#frozen reeds

[dustedmagazine]

Derek Bailey / Paul Motian — Duo in Concert (frozen reeds)

Specializing in archival recordings, the Helsinki frozen reeds label has come up with another doozy. This time unearthing in the Incus archives previously unreleased concert recordings of guitarist Derek Bailey and drummer Paul Motian for the release "Duo in Concert." Released at the tail-end of 2023, the LP version captures the duo live at the 1990 Jazz Marathon at De Oosterpoort festival in the city of Groningen, the Netherlands. As bonus digital tracks, the label offers recordings made at the New Music Cafe in New York City in 1991. A conversation between Bill Frisell and Henry Kaiser discussing these recordings and their collective experiences playing with Bailey and Motian is included as liner notes.

It's hard to approach a recording from two of my all-time favorite artists with any sense of objectivity, not to mention a heavy dose of expectation. And with a pairing that — at least on paper — doesn't immediately make outright sense, a certain degree of trepidation preempts the initial listening process as well. Accounts of both Bailey and Motian's contrariness and adversarial approach to performing are legion. Having seen both musicians live, I always had the feeling that everything could go off the rails at any moment. There was a certain sense of peril and uncertainty that pervaded their music — and not only because what they were doing was risky but more because they didn't seem to adhere to any rules of musical decorum.

When I first saw Bailey play solo in the mid-1980s, he broke off his set mid-concert to start sharing what seemed like random anecdotes with the audience, then picked right back up and started to play all over again. He stopped abruptly once more a bit later to tune his guitar (actually not much unlike what goes on in Indian classical music). It was almost as if he didn't see the point of himself being there. What he played — when he actually played — was undeniably brilliant. But his attitude came across as ambivalent and irascible, to say the least.

Similarly when I caught Motian in the early 1990s with his trio of Bill Frisell and Joe Lovano, he seemed to revel in the act of eloquent disruption, of not letting things ride but of seeking to derail and create situations where the music took sudden turns down unknown roads. Motian soloed like a kid discovering the drums for the first time, alternately bashing the toms or dropping bombs of bass drum cymbal crashes, then suddenly shifting to exquisite brush work on the snare, echoing his time with Bill Evans.

So, what was I to think of this improbable pairing? Obviously, from the start I was rooting for them. These guys were my heroes. But heroes also fall. I'm happy to say that over repeated listens "Duo in Concert" did not disappoint for one second of these recordings. It would be interesting to know if this concert in Groningen was their first meeting, or if they'd had the chance to play together in a more informal setting beforehand, because the 35-minute set sounds so fresh and invigorating. As if they had met for the first time, discovering their shared language and limitations in real-time before a festival audience. Adding to this the music also comes across as very intimate, as if Motian and Bailey had already played many years together and were picking up on a conversation they'd been having the last time they met. Consequently, both players sound not only completely engaged with the music, but actually excited by what they're coming up with. Practically as though they found themselves in a perpetual state of surprise and delight for the entire length of the concert. "Duo in Concert" is truly an inspiring listen.

There is much to expect that actually transpires: Bailey's spikey, chromatic fields played in jagged rhythmic runs across an incredibly wide dynamic range, spanning the spectrum from ringing harmonics on the verge of feedback to barely caressing the strings with his pick. And then there's Motian's incredible brush work paired with bombastic tom fills and tremorous bass drum drops. The real mystery is how this all manages to coalesce into — for lack of a more apt expression — an undeniable example of sheer poetry in sound. The mutual respect and inspiration between Motian and Bailey so evident in these recordings is in itself one of the most compelling aspects of this release.

A major unifier here would have to be Bailey and Motian's shared backgrounds in jazz. Bailey used to refer to himself in his earlier musical incarnation as previously sounding something like Jim Hall. But of course by the mid-1960s had realized he would, as Henry Kaiser states in the liner notes, have to depart for Planet Improv and leave the world of jazz behind. By this point in his long career Motian still had certainly more invested in the jazz tradition but seemed not to worry about what this meant. He'd long since moved on beyond what the rule keepers of the jazz world had imposed. Yet Motian also never went totally free like Bailey. And in fact, this would be the first record I'd heard where Motian plays from scratch, without any vague road map or composition to steer the musical proceedings.

But it is precisely this jazz background which lends an unmistakable narrative thread to the concert at Groningen. Bailey and Motian's collaboration is truly like a conversation in the most literal sense of the word. And like the greatest musical conversations in the context of jazz music, both players join together for this one brief point in time to tell a story together, listening and building their musical ideas from their dialogue. As hackneyed as this may sound, the end effect is a perfect example of instant composing, of creating a totally cohesive, rigorously structured piece of music from thin air.

And this encompasses  signifiers of a more narrative approach along the way: towards the midpoint of the set, Bailey fades out to let Motian take the practically obligatory drum solo, a roiling, thunderous affair across the toms and cymbals. This is followed by Bailey jumping back in with what in a more conventional jazz piece, could be the main soloist picking up again with another long passage. Along the way Bailey engages in some of the most impressionistic and nearly melodic playing I've ever heard from him, even approaching what one could construe as comping rapid chord variations to Motian's hard-driving pulse. The set ends with Motian playing a very grooving swing pattern on the high hat that not only absolutely works with Bailey's field of dissonant harmonic notes but is in itself a stroke of genius, melding the two worlds of jazz and obdurate free improvisation with a gesture of contrast and a nod to the history both of these musicians had left far behind but by no means forgotten.

For fans of Derek Bailey and Paul Motian "Duo in Concert" is an absolute must listen. For those unfamiliar with either of these artists' work, this release would be a great place to start, not only because it captures them both at the height of their powers but is also a convincing and highly moving documentation of free improvised music that shouldn't be missed.

Jason Kahn

[iamlisteningto]

Julius Eastman’s Femenine

[markus-h]

a frozen autumn remnant in the reeds of the Federsee

[sagent-of-chaos]

chill in the air

[the-sparkling-theater-kid]

Bootleg Hunting

I’m looking for bootlegs! I was wondering if anyone has any bootlegs of the following shows with the following casts. There are so many shows with casts I want to see but sadly never got the chance to. I’d love if anyone has any! All bootlegs must be on drive or youtube since that’s how I like to watch them.

Sweeney Todd

-Aaron Tveit as Sweeney Todd, Sutton Foster as Mrs. Lovett, and Joe Locke as Tobias

-Jeanne De Waal as Mrs. Lovett

Moulin Rouge

-Derek Klena as Christian and Jojo as Satine

-Aaron Tveit as Christian and Jojo as Satine

-Casey Cott as Christian and Courtney Reed as Satine

-Derek Klena as Christian and Courtney Reed as Satine

Hadestown

-Original Broadway Cast

-Lola Tung as Eurydice and Jordan Fisher as Orpheus

Jagged Little Pill

-First national tour original cast

Dear Evan Hansen

-Gaten Matarazzo as Jared

Mean Girls

-Original Broadway cast

-Reneé Rapp as Regina George

Frozen

-Ryan McCartan as Hans

The Great Gatsby

-2023 Paper Mill Playhouse with Jeremy Jordan and Eva Noblezada

-Original Broadway Cast

-Ryan Mccartan as Jay Gatsby

Gutenburg!

