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mrsalwayswrite · 2 months ago

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To Call Forth Love - Chapter 20

Happy 2025! (We're going to ignore its been ages since I've updated.)

Special shout-out to @cdauni your ask gave me the boost of confidence to write this chapter!

Words: 7700

Warnings: all the feels and mild smut

Series Masterlist

Warmth and softness surrounded her, a tonic to her weary heart. She wanted to stay here, live in the contentment and peace offered in her sleep.

Unfortunately, her bladder had other ideas.

Wakefulness slithered into her mind, nudging aside the residual sleep and dreams to coil around her mind and squeeze until her eyes popped open. With a muffled groan, Kari gave in. Her eyes slowly opened, bringing her fully into the land of the living.

The first thing she saw made her pause.

Lying within arm's reach was Ivar. Eyes closed. Long lashes dusted his cheeks. Mouth slightly parted. One hand tucked under his face and the other bridged the gap between them, as if seeking her out even in sleep. He appeared so serene in the moment, all the fury and fear wiped away, that impenetrable shield to protect himself was lowered to reveal a softness that was not witnessed during wakefulness.

Before Kari could appreciate the moment more, her bladder reminded her of its dire need.

Very slowly, she scooted off the massive bed, untangling herself from the gray sheets and blanket, planting her bare feet onto the cold, hardwood floor. A dim light came from one of the open doors in the bedroom. Trudging through her groggy memories, Kari thought it might be the bathroom, so she headed in that direction.

Thankfully, her guess was correct. Quietly closing the door, she flipped the light switch on and gasped at the magnificent bathroom.

The entire room was marble, with light gray marble walls, a matching light gray countertop, and dark gray marble flooring. A standing only, glass paneled shower was situated in the corner near the porcelain toilet. But it was the glorious bathtub that held her in its thrall. A gleaming white porcelain tub that appeared the size of a small jacuzzi. Even from where she stood in the doorway, she could see nodules in the tub where jets would come from.

At some point she was going to bask in that tub, she silently vowed to herself.

Finally emerging from her beautiful bathtub haze, she hurried to the toilet on the other side of the bathroom and did what she came there to do.

Standing at the bathroom sink, washing her hands in the warm water, her mind began to attempt to piece together the night before. She remembered the car crash, being at the hospital, and the reunion with Ivar. She could recall the drive back to the brothers’ house, cuddled against Ivar, biting back the tears and screams bubbling up in her throat.

Whilst in the hospital, the sun finally descended and now all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. Once they arrived, Ragnar and Hvitserk practically dragged her and Ivar to the kitchen, forcing them to eat something, carrying on a conversation nearby which she did not mind, as she picked at the sausage, cheese, crackers and grapes that Ragnar had pulled together for them. If she felt tired, Ivar looked like he was already asleep as he mindlessly put pieces of food into his mouth and chewed. Since stepping out of the vehicle, his hand held hers, refusing to release her. Even now, sitting next to her on a stool, he kept his hand always on her, either slowly rubbing circles on her lower back or hand placed on her thigh. For her comfort or his own was debatable, but she would not deny how it filled her with a comforting warmth.

After they had consumed enough to satisfy Ragnar, the two were allowed to retire.

Asking politely where the spare room was she could sleep in, Kari was shocked by the loud snarl that erupted from the man beside her and his sharp comment of ‘fuck that’. She was equally startled by the muffled snorts and chuckles by the other two Lothbroks still in the kitchen.

Without a word of thanks to his brother or father, Ivar grabbed her hand and led her away. She tried to pay attention where he led her. Going down a hallway away from the kitchen, they passed several rooms. The only one with an open door that Kari could glimpse into showcased a couch and shelves of books. The library. Heat flooded her cheeks when she recalled what happened last time they were in that room together. Had it really been over a month ago?

They continued, turning the corner into a new hallway with only one door midway down.

Weak moonlight peeked through the large windows to cast the bedroom in shade and shadow. The poor light illuminated the massive bed just in front of the windows. Gently, Ivar led her there, guiding her to sit down. After she settled, he walked towards one of the two doors to the right of the bed, disappeared for a brief minute and then returned carrying something.

“Here.” He handed her what looked like a t-shirt. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“I'm okay.”

He grunted, rubbing his temple and headed there himself.

Before she could second guess herself, she quickly changed into Ivar's t-shirt, guessing it was some sort of band shirt but unable to truly tell in the low light. She made a careful pile of her folded clothes, setting them on the nightstand next to the side of the bed. As she sat down again, her eyes roamed over the shadowy bedroom. It reminded her of a studio apartment…well perhaps a large one with the amount of floor space. To the left of the bed looked like a kitchenette, with a full fridge and a few small appliances on a countertop next to it. An impressive bookshelf stood next to a huge TV, mounted against the wall across the bed. The bed itself was easily a California king size, with a large, metal headboard, making Kari wonder if she could get lost in the enormity of it.

Before Kari could snoop more, Ivar opened the bathroom door, wearing just a pair of sweatpants. He slowly walked over to the opposite side of the bed, pain etched in every step, hand braced on whatever solid object was nearby to take some of his weight. After sitting down on the bed, he unbuckled his leg braces, the clunk of them against the nightstand as he leaned them against was loud in the silent bedroom.

Without a word, he pulled the covers down, dragging himself backwards and under the covers with a relieved sigh.

“Kari. Get in bed.” He grumbled when she apparently took too long to follow his actions.

Unable to fully suppress the small smile, she mirrored his actions, slipping under the plush covers on the opposite side of the bed from him. As soon as she settled, Ivar attacked. Using his long arms, he snagged her around the waist, causing her to squeak, and pulled her flush against him, her back to his chest, tucking his face into her hair.

“Good night, Kari.” He whispered, pressing his lips to the top of her head, a large hand splayed over her stomach.

“Sweet dreams, Ivar.” She placed her smaller hand over his, entwining their fingers.

He hummed a pleased sound in response.

In that unfamiliar bed, with all the trauma of the day, Kari expected it would take a long time to unwind and be able to sleep, to ignore the memories and the fear waiting in the shadows of her mind. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the day and weeks leading up to it that helped her drift off into a peaceful slumber. As she lay in Ivar's arms, comforted and protected, safe in his embrace and cared for, she knew her peace was attributed to the man who looked at her like he would burn the world down to keep her warm.

Now standing at the sink, she stilled, planting her hands firmly on the countertop. The draw to turn away enticed her, to refrain from acknowledging the pain she could feel in her body. Stupid, she mentally chided herself, coward. So with a deep breath, she lifted her gaze to finally look at herself in the mirror. She was not sure what she expected to see. Logically she knew the car accident was minor compared to others, but she still expected to see…well, more. The left side of her head was tender, a dull ache radiating from it. A small band aid covered the cut on her temple, begrudgingly placed there by the discharge nurse at Ragnar's insistence. A few small scrapes were scattered across her face. Tugging on the t-shirt she wore, the hem dancing along her thighs, the blossoming bruises following the path of the seat belt were just visible. As if with the reminder, a fresh wave of pain crested over her, her body sore and ached all over like she was recovering from the flu or had worked out too hard the prior day and was now dealing with the aftermath.

Her hands began to shake as the memories awoke with the review of her injuries. Images sealed in a locked part of her mind, jostled free from the car accident. The sun shone brilliantly that day, a perfect summer's day. The screeching of tires on the pavement. The crunch of two opposing forces crashing into one another. Devastation. Blood and screams. Blue-green eyes staring into hers but unseeing. Even as she cried his name, begging him–

“KARI!”

The abrupt shout of her name startled her from the spiraling her brain attempted to drag her into, forcing her to relive unwanted memories. She dragged in a shuddering breath as the memories vanished like smoke.

Immediately, she turned and opened the bathroom door, walking back into the bedroom. Whatever her mind could possibly conjure was in no way close to the sight before her eyes.

Ivar sat up in his bed, covers pooled around his waist and bare chest on display. A sight that would have been drool-worthy normally. But not now. Not with his wide eyes, panic and terror evident in them. His chest rising and falling as if in a fight for each breath. Hands clenched the gray sheets.

As soon as the bathroom door opened, panicked eyes swept to her, those blues churning like an uneasy sea.

“Kari?” He mouthed in a near whisper.

“Yeah.” She hesitantly replied, never seeing him so distraught before. “Ivar, are you okay?”

“You're here.”

“Yeah.”

“You're here. You're here.” He stared at her, speaking as if to himself, as if reassuring himself she was not a mirage. “You didn't– you're not– ohh fuck…you're– fuck!” He scrubbed his hands over his eyes roughly, the dark cast on his right hand most likely grating against his skin.

“Ivar?” She moved a step, concern drawing her in.

His eyes raised back up to her, tears filling them, chin wobbling. He raised a hand out to her, silently beckoning her closer.

And she responded with a second thought.

Hurrying across the space, she crawled back into the bed until she was next to his trembling form. Before she could apologize or question him, Ivar did something she never thought she would ever truly see. He tucked his head into the crook of her neck and began to cry. Not soft, silent tears. Not feeble cries of sadness. No, these sounded like they came from the depths of his soul. A keening of helplessness, of despair, of brokenness. With gasping breaths, he clung to her like she was a mast on a ship rolling on stormy waves, hoping to just survive.

Her arms banded around him, holding him close, feeling each ragged attempt to fill his lungs, body shaking with the force of his cries. One hand pressed against the back of his neck to keep him from pulling away. Listening to him, hearing him bleed out his pain and sorrow, how could she turn away?

How long they stayed that way, she was unsure. At some point, tears coated her cheeks as her own swirling, chaotic emotions spilled forth. Time morphed as they gripped onto one another, a safe harbor to weather the storm, to drain the turbulent emotions hounding them for weeks.

“I thought you were gone…” He choked out once his sobs lost their sharp edges. “I thought–fuck…I can't–I...” He tried to pull away, starting to lean back. She sensed that broken barrier of his attempt to rise, to separate them, to protect himself.

And she was not having that.

Not now.

Only allowing him to sit up enough so she could cup his face, she refused to let him fully retreat from her. His vivid, blue eyes swam with residual tears, red-rimmed and huge. Yet still so beautiful.

“Ivar, it's okay. I've got you.” She cooed, brushing the tear tracks from his cheeks, praying her touch soothed the cracked and bleeding edges in his soul. “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

He exhaled a harsh breath as his eyes slammed shut. She could feel the fight drain from him, that need to protect himself. Once again, he gave in, surrendered to the tsunami of writhing emotions. He pressed his forehead against hers as his shoulders shook with soft sobs with the last of his tears, the purging of the final poison from the body.

“I'm sorry, Kari, I'm so fucking sorry. For everything.” The words poured forth, a dam unlocked. “I never meant— you didn't deserve that. I promised, I fucking promised! And then–” he choked on a sob, drawing it back in as his confession continued to flow freely. “I'll do anything, whatever you want. Just name it. I'll do anything. Just please…please don't leave me. I can't– I need you, I need you so much it fucking hurts. Please, let me make it up to you. Anything. Anything you want. Just don't– don't leave me alone.”

Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as she listened to his words, heard the raw pain in his voice, and was finally allowed to witness the sheer well of need and feelings he kept locked up to protect his heart. A well she had only caught glimpses of in the past, but now the gate was wide open and she was allowed to enter. To truly see and marvel at the fathomless depths of his feelings.

Ivar hissed, voice thick, as he tenderly wiped away the tears dripping off her chin. “No, no, kjære. Don't cry, not for me. I'm not worth it.”

“Of course you're worth it, you silly man!” She laugh-cried. “I care about you…so much. It's been so hard being away from you. God, I thought of you everyday. I just– I needed space but I missed you so much.”

“Kari–” he whispered.

“And even after I didn't talk to you for three weeks, you still came for me. You saved me.”

“I didn't sav–”

“You saved me!” She interrupted, tone in such a way he was unable to refuse. “I was so scared, I couldn't, I just–and then you came. And I knew I was safe. That everything would be okay cause you were there. That you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me.”

“Fuck,” his voice hard with his confession, “I'll do anything to keep you safe. I swear it. I'd die for you, Kari.”

“Ivar, no–”

“I would. I'd do anything for you to be happy, even if that isn't with– I just need you to be happy.”

“I've never been happier than when I'm with you.”

He released a shattering breath, a shiver wracking his body, as if his body fought to absorb her own confession, her own truth.

“Want to know something I learned? I think I've known it for a while but I– I was scared for it to be true?” She did not wait for his response, thumbs gently stroking his damp cheeks. “That when I think of home– it's always your face that's the first thing that comes to mind.”

He groaned, voice hitching as he spoke. “Kari, fuck, kitten, you can't- stop making me cry, fuck!”

They both chuckled wetly, foreheads pressed together, breathing in each other's presence. So longed for and finally here. Allowing their fractured, splintered hearts to begin to mend. Their touch, their words, a healing balm desperately needed.

“Kari? Can I kiss you?” Nerves and lingering fear tainted his voice as he asked. “Please?”

A million thoughts sped through her mind but only one word slipped past her guard, to touch the air and admit her need for him.

“Yes.”

Not wasting a moment, his lips brushed hers hesitantly, as if expecting her to pull away, to rescind her agreement. Once, twice, the gentlest of touches. A soft tease. A hesitant experiment. A hopeful promise.

Instead of waiting for him to take control, Kari firmly pressed her lips to his, melding their mouths together, the need for him overwhelming. Her hands tangled in his loose hair, keeping him where she wanted him. Refusing to give ground to the battle waging within him.

With the open invitation, Ivar invaded. What soft, pressing of their lips, sipping from each other's mouth, tasting what they both had desired and yearned for once again, quickly became heated. A clash of tongues and teeth. Hands tugging and roaming. A plundering. A feasting. A celebration and an apology embedded in each feverish kiss.

Under the onslaught of his affections, Kari found herself laying on her back on the bed, Ivar hovering over her like a dark guardian angel, wings of protection and adoration draped over her form.

After one more greedy kiss, Ivar leaned back, those piercing blue eyes peering down at her. “Fuck, kitten, I need you. I need– I need to know you're alright.”

“What..?” Her mind in a dizzying haze, but somehow through the fog, she knew what that typically meant. A tension replaced the languid ease, coiling in her gut as she prepared to push him away. It had not been even twenty-four hours back in his presence, she was not ready for that. She should stop th–

“I know.” He pecked her lips, silencing her worries as if sensing her insecurity. “I know you aren't – trust me, okay?”

She stared up at him, heart pounding within her chest, but unable to deny the devotion in his gaze. Somehow she knew, with every atom in her body, he would not dismiss her concern, not now. “I do. I trust you, Ivar.”

He groaned, pressing his forehead to hers. “You're too good for me.” After a moment, he sat up, hovering over her, hands gliding down to the hem of his t-shirt she wore. She tensed for a brief moment, in awe when he stopped and made eye contact, waiting for her permission.

“I trust you.” She murmured.

With that, he slid the t-shirt up her body, mindful of his cast not scratching her soft skin, and helped slip it over her head, leaving her in a purple sports bra and a black thong.

“You're beautiful.”

Tears welled back up in her eyes at the sheer adoration in his voice, the devotion in his eyes as he gazed down on her. Was this what a blind man looked like when he saw the sun or the stars for the first time? How could she not trust him? To fall a little deeper into the well of affection for him when he beheld her like that?

He gently brushed his fingers where she could feel the bruises from the seat belt begin on her shoulder. “Does this hurt?”

“Only a little.”

He hummed before tipping forward and placing a light kiss where his fingers had just touched. Instead of pulling back, his lips traveled. He placed gentle kisses along the line of bruises across her chest, only tugging her bra down slightly to kiss the space between her breasts before continuing the path downward.

Once he reached her side, he paused to meet her eyes. At that moment, she thought she could happily drown in the vastness of them, a clear sky she wanted to soar in forever.

Still gazing at her, he slid a single digit along her underwear line. “Can I?”

“Ah, s-sure.”

With tender care, he tugged her thong down her legs, making her heart race and nerves awaken with their descent, then he tossed them off over the side of the massive bed.

“Hey!” Her eyes followed their fall before snapping back to him.

“You don't need those around me.” He said cheekily, yet his gaze remained on the spot between her legs, bare for his perusal.

Nerves awoke the butterflies in her belly, making them dance and swarm. Subconsciously, she tried to shift her legs, to close them, to prevent her most intimate part from being on display.

“No.” Ivar snapped, but without heat, placing his hands on her knees to prevent her movement. He glanced up at her, watching, waiting. When she made no further movement, no denial leaving her lips, even as her throat constricted with the butterflies clambering upward, he smirked down at her like a conquering hero. “Good girl.”

Then for the second time that day, he did the unexpected.

Slowly, he slid back on the bed until he laid on his stomach, gaze never wavering from hers, keeping her restrained from moving, a prisoner to him alone.

“Ivar, what–”

But when his mouth pressed against her inner thigh, an open-mouth kiss so close to her core, her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes drifted closed as she gripped the sheet on the bed, anything to ground her from the sensation shooting through her body.

He chuckled wickedly then licked a thick, scalding line against her folds.

“Oh!” She gasped, body jolting at the new sensation, overly aware of the wetness already dampening her core.

“Gods, I've dreamt of this. So fucking good.” He murmured against her thigh before diving back in.

He teased her folds with his tongue, tasting, tormenting, driving her wild, lips occasionally moving to play and suck on her clit before returning to her core. When her legs closed against his head, it only seemed to spur him onward. Distinctly she wondered how long his tongue was as he seemed to be attempting to taste her spine through her, touching something within her that made her hips attempt to buck off the bed and infuse her moans in the air around them.

It was all she could do to remember to breathe, as he played her like an instrument he mastered. His name dripped from her lips like honey, a chanting of his name, a petition to her god. Every thought fled her body, her whole focus narrowed down to his touch, to the fire scouring her veins.

“My Kari. My kitten.” He whispered against her skin, branding her with his words, only to dive back in and feast.

She could feel that edge getting closer, that coil winding tighter and tighter within her belly, almost ready to snap, to fall into oblivion, when suddenly Ivar drew back.

“Don't you fucking leave me again.” He commanded hoarsely, biting her inner thigh, sending a wave of pained pleasure streaking through her. “Fuck, I need you, Kari.”

“Ivar, please….”

“Promise me!” He snarled, hands on her thighs, keeping her restrained, denying her the friction she so desperately sought. At her responding whine, he bit her again. “Promise me you'll stay!”

“I promise.” She sobbed, desperate for her release. Hands clawed at the sheets, the back of his head, anything to keep her from this tormenting limbo. “Please, Ivar, please!”

Then he descended, claiming her as if a man possessed, sending her soaring, seeing stars with a shriek of his name.

When she could finally open her eyes, heart still beating a rapid tempo within her chest, her gaze froze on the sight of Ivar leaning his head against her thigh, his eyes trained on her with a sweet smile on his glistening lips. Something about the curve of his mouth, the almost dazed look in his blue eyes, she realized she had never seen him look so soft, so blissful, like he had touched the stars alongside her.

Yet even in the afterglow of her orgasm, a realization of what she allowed him to do, of how she was still bare from the waist down. A flashing feeling of embarrassment and shame shot through her, but she tried to ignore it, refusing to give it the space to tear away the wonderful feeling she floated on.

“Hi.” She said, shyly.

He chuckled impishly. “That good, huh?”

Now a warmth blossomed on her cheeks. “I'm not sure I can move.”

“Mmmm…good. I don't plan on you going anywhere.” He crawled up her body, planting a smacking kiss to her lips then flopped on his back next to her. After a long, silent minute, he spoke up again, confidence wavering like candlelight in his voice. “Was it– did you like it?”

She almost laughed, turning on her side to face him. “Could you not tell? Gods, that was…”

“I've–” He huffed, running a hand through his hair as he stared up at the ceiling. “I've never gone down on anyone.”

“What?”

He started to open his mouth then snapped it shut and only shrugged, refusing to remove his gaze from the ceiling.

She leaned up slightly, just enough to fully see his face and catch his gaze. “Ivar, that was incredible. I think I'm still seeing stars.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She was charmed by his boyish pride, that twinkle in his eyes and the tilt of his lips upward, he looked so pleased with himself. “What…what about you? I mean, do you need–um…”

He laughed, carefully grabbing her hand and bringing it to his crotch. Instead of having her pull his cock out, he placed her hand on the fabric of his sweatpants. Immediately, she yanked her hand back, mouth open in shock at the large wet spot she had touched.

“What–”

“Apparently, I enjoyed it too. Fuck, I don't know the last time I cumed in my trousers. You were so fucking sexy though. Gods, I can't wait to do it again. I need to hear you moaning my name at least one more time today, preferably twice.”

“Oh my gods, Ivar! You can't-you can't say stuff like that!”

“What? That I found you moaning my name the fucking sexiest thing I've ever heard. Wait! Can you do it again and I'll make it my ringtone?”

She laughed, even as she ducked her head, pressing it to his shoulder with the wave of embarrassment crashing over her. “You wouldn't.”

His lighthearted chuckle was music to her ears. “No, those sounds are for my ears alone. I'm selfish when it comes to you. Only I get to taste you, to hear you moan, to hold you. And I won't apologize for being a fucking selfish asshole about it.”

Leaning back up on her elbow, she reached over and traced his Mjolnir necklace laying on his chest, biting her bottom lip as fresh thoughts raced across her mind.

“What?” He asked.

“I…I want us to work. I want an…I want an ‘us’. I want to be your girlfriend.” As his mouth started to open, she placed a finger over his lips. At his slow nod, she withdrew her hand and continued to trace the necklace, eyes on the swirls and markings on it. “But there's conditions. First, we need honesty between us. I know there's certain things with your work that you can't tell me about. And that's fine, I get it. But in regard to us, to our relationship, I need to trust you. You hurt me, Ivar. More than– like…ugh, it hurt. But I am trusting you won't do that again. That if something comes up and you question me and my feelings for you, that you'd come to me first instead of taking the accusation at face value. Okay?”

“I promise.” The agreement held a tone of reverence, as if vowing to her and his gods. It sent a shiver down her spine.

“Good, and one more thing.” She snapped her eyes up to bore into his. “If you ever lay your hands on me again like that, I will walk away and not come back.”

“I know, min skatt. It won't happen again.”

“I'm serious, Ivar. I won't– I can handle a lot but that…”

Somehow he seemed to understand what she meant. Tugging her hand away from the necklace, he pressed her knuckles to his lips. “I don't want you to be frightened of me. I never wanted you to be scared because of me. Others, yes. It's– it's a way to maintain control, to have others terrified of what you'll do in revenge. But not you, never you.” With his casted hand, he brought it to gently run the back of his fingers over her jaw, gazing at her in what could only be described as wonder.

