Christine shrugs. “I also have no way of getting pregnant, so I don’t care as much.”

“But you could still catch something.”

“I’m not catching a baby, so I really don’t give a fuck.”

Layna bursts out laughing at that. She can always count on Christine for zero sexual judgement.

**

Hey, you wanted me to let you know when I got my period…so this is me letting you know I got my period

It was a text she hasn’t had to send to someone since college, but she wanted go give him the courtesy since he left her $60 in cash.

How many days u 🩸4?

What in the actually fuck?!

Who are you, my gynecologist?

LMAO

No

I just wanted to no when I can 👅🍑💦👉🏻👌🏼 u again

Certainly it must take more effort to type like that because of autocorrect, right??

I’ll let you know

U better

And if I don’t?

U wouldn’t b a very good girl if u don’t

Don’t u want 2 b good 4 me?

It’s usually four days, I’ll text you next week

Good girl

**

Layna’s never been the jealous type, and she’s not sure if she’s just horny and hormonal, but she doesn’t like the woman that Harry is assisting at the gym. She’s been all over him since the second she got there, and Harry didn’t seem to mind. Layna only uses the treadmill when she has her period. She doesn’t like doing anything too strenuous with weights or machines because you just never know if your tampon is going to leak or if your pad is going to move and then all of a sudden your leggings are blood stained.

She was trying to be discrete with her glances, but the look of disgust on her face wasn’t discrete. And after a while it was clear Harry had other things to do, but the woman wouldn’t leave him alone! Layna has noticed that in the evening hours, Harry mostly wipes down machines and collects towels. He does more of the one on one training in the early morning and afternoon. So why wasn’t this woman taking the hint?

When she’s had enough, Layna hops off the treadmill and goes to refill her water bottle. This is also the area where people can put towels in hampers. Harry comes up next to her to tie up one of the hampers to bring to the laundry room.

“You’re not subtle, you know.” He says without looking at her. “You have major resting bitch face.” Now he looks her, the side eye makes Layna laugh.

“I don’t usually.” She takes a sip of water, then twists the cap back on the top.

“So what’s different about today?”

“Would it be anti-feminist to blame it on PMS?” Normally a rhetorical question like that would make someone laugh, but it seems to go right over Harry’s head. “Anyways, it was just sort of distracting to see that girl follow you around like a lost puppy. I was trying to focus on my walk.”

“You should make a better playlist.” He turns to face her and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not sleeping with her, if that’s what you were wondering.”

“It’s really none of my business.” She assures him. “You’re a good looking guy, I’m sure you have a lot of girls on rotation.”

“I’ve had a lot less since I started up with you.” He blushes ever so slightly, but his tone is turning her on so she doesn’t notice the rouge on his cheeks. “I don’t usually sleep with girls from the gym.”

“Ah, separation of church and state.”

“Sure?” He runs a hand through his hair. Jesus Christ, he’s dumb. But it’s so hot.

“I think we should probably use condoms if you’re seeing multiple people, just to be safe.”

“Are you not?”

“Am I not, what?”

“Sleeping with other people.”

“Oh! Um, not really. Like, I honestly haven’t had time. Long story, I won’t bore you.”

He narrows his eyes at her for a moment. “What brand of condoms do you like?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m allergic to latex so I have my own on hand.”

“I don’t like lambskin.”

“It’s not lambskin, they’re still rubbers, but the latex ingredient that I’m allergic to isn’t in it.”

“Are they big enough?”

“The smallest condom can stretch to fit around someone’s foot, you jackass.”

“That’s not very nice.” He smirks, and takes a step closer to her. “Am I gonna have to bend you over the next time I see you?”

“Maybe.” She blushes.

“You’re still on your period?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.” He sucks his teeth as he looks her up and down, very obviously objectifying her. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t forget to put you in your place so you don’t talk to me like that again.” He smirks, grabs the hamper full of towels, and disappears into the back of the gym.

“Cold shower.” She says to herself. “I need to take a very cold shower.”

**

Layna, Serene, Michelle, and Christine are all out for drinks on Friday night. It’s 9PM, and they’re all laughing and giggling and discussing what their plans for the rest of the night are.

“I have a party to go to for a client.” Christine says. “They loved my service so much that they want to introduce me to their friends so I can do some schmoozing.”

“I have a date with HBO and my couch.” Serene says.

“Ooh, a threesome. Good for you.” Christine jokes, making everyone laugh.

“I have a FaceTime date with Andrew.” Michelle smiles. “I thought him being in London would suck, but it’s actually been really romantic making time for each other like this.”

“That’s sweet.” Layna smiles.

“What about you?” Serene asks. “We could make my date a foursome.” She smirks.

“Actually, um…Harry is coming over around eleven.” Layna tells them.

“You’re still fucking that guy? He doesn’t even know what feminism is!” Serene says, annoyed.

“I made a joke and he didn’t think it was funny, it doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. He’s just not as educated as the rest of us, and there’s nothing with that.”

“Besides, he’s knowledgeable about what matters most.” Christine grins. “He’s made Layna squirt.”

“Shhh!” Layna hushes her friend. “I’m an open book, but I don’t want to talk about the fluids that have left my body.”

“I still can’t believe he made that happen the first time you hooked up.” Michelle says. “Vaginally.”

“I get dizzy every time I think about it.” Layna says. “He’s wild. And his dick is huge. I’ve never fucked a guy with such a big dick before.”

“I recall you mentioning Mark’s was decent.” Serene says.

“Mark had girth and that matters a lot more to me, but Harry has girth and length. And he’s been able to get my g-spot every time. Mark always had to rub my clit to get me to come.”

“Good for you.” Michelle smiles. “You deserve to have crazy hot sex with a himbo.”

All the girls laugh. They have another drink each before parting ways.

Layna takes a shower when she gets back, wanting to be as fresh as possible for her handsome himbo. She moisturizes, blows out her hair, and puts on a set of lace panties and bra. She feels giddy knowing she’s at the top of Harry’s rotation. She wonders what exactly he meant when he told her he was sleeping with less women since he met her. It’s none of her business, but she can’t help but be curious.

She grabs some condoms from the drawer in her bedside table and sets them down. Her phone buzzes at 11:05.

Here

She makes her way to her front door and opens it to let him in.

“Hey.” He gives the ‘sup’ nod but stops short when he looks at her. “Holy shit.”

“I hope you like red lace.” She smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t worn this for a while, but I th-oh!”

Harry pushed her up against the nearest wall after kicking the door closed. His tongue is down her throat, and his hands are sliding around to her ass to the backs of her thighs to hoist her up. She wraps her legs around his waist, and sucks on his tongue while he carries her to the bedroom. Tonight, Harry’s wearing a grey hoodie that has the word ‘DAMN’ on the chest, paired with navy basketball shorts. He gets them both on the bed, with his body still on top of hers. He bites on her bottom lip and sucks on it harshly, making her moan and arch into him. He grinds against her so she can feel how hard he already is. He pulls her hands from his hair and pins her wrists down on either side of her head and looks at her. Her chest is heaving.

“You wore this for me?”

“Well…yeah.” She blinks. “I wanted to look nice.”

“For me.” He confirms.

“Who else would I put this on for?” She asks innocently. “I told you last week I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else.”

He continues to look at her, staring into her soul. “Keep your arms where they are.” He tells her and starts kissing down her neck. His hands grope at her breasts over the lace material. His warm mouth licks and sucks on her nipples, dampening the lace. He drags his tongue down her stomach until he’s kissing over the wet patch covering her center. He strokes her softly with his thumb, teasing her. He brings his mouth back down to her, kissing and licking, teasing her even more. She squirms underneath him, but she knows she needs to stay put like he told her. She knows she’s still in for it since she called him a jackass. Her toes start to curl and she bites her lip and does her best not to whimper and whine.

“You were rude to me last week, when all I did was ask an innocent question.” He says as his thumbs start to massage the inside of her thighs. “I wasn’t trying to be a jackass.”

“It was the way you asked it, I’m sorry.” She sits up on her elbows so she doesn’t have to strain as much to look at him.

