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fairyysoup · 1 month ago

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the devil i know

chapter seven: fill my mind with dirtiness, i'll invade your dreams

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Eddie teaches you a thing or two about possession.

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking, fem masturbation, demonic possession, actually really fluffy if you can believe it, mind control, telepathy, making a deal with a demon, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

Your eyelids press against the throw blanket you’ve pulled across them as a makeshift blindfold. Not that there’s much light in the room to begin with, but if you don’t have something holding them shut they just pop right open and stare at nothing.

You’re tired. Bone tired, but you can’t manage to shut your mind off. There’s a certain electricity in your limbs that keeps you jolting at the slightest sounds, your nerves like livewires, sparking at everything and nothing. Out in your living room, a new dog sleeps on your rug. Somewhere across town, your ex-boyfriend sleeps in the ICU.

You can’t sleep.

You huff and flop over, ripping the throw blanket off of your head. You don’t know if it’s just some sort of infernal caffeine that Eddie pumped into your body, but you can’t stop thinking of the blazing car, the heat of the fire scorching Andy and throwing him across the asphalt. You think back on it, and the feeling of release when the car went up in flames, like a weight lifted off of your shoulders after so long. Your blinding hatred of Andy and a sense of possession over the mark given to you by the fiery eyed demon who kissed your tears away.

Eddie did say that he’d corrupt you. ‘Break you,’ were his words. ‘You wouldn’t be the first good girl that I’ve broken.’ But, you don’t honestly know that he has. You went out into the woods to make that deal with him first. You sent him your petition first– what were you really hoping for? A rock to fall out of the sky and crush Andy in the middle of an intersection?

A car fire is just as effective.

Flashes of Eddie come to you. The scent of smoke in the air, strong and getting stronger the closer he gets to you. The timbre of his voice in your ear, calling you a good girl, even though you feel like anything but. It’s not… what you’re used to. You’re not used to being praised for anything. Not even being able to take the blows that you’re dealt. Usually you just get insults to go with the pain.

Your hand drifts low on your stomach, feeling a burn between your legs that wasn’t there five minutes ago. You don’t know what it is that has you feeling more high strung than normal– needier than normal. Just the mere thought of Eddie has your thighs pressing together and your core tensing like you’ll never get any relief. You palm your own crotch, tugging on the fabric like some frat guy trying to readjust his junk in front of god and everybody.

Now that you’ve gotten a taste of him– or, rather, he’s gotten a taste of you– it’s like your impulse control is nearly as void as his. Who gives a fuck? You’ve already given him your soul, signed it over to Hell for a bit of happiness. He’s done away with most of the demons of your past and given you what you want.

What you want right now is him. Eddie. His body, his tongue, his voice in your ear, his touch on your skin. It’s becoming an addiction now that you’ve let him in.

But, he’s… busy, you guess. He said he had some kind of business to take care of when he left you earlier. But there can’t be a special place in Hell for someone masturbating to the thought of their own personal demon, right?

A resigned sigh escapes you as you shove your hand down the front of your pajama pants. There’s no foreplay when you do this, no drawing out the process. Usually, you just try to get the job done quickly.

You dip a finger between the folds of your pussy to feel them drenched, far worse than you figured they would be when you’ve only been thinking about him for– what– two minutes? Ten? Doesn’t matter. You caress the sensitive skin, trying not to overthink why you’re so wet, why your finger practically drips when you spread your arousal over your clit.

You close your eyes against whatever light is in the room. You move your finger faster, a quick back and forth that just makes you sigh and readjust your hips on the mattress, searching for the right feeling.

Your mind delivers you an image of shining eyes beneath a curtain of dark, wavy hair. Ring-clad fingers drawing a lock of hair across plush lips in a mimicry of shyness. His warmth pressed against your back. His lips sucking the blood from your arm, healing the small wound on your skin. His tongue between your legs, forked and fucking into your cunt slowly, deeply.

“Motherfucker–” It just doesn’t feel quite right. Your finger feels too small, your own touch practically numb on your clit, even when the skin is so sensitive that it should be doing something. You pull and pluck at the skin, but your fingers feel jerky and uncomfortable, when usually it all feels just fine.

And everything feels hot. Why is it so fucking hot? Not just your cunt, or the tension in your core that’s screaming for you to just do something, but it feels like you’re breaking a fever. You’re doused in sweat, your skin is radiating more heat than you know what to do with.

Oh, that’s cute.

A gasp tears from your throat. You sit up like a shot, your hands scrambling for your bedside lamp. The light flickers on, and… nothing.

His voice sounded so close. So present in your ears, like he was right next to you. For some reason, you’re disappointed that he isn’t actually there.

Shivering and sweating and holding your head in your hands, you shake your head with your eyes squeezed shut. “...Eddie?”

You need to relax, you’re working yourself up.

You don’t know why it’s only hitting you now, how fucking odd it is that he’s talking to you. Or, airdropping messages directly into your head. The last time he did, you’d been a little too preoccupied with what was happening in the external world to really focus on the why and how.

“Where are you?”

I’m inside you.

His voice rumbles through your head, low and smoky like rolling magma in the pit of a volcano. It’s not audible– not to anyone else. It’s not something you’re hearing, it’s something you’re simply sensing. It makes your mind spin and all your muscles below your waist draw up tight and hard.

Do you want me to be inside you?

Oh, it’s not fair. Not fair. The way his voice dips, dripping like melted gold down your spine, making your entire body contract and release like it’s going to have a fucking fit. You don’t know if you’ll be able to stop it, if it does. You don’t seem to be in control of it anymore.

“Y-you–” you hiccup, trying to retain your calm and finding nothing to cling to. “You know the fucking answer to that.” Knees drawn up to your chest, you hunch over them with your elbows by your ankles, curled into a ball.

Lay down, sweetheart.

You can feel tears coming– hot, angry, frustrated tears because he’s not here and you feel like your body is screaming for him every time his stupid, pretty voice invades your mind. “Not– not like this–”

Lay. Down.

A hand forces your shoulder back and presses you firmly into the mattress, your head hitting the pillow and your breath leaving your lungs. Your own comes up to swing around wildly in the air, trying to grab for the arm that’s holding you down. There’s nothing. Just empty air.

“God damn it– Why aren’t you here?” You try to sit up again, but some invisible force is still holding you down by the shoulders. Your heart is pounding in your chest, so hard you can hear it in your ears. “I don’t– I don’t know why I feel like this–”

This is normal, your body is just reacting to my presence. The first time is always the worst, baby, it’ll get easier. You’ve just never been possessed before.

His voice is so soft, so tender that it makes your welling tears spill over painfully. They run down your temples and into your hair while you kick your legs to try and wiggle out of his hold.

“But I– I want to feel you,” you blubber, rigid on the bed with the invisible weight pressing you into it. “I want you now.”

Then, you hear it. Barely audible but still there– a huff of air. A chuckle. A laugh. The sound sends a chill down your spine, the heat of embarrassment warming your cheeks.

You were so concerned about the full moon rite when we signed the deal– where’d that go?

“It’s– I–” You sigh, quite literally kicking your feet in agitation. You heel. You’re crying uncle, you can’t take whatever the hell is burning in your veins. “You had your tongue in my pussy, like, five hours ago. Can’t we just fuck? Right now? First time, now?”

He takes longer to answer this time. We could.

Your heart leaps. “Oh, thank Chr–”

But where’s the fun in that?

You stop squirming, and glare directly upwards, at the ceiling. You don’t know why you’re imagining him on top of you, picturing his head being right above yours– he says he’s possessing you, he’s inside your body.

Just not in the way you fucking want him to be. Dick.

“You asshole,” you growl. You can barely think straight with all the desire flowing through you, it’s mashing lust and anger together to create some lethal combination. Lethal to whom, you aren’t sure. “You fucking– you want me to die? Is that it? Want me to just fucking die right here on this bed and you’ll never get your full moon rite–?”

You’re not gonna die. Stop being dramatic.

“I’m not– I’m not being dramatic–”

Dramatics don’t work with me. I invented drama.

You pause at that. It occurs to you that you don’t… actually know how old Eddie is. “Oh, shit. Did you? Like, for real?”

No, of course not fucking for real. I’m being dramatic.

You try to stay mad. You really do. But a smirk breaks your facade, and then a giggle. And then you’re laughing, and the invisible hand on your shoulder releases you so that you can roll over in your hysterics, curling into a ball on your side while laughter shakes your body.

It’s so fucking stupid. It’s ridiculous. All of this– the inhuman lust consuming you, some physiological effect of his presence in your body. The fear and the arousal and his disembodied voice rattling around in your skull, dragging you toward Hell with him. And he’s fucking funny. Your lord of darkness, or whatever, is a goofball and a fucking tease, and you wonder for a second if you made him up. If you’ve constructed him in your mind, if you’re having a nervous breakdown.

Sweetheart… There’s a sing-songy tone to Eddie’s voice now, and you feel a pair of fingers walking up and over the curve of your hip. Your muscles jump at the contact, then catch fire when a hand flattens out and slides along the curve of your stomach. It gently pulls you back to center, laying on your back on the mattress, your legs splayed out and arms up by your head.

“You’re a fucking dork,” you murmur, and every ounce of affection you feel for him comes out syrupy sweet in the words.

You’re still biting your lip to quiet your giggles, your eyes searching the room for what you know isn’t there. Dust settles on your dresser. Plaster peels from the ceiling and the walls of your rotten old apartment, the landlord special sitting in cakes on the windowsill and over the handle of your bedroom door. But there’s no Eddie.

Mm, but what’s worse? The dork, or the one who’s… just so fucking turned on by it…

Pressure cups your crotch, making your breath hitch abnormally in your chest. A hand rolls against the damp fabric between your legs, but when you look down all you see are your own hips bucking up into nothing.

Fuck, you’re just dripping for it, aren’t you?

A pathetic whine leaves your mouth. With your eyes closed you can roll your hips up against that feeling, and you can pretend he’s there next to you. The invisible hand presses two thick fingers into the seam of your pussy, drawing out all the agony and pleasure with it. Your mouth drops open, a moan caught in your throat when your clit is caught in the mix, dragging slowly against the hard press of those fingers.

This is what your body was wanting. His touch– even if it’s not a physical body, it needs Eddie to soothe the ache. This feels like relief, like comfort, like warmth. Everything feels warm with Eddie. His hands caress you, just the slightest up and down that has you keening.

And then they disappear. Vanish. No easy withdrawal, no warning.

Your face screws up in frustration, your hands clutching the pillow on either side of your head. You feel like screaming. “Eddie, why– what’re you doing–”

Don’t whine.

Your hands and arms suddenly feel cold, then hot– and then, you can’t control them at all. They move on their own, completely separate from your mind or will. Your fingers twitch, and then your wrists flex, like they’re getting acclimated just to the feeling of being alive.

And then slowly, much too slowly, your own hands move to your neck. Then, down over your chest. They fondle your breasts through your shirt, making you whimper even though you’re just so fucking confused.

Let’s have our first lesson in Possession 101, shall we?

“Is this what you did at the diner?” you whisper shakily, while Eddie– your hands– Eddie squeezes your breasts, rolling your nipples between your fingers through the fabric.

No.

“You talked to me, then.”

I talk to you when you call me to. I don’t have to possess you to do it.

Your brain fizzles out, reboots, starts again. “Did I–” a breath– “Did I call you? Just now?”

Baby, you were screaming for me.

Eddie feels his way down the curve of your stomach, inching toward your pajama pants. It’s more sensual, more languorous and indulgent of a touch than you’d given yourself in your haste. The need in your body is endless– it stretches on infinitely, and you feel yourself sinking lower and lower, fueled by the unnatural push of your own hands, controlled by some other force outside your realm of understanding.

Good thing, too. You need to be shown how to fuck yourself properly.

“Eddie– don’t tease,” you chide, but there’s nothing real in it. It’s a pathetic whine, a little submissive noise in your throat that really means, Jesus Christ, I don’t know where to put all this lust.

Your hands wriggle beneath your pants, down past your underwear. Then your fingers dip low and part the slick, swollen lips of your cunt. You gasp at just the same time as the demon in your head hums. It’s a deep, resonating sound that slithers around in your skull, swirling and echoing like a call into the cavern of your mind.

Ohhhh, that’s fucking beautiful. His voice in your head is hushed, as if he wants to make sure no one hears his words but you. Your pussy is somehow wetter now that he’s here. You choke on a breath when your finger drags up and over your clit, the most delicate and inquisitive of a touch, but it makes sparks dance along your skin. How long has it been since you touched yourself like this?

“I don’t–” You moan suddenly when your two fingers dip into your entrance, teasing before drawing back over your clit in soft, circular strokes. Your breath rattles in your chest. “I don’t do it like this.”

That’s a travesty.

A high whimper scratches out of your throat at that. It is a fucking travesty. You never take your time and it never feels like this. It never feels like your body is on fire and your cunt is gushing, just begging for some sort of attention to soothe its crying.

Two fingers slip down and drive into you to the knuckle. You gasp and squirm, trying to move them, trying to do anything to stave off the ache for a faster pace. The impatience to do it fast and tight like you’re used to takes over, bucking your hips forward, urging your own hands.

Stop fighting me, baby. It won’t work.

He slows down, If that’s even possible. He makes your two fingers practically still, deep in your cunt, your palm flush against your throbbing clit.

The little bit of stimulation you get from the intrusion doesn’t do as much as his voice in your head does, though. It’s as if his mere being possessing you is enough to feed the starving, rabid animal of your body.

He swirls your fingers in a way that makes you keen, tilting your head back against the pillow. Are you paying attention, little witch?

You sob, nodding your head rapidly. You’re flustered, thinking about him watching you, feeling you do this. Your fingers aren’t long enough, or thick enough, to make it feel right. It feels better than it did, but only barely. “I– I liked your fingers m–more–”

I know. Because your body belongs to me, now. Isn’t it fun, being my whore?

You gasp when he pulls your fingers out and back up to your clit, more gentle than you’ve ever tried being to yourself.

He thinks this is fun. You’re suddenly reminded that he’s a demon– historically not a creature known for being nice. Mythologically, a creature that delights in torture.

He’s torturing you. He’s teasing you and refusing to give you what you want, refusing to fuck you, because this is fun for him. You picture chains and whips, bondage and the like, but you think it’s more than that. It's a mind game.

It’s him being able to control you. It’s you giving yourself over to him entirely.

You like it.

I can hear your thoughts, sweetheart. Stop overanalyzing it. Stop thinking .

“Holy shit– ” you rock your hips up when he curls your fingers, slow and hard, dragging them in and out of your cunt. The wet sound that it makes is obscene, even through the layers of fabric barring it from the open air.

Just imagine, you get to have me all you want. I’ll fuck you open and breed this tight little pussy like you want me to so damn much. Have you leaking my cum, just a messy hole for me to fill, over and over.

You moan, loudly. The image does flash through your mind– but, of course it does. He just said that he can hear your thoughts like this, didn’t he? He knows what to say to make you lose your mind, your frustration giving way to bliss.

Every day, for the rest of your life and beyond it, however you want it. But for now, you get to have this.

Your pussy clenches down, squeezing your two fingers. The muscles of your stomach tighten and release, and everything, everything sears. Panting, you stutter out, “I’m– shit– Eddie, I’m gonna cu–”

Cum.

You cry out sharply, falling apart around your fingers.

This is when you would stop. This is when you’d pull your hand away and say good enough, and let your body settle down. But Eddie continues, pushing your fingers through your spasming walls, grinding your palm against your throbbing clit until your thighs shake and your hips jump.

It takes a fucking while before he lets up.

Easing out of you, he slides your soaked fingers up and over your clit for good measure, before lifting your hand and shoving them into your open mouth. Your moan chokes out as you close your lips around them.

There you go. That’s how you finger yourself. I don’t wanna see whatever that other shit was again.

“Mm… uh huh. Okay. On it, boss.”

You’re a little embarrassed that you came so quickly when he was the one controlling you. You aren’t holding out much hope that you can do the same thing to yourself, on your own. But you’ll make him the hollow promise, in the meantime.

Maybe… maybe you’ll regret this, sometime. Maybe you’ll wake up one day and discover that this has all been some great big mistake, and Eddie is not what he seems. You still don’t know anything about him. You don’t know who he is, or was. You don’t know anything beyond the bond that you share now, and the power that courses through your veins.

For now, you think, it’s enough.

You find yourself nodding as you regain control of your hands. You’re drenched in sweat, panting quietly and letting your body sink into the mattress beneath you.

You hear him chuckle while you swallow back the dryness in your throat.

C’mon. You need some water, sweet thing.

Two invisible hands wrap around your ankles and yank your limp body out of bed, while you screech and claw helplessly at the sheets. Eddie giggles maniacally within your head when one of them smacks your ass, and your legs force you toward your bedroom door.

“Sweetheart?”

Everything glows pink. The morning sun in your windows makes things rosy, turning slowly to gold and tangerine. You groan and shift sideways, your eyes fluttering open, expecting an empty room. Expecting that Eddie is speaking to you telepathically, in that way he does. That maybe he’s still possessing you.

He isn’t. You blink up at him as he stands over you, long hair dangling in his face and flushed cheeks indented with dimples, looking half-godly like a statue of a fallen angel. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how beautiful he is. He strokes a delicate finger down the side of your face, rousing you gently with a look in his eye that you might mistake as lovestruck, if you didn’t know any better. His eyes are golden.

“Hi, pretty baby,” Eddie murmurs, as you tiredly work the sleep out of your eyes. You feel yourself making little indignant mrrrps, like a cat who wasn’t ready to be woken from a nap. Eddie chuckles, and the sound dances around the room like the twinkling of a bell. “I have something to show you.”

“Can it wait?”

“No.” His voice is soft, but holds enough command in it that you grumpily drag yourself out of the warmth and comfort of your bed. Half-asleep at the ass crack of dawn, like you’re still living with your parents and have to go to school, or something.

Even with your eyes half shut, you can follow him perfectly fine just from scent alone. His smoke and emanating warmth act like a beacon as you stumble over your own feet. He giggles at the sight of you, dragging a soothing hand down your upper arm to guide you into your kitchen.

“All right, sweet thing,” Eddie purrs, pulling you into his arms to face away from him. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking over it while you simply let your head fall against his, being lulled back to sleep by his warm embrace. “What do you see?”

“Mmmph.”

“Okay, well, you have to open your eyes to see it. C’mon.” He pets a soft hand back and forth over your hip. “Let me see those beautiful eyes. You can do it.”

You’re fairly certain your eyes are puffy and crusty and gross. But you do what he says, cracking them open. “I see the counter you tongue-fucked me on yesterday.”

Eddie stops. You feel him turn his head, blinking at you like you’ve completely derailed him. After a long pause, he says, “Interesting how selective your attention to detail is.”

“There’s a bigass bunch of flowers on it.”

It’s the truth; it’s like he uprooted an entire garden and dumped it on your kitchen counter. You aren’t sure what he means for you to do with all of them– geranium, daffodil, chrysanthemum, daisy. They’re heaped on the granite unceremoniously, looking simultaneously beautiful and decrepit. Over the smell of Eddie’s smoke, you get the earthy and floral notes of a freshly weed whacked flower bed.

“Where the fuck did you get–”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says quickly, interrupting you. If you were more awake, you might have taken exception, but in your half-asleep haze you’re just happy to let him talk. “Do you like ‘em?”

“Yeah, honey, they’re… they’re real pretty.” You’re sure they were pretty when they were still in whatever garden he obviously stole them from. There’s a dirt clod in your sink.

“Cool, cool… awesome. Fantastic. So I suppose that means you want to put them in a vase, right?”

What kind of household does he think this is? You don’t have the budget for fancy shit like decorative bowls. The closest you’re getting to a bouquet vase is the crockpot in your pantry. “I don’t– I don’t have a vase–”

“Au contraire– I happen to be a purveyor of delicate glassworks.” Eddie reaches around you to set something on the counter in front of you.

It’s a water glass with little lemons painted on it. You bought it at the family dollar last spring.

“Babe, I dunno if you noticed, but that’s not a vase.”

“So make it one.”

“What?” You’re too tired for this. “Eddie–”

“Humor me, baby,” he whispers. He presses one big hand over your stomach, just beneath your ribcage. “You’ve got the magic to do it. Feel it, in here.”

It’s really hard to feel anything besides his touch, searing you through your baggy t-shirt. Eddie’s fingertips stroke back and forth, apparently trying to get you to focus on… something, but not accomplishing anything other than turning you on. Some instinct you have forces you to press your hips back against his, grinding your ass against his crotch in a sleep-induced urge to have him as close as you can. You make a little sound in the back of your throat that indicates what exactly it is that you’re feeling.

Eddie hums quietly, a note of amusement in his voice. “Wrong feeling, sweetheart.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to be feeling–”

“I know, I know. You want to fuck me so bad it’s making you dumb. It’s cute, really.” He snickers when you give him a petulant huff, and his teeth wrap around your earlobe to tug playfully. “All in good time. But right now, you need to feel what you want. You want a vase.”

“I don’t want a–”

“You want the vase,” he repeats insistently, tapping your tummy twice. Hot fingertips pressing in, metal rings catching on the fabric over your skin.

You squirm. “Fine. Eddie says I want the vase.” Give me the vase so the goddamn guy will let me go back to sleep for the love of shit—

And then, you do feel it. Some burning in your gut, right beneath the press of Eddie’s hand. A buildup of pressure that isn’t necessarily pleasurable, but nor is it painful. It just builds and builds until you feel full, fit to burst. It lurches in your throat, speeds up your heart, makes you moan at the vastness of it.

“That’s good,” Eddie encourages quietly in your ear, “You’re doing great, sweetheart. Keep going.”

The warmth of Eddie’s hand on you grows, until you feel as if your cotton t-shirt shouldn’t handle it. It should be burning up into shreds of singed fabric and char, but it just remains as an irritating barrier between his skin and yours. You feel the magic coursing through him and into you, creating some kind of tether that binds you and allows the power to travel between your beings. One with each other.

