#Contour De Force

[vipulbaibhav]

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[jonathansthickthighs]

My Sweetest Heart 4: Yandere! Fushiguro Toji x Reader

Description: You have a one night stand with Toji and now he won’t leave you alone.

Part 1 here

Part 2 here

Part 3 here

Part 5 here

Trigger Warnings: nsfw, yandere, obsessive behavior, female reader, AFAB reader, toxic behavior, threats, jealousy, possessive behavior, desperate toji, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it up), daddy kink, alternative universe (no curses), age gap (reader is in her early 20’s, toji is in his mid 30’s), soft toji, toji has feelings, slight sub toji?

A/N: part five will the last one of this mini series. enjoy! :)

Not edited!

You sat by the window, as a deluge of thoughts flooded your mind. Absently, your fingers traced the delicate contours of the pearl necklace gifted to you by your boyfriend the evening before.

You had been dating for two months now and you couldn’t deny this was the pinnacle of emotional fulfillment you had ever experienced with a man. He treated you like no other, he was so soft and gentle with you, you never imagined a man being this good to you. His gestures of affection unfailingly making you swoon, gifting you flowers weekly, getting you whichever snacks you were craving, taking you new places, even buying expensive gifts like the one you had around your neck. You weren’t aware he could even afford such artifacts, ignorant to the fact that bounty hunters were so well off.

It had been a great couple of months, but you had to admit to yourself that you were terrified. You were scared of how things might turn out in the future. The subject of marriage and children has arisen in discussion with Toji several times, leaving you unsure of where you stood on your own desires. You hadn’t known each other long enough and up until now, your relationship may be all flowers and rainbows, but that didn’t guarantee your expectations would still be met in the future. After all, only two months have passed since you met Toji.

You weren’t against marriage at your age, but children, on the other hand, were a touchy subject to you. You wanted to enjoy your 20s to their fullest and you were aware that a child, while being a blessing, would also intake an enormous sense of responsibility that you weren’t ready for at this age. Toji had quite a few years on you and his desire for a family was evident. He had expressed his desire to having children before turning forty, leaving you around four more years to enjoy your stress free, youthful life.

You were broken out of your mental battle when you felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“You’ve been lost in thought an awful lot today, sweetheart. You��re not thinking about leaving me are you?” Toji joked as he nuzzled his face into your sensitive neck, eliciting a cascade of giggles from your lips.

“Of course not, Toji. I’d be a fool to throw away a cock like yours.” You quipped back, pivoting to encircle your arm around his shoulders in a tender embrace.

“Oh, so you’re just using me for my body? I’m hurt, baby.” Toji chuckled, closing the space between you as he pressed his lips to yours. He moved his lips against yours vigorously, squeezing your waist against his, rutting his hardening, clothed cock against your stomach. You immediately responded, kissing him with the same enthusiasm. You ran your hands through his narrow waist down to his bottom, giving him a playful squeeze, forcing a giggle out of him.

You cracked your eyes open, peaking at the clock on the wall behind Toji. As realization dawned, your eyes widened as you noticed the time, prompting you to swiftly detangle yourself from Toji’s embrace. “Shit, babe. I promised the girls I would meet them half an hour ago. I gotta go!” You exclaimed, making Toji tense up. As you began to depart, you were stopped by his firm grip on your arm, drawing you back against his chest.

“Come on, doll. Just a quicky, you’re already late anyways.” He insisted, trying to seem nonchalant about the situation. In reality, Toji fucking detested when you went out with your friends. The thought of men approaching you, trying to flirt with you, offering to pay for your drinks made him lose his mind. Hell, the mere thought of other men looking at you was enough to drive him over the edge. His darkest thoughts were screaming to lock you up in a place were he could be the only one to look at you; the only way those thoughts dissipated was with the image of you recoiling in horror at him. The thought made his chest tighten, your hatred was something he would never be able to live with.

Despite the infrequency of your meetups with your friends, his desire to wanting you all to himself was insatiable. Never had he imagined himself yearning so fervently for a woman’s attention; it had always been the other way around, but for you, he was willing to beg on his knees for an ounce of your attention.

“As much as I want to, I’ve already ditched my friends too many times to be with you. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” You answered apologetically pressing a kiss on his cheek. Toji tried to mask his disappointment, but this time he wasn’t as good at hiding his expression.

“Please, sweetheart. I want you so bad, can’t you feel it?” Toji begged with frustration evident in his voice, grabbing your hand to place it on top of his raging bulge. He began using your hand to rub himself, grunting at the pleasurable sensations you were bringing him with just your hand. “Please…” He pleaded weakly, desperation lacing his voice.

You groaned, feeling defeated as your panties started to dampened at the sight. You were quick to attach your lips into his parted ones, tongues fighting each other as you continued teasing his cock over his sweatpants. You separated your lips from his causing him to whine at the loss of your soft lips.

Once you decided you had teased his cock enough, you tugged his waistband down, freeing his aching cock. You bit your lip as you tentatively stroked his cock in slow motions, gaining a hiss from him. Running you thumb over the reddened tip, you gathered the oozing precum, spreading it over the rest of his shaft. You wanted him, badly.

“Tell me what you want, Toji.” You whispered, peppering open mouthed kissed all over his neck. He couldn’t bring himself to respond as he started thrusting his hips into your hand. Having you jerk him off with your hands was something else, he couldn’t have done it better himself. Your hands were so much softer than his, the velvety skin of your hand wrapping around him could almost make him finish then and there. “Answer me, Toji.” You demanded, squeezing his cock enough to catch his attention.

“I n-need to f-fuck you, sweetheart.” Toji managed to utter out.

Smirking, you responded. “Then beg for it.”

Toji groaned, throwing his head back as your painfully slow stroking continued. He would never admit it, but having you be this demanding was a huge turn on to him. Believing submission was characteristic of women only, he never let himself experience anything remotely close. All his life he had been the one in control, never letting his guard down for any woman. You unveiled facets of him he never imagined existed.

“Please. I n-need to feel your pussy!” Toji beseeched impatiently and you rewarded him with a radiant smile. You released his cock from your grip, guiding him towards the bed. Pushing him on the bed, you began to undress slowly, pulling the straps from you dress down to reveal your tits to him.

You grabbed your breasts, massaging them and playing with your nipples, putting on a show for Toji. He gawked at you lustfully as he reached for his cock to stroke himself as he watched you. Playfully, you slapped his hand away. “I didn’t give you permission to do that, you pervert.” You retorted, giving him a sly smile.

Toji’s mouth was agape in disbelief, bewildered at this side of you. “I am not a pervert, sweetheart!” He exclaimed, failing to suppress his laugh.

You giggled before responding. “Oh yeah? You’re stroking your cock to this defenseless girl standing in front of you. Does that not make you a pervert?”

“Well that defenseless girl is touching herself like a slut in front of me. I’m pretty sure she wants me to jerk off to her.” He replied, starting to tug on his cock once again.

You bit your lip, enjoying the way his gaze felt on you. “I think you might be right this time.” You admitted as you decided to finish undressing for him. It was impossible for Toji to get tired of looking at your delectable body. He could easily make himself come by merely admiring your nudity.

Once all your clothes were discarded, you climbed on top of him. Settling yourself on top of his shaft, you moaned at the contact your sensitive clit made with his cock. You began grinding your heat on his cock, making him groan. You were so wet for him, you couldn’t wait any longer to have him inside you.

“You want me to ride your cock, daddy?” You suggested seductively as you continued teasing the both of you.

“Fuck. Yes, baby, please.” He nodded, eager to feel your tight, warm snatch engulf him in its delightful glory.

You wasted no time grabbing his cock, pressing him against your wet entrance before lowering yourself carefully onto him, making the two of you moan. You still weren’t accustomed to his size, so you needed some time before you could move comfortably. Continuing to lower yourself until he was fully sheathed inside your heat, you placed your hands on his chest for support. Toji grabbed the fat your ass as he threw his head back onto the bed. He was certain he would never tire of this feeling, your pussy was simply made for him.

“Pussy’s s’good, baby.” Toji slurred, relishing how tightly your cunt wrapped around him. The sight of you riding his hard cock was breathtaking. He noticed you it had gotten comfortable once you started slowly moving. You rose your hips until only his tip was remaining before lowering yourself onto him to a halt, making him grunt at the sudden piquancy he felt. After that you proceeded to ride his cock in swift, steady motions, stroking his cock with your dripping pussy. He couldn’t help himself from feeling hypnotized by your stunning form as you rode him. Your eyes squeezed shut, mouth agape as your tits bounced with each stroke. The sight was was orgasmic.

“Your cock is so deep inside me, Toji!” The sweet moans and screams leaving your lips were like music to his ears. The way you said his name turned him on to the extent he would do absolutely anything to hear it come out of your mouth.

He groaned as you worked his cock, sliding his hands up from your bum, making his way through your waist until he finally reached your breasts. He kneaded them thoroughly, making you let out a moan. You sped up your pace, the squelching noise of your thrusts meeting, filling the room. Toji leaned forward taking one of your perky nipple into his warm mouth, suckling like he was starved.

You whimpered at the stimulation you were feeling, as Toji gave your other nipple the same treatment. Continuing to jump on his cock like a madwoman, you could feel your orgasm approaching. When Toji felt your walls starting to tighten around him he grabbed a hold of your waist, holding you still before he started thrusting his generous cock into your sopping heat.

“Oh my— fuck! I’m gonna come all over your cock, Toji!” You cried out, feeling your pussy clench around his pulsing cock.

“T-that’s it, sweetheart. Use me. M-make yourself come with my cock. Let me hear you.” Toji uttered out shakily as he continued to stimulate your sensitive nipples, grunting into them. The prominent noise in the room being the sound of the slapping of your skins and your moans and pants of satisfaction.

You moaned loudly when you felt your orgasm arrive. “Yes. Yes. Yes! Toji!” With that, you let it all out, throwing your head back, your dripping pussy clenching deliciously around his cock. His thrusts didn’t seize, continuing to drill your pussy with the need to reach his own release.

He called out your name as he felt his orgasm approaching. “I’m gonna fuckin’ come, sweetheart. Are you gonna take it, baby?” Toji announced as he watched your beautiful face, you were in a daze, your eyes half lidded looking at the man that was causing you such pleasure.

“I want all of it, gimme your cum, T-Toji.” You managed to slur out, using the last of your strength to hold yourself up on his chest. That was all it took for Toji to start thrusting up into your pussy erratically, your clenching pussy making him quiver out his orgasm.

“You’re fucking mine!” Toji growled, throwing his head back as your wet cunt milked his semen out of him, sending it deep into your womb. Get fucking pregnant! His intrusive thoughts made themselves present as his thrust began getting sloppy, his legs trembling in ecstasy.

“A-ah, I love you so much, sweetheart.” Toji stuttered out as he finished releasing inside of you.

Shocked, you looked at a drowsy looking Toji. “Did you just—?”

Toji parted his lips to speak, only to close them once more. Those words escaped him unwittingly, unleashing them from the depths of his pent up emotions, before he could muster the restraint to withhold them. Internally, he was having a battle with himself, trying to make it seem like an accident. He harbored uncertainty about how you would feel about him after only knowing him for two months. He had loved you since before you even knew of his existence and these feelings kept accumulating over time inside him; he couldn’t stand it any longer, so his body reacted for him.

“I love you.” He repeated without breaking eye contact with you. The shock on your face was evident, sending a tremor of apprehension through him. He was terrified of you never loving him back, he dreaded the prospect of your affection remaining beyond his grasp forever.

“I-I love you too, Toji.” Toji’s gaze widened in surprise, his eyes dilated at the unexpected revelation from you. His heart felt like it was going to burst and his cheeks were tinted pink. The happiness he felt surpassed anything he had ever deemed attainable. His mind was on a frenzy, he finally achieved what he wanted most in life. Incredulity washed over him, this must surely be a dream. She loves me back. She loves me back. She loves me back. She loves me.

Toji couldn’t suppress the smile creeping to his face. He didn’t thinking his heart could beat any faster until he watched you smile right back at him before breaking eye contact with him. You could even look at him straight in the eye and your face had gotten an angry shade of red from the mixture of the sex and the confession. Such a shy little thing. Even after two months of knowing each other you were still shy around him. He thought it was lovely.

“You have no idea how happy you make me, sweetheart. I was scared you wouldn’t love me back.” Toji admitted, reaching out to caress your soft cheek. His cock had been inside you through all of this, so he decided to slowly pull it out, making the two of you hiss from the overstimulation.

“I do, Toji. I’m deeply in love with you.” You revealed, leaving Toji astonished and with his heart dancing chaotically in his chest. You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes, enjoying the intimate moment. You never anticipated falling in love agains so soon, yet it unfolded before you as if ordained by faith. You thought meeting Toji was destiny. Climbing off of him, you snuggled to his side.

“Alright, alright, Toji. You’ve once again, managed convinced me to stay home with you.” Home. Toji loved the sound of that. He couldn’t wait to have his own little house with you, he had been taking up extra bounties to be able to afford one. As soon as you accepted his marriage proposal, he would buy a home for just the two of you. Although he was ready to have children with you right now, he knew you weren’t keen on the idea having children at your age. Toji’s not sure if he can honor your wishes, but he would try. Unless the situation called for other means.

Toji looked smug at your comment, fully aware that if you had decided to still go out, he would try to convince you to stay any other way. “You know you love staying in with me.” Toji replied, pulling you tighter into his chest causing you to let out a giggle.

You tried to detangle yourself from him, but his grip on you impeded it.

“I need to use the restroom, stop being clingy.” You quipped with a laugh, making him loosen his grip on you. Toji felt a little hurt. Were you really joking or did you truly think he was clingy? Insecurity flooded his mind as he watched you head to the restroom.

His thoughts were interrupted by some distant vibrations. Toji sat up from the bed to see your phone vibrating in the nightstand. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the caller ID. It was one of your friends, these were the people trying to steal you from him.

“Hey.” He answered coldly, the other line was silent for a second.

“Um, Toji?” The girl asked confused at not being greeted by her best friend as per usual.

“What do you want?” Toji questioned discourteously, not caring about feigning kindness with her this time. He was going to take any means necessary to drive you away from your friends. Your friends were but vermin, unworthy of the mere touch if your presence. Not an ounce of trust did he have for them. The thought of them trying to cloud your mind with doubts about your relationship ignited an indescribable fury within him. These women were going to taint your perception of him and he would not stand for that. Not to mention, most of them were single and he hated the image of them manipulating you into acting like you are as well.

He could tell your friend was taken a back by his bluntness, bewildered by his change in charisma. Every time they had met he always appeared so courteous and seemingly genuine, she did not expect this attitude from your boyfriend. “I-It’s just— we’ve been waiting for over an hour and a half and we got worried. Is she going to make it?”

Toji chuckled darkly before lowering his voice, assuring you didn’t hear him. “Listen here, you stupid bitch. Haven’t you gotten the clue she doesn’t want to see you anymore? She’s always cancelling your little outings and making up excuses to not see you. It’s been two months since you last saw her, get a fucking grip and accept it. She’s not your friend anymore.” He spat out harshly, earning a audible gasp from your friend.

“D-did she really tell you that?” Your friend stuttered in disbelief. It was unbeknownst to her you felt this way. Were you really truly willing to cast aside all these years of friendship? She had known you for so many years, it was hard to believe you felt this way.

Toji hummed in response. “Are you fucking dumb? I’m her boyfriend, she’s obviously going to confide everything in me. I’m just doing her a favor by letting you know, so stop waisting our time and stay out of our lives.” Toji replied, a threatening tone in his voice. Should this endeavor fail, he would be forced to resort to drastic measures, but hopefully the message was unequivocally conveyed. He could hear your friend sniffle on the other line, making him smirk maliciously.

“You asshole! Tell that bitch to never talk to me again!” Your friend sobbed hysterically before hanging up, making Toji chuckle in amusement. He didn’t appreciate the name-calling, but he opted to overlook it, comforted by the knowledge that he would never have to endure her presence ever again.

Toji returned your phone to its originally resting place before reclining back into the bed, allowing the comfort of the mattress to envelop him. He pondered to himself as he heard you starting to run a shower. He bore the weight of knowing that this would impact you deeply and he despised himself for causing you pain in this manner. Yet, he remained resolute, convincing himself it was necessary for the wellbeing of your relationship. How else were you supposed to tend for him and your children if your friends were always stealing your attention?

He observed you emerge from the bathroom, reaching to grab your phone. “I should call them to tell them I’m not going to make it again.” You spoke as you started to unlock you phone. Toji placed his hand on top of your screen and you stood there taken aback.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Your friend called while you were in the bathroom and I let them know.” Toji responded with a smile, his gaze tender and affectionate as you reciprocated his smile.

“Thanks, Toji. You’re the sweetest.” You showed your gratitude by pressing a kiss to his cheek. He couldn’t help the guilt that took over him, he knew how much your friends meant to you.

“Shall we shower together?” Toji suggested playfully —attempting to keep his mind off what he had just done— grabbing your phone from your hand and placing it back on the nightstand. His eyes ranked through your still nude form, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, his cock rising back to life. Yeah, your pretty little body would make him forget in no time. You bit your lip, agreeing as he closed the gap between you, bestowing upon you a fervent kiss filled with longing.

Now that you had Toji you wouldn’t need anybody else.

[egypt-museum]

Amulet of Bastet

Third Intermediate Period, ca. 1069-715 BC. Now in the Cleveland Museum of Art. 1973.29

Elegantly seated on a low base, its tail curled around its left side, this tiny cat, sacred animal of the goddess Bastet, is a sculptural tour de force. The front legs are carved entirely in openwork. The base, an amalgam of the hieroglyphs for "ointment jar" (also used in the writing the name of the goddess Bastet), and "protection" is admirably contoured to the animal's body. On the back is a loop for suspension.

[loslentesdepedrito]

Feliz Navidad

Javi gif by: Ggyussance My Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Spanish-speaking Latina f!reader (No race, skin color, or nationality mentioned. I tried my best to include small parts of each Spanish-speaking Latin American country.)

Word count: 11.3k+

Summary: At every family reunion, the relentless interrogation about your love life becomes a tiring ritual. Fed up with the relentless questions and awkward setups, you turn to Javi, your best friend, and ask him to be your date for the upcoming family Christmas party. He suggests that you take it a step further by pretending to be a couple. Can the two of you play pretend, especially when, in reality, you both harbor secret feelings for each other?

Rating: 18+ Explicit content (MDNI) Tags and CW: slight angst, happy ending, fake dating, friends to lovers, jealous and possessive Javi, reader and Javi are in their 20s, not canon, just a smidge of idiots in love, reader wears a dress, lingerie, makeup, and is shorter than Javi, alcohol consumption, Javi being cheesy with your family, unprotected piv, cowgirl, use of a sex toy, oral (female receiving) reader likes to pull Javi's hair, creampie, slight cum eating, Javi loving his cum inside you.

A/N: I’m on vacation and meant to upload this on the 24th, but didn’t have time to add the translations. Sorry for the delay, tarde pero seguro. Enjoy! 

"Come on, Javi," you plead again, watching him chew thoughtfully. There's a sense of urgency in your voice as you desperately hope he’ll agree to be your date for your family’s Christmas gathering. "Please, I'm practically begging you. I'll get down on my hands and knees if I have to." This finally grabs his attention. Caught off guard while swallowing, he hears your words and can't help but let his imagination run wild. The image of you begging, not just for any favor, but for him – for his cock, fills his mind. With a sudden intensity, he forces the last bite of the torta cubana down his throat, triggering a fit of coughing.

