#merlot monday

[wine-picks]

🇿🇦 🍷 Capping my long weekend with lovely 2009 Grand Vin de Glenelly Red (91 pts, $20) from South Africa tonight. A Shiraz - Cabernet Sauvignon blend. Full review: https://rebrand.ly/o1pkg07

[derekhighwaytf]

Witches and Twinks

MONDAY

The small London restaurant’s dim light flickered against the wine glasses, casting soft Merlot shadows onto George and Adam’s lips, noses, the entirety of their smug, helpless faces. This should have been the perfect pairing.  They were both intellects, with high senses of self and a love for information (ie. control), and though they’d talked for nearly an hour at this point, the conversation felt more like a fencing match than the start of a beautiful new friendship—each word a parry, each retort a thrust. Adam, dressed in his sweater and khakis, leaned back in his chair with a faint smile, his tone sharp but measured for every measure George tried to fling upon him.

“As much as people romanticize magic or ‘karma,’ it’s all just bullish storytelling,” Adam said, swirling the last of his drink. “Yes, Shakespeare and Marlowe write about it, but even they understood that human intellect, not divine intervention, drives our fate. Julius Caesar—perfect example. ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.’ The real power lies in reason and intellect.”

George, dressed more casually in his loose-fitting green shirt, met Adam’s judgey gaze with a bewitchingly bemused smile. “Shakespeare also believed in the supernatural,” he countered. “The witches in Macbeth didn’t rely on logic to mess with the characters. Magic, fate, karma—call it what you may, but it holds an inexplicable force over more than just imagination. You’d be surprised how much control you don’t have.”

Adam chuckled, leaning forward slightly, his confidence more than bordering on just arrogance. “Macbeth? The witches merely represent internal fears and ambition every man or woman has in themselves. You can interpret them as mystical, inexplicable forces if you must, but at the end of the day, it’s Lady Macbeth’s persuasion and greed that destroy her husband. Shakespeare knew that intellect was the ultimate weapon. Magic? That’s just an excuse for weak minds like yourself who can’t handle the complexity of the human condition.”

George’s smile twitched as if he found the power not to turn Adam into the jackass he’d been acting like right then and there. “You academics, always trying to boil everything down to logic. I think you’re missing the point of the supernatural entirely. It’s not always about intellect. There are forces beyond understanding, beyond your understanding,—forces that aren’t impressed by your degrees or how many times you’ve read Troilus and Cressida.”

“An underrated work, if I say so myself.”  Adam’s smirk deepened. “And yes, the mysterious ‘forces beyond understanding.’ Tell me, how do they rank next to a Ph.D. in Shakespeare? I’d be curious to know.”

George tilted his head and took a swig of his drink, his gaze softening in a way that made Adam’s need to seek scholarly validation seem hollow. “You think Shakespeare would’ve agreed with you?”

“I know he would’ve,” Adam replied, superiority painting his tone. “The entire premise of his greatest works is that humanity’s biggest downfall is ignorance, not the supernatural. He’d side with intellect.”

“Or maybe he’d side with me.” George leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “You don’t think Shakespeare had a little magic in him? Maybe even enough to change a man forever?”

Adam’s smile faltered slightly, a small crack in his polished confidence. “What are you getting at?”

George’s just giggled, something dark and knowing flashing behind them. “I’m saying that not everything in this world is logical, Adam. You’re sitting here, lecturing me about Shakespeare, as if your intellect puts you above magic or fate. But I could change your entire world with just a flick of my hand, and all that book knowledge would evaporate into thin air.”

Adam’s gulped, unsure whether to get up and run or call the waiter. “Magic doesn’t exist,” he scoffed. “This isn’t some fantasy. It’s reality. You want to impress me? Show me something real.”

Without hesitation, George raised his hand, a scarred palm outstretched, and without breaking eye contact, he waved it through the suddenly thickened air with an inexplicable grace. The motion was so sudden, almost imperceptible, but Adam’s reaction was immediate. His breath hitched, his confident posture writhing and wilting as his widened eyes fluttered in confusion. The polished veneer of intellectual superiority melted away as something unfamiliar and overpowering gripped him.

Suddenly, Adam found himself folded over the table, unable to look away from George. The irritation he’d felt moments before evaporated, replaced by a deep, floundering passion—something that made his heart race and his chest tighten. His thoughts scrambled, no longer sharp and clear but clouded, fogged by an overwhelming sense of need.

“I…” Adam stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “I don’t understand… what were we—?”

George shushed him, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction. “You’re not supposed to understand, love. That’s the point.”

Adam’s breath grew shallow, his pulse quickening as his gaze locked onto George, unable to break away. His mind, usually so sharp and critical, was a jumbled mess of scrambled eggs. Everything he knew, everything he prided himself on, suddenly felt distant, irrelevant. All that mattered now was George—his voice, his presence, his timeless beauty.  George was Adam’s everything now.

“You’re…” Adam’s words trailed off as his hand reached across the table, trembling. “You’re the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”  He swallowed his own tongue, choking on his own breath.  “Will you marry me?”

George’s smile widened, a quiet, knowing victory in his eyes. He leaned back, looking under the table, watching as Adam’s brain couldn’t catch up to his…heart.

“And just like that,” George whispered, “all your intellect can’t stop what you feel now, can it?”

Adam blinked, his face flushed with a mix of confusion and something else, something deeper. “No… I… I can’t stop it.” He swallowed hard, his voice small, vulnerable. “I don’t want to.” 

George’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured, his voice smooth as silk. “Now, why don’t we talk about something that really matters back at your place?”

Every part of his intellectual, collected self knew better than to let this menace into his home, but all Adam could do was nod at his newfound love’s commands. And how bad could it be?  All’s well that ends well, right?

Adam fumbled with the keys to his flat, his hands trembling with an erotic urgency he’d never known before. A man of his knowledge and tact would never sleep with a man so quickly, but alas, his once methodical mind, the same one that could cite King Lear on a whim, now reeled only with thoughts of George on his bed—George's lustful eyes, George’s sweet cock, George's very presence seemed to fill every emotional crevice of his being. His usual restraint, his prudent superiority, was gone, replaced by a consuming need to be filled by this cunning, enchanting strange.

They stumbled inside, the door locking shut behind them. “I’ve never…” Adam’s voice cracked, and he shook his head, words failing him. “I don’t know why, but I want you, I need you. Now.”

George’s lips curled into a soft smile, almost pitying. “Not yet, love. You’re tired.”

“No, I—” Adam’s horny existence began to protest, but before he could finish, George raised his hand and with a single flick of the wrist, Adam’s body crashed into a wave of heavy and irresistible drowsiness. His knees buckled slightly, and he stumbled backward onto his bed, the fatigue wrapping itself around him like a thick, suffocating blanket. His eyelids fluttered as the last bit of resistance left him, and in moments, he was fast asleep, still in the preppy clothes that once defined him.

George stepped forward, his eyes brooding as he stood over Adam's sleeping form. His fingers trailed lightly over Adam’s temple, tracing the outline of his brow. “You’ll thank me for this one day,” George murmured, though he knew Adam couldn’t hear. 

With that, George’s expression shifted from amusement to something far more dangerous. He moved to the center of the room, kneeling over, and began reciting words in Old English, his voice low and rhythmic, like a conjurer summoning something deep and ancient.

“This man doth dress in shorts of scanty seam,  

But two inches, nay more, could his cloth bear.  

All trousers, all pants, dare try to redeem,  

Will twist and turn, yet still they'll shorten there.”

As the words slipped out from George’s lips, the change began. Adam’s legs, still clad in his conservative khakis, twitched. The fabric shimmered like glitter, rippling unnaturally, as though it had come alive beneath him. Slowly, the pant legs began to pull and pull, retracting themselves upward inch by inch. The sturdy material warped and shrank, tightening suddenly as it rose. In moments, the khakis had transformed entirely into a pair of short, nay, outrageously short gym shorts—barely two inches of inseam, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

The fabric clung to Adam’s shivering thighs, exposing pale skin that had seemingly never seen the light of day. His knees, his nonexistent calves, everything that had been carefully covered up was now on display, with the hem of the shorts barely reaching the tops of his legs. He lay there, still sleeping, completely oblivious to the transformation.

George’s eyes gleamed as he watched his imagination solidify into reality, their bright, synthetic fabric snug against Adam’s skin. “Much better,” he whispered, stepping closer. But alas, he wasn’t done just yet.

“In tanks of muscled shape, his chest laid bare,  

Neckline to navel, each nipple shall show.  

Armholes so deep, their movement none can spare,  

In every stride, his shirt reveals more woe.”

Another shift rippled through Adam’s sleeping body, this time around his torso. The sweater he’d been wearing—the very picture of propriety—began to distort itself, the fibers unraveling at his collar. The neckline dipped lower, and lower, and lower still, until it stopped just above his flat belly button. The sleeves, too, warped, pulling up and away from his twig-like arms until they were nothing but gaping holes that left his ribcage completely exposed. The fabric thinned as the sleeves disappeared, leaving him in a muscle tank so revealing that his nipples couldn’t help but to peek through with every slight motion.

The soft knit of his sweater had become a thin, athletic material, stretched across his chest and shoulders, barely covering anything. His once modest outfit was now reduced to something shamelessly provocative, his entire upper body on display, his pasty white skin brushing against the air with every breath.

George admired his work, his fingers drumming lightly against his thigh as he took in Adam’s new look. “Perfect,” he murmured. And yet, there was still more to be done.

“In high shoe laced, his socks pulled crisp and white,  

A chain of gold doth glisten 'round his neck,  

Beneath it all, a jock to fit him tight,  

No other cloth for him shall fate select.”

Once again, for the final time tonight, the changes swept through Adam’s cold, lifeless body, this time starting at his feet. His Sperry boat shoes dissolved, giving way to a pair of bright white Nike hi-tops, their thick laces tied into the most perfect bows for the treadmill. The socks that appeared around his ankles pulled up snugly, reaching mid-calf, their crisp whiteness almost blending to the cream of his skin.

Next, the thinnest, most douchiest gold chain materialized itself around his bony neck, resting just above his exposed collarbone. The delicate glint of the necklace caught the light, its subtle flash at odds with the rest of his now athletic ensemble. Finally, the transformation moved beneath his shorts. His boxers melted away, replaced by a tight-fitting jockstrap that cupped him in place, offering minimal coverage and the most maximum exposure, almost as if he were a twink stripper on the Miami shore instead of the next youngest professor at Yale.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Adam, once a picture of scholarly decorum, now lay before him clad in nothing but slutty gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed far more than Adam would ever desire, hi-top sneakers, a thin gold chain, and the most illuminating jockstrap. It was absurd, provocative—and exactly as George had imagined.

For the final touch, George recited the couplet, his voice soft but firm:

“Forever cursed, his garments shall remain,  

In shorts, in tanks, he'll live his life in vain.”

With those words, the spell was sealed. No matter what Adam touched, no matter how hard he tried, every article of clothing would morph into this same, revealing outfit. George smiled, satisfied, and took a seat in the armchair across from Adam. He watched him for a moment, sleeping so peacefully despite the irreversible change that had just taken place.

But as the night crept on, George allowed himself to sleep too, a smirk still resting on his lips as he lied next to his creation. Tomorrow, when Adam awoke and his spell of infatuation wore off, George knew that’s when the real fun would begin.

TUESDAY

“AHHHH!”  Adam woke up, his heart racing as the morning light shone onto his hungover face. His body felt strange, but his mind was far more disturbed. The events of the previous night seemed fragmented, cloudy—George, the strange pull, the overwhelming desire, none of it made sense. He sat up in his sheets, his eyes darting around the room, his chest heaving.

He looked beside himself and dear God, there he was. George was still asleep, draped casually across the sheets, his face peaceful in the way that seemed entirely at odds with the havoc he’d wreaked. Adam’s stomach turned. I slept with him, Adam thought, his mind spinning like a top. He clenched his fists in the sheets, his face flushed with shame. How had he let this happen? His mind, so methodical and proud, had completely failed him and allowed him to degrade himself for some vampiric twink.

Panic gripped him as he stood from the bed, only to stop mid-step when he realized a breeze he’d never felt before. His legs were bare, his thighs on full display. It was then that he noticed his reflection in the mirror across the room. His mouth fell open in shock. Gone were his conservative khakis and sweater. In their place, he wore nothing but a pair of impossibly short gym shorts, a muscle tank that exposed his chest and nipples, white socks pulled up to his calves, and, what on earth, a jockstrap?  He looked at himself again and thought he looked like a child dressing up in his musclehead uncle’s clothes.

He quickly shuffled to his dresser, desperate to change out of this ridiculous, humiliating outfit before George woke up. He rifled through his drawers and pulled out a pair of khakis and a button-down shirt, but as soon as his fingers touched them, they shimmered and twisted, morphing into the same slutty gym shorts and revealing muscle tank that now clung to his body. Adam's eyes widened in horror. He threw the clothes aside and reached for another pair, only for the same thing to happen. Every single item he touched—his jeans, his sweaters, even a pair of pajamas—all transformed into the same jock-bro ensemble.

“What the fuck?” Adam muttered under his breath, the frustration building. His heart pounded as he rifled through his now everchanging closet, grabbing hangers and tossing clothes aside in a frantic attempt to find something—anything—that wouldn’t transform. But everything he touched met the same fate, shrinking and twisting into the cursed, douchebag outfit.

Behind him, he heard a soft laugh.

George finally awoke, sitting up in bed, arms crossed, a lazy smirk plastered on his face. “Having trouble love?”

Adam spun around, his face flushed with fury. “What the hell is this?” He gestured to his outfit, his voice rising. “What did you do to me?”

George laughed again, softer this time, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “What’s wrong? What happened to the complexity of the human consciousness or whatever bullshit you were spewing last night?”

“Magic?!” Adam’s voice cracked with a mixture of disbelief and anger. “Is that what you’re blaming this on?  You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, but I am, love.”  George stood, casually pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “Oh, come on. Don’t you like your new look? I think it suits you.” He took a step closer, his smirk growing wider. “And honestly, after all that big talk, I would’ve thought you’d handle a little transformation with more grace.”

Adam clenched his fists, his voice shaking with rage. “This isn’t funny, George! Somehow you’ve made me look like some jock-bro idiot. What the hell am I supposed to do like this? Just tell me what you did!”

But George’s expression darkened. “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice dropped, the playful tone gone. “You can’t just insult me, mock what I believe, and expect no consequences.” He took another step forward, his brooding eyes locking with Adam’s. “You wanted to prove your intellect was above everything—above magic, above fate. But you’ve proven nothing except how small your mind really is.”

“Small?!” Adam barked. “The only thing small here is you, you psychopathic, egotistical—”

But before Adam could finish, George’s pupils flashed with anger. He raised his hand, the air around him seeming to hum with energy. “Careful what you say next,” George warned. “Or you might not like what comes next.”

Adam’s lips parted, the insult on the tip of his tongue, but he hesitated. His pride warred with his common sense, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re nothing but a dumb fucking slut."

Suddenly, quiet filled the room as the words escaped Adam’s quivering lip, but once he got himself collected, George’s voice rang out in outrage, calm, yet oh-so commanding.

“This man shall bear a curse of feet most foul,  

With stench of sweat, his socks shall rot and tear.  

His pits shall reek, his skin a pungent scowl,  

Athlete’s rot shall mar each inch laid bare.”

Adam barely had time to register what George had said before a horrifying sensation crept up from his feet. He looked down, his newly acquired hi-tops feeling unnaturally damp. His socks, once crisp and white, were now soaked with sweat and dirt, clinging to his wretched skin. He wrinkled his nose at the sudden, overwhelming odor that wafted up from his shoes. It was rancid—like rotting toe cheese mixed with mildew and and an ocean’s worth of sweat. His feet itched uncontrollably, the skin burning as if something was crawling beneath it.

At the same time, his armpits began to burn and sting. He reached up instinctively, only to pull his hand back in disgust. His armpits were slick with a salty wetness, and the stench hit him like a punch to the gut—thick, sour, and overwhelming. It was as if he hadn’t showered in weeks, months even. His face flushed with embarrassment as the realization set in: his body reeked. His feet, his armpits—every part of him was drenched in sweat and stench, a walking cloud of filth.

“What the—?” Adam staggered back, staring at George in disbelief. “What did you—?”

But George wasn’t finished. He raised his hand again, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

“This man shall itch where modesty once laid,  

His bush shall grow, his groin a scratching hell.  

He’ll fight in vain to stop his hands’ parade,  

As arse and crotch demand his touch as well.”

And just like that, a sharp itch exploded itself across Adam’s groin, so intense that he doubled over in shock. His fingers flew to his waistband, instinctively trying to scratch the burning sensation beneath his jockstrap. The itch was so unbearable, spreading across his groin and into his backside, radiating like fire near his hole. No matter how hard he tried to resist, his hands were drawn to the sensation, scratching furiously, desperate for relief.

But there was none. The more he scratched, the worse it got. His fingers dug into the fabric of his shorts, and soon, he was practically clawing at himself, unable to stop. His face flushed red with embarrassment. The itch was maddening, and it didn’t care about decorum or propriety. Weak, he was scratching himself in front of George, his hands running over his crotch and ass, completely helpless against the overwhelming need for relief.

“Stop this,” Adam gasped, his voice shaking as he continued to scratch. “Please, stop.”

But George only smirked, his voice calm as he began the next quatrain.

“Each hour, his body shall release its gas,  

With burps and farts to shake the very air.  

No matter where he goes, no lad or lass  

Will dare endure the odors he’ll declare.”

Before Adam could breath in, his stomach rumbled violently. His eyes widened in horror as his body took over, an enormous belch ripping from his throat, so loud it echoed through the tiny studio. A second later, a foul-smelling fart exploded from him like a cloud, the stink so pungent it nearly knocked him back. 

“No—” Adam gasped, but his body betrayed him again. Another belch, followed by another fart and another burp, and yet another fart. The stench filled the room, thick and nauseating. His face turned crimson as he stumbled back, his hands flying to his mouth as if he could stop the sounds from escaping, but it was no use. Every few seconds, another belch, another fart, the air around him quickly becoming unbreathable.

George watched, amused, as Adam staggered, his eyes wide with humiliation. He raised his hand one last time, his voice soft and final.

“This man of filth, of shame, of rank decay,  

Shall live apart from grace, in filth to stay.”

With that, George turned toward the door, leaving Adam in the haze of his own stench, his body a twisted caricature of everything he once prided himself on. The smell of his own filth lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive, but it was the itching, the relentless belching, and the horrible farts that kept him anchored to the spot. His whole body was a battlefield of sensations he couldn’t control. His intellect, once his greatest weapon, felt utterly useless now.

He staggered toward the bathroom, desperate to scrub away the grime of his new persona. He turned on the shower, hoping the water would wash away the stench and the shame. But as soon as the water hit his body, it did nothing. The sweat, the reek from his armpits and feet, even the itch in his groin—it was all still there, clinging to him like a second skin.

After multiple futile attempts, he stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed from scratching and embarrassment. His once carefully maintained hair was now matted with sweat, and his body, encased in the ridiculous bro-ey outfit, made him look more like a lazy frat boy than a Ph.D. candidate.

Adam threw on a hoodie, hoping it might cover up some of the smell, and pulled the hood over his head, trying to obscure himself. He couldn’t just stay home. He had a meeting with his professor that afternoon—he had to go. He had to maintain some semblance of normalcy, even though nothing about this felt normal.

As he left the apartment, he became acutely aware of the looks he was getting from people on the street. Some wrinkled their noses, others shot him a glance before quickly looking away. His footsteps echoed in his ears, punctuated by the sound of another loud fart escaping him, followed by a huge, gut-shaking belch. The smell followed him like a shadow, and the itch in his groin was impossible to ignore. He scratched absentmindedly, wincing as he did, but the relief only lasted a second before the itch came back with renewed intensity.