And when you fear that it’s too much, that you might explode from the intensity of it, it leaves you. All in one strong gust, enough to knock you back into Eddie, to make you stumble and give a fevered moan of release.

“Good girl! Look at what you did!” Eddie bounces excitedly behind you, jostling your still sluggish body. He sounds giddy, his arms tightening around you. “I’m so proud of you, you’re a fucking natural–”

“What… in the world,” you breathe, picking your heavy head up to gaze down at where your water glass used to be. Now there’s an enormous, beautiful vase. Still not enough to fit all the flowers in, but it’s a vase that you didn’t have before.

It still has little lemons on it.

“You’re so good for me, baby,” Eddie’s still whispering to you happily, a smile on his lips as he nuzzles against your neck and litters kisses all over your jaw. “You’re so goddamn cool, I swear–”

You giggle, leaning into his kisses with a tired smile. “That could have waited until I was finished sleeping, you liar.”

“Yeah, but it’s easier when you don’t think rationally about it,” Eddie coos at you, turning your head with gentle fingertips so he can lay into your lips with a kiss. “Plus, you’re just so cute and compliant when you’re sleepy.”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #stranger things #tdik!fic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #demon!eddie munson #demon!eddie #stranger things fic #roses*

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thesilmarillionblog · 6 months ago

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𓏲 𓂃 L o s i n g Y o u

Part: 2

/ Click here to read the first part!

Summary: Everything was good as a member of Payback and Soldier Boy's secret girlfriend until the team and your relationship with him began to fall apart due to a new member and her developing relationship with Ben right in front of your eyes.

Pairing: Soldier Boy / Reader

Warnings: Heavy angst, hurt, heartless Soldier Boy, reader gets hurt, mention of drugs, mention of alcohol, mention of sex, betrayal, Soldier Boy being a dick, reader is a supe, Crimson Countess is a bitch

Word Count: 2031

A/N: English is not my first language.

* This story is inspired by the song "Losing You" by Dream Evil.

After your argument with Ben about Countess Noir and your relationship, which occurred a month ago, he hardly spoke to you at all. He never looked you in the eye, either. You were never even certain if his love existed in the first place, but it was clear that the thing between you and Ben had been extinguished forever, even though he hadn't formally ended your relationship with words.

You considered leaving Payback behind, but you found it difficult to distance yourself from Ben, which bothered and despised you about yourself. You were terrified that Ben would harm Earving, in addition to the possibility that he wouldn't mind you leaving the squad. After all, he was your sole friend, and Ben's attitude towards him was cruel and rough. He was merciless to everyone except for Countess.

You denied producing movies, TV shows, or signing days since it was too much to bear to watch Crimson and Ben together, participate in commercials, and be the star of movies in front of your eyes. You just stopped showing up with the squad day by day. Nonetheless, when the rumors surfaced that you would soon leave the group, you were forced to sit with Ben and listen to him while he talked absolute bullshit to the cameras.

When the reporter asked you a question, you were so deep in confusion that you couldn't even begin to count how many times you were asked the same question. You were deep in thought when the reporter asked the same question.

“I'm sorry,” You apologized, giving the TV reporter a feeble smile. “I couldn't catch you.” You were irritated by the number of times you were given the same questions over and over again.

You felt that all you wanted to do was shout and punch everybody who spoke to you and asked you pointless questions about Ben and Crimson, as if it were your responsibility to speak and you were their spokesperson regarding their romance or something. All they saw was a façade of lies; if only someone could see through you and realize that you were drowning in all of them.

He kept talking about the rumors, and you felt like you were about to go crazy in front of the camera and kill someone. At that point, the pressure you were under became too much for you to handle. You ignored all the sounds around you and repressed your tears as you inhaled deeply.

“Look, you know, I have things to do. I apologize if I sound impolite, but it would be preferable if you directed those questions to Crimson and Soldier Boy. After all, it's their life to tell, not mine.”

When you attempted to back away to ask another question, the unsettlingly inquisitive man grabbed your arm. God alone knew how much you wanted to break those arms at that very moment and make him eat his own flesh.

Disregarding your previous statement, he uttered, “Y/N, please inform us. Are they really getting married soon? Don't you think it would be fantastic if the strongest supe woman and strongest supe man got married? A formidable duo! Power Couple! The American public is curious about that.”

He was babbling nonsensically and was clearly trying to get you to kill him. Even though you weren't saying a damn thing, he continued talking about them, and you inhaled deeply and waited for him to finish. When he identified Countess as the strongest female supe, you gave him a little smile.

You replied coolly, “I really don't know about their next move. But allow me to ask you a question. Have you witnessed her battling me?”

You stared him in the eyes when you posed the question, as though it were the most important one ever. The way you changed your attitude startled him.

“Well, no,” he said with a confused look on his face.

“Then what makes you believe that she is the world's strongest supe woman?” You continued to smile at him and continued, “Let's just say I'm curious.”

Crimson wouldn't have a chance against you; you knew it. Ben also knew that. However, you felt unimportant and left her aside each passing day because of the way she was seen as the strongest female supe. You were aware that Ben was assisting her in completing the objectives assigned to her—unlike you, she was never able to complete any of them successfully. She just appeared to be powerful and tough because she was with Ben, not because she was really something.

You were aware that her sole concerns were money and reputation, and neither Ben nor the squad mattered to her. A woman could always see right through another woman.

You suddenly burst out laughing when he opened his mouth. Saying, “Hey, I'm just kidding; relax,” you interrupted him before he could say anything more foolish. “But I really have things to do, okay? Glad to meet you. Have a nice day.”

Fuck, you turned into the biggest liar in a single month because of Ben.

Earving saw you had at last escaped the incessant inquiries and the obnoxious reporter, so he followed you to the van. He was also taking a vacation from marketing his latest film. After taking off his mask long enough to sip his, he handed you a soda.

“Hey, what's the deal? You know, you seem anxious these days.” He ate his hamburger quickly and remarked, “I heard the conversation between you and this idiot man. Fuck him; they are so fucking irritating sometimes, it’s hard to stop myself from breaking their necks.”

You took a big sip of your soda and gave him a nod. It was nice to have small talk with Earving, considering he was the only kind and smart person left in the squad after all.

“Yeah,” you said while Ben and Countess got out of their special trailer, and you watched them with a heavy heart when Ben gave her quick and playful kisses.

It was Ben's blindness and his intense care for her that pained you, and it was his seeming blitheness and comfort around her that made you hurt. It was obvious to you that she was lying and tricking him. Witnessing Ben give her everything he didn’t bother to give you wounded you. They had a really open connection, even if there was still some space between you when you were dating.

You were concealed by him like a rat in the shadows, unlike her.

The countess never once left his side, not even for a moment. You were frantically trying to find a moment to speak with Ben once again. If you had been alone with him, you would have succeeded in discovering the cause of his sudden and dramatic change.

“Earving,” you said like a whisper. “Can you distract Countess for tonight?” You turned to him with pleading eyes.

“Why?” he asked as he ate his third hamburger.

“Can you just do it?” You huffed as you kept watching Ben from afar.

“Fine,” he said with his full mouth, spitting the tomatoes. “You fucking stress me out since you’ve started to act like Soldier Boy.”

“Don’t insult me,” you said as you chuckled, punching him softly and stealing his last hamburger.

When Earving managed to divert Countess, it was midnight, and you saw them vanish out of sight. When you saw Ben pull into his own trailer, your heart began to race, and you quickly followed him. You made a self-promise to try it one final time. After all, you were doing this for one another, and when it came to love, pride had no place.

When you entered the trailer, you locked the door immediately, leaned your back against the door, and your hands stilled on the handle as if he would escape any moment. It was dim inside.

You heard him inhaling deeply before he turned his back to you and gave you a look like you were an insect that simply refused to leave the house in the summertime. Though you were close to him physically, the distance between you and his coldness toward you was visible.

He gave you a stern look and maintained his distance from you, asking in a harsh voice, “Why the fuck are you here again? Are you going to start spreading gossip about us?”

You just answered, “No,” disregarding his sour tone and remarks. “Ben, all I want to do is talk.”

“I fucking have things to do; cut it short.”

He was leaning back against the drug- and alcohol-filled table. Though it was obvious that he was getting worse every day, he was unable to recognize his condition.

“Why did you change so suddenly? Did I do something wrong?” Not wanting to come across as hostile and cause him to harm you verbally once more, you asked in a quiet voice. “I just need a simple explanation.”

You continued to stare at him with wet eyes, and he sighed and gave you his signature grin.

“Just admit your pussy missed me; that’s why you are so desperate, so I can give you a good and quick fuck,” he said, giving you a playful look.

Aware that he was only attempting to divert the conversation or embarrass you, you remained silent and paid no attention to the garbage that was pouring out of his mouth.

“Why, Ben?”

“Why do you act like a fucking obsessive woman? Do you need an explanation? Fine, listen to me carefully, then: I can do whatever I want. Is that good enough for you? ”

With a heavy heart, your hands on the door handle tightened. Ignoring his harsh words, your jaw clenched, and you shook your head in denial.

“Why did you act like you loved me and cared about me then?”

“What love? Fuck, I don’t even like you,” he snapped out of nowhere, irritated by the choice of your words. “We just passed some time and fucked, that’s all. Don’t be a bitch about it; you’ll get over it,” he said, giving you a wink.

He sounded so different and cold that it was hard to believe he was the same man with whom you fell in love so deeply months ago. It was like someone else possessed his body and turned him against you in a day.

“Why do you even look at me with such hatred?” you asked, ignoring how much his words pained your heart. Your voice cracked, not knowing how to handle the situation or his unbalanced behavior anymore.

“Fuck!” he screamed at you, finally losing his temper and making a move to approach while you still leaned your back against the door. “You know what? I’m going to marry her.”

You loosened your hand around the doorknob and cupped his face without hesitation, knowing he would do it just to make sure you suffered.

“I swear I’ll walk away the day you marry her, Ben,” you said with a desperate voice, hoping it would mean something to him. “I’ll leave Payback.”

“Fuck you will,” he clenched his jaw, pushing your back against the door. “I fucking swear, the day you leave will be the day of Noir‘s death. No, I’ll make sure to make him even worse.”

“What kind of monster have you turned into?” You whispered and pushed him off of you.

“Yet you told me you loved me,” he said, giving you an unsincere smile.

“I do love you, Ben, and that’s the last time you hear this from me.”

Next Chapter

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

A/N: I was very surprised to see that you wanted another part for this so-called one shot story. Your comments made me very happy.

Taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl

Let me know if you want to be tagged for this series!

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theyhavetakenovermylife · 8 months ago

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Hi! Can I request MM! Raph with a fem s/o who is very opposite of him, like she's kind, dresses very girly, oblivious, kinds like opposites attract. Where one day, reader is getting flirted with but doesn't understand it, and Raph is js getting jealous/protective??

Don’t Flirt With My Girlfriend (Fluff)

MM!Raphael x reader

A/N: Of course you can! I’m thinking jock Raph with his girly yet a little nerdy girlfriend. I don’t know why, but I just find it cute❤️

Warnings: Raph being jealous, and reader being oblivious to unwanted flirting, but nothing too bad❤️

Whoever said that opposite attracts, had no idea how right their words were. When they first uttered those words, they would have had no idea that such a thing as you and Raphael would ever come to happen.

You and Raphael was the stereotypical high school love story. Well… except the fact that Raph was a mutant turtle and considered a hero in the city of New York City , but that is not very important. Raph was a jock, part of Eastman High’s wrestling team, currently testing his waters in the school's American Football team, having played a few successful games. And though he might be big and strong with a quick temper, he didn’t do too well in his studies, lacking behind for quite some time. But that was how he first met you - his opposite in so many ways.

You were sweet, calm and always so happy, yet drawing very little attention to yourself. Well, at least not by sound, but quite a few had their eyes on you. Often dressing in dresses with pretty floral prints in light colors, such as pink, baby blue, light green and soft light yellow and purple, you were the stereotypical girly girl. And not only that, but you were in the same math class as Raphael, which was how you finally got to talk to him, when your teacher asked you to become his tutor.

Becoming Raph’s math tutor meant that you and jock would spend much time together, both at your place and his. And as time passed and the two of you got to know each other, neither of you could help the crush that you were developing. However, it was during this time that Raph learned something very important about you - you were not good at reading his flirting. He could send you all sorts of looks, or say all kinds of sugary sweet things, but you didn’t seem to understand what he was trying to do or say, which was a little frustrating to the young mutant. However, he decided to do his best and follow your tutoring, believing that was a way to get closer to you. When Raph later passed a math test, after you had helped him prepare, he decided to ask you out, and the rest was history.

You and Raph quickly became the couple of Eastman High that everybody knew of. No matter if it was wrestling or football, if Raph did good in his sports, he would make a show of running to you, where he would place a firm kiss to your lips, telling you how much he loved you, before running off to continue his game. That was enough to let the whole school know that you were together. That you were with Raph and that he was with you. Only a fool wouldn’t be able to understand that. Unless some poor soul hadn’t been there to see that. That is where Anker came into the picture.

Anker was an exchange student from one of the Scandinavian countries, having decided to study in the US for a year. That was how Anker found himself in the same English class as you, sitting just a few rows behind you. And it only took him a few days to develop a small crush on you, not knowing about your mutant turtle boyfriend of a jock. Which is why he decided to walk up to you after class, in the hopes of chatting you up.

As you stood by your open locker, getting a hold of the books you needed for your next class after the break, Anker came up by the locker beside you, resting against it as he began talking to you. You smiled a friendly smile to the exchange student, answering his questions as politely as possible, not noticing the way he kept eyeing you every other minute, or how people passing looked at him, as if he was crazy. If Raph saw this, he might as well count his days. But you were totally oblivious, believing that Anker was only trying to be friendly. An exchange student trying to make new friends.

“So”, Anker continued, changing the subject. “What are you doing this weekend, (Y/N)?”

“This weekend?”, you repeated deep in thought. “Well, this Saturday I’m spending time with my family, and Sunday I’ll be studying for Monday”.

“So you don’t have any plans on Friday?”, Anker asked, not noticing the mutant turtle whose eyes was piercing through him, as he walked up to the two of you at a fast pace, his gym bag almost falling off his shoulder. “Would you like to go to the cinema with me on Friday then?”

“No, sorry”, you answered, still not aware of your boyfriend as he was making his way to you. “I already got plans for Friday”.

“Plans?”, Anker asked in confusion. “With who?”

“Me!”, Raph spat at the exchange student, making the boy jump in fear. Not just by Raph’s sudden presence, but by his appearance. No one had told Anker that the mutant turtles were studying at Eastman High. Raph wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close to him, while staring daggers into Anker’s soul, his anger fuming underneath his skin. “I know what you’re trying to do, and you can quit it right now. Don’t flirt with my girlfriend, buster!”

Anker looked more than just a little unsure, before quickly making his exit, feeling Raph’s eyes burn the back of his neck all the way to the end of the hall, until he was out of sight.

“I’m sorry, Raph”, you finally said when Anker was gone, already feeling horrible. “I had no idea he was flirting with me”.

“It’s okay, babe”, Raph said, wrapping his other arm around you, hugging you tightly against him, feeling his plastron underneath his jersey. “It’s not your fault. You’ve never been good at recognizing flirting, so I don’t blame you at all. But if he tries on anything, I’ll punch his face so hard that he’ll-”.

“I don’t think that’s necessary”, you interrupted him, putting a soft hand against his cheek, feeling him lean against it. There was no doubt that having you in his life had helped Raph calm down immensely, having an easier time cooling down from his more temperamental periods. Just like now. The feeling of your warm hand against his face calming him down. “But thank you for looking out for me, Raph. Otherwise I might unknowingly have gotten myself into something dumb”.

“Anything for my girl”, Raph smiled, leaning down to press a kiss against your forehead, causing you to smile like crazy. Even you were able to understand how sweet that gesture was and what that meant. “Are you still up for our date on Friday?”

“Of course I am”, you said, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. “I’ve been waiting ever since last Friday for another diner date”.

Raph chuckled at that statement, finding your enthusiasm adorable. “Gosh, you’re cute. Gimme a kiss, babe”.

You giggled, before standing on your toes as Raph leaned down, your lips meeting together in a sweet tender kiss before you pulled back, looking deep into each other’s eyes with bright smiles.

“Eating together at lunch?”, Raph asked.

“Of course we are”, you answered, kissing Raph one more time, before the two of you made your way towards math with your hands entwined.

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bogleech · 7 months ago

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Could I mayhaps know what's the name of that arachnid field guide you have 0//0 it looks really pretty and I have. A thirst for all arachnid related field guides and biology books, love those critters

The Golden Guide to Spiders and their Kin! There were lots of them, originally made in the 60's or 70's I believe, and they used to still be so common when I was a kid - still in print, and sold for just a couple dollars everywhere - I thought everybody had a few! But now they seem to be forgotten.

I had the spiders one, insects one and "seashores" one (mantis shrimps and nudibranchs!!) before I could even read, just looking at the pictures all day. As I learned to read they were how I learned concepts of taxonomy and ecology, why I knew what a "parasitoid" was in first grade and I'd talk constantly about insects that aren't really RARE, but culturally most people never heard about. These books made things like velvet ants, bolas spiders and hairy millipedes seem to me like knowledge as ordinary as dogs and cats.

That "pests of animals" page in particular is why I knew there were wingless parasitic flies, and I thought that was so cool, I was obsessed with "SHEEP KED" for my entire childhood. This bug that nobody ever heard of when I mentioned it, but was at one time deemed worthy of inclusion in an everyday field guide. And they include "duck louse" as an animal pest you're expected to encounter. Sheep and duck parasites?!.....Oh, right! When these books first published, it was still commonplace for almost everyone to have experience with farm animals. Most people at least had grandparents or aunts and uncles with a farm they might visit and help out on. Of course they would encounter sheep and duck parasites. I think they still publish these, actually, I'm sure I still saw them in Barnes and Noble only a few years ago, but it's remarkable what a different America they were made under. My old copy even recommended DDT to control bed bugs....they did eventually edit that out in newer editions.

Some of their attitudes may be outdated here and there, and they're only intended for North American wildlife, but I think the golden guides might still be perfect introductions to their topics for anyone, anywhere of any age really?? They're such well-balanced overviews so densely packed with just the most essential information about each organism.

....Did people really ever just call tree frogs "hylas?!" It's one of their genus names, but was it also used as a common name anywhere? That's a cute idea. Maybe it was, briefly, so at some point to someone there was a concept of Frog, Toad, and Hyla?

#biology #animals

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uzumaki-rebellion · 8 days ago

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"Ice Cold Jax" Geechee!Erik Killmonger

Pairing: Geechee!Erik Killmonger x Black Female OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Supernatural Horror, Period Piece, Erik Stevens AU, Black American Folktale.

Summary: Erik "Killmonger" Stevens is a Geechee wanderer and lover of big-legged women and good moonshine. On a trip to visit his favorite juke joint in 1940s Mississippi, he entertains a lover of sorts, Lulabelle, the juke joint owner and Madame of the nearby whorehouse. Erik battles two mythical creatures from Black American folklore, the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man in order to save Lulabelle and her establishment. The tale is told from the perspective of a ghost who was once Lulabelle's best friend.

Word count: 5.5K

youtube

"The winter time is coming

And it's going to be slow

You can't make the weather baby

it's dry long so

You betta come on in my kitchen

because it's going to be Raining outdoors..."

Cassandra Wilson – "Come on in my Kitchen" (Written by Robert Johnson)

There were two things Lulabelle Humphreys knew how to sell in Itta Bena Mississippi and that was moonshine and other people's pussy.

She did that very well until one night of the Harvest moon when cotton would soon be harvested by the local sharecroppers and itinerant Mexican men who traveled through the delta region looking for work like every other Negro or poor white trash far and wide. On that night under a sweltering heat full of drunk patrons and her smooth-talking whores inside her juke joint with the "special ladies" house attached by a rickety bridge that crossed over a tiny creek full of frogs and singing crickets, Lulabelle witnessed the showdown of all showdowns between the Plat Eye and the Crossroads Man, shonuff, right inside her little rambling hot music-havin' and ice-cold beer havin' establishment.

And if it hadn't been for that slow walking city-to-city wandering Geechee man with the gold teeth, slick smile, and flashy suit standing by her with the smarts of his low country kin back in South Carolina, why Lulabelle might've lost everything that night like she lost me so many years ago when that Plat Eye stole me away when we was teenaged girls in these backwoods. But thank the Lord up above for Erik Stevens ramblin' through with that shiny switchblade, and his Gullah ways, cuz shonuff, that was a night to remember and I'm gonna tell it exactly how it happened from top to bottom and all the sides in between. I ain't been dead long enough or forgotten long enough to not tell it all...

"Mavis, how much lavender water is left in there?"

Lulabelle shouted into the open door that led to one of the "loving" rooms inside her special house.

"There's one bottle left," Ruth called out.

The young woman was nothing but string bean arms and toothpick legs, however, she was a favorite among the darker-skinned Black sharecroppers who admired her fair skin and limp shiny black hair. Even the high yella gals envied what Ruth could pull in because the men were willing to part with more money to fuck what was as close to a white woman as they would get.

Lulabelle knew clearly what a fetish was, so she used Ruth for the high income, but she also had Mavis, a crystal Black pearl with a dark hue so deep that negro soldiers from the military base lined up for hours waiting to part her dusky thighs to taste the sticky sweets within. There was someone for everybody at the house. Big women. Little scrawny women. Big Bodacious titties and itty-bitty mosquito bites. For the richly endowed there was Starla with a pussy so fat and deep that blues ballads were written for her. For the poorly imbued, there was Tweety Pie, a tiny woman with a small tight snatch that rivaled Starla in particular-sized fans.

