#"Hyde Parks"

[hldailyupdate]

“We were lucky enough to welcome [Stevie & Harry] to work between our Gatehouse and Front Room studios before the show last week!”

-Harry visited Abbey Road Studios with Stevie Nicks ahead of their performance at BST Hyde Park.

Stevie Nicks at BST Hyde Park Festival. (12 July 2024)

via Abbey Road Studios

[oh-dear-so-queer]

In the Christian circles we frequented, the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras is regarded as a shameful endorsement of sinful debauchery – a 'giving in', to use the biblical language, to use the base instincts of our fallen human nature. Having had so little to do with gay and lesbian people, I confess I was apprehensive about what sort of folks we might meet, but as we ambled through Hyde Park, passers-by, spectacles of colour and jubilation, embraced us and included us in their merry-making.

"In/Out: A Scandalous Story of Falling Into Love and Out of the Church" - Steph Lentz

[tenth-sentence]

What my sister and I were really there for was the game we played after church, when our dad would time how quickly we could run around the Archibald fountain across the road in Hyde Park.

"In/Out: A Scandalous Story of Falling Into Love and Out of the Church" - Steph Lentz

[stlkdot]

WHEN YOU DONT UNDERSTAND MY REASONS"

"DONT JUDGE ME BY MY CHOICES◽WHEN YOU DONT UNDERSTAND MY REASONS.". -KDOTB

[iamfandomcrazy]

Oneshots I will (hopefully) get to

Wednesday gets hurt and Tyler takes care of her

Dean gets in trouble

Wednesday spends the afternoon with the sheriff so they can "bond" as per a request by Tyler

Body swap AU

Wednesday has a baby shower

Wednesday is pregnant and, much to her horror, finds herself craving affection from Tyler more than usual

Wednesday and Tyler go to the first ultrasound for their baby

Wednesday and Tyler have to deal with the loss of their baby (by miscarriage)

AU where Tyler went into the army and surprises Wednesday when he comes back

Another Xavier bashing fic but with hyde!Tyler this time (but hyde doesn't really 'come out' it's just mentioned that he's a hyde)

Tyler and Donovan go on vacation and coincidentally, the Addams is there

Tyler and Donovan, plus Elvis, for X reason have to be out of their home for a while so Gomez and Morticia offer them a place to stay for a while

Wednesday secretly wearing Tyler's jacket (or something along those lines. I haven't fully figured it out yet)

AU where Wednesday can read minds

Based on the post by @therulerofallpotatos where Tyler takes his kids to the park, they want him to transform into hyde so they can play on him. Another kid joins and that happens to be Amanda Buckman's son. Chaos ensues

Joel stops by the Weathervane and sees Wednesday for the first time since camp

An idea from @pey0805 where Tyler is at the police station during parents weekend when Gomez gets arrested and he and Wednesday get flustered when Donovan suggests there's something going on between them

Wednesday and Tyler tell Dean they're going to have another baby (I like thinking of them just having Dean but I couldn't get this out of my head)

Little Dean is jealous of his new brother

Enid, Ajax and (unfortunately) Xavier spy on Wednesday and Tyler's first date

Tyler is in prison drowning in self loathing when he receives a visit from Wednesday

Wednesday helps Tyler watch over his little cousin

3 times Elvis ruined the mood

Wednesday and Tyler talk about their insecurities

Wednesday has had it up to here with the sheriff interrupting them so when he calls and interrupts their evening, she takes matters into her own hands and answers the call

An AU that takes place during their date when Wednesday says she's only doing it because she owes him and Tyler doesn't believe her (I got inspiration from the 'Wednesday and subtly thirsting' gifset)

The birth of Dean

Tyler feels like he's in the middle of an argument between his girlfriend and Thing when Thing shows up at school in his locker

AU where Wednesday is a witch and she takes Tyler on a late night ride on her broom

Based on an incorrect quote. Tyler takes Wednesday to the zoo

Crossover w/Legally Blonde. Elle is the lawyer for Tyler's trial

Wednesday gets a job at the Weathervane to show Tyler that what he does is easy when he teases her about not working

Wednesday insists that she isn't jealous so Tyler takes that as a challenge

Wednesday, Thing, Enid and Tyler watch Wednesday's memories from when she was at camp (a watching fanfiction sort of thing)

Donovan tags along when Tyler teaches Wednesday how to drive

Tyler's grandmother visits and embarrasses him in front of Wednesday

AU where Wednesday is a doctor and when Tyler is visiting Lucas in the hospital he sees her and knows he has to find a way to talk to her/get her attention. So he pretends to fall so she'll have to look him over. Only he actually hurts himself

Dean is now a teenager and really wants to ask out the girl in his class. The problem? It's Xavier daughter. Can the adults tolerate an evening together when Xavier's daughter (and him...reluctantly) attend dinner at the Galpin/Addams house?

Something for Halloween/Wysdaythe13th

So yeah....that's a lot lol I probably won't get to all of them but who knows how many I'll do

y'all know I got a lot of ideas lol

Edit: anything that's scratched out is what I've already done

[ynbabe]

Idk if youre still doing them or if you take requests but if so could ya maybe do a 3rd Wednesday (T.S) x male reader incorrect quotes, they were lil works of art

hi guys!! I'm back from my impromptu hiatus. Requests for all fandoms are open. I might do something about Merlin as well cause they're alive again apparently?!!???

WEDNESDAY (T.S) X MALE READER P.T.3- BOYS DAY OUT

Y/n: We need to get through this locked door. Xavier, give me your credit card. Xavier: Here. Y/n, pocketing it: Thanks. Tyler, kick down the door.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tyler, mildly concerned: Will Y/n be okay? Xavier, pissed boyfriend: He won’t be when I find them.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tyler: H-how do you ask someone out? Y/n: Well, first- Xavier: Don't ask him, he asked me out in a McDonald's parking lot. Tyler: ...And you said yes?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n, looking through his clothes: Has anyone seen my top? Tyler, buying a pair of noise cancelling headphones: Xavier's in the kitchen.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tyler, sheltered small-town boy: Why is everyone so obsessed with top or bottom? Honestly, I’d just be excited to have a bunk bed. Xavier: Xavier: I'm gonna tell them. Y/n: Don't you dare.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Tyler, a part of the school and trying to make amends: Not gonna lie, I'm kind of afraid of Y/n... Xavier, mentally scarred from before they started dating: As you should be. Tyler: No, for real, he's kind of- Xavier: As. You. Should. Be.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: *yawns* Xavier: Yeah, being that pretty must be tiring. Y/n: Then you must be exhuasted. Tyler: Will you two shut up? Some of us are lonely.

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Is there a cactus where your heart should be? Tyler: What’s up your ass this morning! Xavier: *walks in* ...Hey. Tyler: Hmm… never mind. Y/n: WAIT NO!

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Y/n: Do you think different paints have different tastes? Xavier: They do. Tyler: ...Why did you say that with such certainty?

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Xavier, gardening and trying to help the town: Hey, can you bring me the hoe? Tyler, truly a part of the friend group now: Yeah, sure. *A few minutes later* Tyler: Here you go. Xavier: Tyler: Y/n: Why am I here? Xavier: Okay, you know what... Thank you. Tyler, smiling:

━━━━━━━━━▼━━━━━━━━━

Out shenaneganing-

Tyler, having a crush: We need a diversion. I say Y/n gets naked. Xavier, his boyfriend: No. Tyler, trying to save face: I could get naked. The squad, traumatised from seeing him as the Hyde: NO!!!

[omg-hellgirl]

Any Marianne quotes about Marsha Hunt? Did they ever get a chance to meet?

I was obviously a woman in the middle of a big pickle. And there was Marsha Hunt bursting out of her white buckskins. She was stunning. After the concert I went home with Nicholas and Mick went off with Marsha. If I'd been Mick in that situation, I might have done exactly the same thing.

Marianne Faithfull, Faithfull: An Autobiography.

In fact, Marianne says practically nothing about Marsha. She just talks about the Hyde Park concert that was dedicated to Brian and that Marsha was there. She described herself as having an unhealthy appearance and probably looking unattractive compared to Marsha. Above is her quote. It is the only mention of Marsha.

Marianne and Mick's relationship was based on infidelity on both sides. She also frequently cheated on him and even slept with a drug dealer in exchange for, well, drugs. Of course he cheated on her first but either way, she didn't seem too bothered by his sleeping around. Even with his affair with Anita Pallenberg, she just thought it would be hypocritical of her to criticize him harshly.