-Josh Gad and Andrew Rannells (Broadway 2023/24)

Chicago

-Ariana Madix as Roxie and Robyn Hurder as Velma

Back to the Future

-Casey Likes as Marty McFly

The Outsiders

-Original Broadway Cast

-Pre-Broadway

The Great Gatsby

-Paper Mill Playhouse

-Original Broadway Cast

-Victor’s Sodapop debut

Sunset Boulevard

-Obc

[sitting-on-me-bum]

Winter Wonderland

By Tiffany Reed Briley

[greencheekconure27]

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

(major s-class heroine spoilers)

made the mistake of briefly considering reed/hestio, and then thinking about how hestio might react to learning that the mass murderer in front of him was once his extremely kind and upright friend who always gave too much of himself to others. i got socked in the gut by the throwback to my own grief when discovering that reed=tesilid.

like. what and how much has he gone through that he has thrown away the morals and self-sacrifice he internalised so much. what do you mean he killed his younger self in the most cruel and painful way he could think of. what do you mean that even he himself was not kind to himself. that, even after a hundred lifetimes, he still hasn't learned the slightest shred of self-love and is acting only in self-preservation. what do you mean that he has been running on fumes and desperation for several lifetimes? he probably hasn't had the time to even grieve and cry for himself. has there been anyone who could even do so for him? what do you mean he's tried every means possible to save the world, and then just himself, and then had no choice but to try to kill himself, but even that didn't work so now he's forced to try to kill everyone else too. what do you mean that this isn't just an issue of mental health and of convincing him that life is worth living? there is genuinely no conceivable path forward for him. maybe the world should just burn or something idk.

[brinaarcadia]

It's not your time to enter the Core! Not just yet!

Wahl, you son of a bitch. He's cranked the Thinker's coolant system into overdrive. You're frozen out of the core. Head to Climate Control and manually reset the turbine to defrost this mess -- it's the only way we're going to make it to the Thinker.

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Realizing They Are Jealous

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

- Peter Parker has always told himself he’s not the jealous type. He knows better. He’s seen what obsession does to a person, how it corrodes and twists and turns something good into something dark. He swore he’d never be that guy, the one who grips too tight, who loses sight of what matters. And yet, as he watches some stranger lean in close, flashing a smile that’s just a little too confident, he feels it coil inside him—hot, sharp, unexpected.

- His fingers twitch, and he clenches his fists like he’s bracing for a fight, even though there’s no real battle here. Just words, just glances, just you laughing at something someone else said. And Peter—who has fought gods and monsters, who has lost more than he ever thought he could survive—finds himself standing frozen, drowning in something far more terrifying than any villain.

- He tries to be rational. Tries to remind himself that you’re not his, that he has no right to this feeling clawing at his ribs. But then your head tilts, your lips part in that familiar, effortless smile, and it hits him like a fist to the gut: he wants to be the reason you smile like that. He wants to be the only one.

- The moment passes, the stranger moves on, and Peter still can’t breathe right. He should let it go, should shake it off, but when you turn to him, bright-eyed and oblivious to the war raging in his chest, all he can do is force a grin and hope you don’t notice the way his voice strains when he speaks.

- Later, alone in his room, he presses his forehead against his hand and exhales shakily. He’s in trouble. So much trouble. Because Peter Parker? He’s never been good at letting things go. And now, he doesn’t think he can let you go, either.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

- Tony Stark doesn’t get jealous. That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s been around the block too many times, seen too many people come and go, to let something as petty as jealousy get under his skin. He’s Tony Stark. He’s seen it all. So when he spots some smooth-talking nobody leaning into your space, flashing that kind of grin he perfected years ago, he should laugh it off. Should.

- But he doesn’t. Instead, there’s a flicker of something sharp and ugly curling in his chest, something possessive and unfamiliar. It’s ridiculous, really. He could have anyone, could fill a room with people hanging onto his every word, but none of them matter. Not the way you do.

- He swirls the whiskey in his glass, eyes narrowing as he watches the way you tilt your head, the way your lips quirk in amusement. It’s harmless, he tells himself. You’re just being polite. But his jaw tightens all the same, and suddenly, the ice in his drink isn’t the only thing cold in the room.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Tony Stark never needs to. Instead, he waits until you’re alone, leans in with a smirk that’s just a little too sharp, and says, “Didn’t know you had a thing for guys who wear cheap cologne.” You roll your eyes, laughing, but there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Something raw beneath the bravado.

- Later, when you’re gone, Tony leans back against his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. Damn it. He wasn’t supposed to feel this way. But now that he does, now that he’s seen what it would be like to lose your attention, he knows one thing for certain—he’s not going to let that happen again.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

- Steve Rogers likes to believe he’s patient. He’s fought wars, survived decades of loss, and carried burdens most men would crumble under. He’s not impulsive. Not reckless. He’s better than that. Or at least, he thought he was—until now.

- The sight of someone else standing too close to you, their voice too low, their gaze lingering just a second too long—it sparks something in him, something old and primal and dangerous. His fingers tighten around the coffee cup in his hands, his jaw locking as he forces himself to breathe.

- He knows he has no claim on you. No right to this feeling twisting inside him. But that doesn’t stop the way his chest tightens, the way his pulse kicks up in something too close to fight-or-flight. He’s fought wars, but this? This is different. This is personal.

- He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t stake a claim—Steve isn’t the kind of man to do that. But when you finally turn away from the conversation, when your eyes meet his across the room, there’s something there—something in the way he looks at you, steady and unyielding, that makes your breath catch.

- And maybe, just maybe, you see it too. The truth of it. The confession that lingers in the space between you, unsaid but undeniable. Steve Rogers is a patient man. But even he has his limits. And when it comes to you? He won’t let someone else take what should have been his.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

- Thor Odinson does not know jealousy the way mortals do. He does not simmer in silence, does not let resentment fester like a slow-growing storm. No, when Thor feels, he feels. And right now, he feels the weight of something heavy, something possessive, something undeniable.

- He watches as another person captures your attention, as their voice fills the air where his should be. And though he does not doubt your loyalty, though he knows the strength of his own heart, something inside him rumbles. A warning. A storm brewing on the horizon.

- He does not shrink. He does not sulk. Instead, he acts. With slow, deliberate steps, he crosses the room, placing himself at your side with the ease of a warrior reclaiming his place on the battlefield. “Ah, my friend,” he says, voice rich with warmth, though his grip on his hammer is just a fraction too tight. “Are you enjoying my beloved’s company?”

- The title slips from his lips before he can stop it. Beloved. It is instinct, raw and unfiltered, and when you glance at him in surprise, he meets your gaze without hesitation. There is no retreat, no denial—only the thunderous certainty of a god who knows what is his.

- And in that moment, as realization dawns in your eyes, Thor Odinson understands—there is no turning back from this. And by the gods, he does not want to.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

- Loki is not a fool. He sees things others miss, reads between the lines of every conversation, every fleeting glance. He is a god of mischief, a master of deception. And yet, for all his cunning, he did not see this coming.

- He did not expect to feel the sharp sting of jealousy as someone else’s words make you smile. He did not expect the coil of irritation tightening in his chest as he watches you lean in, drawn into a conversation that is not with him. And above all, he did not expect the slow, creeping realization that follows: he cares.