For the men who didn't fawn over the womenfolk, there was Honey Boy, a twenty-something pretty little thing with bow lips, high cheekbones, and a fat ass that posed as a houseboy who brought fresh after-sex towels, water for the whore baths, and rubbers for the men who forgot to prepare for penetration. Honey Boy could dress like a pretty woman and serve clients fat wood if that was to a patron's liking. Lulabelle was surprised at how popular he was becoming on the low low, especially from the men in the military. Men with men had always been a reality, but Honey Boy was multidimensional. He could turn into a Butch boy from a chain gang, to a bullying Army sergeant to dominate and spread male ass cheeks that needed fat balls against balls. Or he could be a dainty femme movie star in a bra and heels with his hard dick swinging. Lulabelle kept a ready supply of costumes for him, more than the women. All the ladies needed were pretty underwear, strong garter belts, and lipstick. She kept quiet that she paid Honey Boy more than anyone else.

The second world war was putting money in her pockets. 1942 was a profitable war year for Lulabelle. Her pocketbook was fat with cash, and she could now afford real jewelry instead of the cheap costume fare she sported the last three years. She could even maintain a steady hot comb appointment at Mamie's Wash and Curl uptown. Her latest favorite style was imitating Joan Crawford's immaculate curls that she saw in the talkies at the Bijou theater. When she really wanted to look glamorous, she would have Mamie swoop up her thick hair on top of her head with a pinned curl on the front and an under curl in the back. The rich white women she saw in the new color catalogues wore their hair like that.

She wore her hair like that for that evening. It was a special night. The Harvest Moon was going up, and the men would be arriving in droves to drink, dance, and fuck.

He was coming too.

The Gullah man. That sly Geechie with the gold teeth.

Erik Stevens.

His arrival always coincided with some new moon every few months. She'd dress up extra special when she thought he was coming through. Her pussy was already twitching thinking about him.

"I'll have Honey Boy get you a fresh bottle," Lulabelle said patting the back of her hair.

It was hot already, and she worried that her hair wouldn't maintain until Erik saw it. Ruth stepped out of the room. The yellow silk camisole Lulabelle bought for her came to her thighs and had enough lace in the front to cover the baby bulge that was threatening to peek out. The girl got knocked up and none of the home remedies the cook Eva concocted worked in knocking the unwanted pregnancy out. Ruth could probably hide the truth for another month or so, but eventually she would have to go on convalescence and Lulabelle would have to rely on the other women to please the Ruth fans until the woman returned or left for a new life in the North. Until then, Ruth was about making her money and camouflaging the bump.

"Can you tell?" she asked.

Lulabelle squinted.

"These men will be too drunk to notice. Keep the garment on and don't worry about it."

Lulabelle checked in on the other ladies and all was well. Seven rooms, seven whores, seven sources of revenue on top of the juke joint next door. She peeked in on one of the mirrors inside a room and felt satisfied. Her beige dress hugged the curves of her big wide hips and large backside. Her heels made her short body have a little height. She needed a little more powder for her round nose, and the grease pencil she used for her eyes held the dark wings she gave herself.

"Eat your heart out, Joan," she muttered to herself.

She crossed the little wooden bridge that led to the juke joint making sure her crème bow top summer pumps didn't get dirty. Her name was painted in fading blue letters above the entrance. By Christmas she hoped to get a fancy electric sign that sparkled "Lula's". Honey Boy swept the porch entry and she could smell the grease being heated on the kitchen stove inside by Eva. There'd be fried chicken, black-eyed peas, collards with ham hocks, and plenty of buttermilk cornbread to sell with the ice cold Jax beer and corn liquor.

Her eyes scanned the lowering sun over the canopy of Tupelo trees. A loud shriek startled her and made Honey Boy stop sweeping.

"What was that?" Honey Boy asked.

His pressed hair was slicked back, and his copper brown skin was moist with sweat from the oppressive heat.

Lulabelle clutched at her chest. The sound came from deep in the woods. The darkness there shrouded any mysteries that lived within it.

"Sounded like something caught," she said.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

A memory.

Being a young teen girl with...

No. Don't think of her. That was the past.

Lulabelle pushed down on the terror in her throat and hid her shaking fingers in front of her dress.

"Probably some unlucky racoon ran across Old Man Rickers trap," she said.

"Yeah, you prolly right, Lulabelle. The man been hunting out there this week."

She heard the doubt in his tremulous voice. The lie hung in the air like dark sap on a dying tree between them.

"That sounded like death is on his way," Eva said.

The older plump woman opened the screen door of the juke joint while wiping down a plate.

"Don't say that, Eva. It's just an old coon, or a slow wild pig—"

The shriek pierced the air again.

"Lord have mercy," Eva said.

The older woman cradled the cheap gold-plated crucifix around her neck.

Rifle shots sounded in the distance and Lulabelle jumped, then smiled.

"See? Just some hunters putting some fresh meat down. Let's get ready for tonight, y'all."

Not one of them moved from the porch until Archie started tinkling on the piano keys inside the juke.

Pussy poppin' in the whorehouse, music jumping, bodies swaying, lips sucking down moonshine and dark beer, Lula's juke shook on its foundations. Dollar bills came in hand over fist as Lulabelle strolled around the property checking in with customers and hustling Eva to fry up more chicken plates. She rounded the corner of the makeshift stage shaking her hips to the hot sounds when her eyes slid to the entrance and saw Geechie Erik swagger in. Double-breasted gray suit with shiny silver buttons and matching cufflinks. Steel-blue silk tie, and black and gray woven Oxford shoes had the Geechie man draped. Lulabelle already knew he smelled like a million bucks even though she was standing nowhere near him. Erik took off his black fedora hat. He had kicked up the waves on his close-cropped hair, and his lightly bearded cheeks gave him a pronounced sophistication compared to all the clean-shaven military men taking up most of the space in the joint.

His eyes scanned the wide room and when they fell on her, her heart sang a minuet in his honor just to see those dimples in his cheeks. He strode toward her with long confident strides and when he circled his arm around her waist, she shivered at his touch.

"Lulabelle, Lulabelle. You get prettier every time I see you."

He gave her a wet sloppy kiss on her cheek, and she swooned. His scent was expensive leather, imported cologne, and Murray's hair pomade.

"Lemme get you a drink, Daddy," she purred.

"No, let me get you a drink. Stay right here."

He sauntered over to the big counter and within minutes he brought her back a small glass of whiskey to match his own. They toasted, tossed the liquor back, and he led her to an open table in the low-lit corner as bodies pressed together dancing around them. His thick lips were on her neck before she could gaze into his eyes, and his thicker fingers were already under her dress creeping over a seamed stocking, her garter belt, and the bottom of her girdlette. He inched closer to her core.

"Goodness gracious, you already hot down here," he whispered in her ear.

His finger swiped across Lulabelle's panties bringing her clit to life.

"Oh... there it is... my jewel," he crooned before he slid the garment aside and fingered her slit.

Erik had her sopping wet by the time the band switched tunes. Two of his warm fingers pumped in and out of her pussy, making her pant and writhe on her seat next to him.

"You gon' sweat my hair out already!" she yelped reaching for the back of her neck.

Erik flipped his digits over palm-side up and finger fucked her until a puddle of creamy juices flowed out onto her chair. Once her legs shook and she squirmed uncontrollably, he bolted up from his seat and grabbed her hand. His dick jutted out from his pants and he dragged through the side door that led to the wooden bridge and the loving house.

"Get the fuck out," he told a patron having his dick sucked in the first room they came to.

Tweety Pie was on her knees, her bright red lips puckered around a small light brown penis. Her eyes grew wide when she saw Erik and the rigid length straining against his zipper.

Erik whipped out his switchblade and flicked it open.

"Out!" he barked.

Tweety Pie scrambled from her knees and pulled her customer by his hand with his trousers dragging around his ankles to another room. Erik slammed the door shut on the gawking eyes of the other whores and pushed Lulabelle against a mahogany cabinet that held lingerie.

"Turn around."

The snarl in his voice made her spin and toot her big ass out toward him. He dragged the cool blade up against the bottom of her stockings until it dipped just under the hem of her dress. He yanked her dress up around her chest and the sharp blade skimmed across her black satin-covered ass cheek. With just a little more pressure he could break the skin on her fat rump through the material and make her bleed. Erik jerked the blade and sliced her panties off. She gasped and clutched at the smooth wood of the cabinet for balance. She heard his zipper peel down slowly and felt his hands fumble for a rubber.

"You miss Daddy?"

"Yes!"

He parted her folds before she could catch her breath. The fullness stretching her out made her shout his name and grit her teeth. Pumping into her slowly at first, he teased the hell out of her by pushing in deep, then pulling all the way out so that her pussy lips throbbed needing his dick back inside of her.

"I missed this pussy... so much... taking me so deep!"

His switchblade rested on the middle of her naked spine and tickled her skin purposely.

"Take this dress off!"

He helped her wiggle her arms out of it before unfastening her bra with his hands. Cradling her heavy breasts, he made her cheeks clap as his weapon clattered to the floor. His full concentration was on pleasing her body. Rough wide palms spread her ass cheeks wide as he grunted and pushed down on his thighs to hunch over her.

"Lula, shit... Lula..."

Erik gripped her hips and slammed into her before pulling out and lifting her up. He tossed Lula on the soft lumpy bed, undressed, and plunged back into her. The gold in his mouth glinted above her as he thrust harder and faster knocking the breath out of her body.

Her garter belts bunched up then stretched with her girdlette when he pushed her thighs back.

"Big legged girl... mmmm," he groaned.

He shoved his head down to her folds and sucked on her lower lips before spitting on them and sinking his girth back inside her walls.

"Daddy hittin' that bottom yet?"

"You in there... real deep, Daddy."

"Lemme get deeper..."

Her ankles met her earlobes and the heavy pressure from his dick made her cock-eyed a spilling gibberish from her mouth.

"Oh, Jesus!" she yelped when his fists rested on her sides and he bucked into her, slapping his balls against her ass.

Before he could press his mouth into her swollen pussy again to glisten his face, she clenched up around his dick and squeezed it with rhythmic pulses she had no control over.

"That's a good girl... let that pussy talk to Daddy's dick, Lula."

His eyes watched her contractions yank on his length, and when he finished talking her through her release with high praises and slow wet kisses, he pulled off the rubber and stroked himself against her clit. The silky curls of her pubic hairs were wet with her creamy orgasm and became even wetter when Erik splashed hot cum all over her vulva. His shouts of pleasure filled her with quiet confidence.

"That's it Daddy, cum all over your fat pussy."

He hissed when she said that, and his heated glare encouraged more of his release. A thick rope of semen painted her stomach, and he collapsed on top of her with hard ragged gasps.

"God, I wish I could be in this pussy every day, Lula."

"You could," she said stroking the waves on his hair.

He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling with her.

"Not with the work I do. I try my best to get here when I can. But shit, baby. If I didn't get this pussy for free, I would pay a fortune for it."

She rolled on her side to look at him, happy that he thought of her like that. His eyes were still on the ceiling, but there was a frown on his face.

"She's in the room, y'know. Up there hiding in the corner."

"Don't say that, Erik. You know it scares me."

"If you did what I told you to do, she'd go away."

"As long as she don't start no foolishness around here, I can live with a ghost."

"Can you? Then how come you're scared?"

"She was my friend. I know she blames me for getting away and not her."

"A good coating of haint blue all around the doors would keep her out..."

"I can't. I can't do that to her. If she's just lingering as a ghost, it makes me feel like she can live a little."

"If you say so."

"Let's not talk about her."

His eyes were still focused on the ceiling, looking at Elizabeth, her childhood friend from so long ago. She couldn't see the dead teenager at all.

"She mad?" Lulabelle asked.

"She loves you. It's why she stays around... floating from room to room... following you."

Lulabelle pulled his chin toward her.

"Don't look. Please."

Erik slipped his tongue in her mouth. A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Lulabelle, sorry to disturb you and your Mister, but I need this room," Tweety Pie squeaked out.

"Give me a minute."

Lulabelle peeled the rubber from Erik's dick and tossed it inside some tissue and chucked it out of the window into a well-placed bucket outside.

"You ruined my panties," she scolded as she jumped up to rinse her privates and stomach in lavender water at a large basin sitting on a maple console table.

She dried her folds and fixed her bra back around her breasts.

"Don't need 'em, I'll be back inside of you soon enough," he said.

Pulling her dress back on, Lulabelle tried to fix her hair and make-up in a mirror.

"You look fine," he said zipping his pants.

Erik picked up his switchblade and opened the door.

Tweety Pie had a new man with her, a handsome young soldier with lust in his eyes.

"Pardon us," Erik said as he guided Lulabelle back to the juke joint.

Lulabelle sat on Erik's lap as he joked with some patrons and slammed back shots of moonshine. She fed him cornbread and pieces of chicken bites with her fingers, and occasionally she would bounce on his hardness that rested against her backside. He tortured her clit with occasional strokes under her dress, but he wouldn't let her cum. That would happen later when he was ready to plunder her pussy once more. Tradition held that he would fuck her at least four more times before he disappeared until the next new moon in the future. She sat on that hard meat all hot and bothered knowing he was going to be cruel by plucking at her bud and sticking his tongue in her ear all night. She watched him dance with a few women and flirt while she checked on her women out back and collected her money, stuffing it in her bra.

Erik was a little too handsy with a couple of fancy ladies and she had to check him. He'd become contentious then, argued with her until she argued him down threatening to cut his balls off if he cheated on her. If she pushed him, just a little too hard, his neck would move in a hostile way that put her in her place and made her drip down her thighs. He liked her mouthy and jealous, but not too jealous if he caught her rubbing her ass against some other patron to provoke him. He'd spank her hard and tell her about herself until she stopped being bratty and soothed his ego. That was his way every time he came to the juke. Arrogant. Loud. Threatening other men who got too close to her, then all seductive when he needed her loving once more.

When no one was looking, Erik unzipped his pants, pulled out his dick and slid her on top of it raw at their private table. Her dress covered the action, and he lifted her up and down.

"You bet not cum," he ordered with harsh breath.

"I won't, I promise," she insisted with clenched teeth.

She was snug on his dick, and the friction was too much to bear. She clutched onto his knees and leaned forward, dropping her weight on his thighs. The rhythm was perfect until a slender man as tall as a Tupelo crept over to their table and sat down. He didn't seem concerned that he was witnessing a woman getting fucked within an inch of her life in the midst of her own rowdy and lascivious establishment.

The man's face was long, and he had long teeth... and long fingers... and long legs... and a long tongue that lolled around in his mouth. He had skin the color of a soft sunset and one big eye in the center of his face. The music and dancing slowed all around her, and all she could see and hear was the long man with his long deep breaths.

"Lulabelle... Lulabelle..." the slender man said, and the voice that spoke her namesake was not pleasant and inviting like Erik's. It was sinister. Conniving. Filthy to her ears.

Erik thrust up into her walls, and she gasped. The slender man smiled with his long teeth, and his one big black eye blinked and Lulabelle fell forward and down into a vortex of hideous darkness until she landed on soft grass in front of the crossroads that led into the dark woods near her juke joint.

"Lulabelle, hurry up! If we don't go now, we'll chicken out!"

Elizabeth ran ahead of her. Dear sweet Elizabeth, eighteen and glowing with a gorgeous figure and good hair, and the good sense to know that Itta Bena was to be left behind. They were going to New York to become showgirls in Harlem, leaving all that country backwoods shit living behind. No sharecropping or cleaning after white folks for them. They were young. Beautiful. Full of life and ready to see the world. That meant crossing through the woods at the old dusty crossroad just as the sun was setting. The last train outta town was due in an hour. Going through the woods was the fastest route to a new life.

But then the slender man came. The Plat Eye. The Haint that haunted the trees and lingered in the darkness deep inside the woods.

Lulabelle, full of eighteen-year-old spunk, dropped her heavy suitcase and pulled Elizabeth back with a hard tug on her arm.

"Dontcha see him, girl?" Lulabelle shouted.

"Oh, he's just another traveler headed outta here too, pick up your suitcase-"

"It's the Plat Eye. You don't see its face. The one eye? The long teeth?"

"You so silly girl! Look at him... just a man tryna run like us."

"No!"

Elizabeth dropped her suitcase and stood with arms all akimbo.

"If you don't wanna go, then say that, Lulabelle."

"You don't see that monster right there?!" she shrieked, and it startled Elizabeth.

The Plat Eye smirked.

"Fine, stay here then you big baby. Hey, Mister, wait up!"

"Elizabeth!"

An arm grabbed Lulabelle's elbow stopping her from running after her friend.

"Don't move, gal."

The voice didn't have Mississippi in it. It was low country and slower than cold molasses. South Carolina lived in it.

"She done made her choice and if you move one inch, I can't protect you."

Lulabelle didn't turn to look at the stranger. His words were wise, and she did as she was told.

"Elizabeth! Come back!"

"It's too late, Lulabelle."

"How you know my name?"

"I've seen you 'round here before with your friend."

She tried to turn around, but firm hands held her shoulders in place.

"Don't hurt me, Mister."

"Nah, I wouldn't do nothin' like that."

The Plat Eye grew taller almost reaching the height of the nearest tree.

"She can't see what it is?"

"She see what she wanna see."

The thing that was as tall as a Tupelo bent down and opened its tall mouth and Elizabeth stepped into the dark maw...

Lulabelle gasped and her thighs sensed the strong muscles of Erik's legs holding her up once more. He fucked her still, hitting her walls harder. His hands gripped her breasts as he grunted and rolled her nipples with agile fingers. The slender man of her past smiled, his greasy lips splitting wide as he was long. That single eye a tainted monstrosity to behold on its face.

The juke joint partied on, and men filed out through the side door to pay their money for an extra good time with her girls. The Plat Eye reached out for Lulabelle's arm and Erik slammed his switchblade down on the table.

"Nah, haint. This one here belongs to me."

The Plat Eye blinked that Cyclops eye in shock and its mouth fell open.

"Should've known you'd be around here," The Plat Eye grumbled sitting back in his chair.

A clammy wetness dampened Lulabelle's neck. Memory boomeranged back into her chest. The low country voice. The strong hands that held her waist so that he could rut into her pussy.

Lulabelle turned her head and the glint from Erik's gold teeth became a glowing source of ethereal light. The full lips and bright white teeth still looked human but the reverb of hidden power sat under the guttural rasp of his voice.

The man from the Crossroads.

The one who stopped her from entering the throat of the Plat Eye and turning into a floating haint that lived in the ceiling like Elizabeth.

The Geechee Man.

"Ya don't play fair," The Plat Eye grumbled again.

"And?" Erik said.

Erik's firm hands skated up her sides and rested on her shoulders. Lulabelle's pussy squelched on his dick all rude and loud. Plat Eye licked his fleshy lips.

"This here the one I wanted. Not that other one—"

Lulabelle snatched up Erik's switchblade and jumped up from his lap. Her pussy throbbed from being removed from his erection. She held the open switchblade against his throat. Why couldn't anyone else in her juke joint see or hear what was happening?

She knew the stories. All kinds of frightening things could be met at a crossroads. And if the Crossroads Man himself showed up—

"Put that down, Lula. It's not a toy to be played with," Erik said zipping up his pants.

The Plat Eye leaned forward and shot his arm out to grab her, but Erik was quicker. He snatched the switchblade back faster from her grip than she could blink, and he slashed the creature's arm. Black festering ooze seeped from the wound and sizzled as it splashed on the table burning holes through the wood.

"Give her to me," the Plat Eye demanded.

Erik stood up and straightened his tie.

"Nigga you ain't getting shit but an ass kicking if you keep playing with me. I told you already. This one is mine. Get on about yourself before I send you on your way to a very bad place."

"There are rules!"

The Plat Eye leapt to his feet and towered over Erik. Not by much though.

"I make the rules," Erik said.

An arrogant chuckle tumbled out of the Plat Eye's mouth. He gripped the lapels of his suit and blinked that one beastly eye. His open wound continued to drip ruining her good table.

"My man," The Plat Eye said and held up his long fingers to placate Erik.

The creature slid out from the juke joint with no one the wiser. Erik turned to face her and Lulabelle jumped away from him.

"Stay back!"

"Lula... c'mon, baby. I've been coming to you ever since you opened this place. Have I ever harmed you once?"

"No."

"I just give you good lovin' when I can."

"That's why you can't be with me all the time?"

He nodded.

"I guard the way, and I open it up. Everywhere."

Lulabelle ran to the bar and made Eva pour her the biggest glass of moonshine possible. She gulped it down. Erik sauntered over to her.

"Don't be scared of me, Lula."

"What are you... really?"

"Your man."

"You ain't no man."

"I'm no demon if that's what you're worried about."

"God forbid if I'd been fucking the devil."

"I'm no devil, girl. Far from it."

He stroked her face.

"Let's go to the back. I need you... right now."

His voice made her insides tingle. This was their time. But how could she go back and make love to... to a what? Spirit? Guardian angel? Supernatural being?

He never did hurt her. And never once did she suspect that he wasn't anything other than a switchblade carrying Geechie that made her backbone slip.

"Are there others?" she asked, "Others like you around here?"

"Always. But you don't have to worry about nothin'. You got me. No one fucks with me.'

"How come you didn't save Elizabeth?"

"She didn't want to be saved."

"But I loved her. She was my best friend. Why would she leave me?"

"She's still here. She'll never leave until you chase her on."

"Is she happy?"

"Like I told you, she loves you. If you're happy, she's happy."

"God won't punish me for being with you, will he?"

"She won't. I promise."

"What about me selling pussy and a little dick?"

"Not even on her mind."

Lulabelle smiled.

Erik slinked over to her and rubbed his big body against hers and nudged his bearded face against her soft cheek.

"How many women have you seduced over the years?"

"You my favorite."

"That didn't answer my question.," she said putting a hand on her hip.

"You wanna argue or get some more dick, gal?"

Lulabelle checked the room. Her patrons were happy and not having a care in the world. Eva cooked more food, Honey Boy kept the girls refreshed in their loving rooms, and the Harvest moon spilled in through the window behind the juke band.

Moonlight bathed Erik's face and he slid his hand under her dress again.

"Daddy needs to take care of you... oh see now, my sweet jewel is all plump again."

He removed his hand and licked his fingers sticky with her essence. She rubbed on his crotch and he gifted her with a hard bulge. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling.

