#Spray de camera

[drivestraight]

wildcard!!! I know that you are more focused on writing works centering max, lando and oscar. I wonder if there is any chance you will write about lestappen again in near future. I just love your lestappen works so much and I'm sorry if this question makes you feel uncomfortable 🥺🥺

from here

near future no, but here’s about 5k of my abandoned (little brother of the) prince of monaco charles x driver max wip ❤️ as a gift

The Guardian is first in the round of interviews. A woman named Marie sits across from the sofa, beside cameras, light panels, and mics.

“To start,” Marie says, donning a sympathetic smile. Max struggles to take her at face value. “I want to acknowledge that I’m sure this isn’t how either of you would have liked your relationship to come out. How are you two doing?”

Max tries his hardest to keep a neutral expression. He scowled his way through the hours of media prep yesterday and got scolded each time.

He shifts on the sofa. For a couch made for royalty, it is not very comfortable.

Of course, it comes much easier to Charles, who returns a warm smile. He keeps his eyes on Marie, but places a hand on Max’s thigh, to comfort him. God, everyone’s going to love this, aren’t they?

Horribly, the physicality does help. Max takes a deep breath.

“You’re right,” Charles responds. “It is not at all ideal, but we are thankful for all of the grace that has been extended to us these past few days.”

Max purses his mouth.

Marie glances at him, waiting for agreement. Instead, Max busies himself with studying the details of the room they’re in. The Salle Des Gardes: cobalt walls, beautiful flower bouquets, and centuries-old portraits framed with gold. It’s so beautiful it makes Max uncomfortable.

At his silence, Marie moves on, smiles, and says, “Well, it’s great to have you both here.”

“Yes,” Charles says, “it is. Right Max?” he probes, squeezing Max’s thigh.

Somehow, Max manages not to glare. He clears his throat and manages to hum in concurrence.

“So,” Marie says, “I guess we can start from the beginning. I’m sure everyone would like to know how you two met.”

Max is grateful at how quickly Charles jumps to respond, “I have been a big fan of F1 ever since I was a child,” he replies, “but I did not meet Max personally until the Monaco Grand Prix in 2021.”

“On the podium?”

It was collateral damage, really, Max’s champagne spray getting all over Charles during the celebration. Max hadn’t even known, until Charles told him many months later.

Charles nods. “Yes, on the podium. A little after the race, he was invited to dine with my family, as the winners always are, and we… liked each other. We got on very well that night.”

Yes, Max thinks. We talked, we ate, we drank, we got into a huge fight about Ferrari, we got kicked out of the venue hall, then we hooked up in the toilets upstairs.

Sure, they got on well that night.

“We started seeing each other quite a bit, after,” Charles finishes.

They saved each other’s numbers, and every now and then, between Max’s races and between Charles’ royal obligations, they’d meet up in Monaco.

“Who asked who out?”

Charles turns his head and looks at Max, expectantly.

Max glares, but Charles only lifts a brow, unwavering. “I did, I guess,” Max concedes, trying not to roll his eyes at the way Charles glows, dimples pressed deep into his cheeks.

In a way it’s true. Max had been the one to shove Charles up against a wall and kiss him, drunkenly and furiously.

For the next two years, it was easy, despite who they were, perhaps because of who they were. They were on the same page about what it was they had: purely an arrangement of convenience. Entirely physical, no-strings attached. They’d meet in Max’s flat, maybe have a drink and talk about the most recent race, and get to it. After, Max would let Charles use his shower, then Charles would leave. Not once would Charles ever sleep over.

Still, they were exclusive, in a way. Max found something good, something safe, something easy, with someone who was on the same page as him. They were physically compatible. They wanted the same things from each other. Max didn’t see a need to look elsewhere, and neither did Charles.

Max had no interest in making it any more than it was. Neither did Charles.

For two years, it was simple like that. Max bribed his doorman, and Charles swore his security detail to secrecy. Charles hadn’t told anyone about Max. Max hadn’t told anyone about Charles. No one needed to know. What was there to tell? The F1 world champion and the Prince of Monaco’s little brother were friends with benefits? They were barely friends.

“Yeah?” Marie asks, looking surprised. “What was it about Charles that interested you?”

Charles’ expression is rapt and curious, his focus singularly on Max now.

Well, Max thinks. If they want him to speak from his heart, that’s what he’ll do.

“Of course,” Max says, smiling for the first time since the news broke, “it was not his personality.”

Marie laughs, amused. Charles makes an unbecoming noise, his entire face scrunching up.

“Max!” he squawks, outraged.

“What?” Max asks innocently, tipping his head to the side. He is starting to have a little fun. He finds Charles’ hand on his thigh, lays his over his knuckles, his thumb brushing at his wrist. “I thought we were of course wanting to be honest today. Your personality is not the first thing people notice about you.”

Annoyed, Charles purses his lips. “And what is?”

Max hums in faux contemplation. “Your face, of course.”

Charles’ brows knit together. Max relishes in the fact that Charles is the one on his toes this time. “You only like me for my face?”

Rolling his eyes, Max says, “It is the only good part about you.”

Charles squints, licks his lips, and levels Max with a look. Max knows that look: he is thinking, planning. 

It is pin-drop silent for a short moment. Suddenly, the room feels very small.

Charles leans in closer, marginally, but enough that Max’s breath hitches, and slides his hand higher up, his fingers firm against the inside of Max’s thigh. “Really? None of the other parts you like?” 

Max lets his eyes wander: from the mole on Charles’ cheek to the one on his neck, from the dip of his Cupid’s bow to the stubble on his chin. It is distracting and it is unfair, how beautiful Charles is.

“Really,” Max says, gaze returning to Charles’ eyes. He will hold his ground, even if he doesn’t mean it. “None of it.”

/

Thirty minutes later, Marie and all the cameramen leave. They are given half an hour in private to rest before their next interview. Le Parisien this time. At least then, he thinks, they’ll be more significantly more interested in Charles than they will be for him.

Even though they’re technically free now, the palace made it clear that they are not to leave this room until they’ve finished the last interview.

Once the doors shut and they are alone, Charles turns and glares at him.

Since the news broke yesterday morning, this is the first time they’ve truly been alone.

“Your team will not be happy with that. You saying you like me only for my face.”

Of course that’s what Charles will take from the interview. After Marie asked all her questions about the genesis of their relationship, her questions pivoted to Max, about what it means for him to be the first openly gay Formula 1 driver in decades.

Each time he was asked a question, Charles squeezed his knee, running circles with his thumb. 

Max hadn’t met with his PR team beforehand—Monaco’s royalty took priority, monopolized him and all of yesterday. He had no idea what Red Bull wanted him to say, what the optics were, so he spoke from the heart.

His answers were simple: it means nothing to him. It means nothing to what he has achieved. He never wanted to be an inspiration. An icon. An idol. If he is, then he is, but that was never his intention, that was never his goal.

Nothing changes.

“Obviously, I was joking,” Max mumbles, standing up and pacing around in front of the sofa. There’s a whole table filled with refreshments, and Max is hungry—he’s always hungry—but the season is in full swing, and he needs to keep his weight down. He wishes they had Red Bull or something, but they only have tea and coffee. He settles for shoving his hands into the dress slacks he was forced into, pressing the tip of his Oxford shoe against the border of the carpet. “And I do not think your team will be very happy with you feeling me up on camera.”

Charles huffs. He crosses his arms over his chest, defensively. “I had to make it seem like we like each other, after what you said.”

Max scoffs and sits back down on the couch, toying with the seam of the green plush pillow beside him. “I think everyone is pretty convinced that we like each other,” he mutters, and then, mortifyingly, his stomach growls. Loudly. It’s the afternoon now, and he hasn’t eaten since breakfast.

And Charles stands all of a sudden. Max watches, confused, as Charles makes a beeline to the table of refreshments, shoes clacking against the hardwood until he reaches carpet. There is a way about how Charles moves, magnetic to the eyes. He grabs a small scone, then heads back to Max.

Closer and closer, until he’s settled between Max’s spread thighs, towering over him.

Bossily, he shoves the scone in front of Max’s face. “Eat. We have a long day.”

Max sighs. He’s explained this to Charles before, his diet. “Charles,” he says, hoping that’s enough, not wanting to give the whole spiel again.

“It is a royal order,” Charles says seriously. He presses the scone against Max’s mouth.

Max angles his head away. “I am Dutch, if you didn’t know.”

“You live in Monaco,” Charles insists, “and I am the Prince.”

Max snorts. “You are the little brother of the Prince.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Charles sighs and places his hand on Max’s cheek, leveling Max with a look, that same one from before. His palm is soft, smooth, but his thumb is firm where it presses against the seam of Max’s lips, coaxing his mouth open. The ball drops; the rally ends. At the end of the day, Max is starving. He cuts his losses and bites, gaze fixed on Charles as he chews on the stupid scone. Once he’s swallowed, he expects Charles to let up, but Charles raises a brow, pressing the scone against Max’s lips again. Max groans, understanding, and takes another bite, and another, and just as he’s about to finish the scone, Charles quickly pulls it back, and eats the last bite himself.

Max rolls his eyes. Of course. Charles giggles, and wipes off a crumb from the corner of Max’s lip. Even when Max’s face is clean, Charles keeps his hand on Max’s cheek, smoothing out his frown.

They linger like this for a few moments, and Max feels the anxiety leftover from the interview start to dissipate, his shoulders laxing.

“I know you did not want this,” Charles says quietly. “I did not want it either.” Max swallows, his chest feeling tight. “But it’s like this, and we have to do it together. If it is to work, we have to make it look real.”

“I know,” Max says, starting to feel bad. Charles got fucked over with all of this too. Today, Charles is more calm, more—present, than he was yesterday, a quiet wreck in the briefing. His mental resiliance really is something. He places a hand on Charles’ waist, pulling him in closer. “I was of course there in the briefings.”

Charles pokes harshly at Max’s cheek, like he is trying to sculpt an artificial dimple. “I do not think you were listening.”

Max closes his thighs around Charles’ legs. He is very warm, and they have half an hour before the next interview. Hm. They might as well spend it wisely.

“Can you read my mind now? Is that another one of Prince Charles’ royal powers?”

Before Charles can respond, Max tightens his grip on his waist, before sliding his hand lower, to grab at Charles’ ass. Charles’ eyes widen, his mouth parts in surprise, and he sucks in a gasp.

“Max,” he whispers, blushing a soft pink. His hand drops to Max’s shoulder to steady himself.

“We of course have time,” Max points out, bringing his other hand to Charles’ other cheek, tugging him closer through the fabric of his slacks. “And we have a long day.”

It’s been months since the last time they did this. Not since before winter testing.

Max only now realizes how much he’s missed it.

“Not here,” Charles mumbles shyly, looking around, as if there’s anyone else here. Despite his protests, he doesn’t make any effort to fight Max’s hold.

Maybe, Max thinks, Charles misses it too.

“Why not?” Max asks. “Do you not like being watched by the portraits? They are your ancestors, right? I don’t think they’d mind.”

