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90363462 · 2 years ago

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Why ‘Atlanta’ Is One Of The Greatest Shows In TV History

Donald Glover's masterpiece shirked traditional Black comedy and drama tropes while also breaking virtually every rule of TV show writing.

(L-R) Zazie Beetz, Brian Tyree Henry and Donald Glover speak onstage at the “Atlanta” New York Screening at The Paley Center for Media on August 23, 2016, in New York City. | Source: Neilson Barnard / Getty

The very first scene in the very first episode of Donald Glover‘s Atlanta included what Aaron McGruder’s The Boondocks described as “a n***a moment.” In the scene, Alfred Miles aka Paper Boi, played by Brian Tyree Henry, gets into a heated exchange with a Black man who had just broken the side mirror on his car. Aggravated words were had, guns were flashed and Black-on-Black crime seemed imminent as the scene ended with the ominous sound of a gunshot.

Based on the intro to that series premiere, a lot of people thought this was going to be just another Black show about rapper hood dreams and Black people at their lowest.

It turns out the show was that, but also any and everything but that. Atlanta was a Trojan horse that presented itself to the world as a semi-typical Black dramedy, but it ended up being a show that not only shirked traditional Black comedy and drama tropes, but it broke virtually every rule of TV show writing across the board—and still managed to be one of the greatest TV shows of all time, in my not-so-humble opinion.

The series finale of Atlanta aired on Thursday. The episode, titled “It Was All a Dream,” wasn’t your typical series finale. It wasn’t emotional and sentimental the way the finales of shows like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and A Different World were. It didn’t bring any story arcs to a conclusion. (Including the aforementioned guns hot scene. Seriously, what happened there? Is buddy who broke the mirror OK?) We still don’t know if Earn and Vann moved to Los Angeles with their daughter or if Alfred ever came to terms with his persistent internal conflict that showed all the signs of clinical depression. For the most part, the final episode of Atlanta was just another episode of Atlanta. And that’s all it needed to be because it matches the show’s energy through its run.

Rather than sticking to conventional and linear storytelling, Atlanta‘s episodes were often disjointed from each other. It is a dramatic and bizarre cacophony of randomness, surrealism, dark comedy, dry comedy and Blackity-Black Blackness. It is a show that was allowed to be anything it wanted to be from episode to episode.

Arguably the first episode that made this explicitly evident was episode 7 of season 1, “B.A.N.” In this episode, Paper Boi was a guest on a fake talk show on a fake Black media network that also featured fake Dodge Challenger commercials among other satirical TV ads. All of a sudden, a TV show that, at the very least, stayed in a lane in terms of its genre, became the same show with an added mixture of satire, sketch comedy and direct social commentary.

Then there were episodes like “Teddy Perkins,” the season 2 episode that is the only one to focus squarely on Darius, the character played by LaKeith Stanfield. This episode set the tone for season 3 which aired 4 years after season 2 and took the cast all the way from Georgia’s Blackest city all the way to a tour of Europe.

Actors Lakeith Stanfield (L) and Donald Glover, winners of Best Television Series – Musical or Comedy for ‘Atlanta,’ attend FOX and FX’s 2017 Golden Globe Awards after party at The Beverly Hilton Hotel on January 8, 2017, in Beverly Hills, California. | Source: Rodin Eckenroth / Getty

And for some viewers, the show had simply gotten too weird. From the “Three Slaps” episode that fictionalized a real-life Black horror story, to the bizarre and cringy 2 Pac death scene in “Sinterklaas is Coming to Town” to the “Tarrare” episode that had us all asking, “OK, what the hell is wrong with Van?”—it became clear to everyone that this show doesn’t GAF about viewer expectations. It’s a show that loved itself so much that it didn’t care how many fans jumped ship because the ride they were being taken on was wavy and random without a clear destination.

While that characteristic didn’t change much in this final season, the cast was brought back to Atlanta, and we even saw a resolve to the often-strained, on-again-off-again relationship between Earn (Glover) and Van (Zazie Beetz). Earn and Van wasn’t your typical “will they/won’t they” sitcom couple. These were two adults who shared a child and cared for each other but struggled to get it together. And because Atlanta departed from most other Black TV comedies in that it wasn’t so hyperfocused on dating and relationships, it wasn’t until season 4’s “Snipe Hunt” episode that Earn and Van finally declared their love for each other and made themselves an official couple. Until then, their relationship journey was a peripheral story arc that was only highlighted in an episode or two per season.

That being said, one piece of criticism I have about the show is that Van—despite being the only character to have a solo episode in every season—never had much character development that took her beyond being the mother of Earn’s child. This isn’t to say that she had no development at all, but her main conflicts in the show were being constantly reduced to “Lottie’s mom,” her struggling with parenthood and Earn’s refusal to commit to her. And she was never really able to veer out of that box. Van’s story arc was always tied to Earn and Lottie.

The character of Earn, on the other hand, went from being a frustratingly irresponsible and selfish character (to the point where I was happy to see him get his a** beat in season 2’s “North of the Border” episode) who was essentially leeching on his cousin’s rap fame, to a successful manager whose status and financial situation seemed to rise alongside Alfred’s.

Speaking of Alfred—Paper Boi had the most interesting arc on the show. He’s my favorite character. He was what many would consider a “hood n****a”—and he was that—but throughout the series, he was a morally conflicted, often sad, sometimes ignorant, sometimes admirable layered character that was allowed to be vulnerable and softened. (This was especially evident in season 2’s “Woods” episode.

Look, I can go on and on explaining all the nuances and innovation that makes Atlanta not just one of the best Black TV shows ever, but one of the best in general, but I’ll just leave you with one final point.

Black creatives need space to be creative in a limitless way. With the help of director Hiro Murai, Gover and his writing team were able to create a Black show where even “hood” characters were allowed to be Black AF, but also quirky, strange and layered. It broke all the rules and challenged its own viewers like no other show has ever done.

If you’ve never seen it, I recommend you give it a try. Just keep an open mind—you’re going to need it.

SEE ALSO:

Is Donald Glover A ‘Black Genius’?

‘Atlanta’ Takes On The Value Of Human Life In Stirring Shooting Scene

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dat-bruv-person · 3 years ago

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I LOVED THE IDIOT TRIO GOING SHOPPING OH MY GOODNESS COULD THERE BE A PART TWO WHEN THEY GO ON A ROAD TRIP AND IT GOES WRONG PLEASE I BEG YOU

The Road Trip Bois - Bakusquad August Event!

Bakusquad August Masterlist

Pairing: Idiot Trio x reader

Genre: fluff, crack

a/n: Awwww, thank you so much! I love the idiot trio too, I personally felt that was my best piece of writing so I’m very thankful that people like it. But, you want the idiot trio going on a road trip... and it goes WRONG. I- well I guess I could do that. I have so many ideas though! Because of this, I'm gonna leave you on a cliffhanger and introduce a next part if you want it.

The summer holidays were approaching fast for Class-2A, yet still Kaminari, Sero, Kirishima and (L/n) had maintained their friendship. It felt like a blur, in all honesty, transferring from middle school to Class-1A, from getting their hero licenses to interning at different agencies. And only when they were just getting settled in Class-2A, it was coming to an end! No more villains or school work, just a well-deserved break.

Now old enough to drive, the idiot trio, and their only responsible friend (L/n), decided that they’d go on a fun road trip. It would be just like the ones in comedy movies: a fun time for everyone, as well a break from all the stress. What they didn’t know, however, was that this road trip was certainly going to be one hell of a ride.

It was the last day of school, and everyone was saying their goodbyes. At this point, everyone felt like family to everyone, growing and strengthening with every passing day. (L/n) tapped [insert pronouns] foot in impatience and glanced down at [insert pronouns] new watch, an end-of-year present from Momo, a close friend who also happened to be in [insert pronouns] class. [Insert pronouns] looked over to see Kaminari and Sero running towards [insert pronouns], big wide grins on their faces. (L/n) high-fived them both and smiled warmly.

“So,” [insert pronouns] said, ”are we ready to go on our road trip?” Kaminari jangled the car keys in response. The bright sun caught on the golden cut pieces of metal, making them glow almost as if they were holy. Sero shielded his eyes. He pulled out a fancy Mexican hat, a sombrero to be exact, and perched it on his head. He wiggled his eyebrows at his friends, earning a laugh from the two of them.

“Yep! We’re just waiting on Kirishima, he’s saying bye to Bakugou” Sero informed (L/n). As if he was summoned, the red-head came dashing over, right on cue, with a massive smile on his face.

“Hey guys! I was saying bye to the rest and asked Bakubro if he wanted to come with us on our trip, but he said no.” he said. He then suggested that the four head back to the Heights Alliance to collect their things for the last time, stuff them in suit cases, and pack them in their rented caravan. Luckily, (L/n), Sero and Kaminari thought that that was a good idea, and thus headed back to the dorms.

Well, this was going to get interesting.

“AYYY MACARENA!” The four were soon in the caravan, Kaminari in front driving, Sero in the passenger seat, Kirishima and (L/n) in the back. To get rid of boredom, they decided to sing. Well, not all of them. (L/n) felt sour from not being able to drive, [insert pronouns] could, but Kaminari insisted that [insert pronouns] relaxed and he take care of everything. A pool of doubt bubbled in (L/n)’s gut. Something was bound to go wrong if you left things in Pikachu’s human lookalike’s hands. And they had left driving in Pikachu’s hum lookalike’s hands.

Kaminari soon sped past a sign, and (L/n) looked back.

“What was that sign all about?” Sero asked, turning his head back.

“That the road ends 50 yards from here, why?” Kirishima answered calmly. Kaminari’s eyes widened as he threw his hands up into the air.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE ROAD ENDS-”

“KAMINARI LOOK OUT!”

“AAAAAAHHH WHAT THE FUUUUUU-”

“WE’REGONNADIEWE’REGONNADIE WE. ARE. GOING. TO. DIE!”

The car tyres screeched as Kaminari turned the steering wheel in a frantic attempt to dodge the cliff ahead. The car came to an abrupt halt, and a few rocks tumbled down into the what seemed like a never-ending abyss below, off the face of the cliff. All four group members were breathing heavily in short gasps, and clutching their chests. Kirishima eyed (L/n). (L/n) eyed Sero. Sero eyed Kaminari, and Kaminari’s eyes fell upon his closest friend, (L/n). Maybe, he thought, he should’ve let [insert pronouns] drive instead. He let out an awkward chuckle to break the suffocating silence.

“So, um, (L/n)?” he asked, ”Bestie? (Y/nnnnnn)? Love of my-” (L/n) sent him a sharp, dirty look, letting him know that [insert pronouns] was not happy. None of this would’ve happened if [insert pronouns] was driving. This road trip could only go downhill from here, and boy did it.

Sero reached a hand into the picnic hamper that they’d brought. Luckily, it was stocked with foods they all liked, and would probably hold them over for about a week and a half. He dug around a bit, before bringing out a flask of sweet tea. He took a sip, and then swallowed it. Tape boy blinked once, twice then narrowed his eyes to look in front of him. No, it couldn’t be.

“So, I may be wrong,” Sero began explaining, “but I think the engine may be overheating.”

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towntrapped · 4 years ago

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〉 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 WREN DAVIES, 22 YEARS OLD, PANSEXUAL, WARRENPORT NATIVE.

‣ pronouns: she/her ‣ current occupation: college dropout, currently works shifts at a couple of the stores ( thrift store, supermarket, etc. ) and helps around her dad’s workplace ‣ her dad works as a mechanic, her mom is a secretary for the primary school ‣ has two sisters; they all strangely grew fond of helping around the car workshop so you bet she knows how to fix engines and change tyres ‣ had always wanted more than staying in town and sort of fading away ‣ managed to get away to a good university in rhode island, but stayed for only a year -- it was too stressful, too much everything ‣ harmony = happiness ‣ once worried that she’d just fade away if she stayed in town, now fears that she might not be able to cope with the hecticness of the big cities ‣ gets too much into the little details, prefers organization over spontaneity and chaos ‣ cannot admit how much she likes comedy movies and sappy horror ones ‣ mom friend; will braid your hair when you’re stressed and cup your hands in hers when she can tell they’re cold ‣ + level-headed, intuitive, reassuring, helpful, resourceful / - slightly aloof, defensive, finicky, an overthinker ‣ character inspirations: velma ( ‘ scooby doo’ ), nina ( ‘in the heights’ ), wendy ( ‘peter pan’ ), katara ( ‘avatar: the last airbender’ )

#washedupintro #* wren / about

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streaming-en-2021 · 4 years ago

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Date de sortie: Sep 02, 2021

Sortie: 2021-03-24

Durée: 113 minutes

Genre: Action, Science-Fiction

Etoiles: Alexander Skarsgård, Millie Bobby Brown, Kyle Chandler, Rebecca Hall, Brian Tyree Henry

Directeur: Terry Rossio, Eric McLeod, Ronald R. Reiss, Sarah Halley Finn, Owen Paterson

Synopsis

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While the players who play a role in the film are referred to as actors (men) or actresses (women). There is also the term extras that are used as supporting characters with few roles in the film. This is different from the main actors who have bigger and more roles. Being an actor and an actress must be demanded to have good acting talent, which is in accordance with the theme of the film he is starring in. In certain scenes, the actor’s role can be replaced by a stuntman or a stuntman. The existence of a stuntman is important to replace the actors doing scenes that are difficult and extreme, which are usually found in action action films.