"Elizabeth wants you to get all this," he said grinding against her.

"Can you tell her that I miss her? That I love her?"

"She already knows."

Erik lifted her up and carried her across the rickety bridge and back to the soft lumpy bed.

That's their story, and I ain't tellin' it twice. Lula and her Geechee Man played nice for a long, long time. I keep watch and makes sure that stays true. Until we meet again on the next new moon...

Part 2 "There's Some Whores in This House" HERE.

A.N:

This was a birthday story I wrote for @soufcakmistress back in 2021.

#Ice Cold Jax #killmonger fanfiction #Killmonger AU Fanfiction #Killmonger Smut #Black Panther AU #Erik Stevens AU #Black Supernatural #Uzumaki Rebellion #Black American Folktale

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reality-detective · 1 year ago

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Very interesting indeed! Check this out!👇

LAW OFFICES OF AISSA WAYNE (John Wayne's Daughter) Obama's SS Number

For those of you who don't know but at the very bottom of this article the attorney who authored this article is John Wayne's daughter, Aissa Wayne, also a USC graduate.

Well, Well, Well, it looks like someone thoroughly checked this out! I was wondering who was going to do research into President Obama's Social Security number.

Jean Paul Ludwig or Barack Hussein Obama? S . S . N#042-68-4425

WOW, read this, it's short - very interesting.

An intensive 6-year investigation has revealed the identity of the man whose Social Security Number (SSN) is being used by President Obama.

Jean Paul Ludwig, who was born in France in 1890, immigrated to the United States in 1924, and was assigned SSN 042-68-4425 (President Obama's current SSN) rec'd on or about March 1977.

Mr. Ludwig lived most of his adult life in Connecticut. Because of that, his SSN begins with the digits 042, which are among only a select few reserved for Connecticut residents.

Barack H. Obama never lived or worked in that state! Therefore, there is no reason on earth for his SSN to start with the digits 042. None whatsoever!

Now comes the best part! J. P. Ludwig spent the final months of his life in Hawaii, where he died.

Conveniently, Obama's grandmother, Madelyn Payne Dunham, worked part-time in the Probate Office in the Honolulu Hawaii Courthouse, and therefore had access to the SSNs of deceased individuals.

The Social Security Administration was never informed of Ludwig's death, and because he never received Social Security benefits there were no benefits to stop and therefore, no questions were ever raised.

The suspicion, of course, is that Dunham, knowing her grandson was not a U.S. Citizen, either because he was born in Kenya, or became a citizen of Indonesia upon his adoption by Lolo Soetoro, simply scoured the probate records, until she found someone, who died who was not receiving Social Security benefits, and selected Mr. Ludwig’ s Connecticut SSN for her grandson, Barry Obama.

Just wait until the head Birther himself, Donald Trump, gets past the birth certificate and onto the issue of Barry O's use of a stolen SSN. You will see leftist heads exploding, because they will have no way of Defending Obama.

----------------------------------------------------

Although many Americans do not understand the meaning of the term "natural born", there are few who do not understand that if you are using someone else's SSN it is a clear indication of fraud, and a federal offense.

Let's all get this information out to everybody on our mailing lists. If the voters of this great nation can succeed in bringing this lying, deceitful, cheating, corrupt, impostor to justice it will be the biggest and best news in decades for our country and the world. 🤔

"In God We Trust." 💫

#pay attention #educate yourselves #educate yourself #knowledge is power #reeducate yourself #reeducate yourselves #think for yourselves #think about it #think for yourself #do your homework #do some research #do your own research #ask yourself questions #question everything #obama #truth

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rockyteriyaki · 4 months ago

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TEAM BUILDING ACTIVITIES 👯

s/o to @powerful-owl for starting this meme and @disarmd for the insanely funny contribution, it’s such a delightful thought exercise! here’s my attempt:

MASCOTS!

american sports have hella mascots, so every team is tasked to create a marketable mascot that could represent them for u.s fans. they also have to build a little model to pitch the concept. there’s the williams whale sharks. the aston martin martinis. lando and oscar devise a walking papaya named penny who looks so much like a vulva oscar backs out almost instantly.

GUESS THE GRID based on clothing choices: drivers assemble an outfit they’d wear and then everyone else tries to guess who picked what. the catch is that the f1a girls did the same challenge and their answers are mixed in as well. everybody thinks doriane’s mercedes-themed picks are george’s and maya gets confused for charles even though there’s no ferrari branding to be seen. chloe’s picked a haas cap with a black skirt and we watch nico hulkenberg go through every emotion known to man trying to figure out why kevin would—???

(meanwhile the academy grid is absolutely ripping everybody’s style choices to shreds, accusing hamda of being the most basic bitch on the planet bc max chose to wear basketball shorts, etc)

PADDOCK SCAVENGER HUNT

5 teams are in on it and the other 5 can’t know what’s going on, otherwise they lose points. charles pretends that he’s too tired to walk when pierre catches him searching the top of a cabinet on carlos’ shoulders. oscar distracts williams while lando tries to get a picture of logan with red, white and blue objects in the background. yuki gets stranded on top of the rbr motorhome because daniel won’t stop using him for reconnaissance and the whole thing gets called off because max sees them squabbling on the roof and thinks the rapture has arrived.

GEORGE AND ALEX MAKE GRAPHICS

ib george’s natural talent for graphic design. the audience gets to see what a communications team actually does in motorsport (educational!) and george and alex get free reign of the entire library of press photos of eachother. george is hunting for a terrible picture of alex to edit onto a podium but ends up having a very verbal crisis about how none of the pap shots are appropriately bad and then spends the next half an hour digging himself into theeee deepest hole talking about how it’s just not as FUNNY if alex looks TOO GOOD on the podium! it would be UNFAIR! alex is squirming and trying to remember where tf he was planning on going with this zoomed-in great-gatsby-esque picture of george’s eyelids on his screen right now. george silently edits alex’s teeth out of his mouth and tries to erase the fact that he just called alex handsome like 47 times.

MARIO KART SIM RACING

im talking full immersion. sherbet land is ice fucking cold. every time they drive over some kind of giant clock or railroad or something the sim porpoises like a jackhammer. someone is standing behind them with a full tank of water for the splash sections. there’s a legitimate epilepsy warning at the start of the video. bowser puts the fear of god into lando norris.

MAX AND DANIEL DO TEMPORARY TATTOOS

i’m hesitant to allow them access to a bowl of water but i have an extremely clear vision of daniel slapping tats all over the blank spaces on his skin to the point where they overlap and he’s just got shiny plasticky tattoo skin everywhere. max would find this unappealing and also stupid until he realizes all the fake tattoos on his side of the table are replicas of daniel’s actual ones. cut to: daniel with a snake tattoo stuck in his eyebrow hairs hiking his shorts up so max can mirror the placement on his own inner thigh. daniel resembling a concussed post malone, watching max’s careful application of the ‘3’ tattoo. max does a horrible aussie accent and daniel looks like a chimpanzee seeing its own reflection for the first time. cinema.

#i am obsessed with this trend #a trace of the true self (complex inner psyche of your blorbo) exists in the false self (giving your blorbo a taser)#maxiel #galex #the grid

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eattherichplease · 2 years ago

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This is one of the many things I love about the Addams Family, and the main thing that resonates with so many people I think, including me.

Here we have Uncle Fester in season 2 talking about his (departed) brother Clump, that has never been mentioned before. And everybody is listening attentively and with great interest... Because they don't know the story and they probably didn't know about Clump either!

Not so many episodes ago, someone asked Uncle Fester what was his surname anyway... He confessed he didn't know. Uncle Fester doesn't know his surname!

This happens again and again! And not only with Fester. Everybody's placement on the family tree is dubious.

I realize this is made for comedic effect, but the implications are beautiful.

"But how can that possibly be?", you ask. "Hadn't it been established that Fester was Morticia's uncle?"

Well yes and no! You see, it changes from episode to episode.

Because it doesn't really matter!

The "Family" in "Addams Family" doesn't have the usual meaning. Family means "people we love and have history with". Hence the myriad of cousins and uncles of different races, nationalities or even species, all wildly different.

Blood relation is completely irrelevant in the Addams Family. The Addams Family is a found family, an assortment of weirdos drawn together by their shared interests, pathos and aesthetic sensibilities.

It is impossible to drawn an accurate Addams Family Tree. This is by design! It doesn't' matter! And it shouldn't matter!

The Addams family is, deliberately, and inversion of the nuclear family, an antithesis. It's horizontal, democratic, without hierarchies, it's open, it has no definite borders, the relations among members are fluid, and the glue that holds it all together is love not blood.

There are hybrids and monsters in the family, people from different races and sizes and colors - Morticia is coded Jewish, Gómez is canonically "Castillian" (read Spanish/Latino), Itt is Itt, etc, etc -It is all a huge metaphor! The Addams family is hybrid, international, interracial, immigrant, queer, weird and proud of it... in the US of the 1960's!

And it should be even more now!

This is why it is so shocking that there are no canonically queer characters in Wednesday (2022)! It makes no damn sense!

(Yes, I know, Eugene's moms -background characters irrelevant to the plot, an afterthought to fill a quota...)

It says a lot about how conservative/evangelical American TV has become over the last few years.

Netflix, you cowards!

Make the Addams Family queer and weird!

#the addams family #wednesday #wednesday netflix #uncle fester #queer representation #found family #someone put neil gaiman in the writing room #queerbaiting

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the-cimmerians · 4 months ago

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Well, here it comes, a filing at the Republican-controlled Sixth US Circuit Court of Appeals that could lead to the overturn of the rights to same-sex marriage, birth control, even the right to have same-sexy-sextimes in the privacy of one’s own home, courtesy of Apostolic Christian Kentucky court clerk Kim Davis and her designated-hate-group law firm, Liberty Counsel.

Yes, it’s THAT lady again, the one the hair who’s been pitching one long legal fit since 2015, starting when she refused to sign marriage certificates for gay couples after Obergefell v. Hodges made same-sex marriage the law of the land, moaning that it would violate her right to religious expression to have her Godly Christian signature on such sinful paperwork.

The couples sued her for being a flagrant asshole who denied them their rights, and a jury agreed with them. Davis appealed to the Supreme Court, back in the saner days of old (2020 and before), they didn’t want to hear it.

Nevertheless, Justice Clarence “RV” Thomas took the opportunity to write a whole unsolicited statement about how the victim here wasn’t nice couples in love trying to get married like they were legally allowed to do, but poor Kim Davis, because now everybody thinks she’s a bigot instead of decent, good, and honorable, and that makes her sad. How dare Obergefell have not considered the right of Christian moral scolds to butt into everybody’s private life and make scenes, the way God intended?

[ ]

So now Davis and Liberty Counsel have an in, using Thomas’s statement to take their legal spanking to the 6th Circuit as being UGH SO UNFAIR to Davis as an oppressed bigot-American. Also while the 6th Circuit is at it, Davis thinks they should “reconsider all of th[e] Court’s substantive due process precedents, including Griswold [v. Connecticut], Lawrence [v. Texas], and Obergefell”, maybe the 6th Circuit could have a talk with the manager?

[ ]

But guffaw, Liberty Counsel is never happy! Not for nothing the Southern Poverty Law Center designates them as a hate group! Their lawyers Mat (one ‘T’) Staver and Matt Barber have opined many times that gay sex is so ew yuck icky that we should all have an entire civil war about it. In 2019 Liberty Counsel was publicly mad that gay people were included in the federal Justice for Victims of Lynching Act, lest you think they aren’t deadly serious about wanting to kill people.

That’s a goal that also tops on Project 2025’s wish list, that plus labeling content with LGBTQ people in it as pornography, making “pornographers” register as sex offenders, and that sex offenders should get the death penalty. And like Davis, Project 2025 would also like to throw out the Comstock Act and have the FBI spend their time searching people’s mail for suspected “abortifacients.”

#us law #kim davis #Wonkette #Marcie Jones #project 2025 #same sex marriage #birth control #homophobia

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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A long trip on an American highway in the summer of 2024 leaves the impression that two kinds of billboards now have near-monopoly rule over our roads. On one side, the billboards, gravely black-and-white and soberly reassuring, advertise cancer centers. (“We treat every type of cancer, including the most important one: yours”; “Beat 3 Brain Tumors. At 57, I gave birth, again.”) On the other side, brightly colored and deliberately clownish billboards advertise malpractice and personal-injury lawyers, with phone numbers emblazoned in giant type and the lawyers wearing superhero costumes or intimidating glares, staring down at the highway as they promise to do to juries.

A new Tocqueville considering the landscape would be certain that all Americans do is get sick and sue each other. We ask doctors to cure us of incurable illnesses, and we ask lawyers to take on the doctors who haven’t. We are frightened and we are angry; we look to expert intervention for the fears, and to comic but effective-seeming figures for retaliation against the experts who disappoint us.

Much of this is distinctly American—the idea that cancer-treatment centers would be in competitive relationships with one another, and so need to advertise, would be as unimaginable in any other industrialized country as the idea that the best way to adjudicate responsibility for a car accident is through aggressive lawsuits. Both reflect national beliefs: in competition, however unreal, and in the assignment of blame, however misplaced. We want to think that, if we haven’t fully enjoyed our birthright of plenty and prosperity, a nameable villain is at fault.

To grasp what is at stake in this strangest of political seasons, it helps to define the space in which the contest is taking place. We may be standing on the edge of an abyss, and yet nothing is wrong, in the expected way of countries on the brink of apocalypse. The country is not convulsed with riots, hyperinflation, or mass immiseration. What we have is a sort of phony war—a drôle de guerre, a sitzkrieg—with the vehemence of conflict mainly confined to what we might call the cultural space.

These days, everybody talks about spaces: the “gastronomic space,” the “podcast space,” even, on N.F.L. podcasts, the “analytic space.” Derived from some combination of sociology and interior design, the word has elbowed aside terms like “field” or “conversation,” perhaps because it’s even more expansive. The “space” of a national election is, for that reason, never self-evident; we’ve always searched for clues.

And so William Dean Howells began his 1860 campaign biography of Abraham Lincoln by mocking the search for a Revolutionary pedigree for Presidential candidates and situating Lincoln in the antislavery West, in contrast to the resigned and too-knowing East. North vs. South may have defined the frame of the approaching war, but Howells was prescient in identifying East vs. West as another critical electoral space. This opposition would prove crucial—first, to the war, with the triumph of the Westerner Ulysses S. Grant over the well-bred Eastern generals, and then to the rejuvenation of the Democratic Party, drawing on free-silver populism and an appeal to the values of the resource-extracting, expansionist West above those of the industrialized, centralized East.

A century later, the press thought that the big issues in the race between Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy were Quemoy and Matsu (two tiny Taiwan Strait islands, claimed by both China and Taiwan), the downed U-2, the missile gap, and other much debated Cold War obsessions. But Norman Mailer, in what may be the best thing he ever wrote, saw the space as marked by the rise of movie-star politics—the image-based contests that, from J.F.K. to Ronald Reagan, would dominate American life. In “Superman Comes to the Supermarket,” published in Esquire, Mailer revealed that a campaign that looked at first glance like the usual black-and-white wire-service photography of the first half of the twentieth century was really the beginning of our Day-Glo-colored Pop-art turn.

And our own electoral space? We hear about the overlooked vs. the élite, the rural vs. the urban, the coastal vs. the flyover, the aged vs. the young—about the dispossessed vs. the beneficiaries of global neoliberalism. Upon closer examination, however, these binaries blur. Support for populist nativism doesn’t track neatly with economic disadvantage. Some of Donald Trump’s keenest supporters have boats as well as cars and are typically the wealthier citizens of poorer rural areas. His stock among billionaires remains high, and his surprising support among Gen Z males is something his campaign exploits with visits to podcasts that no non-Zoomer has ever heard of.

But polarized nations don’t actually polarize around fixed poles. Civil confrontations invariably cross classes and castes, bringing together people from radically different social cohorts while separating seemingly natural allies. The English Revolution of the seventeenth century, like the French one of the eighteenth, did not array worn-out aristocrats against an ascendant bourgeoisie or fierce-eyed sansculottes. There were, one might say, good people on both sides. Or, rather, there were individual aristocrats, merchants, and laborers choosing different sides in these prerevolutionary moments. No civil war takes place between classes; coalitions of many kinds square off against one another.

In part, that’s because there’s no straightforward way of defining our “interests.” It’s in the interest of Silicon Valley entrepreneurs to have big tax cuts; in the longer term, it’s also in their interest to have honest rule-of-law government that isn’t in thrall to guilds or patrons—to be able to float new ideas without paying baksheesh to politicians or having to worry about falling out of sixth-floor windows. “Interests” fail as an explanatory principle.

Does talk of values and ideas get us closer? A central story of American public life during the past three or four decades is (as this writer has noted) that liberals have wanted political victories while reliably securing only cultural victories, even as conservatives, wanting cultural victories, get only political ones. Right-wing Presidents and legislatures are elected, even as one barrier after another has fallen on the traditionalist front of manners and mores. Consider the widespread acceptance of same-sex marriage. A social transformation once so seemingly untenable that even Barack Obama said he was against it, in his first campaign for President, became an uncontroversial rite within scarcely more than a decade.

Right-wing political power has, over the past half century, turned out to have almost no ability to stave off progressive social change: Nixon took the White House in a landslide while Norman Lear took the airwaves in a ratings sweep. And so a kind of permanent paralysis has set in. The right has kept electing politicians who’ve said, “Enough! No more ‘Anything goes’!”—and anything has kept going. No matter how many right-wing politicians came to power, no matter how many right-wing judges were appointed, conservatives decided that the entire culture was rigged against them.

On the left, the failure of cultural power to produce political change tends to lead to a doubling down on the cultural side, so that wholesome college campuses can seem the last redoubt of Red Guard attitudes, though not, to be sure, of Red Guard authority. On the right, the failure of political power to produce cultural change tends to lead to a doubling down on the political side in a way that turns politics into cultural theatre. Having lost the actual stages, conservatives yearn to enact a show in which their adversaries are rendered humiliated and powerless, just as they have felt humiliated and powerless. When an intolerable contradiction is allowed to exist for long enough, it produces a Trump.

As much as television was the essential medium of a dozen bygone Presidential campaigns (not to mention the medium that made Trump a star), the podcast has become the essential medium of this one. For people under forty, the form—typically long-winded and shapeless—is as tangibly present as Walter Cronkite’s tightly scripted half-hour news show was fifty years ago, though the D.I.Y. nature of most podcasts, and the premium on host-read advertisements, makes for abrupt tonal changes as startling as those of the highway billboards.

On the enormously popular, liberal-minded “Pod Save America,” for instance, the hosts make no secret of their belief that the election is a test, as severe as any since the Civil War, of whether a government so conceived can long endure. Then they switch cheerfully to reading ads for Tommy John underwear (“with the supportive pouch”), for herbal hangover remedies, and for an app that promises to cancel all your excess streaming subscriptions, a peculiarly niche obsession (“I accidentally paid for Showtime twice!” “That’s bad!”). George Conway, the former Republican (and White House husband) turned leading anti-Trumper, states bleakly on his podcast for the Bulwark, the news-and-opinion site, that Trump’s whole purpose is to avoid imprisonment, a motivation that would disgrace the leader of any Third World country. Then he immediately leaps into offering—like an old-fashioned a.m.-radio host pushing Chock Full o’Nuts—testimonials for HexClad cookware, with charming self-deprecation about his own kitchen skills. How serious can the crisis be if cookware and boxers cohabit so cozily with the apocalypse?

And then there’s the galvanic space of social media. In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, we were told, by everyone from Jean Baudrillard to Daniel Boorstin, that television had reduced us to numbed observers of events no longer within our control. We had become spectators instead of citizens. In contrast, the arena of social media is that of action and engagement—and not merely engagement but enragement, with algorithms acting out addictively on tiny tablets. The aura of the Internet age is energized, passionate, and, above all, angry. The algorithms dictate regular mortar rounds of text messages that seem to come not from an eager politician but from an infuriated lover, in the manner of Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”: “Are you ignoring us?” “We’ve reached out to you PERSONALLY!” “This is the sixth time we’ve asked you!” At one level, we know they’re entirely impersonal, while, at another, we know that politicians wouldn’t do this unless it worked, and it works because, at still another level, we are incapable of knowing what we know; it doesn’t feel entirely impersonal. You can doomscroll your way to your doom. The democratic theorists of old longed for an activated citizenry; somehow they failed to recognize how easily citizens could be activated to oppose deliberative democracy.

If the cultural advantages of liberalism have given it a more pointed politics in places where politics lacks worldly consequences, its real-world politics can seem curiously blunted. Kamala Harris, like Joe Biden before her, is an utterly normal workaday politician of the kind we used to find in any functioning democracy—bending right, bending left, placating here and postponing confrontation there, glaring here and, yes, laughing there. Demographics aside, there is nothing exceptional about Harris, which is her virtue. Yet we live in exceptional times, and liberal proceduralists and institutionalists are so committed to procedures and institutions—to laws and their reasonable interpretation, to norms and their continuation—that they can be slow to grasp that the world around them has changed.

One can only imagine the fulminations that would have ensued in 2020 had the anti-democratic injustice of the Electoral College—which effectively amplifies the political power of rural areas at the expense of the country’s richest and most productive areas—tilted in the other direction. Indeed, before the 2000 election, when it appeared as if it might, Karl Rove and the George W. Bush campaign had a plan in place to challenge the results with a “grassroots” movement designed to short-circuit the Electoral College and make the popular-vote winner prevail. No Democrat even suggests such a thing now.

It’s almost as painful to see the impunity with which Supreme Court Justices have torched their institution’s legitimacy. One Justice has the upside-down flag of the insurrectionists flying on his property; another, married to a professional election denialist, enjoys undeclared largesse from a plutocrat. There is, apparently, little to be done, nor even any familiar language of protest to draw on. Prepared by experience to believe in institutions, mainstream liberals believe in their belief even as the institutions are degraded in front of their eyes.

