#find and replace in word 2016

[hoperays-song]

Sing Character's Texting Styles

[whowrotethenote]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐖𝐞 𝐃𝐨

Summary: Alana has lived ten different lives since she met the infamous Tribal Chief. And once again, she finds herself entering into another phase of her life where things are ending and she has to make room for what’s to begin.

Warnings: NSFW // Smut // Profanity // Age gap // Angst // Themes of abortion // Mentions of disease // Adultery

Word count: 12.8k

Inspo: All We Do by Trey Songz

Disclaimer // Part Two // Biggest Fan Masterlist // Roman Reigns Masterlist // Join My Taglist // Main Masterlist

Saturday, April 27, 2024

“Jesus, Anthony,” Demi cackles grabbing ahold of his wrist. “Leave some room for the damn orange juice.”

I shake my head at the champagne flute he has eighty percent full of the expensive house champagne. Saturday brunch at The Terrace and Outdoor Gardens—located in a very vibrant Manhattan. Outside feels like when Controlla dropped in 2016. The sun is unforgiving on my caramel skin, despite it only being the end of April. The table cloth is an unrealistic white, matching the aprons of the waiters strutting around, hands high with trays of fresh food.  Laughter of the wealthy, glasses clinking, and the background noise of a hot and moving New York fill the atmosphere. 

He purses his lips shaking her off. “It's a lituation. My two favorite girls are officially graduating.” He continues to fill my glass and soon after Demi’s. He follows the same pattern, blessing each of our glasses with only a splash of orange juice from the decanter. “And honestly—even that was too much.”

A lot has changed since the semester started. My life looks completely different. Feels completely different. I am completely different. It's almost unbelievable what time can cycle in and out of your life. I feel like I’ve lived three different lives since this time last year. 

The donation for my tuition was the seed planted that grew the forest. Now my reality is rooted and tangled in luxury I only used to dream of. The donations and compensation for my time and abruptly being tugged out of my life and into his, come more often than not now. 

So much so, Demi and I were able to wish the studio apartment a long awaited farewell. Twenty-eight hundred dollar rent would’ve made me choke on absolutely nothing just a few months ago. Now, it's the minor cost I pay to live comfortably, in our three bedroom condo planted in the heart of Manhattan. 

The space was a bit much for just two girls, who were barely there—by virtue of our packed schedules. So we took in a stray, as Demi would call him. Anthony—or as he referred to himself as, our Fairy Gaymother—was the perfect fit to our complicated puzzle. A twenty-four year old alum to Columbia, and the children’s hospital’s youngest surgical technician—who prides himself on dating the most giving and generous of foreign men, who only come to the city for business purposes. 

Only three weeks shy of graduation, we decided to take a much earned breather. Celebrating on the rooftop of this hotel, with an overflow of mimosas, conversation about men and the things we hate about them, consuming food at the highest prices inflation can convey. 

Dressed in all white, brown skins accentuated by the gold we decorate ourselves with, and champagne glasses held up to heaven.

“I’ve watched you two bust your asses for four months now. So, this is well deserved. I am so proud of y’all. Cheers to being young, black and educated.”

“Exactly,” Demi agrees.

“Raising the bar,” he continues. “And deleting that damn Canvas app… until med school.” A sharp clink of our glasses sounds off like a bold period to his cheers speech. 

Bzzz! Bzzz!

I place the glass down after downing half of it, to replace it with my phone.

Your Tribal Chief wanted me to let you know you’re needed in Miami next weekend. Flight information has been emailed. 

It's not even an inquiry anymore. They already know I’ll show. 

Butterflies erupt in my diaphragm nevertheless at the realization that I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the month. He was generous enough to provide Demi and I Wrestle-mania tickets. In the wake of our schedules, we were only able to attend night one. 

I’m sure he had desired to spend night two surrounded by family anyway. He took the pin and ended a legendary title reign. He’s been the top guy for so long—I’m sure it took a piece of him regardless of the preparation for the shift behind the scenes. 

Demi and I watched in horror from the condo. Mouths catching flies, even minutes after the fact. We had just been there. I had just been with him. He gave no signs of anticipated defeat. He wasn’t moving like a man ready to step down from greatness. Or maybe he did. Maybe it was in between the lines of him practically demanding I be waiting for him in the trailer immediately after his match. Or the unsolicited aggression as he took me from the back. The unforgiving grip on my neck. The scandalous and countless slaps to my ass, followed by painful grips of flesh. The fine lines that garnished his nose as his upper lip curved into a snarl in between strokes. The sharp bites like a feral python in place of kisses. 

Okay, thanks.

Call me if you have any questions. I’d pack very light. It’s scorching down here.

Miami…a city in such close proximity to his home. His real life. A territory nether of us touch as if it's poison ivy— opting to pretend it doesn’t even exist. But we know. It's all in the way I’m still only able to get in touch with Paul and not him. All in the days that pass between one getaway to the next. All in the routinely compensation for services. It’s disguised as a helping hand, but I already know it’s hush money. Insurance. A pretty bow wrapped on a box that guarantees his secret stays exactly that. 

This isn’t the first time he’s flown me out. Our arrangement started as him just dipping into me every time he was on this end of the map. Now, wherever he is, is never too far to get me to. 

The first time was in Green Bay, Wisconsin. Christmas was approaching. New York was covered and knee deep in snow. He was already in Wisconsin, preparing for Smackdown. Thursday, the night before, I received the regular text from Paul.

Locked away in another five star hotel, I waited all day for him. Watched the show air in real time as The Bloodline faced heat from none other than Mr. Voices In My Head himself—Randy Orton. The wee hours of the night crept up on me as I laid stretched out on the plush, king-sized hotel bed. The clock read 1:41 a.m. when the subtle buzz of the room key granting access, reached my ears. Like a dog awaiting its owner’s arrival, I shot up. Daddy’s home.

Lines of defeat and hard work all over his golden face. Rich beard, grayer than I had ever seen before. His bun, loose and not as pristine as usual. He was still the finest man I had ever laid eyes on. Every encounter—every late night as he shed another layer of Roman off to reveal Joe, it only made my attraction to him spread like wildfire. 

Still, always reeling myself back to the impenetrable truth, that this was just sex. An exchange. Bearing witness to the lessons of my business classes— his market has a need and I’m his supplier. I know my role. And for him I act it out with grace and confidence every time.

He removed his Nike hoodie and emptied everything from his sweatpants’ pockets on top of the dresser. Again, twisting the black band off and burying it in the drawer with the rest of his guilt.

“I need a massage,” he declared with hands rested on his hips. The expression on his face and his tone suggested it was a question, but I knew better. I sat planted on my knees that sunk into the mattress, longer than I intended because the sincerity sparkling in his eyes—the neediness shook me. 

Hastily, I disappeared into the ensuite bathroom as he took my place on the edge of the bed. The complimentary lotion and some type of oil, is what I return with. He’s shirtless laid out on his stomach. Eyes already shut in comfort. 

Situating myself on his butt, I squeezed what I thought was a sufficient amount of lotion and scented oil into my palms. Rubbing it into my hands before sliding it evenly across his defined back in erratic patterns. Digging deep and showing supplemental love to every ridge and dip I find. I didn’t think my small hands were making an impact until he released a deep breath paired with a moan.

“Mmm.” The vibration transmitted from his core, to my hands flattened on his back, landing in my hot center. I’m sure he could feel her heating up—but nothing came of it.

That was how the night carried on. Me kneading and caressing his hard back and soft skin, until I heard the soft snores I’m accustomed to dozing off to after a long night. We didn’t do our usual. No sex. No head. No lingerie. No dirty talk. Just a much needed massage to a man who offers his life to his fans and the mat—followed by sleep.

As expected, when the sun hit my face through the drapes, I found myself alone. No trace of him. Just the lingering and faint smell of his natural scent mixed with whatever he uses for his hair. And the note on the dresser. Same message every time.

Thanks for last night.

Followed by his name and the two R’s.

I learned quickly that this little arrangement between us was exactly as Paul described that first night. He was just in need of company. Comfort on the road. An outlet. I’m here to help him unwind. That’s going to look different some nights. Some nights we fuck. Some nights he just wants to be held in complete and serene silence. Other nights I'm his personal masseuse. I know the declaration I made that night in the Hamptons, but I can’t help but always wonder if he’s like this with the others. I deem it exhausting to be spread so thin, wearing different faces for all of us.

I keep those inquiries to myself now, though. The less I know, the better. The thicker the line between us, the better. For me and for him. He’s living a double life as is. I’m here to help ease the other one or ones—and pull him away from it all, even if just for a few days. Catching feelings defeats the purpose, not making me useful anymore. And I’m not in the business of not being useful to him.

Yet and still, it nudges the back of my conscience how the inevitable split will come. I know this won’t last forever. It can’t possibly. I do have my own life too. Maybe it didn’t seem that way to him because every time he puts a Bat signal out, I’m here at the ready. 

I yearn to be someone’s wife one day—yearn for love. Motherhood possibly. I can’t hang onto whatever this is forever. So yeah—the thicker the line, the better. That way when we have to break, it’ll be easy…Right?

“I’m actually a little tired of hearing about you and the Italian. All you two do is make love. Call me when y’all get into a scuffle or something.” Demi yawns.

“Well, someone has to share their mancapades. You’ve been single since Obama was in office.”He flicks a long finger my way. “This one here has a mystery sponsor she refuses to talk about.”

An unpremeditated grin adorns my me at the mention of him. Sponsor. I think I like that term better than Demi’s Sugar Chief.

“Mmph,” She catches my smile. I wish she’d get out of my head sometimes.

“I mean seriously— what is the big deal with him? I’m starting to think the man is famous…or married.”

Tight-lipped, I shrug, pulling my oversized Chanel shades over my face— to avoid lying straight to his. How has he hit it on the nail twice? Demi and I have been working like ants to keep Anthony at bay. He’s always interrogative of the secret phone calls, random deposits and last minute trips. I can feel his discovery creeping up like a lion on the prowl.

“You don’t worry about my friend and her mystery man. Her services have been keeping us all fed.” She gestures to the contents of the table. I shake my head at her mocking Paul.

“Yeah, well whatever the arrangement,” Anthony waves a hand. “Next time you see him, just whisper in his ear about me, would you?” I raise a brow. “Just tell him you have a roommate that’s on the hunt for a rich mantoy. And not one I have to hide.”

“Mantoy?” Demi’s face scrunches up.

“Yeah! I know baby boy has to have a cousin or something.”

“Yeah.” Demi chuckles bringing the mimosa to her lips. “It depends. You like seeing double?” I pinch her under the table, covering my laugh with my other hand.

“Oh, no. Maybe he prefers they come solo,” I add. We erupt into a fit of laughter together. coaxing Anthony’s wrinkly forehead as he looks between us both— smiling apprehensively.

“Wait,” Demi holds a hand up, lip quivering from all the shenanigans. “Twilight. Were you into the vampire or the werewolf?”

“Alright!” I reach into my purse pressing my lips together, barricading any more giggles. I pull  out six crisp hundred dollar bills and slide them to the middle of the table. “On that note, I’m gonna go. It’s been real, gal and gay.” I raise up to kiss them both goodbye.

“You’re insufferable,” I whisper into Demi’s ear after a kiss to her cheek.

“You love me,” she replies lowly, flashing her teeth.

“Whisper in his ear!” Anthony reminds me before I reach the elevator that leads to the rest of the hotel.

“Believe me I will!”

“Thank you for your services,” Demi waves the hundred dollar bills in the air.

In the back of the Uber, I decide to check in with Paul.

“Lana,” he greets me over the phone. My phone. Thats right—we’ve also wished the payphone a farewell. 

“Paul,” I greet back with the phone smushing between my ear and shoulder to shuffle through my purse. “I’m just calling to make sure it's only for the weekend?”

“Yes, the weekend is all he said.”

“Good.” Still with a million and one things in queue before graduation, I can’t afford to go M.I.A for a whole week.

“And you’ll be taking the jet again.”

“Lovely. Nice doing business with you.”

“Pleasure as always.” Ready to take the phone away from my ear to hang up, I hear my name again. “Oh—and Lana?”

“Yeah?”

“Congratulations.” For a man that presents himself as an evil, flip-flopping mastermind on screen, behind the scenes he sure is an empathetic softy. 

“Thank you.”

“I know the concept of graduation and the real world is quite scary, but trust me, before you know it you’ll be thirty.” I cringe. “Married, with babies, wishing you had these same problems instead.”

Babies…babies.

The energy in my walk-in closet was charged with nothing but irritation and the doom of dare I say it—judgment. She sat on the white ottoman in the center as I moved about—sharply hanging shirts and folding jeans, that on a normal day, would’ve sat in the hamper for weeks until I found the drive to deal with them. But it's not a normal day. Nothing is ever normal anymore.

It's one of those days that’ll stick with me. One of those days that I’ll think about on a random day when everything is seemingly fine. One of those days that if I’m lucky, I'll never have ever again.

She’s not talking anymore since I revealed my verdict. Demi and silence didn’t go together. It was an unlikely pair. One that gave you angst—a tornado in your stomach. Usually a context clue that something was deadly wrong. She didn’t need to speak. Four years now—living together, learning each other—loving each other. I already knew. I could already feel it.

The stinging sensation in my eyes expanded the longer she waited to speak. I knew it was coming, but the anticipation was useless. That lump in my throat grew, until swallowing brought physical pain.

“—I can’t believe you wouldn’t even just tell him.”

“What is there to tell? Huh?” My eyes widen at her even as she purposely avoided my heavy stare. “What am I supposed to do? Call Paul? And say what exactly?” I ridicule. “It won’t change anything. What do you think will happen here?”

I’d rather be anywhere else. Doing anything else. And talking about anything else. But I had been hiding already. I knew this was coming. The appointment was made days ago. And I had the nerve to walk around the condo, not even mentioning it. Leaving out whenever she came in. Eating in my room, instead of hers or the living room. Making it painfully obvious. There was nowhere else to go now. 

“You don’t think he at least deserves to know?”

“The appointment is already made. It's done.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t do it. Thats not for me to say. It’s your body—”

“So, what are you saying?”

“It’s half apart of him—”

“It,” I slapped the jeans in my hand against my thighs. “Is not anything. Okay? It is not even conscious. It has no cognitive abilities. It isn’t even the size of my fist. It's a fucking tumor— a parasite if anything.” I don’t know what took over me. All of the stares, bullhorns, signs with messages of hate and condemnation— the campaigns in the wake of all thats been going on with the laws surrounding it— was all starting to consume me. A problem I never thought I’d have to bear. But isn’t that what we always think? A problem isn’t really a problem, until it's our problem.

“And it's gonna ruin my life.” My voice cracks. “And his.”

I have things I want to do— accomplishments untouched collecting dust on the shelf, that I’d like to see through. This would put the ugliest blockade on that. I’m an absolute mess. Nothing that permanent would even fit into my life.

“It’ll change everything. This thing we have going—it's gonna be over and done with. I know it.”

“Thats what you’re scared of?”

The words get stuck in my throat—choking me. It's not about this new life and I really wish it had been. It’d be so much easier for me to just say I don’t want the perks to stop. But it's not about that. I hate that it isn’t. I hate that every time I wait in the five star hotel room, or his condo in Miami—that I’ve already forgotten about the lingerie, shoes, or bag he’s left on the bed—and my heart picks up speed when I see him walk through that door. 

“I don't know.” I lie through my teeth.

“I don't think he’ll respond the way you think he would.” 

“Let me guess,” I laugh mockingly. “He’s gonna come with me?” I raise a brow. “Come hold my hand? Tuh!” I shove the stack of jeans into a slot on the wall. It wasn’t fucking fitting, so I forced it— not having the capacity to figure out anything as simple as folding and putting clothes away. My mind too cluttered for simple every day tasks. “I know I don’t say what’s going on—mainly because I can’t. But you’re smart. You know exactly what’s been going on. I show you the lingerie—the shoes—my account. You see it all.”

“You’re a fool if you think it's still just sex, even now—”

“Demi, I don't need to hear this right now. Don’t you have to go to the hospital soon?”

“I told Miss Tonia I can’t come in today.”

Of course. Shaking my head, I lose the grip on the jeans in my hands. They slipped as I held the back of my hand to my nose, to ease that tickle. It started as one tear. Then another from my other eye, even heavier than the first, joined the race to my chin. Before I knew it my shoulders were shaking violently, and my vision was blurred.

I felt small arms encompass me from behind. Face pressed against my back as I came undone in the middle of the closet. If anyone was to walk in, they’d find two young girls, who had seen way too much, way too soon. Everything passing them by, but only one thing remained—stable and unwavering like a coast redwood tree. Their friendship.

“Right,” I force a laugh. “I have to go—thank you.” Without giving him an opportunity to respond, I press the red button and slam the phone face down on the leather seat. Breathe, Lana.

Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Brows turning down and nose turning up from the smell of books, books and more books—I stick a palm to my forehead, while jotting down the same notes repetitively in red pen. They say it helps to remember it this way. 

The library is ironically empty, considering it’s final’s week. On the top floor like always, I sit alone at the extensive shiny, dark-wood table. A single antique lamp in the center of it, giving life to this corner of the library.

I take my last final of undergrad tomorrow morning. Marking the official end of my best and worst chapter in life. College. 

They give all the trainings and seminars before they send you off, but they never really prepare you for the end. All month long, thoughts of what happens next sneak up on me. 

Where will I go? What will I do? Sure I have a plan, but if there’s anything I’ve learned about life in twenty-two brisk years—it's that plans are just suggestions. Nothing is definite in this life. The curse and the gift.

My pen hits the thick college-ruled notebook, watching my phone buzz. A picture of a baby Lana being held by her five year old, toothless brother overrides my home screen.