- The thought unsettles him. Love, affection—these things are not meant for him. He has been cast aside too many times, burned by his own foolishness, by the cruelty of fate. And yet… here you are, undoing him with nothing but a laugh that isn’t even meant for him.

- He does not confront it, not directly. Instead, he sidles up beside you, his presence a whisper of silk and shadows, his voice a low murmur in your ear. “Surely, you do not find them that charming?” The words are laced with amusement, but his fingers twitch at his sides.

- And when you turn to him, curiosity flickering in your gaze, he holds it—holds you—longer than he should. He will not admit it. Not yet. But the seed has been planted, and gods help him, he does not know if he has the strength to pull it free.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

- Clint Barton isn’t the type to take himself too seriously. Life’s too short, and his luck’s too bad for that. He rolls with the punches, cracks a joke when things get tough, keeps it light—because that’s what keeps him sane. But watching someone else flirt with you? Yeah, that’s not funny.

- He tells himself he doesn’t care. You’re not his, you don’t owe him anything, and really, it’s probably his own damn fault for never making a move. But still, there’s this tightness in his chest, a slow-burning irritation curling in his stomach, and suddenly, he’s gripping his drink a little too hard.

- He could walk away. Should walk away. But instead, he lingers at the edge of the room, watching, waiting, fingers tapping against his thigh like he’s counting down the seconds before he does something stupid. And when you laugh at something that guy says? Yeah, that’s when he snaps.

- He doesn’t make a scene. No, Clint Barton is too smooth for that. Instead, he saunters over, slides an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and grins at the guy like he’s already won. “Hey, sweetheart. Who’s your friend?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. A warning.

- And when you glance up at him, confused but not pulling away, Clint feels something settle inside him. Something warm, something right. Maybe he’s been an idiot. Maybe he’s been avoiding this for too long. But he knows one thing for damn sure—he’s not letting anyone else steal what should’ve been his all along.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

- Natasha Romanoff is a master of control. Of reading a room, of keeping her emotions locked behind an unshakable mask. But this? This is unexpected. This burn in her chest, this sharp, cutting edge of irritation curling along her spine as she watches someone else pull you into a conversation that should be hers.

- She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t let a single crack show. But her eyes follow every movement, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against her thigh, the only outward sign of the storm brewing beneath the surface. It’s ridiculous, really. You’re not hers. You’re free to do whatever you want. And yet…

- Yet, when you tilt your head, smiling at something they say, something inside her snaps. It’s subtle, barely there, but she moves—slipping through the crowd with effortless grace, coming to stand beside you, close enough that her presence demands attention.

- “Interesting conversation?” she asks, voice smooth as silk, but there’s something dangerous in the way she tilts her head, in the slight smirk playing at her lips. The person flirting with you hesitates, suddenly unsure, suddenly feeling like prey in the presence of a predator. And Natasha? She enjoys it.

- Later, when you’re alone, she leans in, voice softer now, more real. “You should be more careful,” she murmurs, fingers brushing yours. “Some people don’t deserve your attention.” And though she doesn’t say it outright, you hear the truth behind the words. She wants you for herself. And Natasha Romanoff always gets what she wants.

Bucky Barnes aka. The Winter Soldier

- Bucky Barnes has been through hell. He’s lost more than most, suffered in ways he doesn’t talk about, and rebuilt himself from the ground up. He knows better than to let himself get attached. But when he sees someone else standing too close to you, when he watches them steal your attention, something inside him goes cold.

- It’s not anger. Not exactly. It’s something deeper, heavier, a pressure in his chest that won’t ease no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. He doesn’t like this—this feeling of being on the outside, of watching you smile at someone who isn’t him.

- He clenches his jaw, looks away, tries to focus on something else. But then, as if the universe is testing him, he hears it—your laugh. Soft, genuine, warm. And it wrecks him. Because that laugh? It’s his favorite sound. And he doesn’t want anyone else to have it.

- He doesn’t move right away. He’s still figuring this out, still sorting through the mess of emotions he doesn’t know what to do with. But when you finally turn to him, eyes bright and unknowing, he meets your gaze and holds it. And for the first time, maybe ever, he lets the truth slip through.

- “Didn’t think I was the jealous type,” he admits, voice rough, words meant just for you. And when your lips part, surprised, he only smirks, shaking his head. “Guess I was wrong.”

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

- Matt Murdock is a patient man. He has to be. He’s spent his entire life walking the razor’s edge between control and chaos, between justice and vengeance. But this? This is different. This isn’t a courtroom battle or a rooftop fight—this is you, smiling at someone else, and it is unraveling him in ways he doesn’t expect.

- He can hear everything—the steady heartbeat of the person flirting with you, the subtle shift in your tone, the way your breath catches just slightly before you laugh. It’s innocent. Harmless. And yet, his grip on his cane tightens, his jaw locks, and he hates the way his pulse betrays him.

- He’s never been good at sharing. It’s not in his nature, not when it comes to things that matter. And you? You matter. More than he’s willing to admit. More than he should ever let himself believe.

- He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t step in. But when the conversation ends, when you finally come back to him, he tilts his head and murmurs, “They seemed… interesting.” There’s a sharp edge to his voice, something unreadable behind his glasses. And when you chuckle, brushing it off, he exhales slowly, forcing himself to let it go.

- But later, when it’s just the two of you, his fingers linger when they touch yours. His voice is softer, quieter when he says, “Just—don’t let someone else take what they don’t deserve, okay?” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you understand what he means. He wants to be the only one.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

- Frank Castle doesn’t get jealous. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Jealousy is for men who have something to lose, for men who still believe in the kind of love that doesn’t end in blood. And Frank? He doesn’t have that luxury.

- But then he sees you—sees them, standing too close, talking too smooth, and something inside him goes black. His blood turns to fire, his muscles coil tight, and suddenly, he has to remind himself not to break something.

- He watches. Silent. Dangerous. The kind of quiet that makes lesser men nervous, that turns a warm room cold. And when your laughter rings out, light and unknowing, Frank swears he feels something crack inside him.

- He doesn’t make a move. Doesn’t say a word. But when the conversation ends, when you finally turn and meet his eyes, there’s something dark and unreadable waiting there. Something that should scare you. But it doesn’t.

- Later, in the dead of night, he exhales smoke into the silence and mutters, “Should’ve killed ‘em.” And maybe he’s joking. Maybe he’s not. But either way, Frank Castle knows one thing for sure—he’s never letting anyone else think they have a chance with you. Not while he’s still breathing.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

- Marc Spector has always been a man of war. His heart is battle-worn, his soul stitched together by vengeance and duty. Love? Love is dangerous. Love makes you weak. But when he sees someone else’s hand resting just a little too long on your arm, when he watches their eyes linger on you the way only he should be allowed to—Marc feels something snap.

- It’s not a rational thing. No, it’s visceral, instinctual, an old wound torn open and bleeding jealousy into his ribs. His fingers twitch, his vision narrows, and for a brief, fleeting second, the weight of Khonshu’s will presses against his skull. Hurt them. Make them regret it.

- But then, you laugh—soft, unknowing, untouched by the storm raging inside him. And that’s what stops him. That’s what saves him. Because you don’t need his darkness. You deserve something gentler than him.

