#booze reviews

[animechick2015]

💀New Nakama Alert💀

NGL I took a while to finish the Thriller Bark arc, especially after the intensity of the Water Seven/Ennies Lobby arc.

Absolutely love how the creator brings back characters that you think you wouldn't see again or just had a small role to play.

Also huge props to Zoro for his dedication for his Captain!

Now on to the next arc

Yo-ho ho ho

[boozedancing]

Milam and Greene Bottled in Bond Straight Bourbon Whiskey Review

To hear what our SECOND impressions are of the @MilamandGreene Bottle In Bond Straight Bourbon Whiskey, click the following link…

Way back in May we were invited up to The Big Apple for a tasting of the latest release from Milam & Greene. This isn’t the first time that we’ve been invited to a Milam & Greene tasting, but it is the first time that it was in person, as opposed to a Zoom meeting. As is usually the case, in person is SOOOOOO MUCH better! During this tasting, we were lucky enough to meet with the Greene of Milam…

[oldshowbiz]

1967.

[open-music-reviews]

Sticky Fingers

Sticky Fingers makes you remember the time when you partied with friends on that island that receives ocean energy from southern hemisphere storms. A loud night of beer buckets and jumping into the swimming pool repetitively. Bar hopping and roaming the streets with reckless abandon until dawn.

Recommended songs: How To Fly, Australia Street, Bootleg Rascal, Kiss the Breeze, Sleep Alone, Cool & Calm

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A post shared by Open Music Reviews © (@open.musicreviews)

[musicshelfwithmustard]

Music Shelf Review Roundup - 3/10/23

Mustard and Gimpleg review some new music they recommend you check out.

Baccuda (featuring Katie Canning) – State of ur life  Baccuda (along with Katie Canning) have created something remarkable. On the surface, “state of ur life” is a commentary on twenty-somethings trying to navigate the world. The human world Mustard has observed is unforgiving. Adulthood, and by extension, capitalism does not care about your mental or physical well-being. Which sucks as humans…

[waldensblog]

I’m going to assume that age in the Grishaverse kinda works like cat years in the sense that “17″ might be the equivalent to our “21″ or something because I truly cannot suspend my disbelief enough to accept the Crows as 16-18 year olds as those ages correspond IRL. Their life experiences, behaviour, the way others interact with them... no, it doesn’t read like that. Evidently what is considered an “adult” in Ketterdam is much younger than for us.

[caskompare]

Discover the Eight Magnificent Whiskies in Diageo's Prima & Ultima Fourth Release ->

[chicagobeerpass]

Chicago Beer Pass: Opening Day

Welcome to the Chicago Beer Pass: Your ticket to all the great beer events happening in and around Chicago.

On this episode of Chicago Beer Pass, Brad Chmielewski and Nik White are finishing off another Irish Red they still had from St. Patrick's Day. This time the guys are drinking the South Side Irish Red from Hailstorm Brewing Co. As the guys knock back a can or two of this one, they talk about the Phase Three party and the anticipated Illinois Craft Beer Week happening May 19-26, 2023.

Having issues listening to the audio? Try the MP3 (58.8MB) or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes!

[sykoangels]

Oh, Professor?

paring: mutant!reader x professor!logan

warning: age gap (everyone is 18+) slight dubcon and kissing

notes: something about Professor Logan makes me giggle and kick my feet!! I wanted to start a series so this is part one please tell me what y’all think! Let me know if you want a part two!!

PART TWO IS OUT NOW!!

The clock on Logan's desk ticked loudly, each second dragging like a reluctant participant in an unwanted march. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a single desk lamp that cast long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Logan leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the stack of papers before him. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw clenched as he reviewed the latest batch of assignments from his students. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be doing this, but Charles had made it clear: teach or leave. And leaving meant no more free booze, no more sanctuary

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts. He didn’t look up, just grunted in acknowledgment. The door creaked open, and a familiar scent wafted into the room—something floral, yet earthy, like wildflowers after a rainstorm. Logan’s heart skipped a beat, though he’d never admit it to anyone. “Professor Logan?” Y/N’s voice was soft, tentative, but there was a hint of something else beneath the surface—a sense boldness simmering.

Logan finally looked up, meeting her gaze. She stood in the doorway, her hair in a slick ponytail not a single hair was out place besides the strains of hair framing her face perfectly. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity, and her lips were curved into a small, almost shy smile. She wore a simple baby blue dress with a small bow on the collar. The dress that clung to her curves in all the right places, and Logan felt a surge of something he hadn’t felt in years—desire, mixed with a heavy dose of guilt.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice gruff. “What do you need?”

Y/N stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. The click of the latch echoed in the silence between them. “I was wondering if I could get extra help with the calculus assignment. I’m having a bit of trouble with the derivatives.” Y/N mentioned softly looking at the math sheet Logan handed out during class. The paper has some eraser marks and scribbles of some problem-solving work already etched into the paper. Logan raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. She was one of his top students, always acing his tests and assignments. He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt maybe she didn’t understand some of the problems. It was duty as a professor to help her? Right?

He sighed, pushing the stack of papers aside and patting the chair right next to him. “Alright, come sit down. Let’s see what you’ve got.” Y/N walked over to the chair opposite his desk, her movements graceful and deliberate. She sat down, crossing her legs and placing her notebook on the desk. Logan couldn’t help but notice how her dress rode up slightly, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of thigh. He forced himself to focus, opening her notebook and scanning the pages

“Show me where you’re stuck bub,” he said, trying to keep his tone professional. She pointed to a problem halfway down the page. “Right here, I can’t seem to figure out the chain rule for this one.” Logan leaned closer adjusting their reading glasses, his breath hitching as he caught a whiff of her perfume. He cleared his throat, reaching for a pen and starting to explain. As he spoke, he noticed her eyes drifting, not to the paper, but to his hands. They were large, calloused, and rough—hands that had seen countless battles, hands that could crush bone with ease. But now, they moved with surprising delicacy, writing equations on the paper with precision.

“You understand so far bub? You know if you’re confused just stop me alright.” he asked, glancing up. Y/N’s eyes snapped back to his, and she nodded quickly. “Yeah, I think so.” Logan continued, explaining the concept in more detail, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken desire that neither of them dared to acknowledge. When he finished, he looked at her expectantly.

“Think you can handle it now? Try this problem by yourself bub.” Logan said pointing at one of the problems at the bottom of the sheet. Y/N hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Maybe… I think I might need you to explain once more. It’s just math isn’t my strong suit.” Y/N says looking at Logan Logan sighed inwardly. He knew where this was heading, and part of him—the part that still remembered what it was like to be young and reckless—wanted to indulge her. But the other part, the responsible part, the part that knew better, wanted to send her away and forget this ever happened.

“Alright,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s go through it one more time.” As he leaned in to point out another aspect of the problem, their faces were mere inches apart. The warmth of her breath brushed against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. He could see the pulse fluttering in her neck, the way her pupils dilated as she looked into his eyes.

And then, without warning, Y/N reached out, her hand gently brushing against his. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of arousal through him. Logan froze, his breath catching in his throat. “Professor…” she whispered, her voice trembling Logan’s heart pounded in his chest, every instinct screaming at him to pull away, to put an end to this madness. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away from hers. The room seemed to shrink around them, the world outside fading into nothingness. “Y/N…” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Y/N leaned closer, her lips parted slightly, her breath warm against his cheek. Logan’s mind raced, torn between duty and desire, between what was right and what he desperately wanted. He could feel the heat radiating from her body, the subtle curve of her breasts pressing against his chest as she closed the distance between them. Subsequently, just as their lips were about to meet, a sharp knock sounded at the door, jolting them both back to reality. Logan jerked away, his heart pounding in his ears. Y/N’s hand fell from his, and she quickly straightened her dress, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Come in!” Logan called out, his voice strained. The door opened, and Jean poked her head in. “Sorry to interrupt, Logan, but you have a phone call. It’s urgent.” Logan nodded, grateful for the interruption, even if it came at the worst possible moment. “I’ll be right there.” Jean disappeared, and Logan turned back to Y/N, who was already gathering her things. Y/N avoided his gaze, her face a mask of confusion and regret.