Charles sighs, but Max catches a small smile on his face. Regardless, Charles shakes his head, stubborn. “It is not the portraits I am worried about. What if someone comes in?”

“It will be their fault for not knocking,” Max snorts. At Charles’ withering glare, he sighs and says, “No one’s going to come in. There are guards outside.”

“Still,” Charles argues, pink all the way up to his ears now. His eyes drop to Max’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “We will be… messy for our interview.”

“But it will seem like we really like each other a lot,” Max jokes, grinning.

Charles doesn’t take the joke well. He pouts and pinches Max’s ear with his fingernails. Max laughs and releases Charles’ ass. “Fine, fine,” he concedes. “At least come here?”

Charles pulls his mouth to the side. “Will you behave?”

Max shows Charles his palms, hands positioned before his chest. “I will behave,” he assures.

Charles shoots him one last look, before sighing and climbing up onto the sofa, knees on either side of Max’s lap, and sitting. Immediately, he buries his face in the side of Max’s neck, his hair tickling Max’s ear, and lets out a contented noise.

Max barely got any sleep last night, all wired up, and from how exhausted Charles looks—feels, melting into him, breathing softly, maybe the first moment of silence he’s had all day—he can tell it must have been the same for him.

For a few minutes, they stay like that. Max closes his eyes, stroking Charles’ back. There are too many layers between them. Max kind of wishes he took his suit jacket off, or at least his tie, before he asked Charles to sit on his lap. Too late now, Max thinks, nosing at the spot below Charles’ ear. He notices, in this time, that Charles must be wearing a new cologne. It is nice; he smells nice. Charles always smells nice.

Max presses a harmless kiss on the side of Charles’ neck. Then another and another, until no space is left unkissed. He moves to the center of Charles’ throat, and Charles lets it happen, lets Max pepper small kisses along the ridges, his mouth closing, softly, over his carotid, Charles’ heart pulsing like a rabbit between Max’s lips. Charles likes that: the little kisses. When Max reaches the cut of his jaw, he starts to be a bit more bold with it—licking and biting gently, Charles’ stubble rough against his tongue, tracing the contours of him.

Charles starts to let out little pants, his hips starting to roll ever-so-slightly. Max slides a hand between their chests, what little space is left between them, and finds Charles’ crotch, gently palming over the bulge. He’s half-hard already. Max hums, pleased.

Finally, he makes the move and makes it stick: firmly, he kisses Charles, right on the lips. It is a tender kiss, but deep and filled with intent. No more pretense.

Breathily, Charles mumbles against his mouth, “This is not behaving.” He sounds annoyed, but he keeps kissing Max back, keeps grinding his ass on top of Max’s crotch.

Max pulls away, laughing when Charles immediately chases his mouth and makes an unhappy, surprised noise, laughing when he opens his eyes and sees Charles’ eyes: dark, pupils wide and wanting.

“Okay,” he says, voice a little raspy, even to his own ears. “We can stop.”

Charles’ jaw drops. Outrage is a cute look on him. “Oh,” he says, brows furrowing, exhaling through his nose, “you are—”

He doesn’t finish. He only shakes his head, grabs Max’s face with both his hands, firmly, and kisses him, furiously.

Charles’ mouth is soft and plush, but his kiss has a fire to them, an intensity; this part has always been the easiest, with him. The physicality. Everything else, that’s the difficulty.

Their noses brush, and Max pivots away, only slightly, to kiss at the corner of Charles’ mouth, light and teasing. “Yeah? What am I?”

Charles finds his lips again, positions Max’s head right back where it was, and plants a kiss square on his mouth. “Horrible,” Charles says, and kisses Max again. “Annoying,” he says, and kisses Max again. “The worst,” he says, and kisses Max again.

“Don’t let anyone hear you say that, of course,” Max says, helping Charles take his suit jacket off. “We have to seem like we like each other.”

Charles doesn’t deign him with a response, merely rolls his eyes and tosses the jacket to the side. He is gorgeous like this: eyes blown and glossy, his mouth parted, wet, begging to be kissed.

So Max kisses him again, his hands rucking Charles’ button-up from his slacks, until he can slip his hands under the fabric, finding his waist. He uses this newfound leverage to flip their positions, to maneuver Charles so that he’s on his back and horizontal on the ugly, uncomfortable sofa. Charles yelps; his chest heaves, and his throat bobs. He is so pretty like this: in the painfully bright light of this room, it is even more vivid, and for the first time since the news broke yesterday, Max thinks, maybe this will be worth it.

Max takes the moment to burn the sight of him into his retinas: his mousy hair messy around his head like a halo, his kiss-swollen lips parted and wanting, his clothes, even, rumpled and wrinkled in a way that Max knows he hates, in a way that he never lets anyone see.

Half an hour. Half of that is probably gone by now, Max reckons. They’ll have to hurry. He can take his time, another time.

He forces himself to focus. He takes off his own jacket before he forgets, shoves Charles’ thighs apart so that one leg is splayed off the couch, then he drives his knee between them. He swoops down once again, and Charles sighs dreamily into his mouth. Max slides his hands down Charles’ chest until he’s found the buttons of Charles’ slacks, undoing them with deft fingers.

“This is—” Charles starts, lifting his hips, helping Max pull his bottoms to his thighs. Multi-tasking, Max kisses down his throat, skips down to his stomach, and kisses at the happy trail leading from below his belly-button. Distracted, Charles moans and writhes beneath him, throwing his forearm over his eyes. Cute.

“What was that?” Max asks, amused. He kisses Charles’ hip bone lightly, and wraps his fingers around the base of Charles’ length, adoring the way Charles’ hips buck at the touch. He traces a vein with his thumb, his precum making the slide easy, then spits into his hand—not like they need it—and starts to jerk him off. Brows knitted together, Charles squirms, so Max keeps his body steady with a hand on his stomach, feeling the flutter of muscle there. 

Charles tries again, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can meet Max’s eyes. His face is pink, and his breaths come squeaky. He scrunches his nose, prissy and aristocratic, and says, “This is a very old couch. And my suit is very expensive.”

Max sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“I’ll keep you clean,” he promises, and takes Charles into his mouth, hollows his cheeks, and sinks as far down as he can go.

/

Against all odds, they have some time to spare. They spend it fixing each other’s clothes and sex hair, making each other look at least somewhat presentable. Unfortunately, while Max had kept his promise and kept Charles clean, Charles hadn’t returned the favor; now there’s a probably irreparable stain on the antique couch. Oops, Max thinks, and he makes Charles sit on it for their next round of interviews.

It isn’t so bad.

Thankfully, F1 was the only one they’d been on video for. Charles, for the rest of the day, is hazy-eyed and loose-limbed. Max capitalizes on his distraction, teases Charles as much as he can and knows how to—Charles lets it all happen.

And he seems, almost, as if to enjoy it.

But maybe Max is projecting.

/

By dinnertime, Max is finally released. Charles is whisked away by his brother before Max even tries to get a word in, so he doesn’t try. He gets driven home, orders Brad-approved takeout, and calls his dad. Lets him know how the day went. After, he calls his mum, then his sister, and then Raymond. At 8 PM, Brad comes over for training. They talk about things that don’t matter. At 10 PM, Max showers, brushes his teeth, turns off the lights, and crawls into bed. He checks his messages. He frowns when he notices that Charles hasn’t texted. Max isn’t sure why he was expecting him to.

He checks his other texts. He sees that Gemma has texted him his media schedule for the weekend. He doesn’t bother reading it, leaves it for tomorrow. He puts his phone down on the table, closes his eyes, and thinks.

In all this time, the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Even now, it doesn’t stop spinning. Media day is in three days. Infinitely worse: it’s Monaco. Charles will be there; for all of it, he will be there. Normally, WAGs and—now, Max guesses—BAHs are off-limit topics, but there’s no guarantee his sexuality will be. They will want to prep him. Make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid. Charles will be there, and they will have to act in love. Max will have to dodge cameras and avoid journalists the entire weekend. He will have to make statements. He will have to respond. Charles will be there.

On Sunday, Charles will be on the podium.

On Sunday, Max wants to win.

Too much to think about. Too much to worry about.

One day at a time, Max thinks. One day at a time.

/

Voici got a hold of the story first. Apparently, evidence had been slowly building up for months—quotes from Max’s building neighbors and a now-fired member of Charles’ security detail.

The most incriminating evidence, however, were the pap photos taken of them kissing in Max’s car.

They’d been so careful—but maybe, over the last few months, they’d grown complacent.

The story broke the day of the cancelled race in Imola, first thing in the morning. Four hours later, Le Parisien got a hold of it, and that’s when shit started to really hit the fan.

Red Bull was blindsided.

So was the Crown.

/

Max had been blissfully unaware until around noon when he woke up. For many hours, quieted by Do Not Disturb, his phone had been blowing up with calls from Raymond, from Christian, from his father. Everyone important in his life. Before he got a chance to call any of them back, he spotted the ESPN notification at the top of his screen:

Max Verstappen: Formula 1’s reigning world champion and first gay driver in decades?

Below that, an Apple News notification:

Monaco’s Sweetheart breaks hearts worldwide? The inside scoop of Prince Charles of Monaco and Max Verstappen’s 2-year long affair.

In a way, nothing in any of the reports had exactly been false.

/

Max was driven to the palace, silently escorted to a meeting room, and he was seated next to Charles, who was quiet and playing with his hands in his lap and looked like he might throw up. In that moment, Charles looked—small. Charles looked—afraid. Max had never seen him like that before. Max wanted to say something, wanted to ask him if he was okay, but the meeting was in full swing; they hadn’t even paused for Max’s entrance. He settled with placing a hand on Charles’ thigh, his heart rabbiting in his chest. Charles laid his hand over Max’s. It was all Max could do. Max was afraid too.

Once he arrived, however, they switched to English, and explained the plan they came up with while he was sleeping: to confirm the status of their relationship, and run a full press tour. Immediately, without coordinating with Red Bull. That the Prince’s little brother was not only dating a man, but dating the F1 world champion, needed an immediate response, and Charles’ image takes priority over Max’s.

They needed to take control of the narrative, spin it in the right way: They’re in love.

Max didn’t understand. He interrupted halfway, “But we’re—” He glanced at Charles, silent beside him. “We’re not actually—”

Finally, Charles spoke up. He lifted his head, turned to Max, and said, “It does not matter.”

“But—”

“Max,” Charles said, with finality. His eyes were shaking. He looked more upset than Max had ever seen him. “It does not matter.”

And that was that.

/

Tuesday morning, Red Bull post official statements on all their social media platforms, and Max’s social media manager posts a statement from him that he didn’t write. He doesn’t see any of it himself. He stays offline.

That afternoon, he’s in a few virtual meetings with marketing, and they confirm with him the schedule Gemma sent, that they’ve canceled the shootings he had with Checo, and that they want him to focus on keeping a low profile.

He has done more than they needed him to, thanks to the insistence of the Crown.