Reacting quickly, you reach for the glass of iced water on the table, extending it toward him without a word. He accepts the offering from your outstretched hand, bringing the cool glass to his lips. In a fluid motion, Javi tilts his head back, the cup cradled by his fingers.

Your attention zeroes in on the man before you: The plushness of his lower lip curves around the rim of the glass; as he takes a sip, droplets of water cascade down, catching the afternoon sun and creating a glistening effect.

Mesmerized, you trace the path of those droplets, leading you to the delicate contours of his pink lips. Descending further with your gaze, you focus on his neck, where the rhythmic bobbing of his Adam's apple accompanies each sip. Involuntarily, you shift in your seat, a futile attempt to dispel the growing sensation stirring between your thighs.

Breaking the spell, he speaks, his voice rough as he clears his throat, "Okay, I'll be your date."

A wave of relief washes over you, and gratitude spills forth, "Thank you, thank you, thank you. You're so perfect. My family will love you."

A quizzical expression lingers on Javi's face as he asks, "Why don't you get a real date?" Despite knowing you could have your pick of anyone, there's genuine happiness in his eyes—an unspoken relief that you won't be taking another man to meet your family.

You sigh and offer an explanation, “I haven't met anyone, and it's pretty weird to introduce some stranger to your entire family on the first date. "Ya te dije (I already told you), my family keeps pestering me about getting a boyfriend. It's the same thing every Christmas, '¿nena y el novio? (baby girl and the boyfriend?)’ 'Mami, quiero que conozcas al sobrino de la vecina de mi comadre. (Mami, I want you to meet my friend’s neighbor's nephew.)’ '¿Mija, ya tienes novio? ('Mija, do you already have a boyfriend?)’ I love them, and they mean well, but I can't take any more of it. Hopefully, when I show up and say that we're just getting to know each other, it will shut them up until New Year's. But by then, I'll tell them we work better as friends, and they'll pity me, so I'll be off the hook for maybe two years."

A knowing look crosses Javi's face as he probes, "And this has nothing to do with the fact that Caleb will be there?"

You groan at the mention of your ex-boyfriend's name. "A little bit," you mumble, slumping in your chair as thoughts of him flood your mind. "He's probably going to bring some girl, and if I show up alone," you pause, giving Javi a sweet smile, "without my best friend, my family will find out I had a boyfriend and I kept it from them."

You didn't mean to keep your relationship with Caleb hidden. You just didn't want to tell your family you had a boyfriend, in case the relationship failed—and guess what, it did. Two months into your relationship, you found out he was still talking to his ex, and you dumped him before shit got worse. Fortunately, your decision to keep your family in the dark spared you from telling them about Caleb, so you didn't have to share the news about the breakup, which, unfortunately for you, meant you had to see him at parties since his parents were friends with your uncle.

"Why don't we tell them we're in a relationship? Like, boyfriend and girlfriend," Javi suggests, attempting to sound confident, though inwardly, he's praying you won't freak out and shoot down the idea.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard and unsure of how to respond. Javier panics at your silence and rushes to add, "I mean, they already know who I am, and we know everything about each other. It would be more believable."

Chewing on your lip, you contemplate what he's proposed. It would be convincing, you think.

“Are there any embarrassing moments that your family will bring up that I should be aware of, my beautiful girlfriend?” Javi teases, a playful glint in his eyes.

In response, you roll up a napkin, forming a makeshift ball, and throw it at him, the projectile hitting him directly on the forehead. Javi grumbles good-naturedly, a blend of irritation and laughter, and you purposely ignore the flutter in your heart. "No, you’ll never hear those."

“Okay fine,” Javi huffs, a mock pout on his face. “What’s the story then?”

"Story? For what?" you ask, genuinely puzzled.

Javi looks at you as if you're not making the slightest bit of sense. “The story we’ll tell your family. You know they'll ask us so many questions.”

He's right. Your family will undoubtedly bombard you both with questions, seeing as they only know him as your friend and not the guy you've been secretly harboring feelings for.

"I mean, in movies, they always seem to have background stor-" Javi abruptly stops, hoping you don't make the connection about the kind of movies he's referring to.

But, of course, you catch it. “¿Aww, te gustan los romcoms, Javi? (Aww, do you like romcoms, Javi?)”

"¡No!" He blurts out, his face turning a shade of red that extends from his face to the tips of his ears. "We've just- we need to establish a timeline."

Watching him stumble through the sentence, you decide to spare him further embarrassment. "Mmm... we can say we've been dating for a month. It's enough that they won't scold me for not telling them about the relationship earlier, right?"

"We can say I asked you out right after Thanksgiving, so that gives us a little over a month since Thanksgiving was on the 22nd."

"Okay, yeah, that sounds good. And are you okay with staying over at my aunt's house since we'll be drinking? Or do you want to drive back to your apartment after we say our goodbyes?"

"Wait, your aunt with the big-ass house is hosting Christmas for your family this year?" He asks, sitting straighter in his chair. Javi's excitement is palpable as you nod. "Yeah, I'm staying over," he declares.

“Trae dos mudas de ropa (bring two changes of clothes)," you instruct him.

“¿Pjs y algo para la recalentada? (Pjs and something for the afterparty?)” Javi guesses but needs confirmation, not wanting to make a fool of himself. In fact, he's determined to make a good impression on your family.

"Mhm," you hum in agreement and then ask him about his previous plans. "You said you weren't going to spend Christmas with your family. Are you sure?"

"My dad's going to Monterrey, and I didn't get my passport renewed, and it's too late now. It's fine; I like spending time with your family." I like spending time with you.

"You just want to get fed," you tease.

"How'd you know," he goes along with your teasing tone.

“Ya te conozco (I already know you),” you tell him, and Javi feels butterflies in his stomach.

Your phone vibrates on top of the white and blue plaid tablecloth. You pick it up and see a notification that your Christmas dress is ready for pickup. "Oh shit, I've gotta go pick up my dress." You scramble to get up and collect your trash.

Javi gently grabs your wrist and tells you, “Ve. Te tiro tu basura. (Go. I'll throw your trash away.)"

Your breath hitches at his touch, and you thank him. You drop your Coke can and take a few steps until you reach him. "You're the best. I love you." You lower yourself a bit to give him a kiss on the cheek. His heart races, and he's scared you'll see him turn beet red, so he stands up and envelops you in a hug. He's hit with your smell, and a groan nearly falls from his lips.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow at 8," he says in a shaky voice, whispering into your ear. Grateful for the long-sleeve shirt you decided to wear that morning, your skin breaks into goosebumps around his body. "That's still early, you know?" you object into his chest.

Feeling the lower half of his body respond to having you so close, he pulls away, not wanting to scare you or make you uncomfortable. “¿Entonces a las ocho y media? (So at eight-thirty?)” he asks, now standing a couple of steps away from you.

"See you then," you nod. Glancing at your watch, you realize you really have to get going.

"What color will your dress be?" he asks before you leave.

"Red," you smile, swinging your bag over your shoulder.

Javi gulps; red is his favorite color. He wonders if he'll be able to handle seeing you in it while pretending to be your boyfriend.

"Bye, te veo mañana (see you tomorrow),” you say goodbye one last time.

"Bye," he waves and watches you walk off. As soon as you're out of his view, he's left standing there, hands on his face, and he groans into his palms. Yeah, he doesn't know how he'll get through tomorrow night pretending he's in love with you because he is in love with you but can't show it.

Just as you apply the last coat of lipstick in your foyer mirror, you hear a knock on your door. Palms slightly damp, you start second-guessing taking Javi to your family party. You hear him say your name through the locked door and quickly tell him you're coming. With a slightly trembling hand, you turn the doorknob, your heart thudding in your chest at the sight of Javi. He's wearing a black leather jacket over a red cable-knit sweater, and God, he smells amazing—tones of sage, wood, and maybe some bergamot. All you know is that you want to push him against the door and put your mouth all over him—mouth, neck, chest, cock—you don't have a preference.

While you're busy ogling him, Javi is staring at you with his jaw near the floor. You're in a burgundy dress with black flowers all over, accentuating your beautiful figure. He makes a mistake when his gaze moves up, landing on your lips. Javi has to bite his tongue to suppress a groan at the sight of your luscious red-stained lips. They look so plush and enticing, and he twitches in his pants.

"Hi, Jav," you greet him in your sweet voice, making him look into your eyes.

The way your eyes sparkle, almost makes him lose his composure and profess his feelings for you. "¿Estas lista? (Are you ready?)" He says instead. 

"I just need to get my gifts," you point to the large gift bag you have set on the floor of your foyer. You only have two gifts in the much too large bag because your family does Secret Santa since it would be rather expensive to get each member of your family a gift. When you bend down to grab your things, Javi gets a perfect view of your round ass. He can't tear his eyes from you until he feels himself growing in his pants. He exhales trying to will his hard-on to go away. On his fifth breathing exercise, you turn around and tell him you're ready to go. Ever the gentleman, he signals for you to step out of your home first. 

"I just need to get my gifts," you point to the large gift bag set on the floor of your foyer. You only have two gifts in the much too large bag because your family does Secret Santa, as it would be rather expensive to get each member of your family a gift. When you bend down to gather your things, Javi gets a perfect view of your round ass. He can't tear his eyes away until he feels himself growing in his pants. He exhales, trying to will his hard-on to go away. On his fifth breathing exercise, you turn around and tell him you're ready to go. Ever the gentleman, he signals for you to step out of your home first.

As you brush past him, he's hit with the aroma of your perfume, and the sweetheart line of your dress offers a perfect view of your cleavage. He has to close his eyes to focus on anything else. After you lock up, he leads you to his car, takes the bag from you, and uses his free hand to help you down the steps. He opens the passenger door, puts your bag in the back seat, and goes to his seat to start the truck. You watch as he reverses, placing a hand behind your seat's headrest. His single hand moves the steering wheel, and you have to physically stop a whine from slipping past your mouth by biting your lip. You feel the wetness accumulate between your thighs, and you don't know how you'll get through the night.

The car ride over was hell on earth for both of you. Javi had to resist the urge to reach over and place his hand on your perfect thighs and move it further up. And you had to watch as Javi handled the gear stick with his big hands and thick fingers. You're both relieved to make it to your aunt's house. Javi insists on opening the door for you, and when he helps you get out of his truck, he gives you his hand to guide you. Next thing you know, he's taking the items from the back seat. Javi swings a backpack filled with his stuff, including clothes, and the bag where you have your gifts. You take it from him without him noticing, and he takes out a chocoflan.

You hear the house door open, and people beckon you over. Javi closes the door and takes your hand in his. He leads you up to the entrance, and you hear gasps and mutters coming from your family.

“¡Ay, mi sobrinita! (Oh, my little niece!)" one of your uncles yells as you're inches away from the door.

“¡Tío!” you exclaim, happy to see him. Before you can say anything else, he gives you a bear hug. You slowly push off to turn to Javi, who is still holding your hand. “Tío, this is Javier, my boyfriend." Your uncle's eyes widen a little, but it's quickly replaced with joy.

“Javi, él es mi tío Nicolás, es el tío de mi papá (Javi, this is my uncle, Nicolás, he's my dad's uncle)," you explain to your boyfriend for the night.

Javi gently untangles your laced hands and extends his hand to your uncle. “Buenas noches. ¿Cómo está? (Good evening! How are you?)"

“Hola, Chavalo. Bien gracias (Hey, kid. Fine, thanks)," your uncle replies and shakes Javi's hand. "And you?"

Their handshake ends and Javi pulls you into his side. "Me alegra. Estoy muy bien ya que estoy con ella (I'm glad to hear that. I'm very well now that I'm with her),” Javi tells your uncle, giving him a dashing smile while he gives you a lovey-dovey look.

You don't know who is happier at Javi's response—your uncle or you. "Oh, here, I brought dessert," Javier hands your uncle Nicolás the custard dessert with a chocolate cake base.

“Come in, come in,” the older man ushers you inside the house.

“Miren quien llegó (Look who arrived),” your uncle's voice rumbles throughout the house. Footsteps make their way to you three, and your family's faces light up. Voices overlap, greeting you, but they seem confused over the man beside you.

“¡Hola!” you smile. "This is Javi, he's my boyfriend," you introduce, rubbing his arm.

Javi doesn't get a word in because your cousin slaps his back and says, “¡Habla, pe causa!” Javi smiles and tells him good evening.

Once your cousin goes away, you whisper to Javi, "That was César, and he said, 'What's up, man.'"

"I knew that," Javi lies, running his tongue over his cheek.

“¡Como que ya tienes novio! (What do you mean you have a boyfriend!)" a familiar voice screeches from the living room.

You cringe as you hear your mom's angry voice and your dad telling her to calm down. Fuck, I forgot I have to tell my parents about Javi, you think.

When your parents see Javi, they physically relax. "Javi!" She gasps. “¿Él es tu novio? (He's your boyfriend?)” Your mom asks.

“Él es mi novio,” you confirm. Javi's heart leaps because somehow in Spanish, you calling him your boyfriend sounds a million times better.

"¡Ay, qué alegría! (Oh, what joy!)" She says and clasps her hands. For a long time, she's asked you if you two are anything more than friends, and she's always disappointed when you say no.

"I'm happy for you, mija," your dad tells you, hugging you.

"Thank you, Dad," you say relieved at their quick acceptance of Javi.

"Tu mamá está muy feliz (Your mom is very happy). It's just that you told your aunt first, and she was blindsided," your dad fills you in, and you hear your name being called. You whip your head to the kitchen and see your aunt coming to you with her arms extended.

“Titi Yalissa," you muffle into her curly hair. Your aunt jumps up and down with you in her arms. "Oh, I missed you so much," she says and lets go of you once she remembers what you told her. "Where's your boyfriend?"

You grab Javi's hand and bring him closer to your aunt. "Javi, this is my aunt Yalissa."

“Titi, this is the guy I told you about. His name is Javier."

"Es un placer conocer al hombre que tiene a mi niña tan feliz (It's a pleasure to meet the man who has my little girl so happy)."

Javier smiles at your aunt's happiness and decides to comment on her house and thank her for the invitation. "It's my pleasure. Tiene una casa hermosa (you have a beautiful house)," he pauses to look over at you, “como su sobrina (like your niece). Thank you for inviting me." Your heart thuds in your chest at Javi's words.

Everyone around you coos and awws, and you feel your ears burn.

"Let me show you your rooms, so you can set your things."

You and Javi follow your aunt up the stairs and into the hallway. She comments on how good you two look together and how it's adorable that you're matching. Her observation catches you off guard, and you look at both of your outfits. Oh my God! Is that why he asked me what color my dress was? Did he want to match? While you're lost in thought, you miss Javi's charming words about how perfect you look.

"Javi, this will be your room," your aunt points at a room on the left side. She says your name and then points at the room at the end of the hall, "Your room is still untouched, and you have your clothes there if you need anything."

Someone calls her from the kitchen, and she apologizes, telling you to come downstairs when you're ready for some food.

When Javier hears her descend the stairs, he asks you, "We're not sharing a room?"

"No. She's kinda against pre-marital sex."

Javi shoots you a look that says he knows you haven't made a vow of chastity.

"Okay, she doesn't know that," you say.

Javi sets his backpack in his room, and you make your way to the small dining room.

"Nena (babygirl), how are you?”

“Tía Mercedes!” you scream once another one of your aunts comes into view.

“Every day you get more and more beautiful!” she says to you. “Oh, and where is that boyfriend of yours? Tu tío Beto me dijo que vos ya tenés uno (Your uncle Beto told me you already have one.)”

For what feels like the hundredth time, you introduce Javi. Your aunt gushes over him and is scandalized when she hears he hasn’t eaten yet.

“No puedo creer que no les han dado nada de comer (I can't believe they haven't given you anything to eat). Come here.” She leads you to where the food is laid out, and to say it’s a lot is an understatement.

"Okay, so we’ve got croquetas, empanadas, ceviche, tamales, pasteles, chuchitos, pan con pollo, carne asada, hallacas, chimichurri, tostones, hornado de chancho, pavo al horno, chipa, pan dulce, y no se qué más." Your aunt lists off the myriad of food, whether it’s side dishes or main courses.

“And to drink, there’s coquito, champurrado, atol, ponche, arroz con leche, café con queso, chocolate caliente. If you want something else, you can ask Beto. It’s probably in the kitchen.”

You and Javi grab whatever you crave and add it to your plate before heading to the larger dining room. Everything had been going well until you saw your ex. Javi noticed you tense up, and he followed your line of sight, landing on your ex-boyfriend, Caleb. With food and drinks in his hands, Javi couldn’t physically comfort you. A soft whisper from him, a simple “Hey,” was enough to unfreeze you, and you both walked to your seats, strategically far away from Caleb and his girlfriend.

Dinner went by smoothly. Your family was eager to learn about the new man in your life, and you explained that before becoming your boyfriend, he had been your best friend and someone you trusted with your life. One of your little cousins was curious about how he asked you to be his girlfriend. To your surprise, Javi spun an elaborate story about taking you stargazing and making it official under the night sky. He described the story with such vivid detail that it brought tears to your eyes, and your family found it incredibly heartwarming. Little did they know, part of those tears were tinged with sorrow, knowing that after this night, the charade of this "relationship" would come to an end. The other part of you felt pure love for Javi, appreciating the effort he was putting into making your family believe in your fake romance.

After clearing the plates and sharing the story, Javi couldn’t help but notice Caleb shooting daggers his way. Frankly, he didn’t care about Caleb's feelings, but when he saw him staring at you, Javi couldn’t suppress the desire to leap across the table and strangle him. Thankfully, one of your cousins interrupted and announced that a game of lotería would be played outside if anyone wanted to join.

You take your cup of ponche, and Javi grabs his cup of atol as you both make your way to the backyard, where a table is already set up for the game. Soon, the table of 25 is full, and some have to wait for the next round. With beans in hand, you eagerly listen for the first card to be called.

“Ahí les va la primera tarjeta (Here comes the first card),” Uriel, your favorite cousin's husband, warns. He shuffles the cards in the deck and flips the first one over.

“La Sirena (the siren).”

You squeal and instantly put your bean on top of the square where a siren is underwater. You hear groans from the people who didn’t have the siren on their cards. Javi, not having much luck, simply watched you with the biggest smile, reveling in your excitement over the lead.

Uriel flips the next card and announces, “La Luna (the moon).”

This time, neither you nor Javi has luck. Displeased, you watch as Caleb places a bean on his card.

“¡El soldado! (The soldier!)”

You look at your card—nothing. You look at Javi’s card—still nothing. A feeling of being watched makes your head turn to Caleb, and he’s smirking at Javi because he got another bean on his table. “Not good at lotería,” Caleb tuts, “is there something you’re actually good at?” he says condescendingly. 

You have half a mind to tell him all the ways Javi is perfect, even throwing in a few lies about your fake intimate life, but Javi rests his right hand on your thigh, and just like that, all your hatred bubbles away.

“Before I call the next one, does anyone have all three characters?” Whoops and cheers come from a few uncles, cousins, and family friends. “Okay, does anyone have a line nearly filled?” Uriel asks another question, and this time is met with silence.

“Bueno (Oh well),” he moves on and pulls from the deck, “La maceta (flowerpot).” You wish you had one of those to throw at Caleb’s head. Your wish is answered when someone yells, “¡Aguas!” You and Javi instantly duck, and much to your dismay (not), Caleb doesn’t, and the flying rag hits him right between his eyes. He groans in pain and starts to pick a fight with Marta, one of your cousins. Marta's fiancé stands up for your cousin, “Sos un hijo de remil putas. He told you to watch out. It's your fault you didn't listen." Everyone agrees with Flavia, and they tell Caleb he should've ducked. Your ex finally shuts up, and your family urges Uriel to draw the next card.