“I should go,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. Logan watched as Y/N hurried to the door, her movements jerky and uncertain. He wanted to say something, to stop her, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he remained silent, his mind reeling from the near-miss encounter. As the door clicked shut behind her, Logan let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. What the hell had just happened? He knew he should feel guilty, ashamed even, but all he felt was a deep, aching need that refused to be ignored.

As he sat at his desk staring at the empty doorway, he realized that this was only the beginning.

[boozedancing]

Guinness Showdown: Extra Stout vs. Draught Stout

Today’s video features a @GuinnessIreland Showdown! It’s Draught #Stout vs. Extra Stout. Click the link to hear all about it.

We’re no strangers to Guinness Stout. We go way way back with this beer and consider it a definite go-to. That being said, we’ve never done a side by side comparison of two slightly different versions, so for today’s video, we’re trying the Guinness Draught Stout and Guinness Extra Stout. Here’s a bit more information about each Guinness Stout variation: Guinness Draught Stout: Guinness Draught…

[gartenofbanny]

I am working on my review for episode 2, which will likely be uploaded later on today, but I want to talk about something that I've heard from people. So apparently, Husk was an Overlord before gambling all his power away and selling his soul to Alastor.

Him being an Overlord was just not hinted at, at all in the pilot (since the pilot is canon) because literally nobody was surprised when Alastor brought Husk into the hotel. He had to introduce Husk to the residents so that they could know who he is.

If Husk was an Overlord, how come they don't already know him? I suspected Angel wouldn't already know since he didn't know who Alastor was, but Charlie and Vaggie? Bare minimum Charlie should know because she's the Princess of Hell. Why wouldn't she know about the Overlord who lost his power?

And wouldn't an Overlord losing their power in the first place be huge news across the Pride Ring? We don't know the exact timeline when Husk did lose his powers, but regardless at least some major characters would've heard about it.

And I honestly question what kind of "soul contract" Husk is even in with Alastor when Alastor had to bribe Husk with booze to work for the hotel, I thought contracts meant "You do this or I'll hurt you". It's what they've shown with Valentino and Angel Dust, but Husk doesn't even get hurt or at least threatened by Alastor.

It honestly makes "Loser Baby" work less as a song because if you actually think about it, Husk isn't even suffering. Yeah, he lost his status as an Overlord, but literally nobody cared afterward. And yeah, he's in a Soul Binding Contract, but Alastor is willing to negotiate with him.

It's like the writers come up with these ideas that seem cool in concept, but also contradict what they did in the past.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

This is the Greatest Show.

When a fox and cat make their way, uninvited, into a bird’s nest.

Be Honest with Me.

“Good morning, Miss Raven!”

She followed the jolly greeting to a fruit stand manned by a rosy-cheeked man. Raven approached, lifting the corner of her skirt in a curtsey. It was routine, this exchange—yet it filled her with a gentle warmth all the same.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Running errands for your uncle again?” the fruit seller asked.

“It’s a leisure trip today. I just picked up a new book and thought to stop by for a snack to go with it.” Raven pointed to a pyramid of shiny red apples. “May I take one of those?”

“Good choice. They’re in season!” He tipped his cap, as if paying his respects to autumn.

Fall had settled onto Sage’s Island as comfortably as a wool cloak in the cold. The vibrant hues of summer had dulled to earthy ones, tempered by a new chill, the days shortening as darkness extended. Fruit ripening with the last vestiges of sunshine, perfuming the salt-slicked air with harvest.

The local birds, Raven noted, had also sensed the shifting of seasons and adapted accordingly. Crows growing fat from plentiful crops, ducks disappearing further south in preparation for the snow and frost to come. Lately, she too had been tucking into her feathers to stay toasty.

“Give the headmaster my regards,” the fruit seller said as he handed an apple over in exchange for some change.

“I’ll do just that.”

Raven bid him farewell and quickly made her way down the street, apple in one hand and book in the other. It had come with on a strong recommendation from the local librarian, along with rave reviews online. The premise, a boy who never wanted to grow up.

Her heart raced. She lacked the patience to wait until she was seated at the bus stop to begin reading. Sticking the volume in her face, she opened to the prologue, eager to devour it.

Second star to the right and straight on till morning…

Raven managed about one and a half sentences before the consequences of her actions hit her. Literally, in fact.

SMACK!

She collided with another body and flew back onto her bum. Her apple, book, and hat landed on the sidewalk. Raven barely had a second to mourn the freshly bruised fruit and the damaged cover—she was yanked up and frantically dusted off.

“Whoa there, little lady! What a tumble you took. Please, allow me,” blared a cheery, simpering man’s voice. It drifted in on a long violet coat that smelled of many things: carnival foods (popcorn, cotton candy, and sugar-dusted funnel cakes) but also cigarettes and booze, all (poorly) concealed under a cloud of cheap cologne.

Raven caught a glimpse of his wolfish grin before her vision was obscured by her hat—returned to her at a skewed angle which covered her eyes. When she set it properly, she looked again. The man, a ginger fox in patchwork pants, spats, and a top hat of his own, had plucked up her items. He was now flipping the book open sideways and upside down as he took a generous bite of the apple.

“Well, well!” he chuckled, a line of juice casually dribbling down his chin, “You’re quite the scholar, I see.”

“W-Wait one moment, those are mine,” Raven began to protest. She was cut off by a pat on her waist, eliciting a yelp.

Snapping her head back, she found a young cat beastman in oversized, ramshackle clothing. He flashed an innocent, sheepish smile—as though he had not been fumbling around for access to any pockets earlier.

“Take a look, Giddie.” Her book was thrusted at the boy. “You ever heard of a word as long as…” The man paused, squinting hard at the pages. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”

He shook his head. A strong “no”.

The man laughed. Crunch, crunch. The apple caught between his pointed teeth appeared less like fruit and more like skin and flesh.

A fast-talking fox beastman accompanied by a silent, slightly dopey cat beastman… Where have I seen this sketchy duo before?

Another curl of sugar and smoke at her nose, and it clicked.

“Y-You’re…?!” Raven jolted back from the two. The hairs on the back of her head stood up, feathers puffing in alarm. “Wh-What are you… Wh-Why are you…”

“Oh me, oh my! Do my eyes deceive me? Why if it isn’t the little lady from Night Raven College!” Fellow Honest cried, feigned ignorance in his exaggerated reaction. “What a coincidence it is to run into you again.”

He bent into a theatrically deep bow. Gidel clumsily mimicked him.

“Coincidence you say… It’s bad to lie. An adult should know better.”

“What’s a little white lie or two, right? We all do it.”

He had shaved the apple down into a thin column and its seeds, which he deposited in Raven’s waiting open palm. She frowned. He was still holding her book out of reach.

“I think this one’s rotten to the core,” Raven remarked in a flat tone. The apple dangled precariously from its stem, held between two gloved fingers.

“Let’s hope not! Getting ill on the road wouldn’t be very fun, would it?” Fellow winked, giving the twirl of his cane—and she would be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t hypnotic.

No, no. Don’t fall for that trick again, Raven scolded herself. It’s his unique magic influencing you, making you more susceptible to being convinced.

She hastily waved away the faint sparkle of magic around her. The corners of Fellow’s mouth twitched, but refused to commit to faltering.

“… So you confess to lying. Do you have anything else you’d like to admit?” Raven folded her arms. “I thought you a coward, but clearly not if you have the confidence to show your faces in broad daylight while you’re on the run.”