The interview with Marie won’t be released until Thursday, but Red Bull had received an early preview from the Guardian. To his surprise, the team is satisfied with it. They of course aren’t exactly pleased with some of his responses, and they request that he answer differently and less abrasively next time, but Max is guessing that their expectations were so low that he managed to exceed them, somehow.

They hadn’t even wanted him to speak to any press in the first place. Neither had Max, obviously, but Charles—it would have been silly if Charles had done the interviews alone. Charles needed him there. So.

Wednesday, he streams on Twitch with RedLine. It wasn’t exactly news to them or anyone close to him, the gay thing, but the Charles thing, well—it was a surprise to everyone. Even Max. The boys ask him if he wants them to steer clear from making any jokes about it, and Max says he doesn’t care either way. The last thing Max wants is for his friends to walk on eggshells around him; the last thing Max wants is for things to change any more than they already have. So Crane jokes about it, Bennett jokes about it, and Max also jokes about it. They permaban anyone in chat who jokes about it.

 And that’s Wednesday.

/

Thursday isn’t the hell he was expecting it to be.

Red Bull managed to pull strings and get Max out of the press conference and TV pen appearances, and Checo’s been left to handle the fanzone all on his own, so Max stays inside the Red Bull Energy Station, keeps his head down as much as possible, ignoring the roars of reporters outside, only speaking with his engineers and mechanics.

Tomorrow, though, he won’t be able to get around media.

Don’t worry about the press, GP tells him in the paddock, clasping a hand on his shoulder. It’s all noise. Just focus on driving. Nothing changes, at least from our end.

Max tries his hardest to believe it.

[midsummer-semantics]

Character Study: Tommy Hagan as Iago from Othello

To begin with, there’s just not enough analysis of Tommy, which is probably mostly due to his complete disappearance in S2. We (fic writers) use him a lot as a plot device for Steve’s King persona or the beginning of his bi-awakening, but Tommy’s presence in the show alone is arguably more sinister than most people give him credit for. He’s still a plot device for Steve, but the same way that Iago is a plot device for Othello.

For those who hear “Iago” and think of the bird in Aladdin, that’s totally valid because the Shakespeare character is 100% the influence for that bird, so if that connection helps the rest of this make sense, hang on to it.

Iago (the character and the bird) gets by on feeding Othello information. His job at the beginning of the play is the banner holder, he follows Othello around with his flag. He wanted second in command, but that job went to Cassio instead. This is kind of where Iago’s character development begins: he was snubbed for second in command, and decides quickly that he needs to do away with Cassio, feeding Othello lies until he believes Iago is a better choice.

In the same vein, Tommy has inserted himself as Steve’s right-hand man. That’s what we see from the literal beginning, Tommy following along with Steve as this second-in-command type of person. We don’t really know if there was a Cassio-esque change over with Steve since he just kind of “pops up out of the pool fully formed” (thank you @peter-pantomime for that), but Iago traveled to Venice with Othello to begin with, was always kind of there regardless, so it’s safe to say that Tommy was too. However, like with Iago, Tommy seems to be the real thoughts behind the operation while Steve is the voice that everyone hears. Tommy is, for all intents and purposes, the bird on Steve’s shoulder. Tommy is the puppet master that gives Steve just enough leeway to think he’s the one calling the shots. This is seen in particular with the spray paint incident, since it’s Tommy who’s literally shown with the spray paint can in his hand in the alley, and can be assumed to be the one who tagged the marquee, but Steve is the one who (however unintentionally) takes responsibility for it by doubling down on the accusation.

On that note, the other person Iago goes after is Desdemona, Othello’s wife. Immediately after Othello and Des are married, Iago is the one who tells her father, painting it as this desecration of his pure (white) daughter by this dark (black) [for lack of a better word] creature. It’s Iago’s idea to frame Desdemona as an adultress that ultimately ends in her death.

If we look at those ideas with Tommy, from the get go he (and Carol) are rude and distancing of Nancy, and while Steve is walking this tightrope of wanting to be seen as the top dog while also being whatever Nancy needs him to be, Tommy (and Carol) are causing problems on purpose. Don’t get me wrong, Jonathan and the secret camera incident don’t help, but ultimately it’s Tommy who whispers the thoughts into Steve’s brain about Nancy being a cheater (she was, at least emotionally, but that’s neither here nor there for this comparison) that ultimately leads to the first big breakup. The “death” of Desdemona plays out in the S1 breakup of Steve and Nancy, especially since their reconciliation is never solidified given Nancy’s withdrawal quickly after.

But what the heck is the motive for any of it?

We (Shakespeare people) know Iago has this weird desire for power without seeming to want anything to do with actually wielding it at the forefront. He seems perfectly content to have power over others in the most conniving of ways, but never an “I want to be king” sort of way. Tommy has that same energy, following Steve until it stops being convenient and then moving on to Billy when he “usurps the throne.”

But it’s this weird, intentional isolating of Steve for Tommy’s benefit that mirrors Iago’s intentions with Othello so well. This whole “if I can’t have him, nobody can” sort of attitude that leads both Iago and Tommy to push back against anyone who gets too close to their focus of attention. It’s a jealousy aspect, not in the sense that Tommy/Iago want to be Steve/Othello, but that they’re the only one allowed to be in that position of proximity to them. Tommy/Iago’s entire thing is shifting attention away from themselves while maintaining all of the power. Iago does it with Cassio, using him as the scapegoat in his plan against Desdemona, two birds with one stone. Tommy does it with Jonathan, using him to convince Steve that Nancy really is the slut he accuses her of being. Basically, the moment Steve sees (or thinks he sees) Jonathan with Nancy in her bedroom and misreads the situation just enough to convince him of her cheating is the equivalent to the handkerchief in Othello.

It also sort of begs the question of whether Iago or Tommy have done this in the past. Is Nancy the first girl Tommy’s actively caused an issue with, or does he do this regularly? Is it because Nancy is the first person Tommy doesn’t feel like he can manipulate, thereby labeling her a threat to his power the same way Iago does with Desdemona? 

There’s a surface-level (heterosexual) reading of Othello that makes it seem like Iago wants Desdemona for himself, which sure, the fact he’s already married to Emilia while contriving this entire scheme intended to break up Othello and Desdemona can be read as a parallel to Tommy’s relationship with Carol and focus on ending Steve and Nancy’s relationship. But going back to the “If I can’t have him, nobody can” idea, it’s more likely that Tommy and Iago are dealing with this unrequited love situation with their respective male subjects that results in not only a desire for power but this obsessive need to isolate them so that the only person they feel they can rely on is already perched on their shoulder at all times.

Spoiler alert, though, Iago dies, and while Tommy just kind of disappears into the ether, that final scene where Steve finally stands up for himself and cuts ties with Tommy is not entirely unlike Othello finally realizing who Iago really is and killing him himself. The death of the friendship reads like the death of the partnership in both cases. Tommy only just makes it one step further than Iago by attaching himself to the next person in line which is Billy, but there’s no telling if Tommy wouldn’t have done the same manipulative technique with him given the chance. It's also an interesting character development parallel for Steve since him standing up to Tommy can be viewed as the "death" of his King Steve persona more than Billy's introduction can, and Othello's last stand before his death is to make sure Iago goes down as well.

Obviously none of this is good, but Tommy doesn’t really get the credit he deserves for being, for all intents and purposes, a poster child for the Shakespearean villain. All of his sinisterness exists in the background, but it’s definitely there.

[blushydiorrb]

blushydior

getting ready for dream girl summer 🌸🫧

a post on getting through the summer flawlessly as a dream girl <3

getting through summer looks like… basking & glowing in the beautiful sun, traveling, going out with ease, having fun, being messy and more. so let’s begin.

♡ categories: 

what does your ideal summer for this year look like? ideas, moodboards

physical: summer essentials, what to wear, makeup looks, luxuries, summer reads and bucket lists. 

mental: mindset, wellness, reads and bucket list ideas

  ♡ what’s your ideal summer? ♡

you create the definition of dream girl and it can always change. so decide what your mind and body needs. is this a time for healing? or is this a time to be adventurous?

do you see yourself in nature, enjoying the silence after a chaotic winter and spring? or going to parties, hanging out with friends, meeting new people and trying so many new things?

or why not both? 💋

some bucket list ideas:

spend more time outside than on your phone

have a morning routine. don’t lose structure in the day. switch it up for summer and make it fun.

make a list of nice restaurants in the city to try out

plan out picnic dates

buy disposable cameras and have them developed at the end of summer!

go skydiving

go to a fancy hotel bar and leave the place with someone’s number (or many)

go on late night drives!

explore a random city

try out new foods

most important of all: follow your gut. keep your safety your #1 priority.

                         physical

♡ summer essentials

sunscreen duhh, is a must no matter the season, especially for summer.

⤷ apply sunscreen before you go out and reapply ever 2 hours. look for products that are: lightweight & nonsticky, don’t leave a white cast, spf 50++

anything from sol de janeiro ugh <3

waterproof jewelry

sunglasses

sea salt spray

shimmer body oil

after sun care

your signature scent for summer (scent recommendations below)

pack light and smart with makeup if you’re one to touch up: lipstick (can be used for your eyes and cheeks also), eyeliner, etc.

hair clips/ties

qtips for makeup smudges

mini fan to cool down

small wallet

have fun and unplug but if it’s a must, carry a portable charger if you didn’t charge it in the car or before you left the house.

tissues (for sweat, blotches)

♡ outfit essentials

sundresses

mini !! skirts !!

mules

bikini tops as regular tops

gold hoop earrings

silk scarves

flowy bottoms, skirts, dresses

a cute cover up

patterns

mini bag

backless tops

                         beauty

♡ warmer weather calls for natural, glowy looks

the sun is out so it’s only natural for me to want to glow when the sun is hitting my face and body ♡ i love to really highlight my highest points.

applying subtle gold shimmer on your eyelids

lipgloss!

preferably one that is hydrating, slightly pigmented to bring out the colors in your lips & glowy. not sticky. my recommendation is the dior lip glow stick.

highlighter

my favorite is mac’s strobe highlighter in peachlite. it honestly gives my skin such a beautiful and subtle pink glow to my face!! i love applying it before my makeup.

⤷ don’t forget your collarbones and shoulders.

there is nothing else that makes me feel like a radiating goddess walking down the street when i put highlighter on my body.

⤷ also, layering powder products on top of wet/creamy products make them more pigmented! this is why you see some people wet their eyeshadow brushes before dipping them into the product ♡

blushed & flushed or nothing!

who doesn’t love a good blushed face during the summer? just because your blush is visible doesnt mean you’re wearing too much!!!! own it!!

have fun with subtle pops of color 💋

it doesn’t have to be too crazy. keep it simple.

ideas can be:

- two toned eyeshadows

- colorful winged eyeliners

- a bold lip

nails ♡

- fun & bright colors like orange & blue

- if you want to keep it simple: french tips, nudes!