- So he stays where he is, jaw tight, fists clenched, shadows curling around his thoughts like whispers in the night. He doesn’t interfere. Not yet. But when you finally turn to him, oblivious to the war he’s fighting inside, his voice is low, rough, edged with something he doesn’t dare name.

- “Let’s go.” It’s not a request. And when you blink up at him, confused but willing, Marc exhales. You’ll never know just how close he came to losing himself for you.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

- Johnny Storm doesn’t do jealousy. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself. He’s too cool for that, too charming, too damn good-looking to ever feel threatened. But the second he sees someone else trying to steal your attention, the easy confidence he’s built around himself starts to flicker.

- He keeps it casual at first—leans against the bar, crosses his arms, smirks like he’s just so amused by whatever’s happening. But beneath that cocky grin, his fingers tighten against the glass in his hand, and the tips of his ears burn hot.

- He tries to laugh it off. Makes a joke at your expense, something playful, something light. But when you don’t immediately turn back to him, when you keep talking to them, the flames inside him rise, licking at the edges of his restraint.

- “Okay, that’s cute,” he finally mutters, before striding over and slinging an arm around your shoulders with deliberate ease. His smile is bright, a little too sharp, as he looks the other person up and down. “You make friends fast, huh?”

- He plays it off well. Too well. But later, when you’re alone, he mutters, almost to himself, “Y’know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to kill me.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, he exhales. Yeah, he’s in trouble. Big trouble.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

- Reed Richards has spent his life solving impossible equations, unraveling the mysteries of the universe, conquering the unknown with nothing but his mind. But this? This is a problem he doesn’t know how to fix.

- He sees you—sees them—standing too close, exchanging words he can’t quite hear over the noise of the room. Logic tells him he has no reason to react. You are not a variable in an equation he controls. And yet, the sharp sting of possessiveness coils in his chest, irrational and unrelenting.

- He tells himself to let it go. There is no scientific basis for jealousy. It is an emotional impulse, a flaw in human reasoning. And yet, his fingers tighten around the pen in his hand, his mind fracturing into a thousand calculations, each one ending in the same conclusion:

- He does not want to lose you.

- Later, when he finally speaks, it’s careful, measured, spoken in that calm, analytical tone that betrays nothing. “You seemed… engaged in that conversation.” It’s not an accusation, not quite, but when you tilt your head at him, curious, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he’s already lost the upper hand.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

- Felicia Hardy doesn’t do jealousy. She’s far too confident, far too aware of her own power, to feel threatened by someone else’s presence in your orbit. And yet, when she sees them flirting with you—sees their hand brushing your arm, sees your lips curve at whatever they said—she feels something sharp and territorial curl inside her.

- She doesn’t react immediately. No, Felicia Hardy is far too strategic for that. Instead, she watches, waits, lets them think they have a chance. And then, just when they start to relax, she makes her move.

- “Mind if I cut in?” Her voice is silk, smooth and effortless, her fingers trailing along your arm as she steps between you and the intruder. She doesn’t even have to look at them to know they’ve already lost.

- She leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, her voice dropping to something only you can hear. “Careful, kitten. You don’t want to get tangled up with the wrong person.” And when you shiver—when you look at her the way she wants you to—she knows she’s won.

- Later, as you walk together, she smirks, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You should be more careful who you flirt with.” And when you laugh, shaking your head, she only grins wider. You were always going to be hers.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

- Stephen Strange has never been the kind of man to fear losing something. He has conquered the impossible, rewritten fate, bent the very fabric of reality to his will. And yet, when he sees you with them—sees you laugh, sees you lean in—he feels something disturbingly close to fear.

- He tells himself it’s illogical. That he has no claim to you, that what you do is none of his concern. But the words taste hollow in his mouth, and the air around him hums with restrained magic, with emotions he refuses to name.

- He doesn’t intervene—not at first. No, Stephen Strange is not a man of petty impulses. But when the conversation lingers too long, when he sees them touch your arm, he exhales sharply and moves.

- “I wasn’t aware we were entertaining guests.” His voice is even, his expression unreadable, but there is something unmistakably sharp in his gaze as he steps beside you. The other person stiffens. Good.

- Later, when you question him about it, he only lifts a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But the way his fingers graze your wrist, the way his magic lingers against your skin? It tells a different story. One he isn’t ready to say aloud. Not yet.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

- Namor is a king. A warrior. A god among men. He has no reason to feel jealousy, no reason to regard anyone as his competition. And yet, when he sees another lingering too close, their gaze trailing over you with something unearned, his blood boils.

- He watches, expression composed but dangerous, as they speak to you, as they dare to bask in your presence. Do they think they are worthy? Do they believe, for even a moment, that they can take what Namor has already claimed in his heart?

- He does not interrupt—not immediately. No, Namor is patient, calculating. He waits for the perfect moment, stepping forward with regal, effortless confidence, his presence alone enough to command attention. His fingers brush your arm, a deliberate, possessive motion. “My dear, surely you do not waste your time with this one?”

- His voice is smooth, edged with something sharp. The poor fool who thought they had a chance swallows hard, sensing the shift in the air. Namor does not need to fight for you. He simply reclaims what is his.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his only response is a slow, knowing smirk. “You belong at my side, and my side alone.” And when you see the certainty in his gaze, you realize—he’s not asking. He’s declaring.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

- Johnny Blaze has never been a man of peace. His soul is battle-worn, haunted by fire and vengeance. But nothing—nothing—burns quite like the sight of someone else trying to steal your attention.

- His jaw tightens, his grip on the edge of the bar going white-knuckled as he watches. He tells himself to let it go. He’s not the type to get jealous, right? But the Rider in his chest—the monster wrapped in fire and bone—growls in warning.

- He doesn’t make a scene. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he moves, slow and deliberate, stepping into the conversation like he was always meant to be there. His presence alone is enough to shift the atmosphere—dangerous, electric.

- He doesn’t glare, doesn’t threaten, but when his dark, firelit gaze locks onto the poor bastard who thought they had a chance, the message is clear. Back off. Now. And they do. Because everyone does, eventually.

- Later, when you ask if he was jealous, he scoffs, looking away. “Jealous? Nah. Just didn’t like their face.” But the way his hand lingers on your hip, the way his body hums with unspoken possession? Yeah, he’s a terrible liar.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

- Eddie Brock knows jealousy. It’s been his constant companion—festering, clawing at his insides long before the symbiote ever took root in his veins. But this—seeing you smile at someone else, seeing their eyes linger on you—it’s a different kind of ache.

- “We do not like this.” The voice slithers through his mind, low and possessive, the symbiote pressing against his ribs like it wants out. Eddie grits his teeth, his fingers flexing as he tries to shove down the urge to tear something apart.

- He tells himself it’s fine. You’re not his. Not really. But when that idiot reaches out—when their hand dares to brush against you—Venom surges forward before he can stop it. A dark, twisted growl bubbles from his throat, something inhuman.

- The poor bastard nearly jumps out of their skin. “What the hell was that?” they mutter, backing away as a shadow flickers over Eddie’s eyes. And when you glance at him, brow furrowed, he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Dunno. Must be the wind.”