The closer he got to campus, the more nervous he became. His body wouldn’t stop betraying him—every few steps, another belch, another fart, another desperate scratch of his groin and butt. He could feel the sweat pooling beneath his shirt, the odor rising with it. He pulled his hood tighter over his head, hoping to disappear into himself, but nothing could hide what was happening to him.

By the time he reached his professor’s office, he was a mess of nerves. He stood outside the door, trying to compose himself. You can do this, he thought, even as his body itched and groaned in protest. But the second he stepped inside, the look on his professor’s face told him everything.

“Adam,” Professor Wilson said, his voice hesitant as he looked up from his desk. His nose wrinkled almost immediately, and Adam saw him discreetly glance toward the window as if considering opening it for fresh air. “Are… are you feeling alright?”

Adam swallowed hard. “I—I’m fine,” he lied, but even as the words left his mouth, another loud belch erupted from his throat, followed by the unmistakable sound of another fart. The air around him was thick with the stench, and he could see the professor’s face go pale with disgust.

Professor Wilson stood abruptly. “Perhaps we should reschedule,” he said, clearly trying to hold back his revulsion. “It seems like you’re not… in the best condition today.”

“I can explain—” Adam started, but even as he spoke, his hands betrayed him again, scratching furiously at his groin and rear, the itch unbearable. He tried to stop, tried to keep himself composed, but his body had other ideas. Another belch, another fart, each more embarrassing than the last. The smell in the room was unbearable, and Professor Wilson’s eyes were wide with a mix of pity and horror.

“Adam, I think it’s best if you go home and take care of… whatever this is,” Professor Wilson said, his voice tight with discomfort. “We’ll discuss your dissertation another time.”

Adam’s face burned with shame as he nodded stiffly, his throat too tight to speak. He turned and left the office, another loud fart escaping him as he hurried down the hallway. The students he passed gave him wide-eyed stares, some covering their noses, others whispering and laughing as he stumbled past them. Each new step felt heavier, the weight of the day pressing down on him, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t escape the nightmare his life had become.

By the time he could finally make it back to his apartment, he was utterly defeated. His body reeked, the itch in his groin had only gotten worse, and his belly was constantly churning with the pressure of more belches and farts waiting to erupt. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in his pillow. The day had been a disaster—there was no way he could continue like this.

As the evening settled in, Adam lay there, his mind racing even as his body continued to betray him. He had to find George. He had to fix this. There was no other option.

He couldn’t live like this—he couldn’t endure the stares, the laughter, the humiliation. His career, his entire life, was at stake. With each itch, each stench, each belch and fart, he felt his old self slipping further away, and he was terrified of what he would become if this continued.

With a heavy sigh, Adam closed his eyes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he would find George and demand that he fix what he’d done. Tomorrow, he would get his life back.

WEDNESDAY

Adam sat desperate against his pillow and his headboard, his phone clutched in his hand, staring down at the screen with a sense of failure. The stench from his armpits, the itching in his groin, the endless belches and farts—everything had become so utterly unbearable. The reflection he caught in the mirror was still that of the cursed gym rat, his outfit vulgar and ridiculous against his scrawny body, the stink so thick it began to cling to the walls of his flat.

He began typing. His fingers trembled slightly as they tapped against the glass, carefully crafting the text to George. His pride screamed against it, but he was out of options. He couldn’t live like this, not anymore.

"Hey George,  

I’ve been thinking a lot…and I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I was so out of line, and I didn’t mean to insult you or dismiss what you believe. I get it now—there are things beyond intellect, beyond control, and…beyond me.  I was wrong, and you were right. There.  I should’ve believed in magic instead of trying to mock it. Please, is there anything I can do to fix this? I don’t want to keep living like this, I just can’t."

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, his stomach twisting into a knot of hope and dread. Adam tossed the phone onto his bed and laid back, staring at the ceiling as the minutes stretched into hours. Every itch, every foul-smelling fart reminded him of his new reality. He tried to distract himself—cleaning the apartment, watching plays on Youtube, attempting to focus on some new Shakespearean analysis—but nothing worked. The stench hung in the air like a punishment, stuck to him no matter what.

By midday, Adam’s hope had started to wither into nothingness. George wasn’t going to respond. He probably didn’t even care. Maybe this was it—maybe this revolting, humiliating state was his life now. He sighed, dragging his hands through his sweaty hair, glancing toward his phone again. Still nothing. He swallowed the lump in his throat and paced around room, fidgeting with his bro clothes that clung to his now lean body like a cruel joke. 

Bzzzz.

Adam rushed to his phone, his heart thudding against his chest as he unlocked the screen. A message from George appeared, and his breath caught.

“Curses can’t be undone, love.”

Adam’s face flushed with frustration. His jaw clenched as he stared at the words. All of that groveling, all of that begging, and this was the response? He typed furiously, his anger bubbling to the surface, but before he could send anything back, another message appeared.

“But I must admit.  I didn’t think you would actually say that.  Honestly, I really appreciate the apology. Why don’t call it even, huh?  Why don’t I give you a gift?”

Adam blinked at the screen, his anger slowly dissipating into confusion. A gift? What kind of twisted gift could George possibly mean? If it was anything like the last, then he could keep it. But before he could protest, another message filled the screen.

“His arms, like oaks, doth stretch from end to end,  

With strength to lift the world or crush its weight.  

Their power matched with beauty none can fend,  

Two mounds so vast as sunset’s final state.”

As Adam read the words, he felt a sudden warmth spread through his arms. Not again, he thought, but then his eyes darted down in alarm as his previously thin, lanky arms twitched, then bulged. He watched, wide-eyed, as his biceps began to swell, the muscles rippling and bubbling beneath his skin. The skin of his arms grew tight, barely able to contain the massive growth. His once scrawny arms were transforming into huge, muscular limbs—so strong, they looked like they could crush stone with a single flick.

He flexed experimentally, his new muscles hardening themselves like marble. His biceps were enormous, so large they cast a shadow on his bony torso. He stared in disbelief at his own body, feeling an unfamiliar surge of power rush through him.

His phone buzzed again, another text:

“His chest, like breasts of Venus round and great,  

Two orbs of strength that push against the day.  

Each pect’ral it’s own ball upon a beach,  

So full, so firm, none dare to turn away.”

Adam’s gaze shifted down towards his chest, and once again, he felt the same warm, tingling sensation spread across his torso as he began to feel an unnerving top heaviness. His pecs swelled, pushing against the straps of his tank top until the neckline stretched even lower than before. His chest ballooned outward, each pec growing into a massive, rounded mound of muscle, firm and solid beneath his skin. His nipples presented so visibly, his chest now so large it jutted forward, casting a shadow over his barren stomach.

The weight of his new pecs made him feel even more powerful, even more in control. He couldn’t stop staring, watching the way his body filled out, how his once-flat chest had been replaced by two enormous mounds of muscle that jiggled involuntary with every breath. They were so big, so round, they almost looked unnatural—but Adam loved it nonetheless.

Another text…

“His stomach, carved like canyons deep and wide,  

Each groove a trench, each line a valley low.  

His legs, like trunks of ancient oaks abide,  

With strength to stand through storm and sun and snow.”

Adam’s abdomen contracted, the sensation rippling through his core. He watched as the muscles on his stomach began to etch themselves into deep, chiseled grooves. His once-flat belly was now an eight-pack, every ridge and line so pronounced it looked like his abs had been carved out of granite. His waist boxed in, accentuating the sheer mass of his chest above and the powerful definition below.

His legs were next. His thighs bulged beneath his gym shorts, the muscles expanding rapidly, filling out with every second. His calves thickened into pillars of strength, his quads growing into enormous slabs of meat that made his legs look like logs. He was massive now, his entire body transformed into something that looked like it had been sculpted by the god Zeus himself.

The final couplet arrived, and as Adam read the words, he felt the last part of the transformation taking hold:

A man’s man, dominant, in every stride,  

With looks that none, not man nor beast, can hide.”

As Adam gazed into the mirror, his eyes widened in awe. His reflection had changed entirely. He stood there, towering, his body brimming with strength and raw masculinity, as if he’d eaten raw eggs every day of his life since he was ten. His jawline was sharper, his posture more commanding, and the way he looked—it was undeniable. He was an alpha now.  He demanded attention, respect, and desire. The smell, the stink that had once plagued him—it didn’t matter. His overwhelming physicality eclipsed all of it.

Adam grinned, a wave of confidence crashing over him. This was power. This was control. He grabbed a jacket, still feeling the massive stretch of his biceps as he slipped it over his shoulders, and headed out.

At the nearest gay bar, the moment Adam walked in, all eyes were on him. His broad shoulders and massive arms filled out his jacket in ways that left little to the imagination. He could see heads turning, guys sneaking glances at his hulking frame, his thick pecs nearly busting through his shirt. He walked up to the bar, and within seconds, a couple of older men sidled up to him, their eyes wide with interest.

One of them, a trucker looking man with salt-and-pepper hair and the crustiest mustache, leaned in, his voice low. “You’re looking good, boy. Smell like man too.  Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

Adam wrinkled his nose slightly. The man was old, rotund, and ugly.  He could do better, much better. “No thanks, ..sir,” Adam replied coldly, his voice deeper and more commanding than he remembered. The man’s face fell slightly, but Adam didn’t care. He was too busy reveling in the attention, in the way every guy in the bar seemed to be watching him, wanting his body.

As the night wore on, more and more guys approached, trying their luck with him. But none of them were good enough for Adam. He was an alpha now—he could have anyone he wanted, and the more he held out, the more they wanted.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, he would go see George again.  If George can do this for him.  There’s no telling what else he could get out of the witchy twink.

THURSDAY

Adam took the tube immediately once he awoke and stood in front of George’s door, the weight of his muscular new form making him feel absolutely invincible. His inflated biceps and thick chest on the reflective glass of the door fed his ever growing ego, but deep down, he couldn’t help but shake this nagging doubt. George had done this to him—made him into a walking Marvel superhero, sculpted from stone, pure lust, and raw, unadulterated power. But was it enough? No, Adam wanted more. Needed more.

He knocked, his hairy knuckles bristling past the door handle. The first time he’d sought George, he’d dismissed the supernatural as nonsense. Now, with the power of George’s magic coursing through his sculpted body, Adam was ready to claim yet another piece of it. But this time, he knew he had to play his cards just a tad bit differently.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, his face shifting from surprise to a soft, almost suspicious smile. “Adam,” George purred. “Back so soon?”

Adam leaned against the doorframe, his massive arms bulging as he flexed them just enough to show off the strength George had given him. “Missed me?”

George raised an eyebrow, but his gaze lingered on Adam’s tits, those enormous pecs straining against the thin straps of his bro-ish muscle tank. There was a flicker of something in George’s eyes—desire, interest, maybe even a sliver of actual emotion, something he hadn’t felt in centuries. Adam noticed, and he played into it, taking a step closer, his voice low and smooth.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Adam said, his hand grazing George’s arm. “About I’ve been thinking about just how much I owe you for this body, for… everything.”

George tilted his head, still guarded. “And what exactly do you want this time, Adam?”

“I don’t want anything,” Adam replied, his lips curling into a seductive smile. “Just you.”

He moved closer, his muscular frame dwarfing George’s, his presence overwhelming in the cramped air of the doorway. George hesitated for a moment, but Adam’s hand slipped to the nape of George’s neck, pulling him in with surprising gentleness. Their lips met, slowly melding together, turning into something hotter, far more dangerous. Adam’s thinly veiled cock rubbed against George’s abs as his walls came crumbling down, and for the first time, Adam felt the subtle shift in power—he had George, really had him.

The day blurred into heated moments, their bodies tangled in sheets and sweat. Adam was relentless, his new body a weapon of seduction, and George, for all his magic, succumbed to the raw physicality of it. They moved together with an intensity that neither had expected, sucking, fucking, and by the time they lay spent, George was quiet, staring at Adam with something akin to affection.

Adam, however, was already thinking ahead. He turned to George, still catching his breath. “You’ve got power, George. Magic.”

George giggled with a flush.  “You’re just saying that.”

But Adam turned cold.  “I want more of it.”

George’s face darkened. “What exactly are you asking for, Adam?”

Adam grinned, his arrogance returning now that the heat of the moment had passed. “Whatever gift you think I deserve. You’ve given me all this, how can I doubt your judgment, my sweet baby.  My love.  I’ll leave it up to you. Surprise me.”

George’s expression shifted from curiosity to something more guarded, his eyes narrowing as he watched Adam’s smug face. “Anything I want, huh?”

Adam shrugged, confidence oozing from every pore. “I trust you.”

George sat up, his fingers trailing along Adam’s broad chest as if considering his next move. For a long moment, he said nothing, then with a quiet, deceptive murmur, he recited:

"A man so well endowed, his length shall grow,  

Eight inches, thick as snake in fabric’s cage,  

His buttocks firm, a perch for all to show,  

A bubble round to seat him firm with age."

Adam’s goosebumped body tingled immediately, the familiar warmth of transformation spreading through his lower regions. He let out a low, grunty moan as the sensation deepened, his cock thickening and lengthening under his teeny tiny shorts. Diameter growing as his ass tightened, the muscles swelling into perfect, round bubbles that pushed him slightly upward in the bed. He grinned, looking down at himself, clearly satisfied with George’s work.

“That’s more like it,” Adam murmured, his hands roaming over his newly enhanced assets. The heft of his cock felt incredible, and his ass, firm and plump, made him sit taller, more confidently. “I can’t wait to use this out in SoHo.”  He turned to George, expecting more praise, more lust, but George’s face remained unreadable.

Then, George’s voice darkened, and he continued the sonnet.

"But this thick snake shall rise and never fall,  

In constant stand, no peace, no quiet still.  

His rounded arse shall breathe and stretch at call,  

Each muscle loose, no seat can meet its will."

Adam’s smile faltered, confusion flickering in his eyes. The change happened so quickly—his cock, now a monstrous length, hardened immediately, pushing insistently against the fabric of his gym shorts. It throbbed, always erect, always at attention, with no sense of relief. He shifted uncomfortably as his ass, once firm and perfect, started to feel strangely loose towards the center. It twitched and clenched on its own, the muscles stretching and relaxing without his control, as if it was becoming an underground tunnel.

“Wait, what the—?” Adam stammered, sitting up, his hand moving to adjust his cock, but it wouldn’t soften. His asshole kept opening with a subtle, almost breathing sensation that made him feel unstable, as if he could fit a tube station in there.

George smirked, watching the realization dawn on Adam’s face. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

Adam’s panic grew as he tried to stand, but the constant, unrelenting erection made every step uncomfortable. His ass moved with a will of its own, making it impossible for him to walk without awkwardly adjusting himself.

“Stop this,” Adam demanded, his voice sharp with fear. “Fix it!”

But George continued, his voice soft, but with a cutting edge:

"For every man he sees and thinks of thus,  

A need shall spark, his body shall obey.  

Two seconds more, his lips will ask with trust,  

And if they say ‘yes,’ he cannot turn away."

Adam’s eyes widened in horror as the words sank in. The change was immediate. His mind, sharp and calculating, suddenly snapped. The second he looked at George, an overwhelming desire flooded him. He took a step forward, his voice trembling.

“George, I—” He swallowed, trying to fight the words that wanted to spill out, but they escaped anyway. “I want you… I need you. Please, let’s do it again.”

George’s smirk faded into something almost pitying as he stepped back, shaking his head. “No.”

Adam blinked, the refusal shocking him, but the need remained. His body trembled with desire, the thought of George sending his blood rushing. He reached out, desperate. “Please, I can’t—”

But George stood firm. “This is what you wanted, Adam. You wanted the magic. Now you’ve got it.”

Adam’s desperation turned into panic, the uncontrollable lust gnawing at him as he realized what had happened. “Please, you have to stop this! I can’t live like this!”

George’s eyes softened, but his voice remained firm. “If you never see me again, I can never curse you again. Plain and simple.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the curse pressing down on him. He had no choice. He nodded stiffly, his voice shaking. “Fine.”

Without another word, he fled the apartment, the constant throbbing in his pants making every step unbearable, as if he were walking with a third leg. His ass twitched, loose and awkward, making him shift with every movement. He tried to keep his eyes down, avoid seeing anyone, avoid thinking about anyone. But as he neared his flat, he saw him—the old, fat man from the bar, the one with the crusty mustache he’d brushed off so easily the night before.

Adam’s eyes locked onto him, and the thought, just two seconds, crossed his mind. The change was instant.

“Hey,” Adam called out, already relieving his itchy erection, his voice unabashed from shame. “You wanna fuck me?”

The man’s eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah, I do.  Let’s go boy”

Before Adam could stop himself, he moved closer, his body betraying him. They ended up in Adam’s flat, the humiliation sinking deeper as he stripped down, his body moving on its own, giving in to the fat man’s cock. Every moment was pleasure, the curse forcing him to enjoy it all. As the man’s fingers roamed into his hole, Adam’s cock stood painfully erect, his ass twitching and clenching, unable to resist the pleasure.

By the time it was over, Adam lay in bed, the old man’s snores filling the room. He stared at the ceiling, the weight of his actions crushing him. He hated it. He hated the curse, hated George, hated himself. But as he thought back to the encounter, a sickening sense of satisfaction settled in his chest.

Maybe this was who he was now. He’d become the horny, bro-ish slut he’d always railed against.

But hey, at least he still had his wits about him.

“You wanna go again,” he asked the sleeping bear.

He awoke.  “Fuck yeah I do.”

FRIDAY

Adam groaned, his body still humming from the night before, shifting slightly in his bed, the weight of his smelly, bulging muscles pressing against the mattress in ways that felt less and less alien. The stench of sweat and sex clung to the sheets like a cruel reminder, but what gave him the most relief was that the old mustached bear, the fat man who had taken him, or he’d taken in, last night, was gone, leaving Adam with what few shreds of dignity he had left. For but a brief moment, Adam felt a glimmer of his old smart self, something buried deep beneath the layers of this cursed, grotesque transformation.

He brought himself up slowly, running a hand through his cum-soaked, dampened hair, trying to ignore the disgusting aire of musk that followed him everywhere. The night’s events replayed slowly in his mind, and each moment sent waves of heat rolling through him. He was disgusted with himself, yet somehow also satisfied. As much as he wanted to shake off the craziness of last night, something darker tugged within him—or instead, someone.  Someone he couldn't control.

George.

The mere thought of him, that witchy smile, made Adam's heart pump and race. He tried to resist it, clenching his fists as he paced around his tiny studio. No. He wouldn’t give in. Not again. But the more he fought it, the stronger the curse became. His cock twitched in his shorts, eternally hardening more and more, his mind clouded with an overwhelming desire as he let out a massive burp. It was George. He needed George. He needed to see him, fuck him, even if it meant more and more of these horrible, disfiguring changes.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Adam was out the door, heading toward George’s place. His brain screamed at him to turn back, to stop this madness, but his feet kept moving, each step heavier with the weight of inevitability. He arrived at George’s door, his heart pounding so hard it echoed in his ears. Before he could second-guess himself, he knocked.

The door creaked open, and there stood George, the same knowing smile curling on his lips, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Back so soon?” George asked, voice dripping with mockery.

Adam swallowed, his throat tight. His body screamed with need, the throbbing in his pants unbearable. “I… I need to fuck you,” he stammered, the words barely making it out. His muscles tensed, his breath shallow. “Please, George. I just want to stick my-”

“No.” George’s tone was sharp, cold. “I warned you, Adam.”

Adam froze, his heart sinking. Panic flooded his chest. “No, wait, I… I—” He turned to flee, the humiliation too much to bear, but George’s voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere,” George said softly, a cruel edge to his voice. With a flick of his hand, Adam’s body locked in place, muscles freezing as though they were held by invisible chains. Adam’s eyes widened in fear as George circled him like a predator, his gaze sweeping up and down Adam’s massive form.