♡ summer scent recommendations

marc jacobs perfect

delina - de marly

le labo thé noir 29

chanel chance

replica beachwalk & bubble bath

tom ford soleil blanc, lost cherry, neroli portofino, bitter peach

good chemistry coco blush

victoria secret bombshell beach

ariana grande - sweet like candy

solinotes cherry blossom

              for the mind & soul

♡ summer reads

nothing better than a good summer read. here are some recommendations!

my year of rest and relaxation - ottessa moshfegh

it happened one summer - tessa bailey

hook, line, and sinker - tessa bailey

beach read by emily henry

people we meet on vacation by emily henry

book lovers by emily henry

one hot italian summer - karina halle

malibu rising - taylor jenkins reid

every summer after by carley fortune

the wedding crasher by mia sosa

twisted series - ana huang (twisted love, twisted games, twisted hate, twisted lies)

birthday girl - penelope douglas

love & gelato - jenna evans welch

one italian summer - rebecca serle

hands down - mariana zapata

better than the movies - lynn painter

- have fun. kisses from blushydior ♡

[unchataparis]

Colder Than Titanic Water

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Seven: Date

Lyle checks himself out in the mirror before he leaves. Red leather jacket, white shirt with a dramatic v-neck, distressed blue jeans – looking good!

The gold ring he wears on a near-invisible chain around his neck bounces gently against his chest as he scrunches his nose at his own reflection. The metal is warmed to skin temperature and its pretty metallic surface reflects the dim lights of his apartment. Lyle’s hands are covered with gel that he carefully applies to his pompadour.

One last spray of Acqua Dell’Elba’s Arcipelago and he is good to go.

Outside, it has started raining lightly. The faint aroma of petrichor begins to infest the city as Lyle makes the brisk walk down to his car. He shudders as he pulls himself inside his red coupé Porsche. As much as he had been enjoying Paris, its weather had been testing him lately.

As he drives through the streets, he sees mature women with children on either side of him. Cafés beginning to close as final coffee orders are called out. A bookshop with a black cat in its window front squints its eyes suspiciously at him as Lyle flips it his middle finger back. When the light turns green, Lyle makes sure to squeal his tires loudly enough to startle the wretched feline.

By the time Lyle pulls up before the great glowing mausoleum of the Graham de Vanily Estate, the Sun has all but set. The sky is a Prussian-indigo colour and the clouds are wisps of grey smoke.

Lyle leans out his rolled-down side window and quickly jams his thumb against the intercom button.

The speaker cracks.

“Yes?” comes an irritated, gravelly voice.

“It’s me,” Lyle says, just as irritated. The fucker can see him through the camera. He bears a toothy false smile at the lens. “I’m here to pick up Adrienne.”

The red light remains on for a few seconds more. Lyle imagines that Nicholas is debating whether or not it’s likely Lyle will leave if he ignores him. Fat chance. Lyle will ram his Porsche through the fucking gates of the Estate and make Nicholas pay for the damages to his baby.

The red light blinks off and the doors creak open, an electronic signal commanding them to part as slowly as possible. Lyle growls and flips up another middle finger at the dead security camera before driving through the gates to park neatly at the foot of the stairs. 

The doors of the Graham de Vanily Mansion are already cracking open, sending a pillar of aureate light to filter through like a hand reaching down from Heaven.

Émile Graham de Vanily, in white trousers and a cashmere sweater, beams at Lyle who has just slammed his car door shut and is moving up the stairs quickly, wincing at each cold drop of water that falls from the sky.

“Goodness,” Émile says, seizing Lyle by the shoulders when he reaches him. “You should’ve called ahead, I could’ve met you with an umbrella.”

“Ah, it’s no bother, Monsieur,” Lyle says. “A little rain never harms anybody.”

Lyle says this while wanting to throttle someone for the state of his hair.

“Come in, come in,” Émile says, gesturing for Lyle to walk into the warmth. “No need to catch a cold on this lovely night.”

The doors shut behind them and Émile leads the way into the foyer. Lyle squints down at the marble between his feet, trying to judge by his murky reflection whether or not he needs to duck into a bathroom to freshen up.

Inside the Graham de Vanily Mansion, every last light in each sconce and chandelier is on, making Lyle feel as if he has walked into a hardware store or a house on fire. The rain has started earnestly outside, fat raindrops the size of bullets hammering against windows and drizzling down. 

Lyle feels pity for any poor fucker caught in that storm.

Read the rest on Ao3 here.

[anniekoh]

elsewhere on the internet: jewish currents

Jewish Currents has consistently published articles that I think about for days afterwards. Here are a few pieces from recent issues.

Can Tourist Be Liberatory

Raphael Magarik: People often think of tourism as shallow, consumerist, and apolitical. How is solidarity tourism different? Jennifer Lynn Kelly: In solidarity tourism, guides educate tourists about their context, their conditions, and their freedom struggles. In each of the tours considered in my book—which range from the week-long tours across historic Palestine, to day tours of cities or villages in the West Bank, to two-hour tours in the eastern part of occupied Jerusalem or in West Jerusalem—guides focus on the history of Palestinian displacement and provide an alternative to Zionist narratives. For example, on bus tours through the West Bank, guides will point to sprawling Palestinian terraces and explain how Palestinians have always cared for the land. In doing so, they are intervening in the Zionist idea that Palestine was “a land without a people for a people without a land.” By assembling these kinds of itineraries, the guides are pressing tourism into the service of anti-colonial work.

JLK: Tourism often aspires toward authenticity: unfettered access to an unscripted world. That is a consumerist desire. Solidarity tourism is not exempt from this tendency, but it reveals and subverts the script of tourists’ expectations. For instance, in the book I talk about a moment where a tourist was looking at a blackened wall in Nablus and asked, “What happened here?” And the tour guide said, “Someone was spray painting their bed frame.” In these moments, tour guides are interrupting tourists’ desire for a narration of violence and only violence.

RM: The Israeli siege of Gaza essentially renders in-person tourism impossible. How do guides respond to this problem? JLK: In Gaza, some guides might walk tourists virtually through their space and answer questions about their conditions. Others use recorded snippets to create a hypothetical tour where they say, “If you were to take a walking tour in Gaza City, here is where I would take you.” There are also virtual tours that help visitors imagine a vibrant, thriving tourism industry in Gaza after liberation. Like solidarity tourism, these virtual experiences are a true refiguring of tourism. The result is not just a camera leading tourists through a space but an exercise in imagining liberation.

Portraits of Encounter

Aliza Nisenbaum’s exhibition at the Queens Museum is bookended by a pair of paintings that create an echo. At one end hangs La Talaverita, Sunday Morning NY Times (2016), in which a teenage girl and her father read the paper on a couch.

...

“The best portrait painters working today introduce something new into art not through stylistic innovations, but by whom they choose as subjects,” Dushko Petrovich wrote in an article that discusses Nisenbaum’s work published in T Magazine in 2018. Certainly, there’s gratification in seeing marginalized people get the kind of sumptuous treatment they receive in Nisenbaum’s paintings. But reading Nisenbaum primarily through the lens of representation elides important aspects of her practice—for example, she paints dancers and flowers, and she gets as animated about color as she does about her subjects.

Portraiture gives Nisenbaum a framework in which to encounter other people. In this she’s like the artist Alice Neel, who famously canonized friends, neighbors, and art-world figures in portraits so penetrating, they can be uncomfortable to look at. Neel called herself a “collector of souls”; Nisenbaum, by contrast, seems less interested in baring people’s true selves on canvas than in capturing something of their profound unknowability. Her subjects are often lost in thought or activity, like Marissa in La Talaverita and Pedacito de Sol. Others are immersed in settings filled with material culture—like Andra, a facilities staffer at the Queens Museum whom Nisenbaum depicts in his office,

She also developed a policy of compensating sitters. Before she was selling her work, she would cook for them and give them their finished paintings. (These small gestures of care sometimes yielded significant results; during the Covid-19 pandemic, when they were struggling with unemployment, Marissa and her mother were able to sell two early Nisenbaum pieces to Anton Kern Gallery, which represents the artist.) Now that there is a market for her work, Nisenbaum pays her subjects, and donates to organizations that are somehow aligned with the people she’s depicting in a given project. In the case of the current exhibition, that’s the La Jornada and Queens Museum Cultural Food Pantry, which takes place at the museum every Wednesday.

Such practices build on Levinas’s idea of an ethics grounded in the face-to-face encounter. In the process, they help Nisenbaum mitigate the exploitation that has been a hallmark of art history, especially when the people being portrayed come from groups on the margins of society. But beyond payment, Nisenbaum is interested in mutual relationships as both a standard and a subject. For example, the exhibition includes a large painting of the pantry titled Eloina, Angie, Abril y Marleny, Despensa de Alimentos, Queens Museum (2023). It’s a vertiginous scene of flattened perspective in which produce, volunteers, and “shoppers” form a sweeping, colorful loop of activity.

Bad Memory

an editorial column written by members of the Jewish Currents staff and reflects a collective discussion.

Germany is acclaimed for its efforts to atone for the Holocaust. But its method of repudiating the past has become a tool of exclusion.

..

To show itself fit to enter the community of Western European nations, a new, reunified Germany set out to prove, over the next two decades, that it had sufficiently repented. Germans even coined a new word—Vergangenheitsbewältigung—to name the process of “coming to terms with the past” that has become a linchpin of German national identity. Seeking to bolster its claim to penitence, the newly reunified country trumpeted a “Jewish renaissance” driven largely by immigration from the former Soviet Union—an influx of Jews that, as the scholar Hannah Tzuberi has put it, became the “most valuable guarantor of [Germany’s] democratic, liberal, tolerant character.”

[bratty-telepath]

Moments That Flash By

(A David & Darlin fic)

Yo, this is Laveau stopping in to say:

Hi! what you're about to read is David & Darlin fic that touches slightly on Darlin's past w the pack while referencing fics such as "Shattered Glass Makes a Good Weapon" and "Another Night, Out on Another Road" which refer to their bite and leaving of Dahlia. Additionally, I must tell you that this includes a good bit of swearing, aggressive language, a threat or two and mentions of Quinn, de*d p*rents and their general issues involving their social standing in the pack.

Aside from that, Darlin goes by he/they in this fic and is named Darren! With that out the way, enjoy some light angst/comfort :)

"It's been a while since I've seen you pick up a camera."

Darren's eyes were instantly drawn to the voice behind him, quickly turning around to face the speaker of the moment, only to meet David leaning on a nearby wall as he kept his arms crossed. The shifter's first instinct was to take a step back, something David quickly took note of if the change of his expression's hardness to a soft calm was anything to go by.

"You're not in trouble." He sighed. "I just wanted to check on you."

Darren calmed himself slightly after hearing that, the wolf choosing to let his guard down slightly as his stance shifted into ease while he removed his grip from the sides of the camera hanging from his neck.

"Dad would've been glad to see you picking up your old habits again." The alpha mused.

Despite the current picture of David leaning against a brick wall as his upper body was layered in shadow and his more gaunt musculature was set in display of the light, he seemed at peace. His face relaxed and his features gentle as his warm brown eyes kept its steady focus on the younger shifter.