❍❍❍ Thanks for everything and have fun watching❍❍❍

Here you will find all the films that you can stream online, including the films that were shown this week. If you’re wondering what to see on this website, you should know that it covers genres that include crime, science, fi-fi, action, romance, thriller, comedy, drama, and anime film.

Thanks a lot. We inform everyone who is happy to receive news or information about this year’s film program and how to watch your favorite films. Hopefully we can be the best partner for you to find recommendations for your favorite films. That’s all from us, greetings!

Thank you for watching The Video Today.

I hope you like the videos I share. Give a thumbs up, like or share if you like what we shared so we are more excited.

Scatter a happy smile so that the world returns in a variety of colors.

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sparrowsabre7 · 4 years ago

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I low-key love the absurdity of "Too Old to Die Young". It's such inane bullshit filled with humanity's worst, but beyond the audiovisual treat I mentioned previously it occasionally drops some complete non-sequiteur of comedy gold.

For instance:

Episode 5 has spend 40 out of 75 minutes building up this vigilante cop killing a bunch of rape pornographers (I should point out briefly that in no way is the cop considered a 'good' guy but it would take far too long to detail the full extent of his own debauchery). We've had him gain their trust, get to a secluded location under pretense of wanting to be part of a scene before suddenly shooting them all in the head. He begins to leave before being shot at by the pornographer's brother and associates. A car chase begins, in itself already hilarious because a shitty Nissan Leaf can keep up with the protagonist's sports car he went out of the way to buy last episode.

So you already have these shots of the interior with close ups of the drivers, the protagonist's car making the typical throaty vrrrrrrm you'd expect and then the pornographers' car making what sounds like the weedy whirr of an electric car.

It then gets better when the brother switches on the radio to some electro pop/techno (I don't know music genres well enough to be sure) and then the other guy switches it over to "Mandy" by Barry Manilow. There is a brief back and forth of switching back before it settles in on "Mandy" for the chase and starts changing from the dramatic changes and cuts of a standard car chase to using fades and dissolves you'd expect from a 80's music video.

It fades to day and back to the car chase and it devolves further into farce territory, when the chasers continue to miss with a shotgun at close range, frequently spin out and yet, you guessed it, not only gain,but overtake the sports car in the fucking Nissan until finally the leaf runs out of battery...

And then the sports car pops a tyre mere metres from the leaf.

But the chasers are out of ammo and begin arguing the merits of gas vs electric and how they should have taken his brother's american made car before the protagonist reverses directly into them then gets out and shoots point blank.

There are comedies less funny than this.

#too old to die young #nicolas winding refn

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lockdownuk · 4 years ago

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Lockdown Diary Part 8

A personal account during the lockdown in the UK due to the Covid-19 outbreak.

23/03/2020 8:30pm Boris Johnson, UK Prime Minister, gives a live address to the nation to, effectively, put the country on lockdown to stem the spread of the deadly coronavirus strain, Covid-19.

Many of us have been self-isolating for days but this latest development within the UK in reaction to the pandemic feels very serious and very scary. I decided to keep a simple diary and where better but online.

Day 211: I stayed up till 5am last night. The last thing I watched was Ronny Chieng, a Malaysian comic in the states. It was a Netflix comedy special and bloody funny. Other than that, a quiet night, nowhere near as fucked as Friday night. As I type, I am about to finish off spicy af sausage cassserole for tea and watch a film - all quite sedate. I’ve work tomorrow, after all!

Day 212: Every time I try and watch something on Amazon Prime, it errors or doesn’t load so I have to uninstall and reinstall, which is a pain the fucking arse. Glad I don’t pay for it. I watched half of the Tom Hanks film last night, A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood, based on a real life children’s TV actor. It’s good but weird. I’ll finish it tonight. Jo Broom called and told me (well, reminded me of, actually) some good info, especially about insulin lasting 4 hours and the liver producing sugar for when you wake up). Day 213: I didn’t watch the rest of that Tom Hanks film last night, doing so right now. I got a call @5.30pm from Tall Tom asking to pop round which he did (social-distancing at the front door). He dropped of a canvas print he’d ordered of on eof my pictures from FB. Fucking gobsmacked! That’s how much he likes them. I am still in shock. What a brilliant thing to do! Day 214: Finished A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood last night, I enjoyed it. Today has been standard. Half way through the third week back from furlough and, while I am still very glad to be working, I now also relish pasrt of being paid 80% for fuck all! My walks have been tentative today, I have done something to my right ankle, it feels sore but OK when walking at pace. My phone and Google Fit are playing up - I am suddenly walking 8km/h! Day 215: Phoned Dad - Rita sent an email a couple of days ago telling of a lump in his ear which he had removed and they are going to check for cancer. When I spoke with him it was usual dad - nothing to worry about. He spoke very highly of the staff at Stamford Hospital where he had it done. They took skin from his nesxk to put on his ear lobe where they performed the op. I had pie and veg tonight. It’s a real change and I am stuffed as I type this. SB pee-ed me off at work big time late this afternoon. Diary updated! Day 216: Dan’s in court today for his drink driving escapade. I think he’s pleading not guilty - I’m not sure, neither has he been each time I have talked to him about it. It was scheduled at 4pm and he’s meant to let me know how it went. As I type, it’s just gone 9pm. Fuck knows what’s happening. I guess he’ll let me know in his own time. Meanwhile, work was OK, nothing hectic, I am on my first Friday beer, just about to eat meatballs and pasta and watch Taxi, a film written by Luc Besson. End of my 3rd week back and it’s a bit like I wasn’t furloughed for 6 months!

Day 217: I switched off that Taxi film after 30 minutes. It was bollocks. Dan got a 20 month ban (reduced to 15, if he does a course, which he says he will) and £1100 fine. At least it’s over and done with now. I got up at gone 2pm today. I have to cut this late sleeping habit out at the weekends. That being said, it’s 8.40pm, just about to dive in the shower, eat and then get on it. Clocks go back later so I’ve an extra hour to play with!

Day 218: Still managed to stay up stupidly late last night, up at before 1pm (but in real terms, that’s just before 2pm!) Had a video chat with Fog - I was meant to go up to his yesterday to listen to the footy but, ‘cos I was up so late, I didn’t. Anyway, during our chat, we’ve decidied to go to Honolulu when it’s safe, specifically to go to McDs. It was a bizarre conversation - I can’t actually remember the details!

Day 219: The lady (I think it’s a lady) from the Oundle Chronicle emailed to say she didn’t think William (the student) has contacted me (he has but is fucking useless), so she’s found some questions for me to answer and wants me to pick my favourite 4 (hi-res) photos. I’ve written a couple of paragraphs that answer her questions and I was to pick photos that have had the most likes on FB - finding that info out, without trawling back over my posts, is easier said than done! Got the car tyres sorted today - an advisory from the MOT that Julian did last week.. I do like Oundle Tyre and Exhaust centre. Work was fine. Marke had to deal with Eileen Baxter and chatted to me about it. I had it all the week before last. She’s delightful but the least IT savvy person I have ever known in a workplace whereby a computer is integral to the role!

Day 220: I’ve been doing press-ups and toe tocuhes after each exercise for a little while now. 7 press-ups, doesn’t sound much but when I did it before and rapidly increased the numbers (up to 22), it played havoc with my shoulder which I thought was becoming frozen. So, I will icrease the amount slowly. I can just about touch my toes now. When I started, I barely got past my fucking knees! Work was standard today and I had an interesting chat with a recruiter about a job at Jagex, a computer game firm responsible for Runescape which is, apparently, a big deal. Posh playing tonight. At one point, when leading at home to Burton we were top. Now it’s 2-2 with minutes to go and we’re third with fucking Lincoln top. Day 221: I sent an email to Shirley from HR (re) asking about the salary discrepancy between mine and Mark’s. She’s going to talk to me tomorrow about it. I had a lomng chat with Barrzy tonight, always good to catch up and reminisce. I’ve just had two sausage rolls (on the cheap shelf from Co-Op, Dauphinoise dotatoes (ditto), mixed green veg and onion gravy for tea and I am fucking stuffed.

Day 222: Typing at gone 4pm on day 223! Had a meet with Shirley. No dice on the pay until it can be reviewed next year. All pay reviews are on hold. She explained that the salary offer was based on available budget rather than a pay grade or bench mark. Day 223: Typing this very late on day 224. Usual Friday. Work, beers, bed at 5am. went up Fog’s for a couple and watched Train to Busan. Day 224: I swore blind, when I woke and got up (2.24pm) I would have a day off from exercise. Stair climb and 10km walk done! Leigh from Oundle Chronicle messaged chasing my answers for the article. Last night, someone posted such great pics on the Oundle Chatter group that it makes me think twice about posting my photos. I tell everyone I just point and snap with my phone camera and, while it is the phone camera, I do so much pissing about with Google photos I feel like a con, it doesn’t sit well with me. Made lasagne for tea. Fucking lush - lardons, scothc bonnet and an Oxo cube really helped, I think. It’s 11:44pm as I type, 15 mins and I’ll deliver K’s birthday card. Not sure what I am hoping to come out of that, really. Just can’t let go! Day 225: Stupidly late one again last night. Up at 2pm. I’ve responded to Leigh at the Oundle Chronicle - why I make it so hard, I do not know, I really overthink some things. Eye appointment tomorrow, 9.50am, which Sam, Mr. Minos’s secretary offered me when she called on friday. Sueanne was very cool about it when I checked it was OK. So, now I am fretful of what will happen! More lasering, I reckon.

Day 226: Eye clinic was not great. I need lasering in my right eye, so that will be both eyes. Mr. Hussain, the consultant that ive seen loads including today, explained that the field of vision is affected that it can mean I am not allowed to drive. In one eye it doesn’t matter, in both the DVLA will order a test and, if the field isn’t wide enough, means I won’t get a license to drive. Shit! K WhatsApp to thank me for the card plus some ‘chat’ which ended uninvitingly (i.e., end of conversation!). I just replied that I was glad she liked it (the card),

Something is up with my left thumb, it’s sore by the nail, as if it’s ingrowing, but it isn’t. Fuck knows what it is and it’s really bothering me, very painful. Pretty shit day, all in all. Day 227: Called the surgery about my thumb and Dr. leijsen called me back, asked some questions about the photo (I had to take a pic and send it in), including whether there’s any pus, and then said she’ll prescribed anti-biotics. Later today, it started to leak pus, and feel better! But, it’s still not right so I’‘l take the course. Looks like I have got an interview for the IT support job at Jagex, got a call from the recruiter today, just need confirmation. Spoke with Shirley from HR about the fact I might not be able to drive in the future. She was pretty cool about it in a kind of cross-that-bridge way and suggested I run it past Sueanne.

Day 228: Spoke with Sueanne about my impending eye lasering which is on Friday ay 3.30pm, the hospital called to let me know, she was very cool about it and even suggested I take Monday off! More importantly, she spoke of the non-driving as no factor to worry about job wise, especially as we are all WfH nowadays. I have an interview at Jagex, well, Zoom, but it is on Friday, 1pm.

Day 229: Told Mark at work about the lasering adn potential non-driving. I think it shocked him a little. I am worried about tomorrow, big time, although it’s just lasering - I’ve had it done before. I cannot wait for this time tomorrow (9.40pm). I have been trying to concentrate on preparing for the interview but it’s all too easy to get distracted. Day 230: Interview went OK. Eye appointment was horrible but bearable. The doc wants me to book in for more laser but, only so it can be reviewed and ‘topped up’ if need be. Better than a going for a check up and having to book another laser appointment thereafter. It’s near enough 9.00pm and I am going to enjoy a bear or two.