“You’re always telling me how big I am, I figured you’ve only fucked guys with chodes or something. I want you to be comfortable, so I just wanted to make sure you had the right condoms.”

“Okay.” She nods. “Are you still going to…to bend me over and put me in my place?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I’m afraid to say yes because then you’ll do the complete opposite to keep teasing me.”

“Alright, listen.” He sits up on his knees, placing his hands on top of her knees. “That kind of stuff is supposed to feel good. I’m not going to bend you over my knee and make you count to ten. I am going to spank you, but only because I want to watch your ass ripple while you’re wearing these panties.”

“You can do whatever you want. I want you to do whatever you want.”

“Mhm, I know. You want me to use you like my own personal plaything.” He pulls his hoodie off and tosses it to the floor. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed. “Come here and lay across my lap.”

Layna crawls over to him and does as he says. He’s sitting far back enough on the bed so that she’s not dangling off of it. She’s actually pretty comfortable. She feels his finger hook into the back of her panties to pull them to the side. His fingers gently rub through her folds. Then he drags his fingers up the back of her ass cheek before groping it. He lifts his hand and brings down on her hard, making her jolt forward.

“Was that too hard?” He asks as he rubs over the pink welt forming.

“No, that was perfect.” She says after she catches her breath. “You can even do it harder.”

“You’re a dream, you know that?” He smiles at her, then pushes her head back down. His hand goes up, and he swats her ass hard.

He switches from spanking her to rubbing her from behind with his fingers until she’s dripping and sticky between her legs. He lifts her up just enough to get out from under her, then gets behind her. Her kisses on her ass, where his various handprints are, in an attempt to soothe her flaming skin. He grips the waist of her panties and drags them down her legs.

“Should’ve taken these off before and stuffed them down your throat while I was spanking you.” He sighs, disappointed with himself. “Next time.” He tosses the garment to the floor and spreads her cheeks. He licks up from her slit to her ass, then crawls up her body, licking up her back and kissing on her shoulders. She likes having his weight on her. “What do you feel like doing tonight since I’m here at a better hour?”

“Hmm…” She taps her chin and he gives her the room to roll onto her back. She smooths her hands over his shoulders before pecking his lips. “You’re a real ass man.”

“Guilty as charged.” He smirks. “You’ve got great tits too, though. Think I really like your whole body.”

“I like yours too.” She giggles.

“Seriously, Layna, how do you want it tonight?”

“I feel like you’re asking because you have something you wanna do.”

“Guilty again.” He sighs. “I want to fuck you, like normal…and then I was wondering if we could go a second round, but that time…could I fuck you in the ass? How do you feel about anal?”

“I like it!” She blurts out. “I really like it. It feels good. I have a, um, a, uh vibrator that you can put inside me and then you’ll feel the vibrations too while you’re fucking me and it’ll feel really good for both of us.”

“So, you’ve been fucked in the ass before?”

“Mhm. Well, not with an actual dick. It was with a butt plug, but it was pretty big and I used it a lot.”

“I’ll loosen you up with my fingers while I fuck you from behind.”

“You’re gonna have to take your shorts off to fuck me.” She grins.

“Not yet I don’t. I just got your panties off, I’m gonna go down on you. You made a fucking mess while you were getting spanked.”

“I thought I was gonna squirt. My pelvis was right on your thigh, it felt so good.”

“Well, we’ll just have to make sure that happens. I didn’t mean to deny you of anything.”

He kisses back down her body and gets right to work. He sucks on her lips, spits on her, then starts fucking her with his tongue while his fingers take care of her clit. She tugs on his hair and her thighs shake when he starts sucking on her clit. He moves his tongue around it in circles and keeps it wet. He presses his hand down on her lower belly and fucks into her with his fingers.

“Oh, shit.” She gasps. “Fuck, fuck! You’re so good at this.” She throws her head back and lets the waves crash over her. She makes a mess between her legs for him, and he gladly cleans it up. They both sit up and rid themselves of the rest of their clothes. Harry sees the condoms on the side table, so he grabs one to roll on. “Hey, wait.” She puts her hand on his wrist.

“What?” He looks at her with a frown. “Do you not feel like it now? It’s okay if you don’t, I’m obviously not going to force you, um, I can le-“

“Harry, calm down.” She chuckles. “I very much still want to fuck. I just…you’ve never let me…I’ve only ever given you a hand job.”

“Oh.” He rips the foil packet open and rolls the rubber onto his throbbing cock.

“You’ve had me choke on your fingers, and you know how good I am with my mouth. Do you not want my mouth on you there?”

“It’s not that.” He knees onto the bed and maneuvers her to lay on her back. “I guess I’d just rather put it in you here.” He pushes inside of her and she swallows him whole. “Nothing feels better than this.” His hand slides up her chest until it’s gripping her throat.

“I – fuck – I just want you to know I’ll do it. I think I’m one of the few women out there that actually likes having someone’s dick in their mouth.” She rubs his forearm up and down while he gently squeezes on the sides of her throat. “I want to reciprocate.” She manages to say.

“I’ll think about it.” He grunts as he thrusts in and out of her.

With him sitting up and choking her, and her laying on her back with her knees bent, it’s not long before Layna’s bed starts to shake, and her headboard starts banging against the wall.

“Can I rub my clit?” She asks faintly.

“Fuck, yeah, you can.” His free hand reaches to grip the top of the headboard. “You’re such a good girl, Jesus Christ. I want you to come. Come whenever you want, you don’t have to hold it.”

“Fuck, Harry, thank you.”

She reaches her hand to rub at her clit, and she melts further into the mattress. Harry gets distracted from watching her touch herself, and ignores the popping sound he hears between them. He starts panting, and so does she. Her back arches off the bed as she comes, and he follows behind, filling her up.

He lets go of her throat and comes down to kiss her. Layna moans into his mouth as she calms down. They both start smiling and giggling.

“Nothing’s even funny.” She continues giggling. “That just felt really fucking good.”

“Yeah, it did.” He smooths some hair away from her forehead.

“Will you fuck my ass now?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He pecks her lips and pulls out of her.

“Do want, like, a banana or anything to help you bounce back?”

“You have bananas?” He asks excitedly.

“Yeah! They’re in the kitchen in the fruit bowl.”

“Sick.” He gets off the bed, and tosses the condom in her trash. “Do you want one?”

“No, thanks. Maybe…could you get me a glass of water? Throat’s a little sore.”

“Shit, I didn’t do it too hard did I?”

“No! Oh my gosh, no. It was perfect. I can’t wait to see the bruises on my neck in the morning.” She blushes.

“You’re perfect, you know that?”

He pecks her forehead before leaving the room. He comes back shortly with half a banana in his mouth, the other half in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Layna takes the glass and slowly sips on the water. Harry tosses the banana peel in the trash before getting back on the bed.

She looks down and sees that he’s still plenty hard. He notices her looking and then raises an eyebrow at her.

“What, do you not like the way I have it shaved?”

“Huh?” She snaps out of her trance. “No, I just…how did you get hard again so fast?”

“It never went down.” He shrugs. “I have pretty good stamina. I’ll be sensitive, but that’ll be better for you so I won’t have to be in your ass for that long. I know it feels good, but a long round of anal sex can feel not so good the next day.”

“That’s so true.”

“How much prep do you think you need? Will you open right up for me?”

“I’d really like to.” She chews on her bottom lip, and leans over him to grab her bottle of lube out of her drawer. “This should help, though.”

“Ah.” He observes the bottle. “This is good stuff.”

“Yeah, I prefer the water based lube, it’s less messy and feels more natural.”

“Get on your stomach, I’ll start getting you ready. Put your ass up in the air.”

Layna listens to him and gets into position. He squeezes the bottle and lets the lube drip and slide down her hole. He gets his middle finger wet, and rubs it around her rim. Layna sighs contently into her pillow. Harry works his finger into her slowly.

“Harry, my vibrator is in that same drawer. Could you grab it and put it inside my pussy?” She looks back at him over her shoulder. “It’ll help me relax a little more for you.”

“Yeah, one sec.”