"...sure."

The alpha shrugged. "I assume you're out here for work?"

"Is it your business?" Darren growled.

"No, but I would like for you to tell me."

They took a minute but then shrugged as the shifter shoved their hands into their pockets. "...I'm just destressing."

David's eyes scanned the area. "Weird place to de-stress."

They huffed in response as they took their camera in hand again and turned back to the scene ahead, an empty skating park.

High in the sky, the afternoon sun sat as it bathed the area in a bright, warm glow. The murals and doodles made by teenagers from long ago were given life as their colors became emboldened under the light's touch while faint memories sprang to life in their mind's eye. The wind picked up and Darren could almost hear laughter echo from around them as they brought their camera to their face and started drafting the park for a potential shot.

Surprisingly, David remained quiet throughout the process. If he said something, it wasn't detectable by any standard because Darren could only attest that he heard nothing come from the alpha's lips. For all intensive purposes, it seemed as though he just watched as the photographer did his thing. That wasn't to say Darren wasn't glad to be undisturbed but it did make things feel…off.

Finally the shifter found what they were looking for, a decent setup for a picture. The scene visualizes a set of stairs with an angle looking downward at the flight of steps as though to capture the sun casting shadows that had perfectly overlapped in the form of a X above a sprayed on layout of childish doodles.

The camera clicked and David finally spoke again.

"I just remembered where we were." He remarked.

"What gave it away?" Darren huffed. "The ramps?"

"No, the stairs. That's where we all used to sit back then."

They didn't reply to that.

"You and Asher would be skating." He started. "Milo would be listening and relistening to his playlist on his nearly-dead iPod, and I'd just watch you two while I was next to him."

"Yeah, like a creep." The wolf replied. "Even as a teen, you somehow managed to scare everyone around you with a look."

"I was the oldest so I had to look tough enough so that no one would pick on you while we were out alone."

"Asher and I were getting into more fights than you could count back then, we were more than capable of going by ourselves."

"I had to be there for supervision reasons."

Darren inhaled. "Did you come here to disturb me with your usual shit or was there a point to this?"

David's expression slightly hardened again and he expected to hear the alpha let loose some sign of exasperation but found himself surprised when he got nothing instead but the sight of the other taking a breath.

"I want to talk, Tank. It's been a while."

"Why?" They turned to actually face him, a challenging stare shooting his way as unwavering attention met them again.

"I just said why."

"No, you said you wanted to check on me. Why?"

"It's my job as–"

Darren rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

"What?"

"Forget. It."

David growled. "Fine."

They crossed their arms and waited for something from him–anything of particular interest that showed he was at the very least considerate of his time with them today. Still he said nothing, but he waited. On what? The other couldn't tell but it burnt at his core to have David look at him in silence rather than just say something.

"What? What do you want?" Darren groaned. "Why are you here? What could be so important that you refuse to leave after I metaphorically bite and tell you to fuck off?"

David hesitated to answer–uncharacteristically so.

Darren knew David for a long time since they entered the pack, and they knew he didn't falter when it came to anything he had to say, which only facilitated the questions and assumptions that flooded his mind as he tried to comprehend the circumstances surrounding his appearance through their own frustration.

With a lack of an answer being provided, they continued.

"I'm literally not built for this guessing game shit, David. So fucking tell me exactly what you want or leave me the fuck alone and wait til the next pack meeting when I actually have to put up with you."

"Why are you so pissed at me?" He growled.

"Because you're wasting my time with this mind game of yours as per usual! I didn't learn telepathic magic, I can't read your fucking mind and yet you insist I somehow translate this cryptic shit of yours like I have the capacity to." They let out a harsh breath in their need for oxygen before continuing. "You did it when we were in highschool, in this park. You did it when I got back, at my apartment. Now, you're doing it again, so–"

"I wanted to know that you're ok."

"Why?" Darren questioned.

"You know why."

"No. Tell me why. You don't get to pussy foot your way out of this."

"Because I care about you!"

The defiance in their eyes hadn't died as they studied him, in fact Darren could feel it having grown with more;

Anger.

Anger in this case needed to be tempered. He'd learned enough from being around Sam that he let his temper get the best of him and sought to do better, especially after he had the poorest track record in doing that beforehand. They'd been more prone in the past to get aggressive, and with Quinn that meant being physically violent. Now they'd managed it enough that they would rely on their words before they would use their fists, or claws…or teeth. In this instance, he'd have to do what Logan, the Solaire prince's partner, advised him to do.

They took a breath. "And?"

"And, it's because I care about you that I want to know how you're doing."

Another breath in, another out, and they were able to calmly continue. "I'm fine. I haven't stirred up any more trouble than Quinn since I came back from Washington."

"That's not what I meant."

Deep breaths went out the window as Darren let out a low growl from their throat. "What do you mean?"

"You've been throwing yourself at everything. I've hardly seen you take a moment to rest every time I've seen back at the den, and save today, I hardly hear from you. I want to know you're okay and if you need help."

"I don't want the pack's help."

"You're not answering me."

"Now you see how I feel."

David's face shifted in some sort of realization before he pressed again, this time with more bewildered distraught laced in his face. "I just want to help. You need help."

"The 'help', you're referring to, can shove itself up your ass with the stick you lodged up there."

The alpha sighed. "You've been coming at me for being cryptic and yet here you are! You won't answer me straight, you won't tell me anything about how you're actually doing. All I've seen you do is hunt Quinn at every turn for some revenge quest!"

"You wouldn't know shit about why I'm hunting that fucker down because you don't know shit about me, David! So I suggest you shut your fucking mouth before I slam it shut against the concrete."

A threat. Those never flew well and Darren knew if he told the rest of the pack, they'd call for him to get kicked out–whether David would finalize that or not was something he was uncertain of, but he did know that this was heading down a bad direction. Still, they didn't care. They were mad and they had thrown managing it out the window to let themselves finally go at him.

"I see what you're doing. I've done what you're doing." David took a step forward and Darren took one back, something the larger man took notice of before he stopped and spoke again. "You don't have to carry your problems alone. I did after–", he paused, very likely to process the brief flashes of that day if Darren was correct, "–I learned that I didn't have to do that with mine."

They scowled. "You think you had problems after your dad died? Boo-fucking-hoo!"

That got something to break the stale calm he was holding in his face and deep in Darren's core, they knew a nerve was struck but pressed on even as he continued to approach, stepping back with each move he took forward. Even if it meant he may have been angry, it was at least more of a reaction than the cold, empty stoicism he proudly strutted around with as David the emotionally repressed pack alpha.

"I had no one while everyone tried to help you! You put everyone at a distance, while I actually wanted help and no one gave it to me."

"Tank–"

He was moving faster, getting closer, and Darren's instincts were telling him to be ready for a fight, to gain distance and strike if he made any suspicious movement. Already he could feel his body shift itself for such an occasion as his teeth and nails started to pronounce themselves more under his magic's influence.

"I was alone and you had the chance to get help from everyone, I didn't–"

One step forward, one step back, just like some twisted tango between the two as emotions screamed within Darren and clouded his mind. Unspoken threats buzzed in Darren's head, his lack of care to read whatever David was feeling being pushed further by the urge to hurt in some way.

"–so excuse me when I don't take you seriously for trying to care about me when this pack's 'care' has left me with a goddamn vampire bite and restless nights wondering when exactly I'm going to wake up and find him on top of me again, with his teeth in my neck–"

"Darren!"

His feet hit an edge and Darren realized quickly that they'd run out of space to walk as the floor dipped into a bowl ramp. The next thing they knew now was that they were about to fall. The wolf braced for impact with the ground but quickly found himself in a tight hug as he remained somewhat suspended from falling.

"I'm sorry."

Darren's eyes widened. A part of him doubted he'd actually heard that so naturally his next response was, "what?"

"I'm sorry for leaving you like I did."

The shifter could now confirm he wasn't actually making up what he heard. David had apologized.

David. Had. Apologized.

Something in him said to push away, take the damage from the fall, run and never look back, because nothing here was right. This wasn't normal, none of this was. In all he'd remembered David to be, he knew that he would've lashed out, grabbed him for talking about Gabe, thrown him around for making threats–or, was that what he'd told himself?

"I was caught up in trying to close myself off in order to be the leader that I thought the pack needed, that I neglected the people in the pack that needed me most, and I'm sorry."

Darren froze. Then he started to cry. He didn't mean to, he wasn't trying to, but suddenly everything came at once and he couldn't stop himself from crying into David's arms. He was sobbing and as he felt himself find footing on solid ground again with the larger man's assistance, he reached for closer contact as his arms stretched behind David's back to keep a hold of him.

It was almost humiliating for them to be doing this, disgusting even. Yet they didn't stop doing it. They kept holding onto David and crying as their fingers grabbed tight to his jacket like he'd disappear if they let go, and David let them. He was actually letting them keep him like this, just like every other time they would before;

Just like the nights they couldn't sleep after their parents died, or the times when the pack felt like more than they could handle, or after a hard day back at high school when everything felt set against them. It felt like the good parts of everything that they had before David pushed them back, and Darren half-expected him to do so again, but he didn't.

Instead, he hugged tighter. He rubbed circles into their back with his hand, leaned closer into them and wrapped around them like a large shield to keep them away from the rest of the world.

"I'm sorry for not protecting like I should've."

They stayed like that for a couple of minutes (or however long that was, time hadn't seemed to matter then). Darren stopped crying some time ago and let himself stay there as safety reacquainted itself with him.

Then a click sounded off and the two jumped back in unison, not breaking proximity but quickly searching the area before the smaller shifter looked at his camera and sighed.

In the emotion, one of them hand accidently set the camera off to take a pic. The wolf almost had a mind to delete the photo but stopped when he took a second to look over the image. Somehow the camera angled itself right between the two as they were hugging, their bodies dark against the background of the dying, orange afternoon light above them as the picture looked up from a worm's eye view, like witnessing two greater beings find peace in one another's company away from an all too overwhelming world.

"The camera accidentally went off?" David asked

"Yeah. Wasn't watching my hands." They quickly saved the image, set the camera off and covered its lens with a cap.

"It's ok."

Darren finally took notice of the area around them again and quickly realized it was getting darker, Sam would be up and around soon and he'd worry his ass off if Darren came back later than he said he would've been. Still, the sunset against the city set a gorgeous picture before him as a breeze swept through the old skate park and hit the shifter's face, prompting him to wipe whatever wetness had been leftover from his tears.

"... I don't blame you for leaving." David said.

"...I do." They admitted.

"You did what you had to."

"I ran, David. I didn't have to do that."

"You–" The alpha sought to make a counterpoint to that but stopped as his eyes fell to the other's choker. "You made your choice, and I understand it."

"Right…" Darren huffed. "I'm sorry for what I said."

"I know. I remember your temper. You didn't mean it."

"No, that doesn't make it ok. I shouldn't have said that."

"I've said worse before."