Day 231: No after affects to speak of from the eye appointment but I know lasering has occurred. It’s like I haven’t got the full set of cells recieve information from yje pupil. It’s intangible but still perceptible. Great walk today, took some cracking photos - very pleasing. More booze and draw tonight and, hopefully, up tomorrow before the 2.20pm wake up time of today. Posh beat Oxford away (1-2) in the FA Cup 1st round.

Day 232: 2pm by the time I got out of bed. I’ve got to curb this habit. Missed calls from Dad but answered one from Rita just before going for a walk when I promised to phone tomorrow. Day 233: I think SB wa surprised was at work today. I ordered two rugs (from irugs.co.uk). They are 8x5″ and were 75% off, £58 ea. One for under the table (desk) and I put one in the spare room. Hopefully keep the house a tad warmer. Getting into Barry on Sky Comedy. Barry’s a hit man. It’s darkly intriguing. I took a couple of pics of a solitary poppy today, icuding a couple of macros. They turned out OK so will post one on Wednesday (11/11). Talking of photos, two people (one is Alison Brighty) asked for a jpeg of one of the photos I posted on Saturday so they can get it printed.

Day 234: Spoke with dad today, let him know the situation with my eyes which, I think worries him, so I hate to do it but, also, he needs to know, just in case.

Day 235: The poppy pic I posted was very well received, over 160 likes on the Oundle chatter page and Jo Langford wants the original (why she can’t take it of FB?) to print off, which is nice. I am working on Saturday - gotta attend a meeting at 8am. FFS! SB also agreed for me to back on call, cool!

Day 236: Average sort of day. I really wish I wasn’t working on Saturday! OH, Dan messaged...first I’ve heard from him for over two weeks...he’s got two days of so he can watch all the US Masters which started today, and was good watching. So, not that average a day afterall, now that I think back on it. Day 237: Woke up at 9.14am today, yikes! Messaged with Dan a lot as he is home watching the US Masters...told him abbout my eye issues and the fact there’s a chance of losing my driving license. Also, in a silly facebook post and comments, about me not being able to drink tonight ‘cos of work tomorrow, Scottish Ricky asked if I was OK. I replied, not really, meaning that I’m pissed off I can’t get pissed. He messaged to say if I ever need to chat. Fucking great bloke. I rang him to let him know I was not being serious on FB and we chatted for 30 mins or so. Top man. still, it does remian that I am missing a beer this Friday - roll on tomorrow night!

Day 238: Work thsi morning was OK, finished at midday. Watchung golf, having abeer or two right now (just gone 8pm). Posh lost away to Crewe 0-2. Day 239: Up at 2pm after a good few drinks last night (and some silly video posting on FB of me trying shit lager - Corrs Light - with hot sauce). Just settling down to watch Dustin Johnson win the Masters - he’s -20 with 2 to play, no one near him.

Day 240: I ordered some slippers from Amazon that arrived today. They were also returned today. I’m destined to never find a decent, non-expensive pair.

DJ did win the golf.

I watched Jojo Rabbit this evening. A first class film.

#diary #Tumblr diary #lockdown #COVID19 #lockdownuk

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ohjohnno · 5 years ago

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Outrageous Fortune Reviewcap: S1E09 (”When The Blood Burns”)

I’ve been demurring on this one, partly because of real life shit (well, mostly that to be honest) but also because this episode isn’t all that good. It’s an episode entirely centering around Antony Starr’s characters, and I sure hope they paid him double, cos the range he needed for it was tremendous. But, unfortunately, one of those characters (Van) just isn’t all that interesting yet, and the other (Jethro) is ill-served by one of the dumbest and most unfortunate sideplots the show has yet had. So, without further ado, we’ll get this one out of the way, and I’ll try and keep it short.

We open with a dual appearance from the two most irritating characters in the show: Tracy and Suzy Hong, their differences now thoroughly mended and united in enjoying themselves by tormenting Van.

Yeah, it’s as insufferable as it looks. An incensed Van finally snaps and threatens to quit; Mr. Hong overhears, but Van finally manages to stand up for himself and it pays off: Mr. Hong makes him manager of one of his local little stores, which seems to sell mostly cheap novelty junk. I’m not entirely sure why he does this, honestly, but it’s a mildly important character moment for Van, so okay, I guess?

Meanwhile, in the West household, things are getting a little crazy.

Cheryl and Kacey are promoting their new underwear business with a sorta quasi-striptease party, hosted by and for middle-aged women. It’s one of the aspects of the episode I like best, not because the women are sexy but more because they really aren’t; they’re a bunch of trashy fortysomething women, reminding the world that it isn’t just model-type people who like having sex, or who know how to have fun with it. Kacey makes this explicit with a little barb at the morbidly fascinated Pascalle, telling her they didn’t offer to use her as a model because they wanted to use “real women”, which is a nice reminder that toxic standards of femininity cut cruelly in both directions. So, yeah, good segment - made all the better by the horror of the younger girls who’ve been dragged along.

Van returns, utterly nonplussed at the scene before him, and they all retreat to the bedroom. Antony Starr’s comic acting here is great, actually - he follows the others to the room and finds them using his drugs with an indignant and confused response of “well... don’t!”, and it makes me laugh every time. Draska expresses some clear interest in him, which he once again ignores, as usual. The next scene is where the plot properly begins.

The gist of it is this: the Hongs’ local store has their goods transported from warehouse to shelf by Draska’s clan, the Doslics. Van discovers that there’s a discrepancy between the number of trading cards he was meant to be shipped and the number he actually received; he goes and politely asks the Doslics about it, and they do not take that well.

I come from good people - HONEST people! Made strong by our troubles!

Naturally, they think he’s accusing them of thievery. Naturally, this makes Van pretty sure they really are committing thievery, and a raging Mr. Hong agrees. The two proceed to keep escalating tensions, and the rest of the Wests get caught in the crossfire; mama Doslic gets into a fight with Cheryl in a supermarket car park, Pascalle finds her old tyre-modelling photos all defaced with violent graffiti, and it’s all mildly funny but also kinda dull. Eventually, it turns out that Van’s mate Munter has been stealing the cards from the warehouse all along, using the keys Van gave him for safekeeping. This is not the last time Van will find himself victimized by the consequences of his own actions.

I’m blasting through *a lot* of this plot here really quickly, and that’s cos it just isn’t very interesting for the most part. It’s trying to be a farce, mostly, and it sometimes succeeds; Van’s initial confrontation with the Doslics is really quite funny, and his steadily increasing panic as the situation just goes more and more wrong isn’t bad either. But it’s all a bit too by-the-numbers and predictable, and in the end none of the stakes feel real; we all know that in an episode like this, the Hongs and the Doslics were never really gonna properly come to blows, and they don’t. Van confesses a lot of stuff to Draska in a couple of secret meetings, and while he’s initially paranoid about her loyalty, she proves herself by finding a way to fix the issue; she places all the blame for the break-ins on Eric (who was selling the stolen cards anyway, after buying them from Munter) and the two families come together to absolutely motherfucking whoop the guy’s ass, leaving him looking rather worse for wear.

...next thing I know I’m getting the shit kicked out of me by half the West Auckland United Nations!

If I have a favorite moment in this plot, it’s probably near the beginning, when the elder Doslic is first bringing in what he believes to be the full shipment of cards. He’s ranting and raving, the whole time he does it, about how much he just damn well hates the “chinks” and their terrible language skills, not to mention their driving - all while speaking in a heavy Croatian accent himself and also, oh yeah, taking their money. This show really does get quite a lot of comedy out of the idea that solidarity between marginalized groups really just doesn’t exist.

The rest of it, though? I mean, it does contain a couple of important moments, I guess. Van, after initially lying to protect Munter and only making everything worse, is genuinely willing to offer himself up, blame himself entirely, and essentially sacrifice himself in order to save everyone’s hides, and only doesn’t end up doing it because Draska fixes it all before he has to. That’s a nice reminder that Van, at his core, really is a genuinely good person, and that his internal conflict as a character all comes from the tension between that and the toxic masculinity he’s had indoctrinated deep within him by his father and the culture he’s grown up in. Cheryl demonstrates where her loyalties lie and takes Van’s side without a second’s hesitation after mama Doslic shows up with complaints; for all her problems with Van, she really does love him unconditionally. But there’s also too much stuff that doesn’t come off, like Van’s boring interactions with a mildly delinquent kid who likes the trading cards, or Tracy’s ever-one-dimensional mistreatment of Van.

Still, at least it’s better than Jethro’s plot.

Remember how Tracy knows now about Jethro’s little rape-by-deception thing a few episodes ago? Well, she still doesn’t seem to be thinking of it as rape, but she is trying to get him to apologize for it nonetheless. Jethro, meanwhile, wants to root her again, and he knows he can’t do that without apologizing. So Jethro’s plot this episode is several scenes in a row of him miserably failing to pull off a convincing apology, and... that’s it, really. Hugh’s back, being annoying as usual (though it’s intentional enough that it doesn’t bother me too much), and Loretta briefly shows up to mock him for how bad he is at apologizing (talk about the pot calling the kettle black!), but for the most part this is all really redundant and dull. The only interesting part comes in Loretta’s video shack, where Jethro straight up lies to Caroline’s face, right in front of Loretta, in order to make himself some free time to go and keep trying it with Tracy. Loretta, of course, is too sociopathic to feel sorry for her, and we all knew a couple of episodes ago that Jethro wasn’t gonna be able to maintain it with her as a regular relationship, but the beginnings of heartbreak on Caroline’s face as she begins to get an inkling, in her subconscious, of what’s going on is genuinely sad.

But the ending of this plot? It’s awful, and in a really unfortunate way. In the end, see, it turns out Tracy never really wanted an apology; she likes Jethro, doesn’t really care about the fact that he deceived her in such an intimate way, and wants it with him again. She decides he’s ready when... he just refuses to apologize one time, admitting he isn’t sorry because (and this is possibly the worst line of dialogue in the whole show, so brace yourselves): “why would I be, when it was the best fuck I��ve ever had?”

Eugh.

So they start having an affair, and that’ll stay important. Meanwhile, Van’s plot ends similarly, in the superficial respect: Draska finally convinces him to have sex with her, as a celebration for the two of them getting out of that little escapade with everything intact, and it’s also the start of a relationship. Her toxicity, of course, has been evident the whole time from her unhealthy fixation on him, but if she demonstrated anything in this episode it was her intelligence and resourcefulness, so one suspects bad things on the horizon for Van. Nothing much happens with the rest of the characters - Loretta doesn’t do much other than the aforementioned mockery of Jethro and some mildly funny jabs at Pascalle’s choice of career, and Pascalle doesn’t do much other than get all horrified by what’s been done to her poster. On the whole, then, this is a disappointing episode, and maybe the worst one so far. Van will get good, I promise - the potential is all there already. But we’ve still gotta wait for now. Until next time.

#Antonia Prebble #Siobhan Marshall #antony starr #Robyn Malcolm #grant bowler #television #outrageous fortune #Frank Whitten #rachel lang #Gutter Black #nz

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indomitablemegnolia · 5 years ago

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He growled, his eyes rolled, I had finally pushed him onto his uncomfortable place; "My imagination, my wants, my needs are simple; I just hunger to be near you. I would love to just sip coffee and kisses for days; make out like mad teenagers; I want nothing from you; all I require from you, all I ask of you, all I want is for this sliver of a moment, a simple time away from time."

He stopped, a look crossed his face as if something inside was daring him to tell the unvarnished truth; I simply waited for that idea that struck so suddenly his jaw dropped as though he had a revelation, he looked away letting out half a chuckle, finally he came to a resolve; "I realize to rip your attention away, to cast these doubts away is to lay it all out; I finally understand it's my turn to lay it all out bare; I have to be as unashamedly honest, to let you know what my imagination screams: I hunger for you," he raised to his knees crawling over my legs, "I need to touch you; I am lost to it," he crawled slowly up my body, "I want you, all of you;" he locked me in place as his arms braced his frame planted on either side of my head; "your eyes, your lips, your mind," he sighed, kissing me soft, "your heart, your body," he nestled himself between my legs, "sensually," he kissed me harder doing things with his tongue that made my breath leave in a moan; "sexually," he ground suggestively against me "I want bury myself so deeply in you;" he stopped looking a little ashamed, he kissed me, holding me close, "I want you, simply as a man wants a woman; simple, no rules, no expectations, no explanations just simple, basically, I am willing to take as much as you are willing to give." He kissed me softly, slowly, undressing my soul; "I ask you in return, why not you? Why me?" I must have given him that look again, he set his jaw, "Seriously darling, why me? How did you find me acceptable?"