“El cotorro (the parrot)." Javi moves quickly and places the bean he's had in his hand for a while. You're so happy for him; that you nearly spill your drink onto the table.

A few more cards are drawn, and you haven't made as much progress, but Javi, on the other hand, has his card nearly full of beans. He needs four consecutive beans in a straight line, but he's missing two beans to win.

“La mano (The hand)." 

“Concha-tu-madre,” an uncle seethes in frustration as he doesn't have the hand on his card, but you know who does—Javi. 

“Ya me agüitaron (Ya’ll bummed me out). I'm going to put on music," your cousin, Darío, says, abandoning the game and hooking up his phone to the speaker. 

“El árbol (the tree.)” You sigh in disappointment as the last character Javi needs isn't called.

Music and various curse words fill the air, including but not limited to coño, jueputa, mamaguevo, japiro. 

"We have four potential winners," Uriel announces, "Y ahora... el gorrito (and now... the little hat)." 

“Mierda,” Javi's voice falls into a whisper because he doesn't have that card. By this point, he's memorized the entirety of his table, and when the hat was called, he knew it wouldn't be on his card.

You look around the table and see that Javi is among three people who need one more bean to win. 

"Let's see," Uriel says as he shuffles the cards. “El valiente (the brave man)” is yelled, and before you can react, Javi screams, "Lotería!" 

Everyone whips their head to your 'boyfriend,' and Uriel rushes to check Javi's card. You're filled with joy and practically bouncing in your seat. 

"We have a winner!" Uriel whoops, patting Javi's shoulder. 

"Beso, beso, beso (kiss, kiss, kiss)" your family chants, wanting you to celebrate with your boyfriend. Your breathing labors, and you don't know how to get out of it. Luckily, you get called to the kitchen, and Javi looks relieved. Your heart drops. He didn't want to kiss me. You excuse yourself and hurriedly make your way to the kitchen.

Javi's left in his seat trying to regulate his heartbeat. He didn't want to kiss you. Not because he didn't want to. God, he wanted to taste your lips, but he's scared that if he kisses you, he'll never stop.

In the kitchen, you scoop food into Tupperware for you and Javi, when you hear a man say, "You said he was just a friend,” the voice accuses. 

"Caleb," you spit with venom.

"You're with him now?" he asks hands in his pant pockets.

"I am. And I'm very happy with Javi," you say simply, adding rice to your blue Tupperware container.

"Come on, we were so good together. Don't you remember? We could be great again. Don't you want that?"

"No is the answer to every single thing you just said."

"What's so special about him? You didn't want to tell your family about us, but you bring him around?" Your ex is furious. When he saw you walk in with that dress and with Javi, hands intertwined and looking up at him like he was the best prize, he nearly lost it.

You turn around with your back to the entrance of the second dining room and point the spatula at your ex. "What isn't special about Javi is the better question. He's sweet, kind, determined, funny, and everything you're not. That's not all I love about him though; he makes me feel loved and heard, and he's my best friend. Javi is everyone's dream."

Caleb scoffs, and his only defense is, "What kind of name is Javi?"

You feel a possessive hand on your stomach, and it moves you back towards the owner's body. No, no, I can take care of this myself, you think, and then his cologne hits your nose, and you feel the warmth of his body, and your mantra of standing up by yourself evaporates.

"What kind of name is Caleb? Why don't you go back to your ex and leave my girlfriend alone?" Javier says, voice deeper than usual, making the rat of your ex retreat with his tail between his legs.

"Want me to kick his ass?" Javi questions.

"Nah, I have a feeling it'll ruin the holiday spirit. Thank you for that though."

You realize he could've heard your conversation with Caleb and ask, "How much of that did you hear?"

"When he made fun of my name, which is fantastic, by the way," he responds.

"Javi is a fantastic name," you assure him, "Javi," you say his name, testing it like it's the first time saying his name.

Javi nearly facepalms himself because hearing his name falling from your lips is making him harden again. Not to mention how you defended him to your ex. He's never heard kinder words about himself until you. Lately, Javi has felt like a failure. He failed to get into the DEA academy, and it was terrifying to think he would feel like that for the rest of his life. But when he's in your presence, everything else just melts away.

"How was my family while I left you unsupervised?" You ask, resting your head on his chest.

"Great. One of your cousins talked about the fact that the Christmas celebration was a pagan holiday and another about companies making a fortune based on Christmas. Your uncle, Ramon, I think started talking about los terrenos y le quitaron la corona (inherited land and they took away his corona beer.)”

"Oh god," you sound horrified, "I'm sorry about my family."

Javi slides his hands up and down your arms, "you have nothing to be sorry for. Mi familia también es así o peor (my family is like that or worse)." He knows he shouldn't say the words but can't help himself, "Our kids will have the biggest family."

Your mouth drops in surprise, and your mind flashes with images of you having a family with Javi, and your heart feels like it can explode.

"Your cousin was behind you," Javi says, looking past you.

A wave of disappointment washes over you. "Oh."

Javi lied. He didn't say that to convince your family about your relationship; he said it because he meant it.

The clock strikes 12 AM, beginning the 25th of December, and you all have to give out hugs to every single person at the party. Thankfully, it won't be awkward since Caleb and his plus-one left an hour ago. You get hugs from your entire family, and they each tell you how much they love you and how proud they are of you. When you reach Javi, you go for a side hug, but he pulls your face into his chest, and you exchange ‘feliz navidads.’ His smell is so comforting you want to stay there forever. You don’t pull away until someone announces it’s time to open gifts.

You take out the large wrapped box inside the bag you brought and give the gift to your little cousin, Gio. You bought him plenty of Hot Wheels and a racetrack that will take up a significant amount of space in his living room. Gio leaps into your arms and tells you you’re the ‘bestest cousin in the world.’ Your older cousin tells you she’ll give you her gift before going upstairs to the balcony to see the fireworks.

When Sandra leaves, Javi calls your attention. "Amor ven," the nickname falls easily from his beautiful lips; it makes you swoon. He pats the seat next to him, and in a few seconds, you’re next to him.

“I got you something,” Javi says nervously reaching into his pants pocket. He retrieves a square box and hands it to you gently like he’s scared you’ll move your hand and drop it.

You take the box fully into your hand. You lift the top, and your eyes begin to water. You scold yourself internally that this shouldn’t make you cry, but the beautiful necklace makes it impossible not to. It’s not because it’s a pretty necklace but you’re tearing up because of the letter attached to the gold chain – a J for Javier.

Javi misconstrues your tears for hatred. “I can exchange it for something else,” he’s quick to spit out."

“I love it, Javi,” you promise, words dripping with sincerity. “¿Me lo pones? (Can you put it on me?)” you ask him, getting ready for him to clasp the necklace.

His fingertips make contact with your nape, leaving goosebumps in their wake. You briefly wonder if that will happen every time you make the slightest contact tonight. Javi adjusts the necklace and clasps it, ensuring he doesn’t accidentally get some of your skin, which he was afraid he’d do because his hands were developing a thin layer of sweat.

“Done,” he tells you breathlessly, and you turn around to show him.

He feels ridiculous that seeing his initial on your chest makes him go crazy. Yes, part of him feels beyond happy that you liked your gift. When he was shopping, trying to find you a gift, he stumbled upon a jewelry store, and he knew he had to get it for you. He didn’t buy it to ‘brand you’. Javi genuinely wanted you to carry a part of him, just like he always carries you everywhere he goes.

You hear the first fireworks go off, and Javi says, “Ya es hora para los cuetes (it’s time for the fireworks).” He helps you get up, and everyone makes their way up the mahogany stairway. You meet Sandra on the 2nd floor, and she gives you a white and red striped metallic-wrapped box. That childhood excitement of opening presents is still there. You feel giddy and tug at the taped ends to rip the paper. Once you’re able to see a sliver of the actual gift, you hold it to your chest.

“Sandra! You did not just gift me a sex toy!” You whisper-yell, the shock and embarrassment evident in your tone.

Sandra was known for being direct; she was your older cousin but more of a big sister. She had been a reliable source of guidance, especially when it came to your body, relationships, and intimacy. In fact, you had learned more from her than from your mandatory sixth-grade sex Ed class. You'd often sought her advice, grateful for her non-judgmental attitude. Sandra was always there to help, whether it was explaining innuendos or first-period crises. You remember when you got your first period, you ran to her after your mom called her for moral support. So, in a way, you shouldn't have been surprised by the gift when you complained to her about your trusty wand giving up on you.

“I recall getting a phone call telling me one of your favorites was no longer working. But with that boyfriend of yours, I don’t think you’ll be needing this, so I can take it back,” she smirks, enjoying making you flustered and sputtering on your words.

“A gift is a gift. You can’t take it back,” you argue, hugging it further into your chest. With the night you’ve had, you’re 100% certain the toy will have its grand premiere.

“Ooo using it with your man tonight to spice things up, I like that.”

You turn around and see Javi standing there with his hands by his side. His pretty lips are parted in an ‘o,’ and you can’t believe he just saw your cousin gifting you a sex toy for Christmas.

“And that’s my cue to leave,” Sandra gives you a peck on the cheek and slips past you to go to the stairs and up another floor.

“Woah. That’s certainly a gift,” Javi states.

You want the ground to swallow you whole. Here you are hugging a fucking sex toy in the middle of the hallway with the man you love staring at the gift.

“I’m going to put this in my room,” you say robotically and make a run for your room. Oh my god, oh my god, he did not just see that. With the box still in your arms, hoping you don’t run into anyone, you open the door to your room just enough to slip inside and shut the door. Your heart is beating erratically, and you consider staying in your room for the rest of the night, but you know they’ll be calling for you soon. You finally unlock your arms and take the gift into your hands. There’s still wrapping paper covering the gift, so you take it off and take in the toy for the first time. You mistook the handle for a dildo. It wasn’t a plastic dick you thought you received; it was a clit stimulator. Color? Red.

After you placed your new gift on top of your bed and covered it with a sweater, you found the courage to face Javi. You opened your door and found Javi with his fist raised as if he was a second away from knocking.

“Let’s go,” you croak, hoping he won’t ever bring up what happened a few minutes ago.

Javi wordlessly agrees, and you both walk to the stairs in silence to go to the balcony. As you approach the final stairs, you hear more fireworks go off, but their timing isn’t consecutive, so you know the big event is yet to come. Once you’re outside, near the entrance, there’s a table with drinks that range from alcohol to traditional beverages to a mix. You take a Corona, and Javi picks up a glass of coquito. The balcony is packed, but it's big enough that you don’t feel like packed sardines. Music is blasting on the speakers; some of your family is off dancing, and some men are huddled around talking about work, while your younger cousins are playing with their new toys in a corner. You still haven’t talked to Javi, and it’s slowly killing him. He didn’t mean to embarrass you by walking in on Sandra giving you your gift, but when he overheard the term 'sex toy,' it was as if an invisible force nailed him to the floor. Javi racks his brain for how to start a conversation with you. He knows the firework show will commence any minute now, and he won’t be able to get a word in.

"You look beautiful," he blurts out before his brain can catch up with his mouth. Okay, not what he wanted to start off with, but it’s definitely not a lie.

“Thank you,” you say sheepishly as the fireworks start going off one after another.

“I mean, you look beautiful every day,” Javi says in the midst of a chrysanthemum exploding in the sky.

"What?" you reply, struggling to make out his words over the resounding explosions.

Once the sounds die down, your aunt Odilia passes by, catching sight of you and Javi standing closer, facing each other. “¿Como están los enamorados? (How are the lovebirds?),” she says with adoration before moving on. Her statement prompts a few head turns from your family, who go on to comment about how cute you look with your boyfriend.

"I said," Javi begins, lowering himself to your ear, "You look beautiful. You always do, but tonight..." He stands up straight, locking eyes with you. Javi delicately strokes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Es como si me hubieras puesto bajo tu hechizo (It’s like you’ve put me under your spell),” he confesses softly, his voice filled with adoration.

You find yourself unable to conjure a reply. Your entire focus is consumed by him—the way he smiles, the dimple on full display, the stray curls tousled from dancing, and the warmth of his fingers against your cheek. His nails graze your skin ever so slightly, leaving you questioning if it's a figment of your imagination. A fleeting thought crosses your mind, wondering what it would be like to feel his nails embedded into your hips as he guides you in rhythmic movement. Taking a deep breath to regain composure, you inhale his scent, causing your head to spin. In the midst of your reverie, Javi's voice pulls you back.

"Your family is expecting a kiss. May I?" he asks, breaking the spell.

"What?" you respond, dumbfounded. While you heard him, the question leaves you in disbelief.

“¿Te puedo besar?” he repeats, his heart seemingly pounding out of his chest, laying his intentions bare.

As you nod and rasp out a breathless "yes,", Javi cups your cheeks with a gentle urgency, bringing his lips to yours in a passionate collision. It feels like heaven with his mouth molding seamlessly with yours. His taste is a delightful concoction of coconut, Don Q rum, cinnamon, and condensed milk—remnants of the coquito he had earlier. In the intoxicating embrace, you clutch his shirt, pulling him closer, savoring every fleeting second because it could be the first and last kiss you'll ever share.

Opening your mouth wider, you send a silent invitation, and he responds, his tongue tangling with yours, the passionate sounds blending harmoniously with the distant fireworks. Amid the explosive bursts in the night sky, the sounds of your fervent kiss are almost lost, and worked up and lost in the moment, you can't help but whimper into his mouth. When the sound of your own desire reaches Javi's ear, he knows he should pull away before the intensity escalates. Reluctantly, Javi breaks the kiss, mindful of the familial audience surrounding you. Both your chests rise and fall in tandem, the shared breathlessness lingering in the air. The post-kiss silence is punctuated by the distant echoes of the ongoing fireworks.

Separated but still entwined in the magic of the moment, you catch your breath. You admire the way Javi's brown eyes reflect the vibrant colors bursting in the sky. Javi gazes back into your eyes, marveling at the way they brighten with each explosion in the sky. It's a parallel to his own feelings as if miniature fireworks detonate in his heart whenever he looks at you. His earlier realization holds true; having kissed you, he never wants to stop.

"Okay, well, I'm going to bed," you say, gesturing toward the door, your eyes avoiding his gaze.

“Buenas noches,” he replies, a tinge of sadness coloring his voice.

You steal one last glance at him and urge yourself to get to your room before you throw your friendship down the drain for another kiss. So that’s what you do; you open the door, whisper one last goodbye, and shut the door. Javi closes his eyes, scolding himself for making things awkward. As he goes to his room, he focuses on thinking about what to do to fix your friendship. One thing he knows is that he can’t lose you.

Inside your room, you press against the wooden door. You have no idea how you’ll get through tomorrow, much less through the rest of your life. our eyes wander around, taking in the familiar walls of the room. You’ve had your own room at your aunt's house since you were a little girl, and there are some things that have remained the same. There's a shelf against a wall that contains a few of your stuffed animals from your childhood. You took down your posters from when you were a teen but kept the same paint color of dark red because you knew you couldn’t have your room all black. 

Realizing you still wear Javi's jacket, you gently remove it, placing it on your bed. You hate that it looks like it belongs in your room. You sigh and go to your bathroom to get ready to toss and turn in your bed.

In the midst of removing your makeup, having already brushed your teeth, a soft knock interrupts the quiet solitude of your room. Confused, you quickly dry your face and rush to open the door, wondering who it could be. It’s Javi. He's outside your door, his hair a mess like he ran his hands through it repeatedly.

"Can I come in?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

"Javi! They'll kill me if they see you in my room," you whisper.

"Please, cariño?" 

His tone is filled with a vulnerability that softens your resolve. You take a quick glance down the hallway and find it deserted, so you quickly pull him into your room and shut the door quietly. As you assess him, clad in grey sweats and a black long-sleeve compression shirt, a rush of desire floods your body. Thoughts of peeling off his clothes and kissing him all over stir a wetness between your legs, leaving you certain your underwear is ruined after spending the day with Javi. 

"I'm sorry," he interrupts your dirty thoughts, and confusion crosses your face.

Sorry? Why is he sorry?

He sees the confusion written all over your face and continues, “I’m sorry for kissing you.”

What?

“If I knew it would make you uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have done it. Your friendship means the world to me. I’m sorry I ruined it. Cariño, what do I need to do to make us go back to normal? I’ll do anything,” Javi pleads with you.

You shake your head furiously. “No, Javi, you didn’t ruin anything. It didn’t make me uncomfortable,” you promise.

He breathes out a sigh of relief after you tell him he didn’t mess up the best thing that’s happened to him. “Why did you shut down after… after we kissed?”

“I don’t know, Jav,” you shrug, looking away. You feel your eyes sting at the tone of his voice. He sounds hurt. You've hurt the person you love, and you want to take him into your arms and apologize.

“Please don’t do that,” he implores, reaching for your hand. “Dime (tell me).”

A wave of apprehension washes over you; confessing your feelings is a leap into the unknown. You worry about the potential shift in dynamics, but you sense that Javi believes your withdrawal stems from him. “If I tell you, and you don’t like what I say, promise me we’ll forget this conversation,” you request, your lip caught between your teeth.

“What’s so bad you can’t tell me?” 

“Promise me, Jav,” you repeat, aware of the simplicity but needing that ounce of reassurance.

He nods solemnly. “Te lo prometo (I promise you).”

“Javi, I like you. So much,” your voice falls to a whisper. The ball is now in his court, freeing you from the weight of what-ifs.

Javi's reaction is priceless. The tension that once knitted his eyebrows together dissipates, giving way to a radiant smile that stretches from ear to ear. Leaning in, he cradles your chin in his hand and kisses you, a taste of mint lingering on his lips. This time, the kiss is tender, and gentle—a dance of shared feelings that leaves him dizzy and his stomach aflutter. As he withdraws, his forehead presses against yours.

“I like you too. For a long time now,” he confesses, the words clear and resolute.

“Really?” you ask incredulously, feeling like you're walking on air. This moment, a culmination of countless fantasies, was the very last scenario you expected to become reality.

“Yeah,” he affirms with a nod. The truth lingers on the tip of his tongue. “De hecho, te amo (In fact, I love you).”

“I love you too,” you reply with a smile, your hands slowly tracing up his chest. One hand passes his broad shoulders and reaches his nape. A gentle brush of your hands against his skin sends a surge of warmth through him. Your fingers run through his hair, eliciting a low groan from Javi, and you yearn to hear more.

“Javi, te necesito (Javi, I need you),” you murmur with half-lidded eyes.

He doesn't want to risk embarrassing himself with words, so he gently takes your hand off his hair and guides you towards your bed.

Walking with playful curiosity, he asks, "Am I the first guy you've sneaked into your room?"

"Mmm... I plead the fifth," you decide to answer coyly.

He narrows his eyes, "That's a yes then."

"¿Si te pones celoso, porque me preguntas? (If you get jealous, why would you ask me?)" you question him playfully as you hit the bed.

Javi's jaw ticks, and he says, "I'll make you forget about them."

His tone stirs a needy feeling in you, and you reply, " Sigue de perico, y no vamos hacer todo lo que quiero (Keep talking, and we won't be able to do everything I want)."

Tugging down on his shirt, you give him the signal. He promptly takes it off, treating you to your very own private show.

"Oh my god," you groan appreciatively when you see him shirtless—tan skin, toned stomach, and freckles on display. The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, showcasing the V line and a dark patch of hair.