“Yes?” 

“You know—robbing banks even if you do it electronically—is still illegal.”

“The word you’re looking for is scamming, dickhead. And what the hell are you talking about?”

“There she is. That’s the Lana, I know. Not the one who buys me thirty-five hundred dollar paintings for my birthday.”

“So, you did get it?”

“Alana.”

“What?”

He chuckles. “Girl, where did you get the money for this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Uh— yeah, kind of? Especially since me and Chloe been throwing theories back and forth and all we could come up with was scamming or prostitution.” Well…he’s not completely out of range.

Something like a laugh escapes my throat. “How is Chloe?” I haven't seen my brother or his long-term girlfriend since Christmas. He didn’t show for the weekend I spent home on New Year’s and untraditionally of me, I didn’t come home for my birthday last month. 

I miss him in only the way siblings can miss each other. We can spend an hour together, at the most—laughing and reminiscing about how we grew up and things we miss about it—before we start fussing about nothing and disagreeing about anything. Then, I need distance again and maybe I’ll miss him again in another two to three months. 

“We broke up.”

“What?!” I shriek and immediately swivel my head to find I am in fact not the only person on this floor. Shit. “What?” I press in a fierce whisper.

His boisterous laugh fills my left ear, influencing my shoulders to drop a little. I shake my head—picking up the red pen I dropped again on the notebook. “I’m just fucking with you. Everything’s good. She’s good.”

“I can’t stand you. I don’t know how she does—willingly.”

“Don't try to switch the subject up. The painting?”

“You know—usually when people receive a birthday gift—especially a really expensive one—they say thank you.”

“I’m getting there. I’m just trying to figure out first, what my little sister has been doing to afford said really expensive gift.”

“Did you like it?” I side step his curiosity the same way I do with my parents. I plumule them with questions of my own. They’re still asking with every phone call,“how are you paying rent in a condo in Manhattan?” They bought the random donor for my bill. Everything else, they were absolutely not going for.

“You’ve never been this consistent with anything in your whole life.” It's not a secret that my brother is a nomad in careers. In high school, he fixated on basketball. In undergrad he wanted to get into tech. And now as an overgrown graduate, his new thing? Art. “Who’s paying you?” I probe.

“I don't know what you talking about…” I wait. “It's mommy. She said she’d pay my rent for the month if I got it out of you.” There we go. “She told me about you moving out the condo and going to Miami for your birthday. I didn’t believe her. Then I got the painting last week.” I exhale deeply. “She’s really worried, Lana.”

“Mommy starts her day worrying about something. How is me having money and living comfortably, cause for worry?”

“Because just last year you were asking to hold two hundred dollars and sharing a studio. Come on now. And when we ask—you do this. Deflect.”

“Make something up. I don’t know. Believe me—it's nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you’re leading with your head and not your heart.”

My face balls up. “You sound like your father.”

“That’s not good…” He’s quiet for a beat. Probably thinking of another angle. He can poke and prod like the detectives Benson and Stabler. I’m solid. He releases a breath through the phone. “Looks like I’ll be paying my own rent.”

“Damn.” It wasn’t just about the NDA. It was the weight of the judgment I anticipate. Hell, I look at myself sideways some nights thinking about this life I’ve created that’s sewn in lies and adultery.

“I saw your mans lost his title a while back. Shit crazy.”

I freeze up—pen stopping mid stroke at the mention of him. How does he find his way in every part of my life? “Crazy,” I agree with no inflation in my voice.

“You still watch wrestling?”

“Not really,” I lie. “Haven't really had that much time to, anyway.”

“That last lap is a bitch, ain't it?”

“Shitting me?” He chuckles.

“Don’t be expecting a thirty-five hundred dollar graduation gift. It’ll be more like thirty-five dollars. Seeing as I have to pay my own rent and stuff.”

“Still waiting on my thank you.”

“Thank you, Lana. I really do appreciate it.”

“There you go. Did that kill you?”

“Where’d you get it?”

“I went to this art show in Brooklyn. I saw it and it immediately felt like you.”

“So, this new Lana is paid and she has feelings? I don’t know who he is, but send ol’ boy my love and blessings.” 

Thursday, May 2, 2024

“Completely bald?”

“Completely bald.” Demi confirms. “Wasn’t a single hair left on that bitch. I almost asked him did he have business hours. My wax lady don’t even get me right like that.”

I shake my head, continuing the assault on my MacBook keyboard, racing to the finish line of this paper before 11:59 strikes. The last lap, I remind myself. Curling further into the corner of the cream-colored couch—toes sinking into the spongy cushion—I use Demi and Anthony’s pubic hair exchange as background noise.

Unfortunately, for my best friend, she’s experiencing another failed attempt of “getting out there.” Everything was seamless with the younger twenty-one year old quarterback, who plays for St John’s an hour away from us. Closing in on two weeks of thoughtful dates and suggestive texts, she finally decided to see what he was talking about in the bedroom. To her dismay, she discovered a whole lot more than a horse. The horse was bald.

Demi and Anthony sit on the carpet below me by the coffee table. Their lax game of Go Fish on complete pause after her revelation to the group.

“Wow.” Anthony puts his entire deck face down now, too invested in her dilemma. “Now, as a ponk—I prefer it. I didn’t know straight men did that shit too?”

“Neither did I! I mean he pulled it out and wham! Like am I fucking a seven year old?” My unsolicited snort causes her to swivel in my direction. “He could’ve at least left a little bit. A nice trim. I don’t need the whole forest.”

“So you like a little hair?” Anthony presses with dents in his brows. You would’ve thought they were sharing how they like their steak to be cooked. “Thats interesting. La, what about you?”

Demi leans back on both palms where she sits—face fixing with amusement. “Yeah, La. What about you?”

“This mystery man—he’s older isn’t he?” I nod. Nonverbal. “I feel like older men don’t even bother with that type of stuff. They just let it do its thing.”

My Samoan giant definitely trims. My mind is overrun by the soapy smell as he forces me all the way down until my nose is buried in the black hairs. “Trim,” I reveal. 

He gasps. “Really? Every thing I thought I knew is wrong.” 

Capping the last sentence on the screen with a period, I release the deepest sigh. Proofreading. Yeah, right. The graduation application has been accepted already. Clicking submit, I shove the pink device off my lap. “Well, was it big?” I break the silence.

“Eh.” She waves a hand. “Now that mouth? Something completely different.”

Anthony swats her leg. “You naughty girl. I thought y’all didn’t do anything.”

“No.” She beams. “I told you we didn’t have sex.”

“Did you return the favor?” I ask.

“I wasn’t putting my mouth anywhere near that hairless hotdog.” I feel a buzz underneath my outstretched leg. “Back to abstinence I go.” 

Without even knowing the contents of the message, a giddiness—girl-like and dainty—possesses me upon seeing the football and black heart emoji combo. 

i’m outside

Like I said—my life looks completely different now. 

“Uh oh.” Anthony retrieves his deck from the carpet. “I know what that means.”

Biting my lip between a smile— I stand, stepping into my Ugg slippers. “I’ll be back.” I regret to inform.

“Mmhmm.” Demi grins. “Tell him I said hi.”

Down the building elevator and through the lobby, the pit in my stomach grows with every advancement. Exiting my building into the night air of May—sounds of sirens and music from cars speeding by are powerful. New York is a different animal when the temperature rises. I spot the matte black Mercedes AMG a few steps up the block. Lights still on with a familiar sultry R&B beat, muffled and pounding from it. 

I knock on the tinted window, placing my hands in the pockets of my Spider hoodie. Seconds later the door is pushing open to reveal him.

Jaire Alexander. Twenty-seven year old cornerback for the Green Bay Packers. He sinks back into the leather seat, getting comfortable, marinating into all his five foot ten energy. The car smells brand new despite him having it for over a year now. Always carrying the energy of “chill, but still a big deal,” he’s dressed in a black Nike Tech, accompanied by something very sparkly on his wrist. His Creed cologne, overpowering the small space in the best way. A smoke signal to anyone near by, that a man—a well established one—is in the midst. 

I turn in my seat as we perform that same dance we do every time we see one another. Smiling like two teenagers who just passed the “do you like me,” note in class. His dimple is soft, a contradiction to his sharp jawline. He reaches to turn the knob on the radio—lowering the comforting sounds of Dilema by Nelly and Kelly Rowland.

“What you smiling at?” My shoulders rise and fall as my cheeks grow tender. His low chuckle fills the car. “Still not a woman of many words?”

“Still trying to figure you out, is all.”

A drunk night in Miami for my twenty-second birthday, had me literally colliding into him. I shut him down—like I do every man that crosses my path. But Jaire was consistent and charming as fuck. He was hard to sidestep and ignore. His laid back southern charm captivating me from the start. 

It's unfortunate what lies behind the curtain. My life just doesn’t call for whatever this is. It was a classic case of right person, wrong fucking time.

I really wish we had met at a different time. Under different circumstances. Maybe five years from now—when I’ve exhausted all my use to him and he’s retired the ring, ready to live out the rest of his days with his football team of kids and the one that actually makes his heart beat like mine is right now. 

“I could say the same thing about you.” He looks down—tongue sliding over his perfect top row of teeth. “Wouldn’t have to wonder no longer if you’d just let me take you out. A real date.” It's my turn to shy away from his intense stare. His pear-colored eyes with specks of brown, enough to make any woman fall to her knees. “Don’t you think this car thing is getting a lil’ old?”

This is as far as we’ve got. From Miami, to random phone calls and text messages, to unforeseen visits when his schedule permits—like right now. The most we do is talk about surface stuff.  School. Major news. Our favorite things. How our day is going. Nothing too deep. That’s my doing. I don’t want the strings to get too tight in the event I have to cut them altogether. The most intimate thing we’ve done includes him taking my small hand into his large one as he compares the size.

“Soon,” I promise for the umpteenth time. I can’t see a near future where this works with what else I have going on, but the way my soul relaxes when I’m around him just won’t allow me to cut this off. 

While in the spirit of disappointment—I release a deep breath in preparation to keep it going. “I’m gonna be M.I.A again this weekend.”

His head rolls back until it hits the head rest. “You killing me, Lana.”

“I know—I know.” I shake my head, fixing my gaze out the windshield, watching a couple hand in hand pass by on the street. “It's just the weekend.”

“And after that?”

My mouth opens and closes, because I have nothing for him. No plans. No good news. Just more words I can’t say. More half stories mixed with half truths.

This isn’t how any exchange between two potential lovers should start. A foundation built on lies, secrets, and deceit. No—thats reserved for him. This… This is something completely different. Or at least that’s how it feels. He feels good to me in a way that not just the other one doesn’t, but in a way no man ever has. It’s genuine. It’s organic. I’m myself. He’s hisself. There’s no angst— no looking over my shoulder. No confusion. No grey area with him. You know that feeling when you meet a man and you can just tell from the burn of your cheeks with every laugh, every word in that first exchange—that he’ll be in your life for a very long time? The heat—the jump in your heart when he says his name to you for the first time.

“Balls in your court…always has been.”

Friday, May 3, 2024

The cool water from his condo’s infinity pool is a soothing contrast to Miami’s humidity. Even now, at eleven at night. Paul was right. If the emerging heat in New York is unforgiving, then the heat ensuing down here is just relentless. 

The city is lit up below me. Lively and vibrant—leaving me to wonder what could be happening. I down the rest of the costly champagne he had waiting for me, wrapped in a pink bow on the bed. No note and of course he wasn’t there with it. I’m not sure of the occasion, but there never really is one when I’m greeted with expensive gifts from him. Just candy to keep the baby quiet.

I’m sure he’s oblivious or rather careless to my recent accomplishments. 

My insides heat up—face growing hot as I grow restless. Champagne bottle half gone. I push myself over to the opposite side of the pool where he’s seated. 

I waited all day as usual. Excitement diminishing when he finally entered just to be on a business call. What fucking business is there to discuss at eleven at night?

I missed him—or maybe the dick. Either way I’m feigning for something that’s lacking. I rest my chin on my forearms—holding myself steady on the edge. 

“That’s what I’m saying. If he wants more—the numbers have to go up.” He talks with a large hand. Legs spread apart, just begging for me to sit on him. Saying fuck the glass—I bring the bottle to my lips. A battery in my back to execute the plan in my head.

Reaching behind me, untying the knot of the colorful Pucci bikini top, I release the double D’s that never fail to steal his attention. The material pops as it comes undone, resting in between my now exposed breast. Nipples a shade darker than my skin and hard as rocks due to the cold water and stretching arousal. 

He didn’t even need to do anything. Just thinking of him all day—the anticipation built since Paul’s text letting me know I would see him soon—was enough to turn me on. 

His bottom lip sinks into his mouth as he squints in my direction. Shuffling in the lounge chair with a strong hand running down his thigh.

“Right,” he agrees with the other party of his phone call with a flat tone. I bite my lip failing to hide my amusement. I push away from the ledge to dive back. The water—cold and powerful swallowing me until I pop back to the surface. Fingertips wrinkly and chlorine invading my senses. Placing palms on the ledge— I push myself up and out. Breast bouncing freely with every step that leaves a trail of water on the stone flooring. 

He hasn’t blinked once. Eyes bright—the lights from the city and pool reflecting off them. Fixating like a movie projector lens, recording my every move. I pay him and myself a favor— untwisting the cap off with a loud pop and pouring a double shot of whatever brown liquid was housing the decanter he brought out with him and hadn’t even touched. It runs smooth into the glass—mimicking the much broader sound of the pool’s filter. 

I extend it to him. Tongue sliding over my teeth, watching him watch me. Instead of taking ahold of the glass itself, he wraps a large hand over mine—prompting me to pour the shot into his mouth. He doesn’t even react to the alcohol.

In the spirit of temptation, I turn to plant myself on top of his inviting manspread. Shifting to the side so both my legs can drape over his toned thigh. Dripping wet from the swim I took—he’s not even fazed. He just sinks deeper into the lounge creating more space for me to get comfortable. 

“Mmhm,” he hums in agreement. The strong and persistent voice echoing from the speaker of his phone, a straight cockblock. 

Sliding a wet hand up his black shirt, I find the soft skin of his abdomen stretched over his rippling muscles. Acrylic black French tips dragging up and across. Then down, brushing over the tent begging for attention despite its owner’s current distractions.

Rising to my knees, I maneuver one on the other side to straddle him. Making sure all of the heat from me brushes right up against the beast. All the while, leaning over to retrieve another shot from the decanter. This one is for me. 

It hits me right in my chest and spreads—not showing any mercy on the furnace that is already growing in pussy. Literally aching— I shift in his lap, creating much needed friction. Taking his free hand in mine, guiding it to my slim stomach. His fingers spread, damn near covering my entire mid section. Eyes locking on me. I slide it up so he’s covering my entire left titty. 

This is backfiring. Teasing him only makes me more antsy, feeling like a boiling pot of water with the lid shaking off.

His mouth widens—eyeballing the two thick fingers of his I slide all the way up to my warm mouth to suck.

“Sounds good…Yup—alright. See you soon, man.” In a rush, his thumb is on the red button and he tosses the phone to the table, not even looking to ensure its landing. Before it even hits the table I’m on him. Biting, licking, sucking everywhere that’s available. He’s no better. Gunning for my neck at the same time I angle to find his. 

“We don’t know patience tonight?” He smiles through a kiss. 

“I don't have any left,” I answer in between assaulting his mouth with licks. His smile deepens, advertising a single dimple peaking out from underneath the thick hairs on his cheek. Rough hands grip my face, stilling me. Everything pausing for a moment.

“Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi.” I greet back—a small giggle ensuing. All confidence burning out under his immediate attention now. But he’s on me and there’s absolutely nowhere to hide.

He’s slimmed down a lot these last couple of months. I don’t know if it's intentional, but he looks damn good either way. Almost like his younger self when he used to run around with Seth and Dean. The ridges and valleys that map his body—from his arms, strong back and his core—more defined than ever. The grey in his beard a permeant staple now. Damn.

I look down between us—his stare too intense. I’ll never get used to this. No amount of alcohol—no drug can suppress the young Lana gawking at the one and only, Roman Reigns. 

My eyes make the trail back up to his. Smiling with his eyes and nothing else. “There she is,” he whispers.

My heart thumps just a little harder. A little faster. Yielding to the courage of alcohol—slow and deliberate—I lean in again, but not to kiss his lips this time. Once over his forehead. Another over the crinkle in the corner of his left eye. The definition of his cheekbone. Then, finally I arrive at his mouth. He takes the initiative to slither his tongue inside, after a drawn out peck. Our breath picking up again as another power struggle ensues. My hand sneaks behind him to tug at the bun until it comes undone. My wild Samoan. 

The kiss is sloppy and dizzying much like the alcohol is slowly but surely making me. So much so, I barely register the push of his hips, as he slides his shorts down just enough to release himself. The hand he has digging into my hip, unties one string on my bottoms, freeing me. 

A sharp gasp pulls from me as I crane my neck up at the feel of him—wide and strong filling every inch of me.

“This shit…” The wind he releases from his nostrils is heavy against my neck, before he sinks his teeth into my throat. 

I can’t wait to adjust. I need it now. My hips wind up and down chasing that feeling that’s closer than it usually is. Heat possesses me as I lean a hand back on his leg continuing to grind on him. Massive hands cover the entirety of my breasts, only heightening this euphoria. 

“So tight.” He strains with a locking jaw. The depth in his voice another brick stacking itself atop of my nagging climax.

His mouth falls open with shut eyes, relaxing as I do my thing. “Oh my god—I’m gonna cum already.” I pant. Thigh muscles aching, breathless and grip on his leg slipping—but I refuse to slow up. This shit just feels too good.