“You could’ve been so wonderful, Adam,” George whispered, his fingers trailing across Adam’s rigid biceps. “If only you weren’t so obsessed with being better than everyone else.” George stopped in front of him, his eyes gleaming. “But don’t worry. I’m going to fix that.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, his giant mind racing with panic. He tried to move, to speak, but nothing worked. He was trapped, helpless, his body at George’s mercy. And then, George began to recite.

“This man, with wit so sharp, shall find it dull,

His tongue to fail at words with length and grace.

In single beats, his speech doth make him full,

No thought can break the barrier of his face.”

Adam’s head buzzed as George’s words sank into his soul. He tried to protest, to say something, anything, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out were simple, one-syllable words, clumsy and slow like the dumbass he used to make fun of, the one he was about to become. “Wh-what… you… do…?” he stammered, struggling through each word. His brain felt like it was being squeezed, cell by cell, every attempt to say something even somewhat intelligent or complex was met with a foggy, impenetrable wall.

“No… more…” he managed, but even that felt like a battle. His tongue stumbled within his mouth, his speech slurring as the magic took further hold. Adam’s face twisted in frustration, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t even think of a word longer than one syllable. His mind was trapped in this humiliating simplicity, a far cry from the sharp intellect he once wielded.

George smiled, watching the struggle unfold with sadistic delight. “You’re already looking more like yourself, love.” He continued, his voice low and melodic.

“A jaw so slack, it barely knows its place,

His mouth hangs wide, flies wander through the door.

With 'duh' his mind reflects upon his face,

A smile so dumb, he trusts each word, what's more.”

As the next words spread themselves throughout the air and landed onto Adam’s face, he felt his jaw slacken into a relaxed position, the muscles in his face going completely limp. His mouth hung open, agape, his lips parting into a dumb, vacant expression. He could feel the cold air tickling his teeth as a small, stupid smile crept onto his face. He tried to close his mouth, to tighten his jaw, but it wouldn’t obey him. No matter how hard he tried, it remained slack, open, like a door left ajar.

Flies buzzed around, and before he knew it, one flitted into his mouth. He barely registered it, too dazed, too numb to even care. His face felt frozen in that idiotic grin, his eyes glazed over. Worse yet, every word George said sounded so… true. Every part of him wanted to believe whatever George told him, his gullibility sinking deep into his bones.

Adam’s mind screamed at him to resist, to hold onto what was left of his pride, but that part of him was fading fast. His lips, still curled in a stupid smile, parted again. “Uh… yeah, right…” he muttered, barely able to form coherent thoughts. His voice sounded thick and dopey, like it belonged to someone else, someone who couldn’t even spell Shakespear.

George’s voice softened, almost tender. “See, isn’t that easier? No more thinking, no more overcomplicating things. Just smile, and trust whatever I, or anyone tells you.”

Adam’s heart pounded in his chest, but his mind couldn’t focus. His thoughts were slipping away, replaced by something far simpler, far more primal.

“His thoughts now cloud with only two desires,

To lift, to bed, these things alone will stay.

His mind a fog, of neither will it tire,

And all else fades, in gym and bed to play.”

With those words, haze descended over Adam’s mind. Thoughts, once sharp and filled with wit, were now muddled, clouded with only two overpowering urges. He wanted to work out. He wanted to fuck. Everything else—his career, his pride, his intellect—faded into the background, meaningless, never to be seen again.

Images of bench presses flashed into his shrinking mind, the sensation of cold iron in his sweaty hands, the strain of his muscles as they bulged and flexed. And then there was sex—hot, mindless sex. His cock throbbed in his shorts, and the desire, the absolute need for physical release overwhelmed him, drowning out any other thought. Working out, fucking, working out, fucking, again and again and again. That was all that mattered now. Nothing else made sense, not like he could comprehend it anyways.

Adam tried to resist, to push through the fog, but alas, it was no use. His mind was too far gone, too consumed by primal urges. He let out a resonant, needy groan, his thoughts too disorganized to form any coherent plan of escape.

George watched with satisfaction as Adam’s transformation neared its end. With a triumphant smile, he delivered the final couplet.

“And now this man goes by initials who,

With knowledge slight, no higher than eight-two.”

As George’s last words took their hold, Adam felt the last remnants of his old self slip away, the final pieces of his mind shattering like glass into a distant oblivion. He wasn’t Adam anymore. He was… AJ. His name was AJ, always had been. That dumb, jockish grin became permanent across his face as his old life rewrote itself. His memories, once filled with scholarships, academic debates, tragedies and comedies, were now replaced by scenes of the gym, of flexing in front of the mirror, of fucking nameless faces in dark, sweaty backrooms.

His chest swelled with pride at the thought of lifting those heavy weights, of feeling the burn in his muscles as he pushed himself harder and harder. His thoughts were no longer burdened by complicated ideas or big words. They were simple, direct. Lift. Fuck. Repeat. That was it.

AJ blinked, his slack jaw hanging open as he stood there in front of George, his once bright mind now dim, sluggish, and focused only on the most basic of desires. His body reeked of fart and musk, his mind a tangled mess of lust and primal urges. His life as Adam, the intellectual, was gone. All that remained was AJ, a dumb, slutty, smelly jock.

George stepped back, admiring his handiwork as AJ smiled dumbly at him, his eyes empty, his brain no longer capable of critical thought. “You look perfect, AJ,” George said, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

AJ’s grin widened, his thick tongue lolling slightly as he scratched at his crotch. “Th-thanks… bro,” he slurred, his voice deep and stupid.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” George murmured, tilting AJ’s chin up so their eyes met.

AJ’s smile grew even wider, his lips twitching as he struggled to form words. “Yeah, bro,” he said, his voice slow and thick. “I’m… real good.”

George couldn’t help but laugh. AJ was exactly what he had imagined—empty-headed, obedient, and driven by nothing more than his primal instincts. “You won’t be needing any of those big words anymore, will you, AJ?” George asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

AJ shook his head, his brow furrowing slightly as if even that small movement required a great deal of effort. “Nuh-uh,” he mumbled. “Big words are… uh… too hard.”

“Exactly,” George said, patting AJ’s cheek lightly. “And from now on, you’re going to live a very simple life. No more worrying about being better than anyone else. No more trying to prove how smart you are. You’ll be much happier this way. Just working out, fucking, and doing whatever you’re told.”

AJ nodded slowly, his thick muscles pulling and rippling beneath his skin as he flexed unconsciously. “Yeah, bro,” he agreed, his voice, like his mind, slow. “I like… liftin’... an’ fuckin’...”

“Now, AJ,” George said with command, “I think it’s time you head to the gym. You wouldn’t want to miss leg day, would you?”

AJ’s eyes widened slightly, the thought of working out sending a thrill of excitement through his body. “Leg day,” he repeated. “Yeah, bro. I gotta… lift.”

George smirked, watching diligently at his Frankenstein creation as AJ’s single-minded focus shifted completely to the gym. “That’s right, big guy. Go on, hit the weights, and make sure everyone sees how big and strong you are.”

AJ beamed, his dim-witted grin stretching even wider. “Gotta pump some iron.”  And as AJ disappeared into the distance, George sighed, knowing the man who’d once scoffed at him, at the very idea of magic and fate was now living proof of it’s power, his entire existence rewritten by just a few simple words. George smirked, satisfied once again, and waited for the next asshole to match with him on Hinge.

AJ, meanwhile, wandered toward the gym, his thoughts a jumbled mess of anticipation and primal urges. He could feel the weight of his bulging muscles with every step, the tightness of his tank top stretching across his massive chest. The constant itch in his groin had him adjusting his shorts every few seconds, a fart always ready in the chamber, and his cock already hard at the thought of the next guy he’d meet, or the next weight he’d lift.  He grinned stupidly, flexing his biceps as he prepared for the first set. “Let’s go, bro,” he muttered to himself, his voice thick with excitement. “Time to get swole.”

And with that, AJ’s transformation was complete. The man he had once been—Adam, the intellectual, the scholar—was gone, replaced by a farting, burping, simple-minded, horny, muscle-obsessed jock who lived only for the gym, for sex, and for any task any man asked for.

“Life’s good, bruh.”

[macfrog]

twin flame sex on fire chapter eleven

thank you all for being so patient and kind, and loving this story no matter how terribly long i take with it. anyway, here's wonderwall. (shout out to @bageldaddy who saved this on numerous occasions lmao)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: doing it with a broken heart is harder than it looks.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, reader's a Real Tough Kid she can (not) Handle Her Shit, kale!!!!!!, alcohol consumption, cursing, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 7.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

Five days lasts a year.

So it feels, anyway, when you spot Martha from the corner of your eye – pulling her coat on and hooking her purse over her shoulder. She tucks her peroxide blonde layers behind her ears, gives one last check of her makeup in a compact mirror, and looks up.

“You coming?”

It’s five thirty on Friday. You haven’t said more than two words to Joel since you walked out on him, Monday morning.

She knows by now – Martha. Or at least, she has a pretty good idea.

You haven’t told her, as if you’d even be able to begin explaining it all. But she pieced it together by herself, didn’t she? You’re hardly subtle. She figured you out less than five minutes after you stormed out of his office, fists balled and face tight with rage.

She says your name, and the sound is muffled. Distorted by the sour backwash of that feeling: the hot temper which dissipated so quickly into an ache behind your ribs all day.

You finally look up. “Huh?”

She fixes the collar on her trench coat. Flattens her thin, merlot lips and says, “Let’s go, kid. It’s been a long week.”

And that, you think, might just be the understatement of the fucking year.

She slips her arm through yours in the elevator, and you don’t protest. It’s not like she’d let you go even if you tried to shake her off – but there’s a comfort to it. Something sweet; soft and motherly. Martha’s not often this affectionate.

You want to slot your cheek on her shoulder. Ask her how long her worst heartbreak lasted. Ask if that’s even what this is, if you can give a two-month hurricane of sex and secrets enough power to split you open this badly.

Ask her how long until the gnawing in your chest eases. How long until you’re finally able to look at him again, without wanting to cuss him out – or run into his arms.

But you stare ahead, swaying with the dropping elevator, wrap your arms tight around yourself and swallow shallow breaths of her rosy perfume.

Your reflection splits in two, pulled apart by the rumble of the doors. Something akin to a growl from between Martha’s teeth.

The skeleton of the lobby sears behind your eyes, every surface bleeding gold. Silver arrows of rain pelt against the windows, slicing through the blazing sunlight. Dark figures shake umbrellas open at the doors; others yank their collars over their heads as they run to cars.

A gaggle of square suits separates to let you pass, black material shining and soaked through. Nodding to both of you, your names dripping from their lips as they load into the elevator.

Under the canopy outside, Martha hoists her purse over her head.

“Monday then?” she yells over the drumming rain. And without waiting for an answer – because she isn’t so much asking as she is telling – she totters off through the drizzle towards Alan’s Volvo.

One last glance over her shoulder, a wink as her six-inch heels swing into the car. Like a Bond girl, off to wrangle her preteen into eating his vegetables.

You call a cab, leaning against the building to watch the clouds roll overhead.

Two words. That’s all you’ve managed to force over your tongue.

Sure and okay. Both uttered between teeth, as though your body might be trying to hold them back. Mundane and fucking meaningless; pushing by everything else you want so desperately for Joel to hear. How could you? Why would you? I think I hate you, you know that?

I hate you and I miss you so much that it makes me hate you all over again for it.

He’s doing as you asked, at least. He’s following your rules. No looking, no touching, no talking.

To a point.

He is still talking – saying a little more to you than you are to him. You’re allowing it, given that he is still your boss and they’re only ever boss things to say. Schedule this meeting, look out that old file. Pick up his drycleaning when it’s mid-afternoon and he spots your boredom from across the office.

But he never comes near.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t brush by, stealing a giggle when his elbow nudges your waist. He doesn’t order you lunch, then wait until you’re sat opposite him in his office to eat together.

He doesn’t kiss you as soon as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t perch on the edge of your desk to steal snacks and gossip with you and Martha. He doesn’t play with your hand, he doesn’t hold you by the hips, he doesn’t whisper dirty jokes and sweet nothings in your ear.

He keeps his distance. He acts like your boss again.

And – Jesus. You’ve never wanted to hate him so much in your life.

“Waitin’ for a cab?”

“Shit –” You twirl, rain flicking from the tail of your coat.

Joel takes your arm steady. His grip is so familiar, so safe you feel yourself melting into it already. “Easy, easy,” he says, his voice much the same. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”

“You didn’t, you…Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess you did. What did you say?”

He smiles. It’s weak, humored, but completely unsure. “I just asked if you’re waiting for a cab.

And goddamn it, just the sight of him this close thaws you from the inside out. It’s like warmth against the wound, softening you like the creases by the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you start, “I just called one. Figure there’s traffic.” You gesture to the bodies scurrying down towards yellow cabs.

Joel tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sleek Rolls by the curb. The rain bounces off its roof. “Rand can take you, if you like. Save you waitin’.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take your cab,” he clarifies. “I’ll take the cab; Rand can take you home.”

“Really, Joel,” you reply, hugging your purse. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

He nods, looking down. There was – there is – nothing he wants more than to look out for you. There’s probably nothing that stings more right now, than the fact you won’t let him.

He makes to leave, then hesitates. Hands in his pockets, he turns back and says, “You ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?”

Your lips flatten. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

He strides off towards the Rolls. So much cooler than the suits scrambling around him; dipping his head as he slides into the backseat, fixing his tie before he pulls the door closed.

The car doesn’t move until yours arrives. Until he’s seen you run over, settle in the backseat. Rand pulls out behind as your driver sets off; turns in the opposite direction at the first set of traffic lights.

You watch as it shrinks into a speck from the back window, wondering if Joel’s watching you, too.

The driver tuts and shakes his head. He flicks his fingers to the windshield, some comment about this goddamn rain and ain’t let up for five goddamn days.

You fish your phone from your pocket, turning the weight of it over in your hands like turning the dilemma in your mind. Thinking up something like, Hey, I was gonna order food in tonight. Wanna come over?

Something like, Or not, if you don’t feel like it.

Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m –

The screen lights.

Your heart jumps to your throat.

The driver rambles on, “…said it’d dry by Wednesday – well, you can’t trust a damn one of ‘em…”

Your eyes are glued to the name onscreen.

Joel headers the first notification. And the second. A text, then an email.

Your thumbs hover over the messages for a few seconds, vision blurring around his name. Frantic circles while you decide whether or not you actually want to read them. But it gets the better of you – morbid curiosity – and you tap on the text.

As quickly as it leapt, your heart plummets.

Forwarded Jean-Marc’s email, in case you need it. Have a good weekend.

Three, four, five times. You read over it five fucking times before it sinks in. Switch to your emails, where Joel Miller sits proudly at the top of the list.

“Why are you…?” you mumble, blinking at the screen. Salt stings across your waterline. “You – you fucking…”

It boils through your veins, pools in the pit of your stomach. That ache winds again, twisting around your ribcage.

Anger.

Anger, and…something much worse.

You bite hard on your lip, refusing to let the tears spill over. Your heart hammers against your chest. Your fist balls, like tightening around the leash of a misbehaving dog, pulling it back into place.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steam slowly swallows your silhouette whole. In the mirror, you shake the shell of the office from your shoulders, watching as she disappears entirely behind the heated glass. Relieved just to see her go.

You sob under the scorching stream until your skin prunes and your head throbs. You order in food and burrow deep in your couch to pick at it.

Drowning in the same hoodie he once pulled over himself – his landscape of a body, strong as rock and soft as the earth. The material unwashed, still smelling of mint and men’s cologne.

You thumb through the chick flicks on offer: all perfect grins and power couples; the commercial dream that is a two-tone poster with a quirky, conversational title. And then, worse: the breakup movies.

Women flat-out in bed, picking from a tray of chocolates. Two-day pajamas and three-day bedhead. Slumber parties to burn love letters and gauge out their exes’ eyes in photographs, swear themselves off men and then down heavy cocktails until they puke.

Then – the epiphany. Right before some pop rock track from the noughties sends the heroine off into the sunset. The I’m better off without him, or Maybe he wasn’t so bad moment.

Love truly exists, after all. Roll end credits.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble, chewing wetly on popcorn. “You’re all bullshit, anyways.”

Maybe you’re just fucking miserable. You liked the bullshit, two weeks ago.

Blake Carter – he was chocolates in bed and feminist handshakes. He was one night at your mom’s, one night at your best friend’s, then back in your old place before the week was out.

This is different. It’s like a sickness.

Rotting from the inside out. Deep in your chest, a fierce fever spreading from the split, the empty cage of ribs. An anxiety which gathers and festers in the barren corners, like teetering along a wire with no idea how high the drop really is – only that you’re not going to make the landing.

How were you ever going to make the landing, letting go of his hand like that?

You manage three mouthfuls of a greasy hamburger, then shove the bags across the coffee table. Too sick and too unsettled to eat without feeling it roll around your stomach in a furious tide.

You ever need anything, just let me know.

Asking for help is not something you do. Not since you were sixteen, and even before then. There is nothing – nothing, you swore – a man could offer you that you couldn’t go find yourself.

But then – then, you found someone who wasn’t looking for you to ask. Didn’t want or expect you to need him for anything, only wanted you to know that he was around if you ever did. Being near you was all he ever really gave a shit about.

You found someone who was on your tail every time you looked back. All your running, all the times you swore you wouldn’t let him catch you. And there you were – turning to make sure he was still trying.

He was. He was always trying. He’s the closest anyone ever came to proving you wrong.

And now…he’s letting you go.

If you had the energy to laugh, you’d laugh. You’d march back into the bathroom and wait for your reflection to clear again, just to point your finger right in her face.

The same woman who walked away from Blake Carter and his heirloom diamond ring; from Sundays forcing down quiche Lorraine at his parents’ house, and pretending to enjoy bouncing his nephew on your knee.

The same woman who left that diamond ring on his bedside table, packed a bag full of clothes, and fled the apartment before he could plead anymore.

The same woman who had seen the entire thing as a bird breaking free from her cage, in the end.

You understand it now.

You spend long enough in that cage, long enough planted on your feet – you forget how to use your wings.

The weekend is slow and sleepless.

Your sheets wind up a twisted mess each night. Kicked to the foot of the bed, cocooned back around your shoulders, then whipped from your body again when you feel too hot, too smothered.

He’s all over your apartment. Dozing in the reflection of the TV screen, bass voice reverberating off each wall, kisses in the clinking of mugs.

Each night, you stare blankly at the ceiling. Sleep becomes a tide you float on the surface of, pooling across your stomach and only ever wetting to your ears. Face skyward, bone dry. Desperately waiting for a wave that never intends on turning.

Come Monday, you’re running on something like four hours sleep and as many coffees.

Martha recognizes it instantly, the way she fawns. She hasn’t let up all day. Not since you walked in this morning, looking like shit and avoiding Joel’s office at all costs. She’s spent more time staring, delivering snacks, making sickly-sweet conversation that hurts your teeth – than she has actually working.

And it was touching. Until ten o’clock.

Joel has two assistants for good fucking reason, it turns out.

“I do not understand a goddamn word I’m reading…” Martha flips the Cosmo she stole from you last week. “The hell is a retrograde?”

Your head tilts. “Do you even know which sign you are?”

Her thin, penciled brows quirk. “Taurus, but I don’t like the way this bull’s lookin’ at me.”

She wiggles her mouse before the monitor switches off, then prods a shard of cucumber with her fork. The rain scatters across the window at her back, dragging golden shadows down her blazer.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you lie, “This morning. Before you came in.”

She chews suspiciously. “Liar.” She offers you the salad bowl. “Eat.”

“Martha,” you push it away, “I’m not –”

“I don’t care whether you’re hungry.”