- Later, when Venom whispers, “We should eat them,” Eddie just mutters, “No, we shouldn’t.” But as you walk beside him, unaware of the war raging inside him, he wonders—what would it take for you to see that you’re already his?

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

- T’Challa is not a man ruled by petty emotions. He has been raised in the art of restraint, taught that a king must always remain in control. But when he sees another vying for your attention, when he watches their hand hover too close—his restraint is tested.

- He does not react immediately. No, he simply observes, his expression unreadable, his mind already three steps ahead. There is no need for outbursts, no need for crude displays of possession. T’Challa wins wars with patience and precision.

- And so, when the moment is right, he moves—effortless, calculated, undeniable. His voice is smooth as he steps into your space, his hand settling gently at the small of your back. “Forgive my interruption,” he says, gaze flickering to the would-be suitor, voice full of quiet authority. “But I believe I was promised this dance.”

- The other person falters, unsure, outmatched in a game they did not even realize they were playing. T’Challa does not need to fight for you. He simply reminds the world who he is.

- Later, when you tease him about it, his lips curve into something soft, something secret. “You are… precious to me.” And though he does not say more, the look in his eyes is enough. You are not just a passing fancy. You are a queen, and he will not let anyone take you from him.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

- Elektra is not jealous. Jealousy is for the weak, for the foolish, for those who lack the confidence to take what they want. But when she sees them—sees you—laughing at something someone else said, her knives feel heavier at her hips.

- She does not make a scene. No, Elektra is far too skilled in the art of subtlety for that. Instead, she watches, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Not with violence—not yet.

- When she finally moves, it’s with all the grace of a predator circling its prey. She doesn’t touch you, not immediately, but she steps into your space like she belongs there. And when she finally speaks, it’s a soft, amused purr—“Surely you don’t find them interesting?”

- Her hand traces your wrist, feather-light, but the weight of it is undeniable. She doesn’t even look at the other person. They don’t matter. They never did.

- Later, when you tell her she was jealous, she only smiles, slow and dangerous. “Jealous? No. But if they touch you again, I’ll consider sharpening my blades.” And something about the way she says it makes you wonder—was she joking?

[todays-xkcd]

Hint: If you ever encounter this puzzle in a crossword app, just [term for someone with a competitive and high-achieving personality].

A Crossword Puzzle [Explained]

Transcript

[A square 15x15 crossword puzzle is shown. Only 21 of the 225 squares are black. The black squares are in a pattern that are 180 degree rotationally symmetrical. Three black squares down from the 11th column and similarly three black squares up from the 5th column. Three black squares out from the right in row 7 and then two more black squares diagonally up from the end. Similarly three black squares out from the left in row 9 with two more black squares diagonally down from the end. A single black square is three above the first black square on the diagonal going down to the right and similarly there is a black square three under the first of the diagonal squares going down to the left. (Row 6 column 12 and Row 10 column 4). Finally there are three black squares on a diagonal crossing over the central point by going up from the left through the central point (Row 8 column 8). There are numbers at the top of every column (except the one that is a black square) and similarly at the left edge of all rows (except the one that is a black square). There are also numbers at the bottom of every black segment (except the one that reaches the bottom) and all rows after black segments except the one that reaches the right edge. In total all numbers from 1 to 51 is written. They are written in reading order from 1 to 51.]

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51

[Below the square there are two rows of clues for each number that belongs to across (rows) and to the right there are one row of clues for each number that belongs to down (columns). Both segments have an underlined and bold title above the clues. ]

'''Across'''

1. Famous Pvt. Wilhelm quote

11. IPv6 address record

15. "CIPHERTEXT" decrypted with Vigenère key "CIPHERTEXT"

16. 8mm diameter battery

17. "Warthog" attack aircraft

18. Every third letter in the word for "inability to visualize"

19. An acrostic hidden on the first page of the dictionary

21. Default paper size in Europe

22. First four unary strings

23. Lysine codon

24. 40 CFR Part 63 subpart concerning asphalt pollution

25. Top bond credit rating

26. Audi coupe

27. A pair of small remote batteries, when inserted

29. Unofficial Howard Dean slogan

32. A 4.0 report card

33. The "Harlem Globetrotters of baseball" (vowels only)

34. 2018 Kiefer song

35. Top Minor League tier

36. Reply elicited by a dentist

38. ANAA's airport

41. Macaulay Culkin's review of aftershave

43. Marketing agency trade grp.

44. Soaring climax of Linda Eder's ''Man of La Mancha''

46. Military flight community org.

47. Iconic line from ''Tarzan''

48. Every other letter of Jimmy Wales's birth state

49. Warthog's postscript after "They call me ''mister'' pig!"

50. Message to Elsa in ''Frozen 2''

51. Lola, when betting it all on Black 20 in ''Run Lola Run''

“Down

1. Game featuring "a reckless disregard for gravity"

2. 101010101010101010101010 [sub]2→16

3. Google phone released July '22

4. It's five times better than that ''other'' steak sauce

5. ToHex(43690)

6. Freddie Mercury lyric from ''Under Pressure''

7. Full-size Audi luxury sedan

8. Fast path through a multiple choice marketing survey

9. 12356631 in base 26

10. Viral Jimmy Barnes chorus

11. Ruby Rhod catchphrase

12. badbeef + 9efcebbb

13. In Wet Let's ''Ur Mum'', what the singer has been practicing

14. Refrain from Nora Reed bot

20. Mario button presses to ascend Minas Tirith's walls

24. Vermont historic route north from Bennington

26. High-budget video game

28. Unorthodox Tic-Tac-Toe win

29. String whose SHA-256 hash ends "...689510285e212385"

30. Arnold's remark to the Predator

31. The vowels in the fire salamander's binomial name

32. Janet Leigh ''Psycho'' line

34. Seven 440Hz pulses

37. Audi luxury sports sedan

38. A half-dozen eggs with reasonably firm yolks

39. 2-2-2-2-2-2 on a multitap phone keypad

40. .- .- .- .- .- .-

42. Rating for China's best tourist attractions

43. Standard drumstick size

45. "The rain/in Spain/falls main-/ly on the plain" rhyme scheme

[sagent-of-chaos]

bite size bagel

[azzibuckets]

i didn’t wanna say it while i was there for safety reasons but i was at the madison reed event! and now i can’t shut up about it lol

paige and azzi were a lot shyer/quieter than i expected!! they might’ve just been tired or still warming up to the meet and greet, but they were still nice. honestly it was probably because there were so many people there and i think they were nervous haha

i made super long eye contact w azzi and was completely frozen lol. she’s soooo beautiful in person it’s unreal, there’s like a glow around her and her dimples POP 😭 when i met them i barely even looked at paige bc i was lowkey intimidated and also i couldn’t look away from azzi’s face..

they looked at each other and laughed whenever something funny happened and i thought that was really cute

[mothiir]

not a request, more of a fun fact because i saw another sanguinius fan here yesterday and i can’t find her blog for the life of me.

supposedly birds, particularly male birds, associate their wings being stroked with sexual stimulation and will become very sexually frustrated if it’s not taken care of. Stroking their wings too often will also cause them to associate you with being a mate instead of a friend or companion, which causes them to be jealous and possessive over you.