He pulls his finger from her and leans over the edge of the bed to rummage through her drawer. He find the vibrator. It’s in the shape of a penis, and is simple. Harry gets some lube on it before turning it on and slipping it inside of her. She sighs and relaxes a little more. Harry rips open another condom and rolls it onto his cock.

“I’m gonna start.” He tells her, rubbing her hips and asscheeks.

“Could I…could we switch positions?”

“You wanna ride my dick while it’s in your ass?”

“Yeah, sit on the edge of the bed.” Harry does as she says, intrigued by it. Layna gets off the bed, holding the dildo inside her, and backs up until she’s sitting on Harry’s lap with her back to his chest. “This is more comfortable, and with my legs on the outside of yours, I’m spread a little more.”

“I didn’t think most women knew how to take it up the ass without doing doggy.” He grips himself and paints his cock along her hole. Layna reaches behind and helps him slowly feed it into her.

“I guess I’m not most women.” She grunts. “Ew, I didn’t mean that in like a ‘I’m not like other girls’ way.”

“I knew how you meant it.” He holds his breath until his cock is all the way inside of her. He keeps his hands on her hips, but they both just sit for a moment, the sound of the vibrator inside Layna filling the room.

“I feel so full.” She sighs and hooks an arm behind Harry’s head. “You can move.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm. Give it to me.”

Harry starts to move Layna for her, controlling the pace. She’s not complaining. They get a good rhythm going after Harry squirts some extra lube on her ass. He moves her legs so it’s like she’s straddling him. It gives her some leverage to start moving herself while Harry thrusts up inside of her and rubs her clit.

He watches as sweat falls down her spine. He leans forward and kisses on the back of her neck and shoulders. It’s a slow grind, a good groove. Layna hasn’t felt this good in a long time. She’s never told any of her friends, not even Christine, that she likes anal sex this much. It’s so taboo and naughty and she can take it so well. She’s not sure what it is exactly, but she just likes feeling full. Not to mention, she loves the way a man reacts to it. Harry is breathing heavily and moaning and pressing his sweaty chest to her back. His hands are groping her breasts, she’s got a decent grip on his hair, and it’s all so deliciously overwhelming.

“Layna, I’m getting close.” He warns her.

“I’m almost there.” She pants.

His fingers go back to her clit and he starts rubbing at rapid fire. Layna starts moaning loudly and spilling out expletives. Harry places one of his hands behind him for leverage. His own back is arching, he can feel his orgasm at the base of his spine. He can’t hold it.

“Fuck!” He cries out, then bites down hard on Layna’s left shoulder.

That pushes Layna over the edge, and she makes a mess all over Harry’s thighs. He holds her to him as they both try to even their breathing. Layna lifts herself up a little, and Harry makes a panicked noise. She hasn’t heard that noise come from him before.

“I’m just taking the vibrator out, don’t worry.” She slips the toy out of her and tosses it on the bed, then leans back into Harry. She turns slightly to look at him. “Are you alright?” She asks gently.

“Yeah, that was just really amazing.” His arms are tight around her tummy. “I need a minute, sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m comfortable.” She pecks his lips, and that turns into a very searing, deep kiss from Harry.

They stay like that for around ten minutes, and then Harry lifts Layna off of him. She tells him she’s gonna go use the bathroom. He notices that the this condom popped as well. They must be expired. He grabs one of the wrappers and shoves it into one of his sneakers so he’ll know what brand to pick up the next time he’s at the drug store.

When Layna’s done, Harry goes to use her bathroom. As he comes back to her, he smirks. She’s wearing an oversized T-shirt, but that’s it. So he can see everything while she’s changing her sheets. She jumps when she sees him standing in the doorway.

“The sheets were soaked.” She explains.

“I know.” He grabs his boxers and pulls them back on. “Do you always have that much to give when you squirt?”

“Sometimes it’s only a little, and then other times it’s a lot.” She shrugs as she finishes making up the bed. Harry crawls into the side he slept on the last time, and Layna slips in beside him. “Well, goodnight.”

“Night.” He reaches over her to turn her lamp off, then pulls her in close so he can spoon her.

She’s not complaining.

**

[architectuul]

Salaspils: A Soviet Memorial To Nazi Victims In Latvia

Eighteen kilometres out of Riga, a series of stone giants stand frozen in a forest clearing to mark a place that some would rather forget. 

The forested approach to the Salaspils Memorial.

The road to the Salaspils Memorial Ensemble stops near the rail tracks, and visitors must walk the final stretch – through forests of pine, and birch that in autumn explodes into canopies of red and gold, the sunlight slicing sideways between trunks that shed their crisp white bark like snakeskin. 

The gallery building measuring 100 metres long by 12.5 metres high.

In the clearing beyond stands the Salaspils Memorial Ensemble.

The forest feels alive, almost supernaturally so, making it all the more abrupt to find the path suddenly barred by a looming concrete crossbeam, 100 metres long and more than 12 metres tall. This concrete barrier is a visitor building, an abstract Brutalist gallery that marks the symbolic threshold between life and death. It stands in the place where once there was a guardhouse ringed in barbed wire, the entrance to a former Nazi labour camp that operated for four years here amidst the picturesque Baltic birch. Through the arch, a clearing opens up between the trees; the camp barracks long gone, to be replaced by angular Soviet forms, towering, blocky figures stood as tall as the trees that surround them.

Above the entrance, a Latvian slogan is spelled out on the concrete flank of the gallery “Beyond these gates the land groans”,��a line from a poem, written by a former prisoner of this place. 

Part of the original wall of Camp Kurtenhof.

SS-Sturmbannführer Rudolf Lange, who was appointed in 1941 a commander of both the Nazi Security Service and the Security Police for occupied Latvia, that same year proposed the creation of a detention facility in the region. It was named Camp Kurtenhof, from the German name for the town of Salaspils, and located for convenience just off the main rail track between Latvia’s two largest cities: Riga and Daugavpils. It was designated a Police Prison and Labour Correctional Camp.

A symbolic tally etched into the gallery building counts time inside the prison.

Work on the camp began in late 1941, and it was built largely by the hands of Jewish prisoners deported from occupied Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia. At least a thousand Jews were transported from the Riga Ghetto to join the construction team in January 1942. Offered little in the way of comfort, nutrition or sanitary facilities, they were overworked and many would die to that first harsh Baltic winter.

Symbols of Soviet defiance raised on the grounds of the former camp.

These workers were amongst the only Jews to ever set foot in the Salaspils camp. Unlike the Reich’s concentration camps, which answered to their own central administration in Berlin, the Police Prison Camp at Salaspils was under the direct control of local Security Police Commander Rudolf Lange. Its inmates were political prisoners and Baltic dissidents, expanding in summer 1942 to provide ‘labour correction’ to those caught avoiding work regulations; and from 1943 the camp began taking in Baltic police officers and military personnel convicted in SS courts. The Salaspils camp also operated as an intermediary transit camp for prisoners being transported from Belarus and Russia, to forced labour projects in Germany. A large number of children were imprisoned at the camp too, allegedly in dedicated children’s barracks.

By the later part of 1942 the camp consisted of 15 barracks that between them housed 1,800 prisoners. By summer 1943, there were 30 barracks. Prisoners here were involved in the digging and processing of peat, and according to survivors’ accounts, regardless of its specific ‘Police Prison’ designation, the organisation of work, and treatment of prisoners at Salaspils, was just as brutal as any of the other Nazi camps in the region.

From left to right: Solidarity, The Oath and Red Front.

The official website for the Salaspils Memorial states that, during its years of operation, roughly 23,000 people were imprisoned at the camp. It reports that from May 1942 until September 1944, up to 500 prisoners died of diseases, as many as 150 from exhaustion or brutal punishment regimes, and a further 30 were shot while attempting to escape. The younger prisoners were particularly susceptible to the diseases (such as measles and typhoid fever) that ran rife through the inmate population. It is believed that half the camp’s children died from illness, and after liberation, a mass grave was discovered containing the corpses of 632 children aged 5-9 years old. The Salaspils website suggests that, including the Jewish forced labourers who died during construction, the final death toll of the Salaspils camp stood at more than 3,000 people.