She thrusts the tub towards you, cherry tomatoes trembling.

“Martha.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not gonna eat your salad, will you stop –?”

“One bite. Just one.”

“I don’t even like –”

She’s holding out a forkful. “Eat the damn –”

“Get a drink with me.”

She halts, greens dangling in front of your face. Her expression twists, loosens, and then twists into bewilderment again. “Pardon me?”

You sigh, deflating into the leather. “Stop tryna force feed me salad, and get a drink with me.”

“On a Monday?” She scoffs. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t…I don’t have one,” you groan, pushing to your feet. “At least, not a good one. I just need something a little stronger than kale.”

An all too familiar click over your shoulder plucks her attention. Her eyes flash across the room.

She tracks Joel from his office over to the water cooler, a forced smile when he must glance up. Her eyes snap back to yours at the trickle of water into his mug.

Please? you mouth, and she grumbles.

“Joel?”

His voice is strained; he’s bending at the cooler. “Yep?”

Martha links her arm through yours and forces you to turn. “You mind if we take a long lunch? We were thinking of trying that wine bar up by the golf course.”

Joel lingers on the other side of the office, sipping from his mug. He’s almost unrecognizable: no bear left in him. Declawed, toothless. Dark crescents like the shadows of a bruise beneath his eyes, the ghosts of smile lines on his cheeks.

“Wine bar?” he asks. “Didn’t even know there was one up that way.”

“It’s new,” Martha says, popping the lid back on her salad bowl. “Alan told me about it. Says it costs an arm and a leg, but apparently, it’s worth it.”

He wanders over – hesitant, like approaching the desk of a wild animal. You can feel the heat of his stare on you when he replies, “’s nice up that way. Take the afternoon. You need a ride?”

“All good,” Martha chirps. She squeezes your arm. “I’ll go call a cab.”

She drapes your coat over your shoulders, then twirls off in the direction of the elevator. A girlish little strut, quietly pleased with herself.

She’s deliberately leaving you stranded. Both of you.

Joel steps back when you move. His breath catches in his throat. He slips a hand in one pocket, and says, “Be nice to have a relaxing afternoon.”

“Yep,” you choke, elbow brushing against his. “Nice to have some girl time, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “I was talking about me. Empty office, two of you off my ass. Peace and quiet.”

You smile, feeling the weight of him rock gently against your side. “Hilarious,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He stares straight ahead, sunlight catching rare amber in his eyes. Smiling to himself, calm and content, he says, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turns back for his office.

Your chest twinges as he closes the door behind him. A tight fist around your vocal cords.

“See you tomorrow, Joel.”

Oasis is a trendy little bar out west, which looks anything but its namesake. All exposed brick and smirk of silver pipework, industrially rustic and injected with the silky scent of wine and wealth.

Exactly the type of place you’d go to get over your millionaire ex.

Martha slinks in like she’s made of the place. Coat loose over her arm, hips swaying and heels clicking. She hops onto a stool at the bar, drums her glossy nails on the varnished wood.

You settle awkwardly into the stool beside her, prodding at what turns out to be a very real cactus. You jump at the sharp prick.

A waiter behind the bar clocks you, and laughs to himself.

“Nice, huh?” Martha asks, scanning the place. The low-hanging lights, the spill of foliage from the rafters. She seems to fit into it a whole lot better than you do.

“Sure,” you mumble around your fingertip, “Are you buying?”

She rolls her eyes. “You asked me out, remember?”

“I was thinking some two-for-one cocktails dive, not the fucking Ritz, Martha.”

“Call it a pick-me-up,” she says, accepting a menu from the waiter. “We’re treating ourselves.”

You pinch your fingertip, watching a scarlet bead bloom from the wound. A satisfying sort of pain, a tender break your hands won’t stay away from. You squeeze until it balloons into a trembling bubble of blood, then swipe the cut clean. Squeeze, then swipe.

Martha orders some vino she says she’s always wanted to try. Two glasses, because when the waiter looks to you to take your order, you’re still staring at your bloody finger.

He slides the drinks over and smiles politely, eyes daring to meet yours only twice. He’s handsome: chiseled jawline and the smudge of a dimple on one cheek. Chin speckled with stubble, shorter and blonder than you’d like.

Your fingertip throbs, and you look down to find it closed in your fist. You take a gulp of wine.

Martha smacks her lips and hums. “Not half bad,” she says, and then slots her glass next to yours. “Alright,” she clasps her hands, “What is it? What’s been goin’ on?”

You spin the base of your glass, staring at the swirl of honeysuckle. “I just needed some air and…wine.”

She buys it about as much as you do.

“Only one thing in the world that makes me need air and wine,” she says. “A man.”

A laugh flutters from your chest, as if by accident. As natural as the sun splitting the clouds. No thinking about it, no forcing it.

Either the expensive alcohol works fast – or Martha does.

She lifts her nose, like sniffing out the truth. “Come on, no bullshit. Why’d you ask me to get a drink?”

It rolls from one shoulder to the other in a tired shrug. You’ve no fucking idea why you asked her to get a drink.

The office was becoming claustrophobic, bursting with the grief of it all. Joel was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere you looked. Here’s the wall he’d kissed you against, there’s the spot you’d first shaken hands.

Here’s all of it, really: the shame and the anger and the heartbreak all knotted together. Holding yourself back from doodling hearts on his sticky note messages, busying yourself with shredding instead of nosing around his office.

No bullshit, you were about to scream. Martha’s just the first person you laid eyes on.

Her and her fucking kale.

“Because,” you summarize, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, serious. She’s hooked already. “With Joel?” she asks, sipping.

“With any of it,” you reply. And then, hearing her properly: “What do you know about me and Joel?”

She swallows quickly. “He hasn’t told me a word, I swear,” she says, “but I wasn’t born yesterday. Paris was always a solo trip, darling.”

You massage your forehead, grumbling into your palms. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper. There’s a heavy ache blooming behind your eyes.

Martha smiles. “I thought it was sweet. He’s never been serious enough about anyone to take ‘em over there with him. But,” her eyes ladder down your figure, “I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay,” she squints, reading you, “And are we relieved? Are we hurt? Angry?”

“We are four and a half coffees Monday morning, and a wine bar Monday afternoon.”

“Got it,” she says, face stony. “That little shit. You need me to yell at ‘im?”

You lift your wine, shake your head. “I did enough yelling at him last week,” you admit. “It wasn’t just him, anyways. He fucked up, but it was the both of us.”

Martha nods, and you both take a long drink.

She taps her nails against the swell of her glass. “I thought you two were really great together,” she says – polite, pensive.

The least Martha you’ve ever heard her.

“You did?”

She nods. “You just always had this camaraderie. It was palpable. From the moment he met you, he was different. Better for it. I don’t know when you were…whatever you were, but –” she takes a deep breath, looking off past you, “– I know I liked it when you were.”

It’s not something you ever considered, even in the thick of it. What it might look like from outside, this little love affair: promises whispered into coffee mugs and glances stolen from behind paperwork.

It was never a secret – at least, not one either of you were trying to keep. It was just…yours. You and Joel. Two names etched at the bottom of a birthday card, no room for anyone else’s.

And if anyone did find out – Martha, Rand, Jean-fucking-Marc – they felt more like collateral. Just the landscape, the backdrop for your fated meteoric crash down to Earth.

God, it felt good to fall.

Martha sighs, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of her lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, gently. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you hoped.”

Your eyes drift across the room. The waiter pours a deep red wine for a silver-haired couple over by the window. The man’s thumb surfs back and forth across his wife’s knuckles, dipping to circle the ring on her third finger.

The split in your skin opens again, your nail pressing clumsily into your finger. A tiny wave of pain rocks through the tip.

“Yeah, well,” you sniff, “Shit happens, right?”

“Sure does,” she says, and holds her glass out.

You cheers, the clink piercing the bumbling jazz in the air. The wine thrashes against the side of the glass, and you gulp back a sour mouthful.

“He sent me an offer for a job in Paris,” you confess into your drink. “That’s what our fight was about – the fact he didn’t want me to go. Then on Friday, he sent it anyway.”

“Paris?” Martha straightens in her chair. It’s easy to tell her, easy to pretend it’s some third-floor gossip when she reacts the same way. “That’s big,” she says. “Are you gonna go for it?”

“No,” you admit. “It’s with that guy Jean-Marc.”

Her upper lip curls, a bend of burgundy. “You can do better.”

“I guess,” you frown, “if I were looking.”

“You’re not looking?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It twists in your throat. A million answers which fizzle into nothing at all on your tongue. Because because because –

“Who would read all of Joel’s boring emails?” It comes with a smirk, which drops as quickly as you realize Martha’s expression isn’t shifting.

“I would. And he’d find a replacement for you eventually. Not half as good, but…”

“Ha,” you stare at her, “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding. “I’m not,” she adds, when you roll your eyes. “It’s about damn time you realized you’re head and shoulders above all this.

“Maybe,” she continues, with an almost bloodthirsty interest, “Joel didn’t let on about Paris because he thinks you’re better than that, too. You don’t think he sees your potential? Hell, I do. You’re too good to be making coffee and taking minutes.”

Tell me something I don’t know, you think.

Joel’s never been quiet about how he feels about you – professionally or otherwise. He said as much in his office last week: I didn’t want to lose you. Those exact words kept you up all weekend, for crying out loud.

Sure, Joel sees something in you. Assistant, colleague, friend, not-friend. It’s not enough to stop the need you have – pinhole pupils hunting, blood jumping in your veins. Like it’d kill you to catch your breath, to shake your hackles and loosen your muscles.

Watch, watch. I can answer your questions before you’ve even come up with them. Watch, watch. I can show up early and leave late, barely pause for breath in between.

Watch, watch. I can break your heart and make it look just like mine.

You squirm under Martha’s glare.

“I don’t…I don’t even know what else I’d do,” you garble, playing with your hands. “I like this job. I’m good at this job. It’s…it’s –”

“– comfortable,” you say together.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Martha nods, “You’ve outgrown it. You’re nothing but a monster in red bottoms now, baby – too scared to find something that fits you better in case it turns to shit. So what if it does? Is it the end of the world?”

“Feels like it right now,” you reply. She’s cloudy, blurred behind the ocean of tears teetering along your waterline. “And this is barely even a breakup, never mind failing at a career.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You think you’d be the first? The last? People fail at things all the damn time. Better to do it now, young as you are – little elastic band of resilience and nerve.”

“Poetic,” you scoff.

She tilts her glass and her head follows.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning in. “Do not spend one more second paralyzed by fear. I know you’re scared. You’re supposed to be. One day, you’re going to miss the time you gave enough of a shit to feel this fear.

“It’s like electricity in your veins. Everything’s so intense, everything hurts ten times worse and feels ten times more exhilarating. You think something might bring about the end of the goddamn world, and then the sun comes up the next morning just to prove you wrong.

“And Lord almighty, you are going to get it wrong. You’ll say the wrong thing, trust the wrong feeling. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. But Jesus, I’d rather you blew it all to hell and at least learned somethin’, than never did it at all.

“You know what my mom would say? World’s been waitin’ on you, kid. Grab a paddle.”

Another laugh spurts from your lips, tears spilling into your mouth, a crackly, wet sniffle. “What the hell does that even mean?” you giggle.

She smiles and wipes your cheek. “Means dive in. Get your hands dirty. Fall in love, get hurt, grow the hell up. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want. That electricity won’t be there forever – so use it.”

“Use it…” you echo, taking the mascara-stained tissue from her.

“Promise me,” she implores, wrapping her hands around yours, “Promise me that you will.”

It’s not just Martha asking, you know this. She’s the one staring at you like a madwoman, sure – but her plea is echoed by a littler, quieter voice.

She’s nervous, scared. A crumpled math paper in her backpack. Her whole world tipped upside down one Wednesday afternoon, soul cursed forever – or so she thought.

When you reply, it’s not Martha you see. It’s the sixteen-year-old version of yourself.

So you look her dead in the eye, and say –

“I promise.”

The world is hazy by the time you leave the bar. Vignetted, a saffron sunset seeping across the sky. Mingling with the city skyline and losing herself over the horizon.

You totter up the steps to your building and wave Martha and Alan off, twirling inside. The weight of wine heavy in your veins, pulling you from one side to the other, and still – you feel lighter, somehow.

You spent all afternoon giggling, once the heartache thawed and the alcohol kicked in. It felt nice; bubbly and nostalgic, the peachy tint of girlhood.

Swapping stories about your old, ridiculous love lives – Martha’s overall-donned boyfriend in high school, or the guy you went on two dates with last year before realizing he was the same dude one of your girlfriends had ghosted three months prior.

For a few hours on a Monday afternoon, you were fifteen again – and the worst thing that could happen was a pimple sprouting on your chin the night before picture day. All you’d ever know was the shiny film on magazine pages, reading two-week old horoscopes to see if they came true.

You slump against the side of the elevator, head spinning as it carries you home. It’s something like seven. You’re too buzzed to fall asleep, but too tipsy to do much more than roll around your apartment.

And by the time you’re back in your sweats, sunken into the couch, one very final nightcap in hand – you’re too tired to even move.

Promise me, she’d said, wildfire behind her eyes. Martha’s notorious for her talents in convincing anyone of anything, wriggling her own way out of any circumstance.

This felt different.

She’s just your colleague. At best, a passerby. Technically – going by her track record with almost everyone else in the company – she doesn’t have to take any more interest in you than the parking attendants in the basement lot do.

But she took your hand and led you out of that office without thinking, the second she understood. She bought you drink after drink, and slapped your hand away when you tried to pay. She listened to you, dried your tears, and then kicked your ass into gear.

By all standards, she was the best first date you’ve ever had.

And promise me, she’d said.

It starts as a joke. Humoring her, humoring yourself. A dare whispered to you by the tinkling of ice in your glass. Innocent curiosity, mixed with a dash of Martha’s good influence.

The perfect cocktail of chaos.

Your first online search brings up so many results that it dizzies you. Marketing executive and project coordinator, business support manager and production lead. They blur into a gray fog, a taunting swirl on your laptop screen.

“Jesus,” you mutter, mouthful of wine. “What the fuck do I…?”

Business and art. That’s what you know. One you’ve been in long enough that you reckon you could do it with your eyes closed – and the other…your little pipedream.

‘s not stupid, Joel had said, that night by the river. Not a pipedream, either.

And – fuck it, maybe you ought to listen for once. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want, and all that.

You dig your knuckles into your eyes, letting the spatter of stars clear your vision, and start again.

A second search threads together a list which feels a little cleaner. A little more you. Sophisticated websites with sleek designs, smooth wording which makes it feel like you’re being sold something.

And so what, if you are? Maybe you’re looking to buy.

You click through image after image of bright offices and beaming staff, sipping sharply through your straw. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, unsure whether the lightheaded feeling is from the rosé, or the promise of a successful career and competitive salary. Memorizing brand manifestos, learning company values like prayers passing through your hands.

It’s manic. Crazed. Like you’re stood on the brink of an abyss, thick fog kissing your ankles.

You laugh to yourself. This must be the fucking electricity.

Promise me. And what can it hurt, anyway, turning in an application form? Who says it’ll even go anywhere? They might take one look at your resume and laugh you all the way into the trashcan.

Or – they might see what Joel sees. What Martha sees. For the love of God, what you see.

Your resume looks much the same as it did four years ago – still molded into the shape of the kind of girl you thought Joel Miller, CEO might like to meet. And he did, very much so. It’s just – he met all shapes of her. Even the ones she tried to hide.

He found them all out, eventually.

Your thumb pauses, hovering over the mousepad. A slow guilt slithering over your shoulders, coiling deep in your gut. You think of Paris; those streets you walked down with Joel on your arm. Talking, laughing, spilling secrets and keeping them, too.

Your shadows are probably still on those avenues. Your reflections still bobbing in the Seine. Kisses hidden behind steam-coated mirrors, bodies joining in a darkened hotel room.

It twinges some, deep in your chest. A little numbed, what with all the alcohol and – well, Martha. But it’s still there. The same wound you’ve had for twelve years now.

It’s there. It will probably always be there.

So – fuck it.

You’re grabbing a goddamn paddle.

It’s been a quiet, fruitless week. No calls, no emails, no messages written in the stars.

Which is probably a good thing, given you were more than a few glasses of wine deep – and still on some kind of high from Martha’s speech. God only knows what kind of shit you were filling those applications with.

Nothing quite like liquid courage and a broken heart, right?

The light from the Xerox flickers, swiping memories from that afternoon back and forth. Martha’s hand locked around yours, the perfumed wine she kept buying. The waiter with the dimples, Joel’s Have a good night I’ll see you tomorrow, the pine air freshener in Alan’s car.

Things have mellowed, settled in your stomach. The world is back to beige – as plain as it always was before that night of tequila and AC/DC. You’ve made peace with it, this idea of letting go. Letting him go.

Martha – soapbox queen, microphone in one hand and glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the other – has checked in every day since. Expectant eyes from across the room, treasure chest emails full of job ads she’s collected.

Anything? she texted this morning, with six praying emojis. One more since yesterday, two since the day before that.

But no – nothing, for almost eight days now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe you can swallow back the knot of misplaced disappointment, slip back into your heels and forget any of it ever happened. That fire Martha struck so effortlessly, snuffed by a cruel, cold wind.

His knuckles on the door scatter your thoughts.

“Hey,” Joel says, leant against the frame. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply. “What’s up?”

He looks…frustratingly good. Like he’s pieced himself back together. Sharp and smart, brand new. And yet – warm, homey, in all the places only you know to look.

Your fingers flinch by your side, as though they’re seeking him out. You want to run them through his hair, through his beard. Want to straighten his tie, smooth the shirt over his chest. Breathe him in and feel him melt under your touch.

Feel him change, feel him soften – just for you.

Only for you.

He floats over, hands in his pockets, and perches on the desk by the copier. “Exciting stuff,” he muses, tapping the machine twice.

“Hm,” you nod, “You’re an exciting man.”

“How was the wine bar?”

“It was good,” you reply. “Little above my price range, but – it got us drunk, so.”

“Did the job.”

“Did the job,” you agree.

“Good,” Joel says, crossing his ankles. “I’m glad to see you a little more your old self.”

Your lips flatten into a smile. “Well, Martha has a way with words.”

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

He lingers, then. An awkward air about him. He scratches his nose, stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Sucks in a deep breath, swallows what seems to be a soliloquy of sentiment, or secrets, or something else.

Whatever it is, his nerves rub off on you.

You cross your arms, twist your toe into the carpet. Stare at the paper churning out of the machine, stare at your nails, stare at anything that isn’t the man sitting right in front of you.

But then – he murmurs, as though the words splinter from his tongue, “I had an interesting email this morning.”

The copier shudders at his side.

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh, yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah. Pertaining to you.”

And you realize.

You look up at him, the tight knit of his brows. His fixed jaw, the way it flexes as he chews on the words.

“Pertaining to me,” you echo – a nudge.

The light from the machine catches a wet glint in his eye. He blinks it away.

“Request for a reference,” he says.

And – shit.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” louder.

His expression sharpens into a perplexed smirk. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” you start, “I mean – no. No, I just – Shit, I didn’t think they’d…I thought they’d talk to me first. Why didn’t they talk to me first?”

He shrugs. “I know of the company, met the CEO once at a gala. From what I know, she runs a pretty tight ship. Probably just wanted to gauge you before reaching out. It’s okay,” his voice is kind, hushed, “Doesn’t mean you won’t still hear.”

“Oh, Jesus, Joel,” you pull on your cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Woah, woah,” he pats the air, moves so close you worry he might hear the thud of your heart, “No apologies, alright? That ain’t why I brought it up.”

“I just didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I wanted to be the one to – to tell you.”

He stands, hands finding your elbows. Gentle, a little timid. Barely brushing the sleeves of your shirt, and yet your whole body ignites.