So don't be surprised by her reaction to Mick leaving with Marsha.

Marianne doesn't talk about it in her book, but yes, they officially met when Marsha was hosting a radio show. The description of their meeting by @sbrown82 in her blog is actually quite accurate to what Marsha wrote about Marianne in her book. You can check here. But if you want a spoiler, they didn't talk about Mick.

[alexanderlightweight]

I am tired. I mean I did work 12 hours today but I’m just like bone deep exhaustion and I want to pass out but also write.

And Cat is amazing okay. I love Cat and Ragnor and Magnus’ dynamic and I will forever be salty that we got half the casts girlfriends on the show (I’m looking at you terrible seelie queen and Heidi) unnecessarily and we didn’t get more Ragnor and Cat. Like they could have flash backed Ragnor or brought him back or anything. And Cat was deprived of showing off her glory and wisdom.

Snippet of unnamed fic

—

“A moment, lovely.” Magnus says and accepts the call.

“Yes, Cat? Why on earth are you calling, it’s your day off?” And Magnus has to pull the phone away from his ear as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “They couldn’t handle being quiet for twenty minutes?” Magnus asks, and signs in irritation, “well did it work? Because I’m busy and they can either simply stop breathing and see if that helps or continue to hold their tongues. I have more important things to take care of than their need for gossip.”

And Magnus rolls his eyes as Cat mutters threats she doesn’t actually mean.

“Catarina, you would never set my library on fire. You’d be much more likely to drunkenly try to abscond with my medical texts, like that one time in Sweden.”

Alexander snorts in his lap and he’s looking up at Magnus softly, like he’s the best thing to see.

Which Magnus knows, but it’s nice to be visibly appreciated.

He preens and his thumb passes over Alexander’s tempting mouth.

“No, I am not busy with my ‘flavor of the month’.” Magnus adds air quotes, knowing it makes his shadowhunter laugh. “Alexander is moving in and we need to pick out his things.” Alexander looks startled and a little wary and Magnus shushes him with a single look. “Darling, I can see your grumpy pout under that lovely smile of yours. You can keep what you have at your place for emergencies and I can get you all new things for mine.”

And Magnus delights at being able to dress Alexander in whatever he wants.

Alec is squinting up at him, eyes shards of peridot and Magnus summons an oak tree to shade them, wanting to enjoy Alexander's hazel eyes under the dappled and soft light of leaf filtered sun.

“Oh yes, Cat.” He says to the silence on his phone, “sorry. The sun got in the way.”

“Does it still exist?” Cat asks, in a snarky tone that Magnus would appreciate so much more if directed at anyone else.

“Of course.” Magnus says immediately and then frowns, “Hyde park may be missing an English oak. I almost went with a weeping beech, but I was worried the shade would be too strong.”

Catarina makes a noise like Ragnor’s incredibly ancient —bordering on heirloom— tea kettle.

“Magnus.” She groans and she sounds in pain, “why?”

And Magnus wonders how he hasn’t made himself clear.

“I was missing out on the wonder of Alexander’s eyes because the sun was in the way.” Magnus says slowly. “So shade was required.” And Cat finally seems to get it as she says nothing else for a moment.

“Your Alexander, huh?” She says leadingly, “I think you owe me brunch and some bottomless mimosas as we catch up. I’d heard some chatter but didn’t pay it mind since you didn’t say anything directly.”

And Magnus rolls his eyes but hums, agreeing to it, because he and Ragnor make it a point to argue with Cat as little as possible.

She is nearly always right, and gets very smug about it.

[whatsnewalycat]

Psychomanteum / Chapter 5

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x F!Reader

Chapter 5: Sex with a Ghost

Chapter Summary: You and Dieter indulge yourselves in more ways than one.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.6k+

Content / Warnings: alternating POV, death, cocaine addiction, grief, PTSD, angst, flashbacks, cannabis use, implied poverty, psychic abilities, communication problems, paranoia, dirty talk, oral sex (v receiving), infertility mention, safe sex discussion, but also unprotected PIV sex, fluff, divorce, bathtub

Notes: Chapter title from "Sex with a Ghost" by Teddy Hyde. This chapter is like... a smut sandwich. You'll see.

[ Tag List ] [ AO3 ] [ Spotify Playlist ] [ Series Masterlist ]

You follow Dieter into his hotel room at The Plaza, jaw dropping as the door closes behind you.  

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter to yourself, reaching out to trail your fingers along the buttery smooth finish of the wainscoting framing off sections of the wall. 

Dieter meanders into the living room- the fucking living room inside a fucking hotel room - and plops down on the dusty baby blue velvet sofa (not a couch, a sofa, that’s how expensive it looks) like it’s nothing spectacular. Just some room. 

“This is your hotel room? And you’ve been staying at my apartment?” 

“Technically it’s a suite, not a room,” he advises, causing you to roll your eyes, and stretches out along the length of the sofa, “I like your apartment. This is so,” he grimaces and gestures around his vicinity, “Uptight.” 

“I think fancy-schmancy is the proper term,” you smirk and raise an eyebrow at him, wandering around the circumference of the room, awestruck at the immaculate Edwardian era décor. Gold picture frames. Bright, cream colored walls that stretch tall up to the high ceiling. Spotless reflective surfaces on the tabletops. Plush, delicately colored velvet upholstery lining the chairs and sofa. A fucking crystal chandelier hanging above the center of the room. 

Then you’re reminded of his cocaine-fueled tirade, about your apartment and Ethan’s otherworldly occupancy of it, and scoff, “Also, you do not like my apartment. You said it was, and I quote, fucking creepy.” 

“It is fucking creepy,” he laughs, a real, deep kind of laugh that stretches his face and wrinkles his eyes. He sinks deeper into the sofa’s embrace, then shrugs, “But I like it.” 

Your eyebrows raise and you give him the stank eye, as if to tell him yeah fucking right, but he doesn’t notice. He’s frowning down at his iPhone, tapping the screen.  

With Dieter distracted, you return your attention to the room around you. Along the wall behind the dining room table, you find velvet curtains, the same shade as the luxurious sofa. You spread the curtains open wide, letting the sunlight bathe the room. Down below in Central Park, people are no longer people, but tiny ants mulling about the trails, peeking out from underneath the deciduous tree canopy. When you lean closer, forehead pressing against the warm window pane, the streets below come into view. The veins of this city, vehicles of all shapes and sizes, its blood cells, flowing back and forth to drop things off and pick things up. Always moving. Keeping the city alive. 

A dizzying rush of vertigo hits you, and you pull away from the window, leaving an oily smudge against the pristine glass. You try in vain to wipe it away with your wrist. 

“Besides, this place is way more haunted than your apartment,” he chuckles to himself. 

This piques your interest. 

You tilt your head towards him and frown, “Oh really?” 

He hums in the affirmative, then diverts his gaze from his phone to your eyes and elaborates, “Like this suite? A rich girl died in the bathtub. Took too many benzos and passed out. Drowned accidentally. And um,” he sits up and tosses his phone on the mirror-top coffee table, then points to the window you were just gazing out of, “Some old geezer jumped out that window. Dapper guy. Kind of a jackass.” 

You take a big step away from the window and cross your arms in front of your chest, furrowing your brow, “How do you know that?” 

“I just kind of,” he screws his face up in contemplation, gesturing to the area around his unkempt chestnut hair, “Know. I guess. Since my overdose. It’s weird.”

You creep closer, keeping your guarded posture in place as you sit down in a goldenrod colored armchair across from him. 

“Like at your apartment, I can see him and feel him. It’s…” he scrunches his face up and drops his eyes to the floor, pondering, then looks back up at you, “Like a palpable sadness. Like he’s sorry. It’s really… heavy.” 

Dieter doesn’t need to tell you who he is, or what he’s sorry for. 

“He’s- he’s sorry? Did he tell you that?” Your voice is quiet and shaky. 

“It’s just a feeling,” he shakes his head and frowns, then after a beat, he raises his eyebrows and starts, “He does -” 

He cuts himself off. His mouth clamps shut and eyes go wide before he averts his gaze. 

“He does what? ” you lean forward and search his face. Watching the way he starts to jitter, fingers thrumming against his thighs. How his leg starts to bounce. 

“Nevermind,” he shakes his head, standing up and grabbing his phone from the table, shoving it in his pocket, still averting his eyes, “Don’t listen to me, it’s probably just brain damage or something, anyway.” 