“Now, now! Always so quick to get down to business,” Fellow tutted, wagging a finger. “We should cherish destined reunions such as this!!”

Gidel nodded eagerly.

She tensed at their bright eyes. Scavenger to scavenger, Raven recognized the look. They want something from me.

“Destined for whom, exactly? For you?”

Fellow gasped. “Who, me? Perish the thought! It’s mutual, my friend.”

Friend?

“… My book,” Raven demanded curtly, extending her other hand. “I really must be going. I haven’t the time to converse with wanted criminals.”

“‘Wanted criminals’ is so harsh! We’re reborn men, cut off from our… former employer,” Fellow said lightly. He produced a tattered handkerchief from his pocket and drew it over himself like a shawl, batting his eyes demurely at Raven. “I realize I’ve received the odd complaint, but on the whole I’ve been a saint! We’ve pure of soul, I tell you!”

Raven raised an eyebrow.

Fellow continued.

Dramatically.

“But alas!! Cruel fate has dealt us a nasty hand,” he lamented, grasping Gidel by the shoulder and drawing him close. “The weather grows cooler and food scarce… Poor Giddie goes to bed shivering upon a cold floor, his stomach growling for a feeling of fullness…”

Gidel loudly sniffled, clinging to Fellow as his small form wobbled.

“Soon winter will arrive and we will have nothing but the clothes on our backs as we dodge pursuit! You can only imagine how difficult it is.” Fellow wiped away an invisible tear. “Oh, if only some benefactor would be so kind as to offer us a place to rest our weary spirits!”

Ah, so that’s it.

“You want to stay at Night Raven College.”

He nearly leapt at the mention. “Well, if you’re offering…!!”

“I am not,” Raven clarified. “You cannot just… just… waltz in! Night Raven College’s barrier makes it so that the campus is open only to select visitors and to the public during certain times of year.

“Which makes it the perfect location to lay low for a spell,” Fellow butted in. “Not to mention you oh-so-talented and strong mages being near… It puts me at ease! In fact, if I may say so, have your arms gotten bigger since our last encounter?”

Raven cautiously backed up.

So he plans to use us as meat shields in case of emergency. His brown-nosing is unmatched…

“The answer is still no. I’m not at liberty to invite guests to Uncle’s domain. Besides, where would you even stay and keep your things? For how long? Who will keep an eye on you?” Raven groaned. “There are too many factors to consider, even barring your shady record. Think about the students and staff who could be put in danger because of the company your presence attracts.”

To her dismay, he was not deterred in the slightest.

“Surely you must have some sway and pull over the headmaster! A charming little lady like you could have the whole world wrapped around her finger with a single smile. All you would need to do is say the word.

“And with a heart as big as yours? Why, I sense that you’d be so generous as to share your own living space with travelers down on their luck. Not forever, I assure you! Only long enough to allow us to get a bearing for ourselves, stockpile supplies, and prepare for the upcoming winter. You won’t even notice us, we’ll make ourselves scarce. How about it?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d take you on as guests in the first place!!” Raven snapped. When she saw Gidel balk, guilt washed over her.

A mistake.

Fellow spotted the opportunity—a moment of weakness—and pounced on it.

“A shame, but I understand your reluctance. I won’t press any further.” Fellow delivered a harsh slap to Gidel’s back with the flat of her stolen book, making the boy hunch over. “Poor Giddie! Another night of the usual for us then. Stale bread and canned beans, old newspapers for a blanket, a house made of cardboard and crayon, broken hopes and dreams…”

They strolled past Raven, but only took a few steps before Fellow paused and glanced over his shoulder to check if she had been watching. Their gazes awkwardly met for a second. He tore his away and, prodding Gidel with the butt of his cane, whispered the command to keep pretending to walk away. Head down, shoulders slumped.

“Oh, woe is me!!” Fellow wailed. Gidel followed his lead and rubbed at his eyes, faking a sob. “Woe, woooooe!!”

Don’t listen to him, he’s obviously playing it up!

Raven tried to turn away, tried to be staunch in her belief in that line. Another voice rose to counter it.

… But if he isn’t?

A distant memory resurfaced, lazily bobbing up and down in the lake of her mind. There was a little black bird braving the wind and the snow and the hail… until, one day, warm hands cupped it and gave it a place to call home.

She hesitated.

I’m really going to regret this, aren’t I?

“… Only until you get back onto your feet,” Raven said slowly. “That’s it.”

Fellow and Gidel immediately went whipped around. It was as though fireworks had been set off behind their skin, lighting them with joy from within.

“Didja hear that, Giddie?! We’re golden!!”

Gidel could scarcely nod before Fellow had dropped his book and whisked him up. He spun the boy in an excited circle, letting Gidel’s oversized sleeves fly like trailing ribbons.

Raven shook her head as she crouched to, at last, save her novel. (It was badly beaten up by now.) She gingerly dusted off the jacket—but there was no correcting the dents in it.

Raven eyed Fellow and Gidel, still locked in a giddy jig.

Desperate a few moments ago and gleeful now… She shook her head. Fellow-san is full of surprises. Sometimes he behaves like a big child. Let’s hope he doesn’t cause as much trouble as a child would.

Now all she had to worry about was explaining to her uncle how she had come home with a stray fox and cat in tow.

[granddaughterogg]

You Let Me Complicate You - Part 2

This is a love story about Simon "Ghost" Riley and you, starting with a random hookup and later navigating your increasingly complex feelings and desires towards each other.

PART 1 HERE

PART 3 HERE

~~Reblogs are always Greatly Appreciated!~~

SUMMARY: Ghost and you engage in some more flirting at the goth club. When he decides to get you acquainted with his favourite brand of bourbon, things get increasingly Physical - and unhinged, but you like it.

Chapter 2 - The Taste That Burns

He watched you like a hawk while you smacked your lips together, focusing on the metallic taste and tuning out everything else – the blue light, the music and the noises from the crowd. 

Focusing on the liquor, mixed with the taste of his skin.

"So. It's different from Jack Daniels..." you concluded after a while.

"For fuck's sake", he snorted. "I'm not seventeen anymore, y'know. This is the good stuff."

You licked your lips, trying to come up with a more sophisticated review, but to no avail. Perhaps that slug you'd downed earlier was stronger than you thought. Or perhaps it was this stranger's fault. He made your thoughts disorganised and blurry. He made your breath rush.

"You'll have to do it again so that I can form an opinion about this venerable beverage", you announced, boldly looking him in the eye. It takes two to do this dance.

The man sighed slowly, shaking his head.

"Do I have to feed you like a baby bird? 'Cause I will do just that if you make me."

"Knock yourself out," you offered, feeling a pleasant rise of adrenaline in your veins.

Suddenly one of his large hands found its way under your chin, capturing it in a gentle but steady grip. His thumb rested on your jaw. A few centimetres lower and he'd hold you by your throat.

You didn't have time to contemplate this stunning prospect, for he pressed the glass to your lips and tilted it – again, with caution, but you weren't ready for him to actually do it. Golden liquid filled your mouth and flooded your throat, burning it with its smoky sweetness. A bouquet of amber and balsamic scents exploded in your nose. You choked and the booze dribbled down your chin.

"Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy", said this madman, still not letting go. „Look at all the mess you've made.” 

His tone was as even as ever if laced with faint amusement. He leaned over your ear, and added in a husky whisper:

"You should've swallowed. We will have to work on that."

Hair all over your body stood on end – the ones that weren't already standing, that is.

"You dick!" you growled, pulling yourself out of his grip and shaking your head like a dog. "You could have drowned me!"

"Don't ask for somethin' you don't want, gorgeous...”

That was a tender word, yet he fixed you with a stare as distant and indifferent as a celestial body. There was no way to bridge that kind of distance. Neither on foot or in a spaceship. Many women probably died from lack of oxygen while trying.

"...because you might as well just get it."