"Simple," I rolled to where he had left my journal, he tried to reclaim it from my fingers, I slapped lightly at his hands, pulling it farther away from him when he reached for it I carded through until I found the dress piece; "Read, I knew you, I loved you well before we met." I pushed the look under his nose, he read, his eyes flairing; he looked up. I nodded, "Yup, I wrote of you long before the possibility of you seemed real. Look at the date." I pointed over the cover at the left corner. "Ages ago, fifteen years; back when I had friends and they spoke to me of their wedding plans; a friend was belabouring the cut of the dress, the flavour of the cake, how the brides maids would behave; but always ignoring the fact that her intended was a jerk, who ended up beating her; I wrote that to satisfy my soul; solidly believing that no such human existed; that I was safe; then there was you."

"How, how, I doubt anyone knew me; I didn't even know me, then." I watched him read it again, "I gather you thought these were impossibilities," he rolled to his side as close to me as possible, that long leg laying over mine like a downed tree; he began reading in that dramatic voice; "I was listening a friends diatribe about trying to find the perfect wedding dress… It has to have a bit of this, or an overlay of that. She was fussing and fawning over the bow details when the Person about to stand opposite of her was of inadequate material. So I started mulling over who, if ever anyone, I would stand opposite. I thought I would fuss over the important things.

Accepting NO less than the sum of all of these traits.

I imagine it like walking up to the service counter a lot like a cosmetic counter, kind of playing paper dolls. I would like him have eyes of green and blue; he must be tall like Clint Walker;" he was holding caressing my journal in one hand in the other he began counting the qualities he possessed; "he would speak with a strong Baritone like Marshall Dillon; he would have the sensibilities of Sargent Tyree, 'no ma'am I don't chaw and I don't play cards'; in essence no conformity and no lying;" his leg began caressing and rubbing where our bare skin touched; he looked to me, "I am sure our current understanding does not count in that" he looked into my eyes as I confirmed with a nod, he counted three; "the ideals of Steve Rogers. Boots and Hat would be nice, Cowboy, Mountie, fireman or other.' Hiking boots, I hope, count," he held up five fingers; "He must love dogs, cats, goats and well most animals except killer whales.' I have a dog, don't mind cats, never met a goat and we will come back to the whale thing; 'I’d like a man who can speak at least one computer language and two audible languages.' Check and check." He held up another completed hand of qualities.

"Someone who gets String theory, science jokes, bad puns and delicious entandre." His eyebrow raised deliciously on the last word, understanding what I was inferring. "Who loves all kinds of music, or at least who can stomach my musical schizophrenia, entailing all of, but not limited to: rock, punk, classical, country, especially older country, psychobilly, regae.' Oh, darlin you know I do;" he kissed my cheek; "The ability to laugh at himself is a MUST, laughing at my jokes…. still a maybe, I know they are bad.' You will have to believe me, but yes, I can. 'He has to enjoy singing and dancing, even if done badly.' I am charmed by your sing along and dances actually when it comes to the dances I am more than charmed, it's more of a turn on, and you know I dont hold back that much either; 'I would like a soul who loves whimsy, doing the funny walk up Market Street, singing and walking in the rain and willing to do the insane and comical, including moving every item in the house to center around a new precious gift.' I never thought about it, but I am game to try, 'I would hope he would like to cook; observe good etiquette, open the doors for me;' at all times, 'he should know the ignition timing for a ‘64 Chevy 283.' Not that exact information, but I like to tinker and grease monkey around in cars; 'I hope he would understand me when I tell him that simple things like a french toast breakfast for dinner using almond extract instead of vanilla, washing my hair or checking my engine fluids, means 'I love you' as well as hand written notes, cards made of glitter and cardboard are as romantic as diamonds in the right setting.' Anyone else I would doubt, but you, you are that anomaly."

"'He has to know how to say things that cut through to the heart of the matter, either romantic, apologetic, inspiring,or just truth and mean every word.' I have left the days of part measures behind. 'He has to like pancakes and breakfast for dinner' more of a waffle guy but I do understand, 'and ice cream in the morning. He has to value my thoughts BUT not weigh them too heavily,' you just watched my transition, 'debate especially HEATED debate is fun (and more than a little sexy),' Sounds fun. 'I would love someone who adored words as much as me, I always wondered if it was hoping too largely to hope for someone who could pick up my favorite books and know the passages that strike my very innermost being, maybe read them aloud to me with the longing and emotion I myself read them with,' Oh what a fun game that will be. 'Money wouldn’t hurt but neither is it a must, it is not important to me, neither are looks, according to most I do have an odd taste in beauty anyways.' Odd taste? I must probe that later, 'Most of all He has to take me as I am because I can’t change myself for anyone else. I was 12 the one time I tried to be someone else, I have never wanted to be anyone other than what life has shaped me into. He has to appreciate my laughing snort, my funny ugly toes, and the fact that I will laugh when he trips or falls, stubs a toe, or any other slapstick comedy-esque routine injury that doesn’t involve blood…He has to find my oddities, eccentricities and idiosyncrasies, the fact i wear oversized thermals as my sexy night clothes, t-shirt and ripped sweats, flirty dresses and sparkle jeans as sexy as fishnets and a bustier…. But most of all He has to laugh with me, love me even when he’s mad at me and not mind a lot of residual radiation…. Until then I don’t care to even think about bows, bustles, frocks or hoops, I want a hero, anything less would be completely inacceptable and uncivilized' god I love how you laid it all out exactly like playing paper dolls."

He kissed me long and deep, "So, you think I stack up pretty nicely do you? The ideals of Steve Rogers and the voice of Clint Walker. So, you like cowboy shows?" I nodded, "eyes of green and blue, so, then k mmm I assume for you this has been oddly easy for you?"

"Not in the least, I have to trust in hope, and we are not on speaking terms, I had to trust that you were not some figment, some dream, I had to trust in the universe; just this once. Too often, especially of late, hope has dangled dreams just beyond my fingertips simply to pull them away, just as I almost touched..." I sighed, still mourning the loss of my last dream; "so, when you appeared I assumed this was another hard lesson to be learned. You made that easier by being you." I pulled him down to me kissing him sweetly.

He sighed, finishing reading, "Damn darling. I am stunned. How did I make it easier by being myself?" His eyes got glossy and he drifted away.

"The cupcake, I didn't even think you were truly real until you did the most thoughtful thing I had ever seen personally." I kissed him sensually with a subtle roll of my hips; I pressed hard to him, it was his turn to let loose such an erotic sound, half moan, half growl. He pressed me hard down feasting on my soul. He almost let himself run with the moment; he slowed fingers soft, lips cajoling; slowly he edged to a stop, pulling away.

"Where did you go?"

His music changed again, Billie Holiday singing kiss me once, god, his smile, "I imagine recapturing that first kiss, no stumbled step just a surrender; you naturally, fiendishly moving against me; god, that first kiss we shared, the laugh, it wrecked me." He tucked my hair back behind my ears, I cuddled my cheek into his palm. "I want to see in your eyes, when that simple truth, that in this give and take, that you give yourself to me freely, that you take equally greedily; not because you have to, or because I asked you, but because you want it too. I want that mad passionate love. Mostly, I want you, any way you will give, the only way I get you."

He pressed me back into the bank of pillows, "Now, of course, for such a gem, I offer all that I am," I moaned as I felt his weight settle into my body. "I offer you freedom; a pure and total freedom; freedom from the drudgery of that other everyday life." He laced his fingers through mine, kissing each fingertip. "I offer freedom as an abstract ideal. I can't offer a freedom from pain." He ran his hands delicatly over my body, lingering in places "I offer you a freedom from responsibility, from guilt, from regret; momentarily a freedom from sadness. I offer you moments of pleasure, moments to be happy. Oh, I can offer you pleasure likes of which you have never known."

I rolled my eyes closed, pleasure already making my soul free. "No, please, don't close your eyes;" my eyes snapped open, "I need you to look at me." I let a slow breath out, "I want to see the realization in your eyes that I am offering you my love." Slipping along the deep V in the robes neck, his skilled hands teased my flesh, his deft tongue pulled my eyes. I felt so very alive, his fingers moving at a slow, a tantalizing pace, pressing the edges of the robe out, exposing more of my flesh; I was already drowning in lust and need; his eyes holding me captive. "Ah there it is, all of me is what I offer you, all of you is all I ask of you."

I had been so lost in this feeling I had forgotten to be self conscious, I notice finally, his fingers caressing some of my scars, angry red welts I have never let anyone see. I stopped breathing but then I saw his motion, his revrence, "Gods, you see them and you are not revolted?"

He shook his head, then I watched his lips caress the welt that transacted my sternum. "Nope, not even a little. All of you, it's all I ask of you."

"Kiss me until I forget how terrified I am of everything wrong with my life." God, did he, the man's kisses were amazing I felt his hands his tongue, both working in unison; I gravitate toward him, longing for, wanting to use my hands in such a delicious spell; thirsty for more contact. My awe apparent in my voice, as he pulled away, almost a whisper, "wow," I smiled. He was magnificent.

"Well, my sweet you never really defined, 'really, very good,' for me..." he kissed me almost in passing, "maybe we can work that out together." He kissed me, soft, asking, "or you tell me your favourite food."

"Chinese." I giggled,

He laughed, oh, that gorgeous marvel of deliciousness, pulling me to my feet, starting a sweet waltz, "I do love a good chinese dinner," he danced me in a soft circle, he buried his nose in my neck kissing at first; his tongue lightly licking, "I want you, I need you in the purest ways, the longing in my bones howls to be near you, to be with you;" he pulled me closer his hands, his lips, his tongue becoming more insistant; my arms slid along his wide shoulders caressing his neck my fingers playing with the soft curls there, he started with soft bites. I gripped the robes lapels, "I want bring all of your senses alive;" his hands began to move over the thick terry cloth, soft, looping circles he traced in the opposite direction of his tongue; pulling him closer, I let out a breathy sigh. My breath hitched, I slid my hands under his robe, sliding along his silky skin; "tell me sweetheart, total honesty, tell me how you feel about what I said."

"Hmmm, nerves, I never knew I had, are all on fire; I am lost on this ocean adrift on sensuality and revrence; I want more, to be honest no one has ever told anything like the intoxicating words the dreams you have been laying at my feet; like Yeats; I feel as if this is not one of those times hope isn't playing me for a fool. I am no longer unsure, afraid; we are alive in a way that I have never experienced; alive, I am having trouble making up my mind which I want the most; I crave your words, but that sweet haunting revrence of your touch," his hands moved with more intent, beginning to grip pulling the robe, holding me close, his lips with intention, I moaned unashamedly, living in the friction of his fingers using the terry cloth to excite, "mmm, the trailing fluidity of your hands creating punctuation for your crafted sentences, natural aphrodisiacs. Oh, those words followed by the delicious brush of your hands; oh, feeling, that feeling." Duet of the flowers started as if by Devine intention; "Apt moment for this particular aria, the quiet end of one flower, my fears, and the resurgence of beauty in this; these moments."

Kissing me breathless he bent me back taking advantage of the parting robe, his lips feasting along the edges of the terry cloth; I sighed, I bucked, I strained backwards, shuddering gasps escaped. "I love how you react instantly, honestly, you senses on edge, your shiver at my voice, your bend to my touch."

His revrent hand glided up my neck, dipping his thumb between my lips; words were pulled from me; "The way your touch softly glides, fingertips delicately trace the furrows, the hollows for those words to sweetly flow." I licked his digets, caressing the pads with my tongue; "the texture of those large, luscious, calloused hands, each of your fingers touched with just the perfect roughness; each finger pressed softly, trailing against my aching, hungry skin. The gentle veracity, the keening desire, your lingering breath weaves our tale." As I spoke I have been licking and kissing his glorious chest running my hands fore the skin of his shoulders.

His hands traced soft but insistently along my body over the robe; his lips sweetly asking for more. "Oh, sweet darling, please believe me your words flow so deliciously, just keep talking and I promise I will only follow your lead."