Left: The Unbroken; right: The Mother.

The Salaspils camp was liberated by the Soviets in September 1944. The fences were brought down, the barracks destroyed, but it wasn’t until two decades later that they constructed a grand memorial complex on the site where the camp once stood. A competition was held to select a design for the Salaspils Memorial Ensemble, as it was known, with the winning entry submitted by a team of seven: the architects Gunārs Asaris (who would also create the Monument to the Sailors and Fishermen Lost at Sea, at Liepāja), Oļģerts Ostenbergs, Ivars Strautmanis and Oļegs Zakamennijs, along with the sculptors Levs Bukovskis, Oļegs Skarainis and Jānis Zariņš. The park opened in 1967, and in 1970 its creators would receive the prestigious Lenin Award for their work – in the same ceremony that saw architect Yevgeny Vuchetich awarded for his famous monument at Volgograd: The Motherland Calls.

The opening ceremony was a grand, flower-laden affair, and the Salaspils Memorial Ensemble would go on to be considered one of the most important Soviet memorial sites in the Baltics.

The sculpture called Humiliated.

Today it is not a particularly easy place to visit, and emerging from the trees into the clearing is a sobering moment. The simplicity of these concrete forms invites imagination. Instead of telling you what happened here, this place tries to make you feel it. I found myself reminded of my visit to Auschwitz – a visit I made on a warm summer’s day, birds singing, woodland flowers in bloom. If anything the setting for Salaspils was even more picturesque than that, and I felt a sense of emotional whiplash, after a while, constantly trying to square what I knew about this place with the information my senses were providing me.

The ensemble is built around nine concrete titans (in six installations), who tower over the neat lawns and were said to represent the different types of prisoner kept in the camp. ‘The Unbroken’ lies on his belly, pushing himself up with his last strength. ‘The Mother’ has a look of defiance, standing square to shield the infants that cower by her side. ‘The Humiliated’ kneels, her face partially hidden by an arm raised in a defensive gesture. In the very centre of the lawn, three forms are arranged side-by-side: ‘Solidarity’ shows one prisoner helping another to stand; ‘The Oath’ is a man stood tall stretching his arms into the air; while ‘Red Front’ likely represents a fighter from the paramilitary wing of the German Communist Party – the ‘Rotfrontkämpferbund’ – a group who used the same single-handed fist salute depicted here.

A memorial block where the camp’s gallows once stood.

The Salaspils Memorial features hardly a written word of information but that does not make it a quick place to visit. The monuments that decorate the lawn demand consideration. A single notable script appears on a stone block placed off to the right, between the central figures and the entry gate, marking the location of the former camp gallows. Its inscription in Russian and Latvian reads: “Here humans were executed for being innocent… Here humans were executed for every one of them being a human and loving the Motherland.”

Fragments of the original barrack walls.

At the opposite side of the Road of Death – as the designers named the walking path that circles their concrete giants – a black granite pedestal is designated as the place for laying flowers and memorial wreaths. From somewhere out of sight comes the ticking of a metronome. Intended to suggest life, and the eternal passage of time, the sound is rather like a heartbeat, and lends an uncanny atmosphere to my time amongst the statues.

The old camp buildings may be gone, but here and there, fragments of the outermost walls remain. Some are bare, but others are piled with tributes: plastic angels, Orthodox icons, a selection of sad-looking children’s toys. It feels like an effective memorialisation technique – bulldozing the camp, symbolically destroying its physical legacy, while leaving just enough of its form behind to suggest a historical record of its size and inner geography. Just a year before the Salaspils Memorial opened, the Yugoslav architect Bogdan Bogdanović had accomplished something similar at his Jasenovac Memorial Site, in what is now Croatia: the buildings of the old concentration camp were destroyed, but there, the ground was landscaped into mounds and craters that recorded the location and function of the various different buildings.

Text across the wall of the gallery “Beyond these gates the land groans.”

The only building at Salaspils now is the gallery – entered by an inclined walkway that passes through the length of the imposing concrete arch above the entrance. The space inside is oppressive and claustrophobic, presumably by design. This effect of sensory deprivation allows the visitor time to meditate, perhaps, and process the meaning of the monumental forms outside. When natural light does break through the side walls, it spills in at viewing slots reminiscent of wartime pillboxes. I peer outside, for a panoramic view of the figures on the lawn.

All the while, the sounds of the forest seem amplified as they reverberate though this enclosed space. There is birdsong, the noise of distant dogs barking, and somewhere nearby, where the original tracks cut lines through the trees, the shunting and hissing of cargo trains.

The walkway through the Brutalist gallery building.

The Salaspils Memorial Ensemble, seen from the gallery.

There is something inherently totalitarian about the form of remembrance prescribed by the Salaspils park. The sheer concrete, the lack of information. These twisted human figures tell visitors how they should feel, but the park never provided the tools for a two-way conversation. At Auschwitz visitors are shown piles of shoes, and suitcases, visual triggers designed to encourage an engagement with the numbers. At the National Museum of the Holodomor-Genocide in Kyiv, Ukraine, a similar effect was achieved with grains of corn – arranged in a heaped display where one grain stands for one Ukrainian life lost. Salaspils, in contrast, simply says: these people were punished for loving the Motherland.

Commenting on the Soviet Union’s choice to memorialise Salaspils, Peter Hohenhaus notes how “other, even worse sites of the Holocaust such as Biķernieki received no commemoration at all.” It is perhaps no coincidence though, that the Soviets chose to create such a prestigious memorial over the remains of a camp which had less relation than most to the Jewish Holocaust. (Aside from the construction team, it is reported there were only 12 Jewish prisoners at Salaspils).

Following the war, the Soviet Union severely downplayed the significance of the Holocaust, to present the Soviet citizen, instead, as the chief target of Nazi aggression. Any specific commemoration of the Jewish tragedy was at least discouraged. For example there was a Holocaust memorial built in Minsk, Belarus, named ‘the Pit’; an obelisk on the site where 5,000 prisoners from the nearby Minsk Ghetto were executed by fascists in 1942. Its creators, the stonemason Morduch Sprishen and the poet Haim Maltinsky (who wrote the Yiddish inscription), were both later convicted on charges of Jewish nationalism, and after that, the authorities treated all visitors to the Pit memorial with suspicion. At Babyn Yar meanwhile, a ravine in Kyiv were tens of thousands of Jews were massacred, the victims of the Holocaust are still yet to be recognised with a proper memorial.

The USSR’s post-WWII efforts to ideologically bond its member republics through a shared sense of victimhood, and victory, was felt not least strongly in places like the Baltics – countries who were new Soviet subjects, and uneasy subjects at best. What better place then, for a grand Soviet memorial park, than Salaspils: a police camp that had chiefly housed antifascist Baltic dissidents, and Soviet citizens from Russia and Belarus. It was a place where Latvians and Russians had suffered together, side by side, and of all the dark places left to this region in the wake of Nazi occupation, this was the one whose memorialisation best supported the post-war political narratives of the Soviet Union.

The Salaspils Memorial is recognised as part of the Latvian Culture Canon and in 2017, it was declared a monument of national significance. Despite this recognition however, it doesn’t feel like a place that is cherished, so much as observed. Visitors often report having trouble locating the place, and it hardly seems to be promoted as a tourist destination of note. When compared to videos showing the park’s opening ceremony (crowds of people, neatly trimmed lawns, and the forest pruned back around them), Salaspils today appears somewhat lonely and dishevelled.

Contemporary additions and modifications to the park have seemingly challenged the innate Sovietness of the place. A cemetery for German POWs was added in 2008, adjacent to the main memorial grounds. More recent is the installation of the Salaspils Memorial Exposition. Housed inside the Brutalist gallery building, the collection has been open to visitors since February 2018, and features information and video clips available in Latvian, German, English and Russian.

Tributes left by visitors to the Salaspils Memorial.