“No fucking way, Dieter,” you scoff, rising to your feet, narrowing your eyes at him, “Tell me.” 

“Fine ,” he groans and rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, then runs his fingers through his mane, “He tries to talk to you. But you’re closed off. That’s why he couldn’t come through the psychomanteum.” 

Your hair stands on end. 

To be totally honest, you thought he was fucking with you by insinuating he has a sixth sense. But this statement makes your stomach twist in a knot. 

“How did you know I didn’t contact him?” 

You haven’t talked to Dieter about your experience with the psychomanteum yet. There’s no way that he could know you failed to contact Ethan, let alone that you used it at all.

“Like I said, I just know,” he sighs, then paces over to the wet bar (this place has a fucking wet bar, for fuck’s sake) and pours whiskey into two cups as he mutters, “This is why I don’t talk about it. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. I can’t explain it.” 

A pang of guilt radiates across your chest, and your shoulders sag, releasing your arms to your sides, “Sorry.” 

“Don’t sweat it, doll,” he mumbles, then picks up two crystal low ball glasses and hands one to you. He empties the glass into his mouth and sets it back on the countertop. You do the same. The liquid burns the ridges of your throat as it succumbs to gravity, then its heat settles in your belly. 

Both of you lean a hip against the countertop and face each other. There’s only a foot between you. His presence is large, but not in a domineering way. It’s warm and settles all around you, squeezing you tight. 

Like a bear hug. 

“How do I, um…” you frown at the floor, trying to find the right words, “Open up… to him?” 

He raises his eyebrows at you and crosses his arms, “You’re asking me how to open up to your husband?” 

Embarrassment heats your cheeks and spreads down your neck. Laughing at the absurdity of it all, you throw your hands up in the air, “Yeah, I guess.”

“I don’t know if you know this or not,” he chuckles, dropping his elbow against the countertop to lean in closer, whispering conspiratorially, “But I am not the best person to get marriage advice from.” 

You smirk and roll your eyes at him, then meet his gaze. He searches your face and sees you’re waiting for a better answer. 

“I dunno, how did you talk to him about stuff when he was alive?” he shrugs.  

After pondering this question for a moment, you answer, “I, um… I guess I don’t know.” 

You pause. Sigh. Bite the inside of your cheek along the ridge of scar tissue you’ve gnawed into your smooth flesh over time. 

Dieter hums and pours more whiskey into the glasses, then nudges one towards you. 

“Bad influence,” you tease, making him grin, then pick it up and take a big swallow. He sips and watches you expectantly. Your heart starts to thud in your chest as you open your mouth. But you don’t know how to say the words at the tip of your tongue. 

You don’t know how to admit that you used to be so fucking good at opening up to Ethan. 

Even after a lifetime of communicating in 3D chest with your mother. After betrayal you felt when your father, your best friend and confidant, left you alone with her. You boarded yourself off to other people, thinking that if they can’t get close, they can’t hurt you. 

Then you met Ethan. 

At the beginning, when you felt angry, frustrated, or hurt, you’d default to passive aggressiveness. Slam doors. Give him the cold shoulder. Keep it inside. Always burying the feelings you thought would burden him. Because that’s what feelings were: a burden to others and to yourself. 

He used to cup your cheeks and stare into your eyes, gaze piercing and determined. Tell you that he wasn’t going to leave you alone until you told him exactly what the fuck was wrong. That he’s not a goddamn mind reader. That there’s nothing you could possibly tell him that would make him run away. 

“Hit me with the truth, baby,” he used to tell you, “I can take it.” 

Direct and honest communication. Nail by nail, the two of you worked tirelessly to pry those shutters open and let the light in. And you did. It was one of the reasons the two of you worked so well together. 

You don’t know how to tell Dieter that, when Ethan relapsed, it changed completely. 

He became a person you didn’t trust. Frequently, Ethan would stumble in at 7am, talking a million miles a minute, a sharp sniff interrupting his monologue every 10 seconds, hands trembling like your grandma’s when she started showing symptoms of Parkinson’s disease. When you told him you were concerned, that it was becoming a problem, he claimed that his drug use was under control. And you trusted his word as truth, because it had been just that for the whole 5 years you were together up to that point. 

But he started to lie about where he was, who he was with, what they were doing. Your confrontation was no longer met with direct and honest communication. 

Instead, it was met with denial. 

He couldn’t take the truth anymore, because the truth was that, despite several lengthy inpatient rehab stays in his twenties and early thirties, despite the control he was able to exert over his urges for years, he was still an addict. 

Eventually, cocaine poisoned his brain with paranoia. You started to lose business because he wouldn’t take on new clients out of fear that they were undercover cops, and the existing clients grew wary of your coked-out husband interrogating them. His list of friends dwindled. The ones that stuck around would come over to your apartment and they’d lock themselves in that fucking room for hours. 

You hated when this happened, because every goddamn time, accusations would start flying and a fight would break out. Then you had to mediate an argument between a bunch of cokeheads or try to get in the middle of a fist fight. It wore you down. 

But it wasn’t just other people that Ethan started to lose trust in. 

He started asking if you were talking to the cops, or the DEA, or the FBI, or the fucking illuminati. You didn’t have to ask to know that he thought you were an informant. Each interaction with him felt like a puzzle. If you said the wrong thing, or laughed at the wrong thing, or didn’t laugh at the right thing, or asked a certain question, it would set him off. He was impossible to predict. 

You no longer felt safe to open up to him, so you boarded yourself back up. Conversations with your husband were a means to an end. Whatever you could do or say to get his attention off of you. He refused to go to treatment. His parents refused to see that he was out of control. His ex-wife had seen this all before and the only advice she could give you was get out. 

You didn’t listen to her advice. You thought that if you just loved him hard enough, stayed with him and worked through this, he would come back. But he never did. 

All of these things you consider telling Dieter. But if you tell him, he’ll know how miserably you failed Ethan. He’ll know that what happened was your fault. He’ll see you for what you really are: a coward. 

Instead, you meet Dieter’s warm brown eyes and shrug, “I’ll figure it out.” 

He raises one eyebrow and his lip curls as he sighs. Disappointment is written all over his face. You open your mouth again, trying once more to explain. 

“I’m… I- I- I used to be able to open up to him. But he was… sick,” you stammer out. 

It’s now that you realize you’ve never said the words out loud: He was an addict.  

You realize that you, too, were scared to admit the truth about Ethan. Tears start to burn behind your eyes. You clamp your mouth shut as they start to slide down your cheeks. 

“Sick?” Dieter inquires. 

You nod, then turn away and start walking around the room again, trying to hide this embarrassing display of emotions. 

He follows you. 

“Lua,” he starts, grabbing your hand. You lace your fingers with his, but don’t turn around. Just stare at the door and will yourself to stop crying stop crying stop fucking crying . 

“Hey, come on,” he tugs at your hand, but you’re frozen in panic. Your mind is filled with a blinding, debilitating terror. 

Dieter walks around your statuesque body when you don’t respond, bringing his eyes level to your far away stare, cupping your face with his hands. His thumbs wipe away the tears like windshield wipers against your flushed cheeks. 

“Look at me,” he rumbles. You blink and bring him into focus, meeting his gaze. His features fold into concern, “You ok?” 

Without warning, his question squeezes your heart like a sponge, expelling the sorrow you’ve been absorbing for over a year. Even before the accident. The grief that started to accumulate over those long, lonely nights when you wondered where your husband was. If he was safe. If he’d ever come home again. 

If he’d ever come home again. He never really did, did he? 

Your face crumples and you shake your head back and forth, and sob, “No- no, I’m not fucking ok.” 

He deflates, then stands up straight and pulls you into a tight embrace. You wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his dirty tank top, chest heaving as you cry against him. His lips press against your hair and he starts to gently rock you. 

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry for crying,” you sniffle between sobs, “I didn’t mean to-“ 

“Louella,” he cuts you off, mumbling against your scalp, “Don’t apologize for crying. I’m here for you, ok?” 

You nod in response, chest heaving as another wave of tears starts to hit you. 

He continues. 

“I know how you feel. You’re not alone, ok? You- you’re safe. With me. I don’t want you to hold back, ok?” he takes you by the shoulders now and pulls back to meet your gaze, holding you steady. His eyes are bloodshot and watery, but hold a deadly seriousness, “Do you understand?” 