"Yeah…I don't entirely blame you for what you did. I know you wanted to do what you thought was right, and I get that."

"It wasn't right. Not for the pack, not even for me, or you."

"Hm." Darren rose to his feet and offered David a hand, one that he took as the smaller wolf helped him find his standing. "I need to get going."

"Right. Sam?"

The shifter smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I would like you to tell me." He smiled.

"...Next time." They turned on their feet and started walking. "Maybe at the next pack meeting?"

"Or next Friday?" Darren turned slightly to find David standing with both hands in his jacket. "Asher and Milo wanted to get everyone together to play halo."

"Halo?"

"Yeah."

"That shit game we played the last time that kept glitching?"

"The exact one."

Darren shrugged. "Sure."

"You can meet me by the den and I'll pick you up."

"Or I could just follow your scent?" He tapped his nose. "Wolf, remember?"

"Or, you could stop being a little shit and let me carry you, tough guy."

Darren shook his head and smiled as he kept walking towards the exit of the park. "Fine, I'll see you next Friday."

[wweassets]

Costume Contest anon here. Just in time for SummerSlam… It’s time for the Fantasy Summer Playgirl spread! HBK was able to re-connect with his contacts at Playgirl.com to organize a charity photoshoot, and he even personally invited a few AEW guys to participate. Let’s flip through the pages and check out the centerfolds…

BR*N BRE*KKER is at the Mat Gala after-party at night, climbing out the pool after skinny dipping. He’s flexing his triceps as he lifts himself up, with his wet muscular ass shining in the moonlight. He’s looking at the camera with intensity in his eyes, water dripping down his body and his silver necklace hanging from his neck. On the ground beside him is the black mesh bodysuit he peeled off earlier.

W*RDLOW is doing a tribute to his new brief-cut singlet. He’s standing under an outdoor shower at the beach and wearing just a wet black tank-top clinging to his upper body, with his huge ass cheeks sticking out underneath.

L*GAN PAUL is on the beach and walking out of the water wearing a black scuba suit. He’s unzipping it down to the base of his penis, with his round ass sticking out on both sides, even visible from the front-facing view.

M*TT R*DDLE is re-creating his photo with Reese Rideout in a pool in Vegas, except they are both fully nude this time. Riddle’s long erect penis is resting on top of the water, with his arm around Reese.

R*CKY STARKS is re-creating his photoshoot in the waterfall, except he’s taken his swimsuit off. He’s giving a sideways pose and walking through the water, with his fat ass resting on top of the shallow water.

C*RMELO H*YES is sitting in a white VIP cabana at a pool party, wearing nothing but a white floral button down shirt, unbuttoned. He’s holding a glass of champagne, with this huge erect dick pointed upwards and to the right across his muscular abs. A few feet away from him is TR*CK W*LLIAMS, fully nude and laying stomach-down on a lawn chair, raising a champagne glass to the camera and his huge ass sticking into the air.

S*TH ROLLINS is paying tribute to America’s favorite sport - baseball! He’s squatting over the catcher’s mound with his back to the camera, wearing nothing but a backwards retro WWF hat and a catcher’s glove. His muscular cheeks spread apart as he squats, showing his slightly hairy hole. He’s turning his head to the side to reveal a big smile as he laughs maniacally.

PR*TTY DE*DLY are naked mermen, perched up on a giant rock in the sea, with their tails forming right below their fat asses, and their long wet hair waving in the breeze.

LA KN*GHT is in the driveway of his home washing his red Ferrari. He’s wearing nothing but a white tank top, which he’s spraying with his hose making it wet and see-through, and making his erection pointed upwards visible through the shirt.

JD McD*NAUGH and S*M GRADWELL are re-creating their famous nude balcony pic, only they are fully nude and dripping wet, with their speedos draped over the glass railing. They’re both pointing their fat asses toward the camera, and grinning devilishly.

ANG*L G*ARZA is re-creating his waterfall shot in the pool, only this time, he’s fully nude. He’s facing the waterfall this time, with the water falling onto his fat ass and splashing everywhere.

MJF and AD*M C*OLE are on the beach - Max is nude laying stomach-down on the sand, as Adam has begun to build a small sandcastle on top of Max’s huge mountain ass cheeks. Adam is fully nude and oiled up, with his erection resting on this thigh. Both are laughing hysterically, enjoying their summer bromance.

C*DY RH*DES is just… KEN! He’s fully nude, standing still like a doll in the pink box, with his erection pressed up and laid across the plastic case.

Which 3 pin-up’s are you hanging on your wall?

OH SLAAAAAAAAY 🙏🙏🙏🙏thank you thank you thank you!!! you have delivered AGAIN wowowowoowow these are all SO fucking hot :///

ummm THIS WAS HARD AS ALWAYS BUT…

🥉

seth… he’s always gonna be in top, and the vision of him showing of his ass like that… yeah

🥈

cody… i’m just horny for ken and cody doing THAT? yup yup

🥇

angel… simple, so simple, but so effective… that fat ass just takes it

honourable mentions to pretty deadly and bron!

how about everyone else?

[fleurcareil]

East Quebec: Côte Nord part 2

In the morning, when I checked in for the boat excursion for a tour of the western Mingan Archipelo,, I was surprised to receive a thick lifevest-jacket as the excursion the previous day had been on a regular tourist boat... turned out that we were now braving the rough sea on a little speedboat! 😳 Needless to say that we got quite some wave-spray over us but luckily the wind dried quickly again👍.

The first island we passed by was literally covered with hundreds of seals, which quickly slipped into the water when we got closer. Very special to see, especially when a few curious ones came over to check us out 😍. I really need to buy a better camera to capture wildlife but trust me, there's many seals in the pic!

We then visited the Île aux Perroquets which is named after the many puffins which make the island its home. I've seen puffins several times before in Newfoundland and Iceland but they continue to be extremely cute with their beaks & droopy eyes 💖 (There's 3 in the top left corner of the first photo and then 6 in the last one). The island is tiny with a road from the dock to the lighthouse where you can stay overnight - mostly done by hardcore birdwatchers of which there were a few with massive telescope cameras - I should have asked them for a copy of their photos! 😂

The second island we visited was Île Nue de Mingan that has again several monoliths on the shores of a treeless, sub-artic landscape due to the high winds and drought (despite being in the middle of the sea 🤔). Same as the day before, we were greeted on each island at the dock by a Parks Canada guide who would tell us about the geology, fauna & flora and cultural history, which made it feel very welcoming and unique, especially as we were the only group that day as a result of the rough sea. At the end of the visit, the captain had fished (with a mop that they easily cling to 😁) some sea urchins for us to try, a delicious salty taste like oysters! (My mother would not appreciate 😅)

The way back to shore was tough as we were now going straight into the waves, so I arrived back at the car more wet than dry... luckily I got tons of clothes with me on this trip. 😜

An hour further west I did a pretty hike to two waterfalls on the Manitou river, which were very impressive in terms of the water volume and their surroundings (still the same skeleton boreal forest though 😂). Down & then up again lots of stairs meant my muscles were being worked!

For the rest of the day, it was a long slog of 515km driving in the rain & fog to my next stay... The sea is pretty whether it's sparkling blue on a calm day or like on this stormy day, white-capped crashing onto the shore, so it was beautiful no matter what, but the difficult driving conditions (more poignant when I passed by an overturned truck) made it very tiring. Had a quick dinner at a packed microbrewery at Baie-Comeau, thereby officially completing my Labrador loop which I had started in the same town 12 days earlier 😲🥳, and arrived at 8:30pm at a cute B&B in Portneuf-sur-Mer where the lady of the house made me a cup of tea 😊. Didn't see much attractions on this long day and although I could have taken an extra day over this stretch to visit a few more lighthouses, do coastal hikes etc, at the same time I was getting fed-up with all the bad weather and ready to move inland...

But... my very last day on Canada's eastern seaborne turned out to be beautiful once the fog had lifted during a walk on a sandbar (which was nothing special but feels good to start the day with a small walk 😄). The Haute-Côte-Nord area around the fjord of Saguenay is famous for its thirteen (!) types of whales, and Parks Canada manages two great observation centres; the Marine Environment Discovery Centre where the presentation on anemones & sea stars (touching allowed! 😃) was interrupted when a pod of 7 belugas and also two porpoises cruised by 💖, and the Cap de Bon-Désir, where people simply sit on the rocks while an interpreter answers any questions. Two mink whales were the star attraction coming up again & again in different places, but in any case, if you like me have nothing important to do, there's much worse than just soaking in the sun & staring at the sea! 😊😎

I did pull myself away eventually to drive myself over to Tadoussac, which is undoubtedly a nice village when it's not overrun by tourists, to catch the ferry across the fjord. Grocery shopping at La Malbaie where the high waterlevel in the river from the recent downpours was clearly visible, and then finally made my first dinner over a campfire since I started the trip! Glass of wine and off to bed...

Wildlife: 100's of seals, puffins, razorbills & female eiders, 2 loons and 1 porpoise (West Mingan islands), 7 belugas, 2 porpoises & 1 grey seal (Marine discovery centre), 2 mink whales, 2 porpoises, 2 harbour seals, 1 grey seal & 1 loon (Cap de Bon-Désir)

SUPs: none

Hikes: one at the Manitou waterfalls

Distance driven this week: 968km

[snowgraybeautywhite]

Do you happen to have advice on body blushing?

I’ve done a lot of body blushing but I’ve never made a tutorial or anything! I can work on that for the future, but the short list would be… 1) Disassemble your doll first (I’ve heard of people not doing this  but… seems incomplete to me?) 2) Remove the seam lines first. This isn’t 100% necessary but it produces a cleaner final product. I like to sand with waterproof automotive sandpaper in water, to keep the dust down. Don’t sand far off of where the seam lines are unless you’re de-yellowing. I usually start around 220 grit and end around 600; some people start and end finer (imho going too fine will make your doll shiny and I don’t think resin as a material needs it but ymmv etc). Don’t grind on everything with 220, just the seam itself. 3M sponges are also good and can be used wet. 3) Base coat all pieces with MSC, even the ones you’re not blushing, so any potential yellowing (of doll or coating) is even. 4) Build color slowly with pastels. Grind the pastels on your 600+ grit sandpaper and apply lightly with a brush. Use a puffer (like a camera lens cleaner) to puff off the extra pastel, reapply, etc. Coat with MSC after a layer or two of blush. I only usually do one blush layer, unless the doll has dark resin that is taking more product to color. Freckles I do as a separate layer. 5) Look at some photos of human bodies to see where to color. I tend do do hands with some blue on the fat of the thumb and any sculpted veins, and then a warm color on fingertips, etc. Knees, collarbones, shading on the chest is all also good.

Not really 6 but I suspend my body pieces with twine and q-tips to spray the MSC, so that as little as possible is being blocked from the spray. I might have photos somewhere.