Elsewhere around the park, and dotted along the ‘Road of Death,’ new information panels have been installed to give context to the park’s otherwise sparse concrete symbolism. The memorial architecture of the park tells the story of Soviet people who fell victim to the Nazis. It is somewhat jarring then, to read contemporary panels that describe both Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union as “occupying regimes.” This is, of course, how the Latvians officially remember that portion of their history: as a violent occupation by a foreign power that would maintain a political and cultural stranglehold over Latvia for the next 45 years. If it seems strange to foreign visitors that a site as significant as this – and so close to the capital – should feel quiet, hidden away, and poorly advertised, then perhaps this is why: from a Latvian perspective, the Salaspils Memorial might very well feel like a monument built by one trespasser to present themselves as the chief victim of the previous one.

The main gallery space inside the visitors’ building. Below: the staircase inside the inclined viewing gallery.

According to the website, the new exhibition “provides visitors with information based on historical facts and the conclusions of the latest scientific studies,” in an effort to “dispel misconceptions about the Camp and the Memorial.”

Those “misconceptions” presumably include certain claims made in the Russian-language media. Many on that side of the border still believe the former Soviet account, which once stated that over 100,000 people had died at Salaspils (compared to the 3,000 cited today by the Latvians). There were stories, too, that the Nazis drained blood from children here to use in transfusions for German soldiers – though these seem to have since been largely debunked. Nevertheless, news outlets like RuBaltic.ru and Ukraina.ru accuse the park’s Latvian management of downplaying the numbers, rewriting history, and more generally of presenting the Nazi presence in Latvia as having been less harmful than that of the Soviets who liberated this camp. They refer to a new information panel at the Salaspils Memorial, which shows respective death tolls for the periods of Nazi and Soviet occupation; the Soviet number being the larger of the two.

While obviously Latvia can and should be having these conversations, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t slightly antagonistic (at least, to the ethnic Russians who make up a quarter of Latvia’s population), to have them here; to stand on the symbolic graves of dead Soviets while comparing them to the Nazis.

‘The Humiliated’ is partially hidden now, behind a tree not part of the original design for the memorial.

Memorials should serve a simple task, in theory: they remind us of things that we must not forget. They preserve important stories for those who were not there, and in societal terms, they serve to reclaim – to re-consecrate – ground once bloodied by violence. Danger zones become places of (re)education. But the invisible memory wars that continue to be waged across this quiet lawn in Latvia are anything but simple, and they hint at some of the greater cultural conflicts at large today in the post-Soviet Baltic states.

The last thing I saw before I left was another new, post-Soviet addition to the park. In 2004, a former prisoner at Salaspils named Larry Pik funded the creation of a new monument to the Jewish victims of the camp – the prisoners who built it. Accompanied by the Star of David, an inscription in Hebrew, German and Latvian reads: “To honour the dead and as a warning to the living. In memory of the Jews deported from Germany, Austria and Czechoslovakia, who from December 1941 to June 1942 died from hunger, cold and inhumanity and have found eternal rest in the Salaspils forest.”

Flowers left in memory of the camp’s victims.

The cover of a 1969 commemorative book about Salaspils.

Left: a newspaper announces the Lenin Award given to the Salaspils design team. Right: ‘The Mother’ under construction.

‘The Unbroken,’ under construction, and then completed.

The gate to the Salaspils Memorial (late 1960s).

Visitors queue to enter (late 1960s).

The memorial plaza at Salaspils (1968).

Left: Salaspils in 1975. Right: Cover of the 1985 Salaspils brochure.

The Salaspils Memorial Ensemble in 1970.

–

by Darmon Richter

[adapted with permission from an article at Ex Utopia]

[sammyisradical]

First ever tumblr post, ooh I'm currently in the middle of analyzing/taking notes on all of the 'alien' related things in Lilo and Stitch, and I figured I could start posting my rough drafts here before everything goes into powerpoint form. Since I organized the notes by character, we're starting off with my favorite silly guy: Gantu :3 Movie 1 (Lilo and Stitch): -Just wants to prove himself worth to the Grand Councilwoman, this poor man -'Does this, uh, look infected to you?' I'll be touching back on this with more evidence later, but I'm convinced that he's very focused on being clean/sanitary -His name is pronounced in 2 different ways; G-aun-tu and G-an-tu (though the correct pronunciation is G-an-tu) -He was retired from his job, not fired Movie 2 (Stitch! The Movie): -unlike when he was working for the Grand Councilwoman, there is a CLEAR distaste for Hämsterviel, and I feel like he's only there because he needs somebody to be loyal to/get approval from -From here on out, he is CONSTANTLY using 'trog' as an insult (mentioned in the 1st movie as a negative term) -When going to collect Jumba, he gets the door slammed in his face, THEN he rings the doorbell, how polite! -Gets called fat by Stitch, and UNDERSTANDS IT. He CAN speak the same language! -When he activates hyperdrive, he goes 'My turn this time!' indicating that he remembers what Stitch did in the 1st movie -The amount of NASTY eye brow raises and glares he gives Hämsterviel is insane, which further proves my point that he's just there for a job -Doesn't like bologna because it's too fatty, THIS MAN IS BODY CONCIOUS -He keeps apologizing for things. When he interrupts Jumba's joke, gets told he's messing with the punchline, he apologizes. Then, when Hämsterviel yells at him to stop apologizing for things, HE SAYS SORRY AGAIN -Egg salad enjoyer (real) TV Series (Lilo and Stitch: The Series): -Always, ALWAYS bothered with Hämsterviel calls, there's never a time where he's actually willing to go out to catch experiments -'I hate sticky!' and 'That can't be sanitary..' circles back to my point; HE LIKES BEING CLEAN -refers to his mother as 'mumu' -accidentally calls himself Captain, then corrects himself by adding 'formerly' right after -He can hula! He actively ignores Hämsterviel when he calls so he can keep having fun with his silly hobby -'I'm taking your tiny raviolis!' you think he's sick of sandwiches guys -Reuben called him daddykins and babe. Do with that what you will -HE LOOKS LIKE A WET CAT WHEN HE GETS YELLED AT -'San Francisco? Oh, double blitznak..' the writers really don't like San Francisco, and neither does Gantu -Going back to the point that he doesn't really want to work for Hämsterviel, he tries to talk himself out of going out in the rain to hunt an experiment; 'He doesn't need one little experiment,' 'how would he even know?' etc, etc.. -'As you say, aloha' is said while leaving, which means that he knows that 'aloha' can be used for a greeting and parting word That's all I've got so far, but I figured posting something would be fun :3

[lumenflowered]

Pelipper mail! A nightmare, maybe? Or just a dream...

It is a normal shift at the Yharnam Coffee Shop, in your home town in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon. You have lived here all your life, and have been satisfied enough.

The owner, Gehrman, hardly ever comes into the shop to manage things. He prefers to sit in the chair out front and greet customers, all day long, and he swears this is critical to Yharnam Coffee's successful operation. When he's not present, it's up to you as most senior employee to make sure things run smoothly.

Not that there's ever much difficulty or tension, here. The shop's only competition was your former employer, the Cainhurst Brewery, and it burned to the ground three months ago. Your coworker Alfred seems unusually happy about that and you have your suspicions, no matter how many times you've tried to tell him that companies don't deserve his loyalty or outside-work efforts.

Eileen is here, as usual, sitting in the corner with her black coffee and blacker clothing. You don't know what she used to do, but she's retired now. She likes to people-watch, and will comment briefly to people who make the effort to sit beside her, but she always pushes visitors away eventually.

At the front of the line now is Djura, who used to work here but quit in favor of a better job last year. He is polite but curt, asking for his latte to go as he always does, because you know he doesn't like to spend time in here any more than he needs to. You take his payment and write his name on the cup, spelled correctly as so few people can. Behind you, Gascoigne begins making the drink for him.

It is an uneventful day. After a while, Eileen gets up to leave. Another one of your regulars, Gilbert, enters wearing a face mask, but he assures you what he has is not serious. At the end of your shift, Gascoigne's daughters show up with an order for four hot chocolates. Laurence and Amelia are already here to replace you, making this as their first order of the day, and you help Gascoigne carry everything out to his wife waiting in the car.

Then you head home yourself, and Reina meets you at the door with a smile and a hug, and all is well.

I. That.

What.

I have so many questions and I am, in fact, just confused enough to actually begin asking them.