She fidgeted under that look. “What?”

“You–you're too good for me.” He huffed out a chuckle. Carefully, he guided her to lay back down, both of them now laying on their sides facing one another. “I had planned to grovel for your forgiveness. I was willing to do fucking anything. Buy you whatever you want. I would even kneel to beg for your forgiveness, to beg for another chance to prove I can be better.”

“I don't need you to buy me things.”

“What can I do? How can I prove it?”

“You did already.” She whispered, losing herself in the sincerity of his voice and the pleading in his eyes. “You came for me. When I was terrified, you came. My hero.”

He laughed wetly. “My Kari, my beautiful girlfriend.” With an devious smirk, he leaned up slightly to slot his lips over hers, stealing a kiss. “Mine.” He declared before stealing another kiss. “My girlfriend.” Another kiss. “My sweet.” Another kiss. “Mine.”

She laughed, pulling away from his searching lips, to trace them with her fingers. “And you're mine. My boyfriend.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Ivar…”

He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, making her squirm, even as he snickered. “You think I was possessive before? Shit. I'm never letting you out of my fucking sight now. I'm going to keep you in my bed forever. There's no need for clothes, since I plan on having you over me…or under me as often as possible.”

She laughed, then squeaked as his hand traced up her bare thigh and grabbed an ass cheek. “Ivar!”

“I can work on my laptop. You can do your yoga next to the bed, then immediately get back in. We'll watch fucking good shows, not your romantic shit. Hvitserk will deliver us food. Hmmm…on second thought, he'll eat it. I'll pay someone to bring it in here.”

“You're being ridiculous. What about my wor– oh gods! Lydia!” She abruptly sat up, dislodging him in her frantic movement. “Oh crap! She's probably worried. I'm supposed to be at work right now! And I have my other job tonight. Oh no. Crap, crap, crap.”

“What other job?”

She scanned around, trying to remember if she had her phone. “What? Oh, I got another job in the evenings.”

“Why?”

“I…I needed it. My rent went up, so, yeah.”

“Kari,” he sighed out her name, trailing a hand down her arm, “I would have paid for your rent. All you had to do was ask.”

“I know, Ivar. I didn't want to. I can figure it out. It's fine.”

“Please, Kjære, let me help.”

Releasing a slow exhale, she shifted to look down at him. “I–I'll think about it. First I need to call Lydia. I need to tell her I'll be late.”

“You're not going in today.”

“I have too. I need the paycheck.”

He audibly growled, rising up beside her, nostrils flaring and jaw clenched. “Kari, you were in a goddamn car accident yesterday and had a concussion. You're out of your fucking mind if you think I'm going to let you go to work. And if I explain this to Lydia, I doubt she'd let you come in too.”

Kari hesitated because honestly, Ivar was right. Even after the pleasurable sensations from her orgasm, her body still felt sore and exhausted. It was that ceaseless drive to prove to herself that she could make it on her own, that she did not need anyone to take care of her. Looking at him though, with the way he seemed ready to tie her to the bed and force her to stay, she wondered if maybe this once it was okay. To lean on him for support and help in more than just friendship.

“Okay…” She caved, “I still need to call her and let her know. Do you know where my phone is?”

“Use mine.” He carefully scooted over and grabbed his from the end table, unlocking it and handing it to her. “We'll ask Hvits if they got your phone at the hospital. While you're calling, I'm going to clean up.” He placed a reassuring kiss on her forehead, a silent thank-you for her change of mind. Dragging himself back to his side of the bed, he swung his legs over the side and grabbed his leg braces, buckling them on.

Mesmerized by his movements, she could only watch his broad back, those tattoos she loved to trace on his skin, his muscular arms, which held her so tenderly, and strong hands that touched her as if she was a priceless gem. He put on the braces then pushed off the bed to walk to the closet door, slipping inside for a minute before coming out with new clothes in hand.

“See something you like?”

She startled, not realizing she was still blatantly ogling his form as he walked across the room. “Yes, I love your body.” She blushed after the words spilled out on their own conviction, as if yanked from her mind without permission.

With eyes widened momentarily, clearly stunned by her easy statement. After that split second, he stomped back over and leaned over the bed to drag her into a drugging kiss that had her gasping into his mouth and fire singing in her veins once more. “Gods, you're perfect.”

“Ivar…” she mumbled, her lips chasing his.

He chuckled, drawing back. “Make your phone call, then I'll take of you.”

She watched him walk into the bathroom and close the door before finally turning her attention to the phone.

Her conversation went as Ivar predicted. She called the main line of the yoga studio, then with Sasha answering, she got Lydia on the phone. Hearing about the accident and concussion, Lydia immediately told her to take at least the rest of the week off and to rest. Kari tried to say she did not need that much time but Lydia insisted and to call her if she needed anything.

Taking note of the morning hour, Kari realized she would have to call the clothing store later to let them know about her accident. They would not even be open for two more hours.

While talking with Lydia, Kari finally dragged herself out of the stupidly huge and comfortable bed to find her scattered clothing. Her black thong was on the ground beside the expansive bed, as if attempting to hide from her. Instead of putting on her own clothes from yesterday, she slipped back into the band t-shirt of Ivar's. In the morning light, she could see the skull on the black fabric and what must be the band's name printed over the top, she thought she recognized the name from one of Ivar's music rants. Next she wandered over to the kitchenette having spied the Keurig. A cup of hot coffee sounded delightful right now, but she became distracted by the dozens of photographs she had somehow missed last night with her initial snooping of his bedroom. She glided over barefoot to the wall of tacked pictures on a cork board almost as tall as her.

Most of the photos showcased stunning scenery, mountains seeming a favorite focal point. A handful of scattered photos were artistic shots of a gorgeous woman. Barbed wire tightened around her heart as she thought of Ivar keeping photos of a different woman, someone clearly important. At closer inspection, she realized it was actually Aslaug. With the revelation, she wanted to slap her own head at her jealousy, yet another part of her wilted at seeing another beautiful woman in Ivar's life. What was he doing with someone as mundane as her? He was in another league compared to her. She shook her head, a futile attempt to dislodge her own insecurities.

The creak of the bathroom door alerted her to Ivar's return but she continued to scan the photos, absorbed in the wanderlust they unearthed within her.

Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against his bare chest, apparently only changing into new boxers and a pair of gray sweatpants that felt soft against the back of her legs.

“Mmmm…you look good in my shirt.”

She hummed as Ivar pushed her brunette hair over her shoulder and tucked his face into the crook of her neck. Before she became too distracted by the handsome man holding her, she gestured towards the wall before them. “What are these?”

“Pictures.”

She rolled her eyes at his deadpan tone. “I figured that, thank you. I mean, who took them? They're stunning.”

There was a long pause before he answered, voice muted as if sharing a secret. “I did.”

“Really?”

“Surprised?”

“Yeah,” she answered truthfully, “you never told me you did photography.”

He shrugged behind her. “It's not something I do as often anymore. My mother tried to have me enter some contests when I was younger but I didn't want to.”

“You would have won, without a doubt. These are fantastic. Where are they?”

“All over. Locations I've visited and some of my favorite places.” He pointed to a picture towards their right, an audible edge of excitement infused in his voice as he spoke next. “That one I took at Floki's, it's the fjords behind his house. If you look at the bottom there you can barely see where he builds his boats.” He pointed to another a little higher. “That one was from a family trip to Switzerland. My brothers tried to ski and Ubbe ended up almost breaking his arm.” Next, he pointed to one on the left, just above her eye line. “That's of my mother with the Mediterranean in the back. We took a trip, just her and I when I was nineteen and had finally had my last fucking surgery. She wanted to do something extra to celebrate. It was just us for several days…it was nice.”

She tilted her head back to kiss the underside of his jaw, wishing she could soothe the longing, the nostalgia in his voice. “Thank you for letting me see these. These are…wow, I'm in awe. They're so beautiful.”

“Hmmm…” His lips caressed her ear as he whispered, “my favorite one is my phone's background.”

She dropped her head, practically melting against him as warmth flooded her cheeks. It was hard not to notice before she made her phone call earlier. It was a photo of her from several weeks ago, one she had forgotten about. They were out to eat, one of the many restaurants Ivar wanted her to try. Her gaze was focused off screen, having been listening to a man propose several tables away. Her soft gaze translated into the picture, a joyous undertone as she watched two people's lives change due to the love they shared. Her diamond studs and simple diamond pendant necklace caught in the flickering candlelight from the table making her sparkle. After the proposal, she had caught Ivar with his phone out, but instead of confessing to snapping a picture, he teased her the rest of the night about her love of romantic shit.

He pressed a slow, syrupy kiss to the back of her neck, making her shiver under his touch. “My girlfriend.” His lips trailed to the side of her neck and up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. “My Kari.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth. “My beauty…mine.”

Before he could start something, she turned around in his arms, placing her arms around his neck loosely, feeling his hands settle on her hips. Silently, she scanned his face, noting the bruise-like bags under his eyes, seeing the crease in his forehead, the tension in his jaw.

“Ivar, how have you been? Really? Are you in pain?”

“I should be asking you that.”

“Ivar.”

He inhaled sharply, dropping his head to press his forehead against hers. “I don't want to talk about it. Can't we just focus on now?”

“Hvitserk told me…”

“What did that useless brother say now?” He snapped as her voice trailed off.

“Be nice.” She reprimanded without any heat. “He said you were drowning yourself in either alcohol or work. Or something like that.”

“That little shit. Can't trust him with fucking anything.” He grumbled, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the patch of skin beneath the hem of her shirt.

He did not answer right away, so she waited. She could be patient. Something she had noticed about him was his disdain for speaking about when he was in pain, physically or mentally. It would be easy to attribute that to his childhood, to the constant pain he endured, but somehow she knew it was more than that. Her hand massaged the back of his neck as she waited, almost hearing the gears turn in his mind as he debated on what to say. How much deeper to allow her into his inner world.

“Why do you want to know?”

An undercurrent of fear coated his question, that somehow she would turn his turmoil and fear against him. It fractured her heart anew for him, that it was so instinctual for him to have to protect himself, to never show any kind of weakness. That his only option was to be strong.

Instead of answering his question, she decided to share a glimpse into their time apart, hoping it would encourage him to do the same. “I thought of you everyday. Multiple times a day, if I'm being honest. I appreciated that you gave me my space, even if I hated it sometimes…but I needed it. It gave me time to realize how much better my life is with you in it. That I had already forgiven you after you ordered the food for me that next day.”

He cleared his throat before his words emerged like a confession, slow and halted. “Those first days away from you…I– fuck! I did everything possible to forget that I'd fucked everything up. That I'd lost the best thing in my life. Gods, I was so sure you'd never want to see me again, that you hated me. I even fucked some girls from a club to try and…well.”

She stiffened at his words but did not pull away, allowing him his space, allowing him to be vulnerable, even if it stung like a jellyfish's tentacles were wrapped around her body.

“I know, I know it was stupid. I don't even remember them, I was high on some strong shit to try and– I wasn't okay.” He sighed, pressing his forehead harder against hers like it would allow his words to seep into her brain, to prove his remorse. “Floki finally hit me a few times over the head, seemed to knock some sense into me. Don't tell him I said that, that damn asshole. After that, I threw myself into working. In the past week I've been mostly living in our business airplane. Gods, I'm–I'm fucking exhausted. It's a damn miracle I haven't broken anything. I feel like I've barely slept the past three weeks. And my legs…ah, fuck, they've been killing me. But I couldn't stop, I–I had to do something, keep moving, or I'd–”

She could see how hard it was for him to admit, like each word out of his mouth was a fight, a struggle to release the bonds keeping his weakness hidden and allow her to peer past the façade, to see how hard it had been the past three weeks.

“And your cast?”

“That night after you left…I broke my hand on a punching bag. Forgot to wrap it. Fucking stupid.”

“Oh, Ivar.”

“I want– even with those others at the club. They meant nothing. They are nothing! It was always you I thought of. It's always been you. Ever since that night in the club where you kissed me, it's always been you. And I promise, I'll always take care of you.” His voice caught in his throat, forcing him to swallow thickly to continue. “Please, kitten, please believe me.”

And she did. Gods forgive her but she did. It was in the way his hands clutched her hips, his anguish coloring the air around them, the way he begged for her forgiveness. He would do anything to repent for his sins, any penance she asked, he would comply.

But all she wanted was him.

“I do. I believe you.” She slid her hands down to cup his face to tilt his face to meet her gaze so he could see the honesty in her eyes. “It's been you too, since that night. I haven't even been able to look at anyone else like that. I think you've bewitched me.”

“If anyone has been bewitched, it's me. Fucking hell, got me crying and begging.” His lips grazed hers, a whisper of a kiss, a silent acknowledgement, a heartfelt promise. “Can you stay? I just want to hold you and rest and pretend the world doesn't exist. I just need you. Only you. Please?”

With her heart feeling three sizes too big for her chest, she silently guided him back to the bed and crawled in, cuddling into his warm body as he wrapped his arms around her.

For how could she refuse when he was looking at her like she was his whole world, like he would carve his own heart out and give it to her if she asked, like she was the peace in the midst of his hurricane.

Like she was his salvation.

Tag List:

@southernbe @tessakate @ivarlover @nothingtolosebutweight @beautifulweaselplaidsalad @noway4u @cdauni @istorkyou @ringpopdust @lotr-got @kaybee87 @ultralillylove

(If anyone wants to be added or removed, please let me know!)

#mz writes #mz edits #to call forth love #vikings #vikings au #vikings fanfiction #vikings fanfic #vikings ivar #ivar #ivar the boneless #ivar lothbrok #ivar x oc #ivar x ofc #ivar the boneless x oc #ivar romance

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kittyball23 · 1 year ago

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Hot Tubbing (a Trolls fanfic)

Summary: After babysitting his 13 nieces and nephews, Branch unwinds in one of Vacay Island’s jacuzzi-like hot springs… and is soon joined by Poppy

A/N: November 17th is finally here!! Welcome to the first story of my new oneshot collection "Grown-Up Stuff," (also found on AO3, Fanfiction.net, and Wattpad under the same name in addition to being posted here on Tumblr) which will mostly be centered around Broppy, but may feature some Cliva and other couples in the future :)

FYI this fic has been Rated M, as it will have adult themes present, though nothing explicitly written. You do not have to read if these topics are something you are not comfortable with. If you do decide to go forth, all I can say is enjoy! 💕

__________________________________________

"Ahhh…"

Now that felt good. While the water had stung a bit upon entering, it didn't take very long at all for it to work its magic and ease the soreness in Branch’s muscles. Pretty soon, he was leaning back, his arms on either side of him and a sigh of satisfaction escaping his lips. His brother Bruce wasn't kidding. The hot springs really were a great place to unwind, especially after being tossed and wrestled by kids who were far taller than Trolls. Most of the time, this type of experience befell Bruce, but, given that he and Brandy had taken the night off to have some alone time, babysitting duty had fallen upon Branch.

For the first half of the night at least.

He rotated positions with John Dory for the second half, and could now take a moment to relax properly. And on Vacay Island, everything was top-notch in that department. The potent warmth was soon working to bring a sense of sleepiness to him, and he allowed his eyes to shut. Aimless thoughts wandered throughout his mind: of Pop Village, of his brothers, but, mostly of Poppy. He could feel a smile forming on his lips even in his twilight state. Poppy... She looked good in his head, whether it was a memory or whether it was just fantasies of what their future together could bring. One of those, admittedly, was marriage and a family. Maybe not a family as big as Bruce's, but still, a few Troll kiddos wouldn't be so bad. Not bad at all. And neither would the way to go about making that happen... Branch felt as though the water got even hotter when he thought of that.

The Troll didn't think he was too far gone in his exhaustion, but somewhere he figured he must've fallen asleep to the hum of the bubbling water and wind in the foliage, because it was a soft, feminine voice that he registered next.

"You look pretty relaxed."

Branch stirred, blinking drowsy eyes up at the newcomer.

"Huh, wha?" he mumbled, rubbing an eye and registering that it was Poppy who'd spoken. She peered down amusedly at him, her lips sipping at the straw of a fruity drink and her legs slightly submerged into the water from her spot at the edge of the pool. But if the sheer presence of his beloved wasn't enough to stir him awake, then it sure was the attire she had on. The swimsuit was a powder-yellow two-piece, hugging her body snugly and extenuating her slim figure in ways that made his mind race with desire.

He sat straight up, flustered. "Oh! H-hey, Poppy," he stammered, trying to sound casual. Branch cleared his throat, and managed to speak a little more controlled the second time around. "So, um, what are you doing here? I thought you and Viva were hitting the waves."

Poppy nodded. "Yeah, we did for a little bit. But then we called it early. Veevs had other plans… with your brother."

Branch cooked his head. "Clay?"

"Yeah," Poppy confirmed with a smirk. "She wanted to spend some time with him… and I wanted to spend some time with you." She glanced down at him with a half-lidded gaze, giving a flirtatious little growl.

Branch’s eyes bugged.

"So whaddya say, Branch? Got room for one more?"

"Well, I, um, I mean… you can, um, i-if you wanna…"

Poppy smiled. "Great!"

Setting her drink down, she scooted herself over the edge of the pool and plopped inside. The water sloshed a bit, and she hissed at the temperature that befell her skin.

"Ooo, you all right?" Branch asked, concern lacing his voice.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good!" Poppy assured. "Feels really, really nice."

"Yeah," Branch agreed, smirking. "It sure does…" He surprised himself with the husky quality his voice had taken, and realized that it didn't go over Poppy’s head, either. There was a look on her face that could only be described as pleased bewilderment, and he could see a blush forming on her cheeks.

Affected so, she bore into his blue eyes with her deep fuchsia and batted her lashes. "Why don't you come a little closer," she purred, adding her own little suggestive twinge to her words.

Now it was Branch’s turn to blush. A tingle went down his spine - and in other places he wouldn't dare tell her about - but he liked it. And while he wanted to obey, he didn't see the harm in dragging out the tease, even if it was by a minute or two.

"Ehh, I don't know," he said, as though he were indecisive.

Poppy pretended to pout, sticking her bottom lip out. "Aww, come on, I won't bite!" But then she paused, giggled, and added, "Much."

Branch raised an eyebrow. "Much?" he questioned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Get over here and find out," she urged, rolling her eyes playfully.

Branch shrugged. "Fine."

Slowly, purposefully slow, he moved towards her, taking his time inching himself towards her space.

Poppy tapped her fingers impatiently against the edge of the pool. "Can you move any slower?" she whined.

"Can you be any cuter?" he quipped back, finally in enough proximity to be able to wrap an arm around her. Poppy’s arms slinked around his neck, firmly holding him to her as he brought a damp hand up to her cheek, cupping it gently. He waited a heartbeat, letting the sensual tension escalate between them, before allowing himself to lean forward and close the gap.

Poppy sighed deeply as their lips met, melting into the kiss, and Branch felt a surge of affection run through his veins. He tilted his head almost instantly, deepening the connection right away, and she moaned quietly in approval. She was extra sweet, he noted, her taste a hint of pineapple from the fruity concoction she'd been sipping, as well as her usual, strawberry flavor that seemed to permeate every part of her being. It made him feel warm and fuzzy all throughout, making it far too easy to lose himself in the experience. He made a noise of appreciation at the feeling as he pulled away just long enough to gasp in another breath and dive back in, twice as eager this time.

Turned out he wasn’t the only one eager. As he’d learned, Poppy had been the one in their relationship to test the metaphorical waters. First with the peck to the cheek he’d received on the day of the Trolls Kingdom Holiday Gift Swap, and then with the first real kiss they’d shared at Mount Rageous, after he’d successfully opened up to her about his feelings. And now, she was testing herself again.

He hadn’t known what she was up to, until she actually did it. He gasped when he felt a nip, Poppy’s teeth having caught his bottom lip upon one of their breaks for air and tugging lightly for a second before she released. The sensation sent an unexpected bolt of excitement coursing through him, the feeling stronger when he noted Poppy's dark, dilated pupils gazing hungrily at him, her breath coming quicker now. Flirty growls, or no flirty growls, Branch knew one thing - his girlfriend was turned on.

And so was he.

Their next kiss that followed was deeper, and more passionate as a result. Poppy nipped once again, at the corner of his mouth this time, and allowed her next few smooches to trail across his jawline, making a path down the crook of his neck. Branch hummed, his thoughts battling each other. One part of him enjoyed the attention profusely, while the other had him wishing his lips could claim hers again. Both evaporated, however, when he felt her reach a sensitive spot just below his earlobe and take another little nibble. He wouldn't know how to describe the sound that came out of him in response. It might have been a whimper, or it might have been a groan, but either way, it caused Poppy to giggle, the vibration of her laugh tickling Branch's skin.

It wasn't hard to admit that she had a guilty pleasure in prompting reactions out of Branch. Which is why her next idea was getting her excited.

She leaned back, ensuring that her fuchsia gaze was unwaveringly locked to his blue as her hands wandered down, below the water, reaching the hem of his swimming trunks.

Blushing heavily and bracing himself for the onslaught of sensory stimulation that was sure to come, Branch knew he wasn't going to be truly prepared for what was coming next…

… Though, not in the intimate way that he anticipated.

So focused on expecting the next feeling to be under the confines of his swim attire, Branch nearly jumped when an enormous, unforeseen SPPLLAAASH! erupted from the pool in a wave of jacuzzi water that drenched him and Poppy completely!

Poppy shrieked in surprise, ripping herself away from Branch, while her boyfriend sputtered, eyes wide.

"What the - who - ??"

“WOO! Ten outta ten on that cannonball, ay, bro?”

“Oh, nooo,” Branch groaned, already knowing that voice before he even finished rubbing the water out of his eyes completely. “John Dory, you’re not supposed to jump into a jacuzzi! And aren’t you supposed to be watching the kids?!”

His eldest brother adjusted his goggles and blew a raspberry. “Yo, chill, dude, Floyd’s got it covered. He offered to step in and help!”

Branch facepalmed. Oh, Floyd. He knew his favorite brother was big-hearted and always looking out for the rest of their crew… but taking over John Dory’s babysitting duty when not even five minutes had passed by was a little absurd! Branch could probably guess that JD hammed up his struggle just to get out of it.

John Dory then noticed Poppy. “Hey, Poppy Seed! How’s it shakin’ since the last time I saw ya?”

Poppy giggled, meeting him halfway for a fistbump, and shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, you know. Guess you could say I’ve been ‘shaking things up’ with Branch.” She gave her boyfriend a sly look, to which he became bashful, remembering what she had been about to do.

“Oh,” John Dory said, then putting it together and realizing what he’d done. “OHHH, shoot, did I interrupt something here?”