His sweet asking pushed me to a bold move; I traced my hands from his chest to his abdomin, his delicious breath hitched then shuddered his hands stilled; "Your kisses craft slowly flowing paragraphs; long languorous passages; savory, sensuous stanzas of will and want;" I found his sash and pulled it slowly, determined, it came loose, his robe falling open; he half moaned, half sighed in relief; my hands grew bolder at his reaction, my eyes skimming along, what can only qualify as the most beautiful specimen of human male I had ever seen, complete with perfectly bleached white jockey shorts, "the hushed whispers of the soul allows the movement of our bodies to create the chapters of our own perfectly written novel. Your eyes spoke to me of the extent of your will, I am shaken;" his hands now bold, reciprocated, pulling my sash, my robe fell open, I shivered, my soul had been standing here naked for a while, finally phisically I matched, dropping my arms letting it slide from my body; the steps to our dance had turned to soft swaying; he pressed our bodies close. His breath sucked in through his teeth, mine left in a gust of a sigh; "though, I confess not disappointed." He hooked his foot behind my knee and pushed; with a squeal I landed on the soft duvet, his weight delightfully covering me. I giggled.

"For long moments there, I could not speak," his lips soft on mine, his words an echo of my soul, "the fate of the world could have hung in the balance of my one uttered syllable and I would have been unable to even whisper acknowledgment." His hands revrently sliding mine gripping along his warm delicious frame; "I wish I could say sorry for falling over you, but you are just so delicious, this communication, so honest like blatant souls." I giggled as his fingers tickled, turning quickly to a hiss of air between my teeth, his lips caressing the scars lacing my abdomen, shocking myself I didn't try to push him away, instead I continued letting my lips kiss every piece of skin it found. "The more I get, I just want even more; tell me more, please, just keep talking."

I licked my hungry lips, surreptitiously making sure they had not fallen off completely. His glorious mouth drifting revrently over my scars, resting and reveling in my hungry skin; the things he was doing his hands, lips and tongue were deliciously driving me wild, he wasn't kidding about waking every one of my senses, "Oh, I watched as your eyes spoke, I was drowning in those green seas of desire; now, hearts, souls slowly burn. Gods, now I admit freely, it is you that I want; it has always ever been you, believe it always will be you." I gathered his robe pushing down his shoulders, running my fingers light over his soft skin, letting my nails lightly trail, his growl played across my skin. "In fact, I will fan the flames, I want to let them burn, right through my skin, right through the heart of me. I want to burn in this sunspot moment."

Our eyes locked, the look in those fathom deep depths stilled my breath; will and want and something more simmered deeply; he pulled me close, our bodies pressing sliding conforming to eachother; his mouth moved along my sholder, his tongue tracing lightly the length, gripping softly pushing my face to the left; his lips taking full advantage of the opened space. Legs winding, my hands growing even bolder, gripping his bum, his fingers danced across my skin, they flitted, butterfly soft over my breasts; I arched off of the bed, my breath shuddering; I clutched at his shoulders; we melt together, like two links remembered and fused again together; "we thirst, hunger, want, need, crave … lust. How wonderful to be alive." I kept the words from flowing, but how will hurt when we are through?"

He slowed, pulling lightly away, as if reading my mind, "No one knows the if's, when's, or how's, we should just bask in the is;" his breath coming in deep billowing pants; keeping in complete contact; "I need to know how far I should go."

Panting, I try to quip, "I dont know, how far do you think you can make it in this storm?"

He laughed, delicious feeling rushing over my senses, my bare skin. "You know exactly what I mean, do we, you and I, go all the way, no regrets; we will just fall asleep together when the night is burnt and tired, and I want, I want, I want... you, I have wanted you, I want to finish this day feeling your pulse pressed against mine just so we know we are both alive, in this beautiful second. I want… I” he took a breath; "but to hell with what I want, if you wish we can just sip coffee and kisses, until the storm is past."

I took a deep breath, and willed myself to answer with every ounce of sexuality I had, in a very Lauren Bacall style; I angled my head seductively, stretching an arm over my head saying rather with a bored tone, "Here I thought my laying naked and panting in your arms would have been a clear indication." I yawned, "Take me to bed or lose me forever." God his laugh, "I want it all, if we were at a restaurant I would be ordering the lobster with out checking the price, or even looking at the chicken." I ebbed away losing steam, I wound up to let loose one of my nervous, inane topic traversing tirade.

He pressed his finger to my lips, "Shhh, yes, I know you are nervous, but seriously listen. You hold the power, be that hurricane you showed me, that amazon queen."

He nuzzled and kissed my neck sending delicious butterflies dancing through me. I hummed a solitary note of praise, "Gods, the way you see me, I. .." I trailed off as he worked deliciously on the sensitive nerves where shoulder meets neck, I went slack, I clung to him.

@iamhisgloriouspurpose this is the continuation to the last part.

@keeper0fthestars. @pedeka @writernotwaiting

@sweetfairy1 @fromthedeskoftheraven

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sleepyverstappens · 5 years ago

Text

My skin hurts without your touch

Title: My skin hurts without your touch

Pairing: Lando Norris/Max Verstappen

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: ~ 5.6k

Tags: Painplay, Anal Sex, Hand Jobs, Barebacking, Coming Untouched

Summary: He knows this feeling, he’s become all to familiar with it during his racing career. It was part of motorsports, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. Another DNF behind his name, when he’d had a pretty decent weekend so far, qualifying better than he’d expected even. He wants to forget all about today. Wants to feel the remnants of the pain inflicted tonight on his flight home tomorrow, rather than the disappointment of the race.

A/N: So this fic is set right after the Canadian gp (yes it took me nearly 2 months to write this, shush), which is the race where Lando's rear suspension gave out on him. It's mentioned in the fic as well, but that's kinda all the set up you need to know.

This is part of the Sink your teeth right into my bones verse (aka the painplay verse), so beware of the tags. This can be read seperately I guess, but yeah just know they have an established painplay kink in this verse.

Anyways hope you guys enjoy this :D

Read on AO3

They’d been lazily flipping through the channels of the hotel TV, before they had settled on some random comedy act on Comedy Central that they’re watching now, both of them in their comfies. His head is resting on Max’s stomach, jostling about every time Max laughs at the TV. He’s not really been paying attention to it though, his brain pulling up the scene of his abandoned car at the pit exit yet again. He’s been mulling it over ever since he had found himself stranded there, his rear suspension giving out under him out of nowhere. The team still hadn’t been able to give him an explanation of what had happened, all they had said was that it hadn’t been his fault.

“Gotta piss,” Max says all of a sudden as he untangles Lando’s arms from around his waist and gets up from the bed.

“Great, thanks for letting me know, I was really wondering if you were gonna piss or take a shit,” Lando chuckles as he pulls himself back upright again, arms stretching out over his head as he yawns.

He’s a little sleepy, the post-race adrenaline seeping from his body slowly even with his race ending so quickly today. He’d been restless though, every time he’d start to give in to the lull of sleep his body would jerk him back awake, making Max chuckle in the process as his limbs flailed about. His brain wouldn’t stop bringing up the sensation of the rear giving out on him, his adrenaline spiking suddenly as he tried his best to nurse his car to a safe spot.

His body has been itching with something else though, the need to ache. His body craving the impact of the crash that hadn’t happened. It’s craving the touch of callused hands pushing and pulling at his limbs until they set his body alight, the sting of teeth digging into his skin, leaving bruises.

He hears the toilet flush and watches as Max shuffles back out of the bathroom, his hand scratching at his stomach showing off the v-line there. He gnaws at his lip, debating whether to bring this up, this urge inside of him. Trying to see if Max could be up for it tonight. He knows this doesn’t just take a lot out of himself, it does for Max as well, managing to keep the right kind of balance between not enough and taking things too far.

He’s taking so long mulling it over that Max has now let himself fall into the armchair next to the TV, his fingers tapping away on his phone screen. There’s sound coming from the device as Max switches to Instagram, swiping through his friends’ stories.

“I want you to hurt me,” he finally speaks up, the sound on Max’s phone still playing as the other man looks up at him with wide eyes.

“What?”

“Please.”

“We agreed never to do this as punishment, as a way to punish yourself Lando.” And of course Max’s first thought is that this is about the race, that he’s blaming himself for it somehow, his mind twisting and turning what had happened until he somehow found himself to be the one to blame.

“I know, but I’m not punishing myself, it wasn’t my fault the car broke down. I just… I just need this right now Max.”

He’s sitting criss cross on the bed now, Max’s bed , tugging at a loose thread on the probably way too expensive bed sheets and he really does just need this right now. He’s not feeling sorry for himself necessarily, more so frustrated with today’s events. He kind of wishes it had been his own mistake that took him out of the race instead, because then at least he’d have someone to blame.

He knows Max had seen his car limping along to the pitlane exit, if not in his mirrors he would’ve seen it on the big TV screens lining the track. He knows his boyfriend somehow finds the time to watch those during the races. They had only just had some fun battles, Max passing him and him managing to overtake Max right back using his DRS and softer tyres. And then all of a sudden he was out, his bright orange car still at the side of the track for many laps afterwards.

He knows this feeling, he’s become all to familiar with it during his racing career. It was part of motorsports, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating. Another DNF behind his name, when he’d had a pretty decent weekend so far, qualifying better than he’d expected even. He wants to forget all about today. Wants to feel the remnants of the pain inflicted tonight on his flight home tomorrow, rather than the disappointment of the race.

“Okay,” Max says softly, meeting Lando’s eyes as he raises from the chair he’d been sitting in. He trusts Max with this, to know when he really needs this, to not misuse this power he’s been granted. They have clear boundaries, formed unconsciously over the years and more consciously recently. It was difficult at times, to find the right balance, but they’ve made it work and right now he knows that Max will listen to what he needs, will know just how far to go.

Max walks over to the bed confidently, the soft smile starting to quirk up in a playful smirk, and crawls onto it so he’s sitting on his knees behind Lando. And Lando feels himself lean back into him, Max’s hands heavy on his shoulders as he draws him close.

There’s the press of lips against his neck, dry touches as they work over his skin slowly until they press right behind his ear. He knows what’ll come next, but the bite of teeth against his earlobe still makes him gasp. He sighs out as the pressure disappears, Max’s sucking around his earlobe wetly instead. “Come on,” he groans, getting impatient already.

“Patience babe,” Max says with a chuckle, shifting around a little so he’s sitting up against the headboard, pulling Lando back against him. Lando’s body is pliant under Max’s skilful hands, his legs stretched out in front of him now as Max starts to tug at his t-shirt. He shivers a little at the sudden cold, but Max’s warm arms wrap around his waist quickly. His fingers trace over the scattering of goosebumps covering Lando’s arm, the touch featherlight and only making more goosebumps appear.

And Max is so good at this all, pulling him into a false sense of security, tricking his body, and then all of a sudden his hand grips around his wrist tightly, pulling his arm back roughly and making him scream out in pain. His breathing comes more heavily then, his teeth digging into his bottom lip to fight back against the pain. He can already feel his cock starting to twitch even though they’ve barely even started, the fucked up part of him rearing its ugly head after lying in wait for a while.

It’s not always like this. God it would be pretty fucked up if it were. No most of the time they were pretty fucking vanilla , complete with staring into each other’s eyes and asking if the other one was alright every five minutes. And as much as he loved that part of them, he would never get over the way Max would transform when they were like this. Confidence radiating off of him.

His arm twists further under Max’s grip, his forearm now twisted up against his back, straining just a little bit too much. His teeth are digging into his lip as Max keeps his hold firm with one hand and as the other hand starts to creep towards his crotch. He’s just got some joggers on, the shape of his cock clearly visible by now and he can’t help but buck up into the press of Max’s hand. The movement only makes his arm strain more, making him groan out in both pleasure and pain.

“Come on,” he bites out again through gritted teeth, sighing out in relieve, even with the pressure on his arm still there, as Max’s fingers finally dip underneath the waistband of his bottoms. Max’s hand dips further underneath the fabric and his fingers wrap around his cock loosely, the touch just that little bit too light to really relieve the pressure.

He feels Max’s face press into his shoulder again, the light dusting of stubble scratching at the skin as he presses soft open mouthed kisses there. The pressure of his lips is light, but they leave damp patches as they slowly move closer to his neck, his hand moving over his cock just as slowly. He feels his body relaxing underneath Max’s touch, even though his brain tells him to run, to not let himself be tricked once more. Max does this so well though, manages to trick even his clever brain, until his lips reach the skin behind his ear. One last press of those soft lips and then there the sting of Max’s thumb pressing down against the slit of his cock, digging into the sensitive skin.