You sniffle and nod, wiping tears away with the back of your hand. 

Dieter searches your eyes and grinds out, “Don’t you dare fucking hold back.” 

His intensity rings like a bell, resonating down your center. A shiver ripples goosebumps across your flesh. You nod again, then sniffle and choke out, “Ok.” 

He holds your gaze for a beat longer, then pulls you back into a hug, nose buried in your hair. His body heat wraps around you and squeezes you tight. As you take a deep inhale, you smell the sharp musk of his sweaty tank top, but find it enticing. Your grip tightens, fingertips pressing into his back. He softens at the touch, humming in approval, then mumbles, “You wanna see the rest of the suite?” 

“Are you trying to suggest something?” you chuckle, raising an eyebrow even though he can’t see it. 

“Actually, I wasn’t, but I like the way you think,” he says, and you can feel his cheeks ball up in a grin against you, “I need to take a shower. Change clothes. Make a few phone calls. After that, though,” he pulls back and gives you a smirk, then quirks an eyebrow, “I’ll fuck you in a really fancy-schmancy bed.” 

Your cunt clenches with excitement. You flash him a sheepish grin, “Oh yeah?” 

His tongue rolls across his bottom lip. Your eyes follow the movement. It doesn’t go unnoticed. Fingers dig into your sides and he leans forward, soft patches of his beard rubbing against your cheek as he rumbles, “Is that what you want, sweetheart?” 

Your heart starts to thud heavy in your chest. Head feels light. Joints start to gelatinize. 

“You want me to fuck you?” his breath is hot against your ear. 

You nod and swallow hard.

“Say it, Lua.”

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper back. 

His throat vibrates with something akin to a growl. You slide your hands up to the nape of his neck, into his hair. Savor his soft curls between your fingers. Your foreheads meet. He cups your cheek with his palm. Thumb grazes your lips. A delightful shiver drips down the middle of you.  

Your eyes flutter closed and you pull him closer, tasting the heat of his ragged breath, drinking in the delicious anticipation of his mouth hovering there, waiting for your signal before he acts. 

“Can I kiss you?” he breathes, trailing both hands behind your head until he’s cradling your skull in his strong hands. 

“Please.”

He pulls your lips against his, hard and wanting. You stumble backwards a step from the impact, but recover your footing and return the kiss with equal force. His lips part with a moan. You take up this newly available space, sliding your tongue against his, committing the taste of his saliva to memory. He drops his hands to your hips and thrusts against you, grinding his hardened cock between your bodies. 

“Are you- gonna- be able to- wait that long?” you ask between frantic kisses, tightening your grip on his hair. 

“Don’t think so, doll,” he mutters and presses hard against your sex, pulling a gasp from your chest as the friction pools hot in your center.

The two of you don’t part lips as you stumble blindly backwards until you’re backed up against the sofa. He nudges your head to the side with the bridge of his nose and rumbles, “Think I’m gonna have to bend you over this couch-“ he grabs the sofa and presses his hips against yours, “and fuck you right here.” 

You whimper and tug at his waistband. Capture his lips in yours. He groans into the kiss and slides his hands under the hem of your dress, then turns you around and yanks your underwear down to your ankles. 

“Wanna fuckin’ taste you first,” he mumbles, dropping to his knees, hiking your dress up to your waist, “Take this off, love.” 

You pull it off over your head and toss it aside. His hands are soft but strong on the backs of your thighs, sliding up the sweat-laced skin, knees nudging your stance wider. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, spreading the tender flesh between your legs, “Wanna see that pretty pussy. Fuck yes-”

His tongue parts your lips and drags electric along the middle of you. 

“Oh my fucking god, yes,” you gasp and arch into the delicious sensation. A sharp sting ripples across your ass when he slaps it, and you growl through gritted teeth, “Fuck yes.” 

He starts to roll his tongue over your clit, slow and steady, pleasure growing thick and luscious at your core. Vibrations echo through you as he moans against your cunt. Fingertips dig into the swell of your ass cheeks. 

You whimper and close your eyes, savoring the deep, throbbing pain each digit derives. Relishing the delightful spring of ecstasy his tongue found. Listening to the bass of your heart pounding frantically in your chest. 

His moans grow louder as you bend over and start to writhe against his face. He stills and flattens his tongue, letting you take what you need, grip on your ass loosening so he can feel the heat of your movements against his palms. 

“Do you like that, baby?” you pant, “Like when I ride your fucking face?” 

The thrill of these words leaving your mouth trickles down your spine, collecting molten at your center. You chase this blissful warmth, picking up speed. 

He groans and slaps your bouncing ass in response, prodding you onward. 

“How does that pussy taste, baby, hmm? Like how fucking wet I get for you?” you ask him in a throaty whisper, drunk on power, aching with lust. 

Dieter seamlessly replaces his mouth with his hand, unable to resist the urge to respond, “Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart-”

You reach back and pull his face back between your legs, growling, “Don’t you fucking stop, Dieter-”

He moans and dutifully resumes his position, letting you rub yourself off on his flattened tongue. The muscle feels fucking divine. Slick but firm. Anchored in place exactly where you need him. 

“That’s perfect,” you groan, then swallow hard as static starts to tingle at your core. 

You pick up speed, chasing the sensation, whimpering, “That’s it, baby, just let me fuck that handsome face.“ 

He moans so loud, the vibration shoots through you and makes you gasp with glee, “Fuck yes,” eyes fluttering shut as you concentrate on the pleasure growing wide inside you, hips jerking frantically now, “Wanna hear how much you like it, baby, let me hear-“ 

The sound waves echo deep into your body when he complies. And that feeling, that hot, delicious fucking feeling keeps building inside you. 

“So fucking good, such a good boy,” you croak out, then gasp as the twisting, aching pleasure starts to swell, “I’m gonna cum, baby, just like that, yes- yesyesyes-” 

You come apart in layers, splitting into tiny microscopic pieces before dissolving on his tongue. As you gasp and convulse, lost in your orgasm, he laps away at your cunt frantically, coaxing the sticky, sweet arousal into his mouth. 

“Oh fuck,” you moan, instinctively pulling away from the overwhelming stimulation. His hands hold your hips in place, reeling you back in. He closes his lips around your swollen clit, sucking it mercilessly as your whole body starts to tremble and you let out a choked sob. 

For a moment, all you can hear is your own thudding heartbeat, the deafening pleasure swallowing you whole. 

He moans against you again, tongue breaching your entrance and writhing around. It only makes you want more. You think of his hardened cock against your earlier. How fucking big he was. Desire burns hot at your center. 

“Fuck me, Dee, please-” you whine. 

He starts to fuck you with his tongue and, even though it feels fucking amazing , it’s not what you need. You turn around and look down at him. 

He’s truly a sight to behold. 

On his knees before you, chest heaving, eyes wild and black, face glistening with your cum. He pouts up at you- fucking pouts , this man- and ghosts his hands along your hips, drifting towards your pussy like it has him hypnotized. His cock is tented inside his shorts. A wet spot has darkened a section of fabric to a deep forest green. 

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” you purr, bringing your thumb to run along his bottom lip. 

“Says you,” he chuckles, then grabs your hand in his, pressing his lips to your wrist, holding them there in reverie. A whine emits from your throat at the contact. His eyes follow yours as you lower yourself to the floor, pushing him back gently until he’s seated and you can climb into his lap. 

You tug at the hem of his tank top, pulling it off over his head, then press your palms against his bare chest. His hands slip around your waist. Eyelids flutter shut. Head rolls back. Recognizing his hunger, you hook your hands at the back of his neck and bring yourself closer, until the heat of his skin is flush against yours. 

Your hips roll against the stiff length of him, making him shudder. 

“Fuck , Lua,” he breathes, hot gaze meeting yours, fingers digging into your flesh, pressing a kiss into your jawline before whispering, “Wanna feel that sweet little pussy wrapped around me.” 

“Then take your goddamn pants off already,” you mumble and run your fingers through his hair. 

“Yes ma’am,” he grins, then grants your request, pulling his shorts and boxers down as he tells you, “You can boss me around any time, doll. I’ll do fucking anything for you, I swear to god, anything you want.” 

His cock escapes its confides with a light smack against your thigh. You look down to see it and your eyes widen, then you grin at him, “I fucking knew it.” 

“What?” he laughs at your pleased expression. His hips thrust against yours ever-so-slightly, just a little, just enough to catch some friction on your skin. 