do with this information what you will

So what I did with this is write some sanguinius being a wee bit feral but also being the noble boy we love. Also I need to start writing things that aren’t dubcon because why is this the healthiest relationship I’ve written so far

—

—

cw: slightly lewd, implications of violence

—

—

It probably starts off completely by chance: you’re cleaning, and Sanguinius swans into his quarters without noticing you. Even the noblest of the Emperor’s sons will sometimes fail to acknowledge the staff, especially when he is distracted -- and oh, is the poor thing distracted. He’s just had to sit through a four hour meeting -- hosted by Roboute, with the Lion in attendance, and he has been zigzagging between acute boredom and blinding frustration -- and, on top of all of that, he is moulting. He claws his robe off his body, stretching his wings out to their full span. He makes a primal sound of pure satisfaction, contorting his sleek golden body to dig his fingers into his tender flesh, trying to unroot the snarls of not-quite loose feathers. Some come free easily; others snag. He wishes he was in Bhaal, where he could stretch himself out in the hot dry dust, and squirm back and forth, letting the acrid soil scratch the most stubborn of itches. Alas, there is no such amenity here, only -- 

It’s then he notices you, cloth in hand, frozen. At his gaze, you immediately drop to your knees, touch your forehead to the floor. 

“My lord Primarch -- forgive me --”

“Forgive you for what?” he says, lightly. “There is nothing to forgive; you are doing your duty. You are excused -- there is plenty aboard to be cleaned.”

You stand somewhat shakily, twisting the cloth between your hands. “Yes my lord. Of course my lord. It is just --”

You know a little about birds -- enough to recognise the signs of a highly uncomfortable moult. And Sanguinius is not a bird but the greatest man you have ever known, and yet…and yet you cannot help yourself. 

“--I wonder if I could be of assistance? With the uh -- with the pin feathers. The ones that aren’t open, I can see a few -- “

You make an aborted little gesture: fingers closing, as if around an invisible reed, pinching slightly, dragging up. Precisely the way he sees to his own pin feathers, letting the keratin sheathe surrounding them crumble against his grip, freeing the filament within. 

“My mother keeps birds,” you offer, as an explanation, then flush. “Not that you are one, my lord -- not --”

He chuckles at your unease, and settles himself down on his bed, patting the red silk quilt beside him. 

“Come. Assist me, if you are so keen.”

Many quail at the sight of him -- despite what Horus thinks, Sanguinius is more revered than beloved, and the difference between the two is stark -- but you do not. You approach him with downturned eyes, smelling faintly of fear, but you still approach him. 

Your hands are small and swift, deftly opening up the feathers in need of help, leaving the ones not yet ready. You work for hours, until your hands must be cramping from effort, but you do not quibble or complain. You smooth his primaries, straighten them in line with each other; you tug free lumps of down with sharp efficient gestures. Slowly, the itching fades, and with it the frustration. Before Sanguinius quite knows what he is doing, he has sprawled himself back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. You use the new angle to your advantage, reaching under his flank to work at the feathers closest to his wingjoints. 

“There,” you say, just as he feels about ready to drift off. His eyes are half-lidded, and a slight smile curves his lips. “That looks…better. You’re not done moulting yet, but that’s what I can do for now.”

“You’ll return tomorrow,” he says, a request and a command and a question all at once. Your cheeks are wonderfully pink as you nod. He ponders briefly what all that delicious blood would taste like, spilling down his throat, and then shoves the thought to the side. He will not ruin your helpfulness with his hunger. 

The next night, you perform the same job, and the night after that, and the night after that. His moult ends, but he thinks it best that you keep returning: caring for his wings is an important duty, after all, and you are so very good at it. So eager to please.

(A voice that sounds distressingly like Konrad’s says what else would she do to please you, golden one? -- but he ignores that, for he must.)

The problem becomes apparent not during those long late nights as you preen him while he tries to think of anything but how sweet your blood would taste, but in the middle of his ship. He has just led his sons to an astounding victory, coming to the aid of a local governor against a fleet of xenos raiders, and -- as is tradition -- they are celebrating, hosting the Imperium’s great and good aboard the Red Tear. The ballroom they gather in is built to accommodate a Primarch, with a huge arched ceiling, draped with scarlet silk. The walls are festooned with artwork of immense beauty, most painted by the Blood Angels themselves: scenes of battles hard won, golden cities on green hills, birds flying free over great glittering lakes. Sanguinius makes a speech, praising the well-fought battle of the planetary defense force against the raiders -- and meaning every word -- and then retires to a corner to sip his wine and try to relax. He cannot walk amongst the delegates without people dropping to their knees in supplication, so he finds that becoming part of the furniture is the best approach for a restful party for all.

That is when he sees you. You’re wearing the same basic formal outfit all of the serfs wear -- fine scarlet linen, embroidered with gold -- but you’ve altered the wide-legged trousers into a skirt, which swishes around your ankles as you move; a slit halfway up your thigh gives him a tantalizing glimpse of pale flesh, and his mouth goes dry. 

Deep in conversation with one of the proud young soldiers, you’re completely oblivious to Sanguinius’s hungry gaze. At least -- he hopes you is, because you laugh at something your companion says and then he touches your shoulder.

Before he can control himself, Sanguinius crosses the ballroom, picks up the young human and rips him in two, showering you both with a fountain of gore. Your scream stills in your throat, eyes bugging with terror, as he gathers you close, tongue running along your pulsing jugular, claws biting into your flesh as he shreds your garment, intent on claiming you then and there, his mate, his woman, his --

That, of course, is not what happens. What actually happens is that Sanguinius stalks towards you, a beatific smile pasted over his face, and the poor young man immediately steps backwards; his logical mind sees the Primarch, and is awestruck; but his primal lizard brain screams this is a predator you have to run. 

“I will have to steal you away, if you don’t mind,” he says, and of course you do not mind -- because you are his. His woman. His mate. As he steers you out of the ballroom, you confide in a low voice:

“Thank you. He was lovely, but just a little too eager. I think he was all of seventeen!”

Sanguinius knows he should feel ashamed that he had come this close to gutting a child-soldier who had the misfortune of making you laugh, but he doesn’t. He feels a little guilty at his lack of guilt, but that is it. If he had slain the boy it would have been his right, as your lord and master --

No. No. That is not him; that is not how he acts, nor how he behaves. Those impulses come to him for he is a warhawk and a warrior, but he does not act on them because he is not a monster. 

“These parties do get tiresome,” he says, ushering you ahead of him. “I am glad I have you to keep me company while we avoid them.”

You end up back in his bedroom, combing your fingers through his feathers. He melts under your touch, every sinew in his back starting to relax. Soon -- hopefully soon -- he will have you squirming and mewling under him, your legs spread eagerly for him, your tight little body welcoming him deep inside. Soon. When he is sure that you are saying yes because you want to, not because the overwhelming force of his desire is warping your own feelings. When he can trust himself not to hurt you anymore than you want to be hurt. 

Sanguinius can hold tight to his self control for that. For your sake. For his. 

[ivys-garden]

More Minecraft ideas, what part of Minecraft needs improvement?

You're wrong, it's ponds.