Also definitely pre-#1, get an appropriate respirator for spraying MSC (or your coating of choice), and wear a mask while sanding and blushing as well (your snot turning colors is a bad sign). The sanding/blushing mask doesn’t need to be medical grade, but a baggy blue style surgical mask is… better than nothing but worse than a real particulate mask. I can dig up some references for that later too but there’s a good resource on DoA.

I’ll try to put together something a bit more complete but it may take a while! 😅 Sorry!

[mayhemproduces]

 - AND LA PARKA IS INSIDE THE COFFIN?! WHAT THE HELL?!

Mysteriously, his theme song begins to blast over the speakers, as La Parka exits the coffin, and slams Syn with a steel chair! And a chair shot for Abigail! A chair shot for Julia! And one more for MJF! La Parka holds up the chair before he starts beating Syn with it, bringing the steel down across his back as Syn drops to his knees when Abigail hits La Parka with a big boot! She floors the ancient wrestling god! Abigail stumbles back towards ringside, clearly feeling the effects of those chair shots from La Parka - when Buddy Matthews NAILS her with a step up bicycle knee strike! Buddy comes flying off the steps, and takes down the Matriarch! But it’s not for long. She gets back to her feet and Buddy charges, going for a hurricanrana, but Abigail holds on! She swings him back up and twists him into an electric chair. Before she can do much else, she EATS a knife edge chop from Brody King! The frying pan like chop creates a wicked sound effect that echoes throughout the building. Quite frankly, the top of Abigail’s bat shaped bodysuit does very little in the way of protecting her from a chop of that magnitude, and now Buddy rocks them back, spiking Abigail with a Poison Rana! Abigail takes a vicious chop, AND gets dropped on her head! All the while, La Parka’s theme song is still blaring over our speakers, adding to the hyped atmosphere as it looks like the House of Black is closing in on victory. With Abigail back inside the ring, Matthews throws her up for Dante’s Inferno - but Julia takes Brody out at the knee! The big man drops, and Julia wraps him up in her rear triangle choke, as Abigail clocks Buddy with Psychosis! As the action inside the ring picks up, our cameras find that Syn and Max are getting a beatdown from Malakai and Devitt somewhere deep in the crowd. Two tables have already been set up, and now, they lay Max and Syn across them, before they go looking for something…. When suddenly, the music shuts off! Paul Heyman orders everyone to stay the hell away from it until the end of the match, or it’ll be their jobs! Back at ringside, Julia Hart is sitting down in a steel chair, having been knocked there by Buddy. And now Buddy charges, sending her head over heels with a Meteora, crushing Julia into the chair! We’re back in the crowd once again, as Prince and Malakai have found a twenty-foot tall orange ladder, decorated with spooky black bats, skulls, and pumpkins, and they’ve practically climbed to the top. With a reassuring squeeze of one another’s hands, they take flight, putting Syn and MJF through their respective tables with a double Coup de Grace! The crowd jumps out of their seats, with a thunderous chant of, “HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT!”

Back at the ring, we see that there is yet another table being set up at ringside, but Brody isn’t content with just a table, adorned with purple Satanic symbols, and a painted on grey and black Burberry scarf (unless the color is what makes it Burberry? Or is it the pattern?). He looks beneath the ring and pulls out a barbed wire board, that looks to have pieces of candy corn embedded into the barbed wire, and places it on top of the table. He turns around and sees Buddy being locked in the Hail the Reaper inside the ring, but as he goes to help out, Julia pokes out from under the ring, and sprays Brody in the eyes with the fire extinguisher! He’s blinded, but Buddy is able to reverse out of Hail the Reaper, throwing Abigail across the ring. Buddy charges, but he gets PLOWED over by Angel’s Fall! Abigail drops to a knee, blood pouring freely down her head now, and there are literally only two people not bleeding, but everybody is down for the first time since the opening bell. Referees are everywhere, checking on our combatants, when the four left in the ring begin to stir. They crawl toward each other, and start trading punches from their knees. Taking turn hitting their enemies in this two on two, vicious slugfest. They fight up from the ground to their feet, the beauty of MPW’s brand of pro wrestling violence earning a loud cheer from the crowd, but it’s soured as Abigail pulls ahead, battering Brody until he drops to his knees, while Julia has Buddy wrapped up in the Heartless. Abigail gets Brody in the Hail the Reaper, dropping back to the mat and wrapping her legs around him, fully locking it in. Julia wrenches far back on her own submission that she’s practically laying on her back - when from the skies! Malakai and Devitt CRUSH Julia and Abigail, with another pair of Coup de Grace’s! They break up the submissions, and quickly turn their attention to Julia. Devitt pops her up, allowing Malakai to grab her as he drops to his back. Devitt holds his knees up, and Malakai slams Julia down across them with a vicious powerbomb! Cover on Julia!

1… 2… KICKOUT!

Julia survives again and tries to roll out to the apron to find a reprieve, but they stay on her. Leaning over the ropes, they try to suplex her back in, when MJF shoves Devitt back, and punches him square in the temple! Devitt goes down, and now both Julia and Max grab Malakai, hooking him in for a superplex. Brody King comes underneath, scooping Max and Julia up with a powerbomb, as they pull Malakai over the top with a suplex - TOWER OF DOOM THROUGH THE BARBED WIRE BOARD! Holy SHIT! The fans jump out of their feet, as Julia, Max, and Brody King wind up trapped in the candy corn barbed wire! All of them are down, and it’s Devitt, trapped alone in the ring with your MPW Tag Team Champions, as Syn slides into the ring, and DOMES Devitt with a chair! He slumps, dropping to his knees, and they each grab a wrist, before finishing him off with Beyond the Black Wall! That’s it! That’s the end of the House of Black’s journey, as The Fallen finally score another win over their rivals!

1… 2… - KICKOUT!

DEVITT SURVIVES!

An explosion of excitement overtakes the crowd as they feverishly cheer for Devitt, and The Fallen are pissed. Abigail straddles Devitt, raining down vicious forearms to the head. She rolls off and allows Syn to pick him up, holding him back by the arms as Abigail tees off on him - when Devitt breaks free! Forearm for Abigail! Forearm for Syn! Devitt twists to and fro, knocking them both back, until he has enough space to plant Abigail with a slingblade! He charges Syn, ducking under the Big Rig Lariat - AND SYN EATS THE END! Malakai pops up out of nowhere, and shuts off Syn’s lights! There’s nobody home in the eyes of the Poisoned Prince, and he rolls out of the ring, leaving Abigail as the last one standing. She tries to charge them, but Malakai nails her with The End as well! Abigail’s head whips to the side, and she’s out on her feet! Brody King scoops her up, and spikes her with the Gonzo Bomb! Malakai pulls her into position as Devitt finds purchase on the top rope. He takes flight, finishing her off with the Coup De Grace, and Malakai sits down at the same moment, Brody King taking watch as Devitt folds her up!

1… 2… 3!

“Here are your winners, Buddy Matthews, Brody King, Prince Devitt, and Malakai Black, the House of Black!”

Prince Devitt scores another pinball over Sister Abigail, for the second week in a row, as the House continue their impressive winning streak over The Fallen. Abigail is left lying in a broken heap in the middle of the ring, Julia still trapped in the barbed wire, unconscious, as MJF is feebly trying to drag Syn up the rampway. The House of Black’s hands are raised in victory, capping off a particularly spooky October night filled with fun hijinks, ancient wrestling deities, and enough blood to fill up the local hospital for the next year. But that’s all for tonight, folks! We’ll see you next week for the final stop on the road to Hell on Earth!

[verydesperatehousewife]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Figenzi Ma Richesse For Women Eau de Parfum Spray 3.3 oz Fragrance Floral 98%.

[booticro]

Cu ajutorul spray-ului odorizant cu iasomie vei umple aerul din casa ta cu o aroma suava care sa te relaxeze si care sa te faca sa uiti de grijile cotidiene.

[vishnuveera]

Madagascar Magnificence Navigating the Optimal Time for Your Journey

Madagascar is a country with diverse climates and geographical features, making it a fascinating destination to explore. When planning your trip, it's essential to consider the best time to visit to make the most of your adventure. Here are some planning tips for visiting Madagascar, focusing on the best time to go.

The dry season, particularly from May to October, is considered the best time to visit Madagascar. During these months, the weather is cooler and more pleasant, making it ideal for outdoor activities and wildlife spotting. The roads are also more accessible, and the risk of tropical cyclones is significantly lower.

The peak tourist season in Madagascar is from June to September and around Christmas. These months offer the best weather conditions, and the tourist infrastructure is better prepared to accommodate visitors. However, it's worth noting that prices may be higher during this period, and popular attractions may be more crowded.

If you plan to visit Tsingy De Bemaraha National Park, be aware that the road is only driveable between April and November, and Grand Tsingy (the main event) is only open from June to the beginning of November. It's recommended to visit no later than late October to avoid road closures and ensure access to the park's main attractions.

The rainy season in Madagascar (November – April) can bring tropical cyclones, especially in the east. The main cyclone season is February & March, and road conditions can deteriorate, making travel more challenging. Some attractions may also be inaccessible during this time.

Madagascar operates on a slower pace, known as 'mora mora' (said 'mura mura'), which means 'slowly', 'take it easy', or just 'less'. Embracing this concept will help you enjoy your trip and adapt to any unexpected changes in plans or delays.

Pack comfortable and breathable clothing for Madagascar, with women dressing relatively modestly. Don't forget to check the temperature and likelihood of rain in the season/places you are travelling. Sunscreen, bug spray, and a good camera with a long zoom are also essential for wildlife hikes.

By considering these planning tips, you can ensure a safe, enjoyable, and well-informed trip to Madagascar.

[msockriter]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Victoria's Secret Bombshell Perfume Women's Spray Eau de Parfum 50 ML 1.7 Oz..

[staarnews]

The Very Messy Story of a Celebrity Nightclub Gone Wrong

War has broken out in London’s clubland with swastika graffiti, claims of death threats and “mercenaries” fighting for control of a legendary nightspot.

Since it reopened in 2012, The Scotch of St. James has become a haunt for A-listers and aristocrats including Rihanna, Harry Styles and Prince William, hosting private parties for fashion brands and album launches.

Back in its heyday in the 60s, it was famed for attracting rock-and-roll royalty – including Keith Moon and Jimi Hendrix – as well as drug-fuelled punch-ups. But today, it's the owners not the celebrity patrons who are fighting.

The recent hostilities have spilled out of the courtroom and into the streets, leading one of the club’s partners, Tim Lalic, to flee abroad in apparent fear for his life and the other to hire bodyguards.

Before Lalic, 37, abandoned his Hampstead home, he sent the Metropolitan Police a lengthy dossier claiming that his millionaire business partner, Vahram Papazyan, was using thugs to intimidate and blackmail him into handing over the club.

CCTV footage attached to Lalic’s police complaint shows semi-hooded men delivering legal letters on one day and on another, spraying a swastika on his parents’ front door.

Lalic, who is originally from Croatia and now has a British passport, also claims a swastika and the word “PEADO” [sic] were daubed in the same yellow paint on either side of his black Range Rover.