In one respect, the space of politics in 2024 is transoceanic. The forms of Trumpism are mirrored in other countries. In the U.K., a similar wave engendered the catastrophe of Brexit; in France, it has brought an equally extreme right-wing party to the brink, though not to the seat, of power; in Italy, it elevated Matteo Salvini to national prominence and made Giorgia Meloni Prime Minister. In Sweden, an extreme-right group is claiming voters in numbers no one would ever have thought possible, while Canadian conservatives have taken a sharp turn toward the far right.

What all these currents have in common is an obsessive fear of immigration. Fear of the other still seems to be the primary mover of collective emotion. Even when it is utterly self-destructive—as in Britain, where the xenophobia of Brexit cut the U.K. off from traditional allies while increasing immigration from the Global South—the apprehension that “we” are being flooded by frightening foreigners works its malign magic.

It’s an old but persistent delusion that far-right nationalism is not rooted in the emotional needs of far-right nationalists but arises, instead, from the injustices of neoliberalism. And so many on the left insist that all those Trump voters are really Bernie Sanders voters who just haven’t had their consciousness raised yet. In fact, a similar constellation of populist figures has emerged, sharing platforms, plans, and ideologies, in countries where neoliberalism made little impact, and where a strong system of social welfare remains in place. If a broadened welfare state—national health insurance, stronger unions, higher minimum wages, and the rest—would cure the plague in the U.S., one would expect that countries with resilient welfare states would be immune from it. They are not.

Though Trump can be situated in a transoceanic space of populism, he isn’t a mere symptom of global trends: he is a singularly dangerous character, and the product of a specific cultural milieu. To be sure, much of New York has always been hostile to him, and eager to disown him; in a 1984 profile of him in GQ, Graydon Carter made the point that Trump was the only New Yorker who ever referred to Sixth Avenue as the “Avenue of the Americas.” Yet we’re part of Trump’s identity, as was made clear by his recent rally on Long Island—pointless as a matter of swing-state campaigning, but central to his self-definition. His belligerence could come directly from the two New York tabloid heroes of his formative years in the city: John Gotti, the gangster who led the Gambino crime family, and George Steinbrenner, the owner of the Yankees. When Trump came of age, Gotti was all over the front page of the tabloids, as “the Teflon Don,” and Steinbrenner was all over the back sports pages, as “the Boss.”

Steinbrenner was legendary for his middle-of-the-night phone calls, for his temper and combativeness. Like Trump, who theatricalized the activity, he had a reputation for ruthlessly firing people. (Gotti had his own way of doing that.) Steinbrenner was famous for having no loyalty to anyone. He mocked the very players he had acquired and created an atmosphere of absolute chaos. It used to be said that Steinbrenner reduced the once proud Yankees baseball culture to that of professional wrestling, and that arena is another Trumpian space. Pro wrestling is all about having contests that aren’t really contested—that are known to be “rigged,” to use a Trumpian word—and yet evoke genuine emotion in their audience.

At the same time, Trump has mastered the gangster’s technique of accusing others of crimes he has committed. The agents listening to the Gotti wiretap were mystified when he claimed innocence of the just-committed murder of Big Paul Castellano, conjecturing, in apparent seclusion with his soldiers, about who else might have done it: “Whoever killed this cocksucker, probably the cops killed this Paul.” Denying having someone whacked even in the presence of those who were with you when you whacked him was a capo’s signature move.

Marrying the American paranoid style to the more recent cult of the image, Trump can draw on the manner of the tabloid star and show that his is a game, a show, not to be taken quite seriously while still being serious in actually inciting violent insurrections and planning to expel millions of helpless immigrants. Self-defined as a showman, he can say anything and simultaneously drain it of content, just as Gotti, knowing that he had killed Castellano, thought it credible to deny it—not within his conscience, which did not exist, but within an imaginary courtroom. Trump evidently learned that, in the realm of national politics, you could push the boundaries of publicity and tabloid invective far further than they had ever been pushed.

Trump’s ability to be both joking and severe at the same time is what gives him his power and his immunity. This power extends even to something as unprecedented as the assault on the U.S. Capitol. Trump demanded violence (“If you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore”) but stuck in three words, “peacefully and patriotically,” that, however hollow, were meant to immunize him, Gotti-style. They were, so to speak, meant for the cops on the wiretap. Trump’s resilience is not, as we would like to tell our children about resilience, a function of his character. It’s a function of his not having one.

Just as Trump’s support cuts across the usual divisions, so, too, does a divide among his opponents—between the maximizers, who think that Trump is a unique threat to liberal democracy, and the minimizers, who think that he is merely the kind of clown a democracy is bound to throw up from time to time. The minimizers (who can be found among both Marxist Jacobin contributors and Never Trump National Review conservatives) will say that Trump has crossed the wires of culture and politics in a way that opportunistically responds to the previous paralysis, but that this merely places him in an American tradition. Democracy depends on the idea that the socially unacceptable might become acceptable. Andrew Jackson campaigned on similar themes with a similar manner—and was every bit as ignorant and every bit as unaware as Trump. (And his campaigns of slaughter against Indigenous people really were genocidal.) Trump’s politics may be ugly, foolish, and vain, but ours is often an ugly, undereducated, and vain country. Democracy is meant to be a mirror; it shows what it shows.

Indeed, America’s recent history has shown that politics is a trailing indicator of cultural change, and that one generation’s most vulgar entertainment becomes the next generation’s accepted style of political argument. David S. Reynolds, in his biography of Lincoln, reflects on how the new urban love of weird spectacle in the mid-nineteenth century was something Lincoln welcomed. P. T. Barnum’s genius lay in taking circus grotesques and making them exemplary Americans: the tiny General Tom Thumb was a hero, not a freak. Lincoln saw that it cost him nothing to be an American spectacle in a climate of sensation; he even hosted a reception at the White House for Tom Thumb and his wife—as much a violation of the decorum of the Founding Fathers as Trump’s investment in Hulk Hogan at the Republican Convention. Lincoln understood the Barnum side of American life, just as Trump understands its W.W.E. side.

And so, the minimizers say, taking Trump seriously as a threat to democracy in America is like taking Roman Reigns seriously as a threat to fair play in sports. Trump is an entertainer. The only thing he really wants are ratings. When opposing abortion was necessary to his electoral coalition, he opposed it—but then, when that was creating ratings trouble in other households, he sent signals that he wasn’t exactly opposed to it. When Project 2025, which he vaguely set in motion and claims never to have read, threatened his ratings, he repudiated it. The one continuity is his thirst for popularity, which is, in a sense, our own. He rows furiously away from any threatening waterfall back to the center of the river—including on Obamacare. And, the minimizers say, in the end, he did leave the White House peacefully, if gracelessly.

In any case, the panic is hardly unique to Trump. Reagan, too, was vilified and feared in his day, seen as the reductio ad absurdum of the culture of the image, an automaton projecting his controllers’ authoritarian impulses. Nixon was the subject of a savage satire by Philip Roth that ended with him running against the Devil for the Presidency of Hell. The minimizers tell us that liberals overreact in real time, write revisionist history when it’s over, and never see the difference between their stories.

The maximizers regard the minimizers’ case as wishful thinking buoyed up by surreptitious resentments, a refusal to concede anything to those we hate even if it means accepting someone we despise. Maximizers who call Trump a fascist are dismissed by the minimizers as either engaging in name-calling or forcing a facile parallel. Yet the parallel isn’t meant to be historically absolute; it is meant to be, as it were, oncologically acute. A freckle is not the same as a melanoma; nor is a Stage I melanoma the same as the Stage IV kind. But a skilled reader of lesions can sense which is which and predict the potential course if untreated. Trumpism is a cancerous phenomenon. Treated with surgery once, it now threatens to come back in a more aggressive form, subject neither to the radiation of “guardrails” nor to the chemo of “constraints.” It may well rage out of control and kill its host.

And so the maximalist case is made up not of alarmist fantasies, then, but of dulled diagnostic fact, duly registered. Think hard about the probable consequences of a second Trump Administration—about the things he has promised to do and can do, the things that the hard-core group of rancidly discontented figures (as usual with authoritarians, more committed than he is to an ideology) who surround him wants him to do and can do. Having lost the popular vote, as he surely will, he will not speak up to reconcile “all Americans.” He will insist that he won the popular vote, and by a landslide. He will pardon and then celebrate the January 6th insurrectionists, and thereby guarantee the existence of a paramilitary organization that’s capable of committing violence on his behalf without fear of consequences. He will, with an obedient Attorney General, begin prosecuting his political opponents; he was largely unsuccessful in his previous attempt only because the heads of two U.S. Attorneys’ offices, who are no longer there, refused to coöperate. When he begins to pressure CNN and ABC, and they, with all the vulnerabilities of large corporations, bend to his will, telling themselves that his is now the will of the people, what will we do to fend off the slow degradation of open debate?

Trump will certainly abandon Ukraine to Vladimir Putin and realign this country with dictatorships and against NATO and the democratic alliance of Europe. Above all, the spirit of vengeful reprisal is the totality of his beliefs—very much like the fascists of the twentieth century in being a man and a movement without any positive doctrine except revenge against his imagined enemies. And against this: What? Who? The spirit of resistance may prove too frail, and too exhausted, to rise again to the contest. Who can have confidence that a democracy could endure such a figure in absolute control and survive? An oncologist who, in the face of this much evidence, shrugged and proposed watchful waiting as the best therapy would not be an optimist. He would be guilty of gross malpractice. One of those personal-injury lawyers on the billboards would sue him, and win.

What any plausible explanation must confront is the fact that Trump is a distinctively vile human being and a spectacularly malignant political actor. In fables and fiction, in every Disney cartoon and Batman movie, we have no trouble recognizing and understanding the villains. They are embittered, canny, ludicrous in some ways and shrewd in others, their lives governed by envy and resentment, often rooted in the acts of people who’ve slighted them. (“They’ll never laugh at me again!”) They nonetheless have considerable charm and the ability to attract a cult following. This is Ursula, Hades, Scar—to go no further than the Disney canon. Extend it, if that seems too childlike, to the realms of Edmund in “King Lear” and Richard III: smart people, all, almost lovable in their self-recognition of their deviousness, but not people we ever want to see in power, for in power their imaginations become unimaginably deadly. Villains in fables are rarely grounded in any cause larger than their own grievances—they hate Snow White for being beautiful, resent Hercules for being strong and virtuous. Bane is blowing up Gotham because he feels misused, not because he truly has a better city in mind.

Trump is a villain. He would be a cartoon villain, if only this were a cartoon. Every time you try to give him a break—to grasp his charisma, historicize his ascent, sympathize with his admirers—the sinister truth asserts itself and can’t be squashed down. He will tell another lie so preposterous, or malign another shared decency so absolutely, or threaten violence so plausibly, or just engage in behavior so unhinged and hate-filled that you’ll recoil and rebound to your original terror at his return to power. One outrage succeeds another until we become exhausted and have to work hard even to remember the outrages of a few weeks past: the helicopter ride that never happened (but whose storytelling purpose was to demean Kamala Harris as a woman), or the cemetery visit that ended in a grotesque thumbs-up by a graveside (and whose symbolic purpose was to cynically enlist grieving parents on behalf of his contempt). No matter how deranged his behavior is, though, it does not seem to alter his good fortune.

Villainy inheres in individuals. There is certainly a far-right political space alive in the developed world, but none of its inhabitants—not Marine Le Pen or Giorgia Meloni or even Viktor Orbán—are remotely as reckless or as crazy as Trump. Our self-soothing habit of imagining that what has not yet happened cannot happen is the space in which Trump lives, just as comically deranged as he seems and still more dangerous than we know.

Nothing is ever entirely new, and the space between actual events and their disassociated representation is part of modernity. We live in that disassociated space. Generations of cultural critics have warned that we are lost in a labyrinth and cannot tell real things from illusion. Yet the familiar passage from peril to parody now happens almost simultaneously. Events remain piercingly actual and threatening in their effects on real people, while also being duplicated in a fictive system that shows and spoofs them at the same time. One side of the highway is all cancer; the other side all crazy. Their confoundment is our confusion.

It is telling that the most successful entertainments of our age are the dark comic-book movies—the Batman films and the X-Men and the Avengers and the rest of those cinematic universes. This cultural leviathan was launched by the discovery that these ridiculous comic-book figures, generations old, could now land only if treated seriously, with sombre backstories and true stakes. Our heroes tend to dullness; our villains, garishly painted monsters from the id, are the ones who fuel the franchise.

During the debate last month in Philadelphia, as Trump’s madness rose to a peak of raging lunacy—“They’re eating the dogs”; “He hates her!”—ABC, in its commercial breaks, cut to ads for “Joker: Folie à Deux,” the new Joaquin Phoenix movie, in which the crazed villain swirls and grins. It is a Gotham gone mad, and a Gotham, against all the settled rules of fable-making, without a Batman to come to the rescue. Shuttling between the comic-book villain and the grimacing, red-faced, and unhinged man who may be reëlected President in a few weeks, one struggled to distinguish our culture’s most extravagant imagination of derangement from the real thing. The space is that strange, and the stakes that high. ♦

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mask131 · 6 months ago

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So you want to know about Oz! (1)

Then congratulations! Welcome to this quick crash course to know everything about the world of Oz! The movies, the adaptations, the musicals, the books! Yes, books, with an S, because "The Wizard of Oz" everybody knows and love was just the first book of an entire BOOK SERIES that became the enormous franchise we know today! You thought there was just ONE Wizard of Oz movie? Think again! You thought "Wicked" was the only work that gave a backstory to the Witches? Get ready for some discoveries!

And so we begin our journey to the wonderful land of Oz...

The story of Oz begins with one novel. No, not one movie - but the novel that caused the movie... L. Frank Baum's "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz"

Published in 1900, this children novel is still to this day one of the most famous works of American youth literature, as well as the master-piece of Baum, THE book everybody knows he wrote. Baum intended, with this book, to create a purely American fairy tale: he wanted to rival the European tales of Charles Perrault, the brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Andersen - and he succeeded! The novel was a best-seller as soon as it was released, and is still considered as "America's greatest fairy-tale".

Most people know of "The Wizard of Oz" through its famous adaptation, the 1939 musical movie. While these two works do share a same set of main characters and a similar plot, the novel contains many, many details that were not adapted into the movie ; and, in return, the movie brought a lot of elements that were absent from the novel. Both, however, are still the story of a little girl by the name of Dorothy (she wasn't yet named "Gale") and her dog Toto, who are swept up into a tornado and taken to the magical Land of Oz. There she meets three comical companions (the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion), and together they go seek the Wizard of Oz in hope he can grant their wishes, only to have to escape from the clutches of the Wicked Witch of the West...

If you want to read the original novel, it will be very easy! Not only is it still regularly printed today, with various anniversary editions ; but it is in public domain since the 1950s! So you can go read it for free right now, without any problems!

Most people tend to stop at just this book... Not wondering if there was any sequel, treating it as if this was just a one-shot. Except, we told you, this book was a best-seller! An ENORMOUS success! Never before had a children's book brought so much money in the United-States! As such, Baum was not going to just stop there...

While he did intent "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz" to be a self-contained novel existing as its own thing, in 1904 he published a sequel "The Marvelous Land of Oz":

This novel does not follow Dorothy however, but rather a very different character... A little boy who lives in the Land of Oz post-Dorothy: Tip (short for Tippetarius), an orphan boy who escapes the clutches of his wicked witch of a caretaker alongside a pumpkin-headed scarecrow he just brought to life. And the two undergo a journey to the Emerald City ruled by the Scarecrow-king, only to get swept into a revolution...

This novel was conceived in a similar way to the first one, as a "self-contained" story. While it does take place after the events of "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", reuses several of the same characters (The Scarecrow and the Tin Man are part of the main party, Glinda plays a key part in the final act) and briefly recaps the events of the first novel, it can still be read on its own. This novel especially get a lot of attention today (after decades and decades of falling into pur oblivion) due to its fantasy-dissection of the topics of genders - differences between men and women, boys and girls, unfairness and injustice among sexes (the revolution in question is a "girl revolution" seeking to destroy what is perceived as a misogynistic patriarchy)... All culminating with what is still to this day one of the most famous accidental depictions of a trans character in fantasy!

But I'll return to this all in a later post, possibly...

This novel was ALSO a best-seller and a huge success. And as such... you know what that means. Yes, Baum wrote a THIRD book taking place in Oz! Well, almost... The novel actually mostly takes place in lands neighbors to those of Oz, the land of Ev and the realm of the Nome King... But all the Oz characters return - including Dorothy, who is again swept away into fairy-lands, this time not with her dog Toto, but with a pet chicken Billina.

This story is the novel "Ozma of Oz", published in 1907:

And with these three books, you have the original Oz trilogy!

"But wait, there were other Oz books, weren't there?" you ask. Oh yes, there were more books, indeed! However, I want to stop at this point because these three books do form a specific trilogy for various reasons. The trilogy of the "good" Oz books before everything went... let's say downhill (but more about that next post). But more importantly, the trilogy of Oz books most people know about!

Indeed, even if you have never read "The Marvelous Land of Oz" or "Ozma of Oz", you probably came across various elements of these books, that are regularly scattered throughout Oz adaptations and novels. For example the famous Disney movie "Return to Oz" is mostly an adaptation of "Ozma of Oz", but with numerous elements of "The Marvelous Land of Oz" added to the plot

More recently, the trilogy also formed the basis of the new plot offered by the short-lived TV series "Emerald City"!

Langwidere the princess with a hundred heads, Mombi the witch, Ozma the princess of Oz, the Nome king, Tik-Tok the automaton, Jack Pumpkinhead, general Jinjur, the land of Ev, the Powder of Life and many other names and concepts you might be familiar with come from these two direct sequels to "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz". Sequels which unfortunately never knew the lasting popularity of their predecessor, despite being just as famous, if not more, in their time...

Next post: Baum's downfall...

#oz #the wizard of oz #the wonderful wizard of oz #land of oz #the marvelous land of oz #l. frank baum #so you want to know about oz #oz books #oz novels #ozma of oz

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masha-nikita · 15 days ago

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Hi I'm on anon because I'm shy 🥺 anyway I just wanted to say I recently got really into drawing because of you. I don't really draw people, I prefer planes, and I need to practice a LOT because now my drawings barely look like airplanes at all, but I'm having fun with it. Hope you're having a good day

I'm so glad to hear about it! And I'd also like to apologize to others whose asks I didn't get to. If I don't have any good ideas to provide, I'd choose not to post it instead of boring everybody with my platitude answers.

Actually I'm more impressed by people who can draw machinery. I drew a Japanese plane, an American truck, and a German tank, and I felt pretty done with them :S Yes, we all need to practice a lot, but don't let your drawings that look like not-working discourage you. I recently produced a few what-the-hell-is-that which really don't look the best, but I don't regret making them.

Like a few regurgitated memes-

Why do I even go back to them? LOL

A Manstein pouring water over von Bock joke that does not work.

and Rommel with pen ink that has no business whatsoever to be used in drawing.

yeah that's about it, have a great fun!

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asherxz · 8 months ago

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PLEASE DO SOLDIER X READER 🙏🙏🙏🙏

GENERAL SOLLY DATING HEADCANONS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FIRST REQUEST 💥

As its stated in my rules, if you dont specify gender or story form, i will assume its gn reader and HCs! Hope thats fine by you, anon! :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-LITERALLY acts like a stray dog. Barks at everybody, but shuts up when somebody shows him even the smallest bit of affection.

-Speaking of dog-like behaviors, I also believe he tends to follow you around like a lost dog.

-Very loud with the facts he has an S/O. Everybody knows that the two of you are dating, even if you don't want them to. I do think he would try and keep it a secret if you ask, but I can't promise it's a secret for long.

-Big on PDA! Loves hand holding and big hugs. Bone crushing hugs. Your back will let out a few cracks.

-If you're not American, he will refuse to believe so. Oh you're mexican? Not anymore. European? Nah, you just have a special accent. Oh, you speak another language other than English? Nah you weren't born with that language, you just learned it and is scaringly fluent with it.

-Speaking of speaking another language, he will make you translate what he says to that language. He could use hours with that. Be prepared.

-Will ask you at some point to get naked and covered in honey with him, its unavoidable. He will respect you if you say no, but he will be visibly disappointed. Don't worry though, he'll forget. If you accept though? Oooh boy, i hope you're ready for burn marks for when Soldier tries to rocket jump naked with you...

-Uses nicknames such as Cupcake, maggot and sometimes honey.

-I hope you're fine with raccoons, because you WILL have to help him care for his. Don't worry though! I'm sure none of them have rabies... I hope.

-Will take you out training with him, but lets you train in your own pace. Of course, if you ask him, he will help, he can just be a little rough with it sometimes.

-HE'S A SWEATY MAN. SWEATY, DIRTY AND STINKY, YOU CAN'T CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE.

-What i'm hinting at is; shower with him. Force him into that goddamn shower. Force him under that hot water and scrub him THOROUGHLY. He may resist at the start, but he'll eventually come to really enjoy it.

-He's not a big fan of having his helmet off, but that doesn't mean he never has it off. Just rarely. He does it much more often when you two are in private.

-He sleeps like a plank. He lays flat on his stomach, arms down by his side, and i hate to break it to you, but he snores. Loudly. Loud and proud cuz 'merica. Do cuddle into him though, he likes that.

-Overall, he would be a fine boyfriend! Maybe a little loud, rough and pushy at first, but after establishing some boundaries, you're all good to go!

I hope you enjoyed this anon! I rly wanted to write more, but i didn't want this to be too long... If you do want more, don't be afraid to ask for a part 2!

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 x reader #team fortress 2 x reader #soldier tf2 #tf2 soldier #tf2 soldier x reader #soldier x reader #x reader #headcanons #hcs #first post #requested #general dating headcanons #asherxz #anonymous

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eptodaytommorowforever · 12 days ago

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Events In The History And Of The Life Of Elvis Presley Today On The 12th Of November In 1972

Elvis Presley Tour And Show Comes To San Bernardino CA.