Branch’s deadpanned look told him what he needed to know.

He tittered with embarrassment. “Hehe, my bad! I could totally scoot if ya want. I’m sure there’s gotta be some other jacuzzi here on the isle!”

“No, it’s okay, we were just heading out,” Poppy said, lifting herself over the edge of the pool and reaching for the towel she'd brought with her. “But we’ll see you later, okay?”

JD looked disappointed to see them go, but understood. “It’s all right. Catch y’all later!”

As Branch and Poppy walked off hand in hand, the Pop Queen giggled. Branch glanced at her with curiosity.

“Probably should’ve told him there’d be no guarantee we’d see him later,” she said suggestively.

Branch raised an eyebrow, the heat returning to his cheeks. “Poppy… what do you have in mind?”

She glanced at him mischievously. “Wanna go look for another hot spring? I’m sure John Dory’s right, there’s gotta be more than one on the island. That way we can finish what we started…” She peers down at her place of interest for just a flit of a moment, but even then it causes Branch to blush, stammering his reply.

“S-sure!”

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #broppy #branch trolls #poppy trolls #dreamworks #fanfiction #kittyball writes #grown up stuff fanfiction #100+

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terrence-silver · 8 months ago

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I honestly see Terry loving to spend time with his beloved in the bathtub with lots of bubbles and champagne 🍾 🥂

---

I can downright see Margaret and his staff knowing Mr. Silver is having one of 'those days'. One of those days meaning a day he will predominantly spend soaking in his jacuzzi (or sauna) with a cup of tea or some champagne. They know him well enough to be able to predict his habits and moods and very professionally adapt to them. Hey, it might just be very precisely scheduled down activity instead of something spontaneous so it is no surprise or unprecedented, overlooked accident. He's a man of business, so everything's possible. They know and understand Mr. Silver will be naked for the better part of the morning, afternoon or whenever he so chooses (maybe even pulling an all-day dedicated to being in the water), and that he absolutely won't be alone in that endeavor either; beloved will be in there with him and they just work around the circumstances like nothing's going on, the staff (or to be more accurate, Milos) is there diligently preparing a two of everything; matching robes, matching towels, matching champagne glasses, matching slippers. I feel these people are legitimately very blasé and used to his nudity and that they ain't shocked by too much of anything, which is no surprise, considering they're working for Terry Silver and goodness knows what things they've witnessed in his employment so far. By extension, they aren't shocked by beloved's nudity either, in the cases beloved's joining him. In fact, it might be a mundane thing for them.

Margaret brings her business to the side of the tub.

Conducting it with Terry while he soaks.

He absolutely makes million dollar deals from that tub, takes important oversea calls, handles emergencies as they pop up, deals with paperwork in a stride, directs Margaret on what meetings she should cancel and which she should forward to later and doing so while beloved's right beside him, lounging neck-high bubbles, making small talk and joking around, perfectly mixing absolutely shameless decadent hedonism with genuinely being dedicated to work at all hours like he has an infinite resource of energy to him, coming off as both lazy and legitimately invested. Might just sip his hand between beloved's thighs in the middle of a phone call conducted in the bath and do the business of the company while also doing the business of his own sexual urges, groping beloved, touching them, fondling them, massaging them and caressing them underneath the bubbles to get a rise or reaction out of them or flat out place beloved on his lap and grind on them while he shouts orders at his Dynatox agents stationed in Colombia to hurry up and dump that load, nearly cackling into his own chin at the deliberate perverted (somewhat childish) innuendo he just made and that the person on the other end of the line won't understand right before hanging up, causing Margaret or whoever's present to roll her eyes at him, chastising him like an older aunt figure would, because Jesus Christ, this man and his blatant perversions.

-"Mr. Silver!"- She clicks her tongue.

-"C'mon, Margaret!"- He might whine as beloved playfully smacks his chest, covering their eyes, flustered because it is just too much and they can't get away, considering his arms are tangled around them under the layer of steaming hot water, preventing them from getting up and leaving. There's no leaving. They're his bath toy. He does business better with his squeaking rubber duck bath toy around, don't you know, he might explain, teasing and taunting.

He's unhinged when he's happy and happy when he's unhinged.

He doesn't need privacy whatsoever to have a day spent in the tub with beloved.

When he does order for some privacy, though, sparks fly.

They won't be leaving that tub all day and everyone in the mansion knows why.

And probably hears why.

Maybe even sees why because he doesn't make a tremendous secret out of it.

#terry silver #kk3 #cobra kai #tw; bath sex #terry silver x reader #terry silver x beloved #tw; exibitionism #margaret spencer

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lemoncrushh · 8 months ago

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The Entertainer II - Track 10 - Light Up Inside

Summary: What if it wasn’t the end? What if Sky did actually see Harry at the Forum in the early 80s, and he saw her too? What if fate took hold of them both, and they realized their journey was not over? Set in 1981, Harry and Sky’s story continues with more music, more romance, and a few more twists and turns.

STORY PAGE

Track 10 Word Count: 3.8k+

Read The Entertainer

I wasn’t prepared for the sight before me. Up until then, the nicest hotel I’d ever stayed in was the one in Santa Barbara. But that one didn’t even compare to this room.

The bed, while still a King size, looked enormous to me. The entire wall behind it was covered in flocked burgundy wallpaper, the rose-colored comforter making it look like a massive flower in the center of the room. On top of the bed were two white, plush robes and matching slippers sat at the foot of the bed. And just ahead of me, to the right of the bed, stood an iced bucket with a bottle of champagne.

As I stepped inside, I watched Harry walk to the far wall where he opened the coordinating gold flocked curtains to reveal the most extraordinary view of Los Angeles. Then he removed his suit jacket and laid it on a nearby chair. It was then that I noticed the glorious Christmas tree in the corner, all decorated in colors that coordinated with the room.

“Wow,” I breathed as I walked forward and dropped my clutch on the chair.

“You like it?” he grinned. “Oh, wait! Look here!”

He opened the door to the bathroom and waved for me. I gasped when I saw it.

“A jacuzzi?”

“Yeah. I reckon that’s a bit sexier than the bathtub,” Harry smirked.

I covered my mouth, astonished at the entire gesture. Harry took my waist and pulled me to him, his hands sensually crawling up my back. My entire body suddenly felt both hot and cold at the same time. Fever chills erupted down my arms, and I felt light-headed.

“I had fun tonight,” Harry murmured, his face so close, his breath touched my lips. “But I’m so glad to finally have you to myself.”

His mouth covered mine in a passionate kiss. It was the kind that dropped the floor from underneath my feet and sent my heart soaring. If any kiss ever revealed what he was feeling, it was that one.

“How about some champagne?” he grinned.

I nodded.

I watched Harry walk around the bed and grab the bottle. Tearing off the foil, he somehow managed to pop the cork with such precision, I knew he had to have done it many times before. Then he took two glasses and filled them, holding one out to me.

“What are we toasting this time?” I asked, taking the glass from him.

Harry shrugged. “Tonight? Christmas? Us.”

“All of that sounds good.”

I lifted my glass and brought it to my lips, the bubbly drink filling my senses. Harry’s gaze was locked on me, and I suddenly felt hot again. Turning away, I walked to the window.

“It’s really beautiful from up here, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Sky…” I heard him say behind me.

“Hmm?”

His arms enfolded me before I even knew he’d walked up behind me. I shut my eyes as I felt his chin on my shoulder.

“Baby…” he murmured in my ear.

“Yes?” I whispered.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

“What am I doing?”

“It’s like…every time I try to take a step forward, you retreat. I don’t understand.”

“I do?”

I heard him sigh before he took the glass of champagne from me, setting in on the nightstand.

“What is this?” he asked. “You walk away from a toast to look out the window? At the party, you just walked off the dance floor after the song I requested. What’s going on?”

I stared at him, unable to speak.

“Look, I know I fucked up. I made a promise to you, and I broke it. And I’m so fucking sorry, Sky. But I was still here. I showed up. I requested that song for us to dance to, but you thought I was ‘making up for something’ like I was buttering you up so you wouldn’t be mad at me. But that’s not what that was at all, and honestly, it hurt me that you thought so.”

I felt like I’d just been punched in the gut.

“Harry…”

“And it’s not just tonight,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like…every time I try to be open with you, to let you know how I feel, you back away or change the subject. Or you treat it like it’s a joke.”

“Harry, I had no idea!”

“Didn’t you? What was that ‘Mr. Romantic’ comment for?”

“I didn’t mean that as an insult,” I argued. “I thought it was sweet.”

“Sweet?”

“Yes. You were being sweet and romantic. It wasn’t a joke to me.”

Harry threw up his hands and sat on the bed.

“I just…don’t know how else to show you how I feel about you. But…it’s like I keep hitting a wall.”

Slowly, I walked towards him and stood before him.

“How…how do you feel about me?”

“Jesus, Sky, I thought by now you knew.”

I knelt before him and took his hands, rubbing the backs with my thumbs.

“Tell me,” I demanded.

“Tell you?” Harry scoffed. “I have told you loads of times.”

“No you haven’t.”

Harry chuckled in disbelief. “Singing ‘Endless Love’ to you while we danced wasn’t a giveaway? This room doesn’t convey any message? Jesus, I wrote a fucking song about you, Sky!”

“You did?”

Running a hand down his face, Harry let out an exasperated groan.

“Who the fuck else do you think ‘Drunk on Her’ is about?”

“It’s…about me?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Halo.

“I get lost in her misty blue eyes Just one more way to make me realize She’s all I want, I can’t get enough I’m drunk on her.”

As Harry sang the lyrics to me, I suddenly felt foolish. He had been telling me how he felt all along.

“I can feel myself starting to fall No way I could stop it at all Not sure I’d want to anyway.”

Though it was a fast-tempo rock song, Harry sang the bridge to me like a ballad as he rose from the bed and pulled me up with him.

He held me so close, our lips almost touched while he ran his fingers across my jaw. I licked my lips and bit my bottom one, wanting him so badly to kiss me I could taste it.

“Sky…” he said, tracing my top lip with his thumb. Then he nudged my bottom lip, popping it out from between my teeth.

“Baby…” he murmured as his thumb grazed my bottom lip. “I love you.”

The rush of excitement and relief flooded through my bones, and I nearly cried. A small sound escaped my throat as I looked him in the eyes.

“I love you, too.”

His mouth covered mine instantly, the hunger imminent on his tongue. I kissed him back with fervor as my fingers tangled in his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he moaned against my lips.

“Don’t apologize,” I breathed.

“It’s just…,” he muttered. “I’m not…very good at saying it. Even though I wanted to say it so many times. I thought I was doing better at showing it.”

I looked at him, his pouty lips wet from my kiss, his eyes telling me how he felt.

“You did show it,” I admitted. “But sometimes…it helps to hear it.”

“Yeah…” he nodded. “Yeah, it does.”

“I love you, Harry.”

The dimples dipping in his cheeks, he beamed at me before kissing me again.

“I love you so much,” he declared in his sexy, breathy voice as he leaned his forehead against mine.

I desperately fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, eager to remove him of all clothing. Assisting me, he unfastened his cuffs and shrugged out of the shirt, tossing it on the floor. As he kicked off his shoes, I stepped out of mine, one stubborn buckle wanting to give me trouble. When Harry’s hands found my waist again, he quickly slid them down my hips and lifted my dress. Then grabbing my thighs, he hoisted me up, my legs swiftly wrapping around him. We laughed when he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the bed.

“Was trying to be sexy,” he smirked. “Reckon I’m outta shape.”

“No you’re not,” I said. “You’re perfect.”

Harry let out a sigh as I kissed his neck. His hands still on my thighs, he slid them up and down my bare skin, his fingers teasing my panty line.

“Fuck, you really do drive me crazy, babe.”

“What do you think you’re doing to me?” I asked.

A low growl rose from his chest as I pressed myself against him. Then he sat up, his eyes heavy with lust, and lifted up my dress. I raised my arms so he could pull it over my head, then he dropped the slinky fabric onto the floor as his eyes caressed my body.

“You’re the one who’s perfect,” he breathed.

His hands slid up my hips to my chest. I closed my eyes as he touched me, his thumbs delicately grazing my nipples. When I felt his mouth on me, I moaned, threading my fingers through his curls.

I threw my head back as he continued to devour my breasts, my insides quivering with desire. Suddenly, Harry surprised me by shifting on the bed.

“I wanna taste you,” he growled, laying me down on the pillow.

I watched in awe as he pushed the robes off the bed and settled himself between my legs. Then he looped his fingers through the sides of my panties and pulled them down, just enough to reveal what he wanted.

His warm breath on me was the first thing to ignite the fire, but when he swiped his tongue, I nearly lost it. My toes curled, and I wasn’t sure how long he planned to tease me like this, but he seemed to be enjoying it.

“Mmm,” I finally heard from him after a few more laps of his tongue.

Panting, I watched him remove my underwear the rest of the way. When he seemed satisfied, he grinned up at me before resuming his tongue exploration.

This time I lifted my legs, happy to be rid of my panties. I closed my eyes, reveling in the sensation. Before I knew it, my legs were trembling and I felt a tightness in my core.

“Oh my God!” I cried out. “Harry!”

I felt him hum against me, triggering the sensation to its peak. I called out his name again as he continued to pleasure me through the orgasm until I finally went still.

Breathing hard, I pushed the hair back from my face. Harry crawled up my body with a cheeky grin.

“Was that nice, my love?” he asked, wiping his chin.

“Nice…doesn’t describe it,” I exhaled. Then I slapped my arm over my eyes. “Holy shit.”

Harry chuckled that sexy low way that always turned me on. Then I felt him kiss my shoulder. I shivered at the contact, my body erupting in goosebumps.

“Fancy a dip in the jacuzzi?” Harry asked.

“Now?” I lowered my arm and looked at him.

“Why not?” he smirked. When I continued to stare at him, he rose from the bed, grabbing our champagne glasses. “We can take these with us, since we haven’t enjoyed them yet.”

I couldn’t resist. Everything he did was endearing. With a smile, I followed him into the bathroom. Just one press of a button brought the jacuzzi to life. Harry removed his pants while I cautiously stepped into the hot water, the sensation reviving the goosebumps on my skin.

“It’s warmer than my pool, I take it,” Harry quipped when I lowered my body into the water, letting it reach my neck.

“Tease me all you want,” I scoffed, my eyes shut. “This is heaven.”

“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” I heard him say before he stepped in beside me. But I grinned when I heard him sigh.

“Told you,” I said, opening my eyes.

“You were right,” he nodded. “Except it’s missing something.”

“What?”

He pulled me to him, his hands pushing the wet ends of my hair from my shoulders.

“This,” he said before kissing me softly.

“Mmm, agreed,” I smiled when our lips separated.

“How about a proper toast now?” asked Harry, reaching for our glasses. Handing me one, he looked me in the eyes. “To you and me. For finally saying what we feel.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I declared, raising my glass.

“I love you, Sky.”

“I love you, too, Harry,” I beamed.

He squeezed my free hand under the water while we took a long sip of our champagne. I was no expert, but I could tell it was the good stuff. The bubbles went to my head faster than the ones in the jacuzzi. Finding one of the jets, I turned and pressed my back against it, letting the pressure relieve some tension. Taking another sip of champagne, I shut my eyes again.

“Why’d you move away from me, babe?”

“It feels good on my back,” I grinned, my eyes still closed.

I heard the water slosh as Harry moved. I thought he was coming to sit beside me, but when I felt my legs move, I opened my eyes. He sat facing me, my legs crossed over his.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Now we both have one,” he replied, moving his torso. Then sitting back, he sighed. “Does feel good.”

“Told you,” I said again, raising my glass. “Heaven.”

“Look at you, enjoying the finer things,” Harry chuckled.

“Hey, I never said I didn’t like to be pampered,” I remarked. “I just wouldn’t let myself get used to it, you know?”

“I do know,” Harry nodded. “You’ve always been down to earth.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

“It’s one of the first things that appealed to me. Besides the music, of course.”

“Would you have still liked me if I wasn’t into music?” I inquired, intrigued.

“Hmm,” Harry tilted his head. “Interesting question. I reckon I would have. At least I would have thought you were cute and funny. And still down to earth.”

“Oh okay,” I acknowledge before taking the last gulp of my champagne.

“I can’t imagine I would have fallen in love with you, though,” Harry added.

“No?” Slowly lowering my glass, I looked at him.

“Probably not. I mean…there are certainly other things I like about you. But I’m not sure I would have even spent so much time around you if you weren’t a music fan. Hell, you probably wouldn’t have even come to see my band.”

“Good point,” I commented.

Harry shrugged. “And if you had, you would have just been a tag-along with Halo, and I would have thought of you as just another girl.”

“That’s kind of sad,” I pouted.

“Well, good thing that’s not what happened, then,” Harry jabbed with a smirk.

Setting his glass down on the bathroom floor, he began to run his hands up and down my legs.

“Your love for music has always been a turn-on for me,” he conveyed.

“It has?”

“Of course. Sometimes at those early shows I’d feel myself getting a boner just knowing you were in the audience.”

“Get out!” I squealed, splashing water on him.

Harry giggled. “I’m not exaggerating. I’m surprised you never noticed.”

“Well…” I stammered, feeling myself blushing, “if I had, I doubt I would have thought it was because of me.”

“You still don’t know the effect you had on me, do you?”

Harry continued to caress my legs as his green eyes stared at me. I quickly set my empty glass on the cold floor and cleared my throat.

“So…Harry…”

“Yeah, babe?”

“How were you able to request that song? At the party tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

I caught the way his lips threatened to grow into a smile, like revealing a devilish secret.

“It just magically started playing after you showed up and kissed me. You wouldn’t have had time to ask the deejay to play it.”

His mouth breaking into a grin, his dimples on full display, Harry looked down, then back at me.

“I had a hotel employee go ask him before I went in,” he confessed.

“You did?” I gasped.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “The timing wasn’t planned though. I had no idea when he’d play it. It just…worked out that way.”

Unable to come up with the right words to say, I just stared at him.

“I picked that song,” Harry continued as he traced circles on my knees, “because I wanted you to know it’s how I feel. I mean, yeah, I was trying to be romantic, but…ever since that first night you came over to my place…ah, what the fuck am I trying to say?”

I scooted closer to him then, my legs nearly wrapped around him. I reached out to him, running my hands from his shoulders and down his arms. Then I took his hands in mine.

“I knew I loved you then,” he confessed, his eyes sincere. “Like, I felt it. But I was afraid it was too soon. Then that night when I got on stage with Stargazer, and I saw you in the audience, sat at our little table…God, I wanted to tell you that night so bad.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I was afraid you’d think it was the adrenaline talking and not me. I was so turned on that night.”

“Yeah, you were,” I grinned.

“I can’t help it, babe,” he admitted, pulling me even closer. “When you’re around I light up inside.”

“That’s how I feel about you,” I said, playing with a curl on his shoulder that was still dry.

“Then last weekend…” Harry’s words trailed off before he laughed and slapped a hand over his forehead. “Oh shit, no wonder.”

“What?”

“I was trying to figure out why you didn’t say much about the new song. I reckoned you were just embarrassed or uncomfortable.”

“Harry, I swear! I didn’t know! I hadn’t been paying too much attention to the lyrics. I was more excited about watching you.”

Harry chuckled. “That explains it then. Kinda bruised my ego a bit, but it’s alright now.”

“I’m sorry. Wait…so…did you actually tell me…that night…after the song…”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, I did. You hadn’t mentioned that either, so I sorta hoped maybe you hadn’t seen me.”

“I did. I just…” I traced a tattoo on his arm. “I thought it couldn’t have been just for me. Because you hadn’t told me yet, and I…oh, damn.”

“We’re a couple of idiots, huh?”

I laughed as I wrapped my arms around his neck. “Not anymore.”

I kissed him then, deeply. He moaned against my mouth as my tongue met his. I ran my fingers down his chest, feeling his core muscles tighten as I reached his stomach.

With a gasp, he released my mouth and ran his tongue down my neck. His fingers tangled in my hair and my nipples came to life when they grazed his chest. I felt his erection grow beneath me as I pressed against him, earning more moans.

“Baby…” he breathed, his eyelids heavy and his pouty lips open.

I kissed him softly then, unable to resist his wet lips.

“Let’s get out now, baby,” I whispered. “I’m feeling rather pruney.”

Harry’s mouth grew into a sexy grin just before his eyes opened.

“Are we continuing this on the bed?” he asked.

“I certainly hope so,” I quipped, rising from the hot water.

Harry slid his hand up my leg before pushing himself up. Then he stepped out of the tub and reached his hand out to me to help me out. Grabbing a towel, he wrapped it around me, then carried me to the bed like he had that night after our dip in his pool.

His lips covered mine with a kind of passion that spoke volumes. I felt his unspoken words down to my toes. When our lips separated, his eyes continued the conversation as he unwrapped me like a present. I opened my legs to him, inviting him with my own silent words. As his eyes burned like dark emeralds, I felt his warm, moist body press against mine.

“I love you,” he said, just before he entered me.

I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was the most beautiful, most wonderful man I’d ever known. And now he was all mine. He loved me, and I loved him.

We’d made love many times before. But this time, it was different. This time I didn’t have to wonder if he’d ever feel the way I did. This time I wasn’t hoping he would say those words. This time…I knew he wouldn’t leave.

As I laid in bliss afterwards, my head on Harry’s chest, I listened to his heart beating in time with mine. It made me smile, a perfect testimony of our love. I felt Harry’s touch on my back, his fingers gently caressing me up and down, easing their way to the curve of my hip.

“I love you so much, Harry,” I said aloud.

His hand stopped its caress while he lifted my chin to look at him. His eyes sparkled with the glow of the Christmas tree lights.

“I love you, too.”

“Thank you for everything tonight,” I told him. “You really are incredibly romantic and…I’m so lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one, Sky,” Harry protested. “To have found you again.”

“Harry…”

Turning onto his side, he pulled me into his arms. He tucked my hair behind my ear, a gentle gesture that always made me feel special.

“I’m so happy, baby,” he added. “So happy that we met again. That you weren’t taken, or that you didn’t scream and tell me to piss off.”

I chuckled as I lifted my hand to his face, my pointer finger running across his stubbled chin.

“I’d have never done that,” I said.

“Well, I didn’t know,” Harry shrugged. “You could have been married for all I knew. Shacked up with some rich bloke. I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

I thought of Alan for a second, quickly dismissing the thought with a groan. I felt Harry’s chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath and let it out.

“I’m so happy you’re in my life again.”

I smiled. “Me too.”

“You’re actually the biggest part of my life now.”

“I am?”