“I knew you had a big dick,” you giggle, covering your face as it starts to flush with embarrassment. 

“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice, sweetheart,” he rumbles. His lips graze your cheek, breath hot against your skin, “You think that tight little cunt will be able to take it?”

You hum and roll your hips forward, pinning his cock between your bodies, then look between it and his eyes, “Only one way to find out.” 

“Should I get a condom?” he asks, searching your face. 

You ponder this for a moment, then return his question with a question, “Are you clean?” 

He nods, “You?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, then start to blush as you say, “I got tested last week. Plus, I haven’t had unprotected sex since, you know…” 

My husband died. 

He hums in acknowledgment, thankfully not making you say it out loud, “I can get one, no problem-”

“No, no, it’s actually- I’d um, I’d like to… not… if that’s ok,” your whole face is flushed now as you stammer, “I, like, know you, so I feel like it’s… different. I don’t know.” 

Your stomach flutters at the admission. 

He grins wide. His hands settle on your waist and his thumbs smooth circles against your skin as he rumbles, “Are you on birth control?” 

You laugh out loud. He furrows his brow and frowns in question. You shake your head, “Sorry, it’s- it’s not funny, I’m just, um, barren. So, no, I’m not on birth control. But nothing grows inside this hostile environment anyways, so…” 

“Hostile environment? ” he throws his head back in laughter at the phrase, then returns to your grinning face with an amused smile and shrugs, “Ok, no condom then.” 

So the two of you guide yourselves into a ready position, the head of him nudging up against your entrance, dipping into the hot, gooey pool of arousal still dripping from your pussy. Slowly, you lower yourself down, mouth falling open with a gasp as your walls stretch wide to accommodate his girth. 

You press your forehead against his and whimper, “Jesus fucking Christ, Dee.” Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck and you pull him into a kiss. As you huff and whine against his mouth, he works you open inch by inch. 

When you don’t think you can take any more, you start to roll your hips slowly. Ecstasy ripples through your body in waves. He lets out soft little moans, grip on your waist tightening, and gasps, “Oh my god , baby- fuck, pussy so fucking good.” 

“Mmm so good -” you slur in agreement, capturing his lips in yours, melting against him. You drip down the length of him, pooling onto the floor pristine floor of this fucking suite whose nightly rate is probably one month’s rent for you. 

You’re now abstract. A concept. A ghost, really. Only existing as your five senses. Dieter is consuming all of them. 

The salty bite of his sweat on your tongue. The throbbing ache of pleasure as he splits you open over and over again. The musky, warm scent of his skin filling your lungs. The breathy curses and praises that fall from his lips. Those lust-blown eyes, dark with passion as they bore into yours. 

“You’re taking me so fucking good, baby, holy fucking shit,” he pants against your mouth, “Sweet little pussy getting filled just how you like it?” 

“Just how I like it, baby, yes yes yes,” you whimper, pushing against his thrusts. 

His fingers dig into your sides and he snaps his hips up, growling, “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck yes-”

You release a choked sob as he reaches the end of you. Stars invade your field of vision. He grits his teeth and grunts in time with his thrusts, bruising grip holding your lower half in place. Burying your face against his neck, you wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, legs around his waist, and hold on for dear life as he fucks up into you mercilessly. 

Then you’re both reduced to your most basic animalistic instincts. Moaning. Grunting. Writhing frantically in a heavy cloud of lust that clings to your skin. Sweat pools between your bodies in the places they meet. 

Pleasure wraps its tendrils around your entire being and burrows inside you. Every single cell in your body is saturated with it, overflowing with it. It pools at your center, churning hot and thick like magma, setting your insides on fire. 

You bite into his shoulder, sinking your teeth into his skin, muffling your wrecked sobs. He moans wantonly. His hands slide up your back. Fingers twist into your hair and tug. 

“Yes yes yes,” you whine, letting your head roll back into his grasp, exposing the column of your neck. He licks up your throat and then lays down a smattering of wet kisses. Your moans project to the ceiling, sound waves echoing through the crystal chandelier, “Fuck me so good, Dee, fucking perfect.” 

Dieter’s pace grows more erratic. His grunts fade to sharp little moans and he pants, “I’m so fucking close, baby.“ 

“Cum inside me, Dee,” you whimper, “Wanna feel you cum inside my pussy-”

He groans, then pulls your lips to his. The kiss is sloppy, just like the rhythm of your hips grinding against his, just like the cadence of his moans melding with yours. 

Gravity slips away as you start to ascend, following the feeling of ecstasy up, up, up, heart pounding, ears ringing from the elevation, body tingling from head to toe. Your stomach flips and you cry out as your orgasm drops you in a freefall. Dieter gasps and groans, hips stuttering as you quiver and clench around him. 

“I’m- I’m-“ his mouth falls open and he shudders beneath you as he cums, fucking his load up into your cunt one, two, three times. 

The fluid motions of your bodies together slow to stop except for your chests as they rise and fall. Even then, the breaths become more shallow, less desperate for oxygen as the exertion fades into normalcy. But the two of you are propped up against each other, tangled in a loose knot, eyes closed, minds numb, muscles still trembling. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” he confesses, mumbling into your neck, “But I don’t wanna move.” 

“I don’t… I don’t think I even can move. We’re stuck here, sorry,” you respond with a content sigh. 

Neither of you protest for another minute or two, until you try to swallow and find your mouth and throat are fucking arid . You cough a little and whine, “Need water. So dry.” 

He groans and squeezes you tighter in protest, then sighs, “Ok. We can do this.” 

You don’t go to move. 

“You gotta go first, though, doll,” he chuckles. 

“Are you sure?” you mumble. 

“Mmm yeah, I’m sure,” he hums, then shifts underneath you, coaxing you into motion. Reluctantly, you sit up and look down at him, meeting his warm gaze. He sits up and presses a kiss against your lips. Soft and sweet. It flutters inside your chest. 

You run your fingers through his hair and deepen the kiss, sinking back down against him. 

A quiet groan rumbles in his throat. His soft cock twitches inside you. Your tongue slides against his, slowly, intimately. An insatiable thirst for him starts to overtake you, but then he breaks the kiss and mutters, “We gotta get off this floor, baby.” 

“Fine,” you groan with exaggeration, then untangle yourself from him and get to your feet. Your body is still trembling and shiny with sweat. The combination of his cum and yours feels slick between your legs as you make your way over to the sink and fill up a glass of water, chug it, fill it up again, and turn around. 

Dieter is sprawled out, spread eagle on the floor, tipping his chin to the ceiling so he can see you. 

“Need help up, old man?” you laugh, tilting your head at him. 

He scoffs, but doesn’t say no, so you set the glass down and walk over his feet, then grab his hands and help him stand upright. 

The two of you drink roughly five million gallons of water, taking turns filling the expensive crystal tumbler with tap water, then guzzling it down like you’ve been stranded in the desert for months. 

“Where was I?” he clears his throat and narrows his eyes around the living room, then a lightbulb goes on over his head and he settles his gaze on you, “Oh yeah, um, do you wanna see the rest of this place?” 

Dieter shows you the two bedrooms and bathrooms of his suite, more tickled by your exasperation at the luxury of it all than the amenities themselves. 

“Look at this fucking bathtub, Dee, oh my god,” you gasp, running a finger along the lip of the white ceramic of the deep soaking tub, eyeing the gilded fixtures, “Can… can I take a bath in it or is that weird?” 

You look up at him, face stretched out in what he thinks is a wince. He frowns, “You can do whatever the fuck you want here, doll.” 

“Sorry, I know you wanted to just be in and out, but this is literally the nicest place I’ve ever been in,” you chuckle and turn away, unsuccessfully trying to hide the way your cheeks deepen a shade. 

Dieter reaches out, capturing your hand in his. You spin towards him and search his face as your fingers intertwine. He asks, “Do you wanna stay in the fancy-schmancy hotel tonight?” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and glance around the immaculate bathroom, “I don’t know. I have to get some orders out tomorrow morning.” 

“We can take a bath and rent movies. Order room service. This place comes with a butler, you know,” he coaxes, reeling you in closer, bringing his hands to your sides, meeting your eyes to show you that he wants you to stay, “I’ll see if he can bring bubbles for the bath.”

Your lips bloom into a big, beautiful smile and you concede, “Ok, ok, if you insist.” 

God, it makes his heart ache with adoration. You are fucking breathtaking. He doesn’t give a fuck whether the two of you stay here, or at your place, or on the fucking street. Just as long as he gets to be with you. 