Where is Portland? Where is Oregon? Why a coffee shop? I'll admit I'm rather amused by how thoroughly useless Gehrman was, given how thoroughly useless I am led to believe he became in his old age. Yet—

Cainhurst? A brewery? If anything, they would be a winery, they were always all too pretentious about their particular vintages—on a related note, do not drink the wine there, it is not wine and it is not sanitary—and I don't know who this 'Alfred' is but if he burned Cainhurst to the ground he cannot be entirely terrible.

I do know Eileen, and she would be the sort to drink entirely black coffee. She would... also be the sort to push people away. Especially after being retired.

...I can scarcely imagine her retiring. Not willingly, at least. She was... she was younger than me. She was an old woman in that dream.

I have... never met a Djura, or a Gascoigne, or a Gilbert. I suppose that they, like Alfred, must have been after my time... and like whoever Amelia must be.

Laurence is... familiar. I would not trust him in food service. For several reasons.

Still, I...

How can I feel nostalgic for something that never was, and never could be? For people I have never met, only heard of, in many cases?

Why do I miss something that I never experienced?

...Enough of that, I suppose. Victory Road is close, and I'm told that the Pokémon League is just beyond it.

Perhaps...

...Perhaps I'll consider coffee further, the next time I am in civilization. I always preferred tea, though that was more out of familiarity rather than anything else. It certainly smells nice, or did in that... dream? Nightmare?

I don't know what to categorize that as, in complete honesty.

[exquisiteserotonin]

Precious Possessions 9: Not Your Red-Lipped Doll

Pairing: Dave York X F! Reader (Original Female Character)

Rating: E is for Explicit - 18+ only 🔞MDNI🔞

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Word count: 2906

Summary: Firefly has some time to contemplate about her feelings about seeing Dave with Carol and Alice, bringing closer to understanding more about who she is and who she always has been. Where will this leave her and Dave?

Warning: TRIGGER WARNINGS for this one---this has some real dubious consent. I do not want this to upset anyone, so please, please, keep that in mind. If you haven't been able to tell by now, the characters are not well adjusted and have gone through some shit, so this shouldn't be a model for a relationship. Infidelity, almost stalking like behavior, spit as lube (probably not sanitary), PiV sex - wrap it up lovahs, creampie, degrading behavior, and ANGST. Once again please DNI if you are not 18 and over. Also not beta'd, so all errors are my own. Please be kind.

A/N: I'm so grateful for everyone who is loving and following this series. I hope that you continue to stick with me and comment and reblog.

Gratitude to every single one of the mazing ladies with whom I share this whore home, I adore you with my whole heart. Thank you for work shopping this with me. Love you.

@legendary-pink-dot @youandmeand5bucks @magpiepillsjunior @imalrightllama @arcanefox207 @sparklefarts38 @redhotkitchen @pink-whiskey-woman @secretelephanttattoo @morallyinept @for-a-longlongtime

Taglist: @sheepdogchick3 @nerdieforpedro @casa-boiardi @missladym1981 @untamedheart81

If I missed anyone let me know I forget constantly if I don't write it down. I probably need a system.

You knew he’d be angry. It was understandable. One day passed and you didn’t dare hope for or expect a call. The second day you wondered if he would make the attempt, but you weren’t surprised when nothing came. The overthinking came next. Was the line you had crossed so wide that you could no longer cross it together? Maybe if you agreed to everything he asked, never talked about it anymore, he’d come back? Or maybe you were just overthinking it and you just needed to let it go. 

Diving headfirst into work was the only way for you to cope. With focused intent, you typed away on your keyboard, opened various programs, analyzing, and interpreting different data sets sent to you. A distraction free intensity took over your head as you checked off item after item on your to do list. The eyes that peered at you as they passed your cubicle barely phased you as they watched in a combination of admiration and apprehension at your productivity. 

The tips of your fingers numbed from the consistent typing and clicking of your computer mouse. You pushed out a hot, puff of frustrated air from your lips and your eyes narrowed in scrutiny at the screen. The click, click, click of your nails against your desk echoed in your ears until your focus was interrupted by the loud sound of your desk phone.  

“Hello?” you answered, a hint of surprise at the edge of your voice. 

The polite, gentle register of the receptionist’s voice traveled from the phone to your ear.  

“You have someone here to see you.” 

A tightness grabbed hold of your chest, pulling a gasp from you. 

It couldn’t be…he wouldn’t. 

Your mind wanted to hold hope for your delusion, while every vein pumped with the truth that it wasn’t Dave. Each beat of your heart knew, but neither your head nor could be prepared for who came to you next. 

“Who is it?” you sighed. 

“Um…it’s Mr. Heatherington, it’s---,” she replied, hesitation hiding in her voice. 

“Brad’s father?” 

A feeling of nervous confusion coursed through you as you wondered why he would be coming to see you. You reminded yourself that turning him away and moving on completely would raise nothing but suspicion. Seeking comfort from someone with a shared trauma was normal, expected even. 

“Yeah, he wants to see if you’re free for lunch.” 

The information forced you to suck in a cold breath of air. 

“Yes, yes,” you nodded over the phone even though you knew she couldn’t see it. “Of course, yes, I’ll be right down.”

The quiet image of him waiting in the front lobby had you trembling. The slope of his shoulders was nearly identical to his son’s. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his pressed khaki pants. His waist was slim and widened a few inches at the hips. His head bowed down in a quiet trance as he waited for you. His golden hair was styled with more gel than was necessary, just like his son's, just like Brad’s. When he turned to look at you, it sent a flood of memories to your head, nearly making you stumble as your stomach churned with nausea. The slope of shoulders. The boxy waist. One wrong turn of your head and Brad was standing before you.

“Mr. Heatherington, hi,” you greeted, taking an apprehensive step forward. 

His arms were outstretched towards you, gesturing you to him for an embrace. 

Do it or he’ll be suspicious, your mind told you as it pressed you forward. 

“Oh, come on, no need for such formalities,” he said, beckoning you with a wave of his hands. “Martin, or Marty is fine, sweetheart.” 

A lump of disgust lodged itself in the back of your throat as you mustered up the gall to present him with something mildly resembling a hug. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing them up and down your back. It had you shaking, bringing you back to staring at his son’s body in the dark and Dave standing ominously over you as tears stung the corners of your eyes. 

“It’s good to see you, Martin,” you lied as you peeled yourself away from him. 

He walked next to you without a word, the silent void between you louder than the noise of the crowd around you. Walking next to him, you knew you should feel guilty about the part. Pity? He didn’t deserve it. Fear? You could take him down in a beat. Disgust? That was a no brainer. It was easy enough to get lost on this train of thought. So lost that you hadn’t even realized that you had arrived at a nearby deli. 

The lunch crowd was barely a trickle when you walked in. Your path to the counter was clear and quick as was your order of pastrami on rye. After Martin ordered his sandwich, he gestured towards a booth to the left of the counter. He sat across from you and set his elbows on the table before clasping his hands together. 

“So how are you doing, kid?” His voice came out in the sigh like he was a battered soldier checking on another soldier in his battalion. 

Caring and sympathy. They weren’t on your bingo cards for today. Fate apparently liked to fuck around with you. Brazenly, you decided to meet her where she was. 

“I’m---I’m,” you hesitated with your confession, “I’ve been better.” 

He reached for your hand, noticing you flinch as he took it. The blonde of his brows wrinkled at their center as he looked at you, pathetically assuming you were feeling the same thing he was feeling. Feeling them about the same person he was. As tears began to water his eyes, you squeezed his hand remembering what was throwing your existence into an imbalance. Not his son. Not his absence, but Dave’s. 

“I understand,” Brad’s father took a deep inhale through his nose. 

One that puffed up his chest. You swore that you could feel the hot air that came from his lips as he exhaled. 

“He wouldn’t want you to be sad,” his father murmured as he looked out the window. “My boy…he had so many plans! He was ready to treat you like a princess.” 

The corners of your lips tightened at the words. How was it possible that everything you didn’t want in a relationship was just captured in one sentence? It lingered as he squeezed your hands in his. 