“Of course. I already told you I think about you all the time. You’re everything to me, baby.”

If he had more to say, I didn’t let him finish because I covered his mouth with another deep kiss. I’d never felt this way before. Yes, I had been in love with him long ago, but to know he loved me back was a completely different feeling. It was…intoxicating.

“Harry…” I cried against his lips.

“Yeah, babe?”

“I believe I’m drunk on you, too.”

He chuckled low as he rolled us over

“I’m so glad,” he smirked, his hands traveling down my sides before giving me a drunk kiss once again.

“Need your lovin' here beside me (Shine the light) Need it close enough to guide me (All my life) I've been hopin' you would find me You're the biggest part of me…”

Songs mentioned:

Ambrosia - The Biggest Part of Me

Taglist: @fkinavocado, @daphnesutton, @freedomfireflies

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

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themaladaptivewriter12 · 6 months ago

Text

Title: Diamonds Are Forever

Part 8.6 of my “Cray-Cray for Cater” series! Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6 , Part 7, Part 8.1, Part 8.2, Part 8.3, Part 8.4, and Part 8.5 can be found here!

Parings: Cater Diamond x Twisted Wonderland Male OC (Mirai Yuhara)

Summary:

With an extended break, Cater decides to take Mirai on a trip to remember. This trip should have strengthened their bonds, but somehow they break a little too.

cw: A little spicy in the beginning. A little smutty. (＾་།＾)

a/n: Wanna add a slight warning/trigger warning: referenced self hate, referenced suicidal thoughts. There is another thing I wanna put a warning for, but I'm not quite sure how to label it, but it has to do with how Mirai sees himself, like gender wise? It's not quite gender dysphoria, but I'm not sure. And it's nothing graphic but you can never be too safe.

Reblogs are appreciated, just use my custom tag, #TheMaladaptiveWriter12, if you do! (─‿‿─)♡

Cross posted from my Ao3: TheMaladaptiveWriter12

Turns out Mr. Diamond was also staying in the same hotel. Apparently the room Cater and Mirai had was originally Cater’s father’s. He was supposed to hold all their meetings in that room, but they changed plans, so he gave it to Cater and took one of their smaller suits. It still kinda bothered Mirai that he couldn’t pay Cater and his father back, but Mr. Diamond insisted that it was no trouble at all, he said he liked the feel of the other room better. They parted ways in the lobby, not before Mr. Diamond expressed his gratitude for finally getting to meet Mirai, and placing a big wet kiss on Cater’s forehead, much to Cater's chagrin.

Once they made it to the room, Mirai and Cater made their way to the bedroom, and just as Mirai could set his cake down on the bed, Cater was pulling him into a deep kiss. Mirai groaned into the kiss, pressing closer to Cater, tangling his fingers in Cater’s blazer. Cater broke the kiss with a wet smack, making a wet trail of kisses from Mirai’s lips and down his neck.

“You don’t know how long I wanted to do that,” Cater mumbled into Mirai's neck.

Mirai chuckled, smiling deliriously at the attention, “Yeah?”

“You’re so frickin’ sexy in that shirt,” Cater breathed, “So frickin’ pretty.”

“Look who’s talking,” Mirai said breathily.

“Dad saw the hickies.”

“Oh,” Mirai said, his veins running cold. “Was he mad?”

“Nah,” Cater half lied. “He just thought your shirt choice was poor in hiding them.”

Mirai laughed, “Wasn’t exactly trying to.”

Cater stood up straighter, looking down at Mirai, “Oh? Does Mi-Mi like showing off his love bites?”

“Very much.”

Cater chuckled, his hands falling Mirai’s belt. Mirai raised an eyebrow as Cater looked him in the eye as he yanked the belt taunt. Mirai laughed at the aggressiveness as Cater pulled the end from the buckled, and in one quick pull, the belt came free.

“Undressing me already?” Mirai teased, voice sultry, “I thought you liked my outfit?”

“I do,” Cater smirked, winking as he unbuttoned Mirai’s see through top painstakingly slow, “but something tells me Ima like it better on the floor.”

Mirai snorted, choking on a laugh and Cater gave a snicker of his own. Cater popped open the last button, letting the sheer fabric fall from Mirai’s shoulder. Tossing the shirt onto the bed, Cater moved to Mirai pant’s, unbuttoning his leather slacks, pulling down the zipper.

“Wanna try out the tub?” Cater muttered, pulling off his own blazer.

“As long as we can add bubbles,” Mirai smiled.

“Bubbles it is!”

The tub was spacious, and even with the two of them sitting face to face, there was still more than enough room for them to stretch their legs. The jacuzzi jets made the water foamy, the pressure feeling like heaven on Mirai’s back. Cater took a couple of selfies, posing with the soap suds and Mirai laughed at his antics.

After they washed up, Cater pulled the container of Cheesecake from seemingly nowhere, and popped open the lid.

“Open,” Cater smirked, leaning forward, forking off a small piece.

Mirai met him in the middle, taking the fork into his mouth, sucking the cake off the plastic utensil. It was good, so sweet and creamy, and Mirai moaned around the fork, eyes closing in pleasure.

Cater crooned softly, “That good? Should I be jealous?”

Mirai chuckled, sticking out his tongue, “Yeah you should.”

Cater forked off another piece and held it out. Mirai sucked it off like the first, a drizzle of chocolate falling down his chin. Mirai sucked in a breath, trying to catch the syrup before it fell into the suds below. Cater reached forward, catching Mirai’s chin between his fingers, and slowly, he pulled Mirai towards himself, stuck out his tongue and licked a long stripe up Mirai’s chin. Mirai whimpered with a shudder, chasing after Cater’s lips.

Cater placed the container on the stool next to the tub and pulled Mirai into his lap. Mirai moaned into the kiss, grinding his hips down, as he pulled at Cater’s orange waves. The glide was smooth, the soapy water aiding them tremendously.

“You taste like dark chocolate,” Cater giggled against Mirai’s lips.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Mirai laughed, kissing Cater again.

Cater latched his lips onto Mirai’s neck, sucking yet another bruise to join the rest. Mirai moaned, rolling his hips down against Cater’s, relishing in the pleasure and pain. Cater groaned against Mirai’s throat, sucking harder, and his efforts were rewarded with another roll of his lover’s hips.

“You really do have a pain kink, don’t you,” came Cater’s muffled voice against Mirai’s collarbone.

“Yes,” Mirai groaned, “now bite me.”

Cater laughed, doing what his lover asked. Mirai hummed contently, pulling a fistful of Cater’s orange waves. Cater took a shuddering breath against Mirai’s neck, his hips jumping upward.

“Like that?” Mirai crooned, petting a hand through Cater’s hair.

Whimpering breathily, Cater nodded, “Yeah.”

Mirai leaned back down for a kiss and Cater met him with the same enthusiasm, and let’s just say there wasn’t much bathing being done after that.

Their bath was done, their cake finished, and Mirai was more than ready to call it a day. Winding himself down, Mirai took a walk around their hotel suite, and before he knew it, he found himself staring out the windows, looking at the city below. He recalled their trip so far, the memories putting a smile on his face. He almost wished it would never end. He liked this, traveling with Cater, “living” with Cater, but he knew they both had responsibilities back at NRC. It’s not like he didn’t want to go back, no, far from it. He knew he’d miss the others, he knew he’d miss Grim, Ace, Deuce, even Sebek, all of their companies being welcome ones. He finally had friends who cared about him, he finally had people to rely on, people who needed him, people who actually liked him. He had a boyfriend. He almost wished their days at NRC would never end, that they could just stay there with each other, but Mirai knew that was impossible. Mirai knew each and everyone of them, from Heartslabyul to Diasomnia, all of them had lives outside of NRC. But he didn’t, Mirai had nothing.

“This view is so pretty,” Cater said, his voice suddenly breaking Mirai’s thoughts. “I wish we could never leave.”

Mirai just hummed, plastering a fake smile onto his face, not wanting to ruin Cater’s happy mood now that he just ruined his own.

Cater took a couple of pictures with both his camera and cell, before he sat the camera on the table. Cater scrolled through his phone and suddenly, smooth late night Jazz filled the room. It was calming and it fit the ambiance of the city hotel room and the view of the city below perfectly. Mirai sighed constantly when Cater wrapped his arms around Mirai from behind, holding him close.

“I think I’d like to live in a city like this. A highrise apartment, all glass and classy,” Cater rambled, swaying the two of them back and forth to the chill beat.

Mirai hummed, “What happened to having a house built?”

Cater hummed thoughtfully, “I’ll save that for when I settle down.”

Mirai chuckled, the sound not so genuine, but seemed not to notice.

“After I graduate, Ima move to the city, start a career for myself, enjoy being young and dumb, then when I get older and settle down, I’ll have that house built.”

“Yeah?” Mirai asked, feigning interest, “What’s that gonna be like?”

“It’ll be a suburban neighborhood. I’ll have a huge front yard, a two car garage, and a wrap-around porch. The backyard would be huge with a pool, and deck to grill on. I’d have five bedrooms and a guest bedroom for when the guys visit,” Cater listed. “The kitchen would be huge, the whole thing open concept, which would be great for entertaining, a study, a finished basement for entertaining, and the master would be huge, the master bath similar to the bathroom here, and that huge closet I want.”

Mirai nodded, giving a little giggle here and there as Cater spoke, trying not to seem rude.

“Like, I’d be the cool, sexy guy that all the single moms swoon over as I walk my dogs around the neighborhood. I’d throw the best summer parties, like no one would beat me. I’d have two dogs, although I don't know what kind, and I’d have the coolest car on the block that everyone would envy. And then maybe, somewhere down the line, I would like to be a dad.”

Mirai couldn’t describe the feeling in his chest, it was like his heart was shattering in two. He felt so horrible, he hated how he felt, how he was treating Cater right now. Cater had it all figured out, and he was telling Mirai this, he trusted Mirai with this, and here Mirai was, giving him half baked responses. He was being selfish and he hated it.

He wanted Cater to say it’d be them, the two of them in the city being young and dumb in the high rise apartment. He wanted Cater to say it’d be the two of them in that suburban townhouse grilling in the summer, entertaining in their open concept living room and kitchen area. He wanted Cater to say it’d be the two of them jogging in the early morning with their two dogs, sitting on their wrap-around porch. He wanted Cater to say it’d be them having the guys over, that it’d be their big closet, and their big master bedroom. He wanted Cater to say they’d be the cool dads on the block with the cool cars as they went to their respective jobs, taking their kids to Spelldrive practice. But he couldn’t, could he? He was a man, and he couldn’t give Cater his dream. He wanted to cry.

“What about you?” Cater asked, lacing their hands together, “What do you want to do after you graduate?”

Mirai had technically graduated, getting his diploma before he was trusted into this world of magic, but he never had thought about what he wanted to do, he didn’t care. Mirai was too busy struggling to get by, just barely staying afloat, crawling on his hands and knees to survive in that cruel, cold world. He had never seen his life as important, he never even thought he’d get past high school, thinking he’d either drop out before then or be found dead somewhere, so he never made those plans. Why would he? He hated dreamers, optimistic people, people who wished for the unrealistic. Mirai knew someone like him would never make it big, he’d never buy an actual house, he’d never get a good car, he’d never get a good paying job. He was doomed from the day he was born.

“I don’t really know,” came Mirai’s quiet answer. It was a half truth. He really didn’t know, but he wasn’t gonna put a damper on Cater’s mood and tell him the other reasons and one one being the thought of taking his own life.

“Aw,” Cater pouted, “Well, you still got time, Boo.”

Mirai’s mood lifted slightly at the pet name, “I do.”

Mirai swiftly turned around in Cater’s arms, running his arm around Cater’s torso to clutch at Cater’s sleep shirt.

“You wanna dance now?” Cater chuckled, holding the Ramshackle Prefect tightly, swaying the two of them once more.

Mirai just nodded, not confident in his voice at the moment.

Cater crooned softly, pressing kiss after kiss to the crown of Mirai’s head, nuzzling at the soft blonde hair there.

“I love you,” Cater muttered, through his kisses.

“I love you too,” Mirai whispered, desperately trying to keep the tears from his voice and eyes.

The rest of their trip went on without a hitch, but now it was time to return to NRC. They ended up having to take the longer flight with Broom Airlines, so they booked an overnight flight, and Cater once again booked First Class. This time they ended up in a whole section that was entirely made up of beds. It was the same pods, except they were beds, not seats.

Cater was lying on his stomach as he scrolled through his photos of the trip, deleting ones he didn’t like and saving the rest to be edited and posted later. Mirai was curled up at Cater’s side as he tried to block out his muddled thoughts and sleep. Mirai was happy to see everyone else again, but then again, he was happy with the way they were living in that hotel room. It was like they were officially together.

But Mirai wondered if it was too early to think like that, wanting to have a life with Cater, they haven't even been together for a year. Mirai wondered if he felt this way because he was new to all of this, being in a romantic relationship that is. He never had someone care for him like Cater does, love him like Cater does. He wondered if his want to move on so fast was because he was naive and inexperienced with love. He wondered if one day he’d fall out of love with Cater or vice versa, the two of them realizing it all was just “puppy love.”

Mirai sighed, trying to will away the thoughts and the impending tears that were trying to escape his closed eyes. He didn’t want to cry today, nor did he want to cry in front of Cater, because then he’d have to explain himself and he wasn’t ready to do that. The last thing he wanted was to make Cater worry.

“What’s the matter, Love? Can’t sleep?’ Cater asked, putting down his phone.

“Yeah,” Mirai pouted, rolling over to get comfortable.

“C’mere.”

Mirai rolled to Cater, allowing the strawberry blonde to pull him into his arms.

“Better?”

“I don’t know,” Mirai whined.

Cater laughed, rubbing Mirai’s back.

“You aren’t tired?” Mirai asked, looking up at Cater.

“Nah, not really,” Cater said dismissively. “Got too much on my mind. “Like what?”

“Like this trip. It was fun and I want to do something like this again, with you.”

“Oh,” Mirai said, surprised.

“But I also wouldn’t mind doing something like this with the guys, y'know? Like a #Friendscation. Like, imagine how lit that would be?”

Mirai chuckled at Cater’s enthusiasm, “Yeah. Twenty-two twisted dudes in a Vacation Home. What could go wrong?”

Cater cackled, “Oh yeah, something bad’s bound to happen.”

“Or break.”

Cater chuckled in agreement. “We should start planning now, that way once summer rolls around, we’d have everything ready. We could treat it like a final farewell of sorts.”

“Yeah,” Mirai whispered, a yawn covering the sadness in his voice.

“Go to sleep, Baby. I’ll wake you when we land.”

Mirai hummed, “Goodnight Cater.”

“Goodnight, Baby.”

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suffer-for-supper · 9 months ago

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Adrenaline is a brand trademark for a chemical known as epinephrine. Some people also refer to norepinephrine as noradrenaline.

And Allen wrench is also known as a hex key.

A Band-Aid is also known as an adhesive bandage.

Bubble wrap is ironically exactly what it sounds like. As is sealed air. To call it anything else would be strange. To be completely candid I am not sure how they got trademark protection for that in the first place.

Chapstick is lip balm that is in the form of a glue stick. That is essentially all it is.

A frisbee is a flying disc if I recall correctly.

Google would be web search. As the verb.

A hula hoop would simply be a hoop.

Jacuzzi is a hot tub or a sauna depending on who you ask. It is not the traditional sauna. Some people just call it a sauna for some reason.

Jello is a mixture of gelatin and pectin as well as flavoring and dye. Sugar as well. Gelatine dessert.

I don't even know what the other word for jet ski is.

Kleenex is either a facial tissue or bathroom tissue.

A lava lamp is a lava lamp. Ain't no Way around that.

Ping pong is also known as table tennis.

Play-Doh maybe salt dough but I am not entirely sure. I believe it is something slightly different.

Plexiglass is clear acrylic sheet.

A popsicle is a frozen ice pop.

A post-it note is a sticky note.

Putt-Putt is mini golf.

Q-tips are cotton swabs.

Realtors are real estate agents.

Rollerblade is likely to be called something like tandem roller skate. That is because the wheels on a rollerblade are all in tandem as opposed to two rows of two.

Scotch tape is adhesive tape.

Sharpie is a felt-tip permanent alcohol marker.

Styrofoam is expanded polystyrene. Polystyrene is a plastic. Styrofoam is mostly air.

Super glue is known as CA glue or cyanoacrylate. Competitors include krazy glue and loctite.

Tupperware is beyond me. I don't know what else to call it.

Velcro is a hook and loop closure.

Please add to this anything I've missed

no idea where i was going with this but i abandoned it at the most disconcerting moment possible

#capitalism #late stage capitalism #trademark #rebagled #generic

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lilmeowmeow369 · 1 month ago

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Today is february 14th, hanging out with my adult boyfriend, twice my age, who would give me the world.

First we went to the mall, picked out an outfit to wear on our date that evening. He got me anything I liked so I have enough options, since I’m very picky with my style. I showed him everything I tried on and he thought everything looked beautiful on me, it made me so happy and I felt so appreciated.

We grabbed a bite at a small sushi restaurant for lunch. While eating we talked about all the fun things we’d been doing, and will be doing that day. We love hanging out with eachother since we’re always laughing like crazy. He always stares at me in awe, sometimes it makes me nervous but in a good way.

We went to his place and I picked out my outfit, did a blowout on my hair and touched up my makeup. He kept complimenting how I look and smell and he couldn’t even keep his hands off me. We were both very excited for our valentines dinner. I wore a long dress that hugged my curves perfectly, which he bought me that day. He was was so proud of himself for picking it out for me. I got a purse that matches really well and I wore my open toed platform heels. He wore a casual suit and I think he looked very dapper.

We packed some bags since we also planned on going to a hotel with a jacuzzi. It was still a suprise at this point, I didn’t know we’d get a nice couple’s suite.

we got into his car and then went to a restaurant I’ve never been to before. It was really nice but not overly fancy, so it still felt very comfortable. During dinner we talked about so many things and the conversation never ran out, sometimes it just reverted to flirting and teasing. We like to bully eachother a little and then can’t stop laughing.

Afterwards we went to the hotel and I was so suprised with the room. It was really nice with a fun interior. It had a jacuzzi and a huge bed with frames for handcuffs🤭

He doesn’t drink but i popped some champagne and a perc before we got into the steaming jacuzzi. I sat on his lap and got drowzy once my stuff starting working. We hung out in silence while caressing eachother and making out in the bubbly water. We got out and took a nice shower together, we made out but still kept it cute.

Once we got out he told me to put on the new hello kitty lingerie set we bought earlier that day. He loved it so much, he instantly got agressive and took the handcuffs he brought, and then cuffed me. Once he’s really turned on he becomes so agressive but I love it. Luckily I took a perc so i was able to handle it well. It felt so good when he starting fucking my throat. Then he pushed into my pussy and… It went on for hours, by the middle of it everything was already wet and dirty. We did so many positions i lost count and I almost passed out a few times.

He was holding and caressing me and when I was about to fall asleep, he told me he had one last suprise. It was a beautiful white gold necklace with a cool pentagram detail. I was so happy and it’s the prettiest piece of jewelry I own.

Safe to say, my valentines was perfect

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comixfanboi77 · 3 months ago

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Larry and the milkmaid chapter 2

Larry woke up at his hotel. He was expecting Koko to desert him or run away with his wallet. But he discovered her making breakfast for him. Larry took Koko back to her mansion after breakfast and gave her a tender kiss. He promised to take her on another date but she demanded that she spend an entire weekend with him at his campus. Larry considered that plan until he said yes. Careful, Larry, his conscience warned him, you cannot date three to four women per week. Larry listened to his conscience. Three good girls equals three good dates per week. Larry drove back to his apartment at the campus. Larry did lie about something to Koko: he didn't own a small casino.

Harriet was clocking off her daily shift that afternoon. She imagined herself in Larry's arms and thrusting with her pelvis upon his cock. Harriet was swept off her feet by Larry's charms. Larry wasn't much too look at. He looked very average but dressed in cotton shirts and Bermuda shorts. She thought he looked like Don Johnson from Miami Vice except that he was short stature. Girls didn't mind who was tall or short, weak or strong, poor or rich as long as they got a good blowjob. Only men who were self-conscious about their bodies didn't get the benefit of a blowjob. Larry was a chick magnet, the king of the boardwalk, and he beat all the others to the goal net. Harriet didn't know of Larry's Casanova ways so it was important for her to be ignorant. Harriet packed away her uniform and headed back home where she needed to get ready for her date.

Larry was taking a hot bubble bath in his jacuzzi. He remembered Koko's orgasmic experience. It was out of this world. He sipped his vodka and smoked his Cuban cigar. He had no expectations about women. They seem to bring their cards to the table. He looked at his cock and thanked God he was endowed with a miracle. He counted his blessings that he was the only guy who has made the most chicks happy. Chicks were not chasing after money or fancy jewelry. They just wanted to get laid. So many virgins, so little time.

Harriet was ready to go on her date. Should she call Larry or should he call her? Harriet was dressed in a tight blue dress and had her cleavage exposed. Harriet popped her contraceptive pills into her handbag just in case her date gets her pregnant. She did some TV watching in the meantime. Later she dialled Larry's phone number and called him.

Harriet: Larry? Did you remember our date tonight?

Larry: Our date? Yes, I know about it. It is only 3PM. I will pick you up at 7PM.

Harriet: Oh! Is it 3PM? I must have clocked off work early! Could we go on an early date time?

Larry: I'm enjoying my hot bath, sweetie.

Harriet: I know where we can enjoy a hot tub somewhere else. I know of a place. Come pick me up now.

Larry: Really? That's sounds great! Let me finish up here and get dressed. I will be right over!

Harriet: Hurry, Larry! I don't have all day.

Larry finished up his hot bath and got dressed up to go again. Larry took his other car, the Jaguar, for this date with Harriet. Larry drove up to Harriet's house.

Larry: Wow! You look gorgeous, babe!

Harriet: Thanks, Larry!

Larry: Get out of dreams, and get into my car!

Harriet: I know a place where we could have a really good time.

Larry: Show me, babe!

Larry and Harriet drove to a health spa where they could get Thai massage, bathe in a hot tub or sweat inside a sauna. Larry thought of Harriet as having such great animal magnetism that he felt attracted to her. Her nipples pricked her blouse. Her blonde hair blew in the wind. Her eyes beamed with confidence. Her lips were crimson red. Larry took in all what he saw in Harriet.