"All right, all right." You started looking around for tissues. "Fetch me a napkin, will you?"

"What for?" He reached out, quick as an attacking snake and slipped his hand around your waist, pulling you so close that you almost slid off your stool, and placing his other hand at your nape. You felt his fingers weave into your hair, still damp from the rain. His grip was as skilled as it was assertive. Impossible to argue with. 

You inhaled the air suffused with that citrusy-woody perfume of his, the smell of fireworks and his own masculine musky scent. You liked it. You wanted to dip your nose into it.

"You're gonna kiss me now?" you whispered.

He shook his head. The pale rictus of the Grim Reaper has denied you.

"Not yet."

"Fucking tease," you spat into the black, unfeeling mask.

His eyes widened. You didn't know whether it was anger or excitement at your insolence. Either way, you quickly regretted your outburst, for he brought his face so close that you felt the rough cotton of his balaclava on your cheek. 

"You have quite a temper, love. Not gonna lie...this sort of feisty disposition is my favourite."

He whispered that right into your ear, enveloping you in the aroma of exquisite whisky. And there was that deadpan again. It drove you mad as much as the word "love" with its implied tenderness. You knew quite well that Brits call all women that - including those who they don't find fuckable in the slightest. When uttered by this Mancunian, „love” could mean anything or nothing.

His grip around your waist didn't loosen. He drew a circle around the small of your back, shooting electricity up your spine. Then he let go and pulled his mask upwards in a quick motion. You thought he'd get rid of it completely, but all he exposed was his pale chin and the very tip of his nose.

"I was about to ask how you plan on drinking in this thing..." you murmured.

"Just like that." 

He noticed you gawking and said in a firm tone: 

"Eyes averted, sweetheart." 

And since all you did was raise both eyebrows, he added gruffly: 

"No peekin'."

"Say, what do you even wear this thing for?" You asked, turning your head away, but very much intending to peek.

He shrugged as if asked the most inane question ever.

"To hide me face."

You glanced intently as he took a generous swig of his bourbon and threw his head back with a satisfied exhale. You've been expecting your typical Brit lip, as narrow as the slit in a mailbox. But his mouth was wide and quite shapely, with a sharp, pronounced Cupid's bow. It looked sensual yet ruthless. You could imagine a man with a mouth like that uttering a truly murderous putdown, unlike those playful jabs which he'd directed at you so far. If he wanted to, he could deal real damage. He could make people crumble, their self-esteem terminated on the spot. Or maybe it was just your inebriated imagination talking.

"What did I tell you about peekin'?", he grunted. Did he really expect you to obey this weird order...request...whatever it was?

"You knew that I will anyway", you said defiantly.

When he smirked, the corners of his mouth didn't go up like they were supposed to. They just stretched in both directions, creating a flat line. Interesting, you thought.

It was not a kind smile.

Before you could react, dodge out of his way, say anything – that bastard held at your face and licked the remnants of liquor right off your chin.

His tongue was searing hot and a little coarse, but not unpleasant.

This unexpected intimacy took your breath away and threw you off balance.

You stilled as if turned into stone, but with a hurricane howling inside your head, thoughts going circular at 200 miles per hour. That wetness on your chin burned like an executioner's mark, teasing and tickling at the same time. Deep within you blossomed a dark flame of excitement, licking your insides. Your starved body has been a stack of dynamite, and he just threw a lighted match.

He let you go and sat straight, looking awfully pleased with himself now that he'd put you in your place. Now that he has messed with you.

He's an animal all right, you thought. A beast that enjoys toying with its prey. An apex predator.

"As I was saying", he drawled, his mouth still curled up in dry amusement, his eyes boring into yours, keen and provocative, „This is the good stuff. I'd hate to see it go to waste.”

You remained silent, trying to reach within yourself, to quench that eager softness, blooming deep within your body. To find the familiar blade of cold, focused anger. You could've pushed his hand away, raise your voice and destroy this fucker. Tranquil fury has been your side weapon for so long. You could wield this power in your sleep.

Except that now it wasn't there.

How much of your inner confusion this kinky showoff even understood? Very much or very little - you would never know. His eyes glimmered in the dark, betraying nothing. He raised his glass.

You didn't have any better ideas, so you raised yours as well.

„Hey. Here's to fateful encounters”, he said.

"You say this to every poor gullible girl you've ever met in this shithole.”

His eyes flashed with amusement. 

"That I do, yeah", he admitted without an ounce of shame, taking a sip of the golden liquid and giving out a small, satisfied sigh.

"Does it work?" you asked.

"Without fail. They burst into a fit of happy giggles."

"Tough luck, handsome. I don't do stupid noises", you declared, measuring him with a disapproving glance. You might've as well tried to melt the glacier with a lighter.

"Looking forward to the noises that you make."

To that, you couldn't help but laugh. You rested your head on your palm. That absolute nerve of his was disarming. 

The giant guy took another sip from his glass, not breaking eye contact. You realised you don't even know if he's blond or dark-haired or something else entirely. His hair was hidden under that damn mask, and his eyebrows invisible in the murky light.

"Do you like your drink?" he inquired, leaning his long, muscular forearm against the concrete counter. You couldn't resist the temptation to watch the muscles ripple under the black cotton. The guy was covered up to his very neck. I wonder if he has any scars? 

You took another slow sip, tasting thoughtfully. Your palate was on fire from the artfully blended notes of caramel, orange, cinnamon and a few more flavours you hadn't previously associated with alcohol. More like with a patisserie.

"It's good!" you exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. "What's it called?"

"Blanton's. It's my favourite. Tastes like Christmas, innit?"

"It does..." you admitted, relishing another sip.

"Not like the real Christmas though. Like the one they show on the telly", he mused.

"So generous of you to share your favourite flavours with a stranger.”

"Yeah, I'm Mr. Selfless, me." The corners of his eyes squinted in a smile. It was kinder than that rictus he had on his face while disregarding your bodily integrity earlier.

You were both quiet for a while, sipping the golden liquid in agreeable silence. Liquor coursed merrily through your veins, whispering that everything would be all right. Music swelled. Deafening bassline and metallic notes enveloped you like tentacles of smoke. You began to jerk your leg to the rhythm.

"Say", said the big guy, staring straight ahead. "Why don't blind guys skydive?"

You seriously pondered over the answer.

"Because their dogs would totally freak out?”

And then he laughed - it was a genuine guffaw, deep and rumbly. It made your skin prickle but in a good way. He threw his head backwards, showing you the curve of his wide neck. It was covered with soft black cotton of the mask, but you still noticed the outline of his Adam's apple.

"Well, fuck me sideways!” he chuckled.

"This could be arranged", you heard coming from your own lips. Was this the expensive (and you could tell that it was stupid expensive) whisky talking? Or just your own shameless yearning for this man? For his steady voice, his knowing touch, his admirable lack of fucks given and his large body, intriguingly shrouded by those drab clothes? A body which you'd love to know in great detail? 

Your own upper body was already leaning flirtatiously against the counter, drawing meaningless circles on the concrete with your free hand.

 "A woman after my own heart," he murmured, setting down his empty glass.

The bastard knew exactly what was going on with you, That stare of his mellowed, lids lowered in satisfaction. He was clearly a master at this game for two. Hell, he might've invented it.

Your whole being vibrated from desire and anticipation.

He pulled that cursed mask right over his face. Before you had time to realise it - you were looking at the wide, empty grin of the skeleton again. But now the man underneath it was also smiling.

His body language softened, too. It was as if he had shed an invisible armour. He turned towards you, one big hand resting on his thigh, clad in blue denim - the least gothic choice ever. He placed the other one right next to yours on the grey concrete counter. 

You watched as he captured your thumb between his own thumb and forefinger, stroking your skin. His digits were rough to the touch. Then again, you've never seen a man with such pale hands. Did this guy ever come out during daylight?