Which reminds him.

“I gotta make a few calls quick, do you need anything right now?”

You frown and shake your head, “I’m cool as a cucumber.” 

Dieter secludes himself in the smaller of the suite’s two bedrooms. He digs his phone out of his pocket and makes call number one, to his booking agent, Mark. 

Mark is a no-nonsense workaholic who does not understand the concept of “leisure” or “vacations” or “I’m going out of town for a few days to visit a friend so don’t expect me to be available to do work.” Which, most of the time, actually meshes well with Dieter’s frivolity. Mark’s micromanagement and hyper vigilance keeps Dieter on task. 

But this week, Mark has been hammering out the details of an upcoming movie production, cc’ing him on hundreds of emails back and forth about contracts, accommodations, schedules, blah blah blah. Instead of wasting precious time reading through these email chains, Dieter dials Mark’s number and waits for him to pick up. 

“How’s New York?” Mark greets him. There’s no background noise, and Dieter guesses he’s in his office with the door closed. 

“Great,” Dieter responds, pacing slowly back and forth at the foot of the bed. He chuckles to himself when he remembers that the last 4 days were definitely not fucking great, but somehow today has completely overshadowed that fact. 

“Not getting into trouble, right?” 

“Depends on your definition of trouble.” 

This is Dieter’s way of answering him without lying and without saying yes. A conversational loophole. Dieter’s publicized drug use and philandering has had a significant impact on his marketability as an actor. Mark has been working tirelessly to keep work coming in, and would probably fly off the handle if Dieter’s most recent coke binge somehow made tabloid headlines. 

“Seriously, though, are you staying clean out there?” 

So much for the conversational loophole. 

“I, uhh-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Dieter!” Mark’s groan sizzles in the speaker before Dieter can say more. He winces and moves the phone away from his ear. 

“Listen, I don’t think anyone knew who I was. Just went to some shitty bar and met some randos. Went back to their place and did some coke. No big deal,” Dieter paces faster now, running his fingers through his hair, “But then I went back to my, um-“ 

He falters here. The words “my girl” were right on the tip of his tongue before he caught himself. Dieter clears his throat and resumes. 

“My friend’s house and slept it off for a few days. That’s it, though, she’s been keeping me outta trouble otherwise.” 

“Alright, but I swear to god, if that shit gets out I’m gonna kick your fucking ass, Bravo, you hear me?” 

“Yes sir,” Dieter grins, relieved to move on to the next part of the conversation. Moving on from the part where Mark could ask who “she” is. Not that Mark really gives a shit about Dieter’s private life, as long as it doesn’t interfere with his job as an agent. But sometimes guys like Mark come out of left field with sentimentality like that. 

And right now Dieter has no fucking clue how he would react if he were pressed on the topic of you. 

Gun to his head, if someone asked him “What is Louella to you?” He’d end up fucking dead. 

Hell, no gun to his head, if just someone- anyone, really- asked him “What is Louella to you?” There’s a distinct non-zero chance that Dieter would still end up fucking dead somehow. Panicking and jumping out the window seems like a very real possibility in that scenario. 

Thankfully, Mark is not the kind of guy who cares about shit like that. 

So Dieter happily listens to him blather on about next month’s jam-packed schedule, and auditions, and scripts, and flights, and movie production, and fuck, this is so goddamn boring. There’s no way he’s going to remember any of this anyway. It’s a complete waste of time. 

Precious time that he could be spending between your legs, on your lips, even just fucking staring at you. Each minute that drags on makes his skin crawl. 

“Does that all sound good to you?” 

Dieter stops pacing and squints up at the ceiling, then answers, “Yeah. Wanna just send my schedule stuff to Lincoln so he can update my calendar?” 

“Will do.”

The phone call ends and Dieter punches the air in success. One task down. 

He taps around on his phone, pulling up an email from his lawyer, Gene. He opens the document and e-signs all the necessary sections, then sends it as an attachment in response. He calls Gene and leaves him a voicemail, notifying him of the email. 

Then, finally, phone call number three. The phone line trills a few times. He’s not surprised when her voicemail picks up, and instead of her endearing Bulgarian accent, it’s a generic pre-recorded robot message. 

“Please leave a voice message after the beep.”

BEEP  

“Hey, Annie, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know I sent the paperwork to Gene so we can, uhh… wrap this thing up. I, um, I also just wanted to tell you that I wish you nothing but the best. I know I wasn’t always the easiest to deal with and um… I don’t know. I appreciate everything you did for me. For us. Thank you for everything. I guess that’s it. Bye.” 

“This is… by far… the best fucking idea I’ve ever had in my life,” you declare, carefully passing the joint the short distance to Dieter’s dry hand. 

The bath water is hot and saturated with lavender infused epsom salt. Steam curls off the surface between tall stacks of iridescent bubbles. 

He plucks it from your fingertips and closes it between his lips. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, settling deeper into the water, deeper into the stoned haze, deeper into Dieter’s soft, naked body. 

The vibration from his hum of agreement rumbles against your back. 

“I fucking love baths,” you roll your head back, nestling into the crook of his neck. He pokes your belly for attention and you crack an eye open to see the joint held in front of your face. You pinch it from his fingertips and take a hit, exhaling a thick, skunky plume of smoke as you ramble, “There’s that um… Silvia Plath quote from The Bell Jar about baths. Fuck, I wish I could remember it. So good.” 

“There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them. Whenever I'm sad I'm going to die, or so nervous I can't sleep, or in love with somebody I won't be seeing for a week, I slump down just so far and then I say: I'll go take a hot bath,” Dieter recites, then takes the joint from your grip and takes a hit. 

The steaming hot water sloshes as you look up at him, mouth gaping open in disbelief, “You just have that whole quote memorized and on the ready?” 

His face lights up in a smile as he laughs, eyes folding into crescents, “That’s half of my job description. Plus, I like that book.” 

The bright smile is contagious and it spreads to you, heating your chest even more than the bath water does. You sit up and try to turn around so you can kiss him, but the tenuous underwater gravity situation teams up with your dope-fogged brain and throws you off balance. With a squeal, you tip over into the water and completely submerge yourself. 

He starts cackling at you when you resurface, completely soaked and covered in bubbles, and you can’t help but join him in laughter. His wet hand reaches out and you take it, letting him pull you in. Your legs curl around his body, hands meeting at his neck. He holds you there with his wet hand on the small of your back, keeping you from floating away in the deep water of the soaking tub. 

When he hands you the joint, you pout, “I don’t have a dry hand for the joint anymore.” 

“Mmm, here, lemme try something-” he plugs it between his plush lips and inhales, the joint’s cherry glowing bright. His wet hand comes up to your chin and guides your face closer, until your mouth is open and hovering directly in front of his. As he breathes out, you breathe in, taking in his exhaust. 

The THC drags you up higher. The slick heat of his body against you elevates you even higher. 

You exhale a cloud and meet his eyes. They’re hot on yours. He glances at the dwindling joint and dips it into the bath water, then tosses it onto the mosaic tile floor. 

In all honesty, the ashes creeping along the surface of this otherwise amazing bath, and the soggy roach bleeding out soot onto the tile would normally make you feel uneasy. 

But, in all honesty, you find yourself not giving a single fuck about those things. 

Instead, you’re focused on him. He pulls you into a kiss that ignites your soul. Both his hands find your waist underwater and settle there. 

A feeling surfaces. It’s saturated in melancholy and romance and hesitancy. It tugs at your insides and aches to be known. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper, grinning coyly. 

“Give it to me, baby,” he wraps his slippery arms around your back and pulls you closer. 

Your body settles against his, laying your head against his shoulder, watching his Adam’s apple bob when you admit, “I’m kind of sad you’re leaving tomorrow.” 

“Oh yeah?” he smiles, squeezing you tight, “You gonna miss me, sweet cheeks?”

“Oh my god don’t ever call me that again,” you cackle. Your head jostles around on his shoulder as he laughs, too. Then a silence settles. Your fingers ghost along his chest underwater, and you mutter, “Yeah, I think I’m gonna miss you.” 

“I’m gonna miss you, too.”

[ Next Chapter ]

A/N: Out of curiosity, what do you think our lovers would dress up as for Halloween? May or may not be gathering ideas for an upcoming chapter lol.