The couple booked into the health spa and put on their white fluffy gowns and started with a Thai massage. Larry suffered from lower back pain. Harriet suffered from inflammation in her neck. The Thai massage therapist did her magic by getting the knots out of the physical muscles. Both Larry and Harriet were oiled and massaged with expert hands. Two massagers took turns giving them the full spa treatment. Next, they went to the sauna to sweat. Larry still had his robe wrapped around his waist. Harriet was butterball naked. Harriet was aghast to see Larry's robe still on. Harriet goes over and tips the robe off Larry's waist. Larry's prized cock was fully erect in full view. Harriet bent over to stroke it.

Larry: Oh, baby, that feels so good!

Harriet: Your cock is rock hard, Larry!

Larry: You bring it, babe!

Harriet: I'm only stroking it, Larry, I will wait until our session in the hot tub where you explode with cum!

Larry: Yeah, stroke it good, babe.

Larry does not cum in the sauna. Even with his robe wrapped around his waist, his rock hard penis stood erect through the robe. Harriet was sweltering inside the sauna. She stroked her clitoris up and down. She was getting herself into the mood for the jacuzzi session.

After an hour, Larry and Harriet went over to the jacuzzi room. The jacuzzi room was styled after a Japanese jacuzzi decorated with rocks and plants. The jacuzzi was big enough for four people. Larry was disrobed. His rock hard penis was losing its strength and he needed to get it back into form again. He tried to masturbate with it. Harriet caught him in the act trying to cum on his own.

Harriet: Larry, dear! Stop wanking!

Larry: My cock has gone flabby again. I need to keep it erect!

Harriet: I hate to see grown up men wanking!

Larry: But my cock is limp!

Harriet: My mouth can make it rock hard again!

Larry: Go ahead, make me the Italian Stallion!

Harriet: I know you will love the way I suck your cock.

Larry: You're an angel, Harriet.

Harriet stroked Larry's penis with her hands, pulsating up and down until Larry could feel himself slipping into ecstasy. Harriet was the gal with all the moves. Her hands massaged his penis and it regained its stiffness to Larry's delight. Next step, she used her perky boobs to make the penis more stiffer. A hint of cum appeared from his penis, a little squirt of cum came through. Harriet licked the cum to taste it. Then she swallowed his penis with her delectable mouth. Her mouth massaged and lubricated the penis. Larry's cock was ready for penetration and Harriet guided his cock into her pussy. The two lovebirds made passionate love in the hot tub. Water splashed everywhere as they achieved climax. Harriet climaxed before Larry did. Larry felt her pussy suffocating his cock inside her pussy until he felt a release and then his cock gushed out his cum. His cum gushed forth into her face!

Harriet: Holy shit! That was out of this world!

Larry: Oh my God, that was fucking great!

Harriet: Larry, you turned me into a woman! I am not a fucking virgin anymore!

Larry: Wonderful to be the one who made you lose your virginity.

Harriet: Your cum tastes good. Like you have all the right ingredients in it.

Larry: Yeah, my cum seems to taste real good these days.

Harriet: How many girls have you slept with, Larry?

Larry: Plenty. I lost count. Why do you ask?

Harriet: I bet that they haven't tasted cum like this before?

Larry: Every girl sucks my cock and samples my cum. They ought to know by now its delicious taste.

Harriet: Yes, they ought to give it ten out of ten.

Larry: I am flattered!

Harriet: You know what will make me your girlfriend, Larry?

Larry: Girlfriend? I like us to be friends with benefits.

Harriet: Seriously, Larry, you need a girlfriend, a partner. You cannot have sex with every girl and never know what true love is.

Larry: I don't like where this is going. I prefer friends with benefits. I'm a chick magnet for God's sake.

Harriet: I love you, Larry, but you cannot make us females feel like sluts. We have priorities in life. We females look out for companionship.

Larry: I tell my girls that I'm not the marrying type. What's wrong with a little hanky spanky?

Harriet: Okay, it seems that you are not hearing me. I maybe a girl with big boobs, a gorgeous butt and an amazing pussy but I am one of those girls who is looking for a relationship.

Larry: You certainly know how to kill a date.

Harriet: That's not what I meant. I would love to explore our feelings more deeply only if you decide to go steady with me.

Larry: To be honest, Harriet, I cannot go steady with you. I have never went steady with the girls I have banged in the past. I have a reputation to keep. Girls come to me to give them sexual awakening and pleasure.

Harriet: No, Larry. You turn us females into sex slaves. If you ever change your mind, call me again. But for going steady that is.

Larry: It's so hard to find fuckable females these days. They want to go steady and raise children. I want nothing to do with the status quo.

Harriet: One day when your cock is no longer performing as it should then you might consider a relationship.

Larry: Oh God, my poor cock at the mercy of a girl who wishes to go steady!

Harriet: I gave you pleasure. I gave you fantastic sex. You could have the decency to return the favour.

Larry: So I ask you how was the sex?

Harriet: Oh my God, Larry, it was fantastic! Back to us going steady...

Larry: The only favour I would give back is to fuck your pussy one more time.

Harriet: Go ahead, cowboy! Fuck my pussy!

Larry and Harriet made passionate love again. Larry hated the idea of relationships. Harriet was keen to make Larry see life from her perspective. After their second quickie in the hot tub, they relaxed with glasses of red wine. They spent the whole day at the health spa. The staff at the spa congratulated their stay but they didn't reveal to Larry and Harriet why they were so happy to see them. Larry and Harriet drove to the beach. They walked on the beach holding hands and watched the sunset. Larry took Harriet to the pier to watch the seagulls fishing for fish. It was a memorable day, and both of them cherished it. Harriet decided it was time to go home. Larry was feeling exhausted from all the sex he was enjoying. He thought of boosting his libido with more tablets but he remembered that he had had a bad experience with them. He too packed himself into bed at his apartment feeling satisfied that he did something right.

#so hot and sexy #adult stories #fantasy story #sexparodies

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sketchman147 · 4 months ago

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Flynni (Cauldron Jacuzzi) by Sketchman

One night, Flynni finds a camping area where a fire circle with burnt wood and ashes that seemed fresh after was used by those who camped here. She looked around and got an idea. Picking up a big cauldron she found in her new hideout, Flynni brought it to the fire circle with jugs full of burning liquid. Her monstrous shoes found some wood and brought it over while starting a fire while Flynni changed into a bathing suit with her socks on. A fire was lit and the liquids started to bubble. Flynni jumped into the cauldron and felt the liquid and bubbles massage her tired and worn-out body. She's been doing a lot since she became a sugar vampire and her body has been feeling aches and pains ever since. For one night at least, Flynni will be enjoying herself with her monstrous shoes providing her with some refreshments like soda pop and candy that she managed to find during her hunts for blood sugar and stuff. The magic from within the cauldron begins to send waves and bubbles creating a spell that lights up the atmosphere making this little witch of a vampire feel relaxed and in paradise for a while.

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thewestern · 11 months ago

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OFFROAD INTERLUDE

Young Chop on the beat

To the uninitiated, a guitar solo can seem self-indulgent, somewhat. Masturbatory, even, one could say, at the risk of surrendering to cliche. But there one is, moving one’s hand up and down a smooth, wooden neck. Contorting one’s face as one hammers on, pulls off, slides and bends one’s way up, down and around the G-major scale. Outstretching one’s fingers to hit just the right notes … that last one’s for you self-pleasing females out there, tapping your clitori like you’re Edie Van Halen. Okay, sure. But it’s more complicated than that, obviously. Like one getting off by one’s self, guitar solos sort of get a bad rap. It’s our puritanical culture that’s to blame. Did you know that supposedly there’s a version of Catholic hell wherein the damned are sous vide for all eternity in a bubbling cauldron? But the twist is that they’re boiling in all their own wasted ejaculate. Wasted, quote en quote, whereby the Pope’s lofty standards, would constitute all the jizzum not expectorated in the act of heterosexual, post-marital intercourse made in the god’s honest attempt at procreation. Well then likewise, perhaps for our purposes there’s a version of secular hell wherein one’s soul floats along a Lazy River Styx to the meandering tune of a never-ending, very noodly guitar solo. Good news: hell isn’t real. Better news: Heaven is. Ooh, it’s a place on earth. Yeah, baby.

Take a page out of the Plains Indians’ book. Although as recordkeepers, they were notoriously sparse, we do know that they didn’t so much dwell on the Life and Death of it all, or at least not on the difference betwixt them. Rather, they were early on the whole consciousness kick. We are one being. All but blades of grass, in the grand scheme. Buffalo grazes. Man eat buffalo. He go in the ground. (Likely on account of eating all that red meat.) Man become grass again. Buffalo eat man. At the end of the day, it’s the end of the day. You dig? Theirs was not a vengeful or a wrathful god. Nor was it even a god to begin with. Nigh, it was a Great Spirit. Non-personified and ungendered. None of this whole paternal bull shit. No daddy issues here. Now, they did have a Great Father. Actually that was what they called POTUS. But that was really more of a put on than anything. A bit of poking fun at our white devil bureaucracy. Fatherhood, as it were, was an altogether separate enterprise from the matters of church and state to the savages. Family in and of itself was more an extension of community. So then, if your Pop happened to up and die, be it he took a bullet off on a raid, or maybe he succumbed to the coughing sickness, it wasn’t no big thang. In a tribe, the Chief was everybody’s daddy. And he was a wise man, which is to say he didn’t just know things.

And, furthermore, as for religion, insofar as they practiced it whatsoever, was all about arranging that harmony with the natural world. Maintaining life-life balance. Therefore, whatever you have to do to keep that homeostasis — to square the circle of life, so to speak — that’s your fucking sacrament. Could be singing, dancing, chanting, smoking. Regarding the ritual form, they didn’t so much care. They were very results-oriented. So you do you, essentially. Long before any framers or founders, the Native Americans who observed freedom to worship, assemble or speak however you please. In their honor, then, say a prayer, have a hootenany, recite the fucking pledge of allegiance or maybe, baby, just beat it. (It, whether we’re talking about the famous Eddie Van Halen instrumental break on his genre-bending collaboration with Michael Jackson [Beat it {beat it}], considered to be among the greatest guitar solos of all time, or your meat.)

Still not convinced? Fine. So what, then, if a guitar solo isn’t an act of patriotism or at least enlightenment? Maybe you’re even thinking to yourself it’s a waste of time. Okay. But, then, is that so bad? When you’re in the groove jacuzzi, what’s the sense in getting out before you’re fully pruned? Crank up the bubbles, will you, Reggie? Try a couple different angles on for size. Really explore the space. What’s the big rush, honey? Procrastination — there’s another thing that gets a bum rap. Our protestant guilt ethic at work again. For a fact, the term itself derives from the Latin Pro- meaning forward, Crastinus- of tomorrow. So, in point of fact, procrastinating is actually keeping things moving. Like if Time is like a big circle, then procrastination is just rolling along. Not bothering nobody. Searching a bit around the edges is all. Yeah. That’s the ticket. Us procrastinators are Searchers. Maybe it’s we’re searching for meaning, or maybe just searching for something fucking better to do.

For his part, Billy could procrastinate with the best of them. Case in point, having only recently set in motion an event chain that could jeopardize his family legacy and fortune, he was in no particular hurry to make his next move. However, in his defence, at Yayo-L’s urging, Billy had been prepared to log into his brand new tablet — purchased for the express purpose of being the perfect-sized device for watching pornography, on the go — and launch an online propaganda campaign, so as to curry public opinion in the favor of his fictional political kidnapping.

Me see pon de social media, youth make da ting go Turn Up. Intenet gon mad. Respek, yadono.

Alas, he could not remember his four-digit security code. Prior to being locked out, Billy attempted five combinations, reproduced below in reverse sequential order from most to least likely:

0824 [his birthday]

1017 [his mother’s birthday]

0420 [ayayayay: smoke weed every day]

6969 [nicenice]

0000 [factory default settings]

Having to reset his password or code nearly every time he tried to access one of his many digital accounts or tech gadgets was one of the great stresses of Billy’s life. That, and because darkness was washing over the sleepy town of Stone Rock, he and Yayo-L agreed to decompress for the evening and attack the morning anew. Although rather than retiring to the bunkhouse after a hard day of scheming, they set out for the barn to raise a little hell. Like the bipedal staff, the remuda of horses — six months out of the year they lazily grazed the surrounding pastures, tasked only with escorting guests out on the occasional horseback ride, or otherwise performing a purely perfunctory roundup — had been dismissed for the off-season. For them to winter in, Uncle Ernie had erected a state-of-the-art stables out on the mud flats over by the airport, complete with a highly sophisticated alarm system for thwarting any enterprising horse thieves.

(In protecting against horse thievery, Uncle Ernie took the utmost precaution. It’s no wonder why, considering how many Western Movies he had watched in his late father’s private picture show, a mid-century precursor to a home theatre or entertainment centre. Quite often some expository character or other would utter the warning: Y’know … horse thieving is a Hanging Offense, around these here parts. [Spits.] It’s true that the trafficking in stolen livestock was a major economic liability in the pre-industrial period. But still, wasn’t it a little heavy-handed to always clarify as such? Of course it was a hanging offense. Just about everything was back then. Turning your sprinkler on between ten in the morning and six at night … that there is a hanging offense around these here parts, etc. Maybe the emphasis was on account of in the days before they laid track for the iron horse (the railroad), horses and mules and the like were your only means of transport. So this was something beyond petty larceny. A crime more akin to Grand Theft Equine. Because a man without a mount was plainly immobilized. And around these here parts — in these United States — that just won’t do. We Americans got places to be. Or was it more likely because stealing horses was the stock and trade of some native American tribes. [Based off the way we was branded / Face it, Jeronimo get more time than Brandon.] But even to them, it was more meaningful than a mere felony. It was an art form. One to be honed, and to be celebrated. Whoever could sneak into the white devils’ camp under the cover of darkness and snatch the most or the best horses, that brave got all the finest squaws and biggest props. Debates would rage among the camps, who was the best horse thief — the most about that life. Bruh, they was telling me bout this one Comanche hitter from the Quahidi set. No cap this dude could clean out a whole damn cavalry in one night. Turn them ma’fuckas out on they asses. Back into infantry, y’erd. Yo, I heard tell this nigga stole the horse off this the other nigga, while this other nigga was riding it … on god … bitch looked down and he was saddled on some bricks, B, in broad daylight. Brrrdat.)

Therefore, the period-accurate Livery Emporium was vacant, excepting for those stalls which were paved over and as such reserved for Uncle Ernie’s off-road armada of ATVs, gators, dune buggies, snowmobiles and, of course, sick ass fucking dirt bikes. The sight alone — neon plastic on polished chrome — would have been more than enough to deal Hank a massive heart attack. Nevermind the evocative aroma of the sputtering exhaust, so pungent you could taste its vegetal tannins on the undercarriage of your spittling tongue. Nor even their battle hymn sound played in four-stroke harmony. Mmm-m. The Mick, for his part, would have creamed his fucking coveralls.

(In actuality, it’s the two-stroke engine which emits that sweet, sweet smell — you know the one, that reminds you of yard work and your dad. The website Motorcyclist Online once asked a professional perfumist to analyze the fragrance profile. Paraphrasing now, her trained nose picked up traces of benzoin and balsam (tree resins), cade oil (a species of juniper), and just a slight hint of patchouli. She described the olfactory experience as: ancestral, ritualistic, ceremonial, and medicinal. Altogether, she said, the smell is very human.

[Hey, ladies. Looking for the perfect stocking stuffer for your husband? How about a two-stroke scented candle, handmade with gen-u–ine, high-grade lube. Per the marketing copy: with this candle, we’ve strived to engineer a nostalgic, reminiscent product, and still remain nontoxic, while achieving as close as possible olfactory experience with out burning raw oil and fuel inside your home.])

For their moonlight ride, Billy and Yayo-L selected the mini bike and mini ATV, respectively, on for which to convey themselves away. (Yayo-L was woefully inexperienced with extreme motorsports, so Billy suggested they start small. Not that he minded none. After all it was Uncle Ernie who always said, the minis were just like mopeds or fat chicks. Fun as all heck to ride, just so long as your friends don’t find out.) On their way out of town, they stopped off at the San Ernesto for to raid the robust wine cellar. Although Billy was deathly allergic to beer, he did enjoy the occasional glass of Burgundy, of which Uncle Ernie happened to be among the Western U.S.’s most prolific collectors. With an audacious nonchalance, Billy chose a bottle at random. Then, trudging back upstairs to the saloon area, he fetched from a sleeve of four white styrofoam cups he had previously stashed in a cupboard, dividing them equally between himself and Yayo-L. (Ayo, real quick, let’s talk a bit about styrofoam cups. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But ask yourself … if we don’t who else will? Okay, so, what we commonly know to be the styrofoam cup isn’t made of actual Styrofoam, which is in fact a brand name — it’s sort of a Kleenex or a Xerox situation — trademarked by the Dow Corporation, which developed the substance, albeit completely by fucking mistake, in the forties. [Inventor Otis Ray McIntire was going for more of a rubber replacement. Dow would go on to merge with DuPont in the mid-twenty-tens, at last joining the two largest American chemical companies in holy matrimony.] The generic name is extruded polystyrene, and the genius of it lays in the extrusion, which is basically the titular process of foaming. The result is this super material, that’s ninety-eight percent air, making it incredibly lightweight. However, it’s also so dense that it’s extremely durable, as well as it’s buoyant to boot. Thus qualifying Styrofoam for a range of use cases, from military-grade personal flotation devices — how it was first used dating back to World War Two — to building insulation — its primary present-day application. Now, quote-unquote styrofoam cups, as well as similar food packaging products, are likewise molded out of polystyrene, a synthetic polymer made from monomers of the aromatic hydrocarbon styrene, however rather than being extruded, it has been expanded. So suffice it to say, it’s even lighter than styrofoam, but considerably less durable, which makes sense given you only need to use a cup the one time. [The only downside being that it’s still durable to the extent that it doesn’t decompose, and boy is it a real bitch to recycle.]

William A. Dart of the Dart Container Corporation developed the expandable polystyrene cup in the early sixties. His sons, Kenneth and Robert Dart, after inheriting the company, would go on to renounce their U.S. citizenship in the mid-nineties, explicitly as a means of avoiding taxes on their foam cup fortune. [Listen, there are all kinds of tax dodges out there, but renouncing your fucking American citizenship is on another level, dude. Fucking sick.] The brothers Dart subsequently established a relationship with the nation of Belize, and generously offered to turn their shared residence — a mansion in Sarasota — into a consulate, with themselves serving as sibling co-consuls, thus shielding their estate from any further action made on behalf of the Internal Revenue Service. Alas, the State Department intervened, thwarting their entrepreneurial attempt at sovereign diplomacy. Shortly thereafter the place in Sarasota burnt down, suspiciously, and the expatriates fled to the Cayman Islands, which famously has a zero tax rate on income earned or stored. Freed at last of this burden, the reclusive Ken, for his part, has gone on to become the territory’s largest private landholder. Some Caymanians speculate he owns more than the government itself. Real estate speculation has emerged as the primary business of Dart Enterprises, as it’s now incorporated. It also trades in distressed foreign government debts, making a killing on the global financial crisis of the mid-two thousands, as well as tobacco company stocks. As for the foam container business, Dart has since spun it off.) Into these their grails, he poured three parts red wine, one part lemon-lime soft drink — fresh out the soda gun. Here was his own special blend, although he had not given this his proprietary wine cocktail a proper French name. Let’s all try together then. S’appuyer, sil vous plait? Or, how about, Boisson Violette? Phonetically, would it be, L'année, perhaps? Mmm. And what a bonne fucking one it was. Mixed with a coveted vintage worth in the ballpark of three times the blue-book value of Kitty’s fucking car, despite its being some decades older.

(Unbeknownst to Uncle Ernie, this bottle — as well as those from several similarly-appraised cases he had successfully over-bid for — was a counterfeit. Concurrent to this time, a young connoisseur out of Encino had been exploding onto the rare wine scene. Over the course of the previous calendar year, his vast collection had fetched him north of thirty million dollars at auction, the record for a single consignor. Alarm bells would be raised however when it was discovered by one suspicious estate manager that some of his wines were indeed so rare that they had in fact never fucking existed in the first place. One in particular, from a year inwhere a famous French vineyard had quietly suspended its harvest, owing to a catastrophic infestation of Japanese beetles. Of course, this good samaritan would swiftly alert his dear friend Uncle Ernie of the discrepancy, who would hire a Perlmutter Agency private dick on the WolffCo company dime to investigate matters further. This Brother Shamus sniffs around a bit, takes some pictures with a telephoto lens, slides them into a manilla folder, marks confidential care of Werner Wolff, calls it a day and tips off the feds. Thereupon raiding his seedy one-bedroom apartment, with a gen-u-ine Italian sports car conspicuously parked out front, the FBI would recover reems of label forgeries, every last one of them painstakingly hand-distressed like a pair of designer blue jeans. Working out of his kitchenette sink, often blending cheap grocery store wines — we’re talking two-buck chuck, here — this regular-ass dude successfully duped the entire fine wine world. And not just suckers who had it coming like Uncle Ernie, neither. Mother Fucking, Master Sommeliers, may it please the Court. Those whose palettes are tuned like a musicologist’s ear or trained like a police dog’s snout, so as to detect even the faintest subtleties of terroir or whatever the fuck. One whiff of a fart, it’s said, and they can discern without a shadow of a doubt what he or she who dealt it had for breakfast. But then here comes some guy, this criminal mastermind, an fucking alchemist apparently … and he takes them all for the ride of his life. In a fucking Lambo, no less. Mercy, mercy, me.

Shame then his ride had to end. The Encino Kid, as folks took to calling him, was indicted by the U.S. Attorney’s office representing the Southern District of New York, which had all kinds of time on its hands leftover from recusing itself of any prosecutions as it pertained to the perpetrators of the global financial crisis, the fallout to which was also taking place concurrent to these events. Perhaps the white-collar crime statutes were too opaque to be applied practically. All the while our antihero became the first defendant in the esteemed history of our justice system to be convicted on counts of what the presiding judge officially deemed, Wine Fraud.