“Darlin’,” his voice is serious, “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, I promise. I mean…” he shakes his head, “…I give a shit. I give a lotta shits. I’m not – I don’t mean that, I meant –”

“I know what you meant,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you always do.”

You pick a speck of fluff from his tie. He watches your hand, then takes it in both of his. Two big paws wrapped around one of yours, swallowing it whole.

It’s a familiar feeling, staring at the shape of your fingers tangled in his. Two in the morning at your first sleepover, praying Mom will pick up the phone. The first night alone in a new apartment, the babble of reality television for company right until sunrise.

You’re homesick.

Homesick for a man who’s standing right in front of you.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joel says, “that I sent it off just now. Just in case somethin’ goes wrong with the email, it doesn’t go through, I sent it to the wrong goddamn place – I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that it’s done.”

He holds your hand to his chest, his heartbeat against your knuckles. When you don’t reply, throttled by the threat of tears, he gives your wrist a little shake.

“Okay? You in there?”

“I’m here,” you breathe, and your hand slips from his grasp. “Thank you. I’m still sorry. You musta felt a little blindsided.”

His head bobs, considering. “Was a surprise, but a good one. Junior art director, huh? That sounds pretty damn exciting.”

“Yeah,” you reply, relaxing as he settles back on the desk. “Really exciting. Flex those creative muscles again.”

He grins. “You plan on working your way up?”

“Yup. Earn my stripes.”

“Alright, little tiger,” he says, and your heart leaps. “Proud of you.”

A silly smirk on your lips, you give him a tiny curtsy. “Here’s hoping your reference seals the deal.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t know about that, darlin’. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked all about how sarcastic you are, how you forgot the charger for your toothbrush – and then stole mine. Told ‘em about the Bart Simpson socks, force-feeding me Patrick Swayze. The lot.”

“The Bart socks,” you snicker, “They really stuck with you, huh?”

“Sure did.”

You slide onto the desk beside him. “What did you really write?” you ask, leaning in.

Joel glances to you. It should be obvious, with the way he’s looking at you, exactly what he wrote.

“Tell me,” you say, elbowing him.

“I told them…” he sighs, “…I told them not even to think about it, just hire you. They’d be outta their goddamn minds not to. Told them I wouldn’t be anywhere without you – or your Bart socks.

“Told them you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. The best thing that ever happened to me. And you think – you think you never know what you have until you lose it, whatever that saying is, but I did. I knew from the second I met you. And they will, too. So – I told ‘em.”

The photocopier cuts, huffs, and falls silent. The room is plunged into a suffocating silence. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.

Joel’s arms are crossed protectively over his chest. You want so badly, more than anything, to burrow under them. To wriggle your way into his grasp – because you know he’d let you – cling to his chest, let his heartbeat regulate yours.

Let his entire body become yours; forget which parts are you, and which are him. Crawl into his skin, envelop yourself in him.

You want to cry into him. Hand him back all those mangled shapes of yourself you tried so hard to hoard – realizing now, that he knew what he was doing all along.

He was never trying to break them. He was never trying to hurt them. He only ever wanted to love them.

He only ever wanted to love you.

“Anyway,” Joel says, dusting his thighs, “Why don’t you finish that up, head on home for the day?”

“Uh –” you swipe the tears from your cheeks, “– no, it’s okay. I got a to-do list as long as my arm, and I still owe you, like, three hours from last week.”

Joel watches as you leap back over to the copier, swing the documents under one arm.

“I’m sure the to-do list will keep,” he assures, taking the ream from your clutches. “Go home, clear your head. Wait for that invite to interview to come through.”

“Joel –”

“Look at me,” he towers over you, “Anything urgent is Martha’s job now. She’ll love the drama of it. You want me to email that company back ‘n have them add Doesn’t follow orders to your reference?”

You breathe a laugh. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, brushing by.

All the times you’ve missed him before – landing back home after Paris, sat with some lovestruck financier in a golf club, fighting like kids in his office – and none of them compare to right now. Stood in the copy room, mere inches and yet entire worlds between you.

And Joel seems to know, like he knows everything you’re thinking. He glances over his shoulder, flame in his eyes, and he smiles. All sweet and charming, the real kind that softens him, lightens him.

Everything that makes him yours.

“Go on, git,” he says, heading for the door. “‘fore I change my mind.”

“Hey, wait. Joel?”

He turns back.

Your voice trembles. “How are you so calm about all this?”

His jaw flicks uncomfortably. He considers it for a moment, then says, “If you love something, you let it go.”

You repeat his own words back to him, whispered to you while you lay intertwined on his childhood bed. When they leave your mouth, they sound more like a plea. Fight back.

“But then you’d be losing something,” you say.

Joel shrugs. Earnestly. “Can’t lose somethin’ I never had.”

He doesn’t get it. He must get it. He’s twenty years older, twenty years wiser. He must know, by now. Christ, he had you to a tee two weeks ago.

How doesn’t he get it?

Your chest heaves. Your head shakes.

“You had it. You had me the second we walked into that dive bar.”

[moonshynecybin]

any humble updates on airport au...

context. SURE man what the hell. i actually have a good ass chunk written after this but hey. this is right after vale shows up at PI post sex dream and marc nearly crashes his scooter. happy birthday to these two filthy animals

Vale, like a mosquito, shows up at his box later that day, just before Marc is about to head out of the paddock. Probably because it’s a flyaway and he can’t show up at Marc’s motorhome to plague him there, and because he doesn’t know what house Marc and Álex are renting on the island.

He also, as a man put on the planet to consternate Marc, brings a good bottle of Merlot. And what with all of the recently healed very public animosity, it’s not like Marc can turn him away.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

“What was that about, this afternoon?” Vale asks immediately, rummaging around in the cabinets in Marc’s rider’s room and conjuring two cups without asking Marc if he even wants a glass. He’s pretty sure that the mug that Vale is eyeballing to see if it’s dirty is Jose’s.

He folds his knees up on the little couch in his rider’s room, a small act of self protection. He’s directly post-shower, and his hair is wet, his skin overheated. It's all a little — exposed. Like Vale might happen across his guts if their conversation winds down the wrong path. “I have a race tomorrow, quali, too— maybe I don’t want any wine.”

“God, I am glad I retired before they made us do sprints,” Vale cranks out the cork, then sniffs the bottle and makes a comically considering face until Marc breaks into a smile. He raises an eyebrow in the direction of the couch. “Well, do you?” He asks about the wine.

They sit and Marc takes his glass. Vale has unsubtly poured him a humongous portion.

“You didn’t answer me,” Vale ponders, sipping like a cat. “You know, you are not as good at lying as you think you are, it’s just that no one has the balls to call you out on it.”

Marc privately thinks that Vale is actually historically very bad at telling whether he is lying. He does not share this, he just crosses his arms on top of his knees.

“Hah, you should see my mom— she always let me blame stuff on Álex when we were young, it would make him so mad, and I would always get away with it.”

Turning towards him, Vale twists out of his hoodie, and Marc catches a soft strip of skin as his t-shirt rides up. The band of Vale’s underwear. He bites his lip and looks away. This is embarrassing.

“Hm, a born criminal, then? Not a learned one?” Vale is saying, throwing his hoodie over the chair and settling back on the couch.

Marc really hopes Vale has enough grace to let this afternoon go. He doesn’t have a lie ready, really, that he thinks Vale will believe.

“No, please. Most of those tricks I learned from you.”

“Like what?” He’s looking at Marc with big, innocent eyes.

He knows exactly what, he just likes to hear Marc say it.

“Lots of things. It’s probably the reason I was second place at Jerez in 2013, instead of third.”

It works, and Vale guffaws. Marc knew that it would— He used to love it when Marc would do shit to Jorge. Marc used to love doing shit to Jorge for that exact reason.

“Marc, please, please. We are in Australia, you have to pay your respects to Mick Doohan for inventing that move. He’s probably only about twenty meters away.” He drops his voice into a whisper. “Be careful, honestly maybe he can hear you.”

Marc looks at the ceiling, responds gravely, “I’m not a Repsol Honda rider anymore, I can do what I want.”

“Cin-cin. Hey, me neither,” Vale says brightly, and clinks his cup (José’s travel mug that says LESS TALK, MORE COFFEE) against Marc’s (a protein shake bottle that is missing its lid).

He can do what he wants. Marc turns that over, chewing on the edge of a thumbnail. He’s always thought so, but this is a little bit different. He changes the subject.

“Álex wants to go shopping on Monday at the airport, before our flight home. His girlfriend— it is her birthday on Wednesday, and he wants to get her this at one of the stores there, you know,” Marc pulls up his phone, finding a picture Álex sent him of the necklace. It's— Marc doesn't like it, but Marc’s picky. “And I think it is such a bad idea. It is so ugly, too much. He’s going to scare her.”

Vale looks for a second at the photo, picking at one of his nails, and then looks over at Marc.

“You wouldn't get that for your girl?”

“I wouldn’t get her something like that.”

“Well, what does she like?” Vale takes another pull of his drink, a little more subdued now. His face looks– pinched, for some reason. “Your girl. Maybe she has some ideas.”

“Oh, um.”

Vale just stares at him until he breaks. “No, no girlfriend. With travel, it's hard, you know.” Marc puts down his wine, leaning down to grab his racing boot and fiddle with it. “So. Not really looking.” The strap won’t close. He might need to get one of his backups tomorrow, for the race.

After a moment he notices Vale is still looking at him.

“Hm.”

“Yeah,”

“It’s hard.” Vale agrees, and then goes silent. “Tell Álex that the necklace is not so good. Try simple. Expensive.”

After a taught second where the both sip at their wine, Vale looks like he wants to say something more, but when he starts talking it's bright, airy, unrelated. Some story about him and Mick and being a Honda rider at the tobacco money fueled turn of the millennium, hands moving in the air as he mimes some poor mechanic scrambling to switch a tire. Marc watches, and he can’t stop looking at his hands, his neck, the way his mouth curves around syllables, the slant of his posture.

The thing he is realizing, while Vale boyishly shakes his head in a disapproving impersonation of Jeremy Burgess, is that— this hot fixation he’s discovered, it isn't a one-off. It's not the past, it's here, and it's now. He’d thought a little space would clean things up, work the frustration out of his bones, but the lack of space is serving to be just as clarifying a force. He sits and he stares. It's not just a dream or being pent-up from a long season, he’s not even sure that this is new. It doesn't feel like it is, it feels a lot like when he was 15 and meeting him, like when he was 20 and friends with him. Like when he was 21 and at the Ranch. Like when he was 22 and feeling like he was going to throw up, boring holes with his eyes in the side of Vale’s neck and willing him to look at him.

Hero-worship, he’d thought. The thrill of being friends with Valentino Rossi. People usually grow out of that, don't they? Marc didn't, and now he knows why.

He can do what he wants, Vale had said, except that he doesn't know that he can. Because what he wants, what he thinks he wants, well. That’s not really an option.

He takes his first sip of the night, and the Merlot bursts earthy and light on his tongue.

[myers-meadow]

Fear and wonder: Jonathan Crane x reader

Summary: A bad day shakes you and all you want is to be close to Jonathan, to hear his voice, to have him assure that you will be alright, to share a meal together.

This is a slice of life insight into life as Jonathan Crane's best friend - who he has a terrible, obsessive secret crush on. This is a part one. Part two here.

Warnings: for this chapter, just some implied obsession but nothing outragious yet :)). Fem reader.

Wordcount: 1.5k+

Dividers by @saradika-graphics. Reblogs, comments and feedback are very appreciated!

You've made a new friend somewhat recently. Even though you didn't quite realise it at the time, your life slowly shifted to accommodate him more and more. He fell into place so perfectly, like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. The timing felt utterly right as well, and you couldn't be happier with him as your friend.

After meeting him, only two weeks after, one of your friends moved back to her home country. You'd always known this change was coming, as much as you dreaded it. Years ago, when your studies started, your friend came to the USA to study and was often homesick. You wanted her to be happy, of course, but you'd be lying if you said you wouldn't miss her terribly. For the longest time, you vainly hoped she'd find a good job and a loving partner, that she'd stay, just so you wouldn't have to miss her. Alas, no such luck, and from one day to the next, she was gone. You didn't press her for contact, with the timezone difference, and how busy she must be settling into this new stage in her life... Yet you would've hoped she kept in touch more than she did, it felt like she disappeared entirely once she was back home.

Then, in a stroke of luck you got hired for a slightly different position at the same company, which allowed for Friday afternoons off. Those Friday evenings, after you've had your time to unwind, became the nights you spend together with your new friend. A routine formed. Friday night dinners, movie nights, sleepovers, and a trip to a park, a museum, the market, anything that took your fancy.

Your new friend could be described as a workaholic, so it made you happy to share homecooked meals with him. He'd come over, and you'd cook together. It was surprising that someone understood your particular brand of picky eating and seamlessly acomodated for you in the way he did. Not only did he understand, he had similar tastes too, and it was a joy to try new recipes with him. After, you made dessert together, laughing and licking off sticky jam fingers side by side, leaning against the kitchen counter, a bottle of Merlot half full waiting to be polished off.

His name was Jonathan Crane. He worked as a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum and was passionate about his work. With you, he didn't discuss it much, but the small outbursts that sometimes came, during late night chats, showed how deeply he cared. You wondered whether he had any other friends, as he never mentioned anyone who wasn't a co-worker or a patient. Not that it mattered, because he had you.

A month went by, of comfortable dinners, museum days, and grocery shopping together. One Monday, you didn't have anything planned with him, but your boss was so difficult, and work felt so overwhelming, that all you wanted was to be at home with him. And to eat a pomegranate like a caveman experiencing fruit for the first time. Or a big piece of homemade tiramisu. The urge to see Jonathan was stronger than the sugar craving, it washed over you like a dam breaking as you sat in your car, trying to gather yourself after your boss's tirade before you felt able to drive home. Sure, Jonathan was a good friend of yours, it seeningly went unnoticed how easily he became your rock, your safe haven. Without even thinking, you rummaged in your bag for your phone.

"Hey," you greeted as you held open the door for him. He came as soon as you called.

Jonathan took in your appearance for a beat, before entering and shutting the door behind him. "Hey," he returned, then repeated himself, voice soothing. "Oh, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

You shook your head but let him pull you into his embrace, your head resting on his shoulder. You'd never been fond of being touched, especially not of hugs, but as you felt the wool of his suit jacket against your cheek, you exhaled deeply, relaxing into his touch. Finally you could breathe. He hummed softly and rubbed his cheek against your hair.

Often, he let you break the hug first. You weren't sure why he tended to let you do that, but this time was no different. When you finally moved away from him, you smiled softly.

"Thanks for coming on such short notice."

He waved it away, and settled into your space; took his shoes off, took the bag he came with to the kitchen.

"You sounded upset, so I went by the store and got you a pomegranate," he said, laying the fruit on the counter. It was a hefty thing, judging by the thud it made against the surface. How did he know to get a pomegranate, today specifically? Sure, you loved having them, but they're a rare treat. Grocery stores don't even reliably sell them.

"Jonathan, you're a godsent." Tears welled up in your eyes. He knew you so well... Perhaps he was the first person to make you feel this seen. Best thing about him was, probably due to his work as a therapist: he never told you to stop crying.

"That bad, huh?" And his arms were around you in an instant. His scent and the softness of his knitted vest grounded you. "Why don't you take a warm shower while I make us some dinner, yeah?"

When you exited the bathroom, the scent of onions and spices made your mouth water. You rubbed at your face, trying to make yourself more 'presentable' now that you washed off your make-up, and went to the kitchen.

"Feel a bit better?" asked Jonathan, his back still to you, busy draining the water of the rice, his glasses fogging up.

"I do," you smiled softly. "Thanks for making dinner."

"It's almost done, the curry needs a bit more time."

In the time it took to simmer, you readied the dinnertable. Two plates, two sets of cutlery, and glasses of water. He brought the sauce pan, the rice, and let you serve yourself first.

"So, do you wanna talk about it?" he asked as he ladled curry atop his rice.

You hummed, taking the first bit. "Ah, it's hot. Um, well..." Suddenly a shyness crept over you, always so nervous when complaining, afraid of being too negative.

"My dear, I do this for a living, and now it's after hours, so I can choose who I listen to. And I want to hear it. I want to make you feel better. So please, get it out if you need to." His practiced smile was comforting nevertheless.

"I've told you we've had interns again at work, right? Well, today one of them forgot to write down where she put an important manuscript, and," you let out a deep sigh, "my manager got wind of it, and I got blamed. She yelled so much, and so loud, that I received pity looks the rest of the afternoon, Jezus Christ."

Jonathan huffed out a breath, his hand reaching to take yours over the table. Your stress seeped away through the physical contact.

You continued. "I'm not even qualified to deal with interns, it's not me who should be doing it in the first place. They won't learn much from following me around either, if they're hired to do more than file manuscripts all day. All the academics think they're too good to waste their time herding interns, so that leaves me and Samatha from the front desk to do it - which is fine, we share the responsibility. But from the organisation itself, it's such a shame. And now, I tried doing the right thing, but ended up getting shit for it, while having no real means to relay that to the interns. I know it's not their fault, but after a day like today, I fear it will make me bitter."

"And you don't want to be bitter." Jonathan finished for you. You nod. "You're not. You're a good person. It's just a feeling, and getting it out is already a great step. Tomorrow you can face them with a more level head, and you'll know you did the right thing."

"Yeah," you nodded, squeezing his hand. "It's just frustrating, that's all. I'll live."

"Your manager shouldn't yell at you, it's highly unprofessional." 'Unprofessional', an odd word choice, but it endeared you to him more than anything.

You shrugged. "Yeah, but what can I do? Besides monitor the interns like a hawk." You chuckled softly and he smiled, glad to see you found the humour in the situation again. Then, your stomach grumbled. "Oh, we should probably finish dinner, before it gets too cold."

After dinner, plates cleared away, you set the gorgeous pomegranate in between the two of you.

"Who does the honours?" you asked, handing Jonathan the big knife. He took it with the most charming grin and your heart skipped a beat. After cutting it, he let you have the bigger half, and you picked seeds from the skin with your fingers. At the end of it, your nails were glistening red from the juiciness. 

"Did you know I really looked forward to a pomegranate?" you asked. There was no way for him to know this, other than predicting you scarily well. "I was specifically thinking about it all day. It's like you read my mind."

Jonathan smiled, casting his eyes down and pressing another seed between his lips. "Me too. I wanted to have one. Perhaps it's just a coincidence, but I'm glad we both get to satisfy a craving."

[gardens0fbabyl0n]

The Counselor and The Detective

Dominick Carisi x Reader / Terry Bruno x Reader Warnings: smut (explicit), language

‘Another one, please.’ you motion to the bartender, and he nods, preparing a glass of Merlot for you as your phone buzzes. A text from Sonny lights up your screen. 

Sorry, sweetheart. Still stuck at the office with Bruno going over the case. You know how much I hate this.

It was supposed to be your date night. And even though Dominick and you had kept it casual until now on the grounds that both of you were too busy for a serious relationship, this was the one thing you both had insisted on. A regular Friday date night. Yes, he had apologized in advance, knowing he was going to be late but now it was almost 10.30pm and you were getting tired of waiting. He had a big trial coming up on Monday, however, you knew for a fact everyone else had gone home and it was just him and the lead Detective on the case still working so late. You had to find a way to make him leave. 

You take a generous sip of wine before getting up and walking toward the bathroom. Maybe he just needed a little inspiration, you think to yourself, and take your phone out of your purse. Hiking up your dress, you position yourself, camera pointing at your lace-covered center, a finger teasingly moving the fabric aside just an inch, just enough, before snapping a photo.

Hungry for you. You hit send. 

Sonny’s reply only takes seconds.

Come over.