A look back at Elvis Presley's 1972 outstanding concert at swing auditorium in San Bernardino CA

Sunday night, Nov. 12, 1972. The Santa Ana winds were howling, so typical of San Bernardino in November. And it was cold. But a sold-out crowd stood patiently to have an audience with The Legend . Elvis Presley was in the Swing Auditorium.

The Swing was the place east of L.A.'s Fabulous Forum to see virtually every top name act in the rock world, circa 1964 through 1981. Located on E Street, the auditorium was built in 1949 on the grounds of the National Orange Show and was named for Senator Ralph E. Swing, a San Bernardino legislator. What a glorious barn it was and what history played out on that stage. The Rolling Stones did their first American concert there in June 1964. The place rocked until a small plane crashed into it on Sept. 11, 1981 and the auditorium had to be demolished. One of the last shows played there featured Iron Maiden.

In between, rock royalty were regulars. Fleetwood Mac played more than five times. The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, Jefferson Airplane, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Cream, Jimi Hendrix Experience, Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Black Sabbath, Ramones (as opening act), Chicago, Jethro Tull, Alice Cooper, the Grateful Dead (multiple times), Faces with Rod Stewart (also multiple times), Santana, the Kinks, Janis Joplin, Eric Clapton, the Beach Boys, and more. Look up how many of these acts are in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Just about everybody but the Beatles made it to the Swing.

Prior to the modern rock era, Bob Hope was almost an annual fixture at the Swing during the National Orange Show Fair. Other notables who performed there in the '50s and '60s included Sammy Davis Jr., Jack Benny, Judy Garland, Jerry Lewis, and George Burns. But never had a King played there before that night.

Yet, it wasn't as if Elvis Presley had never been to the IE. He did own a house for several of the Priscilla years in Palm Springs and was known to do some boating in Big Bear Lake. Many scenes of the totally forgettable remake movie 'Kid Galahad' were shot in Idyllwild. And, some of the outdoor footage in 1964's 'Kissin' Cousins' was shot in the San Bernardino Mountains. Still, this was different.

Elvis Presley's nationwide tour began at Madison Square Garden in New York, a city he had never before performed live in. The four concerts there were sold out and got rave reviews. At 37, he was 'lean, tanned and greasily handsome, his coal-black hair glistening with an oily 1950s sheen', as the New York Times' Grace Lichtenstein put it. At a press conference before the Madison Square Garden appearance, he was asked about the secret of his longevity on the pop music scene. 'I take Vitamin E', he told reporters.

From New York, the tour moved west, passing through cities like Milwaukee, Chicago, Wichita and Tulsa before continuing on to Las Vegas. Elvis stayed there for most of October before continuing the tour, which took him to Texas, Arizona, and into California. He hit Oakland, then San Bernardino, where he performed two sold-out shows - one on Nov. 12 and another on Nov. 13. rom there, he headed to the Long Beach Arena for two shows, the last stop before catching a plane for Honolulu where the tour would wrap up. Originally, the Honolulu show was planned to be broadcast worldwide by satellite, but the broadcast date was changed to early 1973 so it wouldn't conflict with the release of MGM's musical documentary Elvis on Tour. No matter. The show (actually four of them) went on. And in Honolulu, as well as in other cities on the tour, fans of all ages crowded concert venues to get a live view of the King.

So it was in San Bernardino. The Swing could hold about 10,000 people with a concert take of around $60,000. On that cold November night, fans crammed into the sold-out auditorium. With reserved seating, there was none of the festival seating chaos that marked the Swing rock shows - kids pushing and shoving and fighting to get to the stage area. This crowd was real diferent. I was way too young at 21. For the usual Swing rock show, most of the concertgoers were my age or younger. The guys had long hair, wore boots, Levis and denim work shirts (think the cover of a Creedence album.) The girls went braless, wore tight jeans or peasant dresses. There were always more guys than girls.

For Elvis Presley though, these fans had jobs, mortgages, and kids. The women clearly outnumbered the guys. They wore bright yellow or orange dresses, lots of makeup. Hairspray was huge. And, there were more than a few suicide blondes with hot pants and go-go boots. (I would never have sat on anything in the Swing in hot pants.) Jean Naté was locked in mortal combat with Charlie in a fragrance war. My Sin perfume held its own. Smoke from the bathrooms came from real Marlboro men (and women.)

My seat was in the cheap section - off to the side and high up, close to the glued-on tinsel that was a prominent feature of the Swing. The place always had a peculiar smell. Close to show time, greedy Colonel Tom's minions were at the stage hawking T-shirts, photos, and other assorted gee-gaws. I wonder just how much of that cash Elvis Presley received.

Finally, the lights lowered. The band started playing the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. Then, there he was - The King. He was resplendent in a black and red concert suit.

Though his show was typical of his Vegas show that he performed at the International Hotel (later known as the Las Vegas Hilton and now called the Westgate Las Vegas Resort & Casino), it didn't matter to his loyal subjects. He was live in San Berdoo! Old ladies screamed. It was hard to tell from my cheap seat, but I believe there were a few panties thrown at him.

His voice and physique were in A-plus form. He ripped through concert standards such as 'Polk Salad Annie', crooned to crowd favorite 'Can't Help Falling In Love', and did a couple of religious numbers with the gospel group J.D. Sumner and The Stamps.

No Elvis Presley show would be complete without the hits 'Hound Dog', 'All Shook Up', 'Jailhouse Rock', and 'American Trilogy'.

His band and entourage - the Sweet Inspirations, legendary guitar hero James Burton - provided a full sound that could not be duplicated by the typical four-man rock act. It was a show truly becoming of a King. The crowd responded as if seeing him for the first time. Bedlam broke out among the thousands of fans.

After about 90 minutes, despite fans calling for more, Elvis Presley left the auditorium for the San Bernardino Hilton, about $60,000 richer. I was a poor college kid. I went to Del Taco. What a Sunday night! rare candid photo's one captured of elvis presley leaving Oakland CA captured here by a female ep fan boarding is executive chartered jet heading to San Bernardino CA and performing here at this show wearing the white pinwheel jumpsuit and the white cape and the lions head belt captured by a fan audience member who was at this show concert.

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uzumaki-rebellion · 8 days ago

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"There's Some Whores in This House" Geechee!Erik Killmonger (Part 2 of Ice Cold Jax)

Pairing: Geechee!Erik Killmonger x Black Female OC x Hoodoo!Terry Richmond (as the Crossroads Man)

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Supernatural Horror, Period Piece, Erik Stevens AU, Terry Richmond AU, Black American Folktale. You have to read "Ice Cold Jax" First!

Summary:

P-Valley Meets Black Supernatural Goodness in 1940s Itta Bena, Mississippi as the second world war winds down to a close. Lulabelle hasn't seen her Geechee man for months, but there's a new whorehouse deep in the woods that's keeping her busy as they steal loyal customers from her juke joint and her stable of working girls. Lulabelle suspects the new Madame in the woods has something to do with Geechee Erik not coming around anymore and she intends on finding out what that heffa is all about, especially when previous customers start dropping dead near the crossroads. An old friend of Erik's, Terry Richmond aka High John the Conqueror, shows up to help. (Need to have read the first installment, "Ice Cold Jax With Geechee!Erik Killmoger")

Word count: 12.9K

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"There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house

There's some whores in this house..."

Frank Ski – "Whores in this House"

The first dead body appeared at the crossroads after the rising of Hunter's moon.

No one thought much of it because the deceased was a known pickpocket and rabble-rouser named Earl Lee Washington. Folks around Itta Bena didn't pay it no mind for about a week until they found another body in the exact same spot in the middle of a Saturday night. This time it was Reverend Mosley from the Hopewell Missionary Baptist Church and people fell out because why was Reverend Mosley out near the crossroads? The only thing around in that part of the woods was a creek for good fishing, and Lulabelle Humphreys juke joint and whorehouse called "Lula's". Since Mosley didn't have any fishing pole on him in the middle of the night, that only meant that he had been tippin' over to Lulabelle's place pretending to save lost souls for Jesus as he felt up a thick thigh or two with moonshine on his lips.

Lulabelle herself thought little about the dead men. Everybody had their time to go, but that third body stirred everybody up because it was a woman. Zadie Greene was married to Butchie Greene who worked as a Pullman Porter for the railroad. He had emptied his pockets at Lulabelle's on good pussy and strong corn liquor while listening to the hottest backwoods band on that side of the Mississippi River, The Midnight Ramblers featuring Gertie Mae Robinson, the nastiest woman singer to ever touch a stage with her vulgar lyrics and raunchy, good-time energy. The man stumbled across his own wife's body on the way home smelling like another woman's cooch and marijuana. Zadie had worn her J. C. Penney nightgown and a big overcoat hunting for her man and headed for the only place that could keep him from her bed.

The cow shit hit the fan then. Lulabelle couldn't afford folks getting spooked by the specter of death hanging near her establishment. She was an enterprising woman who sold a commodity that folks craved, whether they wanted to admit it. Death was terrible for the pussy business.

Zadie's death hung a pall over the town, and Lulabelle became worried once she started counting up days and putting two and two together. Her Geechee Man, Erik Stevens, hadn't been around for a long time. There might be a random shooting or stabbing that left a man wounded and his ego bruised for a few weeks, but rarely did folks outright die under mysterious circumstances. She became extra concerned when the problem hovered around his territory. Geechee Erik was the Crossroads Man. His dominion was the protection of the supernatural world and preventing otherworldly beings from coming around her. He had claimed Lulabelle as his woman and promised that no harm would come to her, and part of that harm wasn't just physical. Her livelihood meant everything to her. Erik kept the haints, boo hags, the Plat Eye, and the Devil away.

Something must've happened to him.

She fretted about it, reading the paper on the latest victim while sitting on her juke joint's front porch. Honey Boy, her part-time male whore for sweet men, rolled her hair in long metal duckbill clips. She had taken a liking to tight curls all around her head with a side part, and it wore her fingers out, putting the curlers in herself. Honey Boy curled and clipped and she stared at a church photo of Zadie Greene, a plain-faced woman with a big heart and four children to feed by herself now that her husband was gone. Lulabelle tutted under her breath.

"Business is already slowing up. I don't need dead people scaring off my money," she grumbled.

The war had ended and all the men in uniform were coming home once V Day had been declared. Dollar bills sat on Lulabelle's eyelids every day. The boom was heavy for an entire year until recently as it trickled off to regulars and the occasional cross-country traveler.

"If you ask me, ain't none of this mess started happening until them other ladies showed up," Honey Boy said as he twined hair around the clips with nimble fingers.

"What ladies?"

Lulabelle put down the paper and twisted her neck around to stare at Honey Boy.

"You ain't hear? There's a new madame in town. I hear she's got some of the finest women around. No one wanted to say nothin' to hurt your feelings, Lula."

"Eva!" Lulabelle shouted.

Eva, the juke joint cook, and barmaid stepped out onto the creaky porch. She smelled of fish grease and her fingers were covered in cornmeal.

"Why are you hollerin' like that?" Eva said, putting a heavy cornmeal hand on her plump hip.

The older woman looked crossed at being interrupted with her work.

"You know about some new woman setting up shop out here?"

"Sadie Blackstone," Eva said.

"Sadie Blackstone?" Lulabelle said.

"That's what she said her name was. She come 'round here about three months ago. You were in town shopping, and she come right up here introducing herself. She had a big ole fur coat and a fancy car too, filled with pretty girls. She got all the colors of the rainbow, just like you."

"Ain't not one of you heffas think to tell me some new bitch is horning in on my spot?"

Lulabelle swatted Honey Boy's hand out of the back of her scalp.

"She said she was opening a little dress and hat boutique over yonder. It was cheaper than tryna rent a building from the white folks and house her dressmakers in town. She looked all expensive and was using big words like she done came from up North. Y'know how them northern negroes like to act uppity," Eva said.

"That bitch rolled up here with a car full of hoes and everybody kept their lips shut? I oughta fire both of y'all right now!"

"Who 'gon fry up this fish then, gal?" Eva said, staring Lulabelle down.

"Y'all supposed to be loyal and warn me about interlopers. They sitting out there stealing my customers and taking money outta my purse... and yours."

"They ain't got no mens, so I'ma be alright," Honey Boy said.

He left the porch and went inside the juke joint to set tables and prep glasses for the night. Dust kicked up from the slope of the road that led to Lula's, and a black car rolled toward them.

"What is it now?" Lulabelle said. "Betta not be someone telling me they found another body at the crossroads or I will scream!"

Lulabelle and Eva waited on the porch until the car stopped twenty feet away from them.

"Lawd, Jesus," Eva said.

Eva kissed the cross around her neck and grabbed the knob to the screen door.

"Wait now, who that is?" Lulabelle said.

Her heart skipped a beat thinking it was Geechee Erik, but instead, another man with honey, caramel skin, and piercing green eyes that hid a dangerous cunning behind them approached the porch. His dark brown suit was tailored, crisp, and casket sharp. The brim on his head was stylish and new, with a small peacock feather in the band.

"You don't wanna mess with that one, Lulabelle," Eva whispered. "That there is High John the Conqueror."

"The conjure man from over in Yazoo?"

"He more than that. Send him on his way, and don't let him come inside!" Eva said.

Eva ran into the juke joint and locked the door. Lulabelle wasn't worried; she had keys to get inside clipped to her dress. She turned and faced High John.

"Sorry to bother you, Miss. I'm not from around these parts. I'm lookin' for a fella that goes by the name of Erik Stevens."

Lulabelle stayed on the porch. Something told her to stay there and not step down to the man. As fine and polite as he was, there was sinister energy around him. He stepped forward, and she held a hand up.

"You can stay right there, mister. I can hear you good from here," she said.

"He's a big strapping fellow, about your color. Not as pretty, though."

"Whatcha want with him?"

"You know him?"

"I know the Geechee Man," she said.

There was no sense in lying. The man came there directly, so he clearly knew Erik's stomping grounds. The Geechee wasn't human, so that man on her property probably wasn't human, either. Lula stepped closer to the door and kept her eyes on High John.

"Whatcha want with him?" she repeated in a firmer tone.

"I ain't seen him in a long time and that ain't so good for my business," High John said.

Lulabelle was worried herself.

"He hasn't been around here for a couple of months," she said.

"You're worried about him. You his woman?"

"I am."

"Hmmm. I see why he likes it around here so much. Big fine woman like you to lay up with."

Lulabelle's cheeks warmed up. High John moved in closer.

"Big hips. Big titties. Big legs. You sure you didn't swallow him up between your thighs, beautiful?"

Lulabelle squinted at the audacity.

"Maybe I need to spend some time with you and follow where he went," High John purred.

"You best move along, sir!" Eva shouted.

She ran out of the juke joint and flung a bowl of salt on the ground in front of High John. He chuckled and kicked black dirt over the white grains.

"That don't work on me, ma'am, but I respect your efforts," High John said.

He tipped his hat at Lulabelle.

"I'll be back around again. I can smell his scent all around here. Tell Elizabeth I may need her services soon," he said.

He hopped into his car and drove off.

"Who is Elizabeth?" Eva asked.

"Just an old friend of mine," Lulabelle said with a chill running down her back.

Elizabeth had been dead for nearly two decades. But her ghost still lingered around Lulabelle's juke joint and whore house.

Something awful bad must've happened to Erik, and none of that trouble started until Sadie Blackstone showed up in Itta Bena. Ghosts, the Crossroads Man, High John, and a northern bitch stealing her customers had her thoughts in a tizzy. Lulabelle wanted to sell pussy and moonshine in peace. That's what she aimed to do. She marched herself to her bedroom attached to the back of the whorehouse to find her best dress and shoes. It was time to meet Sadie Blackstone. Her mind was on her money, and money was on her mind twenty-four seven. No northern hussy was going to ruin her pockets. If she had to fight haints and conjure men, so be it. She lived in goddamned racist America. Money was the only thing that would protect her, and since Erik Stevens wasn't around anymore, she'd have to face the enemy all by herself. Human or not.

The new whorehouse was within walking distance of the crossroads.

Lulabelle trampled through the heavily trafficked path of grass and fall leaves that led past tall loblolly pines. She curved around a few rotting snag trees and swatted away annoying gnats that buzzed around her eyes seeking moisture. A clearing opened up and she expected to see a ramshackle house. Instead, a sturdy tan and brown craftsman home came into view. Lulabelle stayed hidden behind a trio of skinny trees. Although it was daylight, the house gave off a cold dread that overtook the warmth of the sun toasting her skin.

The land they were on used to be part of a plantation with an old manor that had long burned down to the ground four miles away. It had now become part of the overgrown woods. An unfinished stretch of railroad tracks sat near the property covered with overgrown brush that ran out behind the creek it tried to follow a long time ago. The train route that was supposed to pass through and flatten out that part of the woods never came into fruition, having been moved a couple of miles away by the railroad company. It was the main reason why Lulabelle picked that part of Itta Bena to do business in. Close enough for travelers far and wide to get to her, while also discreet enough to hide from main street's conservative prying eyes. The Choctaw words "itta bena" meant a house in the woods or a camp of trees, and the area lived up to the small city name. Shrouded with the canopy of branches and leaves protecting it from sunlight, the house looked out of place. Unnatural. Only decomposing trees belonged out there, and the whorehouse reminded Lulabelle too much of the Hansel and Gretel story from her childhood. Sadie Blackstone's place was a lure for straggling adults. Instead of a house made of candy and gingerbread, grown-ups came to taste the nectar between the legs of lascivious women. In the light of day, Lulabelle shivered and wondered if it was better to come back with other people. Being alone in the woods with a pristine house that looked too new, too bright, and so wrong brought goosebumps to her arms. She twisted her hands in the pockets of her dress.

Dollar bills weighed on her eyelids again and Lulabelle shook away her unease and focused on her task. Meet the enemy. Better to do it in the daytime when she could see everything out in the open.

She stomped her way to the house and marched right up onto the porch. Banging on the screen door, she waited with bated breath for someone to open up. Tapping her left heel on the porch, Lulabelle sucked her teeth and slammed a hand on her hip. She noticed the door frame had a thick lump of brown paint that bubbled up from a cheap paint job. Running her nail against the paint, Lulabelle peeled back a strip and crinkled her nose when a few termite larvae squirmed inside a rotted hole.

"Well, hello, neighbor," a silky feminine voice crooned behind the opened door.

Lulabelle squinted to get a good look at the tall, pretty, dark-skinned woman with a heart-shaped face and a bright, winning smile. Her teeth were whiter than the cracker cops that took a cut of Lulabelle's money to look the other way with her establishment. Naturally thick eyebrows were plucked perfectly over deep-set, dark brown eyes that twinkled with the promise of a good time or some good trouble. Her lush lips were covered in a thick coating of red lipstick. Lulabelle admired a dark woman who was brave enough to wear bold red like that in the daytime. It wasn't the norm.

"You must be Lulabelle Humphreys."

"I am."

"I'm Sadie. Sadie Blackstone."

"I knows who you are."

"Do ya now?"

Sadie opened the screen door in a welcoming manner. She wore a tight, spaghetti-strapped wild berry pink dress with a rose-tinted flower brocade. Lulabelle looked over Sadie's shoulder and observed a slithering den of good-looking women of all hues staring back at her from settees and chairs spread around an inviting front room.

"Heard you been stealing my customers," Lulabelle said, cutting to the quick.

"Stealing?"

Sadie tilted her head back to her stable of whores.

"You hear that, ladies? She accused me of stealing," Sadie said with an indignant chortle.

The other vipery women giggled back at the comment, infuriating Lulabelle.

"Sister girl, there are plenty of men in the world to go around for everybody," Sadie said.

"This is Itta Bena. Not the world, Toots. I've been selling pussy by the pound for five good years here, and I'm fixin' to keep on selling for many more years to come. This city ain't big enough for two cat houses—"

"Calm down your garters, Sister girl. The war overseas is done. No need to start World War three up in here. There's profit to be made for all of us. Plus, I hear you only sell pussy on the side. You got a juke joint, sell fish and chicken plates, provide musical entertainment… all we do over here are tits and ass. Nobody is cutting in on your profits."

Lulabelle reared her head back.

"You think you're gonna sit up here on my turf, comfortable as if pilfering a few coins ain't cutting into my bottom line?" Lulabelle said.

"You need a drink to cool down your temper. Come on up in here," Sadie said.

She opened the screen door and stepped aside, making room.

Lulabelle hesitated. But curiosity got the better of her. She switched her heavy hips into the place, letting Sadie see what down-home ass looked like in a tight dress too. The scarf she had on her head kept her curled hair safe from dust and debris in the woods.

The interior was larger than what the outside first impression gave her. In fact, the hall behind Sadie looked long enough for more rooms than Lulabelle's little whorehouse had back on the creek. The other women gazed at her with disquieting eyes while wearing red satin robes inside the cooler front room. Velvet furniture, Persian rugs, and stylish French alabaster boudoir lamps decorated the place. It had more of a European parlor flavor than a typical country house full of ill repute and cheap goods. Glancing around at the women again, Lulabelle felt more like a Brer Rabbit surrounded by hungry trickster coyotes. She swallowed hard and broke eye contact by staring at a fireplace mantle covered with several mason jars filled with moonshine. She counted ten jars across the top. Six were full, and the other four were empty. Next to the mantle was a liquor table filled with whiskey and assorted libations with fancy glass cups.

Sadie jerked her head toward her stable, and all four women stood up and sauntered to the back of the house.

"Too early for the hard stuff," Lulabelle said, waving at the mason jars.

Sadie grinned and picked up an expensive bottle of scotch. She poured herself a glass and one for Lulabelle, too. They clinked glasses, and Lulabelle took a small sip.

"Excuse me for a moment," Sadie said.

The woman left the front room to go to the back of the house. Lula put her glass of scotch down and inspected the oil painting above the mantle. It was a picture of Sadie and her women. All four of the whores sat on a baby blue and cream tufted French sofa with old-fashioned hairdos that Lulabelle hadn't seen since her grandmother had been alive. Sadie stood behind them, leaning forward with her arms draped across the back of the sofa. The painting unnerved her, and she couldn't put her finger on what exactly bothered her about it.