[Voiceover: In the criminal justice system, wine-based offenses are considered especially heinous. {Fade in title card.} In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Vinos Unit. These are their stories. {Cue music, b-roll, intro credits: Starring Joe Pantoliano, Carla Gugino, Flea, etc., etc., From Executive Producer Dick Wolf.}]

Subsequently he was sentenced to ten years of which he served six. BOP #62470-112, incarcerated at the Ward County Detention Complex in Big Springs, Texas, a publicly-owned, privately-operated correctional facility ranked eighth on a list of the Ten Worst Prisons in America by the online edition of Mother Jones magazine. A distinction earned after widespread riots were provoked in response to, among a litany of other indignities, the sub-humane level of medical care made available to inmates. This after ongoing incidents culminated in the death of a prisoner held in solitary confinement, who despite repeated pleas from his family to fill his long-standing prior prescriptions for epilepsy medicine, had only been treated with ibuprofen for his severe seizures, to which he ultimately succumbed. Shortly thereafter, his comrades reported seeing his lifeless body being carried out in what appeared to be a garbage bag. Upon questioning, prison officials deflected, claiming that all healthcare services were subcontracted to a third-party provider. This was true. However it was also true that said third-party was awarded the contract strictly on the basis of its explicit promise to reduce the county’s expenses by cutting back on prescriptions, and other such costly Wellness Amenities. That, and some years later, State Senator Omar Uresti was brought up on charges of conspiracy to commit bribery, citing evidence that he colluded with Ward County commissioners to approve the contract in exchange for kickbacks and promises of future payments.

To reiterate, none of this has or had happened at the time of this writing. As far as Billy knows, the bottle he poured into that double cup was the real deal. Though he didn’t much care either which way. Had he known this was a phony — that he was consuming physical evidence in a federal case — well he would have been amused by that fact. His Uncle Ernie, on the other hand, when he would eventually find out he’d been had, would go on to blow his fucking stack, predictably.)

With one hand on the handlebars, they proceeded with abandon through the empty thoroughfare, past the JK Corral, and into the Curtis Hixon Sportatorium, an arena Uncle Ernie had erected for hosting VIP rodeo-based fundraisers for right wing political candidates and other conservative cause célèbres. (Hoedown for Hardline Immigration Reform, Giddy Up for Responsible Gun Ownership, Do-si-do for Subsidies-backed Domestic Crude Oil Production on Federal Lands.) Billy’s master key opened the announcer’s booth, where Yayo-L was able to get his MPThree player hooked up to the aux cord on the PA System, which previously had played only two songs — God Bless the U.S.A., words and lyrics by Lee Greenwood and The Star-Spangled Banner as performed by Alan Jackson. (His affinity for that particular rendition notwithstanding, Uncle Ernie was of the steadfast belief that the former should replace the latter as Our National Anthem, and had lobbied as such repeatedly to his dignified guests, of whom included several U.S. senators, three of the five conservative justices on the Supreme Court and one sitting vice president, among many other figures of political prominence. It was an issue he had great passion for. Also, Lee Greenwood was a friend.)

For his part, Billy had recently been put on to this rapper, Chief Keef, a Chicago-based artist from the city’s infamous, rough-and-tumble SouthSide projects. His shit had been blowing up online. Notably the music video for the smash hit single, I Don’t Like, had spoken to Billy. It was like nothing he’d ever seen before, and he’d been watching music videos on television — as well as even television shows about the making of music videos — for the longest. Billy was like an art historian for music videos. They say jazz is the only American art form. Nah, son. Music videos. Mosaics of money, hoes and clothes. (All a nigga knows.) Although, notably, this particular music video had none of the above. Mostly it was just a bunch of dudes with no shirts on. Chief Keef, only sixteen years old, and all his homies in a living room. Not a baller living room neither. No flat screens or stripper poles or crush velvet couches or exotic fish tanks to speak of. Only visible cracks and stains in the drywall. And all they were doing was smoking blunts and making gang signs. One guy was flashing his piece, a matte grey pistol with a High-capacity Magazine. And there was no breakdancing or otherwise elaborate choreography. Just headbanging. Chief Keef sported a mane of dreads, about the length of a Beatles mop top. He was rapping not about the lofty heights to which they aspired, but rather the lowly existence to which they seemed generationally relegated. As if their’s was a despair so routine to them, that it had metastasized — as despair so often does — in the form of these petty grievances with everyday life. That’s That Shit I Don’t Like, or These Are A Few Of My Least Favorite Things. Bootleg designer jeans, felony indictments, disloyal friends (a.k.a. fuck niggas, snitch niggas, bitch niggas … ahem, Jaime), shwag weed, parents that just don’t understand, so on and so forth. Billy thought it looked like the most fun ever.

He downloaded the mixtape and had been banging it, on repeat, ever since. Back From the Dead, it was entitled, in reference to one time Chief Keef got in a gunfight with the police. According to the responding cop’s accounting of the events, after a brief on-foot pursuit, the suspect turned and brandished a blue steel-plated handgun. His partner squeezed off two shots in the assailant’s direction and missed. Then yada, yada, yada, and the unsub was then apprehended without further incident. However, in contradiction to the official police report, somehow word on the street got out that Sosa had died in that officer-involved shooting. At least that’s what his opps were saying. On account of nobody had seen him around the block in a minute. But that was because, in point of fact, he was serving a sentence of thirty days’-home confinement at his grandmother’s house. So then he called his subsequent release BFTD as a tongue-and-cheek way of saying to all his haters: Surprise, Bitch, I’m not dead after all. I was at my Nana’s this whole time.

Billy had always loved hearing stories like that, about rappers putting in work. Back at Canaan Country Day, during certain art electives they were allowed to listen to music on the radio at a reasonable volume. Billy took Metals especially for that reason, and also because you got to use a blowtorch. It was the only class he would arrive to early, so that he could set the FM dial on the boombox to the local rap radio station. (Also for to call dibs on the blowtorch.) Sometimes, right before class, he’d even sneak into the Laura Bush Teachers’ Lounge, and dial nine for an outside request line.

Caller Number One?

Hey, DJ Clay! It’s your boy Billy Rolling on Dubs, reppin Canaan Country All Dizzay. Can you please play In Da Club by Fifty Cent?

Alright coming right up for ya, lil’ homie. Now shout out the radio station that gave you what you wanted.

Wild n’ One-Oh-Eight Point-Eight, Today’s Hottest Hip Hop and R&B!

Go (x6)

Go, Shorty

It’s your birthday

We gonna party like it’s your birthday

We gonna sip Bacardi like it’s your birthday

As the good Dr. Dre’s unconventionally off-beat rhythm harmonized with the cacophonic choir of circular saws and cross-peen hammers, Billy would try to endear himself to his rail splitting classmates by regaling them in Fifty’s escapades. Did you know he was shot nine times? How sick is that? As always when it came to matters of Billy, they just thought he was being weird, and pretended like they didn’t want to be distracted from whatever they were working on. Well, jokes on them, because It was Billy’s piece — the pimp cup with a soldered-on AK-47 — that was selected to the CCD Permanent Collection, where it remains to this day. His teacher Mrs. Reese heralded Billy’s chalice, as she insisted on calling it, to be: a subversive artistic statement on the relationship between toxic masculinity and violence in schools, or something to that effect. Shouts to Mrs. Rza. You da real MVP.

Do you know that feeling of falling in love with a song with your whole heart? Whether it’s a melody or a lyric or just a riff, it worms its way through ear canal and hooks onto the squishy part of your brain that controls your impulse. And then it keeps nibbling at it, scratching, so that you are compelled to listen again and again. And again, for days on end, until you can listen no more because the sound makes you physically sick to your stomach. Seriously, do you know that feeling? It was the kind of feeling Billy had that was so powerful, it made him wonder how anybody else could possibly could relate to it. The kind of feeling that if we all — people of earth — felt it at once the world would end probably. Maybe I just connect to music more deeply, he thought.

(If you’ve ever attended your favorite band’s concert, and seen tens of thousands of others sing along with the very same songs you know by heart, you’d know that music resonates strongly with lots of folks. Billy, for his part, hadn’t attended hardly any. Concerts, that is. Actually, not a single one. Sure, he had the means to afford the toughest of tickets, but have you ever been to a show alone? That’s some loser shit. Once he tried to run away from home to join the aforementioned Gathering of the Juggalos, where famously no one is alone. Rather, at the Gathering, when you’re here, you’re family. [The Gathering: Tonight’s the Night You Fight Your Dad. The Gathering: These Pants Aren’t Going to Shit Themselves.] He made it all the way to the airline ticket counter where he attempted to use his mother’s diamond-encrusted wolf broach — the closest thing to hard currency he could get his little hands on — to barter for a boarding pass to Lambert International Airport in Missouri, the very same from whence Charles Lindbergh took flight on the Spirit of St. Louis, which according to the directions he printed out in advance was a short three hour’s-drive from the site of the Eleventh Annual GOTJ, held at Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, a small hamlet on the banks of the Ohio River. [The namesake cave{-in-rock} was an infamous refuge stronghold for frontier outlaws and river pirates beginning in the late Eighteenth Century. River pirates, huh? Cool!]

Blast, as the albeit well-meaning ticket agent predictably snitched on Billy, handing him over to the proper authorities. In retrospect, though, he may have been lucky to have missed out. Many ninjas cite that year as a turning point for the festival. The Jugallos’ Altamont. Their Little Bighorn. In addition to the Psychopathic Records stable of acts, including Twiztid, Dark Lotus, Anybody Killa and Blaze Ya Dead Homie, all of whom were mainstays of Gatherings past and future, beloved by Juggalos the Midwest over, ICP, Inc. had padded out the lineup with more celebrity guest appearances than ever before. This in part to promote the world premiere of their second straight-to-DVD feature film, Big Money Rustlas, a slapstick Western prequel to their critically-overlooked debut, Big Money Hustlas. This year’s gathering is sort of like an ode to the Wild Wild West, says sweet Sugar Slam in the infamous infomercial, touting the Nation’s Only—True Underground Music Festival—With No Corporate Sponsorship. Luminaries of West Coast hip hop such as the regulator himself Warren G were in the hiz-ouse. Naughty by Nature, Vanilla Ice and Tone Lōc too. And since Juggalos are so well known for their axe-sharp senses of humor, comedic stylings would be provided courtesy of Gallagher (melon smasher), Tom Green (bum rubber) and Ron Jeremy (both of the above). Despite or perhaps because of their A-List statuses, to marquee names the likes of these, the Jugallos were often hostile. That is if the performers didn’t come correct with their A-Games — bring the wicked shit, per their parlance — they were liable to be booed, or worse, by the ninja throngs.

Tila Tequila was for what it’s worth, arguably the first-ever Social Media Influencer, amassing a following of one-and-a-half million Friends, mostly by way of posting sexually suggestive photos to a popular proto-social networking site. She parlayed that success into reality television stardom. And it was from that black hole of American culture that she attempted to revive her career, such as it was, with a pivot to rapping. Thus was the sequence of misfortunes that led her to the Gathering, where she was foretold to be the objectified of the Juggalos’ disaffection, taking the stage some three hours late on what festival organizers had quite optimistically billed to be, Ladies’ Night. Just as soon as she started in on lip-syncing her smashed single, I Fucked the DJ, the audience began pelting her with partway full cans of beer and other debris. [When they weren’t mixing Faygo-based cocktails, Juggalos were known to enjoy the Pack-line of sub-premium Wolffenbeir products.] Nevertheless, she persisted.

Cream in my middle like an Oreo

Got you on rock ride cock like the rodeo

Drop like stock you can check the portfolio

Cuz my pussy pop like it does e-44

Robert Hunter writes — in the preface to the book Box of Rain, a career-spanning compilation of his contributions to the Grateful Dead canon in his capacity as proto-poet laureate — that song lyrics are often embarrassed by print, and that some of his are no exception. Rhyme, rhythm and manageable phrasing impose restrictions on what may be said, he says; fortunately, once and a while, the very limitations help to create something which could be said no other way.

Tequila later alleged that she had been struck in the face by human feces that were catapulted from the mosh pit that night at the Gathering. Trying in vain to appease the seething mob, she acquiesced to their demands that she remove her sequined halter top. Regrettably, the gesture of baring her surgically mutilated bosom only aroused their ravenous delirium the furthermore. The fervor reached its apogee, when according to Tom Green’s eyewitness account, she was chased offstage to her trailer, hotly pursued by a posse of horny men in full clown makeup.

To this day, Juggalos and their apologists maintain that the frackas was wrought by rogue elements in the Gathering masses. That these were non-ninja, agent provocateurs. They submit into evidence how earlier that very day, at the ICP annual seminar, Violent J specifically implored to the Juggalo delegation that no harm be brought upon Tila Tequila’s acutely angular head. [Did you, or did you not, order the Mountain Dew Code Red?!] However, on cross-examination, the prosecution would be remiss not to establish for the record what Violent J’s partner, Shaggy 2 Dope, said immediately after that. Yeah, because I’M trying to fuck that bitch.

Whether or not this insurrection marked a loss of innocence — a failure, if you will, of their grand experiment — will surely be debated by generations of Jugallos to come. For Ms. Tequila, it could certainly be considered the incident that precipitated her own precipitous downfall. When her worm began to turn, as it were. Not unlike the aviator Lindbergh, her coping with this and other traumas manifested in a public flirtation with the tenets of national socialism. Starting with her sharing to social media a photo of her infant daughter, Isabella, miming history’s most infamous moustache. Hashtag: BabyHitler. Her radicalisation then crystallised with an entry to her blog, evocatively entitled — Why I Sympathize with Hitler: Part I. Shortly thereafter she posted a crudely photoshopped self-portrait, costumed as a scantily-clad, femme-Nazi, superimposing in front of the Birkenau gatehouse, straddling the train tracks that led directly to the gas chambers at Auschwitz II, a Waffen SS cap resting atop her shoulder-length bob, an auburn hue of blonde that could only be achieved alchemically, one hand held aloft bearing an American-made, nickel-plated Colt 1911, the other placed defiantly on her hip, so as to more prominently flash a red swastika armband, and probably also somehow to appear skinnier still.

And here's to you, Mrs. Tequila

Jesus loves you more than you will know

Whoa, whoa, whoa

God bless you, please, Mrs. Tequila

Heaven holds a place for those who pray

Hey, hey, hey

[Sung to the tune of Mrs. Robinson, by Simon and Garfunkel. {Made famous by the movie, The Graduate, although technically it doesn’t count as a needle drop, since it was written specifically for the film. Well, sort of. You see, the director Mike Nichols had been using a separate Simon & Garfunkel song, The Sound of Silence, off the duo’s debut album Wednesday Morning, Three A.M., released the year prior, but only in the editing bay as a placeholder and pacing device. However, when Nichols tried to substitute it with a track from the original score, nothing seemed to work as seamlessly with the images on the screen. So he paid dearly for the rights to keep that two-part harmony — Hello Darkness my old friend … — over that famous title sequence of Benjamin Braddock, the avatar for postwar suburban youth malaise, floating there in his parents’ swimming pool, no doubt obscuring a disaffected gaze behind his acetate sunglasses. Woe be unto you, Dustin Hoffman. Nichols’ use of a pop record on a film soundtrack was considered unusual for that time, if not altogether unheard of. Thus making TSOS among the first, if not The First Ever needle drop. [Surely someone could easily find this out. Surely.] Boy did they knock it out of the park with that one, huh? First pitch fastball. There’s a drive deep to left field by Castellanos, and that’ll be a home run.

For a fact, Nichols was so enamored by the way that melancholic arpeggio ascended the diatonic scale to his antihero’s disillusion in those opening frames, that he appealed directly to the guitar player himself, Paul Simon, commissioning him to write another song specifically for the film’s denouement. He wanted their music to bookend his story. Simon didn’t think he had the bandwidth to compose something from scratch, on account of he and Garfunkel were touring at such a breakneck pace. But there was this one idea he was working on, about times and peoples past — Joe DiMaggio, John Lennon, Jack Kennedy. It had been tentatively titled Mrs. Roosevelt, in reference to the first verse about the former First Lady Eleanor being institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital, which she never actually was, although there are probably several named after her. Simon sang Nichols the opening melody — Dee (x13), Doo (x9), Dee (x13). Nichols stood up out of his chair and said, whoa … kid … stop the record. I’ve heard enough. [Dramatic pause … Simon feared the worst. Say something!] It’s not called Mrs. Roosevelt anymore. It’s Mrs. Robinson. And the rest as they say is history. It went on to become the first rock and roll song to win the Grammy for Record of the Year. It would also have taken home the Oscar for Best Original Song, in all likelihood, had it not been deemed ineligible on a technicality. Fucking Garfunkel forgot to fill out the paperwork to submit it, of course.

Years later, at an Italian restaurant on Central Park South, Paul Simon bumped into of all people Joe DiMaggio, whose name he of course drops in the final chorus — Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you / Ooh (x3). What I don’t understand, Joltin’ Joe says, is why you say I’ve left and gone away / Hey (x3). I just did a Mr. Coffee commercial. I’m a spokesman for the Bowery Savings Bank. I haven’t gone anywhere! I’m Joe D, for chrissakes! Demredly as he could, Paul Simon replied that he didn’t intend any disrespect, clarifying that the lyric wasn’t meant to be taken literally. On the contrary, Simon considered him, DiMaggio, to be an American hero, and this song was explicitly about this turbulent time when those were in short supply. DiMaggio accepted the explanation, the two shook hands and parted ways. Shortly thereafter, Simon made a guest appearance on the Dick Cavett Show alongside none other than DiMaggio’s pinstriped slugging successor, Mickey Mantle. In point of fact, as a Jewish kid growing up in the Fifties, playing stickball in Brooklyn, probably — — everybody in Brooklyn in the Fifties played stickball, apparently — it was the sweet-swinging Mantle who Simon idolised, rather than DiMaggio, who by then had past his prime. Aware of his generational appeal, during a commercial break, the Mick came straight out and asked him: say, if I was your favorite ballplayer, how come you put that old Wop in the song instead of me? Put into the unenviable position of having to elucidate his creative process to yet another Yankee legend, Simon said, well, it’s because of the syllables, you see. Rob-in-son, Di-Mag-gio. (Roo-se-velt, Te-qui-la.) Three syllables. Three beats. Where have you gone, Mic-key Man-tle? There’s an extra syllable. Rhythmically, it’s no good. Although, and he didn’t tell him this, but metaphorically it wouldn’t have worked either. Mantle was nobody’s role model. He was like Elvis, Simon later told a reporter for the New York Daily News. An incredible burst of vitality and youth, and its eventual corruption.

(Mantle was asked to recount his favorite memory of the old Yankee Stadium, on the eve of it’s fiftieth anniversary and imminent closure for a multi-season rennovation project. He had a Hall of Fame career’s-worth of achievements from which to choose. Such as, during his triple crown season, hitting a home run to right off the famous outfield facade, which would be replicated in the renovation and re-replicated in the new Yankee Stadium. (Actually it’s known as a frieze in architecture circles.) That thing was up longer than Alan Shepard, remembered an onlooking little boy from Brooklyn. Paul Simon. Just kidding. Actually, it was Billy Crystal. And he was from Long Island if memory serves.

Rather, Mantle responded in writing, on the ballclub’s letterhead, to this the prompt of recalling an outstanding moment in his storied career at The Stadium, that he once received a blow job under the right field bleachers, adjacent to the Yankee bullpen. To the follow-up question, when on or about did this event occur, it was around the third or fourth inning, by his recollection. I had a pulled groin and couldn’t fuck at the time. She was a very nice girl and asked me what to do with the cum after I came in her mouth. I said don’t ask me, I’m no cock-sucker. [Sic. {According to the Guardian style guide, the only available online source and thus the authority on the subject, it’s cocksucker, one word. Cock-sucker and cock sucker are both incorrect.}]

Signed: *Mickey Mantle

*The All-American Boy)

DiMaggio died at the age of eighty-four in Ninety-Nine of natural causes. (Natural as in complications from lung cancer, resultant of keeping up a three-pack-a-day chain-smoking [redundant] habit throughout his Big League career and beyond. Those were the good old days, when a professional athlete could take a mid-game smoke break without having to worry about losing an endorsement deal with some bogus sports drink or energy bar. For a fact, DiMaggio himself was a pitchman, for cigarettes! You Bet I Smoke Camels. [Garcia’s brand.] Along With All That Swell Flavor, Camels Are Extra Mild, For That Fantastic Finish, Like A Walk-Off Home Run, Deep In Your Lungs.) As a companion piece to his New York Times obituary, Simon wrote in an OpEd about how his lyric had been a sincere tribute to DiMaggio's unpretentious and modest heroic stature, in a time when popular culture magnifies and distorts how we perceive our stars of stage, screen and sport. Quoting now: In these days of Presidential transgressions and apologies and prime-time interviews about private sexual matters, we grieve for Joe DiMaggio and mourn the loss of his grace and dignity, his fierce sense of privacy, his fidelity to the memory of his wife and the power of his silence.

So then he was the strong silent type. Gary Cooper. Also that explains the bit about Mrs. Roosevelt. You see FDR didn’t let his withered legs slow him down from chasing skirts behind his wife’s back. Before you weep for her, Eleanor was getting it on the side herself, as well as possibly even batting for the other team. (She was oft-rumoured to be a barely closeted lesbian.) But that’s beside the point, which according to Paul Simon was that whatever they were up to, they all kept their mouths shut about it, and also that such tawdry gossip hadn’t yet been commoditized as tabloid fodder. (Infamously, although it wouldn’t have been reported at the time, DiMaggio’s picture-perfect marriage to Marilyn Monroe had been marred by abuse — substance and spousal — behind the scenes. Quite literally, crew members recalled a violent incident on the set of Monroe’s star turn in the Seven Year Itch, wherein she has her famous closeup of the skirt blowing up from under the subway grate, the sight of which sent Joltin’ Joe into a jealous rage.)