Javi revels in the effect he has on you. ”Turn around," he commands with dark eyes.

You instantly comply, spinning around so he can reach your zipper. Instead of tearing your dress off, he hugs you from behind.

“I don’t know if I told you before, but I really love this dress,” Javi says, running his hands over the velvet material. “Do you know how many times you made me hard tonight?” He confesses to having excused himself to the restroom multiple times to handle his hard-on discreetly.

"Javi," you whine impatiently, the revelation only intensifying the sticky mess between your thighs.

He pulls your zipper down, but you turn around, reaching your shoulders to slip the dress off, letting it pool on the hardwood floor.

"Dios mío (My God)," he exhales with a shaky breath.

"¿Te gusta? (Do you like it?)" you ask, referring to your lingerie that matches your dress. You're wearing a burgundy thong and a matching bra with lace material, revealing pebbled nipples. His fingers twitch, and he pulls you by the waist.

"Me encanta (I love it)," Javi whispers in your ear. His voice makes you slump against him as he unclasps your bra. “Why did you wear this?” he asks, his kisses trailing down your bare shoulder, devoid of judgment or ill will, just curiosity.

"You know what they say, 'to hope for the best, plan for the best.'"

"I don't think that's how it goes, baby," Javi chuckles into your shoulder and then presses his lips on your neck.

“Oh,” you say dumbly, savoring his kisses.

"Thank you for the outfit, my beautiful girl," he says, instructing you to get on the bed. As you settle on the mattress, you watch as Javi begins to remove his pants.

You watch in awe as his swollen cock presses against his stomach, and an undeniable desire to have it in your mouth engulfs you. Can a dick be pretty? God, his is so beautiful, you think to yourself. Javi gracefully crawls onto the bed, his hand reaching for your unclothed breasts.

“Mmm… so beautiful,” he hums, popping one of your tits into his mouth.

“Oh!” you exclaim, a mix of shock and pleasure coursing through you. Your arms extend onto the bed, and in the throes of passion, you accidentally hit something. The noise prompts Javi to lift his mouth from you and remove the blue sweater that conceals whatever your hands came in contact with. To his surprise, he discovers the present your cousin gifted you earlier.

“Clit and nipple stimulator,” he reads off the box.

Embarrassment washes over you, even though he just had your nipple in his mouth. Before you can say anything, Javi tears the box open and retrieves the toy. He presses the 'on' button, and it comes to life with a soft hum.

“Mi color favorito,” he says with a smirk.

Your brain struggles to form a coherent sentence. Javi sets the suction toy beside you and resumes attending to your nipples with his mouth. Lost in the sensation, your head falls back onto the bed. Suddenly, you feel a vibration around your other nipple. Lifting your head, you see Javi using the red wand on your right nipple.

“Oh God, Javi, I need you inside me,” you moan.

His response is muffled by your soft breasts. Gripping his hair, you lift him off you with a bit of force.

“I need to taste your pussy first,” he says with blown-out eyes.

“No,” you protest, craving him desperately.

It's not what he wanted to hear. “Please?” he insists. “I know I’ll cum embarrassingly fast, and I need to give you something before that happens.”

No. I want you now, you beautiful man. “Just a little bit,” you compromise. Normally, you'd eagerly jump at the prospect of him expressing a desire to eat your pussy, but you're so unbelievably turned on.

He toys with the band of your thong, and you lift your hips to let him remove it. Soon, they're in his hands, tossed aside on the floor. Laid bare for him, you're naked except for your jewelry. The gold 'J' nestles between your breasts, the left one still wet from his saliva, while your pussy glistens with slick accumulated throughout the night.

“Eres tan hermosa. Nunca he visto nada como tú y nada se compara (You're so beautiful. I've never seen anything like you, and nothing compares),” he confesses sincerely. Seeing you laid out before him, looking at him like he hangs the stars, leaves him breathless. He kneels on the floor, gently pulling your legs to be on either side of his face. Javi wastes no time as he begins to lick your cunt.

You gasp, placing one leg on his shoulder for added support. Responding to your silent request, Javi lifts your other leg onto his opposite shoulder.

“Ahh!” you cry out when his mouth presses closer onto your pussy, and he begins to devour you. His tongue explores, collecting all of your wetness into his mouth. Fuck, she tastes so good. I've been waiting to have her in my mouth for so long.

“So sweet, baby girl,” he murmurs between your thighs, causing vibrations that intensify the pleasure. You're already sweating and out of breath, unable to believe how quickly his mouth is bringing you to the edge.

He momentarily stops licking your folds and wraps his lips around your pearl. Your legs jerk, and you can't help but scream out his name. Javi quickly shushes you, urging you to be quiet, though his own noises betray the arousal he feels. He promises himself that once he can take you to his place, he'll never ask you to quiet down.

Opening your eyes, you're captivated by a sinful sight. Javi's intense and piercing gaze meets yours, the obsidian of his eyes seamlessly bleeding into the rich brown of his irises. Simultaneously, his tongue delves into your entrance, a sensation so electrifying that you can no longer endure the sweet torture.

“You’ve made me wetter, Javi, please fuck me.”

“No,” he objects.

“Javi por favor. Mañana podemos hacer de todo, pero te necesito ahora mismo (Javi, please. Tomorrow we can do everything, but I need you now.)”

He chides, “terca (stubborn girl),” but relents, releasing your legs. Taking matters into your own hands, quite literally, you guide him onto your bed, pushing him to lie back as you straddle him.

He believes he's died and gone to heaven, with you on top of him—a dream come true. “Condom?” he rasps out.

“I’m clean and on Nexplanon,” you nod toward your arm. “Are you okay with that?”

Feeling his cock pulse at the thought of being with you without a barrier, Javi nods vigorously and says, “Me matas bebita (you kill me, baby girl).”

His words draw a smile from you as you reach behind, feeling the velvety skin of his arousal in your hand. With deliberate slowness, you stroke him up and down.

“Uhh… fuck!” Javi groans, tossing his head back onto your pillow. The raw, guttural sounds escaping him become music to your ears, encouraging you to keep stroking him. Precome coats your hand, and you use it to slickly spread the moisture over him as makeshift lube. Javi continues panting, and you decide it's enough.

Rising on your knees, you guide him to your entrance. His head breaches you, and an involuntary whine escapes your lips.

“Oh,” you gasp, squirming on his lap. 

“Mmm!” Javi’s jaw drops, unable to believe that you're creating such intensity with just his tip inside

You ride him to open up, moving yourself on his head. “God, Javi!” your body burns as you straddle him. 

“Told you…” he pauses, gritting his teeth. “I should've s-tretched you.” 

You shake your head. “I can take you. I just- uh! I just need some time.” Javi is big and thick, prolonging the process, but you'd rather struggle than have him prep you.

As you keep bouncing on his tip, Javi thrusts up into you, causing both of you to moan. He places both hands, previously gripping your sheets, on either side of your waist, helping him fit more of his cock inside you. You rock back, feeling yourself open up, and you lower yourself down.

Your mouth hangs open, and you wail as the thickest part of him is embraced by your walls. Javi groans heavily and embeds his nails on your waist. You moan at the small ripple of pain and work yourself to sink down some more.

“I-I thought- ah! que me querías calladita, (that you wanted me to quiet down) and look at you…uhh louder than me.”

“You feel s-oh!” Javi can’t finish his response because you fully sit on his cock. Your hips are flush with his, and he swears he can cum this instant. 

“Hold on,” he tells you, breathing heavily, eyelids closed, and stilling you.

Once he feels he’s regained some composure, he lifts you off him. You slowly start to rock back and forth, chewing your lip to keep from screaming out. 

“Does it feel good?” Javi asks, eyes open once more.

You meet his dark eyes and moan, “Mhm, s-so good… Oh! Javi," you whine, "So big… you’re so big.”

He pulsates inside you, a low groan escaping his lips. "You can't say that," he mutters, shaking his head, not to express disagreement but to calm himself. Not yet, not yet, he chants. 

“Why not? It’s true.” You argue, throwing your head back at the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Shit, you’re gonna make me cum if you keep going. Then I won’t earn first place for the best sex this room’s ever seen,” he laughs lightly to mask his mortification because he knows he’ll be cumming soon.

"You're so much better than anyone else,” you assure him, seeing through the self-deprecating comment he made.

He lights up at your praise. "Yeah?”

"Yes! You make me so full,” you sigh, bouncing on him a little faster. Your hand movement transitions from his hips to both hands sprawled on his abdomen. Pressing your body closer to him at an angle, both of you shake with pleasure. You keep rocking against him, and all he can do is watch. Javi takes in the way your breasts bounce and the way your necklace shines. Overcome with desire and possessiveness, he sits up suddenly, making you whine when you feel his sweaty and hot body against yours.

Javi seeks your mouth, and you eagerly comply. Your mouths crash, and it's all tongue and teeth. He's moving you slowly against him, but it's still a delicious sensation, and you can't help but moan into his mouth. The air in your lungs is slowly decreasing, so you pull away, and your head falls onto his shoulder. With your mouth away from him, he's able to wrap his arms around you and rock up, up, up with intensity. His pace ignites something within you, and you bite his wet tan skin to muffle your cries. Javi feels you tighten on him, and he pants out, “How are you so perfect? No entiendo (I don’t understand.)”

You can't answer him; you just bounce on him, feeling the telltale sensation of your lower stomach nearing the finish line.

“Amor,” he groans. The word sounds like sweet honey coming from Javi's lips, and it makes you gasp. Javi catches on and asks you, “¿Te gusta cuando te digo así? (Do you like it when I call you like that?)”

“Sí,” you confirm. He adjusts the angle of your legs, causing the wind to knock out of you, and the only words you're capable of saying are, “Amor, amor, amor…” This is the first time you've ever called Javi ‘amor’, and it does something to him. He knows he’s got a minute max before he blows his load.

Frantically, he takes one hand off your body and scrambles to find something on the bed. Lost in ecstasy, you don't notice, but then you feel a vibration on your pearled nub, and you jump from surprise. In an instant, you look down and see Javi has the red toy and is using it against your clit. Your eyes begin to water as you reel in the feeling of the man you love inside you and the delicious sucking of the toy.

You don't warn him; you don't even process the thought yourself, but you begin to shake on top of Javi. You feel every nerve in your body— all seven trillion of them—explode. You come in silence with your mouth into a perfect ‘o’. 

Javi doesn’t let up his ministrations; he keeps thrusting his hips upwards and using the red wand, prolonging your high. “That’s it, amor, you look so pretty cumming for me,” he whispers full of adoration. “Good girl, good girl,” he chants as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

Javi bites his lower lip, determined to make this moment last longer; he never wants it to end. Once your vocal cords start functioning again, you cup his face with one hand and, with desperation, you tell him, "Ven, amor, relléname (Come, my love, cum in me).”

Javi feels like fireworks are going off in his body. He keens at your words filled with love and desire for him; he has no choice but to obey. The dam in his abdomen breaks, and “Ahh!” he groans, voice broken and raspy, letting go of the toy. You feel his hips stutter as they lose their steady rhythm, and he pulsates and spasms, the warmth of his seed fills you as he climaxes in ropes. Your body is overworked and sensitive, but you keep bouncing on him to milk every drop. You can't look away from him. His eyelids are heavy, his mouth is parted and panting as he moans and growls hoarsely, his neck is extended showing all the veins, and his skin is flushed in a beautiful red hue. Javi repeats your name over and over as his high washes over him. You caress his nape and run your fingers through his hair as he comes down from it. His spend and yours drip out of you and onto Javi.

"Holy fuck, that was amazing," Javi laughs, and you feel the rumble in his chest.

"Yeah?" you ask coyly.

“Best of my life," he sighs and rolls you over so you're underneath him.

You laugh and crane your neck to give him a peck on the corner of his mouth. God, that sound, Javi thinks. "I love you," he says, knowing he'll never stop telling you those three words.

"I love you," you echo. "Come on, let's sleep," you tell him.

"I've got to clean you up first," he says, climbing off and pulling out of you. You whine at the loss and miss him inside of you already.

His expression looks pained as he looks between your parted thighs, seeing his seed seeping out of your puffy cunt. Javi fights with himself as he debates leaving you with his cum inside. His index and middle fingers are taken by you and guided to your opening.

"Push it all inside," you command, knowing he doesn't really want to wipe it away.

"But your bed and—"

“Me vale (I don’t care)," you interrupt. Javi has always been concerned about how his actions affect you, and you find it sweet. However, you want this. You know he won’t give in to his desires if he thinks you don’t want this. So, you have to convince him you do. “Please,” and just like that, he’s collecting the creamy liquid around your labia and pressing it back inside you. 

You're oversensitive, but you melt at the feeling of his thick and long fingers inside you. Gripping onto his bicep, you savor the sensation as he makes sure most of the sticky substance goes back inside you. Whatever remnants are on his fingers, he sucks them and closes his eyes at the taste. You stare up at him and swear you could go another round if he didn’t fuck the energy out of you. 

“Should I go back to my room?” Javi asks. He doesn’t want to, but maybe you’d rather sleep alone.

“Please stay,” you tell him, gripping his arm tighter.

He nods. “Okay, baby, I’ll stay.” You sit up on your bed and undo your covers. Javi walks across the room to turn off the light, and when he comes back, you’re underneath your quilt. He climbs in next to you and extends his left arm so you can snuggle to his side. 

“Buenas noches, amor,” he whispers.

“Good night, amor. I can’t wait to wake up next to you,” you tell Javi before you drift to sleep.

In the silence, he admires your features and says, “I can’t wait to make you my wife and wake up next to you for the rest of our lives. Feliz Navidad, mi vida”

Extended A/N: I wrote this when Frankie didn’t exist yet; I promise I just don’t write for Javi! 

The last chapter of IYW should be out next week if I’m able to recolor the gifs I need. Thank you for reading!

[mariacallous]

With Ukraine’s counteroffensive stalled and the U.S. Congress deadlocked over crucial military aid, some analysts have begun raising the specter of a turning point in the war that could lead to a Ukrainian defeat. While the situation on the ground is still far from dire, it could rapidly deteriorate in the absence of a significant infusion of U.S. military support for Ukraine.

The consequences of a Ukrainian defeat need to be fully understood. The likely geopolitical consequences are easy to anticipate. The defeat of a Western-backed country would embolden Russia and other revisionist states to change other borders by force. A Russian victory would frighten Russia’s European neighbors, possibly leading to a collapse of European collective security as some countries choose appeasement and others massively rearm. China, too, would conclude that Taiwan cannot rely on sustained U.S. support. Indeed, the ripple effects of U.S. indecision have already begun: In a move that recalls Russia’s illegal annexation of several regions of Ukraine, Venezuela this month claimed more than half of neighboring Guyana as its own. While there are no signs of an impending invasion, it would be naïve to think that other countries aren’t watching closely to see whether Russia’s land grab succeeds.

Many analysts have already described these far-reaching security risks. But they pale in comparison to the dire consequences for Ukraine and its inhabitants if Russia wins. It is important for both supporters and opponents of Ukraine aid to know what these consequences would be.

To understand Ukraine’s likely fate if Russia turns the tide, the best place to start is what the Russians actually say. On Dec. 8, Russian President Vladimir Putin made clear that in his view there is no future for the Ukrainian state. On Dec. 5, he spelled out his intention to “reeducate” the Ukrainian people, curing them of “Russophobia” and “historical falsifications.” On Nov. 12, former Russian Prime Minister Dmitry Medvedev made Russia’s appetites clear: “Odessa, Nikolaev, Kyiv, and practically everything else is not Ukraine at all.” It is “obvious,” he posted on Telegram, that Ukrainian President Volodymyr Zelensky is a “usurper,” that the Ukrainian language is only a “mongrel dialect” of Russian, and that Ukraine is “NOT a country, but artificially collected territories.” Other regime propagandists assert that the Ukrainian state is a disease that must be treated and Ukrainians a society that must be “de-wormed.”

More explicitly, Russia’s highly censored state television has, over the past two years, consistently promoted the rape of Ukrainians, the drowning of children, the leveling of cities, the eradication of the Ukrainian elite, and the physical extermination of millions of Ukrainians. For an excellent snapshot of these and other statements, Russian Media Monitor has compiled a must-watch collection of short clips from Russian television, complete with English subtitles. This coordinated campaign is not bluster but a harbinger of what awaits the Ukrainian people. In these remarks, we can see the contours of the atrocities awaiting Ukrainians under a total or nearly total Russian occupation.

We can also project the effect of a Russian victory from the atrocities that are already widespread in the Russian-occupied territories. According to official Ukrainian sources, nearly 2 million Ukrainians have already been removed from their homes and communities in the occupied areas and resettled in Russia, either temporarily or permanently. Other estimates range from 1.6 million to 4.7 million. Russian children’s commissioner Maria Lvova-Belova said that more than 700,000 Ukrainian children have been taken from Ukraine to Russia since February 2022; nearly 20,000 of these are known to Ukrainian authorities by name. Transferring children from their home country and denying them access to their language and culture is not only an internationally recognized war crime. Such forced assimilation is also defined by the U.N. Convention on Genocide as a genocidal act. It is why the International Criminal Court has issued a warrant for Lvova-Belova’s arrest.

Russia is not only ridding its occupied regions of Ukrainians but also replacing them with Russian settlers—a tragic continuity with Soviet and Russian imperial practices of systemic deportation, colonization, and Russification. In the Ukrainian city of Mariupol, where the Russian advance killed tens of thousands of civilians and destroyed 50 percent of the city’s housing stock, a handful of new apartment buildings were recently constructed. Some of that housing is being offered for sale, with Russians carpetbaggers snatching up real estate at bargain prices.

Ukraine’s partly occupied south offers a clear picture of the techniques used by the occupying forces to establish authority. A Human Rights Watch report from July 2022 documents a pattern of torture, disappearances, and arbitrary detention in the region. Citizens endured torture during interrogation, including beatings, electroshocks, and sensory deprivation. Several prisoners died from the torture, and large numbers have simply disappeared. Among the victims were local officials, teachers, representatives of the Orthodox Church of Ukraine, NGO activists, and members of Ukraine’s territorial defense. There also is a massive amount of information collected by human rights monitors and journalists about the operation of filtration and detention camps.

Political indoctrination and the militarization of youth are already key characteristics of life under Russian occupation. Political banners and posters promoting Russian patriotism are omnipresent in the occupied regions. New children’s textbooks expunge Ukrainian history and preach hatred for Ukraine’s leadership. The Ukrainian language is being removed from much of the education system and relegated to its colonial status as a quaint dialect representing nothing but a gradually disappearing regional culture soon to be subsumed in the Russified mainstream.

Already, millions of Ukrainians have had their lives destroyed in one way or another by Russia’s monstrous occupation. Were Russia to complete its conquest, it would be a multiple of that number. After almost a decade of war against Russia, Ukrainians are united and highly mobilized in the defense of their country’s borders, democracy, culture, and language, to which many Ukrainian Russian-speakers have switched out of disgust with Moscow’s invasion. Millions of Ukrainians have been enraged and radicalized by Russia’s war crimes and destruction of their towns and homes. Millions of Ukrainians have volunteered to assist the war effort, millions have contributed funds to support the military, and even more have turned to social media to vent and publicly register their rage at Putin and the Russian state.

That would not only make any conquest brutal and bloody. Should Ukraine lose, almost all of Ukrainian society would need to be punished, repressed, silenced, or reeducated if the occupation is to quell resistance and absorb the country into Russia. For this reason, a Russian takeover would be accompanied by mass arrests, long-term detentions, mass deportations into the Russian heartland, filtration camps on a vast scale, and political terror. If a serious insurgency emerges, the level of repression will only widen and deepen.