He grows unbelievably stiffer inside of me. My end so close if I reach out I can touch it. I whimper and nearly throw a fit when he rises all the way up, standing at full height with my legs wrapping around him.

Top row of pearly whites sinking into his plump bottom lip, while he lays me flat on the lounge chair. My frustration is snipped watching him lift his shirt up and off, exposing that masterpiece of a body. The ink on his arm jumping when he grips himself to sink back inside. 

“Unnhh!” A muffling moan erupts at the feel of him bottoming out, but as quick as he’s in, he’s back out to slide his full length between my lips. I jump at the tingle on my bundle of nerves where his head grazes. “Joe, please,” I beg. Vacant of any shame. One hand tangled in my wet hair, the other cupping my breast. Both our stomachs rising and falling at the thrill we’ve orchestrated.

My hole clenches around nothing and it’s enough to make me go mad like a woman possessed. Earning a full view of him and his naked glory will only make me spiral. I squirm against him and the soft cushion under me. Eyes inching down where he continues to rock on me and not inside of me. 

I quite literally take matters into my own hands, reaching to bury him where I need. My breath coming out shaky. He goes as deep as humanly possible—heavy hands on the back of my thighs, spreading me apart. My everything on display for him. Lips glistening under the moonlight, pink skin pulling him in, and even pinker nub distended completely. 

His eyes switch back and forth over my face and my center. “Touch it for me,” he urges not slowing his strokes. 

His obedient soldier. I reach a hand down, eyes closing, mouth in an “O” shape. You would think I’m back at the condo, locked in my room during that small window on Friday afternoons, where Anthony is still at the hospital and Demi is in her last class. It's like he’s not even here. Just a silent passenger in the vehicle as I drive myself to the big bang. That is until the weight of him is crushing me as he accelerates, capturing my mouth in an invasive kiss. The hairs of his full beard scraping my face—a complete deviation from his delicate lips. I hum at the taste of him. Warm and commanding, just like the liquor he consumed. His tongue is everywhere. My neck, collarbone, shoulder, chest, nipples, the valley between them—until he finds his way back into my mouth. Warm, solid and wet.

He pulls back just enough to watch me. Brown pupils dancing over every inch of my face. Studying me. Every hit, loud and forceful. My whole body jerks with every entry up and down the long chair. 

Eye to eye—no words exchanging. No need for them. It's all seen and felt where we connect. The “i’ve missed you,” being pummeled deep inside me. The “i’ve missed you too,” tangled with my fingers in his fluffy mane, pulling his face as close as possible and making sure he stays here.

The orgasm comes like a meteor. Catastrophic. Once you realizing it’s coming—it's too late. It's already here. My own scream is cloudy in my ears as my whole world comes crashing down. His face is buried in my neck. My nails pressing into his scalp. Eyes pooling with tears of passion, pain and pleasure. The twinkling lights from Miami almost look like stars in the sky watching us. 

If sex was the equivalent to wrestling, he’d hold every title in the WWE universe stacked on his shoulders. He leaves no stone unturned.

The come down is cut short as I’m flipped on all fours. Full of him again. My back pressing to his front. His strong hand cupping my jaw. The other, squeezing the life out of my left titty—trapping me in his web of gentle dominance. He rocks into me. Slender nose pressing flush against the side of my face.

I take a hold of this wrist to get some type of grip on reality. I don’t know what to center on. I feel him everywhere he can possibly be.

Wet curls clinging to my neck and face—I gasp every time his hips snap against me. Huffs and pants in my ear, he breathes out like a dog. His tongue making shapes of every kind wherever it can reach.

In his strong embrace I feel untouchable. Nothing feels better than this. 

“Mine,” a gruff declaration. Ready to default it as a figment of my vibrant imagination—enhanced by alcohol— I hear it again with twice the aggression. “Mine,” he growls directly in my ear, making it impossible to ignore. His shallow breaths and forceful thrusts picking up in unison. Knocking the very wind from my lungs. I'm helpless to think, respond, or react. Bagging his claim and wrapping it to save for later.

“Where do you want it?” He begs to question low in my ear still. I’m helpless. Mouth opening and then closing tight in a twisting pout at him hitting the spot still sensitive from my first release. “Huh?” His choppy strokes snap me to my sense. Please, not in me.

“My mouth.” Looking up at him with pleading eyes, I urge again. “In my mouth.”

Face contorting in pain almost, he fits in four good thrusts before pulling out. I scrape my knees rushing to them in front of him. He stands grand and tall like a statue. I take him in my hand to finish what I’ve started. His balls jumping with every jerk of my small fist. Underside of his thick tip pressing against my tongue that I hold out to catch what he offers me when it comes. 

A much larger hand waves mine off his thickness so he can take over. His other hand gripping the top of my head—fisting a mess of wet curls, forcing my neck to crane harder as an intense wince escapes me. Still, I offer my mouth—wide and waiting at the ready. Eyes bouncing from his intense face to the head of his dick, so hard the tip is turning a pale color.

“Give it to me,” I plead. “Please—please. I want it.” Knowing exactly what sends him over the edge, I request desperately like I’m a woman in the dessert and he possesses the last ounce of water for miles.

“Ughnn! Aw, fuckkk!” It comes out heavy. Spurts of thick white fluid in my mouth. Strays landing on my chin and my chest. 

“Mmm,” I hum in satisfaction listening to his guttural moans. Fixating on his stare locked in on me, as he doesn’t let up his strokes until he squeezes the very last bit on my lips. 

“Damn,” he mumbles—fine lines forming in between his brows. A smug look resides over my face, right before I gather the saltiness from my tongue, allowing it to drip down to my chin. “Filthy.” He shakes his head. 

The night is long and busy. He makes up for the weeks spent apart, tenfold. Filling me in just one night, with enough to hold me over for another month without him, if I had to. From the lounge chair, to the pool, to the shower, to the bed. We break in the condo and make our mark the same way we’ve done a hundred times before. 

By the time we close our eyes, the Miami skyline was turning blue.

It’s not long before I hear the shower running. Morning’s burnt orange rays nearly blinding me from the glass balcony door. I groan, burying my head under the stack of fluffy pillows to drift back into slumber. 

Consciousness didn’t see me again until a couple hours past noon. This is how it is when I’m in his world. I sleep all day and come alive in the night time like a bat out of hell.

My body is aching, sore with all the evidence of merciless sex. Bruising on my hips, my neck and my knees. Tiny scratches in the most hidden places. I observe them all with a sadistic smile in the steam ridden mirror after a much needed shower. 

He left a key fob on the nightstand. I’m assuming it grants me access to the condo. Good. Theres no way I’m staying in here all day again.

The elevator dings as I exit into the lobby on the first floor. Three chandeliers in the center, looking like the price of my tuition. Ceiling high to heaven covered with artwork I didn’t even notice yesterday. I find myself staring up in awe and almost bumping into someone coming in my direction before I focus back on the task at hand.

I catch the eye of the young brunette behind the desk that’s almost as tall as her.

“Hello!” She acknowledges me cheerfully. I offer a closed mouth grin.

“Hi. Do you a have a phone I could use?”

“Eh—sure.” She sits on top of the counter a digital telephone that looks like it's never been touched, fresh out the box, with not a speck of dust on it.

“Thanks. I won’t be long, I swear.” She nods and I make my way to the other wall near the steel elevators.

I dial the number I was forced to memorize by heart. 

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Oh—bitch don't scare me like that. I thought you were that Iota from sophomore year calling me from another unknown number.” I stifle a chuckle in the eerily quiet foyer, with at best, only four other people.

“What’s going on back there?”

“Same shit—different day.” I return the stank face to an older lady eyeing my unkempt, “I just had sex,” hair paired with his t-shirt that only stops right below my butt. One raise of my arm and every one in this lobby would get a free show. 

“Any calls?”

“Mom called twice. I text her and said it's a really busy day at the hospital and I’ll call when I can.”

“Good girl,” I commend. Demi and I have a routine down pack. It's full proof and hasn’t failed us yet.

“Your dad called. I sent him a question mark. He said nothing—just wanted to check in on you. Uhhh… Mariah from your business policy class asked if you know anybody that takes good grad pics.”

“Send her the boy who took ours.”

“On it. And Jaire called last night…” My eyes flutter closed, running my nails along my forehead. The line is grotesquely silent. 

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly. When do you ever have nothing to say.”

I hear her huff. “What are you going to do about him? I don’t think it’s right that you got him hanging on like that—”

“Hanging on like what? You think this is on purpose? I already told him he couldn’t have came at a worse time.”

“So, then where do you go from here? Cause every time he pulls up you go outside.”

“I don't know,” I snap in an undertone. We don’t speak for a while. I marinate in this dilemma. I like Jaire. I mean—I really like Jaire. He’s charming, respectful, funny and patient. There’s no guess work with him—no mystery. He’s like a breath of fresh air in the line up of men who want nothing but to waste my youth and take what they can, while they can. 

“I can tell that you like him, Lana.”

“I can’t really do nothing about that— can I? What am I supposed to do? Tell him, ‘yeah I really like you and we can start dating as long as I can still fuck my Sugar Chief on the side and go missing for days at a time?’” I smile coyly at the front desk lady, praying she didn’t catch any of that before turning away from her.

“Something has to give. You don’t want this thing to last forever, do you?” If I’m lucky, it will. But lucky, I have never been.

“It can’t.” 

“You think Jaire will wait for you?”

“Honestly? No.” Great catches are hard to come by. I know in my heart theres another girl that actually deserves his time on her way to him. And when she crosses his path—what would make him choose me over her? “Say I do cut this off. What does that mean for us? Me and you?” It's no secret that it's not just I who benefits from this arrangement. Demi and I barely lift a finger these days. The strife of living paycheck to paycheck has been wiped away thanks to the head of our table.

“I don't know…I’ve been meaning to bring that up. Like—what if he wakes up next week and decides it done and over with? That he wants to be a family man for real? I know we’ve been stacking the money we make from work and the hospital—but that’s chump change. We’d have to downgrade. Like a lot. Are we really ready for that?”

“Can we talk about this when I get back?” The high from the events of last night are slowly being seized by conceptions of the days to come. 

Too often I find myself wishing I can just stay in his world, and my world be the distant secret. But the thought leaves as quickly as it comes. I shouldn’t want that. I shouldn’t want this set up. Sneaking in and out of cities, never seeing him in the light of day and fitting in calls from a condominium’s front desk phone. The whole thing is like period sex. In the dark it feels good. Once you turn the lights on to get a clearer look at the mess you’ve made—my god.

“Okay—I’ll leave it alone. The moment. We’re still in it. Worry about that shit another time.”

“Right. Well, I guess if you need me you can call this number back. Just ask for me. I’ll give the girl at the desk my name.”

“Okay. See you when you get back. I love you. Be safe.”

“I love you too.”

He returns earlier than he did the night before. So early, I was taking my routinely nap so I’d have enough energy to tend to him when he comes. I’m woken up by the softest kisses mixed with the coarseness of his facial hair. On my back en route to my ass. I’m wiping the drool from my mouth and lifting my hips for him to slide my panties down. The appetizer to yet another long and restless night. 

Finally, we make it to my favorite part.

“Quizlot and all that other shit—we didn’t have none of that when I was in school.”

“Quizlet,” I correct. Tracing the lines of the intricate artwork on his chest piece where my chin is resting. 

“Yeah—that. I saw my daughter using that stuff and I couldn’t believe it. I’m like— you’re only in high school. It’s only gonna get harder from here on out.”

“Oh my god. What did y'all do if y'all didn’t study?” I ride over the mention of his daughter like a bad pothole.

“That depends. Now, if it was a big lecture hall?” He waves his large hand in the air. “Just send somebody in to take the test for you. I was a football player— I could do things like that.” He nods in contempt with a toothy grin, pulling an eye roll from me. Fucking athletes. “Or just go in and say a prayer. Hopefully my coach could work something out. Most of the times I really just had to study. Even for the electives I didn’t give a shit about.”

“Wow. You’re like a fossil.” His sour face has my stomach aching with laughter.

“I’m the finest fossil you ever seen, babygirl.”

"I won't argue with you on that.”

“Just stay the course,” he continues with his original point. Taking me by surprise, he brought up graduation. I guess he does pay attention. “Stay focused. Work hard. I’m telling you, it’ll pay off. What’s next? Medical school?” I hum and nod. “Survival of the fittest, I hear.”

“That’s what they say. When I do my residency, that’s when they say I’ll know for sure if I really wanna be a doctor. That’s the real test. No more books. It's time for the real stuff.”

“Mm. You can handle all that—cutting people open and stuff?”

“Well, I wouldn’t do that. The surgeon would. But I’m pretty sure I won’t make it out of med school without cutting some stuff.”

The noise of Miami, cars blasting music as they ride by, horns honking—fill the room distantly. I collect his chin hair between my index and middle finger, watching him. He really is beautiful from any angle.

He clears his throat. “Did you always want to go into oncology?”

His inquiry catches me off guard. My hand releases him as he angles his head to look down at me. 

“Um—no actually. I wanted to be a make up artist like my mom. When I was like twelve or something like that.” I shake my head laughing. “She didn’t have the heart to tell me I was shit.” He flashes a smile. That thumb running familiar circles on my bare hip under the covers. “And then—” My voice snags on apprehension. It's been years since I’ve talked about this. It's one of those things you bury inside. A block hidden all the way in the middle of a Jenga tower, that only if you’re skilled and worthy, I’d let you pull out of me. A story I choose not to tell to anyone who wasn’t there to live it with me.

“My uh—my dad was diagnosed with brain cancer. I was like fourteen when they sat me and my brother down to tell us. It was only stage two, but at that age—that didn’t mean very much to me. All I heard was that my dad’s brain was killing him.” He’s still as a statue. Gaze on me unwavering. “He’s good now, but we had a rough couple of years before he got to that point. My whole family fell apart. They got divorced. My brother left for school. It just…didn’t feel good.”

“But to answer your question—I wanted to get into oncology because I thought, yeah my dad made it, but he was lucky. Might’ve lost some other things.” I shrug carelessly even though it haunts me and has shaped eighty five percent of the attitude I’ve morphed towards life. “But he made it out with his life. Some other people aren’t so lucky. So—I thought I wanted to be one of the ones to change that. And I know I’m just one person and there’s been thousands of doctors before me. I probably won’t make much of a difference. I don't know.” I shrug again.

It's too quiet. The weight of his stare is heavy regardless of the fact that I can’t see it. I’m not looking at him so I can't gauge his thoughts. He’s almost impossible to read anyway. I should’ve just shut the fuck up. Made up some bullshit story about wanting to save strangers. My roots are way too deep for the shallowness of whatever we are to one another. 

“That’s beautiful,” he expresses in an octave as soft as the sheets we lay in. Bringing my heart rate back down to normal with the comfort and reassurance of his words. "So beautiful," he repeats. Pools of brown jumping around my whole face in a matter of seconds. His big thumb running over my cheek. A part of me, tangling in what he means to refer to as beautiful. Me or the confession?

Before I can think too deeply, his lips are on mine. Soft and deliberate. Not like all the other times. No, this kiss is a little different. It might be the shots we took earlier. Or just the fuzziness that comes with staying up at the wee hours back to back like this. I don't know and I don’t really care in this moment. All I can seem to care for is the way his tongue glides over mine, igniting tiny fires all over me. The way his rough hand grips my chin to keep me in place. The look in his eyes—a look I’ve never seen before on him as he pulls away. And finally, the way he pulls me closer up under him before we close our eyes and choose our dreams over reality. 

Sunday, May 5, 2024

“Uhn…Uhn…Eh…Uhn.”

Grunts and pants. Thats what pulls me from my slumber. I think I might be dreaming still. But the more cognizant I become, the louder they grow. My eyes shoot open. Big mistake. The shots taken the night before dig their nails into my head as I groggily lift up. “Mmm.” I groan in pain. 

I’m floored as my attention is drawn to the source of all the ruckus. All man—big, burly and covered in a sheen of sweat—he pushes himself up and off the floor repeatedly. The digital clock beside me reads 11:03 A.M.

What the hell is he still doing here?

Mesmerizing. Watching his large frame break a sweat. Veins pumping. The muscles in his back prancing while the cuts in his arms pump to their full capacity. Hair hanging loosely around his broad shoulders. The rhythm of his deep pants waking up other parts of me before my brain can catch up. 

I’m stuck in place, refusing to move on the bed even as he rises from the floor to his full height. It's evident that we shock each other.

“…Good morning.” He speaks first. 

His attentive gaze, a reminder that it is in fact morning and we sit in the light of day. I grow self-conscious with every second that passes, realizing what that must look like on me after a full night of drinking and fucking like a wild animal. I run a hand through my curls which are most likely wilder and out of place from air drying. I pull the sheet up tighter avoiding his stare. 

“Morning.” I clear my throat.

My eyes follow his every movement as he retreats and returns with a water bottle to his mouth. Basketball shorts hanging low around his waist. He moves in my direction and holds the half empty water bottle out for me.

 I look at it then him, and back at it again. “Thank you.” 

He’s gone right after passing it to me. The shower runs from the conjoined bathroom. “You getting in here?” 

We don’t have sex. He barely touches me. Just washes himself. We do a funny routine of looking and then looking away once we realize the other is looking too. It's a weird kind of intimacy. Void of any sexual guise. Just two people—comfortable enough in each other’s presence, in each other’s nakedness—showering together.

It's about that time. I’m zipping my carry on after gathering the last of the strays spread across his condo inside. I peak over where he’s sitting in the chaise lounge chair by the balcony door, fiddling with something in his hands. It's too small for me to see.

The room is decorated with silence. Not an awkward one. It's not comforting either. It's that same silence when everyone is packing the last night on vacation. All the memories from the days before spent drinking, partying and relaxing are on replay in your mind. All the things back at home waiting for you, flood your mind shortly after. Every one is sad to leave, but no one really says it because it obvious.