One of the clear jars filled with liquid caught her eye with movement inside of it. The sixth jar in the row had a tiny funnel swirl inside of it. It stopped when Lulabelle stared directly at it. She slipped her right hand around the jar. It was warm to the touch and seemed to grow warmer against her fingertips. She took her left hand and twisted the metal lid, breaking a seal around it. Lifting the lid, Lulabelle took in a whiff of sulfur, and clearly and distinctly heard a gravelly voice whisper from inside of it.

"Erik?" she murmured.

Another tiny funnel swirled, and Lulabelle watched the shape of Erik's lips and nose materialize in the liquid.

The clicking of heels moving toward the front room frightened her, and she twisted the lid back on the jar, going against her urge to pour the liquid out. She grabbed her glass of scotch and moved over toward a velvet chair, pretending to admire the texture by stroking it with her free hand.

"Had to see about some things. Forgive me for leaving you so long. I'm expecting a friendly crowd tonight," Sadie said.

Lulabelle turned to her and kept a tight-lipped expression. Sadie's eyes slid off of Lulabelle's face and glanced over at the mantle. Her dark eyes squinted for a second as she regarded the mason jars. Sadie shook her head and clucked her tongue.

"Just had to be nosy," Sadie hissed. "Good thing is, Sister girl, there's plenty of room up there."

The four other women slinked back into the parlor and surrounded Lulabelle.

"You like seeing thangs you ain't supposed to see, huh?" Sadie said.

Lulabelle watched the skin of Sadie's face grow puffy like a bullfrog getting ready to croak a loud belch in the creek. The flesh split like it wanted to turn itself inside out, letting her see the raw red insides of a slippery horror.

Sadie's hypnotic gaze kept Lulabelle's feet from running. Frozen in place by the menacing darkening of Sadie's eye color, Lulabelle couldn't even make a sound of protest. Her vocal cords became stiff and immovable. She couldn't even wiggle her fingers or toes. Only her eyeballs still had the ability to move, and they made a slow arc toward the open front door. A car had pulled up, and she prayed it was a customer who could help her escape.

The sound of a driver's side door creaking open shattered the quiet terror oozing all around Lulabelle. The crunch of heavy feet stepping on loose gravel became music to her straining ears.

"Hello?"

The male voice was familiar.

High John.

"Shit," Sadie grumbled.

The distraction freed Lulabelle, and she fled out of the house, leaping off the porch toward High John. He grabbed her arms to halt her frazzled getaway.

"Slow down now," High John said.

"They did something to me," Lulabelle blurted out.

She pushed her face into his chest to muffle her voice.

"Erik is in there. They have him in a jar on the mantle—"

"Shh," High John said.

"She's turning inside out… that woman… Sadie… her face…"

High John gripped her arms tighter as Lulabelle glanced around the woods and noticed that the sun had gone down already. It was only nine in the morning when she left her place, but by the looks of the darkening shadows stretching a night sky across the canopy of trees, it had to be at least five in the evening. They had her in that house for hours, and she didn't even know it.

Lulabelle squeezed her eyes shut. The screen door slammed loud and High John turned his attention to Sadie.

She looked normal again.

The deception lingered around her as Lulabelle watched the woman pat her cheeks like it was hot instead of making sure her cheeks had returned to their artful disguise.

"Let's go," Lulabelle pleaded, tugging on High John's arm and dragging him toward his car.

"Can I help you, mister?" Sadie inquired.

All four of Sadie's women stepped onto the porch with her, their satin robes discarded to show off sexy lingerie that highlighted their best assets.

"No ma'am, just came to pick up Miss Lulabelle here. Promised her a ride back," High John said.

He opened the passenger door for Lulabelle, and she scrambled in and slammed it shut.

"We're gonna be late," Lulabelle said, rushing High John along.

"A fine man like you should spend some time with us. I have a quality selection of ladies to choose from," Sadie said.

"I can see that you do, but I'm a little sweet on Miss Lulabelle's place," he said.

"Hmph. Suit yourself then. When you tire of your usual, come on back around here," Sadie said.

"Will do," High John offered.

He walked to his driver's door with a bounce in his step and hopped in with a whistle on his lips. They drove away without speaking until he reached a turn that led them riding over the crossroads towards her place. High John pulled over near a shrub of red buckeye that hid them from her juke joint. He stared at her, and she remembered he wasn't what he seemed to be, either.

"How did you know I was there?" she asked.

"I followed you."

"Why?"

"I knew you would lead me to the Geechee Man. Tell me what you saw in there."

"They gotta be witches or something—"

"A hag. She's a hag. Close enough to witches, I guess, for you to understand. The others are her minions, demons she's conjured up to act like whores to lure human bodies so the hag can ride them until they're dead."

"She's got a bunch of mason jars on her fireplace mantle filled with clear sulfur water or something. I opened one of them and heard Erik's voice… saw his features through the glass like they trapped him inside of it."

"She trapped his soul in there. What you described is something they do after they've taken a body."

"When she caught on that I had messed with one jar, her face… it started changing like it was flipping itself around… inside out."

High John sat back in his seat.

"He done got himself in a mess of trouble."

"He's still alive though, right?" she asked with a wavering voice.

"Only because he ain't mortal. Them other jars are dead souls. Little mementos for the hag to enjoy as playthings. That's why so many people have been found dead at the crossroads. Somehow, they tricked Erik and stole his spirit, leaving the crossroads unguarded for months. They can't kill him outright. But they can torture him… weaken him until he fades."

"Can you save him? Steal the jar and free him? I opened it, but I didn't know what to do. I was so scared."

"She cast a spell to keep him trapped. The problem is, even if you found that jar, we don't know where his body is. He uses a corporeal form to hide his essence, which helps him control his powers in this world. Without it, he can't come back."

"What the hell kinda powers do you have, then? Eva acts like you're the devil himself. She's scared of you, so you must can do somethin'."

"Sadie will come for you tonight. She can't afford for you to run your mouth about her house. I say, run your business as usual, and let me figure out a way to guard this place and find Erik."

Worry lines creased his face.

"What?" Lulabelle said.

"We ain't got much time. He can't be away from his body too much longer. It'll degrade over time, and it's already been three months on the mortal side of the veil."

"Veil?"

"This side of the spiritual partition separating humankind and us."

"What are you? Another demon? Haint?"

High John ignored her and appeared to listen to something she couldn't hear.

"Carry me up to my place so I can fix my hair and change my clothes," Lulabelle demanded.

High John nodded and put his car back in drive. They rode along in silence to the side of the juke joint where some of the band members she hired had already parked. Lulabelle jumped out and High John followed her. He stopped at the front porch and reached for a leather string around his neck. He pulled on it until a small blue handkerchief bundle the size of half a man's fist popped up. Untying it carefully, his nimble fingers reached inside and he pulled them back out. Brick-red dust colored his digits. High John squatted and traced a symbol in the dirt before walking all around the juke joint, pouring more dust on the ground. There shouldn't have been enough to circle the juke joint, but somehow, someway, the man completed the circle and sealed it back in front of the porch again. He tucked the mojo bag under his clothes again and clapped his hands together hard. The sound echoed all around, even scaring an old hooting owl that lived in a tree behind Lulabelle's Loving Rooms, where her clientele got busy with her girls after chowing down on chicken or fish.

"This spell will only last as long as the moon stays high. Once it drops… if we don't find The Geechee's body before moonset… my protective circle fades and they can leave the juke joint. He'll be a goner for sure then. Lost forever if we don't get that jar and man back together," High John said.

He turned his head toward the woods from where they came.

"Once the hag and her demons cross over this circle and go into your place, they're stuck inside until the moon goes away. That'll give us time to sneak back to their house and get Erik."

"We?"

"Yes, we. You opened the jar and broke the seal. That means you're the only one who can get him out."

"But we have to find his body first."

"That's where Elizabeth comes in."

"How do you know about her?"

High John winked at Lulabelle.

"I have my ways. Take me to her."

"I can't see her. I just get a feeling—"

"Take me to where you feel her the most," he said.

Lulabelle glanced at the juke joint.

"Eva said not to let you inside," she said.

"What would she rather have? Me helping you, or that hag stealing Erik's soul and ruining your business with all the body snatchin' she's been doin'?"

Lulabelle huffed and headed up the steps.

"C'mon, man."

High John followed her into the juke joint where the Midnight Ramblers were already set up on the small stage.

"Lula, gal, where ya been?" Gertie Mae said.

The lead singer of the Ramblers fussed her way over to Lulabelle.

"Honey Boy said you went to check out your competition, but when he went lookin' for ya, he couldn't find you," Gertie Mae said.

Gertie Mae looked at the scarf covering Lulabelle's hair.

"You not even dressed and ready yet. What's going on, girl?"

"Got busy with some business stuff. I'ma go get ready. Y'all get that music jumping and let these folks know that the party is starting!" Lulabelle said, flicking her right hand in the air.

She hustled High John away from Gertie Mae's prying eyes and took him to the back of the joint, where her usual seat was to watch the place in progress. Glancing around the area, Lulabelle threw out her hands.

"This is where I usually—"

She turned toward High John, catching him conversating with thin air. Lulabelle watched him talk in a hushed tone, pull out his mojo bag again, reach into it, and blow red brick dust in front of a chair. She glimpsed a ghostly figure, a woman with wavy long hair, and blinked back a tear or two as a bit of dust fell into her eyes.

"You should go get yourself gussied up, Lula. I freed Elizabeth to go find Erik's body," High John said.

He looked around the place as some customers high-stepped it inside just as the band struck up a hot, nasty jig that got folks hopping around before they even had their first drink. Honey Boy rushed over to her, and Lulabelle waved him away.

"I'm fine. Get these people liquored up and I'll get dressed," she said.

Gertie Mae eyed High John up and down one last time and yelled into her microphone.

"You gon' let that one hang his drawers low for ya?" Gertie Mae cackled.

High John howled with laughter, making everyone in the juke laugh with him. Lulabelle rolled her eyes and strode out of the juke joint through the hall that led to the Loving House creek bridge. Crossing it, she bypassed her girls, who flitted around in loose silk and lacy things. Making her way to a side room that she used for herself, Lulabelle poured water into a basin, stripped down, and rinsed off dust and the smell of the deep woods. It took her some time to get all the duckbill clips out of her hair. She combed, then fluffed out her tight curls, smoothing them into the perfect style. Make-up didn't take long to put on. Her plump lips smacked at her reflection in the mirror. Touching her stomach, she felt and heard the rumble of hunger, realizing she hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast. There was no time to focus on eating. She had to keep her wits about her. High John sent her former best friend, a ghost, to search for the rest of her supernatural lover's self. How could a hag trick the Crossroads Man? Erik was clever, powerful, and able to sniff out an inhuman creature from miles around. Ain't no way some slinky demon walked up on him and fooled him that easy.

Lulabelle took a moment and stretched out on her bed, calming herself. Too much was going on and all she wanted was for her man to come swaggering into her place again, showing her them shiny gold teeth, and lifting her onto that Daddy dick. She was tired of dead bodies showing up on her side of town instead of where the white folks were. A damn witch was making her life a mess. A knock on her bedroom door startled her agitated reverie.

"Who is it?" Lulabelle shouted.

The new girl, Altovise, stuck her head through the crack in the door. She had replaced one of Lulabelle's pregnant girls a few months back, right before Erik disappeared. Her short black bob of heavily greased curls made the room smell like bergamot.

"This man out here wants you, Lula," Altovise said.

High John pushed Altovise aside and stepped in, locking the door behind him. Lulabelle sat up, but he was next to her, sitting on the bed before she could feign decorum.

"Filling up fast out there. Good profitable business," High John said.

His fleshy lips said the words as his eyes raked down to her breasts that sat heavy and propped up with her good full-figure bra. Her cleavage spilled over the low cut of her dress. He reached over and dragged warm fingers up and down her arm.

"You look real nice, Lula. I cleaned up myself in that kitchen. Miss Eva let me use some hot water to bathe with and I changed my suit for you."

"No need to look good for me," she said.

He smirked. Without his hat, she could see his eyes clearly. Soft green ones with little flecks of pale jade toward the center. His cologne was spicy, like the kind the soldiers wore when they got paid and wanted to show off. The scent of nutmeg, anise and lemon tickled her nostrils with the odor of his breath reminding her of warm maple syrup. His wide nose complemented his full lips which had a playful twitching to them every time he said her name. Lulabelle tried to brush past him.

"I better get out there—"

High John gripped her by her arm tight and held her in place on the bed next to his hip.

"There needs to be a little discussion about payment," he said.

"Payment?"

She yanked her arm out of his hand.

"You said you were looking for him because he does business with you. A monetary transaction ain't got nothing to do with me, buddy," Lulabelle snapped.

"Who said anything about money, sweetheart?"

A lecherous pulling down of his lips made Lulabelle grit her teeth and huff under her breath.

"You want to fuck one of my girls?" she said.

"I wanna fuck you."

"This some bullshit, man. Why are men so typical?"

"I ain't no regular man."

"You act like one."

"You don't gotta pay me now. Let's just say you owe me, and I can collect later."

Lulabelle sucked her teeth.

"I'm just playin' girl. That Geechee said you don't enjoy being teased," High John said, slapping her kneecap.

He stood up and gave her a serious look.

"The moment they step in here, we have to play it cool and sneak away quietly. Hags only have power over their own dominion when they are in it. We get them preoccupied first, and then we can rescue Erik's spirit. The last thing we want is for them to harm anyone here," he said.

The old owl hooted outside, and High Joh turned his head in that direction. "I feel them coming," he said.

He clasped her hand, and they left the Loving House, crossing over the creek bridge and back into the juke joint. They pushed past excited dancers and the wall-to-wall patrons packed in her place. The Midnight Ramblers had Lulabelle's spot stacked like sardines in a can. Hot, funky, and full of spunk, Gertie Mae sang her ass off, and the crowd ate it up.

Outside on the porch, Lulabelle and High John spotted Sadie and her demon whores strolling out of the woods in stylish dresses and heels. Their movement seemed too fluid. Like they were floating instead of walking, but Lulabelle clearly saw their feet on the ground. Sadie shook her lean hips as she listened to the raucous sounds spilling out from the door.

"Ooh, sounds good in there, Lulabelle," Sadie said.

The hag eyed High John and gave him a wide smile.

"Thought you were expecting a crowd at your place," Lulabelle said.

"Later. We just wanted to come by and get some fried fish and listen to music. A little fun for my ladies before they have to work tonight," Sadie said.

One of the lighter-skinned whores snickered and held a finger under her nose like Sadie had said a funny joke. High John pulled out a toothpick and jabbed it between his teeth, making room for some new patrons to come inside. Lulabelle kept her cool.

"Come on in and see what good business looks like," Lulabelle said, mustering up a brave face.

Her heart pattered so fast in her chest watching Sadie and the others step across the protected threshold. She glanced at the moon that showed a glimpse of itself rising over the woods across from her juke joint. Opening the screen door, Lulabelle nodded her head toward the inside.

"Welcome," she said, grinning hard because Erik's life depended on it.

The women swept past smelling like strong perfume and trouble. She trailed behind them with High John just as Gertie Mae and the band whipped up another frenzy with a song talking about where to get the best sugar in town and everybody knew she was about to get filthy once she hiked up her dress and showed off gartered stockings.

Sadie and her demon girls wasted no time joining in with the dancing. They grabbed men away from other women and began grinding their breasts and asses against hips, groins, and hardening dicks. One bawdy demon, pretending to be a delicate-looking Black rose with succulent lips and feline eyes, took off her dress and slinked around a patron in her black bra and panties. She strutted her stuff, whipping up the thick crowd into another frenzy. Some men even had the nerve to throw money at her. Hoochie Coochie dancing began all around as if the crowd became infected with the seductively charged atmosphere. One demon girl jumped on the stage and thrust her narrow hips at the guitar player, nearly upstaging Gertie Mae who only fueled the fire by using her handkerchief that she used to wipe away a sweaty brow to fan the dancing whore on to more steamy shenanigans. Patrons sitting at the small tables stomped their feet and pounded the tables, making their liquor glasses and cold beer bottles jump with the brazen action.

Gertie Mae kicked up her heels and caterwauled into the microphone.

"I treats him kind but he don't do me right!

We fights and quarrel most every damn night

I can't have no man's got such low-down ways

Cause the blue gum man ain't the style now'days

I brought him from the north and I'm sendin' him back

Else I'll use his head for a carpet tack!"*

Lulabelle gazed at the crowd who had no clue about the wickedness among them. There was nothing she could do to prevent them from mingling with evil. Gertie Mae howled into the microphone a new tune that always brought the house down.

"Oh, the white girl rides in a Cadillac

The yella gal rides the same

Black gal rides in a dusty Ford

But she gets there just the same!"

High John slipped his hand around Lulabelle's and pulled her toward the kitchen. They slipped out of the juke joint through the backdoor and ran to his car. He drove fast out of the parking area, heading for the deep woods where Erik was held captive.

Lulabelle's heart lodged in her throat when they arrived at Sadie's whorehouse.

"Let's hurry," High John said.

Leaping out of the car, Lulabelle followed him to the porch. He checked around the grounds for something, holding his hand back for her to stay put. He dashed over to a stump on the side of the house and pulled out his mojo bag again. Quickly moving his fingers over the stump, Lulabelle listened to the house creak like it was about to collapse on itself. High John glanced at the house, then moved over to her.

"It's safe now. I had to put my protective root over it so the house won't snitch on us being here. Sadie may have some tricksters planted inside, but they won't notice us now," he said.

They cautiously climbed the steps, and High John opened the screen door. He juggled the front doorknob, and it opened whispery quiet as if it expected them.

"Hold on," he said.

He pulled a matchbox from his coat pocket and struck it, allowing them enough light for Lulabelle to get to a lamp and turn it on.

"There, on the mantle," Lulabelle said, pointing to the mason jars.

"Grab the one that has him," High John said.

Lulabelle eyed the jars and honed in on the one she remembered touching. She lifted it, spun around, and showed it to High John.

"Open it!" he said.

She twisted the lid and held out the jar to him.

"What do I do now?" she yelped, wide-eyed and scared.

High John took the jar from her hand and drank down the contents like he'd been parched for one hundred years.

"Da fuck you doin' man?!"

Lulabelle snatched the jar away from him, but the man swallowed down Erik and licked his tongue around his meaty lips.

"You tricked me!" Lulabelle shrieked.

"Calm down, Lula!" High John snapped.

Lulabelle wrestled the jar away from him and busted him upside the head with it. Blood gushed from the split in his temple, and she dashed toward the front door. High John grabbed her arm and swung her back into his chest. Smothering her lips with his large mouth.

She thrashed within his firm hold on her and jerked her face away from his, breaking his hold on her lips.

"Lula, baby! It's me!"

Lulabelle stopped moving and gazed deep into High John's eyes. The voice coming out of his mouth was Erik's. She swooned and his grip on her tightened and he pulled her in close.

High John kissed her, but the moist lips, the feel of them was all Erik. She cradled his face.

"What's going on?" Lulabelle said.

Erik nuzzled her cheek.

"You saved me, baby."

He dragged her out of the house and down the steps.

"Over there!" Lulabelle said, pointing to High John's Packard.

He helped Lulabelle get into the passenger side and he ran to the other door. High John left the keys in the ignition. Her man, using High John's body, held the steering wheel with trembling hands.

"Erik? Is it really you?"

Tears welled up in Lulabelle's eyes. High John turned to her and caressed her face. He pressed his dewy lips against hers and she squeezed her eyelids shut, praying that it wasn't a cruel trick. The taste, the feel, and the urgency of the kiss were all Erik. His deep wet kiss fed her a tongue that reminded her of why she adored him. This was her man. The Crossroads Man. The opener of the way to the old African Gods and pathways to other worlds. Back where he belonged. With her.

He released her and she jumped in her seat as the eyes staring back at her belonged to some other beautiful man. High John. She whimpered next to him and High John hugged her, his muscular arms and scent so different from Erik's but feeling like him just the same. Her lips hungered to kiss him again and tongue him down to his socks, but she couldn't get over that he was housed in a different man.

"What is happening?" she said.

"High John is letting me use him as a vessel to carry me until I can find my body."

"You sent… I mean… he sent Elizabeth to look for it. Do you remember where you were last?"

"Near the crossroads."

"How were they able to get you?"

Her head swam with the incongruence of hearing Erik's voice come out from a stranger's lips.

"Don't cry, baby."

She rested her head on his chest, listening to the heartbeat whispering love in her ear. Three months felt like three years while he was gone.

"They used a piece of your hair to cast a spell pretending to be you. One of them made an offering at the crossroads for me and clouded my eyes," Erik said.

"Your affections for her helped them fool you," High John said, interrupting Erik.

The switch-up made Lulabelle's head spin. A two-for-one sat next to her, and she reeled from the dizziness it produced in her.

"They must've come into the juke and got close to her… stole some hair or maybe fluids from something she drank out of and conjured a vision that clouded your eyes, Geechee," High John said.

"I can't stay in him long," Erik said.

The green eyes piercing into her made Lulabelle fret.

"I missed you, woman," Erik said.

He pulled Lulabelle onto his lap, and she felt his body react to hers. The skin beneath her fingers thrummed with anticipation as the heat from him seeped into her. She closed her eyes so she could imagine being with Erik, but the frisky hands on her ass made her gasp and stare at High John's handsome face.

Strong hands lifted her up and down onto a covered, bulging erection that felt like a steel rod underneath her panties. Determined fingers tore her underwear off and she lifted her hips so that High John… Erik… could unfasten his pants and released his dick.

"Wait," Lulabelle said.

She wanted to wait until he was in his own body, but Erik's heavy breathing told her otherwise. Plus, High John was a fine specimen of a man with just as much sex appeal as the Geechee man.

"I need you right now… please…" Erik begged.

He snaked that thick tongue in her ear and licked her down to her breasts, pushing them together. His palms squeezed and lifted the lush mounds until he could kiss them fully across the tops.

"Ride me, Lula, let me feel you again."