"I'm down for that”, he murmured, sidling up close. So close that he obscured the light, once again enveloping you in his unique blend of scents. You liked how he smelled, even if the most lucid areas of your brain were screaming that you should really pay attention to that firework note. It was important...for some reason.

„I'm down...But there's no need to rush, don't ya think? The night's still young and so are we."

He gave you the usual sweet talk, but those tired lines sounded compelling when uttered in his deep, guttural voice. You found it more and more difficult to keep your head on.

"Sure thing, stud," you said, smiling alluringly. You were giving him the eyes now, the low lidded come-hither look and it wasn't at all calculated. The wave has risen. He knew and you knew how this night would end. You both drifted in that knowledge, as sweet and intoxicating as the whiskey.

"Speaking of young. How old are you exactly?" you asked.

"Half past thirty, give or take."

"Ah." There was a small silence, and then you added, inebriated by his masculine scent and proximity: 

"Aren't you gonna ask me anything? My age? My name?"

He reached out and held at your chin. Amazing how gentle such a big guy with paws like shovels could be - if he wanted to.

"Do I need to know?"

"Well," you replied, a bit annoyed by this lack of interest, "I would like to know your name, at least. Or I'll just call you Skullface.”

You heard a muffled snort happening under the mask. His broad shoulders trembled with laughter.

"Skullface works fine for me. Look, love, how 'bout we go sit someplace cosier? Like away from those bloody lights?"

Said lights barely did their job, shrouding you both in a dim yellowish tint - but you got the idea. It would have been hard for you to get handsy on those damn stools. Not to mention the keen eye of the bartender, who passed you every now and then, dispensing various drinks to his customers.

"Yeah, let's", you agreed.

"Geoff, we'll take the bottle”, announced your companion. Once again you noticed this intriguing feat of his. He raised his gravelly voice just a notch, yet it cut through all the noise without effort. This man is used to speaking and to being obeyed, you thought.

And the frowning bartender must've been under his spell, too - for he materialized right before you, putting the requested bottle on the counter. There was a dainty brass figurine of a racehorse mounted on its cork.

"And water, please", you added.

"And water", the masked man repeated with a sigh. "For the lady."

He took both the booze and the flask of precious H20, assigned you the task of carrying both glasses, and the two of you wandered deeper into the dark bowels of the club.

He took point and you had nothing against it. First, you had the immense pleasure of watching him rise from the stool, and now your field of vision was mostly filled with his broad back. 

Holy fuck, he was a big one.

Not only tall - although the moment he stood up, you felt like a hobbit - but also broad in every sense of the word. Strapping, Herculean, thicc. His shoulder blades lived so far away from each other, they probably had to send letters. As he moved, his beefy arms swung away from the large torso. His waist was also wide, his ass pronounced and shapely, and his long legs as juicy as they come. It got increasingly more packed as you went, but Skullface would just plough through the crowd, parting it like Moses. Whoever didn't want to be stomped flat - scuttled the hell out of his way. Heads turned, and many mouths opened in awe.

You stepped comfortably in his wake, feeling like a tiny boat towed by an icebreaker. You knew that sooner or later you'd get him out of those jeans, and that thought was an impatient flame, licking at your synapses.

Finally, he reached a secluded corner just against the wall, but with a good view of the whole club and the dancefloor. There was a sofa upholstered in worn plush and a low table (lame - as you immediately find out by placing the glasses on it.) The music blared much louder than at the bar; you could feel the pulsating rhythm under your feet.

The masked one threw himself on the sofa with a grunt, head falling backwards and legs splayed in a perfect manspread. He poured himself another glass of bourbon and patted the space on his right.

"Come 'ere, love."

You complied, yet it somehow wasn't close enough, for he grabbed at your hip, pulling you closer. Not your thighs were pressing into each other, his fingers dug painfully into your flesh and you could hardly breathe.

„Hey. Are you dru- 

You weren't given the chance to finish this question, as the masked guy did four things almost at once. He pulled up the mask, emptied his glass, leaned over and kissed you, hard and messy.

You had to admit that he acted fast as lightning. You wouldn't have expected that from someone of such bulk. This thought - like all other thoughts – got banished to the back burner of your mind because your mouth suddenly lit up. Your throat was full of alcohol, burning you like fire. Somehow you swallowed this fiery wave (it sank into your stomach with the grace of a broken lift) and tried to free yourself, seized by understandable panic. You pressed both hands into his impressive pectoral muscles. Your fingers didn't even make a dent. You might've as well push a boulder.

You finally broke contact only because he allowed it.

"Are you drunk?!..." you gasped indignantly, pulling yourself away. Those damn eyes of his. So dark, so wide, unblinking.

"Yeah", he admitted, still not letting you go. "Get in my lap."

You straddled him, trying to prevent your stupidly short dress from riding all the way up and disclosing the colour of your panties. Results were mixed.

Now your bodies had way more contact than before; you put both hands on his wide shoulders, feeling the muscles of his thighs ripple under your own. His body burned you through the fabric. It felt like sitting atop a working oven.

"How many glasses did you have before we started talking?" You whispered, moving closer nonetheless. He was doing the same, tilting his masked head up so he could meet your gaze. Your bodies slowly converged, drawn together by one of the greatest force known in physics, namely: stupid drunk desire.

Skullface shrugged, and it was as if a mountain decided to rearrange itself.

"Don't know. Three? Four, maybe?.."

"You are off your tits", you stated with a resigned giggle. He lowered his head, meeting you halfway, his exposed, parted mouth tracing along your temple. His lips were still wet with liquor. You trembled.

"Gotta give it to you, big boy", you whispered into the soft fabric covering his neck. "It didn't even show."

"Never does." His voice was thicker than before. "Petal?"

Your head darted up at this old-fashioned term of endearment.

"Yeah?..."

"Kiss me."

You stilled, undecided whether you should remain in the arms of this inebriated madman or not.

Suddenly there was such yearning in his eyes. All the posturing, all those fuckboy strategies, practised to perfection - gone. All that remained was hunger, aching and hollow.

This desperation couldn't be about you, some woman he's just met at the bar. You felt as if tipping at some greater, darker mystery. One which you probably shouldn't drag into the limelight.

"Kiss me", he whispered hoarsely, looking at you from under heavy eyelids. "Please."

And kiss him you did. 

That was the last time when you had any illusions of control. 

His lips felt scorching hot. They were dry and chapped and tasted like alcohol, like tobacco smoke and like something essentially - him. It was a new flavour, as unique as human bodies are, and as heady as that whiskey that he's poured down your throat. Now you were both drunk and crazy.

His musky scent riding on the woodsy-citrusy notes filled your nostrils, while you could feel one of his large hands creep up the small of your back. The fingers of the other one were snaking their way through the hair at your nape. It was an ironclad hold. He locked you in so that you couldn't possibly slip away.

Not like you'd want to. 

He licked his way inside your mouth, claiming it with frantic abandon that made something feral twinge deep within you. It felt as if this hulking stranger's taste matched a blueprint buried deep within your DNA. As if every fibre of your being has lightened up in recognition, calling out: 

That's right. He's the one we want to fuck.

There was no finesse to what you two were doing; just clashing mouths and tongues entwining, as sloppy as they come. Sharing a moment of blind, uninhibited lust. You could hardly breathe under such onslaught of stimuli, yet you didn't let go, because it set your blood aflame. He didn't either.

At some point you rolled your hips and bit his lip, unable to contain yourself, and felt him buck under you. His hips met yours and you realized with a start how hard he had become inside those jeans. 

"Fuck, love. Too much", he chuckled breathlessly, pulling away – not very far, just so that you could both still breathe the same air, panting softly into each other's mouths. Your French twist has come partially undone, sleek tendrils of hair framing your face. He threaded his fingers through one of them. His eyelids were fluttering, those fathomless eyes now big and vulnerable and seeking yours.