My mind drifts to the last time I saw him before this weekend. Wrestle-mania. 

I don't know what comes over me. Standing by the bed just a few feet away from him—I blurt out the only words that I can think of.

“You’re still my champion…”

Elbows resting on this knees he averts his gaze my way. Features twisting at first from my sudden outburst, but they soften after a beat.

He holds a big fist out. I don’t even fight the lazy smile that tugs at the corners of my mouth. The coolest motherfucker in and outside of the ring.

I take the necessary steps toward him to connect my minute fist to his larger one. He turns his hand so his palm is face up to reveal what I saw him messing with earlier. A dainty silver bracelet, adorned with charms that practically wink at me when the vibrant lights we sit under touch it for just a second.

Raising my brows—he mirrors my expression,  holding his hand out further, initiating me to take it. Surely, not.

The stones dancing on the hanging “A” charm are cold under my fingertips. Another charm—a graduation cap—shines even brighter. Too bright to be anything other than diamonds. “I left your name downstairs.”

“For what?” I question, still in awe of the fine piece of jewelry as I clasp it on.

“Whenever you’re in the city, you’ll have a place to stay.” He explains holding out the key fob I used earlier to return to the room. 

Twirling the key in between my fingers, I scan my brain for a reason not to accept the grand gesture, but I come up short. “Try not to have too much fun without me.” He adds, smirking. 

“I can bring people?”

“Long as you follow the NDA, I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you, Joe.”

I’ve grown immune to receiving hand outs from him. But, this time feels different. The bracelet has meaning. The “A” charm and graduation cap—maximizing a pivotal time stamp—makes it personal. It's not just a bag he thinks I’ll like. Not just a lingerie set with the intentions of taking it off. No—this is different. This is special. 

Saturday, May 11, 2025

I think about that last day spent with him all week. On the entire jet ride back to New York. The car ride back to my own condo. It's the last thing on my mind before I go to sleep every night. I can’t get that look he gave me as we laid in the bed, out of my head. It replays like a broken record.

Yet and still, it's not enough to ease the dilemma that was waiting for me back home.

The car thing is getting old… show me what’s new

Thumbs doing a little dance over the lit screen, I reread the same message for the twentieth time. 

I’ve decided to give Jaire a chance. After I walk across that stage in a week, I’d be entering into a whole new chapter—a whole new space. A new Alana. Which means I have to make room for new things to fit. Only thing is, starting a chapter with Jaire and it actually meaning something, would require me to end the one with him—Joe. I must be insane. Just delusional. There is no chapter. There is no anything. It’s just an excerpt. 

All we do is fuck, drink and sleep. He upgrades my life whatever way he sees fit. Not out of the kindness of his heart, but to make this arrangement more feasible. He doesn’t care about Alana. He doesn’t see me. He just sees a girl that looks at him like the star he is, so she’s willing to go the extra mile to stay in space with him. Well, not anymore. 

That night I keep replaying is a figment of my wild imagination. Just a blimp in his, that’s long forgotten. Fleeting. My life can’t stop for him. Surely, his doesn’t stop for me. I’m twenty-two. My whole life ahead of me. I should be getting flown out to Miami to see Jaire. Partying the whole weekend, in someone’s section not even dreaming of touching my own wallet. Throwing back shots and acting bad. Handing out my number like candy on Halloween. Not a care in the world. Doing what twenty-two year olds do. Reaping the benefits of youth while I still can. Not hiding out in hotel rooms, waiting for a man twice my age, grey in the beard—to come fuck me and dip in the morning before I even open my eyes and stretch. But damn—I’m going to wake up in cold sweats after dreaming about running my fingers through that beard while he sleeps. And damn—I am going to severely miss that dick like a man misses his family when he has to serve time. 

Just as I get a rush of confidence to press send, Demi’s call delays me. 

“Yeah?” I answer. 

“You gotta come back to the condo. Now.” My fight or flight immediately kicks in. Demi didn’t come into the hospital today because she didn’t feel well. God, what the hell is wrong?

“—Why? What’s going on?” I rise up from the nurse’s station briskly, making my way to get my stuff in the locker.

“Something’s…here for you.”

“Huh?” I stop jogging. 

“Just get here. You only have two hours left. Tell Miss Tonia you’ll make it up tomorrow.” Click.

Upon arrival to my condominium, I’m immediately bewildered at the scene unfolding through the window from the backseat of the Uber.

“Thank you,” I tell the older man before hopping out, but not before inspecting the matte black Mercedes G Wagon parked right out front. A pink ribbon plants itself on the hood. Someone is definitely loved. Probably the girl that lives across from us. I think her boyfriend is an actor or some shit like that. 

On the sidewalk, Demi, Anthony and a man I’ve never seen before meet me. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you Alana Floyd?” The man speaks first. I look past him before responding. Demi looks like she’s seen a ghost and Anthony looks like he might jump out of his own flawless skin.

“I am,” I finally answer.

“Do you mind showing me some ID?”

A chuckle escapes me. A product of discomfort and pure fucking confusion. When I see that he’s still waiting, I fish for my ID in the LV Neverfull hanging on my shoulder. He takes it. I look behind me. Every pedestrian walking by, gawks at the truck just as I did when I pulled up. 

“Here you go.” My head snaps back. He holds a clip board out. My ID and a pen sit on it. “Just need the signature at the bottom. Proof you received the delivery.”

“Delivery?” One brow shoots up.

“The truck ma’am.”

On cue, Anthony pops like a can of Pillsbury biscuits. “Joe!” He waves a card in the air, beaming down at me. “Aha! So that’s his name!”

Shaking her head, Demi snatches the card, offering it to me. I take it, not missing the smirk that tugs at her full lips.

Happy belated and congratulations.                    

                        — Your Champion, Joe

The card and everything else in my hand slips—hitting the pavement silently. The blood in my veins run cold in the heat of May. 

Someone must’ve hit the trunk button. And out falls the many pink roses that were stuck inside. They’re everywhere. Spilling from the truck. Onto the street. The sidewalk. Mimicking on the outside, exactly how whatever chakra is trapped in my heart is now overflowing and spilling out. 

This. This is special. 

A/N // in honor of Papa returning to work, i busted my ass tryna get this out lol. i wish i could post the warnings at the end lol they’re literally spoilers!

- any thoughts about Alana? any changes you noticed in her or her relationships with the other characters?

- any thoughts on the appointment Lana had to make?

- i know i didn’t reveal much about Jaire’s character, but that was on purpose. still, any thoughts about him?

- any thoughts on how Lana views what’s going on between her and Joe? do we think he sees it the same way she describes in her head?

- the graduation/birthday gifts? access to the condo??

- like her brother said, is Lana leading with her heart or her head?

- and just cause i’m nosy… trim, hairy or bald? lol

i would really love feedback. as always, if you read it or even just a portion, i am forever grateful and appreciative.

part 4 Desires is already in the works. depending on how y'all react to this, y'all might just hate me for some of the things i'm about to do lol

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[distort-opia]

There's a fascinating aspect of Ellen's character that I've seen some people touch on before, but now that it got into my head I need to go through to it too-- her nature not being of human kind. It's actually one of the very first things Orlok himself says: that Ellen is not human, and he reasserts it later. But then what is she?

"Almost a sylph," Knock says of Ellen. "His little changeling girl," Ellen says her father had described her as, when she wandered off into the forest as a child. "You mustn't be caught up in her fairy ways," Harding admonishes Anna. Hell, in the 2016 script, when the Hardings accompany Ellen on her walk along the sea shore, she and the children dance in a circle while Ellen cries out "round and round the fairy ring". Furthermore, there's more than one explicit reference to Ellen loving the sea in the scripts. Prior to the sea shore walk, Ellen fervently asks Anna to go there, because "it calms her". Later on, Anna herself says that "she loves the sea so". While this didn't make it to the movie in such direct terms, we still see Ellen looking out windows and yearning, again and again... visiting the sea twice, having a seizure in the water itself. "Look at the sky! Look at the sea! Does it never call to you? Urge you?" she cries to Anna.

It's clearly an intentional implication on Eggers' part: that Ellen is some kind of fairy-like nature elemental. The term sylph originates from the works of Paracelsus, and described as a female air spirit, though over time water has been conflated with it too. Changeling also refers to a child kidnapped by supernatural beings (interestingly birthed by the Devil or a water spirit among others, in German mythology) and replaced with... something else. And we could leave it at that-- Ellen is not entirely human. She was born with witchy and fae-like characteristics, an attraction to the wind and the sea.

When she called out in the dark, it's possible Orlok answered also because he recognized this within her. But. There is a type of female nature spirit in Romanian folklore (which ultimately pervades the mythology of Nosferatu) that has specific parallels and a particular relationship to the Solomonar, the kind of sorcerer/supernatural creature Orlok was in life. It feeds into the overarching theme of destiny and fate so beautifully. I find it all very interesting, but I got pretty long already, so I'll put the rest under the cut.

Female nature spirits can be found all over the place in European folklore, and Romania is no different. They can have many names, though the most popular one is probably iele, a name that is literally derived from the female plural "ele". Iele are fae-like feminine spirits associated with the winds and the sky, often seducing and luring men away. What attracted my attention though, is the variation/subtype of vântoase (root word vânt = wind) or the associated vâlvă. In some accounts [1], this supernatural creature is a marked human who was born with the capacity for their spirit to leave their body at night and then go towards the sky, where they wrestle with other vâlve or balauri (which are a Romanian mythical equivalent of dragons, alongside zmei). Their fights are said to be what cause storms, and rains, and other catastrophe-related weather events. When put in contrast with Ellen, the similarities are obvious... especially when it comes to her affinity for nature and her spirit "wandering off". It also must be emphasized that these spirits are not inherently evil: they can do both good and bad, bring luck or misfortune, aligning with Ellen saying that "her spirit cannot be as evil as his [Orlok's]" and that all her life she has "simply heeded her own nature".

But the thing is... a marked human born with powers is also what a Solomonar is: children able to control the weather, ride balauri or zmei, control and turn into different animals-- who are then recruited by the Devil into the school of Șolomanță/Scholomance. Although despite this demonic current association, initially Solomonari were also more of a neutral figure in Romanian folklore. They are theorized, among other hypotheses, to be a later version of Geto-Dacian ktistai, who were selected from priests or kings (Orlok is a count, a prince or voivode) and might've worshipped Zamolxe, a Geto-Dacian God associated with the sky as well as immortality (Ancient Dacian is what Orlok speaks; Zamolxe is written within Orlok's heptagram sigil; on his coat of arms, sigil and coffin there's Dacian wolves as well as balauri-- a serpent-like creature with the head of a wolf which is on the Dacian flag). Some Solomonari were believed to be protecting villages from calamity, and influenced the weather in order to grow crops more easily. But of course, when Christianity spread in the region, things from Pagan times began to be associated with the Devil, hence why the Christian Orthodox Abbess we see in the Nosferatu movie calls Orlok a "black enchanter". More importantly for us though, the Solomonar was also said to leave their body at night in a trance, riding up into the sky to fight the weather spirits. Orlok's Shadow, that we hear so much about, is an integral part of a Solomonar's powers: the ability to project one's spirit away from their body. Them riding balauri is a metaphor for them taming winds, summoning vântoase.

So. Vâlvă, vântoasă, ială and Solomonar share quite a lot of characteristics, don't they? A source I found made the comparison directly, which is what set me on this path [1]. Humans born with powers-- one typically male, one female. But the male one is schooled and part of a cult or hierarchy, taking control of the nature element, while the vâlvă/vântoasă/ială is the nature element.

Yet the expected dynamic between summoner and summoned is so deliciously subverted with Ellen and Orlok! Orlok definitely recognized someone of his own nature in Ellen. Someone born with magic, essentially. Someone not of human kind. But Ellen's power is something Orlok's kind traditionally controls. A Solomonar tames and summons the winds (vântoasele)... and don't we see Orlok's spirit call to Ellen more than once? Orlok asserts his influence through the lilac-scented lock of hair, latching onto Ellen through it. He trespasses in Ellen's dreams, brings her spirit to him in the Castle when he feeds on Thomas, and we see her naked and on top of Thomas too, eerie and with blood spilling out of her mouth (very female-spirit-who-preys-upon-men coded, which is even more directly spelled out later in the scene where Ellen provokes Thomas into having sex with her). All along, we see Ellen overcome by seizures and trances, writhing under Orlok's Shadow. This is the power he has over her.

Hah. But Orlok is not just a Solomonar, Ellen is not just a spirit of the wind, and here's where I think another fascinating layer comes in. In the movie, ultimately, Orlok is a strigoi. The strigoi is a Romanian folk creature that can be vampiric, though that's not always what it does. It's a troubled spirit that rises from the grave to prey upon the living (especially their loved ones, to whom they return to first), by eating/killing their animals, poisoning their crops, drinking their blood and creating all manner of disaster. One can become a strigoi in many ways, including a life of sin, suicide, being cursed by a witch, etc. But importantly, there's also two types of strigoi-- the alive strigoi, and the dead strigoi [2]. The alive type is a sorcerer who in life already slips into these evil behaviors with intent, while the dead type rises from the grave and mindlessly feeds upon their loved ones and their village (the revenant we see killed by the Romani vampire hunter in the film). Orlok is a mix of things that make him unique, much like how Dracula was described as atypical multiple times in Bram Stoker's novel. He was a sorcerer and a Solomonar in life (an alive strigoi, something a source from the 19th century asserted-- that Solomonari were strigoi), who was then risen from the grave by a witch (becoming a dead strigoi). As a result, he has retained all his mental faculties and his magical powers.

But the enchantress who calls upon Orlok as a strigoi is partly an air elemental. She caused him to rise from the grave, and that is how she asserts her power over him. Yet she's of the air, of the wind, of the sea... all the things a Solomonar is a master of! So I think this is a contributing factor to the Covenant Orlok makes with Ellen. When they first meet there is not only recognition of someone similar to himself ("You... You..."), but also of a specific connection between what the two of them are. He immediately seeks a Covenant with Ellen, and then when she breaks it, comes after her in person. When they first talk and Ellen rejects him, he says "You will submit."

As Eggers pointed out too, there is a huge need for possession on Orlok's side. It's left ambiguous if he wants to own her or destroy her or if he loves her... To me, this added aspect illuminates a big part of why Orlok also resents Ellen ("You are my affliction"). It isn't just that a woman has him in her thrall, a man and a Lord who wielded great power in life-- but also that she is air, a vântoasă, the element of his dominion. It's so delicious how there's a bidirectional supernatural element between them... Orlok may feel he is owed possession of Ellen, with the deeper layer of the male sorcerer taming the unknowable chaotic female elemental. But Orlok is a strigoi risen from the grave by Ellen as an enchantress, hence she is owed possession of him as her summoned Creature. So there's two tethers between them, each connected to a different aspect of their natures; Orlok is holding one end, Ellen is holding the other. (To be honest, my headcanon is that when we see Ellen levitate, that's not Orlok, it's her air-related power. She levitates upwards in the very first scene of the film right as Orlok says she isn't human, as if it's a manifestation of that. When Orlok feeds on Thomas and she is there in spirit, we see them levitate; except it's Ellen we see fall down to the ground, while Orlok and Thomas are shown to have always been on the ground. And in every scene with Orlok in person, it could be that she gets on her tiptoes progressively to get closer and closer to his face; but it also looks as if she's floating upwards.)

This ended up a way too long honest-to-God essay, but I just adore all the complexities of this movie. You can tell how much Eggers researched, how many details and references he wove into the story, all meant to connect but kept ambigous enough that multiple theories are possible. While the association between Solomonar and strigoi and vampire was something Stoker did too, that Murnau did too, none of them thought to take it as far as creating a connection to Ellen steeped also in folklore. The vampire has a supernatural hold over his bride, but now so does she. The Enchantress summons the undead Strigoi, the Solomonar summons the Vântoasă. How much more fated can you get?

I'm supplying two more in-depth sources I used below as downloadable pdfs, but fair warning, they're in Romanian:

[1] Mituri pluviale românești în context universal, Silvia Ciubotaru

[2] Șapte Eseuri Despre Strigoi, Marineasa, 1998

[yaut-jaknowit]

Guess who’s back again💪

Anyways, I had a random ass idea of a Yautja having sex with his mate for the first time and realising the reader has a Price Albert piercing (dick piercing)😭

Expect the Unexpected

Pairing: Celtic (Male Yautja) x M!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, dick piercing, anal, P v A, knotting, first time, slightly noncon (Reader doesn't know that Yautjas have knots, if that counts as noncon?), fluffy/rough sex, light aftercare, fluff.

Word Count: 2016

Summary: This is the first time the two of you decided to have sex. It's nerve racking, a little at least. What Celtic doesn't know and latter finds out is the Price Albert piercing. He's never seen one like before and the fact you have metal sticking from your genital's? But when you mention it enhances your pleasure, sign him up.

Author Note: Bro, that shit looks like it fucking hurts just on the daily. I decided to look it up… owww. Why would anyone get that?! Same with the clit peircings? No judgement, at all. All I can think of is the pain.

P.s. Asks are open again! Sorry, it's taken me so long.

Masterlist

Ao3

Rough, textured palms explored the expanse of your bare chest to needy Yautja before you. A heady purr vibrated his broad torso. His hands grasped at your ribcage, claws feathering along your skin without breaking the barrier. You keened quietly and shuttered in the young Yautja’s hold. Celtic was careful, mindful of your size and strength difference. A difference that drove him crazy.

He’s seen your torso exposed to him countless times before, a familiar sight but more than welcomed to him. Celtic chuffed and leaned down to run his tongue over a pebbled nipple. The taste of you on his tongue had him throbbing deep within his sheath. But, he withheld the last push to unsheathe his cock prematurely.