[study-with-aura]

Monday, February 19, 2024

It's a federal holiday here so the library is not open to volunteer today. However, the flash fiction competition is open, so I submitted my short story that I wrote. I did several more edits on it after my friend peer reviewed it and my mom looked at it, so it was ready.

I made multiple simple mistakes while working on my geometry review today, such as multiplying by 4/3 instead of dividing both sides by 4/3 which is multiplying by 3/4 when finding the volume of a sphere. I went back through on KA for the practice assignments that did not have full marks and re-did those, plus the mastery challenge. At the end of the quarter is when I do the unit tests for the units I studied that quarter, then I will do the course challenge to help at the end of the year for review before the final. I can't keep making simple mistakes.

My mom liked my newspaper assignment, but she said I could have been more detailed in places. She is not wrong, but that's why my grade was a 98%. That's still really good, but when I have the grading rubric available, I should be scoring 100%. She also thought it could have been a bit more organized, which again, she's not wrong. Then my dad said that the hypothesis section for my lab work was a mess. I did color code the if then statement, but it was not specifically what the directions asked for which was one statement and not a paragraph plus statement. It's okay. It's a 95%, and that's an A.

I'm also working on a few things for Girl Scouts, different activities that are available for fun patches. It is fun to discover new things.

Tasks Completed:

Geometry - Review day

Lit and Comp II - Reviewed Unit 16-18 vocabulary + read chapter 23 of Emma by Jane Austen + submitted newspaper writing assignment to mom for grading (122/125)

Spanish 2 - Listened to a story in Spanish + reviewed vocabulary

Bible I - Read Joshua 10

World History - Read timeline for days 9-12 out of 37 days prior to the start of WWI

Biology with Lab - Completed online population lab + submitted lab assignment to dad for grading (36/38)

Foundations - Read more on persuasiveness + completed Lumosity daily brain workout + learned about no true Scotsman, genetic, and black or white fallacies

Piano - Practiced for two hours in one hour split sessions

Khan Academy - Used for Geometry review

CLEP - None today

Duolingo - Studied for 15 minutes (Spanish, French, Chinese) + completed daily quests

Reading - Read pages 47-92 of My Dear Henry: A Jekyll & Hyde Remix by Kalynn Bayron

Chores - Cleaned my bathroom + cleaned windows in my bedroom and in the study + took the trash and recycling out

Activities of the Day:

Personal Bible Study (Joshua 1)

Ballet

Contemporary

Journal/Mindfulness

-

What I’m Grateful for Today:

I am grateful for the opportunity to learn.

Quote of the Day:

The only tired I was, was tired of giving in.

-Rosa Parks

🎧Spiritual Suite for Piano: No.1, The Valley of the Bones - Margaret Bonds

[hldailyupdate]

“Stevie Nicks, everybody.”

-Harry getting the crowd going for Stevie after finishing their emotional duet of Landslide.

Stevie Nicks at BST Hyde Park Festival. (12 July 2024)

[alarrytale]

ola, what do you men by "arrogant in his relationship with louis" and that he loves attention....and that H has narcissistic personality traits (which ones do you mean)...I always viewed H as a private dude he likes privacy but I am thrilled to learn about your views❤️

Hey, anon!

I was mostly referring to his lyrics (and i assumed the anon did too)

You can't blame me, darling

Not even a little bit

I was away

And I'm just an arrogant son of a bitch

Who can't admit when he's sorry

I can totally see Harry being arrogant by standing his ground and being unwilling to compromise and apologise when he feels like he's not the one in the wrong. Louis might be willing to let bygones be bygones and have them both apologise to each other for the hurt they caused. I don't think H is as willing to forgive and forget that easily, especially if he believes what Louis did hurt him more than what he did to hurt Louis. I think Louis often has to be "the bigger man" and suggest to H that they should make up and end their disagreement/fight/dispute. I think Harry could hold a grudge for a long while, and give Louis the silent treatment. Even if Louis is actually in the right in a situation/dispute (big or small) i don't think H admits he was wrong that easily. He'd rather double down.

Idk i might be totally wrong about this, but i could see this happening.

About H having narcissistic personality traits. I think he absolutely loves attention, entertaining people and showing himself off. We're talking about the dude who walked around practically naked in the txf house and who leaked his own nude lmao. I think it gives him confidence and happiness when he sees how people positively responds to him. It's like an adrenaline high for him. He'll do anything for some attention. He doesn’t exactly look mad about being caught with his pants down by Sir mix-a-lot lol.

Source

About him being private. Ohh, you said the P word. I don't think Harry is private at all. I think he's closeted and has an extremely curated image in order to stay closeted and appeal to his fanbase. So he's got an image of a private person, but he's really not. If he could he would skip down Oxford Street hand in hand with Louis showing everyone how in love they are. He'd snog him (with tongue) on a bench in Hyde Park. He'd tweet his favourite quotes by Louis (or resume doing so he used to do that all the time). I've talked about this many a time before. Check out my "privacy" tag for that whole discussion.

[its-moopoint]

This is how shippers fabricate stories and pass them along to followers who believe it all.

sgiandubh:

Hyde Park, London. Planet Earth

This is fresh out of the oven: S&C's interview for Marie-Claire, released a couple of hours ago on Youtube.

I listened carefully and almost choked on my Diet Coke.

Minute mark 6:08, please and thank you:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FBQvZmcHYtg

Here is what I heard:

" S: Um, how did we bond? I mean, I'd call this probably involved but we did have weird dinners and things, we had a nice walk in London, didn't we, when we (unintelligible, haha).

C (dutifully chiming in): Yeah, we bonded over getting our hair destroyed. You know, I had two perms in one week, Sam was on his like seven.

S: seven times.

C: seventh hair-dye.

S: in three weeks, yeah.

C: and we went for a walk in Hyde Park and we sort of had a chat and we were like (unintelligible: "Lord" would be my best guess) this could be.

S: this could be a long one, so buckle up.

C: and let's have each other's backs.

S: yeah.

C: and we did.

S: and we did."

I immediately checked a trustworthy source of information: the Cambridge Dictionary, since these two are British English native speakers. Unlike me:

To be involved in/with something (does not apply, the first question was "how did we bond?"):

be/get involved )in/with sth) - involved - adjective = to do things and be part of an activity or event.

be/get involved with sb) = to have a sexual or romantic relationship with someone.

We knew something happened there and then. It was, after all, " a special day for us", wasn't it?

And they did.

I rest my case, your honor.

sgiandubh @lovejustlove - Stars aligned.

sgiandubh @jclovely - I respectfully agree to disagree, based on nothing else but my intuition. Chemistry test looked to me as love at first sight, which I have experienced - something shattering.

lovejustlove

Personally I think they’ve been together from the beginning

sgiandubh @monimarim - You know, I am not so sure anymore. Others heard "alcohol was probably involved", which would also make perfect sense. He could have articulated it better, damnit! Unless...

monimarim

Hmm, Freudian slip, or a voluntary one?

sgiandubh @shoutlandish - irrespective of the accurate transcript of this quote, which may, or may not be "alcohol was probably involved", yes. To my ears, it is impossible to tell and I own my mistake, if that is the case. :)

shoutlandish

I can picture in my mind the cute photo of them in Hyde Park (or right after), Cait with her wild curls. They looked so utterly infatuated. It must have been a very special day, indeed!

sgiandubh @2truthsandalie5 - I mean, either they got drunk and then turtle soup, hehe. Or they got involved, hallelujah.

2truthsandalie5 @sgiandubh It changes nothing! I agree completely!

sgiandubh @mememukisblog - "alcohol was probably involved" is an alternate transcript. He always walks a thin, red line. Always.

sgiandubh @2truthsandalie5 - It could be, I listened again. It could very well be and if I am wrong, it does not change anything to the bigger picture, does it?

mememukisblog

The Heughans!

2truthsandalie5

I heard alcohol was probably  involved, but i just listened once?

Oh dear Jesus.

Again typical shippers bullshit: they tell others what to hear. And when it's debunked they go "oh well it doesn't matter" and "believe what you want".

[waugh-bao]

I swear any quote about Charlie being scared is like a knife to the heart. When he said he went to bed and cried after being diagnosed with throat cancer was bad enough but then to know he was scared he didn't have anything left to give? It makes me want to cry too. I think that is why it is such a joy to watch those post-2006 concerts, especially the big ones like Glastonbury, Hyde Park, Havana,and see him still in such control is so lovely. He still had so much to give. I just want to hug him.