You gasp, your hands beginning to shake immediately.  Come over to his office? Has he gotten rid of the Detective? Was he all alone now? Oh, fuck. You quickly leave the bathroom stall and return to the bar to pay your tab and grab your coat. 

On my way, baby.

******

The floor is dark, the blinds of his office closed, and you swallow hard as you approach, knowing he has prepared for you. Fuck, you’ve had sex in semi-public places but this, this was something you two had fantasized about so many times. You knock softly before opening the door and there he is, leaning against his desk, looking sexy as ever in his waistcoat, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up slightly above his elbows. Your eyes linger on him for a few moments but then, to your confusion, you notice another man sitting on the leather couch. 

‘Come in, my love. Close the door and lock it.’ Sonny says, as the other man stands up with a soft smile. He’s handsome, about the same age as Sonny.

‘Dominick?’ you look at him questioningly and he walks towards you, grabbing your hand.

‘This is Detective Bruno. Terry. He was looking forward to meeting you.’ he says, and Bruno comes over, his eyes wandering over you as your heart begins to race.

You look at Sonny and he has that smirk on his lips that says it all. And you don’t know what in the world possesses you but you just give him a soft nod before he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you against him as his lips capture yours. As Dominick kisses you, his tongue slipping into your mouth, making you moan, Detective Bruno is watching, his gaze still on you as your boyfriend’s hands glide over you. It’s thrilling, kind of. Such a weird, bizarre feeling. You’re surprised by how fucking turned on you are already. You’re safe with Sonny, you know it. If at any time you’re uncomfortable with anything, a ‘no’ or ‘stop’ is enough and it will be over. But you want to know where this is going. All of a sudden you have no inhibitions, and these two attractive men are making you feel so sexy and wanted.

‘You know, I happened to see the photo you sent to ADA Carisi…I gotta say, you look pretty damn delicious.’ Terry whispers, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek as Sonny places passionate kisses down your neck.

‘I am pretty damn delicious. Tell him, Sonny, baby.’ you moan, fluttering your eyelashes up at the cop.

‘She’s the most delicious thing in the world.’ Sonny confirms and you giggle, your hands in his hair, roughing up his perfectly gelled locks.  

‘Maybe, if you’re lucky, Counselor Carisi will let you have a little taste.’ you smile at Bruno as the Detective steps closer. 

And while Sonny’s hands travel underneath your dress, lips sucking on the delicate skin of your neck, Detective Bruno starts kissing you. Almost immediately you begin to tremble, the two men’s lips and hands on you now and the thought of what’s to come almost too much to handle for your horny brain. Dominick’s hand slips between your legs, laughing at your dampness, his thumb pressing down on your clit, making you squirm under his touch. You’re losing all self-control. If you’ve had any to begin with, that is. 

‘She’s really wet, you wanna feel?’ Sonny asks Terry and you whimper as the two men switch places, handling you like a doll. 

Detective Bruno’s hand wanders up your dress, his fingers finding your wet cunt and he furrows his brow. 

‘Damn!’ he sucks in air and you look down as you make out a growing bulge in his pants. Dear God.

‘Is that all for me, sweetie? Or will you give some of that to Detective Bruno? I’m willing to share if you are.’ Sonny whispers in your ear, nibbling there as Bruno drags his fingers through the folds of your pussy, making you moan out loud.

‘M-maybe…ugh…’ you groan, as Terry withdraws to bring his fingers to his mouth in order to taste your juices.

‘Fuck yeah, she’s delicious. You’re a lucky man, Carisi.’ he grins and you wrap your arms around your boyfriend’s neck, kissing him deeply as his hands find the zipper of your dress, pulling it down. 

Terry helps you step out of the fabric while Dominick continues to get rid of your bra and panties, then wastes no time to push you down on his table until you’re lying down on it. The two men are still fully clothed and you’re exposed to them, feeling anything but. You’ve never felt hotter.

‘Spread your legs, baby.’ Dominick says, his hands on your thighs and you can feel your arousal dripping out of you already as you follow his command. 

‘Fuck…’ you can hear Terry mumble under his breath. 

You can feel Sonny’s fingers on you, spreading your lips, exposing your clit, and then his tongue is on you, tasting you. It feels fucking incredible. His name escapes your mouth in a loud moan and your back arches almost completely off the table, he has to hold you down with his free hand, all while he continues to flick his tongue on your sensitive bud. Fuck. He’s always been an expert at eating you out, the sight of his face between your legs enough to make you shake.  

‘Bruno. Come here.’ you hear him say and your eyes flutter open to see the Detective step between your legs, his gaze on your pussy as Sonny pauses. ‘Fuck her with your fingers. I gotta hold her still.’

Oh God, you think but you have no time to think. Detective Bruno immediately plunges his middle and ring finger into you, making you scream in pleasure and Sonny’s mouth is back on you, sucking on your swollen clit. The two men are relentless in the way they are working on your cunt, Sonny’s expert tongue twirling around your core hungrily all while Terry’s unfamiliar fingers are pumping in and out of you, curling over your gummy walls. You know their goal is to make you cum as fast as possible, to make you shake and scream, and it won’t take long. 

‘Doesn’t she have the most perfect little cunt ever?’ Sonny moans against you, parting your lips even more to expose your sensitive, overstimulated pussy. You can hardly take it anymore.

‘So perfect. So tight. Can’t wait for her to cum, see her squirm. You wanna cum, darling? You want us to make you squirt, huh?’ you open your eyes to look down at the two men, both giving you the dirtiest looks as they work your cunt to near exhaustion. 

‘Fuck, yes, please!’ you yelp, and Sonny starts rubbing your clit as he continues to tongue at your folds, Detective Bruno adding a third finger to fuck into you harder and faster, pressing against your g spot.

Your thighs begin to shake as you feel your pleasure starting to concentrate on that one spot within you, and Dominick knows exactly what to do. Sucking harder, rubbing faster.

‘Hold her hips down.’ Sonny says and he spreads your legs as wide as he can, slapping your clit before taking it into his mouth again to suck greedily while Bruno’s fingers continue to fuck into you.

‘I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna c-cum!’ you cry, feeling yourself topple over, the walls of your pussy beginning to twitch.

Terry withdraws his fingers, inching closer to your pussy as Dominick watches as you pulse, and both men are holding you steady, your cunt releasing a spray of squirt. And you moan loudly, your eyes rolling back, you throb and spasm on the table as Sonny and Terry take turns catching your juice with their mouths. 

‘Fuck baby, yes! Mmmhmm, look at that pretty pussy giving us so much delicious cum.’ Dominick moans, plunging two fingers into your still spurting hole. ‘Can’t get enough of you.’

‘Unreal.’ Terry growls, licking his lips. 

Your eyes flutter open and the sight of the two men between your legs is almost too much to handle. And you know this earth shattering orgasm they have given you you know is only the beginning. Both their faces wet with your slick and cum, it is your turn now to make them feel good. 

Dominick is hard as a rock in his pants and Terry has reached into his jeans and is stroking himself as you sit up, still shaking from your orgasm. 

‘Mmmhhmm what do you say, Counselor? Shall we give Detective Bruno one of my holes, hmm?’ you smile, climbing off the wet table, grabbing your boyfriend and kissing him hard, tasting your pussy on his lips.

‘Your terms, darling.’ Sonny purrs as you stroke his dick through his pants.

‘You’ve both been so good to me, you deserve everything.’ you say, reaching out to pull Terry close as well, unzipping his jeans to free his cock while Sonny undresses himself.

The two men’s lips and hands are all over you, an overload of sensations while you’re still so raw from your recent orgasm. You lean back against Dominick, his hard cock rubbing against your ass and you already begin to shiver again in anticipation. Terry moans as your hands wrap around him, as you begin to stroke him and Sonny guides you backwards towards the couch. You turn around, pushing him down on it, kneeling next to him on the cold leather, his brilliant blues staring into your eyes, heavy with lust. It’s on you to serve them now. Happily. And as your mouth wraps around Sonny’s hard cock, you raise your hips, legs spread for Terry. 

‘Detective.’ you mumble with your mouth full of dick. 

‘Go ahead.’ Carisi grabs your ass, slapping it softly. ‘You have my permission. Fuck her however she likes it. Fuuuuck baby, that feels good!’ he moans, his precum leaking into your mouth as you bob your head up and down his shaft. 

Finally, you feel Terry grab your hips from behind, the tip of his cock at your entrance, making you quiver before he pushes into you, making you moan and almost choke on Sonny’s dick. Christ almighty. 

‘Holy shit!’ he breathes, dragging his cock along your tight walls. 

‘Hmm babygirl, I think he loves your pussy just as much as I do.’ Dominick teases, pushing your hair out of your face as you eagerly suck his dick. You love it, you always have. It’s always been an equal part of give and receive in your relationship. 

‘Fuck yes, I do. No wonder you’re always in such a good mood, Carisi. She’s taking my dick so well. Shiiiiit!!!’ Detective Bruno moans as he pumps into you, making your knees buckle. 

‘Sonny has coaxed it out of me, haven’t you, Counselor?’ you look up at Sonny as you drag your tongue back and forth in his slit, making him tremble.

‘Oh and you have coaxed many things out of me, baby.’ he smiles, then looks at Bruno. ‘Fuck her harder. She can take it. She wants it. I know she does. Don’t you, hun?’ he growls and you nod.

Detective Bruno does as he’s told, shoving his dick into you harder, and you have to catch your balance on Sonny’s thighs, a loud scream escaping your mouth. 

‘Good girl.’ Bruno moans, setting a new, merciless rhythm inside your cunt. 

Fuck, it feels incredible. You know you’re going to cum again in no time and you know this is what they want. They want you screaming and they want you to be a mess again before they launch a new attack on you. It’s all part of their plan. You could tell from the moment you stepped into Dominick’s office. Terry’s fingers find your clit and he begins to rub you there, his cock pushing into your dripping cunt while Sonny watches you eat his dick enthusiastically. You love the taste of him, you love having him throbbing inside your mouth while you play with his balls, have him moan your name, the tension in his thigh increasing with every stroke, every flick of your tongue.

‘Harder.’ Sonny instructs as he pulls you off him and Bruno once again picks up the pace while Sonny kisses you and you cum, holding on to your boyfriend as you shake and moan, your walls once again bursting. ‘Fuck her through it.’ 

The Detective fucks you through your orgasm, your legs almost giving out and your pussy squeezes around his dick. He curses under his breath while Sonny looks at you adoringly. 

‘Fuck. Fuck. You two are gonna kill me.’ you sigh, voice shaking as much as your body.

‘No baby, no. But I think we can both agree that we love to make you cum, don’t we, Bruno.’ Sonny laughs as Detective Bruno pulls out of you, his hard dick glistening with your juices. 

You look at them, both men so proud of themselves for having reduced you to a screaming, twitching mess, not once but twice now. And yet, they have yet to cum. 

‘I think it’s your turn now. Counselor. Detective.’ you push Sonny back on the couch until he’s lying down before climbing on top of him, guiding his cock into your pussy.

‘Mmmhmmm baby, fuck. So warm. So tight.’ he moans, starting to fuck into you immediately as you lean forward and he embraces you while Bruno watches, stroking his still wet cock.

‘You two are so hot together.’ he mumbles, stepping closer, his hand running over your spine.

‘Join us. It’ll be even hotter.’ you breath spreading your buttcheeks but Bruno hesitates. 

‘Don’t be shy. She’s okay with it.’ Dominick assures him. 

‘Sonny, baby, I don’t think he’s ever done it before. Let’s switch.’ you pull away from him and your boyfriend smirks before you climb on top of him again, facing away, while he spits into his hands several times, wetting his cock for you. 

Bruno watches as Sonny guides his dick into your asshole in slow motion, giving you all the time you need to adjust before you bottom out, moaning his name, and his arms are holding you still for a moment. 

‘One word and I’ll stop.’ your boyfriend assures you but you shake your head, you actually love the feeling. 

The first time you had tried it it’d been your idea and Sonny had looked at you in shock before shyly agreeing. Now it wasn’t something you did on a regular basis but sometimes, when you were in a particular mood, you had opened the drawer and asked Sonny to use that vibrator in your ass while he fucked you. And he couldn’t deny that he had enjoyed it too. 

‘Go on, Detective.’ you say, as Sonny slowly starts fucking into you and you spread your legs a little more, offering your pussy to Bruno.

‘You sure?’ Terry asks and you nod, biting your lip.

‘Please. Fill me up. I want both of your cocks making me cum at the same time. And I want both of you cum inside me.’ you moan and Sonny curses at your words, his hand reaching down to find your clit, to rub you there.

‘Fuck, this is crazy. This is the hottest thing ever. My God. I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.’ Detective Bruno leans down to inspect your swollen little pussy, watches in awe as Sonny’s dick pumps in and out of you.

‘She’s all ours to share.’ Sonny growls, biting into your shoulder softly and you giggle.

Bruno’s tongue darts out to taste you and you squirm, releasing another stream of slick from your opening which he catches. Greedily, his fingers delve into you, at which your legs fall apart even more, and you know he can’t hold back any longer.

‘Please. Please Detective. Please.’ you beg, hungry for his cock now. All you want is to get your brains fucked out by these two gorgeous men. 

‘Well, I can’t have you begging like this.’ he whispers, pushing the head of his dick through your folds before ramming it into your pussy and you moan out loud, overwhelmed by the feeling of two cocks inside you now. 

‘Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK!’ you yelp, and they both halt their movements in order for you to get used to them. 

‘You’re okay?’ Bruno asks while Sonny softly strokes your sides, kissing your neck.

‘YES! Fucking hell don’t stop!’ you squeal and they smirk, immediately starting to thrust into you again, slowly but deliberately. 

Fuck, you can’t believe you have two dicks inside of you, you can’t even figure out what is going on, all you know is that you are approaching another orgasm fast. Sonny’s hands are holding you up while he’s pumping into your asshole, Bruno has found the perfect position to fuck into your pussy deeply while his thumb is pressing down on your clit, rubbing tiny circles and you have lost all sense of time and space. 

‘Harder.’ you cry, looking up at the detective as his mouth hangs open at the sight of you exposed like this, offering yourself up to him like this. 

‘Mmmmhhmm, she can take it, Bruno. Do as she says. Fuck that little pussy of hers.’ Sonny orders, pulling on your hair slightly as he himself picks up the pace a bit more, his dick fucking into your ass harder.

You smile as Bruno does as he’s told, with a loud, feral moan, and you close your eyes, letting the two men split you open, fucking into you ferociously. 

‘Fuck, baby. I’m so close. Fuck!’ Sonny moans behind you and you smile triumphantly.

‘Wanna see that pussy squirt again. Wanna feel you clench around me, baby.’ Bruno says, desperately pumping his dick into your soaking wet cunt. 

His thumb is circling your clit harder, as you look down, watching as the two men fuck your holes, making you feel like a slut and a goddess at the same time. 

‘You two feel so fucking good! I’m gonna cum, ughhhhh.’ you moan, and both men pick up the pace again, making you scream with every thrust, making you forget everything around you. 

And for the third time today you bliss out, spasming around their two cocks, jerking, pulsing, twitching, juice shooting from your spent pussy while you moan. And they still won’t stop ramming into you, chasing their own releases, Bruno still rubbing your swollen clit. Sonny is the first to cum, filling your ass with his seed, holding you close to him while he presses into you, your name on his hot breath. You cry and convulse again as Terry continues to penetrate you frantically, his cock plunging into your pussy again, again and again, and you cum once more while Sonny rubs your clit, making you spray your squirt everywhere.

‘Yeah, you like that huh, he told me you could take it, now I’m gonna make you take it. Again!’ the Detective smiles. ‘Spread her cunt for me, Sonny. Wider.’

You cry out in pleasure as Sonny holds your legs open while your thighs shake, his hands reaching down to spread the lips of your pussy to expose you to Bruno. 

‘Fuck. Look at that. How many more do you have in you, huh? You wanna find out? Sonny, what do you think?’

‘Oh I’ve lost count.’ Sonny kisses you and you lean back against him, exhausted but eager for more. Always eager for more. 

Once more Bruno shoves his dick inside you, hard and fast thrusts, over and over again, and you cum again with a scream, your boyfriend holding you while you shake and twitch.

‘Mmmmhmmm, every time that pussy clenches around me I get closer to heaven, Counselor. You really won the prize with that one.’ Bruno says, playing with your clit.

‘I know…I know. So precious. Aren’t you, my darling.’ Sonny kisses your temple as he reaches up to squeeze your tits, and you nod, catching your breath before Bruno starts fucking you again. 

But he is close now himself, you can tell. Beads of sweat forming on his forehead, his grip tightening on you, his pants quickening, his thrusts getting sloppier. Still, he fucks into you hard, his thumb stroking your clit as you reach another peak.

‘I want you to cum, Detective.’ you moan. ‘P-please. I wanna feel that cock pulsing inside of me. Feel that hot cum fill my pussy. Come on.’ 

‘Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkk!’ he growls as he rams into you a few more times, finally releasing himself into you with a shudder. ‘Holy fucking shit!’ 

And Sonny is there to continue to rub your clit while Bruno continues to fuck into you, still semi-hard, and you cum again as he pulls out, watching your pussy contracting and throbbing, pumping out his seed as you twitch and moan. Fucking hell. 

‘Fuck…’ Terry licks his lips while running his fingers through your wet folds a few more times, looking at you adoringly. 

‘So much for trial prep.’ Sonny laughs, his arms wrapped around you tightly and you relish the feeling of being taken care of after being fucked senseless. 

It truly seems like your soul has left your body, nothing in your life has ever felt this intense before. Your eyes are still closed and you’re too afraid to open them but as you feel Detective Bruno leaning down to kiss you, you eventually do.

‘Well, maybe it was just the inspiration you needed, what do you think, Counselor?’ you smirk up at Sonny and he chuckles.

‘Yeah, maybe you should come over more often, baby.’ he whispers.

Hmmm. Yes. Maybe you should.

[seblaineworld]

Hey, Seblainers! Hellooooo, everyone else!

Voting for your top six themes for Seblaine Week 2023 has now closed, and following a randomiser draw to determine their running order, here are your final Seblaine Week 2023 themes:

Monday 21st August - Soul Mates/Marks

Tuesday 22nd August - Spies/Undercover

Wednesday 23rd August - Dalton

Thursday 24th August - Free Day

Friday 25th August - **Inspired By Any Other Media**

Saturday 26th August - Being Famous/A Celebrity

Sunday 27th August - I Want You Back! (your own interpretation)

**We were asked if another media could be used instead of TV show for this theme, so we decided to open it up to being inspired by any other media**

Soooo get writing, creating artwork, making playlists, or anything that celebrates our beautiful boys!

Thank you again to everyone who voted. Our tiny (but always fierce!) little Fandom continues to grow, even as we head into Seblaine's 12th Anniversary, and we never fail to be amazed by the wealth of talent Seblainers - whether they be OG, around for the last few years, or complete newbies, possess.