"Don't do that. I can't..."

"Can't what, exactly?" You smirked impishly, pressed your whole ass to his swelling length and nipped at his lower lip once more. 

He slammed his eyes shut, exhaling furiously. Then he opened them again and shot you what you'd call a deathglare – if his chest wasn't heaving like a ship amidst a storm.

"Keep at it and I'm gonna raw you. Right. On this fuckin'. Couch", he hissed, his voice low, every word clearly enunciated, encased in grit and oh, so delicious. "In the middle of this fuckin' joint."

"They'll throw us both away", you giggled, hiding your hot face in the nook of his throat. "And the weather is shitty."

"Then stop biting me", he said, but didn't push you off his lap.

You stilled for a while after that. Distorted, metallic rhythms boomed all around you. The music felt like crusted blood on your tongue. 

You let him hold you in this unbreakable embrace, pressing your ear to his clavicles, still hidden from you by a layer of black cotton. His breathing slowed down and then went back to normal.

"You're pretty excitable for a guy in his mid-thirties", you quipped under your breath, splaying your fingers over the well-worn fabric of his hoodie. The pecs under it were delightfully wide and firm. You traced over a small, perky nipple. He sighed.

"I haven't touched a woman in two months", he said matter-of-factly.

"Huh?" You sat up, looking him straight in the face. "Where have you been, in the fucking desert?"

"Yeah." His eyes regained that closed-off expression from before. Once again you felt as if looking into a boundless cosmic void, and it was chilling.

"I'm sorry", you said, regretting that thoughtless jab. "It's really none of my business."

"It's not", he agreed. His stare didn't soften much, but he still wouldn't push you away.

A moment of silence passed between you. He reached to the rickety table and helped himself to another long swig of whiskey, while his other hand stayed entwined in the – increasingly loose – hair at your nape. His fingers moved absentmindedly, loosening it further. You didn't protest. It felt soothing. 

Suddenly the throbbing metallic rhytms which have surrounded you came to a halt. The dancing crowd has stopped as well; there were groans and even cries of protest. The DJ – a smallish, ratty-looking dude – didn't seem to care. He grabbed the mike and announced flatly:

"Ladies and gents, it's 10 P.M. Which means that it's time for some beloved classics. Enjoy the set."

"That sounded more like a fuck you than an invite", you giggled. But then the rhythmic crackle of automatic drums gushed from the speakers, followed by guitars, tuned in the most morose key possible. Your ears twitched at the familiar words of the song. The vocalist sounded like he was grappling with laryngitis.

In the heat of the night

In the heat of the day

When I close my eyes

When I look your way

When I meet the fear that lies inside

When I hear you say 

"Oh hell yeah. I love me some good old Sisters of Mercy! Come on, handsome," You asked, getting off his lap and leaning over him, grinning widely. "Dance with me!"

The patrons behind you adjusted to this change in music style. Some have already begun to sway like trees in the cemetery wind. Others were shifting from one leg to another, a little lost but determined not to miss out on the fun.

The masked one, however, did not share their commitment. The skull shook slowly from left to right.

"I don't dance, sweetheart."

"Oh, come oooon," you pleaded, placing both palms on his wide chest, trying to negotiate with those dark, implacable peepers. Were they actually black? Or something else entirely? The dim blue neon light didn't give you any answers.

"What's the worst thing that can happen? That you'll enjoy it?"

Andrew Eldritch was proclaiming melodic, mournful nonsense to the world, guitars were chiming and that damn man sat unmoving like an anchor. You knew there was no point in pulling him off the couch by force. Firstly, it wouldn't do any good. Secondly, your shoulders would pop out of their joints.

"I know what I don't enjoy." That was not a rebuff, more like an excuse.

He stroked your exposed forearm, then squeezed your hand in his strong grip. Those rough fingers of his were warm and pleasant to the touch.

"But you go dance."

"What?.." You weren't sure where this was going. And you sure as hell didn't like it.

"Have fun, love. I'll watch over you."

You stood up, smoothed up your dress (which has ridden obscenely high during your little makeout sesh) and sent him a salacious smile.

"You'll watch me dance?"

He stretched out on the sofa like a lord, spreading his arms on the backrest and balancing a glass of whisky in his fingers. He looked like the embodiment of dark debauchery. You really wanted to climb into his lap again, but you weren't a woman who easily went back on her word.

"I won't even blink," he assured you with this absolute certainty in his low voice. Chills ran down your spine.

"All right." You straightened your back, checked if that hairpin was still holding up (it was) and turned your back on him to say over your shoulder:

"Then watch me."

You sashayed to the dancefloor, swaying your hips extra hard. The goths were awfully accommodating - they let you into the fold.

You found yourself surrounded by a writhing mass of people, moving along with the hard-hitting rhythm. There were elated faces all around and arms flailing in the dark, punctured by rays of dim blue light. It took away all semblance of reality, making all those faces disembodied. You felt as if immersed in a neon aquarium. Encased in your very own vision, a music video for one.

For he kept his word. He was truly watching.

You undulated under the blue reflectors, making sure that your dance moves were giving more "ethereal seductress" than "a teenager on crack" which was your default. But after some time you lost yourself in the music and stopped caring so much about how you look. Your body was doing its thing, gracefully coiling into figures you'd never be able to recreate on purpose, and your mind focused entirely on him.

Even when you closed your eyes, you could feel his stare, as inscrutable as it was unwavering. There was some gravitational pull to this man , as if he'd been highlighted by a black aura. The opposite of a limelight.

After "Dominion" they played a Marilyn Manson song (apparently the term "classics" was being applied very broadly), then "Dragula" by Rob Zombie - and suddenly it got way, way more crowded. A breathless, happy crowd began to push against you from all sides.

You swayed your arms, shook your hips and stomped your feet like nobody's business, trying your best not to thwack anyone in the kisser. Some nondescript dude sauntered close to you and started dancing obnoxiously near. Probably thought that he was being seductive. You ignored his ass, but he stuck to you like dandruff.

The fray got so thick that you lost sight of Skullface. Dancers blocked your view.

The stranger leaned in closer still. His hair was so long that it hit you in the face, and his eyes had this glassy expression which gave you chills. Drunk? Drugged and off his rocker? You didn't want any of it and tried to manoeuvre as close to the edge of the fray as possible. Then this fucker put his hand on your ass. You jumped, trying to shake it off - to no avail.

Hot, sticky words fell from his mouth, but to you, those were just sounds without a meaning. "Dragula" sleekly transitioned into "This Corrosion” and the patrons screeched in uniformed delight. The dancefloor had been packed before, but now you felt as if trying to do dance moves on your morning commute. A mass of sweaty bodies pressed onto you from every angle, and that long-haired creep kept pawing at your rear, face contorted into an empty, maniacal grin. Where the fuck was Skullface when you needed him? You've had just enough of this nonsense.

You stopped dead in the middle of the song, turned around with such momentum that the surprised assailant let go of your ass - and delivered a sweeping kick to his shin.

OK, maybe it was supposed to be sweeping. Truth be told, you didn't have much space for fancy martial arts. But thanks to your trusted combat boots it probably hurt.

The creepo staggered backwards and seized you with a furious look.

"You dirty slut!" he squealed.

You didn't wait to hear what the scorned suitor had to say next. You pushed past the crowd and ran off the dancefloor, staggering and panting heavily.

The sofa against the wall was empty.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Where did loverboy go?

Seriously. Where did he go?

--to be continued--

[ms-cartoon]

Warning: This post will contain mentions of assault or anything along the lines of it. You get the idea.

My review for HH ep 2 was supposed to be out by now, but there are some things I have to say first. My reasoning for sticking around for Hazbin Hotel is all gone except for Vox right now. I love Husk too, but they really just kinda ruined him for me in ep 4. I'm probably being dramatic but that's just how I feel. If he's supposed to be this wise bartender who's meant to make people feel better and help reach an understanding of some sort, he really just failed at that.