Ponds, lakes, lava pools. They all suck in Minecraft, they end up just being big holes in the ground with nothing interesting about them that make the landscape ugly and hole ridden

Now you might say “Ivy, literally no one cares” and to that I say, wheesht and accept my ramblings ya donut

So, how do we fix Ponds? It's simply really: make ponds generated structures.

Ponds would now be generated structures taking up one chunk, with an actual human made design to make them, you know, look good. There would be, say, 100 or so different designs to stop them looking to samey (they'd be so small that something like that would be feasible)

Lakes would be done similarly, only with the key difference, they would be made up of 4 chunk “cells”, each making up a corner of the lake.

ponds and lakes in plains or forest biomes would be made of blocks like mud and dirt.

Ponds and lakes in deserts (or oases if you want) would be made up of grass and sand

Ponds and lakes in tundras would be frozen over on the top layer of the water and with clay spawning around the water

Now, let's see some things that can be found in ponds and lakes:

Frogs

Nothing new here, frogs and frogspawn are most common ponds, pond frogs also only come in the green frog varietie.

Perhaps the oasis can have a desert rain frog variant that gives a purple frog light

Toads

Toads and toad spawn can be found in lakes and ponds in forest and plains biomes. Toads emerge from toad spawn in the same way frogs do. Toads have an exaggerated size, being double the size of the frog

Toads come in several colours (Green, Brown, Yellow, Orange and Lime) but these colours do not harbour any game mechanics (in other words: sorry but there are no toadlights)

Toads will eat all mobs with wings, that being the Parrot, Chicken, Phantom, Bat, Bee and the player if they are wearing an elytra, so watch out.

All the aforementioned mobs are scared of Toads, making them and effective deterrent to phantoms in particular

Cattails, Reeds, Rice, Algae and Papyrus

I'll just do all the plant life stuff at once (these will generate dependent on the pond or lake cell)

Algae is a new decorative blocks that can be placed on water

It will connect to other blocks, creating an unbroken surface across the water

Algae has a bright green hue and can be found in both ponds and lakes with the same frequency

Papyrus is a new plant that spawns naturally in the oasis, it is used as a more efficient way of making paper as it can be bonemealed and only one papyrus is needed to make paper

Rice is a plant that grows in water in lakes and ponds spawning in cherry groves.

Rice can be used in two recipes:

Rice Bowls:Putting rice, a bowl and any meat together will craft a rice bowl

This food source that can be eaten twice, eating the meat and then the rice

Sushi: putting rice, dried kelp and one fish into a crafting table creates Sushi, a foodsoarch that can be eaten instantly without playing the eating animation, not very nutritious but good in a pinch

Cattails are a purely decorative plant found in ponds and swamps

Reeds are more common around rivers and lakes, being a fern like plant that grows two tall.

Reeds can be used to craft a new item: Pan Pipes

Combining 3 reeds and 3 string will create pan pipes, these can be played to draw passive mobs towards you so long as the button to play them is held down.

Pan Pipes can also calm neutral mobs like wolves, iron golems and bees, but doing this instantly focus the Pan pipes into cool down

Pan pipes have a cool down double that of the Goat Horn

Bagpipes

By putting Pan Pipes, 3 iron nuggets, 3 red wool and 3 green wool together you can make Bagpipes.

Bagpipes have durability on top of having the same level of cool down as Pan Pipes. Bagpipes cannot be enchanted.

Bagpipes have the ability to PERMANENTLY pacify all hostile mobs in the chunk the player is in.

Bagpipes will break after 10 or so uses

Willow and Palm

Willow and palm are new wood types, Willow spawns around lakes and ponds and Palm spawns around oases.

Willow has a dark Bluish-green colour, complementing mangrove, where as Palm is a desaturated pale white

(These will generate depending on the pond or lake cell)

(Part 1/3)

[klovercrown]

Stripped ~ Mr. Reed X Reader ~Smut~(18+)

Warnings: Older man/younger woman (mid 20s), rough sex, unprepared anal, fingering, choking, corruption, humiliation

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

A/N: Ayo! First time writing for Mr. Reed and i wanted to do a lil something for Valentines (Happy Valentines day btw).

He might be OOC (I wanted him to be a lil mean 🤭) grammar and writing might be off, but i hope y'all enjoy <3

Tell me, my dear... have you ever been touched by a man?"

Caught off guard by his sudden question, you lost your grip on the handle of the teacup of chamomile he made for you. The warm liquid spilled onto your button-up shirt, the lap of your black skirt, and onto the carpet next to your feet. Fortunately, the cup didn't shatter to pieces due to the cushion from the rug. You blushed from embarrassment, picking the teacup up from the ground and profuse apologies leaving your lips.

Mr. Reed only let out a chuckle, picking up a handkerchief from the coffee table to clean the mess. "Apologies, my dear. A reaction like that is expected from a strange man asking out of line. Terribly sorry." He brushed it off, still playing the nice old man act while his gaze lingered on your chest.

The tea seeped through the material of your shirt; the outline of your bra was visible. A low chuckle emitted from him, sending a shiver through your body along with the lingering arousal between your legs.

"Now look what I did...." He tsked, gently grabbing the teacup from your hands to set it aside. You sat up straight and still, swallowing with a dry throat. "I... I'm sorry for spilling that, Mr. Reed. It's just your question—

"Made you uncomfortable? Say no more, Sister (L/N). It was quite rude of me to inquire about something as personal as one's sexual history. Allow me." He insists as he gently dabs the stain on your shirt, his fingers brushing against the top of your breast through the napkin.

You flinched from his touch but didn't pull away, catching the small cheeky grin appearing on his face from your reaction. "There, there, no need to cry over spilled tea." He chuckled at his joke, eyeing you for a reaction but was only met with you in an anxious state. "Tough crowd."

As soon as he pulls the cloth away from your shirt, you smooth your clothes and stand up. "I appreciate your hospitality and time, but I—" Your shaky words trailed off, unsure of what to say that wouldn't anger or set him off in any way. You stood there frozen, anxiously fidgeting with the fabric of your skirt. He gave you his tight-lipped smile, dropping the handkerchief. "Let me ask... Sister (L/N)..." He asked, taking a step closer, which made you cower away and take a step back.

"....You didn't move away when a complete stranger touched your chest; why is that?" He said with a sinister chuckle, adjusting his thin-framed glasses. Mr. Reed's words filled you with confusion and embarrassment, wondering where this man gets off probing you with these types of questions.

You swallowed once more, struggling to find the words. "I...I don't know what you want me to say, Mr. Reed. I was panicked and caught off guard by your question..." You stumbled over your words and hugged your arms around yourself, feeling your heart start to pound against your chest.

He watched you with a hint of satisfaction at you struggling under his gaze. "Panicked? Caught off guard?" He politely ponders before stepping closer to you, within arm's length. "My dear....forgive me, but I don't buy those poor excuses for a second."

He was so rude, antagonizing, conceited, and damn...his words just turned you on more and more. Your eyes hesitate to meet his, regretting as soon as his grin grows. There is an aggressive blush spread on your cheeks, and you struggled to maintain eye contact with him.

You couldn't help but blush harder as he took a couple more steps towards you, invading your personal space. Your back hit the wall; you felt a hint of anticipation as he stared down at you. You stare down, looking down at your heaving chest to avert his gaze.