As the Yautja teased your taunt, sensitive skin, his massive hands drifted down to the waist band of your shorts. His thumbs hooked underneath the hem before slowly pulling them down. He wanted you to have the opportunity to stop him if you didn’t want this. You had initiated it first with him after months of being together.

With no resistance from your end, he let the clothing pool around your ankles with a purr. Celtic focus purely on your chest with his tongue, eyes finding yours through the haze that filled them. Mindlessly, he cupped your hips, thumbs circling along your hipbones.

Celtic blindly reached between his mate’s legs and found the hardened length of you. You tensed and groaned lowly, head thrown back. “How’s that feel?” he rumbled lowly in the thickening air.

“G-good,” you sputtered and reached out. Your hands touched at his chest for stabilization. The grip on your hip was gone only to appear upon one of your hands. It redirected it to grasp onto one of his tresses.

“Here, here. Grab gently, pull if you wanna,” Celtic clarified and guided you to perform to the right motion. He growled and replaced his grip back onto your hip. The tips of his claws digging into the soft flesh of you waist.

You followed his instructions to a quivering T. The rubber a familiar texture under your fingertips. It was soft, a comforting feeling. You jerked your hips up and drove your cock into his hand more. The coarseness of his scales gave an amazing feeling with each drag and push through Celtic’s hand. A whine sounding from your nostrils.

When Celtic’s hand dragged to the head of your cock, your back arched into him. Celtic stopped, hold almost tightening in reaction.

Warm metal met his palm. He pulled away from your chest and eyed down to where his hand was. This was the first time he’s seen your dick. His brows furrowed, thumb coming up to rub at the metal piece that seemed lodged into the tip of your cock. You gasped and bite at your bottom lip. “Celtic, do-do that again,” you begged and thrusted your hips up to gain more friction.

Celtic wanted to continue after seeing such a lustful reaction from you but the object consumed his attention. “What is this?” he voiced his concerns and glanced up to find your gaze.

Through the haze of your need, you blinked and follow his gaze. It took a moment for you to find your voice. “It’s… it’s a piercing. Meant to enhance pleasure,” you explained, hating the fact he interrupted for a lesson to be learned. You understood the culture differences but fuck, you were painfully throbbing in his hand while he gawked at your piercing.

“Please, Celtic… I can’t take anymore teasing,” you pleaded with a whine and tightening your hold on his tress. You felt the way his body clenched under your hands. A string pulled taunt and ready to be loosened.

Yet, the Yautja wasn’t done. “You said it enhanced pleasure?” he reprised for you, fire burst to life in his eyes. His thumb continuously, slowly playing with the small metal ball poking out from the tip. You mewled again, nails digging into his thick flesh.

All you could give the Yautja was a low ‘yeah’ that went with an exhale. Celtic chuckled and looked at with a cheeky smirk. But, the male didn’t further along his actions. Instead, he hooked his hands on the back of your thighs and scooped you up from the ground. He carried you to his mediocre bed and laid you down.

From a long discussion and proper communication, a bottle of lube sat off to the side. Without any hesitation, Celtic pulled at the knot keeping his shorts on. They fell to his ankles. He stepped out of them before kneeling on the bed.

The bottle of lube was used to coat his length of a thick layer. Any excess was spread around your tight, puckered hole. Your muscles clenched in reaction, body jolting. Celtic started to purr while his thumb teased you. His other hand cupped the back of your knee and pressed it to your chest.

Enough lube was applied and Celtic lined himself up. The pointed head resting against your entrance but the Yautja paused. His blazing eyes picked up to find yours, a silent question floating between the two of you. You smiled and nodded then clutched at the sheets. Steady breaths filling your lung as you steadied your heart for the moment you’ve practiced for last month.

At the first push, you couldn’t help but tense up as your reaction knowing it was wrong. The hand on the underside of your knee began to pet the softer side of your thigh. “Easy, ease up, little ooman. It’ll be alright,” Celtic reassured with a comforting expression.

You took a deep breath through your nostrils then pushed it out your mouth. Once you grew at ease, Celtic continued until the pointed head popped in.

The two of you moaned in succession. You tilted your head back while gripping onto the sheets tighter. The head itself was larger than anything you’ve taken before. You couldn’t help the high pitched whine.

Celtic kept pushing until he met with resistance. Then, he just pulled back until the tip before thrusting back in, a growing with each drive of his thick hips.

When his hips finally met your ass cheeks, the Yautja stopped and slouched over you. Both of his massive hands now held the back of your knees, forcing them to your chest. A position that left you with nothing but to receive whatever the Yautja was willing to give.

A growl sounded from the back of his throat, cock throbbing in your gummy walls. The tight, strong muscles of your puckered hole fluttered around the bass of his dick. He snarled against, hands gripping on tighter in the light of the moment. “I need to move,” he stated rather than a question. You answered with rapid nods of your head, letting Celtic had free range of your body.

The drawback was smooth, fluent, maybe even soft. Celtic drove his hips forward harshly and striking a spot deep in your hole that had you seeing stars. Your cock twitched and leaked precum over your stomach. You cried out and whipped your head back. And that only the start of the brutal pace. You knew it would only take one word for him to stop and that word was locked deep in your throat. You wanted this. Badly.

The stretch, the burn melted into pleasure, filling your veins and melding into your very DNA. His cock reached places that you didn’t even know existed.

Claws dug into the fragile skin of your legs, threatening to break if only a faction more of pressure was added. The pain welcomed while it morphed with the ecstasy freely flowing through you. Your eyes focused through the haze to find the alien face of your lover as he drilled into you. His dick bullied into a hole not designed to take his size. But you made it work.

The small nubs that lined the sides of his neon green cock nearly caught on your ring muscles each drag and push of his hips. The texture had your eyes rolling back into your head.

Celtic released one of his holds on your leg, letting it fall to hook onto his side. That limb was careful to embrace your aching, needy cock and began the opposite brutal pace of his own hips. Each time his hand neared the head, he used his thumb to toe with the metal ball that capped the tip of the piercing. Celtic relished in the feel of your hole clenching.

Stars blazed to life in your vision, blinding you momentarily. The string in the pit of your stomach snapped. You choked on a gasp, mouth dropped down in a silent scream. Your back trying to arch off of the bed but the pressure Celtic had on you refused to relent.

Said Yautja somehow quickened his speed and gave four more rough jerks of his hips. They settled against the swell of your cheeks, flattened against one another. A loud snarled echoed back to the two of you in the small chamber.

You felt a sudden pressure grow just on the inside of your ass and squirmed at the feeling. Through the haze of your post bliss mind, you whined and looked up at Celtic in question. Your pupils were blown wide, consuming almost all the color they held.

He slouched heavily over you, panting and mandibles hanging loose. A tight grip stayed fisted around your softening and twitching cock. His other hand kept your leg pinned, forcing you to stay under him.

“Celtic,” you rasped out, your stretched hole constricting for a moment. Mentioned Yautja groaned, hips jolting forward. Then, he picked up his head and looked upon your blissed out expression. But, as the hunter he was, he found the uncertainty between the lines.

A short hum sounded from him. You swallowed. “Can you… can you pull out? Something feel weird,” you requested within reason. The Yautja tensed and was ready to smack himself silly at the same slip up.

“I can’t,” he answered and bowed his head, partially in shame. Though similar in build and shape, humans and Yautjas had their difference, even to sexual anatomy. You froze, brows furrowing. You trusted him, a lot but this was making you anxious and worry.

“What do you mean ‘you can’t’?” The words were barely above a whisper.

He sighed and sat up, hips slightly pulling away from your body. The strange, large intrusion pulled at your entrance, painfully. You wiggled and dug your free heel into his back. “Stop, stop! Fuck… what is that?”

“My knot.” Your eyes shot wide. Knot. Your soft cock twitched, leaking precum again on your dirtied chest. “It’s for breeding. I’m sorry, I forgot to mention it to you earlier.”

“You guys have a knot?” Celtic nodded shortly. “Fuck me… That’s, it’s. I’m not mad. Far from it but fuck, that,” you trailed off and closed your eyes. “Would’ve loved a heads up but I don’t mind. But, um, how long until you can pull out?”

Relief filled the young blood’s body as he relaxed and leaned down, arms now placed on either side of your head. Every movement was selected and executed carefully to ensure the least amount of discomfort. “Depends. Either a few minutes or a couple of hours. And with the way you’re incredibly tight, nearly locking me in yourself, I’d say it’s on the farther range.”

“But, little mate, don’t fret. I’ve got water and fruit if you got hungry.” He lowered himself onto his elbows. You threw your arms around his neck and drew him lower to you. A loving kiss was placed on each of his upper mandibles.

“Thank you.” He huffed.

“No thanks are needed. All I need is you,” he growled into your ear. Despite knowing this position will kill his shoulders and the small of his back, Celtic stayed exactly there for your comfort. A purr starting deep in his chest as the two of you waited for his knot to soften up enough to pull free.

[yesloulou]

the opposite (ie charles's paddock presence to daniel) being a imo very undervalued part of the story

Could you expand on this please? 🖤

daniel talked about this a couple of times but this is from his twitter in 2020:

jules and daniel had been friends since 2007. they became close after meeting in junior series in italy. jules was one of the first friends daniel made after leaving australia by himself to try and make it in europe. and even though jules was a month younger, daniel always talks about how all the young drivers, himself included, looked up to jules and already treated him as an f1 driver. jules' passing had a huge impact on daniel. he only talked about it in public a handful of times but in his words, it affected him "more than I ever would have thought".

on the other hand. besides everyone saying charles has the looks, personality, humility, mannerisms, and even driving styles just like jules (who was charles' godfather), charles followed jules' footsteps almost exactly. jules was who ferrari had in mind to replace kimi. supposedly their plan was for jules to race for sauber the following season. both of which charles was able to follow through after jules' passing.

there's not a lot else on this but we do know daniel sees jules in charles and charles thinks of being compared to jules 'the best compliment i could get'. i think (hope) they both find consolation in this knowledge ❤️

(daniel writing "forever in my heart #17" on his hat at the 2015 hungarian gp. later he dedicated his 2016 malaysian gp victory to jules.)

[petermorwood]

Microwave Sponge Cake (eventually)

Long ago, @dduane and I had a Whirlpool combi microwave - micro, grill, fan oven - and It Was Great, big enough to use as a proper oven when what needed cooked in a proper oven was small enough that powering up the big proper oven in the cooker was a bit much.

Still with me...?

IIRC it was one of those Christmas presents where Mum, ever-practical, told us; "get yourselves something really useful but not too expensive (I did say practical!) and I'll go halves."

In 2016, after something like 15 years of pretty-well daily use for one thing and another, the old thing expired by stages, micro first, grill second, oven last - it made great bread up until the end - and went to recycling heaven.

*****

We couldn't find a one-for-one replacement (we needed a free-standing counter-top appliance, everyone was selling built-in), so until once was available (optimism) we bought an ordinary microwave.

NB, this and its successors were only used for ordinary microwave things like reheating, defrosting and dealing with freeze-cook stuff. They got nothing like the amount of use of the old combi, mostly because of being incapable of doing a lot of it. As things turned out, this didn't help much.

About eighteen months later, we had to buy another. If a microwave's enamel interior develops a crack (to this day I don't know how), moisture gets in, rust begins and the enamel pulls off the bare metal. That's when you get "sparking".

This demo is deliberate; believe me, when it's unexpected it's even worse.

A private welder show or lightning storm at the end of the kitchen counter when all you want is a hot cuppa is distinctly unsettling. Also, it's only going to get worse, and we could imagine - boy, could we - what "Much Worse" might look like.

To the recycle dump!

(NB, micros with stainless steel interiors don't seem to do this, probably because they're already tuned to deal with the bare metal.)

The replacement, another ordinary micro, Just Up And Died after eighteen months and, guess what, the quote for a check-up and replacements-if-required was as much as the price of a new one.

(Inkjet printers seem to operate on this principal too.)

To the recycle dump again!

We got a third new one (which BTW is still running just fine, because it's been downgraded to Extra, read on), totalled up what we'd spent on ordinary microwaves, said a few well-chosen words about planned obsolescence and the "Vimes 'Boots' Theory of Economic Inequality" and got ourselves a pre-pay credit card whose top-ups were dedicated to Get A Combi Again.

We didn't bother with GACA baseball caps.

That would have been silly.

I don't know if these cards exist in the USA; we treat them as the modern version of a piggy-bank...

...except that to get at the money you need two people acting in accord.

*****

And in 2021 we got one.

Okay, this next bit is going to read like an ad.

It isn't, because the appliance is discontinued. (Whirlpool FINALLY do something similar but not identical.) It's just enthusiastic users discovering there's even more to a gadget than expected.

*****

The New One even bigger than the old one, which had 28 litres capacity; the new one was 33 L (was .99 ft³, is now 1.16 ft³). In non-tech terms, wow, More Room To Cook In.

Reading the figures was no help (to me, anyway) in visualising what a maw the thing had, but opening the door did that and no mistake.

I said something to DD about "bite radius"...

...and she instantly responded with "anyway, we delivered the bomb".

We're a quotesy household. ;->

BTW, The New One does a very good job on seafood, too...

*****

Since we got this, almost exactly two years ago, we've used it from reheating tea to roasting meat to making chilli / goulash / stew / curry (you can run the oven / grill separately or add simultaneous zaps of microwave for much less cooking time) to baking bread.

One of the best things about it is that when the set cooking time is done, the appliance switches off automatically. No risk of busyness, absent-mindedness or out-in-the-garden-ness ending in clouds of smoke, ruined food and possibly even worse.

As for breadmaking, it has a dough-rise setting which is a Time Machine, reducing a two-hour "doubled in size" rise time to about 35-45 minutes...

It also has the most reliable Defrost Butter setting either of us have ever encountered, turning a rock-solid butter brick from the freezer into something spreadable while never - to date - doing the "never mind a butter-knife, give me a spoon or a paintbrush" thing.

*****

However...

There's also a "Chef Setting" where there are some simple recipes. Here's the pastry page.

Basically, you assemble and mix the ingredients, input the correct settings and the machine does all the timing, heating and cooking.

We'd never used this until yesterday, when DD said, "Let's try the sponge cake..."

Yes, this post was entitled "Microwave Sponge Cake (eventually)..." and here we are...

We did all the measuring correctly and checked it by pouring the mixture into a baking container while on the scale, wondering betimes why the recipe says 900g, the ingredients total 925 and what actually poured into the container reads 906... Weird. Really weird.

Then we put the container into the oven, entered the correct code, and let things do what they were going to do.

A little later we discovered something else about the recipe besides a weight anomaly.

It didn't mention the required size of the container. Or or how much the mixture was likely to rise.

It rose...

Let's say more than we expected...

The fluted ceramic container used for baking this one makes it look like a Vesuvius cupcake; not quite a pyroclastic flow, but a lot of flow regardless.

Once it cooled we separated the sponge-cake from the escaped sponge in the same way as sculptors work with wood or marble - "Chip away everything that doesn't look like a cake" - and found that despite its misshapen looks, it tasted pretty good.

So today DD made another, this time using a larger container.

...and this time it stayed put until removed using the cunning base-and-lifting-straps of baking parchment.

It's not the loftiest or best-risen sponge cake either of us have ever seen (a smaller-diameter higher-sided container would probably deal with that) BUT if there's something needing sponge cake in a hurry - this went from cupboard ingredients to done and cooling in less than 55 minutes - that treatment seems to fit the bill.

We're now wondering what other secrets lurk in the simple recipe pages; falafel, quiche Lorraine, stuffed peppers, even Flammkuchen* from scratch.

(*Though I have my own views about Flammkuchen, mostly involving a plane flight...)

And we'll be paying a lot more attention to what size of dish we put them in. :->

[mariacallous]

Tomorrow is Election Day, the last day of voting in this tumultuous 2024 campaign. What a long, strange trip it's been. Just a year ago, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis was challenging former president Trump for the GOP nomination by saying the word "woke" at least a hundred times a day while former South Carolina Gov. Nikki Haley competed for what's left of the "normie" Republican vote. A clown car full of grifters and kooks, meanwhile, used the primaries as an opportunity to suck up to Trump, whom everyone knew would inevitably be the nominee. After all, he'd been running non-stop since 2015.

Meanwhile on the Democratic side, incumbent president Joe Biden was an unchallenged shoo-in for the Democratic nomination. Most people felt he'd probably be able to replicate his 2020 win despite being unpopular due to a lingering hangover from the pandemic. After all, Trump had incited an insurrection and was facing lawsuits and felony trials in federal court and two different states stemming from a variety of alleged crimes. Surely, he couldn't possibly win after all that?

In the year since, Biden was revealed to be just too old to run for president again and was replaced by his younger vice president, Kamala Harris, who sparked a massive rise in enthusiasm among Democrats. Trump, meanwhile, has shown that his millions-strong cult of personality is fully intact and they are ecstatic about putting him back in the White House in spite of his many flaws (maybe even because of them.) We could find out the winner as soon as tomorrow night — or maybe not.

If it's as close as many of the pollsters say it is it could take a while before we know the final results. And it goes without saying that unless they call the race for him right away, Trump is planning to cry "fraud" and will do everything in his power to create the illusion that he won regardless of the count. So we can expect chaos. He's made that very clear.

The polls have more or less shown a tied race nationally and in the swing states for the past couple of months. Whether that's correct or not, we don't know. Because they missed some Trump voters in 2016 and 2020, everyone is on edge that the same thing has happened again despite the pollsters' going out of their way to correct the problem this time. With the polls this close that error could translate to a repeat of 2016 which has a whole lot of people losing sleep these last few weeks.