EP 4 of Hazbin Hotel is probably the worst one out of all the eps released so far. There are PLENTY of flaws to point out, but they can be said for some other posts I'll upload soon. What I'm mainly concerned with as of now is that "Loser Baby" song sung by HuskerDust.

So it's revealed that Husk was once an overlord and was always gambling. He betted his status and powers when playing against Alastor and lost. Now I guess he's forced to do whatever Alastor wants such as being a bartender. . . .

Sorry to get off topic here but. . . . Husk was an overlord??? I don't like how they just suddenly reveal that. It caught me off guard. I know they sorta foreshadowed it in the pilot, but they should've given most newcomers to the show a hint or something. It honestly feels like the writers just pulled that revelation out their asses just to add some positivity and similarity between Angel and Husk's relationship (because Viv and the fans just love idea of this ship oh so much)

Also, since he was previously an overlord, how come nobody's heard of him??? Everybody will get shocked when they hear or see Alastor or recognize him by his radio shows. Everybody knows the Three Vs, Camilla, etc. but not a Husk??? The Overlord with a gambling addiction?? Charlie and Vaggie will get shocked when Alastor comes in the picture but look at Husk like he's some random dude that just popped outta nowhere?

Plus, Alastor didn't force Husk to work as a bartender. In the pilot, he was easily convinced with cheap booze.

Speaking of his gambling addiction; well we all know he likes to gamble judging by his appearance. But gambling being his addiction?? Since when was that implied?

Anyway . . . . At this point, I don't get what the idea of that song is or what Husk meant by it. Maybe I am overlooking it, but its pretty hard not to believe knowing how Viv screws up her writing skills and how she went about it. According to all the Viv defenders, the song was meant to say Angel isn't alone in being stuck in a situation he feels he can't get out of and that Husk can understand where he's coming from and what he's going through. Well sorry to burst y'all's bubble, but even if that was, they just did wrong ENTIRELY. (Sidenote: If you Hazbin lovers wanna see it how u see it, then fine. But Imma stick with what I believe and there's nothing that could be said to change my mind, so don't bother trying to correct me.)

Husk makes it seem like he knows exactly what it's like being in Angel's shoes; signing a contract and being forced to do something against his will. That part seems to be the only thing they have similar. Except what happened with Husk in the past should NOT count as a similarity!

Husk: Loses a bet against Alastor, costing his soul and status as an overlord. Agrees to commit to Alastor's biddings apparently, including being a bartender for a hotel (which he wasn't really forced to do. He doesn't seem to be afraid in refusing Alastor's requests. I partially don't even believe it was apart of the deal to do what Alastor wanted)

Angel: Is a pornstar. Forced to be a pornstar and do whatever Val wants him to do. Including submitting to him and his sexual needs, getting beaten, r8ped, assaulted (sexually even), exploited, drugged, etc.

What part of Angel's problem should Husk be understanding? Alastor doesn't beat or r8pe Husk! It's never even revealed what Husk goes through with Alastor. I doubt it's anything bad on his part, since he clearly isn't afraid to talk smack to the powerful radio demon who could kill him in an instant. They just . . . had that past and now Husk is doing him a permanant favor. What Husk is doing now isn't even anything bad. He's working as a bartender for a hotel and is being paid to do it. He may not like, but it's nothing bad. What ANGEL is going through on the other hand?? The word "bad" doesn't even begin to cover it.

Husk may not know what Angel goes through (though he should connect the dots since Angel hinted at him when he revealed he gets drugged all the time) but Angel just full on agreeing with him and accepting that he's a loser for what he goes through and having to embrace his situation????

Ummm . . . . NO!

Bro! You just saw Angel about to get drugged!! He should NOT have to accept that!!

[caskompare]

🚨💷PRICE DROP Save £45💷🚨

Ardbeg Ardcore -> https://sovrn.co/18t1x5s

This limited edition expression from the distillery on Islay was made with roasted black malt, giving it an intense flavour profile, which is described as being "like biting a spiky ball".

[therealslimshakespeare]

The Passion of Johnny 🥀

Summary: Bucky Egan takes it upon himself to give some wedding night advice to his dearest and most cunty, capable and very Catholic captain. Did it have to be five minutes before the aisle walk? Did it have to be by the stale communion wafers? Did it have to have include practice fingering? Brady has so many objections but better to get this over with than have it bleed into Egan’s best man’s toast…

Requested? OH YES ✔️

Circa: late summer 1945

Warnings: so much innuendo and dirty talk, this is sex Ed, after all. Catholicism but it’s not really impacting shit beyond vibes, and a decent amount of homoeroticism…it’s war buddies in a church y’all. That’s a staple. Brief illusion to past male SA.

Full credit to my babe Ashely who more than co-wrote this, she was possessed by the spirit of Bucky Egan in our chat and out came this, I have merley sprinkled verbs and adjectives and cohesion throughout her masterpiece. And to Christi who added copious devastating one liners throughout and held my damn hand while I choked on this hotness

They’re in the back of the church, in the vestry room, attending to all those last minute wedding details -the ring checks, the tie-fixing, the last minute dizzy spells. And once left alone with him, Bucky spots the lump in the groom’s pressed slacks from across the room. He snickers. Ah this'll be fun. “C'mere kid...come talk to me.” he cajoles, “Ya fast? Ya loose? Feel like throwing up?”

Bucky claps him on the back extra hard and Jack coughs dryly, hands falling from his tie.

“Listen,” Bucky goes on without being answered, “good ole Father Peter Paul Frank whoever is gonna get up there and try and tell you all about marriage and devotion and all that jazz...and he means well. sure... but I wanna make sure this marriage starts off right...so let's have a little chat. I ever steered ya wrong, huh?”

“Bucky, I uh...kinda wanted a minute alone.”

Bucky racks his eyes over the pristine and quite filled out uniform. “Yeah trust me I got eyes kid, we can get you all settled so ya don't make a complete fool of yourself in front of the entire church.” Bucky for his part is smoking in church, after having lit a cigarette off the candles, and Brady supposes this talk is necessary. Not he thinks, for the education Bucky so benficently seeks to relay, but rather to stave off the likelihood of all these tips and tricks of the trade coming out in a groomsman’s toast.

Bucky’s rowdy, handsy behavior normally never bothered him. Until now. Every back slap and chest shove and cheek pinch has him feeling funny, tingly, oddly eager and terribly alive. Johnny shouldn’t have spent all night trying to tug one out in vain, now he’s a goddamn confused mess. But he knows he wants to please Bucky, unfortunately always has and in lieu of a father in his life today -though god knows this dangerous, grinning man is no replacement- he acquiesces. Jack takes a seat in this same room he did as a child to review his catechism and Ten Commandments, and marvels how despite all the partying of last evening and the week before, with booze and anecdotes and bawdy jokes flying like flack, Bucky would wait until they’re beside the stale, surplus communion wafers to discuss conjugal functions.

He's absolutely sweating and that makes sense, it’s August. But Bucky is clapping him on the back again, beginning the talk like they didn’t already do this routine, “Ya look great kid.” He compliments. “Almost as handsome as Ida.”

It’s a very sincere compliment, Jack knows this, and it makes him roll his eyes all the harder although his cheeks burn.

“Ya nervous? Yeah? Good. You should be.” —this is followed by a signature cheek slap. “-you’ve got maneuvers to learn.”

Jack’s eyes grow a little panicked. More than nervous then. He wasn't this hard before. But the more Bucky talks about ‘maneuvers’ he's getting almost fully so. Frantically smashing the front of his pants down, groaning, “Bucky, stop. I beg you, stop. I'm about to walk down the aisle!”