"Sister (L/N), is there a reason my question is causing you such discomfort? You're trembling…" He says as he grazes his hand along your arm, making you flutter your eyes closed from the feeling. "...you still didn't answer, Sister." He said in a teasing tone, which made you snap your gaze back up at him. "No, I've never been touched before." You firmly answered, hoping it would satisfy whatever sick, curious thoughts he had lingering in his mind.

"You haven't. Well, that doesn't explain why you allowed me to touch you. You like the feeling, don't you?" He questioned, bringing a hand up to fidget with a lock of your hair. You jumped from his touch but didn't pull away, finding yourself enjoying the feeling of his hand stroking your hair.

"Your silence is all the confirmation I need, Sister (L/N)." He says while leaning into your personal space, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. A whine leaves your lips, overwhelmed by his lewd questions and touching. "Have you ever touched yourself?" He asks in a hushed tone, attempting to push your boundaries and overwhelm you further.

You bite your bottom lip. "Mr. Reed..." It came out in a pleading tone; you glanced up at him with beckoning eyes. "Use your words, Sister (L/N)..." He sternly tells you, his hands sliding down the side of your arms, then gripping your elbows. You nod. "Yes, I have touched myself."

He hummed in satisfaction, releasing your arms and then stepping back to the corridor. You stand frozen, unsure of what to do, until you hear the snap of his fingers, beckoning you to follow him.

Despite this terrifying situation you find yourself in, your feet led you to him. He looks pleased with your, lack of a better word, decision to walk with him down the dark corridor. He led you into what looked to be a home church, office, or study. With many bookshelves, a desk with wooden figurines, religious idols, etc.

"Now...." He starts, "...if you wish to leave, I am not stopping you, and your coat is right there." He gestures to the coat rack in the corner of the room. "However, if you choose to stay, I won't disappoint..." He says in a low tone, causing you to feel weak in the legs. After a deafening silence, you nod.

He smiles, "Excellent, now take off your clothes." He casually tells you, causing that tingling sensation to come back but close to unbearable. Your hands move to unbutton your tea-stained shirt, letting it drop to the ground. You wore nothing but a white bra underneath, leaving just your skirt. As you fidget with the hem of your skirt, you steal glances of him watching. He displayed the stoic expression he kept, but you could see he was containing himself from ravishing you.

As soon as your skirt drops to the ground, leaving you in just your bra and panties, he pins you against the edge of his desk. It happened so fast, you didn't have time to reach his warm lips smashing against yours. Whines and moans escape you, your body reacting from the touch and the taste of a man for the first time, and fuck, did you love it. His hands wandered along your body, from caressing your waist to groping your ass. "Fuck..." You mumble against his lips, which caused him to pull away.

"Bend over the desk." He tells you, taking off his glasses and slipping them in the pocket of his sweater. You obey, turning around and leaning forward while grabbing onto the edge. Fear and anticipation consumed you as his hand pulled at the waistband of your panties, yanking them down your legs. Mr. Reed's hands run along her calves, hips, and to your ass. "Now....I know you're a virgin; I must warn you I can get a little carried away—" "It's fine! Please use me!" You pleaded, even surprising yourself with this newfound lustful behavior. You have only secretly looked at adult magazines and masturbated, but this was new and exciting to you.

A low groan escapes him, squeezing your right buttock. "Dirty girl..." he whispers before bringing his hand down to swat you on the rear, causing you to yelp and jump from the blow. He chuckles, stroking the spot tenderly. You feel his fingers draw near to your pussy; you gasp as soon as they touch your folds. "You're sopping wet..." he says as he shoves his digits inside of you, drawing out moans and pleas from you.

He pumped his fingers inside of you, using his other hand to grip onto your left buttock, his thumb probing your tight ring. It was so foreign to you; it felt so uncomfortable but blurred with the feeling of him finger-fucking you. Overstimulated from his fingering and teasing, you throw your head back. "Please...please fuck me!" You beg, only to have him ram his fingers deep to silence you. He gently shushed you, his warm lips pressing kisses and nips at the nape of your neck. "Now now, my dear....Patience is a virtue.'" Slipping his fingers out of you, he moves them in front of your lips. "Open."

Without hesitation, you part your lips to have him shove his fingers onto your tongue. You closed your eyes as you tasted the delicious combination of his skin and your sweet juices, softly moaning like a whore. "Good girl," he praises, releasing his fingers and smearing his saliva-soaked fingers along your cheek. You hear him unzip his pants, gasping from the warm touch of his cock against your lower back.

Mr. Reed fidgets with the back of your bra, unbuckling it and letting it drop to the floor. He moves his hands to caress your breasts, his warm palms against your hard nipples. "I'm going to fuck you now; it usually takes preparation, but of course there is no issue with how soaked you are." The tip of his cock pushes inside of you, making you cry out and claw onto the surface of the desk.

After a few moments of adjusting, he starts to move. Mr. Reed moves at a steady pace, groaning against your neck from how tight your pussy squeezes him. "Fuck, such a dirty girl...aren't you?" He ends with a harsh thrust, making you choke out a moan. "Yesssss, yess, I'm a dirty girl~" you whine out, barely able to speak properly from the constant noises and the rough fucking you were receiving. One of his hands snakes up between the valley of your breasts, cradling the column of your throat.

Caught between his tightening grip and the new angle of his thrusts, you were in a euphoric state you never thought you would ever experience. His cock abused your cervix, and his balls slapped against your clit from each motion. With the release of his grip around your throat, you exhale. You feel him slip his cock from your vagina, making you feel empty.

As soon as you feel his fingers spread your cheeks, you feel yourself back against his hands. That was all the encouragement he needed, pressing the head of his cock against your ass. "Now....this won't be pleasant in the beginning, but you're going to like it anyway, aren't you?" He murmurs in your ear and only lets out a quiet curse from your tightness, slowly pushing in at an agonizing pace. Hot tears stream down your cheeks, and you went through a whirlwind of feelings from this. After a moment of silence, he cruelly drags out all of his length and slams it back in. "Aren't you?" You hastily nod.

It feels like a burning sensation; it burns and hurts just so damn right. He roughly squeezes one of your breasts while his other hand moves between your legs, mercilessly rubbing your clit. The feeling of his fingers pleasuring you and making your body reach closer and closer to your climax caused tears to stream down your face; this hurt so good. Increasing the pace of fucking your tight ass, he scooped more of your juices onto his fingers before resuming pleasuring you. "Who's my good girl?" He praises, pressing a kiss to your jawline. "Yours! I'm your good girl~" "Fuck.....right you are, I'm almost there~!" He speaks through gritted teeth, increasing his rough treatment on your body.

You feel as if you're about to pass out, your eyes rolling back as your orgasm reaches its peak. Right as you came undone and grinded against his hand, his hands moved to grope whatever parts of your body during your orgasm. He wrapped his arms around your chest and held your exhausted body to his chest as grunts and groans emitted from him, filling your ass up like a pastry.

As you were recovering from the brutal orgasm and 'heavy petting' you just received, he tucked himself back and zipped his pants. As your knees buckled and your eyes closed, you feel him lift your worn out body into his arms. His warm breath tickles your cheek "Happy Valentine's Day, darling~" placing a kiss before you slip into slumber.