“My headspace hasn’t been the same, Martin,” the quivering confession that left your lips was followed by a flood of emotions. 

The anxious bounce of your knees reverberated through your entire body as you struggled to hold your emotions in. The feelings nearly gave way to tears as he held you hostage with his gaze. 

“I’ve watched you,” the words sounded almost like a threat, taunting your fight-or-flight response into high gear. “I see you now and you haven’t even let yourself grieve.”

A breath rushed through you from the depths of your lungs. A cool droplet began to seep from the corner of your eyes, softly caressing the curve of your face. The look of sadness and pity that wafted from his repugnant face left your entire body shaking with a wellspring of bubbling anger and frustration.

“How do you do it?” you questioned through tear-blurred vision. “How are you doing it?”

You watched closely as Martin crossed his hands over his chest and pushed his back into the back of the chair. His face hardened and the lines around his mouth drew deeper into his face as his lips turned downward to form a frown. Observation. Data analysis. Reading between the lines. You couldn’t separate yourself from these skills and like any good analyst you studied him as he looked out the window. 

“I try to continue in his memory,” he replied, snuffing in a sharp breath. “To live every aspect of my life as boldly and unapologetically because he can’t.”

Live life boldly and unapologetically?

A light laugh burst from your belly as you shook your head in disbelief. You never thought you’d agree with something Brad’s father suggested. But then again, even dying lights show flickers of brightness before burning out. 

“I think he would have expected nothing less from the both of us,” he said, letting out another sigh. “He could have given you the world.”

“Sometimes the world is not enough,” an invisible knot threatened to lodge itself in your throat as you let the words leave you. 

“Still a pretty good consolation prize.”

A weak smile. That was all the reaction you could give to him. Both of you recognized 

the moment as a natural stopping point. He gave you another hug, kissing both of your cheeks.

The deliberately slow way he moved to offer you this affection sent a chill up and down your shoulders and made every hair on your body stand on end. Even as he walked away, the underlying urge to get away from him stayed just beneath your skin. 

***

The weight of your productivity sat heavily on your shoulders with each slow step you took towards your front door. You ascended the three steps to your arched door pushing the key in only to find it unlocked. With a quick turn of your keychain, you held it at the ready, your thumb and pointer finger pulling at and rubbing against a taught deceptively thin black cord hidden inside. It was a cord that, when pulled hard enough, could strangle the burliest man. 

A light tap of your foot to the door was enough to push it open. A blue-gray light filled the room with early evening shadows. Each step you took forward was firm and unwavering. Any intruder's underestimation of you would be their downfall. In the shadows of the armchair that rested in your living room a figure sat, his legs spread out wide to the edges of your chair. There was no mistaking the large hands that rubbed against the wrinkles of his slacks. 

“You’re home late.” 

“Dave?” 

The very presence of him, the gravel in his voice, the heat that emanated from his body reached out to you, stealing your breath. You set your keys at a table near your front door. With your hands at your hips, you moved towards the kitchen, moving past the chair where he sat. Too much trouble to give him even a passing glance. He jolted towards you, holding you back at your waist.  

“No phone call to let me know you’d be late,” he seethed. “No dinner on the table. Not even a drink waiting for me.” 

“Seriously, Dave?” you groaned and rolled your eyes as you tried to push past him again. 

“Stop playing, this is what you want, isn’t it?” He taunted you. “A domestic dream. A man coming home to you every night? A sensible fuck?”

“Dave, come on,” you asserted, full of enough bullshit for the day. “I just got home.” 

He pulled you close, digging his fingers into your hips and pressing his hard cock into your pelvis. 

“Take off your clothes.”

“Just give me a minute to---,”

“I said ‘take off your clothes’.” 

He rocked into you again, his eyes demanding your clothes to come off. It had been so long since you last had him, and you swore you felt your desperation for him coming out of you like waves of radiation. But he needed to know there were times when he was wrong. This time you moved past him to your bedroom. 

With a brisk walk he followed you, grabbing you by the crook of your elbow. His hands gripped your arms, spinning you around to face him. His hands maneuvered down to your waist slowly unbuttoning each button of your blush-colored blouse.

“Come on, baby,” he tempted with greedy lips as he pulled your shirt from the high waist of your skirt. “I’ve had such a hard day at work, and I need to fuck; it won’t take long, I promise.” 

He shoved you to the bed. The loud clinking of his belt buckle reached you as his hands pulled the leather from the belt loops of his trousers. He discarded his clothes into a haphazard pile on the floor before simultaneously pulling your skirt and underwear from your body. 

“Dave why are you---,” you moaned out breathlessly as he held your hands over your head. 

The use of words was temporarily obsolete as Dave forcefully pushed your legs apart. A dart of spit left his lips settling onto your pussy. As he pressed and strummed his fingers on your folds where he left his mark. It had you squirming and arching your back against his touch. There was no denying how much your body blazed and ached for him. The mattress shifted with each slow press of the mattress he gave with his hands and knees. Soon he was lined up at your entrance and with a push of his knee on your thigh he rocked his pulsing cock deep into your folds. 

He braced his arms at your sides and held his face close to yours with each deep roll of his pelvis into yours. Too many long days had passed since you last had him, and you could do nothing but let go and feel the thickness of him as he moved in and out. Each ridge and vein slid against tight folds with each push and gyration he made within you. The walls of your dark room trapped every slap of skin, every heavy breath, and every whimper that both of you set free. 

Each thrust into you became more erratic, urgent, deeper, and harder. Absent were the spanking, the dirty words, the hair pulling, and every other depraved thing you did in worship of each other’s body. With his face held so close to yours, you felt each breath he took quicken on your skin. You swore you could feel him straining against the desire to bite you or call you his whore.

In the quiet pleasure a conflict rose within you, feeling close in ways that words couldn’t express, but deprived of the darkness you loved to share with one another. His hands twisted the sheets and as you dug into the flesh of his back, he filled you. With one push off you, he sat at the edge of your bed for a few moments before standing up and making his way to your bathroom to clean himself. Barely even able to catch your breath, he returned pulling up his boxer briefs and pulling his undershirt over his head. 

“To clean yourself up,” he said as he tossed a washcloth on the bed next to you.

You pushed past him to clean yourself in your bathroom. When you returned, you found him already buttoning up the last few buttons of his dress shirt. A feeling of frustration lodged itself in your throat as he stood before you. His eyes looked you up and down with smug satisfaction.

“My pretty, pretty possession.” The next words he uttered came out gentler than you expected, further fueling the confusion in your brain, “you need to remember who you are.” 

“Do you?” you asked, stepping forward holding your face close to his.

In the silence that followed you swore you could feel his body flinch at your words. It gave you a wicked sense of pride that you had been able to have the last word in that moment, though you knew it left nothing but confusion for the both of you. He rushed past you, leaving with a hushed and calculated shut of your door. One, two, three counts and you knew he wasn’t coming back, not tonight anyway. From a hanger of your large walk-in closet, you pulled a robe and wrapped it tightly around your body before returning to bed. As you lay down, you pulled a pillow close, smelling it and shutting your eyes tightly as tears slipped from them to stain the bedsheets.

*************

Days later in a quiet parking space near your house, Dave paused, his hands roaming the steering wheel as he sat in his car. As he got out, his pace was quick, a hint of excitement brewed beneath as he made his way to your front door. He pressed his finger to the sleek white doorbell. He shifted his weight back and forth on his feet as he waited for you to answer. Silence. He knocked this time. No answer. With fast breaths he pulled out his phone to text you, then call you. Each action was carried out to no avail. So, like any sensible man would, he forcibly entered your home. You knew he would do it. 

Immaculate cleanliness, darkness, and silence met him. He made his way through the cold emptiness, suppressing any panic or anger he was building within. He dashed to your bedroom and flipped on the lights. Your bed was perfectly made, your clothes still hung neatly in the closet with a few shoes standing slightly askew. A little pink envelope rested at the center of the bed; his name written in your perfect cursive. 

It smelled like you. 

He opened a piece of folded stationery within to see only one sentence written. 

Remembering who I am.