A major effort will also be required to rid the country of seditious materials, which is to say all films, novels, poetry, essays, art, scholarly works, and music that may contain positive references to Ukraine’s period of independence. Libraries and schools will be purged of all such subversive content—in essence, the majority of all writing and cultural output that Ukraine has produced during the last three decades. Writers and scholars will face the choice of repudiating their identity and past work or becoming nonpersons in the new order. Many will face arrest or worse, simply because they transport Ukrainian culture and stand in the way of Russification. Again, this is not speculation but widespread practice in other territories that Russia has occupied.

Russian territorial advances would be accompanied by a second wave of Ukrainian refugees far more massive than that of early 2022, when some 7 million Ukrainians crossed the border into the European Union. For the remaining Ukrainians, the future would be one of totalitarian controls on culture, education, and speech, accompanied by a mass terror on a scale not seen in Europe since the 20th-century era of totalitarian rule.

There you have in distilled form what a Russian victory would mean. Members of the U.S. Congress are free to vote against assistance to Ukraine if they think—wrongly—that the war’s outcome does not affect the U.S. national interest. But they should not be allowed to oppose assistance to Ukraine without being fully aware of the tyranny they will be helping to empower—and their responsibility for the massive and entirely predictable crimes that will ensue.

[mothervonmayhem]

Battle of the Bands

Hobie, Miguel, Gabriel, Gwen and 1st person pov OC / MC

New Adult magical realism AU (obvi) brain worm that has grown from a 2-shot screenplay for some fun comics into a monster. This fic is like Tremors in my brain.

The summer before college MC, Gabriel O'Hara, and Miguel O'Hara go on an international road trip with their metal band, Neon Requiem. Destination? BandFest, the Battle of the Bands in London guaranteed to secure the winning band a record deal. They meet other ATSV characters along the way.

No mention of Y/N / Reader, written from 1st person POV. Self-insertion is made easier by fewer details about the MC.

Notes on language: Tried my best here, if you are a native speaker of French, let me know if the MC's French is unnatural and I will love you forever.

Romance, angst, and poorly understood music concepts are often written as having a distinct visual component because I am an artist first. <

@pinksugarscrub @the-kr8tor I DID THE THING!

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

Chapter 1 - “Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l’oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire”

The Rusty Nail's neon whir and raucous rhythms had been muted to a melancholy hum that evening, it was a ghost town, the emptiness of the dimly lit bar echoing with decades of unfulfilled longings. I nursed my drink, letting the smoky burn of liquor etch contours of quiet contemplation onto my throat as I surveyed the handful of kindred souls keeping solemn vigil. Life had been feeling heavy, and I needed to write, to make art, and to get lost in music.

At the far end of the bar hunched a beautiful wraith, his slim, angular frame sheathed in torn denim and studded leather. Something indefinable shimmered around him, unsung poetry, snippets of melodies, a symphony I could see and hear and almost touch. Drawn like a moth to the lambent glow of the music, I slid onto the stool beside the ethereal punk spectre. In my mind's eye, I crowned him the prince of punk, a fairy tale rebel.

Our bodies brushed intimately in the cramped space, raising ghosts of sensation along the exposed skin of my fishnets. "Wozzat, luv?" he murmured, kohl-rimmed eyes flickering over the point of contact with a soldering heat.

Mon dieu, {My God} Had I spoken my admiration aloud? A flush crept up my cheeks as I scrambled for a response.

"Désolé. Je répétais quelque chose pour ne pas l'oublier… Need to write it down before I lose it," {Sorry. I was repeating something so I wouldn't forget it…} I mumbled, a flimsy excuse for my wandering mind.

Fumbling through my bag ,I pulled out my tattered notebook, fingers trembling as I scribbled down a scrap of verse inspired by the punk's incandescent presence beside me. I scribbled my observations in hasty strokes. The dying light of day bled into night, a liminal space that begged for a soundtrack. I could almost hear it, a melody just out of reach, shimmering in the smoky air.

"The liminal light of late afternoon, yawning into early evening…" I muttered, pulling on the strings of the melody, trying to draw it back to me. "I don't want to be loved for the things that I don't do. I don't want to be just a pretty face, I want to be a work of art…We are all just works of art."

The jukebox fell silent, making my mutterings around sift and strange, slightly unhinged---but the punk prince remained---his gaze heavy on my skin. I met his stare, unflinching. Unabashed curiosity flickered in eyes, wide brown and doe-like, framed by lashes so lush they seemed to blur the line between masculine and feminine, earthly and ethereal. I found myself dizzied by warring impulses - to flee this unsettling intimacy, or be consumed by it wholly.

He was a changeling, gorgeously androgynous: part punk Mona Lisa with a Cheshire cat grin, part Jean-Michel Baptiste, part force-of-fucking-nature. He made me feel like a background character in his story, could be a punk fairy princess, and I would be the dragon. My thoughts raced, fragments of poetry and half-formed desires. I scribbled faster, chasing the threads of inspiration, but a nudge from my prince brought me back to earth.

Snatches of poetry, raw and unfinished, that I urgently longed to refine on the page before they dissipated like the last wisps of smoke in a spent ashtray. But the punk's aura dragged me too deeply into devotional reverie. I glanced up apologetically as my concentration scattered, the thread of inspiration slipping through my fingers once more.

The bartender had sprouted up directly in front of me, and she eyed me expectantly. Her hair was a shock of blue curls and silver streaks shorn close to her scalp, it made her eyes seem more gray. Her skin etched with lines that mapped out the years like a roadmap. I felt the familiar pang of a poem lost to the ether.

"Un…Jack Daniel's, s'il vous plaît," {A…Jack Daniel's, please} I said, no longer able to filter its lilt from my words, as I wasn't paying attention to dulling it.

"Blimey, that's a proper choice, innit? You 'ere for the battle of the bands event this week, love?"

"Oui, how did you know?" {Yes, how did you know?}

"Just a…sense," he demurred with a wicked grin. "Call it a punk's intuition, darling. I'm in the mix too, y'know."

The bartender chuckled as she set my drink down. "You mean because everyone is here for Bandfest? Don't listen to this one, lovey, he's incorrigible. The crowds will be in later on, but you're a bit early."

"Shh, Roz. Who's up tonight?" The prince asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Oh, you want insider information? What's in it for me?"

"Givin' away free tattoos, could autograph yer arm, love."

"I'll pass, thanks. The brackets are up in an hour anyway. It's Night Terrors vs. Death Rapture, Blood Prophecy vs. Cherry Bomb, Spider Punks vs. Neon Requiem…"

"Why are the punk bands going up against the metal bands?" I asked, just as the prince inquired about Phantom Pulse.

"There wasn't a lot of quality competition this year, or that's what the sponsors said, so they automatically advance to the semifinals since they won last year."

"Bollocks!" The prince cried, his outrage palpable.

"Oi Punk, you don't want to sign with Vic Luna at Zenith Music Group, anyway."

"Tu…ne le fais pas? Mais pourquoi?" {You…don't? But why?} The words tumbled out, my curiosity getting the better of me. At her blank stare, I repeated the question in English, heat rising to my cheeks.

Roz leaned in, her voice low, "Look kid, it's complicated…"

The prince rolled his eyes, a sneer playing at his lips. "Betrayed a lot of good bands."

"You don't need to remind me, Punk, I lived through it. Despite the changes at Zenith Music Group, they still organize the annual Bandfest, which showcases both established and emerging talent in the punk and metal scenes. The event is highly respected within the community and provides a platform for bands to gain exposure and connect with fans," the bartender continued, her words stilted, rehearsed.

"Ay, and they are the sponsor bringing in your crowds." The prince's voice was sharp, laced with an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"The only time we're out of the red, punkass. We'd have to shut down if it weren't for the Battle." She said heavily, "Which is the greater evil, we are a place of refuge for several members of the community, not just you."

"You don't need to remind me Roz, I'm living through it. Right, I'll stop ragging on the corporate sods for now, until you have some plausible deniability." He raised his hands in mock surrender, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

"There's a good Punk." Roz smiled, sliding him another pint before retreating.

I made a mental note to warn my bandmates about Vic and Zenith's sordid history. We were in this for the music, not the money, no one played metal for the money--but it never hurt to be cautious.

"Roz is like the den mother of the London punk scene, a living testament to grit and resilience, and screaming yourself hoarse at basement shows. Dream t'be like her when I grow up. To listen without judgment, offer advice without preaching, and know when to slide a shot of whiskey across the bar and when to cut you off. She has a way of looking at you, really seeing you, like you matter… like you are more than just another face in the crowd." His voice trails off, heavy with emotion. He blinks and shakes it off.

"Can I see it?" The prince's voice cut through our lost thoughts, his fingers reaching for my notebook.

I clutched it to my chest, a knee-jerk reaction. "Can you look into my very soul, like Roz?"

His smirk widened, that Cheshire cat grin that set my heart racing. He nodded, a challenge in his eyes.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he purred, and I felt my stomach flip. I repeated the phrase in my mind, first in French, then in English, just to be sure I'd heard him right. Wasn't this some flirty idiom?

"You have a book of poetry somewhere hidden in those skinny jeans, mon ami?" {my friend?} I ask, hesitant, double-checking his meaning. He flirts like others breathe.

In lieu of an answer, he produced a sharpie from thin air. Before I could protest, he had my arm in his grasp, his touch electric against my skin. I shrugged off my leather jacket, baring my arms to his ink-stained fingers. Roz chuckled as she set another drink before me, clearly amused by the prince's antics.

"You'll need it…I see you took this wanker up on the free tattoo offer. Don't let him draw any on your arms."

"Any? …Any what?"

"Wankers," she clarified with a laugh. It clarifies nothing, I need to study my British slang.

"I would not mar the flesh of such a beautiful and willing participant, Roz. Kindly fuck off," the prince mumbled around the sharpie cap clenched between his teeth.

Between the verses he scrawled, he peppered me with questions, his voice a giddy whisper.

"So, who's your poison, love? Which bands get your motor runnin'?"

"Ah, j'adore Rammstein, Gojira, et bien sûr, Motörhead. And so many others, doesn't even scratch the surface. Et toi?" {Ah, I love Rammstein... And you?}

"Proper choices, those. For me, it's the classics - Sex Pistols, The Clash, Buzzcocks. Real raw, in-your-face stuff, y'know?"

I leaned in, excited, but too close. I nearly jumped as my lips grazed the dusky shell of his ear. "Ah, un homme de bon goût! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, c'était incroyable!" {Ah, a man of good taste! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, it was incredible!}

"No bleedin' way! Metal chick like you? I'd give me left bollock to have seen the Sex Pistols live. But I did catch The Clash back in '07. Changed me life, it did."

"Lemmy, sans aucun doute. The man's a legend!" {Lemmy, without a doubt.} I declare into the bar.

"Oi, don't go disrespectin' Johnny, now! The bloke's a punk icon, 'e is!"

"You're a punk icon!" someone shouted from the back, but the prince waved them off with a grin.

"Oh, I didn't catch your name," I said, with a sudden shame, my brow furrowed.

"Everyone just calls me Punk. You can too. Just not dirty punk, we don't want to come to blows, do we, love?"

"I'd kick your ass, mon ami. Pas grand chose à donner, mon petit prince des fées… eh mon prince dégingandé, right? I would not describe you as petite even if you are skinny." {I'd kick your ass, my friend. Not much to give, my little fairy prince… eh my lanky prince, right?}

Miguel was at my side in an instant, all rippling muscle and furrowed consternation. "Carnalita, {little sis} why did you sneak out on practice just to drink in this hellhole?" he rumbled, disapproval lacing every sonorous word. Tenderness faded a bit.

I met his gruff chiding with an insouciant toss of my hair. "Salut, Miguel. Ça fait longtemps." {Hello, Miguel. It's been a while.}

"Is that Jack? No puedo mas… Carnalita…This shit is bad for you." {I can't take it anymore…little sis...}

"Je nais etre rond comme une queue de pelle. Tu es vraiment un trou de balle quand tu dis des choses pareilles!" {I would be round as a shovel handle. (Idiom, essentially she is saying ~ I was born to be drunk) You are really a dumbass when you say things like that!}

Miguel's grumbling stream of Spanish reprimands washed over me as I settled into our familiar dynamic - the tender yet terse cantata of friend and protector that had composed them score of our relationship since childhood. For all his bluster, I knew every arrhythmic cadence encoded Miguel's steadfast affection.

Only Gabriel's soft interjection could salve the rising discord. "You worry too much, Miggy. We've been practicing all week."

He cast me a plaintive glance, silently pleading for conciliation, and I grudgingly obliged with an internal eyeroll. "Qu'il aille se faire! C'est vraiment chiant tu te rends compte." {Let him go fuck himself! It's really annoying, you know.}

Heedless of my saucy french asides, Miguel merely drew a fortifying breath before continuing in that maddening timbre of unrelenting reason. "Gabri and I could have come out with you. You shouldn't go out alone in an unknown city - it's not safe for you, mi carnalita."

The prince leaned towards us with a lazy smirk, "S'not that serious. The Rusty Nail is safe enough." He paused as the bartender snorted in agreement before continuing, "We're keeping the lady safe, mate…you can trust me, I'm one of the Spider-Punks."

Miguel simply sneered at the prince's proffered handshake, dismissing it out of hand. "You have arms like sticks. How would you keep her safe?"

The punk's smirk widened as he shrugged. "Ah, one of those. Never skip leg day, eh bruv?"

I strangled a guffaw as Gabriel hastened to run interference, engulfing the punk's hand eagerly. "We've heard of you guys, the local punk band, yeah? Your drummer is…gahh…Ah-Mazing! You think we could meet?"

"You call that punk noise "rock"?" Miguel scoffed. "Metal is where the real skill lies…Real talent is in the complexity, the technical skill. Metal pushes boundaries, takes you to new places. Punk's just three chords and an attitude."

I rolled my eyes. At this rate, I'd have to drag Miguel out before he started a brawl.

"Ah, mais non, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, non?" {Ah, but no, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, right?}

Miguel grunted, but squeezed my hand.

I stood, motioning for him to lean in close. "Allez, let's save the competition for the stage, d'accord? I learned some things about the record company. We should talk in private." {Come on, let's save the competition for the stage, okay?}

The prince unfolded himself, towering over me. "Tell you what, mate. Let's settle this on stage. We'll let the crowd decide who's got the real chops," he challenged.

Gabriel chimed in, "Pero, mana's right, Miguel." {But, sister is right, Miguel.}

Miguel looked ready to explode, but Gabriel's eyes held him in check.

"Music's music. Let's just focus on putting on a good show, and maybe we can learn something from their band, eh?" Gabriel said.

The prince leaned in, lips grazing my cheek. "Aye, love. Can't wait to teach your wall of meat here a thing or two. How about we give 'em a show they won't forget…later?"

I grinned, "Oui! A collaboration? Here… Ça ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard…mais, pour vous. I want it back later." {Yes! A collaboration? Here…It doesn't break three duck legs (Idiom ~ It's nothing special) …but, for you. I want it back later.}

The lanky punk sauntered off, his studded boots leaving faint trails of glitter on the barroom floor. Miguel's scowl deepened as he watched him depart, fists clenched tightly.

"Is that your poetry notebook?" he growled, voice rumbling low.

"Yes, I traded it to the punk faerie for these tattoos, I smirked, revealing the vine-like scrawl of ink now adorning my flesh like raised scars from whipping brambles.

Miguel's face darkened further, storm clouds gathering at my words. "The one you never let anyone touch or read…"

His voice strangled to a whisper, and I could not parse the complex calculus of emotions flitting behind his eyes

Gabriel placed a calming hand on his brother's arm.

"Easy, hermano {brother}. He's not worth it," Gabriel said in a soothing tone.

"Be nice, Punk is a good guy. I like him," I countered softly, a warm glow blossomed within me as I realized my entire arm was now a crawling garden of sentences entirely in French.

Miguel opened his mouth, undoubtedly to unleash a heated retort, but Gabriel cut in, "Should we go look at the brackets to see who we're facing?"

"It looks like my entire arm is covered with quotes from The Little Prince, which happens to be my favorite book. It's actually quite a sweet gesture," I said softly, fingertips grazing the raised words like treasured runes.

With renewed curiosity, I examined the ink quote now etched on my skin: "Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l'oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire." {You are the master of your life and your emotions, never forget that. For better or worse.}

I didn't mention the lone scrawl that could have been a phone number hidden amidst the literary foliage now vining my limb. Miguel was in full-on Dad mode, and I didn't need to add fuel to that particular fire.

"I already know the competition for the quarterfinals, we don't need to waste our time. Come on, manos {used as slang for brother}, we're going to kick some ass!" I giggled brightly, elated at my new 'tattoos' scrawling up my arms. I didn't put my leather jacket back on, I didn't want to cover any of it up.

Miguel's glare never wavered, his eyes fixed on the far side of the bar where the prince had disappeared into the crowd. "Don't tempt me. Let's go, carnalita {little sister}, time for practice."

With a resigned sigh, I surrendered to my brothers' insistent tugs, allowing them to lead me from the Rusty Nail. But the punk prince's parting words still reverberated through my mind like the lingering notes of a siren song. Later, he had purred, that single hushed syllable seeming to contain all the intoxicating lure of a siren's call - equal parts velvet promise and brazen challenge, twined inextricably into an enchantment I could not resist. The whole damn bar was a sailor's nightmare.

[beguines]

Understanding how contemporary Israeli coloniality mobilizes environmental space requires us to begin from the function of the border—and the ways in which the border is mobilized by the interlocking political systems of settler-colonialism, apartheid, and occupation in Israel/Palestine.

In the case of Israel, its major features of nation-statehood, including final territorial borders, notion of "peoplehood," and sovereign rule largely remain incomplete. As a result, its ability to create the categories of insider/outsider and citizen/foreigner become particularly interesting when one notes that Israel is the only internationally recognized state in the world without de facto final borders. Continued occupation, annexation, expropriation, expansion, displacement, forced transfer, practices of apartheid, and besiegement of the Palestinian population and their lands places Israel's borders, in practice, in continuous flux. Working from the relationship of rejection and non-identification of the Palestinian other by the state, the border within the Israeli "incorporation regime" has only one side. When it comes to its division from Palestinian communities—whether citizens, residents or refugees—the borders of the state are one-directional. Sfard continues that:

"This one-way barrier functions like a one-way mirror. Both deflect (people or light) from only one side. In the case of the separation fence, it is the Palestinian side that gets deflected. For Palestinians, the fence is both a physical barrier and a borderline. For Israelis the fence is neither. The fact that the barrier has only one side gives Israel an inside, without having to recognize that the area on the other side of the fence is an outside. While a border establishes distinct sovereignties on either side of it, this one-way fence with sovereignty only on one side creates moving lines of sovereignty. The border is a process, a verb rather than a noun."

Evidently, Sfard is discussing Israel's Wall in Jerusalem and the West Bank. However, when examining exclusion in the context of an incorporation regime that spans contemporary Israel/Palestine as a single geographical unit, his conclusions regarding the barrier can here be broadened to describe the logic of exclusion to which all non-Jewish Palestinian political subjects are faced. Put differently, in the case of contemporary Israel/Palestine, understanding that "the border is a verb" means that we are examining something that is multifaceted and multi-layered. The borders of the Jewish State are not at the periphery or margins of the territorial state itself: Israel's borders are not at the border. Rather, its borders, including the inherent logic of exclusion and otherness that this political-legal concept produces, are constantly moving, and with various violent intensities bleed across the categories of citizen, immigrant, resident, and refugee.