There’s a ridiculous sound falling from his lips then, his breath choking up mid-hiss. It’s too much, too much after way too little. The juxtaposition is making his body clench up, freezing up instead of fighting or flying. His muscles go tense, the grip of his fingers on Max’s thigh clenching up, nails digging into the flesh and his breath catching. His mind goes blank, a feeling he usually craves, but it’s too much, too quiet. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, the phantom pain of Max’s thumb pressing against his cock still there even though the other man has long since stopped pressing down.

“Fuck, babe,” Max hisses out when it doesn’t look like he’s releasing his death grip anytime soon. “Hey, come on, it’s okay, relax,” he continues on softly, his hand wrapping around where Lando’s hand is still digging into his skin, and softly coaxing his grip loose.

He closes his eyes, willing his body to relax as he takes in a deep breath and finally he feels his muscles start to loosen up again, his body sagging back into Max’s chest with another deep breath.

“Shit, sorry.”

“Hey no, don’t. You want me to stop? You really scared me there,” Max asks worry clear in his voice

He takes another deep breath and thinks it over, he should probably stop, but there’s still an itch there. An itch he can’t help but have, even after scaring Max and to be honest himself like that, that needs to be scratched.

“No,” he says resolutely, “Just maybe hold back on the surprises for tonight though.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He turns his head around far enough so he can look Max in the eyes, to show him he really is sure about this. He nods once and waits for Max to nod back, his gaze never wavering. Max’s eyes flit over his face a few times, seeking out any traces of hesitation on Lando’s face and when he finds none he nods back, slowly.

Max’s hand is firm but soft on his cheek as he closes the gap between them to press a kiss to his lips. It’s slow, mouth dragging open Lando’s own lips as he licks his tongue into his mouth languidly. Max’s tongue licks over his palate, making him moan out and press into the kiss more firmly. He feels Max’s finger tangle into his messy hair then, tugging at it lightly, letting Lando know he’s still up for it as well. It makes a smile tug at his lips, the easy communication between them that’s at the very base of this all, the thing that makes this work so effortlessly.

He licks back into Max’s mouth, their tongues dragging against each other, making saliva cling to his lips. He can’t stop smiling though, all thoughts of the shitty race erased from his mind for the moment and Max is grinning into his mouth right back. Max’s other hand starts to creep back south again slowly, wrapping around his cock firmly. The dry movement makes his body tingle, the feeling just that little bit painful until Max twists his hand over the head and his movement becomes more smooth.

His mouth falls open into a moan, breaking their kiss. He lets his body sag back into Max’s chest, letting the feeling of Max’s hand moving over him wash over his body. He feels the muscles in Max’s right arm flex with each pull, his other arm wrapped around Lando’s waist, holding him close. Max’s mouth finds his neck again, open mouthed kisses falling to his skin, his tongue lapping up the sweat there.

It’s overwhelming, overwhelming to have someone be so devoted to you, to have his every thought and action be for you and only you. It’s why with just a few of Max’s precise strokes he feels like he’s close to the edge already. Another moan is bubbling up from deep in his stomach, rumbling up his throat and finally falling from his lips. His mouth drops open as he takes in gulps of air, his hips trying to buck up into Max’s hand. Max’s grip around his waist is strong though, keeping him in place.

“Fuck baby, look at you, so desperate already. Does it feel good?” Max’s voice is low and he can feel it rumbling against his back where Max’s chest is pressed against him. He bites at his lip, trying to keep the whimper from falling from his mouth, but it escapes through the cracks anyway. His hands clenching in the sheets as another wave of pleasure washes over him. “Tell me.”

“Fuck, so good,” he says with a whine, his body trying to twist up into the touch again. Max’s movements are slick now, precum making his hand slide easily, the noise of it starting the sound obscene.

“You wanna come? Gonna come for me, baby?

He’s breathless and so close to coming and his body is begging him not to do this, but he can’t stop his hand when it grips around Max’s wrist and stops its movements. He squeezes his eyes shut tight for a second, trying to stave off the orgasm that was about to rip through him, barely noticing the questioning sound that Max makes behind him.

“No,” he says instead, “Want you to fuck me. Want to feel you on the plane tomorrow.”

“Fuck,” Max breathes out, mouth warm where it presses against his neck. “Let me get my bag.”

He knows what Max means, there’s a fresh bottle of lube sitting there waiting after they finished the other one on Thursday, but it’s not what he wants. He doesn’t want careful fingers pressed into him, stretching him open slowly. That’s not what he meant when he said he wanted to feel Max tomorrow. He wants to really feel him, to be squirming in his plane seat all the way back to England, no matter how plush the first class seats are.

So he holds his grip firm on Max’s wrist, even as the other man tries to move out from behind him. “Stay,” he breathes out.

“Lando.”

“Spit will be fine.”

“It will hurt so fucking much. At least let me make you come first, help you relax?”

What happened earlier was clearly still playing on his mind, a hint of worry staining his words. And God does he loves this man, this beautiful man that cares so much for the people he loves. An aspect of his personality that so few people get to see, something he hides away from the media, the people that try to find cracks in his armour for them to peck at. He keeps it locked away, only opening up that part of him for a select few, and Lando still can’t quite believe he falls into that category.

But he still can’t help but laugh at Max’s words, because of course it will hurt, that’s what he fucking wants. He twists his body around a little so he can look at Max, the grip he had on Max’s wrist slipping free, and he gives him a look that says Really? How long have we been doing this now?

Max rolls his eyes a little. He doesn’t say I just want you to be sure but it’s written all over his face, the way he gnaws at his bottom lip, the slightly worried frown pulling his brows down. He knows Max worries about taking things too far, that he will push Lando too much and break what they have built so carefully, that he doesn’t want to lose this either.

“Milk,” he says without breaking their eye contact, trying to stop the corners of his mouth from pulling up in a teasing grin. It makes Max roll his eyes again, a soft huff of air falling from his lips, still annoyed that they’ve somehow ended up with milk as their safeword.

“I still hate that one!”

“Why?”

“Makes me think bad things everytime you use it on your Instagram posts.”

“Yeah? What kind of bad things?” He says with a teasing smirk, gasping out a burst of air as Max’s finger dig into his hips suddenly. His hands slip further down then, until he’s grabbing a cheek with each hand, his arms straining as he pulls Lando up. He has only just enough time to catch himself as Max pushes him forward until he’s on his hands and knees.

“Like this,” Max says before biting at his arse, his breath hot against his skin as he inches closer to the crack between his cheeks. He can’t help but moan out as Max’s fingers dig into the flesh, pulling the cheeks apart until he feels hot air against his hole.

He’s expecting the drag of a tongue over his hole next, but instead he’s left aching, his hole clenching tightly as Max’s hands leave his arse and instead fall to the waistband of the joggers that are still clinging onto his thighs. The fabric is finally pulled free from his legs along with Max’s own pants. Max’s hand presses against his lower back to get him on his belly, his hands moving onto his thighs next, pushing and pulling at his legs until he has Lando right how he wants him.

He yelps out as suddenly there’s the sharp sting of Max’s hand on his left arsecheek, his fingers running over the imprint it leaves behind, admiring his handiwork. It’s the furthest he’ll go with this, Lando knows, slaps and hits not usually their thing. And sure enough Max’s hand doesn’t pull back for another smack, instead he clenches the fingers into the flesh of each cheek, pulling them apart once more. His hole flutters against the air, anticipation running through his veins as he waits for Max’s next move.

Lips find his lower back, pressing against the dip there, licking over each mole they come across until they’re finally at his crack. Teeth nip at his cheeks again before finally, finally those plump lips press against his hole, tongue slipping out slowly. The wet pressure of Max’s tongue feels amazing, sending a shiver up his body. He’s good at this to, his mouth warm and wet as it slides over Lando, making him press his body back against the flat of his tongue when it drags over him. Max draws lazy circles with his tongue, making saliva start to drip down his teint and onto his heavy balls, before he points it, making his tongue go as stiff as he can as he pushes it against the ring of muscles. He sighs out at the feeling, his body going rigid for a second before recognising the intrusion for what it is and relaxing against the strong muscle of Max’s tongue.

There’s a few more drags and pushes of his tongue, the movements slowly making his muscles relax and opening up more and more and then all of a sudden it’s gone, the heat of Max’s mouth leaving him, his hole fluttering against the empty air. And he can’t help but whine, his body wriggling up into where Max’s hands are still holding onto him firmly. He expects a ‘Stay still’ or another ‘Look at you’ to come from Max, but he stays quiet, almost eerily so, the only sound he can hear from him the even breaths he takes in through his nose.

He waits and waits, waits for him to do something until finally he can’t take it anymore and looks back over his shoulder at Max, and fuck he looks like the epitome of a pornstar. There’s a line of spit dangling from his lips, falling down slowly, his eyes focussed on where he’s spreading Lando’s cheeks open, making sure his aim is correct. Lando continues watching him as the spit drops lower and lower until finally the string breaks. His eyes fall shut as he feels it fall onto his skin, his hole clenching against it before Max gathers it up with his thumb and presses it into him slowly.

Max’s thumb slips in with little resistance, his mouth having worked him open enough for it to press passed the ring of muscle easily. Max presses the digit down against the walls inside of him, his teeth nipping at his skin with a bite, before he sits back up again and pulls his thumb away from him. He leans forward, his chest pressing against Lando’s back as he balances himself on one hand and presses the pointer and middle finger of his other hand against Lando’s lips. He lets them fall open easily, his tongue licking over each thick finger and wetting them.

He can feel Max’s arousal press against his arse with how he’s leaning over him now, his mouth working over the skin of Lando’s neck, the sound of a groan vibrating against his skin as Max presses himself against him. He presses back into the other man, urging him on, wanting to feel his cock press into him already but knows he needs to wait for fingers first. And Max doesn’t need any more encouragement, the muscles in his arms bulging up for a moment as he pushes himself away from Lando.

Wet fingers press against him then, his body giving way to the pressure easily. Max’s fingers scissor open inside of him, slowly opening him up more and more as his fingers run dry again. Fingers ease out to just the tip and he hears the wet sound of spit being pushed from Max’s lips, before they press back in again, a third finger joining them. It’s a stinging ache, the wide stretch making him grit his teeth, his body pushing back against the intrusion to ease the slide of fingers. Max stretches him open carefully, trying to ease the tip of a fourth finger in when Lando’s body relaxes into his touch. And he just wants his cock, to feel the wide stretch of it inside of him, that all consuming feeling of being connected like that.

“Come on,” he grits out, pressing back into Max’s touch, urging him on, letting him know he’s ready.

There’s one more press of fingers into him and then Max slowly eases them out, shushing Lando’s whimpers as he clenches up against the empty feeling. He twists his head back to look up at Max, the other man’s hand raised to his lips, more spit getting pushed onto it with a wet sound before Max twists his hand around his straining cock.

“You ready?” Max asks, eyes focussed on Lando’s as he shuffles forward a little more, a fist around his cock for him to guide it into Lando as soon as he has his confirmation. So he nods slowly, eyes determined as he does so, keeping them on Max as he pushes his hips forward and presses his cock against him. He pushes in slowly, so slow, the pressure against his hole building little by little, and Lando can’t help but let his head fall back down again, hung low between his shoulders as he tries his best to keep himself upright, the sensation overwhelming.

It hurts, it fucking hurts, even with Max’s fingers having worked him open, but finally the head of Max’s cock squeezes passed the ring of muscles, the widest part of him snug inside now. He feels so much bigger than normal like this, Max’s cock dragging against his insides as he continues to press forward, the spit barely easing the slide. Max inches in deeper slowly, shushing each of his whimpers with soft kisses against his skin and words of encouragement until finally he’s pressed into him right to the hilt. His mouth falls open in a choked up gasp and it’s only then that he realises how hard he’d been biting at his lip, the tang of iron on his taste buds as his tongue connects with his ruined lips.

“Fuck baby, you’re so tight,” Max groans out, his voice a low rumble.

He can’t stop the keen that forms on his lips, the sound bursting out as he takes in the sensation of Max stretching him open. “Fuck Max, fuck it hurts,” he says at the same time he closes his hand over Max’s hip to keep him close, telling Max that he can handle it. Max’s sweaty forehead falls against the back of his neck, a soft hum resonating against his skin as he keeps close and lets Lando get used to the feeling.