Papazyan, 34, told World News that Lalic’s accusations were “completely false”, and that he was not behind any of these threats. He said that his family’s company in the United Arab Emirates is owed £3.6 million from bankrolling his push to be a behind-the-scenes club owner, with Lalic as the day-to-day manager. But Lalic, who he described as his best friend, had “fraudulently” taken control of The Scotch.

During the period just before Christmas, when the COVID lockdown in England was briefly lifted, Papazyan arrived with heavies at the entrance to the club in Mason’s Yard, a cobbled cul-de-sac behind Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly, central London.

Doormen at The Scotch refused him entry, which led to a tense stand-off in front of regular guests. Pulling heavily on his cigarette, a “fuming” Papazyan leaned towards a doorman and outlined what sounded like a plan to storm the door and take over the club if Lalic, who was inside, didn’t cede control.

The exchange, recorded on the bouncer’s body-worn camera, captures Papazyan saying he'd hired “mercenaries [on] 10K per day.”

Door storming is a tactic rival security companies use to take the contract from a sitting company by showing up their weakness. Alternatively, a rival club owner can send in thugs to provoke violence in the hope that the club’s licence will be revoked. Door storming to take outright control of a club is rare.

“I had security with me because I was worried about what was going to happen when I got inside. They were paid. I was trying to as much as possible create a storm outside.

He was eventually allowed in on his own to talk to Lalic. The sit-down was heated. “I told him I was very upset and would see it through to the end,” Papazyan said.

The Scotch of St. James opened its doors on the 14th of July 1965 with a launch attended by both the Beatles and Rolling Stones, and many other celebrity guests. Unlike many of its rock patrons, The Scotch survived the 70s but was in terminal decline as tastes changed in the 80s, when it became an upmarket strip club.

It could have remained another dance floor death in clubland had two best friends, who met at Oxford Brookes University, not decided to make a move on London in 2011.

At the time, Lalic was running Papazyan’s martial arts-gym business in Oxford. Keen to move into the world of posh London clubs and bars, the pair were introduced to Freddie Achom, who ran the successful Mayfair nightclub Jalouse – formerly the Hanover Grand. Alongside his A-list contacts, Achom had a fraud conviction for a wine scam that cost him a year in prison.

Papazyan and Lalic formed an uneasy alliance with Achom and in October 2011, they took over The Scotch lease for £275,000. The trio knew nothing about the venue’s seminal place in 60s London. But when Achom learned of the history, he suggested resurrecting The Scotch brand to “bring back some old names too."

After a £300,000 refurbishment, the club re-opened on the 19th of January 2012. Achom effectively ran it with his team from Jalouse. A new rock royalty flocked to The Scotch, along with Prince William and Kate Middleton. Stella McCartney had a private party there, and soon Lalic and Papazyan found that their own guests were being turned away from the nightspot they owned, according to a source.

In September 2012, the pair took back control and barred Achom from The Scotch. But he sued and won a payout two years later.

Having lost their celebrity pied piper, Papazyan and Lalic went into partnership with Carl Hirschmann, a 32-year-old Swiss millionaire. Hirschmann was heir to the Jet Aviation fortune and already had quite a reputation on the international party circuit. He was linked to a former Miss Switzerland, hotel heiress Paris Hilton and model Noemie Lenoir.

Hirschmann also owned Le Baron, an exclusive Zurich nightclub for the Swiss elite, but wanted to move away from that scene when Papazyan and Lalic approached him through a mutual friend.

“They needed cash, basically. I said I don’t want anything to do with nightclubs but if I can come in and out of that little spot and have a place where I’m known and I don’t have to worry about the door – that’s how I came to be involved indirectly,” Hirschmann, speaking in 2016, said. According to court documents, he put £650,000 into The Scotch through his Malta-based company Heaven Holdings Limited.

The Swiss playboy saw The Scotch as a “little speakeasy” where he could entertain close friends and relax in “a civilised environment where you don’t have little kids spraying Champagne around and jumping to bad music.”

However, in May 2016, Hirschmann was arrested for assaulting a Scotch punter who was hospitalised with a cut to the head from a flying glass. He emailed his victim begging him not to “destroy” his life by pressing charges. But a trial went ahead and Hirschmann pleaded guilty to the assault.

At the time of the assault, Hirschmann had only recently left prison for having a 15-year-old girl perform oral sex on him in the toilet of his Swiss nightclub. He claimed lies were told about her age and he was targeted because of his fame and fortune, but pleaded guilty and served one year in open prison conditions where he was allowed out during the day.

Papazyan and Lalic bought out Hirschmann in 2017. Documents show he was paid £520,000. But Papazyan claims his family personally paid another £400,000 to seal the deal.

At around the same time, HM Revenue and Customs began a criminal investigation into The Scotch and other venues owned by Papazyan and Lalic, including the Match Bar and B Soho. The taxman eventually agreed on a £1.2 million payment to settle the case.

Steven Miley

[rmlnewss]

The Very Messy Story of a Celebrity Nightclub Gone Wrong

War has broken out in London’s clubland with swastika graffiti, claims of death threats and “mercenaries” fighting for control of a legendary nightspot.

Since it reopened in 2012, The Scotch of St. James has become a haunt for A-listers and aristocrats including Rihanna, Harry Styles and Prince William, hosting private parties for fashion brands and album launches.

Back in its heyday in the 60s, it was famed for attracting rock-and-roll royalty – including Keith Moon and Jimi Hendrix – as well as drug-fuelled punch-ups. But today, it's the owners not the celebrity patrons who are fighting.

The recent hostilities have spilled out of the courtroom and into the streets, leading one of the club’s partners, Tim Lalic, to flee abroad in apparent fear for his life and the other to hire bodyguards.

Before Lalic, 37, abandoned his Hampstead home, he sent the Metropolitan Police a lengthy dossier claiming that his millionaire business partner, Vahram Papazyan, was using thugs to intimidate and blackmail him into handing over the club.

CCTV footage attached to Lalic’s police complaint shows semi-hooded men delivering legal letters on one day and on another, spraying a swastika on his parents’ front door.

Lalic, who is originally from Croatia and now has a British passport, also claims a swastika and the word “PEADO” [sic] were daubed in the same yellow paint on either side of his black Range Rover.

Papazyan, 34, told World News that Lalic’s accusations were “completely false”, and that he was not behind any of these threats. He said that his family’s company in the United Arab Emirates is owed £3.6 million from bankrolling his push to be a behind-the-scenes club owner, with Lalic as the day-to-day manager. But Lalic, who he described as his best friend, had “fraudulently” taken control of The Scotch.

During the period just before Christmas, when the COVID lockdown in England was briefly lifted, Papazyan arrived with heavies at the entrance to the club in Mason’s Yard, a cobbled cul-de-sac behind Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly, central London.

Doormen at The Scotch refused him entry, which led to a tense stand-off in front of regular guests. Pulling heavily on his cigarette, a “fuming” Papazyan leaned towards a doorman and outlined what sounded like a plan to storm the door and take over the club if Lalic, who was inside, didn’t cede control.

The exchange, recorded on the bouncer’s body-worn camera, captures Papazyan saying he'd hired “mercenaries [on] 10K per day.”

Door storming is a tactic rival security companies use to take the contract from a sitting company by showing up their weakness. Alternatively, a rival club owner can send in thugs to provoke violence in the hope that the club’s licence will be revoked. Door storming to take outright control of a club is rare.

“I had security with me because I was worried about what was going to happen when I got inside. They were paid. I was trying to as much as possible create a storm outside.

He was eventually allowed in on his own to talk to Lalic. The sit-down was heated. “I told him I was very upset and would see it through to the end,” Papazyan said.

The Scotch of St. James opened its doors on the 14th of July 1965 with a launch attended by both the Beatles and Rolling Stones, and many other celebrity guests. Unlike many of its rock patrons, The Scotch survived the 70s but was in terminal decline as tastes changed in the 80s, when it became an upmarket strip club.

It could have remained another dance floor death in clubland had two best friends, who met at Oxford Brookes University, not decided to make a move on London in 2011.

At the time, Lalic was running Papazyan’s martial arts-gym business in Oxford. Keen to move into the world of posh London clubs and bars, the pair were introduced to Freddie Achom, who ran the successful Mayfair nightclub Jalouse – formerly the Hanover Grand. Alongside his A-list contacts, Achom had a fraud conviction for a wine scam that cost him a year in prison.

Papazyan and Lalic formed an uneasy alliance with Achom and in October 2011, they took over The Scotch lease for £275,000. The trio knew nothing about the venue’s seminal place in 60s London. But when Achom learned of the history, he suggested resurrecting The Scotch brand to “bring back some old names too."

After a £300,000 refurbishment, the club re-opened on the 19th of January 2012. Achom effectively ran it with his team from Jalouse. A new rock royalty flocked to The Scotch, along with Prince William and Kate Middleton. Stella McCartney had a private party there, and soon Lalic and Papazyan found that their own guests were being turned away from the nightspot they owned, according to a source.

In September 2012, the pair took back control and barred Achom from The Scotch. But he sued and won a payout two years later.

Having lost their celebrity pied piper, Papazyan and Lalic went into partnership with Carl Hirschmann, a 32-year-old Swiss millionaire. Hirschmann was heir to the Jet Aviation fortune and already had quite a reputation on the international party circuit. He was linked to a former Miss Switzerland, hotel heiress Paris Hilton and model Noemie Lenoir.

Hirschmann also owned Le Baron, an exclusive Zurich nightclub for the Swiss elite, but wanted to move away from that scene when Papazyan and Lalic approached him through a mutual friend.

“They needed cash, basically. I said I don’t want anything to do with nightclubs but if I can come in and out of that little spot and have a place where I’m known and I don’t have to worry about the door – that’s how I came to be involved indirectly,” Hirschmann, speaking in 2016, said. According to court documents, he put £650,000 into The Scotch through his Malta-based company Heaven Holdings Limited.

The Swiss playboy saw The Scotch as a “little speakeasy” where he could entertain close friends and relax in “a civilised environment where you don’t have little kids spraying Champagne around and jumping to bad music.”

However, in May 2016, Hirschmann was arrested for assaulting a Scotch punter who was hospitalised with a cut to the head from a flying glass. He emailed his victim begging him not to “destroy” his life by pressing charges. But a trial went ahead and Hirschmann pleaded guilty to the assault.

At the time of the assault, Hirschmann had only recently left prison for having a 15-year-old girl perform oral sex on him in the toilet of his Swiss nightclub. He claimed lies were told about her age and he was targeted because of his fame and fortune, but pleaded guilty and served one year in open prison conditions where he was allowed out during the day.

Papazyan and Lalic bought out Hirschmann in 2017. Documents show he was paid £520,000. But Papazyan claims his family personally paid another £400,000 to seal the deal.

At around the same time, HM Revenue and Customs began a criminal investigation into The Scotch and other venues owned by Papazyan and Lalic, including the Match Bar and B Soho. The taxman eventually agreed on a £1.2 million payment to settle the case.

Wendy Carter