Palestinian-Arab presence within this incorporation regime is situated within a continuous logic of exclusion specific to their civic status, effectively making their bodies into borders. They are included in the Israeli incorporation regime, yet they are perpetually consigned to its peripheries. Together, the racially hierarchical framework of the Israeli state apparatus and its juridicopolitical order determines that the borders of the state, its ideological and conceptual contours and the limits and ends of its representation and protection, all acquire their shape and meaning from the non-Jewish other.

Shourideh C. Molavi, Environmental Warfare in Gaza: Colonial Violence and New Landscapes of Resistance

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 7.10

Holidays

Armed Forces Day (Mauritania)

Army Day (Albania)

Battle of Britain Anniversary Day

Battle of Poltava Day (Russia)

Beatles Day (Liverpool, Hamburg)

Capybara Appreciation Day

Chronic Disease Awareness Day

Clerihew Day

Cumin Day (French Republic)

Don't Step On A Bee Day (UK)

Flag Day (Mongolia)

Global Energy Independence Day

Gospel Day (Kiribati)

His Masters Voice Day

International Glut1 Awareness Day

International Safewords Day

Lá Cuimhneacháin Náisiúnta (National Day of Commemoration; Ireland)

Lady Godiva Day

London Bridge Falling Down Day

Merchant’s Festival (Elder Scrolls)

Minion Day

Naadam Day (Mongolia)

National All American Pet Photo Day

National Caleb Day

National Contour Day

National Fish Farmers Day (India)

National Kitten Day

National Lineworker Appreciation Day (Canada)

National Stella Day

National Transplant Financial Coordinator Day

Natto Day (Japan)

Nikola Tesla Day

Oils and Concentrates Day

Police Radio Day

Protogeneia Asteroid Day

Rhodes Day (Rhodesia)

710 Day

Silence Day (Meher Baba)

Srebrenica Memorial Day

Stay Away From Bees Day

Teddy Bear's Picnic Day

Telstar Day

Uniwaine (Senior Citizens’ Day; Kiribati)

U.S. Energy Independence Day

World Airway Disorders Day

World Miniature Golf Day

World Shuvit Cancer Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Beer Distributors Day

National Piña Colada Day

National Pizza Day (Brazil)

Pick Blueberries Day

Independence & Related Days

Bahamas (from UK, 1973)

Federal Republic of New Potato Land (Declared; 2017) [unrecognized]

Wyoming Statehood Day (#44; 1890)

2nd Wednesday in July

National Day of Prayer and Thanksgiving (Montserrat) [2nd Wednesday]

Weekly Holidays beginning July 10 (2nd Week of July)

Sweetheart Days Festival (Minnesota) [2nd Wednesday; thru Friday]

Festivals Beginning July 10, 2024

American Cheese Society Annual Conference (Buffalo, New York) [thru 7.13]

European Balloon Festival (Igualada, Spain) [thru 7.14]

EXIT (Novi Sad, Serbia) [thru 7.14]

Love International Festival (Tins, Croatia) [thru 7.16]

Mad Cool Festival (Madrid, Spain) [thru 7.13]

Ossipee Valley Fair (South Hiram, Maine) [thru 7.14]

Riddu Riđđu (Manndalen, Norway) [thru 7.13]

Sandcastle Contest (Belmar, New Jersey)

Tangomarkkinat (Seinäjoki, Finland) [thru 7.14]

Vegan Summerfest (Johnstown, Pennsylvania) [thru 7.14]

Winona County Fair (St. Charles, Minnesota) [thru 7.14]

Woody Guthrie Folk Festival (Okemah, Oklahoma) [thru 7.14]

Feast Days

Alice Munro (Writerism)

Amalberga of Maubeuge (Christian; Saint & Widow)

Amalburga (Christian; Saint & Virgin)

Antony and Theodosius Pechersky (Christian; Saints)

St. Bathilda (Positivist; Saint)

Camille Pissarro (Artology)

Canute IV of Denmark (Christian; Saint)

David Teniers III (Artology)

Day of Holda (Goddess of the Underworld; Anglo-Saxon, Norse)

Feast Day of Knut the Reaper, Hela, Holda and Skadi (Norse)

Feast of Translation of Saint Maclovius, Bishop of Saint-Malo (Christian; Confessor)

Feast of The Seven Brothers (Januarius, Felix, Philip, Silvanus, Alexander, Vitalis, and Martialis; Christian; Martyrs)

Felicitas of Rome (Christian; Martyr)

The First Sermon of Lord Buddha (Buddhism; Bhutan)

Giorgio de Chirico (Artology)

Hela’s Day (Pagan)

Joe Shuster (Artology)

Kanute IV, King of Denmark (Christian; Martyr)

Knut the Reaper's Day (Norse; Scotland)

Marcel Proust (Writerism)

Mel Blanc Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Millennial Fairy Olympics, Day 5 (Shamanism)

New Robe for Athena Day (Ancient Greece)

Otto Freundlich (Artology)

Pina Colada Day (Pastafarian)

Reach Out and Touch a Green Leaf Day (Starza Pagan Book of Days)

Reg Smythe (Artology)

Ronnie Cutrone (Artology)

Rufina and Secunda (Christian; Martyrs & Virgins)

Rusty (Muppetism)

Septic Bralu Diena (Ancient Latvia)

Seth Godin (Writerism)

Seven Brothers (Christian; Martyrs)

Sixto Rodriguez (Humanism,)

Tita or Tatata Ita (Muppetism)

U Festinu (a.k.a. Feast of St. Rosalia; Palermo, Italy) [thru 7.15]

Viaticum of Llefoed Wynebglawr (Celtic Book of Days)

Victoria, Anatolia, and Audax (Christian; Saints)

Wickerwork Giants Parade & Festival (Douai, France)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Butsumetsu (仏滅 Japan) [Unlucky all day.]

Fatal Day (Pagan) [13 of 24]

Prime Number Day: 191 [43 of 72]

Unfortunate Day (Pagan) [39 of 57]

Premieres

Ball Four, by Jim Bouton (Sports Memoir; 1970)

The Brave Little Toaster (Animated Film; 1987)

Cocky Cock Roach (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1932)

Cool World (Animated Film; 1992)

The Day of the Triffids, by John Wyndham (Novel; 1951)

Do Way Diddy Diddy, by Manfred Mann (Song; 1964)

Escape from New York (Film; 1981)

The Fox and the Hound (Animated Disney Film; 1981)

Greyhound (Film; 2020)

A Hard Day’s Night, by The Beatles (Album; 1964)

Heat Wave, by Martha and the Vandellas (Song; 1963)

Homesteader Droopy (Tex Avery MGM Cartoon; 1954)

The Hot Spell, featuring Farmer Al Falfa (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1936)

Lethal Weapon 4 (Film; 1998)

I Got You Babe, by Sonny and Cher (Song; 1965)

I Love You Beth Cooper (Film; 2009)

In Search of Lost Time, by Marcel Proust (Novel; 1927)

In the Midnight Hour, by Wilson Pickett (Song; 1965)

Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (Film; 1985)

Minions (Animated Film; 2015)

Moon (Film; 2009)

Mother Necessity (America Rock Cartoon; Schoolhouse Rock; 1976)

New Maps of Hell, by Bad Religion (Album; 2007)

Ode to Billie Joe, by Bobbie Gentry (Song; 1967)

The Oily American (WB MM Cartoon; 1954)

The Old Guard (Film; 2020)

Once Upon a Mouse (Disney Cartoon Documentary; 1981)

The Outpost (Terrytoons Cartoon; 1942)

Palm Springs (Film; 2020)

Parachutes, by Coldplay (Album; 2000)

Pi (Film; 1998)

Pink Valiant (Pink Panther Cartoon; 1968)

She Wolf, by Shakira (Album; 2009)

Small Soldiers (Animated Film; 1998)

Smoke Signal (Animated Film; 2018)

Son of Schmilsson, by Harry Nilsson (Album; 1972)

Summertime, recorded by Ella Fitzgerald (Song; 1936)

Tempted, by Squeeze (Song; 1981)

Trouble with Lichen, by John Wyndham (Novel; 1960)

Unnatural Death, by Dorothy L. Sayers (Novel; 1927) [Peter Wimsey #3]

Up N’ Atom (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1947)

The Wayward Pups (Happy Harmonies Cartoon; 1937)

We Are the Champions/We Will Rock You, by Queen (UK Song; 1977)

Your Hit Parade (TV Series; 1950)

Today’s Name Days

Engelbert, Knud, Raphael (Austria)

Feliks, Srećko, Viktorija (Croatia)

Amálie, Libuše (Czech Republic)

Knud (Denmark)

Saima, Saime, Saimi (Estonia)

Saima, Saimi (Finland)

Ulrich (France)

Knud, Engelbert, Raphael, Sascha (Germany)

Amália (Greece)

Amália (Hungary)

Armando, Marziale, Pietro, Rufina (Italy)

Lielvardis, Lija, Olīvija, Uve (Latvia)

Amalija, Eirimė, Gilvainas (Lithuania)

Anita, Anja (Norway)

Aleksander, Amelia, Aniela, Filip, January, Radziwoj, Rufina, Samson, Sylwan, Sylwana, Witalis (Poland)

Amália (Slovakia)

Cristóbal (Spain)

André, Andrea, Anund (Sweden)

Anthony (Ukraine)

Emanuel, Emmanuel, Gage, Immanuel, Manuel, Manuela (USA)

Emanuel, Immanuel, Maos, Manuela, Ulla, Ulrich, Ulrika, Ulrike (Universal)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 192 of 2024; 174 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 3 of week 28 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Tinne (Holly) [Day 4 of 28]

Chinese: Month 6 (Xin-Wei), Day 5 (Yi-Hai)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 4 Tammuz 5784

Islamic: 3 Muharram 1446

J Cal: 12 Red; Foursday [12 of 30]

Julian: 27 June 2024

Moon: 21%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 23 Charlemagne (7th Month) [St. Bathilda]

Runic Half Month: Ur (Primal Strength) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 21 of 94)

Week: 2nd Week of July

Zodiac: Cancer (Day 20 of 31)

[fenicenera83]

MARIUS de ROMANUS APPRECIATION WEEK DAY 5

-Messy notes, messy desk

Daniel stopped at the threshold of the large, white, inlaid door that led to Marius's bedroom. From within it came a strange noise of crumpled papers, and things being moved, and thrown. Marius was not there. He had left, with Lestat, to visit a coven in Canada. And so only one other person could generate that chaos of testy noise, or generate chaos regardless. Daniel entered with a sigh, and was stunned at the condition of Marius's beautiful polished wooden desk, and its surroundings. There were papers crumpled under and on top of the desk, a quantity that seemed industrial to Daniel's supernatural eyes. Marius's handsome, coated tomes of Latin prose were on the floor scattered here and there, the bust of Augustus was dangerously poised on the corner of the desk, the pictures Daniel had taken and framed for Marius, which he proudly kept on display, had been placed on the floor on top of other tomes, other half-written papers.

The pens had been spread out and scattered all over the surface of the desk, and the worst thing, which almost bleached Daniel more, was seeing the draft laws, ready to be transcribed, on which Marius had been working incessantly for three weeks, scattered here and there, on the desk, while small, furious hands, scrolled through those papers, clutching them with all too much conviction. When fiery, crucified eyes rested on him, Daniel arched an eyebrow: " You really screwed up, no doubt about it. What exactly is the need behind this butchery Armand?" asked Daniel, bringing his hands to the back pockets of his jeans. Armand stared at him, his eyes two slits from hell, " It's none of your business…" but Daniel knew Armand and the slight blush on his cheeks did not escape him. Daniel tilted his head to the side, noticing Armand's graffiti-stained hands. On the table in front of him a sketchpad was open and Daniel clearly glimpsed Marius' physiognomy.

Armand stared at the pad for only a moment before covering it with the papers in his hand, " So you were drawing and then it happened to be in your hand, the laws, which Marius worked on, and for which he could only devote a little time to the two of us, and you got jealous… of Marius's laws…" Daniel stared at Armand whose mouth had become a thin line. They burst out laughing together at the same time. When he recomposed himself, however, Armand became strangely serious again, almost melancholy. Daniel sat down in front of him and took the pad from under the papers with which Armand had covered him. He stared at the delicate contours of Marius' visage, the big eyes, the fleshy mouth, the firm nose, and the expression of love and calm that he always had. The most handsome man in the world. " How are you Armand? I know the weeks leading up to these have been hectic for us, they have been beautiful and shining weeks, Marius always near, always present, making you feel safe, loved, valued and protected. Almost unreal isn't it? And yet, that's how it is, and when he's gone the demons come back to haunt us." Armand nodded slowly, " He asked me to take care of you, Daniel, he said take care of Daniel and let him take care of you while I'm gone. And look at us, me you and his love to keep us together." Daniel nodded and smiled, " You know when Gregory told him, what you told Lestat, in those days when we thought we lost him forever, he defended you. I don't know why Gregory brought up that old story…" Daniel looked thoughtful, while Armand looked troubled, " I wasn't myself. I thought I only had Lestat left and no one else, I thought you hated me, I knew it, Louis gone and Marius … my Marius gone … dead … I just wanted the dark Daniel. I had him for so little and I became what I am for him, I embraced death for him, then they tore me away from him, and I embraced another death, different, cold and cruel, then I embraced another where fear and despair forced my pride, and then he was gone, and I really wanted death, real death, because if I could ever get him back in immortality, at least in real death, maybe, who knows, I could finally be reunited with him. But they prevented me, and I went crazy. And now instead, I have to thank them because they have given him back to me along with a new hope, a future."

Armand looked startled, then, and stared at Daniel, who got up and sat on the edge of the desk, taking Armand in his arms, " Do you know what Marius said to Gregory?" and Armand's eyes grew bigger, " He told him, if someone has taken my place in Armand's heart, the fault is mine. Mine is the penalty to pay, mine is the duty to give me back to him and take back my place. There is nothing I would not do for it, and whatever you may say to me, Gregory, will not change my newfound devotion or my ever-present love for him. We were cruel to each other, I see now, much of that was the chains of fear that gripped both of us. If Armand really said this, he will not receive accusations from me but only more love. More respect, more dedication, more understanding, and whatever love he has for Lestat, even if it's in the past, he'll only get respect from me." I was there, Daniel said, next to Marius, when it happened. I know and he also knows that there is no greater love than yours for him, even if at times it was stronger love for someone else, and how could he blame you for that? Or because you felt a different, though no less profound, love for others?" Daniel was then, compelled to stop and caress Armand's face to wipe away the tears that were streaking his face and that showed no sign of stopping. Daniel held Armand close to him, those tears were the river he was washing away, the last remnants of a fear that would give way to love and nothing else.

[panthera-tigris-venenata]

I made myself sad with my silly little Hunger Games AU for Descendants and now it’s your problem.

Staring Cruella and Ivy de Vil.

I’m gonna continue this. I hope.

Cruella wakes up with an already raging migraine: Her head feels like it is enclosed in rhythmically tightening iron maiden mask. Huh, Iron maiden. Cruella is fairly sure she designed an outfit based on that, once.

And if she didn’t, she really should have.

Capitol would have loved that, before they figured out what she actually wanted to say. If they ever did.

She doesn’t smirk at that thought.

She considers staying in her bed for today, forever and ever. That looks fun, doesn’t it? Cruella de Vil, Hunger Games Victor and fashion icon, reduced to a rag doll incapable of leaving her own bed. She laughs, harsh and loud, and gets up from the bloody bed.

Her bathroom is suspiciously well stocked: New makeup products and hair care and skin masks, even the lipsticks she broke apart in affect are replaced. Someone cleaned up her mirror as well. Fucking mirror.

Cruella puts on her favourite shade of lipstick and then a damning thought crosses her mind: „Carlos, baby,“ she calls out, hoping that her baby boy is home and hears her, „Can you tell mommy what day it is?“

As she waits for answer, she anxiously brushes through her hair, all tangled up. She makes sure the strokes hurt, and soon, she can barely see through her tears. That’s good–

The floors of her Victor House creak as her little son comes near, led by the hand by his big cousin Ivy. Both dolled up in her signature colours, decided decades ago and miles away. She can’t stand it, not again.

„No no no no no, don’t tell me, don’t tell me, DON’T TELL ME, GO AWAY–––“

(She made her little boy cry)

Only after taking Carlos to a different room, Ivy interrupts her desperate litany with quivering voice: „It is the Reaping day, Auntie.“

Cruella presses her nails into her palms, and tries to smile for her niece: „Your lips are a bit blue, Ivy, darling. Do you want some of my lipstick?“

„Yes, I’d like that, Auntie.“

So Cruella wills her hands to stop shaking for just a little moment and holds Ivy’s chin in place, painting her lips for her. Sure contours and bold colours– „Just like you, my dear.“

„Thank you, Auntie.“

Ivy’s hands are cold as the death herself, and Cruella is sure, so are hers.

It is time to go. Put on your dress, your make-up and your smile, and go.

They might as well have been playing funeral rites for the short walk from Victor’s Village to the square, as far as Cruella is concerned.

Then, Ivy has to go. None of them says good bye – It feels so final, that. Cruella wants to pretend for another moment.

At least her Carlos is not of reaping age yet. How old is he? She’d ask, but her face feels frozen. She’s not sure she can speak.

Any sound, and the world shatters – there is no sound at all, it seems. Just thousands upon thousands of District Three children holding their breaths and each others hands. Cruella presses her son closer to her and doesn’t look for Ivy in the crowd.

(It wouldn’t be hard to find her, bold red and blinding white and damning black. It wouldn‘t be hard at all.)

(She must look like Cruella’s mirror.)

Heels click across the podium, and each step drives a hot nail through Cruella’s temples.

If she wanted, she could recite each word with the hostess. She wishes she could forget them instead.

„Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favour!“ Cruella’s cheeks hurt when she forces herself to smile and recite the eulogy with the hostess.

(If she had not been so damn clever and cunning – so full of herself and of will to live – If she hadn’t spoken, if she could just accept her fate and her place in the world – if she hadn’t tried to change it –I F SHE JUST DIED LIKE THEY WANTED HER TO)

She isn’t surprised when the hostess reads Ivy’s name.

It was always going to happen, wasn’t it?

Ever since she showed Capitol what they are, and refused to stop. She held the mirror until it shattered and when it cut her hand bloody. Literally and figuratively. She screamed, with her voice, and with her art. She screamed until her brother died, and then some more.

She had sentenced her family to die a long time ago.

She catches Ivy’s eyes: The girl walks calmly, her head held high. No sign of trembling from the morning, and cold, cold eyes. She can see something brewing behind them, little clockwork components turning and falling into place.

Click. Click. CLICK.

Cruella de Vil stands up and starts applauding her niece, their perfectly painted lips in joyless smiles. And if that doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

[empirearchives]

5 minutes with… Elisa and Felix – Napoleon’s most powerful sister and her princely husband

She was at the centre of Europe, yet many have never heard of her […] During a time when women had very few opportunities, Elisa was running the show. She was running the government, the business and the cultural scene.

—William Russell Jr., European Sculpture & Works of Art specialist

———-

For a brief — yet important — moment in history, Napoleon’s sister was one of the most powerful women in Europe. Specialist William Russell Jr. unlocks the story behind Lorenzo Bartolini’s captivating portrait busts of Elisa and her husband, Felix, in their prime

The Italian sculptor Lorenzo Bartolini’s marble busts of Maria Anna Bonaparte Baciocchi Levoy, better known as Elisa, and her husband, Felix Pasquale Baciocchi Levoy, are part of the lasting vestiges of a nearly forgotten dominion of the French Republic that lasted from 1804-1814.