He waits for his body to relax a little more, to get used to the feeling of Max stretching him open and then relaxes his grip on Max’s hip, his hand falling back to the bed instead and fingers tangling around Max’s beside him. He squeezes once and feels Max press a kiss against his neck, his hips inching back ever so slightly. It still hurts and the feeling of Max stretching him open with just the tip of his cock, feeling both empty and full, draws a confused little sound from him, his brain not knowing yet whether it likes this or not. But then Max pushes back in, parting his walls once more, and pleasure is starting to seep in along with the pain, the urge to press back into the intrusion rather than pull back starting to win out.

Max’s rhythm stays slow, his mouth pressed below his ear, sucking and biting on the tender skin there in between words of praise.

“You’re doing so well, taking my cock so good baby. Fuck you’re tight, feels like you’ve never been fucked before, like you’re all for me, just me,” Max groans, words more of a ramble now as his hips pick up a little more speed. “Does it feel good, hmm?”

“So. Good,” he chokes out, his head pressing into the pillow beneath him as his arms start to give out, but Max’s arm wrapping around his chest is strong, keeping him from completely falling into the soft sheets. The fabric of the pillow feels foreign against his tongue as he clenches his teeth into it, his whimpers turning into moans as they rumble up his throat.

“Let me hear you baby, lemme know how good I’m making you feel huh.”

He spits the fabric back out of his mouth, his head pressing against the wet spot now as he lets out a loud keen, following Max’s orders. By now the slide of Max inside of him is more pleasure than pain, Max’s precum making the slide a little smoother. He can feel Max trying to find his prostate, the angle of his trust changing ever so slightly, until he lets out a frustrated groan and draws his body away from Lando. With Max’s arm slipping away from his chest his upper body collapses against the bed, his fingers twisting into the sheets as the change in position makes him feel even more. Max’s hands wrap around his hips tightly, the nails of his fingers digging into the skin as he thrusts forward again, trying to find the right angle once more.

It takes just two more thrusts and then finally he pushes in just right, the tip of his head hitting that magical spot inside of him, making him gasp in a breath of air before a loud moan falls from his lips. It feels so good, the last remnants of pain seeping away now as Max keeps pressing in at the right angle. “Yes, just like that Max, just like that. Fuck!”

He twists his head to the side, his cheek connecting with the pillow now instead, breathing in air that isn’t dry and cloyed with the scent of fabric softener. He can see Max from the corner of his eye like this, his head gone red from exertion, mouth hanging open a little. Their eyes meet again, a smile that’s too tender for what they’re doing right now spreading on Max’s face, before something wicked comes over his face instead. With one last squeeze of his fingers around his hips Max shifts his position again, one of his hands leaving his hip to reach for Lando’s face instead. He runs his thumb over Lando’s still tender lip softly, before he brushes away some sweaty hair from his forehead, the touches such a juxtaposition to what he knows is coming. He can already feel Max’s heavy palm resting against his face, the weight of his body pressing him down against the pillow.

He doesn’t have to wait long, Max’s broad hand spanning the whole side of his face, the tips of his fingers scratching against his hairline as he presses his face down into the pillow roughly. He closes his eyes and really takes in the feeling. Of the soft pillowcase beneath his cheek, the slightly callused tips of Max’s fingers, the way his thumb curls over his jaw, the pressure of it firm as Max continues to fuck him. And fuck he’s already getting so close, his cock bouncing up against his stomach with each of Max’s thrusts, he could probably come untouched, the slap of his cock against his stomach enough to tip him over the edge.

“Close,” he moans, his voice muffled as he struggles to move his jaw underneath the pressure of Max’s hand, his lips brushing against Max’s palm as he speaks. The warning barely tumbles from his lips in time, the rough jerk of Max’s hips at his words tipping him over the edge. His orgasms rips through him almost painfully, like coming untouched always does, cum spurting out over his stomach and dripping down onto the sheets, making his body feel like tiny fires are lit up underneath his skin.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hears Max’s groan filter through the ringing in his ears, the clenching of his body sucking Max into him even tighter. The slide of Max’s cock inside of him is starting to hurt though, his body going over-sensitive quickly, a soft whimper falling from his lips.

Another pained sound from him has Max halt, his hand drawing away from his face and brushing down his back softly as he slips out of him. He knows Max must’ve been so close, but even in the throes of pleasure he knows when to stop, that the pained sound Lando let out wasn’t like the ones in the midst of their plays. And he can’t stop the stinging of tears at the corners of his eyes, the love he feels for this man is overwhelming, the trust between them so effortless.

Max’s hand is a blur as it moves over his cock, pulling him towards his own release, a low grunt the only signal that he’s coming, his hips jerking reflexively before he feels the splash of warm spunk against his arse and across his lower back. Max’s breathing is heavy, his forehead pressing into the back of Lando’s neck for a second, before he whispers stay into his skin, drawing away from him and stumbling off the bed, shushing the needy sound Lando can’t keep in.

He lets his body sag into the bed, still splayed awkwardly with his arse up in the air, but he can’t get himself to move, exhaustion settling in as he lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, letting the quiet wash over him. Max isn’t gone for long, the soft shuffle of his feet making Lando blink his eyes back open. There’s a wet cloth in his hands as he kneels back onto the bed, the brush of the warm fabric soft against his skin as Max wipes away their mess. His hands are so gentle as he slowly pulls his legs down to the bed, before he carefully turns him over onto his back away from the soiled spot of the sheets and wipes away the mess on his stomach. And he can’t stop the tears from falling this time, everything so overwhelming, the gentle caress from Max’s fingers, the absolute exhaustion, the ache in his arse and the quiet in his head.

“Hey, don’t cry. Did I hurt you?” Max asks worriedly.

He quickly shakes his head, chokes out no , and watches the frown between Max’s brows smooth over again. Max lets himself fall down onto the bed next to him, throwing the cloth over his shoulder, before pulling Lando close. He brushes away the tears from his eyes, a soft smile on his face as does so. “You really okay?”

“Yeah, perfect.”

#max verstappen/lando norris #my fic #f1 fic #formula one fanfiction #it's finally here guys

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theodorasutton · 5 years ago

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Digital Anthropology and Formula 1

This blogpost starts with my entry to the DHL competition, which offers my own way into Formula 1, through the drama and personalities of the sport. After my entry, I’ve written my ideas for researching Formula 1 from the perspective of digital anthropology.

My Formula 1 Moment

A few months ago I entered a Formula 1 competition to describe my best F1 moment. I wrote a really heartfelt description and went to submit it, only to find out it was about 5 times too long. I cut it down, submitted, but knew it wasn’t any good. I decided to share the original version and describe my way into the sport which I absolutely never expected myself to like - here it is:

March, 2018. My boyfriend had been watching the Formula 1. The qualifying had ended, and now there was a press conference.

I had never been interested in sport, certainly not one that was so clinical and confusing as Formula 1. For me, all the drivers blurred into one, some seemed to wear red, others wore white, and all of them seemed strangely keen to wear logo embellished headgear. Here they were, three of them, herded behind some microphones, giving stilted answers to press questions. Distracted and on my phone, I was impatient for the end of the program so that we could watch something interesting. "I can assure you we don't have a party mode,” one of them was saying. "I used the same mode from Q2 to the end of Q3. There was no extra mode, no extra button I engaged in." "What were you doing before, then?” The guy in red asked him, taking a sip from his drink and smiling mischievously. "I was waiting to put a good lap in…” The guy in white said, “to wipe the smile off your face,” he added under his breath, with an extra dash of sass. Was he angry, or was he joking? It was hard to tell. The two of them seemed to be rigid with tension, but keen to put on a good show for the cameras. The guy in white patted the guy in red’s arm, insisting that he was only joking. The awkwardness was palpable, and the exchange had my full attention. The other guy in red, sitting on the right, however, seemed to be daydreaming. Who was this guy in white, who my boyfriend told me was winning everything? What planet had he landed from, that gave him the ability to win races with robotic precision? The guy in red with the mischievous smile seemed to be the underdog, and was endearing. The daydreaming one was pure comedy. “Do they have brawls in the bars after a race?” I asked. “I don’t know,” my boyfriend said. “I’m not sure they can drink. They have to maintain almost no body fat.” I frowned. “I hope the guy in red punches the guy in white,” I said. I envisioned him chucking TVs out of swanky hotel windows. I live for the drama. This was the moment that got me into Formula 1. For the first time I saw inside the machines that zoomed predictably around faraway racetracks. I started to realise that Formula 1 wasn’t just lap times, numbers on a screen, and a choice between hard or soft tyres; it was fundamentally about the people. There were egos, eye watering pay checks, glamorous locations, and a whole lot of pressure. There were feuds, confrontations, and tears. It wasn’t until much later that I realised the physical toll of driving a Formula 1 car, and the gym regime that accustomed drivers’ bodies to immense forces while going round the track. I had thought drivers were just pressing buttons inside a machine, but these were athletes putting their lives on the line. Lewis wasn’t always so sassy. He usually spoke with the measured words of a religious guru, emphasising gratitude and hard work. Meditating, praying, exercising, and listening to the right song before a race were apparently what helped him achieve his super-human results. We jubilantly listened to a Christina Aguilera where he was rumoured to perform a hilarious and cringeworthy rap. “Imagine all the other drivers teasing him with it,” I said. It took me a while to realise that Sebastian was a four-time world champion. His voice was low and disinterested while he gave clamouring journalists a run through of his race. In Bahrain, in 2019, Lewis seemed to make him spin on the track through pure intimidation. After races, we watched eagerly for the private moment when the top three drivers would meet in the break room, wipe the sweat off their faces, shake hands, and grimace after two hours of ruthless competition. Was the loser completely crushed? What would they say to one another now that they were face to face? But it was Kimi who became the most entertaining of the three from the press conference that day. Often giving nonsensical answers to journalists (that started with the sound “bwoah”) or pretending to not hear them, he, too, was mischievous and clearly hated any kind of ceremony that stopped him either driving very fast, or going home. His elusiveness made me increasingly curious, and I searched for entertaining stories, finding ones about him napping on piles of tyres, drunkenly diving off a stage with no crowd to catch him, or screaming “gloves and steering wheel!” to a bewildered pit crew. Since that moment in March 2018 I’ve learned more about what really makes Formula 1 tick. I’ll be honest, I still switch off when people start talking about technical specs. But I love to watch the drivers, team principles, and pundits, when they find a way to say everything with just a look in their eyes, or a quiet dig at a competitor. I love it when there’s gossip and wild predictions, and memes to be made. I never thought I would love a sport like I love Formula 1 now, but it was the people - and Lewis’ sass - that got me where I am now.

Digital Anthropology and Formula 1

Through getting my head around F1, I’ve unsurprisingly thought about it in terms of my own research into digital anthropology - or how technology is part of our social world today. I truly know nothing about sport, so I may be wrong, but it seems that F1 is the most technologically mediated sport there is. Rather than athletes who test their physical capabilities, the drivers’ abilities are mediated through a machine, which could be working well, or could be crawling round the track. That machine has been built from the ground up, bolt by bolt, by engineers constantly trying to improve on the vision of the four-wheeled vehicle. They don’t simply drive the same car at each race, it’s continuously evolving and being tinkered with by the team and its engineers in-between weekends.

F1 car aerodynamics Rather than watching the race directly, the teams themselves watch a row of television screens. For starters, the circuit is too big to see in one go, and the noises are too loud to expose your ears to. To experience F1, even for those participating, necessitates cameras and microphones and screens. But the teams are not only watching footage of the race, but endless numbers dancing in front of their eyes, listing speed for each sector, tyre wear, temperatures, and predictions. What secret software do they rely upon to give them an advantage over others - what algorithms are at work, invisibly measuring and shaping the race? Do they have the problem of too much data - data saturation or InfoObesity - where they can learn no more, or they struggle to store, protect, or analyse the information flying at them?

Renault’s Pit Wall, Singapore GP

Pit wall display screen, from Reddit

While the celebrity drivers of F1 plummet themselves around a track several centimetres away from the tarmac - sometimes losing up to 3 litres of water and 4kg in one race - F1 is equally a mathematical sport. This interplay of bodies and technology, personality and data, is fascinating. If I were to design a research project on F1, it would ask how these aspects of the sport are reconciled. What relationship do the teams have with their technology? Are strategies based more on digital information - “The computer says we should do this, so we’ll do it"? Or do they put their faith in people like Hamilton, knowing that his judgment in split seconds would prevail?