But something unexpected happened this past weekend that may have called those assumptions into question. The Des Moines Register poll, considered one of the best in all of politics due to pollster J. Ann Selzer's excellent track record, dropped its final poll of the cycle and it landed like a nuclear bomb. Iowa is a solid red state and the previous poll had Trump winning the state handily as expected. Now the numbers showed Harris beating Trump 47 - 44. Boom.

Iowa is one of the whitest states in the union, so race isn't a factor which makes it an interesting proxy for white voters in other swing states with similar populations (like Wisconsin, Michigan and Pennsylvania, for instance.) While Trump has maintained his base of men, evangelical voters, rural residents and non-college-educated voters, the poll found that women, specifically older and politically independent women, have swung in large numbers to Harris. And just as surprising, Harris is winning voters over 65, which has been a GOP base vote for decades. What in the world does this mean?

First, it's pretty clear that reproductive rights are driving this race for a whole lot of people. Iowa, in particular, is now living under a draconian six-week abortion ban that was upheld by its far-right Supreme Court last summer. Justice Samuel Alito wrote in his notorious opinion that "women are not without electoral or political power." It appears we may be about to find out the truth of that.

People expected that younger women would vote in large numbers on this issue but there seems to be some surprise that older women would be motivated to do so. Ohio Senate candidate Bernie Moreno was caught on video bemoaning the "single issue" women voters and wondering why women over 50 would care about it.

I guess it's hard for right-wingers to understand why anyone would care about someone other than themselves. But it's more than that. The reversal of Roe v. Wade was deeply offensive to many women of all ages, something we could only see as a direct attack on our basic human rights by a group of men (and one very conservative woman) determined to turn back the clock to a time when women were literally second class citizens. Women can see where this is leading and it isn't toward freedom and equality — for any of us.

The Republican Party and its leader, a predator found legally liable for sexual assault, is running for election on a platform of flagrant misogyny. Donald Trump literally said, 'I was able to kill Roe v. Wade' until he belatedly realized it wasn't popular, at which point he came up with his fatuous rationale that "everyone wanted it to go back to the states." That is utterly absurd and most people know it. He's lately taken to saying that he'll be women's "protector" which, coming from him, is more of a threat. In fact, in recent days he's said that he'll  do it "whether the women like it or not."

Then you have his choice for running mate, JD Vance, who thinks that women should stay in abusive marriages, thinks abortion should be banned nationally even in cases of rape and incest and wants to prevent women from traveling out of state to obtain them (he now denies knowing about such efforts). And he famously believes that "childless cat ladies" are the cause of everything wrong in our culture and agrees that "the whole purpose of the post-menopausal female is child care."

And people are surprised that women of all ages are refusing to vote for these people?

This Iowa poll may be an outlier and all the chatter about this remarkable result will end up being nothing more than election year lore. Most analysts still seem to think that it's nearly impossible to believe that Harris will actually win Iowa. But this poll is one of the very few that caught the hidden angry non-college-educated Trump vote in 2016 and 2020. There is every reason to believe that it may be catching the hidden pissed-off college-educated and independent women Harris vote in 2024. Nothing would be more satisfying than for this voting block to be the one to spell the end of Donald Trump's political career. 

[lemoncrushh]

Slave 4 U 2

Summary: Harry is ready to take you home for a little role play.

Warnings: light role play (soft dom!harry, handcuffs, collar), oral, smut. 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 1901

A/N: This was a sequel from 2016 to a blurb I'd written in 2015 (which got deleted), but part 1 is not needed for part 2. It was an early attempt of mine at a dom/sub fic. Obviously, the title comes from the Britney Spears song.

You slid into the back seat next to Harry, prepared to head to this club for someone's birthday party. Whose was it again? You'd already forgotten. But it didn't matter anyway. Harry had already assured you that you wouldn't be staying that long. These things were usually just for show, some other celebrity's shindig to make an appearance at, shake hands, have a couple drinks and leave.

"Just an hour or two, babe, alright?" Harry patted your knee as the car pulled up in front of the club.

You gave him a soft smile and a nod before climbing out after him, taking his offered hand. You held on to it as you both walked through the entrance, heading straight toward the back of the club where the party was being held. Your eyes scanning the crowd, you recognized a handful of people, immediately jogging your memory as to whose birthday it was. After greeting the birthday girl, a cocktail waitress took your drink orders and you and Harry found a plush green sofa and sat down.

The party seemed to be a hit, and before you knew it, you were feeling tipsy, not to mention a bit horny. The room boomed with a mixture of current club tracks and vintage 80s tunes, the vibration hitting you even through the cushion beneath you. Uncrossing your legs, you leaned forward to place your empty glass on the small table in front of you. Leaning back, you could feel Harry's eyes on you.

"What?" you smirked, acknowledging the look on his face.

Harry licked his lips, scooting closer to you, his arm on the back of the sofa.

"I forgot to tell you how beautiful you look tonight," he grinned.

"No you didn't," you batted your lashes. "You told me twice. But thanks again."

A low chuckle sounding from his chest, he leaned in to whisper in your ear.

"You know what I was thinking about?"

You raised a brow in question.

"That night I got to tie you up and fuck you," he groaned, his mouth on your earlobe, sending shivers throughout your body. "Do you remember?"

How could you forget? Although it wasn't the last time you'd had sex, it was the last and only time you'd been submissive, asking him to experiment in a little role play. It had been nearly four months ago, but the memory was still burned in your brain. It wasn't that you hadn't wanted to do it again. It just hadn't been brought up. And lately, if you were being honest, by the time you got to the bedroom, you were already so turned on and ready to have him inside you, that you didn't want to drag props and a story into it.

"Of course I do," you whispered back.

"I wanna do it again," claimed Harry, his lips dragging down your jaw and his hand finding the hem of your skirt against your thigh.

"Really? When?" you asked.

"Tonight. Right now."

You giggled nervously. "Now? Are you saying you're ready to go?"

"In a min-"

Harry was interrupted then by a loud cheer from a handful of friends that had gathered around the birthday girl. You watched as they sang Happy Birthday to her, followed by tequila shots taken by all. You were about to clap along until you felt Harry's fingers brush the inside of your thigh, just under your skirt. Turning your head to look at him, you saw the desire in his eyes, even in the dimly lit room. His usual easy-going grin was gone, replaced by almost a frown.

Your eyelids began to flutter as his hand roamed up and down your thigh, until it was nearly to your panty line. His gaze did not falter, however, as he stayed focused on your face, apparently trying to see how far he could go, and how much you could stand before breaking.

"Harry," you finally said, grabbing his wrist.

You could have sworn you saw his jaw clench as he removed his hand and stood.

"Let's go," he commanded.

"Um...okay," you blinked and rose from the sofa. "But shouldn't we say good-"

"No, let's go," Harry insisted, grabbing your arm and guiding you to the exit.

The car ride home was almost uncomfortable, the sexual tension between you thick. Harry returned his hand to your thigh, just below the hem of your skirt, though he never tried to move it. Your leg almost twitched with anticipation, wanting him to touch you desperately. You looked up at him, trying to read his expression, but the same hard look remained. Finally, you broke the silence, unable to take it any longer.

"I'm so fucking turned on right now," you breathed.

The familiar low chuckle rumbled in Harry's chest as his lips cocked a smirk, the signature dimple dipping in his cheek.

"Good," was all he said.

You followed Harry into the house, watching him as he pressed the security code in the keypad and then turned to you.

"C'mon," he grabbed your hand again, leading you upstairs.

You grinned when you saw him immediately reach for the top drawer of the night stand where you'd kept the scarves, handcuffs and collar.

"Put that on," he instructed, tossing the collar on the bed. "And only that."

"Hm, okay," you tried not to laugh.

Harry turned to glare at you, one eyebrow raised. "Leave your shoes on."

Biting your lip, you obliged, slowly taking off your top and skirt. The way Harry was staring at you, told you that he enjoyed it, and hand no intentions of getting undressed himself until you'd done so. Standing in your bra and panties, you waited for him to make a move, but the only thing he did was cross his arms.

"All of it, I said."

Sucking in your lips, your reached behind you and unhooked your bra, letting it fall on the floor. Then you stepped out of your panties, careful not to tangle them in your heels. Reaching for the collar, you felt yourself get wet, already eager for Harry's touch. Once it was fastened, he surprised you by stepping closer, his hand on the back of the collar and pulling you towards him in a deep kiss. His tongue swept against yours before he captured your bottom lip, sucking hard. You felt his other hand snake around your waist and grab your bum, giving it a squeeze. Then it slid between you, his fingers quickly finding your clit. Just before a moan escaped your throat, however, he backed away, leaving you wanting more.

"Not yet, love," Harry teased. "You have to earn it. But I love how wet you are for me."

You opened your mouth to protest when he lifted a finger to his lips.

"Shhh. Undress me."

Your eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me. Take off my clothes."

You couldn't help but grin, delighted that Harry was eagerly partaking in the role play. Besides, you had no qualms about undressing him. You did it with pleasure.

Unbuttoning his shirt, you spread your palms across his tattooed chest and down his torso. Harry's eyelids fluttered as your fingernails ghosted his skin before tossing his shirt aside. When you unbuckled his belt and fumbled with the button of his jeans, you popped them open, quickly pushing them down over his hips. Once they were down, you lowered yourself onto your knees, shaking your head at yourself that you still had to take off his boots.

Harry remained silent through it all, watching every move you made. His pants and shoes finally off, you reached up for the waistband of his boxers. As soon as you pulled them down and his erection sprang free, you felt his hand on the back of your head.

"Put it in your mouth," he demanded.

Gazing up at him, you didn't question him. Licking your lips, you grabbed the base of his shaft. Then opening your mouth, you guided him inside, wetting the head with your tongue. You heard Harry sigh as you enveloped his cock with your lips, gently sucking at first, then speeding up and adding more pressure.

"Ah shit, that feels good," Harry groaned.

You hummed against him as his breaths quickened.

"You're so fucking good at that," he cried.

You moved faster, taking him deeper into your mouth, as far as you could. Harry's moans got louder as he bucked against you, until suddenly he told you to stop.

"Get up," he said.

Rising to your feet, you waited for your next instructions. You watched as Harry took the handcuffs and pointed to the bed.

"Lie down."

You did as you were told, Harry cuffing you to the headboard. Your chest rose and fell with anticipation as he hovered over you, his breath on your face.

"You're gonna do as I say, right?"

You nodded in response, recalling the last time when he didn't want you to speak.

"Good girl," he smirked. "Now open your legs wide for me."

His hand on your thigh to help guide you where he wanted you, you lifted your knees and opened wide. Harry slid his hand between your breasts, down your stomach to your awaiting wetness. He grinned when two fingers easily entered you. You let out a cross between a gasp and a moan and he began to pump hard, his eyes burning into yours. A third finger joined the other two and you lifted your hips.

"Why are you so fucking wet?" Harry growled, his brows furrowed.

You couldn't form any words, only moans as his hand continued to fuck you.

"Is that for me?" he asked.

You swallowed as you nodded, unable to audibly reply to his question.

"Fuck yeah, it is."

Harry slid his fingers out, situating himself between your legs. Your thighs trembled as he aimed his cock at your entrance. Grabbing your left thigh, he thrust into you hard. You both groaned loudly, your head thrown back against the pillow. As he pumped faster, you quickly began to feel the burn in your core, your muscles involuntarily contracting. Harry noticed it too as he cursed.

"Jesus Christ, you feel so fucking good!"

"Ha-harry!" you cried. You wanted so badly to touch him, to rake your fingers down his back, but the restraints made it impossible.

"Yeah, baby, you love my cock, don't you?"

"Yes!" you exclaimed.

"You love it when I fill you up, when I go deep."

"Yes!"

Just as you let out your last moan of pleasure, Harry thrust deeper than ever, hitting your sweet spot.

"Fuck me, Harry!" you cried as you came, your knees lifted up as far as possible.

Harry pumped a few more times before letting out a guttural moan, his body trembling over yours. Collapsing on top of you, he buried his head in your neck, nibbling on your shoulder.

"Shit..." he groaned as he lifted up, reaching to unlock the handcuffs.

You chuckled lightly, rubbing your wrists once they were free.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?" Harry inquired.

"Not at all," you grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Not even a little?" he pouted.

You giggled louder. "Okay, maybe a little. But I liked it."

A sexy smile spread across his face as he rolled onto his side to face you.

"Me too," he said before planting another kiss on your lips.

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[slavghoul]

Interview from Upset Magazine 6/2023

Words: Steven Loftin

Like an apparition manifesting within a dense fog, it was through radio static that Swedish rockers Ghost were formed. In the kindergarten he attended as a young boy, Tobias Forge found himself enamoured with the music crackling through the little toy speakers. From this point forward, he began picking apart the notes and melodies - his journey toward the lore and canon coming into focus as he sat, trying to figure out how this black magic could be summoned.

While it would be many years before he would don his garb as Papa Emeritus, the essence of what his future would sound like was being set through his exposure to a wide variety of music. If any proof were needed, just look to the impressive list of covers Ghost have put their ghastly mark upon, including 2016's 'Popestar' EP, which included the band's takes on Echo & The Bunnymen ('Nocturnal Me') and Simian Mobile Disco ('I Believe').

Ghost's latest EP is another covers bonanza. A five-piece offering of Tobias's backstory, 'Phantomime' plays out like a Greatest Hits radio playlist - a fitting throwback to Tobias' first dalliances with music. Of course, when a group more aligned to the metal/hard rock community bust out covers, including Genesis and Tina Turner, eyebrows are raised. To this reaction, Tobias scoffs. "In 1991, Genesis was one of the biggest bands on the planet! That was a huge hit. In the mid-80s, when I had an older teenage brother who rented every VHS movie that came out, of course, we saw the fucking Thunderdome, and that was a huge hit, and it's still being played on Swedish radio. It's an evergreen; it's not an eclectic choice at all," he declares. "I grew up listening to Stranglers because my brother liked them. What else do we have, Iron Maiden - I mean, are you kidding? I'm a metalhead!"

Originally conceived during the sessions for their fifth album, last year's 'Impera', there were two folders on his computer's desktop: one named 'Impera', the other simply 'Covers'. As the ideas for 'Impera' grew, Tobias would enter his usual routine of working on a cover or two. "At any point, when you lose a little wind in writing your own things, it's quite nice to say, 'Today let's go in and work on the covers'; you can choose anything you want, you can work on absolutely anything you want. And you don't have to finish it, you don't have to release it, you don't have to do anything, but just continue working."

He likens it to the freedom of being a theatre owner who, instead of trying to pen the next greatest Broadway phenomenon, opts to have a go at something already timeless and perfected.

"Maybe you're like, 'Okay, so this fall we're just going to do a reinterpretation of Hamlet instead, that's going to be fine, and that keeps everyone working, and that keeps a project moving along! And I find a similar thing with working on covers. So as I was writing "Impera', the covers folder was also growing exponentially and at a point. I had this idea that was going to be a full-length album."

With COVID restrictions meaning the original producer for 'Impera' was stuck in the US, Tobias had to source a replacement. It would be Klas Åhlund who stepped up to the plate. But, on one condition. "He was pretty upfront. He was like. Yeah, I only want to make the record; I don't want to work on covers," Tobias remembers "Fine, fine, fine, that's fine." he shrugs. "So, after the 'Impera' recording was done, I felt as if making a completely different, whole record again: I didn't have time for that. I didn't have the energy for that. But once I trimmed down the number of songs to only these five to make a very rocky record, it loosened up the screws a little bit for me in terms of like, "Okay, so now I know what the EP is going to be - it's going to be a full, full-throttle rock one."

Ditching some rumoured softer covers, including U2, Misfits, and Motörhead. 'Phantomime is instead a delectable slice of Ghost doing what Ghost do best: creating theatrically big rock. It's Tobias's mark upon some bonafide classics, including Iron Maiden's 'Phantom of the Opera' which feels as befitting to Ghost as it does seeing Papa Emeritus kick the bucket ready for his next iteration. While the focus was on creating this small dose of Tobias's musical DNA, it also served another purpose; to simply be "not very complicated." The project began with the mindset of "we can make this recording loosely - quick but stress-free - as opposed to making a record which is your hard fifth record that needs to live up to certain standards. So it was just a very inspired, very simple recording, actually."

After the complexities of 'Impera' which wound up requiring two studios simultaneously running in parallel "to be able to work efficiently" - Ghost was morphing into a taxing experience for the band leader, "It was just a bigger thing [and] way more stressful."

Deciding to strip that covers folder down to the five tracks, by all accounts, 'Phantomime was a measured and reserved effort. "It ended up being me, an engineer, and an occasional musician coming in and doing something. It was so much looser, so much more mentally Feng Shui," he smiles, relief glowing in his voice. "And I think that that reflected a little bit on the two different records. They're meant to be related - they are definitely related - they were made roughly in the same time, but they're completely different things."

'Phantomime' plays out like a ghoulish social commentary. Starting with a searing rendition of Televison's 'See No Evil, the journey traverses the scourge of Televangelism (Genesis' Jesus He Knows Me') with a delightfully-fitting NSFW video, the instant gratification humans require to feel (The Stranglers' Hanging Around"); the pull back into cruel reality (Phantom Of The Opera"), and the resulting undying hope from a degraded society (Tina Turner's 'We Don't Need Another Hero"). Each offering is bolstered with Ghost's dramatic, theatric rock licks and Tobias's powerhouse vocals.

With 'Phantomime' in the bag and the European leg of the 'Impera' tour imminent (Tobias is currently holed up in preparation), the idea of reflecting on how he came to go from a young boy listening to the static sounds of pop hits on the radio to orchestrating not only a feverishly adored band and its lore but finding the capacity to embrace his inner music nerd, couldn't be more timely. Tobias's relationship with music has always been one of intrigue. He's a pop songwriter with the ambition and ideas of a stadium rock band, which, in essence, explains perfectly why Ghost can sit in a unique, exponentially growing and expanding space.