[mask131]

It is very amusing - and yet quite terrifying - to see how still to this day there are blogs on Tumblr that support the belief that "All these things the West claims Putin did outside of Russia? He didn't do anything because there's no proof so people are just making it up, Putin's my poor innocent little baby :3 owo". I just saw a post like that two days ago. [It would be interesting to see what those people think the "West" means, because this range from "It is just the USA" to "It is just Western Europe" - anyway]

So, today is my obligatory post about the fuck-ups of Putin's Russia within other countries. And while I always wanted to make a post about the various misinformation campaigns and manipulations of Wagner in various countries of Africa (including the creation of a false mass-grave in Mali that Wagner wanted to use to accuse the French military in place in the area of war crimes - hopefully this plan was foiled because a drone ended up filming them as they were preparing the mass-grave), today I will rather focus on a more recent and more worrying case. And much more "hot-topic" because it involves... The Hamas-Israel conflict, and the mass wave of antisemitism in Europe that recently rose!

Let us go back in time briefly. 7 of october 2023, terrorists of the Hamas organize a surprise attack on Israel. On the 8th of October, Israel starts throwing bombs at Palestine in retaliation - and this is the beginning of the Hamas-Israel war. A war that completely, vividly and violently split the opinion in both Europe and North America, due to how muddled and complex and devastating this conflict is. And a war that had one notable very dark side-effect in Europe (but also in North America) - it woke up a dormant wave of antisemitism. Due to Israel position when it comes to the history of Palestine, and due to how excessive Israel's attacks towards Palestine in retaliation for the Hamas' actions were - notably leading to a grave humanitarian and sanitary crisis in Gaza, that a lot of people chose to define as a "genocide" - a "pro-Palestine" wave arose in Western Europe that was against "Zionism" (understand, support and affiliation with Israel). Problem is - for decades now a lot of antisemitic people had been using "anti-zionism" as a thinley veiled excuse for what was pure antisemitism, due to how Israel is THE Jewish nation. AND for years now, especially in France, antisemitic actions have been on the rise (in France we had the graves of great Jewish personalities covered in antisemitic tags, and various synagogues degraded). As such, alongside movements supporting Palestine and denouncing Israel, numerous antisemitic actions and attacks started happening in various European countries.

In this context, end of October, in the Ile-de-France region, in the Parisian area, over several habitation buildings, more than 250 Stars of David had been painted in blue, overnight. On the morning of the 31st of October, they were on display for everyone to see.

This of course only fueled further the panic and the socio-political debate. The blue color of the stars clearly indicated a tie to Israel. But the fact was that these buildings were habited... by Jewish people. These stars were used to "mark" these buildings - with the clear message "Jews live here". And due to the blue color, it seemed to be part of the whole antisemitic distortion of the pro-Palestinian message: "There are Jews here - There are people of Israel here".

This made all the news, and one interview in particular was in loop over the various info channels of France. Several of the inhabitants of this building were elderly people. Old enough sometimes to have known World War II. And one of the old ladies that lived in these buildings broke down in tears when interviewed because as she explained: "This is all like when I was a child. It is happening all over again."

Because, it should be known - and if you don't know, you will now - that France wasn't just invaded and occupied by the Nazi forces during World War II. The Vichy government of France actively collaborated with the Nazi government to "save" a bit of French independance and "prevent" some casualties - and this formed the darkest part of France's history, La Collaboration. France was divided in two - and while the South was the "free" zone... the North, including the Ile-de-France, was the "occupied" zone where Nazis and collaborators were in control. And Paris saw some of the worst things... Like the infamous "Rafle du Vel' d'Hiv", when the French government, by order of the Nazi government, arrested and gathered in a velodrome more than 13 000 Jews before sending them to the death camps.

As such, to have buildings in the area marked by David stars (the symbol used during World War II to mark Jews on their clothes, shops and houses) as a "visual denunciation" in the context of an antisemitic wave tied to foreign governments' decisions... You can understand how traumatizing this can be - or rather how this wakes up the old trauma and the old shames of France.

But here is where things get INTERESTING.

The police of course searched thoroughly the ones responsible for all these tags - and they ended up finding them... It was a couple. A man, 29 years old, and a woman, 33 years old. They were actually caught while they were painting more of those, in the 10th arrondissement de Paris. But... they were not of French nationality. They were from Moldavia. And this was intriguing. Everybody believed this had been done by antisemitic French people... But no.

And what was the Moldavians' justification for what they did? Support for Palestine? Antisemitism? No. They were "paid" to do so. They just did a job. Curious isn't it? The police found, by digging in the couple's phones, who exactly had paid them and given them the instructions for this operation... And it turned out to be another Moldavian man, but not anybody.

Anatoli Prizenko. A Moldavian businessman known for his strong pro-Russia views and for his open support of Putin. Of course, Prizenko was asked about this whole affair - he was notably interviewed by French media. And what was his answer? When asked why he paid a couple to go paint more than 250 Stars of David in the Parisian region, what did he answer? The funniest and most pathetic excuse you can find. "This was a gesture of support. This was a gesture of support towards the Jews of Europe. It was meant to be positive". I put pictures of the painted tags in this post: I will let you judge if it seems like a support for the Jewish people of Europe, or if it rather looks like the kind of tags left on buildings during World War II.

Okay, so a pro-Russia Moldavian businessman did this in hope to exploit the current tense and hostile climax in France, in light of the disastrous events in Palestine. But beyond his support of Putin, nothing actually clearly ties this operation to Russia, right?

Let us go deeper down the rabbit hole... By November, French authorities revealed that yet another campaign of mass information led by Russian entities was plaguing the French Internet. I say "yet again", because it wasn't Russia's first attempt. Already the French authorities had to denounce and warn the population about an enormous amount of fake websites created by Russians. These fake webpages were almost perfect copies of the ACTUAL websites of the various newspapers and information channels of France, and all covered the war on Ukraine... With the difference that these fake websites twisted the words, faked the numbers or outright invented elements that made it seem like Europe's support of Ukraine was a bad thing, causing all sorts of troubles and dysfunctionments, or that made it look like Ukraine was wasting all the resources it was given. A pure misinformation-operation in hope of making people lose faith in the support of Ukraine, or even making people hate Ukraine for "stealing all our money and weapons".

And they did it again... With this case. Another important Internet operation by Russian - from fake web pages to fake web accounts, this new operation was about mass-sharing and mass-spreading the news of the Stars of David... And insisting upon all sorts of fake rumors that were later debunked, and highlighting the antisemitism in France. (As I said, they didn't really need to do that since there is already an antisemitism on the rise that was well-noted and is already worrying everyone, so Russia didn't invent that... But their point was to overblow this specific incident in order to create a true mass psychosis). France denounced this Internet operation - and Moscow only answered by saying France was "stupid" for suspecting them in such a way...

And does it stop here? NO MY DEAR! Because these last days there's been a new development! Now it is not fully confirmed/revealed, because the investigation is still underway. But after all these months of research, there are pretty solid and conclusive elements to determine who was behind this Internet campaign of misinformation and rumor-spreading... All the clues point towards the "fifth department" (foreign business department) of the FSB, the Federal Security Service of Russia.

So yes... We are back to the Cold War...

And you want to know the worse thing? European countries have started collaborating on this business, because as it turns out, there were a lot of pro-Russian and anti-Otan manifestations or "waves" in several European countries recently (Spain and Germany for example)... that when investigated tie back to the FSB in one way or another. The oldest identified FSB operation of the sort is - at least from what I heard - from the spring of 2023, in Poland. There was a series of misinformation, sabotages and spying actions with strong anti-OTAN slogans used - and at first it seemed that this was a manifestation of the will and desires of Polish people themselves, as it was presented as "the folks of Poland are speaking"... But a bit of investigation revealed the core of this movement were... again, Moldavians, not Polish people. And further digging proved that these Moldavians had ties to the FSB, who very likely ordered them to do all this...

[bl3ss3dbyt1amat]

might finish this later?? idk what compelled me to draw this im hungry ig (note: imagine committing to getting a more painful and less sanitary version of your blood drawn EVERY NIGHT just cause a pretty boy asked politely)