Another cheek smack. “Don’t fuckin' roll your eyes at me kid, where else ya gonna learn this? The goddamn Padre? Now listen up, those two fingers, raise your fingers, those two- what the hell is that one even doing? -not like that, c'mon take this seriously.” Bucky presumptuously adjusts Jack’s long, elegant fingers, “You ever felt a cat's tongue? You know how it's sorta rough, like sandpaper? Well there's this spot inside her, it's gonna feel sorta like that, only softer. And that's the magic spot, kid. I'm telling ya, aim for that spot and you'll be golden.”

Brady, he was pleased to see, was no longer rolling his eyes. The pupils, however, had taken over the blue. "Can I- can i get to it with my tongue, Bucky?"

“Uh, no, my dear young novice, but that shouldn’t stop ya from trying. Never stop trying to get at it with whatever, anything God or your job gives ya. Christ kid, you even seen a pussy before?"

Brady manages nothing more than a big swallow, "She showed me hers."

"She showed you- when?"

"Last Wednesday."

"She showed you her Tussy Muzzy last Wednesday? Holy hell, Miss Tilly!" Egan whoops loudly before Brady shushes him with a few scowling smacks to his chest. "Well, tell me, wha'd she say when she showed you her pussy?"

Brady begins to retract, "Sir I can't

-I can't say,"

"Oh listen up, listen up good and hard, right now. What a lady says? She means, and you should always listen to her, but she never says it when she means it. So you gotta remember it and file it away. To use against her later. Nicely, of course. Jack? Wha'd she say?"

Brady, with eyes heavenward and looking like all he was missing were the drops of blood, "She said she wanted me to take her and that it -it-it was throbbing and -fuck uh, that- that it would be mine Saturday, uh that’s today, that it’d be mine anyway? Oh Fuck."

Bucky, he sees, is eating this shit up. Bucky practically whoops again, right here in church. “Miss Tilly.” he murmurs in the most salacious voice ever. “Goddamn.” he utters, “GODDAMN!” a second time much louder.

Brady stares at the embroidery on the chapel cloth. Green and gold stitching interweaving to make leaves. Eternal life and shit.

“Well,” Bucky is rallying, “since ya seen one -fucking idiot not touchin' it when you could’ve…First rule of marriage: don't go turnin' down offered pussy. And you heard her, none of that timid chivalry shit, you take her, you hear me?”

“I’m hearing you sir.”

“Didn't think she was the type.” he whistles, still stuck on the fact that Miss Tilly Macon with her straw hats and white gloves begged Jack Brady to take her in a car seat just days before, “Right, well, tell me, did ya get a good look? Was she shiny?”

“It... glittered.” Brady spaces out recalling the petals of it in the red glow of the stop light.

“Well that’s good, we’ve got something to work from kid. Alright, that cat tongue I told ya about? Can’t get to it with your tongue, gonna need your fingers. Now c’mere, closer, come here dammit. Yeah ok, so,” Bucky holds up his palm, like he’s gonna swear an oath, “you're gonna find the spot and when ya do, you’re gonna rub and rub and keep rubbing -go on, try, try it against my hand, c'mon Jack don't be a prude"

Egan watches as Brady shamefacedly begins rubbing between Bucky's thumb and forefinger with surprising skill. The kid’s a natural. “Damn, fixing my headache, ok yeah like that uhuh.”

“It’s just the C major cord.” Brady rebuts with a small eye roll that morphs into a cringe in expectation of another loving slap.

But Bucky holds his peace and bites his lips, and Brady wants to please him so, he lets Bucky ramble on and do his odd little puppet show with his fingers.

When that is over, Bucky turns and casts about for his next prop before grabbing a stack of charity bibles, cigarette still hanging out of his mouth. He begins stacking the Bibles and pretending his fingers are now Tilly and Jack and the Bibles are a makeshift bed. Like Johnny doesn’t know what human limbs look like. And Brady, he knows he’s lost a great deal of mental capacity since seeing Tilly’s scared parts, -running into doorframes and spacing out during planning, to the point where Ida and Eugene think he needs to be shrinked- but this feels more than a little silly.

“Well that’s that part. But, back to the beginning.” Bucky straightens from his demonstration, puts one leg up on the desk and despite the absence of his animated fingers, the Bibles look terribly suggestive stacked there on the mahogany edge, “First thing,” he is pointing at Jack, “when you get upstairs, ya ask her...if she's ever had an ice cream cone in July.” Bucky is nodding with a big smirk that Brady feels like he should answer, “Know what I mean huh?”

Brady shakes his head and rubs his neck bashfully, to be perfectly honest he has suspicions but this is Bucky, and it’s safer to admit he hasn’t a goddamn clue. "I'm gettin' that the ice cream cone ain't literal.” He ventures.

“Trust me,” Bucky insists, “all this boring church business... the dancing, the punch, I'll make a nice little speech that won't make your ma keel over...soon you'll be the god damn ice cream cone right there in those nicely pressed pants.” Bucky saunters over to where Jack is sitting on the table top part of the desk, takes the back of his hand and whacks Jack's noticeable bulge. “There's your ice cream cone kid.”

Jack jumps back startled on the desktop, and Bucky cackles, muttering something about Goddamn Prudes and Jack has to keep shushing him.

“Anyway...so she gets a couple licks... and then..” Bucky is pacing and wagging his finger, “…you get a little taste of your own... real important now... work the tongue in that pretty little hole and get her started…”

Jack is about to hyperventilate at this point as Bucky starts throwing out more ice cream analogies. Lots about cream. And licking. Something about cherries. Then somehow baseball works it's way in. Predictably. So many bases, first and second and bats and stroking and more cream. There is a fly on the rim of the gold chalice, at least it’s stopped it’s buzzing little circles.

“Ya got stamina buddy boy?” -Jack has got no idea how to answer that. “Ya don't wanna be the husband who blows the second ya slide into home.”

“Trust me...after last night…” Jack grouches, letting the details slip through in his angry belligerence at his own stubborn erection.

“That sucker is from last night?” Bucky howls. “You friggin Catholics don't even wear rubber socks either do ya?” Bucky is rubbing his hands together, Brady feels half sick, half close to coming untouched from all this talk about condoms and such, “I'll be uncle Bucky before the year is out and the first one better be named after me!” Bucky crows, then softens as he sees Johnny’s overwhelmed face, “It's gonna be great kid, I'm telling ya.. worth all that Nazi camp bullshit.” He sniffs roughly, “Plus..uh, ya know Tilly seems like a swell girl...makes a decent meatloaf I heard...sickness and health all that jazz…” He comes closer and claps Jack on the shoulder a few times.

Brady feels the overwhelming and embarrassing need to assure him he’s always welcome to the meatloaf.

Bucky acknowledges this with a soft, saddened smile before his beautiful, capable hands slide up Brady’s stiff shoulders and come up to cradle Jack's sweaty, rosy face, “Damn proud of ya kid.” he swears gruffly, “Think of me when ya slide in tonight... Lord knows I'll be wishing I was there…” Bucky whistles but it doesn’t feel crass, not the way it did even ten minutes ago. Brady has a lump in his throat and a stupid desire to say ‘same’ but he doesn’t because it must be some sorta fucked for him to long after a man he fought for, a man he got ready to die with, a man he’d gone to hell for, a man who he’ll still be obeying. Even tonight of all nights. Maybe the camp fucked him up worse than he knew. Or maybe it’s just Bucky and how Bucky’s always been, how he’s always been around Bucky -always his aggravated fool.

Whatever Tilley will prove to be for Jack, she’s not that. And that’s as it should be. Still, he feels like meatloaf is a small thing to offer as those hands finally slide away.

💋 Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is a writer’s lifeblood, please feel free to scream in comments or the inbox, I love it and wanna hear it all. Trust me, nothing is “too dumb”. Your thoughts mean the world to me.

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