We're so excited to be hosting our very first Seblaine Week and can't wait to see how you all interpret these awesome themes. The full rules will be posted on Friday 21st July, because...your Admin has had an insanely busy and infuriating day thus is now in need of a large glass of Merlot! 😊 🍷

Ail 💜

[brookston]

Holidays 9.8

Holidays

Actor’s Day

Asturias Day (Spain)

Blondie Day

Blue’s Clues Day

Colorism Awareness Day

The Commemoration of the Two Sieges (Malta)

Community Day (Extramadura, Spain)

Coronation Anniversary of Vytautas the Great (Lithuania)

Day of Aid Workers

Day of Asturias (Spain)

Day of the Battle of Borodino (Russia)

Extramadura Day (Spain)

Father’s Day (Latvia)

Festa Della Rificolona ends (Paper Lantern Festival; Florence, Italy)

Fiestas de Santa Fe begins with the burning of the Zozobra (New Mexico)

Financier’s Day (Russia)

Grandparents’ & Family Caregivers’ Day (Florida)

Hazelnut Day (French Republic)

Iguana Awareness Day

International Day of Journalists

International Literacy Day (UN)

Kosrae Liberation Day (Micronesia)

La Vierge de Meritxell (Feast of Our Lady of Meritxell; Andorra)

Mariä Geburt (Liechtenstein)

Martyrs’ Day (a.k.a. Massoud Day; held on Shahrivar 18) [Can be 9.8 or 9.9]

Matki Boskiej Zielnej (a.k.a. Fest of Greenery; Poland)

Meritxell Day (Andorra)

National Actors Day

National Ampersand Day

National David Day

National Dog Walker Appreciation Day

National Double Merle Awareness Day

National Essential Medicine Shortages Awareness Day

National Iguana Awareness Day

National Lissencephaly Awareness Day

National Neighborhood Day

National Pardon Day

908 Day

Nuakhai (Odisha, India)

Onam ends (India)

Pardon Me Day

Pediatric Hematology/Oncology Nurses Day

Pledge of Allegiance Day

Sirona Asteroid Day

Solidarity Day of World Heritage Cities

Star Trek Day

Tank Crewman’s Day (Russia)

Turkmen Bakhshi Day (Turkmenistan)

Victory Day (Malta)

Volunteer Day (Spain)

World Gravity Day

World Physical Therapy Day

Worldwide Cystic Fibrosis Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Bacon Burger Day

Date Nut Bread Day

International Day of Papaya

International Food Delivery Day

National Merlot Day (South Africa)

Independence & Related Days

Alsann (Declared; 2022) [unrecognized]

Andorra (Nation founded, 1728)

Macedonia (from Yugoslavia, 1991)

Seybold (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

2nd Sunday in September

Auditor's Day (Scientology) [2nd Sunday]

Day of Lake Baikal (Russia) [2nd Sunday]

Day of Open Monuments (Germany) [2nd Sunday]

Day of the Homeland (Germany) [2nd Sunday]

Education Day (UK) [2nd Sunday]

Family Day (Kazakhstan) [2nd Sunday]

Fjord Day (Denmark) [2nd Sunday]

Grandparent's Day (Canada) [Sunday after 1st Monday]

Great Procession of Tournai (Belgium) [2nd Sunday]

Hug Your Hound Day [2nd Sunday]

Joust of the Quintana: La Rivincita (The Rematch; Italy) [2nd or 3rd Sunday, Pt. 1 in July]

National Bilby Day (Australia) [2nd Sunday]

National Dementia Carers Day (UK) [2nd Sunday]

National Education Sunday (UK) [2nd Sunday]

National Firefighters’ Memorial Day (Canada) [2nd Sunday]

National Pet Memorial Day [2nd Sunday]

PBC (Primary Biliary Cholangitis) Awareness Day [2nd Sunday]

Racial Justice Sunday [2nd Sunday]

Remembrance Day for Victims of Fascism [2nd Sunday]

Road Workers Day (Tajikistan) [2nd Sunday]

Sandwich Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Sleepy Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Seven For Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sundae Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sunday Funday [Every Sunday]

Survey Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Sustainable House Day (Australia) [2nd Sunday]

Turkmen Bakshy Day [2nd Sunday]

Vanavanemate Päev (Estonia) [2nd Sunday]

Workers of Natural Gas and Petroleum Industry Day (Ukraine) [2nd Sunday]

Weekly Holidays beginning September 8 (2nd Full Week of September)

Folic Acid Awareness Week (thru 9.14)

Healthcare Environmental Services Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

International Housekeepers Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Arts in Education Weeks (thru 9.14) [From 2nd Sunday]

National Assisted Living Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Beauty and Barber Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Biscuit and Gravy Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Compassionate Leadership Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Environmental Services Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Nephrology Nurses Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Suicide Prevention Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

Festivals Beginning September 8, 2024

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival (Austin, Texas)

Bean Soup Festival & Fair (McClure, Pennsylvania) [thru 9.14]

Bloemencorso Lichtenvoorde (Lichtenvoorde, Netherlands)

Bloemencorso Loenhout (Loenhout, Belgium)

Cambridge Carnival (Cambridge, Massachusetts)

Fiddles Vittles and Vino (Colorado Springs, Colorado)

Heritage Fire (Willamette Valley, Oregon)

International Alexandrinsky Theatre Festival (Saint Petersburg, Russia) [thru 10.30]

Manifesta [European Nomadic Biennial] (Barcelona, Spain) [thru 11.24]

Feast Days

Adrian and Natalia of Nicomedia (Roman Catholic Church)

Adrian of Nicomedia (Christian; Saint Feast Day) [brewers, middle England's brewers guild] *

Ann Beattie (Writerism)

Archie Goodwin (Artology)

Carnot (Positivist; Saint)

Corbinian (Christian; Saint)

Disibod (a.k.a. Disen or Disbode; Christian; Saint)

Eusebius, Nestablus, Zeno, and Nestor (Christian; Martyrs)

Feast of Honor for Lada and Leda (Bread & Harvest Festival; Slavic Pagan/Asatru)

Feast of ‘Izzat (Might; Baha’i)

Feast of Papa-Lea (God of Kava Drinking)

Frédéric Mistral (Writerism)

Il-Vittorja (a.k.a. Feast of Our Lady of Victories; Malta)

Jill St. John Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Mead Day (Pagan)

Michael Frayn (Writerism)

Mimi Parent (Artology)

Monti Fest (Mangalorean Catholic; Parts of India)

Morty Moot Mope (Muppetism)

Nativity of Mary (Roman Catholic Church, Anglo-Catholicism)

Our Lady of Charity (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Covadonga (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Good Health of Vailankanni (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Meritxell (Andorra; Christian; Saint)

Ozias Humphry (Artology)

Paradoxically Non-Paradoxical Day (Pastafarian)

Sergius I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Theosophy Day

Vicious Sex Day (Pastafarian)

Virgin Mary Day

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [36 of 53]

Prime Number Day: 251 [54 of 72]

Sensho (先勝 Japan) [Good luck in the morning, bad luck in the afternoon.]

Premieres

Ally McBeal (TV Series; 1997)

Betty Crocker's Cookbook, by the Betty Crocker Editors (Cookbook; 1950)

Blue’s Clues (Children’s TV Series; 1996)

Bone Machine, by Tom Waits (Album; 1992)

Boys Town (Film; 1938)

The Breadwinner (Animated Film; 2017)

Brigadoon (Film; 1954)

Carnival Courage (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1945)

Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1963)

Catty-Cornered (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1966)

Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons (Novel; 1932)

Cosmicomics, by Italo Calvino (Short Stories; 1965)

The Cyberiad, by Stanisław Lem (Short Stories; 1965)

The Eagle Has Landed, by Jack Higgins (Novel; 1975)

Everglade Raid (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1958)

Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely, by Frank Sinatra (Album; 1958)

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1965)

Havana, by Camila Cabello (Song; 2017)

Hitchhiker, by Neil Young (Album; 2017)

Hold Your Fire, by Rush (Album; 1987)

iCarly (TV Series; 2007)

I Just Can’t Get You Out of My Head, by Kylie Minogue (Song; 2001)

It (Film; 2017)

Jeannie (Animated TV Series; 1973)

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke (Novel; 2004)

The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, by Julie Andrews Edwards (Children’s Book; 1974)

Lost in Space (Hanna-Barbera Animated TV Film; 1973)

Lovelorn Leghorn (WB LT Cartoon; 1951)

Make Me, 20th Jack Reacher book, by Lee Child (Novel; 2015)

Mouse-Warming (WB LT Cartoon; 1952)

Never for Ever, by Kate Bush (Album; 1980)

Nurse Betty (Film; 2000)

The Oprah Winfrey Show (Daytime TV Series; 1986)

Psycho (Film; 1960)

The Pure and the Impure, by Colette (Novel; 1932)

Purr-Chance to Dream (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1967)

Scalp Treatment (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1952)

Second Foundation, by Isaac Asimov (Novel; 1953) [Foundation #3]

The Sirens of Titan, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1959)

Slicked-Up Pup (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1951)

Song of Victory (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1942)

Star Trek (TV Series; 1966)

Suffer, by Bad Religion (Album; 1988)

Today’s Name Days

Adrian, Mariä Geburt (Austria)

Hadrijan, Maja, Marija, Sergije (Croatia)

Mariana (Czech Republic)

Maria (Denmark)

Mariann, Marianna, Marianne (Estonia)

Taimi (Finland)

Adrien, Béline (France)

Adrian, Mariä Geburt, Otmar (Germany)

Despoina, Genethlios, Skiadeni, Tsampika (Greece)

Adrienn, Mária (Hungary)

Immacolata, Maria (Italy)

Amirs, Ilga, Ilgonis, Nelda (Latvia)

Daumantė, Klementina, Liaugaudas, Vytautas (Lithuania)

Allan, Alma, Amalie (Norway)

Adrian, Adrianna, Klementyna, Maria, Nestor, Radosław, Radosława (Poland)

Natalia (Russia)

Miriama (Slovakia)

Cinta, Covadonga, Fuensanta, Meritxell, Natividad, Nazaret, Nuria, Sagrario, Sergio (Spain)

Alma, Hulda (Sweden)

Maria, Mary (Ukraine)

Adria, Adrian, Adriana, Adrianna, Adrien, Adrienne, Hadria, Hadrian, Hadrien, Joachim, Joakima, Joaquin, Joaquina (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 252 of 2024; 114 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 7 of Week 36 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Muin (Vine) [Day 8 of 28]

Chinese: Month 8 (Guy-You), Day 6 (Yi-Hai)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 5 Elul 5784

Islamic: 4 Rabi I 1446

J Cal: 12 Gold; Fryday [11 of 30]

Julian: 26 August 2024

Moon: 25%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 28 Gutenberg (9th Month) [Mont]

Runic Half Month: Ken (Illumination) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 81 of 94)

Week: 2nd Full Week of September

Zodiac: Virgo (Day 18 of 32)

[scififantasies]

Tagged by: @theredontbedragons

Currently reading: Dead Man in a Ditch again

Favorite color: this changes frequently! I love a good, dark pink. Fuchsia, cranberry, merlot

Last song: Blue Monday by New Order, but I think Orgy did it better.

Last movie: The Wonder with Florence Pugh

Sweet/spicy/savory: can I do my fave of each? A soft sugar cookie, a red curry, goldfish crackers

Currently working on: those same two flannel quilts, black sails smut, breeding shrimp, propagating lots of plants

Tag 9 mutuals you want to get to know better: @gleerant @xactodreams @somfte @asterofthevoid @royalxanadu @etoilesombre @bestiarum @lichfucker

[mywikiisblog]

Red Lobster Drink Special | Deals & Cocktails

Red Lobster has introduced a weekday Happy Hour, offering enticing drink specials and appetizer discounts to enhance your dining experience. 

Happy Hour Details: 

Schedule: Monday through Friday, from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM, at participating locations. 

$5 Drink Specials: 

Classic Margarita: A refreshing blend of tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. 

Top-Shelf Long Island Iced Tea: A robust mix of premium spirits with a splash of cola. 

Tito’s® Twisted Strawberry Lemonade: A delightful combination of Tito's Handmade Vodka, strawberry, and lemonade. 

14 oz. Draft Beers: Selections like Blue Moon® and Bud Light®. 

6 oz. Wines: Choices include Mark West® Pinot Noir and Ecco Domani® Pinot Grigio. 

$2 Off Select Appetizers: 

Lobster Flatbread: A crispy flatbread topped with Maine lobster meat, melted mozzarella, and fresh tomatoes. 

Seafood-Stuffed Mushrooms: Mushroom caps filled with a blend of seafood and cheese, baked until golden. 

Crab Queso: A creamy cheese dip infused with crab meat, served with tortilla chips. 

Lobster Dip: A warm, creamy dip featuring lobster, perfect for sharing. 

Mozzarella Cheesesticks: Classic breaded and fried mozzarella sticks, served with marinara sauce. 

Participation and Availability: 

Happy Hour offerings are available for dine-in only and may vary by location. It's advisable to check with your local Red Lobster restaurant to confirm participation and specific menu items. 

Red Lobster offers a diverse selection of beverages, ranging from handcrafted cocktails to fine wines and refreshing Red Lobster non-alcoholic drinks. Below is a detailed overview of their drink menu: 

Signature Cocktails: 

Drink Name 

Description 

Price (USD) 

Lobsterita® 

A signature, oversized margarita made with Sauza Gold Tequila. Available in traditional, strawberry, and raspberry flavors. 

$10.49 

Bahama Mama 

A tropical blend of Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum and Malibu Coconut Rum mixed with pineapple and orange juices, topped with a splash of grenadine. 

$7.99 

Sunset Passion Colada 

Malibu Coconut Rum piña colada with strawberry, raspberry, or peach topper. 

$7.99 

Tropical White Sangria 

Barefoot Moscato mixed with pineapple and mango juices, topped with lemon-lime soda. 

$7.49 

Berry Mango Daiquiri 

A frozen blend of Bacardi Rum and tropical mangoes swirled with strawberries. 

$7.99 

Classic Mojito 

Bacardi Superior Rum muddled with fresh-squeezed lime, mint, pure cane sugar, and topped with club soda. 

$7.99 

Top-Shelf Long Island Iced Tea 

A robust mix of premium spirits with a splash of cola. 

$8.99 

Margaritas: 

Drink Name 

Description 

Price (USD) 

Classic Margarita 

A traditional blend of tequila, triple sec, and lime juice. 

$7.99 

Strawberry Margarita 

A fruity twist on the classic margarita with strawberry flavors. 

$8.49 

Raspberry Margarita 

A refreshing margarita infused with raspberry flavors. 

$8.49 

Wines: 

Wine Type 

Options 

Price (USD) 

White Wines 

Chardonnay: Kendall-Jackson Vintner's Reserve, Pinot Grigio: Ecco Domani 

$6.99 - $9.49 per glass 

Red Wines 

Merlot: Sutter Home, Cabernet Sauvignon: Robert Mondavi Private Selection 

$6.99 - $9.49 per glass 

Rosé Wines 

Rosé: Ava Grace 

$7.49 per glass 

Beers: 

Beer Type 

Options 

Price (USD) 

Draft Beers 

Bud Light, Blue Moon, Samuel Adams Seasonal 

$4.99 - $5.99 per pint 

Bottled Beers 

Corona Extra, Heineken, Stella Artois 

$5.49 - $6.49 per bottle 

Non-Alcoholic Beverages: 

Beverage Type 

Options 

Price (USD) 

Fountain Beverages 

Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Mountain Dew, Sierra Mist 

$2.99 

Lemonades 

Classic Lemonade, Strawberry Lemonade 

$3.49 

Iced Tea 

Freshly Brewed Iced Tea, Peach Iced Tea 

$2.99 

Coffee & Tea 

Freshly Brewed Coffee, Hot Tea 

$2.49 

[brookstonalmanac]

Holidays 9.8

Holidays

Actor’s Day

Asturias Day (Spain)

Blondie Day

Blue’s Clues Day

Colorism Awareness Day

The Commemoration of the Two Sieges (Malta)

Community Day (Extramadura, Spain)

Coronation Anniversary of Vytautas the Great (Lithuania)

Day of Aid Workers

Day of Asturias (Spain)

Day of the Battle of Borodino (Russia)

Extramadura Day (Spain)

Father’s Day (Latvia)

Festa Della Rificolona ends (Paper Lantern Festival; Florence, Italy)

Fiestas de Santa Fe begins with the burning of the Zozobra (New Mexico)

Financier’s Day (Russia)

Grandparents’ & Family Caregivers’ Day (Florida)

Hazelnut Day (French Republic)

Iguana Awareness Day

International Day of Journalists

International Literacy Day (UN)

Kosrae Liberation Day (Micronesia)

La Vierge de Meritxell (Feast of Our Lady of Meritxell; Andorra)

Mariä Geburt (Liechtenstein)

Martyrs’ Day (a.k.a. Massoud Day; held on Shahrivar 18) [Can be 9.8 or 9.9]

Matki Boskiej Zielnej (a.k.a. Fest of Greenery; Poland)

Meritxell Day (Andorra)

National Actors Day

National Ampersand Day

National David Day

National Dog Walker Appreciation Day

National Double Merle Awareness Day

National Essential Medicine Shortages Awareness Day

National Iguana Awareness Day

National Lissencephaly Awareness Day

National Neighborhood Day

National Pardon Day

908 Day

Nuakhai (Odisha, India)

Onam ends (India)

Pardon Me Day

Pediatric Hematology/Oncology Nurses Day

Pledge of Allegiance Day

Sirona Asteroid Day

Solidarity Day of World Heritage Cities

Star Trek Day

Tank Crewman’s Day (Russia)

Turkmen Bakhshi Day (Turkmenistan)

Victory Day (Malta)

Volunteer Day (Spain)

World Gravity Day

World Physical Therapy Day

Worldwide Cystic Fibrosis Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Bacon Burger Day

Date Nut Bread Day

International Day of Papaya

International Food Delivery Day

National Merlot Day (South Africa)

Independence & Related Days

Alsann (Declared; 2022) [unrecognized]

Andorra (Nation founded, 1728)

Macedonia (from Yugoslavia, 1991)

Seybold (Declared; 2018) [unrecognized]

2nd Sunday in September

Auditor's Day (Scientology) [2nd Sunday]

Day of Lake Baikal (Russia) [2nd Sunday]

Day of Open Monuments (Germany) [2nd Sunday]

Day of the Homeland (Germany) [2nd Sunday]

Education Day (UK) [2nd Sunday]

Family Day (Kazakhstan) [2nd Sunday]

Fjord Day (Denmark) [2nd Sunday]

Grandparent's Day (Canada) [Sunday after 1st Monday]

Great Procession of Tournai (Belgium) [2nd Sunday]

Hug Your Hound Day [2nd Sunday]

Joust of the Quintana: La Rivincita (The Rematch; Italy) [2nd or 3rd Sunday, Pt. 1 in July]

National Bilby Day (Australia) [2nd Sunday]

National Dementia Carers Day (UK) [2nd Sunday]

National Education Sunday (UK) [2nd Sunday]

National Firefighters’ Memorial Day (Canada) [2nd Sunday]

National Pet Memorial Day [2nd Sunday]

PBC (Primary Biliary Cholangitis) Awareness Day [2nd Sunday]

Racial Justice Sunday [2nd Sunday]

Remembrance Day for Victims of Fascism [2nd Sunday]

Road Workers Day (Tajikistan) [2nd Sunday]

Sandwich Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Sleepy Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Seven For Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sundae Sunday [Every Sunday]

Sunday Funday [Every Sunday]

Survey Sunday [2nd Sunday of Each Month]

Sustainable House Day (Australia) [2nd Sunday]

Turkmen Bakshy Day [2nd Sunday]

Vanavanemate Päev (Estonia) [2nd Sunday]

Workers of Natural Gas and Petroleum Industry Day (Ukraine) [2nd Sunday]

Weekly Holidays beginning September 8 (2nd Full Week of September)

Folic Acid Awareness Week (thru 9.14)

Healthcare Environmental Services Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

International Housekeepers Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Arts in Education Weeks (thru 9.14) [From 2nd Sunday]

National Assisted Living Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Beauty and Barber Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Biscuit and Gravy Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Compassionate Leadership Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Environmental Services Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Nephrology Nurses Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

National Suicide Prevention Week (thru 9.14) [2nd Full Week]

Festivals Beginning September 8, 2024

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival (Austin, Texas)

Bean Soup Festival & Fair (McClure, Pennsylvania) [thru 9.14]

Bloemencorso Lichtenvoorde (Lichtenvoorde, Netherlands)

Bloemencorso Loenhout (Loenhout, Belgium)

Cambridge Carnival (Cambridge, Massachusetts)

Fiddles Vittles and Vino (Colorado Springs, Colorado)

Heritage Fire (Willamette Valley, Oregon)

International Alexandrinsky Theatre Festival (Saint Petersburg, Russia) [thru 10.30]

Manifesta [European Nomadic Biennial] (Barcelona, Spain) [thru 11.24]

Feast Days

Adrian and Natalia of Nicomedia (Roman Catholic Church)

Adrian of Nicomedia (Christian; Saint Feast Day) [brewers, middle England's brewers guild] *

Ann Beattie (Writerism)

Archie Goodwin (Artology)

Carnot (Positivist; Saint)

Corbinian (Christian; Saint)

Disibod (a.k.a. Disen or Disbode; Christian; Saint)

Eusebius, Nestablus, Zeno, and Nestor (Christian; Martyrs)

Feast of Honor for Lada and Leda (Bread & Harvest Festival; Slavic Pagan/Asatru)

Feast of ‘Izzat (Might; Baha’i)

Feast of Papa-Lea (God of Kava Drinking)

Frédéric Mistral (Writerism)

Il-Vittorja (a.k.a. Feast of Our Lady of Victories; Malta)

Jill St. John Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Mead Day (Pagan)

Michael Frayn (Writerism)

Mimi Parent (Artology)

Monti Fest (Mangalorean Catholic; Parts of India)

Morty Moot Mope (Muppetism)

Nativity of Mary (Roman Catholic Church, Anglo-Catholicism)

Our Lady of Charity (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Covadonga (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Good Health of Vailankanni (Christian; Saint)

Our Lady of Meritxell (Andorra; Christian; Saint)

Ozias Humphry (Artology)

Paradoxically Non-Paradoxical Day (Pastafarian)

Sergius I, Pope (Christian; Saint)

Theosophy Day

Vicious Sex Day (Pastafarian)

Virgin Mary Day

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Fortunate Day (Pagan) [36 of 53]

Prime Number Day: 251 [54 of 72]

Sensho (先勝 Japan) [Good luck in the morning, bad luck in the afternoon.]