High John's body made Lulabelle ache with desire and long-felt longing. Their lips collided again, and he renewed their vows of pleasure that had been stolen for three months.

"We have to go, find your body—"

He smothered her lips and dominated the arch in her back, bending her until her shoulders rested against the steering wheel. His hands pulled down the front of her dress and slipped around her lower back to release the hooks on her bra.

Big tits spilled all over his chest, and the groan out of his throat thrilled her. She was with two men at the same time in one body, and the heat of them made her feel damp between the legs and wanton.

"Lula," he moaned.

He lifted her again, and she slid down on his erection, holding her breath and clutching his shoulders. It felt like cheating, but it wasn't. Not really.

"Fuck," High John groaned.

Her wide ass rested on his balls, and they both sat still, getting used to the sensation of the connection. Lulabelle's head fell back and High John stuffed a big nipple in his mouth, sucking on her breast with a ravenous tugging that shot down to her clit and made her clench her slick walls all around the girth that stretched her beyond belief. She threw her arms around his neck and bounced on his dick with an off-kilter rhythm, as if the Crossroads Man was still figuring out how to work the strange form he was in.

"So wet… tight..." he huffed, pumping himself into her.

She soaked his lap with the pent-up arousal she kept between her thighs waiting for him to return. It wasn't the reunion she imagined, but she took it hard and fast. Loud gushy sounds rang in her ears, listening to the splashy sounds in her pussy and the heavy slapping of her ass cheeks on his muscular thighs. High John played with her breasts again, and she sensed an internal struggle by watching his eyes blaze into hers. The conjure man wanted a taste, and she knew for sure the entity she fucked now was not Erik. It couldn't be. The feeling was different. The hands on her breasts and the tongue on her ripe nipples were foreign to her skin.

Lulabelle hollered in his ear as he pounded her pussy, slapping her ass as he took what he wanted from her. She let him, indulging in the forbidden touch of High John.

"We have to leave… now…" High John's voice returned, and Lulabelle pretended like she didn't hear him, wanting to feel that heavy dick carve unfamiliar territory in her pliant pussy.

"Fuck me, Daddy," she grunted, slamming her ass down on his balls, wanting him to feel all the harlotry she planned on giving him.

She kissed him, licking and biting on his big lips to make him open his mouth so she could rest her tongue in the maple-scented wetness.

"Oh, my damn!" High John screeched, losing full control of the situation.

His hand fumbled with the driver's side door and a gust of humid early fall air gusted around them. He moved out of the car with Lulabelle still stuffed with his dick. His pants fell around his shoes as he corrected his balance. She wouldn't let go of him, sucking on his neck and whimpering for more thrusting of that big meat. Tears dampened her eyes as she begged for more pumping.

"Give me some more, Daddy," she pleaded, purposely not saying anyone's name.

The squelching of her pussy told her Erik was back in the driver's seat. He spun them around and plopped her on the hood, drilling her folds like there was no tomorrow. Watching her titties bounce as he hunched and hollered her name gave Lulabelle joy. She scraped her nails on his nape and cooed his name into his big lips.

"I'm finna cum," he yelled.

"It's your pussy!" she encouraged.

She didn't know if it was Erik or High John. Didn't matter no way. Her pussy was plowed to smithereens and ready to receive.

"You like how it feels?" she purred.

Erik grabbed her throat and pushed her down on the hood.

"Fuck me harder… harder… lemme feel all that big dick!" she demanded.

His eyes burned holes into her skull, but the face looking at her was High John. The conjure man's lips slammed on top of hers and kissed her breath away.

She felt the hot spurts of semen against her walls. It warmed up her insides as his dick pulsed with a prolonged orgasm.

"Lula!" he groaned, flicking his fingers across her clit.

"Cum in this tight pussy!"

Her walls throbbed all around his dick from the bottom of her pussy. She lifted in time to see her opening grip and release with a rhythmic throbbing that made her whimper for God. The damp curls of her pubic hairs were beautiful against his wild bush of dark moist pubic curls. He grabbed her breasts again to hold them once more as he shot one last coating of cum all over her walls.

Hot, sweaty, and spent from the exertion, High John pulled his fat dick out of her pussy. His ejaculate pooled out on the hood. She squeezed as much of it out as possible, and he groaned at the amount spilling all over the car. Wiping his face, he reached for his pants like a drunk man trying to dress.

"Got no time for this shit… gotta find this niggas's body," High John grumbled.

Lulabelle slide down the hood and fixed her dress. With no panties on, the air tickled her naked vulva. She fastened up her bra again and caught her breath. High John regarded her with his own lust, not Erik's. He was in control again.

"Gotta find Elizabeth and see if she found his body," he said.

"Where should we look for her?"

"The crossroads," High John said. "Get in the car."

She crawled back in, and he slipped in beside her. He started the car and drove carefully out of the woods.

The crossroads were empty, only moonlight high above, and the distant sound of The Midnight Ramblers at her juke joint met them there. High John stomped around and peered in every direction before stepping to the center that joined all the directions together. He kicked around some dirt and rested his hands on his hips.

"He loves you," High John said.

Lulabelle stared at him with a curious expression.

"That's the only way they got him. If he didn't love you, then the root they put together to bind him wouldn't have worked. Love is a powerful spell, Lula. An incantation that holds hearts together takes two to manifest the conjuring," High John said.

He looked at her with soft, knowing eyes.

"They probably would've fooled me too," he said, winking at her.

He gazed all around him.

"I figure… they moved into these parts and wanted to grab people roaming around late at night. Drunk. Confused. Not paying attention to the signs. Someone who regularly fed Erik might've missed a night making an offering to him. It weakened the veil and made him come look-see when bodies were found here. Can't nobody resist a pretty girl pretending to be lost. Not even a drunk man. Even a woman looking for her wayward husband would stop to help another woman in trouble. They get caught, and the hag rides their body for… draining them of energy and the will to live. Geechee came to see what was going on and a demon pretending to be you seduced him with a binding spell. Stuffed his essence in a jar for Sadie to keep. Buried him somewhere…"

His eyes glanced behind her.

A glowing ball of yellow light bounced above a thicket of kudzu.

"There she is," High John said.

He ran toward the light, and Lulabelle followed him. The kudzu was thick and High John yanked on it at the spot where they saw the light. She helped him, and they found a decaying lump of plant matter and unsettled dirt. Dragging their hands through it, Lulabelle squealed when they discovered Erik's body stuffed in a hole. She brushed the soil off of his suit and wept as she helped High John pull him out and lay him flat on his back.

"Erik," she said, stroking his moldy and mottled face.

The stench of decay was sickly sweet, and she covered her nose and mouth once they took in the full reeking of the decomposing form. High John stuck his fingers in Erik's mouth and scooped out more dirt. He wiped his nose too, and Lulabelle looked up to check the placement of the moon. It was still high in the night sky.

High John widened Erik's lips and covered his mouth with his own, vomiting the liquid he swallowed from the jar down into his throat. The retching sounds almost made Lulabelle puke, and she turned her head, pinching her nose from the powerful odor of sulfur. She looked over at Erik again when High John sat back and wiped his lips. They waited.

Nothing happened.

"Are we too late? Is his body too far gone?" Lulabelle asked.

High John looked worried, and he stood up and paced among the kudzu. An hour passed. The sounds of the woods at night gave Lulabelle the creeps, but she felt safe with High John. When another hour passed, she couldn't hold her tears back.

"Come on, man. Get your ass back here!" High John shouted.

He slammed a fist on Erik's chest. Despite that, nothing happened.

"We were too late," Lulabelle whined, wiping her eyes.

"Nah, his body is still good enough to restore."

"Then what's wrong with him? Use your mojo bag, cast a spell on him or somethin'!"

"Calm down, woman," Erik said.

Lulabelle placed her hands on his chest and watched him blink the dirt out of his eyes.

"It takes time to get acquainted with the body again. Always wanna rush people," Erik teased.

He sat up and dirt dropped from his skin all over and his face filled with his beautiful ruddy brown coloring again. She helped him stand, and he brushed off his clothes and shoes. He held out a hand for High John and they clasped palms and bumped shoulders.

"Came right on time," Erik said.

"Lulabelle was a big help. She found you before I did," High John said.

She stood between them feeling sheepish and a little embarrassed thinking about what had transpired between the three of them earlier.

"I got 'em trapped at Lula's juke right now. We best hurry back before the barrier I put around the place wears off. I got no choice but to take the hag down there. Couldn't do it until I found you, though.

"Understood," Erik said.

They trotted back to High John's car, piled in, and rushed over to the juke. The noise from inside seemed louder, and the dancing and partying going on shook the foundation.

"Go in through the back," High John said.

They snuck around the side and entered the rear with stealth. No one paid attention to them except for Eva, who fried up the last orders of fish and chicken for the night. Her eyes grew wide at Erik being with them, and Lulabelle held up a finger to her lips, warning her not to say anything. Erik went to the kitchen sink and rinsed his mouth out and washed his face. Lulabelle poured him some whiskey, and he took the glass and gulped down the contents. He leaned over and kissed her lips. She closed her eyes and accepted the warm, smooth feel of his mouth over hers. High John handed Erik his hat that he hung up in the kitchen.

"Keep that down so they won't recognize you in the crowd," High John said.

Erik pulled it down low, and they listened to the hard partying.

"This place is on fire," Eva said, monitoring High John. "These people are eating and drinking up everything!"

Lulabelle could see the dollar bills Eva was adding up with her eyes, thinking about all the money they were making.

"People are so busy in the juke, they barely going to the Loving House," Eva said.

"Go on out there and stay in the back. Lula, let Sadie see you so she'll think you've been here, but stay away from her," High John said.

The conjure man stared at one of Eva's cupboards, then waved his hand at Lulabelle.

"Go on, get out there," High John ordered.

Lulabelle grabbed Erik's hand, and they squeezed through bodies. She shook one hip and waved her hand at customers as if she'd been making the rounds as usual. Sadie sat perched at the front table near the band, and her girls were still half naked and urging debauchery everywhere. The people obliged with lusty kissing on the dance floor, and fingers groping and grabbing partners in their seats.

Lulabelle called out a loud, "Hey girl!" to Gertie Mae, who had sweated out her pin curls and make-up. Streaks of pancake foundation dripped down her drenched face as she sang a bluesy, slow drag. Her eyes connected with Sadie, who smoked a cigarette with a long cigarette holder, blowing smoke circles at the piano player. Lulabelle pretended to roll her eyes and moved through the patrons to the back. Erik kept his head dipped low as they scurried and hid behind the standing audience.

For the first time in months, Lulabelle could relax with Erik pressed into her back. He threw an arm around her chest and felt on her breast openly. No one cared. Their gazes were stuck on Gertie Mae and listening to her moaning lyrics. She leaned her head against his chest.

"I thought you left me and found someone else," she said.

She didn't have to speak louder than the music because his keen hearing could pick up the softest whisper from her lips. He rested his back against the wall, and she clung to his arm.

"I'ma go wash up back at the Loving House. Change clothes," he said.

She gripped him tighter.

"Don't worry, I'm here. You're here. Can't trick me with my real woman," he said.

He kissed her forehead and pushed through the throngs toward the hall. She circled the juke and collected money from Honey Boy who looked dizzy from all the business.

"These men are finally heading to the back," Honey Boy said. "Thought them hoes from the woods would leave soon, but they are hunkering down for the night. That Sadie ain't left that table yet. She don't dance or nothin', just watches her women and smokes."

"She ask about me at all?"

"Nah. She likes her moonshine and people gawking at her hoes."

"I bet," Lulabelle said, stuffing the money down her bra.

The juke was sweltering, with so many people bumping up against each other. Erik met up with her in the back wearing a fresh suit that she kept pressed and ready for him in her room. He held her close. His touch was electrifying on her skin. They swayed to the slow drag and before she knew it, he had her dress hiked up her waist in the back while he unzipped his clean pants. Her lips made an "O" as he took her right there in the crowd, their eyes transfixed on nothing but The Midnight Ramblers. Erik gripped her shoulders and thrust in and out slowly. His balls slapped against her clit and her body jerked to his pacing.

"You enjoyed fucking High John a little too much," he growled in her ear.

Her eyes watered from the stretching his dick gave her walls, and he was not kind about letting her catch her breath as he stroked faster in her pussy. He slammed a hand over her mouth to keep her from moaning too loud. The cacophony of music, call and response shouting at Gertie Mae, and Erik's hot, heavy dick beating down her wet slit with no mercy had Lulabelle mewling and crying softly with too much stimulation. His dick was thick enough to make her clit tug down on its own without his fingers stimulating it. He wouldn't let up, digging his heels into the floor and thrusting into her until she was almost on her tippy-toes. Her pants were loud in her own ears against his hand, and she creamed on his dick with a sudden loss of control. His erection swelled and his grunt of satisfaction pushed a flood of cum into her that weakened her knees. He held her up and whispered in her ear.

"When this is over, I gotta punish that pussy. You know that, right?"

She whimpered, and he spanked her ass, covering her cheeks back up with her dress.

"I ain't like how you acted in that car and out of it. Didn't even say my name like you usually do. You liked fucking his body," he said.

"I was fucking you," she said.

The gleam in his eye and the smirk on his lips told her he thought she was lying. He gave her a fat smooch on her cheek and slid his tongue in her ear and around the shell.

"Were you?" he whispered.

Lulabelle rounded her shoulders and avoided eye contact. High John stepped out of the kitchen and she shivered, thinking about him sucking on her titties while she bounced on his fat dick. All three of them kept watch over Sadie and her whores.

"Night Lula!"

Lulabelle held a hand to her chest, trying to calm the tightness there and the shortness of breath as she watched the last of her patrons leave her juke. She waved at the man who called out to her, the piano player, and kept her eyes on two of Sadie's demon whores who were topless and lounging on chairs near the stage.

Sadie herself sat at the piano, tickling the ivory, keeping her sultry eyes on Lulabelle. Honey Boy took the last of the cash she collected and headed out to the Loving House to check on the girls and rest. Eva slung a coat over her shoulders and lifted a covered plate of chicken from the bar counter and bid Lulabelle goodnight as her husband waited to scoop her up at the front door. She left a bag on the counter, waving for Lulabelle to ignore it as she walked out with her man. The last stragglers headed out and finally, they were alone with the hag and her ladies. Erik slinked away from the wall and took off High John's hat. Sadie squinted and stood up once she realized it was Erik. The hag snapped her fingers and her women jumped up and stalked across the dance floor toward the entrance. Lulabelle glanced at High John and he checked for the moonlight through the window. He grinned.

Sadie and her women came back in, the barrier blocking their exit from the premises. Erik pulled Lulabelle behind him and she stayed near the wall.

"Ain't nobody here now. Might as well show yourselves," High John said.

He pulled out his mojo bag and sat it openly on his chest. Erik moved next to him and flexed his fingers before pulling out his switchblade. Sadie checked the juke to make sure no one else was around.

"Why not?" she said.

Sadie's face puffed out like a bullfrog again, and she stripped out of her dress and underwear, revealing a gorgeous body that split and twisted, turning itself inside out until her skin fell to the floor in a wet splat at her feet. Without her skin, she was a walking, red, glistening wound. She grinned, and everything inside her mouth was black. Lulabelle couldn't see a tongue or teeth anymore. The whores behind her shed their phony skin and dropped to all fours, snarling and gnashing vicious teeth looking like hell hounds skinned raw, the lean muscles in their bodies a wet scarlet nightmare as their claws clacked across the wood floor.

Lulabelle couldn't turn her head away from the horror in her juke and a chill dragged along her spine as she sincerely wondered what High John and her Geechee man looked like under their skin.

"No tit for tat boys? We get undressed and y'all stay pretending? That's not fair at all," Sadie said with her midnight black mouth.

Her eyes were still seductive and sinister. She turned toward Lulabelle, and Erik stepped forward.

"I would love to ride you gal, then put your shiny little soul in a glass jar," Sadie said.

"Don't look at her, Lula. Turn your head, baby," Erik said.

She did as he said so she wouldn't be hypnotized again. He lunged for the hell hounds, distracting Sadie. The demons attacked Erik, but he cut them with his razor, deflecting their snapping teeth as much as he could. The hag jumped on his back, whipping her head back and forth as she gripped his chin, yanking it back.

High John sprang into action, snatching the hag's skin off the floor and running with it to the counter. He stretched it open on the bloody wet side and dumped the contents of the bag Eva had left behind all over it.

Sadie shrieked when she noticed his actions and jumped off of Erik. He continued fighting and cutting the hell hounds that gave off the smell of burning flesh. High John stepped away from the counter and allowed Sadie to pick up her skin. She shook it and cursed High John, throwing her outer covering back on. It sizzled and burned her flesh, and she clawed at her skin, enraged and frightened.

The hell hounds flopped around the floor like they were having convulsions, and black acidic foam bubbled out of their mouths, filling the room with the stench of burning rot. Sadie clawed at her once beautiful face.

"You motherfucker!" she screamed at High John.

Erik ran to the conjure man and High John poured the contents of the mojo bag into the Geechee's hand. Erik balled his hand into a fist, blew through a small hole he made on the side of it, then slammed his hands together. There came a loud clap of sound that reverberated like thunder and Lulabelle could never be sure if she saw what she saw, but The Crossroads Man, her beloved Erik, stole the moon from the sky, reached right through the juke window behind the stage, and plucked it with his fingers, replacing it with the sweet sugary colors dawn.

Sadie shrieked again and fled out of the juke, breaking through the screen door and tumbling down the steps with a roar pouring out of her wicked mouth. Lulabelle ran to the entrance and watched the hag head for the woods, but it was too late. Sunlight pierced holes through her body and she sparked up like a human torch, her flesh scorched into black ash that floated to the morning sky. One last horrid screech sounded from her lips before she vanished in front of Lulabelle's eyes.

"My God today," Lulabelle whispered with wide eyes.

She turned back into her juke and the hell hounds had vanished too, leaving no trace behind. High John wiped his hands.

"Eva's salt trick don't work on me, but Miss Sadie sho did go out like a whiny bitch!" High John said.

Erik laughed at him, and both men slapped hands and shook their heads.

"Hags always have a bad habit of leaving their skin out in the wrong places tryna be tough all the time," Erik said.

Lulabelle could only stare at them, mouth agape, and her thoughts jumbled with all the terrifying sights she'd seen in nearly twenty-four hours. She tossed a weary hand up at them both.

"I'm going to bed. This shit… this was too much," Lulabelle complained.

"Oh, you ain't about to do no sleepin'," Erik said.

Lulabelle stopped and put a hand on her hip.

"Whatchu mean?"

"Told you already. I'm 'bout to be knee deep in that pussy. Go on back there and get naked. You gotta make up for the disrespect," Erik said.

High John snatched his hat from the floor where Sadie had knocked it off of Erik's head. He placed it back on his own head.

"Guess I'll just mosey along then. Come see me Geechee when you done with her. I'll be waiting over at the crossroads. We got work to do," High John said.

"You ever gon' give that conjure man his body back?" Erik said.

"Maybe. Maybe not. I kinda like it. What you think, Lula?" High John said.

"Don't be askin' her 'bout nothin', man. Take that shit back. I don't want her looking at that face again."

"Scared of some competition, I see."

"Whatever, man. Take that nigga his shit back so he can do his work."

High John sucked his teeth at Erik and winked at Lulabelle.

"Sure y'all don't need me to watch?"

Erik raised a fist. Lulabelle grinned.

"Tell the truth, Lulabelle, was all that hollerin' you was doin' for me or him?" High John asked.

"Goodbye High John. Close the door behind you," Lulabelle said.

Erik stuck out his tongue at High John.

"So ungrateful. I'll be waitin' on your ass," High John said.

High John looked into the corner of the juke and tipped his hat to nothing she could see.

"Thank you for your help, Elizabeth. You are a true friend to these two," High John said.

"Tell her thank you for me, please," Lulabelle said.

"She heard you," High John said.

He strolled out of the front door and politely closed it for Lulabelle.

Erik spanked her ass.

"I'ma start with those big thighs first. Then I'll lick and kiss that juicy pussy with my sweet jewel at the top…"

Erik nuzzled his face against hers. She turned and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Is it true that you love me?" she asked.

He kissed her softly and rubbed her shoulders.

"Yes."

"That's what got you in trouble," she said.

"One time. Won't ever happen again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"What will happen to those jars they left in that house?"

"Nothing. I'll pour them out and release their souls to heaven at the crossroads."

"Will you ever show me what you truly look like?"

"No. Your human eyes couldn't handle it."

"So I'll never see you?"

"Not until you're an old woman and you pass on. Then I'll guide you to the other side of the veil."

He kissed her again, and she admired all the gold in his teeth.

"You'll stay with me until I die?"

"Or until you get sick of me."

She shook her head and pressed her face against his neck, smelling his skin and feeling his warmth.

"I won't ever get sick of you."

He spanked her backside, and she yelped.

"Lulabelle, Lulabelle… time for us to go to the Loving House," he teased.

She threaded her fingers with his and thought of all the things she wanted to ask him about turning night into day and loving her so much that a hag could trick his ass into a jar. He tugged on her hand and she walked beside him across the rickety creek bridge. He slipped a hand under her dress and fingered her folds, slipping two digits inside of her as she walked slowly for him, letting him watch her big ass jiggle while he worked her pussy.

When they reached her soft, lumpy bed, she forgot about the moon, the sun, and the shiny mason jars. All she saw were stars in her eyes as she raised her big legs high to the sky, letting the Crossroads Man make love to her again, and again, and again….

Part 1 "Ice Cold Jax" HERE.

A.N.:

Aaron Pierre is my new face claim for John the Conqueror. I had someone else originally, but it's fun to switch up. Basically Killmonger and Terry Richmond tag teaming in this. This sequel was also written as a birthday read for @soufcakmistress in 2022.

#There's Some Whores in This House #Killmonger Smut #Terry Richmond Smut #Erik Killmonger AU #Terry Richmond AU #Black Supernatural #Black American Folk Tale #Uzumaki Rebellion #Erik Stevens AU #Erik Killmonger Smut

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