“When I first found out about the cancer, I literally went to bed and cried. I thought that was it, that I'd only have another three months.”

“I was very frightened. Mick and Keith were getting on very well and Mick was mucking about on the drums. What they were doing was very good and I felt, Crikey, have I got anything to give? and I was very scared.”

It really is awful to know that he was so emotionally impacted not just by the cancer diagnosis itself, but by a long term fear that, even if he survived, he would no longer be wanted because of how ‘damaged’ he was.

I think Keith and Mick went out of their way to allay that fear, both in the way they treated him and in how they talked to the press. Like what Keith said to Rolling Stone magazine in 2005:

“Mick and I were at Mick's place in France - we were beginning to write when we got the news. Mick and I looked into each other's eyes and realized, ‘It's down to this - just us.’ Then I said, ‘For the moment, you're on drums, and I'll double on bass.’

I don't think that, between us, there was any doubt that Charlie would beat it. I wondered how long and debilitating it might be, which Charlie answered in spades when he came back. He looked exactly the same, like he hadn't done anything more than comb his hair and put a suit on.

This is Charlie Watts' finest album. If you listen to the drumming, it's as if he came back and said, "A minor flesh wound!" When he came in, we were still running down songs, rehearsing. You don't usually go into fifth gear in rehearsal. You lay back a little. But Charlie came in as if to prove ‘I’m back.’ He played every rehearsal like a show.”

And it absolutely makes all of the Bigger Bang and post-2006 concerts that much more amazing, and touching, to see. Especially the way Keith and Ronnie invented their little ritual of walking him out together for his bow, like they were just too excited not to show him off to the world.

[scotianostra]

On January 31st 1761 Lachlan MacQuarie, was born on Ulva, a small isle off the island of Mull.

Lachlan joined the Army in 1776 (aged 14) and served in Nova Scotia as well as New York and Jamaica. As a lieutenant he served in India from 1787 to 1801 and later in Egypt where he was involved in defeating the army of Napoleon. In 1810 Macquarie became Governor of New South Wales at a time when it was still being used as a penal colony. The previous Governor had been Captain Bligh of the “Bounty”.

Macquarie followed a policy of encouraging the former convicts to settle in Australia - despite opposition from the “free settlers” who wanted to retain privileges only for themselves. Australia would be a different place if he had not succeeded. He transformed Australia into a thriving country and Sydney from a shanty town to a Georgian city and is regarded as the “Father of Australia”.

His policy concerning the Aboriginals was an expression of the same humanitarian conscience. He organized the Native Institution (a school for Aboriginal children), a village at Elizabeth Bay for the Sydney tribe, an Aboriginal farm at George’s Head. Orders of merit and even an old general’s uniform were bestowed on deserving chiefs.

It must be noted also that he ordered The Appin Massacre, to round up all Aboriginal people in the area after some unrest. Those who resisted were to be shot. On 16 April 1816, at least 14 were killed by shooting; others were driven to jump to their deaths into a rocky gorge, near Broughton Pass.

So he wasn’t perfect, but who is, a bit of a rogue as well by all accounts, was adverse a wee bit of embezzlement, but managed to wriggle out of it, “laws” he laid down were of the strict Presbyterian upbringing on the Islands on the Inner Hebrides, nude sunbathing was banned as was “shooting a neighbour’s dog on a Sunday” As a Scot his ability to have a good drink were evident, of his army life in India he “took to the field” with “eight dozen bottles of brandy and Madeira” and “a quantity of gin”. One of his diary entries, penned after a big night out, shakily read, “No beer for three months’!

For the Australians reading this Lachlan also set aside land in Sydney for "recreation and amusement of the inhabitants of the town” He named it Hyde Park, it was here Australia’s first sanctioned horse racing took place. At one of the fairs at the park he organised, “ladies raced in sacks for a cheese” where men would bet on the results and have a laugh! At another two men competed in a mile foot race before slugging it out for 56 rounds in Australia’s first bare knuckle prize fight. Now the remark about the sack race might make you think he was a misogynist, maybe he was, but he was ahead of his time and a revolutionary for the fairer sex, giving plum jobs to women, with reformed banknote thief Elizabeth Killett appointed to run the Sydney Market.

But his liberal attitude to the convicts finally was his downfall, Macquarie’s critics sparked a British government inquiry into his rule and the governor resigned, setting sail for Britain in 1822 with a shipload of kangaroos for his friends and patrons it was said that…

“as a Scotsman he was drawn to an animal with an inbuilt sporran”. Other men may lay claim to be “The Father of Australia” but are any as colourful as oor Lachlan?

Macquarie died in London in 1824 while fighting charges made against him as Governor. He was buried in a Mausoleum on the Isle of Mul in a mausoleum near Salen with his wife, daughter and later son. The grave is maintained by the National Trust of Australia and is inscribed “The Father of Australia”.

As I stated earlier, and with a lot of these anniversaries about people born during the days of the British Empire, Macquarie was heavily involved in atrocities. I will point to one quote attributed to him....... in 1816 around the time of the Appin massacre, that all Indigenous people “from Sydney onwards are to be made prisoners of war, and if they resist they are to be shot and their bodies hung from trees in the most conspicuous places near where they fall, so as to strike terror into the hearts of the surviving natives”

You can find out loads about him online one of the sources can be found at the link at the bottom. The BBC made a drama-documentary in 2011 called The Father of Australia, https://nativistherald.com.au/2018/04/20/australias-founding-fathers-lachlan-macquarie/

[freakingoutthesquares]

Reunion Tour, 2011

"Second up is "Pink Glove", a song which, with its sublimely Sparksian structure, highlights the underrated role which the ever-suave Russell Senior always played in the Pulp sound."

Isle of Wight Festival Review

The Independent 19 June 2011

The robot voice has something important it wants to say. "We don't want no trouble," it announces, reciting the blurb from the "Mis-Shapes" single sleeve in flat, from-the-future tones. "We just want the right to be different, that's all. Do you?"

For all the glorious comebacks of adored bands in recent months and years, it has to be said that Pulp feels like The Big One. It's difficult to put your finger on exactly why that is, until you consider that robotic announcement and everything it entails. Because, from the very beginnings of Britpop, Pulp – thirtyish, corduroy-flared, northern, deadpan – were always the real outsiders in the pack, and outsiders rallied behind them.

And now, in a time when indie rock has become even more the domain of knuckle-dragging conformists than it was when the Gallagher monsters first belched on to the airwaves, we desperately need a band like Pulp. And in the absence of any suitable contenders, Pulp themselves have made their return with an action hero's timing.

So, as the sun sets over the Solent, the big black drape tumbles down, the giant "PULP" neon flashes into life and Jarvis leads the classic-era line-up into "Do you Remember the First Time", there's a phenomenal frisson of excitement among ... well, among me. The reaction to Pulp's first show on British soil from festival-goers who only remember about three hits and are waiting around for the Foo Fighters, however, is lukewarm compared with that which greeted their live return at Primavera the other week, and the partisan roar they'll elicit at Hyde Park in a fortnight's time.

No matter. Cocker, bearded, bespectacled, brown-suited and looking more like a geography teacher than ever, is on fine form, punctuating the set with the usual banter ("I came here as a child. I return as a man. Of sorts ..."), quoting Tennyson, doing a striptease, pulling kung fu poses and throwing packets of sweets to the kids in the front row – an act which, when combined with his seedy appearance, surely risks getting him added to some sort of register.

The set, while about as hit-packed as possible, doesn't pander entirely to the dilettante. Second up is "Pink Glove", a song which, with its sublimely Sparksian structure, highlights the underrated role which the ever-suave Russell Senior always played in the Pulp sound. We also get album tracks like "I Spy", the epic jealousy of the B-side "Underwear", and one of their true masterpieces, the explosive "F.E.E.L.I.N.G.C.A.L.L.E.D.L.O.V.E.".

Having been present when Pulp played one of the greatest festival sets of all time at Glastonbury in 1995, it was always going to be a tall order to hit that peak again. But any set which can close with "Common People" cannot fail. The equal-greatest political pop song of the 1990s (with Manic Street Preachers' "A Design for Life") is particularly apposite in the age of the Bullingdon Club front bench, and by the time it hits the chorus, even the Foo Fighters fans are going Radio Rental. "Won't it be strange when we're all fully grown?" Pulp asked us in "Disco 2000". We're all fully grown now. And I don't know about strange, but it feels bloody fantastic.