"My earliest inclination of wanting to transform into something else was definitely Twisted Sister," he recalls. "You know, "I Want To Rock' and 'We're Not Going To Take It' - that was a huge record in 1984, and in 1984, I was three years old," he says. "My brother was 16, so everything that was going on pop-culturally amongst teenagers was happening in my home."

It was thanks to his brother that much of Tobias's relationship with music was formed. He's introduced him to various giants of the time, like tectonic plates being pushed around, impacting and shaping his musical landscape. Translating for young Tobias the attitude of punk at the time, as well as everything else that was 'in', he remembers, "When I was a kid, and he was supposed to babysit me, as a pacifier he would put me in front of [Sex Pistols mockumentary film] 'The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle"," he laughs. "And then when that was over, he would just switch to [X-rated cartoon] Fritz the Cat. And I loved that stuff, of course. That was as much [about] the expression and the attitude. Of course, I loved the songs, but it was also filtered or combined with big songs for me." Those big songs ("Men At Work 'Down Under'," he initially cites, "those sort of songs still have a unique place in my in my writing") would eventually entwine with his darker side that he'd explore as he grew older. "Whilst my whole adolescence was completely in the name of extreme metal, I always had a very soft spot for Top 40 rock and pop radio always," Tobias explains. "And I've listened to that all my life. So it's almost equal portions of Venom as it is anything. that was on the radio."

Also, witnessing shock and glam-rock bands explode intrigued Tobias. He became swept away in the idea that not only could you push a boundary to its absolute limits with convictions and over-the-top grandiosity, but you could do so with songs that quantifiably bop. But, as time has gone onto prove, it wasn't pop music that enamoured Tobias enough that he wanted to become a pop star. It's the mythology and mystery that has become his calling card.

Tobias remained an enigma under the disguise of an evolving form of the iconic Papa Emeritus (now in his fourth incarnation) until 2017, after a lawsuit from a previous iteration of his backing band's rotating cast, the Nameless Ghouls. Visual and video components to releases are often hoovered up by the fandom, stripped apart for meaning and potential. Instagram posts are referred to as a '[Message From The Clergy]" (a phrase later claimed for 2022's Best Of playlist), and lest it is forgotten, the Ghost 'Grucifix' - the prominent crucifix deconstructed into Tobias's gothic 'G' logo - which ties together the vision, religious imagery and satire that would become a core part of the Ghost experience.

His musical ambition and education colliding in the middle of his Venn diagram between dark metal and pop magic is thanks to the likes of the aforementioned Twisted Sister and W.A.S.P., as well as his teen years in the black metal community. "Their first record was also a huge impact in Swedish media," Tobias remembers. "There was this big sort of Satanic panic thing going on at the time in the fall of 1984. Where you had essentially all those things happening. You had Mötley Crüe 'Shout At The Devil', which came out a year earlier, and they were there because they toured with Iron Maiden in 1984, so there was a lot of focus on these shock-rock bands. I saw that as a kid, and I was immediately blown away - it was the coolest thing I've ever seen. And I think that that was the trigger that made me identify as that is how I want to express myself."

Decoding the songs he'd hear also became an integral part of that expression. "That was the only thing I did for years before I started writing my own songs." Recalling his time in kindergarten, they had a piano and guitar, which Tobias became infatuated with. Instead of playing with the other children, he would find himself enraptured, listening to the radio or flipping over whichever cassette happened to be loaded at the time. He would then imitate the sounds he was soaking up. "A lot of those early beginnings of how to learn and how I've learned how to understand music filters through everything I do now," he explains.

The early records he'd find himself trying to unpack included KISS 'Alive' and Pink Floyd's 'Piper At The Gates Of Dawn' - disparate matches, but undoubtedly Ghost fuel with hard rock melodies and psychedelic tendencies. "I had the first and the second Pink Floyd on a double LP that was called 'A Nice Pair'. And that's the shit that I sat and listened to and played guitar to," he says proudly. "That's weird music, that's really weird chord sequences and melodies that sort of went nowhere. And, that coloured me a lot in my vision of this is how you write a pop song. Of course, I knew more conventional writing as well. But I figured that this resonates with me, and I want to write more like that."

Tobias is the first to admit that the influence his musical exposure has had on him isn't the most straightforward. "For all the years that I was in bands, up until Ghost, basically when I was in bands not doing well, I got a lot of, I wouldn't say stick, but it was always like, 'You write weird songs, there's something weird about them, and it will never really become anything because it has that sort of weirdness to it".

As he grew, the songs he'd heard reflected this inherent strangeness he'd constructed. Before the days of mass formulaic pop factories, the music emanating from the radio abided by the strictest rule of needing to at least be approachable, but within these confines, artists of the 70s and 80s would push the envelope as far as they could. Citing Nik Kershaw's 'The Riddle' as one example, "Holy shit, if you would have taken that song and taken it to a chord structure masterclass amongst pop writers now who want to write songs for Miley Cyrus or The Weeknd or any of that sort of level they would say, no, no, no, no, that this will never work. It's too strange. It's too weird. You can't do that; it doesn't have the normal chord progression.

"There are a lot of songs from the 80s that are like that," he reckons, "compared to the now, more informative way of writing, the 80s was braver actually, and it worked well. And those songs are evergreens in a way that a lot of the top radio shit from seven years ago is forgotten, and that's the stuff that I grew up with when I started playing the guitar."

Having made that inner sanctum, he would enter kindergarten a reality, one where he can explore those recesses of his mind shaken by the musical earthquakes he experienced; now, he's matured and deeply entrenched in the reality. "Throughout the modern day of pop writing, I know a few professional pop songwriters, and we continue having these conversations because in pop," he says, "where some of them work prolifically on really high releases, they're like, it's strange how the business wants everything to be so informative. Everybody wants a weird song, but still, all the big songs are usually very, very formatted [and] very, very simple."

While unpacking the songs he'd heard back in the 80s offered Tobias a chance to comprehend what makes a good song, it, more importantly, helped him to set out doing it on his own. When digging into crafting a new Ghost number, Tobias explains that "each new song is a little bit like virgin territory with its own riddle to be solved, and is always a combination of the horror of maybe not solving the puzzle, with the thrill when you do. And it's never easy because each new song needs something new. And so you constantly need to feed your ability with knowledge about how other things are."

Breaking it down into a figurative example, he likens it to being like a detective. "I'm assuming that part of being a great detective is to constantly have an open mind, but also constantly learning about human behaviour and wha people do. If you just had 100 forensic classes, but you know nothing about people and how they live their lives, it's gonna be hard to solve crimes." The same rings true for writers who have to read to improve and further understand language, while comedians pull from real-life experiences - music is no different. Tobias's early days of stripping down songs to their basic parts and then rebuilding them have remained a constant endeavour. "But that's how you write songs as well; you go and absorb new things."

The covers process, as mentioned, is a release for Tobias. When things are stuck when trying to piece together a new chapter for the Ghost bible, a cover offers up a chance for something lighter. "Working on covers can be equally euphoric," he confirms, "because it's fun to understand a song whereas, on the other hand, it can be almost demoralising because you're like, I can't believe that this song is so much better than anything that I've written! And it's so much easier. It's so simple."

"I find myself overcomplicating things often, but you might not hear the complicated detour that I took to end up at the more understandable, straighter version that ended up being the actual recording," he continues. "That's a never-ending struggle because that's how it's supposed to be. It's not like you write the one song. I don't think I know anyone or know of anyone who's content with the idea of having written one huge song. And then you know, okay, that's nirvana for you. You don't write the one song the same way that if you're a comedian, it's not like, 'Oh, I just told the funniest joke. So now I'm done".

While Tobias is one for wanting to keep the ball rolling and on a constant endeavour to continue his musical evolution, he knows there's a limit. Every release of Ghost must have a purpose. Nodding to the 60s method of firing singles out on all fronts, eventually compiling them for a full-length release, Tobias acknowledges his relationship with his fans is based on a more long-term understanding. "That's not how we do things; we make an album, and off of that album, there are singles - it's a 70s/80s thinking. And I don't want to refrain from that - I don't want too many singles to be these autonomous little creatures."

But the world is different now. It's a Wild West where being in the masses' consciousness is key, so things may have to change for him. Admitting that right now, he knows he's post-release of Ghost's last canon entry, 'Impera', which arrived back in 2022, and while 'Phantomime' is a reasonable enough bridge, sooner or later, he's going to have to play the game of ensuring Ghost ramp up. Earlier this year, Ghost collaborated with Def Leppard's Joe Elliott on a re-release of 'Impera' cut 'Spillways' which, while a fantastic addition to their arsenal, adds to the same notion Tobias is fearful of. "I'm slowly preparing for making a new record that's going to come out in 2024, which is way too long for the current contemporary music climate; you need to be ever-present," the last phrase hanging in the air ominously.

That doesn't mean he has to lower his standards, however. No Ghost release will exist just for content's sake. Everything must have its place. He even reckons a 14-track album is "a lot of music", and he still sees an album as being "22 minutes of music per side" - true to form, currently, no standard issue of any Ghost album breaches 12 tracks. He's even ready to aim for the likes of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles by swiftly lobbing a couple of spicy takes out. "Look, man, I don't even think that 'Exile on Main Street' is that good. Not even the fucking White album is that great - break it up! Both of those records would have been better if they were trimmed down to singular records."

That pop mind breaking through; Tobias is someone who knows that music is entertainment. Certainly, a medium which often leads to more bulky connotations, but it must entertain. It's why he doesn't pay any mind to those naysayers that yearn for Ghost to be more metal or to follow a different path. This is Tobias's game; we're just privy to the sermon. These days the floodgates are open and, when compared to previous decades, as Tobias remembers it, "you had to buy your own records. Whatever additional music you got, that wasn't maybe heard on the TV or the radio, when you took something from someone else, was usually a choice, so music styles could in some way be a little bit more insular back then just because you weren't subjected to as much." He mentions his beloved death metal as being a signifier of the changes happening. "Back in the day, when I was starting listening to extreme metal, that was completely embraced by a certain little subculture or group of mostly teenagers and 20-somethings. Whereas in the 2000s, when Vice started doing black metal reporting, all of a sudden you have indie personalities who were fans of Darkthrone, and so, obviously, what ended up that turned into this fusion, which was a positive and very natural thing."

This cultural shift is another reason Ghost's space is widening and its success growing. "Nowadays, people are a little bit more open," he admits. But, with this comes issues. "As time has progressed, metal and hard rock, as well as most genres that have been around for a while, [they've] gone from this youth culture to a conservative institution because so many of the fans are now aged." The passage of time waits for no one. But, more presciently for culture, it also means our understanding of what is 'good' and what should be where is moulded differently to when we were younger. "Unfortunately, that happens to most people regardless of who you were when you were 20," Tobias reckons, "or your ideals when you're like 40/50/60 years old. Your brain starts morphing into a slightly more conservative, slightly more nostalgic... You don't want things to change."

Tobias is the first to hold his hands up and admit the same has happened to him. He yearns for 1984 and even 1990-94. He would even be happy with 1987, back to those days with the crackling radio and a childlike spirit. "That would be so much cooler. I loved that way more than in this day and age. But I can't sit around and mope about that because it's not a problem that it's not 1987."

'Phantomime' is proof nostalgia can be a useful tool. It fuels with passion, and Ghost is Tobias's Neverland. "There's such a debate about what we are and why that is." Ghost are a band that, thanks to Tobias's musical education, transcend time. They exist on their own plain and with the evergreen, timeless sounds of yesteryear echoing around Tobias's head, long may Papa reign with his gloved melodic iron fist.

[velvetsqwyrme]

I saw ur tags and ran over here. What are ur favorite spicy UF! Papyrus fics?

HELLOOO LMAO you were so quick... sorry this took me a while to get together, but I hope you enjoy ( ù ᵕ ú )

Fair warning that some of these picks will include dub/noncon (and potentially other dubious content? I don't know what I'm going to add yet HAHA) so as always make sure to heed the warnings and read the tags before reading!! I've done my best to label them accordingly though :]

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READER INSERTS

Edge Discovers the Wonderful World of Subbing

You can tell exactly what this list is going to be like just from the title of this first fic... (title is explanatory, gotta love it!!)

Good EdgeLord

More sub Edge!! 💥💥

Caught in the Act

HELLO?? HELLO. Voyeurism? Low stakes semi-public sex? Double penetration ?? Sign me UP.

Pumped (Kinktober Collection)

Usually I refrain from including individual Kinktober chapters from rec lists BUT I really like this one ( '^' )!! It isn't even that explicit, but it's stuck in my brain because I GASPED when I read it for the first time.

Pyr's Favourite Keeper [DUBCON -> CON]

Love me a snakey boy!!!!!! There's also oviposition 👀!!

Wake

Sleepy sex <3! The bit with the SNAP part killed me and it's also such a fun detail!

Prime Time to Run

Mafiafell... he straight up murders someone in front of you and you fuck about it.

Bound Edge

Sub Edge again!! The reader has a dick in this- a rare but delicious treat !

Fall Out Bones [NON/DUBCON...????]

Technically this is linked to a series featuring both UF!bros, because I think that both are reslly good partially also because I think they're intensely hilarious at times. The titles are also great.

Boned [NONCON]

CLASSIC 2016 PREMISE. Reader is trapped in the fucking shed. (Fucking used as both profanity as well as a descriptive action)

Housekeeping [NONCON]

Weird location (sink)! But it works really well for the fic!!! Violenctce.

To Prove A Point ||| The Origins Of The Pap-wich - (Swap!Pap/Reader/UF!Pap)

Ahhh the good ol threesome ! The reader gets sandwiched between two very sexy skeletons~ !! I'm also a big Swap!Pap fan so this is just. *Mwah* so good!!!!! Double penetration again ~ also one of the few fics with squirting 🙏✨

All Dicks, No skeletons [DUB/NONCON DUE TO DETACHABLE ECTODICK SITUATION]

I cannot put into words how much I love this. It's got detachable ectobits... inconvenience due to detachable ectobits!! In this, Edge has a barbed dick and claws up a tree. It's crack but it's so so good!!!!!! I'm patiently waiting for updates and will ravenously consume the fic for lime the fiftieth time when it does.

OTHER SHIPS

Also! Here are a few fics with UF!Pap in other ships (namely various Papcest configs) because you didn't specify it had to be reader inserts lol

Little Wet Bones (Papcest: Farm/Underfell)

Bitty!Edge is soooo cute... and horny!! He's so self assured I love it.

Pepper Heat (Papcest: Edgepuff)

Heat fic! Heat fic!! Chili peppers is one hell of a heat scent... the only person who can handle a Papyrus is another Papyrus ;] The naming scheme here is also very funny when you realise what went on.

A Fallen Knight and his King (Papcest: Edgepuff)

MORE SUB EDGE ! This one delves more into the his exploration of dom/sub dynamics and it's so so good!!!!

Three Chance Meetings (Papcest: Spicyhoney)

Swap!Pap is (secretly) a prostitute and Fell!Pap finds out and shills out the money to spend a night with him. I looooove the character dynamics in this one too.

Taste of Blood and Honey (Papcest: Spicyhoney)

I forgot about this and was delighted to discover it again because ohhhhhh my god the premise is so good... also there's mirror sex and first times and those are always fun :3c

Mutt Lost a Bet (Papcest: SpicyBBQ)

Mafia AU setting where SF!Pap and UF!Pap make and lose bets resulting in sexual escapades. The second chapter is my favourite because it involves gloryholes and aphrodisiacs <33

Bro's Replacement (Papcest + Sanscest : Spicyhoney + Cherryberry)

LAMIAS AGAIN 💖 Honestly the setup is what gets me... but the smut is delicious so I'm adding it here :3c

Heat (Papcest - Spicyhoney) [HEAT INDUCED MUTUAL NON/DUBCON]

Why are there so many lamia fics in this list, I do not know, but heeeeeeey enjoy the snakeys! In this one the non/dubcon is due to UF!Pap being in heat, and both of them regret it after. Things get better though!!

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Anyway, that's all for now! Hope you enjoy some ^^!!!

[stllts]

F.N.T (Fascinating New Thing) - A Steddie Fanfic

Inspired by '10 things I Hate About You'- with some twists.

Fandom: Stranger Things(2016)

Main Pairings: StevexEddie(Steddie), RobinxChrissy(Buckingham)

Rated: Mature

Word Count: +16k

Chapter Count: 1 out of 9

Summary: When the finale of a huge campaign gets in the way of The Party's plan to go to the WinterBall before the Holidays season, the kids decide to take matters into their own hands. And what better way to make sure that their D&D master changes plans, than to make Steve Harrington be Eddie Munson's own personal wingman and find him a date to the ball? The only problem is, that first Steve needs to befriend a guy who he is not only hella jealous of (not that he will ever admit that), but who also hates his guts. 

Or.: Just another Steddie fanfic retelling of the 1999’s rom/com classic, ‘10 Things I Hate About You’.

───────────────────────────────────────────────

...

Steve observed the trio for a moment before looking back at Robin who, bless her heart- she had also heard everything and, by the look in her face and the nervously biting of her thumb nail, was probably as confused about the ‘plan’ as he was-, took a step forward to ask: "So let me get this straight, in summary, you want Steve to seduce your Dungeon Master, which is a very weird name for a position in a nerd's game by the way, so you guys can go to the WinterBall with your girlfriends?" 

She received a resonant ‘yep' from the Sinclair and Henderson duo, as Steve decided to ignore the fact that Wheeler seemed to grimace a little at the end of her question, looking away from them and muttering something intelligible under his breath. It was probably best to leave it alone right now, make it a discussion for another time in the future. 