The April following DiMaggio’s passing in March, for a special ceremony in his honor, Paul Simon performed Mrs. Robinson during the seventh inning stretch, making a lousy-fucking fill-in for Take Me Out to the Ballgame, thought most Yankee fans, probably. Singing to a sellout crowd, standing there alone in centerfield donning a baseball cap just like the one the players wore, beneath a billboard advertising a big-box electronics store local to the Tri-State Area that read — Nobody Beats The Wiz. You can faintly hear the Bleacher Creatures trying helplessly to clap along in four-four time over the sound of Simon’s tuned-down dreadnought guitar. That afternoon the Yankees beat the visiting Toronto Blue Jays by a final score of four-to-three. Second-baseman Chuck Knoblauch scored the winning run from third, batted in on an eleventh-inning, walk-off bloop single to the gap by Bernie Williams, DiMaggio’s fellow center fielder, as well as Simon’s fellow singer-songwriter. Bernie and the Bronx Bombers went on to win the World Series that fall, their twenty-fifth such title, sweeping their National League nemeses of the Nineties, the Atlanta Braves. Simultaneous to this, their second consecutive championship run, plans for a first-of-its-kind music festival were being conceived by Jumpsteady, brother of Violent J. The idea germinated while he himself attended Gen Con, the largest tabletop game convention in North America. The subsequent summer, the first of the new millennium, the inaugural Gathering of the Juggalos was convened at the Novi Expo Center in Novi, Michigan.}])

In any event Billy was feeling some type of way today. Stimulated, you could say. Re-sensitized. Colors appeared vivider. He even took a beat to appreciate the sunset, something he wasn’t usually want to do. Because, sunsets are gay, he’d once said. But tonight a blood-red dusk cascaded over the rolling desert plains, and although he wouldn’t have necessarily phrased it in just such a way, he could appreciate the natural beauty of the moment. His taste buds were likewise in bloom. All of a sudden, his immature palette could adequately discern the acidity of the wine as it contrasted with the sweetness of the soda, and also how the carbonation underscored that juxtaposition, quite playfully. Scent too. Whereas Stone Rock and the surrounding acreage generally wafted of hot dirt, a chilled, almost menthol aroma had rode in on the northerly wind — sure as good a sign as any of an impending winter storm. Also, Yayo-L had rolled a fat L with one of Uncle Ernie’s pre-Castro Cuban cigars. Although Billy didn’t partake for fear of inducing a debilitating panic attack, his number one hitter Yayo-L was for his part a prolific pothead. (This is a lifestyle choice not uncommon among information technology professionals, believe it or not. Keep in mind, even your run-of-the-mill IT guy or girl is still a huge fucking nerd, who will forget more about computers than you will ever know, or care to. Now square that with their job description, which entails troubleshooting bullshit support tickets — we’re talking, Talking Paperclip-level … Looks like you’re trying to write a suicide note — day-to-day, in and out, for absolute noobs making three times what they do, base salary. As such, it's a boon to one’s IT employee morale to be Off That Loud on company time, whenever possible.) Even if he didn’t blaze the weed, Billy enjoyed being around drugs, drug users and paraphernalia. It lent him a certain street credibility, or so he thought. And the earthy aroma was likewise pleasing to him. (And that I smell a dankness.) Did you know a lot of rappers have personal blunt-rollers on the payroll, he once asked his metals teacher, Mrs. Reece. That’s such a flex.

And whoa be to, The Sound. The triumphant roar of the synth brass infinet reverberated for miles down valley, like a regimental march come riding over the bluff to wage war on eternity.

I'm cooling wit' my youngins

And what we smoke one hunna

But, nigga, I'm three hunna

Click-clack, pow, now he runnin'

Billy felt three hundred years old, and at once born anew. (And you know we don’t give a fuck it’s not your birthday.) This in spite … nay, on account of there being so much drama in the club, proverbially, between him, Jaime, and his mother. With #x_brüing and Wolffenbeir and the New Frontier. His nemesis, the dastardly Dr. Lupus, and Billy’s beloved Howler, whose wayfarer sunglasses he still imagined in silhouette against waxing crescent moon, its sliver peeking out from around the encroaching stormcloud. Like the evening fog, today his burden would be lifted, as he was baptised in the currents of his own creation.

We are the boys that take delight

smashing the Limerick light when lighting

through all the streets like sporters fighting

and tearing all before us

All these sensations — his feeling like the luckiest man on the face of the Ea-Ea-Earth — emulsified in frequencies of equal amplitude between his legs. Not his loins, per say, although he had been unusually cognizant of his own libido of late. Whereas he usually regarded his appendage inanimately — as an on-demand application … a stress relief valve of sorts — today it had awoken with a mind of its own, in the form of morning wood. Albeit always welcome, his erection was irrelevant to the present moment. Because, like his heart pumping blood directly to the tip of his penis, now time itself was beating with tribal rhythm. One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three, one, two. A highly unique, eleven-eight time signature, in the pocket with the vibrato of the Fifty CC engine on Billy’s mini-bike. He and Yayo-L were doubles barrel racing, riding mixed motocross. Tokyo drifting in perfect figure eights. Maxing out those little Japanese lawn mower engines to their absolute limits and beyond. Bursting through barriers of sound and color and common fucking decency.

There was an old saying that Billy had never heard. Hank had been known to use it from time to time. It went something to the effect, paraphrasing here: money is a sixth sense with which you may more fully enjoy the other five. Hank used it unattributed, naturally. Depending on your internet search algorithm, it was either the intellectual property of the early Twentieth Century English playwright, novelist and screenwriter, W. Somerset Maugham, whose masterwork Of Human Bondage tells the semi-autobiographical coming-of-age story of Philip Carey, a club-footed orphan who abandons his artistic aspirations to pursue his medical studies, only to be derailed entirely by a decidedly one-sided love affair with a manic depressive waitress. Among the authors who cited Maugham as a literary influence were Anthony Burgess, Ian Fleming, Stephen King and George Orwell, who said Maugham was the modern writer who inspired him the most.

Or, the quote might have belonged to Richard Ney, the American actor turned financial advisor to the stars. His big break arrived in the movie Mrs. Miniver, arguably the first of a great many Second World War films to earn sweeping critical and audience acclaim. One begrudging admirer was Joseph Goebbels, Nazi Minister of Propaganda, for its subtle and yet overwhelming accomplishment of an anti-German tendency, as he called it. The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was likewise smitten; Mrs. Minniver won six Oscars, including Best Picture, Director and Actress. The latter gold statuette went to Old Hollywood starlet Greer Carson, her fifth-straight in the category, tying her for the record for most consecutive Actress in a Leading Role wins with Bette Davis, who herself starred as the aforementioned bipolar server in the film adaptation of OHB, although she was snubbed for that portrayal. In Mrs. Miniver, Ney played a supporting role as Greer Carson’s erstwhile son. Subsequently, undaunted by their considerable age difference, he would enter a somewhat fraught offscreen May-December marriage with his onscreen mother, which predictably fizzled. Thereafter, Ney puttered around to various bit parts. Notably, he had a one-episode arc on the Western network television series, The Tall Man, playing a wealthy dilettante who hires Billy the Kidd to guide him into the wilderness for to hunt a mountain lion, but only as a clever ruse for efforting to kill Billy himself.

But eventually the acting work dried up, and by the middle nineteen sixties, Ney had successfully transitioned to a career as a financial adviser and wealth manager. Beginning at a Beverly Hills brokerage firm, he went on to start a successful investment newsletter — The Ney Report — which counted petroleum industrialist J. Paul Getty among its subscribers. Although he was an avowed capitalist and enthusiastic materialist — Ney was chauffeured everywhere he went in an extravagant motor carriage not dissimilar to Hildy’s — he maintained no illusions about the structural unfairness of our financial system. He would go on to write three books, each highly critical of stock market manipulation and speculative trading, including the New York Times bestseller, The Wall Street Gang. No place on Planet Earth hosts more sheer larceny per square footage than the New York Stock Exchange, he was attributed as saying. Whether or not for expressed purposes of manufacturing consent (what was it Noam Chomsky said about eating pussy?), Ney was one of two former guests to be banned for life from reappearing on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. The other was Ralph Nader.

The boys carried on revving their engines in reverie. Having grown up with unfettered access to these and other motorized toys, Billy was a skilled extreme sports polyathlete. Showboating a bit, he popped a wheelie on the zeitgeist right in Yayo-L’s grill mix. Bucking there on his back tire, he looked and felt completely invincible. He was like a damn Comanche warrior on horseback. Billy had heard how they could unload a full quiver of arrows hanging Upside down from Underneath their horse, this while galloping at a full clip, mind you. Uncle Ernie missed out on Vietnam on account of a dubious diagnosis of late-onset clubfoot, so rather he would romanticize about the Indian wars from the century previous, with which he would regale his incredibly impressionable nephew.

Recall how Uncle Ernie idolised the great lawmen and military personnel of the Old West, for civilizing the frontier at its bloody bleeding edge until it could be duly commercialized. (Equally he admired present-day troops and first responders, as evidence of his annual Hokey Pokey for Heroes, a bolo tie-optional gala benefiting double amputees that lost their limbs — must be plural … triple amps were also eligible to apply for the program — in the line of duty. ) Wyatt Erp, Kit Carson, the Texas Rangers, General Custer, the latter after whom he called his own beloved canine companion, who had a luscious golden mane just like his namesake. Although the pooch’s curls didn’t shed. Uncle Ernie had bad sinuses and hay fever to beat the band, so Georgie was one of them designer dogs specifically crossbred to not furry up all the furniture. (Of course Custer was famous for his blonde locks, but by the time all that bad business went down at Little Bighorn, he was already on the retreat in another fashion — male pattern baldness. It’s true. And you can bet that pretty boy son of a bitch took it hard. For he was as vain as they come. There’s even a historiographical school of thought that losing his trademark hair had him so out of sorts that it clouded his tactical judgment, which was otherwise well-known to be highly astute. Hence causing him to haul off and do something reckless, like send his already dog-tired battalion on a kamikaze charge of a heavily outnumbering encampment of savage hostiles. After such a scrap that ensued, it was the squaws’ domain to sweep the battlefield, and tidy up after any of the missed opportunities for post or preferably premortem mutilation that their husbands, brothers and fathers had overlooked — male pattern blindness. Supposedly when it came to ‘ole Custer, there wasn’t hardly any there left to scalp. Kind of a letdown. Because wouldn’t that have been the ultimate trophy. Alas, they settled for shoving a poison arrow up his piss hole.

But those were Sioux and Cheyenne. Not to be trifled with, to be sure, but also nowheres near the warrior horsemen that the Comanche were. The Lords of the Plains, as they were known on and around the plains. Apart from music videos and shows about the making of music videos, Billy’s favorite thing to watch on television was a basic cable program called Deadliest Warrior, wherein the producers would pit two of the most deadliest warriors from different historical eras against one another — such as Samurais versus Ninjas (Japanese, not juggalos), for example — and simulate which would prevail in a fight to the death. (The Ninja beat the Samurai on account of being much sneakier, in case you were curious.) The Comanche got matched up against a Mongol. A who? … you may be asking. Those old Chinese food bitches? How about they fight somebody that’s actually bad ass, like MS Thirteen. Whoa. Hold your horses, kimosabe. Mongols are no joke. Underestimate these bad mama-jamas at your peril. As a collective army, the Mongols probably had more bodies than any fighting force in human history. Forty million, according to some estimates, which at that time would have divided out to eleven percent of the global population. As for how they would fare one-v-one with a Comanche brave, now we know because each episode had a melodramatized reenactment — like in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, or on Unsolved Mysteries — where the producers and their consultants in historical combat would handicap the fight and choreograph out the moves. This particular back-and-forth bought looks like it’s about to go the distance, before the Comanch emerges victorious by twelfth-round TKO, owing in large part to his superior horsemanship.

Back in Stone Rock, our anti-heroes joy rode on out of the arena and back onto the access road leading through town. There was just enough twilight reflecting into the red dirt to guide their way. Yayo-L had misplaced the earth-toned, short-sleeved, button-down shirt he wore some variation of every day to work, and changed into a chinchilla coat he found in the San Ernesto, from behind one of those dividers women would get undressed behind in the olden days. It was two sizes too small but it fit him just right. Billy was likewise nips out, in shirtless solidarity with his companero, although he wore a protective rodeo vest, designed to shield bull riders’ vital organs from being gored-and-or-trampled upon. He thought it resembled a teflon flak jacket, similar to the one Fifty wore to perform In Da Club at the Video Music Awards, where he took home Video of the Year. Like Yayo-L’s mini-ATV, Billy’s mini-bike was fully Wolffenbeir-branded, as if they were being sponsored to compete in the Special X-Games. The numbers on the nameplate were four-twenty and sixty-nine, respectively.

Racing out past the property line and the barbed wire fence which marked it, without any particular destination in mind, they hung the same fateful left turn Billy’s grandfather had made every morn’ on his commute to the brewery. Rounding the bend, they reached the covered bridge which dissected from overhead the crystal brook. A picturesque scene by any other context. Skidding to an abbreviated stop, they saw there standing on the bridge — backlit by the dissipating daylight and staring straight through them — was a four-legged mammal of an as yet unknown genus. It was smaller than a wolf or a mountain lion, but bigger than a designer doodle or a one-eyed dumpster cat.

What kind of animal are you? Billy asked, rhetorically.

I’m a coyote, he answered back. But you can call me Peter. Pleased to meet you.

###

For a while after Uncle Ernie lost his power struggle for the Wolffenbeir Company to Billy’s mom, he would tell anybody who would listen how he was plotting his comeback. In what was akin to a corporate crucifixion, he believed Hildy and the Board had colluded against him. In the intervening period of his unjust exile he’d drunk approximately eight hundred Wolffenbeir beers in the span of eighteen months, for no apparent other reason than to quantitatively prove that the quality of the product had deteriorated under his sister’s stewardship, precipitously. Stay tuned, he forbode. Their day of reckoning was upon us. Like the mighty dragon, I will arise from the ashes, as he would often mistake his mythical creatures. Tales of my death have been exaggerated, greatly, he was lastly fond of saying, this time misquoting a line that had itself been misattributed to Mark Twain.

(Of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s famous observation that there are no second acts in American lives, Uncle Ernie was blissfully unfamiliar.)

Perhaps precisely by nature of his being the most quoted American author, Mark Twain is also the most misquoted. A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its boots, was a maxim also oft-mistakenly credited to Mister Twain. (Honorable mis-mentions: [A] Everybody talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it. [B] I would have written a shorter letter, but I didn’t have the time. [C] The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.) Unequivocally though, we can quote with the utmost accuracy what it was that Mark Twain said about coyotes. In his semi-autobiographical travelogue of the American West, Roughing It (originally titled, The Innocents at Home), he writes (emphasis added):

The coyote is a long, slim, sick and sorry-looking skeleton, with a gray wolfskin stretched over it, a tolerably bushy tail that forever sags down with a despairing expression of forsakenness and misery, a furtive and evil eye, and a long, sharp face, with slightly lifted lip and exposed teeth. He has a general slinking expression all over. The coyote is a living, breathing allegory of Want. He is always hungry. He is always poor, out of luck, and friendless. The meanest creatures despise him, and even the fleas would desert him for a velocipede. He is so spiritless and cowardly that even while his exposed teeth are pretending a threat, the rest of his face is apologizing for it. And he is so homely! -so scrawny, and ribby, and coarse-haired, and pitiful.

THE COYOTE IS A LIVING, BREATHING ALLEGORY OF wANT.

Damn, T-Swizzle. What a coyote ever do to you? For real, bruh. A Tolerably Bushy tail, you say? Well excuuse me.

In Roughing It, whole sections of which were borrowed by the Western television series Bonanza, Twain also writes very critically about sagebrush, local journalism and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As for the Mormons, he himself admitted them to be a popular, humorous topic capable of yielding a great deal of low-grade ore, which he had the ability to mine effectively. If Hank was correct in his assumption that Mormonism as the most American of religions — not only by virtue of its provenance, because according to the prophet Joseph Smith, the Garden of Eden was located in Independence, Missouri, four hundred miles by car to the foot, across the length of the Show-Me State, from Cave-in-Rock, Illinois — by extension can we say that the coyote is the most American animal. A living, breathing allegory of want.

Billy and Yayo-L turned away from the coyote without remark or incident. With the last dregs of light, they rode back to Stone Rock and up to the top of old boot hill, which overlooked the thoroughfare. Here, beneath a sprawling live oak, laid the Wilhelms, I and II. Whereas Uncle Ernie’s chosen aesthetic of Wild West kitsch and kabuki was anything but subtle, the Wolff family burial plot was understated and classy. A white picket fence with a modest, lattice archway. No moseliums or headstones of hand-carved marble. No Pax Eterna or any other dead language epitaphs. (Sic Semper Tyrannis, uva uvam vivendo varia fit.) Just the two wooden crosses.

Billy bypassed his grandfather’s and his great grandfather’s graves for the barren dirt just beyond. In yet another rare moment of reflection, he wondered if this was the empty space reserved for his eternal resting. Then he threw up. But, like, only a little bit. It was more of a wet burp. A purple, sizzurpy film coated his chin. Yayo-L untied the handkerchief tied frontways around his forehead and offered it over with a kind word.

You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.

Thanks, man. You’re my best friend, Ramesh.

That’s tight.

Hey, Yay. You know how I been saying about my boat?

Of course he did. Billy’s albeit-hypothetical boat was among his favorite discussion topics, in addition to womens’ asses.

Yea, Billy.

I think I changed my mind.

You don’t want a boat anymore?

Phst. Stop playing. Just about the name. I think I’m gonna call it Finally Rich.

###

Grateful Dead. 13 February 1970, Fillmore East, New York City.

Bill Graham was a Holocaust survivor and concert promoter. He got his start in the sixties in San Francisco, thanks in large part to a black fellow by the name of Charles Sullivan. Sullivan was the negro business king of the Bay in those days. Among his many concerns and holdings were a citywide network of cigarette vending machines, a jukebox rental business, the Booker T. Washington Hotel and a liquor store, as well as a vast portfolio of recreational spaces spanning a hamburger stand, pool halls, roller rinks, nightclubs, lounges and others, including the Fillmore Auditorium in the Upper Fillmore neighborhood of the Western Addition district of San Francisco. Sullivan — the so-called Mayor of the Fillmore — helped turn the surrounding area into the Harlem of the West by booking a stable of black artists the likes of Duke Ellington, Ray Charles and Ike & Tina Turner, whose band at the time included the talented player by the redundant stage name of Jimmy James, better known by his forthcoming nom de guitar, Jimi Hendrix.

In spite or rather because of its status as an burgeoning epicenter for black culture, the neighborhood was targeted by City Planners for sweeping redevelopment projects. The bevy of beautifications had the bypass effect of artificially raising rents, subsequently causing many such Black music venues to close rather unceremoniously. In feeling the squeeze, Charles Sullivan was no exception. Therefore, in a last-ditch attempt to preserve his tenuous grasp on the Fillmore, he sought to sublease the room to an enterprising white promoter. Enter Bill Graham, a struggling actor turned up-and-coming tastemaker, whose debut promotion, a benefit performance for the San Francisco Mime Troupe, a radical theater company, was a smashing success. Sensing opportunity, Graham secured an exclusive contract with Sullivan for all subsequent open dates. Shortly thereafter, after returning home from putting on a James Brown concert in Los Angeles, Sullivan was found dead beside his rented Impala, sprawled out across the pavement at the corner of Fifth and Bluxome Streets. (Precisely four miles as the crow flies due East from one of the most famous intersections in the world, according to the magazine Boulevard Digest, along with Times Square, Place Charles de Gaulle, Shibuya Crossing, Piccadilly Circus and Dealey Plaza.) The scene of the crime was a once industrial district, which is presently home to the San Francisco Giants baseball team and Golden State Warriors Basketball team, who play at Oracle Park and the Chase Center, respectively. Sullivan was shot directly through the heart with a .38 Special. Responding SFPD officers ruled the death a suicide. The City Coroner, meanwhile, strenuously disagreed and classified it a homicide. The case remains unsolved. Immediately following his former partner’s untimely passing, Bill Graham assumed control of the master lease at the Fillmore, where many of the musical vanguards of the sixties counterculture would go on to get their starts, including the Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother and the Holding Company and the Grateful Dead. Some thirty years later Graham himself succumbed to the fiery crash of his personal helicopter, after it struck a high-voltage transmission tower on a return trip from a Huey Lewis and the News concert in Vallejo.

Forgoing to bunk down amid the bountiful splendor of Stone Rock’s completely vacant five-star accommodations, Billy and Yayo-L returned to the yurt for to turn in on the pair of bedrolls the seasonal employees had set aside for sleeping off hangovers. Head-to-foot, they arranged them beneath the circular skylight, through which their weary eyes could see the stars crossfade into the night sky as it gave way to a reluctant dawn. Beyond the canvas walls of the tent-like structure, they were lulled to sleep by the high-pitched Hey-There’s of their new canine acquaintance. Similar cries had once haunted little Ernie, before he became the ever-jovial Eternal Uncle, when he was only just a soon-to-be orphan. Those were coyotes’ calls of distresses. They sounded like a woman screaming. Cries that harmonized with those of his newly widowed mother, who wasn’t long for this world herself. What Billy heard was of another octave entire. It was howling in a major key. A foxhunt yip mashed up with a banshee squall. Like the Comanche Whoop which beget the Rebel Yell. A war cry singing out. The sound was almost Pavlovian, in the sense that it commanded a response. Like an answer in the form of a question.

Shall we go, you and I while we can?

#novls of tumblr #chief keef #paul simon

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queenbeeibee · 8 months ago

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"Oooh, Fancy-pants Rich McGee over here, talkin' about puttin' in a jacuzzi."

"Does sound like a pretty good idea, though. And psh, you could try to pop the bubble wrap. I'd make it Gritt-proof." As she was speaking, she managed to turn on one of the silly movies she'd had queued up, Return of the Killer Tomatoes. "I take my friends' safety pretty seriously, you'll learn."

"I'd just pop bubble wrap, I'm fine Bee." Gritt stuck out his tongue, tail idly wagging beneath the blanket. He was glad Lucifer was okay, he'd been to see him to own up to his part of the madness... but he'd seemed to be forgiven very quickly by the fallen angel.

"How about a jacuzzi? Even the King of Hell needs some down time." Gritt suggested, he'd been in one himself and fuck if it wasn't relaxing.

#hannah the small #. [ 👑🐝 ι¢ ]#. [ 🌸 bee's like 'nah nah nah i can do that too' lol ]

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meilleur-holidays · 2 years ago

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THE W MALDIVES – A BOLD AND UNSCRIPTED LUXURY RESORT

If luxury has a name, it is the W Maldives. While writing this blog post I have this constant feeling that if ever I get a chance, I shall make every good effort to visit this royal beauty!!

The resort is like a fairytale, like a dreamland, natural yet designed, secluded yet welcoming, cast away and yet connected.

This private island is a wonderland of white sand beaches, turquoise lagoons and breathtaking reefs. You have in your platter to choose from beachfront bungalows and overwater villas.

Coming to the room over view the resort is divided into the following:

Fabulous Overwater Oasis – Perched above the lagoon, the villas meet the Indian Ocean with W-style pleasure. The abode has a sundeck, private overwater plunge pool, Signature W king bed, Lagoon with glass floor, State of the Art BOSE sound system.

Around 146sqm/157sqft, non-smoking room with a maximum occupancy of 3.

Wonderful Beach Oasis –Escape to the tropical indulgence and play on the white sandy beach with direct access to the beach. Dip into the plunge pool and relax on the daybeds.

Rooms featuring about 188sqm/2023sqft, non-smoking pool cabana with maximum occupancy of 3.

Wonderful Beach Oasis – 1 Bedroom Villa with option of connecting rooms non-smoking room of 188 sqm/2023sqft offering plunge pool and high end luxury retreat.

Spectacular Overwater Villa – 1 Bedroom Villa.