Napoleon Bonaparte’s only sister with political power, Elisa was granted French lands on the western side of the Italian peninsula in 1805, as well as the Grand Duchy of Tuscany in 1809. As the Princess of Lucca and Piombino and Grand Duchess of Tuscany, she was one of the most influential women in Europe during the first quarter of the 19th century.

‘Elisa is exactly what you would hope for — or expect from — a sibling of Napoleon. She was exceptionally beautiful, frighteningly capable, ambitious and smart. She was at the centre of Europe, yet many have never heard of her,’ says European Sculpture & Works of Art specialist William Russell Jr.

A longstanding devotee of the arts, Napoleon had given his sister the town of Carrara in 1806. Since ancient Rome, the flawless white marble found in the city’s quarries has been prized by Italian sculptors and can be found everywhere from the Pantheon to Michelangelo’s Pieta in St. Peter’s Basilica.

In Carrara, Elisa bolstered her prestige as a patron of the arts and promoted her family’s image, all while generating significant business from marble exports. She also established an Académie des Beaux-Arts in town, with the hopes of attracting the greatest sculptors.

There, she began a lifelong collaboration with Bartolini, who she appointed as the director of the academy’s sculpture school. Elisa commissioned him to create several busts of her immediate family, including these two busts of herself and her husband, Felix.

Dating from 1809, the busts show the couple at the height of the French Empire — when the Napoleonic forces seemed almost unassailable. While Napoleon would be exiled to the island of Elba only five years later (where Bartolini would join him in 1814), here, the couple appear at the most significant moment of their lives, shortly after Elisa had been elevated to Grand Duchess of Tuscany.

‘Of course, Florence was the Renaissance, and Elisa was the new Medici,’ Russell adds. ‘Elisa was remarkably modern, and very conscious — as was Napoleon — about her image. Both wanted to make sure they resembled the princes and princesses of the Renaissance. Image was everything — as is no different from today. These sculptures reflect that.’

Both portraits have been carved with delicately refined contours, revealing the sculptor’s renowned technical abilities.

‘What Bartolini really excelled at was his ability to translate antiquity and the Renaissance into a 19th century aesthetic — the Empire aesthetic,’ explains Russell. ‘He created a modern sculpture that was softer and more humanising than classical Greek, Roman and Renaissance statuary.’

While Elisa’s classical drapery is reminiscent of antiquity and the Renaissance, her elegantly modelled hair alludes to the fashions that were prevalent in France during the early 1800s. Likewise, Felix’s hair and clothing are contemporaneous to Napoleonic fashions.

The juxtaposition of textures between skin, clothing and hair, as well as his ability to blend a classical approach with modern sensibilities, exemplify the artist’s neoclassical style.

The busts’ detail and finesse were met with such acclaim, it’s believed that Elisa commissioned an additional 12 portraits of herself, based on this bust on offer at Christie’s.

While Elisa and her husband enjoyed considerable favour during the height of the French Republic, their relationships with each other, and with Napoleon, were often contentious.

When the couple assumed their roles as Prince and Princess of Piombino and Lucca in 1805 — just one year after Napoleon was voted to lead the First French Empire — Felix took only a minor position over their small army, allowing most of the power to be exercised by Elisa herself.

‘Felix was a very handsome man, but she was the real powerhouse,’ Russell explains of the couple’s relationship. ‘They had a very unequal marriage — she was just too influential within her brother’s regime. During a time when women had very few opportunities, Elisa was running the show. She was running the government, the business and the cultural scene.’

Napoleon, who was often at odds with his sister, also never approved of her marriage to Felix, a Corsican nobleman and former captain of the French army. Austrian Foreign Minister Clemens von Metternich is also known to have described him as having an ‘entire want of intellectual faculties.’

While Elisa implemented legislative change inspired by the Napoleonic Code, reformed the clergy, and instituted significant public health and educational change in her principalities, the inhabitants of Piombino and Lucca had little sympathy for Napoleon, Elisa, or their attempts to ‘Frenchify’ the republic after their loss of independence.

Her relationship with her brother also grew increasingly strained. ‘She was Napoleon’s younger sister. They were the closest in temperament, in intellect and in ambition. They were peas in a pod, and they never got along.’

Indeed, in 1820, upon learning of his sister’s death, Napoleon attested that, ‘[Elisa] was a woman of a masterly mind. Had I not been in existence, what is said of the Duchess of Angoulême, that she wears the breeches of the family, might with reason be said of her. She had noble qualities and a remarkable mind; but no intimacy ever existed between us; our characters were opposed to this.’

[mabith]

Alignment by Amber DiPietra

From My Notebook has a Rigid Spine or How to Operate the Body in Writing

Note: This excerpt is the beginning of a talk I wrote for the Poetics of Healing, a series of lectures and panels curated by Eleni Stecopoulos with the support of the Poetry Center at San Francisco State University and The Creative Work Fun. The series included poets in the medical field as well as poets who were survivors of war or trauma. I was the only visibly disabled person in the series that year. While very grateful for the invitation to present at one of the events, I felt that the content of my talk had to focus on my ambivalence toward the idea of healing. My talk was complicated by certain facts: I was speaking alongside doctors from the teaching hospital that I was struggling to gain admittance to as a patient; the venue where the Poetics of Healing was being held was up a steep flight of stairs; and the approaching date of the talk coincided with the realization that I needed to find ways to spend less time at the computer doing my “writing” because this work exacerbates my chronic pain and physical limitations—a somatic need which, I feared, contradicted my pride at being a writer of disability poetics. At the time I wrote this talk, I was also trying too hard to figure out what kind of poet I was and what form and style I was working in.

ALIGNMENT

It has been difficult to prepare something for this series. I had intended to an essay on the word “healing,” and specifically, the way it does not quite translate to terms such a “rehabilitation,” “accommodation” and “advocacy” in the lives of person with disabilities. I had wanted to make an investigation into why “healing” sounds so much more poetic or impactful than these terms and what can be done to infuse the language of medicine with the moving efficacy of a term like “healing.” To make a new poetic pact, I had also thought to write only airy poems that contained no trace of expository physiology, but just the gestures of a kinesthetic phantom self. None of this worked out, at least not now.

A split in my process has arisen, one that is forcing my writing into a kind of fugue state. I have aligned myself with an avant-garde poetics—a realm of writing in which identity disappears, or is ejected, or is seen as aesthetically inferior or passe—at the same time, in my life, I have come to identify most strongly as a disabled person who has a set of political, professional, social, and personal concerns relevant to that disability. Writing, then, becomes a pre-emptive attempt to determine my angle of incidence. I do not act, but measure the contours of a form I might take. This measurement stems from a desire to veer as far as possible from the stock characters of triumphalist media—that form which minimizes content by capsular and spectacular headlines (“Everest Climber Has No Legs!”) or the sickly sweet odor (flowering trees glimpsed through hospital room window, the sugars in urine) of the old-fashioned “illness memoir.”

The disabled self is always a reader of his or her own body. The disabled body is a trifold pamphlet composed of medical terms, insurance jargon, social service lingo, self-help verbage, advocacy mottos, and more currently, ontological and epistemological rhetoric on the disabled everyman who will save us from post-modern burnout. By that last part, I mean the theory that since disability pervades all identity categories, it also dismantles them—that disability is socially constructed and, thus, everyone, in a sense, is disabled because we are all disabled by something. Certain disability theories formulated along these lines almost make the term “disabled” vanish and yet seem totally disconnected from the somatics of “being disabled,” from what the body feels.

Being, already, a reader of my own trifold pamphlet, I do not want to author poems or essays in which I further evanesce away with my self in favor of a poetics of abstraction that de-emphasizes agency and makes thick, if not slippery, material of language. I need, instead, to write a poetics that is porous, a membrane. A text that sucks the reader through it's many holes and vaporous areas while offering also a sampling of real tissues, body-systems, that another body can assimilate. To bring my body in—and yours. In my writing, I am in search of a transparent, mobile language that moves, even when it occludes. This speaks directly to the processes of the body. An elbow either unhinges or it doesn't, and yet there are all the increments between. Skin, the ulna and the humerus, the annular ligament, cartilage, cells, carbon. The more present the body, the more mutable the self. Though, also, the self is always becoming rarefied in this particulate instant of lengthening or contracting. How or how not. Anyone's arm, your arm, my arm. Here and there, where you read or hear this.

Excerpt taken from Beauty is a Verb: The New Poetry of Disability

[steff-02]

Aujourd’hui on part à la découverte de Table Mountain. C’est la montagne phare du Cap qui culmine à 1086m d’altitude. Il y a un très joli téléphérique qui fait la liaison avec le sommet, mais nous aujourd’hui on veut grimper jusqu’en haut !

Nous arrivons au départ du téléférique vers 10h15, et déjà il est difficile de trouver une place. Tout le monde se gare sur le bord de la route, nous faisons de même. Arrivé au point de départ de la randonnée, nous nous équipons. Crème solaire, lunette de soleil, chapeau, bâton, pull supplémentaire et veste. Et oui, il ne fait que 13 degrés, mais heureusement le soleil est au rendez vous ☀️. Après même pas un quart d’heure de marche une pause vestimentaire s’impose. Abat la veste, abat le pull. Malgré qu’il ne fait que 13 degrés avec le soleil et la marche on a beeeaucoup trop chaud. Nous arrivons à une intersection, deux options s’offrent à nous. Soit chemin facile, soit le chemin difficile où il est inscrit qu’il ne faut pas avoir le vertige. Devinez lequel on pris ?? Le difficile bien sûr ;) et effectivement ça ne rigole pas. Mais le chemin est très intéressant et varié, et les vues sur Capetown sont impressionnantes ! Arrives le moment où la randonnée se transforme en escalade. Plus de chemin mais des escaliers métalliques accroché à la pierre et des chaînes pour se hisser en haut. N’étant pas très très grand c’était pas toujours facile. Sur la route nous croisons un américain de Floride, Adam, avec qui nous partageons le reste de l’ascension. Lorsque nous arrivons en haut, wouaaah! On se rend compte de tous ce que l’on a gravit. Et la vue est spectaculaire. On part grignoter quelque chose en terrasse, et maintenant que l’effort est terminé on sent vite le froid 🥶 après avoir repris des forces et fait un tour dans la boutique souvenirs, on se prépare pour la descente. Par le chemin facile cette fois. Chemin facile mais sportif quand même. On sent que nos jambes sont fatiguées et en plus le chemin est assez redondant. On fait des zigzags presque toute la descente. J’ai préféré faire plus d’effort pour la montée mais au moins la route était divertissante 😂. Au détour d’un contour on voit enfin l’arrivée, la station du téléphérique, et clairement, à ce moment là, on veut juste arriver à la voiture. Après plus de 5h30 de marche, enfin on y est 🎉 et on est trop fier de nous !

Avec tout ça on a gentiment de nouveau faim alors on se rend en bord de mer pour trouver de quoi manger. C’est super chouette ce quartier, et très touristique aussi. Il y a, sur une place, un groupe de jeune qui chantent et dansent, ils mettent une de ces ambiances ! 😍 on a trouvé un chouette restaurant où la spécialité était le poisson, on a plutôt bien mangé ;) ensuite on est vite rentré à l’hôtel parce qu’on est crevé et on rêve d’une bonne nuit !

[a-room-of-my-own]

Dans mes recommandations Tomblère ce matin figuraient des blogs consacrés à la version française de la célèbre émission de télé-réalité américaine mettant en lice des drag-queens. Je ne suis qu'une faible femme, j'ai passé environ une heure à me promener parmi les images et les .gifsets colorés et tout pleins de paillettes, à admirer les costumes extravagants et le maquillage élaboré — et puis j'ai cogité un peu en prêtant plus d'attention aux discours des participants comme à celui de ceux qui se passionnent pour l'émission.

Je ne sais toujours pas ce que je pense de l'art du drag en tant que tel, très franchement. J'ai toujours eu de l'intérêt pour l'idée qu'un homme joue des codes de la féminité la plus artificielle en troublant le regard de la société sur ce qui constitue la nature de la féminité même ; et quand je parle de la société je pense surtout aux hommes, mais pas seulement, dans la mesure où l'affectation et le surmaquillage ont fait un retour en force dans certains cercles cependant que s'éloignaient les aspects les plus fondamentaux de la féminité, ceux qui font que les femmes sont prises en mauvaise part dans encore trop de sociétés. Bref.

https://youtu.be/CjvKtCfz0mk

J'aimerais lancer une discussion dans ces parages à ce sujet parce que je ne cesse de m'interroger non seulement sur la nature et les implications du drag mais aussi sur les réactions, positives et négatives, du public face au mouvement. Je voudrais sonder les cœurs du Carré Français de Tumblr sur la question mais je crains que tout questionnement ne provoque de hauts cris... J'ai l'impression que le drag, en réalité, sous l'égide du récent mouvement transidentitaire, a changé.

J'avais très honnêtement rien contre le drag tant que c'était une subculture lié aux mouvements gays. De la même façon que je n'avais rien contre la théorie queer quand elle aussi était une micro niche pas du tout destinée à être appliquée à la société toute entière.

Le drag a une fonction cathartique pour des hommes qui ne peuvent pas exprimer leur féminité - des comportements associés à la féminité plutôt - en public. C'est aussi un retournement du stigmate : vous m'avez humilié en me traitant de femme (en m'associant au féminin) donc je vais être féminin de la manière la plus exubérante possible, et la plus caricaturale. Donc évidemment que le drag joue sur les stéréotypes misogynes, le but n'étant pas d'incarner des femmes mais des caricatures de femmes telles qu'elles sont vues par des hommes sexistes. C'est aussi une manière d'exprimer certaines choses à travers cette féminité surjouée: l'envie de séduire ouvertement les hommes, d'être courtisé, etc...

Dans cette idée là, le drag a sa place en tant que performance dans un contexte bien particulier. En revanche quand il passe dans la culture populaire en tant que divertissement, il perd son côté subversif et cathartique et devient tout simplement misogyne. D'autant plus comme tu dis avec l'activisme trans qui a simplifié à mort l'idée du genre en tant que performance. On a finalement des hommes qui viennent montrer qu'ils sont des "surfemmes".

L'influence se sent déjà rien que dans le maquillage : le contouring par exemple est du maquillage de scène, très utilisé justement par les drag queens pour imiter les traits féminins. D'ailleurs dans la mode 'populaire' des influenceuses, tu as une drag-ification avec des corsets, du contouring, des implants fessiers etc...

Et à l'opposé en haute couture c'est la négation totale du féminin, avec des femmes adultes qu'on affame et transforme en adolescents malingres.

[mothervonmayhem]

Battle of the Bands

▁ ▂ ▃ ▄ ▅ ▆ █▓▒░〈🎸🕷♪🕷♬🕷♪🎤〉░▒▓█ ▇ ▅ ▃ ▂ ▁

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

🕷Notable Characters: Hobie, Miguel, Gabriel, Gwen and 1st person pov OC / MC

🎸Premise: AU! The summer before college MC, Gabriel O'Hara, and Miguel O'Hara go on an international road trip with their metal band, Neon Requiem.  Destination?  BandFest, the Battle of the Bands in London guaranteed to secure the winning band a record deal.  They meet other ATSV characters along the way. 

🕷WC: 0:00 ————|——— -3,000 ↻ ◁ II ▷

🎤A/N: New Adult magical realism AU (obvi) brain worm that has grown from a 2-shot screenplay for some fun comics into a monster.  This fic is like Tremors in my brain.

───────────── {.⋅🕷 ♫ 🕷 ⋅.} ───────────────  

 ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : << Chapter 1 >> “Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l’oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire” 

The Rusty Nail's neon whir and raucous rhythms had been muted to a melancholy hum that evening, it was a ghost town, the emptiness of the dimly lit bar echoing with decades of unfulfilled longings. I nursed my drink, letting the smoky burn of liquor etch contours of quiet contemplation onto my throat as I surveyed the handful of kindred souls keeping solemn vigil. Life had been feeling heavy, and I needed to write, to make art, and to get lost in music.

At the far end of the bar hunched a beautiful wraith, his slim, angular frame sheathed in torn denim and studded leather. Something indefinable shimmered around him, unsung poetry, snippets of melodies, a symphony I could see and hear and almost touch. Drawn like a moth to the lambent glow of the music, I slid onto the stool beside the ethereal punk spectre. In my mind's eye, I crowned him the prince of punk, a fairy tale rebel.

Our bodies brushed intimately in the cramped space, raising ghosts of sensation along the exposed skin of my fishnets. "Wozzat, luv?" he murmured, kohl-rimmed eyes flickering over the point of contact with a soldering heat.

Mon dieu, {My God} Had I spoken my admiration aloud? A flush crept up my cheeks as I scrambled for a response.

"Désolé. Je répétais quelque chose pour ne pas l'oublier… Need to write it down before I lose it," {Sorry. I was repeating something so I wouldn't forget it…} I mumbled, a flimsy excuse for my wandering mind.

Fumbling through my bag, I pulled out my tattered notebook, fingers trembling as I scribbled down a scrap of verse inspired by the punk's incandescent presence beside me. I scribbled my observations in hasty strokes. The dying light of day bled into night, a liminal space that begged for a soundtrack. I could almost hear it, a melody just out of reach, shimmering in the smoky air.

"The liminal light of late afternoon, yawning into early evening…" I muttered, pulling on the strings of the melody, trying to draw it back to me. "I don't want to be loved for the things that I don't do. I don't want to be just a pretty face, I want to be a work of art…We are all just works of art."

The jukebox fell silent, making my mutterings around sift and strange, slightly unhinged---but the punk prince remained---his gaze heavy on my skin. I met his stare, unflinching. Unabashed curiosity flickered in eyes, wide brown and doe-like, framed by lashes so lush they seemed to blur the line between masculine and feminine, earthly and ethereal. I found myself dizzied by warring impulses - to flee this unsettling intimacy, or be consumed by it wholly.

He was a changeling, gorgeously androgynous: part punk Mona Lisa with a Cheshire cat grin, part Jean-Michel Baptiste, part force-of-fucking-nature. He made me feel like a background character in his story, could be a punk fairy princess, and I would be the dragon.

My thoughts raced, fragments of poetry and half-formed desires. I scribbled faster, chasing the threads of inspiration, but a nudge from my prince brought me back to earth.

Snatches of poetry, raw and unfinished, that I urgently longed to refine on the page before they dissipated like the last wisps of smoke in a spent ashtray. But the punk's aura dragged me too deeply into devotional reverie. I glanced up apologetically as my concentration scattered, the thread of inspiration slipping through my fingers once more.

The bartender had sprouted up directly in front of me, and she eyed me expectantly. Her hair was a shock of blue curls and silver streaks shorn close to her scalp, it made her eyes seem more gray. Her skin etched with lines that mapped out the years like a roadmap. I felt the familiar pang of a poem lost to the ether.

"Un…Jack Daniel's, s'il vous plaît," {A…Jack Daniel's, please} I said, no longer able to filter its lilt from my words, as I wasn't paying attention to dulling it.

"Blimey, that's a proper choice, innit? You 'ere for the battle of the bands event this week, love?"

"Oui, how did you know?" {Yes, how did you know?}

"Just a…sense," he demurred with a wicked grin. "Call it a punk's intuition, darling. I'm in the mix too, y'know."