Masculinity and aggression would be important themes. Comparing Formula 1 to my limited knowledge of football or rugby, where frustration can be taken out with shouting, running, tumbling, or even brief fights, I wonder if F1 is more of a restrained, poised sport, played behind a veil of respectability, where resentment comes out not physically, but in catty, underhand plays, spies, cutting people out, or perhaps insistently pronouncing your name wrong. My suggestion that Hamilton might throw some TVs out of a window was an attempt to understand where that necessary frustration ends up. A clip of Ricciardo screaming with his helmet still on, Verstappen shoving Ocon, or Schumacher marching furiously up the pit lane towards Coulthard, pulls back the curtain. Behind the scenes, what dastardly behaviour lurks? I also wonder how the teams would take failure differently if they were all women. After both Red Bull cars were taken out of the same race, I remember saying to my boyfriend that “I wouldn’t want to be in a room full of those angry Red Bull workers.” When Haas repeatedly have outbursts on their radios, they seem to be transgressing an invisible rule of Formula 1, that anger is a private matter. What other invisible rules are there that shape team behaviour, and create friction between them?

Haas team principle Gunther Steiner’s outburst at Sochi, for which he was fined $7500

At the same time, while teams seem keen to control their presentation, moments of intense emotion, and authentic reactions of the drivers and pit crew, give fans something to go on. How does Formula 1 balance its primary purpose - the need to be entertaining, with the teams' clear desire to maintain professionalism and secrecy? In 2017, F1 released YouTube videos of the post race driver briefings, which featured drivers sat in rows like bored schoolboys. The videos are extremely entertaining, mostly due to the comedic camerawork and Grosjean attempting to get other drivers into trouble - but the uploads have since stopped, possibly because it was too much of an invasion into the meetings. Netflix’s 2019 series “Formula 1: Drive to Survive” gave us a behind the scenes look, and helped us meet the personalities in F1 and empathise with their stories and struggles. In the recent On The Marbles podcast, Lee McKenzie explains that one reason why AutoSport is going out of print is the on-brand messages from the teams are too bland and repetitive for the price of the magazine. My own entry to the DHL competition displays my feeling that the sport needs drama to continue. This tension plays out everywhere. As the stewards continue to penalise small errors in driving, they curtail more of the scrappy, fight-y racing that the drivers seem to enjoy as much as the spectators, resulting in races that are “boring” and “processional.” Rather than relying on printed interviews, fans may be turning to social media to connect more closely with the characters in the sport. Through Instagram, Reddit, and YouTube, fans create memes based on the funniest moments on and off track, some of which endure for months.

Left: A fan’s take on Haas’ “I think Ericsson hit us”. Right: The radio message to Kimi Raikkonen when his drink was not connected The McLaren driver Lando Norris, only 19 years old, posts stories on his Instagram most days, and welcomes the playful Internet world of memes and ridiculousness in a way that breaks with the usual “robotic monotony” of drivers. It turns out that in his spare time, when he’s not racing in real life, he enjoys racing Verstappen on a video game. In this way, through following them on Instagram, fans can see relationships between the drivers - in a recent example, Ricciardo and Leclerc teased each other on their own respective Instagram accounts during a shared flight. Technology is playing a role, then, not only in the broadcasting of sport, but in the way that fans can relate to F1 and its personalities, by viewing mundane and everyday moments that span much further than the race weekend.

Left: Ricciardo’s selfie with sleeping teammate Verstappen Middle: Norris’ Instagram, teasing his teammate Sainz Right: Leclerc jokes about a misspelling of his name

Research Outline

Taking an academic view of Formula 1 Absolutely Totally Seriously, I would propose viewing it through the idea of Rationality. Rationality has come up in my work on digital detoxing, where in a “Disenchanted” modern world, we perceive that technological progress explains the world down to neat facts and figures. We can bend the world to our own ends, since everything becomes calculable. To act rationally would be to do things for the intended goal, without the need for guesswork or fate.

Interpreting Formula 1 in these terms, the sport splits into its Rational and Irrational aspects. On the one hand, teams design machines using cutting edge technology, and sensors and numbers tell them how to optimise the car to be more likely to win. On the other hand, the teams are made of people, who are emotional, or rather irrational - who might in fact be the key ingredient for winning (like the magical je ne sais quoi of Lewis Hamilton or Ayrton Senna), or who might require motivating, might cause problems, or make mistakes.

I would hypothesise that the teams themselves prefer a rational view of F1. They want everything to be predictable, structured, cool, calm and collected. However, in order to survive, in order to entertain, the sport requires Irrationality - drama, friction, emotion, personality. Also under this heading would be fate, luck, the driver’s own headspace and personal life. A research project of Formula 1 would look at how the teams manage tension between these two aspects - and I would aim to answer questions through an ethnography of team culture.

My research questions would be something like this.

How do the teams incorporate digital technology into their work, and do Formula 1 teams rely more on technology, or on human skill?

What norms are there around emotion in Formula 1, and how is emotion managed by the teams?

How do Formula 1 teams balance the need to be entertaining with the need to win, and how is social media changing their relationship to this?

I better get back to my thesis.

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emboldens · 5 years ago

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“when I ask you about your first love i am always secretly hoping that you will say your own name. now, wouldn’t that be beautiful – to above else have a heart that was proud of itself.”

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Marlene McKinnon Pronunciation: Nickname(s): Mars, Mack, Lena Birthdate: 05/27/89 Age: 30 Zodiac: Gemini Gender: Female Pronouns: she/her Romantic orientation: Lesbian Sexual orientation: Lesbian Nationality: British Ethnicity: Japanese on her mother’s side, Irish and English on her father’s side Current location: London Living conditions: Living in the moment!

BACKGROUND

Birthplace: London Hometown: Wiltshire, England Social Class: Middle, formerly upper Educational achievements: Graduated secondary school with honors Father: Brian McKinnon was a smalltime character actor and BBC show runner infamous for his divisive, often politically incorrect dark comedies. Although his personality found popularity within the small niche of cynics and unsuccessful satirists, having his wife’s career overshadow his own tore away at his insecruties. These frustrations were never explicitly expressed, but glimmers of his envy more often than not took form through the mean-spirited “jokes” and the occasional arguments he subjected his wife and child to. He passed away in 2008 after a year-long battle with pancreatic cancer. He once claimed that his biggest dream was to play James Bond. Up until his death, this statement was believed to be part of his comedy routine. It was not. Mother: Midori McKinnon (nee Iizuka) born into family of wealthy hotel owners who’d moved to London for better business prospects. Their wealth gave her access to the theatre world, where she slowly and steadily thrived, landing supporting roles in West End productions of Miss Saigon, Les Miserables, and Jesus Christ Superstar, in addition to her occasional stints at the Globe Theatre. By her mid-to late thirties, her career made a breakthrough in Hollywood, where she gained international renown for her grace, beauty, and intelligence. However, the poise she carried herself with did not translate as well off-camera, as she was subject to bouts of deep melancholy, stemming from an allegedly troubled childhood, a dissatisfaction with her marriage and her later estrangement from her daughter, and a family history of mental illness. She took the world by surprise when she took her own life at the young age of 45. Today, her performance as Ophelia in a 1991 production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet is considered legendary. Her biggest dream was also to play James Bond. Sibling(s): None Birth order: Only child Pets: Two cats, Vita and Virginia, and a St. Bernard named Samus Previous relationships: Alecto Carrow, TBD Arrests: 3 Prison time: None

OCCUPATION AND INCOME

Current occupation: Bar owner Dream occupation: Wife of a lesbian Alpaca breeder Past job(s): Prior to opening a bar, she was a saleslady at Lush. Spending habits: Mostly thrifty, but occasionally makes large transactions for things she sees as investments for her business. In debt?: Yes Most valuable possession: Sentimentally? Her copy of Matilda, which was the first novel she ever read.

SKILLS AND ABILITIES

Physical strength: Average Speed: Average Intelligence: Above Average Accuracy: Average Agility: Average Stamina: Average Teamwork: Prefers to work alone, as her issues with authority mostly get in the way. Talents/hobbies: With over eleven years of vocal training and the fortune of having a musical actress for a mother, Marlene can sing surprisingly well, boasting a four-octave mezzo-soprano range. She doesn’t tell anyone about it, because she likes surprising people at karaoke nights. Shortcomings: Fears vulnerability and commitment, has a tendency to appear frivolous due to her cheeky demeanor, occasionally self-destructive Languages spoken: English, some Japanese. Drive?: Yes Jump-start a car?: No Change a flat tyre?: Yes Ride a bicycle?: Yes Swim?: Yes Play an instrument?: Yes Play chess?: No Braid hair?: Yes Tie a tie?: Yes. Pick a lock?: Yes Cook?: Debatable

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE AND CHARACTERISTICS

Faceclaim: Sonoya Mizuno Eye colour: Brown Hair colour: Black Hair type/style/length: Long, sleek, and straight Glasses/contacts?: Yes Dominant hand: Left Height: 5′7 Weight: 56 kg Build: Lean and fit Exercise habits: Weekly gym visits, jogging regularly Skin tone: Fair Tattoos: Butterfly with shadow ( Right shoulder, 2007 ), Moon cycle band ( Left arm, 2007 ), Velociraptor skull ( Right hand, 2008 ), Pterodactyl skeleton ( Chest, 2009 ), Apatosaurus skeleton ( Left leg, 2010 ), Spiderweb ( Elbow, 2010 ), Van Gogh skull smoking ( Collarbone, 2011 ), Floral sleeve ( Right arm, 2012 ), Floral design ( Neck, 2012 ), Marlene Dietrich smoking ( Right arm, 2013 ), Semicolon ( Left wrist, 2015 ), Band-aid ( Above the heart, 2016 ), “It’s chaos. Be kind.” ( Above the left elbow crease, 2016 ), The Star and The Moon tarot cards ( Left arm, 2017 ), Junji Ito comic panel ( Upper back, 2017 ), Phoenix ( Thigh, 2018 ) Piercings: Outer conch, labret, and brow Marks/scars: None Clothing style: Casual, monochromatic. Not a big fan of dresses or shorts. Allergies: None Diet: Mostly, but not exclusively vegetarian Physical ailments: TERRIBLE period cramps

PSYCHOLOGY

MBTI type: INFP - A (64% introverted, 66% intuiive, 57% feeling, 69% prospecting) Enneagram type: Type 9 Moral Alignment: Chaotic neutral Temperament: Sanguine Element: Water Emotional stability: Marlene appears to be stable on the surface, but her repressed feelings of guilt, anger and grief over her broken relationship with her mother still linger within, making her prone to bouts of extreme despondency. Introvert or Extrovert?: Introvert Obsession(s): The Leaky Bucket will know when Marlene is on her period because on the first two days, the pub’s radio will exclusively play a single female artist’s discography on repeat. Last month, it was Mitski. The month before, it was Regina Spektor. On a month she denies existed, it was Taylor Swift. Compulsion(s): Humor as a coping mechanism, repressing negative feelings, self-awareness without self-improvement Phobia(s): None Addiction(s): Nicotine Drug use: When she was younger Alcohol use: Occasionally Prone to violence?: No Prone to crying?: On her monthly cycle, yes. Believe in love at first sight?: Yes, but to her, this is very, very rare.

MANNERISMS

Accent: English, London dialect Speech quirks: None Hobbies: Casual video gaming, interior design, music curation Habits: Sitting on surfaces that aren’t meant to be sat on, smoking Nervous ticks: Lip biting, staring at the ground, blinking, diverting the subject with crass humor Drives/motivations: Maintaining her current lifestyle. Fears: Cockroaches Sense of humour?: Almost anything goes. Puns are her guilty pleasure, though she won’t admit it. Prefers subtle humor over loud, straightforward jokes, but either is fine. Enjoys vulgarity. Loves banter. Do they curse often?: Moderately.

FAVOURITES

Animal: Wolf Beverage: Bubble tea Book: Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore by Robin Sloan Colour: Red Food: Pork dumplings Flower: Plumeria Gem: Emerald Mode of transportation: Train Scent: Petrichor Sport: Gymnastics Weather: Sunny & breezy Vacation destination: Reykjavík

ATTITUDES

Greatest dream: Slow life. She aspires for nothing more than a peaceful existence with a person who understands her and her values. Greatest fear: the Duolingo Owl Most at ease when: Curating playlists for the Leaky Bucket Least as ease when: Somebody ( namely, certain Black family cousins ) threatens the security of her bar. Worst possible thing that could happen: For the Order to dismantle, or lose their ideals Biggest achievement: The Leaky Bucket! Biggest regret: Not reaching out to her mother before it was too late.

#i don't know how to improve the quality of tumblr photos and at this point im too afraid to ask #edits.#about.#penumbrafeed

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