Royal abode with 1 king sized hammock with vast lagoon view and a private pool. Rooms featuring 146sqm/1571sqft non-smoking, sundeck and pool cabana. Spellbound beauty and luxury in a nutshell.

WOW Ocean Escape – Truly WOW is the word for this villa. Rejuvenate to the views of the horizon, lounge or dine in the indoor/outdoor lounge with comfy couches and a huge adjoining sundeck.

Enjoy steps down the lagoon access and float in the blue. Cook your own catch-or-the-day on the BBQ pit at special request and pair it with a bottle of the best from your private wine fridge. Take in the sun or stargazer on the daybed. Float and swim in the oversized infinity plunge pool.

This 2-Bedroom over water villa has a lounge with glass floor and a master - junior suite. This beauty has a total area of 323sqm/3475 sqft, non-smoking, 2 washrooms, double vanities and a pool cabana.

Extreme WOW Ocean Haven – Escalate your sense of pleasure to the extreme. Designed to the ultimate getaway in pristine privacy or invite your gang for some entertainment– the possibilities are endless.

The glass paneled floors offering views of the fauna underneath, grab a cocktail from your bar and head out onto the wraparound sundeck.

Plunge into the oversized infinity edge pool with bubbling Jacuzzi seats. Saunter down the lagoon access stairs and slip into the turquoise. Chill in style.

The Haven offers luxury in true sense.

CULINARY EXPERTISE-

The taste paradise is different set amidst various pulsating beauty of the Maldives.

The Kitchen – Its like home away from home. Comfy-cozy just how we like it. Breakfast is a semi-buffet with all the hot food made-to-order, while lunch and dinner are a la carte featuring daily specials.

FIRE - To grill-tandoor-oven, open-rotisserie- you will get it all at the FIRE. Fresh meats, seafoods and BBQ.

FISH – Set over the water and under the stars, specially curated for a romantic dinner. Enjoy fresh-caught fish perfectly prepared with an Asian touch. Opt for mouthwatering sushi and sashimi.

KADA – Beach pop-up café! Share delicacies served family-style, like roshi, mahsuni, garudhiya, coconut water, rosewater milk and fresh juices. Stop by the bar for an expertly crafted cocktail, or host a get-together at our boat-shaped table.

WET – Serves up light meals and delicious drinks. Cozy up for sublime sundaes, ice creams and other sweet treats.Gourmet pizza, have a creative salad at a table on the sundeck by the pool, or repose with a cocktail in the Living Room.

SIP – Hang out, let your hair down. With fabulous breathtaking sunset views of the Indian Ocean gorge onto some freshly prepared oysters, sushi and caviar paired with an extensive wine and champagne! Relax to the DJS relaxing beats.

ACTIVITIES

Soak upon the beach or indulge in countless water sports, yacht cruises and a romantic getaway to a private and secluded island.

SPA AND WELLNESS

Get AWAY from it all, the W way. Whether you are overworked, under-slept or partied out, AWAY® Spa promises the outcome you need, in the time you have, with the perks you want to get your glow on. Slip into your private spa sanctuary and release your energy as our therapist customizes a spa treatment and massage to suit your body’s needs. Each treatment room comes with an outdoor veranda that has a bathtub, rain shower and lounge bed with an unobstructed view of the reefs and the Maldives.

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dilemmaontwolegs · 2 years ago

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Across The Darkened Room {3}

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader || Modern AU Summary: Aemond begins to set his expectations of you as his sub. Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, masturbation, guns, orgasm denial, overstimulation, protected piv smut, toys. WC: 4.4k

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four ||

There was nothing better than waking up with the sweet ache of a night well spent, even if it didn’t involve all the activities you thought it would. You stretched as you rose from your bed and felt the satisfying pops as your back cracked before grabbing your phone from the charger.

From Aemond: How are you feeling?

You twisted in the mirror to see the welts streaking across your back and gently touched them, sparking fresh heat to the wounds.

To Aemond: Like I am ready for more.

His response was almost instantaneous as if he had been waiting for you to wake up and reply.

From Aemond: Patience, Sweetpea. Now drink some water and don’t skip breakfast.

Your stomach grumbled in response and you padded to the small kitchen to see what you could find. The pickings were slim as you opened the fridge and begged payday to hurry up and arrive as you sniffed the milk and deemed it non-toxic, just. You only hoped you didn’t get food poisoning as you took a seat in the rickety dining chair and dropped your phone on the table.

Though Aemond had taken you into the jacuzzi and gently washed you down as he sat you on his lap, you still wanted a hot shower so after placing your cereal bowl in the sink you grabbed a fresh towel and stepped into your bathroom. The space was so small that you if you reached out your arms you could touch each wall and the shower constantly dripped, setting a constant beat not dissimilar to the seconds hand of a clock.

The hot water sprayed over you and the knots that had formed in your back eased under the warmth as your mind drifted back to Aemond. Your hands drifted down your body at the thought of how his body felt against you and you were no longer cleaning your skin. His lean physique had been deceptive through his clothes, but once they were removed you had seen the muscles that held surprising strength.

You could still feel the hard breadth of his shoulders beneath your hands as you curled against him in the bubbling waters and the length of his cock pressed between you. If only he had wrapped your legs around him and let you impale yourself upon him.

A moan filled the steamy room as you teased your clit with your fingers before burying them in your cunt. It was Aemond’s heated stare that filled your head and the memory of the whip that he wielded that turned your legs to jello as you reached the point of delirium. You sagged against the wall of the shower as you came down from the high but soon the water turned cold and you hurried out of the bathroom with a trail of drops across the floor to your bedroom.

Dressed and ready to face the day ahead, you grabbed your phone and remembered to reply to Aemond before heading to work.

To Aemond: Your wish is my command, sir. I have eaten and had TWO drinks of water.

You growled in frustration at the response that came back before shoving the useless phone into your pocket.

From Vodafone: You do not have enough credit to send this text message, please top up so that you can continue to use this service.

The secondhand bookstore was more than just your place of work, it was a place of comfort. The shelves held adventures, romance, drama and everything else you were too afraid to pursue. They held portals to new worlds of magic and nonsensical creatures that captivated your mind and left you longing for more than King’s Landing could offer. This shop was as much an escape from your otherwise mundane life as the Red Keep was.

If only Mr Greyjoy were a better boss.

“Don’t forget to lock up,” he warned by way of goodbye as he left for the night and flipped the OPEN sign on the door to CLOSED.

You waved over your head as you unboxed the latest shipment of books to arrive and turned the stereo up louder in his absence. Within minutes the music had distracted you and you danced among the shelves as you dusted them and alphabetised the books that had been displaced from their rightful spaces when the door banged open.

“What the f-” you cursed as you spun around with your hands up, expecting to find a gangbanger trying to grab the register. “Aemond! You scared the shit out of me.”

You clutched your chest as you stumbled back into a bookshelf and took a few desperate breaths to calm yourself. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my texts,” he said as he crossed the room and pressed his fingers to your rapid pulse at your neck. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Nice and slow. Good girl.”

He dropped his hand as your pulse slowed to a normal rate and he stared at you with his eyebrow cocked questioningly. “Well, why didn’t you reply to me?”

You shrugged as you looked down at the well worn copy of War of the Worlds that had dropped to the floor. “I’m out of credit and I don’t get paid till tomorrow, I’ll buy a top up then.”

Aemond frowned at your admission before taking your hand and leading you to the door, flicking off the lights as he passed them. “Not good enough,” he said as he pointed to the lock and you fished for the keychain in your pocket. “I can’t have you out here alone with no working phone.”

“My phone works just fine and the emergency number is free so I can still call the City Watch when something happens.”

“If something happens,” he corrected with a frown before remembering your panicked reaction to his entrance. “Wait, has something happened before?”

You chewed on your lip as he looked up and down the darkened street, seeing the gangbangers slinging dope at each end.

“Answer the question, Sweetpea.”

“The cash register has been lifted a few times but that’s what insurance is for, you know.”

Aemond’s hands clenched into fists at his side as he turned on his heel and ordered you over his shoulder, “Get in the car.”

You took a step towards the blacked out Mercedes Maybach that you hadn’t seen in his garage and the side lights flashed as Aemond unlocked the car and continued down the street. Your fingers curled around the door handle but you couldn’t bring yourself to open it when you heard him call out to the dealers.

You dropped the handle and rushed off after him.

Though the Burrough was less lawless than Flea Bottom it was not a safe suburb by any means, especially not for a tycoon whose ancestors had oppressed the people who lived here. Your heart nearly lurched from your throat as a particularly nasty banger called Mad Dog pulled a pistol from his waistband and pointed it at Aemond and you stumbled to a stop beside him.

“Sorry, Mad, my friend got a little lost,” you stammered as Aemond grabbed your arm and pulled you behind him.

“You own these streets?” Aemond asked without even acknowledging the gun pointed at him.

“Who’s asking.”

“Does it matter? I have a proposition for you.” His thumb drew calming circles around your wrist that he held behind his back and the tremors slowly eased under his touch. “The bookstore, it’s not to be touched.”

Mad Dog cackled as he pulled the hammer back on his gun and the click triggered more violent shakes across your body. “You’re on my street, boyo, you don’t come up here demanding shit from me.”

“This may be your street, but this is my city.” Aemond reached into his pocket and pulled a business card out. You couldn’t quite see all the writing on it but the three headed dragon embossed on the paper was enough for Mad Dog to give pause. “Aemond Targaryen, in case you can’t read.”

Mad Dog swiped the card with a sneer and handed it to his runner. “Fuck you man, I can read. Whaddaya want, hot shot?”

“Keep your…men…away from the bookstore, in fact, I’ll pay you to keep everyone not interested in buying a book away.” Aemond reached into his leather jacket slowly so that Mad Dog didn’t get spooked and pulled out a neat stack of cash that was held tight by a gold money clip. “So?”

Mad Dog eyed the money with a wily gleam as he said, “Throw in that fancy ass holder and it’s a deal.”

Aemond tossed the money and clip to the banger and he grinned as he shoved his gun back in his waistband and skimmed through the cash before sniffing it. Aemond was already walking away, keeping his body between you and the men as he led the way back to his new car.

“Hey, missy,” Mad Dog called and you flinched at the name. “I’ll be keeping my eyes on you.”

You peeked around Aemond’s body and saw Mad Dog laughing as he fanned himself with the cash but Aemond just placed his hands on your hips and turned you away. “Forget him, Sweetpea, just keep walking.”

Aemond closed the car door behind you and walked around the car to take the driver’s seat. Tension filled the flashy car and unable to stand the silence you turned to him as he pulled out.

“Why did you do that?” you asked.

“I thought we established this last night. I am your dom and you are my sub, it is my purpose to ensure your safety, in and out of the playroom.” You frowned at the statement and he sighed to himself. “I didn’t realise quite how much Arryk was lacking. What did he even do?”

“Our relationship was just at the club, I never saw him outside of weekends.”

“This isn’t a part time deal, do you understand?” he said as he placed his hand on your knee and gave it a squeeze. “If that is what you were hoping for then I am afraid this will not work.”

You clutched his hand tight to keep it close as you feared he would pull away and this arrangement would be over as suddenly as it began. You weren’t ready for that. “I want this, Aemond.”

He took his eye off the road for a moment as he looked across at you, seemingly satisfied by the determination he saw on your face. “Good, but we have to set some rules - beyond what was agreed at the club.”

“Okay,” you nodded and sat up a little straighter as he pulled up to your apartment block and got out. “Wait, at my place?”

“Does it make you nervous?”

“No, well, kind of, more embarrassed,” you admitted, feeling torn as the shoebox apartment was what you were most proud of since living on your own. “It’s nothing grand.”

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Aemond said as he curled his finger under your chin and tipped your head to look at him. “Everything you have has been gained by sheer will and persistence, nothing was given to you freely. You should be proud of it all but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable so would you like to come to my house?”

“After that speech…” you trailed off as you opened the car door and nodded your head to the foyer door. “Come on.”

Aemond’s longer legs caught up easily as he locked the car and strode across the pavement to open the door for you. He came up short as he found the elevator door wide open with a plummeting drop to the basement and a single thin yellow ‘caution’ tape sagging across the space.

You blinked at his Doc Martins and hoped they were more comfortable than they looked as you pointed to the fire door that led to the stairwell. “Good thing I’m not in the penthouse.”

If it wasn’t for the wary look as he scanned the dimly lit stairwell you could have sworn there was some amusement in his eyes as you started the climb to the fifth floor.

The key trembled in your fingers as you pushed it into the lock and turned it, hesitating only for a moment before you remembered his words in the car. From the doorway you could see your entire apartment and you held your breath as Aemond looked at the four corners and two doors.

“Cosy,” he murmured as he stepped inside and you closed the door to dampen the music that was playing loudly down the hall.

“Thanks. Do you want a drink?” you asked as you crossed to the corner that held the small kitchen and opened the cupboards until you found the cheap bottle of wine Mr Greyjoy gave you as a Yule ‘bonus’ last year. You considered liquor a luxury item and it wasn’t a priority when you were shopping. Every penny you saved was another penny towards renewing the membership at Red Keep for another year, something you needed for your own sanity.

Aemond shook his head with a quiet ‘no thank you’ as he typed away on his phone and you weren’t sure if it was because it was bound to taste like vinegar or if he was just being polite. Seeing him make himself comfortable on the antique recliner chair, that you had got from a secondhand store for a steal, sent your stomach flipping and your heart skipped a beat as he patted his knee in invitation.

Aside from the dining chair, he had the only seat in your living room and you were more than happy to shuck off your jacket and fill the space he offered you. One arm curled around your waist while his other hand came to rest high up your thigh, his thumb circling soothingly as you remembered to breathe.

“When I message you or call, I expect an answer,” Aemond said as he slowly rocked the chair. “I have already added your number to my unlimited phone plan so there will be no such excuses again.”

You wanted to go back to your jacket and grab your phone just to check but there was no reason he would lie about that. Tears pricked your eyes at the act of kindness, though you knew it was also a form of control and you welcomed it like the control he had in the playroom.

“Does that bother you?” Aemond asked as he caught the tear clinging to your lashes and balanced it on his finger as the droplet shimmered in the light. He stared at the tear in fascination before lifting his hand to his parted lips and he licked it away with a swipe of his pink tongue.

“No,” you said honestly as your core clenched at the sight of his tongue. “I know $20 is loose change for you but…thank you, Aemond.”

“You’re welcome, Sweetpea, as I said, your safety is my top priority.” He traced your jawline with the back of his knuckles before they teased down your throat and to the swell of your breasts. “Which is why you cannot live here.”

You almost fell off his lap as you scrambled away from his touch. “This is my home, Aemond. I can’t just find another place to live.”

“You won’t have to,” he said as he rose to follow your retreat. “I have vacant properties all over King’s Landing, you may choose which one you want, no rent needed.”

“And when this arrangement ends I will be homeless once again,” you said with a shake of your head as you wrapped your arms around yourself.

“You think I would allow that?” His pained frown gave you pause.

“I don’t know. No.”

“My lawyers can draw up the lease, is three years security enough?” His lips curled up a bit and you saw the hint of the man who had been in the playroom with you. “I hope you will know me well by then.”

He stepped closer and your back hit the wall, his smile growing as he placed a hand beside your head and lowered his so he was eye to eye with you. “I want to take care of you, I want to see just how much you can take. Will you let me?”

Your head bobbed without a thought to what he could be asking of you but the flood of adrenaline he gave you was a rush you were quickly becoming addicted to. You wanted him to lead you blindly, you wanted to discover the unknown boundaries and limits of your body and sanity, and you wanted that with him.

You tipped your chin back and his eye was drawn to the line of your neck bared in submission as you dared him, “Do your worst.”

Quicker than you could see, he grabbed your waist and spun you so one moment you were looking into his violet-blue eye and the next you were facing the wall. His lips teased your ear as he kissed his way down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin and making your lungs seize each time with a gasp.

“You’re not ready for my worst just yet, Sweetpea, but I have been dying for a taste of you.”

He rocked his hips against your ass and you felt his cock straining to break free of his jeans as it dug into you. A strangle moan fell from your parted lips as you pushed back to feel more but he just chuckled darkly and moved out of reach.

“Who’s in control here, hmmm?” he asked as his touch disappeared and you turned to find what you had lost.

His back was straight and his hands were clasped behind his back as he looked down his nose at you, his eyebrow cocked as he awaited your answer.

“You are, sir.”

“Remember that next time you think about moving.”

He slipped his jacket off and hung it over the back of your chair before slowly unbuttoning his dress shirt, your mouth watering as he bared his skin to you. “Take your clothes off and lay down on the bed, on your stomach.”

You swallowed in anticipation as you pulled your shirt over your head and dropped it to the floor, kicking your jeans off next before pausing as Aemond ripped his belt from his hips with one pull and the leather cracked like a whip. He grinned as your breasts swelled with the deep breaths you were taking and the bra did little to hide your peaked nipples pushing against the lace.

“Take. Off. Your. Clothes,” he enunciated when you didn’t recover immediately from the trance he had you in. “Now.”

You unclipped the bra and let it fall before hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, enjoying the heat in his eyes as you deliberately took your time dragging them down your thighs. His eyes never left you as you walked into your room and crawled upon your bed before laying down as you were instructed. It took all of your willpower not to look over your shoulder to see what he was doing but you kept your chin resting on your folded hands and your eyes on the mirror that hung on your closet door.

A deep ‘hmmm’ was the only sound he made to confirm he had joined you and your core clenched at the primal sound and the sight as he stepped into the reflection. His leather belt teasingly trailed down your spine and your back stiffened at the surprisingly cold touch.

“Hands behind your back.”

Your cheek pressed into the blanket as you cast your arms behind you, the belt quickly cuffing them together tightly before you felt Aemond’s weight shifting on the bed.

“Good girl,” he praised as you kept still for him, and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you onto your knees at the edge of your bed and spreading them wide. You couldn’t see him as he disappeared behind you but you felt his breath on your thighs when he spoke, “No coming until I say you can, or you use the safe word.”

You could already feel your body clenching in anticipation as you answered breathlessly, “Yes, sir.”

Aemond’s tongue was warm and wet as it teased around your pussy lips, so close to where you wanted it most but just out of reach, and you squirmed on the bed. A quick, sharp slap heated your backside at the movement and you hissed through your teeth before he rubbed his hand over the burning area.

“No moving,” Aemond reminded you as if the smarting wasn’t sufficient before he lashed his tongue through your folds eliciting a cry of pleasure from you.

Your hands fought against the belt as warmth began to flood your body and your toes curled. Deep breaths, you reminded yourself as he pulled away and replaced his tongue with his fingers, pumping them in and out as they curled to ride the sweet spot along your walls.

“Not yet, Sweetpea,” he taunted as he looked at your face in the mirror, your lips pressed tightly and your eyebrows creasing together as you tried to starve off your release for him.

Every muscle in your body was tight and your hips began to rock against him with a wanton whine that turned to a squeal as his hand, wet with your arousal, slapped the back of your thigh. Your face buried into the blanket with a scream and your pussy clenched disappointingly around nothing as Aemond tasted the glistening juices on his fingers.

You slowly began to ebb away from the wave of release but Aemond had other ideas as he opened your bedside draws and huffed happily as he found the wand kept there. The buzz of the toy vibrated across your skin as Aemond ran it up and down the back of your thighs and a surprised gasp erupted as he pressed it to a spot in the bend of your knee.

“Hmmm…”

You swelled with pride at the satisfied sound he made before he went on a search for another erogenous zone as he mapped the special spots on your body in his memory.

The edge of orgasm was quickly approaching once again and you weren’t sure you would be able to stop it when he pressed the wand to your clit and delved his tongue into your dripping cunt.

“Fuck, Aemond,” you cried as tears began to well in your eyes and the battle between your mind and your body waged. Your body seemed to be on the verge of winning as your walls began to flutter and your back arched, pushing his tongue deeper. “Please, please, please…”

“Please, what?” Aemond said as he pulled away with a smirk, keeping the wand pressed to your puffy clit.

“Please, sir, I’m, I’m gonna come,” you stammered through clenched teeth.

The silence dragged as your breathing came in quick rasps but his eye finally connected with you through the mirror as he gave you permission, “Okay, Sweetpea, you can come.”

You shuddered with relief and the orgasm exploded over you as you buried your face in the blankets and cried out. Wave after wave crashed over you and your hips pulled away from the wand as the strong vibrations became too much, but Aemond pressed his palm to your lower back and pushed your hips back down over the stimulator.

“I didn’t say you could stop,” Aemond growled.

You could barely breathe, barely think.

You were lost in the sensation of the wand on your clit and Aemond’s strength as he kept you pinned over it. There was nothing you could do to stop the tremors that shook your thighs and the pressure in your body continued to grow until you thought you would combust. Tears dampened the blanket beneath your face and your throat was hoarse from crying but the safe word was far from your mind as you revelled in the sweet pain that throbbed along your clit.

The room spun as your breaths quickened and Aemond eased the wand away, the silence deafening as it was turned off. Your shoulders sagged with relief, though the aftershocks still through wracked your body, and Aemond gently fingered your cunt as he played with the slick that was escaping your folds.

“You did very well,” he praised as you heard a rustling noise behind you, “but we are not done yet.”

He rose to his feet and unbuckled the belt to release your hands as he massaged your wrists. You didn’t have the strength to move just yet but he was content to have you as you were as you felt the head of his cock tease your folds.

The orgasms had left you tight and wet and he growled happily as he thrust inside you. Overstimulated and oversensitive, you cried out at the delicious stretch of his cock filling you and it turned to a moan as he bumped your cervix deep inside.

Your fingers clawed at the blanket with their freedom and you pushed back to meet his thrusts. You released a strangled moan when his large hands spread across your ass, stretching it wide before he pressed his thumb to your tight hole. Lewd sounds spilled from your parted lips as your cunt clenched in response.

“Another time, Sweetpea,” Aemond promised before spat at your hole and hooked his thumb in deeper. “I’ll stretch this real good when I fuck your tight ass.”

His fingers dug into the soft meat of your buttocks until his nails broke the skin and a bolt of lightning sparked straight to your cunt.

“Yes!” you cried as he dragged his nails across you and the pain left you dizzy. “Please, sir, I need to come.”

He groaned as his rhythm faltered and his voice was tense as he permitted your release. The feel of your pussy walls clamping around his cock as you came writhing was enough to break the grip he kept on his control. His hand shot out and grasped the back of your neck tightly as he fucked himself to oblivion, his teeth bared and his sapphire sparkling as your bedroom light swung wildly as the bed frame thumped against the wall.

Click here for part four.

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