The bartender chuckled as she set my drink down. "You mean because everyone is here for Bandfest? Don't listen to this one, lovey, he's incorrigible. The crowds will be in later on, but you're a bit early."

"Shh, Roz. Who's up tonight?" The prince asked, a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Oh, you want insider information? What's in it for me?"

"Givin' away free tattoos, could autograph yer arm, love."

"I'll pass, thanks. The brackets are up in an hour anyway. It's Night Terrors vs. Death Rapture, Blood Prophecy vs. Cherry Bomb, Spider Punks vs. Neon Requiem…"

"Why are the punk bands going up against the metal bands?" I asked, just as the prince inquired about Phantom Pulse.

"There wasn't a lot of quality competition this year, or that's what the sponsors said, so they automatically advance to the semifinals since they won last year."

"Bollocks!" The prince cried, his outrage palpable.

"Oi Punk, you don't want to sign with Vic Luna at Zenith Music Group, anyway."

"Tu…ne le fais pas? Mais pourquoi?" {You…don't? But why?} The words tumbled out, my curiosity getting the better of me. At her blank stare, I repeated the question in English, heat rising to my cheeks.

Roz leaned in, her voice low, "Look kid, it's complicated…"

The prince rolled his eyes, a sneer playing at his lips. "Betrayed a lot of good bands."

"You don't need to remind me, Punk, I lived through it.  Despite the changes at Zenith Music Group, they still organize the annual Bandfest, which showcases both established and emerging talent in the punk and metal scenes. The event is highly respected within the community and provides a platform for bands to gain exposure and connect with fans," the bartender continued, her words stilted, rehearsed.

"Ay, and they are the sponsor bringing in your crowds." The prince's voice was sharp, laced with an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"The only time we're out of the red, punkass. We'd have to shut down if it weren't for the Battle." She said heavily, "Which is the greater evil, we are a place of refuge for several members of the community, not just you."

"You don't need to remind me Roz, I'm living through it.  Right, I'll stop ragging on the corporate sods for now, until you have some plausible deniability." He raised his hands in mock surrender, a bitter laugh escaping his lips.

"There's a good Punk." Roz smiled, sliding him another pint before retreating.

I made a mental note to warn my bandmates about Vic and Zenith's sordid history. We were in this for the music, not the money, no one played metal for the money--but it never hurt to be cautious.

"Roz is like the den mother of the London punk scene, a living testament to grit and resilience, and screaming yourself hoarse at basement shows. Dream t'be like her when I grow up. To listen without judgment, offer advice without preaching, and know when to slide a shot of whiskey across the bar and when to cut you off. She has a way of looking at you, really seeing you, like you matter… like you are more than just another face in the crowd." His voice trails off, heavy with emotion. He blinks and shakes it off. 

"Can I see it?" The prince's voice cut through our lost thoughts, his fingers reaching for my notebook.

I clutched it to my chest, a knee-jerk reaction. "Can you look into my very soul, like Roz?"

His smirk widened, that Cheshire cat grin that set my heart racing. He nodded, a challenge in his eyes.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he purred, and I felt my stomach flip. I repeated the phrase in my mind, first in French, then in English, just to be sure I'd heard him right. Wasn't this some flirty idiom?

"You have a book of poetry somewhere hidden in those skinny jeans, mon ami?" {my friend?} I ask, hesitant, double-checking his meaning. He flirts like others breathe.

In lieu of an answer, he produced a sharpie from thin air. Before I could protest, he had my arm in his grasp, his touch electric against my skin. I shrugged off my leather jacket, baring my arms to his ink-stained fingers. Roz chuckled as she set another drink before me, clearly amused by the prince's antics.

"You'll need it…I see you took this wanker up on the free tattoo offer. Don't let him draw any on your arms."

"Any? …Any what?"

"Wankers," she clarified with a laugh. It clarifies nothing, I need to study my British slang.

"I would not mar the flesh of such a beautiful and willing participant, Roz. Kindly fuck off," the prince mumbled around the sharpie cap clenched between his teeth.

Between the verses he scrawled, he peppered me with questions, his voice a giddy whisper.

"So, who's your poison, love? Which bands get your motor runnin'?"

"Ah, j'adore Rammstein, Gojira, et bien sûr, Motörhead. And so many others, doesn't even scratch the surface. Et toi?" {Ah, I love Rammstein... And you?}

"Proper choices, those. For me, it's the classics - Sex Pistols, The Clash, Buzzcocks. Real raw, in-your-face stuff, y'know?"

I leaned in, excited, but too close. I nearly jumped as my lips grazed the dusky shell of his ear. "Ah, un homme de bon goût! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, c'était incroyable!" {Ah, a man of good taste! I've seen the Buzzcocks live, you know. Pure chaos, it was incredible!}

"No bleedin' way! Metal chick like you? I'd give me left bollock to have seen the Sex Pistols live. But I did catch The Clash back in '07. Changed me life, it did."

"Lemmy, sans aucun doute. The man's a legend!" {Lemmy, without a doubt.} I declare into the bar.

"Oi, don't go disrespectin' Johnny, now! The bloke's a punk icon, 'e is!"

"You're a punk icon!" someone shouted from the back, but the prince waved them off with a grin.

"Oh, I didn't catch your name," I said, with a sudden shame, my brow furrowed.

"Everyone just calls me Punk. You can too. Just not dirty punk, we don't want to come to blows, do we, love?"

"I'd kick your ass, mon ami. Pas grand chose à donner, mon petit prince des fées… eh mon prince dégingandé, right? I would not describe you as petite even if you are skinny." {I'd kick your ass, my friend. Not much to give, my little fairy prince… eh my lanky prince, right?}

Miguel was at my side in an instant, all rippling muscle and furrowed consternation. "Carnalita, {little sis} why did you sneak out on practice just to drink in this hellhole?" he rumbled, disapproval lacing every sonorous word. Tenderness faded a bit.

I met his gruff chiding with an insouciant toss of my hair. "Salut, Miguel. Ça fait longtemps." {Hello, Miguel. It's been a while.}

"Is that Jack? No puedo mas… Carnalita…This shit is bad for you." {I can't take it anymore…little sis...}

"Je nais etre rond comme une queue de pelle. Tu es vraiment un trou de balle quand tu dis des choses pareilles!" {I would be round as a shovel handle. (Idiom, essentially she is saying ~ I was born to be drunk) You are really a dumbass when you say things like that!}

Miguel's grumbling stream of Spanish reprimands washed over me as I settled into our familiar dynamic - the tender yet terse cantata of friend and protector that had composed them score of our relationship since childhood. For all his bluster, I knew every arrhythmic cadence encoded Miguel's steadfast affection.

Only Gabriel's soft interjection could salve the rising discord. "You worry too much, Miggy. We've been practicing all week."

He cast me a plaintive glance, silently pleading for conciliation, and I grudgingly obliged with an internal eyeroll. "Qu'il aille se faire! C'est vraiment chiant tu te rends compte." {Let him go fuck himself! It's really annoying, you know.}

Heedless of my saucy french asides, Miguel merely drew a fortifying breath before continuing in that maddening timbre of unrelenting reason. "Gabri and I could have come out with you. You shouldn't go out alone in an unknown city - it's not safe for you, mi carnalita."

The prince leaned towards us with a lazy smirk, "S'not that serious. The Rusty Nail is safe enough." He paused as the bartender snorted in agreement before continuing, "We're keeping the lady safe, mate…you can trust me, I'm one of the Spider-Punks."

Miguel simply sneered at the prince's proffered handshake, dismissing it out of hand. "You have arms like sticks. How would you keep her safe?"

The punk's smirk widened as he shrugged. "Ah, one of those. Never skip leg day, eh bruv?"

I strangled a guffaw as Gabriel hastened to run interference, engulfing the punk's hand eagerly. "We've heard of you guys, the local punk band, yeah? Your drummer is…gahh…Ah-Mazing! You think we could meet?"

"You call that punk noise "rock"?" Miguel scoffed. "Metal is where the real skill lies…Real talent is in the complexity, the technical skill. Metal pushes boundaries, takes you to new places. Punk's just three chords and an attitude."

I rolled my eyes. At this rate, I'd have to drag Miguel out before he started a brawl.

"Ah, mais non, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, non?" {Ah, but no, Miggy. There's art in simplicity too. Punk, metal, it's all about the energy, the message, right?}

Miguel grunted, but squeezed my hand.

I stood, motioning for him to lean in close. "Allez, let's save the competition for the stage, d'accord? I learned some things about the record company. We should talk in private." {Come on, let's save the competition for the stage, okay?}

The prince unfolded himself, towering over me. "Tell you what, mate. Let's settle this on stage. We'll let the crowd decide who's got the real chops," he challenged.

Gabriel chimed in, "Pero, mana's right, Miguel." {But, sister is right, Miguel.}

Miguel looked ready to explode, but Gabriel's eyes held him in check.

"Music's music. Let's just focus on putting on a good show, and maybe we can learn something from their band, eh?" Gabriel said.

The prince leaned in, lips grazing my cheek. "Aye, love. Can't wait to teach your wall of meat here a thing or two. How about we give 'em a show they won't forget…later?"

I grinned, "Oui! A collaboration? Here… Ça ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard…mais, pour vous. I want it back later." {Yes! A collaboration? Here…It doesn't break three duck legs (Idiom ~ It's nothing special) …but, for you. I want it back later.}

The lanky punk sauntered off, his studded boots leaving faint trails of glitter on the barroom floor. Miguel's scowl deepened as he watched him depart, fists clenched tightly.

"Is that your poetry notebook?" he growled, voice rumbling low.

"Yes, I traded it to the punk faerie for these tattoos, I smirked, revealing the vine-like scrawl of ink now adorning my flesh like raised scars from whipping brambles.

Miguel's face darkened further, storm clouds gathering at my words. "The one you never let anyone touch or read…"

His voice strangled to a whisper, and I could not parse the complex calculus of emotions flitting behind his eyes

Gabriel placed a calming hand on his brother's arm.

"Easy, hermano {brother}. He's not worth it," Gabriel said in a soothing tone.

"Be nice, Punk is a good guy. I like him," I countered softly, a warm glow blossomed within me as I realized my entire arm was now a crawling garden of sentences entirely in French.

Miguel opened his mouth, undoubtedly to unleash a heated retort, but Gabriel cut in, "Should we go look at the brackets to see who we're facing?"

"It looks like my entire arm is covered with quotes from The Little Prince, which happens to be my favorite book. It's actually quite a sweet gesture," I said softly, fingertips grazing the raised words like treasured runes.

With renewed curiosity, I examined the ink quote now etched on my skin: "Vous êtes maître de votre vie et de vos émotions, ne l'oubliez jamais. Pour le meilleur et pour le pire." {You are the master of your life and your emotions, never forget that. For better or worse.}

I didn't mention the lone scrawl that could have been a phone number hidden amidst the literary foliage now vining my limb. Miguel was in full-on Dad mode, and I didn't need to add fuel to that particular fire.

"I already know the competition for the quarterfinals, we don't need to waste our time. Come on, manos {used as slang for brother}, we're going to kick some ass!" I giggled brightly, elated at my new 'tattoos' scrawling up my arms. I didn't put my leather jacket back on, I didn't want to cover any of it up.

Miguel's glare never wavered, his eyes fixed on the far side of the bar where the prince had disappeared into the crowd. "Don't tempt me. Let's go, carnalita {little sister}, time for practice."

With a resigned sigh, I surrendered to my brothers' insistent tugs, allowing them to lead me from the Rusty Nail. But the punk prince's parting words still reverberated through my mind like the lingering notes of a siren song. Later, he had purred, that single hushed syllable seeming to contain all the intoxicating lure of a siren's call - equal parts velvet promise and brazen challenge, twined inextricably into an enchantment I could not resist. The whole damn bar was a sailor's nightmare.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

[detectivehole]

Tortuga (Haiti)

Tortuga Island[1][2] (French: Île de la Tortue, IPA: [il də la tɔʁty]; Haitian Creole: Latòti; Spanish: Isla Tortuga, IPA: [ˈisla torˈtuɣa], Turtle Island) is a Caribbean island that forms part of Haiti, off the northwest coast of Hispaniola. It constitutes the commune of Île de la Tortue in the Port-de-Paix arrondissement of the Nord-Ouest department of Haiti.

Tortuga is 180 square kilometres (69 square miles)[3] in size and had a population of 25,936 at the 2003 census. In the 17th century, Tortuga was a major center and haven of Caribbean piracy. Its tourist industry and references in many works have made it one of the most recognized regions of Haiti.

HISTORY

The first Europeans to land on Tortuga were the Spanish in 1492 during the first voyage of Christopher Columbus into the New World. On December 6, 1492, three Spanish ships entered the Windward Passage that separates Cuba and Haiti. At sunrise, Columbus noticed an island whose contours emerged from the morning mist. Because the shape reminded him of a turtle's shell, he chose the name of Tortuga.[4][5][6]

Tortuga was originally settled by a few Spanish colonists under the Captaincy General of Santo Domingo. In 1625, French and English colonists from Saint Kitts arrived on the island of Tortuga after initially planning to settle on mainland Hispaniola.[7] The French and English settlers were attacked in 1629 by the Spanish commanded by Don Fadrique de Toledo, who fortified the island, and expelled the French and English. As most of the Spanish Army left for Hispaniola to root out French colonists there, the French returned in 1630 to occupy the fort and expanded the Spanish-built fortifications.

From 1630 onward, the island of Tortuga was divided into French and English colonies, allowing buccaneers to use the island as their main base of operations. In 1633, the first slaves were imported from Africa to aid in the plantations. However, by 1635 the use of slaves had ended. The slaves were said to be out of control on the island, while at the same time there had been continuous disagreements and fighting between French and English colonies.

In 1635, Spain recaptured Tortuga from the English and French, expelled them and left. As they soon returned, Spain conquered the English and French colonies for a second time, only to leave again because the island was too small to be of major importance. This allowed the return of both French and English pirates. In 1638, the Spanish returned for a third time to take the island and rid it of all French and the newly settled Dutch. They occupied the island, but were expelled by the French and Dutch colonists in 1640, at which time the French built Fort de Rocher in a natural harbour; the fort enabled the French to defeat a Spanish invasion force the following year.

By 1640, the buccaneers of Tortuga were calling themselves the Brethren of the Coast. The pirate population was mostly made up of French and Englishmen, along with a small number of Dutchmen. In 1654, the Spanish captured the island for the fourth and last time.[8]

In 1655, Tortuga was reoccupied by English and French interlopers under Elias Watts, who secured a commission from Col. William Brayne, acting as military Governor on Jamaica, to serve as "Governor" of Tortuga. In 1660, England appointed a Frenchman Jeremie Dechamps as Governor who proclaimed suzerainty to the King of France, set up French colours, and defeated several English attempts to reclaim the island.[9] In 1664, a French governor brought 400 French colonists for the island from his home province of Anjou, who established Hispaniola's first sugar plantations since the first wave of European colonization. This group of colonists spread to the coast of the mainland and became the nexus of the French colony of Saint-Domingue.[7]

By 1670, the buccaneer era was in decline, and many of the pirates turned to log cutting and wood trading as a new income source. At this time, a Welsh privateer named Henry Morgan started to promote himself and invited the pirates on the island of Tortuga to set sail under him. They were hired by the French as a striking force that allowed France to have a much stronger hold on the Caribbean region. Consequently, the pirates never really controlled the island and kept Tortuga as a neutral hideout for pirate booty.

In 1680, new Acts of Parliament forbade sailing under foreign flags (in opposition to former practice). This was a major legal blow to the Caribbean pirates. Settlements were made in the Treaty of Ratisbon of 1684, signed by the European powers, that put an end to piracy. Most of the pirates after this time were hired out into the Royal services to suppress their former buccaneer allies. The capital of Saint-Domingue was moved from Tortuga to Port-de-Paix on the mainland of Hispaniola in 1676.

GEOGRAPHY

The island of Tortuga stands off the northern coast of Haiti. It is very mountainous and rocky; the rocks are especially abundant on the northern part of the island. At the beginning of the 17th century, the population lived on the southern coast of the island, where there was a port for ships to enter. The northern shore was described as inaccessible via both land and sea.

The inhabited area was divided into four parts; the first of these was called "Low Land" or "Low Country". This region contained the island's port and was therefore considered the most important. The town was called Cayona, and the richest planters of the island lived there. The second region was called the "Middle Plantation"; the farmers of this region were unfamiliar with the soil and it was only used to grow tobacco. The third part was named "La Ringot", and was positioned on the western portion of the island. The fourth region was called the "La Montagne" (the Mountain); it is there that the first cultivated plantations were established upon the island.

This 17th century geography is known largely from Alexandre-Olivier Exquemelin's detailed description in his book Zeerovers,[12] where he describes a 1666 journey to the island.

IN POPULAR CULTURE 

Tortuga has been portrayed in many works depicting piracy in the Caribbean in the 17th and 18th centuries.

Films

Tortuga has been featured in numerous films, including

Safe in Hell (1931)

Captain Blood (1935)

The Black Swan (1942)

The Spanish Main (1945)

Double Crossbones (1950)

Abbott and Costello Meet Captain Kidd (1952)

Pirates of Tortuga (1961)

Pirates of the Caribbean films

Literature

Books featuring the island include:

Deadmen Walking: A Deadman's Cross Novel (2017) by Sherrilyn Kenyon

Tortuga by Valerio Evangelisti

Caribbean (1989) by James Michener

The Black Swan (1932) by Rafael Sabatini

The Black Corsair series of novels by Emilio Salgari (1898-1908)

The Black Avenger of the Spanish Main (1847) by Ned Buntline

The Dark Secret of Josephine (1955) by Dennis Wheatley

1637: No Peace Beyond the Line (November 2020) by Eric Flint and Charles E. Gannon

Music

Tortuga is mentioned in multiple songs, including:

"Jonas Psalter" (1973) by the rock band Styx

"Tortuga Bay" (1989) by German heavy metal band Running Wild

"Tortuga" (2006) by Italian Ska band Talco

"Jack Sparrow" by The Lonely Island featuring Michael Bolton

"Tortuga" (2011) by Welsh band Catfish and the Bottlemen

"Welcome to Tortuga" (2012) by Swedish Pirate Folk band Ye Banished Privateers

"Tortuga" (2014) by the space rock band Earthling Society

"Tortuga" (2020) and "Return to Tortuga" (2022) by the Scottish Pirate Metal Band Alestorm

"Turtle Island" (2002) by Mike Oldfield

Rafael Sabatini's works

Captain Blood

Tortuga is featured in Rafael Sabatini's Captain Blood series and the movies based on it; the most famous is Captain Blood (1935) starring Errol Flynn. It is the place where Blood and his crew find refuge after their escape from Barbados in 1685. Blood receives a Letter of Marque from Tortuga's governor, D'Ogeron, and the island becomes his main base for the next four years. He starts his raids from Cayona, and several events in the books take place on Tortuga itself or on ships anchoring in the harbour of Cayona.

Sabatini used Exquemelin's History of the Bouccaneers of America as a main source for his description of Tortuga, and therefore the island is portrayed as a place where many buccaneers, prostitutes, and other dubious professions operate, but the French West India Company, which rules Tortuga, makes profit off of those affairs.

The Black Swan

Tortuga also features in Sabatini's novel The Black Swan and the 1942 movie based on it.[13]

NOTABLE PEOPLE

Gabard Fénélon, professional football player

Hugues Gentillon, film director, and founder of Yugy Pictures Entertainment