"Well, not exactly to seduce him, more like…" Dustin corrected, flapping his hand and trailing off a bit while looking for the right word to replace the term with. "Befriend him, maybe?"

Steve couldn’t contain the loud 'ha' that his body pushed out of him, making him lean forward a bit exasperated. "And what in the world makes you think that Eddie Munson of all people would want to be friends with me?"

...

Keep reading it on AO3 now

(for more information read chapter notes)

[jefpoo421]

A retrospective on the 2012 Once-ler

I used to love the 2012 Once-ler way back in 2020 because I found out that The Lorax has a sizable Once-ler fandom, also back in 2012. As a teenager back then, I sorta found him cute as in handsome. His emo hair, his voice, his fashion, I found them suitable to my tastes. For two years, I made several fanart featuring the 2012 Once-ler.

Now as a young adult, I now find him annoying and a big jerk, especially when he's compared to the rest of The Lorax cast. At least, his Greed-ler costume still remains timeless. Except! For his physical appearance! That emo hair screams early 2010's!

Next, his screams during the Iputyourbedintheriver especially bother me! They're ear-piercing. They make me want to bound and gag the 2012 Once-ler up!!!!

The only good thing I found from the 2012 Once-ler is that he has a beautiful as heck villain song called, "Biggering". It's so emotional and powerful that it will make you think twice before chopping down any more trees. Too bad, it was replaced with a cheap and upbeat pop song called "How Bad Can I Be", whose title is the last words said by Wreck-It Ralph in his own movie.

I've since shifted to the 1970s Once-ler, since he remains true to the original Dr. Seuss spirit. And since 2023 I've been devoted and dedicated to Fix-It Felix (well, I started getting a li'l bit attached to him late 2016), who's a really nice, adorable, and small handyman who I want to meet in real life.

Therefore, It's better to keep the Once-ler's face hidden, so that it allows us to imagine the business as an abstract villain. And who knows!

Facelessness keeps the Once-ler timeless for ever and ever. Don't ever put a face on the Once-ler. It makes him not timeless.

[purble-gaymer]

Back at it again at Krispy Kreme (dies)

So I was rotating the cast of Metamorphosed around in my brain, and I was suddenly hit with the realization that they'd make for a HILARIOUS rendition of "The One Thing You Can't Replace", which if you don't know what that is, is a comedy sketch done by comedian John Mulaney in which he recounts a party he went to in highschool. You can find the whole thing on YT. It's hysterical.

Anyhoo, I though up a list of characters that'd fit perfectly in the roles from TOTYCR:

Meta - John Mulaney (narrator)

Arthur + Nonsurat - the parents who left town

Falspar - the kid throwing the party

Misc. GSA soldiers - the kids who broke the pool table and did unspeakable things to the computer

Kit Cosmos - police officer

Jecra - guy who smashed a forty on the ground

Yamikage - photo thief

The whole thing would play out in the barracks while Arthur takes a much-needed break (where he totally doesn't sneak off to Haltmann's haha what are you talking about). Instead of an antique photograph, I like to imagine sensitive documents being the stolen item (although Idk how Yamikage and Meta would be playing video ganes years later if it were).

But that's basically it. The reason you're getting this instead of @galapathy is because she's probably not online and you are. In other words, I just needed to share this before I combusted into a billion pieces.

That's all. See you soon with another fresh, piping-hot heap of garabage. Buh-bye!

it’s an honor to be metamorphosed guy number two. and you are very correct. like if gala were here she would say this is something that 100% happened. because it is. though if we’re talking horrific demises, arthur and gwen being the ones to leave would allow lance to also fuck up the house, and he has plenty of complaints about his old friends. this would be fun to watch. wish the year was 2016 so making the one thing you can’t replace animatics was still cool

[gatefleet]

Holiday Hijinks

MacGyver (Reboot): Angus ‘Mac’ MacGyver, Murdoc

Word Count: 547

(T)W: Break-in

Request: Yes, “For mcgyver 2016 could you prompt 21 with murdoc x reader where the reader is macgyvers younger sister and Mac is hosting a Christmas party. Could you also add that the reader works at the pheonix foundation too but doesn't arrest him because she loves him. I can't think of a different so I'll just stick with that. And some of the hijinks could be murdoc purposely pressing people's buttons or some people break in and macgyver and the reader kick thier butts. Sorry that this is so long but it's just this long because I saw that you were taking macgyver 2016 request it this just popped into my head and I just had to get it out before I forgot it.” - @koshi-sama

A/N: GIF Credit belongs to the owner

Christmas was the one holiday you and your brother, Mac, would actively try to spend together regardless of where you were. When Mac was deployed this tended to be done via video calls. When Mac returned state side you both moved into your grandfathers house with Mac’s best friend from school, Bozer. When Mac joined Phoenix, you were recruited shortly after. Mac was recruited due to his military and bomb expertise, and you were recruited for your linguistic talents. You and Mac tended not to give your opinion on each other’s significant others. You were never a fan of his partner, Nicki, but you had not told your brother this. Mac, however, was not so subtle about your current choice in partner. Neither was the rest of the team.

Matty was using the “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer” justification for not interfering, but still voiced her concern over the relationship. You had entered a relationship with Murdoc before his altercation with Mac and the team. By the time he was identified as the assailant after your brother, you were already too deep into the relationship.

You noticed the swipes, jabs and remarks that were being exchanged between Murdoc and the team, especially Jack. Mac’s protective nature over his younger sibling was shining bright and Murdoc’s need to get under Mac’s skin and in his head was becoming a bit too much for you. You were on the balcony next to the firepit before you realised, getting some air and trying to calm yourself. This did not go unnoticed by either your partner nor your brother. Murdoc came out first, Mac hovering in the doorway, and apologised to you for making you uncomfortable, although he didn’t apologise for antagonising the team which brought a small laugh and smile to your face. You said your goodbyes to Murdoc before he left, and Mac replaced where he was standing next to you. You both stood in silence, looking over at the city skyline, listening to Bozer’s variation of a Christmas jingle drinking beer. Bozer shouted through that the rest of the team were heading out to grab things from Jack’s and would be back shortly.

When you heard a bang coming from the other side of the decking you assumed that one of Mac’s ‘improvements’ had gone awry, and both instinctively looked over to the source of the sound. What neither of you expected was for the next noise to come from within the house. Mac went to investigate, and you followed suit, assuming the team has returned from Jack’s place. What neither of you expected was for someone to be running toward Mac and body slam him over the couch. It took you both a few seconds to recover and react. Mac had managed to move in a way that limited the potential bodily damage caused by the tackle. As Mac and his assailant retreated farther into the house, yourself quick on their heels.

By the time the rest of the team arrived home to find the front door open, you and Mac had already gotten the assailant down and had their hands and feet bound behind them. Mac had the assailant pinned and you were finishing off your knot tying their hands and feet together.

Taglist open

[itwasrealtome]

BEST BELOVED

CHAPTER TWO — THE OCEAN SWIRL

⚠️ TW: DO NOT READ IF THIS MIGHT TRIGGER YOU

Scarlett Johansson x fem!OC fic | Masterlist

Summary : Unsure how to help Carter, Scarlett comes to Elle's rescue.

Content Warning : Isolation | allusion to drowning, anxiety |tears | a kiss | mention of abandonment | feeling lonely

Navigation :

Chapter One

Chapter Three

Don’t miss any more chapters or info by being tagged

[Not my pic]

LOS ANGELES — CALIFORNIA

NOVEMBER 29, 2016

The numerous gifts Elle had bought didn’t quite work out as she’d hoped. Despite how much Carter seemed to love his new sweatshirt – a welcome replacement for the one with the holes in it, he remained as silent as a tomb. He would sometimes appear, like a ghost haunting their halls, headphones on, finally emerging from the nest he’d built himself in the spare bedroom. But the household felt even more oppressively silent than when the actress lived out her loneliest moments.

It had taken almost 24 hours before Carter agreed to eat something, 12 more before he finally looked into his sister’s eyes, and 72 hours for him to whisper a simple word. Elle was watching him drown with a heavy heart, finding herself grappling under the weight of her helplessness. She knew they had to talk. Only, she couldn’t even imagine herself reaching out to the young man, her words stuck in her throat as she desperately sought a way to communicate with him.

From the foot of the stairs, Elle experienced a truly different perspective. She’d lived here for several years but had never looked at her stairwell from this particular angle. From down there, she was almost dizzy. The distance between her and the floor — and therefore from Carter, seemed immense. The longer she stared, the more her heart swayed. She felt like she was on the upper deck of one of those huge ships. Skin still dotted with droplets of sweat and baby hairs sticking to the nape of her neck from her training session didn’t help with the floating sensation.

As she danced on her heels, leaning on the first step of the staircase, a set of words lost in the depths of her throat, a soft knock at the front door startled her. However wrong it may sound, she was grateful to anyone who might interrupt her contemplation. Another second and Elle was convinced she’d drown in the ocean swirl.

From the few colorful stained-glass windows on either side of the door, the brunette could make out a silhouette she would easily recognize even in complete darkness. The sun was drawing beautifully on their curves. In much the same way as Elle had done so many times before.

Stepping into the doorway, the actress spotted her own reflection in the wood-edged mirror by the staircase. The way the sun brought out the black ink on her arms, her brown locks pulled up into a messy bun, the very clothes she’d sweated in for hours still clinging to her slender body. Alarmed by her own scent, Elle buried her nose under her own armpit, relieved to detect the scent of the deodorant she had — perhaps abusively — applied to her skin that very morning.

The doorbell rang and Elle finally opened the wood-paneled door. Her tense, drawn features relaxed almost immediately into a smile. Now, she could breathe again.

— Hey, pretty girl, grinned Scarlett, book in hand. You left this back there.

The brunette clung desperately to her door, eyes locked on the familiar face in front of her. Light eyes, blond hair, full lips, and that sweet perfume that floated up to her.

Lord, how she missed that face.

— What?

— I never understood the point of taking a book to the gym but... I thought you might like to read the final pages tonight.

Scarlett arched an eyebrow at her friend. She had noticed how forgetful Elle had seemed today. It started with an oversight in the locker room, then a lack of concentration in training, and now the book. And God knows Elle never forgets her books anywhere.

— You were there? wondered the brunette, replaying her memories over and over again. I– I didn’t even see you. When did you land in LA?

— This morning. I texted you.

Elle seemed to realize, her mouth taking on the shape of an O as she rested her forehead against the door. She'd been so overwhelmed by Carter's arrival and the resumption of training that she'd forgotten everything else.

— You did. I’m so sorry, these last few days have been… tricky.

— Let me in? prompted Scarlett gently.

The owner nodded softly, a thin smile on her lips. Despite everything, she was happy to welcome the New Yorker into her home. Time tended to pass strangely slowly away from her. It was as if their last trip to the other side of the Earth had taken place years ago.

— Are you okay?

Elle's face broke into a smile. She patted the blonde gently on the shoulder before moving into the living room.

— I’m always okay, replied Elle without so much as a twitch in her voice. Can I get you anything? Water, tea... a soda?

Scarlett followed into the kitchen, leaning against the counter with an air of disbelief.

— Since when do you drink soda?

— I don’t. Carter does.

Elle dipped her hand in search of one of those cans. She’d bought them the day after the young man’s arrival and they hadn’t left the fridge since. The icy metal almost burned her fingers. The very way all her attempts were reduced to ashes.

— Soda, then?

The brunette got her head out of the cold just in time before Scarlett swung the door shut. The can between her trembling fingers was quickly placed on the kitchen counter as her friend lifted her chin with two of her manicured fingers.

— I’ve tried everything, Elle confessed without further ado. I bought all the stuff a kid his age eats, I also bought clothes from those skate brands and tried to introduce him to the dudes so they could hang out, but…

— Have you tried talking to him?

Elle shook her head so quickly that it made Scarlett giggle. She had unconsciously tried to solve the problem by buying her brother’s love and passing it on to others. While Carter probably needed attention and love, Elle had given him nothing but isolation and constant push-back.

— Honey, he doesn't need all those material things or for Seb to show him his pecs. He needs you – his sister.

Elle couldn’t help but sigh heavily. She had spent so many years apart from her own brother, now she felt like she was living with a stranger. She had left behind a little boy who loved Spiderman figurines, who loved to play tag with her, and who was very fond of her. But it was also the very same boy who had pushed her over the edge without even realizing it.

— He won’t talk to me.

Behind Elle's smile was a misty look. She could feel the tears burning her eyes, the way emotion stung her nose and tightened her throat. The weight on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier by the minute, getting a bonus every time Carter decided to ignore her a little more.

Sure, she’d abandoned him. But she had a good reason, right?

The lone tear on her cheek found refuge on Scarlett’s thumb. Once again, Elle found herself taken aback by her friend's gentleness. From the way Scarlett slid her hand up her neck, to the way she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear – to the way she tenderly kissed her lips.

Elle wanted to try and resist her but she instantly melted into the older woman. Her lips parted slightly to welcome the gentle gesture. Just for a fleeting instant, she forgot all about her brother on the upper floor.

As Scarlett broke the link between them, Elle couldn’t help but follow along, craving another taste of the simple act that so warmed her lower belly. She was met with nothing but emptiness and the warm breath of her beloved.

— Why don’t you try to relax while I have a chat with Carter?

— I’m perfectly relaxed, insisted Elle. Look, if even Seb couldn't get him to talk, I…

— Sebastian’s not a mom.

With that, the New Yorker slipped out of the kitchen, soda can in hand. Elle could hear her shoes on the stairs, her hand sliding against the railing, and her fingers knocking at the young man’s door. She hoped Scarlett was right. Sebastian wasn't a dad, she herself wasn't a mom - but Scarlett was. For such a short time, but she nevertheless was. It must have meant something.

It had to mean something.

•••

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[blacknwhitemood]

"Don't go to a record store, do not go into a record store," I thought, and I went into a record store. Whats up at the D of ABC? A shiny, colorful DVD box with all of the single's videos! I mean not only the Great And Super Anton Corbijn's works, but all. I didn't know this release. It was made in 2016 so Spirit and of course MM videos are painfully missing but having People Are People, Shake The Disease, Stripped or Meaning Of Love in HQ is amazing. Earlier I already bought classic Strange/Strange Too (reissue, 2023) and Corbijn's Videos 86>98 (reissue, 2000, scroll down) and Videos 86-98+ (2002, scroll down), but I found this beauty, I couldn't leave it in the shop. Here comes my too-long-and-perhaps-pointless DVD-post.

Video Singles Collection / Sony, 2016

There are some screenshots in the booklet from the videos like Stripped, Shake The Disease and Just Can't Get Enough:

I should tell to my boss not to give me any raise because I spent all of it to DM stuff. Actually I already told her, she laughed.

Tour Collection

I have all the official of DM tour videos on DVD, including The World We Live In And Live In Hamburg. It released on VHS in 1985 but I never had a video player, it's unecessary to buying one just for a single videotape - and the tape without player is unecessary too… It officially released on DVD only in the US (NTSC) which doesn't work in Europian region and on laserdisc in Japan - both are extremely rare. I find and I copied it from a specialist guy who's archived it in HQ from his Japan laserdisc and refit the sound (~7Gb). I'm going to make a DVD with printed cover just to put it on the shelf <3

After my 1st piece of the tours, Touring The Angel (scroll down) I've decided to buy all of them. Most of them are original edition which was important for me - except 101 (2003; 2005) and Devotion (2004), but those have similar, beautiful paper boxes like other tour's from the 2000s. Better quality than Youtube and better to touch it and hold it in your hand, including all of extras instead of torrent.

These are my new pieces:

Between 2000-2010 cases are in paper covers with booklets, I adore it, it's not only pieces of round plastic in a cheap snap plastic. Devotional (2004), One Night in Paris (+CD, 2002), Tour of the Universe: Barcelona 20/21.11.09 (+DC, 2010). I didn't pay much for them, as you can see their papersleeves are used, especially Devotional's, which fits on it's era:

Nice photos and datas in booklets:

From 2010 covers went smaller and become boxes - Live in Berlin (2014), SPiRiTS In the Forest (2020). I bought Spirit in a record shop (it's brand new), but finding Delta was tough, I could order it only from a seller in Denmark, free shipping (used, but seems new):

I love these boots, so cute:

Corbijn's stage set sketch for Delta Machine; Martin is singing Condemnation with Peter:

I like the warning "Contains moderate s*x references" and "infrequent strong language", it can be in the documentary part or Dave's hot and funny moments on the stage.

Collection 101

Umm, this is my 6th 101 record inlcuding a 7" vinyl... (I've already sold the other 2 Germany singles on the link, I replaced them to English version). I wrote about the reasons earlier, why I bought 2 kinds of 101 DVD (2005; 2021), but as you can see on this link (scroll down), non of them contained any booklet or extra photos inside, only DVDs. Then I found an older edition in paper box (is this the right word?) on the used stuff online market - it cost only 7€ because the documentary DVD was missing. It was printed in 2003, Germany with many beautiful photos. I know, it's not the new Blu-ray with extras, but I can play only DVD format and that is 10 times more expensive.

To the right you can see both side of a small card, it is written in Hungarian: "Win a Depeche Mode 101 thirt! If you send back this coupon to EMI's addresse (Budapest, …) with the code-word 'Game 101' until 20th of December, you will be entered into a draw and you can win one of the 101 exclusive, unique shirts!" - at the back: "Name, Addresse, Telephone number". It was in 2003, e-mail and PC was still rare compare to telephone.

Funny long post with trillion photos. I like to see through my collection and costs, its history, or simply just help others who are considering to collect similar stuff. Difficult journey, but really joyful.