Premieres

Ally McBeal (TV Series; 1997)

Betty Crocker's Cookbook, by the Betty Crocker Editors (Cookbook; 1950)

Blue’s Clues (Children’s TV Series; 1996)

Bone Machine, by Tom Waits (Album; 1992)

Boys Town (Film; 1938)

The Breadwinner (Animated Film; 2017)

Brigadoon (Film; 1954)

Carnival Courage (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1945)

Cat's Cradle, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1963)

Catty-Cornered (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1966)

Cold Comfort Farm, by Stella Gibbons (Novel; 1932)

Cosmicomics, by Italo Calvino (Short Stories; 1965)

The Cyberiad, by Stanisław Lem (Short Stories; 1965)

The Eagle Has Landed, by Jack Higgins (Novel; 1975)

Everglade Raid (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1958)

Frank Sinatra Sings for Only the Lonely, by Frank Sinatra (Album; 1958)

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1965)

Havana, by Camila Cabello (Song; 2017)

Hitchhiker, by Neil Young (Album; 2017)

Hold Your Fire, by Rush (Album; 1987)

iCarly (TV Series; 2007)

I Just Can’t Get You Out of My Head, by Kylie Minogue (Song; 2001)

It (Film; 2017)

Jeannie (Animated TV Series; 1973)

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, by Susanna Clarke (Novel; 2004)

The Last of the Really Great Whangdoodles, by Julie Andrews Edwards (Children’s Book; 1974)

Lost in Space (Hanna-Barbera Animated TV Film; 1973)

Lovelorn Leghorn (WB LT Cartoon; 1951)

Make Me, 20th Jack Reacher book, by Lee Child (Novel; 2015)

Mouse-Warming (WB LT Cartoon; 1952)

Never for Ever, by Kate Bush (Album; 1980)

Nurse Betty (Film; 2000)

The Oprah Winfrey Show (Daytime TV Series; 1986)

Psycho (Film; 1960)

The Pure and the Impure, by Colette (Novel; 1932)

Purr-Chance to Dream (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1967)

Scalp Treatment (Woody Woodpecker Cartoon; 1952)

Second Foundation, by Isaac Asimov (Novel; 1953) [Foundation #3]

The Sirens of Titan, by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (Novel; 1959)

Slicked-Up Pup (Tom & Jerry Cartoon; 1951)

Song of Victory (Color Rhapsody Cartoon; 1942)

Star Trek (TV Series; 1966)

Suffer, by Bad Religion (Album; 1988)

Today’s Name Days

Adrian, Mariä Geburt (Austria)

Hadrijan, Maja, Marija, Sergije (Croatia)

Mariana (Czech Republic)

Maria (Denmark)

Mariann, Marianna, Marianne (Estonia)

Taimi (Finland)

Adrien, Béline (France)

Adrian, Mariä Geburt, Otmar (Germany)

Despoina, Genethlios, Skiadeni, Tsampika (Greece)

Adrienn, Mária (Hungary)

Immacolata, Maria (Italy)

Amirs, Ilga, Ilgonis, Nelda (Latvia)

Daumantė, Klementina, Liaugaudas, Vytautas (Lithuania)

Allan, Alma, Amalie (Norway)

Adrian, Adrianna, Klementyna, Maria, Nestor, Radosław, Radosława (Poland)

Natalia (Russia)

Miriama (Slovakia)

Cinta, Covadonga, Fuensanta, Meritxell, Natividad, Nazaret, Nuria, Sagrario, Sergio (Spain)

Alma, Hulda (Sweden)

Maria, Mary (Ukraine)

Adria, Adrian, Adriana, Adrianna, Adrien, Adrienne, Hadria, Hadrian, Hadrien, Joachim, Joakima, Joaquin, Joaquina (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 252 of 2024; 114 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 7 of Week 36 of 2024

Celtic Tree Calendar: Muin (Vine) [Day 8 of 28]

Chinese: Month 8 (Guy-You), Day 6 (Yi-Hai)

Chinese Year of the: Dragon 4722 (until January 29, 2025) [Wu-Chen]

Hebrew: 5 Elul 5784

Islamic: 4 Rabi I 1446

J Cal: 12 Gold; Fryday [11 of 30]

Julian: 26 August 2024

Moon: 25%: Waxing Crescent

Positivist: 28 Gutenberg (9th Month) [Mont]

Runic Half Month: Ken (Illumination) [Day 2 of 15]

Season: Summer (Day 81 of 94)

Week: 2nd Full Week of September

Zodiac: Virgo (Day 18 of 32)

[capellilavita-blog]

“Heritage is the golden thread that connects past, present and future”, says Rijk.  “At Muratie it is more than our historical buildings and artefacts, and the famous residents immortalised by our wines. It is the stories of traditions and relationships that have endured through centuries, also values and a team culture that are actively nurtured as part of our living heritage.”

STORIES WITH RIJK

Date: Monday 25 September

Time: 11h00 – 13h00

Cost per person: R495 (includes History Talk, Wine Tasting and a branded Muratie glass)

Bookings: taste@muratie.co.za

Rijk will also be presenting “Stories With Rijk” at the Woordfees in Stellenbosch on 12 October, and more events will follow at Muratie in due course – so watch this space!

Muriate, the historic estate established in 1685 in the beautiful Knorhoek Valley north of Stellenbosch, is one of the oldest farms in South Africa. With this age comes a remarkable legacy passed on by the many extraordinary characters from the farm’s colourful past. Thanks to the Melck family’s passionate guardianship, Muratie is a haven of heritage.

Magnificent ancient oak trees guarding over the estate, and a white gabled memorial celebrating all the previous owners through the decades, greet you on arrival and set the scene for an enchanting experience.

Wherever you are on the estate you cannot help being moved by a sense of the many generations who came before, whose stories still resonate among the old walls of a farm where it feels like very little has changed over the centuries. The unique old-world ambience is almost tangible, with the estate’s prized heritage captured in every nook and cranny. Historic buildings, crumbling statues, ancient wine-making equipment, the rickety cob-webbed tasting room, age-old stained-glass windows, original tartaric-encrusted fermentation tanks, antique carpets, original art, relics, artefacts, and memorabilia all adorn a unique and magical environment honouring a bygone era.

A multi-sensory wine experience awaits you at Muratie where ‘Every Wine Tells a Story’. The estate’s wines are named after the intriguing individuals from the past who moulded Muratie as we know it today, each wine with its own charming story described on the back label. Says Rijk Melck, “When you sip on our wines you are tasting history for yourself.”

“Each of our wines has its own unique personality and a fascinating tale to tell,” continues Rijk. “Our flagship white and red blends are named Laurens Campher and Ansela van der Caab, commemorating the first owner of Muratie and the remarkable love affair between him and the slave girl Ansela who eventually became his wife; Our Cabernet Sauvignon and Shiraz pay tribute respectively to our legendary forefather, Martin Melck who established Muratie’s Melck legacy in the 1700’s, and my father Ronnie, a seventh-generation direct descendant of Martin Melck, who turned a dream into reality when he brought Muratie back into the Melck fold in 1987; Our Pinot Noir is called George Paul Canitz after the famous artist and charismatic bon vivant who made the first Pinot Noir in South Africa; Muratie’s Merlot honours Canitz’s intrepid daughter, Alberta Annemarie, who, upon her father’s death in 1959, became one of the first female wine farm owners in the country; Our Lady Alice Cap Classique celebrates Lady Alice Stanford, who, as the wife of a senator who bought Muratie in 1909, was a high society hostess of note adept at turning every event into a dance party; and our Cape Vintage pays tribute to Muratie’s legendary barefoot winemaker, Ben Prins.”

SIP ON MURATIE WINES AND TASTE HISTORY FOR YOURSELF

Knorhoek Road, Stellenbosch · www.muratie.co.za · 021 865 2330 · info@muratie.co.za

[penhero]

Sheaffer Prelude Deals! Fountain Pen $35 / Rollerball Pen $30 / Ballpoint Pen $27.50   FREE USA SHIPPING ON ORDERS OVER $50    We have a big selection of Sheaffer Preludes at great prices for a short time!

Fountain pens: Black Lacquer, Merlot Lacquer, Deep Blue, Matte Gunmetal, and Black Lacquer Gunmetal Trim - $35 each Rollerball pens: Black Lacquer, Merlot Lacquer, Brushed Coppertone - $30 each Ballpoint pens: Black Lacquer, Merlot Lacquer, Black Lacquer Gunmetal Trim - $27.50 each

Limited availability and subject to sell out.

Prices good through Monday, June 26, 2023.

Check out all of them by clicking here:

Customers outside the USA - find them in our eBay store:

Search PRELUDE

[halberdbooks]

On Monday morning, I woke up without you. I showered, running the water for a while because you didn't like to go in unless it had warmed up enough, and made breakfast – scrambled eggs and toasted hash brown patties, set before two places. I called work and took the day off and sat by the window and read The Picture of Dorian Gray all afternoon, looking up every time footsteps passed the door. Dinner was for two – rigatoni in meat sauce with sautéed snow pea pods, an unopened bottle of 2005 Merlot next to an empty bottle that I plugged with a candle. Three hours later, the candle snuffed itself out, and I fell asleep waiting for you. I dreamed myself in your arms, nothing between us but our breath.

from "Progress" on page 29

Archive: The D. Michael Warren Stories by David M. Briggs

I have a new chapbook out! After a full decade from their original writing, these short stories have been given new life. I have rewritten all four and collected them for the first time in one volume under my real name. I can no longer hide behind a pen name to distance myself from the darker themes of these stories. And I no longer want to.

Get your copy at bit.ly/briggsbooks

[seblaineworld]

Hey, Seblainers! Hellooooo, everyone else!

After giggling our way through so many prospective titles for this event that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous and in-between vacillated to the downright cringeworthy (all involving wayyyy too much Merlot!), we have finally decided on..

10 Days Of Seblaine! It's the least obnoxious name we could come up with whilst also remaining totally self-explanatory, and we hope you like it!

With the help of a Randomiser we have also selected the order the 10 themes will take, so without further ado, they are:

Monday 6th November: Soulmates/Soulmarks

Tuesday 7th November: Spies/Undercover

Wednesday 8th November: Dalton

Thursday 9th November: Inspired By Any Other Media

Friday 10th November: Parents AU

Saturday 11th November: Free Day

Sunday 12th November: Dragons!

Monday 13th November: McKinley

Tuesday 14th November: Being Famous/A Celebrity

Wednesday 15th November: I Want You Back! (your own interpretation)

Only 21 days to go until our bumper event, and we'll be back in about a week's time with a final reminder of the rules. So until then - happy writing/creating!

As always, if you have any questions, just drop us an Ask or send a message.

Ail 💜

[brookston]

Holidays 11.7

Holidays

American Choral Society Day

Ben Ali Commemoration Day (Tunisia)

Commemoration Day (Tunisia)

Day of Accord and Reconciliation (Russia)

Day of the Hungarian Opera (Hungary)

Days of History and Memory (Kyrgyzstan)

Dunce Day

Employee Brotherhood Day (SpongeBob Squarepants)

European Radon Day

Gastrointestinal Day (Germany)

Good Tummy Day (Japan)

Hug a Bear Day

Hungarian Opera Day (Hungary)

International Day of Medical Physics

International Inuit Day

Little League Girls Day

Magazine Day

Medical Science Liaison Awareness and Appreciation Day

Melbourne Cup Day (Victoria, Australia)

Meteorite Day

National Bassist Day

National Cancer Awareness Day (India)

National Canine Lymphoma Awareness Day

National Day for the Victims of Communism

National Day in Northern Catalonia (France)

National Day of Remembrance for Ka Otis (Philippines)

National Food Fortification Day (Philippines)

National Inuit Day (Canada)

National Keith Day

National Lori Day

National Programmatic Advertising Day

National Railway Day (Canada)

National Retinol Day

National Revolution and Solidarity Day (Bangladesh)

Notary Public Day

Red Cup Day

Republican Elephant Day

Social Revolution Day (Kyrgyzstan)

Stay Away from Anyone Named Honest John Day

Treaty of the Pyrenees Day (Northern Catalonia, France)

Victims of Communism Day (Florida, Missouri)

Watercress Day (French Republic)

World Cancer Awareness Day

Food & Drink Celebrations

Chocolate Mud Cake Day (Sweden)

International Merlot Day

Martini Day

National Bittersweet Chocolate with Almonds Day

National Kumquat Day

1st Tuesday in November

Election Day (US) [1st Tuesday after 1st Monday]

International Skeptics Day [1st Tuesday after 1st Monday]

Independence Days

October Revolution Day (Belarus, Kyrgyzstan, Transdniestria, former U.S.S.R.)

Feast Days

All Dominican Saints and Blesseds (Christian)

Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg (Lutheran)

Billy the Grownup (Muppetism)

Birth of Baháʼu'lláh (Baha'i) [2 Muharram]

Charles Baudelaire Day (Church of the SubGenius; Saint)

Engelbert II of Berg (Christian; Saint)

Feast of Blessed John Duns Scotus (The Subtle Doctor)

Feast of Stolen Fire

Festivals of the Twin Birthdays, Day 2 (Baha'i)

Florentius (Christian; Saint)

Francisco Zurbarán (Artology)

Herculanus of Perugia (Christian; Saint)

Jan Matulka (Artology)

John Christian Frederick Heyer (Lutheran)

John Duns Scotus (Christian; Blessed)

Ludwig Ingwer Nommensen (Lutheran)

Paul Peel (Artology)

Philippe de Comines (Positivist; Saint)

Prosdocimus (Christian; Saint)

Tentacle Day (Pastafarian)

Tiamat’s Day (Pagan)

Tokhu Emong (Lotha Nada people of India)

Vicente Liem de la Paz (Christian; One of Vietnamese Martyrs)

Werenfrid (Christian; Saint)

Willibrord (Christian; Saint)

Lucky & Unlucky Days

Prime Number Day: 311 [64 of 72]

Tomobiki (友引 Japan) [Good luck all day, except at noon.]

Umu Limnu (Evil Day; Babylonian Calendar; 51 of 60)

Premieres

Aerial, by Kate Bush (Album; 2005)

Alice In Chains, by Alice In Chains (Album; 1995)

Big Hero 6 (Animated Film; 2014)

Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (Radio Series; 1932)

…But Seriously, Phil Collins (Album; 1989)

The Divine Miss M, by Bette Midler (Album; 1972)

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?, by Chicago (Song; 1970)

Don’t Look Now (WB MM Cartoon; 1936)

Elf (Film; 2003)

Feast (Disney Cartoon; 2014)

Fifty Cents Lost or Get That Half Back (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 123; 1961)

Green, by R.E.M. (Album; 1988)

Hogfather, by Terry Pratchet (Novel; 1996) [Discworld #20]

It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World (Film; 1963)

Job, by Joseph Roth (Novel; 1930)

Love Actually (Film; 2003)

Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa (Animated Film; 2008)

Martha & Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party (TV Series; 2016)

Mater and the Ghostlight (Pixar Cartoon; 2006)

The Midnight Line, 22nd Jack Reacher book, by Lee Child (Novel; 2017)

Miss Fritter’s Racing Skool (Pixar Cartoon; 2017)

Mister Magoo (Animated TV Series; 1960)

Raising Steam, by Terry Pratchet (Novel; 2013) [Discworld #40]

Role Models (Film; 2008)

The Rose (Film; 1979)

The Scheme Misfires of You Can Planet Better Than That (Rocky & Bullwinkle Cartoon, S3, Ep. 124; 1961)

Sid and Nancy (Film; 1986)

Something Wild (Film; 1986)

A Son Unique, by Wu-Tang Clan (Album; 2006)

Starship Troopers (Film; 1997)

Studio One (Radio Series; 1948)

Ten Hail Marys & Ten How’s Your Fathers, by Elvis Costello (Album; 1980)

The Theory of Everything (Film; 2014)

Ummagumma, by Pink Floyd (Album; 1969)

Uncle Vanya, by Anton Chekov (Play; 1899)

Whole Lotta Love, by Led Zeppelin (Song; 1969)

Winter’s Heart, by Robert Jordan (Novel; 2000) [Wheel of Time #9]

Today’s Name Days

Engelbert (Austria)

Anđelko, Baldo, Florencije, Zdenka (Croatia)

Saskie (Czech Republic)

Engelbrecht (Denmark)

Kiira, Kiiri, Kirke (Estonia)

Erin, Taisto (Finland)

Carine (France)

Engelbert, Carina, Willbir, Tina (Germany)

Athinodoros, Ernest, Theagenis, Themelios (Greece)

Rezső (Hungary)

Ernesto, Prosdocimo (Italy)

Helma, Lotars (Latvia)

Ernestas, Gotautė, Karina, Sirtautas (Lithuania)

Ingebrigt, Ingelin (Norway)

Achilles, Antoni, Engelbert, Florentyn, Melchior, Przemił (Poland)

René (Slovakia)

Carina, Ernesto (Spain)

Ingegerd, Ingela (Sweden)

Engelbert, Graham, Hollis, Holm, Holmes, Holt (USA)

Today is Also…

Day of Year: Day 311 of 2024; 54 days remaining in the year

ISO: Day 2 of week 45 of 2023

Celtic Tree Calendar: Ngetal (Reed) [Day 8 of 28]

Chinese: Month 9 (Ten-Xu), Day 24 (Ji-Si)

Chinese Year of the: Rabbit 4721 (until February 10, 2024)

Hebrew: 23 Heshvan 5784

Islamic: 23 Rabi II 1445

J Cal: 11 Mir; Foursday [11 of 30]

Julian: 25 October 2023

Moon: 29%: Waning Crescent

Positivist: 3 Frederic (12th Month) [Philippe de Comines]

Runic Half Month: Hagal (Hailstone) [Day 12 of 15]

Season: Autumn (Day 45 of 89)

Zodiac: Scorpio (Day 15 of 29)